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Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..33b0487 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #50477 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/50477) diff --git a/old/50477-0.txt b/old/50477-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 6b7deb0..0000000 --- a/old/50477-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,9929 +0,0 @@ -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 50477 *** - -NOTRE CŒUR - -OR - -A WOMAN'S PASTIME - -_A NOVEL_ - - -_By_ - -GUY DE MAUPASSANT - - -SAINT DUNSTAN SOCIETY - -AKRON, OHIO - -1903 - - - - TABLE OF CONTENTS - - GUY DE MAUPASSANT - Critical Preface: Paul Bourget - INTRODUCTION - Robert Arnot, M. A. - - NOTRE CŒUR - - CHAPTER I. - THE INTRODUCTION - - CHAPTER II. - "WILL YOU WALK INTO MY PARLOR?" - - CHAPTER III. - THE THORNS OF THE ROSE - - CHAPTER IV. - THE BENEFIT OF CHANGE OF SCENE - - CHAPTER V. - CONSPIRACY - - CHAPTER VI. - QUESTIONINGS - - CHAPTER VII. - DEPRESSION - - CHAPTER VIII. - NEW HOPES - - CHAPTER IX. - DISILLUSION - - CHAPTER X. - FLIGHT - - CHAPTER XI. - LONELINESS - - CHAPTER XII. - CONSOLATION - - CHAPTER XIII. - MARIOLLE COPIES MME. DE BURNE - - - ADDENDA - - THE OLIVE GROVE - REVENGE - AN OLD MAID - COMPLICATION - FORGIVENESS - THE WHITE WOLF - - -ILLUSTRATIONS - -HENRI RENE GUY DE MAUPASSANT -"THEY WERE ALONE ... SHE WAS WEEPING" - - -[Illustration] - -[Illustration] - - -GUY DE MAUPASSANT - - -Of the French writers of romance of the latter part of the nineteenth -century no one made a reputation as quickly as did Guy de Maupassant. -Not one has preserved that reputation with more ease, not only during -life, but in death. None so completely hides his personality in -his glory. In an epoch of the utmost publicity, in which the most -insignificant deeds of a celebrated man are spied, recorded, and -commented on, the author of "Boule de Suif," of "Pierre et Jean," of -"Notre Cœur," found a way of effacing his personality in his work. - -Of De Maupassant we know that he was born in Normandy about 1850; that -he was the favorite pupil, if one may so express it, the literary -_protégé_, of Gustave Flaubert; that he made his _début_ late in 1880, -with a novel inserted in a small collection, published by Emile Zola -and his young friends, under the title: "The Soirées of Medan"; that -subsequently he did not fail to publish stories and romances every year -up to 1891, when a disease of the brain struck him down in the fullness -of production; and that he died, finally, in 1893, without having -recovered his reason. - -We know, too, that he passionately loved a strenuous physical life -and long journeys, particularly long journeys upon the sea. He owned -a little sailing yacht, named after one of his books, "Bel-Ami," in -which he used to sojourn for weeks and months. These meager details are -almost the only ones that have been gathered as food for the curiosity -of the public. - -I leave the legendary side, which is always in evidence in the case -of a celebrated man,--that gossip, for example, which avers that -Maupassant was a high liver and a worldling. The very number of his -volumes is a protest to the contrary. One could not write so large -a number of pages in so small a number of years without the virtue -of industry, a virtue incompatible with habits of dissipation. This -does not mean that the writer of these great romances had no love for -pleasure and had not tasted the world, but that for him these were -secondary things. The psychology of his work ought, then, to find an -interpretation other than that afforded by wholly false or exaggerated -anecdotes. I wish to indicate here how this work, illumined by the -three or four positive data which I have given, appears to me to demand -it. - -And first, what does that anxiety to conceal his personality prove, -carried as it was to such an extreme degree? The answer rises -spontaneously in the minds of those who have studied closely the -history of literature. The absolute silence about himself, preserved by -one whose position among us was that of a Tourgenief, or of a Mérimée, -and of a Molière or a Shakespeare among the classic great, reveals, to -a person of instinct, a nervous sensibility of extreme depth. There -are many chances for an artist of his kind, however timid, or for one -who has some grief, to show the depth of his emotion. To take up again -only two of the names just cited, this was the case with the author of -"Terres Vierges," and with the writer of "Colomba." - -A somewhat minute analysis of the novels and romances of Maupassant -would suffice to demonstrate, even if we did not know the nature of the -incidents which prompted them, that he also suffered from an excess of -nervous emotionalism. Nine times out of ten, what is the subject of -these stories to which freedom of style gives the appearance of health? -A tragic episode. I cite, at random, "Mademoiselle Fifi," "La Petite -Roque," "Inutile Beauté," "Le Masque," "Le Horla," "L'Épreuve," "Le -Champ d'Oliviers," among the novels, and among the romances, "Une Vie," -"Pierre et Jean," "Fort comme la Mort," "Notre Cœur." His imagination -aims to represent the human being as imprisoned in a situation at once -insupportable and inevitable. The spell of this grief and trouble -exerts such a power upon the writer that he ends stories commenced in -pleasantry with some sinister drama. Let me instance "Saint-Antonin," -"A Midnight Revel," "The Little Cask," and "Old Amable." You close the -book at the end of these vigorous sketches, and feel how surely they -point to constant suffering on the part of him who executed them. - -This is the leading trait in the literary physiognomy of Maupassant, -as it is the leading and most profound trait in the psychology of his -work, viz., that human life is a snare laid by nature, where joy is -always changed to misery, where noble words and the highest professions -of faith serve the lowest plans and the most cruel egoism, where -chagrin, crime, and folly are forever on hand to pursue implacably our -hopes, nullify our virtues, and annihilate our wisdom. But this is not -the whole. - -Maupassant has been called a literary nihilist--but (and this is the -second trait of his singular genius) in him nihilism finds itself -coexistent with an animal energy so fresh and so intense that for a -long time it deceives the closest observer. In an eloquent discourse, -pronounced over his premature grave, Emile Zola well defined this -illusion: "We congratulated him," said he, "upon that health which -seemed unbreakable, and justly credited him with the soundest -constitution of our band, as well as with the clearest mind and the -sanest reason. It was then that this frightful thunderbolt destroyed -him." - -It is not exact to say that the lofty genius of De Maupassant was that -of an absolutely sane man. We comprehend it to-day, and, on re-reading -him, we find traces everywhere of his final malady. But it is exact -to say that this wounded genius was, by a singular circumstance, the -genius of a robust man. A physiologist would without doubt explain -this anomaly by the coexistence of a nervous lesion, light at first, -with a muscular, athletic temperament. Whatever the cause, the effect -is undeniable. The skilled and dainty pessimism of De Maupassant was -accompanied by a vigor and physique very unusual. His sensations are -in turn those of a hunter and of a sailor, who have, as the old French -saying expressively puts it, "swift foot, eagle eye," and who are -attuned to all the whisperings of nature. - -The only confidences that he has ever permitted his pen to tell of -the intoxication of a free, animal existence are in the opening pages -of the story entitled "Mouche," where he recalls, among the sweetest -memories of his youth, his rollicking canoe parties upon the Seine, -and in the description in "La Vie Errante" of a night spent on the -sea,--"to be alone upon the water under the sky, through a warm -night,"--in which he speaks of the happiness of those "who receive -sensations through the whole surface of their flesh, as they do through -their eyes, their mouth, their ears, and sense of smell." - -His unique and too scanty collection of verses, written in early youth, -contains the two most fearless, I was going to say the most ingenuous, -paeans, perhaps, that have been written since the Renaissance: "At -the Water's Edge" (Au Bord de l'Eau) and the "Rustic Venus" (La -Venus Rustique). But here is a paganism whose ardor, by a contrast -which brings up the ever present duality of his nature, ends in an -inexpressible shiver of scorn: - - - "We look at each other, astonished, immovable, - And both are so pale that it makes us fear." - * * * * * * * * - "Alas! through all our senses slips life itself away." - - -This ending of the "Water's Edge" is less sinister than the murder -and the vision of horror which terminate the pantheistic hymn of the -"Rustic Venus." Considered as documents revealing the cast of mind -of him who composed them, these two lyrical essays are especially -significant, since they were spontaneous. They explain why De -Maupassant, in the early years of production, voluntarily chose, as -the heroes of his stories, creatures very near to primitive existence, -peasants, sailors, poachers, girls of the farm, and the source of the -vigor with which he describes these rude figures. The robustness of -his animalism permits him fully to imagine all the simple sensations -of these beings, while his pessimism, which tinges these sketches of -brutal customs with an element of delicate scorn, preserves him from -coarseness. It is this constant and involuntary antithesis which gives -unique value to those Norman scenes which have contributed so much -to his glory. It corresponds to those two contradictory tendencies -in literary art, which seek always to render life in motion with the -most intense coloring, and still to make more and more subtle the -impression of this life. How is one ambition to be satisfied at the -same time as the other, since all gain in color and movement brings -about a diminution of sensibility, and conversely? The paradox of his -constitution permitted to Maupassant this seemingly impossible accord, -aided as he was by an intellect whose influence was all powerful upon -his development--the writer I mention above, Gustave Flaubert. - -These meetings of a pupil and a master, both great, are indeed rare. -They present, in fact, some troublesome conditions, the first of -which is a profound analogy between two types of thought. There must -have been, besides, a reciprocity of affection, which does not often -obtain between a renowned senior who is growing old and an obscure -junior, whose renown is increasing. From generation to generation, envy -reascends no less than she redescends. For the honor of French men of -letters, let us add that this exceptional phenomenon has manifested -itself twice in the nineteenth century. Mérimée, whom I have also -named, received from Stendhal, at twenty, the same benefits that -Maupassant received from Flaubert. - -The author of "Une Vie" and the writer of "Clara Jozul" resemble -each other, besides, in a singular and analogous circumstance. Both -achieved renown at the first blow, and by a masterpiece which they -were able to equal but never surpass. Both were misanthropes early in -life, and practised to the end the ancient advice that the disciple of -Beyle carried upon his seal: μεμνήσο απιστἔιν--"Remember to distrust." -And, at the same time, both had delicate, tender hearts under this -affectation of cynicism, both were excellent sons, irreproachable -friends, indulgent masters, and both were idolized by their inferiors. -Both were worldly, yet still loved a wanderer's life; both joined to -a constant taste for luxury an irresistible desire for solitude. Both -belonged to the extreme left of the literature of their epoch, but kept -themselves from excess and used with a judgment marvelously sure the -sounder principles of their school. They knew how to remain lucid and -classic, in taste as much as in form--Mérimée through all the audacity -of a fancy most exotic, and Maupassant in the realism of the most -varied and exact observation. At a little distance they appear to be -two patterns, identical in certain traits, of the same family of minds, -and Tourgenief, who knew and loved the one and the other, never failed -to class them as brethren. - -They are separated, however, by profound differences, which perhaps -belong less to their nature than to that of the masters from whom -they received their impulses: Stendhal, so alert, so mobile, after a -youth passed in war and a ripe age spent in vagabond journeys, rich -in experiences, immediate and personal; Flaubert so poor in direct -impressions, so paralyzed by his health, by his family, by his theories -even, and so rich in reflections, for the most part solitary. - -Among the theories of the anatomist of "Madame Bovary," there are two -which appear without ceasing in his Correspondence, under one form -or another, and these are the ones which are most strongly evident -in the art of De Maupassant. We now see the consequences which were -inevitable by reason of them, endowed as Maupassant was with a double -power of feeling life bitterly, and at the same time with so much of -animal force. The first theory bears upon the choice of personages and -the story of the romance, the second upon the character of the style. -The son of a physician, and brought up in the rigors of scientific -method, Flaubert believed this method to be efficacious in art as in -science. For instance, in the writing of a romance, he seemed to be as -scientific as in the development of a history of customs, in which the -essential is absolute exactness and local color. He therefore naturally -wished to make the most scrupulous and detailed observation of the -environment. - -Thus is explained the immense labor in preparation which his stories -cost him--the story of "Madame Bovary," of "The Sentimental Education," -and "Bouvard and Pécuchet," documents containing as much _minutiæ_ -as his historical stories. Beyond everything he tried to select -details that were eminently significant. Consequently he was of the -opinion that the romance writer should discard all that lessened this -significance, that is, extraordinary events and singular heroes. The -exceptional personage, it seemed to him, should be suppressed, as -should also high dramatic incident, since, produced by causes less -general, these have a range more restricted. The truly scientific -romance writer, proposing to paint a certain class, will attain his -end more effectively if he incarnate personages of the middle order, -and, consequently, paint traits common to that class. And not only -middle-class traits, but middle-class adventures. - -From this point of view, examine the three great romances of the -Master from Rouen, and you will see that he has not lost sight of this -first and greatest principle of his art, any more than he has of the -second, which was that these documents should be drawn up in prose of -absolutely perfect technique. We know with what passionate care he -worked at his phrases, and how indefatigably he changed them over and -over again. Thus he satisfied that instinct of beauty which was born of -his romantic soul, while he gratified the demand of truth which inhered -from his scientific training by his minute and scrupulous exactness. - -The theory of the mean of truth on one side, as the foundation of -the subject,--"the humble truth," as he termed it at the beginning -of "Une Vie,"--and of the agonizing of beauty on the other side, in -composition, determines the whole use that Maupassant made of his -literary gifts. It helped to make more intense and more systematic -that dainty yet dangerous pessimism which in him was innate. The -middle-class personage, in wearisome society like ours, is always a -caricature, and the happenings are nearly always vulgar. When one -studies a great number of them, one finishes by looking at humanity -from the angle of disgust and despair. The philosophy of the romances -and novels of De Maupassant is so continuously and profoundly -surprising that one becomes overwhelmed by it. It reaches limitation; -it seems to deny that man is susceptible to grandeur, or that motives -of a superior order can uplift and ennoble the soul, but it does so -with a sorrow that is profound. All that portion of the sentimental and -moral world which in itself is the highest remains closed to it. - -In revenge, this philosophy finds itself in a relation cruelly exact -with the half-civilization of our day. By that I mean the poorly -educated individual who has rubbed against knowledge enough to justify -a certain egoism, but who is too poor in faculty to conceive an ideal, -and whose native grossness is corrupted beyond redemption. Under his -blouse, or under his coat--whether he calls himself Renardet, as does -the foul assassin in "Petite Roque," or Duroy, as does the sly hero -of "Bel-Ami," or Bretigny, as does the vile seducer of "Mont Oriol," -or Césaire, the son of Old Amable in the novel of that name,--this -degraded type abounds in Maupassant's stories, evoked with a ferocity -almost jovial where it meets the robustness of temperament which I -have pointed out, a ferocity which gives them a reality more exact -still because the half-civilized person is often impulsive and, in -consequence, the physical easily predominates. There, as elsewhere, -the degenerate is everywhere a degenerate who gives the impression of -being an ordinary man. - -There are quantities of men of this stamp in large cities. No writer -has felt and expressed this complex temperament with more justice than -De Maupassant, and, as he was an infinitely careful observer of _milieu_ -and landscape and all that constitutes a precise middle distance, his -novels can be considered an irrefutable record of the social classes -which he studied at a certain time and along certain lines. The -Norman peasant and the Provençal peasant, for example; also the small -officeholder, the gentleman of the provinces, the country squire, the -clubman of Paris, the journalist of the boulevard, the doctor at the -spa, the commercial artist, and, on the feminine side, the servant -girl, the working girl, the _demi-grisette_, the street girl, rich -or poor, the gallant lady of the city and of the provinces, and the -society woman--these are some of the figures that he has painted at -many sittings, and whom he used to such effect that the novels and -romances in which they are painted have come to be history. Just as it -is impossible to comprehend the Rome of the Cæsars without the work -of Petronius, so is it impossible to fully comprehend the France of -1850-90 without these stories of Maupassant. They are no more the whole -image of the country than the "Satyricon" was the whole image of Rome, -but what their author has wished to paint, he has painted to the life -and with a brush that is graphic in the extreme. - -If Maupassant had only painted, in general fashion, the characters and -the phase of literature mentioned, he would not be distinguished from -other writers of the group called "naturalists." His true glory is in -the extraordinary superiority of his art. He did not invent it, and his -method is not alien to that of "Madame Bovary," but he knew how to give -it a suppleness, a variety, and a freedom which were always wanting in -Flaubert. The latter, in his best pages, is always strained. To use the -expressive metaphor of the Greek athletes, he "smells of the oil." When -one recalls that when attacked by hysteric epilepsy, Flaubert postponed -the crisis of the terrible malady by means of sedatives, this strained -atmosphere of labor--I was going to say of stupor--which pervades his -work is explained. He is an athlete, a runner, but one who drags at his -feet a terrible weight. He is in the race only for the prize of effort, -an effort of which every motion reveals the intensity. - -Maupassant, on the other hand, if he suffered from a nervous lesion, -gave no sign of it, except in his heart. His intelligence was bright -and lively, and above all, his imagination, served by senses always on -the alert, preserved for some years an astonishing freshness of direct -vision. If his art was due to Flaubert, it is no more belittling to him -than if one call Raphael an imitator of Perugini. - -Like Flaubert, he excelled in composing a story, in distributing the -facts with subtle gradation, in bringing in at the end of a familiar -dialogue something startlingly dramatic; but such composition, with -him, seems easy, and while the descriptions are marvelously well -established in his stories, the reverse is true of Flaubert's, which -always appear a little veneered. Maupassant's phrasing, however -dramatic it may be, remains easy and flowing. - -Maupassant always sought for large and harmonious rhythm in his -deliberate choice of terms, always chose sound, wholesome language, -with a constant care for technical beauty. Inheriting from his master -an instrument already forged, he wielded it with a surer skill. In the -quality of his style, at once so firm and clear, so gorgeous yet so -sober, so supple and so firm, he equals the writers of the seventeenth -century. His method, so deeply and simply French, succeeds in giving an -indescribable "tang" to his descriptions. If observation from nature -imprints upon his tales the strong accent of reality, the prose in -which they are shrined so conforms to the genius of the race as to -smack of the soil. - -It is enough that the critics of to-day place Guy de Maupassant among -our classic writers. He has his place in the ranks of pure French -genius, with the Regniers, the La Fontaines, the Molières. And those -signs of secret ill divined everywhere under this wholesome prose -surround it for those who knew and loved him with a pathos that is -inexpressible. - - Paul Bourget - - - - -INTRODUCTION - - -Born in the middle year of the nineteenth century, and fated -unfortunately never to see its close, Guy de Maupassant was probably -the most versatile and brilliant among the galaxy of novelists who -enriched French literature between the years 1800 and 1900. Poetry, -drama, prose of short and sustained effort, and volumes of travel and -description, each sparkling with the same minuteness of detail and -brilliancy of style, flowed from his pen during the twelve years of his -literary life. - -Although his genius asserted itself in youth, he had the patience of -the true artist, spending his early manhood in cutting and polishing -the facets of his genius under the stern though paternal mentorship of -Gustave Flaubert. Not until he had attained the age of thirty did he -venture on publication, challenging criticism for the first time with a -volume of poems. - -Many and various have been the judgments passed upon Maupassant's work. -But now that the perspective of time is lengthening, enabling us to -form a more deliberate and therefore a juster, view of his complete -achievement, we are driven irresistibly to the conclusion that the -force that shaped and swayed Maupassant's prose writings was the -conviction that in life there could be no phase so noble or so mean, so -honorable or so contemptible, so lofty or so low as to be unworthy of -chronicling,--no groove of human virtue or fault, success or failure, -wisdom or folly that did not possess its own peculiar psychological -aspect and therefore demanded analysis. - -To this analysis Maupassant brought a facile and dramatic pen, a -penetration as searching as a probe, and a power of psychological -vision that in its minute detail, now pathetic, now ironical, in its -merciless revelation of the hidden springs of the human heart, whether -of aristocrat, _bourgeois_, peasant, or priest, allow one to call him a -Meissonier in words. - -The school of romantic realism which was founded by Mérimée and -Balzac found its culmination in De Maupassant. He surpassed his -mentor, Flaubert, in the breadth and vividness of his work, and one -of the greatest of modern French critics has recorded the deliberate -opinion, that of all Taine's pupils Maupassant had the greatest command -of language and the most finished and incisive style. Robust in -imagination and fired with natural passion, his psychological curiosity -kept him true to human nature, while at the same time his mental eye, -when fixed upon the most ordinary phases of human conduct, could see -some new motive or aspect of things hitherto unnoticed by the careless -crowd. - -It has been said by casual critics that Maupassant lacked one quality -indispensable to the production of truly artistic work, viz.: an -absolutely normal, that is, moral, point of view. The answer to this -criticism is obvious. No dissector of the gamut of human passion and -folly in all its tones could present aught that could be called new, if -ungifted with a view-point totally out of the ordinary plane. Cold and -merciless in the use of this _point de vue_ De Maupassant undoubtedly -is, especially in such vivid depictions of love, both physical and -maternal, as we find in "L'histoire d'une fille de ferme" and "La -femme de Paul." But then the surgeon's scalpel never hesitates at -giving pain, and pain is often the road to health and ease. Some of -Maupassant's short stories are sermons more forcible than any moral -dissertation could ever be. - -Of De Maupassant's sustained efforts "Une Vie" may bear the palm. This -romance has the distinction of having changed Tolstoi from an adverse -critic into a warm admirer of the author. To quote the Russian moralist -upon the book: - - "'Une Vie' is a romance of the best type, and in my judgment - the greatest that has been produced by any French writer - since Victor Hugo penned 'Les Misérables.' Passing over the - force and directness of the narrative, I am struck by the - intensity, the grace, and the insight with which the writer - treats the new aspects of human nature which he finds in the - life he describes." - -And as if gracefully to recall a former adverse criticism, Tolstoi adds: - - "I find in the book, in almost equal strength, the three - cardinal qualities essential to great work, viz: moral - purpose, perfect style, and absolute sincerity.... - Maupassant is a man whose vision has penetrated the - silent depths of human life, and from that vantage-ground - interprets the struggle of humanity." - -"Bel-Ami" appeared almost two years after "Une Vie," that is to say, -about 1885. Discussed and criticised as it has been, it is in reality -a satire, an indignant outburst against the corruption of society -which in the story enables an ex-soldier, devoid of conscience, honor, -even of the commonest regard for others, to gain wealth and rank. -The purport of the story is clear to those who recognize the ideas -that governed Maupassant's work, and even the hasty reader or critic, -on reading "Mont Oriol," which was published two years later and is -based on a combination of the _motifs_ which inspired "Une Vie" and -"Bel-Ami," will reconsider former hasty judgments, and feel, too, that -beneath the triumph of evil which calls forth Maupassant's satiric -anger there lies the substratum on which all his work is founded, viz: -the persistent, ceaseless questioning of a soul unable to reconcile or -explain the contradiction between love in life and inevitable death. -Who can read in "Bel-Ami" the terribly graphic description of the -consumptive journalist's demise, his frantic clinging to life, and his -refusal to credit the slow and merciless approach of death, without -feeling that the question asked at Naishapur many centuries ago is -still waiting for the solution that is always promised but never comes? - -In the romances which followed, dating from 1888 to 1890, a sort of -calm despair seems to have settled down upon De Maupassant's attitude -toward life. Psychologically acute as ever, and as perfect in style -and sincerity as before, we miss the note of anger. Fatality is -the keynote, and yet, sounding low, we detect a genuine subtone of -sorrow. Was it a prescience of 1893? So much work to be done, so much -work demanded of him, the world of Paris, in all its brilliant and -attractive phases, at his feet, and yet--inevitable, ever advancing -death, with the question of life still unanswered. - -This may account for some of the strained situations we find in his -later romances. Vigorous in frame and hearty as he was, the atmosphere -of his mental processes must have been vitiated to produce the dainty -but dangerous pessimism that pervades some of his later work. This was -partly a consequence of his honesty and partly of mental despair. He -never accepted other people's views on the questions of life. He looked -into such problems for himself, arriving at the truth, as it appeared -to him, by the logic of events, often finding evil where he wished to -find good, but never hoodwinking himself or his readers by adapting or -distorting the reality of things to suit a preconceived idea. - -Maupassant was essentially a worshiper of the eternal feminine. He was -persuaded that without the continual presence of the gentler sex man's -existence would be an emotionally silent wilderness. No other French -writer has described and analyzed so minutely and comprehensively -the many and various motives and moods that shape the conduct of a -woman in life. Take for instance the wonderfully subtle analysis of a -woman's heart as wife and mother that we find in "Une Vie." Could aught -be more delicately incisive? Sometimes in describing the apparently -inexplicable conduct of a certain woman he leads his readers to a point -where a false step would destroy the spell and bring the reproach of -banality and ridicule upon the tale. But the catastrophe never occurs. -It was necessary to stand poised upon the brink of the precipice to -realize the depth of the abyss and feel the terror of the fall. - -Closely allied to this phase of Maupassant's nature was the peculiar -feeling of loneliness that every now and then breaks irresistibly forth -in the course of some short story. Of kindly soul and genial heart, he -suffered not only from the oppression of spirit caused by the lack of -humanity, kindliness, sanity, and harmony which he encountered daily in -the world at large, but he had an ever abiding sense of the invincible, -unbanishable solitariness of his own Inmost self. I know of no more -poignant expression of such a feeling than the cry of despair which -rings out in the short story called "Solitude," in which he describes -the insurmountable barrier which exists between man and man, or man and -woman, however intimate the friendship between them. He could picture -but one way of destroying this terrible loneliness, the attainment of a -spiritual--a divine--state of love, a condition to which he would give -no name utterable by human lips, lest it be profaned, but for which -his whole being yearned. How acutely he felt his failure to attain his -deliverance may be drawn from his wail that mankind has no universal -measure of happiness. - -"Each one of us," writes De Maupassant, "forms for himself an illusion -through which he views the world, be it poetic, sentimental, joyous, -melancholy, or dismal; an illusion of beauty, which is a human -convention; of ugliness, which is a matter of opinion; of truth, -which, alas, is never immutable." And he concludes by asserting that -the happiest artist is he who approaches most closely to the truth of -things as he sees them through his own particular illusion. - -Salient points in De Maupassant's genius were that he possessed the -rare faculty of holding direct communion with his gifts, and of writing -from their dictation as it was interpreted by his senses. He had no -patience with writers who in striving to present life as a whole -purposely omit episodes that reveal the influence of the senses. "As -well," he says, "refrain from describing the effect of intoxicating -perfumes upon man as omit the influence of beauty on the temperament of -man." - -De Maupassant's dramatic instinct was supremely powerful. He seems -to select unerringly the one thing in which the soul of the scene is -prisoned, and, making that his keynote, gives a picture in words which -haunt the memory like a strain of music. The description of the ride of -Madame Tellier and her companions in a country cart through a Norman -landscape is an admirable example. You smell the masses of the colza -in blossom, you see the yellow carpets of ripe corn spotted here and -there by the blue coronets of the cornflower, and rapt by the red blaze -of the poppy beds and bathed in the fresh greenery of the landscape, -you share in the emotions felt by the happy party in the country cart. -And yet with all his vividness of description, De Maupassant is always -sober and brief. He had the genius of condensation and the reserve -which is innate in power, and to his reader could convey as much in a -paragraph as could be expressed in a page by many of his predecessors -and contemporaries, Flaubert not excepted. - -Apart from his novels, De Maupassant's tales may be arranged under -three heads: Those that concern themselves with Norman peasant life; -those that deal with Government employees (Maupassant himself had -long been one) and the Paris middle classes, and those that represent -the life of the fashionable world, as well as the weird and fantastic -ideas of the later years of his career. Of these three groups the tales -of the Norman peasantry perhaps rank highest. He depicts the Norman -farmer in surprisingly free and bold strokes, revealing him in all his -caution, astuteness, rough gaiety, and homely virtue. - -The tragic stage of De Maupassant's life may, I think, be set down as -beginning just before the drama of "Musotte" was issued, in conjunction -with Jacques Normand, in 1891. He had almost given up the hope of -interpreting his puzzles, and the struggle between the falsity of the -life which surrounded him and the nobler visions which possessed him -was wearing him out. Doubtless he resorted to unwise methods for the -dispelling of physical lassitude or for surcease from troubling mental -problems. To this period belong such weird and horrible fancies as -are contained in the short stories known as "He" and "The Diary of a -Madman." Here and there, we know, were rising in him inklings of a -finer and less sordid attitude 'twixt man and woman throughout the -world and of a purer constitution of existing things which no exterior -force should blemish or destroy. But with these yearningly prophetic -gleams came a period of mental death. Then the physical veil was torn -aside and for Guy de Maupassant the riddle of existence was answered. - - - Robert Arnot - - - - - - -NOTRE CŒUR - - - - -CHAPTER I. - - -THE INTRODUCTION - - -One day Massival, the celebrated composer of "Rebecca," who for fifteen -years, now, had been known as "the young and illustrious master," said -to his friend André Mariolle: - -"Why is it that you have never secured a presentation to Mme. Michèle -de Burne? Take my word for it, she is one of the most interesting women -in new Paris." - -"Because I do not feel myself at all adapted to her surroundings." - -"You are wrong, my dear fellow. It is a house where there is a great -deal of novelty and originality; it is wide-awake and very artistic. -There is excellent music, and the conversation is as good as in the -best salons of the last century. You would be highly appreciated--in -the first place because you play so well on the violin, then because -you have been very favorably spoken of in the house, and finally -because you have the reputation of being select in your choice of -friends." - -Flattered, but still maintaining his attitude of resistance, supposing, -moreover, that this urgent invitation was not given without the young -woman being aware of it, Mariolle ejaculated a "Bah! I shall not -bother my head at all about it," in which, through the disdain that he -intended to express, was evident his foregone acceptance. - -Massival continued: "Would you like to have me present you some of -these days? You are already known to her through all of us who are on -terms of intimacy with her, for we talk about you often enough. She is -a very pretty woman of twenty-eight, abounding in intelligence, who -will never take a second husband, for her first venture was a very -unfortunate one. She has made her abode a rendezvous for agreeable men. -There are not too many club-men or society-men found there--just enough -of them to give the proper effect. She will be delighted to have me -introduce you." - -Mariolle was vanquished; he replied: "Very well, then; one of these -days." - -At the beginning of the following week the musician came to his house -and asked him: "Are you disengaged to-morrow?" - -"Why, yes." - -"Very well. I will take you to dine with Mme. de Burne; she requested -me to invite you. Besides, here is a line from her." - -After a few seconds' reflection, for form's sake, Mariolle answered: -"That is settled!" - -André Mariolle was about thirty-seven years old, a bachelor without -a profession, wealthy enough to live in accordance with his likings, -to travel, and even to indulge himself in collecting modern paintings -and ancient knickknacks. He had the reputation of being a man of -intelligence, rather odd and unsociable, a little capricious and -disdainful, who affected the hermit through pride rather than through -timidity. Very talented and acute, but indolent, quick to grasp the -meaning of things, and capable, perhaps, of accomplishing something -great, he had contented himself with enjoying life as a spectator, or -rather as a _dilettante_. Had he been poor, he would doubtless have -turned out to be a remarkable or celebrated man; born with a good -income, he was eternally reproaching himself that he could never be -anything better than a nobody. - -It is true that he had made more than one attempt in the direction of -the arts, but they had lacked vigor. One had been in the direction of -literature, by publishing a pleasing book of travels, abounding in -incident and correct in style; one toward music by his violin-playing, -in which he had gained, even among professional musicians, a -respectable reputation; and, finally, one at sculpture, that art in -which native aptitude and the faculty of rough-hewing striking and -deceptive figures atone in the eyes of the ignorant for deficiencies in -study and knowledge. His statuette in terra-cotta, "Masseur Tunisien," -had even been moderately successful at the Salon of the preceding year. -He was a remarkable horseman, and was also, it was said, an excellent -fencer, although he never used the foils in public, owing, perhaps, to -the same self-distrustful feeling which impelled him to absent himself -from society resorts where serious rivalries were to be apprehended. - -His friends appreciated him, however, and were unanimous in extolling -his merits, perhaps for the reason that they had little to fear from -him in the way of competition. It was said of him that in every case he -was reliable, a devoted friend, extremely agreeable in manner, and very -sympathetic in his personality. - -Tall of stature, wearing his black beard short upon the cheeks and -trained down to a fine point upon the chin, with hair that was -beginning to turn gray but curled very prettily, he looked one straight -in the face with a pair of clear, brown, piercing eyes in which lurked -a shade of distrust and hardness. - -Among his intimates he had an especial predilection for artists of -every kind--among them Gaston de Lamarthe the novelist, Massival the -musician, and the painters Jobin, Rivollet, De Mandol--who seemed to -set a high value on his reason, his friendship, his intelligence, -and even his judgment, although at bottom, with the vanity that -is inseparable from success achieved, they set him down as a very -agreeable and very intelligent man who had failed to score a success. - -Mariolle's haughty reserve seemed to say: "I am nothing because I have -not chosen to be anything." He lived within a narrow circle, therefore, -disdaining gallantry and the great frequented salons, where others -might have shone more brilliantly than he, and might have obliged him -to take his place among the lay-figures of society. He visited only -those houses where appreciation was extended to the solid qualities -that he was unwilling to display; and though he had consented so -readily to allow himself to be introduced to Mme. Michèle de Burne, the -reason was that his best friends, those who everywhere proclaimed his -hidden merits, were the intimates of this young woman. - -She lived in a pretty _entresol_ in the Rue du Général-Foy, behind the -church of Saint Augustin. There were two rooms with an outlook on the -street--the dining-room and a salon, the one in which she received her -company indiscriminately--and two others that opened on a handsome -garden of which the owner of the property had the enjoyment. Of the -latter the first was a second salon of large dimensions, of greater -length than width, with three windows opening on the trees, the leaves -of which brushed against the awnings, a room which was embellished -with furniture and ornaments exceptionally rare and simple, in the -purest and soberest taste and of great value. The tables, the chairs, -the little cupboards or _étagères_, the pictures, the fans and the -porcelain figures beneath glass covers, the vases, the statuettes, the -great clock fixed in the middle of a panel, the entire decoration of -this young woman's apartment attracted and held attention by its shape, -its age, or its elegance. To create for herself this home, of which she -was almost as proud as she was of her own person, she had laid under -contribution the knowledge, the friendship, the good nature, and the -rummaging instinct of every artist of her acquaintance. She was rich -and willing to pay well, and her friends had discovered for her many -things, distinguished by originality, which the mere vulgar amateur -would have passed by with contempt. Thus, with their assistance, -she had furnished this dwelling, to which access was obtained with -difficulty, and where she imagined that her friends received more -pleasure and returned more gladly than elsewhere. - -It was even a favorite hobby of hers to assert that the colors of the -curtains and hangings, the comfort of the seats, the beauty of form, -and the gracefulness of general effect are of as much avail to charm, -captivate, and acclimatize the eye as are pretty smiles. Sympathetic -or antipathetic rooms, she would say, whether rich or poor, attract, -hold, or repel, just like the people who live in them. They awake the -feelings or stifle them, warm or chill the mind, compel one to talk or -be silent, make one sad or cheerful; in a word, they give every visitor -an unaccountable desire to remain or to go away. - -About the middle of this dimly lighted gallery a grand piano, standing -between two _jardinières_ filled with flowers, occupied the place of -honor and dominated the room. Beyond this a lofty door with two leaves -opened gave access to the bedroom, which in turn communicated with a -dressing-room, also very large and elegant, hung with chintz like a -drawing-room in summer, where Mme. de Burne generally kept herself when -she had no company. - -Married to a well-mannered good-for-nothing, one of those domestic -tyrants before whom everything must bend and yield, she had at -first been very unhappy. For five years she had had to endure the -unreasonable exactions, the harshness, the jealousy, even the violence -of this intolerable master, and terrified, beside herself with -astonishment, she had submitted without revolt to this revelation of -married life, crushed as she was beneath the despotic and torturing -will of the brutal man whose victim she had become. - -He died one night, from an aneurism, as he was coming home, and when -she saw the body of her husband brought in, covered with a sheet, -unable to believe in the reality of this deliverance, she looked at his -corpse with a deep feeling of repressed joy and a frightful dread lest -she might show it. - -Cheerful, independent, even exuberant by nature, very flexible and -attractive, with bright flashes of wit such as are shown in some -incomprehensible way in the intellects of certain little girls of -Paris, who seem to have breathed from their earliest childhood the -stimulating air of the boulevards--where every evening, through the -open doors of the theaters, the applause or the hisses that greet the -plays come forth, borne on the air--she nevertheless retained from her -five years of servitude a strange timidity grafted upon her old-time -audacity, a great fear lest she might say too much, do too much, -together with a burning desire for emancipation and a stern resolve -never again to do anything to imperil her liberty. - -Her husband, a man of the world, had trained her to receive like a mute -slave, elegant, polite, and well dressed. The despot had numbered among -his friends many artists, whom she had received with curiosity and -listened to with delight, without ever daring to allow them to see how -she understood and appreciated them. - -When her period of mourning was ended she invited a few of them to -dinner one evening. Two of them sent excuses; three accepted and -were astonished to find a young woman of admirable intelligence and -charming manners, who immediately put them at their ease and gracefully -told them of the pleasure that they had afforded her in former days -by coming to her house. From among her old acquaintances who had -ignored her or failed to recognize her qualities she thus gradually -made a selection according to her inclinations, and as a widow, an -enfranchised woman, but one determined to maintain her good name, she -began to receive all the most distinguished men of Paris whom she could -bring together, with only a few women. The first to be admitted became -her intimates, formed a nucleus, attracted others, and gave to the -house the air of a small court, to which every _habitué_ contributed -either personal merit or a great name, for a few well-selected titles -were mingled with the intelligence of the commonalty. - -Her father, M. de Pradon, who occupied the apartment over hers, served -as her chaperon and "sheep-dog." An old beau, very elegant and witty, -and extremely attentive to his daughter, whom he treated rather as -a lady acquaintance than as a daughter, he presided at the Thursday -dinners that were quickly known and talked of in Paris, and to which -invitations were much sought after. The requests for introductions -and invitations came in shoals, were discussed, and very frequently -rejected by a sort of vote of the inner council. Witty sayings that -had their origin in this circle were quoted and obtained currency in -the city. Actors, artists, and young poets made their _débuts_ there, -and received, as it were, the baptism of their future greatness. -Longhaired geniuses, introduced by Gaston de Lamarthe, seated -themselves at the piano and replaced the Hungarian violinists that -Massival had presented, and foreign ballet-dancers gave the company a -glimpse of their graceful steps before appearing at the Eden or the -Folies-Bergères. - -Mme. de Burne, over whom her friends kept jealous watch and ward and -to whom the recollection of her commerce with the world under the -auspices of marital authority was loathsome, was sufficiently wise -not to enlarge the circle of her acquaintance to too great an extent. -Satisfied and at the same time terrified as to what might be said -and thought of her, she abandoned herself to her somewhat Bohemian -inclinations with consummate prudence. She valued her good name, and -was fearful of any rashness that might jeopardize it; she never allowed -her fancies to carry her beyond the bounds of propriety, was moderate -in her audacity and careful that no _liaison_ or small love affair -should ever be imputed to her. - -All her friends had made love to her, more or less; none of them had -been successful. They confessed it, admitted it to each other with -surprise, for men never acknowledge, and perhaps they are right, the -power of resistance of a woman who is her own mistress. There was a -story current about her. It was said that at the beginning of their -married life her husband had exhibited such revolting brutality toward -her that she had been forever cured of the love of men. Her friends -would often discuss the case at length. They inevitably arrived at the -conclusion that a young girl who has been brought up in the dream -of future tenderness and the expectation of an awe-inspiring mystery -must have all her ideas completely upset when her initiation into the -new life is committed to a clown. That worldly philosopher, George de -Maltry, would give a gentle sneer and add: "Her hour will strike; it -always does for women like her, and the longer it is in coming the -louder it strikes. With our friend's artistic tastes, she will wind up -by falling in love with a singer or a pianist." - -Gaston de Lamarthe's ideas upon the subject were quite different. -As a novelist, observer, and psychologist, devoted to the study of -the inhabitants of the world of fashion, of whom he drew ironical -and lifelike portraits, he claimed to analyze and know women with -infallible and unique penetration. He put Mme. de Burne down among -those flighty creatures of the time, the type of whom he had given -in his interesting novel, "Une d'Elles." He had been the first -to diagnose this new race of women, distracted by the nerves of -reasoning, hysterical patients, drawn this way and that by a thousand -contradictory whims which never ripen into desires, disillusioned of -everything, without having enjoyed anything, thanks to the times, to -the way of living, and to the modern novel, and who, destitute of all -ardor and enthusiasm, seem to combine in their persons the capricious, -spoiled child and the old, withered sceptic. But he, like the rest of -them, had failed in his love-making. - -For all the faithful of the group had in turn been lovers of Mme. de -Burne, and after the crisis had retained their tenderness and their -emotion in different degrees. They had gradually come to form a sort of -little church; she was its Madonna, of whom they conversed constantly -among themselves, subject to her charm even when she was not present. -They praised, extolled, criticised, or disparaged her, according as she -had manifested irritation or gentleness, aversion or preference. They -were continually displaying their jealousy of each other, played the -spy on each other a little, and above all kept their ranks well closed -up, so that no rival might get near her who could give them any cause -for alarm. - -These assiduous ones were few in number: Massival, Gaston de Lamarthe, -big Fresnel, George de Maltry, a fashionable young philosopher, -celebrated for his paradoxes, for his eloquent and involved erudition -that was always up to date though incomprehensible even to the most -impassioned of his female admirers, and for his clothes, which were -selected with as much care as his theories. To this tried band she had -added a few more men of the world who had a reputation for wit, the -Comte de Marantin, the Baron de Gravil, and two or three others. - -The two privileged characters of this chosen battalion seemed to be -Massival and Lamarthe, who, it appears, had the gift of being always -able to divert the young woman by their artistic unceremoniousness, -their chaff, and the way they had of making fun of everybody, even of -herself, a little, when she was in humor to tolerate it. The care, -whether natural or assumed, however, that she took never to manifest -a marked and prolonged predilection for any one of her admirers, the -unconstrained air with which she practiced her coquetry and the real -impartiality with which she dispensed her favors maintained between -them a friendship seasoned with hostility and an alertness of wit that -made them entertaining. - -One of them would sometimes play a trick on the others by presenting -a friend; but as this friend was never a very celebrated or very -interesting man, the rest would form a league against him and quickly -send him away. - -It was in this way that Massival brought his comrade André Mariolle -to the house. A servant in black announced these names: "Monsieur -Massival! Monsieur Mariolle!" - -Beneath a great rumpled cloud of pink silk, a huge shade that was -casting down upon a square table with a top of ancient marble the -brilliant light of a lamp supported by a lofty column of gilded bronze, -one woman's head and three men's heads were bent over an album that -Lamarthe had brought in with him. Standing between them, the novelist -was turning the leaves and explaining the pictures. - -As they entered the room, one of the heads was turned toward them, -and Mariolle, as he stepped forward, became conscious of a bright, -blond face, rather tending to ruddiness, upon the temples of which the -soft, fluffy locks of hair seemed to blaze with the flame of burning -brushwood. The delicate _retroussé_ nose imparted a smiling expression -to this countenance, and the clean-cut mouth, the deep dimples in -the cheeks, and the rather prominent cleft chin, gave it a mocking -air, while the eyes, by a strange contrast, veiled it in melancholy. -They were blue, of a dull, dead blue as if they had been washed out, -scoured, used up, and in the center the black pupils shone, round and -dilated. The strange and brilliant glances that they emitted seemed to -tell of dreams of morphine, or perhaps, more simply, of the coquettish -artifice of belladonna. - -Mme. de Burne arose, gave her hand, thanked and welcomed them. - -"For a long time I have been begging my friends to bring you to my -house," she said to Mariolle, "but I always have to tell these things -over and over again in order to get them done." - -She was tall, elegantly shaped, rather deliberate in her movements, -modestly _décolletée_, scarcely showing the tips of her handsome -shoulders, the shoulders of a red-headed woman, that shone out -marvelously under the light. And yet her hair was not red, but of the -inexpressible color of certain dead leaves that have been burned by the -frosts of autumn. - -She presented M. Mariolle to her father, who bowed and shook hands. - -The men were conversing familiarly together in three groups; they -seemed to be at home, in a kind of club that they were accustomed -to frequent, to which the presence of a woman imparted a note of -refinement. - -Big Fresnel was chatting with the Comte de Marantin. Fresnel's frequent -visits to this house and the preference that Mme. de Burne evinced for -him shocked and often provoked her friends. Still young, but with the -proportions of a drayman, always puffing and blowing, almost beardless, -his head lost in a vague cloud of light, soft hair, commonplace, -tiresome, ridiculous, he certainly could have but one merit in the -young woman's eyes, a merit that was displeasing to the others but -indispensable to her,--that of loving her blindly. He had received the -nickname of "The Seal." He was married, but never said anything about -bringing his wife to the house. It was said that she was very jealous -in her seclusion. - -Lamarthe and Massival especially evinced their indignation at the -evident sympathy of their friend for this windy person, and when they -could no longer refrain from reproaching her with this reprehensible -inclination, this selfish and vulgar liking, she would smile and answer: - -"I love him as I would love a great, big, faithful dog." - -George de Maltry was entertaining Gaston de Lamarthe with the most -recent discovery, not yet fully developed, of the micro-biologists. -M. de Maltry was expatiating on his theme with many subtile and -far-reaching theories, and the novelist accepted them enthusiastically, -with the facility with which men of letters receive and do not dispute -everything that appears to them original and new. - -The philosopher of "high life," fair, of the fairness of linen, slender -and tall, was incased in a coat that fitted very closely about the -hips. Above, his pale, intelligent face emerged from his white collar -and was surmounted by smooth, blond hair, which had the appearance of -being glued on. - -As to Lamarthe, Gaston de Lamarthe, to whom the particle that divided -his name had imparted some of the pretensions of a gentleman and man -of the world, he was first, last, and all the time a man of letters, -a terrible and pitiless man of letters. Provided with an eye that -gathered in images, attitudes, and gestures with the rapidity and -accuracy of the photographer's camera, and endowed with penetration -and the novelist's instinct, which were as innate in him as the faculty -of scent is in a hound, he was busy from morning till night storing -away impressions to be used afterward in his profession. With these -two very simple senses, a distinct idea of form and an intuitive one -of substance, he gave to his books, in which there appeared none of -the ordinary aims of psychological writers, the color, the tone, the -appearance, the movement of life itself. - -Each one of his novels as it appeared excited in society curiosity, -conjecture, merriment, or wrath, for there always seemed to be -prominent persons to be recognized in them, only faintly disguised -under a torn mask; and whenever he made his way through a crowded salon -he left a wake of uneasiness behind him. Moreover, he had published a -volume of personal recollections, in which he had given the portraits -of many men and women of his acquaintance, without any clearly defined -intention of unkindness, but with such precision and severity that -they felt sore over it. Some one had applied to him the _sobriquet_, -"Beware of your friends." He kept his secrets close-locked within his -breast and was a puzzle to his intimates. He was reputed to have once -passionately loved a woman who caused him much suffering, and it was -said that after that he wreaked his vengeance upon others of her sex. - -Massival and he understood each other very well, although the musician -was of a very different disposition, more frank, more expansive, less -harassed, perhaps, but manifestly more impressible. After two great -successes--a piece performed at Brussels and afterward brought to -Paris, where it was loudly applauded at the Opéra-Comique; then a -second work that was received and interpreted at the Grand Opéra as -soon as offered--he had yielded to that species of cessation of impulse -that seems to smite the greater part of our contemporary artists like -premature paralysis. They do not grow old, as their fathers did, in the -midst of their renown and success, but seem threatened with impotence -even when in the very prime of life. Lamarthe was accustomed to say: -"At the present day there are in France only great men who have gone -wrong." - -Just at this time Massival seemed very much smitten with Mme. de Burne, -so that every eye was turned upon him when he kissed her hand with an -air of adoration. He inquired: - -"Are we late?" - -She replied: - -"No, I am still expecting the Baron de Gravil and the Marquise de -Bratiane." - -"Ah, the Marquise! What good luck! We shall have some music this -evening, then." - -"I hope so." - -The two laggards made their appearance. The Marquise, a woman perhaps a -little too diminutive, Italian by birth, of a lively disposition, with -very black eyes and eyelashes, black eyebrows, and black hair to match, -which grew so thick and so low down that she had no forehead to speak -of, her eyes even being threatened with invasion, had the reputation of -possessing the most remarkable voice of all the women in society. - -The Baron, a very gentlemanly man, hollow-chested and with a large -head, was never really himself unless he had his violoncello in his -hands. He was a passionate melomaniac, and only frequented those houses -where music received its due share of honor. - -Dinner was announced, and Mme. de Burne, taking André Mariolle's arm, -allowed her guests to precede her to the dining-room; then, as they -were left together, the last ones in the drawing-room, just as she was -about to follow the procession she cast upon him an oblique, swift -glance from her pale eyes with their dusky pupils, in which he thought -that he could perceive more complexity of thought and more curiosity of -interest than pretty women generally bestow upon a strange gentleman -when receiving him at dinner for the first time. - -The dinner was monotonous and rather dull. Lamarthe was nervous, and -seemed ill disposed toward everyone, not openly hostile, for he made a -point of his good-breeding, but displaying that almost imperceptible -bad humor that takes the life out of conversation. Massival, abstracted -and preoccupied, ate little, and from time to time cast furtive glances -at the mistress of the house, who seemed to be in any place rather than -at her own table. Inattentive, responding to remarks with a smile and -then allowing her face to settle back to its former intent expression, -she appeared to be reflecting upon something that seemed greatly to -preoccupy her, and to interest her that evening more than did her -friends. Still she contributed her share to the conversation--very -amply as regarded the Marquise and Mariolle,--but she did it from -habit, from a sense of duty, visibly absent from herself and from her -abode. Fresnel and M. de Maltry disputed over contemporary poetry. -Fresnel held the opinions upon poetry that are current among men of -the world, and M. de Maltry the perceptions of the spinners of most -complicated verse--verse that is incomprehensible to the general public. - -Several times during the dinner Mariolle had again encountered the -young woman's inquiring look, but more vague, less intent, less -curious. The Marquise de Bratiane, the Comte de Marantin, and the Baron -de Gravil were the only ones who kept up an uninterrupted conversation, -and they had quantities of things to say. - -After dinner, during the course of the evening, Massival, who had -kept growing more and more melancholy, seated himself at the piano -and struck a few notes, whereupon Mme. de Burne appeared to awake and -quickly organized a little concert, the numbers of which comprised the -pieces that she was most fond of. - -The Marquise was in voice, and, animated by Massival's presence, she -sang like a real artist. The master accompanied her, with that dreamy -look that he always assumed when he sat down to play. His long hair -fell over the collar of his coat and mingled with his full, fine, -shining, curling beard. Many women had been in love with him, and they -still pursued him with their attentions, so it was said. Mme. de Burne, -sitting by the piano and listening with all her soul, seemed to be -contemplating him and at the same time not to see him, and Mariolle -was a little jealous. He was not particularly jealous because of any -relation that there was between her and him, but in presence of that -look of a woman fixed so intently upon one of the Illustrious he felt -himself humiliated in his masculine vanity by the consciousness of the -rank that _They_ bestow on us in proportion to the renown that we have -gained. Often before this he had secretly suffered from contact with -famous men whom he was accustomed to meet in the presence of those -beings whose favor is by far the dearest reward of success. - -About ten o'clock the Comtesse de Frémines and two Jewesses of the -financial community arrived, one after the other. The talk was of a -marriage that was on the carpet and a threatened divorce suit. Mariolle -looked at Madame de Burne, who was now seated beneath a column that -sustained a huge lamp. Her well-formed, tip-tilted nose, the dimples in -her cheeks, and the little indentation that parted her chin gave her -face the frolicsome expression of a child, although she was approaching -her thirtieth year, and something in her glance that reminded one of -a withering flower cast a shade of melancholy over her countenance. -Beneath the light that streamed upon it her skin took on tones of blond -velvet, while her hair actually seemed colored by the autumnal sun -which dyes and scorches the dead leaves. - -She was conscious of the masculine glance that was traveling toward her -from the other end of the room, and presently she arose and went to -him, smiling, as if in response to a summons from him. - -"I am afraid you are somewhat bored," she said. "A person who has not -got the run of a house is always bored." - -He protested the contrary. She took a chair and seated herself by -him, and at once the conversation began to be animated. It was -instantaneous with both of them, like a fire that blazes up brightly -as soon as a match is applied to it. It seemed as if they had imparted -their sensations and their opinions to each other beforehand, as if a -similarity of disposition and education, of tastes and inclinations, -had predisposed them to a mutual understanding and fated them to meet. - -Perhaps there may have been a little artfulness on the part of the -young woman, but the delight that one feels in encountering one who is -capable of listening, who can understand you and reply to you and whose -answers give scope for your repartees, put Mariolle into a fine glow of -spirits. Flattered, moreover, by the reception which she had accorded -him, subjugated by the alluring favor that she displayed and by the -charm which she knew how to use so adroitly in captivating men, he -did his best to exhibit to her that shade of subdued but personal and -delicate wit which, when people came to know him well, had gained for -him so many and such warm friendships. - -She suddenly said to him: - -"Really, it is very pleasant to converse with you, Monsieur. I had been -told that such was the case, however." - -He was conscious that he was blushing, and replied at a venture: - -"And _I_ had been told, Madame, that you were----" - -She interrupted him: - -"Say a coquette. I am a good deal of a coquette with people whom I -like. Everyone knows it, and I do not attempt to conceal it from -myself, but you will see that I am very impartial in my coquetry, and -this allows me to keep or to recall my friends without ever losing -them, and to retain them all about me." - -She said this with a sly air which was meant to say: "Be easy and don't -be too presumptuous. Don't deceive yourself, for you will get nothing -more than the others." - -He replied: - -"That is what you might call warning your guests of the perils that -await them here. Thank you, Madame: I greatly admire your mode of -procedure." - -She had opened the way for him to speak of herself, and he availed -himself of it. He began by paying her compliments and found that she -was fond of them; then he aroused her woman's curiosity by telling -her what was said of her in the different houses that he frequented. -She was rather uneasy and could not conceal her desire for further -information, although she affected much indifference as to what might -be thought of herself and her tastes. He drew for her a charming -portrait of a superior, independent, intelligent, and attractive -woman, who had surrounded herself with a court of eminent men and -still retained her position as an accomplished member of society. She -disclaimed his compliments with smiles, with little disclaimers of -gratified egotism, all the while taking much pleasure in the details -that he gave her, and in a playful tone kept constantly asking him for -more, questioning him artfully, with a sensual appetite for flattery. - -As he looked at her, he said to himself, "She is nothing but a child -at heart, just like all the rest of them"; and he went on to finish a -pretty speech in which he was commending her love for art, so rarely -found among women. Then she assumed an air of mockery that he had not -before suspected in her, that playfully tantalizing manner that seems -inherent in the French. Mariolle had overdone his eulogy; she let him -know that she was not a fool. - -"_Mon Dieu!_" she said, "I will confess to you that I am not quite -certain whether it is art or artists that I love." - -He replied: "How could one love artists without being in love with art?" - -"Because they are sometimes more comical than men of the world." - -"Yes, but they have more unpleasant failings." - -"That is true." - -"Then you do not love music?" - -She suddenly dropped her bantering tone. "Excuse me! I adore music; I -think that I am more fond of it than of anything else. And yet Massival -is convinced that I know nothing at all about it." - -"Did he tell you so?" - -"No, but he thinks so." - -"How do you know?" - -"Oh! we women guess at almost everything that we don't know." - -"So Massival thinks that you know nothing of music?" - -"I am sure of it. I can see it only by the way that he has of -explaining things to me, by the way in which he underscores little -niceties of expression, all the while saying to himself: 'That won't be -of any use, but I do it because you are so nice.'" - -"Still he has told me that you have the best music in your house of any -in Paris, no matter whose the other may be." - -"Yes, thanks to him." - -"And literature, are you not fond of that?" - -"I am very fond of it; and I am even so audacious as to claim to have a -very good perception of it, notwithstanding Lamarthe's opinion." - -"Who also decides that you know nothing at all about it?" - -"Of course." - -"But who has not told you so in words, any more than the other." - -"Pardon me; he is more outspoken. He asserts that certain women -are capable of showing a very just and delicate perception of the -sentiments that are expressed, of the truthfulness of the characters, -of psychology in general, but that they are totally incapable of -discerning the superiority that resides in his profession, its art. -When he has once uttered this word, Art, all that is left one to do is -to show him the door." - -Mariolle smiled and asked: - -"And you, Madame, what do you think of it?" - -She reflected for a few seconds, then looked him straight in the face -to see if he was in a frame of mind to listen and to understand her. - -"I believe that sentiment, you understand--sentiment--can make a -woman's mind receptive of everything; only it is frequently the case -that what enters does not remain there. Do you follow me?" - -"No, not fully, Madame." - -"Very well! To make us comprehensive to the same degree as you, our -woman's nature must be appealed to before addressing our intelligence. -We take no interest in what a man has not first made sympathetic to us, -for we look at all things through the medium of sentiment. I do not say -through the medium of love; no,--but of sentiment, which has shades, -forms, and manifestations of every sort. Sentiment is something that -belongs exclusively to our domain, which you men have no conception -of, for it befogs you while it enlightens us. Oh! I know that all this -is incomprehensible to you, the more the pity! In a word, if a man -loves us and is agreeable to us, for it is indispensable that we should -feel that we are loved in order to become capable of the effort--and -if this man is a superior being, by taking a little pains he can make -us feel, know, and possess everything, everything, I say, and at odd -moments and by bits impart to us the whole of his intelligence. That -is all often blotted out afterward; it disappears, dies out, for we -are forgetful. Oh! we forget as the wind forgets the words that are -spoken to it. We are intuitive and capable of enlightenment, but -changeable, impressionable, readily swayed by our surroundings. If I -could only tell you how many states of mind I pass through that make -of me entirely different women, according to the weather, my health, -what I may have been reading, what may have been said to me! Actually -there are days when I have the feelings of an excellent mother without -children, and others when I almost have those of a _cocotte_ without -lovers." - -Greatly pleased, he asked: "Is it your opinion that intelligent women -generally are gifted with this activity of thought?" - -"Yes," she said. "Only they allow it to slumber, and then they have a -life shaped for them which draws them in one direction or the other." - -Again he questioned: "Then in your heart of hearts it is music that you -prefer above all other distractions?" - -"Yes! But what I was telling you just now is so true! I should -certainly never have enjoyed it as I do enjoy it, adored it as I do -adore it, had it not been for that angelic Massival. He seems to have -given me the soul of the great masters by teaching me to play their -works, of which I was passionately fond before. What a pity that he is -married!" - -She said these last words with a sprightly air, but so regretfully that -they threw everything else into shadow, her theories upon women and her -admiration for art. - -Massival was, in fact, married. Before the days of his success he had -contracted one of those unions that artists make and afterward trail -after them through their renown until the day of their death. He never -mentioned his wife's name, never presented her in society, which he -frequented a great deal; and although he had three children the fact -was scarcely known. - -Mariolle laughed. She was decidedly nice, was this unconventional -woman, pretty, and of a type not often met with. Without ever tiring, -with a persistency that seemed in no wise embarrassing to her, he kept -gazing upon that face, grave and gay and a little self-willed, with -its audacious nose and its sensual coloring of a soft, warm blonde, -warmed by the midsummer of a maturity so tender, so full, so sweet that -she seemed to have reached the very year, the month, the minute of -her perfect flowering. He wondered: "Is her complexion false?" And he -looked for the faint telltale line, lighter or darker, at the roots of -her hair, without being able to discover it. - -Soft footsteps on the carpet behind him made him start and turn his -head. It was two servants bringing in the tea-table. Over the blue -flame of the little lamp the water bubbled gently in a great silver -receptacle, as shining and complicated as a chemist's apparatus. - -"Will you have a cup of tea?" she asked. - -Upon his acceptance she arose, and with a firm step in which there was -no undulation, but which was rather marked by stiffness, proceeded to -the table where the water was simmering in the depths of the machine, -surrounded by a little garden of cakes, pastry, candied fruits, and -bonbons. Then, as her profile was presented in clear relief against the -hangings of the salon, Mariolle observed the delicacy of her form and -the thinness of her hips beneath the broad shoulders and the full chest -that he had been admiring a moment before. As the train of her light -dress unrolled and dragged behind her, seemingly prolonging upon the -carpet a body that had no end, this blunt thought arose to his mind: -"Behold, a siren! She is altogether promising." She was now going from -one to another, offering her refreshments with gestures of exquisite -grace. Mariolle was following her with his eyes; but Lamarthe, who was -walking about with his cup in his hand, came up to him and said: - -"Shall we go, you and I?" - -"Yes, I think so." - -"We will go at once, shall we not? I am tired." - -"At once. Come." - -They left the house. When they were in the street, the novelist asked: - -"Are you going home or to the club?" - -"I think that I will go and spend an hour at the club." - -"At the Tambourins?" - -"Yes." - -"I will go as far as the door with you. Those places are tiresome to -me; I never put my foot in them. I join them only because they enable -me to economize in hack-hire." - -They locked arms and went down the street toward Saint Augustin. They -walked a little way in silence; then Mariolle said: - -"What a singular woman! What do you think of her?" - -Lamarthe began to laugh outright. "It is the commencement of the -crisis," he said. "You will have to pass through it, just as we have -all done. I have had the malady, but I am cured of it now. My dear -friend, the crisis consists of her friends talking of nothing but of -her when they are together, whenever they chance to meet, wherever they -may happen to be." - -"At all events, it is the first time in my case, and it is very natural -for me to ask for information, since I scarcely know her." - -"Let it be so, then; we will talk of her. Well, you are bound to fall -in love with her. It is your fate, the lot that is shared by all." - -"She is so very seductive, then?" - -"Yes and no. Those who love the women of other days, women who have a -heart and a soul, women of sensibility, the women of the old-fashioned -novel, cannot endure her and execrate her to such a degree as to speak -of her with ignominy. We, on the other hand, who are disposed to look -favorably upon what is modern and fresh, are compelled to confess that -she is delicious, provided always that we don't fall in love with -her. And that is just exactly what everybody does. No one dies of the -complaint, however; they do not even suffer very acutely, but they fume -because she is not other than she is. You will have to go through it -all if she takes the fancy; besides, she is already preparing to snap -you up." - -Mariolle exclaimed, in response to his secret thought: - -"Oh! I am only a chance acquaintance for her, and I imagine that she -values acquaintances of all sorts and conditions." - -"Yes, she values them, _parbleu!_ and at the same time she laughs at -them. The most celebrated, even the most distinguished, man will not -darken her door ten times if he is not congenial to her, and she has -formed a stupid attachment for that idiotic Fresnel, and that tiresome -De Maltry. She inexcusably suffers herself to be carried away by those -idiots, no one knows why; perhaps because she gets more amusement out -of them than she does out of us, perhaps because their love for her is -deeper; and there is nothing in the world that pleases a woman so much -as to be loved like that." - -And Lamarthe went on talking of her, analyzing her, pulling her to -pieces, correcting himself only to contradict himself again, replying -with unmistakable warmth and sincerity to Mariolle's questions, like a -man who is deeply interested in his subject and carried away by it; a -little at sea also, having his mind stored with observations that were -true and deductions that were false. He said: - -"She is not the only one, moreover; at this minute there are fifty -women, if not more, who are like her. There is the little Frémines -who was in her drawing-room just now; she is Mme. de Burne's exact -counterpart, save that she is more forward in her manners and married -to an outlandish kind of fellow, the consequence of which is that her -house is one of the most entertaining lunatic asylums in Paris. I go -there a great deal." - -Without noticing it, they had traversed the Boulevard Malesherbes, the -Rue Royale, the Avenue des Champs-Élysées, and had reached the Arc de -Triomphe, when Lamarthe suddenly pulled out his watch. - -"My dear fellow," he said, "we have spent an hour and ten minutes in -talking of her; that is sufficient for to-day. I will take some other -occasion of seeing you to your club. Go home and go to bed; it is what -I am going to do." - - - - -CHAPTER II. - - -"WILL YOU WALK INTO MY PARLOR?" - - -The room was large and well lighted, the walls and ceiling hung with -admirable hangings of chintz that a friend of hers in the diplomatic -service had brought home and presented to her. The ground was yellow, -as if it had been dipped in golden cream, and the designs of all -colors, in which Persian green was predominant, represented fantastic -buildings with curving roofs, about which monstrosities in the shape of -beasts and birds were running and flying: lions wearing wigs, antelopes -with extravagant horns, and birds of paradise. - -The furniture was scanty. Upon three long tables with tops of green -marble were arranged all the implements requisite for a pretty woman's -toilette. Upon one of them, the central one, were the great basins -of thick crystal; the second presented an array of bottles, boxes, -and vases of all sizes, surmounted by silver caps bearing her arms -and monogram; while on the third were displayed all the tools and -appliances of modern coquetry, countless in number, designed to serve -various complex and mysterious purposes. The room contained only two -reclining chairs and a few low, soft, and luxurious seats, calculated -to afford rest to weary limbs and to bodies relieved of the restraint -of clothing. - -Covering one entire side of the apartment was an immense mirror, -composed of three panels. The two wings, playing on hinges, allowed -the young woman to view herself at the same time in front, rear, and -profile, to envelop herself in her own image. To the right, in a recess -that was generally concealed by hanging draperies, was the bath, or -rather a deep pool, reached by a descent of two steps. A bronze Love, a -charming conception of the sculptor Prédolé, poured hot and cold water -into it through the seashells with which he was playing. At the back -of this alcove a Venetian mirror, composed of smaller mirrors inclined -to each other at varying angles, ascended in a curved dome, shutting -in and protecting the bath and its occupant, and reflecting them in -each one of its many component parts. A little beyond the bath was her -writing-desk, a plain and handsome piece of furniture of modern English -manufacture, covered with a litter of papers, folded letters, little -torn envelopes on which glittered gilt initials, for it was in this -room that she passed her time and attended to her correspondence when -she was alone. - -Stretched at full length upon her reclining-chair, enveloped in a -dressing-gown of Chinese silk, her bare arms--and beautiful, firm, -supple arms they were--issuing forth fearlessly from out the wide folds -of silk, her hair turned up and burdening the head with its masses of -blond coils, Mme. de Burne was indulging herself with a gentle reverie -after the bath. The chambermaid knocked, then entered, bringing a -letter. She took it, looked at the writing, tore it open, and read the -first lines; then calmly said to the servant: "I will ring for you in -an hour." - -When she was alone she smiled with the delight of victory. The first -words had sufficed to let her understand that at last she had received -a declaration of love from Mariolle. He had held out much longer than -she had thought he was capable of doing, for during the last three -months she had been besieging him with such attentions, such display -of grace and efforts to charm, as she had never hitherto employed -for anyone. He had seemed to be distrustful and on his guard against -her, against the bait of insatiable coquetry that she was continually -dangling before his eyes. - -It had required many a confidential conversation, into which she had -thrown all the physical seduction of her being and all the captivating -efforts of her mind, many an evening of music as well, when, seated -before the piano that was ringing still, before the leaves of the -scores that were full of the soul of the tuneful masters, they had -both thrilled with the same emotion, before she at last beheld in his -eyes that avowal of the vanquished man, the mendicant supplication of -a love that can no longer be concealed. She knew all this so well, the -_rouée!_ Many and many a time, with feline cunning and inexhaustible -curiosity, she had made this secret, torturing plea rise to the eyes of -the men whom she had succeeded in beguiling. It afforded her so much -amusement to feel that she was gaining them, little by little, that -they were conquered, subjugated by her invincible woman's might, that -she was for them the Only One, the sovereign Idol whose caprices must -be obeyed. - -It had all grown up within her almost imperceptibly, like the -development of a hidden instinct, the instinct of war and conquest. -Perhaps it was that a desire of retaliation had germinated in her -heart during her years of married life, a dim longing to repay to men -generally that measure of ill which she had received from one of them, -to be in turn the strongest, to make stubborn wills bend before her, to -crush resistance and to make others, as well as she, feel the keen edge -of suffering. Above all else, however, she was a born coquette, and as -soon as her way in life was clear before her she applied herself to -pursuing and subjugating lovers, just as the hunter pursues the game, -with no other end in view than the pleasure of seeing them fall before -her. - -And yet her heart was not eager for emotion, like that of a tender and -sentimental woman; she did not seek a man's undivided love, nor did -she look for happiness in passion. All that she needed was universal -admiration, homage, prostrations, an incense-offering of tenderness. -Whoever frequented her house had also to become the slave of her -beauty, and no consideration of mere intellect could attach her for any -length of time to those who would not yield to her coquetry, disdainful -of the anxieties of love, their affections, perhaps, being placed -elsewhere. - -In order to retain her friendship it was indispensable to love her, -but that point once reached she was infinitely nice, with unimaginable -kindnesses and delightful attentions, designed to retain at her -side those whom she had captivated. Those who were once enlisted in -her regiment of adorers seemed to become her property by right of -conquest. She ruled them with great skill and wisdom, according to -their qualities and their defects and the nature of their jealousy. -Those who sought to obtain too much she expelled forthwith, taking them -back again afterward when they had become wiser, but imposing severe -conditions. And to such an extent did this game of bewitchment amuse -her, perverse woman that she was, that she found it as pleasurable to -befool steady old gentlemen as to turn the heads of the young. - -It might even have been said that she regulated her affection by the -fervency of the ardor that she had inspired, and that big Fresnel, a -dull, heavy companion who was of no imaginable benefit to her, retained -her favor thanks to the mad passion by which she felt that he was -possessed. She was not entirely indifferent to men's merits, either, -and more than once had been conscious of the commencement of a liking -that no one divined except herself, and which she quickly ended the -moment it became dangerous. - -Everyone who had approached her for the first time and warbled in -her ear the fresh notes of his hymn of gallantry, disclosing to her -the unknown quantity of his nature--artists more especially, who -seemed to her to possess more subtile and more delicate shades of -refined emotion--had for a time disquieted her, had awakened in her -the intermittent dream of a grand passion and a long _liaison_. But -swayed by prudent fears, irresolute, driven this way and that by her -distrustful nature, she had always kept a strict watch upon herself -until the moment she ceased to feel the influence of the latest lover. - -And then she had the sceptical vision of the girl of the period, who -would strip the greatest man of his prestige in the course of a few -weeks. As soon as they were fully in her toils, and in the disorder -of their heart had thrown aside their theatrical posturings and their -parade manners, they were all alike in her eyes, poor creatures whom -she could tyrannize over with her seductive powers. Finally, for a -woman like her, perfect as she was, to attach herself to a man, what -inestimable merits he would have had to possess! - -She suffered much from _ennui_, however, and was without fondness for -society, which she frequented for the sake of appearances, and the -long, tedious evenings of which she endured with heavy eyelids and -many a stifled yawn. She was amused only by its refined trivialities, -by her own caprices and by her quickly changing curiosity for certain -persons and certain things, attaching herself to it in such degree as -to realize that she had been appreciated or admired and not enough to -receive real pleasure from an affection or a liking--suffering from -her nerves and not from her desires. She was without the absorbing -preoccupations of ardent or simple souls, and passed her days in an -_ennui_ of gaieties, destitute of the simple faith that attends on -happiness, constantly on the lookout for something to make the slow -hours pass more quickly, and sinking with lassitude, while deeming -herself contented. - -She thought that she was contented because she was the most seductive -and the most sought after of women. Proud of her attractiveness, the -power of which she often made trial, in love with her own irregular, -odd, and captivating beauty, convinced of the delicacy of her -perceptions, which allowed her to divine and understand a thousand -things that others were incapable of seeing, rejoicing in the wit that -had been appreciated by so many superior men, and totally ignoring the -limitations that bounded her intelligence, she looked upon herself as -an almost unique being, a rare pearl set in the midst of this common, -workaday world, which seemed to her slightly empty and monotonous -because she was too good for it. - -Not for an instant would she have suspected that in her unconscious -self lay the cause of the melancholy from which she suffered so -continuously. She laid the blame upon others and held them responsible -for her _ennui_. If they were unable sufficiently to entertain and -amuse or even impassion her, the reason was that they were deficient -in agreeableness and possessed no real merit in her eyes. "Everyone," -she would say with a little laugh, "is tiresome. The only endurable -people are those who afford me pleasure, and that solely because they -do afford me pleasure." - -And the surest way of pleasing her was to tell her that there was no -one like her. She was well aware that no success is attained without -labor, and so she gave herself up, heart and soul, to her work of -enticement, and found nothing that gave her greater enjoyment than to -note the homage of the softening glance and of the heart, that unruly -organ which she could cause to beat violently by the utterance of a -word. - -She had been greatly surprised by the trouble that she had had in -subjugating André Mariolle, for she had been well aware, from the -very first day, that she had found favor in his eyes. Then, little by -little, she had fathomed his suspicious, secretly envious, extremely -subtile, and concentrated disposition, and attacking him on his -weak side, she had shown him so many attentions, had manifested -such preference and natural sympathy for him, that he had finally -surrendered. - -Especially in the last month had she felt that he was her captive; he -was agitated in her presence, now taciturn, now feverishly animated, -but would make no avowal. Oh, avowals! She really did not care very -much for them, for when they were too direct, too expressive, she found -herself obliged to resort to severe measures. Twice she had even had -to make a show of being angry and close her door to the offender. What -she adored were delicate manifestations, semi-confidences, discreet -allusions, a sort of moral getting-down-on-the-marrow-bones; and she -really showed exceptional tact and address in extorting from her -admirers this moderation in their expressions. - -For a month past she had been watching and waiting to hear fall from -Mariolle's lips the words, distinct or veiled, according to the nature -of the man, which afford relief to the overburdened heart. - -He had said nothing, but he had written. It was a long letter: four -pages! A thrill of satisfaction crept over her as she held it in her -hands. She stretched herself at length upon her lounge so as to be more -comfortable and kicked the little slippers from off her feet upon the -carpet; then she proceeded to read. She met with a surprise. In serious -terms he told her that he did not desire to suffer at her hands, and -that he already knew her too well to consent to be her victim. With -many compliments, in very polite words, which everywhere gave evidence -of his repressed love, he let her know that he was apprised of her -manner of treating men--that he, too, was in the toils, but that he -would release himself from the servitude by taking himself off. He -would just simply begin his vagabond life of other days over again. -He would leave the country. It was a farewell, an eloquent and firm -farewell. - -Certainly it was a surprise as she read, re-read, and commenced to read -again these four pages of prose that were so full of tender irritation -and passion. She arose, put on her slippers, and began to walk up and -down the room, her bare arms out of her turned-back sleeves, her hands -thrust halfway into the little pockets of her dressing-gown, one of -them holding the crumpled letter. - -Taken all aback by this unforeseen declaration, she said to herself: -"He writes very well, very well indeed; he is sincere, feeling, -touching. He writes better than Lamarthe; there is nothing of the novel -sticking out of his letter." - -She felt like smoking, went to the table where the perfumes were and -took a cigarette from a box of Dresden china; then, having lighted it, -she approached the great mirror in which she saw three young women -coming toward her in the three diversely inclined panels. When she was -quite near she halted, made herself a little bow with a little smile, -a friendly little nod of the head, as if to say: "Very pretty, very -pretty." She inspected her eyes, looked at her teeth, raised her arms, -placed her hands on her hips and turned her profile so as to behold her -entire person in the three mirrors, bending her head slightly forward. -She stood there amorously facing herself surrounded by the threefold -reflection of her own being, which she thought was charming, filled -with delight at sight of herself, engrossed by an egotistical and -physical pleasure in presence of her own beauty, and enjoying it with a -keen satisfaction that was almost as sensual as a man's. - -Every day she surveyed herself in this manner, and her maid, who had -often caught her at it, used to say, spitefully: - -"Madame looks at herself so much that she will end up by wearing out -all the looking-glasses in the house." - -In this love of herself, however, lay all the secret of her charm and -the influence that she exerted over men. Through admiring herself and -tenderly loving the delicacy of her features and the elegance of her -form, by constantly seeking for and finding means of showing them to -the greatest advantage, through discovering imperceptible ways of -rendering her gracefulness more graceful and her eyes more fascinating, -through pursuing all the artifices that embellished her to her own -vision, she had as a matter of course hit upon that which would most -please others. Had she been more beautiful and careless of her beauty, -she would not have possessed that attractiveness which drew to her -everyone who had not from the beginning shown himself unassailable. - -Wearying soon a little of standing thus, she spoke to her image that -was smiling to her still, and her image in the threefold mirror moved -its lips as if to echo: "We will see about it." Then she crossed the -room and seated herself at her desk. Here is what she wrote: - - "DEAR MONSIEUR MARIOLLE: Come to see me to-morrow at four - o'clock. I shall be alone, and hope to be able to reassure - you as to the imaginary danger that alarms you. - - "I subscribe myself your friend, and will prove to you that - I am..... MICHÈLE DE BURNE." - -How plainly she dressed next day to receive André Mariolle's visit! A -little gray dress, of a light gray bordering on lilac, melancholy as -the dying day and quite unornamented, with a collar fitting closely to -the neck, sleeves fitting closely to the arms, corsage fitting closely -to the waist and bust, and skirt fitting closely to the hips and legs. - -When he made his appearance, wearing rather a solemn face, she came -forward to meet him, extending both her hands. He kissed them, then -they seated themselves, and she allowed the silence to last a few -moments in order to assure herself of his embarrassment. - -He did not know what to say, and was waiting for her to speak. She made -up her mind to do so. - -"Well! let us come at once to the main question. What is the matter? -Are you aware that you wrote me a very insolent letter?" - -"I am very well aware of it, and I render my most sincere apology. I -am, I have always been with everyone, excessively, brutally frank. I -might have gone away without the unnecessary and insulting explanations -that I addressed to you. I considered it more loyal to act in -accordance with my nature and trust to your understanding, with which I -am acquainted." - -She resumed with an expression of pitying satisfaction: - -"Come, come! What does all this folly mean?" - -He interrupted her: "I would prefer not to speak of it." - -She answered warmly, without allowing him to proceed further: - -"I invited you here to discuss it, and we will discuss it until you are -quite convinced that you are not exposing yourself to any danger." She -laughed like a little girl, and her dress, so closely resembling that -of a boarding-school miss, gave her laughter a character of childish -youth. - -He hesitatingly said: "What I wrote you was the truth, the sincere -truth, the terrifying truth." - -Resuming her seriousness, she rejoined: "I do not doubt you: all my -friends travel that road. You also wrote that I am a fearful coquette. -I admit it, but then no one ever dies of it; I do not even believe that -they suffer a great deal. There is, indeed, what Lamarthe calls the -crisis. You are in that stage now, but that passes over and subsides -into--what shall I call it?--into the state of chronic love, which does -no harm to a body, and which I keep simmering over a slow fire in all -my friends, so that they may be very much attached, very devoted, very -faithful to me. Am not I, also, sincere and frank and nice with you? -Eh? Have you known many women who would dare to talk as I have talked -to you?" - -She had an air of such drollness, coupled with such decision, she was -so unaffected and at the same time so alluring, that he could not help -smiling in turn. "All your friends," he said, "are men who have often -had their fingers burned in that fire, even before it was done at your -hearth. Toasted and roasted already, it is easy for them to endure the -oven in which you keep them; but for my part, I, Madame, have never -passed through that experience, and I have felt for some time past that -it would be a dreadful thing for me to give way to the sentiment that -is growing and waxing in my heart." - -Suddenly she became familiar, and bending a little toward him, her -hands clasped over her knees: "Listen to me," she said, "I am in -earnest. I hate to lose a friend for the sake of a fear that I regard -as chimerical. You will be in love with me, perhaps, but the men of -this generation do not love the women of to-day so violently as to do -themselves any actual injury. You may believe me; I know them both." -She was silent; then with the singular smile of a woman who utters a -truth while she thinks she is telling a fib, she added: "Besides, I -have not the necessary qualifications to make men love me madly; I -am too modern. Come, I will be a friend to you, a real nice friend, -for whom you will have affection, but nothing more, for I will see to -it." She went on in a more serious tone: "In any case I give you fair -warning that I am incapable of feeling a real passion for anyone, let -him be who he may; you shall receive the same treatment as the others, -you shall stand on an equal footing with the most favored, but never -on any better; I abominate despotism and jealousy. I have had to endure -everything from a husband, but from a friend, a simple friend, I do not -choose to accept affectionate tyrannizings, which are the bane of all -cordial relations. You see that I am just as nice as nice can be, that -I talk to you like a comrade, that I conceal nothing from you. Are you -willing loyally to accept the trial that I propose? If it does not work -well, there will still be time enough for you to go away if the gravity -of the situation demands it. A lover absent is a lover cured." - -He looked at her, already vanquished by her voice, her gestures, all -the intoxication of her person; and quite resigned to his fate, and -thrilling through every fiber at the consciousness that she was sitting -there beside him, he murmured: - -"I accept, Madame, and if harm comes to me, so much the worse! I can -afford to endure a little suffering for your sake." - -She stopped him. - -"Now let us say nothing more about it," she said; "let us never speak -of it again." And she diverted the conversation to topics that might -calm his agitation. - -In an hour's time he took his leave; in torments, for he loved her; -delighted, for she had asked and he had promised that he would not go -away. - - - - -CHAPTER III. - - -THE THORNS OF THE ROSE - - -He was in torments, for he loved her. Differing in this from the -common run of lovers, in whose eyes the woman chosen of their heart -appears surrounded by an aureole of perfection, his attachment for -her had grown within him while studying her with the clairvoyant -eyes of a suspicious and distrustful man who had never been entirely -enslaved. His timid and sluggish but penetrating disposition, always -standing on the defensive in life, had saved him from his passions. A -few intrigues, two brief _liaisons_ that had perished of _ennui_, and -some mercenary loves that had been broken off from disgust, comprised -the history of his heart. He regarded women as an object of utility -for those who desire a well-kept house and a family, as an object of -comparative pleasure to those who are in quest of the pastime of love. - -Before he entered Mme. de Burne's house his friends had confidentially -warned him against her. What he had learned of her interested, -puzzled, and pleased him, but it was also rather distasteful to him. -As a matter of principle he did not like those gamblers who never pay -when they lose. After their first few meetings he had decided that she -was very amusing, and that she possessed a special charm that had a -contagion in it. The natural and artificial beauties of this charming, -slender, blond person, who was neither fat nor lean, who was furnished -with beautiful arms that seemed formed to attract and embrace, and with -legs that one might imagine long and tapering, calculated for flight, -like those of a gazelle, with feet so small that they would leave -no trace, seemed to him to be a symbol of hopes that could never be -realized. - -He had experienced, moreover, in his conversation with her a pleasure -that he had never thought of meeting with in the intercourse of -fashionable society. Gifted with a wit that was full of familiar -animation, unforeseen and mocking and of a caressing irony, she would, -notwithstanding this, sometimes allow herself to be carried away by -sentimental or intellectual influences, as if beneath her derisive -gaiety there still lingered the secular shade of poetic tenderness -drawn from some remote ancestress. These things combined to render her -exquisite. - -She petted him and made much of him, desirous of conquering him as -she had conquered the others, and he visited her house as often as he -could, drawn thither by his increasing need of seeing more of her. It -was like a force emanating from her and taking possession of him, a -force that lay in her charm, her look, her smile, her speech, a force -that there was no resisting, although he frequently left her house -provoked at something that she had said or done. - -The more he felt working on him that indescribable influence with which -a woman penetrates and subjugates us, the more clearly did he see -through her, the more did he understand and suffer from her nature, -which he devoutly wished was different. It was certainly true, however, -that the very qualities which he disapproved of in her were the -qualities that had drawn him toward her and captivated him, in spite -of himself, in spite of his reason, and more, perhaps, than her real -merits. - -Her coquetry, with which she toyed, making no attempt at concealing -it, as with a fan, opening and folding it in presence of everybody -according as the men to whom she was talking were pleasing to her -or the reverse; her way of taking nothing in earnest, which had -seemed droll to him upon their first acquaintance, but now seemed -threatening; her constant desire for distraction, for novelty, which -rested insatiable in her heart, always weary--all these things would -so exasperate him that sometimes upon returning to his house he would -resolve to make his visits to her more infrequent until such time as he -might do away with them altogether. The very next day he would invent -some pretext for going to see her. What he thought to impress upon -himself, as he became more and more enamored, was the insecurity of -this love and the certainty that he would have to suffer for it. - -He was not blind; little by little he yielded to this sentiment, -as a man drowns because his vessel has gone down under him and he -is too far from the shore. He knew her as well as it was possible -to know her, for his passion had served to make his mental vision -abnormally clairvoyant, and he could not prevent his thoughts from -going into indefinite speculations concerning her. With indefatigable -perseverance, he was continually seeking to analyze and understand -the obscure depths of this feminine soul, this incomprehensible -mixture of bright intelligence and disenchantment, of sober reason and -childish triviality, of apparent affection and fickleness, of all those -ill-assorted inclinations that can be brought together and co-ordinated -to form an unnatural, perplexing, and seductive being. - -But why was it that she attracted him thus? He constantly asked himself -this question, and was unable to find a satisfactory answer to it, -for, with his reflective, observing, and proudly retiring nature, -his logical course would have been to look in a woman for those -old-fashioned and soothing attributes of tenderness and constancy which -seem to offer the most reliable assurance of happiness to a man. In -her, however, he had encountered something that he had not expected to -find, a sort of early vegetable of the human race, as it were, one of -those creatures who are the beginning of a new generation, exciting -one by their strange novelty, unlike anything that one has ever known -before, and even in their imperfections awakening the dormant senses by -a formidable power of attraction. - -To the romantic and dreamily passionate women of the Restoration had -succeeded the gay triflers of the imperial epoch, convinced that -pleasure is a reality; and now, here there was afforded him a new -development of this everlasting femininity, a woman of refinement, -of indeterminate sensibility, restless, without fixed resolves, her -feelings in constant turmoil, who seemed to have made it part of her -experience to employ every narcotic that quiets the aching nerves: -chloroform that stupefies, ether and morphine that excite to abnormal -reverie, kill the senses, and deaden the emotions. - -He relished in her that flavor of an artificial nature, the sole -object of whose existence was to charm and allure. She was a rare and -attractive bauble, exquisite and delicate, drawing men's eyes to her, -causing the heart to throb, and desire to awake, as one's appetite is -excited when he looks through the glass of the shop-window and beholds -the dainty viands that have been prepared and arranged for the purpose -of making him hunger for them. - -When he was quite assured that he had started on his perilous descent -toward the bottom of the gulf, he began to reflect with consternation -upon the dangers of his infatuation. What would happen him? What would -she do with him? Most assuredly she would do with him what she had -done with everyone else: she would bring him to the point where a man -follows a woman's capricious fancies as a dog follows his master's -steps, and she would classify him among her collection of more or less -illustrious favorites. Had she really played this game with all the -others? Was there not one, not a single one, whom she had loved, if -only for a month, a day, an hour, in one of those effusions of feeling -that she had the faculty of repressing so readily? He talked with them -interminably about her as they came forth from her dinners, warmed -by contact with her. He felt that they were all uneasy, dissatisfied, -unstrung, like men whose dreams have failed of realization. - -No, she had loved no one among these paraders before public curiosity. -But he, who was a nullity in comparison with them, he, to whom it was -not granted that heads should turn and wondering eyes be fixed on him -when his name was mentioned in a crowd or in a salon,--what would he -be for her? Nothing, nothing; a mere supernumerary upon her scene, -a Monsieur, the sort of man that becomes a familiar, commonplace -attendant upon a distinguished woman, useful to hold her bouquet, a man -comparable to the common grade of wine that one drinks with water. Had -he been a famous man he might have been willing to accept this rôle, -which his celebrity would have made less humiliating; but unknown as he -was, he would have none of it. So he wrote to bid her farewell. - -When he received her brief answer he was moved by it as by the -intelligence of some unexpected piece of good fortune, and when she had -made him promise that he would not go away he was as delighted as a -schoolboy released for a holiday. - -Several days elapsed without bringing any fresh development to their -relations, but when the calm that succeeds the storm had passed, he -felt his longing for her increasing within him and burning him. He -had promised that he would never again speak to her on the forbidden -topic, but he had not promised that he would not write, and one night -when he could not sleep, when she had taken possession of all his -faculties in the restless vigil of his insomnia of love, he seated -himself at his table, almost against his will, and set himself to put -down his feelings and his sufferings upon fair, white paper. It was not -a letter; it was an aggregation of notes, phrases, thoughts, throbs of -moral anguish, transmuting themselves into words. It soothed him; it -seemed to him to give him a little comfort in his suffering, and lying -down upon his bed, he was at last able to obtain some sleep. - -Upon awaking the next morning he read over these few pages and decided -that they were sufficiently harrowing; then he inclosed and addressed -them, kept them by him until evening, and mailed them very late so that -she might receive them when she arose. He thought that she would not be -alarmed by these innocent sheets of paper. The most timorous of women -have an infinite kindness for a letter that speaks to them of a sincere -love, and when these letters are written by a trembling hand, with -tearful eyes and melancholy face, the power that they exercise over the -female heart is unbounded. - -He went to her house late that afternoon to see how she would receive -him and what she would say to him. He found M. de Pradon there, smoking -cigarettes and conversing with his daughter. He would often pass whole -hours with her in this way, for his manner toward her was rather that -of a gentleman visitor than of a father. She had brought into their -relations and their affection a tinge of that homage of love which she -bestowed upon herself and exacted from everyone else. - -When she beheld Mariolle her face brightened with delight; she shook -hands with him warmly and her smile told him: "You have afforded me -much pleasure." - -Mariolle was in hopes that the father would go away soon, but M. de -Pradon did not budge. Although he knew his daughter thoroughly, and -for a long time past had placed the most implicit confidence in her as -regarded her relations with men, he always kept an eye on her with a -kind of curious, uneasy, somewhat marital attention. He wanted to know -what chance of success there might be for this newly discovered friend, -who he was, what he amounted to. Would he be a mere bird of passage, -like so many others, or a permanent member of their usual circle? - -He intrenched himself, therefore, and Mariolle immediately perceived -that he was not to be dislodged. The visitor made up his mind -accordingly, and even resolved to gain him over if it were possible, -considering that his good-will, or at any rate his neutrality, would -be better than his hostility. He exerted himself and was brilliant -and amusing, without any of the airs of a sighing lover. She said to -herself contentedly: "He is not stupid; he acts his part in the comedy -extremely well"; and M. de Pradon thought: "This is a very agreeable -man, whose head my daughter does not seem to have turned." - -When Mariolle decided that it was time for him to take his leave, he -left them both delighted with him. - -But he left that house with sorrow in his soul. In the presence of -that woman he felt deeply the bondage in which she held him, realizing -that it would be vain to knock at that heart, as a man imprisoned -fruitlessly beats the iron door with his fist. He was well assured -that he was entirely in her power, and he did not try to free himself. -Such being the case, and as he could not avoid this fatality, he -resolved that he would be patient, tenacious, cunning, dissembling, -that he would conquer by address, by the homage that she was so greedy -of, by the adoration that intoxicated her, by the voluntary servitude -to which he would suffer himself to be reduced. - -His letter had pleased her; he would write. He wrote. Almost every -night, when he came home, at that hour when the mind, fresh from the -influence of the day's occurrences, regards whatever interests or moves -it with a sort of abnormally developed hallucination, he would seat -himself at his table by his lamp and exalt his imagination by thoughts -of her. The poetic germ, that so many indolent men suffer to perish -within them from mere slothfulness, grew and throve under this regimen. -He infused a feverish ardor into this task of literary tenderness by -means of constantly writing the same thing, the same idea, that is, -his love, in expressions that were ever renewed by the constantly -fresh-springing, daily renewal of his desire. All through the long day -he would seek for and find those irresistible words that stream from -the brain like fiery sparks, compelled by the over-excited emotions. -Thus he would breathe upon the fire of his own heart and kindle it into -raging flames, for often love-letters contain more danger for him who -writes than for her who receives them. - -By keeping himself in this continuous state of effervescence, by -heating his blood with words and peopling his brain with one solitary -thought, his ideas gradually became confused as to the reality of this -woman. He had ceased to entertain the opinion of her that he had first -held, and now beheld her only through the medium of his own lyrical -phrases, and all that he wrote of her night by night became to his -heart so many gospel truths. This daily labor of idealization displayed -her to him as in a dream. His former resistance melted away, moreover, -in presence of the affection that Mme. de Burne undeniably evinced -for him. Although no word had passed between them at this time, she -certainly showed a preference for him beyond others, and took no pains -to conceal it from him. He therefore thought, with a kind of mad hope, -that she might finally come to love him. - -The fact was that the charm of those letters afforded her a complicated -and naïve delight. No one had ever flattered and caressed her in that -manner, with such mute reserve. No one had ever had the delicious idea -of sending to her bedside, every morning, that feast of sentiment in -paper wrapping that her maid presented to her on the little silver -salver. And what made it all the dearer in her eyes was that he never -mentioned it, that he seemed to be quite unaware of it himself, that -when he visited her salon he was the most undemonstrative of her -friends, that he never by word or look alluded to those showers of -tenderness that he was secretly raining down upon her. - -Of course she had had love-letters before that, but they had been -pitched in a different key, had been less reserved, more pressing, more -like a summons to surrender. For the three months that his "crisis" had -lasted Lamarthe had dedicated to her a very nice correspondence from a -much-smitten novelist who maunders in a literary way. She kept in her -secretary, in a drawer specially allotted to them, these delicate and -seductive epistles from a writer who had shown much feeling, who had -caressed her with his pen up to the very day when he saw that he had no -hope of success. - -Mariolle's letters were quite different; they were so strong in their -concentrated desire, so deep in the expression of their sincerity, so -humble in their submissiveness, breathing a devotion that promised to -be lasting, that she received and read them with a delight that no -other writings could have afforded her. - -It was natural that her friendly feeling for the man should increase -under such conditions. She invited him to her house the more frequently -because he displayed such entire reserve in his relations toward -her, seeming not to have the slightest recollection in conversation -with her that he had ever taken up a sheet of paper to tell her of -his adoration. Moreover she looked upon the situation as an original -one, worthy of being celebrated in a book; and in the depths of her -satisfaction in having at her side a being who loved her thus, she -experienced a sort of active fermentation of sympathy which caused her -to measure him by a standard other than her usual one. - -Up to the present time, notwithstanding the vanity of her coquetry she -had been conscious of preoccupations that antagonized her in all the -hearts that she had laid waste. She had not held undisputed sovereignty -over them, she had found in them powerful interests that were entirely -dissociated from her. Jealous of music in Massival's case, of -literature in Lamarthe's, always jealous of something, discontented -that she only obtained partial successes, powerless to drive all before -her in the minds of these ambitious men, men of celebrity, or artists -to whom their profession was a mistress from whom nobody could part -them, she had now for the first time fallen in with one to whom she -was all in all. Certainly big Fresnel, and he alone, loved her to the -same degree. But then he was big Fresnel. She felt that it had never -been granted her to exercise such complete dominion over anyone, and -her selfish gratitude for the man who had afforded her this triumph -displayed itself in manifestations of tenderness. She had need of him -now; she had need of his presence, of his glance, of his subjection, -of all this domesticity of love. If he flattered her vanity less than -the others did, he flattered more those supreme exactions that sway -coquettes body and soul--her pride and her instinct of domination, her -strong instinct of feminine repose. - -Like an invader she gradually assumed possession of his life by a -series of small incursions that every day became more numerous. She got -up _fêtes_, theater-parties, and dinners at the restaurant, so that he -might be of the party. She dragged him after her with the satisfaction -of a conqueror; she could not dispense with his presence, or rather -with the state of slavery to which he was reduced. He followed in -her train, happy to feel himself thus petted, caressed by her eyes, -her voice, by her every caprice, and he lived only in a continuous -transport of love and longing that desolated and burned like a wasting -fever. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - - -THE BENEFIT OF CHANGE OF SCENE - - -One day Mariolle had gone to her house. He was awaiting her, for she -had not come in, although she had sent him a telegram to tell him -that she wanted to see him that morning. Whenever he was alone in -this drawing-room which it gave him such pleasure to enter and where -everything was so charming to him, he nevertheless was conscious -of an oppression of the heart, a slight feeling of affright and -breathlessness that would not allow him to remain seated as long as she -was not there. He walked about the room in joyful expectation, dashed -by the fear that some unforeseen obstacle might intervene to detain her -and cause their interview to go over until next day. His heart gave a -hopeful bound when he heard a carriage draw up before the street door, -and when the bell of the apartment rang he ceased to doubt. - -She came in with her hat on, a thing which she was not accustomed to -do, wearing a busy and satisfied look. "I have some news for you," she -said. - -"What is it, Madame?" - -She looked at him and laughed. "Well! I am going to the country for a -while." - -Her words produced in him a quick, sharp shock of sorrow that was -reflected upon his face. "Oh! and you tell me that as if you were glad -of it!" - -"Yes. Sit down and I will tell you all about it. I don't know whether -you are aware that M. Valsaci, my poor mother's brother, the engineer -and bridge-builder, has a country-place at Avranches where he spends a -portion of his time with his wife and children, for his business lies -mostly in that neighborhood. We pay them a visit every summer. This -year I said that I did not care to go, but he was greatly disappointed -and made quite a time over it with papa. Speaking of scenes, I will -tell you confidentially that papa is jealous of you and makes scenes -with me, too; he says that I am entangling myself with you. You will -have to come to see me less frequently. But don't let that trouble you; -I will arrange matters. So papa gave me a scolding and made me promise -to go to Avranches for a visit of ten days, perhaps twelve. We are to -start Tuesday morning. What have you got to say about it?" - -"I say that it breaks my heart." - -"Is that all?" - -"What more can I say? There is no way of preventing you from going." - -"And nothing presents itself to you?" - -"Why, no; I can't say that there does. And you?" - -"I have an idea; it is this: Avranches is quite near Mont Saint-Michel. -Have you ever been at Mont Saint-Michel?" - -"No, Madame." - -"Well, something will tell you next Friday that you want to go and -see this wonder. You will leave the train at Avranches; on Friday -evening at sunset, if you please, you will take a walk in the public -garden that overlooks the bay. We will happen to meet there. Papa -will grumble, but I don't care for that. I will make up a party to -go and see the abbey next day, including all the family. You must be -enthusiastic over it, and very charming, as you can be when you choose; -be attentive to my aunt and gain her over, and invite us all to dine -at the inn where we alight. We will sleep there, and will have all the -next day to be together. You will return by way of Saint Malo, and a -week later I shall be back in Paris. Isn't that an ingenious scheme? Am -I not nice?" - -With an outburst of grateful feeling, he murmured: "You are dearer to -me than all the world." - -"Hush!" said she. - -They looked each other for a moment in the face. She smiled, conveying -to him in that smile--very sincere and earnest it was, almost -tender--all her gratitude, her thanks for his love, and her sympathy as -well. He gazed upon her with eyes that seemed to devour her. He had an -insane desire to throw himself down and grovel at her feet, to kiss the -hem of her robe, to cry aloud and make her see what he knew not how to -tell in words, what existed in all his form from head to feet, in every -fiber of his body as well as in his heart, paining him inexpressibly -because he could not display it--his love, his terrible and delicious -love. - -There was no need of words, however; she understood him, as the -marksman instinctively feels that his ball has penetrated the -bull's-eye of the target. Nothing any longer subsisted within this man, -nothing, nothing but her image. He was hers more than she herself was -her own. She was satisfied, and she thought he was charming. - -She said to him, in high good-humor: "Then _that_ is settled; the -excursion is agreed on." - -He answered in a voice that trembled with emotion: "Why, yes, Madame, -it is agreed on." - -There was another interval of silence. "I cannot let you stay any -longer to-day," she said without further apology. "I only ran in to -tell you what I have told you, since I am to start day after to-morrow. -All my time will be occupied to-morrow, and I have still half-a-dozen -things to attend to before dinner-time." - -He arose at once, deeply troubled, for the sole desire of his heart was -to be with her always; and having kissed her hands, went his way, sore -at heart, but hopeful nevertheless. - -The four intervening days were horribly long ones to him. He got -through them somehow in Paris without seeing a soul, preferring silence -to conversation, and solitude to the company of friends. - -On Friday morning, therefore, he boarded the eight-o'clock express. -The anticipation of the journey had made him feverish, and he had not -slept a wink. The darkness of his room and its silence, broken only by -the occasional rattling of some belated cab that served to remind him -of his longing to be off, had weighed upon him all night long like a -prison. - -At the earliest ray of light that showed itself between his drawn -curtains, the gray, sad light of early morning, he jumped from his bed, -opened the window, and looked at the sky. He had been haunted by the -fear that the weather might be unfavorable. It was clear. There was a -light floating mist, presaging a warm day. He dressed more quickly than -was needful, and in his consuming impatience to get out of doors and -at last begin his journey he was ready two hours too soon, and nothing -would do but his valet must go out and get a cab lest they should all -be gone from the stand. As the vehicle jolted over the stones, its -movements were so many shocks of happiness to him, but when he reached -the Mont Parnasse station and found that he had fifty minutes to wait -before the departure of the train, his spirits fell again. - -There was a compartment disengaged; he took it so that he might be -alone and give free course to his reveries. When at last he felt -himself moving, hurrying along toward her, soothed by the gentle and -rapid motion of the train, his eagerness, instead of being appeased, -was still further excited, and he felt a desire, the unreasoning desire -of a child, to push with all his strength against the partition in -front of him, so as to accelerate their speed. For a long time, until -midday, he remained in this condition of waiting expectancy, but when -they were past Argentan his eyes were gradually attracted to the window -by the fresh verdure of the Norman landscape. - -The train was passing through a wide, undulating region, intersected -by valleys, where the peasant holdings, mostly in grass and -apple-orchards, were shut in by great trees, the thick-leaved tops of -which seemed to glow in the sunlight. It was late in July, that lusty -season when this land, an abundant nurse, gives generously of its sap -and life. In all the inclosures, separated from each other by these -leafy walls, great light-colored oxen, cows whose flanks were striped -with undefined figures of odd design, huge, red, wide-fronted bulls -of proud and quarrelsome aspect, with their hanging dewlaps of hairy -flesh, standing by the fences or lying down among the pasturage that -stuffed their paunches, succeeded each other, until there seemed to be -no end to them in this fresh, fertile land, the soil of which appeared -to exude cider and fat sirloins. In every direction little streams were -gliding in and out among the poplars, partially concealed by a thin -screen of willows; brooks glittered for an instant among the herbage, -disappearing only to show themselves again farther on, bathing all the -scene in their vivifying coolness. Mariolle was charmed at the sight, -and almost forgot his love for a moment in his rapid flight through -this far-reaching park of apple-trees and flocks and herds. - -When he had changed cars at Folligny station, however, he was again -seized with an impatient longing to be at his destination, and during -the last forty minutes he took out his watch twenty times. His head -was constantly turned toward the window of the car, and at last, -situated upon a hill of moderate height, he beheld the city where she -was waiting for his coming. The train had been delayed, and now only -an hour separated him from the moment when he was to come upon her, by -chance, on the public promenade. - -He was the only passenger that climbed into the hotel omnibus, which -the horses began to drag up the steep road of Avranches with slow and -reluctant steps. The houses crowning the heights gave to the place from -a distance the appearance of a fortification. Seen close at hand it -was an ancient and pretty Norman city, with small dwellings of regular -and almost similar appearance built closely adjoining one another, -giving an aspect of ancient pride and modern comfort, a feudal yet -peasant-like air. - -As soon as Mariolle had secured a room and thrown his valise into it, -he inquired for the street that led to the Botanical Garden and started -off in the direction indicated with rapid strides, although he was -ahead of time. But he was in hopes that perhaps she also would be on -hand early. When he reached the iron railings, he saw at a glance that -the place was empty or nearly so. Only three old men were walking about -in it, _bourgeois_ to the manner born, who probably were in the habit -of coming there daily to cheer their leisure by conversation, and a -family of English children, lean-legged boys and girls, were playing -about a fair-haired governess whose wandering looks showed that her -thoughts were far away. - -Mariolle walked straight ahead with beating heart, looking -scrutinizingly up and down the intersecting paths. He came to a great -alley of dark green elms which cut the garden in two portions crosswise -and stretched away in its center, a dense vault of foliage; he passed -through this, and all at once, coming to a terrace that commanded a -view of the horizon, his thoughts suddenly ceased to dwell upon her -whose influence had brought him hither. - -From the foot of the elevation upon which he was standing spread an -illimitable sandy plain that stretched away in the distance and blended -with sea and sky. Through it rolled a stream, and beneath the azure, -aflame with sunlight, pools of water dotted it with luminous sheets -that seemed like orifices opening upon another sky beneath. In the -midst of this yellow desert, still wet and glistening with the receding -tide, at twelve or fifteen kilometers from the shore rose a pointed -rock of monumental profile, like some fantastic pyramid, surmounted -by a cathedral. Its only neighbor in these immense wastes was a low, -round backed reef that the tide had left uncovered, squatting among -the shifting ooze: the reef of Tombelaine. Farther still away, other -submerged rocks showed their brown heads above the bluish line of the -waves, and the eye, continuing to follow the horizon to the right, -finally rested upon the vast green expanse of the Norman country lying -beside this sandy waste, so densely covered with trees that it had -the aspect of a limitless forest. It was all Nature offering herself -to his vision at a single glance, in a single spot, in all her might -and grandeur, in all her grace and freshness, and the eye turned from -those woodland glimpses to the stern apparition of the granite mount, -the hermit of the sands, rearing its strange Gothic form upon the -far-reaching strand. - -The strange pleasure which in other days had often made Mariolle -thrill, in the presence of the surprises that unknown lands preserve to -delight the eyes of travelers, now took such sudden possession of him -that he remained motionless, his feelings softened and deeply moved, -oblivious of his tortured heart. At the sound of a striking bell, -however, he turned, suddenly repossessed by the eager hope that they -were about to meet. The garden was still almost untenanted. The English -children had gone; the three old men alone kept up their monotonous -promenade. He came down and began to walk about like them. - -Immediately--in a moment--she would be there. He would see her at the -end of one of those roads that centered in this wondrous terrace. He -would recognize her form, her step, then her face and her smile; he -would soon be listening to her voice. What happiness! What delight! He -felt that she was near him, somewhere, invisible as yet, but thinking -of him, knowing that she was soon to see him again. - -With difficulty he restrained himself from uttering a little cry. For -there, down below, a blue sunshade, just the dome of a sunshade, was -visible, gliding along beneath a clump of trees. It must be she; there -could be no doubt of it. A little boy came in sight, driving a hoop -before him; then two ladies,--he recognized her,--then two men: her -father and another gentleman. She was all in blue, like the heavens in -springtime. Yes, indeed! he recognized her, while as yet he could not -distinguish her features; but he did not dare to go toward her, feeling -that he would blush and stammer, that he would be unable to account for -this chance meeting beneath M. de Pradon's suspicious glances. - -He went forward to meet them, however, keeping his field-glass to his -eye, apparently quite intent on scanning the horizon. She it was who -addressed him first, not even taking the trouble to affect astonishment. - -"Good day, M. Mariolle," she said. "Isn't it splendid?" - -He was struck speechless by this reception, and knew not what tone to -adopt in reply. Finally he stammered: "Ah, it is you, Madame; how glad -I am to meet you! I wanted to see something of this delightful country." - -She smiled as she replied: "And you selected the very time when I -chanced to be here. That was extremely kind of you." Then she proceeded -to make the necessary introductions. "This is M. Mariolle, one of my -dearest friends; my aunt, Mme. Valsaci; my uncle, who builds bridges." - -When salutations had been exchanged. M. de Pradon and the young man -shook hands rather stiffly and the walk was continued. - -She had made room for him between herself and her aunt, casting upon -him a very rapid glance, one of those glances which seem to indicate a -weakening determination. - -"How do you like the country?" she asked. - -"I think that I have never beheld anything more beautiful," he replied. - -"Ah! if you had passed some days here, as I have just been doing, you -would feel how it penetrates one. The impression that it leaves is -beyond the power of expression. The advance and retreat of the sea -upon the sands, that grand movement that is going on unceasingly, that -twice a day floods all that you behold before you, and so swiftly that -a horse galloping at top speed would scarce have time to escape before -it--this wondrous spectacle that Heaven gratuitously displays before -us, I declare to you that it makes me forgetful of myself. I no longer -know myself. Am I not speaking the truth, aunt?" - -Mme. Valsaci, an old, gray-haired woman, a lady of distinction in her -province and the respected wife of an eminent engineer, a supercilious -functionary who could not divest himself of the arrogance of the -school, confessed that she had never seen her niece in such a state -of enthusiasm. Then she added reflectively: "It is not surprising, -however, when, like her, one has never seen any but theatrical scenery." - -"But I go to Dieppe and Trouville almost every year." - -The old lady began to laugh. "People only go to Dieppe and Trouville to -see their friends. The sea is only there to serve as a cloak for their -rendezvous." It was very simply said, perhaps without any concealed -meaning. - -People were streaming along toward the terrace, which seemed to draw -them to it with an irresistible attraction. They came from every -quarter of the garden, in spite of themselves, like round bodies -rolling down a slope. The sinking sun seemed to be drawing a golden -tissue of finest texture, transparent and ethereally light, behind the -lofty silhouette of the abbey, which was growing darker and darker, -like a gigantic shrine relieved against a veil of brightness. Mariolle, -however, had eyes for nothing but the adored blond form walking at -his side, wrapped in its cloud of blue. Never had he beheld her so -seductive. She seemed to him to have changed, without his being able to -specify in what the change consisted; she was bright with a brightness -he had never seen before, which shone in her eyes and upon her flesh, -her hair, and seemed to have penetrated her soul as well, a brightness -emanating from this country, this sky, this sunlight, this verdure. -Never had he known or loved her thus. - -He walked at her side and could find no word to say to her. The rustle -of her dress, the occasional touch of her arm, the meeting, so mutely -eloquent, of their glances, completely overcame him. He felt as if -they had annihilated his personality as a man--felt himself suddenly -obliterated by contact with this woman, absorbed by her to such an -extent as to be nothing; nothing but desire, nothing but appeal, -nothing but adoration. She had consumed his being, as one burns a -letter. - -She saw it all very clearly, understood the full extent of her victory, -and thrilled and deeply moved, feeling life throb within her, too, more -keenly among these odors of the country and the sea, full of sunlight -and of sap, she said to him: "I am so glad to see you!" Close upon -this, she asked: "How long do you remain here?" - -He replied: "Two days, if to-day counts for a day." Then, turning to -the aunt: "Would Mme. Valsaci do me the honor to come and spend the -day to-morrow at Mont Saint-Michel with her husband?" - -Mme. de Burne made answer for her relative: "I will not allow her to -refuse, since we have been so fortunate as to meet you here." - -The engineer's wife replied: "Yes, Monsieur, I accept very gladly, upon -the condition that you come and dine with me this evening." - -He bowed in assent. All at once there arose within him a feeling of -delirious delight, such a joy as seizes you when news is brought that -the desire of your life is attained. What had come to him? What new -occurrence was there in his life? Nothing; and yet he felt himself -carried away by the intoxication of an indefinable presentiment. - -They walked upon the terrace for a long time, waiting for the sun to -set, so as to witness until the very end the spectacle of the black -and battlemented mount drawn in outline upon a horizon of flame. Their -conversation now was upon ordinary topics, such as might be discussed -in presence of a stranger, and from time to time Mme. de Burne and -Mariolle glanced at each other. Then they all returned to the villa, -which stood just outside Avranches in a fine garden, overlooking the -bay. - -Wishing to be prudent, and a little disturbed, moreover, by M. de -Pradon's cold and almost hostile attitude toward him, Mariolle withdrew -at an early hour. When he took Mme. de Burne's hand to raise it to his -lips, she said to him twice in succession, with a peculiar accent: -"Till to-morrow! Till to-morrow!" - -As soon as he was gone M. and Mme. Valsaci, who had long since -habituated themselves to country ways, proposed that they should go to -bed. - -"Go," said Mme. de Burne. "I am going to take a walk in the garden." - -"So am I," her father added. - -She wrapped herself in a shawl and went out, and they began to walk -side by side upon the white-sanded alleys which the full moon, -streaming over lawn and shrubbery, illuminated as if they had been -little winding rivers of silver. - -After a silence that had lasted for quite a while, M. de Pradon said in -a low voice: "My dear child, you will do me the justice to admit that I -have never troubled you with my counsels?" - -She felt what was coming, and was prepared to meet his attack. "Pardon -me, papa," she said, "but you did give me one, at least." - -"I did?" - -"Yes, yes." - -"A counsel relating to your way of life?" - -"Yes; and a very bad one it was, too. And so, if you give me any more, -I have made up my mind not to follow them." - -"What was the advice that I gave you?" - -"You advised me to marry M. de Burne. That goes to show that you are -lacking in judgment, in clearness of insight, in acquaintance with -mankind in general and with your daughter in particular." - -"Yes I made a mistake on that occasion; but I am sure that I am right -in the very paternal advice that I feel called upon to give you at the -present juncture." - -"Let me hear what it is. I will accept as much of it as the -circumstances call for." - -"You are on the point of entangling yourself." - -She laughed with a laugh that was rather too hearty, and completing the -expression of his idea, said: "With M. Mariolle, doubtless?" - -"With M. Mariolle." - -"You forget," she rejoined, "the entanglements that I have already had -with M. de Maltry, with M. Massival, with M. Gaston de Lamarthe, and a -dozen others, of all of whom you have been jealous; for I never fall in -with a man who is nice and willing to show a little devotion for me but -all my flock flies into a rage, and you first of all, you whom nature -has assigned to me as my noble father and general manager." - -"No, no, that is not it," he replied with warmth; "you have never -compromised your liberty with anyone. On the contrary you show a great -deal of tact in your relations with your friends." - -"My dear papa, I am no longer a child, and I promise you not to involve -myself with M. Mariolle any more than I have done with the rest of -them; you need have no fears. I admit, however, that it was at my -invitation that he came here. I think that he is delightful, just as -intelligent as his predecessors and less egotistical; and you thought -so too, up to the time when you imagined that you had discovered that -I was showing some small preference for him. Oh, you are not so sharp -as you think you are! I know you, and I could say a great deal more -on this head if I chose. As M. Mariolle was agreeable to me, then, I -thought it would be very nice to make a pleasant excursion in his -company, quite by chance, of course. It is a piece of stupidity to -deprive ourselves of everything that can amuse us when there is no -danger attending it. And I incur no danger of involving myself, since -you are here." - -She laughed openly as she finished, knowing well that every one of her -words had told, that she had tied his tongue by the adroit imputation -of a jealousy of Mariolle that she had suspected, that she had -instinctively scented in him for a long time past, and she rejoiced -over this discovery with a secret, audacious, unutterable coquetry. He -maintained an embarrassed and irritated silence, feeling that she had -divined some inexplicable spite underlying his paternal solicitude, the -origin of which he himself did not care to investigate. - -"There is no cause for alarm," she added. "It is quite natural to make -an excursion to Mont Saint-Michel at this time of the year in company -with you, my father, my uncle and aunt, and a friend. Besides no one -will know it; and even if they do, what can they say against it? When -we are back in Paris I will reduce this friend to the ranks again, to -keep company with the others." - -"Very well," he replied. "Let it be as if I had said nothing." - -They took a few steps more; then M. de Pradon asked: - -"Shall we return to the house? I am tired; I am going to bed." - -"No; the night is so fine. I am going to walk awhile yet." - -He murmured meaningly: "Do not go far away. One never knows what people -may be around." - -"Oh, I will be right here under the windows." - -"Good night, then, my dear child." - -He gave her a hasty kiss upon the forehead and went in. She took a -seat a little way off upon a rustic bench that was set in the ground -at the foot of a great oak. The night was warm, filled with odors from -the fields and exhalations from the sea and misty light, for beneath -the full moon shining brightly in the cloudless sky a fog had come up -and covered the waters of the bay. Onward it slowly crept, like white -smoke-wreaths, hiding from sight the beach that would soon be covered -by the incoming tide. - -Michèle de Burne, her hands clasped over her knees and her dreamy eyes -gazing into space, sought to look into her heart through a mist that -was as impenetrable and pale as that which lay upon the sands. How many -times before this, seated before her mirror in her dressing-room at -Paris, had she questioned herself: - -"What do I love? What do I desire? What do I hope for? What am I?" - -Apart from the pleasure of being beautiful, and the imperious necessity -which she felt of pleasing, which really afforded her much delight, she -had never been conscious of any appeal to her heart beyond some passing -fancy that she had quickly put her foot upon. She was not ignorant of -herself, for she had devoted too much of her time and attention to -watching and studying her face and all her person not to have been -observant of her feelings as well. Up to the present time she had -contented herself with a vague interest in that which is the subject of -emotion in others, but was powerless to impassion her, or capable at -best of affording her a momentary distraction. - -And yet, whenever she had felt a little warmer liking for anyone -arising within her, whenever a rival had tried to take away from her a -man whom she valued, and by arousing her feminine instincts had caused -an innocuous fever of attachment to simmer gently in her veins, she had -discovered that these false starts of love had caused her an emotion -that was much deeper than the mere gratification of success. But it -never lasted. Why? Perhaps because she was too clear-sighted; because -she allowed herself to become wearied, disgusted. Everything that at -first had pleased her in a man, everything that had animated, moved, -and attracted her, soon appeared in her eyes commonplace and divested -of its charm. They all resembled one another too closely, without ever -being exactly similar, and none of them had yet presented himself to -her endowed with the nature and the merits that were required to hold -her liking sufficiently long to guide her heart into the path of love. - -Why was this so? Was it their fault or was it hers? Were they wanting -in the qualities which she was looking for, or was it she who was -deficient in the attribute that makes one loved? Is love the result of -meeting with a person whom one believes to have been created expressly -for himself, or is it simply the result of having been born with the -faculty of loving? At times it seemed to her that everyone's heart -must be provided with arms, like the body, loving, outstretching arms -to attract, embrace, and enfold, and that her heart had only eyes and -nothing more. - -Men, superior men, were often known to become madly infatuated -with women who were unworthy of them, women without intelligence, -without character, often without beauty. Why was this? Wherein lay -the mystery? Was such a crisis in the existence of two beings not -to be attributed solely to a providential meeting, but to a kind of -seed that everyone carries about within him, and that puts forth its -buds when least expected? She had been intrusted with confidences, -she had surprised secrets, she had even beheld with her own eyes the -swift transfiguration that results from the breaking forth of this -intoxication of the feelings, and she had reflected deeply upon it. - -In society, in the unintermitting whirl of visiting and amusement, -in all the small tomfooleries of fashionable existence by which the -wealthy beguile their idle hours, a feeling of envious, jealous, and -almost incredulous astonishment had sometimes been excited in her -at the sight of men and women in whom some extraordinary change had -incontestably taken place. The change might not be conspicuously -manifest, but her watchful instinct felt it and divined it as the -hound holds the scent of his game. Their faces, their smiles, their -eyes especially would betray something that was beyond expression in -words, an ecstasy, a delicious, serene delight, a joy of the soul made -manifest in the body, illuming look and flesh. - -Without being able to account for it she was displeased with them for -this. Lovers had always been disagreeable objects to her, and she -imagined that the deep and secret feeling of irritation inspired in her -by the sight of people whose hearts were swayed by passion was simply -disdain. She believed that she could recognize them with a readiness -and an accuracy that were exceptional, and it was a fact that she -had often divined and unraveled _liaisons_ before society had even -suspected their existence. - -When she reflected upon all this, upon the fond folly that may be -induced in woman by the contact of some neighboring existence, his -aspect, his speech, his thought, the inexpressible something in the -loved being that robs the heart of tranquillity, she decided that -she was incapable of it. And yet, weary of everything, oppressed by -ineffable yearnings, tormented by a haunting longing after change and -some unknown state, feelings which were, perhaps, only the undeveloped -movements of an undefined groping after affection, how often had she -desired, with a secret shame that had its origin in her pride, to meet -with a man, who, for a time, were it only for a few months, might by -his sorceries raise her to an abnormally excited condition of mind and -body--for it seemed to her that life must assume strange and attractive -forms of ecstasy and delight during these emotional periods. Not -only had she desired such an encounter, but she had even sought it a -little--only a very little, however--with an indolent activity that -never devoted itself for any length of time to one pursuit. - -In all her inchoate attachments for the men called "superior," who -had dazzled her for a few weeks, the short-lived effervescence of -her heart had always died away in irremediable disappointment. She -looked for too much from their dispositions, their characters, their -delicacy, their renown, their merits. In the case of everyone of them -she had been compelled to open her eyes to the fact that the defects of -great men are often more prominent than their merits; that talent is a -special gift, like a good digestion or good eyesight, an isolated gift -to be exercised, and unconnected with the aggregate of personal charm -that makes one's relations cordial and attractive. - -Since she had known Mariolle, however, she was otherwise attached to -him. But did she love him, did she love him with the love of woman for -man? Without fame or prestige, he had conquered her affections by his -devotedness, his tenderness, his intelligence, by all the real and -unassuming attractions of his personality. He had conquered, for he -was constantly present in her thoughts; unremittingly she longed for -his society; in all the world there was no one more agreeable, more -sympathetic, more indispensable to her. Could this be love? - -She was not conscious of carrying in her soul that divine flame that -everyone speaks of, but for the first time she was conscious of the -existence there of a sincere wish to be something more to this man than -merely a charming friend. Did she love him? Does love demand that a -man appear endowed with exceptional attractions, that he be different -from all the world and tower above it in the aureole that the heart -places about its elect, or does it suffice that he find favor in your -eyes, that he please you to that extent that you scarce know how to do -without him? In the latter event she loved him, or at any rate she was -very near loving him. After having pondered deeply on the matter with -concentrated attention, she at length answered herself: "Yes, I love -him, but I am lacking in warmth; that is the defect of my nature." - -Still, she had felt some warmth a little while before when she saw him -coming toward her upon the terrace in the garden of Avranches. For -the first time she had felt that inexpressible something that bears -us, impels us, hurries us toward some one; she had experienced great -pleasure in walking at his side, in having him near her, burning with -love for her, as they watched the sun sinking behind the shadow of Mont -Saint-Michel, like a vision in a legend. Was not love itself a kind -of legend of the soul, in which some believe through instinct, and in -which others sometimes also come to believe through stress of pondering -over it? Would she end by believing in it? She had felt a strange, -half-formed desire to recline her head upon the shoulder of this man, -to be nearer to him, to seek that closer union that is never found, to -give him what one offers vainly and always retains: the close intimacy -with one's inner self. - -Yes, she had experienced a feeling of warmth toward him, and she still -felt it there at the bottom of her heart, at that very moment. Perhaps -it would change to passion should she give way to it. She opposed too -much resistance to men's powers of attraction; she reasoned on them, -combated them too much. How sweet it would be to walk with him on an -evening like this along the river-bank beneath the willows, and allow -him to taste her lips from time to time in recompense of all the love -he had given her! - -A window in the villa was flung open. She turned her head. It was her -father, who was doubtless looking to see if she were there. She called -to him: "You are not asleep yet?" - -He replied: "If you don't come in you will take cold." - -She arose thereupon and went toward the house. When she was in her room -she raised her curtains for another look at the mist over the bay, -which was becoming whiter and whiter in the moonlight, and it seemed to -her that the vapors in her heart were also clearing under the influence -of her dawning tenderness. - -For all that she slept soundly, and her maid had to awake her in the -morning, for they were to make an early start, so as to have breakfast -at the Mount. - -A roomy wagonette drew up before the door. When she heard the rolling -of the wheels upon the sand she went to her window and looked out, -and the first thing that her eyes encountered was the face of André -Mariolle who was looking for her. Her heart began to beat a little more -rapidly. She was astonished and dejected as she reflected upon the -strange and novel impression produced by this muscle, which palpitates -and hurries the blood through the veins merely at the sight of some -one. Again she asked herself, as she had done the previous night before -going to sleep: "Can it be that I am about to love him?" Then when -she was seated face to face with him her instinct told her how deeply -he was smitten, how he was suffering with his love, and she felt as -if she could open her arms to him and put up her mouth. They only -exchanged a look, however, but it made him turn pale with delight. - -The carriage rolled away. It was a bright summer morning; the air was -filled with the melody of birds and everything seemed permeated by the -spirit of youth. They descended the hill, crossed the river, and drove -along a narrow, rough, stony road that set the travelers bumping upon -their seats. Mme. de Burne began to banter her uncle upon the condition -of this road; that was enough to break the ice, and the brightness that -pervaded the air seemed to be infused into the spirit of them all. - -As they emerged from a little hamlet the bay suddenly presented itself -again before them, not yellow as they had seen it the evening before, -but sparkling with clear water which covered everything, sands, -salt-meadows, and, as the coachman said, even the very road itself a -little way further on. Then, for the space of an hour they allowed the -horses to proceed at a walk, so as to give this inundation time to -return to the deep. - -The belts of elms and oaks that inclosed the farms among which they -were now passing momentarily hid from their vision the profile of the -abbey standing high upon its rock, now entirely surrounded by the sea; -then all at once it was visible again between two farmyards, nearer, -more huge, more astounding than ever. The sun cast ruddy tones upon the -old crenelated granite church, perched on its rocky pedestal. Michèle -de Burne and André Mariolle contemplated it, both mingling with the -newborn or acutely sensitive disturbances of their hearts the poetry -of the vision that greeted their eyes upon this rosy July morning. - -The talk went on with easy friendliness. Mme. Valsaci told tragic tales -of the coast, nocturnal dramas of the yielding sands devouring human -life. M. Valsaci took up arms for the dike, so much abused by artists, -and extolled it for the uninterrupted communication that it afforded -with the Mount and for the reclaimed sand-hills, available at first for -pasturage and afterward for cultivation. - -Suddenly the wagonette came to a halt; the sea had invaded the road. It -did not amount to much, only a film of water upon the stony way, but -they knew that there might be sink-holes beneath, openings from which -they might never emerge, so they had to wait. "It will go down very -quickly," M. Valsaci declared, and he pointed with his finger to the -road from which the thin sheet of water was already receding, seemingly -absorbed by the earth or drawn away to some distant place by a powerful -and mysterious force. - -They got down from the carriage for a nearer look at this strange, -swift, silent flight of the sea, and followed it step by step. Now -spots of green began to appear among the submerged vegetation, lightly -stirred by the waves here and there, and these spots broadened, rounded -themselves out and became islands. Quickly these islands assumed the -appearance of continents, separated from each other by miniature -oceans, and finally over the whole expanse of the bay it was a headlong -flight of the waters retreating to their distant abode. It resembled -nothing so much as a long silvery veil withdrawn from the surface -of the earth, a great, torn, slashed veil, full of rents, which left -exposed the wide meadows of short grass as it was pulled aside, but did -not yet disclose the yellow sands that lay beyond. - -They had climbed into the carriage again, and everyone was standing in -order to obtain a better view. The road in front of them was drying and -the horses were sent forward, but still at a walk, and as the rough -places sometimes caused them to lose their equilibrium, André Mariolle -suddenly felt Michèle de Burne's shoulder resting against his. At first -he attributed this contact to the movement of the vehicle, but she did -not stir from her position, and at every jolt of the wheels a trembling -started from the spot where she had placed herself and shook all his -frame and laid waste his heart. He did not venture to look at the young -woman, paralyzed as he was by this unhoped-for familiarity, and with -a confusion in his brain such as arises from drunkenness, he said to -himself: "Is this real? Can it be possible? Can it be that we are both -losing our senses?" - -The horses began to trot and they had to resume their seats. Then -Mariolle felt some sudden, mysterious, imperious necessity of showing -himself attentive to M. de Pradon, and he began to devote himself to -him with flattering courtesy. Almost as sensible to compliments as his -daughter, the father allowed himself to be won over and soon his face -was all smiles. - -At last they had reached the causeway and were advancing rapidly toward -the Mount, which reared its head among the sands at the point where the -long, straight road ended. Pontorson river washed its left-hand slope, -while, to the right, the pastures covered with short grass, which the -coachman wrongly called "samphire," had given way to sand-hills that -were still trickling with the water of the sea. The lofty monument now -assumed more imposing dimensions upon the blue heavens, against which, -very clear and distinct now in every slightest detail, its summit stood -out in bold relief, with all its towers and belfries, bristling with -grimacing gargoyles, heads of monstrous beings with which the faith and -the terrors of our ancestors crowned their Gothic sanctuaries. - -It was nearly one o'clock when they reached the inn, where breakfast -had been ordered. The hostess had delayed the meal for prudential -reasons; it was not ready. It was late, therefore, when they sat down -at table and everyone was very hungry. Soon, however, the champagne -restored their spirits. Everyone was in good humor, and there were -two hearts that felt that they were on the verge of great happiness. -At dessert, when the cheering effect of the wine that they had drunk -and the pleasures of conversation had developed in their frames the -feeling of well-being and contentment that sometimes warms us after a -good meal, and inclines us to take a rosy view of everything, Mariolle -suggested: "What do you say to staying over here until to-morrow? It -would be so nice to look upon this scene by moonlight, and so pleasant -to dine here together this evening!" - -Mme. de Burne gave her assent at once, and the two men also concurred. -Mme. Valsaci alone hesitated, on account of the little boy that she had -left at home, but her husband reassured her and reminded her that she -had frequently remained away before; he at once sat down and dispatched -a telegram to the governess. André Mariolle had flattered him by giving -his approval to the causeway, expressing his judgment that it detracted -far less than was generally reported from the picturesque effect of the -Mount, thereby making himself _persona grata_ to the engineer. - -Upon rising from table they went to visit the monument, taking the -road of the ramparts. The city, a collection of old houses dating back -to the Middle Ages and rising in tiers one above the other upon the -enormous mass of granite that is crowned by the abbey, is separated -from the sands by a lofty crenelated wall. This wall winds about the -city in its ascent with many a twist and turn, with abrupt angles and -elbows and platforms and watchtowers, all forming so many surprises -for the eye, which, at every turn, rests upon some new expanse of the -far-reaching horizon. They were silent, for whether they had seen this -marvelous edifice before or not, they were equally impressed by it, -and the substantial breakfast that they had eaten, moreover, had made -them short-winded. There it rose above them in the sky, a wondrous -tangle of granite ornamentation, spires, belfries, arches thrown from -one tower to another, a huge, light, fairy-like lace-work in stone, -embroidered upon the azure of the heavens, from which the fantastic -and bestial-faced array of gargoyles seemed to be preparing to detach -themselves and wing their flight away. Upon the northern flank of the -Mount, between the abbey and the sea, a wild and almost perpendicular -descent that is called the Forest, because it is covered with ancient -trees, began where the houses ended and formed a speck of dark green -coloring upon the limitless expanse of yellow sands. Mme. de Burne and -Mariolle, who headed the little procession, stopped to enjoy the view. -She leaned upon his arm, her senses steeped in a rapture such as she -had never known before. With light steps she pursued her upward way, -willing to keep on climbing forever in his company toward this fabric -of a vision, or indeed toward any other end. She would have been glad -that the steep way should never have an ending, for almost for the -first time in her life she knew what it was to experience a plenitude -of satisfaction. - -"Heavens! how beautiful it is!" she murmured. - -Looking upon her, he answered: "I can think only of you." - -She continued, with a smile: "I am not inclined to be very poetical, -as a general thing, but this seems to me so beautiful that I am really -moved." - -He stammered: "I--I love you to distraction." - -He was conscious of a slight pressure of her arm, and they resumed the -ascent. - -They found a keeper awaiting them at the door of the abbey, and they -entered by that superb staircase, between two massive towers, which -leads to the Hall of the Guards. Then they went from hall to hall, from -court to court, from dungeon to dungeon, listening, wondering, charmed -with everything, admiring everything, the crypt, with its huge pillars, -so beautiful in their massiveness, which sustains upon its sturdy -arches all the weight of the choir of the church above, and all of the -_Wonder_, an awe-inspiring edifice of three stories of Gothic monuments -rising one above the other, the most extraordinary masterpiece of the -monastic and military architecture of the Middle Ages. - -Then they came to the cloisters. Their surprise was so great that they -involuntarily came to a halt at sight of this square court inclosing -the lightest, most graceful, most charming of colonnades to be seen in -any cloisters in the world. For the entire length of the four galleries -the slender shafts in double rows, surmounted by exquisite capitals, -sustain a continuous garland of flowers and Gothic ornamentation of -infinite variety and constantly changing design, the elegant and -unaffected fancies of the simple-minded old artists who thus worked out -their dreams in stone beneath the hammer. - -Michèle de Burne and André Mariolle walked completely around the -inclosure, very slowly, arm in arm, while the others, somewhat -fatigued, stood near the door and admired from a distance. - -"Heavens! what pleasure this affords me!" she said, coming to a stop. - -"For my part, I neither know where I am nor what my eyes behold. I am -conscious that you are at my side, and that is all." - -Then smiling, she looked him in the face and murmured: "André!" - -He saw that she was yielding. No further word was spoken, and they -resumed their walk. The inspection of the edifice was continued, but -they hardly had eyes to see anything. - -Nevertheless their attention was attracted for the space of a moment -by the airy bridge, seemingly of lace, inclosed within an arch thrown -across space between two belfries, as if to afford a way to scale the -clouds, and their amazement was still greater when they came to the -"Madman's Path," a dizzy track, devoid of parapet, that encircles the -farthest tower nearly at its summit. - -"May we go up there?" she asked. - -"It is forbidden," the guide replied. - -She showed him a twenty-franc piece. All the members of the party, -giddy at sight of the yawning gulf and the immensity of surrounding -space, tried to dissuade her from the imprudent freak. - -She asked Mariolle: "Will you go?" - -He laughed: "I have been in more dangerous places than that." And -paying no further attention to the others, they set out. - -He went first along the narrow cornice that overhung the gulf, and she -followed him, gliding along close to the wall with eyes downcast that -she might not see the yawning void beneath, terrified now and almost -ready to sink with fear, clinging to the hand that he held out to her; -but she felt that he was strong, that there was no sign of weakening -there, that he was sure of head and foot; and enraptured for all her -fears, she said to herself: "Truly, this is a man." They were alone in -space, at the height where the sea-birds soar; they were contemplating -the same horizon that the white-winged creatures are ceaselessly -scouring in their flight as they explore it with their little yellow -eyes. - -Mariolle felt that she was trembling; he asked: "Do you feel dizzy?" - -"A little," she replied in a low voice; "but in your company I fear -nothing." - -At this he drew near and sustained her by putting his arm about -her, and this simple assistance inspired her with such courage that -she ventured to raise her head and take a look at the distance. He -was almost carrying her and she offered no resistance, enjoying the -protection of those strong arms which thus enabled her to traverse the -heavens, and she was grateful to him with a romantic, womanly gratitude -that he did not mar their sea-gull flight by kisses. - -When they had rejoined the others of the party, who were awaiting them -with the greatest anxiety, M. de Pradon angrily said to his daughter: -"_Dieu!_ what a silly thing to do!" - -She replied with conviction: "No, it was not, papa, since it was -successfully accomplished. Nothing that succeeds is ever stupid." - -He merely gave a shrug of the shoulders, and they descended the -stairs. At the porter's lodge there was another stoppage to purchase -photographs, and when they reached the inn it was nearly dinner-time. -The hostess recommended a short walk upon the sands, so as to obtain a -view of the Mount toward the open sea, in which direction, she said, -it presented its most imposing aspect. Although they were all much -fatigued, the band started out again and made the tour of the ramparts, -picking their way among the treacherous downs, solid to the eye but -yielding to the step, where the foot that was placed upon the pretty -yellow carpet that was stretched beneath it and seemed solid would -suddenly sink up to the calf in the deceitful golden ooze. - -Seen from this point the abbey, all at once losing the cathedral-like -appearance with which it astounded the beholder on the mainland, -assumed, as if in menace of old Ocean, the martial appearance of a -feudal manor, with its huge battlemented wall picturesquely pierced -with loop-holes and supported by gigantic buttresses that sank their -Cyclopean stone foundations in the bosom of the fantastic mountain. -Mme. de Burne and André Mariolle, however, were not heedless of all -that. They were thinking only of themselves, caught in the meshes of -the net that they had set for each other, shut up within the walls of -that prison to which no sound comes from the outer world, where the eye -beholds only one being. - -When they found themselves again seated before their well-filled -plates, however, beneath the cheerful light of the lamps, they seemed -to awake, and discovered that they were hungry, just like other mortals. - -They remained a long time at table, and when the dinner was ended -the moonlight was quite forgotten in the pleasure of conversation. -There was no one, moreover, who had any desire to go out, and no one -suggested it. The broad moon might shed her waves of poetic light down -upon the little thin sheet of rising tide that was already creeping up -the sands with the noise of a trickling stream, scarcely perceptible -to the ear, but sinister and alarming; she might light up the ramparts -that crept in spirals up the flanks of the Mount and illumine the -romantic shadows of all the belfries of the old abbey, standing in -its wondrous setting of a boundless bay, in the bosom of which were -quiveringly reflected the lights that crawled along the downs--no one -cared to see more. - -It was not yet ten o'clock when Mme. Valsaci, overcome with sleep, -spoke of going to bed, and her proposition was received without a -dissenting voice. Bidding one another a cordial good night, each -withdrew to his chamber. - -André Mariolle knew well that he would not sleep; he therefore lighted -his two candles and placed them on the mantelpiece, threw open his -window, and looked out into the night. - -All the strength of his body was giving way beneath the torture of an -unavailing hope. He knew that she was there, close at hand, that there -were only two doors between them, and yet it was almost as impossible -to go to her as it would be to dam the tide that was coming in and -submerging all the land. There was a cry in his throat that strove to -liberate itself, and in his nerves such an unquenchable and futile -torment of expectation that he asked himself what he was to do, unable -as he was longer to endure the solitude of this evening of sterile -happiness. - -Gradually all the sounds had died away in the inn and in the single -little winding street of the town. Mariolle still remained leaning upon -his window-sill, conscious only that time was passing, contemplating -the silvery sheet of the still rising tide and rejecting the idea of -going to bed as if he had felt the undefined presentiment of some -approaching, providential good fortune. - -All at once it seemed to him that a hand was fumbling with the -fastening of his door. He turned with a start: the door slowly opened -and a woman entered the room, her head veiled in a cloud of white lace -and her form enveloped in one of those great dressing-gowns that seem -made of silk, cashmere, and snow. She closed the door carefully behind -her; then, as if she had not seen him where he stood motionless--as if -smitten with joy--in the bright square of moonlight of the window, she -went straight to the mantelpiece and blew out the two candles. - - - - -CHAPTER V. - - -CONSPIRACY - - -They were to meet next morning in front of the inn to say good-bye -to one another. André, the first one down, awaited her coming with a -poignant feeling of mixed uneasiness and delight. What would she do? -What would she be to him? What would become of her and of him? In -what thrice-happy or terrible adventure had he engaged himself? She -had it in her power to make of him what she would, a visionary, like -an opium-eater, or a martyr, at her will. He paced to and fro beside -the two carriages, for they were to separate, he, to continue the -deception, ending his trip by way of Saint Malo, they returning to -Avranches. - -When would he see her again? Would she cut short her visit to her -family, or would she delay her return? He was horribly afraid of what -she would first say to him, how she would first look at him, for he had -not seen her and they had scarcely spoken during their brief interview -of the night before. There remained to Mariolle from that strange, -fleeting interview the faint feeling of disappointment of the man who -has been unable to reap all that harvest of love which he thought was -ready for the sickle, and at the same time the intoxication of triumph -and, resulting from that, the almost assured hope of finally making -himself complete master of her affections. - -He heard her voice and started; she was talking loudly, evidently -irritated at some wish that her father had expressed, and when he -beheld her standing at the foot of the staircase there was a little -angry curl upon her lips that bespoke her impatience. - -Mariolle took a couple of steps toward her; she saw him and smiled. -Her eyes suddenly recovered their serenity and assumed an expression -of kindliness which diffused itself over the other features, and she -quickly and cordially extended to him her hand, as if in ratification -of their new relations. - -"So then, we are to separate?" she said to him. - -"Alas! Madame, the thought makes me suffer more than I can tell." - -"It will not be for long," she murmured. She saw M. de Pradon coming -toward them, and added in a whisper: "Say that you are going to take a -ten days' trip through Brittany, but do not take it." - -Mme. de Valsaci came running up in great excitement. "What is this that -your father has been telling me--that you are going to leave us day -after to-morrow? You were to stay until next Monday, at least." - -Mme. de Burne replied, with a suspicion of ill humor: "Papa is nothing -but a bungler, who never knows enough to hold his tongue. The sea-air -has given me, as it does every year, a very unpleasant neuralgia, and I -did say something or other about going away so as not to have to be ill -for a month. But this is no time for bothering over that." - -Mariolle's coachman urged him to get into the carriage and be off, so -that they might not miss the Pontorson train. - -Mme. de Burne asked: "And you, when do you expect to be back in Paris?" - -He assumed an air of hesitancy: "Well, I can't say exactly; I want to -see Saint Malo, Brest, Douarnenez, the Bay des Trépassés, Cape Raz, -Audierne, Penmarch, Morbihan, all this celebrated portion of the Breton -country, in a word. That will take me say--" after a silence devoted to -feigned calculation, he exceeded her estimate--"fifteen or twenty days." - -"That will be quite a trip," she laughingly said. "For my part, if my -nerves trouble me as they did last night, I shall be at home before I -am two days older." - -His emotion was so great that he felt like exclaiming: "Thanks!" He -contented himself with kissing, with a lover's kiss, the hand that she -extended to him for the last time, and after a profuse exchange of -thanks and compliments with the Valsacis and M. de Pradon, who seemed -to be somewhat reassured by the announcement of his projected trip, he -climbed into his vehicle and drove off, turning his head for a parting -look at her. - -He made no stop on his journey back to Paris and was conscious of -seeing nothing on the way. All night long he lay back in the corner -of his compartment with eyes half closed and folded arms, his mind -reverting to the occurrences of the last few hours, and all his -thoughts concentrated upon the realization of his dream. - -Immediately upon his arrival at his own abode, upon the cessation of -the noise and bustle of travel, in the silence of the library where -he generally passed his time, where he worked and wrote, and where he -almost always felt himself possessed by a restful tranquillity in the -friendly companionship of his books, his piano, and his violin, there -now commenced in him that unending torment of impatient waiting which -devours, as with a fever, insatiable hearts like his. He was surprised -that he could apply himself to nothing, that nothing served to occupy -his mind, that reading and music, the occupations that he generally -employed to while away the idle moments of his life, were unavailing, -not only to afford distraction to his thoughts, but even to give rest -and quiet to his physical being, and he asked himself what he was to -do to appease this new disturbance. An inexplicable physical need of -motion seemed to have taken possession of him--of going forth and -walking the streets, of constant movement, the crisis of that agitation -that is imparted by the mind to the body and which is nothing more than -an instinctive and unappeasable longing to seek and find some other -being. - -He put on his hat and overcoat, and as he was descending the stairs -he asked himself: "In which direction shall I go?" Thereupon an idea -occurred to him that he had not yet thought of: he must procure a -pretty and secluded retreat to serve them as a trysting place. - -He pursued his investigations in every quarter, ransacking streets, -avenues, and boulevards, distrustfully examining _concierges_ with -their servile smiles, lodging-house keepers of suspicious appearance -and apartments with doubtful furnishings, and at evening he returned -to his house in a state of discouragement. At nine o'clock the next -day he started out again, and at nightfall he finally succeeded in -discovering at Auteuil, buried in a garden that had three exits, a -lonely pavilion which an upholsterer in the neighborhood promised to -render habitable in two days. He ordered what was necessary, selecting -very plain furniture of varnished pine and thick carpets. A baker who -lived near one of the garden gates had charge of the property, and an -arrangement was completed with his wife whereby she was to care for the -rooms, while a gardener of the quarter also took a contract for filling -the beds with flowers. - -All these arrangements kept him busy until it was eight o'clock, and -when at last he got home, worn out with fatigue, he beheld with a -beating heart a telegram lying on his desk. He opened it and read: - - "I will be home to-morrow. Await instructions. "MICHE." - -He had not written to her yet, fearing that as she was soon to leave -Avranches his letter might go astray, and as soon as he had dined -he seated himself at his desk to lay before her what was passing in -his mind. The task was a long and difficult one, for all the words -and phrases that he could muster, and even his ideas, seemed to him -weak, mediocre, and ridiculous vehicles in which to convey to her the -delicacy and passionateness of his thanks. - -The letter that he received from her upon waking next morning confirmed -the statement that she would reach home that evening, and begged him -not to make his presence known to anyone for a few days, in order that -full belief might be accorded to the report that he was traveling. She -also requested him to walk upon the terrace of the Tuileries garden -that overlooks the Seine the following day at ten o'clock. - -He was there an hour before the time appointed, and to kill time -wandered about in the immense garden that was peopled only by a few -early pedestrians, belated officeholders on their way to the public -buildings on the left bank, clerks and toilers of every condition. -It was a pleasure to him to watch the hurrying crowds driven by the -necessity of earning their daily bread to brutalizing labors, and to -compare his lot with theirs, on this spot, at the minute when he was -awaiting his mistress--a queen among the queens of the earth. He felt -himself so fortunate a being, so privileged, raised to such a height -beyond their petty struggles, that he felt like giving thanks to the -blue sky, for to him Providence was but a series of alternations of -sunshine and of rain due to Chance, mysterious ruler over weather and -over men. - -When it wanted a few minutes of ten he ascended to the terrace and -watched for her coming. "She will be late!" he thought. He had scarcely -more than heard the clock in an adjacent building strike ten when -he thought he saw her at a distance, coming through the garden with -hurrying steps, like a working-woman in haste to reach her shop. "Can -it indeed be she?" He recognized her step but was astonished by her -changed appearance, so unassuming in a neat little toilette of dark -colors. She was coming toward the stairs that led up to the terrace, -however, in a bee-line, as if she had traveled that road many times -before. - -"Ah!" he said to himself, "she must be fond of this place and come to -walk here sometimes." He watched her as she raised her dress to put her -foot on the first step and then nimbly flew up the remaining ones, and -as he eagerly stepped forward to meet her she said to him as he came -near with a pleasant smile, in which there was a trace of uneasiness: -"You are very imprudent! You must not show yourself like that; I saw -you almost from the Rue de Rivoli. Come, we will go and take a seat on -a bench yonder. There is where you must wait for me next time." - -He could not help asking her: "So you come here often?" - -"Yes, I have a great liking for this place, and as I am an early walker -I come here for exercise and to look at the scenery, which is very -pretty. And then one never meets anybody here, while the Bois is out of -the question on just that account. But you must be careful not to give -away my secret." - -He laughed: "I shall not be very likely to do that." Discreetly taking -her hand, a little hand that was hanging at her side conveniently -concealed in the folds of her dress, he sighed: "How I love you! My -heart was sick with waiting for you. Did you receive my letter?" - -"Yes; I thank you for it. It was very touching." - -"Then you have not become angry with me yet?" - -"Why no! Why should I? You are just as nice as you can be." - -He sought for ardent words, words that would vibrate with his emotion -and his gratitude. As none came to him, and as he was too deeply moved -to permit of the free expression of the thought that was within him, he -simply said again: "How I love you!" - -She said to him: "I brought you here because there are water and boats -in this place as well as down yonder. It is not at all like what we saw -down there; still it is not disagreeable." - -They were sitting on a bench near the stone balustrade that runs along -the river, almost alone, invisible from every quarter. The only living -beings to be seen on the long terrace at that hour were two gardeners -and three nursemaids. Carriages were rolling along the quay at their -feet, but they could not see them; footsteps were resounding upon the -adjacent sidewalk, over against the wall that sustained the promenade; -and still unable to find words in which to express their thoughts, -they let their gaze wander over the beautiful Parisian landscape that -stretches from the Île Saint-Louis and the towers of Nôtre-Dame to the -heights of Meudon. She repeated her thought: "None the less, it is very -pretty, isn't it?" - -But he was suddenly seized by the thrilling remembrance of their -journey through space up on the summit of the abbey tower, and with a -regretful feeling for the emotion that was past and gone, he said: "Oh, -Madame, do you remember our escapade of the 'Madman's Path?'" - -"Yes; but I am a little afraid now that I come to think of it when it -is all over. _Dieu!_ how my head would spin around if I had it to do -over again! I was just drunk with the fresh air, the sunlight, and the -sea. Look, my friend, what a magnificent view we have before us. How I -do love Paris!" - -He was surprised, having a confused feeling of missing something that -had appeared in her down there in the country. He murmured: "It matters -not to me where I am, so that I am only near you!" - -Her only answer was a pressure of the hand. Inspired with greater -happiness, perhaps, by this little signal than he would have been by a -tender word, his heart relieved of the care that had oppressed it until -now, he could at last find words to express his feelings. He told her, -slowly, in words that were almost solemn, that he had given her his -life forever that she might do with it what she would. - -She was grateful; but like the child of modern scepticism that she -was and willing captive of her iconoclastic irony, she smiled as she -replied: "I would not make such a long engagement as that if I were -you!" - -He turned and faced her, and, looking her straight in the eyes with -that penetrating look which is like a touch, repeated what he had -just said at greater length, in a more ardent, more poetical form of -expression. All that he had written in so many burning letters he now -expressed with such a fervor of conviction that it seemed to her as she -listened that she was sitting in a cloud of incense. She felt herself -caressed in every fiber of her feminine nature by his adoring words -more deeply than ever before. - -When he had ended she simply said: "And I, too, love you dearly!" - -They were still holding each other's hand, like young folks walking -along a country road, and watching with vague eyes the little -steamboats plying on the river. They were alone by themselves in Paris, -in the great confused uproar, whether remote or near at hand, that -surrounded them in this city full of all the life of all the world, -more alone than they had been on the summit of their aerial tower, and -for some seconds they were quite oblivious that there existed on earth -any other beings but their two selves. - -She was the first to recover the sensation of reality and of the flight -of time. "Shall we see each other again to-morrow?" she said. - -He reflected for an instant, and abashed by what he had in mind to ask -of her: "Yes--yes--certainly," he replied. "But--shall we never meet -in any other place? This place is unfrequented. Still--people may come -here." - -She hesitated. "You are right. Still it is necessary also that you -should not show yourself for at least two weeks yet, so that people may -think that you are away traveling. It will be very nice and mysterious -for us to meet and no one know that you are in Paris. Meanwhile, -however, I cannot receive you at my house, so--I don't see----" - -He felt that he was blushing, and continued: "Neither can I ask you to -come to my house. Is there nothing else--is there no other place?" - -Being a woman of practical sense, logical and without false modesty, -she was neither surprised nor shocked. - -"Why, yes," she said, "only we must have time to think it over." - -"I have thought it over." - -"What! so soon?" - -"Yes, Madame." - -"Well?" - -"Are you acquainted with the Rue des Vieux-Champs at Auteuil?" - -"No." - -"It runs into the Rue Tournemine and the Rue Jean-de-Saulge." - -"Well?" - -"In this street, or rather lane, there is a garden, and in this -garden a pavilion that also communicates with the two streets that I -mentioned." - -"What next?" - -"That pavilion awaits you." - -She reflected, still with no appearance of embarrassment, and then -asked two or three questions that were dictated by feminine prudence. -His explanations seemed to be satisfactory, for she murmured as she -arose: - -"Well, I will go to-morrow." - -"At what time?" - -"Three o'clock." - -"Seven is the number; I will be waiting for you behind the door. Do not -forget. Give a knock as you pass." - -"Yes, my friend. Adieu, till to-morrow." - -"Till to-morrow, adieu. Thanks; I adore you." - -They had risen to their feet. "Do not come with me," she said. "Stay -here for ten minutes, and when you leave go by the way of the quay." - -"Adieu!" - -"Adieu!" - -She started off very rapidly, with such a modest, unassuming air, so -hurriedly, that actually she might have been mistaken for one of Paris' -pretty working-girls, who trot along the streets in the morning on the -way to their honest labors. - -He took a cab to Auteuil, tormented by the fear that the house might -not be ready against the following day. He found it full of workmen, -however; the hangings were all in place upon the walls, the carpets -laid upon the floors. Everywhere there was a sound of pounding, -hammering, beating, washing. In the garden, which was quite large and -rather pretty, the remains of an ancient park, containing a few large -old trees, a thick clump of shrubbery that stood for a forest, two -green tables, two grass-plots, and paths twisting about among the beds, -the gardener of the vicinity had set out rose-trees, geraniums, pinks, -reseda, and twenty other species of those plants, the growth of which -is advanced or retarded by careful attention, so that a naked field may -be transformed in a day into a blooming flower garden. - -Mariolle was as delighted as if he had scored another success with his -Michèle, and having exacted an oath from the upholsterer that all the -furniture should be in place the next day before noon, he went off to -various shops to buy some bric-à-brac and pictures for the adornment -of the interior of this retreat. For the walls he selected some of -those admirable photographs of celebrated pictures that are produced -nowadays, for the tables and mantelshelves some rare pottery and a few -of those familiar objects that women always like to have about them. -In the course of the day he expended the income of three months, and he -did it with great pleasure, reflecting that for the last ten years he -had been living very economically, not from penuriousness, but because -of the absence of expensive tastes, and this circumstance now allowed -him to do things somewhat magnificently. - -He returned to the pavilion early in the morning of the following day, -presided over the arrival and placing of the furniture, climbed ladders -and hung the pictures, burned perfumes and vaporized them upon the -hangings and poured them over the carpets. In his feverish joy, in the -excited rapture of all his being, it seemed to him that he had never in -his life been engaged in such an engrossing, such a delightful labor. -At every moment he looked to see what time it was, and calculated how -long it would be before she would be there; he urged on the workmen, -and stimulated his invention so to arrange the different objects that -they might be displayed in their best light. - -In his prudence he dismissed everyone before it was two o'clock, and -then, as the minute-hand of the clock tardily made its last revolution -around the dial, in the silence of that house where he was awaiting -the greatest happiness that ever he could have wished for, alone with -his reverie, going and coming from room to room, he passed the minutes -until she should be there. - -Finally he went out into the garden. The sunlight was streaming through -the foliage upon the grass and falling with especially charming -brilliancy upon a bed of roses. The very heavens were contributing -their aid to embellish this trysting-place. Then he went and stood by -the gate, partially opening it to look out from time to time for fear -she might mistake the house. - -Three o'clock rang out from some belfry, and forthwith the sounds -were echoed from a dozen schools and factories. He stood waiting now -with watch in hand, and gave a start of surprise when two little, -light knocks were given against the door, to which his ear was closely -applied, for he had heard no sound of footsteps in the street. - -He opened: it was she. She looked about her with astonishment. First -of all she examined with a distrustful glance the neighboring houses, -but her inspection reassured her, for certainly she could have no -acquaintances among the humble _bourgeois_ who inhabited the quarter. -Then she examined the garden with pleased curiosity, and finally placed -the backs of her two hands, from which she had drawn her gloves, -against her lover's mouth; then she took his arm. At every step she -kept repeating: "My! how pretty it is! how unexpected! how attractive!" -Catching sight of the rose-bed that the sun was shining upon through -the branches of the trees, she exclaimed: "Why, this is fairyland, my -friend!" - -She plucked a rose, kissed it, and placed it in her corsage. Then they -entered the pavilion, and she seemed so pleased with everything that -he felt like going down on his knees to her, although he may have felt -at the bottom of his heart that perhaps she might as well have shown -more attention to him and less to the surroundings. She looked about -her with the pleasure of a child who has received a new plaything, and -admired and appreciated the elegance of the place with the satisfaction -of a connoisseur whose tastes have been gratified. She had feared that -she was coming to some vulgar, commonplace resort, where the furniture -and hangings had been contaminated by other rendezvous, whereas all -this, on the contrary, was new, unforeseen, and alluring, prepared -expressly for her, and must have cost a lot of money. Really he was -perfect, this man. She turned to him and extended her arms, and their -lips met in one of those long kisses that have the strange, twofold -sensation of self-effacement and unadulterated bliss. - -When, at the end of three hours, they were about to separate, they -walked through the garden and seated themselves in a leafy arbor where -no eye could reach them. André addressed her with an exuberance of -feeling, as if she had been an idol that had come down for his sake -from her sacred pedestal, and she listened to him with that fatigued -languor which he had often seen reflected in her eyes after people had -tired her by too long a visit. She continued affectionate, however, -her face lighted up by a tender, slightly constrained smile, and she -clasped the hand that she held in hers with a continuous pressure that -perhaps was more studied than spontaneous. - -She could not have been listening to him, for she interrupted one of -his sentences to say: "Really, I must be going. I was to be at the -Marquise de Bratiane's at six o'clock, and I shall be very late." - -He conducted her to the gate by which she had obtained admission. They -gave each other a parting kiss, and after a furtive glance up and down -the street, she hurried away, keeping close to the walls. - -When he was alone he felt within him that sudden void that is ever -left by the disappearance of the woman whose kiss is still warm upon -your lips, the queer little laceration of the heart that is caused by -the sound of her retreating footsteps. It seemed to him that he was -abandoned and alone, that he was never to see her again, and he betook -himself to pacing the gravel-walks, reflecting upon this never-ceasing -contrast between anticipation and realization. He remained there until -it was dark, gradually becoming more tranquil and yielding himself more -entirely to her influence, now that she was away, than if she had been -there in his arms. Then he went home and dined without being conscious -of what he was eating, and sat down to write to her. - -The next day was a long one to him, and the evening seemed -interminable. Why had she not answered his letter, why had she sent him -no word? The morning of the second day he received a short telegram -appointing another rendezvous at the same hour. The little blue -envelope speedily cured him of the heart-sickness of hope deferred from -which he was beginning to suffer. - -She came, as she had done before, punctual, smiling, and affectionate, -and their second interview in the little house was in all respects -similar to the first. André Mariolle, surprised at first and vaguely -troubled that the ecstatic passion he had dreamed of had not made -itself felt between them, but more and more overmastered by his senses, -gradually forgot his visions of anticipation in the somewhat different -happiness of possession. He was becoming attached to her by reason of -her caresses, an invincible tie, the strongest tie of all, from which -there is no deliverance when once it has fully possessed you and has -penetrated through your flesh, into your veins. - -Twenty days rolled by, such sweet, fleeting days. It seemed to him -that there was to be no end to it, that he was to live forever thus, -nonexistent for all and living for her alone, and to his mental vision -there presented itself the seductive dream of an unlimited continuance -of this blissful, secret way of living. - -She continued to make her visits at intervals of three days, offering -no objections, attracted, it would seem, as much by the amusement she -derived from their clandestine meetings--by the charm of the little -house that had now been transformed into a conservatory of rare exotics -and by the novelty of the situation, which could scarcely be called -dangerous, since she was her own mistress, but still was full of -mystery--as by the abject and constantly increasing tenderness of her -lover. - -At last there came a day when she said to him: "Now, my dear friend, -you must show yourself in society again. You will come and pass the -afternoon with me to-morrow. I have given out that you are at home -again." - -He was heartbroken. "Oh, why so soon?" he said. - -"Because if it should leak out by any chance that you are in Paris your -absence would be too inexplicable not to give rise to gossip." - -He saw that she was right and promised that he would come to her house -the next day. Then he asked her: "Do you receive to-morrow?" - -"Yes," she replied. "It will be quite a little solemnity." - -He did not like this intelligence. "Of what description is your -solemnity?" - -She laughed gleefully. "I have prevailed upon Massival, by means of the -grossest sycophancy, to give a performance of his 'Dido,' which no one -has heard yet. It is the poetry of antique love. Mme. de Bratiane, who -considered herself Massival's sole proprietor, is furious. She will be -there, for she is to sing. Am I not a sly one?" - -"Will there be many there?" - -"Oh, no, only a few intimate friends. You know them nearly all." - -"Won't you let me off? I am so happy in my solitude." - -"Oh! no, my friend. You know that I count on you more than all the -rest." - -His heart gave a great thump. "Thank you," he said; "I will come." - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - - -QUESTIONINGS - - -Good day, M. Mariolle." - -Mariolle noticed that it was no longer the "dear friend" of Auteuil, -and the clasp of the hand was a hurried one, the hasty pressure of a -busy woman wholly engrossed in her social functions. As he entered the -salon Mme. de Burne was advancing to speak to the beautiful Mme. le -Prieur, whose sculpturesque form, and the audacious way that she had -of dressing to display it, had caused her to be nicknamed, somewhat -ironically, "The Goddess." She was the wife of a member of the -Institute, of the section of Inscriptions and Belles-Lettres. - -"Ah, Mariolle!" exclaimed Lamarthe, "where do you come from? We thought -that you were dead." - -"I have been making a trip through Finistère." - -He was going on to relate his impressions when the novelist interrupted -him: "Are you acquainted with the Baronne de Frémines?" - -"Only by sight; but I have heard a good deal of her. They say that she -is queer." - -"The very queen of crazy women, but with an exquisite perfume of -modernness. Come and let me present you to her." Taking him by the arm -he led him toward a young woman who was always compared to a doll, a -pale and charming little blond doll, invented and created by the devil -himself for the damnation of those larger children who wear beards -on their faces. She had long, narrow eyes, slightly turned up toward -the temples, apparently like the eyes of the Chinese; their soft blue -glances stole out between lids that were seldom opened to their full -extent, heavy, slowly-moving lids, designed to veil and hide this -creature's mysterious nature. - -Her hair, very light in color, shone with silky, silvery reflections, -and her delicate mouth, with its thin lips, seemed to have been cut by -the light hand of a sculptor from the design of a miniature-painter. -The voice that issued from it had bell-like intonations, and the -audacity of her ideas, of a biting quality that was peculiar to -herself, smacking of wickedness and drollery, their destructive charm, -their cold, corrupting seductiveness, all the complicated nature of -this full-grown, mentally diseased child acted upon those who were -brought in contact with her in such a way as to produce in them violent -passions and disturbances. - -She was known all over Paris as being the most extravagant of the -_mondaines_ of the real _monde_, and also the wittiest, but no one -could say exactly what she was, what were her ideas, what she did. She -exercised an irresistible sway over mankind in general. Her husband, -also, was quite as much of an enigma as she. Courteous and affable -and a great nobleman, he seemed quite unconscious of what was going -on. Was he indifferent, or complaisant, or was he simply blind? -Perhaps, after all, there was nothing in it more than those little -eccentricities which doubtless amused him as much as they did her. -All sorts of opinions, however, were prevalent in regard to him, and -some very ugly reports were circulated. Rumor even went so far as to -insinuate that his wife's secret vices were not unprofitable to him. - -Between her and Mme. de Burne there were natural attractions and fierce -jealousies, spells of friendship succeeded by crises of furious enmity. -They liked and feared each other and mutually sought each other's -society, like professional duelists, who appreciate at the same time -that they would be glad to kill each other. - -It was the Baronne de Frémines who was having the upper hand at this -moment. She had just scored a victory, an important victory: she -had conquered Lamarthe, had taken him from her rival and borne him -away ostentatiously to domesticate him in her flock of acknowledged -followers. The novelist seemed to be all at once smitten, puzzled, -charmed, and stupefied by the discoveries he had made in this creature -_sui generis_, and he could not help talking about her to everybody -that he met, a fact which had already given rise to much gossip. - -Just as he was presenting Mariolle he encountered Mme. de Burne's look -from the other end of the room; he smiled and whispered in his friend's -ear: "See, the mistress of the house is angry." - -André raised his eyes, but Madame had turned to meet Massival, who just -then made his appearance beneath the raised portière. He was followed -almost immediately by the Marquise de Bratiane, which elicited from -Lamarthe: "Ah! we shall only have a second rendition of 'Dido'; the -first has just been given in the Marquise's _coupé_." - -Mme. de Frémines added: "Really, our friend De Burne's collection is -losing some of its finest jewels." - -Mariolle felt a sudden impulse of anger rising in his heart, a kind -of hatred against this woman, and a brusque sensation of irritation -against these people, their way of life, their ideas, their tastes, -their aimless inclinations, their childish amusements. Then, as -Lamarthe bent over the young woman to whisper something in her ear, he -profited by the opportunity to slip away. - -Handsome Mme. le Prieur was sitting by herself only a few steps away; -he went up to her to make his bow. According to Lamarthe she stood -for the old guard among all this irruption of modernism. Young, -tall, handsome, with very regular features and chestnut hair through -which ran threads of gold, extremely affable, captivating by reason -of her tranquil, kindly charm of manner, by reason also of a calm, -well-studied coquetry and a great desire to please that lay concealed -beneath an outward appearance of simple and sincere affection, she had -many firm partisans, whom she took good care should never be exposed -to dangerous rivalries. Her house had the reputation of being a little -gathering of intimate friends, where all the _habitués_, moreover, -concurred in extolling the merits of the husband. - -She and Mariolle now entered into conversation. She held in high esteem -this intelligent and reserved man, who gave people so little cause to -talk about him and who was perhaps of more account than all the rest. - -The remaining guests came dropping in: big Fresnel, puffing and giving -a last wipe with his handkerchief to his shining and perspiring -forehead, the philosophic George de Maltry, finally the Baron de -Gravil accompanied by the Comte de Marantin. M. de Pradon assisted his -daughter in doing the honors of the house; he was extremely attractive -to Mariolle. - -But Mariolle, with a heavy heart, saw _her_ going and coming and -bestowing her attentions on everyone there more than on him. - -Twice, it is true, she had thrown him a swift look from a distance -which seemed to say, "I am not forgetting you," but they were so -fleeting that perhaps he had failed to catch their meaning. And then -he could not be unconscious to the fact that Lamarthe's aggressive -assiduities to Mme. de Frémines were displeasing to Mme. de Burne. -"That is only her coquettish feeling of spite," he said to himself, -"a woman's irritation from whose salon some valuable trinket has -been spirited away." Still it made him suffer, and his suffering was -the greater since he saw that she was constantly watching them in a -furtive, concealed kind of way, while she did not seem to trouble -herself a bit at seeing _him_ sitting beside Mme. le Prieur. - -The reason was that she had him in her power, she was sure of him, -while the other was escaping her. What, then, could be to her that love -of theirs, that love which was born but yesterday, and which in him had -banished and killed every other idea? - -M. de Pradon had called for silence, and Massival was opening the -piano, which Mme. de Bratiane was approaching, removing her gloves -meanwhile, for she was to sing the woes of "Dido," when the door again -opened and a young man appeared upon whom every eye was immediately -fixed. He was tall and slender, with curling side-whiskers, short, -blond, curly hair, and an air that was altogether aristocratic. Even -Mme. le Prieur seemed to feel his influence. - -"Who is it?" Mariolle asked her. - -"What! is it possible that you do not know him?" - -"No, I do not." - -"It is Comte Rudolph de Bernhaus." - -"Ah! the man who fought a duel with Sigismond Fabre." - -"Yes." - -The story had made a great noise at the time. The Comte de Bernhaus, -attached to the Austrian embassy and a diplomat of the highest promise, -an elegant Bismarck, so it was said, having heard some words spoken in -derogation of his sovereign at an official reception, had fought the -next day with the man who uttered them, a celebrated fencer, and killed -him. After this duel, in respect to which public opinion had been -divided, the Comte acquired between one day and the next a notoriety -after the manner of Sarah Bernhardt, but with this difference, that -his name appeared in an aureole of poetic chivalry. He was in addition -a man of great charm, an agreeable conversationalist, a man of -distinction in every respect. Lamarthe used to say of him: "He is the -one to tame our pretty wild beasts." - -He took his seat beside Mme. de Burne with a very gallant air, and -Massival sat down before the keyboard and allowed his fingers to run -over the keys for a few moments. - -Nearly all the audience changed their places and drew their chairs -nearer so as to hear better and at the same time have a better view of -the singer. Thus Mariolle and Lamarthe found themselves side by side. - -There was a great silence of expectation and respectful attention; -then the musician began with a slow, a very slow succession of notes, -something like a musical recitative. There were pauses, then the -air would be lightly caught up in a series of little phrases, now -languishing and dying away, now breaking out in nervous strength, -indicative, it would seem, of distressful emotion, but always -characterized by originality of invention. Mariolle gave way to -reverie. He beheld a woman, a woman in the fullness of her mature youth -and ripened beauty, walking slowly upon a shore that was bathed by the -waves of the sea. He knew that she was suffering, that she bore a great -sorrow in her soul, and he looked at Mme. de Bratiane. - -Motionless, pale beneath her wealth of thick black hair that seemed to -have been dipped in the shades of night, the Italian stood waiting, her -glance directed straight before her. On her strongly marked, rather -stern features, against which her eyes and eyebrows stood out like -spots of ink, in all her dark, powerful, and passionate beauty, there -was something that struck one, something like the threat of the coming -storm that we read in the blackening _sky._ - -Massival, slightly nodding his head with its long hair in cadence with -the rhythm, kept on relating the affecting tale that he was drawing -from the resonant keys of ivory. - -A shiver all at once ran through the singer; she partially opened her -mouth, and from it there proceeded a long-drawn, heartrending wail of -agony. It was not one of those outbursts of tragic despair that divas -give utterance to upon the stage, with dramatic gestures, neither was -it one of those pitiful laments for love betrayed that bring a storm -of bravos from an audience; it was a cry of supreme passion, coming -from the body and not from the soul, wrung from her like the roar of -a wounded animal, the cry of the feminine animal betrayed. Then she -was silent, and Massival again began to relate, more animatedly, more -stormily, the moving story of the miserable queen who was abandoned by -the man she loved. Then the woman's voice made itself heard again. She -used articulate language now; she told of the intolerable torture of -solitude, of her unquenchable thirst for the caresses that were hers no -more, and of the grief of knowing that he was gone from her forever. - -Her warm, ringing voice made the hearts of her audience beat beneath -the spell. This somber Italian, with hair like the darkness of the -night, seemed to be suffering all the sorrows that she was telling, -she seemed to love, or to have the capacity of loving, with furious -ardor. When she ceased her eyes were full of tears, and she slowly -wiped them away. Lamarthe leaned over toward Mariolle and said to him -in a quiver of artistic enthusiasm: "Good heavens! how beautiful she is -just now! She is a woman, the only one in the room." Then he added, -after a moment of reflection: "After all, who can tell? Perhaps there -is nothing there but the mirage of the music, for nothing has real -existence except our illusions. But what an art to produce illusions is -that of hers!" - -There was a short intermission between the first and the second parts -of the musical poem, and warm congratulations were extended to the -composer and his interpreter. Lamarthe in particular was very earnest -in his felicitations, and he was really sincere, for he was endowed -with the capacity to feel and comprehend, and beauty of all kinds -appealed strongly to his nature, under whatever form expressed. The -manner in which he told Mme. de Bratiane what his feelings had been -while listening to her was so flattering that it brought a slight blush -to her face and excited a little spiteful feeling among the other women -who heard it. Perhaps he was not altogether unaware of the feeling that -he had produced. - -When he turned around to resume his chair, he perceived Comte de -Bernhaus just in the act of seating himself beside Mme. de Frémines. -She seemed at once to be on confidential terms with him, and they -smiled at each other as if this close conversation was particularly -agreeable to them both. Mariolle, whose gloom was momentarily -increasing, stood leaning against a door; the novelist came and -stationed himself at his side. Big Fresnel, George de Maltry, the -Baron de Gravil and the Comte de Marantin formed a circle about Mme. -de Burne, who was going about offering tea. She seemed imprisoned in a -crown of adorers. Lamarthe ironically called his friend's attention to -it and added: "A crown without jewels, however, and I am sure that she -would be glad to give all those rhinestones for the brilliant that she -would like to see there." - -"What brilliant do you mean?" inquired Mariolle. - -"Why, Bernhaus, handsome, irresistible, incomparable Bernhaus, he in -whose honor this _fête_ is given, for whom the miracle was performed of -inducing Massival to bring out his 'Dido' here." - -André, though incredulous, was conscious of a pang of regret as he -heard these words. "Has she known him long?" he asked. - -"Oh, no; ten days at most. But she put her best foot foremost during -this brief campaign, and her tactics have been those of a conqueror. If -you had been here you would have had a good laugh." - -"How so?" - -"She met him for the first time at Mme. de Frémines's; I happened to -be dining there that evening. Bernhaus stands very well in the good -graces of the lady of that house, as you may see for yourself; all that -you have to do is to look at them at the present moment; and behold, -in the very minute that succeeded the first salutation that they ever -made each other, there is our pretty friend De Burne taking the field -to effect the conquest of the Austrian phœnix. And she is succeeding, -and will succeed, although the little Frémines is more than a match for -her in coquetry, real indifference, and perhaps perversity. But our -friend De Burne uses her weapons more scientifically, she is more of a -woman, by which I mean a modern woman, that is to say, irresistible by -reason of that artificial seductiveness which takes the place in the -modern woman of the old-fashioned natural charm of manner. And it is -not her artificiality alone that is to be taken into account, but her -æstheticism, her profound comprehension of feminine æsthetics; all her -strength lies therein. She knows herself thoroughly, because she takes -more delight in herself than in anything else, and she is never at -fault as to the best means of subjugating a man and making the best use -of her gifts in order to captivate men." - -Mariolle took exception to this. "I think that you put it too -strongly," he said. "She has always been very simple with me." - -"Because simplicity is the right thing to meet the requirements of your -case. I do not wish to speak ill of her, however. I think that she is -better than most of her set. But they are not women." - -Massival, striking a few chords on the piano, here reduced them to -silence, and Mme. de Bratiane proceeded to sing the second part of the -poem, in which her delineation of the title-role was a magnificent -study of physical passion and sensual regret. - -Lamarthe, however, never once took his eyes from Mme. de Frémines and -the Comte de Bernhaus, where they were enjoying their _tête-à-tête_, -and as soon as the last vibrations of the piano were lost in the -murmurs of applause, he again took up his theme as if in continuation -of an argument, or as if he were replying to an adversary: "No, they -are not women. The most honest of them are coquettes without being -aware of it. The more I know them the less do I find in them that -sensation of mild exhilaration that it is the part of a true woman to -inspire in us. They intoxicate, it is true, but the process wears upon -our nerves, for they are too sophisticated. Oh, it is very good as a -liqueur to sip now and then, but it is a poor substitute for the good -wine that we used to have. You see, my dear fellow, woman was created -and sent to dwell on earth for two objects only, and it is these two -objects alone that can avail to bring out her true, great, and noble -qualities--love and the family. I am talking like M. Prudhomme. Now -the women of to-day are incapable of loving, and they will not bear -children. When they are so inexpert as to have them, it is a misfortune -in their eyes; then a burden. Truly, they are not women; they are -monsters." - -Astonished by the writer's violent manner and by the angry look that -glistened in his eye, Mariolle asked him: "Why, then, do you spend half -your time hanging to their skirts?" - -Lamarthe hotly replied: "Why? Why? Because it interests me--_parbleu!_ -And then--and then--Would you prevent a physician from going to the -hospitals to watch the cases? Those women constitute my clinic." - -This reflection seemed to quiet him a little: he proceeded: "Then, too, -I adore them for the very reason that they are so modern. At bottom I -am really no more a man than they are women. When I am at the point -of becoming attached to one of them, I amuse myself by investigating -and analyzing all the resulting sensations and emotions, just like -a chemist who experiments upon himself with a poison in order to -ascertain its properties." After an interval of silence, he continued: -"In this way they will never succeed in getting me into their clutches. -_I_ can play their game as well as they play it themselves, perhaps -even better, and that is of use to me for my books, while their -proceedings are not of the slightest bit of use to them. What fools -they are! Failures, every one of them--charming failures, who will be -ready to die of spite as they grow older and see the mistake that they -have made." - -Mariolle, as he listened, felt himself sinking into one of those fits -of depression that are like the humid gloom with which a long-continued -rain darkens everything about us. He was well aware that the man of -letters, as a general thing, was not apt to be very far out of the way, -but he could not bring himself to admit that he was altogether right in -the present case. With a slight appearance of irritation, he argued, -not so much in defense of women as to show the causes of the position -that they occupy in contemporary literature. "In the days when poets -and novelists exalted them, and endowed them with poetic attributes," -he said, "they looked for in life, and seemed to find, that which -their heart had discovered in their reading. Nowadays you persist in -suppressing everything that has any savor of sentiment and poetry, and -in its stead give them only naked, undeceiving realities. Now, my dear -sir, the more love there is in books, the more love there is in life. -When you invented the ideal and laid it before them, they believed in -the truth of your inventions. Now that you give them nothing but stern, -unadorned realism, they follow in your footsteps and have come to -measure everything by that standard of vulgarity." - -Lamarthe, who was always ready for a literary discussion, was about to -commence a dissertation when Mme. de Burne came up to them. It was one -of the days when she looked at her best, with a toilette that delighted -the eye and with that aggressive and alluring air that denoted that -she was ready to try conclusions with anyone. She took a chair. "That -is what I like," she said; "to come upon two men and find that they -are not talking about me. And then you are the only men here that one -can listen to with any interest. What was the subject that you were -discussing?" - -Lamarthe, quite without embarrassment and in terms of elegant raillery, -placed before her the question that had arisen between himself and -Mariolle. Then he resumed his reasoning with a spirit that was inflamed -by that desire of applause which, in the presence of women, always -excites men who like to intoxicate themselves with glory. - -She at once interested herself in the discussion, and, warming to the -subject, took part in it in defense of the women of our day with a good -deal of wit and ingenuity. Some remarks upon the faithfulness and the -attachment that even those who were looked on with most suspicion might -be capable of, incomprehensible to the novelist, made Mariolle's heart -beat more rapidly, and when she left them to take a seat beside Mme. -de Frémines, who had persistently kept the Comte de Bernhaus near her, -Lamarthe and Mariolle, completely vanquished by her display of feminine -tact and grace, were united in declaring that, beyond all question, she -was exquisite. - -"And just look at them!" said the writer. - -The grand duel was on. What were they talking about now, the Austrian -and those two women? Mme. de Burne had come up just at the right -moment to interrupt a _tête-à-tête_ which, however agreeable the two -persons engaged in it might be to each other, was becoming monotonous -from being too long protracted, and she broke it up by relating with an -indignant air the expressions that she had heard from Lamarthe's lips. -To be sure, it was all applicable to Mme. de Frémines, it all resulted -from her most recent conquest, and it was all related in the hearing -of an intelligent man who was capable of understanding it in all its -bearings. The match was applied, and again the everlasting question of -love blazed up, and the mistress of the house beckoned to Mariolle and -Lamarthe to come to them; then, as their voices grew loud in debate, -she summoned the remainder of the company. - -A general discussion ensued, bright and animated, in which everyone had -something to say. Mme. de Burne was witty and entertaining beyond all -the rest, shifting her ground from sentiment, which might have been -factitious, to droll paradox. The day was a triumphant one for her, and -she was prettier, brighter, and more animated than she had ever been. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - - -DEPRESSION - - -When André Mariolle had parted from Mme. de Burne and the penetrating -charm of her presence had faded away, he felt within him and all about -him, in his flesh, in his heart, in the air, and in all the surrounding -world a sensation as if the delight of life which had been his support -and animating principle for some time past had been taken from him. - -What had happened? Nothing, or almost nothing. Toward the close of the -reception she had been very charming in her manner toward him, saying -to him more than once: "I am not conscious of anyone's presence here -but yours." And yet he felt that she had revealed something to him of -which he would have preferred always to remain ignorant. That, too, -was nothing, or almost nothing; still he was stupefied, as a man might -be upon hearing of some unworthy action of his father or his mother, -to learn that during those twenty days which he had believed were -absolutely and entirely devoted by her as well as by him, every minute -of them, to the sentiment of their newborn love, so recent and so -intense, she had resumed her former mode of life, had made many visits, -formed many plans, recommenced those odious flirtations, had run after -men and disputed them with her rivals, received compliments, and showed -off all her graces. - -So soon! All this she had done so soon! Had it happened later he -would not have been surprised. He knew the world, he knew women and -their ways of looking at things, he was sufficiently intelligent -to understand it all, and would never have been unduly exacting or -offensively jealous. She was beautiful; she was born--it was her -allotted destiny--to receive the homage of men and listen to their soft -nothings. She had selected him from among them all, and had bestowed -herself upon him courageously, royally. It was his part to remain, -he would remain in any event, a grateful slave to her caprices and a -resigned spectator of her triumphs as a pretty woman. But it was hard -on him; something suffered within him, in that obscure cavern down at -the bottom of the heart where the delicate sensibilities have their -dwelling. - -No doubt he had been in the wrong; he had always been in the wrong -since he first came to know himself. He carried too much sentimental -prudence into his commerce with the world; his feelings were too -thin-skinned. This was the cause of the isolated life that he had -always led, through his dread of contact with the world and of wounded -susceptibilities. He had been wrong, for this supersensitiveness is -almost always the result of our not admitting the existence of a nature -essentially different from our own, or else not tolerating it. He knew -this, having often observed it in himself, but it was too late to -modify the constitution of his being. - -He certainly had no right to reproach Mme. de Burne, for if she had -forbidden him her salon and kept him in hiding during those days of -happiness that she had afforded him, she had done it to blind prying -eyes and be more fully his in the end. Why, then, this trouble that had -settled in his heart? Ah! why? It was because he had believed her to be -wholly his, and now it had been made clear to him that he could never -expect to seize and hold this woman of a many-sided nature who belonged -to all the world. - -He was well aware, moreover, that all our life is made up of successes -relative in degree to the "almost," and up to the present time -he had borne this with philosophic resignation, dissembling his -dissatisfaction and his unsatisfied yearnings under the mask of an -assumed unsociability. This time he had thought that he was about to -obtain an absolute success--the "entirely" that he had been waiting and -hoping for all his life. The "entirely" is not to be attained in this -world. - -His evening was a dismal one, spent in analyzing the painful impression -that he had received. When he was in bed this impression, instead of -growing weaker, took stronger hold of him, and as he desired to leave -nothing unexplored, he ransacked his mind to ascertain the remotest -causes of his new troubles. They went, and came, and returned again -like little breaths of frosty air, exciting in his love a suffering -that was as yet weak and indistinct, like those vague neuralgic pains -that we get by sitting in a draft, presages of the horrible agonies -that are to come. - -He understood in the first place that he was jealous, no longer as the -ardent lover only but as one who had the right to call her his own. -As long as he had not seen her surrounded by men, her men, he had not -allowed himself to dwell upon this sensation, at the same time having -a faint prevision of it, but supposing that it would be different, -very different, from what it actually was. To find the mistress whom -he believed had cared for none but him during those days of secret -and frequent meetings--during that early period that should have been -entirely devoted to isolation and tender emotion--to find her as much, -and even more, interested and wrapped up in her former and frivolous -flirtations than she was before she yielded herself to him, always -ready to fritter away her time and attention on any chance comer, thus -leaving but little of herself to him whom she had designated as the man -of her choice, caused him a jealousy that was more of the flesh than of -the feelings, not an undefined jealousy, like a fever that lies latent -in the system, but a jealousy precise and well defined, for he was -doubtful of her. - -At first his doubts were instinctive, arising in a sensation of -distrust that had intruded itself into his veins rather than into his -thoughts, in that sense of dissatisfaction, almost physical, of the man -who is not sure of his mate. Then, having doubted, he began to suspect. - -What was his position toward her after all? Was he her first lover, or -was he the tenth? Was he the successor of M. de Burne, or was he the -successor of Lamarthe, Massival, George de Maltry, and the predecessor -as well, perhaps, of the Comte de Bernhaus? What did he know of her? -That she was surprisingly beautiful, stylish beyond all others, -intelligent, discriminating, witty, but at the same time fickle, quick -to weary, readily fatigued and disgusted with anyone or anything, and, -above all else, in love with herself and an insatiable coquette. Had -she had a lover--or lovers--before him? If not, would she have offered -herself to him as she did? Where could she have got the audacity that -made her come and open his bedroom door, at night, in a public inn? -And then after that, would she have shown such readiness to visit the -house at Auteuil? Before going there she had merely asked him a few -questions, such questions as an experienced and prudent woman would -naturally ask. He had answered like a man of circumspection, not -unaccustomed to such interviews, and immediately she had confidingly -said "Yes," entirely reassured, probably benefiting by her previous -experiences. - -And then her knock at that little door, behind which he was waiting, -with a beating heart, almost ready to faint, how discreetly -authoritative it had been! And how she had entered without any visible -display of emotion, careful only to observe whether she might be -recognized from the adjacent houses! And the way that she had made -herself at home at once in that doubtful lodging that he had hired and -furnished for her! Would a woman who was a novice, how daring soever -she might be, how superior to considerations of morality and regardless -of social prejudices, have penetrated thus calmly the mystery of a -first rendezvous? There is a trouble of the mind, a hesitation of the -body, an instinctive fear in the very feet, which know not whither they -are tending; would she not have felt all that unless she had had some -experience in these excursions of love and unless the practice of these -things had dulled her native sense of modesty? - -Burning with this persistent, irritating fever, which the warmth of -his bed seemed to render still more unendurable, Mariolle tossed -beneath the coverings, constantly drawn on by his chain of doubts and -suppositions; like a man that feels himself irrecoverably sliding down -the steep descent of a precipice. At times he tried to call a halt and -break the current of his thoughts; he sought and found, and was glad to -find, reflections that were more just to her and reassuring to him, but -the seeds of distrust had been sown in him and he could not help their -growing. - -And yet, with what had he to reproach her? Nothing, except that her -nature was not entirely similar to his own, that she did not look upon -life in the same way that he did and that she had not in her heart an -instrument of sensibility attuned to the same key as his. - -Immediately upon awaking next morning the longing to see her and to -re-enforce his confidence in her developed itself within him like a -ravening hunger, and he awaited the proper moment to go and pay her -the visit demanded by custom. The instant that she saw him at the door -of the little drawing-room devoted to her special intimates, where she -was sitting alone occupied with her correspondence, she came to him -with her two hands outstretched. - -"Ah! Good day, dear friend!" she said, with so pleased and frank -an air that all his odious suspicions, which were still floating -indeterminately in his brain, melted away beneath the warmth of her -reception. - -He seated himself at her side and at once began to tell her of the -manner in which he loved her, for their love was now no longer what it -had been. He gently gave her to understand that there are two species -of the race of lovers upon earth: those whose desire is that of madmen -and whose ardor disappears when once they have achieved a triumph, and -those whom possession serves to subjugate and capture, in whom the love -of the senses, blending with the inarticulate and ineffable appeals -that the heart of man at times sends forth toward a woman, gives rise -to the servitude of a complete and torturing love. - -Torturing it is, certainly, and forever so, however happy it may be, -for nothing, even in the moments of closest communion, ever sates the -need of her that rules our being. - -Mme. de Burne was charmed and gratified as she listened, carried away, -as one is carried away at the theater when an actor gives a powerful -interpretation of his rôle and moves us by awaking some slumbering echo -in our own life. It was indeed an echo, the disturbing echo of a real -passion; but it was not from her bosom that this passion sent forth -its cry. Still, she felt such satisfaction that she was the object -of so keen a sentiment, she was so pleased that it existed in a man -who was capable of expressing it in such terms, in a man of whom she -was really very fond, for whom she was really beginning to feel an -attachment and whose presence was becoming more and more a necessity to -her--not for her physical being but for that mysterious feminine nature -which is so greedy of tenderness, devotion, and subjection--that she -felt like embracing him, like offering him her mouth, her whole being, -only that he might keep on worshiping her in this way. - -She answered him frankly and without prudery, with that profound -artfulness that certain women are endowed with, making it clear to -him that he too had made great progress in her affections, and they -remained _tête-à-tête_ in the little drawing-room, where it so happened -that no one came that day until twilight, talking always upon the same -theme and caressing each other with words that to them did not have the -common significance. - -The servants had just brought in the lamps, when Mme. de Bratiane -appeared. Mariolle withdrew, and as Mme. de Burne was accompanying him -to the door through the main drawing-room, he asked her: "When shall I -see you down yonder?" - -"Will Friday suit you?" - -"Certainly. At what hour?" - -"The same, three o'clock." - -"Until Friday, then. Adieu. I adore you!" - -During the two days that passed before this interview, he experienced -a sensation of loneliness that he had never felt before in the same -way. A woman was wanting in his life--she was the only existent -object for him in the world, and as this woman was not far away and -he was prevented by social conventions alone from going to her, and -from passing a lifetime with her, he chafed in his solitude, in the -interminable lapse of the moments that seemed at times to pass so -slowly, at the absolute impossibility of a thing that was so easy. - -He arrived at the rendezvous on Friday three hours before the time, but -it was pleasing to him--it comforted his anxiety--to wait there where -she was soon to come, after having already suffered so much in awaiting -her mentally in places where she was not to come. - -He stationed himself near the door long before the clock had struck -the three strokes that he was expecting so eagerly, and when at last -he heard them he began to tremble with impatience. The quarter struck. -He looked out into the street, cautiously protruding his head between -the door and the casing; it was deserted from one end to the other. -The minutes seemed to stretch out in aggravating slowness. He was -constantly drawing his watch from his pocket, and at last when the hand -marked the half-hour it appeared to him that he had been standing there -for an incalculable length of time. Suddenly he heard a faint sound -upon the pavement outside, and the summons upon the door of the little -gloved hand quickly made him forget his disappointment and inspired in -him a feeling of gratitude toward her. - -She seemed a little out of breath as she asked: "I am very late, am I -not?" - -"No, not very." - -"Just imagine, I was near not being able to come at all. I had a -houseful, and I was at my wits' end to know what to do to get rid of -all those people. Tell me, do you go under your own name here?" - -"No. Why do you ask?" - -"So that I may send you a telegram if I should ever be prevented from -coming." - -"I am known as M. Nicolle." - -"Very well; I won't forget. My! how nice it is here in this garden!" - -There were five great splashes of perfumed, many-hued brightness -upon the grass-plots of the flowers, which were carefully tended and -constantly renewed, for the gardener had a customer who paid liberally. - -Halting at a bench in front of a bed of heliotrope: "Let us sit here -for a while," she said; "I have something funny to tell you." - -She proceeded to relate a bit of scandal that was quite fresh, and -from the effect of which she had not yet recovered. The story was that -Mme. Massival, the ex-mistress whom the artist had married, had come -to Mme. de Bratiane's, furious with jealousy, right in the midst of -an entertainment in which the Marquise was singing to the composer's -accompaniment, and had made a frightful scene: results, rage of the -fair Italian, astonishment and laughter of the guests. Massival, -quite beside himself, tried to take away his wife, who kept striking -him in the face, pulling his hair and beard, biting him and tearing -his clothes, but she clung to him with all her strength and held him -so that he could not stir, while Lamarthe and two servants, who had -hurried to them at the noise, did what they could to release him from -the teeth and claws of this fury. - -Tranquillity was not restored until after the pair had taken their -departure. Since then the musician had remained invisible, and the -novelist, witness of the scene, had been repeating it everywhere -in a very witty and amusing manner. The affair had produced a deep -impression upon Mme. de Burne; it preoccupied her thoughts to such an -extent that she hardly knew what she was doing. The constant recurrence -of the names of Massival and Lamarthe upon her lips annoyed Mariolle. - -"You just heard of this?" he said. - -"Yes, hardly an hour ago." - -"And that is the reason why she was late," he said to himself with -bitterness. Then he asked aloud, "Shall we go in?" - -"Yes," she absently murmured. - -When, an hour later, she had left him, for she was greatly hurried that -day, he returned alone to the quiet little house and seated himself on -a low chair in their apartment. The feeling that she had been no more -his than if she had not come there left a sort of black cavern in his -heart, in all his being, that he tried to probe to the bottom. He could -see nothing there, he could not understand; he was no longer capable -of understanding. If she had not abstracted herself from his kisses, -she had at all events escaped from the immaterial embraces of his -tenderness by a mysterious absence of the will of being his. She had -not refused herself to him, but it seemed as if she had not brought her -heart there with her; it had remained somewhere else, very far away, -idly occupied, distracted by some trifle. - -Then he saw that he already loved her with his senses as much as with -his feelings, even more perhaps. The deprivation of her soulless -caresses inspired him with a mad desire to run after her and bring her -back, to again possess himself of her. But why? What was the use--since -the thoughts of that fickle mind were occupied elsewhere that day? So -he must await the days and the hours when, to this elusive mistress of -his, there should come the caprice, like her other caprices, of being -in love with him. - -He returned wearily to his house, with heavy footsteps, his eyes fixed -on the sidewalk, tired of life, and it occurred to him that he had -made no appointment with her for the future, either at her house or -elsewhere. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - - -NEW HOPES - - -Until the setting in of winter she was pretty faithful to their -appointments; faithful, but not punctual. During the first three months -her tardiness on these occasions ranged between three-quarters of an -hour and two hours. As the autumnal rains compelled Mariolle to await -her behind the garden gate with an umbrella over his head, shivering, -with his feet in the mud, he caused a sort of little summer-house to -be built, a covered and inclosed vestibule behind the gate, so that he -might not take cold every time they met. - -The trees had lost their verdure, and in the place of the roses and -other flowers the beds were now filled with great masses of white, -pink, violet, purple, and yellow chrysanthemums, exhaling their -penetrating, balsamic perfume--the saddening perfume by which these -noble flowers remind us of the dying year--upon the moist atmosphere, -heavy with the odor of the rain upon the decaying leaves. In front -of the door of the little house the inventive genius of the gardener -had devised a great Maltese cross, composed of rarer plants arranged -in delicate combinations of color, and Mariolle could never pass this -bed, bright with new and constantly changing varieties, without the -melancholy reflection that this flowery cross was very like a grave. - -He was well acquainted now with those long watches in the little -summer-house behind the gate. The rain would fall sullenly upon the -thatch with which he had had it roofed and trickle down the board -siding, and while waiting in this receiving-vault he would give way -to the same unvarying reflections, go through the same process of -reasoning, be swayed in turn by the same hopes, the same fears, the -same discouragements. It was an incessant battle that he had to fight; -a fierce, exhausting mental struggle with an elusive force, a force -that perhaps had no real existence: the tenderness of that woman's -heart. - -What strange things they were, those interviews of theirs! Sometimes -she would come in with a smile upon her face, full to overflowing -with the desire of conversation, and would take a seat without -removing her hat and gloves, without raising her veil, often without -so much as giving him a kiss. It never occurred to her to kiss him -on such occasions; her head was full of a host of captivating little -preoccupations, each of them more captivating to her than the idea of -putting up her lips to the kiss of her despairing lover. He would take -a seat beside her, heart and mouth overrunning with burning words which -could find no way of utterance; he would listen to her and answer, -and while apparently deeply interested in what she was saying would -furtively take her hand, which she would yield to him calmly, amicably, -without an extra pulsation in her veins. - -At other times she would appear more tender, more wholly his; but he, -who was watching her with anxious and clear-sighted eyes, with the eyes -of a lover powerless to achieve her entire conquest, could see and -divine that this relative degree of affection was owing to the fact -that nothing had occurred on such occasions of sufficient importance to -divert her thoughts from him. - -Her persistent unpunctuality, moreover, proved to Mariolle with how -little eagerness she looked forward to these interviews. When we love, -when anything pleases and attracts us, we hasten to the anticipated -meeting, but once the charm has ceased to work, the appointed time -seems to come too quickly and everything serves as a pretext to delay -our loitering steps and put off the moment that has become indefinably -distasteful to us. An odd comparison with a habit of his own kept -incessantly returning to his mind. In summer-time the anticipation of -his morning bath always made him hasten his toilette and his visit to -the bathing establishment, while in the frosty days of winter he always -found so many little things to attend to at home before going out -that he was invariably an hour behind his usual time. The meetings at -Auteuil were to her like so many winter shower-baths. - -For some time past, moreover, she had been making these interviews more -infrequent, sending telegrams at the last hour, putting them off until -the following day and apparently seeking for excuses for dispensing -with them. She always succeeded in discovering excuses of a nature to -satisfy herself, but they caused him mental and physical worries and -anxieties that were intolerable. If she had manifested any coolness, if -she had shown that she was tiring of this passion of his that she felt -and knew was constantly increasing in violence, he might at first have -been irritated and then in turn offended, discouraged, and resigned, -but on the contrary she manifested more affection for him than ever, -she seemed more flattered by his love, more desirous of retaining -it, while not responding to it otherwise than by friendly marks of -preference which were beginning to make all her other admirers jealous. - -She could never see enough of him in her own house, and the same -telegram that would announce to André that she could not come to -Auteuil would convey to him her urgent request to dine with her or -come and spend an hour in the evening. At first he had taken these -invitations as her way of making amends to him, but afterward he came -to understand that she liked to have him near her and that she really -experienced the need of him, more so than of the others. She had need -of him as an idol needs prayers and faith in order to make it a god; -standing in the empty shrine it is but a bit of carved wood, but let -a believer enter the sanctuary, and kneel and prostrate himself and -worship with fervent prayers, drunk with religion, it becomes the equal -of Brahma or of Allah, for every loved being is a kind of god. Mme. de -Burne felt that she was adapted beyond all others to play this rôle of -fetich, to fill woman's mission, bestowed on her by nature, of being -sought after and adored, and of vanquishing men by the arms of her -beauty, grace, and coquetry. - -In the meantime she took no pains to conceal her affection and her -strong liking for Mariolle, careless of what folks might say about it, -possibly with the secret desire of irritating and inflaming the others. -They could hardly ever come to her house without finding him there, -generally installed in the great easy-chair that Lamarthe had come -to call the "pulpit of the officiating priest," and it afforded her -sincere pleasure to remain alone in his company for an entire evening, -talking and listening to him. She had taken a liking to this kind of -family life that he had revealed to her, to this constant contact with -an agreeable, well-stored mind, which was hers and at her command just -as much as were the little trinkets that littered her dressing-table. -In like manner she gradually came to yield to him much of herself, of -her thoughts, of her deeper mental personality, in the course of those -affectionate confidences that are as pleasant in the giving as in the -receiving. She felt herself more at ease, more frank and familiar with -him than with the others, and she loved him the more for it. She also -experienced the sensation, dear to womankind, that she was really -bestowing something, that she was confiding to some one all that she -had to give, a thing that she had never done before. - -In her eyes this was much, in his it was very little. He was still -waiting and hoping for the great final breaking up of her being which -should give him her soul beneath his caresses. - -Caresses she seemed to regard as useless, annoying, rather a nuisance -than otherwise. She submitted to them, not without returning them, but -tired of them quickly, and this feeling doubtless engendered in her -a shade of dislike to them. The slightest and most insignificant of -them seemed to be irksome to her. When in the course of conversation -he would take her hand and carry it to his lips and hold it there a -little, she always seemed desirous of withdrawing it, and he could feel -the movement of the muscles in her arm preparatory to taking it away. - -He felt these things like so many thrusts of a knife, and he carried -away from her presence wounds that bled unintermittently in the -solitude of his love. How was it that she had not that period of -unreasoning attraction toward him that almost every woman has when once -she has made the entire surrender of her being? It may be of short -duration, frequently it is followed quickly by weariness and disgust, -but it is seldom that it is not there at all, for a day, for an hour! -This mistress of his had made of him, not a lover, but a sort of -intelligent companion of her life. - -Of what was he complaining? Those who yield themselves entirely perhaps -have less to give than she! - -He was not complaining; he was afraid. He was afraid of that other one, -the man who would spring up unexpectedly whenever she might chance to -fall in with him, to-morrow, may be, or the day after, whoever he might -be, artist, actor, soldier, or man of the world, it mattered not what, -born to find favor in her woman's eyes and securing her favor for no -other reason, because he was _the man_, the one destined to implant in -her for the first time the imperious desire of opening her arms to him. - -He was now jealous of the future as before he had at times been -jealous of her unknown past, and all the young woman's intimates were -beginning to be jealous of him. He was the subject of much conversation -among them; they even made dark and mysterious allusions to the subject -in her presence. Some said that he was her lover, while others, guided -by Lamarthe's opinion, decided that she was only making a fool of him -in order to irritate and exasperate them, as it was her habit to do, -and that this was all there was to it. Her father took the matter up -and made some remarks to her which she did not receive with good grace, -and the more conscious she became of the reports that were circulating -among her acquaintance, the more, by an odd contradiction to the -prudence that had ruled her life, did she persist in making an open -display of the preference that she felt for Mariolle. - -He, however, was somewhat disturbed by these suspicious mutterings. He -spoke to her of it. - -"What do I care?" she said. - -"If you only loved me, as a lover!" - -"Do I not love you, my friend?" - -"Yes and no; you love me well enough in your own house, but very badly -elsewhere. I should prefer it to be just the opposite, for my sake, and -even, indeed, for your own." - -She laughed and murmured: "We can't do more than we can." - -"If you only knew the mental trouble that I experience in trying -to animate your love. At times I seem to be trying to grasp the -intangible, to be clasping an iceberg in my arms that chills me and -melts away within my embrace." - -She made no answer, not fancying the subject, and assumed the absent -manner that she often wore at Auteuil. He did not venture to press the -matter further. He looked upon her a good deal as amateurs look upon -the precious objects in a museum that tempt them so strongly and that -they know they cannot carry away with them. - -His days and nights were made up of hours of suffering, for he was -living in the fixed idea, and still more in the sentiment than in -the idea, that she was his and yet not his, that she was conquered -and still at liberty, captured and yet impregnable. He was living at -her side, as near her as could be, without ever reaching her, and he -loved her with all the unsatiated longings of his body and his soul. -He began to write to her again, as he had done at the commencement -of their _liaison_. Once before with ink he had vanquished her early -scruples; once again with ink he might be victorious over this later -and obstinate resistance. Putting longer intervals between his visits -to her, he told her in almost daily letters of the fruitlessness of -his love. Now and then, when he had been very eloquent and impassioned -and had evinced great sorrow, she answered him. Her letters, dated for -effect midnight, or one, two, or three o'clock in the morning, were -clear and precise, well considered, encouraging, and afflicting. She -reasoned well, and they were not destitute of wit and even fancy, but -it was in vain that he read them and re-read them, it was in vain that -he admitted that they were to the point, well turned, intelligent, -graceful, and satisfactory to his masculine vanity; they had in them -nothing of her heart, they satisfied him no more than did the kisses -that she gave him in the house at Auteuil. - -He asked himself why this was so, and when he had learned them by heart -he came to know them so well that he discovered the reason, for a -person's writings always afford the surest clue to his nature. Spoken -words dazzle and deceive, for lips are pleasing and eyes seductive, but -black characters set down upon white paper expose the soul in all its -nakedness. - -Man, thanks to the artifices of rhetoric, to his professional address -and his habit of using the pen to discuss all the affairs of life, -often succeeds in disguising his own nature by his impersonal prose -style, literary or business, but woman never writes unless it is of -herself and something of her being goes into her every word. She knows -nothing of the subtilities of style and surrenders herself unreservedly -in her ignorance of the scope and value of words. Mariolle called to -mind the memoirs and correspondence of celebrated women that he had -read; how distinctly their characters were all set forth there, the -_précieuses_, the witty, and the sensible! What struck him most in -Mme. de Burne's letters was that no trace of sensibility was to be -discovered in them. This woman had the faculty of thought but not of -feeling. He called to mind letters that he had received from other -persons; he had had many of them. A little _bourgeoise_ that he had met -while traveling and who had loved him for the space of three months had -written delicious, thrilling notes, abounding in fresh and unexpected -terms of sentiment; he had been surprised by the flexibility, the -elegant coloring, and the variety of her style. Whence had she -obtained this gift? From the fact that she was a woman of sensibility; -there could be no other answer. A woman does not elaborate her phrases; -they come to her intelligence straight from her emotions; she does -not rummage the dictionary for fine words. What she feels strongly -she expresses justly, without long and labored consideration, in the -adaptive sincerity of her nature. - -He tried to test the sincerity of his mistress's nature by means of -the lines which she wrote him. They were well written and full of -amiability, but how was it that she could find nothing better for him? -Ah! for her _he_ had found words that burned as living coals! - -When his valet brought in his mail he would look for an envelope -bearing the longed-for handwriting, and when he recognized it an -involuntary emotion would arise in him, succeeded by a beating of the -heart. He would extend his hand and grasp the bit of paper; again he -would scrutinize the address, then tear it open. What had she to say -to him? Would he find the word "love" there? She had never written or -uttered this word without qualifying it by the adverb "well": "I love -you well"; "I love you much"; "Do I not love you?" He knew all these -formulas, which are inexpressive by reason of what is tacked on to -them. Can there be such a thing as a comparison between the degrees of -love when one is in its toils? Can one decide whether he loves well or -ill? "To love much," what a dearth of love that expression manifests! -One loves, nothing more, nothing less; nothing can be said, nothing -expressed, nothing imagined that means more than that one simple -sentence. It is brief, it is everything. It becomes body, soul, life, -the whole of our being. We feel it as we feel the warm blood in our -veins, we inhale it as we do the air, we carry it within us as we carry -our thoughts, for it becomes the atmosphere of the mind. Nothing has -existence beside it. It is not a word, it is an inexpressible state of -being, represented by a few letters. All the conditions of life are -changed by it; whatever we do, there is nothing done or seen or tasted -or enjoyed or suffered just as it was before. Mariolle had become the -victim of this small verb, and his eye would run rapidly over the -lines, seeking there a tenderness answering to his own. He did in fact -find there sufficient to warrant him in saying to himself: "She loves -me very well," but never to make him exclaim: "She loves me!" She was -continuing in her correspondence the pretty, poetical romance that had -had its inception at Mont Saint-Michel. It was the literature of love, -not of _the_ love. - -When he had finished reading and re-reading them, he would lock the -precious and disappointing sheets in a drawer and seat himself in his -easy-chair. He had passed many a bitter hour in it before this. - -After a while her answers to his letters became less frequent; -doubtless she was somewhat weary of manufacturing phrases and ringing -the changes on the same stale theme. And then, besides, she was passing -through a period of unwonted fashionable excitement, of which André -had presaged the approach with that increment of suffering that such -insignificant, disagreeable incidents can bring to troubled hearts. - -It was a winter of great gaiety. A mad intoxication had taken -possession of Paris and shaken the city to its depths; all night long -cabs and _coupés_ were rolling through the streets and through the -windows were visible white apparitions of women in evening toilette. -Everyone was having a good time; all the conversation was on plays and -balls, matinées and soirées. The contagion, an epidemic of pleasure, as -it were, had quickly extended to all classes of society, and Mme. de -Burne also was attacked by it. - -It had all been brought about by the effect that her beauty had -produced at a dance at the Austrian embassy. The Comte de Bernhaus had -made her acquainted with the ambassadress, the Princess de Malten, -who had been immediately and entirely delighted with Mme. de Burne. -Within a very short time she became the Princess's very intimate friend -and thereby extended with great rapidity her relations among the most -select diplomatic and aristocratic circles. Her grace, her elegance, -her charming manners, her intelligence and wit quickly achieved a -triumph for her and made her _la mode_, and many of the highest titles -among the women of France sought to be presented to her. Every Monday -would witness a long line of _coupés_ with arms on their panels drawn -up along the curb of the Rue du Général-Foy, and the footmen would lose -their heads and make sad havoc with the high-sounding names that they -bellowed into the drawing-room, confounding duchesses with marquises, -countesses with baronnes. - -She was entirely carried off her feet. The incense of compliments -and invitations, the feeling that she was become one of the elect to -whom Paris bends the knee in worship as long as the fancy lasts, -the delight of being thus admired, made much of, and run after, were -too much for her and gave rise within her soul to an acute attack of -snobbishness. - -Her artistic following did not submit to this condition of affairs -without a struggle, and the revolution produced a close alliance among -her old friends. Fresnel, even, was accepted by them, enrolled on the -regimental muster and became a power in the league, while Mariolle was -its acknowledged head, for they were all aware of the ascendency that -he had over her and her friendship for him. He, however, watched her as -she was whirled away in this flattering popularity as a child watches -the vanishing of his red balloon when he has let go the string. It -seemed to him that she was eluding him in the midst of this elegant, -motley, dancing throng and flying far, far away from that secret -happiness that he had so ardently desired for both of them, and he was -jealous of everybody and everything, men, women, and inanimate objects -alike. He conceived a fierce detestation for the life that she was -leading, for all the people that she associated with, all the _fêtes_ -that she frequented, balls, theaters, music, for they were all in a -league to take her from him by bits and absorb her days and nights, -and only a few scant hours were now accorded to their intimacy. His -indulgence of this unreasoning spite came near causing him a fit of -sickness, and when he visited her he brought with him such a wan face -that she said to him: - -"What ails you? You have changed of late, and are very thin." - -"I have been loving you too much," he replied. - -She gave him a grateful look: "No one ever loves too much, my friend." - -"Can you say such a thing as that?" - -"Why, yes." - -"And you do not see that I am dying of my vain love for you." - -"In the first place it is not true that you love in vain; then no one -ever dies of that complaint, and finally all our friends are jealous of -you, which proves pretty conclusively that I am not treating you badly, -all things considered." - -He took her hand: "You do not understand me!" - -"Yes, I understand very well." - -"You hear the despairing appeal that I am incessantly making to your -heart?" - -"Yes, I have heard it." - -"And----" - -"And it gives me much pain, for I love you enormously." - -"And then?" - -"Then you say to me: 'Be like me; think, feel, express yourself as I -do.' But, my poor friend, I can't. I am what I am. You must take me as -God made me, since I gave myself thus to you, since I have no regrets -for having done so and no desire to withdraw from the bargain, since -there is no one among all my acquaintance that is dearer to me than you -are." - -"You do not love me!" - -"I love you with all the power of loving that exists in me. If it is -not different or greater, is that my fault?" - -"If I was certain of that I might content myself with it." - -"What do you mean by that?" - -"I mean that I believe you capable of loving otherwise, but that I do -not believe that it lies in me to inspire you with a genuine passion." - -"My friend, you are mistaken. You are more to me than anyone has ever -been hitherto, more than anyone will ever be in the future; at least -that is my honest conviction. I may lay claim to this great merit: that -I do not wear two faces with you, I do not feign to be what you so -ardently desire me to be, when many women would act quite differently. -Be a little grateful to me for this, and do not allow yourself to be -agitated and unstrung; trust in my affection, which is yours, sincerely -and unreservedly." - -He saw how wide the difference was that parted them. "Ah!" he murmured, -"how strangely you look at love and speak of it! To you, I am some one -that you like to see now and then, whom you like to have beside you, -but to me, you fill the universe: in it I know but you, feel but you, -need but you." - -She smiled with satisfaction and replied: "I know that; I understand. I -am delighted to have it so, and I say to you: Love me always like that -if you can, for it gives me great happiness, but do not force me to act -a part before you that would be distressing to me and unworthy of us -both. I have been aware for some time of the approach of this crisis; -it is the cause of much suffering to me, for I am deeply attached to -you, but I cannot bend my nature or shape it in conformity with yours. -Take me as I am." - -Suddenly he asked her: "Have you ever thought, have you ever believed, -if only for a day, only for an hour, either before or after, that you -might be able to love me otherwise?" - -She was at a loss for an answer and reflected for a few seconds. He -waited anxiously for her to speak, and continued: "You see, don't you, -that you have had other dreams as well?" - -"I may have been momentarily deceived in myself," she murmured, -thoughtfully. - -"Oh! how ingenious you are!" he exclaimed; "how psychological! No one -ever reasons thus from the impulse of the heart." - -She was reflecting still, interested in her thoughts, in this -self-investigation; finally she said: "Before I came to love you as -I love you now, I may indeed have thought that I might come to be -more--more--more captivated with you, but then I certainly should not -have been so frank and simple with you. Perhaps later on I should have -been less sincere." - -"Why less sincere later on?" - -"Because all of love, according to your idea, lies in this formula: -'Everything or nothing,' and this 'everything or nothing' as far as I -can see means: 'Everything at first, nothing afterward.' It is when the -reign of nothing commences that women begin to be deceitful." - -He replied in great distress: "But you do not see how wretched I -am--how I am tortured by the thought that you might have loved me -otherwise. You have felt that thought: therefore it is some other one -that you will love in that manner." - -She unhesitatingly replied: "I do not believe it." - -"And why? Yes, why, I ask you? Since you have had the foreknowledge of -love, since you have felt in anticipation the fleeting and torturing -hope of confounding soul and body with the soul and body of another, -of losing your being in his and taking his being to be portion of -your own, since you have perceived the possibility of this ineffable -emotion, the day will come, sooner or later, when you will experience -it." - -"No; my imagination deceived me, and deceived itself. I am giving you -all that I have to give you. I have reflected deeply on this subject -since I have been your mistress. Observe that I do not mince matters, -not even my words. Really and truly, I am convinced that I cannot love -you more or better than I do at this moment. You see that I talk to you -just as I talk to myself. I do that because you are very intelligent, -because you understand and can read me like a book, and the best way -is to conceal nothing from you; it is the only way to keep us long and -closely united. And that is what I hope for, my friend." - -He listened to her as a man drinks when he is thirsty, then kneeled -before her and laid his head in her lap. He took her little hands and -pressed them to his lips, murmuring: "Thanks! thanks!" When he raised -his eyes to look at her, he saw that there were tears standing in hers; -then placing her arms in turn about André's neck, she gently drew him -toward her, bent over and kissed him upon the eyelids. - -"Take a chair," she said; "it is not prudent to be kneeling before me -here." - -He seated himself, and when they had contemplated each other in -silence for a few moments, she asked him if he would take her some day -to visit the exhibition that the sculptor Prédolé, of whom everyone -was talking enthusiastically, was then giving of his works. She had -in her dressing-room a bronze Love of his, a charming figure pouring -water into her bath-tub, and she had a great desire to see the complete -collection of the eminent artist's works which had been delighting all -Paris for a week past at the Varin gallery. They fixed upon a date and -then Mariolle arose to take leave. - -"Will you be at Auteuil to-morrow?" she asked him in a whisper. - -"Oh! Yes!" - -He was very joyful on his way homeward, intoxicated by that "Perhaps?" -which never dies in the heart of a lover. - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - - -DISILLUSION - - -Mme. de Burne's _coupé_ was proceeding at a quick trot along the Rue -de Grenelle. It was early April, and the hailstones of a belated storm -beat noisily against the glasses of the carriage and rattled off upon -the roadway which was already whitened by the falling particles. Men -on foot were hurrying along the sidewalk beneath their umbrellas, with -coat-collars turned up to protect their necks and ears. After two -weeks of fine weather a detestable cold spell had set in, the farewell -of winter, freezing up everything and bringing chapped hands and -chilblains. - -With her feet resting upon a vessel filled with hot water and her -form enveloped in soft furs that warmed her through her dress with a -velvety caress that was so deliciously agreeable to her sensitive skin, -the young woman was sadly reflecting that in an hour at farthest she -would have to take a cab to go and meet Mariolle at Auteuil. She was -seized by a strong desire to send him a telegram, but she had promised -herself more than two months ago that she would not again have recourse -to this expedient unless compelled to, for she had been making a great -effort to love him in the same manner that he loved her. She had seen -how he suffered, and had commiserated him, and after that conversation -when she had kissed him upon the eyes in an outburst of genuine -tenderness, her sincere affection for him had, in fact, assumed a -warmer and more expansive character. In her surprise at her involuntary -coldness she had asked herself why, after all, she could not love him -as other women love their lovers, since she knew that she was deeply -attached to him and that he was more pleasing to her than any other -man. This indifference of her love could only proceed from a sluggish -action of the heart, which could be cured like any other sluggishness. - -She tried it. She endeavored to arouse her feelings by thoughts of him, -to be more demonstrative in his presence. She was successful now and -then, just as one excites his fears at night by thinking of ghosts or -robbers. Fired a little herself by this pretense of passion, she even -forced herself to be more caressing; she succeeded very well at first, -and delighted him to the point of intoxication. - -She thought that this was the beginning in her of a fever somewhat -similar to that with which she knew that he was consuming. Her old -intermittent hopes of love, that she had dimly seen the possibility -of realizing the night that she had dreamed her dreams among the -white mists of Saint-Michel's Bay, took form and shape again, not so -seductive as then, less wrapped in clouds of poetry and idealism, -but more clearly defined, more human, stripped of illusion after the -experience of her _liaison_. Then she had summoned up and watched for -that irresistible impulse of all the being toward another being that -arises, she had heard, when the emotions of the soul act upon two -physical natures. She had watched in vain; it had never come. - -She persisted, however, in feigning ardor, in making their interviews -more frequent, in saying to him: "I feel that I am coming to love you -more and more." But she became weary of it at last, and was powerless -longer to impose upon herself or deceive him. She was astonished to -find that the kisses that he gave her were becoming distasteful to her -after a while, although she was not by any means entirely insensible to -them. - -This was made manifest to her by the vague lassitude that took -possession of her from the early morning of those days when she had an -appointment with him. Why was it that on those mornings she did not -feel, as other women feel, all her nature troubled by the desire and -anticipation of his embraces? She endured them, indeed she accepted -them, with tender resignation, but as a woman conquered, brutally -subjugated, responding contrary to her own will, never voluntarily -and with pleasure. Could it be that her nature, so delicate, so -exceptionally aristocratic and refined, had in it depths of modesty, -the modesty of a superior and sacred animality, that were as yet -unfathomed by modern perceptions? - -Mariolle gradually came to understand this; he saw her factitious ardor -growing less and less. He divined the nature of her love-inspired -attempt, and a mortal, inconsolable sorrow took possession of his soul. - -She knew now, as he knew, that the attempt had been made and that all -hope was gone. The proof of this was that this very day, wrapped as -she was in her warm furs and with her feet on her hot-water bottle, -glowing with a feeling of physical comfort as she watched the hail -beating against the windows of her _coupé_, she could not find in her -the courage to leave this luxurious warmth to get into an ice-cold cab -to go and meet the poor fellow. - -The idea of breaking with him, of avoiding his caresses, certainly -never occurred to her for a moment. She was well aware that to -completely captivate a man who is in love and keep him as one's own -peculiar private property in the midst of feminine rivalries, a woman -must surrender herself to him body and soul. That she knew, for it is -logical, fated, indisputable. It is even the loyal course to pursue, -and she wanted to be loyal to him in all the uprightness of her nature -as his mistress. She would go to him then, she would go to him always; -but why so often? Would not their interviews even assume a greater -charm for him, an attraction of novelty, if they were granted more -charily, like rare and inestimable gifts presented to him by her and -not to be used too prodigally? - -Whenever she had gone to Auteuil she had had the impression that she -was bearing to him a priceless gift, the most precious of offerings. -In giving in this way, the pleasure of giving is inseparable from a -certain sensation of sacrifice; it is the pride that one feels in -being generous, the satisfaction of conferring happiness, not the -transports of a mutual passion. - -She even calculated that André's love would be more likely to be -enduring if she abated somewhat of her familiarity with him, for hunger -always increases by fasting, and desire is but an appetite. Immediately -that this resolution was formed she made up her mind that she would -go to Auteuil that day, but would feign indisposition. The journey, -which a minute ago had seemed to her so difficult through the inclement -weather, now appeared to her quite easy, and she understood, with a -smile at her own expense and at this sudden revelation, why she made -such a difficulty about a thing that was quite natural. But a moment -ago she would not, now she would. The reason why she would not a moment -ago was that she was anticipating the thousand petty disagreeable -details of the rendezvous! She would prick her fingers with pins that -she handled very awkwardly, she would be unable to find the articles -that she had thrown at random upon the bedroom floor as she disrobed in -haste, already looking forward to the hateful task of having to dress -without an attendant. - -She paused at this reflection, dwelling upon it and weighing it -carefully for the first time. After all, was it not rather repugnant, -rather vulgarizing, this idea of a rendezvous for a stated time, -settled upon a day or two days in advance, just like a business -appointment or a consultation with your doctor? There is nothing -more natural, after a long and charming _tête-à-tête_, than that the -lips which have been uttering warm, seductive words should meet in a -passionate kiss; but how different that was from the premeditated -kiss that she went there to receive, watch in hand, once a week. There -was so much truth in this that on those days when she was not to see -André she had frequently felt a vague desire of being with him, while -this desire was scarcely perceptible at all when she had to go to him -in foul cabs, through squalid streets, with the cunning of a hunted -thief, all her feelings toward him quenched and deadened by these -considerations. - -Ah! that appointment at Auteuil! She had calculated the time on all the -clocks of all her friends; she had watched the minutes that brought her -nearer to it slip away at Mme. de Frémines's, at Mme. de Bratiane's, -at pretty Mme. le Prieur's, on those afternoons when she killed time -by roaming about Paris so as not to remain in her own house, where she -might be detained by an inopportune visit or some other unforeseen -obstacle. - -She suddenly said to herself: "I will make to-day a day of rest; I -will go there very late." Then she opened a little cupboard in the -front of the carriage, concealed among the folds of black silk that -lined the _coupé_, which was fitted up as luxuriously as a pretty -woman's boudoir. The first thing that presented itself when she had -thrown open the doors of this secret receptacle was a mirror playing on -hinges that she moved so that it was on a level with her face. Behind -the mirror, in their satin-lined niches, were various small objects -in silver: a box for her rice-powder, a pencil for her lips, two -crystal scent-bottles, an inkstand and penholder, scissors, a pretty -paper-cutter to tear the leaves of the last novel with which she amused -herself as she rolled along the streets. The exquisite clock, of the -size and shape of a walnut, told her that it was four o'clock. Mme. de -Burne reflected: "I have an hour yet, at all events," and she touched -a spring that had the effect of making the footman who was seated -beside the coachman stoop and take up the speaking-tube to receive her -order. She pulled out the other end from where it was concealed in the -lining of the carriage, and applying her lips to the mouthpiece of -rock-crystal: "To the Austrian embassy!" she said. - -Then she inspected herself in the mirror. The look that she gave -herself expressed, as it always did, the delight that one feels in -looking upon one's best beloved; then she threw back her furs to judge -of the effect of her corsage. It was a toilette adapted to the chill -days of the end of winter. The neck was trimmed with a bordering of -very fine white down that shaded off into a delicate gray as it fell -over the shoulders, like the wing of a bird. Upon her hat--it was -a kind of toque--there towered an aigret of more brightly colored -feathers, and the general effect that her costume inspired was to make -one think that she had got herself up in this manner in preparation -for a flight through the hail and the gray sky in company with Mother -Carey's chickens. - -She was still complacently contemplating herself when the carriage -suddenly wheeled into the great court of the embassy. - -Thereupon she arranged her wrap, lowered the mirror to its place, -closed the doors of the little cupboard, and when the _coupé_ had come -to a halt said to her coachman: "You may go home; I shall not need -you any more." Then she asked the footman who came forward from the -entrance of the hotel: "Is the Princess at home?" - -"Yes, Madame." - -She entered and ascended the stairs and came to a small drawing-room -where the Princess de Malten was writing letters. - -The ambassadress arose with an appearance of much satisfaction when she -perceived her friend, and they kissed each other twice in succession -upon the cheek, close to the corner of the lips. Then they seated -themselves side by side upon two low chairs in front of the fire. -They were very fond of each other, took great delight in each other's -society and understood each other thoroughly, for they were almost -counterparts in nature and disposition, belonging to the same race of -femininity, brought up in the same atmosphere and endowed with the -same sensations, although Mme. de Malten was a Swede and had married -an Austrian. They had a strange and mysterious attraction for each -other, from which resulted a profound feeling of unmixed well-being -and contentment whenever they were together. Their babble would run on -for half a day on end, without once stopping, trivial, futile talk, -interesting to them both by reason of their similarity of tastes. - -"You see how I love you!" said Mme. de Burne. "You are to dine with me -this evening, and still I could not help coming to see you. It is a -real passion, my dear." - -"A passion that I share," the Swede replied with a smile. - -Following the habit of their profession, they put each her best foot -foremost for the benefit of the other; coquettish as if they had been -dealing with a man, but with a different style of coquetry, for the -strife was different, and they had not before them the adversary, but -the rival. - -Madame de Burne had kept looking at the clock during the conversation. -It was on the point of striking five. He had been waiting there an -hour. "That is long enough," she said to herself as she arose. - -"So soon?" said the Princess. - -"Yes," the other unblushingly replied. "I am in a hurry; there is some -one waiting for me. I would a great deal rather stay here with you." - -They exchanged kisses again, and Mme. de Burne, having requested the -footman to call a cab for her, drove away. - -The horse was lame and dragged the cab after him wearily, and the -animal's halting and fatigue seemed to have infected the young woman. -Like the broken-winded beast, she found the journey long and difficult. -At one moment she was comforted by the pleasure of seeing André, at -the next she was in despair at the thought of the discomforts of the -interview. - -She found him waiting for her behind the gate, shivering. The biting -blasts roared through the branches of the trees, the hailstones rattled -on their umbrella as they made their way to the house, their feet sank -deep into the mud. The garden was dead, dismal, miry, melancholy, and -André was very pale. He was enduring terrible suffering. - -When they were in the house: "Gracious, how cold it is!" she exclaimed. - -And yet a great fire was blazing in each of the two rooms, but they had -not been lighted until past noon and had not had time to dry the damp -walls, and shivers ran through her frame. "I think that I will not take -off my furs just yet," she added. She only unbuttoned her outer garment -and threw it open, disclosing her warm costume and her plume-decked -corsage, like a bird of passage that never remains long in one place. - -He seated himself beside her. - -"There is to be a delightful dinner at my house to-night," she said, -"and I am enjoying it in anticipation." - -"Who are to be there?" - -"Why, you, in the first place; then Prédolé, whom I have so long wanted -to know." - -"Ah! Prédolé is to be there?" - -"Yes; Lamarthe is to bring him." - -"But Prédolé is not the kind of a man to suit you, not a bit! Sculptors -in general are not so constituted as to please pretty women, and -Prédolé less so than any of them." - -"Oh, my friend, that cannot be. I have such an admiration for him!" - -The sculptor Prédolé had gained a great success and had captivated all -Paris some two months before by his exhibition at the Varin gallery. -Even before that he had been highly appreciated; people had said of -him, "His _figurines_ are delicious"; but when the world of artists and -connoisseurs had assembled to pass judgment upon his collected works -in the rooms of the Rue Varin, the outburst of enthusiasm had been -explosive. They seemed to afford the revelation of such an unlooked-for -charm, they displayed such a peculiar gift in the translation of -elegance and grace, that it seemed as if a new manner of expressing the -beauty of form had been born to the world. His specialty was statuettes -in extremely abbreviated costumes, in which his genius displayed an -unimaginable delicacy of form and airy lightness. His dancing girls, -especially, of which he had made many studies, displayed in the highest -perfection, in their pose and the harmony of their attitude and motion, -the ideal of female beauty and suppleness. - -For a month past Mme. de Burne had been unceasing in her efforts to -attract him to her house, but the artist was unsociable, even something -of a bear, so the report ran. At last she had succeeded, thanks to -the intervention of Lamarthe, who had made a touching, almost frantic -appeal to the grateful sculptor. - -"Whom have you besides?" Mariolle inquired. - -"The Princess de Malten." - -He was displeased; he did not fancy that woman. "Who else?" - -"Massival, Bernhaus, and George de Maltry. That is all: only my select -circle. You are acquainted with Prédolé, are you not?" - -"Yes, slightly." - -"How do you like him?" - -"He is delightful; I never met a man so enamored of his art and so -interesting when he holds forth on it." - -She was delighted and again said: "It will be charming." - -He had taken her hand under her fur cloak; he gave it a little squeeze, -then kissed it. Then all at once it came to her mind that she had -forgotten to tell him that she was ill, and casting about on the spur -of the moment for another reason, she murmured: "Gracious! how cold it -is!" - -"Do you think so?" - -"I am chilled to my very marrow." - -He arose to take a look at the thermometer, which was, in fact, pretty -low; then he resumed his seat at her side. - -She had said: "Gracious! how cold it is!" and he believed that he -understood her. For three weeks, now, at every one of their interviews, -he had noticed that her attempt to feign tenderness was gradually -becoming fainter and fainter. He saw that she was weary of wearing this -mask, so weary that she could continue it no longer, and he himself was -so exasperated by the little power that he had over her, so stung by -his vain and unreasoning desire of this woman, that he was beginning -to say to himself in his despairing moments of solitude: "It will be -better to break with her than to continue to live like this." - -He asked her, by way of fathoming her intentions: "Won't you take off -your cloak now?" - -"Oh, no," she said; "I have been coughing all the morning; this fearful -weather has given me a sore throat. I am afraid that I may be ill." She -was silent a moment, then added: "If I had not wanted to see you very -much indeed I would not have come to-day." As he did not reply, in his -grief and anger, she went on: "This return of cold weather is very -dangerous, coming as it does after the fine days of the past two weeks." - -She looked out into the garden, where the trees were already almost -green despite the clouds of snow that were driving among their -branches. He looked at her and thought: "So that is the kind of love -that she feels for me!" and for the first time he began to feel a sort -of jealous hatred of her, of her face, of her elusive affection, of -her form, so long pursued, so subtle to escape him. "She pretends that -she is cold," he said to himself. "She is cold only because I am here. -If it were a question of some party of pleasure, some of those idiotic -caprices that go to make up the useless existence of these frivolous -creatures, she would brave everything and risk her life. Does she not -ride about in an open carriage on the coldest days to show her fine -clothes? Ah! that is the way with them all nowadays!" - -He looked at her as she sat there facing him so calmly, and he knew -that in that head, that dear little head that he adored so, there was -one wish paramount, the wish that their _tête-à-tête_ might not be -protracted; it was becoming painful to her. - -Was it true that there had ever existed, that there existed now, -women capable of passion, of emotion, who weep, suffer, and bestow -themselves in a transport, loving with heart and soul and body, with -mouth that speaks and eyes that gaze, with heart that beats and hand -that caresses; women ready to brave all for the sake of their love, and -to go, by day or by night, regardless of menaces and watchful eyes, -fearlessly, tremorously, to him who stands with open arms waiting to -receive them, mad, ready to sink with their happiness? - -Oh, that horrible love that which now held him in its fetters!--love -without issue, without end, joyless and triumphless, eating away his -strength and devouring him with its anxieties; love in which there was -no charm and no delight, cause to him only of suffering, sorrow, and -bitter tears, where he was constantly pursued by the intolerable regret -of the impossibility of awaking responsive kisses upon lips that are as -cold and dry and sterile as dead trees! - -He looked at her as she sat there, so charming in her feathery dress. -Were not her dresses the great enemy that he had to contend against, -more than the woman herself, jealous guardians, coquettish and costly -barriers, that kept him from his mistress? - -"Your toilette is charming," he said, not caring to speak of the -subject that was torturing him so cruelly. - -She replied with a smile: "You must see the one that I shall wear -to-night." Then she coughed several times in succession and said: "I -am really taking cold. Let me go, my friend. The sun will show himself -again shortly, and I will follow his example." - -He made no effort to detain her, for he was discouraged, seeing that -nothing could now avail to overcome the inertia of this sluggish -nature, that his romance was ended, ended forever, and that it was -useless to hope for ardent words from those tranquil lips, or a -kindling glance from those calm eyes. All at once he felt rising with -gathering strength within him the stern determination to end this -torturing subserviency. She had nailed him upon a cross; he was -bleeding from every limb, and she watched his agony without feeling -for his suffering, even rejoicing that she had had it in her power to -effect so much. But he would tear himself from his deathly gibbet, -leaving there bits of his body, strips of his flesh, and all his -mangled heart. He would flee like a wild animal that the hunters have -wounded almost unto death, he would go and hide himself in some lonely -place where his wounds might heal and where he might feel only those -dull pangs that remain with the mutilated until they are released by -death. - -"Farewell, then," he said. - -She was struck by the sadness of his voice and rejoined: "Until this -evening, my friend." - -"Until this evening," he re-echoed. "Farewell." - -He saw her to the garden gate, and came back and seated himself, alone, -before the fire. - -Alone! How cold it was; how cold, indeed! How sad he was, how lonely! -It was all ended! Ah, what a horrible thought! There was an end of -hoping and waiting for her, dreaming of her, with that fierce blazing -of the heart that at times brings out our existence upon this somber -earth with the vividness of fireworks displayed against the blackness -of the night. Farewell those nights of solitary emotion when, almost -until the dawn, he paced his chamber thinking of her; farewell those -wakings when, upon opening his eyes, he said to himself: "Soon I shall -see her at our little house." - -How he loved her! how he loved her! What a long, hard task it would be -to him to forget her! She had left him because it was cold! He saw her -before him as but now, looking at him and bewitching him, bewitching -him the better to break his heart. Ah, how well she had done her work! -With one single stroke, the first and last, she had cleft it asunder. -He felt the old gaping wound begin to open, the wound that she had -dressed and now had made incurable by plunging into it the knife of -death-dealing indifference. He even felt that from this broken heart -there was something distilling itself through his frame, mounting to -his throat and choking him; then, covering his eyes with his hands, as -if to conceal this weakness even from himself, he wept. - -She had left him because it was cold! He would have walked naked -through the driving snow to meet her, no matter where; he would have -cast himself from the house top, only to fall at her feet. An old tale -came to his mind, that has been made into a legend: that of the Côte -des Deux Amans, a spot which the traveler may behold as he journeys -toward Rouen. A maiden, obedient to her father's cruel caprice, -which prohibited her from marrying the man of her choice unless she -accomplished the task of carrying him, unassisted, to the summit of the -steep mountain, succeeded in dragging him up there on her hands and -knees, and died as she reached the top. Love, then, is but a legend, -made to be sung in verse or told in lying romances! - -Had not his mistress herself, in one of their earliest interviews, made -use of an expression that he had never forgotten: "Men nowadays do not -love women so as really to harm themselves by it. You may believe me, -for I know them both." She had been wrong in his case, but not in her -own, for on another occasion she had said: "In any event, I give you -fair warning that I am incapable of being really smitten with anyone, -be he who he may." - -Be he who he may? Was that quite a sure thing? Of him, no; of that he -was quite well assured now, but of another? - -Of him? She could not love him. Why not? - -Then the feeling that his life had been a wasted one, which had haunted -him for a long time past, fell upon him as if it would crush him. He -had done nothing, obtained nothing, conquered nothing, succeeded in -nothing. When he had felt an attraction toward the arts he had not -found in himself the courage that is required to devote one's self -exclusively to one of them, nor the persistent determination that they -demand as the price of success. There had been no triumph to cheer him; -no elevated taste for some noble career to ennoble and aggrandize his -mind. The only strenuous effort that he had ever put forth, the attempt -to conquer a woman's heart, had proved ineffectual like all the rest. -Take him all in all, he was only a miserable failure. - -He was weeping still beneath his hands which he held pressed to his -eyes. The tears, trickling down his cheeks, wet his mustache and -left a salty taste upon his lips, and their bitterness increased his -wretchedness and his despair. - -When he raised his head at last he saw that it was night. He had only -just sufficient time to go home and dress for her dinner. - - - - -CHAPTER X. - - -FLIGHT - - -André Mariolle was the first to arrive at Mme. de Burne's. He took a -seat and gazed about him upon the walls, the furniture, the hangings, -at all the small objects and trinkets that were so dear to him from -their association with her--at the familiar apartment where he had -first known her, where he had come to her so many times since then, -and where he had discovered in himself the germs of that ill-starred -passion that had kept on growing, day by day, until the hour of his -barren victory. With what eagerness had he many a time awaited her -coming in this charming spot which seemed to have been made for no one -but her, an exquisite setting for an exquisite creature! How well he -knew the pervading odor of this salon and its hangings; a subdued odor -of iris, so simple and aristocratic. He grasped the arms of the great -armchair, from which he had so often watched her smile and listened -to her talk, as if they had been the hands of some friend that he was -parting with forever. It would have pleased him if she could not -come, if no one could come, and if he could remain there alone, all -night, dreaming of his love, as people watch beside a dead man. Then at -daylight he could go away for a long time, perhaps forever. - -The door opened, and she appeared and came forward to him with -outstretched hand. He was master of himself, and showed nothing of his -agitation. She was not a woman, but a living bouquet--an indescribable -bouquet of flowers. - -A girdle of pinks enclasped her waist and fell about her in cascades, -reaching to her feet. About her bare arms and shoulders ran a garland -of mingled myosotis and lilies-of-the-valley, while three fairy-like -orchids seemed to be growing from her breast and caressing the -milk-white flesh with the rosy and red flesh of their supernal blooms. -Her blond hair was studded with violets in enamel, in which minute -diamonds glistened, and other diamonds, trembling upon golden pins, -sparkled like dewdrops among the odorous trimming of her corsage. - -"I shall have a headache," she said, "but I don't care; my dress is -becoming." - -Delicious odors emanated from her, like spring among the gardens. She -was more fresh than the garlands that she wore. André was dazzled -as he looked at her, reflecting that it would be no less brutal and -barbarous to take her in his arms at that moment than it would be to -trample upon a blossoming flower-bed. So their bodies were no longer -objects to inspire love; they were objects to be adorned, simply frames -on which to hang fine clothes. They were like birds, they were like -flowers, they were like a thousand other things as much as they were -like women. Their mothers, all women of past and gone generations, had -used coquettish arts to enhance their natural beauties, but it had -been their aim to please in the first place by their direct physical -seductiveness, by the charm of native grace, by the irresistible -attraction that the female form exercises over the heart of the males. -At the present day coquetry was everything. Artifice was now the great -means, and not only the means, but the end as well, for they employed -it even more frequently to dazzle the eyes of rivals and excite barren -jealousy than to subjugate men. - -What end, then, was this toilette designed to serve, the gratification -of the eyes of him, the lover, or the humiliation of the Princess de -Malten? - -The door opened, and the lady whose name was in his thoughts was -announced. - -Mme. de Burne moved quickly forward to meet her and gave her a kiss, -not unmindful of the orchids during the operation, her lips slightly -parted, with a little grimace of tenderness. It was a pretty kiss, an -extremely desirable kiss, given and returned from the heart by those -two pairs of lips. - -Mariolle gave a start of pain. Never once had she run to meet him with -that joyful eagerness, never had she kissed him like that, and with a -sudden change of ideas he said to himself: "Women are no longer made to -fulfill our requirements." - -Massival made his appearance, then M. de Pradon and the Comte de -Bernhaus, then George de Maltry, resplendent with English "chic." - -Lamarthe and Prédolé were now the only ones missing. The sculptor's -name was mentioned, and every voice was at once raised in praise of -him. "He had restored to life the grace of form, he had recovered the -lost traditions of the Renaissance, with something additional: the -sincerity of modern art!" M. de Maltry maintained that he was the -exquisite revealer of the suppleness of the human form. Such phrases -as these had been current in the salons for the last two months, where -they had been bandied about from mouth to mouth. - -At last the great man appeared. Everyone was surprised. He was a large -man of uncertain age, with the shoulders of a coal-heaver, a powerful -face with strongly-marked features, surrounded by hair and beard that -were beginning to turn white, a prominent nose, thick full lips, -wearing a timid and embarrassed air. He held his arms away from his -body in an awkward sort of way that was doubtless to be attributed to -the immense hands that protruded from his sleeves. They were broad -and thick, with hairy and muscular fingers; the hands of a Hercules -or a butcher, and they seemed to be conscious of being in the way, -embarrassed at finding themselves there and looking vainly for some -convenient place to hide themselves. Upon looking more closely at his -face, however, it was seen to be illuminated by clear, piercing, gray -eyes of extreme expressiveness, and these alone served to impart some -degree of life to the man's heavy and torpid expression. They were -constantly searching, inquiring, scrutinizing, darting their rapid, -shifting glances here, there, and everywhere, and it was plainly to be -seen that these eager, inquisitive looks were the animating principle -of a deep and comprehensive intellect. - -Mme. de Burne was somewhat disappointed; she politely led the artist -to a chair which he took and where he remained seated, apparently -disconcerted by this introduction to a strange house. - -Lamarthe, master of the situation, approached his friend with the -intention of breaking the ice and relieving him from the awkwardness of -his position. "My dear fellow," he said, "let me make for you a little -map to let you know where you are. You have seen our divine hostess; -now look at her surroundings." He showed him upon the mantelpiece a -bust, authenticated in due form, by Houdon, then upon a cabinet in -buhl a group representing two women dancing, with arms about each -other's waists, by Clodion, and finally four Tanagra statuettes upon an -_étagère_, selected for their perfection of finish and detail. - -Then all at once Prédolé's face brightened as if he had found his -children in the desert. He arose and went to the four little earthen -figures, and when Mme. de Burne saw him grasp two of them at once in -his great hands that seemed made to slaughter oxen, she trembled for -her treasures. When he laid hands on them, however, it appeared that -it was only for the purpose of caressing them, for he handled them -with wonderful delicacy and dexterity, turning them about in his thick -fingers which somehow seemed all at once to have become as supple as a -juggler's. It was evident by the gentle way the big man had of looking -at and handling them that he had in his soul and his very finger-ends -an ideal and delicate tenderness for such small elegancies. - -"Are they not pretty?" Lamarthe asked him. - -The sculptor went on to extol them as if they had been his own, and -he spoke of some others, the most remarkable that he had met with, -briefly and in a voice that was rather low but confident and calm, the -expression of a clearly defined thought that was not ignorant of the -value of words and their uses. - -Still under the guidance of the author, he next inspected the other -rare bric-à-brac that Mme. de Burne had collected, thanks to the -counsels of her friends. He looked with astonishment and delight at -the various articles, apparently agreeably disappointed to find them -there, and in every case he took them up and turned them lightly over -in his hands, as if to place himself in direct personal contact with -them. There was a statuette of bronze, heavy as a cannon-ball, hidden -away in a dark corner; he took it up with one hand, carried it to the -lamp, examined it at length, and replaced it where it belonged without -visible effort. Lamarthe exclaimed: "The great, strong fellow! he is -built expressly to wrestle with stone and marble!" while the ladies -looked at him approvingly. - -Dinner was now announced. The mistress of the house took the sculptor's -arm to pass to the dining-room, and when she had seated him in the -place of honor at her right hand, she asked him out of courtesy, just -as she would have questioned a scion of some great family as to the -exact origin of his name: "Your art, Monsieur, has also the additional -honor, has it not, of being the most ancient of all?" - -He replied in his calm deep voice: _"Mon Dieu_, Madame, the shepherds -in the Bible play upon the flute, therefore music would seem to be the -more ancient--although true music, as we understand it, does not go -very far back, while true sculpture dates from remote antiquity." - -"You are fond of music?" - -"I love all the arts," he replied with grave earnestness. - -"Is it known who was the inventor of your art?" - -He reflected a moment, then replied in tender accents, as if he had -been relating some touching tale: "According to Grecian tradition it -was Dædalus the Athenian. The most attractive legend, however, is that -which attributes the invention to a Sicyonian potter named Dibutades. -His daughter Kora having traced her betrothed's profile with the -assistance of an arrow, her father filled in the rude sketch with clay -and modeled it. It was then that my art was born." - -"Charming!" murmured Lamarthe. Then turning to Mme. de Burne, he said: -"You cannot imagine, Madame, how interesting this man becomes when he -talks of what he loves; what power he has to express and explain it and -make people adore it." - -But the sculptor did not seem disposed either to pose for the -admiration of the guests or to perorate. He had tucked a corner of his -napkin between his shirt-collar and his neck and was reverentially -eating his soup, with that appearance of respect that peasants manifest -for that portion of the meal. Then he drank a glass of wine and drew -himself up with an air of greater ease, of making himself more at -home. Now and then he made a movement as if to turn around, for he had -perceived the reflection in a mirror of a modern group that stood on -the mantelshelf behind him. He did not recognize it and was seeking -to divine the author. At last, unable longer to resist the impulse, he -asked: "It is by Falguière, is it not?" - -Mme. de Burne laughed. "Yes, it is by Falguière. How could you tell, in -a glass?" - -He smiled in turn. "Ah, Madame, I can't explain how it is done, but -I can tell at a glance the sculpture of those men who are painters -as well, and the painting of those who also practice sculpture. It -is not a bit like the work of a man who devotes himself to one art -exclusively." - -Lamarthe, wishing to show off his friend, called for explanations, and -Prédolé proceeded to give them. In his slow, precise manner of speech -he defined and illustrated the painting of sculptors and the sculpture -of painters in such a clear and original way that he was listened -to as much with eyes as with ears. Commencing his demonstration at -the earliest period and pursuing it through the history of art and -gathering examples from epoch to epoch, he came down to the time of the -early Italian masters who were painters and sculptors at the same time, -Nicolas and John of Pisa, Donatello, Lorenzo Ghiberti. He spoke of -Diderot's interesting remarks upon the same subject, and in conclusion -mentioned Ghiberti's bronze gates of the baptistry of Saint John at -Florence, such living and dramatically forceful bas-reliefs that they -seem more like paintings upon canvas. He waved his great hands before -him as if he were modeling, with such ease and grace of motion as to -delight every eye, calling up above the plates and glasses the pictures -that his tongue told of, and reconstructing the work that he mentioned -with such conviction that everyone followed the motions of his fingers -with breathless attention. Then some dishes that he fancied were placed -before him and he ceased talking and began eating. - -He scarcely spoke during the remainder of the dinner, not troubling -himself to follow the conversation, which ranged from some bit of -theatrical gossip to a political rumor; from a ball to a wedding; from -an article in the "Revue des Deux Mondes" to the horse-show that had -just opened. His appetite was good, and he drank a good deal, without -being at all affected by it, having a sound, hard head that good wine -could not easily upset. - -When they had returned to the drawing-room, Lamarthe, who had not drawn -the sculptor out to the extent that he wished to do, drew him over -to a glass case to show him a priceless object, a classic, historic -gem: a silver inkstand carved by Benvenuto Cellini. The men listened -with extreme interest to his long and eloquent rhapsody as they stood -grouped about him, while the two women, seated in front of the fire -and rather disgusted to see so much enthusiasm wasted upon the form of -inanimate objects, appeared to be a little bored and chatted together -in a low voice from time to time. After that conversation became -general, but not animated, for it had been somewhat damped by the ideas -that had passed into the atmosphere of this pretty room, with its -furnishing of precious objects. - -Prédolé left early, assigning as a reason that he had to be at work -at daybreak every morning. When he was gone Lamarthe enthusiastically -asked Mme. de Burne: "Well, how did you like him?" - -She replied, hesitatingly and with something of an air of ill nature: -"He is quite interesting, but prosy." - -The novelist smiled and said to himself: "_Parbleu_, that is because -he did not admire your toilette; and you are the only one of all your -pretty things that he hardly condescended to look at." He exchanged a -few pleasant remarks with her and went over and took a seat by Mme. de -Malten, to whom he began to be very attentive. The Comte de Bernhaus -approached the mistress of the house, and taking a small footstool, -appeared sunk in devotion at her feet. Mariolle, Massival, Maltry, -and M. de Pradon continued to talk of the sculptor, who had made a -deep impression on their minds. M. de Maltry was comparing him to -the old masters, for whom life was embellished and illuminated by an -exclusive and consuming love of the manifestations of beauty, and he -philosophized upon his theme with many very subtle and very tiresome -observations. - -Massival, quickly tiring of a conversation which made no reference to -his own art, crossed the room to Mme. de Malten and seated himself -beside Lamarthe, who soon yielded his place to him and went and -rejoined the men. - -"Shall we go?" he said to Mariolle. - -"Yes, by all means!" - -The novelist liked to walk the streets at night with some friend and -talk, when the incisive, peremptory tones of his voice seemed to lay -hold of the walls of the houses and climb up them. He had an impression -that he was very eloquent, witty, and sagacious during these nocturnal -_tête-à-têtes_, which were monologues rather than conversations so far -as his part in them was concerned. The approbation that he thus gained -for himself sufficed his needs, and the gentle fatigue of legs and -lungs assured him a good night's rest. - -Mariolle, for his part, had reached the limit of his endurance. The -moment that he was outside her door all his wretchedness and sorrow, -all his irremediable disappointment, boiled up and overflowed his -heart. He could stand it no longer; he would have no more of it. He -would go away and never return. - -The two men found themselves alone with each other in the street. The -wind had changed and the cold that had prevailed during the day had -yielded; it was warm and pleasant, as it almost always is two hours -after a snowstorm in spring. The sky was vibrating with the light -of innumerable stars, as if a breath of summer in the immensity of -space had lighted up the heavenly bodies and set them twinkling. The -sidewalks were gray and dry again, while in the roadway pools of water -reflected the light of the gas-lamps. - -Lamarthe said: "What a fortunate man he is, that Prédolé! He lives -only for one thing, his art; thinks but of that, loves but that; it -occupies all his being; consoles and cheers him, and affords him a -life of happiness and comfort. He is really a great artist of the old -stock. Ah! he doesn't let women trouble his head, not much, our women -of to-day with their frills and furbelows and fantastic disguises! -Did you remark how little attention he paid to our two pretty dames? -And yet they were rather seductive. But what he is looking for is -the plastic--the plastic pure and simple; he has no use for the -artificial. It is true that our divine hostess put him down in her -books as an insupportable fool. In her estimation a bust by Houdon, -Tanagra statuettes, and an inkstand by Cellini are but so many -unconsidered trifles that go to the adornment and the rich and natural -setting of a masterpiece, which is Herself; she and her dress, for -dress is part and parcel of Herself; it is the fresh accentuation that -she places on her beauty day by day. What a trivial, personal thing is -woman!" - -He stopped and gave the sidewalk a great thump with his cane, so that -the noise resounded through the quiet street, then he went on. - -"They have a very clear and exact perception of what adds to their -attractions: the toilette and the ornaments in which there is an -entire change of fashion every ten years; but they are heedless of -that attribute which involves rare and constant power of selection, -which demands from them keen and delicate artistic penetration and a -purely æsthetic exercise of their senses. Their senses, moreover, are -extremely rudimentary, incapable of high development, inaccessible to -whatever does not touch directly the feminine egotism that absorbs -everything in them. Their acuteness is the stratagem of the savage, -of the red Indian; of war and ambush. They are even almost incapable -of enjoying the material pleasures of the lower order, which require -a physical education and the intelligent exercise of an organ, such -as good living. When, as they do in exceptional cases, they come to -have some respect for decent cookery, they still remain incapable of -appreciating our great wines, which speak to masculine palates only, -for wine does speak." - -He again thumped the pavement with his cane, accenting his last dictum -and punctuating the sentence, and continued. - -"It won't do, however, to expect too much from them, but this want of -taste and appreciation that so frequently clouds their intellectual -vision when higher considerations are at stake often serves to blind -them still more when our interests are in question. A man may have -heart, feeling, intelligence, exceptional merits, and qualities of all -kinds, they will all be unavailing to secure their favor as in bygone -days when a man was valued for his worth and his courage. The women of -to-day are actresses, second-rate actresses at that, who are merely -playing for effect a part that has been handed down to them and in -which they have no belief. They have to have actors of the same stamp -to act up to them and lie through the rôle just as they do; and these -actors are the coxcombs that we see hanging around them; from the -fashionable world, or elsewhere." - -They walked along in silence for a few moments, side by side. Mariolle -had listened attentively to the words of his companion, repeating them -in his mind and approving of his sentiments under the influence of his -sorrow. He was aware also that a sort of Italian adventurer who was -then in Paris giving lessons in swordsmanship, Prince Epilati by name, -a gentleman of the fencing-schools, of considerable celebrity for his -elegance and graceful vigor that he was in the habit of exhibiting -in black-silk tights before the upper ten and the select few of the -demimonde, was just then in full enjoyment of the attentions and -coquetries of the pretty little Baronne de Frémines. - -As Lamarthe said nothing further, he remarked to him: - -"It is all our own fault; we make our selections badly; there are other -women besides those." - -The novelist replied: "The only ones now that are capable of real -attachment are the shopgirls and some sentimental little _bourgeoises_, -poor and unhappily married. I have before now carried consolation to -one of those distressed souls. They are overflowing with sentiment, -but such cheap, vulgar sentiment that to exchange ours against it is -like throwing your money to a beggar. Now I assert that in our young, -wealthy society, where the women feel no needs and no desires, where -all that they require is some mild distraction to enable them to kill -time, and where the men regulate their pleasures as scrupulously as -they regulate their daily labors, I assert that under such conditions -the old natural attraction, charming and powerful as it was, that used -to bring the sexes toward each other, has disappeared." - -"You are right," Mariolle murmured. - -He felt an increasing desire to fly, to put a great distance between -himself and these people, these puppets who in their empty idleness -mimicked the beautiful, impassioned, and tender life of other days and -were incapable of savoring its lost delights. - -"Good night," he said; "I am going to bed." He went home and seated -himself at his table and wrote: - - "Farewell, Madame. Do you remember my first letter? In it - too I said farewell, but I did not go. What a mistake that - was! When you receive this I shall have left Paris; need - I tell you why? Men like me ought never to meet with women - like you. Were I an artist and were my emotions capable of - expression in such manner as to afford me consolation, you - would have perhaps inspired me with talent, but I am only a - poor fellow who was so unfortunate as to be seized with love - for you, and with it its accompanying bitter, unendurable - sorrow. - - "When I met you for the first time I could not have deemed - myself capable of feeling and suffering as I have done. - Another in your place would have filled my heart with divine - joy in bidding it wake and live, but you could do nothing - but torture it. It was not your fault, I know; I reproach - you with nothing and I bear you no hard feeling; I have not - even the right to send you these lines. Pardon me. You are - so constituted that you cannot feel as I feel; you cannot - even divine what passes in my breast when I am with you, - when you speak to me and I look on you. - - "Yes, I know; you have accepted me and offered me a rational - and tranquil happiness, for which I ought to thank you on my - knees all my life long, but I will not have it. Ah, what a - horrible, agonizing love is that which is constantly craving - a tender word, a warm caress, without ever receiving them! - My heart is empty, empty as the stomach of a beggar who has - long followed your carriage with outstretched hand and to - whom you have thrown out pretty toys, but no bread. It was - bread, it was love, that I hungered for. I am about to go - away wretched and in need, in sore need of your love, a few - crumbs of which would have saved me. I have nothing left in - the world but a cruel memory that clings and will not leave - me, and that I must try to kill. - - "Adieu, Madame. Thanks, and pardon me. I love you still, - this evening, with all the strength of my soul. Adieu. - - "ANDRÉ MARIOLLE." - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - - -LONELINESS - - -The city lay basking in the brightness of a sunny morning. Mariolle -climbed into the carriage that stood waiting at his door with a -traveling bag and two trunks on top. He had made his valet the night -before pack the linen and other necessaries for a long absence, and -now he was going away, leaving as his temporary address Fontainebleau -post-office. He was taking no one with him, it being his wish to see no -face that might remind him of Paris and to hear no voice that he had -heard while brooding over certain matters. - -He told the driver to go to the Lyons station and the cab started. -Then he thought of that other trip of his, last spring, to Mont -Saint-Michel; it was a year ago now lacking three months. He looked out -into the street to drive the recollection from his mind. - -The vehicle turned into the Avenue des Champs-Élysées, which was -flooded with the light of the sun of early spring. The green leaves, -summoned forth by the grateful warmth that had prevailed for a couple -of weeks and not materially retarded by the cold storm of the last -two days, were opening so rapidly on this bright morning that they -seemed to impregnate the air with an odor of fresh verdure and of sap -evaporating on the way to its work of building up new growths. It was -one of those growing mornings when one feels that the dome-topped -chestnut-trees in the public gardens and all along the avenues will -burst into bloom in a single day through the length and breadth of -Paris, like chandeliers that are lighted simultaneously. The earth was -thrilling with the movement preparatory to the full life of summer, -and the very street was silently stirred beneath its paving of bitumen -as the roots ate their way through the soil. He said to himself as he -jolted along in his cab: "At last I shall be able to enjoy a little -peace of mind. I will witness the birth of spring in solitude deep in -the forest." - -The journey seemed long to him. The few hours of sleeplessness that he -had spent in bemoaning his fate had broken him down as if he had passed -ten nights at the bedside of a dying man. When he reached the village -of Fontainebleau he went to a notary to see if there was a small house -to be had furnished in the neighborhood of the forest. He was told of -several. In looking over the photographs the one that pleased him most -was a cottage that had just been given up by a young couple, man and -wife, who had resided for almost the entire winter in the village of -Montigny-sur-Loing. The notary smiled, notwithstanding that he was a -man of serious aspect; he probably scented a love story. - -"You are alone, Monsieur!" he inquired. - -"I am alone." - -"No servants, even?" - -"No servants, even; I left them at Paris. I wish to engage some of the -residents here. I am coming here to work in complete seclusion." - -"You will have no difficulty in finding that, at this season of the -year." - -A few minutes afterward an open landau was whirling Mariolle and his -trunks away to Montigny. - -The forest was beginning to awake. The copses at the foot of the great -trees, whose heads were covered with a light veil of foliage, were -beginning to assume a denser aspect. The early birches, with their -silvery trunks, were the only trees that seemed completely attired -for the summer, while the great oaks only displayed small tremulous -splashes of green at the ends of their branches and the beeches, more -quick to open their pointed buds, were just shedding the dead leaves of -the past year. - -The grass by the roadside, unobscured as yet by the thick shade of the -tree-tops, was growing lush and bright with the influx of new sap, and -the odor of new growth that Mariolle had already remarked in the Avenue -des Champs-Élysées, now wrapped him about and immersed him in a great -bath of green life budding in the sunshine of the early season. He -inhaled it greedily, like one just liberated from prison, and with the -sensation of a man whose fetters have just been broken he luxuriously -extended his arms along the two sides of the landau and let his hands -hang down over the two wheels. - -He passed through Marlotte, where the driver called his attention to -the Hotel Corot, then just opened, of the original design of which -there was much talk. Then the road continued, with the forest on the -left hand and on the right a wide plain with trees here and there and -hills bounding the horizon. To this succeeded a long village street, -a blinding white street lying between two endless rows of little -tile-roofed houses. Here and there an enormous lilac bush displayed its -flowers over the top of a wall. - -This street followed the course of a narrow valley along which ran a -little stream. It was a narrow, rapid, twisting, nimble little stream, -on one of its banks laving the foundations of the houses and the -garden-walls and on the other bathing the meadows where the small trees -were just beginning to put forth their scanty foliage. The sight of it -inspired Mariolle with a sensation of delight. - -He had no difficulty in finding his house and was greatly pleased with -it. It was an old house that had been restored by a painter, who had -tired of it after living there five years and offered it for rent. It -was directly on the water, separated from the stream only by a pretty -garden that ended in a terrace of lindens. The Loing, which just above -this point had a picturesque fall of a foot or two over a dam erected -there, ran rapidly by this terrace, whirling in great eddies. From the -front windows of the house the meadows on the other bank were visible. - -"I shall get well here," Mariolle thought. - -Everything had been arranged with the notary in case the house should -prove suitable. The driver carried back his acceptance of it. Then -the housekeeping details had to be attended to, which did not take -much time, the mayor's clerk having provided two women, one to do the -cooking, the other to wash and attend to the chamber-work. - -Downstairs there were a parlor, dining-room, kitchen, and two small -rooms; on the floor above a handsome bedroom and a large apartment -that the artist owner had fitted up as a studio. The furniture had all -been selected with loving care, as people always furnish when they are -enamored of a place, but now it had lost a little of its freshness and -was in some disorder, with the air of desolation that is noticeable in -dwellings that have been abandoned by their master. A pleasant odor of -verbena, however, still lingered in the air, showing that the little -house had not been long uninhabited. "Ah!" thought Mariolle, "verbena, -that indicates simplicity of taste. The woman that preceded me could -not have been one of those complex, mystifying natures. Happy man!" - -It was getting toward evening, all these occupations having made the -day pass rapidly. He took a seat by an open window, drinking in the -agreeable coolness that exhaled from the surrounding vegetation and -watching the setting sun as it cast long shadows across the meadows. - -The two servants were talking while getting the dinner ready and the -sound of their voices ascended to him faintly by the stairway, while -through the window came the mingled sounds of the lowing of cows, -the barking of dogs, and the cries of men bringing home the cattle -or conversing with their companions on the other bank of the stream. -Everything was peaceful and restful. - -For the thousandth time since the morning Mariolle asked himself: -"What did she think when she received my letter? What will she do?" -Then he said to himself: "I wonder what she is doing now?" He looked at -his watch; it was half past six. "She has come in from the street. She -is receiving." - -There rose before his mental vision a picture of the drawing-room, and -the young woman chatting with the Princess de Malten, Mme. de Frémines, -Massival, and the Comte de Bernhaus. - -His soul was suddenly moved with an impulse that was something like -anger. He wished that he was there. It was the hour of his accustomed -visit to her, almost every day, and he felt within him a feeling of -discomfort, not of regret. His will was firm, but a sort of physical -suffering afflicted him akin to that of one who is denied his morphine -at the accustomed time. He no longer beheld the meadows, nor the sun -sinking behind the hills of the horizon; all that he could see was her, -among her friends, given over to those cares of the world that had -robbed him of her. "I will think of her no more," he said to himself. - -He arose, went down to the garden and passed on to the terrace. There -was a cool mist there rising from the water that had been agitated -in its fall over the dam, and this sensation of chilliness, striking -to a heart already sad, caused him to retrace his steps. His dinner -was awaiting him in the dining-room. He ate it quickly; then, having -nothing to occupy him, and feeling that distress of mind and body, of -which he had had the presage, now increasing on him, he went to bed and -closed his eyes in an attempt to slumber, but it was to no purpose. -His thoughts refused to leave that woman; he beheld her in his thought -and he suffered. - -On whom would she bestow her favor now? On the Comte de Bernhaus, -doubtless! He was just the man, elegant, conspicuous, sought after, to -suit that creature of display. He had found favor with her, for had she -not employed all her arts to conquer him even at a time when she was -mistress to another man? - -Notwithstanding that his mind was beset by these haunting thoughts, -it would still keep wandering off into that misty condition of -semi-somnolence in which the man and woman were constantly reappearing -to his eyes. Of true sleep he got none, and all night long he saw them -at his bedside, braving and mocking him, now retiring as if they would -at last permit him to snatch a little sleep, then returning as soon -as oblivion had begun to creep over him and awaking him with a spasm -of jealous agony in his heart. He left his bed at earliest break of -day and went away into the forest with a cane in his hand, a stout -serviceable stick that the last occupant of the house had left behind -him. - -The rays of the newly risen sun were falling through the tops of the -oaks, almost leafless as yet, upon the ground, which was carpeted in -spots by patches of verdant grass, here by a carpet of dead leaves and -there by heather reddened by the frosts of winter. Yellow butterflies -were fluttering along the road like little dancing flames. To the right -of the road was a hill, almost large enough to be called a mountain. -Mariolle ascended it leisurely, and when he reached the top seated -himself on a great stone, for he was quite out of breath. His legs -were overcome with weakness and refused to support him; all his system -seemed to be yielding to a sudden breaking down. He was well aware that -this languor did not proceed from fatigue; it came from her, from the -love that weighed him down like an intolerable burden, and he murmured: -"What wretchedness! why does it possess me thus, me, a man who has -always taken from existence only that which would enable him to enjoy -it without suffering afterward?" - -His attention was awakened by the fear of this malady that might prove -so hard to cure, and he probed his feelings, went down to the very -depths of his nature, endeavoring to know and understand it better, -and make clear to his own eyes the reason of this inexplicable crisis. -He said to himself: "I have never yielded to any undue attraction. -I am not enthusiastic or passionate by nature; my judgment is more -powerful than my instinct, my curiosity than my appetite, my fancy -than my perseverance. I am essentially nothing more than a man that is -delicate, intelligent, and hard to please in his enjoyments. I have -loved the things of this life without ever allowing myself to become -greatly attached to them, with the perceptions of an expert who sips -and does not suffer himself to become surfeited, who knows better -than to lose his head. I submit everything to the test of reason, and -generally I analyze my likings too severely to submit to them blindly. -That is even my great defect, the only cause of my weakness. - -"And now that woman has taken possession of me, in spite of myself, in -spite of my fears and of my knowledge of her, and she retains her hold -as if she had plucked away one by one all the different aspirations -that existed in me. That may be the case. Those aspirations of mine -went out toward inanimate objects, toward nature, that entices and -softens me, toward music, which is a sort of ideal caress, toward -reflection, which is the delicate feasting of the mind, toward -everything on earth that is beautiful and agreeable. - -"Then I met a creature who collected and concentrated all my somewhat -fickle and fluctuating likings, and directing them toward herself, -converted them into love. Charming and beautiful, she pleased my eyes; -bright, intelligent, and witty, she pleased my mind, and she pleased my -heart by the mysterious charm of her contact and her presence and by -the secret and irresistible emanation from her personality, until all -these things enslaved me as the perfume of certain flowers intoxicates. -She has taken the place of everything for me, for I no longer have any -aspirations, I no longer wish or care for anything." - -"In other days how my feelings would have thrilled and started in this -forest that is putting forth its new life! To-day I see nothing of it, -I am regardless of it; I am still at that woman's side, whom I desire -to love no more. - -"Come! I must kill these ideas by physical fatigue; unless I do I shall -never get well." - -He arose, descended the rocky hillside and resumed his walk with long -strides, but still the haunting presence crushed him as if it had -been a burden that he was bearing on his back. He went on, constantly -increasing his speed, now and then encountering a brief sensation of -comfort at the sight of the sunlight piercing through the foliage or at -a breath of perfumed air from some grove of resinous pine-trees, which -inspired in him a presentiment of distant consolation. - -Suddenly he came to a halt. "I am not walking any longer," he said, "I -am flying from something!" Indeed, he was flying, straight ahead, he -cared not where, pursued by the agony of his love. - -Then he started on again at a more reasonable speed. The appearance -of the forest was undergoing a change. The growth was denser and the -shadows deeper, for he was coming to the warmer portions of it, to the -beautiful region of the beeches. No sensation of winter lingered there. -It was wondrous spring, that seemed to have been the birth of a night, -so young and fresh was everything. - -Mariolle made his way among the thickets, beneath the gigantic trees -that towered above him higher and higher still, and in this way he went -on for a long time, an hour, two hours, pushing his way through the -branches, through the countless multitudes of little shining leaves, -bright with their varnish of new sap. The heavens were quite concealed -by the immense dome of verdure, supported on its lofty columns, now -perpendicular, now leaning, now of a whitish hue, now dark beneath the -black moss that drew its nourishment from the bark. - -Thus they towered, stretching away indefinitely in the distance, one -behind the other, lording it over the bushy young copses that grew -in confused tangles at their feet and wrapping them in dense shadow -through which in places poured floods of vivid sunlight. The golden -rain streamed down through all this luxuriant growth until the wood no -longer remained a wood, but became a brilliant sea of verdure illumined -by yellow rays. Mariolle stopped, seized with an ineffable surprise. -Where was he? Was he in a forest, or had he descended to the bottom of -a sea, a sea of leaves and light, an ocean of green resplendency? - -He felt better--more tranquil; more remote, more hidden from his -misery, and he threw himself down upon the red carpet of dead leaves -that these trees do not cast until they are ready to put on their new -garments. Rejoicing in the cool contact of the earth and the pure -sweetness of the air, he was soon conscious of a wish, vague at first -but soon becoming more defined, not to be alone in this charming spot, -and he said to himself: "Ah! if she were only here, at my side!" - -He suddenly remembered Mont Saint-Michel, and recollecting how -different she had been down there to what she was in Paris, how her -affection had blossomed out in the open air before the yellow sands, he -thought that on that day she had surely loved him a little for a few -hours. Yes, surely, on the road where they had watched the receding -tide, in the cloisters where, murmuring his name: "André," she had -seemed to say, "I am yours," and on the "Madman's Path," where he -had almost borne her through space, she had felt an impulsion toward -him that had never returned since she placed her foot, the foot of a -coquette, on the pavement of Paris. - -He continued to yield himself to his mournful reveries, still stretched -at length upon his back, his look lost among the gold and green of -the tree-tops, and little by little his eyes closed, weighed down with -sleep and the tranquillity that reigned among the trees. When he awoke -he saw that it was past two o'clock of the afternoon. - -When he arose and proceeded on his way he felt less sad, less ailing. -At length he emerged from the thickness of the wood and came to a great -open space where six broad avenues converged and then stretched away -and lost themselves in the leafy, transparent distance. A signboard -told him that the name of the locality was "Le Bouquet-du-Roi." It was -indeed the capital of this royal country of the beeches. - -A carriage passed, and as it was empty and disengaged Mariolle took it -and ordered the driver to take him to Marlotte, whence he could make -his way to Montigny after getting something to eat at the inn, for he -was beginning to be hungry. - -He remembered that he had seen this establishment, which was only -recently opened, the day before: the Hotel Corot, it was called, an -artistic public-house in middle-age style of decoration, modeled on -the Chat Noir in Paris. His driver set him down there and he passed -through an open door into a vast room where old-fashioned tables and -uncomfortable benches seemed to be awaiting drinkers of a past century. -At the far end a woman, a young waitress, no doubt, was standing on top -of a little folding ladder, fastening some old plates to nails that -were driven in the wall and seemed nearly beyond her reach. Now raising -herself on tiptoe on both feet, now on one, supporting herself with one -hand against the wall while the other held the plate, she reached up -with pretty and adroit movements; for her figure was pleasing and the -undulating lines from wrist to ankle assumed changing forms of grace at -every fresh posture. As her back was toward him she had been unaware of -Mariolle's entrance, who stopped to watch her. He thought of Prédolé -and his _figurines;_ "It is a pretty picture, though!" he said to -himself. "She is very graceful, that little girl." - -He gave a little cough. She was so startled that she came near falling, -but as soon as she had recovered her self-possession, she jumped down -from her ladder as lightly as a rope dancer, and came to him with a -pleasant smile on her face. "What will Monsieur have?" she inquired. - -"Breakfast, Mademoiselle." - -She ventured to say: "It should be dinner, rather, for it is half past -three o'clock." - -"We will call it dinner if you like. I lost myself in the forest." - -Then she told him what dishes there were ready; he made his selection -and took a seat. She went away to give the order, returning shortly to -set the table for him. He watched her closely as she bustled around -the table; she was pretty and very neat in her attire. She had a spry -little air that was very pleasant to behold, in her working dress with -skirt pinned up, sleeves rolled back, and neck exposed; and her corset -fitted closely to her pretty form, of which she had no reason to be -ashamed. - -Her face was rather red, painted by exposure to the open air, and it -seemed somewhat too fat and puffy, but it was as fresh as a new-blown -rose, with fine, bright, brown eyes, a large mouth with its complement -of handsome teeth, and chestnut hair that revealed by its abundance the -healthy vigor of this strong young frame. - -She brought radishes and bread and butter and he began to eat, ceasing -to pay attention to the attendant. He called for a bottle of champagne -and drank the whole of it, as he did two glasses of kummel after his -coffee, and as his stomach was empty--he had taken nothing before -he left his house but a little bread and cold meat--he soon felt a -comforting feeling of tipsiness stealing over him that he mistook for -oblivion. His griefs and sorrows were diluted and tempered by the -sparkling wine which, in so short a time, had transformed the torments -of his heart into insensibility. He walked slowly back to Montigny, and -being very tired and sleepy went to bed as soon as it was dark, falling -asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow. - -He awoke after a while, however, in the dense darkness, ill at ease and -disquieted as if a nightmare that had left him for an hour or two had -furtively reappeared at his bedside to murder sleep. She was there, -she, Mme. de Burne, back again, roaming about his bed, and accompanied -still by M. de Bernhaus. "Come!" he said, "it must be that I am -jealous. What is the reason of it?" - -Why was he jealous? He quickly told himself why. Notwithstanding all -his doubts and fears he knew that as long as he had been her lover -she had been faithful to him--faithful, indeed, without tenderness -and without transports, but with a loyal strength of resolution. -Now, however, he had broken it all off, and it was ended; he had -restored her freedom to her. Would she remain without a _liaison_? -Yes, doubtless, for a while. And then? This very fidelity that she had -observed toward him up to the present moment, a fidelity beyond the -reach of suspicion, was it not due to the feeling that if she left him, -Mariolle, because she was tired of him, she would some day, sooner or -later, have to take some one to fill his place, not from passion, but -from weariness of being alone? - -Is it not true that lovers often owe their long lease of favor simply -to the dread of an unknown successor? And then to dismiss one lover and -take up with another would not have seemed the right thing to such a -woman--she was too intelligent, indeed, to bow to social prejudices, -but was gifted with a delicate sense of moral purity that kept her from -real indelicacies. She was a worldly philosopher and not a prudish -_bourgeoise_, and while she would not have quailed at the idea of a -secret attachment, her nature would have revolted at the thought of a -succession of lovers. - -He had given her her freedom--and now? Now most certainly she would -take up with some one else, and that some one would be the Comte de -Bernhaus. He was sure of it, and the thought was now affording him -inexpressible suffering. Why had he left her? She had been faithful, -a good friend to him, charming in every way. Why? Was it because he -was a brutal sensualist who could not separate true love from its -physical transports? Was that it? Yes--but there was something besides. -He had fled from the pain of not being loved as he loved, from the -cruel feeling that he did not receive an equivalent return for the -warmth of his kisses, an incurable affliction from which his heart, -grievously smitten, would perhaps never recover. He looked forward with -dread to the prospect of enduring for years the torments that he had -been anticipating for a few months and suffering for a few weeks. In -accordance with his nature he had weakly recoiled before this prospect, -just as he had recoiled all his life long before any effort that called -for resolution. It followed that he was incapable of carrying anything -to its conclusion, of throwing himself heart and soul into such a -passion as one develops for a science or an art, for it is impossible, -perhaps, to have loved greatly without having suffered greatly. - -Until daylight he pursued this train of thought, which tore him like -wild horses; then he got up and went down to the bank of the little -stream. A fisherman was casting his net near the little dam, and when -he withdrew it from the water that flashed and eddied in the sunlight -and spread it on the deck of his small boat, the little fishes danced -among the meshes like animated silver. - -Mariolle's agitation subsided little by little in the balmy freshness -of the early morning air. The cool mist that rose from the miniature -waterfall, about which faint rainbows fluttered, and the stream that -ran at his feet in rapid and ceaseless current, carried off with them -a portion of his sorrow. He said to himself: "Truly, I have done -the right thing; I should have been too unhappy otherwise!" Then he -returned to the house, and taking possession of a hammock that he had -noticed in the vestibule, he made it fast between two of the lindens -and throwing himself into it, endeavored to drive away reflection by -fixing his eyes and thoughts upon the flowing stream. - -Thus he idled away the time until the hour of breakfast, in an -agreeable torpor, a physical sensation of well-being that communicated -itself to the mind, and he protracted the meal as much as possible -that he might have some occupation for the dragging minutes. There was -one thing, however, that he looked forward to with eager expectation, -and that was his mail. He had telegraphed to Paris and written to -Fontainebleau to have his letters forwarded, but had received nothing, -and the sensation of being entirely abandoned was beginning to be -oppressive. Why? He had no reason to expect that there would be -anything particularly pleasing or comforting for him in the little -black box that the carrier bore slung at his side, nothing beyond -useless invitations and unmeaning communications. Why, then, should he -long for letters of whose contents he knew nothing as if the salvation -of his soul depended on them? Was it not that there lay concealed in -his heart the vainglorious expectation that she would write to him? - -He asked one of his old women: "At what time does the mail arrive?" - -"At noon, Monsieur." - -It was just midday, and he listened with increased attention to the -noises that reached him from outdoors. A knock at the outer door -brought him to his feet; the messenger brought him only the newspapers -and three unimportant letters. Mariolle glanced over the journals until -he was tired, and went out. - -What should he do? He went to the hammock and lay down in it, but -after half an hour of that he experienced an uncontrollable desire to -go somewhere else. The forest? Yes, the forest was very pleasant, but -then the solitude there was even deeper than it was in his house, much -deeper than it was in the village, where there were at least some signs -of life now and then. And the silence and loneliness of all those trees -and leaves filled his mind with sadness and regrets, steeping him more -deeply still in wretchedness. He mentally reviewed his long walk of -the day before, and when he came to the wide-awake little waitress of -the Hotel Corot, he said to himself: "I have it! I will go and dine -there." The idea did him good; it was something to occupy him, a means -of killing two or three hours, and he set out forthwith. - -The long village street stretched straight away in the middle of the -valley between two rows of low, white, tile-roofed houses, some of them -standing boldly up with their fronts close to the road, others, more -retiring, situated in a garden where there was a lilac-bush in bloom -and chickens scratching over manure-heaps, where wooden stairways in -the open air climbed to doors cut in the wall. Peasants were at work -before their dwellings, lazily fulfilling their domestic duties. An -old woman, bent with age and with threads of gray in her yellow hair, -for country folk rarely have white hair, passed close to him, a ragged -jacket upon her shoulders and her lean and sinewy legs covered by a -woolen petticoat that failed to conceal the angles and protuberances -of her frame. She was looking aimlessly before her with expressionless -eyes, eyes that had never looked on other objects than those that might -be of use to her in her poor existence. - -Another woman, younger than this one, was hanging out the family wash -before her door. The lifting of her skirt as she raised her arms -aloft disclosed to view thick, coarse ankles incased in blue knitted -stockings, with great, projecting, fleshless bones, while the breast -and shoulders, flat and broad as those of a man, told of a body whose -form must have been horrible to behold. - -Mariolle thought: "They are women! Those scarecrows are women!" The -vision of Mme. de Burne arose before his eyes. He beheld her in all -her elegance and beauty, the perfection of the human female form, -coquettish and adorned to meet the looks of man, and again he smarted -with the sorrow of an irreparable loss; then he walked on more quickly -to shake himself free of this impression. - -When he reached the inn at Marlotte the little waitress recognized him -immediately, and accosted him almost familiarly: "Good day, Monsieur." - -"Good day, Mademoiselle." - -"Do you wish something to drink?" - -"Yes, to begin with; then I will have dinner." - -They discussed the question of what he should drink in the first place -and what he should eat subsequently. He asked her advice for the -pleasure of hearing her talk, for she had a nice way of expressing -herself. She had a short little Parisian accent, and her speech was as -unconstrained as was her movements. He thought as he listened: "The -little girl is quite agreeable; she seems to me to have a bit of the -_cocotte_ about her." - -"Are you a Parisian?" he inquired. - -"Yes, sir." - -"Have you been here long?" - -"Two weeks, sir." - -"And do you like it?" - -"Not very well so far, but it is too soon to tell, and then I was -tired of the air of Paris, and the country has done me good; that is -why I made up my mind to come here. Then I shall bring you a vermouth, -Monsieur?" - -"Yes, Mademoiselle, and tell the cook to be careful and pay attention -to my dinner." - -"Never fear, Monsieur." - -After she had gone away he went into the garden of the hotel, and took -a seat in an arbor, where his vermouth was served. He remained there -all the rest of the day, listening to a blackbird whistling in its -cage, and watching the little waitress in her goings and comings. She -played the coquette, and put on her sweetest looks for the gentleman, -for she had not failed to observe that he found her to his liking. - -He went away as he had done the day before after drinking a bottle of -champagne to dispel gloom, but the darkness of the way and the coolness -of the night air quickly dissipated his incipient tipsiness, and sorrow -again took possession of his devoted soul. He thought: "What am I to -do? Shall I remain here? Shall I be condemned for long to drag out this -desolate way of living?" It was very late when he got to sleep. - -The next morning he again installed himself in the hammock, and all at -once the sight of a man casting his net inspired him with the idea of -going fishing. The grocer from whom he bought his lines gave him some -instructions upon the soothing sport, and even offered to go with him -and act as his guide upon his first attempt. The offer was accepted, -and between nine o'clock and noon Mariolle succeeded, by dint of -vigorous exertion and unintermitting patience, in capturing three small -fish. - -When he had dispatched his breakfast he took up his march again for -Marlotte. Why? To kill time, of course. - -The little waitress began to laugh when she saw him coming. Amused by -her recognition of him, he smiled back at her, and tried to engage her -in conversation. She was more familiar than she had been the preceding -day, and met him halfway. - -Her name was Elisabeth Ledru. Her mother, who took in dressmaking, had -died the year before; then the husband, an accountant by profession, -always drunk and out of work, who had lived on the little earnings of -his wife and daughter, disappeared, for the girl could not support -two persons, though she shut herself up in her garret room and sewed -all day long. Tiring of her lonely occupation after a while, she got -a position as waitress in a cook-shop, remained there a year, and as -the hard work had worn her down, the proprietor of the Hotel Corot at -Marlotte, upon whom she had waited at times, engaged her for the summer -with two other girls who were to come down a little later on. It was -evident that the proprietor knew how to attract customers. - -Her little story pleased Mariolle, and by treating her with respect and -asking her a few discriminating questions, he succeeded in eliciting -from her many interesting details of this poor dismal home that had -been laid in ruins by a drunken father. She, poor, homeless, wandering -creature that she was, gay and cheerful because she could not help -it, being young, and feeling that the interest that this stranger -took in her was unfeigned, talked to him with confidence, with that -expansiveness of soul that she could no more restrain than she could -restrain the agile movements of her limbs. - -When she had finished he asked her: "And--do you expect to be a -waitress all your life?" - -"I could not answer that question, Monsieur. How can I tell what may -happen to me to-morrow?" - -"And yet it is necessary to think of the future." - -She had assumed a thoughtful air that did not linger long upon her -features, then she replied: "I suppose that I shall have to take -whatever comes to me. So much the worse!" - -They parted very good friends. After a few days he returned, then -again, and soon he began to go there frequently, finding a vague -distraction in the girl's conversation, and that her artless prattle -helped him somewhat to forget his grief. - -When he returned on foot to Montigny in the evening, however, he had -terrible fits of despair as he thought of Mme. de Burne. His heart -became a little lighter with the morning sun, but with the night his -bitter regrets and fierce jealousy closed in on him again. He had no -intelligence; he had written to no one and had received letters from no -one. Then, alone with his thoughts upon the dark road, his imagination -would picture the progress of the approaching _liaison_ that he had -foreseen between his quondam mistress and the Comte de Bernhaus. This -had now become a settled idea with him and fixed itself more firmly in -his mind every day. That man, he thought, will be to her just what she -requires; a distinguished, assiduous, unexacting lover, contented and -happy to be the chosen one of this superlatively delicious coquette. He -compared him with himself. The other most certainly would not behave -as he had, would not be guilty of that tiresome impatience and of that -insatiable thirst for a return of his affection that had been the -destruction of their amorous understanding. He was a very discreet, -pliant, and well-posted man of the world, and would manage to get along -and content himself with but little, for he did not seem to belong to -the class of impassioned mortals. - -On one of André Mariolle's visits to Marlotte one day, he beheld two -bearded young fellows in the other arbor of the Hotel Corot, smoking -pipes and wearing Scotch caps on their heads. The proprietor, a big, -broad-faced man, came forward to pay his respects as soon as he saw -him, for he had an interested liking for this faithful patron of -his dinner-table, and said to him: "I have two new customers since -yesterday, two painters." - -"Those gentlemen sitting there?" - -"Yes. They are beginning to be heard of. One of them got a second-class -medal last year." And having told all that he knew about the embryo -artists, he asked: "What will you take to-day, Monsieur Mariolle?" - -"You may send me out a vermouth, as usual." - -The proprietor went away, and soon Elisabeth appeared, bringing the -salver, the glass, the _carafe_, and the bottle. Whereupon one of the -painters called to her: "Well! little one, are we angry still?" - -She did not answer and when she approached Mariolle he saw that her -eyes were red. - -"You have been crying," he said. - -"Yes, a little," she simply replied. - -"What was the matter?" - -"Those two gentlemen there behaved rudely to me." - -"What did they do to you?" - -"They took me for a bad character." - -"Did you complain to the proprietor?" - -She gave a sorrowful shrug of the shoulders, "Oh! Monsieur--the -proprietor. I know what he is now--the proprietor!" - -Mariolle was touched, and a little angry; he said to her: "Tell me what -it was all about." - -She told him of the brutal conduct of the two painters immediately -upon their arrival the night before, and then began to cry again, -asking what she was to do, alone in the country and without friends or -relatives, money or protection. - -Mariolle suddenly said to her: "Will you enter my service? You shall be -well treated in my house, and when I return to Paris you will be free -to do what you please." - -She looked him in the face with questioning eyes, and then quickly -replied: "I will, Monsieur. - -"How much are you earning here?" - -"Sixty francs a month," she added, rather uneasily, "and I have my -share of the _pourboires_ besides; that makes it about seventy." - -"I will pay you a hundred." - -She repeated in astonishment: "A hundred francs a month?" - -"Yes. Is that enough?" - -"I should think that it was enough!" - -"All that you will have to do will be to wait on me, take care of my -clothes and linen, and attend to my room." - -"It is a bargain, Monsieur." - -"When will you come?" - -"To-morrow, if you wish. After what has happened here I will go to the -mayor and will leave whether they are willing or not." - -Mariolle took two louis from his pocket and handed them to her. -"There's the money to bind our bargain." - -A look of joy flashed across her face and she said in a tone of -decision: "I will be at your house before midday to-morrow, Monsieur." - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - - -CONSOLATION - - -Elisabeth came to Montigny next day, attended by a countryman with -her trunk on a wheelbarrow. Mariolle had made a generous settlement -with one of his old women and got rid of her, and the newcomer took -possession of a small room on the top floor adjoining that of the -cook. She was quite different from what she had been at Marlotte, -when she presented herself before her new master, less effusive, -more respectful, more self-contained; she was now the servant of the -gentleman to whom she had been almost an humble friend beneath the -arbor of the inn. He told her in a few words what she would have to do. -She listened attentively, went and took possession of her room, and -then entered upon her new service. - -A week passed and brought no noticeable change in the state of -Mariolle's feelings. The only difference was that he remained at home -more than he had been accustomed to do, for he had nothing to attract -him to Marlotte, and his house seemed less dismal to him than at first. -The bitterness of his grief was subsiding a little, as all storms -subside after a while; but in place of this aching wound there was -arising in him a settled melancholy, one of those deep-seated sorrows -that are like chronic and lingering maladies, and sometimes end in -death. His former liveliness of mind and body, his mental activity, -his interests in the pursuits that had served to occupy and amuse him -hitherto were all dead, and their place had been taken by a universal -disgust and an invincible torpor, that left him without even strength -of will to get up and go out of doors. He no longer left his house, -passing from the salon to the hammock and from the hammock to the -salon, and his chief distraction consisted in watching the current of -the Loing as it flowed by the terrace and the fisherman casting his net. - -When the reserve of the first few days had begun to wear off, Elisabeth -gradually grew a little bolder, and remarking with her keen feminine -instinct the constant dejection of her employer, she would say to him -when the other servant was not by: "Monsieur finds his time hang heavy -on his hands?" - -He would answer resignedly: "Yes, pretty heavy." - -"Monsieur should go for a walk." - -"That would not do me any good." - -She quietly did many little unassuming things for his pleasure and -comfort. Every morning when he came into his drawing-room, he found -it filled with flowers and smelling as sweetly as a conservatory. -Elisabeth must surely have enlisted all the boys in the village to -bring her primroses, violets, and buttercups from the forest, as well -as putting under contribution the small gardens where the peasant girls -tended their few plants at evening. In his loneliness and distress he -was grateful for her kind thoughtfulness and her unobtrusive desire to -please him in these small ways. - -It also seemed to him that she was growing prettier, more refined in -her appearance, and that she devoted more attention to the care of her -person. One day when she was handing him a cup of tea, he noticed that -her hands were no longer the hands of a servant, but of a lady, with -well-trimmed, clean nails, quite irreproachable. On another occasion he -observed that the shoes that she wore were almost elegant in shape and -material. Then she had gone up to her room one afternoon and come down -wearing a delightful little gray dress, quite simple and in perfect -taste. "Hallo!" he exclaimed, as he saw her, "how dressy you are -getting to be, Elisabeth!" - -She blushed up to the whites of her eyes. "What, I, Monsieur? Why, no. -I dress a little better because I have more money." - -"Where did you buy that dress that you have on?" - -"I made it myself, Monsieur." - -"You made it? When? I always see you busy at work about the house -during the day." - -"Why, during my evenings, Monsieur." - -"But where did you get the stuff? and who cut it for you?" - -She told him that the shopkeeper at Montigny had brought her some -samples from Fontainebleau, that she had made her selection from them, -and paid for the goods out of the two louis that he had paid her as -advanced wages. The cutting and fitting had not troubled her at all, -for she and her mother had worked four years for a ready-made clothing -house. He could not resist telling her: "It is very becoming to you. -You look very pretty in it." And she had to blush again, this time to -the roots of her hair. - -When she had left the room he said to himself: "I wonder if she is -beginning to fall in love with me?" He reflected on it, hesitated, -doubted, and finally came to the conclusion that after all it might be -possible. He had been kind and compassionate toward her, had assisted -her, and been almost her friend; there would be nothing very surprising -in this little girl being smitten with the master, who had been so -good to her. The idea did not strike him very disagreeably, moreover, -for she was really very presentable, and retained nothing of the -appearance of a servant about her. He experienced a flattering feeling -of consolation, and his masculine vanity, that had been so cruelly -wounded and trampled on and crushed by another woman, felt comforted. -It was a compensation--trivial and unnoteworthy though it might be, it -was a compensation--for when love comes to a man unsought, no matter -whence it comes, it is because that man possesses the capacity of -inspiring it. His unconscious selfishness was also gratified by it; -it would occupy his attention and do him a little good, perhaps, to -watch this young heart opening and beating for him. The thought never -occurred to him of sending the child away, of rescuing her from the -peril from which he himself was suffering so cruelly, of having more -pity for her than others had showed toward him, for compassion is never -an ingredient that enters into sentimental conquests. - -So he continued his observations, and soon saw that he had not been -mistaken. Petty details revealed it to him more clearly day by day. As -she came near him one morning while waiting on him at table, he smelled -on her clothing an odor of perfumery--villainous, cheap perfumery, -from the village shopkeeper's, doubtless, or the druggist's--so he -presented her with a bottle of Cyprus toilette-water that he had been -in the habit of using for a long time, and of which he always carried a -supply about with him. He also gave her fine soaps, tooth-washes, and -rice-powder. He thus lent his assistance to the transformation that was -becoming more apparent every day, watching it meantime with a pleased -and curious eye. While remaining his faithful and respectful servant, -she was thus becoming a woman in whom the coquettish instincts of her -sex were artlessly developing themselves. - -He, on his part, was imperceptibly becoming attached to her. She -inspired him at the same time with amusement and gratitude. He trifled -with this dawning tenderness as one trifles in his hours of melancholy -with anything that can divert his mind. He was conscious of no other -emotion toward her than that undefined desire which impels every man -toward a prepossessing woman, even if she be a pretty servant, or a -peasant maiden with the form of a goddess--a sort of rustic Venus. -He felt himself drawn to her more than all else by the womanliness -that he now found in her. He felt the need of that--an undefined and -irresistible need, bequeathed to him by that other one, the woman whom -he loved, who had first awakened in him that invincible and mysterious -fondness for the nature, the companionship, the contact of women, for -the subtle aroma, ideal or sensual, that every beautiful creature, -whether of the people or of the upper class, whether a lethargic, -sensual native of the Orient with great black eyes, or a blue-eyed, -keen-witted daughter of the North, inspires in men in whom still -survives the immemorial attraction of femininity. - -These gentle, loving, and unceasing attentions that were felt rather -than seen, wrapped his wound in a sort of soft, protecting envelope -that shielded it to some extent from its recurrent attacks of -suffering, which did return, nevertheless, like flies to a raw sore. -He was made especially impatient by the absence of all news, for his -friends had religiously respected his request not to divulge his -address. Now and then he would see Massival's or Lamarthe's name in the -newspapers among those who had been present at some great dinner or -ceremonial, and one day he saw Mme. de Burne's, who was mentioned as -being one of the most elegant, the prettiest, and best dressed of the -women who were at the ball at the Austrian embassy. It sent a trembling -through him from head to foot. The name of the Comte de Bernhaus -appeared a few lines further down, and that day Mariolle's jealousy -returned and wrung his heart until night. The suspected _liaison_ was -no longer subject for doubt for him now. It was one of those imaginary -convictions that are even more torturing than reality, for there is no -getting rid of them and they leave a wound that hardly ever heals. - -No longer able to endure this state of ignorance and uncertainty, he -determined to write to Lamarthe, who was sufficiently well acquainted -with him to divine the wretchedness of his soul, and would be likely to -afford him some clew as to the justice of his suspicions, even without -being directly questioned on the subject. One evening, therefore, he -sat down and by the light of his lamp concocted a long, artful letter, -full of vague sadness and poetical allusions to the delights of early -spring in the country and veiled requests for information. When he got -his mail four days later he recognized at the very first glance the -novelist's firm, upright handwriting. - -Lamarthe sent him a thousand items of news that were of great -importance to his jealous eyes. Without laying more stress upon Mme. -de Burne and Bernhaus than upon any other of the crowd of people whom -he mentioned, he seemed to place them in the foreground by one of -those tricks of style characteristic of him, which led the attention -to just the point where he wished to lead it without revealing his -design. The impression that this letter, taken as a whole, left upon -Mariolle was that his suspicions were at least not destitute of -foundation. His fears would be realized to-morrow, if they had not been -yesterday. His former mistress was always the same, leading the same -busy, brilliant, fashionable life. He had been the subject of some talk -after his disappearance, as the world always talks of people who have -disappeared, with lukewarm curiosity. - -After the receipt of this letter he remained in his hammock until -nightfall; then he could eat no dinner, and after that he could get no -sleep; he was feverish through the night. The next morning he felt so -tired, so discouraged, so disgusted with his weary, monotonous life, -between the deep silent forest that was now dark with verdure on the -one hand and the tiresome little stream that flowed beneath his windows -on the other, that he did not leave his bed. - -When Elisabeth came to his room in response to the summons of his bell, -she stood in the doorway pale with surprise and asked him: "Is Monsieur -ill?" - -"Yes, a little." - -"Shall I send for the doctor?" - -"No. I am subject to these slight indispositions." - -"What can I do for Monsieur?" - -He ordered his bath to be got ready, a breakfast of eggs alone, and tea -at intervals during the day. - -About one o'clock, however, he became so restless that he determined to -get up. Elisabeth, whom he had rung for repeatedly during the morning -with the fretful irresolution of a man who imagines himself ill and who -had always come up to him with a deep desire of being of assistance, -now, beholding him so nervous and restless, with a blush for her own -boldness, offered to read to him. - -He asked her: "Do you read well?" - -"Yes, Monsieur; I gained all the prizes for reading when I was at -school in the city, and I have read so many novels to mamma that I -can't begin to remember the names of them." - -He was curious to see how she would do, and he sent her into the studio -to look among the books that he had packed up for the one that he -liked best of all, "Manon Lescaut." - -When she returned she helped him to settle himself in bed, arranged -two pillows behind his back, took a chair, and began to read. She read -well, very well indeed, intelligently and with a pleasing accent that -seemed a special gift. She evinced her interest in the story from the -commencement and showed so much feeling as she advanced in it that -he stopped her now and then to ask her a question and have a little -conversation about the plot and the characters. - -Through the open windows, on the warm breeze loaded with the sweet -odors of growing things, came the trills and _roulades_ of the -nightingales among the trees saluting their mates with their amorous -ditties in this season of awakening love. The young girl, too, was -moved beneath André's gaze as she followed with bright eyes the plot -unwinding page by page. - -She answered the questions that he put to her with an innate -appreciation of the things connected with tenderness and passion, an -appreciation that was just, but, owing to the ignorance natural to -her position, sometimes crude. He thought: "This girl would be very -intelligent and bright if she had a little teaching." - -Her womanly charm had already begun to make itself felt in him, and -really did him good that warm, still, spring afternoon, mingling -strangely with that other charm, so powerful and so mysterious, of -"Manon," the strangest conception of woman ever evoked by human -ingenuity. - -When it became dark after this day of inactivity Mariolle sank into -a kind of dreaming, dozing state, in which confused visions of Mme. -de Burne and Elisabeth and the mistress of Des Grieux rose before his -eyes. As he had not left his room since the day before and had taken -no exercise to fatigue him he slept lightly and was disturbed by an -unusual noise that he heard about the house. - -Once or twice before he had thought that he heard faint sounds -and footsteps at night coming from the ground floor, not directly -underneath his room, but from the laundry and bath-room, small rooms -that adjoined the kitchen. He had given the matter no attention, -however. - -This evening, tired of lying in bed and knowing that he had a long -period of wakefulness before him, he listened and distinguished -something that sounded like the rustling of a woman's garments and -the splashing of water. He decided that he would go and investigate, -lighted a candle and looked at his watch; it was barely ten o'clock. He -dressed himself, and having slipped a revolver into his pocket, made -his way down the stairs on tiptoe with the stealthiness of a cat. - -When he reached the kitchen, he was surprised to see that there was a -fire burning in the furnace. There was not a sound to be heard, but -presently he was conscious of something stirring in the bath-room, a -small, whitewashed apartment that opened off the kitchen and contained -nothing but the tub. He went noiselessly to the door and threw it open -with a quick movement; there, extended in the tub, he beheld the most -beautiful form that he had ever seen in his life. - -It was Elisabeth. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - - -MARIOLLE COPIES MME DE BURNE - - -When she appeared before him next morning bringing him his tea and -toast, and their eyes met, she began to tremble so that the cup and -sugar-bowl rattled on the salver. Mariolle went to her and relieved her -of her burden and placed it on the table; then, as she still kept her -eyes fastened on the floor, he said to her: "Look at me, little one." - -She raised her eyes to him; they were full of tears. - -"You must not cry," he continued. As he held her in his arms, she -murmured: "_Oh! mon Dieu!"_ He knew that it was not regret, nor sorrow, -nor remorse that had elicited from her those three agitated words, but -happiness, true happiness. It gave him a strange, selfish feeling of -delight, physical rather than moral, to feel this small person resting -against his heart, to feel there at last the presence of a woman who -loved him. He thanked her for it, as a wounded man lying by the -roadside would thank a woman who had stopped to succor him; he thanked -her with all his lacerated heart, and he pitied her a little, too, -in the depths of his soul. As he watched her thus, pale and tearful, -with eyes alight with love, he suddenly said to himself: "Why, she is -beautiful! How quickly a woman changes, becomes what she ought to be, -under the influence of the desires of her feelings and the necessities -of her existence!" - -"Sit down," he said to her. He took her hands in his, her poor toiling -hands that she had made white and pretty for his sake, and very gently, -in carefully chosen phrases, he spoke to her of the attitude that they -should maintain toward each other. She was no longer his servant, but -she would preserve the appearance of being so for a while yet, so as -not to create a scandal in the village. She would live with him as his -housekeeper and would read to him frequently, and that would serve to -account for the change in the situation. He would have her eat at his -table after a little, as soon as she should be permanently installed in -her position as his reader. - -When he had finished she simply replied: "No, Monsieur, I am your -servant, and I will continue to be so. I do not wish to have people -learn what has taken place and talk about it." - -He could not shake her determination, although he urged her -strenuously, and when he had drunk his tea she carried away the salver -while he followed her with a softened look. - -When she was gone he reflected. "She is a woman," he thought, "and -all women are equal when they are pleasing in our eyes. I have -made my waitress my mistress. She is pretty, she will be charming! -At all events she is younger and fresher than the _mondaines_ and -the _cocottes_. What difference does it make, after all? How many -celebrated actresses have been daughters of _concierges_! And yet they -are received as ladies, they are adored like heroines of romance, and -princes bow before them as if they were queens. Is this to be accounted -for on the score of their talent, which is often doubtful, or of their -beauty, which is often questionable? Not at all. But a woman, in truth, -always holds the place that she is able to create for herself by the -illusion that she is capable of inspiring." - -He took a long walk that day, and although he still felt the same -distress at the bottom of his heart and his legs were heavy under him, -as if his suffering had loosened all the springs of his energy, there -was a feeling of gladness within him like the song of a little bird. He -was not so lonely, he felt himself less utterly abandoned; the forest -appeared to him less silent and less void. - -He returned to his house with the glad thought that Elisabeth would -come out to meet him with a smile upon her lips and a look of -tenderness in her eyes. - -The life that he now led for about a month on the bank of the little -stream was a real idyl. Mariolle was loved as perhaps very few men -have ever been, as a child is loved by its mother, as the hunter is -loved by his dog. He was all in all to her, her Heaven and earth, her -charm and delight. He responded to all her ardent and artless womanly -advances, giving her in a kiss her fill of ecstasy. In her eyes and in -her soul, in her heart and in her flesh there was no object but him; -her intoxication was like that of a young man who tastes wine for the -first time. Surprised and delighted, he reveled in the bliss of this -absolute self-surrender, and he felt that this was drinking of love at -its fountain-head, at the very lips of nature. - -Nevertheless he continued to be sad, sad, and haunted by his deep, -unyielding disenchantment. His little mistress was agreeable, but -he always felt the absence of another, and when he walked in the -meadows or on the banks of the Loing and asked himself: "Why does -this lingering care stay by me so?" such an intolerable feeling of -desolation rose within him as the recollection of Paris crossed his -mind that he had to return to the house so as not to be alone. - -Then he would swing in the hammock, while Elisabeth, seated on a -camp-chair, would read to him. As he watched her and listened to her he -would recall to mind conversations in the drawing-room of Michèle, in -the days when he passed whole evenings alone with her. Then tears would -start to his eyes, and such bitter regret would tear his heart that he -felt that he must start at once for Paris or else leave the country -forever. - -Elisabeth, seeing his gloom and melancholy, asked him: "Are you -suffering? Your eyes are full of tears." - -"Give me a kiss, little one," he replied; "you could not understand." - -She kissed him, anxiously, with a foreboding of some tragedy that was -beyond her knowledge. He, forgetting his woes for a moment beneath her -caresses, thought: "Oh! for a woman who could be these two in one, who -might have the affection of the one and the charm of the other! Why is -it that we never encounter the object of our dreams, that we always -meet with something that is only approximately like them?" - -He continued his vague reflections, soothed by the monotonous sound -of the voice that fell unheeded on his ear, upon all the charms that -had combined to seduce and vanquish him in the mistress whom he had -abandoned. In the besetment of her memory, of her imaginary presence, -by which he was haunted as a visionary by a phantom, he asked himself: -"Am I condemned to carry her image with me to all eternity?" - -He again applied himself to taking long walks, to roaming through the -thicknesses of the forest, with the vague hope that he might lose her -somewhere, in the depths of a ravine, behind a rock, in a thicket, as -a man who wishes to rid himself of an animal that he does not care to -kill sometimes takes it away a long distance so that it may not find -its way home. - -In the course of one of these walks he one day came again to the spot -where the beeches grew. It was now a gloomy forest, almost as black as -night, with impenetrable foliage. He passed along beneath the immense, -deep vault in the damp, sultry air, thinking regretfully of his earlier -visit when the little half-opened leaves resembled a verdant, sunshiny -mist, and as he was following a narrow path, he suddenly stopped in -astonishment before two trees that had grown together. It was a sturdy -beech embracing with two of its branches a tall, slender oak; and -there could have been no picture of his love that would have appealed -more forcibly and more touchingly to his imagination. Mariolle seated -himself to contemplate them at his ease. To his diseased mind, as -they stood there in their motionless strife, they became splendid and -terrible symbols, telling to him, and to all who might pass that way, -the everlasting story of his love. - -Then he went on his way again, sadder than before, and as he walked -along, slowly and with eyes downcast, he all at once perceived, half -hidden by the grass and stained by mud and rain, an old telegram that -had been lost or thrown there by some wayfarer. He stopped. What was -the message of joy or sorrow that the bit of blue paper that lay there -at his feet had brought to some expectant soul? - -He could not help picking it up and opening it with a mingled feeling -of curiosity and disgust. The words "Come--me--four o'clock--" were -still legible; the names had been obliterated by the moisture. - -Memories, at once cruel and delightful, thronged upon his mind of all -the messages that he had received from her, now to appoint the hour for -a rendezvous, now to tell him that she could not come to him. Never had -anything caused him such emotion, nor startled him so violently, nor -so stopped his poor heart and then set it thumping again as had the -sight of those messages, burning or freezing him as the case might be. -The thought that he should never receive more of them filled him with -unutterable sorrow. - -Again he asked himself what her thoughts had been since he left her. -Had she suffered, had she regretted the friend whom her coldness had -driven from her, or had she merely experienced a feeling of wounded -vanity and thought nothing more of his abandonment? His desire to learn -the truth was so strong and so persistent that a strange and audacious, -yet only half-formed resolve, came into his head. He took the road -to Fontainebleau, and when he reached the city went to the telegraph -office, his mind in a fluctuating state of unrest and indecision; but -an irresistible force proceeding from his heart seemed to urge him on. -With a trembling hand, then, he took from the desk a printed blank and -beneath the name and address of Mme. de Burne wrote this dispatch: - - "I would so much like to know what you think of me! For my - part I can forget nothing. ANDRÉ MARIOLLE." - -Then he went out, engaged a carriage, and returned to Montigny, -disturbed in mind by what he had done and regretting it already. - -He had calculated that in case she condescended to answer him he -would receive a letter from her two days later, but the fear and the -hope that she might send him a dispatch kept him in his house all the -following day. He was in his hammock under the lindens on the terrace, -when, about three o'clock, Elisabeth came to tell him that there was a -lady at the house who wanted to see him. - -The shock was so great that his breath failed him for a moment and his -legs bent under him, and his heart beat violently as he went toward -the house. And yet he could not dare hope that it was she. - -When he appeared at the drawing-room door Mme. de Burne arose from -the sofa where she was sitting and came forward to shake hands with a -rather reserved smile upon her face, with a slight constraint of manner -and attitude, saying: "I came to see how you are, as your message did -not give me much information on the subject." - -He had become so pale that a flash of delight rose to her eyes, and his -emotion was so great that he could not speak, could only hold his lips -glued to the hand that she had given him. - -"_Dieu!_ how kind of you!" he said at last. - -"No; but I do not forget my friends, and I was anxious about you." - -She looked him in the face with that rapid, searching woman's look -that reads everything, fathoms one's thoughts to their very roots, -and unmasks every artifice. She was satisfied, apparently, for her -face brightened with a smile. "You have a pretty hermitage here," she -continued. "Does happiness reside in it?" - -"No, Madame." - -"Is it possible? In this fine country, at the side of this beautiful -forest, on the banks of this pretty stream? Why, you ought to be at -rest and quite contented here." - -"I am not, Madame." - -"Why not, then?" - -"Because I cannot forget." - -"Is it indispensable to your happiness that you should forget -something?" - -"Yes, Madame." - -"May one know what?" - -"You know." - -"And then?" - -"And then I am very wretched." - -She said to him with mingled fatuity and commiseration: "I thought that -was the case when I received your telegram, and that was the reason -that I came, with the resolve that I would go back again at once if I -found that I had made a mistake." She was silent a moment and then went -on: "Since I am not going back immediately, may I go and look around -your place? That little alley of lindens yonder has a very charming -appearance: it looks as if it might be cooler out there than here in -this drawing-room." - -They went out. She had on a mauve dress that harmonized so well with -the verdure of the trees and the blue of the sky that she appeared to -him like some amazing apparition, of an entirely new style of beauty -and seductiveness. Her tall and willowy form, her bright, clean-cut -features, the little blaze of blond hair beneath a hat that was mauve, -like the dress, and lightly crowned by a long plume of ostrich-feathers -rolled about it, her tapering arms with the two hands holding the -closed sunshade crosswise before her, the loftiness of her carriage, -and the directness of her step seemed to introduce into the humble -little garden something exotic, something that was foreign to it. It -was a figure from one of Watteau's pictures, or from some fairy-tale or -dream, the imagination of a poet's or an artist's fancy, which had been -seized by the whim of coming away to the country to show how beautiful -it was. As Mariolle looked at her, all trembling with his newly lighted -passion, he recalled to mind the two peasant women that he had seen in -Montigny village. - -"Who is the little person who opened the door for me?" she inquired. - -"She is my servant." - -"She does not look like a waitress." - -"No; she is very good looking." - -"Where did you secure her?" - -"Quite near here; in an inn frequented by painters, where her innocence -was in danger from the customers." - -"And you preserved it?" - -He blushed and replied: "Yes, I preserved it." - -"To your own advantage, perhaps." - -"Certainly, to my own advantage, for I would rather have a pretty face -about me than an ugly one." - -"Is that the only feeling that she inspires in you?" - -"Perhaps it was she who inspired in me the irresistible desire of -seeing you again, for every woman when she attracts my eyes, even if it -is only for the duration of a second, carries my thoughts back to you." - -"That was a very pretty piece of special pleading! And does she love -her preserver?" - -He blushed more deeply than before. Quick as lightning the thought -flashed through his mind that jealousy is always efficacious as a -stimulant to a woman's feelings, and decided him to tell only half a -lie, so he answered, hesitatingly: "I don't know how that is; it may be -so. She is very attentive to me." - -Rather pettishly, Mme. de Burne murmured: "And you?" - -He fastened upon her his eyes that were aflame with love, and replied: -"Nothing could ever distract my thoughts from you." - -This was also a very shrewd answer, but the phrase seemed to her so -much the expression of an indisputable truth, that she let it pass -without noticing it. Could a woman such as she have any doubts about -a thing like that? So she was satisfied, in fact, and had no further -doubts upon the subject of Elisabeth. - -They took two canvas chairs and seated themselves in the shade of the -lindens over the running stream. He asked her: "What did you think of -me?" - -"That you must have been very wretched." - -"Was it through my fault or yours?" - -"Through the fault of us both." - -"And then?" - -"And then, knowing how beside yourself you were, I reflected that it -would be best to give you a little time to cool down. So I waited." - -"What were you waiting for?" - -"For a word from you. I received it, and here I am. Now we are going to -talk like people of sense. So you love me still? I do not ask you this -as a coquette--I ask it as your friend." - -"I love you still." - -"And what is it that you wish?" - -"How can I answer that? I am in your power." - -"Oh! my ideas are very clear, but I will not tell you them without -first knowing what yours are. Tell me of yourself, of what has been -passing in your heart and in your mind since you ran away from me." - -"I have been thinking of you; I have had no other occupation." He told -her of his resolution to forget her, his flight, his coming to the -great forest in which he had found nothing but her image, of his days -filled with memories of her, and his long nights of consuming jealousy; -he told her everything, with entire truthfulness, always excepting his -love for Elisabeth, whose name he did not mention. - -She listened, well assured that he was not lying, convinced by her -inner consciousness of her power over him, even more than by the -sincerity of his manner, and delighted with her victory, glad that she -was about to regain him, for she loved him still. - -Then he bemoaned himself over this situation that seemed to have no -end, and warming up as he told of all that he had suffered after having -carried it so long in his thoughts, he again reproached her, but -without anger, without bitterness, in terms of impassioned poetry, with -that impotency of loving of which she was the victim. He told her over -and over: "Others have not the gift of pleasing; you have not the gift -of loving." - -She interrupted him, speaking warmly, full of arguments and -illustrations. "At least I have the gift of being faithful," she said. -"Suppose I had adored you for ten months, and then fallen in love with -another man, would you be less unhappy than you are?" - -He exclaimed: "Is it, then, impossible for a woman to love only one -man?" - -But she had her answer ready for him: "No one can keep on loving -forever; all that one can do is to be constant. Do you believe that -that exalted delirium of the senses can last for years? No, no. As -for the most of those women who are addicted to passions, to violent -caprices of greater or less duration, they simply transform life into -a novel. Their heroes are different, the events and circumstances are -unforeseen and constantly changing, the _dénouement_ varies. I admit -that for them it is amusing and diverting, for with every change they -have a new set of emotions, but for _him_--when it is ended, that is -the last of it. Do you understand me?" - -"Yes; what you say has some truth in it. But I do not see what you are -getting at." - -"It is this: there is no passion that endures a very long time; by -that I mean a burning, torturing passion like that from which you are -suffering now. It is a crisis that I have made hard, very hard for you -to bear--I know it, and I feel it--by--by the aridity of my tenderness -and the paralysis of my emotional nature. This crisis will pass away, -however, for it cannot last forever." - -"And then?" he asked with anxiety. - -"Then I think that to a woman who is as reasonable and calm as I am you -can make yourself a lover who will be pleasing in every way, for you -have a great deal of tact. On the other hand you would make a terrible -husband. But there is no such thing as a good husband, there never can -be." - -He was surprised and a little offended. "Why," he asked, "do you wish -to keep a lover that you do not love?" - -She answered, impetuously: "I do love him, my friend, after my fashion. -I do not love ardently, but I love." - -"You require above everything else to be loved and to have your lovers -make a show of their love." - -"It is true. That is what I like. But beyond that my heart requires a -companion apart from the others. My vainglorious passion for public -homage does not interfere with my capacity for being faithful and -devoted; it does not destroy my belief that I have something of myself -that I could bestow upon a lover that no other man should have: my -loyal affection, the sincere attachment of my heart, the entire and -secret trustfulness of my soul; in exchange for which I should receive -from him, together with all the tenderness of a lover, the sensation, -so sweet and so rare, of not being entirely alone upon the earth. -That is not love from the way you look at it, but it is not entirely -valueless, either." - -He bent over toward her, trembling with emotion, and stammered: "Will -you let me be that man?" - -"Yes, after a little, when you are more yourself. In the meantime, -resign yourself to a little suffering once in a while, for my sake. -Since you have to suffer in any event, isn't it better to endure it at -my side rather than somewhere far from me?" Her smile seemed to say -to him: "Why can you not have confidence in me?" and as she eyed him -there, his whole frame quivering with passion, she experienced through -every fiber of her being a feeling of satisfied well-being that made -her happy in her way, in the way that the bird of prey is happy when -he sees his quarry lying fascinated beneath him and awaiting the fatal -talons. - -"When do you return to Paris?" she asked. - -"Why--to-morrow!" - -"To-morrow be it. You will come and dine with me?" - -"Yes, Madame." - -"And now I must be going," said she, looking at the watch set in the -handle of her parasol. - -"Oh! why so soon?" - -"Because I must catch the five o'clock train. I have company to dinner -to-day, several persons: the Princess de Malten, Bernhaus, Lamarthe, -Massival, De Maltry, and a stranger, M. de Charlaine, the explorer, who -is just back from upper Cambodia, after a wonderful journey. He is all -the talk just now." - -Mariolle's spirits fell; it hurt him to hear these names mentioned one -after the other, as if he had been stung by so many wasps. They were -poison to him. - -"Will you go now?" he said, "and we can drive through the forest and -see something of it." - -"I shall be very glad to. First give me a cup of tea and some toast." - -When the tea was served, Elisabeth was not to be found. The cook said -that she had gone out to make some purchases. This did not surprise -Mme. de Burne, for what had she to fear now from this servant? Then -they got into the landau that was standing before the door, and -Mariolle made the coachman take them to the station by a roundabout way -which took them past the Gorge-aux-Loups. As they rolled along beneath -the shade of the great trees where the nightingales were singing, -she was seized by the ineffable sensation that the mysterious and -all-powerful charm of nature impresses on the heart of man. "_Dieu!_" -she said, "how beautiful it is, how calm and restful!" - -He accompanied her to the station, and as they were about to part she -said to him: "I shall see you to-morrow at eight o'clock, then?" - -"To-morrow at eight o'clock, Madame." - -She, radiant with happiness, went her way, and he returned to his house -in the landau, happy and contented, but uneasy withal, for he knew that -this was not the end. - -Why should he resist? He felt that he could not. She held him by a -charm that he could not understand, that was stronger than all. Flight -would not deliver him, would not sever him from her, but would be an -intolerable privation, while if he could only succeed in showing a -little resignation, he would obtain from her at least as much as she -had promised, for she was a woman who always kept her word. - -The horses trotted along under the trees and he reflected that not -once during that interview had she put up her lips to him for a kiss. -She was ever the same; nothing in her would ever change and he would -always, perhaps, have to suffer at her hands in just that same way. -The remembrance of the bitter hours that he had already passed, with -the intolerable certainty that he would never succeed in rousing her -to passion, laid heavy on his heart, and gave him a clear foresight of -struggles to come and of similar distress in the future. Still, he was -content to suffer everything rather than lose her again, resigned even -to that everlasting, ever unappeased desire that rioted in his veins -and burned into his flesh. - -The raging thoughts that had so often possessed him on his way back -alone from Auteuil were now setting in again. They began to agitate -his frame as the landau rolled smoothly along in the cool shadows of -the great trees, when all at once the thought of Elisabeth awaiting -him there at his door, she, too, young and fresh and pretty, her -heart full of love and her mouth full of kisses, brought peace to his -soul. Presently he would be holding her in his arms, and, closing his -eyes and deceiving himself as men deceive others, confounding in the -intoxication of the embrace her whom he loved and her by whom he was -loved, he would possess them both at once. Even now it was certain that -he had a liking for her, that grateful attachment of soul and body that -always pervades the human animal as the result of love inspired and -pleasure shared in common. This child whom he had made his own, would -she not be to his dry and wasting love the little spring that bubbles -up at the evening halting place, the promise of the cool draught that -sustains our energy as wearily we traverse the burning desert? - -When he regained the house, however, the girl had not come in. He was -frightened and uneasy and said to the other servant: "You are sure that -she went out?" - -"Yes, Monsieur." - -Thereupon he also went out in the hope of finding her. When he had -taken a few steps and was about to turn into the long street that runs -up the valley, he beheld before him the old, low church, surmounted by -its square tower, seated upon a little knoll and watching the houses of -its small village as a hen watches over her chicks. A presentiment that -she was there impelled him to enter. Who can tell the strange glimpses -of the truth that a woman's heart is capable of perceiving? What had -she thought, how much had she understood? Where could she have fled for -refuge but there, if the shadow of the truth had passed before her eyes? - -The church was very dark, for night was closing in. The dim lamp, -hanging from its chain, suggested in the tabernacle the ideal presence -of the divine Consoler. With hushed footsteps Mariolle passed up along -the lines of benches. When he reached the choir he saw a woman on her -knees, her face hidden in her hands. He approached, recognized her, and -touched her on the shoulder. They were alone. - -She gave a great start as she turned her head. She was weeping. - -"What is the matter?" he said. - -She murmured: "I see it all. You came here because she had caused you -to suffer. She came to take you away." - -He spoke in broken accents, touched by the grief that he in turn had -caused: "You are mistaken, little one. I am going back to Paris, -indeed, but I shall take you with me." - -She repeated, incredulously: "It can't be true, it can't be true." - -"I swear to you that it is true." - -"When?" - -"To-morrow." - -She began again to sob and groan: "My God! My God!" - -Then he raised her to her feet and led her down the hill through the -thick blackness of the night, but when they came to the river-bank he -made her sit down upon the grass and placed himself beside her. He -heard the beating of her heart and her quick breathing, and clasping -her to his heart, troubled by his remorse, he whispered to her gentle -words that he had never used before. Softened by pity and burning with -desire, every word that he uttered was true; he did not endeavor to -deceive her, and surprised himself at what he said and what he felt, he -wondered how it was that, thrilling yet with the presence of that other -one whose slave he was always to be, he could tremble thus with longing -and emotion while consoling this love-stricken heart. - -He promised that he would love her,--he did not say simply "love"--, -that he would give her a nice little house near his own and pretty -furniture to put in it and a servant to wait on her. She was reassured -as she listened to him, and gradually grew calmer, for she could not -believe that he was capable of deceiving her, and besides his tone and -manner told her that he was sincere. Convinced at length and dazzled -by the vision of being a lady, by the prospect--so undreamed of by the -poor girl, the servant of the inn--of becoming the "good friend" of -such a rich, nice gentleman, she was carried away in a whirl of pride, -covetousness, and gratitude that mingled with her fondness for André. -Throwing her arms about his neck and covering his face with kisses, -she stammered: "Oh! I love you so! You are all in all to me!" - -He was touched and returned her caresses. "Darling! My little darling!" -he murmured. - -Already she had almost forgotten the appearance of the stranger who -but now had caused her so much sorrow. There must have been some vague -feeling of doubt floating in her mind, however, for presently she asked -him in a tremulous voice: "Really and truly, you will love me as you -love me now?" - -And unhesitatingly he replied: "I will love you as I love you now." - - - - -THE OLIVE GROVE - -AND - -OTHER TALES - - - - -THE OLIVE GROVE - - -When the 'longshoremen of Garandou, a little port of Provence, situated -in the bay of Pisca, between Marseilles and Toulon, perceived the boat -of the Abbé Vilbois entering the harbor, they went down to the beach to -help him pull her ashore. - -The priest was alone in the boat. In spite of his fifty-eight years, -he rowed with all the energy of a real sailor. He had placed his hat -on the bench beside him, his sleeves were rolled up, disclosing his -powerful arms, his cassock was open at the neck and turned over his -knees, and he wore a round hat of heavy, white canvas. His whole -appearance bespoke an odd and strenuous priest of southern climes, -better fitted for adventures than for clerical duties. - -He rowed with strong and measured strokes, as if to show the southern -sailors how the men of the north handle the oars, and from time to time -he turned around to look at the landing point. - -The skiff struck the beach and slid far up, the bow plowing through the -sand; then it stopped abruptly. The five men watching for the abbé -drew near, jovial and smiling. - -"Well!" said one, with the strong accent of Provence, "have you been -successful, Monsieur le Curé?" - -The abbé drew in the oars, removed his canvas head-covering, put on -his hat, pulled down his sleeves, and buttoned his coat. Then having -assumed the usual appearance of a village priest, he replied proudly: -"Yes, I have caught three red-snappers, two eels, and five sunfish." - -The fishermen gathered around the boat to examine, with the air of -experts, the dead fish, the fat red-snappers, the flat-headed eels, -those hideous sea-serpents, and the violet sunfish, streaked with -bright orange-colored stripes. - -Said one: "I'll carry them up to your house, Monsieur le Curé." - -"Thank you, my friend." - -Having shaken hands all around, the priest started homeward, followed -by the man with the fish; the others took charge of the boat. - -The Abbé Vilbois walked along slowly with an air of dignity. The -exertion of rowing had brought beads of perspiration to his brow and -he uncovered his head each time that he passed through the shade of an -olive grove. The warm evening air, freshened by a slight breeze from -the sea, cooled his high forehead covered with short, white hair, a -forehead far more suggestive of an officer than of a priest. - -The village appeared, built on a hill rising from a large valley which -descended toward the sea. - -It was a summer evening. The dazzling sun, traveling toward the ragged -crests of the distant hills, outlined on the white, dusty road the -figure of the priest, the shadow of whose three-cornered hat bobbed -merrily over the fields, sometimes apparently climbing the trunks of -the olive-trees, only to fall immediately to the ground and creep among -them. - -With every step he took, he raised a cloud of fine, white dust, the -invisible powder which, in summer, covers the roads of Provence; it -clung to the edge of his cassock turning it grayish white. Completely -refreshed, his hands deep in his pockets, he strode along slowly and -ponderously, like a mountaineer. His eyes were fixed on the distant -village where he had lived twenty years, and where he hoped to die. -Its church--his church--rose above the houses clustered around it; -the square turrets of gray stone, of unequal proportions and quaint -design, stood outlined against the beautiful southern valley; and their -architecture suggested the fortifications of some old château rather -than the steeples of a place of worship. - -The abbé was happy; for he had caught three red-snappers, two eels, -and five sunfish. It would enable him to triumph again over his flock, -which respected him, no doubt, because he was one of the most powerful -men of the place, despite his years. These little innocent vanities -were his greatest pleasures. He was a fine marksman; sometimes he -practiced with his neighbor, a retired army provost who kept a tobacco -shop; he could also swim better than anyone along the coast. - -In his day he had been a well-known society man, the Baron de Vilbois, -but had entered the priesthood after an unfortunate love-affair. Being -the scion of an old family of Picardy, devout and royalistic, whose -sons for centuries had entered the army, the magistracy, or the Church, -his first thought was to follow his mother's advice and become a -priest. But he yielded to his father's suggestion that he should study -law in Paris and seek some high office. - -While he was completing his studies his father was carried off by -pneumonia; his mother, who was greatly affected by the loss, died soon -afterward. He came into a fortune, and consequently gave up the idea of -following a profession to live a life of idleness. He was handsome and -intelligent, but somewhat prejudiced by the traditions and principles -which he had inherited, along with his muscular frame, from a long line -of ancestors. - -Society gladly welcomed him and he enjoyed himself after the fashion of -a well-to-do and seriously inclined young man. But it happened that a -friend introduced him to a young actress, a pupil of the Conservatoire, -who was appearing with great success at the Odéon. It was a case of -love at first sight. - -His sentiment had all the violence, the passion of a man born to -believe in absolute ideas. He saw her act the romantic rôle in which -she had achieved a triumph the first night of her appearance. She was -pretty, and, though naturally perverse, possessed the face of an angel. - -She conquered him completely; she transformed him into a delirious -fool, into one of those ecstatic idiots whom a woman's look will -forever chain to the pyre of fatal passions. She became his mistress -and left the stage. They lived together four years, his love for her -increasing during the time. He would have married her in spite of his -proud name and family traditions, had he not discovered that for a long -time she had been unfaithful to him with the friend who had introduced -them. - -The awakening was terrible, for she was about to become a mother, and -he was awaiting the birth of the child to make her his wife. - -When he held the proof of her transgressions,--some letters found in a -drawer,--he confronted her with his knowledge and reproached her with -all the savageness of his uncouth nature for her unfaithfulness and -deceit. But she, a child of the people, being as sure of this man as of -the other, braved and insulted him with the inherited daring of those -women, who, in times of war, mounted with the men on the barricades. - -He would have struck her to the ground--but she showed him her form. -As white as death, he checked himself, remembering that a child of his -would soon be born to this vile, polluted creature. He rushed at her -to crush them both, to obliterate this double shame. Reeling under his -blows, and seeing that he was about to stamp out the life of her unborn -babe, she realized that she was lost. Throwing out her hands to parry -the blows, she cried: - -"Do not kill me! It is his, not yours!" - -He fell back, so stunned with surprise that for a moment his rage -subsided. He stammered: - -"What? What did you say?" - -Crazed with fright, having read her doom in his eyes and gestures, she -repeated: "It's not yours, it's his." - -Through his clenched teeth he stammered: - -"The child?" - -"Yes." - -"You lie!" - -And again he lifted his foot as if to crush her, while she struggled to -her knees in a vain attempt to rise. "I tell you it's his. If it was -yours, wouldn't it have come much sooner?" - -He was struck by the truth of this argument. In a moment of strange -lucidity, his mind evolved precise, conclusive, irresistible reasons to -disclaim the child of this miserable woman, and he felt so appeased, so -happy at the thought, that he decided to let her live. - -He then spoke in a calmer voice: "Get up and leave, and never let me -see you again." - -Quite cowed, she obeyed him and went. He never saw her again. - -Then he left Paris and came south. He stopped in a village situated -in a valley, near the coast of the Mediterranean. Selecting for his -abode an inn facing the sea, he lived there eighteen months in complete -seclusion, nursing his sorrow and despair. The memory of the unfaithful -one tortured him; her grace, her charm, her perversity haunted him, and -withal came the regret of her caresses. - -He wandered aimlessly in those beautiful vales of Provence, baring his -head, filled with the thoughts of that woman, to the sun that filtered -through the grayish-green leaves of the olive-trees. - -His former ideas of religion, the abated ardor of his faith, returned -to him during his sorrowful retreat. Religion had formerly seemed a -refuge from the unknown temptations of life, now it appeared as a -refuge from its snares and tortures. He had never given up the habit of -prayer. In his sorrow, he turned anew to its consolations, and often -at dusk he would wander into the little village church, where in the -darkness gleamed the light of the lamp hung above the altar, to guard -the sanctuary and symbolize the Divine Presence. - -He confided his sorrow to his God, told Him of his misery, asking -advice, pity, help, and consolation. Each day, his fervid prayers -disclosed stronger faith. - -The bleeding heart of this man, crushed by love for a woman, still -longed for affection; and soon his prayers, his seclusion, his constant -communion with the Savior who consoles and cheers the weary, wrought a -change in him, and the mystic love of God entered his soul, casting out -the love of the flesh. - -He then decided to take up his former plans and to devote his life to -the Church. - -He became a priest. Through family connections he succeeded in -obtaining a call to the parish of this village which he had come across -by chance. Devoting a large part of his fortune to the maintenance of -charitable institutions, and keeping only enough to enable him to help -the poor as long as he lived, he sought refuge in a quiet life filled -with prayer and acts of kindness toward his fellow-men. - -Narrow-minded but kind-hearted, a priest with a soldier's temperament, -he guided his blind, erring flock forcibly through the mazes of this -life in which every taste, instinct, and desire is a pitfall. But -the old man in him never disappeared entirely. He continued to love -out-of-door exercise and noble sports, but he hated every woman, having -an almost childish fear of their dangerous fascination. - - -II. - -The sailor who followed the priest, being a southerner, found it -difficult to refrain from talking. But he did not dare start a -conversation, for the abbé exerted a great prestige over his flock. At -last he ventured a remark: "So you like your lodge, do you, Monsieur le -Curé?" - -This lodge was one of the tiny constructions that are inhabited during -the summer by the villagers and the town people alike. It was situated -in a field not far from the parish-house, and the abbé had hired it -because the latter was very small and built in the heart of the village -next to the church. - -During the summer time, he did not live altogether at the lodge, but -would remain a few days at a time to practice pistol-shooting and be -close to nature. - -"Yes, my friend," said the priest, "I like it very well." - -The low structure could now be seen; it was painted pink, and the walls -were almost hidden under the leaves and branches of the olive-trees -that grew in the open field. A tall woman was passing in and out of the -door, setting a small table at which she placed, at each trip, a knife -and fork, a glass, a plate, a napkin, and a piece of bread. She wore -the small cap of the women of Arles, a pointed cone of silk or black -velvet, decorated with a white rosette. - -When the abbé was near enough to make himself heard, he shouted: - -"Eh! Marguerite!" - -She stopped to ascertain whence the voice came, and recognizing her -master: "Oh! it's you, Monsieur le Curé!" - -"Yes. I have caught some fine fish, and want you to broil this sunfish -immediately, do you hear?" - -The servant examined, with a critical and approving glance, the fish -that the sailor carried. - -"Yes, but we are going to have a chicken for dinner," she said. - -"Well, it cannot be helped. To-morrow the fish will not be as fresh -as it is now. I mean to enjoy a little feast--it does not happen -often--and the sin is not great." - -The woman picked out a sunfish and prepared to go into the house. -"Ah!" she said, "a man came to see you three times while you were out, -Monsieur le Curé." - -Indifferently he inquired: "A man! What kind of man?" - -"Why, a man whose appearance was not in his favor." - -"What! a beggar?" - -"Perhaps--I don't know. But I think he is more of a 'maoufatan.'" - -The abbé smiled at this word, which, in the language of Provence means -a highwayman, a tramp, for he was well aware of Marguerite's timidity, -and knew that every day and especially every night she fancied they -would be murdered. - -He handed a few sous to the sailor, who departed. And just as he was -saying: "I am going to wash my hands,"--for his past dainty habits -still clung to him,--Marguerite called to him from the kitchen -where she was scraping the fish with a knife, thereby detaching its -blood-stained, silvery scales: - -"There he comes!" - -The abbé looked down the road and saw a man coming slowly toward -the house; he seemed poorly dressed, indeed, so far as he could -distinguish. He could not help smiling at his servant's anxiety, and -thought, while he waited for the stranger: "I think, after all, she is -right; he does look like a 'maoufatan.'" - -The man walked slowly, with his eyes on the priest and his hands buried -deep in his pockets. He was young and wore a full, blond beard; strands -of curly hair escaped from his soft felt hat, which was so dirty -and battered that it was impossible to imagine its former color and -appearance. He was clothed in a long, dark overcoat, from which emerged -the frayed edge of his trousers; on his feet were bathing shoes that -deadened his steps, giving him the stealthy walk of a sneak thief. - -When he had come within a few steps of the priest, he doffed, with a -sweeping motion, the ragged hat that shaded his brow. He was not bad -looking, though his face showed signs of dissipation and the top of his -head was bald, an indication of premature fatigue and debauch, for he -certainly was not over twenty-five years old. - -The priest responded at once to his bow, feeling that this fellow was -not an ordinary tramp, a mechanic out of work, or a jail-bird, hardly -able to speak any other tongue but the mysterious language of prisons. - -"How do you do, Monsieur le Curé?" said the man. The priest answered -simply, "I salute you," unwilling to address this ragged stranger as -"Monsieur." They considered each other attentively; the abbé felt -uncomfortable under the gaze of the tramp, invaded by a feeling of -unrest unknown to him. - -At last the vagabond continued: "Well, do you recognize me?" - -Greatly surprised, the priest answered: "Why, no, you are a stranger to -me." - -"Ah! you do not know me? Look at me well." - -"I have never seen you before." - -"Well, that may be true," replied the man sarcastically, "but let me -show you some one whom you will know better." - -He put on his hat and unbuttoned his coat, revealing his bare chest. A -red sash wound around his spare frame held his trousers in place. He -drew an envelope from his coat pocket, one of those soiled wrappers -destined to protect the sundry papers of the tramp, whether they be -stolen or legitimate property, those papers which he guards jealously -and uses to protect himself against the too zealous gendarmes. He -pulled out a photograph about the size of a folded letter, one of those -pictures which were popular long ago; it was yellow and dim with age, -for he had carried it around with him everywhere and the heat of his -body had faded it. - -Pushing it under the abbé's eyes, he demanded: - -"Do you know him?" - -The priest took a step forward to look and grew pale, for it was his -own likeness that he had given Her years ago. - -Failing to grasp the meaning of the situation he remained silent. - -The tramp repeated: - -"Do you recognize him?" - -And the priest stammered: "Yes." - -"Who is it?" - -"It is I." - -"It is you?" - -"Yes." - -"Well, then, look at us both,--at me and at your picture!" - -Already the unhappy man had seen that these two beings, the one in the -picture and the one by his side, resembled each other like brothers; -yet he did not understand, and muttered: "Well, what is it you wish?" - -Then in an ugly voice, the tramp replied: "What do I wish? Why, first I -wish you to recognize me." - -"Who are you?" - -"Who am I? Ask anybody by the roadside, ask your servant, let's go and -ask the mayor and show him this; and he will laugh, I tell you that! -Ah! you will not recognize me as your son, papa curé?" - -The old man raised his arms above his head, with a patriarchal gesture, -and muttered despairingly: "It cannot be true!" - -The young fellow drew quite close to him. - -"Ah! It cannot be true, you say! You must stop lying, do you hear?" -His clenched fists and threatening face, and the violence with which -he spoke, made the priest retreat a few steps, while he asked himself -anxiously which one of them was laboring under a mistake. - -Again he asserted: "I never had a child." - -The other man replied: "And no mistress, either?" - -The aged priest resolutely uttered one word, a proud admission: - -"Yes." - -"And was not this mistress about to give birth to a child when you left -her?" - -Suddenly the anger which had been quelled twenty-five years ago, not -quelled, but buried in the heart of the lover, burst through the wall -of faith, resignation, and renunciation he had built around it. Almost -beside himself, he shouted: - -"I left her because she was unfaithful to me and was carrying the child -of another man; had it not been for this, I should have killed both you -and her, sir!" - -The young man hesitated, taken aback at the sincerity of this outburst. -Then he replied in a gentler voice: - -"Who told you that it was another man's child?" - -"She told me herself and braved me." - -Without contesting this assertion the vagabond assumed the indifferent -tone of a loafer judging a case: - -"Well, then, mother made a mistake, that's all!" - -After his outburst of rage, the priest had succeeded in mastering -himself sufficiently to be able to inquire: - -"And who told you that you were my son?" - -"My mother, on her deathbed, M'sieur le Curé. And then--this!" And he -held the picture under the eyes of the priest. - -The old man took it from him; and slowly, with a heart bursting with -anguish, he compared this stranger with his faded likeness and doubted -no longer--it was his son. - -An awful distress wrung his very soul, a terrible, inexpressible -emotion invaded him; it was like the remorse of some ancient crime. He -began to understand a little, he guessed the rest. He lived over the -brutal scene of the parting. It was to save her life, then, that the -wretched and deceitful woman had lied to him, her outraged lover. And -he had believed her. And a son of his had been brought into the world -and had grown up to be this sordid tramp, who exhaled the very odor of -vice as a goat exhales its animal smell. - -He whispered: "Will you take a little walk with me, so that we can -discuss these matters?" - -The young man sneered: "Why, certainly! Isn't that what I came for?" - -They walked side by side through the olive grove. The sun had gone down -and the coolness of southern twilights spread an invisible cloak over -the country. The priest shivered, and raising his eyes with a familiar -motion, perceived the trembling gray foliage of the holy tree which had -spread its frail shadow over the Son of Man in His great trouble and -despondency. - -A short, despairing prayer rose within him, uttered by his soul's -voice, a prayer by which Christians implore the Savior's aid: "O Lord! -have mercy on me." - -Turning to his son he said: "So your mother is dead?" - -These words, "Your mother is dead," awakened a new sorrow; it was -the torment of the flesh which cannot forget, the cruel echo of past -sufferings; but mostly the thrill of the fleeting, delirious bliss of -his youthful passion. - -The young man replied: "Yes, Monsieur le Curé, my mother is dead." - -"Has she been dead a long while?" - -"Yes, three years." - -A new doubt entered the priest's mind. "And why did you not find me out -before?" - -The other man hesitated. - -"I was unable to, I was prevented. But excuse me for interrupting these -recollections--I will enter into more details later--for I have not had -anything to eat since yesterday morning." - -A tremor of pity shook the old man and holding forth both hands: "Oh! -my poor child!" he said. - -The young fellow took those big, powerful hands in his own slender and -feverish palms. - -Then he replied, with that air of sarcasm which hardly ever left his -lips: "Ah! I'm beginning to think that we shall get along very well -together, after all!" - -The curé started toward the lodge. - -"Let us go to dinner," he said. - -He suddenly remembered, with a vague and instinctive pleasure, the fine -fish he had caught, which, with the chicken, would make a good meal for -the poor fellow. - -The servant was in front of the door, watching their approach with an -anxious and forbidding face. - -"Marguerite," shouted the abbé, "take the table and put it into the -dining-room, right away; and set two places, as quick as you can." - -The woman seemed stunned at the idea that her master was going to dine -with this tramp. - -But the abbé, without waiting for her, removed the plate and napkin and -carried the little table into the dining-room. - -A few minutes later he was sitting opposite the beggar, in front of a -soup-tureen filled with savory cabbage soup, which sent up a cloud of -fragrant steam. - - -III. - -When the plates were filled, the tramp fell to with ravenous avidity. -The abbé had lost his appetite and ate slowly, leaving the bread in the -bottom of his plate. Suddenly he inquired: - -"What is your name?" - -The man smiled; he was delighted to satisfy his hunger. - -"Father unknown," he said, "and no other name but my mother's, which -you probably remember. But I possess two Christian names, which, by the -way, are quite unsuited to me--Philippe-Auguste." - -The priest whitened. - -"Why were you named thus?" he asked. - -The tramp shrugged his shoulders. "I fancy you ought to know. After -mother left you, she wished to make your rival believe that I was his -child. He did believe it until I was about fifteen. Then I began to -look too much like you. And he disclaimed me, the scoundrel. I had been -christened Philippe-Auguste; now, if I had not resembled a soul, or if -I had been the son of a third person, who had stayed in the background, -to-day I should be the Vicomte Philippe-Auguste de Pravallon, son of -the count and senator bearing this name. I have christened myself -'No-luck.'" - -"How did you learn all this?" - -"They discussed it before me, you know; pretty lively discussions they -were, too. I tell you, that's what shows you the seamy side of life!" - -Something more distressing than all he had suffered during the last -half hour now oppressed the priest. It was a sort of suffocation which -seemed as if it would grow and grow till it killed him; it was not due -so much to the things he heard as to the manner in which they were -uttered by this wayside tramp. Between himself and this beggar, between -his son and himself, he was discovering the existence of those moral -divergencies which are as fatal poisons to certain souls. Was this his -son? He could not yet believe it. He wanted all the proofs, every one -of them. He wanted to hear all, to listen to all. Again he thought of -the olive-trees that shaded his little lodge, and for the second time -he prayed: "O Lord! have mercy upon me." - -Philippe-Auguste had finished his soup. He inquired: "Is there nothing -else, abbé?" - -The kitchen was built in an annex. Marguerite could not hear her -master's voice. He always called her by striking a Chinese gong hung -on the wall behind his chair. He took the brass hammer and struck the -round metal plate. It gave a feeble sound, which grew and vibrated, -becoming sharper and louder till it finally died away on the evening -breeze. - -The servant appeared with a frowning face and cast angry glances at the -tramp, as if her faithful instinct had warned her of the misfortune -that had befallen her master. She held a platter on which was the -sunfish, spreading a savory odor of melted butter through the room. The -abbé divided the fish lengthwise, helping his son to the better half: -"I caught it a little while ago," he said, with a touch of pride in -spite of his keen distress. - -Marguerite had not left the room. - -The priest added: "Bring us some wine, the white wine of Cape Corse." - -She almost rebelled, and the priest, assuming a severe expression was -obliged to repeat: "Now, go, and bring two bottles, remember," for, -when he drank with anybody, a very rare pleasure, indeed, he always -opened one bottle for himself. - -Beaming, Philippe-Auguste remarked: "Fine! A splendid idea! It has been -a long time since I've had such a dinner." The servant came back after -a few minutes. The abbé thought it an eternity, for now a thirst for -information burned his blood like infernal fire. - -After the bottles had been opened, the woman still remained, her eyes -glued on the tramp. - -"Leave us," said the curé. - -She intentionally ignored his command. - -He repeated almost roughly: "I have ordered you to leave us." - -Then she left the room. - -Philippe-Auguste devoured the fish voraciously, while his father sat -watching him, more and more surprised and saddened at all the baseness -stamped on the face that was so like his own. The morsels the abbé -raised to his lips remained in his mouth, for his throat could not -swallow; so he ate slowly, trying to choose, from the host of questions -which besieged his mind, the one he wished his son to answer first. At -last he spoke: - -"What was the cause of her death?" - -"Consumption." - -"Was she ill a long time?" - -"About eighteen months." - -"How did she contract it?" - -"We could not tell." - -Both men were silent. The priest was reflecting. He was oppressed by -the multitude of things he wished to know and to hear, for since the -rupture, since the day he had tried to kill her, he had heard nothing. -Certainly, he had not cared to know, because he had buried her, along -with his happiest days, in forgetfulness; but now, knowing that she was -dead and gone, he felt within himself the almost jealous desire of a -lover to hear all. - -He continued: "She was not alone, was she?" - -"No, she lived with him." - -The old man started: "With him? With Pravallon?" - -"Why, yes." - -And the betrayed man rapidly calculated that the woman who had deceived -him, had lived over thirty years with his rival. - -Almost unconsciously he asked: "Were they happy?" - -The young man sneered. "Why, yes, with ups and downs! It would have -been better had I not been there. I always spoiled everything." - -"How, and why?" inquired the priest. - -"I have already told you. Because he thought I was his son up to my -fifteenth year. But the old fellow wasn't a fool, and soon discovered -the likeness. That created scenes. I used to listen behind the door. He -accused mother of having deceived him. Mother would answer: 'Is it my -fault? you knew quite well when you took me that I was the mistress of -that other man.' You were that other man." - -"Ah! They spoke of me sometimes?" - -"Yes, but never mentioned your name before me, excepting toward the -end, when mother knew she was lost. I think they distrusted me." - -"And you--and you learned quite early the irregularity of your mother's -position?" - -"Why, certainly. I am not innocent and I never was. Those things are -easy to guess as soon as one begins to know life." - -Philippe-Auguste had been filling his glass repeatedly. His eyes now -were beginning to sparkle, for his long fast was favorable to the -intoxicating effects of the wine. The priest noticed it and wished to -caution him. But suddenly the thought that a drunkard is imprudent and -loquacious flashed through him, and lifting the bottle he again filled -the young man's glass. - -Meanwhile Marguerite had brought the chicken. Having set it on the -table, she again fastened her eyes on the tramp, saying in an indignant -voice: "Can't you see that he's drunk, Monsieur le Curé?" - -"Leave us," replied the priest, "and return to the kitchen." - -She went out, slamming the door. - -He then inquired: "What did your mother say about me?" - -"Why, what a woman usually says of a man she has jilted: that you were -hard to get along with, very strange, and that you would have made her -life miserable with your peculiar ideas." - -"Did she say that often?" - -"Yes, but sometimes only in allusions, for fear I would understand; but -nevertheless I guessed all." - -"And how did they treat you in that house?" - -"Me? They treated me very well at first and very badly afterward. When -mother saw that I was interfering with her, she shook me." - -"How?" - -"How? very easily. When I was about sixteen years old, I got into -various scrapes, and those blackguards put me into a reformatory to get -rid of me." He put his elbows on the table and rested his cheeks in his -palms. He was hopelessly intoxicated, and felt the unconquerable desire -of all drunkards to talk and boast about themselves. - -He smiled sweetly, with a feminine grace, an arch grace the priest knew -and recognized as the hated charm that had won him long ago, and had -also wrought his undoing. Now it was his mother whom the boy resembled, -not so much because of his features, but because of his fascinating and -deceptive glance, and the seductiveness of the false smile that played -around his lips, the outlet of his inner ignominy. - -Philippe-Auguste began to relate: "Ah! Ah! Ah!--I've had a fine life -since I left the reformatory! A great writer would pay a large sum for -it! Why, old Père Dumas's Monte Cristo has had no stranger adventures -than mine." - -He paused to reflect with the philosophical gravity of the drunkard, -then he continued slowly: - -"When you wish a boy to turn out well, no matter what he has done, -never send him to a reformatory. The associations are too bad. Now, -I got into a bad scrape. One night about nine o'clock, I, with three -companions--we were all a little drunk--was walking along the road -near the ford of Folac. All at once a wagon hove in sight, with the -driver and his family asleep in it. They were people from Martinon on -their way home from town. I caught hold of the bridle, led the horse -to the ferryboat, made him walk into it, and pushed the boat into the -middle of the stream. This created some noise and the driver awoke. He -could not see in the dark, but whipped up the horse, which started on -a run and landed in the water with the whole load. All were drowned! -My companions denounced me to the authorities, though they thought it -was a good joke when they saw me do it. Really, we didn't think that it -would turn out that way. We only wanted to give the people a ducking, -just for fun. After that I committed worse offenses to revenge myself -for the first one, which did not, on my honor, warrant the reformatory. -But what's the use of telling them? I will speak only of the latest -one, because I am sure it will please you. Papa, I avenged you!" - -The abbé was watching his son with terrified eyes; he had stopped -eating. - -Philippe-Auguste was preparing to begin. "No, not yet," said the -priest, "in a little while." - -And he turned to strike the Chinese gong. - -Marguerite appeared almost instantly. Her master addressed her in -such a rough tone that she hung her head, thoroughly frightened and -obedient: "Bring in the lamp and the dessert, and then do not appear -until I summon you." - -She went out and returned with a porcelain lamp covered with a green -shade, and bringing also a large piece of cheese and some fruit. - -After she had gone, the abbé turned resolutely to his son. - -"Now I am ready to hear you." - -Philippe-Auguste calmly filled his plate with dessert and poured wine -into his glass. The second bottle was nearly empty, though the priest -had not touched it. - -His mouth and tongue, thick with food and wine, the man stuttered: -"Well, now for the last job. And it's a good one. I was home -again,--stayed there in spite of them, because they feared me,--yes, -feared me. Ah! you can't fool with me, you know,--I'll do anything, -when I'm roused. They lived together on and off. The old man had two -residences. One official, for the senator, the other clandestine, for -the lover. Still, he lived more in the latter than in the former, as -he could not get along without mother. Mother was a sharp one--she -knew how to hold a man! She had taken him body and soul, and kept him -to the last! Well, I had come back and I kept them down by fright. I -am resourceful at times--nobody can match me for sharpness and for -strength, too--I'm afraid of no one. Well, mother got sick and the old -man took her to a fine place in the country, near Meulan, situated in a -park as big as a wood. She lasted about eighteen months, as I told you. -Then we felt the end to be near. He came from Paris every day--he was -very miserable--really. - -"One morning they chatted a long time, over an hour, I think, and I -could not imagine what they were talking about. Suddenly mother called -me in and said: - -"'I am going to die, and there is something I want to tell you -beforehand, in spite of the Count's advice.' In speaking of him she -always said 'the Count.' 'It is the name of your father, who is alive.' -I had asked her this more than fifty times--more than fifty times--my -father's name--more than fifty times--and she always refused to tell. I -think I even beat her one day to make her talk, but it was of no use. -Then, to get rid of me, she told me that you had died penniless, that -you were worthless and that she had made a mistake in her youth, an -innocent girl's mistake. She lied so well, I really believed you had -died. - -"Finally she said: 'It is your father's name.' - -"The old man, who was sitting in an armchair, repeated three times, -like this: 'You do wrong, you do wrong, you do wrong, Rosette.' - -"Mother sat up in bed. I can see her now, with her flushed cheeks and -shining eyes; she loved me, in spite of everything; and she said: -'Then you do something for him, Philippe!' In speaking to him she -called him 'Philippe' and me 'Auguste.' - -"He began to shout like a madman: 'Do something for that loafer--that -blackguard, that convict? never!' - -"And he continued to call me names, as if he had done nothing else all -his life but collect them. - -"I was angry, but mother told me to hold my tongue, and she resumed: -'Then you must want him to starve, for you know that I leave no money.' - -"Without being deterred, he continued: 'Rosette, I have given you -thirty-five thousand francs a year for thirty years,--that makes more -than a million. I have enabled you to live like a wealthy, a beloved, -and I may say, a happy woman. I owe nothing to that fellow, who has -spoiled our late years, and he will not get a cent from me. It is -useless to insist. Tell him the name of his father, if you wish. I am -sorry, but I wash my hands of him.' - -"Then mother turned toward me. I thought: 'Good! now I'm going to find -my real father--if he has money, I'm saved.' - -"She went on: 'Your father, the Baron de Vilbois, is to-day the Abbé -Vilbois, curé of Garandou, near Toulon. He was my lover before I left -him for the Count!' - -"And she told me all, excepting that she had deceived you about her -pregnancy. But women, you know, never tell the whole truth." - -Sneeringly, unconsciously, he was revealing the depths of his foul -nature. With beaming face he raised the glass to his lips and -continued: - -"Mother died two days--two days later. We followed her remains to -the grave, he and I--say--wasn't it funny?--he and I--and three -servants--that was all. He cried like a calf--we were side by side--we -looked like father and son. - -"Then he went back to the house alone. I was thinking to myself: 'I'll -have to clear out now and without a penny, too.' I owned only fifty -francs. What could I do to revenge myself? - -"He touched me on the arm and said: 'I wish to speak to you.' I -followed him into his office. He sat down in front of the desk and, -wiping away his tears, he told me that he would not be as hard on me -as he had said he would to mother. He begged me to leave you alone. -That--that concerns only you and me. He offered me a thousand-franc -note--a thousand--a thousand francs. What could a fellow like me do -with a thousand francs?--I saw that there were very many bills in the -drawer. The sight of the money made me wild. I put out my hand as if to -take the note he offered me, but instead of doing so, I sprang at him, -threw him to the ground and choked him till he grew purple. When I saw -that he was going to give up the ghost, I gagged and bound him. Then I -undressed him, laid him on his stomach and--ah! ah! ah!--I avenged you -in a funny way!" - -He stopped to cough, for he was choking with merriment. His ferocious, -mirthful smile reminded the priest once more of the woman who had -wrought his undoing. - -"And then?" he inquired. - -"Then,--ah! ah! ah!--There was a bright fire in the fireplace--it -was in the winter--in December--mother died--a bright coal fire--I -took the poker--I let it get red-hot--and I made crosses on his back, -eight or more, I cannot remember how many--then I turned him over and -repeated them on his stomach. Say, wasn't it funny, papa? Formerly -they marked convicts in this way. He wriggled like an eel--but I had -gagged him so that he couldn't scream. I gathered up the bills--twelve -in all--with mine it made thirteen--an unlucky number. I left the -house, after telling the servants not to bother their master until -dinner-time, because he was asleep. I thought that he would hush the -matter up because he was a senator and would fear the scandal. I was -mistaken. Four days later I was arrested in a Paris restaurant. I got -three years for the job. That is the reason why I did not come to you -sooner." He drank again, and stuttering so as to render his words -almost unintelligible, continued: - -"Now--papa--isn't it funny to have one's papa a curé? You must be nice -to me, very nice, because, you know, I am not commonplace,--and I did a -good job--didn't I--on the old man?" - -The anger which years ago had driven the Abbé Vilbois to desperation -rose within him at the sight of this miserable man. - -He, who in the name of the Lord, had so often pardoned the infamous -secrets whispered to him under the seal of confession, was now -merciless in his own behalf. No longer did he implore the help of a -merciful God, for he realized that no power on earth or in the sky -could save those who had been visited by such a terrible disaster. - -All the ardor of his passionate heart and of his violent blood, which -long years of resignation had tempered, awoke against the miserable -creature who was his son. He protested against the likeness he bore to -him and to his mother, the wretched mother who had formed him so like -herself; and he rebelled against the destiny that had chained this -criminal to him, like an iron ball to a galley-slave. - -The shock roused him from the peaceful and pious slumber which had -lasted twenty-five years; with a wonderful lucidity he saw all that -would inevitably ensue. - -Convinced that he must talk loud so as to intimidate this man from the -first, he spoke with his teeth clenched with fury: - -"Now that you have told all, listen to me. You will leave here -to-morrow morning. You will go to a country that I shall designate, and -never leave it without my permission. I will give you a small income, -for I am poor. If you disobey me once, it will be withdrawn and you -will learn to know me." - -Though Philippe-Auguste was half dazed with wine, he understood the -threat. Instantly the criminal within him rebelled. Between hiccoughs -he sputtered: "Ah! papa, be careful what you say--you're a curé, -remember--I hold you--and you have to walk straight, like the rest!" - -The abbé started. Through his whole muscular frame crept the -unconquerable desire to seize this monster, to bend him like a twig, so -as to show him that he would have to yield. - -Shaking the table, he shouted: "Take care, take care--I am afraid of -nobody." - -The drunkard lost his balance and seeing that he was going to fall and -would forthwith be in the priest's power, he reached with a murderous -look for one of the knives lying on the table. The abbé perceived his -motion, and he gave the table a terrible shove; his son toppled over -and landed on his back. The lamp fell with a crash and went out. - -During a moment the clinking of broken glass was heard in the darkness, -then the muffled sound of a soft body creeping on the floor, and then -all was silent. - -With the crashing of the lamp a complete darkness spread over them; -it was so prompt and unexpected that they were stunned by it as by -some terrible event. The drunkard, pressed against the wall, did not -move; the priest remained on his chair in the midst of the night which -had quelled his rage. The somber veil that had descended so rapidly, -arresting his anger, also quieted the furious impulses of his soul; new -ideas, as dark and dreary as the obscurity, beset him. - -The room was perfectly silent, like a tomb where nothing draws the -breath of life. Not a sound came from outside, neither the rumbling of -a distant wagon, nor the bark of a dog, nor even the sigh of the wind -passing through the trees. - -This lasted a long time, perhaps an hour. Then suddenly the gong -vibrated! It rang once, as if it had been struck a short, sharp blow, -and was instantly followed by the noise of a falling body and an -overturned chair. - -Marguerite came running out of the kitchen, but as soon as she opened -the door she fell back, frightened by the intense darkness. Trembling, -her heart beating as if it would burst, she called in a low, hoarse -voice: "M'sieur le Curé! M'sieur le Curé!" - -Nobody answered, nothing stirred. - -"_Mon Dieu, mon Dieu_," she thought, "what has happened, what have they -done?" - -She did not dare enter the room, yet feared to go back to fetch a -light. She felt as if she would like to run away, to screech at the top -of her voice, though she knew her legs would refuse to carry her. She -repeated: "M'sieur le Curé! M'sieur le Curé! it is me, Marguerite." - -But, notwithstanding her terror, the instinctive desire of helping her -master and a woman's courage, which is sometimes heroic, filled her -soul with a terrified audacity, and running back to the kitchen she -fetched a lamp. - -She stopped at the doorsill. First, she caught sight of the tramp lying -against the wall, asleep, or simulating slumber; then she saw the -broken lamp, and then, under the table, the feet and black-stockinged -legs of the priest, who must have fallen backward, striking his head on -the gong. - -Her teeth chattering and her hands trembling with fright, she kept on -repeating: "My God! My God! what is this?" - -She advanced slowly, taking small steps, till she slid on something -slimy and almost fell. - -Stooping, she saw that the floor was red and that a red liquid was -spreading around her feet toward the door. She guessed that it was -blood. She threw down her light so as to hide the sight of it, and fled -from the room out into the fields, running half crazed toward the -village. She ran screaming at the top of her voice, and bumping against -the trees she did not heed, her eyes fastened on the gleaming lights of -the distant town. - -Her shrill voice rang out like the gloomy cry of the night-owl, -repeating continuously, "The maoufatan--the maoufatan--the -maoufatan----" - -When she reached the first house, some excited men came out and -surrounded her; but she could not answer them and struggled to escape, -for the fright had turned her head. - -After a while they guessed that something must have happened to the -curé, and a little rescuing party started for the lodge. - -The little pink house standing in the middle of the olive grove had -grown black and invisible in the dark, silent night. Since the gleam of -the solitary window had faded, the cabin was plunged in darkness, lost -in the grove, and unrecognizable for anyone but a native of the place. - -Soon lights began to gleam near the ground, between the trees, -streaking the dried grass with long, yellow reflections. The twisted -trunks of the olive-trees assumed fantastic shapes under the moving -lights, looking like monsters or infernal serpents. The projected -reflections suddenly revealed a vague, white mass, and soon the low, -square wall of the lodge grew pink from the light of the lanterns. -Several peasants were carrying the latter, escorting two gendarmes with -revolvers, the mayor, the _garde-champêtre_, and Marguerite, supported -by the men, for she was almost unable to walk. - -The rescuing party hesitated a moment in front of the open, grewsome -door. But the brigadier, snatching a lantern from one of the men, -entered, followed by the rest. - -The servant had not lied, blood covered the floor like a carpet. It had -spread to the place where the tramp was lying, bathing one of his hands -and legs. - -The father and son were asleep, the one with a severed throat, the -other in a drunken stupor. The two gendarmes seized the latter and -before he awoke they had him handcuffed. He rubbed his eyes, stunned, -stupefied with liquor, and when he saw the body of the priest, he -appeared terrified, unable to understand what had happened. - -"Why did he not escape?" said the mayor. - -"He was too drunk," replied the officer. - -And every man agreed with him, for nobody ever thought that perhaps the -Abbé Vilbois had taken his own life. - - - - -REVENGE - - -As they were still speaking of Pranzini, M. Maloureau, who had been -Attorney-General under the Empire, said: - -"I knew another case like that, a very curious affair, curious from -many points, as you shall see. - -"I was at that time Imperial attorney in the province, and stood -very well at Court, thanks to my father, who was first President at -Paris. I had charge of a still celebrated case, called 'The Affair of -Schoolmaster Moiron.' - -"M. Moiron, a schoolmaster in the north of France, bore an excellent -reputation in all the country thereabout. He was an intelligent, -reflective, very religious man, and had married in the district -of Boislinot, where he practiced his profession. He had had three -children, who all died in succession from weak lungs. After the loss of -his own little ones, he seemed to lavish upon the urchins confided to -his care all the tenderness concealed in his heart. He bought, with his -own pennies, playthings for his best pupils, the diligent and good. -He allowed them to have play dinners, and gorged them with dainties of -candies and cakes. Everybody loved and praised this brave man, this -brave heart, and it was like a blow when five of his pupils died of the -same disease that had carried off his children. It was believed that an -epidemic prevailed, caused by the water being made impure from drought. -They looked for the cause, without discovering it, more than they did -at the symptoms, which were very strange. The children appeared to be -taken with a languor, could eat nothing, complained of pains in the -stomach, and finally died in most terrible agony. - -"An autopsy was made of the last to die, but nothing was discovered. -The entrails were sent to Paris and analyzed, but showed no sign of any -toxic substance. - -"For one year no further deaths occurred; then two little boys, the -best pupils in the class, favorites of father Moiron, expired in four -days' time. An examination was ordered, and in each body fragments -of pounded glass were found imbedded in the organs. They concluded -that the two children had eaten imprudently of something carelessly -prepared. Sufficient broken glass remained in the bottom of a bowl of -milk to have caused this frightful accident, and the matter would have -rested there had not Moiron's servant been taken ill in the interval. -The physician found the same morbid signs that he observed in the -preceding attacks of the children, and, upon questioning her, finally -obtained the confession that she had stolen and eaten some bonbons, -bought by the master for his pupils. - -"Upon order of the court, the schoolhouse was searched and a closet was -found, full of sweetmeats and dainties for the children. Nearly all -these edibles contained fragments of glass or broken needles. - -"Moiron was immediately arrested. He was so indignant and stupefied -at the weight of suspicion upon him that he was nearly overcome. -Nevertheless, the indications of his guilt were so apparent that they -fought hard in my mind against my first conviction, which was based -upon his good reputation, his entire life of truthfulness, and the -absolute absence of any motive for such a crime. - -"Why should this good, simple religious man kill children, and the -children whom he seemed to love best? Why should he select those he had -feasted with dainties, for whom he had spent in playthings and bonbons -half his stipend? - -"To admit this, it must be concluded that he was insane. But Moiron -seemed so reasonable, so calm, so full of judgment and good sense! It -was impossible to prove insanity in him. - -"Proofs accumulated, nevertheless! Bonbons, cakes, _pâtés_ of -marshmallow, and other things seized at the shops where the -schoolmaster got his supplies were found to contain no suspected -fragment. - -"He pretended that some unknown enemy had opened his closet with a -false key and placed the glass and needles in the eatables. And he -implied a story of heritage dependent on the death of a child, sought -out and discovered by a peasant, and so worked up as to make the -suspicion fall upon the schoolmaster. This brute, he said, was not -interested in the other poor children who had to die also. - -"This theory was plausible. The man appeared so sure of himself and -so pitiful, that we should have acquitted him without doubt, if two -overwhelming discoveries had not been made at one blow. The first was -a snuffbox full of ground glass! It was his own snuffbox, in a secret -drawer of his secretary, where he kept his money. - -"He explained this in a manner not acceptable, by saying that it was -the last ruse of an unknown guilty one. But a merchant of Saint-Marlouf -presented himself at the house of the judge, telling him that Moiron -had bought needles of him many times, the finest needles he could find, -breaking them to see whether they suited him. - -"The merchant brought as witnesses a dozen persons who recognized -Moiron at first glance. And the inquest revealed the fact that the -schoolmaster was at Saint-Marlouf on the days designated by the -merchant. - -"I pass over the terrible depositions of the children upon the master's -choice of dainties, and his care in making the little ones eat in his -presence and destroying all traces of the feast. - -"Public opinion, exasperated, recalled capital punishment, and took on -a new force from terror which permitted no delays or resistance. - -"Moiron was condemned to death. His appeal was rejected. No recourse -remained to him for pardon. I knew from my father that the Emperor -would not grant it. - -"One morning, as I was at work in my office, the chaplain of the prison -was announced. He was an old priest who had a great knowledge of men -and a large acquaintance among criminals. He appeared troubled and -constrained. After talking a few moments of other things, he said -abruptly, on rising: - -"'If Moiron is decapitated, Monsieur Attorney-General, you will have -allowed the execution of an innocent man.' - -"Then, without bowing, he went out, leaving me under the profound -effect of his words. He had pronounced them in a solemn, affecting -fashion, opening lips, closed and sealed by confession, in order to -save a life. - -"An hour later I was on my way to Paris, and my father, at my request, -asked an immediate audience with the Emperor. - -"I was received the next day. Napoleon III. was at work in a little -room when we were introduced. I exposed the whole affair, even to the -visit of the priest, and, in the midst of the story, the door opened -behind the chair of the Emperor, and the Empress, who believed in him -alone, entered. His Majesty consulted her. When she had run over the -facts, she exclaimed: - -"'This man must be pardoned! He must, because he is innocent.' - -"Why should this sudden conviction of a woman so pious throw into my -mind a terrible doubt? - -"Up to that time I had ardently desired a commutation of the sentence. -And now I felt myself the puppet, the dupe of a criminal ruse, which -had employed the priest and the confession as a means of defense. - -"I showed some hesitation to their Majesties. The Emperor remained -undecided, solicited on one hand by his natural goodness, and on the -other held back by the fear of allowing himself to play a miserable -part; but the Empress, convinced that the priest had obeyed a divine -call, repeated: 'What does it matter? It is better to spare a guilty -man than to kill an innocent one.' Her advice prevailed. The penalty of -death was commuted, and that of hard labor was substituted. - -"Some years after I heard that Moiron, whose exemplary conduct at -Toulon had been made known again to the Emperor, was employed as a -domestic by the director of the penitentiary. And then I heard no word -of this man for a long time. - -"About two years after this, when I was passing the summer at the house -of my cousin, De Larielle, a young priest came to me one evening, as we -were sitting down to dinner, and wished to speak to me. - -"I told them to let him come in, and he begged me to go with him to a -dying man, who desired, before all else, to see me. This had happened -often, during my long career as judge, and, although I had been put -aside by the Republic, I was still called upon from time to time in -like circumstances. - -"I followed the ecclesiastic, who made me mount into a little miserable -lodging, under the roof of a high house. There, upon a pallet of straw, -I found a dying man, seated with his back against the wall, in order to -breathe. He was a sort of grimacing skeleton, with deep, shining eyes. - -"When he saw me he murmured: 'You do not know me?' - -"'No.' - -"'I am Moiron.' - -"I shivered, but said: 'The schoolmaster?' - -"'Yes.' - -"'How is it you are here?' - -"'That would be too long--I haven't time--I am going to die--They -brought me this curate--and as I knew you were here, I sent him for -you--It is to you that I wish to confess--since you saved my life -before--the other time----' - -"He seized with his dry hands the straw of his bed, and continued, in a -rasping, bass voice: - -"'Here it is--I owe you the truth--to you, because it is necessary to -tell it to some one before leaving the earth. - -"'It was I who killed the children--all--it was I--for vengeance! - -"'Listen. I was an honest man, very honest--very honest--very -pure--adoring God--the good God--the God that they teach us to love, -and not the false God, the executioner, the robber, the murderer -who governs the earth--I had never done wrong, never committed a -villainous act. I was pure as one unborn. - -"'After I was married I had some children, and I began to love them as -never father or mother loved their own. I lived only for them. I was -foolish. They died, all three of them! Why? Why? What had I done? I? I -had a change of heart, a furious change. Suddenly I opened my eyes as -of one awakening; and I learned that God is wicked. Why had He killed -my children? I opened my eyes and I saw that He loved to kill. He loves -only that, Monsieur. He exists only to destroy! God is a murderer! Some -death is necessary to Him every day. He causes them in all fashions, -the better to amuse Himself. He has invented sickness and accident -in order to divert Himself through all the long months and years. -And, when He is weary, He has epidemics, pests, the cholera, quinsy, -smallpox. - -"'How do I know all that this monster has imagined? All these evils are -not enough to suffice. From time to time He sends war, in order to see -two hundred thousand soldiers laid low, bruised in blood and mire, with -arms and legs torn off, heads broken by bullets, like eggs that fall -along the road. - -"'That is not all. He has made men who eat one another. And then, as -men become better than He, He has made beasts to see the men chase -them, slaughter, and nourish themselves with them. That is not all. -He has made all the little animals that live for a day, flies which -increase by myriads in an hour, ants, that one crushes, and others, -many, so many that we cannot even imagine them. And all kill one -another, chase one another, devour one another, murdering without -ceasing. And the good God looks on and is amused, because He sees all -for Himself, the largest as well as the smallest, those which are in -drops of water, as well as those in the stars. He looks at them all and -is amused! Ugh! Beast! - -"'So I, Monsieur, I also have killed some children. I acted the part -for Him. It was not He who had them. It was not He, it was I. And I -would have killed still more, but you took me away. That's all! - -"'I was going to die, guillotined. I! How He would have laughed, the -reptile! Then I asked for a priest, and lied to him. I confessed. I -lied, and I lived. - -"'Now it is finished. I can no longer escape Him. But I have no fear of -Him, Monsieur, I understand Him too well.' - -"It was frightful to see this miserable creature, hardly able to -breathe, talking in hiccoughs, opening an enormous mouth to eject some -words scarcely heard, pulling up the cloth of his straw bed, and, under -a cover nearly black, moving his meager limbs as if to save himself. - -"Oh! frightful being and frightful remembrance! - -"I asked him: 'You have nothing more to say?' - -"'No, Monsieur.' - -"'Then, farewell.' - -"'Farewell, sir, one day or the other.' - -"I turned toward the priest, whose somber silhouette was on the wall. - -"'You will remain, M. Abbé?' - -"'I will remain.' - -"Then the dying man sneered: 'Yes, yes, he sends crows to dead bodies.' - -"As for me, I had seen enough. I opened the door and went away in -self-protection." - - - - -AN OLD MAID - - -In Argenteuil they called her Queen Hortense. No one ever knew the -reason why. Perhaps because she spoke firmly, like an officer in -command. Perhaps because she was large, bony, and imperious. Perhaps -because she governed a multitude of domestic animals, hens, dogs, cats, -canaries, and parrots,--those animals so dear to old maids. But she -gave these familiar subjects neither dainties, nor pretty words, nor -those tender puerilities which seem to slip from the lips of a woman to -the velvety coat of the cat she is fondling. She governed her beasts -with authority. She ruled. - -She was an old maid, one of those old maids with cracked voice, and -awkward gesture, whose soul seems hard. She never allowed contradiction -from any person, nor argument, nor would she tolerate hesitation, or -indifference, or idleness, or fatigue. No one ever heard her complain, -or regret what was, or desire what was not. "Each to his part," she -said, with the conviction of a fatalist. She never went to church, -cared nothing for the priests, scarcely believed in God, and called all -religious things "mourning merchandise." - -For thirty years she had lived in her little house, with its tiny -garden in front, extending along the street, never modifying her -garments, changing only maids, and that mercilessly, when they became -twenty-one years old. - -She replaced, without tears and without regrets, her dogs or cats -or birds, when they died of old age, or by accident, and she buried -trespassing animals in a flower-bed, heaping the earth above them and -treading it down with perfect indifference. - -She had in the town some acquaintances, the families of employers, -whose men went to Paris every day. Sometimes they would invite her -to go to the theater with them. She inevitably fell asleep on these -occasions, and they were obliged to wake her when it was time to go -home. She never allowed anyone to accompany her, having no fear by -night or day. She seemed to have no love for children. - -She occupied her time with a thousand masculine cares, carpentry, -gardening, cutting or sawing wood, repairing her old house, even doing -mason's work when it was necessary. - -She had some relatives who came to see her twice a year. Her two -sisters, Madame Cimme and Madame Columbel, were married, one to -a florist, the other to a small householder. Madame Cimme had no -children; Madame Columbel had three: Henry, Pauline, and Joseph. Henry -was twenty-one, Pauline and Joseph were three, having come when one -would have thought the mother past the age. No tenderness united this -old maid to her kinsfolk. - -In the spring of 1882, Queen Hortense became suddenly ill. The -neighbors went for a physician, whom she drove away. When the priest -presented himself she got out of bed, half naked, and put him out of -doors. The little maid, weeping, made gruel for her. - -After three days in bed, the situation became so grave that the -carpenter living next door, after counsel with the physician (now -reinstated with authority), took it upon himself to summon the two -families. - -They arrived by the same train, about ten o'clock in the morning; the -Columbels having brought their little Joseph. - -When they approached the garden gate, they saw the maid seated in a -chair against the wall, weeping. The dog lay asleep on the mat before -the door, under a broiling sun; two cats, that looked as if dead, lay -stretched out on the window-sills, with eyes closed and paws and tails -extended at full length. A great glossy hen was promenading before the -door, at the head of a flock of chickens, covered with yellow down, -and in a large cage hung against the wall, covered with chickweed, -were several birds, singing themselves hoarse in the light of this hot -spring morning. - -Two others, inseparable, in a little cage in the form of a cottage, -remained quiet, side by side on their perch. - -M. Cimme, a large, wheezy personage, who always entered a room first, -putting aside men and women when it was necessary, remarked to the -maid: "Eh, Celeste! Is it so bad as that?" - -The little maid sobbed through her tears: - -"She doesn't know me any more. The doctor says it is the end." - -They all looked at one another. - -Madame Cimme and Madame Columbel embraced each other instantly, not -saying a word. - -They resembled each other much, always wearing braids of hair and -shawls of red cashmere, as bright as hot coals. - -Cimme turned toward his brother-in-law, a pale man, yellow and thin, -tormented by indigestion, who limped badly, and said to him in a -serious tone: - -"Gad! It was time!" - -But no one dared to go into the room of the dying woman situated on -the ground floor. Cimme himself stopped at that step. Columbel was the -first to decide upon it; he entered, balancing himself like the mast of -a ship, making a noise on the floor with the iron of his cane. - -The two women ventured to follow, and M. Cimme brought up the line. - -Little Joseph remained outside, playing with the dog. - -A ray of sunlight fell on the bed, lighting up the hands which moved -nervously, opening and shutting without ceasing. The fingers moved -as if a thought animated them, as if they would signify something, -indicate some idea, obey some intelligence. The rest of the body -remained motionless under the covers. The angular figure gave no start. -The eyes remained closed. - -The relatives arranged themselves in a semicircle and, without saying a -word, regarded the heaving breast and the short breathing. The little -maid had followed them, still shedding tears. - -Finally, Cimme asked: "What was it the doctor said?" - -The servant whispered: "He said we should leave her quiet, that nothing -more could be done." - -Suddenly the lips of the old maid began to move. She seemed to -pronounce some silent words, concealed in her dying brain, and her -hands quickened their singular movement. - -Then she spoke in a little, thin voice, quite unlike her own, an -utterance that seemed to come from far off, perhaps from the bottom of -that heart always closed. - -Cimme walked upon tiptoe, finding this spectacle painful. Columbel, -whose lame leg wearied him, sat down. - -The two women remained standing. - -Queen Hortense muttered something quickly, which they were unable to -understand. She pronounced some names, called tenderly some imaginary -persons: - -"Come here, my little Philip, kiss your mother. You love mamma, don't -you, my child? You, Rose, you will watch your little sister while I am -out. Especially, don't leave her alone, do you hear? And I forbid you -to touch matches." - -She was silent some seconds; then, in a loud tone, as if she would -call, she said: "Henrietta!" She waited a little and continued: "Tell -your father to come and speak to me before going to his office." Then -suddenly: "I am suffering a little to-day, dear; promise me you will -not return late; you will tell your chief that I am ill. You know it is -dangerous to leave the children alone when I am in bed. I am going to -make you a dish of rice and sugar for dinner. The little ones like it -so much. Claire will be the happy one!" - -She began to laugh, a young and noisy laugh, as she had never laughed -before. "Look, John," she said, "what a droll head he has. He has -smeared himself with the sugarplums, the dirty thing! Look! my dear, -how funny he looks!" - -Columbel, who changed the position of his lame leg every moment, -murmured: "She is dreaming that she has children and a husband; the end -is near." - -The two sisters did not move, but seemed surprised and stupid. - -The little maid said: "Will you take off your hats and your shawls, and -go into the other room?" - -They went out without having said a word. And Columbel followed them -limping, leaving the dying woman alone again. - -When they were relieved of their outer garments, the women seated -themselves. Then one of the cats left the window, stretched herself, -jumped into the room, then upon the knees of Madame Cimme, who began to -caress her. - -They heard from the next room the voice of agony, living, without -doubt, in this last hour, the life she had expected, living her dreams -at the very moment when all would be finished for her. - -Cimme, in the garden, played with the little Joseph and the dog, -amusing himself much, with the gaiety of a great man in the country, -without thought of the dying woman. - -But suddenly he entered, addressing the maid: "Say, then, my girl, are -you going to give us some luncheon? What are you going to eat, ladies?" - -They decided upon an omelet of fine herbs, a piece of fillet with new -potatoes, a cheese, and a cup of coffee. - -And as Madame Columbel was fumbling in her pocket for her purse: Cimme -stopped her, and turning to the maid said, "You need money?" and she -answered: "Yes, sir." - -"How much?" - -"Fifteen francs." - -"Very well. Make haste, now, my girl, because I am getting hungry." - -Madame Cimme, looking out at the climbing flowers bathed in the -sunlight, and at two pigeons making love on the roof opposite, said, -with a wounded air: "It is unfortunate to have come for so sad an -event. It would be nice in the country, to-day." - -Her sister sighed without response, and Columbel murmured, moved -perhaps by the thought of a walk: - -"My leg plagues me awfully." - -Little Joseph and the dog made a terrible noise, one shouting with joy -and the other barking violently. They played at hide-and-seek around -the three flower-beds, running after each other like mad. - -The dying woman continued to call her children, chatting with each, -imagining that she was dressing them, that she caressed them, that she -was teaching them to read: "Come, Simon, repeat, A, B, C, D. You do -not say it well; see, D, D, D, do you hear? Repeat, then----" - -Cimme declared: "It is curious what she talks about at this time." - -Then said Madame Columbel: "It would be better, perhaps, to go in -there." - -But Cimme dissuaded her from it: - -"Why go in, since we are not able to do anything for her? Besides we -are as well off here." - -No one insisted. Madame observed the two green birds called -inseparable. She remarked pleasantly upon this singular fidelity, and -blamed men for not imitating these little creatures. Cimme looked -at his wife and laughed, singing with a bantering air, "Tra-la-la, -Tra-la-la," as if to say he could tell some things about her fidelity -to him. - -Columbel, taken with cramps in his stomach, struck the floor with his -cane. The other cat entered, tail in the air. They did not sit down at -table until one o'clock. - -When he had tasted the wine, Columbel, whom some one had recommended to -drink only choice Bordeaux, called the servant: - -"Say, is there nothing better than this in the cellar?" - -"Yes, sir; there is some of the wine that was served to you when you -were here before." - -"Oh, well, go and bring three bottles." - -They tasted this wine, which seemed excellent. Not that it proved to be -remarkable, but it had been fifteen years in the cellar. Cimme declared -it was just the wine for sickness. - -Columbel, seized with a desire of possessing some of it, asked of the -maid: "How much is left of it, my girl?" - -"Oh, nearly all, sir; Miss never drinks any of it. It is the heap at -the bottom." - -Then Columbel turned toward his brother-in-law: "If you wish, Cimme, I -will take this wine instead of anything else; it agrees with my stomach -wonderfully." - -The hen, in her turn, had entered with her troop of chickens; the two -women amused themselves by throwing crumbs to them. Joseph and the dog, -who had eaten enough, returned to the garden. - -Queen Hortense spoke continually, but the voice was lower now, so that -it was no longer possible to distinguish the words. - -When they had finished the coffee, they all went in to learn the -condition of the sick one. She seemed calm. - -They went out and seated themselves in a circle in the garden, to aid -digestion. - -Presently the dog began to run around the chairs with all speed, -carrying something in his mouth. The child ran after him violently. -Both disappeared into the house. Cimme fell asleep, with his stomach in -the sun. - -The dying one began to speak loud again. Then suddenly she shouted. - -The two women and Columbel hastened in to see what had happened. Cimme -awakened but did not move, liking better things as they were. - -The dying woman was sitting up, staring with haggard eyes. Her dog, -to escape the pursuit of little Joseph, had jumped upon the bed, -startling her from the death agony. The dog was intrenched behind the -pillow, peeping at his comrade with eyes glistening, ready to jump -again at the least movement. He held in his mouth one of the slippers -of his mistress, shorn of its heel in the hour he had played with it. - -The child, intimidated by the woman rising so suddenly before him, -remained motionless before the bed. - -The hen, having just entered, had jumped upon a chair, frightened -by the noise. She called desperately to her chickens, which peeped, -frightened, from under the four legs of the seat. - -Queen Hortense cried out with a piercing tone: "No, no, I do not wish -to die! I am not willing! Who will bring up my children? Who will care -for them? Who will love them? No, I am not willing! I am not----" - -She turned on her back. All was over. - -The dog, much excited, jumped into the room and skipped about. - -Columbel ran to the window and called his brother-in-law: "Come -quickly! come quickly! I believe she is gone." - -Then Cimme got up and resolutely went into the room, muttering: "It was -not as long as I should have believed." - - - - -COMPLICATION - - -After swearing for a long time that he would never marry, Jack -Boudillère suddenly changed his mind. It happened one summer at the -seashore, quite unexpectedly. - -One morning, as he was extended on the sand, watching the women come -out of the water, a little foot caught his attention, because of its -slimness and delicacy. Raising his eyes higher, the entire person -seemed attractive. Of this entire person he had, however, seen only -the ankles and the head, emerging from a white flannel bathing suit, -fastened with care. He may be called sensuous and impressionable, but -it was by grace of form alone that he was captured. Afterward, he was -held by the charm and sweet spirit of the young girl, who was simple -and good and fresh, like her cheeks and her lips. - -Presented to the family, he was pleased, and straightway became -love-mad. When he saw Bertha Lannis at a distance, on the long stretch -of yellow sand, he trembled from head to foot. Near her he was dumb, -incapable of saying anything or even of thinking, with a kind of -bubbling in his heart, a humming in his ears, and a frightened feeling -in his mind. Was this love? - -He did not know, he understood nothing of it, but the fact remained -that he was fully decided to make this child his wife. - -Her parents hesitated a long time, deterred by the bad reputation of -the young man. He had a mistress, it was said,--an old mistress, an old -and strong entanglement, one of those chains that is believed to be -broken, but which continues to hold, nevertheless. Beyond this, he had -loved, for a longer or shorter period, every woman who had come within -reach of his lips. - -But he withdrew from the woman with whom he had lived, not even -consenting to see her again. A friend arranged her pension, assuring -her a subsistence. Jack paid, but he did not wish to speak to her, -pretending henceforth that he did not know her name. She wrote letters -which he would not open. Each week brought him a new disguise in the -handwriting of the abandoned one. Each week a greater anger developed -in him against her, and he would tear the envelope in two, without -opening it, without reading a line, knowing beforehand the reproaches -and complaints of the contents. - -One could scarcely credit her perseverance, which lasted the whole -winter long, and it was not until spring that her demand was satisfied. - -The marriage took place in Paris during the early part of May. It was -decided that they should not take the regular wedding journey. After a -little ball, composed of a company of young cousins who would not stay -past eleven o'clock, and would not prolong forever the cares of the day -of ceremony, the young couple intended to pass their first night at the -family home and to set out the next morning for the seaside, where they -had met and loved. - -The night came, and they were dancing in the great drawing-room. The -newly-married pair had withdrawn from the rest into a little Japanese -boudoir shut off by silk hangings, and scarcely lighted this evening, -except by the dim rays from a colored lantern in the shape of an -enormous egg, which hung from the ceiling. The long window was open, -allowing at times a fresh breath of air from without to blow upon -their faces, for the evening was soft and warm, full of the odor of -springtime. - -They said nothing, but held each other's hands, pressing them from time -to time with all their force. She was a little dismayed by this great -change in her life, but smiling, emotional, ready to weep, often ready -to swoon from joy, believing the entire world changed because of what -had come to her, a little disturbed without knowing the reason why, -and feeling all her body, all her soul, enveloped in an indefinable, -delicious lassitude. - -Her husband she watched persistently, smiling at him with a fixed -smile. He wished to talk but found nothing to say, and remained quiet, -putting all his ardor into the pressure of the hand. From time to time -he murmured "Bertha!" and each time she raised her eyes to his with a -sweet and tender look. They would look at each other a moment, then his -eyes, fascinated by hers, would fall. - -They discovered no thought to exchange. But they were alone, except as -a dancing couple would sometimes cast a glance at them in passing, a -furtive glance, as if it were the discreet and confidential witness of -a mystery. - -A door at the side opened, a domestic entered, bearing upon a tray an -urgent letter which a messenger had brought. Jack trembled as he took -it, seized with a vague and sudden fear, the mysterious, abrupt fear of -misfortune. - -He looked long at the envelope, not knowing the handwriting, nor daring -to open it, wishing not to read, not to know the contents, desiring to -put it in his pocket and to say to himself: "To-morrow, to-morrow, I -shall be far away and it will not matter!" But upon the corner were two -words underlined: _very urgent_, which frightened him. "You will permit -me, my dear," said he, and he tore off the wrapper. He read the letter, -growing frightfully pale, running over it at a glance, and then seeming -to spell it out. - -When he raised his head his whole countenance was changed. He -stammered: "My dear little one, a great misfortune has happened to -my best friend. He needs me immediately, in a matter of--of life and -death. Allow me to go for twenty minutes. I will return immediately." - -She, trembling and affrighted, murmured: "Go, my friend!" not yet being -enough of a wife to dare to ask or demand to know anything. And he -disappeared. She remained alone, listening to the dance music in the -next room. - -He had taken a hat, the first he could find, and descended the -staircase upon the run. As soon as he was mingled with the people on -the street, he stopped under a gaslight in a vestibule and re-read the -letter. It said: - - "SIR: The Ravet girl, your old mistress, has given birth to - a child which she asserts is yours. The mother is dying and - implores you to visit her. I take the liberty of writing - to you to ask whether you will grant the last wish of this - woman, who seems to be very unhappy and worthy of pity. - "Your servant, D. BONNARD." - -When he entered the chamber of death, she was already in the last -agony. He would not have known her. The physician and the two nurses -were caring for her, dragging across the room some buckets full of ice -and linen. - -Water covered the floor, two tapers were burning on a table; behind -the bed, in a little wicker cradle, a child was crying, and, with each -of its cries, the mother would try to move, shivering under the icy -compresses. - -She was bleeding, wounded to death, killed by this birth. Her life was -slipping away; and, in spite of the ice, in spite of all care, the -hemorrhage continued, hastening her last hour. - -She recognized Jack, and tried to raise her hand. She was too weak for -that, but the warm tears began to glide down her cheeks. - -He fell on his knees beside the bed, seized one of her hands and kissed -it frantically; then, little by little, he approached nearer to the -wan face which strained to meet him. One of the nurses, standing with -a taper in her hand, observed them, and the doctor looked at them from -the remote corner of the room. - -With a far-off voice, breathing hard, she said: "I am going to die, my -dear; promise me you will remain till the end. Oh! do not leave me now, -not at the last moment!" - -He kissed her brow, her hair with a groan. "Be tranquil!" he murmured, -"I will stay." - -It was some minutes before she was able to speak again, she was so weak -and overcome. Then she continued: "It is yours, the little one. I swear -it before God, I swear it to you upon my soul, I swear it at the moment -of death. I have never loved any man but you--promise me not to abandon -it----" He tried to take in his arms the poor, weak body, emptied of -its life blood. He stammered, excited by remorse and chagrin: "I swear -to you I will bring it up and love it. It shall never be separated from -me." Then she held Jack in an embrace. Powerless to raise her head, she -held up her blanched lips in an appeal for a kiss. He bent his mouth to -receive this poor, suppliant caress. - -Calmed a little, she murmured in a low tone: "Take it, that I may see -that you love it." - -He went to the cradle and took up the child. - -He placed it gently on the bed between them. The little creature ceased -to cry. She whispered: "Do not stir!" And he remained motionless. There -he stayed, holding in his burning palms a hand that shook with the -shiver of death, as he had held, an hour before, another hand that had -trembled with the shiver of love. From time to time he looked at the -hour, with a furtive glance of the eye, watching the hand as it passed -midnight, then one o'clock, then two. - -The doctor retired. The two nurses, after roaming around for some time -with light step, slept now in their chairs. The child slept, and the -mother, whose eyes were closed, seemed to be resting also. - -Suddenly, as the pale daylight began to filter through the torn -curtains, she extended her arms with so startling and violent a motion -that she almost threw the child upon the floor. There was a rattling in -her throat; then she turned over motionless, dead. - -The nurses hastened to her side, declaring: "It is over." - -He looked once at this woman he had loved, then at the hand that marked -four o'clock, and, forgetting his overcoat, fled in his evening clothes -with the child in his arms. - -After she had been left alone, his young bride had waited calmly -at first, in the Japanese boudoir. Then, seeing that he did not -return, she went back to the drawing-room, indifferent and tranquil -in appearance, but frightfully disturbed. Her mother, perceiving her -alone, asked where her husband was. She replied: "In his room; he will -return presently." - -At the end of an hour, as everybody asked about him, she told of the -letter, of the change in Jack's face, and her fears of some misfortune. - -They still waited. The guests had gone; only the parents and near -relatives remained. At midnight, they put the bride in her bed, shaking -with sobs. Her mother and two aunts were seated on the bed listening -to her weeping. Her father had gone to the police headquarters to make -inquiries. At five o'clock a light sound was heard in the corridor. The -door opened and closed softly. Then suddenly a cry, like the miauling -of a cat, went through the house, breaking the silence. - -All the women of the house were out with one bound, and Bertha was the -first to spring forward, in spite of her mother and her aunts, clothed -only in her night-robe. - -Jack, standing in the middle of the room, livid, breathing hard, held -the child in his arms. - -The four women looked at him frightened; but Bertha suddenly became -rash, her heart wrung with anguish, and ran to him saying: "What is it? -What have you there?" - -He had a foolish air, and answered in a husky voice: "It is--it is--I -have here a child, whose mother has just died." And he put into her -arms the howling little marmot. - -Bertha, without saying a word, seized the child and embraced it, -straining it to her heart. Then, turning toward her husband with -her eyes full of tears, she said: "The mother is dead, you say?" He -answered: "Yes, just died--in my arms--I had broken with her since last -summer--I knew nothing about it--only the doctor sent for me and----" - -Then Bertha murmured: "Well, we will bring up this little one." - - - - -FORGIVENESS - - -She had been brought up in one of those families who live shut up -within themselves, entirely apart from the rest of the world. They pay -no attention to political events, except to chat about them at table, -and changes in government seem so far, so very far away that they are -spoken of only as a matter of history--like the death of Louis XVI., or -the advent of Napoleon. - -Customs change, fashions succeed each other, but changes are never -perceptible in this family, where old traditions are always followed. -And if some impossible story arises in the neighborhood, the scandal of -it dies at the threshold of this house. - -The father and mother, alone in the evening, sometimes exchange a few -words on such a subject, but in an undertone, as if the walls had ears. - -With great discretion, the father says: "Do you know about this -terrible affair in the Rivoil family?" - -And the mother replies: "Who would have believed it? It is frightful!" - -The children doubt nothing, but come to the age of living, in their -turn, with a bandage over their eyes and minds, without a suspicion of -any other kind of existence, without knowing that one does not always -think as he speaks, nor speak as he acts, without knowing that it is -necessary to live at war with the world, or at least, in armed peace, -without surmising that the ingenuous are frequently deceived, the -sincere trifled with, and the good wronged. - -Some live until death in this blindness of probity, loyalty, and honor; -so upright that nothing can open their eyes. Others, undeceived, -without knowing much, are weighed down with despair, and die believing -that they are the puppets of an exceptional fatality, the miserable -victims of unlucky circumstance or particularly bad men. - -The Savignols arranged a marriage for their daughter when she was -eighteen. She married a young man from Paris, George Barton, whose -business was on the Exchange. He was an attractive youth, with a -smooth tongue, and he observed all the outward proprieties necessary. -But at the bottom of his heart he sneered a little at his guileless -parents-in-law, calling them, among his friends, "My dear fossils." - -He belonged to a good family, and the young girl was rich. He took her -to live in Paris. - -She became one of the provincials of Paris, of whom there are many. -She remained ignorant of the great city, of its elegant people, of -its pleasures and its customs, as she had always been ignorant of the -perfidy and mystery of life. - -Shut up in her own household, she scarcely knew the street she lived -in, and when she ventured into another quarter, it seemed to her that -she had journeyed far, into an unknown, strange city. She would say in -the evening: - -"I crossed the boulevards to-day." - -Two or three times a year, her husband took her to the theater. These -were feast-days not to be forgotten, which she recalled continually. - -Sometimes at table, three months afterward, she would suddenly burst -out laughing and exclaim: - -"Do you remember that ridiculous actor who imitated the cock's crowing?" - -All her interests were within the boundaries of the two allied -families, who represented the whole of humanity to her. She designated -them by the distinguishing prefix "the," calling them respectively "the -Martinets," or "the Michelins." - -Her husband lived according to his fancy, returning whenever he wished, -sometimes at daybreak, pretending business, and feeling in no way -constrained, so sure was he that no suspicion would ruffle this candid -soul. - -But one morning she received an anonymous letter. She was too much -astonished and dismayed to scorn this letter, whose author declared -himself to be moved by interest in her happiness, by hatred of all -evil and love of truth. Her heart was too pure to understand fully the -meaning of the accusations. - -But it revealed to her that her husband had had a mistress for two -years, a young widow, Mrs. Rosset, at whose house he passed his -evenings. - -She knew neither how to pretend, nor to spy, nor to plan any sort of -ruse. When he returned for luncheon, she threw him the letter, sobbing, -and then fled to her room. - -He had time to comprehend the matter and prepare his response before he -rapped at his wife's door. She opened it immediately, without looking -at him. He smiled, sat down, and drew her to his knee. In a sweet -voice, and a little jocosely, he said: - -"My dear little one, Mrs. Rosset is a friend of mine. I have known her -for ten years and like her very much. I may add that I know twenty -other families of whom I have not spoken to you, knowing that you care -nothing for the world or for forming new friendships. But in order to -finish, once for all, these infamous lies, I will ask you to dress -yourself, after luncheon, and we will go to pay a visit to this young -lady, who will become your friend at once, I am sure." She embraced -her husband eagerly; and, from feminine curiosity, which no sooner -sleeps than wakes again, she did not refuse to go to see this unknown -woman, of whom, in spite of all, she was still suspicious. She felt by -instinct that a known danger is sooner overcome. - -They were ushered into a little apartment on the fourth floor of a -handsome house. It was a coquettish little place, full of bric-à-brac -and ornamented with works of art. After about five minutes' waiting, -in a drawing-room where the light was dimmed by its generous window -draperies and portières, a door opened and a young woman appeared. She -was very dark, small, rather plump, and looked astonished, although she -smiled. George presented them. "My wife, Madame Julie Rosset." - -The young widow uttered a little cry of astonishment and joy, and came -forward with both hands extended. She had not hoped for this happiness, -she said, knowing that Madame Barton saw no one. But she was so happy! -She was so fond of George! (She said George quite naturally, with -sisterly familiarity.) And she had had great desire to know his young -wife, and to love her, too. - -At the end of a month these two friends were never apart from each -other. They met every day, often twice a day, and nearly always dined -together, either at one house or at the other. George scarcely ever -went out now, no longer pretended delay on account of business, but -said he loved his own chimney corner. - -Finally, an apartment was left vacant in the house where Madame Rosset -resided. Madame Barton hastened to take it in order to be nearer her -new friend. - -During two whole years there was a friendship between them without a -cloud, a friendship of heart and soul, tender, devoted, and delightful. -Bertha could not speak without mentioning Julie's name, for to her -Julie represented perfection. She was happy with a perfect happiness, -calm and secure. - -But Madame Rosset fell ill. Bertha never left her. She passed nights of -despair; her husband, too, was broken-hearted. - -One morning, in going out from his visit the doctor took George and his -wife aside, and announced that he found the condition of their friend -very grave. - -When he had gone out, the young people, stricken down, looked at each -other and then began to weep. They both watched that night near the -bed. Bertha would embrace the sick one tenderly, while George, standing -silently at the foot of her couch, would look at them with dogged -persistence. The next day she was worse. - -Finally, toward evening, she declared herself better, and persuaded her -friends to go home to dinner. - -They were sitting sadly at table, scarcely eating anything, when the -maid brought George an envelope. He opened it, turned pale, and rising, -said to his wife, in a constrained way: "Excuse me, I must leave you -for a moment. I will return in ten minutes. Please don't go out." And -he ran into his room for his hat. - -Bertha waited, tortured by a new fear. But, yielding in all things, she -would not go up to her friend's room again until he had returned. - -As he did not re-appear, the thought came to her to look in his room to -see whether he had taken his gloves, which would show whether he had -really gone somewhere. - -She saw them there, at first glance. Near them lay a rumpled paper. - -She recognized it immediately; it was the one that had called George -away. - -And a burning temptation took possession of her, the first of her life, -to read--to know. Her conscience struggled in revolt, but curiosity -lashed her on and grief directed her hand. She seized the paper, opened -it, recognized the trembling handwriting as that of Julie, and read: - - "Come alone and embrace me, my poor friend; I am going to - die." - -She could not understand it all at once, but stood stupefied, struck -especially by the thought of death. Then, suddenly, the familiarity of -it seized upon her mind. This came like a great light, illuminating -her whole life, showing her the infamous truth, all their treachery, -all their perfidy. She saw now their cunning, their sly looks, her -good faith played with, her confidence turned to account. She saw -them looking into each other's faces, under the shade of her lamp at -evening, reading from the same book, exchanging glances at the end of -certain pages. - -And her heart, stirred with indignation, bruised with suffering, sunk -into an abyss of despair that had no boundaries. - -When she heard steps, she fled and shut herself in her room. - -Her husband called her: "Come quickly, Madame Rosset is dying!" - -Bertha appeared at her door and said with trembling lip: - -"Go alone to her; she has no need of me." - -He looked at her sheepishly, careless from anger, and repeated: - -"Quick, quick! She is dying!" - -Bertha answered: "You would prefer it to be I." - -Then he understood, probably, and left her to herself, going up again -to the dying one. - -There he wept without fear, or shame, indifferent to the grief of his -wife, who would no longer speak to him, nor look at him, but who lived -shut in with her disgust and angry revolt, praying to God morning and -evening. - -They lived together, nevertheless, eating together face to face, mute -and hopeless. - -After a time, he tried to appease her a little. But she would not -forget. And so the life continued, hard for them both. - -For a whole year they lived thus, strangers one to the other. Bertha -almost became mad. - -Then one morning, having set out at dawn, she returned toward eight -o'clock carrying in both hands an enormous bouquet of roses, of white -roses, all white. - -She sent word to her husband that she would like to speak to him. He -came in disturbed, troubled. - -"Let us go out together," she said to him. "Take these flowers, they -are too heavy for me." - -He took the bouquet and followed his wife. A carriage awaited them, -which started as soon as they were seated. - -It stopped before the gate of a cemetery. Then Bertha, her eyes full of -tears, said to George: "Take me to her grave." - -He trembled, without knowing why, but walked on before, holding the -flowers in his arms. Finally he stopped before a shaft of white marble -and pointed to it without a word. - -She took the bouquet from him, and, kneeling, placed it at the foot of -the grave. Then her heart was raised in suppliant, silent prayer. - -Her husband stood behind her, weeping, haunted by memories. - -She arose and put out her hands to him. - -"If you wish, we will be friends," she said. - - - - -THE WHITE WOLF - - -This is the story the old Marquis d'Arville told us after a dinner in -honor of Saint-Hubert, at the house of Baron des Ravels. They had run -down a stag that day. The Marquis was the only one of the guests who -had not taken part in the chase. He never hunted. - -During the whole of the long repast, they had talked of scarcely -anything but the massacre of animals. Even the ladies interested -themselves in the sanguinary and often unlikely stories, while the -orators mimicked the attacks and combats between man and beast, raising -their arms and speaking in thunderous tones. - -M. d'Arville talked much, with a certain poesy, a little flourish, -but full of effect. He must have repeated this story often, it ran so -smoothly, never halting at a choice of words in which to clothe an -image. - -"Gentlemen, I never hunt, nor did my father, nor my grandfather, nor -my great-great-grandfather. The last named was the son of a man who -hunted more than all of you. He died in 1764. I will tell you how. He -was named John, and was married, and became the father of the man who -was my great-great-grandfather. He lived with his younger brother, -Francis d'Arville, in our castle, in the midst of a deep forest in -Lorraine. - -"Francis d'Arville always remained a boy through his love for hunting. -They both hunted from one end of the year to the other without -cessation or weariness. They loved nothing else, understood nothing -else, talked only of this, and lived for this alone. - -"They were possessed by this terrible, inexorable passion. It consumed -them, having taken entire control of them, leaving no place for -anything else. They had agreed not to put off the chase for any reason -whatsoever. My great-great-grandfather was born while his father was -following a fox, but John d'Arville did not interrupt his sport, -and swore that the little beggar might have waited until after the -death-cry! His brother Francis showed himself still more hot-headed -than he. The first thing on rising, he would go to see the dogs, then -the horses; then he would shoot some birds about the place, even when -about to set out hunting big game. - -"They were called in the country Monsieur the Marquis and Monsieur the -Cadet, noblemen then not acting as do those of our time, who wish to -establish in their titles a descending scale of rank, for the son of a -marquis is no more a count, or the son of a viscount a baron, than the -son of a general is a colonel by birth. But the niggardly vanity of -the day finds profit in this arrangement. To return to my ancestors: - -"They were, it appears, immoderately large, bony, hairy, violent, and -vigorous. The younger one was taller than the elder, and had such a -voice that, according to a legend he was very proud of, all the leaves -of the forest moved when he shouted. - -"And when mounted, ready for the chase, it must have been a superb -sight to see these two giants astride their great horses. - -"Toward the middle of the winter of that year, 1764, the cold was -excessive and the wolves became ferocious. - -"They even attacked belated peasants, roamed around houses at night, -howled from sunset to sunrise, and ravaged the stables. - -"At one time a rumor was circulated. It was said that a colossal wolf, -of grayish-white color, which had eaten two children, devoured the arm -of a woman, strangled all the watchdogs of the country, was now coming -without fear into the house inclosures and smelling around the doors. -Many inhabitants affirmed that they had felt his breath, which made the -lights flicker. Shortly a panic ran through all the province. No one -dared to go out after nightfall. The very shadows seemed haunted by the -image of this beast. - -"The brothers D'Arville resolved to find and slay him. So they called -together for a grand chase all the gentlemen of the country. - -"It was in vain. They had beaten the forests and scoured the thickets, -but had seen nothing of him. They killed wolves, but not that one. And -each night after such a chase, the beast, as if to avenge himself, -attacked some traveler, or devoured some cattle, always far from the -place where they had sought him. - -"Finally, one night he found a way into the swine-house of the castle -D'Arville and ate two beauties of the best breed. - -"The two brothers were furious, interpreting the attack as one of -bravado on the part of the monster--a direct injury, a defiance. -Therefore, taking all their best-trained hounds, they set out to run -down the beast, with courage excited by anger. - -"From dawn until the sun descended behind the great nut-trees, they -beat about the forests with no result. - -"At last, both of them, angry and disheartened, turned their horses' -steps into a bypath bordered by brushwood. They were marveling at the -baffling power of this wolf, when suddenly they were seized with a -mysterious fear. - -"The elder said: - -"'This can be no ordinary beast. One might say he can think like a man.' - -"The younger replied: - -"'Perhaps we should get our cousin, the Bishop, to bless a bullet for -him, or ask a priest to pronounce some words to help us.' - -"Then they were silent. - -"John continued: 'Look at the sun, how red it is. The great wolf will -do mischief to-night.' - -"He had scarcely finished speaking when his horse reared. Francis's -horse started to run at the same time. A large bush covered with dead -leaves rose before them, and a colossal beast, grayish white, sprang -out, scampering away through the wood. - -"Both gave a grunt of satisfaction, and bending to the necks of their -heavy horses, they urged them on with the weight of their bodies, -exciting them, hastening with voice and spur, until these strong -riders seemed to carry the weight of their beasts between their knees, -carrying them by force as if they were flying. - -"Thus they rode, crashing through forests, crossing ravines, climbing -up the sides of steep gorges, and sounding the horn, at frequent -intervals, to arouse the people and the dogs of the neighborhood. - -"But suddenly, in the course of this breakneck ride, my ancestor struck -his forehead against a large branch and fractured his skull. He fell to -the ground as if dead, while his frightened horse disappeared in the -surrounding thicket. - -"The younger D'Arville stopped short, sprang to the ground, seized his -brother in his arms, and saw that he had lost consciousness. - -"He sat down beside him, took his disfigured head upon his knees, -looking earnestly at the lifeless face. Little by little a fear crept -over him, a strange fear that he had never before felt, fear of -the shadows, of the solitude, of the lonely woods, and also of the -chimerical wolf, which had now come to be the death of his brother. - -"The shadows deepened, the branches of the trees crackled in the sharp -cold. Francis arose shivering, incapable of remaining there longer, -and already feeling his strength fail. There was nothing to be heard, -neither the voice of dogs nor the sound of a horn; all within this -invisible horizon was mute. And in this gloomy silence and the chill of -evening there was something strange and frightful. - -"With his powerful hands he seized John's body and laid it across -the saddle to take it home; then mounted gently behind it, his mind -troubled by horrible, supernatural images, as if he were possessed. - -"Suddenly, in the midst of these fears, a great form passed. It was -the wolf. A violent fit of terror seized upon the hunter; something -cold, like a stream of ice-water seemed to glide through his veins, -and he made the sign of the cross, like a monk haunted with devils, so -dismayed was he by the reappearance of the frightful wanderer. Then, -his eyes falling upon the inert body before him, his fear was quickly -changed to anger, and he trembled with inordinate rage. - -"He pricked his horse and darted after him. - -"He followed him through copses, over ravines, and around great forest -trees, traversing woods that he no longer recognized, his eye fixed -upon a white spot, which was ever flying from him as night covered the -earth. - -"His horse also seemed moved by an unknown force. He galloped on with -neck extended, crashing over small trees and rocks, with the body of -the dead stretched across him on the saddle. Brambles caught in his -mane; his head, where it had struck the trunks of trees, was spattered -with blood; the marks of the spurs were over his flanks. - -"Suddenly the animal and its rider came out of the forest, rushing -through a valley as the moon appeared above the hills. This valley was -stony and shut in by enormous rocks, over which it was impossible to -pass; there was no other way for the wolf but to turn on his steps. - -"Francis gave such a shout of joy and revenge that the echo of it was -like the roll of thunder. He leaped from his horse, knife in hand. - -"The bristling beast, with rounded back, was awaiting him; his eyes -shining like two stars. But before joining in battle, the strong -hunter, grasping his brother, seated him upon a rock, supporting his -head, which was now but a mass of blood, with stones, and cried aloud -to him, as to one deaf: 'Look, John! Look here!' - -"Then he threw himself upon the monster. He felt himself strong enough -to overthrow a mountain, to crush the very rocks in his hands. The -beast meant to kill him by sinking his claws in his vitals; but the man -had seized him by the throat, without even making use of his weapon, -and strangled him gently, waiting until his breath stopped and he could -hear the death-rattle at his heart. And he laughed, with the joy of -dismay, clutching more and more with a terrible hold, and crying out in -his delirium: 'Look, John! Look!' All resistance ceased. The body of -the wolf was limp. He was dead. - -"Then Francis, taking him in his arms, threw him down at the feet of -his elder brother, crying out in expectant voice: 'Here, here, my -little John, here he is!' - -"Then he placed upon the saddle the two bodies, the one above the -other, and started on his way. - -"He returned to the castle laughing and weeping, like Gargantua at the -birth of Pantagruel, shouting in triumph and stamping with delight in -relating the death of the beast, and moaning and tearing at his beard -in calling the name of his brother. - -"Often, later, when he recalled this day, he would declare, with tears -in his eyes: 'If only poor John had seen me strangle the beast, he -would have died content, I am sure!' - -"The widow of my ancestor inspired in her son a horror of the chase, -which was transmitted from father to son down to myself." - -The Marquis d'Arville was silent. Some one asked: "Is the story a -legend or not?" - -And the narrator replied: - -"I swear to you it is true from beginning to end." - -Then a lady, in a sweet little voice, declared: - -"It is beautiful to have passions like that." - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Notre Coeur or A Woman's Pastime, by -Guy de Maupassant - - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 50477 *** diff --git a/old/50477-h/50477-h.htm b/old/50477-h/50477-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index 3152cf2..0000000 --- a/old/50477-h/50477-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,10090 +0,0 @@ -<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" - "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> -<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> - <head> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> - <title> - The Project Gutenberg eBook of Notre Coeur or A Woman's Pastime, by Guy De Maupassant. - </title> - <style type="text/css"> - -body { - margin-left: 10%; - margin-right: 10%; -} - - h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { - text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ - clear: both; -} - -p { - margin-top: .51em; - text-align: justify; - margin-bottom: .49em; -} - -.p2 {margin-top: 2em;} -.p4 {margin-top: 4em;} -.p6 {margin-top: 6em;} - -hr { - width: 33%; - margin-top: 2em; - margin-bottom: 2em; - margin-left: auto; - margin-right: auto; - clear: both; -} - -hr.tb {width: 45%;} -hr.chap {width: 65%} -hr.full {width: 95%;} - -hr.r5 {width: 5%; margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em;} -hr.r65 {width: 65%; margin-top: 3em; margin-bottom: 3em;} - -a:link {color: #800000; text-decoration: none; } - -v:link {color: #800000; text-decoration: none; } - -.blockquot { - margin-left: 5%; - margin-right: 10%; -} - -.center {text-align: center;} - -.right {text-align: right;} - -.caption {font-weight: bold;} - -/* Images */ -.figcenter { - margin: auto; - text-align: center; -} - -.figleft { - float: left; - clear: left; - margin-left: 0; - margin-bottom: 1em; - margin-top: 1em; - margin-right: 1em; - padding: 0; - text-align: center; -} - -.figright { - float: right; - clear: right; - margin-left: 1em; - margin-bottom: - 1em; - margin-top: 1em; - margin-right: 0; - padding: 0; - text-align: center; -} - -/* Footnotes */ -.footnotes {border: dashed 1px;} - -.footnote {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} - -.footnote .label {position: absolute; right: 84%; text-align: right;} - -.fnanchor { - vertical-align: super; - font-size: .8em; - text-decoration: - none; -} - -/* Transcriber's notes */ -.transnote {background-color: #E6E6FA; - color: black; - font-size:smaller; - padding:0.5em; - margin-bottom:5em; - font-family:sans-serif, serif; } - </style> - </head> -<body> - - -<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 50477 ***</div> - - - - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="500" alt="" /> -</div> -<h1>NOTRE CŒUR</h1> - -<h4>OR</h4> - -<h2>A WOMAN'S PASTIME</h2> - -<h4><i>A NOVEL</i></h4> - - -<h3><i>By</i></h3> - -<h2>GUY DE MAUPASSANT</h2> - - -<h5>SAINT DUNSTAN SOCIETY</h5> - -<h5>AKRON, OHIO</h5> - -<h5>1903</h5> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;"> -<img src="images/maupassant.jpg" width="450" alt="" /> -</div> - - -<h4>CONTENTS</h4> -<p class="center" style="font-size: 0.8em;"> -<a href="#GUY_DE_MAUPASSANT">GUY DE MAUPASSANT</a> - Critical Preface: Paul Bourget<br /> -<a href="#INTRODUCTION">INTRODUCTION</a> - Robert Arnot, M. A.<br /> -<br /> -<a href="#NOTRE_COEUR">NOTRE CŒUR</a><br /> -<br /> -CHAPTER I.<br /> -<a href="#CHAPTER_I">THE INTRODUCTION</a><br /> -<br /> -CHAPTER II.<br /> -<a href="#CHAPTER_II">"WILL YOU WALK INTO MY PARLOR?"</a><br /> -<br /> -CHAPTER III.<br /> -<a href="#CHAPTER_III">THE THORNS OF THE ROSE</a><br /> -<br /> -CHAPTER IV.<br /> -<a href="#CHAPTER_IV">THE BENEFIT OF CHANGE OF SCENE</a><br /> -<br /> -CHAPTER V.<br /> -<a href="#CHAPTER_V">CONSPIRACY</a><br /> -<br /> -CHAPTER VI.<br /> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VI">QUESTIONINGS</a><br /> -<br /> -CHAPTER VII.<br /> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VII">DEPRESSION</a><br /> -<br /> -CHAPTER VIII.<br /> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">NEW HOPES</a><br /> -<br /> -CHAPTER IX.<br /> -<a href="#CHAPTER_IX">DISILLUSION</a><br /> -<br /> -CHAPTER X.<br /> -<a href="#CHAPTER_X">FLIGHT</a><br /> -<br /> -CHAPTER XI.<br /> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XI">LONELINESS</a><br /> -<br /> -CHAPTER XII.<br /> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XII">CONSOLATION</a><br /> -<br /> -CHAPTER XIII.<br /> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">MARIOLLE COPIES MME. DE BURNE</a><br /> -<br /> -<br /> -<a href="#THE_OLIVE_GROVE_a">ADDENDA</a><br /> -<br /> -<a href="#THE_OLIVE_GROVE">THE OLIVE GROVE</a><br /> -<a href="#REVENGE">REVENGE</a><br /> -<a href="#AN_OLD_MAID">AN OLD MAID</a><br /> -<a href="#COMPLICATION">COMPLICATION</a><br /> -<a href="#FORGIVENESS">FORGIVENESS</a><br /> -<a href="#THE_WHITE_WOLF">THE WHITE WOLF</a><br /> -</p> -<hr class="tb" /> - -<h5>ILLUSTRATIONS</h5> - -<p class="center" style="font-size: 0.8em;">HENRI RENE GUY DE MAUPASSANT<br /> -"THEY WERE ALONE ... SHE WAS WEEPING"</p> -<hr class="tb" /> -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/img002.jpg" width="500" alt="" /> -</div> - - - - - -<h4><a id="GUY_DE_MAUPASSANT"></a>GUY DE MAUPASSANT</h4> - - -<p>Of the French writers of romance of the latter part of the nineteenth -century no one made a reputation as quickly as did Guy de Maupassant. -Not one has preserved that reputation with more ease, not only during -life, but in death. None so completely hides his personality in -his glory. In an epoch of the utmost publicity, in which the most -insignificant deeds of a celebrated man are spied, recorded, and -commented on, the author of "Boule de Suif," of "Pierre et Jean," of -"Notre Cœur," found a way of effacing his personality in his work.</p> - -<p>Of De Maupassant we know that he was born in Normandy about 1850; that -he was the favorite pupil, if one may so express it, the literary -<i>protégé</i>, of Gustave Flaubert; that he made his <i>début</i> late in 1880, -with a novel inserted in a small collection, published by Emile Zola -and his young friends, under the title: "The Soirées of Medan"; that -subsequently he did not fail to publish stories and romances every year -up to 1891, when a disease of the brain struck him down in the fullness -of production; and that he died, finally, in 1893, without having -recovered his reason.</p> - -<p>We know, too, that he passionately loved a strenuous physical life -and long journeys, particularly long journeys upon the sea. He owned -a little sailing yacht, named after one of his books, "Bel-Ami," in -which he used to sojourn for weeks and months. These meager details are -almost the only ones that have been gathered as food for the curiosity -of the public.</p> - -<p>I leave the legendary side, which is always in evidence in the case -of a celebrated man,—that gossip, for example, which avers that -Maupassant was a high liver and a worldling. The very number of his -volumes is a protest to the contrary. One could not write so large -a number of pages in so small a number of years without the virtue -of industry, a virtue incompatible with habits of dissipation. This -does not mean that the writer of these great romances had no love for -pleasure and had not tasted the world, but that for him these were -secondary things. The psychology of his work ought, then, to find an -interpretation other than that afforded by wholly false or exaggerated -anecdotes. I wish to indicate here how this work, illumined by the -three or four positive data which I have given, appears to me to demand -it.</p> - -<p>And first, what does that anxiety to conceal his personality prove, -carried as it was to such an extreme degree? The answer rises -spontaneously in the minds of those who have studied closely the -history of literature. The absolute silence about himself, preserved by -one whose position among us was that of a Tourgenief, or of a Mérimée, -and of a Molière or a Shakespeare among the classic great, reveals, to -a person of instinct, a nervous sensibility of extreme depth. There -are many chances for an artist of his kind, however timid, or for one -who has some grief, to show the depth of his emotion. To take up again -only two of the names just cited, this was the case with the author of -"Terres Vierges," and with the writer of "Colomba."</p> - -<p>A somewhat minute analysis of the novels and romances of Maupassant -would suffice to demonstrate, even if we did not know the nature of the -incidents which prompted them, that he also suffered from an excess of -nervous emotionalism. Nine times out of ten, what is the subject of -these stories to which freedom of style gives the appearance of health? -A tragic episode. I cite, at random, "Mademoiselle Fifi," "La Petite -Roque," "Inutile Beauté," "Le Masque," "Le Horla," "L'Épreuve," "Le -Champ d'Oliviers," among the novels, and among the romances, "Une Vie," -"Pierre et Jean," "Fort comme la Mort," "Notre Cœur." His imagination -aims to represent the human being as imprisoned in a situation at once -insupportable and inevitable. The spell of this grief and trouble -exerts such a power upon the writer that he ends stories commenced in -pleasantry with some sinister drama. Let me instance "Saint-Antonin," -"A Midnight Revel," "The Little Cask," and "Old Amable." You close the -book at the end of these vigorous sketches, and feel how surely they -point to constant suffering on the part of him who executed them.</p> - -<p>This is the leading trait in the literary physiognomy of Maupassant, -as it is the leading and most profound trait in the psychology of his -work, viz., that human life is a snare laid by nature, where joy is -always changed to misery, where noble words and the highest professions -of faith serve the lowest plans and the most cruel egoism, where -chagrin, crime, and folly are forever on hand to pursue implacably our -hopes, nullify our virtues, and annihilate our wisdom. But this is not -the whole.</p> - -<p>Maupassant has been called a literary nihilist—but (and this is the -second trait of his singular genius) in him nihilism finds itself -coexistent with an animal energy so fresh and so intense that for a -long time it deceives the closest observer. In an eloquent discourse, -pronounced over his premature grave, Emile Zola well defined this -illusion: "We congratulated him," said he, "upon that health which -seemed unbreakable, and justly credited him with the soundest -constitution of our band, as well as with the clearest mind and the -sanest reason. It was then that this frightful thunderbolt destroyed -him."</p> - -<p>It is not exact to say that the lofty genius of De Maupassant was that -of an absolutely sane man. We comprehend it to-day, and, on re-reading -him, we find traces everywhere of his final malady. But it is exact -to say that this wounded genius was, by a singular circumstance, the -genius of a robust man. A physiologist would without doubt explain -this anomaly by the coexistence of a nervous lesion, light at first, -with a muscular, athletic temperament. Whatever the cause, the effect -is undeniable. The skilled and dainty pessimism of De Maupassant was -accompanied by a vigor and physique very unusual. His sensations are -in turn those of a hunter and of a sailor, who have, as the old French -saying expressively puts it, "swift foot, eagle eye," and who are -attuned to all the whisperings of nature.</p> - -<p>The only confidences that he has ever permitted his pen to tell of -the intoxication of a free, animal existence are in the opening pages -of the story entitled "Mouche," where he recalls, among the sweetest -memories of his youth, his rollicking canoe parties upon the Seine, -and in the description in "La Vie Errante" of a night spent on the -sea,—"to be alone upon the water under the sky, through a warm -night,"—in which he speaks of the happiness of those "who receive -sensations through the whole surface of their flesh, as they do through -their eyes, their mouth, their ears, and sense of smell."</p> - -<p>His unique and too scanty collection of verses, written in early youth, -contains the two most fearless, I was going to say the most ingenuous, -paeans, perhaps, that have been written since the Renaissance: "At -the Water's Edge" (Au Bord de l'Eau) and the "Rustic Venus" (La -Venus Rustique). But here is a paganism whose ardor, by a contrast -which brings up the ever present duality of his nature, ends in an -inexpressible shiver of scorn:</p> - -<p style="margin-left: 15%;"> -"We look at each other, astonished, immovable,<br /> -And both are so pale that it makes us fear."<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">* * * * * * * *</span><br /> -"Alas! through all our senses slips life itself away."<br /> -</p> - -<p>This ending of the "Water's Edge" is less sinister than the murder -and the vision of horror which terminate the pantheistic hymn of the -"Rustic Venus." Considered as documents revealing the cast of mind -of him who composed them, these two lyrical essays are especially -significant, since they were spontaneous. They explain why De -Maupassant, in the early years of production, voluntarily chose, as -the heroes of his stories, creatures very near to primitive existence, -peasants, sailors, poachers, girls of the farm, and the source of the -vigor with which he describes these rude figures. The robustness of -his animalism permits him fully to imagine all the simple sensations -of these beings, while his pessimism, which tinges these sketches of -brutal customs with an element of delicate scorn, preserves him from -coarseness. It is this constant and involuntary antithesis which gives -unique value to those Norman scenes which have contributed so much -to his glory. It corresponds to those two contradictory tendencies -in literary art, which seek always to render life in motion with the -most intense coloring, and still to make more and more subtle the -impression of this life. How is one ambition to be satisfied at the -same time as the other, since all gain in color and movement brings -about a diminution of sensibility, and conversely? The paradox of his -constitution permitted to Maupassant this seemingly impossible accord, -aided as he was by an intellect whose influence was all powerful upon -his development—the writer I mention above, Gustave Flaubert.</p> - -<p>These meetings of a pupil and a master, both great, are indeed rare. -They present, in fact, some troublesome conditions, the first of -which is a profound analogy between two types of thought. There must -have been, besides, a reciprocity of affection, which does not often -obtain between a renowned senior who is growing old and an obscure -junior, whose renown is increasing. From generation to generation, envy -reascends no less than she redescends. For the honor of French men of -letters, let us add that this exceptional phenomenon has manifested -itself twice in the nineteenth century. Mérimée, whom I have also -named, received from Stendhal, at twenty, the same benefits that -Maupassant received from Flaubert.</p> - -<p>The author of "Une Vie" and the writer of "Clara Jozul" resemble -each other, besides, in a singular and analogous circumstance. Both -achieved renown at the first blow, and by a masterpiece which they -were able to equal but never surpass. Both were misanthropes early in -life, and practised to the end the ancient advice that the disciple of -Beyle carried upon his seal: μεμνήσο απιστἔιν—"Remember to distrust." -And, at the same time, both had delicate, tender hearts under this -affectation of cynicism, both were excellent sons, irreproachable -friends, indulgent masters, and both were idolized by their inferiors. -Both were worldly, yet still loved a wanderer's life; both joined to -a constant taste for luxury an irresistible desire for solitude. Both -belonged to the extreme left of the literature of their epoch, but kept -themselves from excess and used with a judgment marvelously sure the -sounder principles of their school. They knew how to remain lucid and -classic, in taste as much as in form—Mérimée through all the audacity -of a fancy most exotic, and Maupassant in the realism of the most -varied and exact observation. At a little distance they appear to be -two patterns, identical in certain traits, of the same family of minds, -and Tourgenief, who knew and loved the one and the other, never failed -to class them as brethren.</p> - -<p>They are separated, however, by profound differences, which perhaps -belong less to their nature than to that of the masters from whom -they received their impulses: Stendhal, so alert, so mobile, after a -youth passed in war and a ripe age spent in vagabond journeys, rich -in experiences, immediate and personal; Flaubert so poor in direct -impressions, so paralyzed by his health, by his family, by his theories -even, and so rich in reflections, for the most part solitary.</p> - -<p>Among the theories of the anatomist of "Madame Bovary," there are two -which appear without ceasing in his Correspondence, under one form -or another, and these are the ones which are most strongly evident -in the art of De Maupassant. We now see the consequences which were -inevitable by reason of them, endowed as Maupassant was with a double -power of feeling life bitterly, and at the same time with so much of -animal force. The first theory bears upon the choice of personages and -the story of the romance, the second upon the character of the style. -The son of a physician, and brought up in the rigors of scientific -method, Flaubert believed this method to be efficacious in art as in -science. For instance, in the writing of a romance, he seemed to be as -scientific as in the development of a history of customs, in which the -essential is absolute exactness and local color. He therefore naturally -wished to make the most scrupulous and detailed observation of the -environment.</p> - -<p>Thus is explained the immense labor in preparation which his stories -cost him—the story of "Madame Bovary," of "The Sentimental Education," -and "Bouvard and Pécuchet," documents containing as much <i>minutiæ</i> -as his historical stories. Beyond everything he tried to select -details that were eminently significant. Consequently he was of the -opinion that the romance writer should discard all that lessened this -significance, that is, extraordinary events and singular heroes. The -exceptional personage, it seemed to him, should be suppressed, as -should also high dramatic incident, since, produced by causes less -general, these have a range more restricted. The truly scientific -romance writer, proposing to paint a certain class, will attain his -end more effectively if he incarnate personages of the middle order, -and, consequently, paint traits common to that class. And not only -middle-class traits, but middle-class adventures.</p> - -<p>From this point of view, examine the three great romances of the -Master from Rouen, and you will see that he has not lost sight of this -first and greatest principle of his art, any more than he has of the -second, which was that these documents should be drawn up in prose of -absolutely perfect technique. We know with what passionate care he -worked at his phrases, and how indefatigably he changed them over and -over again. Thus he satisfied that instinct of beauty which was born of -his romantic soul, while he gratified the demand of truth which inhered -from his scientific training by his minute and scrupulous exactness.</p> - -<p>The theory of the mean of truth on one side, as the foundation of -the subject,—"the humble truth," as he termed it at the beginning -of "Une Vie,"—and of the agonizing of beauty on the other side, in -composition, determines the whole use that Maupassant made of his -literary gifts. It helped to make more intense and more systematic -that dainty yet dangerous pessimism which in him was innate. The -middle-class personage, in wearisome society like ours, is always a -caricature, and the happenings are nearly always vulgar. When one -studies a great number of them, one finishes by looking at humanity -from the angle of disgust and despair. The philosophy of the romances -and novels of De Maupassant is so continuously and profoundly -surprising that one becomes overwhelmed by it. It reaches limitation; -it seems to deny that man is susceptible to grandeur, or that motives -of a superior order can uplift and ennoble the soul, but it does so -with a sorrow that is profound. All that portion of the sentimental and -moral world which in itself is the highest remains closed to it.</p> - -<p>In revenge, this philosophy finds itself in a relation cruelly exact -with the half-civilization of our day. By that I mean the poorly -educated individual who has rubbed against knowledge enough to justify -a certain egoism, but who is too poor in faculty to conceive an ideal, -and whose native grossness is corrupted beyond redemption. Under his -blouse, or under his coat—whether he calls himself Renardet, as does -the foul assassin in "Petite Roque," or Duroy, as does the sly hero -of "Bel-Ami," or Bretigny, as does the vile seducer of "Mont Oriol," -or Césaire, the son of Old Amable in the novel of that name,—this -degraded type abounds in Maupassant's stories, evoked with a ferocity -almost jovial where it meets the robustness of temperament which I -have pointed out, a ferocity which gives them a reality more exact -still because the half-civilized person is often impulsive and, in -consequence, the physical easily predominates. There, as elsewhere, -the degenerate is everywhere a degenerate who gives the impression of -being an ordinary man.</p> - -<p>There are quantities of men of this stamp in large cities. No writer -has felt and expressed this complex temperament with more justice than -De Maupassant, and, as he was an infinitely careful observer of <i>milieu</i> -and landscape and all that constitutes a precise middle distance, his -novels can be considered an irrefutable record of the social classes -which he studied at a certain time and along certain lines. The -Norman peasant and the Provençal peasant, for example; also the small -officeholder, the gentleman of the provinces, the country squire, the -clubman of Paris, the journalist of the boulevard, the doctor at the -spa, the commercial artist, and, on the feminine side, the servant -girl, the working girl, the <i>demi-grisette</i>, the street girl, rich -or poor, the gallant lady of the city and of the provinces, and the -society woman—these are some of the figures that he has painted at -many sittings, and whom he used to such effect that the novels and -romances in which they are painted have come to be history. Just as it -is impossible to comprehend the Rome of the Cæsars without the work -of Petronius, so is it impossible to fully comprehend the France of -1850-90 without these stories of Maupassant. They are no more the whole -image of the country than the "Satyricon" was the whole image of Rome, -but what their author has wished to paint, he has painted to the life -and with a brush that is graphic in the extreme.</p> - -<p>If Maupassant had only painted, in general fashion, the characters and -the phase of literature mentioned, he would not be distinguished from -other writers of the group called "naturalists." His true glory is in -the extraordinary superiority of his art. He did not invent it, and his -method is not alien to that of "Madame Bovary," but he knew how to give -it a suppleness, a variety, and a freedom which were always wanting in -Flaubert. The latter, in his best pages, is always strained. To use the -expressive metaphor of the Greek athletes, he "smells of the oil." When -one recalls that when attacked by hysteric epilepsy, Flaubert postponed -the crisis of the terrible malady by means of sedatives, this strained -atmosphere of labor—I was going to say of stupor—which pervades his -work is explained. He is an athlete, a runner, but one who drags at his -feet a terrible weight. He is in the race only for the prize of effort, -an effort of which every motion reveals the intensity.</p> - -<p>Maupassant, on the other hand, if he suffered from a nervous lesion, -gave no sign of it, except in his heart. His intelligence was bright -and lively, and above all, his imagination, served by senses always on -the alert, preserved for some years an astonishing freshness of direct -vision. If his art was due to Flaubert, it is no more belittling to him -than if one call Raphael an imitator of Perugini.</p> - -<p>Like Flaubert, he excelled in composing a story, in distributing the -facts with subtle gradation, in bringing in at the end of a familiar -dialogue something startlingly dramatic; but such composition, with -him, seems easy, and while the descriptions are marvelously well -established in his stories, the reverse is true of Flaubert's, which -always appear a little veneered. Maupassant's phrasing, however -dramatic it may be, remains easy and flowing.</p> - -<p>Maupassant always sought for large and harmonious rhythm in his -deliberate choice of terms, always chose sound, wholesome language, -with a constant care for technical beauty. Inheriting from his master -an instrument already forged, he wielded it with a surer skill. In the -quality of his style, at once so firm and clear, so gorgeous yet so -sober, so supple and so firm, he equals the writers of the seventeenth -century. His method, so deeply and simply French, succeeds in giving an -indescribable "tang" to his descriptions. If observation from nature -imprints upon his tales the strong accent of reality, the prose in -which they are shrined so conforms to the genius of the race as to -smack of the soil.</p> - -<p>It is enough that the critics of to-day place Guy de Maupassant among -our classic writers. He has his place in the ranks of pure French -genius, with the Regniers, the La Fontaines, the Molières. And those -signs of secret ill divined everywhere under this wholesome prose -surround it for those who knew and loved him with a pathos that is -inexpressible.</p> - -<p style="text-align: right;">Paul Bourget</p> - -<div class="figright" style="width: 200px;"> -<img src="images/bourget.jpg" width="200" alt="" /> -</div> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h4><a name="INTRODUCTION" id="INTRODUCTION">INTRODUCTION</a></h4> - - -<p>Born in the middle year of the nineteenth century, and fated -unfortunately never to see its close, Guy de Maupassant was probably -the most versatile and brilliant among the galaxy of novelists who -enriched French literature between the years 1800 and 1900. Poetry, -drama, prose of short and sustained effort, and volumes of travel and -description, each sparkling with the same minuteness of detail and -brilliancy of style, flowed from his pen during the twelve years of his -literary life.</p> - -<p>Although his genius asserted itself in youth, he had the patience of -the true artist, spending his early manhood in cutting and polishing -the facets of his genius under the stern though paternal mentorship of -Gustave Flaubert. Not until he had attained the age of thirty did he -venture on publication, challenging criticism for the first time with a -volume of poems.</p> - -<p>Many and various have been the judgments passed upon Maupassant's work. -But now that the perspective of time is lengthening, enabling us to -form a more deliberate and therefore a juster, view of his complete -achievement, we are driven irresistibly to the conclusion that the -force that shaped and swayed Maupassant's prose writings was the -conviction that in life there could be no phase so noble or so mean, so -honorable or so contemptible, so lofty or so low as to be unworthy of -chronicling,—no groove of human virtue or fault, success or failure, -wisdom or folly that did not possess its own peculiar psychological -aspect and therefore demanded analysis.</p> - -<p>To this analysis Maupassant brought a facile and dramatic pen, a -penetration as searching as a probe, and a power of psychological -vision that in its minute detail, now pathetic, now ironical, in its -merciless revelation of the hidden springs of the human heart, whether -of aristocrat, <i>bourgeois</i>, peasant, or priest, allow one to call him a -Meissonier in words.</p> - -<p>The school of romantic realism which was founded by Mérimée and -Balzac found its culmination in De Maupassant. He surpassed his -mentor, Flaubert, in the breadth and vividness of his work, and one -of the greatest of modern French critics has recorded the deliberate -opinion, that of all Taine's pupils Maupassant had the greatest command -of language and the most finished and incisive style. Robust in -imagination and fired with natural passion, his psychological curiosity -kept him true to human nature, while at the same time his mental eye, -when fixed upon the most ordinary phases of human conduct, could see -some new motive or aspect of things hitherto unnoticed by the careless -crowd.</p> - -<p>It has been said by casual critics that Maupassant lacked one quality -indispensable to the production of truly artistic work, viz.: an -absolutely normal, that is, moral, point of view. The answer to this -criticism is obvious. No dissector of the gamut of human passion and -folly in all its tones could present aught that could be called new, if -ungifted with a view-point totally out of the ordinary plane. Cold and -merciless in the use of this <i>point de vue</i> De Maupassant undoubtedly -is, especially in such vivid depictions of love, both physical and -maternal, as we find in "L'histoire d'une fille de ferme" and "La -femme de Paul." But then the surgeon's scalpel never hesitates at -giving pain, and pain is often the road to health and ease. Some of -Maupassant's short stories are sermons more forcible than any moral -dissertation could ever be.</p> - -<p>Of De Maupassant's sustained efforts "Une Vie" may bear the palm. This -romance has the distinction of having changed Tolstoi from an adverse -critic into a warm admirer of the author. To quote the Russian moralist -upon the book:</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>"'Une Vie' is a romance of the best type, and in my judgment -the greatest that has been produced by any French writer -since Victor Hugo penned 'Les Misérables.' Passing over the -force and directness of the narrative, I am struck by the -intensity, the grace, and the insight with which the writer -treats the new aspects of human nature which he finds in the -life he describes."</p></blockquote> - -<p>And as if gracefully to recall a former adverse criticism, Tolstoi adds:</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>"I find in the book, in almost equal strength, the three -cardinal qualities essential to great work, viz: moral -purpose, perfect style, and absolute sincerity.... -Maupassant is a man whose vision has penetrated the silent -depths of human life, and from that vantage-ground -interprets the struggle of humanity."</p></blockquote> - -<p>"Bel-Ami" appeared almost two years after "Une Vie," that is to say, -about 1885. Discussed and criticised as it has been, it is in reality -a satire, an indignant outburst against the corruption of society -which in the story enables an ex-soldier, devoid of conscience, honor, -even of the commonest regard for others, to gain wealth and rank. -The purport of the story is clear to those who recognize the ideas -that governed Maupassant's work, and even the hasty reader or critic, -on reading "Mont Oriol," which was published two years later and is -based on a combination of the <i>motifs</i> which inspired "Une Vie" and -"Bel-Ami," will reconsider former hasty judgments, and feel, too, that -beneath the triumph of evil which calls forth Maupassant's satiric -anger there lies the substratum on which all his work is founded, viz: -the persistent, ceaseless questioning of a soul unable to reconcile or -explain the contradiction between love in life and inevitable death. -Who can read in "Bel-Ami" the terribly graphic description of the -consumptive journalist's demise, his frantic clinging to life, and his -refusal to credit the slow and merciless approach of death, without -feeling that the question asked at Naishapur many centuries ago is -still waiting for the solution that is always promised but never comes?</p> - -<p>In the romances which followed, dating from 1888 to 1890, a sort of -calm despair seems to have settled down upon De Maupassant's attitude -toward life. Psychologically acute as ever, and as perfect in style -and sincerity as before, we miss the note of anger. Fatality is -the keynote, and yet, sounding low, we detect a genuine subtone of -sorrow. Was it a prescience of 1893? So much work to be done, so much -work demanded of him, the world of Paris, in all its brilliant and -attractive phases, at his feet, and yet—inevitable, ever advancing -death, with the question of life still unanswered.</p> - -<p>This may account for some of the strained situations we find in his -later romances. Vigorous in frame and hearty as he was, the atmosphere -of his mental processes must have been vitiated to produce the dainty -but dangerous pessimism that pervades some of his later work. This was -partly a consequence of his honesty and partly of mental despair. He -never accepted other people's views on the questions of life. He looked -into such problems for himself, arriving at the truth, as it appeared -to him, by the logic of events, often finding evil where he wished to -find good, but never hoodwinking himself or his readers by adapting or -distorting the reality of things to suit a preconceived idea.</p> - -<p>Maupassant was essentially a worshiper of the eternal feminine. He was -persuaded that without the continual presence of the gentler sex man's -existence would be an emotionally silent wilderness. No other French -writer has described and analyzed so minutely and comprehensively -the many and various motives and moods that shape the conduct of a -woman in life. Take for instance the wonderfully subtle analysis of a -woman's heart as wife and mother that we find in "Une Vie." Could aught -be more delicately incisive? Sometimes in describing the apparently -inexplicable conduct of a certain woman he leads his readers to a point -where a false step would destroy the spell and bring the reproach of -banality and ridicule upon the tale. But the catastrophe never occurs. -It was necessary to stand poised upon the brink of the precipice to -realize the depth of the abyss and feel the terror of the fall.</p> - -<p>Closely allied to this phase of Maupassant's nature was the peculiar -feeling of loneliness that every now and then breaks irresistibly forth -in the course of some short story. Of kindly soul and genial heart, he -suffered not only from the oppression of spirit caused by the lack of -humanity, kindliness, sanity, and harmony which he encountered daily in -the world at large, but he had an ever abiding sense of the invincible, -unbanishable solitariness of his own Inmost self. I know of no more -poignant expression of such a feeling than the cry of despair which -rings out in the short story called "Solitude," in which he describes -the insurmountable barrier which exists between man and man, or man and -woman, however intimate the friendship between them. He could picture -but one way of destroying this terrible loneliness, the attainment of a -spiritual—a divine—state of love, a condition to which he would give -no name utterable by human lips, lest it be profaned, but for which -his whole being yearned. How acutely he felt his failure to attain his -deliverance may be drawn from his wail that mankind has no universal -measure of happiness.</p> - -<p>"Each one of us," writes De Maupassant, "forms for himself an illusion -through which he views the world, be it poetic, sentimental, joyous, -melancholy, or dismal; an illusion of beauty, which is a human -convention; of ugliness, which is a matter of opinion; of truth, -which, alas, is never immutable." And he concludes by asserting that -the happiest artist is he who approaches most closely to the truth of -things as he sees them through his own particular illusion.</p> - -<p>Salient points in De Maupassant's genius were that he possessed the -rare faculty of holding direct communion with his gifts, and of writing -from their dictation as it was interpreted by his senses. He had no -patience with writers who in striving to present life as a whole -purposely omit episodes that reveal the influence of the senses. "As -well," he says, "refrain from describing the effect of intoxicating -perfumes upon man as omit the influence of beauty on the temperament of -man."</p> - -<p>De Maupassant's dramatic instinct was supremely powerful. He seems -to select unerringly the one thing in which the soul of the scene is -prisoned, and, making that his keynote, gives a picture in words which -haunt the memory like a strain of music. The description of the ride of -Madame Tellier and her companions in a country cart through a Norman -landscape is an admirable example. You smell the masses of the colza -in blossom, you see the yellow carpets of ripe corn spotted here and -there by the blue coronets of the cornflower, and rapt by the red blaze -of the poppy beds and bathed in the fresh greenery of the landscape, -you share in the emotions felt by the happy party in the country cart. -And yet with all his vividness of description, De Maupassant is always -sober and brief. He had the genius of condensation and the reserve -which is innate in power, and to his reader could convey as much in a -paragraph as could be expressed in a page by many of his predecessors -and contemporaries, Flaubert not excepted.</p> - -<p>Apart from his novels, De Maupassant's tales may be arranged under -three heads: Those that concern themselves with Norman peasant life; -those that deal with Government employees (Maupassant himself had -long been one) and the Paris middle classes, and those that represent -the life of the fashionable world, as well as the weird and fantastic -ideas of the later years of his career. Of these three groups the tales -of the Norman peasantry perhaps rank highest. He depicts the Norman -farmer in surprisingly free and bold strokes, revealing him in all his -caution, astuteness, rough gaiety, and homely virtue.</p> - -<p>The tragic stage of De Maupassant's life may, I think, be set down as -beginning just before the drama of "Musotte" was issued, in conjunction -with Jacques Normand, in 1891. He had almost given up the hope of -interpreting his puzzles, and the struggle between the falsity of the -life which surrounded him and the nobler visions which possessed him -was wearing him out. Doubtless he resorted to unwise methods for the -dispelling of physical lassitude or for surcease from troubling mental -problems. To this period belong such weird and horrible fancies as -are contained in the short stories known as "He" and "The Diary of a -Madman." Here and there, we know, were rising in him inklings of a -finer and less sordid attitude 'twixt man and woman throughout the -world and of a purer constitution of existing things which no exterior -force should blemish or destroy. But with these yearningly prophetic -gleams came a period of mental death. Then the physical veil was torn -aside and for Guy de Maupassant the riddle of existence was answered.</p> - - -<p style="text-align: right">Robert Arnot</p> - -<div class="figright" style="width: 200px;"> -<img src="images/arnot.jpg" width="200" alt="" /> -</div> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h3><a name="NOTRE_COEUR" id="NOTRE_COEUR">NOTRE CŒUR</a></h3> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h5><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I.</a></h5> - - -<h4>THE INTRODUCTION</h4> - - -<p>One day Massival, the celebrated composer of "Rebecca," who for fifteen -years, now, had been known as "the young and illustrious master," said -to his friend André Mariolle:</p> - -<p>"Why is it that you have never secured a presentation to Mme. Michèle -de Burne? Take my word for it, she is one of the most interesting women -in new Paris."</p> - -<p>"Because I do not feel myself at all adapted to her surroundings."</p> - -<p>"You are wrong, my dear fellow. It is a house where there is a great -deal of novelty and originality; it is wide-awake and very artistic. -There is excellent music, and the conversation is as good as in the -best salons of the last century. You would be highly appreciated—in -the first place because you play so well on the violin, then because -you have been very favorably spoken of in the house, and finally -because you have the reputation of being select in your choice of -friends."</p> - -<p>Flattered, but still maintaining his attitude of resistance, supposing, -moreover, that this urgent invitation was not given without the young -woman being aware of it, Mariolle ejaculated a "Bah! I shall not -bother my head at all about it," in which, through the disdain that he -intended to express, was evident his foregone acceptance.</p> - -<p>Massival continued: "Would you like to have me present you some of -these days? You are already known to her through all of us who are on -terms of intimacy with her, for we talk about you often enough. She is -a very pretty woman of twenty-eight, abounding in intelligence, who -will never take a second husband, for her first venture was a very -unfortunate one. She has made her abode a rendezvous for agreeable men. -There are not too many club-men or society-men found there—just enough -of them to give the proper effect. She will be delighted to have me -introduce you."</p> - -<p>Mariolle was vanquished; he replied: "Very well, then; one of these -days."</p> - -<p>At the beginning of the following week the musician came to his house -and asked him: "Are you disengaged to-morrow?"</p> - -<p>"Why, yes."</p> - -<p>"Very well. I will take you to dine with Mme. de Burne; she requested -me to invite you. Besides, here is a line from her."</p> - -<p>After a few seconds' reflection, for form's sake, Mariolle answered: -"That is settled!"</p> - -<p>André Mariolle was about thirty-seven years old, a bachelor without -a profession, wealthy enough to live in accordance with his likings, -to travel, and even to indulge himself in collecting modern paintings -and ancient knickknacks. He had the reputation of being a man of -intelligence, rather odd and unsociable, a little capricious and -disdainful, who affected the hermit through pride rather than through -timidity. Very talented and acute, but indolent, quick to grasp the -meaning of things, and capable, perhaps, of accomplishing something -great, he had contented himself with enjoying life as a spectator, or -rather as a <i>dilettante</i>. Had he been poor, he would doubtless have -turned out to be a remarkable or celebrated man; born with a good -income, he was eternally reproaching himself that he could never be -anything better than a nobody.</p> - -<p>It is true that he had made more than one attempt in the direction of -the arts, but they had lacked vigor. One had been in the direction of -literature, by publishing a pleasing book of travels, abounding in -incident and correct in style; one toward music by his violin-playing, -in which he had gained, even among professional musicians, a -respectable reputation; and, finally, one at sculpture, that art in -which native aptitude and the faculty of rough-hewing striking and -deceptive figures atone in the eyes of the ignorant for deficiencies in -study and knowledge. His statuette in terra-cotta, "Masseur Tunisien," -had even been moderately successful at the Salon of the preceding year. -He was a remarkable horseman, and was also, it was said, an excellent -fencer, although he never used the foils in public, owing, perhaps, to -the same self-distrustful feeling which impelled him to absent himself -from society resorts where serious rivalries were to be apprehended.</p> - -<p>His friends appreciated him, however, and were unanimous in extolling -his merits, perhaps for the reason that they had little to fear from -him in the way of competition. It was said of him that in every case he -was reliable, a devoted friend, extremely agreeable in manner, and very -sympathetic in his personality.</p> - -<p>Tall of stature, wearing his black beard short upon the cheeks and -trained down to a fine point upon the chin, with hair that was -beginning to turn gray but curled very prettily, he looked one straight -in the face with a pair of clear, brown, piercing eyes in which lurked -a shade of distrust and hardness.</p> - -<p>Among his intimates he had an especial predilection for artists of -every kind—among them Gaston de Lamarthe the novelist, Massival the -musician, and the painters Jobin, Rivollet, De Mandol—who seemed to -set a high value on his reason, his friendship, his intelligence, -and even his judgment, although at bottom, with the vanity that -is inseparable from success achieved, they set him down as a very -agreeable and very intelligent man who had failed to score a success.</p> - -<p>Mariolle's haughty reserve seemed to say: "I am nothing because I have -not chosen to be anything." He lived within a narrow circle, therefore, -disdaining gallantry and the great frequented salons, where others -might have shone more brilliantly than he, and might have obliged him -to take his place among the lay-figures of society. He visited only -those houses where appreciation was extended to the solid qualities -that he was unwilling to display; and though he had consented so -readily to allow himself to be introduced to Mme. Michèle de Burne, the -reason was that his best friends, those who everywhere proclaimed his -hidden merits, were the intimates of this young woman.</p> - -<p>She lived in a pretty <i>entresol</i> in the Rue du Général-Foy, behind the -church of Saint Augustin. There were two rooms with an outlook on the -street—the dining-room and a salon, the one in which she received her -company indiscriminately—and two others that opened on a handsome -garden of which the owner of the property had the enjoyment. Of the -latter the first was a second salon of large dimensions, of greater -length than width, with three windows opening on the trees, the leaves -of which brushed against the awnings, a room which was embellished -with furniture and ornaments exceptionally rare and simple, in the -purest and soberest taste and of great value. The tables, the chairs, -the little cupboards or <i>étagères</i>, the pictures, the fans and the -porcelain figures beneath glass covers, the vases, the statuettes, the -great clock fixed in the middle of a panel, the entire decoration of -this young woman's apartment attracted and held attention by its shape, -its age, or its elegance. To create for herself this home, of which she -was almost as proud as she was of her own person, she had laid under -contribution the knowledge, the friendship, the good nature, and the -rummaging instinct of every artist of her acquaintance. She was rich -and willing to pay well, and her friends had discovered for her many -things, distinguished by originality, which the mere vulgar amateur -would have passed by with contempt. Thus, with their assistance, -she had furnished this dwelling, to which access was obtained with -difficulty, and where she imagined that her friends received more -pleasure and returned more gladly than elsewhere.</p> - -<p>It was even a favorite hobby of hers to assert that the colors of the -curtains and hangings, the comfort of the seats, the beauty of form, -and the gracefulness of general effect are of as much avail to charm, -captivate, and acclimatize the eye as are pretty smiles. Sympathetic -or antipathetic rooms, she would say, whether rich or poor, attract, -hold, or repel, just like the people who live in them. They awake the -feelings or stifle them, warm or chill the mind, compel one to talk or -be silent, make one sad or cheerful; in a word, they give every visitor -an unaccountable desire to remain or to go away.</p> - -<p>About the middle of this dimly lighted gallery a grand piano, standing -between two <i>jardinières</i> filled with flowers, occupied the place of -honor and dominated the room. Beyond this a lofty door with two leaves -opened gave access to the bedroom, which in turn communicated with a -dressing-room, also very large and elegant, hung with chintz like a -drawing-room in summer, where Mme. de Burne generally kept herself when -she had no company.</p> - -<p>Married to a well-mannered good-for-nothing, one of those domestic -tyrants before whom everything must bend and yield, she had at -first been very unhappy. For five years she had had to endure the -unreasonable exactions, the harshness, the jealousy, even the violence -of this intolerable master, and terrified, beside herself with -astonishment, she had submitted without revolt to this revelation of -married life, crushed as she was beneath the despotic and torturing -will of the brutal man whose victim she had become.</p> - -<p>He died one night, from an aneurism, as he was coming home, and when -she saw the body of her husband brought in, covered with a sheet, -unable to believe in the reality of this deliverance, she looked at his -corpse with a deep feeling of repressed joy and a frightful dread lest -she might show it.</p> - -<p>Cheerful, independent, even exuberant by nature, very flexible and -attractive, with bright flashes of wit such as are shown in some -incomprehensible way in the intellects of certain little girls of -Paris, who seem to have breathed from their earliest childhood the -stimulating air of the boulevards—where every evening, through the -open doors of the theaters, the applause or the hisses that greet the -plays come forth, borne on the air—she nevertheless retained from her -five years of servitude a strange timidity grafted upon her old-time -audacity, a great fear lest she might say too much, do too much, -together with a burning desire for emancipation and a stern resolve -never again to do anything to imperil her liberty.</p> - -<p>Her husband, a man of the world, had trained her to receive like a mute -slave, elegant, polite, and well dressed. The despot had numbered among -his friends many artists, whom she had received with curiosity and -listened to with delight, without ever daring to allow them to see how -she understood and appreciated them.</p> - -<p>When her period of mourning was ended she invited a few of them to -dinner one evening. Two of them sent excuses; three accepted and -were astonished to find a young woman of admirable intelligence and -charming manners, who immediately put them at their ease and gracefully -told them of the pleasure that they had afforded her in former days -by coming to her house. From among her old acquaintances who had -ignored her or failed to recognize her qualities she thus gradually -made a selection according to her inclinations, and as a widow, an -enfranchised woman, but one determined to maintain her good name, she -began to receive all the most distinguished men of Paris whom she could -bring together, with only a few women. The first to be admitted became -her intimates, formed a nucleus, attracted others, and gave to the -house the air of a small court, to which every <i>habitué</i> contributed -either personal merit or a great name, for a few well-selected titles -were mingled with the intelligence of the commonalty.</p> - -<p>Her father, M. de Pradon, who occupied the apartment over hers, served -as her chaperon and "sheep-dog." An old beau, very elegant and witty, -and extremely attentive to his daughter, whom he treated rather as -a lady acquaintance than as a daughter, he presided at the Thursday -dinners that were quickly known and talked of in Paris, and to which -invitations were much sought after. The requests for introductions -and invitations came in shoals, were discussed, and very frequently -rejected by a sort of vote of the inner council. Witty sayings that -had their origin in this circle were quoted and obtained currency in -the city. Actors, artists, and young poets made their <i>débuts</i> there, -and received, as it were, the baptism of their future greatness. -Longhaired geniuses, introduced by Gaston de Lamarthe, seated -themselves at the piano and replaced the Hungarian violinists that -Massival had presented, and foreign ballet-dancers gave the company a -glimpse of their graceful steps before appearing at the Eden or the -Folies-Bergères.</p> - -<p>Mme. de Burne, over whom her friends kept jealous watch and ward and -to whom the recollection of her commerce with the world under the -auspices of marital authority was loathsome, was sufficiently wise -not to enlarge the circle of her acquaintance to too great an extent. -Satisfied and at the same time terrified as to what might be said -and thought of her, she abandoned herself to her somewhat Bohemian -inclinations with consummate prudence. She valued her good name, and -was fearful of any rashness that might jeopardize it; she never allowed -her fancies to carry her beyond the bounds of propriety, was moderate -in her audacity and careful that no <i>liaison</i> or small love affair -should ever be imputed to her.</p> - -<p>All her friends had made love to her, more or less; none of them had -been successful. They confessed it, admitted it to each other with -surprise, for men never acknowledge, and perhaps they are right, the -power of resistance of a woman who is her own mistress. There was a -story current about her. It was said that at the beginning of their -married life her husband had exhibited such revolting brutality toward -her that she had been forever cured of the love of men. Her friends -would often discuss the case at length. They inevitably arrived at the -conclusion that a young girl who has been brought up in the dream -of future tenderness and the expectation of an awe-inspiring mystery -must have all her ideas completely upset when her initiation into the -new life is committed to a clown. That worldly philosopher, George de -Maltry, would give a gentle sneer and add: "Her hour will strike; it -always does for women like her, and the longer it is in coming the -louder it strikes. With our friend's artistic tastes, she will wind up -by falling in love with a singer or a pianist."</p> - -<p>Gaston de Lamarthe's ideas upon the subject were quite different. -As a novelist, observer, and psychologist, devoted to the study of -the inhabitants of the world of fashion, of whom he drew ironical -and lifelike portraits, he claimed to analyze and know women with -infallible and unique penetration. He put Mme. de Burne down among -those flighty creatures of the time, the type of whom he had given -in his interesting novel, "Une d'Elles." He had been the first -to diagnose this new race of women, distracted by the nerves of -reasoning, hysterical patients, drawn this way and that by a thousand -contradictory whims which never ripen into desires, disillusioned of -everything, without having enjoyed anything, thanks to the times, to -the way of living, and to the modern novel, and who, destitute of all -ardor and enthusiasm, seem to combine in their persons the capricious, -spoiled child and the old, withered sceptic. But he, like the rest of -them, had failed in his love-making.</p> - -<p>For all the faithful of the group had in turn been lovers of Mme. de -Burne, and after the crisis had retained their tenderness and their -emotion in different degrees. They had gradually come to form a sort of -little church; she was its Madonna, of whom they conversed constantly -among themselves, subject to her charm even when she was not present. -They praised, extolled, criticised, or disparaged her, according as she -had manifested irritation or gentleness, aversion or preference. They -were continually displaying their jealousy of each other, played the -spy on each other a little, and above all kept their ranks well closed -up, so that no rival might get near her who could give them any cause -for alarm.</p> - -<p>These assiduous ones were few in number: Massival, Gaston de Lamarthe, -big Fresnel, George de Maltry, a fashionable young philosopher, -celebrated for his paradoxes, for his eloquent and involved erudition -that was always up to date though incomprehensible even to the most -impassioned of his female admirers, and for his clothes, which were -selected with as much care as his theories. To this tried band she had -added a few more men of the world who had a reputation for wit, the -Comte de Marantin, the Baron de Gravil, and two or three others.</p> - -<p>The two privileged characters of this chosen battalion seemed to be -Massival and Lamarthe, who, it appears, had the gift of being always -able to divert the young woman by their artistic unceremoniousness, -their chaff, and the way they had of making fun of everybody, even of -herself, a little, when she was in humor to tolerate it. The care, -whether natural or assumed, however, that she took never to manifest -a marked and prolonged predilection for any one of her admirers, the -unconstrained air with which she practiced her coquetry and the real -impartiality with which she dispensed her favors maintained between -them a friendship seasoned with hostility and an alertness of wit that -made them entertaining.</p> - -<p>One of them would sometimes play a trick on the others by presenting -a friend; but as this friend was never a very celebrated or very -interesting man, the rest would form a league against him and quickly -send him away.</p> - -<p>It was in this way that Massival brought his comrade André Mariolle -to the house. A servant in black announced these names: "Monsieur -Massival! Monsieur Mariolle!"</p> - -<p>Beneath a great rumpled cloud of pink silk, a huge shade that was -casting down upon a square table with a top of ancient marble the -brilliant light of a lamp supported by a lofty column of gilded bronze, -one woman's head and three men's heads were bent over an album that -Lamarthe had brought in with him. Standing between them, the novelist -was turning the leaves and explaining the pictures.</p> - -<p>As they entered the room, one of the heads was turned toward them, -and Mariolle, as he stepped forward, became conscious of a bright, -blond face, rather tending to ruddiness, upon the temples of which the -soft, fluffy locks of hair seemed to blaze with the flame of burning -brushwood. The delicate <i>retroussé</i> nose imparted a smiling expression -to this countenance, and the clean-cut mouth, the deep dimples in -the cheeks, and the rather prominent cleft chin, gave it a mocking -air, while the eyes, by a strange contrast, veiled it in melancholy. -They were blue, of a dull, dead blue as if they had been washed out, -scoured, used up, and in the center the black pupils shone, round and -dilated. The strange and brilliant glances that they emitted seemed to -tell of dreams of morphine, or perhaps, more simply, of the coquettish -artifice of belladonna.</p> - -<p>Mme. de Burne arose, gave her hand, thanked and welcomed them.</p> - -<p>"For a long time I have been begging my friends to bring you to my -house," she said to Mariolle, "but I always have to tell these things -over and over again in order to get them done."</p> - -<p>She was tall, elegantly shaped, rather deliberate in her movements, -modestly <i>décolletée</i>, scarcely showing the tips of her handsome -shoulders, the shoulders of a red-headed woman, that shone out -marvelously under the light. And yet her hair was not red, but of the -inexpressible color of certain dead leaves that have been burned by the -frosts of autumn.</p> - -<p>She presented M. Mariolle to her father, who bowed and shook hands.</p> - -<p>The men were conversing familiarly together in three groups; they -seemed to be at home, in a kind of club that they were accustomed -to frequent, to which the presence of a woman imparted a note of -refinement.</p> - -<p>Big Fresnel was chatting with the Comte de Marantin. Fresnel's frequent -visits to this house and the preference that Mme. de Burne evinced for -him shocked and often provoked her friends. Still young, but with the -proportions of a drayman, always puffing and blowing, almost beardless, -his head lost in a vague cloud of light, soft hair, commonplace, -tiresome, ridiculous, he certainly could have but one merit in the -young woman's eyes, a merit that was displeasing to the others but -indispensable to her,—that of loving her blindly. He had received the -nickname of "The Seal." He was married, but never said anything about -bringing his wife to the house. It was said that she was very jealous -in her seclusion.</p> - -<p>Lamarthe and Massival especially evinced their indignation at the -evident sympathy of their friend for this windy person, and when they -could no longer refrain from reproaching her with this reprehensible -inclination, this selfish and vulgar liking, she would smile and answer:</p> - -<p>"I love him as I would love a great, big, faithful dog."</p> - -<p>George de Maltry was entertaining Gaston de Lamarthe with the most -recent discovery, not yet fully developed, of the micro-biologists. -M. de Maltry was expatiating on his theme with many subtile and -far-reaching theories, and the novelist accepted them enthusiastically, -with the facility with which men of letters receive and do not dispute -everything that appears to them original and new.</p> - -<p>The philosopher of "high life," fair, of the fairness of linen, slender -and tall, was incased in a coat that fitted very closely about the -hips. Above, his pale, intelligent face emerged from his white collar -and was surmounted by smooth, blond hair, which had the appearance of -being glued on.</p> - -<p>As to Lamarthe, Gaston de Lamarthe, to whom the particle that divided -his name had imparted some of the pretensions of a gentleman and man -of the world, he was first, last, and all the time a man of letters, -a terrible and pitiless man of letters. Provided with an eye that -gathered in images, attitudes, and gestures with the rapidity and -accuracy of the photographer's camera, and endowed with penetration -and the novelist's instinct, which were as innate in him as the faculty -of scent is in a hound, he was busy from morning till night storing -away impressions to be used afterward in his profession. With these -two very simple senses, a distinct idea of form and an intuitive one -of substance, he gave to his books, in which there appeared none of -the ordinary aims of psychological writers, the color, the tone, the -appearance, the movement of life itself.</p> - -<p>Each one of his novels as it appeared excited in society curiosity, -conjecture, merriment, or wrath, for there always seemed to be -prominent persons to be recognized in them, only faintly disguised -under a torn mask; and whenever he made his way through a crowded salon -he left a wake of uneasiness behind him. Moreover, he had published a -volume of personal recollections, in which he had given the portraits -of many men and women of his acquaintance, without any clearly defined -intention of unkindness, but with such precision and severity that -they felt sore over it. Some one had applied to him the <i>sobriquet</i>, -"Beware of your friends." He kept his secrets close-locked within his -breast and was a puzzle to his intimates. He was reputed to have once -passionately loved a woman who caused him much suffering, and it was -said that after that he wreaked his vengeance upon others of her sex.</p> - -<p>Massival and he understood each other very well, although the musician -was of a very different disposition, more frank, more expansive, less -harassed, perhaps, but manifestly more impressible. After two great -successes—a piece performed at Brussels and afterward brought to -Paris, where it was loudly applauded at the Opéra-Comique; then a -second work that was received and interpreted at the Grand Opéra as -soon as offered—he had yielded to that species of cessation of impulse -that seems to smite the greater part of our contemporary artists like -premature paralysis. They do not grow old, as their fathers did, in the -midst of their renown and success, but seem threatened with impotence -even when in the very prime of life. Lamarthe was accustomed to say: -"At the present day there are in France only great men who have gone -wrong."</p> - -<p>Just at this time Massival seemed very much smitten with Mme. de Burne, -so that every eye was turned upon him when he kissed her hand with an -air of adoration. He inquired:</p> - -<p>"Are we late?"</p> - -<p>She replied:</p> - -<p>"No, I am still expecting the Baron de Gravil and the Marquise de -Bratiane."</p> - -<p>"Ah, the Marquise! What good luck! We shall have some music this -evening, then."</p> - -<p>"I hope so."</p> - -<p>The two laggards made their appearance. The Marquise, a woman perhaps a -little too diminutive, Italian by birth, of a lively disposition, with -very black eyes and eyelashes, black eyebrows, and black hair to match, -which grew so thick and so low down that she had no forehead to speak -of, her eyes even being threatened with invasion, had the reputation of -possessing the most remarkable voice of all the women in society.</p> - -<p>The Baron, a very gentlemanly man, hollow-chested and with a large -head, was never really himself unless he had his violoncello in his -hands. He was a passionate melomaniac, and only frequented those houses -where music received its due share of honor.</p> - -<p>Dinner was announced, and Mme. de Burne, taking André Mariolle's arm, -allowed her guests to precede her to the dining-room; then, as they -were left together, the last ones in the drawing-room, just as she was -about to follow the procession she cast upon him an oblique, swift -glance from her pale eyes with their dusky pupils, in which he thought -that he could perceive more complexity of thought and more curiosity of -interest than pretty women generally bestow upon a strange gentleman -when receiving him at dinner for the first time.</p> - -<p>The dinner was monotonous and rather dull. Lamarthe was nervous, and -seemed ill disposed toward everyone, not openly hostile, for he made a -point of his good-breeding, but displaying that almost imperceptible -bad humor that takes the life out of conversation. Massival, abstracted -and preoccupied, ate little, and from time to time cast furtive glances -at the mistress of the house, who seemed to be in any place rather than -at her own table. Inattentive, responding to remarks with a smile and -then allowing her face to settle back to its former intent expression, -she appeared to be reflecting upon something that seemed greatly to -preoccupy her, and to interest her that evening more than did her -friends. Still she contributed her share to the conversation—very -amply as regarded the Marquise and Mariolle,—but she did it from -habit, from a sense of duty, visibly absent from herself and from her -abode. Fresnel and M. de Maltry disputed over contemporary poetry. -Fresnel held the opinions upon poetry that are current among men of -the world, and M. de Maltry the perceptions of the spinners of most -complicated verse—verse that is incomprehensible to the general public.</p> - -<p>Several times during the dinner Mariolle had again encountered the -young woman's inquiring look, but more vague, less intent, less -curious. The Marquise de Bratiane, the Comte de Marantin, and the Baron -de Gravil were the only ones who kept up an uninterrupted conversation, -and they had quantities of things to say.</p> - -<p>After dinner, during the course of the evening, Massival, who had -kept growing more and more melancholy, seated himself at the piano -and struck a few notes, whereupon Mme. de Burne appeared to awake and -quickly organized a little concert, the numbers of which comprised the -pieces that she was most fond of.</p> - -<p>The Marquise was in voice, and, animated by Massival's presence, she -sang like a real artist. The master accompanied her, with that dreamy -look that he always assumed when he sat down to play. His long hair -fell over the collar of his coat and mingled with his full, fine, -shining, curling beard. Many women had been in love with him, and they -still pursued him with their attentions, so it was said. Mme. de Burne, -sitting by the piano and listening with all her soul, seemed to be -contemplating him and at the same time not to see him, and Mariolle -was a little jealous. He was not particularly jealous because of any -relation that there was between her and him, but in presence of that -look of a woman fixed so intently upon one of the Illustrious he felt -himself humiliated in his masculine vanity by the consciousness of the -rank that <i>They</i> bestow on us in proportion to the renown that we have -gained. Often before this he had secretly suffered from contact with -famous men whom he was accustomed to meet in the presence of those -beings whose favor is by far the dearest reward of success.</p> - -<p>About ten o'clock the Comtesse de Frémines and two Jewesses of the -financial community arrived, one after the other. The talk was of a -marriage that was on the carpet and a threatened divorce suit. Mariolle -looked at Madame de Burne, who was now seated beneath a column that -sustained a huge lamp. Her well-formed, tip-tilted nose, the dimples in -her cheeks, and the little indentation that parted her chin gave her -face the frolicsome expression of a child, although she was approaching -her thirtieth year, and something in her glance that reminded one of -a withering flower cast a shade of melancholy over her countenance. -Beneath the light that streamed upon it her skin took on tones of blond -velvet, while her hair actually seemed colored by the autumnal sun -which dyes and scorches the dead leaves.</p> - -<p>She was conscious of the masculine glance that was traveling toward her -from the other end of the room, and presently she arose and went to -him, smiling, as if in response to a summons from him.</p> - -<p>"I am afraid you are somewhat bored," she said. "A person who has not -got the run of a house is always bored."</p> - -<p>He protested the contrary. She took a chair and seated herself by -him, and at once the conversation began to be animated. It was -instantaneous with both of them, like a fire that blazes up brightly -as soon as a match is applied to it. It seemed as if they had imparted -their sensations and their opinions to each other beforehand, as if a -similarity of disposition and education, of tastes and inclinations, -had predisposed them to a mutual understanding and fated them to meet.</p> - -<p>Perhaps there may have been a little artfulness on the part of the -young woman, but the delight that one feels in encountering one who is -capable of listening, who can understand you and reply to you and whose -answers give scope for your repartees, put Mariolle into a fine glow of -spirits. Flattered, moreover, by the reception which she had accorded -him, subjugated by the alluring favor that she displayed and by the -charm which she knew how to use so adroitly in captivating men, he -did his best to exhibit to her that shade of subdued but personal and -delicate wit which, when people came to know him well, had gained for -him so many and such warm friendships.</p> - -<p>She suddenly said to him:</p> - -<p>"Really, it is very pleasant to converse with you, Monsieur. I had been -told that such was the case, however."</p> - -<p>He was conscious that he was blushing, and replied at a venture:</p> - -<p>"And <i>I</i> had been told, Madame, that you were——"</p> - -<p>She interrupted him:</p> - -<p>"Say a coquette. I am a good deal of a coquette with people whom I -like. Everyone knows it, and I do not attempt to conceal it from -myself, but you will see that I am very impartial in my coquetry, and -this allows me to keep or to recall my friends without ever losing -them, and to retain them all about me."</p> - -<p>She said this with a sly air which was meant to say: "Be easy and don't -be too presumptuous. Don't deceive yourself, for you will get nothing -more than the others."</p> - -<p>He replied:</p> - -<p>"That is what you might call warning your guests of the perils that -await them here. Thank you, Madame: I greatly admire your mode of -procedure."</p> - -<p>She had opened the way for him to speak of herself, and he availed -himself of it. He began by paying her compliments and found that she -was fond of them; then he aroused her woman's curiosity by telling -her what was said of her in the different houses that he frequented. -She was rather uneasy and could not conceal her desire for further -information, although she affected much indifference as to what might -be thought of herself and her tastes. He drew for her a charming -portrait of a superior, independent, intelligent, and attractive -woman, who had surrounded herself with a court of eminent men and -still retained her position as an accomplished member of society. She -disclaimed his compliments with smiles, with little disclaimers of -gratified egotism, all the while taking much pleasure in the details -that he gave her, and in a playful tone kept constantly asking him for -more, questioning him artfully, with a sensual appetite for flattery.</p> - -<p>As he looked at her, he said to himself, "She is nothing but a child -at heart, just like all the rest of them"; and he went on to finish a -pretty speech in which he was commending her love for art, so rarely -found among women. Then she assumed an air of mockery that he had not -before suspected in her, that playfully tantalizing manner that seems -inherent in the French. Mariolle had overdone his eulogy; she let him -know that she was not a fool.</p> - -<p>"<i>Mon Dieu!</i>" she said, "I will confess to you that I am not quite -certain whether it is art or artists that I love."</p> - -<p>He replied: "How could one love artists without being in love with art?"</p> - -<p>"Because they are sometimes more comical than men of the world."</p> - -<p>"Yes, but they have more unpleasant failings."</p> - -<p>"That is true."</p> - -<p>"Then you do not love music?"</p> - -<p>She suddenly dropped her bantering tone. "Excuse me! I adore music; I -think that I am more fond of it than of anything else. And yet Massival -is convinced that I know nothing at all about it."</p> - -<p>"Did he tell you so?"</p> - -<p>"No, but he thinks so."</p> - -<p>"How do you know?"</p> - -<p>"Oh! we women guess at almost everything that we don't know."</p> - -<p>"So Massival thinks that you know nothing of music?"</p> - -<p>"I am sure of it. I can see it only by the way that he has of -explaining things to me, by the way in which he underscores little -niceties of expression, all the while saying to himself: 'That won't be -of any use, but I do it because you are so nice.'"</p> - -<p>"Still he has told me that you have the best music in your house of any -in Paris, no matter whose the other may be."</p> - -<p>"Yes, thanks to him."</p> - -<p>"And literature, are you not fond of that?"</p> - -<p>"I am very fond of it; and I am even so audacious as to claim to have a -very good perception of it, notwithstanding Lamarthe's opinion."</p> - -<p>"Who also decides that you know nothing at all about it?"</p> - -<p>"Of course."</p> - -<p>"But who has not told you so in words, any more than the other."</p> - -<p>"Pardon me; he is more outspoken. He asserts that certain women -are capable of showing a very just and delicate perception of the -sentiments that are expressed, of the truthfulness of the characters, -of psychology in general, but that they are totally incapable of -discerning the superiority that resides in his profession, its art. -When he has once uttered this word, Art, all that is left one to do is -to show him the door."</p> - -<p>Mariolle smiled and asked:</p> - -<p>"And you, Madame, what do you think of it?"</p> - -<p>She reflected for a few seconds, then looked him straight in the face -to see if he was in a frame of mind to listen and to understand her.</p> - -<p>"I believe that sentiment, you understand—sentiment—can make a -woman's mind receptive of everything; only it is frequently the case -that what enters does not remain there. Do you follow me?"</p> - -<p>"No, not fully, Madame."</p> - -<p>"Very well! To make us comprehensive to the same degree as you, our -woman's nature must be appealed to before addressing our intelligence. -We take no interest in what a man has not first made sympathetic to us, -for we look at all things through the medium of sentiment. I do not say -through the medium of love; no,—but of sentiment, which has shades, -forms, and manifestations of every sort. Sentiment is something that -belongs exclusively to our domain, which you men have no conception -of, for it befogs you while it enlightens us. Oh! I know that all this -is incomprehensible to you, the more the pity! In a word, if a man -loves us and is agreeable to us, for it is indispensable that we should -feel that we are loved in order to become capable of the effort—and -if this man is a superior being, by taking a little pains he can make -us feel, know, and possess everything, everything, I say, and at odd -moments and by bits impart to us the whole of his intelligence. That -is all often blotted out afterward; it disappears, dies out, for we -are forgetful. Oh! we forget as the wind forgets the words that are -spoken to it. We are intuitive and capable of enlightenment, but -changeable, impressionable, readily swayed by our surroundings. If I -could only tell you how many states of mind I pass through that make -of me entirely different women, according to the weather, my health, -what I may have been reading, what may have been said to me! Actually -there are days when I have the feelings of an excellent mother without -children, and others when I almost have those of a <i>cocotte</i> without -lovers."</p> - -<p>Greatly pleased, he asked: "Is it your opinion that intelligent women -generally are gifted with this activity of thought?"</p> - -<p>"Yes," she said. "Only they allow it to slumber, and then they have a -life shaped for them which draws them in one direction or the other."</p> - -<p>Again he questioned: "Then in your heart of hearts it is music that you -prefer above all other distractions?"</p> - -<p>"Yes! But what I was telling you just now is so true! I should -certainly never have enjoyed it as I do enjoy it, adored it as I do -adore it, had it not been for that angelic Massival. He seems to have -given me the soul of the great masters by teaching me to play their -works, of which I was passionately fond before. What a pity that he is -married!"</p> - -<p>She said these last words with a sprightly air, but so regretfully that -they threw everything else into shadow, her theories upon women and her -admiration for art.</p> - -<p>Massival was, in fact, married. Before the days of his success he had -contracted one of those unions that artists make and afterward trail -after them through their renown until the day of their death. He never -mentioned his wife's name, never presented her in society, which he -frequented a great deal; and although he had three children the fact -was scarcely known.</p> - -<p>Mariolle laughed. She was decidedly nice, was this unconventional -woman, pretty, and of a type not often met with. Without ever tiring, -with a persistency that seemed in no wise embarrassing to her, he kept -gazing upon that face, grave and gay and a little self-willed, with -its audacious nose and its sensual coloring of a soft, warm blonde, -warmed by the midsummer of a maturity so tender, so full, so sweet that -she seemed to have reached the very year, the month, the minute of -her perfect flowering. He wondered: "Is her complexion false?" And he -looked for the faint telltale line, lighter or darker, at the roots of -her hair, without being able to discover it.</p> - -<p>Soft footsteps on the carpet behind him made him start and turn his -head. It was two servants bringing in the tea-table. Over the blue -flame of the little lamp the water bubbled gently in a great silver -receptacle, as shining and complicated as a chemist's apparatus.</p> - -<p>"Will you have a cup of tea?" she asked.</p> - -<p>Upon his acceptance she arose, and with a firm step in which there was -no undulation, but which was rather marked by stiffness, proceeded to -the table where the water was simmering in the depths of the machine, -surrounded by a little garden of cakes, pastry, candied fruits, and -bonbons. Then, as her profile was presented in clear relief against the -hangings of the salon, Mariolle observed the delicacy of her form and -the thinness of her hips beneath the broad shoulders and the full chest -that he had been admiring a moment before. As the train of her light -dress unrolled and dragged behind her, seemingly prolonging upon the -carpet a body that had no end, this blunt thought arose to his mind: -"Behold, a siren! She is altogether promising." She was now going from -one to another, offering her refreshments with gestures of exquisite -grace. Mariolle was following her with his eyes; but Lamarthe, who was -walking about with his cup in his hand, came up to him and said:</p> - -<p>"Shall we go, you and I?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, I think so."</p> - -<p>"We will go at once, shall we not? I am tired."</p> - -<p>"At once. Come."</p> - -<p>They left the house. When they were in the street, the novelist asked:</p> - -<p>"Are you going home or to the club?"</p> - -<p>"I think that I will go and spend an hour at the club."</p> - -<p>"At the Tambourins?"</p> - -<p>"Yes."</p> - -<p>"I will go as far as the door with you. Those places are tiresome to -me; I never put my foot in them. I join them only because they enable -me to economize in hack-hire."</p> - -<p>They locked arms and went down the street toward Saint Augustin. They -walked a little way in silence; then Mariolle said:</p> - -<p>"What a singular woman! What do you think of her?"</p> - -<p>Lamarthe began to laugh outright. "It is the commencement of the -crisis," he said. "You will have to pass through it, just as we have -all done. I have had the malady, but I am cured of it now. My dear -friend, the crisis consists of her friends talking of nothing but of -her when they are together, whenever they chance to meet, wherever they -may happen to be."</p> - -<p>"At all events, it is the first time in my case, and it is very natural -for me to ask for information, since I scarcely know her."</p> - -<p>"Let it be so, then; we will talk of her. Well, you are bound to fall -in love with her. It is your fate, the lot that is shared by all."</p> - -<p>"She is so very seductive, then?"</p> - -<p>"Yes and no. Those who love the women of other days, women who have a -heart and a soul, women of sensibility, the women of the old-fashioned -novel, cannot endure her and execrate her to such a degree as to speak -of her with ignominy. We, on the other hand, who are disposed to look -favorably upon what is modern and fresh, are compelled to confess that -she is delicious, provided always that we don't fall in love with -her. And that is just exactly what everybody does. No one dies of the -complaint, however; they do not even suffer very acutely, but they fume -because she is not other than she is. You will have to go through it -all if she takes the fancy; besides, she is already preparing to snap -you up."</p> - -<p>Mariolle exclaimed, in response to his secret thought:</p> - -<p>"Oh! I am only a chance acquaintance for her, and I imagine that she -values acquaintances of all sorts and conditions."</p> - -<p>"Yes, she values them, <i>parbleu!</i> and at the same time she laughs at -them. The most celebrated, even the most distinguished, man will not -darken her door ten times if he is not congenial to her, and she has -formed a stupid attachment for that idiotic Fresnel, and that tiresome -De Maltry. She inexcusably suffers herself to be carried away by those -idiots, no one knows why; perhaps because she gets more amusement out -of them than she does out of us, perhaps because their love for her is -deeper; and there is nothing in the world that pleases a woman so much -as to be loved like that."</p> - -<p>And Lamarthe went on talking of her, analyzing her, pulling her to -pieces, correcting himself only to contradict himself again, replying -with unmistakable warmth and sincerity to Mariolle's questions, like a -man who is deeply interested in his subject and carried away by it; a -little at sea also, having his mind stored with observations that were -true and deductions that were false. He said:</p> - -<p>"She is not the only one, moreover; at this minute there are fifty -women, if not more, who are like her. There is the little Frémines -who was in her drawing-room just now; she is Mme. de Burne's exact -counterpart, save that she is more forward in her manners and married -to an outlandish kind of fellow, the consequence of which is that her -house is one of the most entertaining lunatic asylums in Paris. I go -there a great deal."</p> - -<p>Without noticing it, they had traversed the Boulevard Malesherbes, the -Rue Royale, the Avenue des Champs-Élysées, and had reached the Arc de -Triomphe, when Lamarthe suddenly pulled out his watch.</p> - -<p>"My dear fellow," he said, "we have spent an hour and ten minutes in -talking of her; that is sufficient for to-day. I will take some other -occasion of seeing you to your club. Go home and go to bed; it is what -I am going to do."</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h5><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II.</a></h5> - - -<h4>"WILL YOU WALK INTO MY PARLOR?"</h4> - - -<p>The room was large and well lighted, the walls and ceiling hung with -admirable hangings of chintz that a friend of hers in the diplomatic -service had brought home and presented to her. The ground was yellow, -as if it had been dipped in golden cream, and the designs of all -colors, in which Persian green was predominant, represented fantastic -buildings with curving roofs, about which monstrosities in the shape of -beasts and birds were running and flying: lions wearing wigs, antelopes -with extravagant horns, and birds of paradise.</p> - -<p>The furniture was scanty. Upon three long tables with tops of green -marble were arranged all the implements requisite for a pretty woman's -toilette. Upon one of them, the central one, were the great basins -of thick crystal; the second presented an array of bottles, boxes, -and vases of all sizes, surmounted by silver caps bearing her arms -and monogram; while on the third were displayed all the tools and -appliances of modern coquetry, countless in number, designed to serve -various complex and mysterious purposes. The room contained only two -reclining chairs and a few low, soft, and luxurious seats, calculated -to afford rest to weary limbs and to bodies relieved of the restraint -of clothing.</p> - -<p>Covering one entire side of the apartment was an immense mirror, -composed of three panels. The two wings, playing on hinges, allowed -the young woman to view herself at the same time in front, rear, and -profile, to envelop herself in her own image. To the right, in a recess -that was generally concealed by hanging draperies, was the bath, or -rather a deep pool, reached by a descent of two steps. A bronze Love, a -charming conception of the sculptor Prédolé, poured hot and cold water -into it through the seashells with which he was playing. At the back -of this alcove a Venetian mirror, composed of smaller mirrors inclined -to each other at varying angles, ascended in a curved dome, shutting -in and protecting the bath and its occupant, and reflecting them in -each one of its many component parts. A little beyond the bath was her -writing-desk, a plain and handsome piece of furniture of modern English -manufacture, covered with a litter of papers, folded letters, little -torn envelopes on which glittered gilt initials, for it was in this -room that she passed her time and attended to her correspondence when -she was alone.</p> - -<p>Stretched at full length upon her reclining-chair, enveloped in a -dressing-gown of Chinese silk, her bare arms—and beautiful, firm, -supple arms they were—issuing forth fearlessly from out the wide folds -of silk, her hair turned up and burdening the head with its masses of -blond coils, Mme. de Burne was indulging herself with a gentle reverie -after the bath. The chambermaid knocked, then entered, bringing a -letter. She took it, looked at the writing, tore it open, and read the -first lines; then calmly said to the servant: "I will ring for you in -an hour."</p> - -<p>When she was alone she smiled with the delight of victory. The first -words had sufficed to let her understand that at last she had received -a declaration of love from Mariolle. He had held out much longer than -she had thought he was capable of doing, for during the last three -months she had been besieging him with such attentions, such display -of grace and efforts to charm, as she had never hitherto employed -for anyone. He had seemed to be distrustful and on his guard against -her, against the bait of insatiable coquetry that she was continually -dangling before his eyes.</p> - -<p>It had required many a confidential conversation, into which she had -thrown all the physical seduction of her being and all the captivating -efforts of her mind, many an evening of music as well, when, seated -before the piano that was ringing still, before the leaves of the -scores that were full of the soul of the tuneful masters, they had -both thrilled with the same emotion, before she at last beheld in his -eyes that avowal of the vanquished man, the mendicant supplication of -a love that can no longer be concealed. She knew all this so well, the -<i>rouée!</i> Many and many a time, with feline cunning and inexhaustible -curiosity, she had made this secret, torturing plea rise to the eyes of -the men whom she had succeeded in beguiling. It afforded her so much -amusement to feel that she was gaining them, little by little, that -they were conquered, subjugated by her invincible woman's might, that -she was for them the Only One, the sovereign Idol whose caprices must -be obeyed.</p> - -<p>It had all grown up within her almost imperceptibly, like the -development of a hidden instinct, the instinct of war and conquest. -Perhaps it was that a desire of retaliation had germinated in her -heart during her years of married life, a dim longing to repay to men -generally that measure of ill which she had received from one of them, -to be in turn the strongest, to make stubborn wills bend before her, to -crush resistance and to make others, as well as she, feel the keen edge -of suffering. Above all else, however, she was a born coquette, and as -soon as her way in life was clear before her she applied herself to -pursuing and subjugating lovers, just as the hunter pursues the game, -with no other end in view than the pleasure of seeing them fall before -her.</p> - -<p>And yet her heart was not eager for emotion, like that of a tender and -sentimental woman; she did not seek a man's undivided love, nor did -she look for happiness in passion. All that she needed was universal -admiration, homage, prostrations, an incense-offering of tenderness. -Whoever frequented her house had also to become the slave of her -beauty, and no consideration of mere intellect could attach her for any -length of time to those who would not yield to her coquetry, disdainful -of the anxieties of love, their affections, perhaps, being placed -elsewhere.</p> - -<p>In order to retain her friendship it was indispensable to love her, -but that point once reached she was infinitely nice, with unimaginable -kindnesses and delightful attentions, designed to retain at her -side those whom she had captivated. Those who were once enlisted in -her regiment of adorers seemed to become her property by right of -conquest. She ruled them with great skill and wisdom, according to -their qualities and their defects and the nature of their jealousy. -Those who sought to obtain too much she expelled forthwith, taking them -back again afterward when they had become wiser, but imposing severe -conditions. And to such an extent did this game of bewitchment amuse -her, perverse woman that she was, that she found it as pleasurable to -befool steady old gentlemen as to turn the heads of the young.</p> - -<p>It might even have been said that she regulated her affection by the -fervency of the ardor that she had inspired, and that big Fresnel, a -dull, heavy companion who was of no imaginable benefit to her, retained -her favor thanks to the mad passion by which she felt that he was -possessed. She was not entirely indifferent to men's merits, either, -and more than once had been conscious of the commencement of a liking -that no one divined except herself, and which she quickly ended the -moment it became dangerous.</p> - -<p>Everyone who had approached her for the first time and warbled in -her ear the fresh notes of his hymn of gallantry, disclosing to her -the unknown quantity of his nature—artists more especially, who -seemed to her to possess more subtile and more delicate shades of -refined emotion—had for a time disquieted her, had awakened in her -the intermittent dream of a grand passion and a long <i>liaison</i>. But -swayed by prudent fears, irresolute, driven this way and that by her -distrustful nature, she had always kept a strict watch upon herself -until the moment she ceased to feel the influence of the latest lover.</p> - -<p>And then she had the sceptical vision of the girl of the period, who -would strip the greatest man of his prestige in the course of a few -weeks. As soon as they were fully in her toils, and in the disorder -of their heart had thrown aside their theatrical posturings and their -parade manners, they were all alike in her eyes, poor creatures whom -she could tyrannize over with her seductive powers. Finally, for a -woman like her, perfect as she was, to attach herself to a man, what -inestimable merits he would have had to possess!</p> - -<p>She suffered much from <i>ennui</i>, however, and was without fondness for -society, which she frequented for the sake of appearances, and the -long, tedious evenings of which she endured with heavy eyelids and -many a stifled yawn. She was amused only by its refined trivialities, -by her own caprices and by her quickly changing curiosity for certain -persons and certain things, attaching herself to it in such degree as -to realize that she had been appreciated or admired and not enough to -receive real pleasure from an affection or a liking—suffering from -her nerves and not from her desires. She was without the absorbing -preoccupations of ardent or simple souls, and passed her days in an -<i>ennui</i> of gaieties, destitute of the simple faith that attends on -happiness, constantly on the lookout for something to make the slow -hours pass more quickly, and sinking with lassitude, while deeming -herself contented.</p> - -<p>She thought that she was contented because she was the most seductive -and the most sought after of women. Proud of her attractiveness, the -power of which she often made trial, in love with her own irregular, -odd, and captivating beauty, convinced of the delicacy of her -perceptions, which allowed her to divine and understand a thousand -things that others were incapable of seeing, rejoicing in the wit that -had been appreciated by so many superior men, and totally ignoring the -limitations that bounded her intelligence, she looked upon herself as -an almost unique being, a rare pearl set in the midst of this common, -workaday world, which seemed to her slightly empty and monotonous -because she was too good for it.</p> - -<p>Not for an instant would she have suspected that in her unconscious -self lay the cause of the melancholy from which she suffered so -continuously. She laid the blame upon others and held them responsible -for her <i>ennui</i>. If they were unable sufficiently to entertain and -amuse or even impassion her, the reason was that they were deficient -in agreeableness and possessed no real merit in her eyes. "Everyone," -she would say with a little laugh, "is tiresome. The only endurable -people are those who afford me pleasure, and that solely because they -do afford me pleasure."</p> - -<p>And the surest way of pleasing her was to tell her that there was no -one like her. She was well aware that no success is attained without -labor, and so she gave herself up, heart and soul, to her work of -enticement, and found nothing that gave her greater enjoyment than to -note the homage of the softening glance and of the heart, that unruly -organ which she could cause to beat violently by the utterance of a -word.</p> - -<p>She had been greatly surprised by the trouble that she had had in -subjugating André Mariolle, for she had been well aware, from the -very first day, that she had found favor in his eyes. Then, little by -little, she had fathomed his suspicious, secretly envious, extremely -subtile, and concentrated disposition, and attacking him on his -weak side, she had shown him so many attentions, had manifested -such preference and natural sympathy for him, that he had finally -surrendered.</p> - -<p>Especially in the last month had she felt that he was her captive; he -was agitated in her presence, now taciturn, now feverishly animated, -but would make no avowal. Oh, avowals! She really did not care very -much for them, for when they were too direct, too expressive, she found -herself obliged to resort to severe measures. Twice she had even had -to make a show of being angry and close her door to the offender. What -she adored were delicate manifestations, semi-confidences, discreet -allusions, a sort of moral getting-down-on-the-marrow-bones; and she -really showed exceptional tact and address in extorting from her -admirers this moderation in their expressions.</p> - -<p>For a month past she had been watching and waiting to hear fall from -Mariolle's lips the words, distinct or veiled, according to the nature -of the man, which afford relief to the overburdened heart.</p> - -<p>He had said nothing, but he had written. It was a long letter: four -pages! A thrill of satisfaction crept over her as she held it in her -hands. She stretched herself at length upon her lounge so as to be more -comfortable and kicked the little slippers from off her feet upon the -carpet; then she proceeded to read. She met with a surprise. In serious -terms he told her that he did not desire to suffer at her hands, and -that he already knew her too well to consent to be her victim. With -many compliments, in very polite words, which everywhere gave evidence -of his repressed love, he let her know that he was apprised of her -manner of treating men—that he, too, was in the toils, but that he -would release himself from the servitude by taking himself off. He -would just simply begin his vagabond life of other days over again. -He would leave the country. It was a farewell, an eloquent and firm -farewell.</p> - -<p>Certainly it was a surprise as she read, re-read, and commenced to read -again these four pages of prose that were so full of tender irritation -and passion. She arose, put on her slippers, and began to walk up and -down the room, her bare arms out of her turned-back sleeves, her hands -thrust halfway into the little pockets of her dressing-gown, one of -them holding the crumpled letter.</p> - -<p>Taken all aback by this unforeseen declaration, she said to herself: -"He writes very well, very well indeed; he is sincere, feeling, -touching. He writes better than Lamarthe; there is nothing of the novel -sticking out of his letter."</p> - -<p>She felt like smoking, went to the table where the perfumes were and -took a cigarette from a box of Dresden china; then, having lighted it, -she approached the great mirror in which she saw three young women -coming toward her in the three diversely inclined panels. When she was -quite near she halted, made herself a little bow with a little smile, -a friendly little nod of the head, as if to say: "Very pretty, very -pretty." She inspected her eyes, looked at her teeth, raised her arms, -placed her hands on her hips and turned her profile so as to behold her -entire person in the three mirrors, bending her head slightly forward. -She stood there amorously facing herself surrounded by the threefold -reflection of her own being, which she thought was charming, filled -with delight at sight of herself, engrossed by an egotistical and -physical pleasure in presence of her own beauty, and enjoying it with a -keen satisfaction that was almost as sensual as a man's.</p> - -<p>Every day she surveyed herself in this manner, and her maid, who had -often caught her at it, used to say, spitefully:</p> - -<p>"Madame looks at herself so much that she will end up by wearing out -all the looking-glasses in the house."</p> - -<p>In this love of herself, however, lay all the secret of her charm and -the influence that she exerted over men. Through admiring herself and -tenderly loving the delicacy of her features and the elegance of her -form, by constantly seeking for and finding means of showing them to -the greatest advantage, through discovering imperceptible ways of -rendering her gracefulness more graceful and her eyes more fascinating, -through pursuing all the artifices that embellished her to her own -vision, she had as a matter of course hit upon that which would most -please others. Had she been more beautiful and careless of her beauty, -she would not have possessed that attractiveness which drew to her -everyone who had not from the beginning shown himself unassailable.</p> - -<p>Wearying soon a little of standing thus, she spoke to her image that -was smiling to her still, and her image in the threefold mirror moved -its lips as if to echo: "We will see about it." Then she crossed the -room and seated herself at her desk. Here is what she wrote:</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>"<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">DEAR MONSIEUR MARIOLLE</span>: Come to see me to-morrow at four -o'clock. I shall be alone, and hope to be able to reassure -you as to the imaginary danger that alarms you.</p> - -<p>"I subscribe myself your friend, and will prove to you that -I am..... </p> -<p style="font-size: 0.8em; margin-left: 65%;">MICHÈLE DE BURNE."</p></blockquote> - -<p>How plainly she dressed next day to receive André Mariolle's visit! A -little gray dress, of a light gray bordering on lilac, melancholy as -the dying day and quite unornamented, with a collar fitting closely to -the neck, sleeves fitting closely to the arms, corsage fitting closely -to the waist and bust, and skirt fitting closely to the hips and legs.</p> - -<p>When he made his appearance, wearing rather a solemn face, she came -forward to meet him, extending both her hands. He kissed them, then -they seated themselves, and she allowed the silence to last a few -moments in order to assure herself of his embarrassment.</p> - -<p>He did not know what to say, and was waiting for her to speak. She made -up her mind to do so.</p> - -<p>"Well! let us come at once to the main question. What is the matter? -Are you aware that you wrote me a very insolent letter?"</p> - -<p>"I am very well aware of it, and I render my most sincere apology. I -am, I have always been with everyone, excessively, brutally frank. I -might have gone away without the unnecessary and insulting explanations -that I addressed to you. I considered it more loyal to act in -accordance with my nature and trust to your understanding, with which I -am acquainted."</p> - -<p>She resumed with an expression of pitying satisfaction:</p> - -<p>"Come, come! What does all this folly mean?"</p> - -<p>He interrupted her: "I would prefer not to speak of it."</p> - -<p>She answered warmly, without allowing him to proceed further:</p> - -<p>"I invited you here to discuss it, and we will discuss it until you are -quite convinced that you are not exposing yourself to any danger." She -laughed like a little girl, and her dress, so closely resembling that -of a boarding-school miss, gave her laughter a character of childish -youth.</p> - -<p>He hesitatingly said: "What I wrote you was the truth, the sincere -truth, the terrifying truth."</p> - -<p>Resuming her seriousness, she rejoined: "I do not doubt you: all my -friends travel that road. You also wrote that I am a fearful coquette. -I admit it, but then no one ever dies of it; I do not even believe that -they suffer a great deal. There is, indeed, what Lamarthe calls the -crisis. You are in that stage now, but that passes over and subsides -into—what shall I call it?—into the state of chronic love, which does -no harm to a body, and which I keep simmering over a slow fire in all -my friends, so that they may be very much attached, very devoted, very -faithful to me. Am not I, also, sincere and frank and nice with you? -Eh? Have you known many women who would dare to talk as I have talked -to you?"</p> - -<p>She had an air of such drollness, coupled with such decision, she was -so unaffected and at the same time so alluring, that he could not help -smiling in turn. "All your friends," he said, "are men who have often -had their fingers burned in that fire, even before it was done at your -hearth. Toasted and roasted already, it is easy for them to endure the -oven in which you keep them; but for my part, I, Madame, have never -passed through that experience, and I have felt for some time past that -it would be a dreadful thing for me to give way to the sentiment that -is growing and waxing in my heart."</p> - -<p>Suddenly she became familiar, and bending a little toward him, her -hands clasped over her knees: "Listen to me," she said, "I am in -earnest. I hate to lose a friend for the sake of a fear that I regard -as chimerical. You will be in love with me, perhaps, but the men of -this generation do not love the women of to-day so violently as to do -themselves any actual injury. You may believe me; I know them both." -She was silent; then with the singular smile of a woman who utters a -truth while she thinks she is telling a fib, she added: "Besides, I -have not the necessary qualifications to make men love me madly; I -am too modern. Come, I will be a friend to you, a real nice friend, -for whom you will have affection, but nothing more, for I will see to -it." She went on in a more serious tone: "In any case I give you fair -warning that I am incapable of feeling a real passion for anyone, let -him be who he may; you shall receive the same treatment as the others, -you shall stand on an equal footing with the most favored, but never -on any better; I abominate despotism and jealousy. I have had to endure -everything from a husband, but from a friend, a simple friend, I do not -choose to accept affectionate tyrannizings, which are the bane of all -cordial relations. You see that I am just as nice as nice can be, that -I talk to you like a comrade, that I conceal nothing from you. Are you -willing loyally to accept the trial that I propose? If it does not work -well, there will still be time enough for you to go away if the gravity -of the situation demands it. A lover absent is a lover cured."</p> - -<p>He looked at her, already vanquished by her voice, her gestures, all -the intoxication of her person; and quite resigned to his fate, and -thrilling through every fiber at the consciousness that she was sitting -there beside him, he murmured:</p> - -<p>"I accept, Madame, and if harm comes to me, so much the worse! I can -afford to endure a little suffering for your sake."</p> - -<p>She stopped him.</p> - -<p>"Now let us say nothing more about it," she said; "let us never speak -of it again." And she diverted the conversation to topics that might -calm his agitation.</p> - -<p>In an hour's time he took his leave; in torments, for he loved her; -delighted, for she had asked and he had promised that he would not go -away.</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h5><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III.</a></h5> - - -<h4>THE THORNS OF THE ROSE</h4> - - -<p>He was in torments, for he loved her. Differing in this from the -common run of lovers, in whose eyes the woman chosen of their heart -appears surrounded by an aureole of perfection, his attachment for -her had grown within him while studying her with the clairvoyant -eyes of a suspicious and distrustful man who had never been entirely -enslaved. His timid and sluggish but penetrating disposition, always -standing on the defensive in life, had saved him from his passions. A -few intrigues, two brief <i>liaisons</i> that had perished of <i>ennui</i>, and -some mercenary loves that had been broken off from disgust, comprised -the history of his heart. He regarded women as an object of utility -for those who desire a well-kept house and a family, as an object of -comparative pleasure to those who are in quest of the pastime of love.</p> - -<p>Before he entered Mme. de Burne's house his friends had confidentially -warned him against her. What he had learned of her interested, -puzzled, and pleased him, but it was also rather distasteful to him. -As a matter of principle he did not like those gamblers who never pay -when they lose. After their first few meetings he had decided that she -was very amusing, and that she possessed a special charm that had a -contagion in it. The natural and artificial beauties of this charming, -slender, blond person, who was neither fat nor lean, who was furnished -with beautiful arms that seemed formed to attract and embrace, and with -legs that one might imagine long and tapering, calculated for flight, -like those of a gazelle, with feet so small that they would leave -no trace, seemed to him to be a symbol of hopes that could never be -realized.</p> - -<p>He had experienced, moreover, in his conversation with her a pleasure -that he had never thought of meeting with in the intercourse of -fashionable society. Gifted with a wit that was full of familiar -animation, unforeseen and mocking and of a caressing irony, she would, -notwithstanding this, sometimes allow herself to be carried away by -sentimental or intellectual influences, as if beneath her derisive -gaiety there still lingered the secular shade of poetic tenderness -drawn from some remote ancestress. These things combined to render her -exquisite.</p> - -<p>She petted him and made much of him, desirous of conquering him as -she had conquered the others, and he visited her house as often as he -could, drawn thither by his increasing need of seeing more of her. It -was like a force emanating from her and taking possession of him, a -force that lay in her charm, her look, her smile, her speech, a force -that there was no resisting, although he frequently left her house -provoked at something that she had said or done.</p> - -<p>The more he felt working on him that indescribable influence with which -a woman penetrates and subjugates us, the more clearly did he see -through her, the more did he understand and suffer from her nature, -which he devoutly wished was different. It was certainly true, however, -that the very qualities which he disapproved of in her were the -qualities that had drawn him toward her and captivated him, in spite -of himself, in spite of his reason, and more, perhaps, than her real -merits.</p> - -<p>Her coquetry, with which she toyed, making no attempt at concealing -it, as with a fan, opening and folding it in presence of everybody -according as the men to whom she was talking were pleasing to her -or the reverse; her way of taking nothing in earnest, which had -seemed droll to him upon their first acquaintance, but now seemed -threatening; her constant desire for distraction, for novelty, which -rested insatiable in her heart, always weary—all these things would -so exasperate him that sometimes upon returning to his house he would -resolve to make his visits to her more infrequent until such time as he -might do away with them altogether. The very next day he would invent -some pretext for going to see her. What he thought to impress upon -himself, as he became more and more enamored, was the insecurity of -this love and the certainty that he would have to suffer for it.</p> - -<p>He was not blind; little by little he yielded to this sentiment, -as a man drowns because his vessel has gone down under him and he -is too far from the shore. He knew her as well as it was possible -to know her, for his passion had served to make his mental vision -abnormally clairvoyant, and he could not prevent his thoughts from -going into indefinite speculations concerning her. With indefatigable -perseverance, he was continually seeking to analyze and understand -the obscure depths of this feminine soul, this incomprehensible -mixture of bright intelligence and disenchantment, of sober reason and -childish triviality, of apparent affection and fickleness, of all those -ill-assorted inclinations that can be brought together and co-ordinated -to form an unnatural, perplexing, and seductive being.</p> - -<p>But why was it that she attracted him thus? He constantly asked himself -this question, and was unable to find a satisfactory answer to it, -for, with his reflective, observing, and proudly retiring nature, -his logical course would have been to look in a woman for those -old-fashioned and soothing attributes of tenderness and constancy which -seem to offer the most reliable assurance of happiness to a man. In -her, however, he had encountered something that he had not expected to -find, a sort of early vegetable of the human race, as it were, one of -those creatures who are the beginning of a new generation, exciting -one by their strange novelty, unlike anything that one has ever known -before, and even in their imperfections awakening the dormant senses by -a formidable power of attraction.</p> - -<p>To the romantic and dreamily passionate women of the Restoration had -succeeded the gay triflers of the imperial epoch, convinced that -pleasure is a reality; and now, here there was afforded him a new -development of this everlasting femininity, a woman of refinement, -of indeterminate sensibility, restless, without fixed resolves, her -feelings in constant turmoil, who seemed to have made it part of her -experience to employ every narcotic that quiets the aching nerves: -chloroform that stupefies, ether and morphine that excite to abnormal -reverie, kill the senses, and deaden the emotions.</p> - -<p>He relished in her that flavor of an artificial nature, the sole -object of whose existence was to charm and allure. She was a rare and -attractive bauble, exquisite and delicate, drawing men's eyes to her, -causing the heart to throb, and desire to awake, as one's appetite is -excited when he looks through the glass of the shop-window and beholds -the dainty viands that have been prepared and arranged for the purpose -of making him hunger for them.</p> - -<p>When he was quite assured that he had started on his perilous descent -toward the bottom of the gulf, he began to reflect with consternation -upon the dangers of his infatuation. What would happen him? What would -she do with him? Most assuredly she would do with him what she had -done with everyone else: she would bring him to the point where a man -follows a woman's capricious fancies as a dog follows his master's -steps, and she would classify him among her collection of more or less -illustrious favorites. Had she really played this game with all the -others? Was there not one, not a single one, whom she had loved, if -only for a month, a day, an hour, in one of those effusions of feeling -that she had the faculty of repressing so readily? He talked with them -interminably about her as they came forth from her dinners, warmed -by contact with her. He felt that they were all uneasy, dissatisfied, -unstrung, like men whose dreams have failed of realization.</p> - -<p>No, she had loved no one among these paraders before public curiosity. -But he, who was a nullity in comparison with them, he, to whom it was -not granted that heads should turn and wondering eyes be fixed on him -when his name was mentioned in a crowd or in a salon,—what would he -be for her? Nothing, nothing; a mere supernumerary upon her scene, -a Monsieur, the sort of man that becomes a familiar, commonplace -attendant upon a distinguished woman, useful to hold her bouquet, a man -comparable to the common grade of wine that one drinks with water. Had -he been a famous man he might have been willing to accept this rôle, -which his celebrity would have made less humiliating; but unknown as he -was, he would have none of it. So he wrote to bid her farewell.</p> - -<p>When he received her brief answer he was moved by it as by the -intelligence of some unexpected piece of good fortune, and when she had -made him promise that he would not go away he was as delighted as a -schoolboy released for a holiday.</p> - -<p>Several days elapsed without bringing any fresh development to their -relations, but when the calm that succeeds the storm had passed, he -felt his longing for her increasing within him and burning him. He -had promised that he would never again speak to her on the forbidden -topic, but he had not promised that he would not write, and one night -when he could not sleep, when she had taken possession of all his -faculties in the restless vigil of his insomnia of love, he seated -himself at his table, almost against his will, and set himself to put -down his feelings and his sufferings upon fair, white paper. It was not -a letter; it was an aggregation of notes, phrases, thoughts, throbs of -moral anguish, transmuting themselves into words. It soothed him; it -seemed to him to give him a little comfort in his suffering, and lying -down upon his bed, he was at last able to obtain some sleep.</p> - -<p>Upon awaking the next morning he read over these few pages and decided -that they were sufficiently harrowing; then he inclosed and addressed -them, kept them by him until evening, and mailed them very late so that -she might receive them when she arose. He thought that she would not be -alarmed by these innocent sheets of paper. The most timorous of women -have an infinite kindness for a letter that speaks to them of a sincere -love, and when these letters are written by a trembling hand, with -tearful eyes and melancholy face, the power that they exercise over the -female heart is unbounded.</p> - -<p>He went to her house late that afternoon to see how she would receive -him and what she would say to him. He found M. de Pradon there, smoking -cigarettes and conversing with his daughter. He would often pass whole -hours with her in this way, for his manner toward her was rather that -of a gentleman visitor than of a father. She had brought into their -relations and their affection a tinge of that homage of love which she -bestowed upon herself and exacted from everyone else.</p> - -<p>When she beheld Mariolle her face brightened with delight; she shook -hands with him warmly and her smile told him: "You have afforded me -much pleasure."</p> - -<p>Mariolle was in hopes that the father would go away soon, but M. de -Pradon did not budge. Although he knew his daughter thoroughly, and -for a long time past had placed the most implicit confidence in her as -regarded her relations with men, he always kept an eye on her with a -kind of curious, uneasy, somewhat marital attention. He wanted to know -what chance of success there might be for this newly discovered friend, -who he was, what he amounted to. Would he be a mere bird of passage, -like so many others, or a permanent member of their usual circle?</p> - -<p>He intrenched himself, therefore, and Mariolle immediately perceived -that he was not to be dislodged. The visitor made up his mind -accordingly, and even resolved to gain him over if it were possible, -considering that his good-will, or at any rate his neutrality, would -be better than his hostility. He exerted himself and was brilliant -and amusing, without any of the airs of a sighing lover. She said to -herself contentedly: "He is not stupid; he acts his part in the comedy -extremely well"; and M. de Pradon thought: "This is a very agreeable -man, whose head my daughter does not seem to have turned."</p> - -<p>When Mariolle decided that it was time for him to take his leave, he -left them both delighted with him.</p> - -<p>But he left that house with sorrow in his soul. In the presence of -that woman he felt deeply the bondage in which she held him, realizing -that it would be vain to knock at that heart, as a man imprisoned -fruitlessly beats the iron door with his fist. He was well assured -that he was entirely in her power, and he did not try to free himself. -Such being the case, and as he could not avoid this fatality, he -resolved that he would be patient, tenacious, cunning, dissembling, -that he would conquer by address, by the homage that she was so greedy -of, by the adoration that intoxicated her, by the voluntary servitude -to which he would suffer himself to be reduced.</p> - -<p>His letter had pleased her; he would write. He wrote. Almost every -night, when he came home, at that hour when the mind, fresh from the -influence of the day's occurrences, regards whatever interests or moves -it with a sort of abnormally developed hallucination, he would seat -himself at his table by his lamp and exalt his imagination by thoughts -of her. The poetic germ, that so many indolent men suffer to perish -within them from mere slothfulness, grew and throve under this regimen. -He infused a feverish ardor into this task of literary tenderness by -means of constantly writing the same thing, the same idea, that is, -his love, in expressions that were ever renewed by the constantly -fresh-springing, daily renewal of his desire. All through the long day -he would seek for and find those irresistible words that stream from -the brain like fiery sparks, compelled by the over-excited emotions. -Thus he would breathe upon the fire of his own heart and kindle it into -raging flames, for often love-letters contain more danger for him who -writes than for her who receives them.</p> - -<p>By keeping himself in this continuous state of effervescence, by -heating his blood with words and peopling his brain with one solitary -thought, his ideas gradually became confused as to the reality of this -woman. He had ceased to entertain the opinion of her that he had first -held, and now beheld her only through the medium of his own lyrical -phrases, and all that he wrote of her night by night became to his -heart so many gospel truths. This daily labor of idealization displayed -her to him as in a dream. His former resistance melted away, moreover, -in presence of the affection that Mme. de Burne undeniably evinced -for him. Although no word had passed between them at this time, she -certainly showed a preference for him beyond others, and took no pains -to conceal it from him. He therefore thought, with a kind of mad hope, -that she might finally come to love him.</p> - -<p>The fact was that the charm of those letters afforded her a complicated -and naïve delight. No one had ever flattered and caressed her in that -manner, with such mute reserve. No one had ever had the delicious idea -of sending to her bedside, every morning, that feast of sentiment in -paper wrapping that her maid presented to her on the little silver -salver. And what made it all the dearer in her eyes was that he never -mentioned it, that he seemed to be quite unaware of it himself, that -when he visited her salon he was the most undemonstrative of her -friends, that he never by word or look alluded to those showers of -tenderness that he was secretly raining down upon her.</p> - -<p>Of course she had had love-letters before that, but they had been -pitched in a different key, had been less reserved, more pressing, more -like a summons to surrender. For the three months that his "crisis" had -lasted Lamarthe had dedicated to her a very nice correspondence from a -much-smitten novelist who maunders in a literary way. She kept in her -secretary, in a drawer specially allotted to them, these delicate and -seductive epistles from a writer who had shown much feeling, who had -caressed her with his pen up to the very day when he saw that he had no -hope of success.</p> - -<p>Mariolle's letters were quite different; they were so strong in their -concentrated desire, so deep in the expression of their sincerity, so -humble in their submissiveness, breathing a devotion that promised to -be lasting, that she received and read them with a delight that no -other writings could have afforded her.</p> - -<p>It was natural that her friendly feeling for the man should increase -under such conditions. She invited him to her house the more frequently -because he displayed such entire reserve in his relations toward -her, seeming not to have the slightest recollection in conversation -with her that he had ever taken up a sheet of paper to tell her of -his adoration. Moreover she looked upon the situation as an original -one, worthy of being celebrated in a book; and in the depths of her -satisfaction in having at her side a being who loved her thus, she -experienced a sort of active fermentation of sympathy which caused her -to measure him by a standard other than her usual one.</p> - -<p>Up to the present time, notwithstanding the vanity of her coquetry she -had been conscious of preoccupations that antagonized her in all the -hearts that she had laid waste. She had not held undisputed sovereignty -over them, she had found in them powerful interests that were entirely -dissociated from her. Jealous of music in Massival's case, of -literature in Lamarthe's, always jealous of something, discontented -that she only obtained partial successes, powerless to drive all before -her in the minds of these ambitious men, men of celebrity, or artists -to whom their profession was a mistress from whom nobody could part -them, she had now for the first time fallen in with one to whom she -was all in all. Certainly big Fresnel, and he alone, loved her to the -same degree. But then he was big Fresnel. She felt that it had never -been granted her to exercise such complete dominion over anyone, and -her selfish gratitude for the man who had afforded her this triumph -displayed itself in manifestations of tenderness. She had need of him -now; she had need of his presence, of his glance, of his subjection, -of all this domesticity of love. If he flattered her vanity less than -the others did, he flattered more those supreme exactions that sway -coquettes body and soul—her pride and her instinct of domination, her -strong instinct of feminine repose.</p> - -<p>Like an invader she gradually assumed possession of his life by a -series of small incursions that every day became more numerous. She got -up <i>fêtes</i>, theater-parties, and dinners at the restaurant, so that he -might be of the party. She dragged him after her with the satisfaction -of a conqueror; she could not dispense with his presence, or rather -with the state of slavery to which he was reduced. He followed in -her train, happy to feel himself thus petted, caressed by her eyes, -her voice, by her every caprice, and he lived only in a continuous -transport of love and longing that desolated and burned like a wasting -fever.</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h5><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV.</a></h5> - - -<h4>THE BENEFIT OF CHANGE OF SCENE</h4> - - -<p>One day Mariolle had gone to her house. He was awaiting her, for she -had not come in, although she had sent him a telegram to tell him -that she wanted to see him that morning. Whenever he was alone in -this drawing-room which it gave him such pleasure to enter and where -everything was so charming to him, he nevertheless was conscious -of an oppression of the heart, a slight feeling of affright and -breathlessness that would not allow him to remain seated as long as she -was not there. He walked about the room in joyful expectation, dashed -by the fear that some unforeseen obstacle might intervene to detain her -and cause their interview to go over until next day. His heart gave a -hopeful bound when he heard a carriage draw up before the street door, -and when the bell of the apartment rang he ceased to doubt.</p> - -<p>She came in with her hat on, a thing which she was not accustomed to -do, wearing a busy and satisfied look. "I have some news for you," she -said.</p> - -<p>"What is it, Madame?"</p> - -<p>She looked at him and laughed. "Well! I am going to the country for a -while."</p> - -<p>Her words produced in him a quick, sharp shock of sorrow that was -reflected upon his face. "Oh! and you tell me that as if you were glad -of it!"</p> - -<p>"Yes. Sit down and I will tell you all about it. I don't know whether -you are aware that M. Valsaci, my poor mother's brother, the engineer -and bridge-builder, has a country-place at Avranches where he spends a -portion of his time with his wife and children, for his business lies -mostly in that neighborhood. We pay them a visit every summer. This -year I said that I did not care to go, but he was greatly disappointed -and made quite a time over it with papa. Speaking of scenes, I will -tell you confidentially that papa is jealous of you and makes scenes -with me, too; he says that I am entangling myself with you. You will -have to come to see me less frequently. But don't let that trouble you; -I will arrange matters. So papa gave me a scolding and made me promise -to go to Avranches for a visit of ten days, perhaps twelve. We are to -start Tuesday morning. What have you got to say about it?"</p> - -<p>"I say that it breaks my heart."</p> - -<p>"Is that all?"</p> - -<p>"What more can I say? There is no way of preventing you from going."</p> - -<p>"And nothing presents itself to you?"</p> - -<p>"Why, no; I can't say that there does. And you?"</p> - -<p>"I have an idea; it is this: Avranches is quite near Mont Saint-Michel. -Have you ever been at Mont Saint-Michel?"</p> - -<p>"No, Madame."</p> - -<p>"Well, something will tell you next Friday that you want to go and -see this wonder. You will leave the train at Avranches; on Friday -evening at sunset, if you please, you will take a walk in the public -garden that overlooks the bay. We will happen to meet there. Papa -will grumble, but I don't care for that. I will make up a party to -go and see the abbey next day, including all the family. You must be -enthusiastic over it, and very charming, as you can be when you choose; -be attentive to my aunt and gain her over, and invite us all to dine -at the inn where we alight. We will sleep there, and will have all the -next day to be together. You will return by way of Saint Malo, and a -week later I shall be back in Paris. Isn't that an ingenious scheme? Am -I not nice?"</p> - -<p>With an outburst of grateful feeling, he murmured: "You are dearer to -me than all the world."</p> - -<p>"Hush!" said she.</p> - -<p>They looked each other for a moment in the face. She smiled, conveying -to him in that smile—very sincere and earnest it was, almost -tender—all her gratitude, her thanks for his love, and her sympathy as -well. He gazed upon her with eyes that seemed to devour her. He had an -insane desire to throw himself down and grovel at her feet, to kiss the -hem of her robe, to cry aloud and make her see what he knew not how to -tell in words, what existed in all his form from head to feet, in every -fiber of his body as well as in his heart, paining him inexpressibly -because he could not display it—his love, his terrible and delicious -love.</p> - -<p>There was no need of words, however; she understood him, as the -marksman instinctively feels that his ball has penetrated the -bull's-eye of the target. Nothing any longer subsisted within this man, -nothing, nothing but her image. He was hers more than she herself was -her own. She was satisfied, and she thought he was charming.</p> - -<p>She said to him, in high good-humor: "Then <i>that</i> is settled; the -excursion is agreed on."</p> - -<p>He answered in a voice that trembled with emotion: "Why, yes, Madame, -it is agreed on."</p> - -<p>There was another interval of silence. "I cannot let you stay any -longer to-day," she said without further apology. "I only ran in to -tell you what I have told you, since I am to start day after to-morrow. -All my time will be occupied to-morrow, and I have still half-a-dozen -things to attend to before dinner-time."</p> - -<p>He arose at once, deeply troubled, for the sole desire of his heart was -to be with her always; and having kissed her hands, went his way, sore -at heart, but hopeful nevertheless.</p> - -<p>The four intervening days were horribly long ones to him. He got -through them somehow in Paris without seeing a soul, preferring silence -to conversation, and solitude to the company of friends.</p> - -<p>On Friday morning, therefore, he boarded the eight-o'clock express. -The anticipation of the journey had made him feverish, and he had not -slept a wink. The darkness of his room and its silence, broken only by -the occasional rattling of some belated cab that served to remind him -of his longing to be off, had weighed upon him all night long like a -prison.</p> - -<p>At the earliest ray of light that showed itself between his drawn -curtains, the gray, sad light of early morning, he jumped from his bed, -opened the window, and looked at the sky. He had been haunted by the -fear that the weather might be unfavorable. It was clear. There was a -light floating mist, presaging a warm day. He dressed more quickly than -was needful, and in his consuming impatience to get out of doors and -at last begin his journey he was ready two hours too soon, and nothing -would do but his valet must go out and get a cab lest they should all -be gone from the stand. As the vehicle jolted over the stones, its -movements were so many shocks of happiness to him, but when he reached -the Mont Parnasse station and found that he had fifty minutes to wait -before the departure of the train, his spirits fell again.</p> - -<p>There was a compartment disengaged; he took it so that he might be -alone and give free course to his reveries. When at last he felt -himself moving, hurrying along toward her, soothed by the gentle and -rapid motion of the train, his eagerness, instead of being appeased, -was still further excited, and he felt a desire, the unreasoning desire -of a child, to push with all his strength against the partition in -front of him, so as to accelerate their speed. For a long time, until -midday, he remained in this condition of waiting expectancy, but when -they were past Argentan his eyes were gradually attracted to the window -by the fresh verdure of the Norman landscape.</p> - -<p>The train was passing through a wide, undulating region, intersected -by valleys, where the peasant holdings, mostly in grass and -apple-orchards, were shut in by great trees, the thick-leaved tops of -which seemed to glow in the sunlight. It was late in July, that lusty -season when this land, an abundant nurse, gives generously of its sap -and life. In all the inclosures, separated from each other by these -leafy walls, great light-colored oxen, cows whose flanks were striped -with undefined figures of odd design, huge, red, wide-fronted bulls -of proud and quarrelsome aspect, with their hanging dewlaps of hairy -flesh, standing by the fences or lying down among the pasturage that -stuffed their paunches, succeeded each other, until there seemed to be -no end to them in this fresh, fertile land, the soil of which appeared -to exude cider and fat sirloins. In every direction little streams were -gliding in and out among the poplars, partially concealed by a thin -screen of willows; brooks glittered for an instant among the herbage, -disappearing only to show themselves again farther on, bathing all the -scene in their vivifying coolness. Mariolle was charmed at the sight, -and almost forgot his love for a moment in his rapid flight through -this far-reaching park of apple-trees and flocks and herds.</p> - -<p>When he had changed cars at Folligny station, however, he was again -seized with an impatient longing to be at his destination, and during -the last forty minutes he took out his watch twenty times. His head -was constantly turned toward the window of the car, and at last, -situated upon a hill of moderate height, he beheld the city where she -was waiting for his coming. The train had been delayed, and now only -an hour separated him from the moment when he was to come upon her, by -chance, on the public promenade.</p> - -<p>He was the only passenger that climbed into the hotel omnibus, which -the horses began to drag up the steep road of Avranches with slow and -reluctant steps. The houses crowning the heights gave to the place from -a distance the appearance of a fortification. Seen close at hand it -was an ancient and pretty Norman city, with small dwellings of regular -and almost similar appearance built closely adjoining one another, -giving an aspect of ancient pride and modern comfort, a feudal yet -peasant-like air.</p> - -<p>As soon as Mariolle had secured a room and thrown his valise into it, -he inquired for the street that led to the Botanical Garden and started -off in the direction indicated with rapid strides, although he was -ahead of time. But he was in hopes that perhaps she also would be on -hand early. When he reached the iron railings, he saw at a glance that -the place was empty or nearly so. Only three old men were walking about -in it, <i>bourgeois</i> to the manner born, who probably were in the habit -of coming there daily to cheer their leisure by conversation, and a -family of English children, lean-legged boys and girls, were playing -about a fair-haired governess whose wandering looks showed that her -thoughts were far away.</p> - -<p>Mariolle walked straight ahead with beating heart, looking -scrutinizingly up and down the intersecting paths. He came to a great -alley of dark green elms which cut the garden in two portions crosswise -and stretched away in its center, a dense vault of foliage; he passed -through this, and all at once, coming to a terrace that commanded a -view of the horizon, his thoughts suddenly ceased to dwell upon her -whose influence had brought him hither.</p> - -<p>From the foot of the elevation upon which he was standing spread an -illimitable sandy plain that stretched away in the distance and blended -with sea and sky. Through it rolled a stream, and beneath the azure, -aflame with sunlight, pools of water dotted it with luminous sheets -that seemed like orifices opening upon another sky beneath. In the -midst of this yellow desert, still wet and glistening with the receding -tide, at twelve or fifteen kilometers from the shore rose a pointed -rock of monumental profile, like some fantastic pyramid, surmounted -by a cathedral. Its only neighbor in these immense wastes was a low, -round backed reef that the tide had left uncovered, squatting among -the shifting ooze: the reef of Tombelaine. Farther still away, other -submerged rocks showed their brown heads above the bluish line of the -waves, and the eye, continuing to follow the horizon to the right, -finally rested upon the vast green expanse of the Norman country lying -beside this sandy waste, so densely covered with trees that it had -the aspect of a limitless forest. It was all Nature offering herself -to his vision at a single glance, in a single spot, in all her might -and grandeur, in all her grace and freshness, and the eye turned from -those woodland glimpses to the stern apparition of the granite mount, -the hermit of the sands, rearing its strange Gothic form upon the -far-reaching strand.</p> - -<p>The strange pleasure which in other days had often made Mariolle -thrill, in the presence of the surprises that unknown lands preserve to -delight the eyes of travelers, now took such sudden possession of him -that he remained motionless, his feelings softened and deeply moved, -oblivious of his tortured heart. At the sound of a striking bell, -however, he turned, suddenly repossessed by the eager hope that they -were about to meet. The garden was still almost untenanted. The English -children had gone; the three old men alone kept up their monotonous -promenade. He came down and began to walk about like them.</p> - -<p>Immediately—in a moment—she would be there. He would see her at the -end of one of those roads that centered in this wondrous terrace. He -would recognize her form, her step, then her face and her smile; he -would soon be listening to her voice. What happiness! What delight! He -felt that she was near him, somewhere, invisible as yet, but thinking -of him, knowing that she was soon to see him again.</p> - -<p>With difficulty he restrained himself from uttering a little cry. For -there, down below, a blue sunshade, just the dome of a sunshade, was -visible, gliding along beneath a clump of trees. It must be she; there -could be no doubt of it. A little boy came in sight, driving a hoop -before him; then two ladies,—he recognized her,—then two men: her -father and another gentleman. She was all in blue, like the heavens in -springtime. Yes, indeed! he recognized her, while as yet he could not -distinguish her features; but he did not dare to go toward her, feeling -that he would blush and stammer, that he would be unable to account for -this chance meeting beneath M. de Pradon's suspicious glances.</p> - -<p>He went forward to meet them, however, keeping his field-glass to his -eye, apparently quite intent on scanning the horizon. She it was who -addressed him first, not even taking the trouble to affect astonishment.</p> - -<p>"Good day, M. Mariolle," she said. "Isn't it splendid?"</p> - -<p>He was struck speechless by this reception, and knew not what tone to -adopt in reply. Finally he stammered: "Ah, it is you, Madame; how glad -I am to meet you! I wanted to see something of this delightful country."</p> - -<p>She smiled as she replied: "And you selected the very time when I -chanced to be here. That was extremely kind of you." Then she proceeded -to make the necessary introductions. "This is M. Mariolle, one of my -dearest friends; my aunt, Mme. Valsaci; my uncle, who builds bridges."</p> - -<p>When salutations had been exchanged. M. de Pradon and the young man -shook hands rather stiffly and the walk was continued.</p> - -<p>She had made room for him between herself and her aunt, casting upon -him a very rapid glance, one of those glances which seem to indicate a -weakening determination.</p> - -<p>"How do you like the country?" she asked.</p> - -<p>"I think that I have never beheld anything more beautiful," he replied.</p> - -<p>"Ah! if you had passed some days here, as I have just been doing, you -would feel how it penetrates one. The impression that it leaves is -beyond the power of expression. The advance and retreat of the sea -upon the sands, that grand movement that is going on unceasingly, that -twice a day floods all that you behold before you, and so swiftly that -a horse galloping at top speed would scarce have time to escape before -it—this wondrous spectacle that Heaven gratuitously displays before -us, I declare to you that it makes me forgetful of myself. I no longer -know myself. Am I not speaking the truth, aunt?"</p> - -<p>Mme. Valsaci, an old, gray-haired woman, a lady of distinction in her -province and the respected wife of an eminent engineer, a supercilious -functionary who could not divest himself of the arrogance of the -school, confessed that she had never seen her niece in such a state -of enthusiasm. Then she added reflectively: "It is not surprising, -however, when, like her, one has never seen any but theatrical scenery."</p> - -<p>"But I go to Dieppe and Trouville almost every year."</p> - -<p>The old lady began to laugh. "People only go to Dieppe and Trouville to -see their friends. The sea is only there to serve as a cloak for their -rendezvous." It was very simply said, perhaps without any concealed -meaning.</p> - -<p>People were streaming along toward the terrace, which seemed to draw -them to it with an irresistible attraction. They came from every -quarter of the garden, in spite of themselves, like round bodies -rolling down a slope. The sinking sun seemed to be drawing a golden -tissue of finest texture, transparent and ethereally light, behind the -lofty silhouette of the abbey, which was growing darker and darker, -like a gigantic shrine relieved against a veil of brightness. Mariolle, -however, had eyes for nothing but the adored blond form walking at -his side, wrapped in its cloud of blue. Never had he beheld her so -seductive. She seemed to him to have changed, without his being able to -specify in what the change consisted; she was bright with a brightness -he had never seen before, which shone in her eyes and upon her flesh, -her hair, and seemed to have penetrated her soul as well, a brightness -emanating from this country, this sky, this sunlight, this verdure. -Never had he known or loved her thus.</p> - -<p>He walked at her side and could find no word to say to her. The rustle -of her dress, the occasional touch of her arm, the meeting, so mutely -eloquent, of their glances, completely overcame him. He felt as if -they had annihilated his personality as a man—felt himself suddenly -obliterated by contact with this woman, absorbed by her to such an -extent as to be nothing; nothing but desire, nothing but appeal, -nothing but adoration. She had consumed his being, as one burns a -letter.</p> - -<p>She saw it all very clearly, understood the full extent of her victory, -and thrilled and deeply moved, feeling life throb within her, too, more -keenly among these odors of the country and the sea, full of sunlight -and of sap, she said to him: "I am so glad to see you!" Close upon -this, she asked: "How long do you remain here?"</p> - -<p>He replied: "Two days, if to-day counts for a day." Then, turning to -the aunt: "Would Mme. Valsaci do me the honor to come and spend the -day to-morrow at Mont Saint-Michel with her husband?"</p> - -<p>Mme. de Burne made answer for her relative: "I will not allow her to -refuse, since we have been so fortunate as to meet you here."</p> - -<p>The engineer's wife replied: "Yes, Monsieur, I accept very gladly, upon -the condition that you come and dine with me this evening."</p> - -<p>He bowed in assent. All at once there arose within him a feeling of -delirious delight, such a joy as seizes you when news is brought that -the desire of your life is attained. What had come to him? What new -occurrence was there in his life? Nothing; and yet he felt himself -carried away by the intoxication of an indefinable presentiment.</p> - -<p>They walked upon the terrace for a long time, waiting for the sun to -set, so as to witness until the very end the spectacle of the black -and battlemented mount drawn in outline upon a horizon of flame. Their -conversation now was upon ordinary topics, such as might be discussed -in presence of a stranger, and from time to time Mme. de Burne and -Mariolle glanced at each other. Then they all returned to the villa, -which stood just outside Avranches in a fine garden, overlooking the -bay.</p> - -<p>Wishing to be prudent, and a little disturbed, moreover, by M. de -Pradon's cold and almost hostile attitude toward him, Mariolle withdrew -at an early hour. When he took Mme. de Burne's hand to raise it to his -lips, she said to him twice in succession, with a peculiar accent: -"Till to-morrow! Till to-morrow!"</p> - -<p>As soon as he was gone M. and Mme. Valsaci, who had long since -habituated themselves to country ways, proposed that they should go to -bed.</p> - -<p>"Go," said Mme. de Burne. "I am going to take a walk in the garden."</p> - -<p>"So am I," her father added.</p> - -<p>She wrapped herself in a shawl and went out, and they began to walk -side by side upon the white-sanded alleys which the full moon, -streaming over lawn and shrubbery, illuminated as if they had been -little winding rivers of silver.</p> - -<p>After a silence that had lasted for quite a while, M. de Pradon said in -a low voice: "My dear child, you will do me the justice to admit that I -have never troubled you with my counsels?"</p> - -<p>She felt what was coming, and was prepared to meet his attack. "Pardon -me, papa," she said, "but you did give me one, at least."</p> - -<p>"I did?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, yes."</p> - -<p>"A counsel relating to your way of life?"</p> - -<p>"Yes; and a very bad one it was, too. And so, if you give me any more, -I have made up my mind not to follow them."</p> - -<p>"What was the advice that I gave you?"</p> - -<p>"You advised me to marry M. de Burne. That goes to show that you are -lacking in judgment, in clearness of insight, in acquaintance with -mankind in general and with your daughter in particular."</p> - -<p>"Yes I made a mistake on that occasion; but I am sure that I am right -in the very paternal advice that I feel called upon to give you at the -present juncture."</p> - -<p>"Let me hear what it is. I will accept as much of it as the -circumstances call for."</p> - -<p>"You are on the point of entangling yourself."</p> - -<p>She laughed with a laugh that was rather too hearty, and completing the -expression of his idea, said: "With M. Mariolle, doubtless?"</p> - -<p>"With M. Mariolle."</p> - -<p>"You forget," she rejoined, "the entanglements that I have already had -with M. de Maltry, with M. Massival, with M. Gaston de Lamarthe, and a -dozen others, of all of whom you have been jealous; for I never fall in -with a man who is nice and willing to show a little devotion for me but -all my flock flies into a rage, and you first of all, you whom nature -has assigned to me as my noble father and general manager."</p> - -<p>"No, no, that is not it," he replied with warmth; "you have never -compromised your liberty with anyone. On the contrary you show a great -deal of tact in your relations with your friends."</p> - -<p>"My dear papa, I am no longer a child, and I promise you not to involve -myself with M. Mariolle any more than I have done with the rest of -them; you need have no fears. I admit, however, that it was at my -invitation that he came here. I think that he is delightful, just as -intelligent as his predecessors and less egotistical; and you thought -so too, up to the time when you imagined that you had discovered that -I was showing some small preference for him. Oh, you are not so sharp -as you think you are! I know you, and I could say a great deal more -on this head if I chose. As M. Mariolle was agreeable to me, then, I -thought it would be very nice to make a pleasant excursion in his -company, quite by chance, of course. It is a piece of stupidity to -deprive ourselves of everything that can amuse us when there is no -danger attending it. And I incur no danger of involving myself, since -you are here."</p> - -<p>She laughed openly as she finished, knowing well that every one of her -words had told, that she had tied his tongue by the adroit imputation -of a jealousy of Mariolle that she had suspected, that she had -instinctively scented in him for a long time past, and she rejoiced -over this discovery with a secret, audacious, unutterable coquetry. He -maintained an embarrassed and irritated silence, feeling that she had -divined some inexplicable spite underlying his paternal solicitude, the -origin of which he himself did not care to investigate.</p> - -<p>"There is no cause for alarm," she added. "It is quite natural to make -an excursion to Mont Saint-Michel at this time of the year in company -with you, my father, my uncle and aunt, and a friend. Besides no one -will know it; and even if they do, what can they say against it? When -we are back in Paris I will reduce this friend to the ranks again, to -keep company with the others."</p> - -<p>"Very well," he replied. "Let it be as if I had said nothing."</p> - -<p>They took a few steps more; then M. de Pradon asked:</p> - -<p>"Shall we return to the house? I am tired; I am going to bed."</p> - -<p>"No; the night is so fine. I am going to walk awhile yet."</p> - -<p>He murmured meaningly: "Do not go far away. One never knows what people -may be around."</p> - -<p>"Oh, I will be right here under the windows."</p> - -<p>"Good night, then, my dear child."</p> - -<p>He gave her a hasty kiss upon the forehead and went in. She took a -seat a little way off upon a rustic bench that was set in the ground -at the foot of a great oak. The night was warm, filled with odors from -the fields and exhalations from the sea and misty light, for beneath -the full moon shining brightly in the cloudless sky a fog had come up -and covered the waters of the bay. Onward it slowly crept, like white -smoke-wreaths, hiding from sight the beach that would soon be covered -by the incoming tide.</p> - -<p>Michèle de Burne, her hands clasped over her knees and her dreamy eyes -gazing into space, sought to look into her heart through a mist that -was as impenetrable and pale as that which lay upon the sands. How many -times before this, seated before her mirror in her dressing-room at -Paris, had she questioned herself:</p> - -<p>"What do I love? What do I desire? What do I hope for? What am I?"</p> - -<p>Apart from the pleasure of being beautiful, and the imperious necessity -which she felt of pleasing, which really afforded her much delight, she -had never been conscious of any appeal to her heart beyond some passing -fancy that she had quickly put her foot upon. She was not ignorant of -herself, for she had devoted too much of her time and attention to -watching and studying her face and all her person not to have been -observant of her feelings as well. Up to the present time she had -contented herself with a vague interest in that which is the subject of -emotion in others, but was powerless to impassion her, or capable at -best of affording her a momentary distraction.</p> - -<p>And yet, whenever she had felt a little warmer liking for anyone -arising within her, whenever a rival had tried to take away from her a -man whom she valued, and by arousing her feminine instincts had caused -an innocuous fever of attachment to simmer gently in her veins, she had -discovered that these false starts of love had caused her an emotion -that was much deeper than the mere gratification of success. But it -never lasted. Why? Perhaps because she was too clear-sighted; because -she allowed herself to become wearied, disgusted. Everything that at -first had pleased her in a man, everything that had animated, moved, -and attracted her, soon appeared in her eyes commonplace and divested -of its charm. They all resembled one another too closely, without ever -being exactly similar, and none of them had yet presented himself to -her endowed with the nature and the merits that were required to hold -her liking sufficiently long to guide her heart into the path of love.</p> - -<p>Why was this so? Was it their fault or was it hers? Were they wanting -in the qualities which she was looking for, or was it she who was -deficient in the attribute that makes one loved? Is love the result of -meeting with a person whom one believes to have been created expressly -for himself, or is it simply the result of having been born with the -faculty of loving? At times it seemed to her that everyone's heart -must be provided with arms, like the body, loving, outstretching arms -to attract, embrace, and enfold, and that her heart had only eyes and -nothing more.</p> - -<p>Men, superior men, were often known to become madly infatuated -with women who were unworthy of them, women without intelligence, -without character, often without beauty. Why was this? Wherein lay -the mystery? Was such a crisis in the existence of two beings not -to be attributed solely to a providential meeting, but to a kind of -seed that everyone carries about within him, and that puts forth its -buds when least expected? She had been intrusted with confidences, -she had surprised secrets, she had even beheld with her own eyes the -swift transfiguration that results from the breaking forth of this -intoxication of the feelings, and she had reflected deeply upon it.</p> - -<p>In society, in the unintermitting whirl of visiting and amusement, -in all the small tomfooleries of fashionable existence by which the -wealthy beguile their idle hours, a feeling of envious, jealous, and -almost incredulous astonishment had sometimes been excited in her -at the sight of men and women in whom some extraordinary change had -incontestably taken place. The change might not be conspicuously -manifest, but her watchful instinct felt it and divined it as the -hound holds the scent of his game. Their faces, their smiles, their -eyes especially would betray something that was beyond expression in -words, an ecstasy, a delicious, serene delight, a joy of the soul made -manifest in the body, illuming look and flesh.</p> - -<p>Without being able to account for it she was displeased with them for -this. Lovers had always been disagreeable objects to her, and she -imagined that the deep and secret feeling of irritation inspired in her -by the sight of people whose hearts were swayed by passion was simply -disdain. She believed that she could recognize them with a readiness -and an accuracy that were exceptional, and it was a fact that she -had often divined and unraveled <i>liaisons</i> before society had even -suspected their existence.</p> - -<p>When she reflected upon all this, upon the fond folly that may be -induced in woman by the contact of some neighboring existence, his -aspect, his speech, his thought, the inexpressible something in the -loved being that robs the heart of tranquillity, she decided that -she was incapable of it. And yet, weary of everything, oppressed by -ineffable yearnings, tormented by a haunting longing after change and -some unknown state, feelings which were, perhaps, only the undeveloped -movements of an undefined groping after affection, how often had she -desired, with a secret shame that had its origin in her pride, to meet -with a man, who, for a time, were it only for a few months, might by -his sorceries raise her to an abnormally excited condition of mind and -body—for it seemed to her that life must assume strange and attractive -forms of ecstasy and delight during these emotional periods. Not -only had she desired such an encounter, but she had even sought it a -little—only a very little, however—with an indolent activity that -never devoted itself for any length of time to one pursuit.</p> - -<p>In all her inchoate attachments for the men called "superior," who -had dazzled her for a few weeks, the short-lived effervescence of -her heart had always died away in irremediable disappointment. She -looked for too much from their dispositions, their characters, their -delicacy, their renown, their merits. In the case of everyone of them -she had been compelled to open her eyes to the fact that the defects of -great men are often more prominent than their merits; that talent is a -special gift, like a good digestion or good eyesight, an isolated gift -to be exercised, and unconnected with the aggregate of personal charm -that makes one's relations cordial and attractive.</p> - -<p>Since she had known Mariolle, however, she was otherwise attached to -him. But did she love him, did she love him with the love of woman for -man? Without fame or prestige, he had conquered her affections by his -devotedness, his tenderness, his intelligence, by all the real and -unassuming attractions of his personality. He had conquered, for he -was constantly present in her thoughts; unremittingly she longed for -his society; in all the world there was no one more agreeable, more -sympathetic, more indispensable to her. Could this be love?</p> - -<p>She was not conscious of carrying in her soul that divine flame that -everyone speaks of, but for the first time she was conscious of the -existence there of a sincere wish to be something more to this man than -merely a charming friend. Did she love him? Does love demand that a -man appear endowed with exceptional attractions, that he be different -from all the world and tower above it in the aureole that the heart -places about its elect, or does it suffice that he find favor in your -eyes, that he please you to that extent that you scarce know how to do -without him? In the latter event she loved him, or at any rate she was -very near loving him. After having pondered deeply on the matter with -concentrated attention, she at length answered herself: "Yes, I love -him, but I am lacking in warmth; that is the defect of my nature."</p> - -<p>Still, she had felt some warmth a little while before when she saw him -coming toward her upon the terrace in the garden of Avranches. For -the first time she had felt that inexpressible something that bears -us, impels us, hurries us toward some one; she had experienced great -pleasure in walking at his side, in having him near her, burning with -love for her, as they watched the sun sinking behind the shadow of Mont -Saint-Michel, like a vision in a legend. Was not love itself a kind -of legend of the soul, in which some believe through instinct, and in -which others sometimes also come to believe through stress of pondering -over it? Would she end by believing in it? She had felt a strange, -half-formed desire to recline her head upon the shoulder of this man, -to be nearer to him, to seek that closer union that is never found, to -give him what one offers vainly and always retains: the close intimacy -with one's inner self.</p> - -<p>Yes, she had experienced a feeling of warmth toward him, and she still -felt it there at the bottom of her heart, at that very moment. Perhaps -it would change to passion should she give way to it. She opposed too -much resistance to men's powers of attraction; she reasoned on them, -combated them too much. How sweet it would be to walk with him on an -evening like this along the river-bank beneath the willows, and allow -him to taste her lips from time to time in recompense of all the love -he had given her!</p> - -<p>A window in the villa was flung open. She turned her head. It was her -father, who was doubtless looking to see if she were there. She called -to him: "You are not asleep yet?"</p> - -<p>He replied: "If you don't come in you will take cold."</p> - -<p>She arose thereupon and went toward the house. When she was in her room -she raised her curtains for another look at the mist over the bay, -which was becoming whiter and whiter in the moonlight, and it seemed to -her that the vapors in her heart were also clearing under the influence -of her dawning tenderness.</p> - -<p>For all that she slept soundly, and her maid had to awake her in the -morning, for they were to make an early start, so as to have breakfast -at the Mount.</p> - -<p>A roomy wagonette drew up before the door. When she heard the rolling -of the wheels upon the sand she went to her window and looked out, -and the first thing that her eyes encountered was the face of André -Mariolle who was looking for her. Her heart began to beat a little more -rapidly. She was astonished and dejected as she reflected upon the -strange and novel impression produced by this muscle, which palpitates -and hurries the blood through the veins merely at the sight of some -one. Again she asked herself, as she had done the previous night before -going to sleep: "Can it be that I am about to love him?" Then when -she was seated face to face with him her instinct told her how deeply -he was smitten, how he was suffering with his love, and she felt as -if she could open her arms to him and put up her mouth. They only -exchanged a look, however, but it made him turn pale with delight.</p> - -<p>The carriage rolled away. It was a bright summer morning; the air was -filled with the melody of birds and everything seemed permeated by the -spirit of youth. They descended the hill, crossed the river, and drove -along a narrow, rough, stony road that set the travelers bumping upon -their seats. Mme. de Burne began to banter her uncle upon the condition -of this road; that was enough to break the ice, and the brightness that -pervaded the air seemed to be infused into the spirit of them all.</p> - -<p>As they emerged from a little hamlet the bay suddenly presented itself -again before them, not yellow as they had seen it the evening before, -but sparkling with clear water which covered everything, sands, -salt-meadows, and, as the coachman said, even the very road itself a -little way further on. Then, for the space of an hour they allowed the -horses to proceed at a walk, so as to give this inundation time to -return to the deep.</p> - -<p>The belts of elms and oaks that inclosed the farms among which they -were now passing momentarily hid from their vision the profile of the -abbey standing high upon its rock, now entirely surrounded by the sea; -then all at once it was visible again between two farmyards, nearer, -more huge, more astounding than ever. The sun cast ruddy tones upon the -old crenelated granite church, perched on its rocky pedestal. Michèle -de Burne and André Mariolle contemplated it, both mingling with the -newborn or acutely sensitive disturbances of their hearts the poetry -of the vision that greeted their eyes upon this rosy July morning.</p> - -<p>The talk went on with easy friendliness. Mme. Valsaci told tragic tales -of the coast, nocturnal dramas of the yielding sands devouring human -life. M. Valsaci took up arms for the dike, so much abused by artists, -and extolled it for the uninterrupted communication that it afforded -with the Mount and for the reclaimed sand-hills, available at first for -pasturage and afterward for cultivation.</p> - -<p>Suddenly the wagonette came to a halt; the sea had invaded the road. It -did not amount to much, only a film of water upon the stony way, but -they knew that there might be sink-holes beneath, openings from which -they might never emerge, so they had to wait. "It will go down very -quickly," M. Valsaci declared, and he pointed with his finger to the -road from which the thin sheet of water was already receding, seemingly -absorbed by the earth or drawn away to some distant place by a powerful -and mysterious force.</p> - -<p>They got down from the carriage for a nearer look at this strange, -swift, silent flight of the sea, and followed it step by step. Now -spots of green began to appear among the submerged vegetation, lightly -stirred by the waves here and there, and these spots broadened, rounded -themselves out and became islands. Quickly these islands assumed the -appearance of continents, separated from each other by miniature -oceans, and finally over the whole expanse of the bay it was a headlong -flight of the waters retreating to their distant abode. It resembled -nothing so much as a long silvery veil withdrawn from the surface -of the earth, a great, torn, slashed veil, full of rents, which left -exposed the wide meadows of short grass as it was pulled aside, but did -not yet disclose the yellow sands that lay beyond.</p> - -<p>They had climbed into the carriage again, and everyone was standing in -order to obtain a better view. The road in front of them was drying and -the horses were sent forward, but still at a walk, and as the rough -places sometimes caused them to lose their equilibrium, André Mariolle -suddenly felt Michèle de Burne's shoulder resting against his. At first -he attributed this contact to the movement of the vehicle, but she did -not stir from her position, and at every jolt of the wheels a trembling -started from the spot where she had placed herself and shook all his -frame and laid waste his heart. He did not venture to look at the young -woman, paralyzed as he was by this unhoped-for familiarity, and with -a confusion in his brain such as arises from drunkenness, he said to -himself: "Is this real? Can it be possible? Can it be that we are both -losing our senses?"</p> - -<p>The horses began to trot and they had to resume their seats. Then -Mariolle felt some sudden, mysterious, imperious necessity of showing -himself attentive to M. de Pradon, and he began to devote himself to -him with flattering courtesy. Almost as sensible to compliments as his -daughter, the father allowed himself to be won over and soon his face -was all smiles.</p> - -<p>At last they had reached the causeway and were advancing rapidly toward -the Mount, which reared its head among the sands at the point where the -long, straight road ended. Pontorson river washed its left-hand slope, -while, to the right, the pastures covered with short grass, which the -coachman wrongly called "samphire," had given way to sand-hills that -were still trickling with the water of the sea. The lofty monument now -assumed more imposing dimensions upon the blue heavens, against which, -very clear and distinct now in every slightest detail, its summit stood -out in bold relief, with all its towers and belfries, bristling with -grimacing gargoyles, heads of monstrous beings with which the faith and -the terrors of our ancestors crowned their Gothic sanctuaries.</p> - -<p>It was nearly one o'clock when they reached the inn, where breakfast -had been ordered. The hostess had delayed the meal for prudential -reasons; it was not ready. It was late, therefore, when they sat down -at table and everyone was very hungry. Soon, however, the champagne -restored their spirits. Everyone was in good humor, and there were -two hearts that felt that they were on the verge of great happiness. -At dessert, when the cheering effect of the wine that they had drunk -and the pleasures of conversation had developed in their frames the -feeling of well-being and contentment that sometimes warms us after a -good meal, and inclines us to take a rosy view of everything, Mariolle -suggested: "What do you say to staying over here until to-morrow? It -would be so nice to look upon this scene by moonlight, and so pleasant -to dine here together this evening!"</p> - -<p>Mme. de Burne gave her assent at once, and the two men also concurred. -Mme. Valsaci alone hesitated, on account of the little boy that she had -left at home, but her husband reassured her and reminded her that she -had frequently remained away before; he at once sat down and dispatched -a telegram to the governess. André Mariolle had flattered him by giving -his approval to the causeway, expressing his judgment that it detracted -far less than was generally reported from the picturesque effect of the -Mount, thereby making himself <i>persona grata</i> to the engineer.</p> - -<p>Upon rising from table they went to visit the monument, taking the -road of the ramparts. The city, a collection of old houses dating back -to the Middle Ages and rising in tiers one above the other upon the -enormous mass of granite that is crowned by the abbey, is separated -from the sands by a lofty crenelated wall. This wall winds about the -city in its ascent with many a twist and turn, with abrupt angles and -elbows and platforms and watchtowers, all forming so many surprises -for the eye, which, at every turn, rests upon some new expanse of the -far-reaching horizon. They were silent, for whether they had seen this -marvelous edifice before or not, they were equally impressed by it, -and the substantial breakfast that they had eaten, moreover, had made -them short-winded. There it rose above them in the sky, a wondrous -tangle of granite ornamentation, spires, belfries, arches thrown from -one tower to another, a huge, light, fairy-like lace-work in stone, -embroidered upon the azure of the heavens, from which the fantastic -and bestial-faced array of gargoyles seemed to be preparing to detach -themselves and wing their flight away. Upon the northern flank of the -Mount, between the abbey and the sea, a wild and almost perpendicular -descent that is called the Forest, because it is covered with ancient -trees, began where the houses ended and formed a speck of dark green -coloring upon the limitless expanse of yellow sands. Mme. de Burne and -Mariolle, who headed the little procession, stopped to enjoy the view. -She leaned upon his arm, her senses steeped in a rapture such as she -had never known before. With light steps she pursued her upward way, -willing to keep on climbing forever in his company toward this fabric -of a vision, or indeed toward any other end. She would have been glad -that the steep way should never have an ending, for almost for the -first time in her life she knew what it was to experience a plenitude -of satisfaction.</p> - -<p>"Heavens! how beautiful it is!" she murmured.</p> - -<p>Looking upon her, he answered: "I can think only of you."</p> - -<p>She continued, with a smile: "I am not inclined to be very poetical, -as a general thing, but this seems to me so beautiful that I am really -moved."</p> - -<p>He stammered: "I—I love you to distraction."</p> - -<p>He was conscious of a slight pressure of her arm, and they resumed the -ascent.</p> - -<p>They found a keeper awaiting them at the door of the abbey, and they -entered by that superb staircase, between two massive towers, which -leads to the Hall of the Guards. Then they went from hall to hall, from -court to court, from dungeon to dungeon, listening, wondering, charmed -with everything, admiring everything, the crypt, with its huge pillars, -so beautiful in their massiveness, which sustains upon its sturdy -arches all the weight of the choir of the church above, and all of the -<i>Wonder</i>, an awe-inspiring edifice of three stories of Gothic monuments -rising one above the other, the most extraordinary masterpiece of the -monastic and military architecture of the Middle Ages.</p> - -<p>Then they came to the cloisters. Their surprise was so great that they -involuntarily came to a halt at sight of this square court inclosing -the lightest, most graceful, most charming of colonnades to be seen in -any cloisters in the world. For the entire length of the four galleries -the slender shafts in double rows, surmounted by exquisite capitals, -sustain a continuous garland of flowers and Gothic ornamentation of -infinite variety and constantly changing design, the elegant and -unaffected fancies of the simple-minded old artists who thus worked out -their dreams in stone beneath the hammer.</p> - -<p>Michèle de Burne and André Mariolle walked completely around the -inclosure, very slowly, arm in arm, while the others, somewhat -fatigued, stood near the door and admired from a distance.</p> - -<p>"Heavens! what pleasure this affords me!" she said, coming to a stop.</p> - -<p>"For my part, I neither know where I am nor what my eyes behold. I am -conscious that you are at my side, and that is all."</p> - -<p>Then smiling, she looked him in the face and murmured: "André!"</p> - -<p>He saw that she was yielding. No further word was spoken, and they -resumed their walk. The inspection of the edifice was continued, but -they hardly had eyes to see anything.</p> - -<p>Nevertheless their attention was attracted for the space of a moment -by the airy bridge, seemingly of lace, inclosed within an arch thrown -across space between two belfries, as if to afford a way to scale the -clouds, and their amazement was still greater when they came to the -"Madman's Path," a dizzy track, devoid of parapet, that encircles the -farthest tower nearly at its summit.</p> - -<p>"May we go up there?" she asked.</p> - -<p>"It is forbidden," the guide replied.</p> - -<p>She showed him a twenty-franc piece. All the members of the party, -giddy at sight of the yawning gulf and the immensity of surrounding -space, tried to dissuade her from the imprudent freak.</p> - -<p>She asked Mariolle: "Will you go?"</p> - -<p>He laughed: "I have been in more dangerous places than that." And -paying no further attention to the others, they set out.</p> - -<p>He went first along the narrow cornice that overhung the gulf, and she -followed him, gliding along close to the wall with eyes downcast that -she might not see the yawning void beneath, terrified now and almost -ready to sink with fear, clinging to the hand that he held out to her; -but she felt that he was strong, that there was no sign of weakening -there, that he was sure of head and foot; and enraptured for all her -fears, she said to herself: "Truly, this is a man." They were alone in -space, at the height where the sea-birds soar; they were contemplating -the same horizon that the white-winged creatures are ceaselessly -scouring in their flight as they explore it with their little yellow -eyes.</p> - -<p>Mariolle felt that she was trembling; he asked: "Do you feel dizzy?"</p> - -<p>"A little," she replied in a low voice; "but in your company I fear -nothing."</p> - -<p>At this he drew near and sustained her by putting his arm about -her, and this simple assistance inspired her with such courage that -she ventured to raise her head and take a look at the distance. He -was almost carrying her and she offered no resistance, enjoying the -protection of those strong arms which thus enabled her to traverse the -heavens, and she was grateful to him with a romantic, womanly gratitude -that he did not mar their sea-gull flight by kisses.</p> - -<p>When they had rejoined the others of the party, who were awaiting them -with the greatest anxiety, M. de Pradon angrily said to his daughter: -"<i>Dieu!</i> what a silly thing to do!"</p> - -<p>She replied with conviction: "No, it was not, papa, since it was -successfully accomplished. Nothing that succeeds is ever stupid."</p> - -<p>He merely gave a shrug of the shoulders, and they descended the -stairs. At the porter's lodge there was another stoppage to purchase -photographs, and when they reached the inn it was nearly dinner-time. -The hostess recommended a short walk upon the sands, so as to obtain a -view of the Mount toward the open sea, in which direction, she said, -it presented its most imposing aspect. Although they were all much -fatigued, the band started out again and made the tour of the ramparts, -picking their way among the treacherous downs, solid to the eye but -yielding to the step, where the foot that was placed upon the pretty -yellow carpet that was stretched beneath it and seemed solid would -suddenly sink up to the calf in the deceitful golden ooze.</p> - -<p>Seen from this point the abbey, all at once losing the cathedral-like -appearance with which it astounded the beholder on the mainland, -assumed, as if in menace of old Ocean, the martial appearance of a -feudal manor, with its huge battlemented wall picturesquely pierced -with loop-holes and supported by gigantic buttresses that sank their -Cyclopean stone foundations in the bosom of the fantastic mountain. -Mme. de Burne and André Mariolle, however, were not heedless of all -that. They were thinking only of themselves, caught in the meshes of -the net that they had set for each other, shut up within the walls of -that prison to which no sound comes from the outer world, where the eye -beholds only one being.</p> - -<p>When they found themselves again seated before their well-filled -plates, however, beneath the cheerful light of the lamps, they seemed -to awake, and discovered that they were hungry, just like other mortals.</p> - -<p>They remained a long time at table, and when the dinner was ended -the moonlight was quite forgotten in the pleasure of conversation. -There was no one, moreover, who had any desire to go out, and no one -suggested it. The broad moon might shed her waves of poetic light down -upon the little thin sheet of rising tide that was already creeping up -the sands with the noise of a trickling stream, scarcely perceptible -to the ear, but sinister and alarming; she might light up the ramparts -that crept in spirals up the flanks of the Mount and illumine the -romantic shadows of all the belfries of the old abbey, standing in -its wondrous setting of a boundless bay, in the bosom of which were -quiveringly reflected the lights that crawled along the downs—no one -cared to see more.</p> - -<p>It was not yet ten o'clock when Mme. Valsaci, overcome with sleep, -spoke of going to bed, and her proposition was received without a -dissenting voice. Bidding one another a cordial good night, each -withdrew to his chamber.</p> - -<p>André Mariolle knew well that he would not sleep; he therefore lighted -his two candles and placed them on the mantelpiece, threw open his -window, and looked out into the night.</p> - -<p>All the strength of his body was giving way beneath the torture of an -unavailing hope. He knew that she was there, close at hand, that there -were only two doors between them, and yet it was almost as impossible -to go to her as it would be to dam the tide that was coming in and -submerging all the land. There was a cry in his throat that strove to -liberate itself, and in his nerves such an unquenchable and futile -torment of expectation that he asked himself what he was to do, unable -as he was longer to endure the solitude of this evening of sterile -happiness.</p> - -<p>Gradually all the sounds had died away in the inn and in the single -little winding street of the town. Mariolle still remained leaning upon -his window-sill, conscious only that time was passing, contemplating -the silvery sheet of the still rising tide and rejecting the idea of -going to bed as if he had felt the undefined presentiment of some -approaching, providential good fortune.</p> - -<p>All at once it seemed to him that a hand was fumbling with the -fastening of his door. He turned with a start: the door slowly opened -and a woman entered the room, her head veiled in a cloud of white lace -and her form enveloped in one of those great dressing-gowns that seem -made of silk, cashmere, and snow. She closed the door carefully behind -her; then, as if she had not seen him where he stood motionless—as if -smitten with joy—in the bright square of moonlight of the window, she -went straight to the mantelpiece and blew out the two candles.</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h5><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V.</a></h5> - - -<h4>CONSPIRACY</h4> - - -<p>They were to meet next morning in front of the inn to say good-bye -to one another. André, the first one down, awaited her coming with a -poignant feeling of mixed uneasiness and delight. What would she do? -What would she be to him? What would become of her and of him? In -what thrice-happy or terrible adventure had he engaged himself? She -had it in her power to make of him what she would, a visionary, like -an opium-eater, or a martyr, at her will. He paced to and fro beside -the two carriages, for they were to separate, he, to continue the -deception, ending his trip by way of Saint Malo, they returning to -Avranches.</p> - -<p>When would he see her again? Would she cut short her visit to her -family, or would she delay her return? He was horribly afraid of what -she would first say to him, how she would first look at him, for he had -not seen her and they had scarcely spoken during their brief interview -of the night before. There remained to Mariolle from that strange, -fleeting interview the faint feeling of disappointment of the man who -has been unable to reap all that harvest of love which he thought was -ready for the sickle, and at the same time the intoxication of triumph -and, resulting from that, the almost assured hope of finally making -himself complete master of her affections.</p> - -<p>He heard her voice and started; she was talking loudly, evidently -irritated at some wish that her father had expressed, and when he -beheld her standing at the foot of the staircase there was a little -angry curl upon her lips that bespoke her impatience.</p> - -<p>Mariolle took a couple of steps toward her; she saw him and smiled. -Her eyes suddenly recovered their serenity and assumed an expression -of kindliness which diffused itself over the other features, and she -quickly and cordially extended to him her hand, as if in ratification -of their new relations.</p> - -<p>"So then, we are to separate?" she said to him.</p> - -<p>"Alas! Madame, the thought makes me suffer more than I can tell."</p> - -<p>"It will not be for long," she murmured. She saw M. de Pradon coming -toward them, and added in a whisper: "Say that you are going to take a -ten days' trip through Brittany, but do not take it."</p> - -<p>Mme. de Valsaci came running up in great excitement. "What is this that -your father has been telling me—that you are going to leave us day -after to-morrow? You were to stay until next Monday, at least."</p> - -<p>Mme. de Burne replied, with a suspicion of ill humor: "Papa is nothing -but a bungler, who never knows enough to hold his tongue. The sea-air -has given me, as it does every year, a very unpleasant neuralgia, and I -did say something or other about going away so as not to have to be ill -for a month. But this is no time for bothering over that."</p> - -<p>Mariolle's coachman urged him to get into the carriage and be off, so -that they might not miss the Pontorson train.</p> - -<p>Mme. de Burne asked: "And you, when do you expect to be back in Paris?"</p> - -<p>He assumed an air of hesitancy: "Well, I can't say exactly; I want to -see Saint Malo, Brest, Douarnenez, the Bay des Trépassés, Cape Raz, -Audierne, Penmarch, Morbihan, all this celebrated portion of the Breton -country, in a word. That will take me say—" after a silence devoted to -feigned calculation, he exceeded her estimate—"fifteen or twenty days."</p> - -<p>"That will be quite a trip," she laughingly said. "For my part, if my -nerves trouble me as they did last night, I shall be at home before I -am two days older."</p> - -<p>His emotion was so great that he felt like exclaiming: "Thanks!" He -contented himself with kissing, with a lover's kiss, the hand that she -extended to him for the last time, and after a profuse exchange of -thanks and compliments with the Valsacis and M. de Pradon, who seemed -to be somewhat reassured by the announcement of his projected trip, he -climbed into his vehicle and drove off, turning his head for a parting -look at her.</p> - -<p>He made no stop on his journey back to Paris and was conscious of -seeing nothing on the way. All night long he lay back in the corner -of his compartment with eyes half closed and folded arms, his mind -reverting to the occurrences of the last few hours, and all his -thoughts concentrated upon the realization of his dream.</p> - -<p>Immediately upon his arrival at his own abode, upon the cessation of -the noise and bustle of travel, in the silence of the library where -he generally passed his time, where he worked and wrote, and where he -almost always felt himself possessed by a restful tranquillity in the -friendly companionship of his books, his piano, and his violin, there -now commenced in him that unending torment of impatient waiting which -devours, as with a fever, insatiable hearts like his. He was surprised -that he could apply himself to nothing, that nothing served to occupy -his mind, that reading and music, the occupations that he generally -employed to while away the idle moments of his life, were unavailing, -not only to afford distraction to his thoughts, but even to give rest -and quiet to his physical being, and he asked himself what he was to -do to appease this new disturbance. An inexplicable physical need of -motion seemed to have taken possession of him—of going forth and -walking the streets, of constant movement, the crisis of that agitation -that is imparted by the mind to the body and which is nothing more than -an instinctive and unappeasable longing to seek and find some other -being.</p> - -<p>He put on his hat and overcoat, and as he was descending the stairs -he asked himself: "In which direction shall I go?" Thereupon an idea -occurred to him that he had not yet thought of: he must procure a -pretty and secluded retreat to serve them as a trysting place.</p> - -<p>He pursued his investigations in every quarter, ransacking streets, -avenues, and boulevards, distrustfully examining <i>concierges</i> with -their servile smiles, lodging-house keepers of suspicious appearance -and apartments with doubtful furnishings, and at evening he returned -to his house in a state of discouragement. At nine o'clock the next -day he started out again, and at nightfall he finally succeeded in -discovering at Auteuil, buried in a garden that had three exits, a -lonely pavilion which an upholsterer in the neighborhood promised to -render habitable in two days. He ordered what was necessary, selecting -very plain furniture of varnished pine and thick carpets. A baker who -lived near one of the garden gates had charge of the property, and an -arrangement was completed with his wife whereby she was to care for the -rooms, while a gardener of the quarter also took a contract for filling -the beds with flowers.</p> - -<p>All these arrangements kept him busy until it was eight o'clock, and -when at last he got home, worn out with fatigue, he beheld with a -beating heart a telegram lying on his desk. He opened it and read:</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>"I will be home to-morrow. Await instructions. "MICHE."</p></blockquote> - -<p>He had not written to her yet, fearing that as she was soon to leave -Avranches his letter might go astray, and as soon as he had dined -he seated himself at his desk to lay before her what was passing in -his mind. The task was a long and difficult one, for all the words -and phrases that he could muster, and even his ideas, seemed to him -weak, mediocre, and ridiculous vehicles in which to convey to her the -delicacy and passionateness of his thanks.</p> - -<p>The letter that he received from her upon waking next morning confirmed -the statement that she would reach home that evening, and begged him -not to make his presence known to anyone for a few days, in order that -full belief might be accorded to the report that he was traveling. She -also requested him to walk upon the terrace of the Tuileries garden -that overlooks the Seine the following day at ten o'clock.</p> - -<p>He was there an hour before the time appointed, and to kill time -wandered about in the immense garden that was peopled only by a few -early pedestrians, belated officeholders on their way to the public -buildings on the left bank, clerks and toilers of every condition. -It was a pleasure to him to watch the hurrying crowds driven by the -necessity of earning their daily bread to brutalizing labors, and to -compare his lot with theirs, on this spot, at the minute when he was -awaiting his mistress—a queen among the queens of the earth. He felt -himself so fortunate a being, so privileged, raised to such a height -beyond their petty struggles, that he felt like giving thanks to the -blue sky, for to him Providence was but a series of alternations of -sunshine and of rain due to Chance, mysterious ruler over weather and -over men.</p> - -<p>When it wanted a few minutes of ten he ascended to the terrace and -watched for her coming. "She will be late!" he thought. He had scarcely -more than heard the clock in an adjacent building strike ten when -he thought he saw her at a distance, coming through the garden with -hurrying steps, like a working-woman in haste to reach her shop. "Can -it indeed be she?" He recognized her step but was astonished by her -changed appearance, so unassuming in a neat little toilette of dark -colors. She was coming toward the stairs that led up to the terrace, -however, in a bee-line, as if she had traveled that road many times -before.</p> - -<p>"Ah!" he said to himself, "she must be fond of this place and come to -walk here sometimes." He watched her as she raised her dress to put her -foot on the first step and then nimbly flew up the remaining ones, and -as he eagerly stepped forward to meet her she said to him as he came -near with a pleasant smile, in which there was a trace of uneasiness: -"You are very imprudent! You must not show yourself like that; I saw -you almost from the Rue de Rivoli. Come, we will go and take a seat on -a bench yonder. There is where you must wait for me next time."</p> - -<p>He could not help asking her: "So you come here often?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, I have a great liking for this place, and as I am an early walker -I come here for exercise and to look at the scenery, which is very -pretty. And then one never meets anybody here, while the Bois is out of -the question on just that account. But you must be careful not to give -away my secret."</p> - -<p>He laughed: "I shall not be very likely to do that." Discreetly taking -her hand, a little hand that was hanging at her side conveniently -concealed in the folds of her dress, he sighed: "How I love you! My -heart was sick with waiting for you. Did you receive my letter?"</p> - -<p>"Yes; I thank you for it. It was very touching."</p> - -<p>"Then you have not become angry with me yet?"</p> - -<p>"Why no! Why should I? You are just as nice as you can be."</p> - -<p>He sought for ardent words, words that would vibrate with his emotion -and his gratitude. As none came to him, and as he was too deeply moved -to permit of the free expression of the thought that was within him, he -simply said again: "How I love you!"</p> - -<p>She said to him: "I brought you here because there are water and boats -in this place as well as down yonder. It is not at all like what we saw -down there; still it is not disagreeable."</p> - -<p>They were sitting on a bench near the stone balustrade that runs along -the river, almost alone, invisible from every quarter. The only living -beings to be seen on the long terrace at that hour were two gardeners -and three nursemaids. Carriages were rolling along the quay at their -feet, but they could not see them; footsteps were resounding upon the -adjacent sidewalk, over against the wall that sustained the promenade; -and still unable to find words in which to express their thoughts, -they let their gaze wander over the beautiful Parisian landscape that -stretches from the Île Saint-Louis and the towers of Nôtre-Dame to the -heights of Meudon. She repeated her thought: "None the less, it is very -pretty, isn't it?"</p> - -<p>But he was suddenly seized by the thrilling remembrance of their -journey through space up on the summit of the abbey tower, and with a -regretful feeling for the emotion that was past and gone, he said: "Oh, -Madame, do you remember our escapade of the 'Madman's Path?'"</p> - -<p>"Yes; but I am a little afraid now that I come to think of it when it -is all over. <i>Dieu!</i> how my head would spin around if I had it to do -over again! I was just drunk with the fresh air, the sunlight, and the -sea. Look, my friend, what a magnificent view we have before us. How I -do love Paris!"</p> - -<p>He was surprised, having a confused feeling of missing something that -had appeared in her down there in the country. He murmured: "It matters -not to me where I am, so that I am only near you!"</p> - -<p>Her only answer was a pressure of the hand. Inspired with greater -happiness, perhaps, by this little signal than he would have been by a -tender word, his heart relieved of the care that had oppressed it until -now, he could at last find words to express his feelings. He told her, -slowly, in words that were almost solemn, that he had given her his -life forever that she might do with it what she would.</p> - -<p>She was grateful; but like the child of modern scepticism that she -was and willing captive of her iconoclastic irony, she smiled as she -replied: "I would not make such a long engagement as that if I were -you!"</p> - -<p>He turned and faced her, and, looking her straight in the eyes with -that penetrating look which is like a touch, repeated what he had -just said at greater length, in a more ardent, more poetical form of -expression. All that he had written in so many burning letters he now -expressed with such a fervor of conviction that it seemed to her as she -listened that she was sitting in a cloud of incense. She felt herself -caressed in every fiber of her feminine nature by his adoring words -more deeply than ever before.</p> - -<p>When he had ended she simply said: "And I, too, love you dearly!"</p> - -<p>They were still holding each other's hand, like young folks walking -along a country road, and watching with vague eyes the little -steamboats plying on the river. They were alone by themselves in Paris, -in the great confused uproar, whether remote or near at hand, that -surrounded them in this city full of all the life of all the world, -more alone than they had been on the summit of their aerial tower, and -for some seconds they were quite oblivious that there existed on earth -any other beings but their two selves.</p> - -<p>She was the first to recover the sensation of reality and of the flight -of time. "Shall we see each other again to-morrow?" she said.</p> - -<p>He reflected for an instant, and abashed by what he had in mind to ask -of her: "Yes—yes—certainly," he replied. "But—shall we never meet -in any other place? This place is unfrequented. Still—people may come -here."</p> - -<p>She hesitated. "You are right. Still it is necessary also that you -should not show yourself for at least two weeks yet, so that people may -think that you are away traveling. It will be very nice and mysterious -for us to meet and no one know that you are in Paris. Meanwhile, -however, I cannot receive you at my house, so—I don't see——"</p> - -<p>He felt that he was blushing, and continued: "Neither can I ask you to -come to my house. Is there nothing else—is there no other place?"</p> - -<p>Being a woman of practical sense, logical and without false modesty, -she was neither surprised nor shocked.</p> - -<p>"Why, yes," she said, "only we must have time to think it over."</p> - -<p>"I have thought it over."</p> - -<p>"What! so soon?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, Madame."</p> - -<p>"Well?"</p> - -<p>"Are you acquainted with the Rue des Vieux-Champs at Auteuil?"</p> - -<p>"No."</p> - -<p>"It runs into the Rue Tournemine and the Rue Jean-de-Saulge."</p> - -<p>"Well?"</p> - -<p>"In this street, or rather lane, there is a garden, and in this -garden a pavilion that also communicates with the two streets that I -mentioned."</p> - -<p>"What next?"</p> - -<p>"That pavilion awaits you."</p> - -<p>She reflected, still with no appearance of embarrassment, and then -asked two or three questions that were dictated by feminine prudence. -His explanations seemed to be satisfactory, for she murmured as she -arose:</p> - -<p>"Well, I will go to-morrow."</p> - -<p>"At what time?"</p> - -<p>"Three o'clock."</p> - -<p>"Seven is the number; I will be waiting for you behind the door. Do not -forget. Give a knock as you pass."</p> - -<p>"Yes, my friend. Adieu, till to-morrow."</p> - -<p>"Till to-morrow, adieu. Thanks; I adore you."</p> - -<p>They had risen to their feet. "Do not come with me," she said. "Stay -here for ten minutes, and when you leave go by the way of the quay."</p> - -<p>"Adieu!"</p> - -<p>"Adieu!"</p> - -<p>She started off very rapidly, with such a modest, unassuming air, so -hurriedly, that actually she might have been mistaken for one of Paris' -pretty working-girls, who trot along the streets in the morning on the -way to their honest labors.</p> - -<p>He took a cab to Auteuil, tormented by the fear that the house might -not be ready against the following day. He found it full of workmen, -however; the hangings were all in place upon the walls, the carpets -laid upon the floors. Everywhere there was a sound of pounding, -hammering, beating, washing. In the garden, which was quite large and -rather pretty, the remains of an ancient park, containing a few large -old trees, a thick clump of shrubbery that stood for a forest, two -green tables, two grass-plots, and paths twisting about among the beds, -the gardener of the vicinity had set out rose-trees, geraniums, pinks, -reseda, and twenty other species of those plants, the growth of which -is advanced or retarded by careful attention, so that a naked field may -be transformed in a day into a blooming flower garden.</p> - -<p>Mariolle was as delighted as if he had scored another success with his -Michèle, and having exacted an oath from the upholsterer that all the -furniture should be in place the next day before noon, he went off to -various shops to buy some bric-à-brac and pictures for the adornment -of the interior of this retreat. For the walls he selected some of -those admirable photographs of celebrated pictures that are produced -nowadays, for the tables and mantelshelves some rare pottery and a few -of those familiar objects that women always like to have about them. -In the course of the day he expended the income of three months, and he -did it with great pleasure, reflecting that for the last ten years he -had been living very economically, not from penuriousness, but because -of the absence of expensive tastes, and this circumstance now allowed -him to do things somewhat magnificently.</p> - -<p>He returned to the pavilion early in the morning of the following day, -presided over the arrival and placing of the furniture, climbed ladders -and hung the pictures, burned perfumes and vaporized them upon the -hangings and poured them over the carpets. In his feverish joy, in the -excited rapture of all his being, it seemed to him that he had never in -his life been engaged in such an engrossing, such a delightful labor. -At every moment he looked to see what time it was, and calculated how -long it would be before she would be there; he urged on the workmen, -and stimulated his invention so to arrange the different objects that -they might be displayed in their best light.</p> - -<p>In his prudence he dismissed everyone before it was two o'clock, and -then, as the minute-hand of the clock tardily made its last revolution -around the dial, in the silence of that house where he was awaiting -the greatest happiness that ever he could have wished for, alone with -his reverie, going and coming from room to room, he passed the minutes -until she should be there.</p> - -<p>Finally he went out into the garden. The sunlight was streaming through -the foliage upon the grass and falling with especially charming -brilliancy upon a bed of roses. The very heavens were contributing -their aid to embellish this trysting-place. Then he went and stood by -the gate, partially opening it to look out from time to time for fear -she might mistake the house.</p> - -<p>Three o'clock rang out from some belfry, and forthwith the sounds -were echoed from a dozen schools and factories. He stood waiting now -with watch in hand, and gave a start of surprise when two little, -light knocks were given against the door, to which his ear was closely -applied, for he had heard no sound of footsteps in the street.</p> - -<p>He opened: it was she. She looked about her with astonishment. First -of all she examined with a distrustful glance the neighboring houses, -but her inspection reassured her, for certainly she could have no -acquaintances among the humble <i>bourgeois</i> who inhabited the quarter. -Then she examined the garden with pleased curiosity, and finally placed -the backs of her two hands, from which she had drawn her gloves, -against her lover's mouth; then she took his arm. At every step she -kept repeating: "My! how pretty it is! how unexpected! how attractive!" -Catching sight of the rose-bed that the sun was shining upon through -the branches of the trees, she exclaimed: "Why, this is fairyland, my -friend!"</p> - -<p>She plucked a rose, kissed it, and placed it in her corsage. Then they -entered the pavilion, and she seemed so pleased with everything that -he felt like going down on his knees to her, although he may have felt -at the bottom of his heart that perhaps she might as well have shown -more attention to him and less to the surroundings. She looked about -her with the pleasure of a child who has received a new plaything, and -admired and appreciated the elegance of the place with the satisfaction -of a connoisseur whose tastes have been gratified. She had feared that -she was coming to some vulgar, commonplace resort, where the furniture -and hangings had been contaminated by other rendezvous, whereas all -this, on the contrary, was new, unforeseen, and alluring, prepared -expressly for her, and must have cost a lot of money. Really he was -perfect, this man. She turned to him and extended her arms, and their -lips met in one of those long kisses that have the strange, twofold -sensation of self-effacement and unadulterated bliss.</p> - -<p>When, at the end of three hours, they were about to separate, they -walked through the garden and seated themselves in a leafy arbor where -no eye could reach them. André addressed her with an exuberance of -feeling, as if she had been an idol that had come down for his sake -from her sacred pedestal, and she listened to him with that fatigued -languor which he had often seen reflected in her eyes after people had -tired her by too long a visit. She continued affectionate, however, -her face lighted up by a tender, slightly constrained smile, and she -clasped the hand that she held in hers with a continuous pressure that -perhaps was more studied than spontaneous.</p> - -<p>She could not have been listening to him, for she interrupted one of -his sentences to say: "Really, I must be going. I was to be at the -Marquise de Bratiane's at six o'clock, and I shall be very late."</p> - -<p>He conducted her to the gate by which she had obtained admission. They -gave each other a parting kiss, and after a furtive glance up and down -the street, she hurried away, keeping close to the walls.</p> - -<p>When he was alone he felt within him that sudden void that is ever -left by the disappearance of the woman whose kiss is still warm upon -your lips, the queer little laceration of the heart that is caused by -the sound of her retreating footsteps. It seemed to him that he was -abandoned and alone, that he was never to see her again, and he betook -himself to pacing the gravel-walks, reflecting upon this never-ceasing -contrast between anticipation and realization. He remained there until -it was dark, gradually becoming more tranquil and yielding himself more -entirely to her influence, now that she was away, than if she had been -there in his arms. Then he went home and dined without being conscious -of what he was eating, and sat down to write to her.</p> - -<p>The next day was a long one to him, and the evening seemed -interminable. Why had she not answered his letter, why had she sent him -no word? The morning of the second day he received a short telegram -appointing another rendezvous at the same hour. The little blue -envelope speedily cured him of the heart-sickness of hope deferred from -which he was beginning to suffer.</p> - -<p>She came, as she had done before, punctual, smiling, and affectionate, -and their second interview in the little house was in all respects -similar to the first. André Mariolle, surprised at first and vaguely -troubled that the ecstatic passion he had dreamed of had not made -itself felt between them, but more and more overmastered by his senses, -gradually forgot his visions of anticipation in the somewhat different -happiness of possession. He was becoming attached to her by reason of -her caresses, an invincible tie, the strongest tie of all, from which -there is no deliverance when once it has fully possessed you and has -penetrated through your flesh, into your veins.</p> - -<p>Twenty days rolled by, such sweet, fleeting days. It seemed to him -that there was to be no end to it, that he was to live forever thus, -nonexistent for all and living for her alone, and to his mental vision -there presented itself the seductive dream of an unlimited continuance -of this blissful, secret way of living.</p> - -<p>She continued to make her visits at intervals of three days, offering -no objections, attracted, it would seem, as much by the amusement she -derived from their clandestine meetings—by the charm of the little -house that had now been transformed into a conservatory of rare exotics -and by the novelty of the situation, which could scarcely be called -dangerous, since she was her own mistress, but still was full of -mystery—as by the abject and constantly increasing tenderness of her -lover.</p> - -<p>At last there came a day when she said to him: "Now, my dear friend, -you must show yourself in society again. You will come and pass the -afternoon with me to-morrow. I have given out that you are at home -again."</p> - -<p>He was heartbroken. "Oh, why so soon?" he said.</p> - -<p>"Because if it should leak out by any chance that you are in Paris your -absence would be too inexplicable not to give rise to gossip."</p> - -<p>He saw that she was right and promised that he would come to her house -the next day. Then he asked her: "Do you receive to-morrow?"</p> - -<p>"Yes," she replied. "It will be quite a little solemnity."</p> - -<p>He did not like this intelligence. "Of what description is your -solemnity?"</p> - -<p>She laughed gleefully. "I have prevailed upon Massival, by means of the -grossest sycophancy, to give a performance of his 'Dido,' which no one -has heard yet. It is the poetry of antique love. Mme. de Bratiane, who -considered herself Massival's sole proprietor, is furious. She will be -there, for she is to sing. Am I not a sly one?"</p> - -<p>"Will there be many there?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, no, only a few intimate friends. You know them nearly all."</p> - -<p>"Won't you let me off? I am so happy in my solitude."</p> - -<p>"Oh! no, my friend. You know that I count on you more than all the -rest."</p> - -<p>His heart gave a great thump. "Thank you," he said; "I will come."</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h5><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI.</a></h5> - - -<h4>QUESTIONINGS</h4> - - -<p>Good day, M. Mariolle."</p> - -<p>Mariolle noticed that it was no longer the "dear friend" of Auteuil, -and the clasp of the hand was a hurried one, the hasty pressure of a -busy woman wholly engrossed in her social functions. As he entered the -salon Mme. de Burne was advancing to speak to the beautiful Mme. le -Prieur, whose sculpturesque form, and the audacious way that she had -of dressing to display it, had caused her to be nicknamed, somewhat -ironically, "The Goddess." She was the wife of a member of the -Institute, of the section of Inscriptions and Belles-Lettres.</p> - -<p>"Ah, Mariolle!" exclaimed Lamarthe, "where do you come from? We thought -that you were dead."</p> - -<p>"I have been making a trip through Finistère."</p> - -<p>He was going on to relate his impressions when the novelist interrupted -him: "Are you acquainted with the Baronne de Frémines?"</p> - -<p>"Only by sight; but I have heard a good deal of her. They say that she -is queer."</p> - -<p>"The very queen of crazy women, but with an exquisite perfume of -modernness. Come and let me present you to her." Taking him by the arm -he led him toward a young woman who was always compared to a doll, a -pale and charming little blond doll, invented and created by the devil -himself for the damnation of those larger children who wear beards -on their faces. She had long, narrow eyes, slightly turned up toward -the temples, apparently like the eyes of the Chinese; their soft blue -glances stole out between lids that were seldom opened to their full -extent, heavy, slowly-moving lids, designed to veil and hide this -creature's mysterious nature.</p> - -<p>Her hair, very light in color, shone with silky, silvery reflections, -and her delicate mouth, with its thin lips, seemed to have been cut by -the light hand of a sculptor from the design of a miniature-painter. -The voice that issued from it had bell-like intonations, and the -audacity of her ideas, of a biting quality that was peculiar to -herself, smacking of wickedness and drollery, their destructive charm, -their cold, corrupting seductiveness, all the complicated nature of -this full-grown, mentally diseased child acted upon those who were -brought in contact with her in such a way as to produce in them violent -passions and disturbances.</p> - -<p>She was known all over Paris as being the most extravagant of the -<i>mondaines</i> of the real <i>monde</i>, and also the wittiest, but no one -could say exactly what she was, what were her ideas, what she did. She -exercised an irresistible sway over mankind in general. Her husband, -also, was quite as much of an enigma as she. Courteous and affable -and a great nobleman, he seemed quite unconscious of what was going -on. Was he indifferent, or complaisant, or was he simply blind? -Perhaps, after all, there was nothing in it more than those little -eccentricities which doubtless amused him as much as they did her. -All sorts of opinions, however, were prevalent in regard to him, and -some very ugly reports were circulated. Rumor even went so far as to -insinuate that his wife's secret vices were not unprofitable to him.</p> - -<p>Between her and Mme. de Burne there were natural attractions and fierce -jealousies, spells of friendship succeeded by crises of furious enmity. -They liked and feared each other and mutually sought each other's -society, like professional duelists, who appreciate at the same time -that they would be glad to kill each other.</p> - -<p>It was the Baronne de Frémines who was having the upper hand at this -moment. She had just scored a victory, an important victory: she -had conquered Lamarthe, had taken him from her rival and borne him -away ostentatiously to domesticate him in her flock of acknowledged -followers. The novelist seemed to be all at once smitten, puzzled, -charmed, and stupefied by the discoveries he had made in this creature -<i>sui generis</i>, and he could not help talking about her to everybody -that he met, a fact which had already given rise to much gossip.</p> - -<p>Just as he was presenting Mariolle he encountered Mme. de Burne's look -from the other end of the room; he smiled and whispered in his friend's -ear: "See, the mistress of the house is angry."</p> - -<p>André raised his eyes, but Madame had turned to meet Massival, who just -then made his appearance beneath the raised portière. He was followed -almost immediately by the Marquise de Bratiane, which elicited from -Lamarthe: "Ah! we shall only have a second rendition of 'Dido'; the -first has just been given in the Marquise's <i>coupé</i>."</p> - -<p>Mme. de Frémines added: "Really, our friend De Burne's collection is -losing some of its finest jewels."</p> - -<p>Mariolle felt a sudden impulse of anger rising in his heart, a kind -of hatred against this woman, and a brusque sensation of irritation -against these people, their way of life, their ideas, their tastes, -their aimless inclinations, their childish amusements. Then, as -Lamarthe bent over the young woman to whisper something in her ear, he -profited by the opportunity to slip away.</p> - -<p>Handsome Mme. le Prieur was sitting by herself only a few steps away; -he went up to her to make his bow. According to Lamarthe she stood -for the old guard among all this irruption of modernism. Young, -tall, handsome, with very regular features and chestnut hair through -which ran threads of gold, extremely affable, captivating by reason -of her tranquil, kindly charm of manner, by reason also of a calm, -well-studied coquetry and a great desire to please that lay concealed -beneath an outward appearance of simple and sincere affection, she had -many firm partisans, whom she took good care should never be exposed -to dangerous rivalries. Her house had the reputation of being a little -gathering of intimate friends, where all the <i>habitués</i>, moreover, -concurred in extolling the merits of the husband.</p> - -<p>She and Mariolle now entered into conversation. She held in high esteem -this intelligent and reserved man, who gave people so little cause to -talk about him and who was perhaps of more account than all the rest.</p> - -<p>The remaining guests came dropping in: big Fresnel, puffing and giving -a last wipe with his handkerchief to his shining and perspiring -forehead, the philosophic George de Maltry, finally the Baron de -Gravil accompanied by the Comte de Marantin. M. de Pradon assisted his -daughter in doing the honors of the house; he was extremely attractive -to Mariolle.</p> - -<p>But Mariolle, with a heavy heart, saw <i>her</i> going and coming and -bestowing her attentions on everyone there more than on him.</p> - -<p>Twice, it is true, she had thrown him a swift look from a distance -which seemed to say, "I am not forgetting you," but they were so -fleeting that perhaps he had failed to catch their meaning. And then -he could not be unconscious to the fact that Lamarthe's aggressive -assiduities to Mme. de Frémines were displeasing to Mme. de Burne. -"That is only her coquettish feeling of spite," he said to himself, -"a woman's irritation from whose salon some valuable trinket has -been spirited away." Still it made him suffer, and his suffering was -the greater since he saw that she was constantly watching them in a -furtive, concealed kind of way, while she did not seem to trouble -herself a bit at seeing <i>him</i> sitting beside Mme. le Prieur.</p> - -<p>The reason was that she had him in her power, she was sure of him, -while the other was escaping her. What, then, could be to her that love -of theirs, that love which was born but yesterday, and which in him had -banished and killed every other idea?</p> - -<p>M. de Pradon had called for silence, and Massival was opening the -piano, which Mme. de Bratiane was approaching, removing her gloves -meanwhile, for she was to sing the woes of "Dido," when the door again -opened and a young man appeared upon whom every eye was immediately -fixed. He was tall and slender, with curling side-whiskers, short, -blond, curly hair, and an air that was altogether aristocratic. Even -Mme. le Prieur seemed to feel his influence.</p> - -<p>"Who is it?" Mariolle asked her.</p> - -<p>"What! is it possible that you do not know him?"</p> - -<p>"No, I do not."</p> - -<p>"It is Comte Rudolph de Bernhaus."</p> - -<p>"Ah! the man who fought a duel with Sigismond Fabre."</p> - -<p>"Yes."</p> - -<p>The story had made a great noise at the time. The Comte de Bernhaus, -attached to the Austrian embassy and a diplomat of the highest promise, -an elegant Bismarck, so it was said, having heard some words spoken in -derogation of his sovereign at an official reception, had fought the -next day with the man who uttered them, a celebrated fencer, and killed -him. After this duel, in respect to which public opinion had been -divided, the Comte acquired between one day and the next a notoriety -after the manner of Sarah Bernhardt, but with this difference, that -his name appeared in an aureole of poetic chivalry. He was in addition -a man of great charm, an agreeable conversationalist, a man of -distinction in every respect. Lamarthe used to say of him: "He is the -one to tame our pretty wild beasts."</p> - -<p>He took his seat beside Mme. de Burne with a very gallant air, and -Massival sat down before the keyboard and allowed his fingers to run -over the keys for a few moments.</p> - -<p>Nearly all the audience changed their places and drew their chairs -nearer so as to hear better and at the same time have a better view of -the singer. Thus Mariolle and Lamarthe found themselves side by side.</p> - -<p>There was a great silence of expectation and respectful attention; -then the musician began with a slow, a very slow succession of notes, -something like a musical recitative. There were pauses, then the -air would be lightly caught up in a series of little phrases, now -languishing and dying away, now breaking out in nervous strength, -indicative, it would seem, of distressful emotion, but always -characterized by originality of invention. Mariolle gave way to -reverie. He beheld a woman, a woman in the fullness of her mature youth -and ripened beauty, walking slowly upon a shore that was bathed by the -waves of the sea. He knew that she was suffering, that she bore a great -sorrow in her soul, and he looked at Mme. de Bratiane.</p> - -<p>Motionless, pale beneath her wealth of thick black hair that seemed to -have been dipped in the shades of night, the Italian stood waiting, her -glance directed straight before her. On her strongly marked, rather -stern features, against which her eyes and eyebrows stood out like -spots of ink, in all her dark, powerful, and passionate beauty, there -was something that struck one, something like the threat of the coming -storm that we read in the blackening <i>sky.</i></p> - -<p>Massival, slightly nodding his head with its long hair in cadence with -the rhythm, kept on relating the affecting tale that he was drawing -from the resonant keys of ivory.</p> - -<p>A shiver all at once ran through the singer; she partially opened her -mouth, and from it there proceeded a long-drawn, heartrending wail of -agony. It was not one of those outbursts of tragic despair that divas -give utterance to upon the stage, with dramatic gestures, neither was -it one of those pitiful laments for love betrayed that bring a storm -of bravos from an audience; it was a cry of supreme passion, coming -from the body and not from the soul, wrung from her like the roar of -a wounded animal, the cry of the feminine animal betrayed. Then she -was silent, and Massival again began to relate, more animatedly, more -stormily, the moving story of the miserable queen who was abandoned by -the man she loved. Then the woman's voice made itself heard again. She -used articulate language now; she told of the intolerable torture of -solitude, of her unquenchable thirst for the caresses that were hers no -more, and of the grief of knowing that he was gone from her forever.</p> - -<p>Her warm, ringing voice made the hearts of her audience beat beneath -the spell. This somber Italian, with hair like the darkness of the -night, seemed to be suffering all the sorrows that she was telling, -she seemed to love, or to have the capacity of loving, with furious -ardor. When she ceased her eyes were full of tears, and she slowly -wiped them away. Lamarthe leaned over toward Mariolle and said to him -in a quiver of artistic enthusiasm: "Good heavens! how beautiful she is -just now! She is a woman, the only one in the room." Then he added, -after a moment of reflection: "After all, who can tell? Perhaps there -is nothing there but the mirage of the music, for nothing has real -existence except our illusions. But what an art to produce illusions is -that of hers!"</p> - -<p>There was a short intermission between the first and the second parts -of the musical poem, and warm congratulations were extended to the -composer and his interpreter. Lamarthe in particular was very earnest -in his felicitations, and he was really sincere, for he was endowed -with the capacity to feel and comprehend, and beauty of all kinds -appealed strongly to his nature, under whatever form expressed. The -manner in which he told Mme. de Bratiane what his feelings had been -while listening to her was so flattering that it brought a slight blush -to her face and excited a little spiteful feeling among the other women -who heard it. Perhaps he was not altogether unaware of the feeling that -he had produced.</p> - -<p>When he turned around to resume his chair, he perceived Comte de -Bernhaus just in the act of seating himself beside Mme. de Frémines. -She seemed at once to be on confidential terms with him, and they -smiled at each other as if this close conversation was particularly -agreeable to them both. Mariolle, whose gloom was momentarily -increasing, stood leaning against a door; the novelist came and -stationed himself at his side. Big Fresnel, George de Maltry, the -Baron de Gravil and the Comte de Marantin formed a circle about Mme. -de Burne, who was going about offering tea. She seemed imprisoned in a -crown of adorers. Lamarthe ironically called his friend's attention to -it and added: "A crown without jewels, however, and I am sure that she -would be glad to give all those rhinestones for the brilliant that she -would like to see there."</p> - -<p>"What brilliant do you mean?" inquired Mariolle.</p> - -<p>"Why, Bernhaus, handsome, irresistible, incomparable Bernhaus, he in -whose honor this <i>fête</i> is given, for whom the miracle was performed of -inducing Massival to bring out his 'Dido' here."</p> - -<p>André, though incredulous, was conscious of a pang of regret as he -heard these words. "Has she known him long?" he asked.</p> - -<p>"Oh, no; ten days at most. But she put her best foot foremost during -this brief campaign, and her tactics have been those of a conqueror. If -you had been here you would have had a good laugh."</p> - -<p>"How so?"</p> - -<p>"She met him for the first time at Mme. de Frémines's; I happened to -be dining there that evening. Bernhaus stands very well in the good -graces of the lady of that house, as you may see for yourself; all that -you have to do is to look at them at the present moment; and behold, -in the very minute that succeeded the first salutation that they ever -made each other, there is our pretty friend De Burne taking the field -to effect the conquest of the Austrian phœnix. And she is succeeding, -and will succeed, although the little Frémines is more than a match for -her in coquetry, real indifference, and perhaps perversity. But our -friend De Burne uses her weapons more scientifically, she is more of a -woman, by which I mean a modern woman, that is to say, irresistible by -reason of that artificial seductiveness which takes the place in the -modern woman of the old-fashioned natural charm of manner. And it is -not her artificiality alone that is to be taken into account, but her -æstheticism, her profound comprehension of feminine æsthetics; all her -strength lies therein. She knows herself thoroughly, because she takes -more delight in herself than in anything else, and she is never at -fault as to the best means of subjugating a man and making the best use -of her gifts in order to captivate men."</p> - -<p>Mariolle took exception to this. "I think that you put it too -strongly," he said. "She has always been very simple with me."</p> - -<p>"Because simplicity is the right thing to meet the requirements of your -case. I do not wish to speak ill of her, however. I think that she is -better than most of her set. But they are not women."</p> - -<p>Massival, striking a few chords on the piano, here reduced them to -silence, and Mme. de Bratiane proceeded to sing the second part of the -poem, in which her delineation of the title-role was a magnificent -study of physical passion and sensual regret.</p> - -<p>Lamarthe, however, never once took his eyes from Mme. de Frémines and -the Comte de Bernhaus, where they were enjoying their <i>tête-à-tête</i>, -and as soon as the last vibrations of the piano were lost in the -murmurs of applause, he again took up his theme as if in continuation -of an argument, or as if he were replying to an adversary: "No, they -are not women. The most honest of them are coquettes without being -aware of it. The more I know them the less do I find in them that -sensation of mild exhilaration that it is the part of a true woman to -inspire in us. They intoxicate, it is true, but the process wears upon -our nerves, for they are too sophisticated. Oh, it is very good as a -liqueur to sip now and then, but it is a poor substitute for the good -wine that we used to have. You see, my dear fellow, woman was created -and sent to dwell on earth for two objects only, and it is these two -objects alone that can avail to bring out her true, great, and noble -qualities—love and the family. I am talking like M. Prudhomme. Now -the women of to-day are incapable of loving, and they will not bear -children. When they are so inexpert as to have them, it is a misfortune -in their eyes; then a burden. Truly, they are not women; they are -monsters."</p> - -<p>Astonished by the writer's violent manner and by the angry look that -glistened in his eye, Mariolle asked him: "Why, then, do you spend half -your time hanging to their skirts?"</p> - -<p>Lamarthe hotly replied: "Why? Why? Because it interests me—<i>parbleu!</i> -And then—and then—Would you prevent a physician from going to the -hospitals to watch the cases? Those women constitute my clinic."</p> - -<p>This reflection seemed to quiet him a little: he proceeded: "Then, too, -I adore them for the very reason that they are so modern. At bottom I -am really no more a man than they are women. When I am at the point -of becoming attached to one of them, I amuse myself by investigating -and analyzing all the resulting sensations and emotions, just like -a chemist who experiments upon himself with a poison in order to -ascertain its properties." After an interval of silence, he continued: -"In this way they will never succeed in getting me into their clutches. -<i>I</i> can play their game as well as they play it themselves, perhaps -even better, and that is of use to me for my books, while their -proceedings are not of the slightest bit of use to them. What fools -they are! Failures, every one of them—charming failures, who will be -ready to die of spite as they grow older and see the mistake that they -have made."</p> - -<p>Mariolle, as he listened, felt himself sinking into one of those fits -of depression that are like the humid gloom with which a long-continued -rain darkens everything about us. He was well aware that the man of -letters, as a general thing, was not apt to be very far out of the way, -but he could not bring himself to admit that he was altogether right in -the present case. With a slight appearance of irritation, he argued, -not so much in defense of women as to show the causes of the position -that they occupy in contemporary literature. "In the days when poets -and novelists exalted them, and endowed them with poetic attributes," -he said, "they looked for in life, and seemed to find, that which -their heart had discovered in their reading. Nowadays you persist in -suppressing everything that has any savor of sentiment and poetry, and -in its stead give them only naked, undeceiving realities. Now, my dear -sir, the more love there is in books, the more love there is in life. -When you invented the ideal and laid it before them, they believed in -the truth of your inventions. Now that you give them nothing but stern, -unadorned realism, they follow in your footsteps and have come to -measure everything by that standard of vulgarity."</p> - -<p>Lamarthe, who was always ready for a literary discussion, was about to -commence a dissertation when Mme. de Burne came up to them. It was one -of the days when she looked at her best, with a toilette that delighted -the eye and with that aggressive and alluring air that denoted that -she was ready to try conclusions with anyone. She took a chair. "That -is what I like," she said; "to come upon two men and find that they -are not talking about me. And then you are the only men here that one -can listen to with any interest. What was the subject that you were -discussing?"</p> - -<p>Lamarthe, quite without embarrassment and in terms of elegant raillery, -placed before her the question that had arisen between himself and -Mariolle. Then he resumed his reasoning with a spirit that was inflamed -by that desire of applause which, in the presence of women, always -excites men who like to intoxicate themselves with glory.</p> - -<p>She at once interested herself in the discussion, and, warming to the -subject, took part in it in defense of the women of our day with a good -deal of wit and ingenuity. Some remarks upon the faithfulness and the -attachment that even those who were looked on with most suspicion might -be capable of, incomprehensible to the novelist, made Mariolle's heart -beat more rapidly, and when she left them to take a seat beside Mme. -de Frémines, who had persistently kept the Comte de Bernhaus near her, -Lamarthe and Mariolle, completely vanquished by her display of feminine -tact and grace, were united in declaring that, beyond all question, she -was exquisite.</p> - -<p>"And just look at them!" said the writer.</p> - -<p>The grand duel was on. What were they talking about now, the Austrian -and those two women? Mme. de Burne had come up just at the right -moment to interrupt a <i>tête-à-tête</i> which, however agreeable the two -persons engaged in it might be to each other, was becoming monotonous -from being too long protracted, and she broke it up by relating with an -indignant air the expressions that she had heard from Lamarthe's lips. -To be sure, it was all applicable to Mme. de Frémines, it all resulted -from her most recent conquest, and it was all related in the hearing -of an intelligent man who was capable of understanding it in all its -bearings. The match was applied, and again the everlasting question of -love blazed up, and the mistress of the house beckoned to Mariolle and -Lamarthe to come to them; then, as their voices grew loud in debate, -she summoned the remainder of the company.</p> - -<p>A general discussion ensued, bright and animated, in which everyone had -something to say. Mme. de Burne was witty and entertaining beyond all -the rest, shifting her ground from sentiment, which might have been -factitious, to droll paradox. The day was a triumphant one for her, and -she was prettier, brighter, and more animated than she had ever been.</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h5><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII.</a></h5> - - -<h4>DEPRESSION</h4> - - -<p>When André Mariolle had parted from Mme. de Burne and the penetrating -charm of her presence had faded away, he felt within him and all about -him, in his flesh, in his heart, in the air, and in all the surrounding -world a sensation as if the delight of life which had been his support -and animating principle for some time past had been taken from him.</p> - -<p>What had happened? Nothing, or almost nothing. Toward the close of the -reception she had been very charming in her manner toward him, saying -to him more than once: "I am not conscious of anyone's presence here -but yours." And yet he felt that she had revealed something to him of -which he would have preferred always to remain ignorant. That, too, -was nothing, or almost nothing; still he was stupefied, as a man might -be upon hearing of some unworthy action of his father or his mother, -to learn that during those twenty days which he had believed were -absolutely and entirely devoted by her as well as by him, every minute -of them, to the sentiment of their newborn love, so recent and so -intense, she had resumed her former mode of life, had made many visits, -formed many plans, recommenced those odious flirtations, had run after -men and disputed them with her rivals, received compliments, and showed -off all her graces.</p> - -<p>So soon! All this she had done so soon! Had it happened later he -would not have been surprised. He knew the world, he knew women and -their ways of looking at things, he was sufficiently intelligent -to understand it all, and would never have been unduly exacting or -offensively jealous. She was beautiful; she was born—it was her -allotted destiny—to receive the homage of men and listen to their soft -nothings. She had selected him from among them all, and had bestowed -herself upon him courageously, royally. It was his part to remain, -he would remain in any event, a grateful slave to her caprices and a -resigned spectator of her triumphs as a pretty woman. But it was hard -on him; something suffered within him, in that obscure cavern down at -the bottom of the heart where the delicate sensibilities have their -dwelling.</p> - -<p>No doubt he had been in the wrong; he had always been in the wrong -since he first came to know himself. He carried too much sentimental -prudence into his commerce with the world; his feelings were too -thin-skinned. This was the cause of the isolated life that he had -always led, through his dread of contact with the world and of wounded -susceptibilities. He had been wrong, for this supersensitiveness is -almost always the result of our not admitting the existence of a nature -essentially different from our own, or else not tolerating it. He knew -this, having often observed it in himself, but it was too late to -modify the constitution of his being.</p> - -<p>He certainly had no right to reproach Mme. de Burne, for if she had -forbidden him her salon and kept him in hiding during those days of -happiness that she had afforded him, she had done it to blind prying -eyes and be more fully his in the end. Why, then, this trouble that had -settled in his heart? Ah! why? It was because he had believed her to be -wholly his, and now it had been made clear to him that he could never -expect to seize and hold this woman of a many-sided nature who belonged -to all the world.</p> - -<p>He was well aware, moreover, that all our life is made up of successes -relative in degree to the "almost," and up to the present time -he had borne this with philosophic resignation, dissembling his -dissatisfaction and his unsatisfied yearnings under the mask of an -assumed unsociability. This time he had thought that he was about to -obtain an absolute success—the "entirely" that he had been waiting and -hoping for all his life. The "entirely" is not to be attained in this -world.</p> - -<p>His evening was a dismal one, spent in analyzing the painful impression -that he had received. When he was in bed this impression, instead of -growing weaker, took stronger hold of him, and as he desired to leave -nothing unexplored, he ransacked his mind to ascertain the remotest -causes of his new troubles. They went, and came, and returned again -like little breaths of frosty air, exciting in his love a suffering -that was as yet weak and indistinct, like those vague neuralgic pains -that we get by sitting in a draft, presages of the horrible agonies -that are to come.</p> - -<p>He understood in the first place that he was jealous, no longer as the -ardent lover only but as one who had the right to call her his own. -As long as he had not seen her surrounded by men, her men, he had not -allowed himself to dwell upon this sensation, at the same time having -a faint prevision of it, but supposing that it would be different, -very different, from what it actually was. To find the mistress whom -he believed had cared for none but him during those days of secret -and frequent meetings—during that early period that should have been -entirely devoted to isolation and tender emotion—to find her as much, -and even more, interested and wrapped up in her former and frivolous -flirtations than she was before she yielded herself to him, always -ready to fritter away her time and attention on any chance comer, thus -leaving but little of herself to him whom she had designated as the man -of her choice, caused him a jealousy that was more of the flesh than of -the feelings, not an undefined jealousy, like a fever that lies latent -in the system, but a jealousy precise and well defined, for he was -doubtful of her.</p> - -<p>At first his doubts were instinctive, arising in a sensation of -distrust that had intruded itself into his veins rather than into his -thoughts, in that sense of dissatisfaction, almost physical, of the man -who is not sure of his mate. Then, having doubted, he began to suspect.</p> - -<p>What was his position toward her after all? Was he her first lover, or -was he the tenth? Was he the successor of M. de Burne, or was he the -successor of Lamarthe, Massival, George de Maltry, and the predecessor -as well, perhaps, of the Comte de Bernhaus? What did he know of her? -That she was surprisingly beautiful, stylish beyond all others, -intelligent, discriminating, witty, but at the same time fickle, quick -to weary, readily fatigued and disgusted with anyone or anything, and, -above all else, in love with herself and an insatiable coquette. Had -she had a lover—or lovers—before him? If not, would she have offered -herself to him as she did? Where could she have got the audacity that -made her come and open his bedroom door, at night, in a public inn? -And then after that, would she have shown such readiness to visit the -house at Auteuil? Before going there she had merely asked him a few -questions, such questions as an experienced and prudent woman would -naturally ask. He had answered like a man of circumspection, not -unaccustomed to such interviews, and immediately she had confidingly -said "Yes," entirely reassured, probably benefiting by her previous -experiences.</p> - -<p>And then her knock at that little door, behind which he was waiting, -with a beating heart, almost ready to faint, how discreetly -authoritative it had been! And how she had entered without any visible -display of emotion, careful only to observe whether she might be -recognized from the adjacent houses! And the way that she had made -herself at home at once in that doubtful lodging that he had hired and -furnished for her! Would a woman who was a novice, how daring soever -she might be, how superior to considerations of morality and regardless -of social prejudices, have penetrated thus calmly the mystery of a -first rendezvous? There is a trouble of the mind, a hesitation of the -body, an instinctive fear in the very feet, which know not whither they -are tending; would she not have felt all that unless she had had some -experience in these excursions of love and unless the practice of these -things had dulled her native sense of modesty?</p> - -<p>Burning with this persistent, irritating fever, which the warmth of -his bed seemed to render still more unendurable, Mariolle tossed -beneath the coverings, constantly drawn on by his chain of doubts and -suppositions; like a man that feels himself irrecoverably sliding down -the steep descent of a precipice. At times he tried to call a halt and -break the current of his thoughts; he sought and found, and was glad to -find, reflections that were more just to her and reassuring to him, but -the seeds of distrust had been sown in him and he could not help their -growing.</p> - -<p>And yet, with what had he to reproach her? Nothing, except that her -nature was not entirely similar to his own, that she did not look upon -life in the same way that he did and that she had not in her heart an -instrument of sensibility attuned to the same key as his.</p> - -<p>Immediately upon awaking next morning the longing to see her and to -re-enforce his confidence in her developed itself within him like a -ravening hunger, and he awaited the proper moment to go and pay her -the visit demanded by custom. The instant that she saw him at the door -of the little drawing-room devoted to her special intimates, where she -was sitting alone occupied with her correspondence, she came to him -with her two hands outstretched.</p> - -<p>"Ah! Good day, dear friend!" she said, with so pleased and frank -an air that all his odious suspicions, which were still floating -indeterminately in his brain, melted away beneath the warmth of her -reception.</p> - -<p>He seated himself at her side and at once began to tell her of the -manner in which he loved her, for their love was now no longer what it -had been. He gently gave her to understand that there are two species -of the race of lovers upon earth: those whose desire is that of madmen -and whose ardor disappears when once they have achieved a triumph, and -those whom possession serves to subjugate and capture, in whom the love -of the senses, blending with the inarticulate and ineffable appeals -that the heart of man at times sends forth toward a woman, gives rise -to the servitude of a complete and torturing love.</p> - -<p>Torturing it is, certainly, and forever so, however happy it may be, -for nothing, even in the moments of closest communion, ever sates the -need of her that rules our being.</p> - -<p>Mme. de Burne was charmed and gratified as she listened, carried away, -as one is carried away at the theater when an actor gives a powerful -interpretation of his rôle and moves us by awaking some slumbering echo -in our own life. It was indeed an echo, the disturbing echo of a real -passion; but it was not from her bosom that this passion sent forth -its cry. Still, she felt such satisfaction that she was the object -of so keen a sentiment, she was so pleased that it existed in a man -who was capable of expressing it in such terms, in a man of whom she -was really very fond, for whom she was really beginning to feel an -attachment and whose presence was becoming more and more a necessity to -her—not for her physical being but for that mysterious feminine nature -which is so greedy of tenderness, devotion, and subjection—that she -felt like embracing him, like offering him her mouth, her whole being, -only that he might keep on worshiping her in this way.</p> - -<p>She answered him frankly and without prudery, with that profound -artfulness that certain women are endowed with, making it clear to -him that he too had made great progress in her affections, and they -remained <i>tête-à-tête</i> in the little drawing-room, where it so happened -that no one came that day until twilight, talking always upon the same -theme and caressing each other with words that to them did not have the -common significance.</p> - -<p>The servants had just brought in the lamps, when Mme. de Bratiane -appeared. Mariolle withdrew, and as Mme. de Burne was accompanying him -to the door through the main drawing-room, he asked her: "When shall I -see you down yonder?"</p> - -<p>"Will Friday suit you?"</p> - -<p>"Certainly. At what hour?"</p> - -<p>"The same, three o'clock."</p> - -<p>"Until Friday, then. Adieu. I adore you!"</p> - -<p>During the two days that passed before this interview, he experienced -a sensation of loneliness that he had never felt before in the same -way. A woman was wanting in his life—she was the only existent -object for him in the world, and as this woman was not far away and -he was prevented by social conventions alone from going to her, and -from passing a lifetime with her, he chafed in his solitude, in the -interminable lapse of the moments that seemed at times to pass so -slowly, at the absolute impossibility of a thing that was so easy.</p> - -<p>He arrived at the rendezvous on Friday three hours before the time, but -it was pleasing to him—it comforted his anxiety—to wait there where -she was soon to come, after having already suffered so much in awaiting -her mentally in places where she was not to come.</p> - -<p>He stationed himself near the door long before the clock had struck -the three strokes that he was expecting so eagerly, and when at last -he heard them he began to tremble with impatience. The quarter struck. -He looked out into the street, cautiously protruding his head between -the door and the casing; it was deserted from one end to the other. -The minutes seemed to stretch out in aggravating slowness. He was -constantly drawing his watch from his pocket, and at last when the hand -marked the half-hour it appeared to him that he had been standing there -for an incalculable length of time. Suddenly he heard a faint sound -upon the pavement outside, and the summons upon the door of the little -gloved hand quickly made him forget his disappointment and inspired in -him a feeling of gratitude toward her.</p> - -<p>She seemed a little out of breath as she asked: "I am very late, am I -not?"</p> - -<p>"No, not very."</p> - -<p>"Just imagine, I was near not being able to come at all. I had a -houseful, and I was at my wits' end to know what to do to get rid of -all those people. Tell me, do you go under your own name here?"</p> - -<p>"No. Why do you ask?"</p> - -<p>"So that I may send you a telegram if I should ever be prevented from -coming."</p> - -<p>"I am known as M. Nicolle."</p> - -<p>"Very well; I won't forget. My! how nice it is here in this garden!"</p> - -<p>There were five great splashes of perfumed, many-hued brightness -upon the grass-plots of the flowers, which were carefully tended and -constantly renewed, for the gardener had a customer who paid liberally.</p> - -<p>Halting at a bench in front of a bed of heliotrope: "Let us sit here -for a while," she said; "I have something funny to tell you."</p> - -<p>She proceeded to relate a bit of scandal that was quite fresh, and -from the effect of which she had not yet recovered. The story was that -Mme. Massival, the ex-mistress whom the artist had married, had come -to Mme. de Bratiane's, furious with jealousy, right in the midst of -an entertainment in which the Marquise was singing to the composer's -accompaniment, and had made a frightful scene: results, rage of the -fair Italian, astonishment and laughter of the guests. Massival, -quite beside himself, tried to take away his wife, who kept striking -him in the face, pulling his hair and beard, biting him and tearing -his clothes, but she clung to him with all her strength and held him -so that he could not stir, while Lamarthe and two servants, who had -hurried to them at the noise, did what they could to release him from -the teeth and claws of this fury.</p> - -<p>Tranquillity was not restored until after the pair had taken their -departure. Since then the musician had remained invisible, and the -novelist, witness of the scene, had been repeating it everywhere -in a very witty and amusing manner. The affair had produced a deep -impression upon Mme. de Burne; it preoccupied her thoughts to such an -extent that she hardly knew what she was doing. The constant recurrence -of the names of Massival and Lamarthe upon her lips annoyed Mariolle.</p> - -<p>"You just heard of this?" he said.</p> - -<p>"Yes, hardly an hour ago."</p> - -<p>"And that is the reason why she was late," he said to himself with -bitterness. Then he asked aloud, "Shall we go in?"</p> - -<p>"Yes," she absently murmured.</p> - -<p>When, an hour later, she had left him, for she was greatly hurried that -day, he returned alone to the quiet little house and seated himself on -a low chair in their apartment. The feeling that she had been no more -his than if she had not come there left a sort of black cavern in his -heart, in all his being, that he tried to probe to the bottom. He could -see nothing there, he could not understand; he was no longer capable -of understanding. If she had not abstracted herself from his kisses, -she had at all events escaped from the immaterial embraces of his -tenderness by a mysterious absence of the will of being his. She had -not refused herself to him, but it seemed as if she had not brought her -heart there with her; it had remained somewhere else, very far away, -idly occupied, distracted by some trifle.</p> - -<p>Then he saw that he already loved her with his senses as much as with -his feelings, even more perhaps. The deprivation of her soulless -caresses inspired him with a mad desire to run after her and bring her -back, to again possess himself of her. But why? What was the use—since -the thoughts of that fickle mind were occupied elsewhere that day? So -he must await the days and the hours when, to this elusive mistress of -his, there should come the caprice, like her other caprices, of being -in love with him.</p> - -<p>He returned wearily to his house, with heavy footsteps, his eyes fixed -on the sidewalk, tired of life, and it occurred to him that he had -made no appointment with her for the future, either at her house or -elsewhere.</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h5><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII.</a></h5> - - -<h4>NEW HOPES</h4> - - -<p>Until the setting in of winter she was pretty faithful to their -appointments; faithful, but not punctual. During the first three months -her tardiness on these occasions ranged between three-quarters of an -hour and two hours. As the autumnal rains compelled Mariolle to await -her behind the garden gate with an umbrella over his head, shivering, -with his feet in the mud, he caused a sort of little summer-house to -be built, a covered and inclosed vestibule behind the gate, so that he -might not take cold every time they met.</p> - -<p>The trees had lost their verdure, and in the place of the roses and -other flowers the beds were now filled with great masses of white, -pink, violet, purple, and yellow chrysanthemums, exhaling their -penetrating, balsamic perfume—the saddening perfume by which these -noble flowers remind us of the dying year—upon the moist atmosphere, -heavy with the odor of the rain upon the decaying leaves. In front -of the door of the little house the inventive genius of the gardener -had devised a great Maltese cross, composed of rarer plants arranged -in delicate combinations of color, and Mariolle could never pass this -bed, bright with new and constantly changing varieties, without the -melancholy reflection that this flowery cross was very like a grave.</p> - -<p>He was well acquainted now with those long watches in the little -summer-house behind the gate. The rain would fall sullenly upon the -thatch with which he had had it roofed and trickle down the board -siding, and while waiting in this receiving-vault he would give way -to the same unvarying reflections, go through the same process of -reasoning, be swayed in turn by the same hopes, the same fears, the -same discouragements. It was an incessant battle that he had to fight; -a fierce, exhausting mental struggle with an elusive force, a force -that perhaps had no real existence: the tenderness of that woman's -heart.</p> - -<p>What strange things they were, those interviews of theirs! Sometimes -she would come in with a smile upon her face, full to overflowing -with the desire of conversation, and would take a seat without -removing her hat and gloves, without raising her veil, often without -so much as giving him a kiss. It never occurred to her to kiss him -on such occasions; her head was full of a host of captivating little -preoccupations, each of them more captivating to her than the idea of -putting up her lips to the kiss of her despairing lover. He would take -a seat beside her, heart and mouth overrunning with burning words which -could find no way of utterance; he would listen to her and answer, -and while apparently deeply interested in what she was saying would -furtively take her hand, which she would yield to him calmly, amicably, -without an extra pulsation in her veins.</p> - -<p>At other times she would appear more tender, more wholly his; but he, -who was watching her with anxious and clear-sighted eyes, with the eyes -of a lover powerless to achieve her entire conquest, could see and -divine that this relative degree of affection was owing to the fact -that nothing had occurred on such occasions of sufficient importance to -divert her thoughts from him.</p> - -<p>Her persistent unpunctuality, moreover, proved to Mariolle with how -little eagerness she looked forward to these interviews. When we love, -when anything pleases and attracts us, we hasten to the anticipated -meeting, but once the charm has ceased to work, the appointed time -seems to come too quickly and everything serves as a pretext to delay -our loitering steps and put off the moment that has become indefinably -distasteful to us. An odd comparison with a habit of his own kept -incessantly returning to his mind. In summer-time the anticipation of -his morning bath always made him hasten his toilette and his visit to -the bathing establishment, while in the frosty days of winter he always -found so many little things to attend to at home before going out -that he was invariably an hour behind his usual time. The meetings at -Auteuil were to her like so many winter shower-baths.</p> - -<p>For some time past, moreover, she had been making these interviews more -infrequent, sending telegrams at the last hour, putting them off until -the following day and apparently seeking for excuses for dispensing -with them. She always succeeded in discovering excuses of a nature to -satisfy herself, but they caused him mental and physical worries and -anxieties that were intolerable. If she had manifested any coolness, if -she had shown that she was tiring of this passion of his that she felt -and knew was constantly increasing in violence, he might at first have -been irritated and then in turn offended, discouraged, and resigned, -but on the contrary she manifested more affection for him than ever, -she seemed more flattered by his love, more desirous of retaining -it, while not responding to it otherwise than by friendly marks of -preference which were beginning to make all her other admirers jealous.</p> - -<p>She could never see enough of him in her own house, and the same -telegram that would announce to André that she could not come to -Auteuil would convey to him her urgent request to dine with her or -come and spend an hour in the evening. At first he had taken these -invitations as her way of making amends to him, but afterward he came -to understand that she liked to have him near her and that she really -experienced the need of him, more so than of the others. She had need -of him as an idol needs prayers and faith in order to make it a god; -standing in the empty shrine it is but a bit of carved wood, but let -a believer enter the sanctuary, and kneel and prostrate himself and -worship with fervent prayers, drunk with religion, it becomes the equal -of Brahma or of Allah, for every loved being is a kind of god. Mme. de -Burne felt that she was adapted beyond all others to play this rôle of -fetich, to fill woman's mission, bestowed on her by nature, of being -sought after and adored, and of vanquishing men by the arms of her -beauty, grace, and coquetry.</p> - -<p>In the meantime she took no pains to conceal her affection and her -strong liking for Mariolle, careless of what folks might say about it, -possibly with the secret desire of irritating and inflaming the others. -They could hardly ever come to her house without finding him there, -generally installed in the great easy-chair that Lamarthe had come -to call the "pulpit of the officiating priest," and it afforded her -sincere pleasure to remain alone in his company for an entire evening, -talking and listening to him. She had taken a liking to this kind of -family life that he had revealed to her, to this constant contact with -an agreeable, well-stored mind, which was hers and at her command just -as much as were the little trinkets that littered her dressing-table. -In like manner she gradually came to yield to him much of herself, of -her thoughts, of her deeper mental personality, in the course of those -affectionate confidences that are as pleasant in the giving as in the -receiving. She felt herself more at ease, more frank and familiar with -him than with the others, and she loved him the more for it. She also -experienced the sensation, dear to womankind, that she was really -bestowing something, that she was confiding to some one all that she -had to give, a thing that she had never done before.</p> - -<p>In her eyes this was much, in his it was very little. He was still -waiting and hoping for the great final breaking up of her being which -should give him her soul beneath his caresses.</p> - -<p>Caresses she seemed to regard as useless, annoying, rather a nuisance -than otherwise. She submitted to them, not without returning them, but -tired of them quickly, and this feeling doubtless engendered in her -a shade of dislike to them. The slightest and most insignificant of -them seemed to be irksome to her. When in the course of conversation -he would take her hand and carry it to his lips and hold it there a -little, she always seemed desirous of withdrawing it, and he could feel -the movement of the muscles in her arm preparatory to taking it away.</p> - -<p>He felt these things like so many thrusts of a knife, and he carried -away from her presence wounds that bled unintermittently in the -solitude of his love. How was it that she had not that period of -unreasoning attraction toward him that almost every woman has when once -she has made the entire surrender of her being? It may be of short -duration, frequently it is followed quickly by weariness and disgust, -but it is seldom that it is not there at all, for a day, for an hour! -This mistress of his had made of him, not a lover, but a sort of -intelligent companion of her life.</p> - -<p>Of what was he complaining? Those who yield themselves entirely perhaps -have less to give than she!</p> - -<p>He was not complaining; he was afraid. He was afraid of that other one, -the man who would spring up unexpectedly whenever she might chance to -fall in with him, to-morrow, may be, or the day after, whoever he might -be, artist, actor, soldier, or man of the world, it mattered not what, -born to find favor in her woman's eyes and securing her favor for no -other reason, because he was <i>the man</i>, the one destined to implant in -her for the first time the imperious desire of opening her arms to him.</p> - -<p>He was now jealous of the future as before he had at times been -jealous of her unknown past, and all the young woman's intimates were -beginning to be jealous of him. He was the subject of much conversation -among them; they even made dark and mysterious allusions to the subject -in her presence. Some said that he was her lover, while others, guided -by Lamarthe's opinion, decided that she was only making a fool of him -in order to irritate and exasperate them, as it was her habit to do, -and that this was all there was to it. Her father took the matter up -and made some remarks to her which she did not receive with good grace, -and the more conscious she became of the reports that were circulating -among her acquaintance, the more, by an odd contradiction to the -prudence that had ruled her life, did she persist in making an open -display of the preference that she felt for Mariolle.</p> - -<p>He, however, was somewhat disturbed by these suspicious mutterings. He -spoke to her of it.</p> - -<p>"What do I care?" she said.</p> - -<p>"If you only loved me, as a lover!"</p> - -<p>"Do I not love you, my friend?"</p> - -<p>"Yes and no; you love me well enough in your own house, but very badly -elsewhere. I should prefer it to be just the opposite, for my sake, and -even, indeed, for your own."</p> - -<p>She laughed and murmured: "We can't do more than we can."</p> - -<p>"If you only knew the mental trouble that I experience in trying -to animate your love. At times I seem to be trying to grasp the -intangible, to be clasping an iceberg in my arms that chills me and -melts away within my embrace."</p> - -<p>She made no answer, not fancying the subject, and assumed the absent -manner that she often wore at Auteuil. He did not venture to press the -matter further. He looked upon her a good deal as amateurs look upon -the precious objects in a museum that tempt them so strongly and that -they know they cannot carry away with them.</p> - -<p>His days and nights were made up of hours of suffering, for he was -living in the fixed idea, and still more in the sentiment than in -the idea, that she was his and yet not his, that she was conquered -and still at liberty, captured and yet impregnable. He was living at -her side, as near her as could be, without ever reaching her, and he -loved her with all the unsatiated longings of his body and his soul. -He began to write to her again, as he had done at the commencement -of their <i>liaison</i>. Once before with ink he had vanquished her early -scruples; once again with ink he might be victorious over this later -and obstinate resistance. Putting longer intervals between his visits -to her, he told her in almost daily letters of the fruitlessness of -his love. Now and then, when he had been very eloquent and impassioned -and had evinced great sorrow, she answered him. Her letters, dated for -effect midnight, or one, two, or three o'clock in the morning, were -clear and precise, well considered, encouraging, and afflicting. She -reasoned well, and they were not destitute of wit and even fancy, but -it was in vain that he read them and re-read them, it was in vain that -he admitted that they were to the point, well turned, intelligent, -graceful, and satisfactory to his masculine vanity; they had in them -nothing of her heart, they satisfied him no more than did the kisses -that she gave him in the house at Auteuil.</p> - -<p>He asked himself why this was so, and when he had learned them by heart -he came to know them so well that he discovered the reason, for a -person's writings always afford the surest clue to his nature. Spoken -words dazzle and deceive, for lips are pleasing and eyes seductive, but -black characters set down upon white paper expose the soul in all its -nakedness.</p> - -<p>Man, thanks to the artifices of rhetoric, to his professional address -and his habit of using the pen to discuss all the affairs of life, -often succeeds in disguising his own nature by his impersonal prose -style, literary or business, but woman never writes unless it is of -herself and something of her being goes into her every word. She knows -nothing of the subtilities of style and surrenders herself unreservedly -in her ignorance of the scope and value of words. Mariolle called to -mind the memoirs and correspondence of celebrated women that he had -read; how distinctly their characters were all set forth there, the -<i>précieuses</i>, the witty, and the sensible! What struck him most in -Mme. de Burne's letters was that no trace of sensibility was to be -discovered in them. This woman had the faculty of thought but not of -feeling. He called to mind letters that he had received from other -persons; he had had many of them. A little <i>bourgeoise</i> that he had met -while traveling and who had loved him for the space of three months had -written delicious, thrilling notes, abounding in fresh and unexpected -terms of sentiment; he had been surprised by the flexibility, the -elegant coloring, and the variety of her style. Whence had she -obtained this gift? From the fact that she was a woman of sensibility; -there could be no other answer. A woman does not elaborate her phrases; -they come to her intelligence straight from her emotions; she does -not rummage the dictionary for fine words. What she feels strongly -she expresses justly, without long and labored consideration, in the -adaptive sincerity of her nature.</p> - -<p>He tried to test the sincerity of his mistress's nature by means of -the lines which she wrote him. They were well written and full of -amiability, but how was it that she could find nothing better for him? -Ah! for her <i>he</i> had found words that burned as living coals!</p> - -<p>When his valet brought in his mail he would look for an envelope -bearing the longed-for handwriting, and when he recognized it an -involuntary emotion would arise in him, succeeded by a beating of the -heart. He would extend his hand and grasp the bit of paper; again he -would scrutinize the address, then tear it open. What had she to say -to him? Would he find the word "love" there? She had never written or -uttered this word without qualifying it by the adverb "well": "I love -you well"; "I love you much"; "Do I not love you?" He knew all these -formulas, which are inexpressive by reason of what is tacked on to -them. Can there be such a thing as a comparison between the degrees of -love when one is in its toils? Can one decide whether he loves well or -ill? "To love much," what a dearth of love that expression manifests! -One loves, nothing more, nothing less; nothing can be said, nothing -expressed, nothing imagined that means more than that one simple -sentence. It is brief, it is everything. It becomes body, soul, life, -the whole of our being. We feel it as we feel the warm blood in our -veins, we inhale it as we do the air, we carry it within us as we carry -our thoughts, for it becomes the atmosphere of the mind. Nothing has -existence beside it. It is not a word, it is an inexpressible state of -being, represented by a few letters. All the conditions of life are -changed by it; whatever we do, there is nothing done or seen or tasted -or enjoyed or suffered just as it was before. Mariolle had become the -victim of this small verb, and his eye would run rapidly over the -lines, seeking there a tenderness answering to his own. He did in fact -find there sufficient to warrant him in saying to himself: "She loves -me very well," but never to make him exclaim: "She loves me!" She was -continuing in her correspondence the pretty, poetical romance that had -had its inception at Mont Saint-Michel. It was the literature of love, -not of <i>the</i> love.</p> - -<p>When he had finished reading and re-reading them, he would lock the -precious and disappointing sheets in a drawer and seat himself in his -easy-chair. He had passed many a bitter hour in it before this.</p> - -<p>After a while her answers to his letters became less frequent; -doubtless she was somewhat weary of manufacturing phrases and ringing -the changes on the same stale theme. And then, besides, she was passing -through a period of unwonted fashionable excitement, of which André -had presaged the approach with that increment of suffering that such -insignificant, disagreeable incidents can bring to troubled hearts.</p> - -<p>It was a winter of great gaiety. A mad intoxication had taken -possession of Paris and shaken the city to its depths; all night long -cabs and <i>coupés</i> were rolling through the streets and through the -windows were visible white apparitions of women in evening toilette. -Everyone was having a good time; all the conversation was on plays and -balls, matinées and soirées. The contagion, an epidemic of pleasure, as -it were, had quickly extended to all classes of society, and Mme. de -Burne also was attacked by it.</p> - -<p>It had all been brought about by the effect that her beauty had -produced at a dance at the Austrian embassy. The Comte de Bernhaus had -made her acquainted with the ambassadress, the Princess de Malten, -who had been immediately and entirely delighted with Mme. de Burne. -Within a very short time she became the Princess's very intimate friend -and thereby extended with great rapidity her relations among the most -select diplomatic and aristocratic circles. Her grace, her elegance, -her charming manners, her intelligence and wit quickly achieved a -triumph for her and made her <i>la mode</i>, and many of the highest titles -among the women of France sought to be presented to her. Every Monday -would witness a long line of <i>coupés</i> with arms on their panels drawn -up along the curb of the Rue du Général-Foy, and the footmen would lose -their heads and make sad havoc with the high-sounding names that they -bellowed into the drawing-room, confounding duchesses with marquises, -countesses with baronnes.</p> - -<p>She was entirely carried off her feet. The incense of compliments -and invitations, the feeling that she was become one of the elect to -whom Paris bends the knee in worship as long as the fancy lasts, -the delight of being thus admired, made much of, and run after, were -too much for her and gave rise within her soul to an acute attack of -snobbishness.</p> - -<p>Her artistic following did not submit to this condition of affairs -without a struggle, and the revolution produced a close alliance among -her old friends. Fresnel, even, was accepted by them, enrolled on the -regimental muster and became a power in the league, while Mariolle was -its acknowledged head, for they were all aware of the ascendency that -he had over her and her friendship for him. He, however, watched her as -she was whirled away in this flattering popularity as a child watches -the vanishing of his red balloon when he has let go the string. It -seemed to him that she was eluding him in the midst of this elegant, -motley, dancing throng and flying far, far away from that secret -happiness that he had so ardently desired for both of them, and he was -jealous of everybody and everything, men, women, and inanimate objects -alike. He conceived a fierce detestation for the life that she was -leading, for all the people that she associated with, all the <i>fêtes</i> -that she frequented, balls, theaters, music, for they were all in a -league to take her from him by bits and absorb her days and nights, -and only a few scant hours were now accorded to their intimacy. His -indulgence of this unreasoning spite came near causing him a fit of -sickness, and when he visited her he brought with him such a wan face -that she said to him:</p> - -<p>"What ails you? You have changed of late, and are very thin."</p> - -<p>"I have been loving you too much," he replied.</p> - -<p>She gave him a grateful look: "No one ever loves too much, my friend."</p> - -<p>"Can you say such a thing as that?"</p> - -<p>"Why, yes."</p> - -<p>"And you do not see that I am dying of my vain love for you."</p> - -<p>"In the first place it is not true that you love in vain; then no one -ever dies of that complaint, and finally all our friends are jealous of -you, which proves pretty conclusively that I am not treating you badly, -all things considered."</p> - -<p>He took her hand: "You do not understand me!"</p> - -<p>"Yes, I understand very well."</p> - -<p>"You hear the despairing appeal that I am incessantly making to your -heart?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, I have heard it."</p> - -<p>"And——"</p> - -<p>"And it gives me much pain, for I love you enormously."</p> - -<p>"And then?"</p> - -<p>"Then you say to me: 'Be like me; think, feel, express yourself as I -do.' But, my poor friend, I can't. I am what I am. You must take me as -God made me, since I gave myself thus to you, since I have no regrets -for having done so and no desire to withdraw from the bargain, since -there is no one among all my acquaintance that is dearer to me than you -are."</p> - -<p>"You do not love me!"</p> - -<p>"I love you with all the power of loving that exists in me. If it is -not different or greater, is that my fault?"</p> - -<p>"If I was certain of that I might content myself with it."</p> - -<p>"What do you mean by that?"</p> - -<p>"I mean that I believe you capable of loving otherwise, but that I do -not believe that it lies in me to inspire you with a genuine passion."</p> - -<p>"My friend, you are mistaken. You are more to me than anyone has ever -been hitherto, more than anyone will ever be in the future; at least -that is my honest conviction. I may lay claim to this great merit: that -I do not wear two faces with you, I do not feign to be what you so -ardently desire me to be, when many women would act quite differently. -Be a little grateful to me for this, and do not allow yourself to be -agitated and unstrung; trust in my affection, which is yours, sincerely -and unreservedly."</p> - -<p>He saw how wide the difference was that parted them. "Ah!" he murmured, -"how strangely you look at love and speak of it! To you, I am some one -that you like to see now and then, whom you like to have beside you, -but to me, you fill the universe: in it I know but you, feel but you, -need but you."</p> - -<p>She smiled with satisfaction and replied: "I know that; I understand. I -am delighted to have it so, and I say to you: Love me always like that -if you can, for it gives me great happiness, but do not force me to act -a part before you that would be distressing to me and unworthy of us -both. I have been aware for some time of the approach of this crisis; -it is the cause of much suffering to me, for I am deeply attached to -you, but I cannot bend my nature or shape it in conformity with yours. -Take me as I am."</p> - -<p>Suddenly he asked her: "Have you ever thought, have you ever believed, -if only for a day, only for an hour, either before or after, that you -might be able to love me otherwise?"</p> - -<p>She was at a loss for an answer and reflected for a few seconds. He -waited anxiously for her to speak, and continued: "You see, don't you, -that you have had other dreams as well?"</p> - -<p>"I may have been momentarily deceived in myself," she murmured, -thoughtfully.</p> - -<p>"Oh! how ingenious you are!" he exclaimed; "how psychological! No one -ever reasons thus from the impulse of the heart."</p> - -<p>She was reflecting still, interested in her thoughts, in this -self-investigation; finally she said: "Before I came to love you as -I love you now, I may indeed have thought that I might come to be -more—more—more captivated with you, but then I certainly should not -have been so frank and simple with you. Perhaps later on I should have -been less sincere."</p> - -<p>"Why less sincere later on?"</p> - -<p>"Because all of love, according to your idea, lies in this formula: -'Everything or nothing,' and this 'everything or nothing' as far as I -can see means: 'Everything at first, nothing afterward.' It is when the -reign of nothing commences that women begin to be deceitful."</p> - -<p>He replied in great distress: "But you do not see how wretched I -am—how I am tortured by the thought that you might have loved me -otherwise. You have felt that thought: therefore it is some other one -that you will love in that manner."</p> - -<p>She unhesitatingly replied: "I do not believe it."</p> - -<p>"And why? Yes, why, I ask you? Since you have had the foreknowledge of -love, since you have felt in anticipation the fleeting and torturing -hope of confounding soul and body with the soul and body of another, -of losing your being in his and taking his being to be portion of -your own, since you have perceived the possibility of this ineffable -emotion, the day will come, sooner or later, when you will experience -it."</p> - -<p>"No; my imagination deceived me, and deceived itself. I am giving you -all that I have to give you. I have reflected deeply on this subject -since I have been your mistress. Observe that I do not mince matters, -not even my words. Really and truly, I am convinced that I cannot love -you more or better than I do at this moment. You see that I talk to you -just as I talk to myself. I do that because you are very intelligent, -because you understand and can read me like a book, and the best way -is to conceal nothing from you; it is the only way to keep us long and -closely united. And that is what I hope for, my friend."</p> - -<p>He listened to her as a man drinks when he is thirsty, then kneeled -before her and laid his head in her lap. He took her little hands and -pressed them to his lips, murmuring: "Thanks! thanks!" When he raised -his eyes to look at her, he saw that there were tears standing in hers; -then placing her arms in turn about André's neck, she gently drew him -toward her, bent over and kissed him upon the eyelids.</p> - -<p>"Take a chair," she said; "it is not prudent to be kneeling before me -here."</p> - -<p>He seated himself, and when they had contemplated each other in -silence for a few moments, she asked him if he would take her some day -to visit the exhibition that the sculptor Prédolé, of whom everyone -was talking enthusiastically, was then giving of his works. She had -in her dressing-room a bronze Love of his, a charming figure pouring -water into her bath-tub, and she had a great desire to see the complete -collection of the eminent artist's works which had been delighting all -Paris for a week past at the Varin gallery. They fixed upon a date and -then Mariolle arose to take leave.</p> - -<p>"Will you be at Auteuil to-morrow?" she asked him in a whisper.</p> - -<p>"Oh! Yes!"</p> - -<p>He was very joyful on his way homeward, intoxicated by that "Perhaps?" -which never dies in the heart of a lover.</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h5><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX.</a></h5> - - -<h4>DISILLUSION</h4> - - -<p>Mme. de Burne's <i>coupé</i> was proceeding at a quick trot along the Rue -de Grenelle. It was early April, and the hailstones of a belated storm -beat noisily against the glasses of the carriage and rattled off upon -the roadway which was already whitened by the falling particles. Men -on foot were hurrying along the sidewalk beneath their umbrellas, with -coat-collars turned up to protect their necks and ears. After two -weeks of fine weather a detestable cold spell had set in, the farewell -of winter, freezing up everything and bringing chapped hands and -chilblains.</p> - -<p>With her feet resting upon a vessel filled with hot water and her -form enveloped in soft furs that warmed her through her dress with a -velvety caress that was so deliciously agreeable to her sensitive skin, -the young woman was sadly reflecting that in an hour at farthest she -would have to take a cab to go and meet Mariolle at Auteuil. She was -seized by a strong desire to send him a telegram, but she had promised -herself more than two months ago that she would not again have recourse -to this expedient unless compelled to, for she had been making a great -effort to love him in the same manner that he loved her. She had seen -how he suffered, and had commiserated him, and after that conversation -when she had kissed him upon the eyes in an outburst of genuine -tenderness, her sincere affection for him had, in fact, assumed a -warmer and more expansive character. In her surprise at her involuntary -coldness she had asked herself why, after all, she could not love him -as other women love their lovers, since she knew that she was deeply -attached to him and that he was more pleasing to her than any other -man. This indifference of her love could only proceed from a sluggish -action of the heart, which could be cured like any other sluggishness.</p> - -<p>She tried it. She endeavored to arouse her feelings by thoughts of him, -to be more demonstrative in his presence. She was successful now and -then, just as one excites his fears at night by thinking of ghosts or -robbers. Fired a little herself by this pretense of passion, she even -forced herself to be more caressing; she succeeded very well at first, -and delighted him to the point of intoxication.</p> - -<p>She thought that this was the beginning in her of a fever somewhat -similar to that with which she knew that he was consuming. Her old -intermittent hopes of love, that she had dimly seen the possibility -of realizing the night that she had dreamed her dreams among the -white mists of Saint-Michel's Bay, took form and shape again, not so -seductive as then, less wrapped in clouds of poetry and idealism, -but more clearly defined, more human, stripped of illusion after the -experience of her <i>liaison</i>. Then she had summoned up and watched for -that irresistible impulse of all the being toward another being that -arises, she had heard, when the emotions of the soul act upon two -physical natures. She had watched in vain; it had never come.</p> - -<p>She persisted, however, in feigning ardor, in making their interviews -more frequent, in saying to him: "I feel that I am coming to love you -more and more." But she became weary of it at last, and was powerless -longer to impose upon herself or deceive him. She was astonished to -find that the kisses that he gave her were becoming distasteful to her -after a while, although she was not by any means entirely insensible to -them.</p> - -<p>This was made manifest to her by the vague lassitude that took -possession of her from the early morning of those days when she had an -appointment with him. Why was it that on those mornings she did not -feel, as other women feel, all her nature troubled by the desire and -anticipation of his embraces? She endured them, indeed she accepted -them, with tender resignation, but as a woman conquered, brutally -subjugated, responding contrary to her own will, never voluntarily -and with pleasure. Could it be that her nature, so delicate, so -exceptionally aristocratic and refined, had in it depths of modesty, -the modesty of a superior and sacred animality, that were as yet -unfathomed by modern perceptions?</p> - -<p>Mariolle gradually came to understand this; he saw her factitious ardor -growing less and less. He divined the nature of her love-inspired -attempt, and a mortal, inconsolable sorrow took possession of his soul.</p> - -<p>She knew now, as he knew, that the attempt had been made and that all -hope was gone. The proof of this was that this very day, wrapped as -she was in her warm furs and with her feet on her hot-water bottle, -glowing with a feeling of physical comfort as she watched the hail -beating against the windows of her <i>coupé</i>, she could not find in her -the courage to leave this luxurious warmth to get into an ice-cold cab -to go and meet the poor fellow.</p> - -<p>The idea of breaking with him, of avoiding his caresses, certainly -never occurred to her for a moment. She was well aware that to -completely captivate a man who is in love and keep him as one's own -peculiar private property in the midst of feminine rivalries, a woman -must surrender herself to him body and soul. That she knew, for it is -logical, fated, indisputable. It is even the loyal course to pursue, -and she wanted to be loyal to him in all the uprightness of her nature -as his mistress. She would go to him then, she would go to him always; -but why so often? Would not their interviews even assume a greater -charm for him, an attraction of novelty, if they were granted more -charily, like rare and inestimable gifts presented to him by her and -not to be used too prodigally?</p> - -<p>Whenever she had gone to Auteuil she had had the impression that she -was bearing to him a priceless gift, the most precious of offerings. -In giving in this way, the pleasure of giving is inseparable from a -certain sensation of sacrifice; it is the pride that one feels in -being generous, the satisfaction of conferring happiness, not the -transports of a mutual passion.</p> - -<p>She even calculated that André's love would be more likely to be -enduring if she abated somewhat of her familiarity with him, for hunger -always increases by fasting, and desire is but an appetite. Immediately -that this resolution was formed she made up her mind that she would -go to Auteuil that day, but would feign indisposition. The journey, -which a minute ago had seemed to her so difficult through the inclement -weather, now appeared to her quite easy, and she understood, with a -smile at her own expense and at this sudden revelation, why she made -such a difficulty about a thing that was quite natural. But a moment -ago she would not, now she would. The reason why she would not a moment -ago was that she was anticipating the thousand petty disagreeable -details of the rendezvous! She would prick her fingers with pins that -she handled very awkwardly, she would be unable to find the articles -that she had thrown at random upon the bedroom floor as she disrobed in -haste, already looking forward to the hateful task of having to dress -without an attendant.</p> - -<p>She paused at this reflection, dwelling upon it and weighing it -carefully for the first time. After all, was it not rather repugnant, -rather vulgarizing, this idea of a rendezvous for a stated time, -settled upon a day or two days in advance, just like a business -appointment or a consultation with your doctor? There is nothing -more natural, after a long and charming <i>tête-à-tête</i>, than that the -lips which have been uttering warm, seductive words should meet in a -passionate kiss; but how different that was from the premeditated -kiss that she went there to receive, watch in hand, once a week. There -was so much truth in this that on those days when she was not to see -André she had frequently felt a vague desire of being with him, while -this desire was scarcely perceptible at all when she had to go to him -in foul cabs, through squalid streets, with the cunning of a hunted -thief, all her feelings toward him quenched and deadened by these -considerations.</p> - -<p>Ah! that appointment at Auteuil! She had calculated the time on all the -clocks of all her friends; she had watched the minutes that brought her -nearer to it slip away at Mme. de Frémines's, at Mme. de Bratiane's, -at pretty Mme. le Prieur's, on those afternoons when she killed time -by roaming about Paris so as not to remain in her own house, where she -might be detained by an inopportune visit or some other unforeseen -obstacle.</p> - -<p>She suddenly said to herself: "I will make to-day a day of rest; I -will go there very late." Then she opened a little cupboard in the -front of the carriage, concealed among the folds of black silk that -lined the <i>coupé</i>, which was fitted up as luxuriously as a pretty -woman's boudoir. The first thing that presented itself when she had -thrown open the doors of this secret receptacle was a mirror playing on -hinges that she moved so that it was on a level with her face. Behind -the mirror, in their satin-lined niches, were various small objects -in silver: a box for her rice-powder, a pencil for her lips, two -crystal scent-bottles, an inkstand and penholder, scissors, a pretty -paper-cutter to tear the leaves of the last novel with which she amused -herself as she rolled along the streets. The exquisite clock, of the -size and shape of a walnut, told her that it was four o'clock. Mme. de -Burne reflected: "I have an hour yet, at all events," and she touched -a spring that had the effect of making the footman who was seated -beside the coachman stoop and take up the speaking-tube to receive her -order. She pulled out the other end from where it was concealed in the -lining of the carriage, and applying her lips to the mouthpiece of -rock-crystal: "To the Austrian embassy!" she said.</p> - -<p>Then she inspected herself in the mirror. The look that she gave -herself expressed, as it always did, the delight that one feels in -looking upon one's best beloved; then she threw back her furs to judge -of the effect of her corsage. It was a toilette adapted to the chill -days of the end of winter. The neck was trimmed with a bordering of -very fine white down that shaded off into a delicate gray as it fell -over the shoulders, like the wing of a bird. Upon her hat—it was -a kind of toque—there towered an aigret of more brightly colored -feathers, and the general effect that her costume inspired was to make -one think that she had got herself up in this manner in preparation -for a flight through the hail and the gray sky in company with Mother -Carey's chickens.</p> - -<p>She was still complacently contemplating herself when the carriage -suddenly wheeled into the great court of the embassy.</p> - -<p>Thereupon she arranged her wrap, lowered the mirror to its place, -closed the doors of the little cupboard, and when the <i>coupé</i> had come -to a halt said to her coachman: "You may go home; I shall not need -you any more." Then she asked the footman who came forward from the -entrance of the hotel: "Is the Princess at home?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, Madame."</p> - -<p>She entered and ascended the stairs and came to a small drawing-room -where the Princess de Malten was writing letters.</p> - -<p>The ambassadress arose with an appearance of much satisfaction when she -perceived her friend, and they kissed each other twice in succession -upon the cheek, close to the corner of the lips. Then they seated -themselves side by side upon two low chairs in front of the fire. -They were very fond of each other, took great delight in each other's -society and understood each other thoroughly, for they were almost -counterparts in nature and disposition, belonging to the same race of -femininity, brought up in the same atmosphere and endowed with the -same sensations, although Mme. de Malten was a Swede and had married -an Austrian. They had a strange and mysterious attraction for each -other, from which resulted a profound feeling of unmixed well-being -and contentment whenever they were together. Their babble would run on -for half a day on end, without once stopping, trivial, futile talk, -interesting to them both by reason of their similarity of tastes.</p> - -<p>"You see how I love you!" said Mme. de Burne. "You are to dine with me -this evening, and still I could not help coming to see you. It is a -real passion, my dear."</p> - -<p>"A passion that I share," the Swede replied with a smile.</p> - -<p>Following the habit of their profession, they put each her best foot -foremost for the benefit of the other; coquettish as if they had been -dealing with a man, but with a different style of coquetry, for the -strife was different, and they had not before them the adversary, but -the rival.</p> - -<p>Madame de Burne had kept looking at the clock during the conversation. -It was on the point of striking five. He had been waiting there an -hour. "That is long enough," she said to herself as she arose.</p> - -<p>"So soon?" said the Princess.</p> - -<p>"Yes," the other unblushingly replied. "I am in a hurry; there is some -one waiting for me. I would a great deal rather stay here with you."</p> - -<p>They exchanged kisses again, and Mme. de Burne, having requested the -footman to call a cab for her, drove away.</p> - -<p>The horse was lame and dragged the cab after him wearily, and the -animal's halting and fatigue seemed to have infected the young woman. -Like the broken-winded beast, she found the journey long and difficult. -At one moment she was comforted by the pleasure of seeing André, at -the next she was in despair at the thought of the discomforts of the -interview.</p> - -<p>She found him waiting for her behind the gate, shivering. The biting -blasts roared through the branches of the trees, the hailstones rattled -on their umbrella as they made their way to the house, their feet sank -deep into the mud. The garden was dead, dismal, miry, melancholy, and -André was very pale. He was enduring terrible suffering.</p> - -<p>When they were in the house: "Gracious, how cold it is!" she exclaimed.</p> - -<p>And yet a great fire was blazing in each of the two rooms, but they had -not been lighted until past noon and had not had time to dry the damp -walls, and shivers ran through her frame. "I think that I will not take -off my furs just yet," she added. She only unbuttoned her outer garment -and threw it open, disclosing her warm costume and her plume-decked -corsage, like a bird of passage that never remains long in one place.</p> - -<p>He seated himself beside her.</p> - -<p>"There is to be a delightful dinner at my house to-night," she said, -"and I am enjoying it in anticipation."</p> - -<p>"Who are to be there?"</p> - -<p>"Why, you, in the first place; then Prédolé, whom I have so long wanted -to know."</p> - -<p>"Ah! Prédolé is to be there?"</p> - -<p>"Yes; Lamarthe is to bring him."</p> - -<p>"But Prédolé is not the kind of a man to suit you, not a bit! Sculptors -in general are not so constituted as to please pretty women, and -Prédolé less so than any of them."</p> - -<p>"Oh, my friend, that cannot be. I have such an admiration for him!"</p> - -<p>The sculptor Prédolé had gained a great success and had captivated all -Paris some two months before by his exhibition at the Varin gallery. -Even before that he had been highly appreciated; people had said of -him, "His <i>figurines</i> are delicious"; but when the world of artists and -connoisseurs had assembled to pass judgment upon his collected works -in the rooms of the Rue Varin, the outburst of enthusiasm had been -explosive. They seemed to afford the revelation of such an unlooked-for -charm, they displayed such a peculiar gift in the translation of -elegance and grace, that it seemed as if a new manner of expressing the -beauty of form had been born to the world. His specialty was statuettes -in extremely abbreviated costumes, in which his genius displayed an -unimaginable delicacy of form and airy lightness. His dancing girls, -especially, of which he had made many studies, displayed in the highest -perfection, in their pose and the harmony of their attitude and motion, -the ideal of female beauty and suppleness.</p> - -<p>For a month past Mme. de Burne had been unceasing in her efforts to -attract him to her house, but the artist was unsociable, even something -of a bear, so the report ran. At last she had succeeded, thanks to -the intervention of Lamarthe, who had made a touching, almost frantic -appeal to the grateful sculptor.</p> - -<p>"Whom have you besides?" Mariolle inquired.</p> - -<p>"The Princess de Malten."</p> - -<p>He was displeased; he did not fancy that woman. "Who else?"</p> - -<p>"Massival, Bernhaus, and George de Maltry. That is all: only my select -circle. You are acquainted with Prédolé, are you not?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, slightly."</p> - -<p>"How do you like him?"</p> - -<p>"He is delightful; I never met a man so enamored of his art and so -interesting when he holds forth on it."</p> - -<p>She was delighted and again said: "It will be charming."</p> - -<p>He had taken her hand under her fur cloak; he gave it a little squeeze, -then kissed it. Then all at once it came to her mind that she had -forgotten to tell him that she was ill, and casting about on the spur -of the moment for another reason, she murmured: "Gracious! how cold it -is!"</p> - -<p>"Do you think so?"</p> - -<p>"I am chilled to my very marrow."</p> - -<p>He arose to take a look at the thermometer, which was, in fact, pretty -low; then he resumed his seat at her side.</p> - -<p>She had said: "Gracious! how cold it is!" and he believed that he -understood her. For three weeks, now, at every one of their interviews, -he had noticed that her attempt to feign tenderness was gradually -becoming fainter and fainter. He saw that she was weary of wearing this -mask, so weary that she could continue it no longer, and he himself was -so exasperated by the little power that he had over her, so stung by -his vain and unreasoning desire of this woman, that he was beginning -to say to himself in his despairing moments of solitude: "It will be -better to break with her than to continue to live like this."</p> - -<p>He asked her, by way of fathoming her intentions: "Won't you take off -your cloak now?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, no," she said; "I have been coughing all the morning; this fearful -weather has given me a sore throat. I am afraid that I may be ill." She -was silent a moment, then added: "If I had not wanted to see you very -much indeed I would not have come to-day." As he did not reply, in his -grief and anger, she went on: "This return of cold weather is very -dangerous, coming as it does after the fine days of the past two weeks."</p> - -<p>She looked out into the garden, where the trees were already almost -green despite the clouds of snow that were driving among their -branches. He looked at her and thought: "So that is the kind of love -that she feels for me!" and for the first time he began to feel a sort -of jealous hatred of her, of her face, of her elusive affection, of -her form, so long pursued, so subtle to escape him. "She pretends that -she is cold," he said to himself. "She is cold only because I am here. -If it were a question of some party of pleasure, some of those idiotic -caprices that go to make up the useless existence of these frivolous -creatures, she would brave everything and risk her life. Does she not -ride about in an open carriage on the coldest days to show her fine -clothes? Ah! that is the way with them all nowadays!"</p> - -<p>He looked at her as she sat there facing him so calmly, and he knew -that in that head, that dear little head that he adored so, there was -one wish paramount, the wish that their <i>tête-à-tête</i> might not be -protracted; it was becoming painful to her.</p> - -<p>Was it true that there had ever existed, that there existed now, -women capable of passion, of emotion, who weep, suffer, and bestow -themselves in a transport, loving with heart and soul and body, with -mouth that speaks and eyes that gaze, with heart that beats and hand -that caresses; women ready to brave all for the sake of their love, and -to go, by day or by night, regardless of menaces and watchful eyes, -fearlessly, tremorously, to him who stands with open arms waiting to -receive them, mad, ready to sink with their happiness?</p> - -<p>Oh, that horrible love that which now held him in its fetters!—love -without issue, without end, joyless and triumphless, eating away his -strength and devouring him with its anxieties; love in which there was -no charm and no delight, cause to him only of suffering, sorrow, and -bitter tears, where he was constantly pursued by the intolerable regret -of the impossibility of awaking responsive kisses upon lips that are as -cold and dry and sterile as dead trees!</p> - -<p>He looked at her as she sat there, so charming in her feathery dress. -Were not her dresses the great enemy that he had to contend against, -more than the woman herself, jealous guardians, coquettish and costly -barriers, that kept him from his mistress?</p> - -<p>"Your toilette is charming," he said, not caring to speak of the -subject that was torturing him so cruelly.</p> - -<p>She replied with a smile: "You must see the one that I shall wear -to-night." Then she coughed several times in succession and said: "I -am really taking cold. Let me go, my friend. The sun will show himself -again shortly, and I will follow his example."</p> - -<p>He made no effort to detain her, for he was discouraged, seeing that -nothing could now avail to overcome the inertia of this sluggish -nature, that his romance was ended, ended forever, and that it was -useless to hope for ardent words from those tranquil lips, or a -kindling glance from those calm eyes. All at once he felt rising with -gathering strength within him the stern determination to end this -torturing subserviency. She had nailed him upon a cross; he was -bleeding from every limb, and she watched his agony without feeling -for his suffering, even rejoicing that she had had it in her power to -effect so much. But he would tear himself from his deathly gibbet, -leaving there bits of his body, strips of his flesh, and all his -mangled heart. He would flee like a wild animal that the hunters have -wounded almost unto death, he would go and hide himself in some lonely -place where his wounds might heal and where he might feel only those -dull pangs that remain with the mutilated until they are released by -death.</p> - -<p>"Farewell, then," he said.</p> - -<p>She was struck by the sadness of his voice and rejoined: "Until this -evening, my friend."</p> - -<p>"Until this evening," he re-echoed. "Farewell."</p> - -<p>He saw her to the garden gate, and came back and seated himself, alone, -before the fire.</p> - -<p>Alone! How cold it was; how cold, indeed! How sad he was, how lonely! -It was all ended! Ah, what a horrible thought! There was an end of -hoping and waiting for her, dreaming of her, with that fierce blazing -of the heart that at times brings out our existence upon this somber -earth with the vividness of fireworks displayed against the blackness -of the night. Farewell those nights of solitary emotion when, almost -until the dawn, he paced his chamber thinking of her; farewell those -wakings when, upon opening his eyes, he said to himself: "Soon I shall -see her at our little house."</p> - -<p>How he loved her! how he loved her! What a long, hard task it would be -to him to forget her! She had left him because it was cold! He saw her -before him as but now, looking at him and bewitching him, bewitching -him the better to break his heart. Ah, how well she had done her work! -With one single stroke, the first and last, she had cleft it asunder. -He felt the old gaping wound begin to open, the wound that she had -dressed and now had made incurable by plunging into it the knife of -death-dealing indifference. He even felt that from this broken heart -there was something distilling itself through his frame, mounting to -his throat and choking him; then, covering his eyes with his hands, as -if to conceal this weakness even from himself, he wept.</p> - -<p>She had left him because it was cold! He would have walked naked -through the driving snow to meet her, no matter where; he would have -cast himself from the house top, only to fall at her feet. An old tale -came to his mind, that has been made into a legend: that of the Côte -des Deux Amans, a spot which the traveler may behold as he journeys -toward Rouen. A maiden, obedient to her father's cruel caprice, -which prohibited her from marrying the man of her choice unless she -accomplished the task of carrying him, unassisted, to the summit of the -steep mountain, succeeded in dragging him up there on her hands and -knees, and died as she reached the top. Love, then, is but a legend, -made to be sung in verse or told in lying romances!</p> - -<p>Had not his mistress herself, in one of their earliest interviews, made -use of an expression that he had never forgotten: "Men nowadays do not -love women so as really to harm themselves by it. You may believe me, -for I know them both." She had been wrong in his case, but not in her -own, for on another occasion she had said: "In any event, I give you -fair warning that I am incapable of being really smitten with anyone, -be he who he may."</p> - -<p>Be he who he may? Was that quite a sure thing? Of him, no; of that he -was quite well assured now, but of another?</p> - -<p>Of him? She could not love him. Why not?</p> - -<p>Then the feeling that his life had been a wasted one, which had haunted -him for a long time past, fell upon him as if it would crush him. He -had done nothing, obtained nothing, conquered nothing, succeeded in -nothing. When he had felt an attraction toward the arts he had not -found in himself the courage that is required to devote one's self -exclusively to one of them, nor the persistent determination that they -demand as the price of success. There had been no triumph to cheer him; -no elevated taste for some noble career to ennoble and aggrandize his -mind. The only strenuous effort that he had ever put forth, the attempt -to conquer a woman's heart, had proved ineffectual like all the rest. -Take him all in all, he was only a miserable failure.</p> - -<p>He was weeping still beneath his hands which he held pressed to his -eyes. The tears, trickling down his cheeks, wet his mustache and -left a salty taste upon his lips, and their bitterness increased his -wretchedness and his despair.</p> - -<p>When he raised his head at last he saw that it was night. He had only -just sufficient time to go home and dress for her dinner.</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h5><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X">CHAPTER X.</a></h5> - - -<h4>FLIGHT</h4> - - -<p>André Mariolle was the first to arrive at Mme. de Burne's. He took a -seat and gazed about him upon the walls, the furniture, the hangings, -at all the small objects and trinkets that were so dear to him from -their association with her—at the familiar apartment where he had -first known her, where he had come to her so many times since then, -and where he had discovered in himself the germs of that ill-starred -passion that had kept on growing, day by day, until the hour of his -barren victory. With what eagerness had he many a time awaited her -coming in this charming spot which seemed to have been made for no one -but her, an exquisite setting for an exquisite creature! How well he -knew the pervading odor of this salon and its hangings; a subdued odor -of iris, so simple and aristocratic. He grasped the arms of the great -armchair, from which he had so often watched her smile and listened -to her talk, as if they had been the hands of some friend that he was -parting with forever. It would have pleased him if she could not -come, if no one could come, and if he could remain there alone, all -night, dreaming of his love, as people watch beside a dead man. Then at -daylight he could go away for a long time, perhaps forever.</p> - -<p>The door opened, and she appeared and came forward to him with -outstretched hand. He was master of himself, and showed nothing of his -agitation. She was not a woman, but a living bouquet—an indescribable -bouquet of flowers.</p> - -<p>A girdle of pinks enclasped her waist and fell about her in cascades, -reaching to her feet. About her bare arms and shoulders ran a garland -of mingled myosotis and lilies-of-the-valley, while three fairy-like -orchids seemed to be growing from her breast and caressing the -milk-white flesh with the rosy and red flesh of their supernal blooms. -Her blond hair was studded with violets in enamel, in which minute -diamonds glistened, and other diamonds, trembling upon golden pins, -sparkled like dewdrops among the odorous trimming of her corsage.</p> - -<p>"I shall have a headache," she said, "but I don't care; my dress is -becoming."</p> - -<p>Delicious odors emanated from her, like spring among the gardens. She -was more fresh than the garlands that she wore. André was dazzled -as he looked at her, reflecting that it would be no less brutal and -barbarous to take her in his arms at that moment than it would be to -trample upon a blossoming flower-bed. So their bodies were no longer -objects to inspire love; they were objects to be adorned, simply frames -on which to hang fine clothes. They were like birds, they were like -flowers, they were like a thousand other things as much as they were -like women. Their mothers, all women of past and gone generations, had -used coquettish arts to enhance their natural beauties, but it had -been their aim to please in the first place by their direct physical -seductiveness, by the charm of native grace, by the irresistible -attraction that the female form exercises over the heart of the males. -At the present day coquetry was everything. Artifice was now the great -means, and not only the means, but the end as well, for they employed -it even more frequently to dazzle the eyes of rivals and excite barren -jealousy than to subjugate men.</p> - -<p>What end, then, was this toilette designed to serve, the gratification -of the eyes of him, the lover, or the humiliation of the Princess de -Malten?</p> - -<p>The door opened, and the lady whose name was in his thoughts was -announced.</p> - -<p>Mme. de Burne moved quickly forward to meet her and gave her a kiss, -not unmindful of the orchids during the operation, her lips slightly -parted, with a little grimace of tenderness. It was a pretty kiss, an -extremely desirable kiss, given and returned from the heart by those -two pairs of lips.</p> - -<p>Mariolle gave a start of pain. Never once had she run to meet him with -that joyful eagerness, never had she kissed him like that, and with a -sudden change of ideas he said to himself: "Women are no longer made to -fulfill our requirements."</p> - -<p>Massival made his appearance, then M. de Pradon and the Comte de -Bernhaus, then George de Maltry, resplendent with English "chic."</p> - -<p>Lamarthe and Prédolé were now the only ones missing. The sculptor's -name was mentioned, and every voice was at once raised in praise of -him. "He had restored to life the grace of form, he had recovered the -lost traditions of the Renaissance, with something additional: the -sincerity of modern art!" M. de Maltry maintained that he was the -exquisite revealer of the suppleness of the human form. Such phrases -as these had been current in the salons for the last two months, where -they had been bandied about from mouth to mouth.</p> - -<p>At last the great man appeared. Everyone was surprised. He was a large -man of uncertain age, with the shoulders of a coal-heaver, a powerful -face with strongly-marked features, surrounded by hair and beard that -were beginning to turn white, a prominent nose, thick full lips, -wearing a timid and embarrassed air. He held his arms away from his -body in an awkward sort of way that was doubtless to be attributed to -the immense hands that protruded from his sleeves. They were broad -and thick, with hairy and muscular fingers; the hands of a Hercules -or a butcher, and they seemed to be conscious of being in the way, -embarrassed at finding themselves there and looking vainly for some -convenient place to hide themselves. Upon looking more closely at his -face, however, it was seen to be illuminated by clear, piercing, gray -eyes of extreme expressiveness, and these alone served to impart some -degree of life to the man's heavy and torpid expression. They were -constantly searching, inquiring, scrutinizing, darting their rapid, -shifting glances here, there, and everywhere, and it was plainly to be -seen that these eager, inquisitive looks were the animating principle -of a deep and comprehensive intellect.</p> - -<p>Mme. de Burne was somewhat disappointed; she politely led the artist -to a chair which he took and where he remained seated, apparently -disconcerted by this introduction to a strange house.</p> - -<p>Lamarthe, master of the situation, approached his friend with the -intention of breaking the ice and relieving him from the awkwardness of -his position. "My dear fellow," he said, "let me make for you a little -map to let you know where you are. You have seen our divine hostess; -now look at her surroundings." He showed him upon the mantelpiece a -bust, authenticated in due form, by Houdon, then upon a cabinet in -buhl a group representing two women dancing, with arms about each -other's waists, by Clodion, and finally four Tanagra statuettes upon an -<i>étagère</i>, selected for their perfection of finish and detail.</p> - -<p>Then all at once Prédolé's face brightened as if he had found his -children in the desert. He arose and went to the four little earthen -figures, and when Mme. de Burne saw him grasp two of them at once in -his great hands that seemed made to slaughter oxen, she trembled for -her treasures. When he laid hands on them, however, it appeared that -it was only for the purpose of caressing them, for he handled them -with wonderful delicacy and dexterity, turning them about in his thick -fingers which somehow seemed all at once to have become as supple as a -juggler's. It was evident by the gentle way the big man had of looking -at and handling them that he had in his soul and his very finger-ends -an ideal and delicate tenderness for such small elegancies.</p> - -<p>"Are they not pretty?" Lamarthe asked him.</p> - -<p>The sculptor went on to extol them as if they had been his own, and -he spoke of some others, the most remarkable that he had met with, -briefly and in a voice that was rather low but confident and calm, the -expression of a clearly defined thought that was not ignorant of the -value of words and their uses.</p> - -<p>Still under the guidance of the author, he next inspected the other -rare bric-à-brac that Mme. de Burne had collected, thanks to the -counsels of her friends. He looked with astonishment and delight at -the various articles, apparently agreeably disappointed to find them -there, and in every case he took them up and turned them lightly over -in his hands, as if to place himself in direct personal contact with -them. There was a statuette of bronze, heavy as a cannon-ball, hidden -away in a dark corner; he took it up with one hand, carried it to the -lamp, examined it at length, and replaced it where it belonged without -visible effort. Lamarthe exclaimed: "The great, strong fellow! he is -built expressly to wrestle with stone and marble!" while the ladies -looked at him approvingly.</p> - -<p>Dinner was now announced. The mistress of the house took the sculptor's -arm to pass to the dining-room, and when she had seated him in the -place of honor at her right hand, she asked him out of courtesy, just -as she would have questioned a scion of some great family as to the -exact origin of his name: "Your art, Monsieur, has also the additional -honor, has it not, of being the most ancient of all?"</p> - -<p>He replied in his calm deep voice: <i>"Mon Dieu</i>, Madame, the shepherds -in the Bible play upon the flute, therefore music would seem to be the -more ancient—although true music, as we understand it, does not go -very far back, while true sculpture dates from remote antiquity."</p> - -<p>"You are fond of music?"</p> - -<p>"I love all the arts," he replied with grave earnestness.</p> - -<p>"Is it known who was the inventor of your art?"</p> - -<p>He reflected a moment, then replied in tender accents, as if he had -been relating some touching tale: "According to Grecian tradition it -was Dædalus the Athenian. The most attractive legend, however, is that -which attributes the invention to a Sicyonian potter named Dibutades. -His daughter Kora having traced her betrothed's profile with the -assistance of an arrow, her father filled in the rude sketch with clay -and modeled it. It was then that my art was born."</p> - -<p>"Charming!" murmured Lamarthe. Then turning to Mme. de Burne, he said: -"You cannot imagine, Madame, how interesting this man becomes when he -talks of what he loves; what power he has to express and explain it and -make people adore it."</p> - -<p>But the sculptor did not seem disposed either to pose for the -admiration of the guests or to perorate. He had tucked a corner of his -napkin between his shirt-collar and his neck and was reverentially -eating his soup, with that appearance of respect that peasants manifest -for that portion of the meal. Then he drank a glass of wine and drew -himself up with an air of greater ease, of making himself more at -home. Now and then he made a movement as if to turn around, for he had -perceived the reflection in a mirror of a modern group that stood on -the mantelshelf behind him. He did not recognize it and was seeking -to divine the author. At last, unable longer to resist the impulse, he -asked: "It is by Falguière, is it not?"</p> - -<p>Mme. de Burne laughed. "Yes, it is by Falguière. How could you tell, in -a glass?"</p> - -<p>He smiled in turn. "Ah, Madame, I can't explain how it is done, but -I can tell at a glance the sculpture of those men who are painters -as well, and the painting of those who also practice sculpture. It -is not a bit like the work of a man who devotes himself to one art -exclusively."</p> - -<p>Lamarthe, wishing to show off his friend, called for explanations, and -Prédolé proceeded to give them. In his slow, precise manner of speech -he defined and illustrated the painting of sculptors and the sculpture -of painters in such a clear and original way that he was listened -to as much with eyes as with ears. Commencing his demonstration at -the earliest period and pursuing it through the history of art and -gathering examples from epoch to epoch, he came down to the time of the -early Italian masters who were painters and sculptors at the same time, -Nicolas and John of Pisa, Donatello, Lorenzo Ghiberti. He spoke of -Diderot's interesting remarks upon the same subject, and in conclusion -mentioned Ghiberti's bronze gates of the baptistry of Saint John at -Florence, such living and dramatically forceful bas-reliefs that they -seem more like paintings upon canvas. He waved his great hands before -him as if he were modeling, with such ease and grace of motion as to -delight every eye, calling up above the plates and glasses the pictures -that his tongue told of, and reconstructing the work that he mentioned -with such conviction that everyone followed the motions of his fingers -with breathless attention. Then some dishes that he fancied were placed -before him and he ceased talking and began eating.</p> - -<p>He scarcely spoke during the remainder of the dinner, not troubling -himself to follow the conversation, which ranged from some bit of -theatrical gossip to a political rumor; from a ball to a wedding; from -an article in the "Revue des Deux Mondes" to the horse-show that had -just opened. His appetite was good, and he drank a good deal, without -being at all affected by it, having a sound, hard head that good wine -could not easily upset.</p> - -<p>When they had returned to the drawing-room, Lamarthe, who had not drawn -the sculptor out to the extent that he wished to do, drew him over -to a glass case to show him a priceless object, a classic, historic -gem: a silver inkstand carved by Benvenuto Cellini. The men listened -with extreme interest to his long and eloquent rhapsody as they stood -grouped about him, while the two women, seated in front of the fire -and rather disgusted to see so much enthusiasm wasted upon the form of -inanimate objects, appeared to be a little bored and chatted together -in a low voice from time to time. After that conversation became -general, but not animated, for it had been somewhat damped by the ideas -that had passed into the atmosphere of this pretty room, with its -furnishing of precious objects.</p> - -<p>Prédolé left early, assigning as a reason that he had to be at work -at daybreak every morning. When he was gone Lamarthe enthusiastically -asked Mme. de Burne: "Well, how did you like him?"</p> - -<p>She replied, hesitatingly and with something of an air of ill nature: -"He is quite interesting, but prosy."</p> - -<p>The novelist smiled and said to himself: "<i>Parbleu</i>, that is because -he did not admire your toilette; and you are the only one of all your -pretty things that he hardly condescended to look at." He exchanged a -few pleasant remarks with her and went over and took a seat by Mme. de -Malten, to whom he began to be very attentive. The Comte de Bernhaus -approached the mistress of the house, and taking a small footstool, -appeared sunk in devotion at her feet. Mariolle, Massival, Maltry, -and M. de Pradon continued to talk of the sculptor, who had made a -deep impression on their minds. M. de Maltry was comparing him to -the old masters, for whom life was embellished and illuminated by an -exclusive and consuming love of the manifestations of beauty, and he -philosophized upon his theme with many very subtle and very tiresome -observations.</p> - -<p>Massival, quickly tiring of a conversation which made no reference to -his own art, crossed the room to Mme. de Malten and seated himself -beside Lamarthe, who soon yielded his place to him and went and -rejoined the men.</p> - -<p>"Shall we go?" he said to Mariolle.</p> - -<p>"Yes, by all means!"</p> - -<p>The novelist liked to walk the streets at night with some friend and -talk, when the incisive, peremptory tones of his voice seemed to lay -hold of the walls of the houses and climb up them. He had an impression -that he was very eloquent, witty, and sagacious during these nocturnal -<i>tête-à-têtes</i>, which were monologues rather than conversations so far -as his part in them was concerned. The approbation that he thus gained -for himself sufficed his needs, and the gentle fatigue of legs and -lungs assured him a good night's rest.</p> - -<p>Mariolle, for his part, had reached the limit of his endurance. The -moment that he was outside her door all his wretchedness and sorrow, -all his irremediable disappointment, boiled up and overflowed his -heart. He could stand it no longer; he would have no more of it. He -would go away and never return.</p> - -<p>The two men found themselves alone with each other in the street. The -wind had changed and the cold that had prevailed during the day had -yielded; it was warm and pleasant, as it almost always is two hours -after a snowstorm in spring. The sky was vibrating with the light -of innumerable stars, as if a breath of summer in the immensity of -space had lighted up the heavenly bodies and set them twinkling. The -sidewalks were gray and dry again, while in the roadway pools of water -reflected the light of the gas-lamps.</p> - -<p>Lamarthe said: "What a fortunate man he is, that Prédolé! He lives -only for one thing, his art; thinks but of that, loves but that; it -occupies all his being; consoles and cheers him, and affords him a -life of happiness and comfort. He is really a great artist of the old -stock. Ah! he doesn't let women trouble his head, not much, our women -of to-day with their frills and furbelows and fantastic disguises! -Did you remark how little attention he paid to our two pretty dames? -And yet they were rather seductive. But what he is looking for is -the plastic—the plastic pure and simple; he has no use for the -artificial. It is true that our divine hostess put him down in her -books as an insupportable fool. In her estimation a bust by Houdon, -Tanagra statuettes, and an inkstand by Cellini are but so many -unconsidered trifles that go to the adornment and the rich and natural -setting of a masterpiece, which is Herself; she and her dress, for -dress is part and parcel of Herself; it is the fresh accentuation that -she places on her beauty day by day. What a trivial, personal thing is -woman!"</p> - -<p>He stopped and gave the sidewalk a great thump with his cane, so that -the noise resounded through the quiet street, then he went on.</p> - -<p>"They have a very clear and exact perception of what adds to their -attractions: the toilette and the ornaments in which there is an -entire change of fashion every ten years; but they are heedless of -that attribute which involves rare and constant power of selection, -which demands from them keen and delicate artistic penetration and a -purely æsthetic exercise of their senses. Their senses, moreover, are -extremely rudimentary, incapable of high development, inaccessible to -whatever does not touch directly the feminine egotism that absorbs -everything in them. Their acuteness is the stratagem of the savage, -of the red Indian; of war and ambush. They are even almost incapable -of enjoying the material pleasures of the lower order, which require -a physical education and the intelligent exercise of an organ, such -as good living. When, as they do in exceptional cases, they come to -have some respect for decent cookery, they still remain incapable of -appreciating our great wines, which speak to masculine palates only, -for wine does speak."</p> - -<p>He again thumped the pavement with his cane, accenting his last dictum -and punctuating the sentence, and continued.</p> - -<p>"It won't do, however, to expect too much from them, but this want of -taste and appreciation that so frequently clouds their intellectual -vision when higher considerations are at stake often serves to blind -them still more when our interests are in question. A man may have -heart, feeling, intelligence, exceptional merits, and qualities of all -kinds, they will all be unavailing to secure their favor as in bygone -days when a man was valued for his worth and his courage. The women of -to-day are actresses, second-rate actresses at that, who are merely -playing for effect a part that has been handed down to them and in -which they have no belief. They have to have actors of the same stamp -to act up to them and lie through the rôle just as they do; and these -actors are the coxcombs that we see hanging around them; from the -fashionable world, or elsewhere."</p> - -<p>They walked along in silence for a few moments, side by side. Mariolle -had listened attentively to the words of his companion, repeating them -in his mind and approving of his sentiments under the influence of his -sorrow. He was aware also that a sort of Italian adventurer who was -then in Paris giving lessons in swordsmanship, Prince Epilati by name, -a gentleman of the fencing-schools, of considerable celebrity for his -elegance and graceful vigor that he was in the habit of exhibiting -in black-silk tights before the upper ten and the select few of the -demimonde, was just then in full enjoyment of the attentions and -coquetries of the pretty little Baronne de Frémines.</p> - -<p>As Lamarthe said nothing further, he remarked to him:</p> - -<p>"It is all our own fault; we make our selections badly; there are other -women besides those."</p> - -<p>The novelist replied: "The only ones now that are capable of real -attachment are the shopgirls and some sentimental little <i>bourgeoises</i>, -poor and unhappily married. I have before now carried consolation to -one of those distressed souls. They are overflowing with sentiment, -but such cheap, vulgar sentiment that to exchange ours against it is -like throwing your money to a beggar. Now I assert that in our young, -wealthy society, where the women feel no needs and no desires, where -all that they require is some mild distraction to enable them to kill -time, and where the men regulate their pleasures as scrupulously as -they regulate their daily labors, I assert that under such conditions -the old natural attraction, charming and powerful as it was, that used -to bring the sexes toward each other, has disappeared."</p> - -<p>"You are right," Mariolle murmured.</p> - -<p>He felt an increasing desire to fly, to put a great distance between -himself and these people, these puppets who in their empty idleness -mimicked the beautiful, impassioned, and tender life of other days and -were incapable of savoring its lost delights.</p> - -<p>"Good night," he said; "I am going to bed." He went home and seated -himself at his table and wrote:</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>"Farewell, Madame. Do you remember my first letter? In it -too I said farewell, but I did not go. What a mistake that -was! When you receive this I shall have left Paris; need -I tell you why? Men like me ought never to meet with women -like you. Were I an artist and were my emotions capable of -expression in such manner as to afford me consolation, you -would have perhaps inspired me with talent, but I am only a -poor fellow who was so unfortunate as to be seized with love -for you, and with it its accompanying bitter, unendurable -sorrow.</p> - -<p>"When I met you for the first time I could not have deemed -myself capable of feeling and suffering as I have done. -Another in your place would have filled my heart with divine -joy in bidding it wake and live, but you could do nothing -but torture it. It was not your fault, I know; I reproach -you with nothing and I bear you no hard feeling; I have not -even the right to send you these lines. Pardon me. You are -so constituted that you cannot feel as I feel; you cannot -even divine what passes in my breast when I am with you, -when you speak to me and I look on you.</p> - -<p>"Yes, I know; you have accepted me and offered me a rational -and tranquil happiness, for which I ought to thank you on my -knees all my life long, but I will not have it. Ah, what a -horrible, agonizing love is that which is constantly craving -a tender word, a warm caress, without ever receiving them! -My heart is empty, empty as the stomach of a beggar who has -long followed your carriage with outstretched hand and to -whom you have thrown out pretty toys, but no bread. It was -bread, it was love, that I hungered for. I am about to go -away wretched and in need, in sore need of your love, a few -crumbs of which would have saved me. I have nothing left in -the world but a cruel memory that clings and will not leave -me, and that I must try to kill.</p> - -<p>"Adieu, Madame. Thanks, and pardon me. I love you still, -this evening, with all the strength of my soul. Adieu.</p> - -<p style="font-size: 0.8em; margin-left: 65%;">"ANDRÉ MARIOLLE."</p></blockquote> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h5><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI">CHAPTER XI.</a></h5> - - -<h4>LONELINESS</h4> - - -<p>The city lay basking in the brightness of a sunny morning. Mariolle -climbed into the carriage that stood waiting at his door with a -traveling bag and two trunks on top. He had made his valet the night -before pack the linen and other necessaries for a long absence, and -now he was going away, leaving as his temporary address Fontainebleau -post-office. He was taking no one with him, it being his wish to see no -face that might remind him of Paris and to hear no voice that he had -heard while brooding over certain matters.</p> - -<p>He told the driver to go to the Lyons station and the cab started. -Then he thought of that other trip of his, last spring, to Mont -Saint-Michel; it was a year ago now lacking three months. He looked out -into the street to drive the recollection from his mind.</p> - -<p>The vehicle turned into the Avenue des Champs-Élysées, which was -flooded with the light of the sun of early spring. The green leaves, -summoned forth by the grateful warmth that had prevailed for a couple -of weeks and not materially retarded by the cold storm of the last -two days, were opening so rapidly on this bright morning that they -seemed to impregnate the air with an odor of fresh verdure and of sap -evaporating on the way to its work of building up new growths. It was -one of those growing mornings when one feels that the dome-topped -chestnut-trees in the public gardens and all along the avenues will -burst into bloom in a single day through the length and breadth of -Paris, like chandeliers that are lighted simultaneously. The earth was -thrilling with the movement preparatory to the full life of summer, -and the very street was silently stirred beneath its paving of bitumen -as the roots ate their way through the soil. He said to himself as he -jolted along in his cab: "At last I shall be able to enjoy a little -peace of mind. I will witness the birth of spring in solitude deep in -the forest."</p> - -<p>The journey seemed long to him. The few hours of sleeplessness that he -had spent in bemoaning his fate had broken him down as if he had passed -ten nights at the bedside of a dying man. When he reached the village -of Fontainebleau he went to a notary to see if there was a small house -to be had furnished in the neighborhood of the forest. He was told of -several. In looking over the photographs the one that pleased him most -was a cottage that had just been given up by a young couple, man and -wife, who had resided for almost the entire winter in the village of -Montigny-sur-Loing. The notary smiled, notwithstanding that he was a -man of serious aspect; he probably scented a love story.</p> - -<p>"You are alone, Monsieur!" he inquired.</p> - -<p>"I am alone."</p> - -<p>"No servants, even?"</p> - -<p>"No servants, even; I left them at Paris. I wish to engage some of the -residents here. I am coming here to work in complete seclusion."</p> - -<p>"You will have no difficulty in finding that, at this season of the -year."</p> - -<p>A few minutes afterward an open landau was whirling Mariolle and his -trunks away to Montigny.</p> - -<p>The forest was beginning to awake. The copses at the foot of the great -trees, whose heads were covered with a light veil of foliage, were -beginning to assume a denser aspect. The early birches, with their -silvery trunks, were the only trees that seemed completely attired -for the summer, while the great oaks only displayed small tremulous -splashes of green at the ends of their branches and the beeches, more -quick to open their pointed buds, were just shedding the dead leaves of -the past year.</p> - -<p>The grass by the roadside, unobscured as yet by the thick shade of the -tree-tops, was growing lush and bright with the influx of new sap, and -the odor of new growth that Mariolle had already remarked in the Avenue -des Champs-Élysées, now wrapped him about and immersed him in a great -bath of green life budding in the sunshine of the early season. He -inhaled it greedily, like one just liberated from prison, and with the -sensation of a man whose fetters have just been broken he luxuriously -extended his arms along the two sides of the landau and let his hands -hang down over the two wheels.</p> - -<p>He passed through Marlotte, where the driver called his attention to -the Hotel Corot, then just opened, of the original design of which -there was much talk. Then the road continued, with the forest on the -left hand and on the right a wide plain with trees here and there and -hills bounding the horizon. To this succeeded a long village street, -a blinding white street lying between two endless rows of little -tile-roofed houses. Here and there an enormous lilac bush displayed its -flowers over the top of a wall.</p> - -<p>This street followed the course of a narrow valley along which ran a -little stream. It was a narrow, rapid, twisting, nimble little stream, -on one of its banks laving the foundations of the houses and the -garden-walls and on the other bathing the meadows where the small trees -were just beginning to put forth their scanty foliage. The sight of it -inspired Mariolle with a sensation of delight.</p> - -<p>He had no difficulty in finding his house and was greatly pleased with -it. It was an old house that had been restored by a painter, who had -tired of it after living there five years and offered it for rent. It -was directly on the water, separated from the stream only by a pretty -garden that ended in a terrace of lindens. The Loing, which just above -this point had a picturesque fall of a foot or two over a dam erected -there, ran rapidly by this terrace, whirling in great eddies. From the -front windows of the house the meadows on the other bank were visible.</p> - -<p>"I shall get well here," Mariolle thought.</p> - -<p>Everything had been arranged with the notary in case the house should -prove suitable. The driver carried back his acceptance of it. Then -the housekeeping details had to be attended to, which did not take -much time, the mayor's clerk having provided two women, one to do the -cooking, the other to wash and attend to the chamber-work.</p> - -<p>Downstairs there were a parlor, dining-room, kitchen, and two small -rooms; on the floor above a handsome bedroom and a large apartment -that the artist owner had fitted up as a studio. The furniture had all -been selected with loving care, as people always furnish when they are -enamored of a place, but now it had lost a little of its freshness and -was in some disorder, with the air of desolation that is noticeable in -dwellings that have been abandoned by their master. A pleasant odor of -verbena, however, still lingered in the air, showing that the little -house had not been long uninhabited. "Ah!" thought Mariolle, "verbena, -that indicates simplicity of taste. The woman that preceded me could -not have been one of those complex, mystifying natures. Happy man!"</p> - -<p>It was getting toward evening, all these occupations having made the -day pass rapidly. He took a seat by an open window, drinking in the -agreeable coolness that exhaled from the surrounding vegetation and -watching the setting sun as it cast long shadows across the meadows.</p> - -<p>The two servants were talking while getting the dinner ready and the -sound of their voices ascended to him faintly by the stairway, while -through the window came the mingled sounds of the lowing of cows, -the barking of dogs, and the cries of men bringing home the cattle -or conversing with their companions on the other bank of the stream. -Everything was peaceful and restful.</p> - -<p>For the thousandth time since the morning Mariolle asked himself: -"What did she think when she received my letter? What will she do?" -Then he said to himself: "I wonder what she is doing now?" He looked at -his watch; it was half past six. "She has come in from the street. She -is receiving."</p> - -<p>There rose before his mental vision a picture of the drawing-room, and -the young woman chatting with the Princess de Malten, Mme. de Frémines, -Massival, and the Comte de Bernhaus.</p> - -<p>His soul was suddenly moved with an impulse that was something like -anger. He wished that he was there. It was the hour of his accustomed -visit to her, almost every day, and he felt within him a feeling of -discomfort, not of regret. His will was firm, but a sort of physical -suffering afflicted him akin to that of one who is denied his morphine -at the accustomed time. He no longer beheld the meadows, nor the sun -sinking behind the hills of the horizon; all that he could see was her, -among her friends, given over to those cares of the world that had -robbed him of her. "I will think of her no more," he said to himself.</p> - -<p>He arose, went down to the garden and passed on to the terrace. There -was a cool mist there rising from the water that had been agitated -in its fall over the dam, and this sensation of chilliness, striking -to a heart already sad, caused him to retrace his steps. His dinner -was awaiting him in the dining-room. He ate it quickly; then, having -nothing to occupy him, and feeling that distress of mind and body, of -which he had had the presage, now increasing on him, he went to bed and -closed his eyes in an attempt to slumber, but it was to no purpose. -His thoughts refused to leave that woman; he beheld her in his thought -and he suffered.</p> - -<p>On whom would she bestow her favor now? On the Comte de Bernhaus, -doubtless! He was just the man, elegant, conspicuous, sought after, to -suit that creature of display. He had found favor with her, for had she -not employed all her arts to conquer him even at a time when she was -mistress to another man?</p> - -<p>Notwithstanding that his mind was beset by these haunting thoughts, -it would still keep wandering off into that misty condition of -semi-somnolence in which the man and woman were constantly reappearing -to his eyes. Of true sleep he got none, and all night long he saw them -at his bedside, braving and mocking him, now retiring as if they would -at last permit him to snatch a little sleep, then returning as soon -as oblivion had begun to creep over him and awaking him with a spasm -of jealous agony in his heart. He left his bed at earliest break of -day and went away into the forest with a cane in his hand, a stout -serviceable stick that the last occupant of the house had left behind -him.</p> - -<p>The rays of the newly risen sun were falling through the tops of the -oaks, almost leafless as yet, upon the ground, which was carpeted in -spots by patches of verdant grass, here by a carpet of dead leaves and -there by heather reddened by the frosts of winter. Yellow butterflies -were fluttering along the road like little dancing flames. To the right -of the road was a hill, almost large enough to be called a mountain. -Mariolle ascended it leisurely, and when he reached the top seated -himself on a great stone, for he was quite out of breath. His legs -were overcome with weakness and refused to support him; all his system -seemed to be yielding to a sudden breaking down. He was well aware that -this languor did not proceed from fatigue; it came from her, from the -love that weighed him down like an intolerable burden, and he murmured: -"What wretchedness! why does it possess me thus, me, a man who has -always taken from existence only that which would enable him to enjoy -it without suffering afterward?"</p> - -<p>His attention was awakened by the fear of this malady that might prove -so hard to cure, and he probed his feelings, went down to the very -depths of his nature, endeavoring to know and understand it better, -and make clear to his own eyes the reason of this inexplicable crisis. -He said to himself: "I have never yielded to any undue attraction. -I am not enthusiastic or passionate by nature; my judgment is more -powerful than my instinct, my curiosity than my appetite, my fancy -than my perseverance. I am essentially nothing more than a man that is -delicate, intelligent, and hard to please in his enjoyments. I have -loved the things of this life without ever allowing myself to become -greatly attached to them, with the perceptions of an expert who sips -and does not suffer himself to become surfeited, who knows better -than to lose his head. I submit everything to the test of reason, and -generally I analyze my likings too severely to submit to them blindly. -That is even my great defect, the only cause of my weakness.</p> - -<p>"And now that woman has taken possession of me, in spite of myself, in -spite of my fears and of my knowledge of her, and she retains her hold -as if she had plucked away one by one all the different aspirations -that existed in me. That may be the case. Those aspirations of mine -went out toward inanimate objects, toward nature, that entices and -softens me, toward music, which is a sort of ideal caress, toward -reflection, which is the delicate feasting of the mind, toward -everything on earth that is beautiful and agreeable.</p> - -<p>"Then I met a creature who collected and concentrated all my somewhat -fickle and fluctuating likings, and directing them toward herself, -converted them into love. Charming and beautiful, she pleased my eyes; -bright, intelligent, and witty, she pleased my mind, and she pleased my -heart by the mysterious charm of her contact and her presence and by -the secret and irresistible emanation from her personality, until all -these things enslaved me as the perfume of certain flowers intoxicates. -She has taken the place of everything for me, for I no longer have any -aspirations, I no longer wish or care for anything."</p> - -<p>"In other days how my feelings would have thrilled and started in this -forest that is putting forth its new life! To-day I see nothing of it, -I am regardless of it; I am still at that woman's side, whom I desire -to love no more.</p> - -<p>"Come! I must kill these ideas by physical fatigue; unless I do I shall -never get well."</p> - -<p>He arose, descended the rocky hillside and resumed his walk with long -strides, but still the haunting presence crushed him as if it had -been a burden that he was bearing on his back. He went on, constantly -increasing his speed, now and then encountering a brief sensation of -comfort at the sight of the sunlight piercing through the foliage or at -a breath of perfumed air from some grove of resinous pine-trees, which -inspired in him a presentiment of distant consolation.</p> - -<p>Suddenly he came to a halt. "I am not walking any longer," he said, "I -am flying from something!" Indeed, he was flying, straight ahead, he -cared not where, pursued by the agony of his love.</p> - -<p>Then he started on again at a more reasonable speed. The appearance -of the forest was undergoing a change. The growth was denser and the -shadows deeper, for he was coming to the warmer portions of it, to the -beautiful region of the beeches. No sensation of winter lingered there. -It was wondrous spring, that seemed to have been the birth of a night, -so young and fresh was everything.</p> - -<p>Mariolle made his way among the thickets, beneath the gigantic trees -that towered above him higher and higher still, and in this way he went -on for a long time, an hour, two hours, pushing his way through the -branches, through the countless multitudes of little shining leaves, -bright with their varnish of new sap. The heavens were quite concealed -by the immense dome of verdure, supported on its lofty columns, now -perpendicular, now leaning, now of a whitish hue, now dark beneath the -black moss that drew its nourishment from the bark.</p> - -<p>Thus they towered, stretching away indefinitely in the distance, one -behind the other, lording it over the bushy young copses that grew -in confused tangles at their feet and wrapping them in dense shadow -through which in places poured floods of vivid sunlight. The golden -rain streamed down through all this luxuriant growth until the wood no -longer remained a wood, but became a brilliant sea of verdure illumined -by yellow rays. Mariolle stopped, seized with an ineffable surprise. -Where was he? Was he in a forest, or had he descended to the bottom of -a sea, a sea of leaves and light, an ocean of green resplendency?</p> - -<p>He felt better—more tranquil; more remote, more hidden from his -misery, and he threw himself down upon the red carpet of dead leaves -that these trees do not cast until they are ready to put on their new -garments. Rejoicing in the cool contact of the earth and the pure -sweetness of the air, he was soon conscious of a wish, vague at first -but soon becoming more defined, not to be alone in this charming spot, -and he said to himself: "Ah! if she were only here, at my side!"</p> - -<p>He suddenly remembered Mont Saint-Michel, and recollecting how -different she had been down there to what she was in Paris, how her -affection had blossomed out in the open air before the yellow sands, he -thought that on that day she had surely loved him a little for a few -hours. Yes, surely, on the road where they had watched the receding -tide, in the cloisters where, murmuring his name: "André," she had -seemed to say, "I am yours," and on the "Madman's Path," where he -had almost borne her through space, she had felt an impulsion toward -him that had never returned since she placed her foot, the foot of a -coquette, on the pavement of Paris.</p> - -<p>He continued to yield himself to his mournful reveries, still stretched -at length upon his back, his look lost among the gold and green of -the tree-tops, and little by little his eyes closed, weighed down with -sleep and the tranquillity that reigned among the trees. When he awoke -he saw that it was past two o'clock of the afternoon.</p> - -<p>When he arose and proceeded on his way he felt less sad, less ailing. -At length he emerged from the thickness of the wood and came to a great -open space where six broad avenues converged and then stretched away -and lost themselves in the leafy, transparent distance. A signboard -told him that the name of the locality was "Le Bouquet-du-Roi." It was -indeed the capital of this royal country of the beeches.</p> - -<p>A carriage passed, and as it was empty and disengaged Mariolle took it -and ordered the driver to take him to Marlotte, whence he could make -his way to Montigny after getting something to eat at the inn, for he -was beginning to be hungry.</p> - -<p>He remembered that he had seen this establishment, which was only -recently opened, the day before: the Hotel Corot, it was called, an -artistic public-house in middle-age style of decoration, modeled on -the Chat Noir in Paris. His driver set him down there and he passed -through an open door into a vast room where old-fashioned tables and -uncomfortable benches seemed to be awaiting drinkers of a past century. -At the far end a woman, a young waitress, no doubt, was standing on top -of a little folding ladder, fastening some old plates to nails that -were driven in the wall and seemed nearly beyond her reach. Now raising -herself on tiptoe on both feet, now on one, supporting herself with one -hand against the wall while the other held the plate, she reached up -with pretty and adroit movements; for her figure was pleasing and the -undulating lines from wrist to ankle assumed changing forms of grace at -every fresh posture. As her back was toward him she had been unaware of -Mariolle's entrance, who stopped to watch her. He thought of Prédolé -and his <i>figurines;</i> "It is a pretty picture, though!" he said to -himself. "She is very graceful, that little girl."</p> - -<p>He gave a little cough. She was so startled that she came near falling, -but as soon as she had recovered her self-possession, she jumped down -from her ladder as lightly as a rope dancer, and came to him with a -pleasant smile on her face. "What will Monsieur have?" she inquired.</p> - -<p>"Breakfast, Mademoiselle."</p> - -<p>She ventured to say: "It should be dinner, rather, for it is half past -three o'clock."</p> - -<p>"We will call it dinner if you like. I lost myself in the forest."</p> - -<p>Then she told him what dishes there were ready; he made his selection -and took a seat. She went away to give the order, returning shortly to -set the table for him. He watched her closely as she bustled around -the table; she was pretty and very neat in her attire. She had a spry -little air that was very pleasant to behold, in her working dress with -skirt pinned up, sleeves rolled back, and neck exposed; and her corset -fitted closely to her pretty form, of which she had no reason to be -ashamed.</p> - -<p>Her face was rather red, painted by exposure to the open air, and it -seemed somewhat too fat and puffy, but it was as fresh as a new-blown -rose, with fine, bright, brown eyes, a large mouth with its complement -of handsome teeth, and chestnut hair that revealed by its abundance the -healthy vigor of this strong young frame.</p> - -<p>She brought radishes and bread and butter and he began to eat, ceasing -to pay attention to the attendant. He called for a bottle of champagne -and drank the whole of it, as he did two glasses of kummel after his -coffee, and as his stomach was empty—he had taken nothing before -he left his house but a little bread and cold meat—he soon felt a -comforting feeling of tipsiness stealing over him that he mistook for -oblivion. His griefs and sorrows were diluted and tempered by the -sparkling wine which, in so short a time, had transformed the torments -of his heart into insensibility. He walked slowly back to Montigny, and -being very tired and sleepy went to bed as soon as it was dark, falling -asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow.</p> - -<p>He awoke after a while, however, in the dense darkness, ill at ease and -disquieted as if a nightmare that had left him for an hour or two had -furtively reappeared at his bedside to murder sleep. She was there, -she, Mme. de Burne, back again, roaming about his bed, and accompanied -still by M. de Bernhaus. "Come!" he said, "it must be that I am -jealous. What is the reason of it?"</p> - -<p>Why was he jealous? He quickly told himself why. Notwithstanding all -his doubts and fears he knew that as long as he had been her lover -she had been faithful to him—faithful, indeed, without tenderness -and without transports, but with a loyal strength of resolution. -Now, however, he had broken it all off, and it was ended; he had -restored her freedom to her. Would she remain without a <i>liaison</i>? -Yes, doubtless, for a while. And then? This very fidelity that she had -observed toward him up to the present moment, a fidelity beyond the -reach of suspicion, was it not due to the feeling that if she left him, -Mariolle, because she was tired of him, she would some day, sooner or -later, have to take some one to fill his place, not from passion, but -from weariness of being alone?</p> - -<p>Is it not true that lovers often owe their long lease of favor simply -to the dread of an unknown successor? And then to dismiss one lover and -take up with another would not have seemed the right thing to such a -woman—she was too intelligent, indeed, to bow to social prejudices, -but was gifted with a delicate sense of moral purity that kept her from -real indelicacies. She was a worldly philosopher and not a prudish -<i>bourgeoise</i>, and while she would not have quailed at the idea of a -secret attachment, her nature would have revolted at the thought of a -succession of lovers.</p> - -<p>He had given her her freedom—and now? Now most certainly she would -take up with some one else, and that some one would be the Comte de -Bernhaus. He was sure of it, and the thought was now affording him -inexpressible suffering. Why had he left her? She had been faithful, -a good friend to him, charming in every way. Why? Was it because he -was a brutal sensualist who could not separate true love from its -physical transports? Was that it? Yes—but there was something besides. -He had fled from the pain of not being loved as he loved, from the -cruel feeling that he did not receive an equivalent return for the -warmth of his kisses, an incurable affliction from which his heart, -grievously smitten, would perhaps never recover. He looked forward with -dread to the prospect of enduring for years the torments that he had -been anticipating for a few months and suffering for a few weeks. In -accordance with his nature he had weakly recoiled before this prospect, -just as he had recoiled all his life long before any effort that called -for resolution. It followed that he was incapable of carrying anything -to its conclusion, of throwing himself heart and soul into such a -passion as one develops for a science or an art, for it is impossible, -perhaps, to have loved greatly without having suffered greatly.</p> - -<p>Until daylight he pursued this train of thought, which tore him like -wild horses; then he got up and went down to the bank of the little -stream. A fisherman was casting his net near the little dam, and when -he withdrew it from the water that flashed and eddied in the sunlight -and spread it on the deck of his small boat, the little fishes danced -among the meshes like animated silver.</p> - -<p>Mariolle's agitation subsided little by little in the balmy freshness -of the early morning air. The cool mist that rose from the miniature -waterfall, about which faint rainbows fluttered, and the stream that -ran at his feet in rapid and ceaseless current, carried off with them -a portion of his sorrow. He said to himself: "Truly, I have done -the right thing; I should have been too unhappy otherwise!" Then he -returned to the house, and taking possession of a hammock that he had -noticed in the vestibule, he made it fast between two of the lindens -and throwing himself into it, endeavored to drive away reflection by -fixing his eyes and thoughts upon the flowing stream.</p> - -<p>Thus he idled away the time until the hour of breakfast, in an -agreeable torpor, a physical sensation of well-being that communicated -itself to the mind, and he protracted the meal as much as possible -that he might have some occupation for the dragging minutes. There was -one thing, however, that he looked forward to with eager expectation, -and that was his mail. He had telegraphed to Paris and written to -Fontainebleau to have his letters forwarded, but had received nothing, -and the sensation of being entirely abandoned was beginning to be -oppressive. Why? He had no reason to expect that there would be -anything particularly pleasing or comforting for him in the little -black box that the carrier bore slung at his side, nothing beyond -useless invitations and unmeaning communications. Why, then, should he -long for letters of whose contents he knew nothing as if the salvation -of his soul depended on them? Was it not that there lay concealed in -his heart the vainglorious expectation that she would write to him?</p> - -<p>He asked one of his old women: "At what time does the mail arrive?"</p> - -<p>"At noon, Monsieur."</p> - -<p>It was just midday, and he listened with increased attention to the -noises that reached him from outdoors. A knock at the outer door -brought him to his feet; the messenger brought him only the newspapers -and three unimportant letters. Mariolle glanced over the journals until -he was tired, and went out.</p> - -<p>What should he do? He went to the hammock and lay down in it, but -after half an hour of that he experienced an uncontrollable desire to -go somewhere else. The forest? Yes, the forest was very pleasant, but -then the solitude there was even deeper than it was in his house, much -deeper than it was in the village, where there were at least some signs -of life now and then. And the silence and loneliness of all those trees -and leaves filled his mind with sadness and regrets, steeping him more -deeply still in wretchedness. He mentally reviewed his long walk of -the day before, and when he came to the wide-awake little waitress of -the Hotel Corot, he said to himself: "I have it! I will go and dine -there." The idea did him good; it was something to occupy him, a means -of killing two or three hours, and he set out forthwith.</p> - -<p>The long village street stretched straight away in the middle of the -valley between two rows of low, white, tile-roofed houses, some of them -standing boldly up with their fronts close to the road, others, more -retiring, situated in a garden where there was a lilac-bush in bloom -and chickens scratching over manure-heaps, where wooden stairways in -the open air climbed to doors cut in the wall. Peasants were at work -before their dwellings, lazily fulfilling their domestic duties. An -old woman, bent with age and with threads of gray in her yellow hair, -for country folk rarely have white hair, passed close to him, a ragged -jacket upon her shoulders and her lean and sinewy legs covered by a -woolen petticoat that failed to conceal the angles and protuberances -of her frame. She was looking aimlessly before her with expressionless -eyes, eyes that had never looked on other objects than those that might -be of use to her in her poor existence.</p> - -<p>Another woman, younger than this one, was hanging out the family wash -before her door. The lifting of her skirt as she raised her arms -aloft disclosed to view thick, coarse ankles incased in blue knitted -stockings, with great, projecting, fleshless bones, while the breast -and shoulders, flat and broad as those of a man, told of a body whose -form must have been horrible to behold.</p> - -<p>Mariolle thought: "They are women! Those scarecrows are women!" The -vision of Mme. de Burne arose before his eyes. He beheld her in all -her elegance and beauty, the perfection of the human female form, -coquettish and adorned to meet the looks of man, and again he smarted -with the sorrow of an irreparable loss; then he walked on more quickly -to shake himself free of this impression.</p> - -<p>When he reached the inn at Marlotte the little waitress recognized him -immediately, and accosted him almost familiarly: "Good day, Monsieur."</p> - -<p>"Good day, Mademoiselle."</p> - -<p>"Do you wish something to drink?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, to begin with; then I will have dinner."</p> - -<p>They discussed the question of what he should drink in the first place -and what he should eat subsequently. He asked her advice for the -pleasure of hearing her talk, for she had a nice way of expressing -herself. She had a short little Parisian accent, and her speech was as -unconstrained as was her movements. He thought as he listened: "The -little girl is quite agreeable; she seems to me to have a bit of the -<i>cocotte</i> about her."</p> - -<p>"Are you a Parisian?" he inquired.</p> - -<p>"Yes, sir."</p> - -<p>"Have you been here long?"</p> - -<p>"Two weeks, sir."</p> - -<p>"And do you like it?"</p> - -<p>"Not very well so far, but it is too soon to tell, and then I was -tired of the air of Paris, and the country has done me good; that is -why I made up my mind to come here. Then I shall bring you a vermouth, -Monsieur?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, Mademoiselle, and tell the cook to be careful and pay attention -to my dinner."</p> - -<p>"Never fear, Monsieur."</p> - -<p>After she had gone away he went into the garden of the hotel, and took -a seat in an arbor, where his vermouth was served. He remained there -all the rest of the day, listening to a blackbird whistling in its -cage, and watching the little waitress in her goings and comings. She -played the coquette, and put on her sweetest looks for the gentleman, -for she had not failed to observe that he found her to his liking.</p> - -<p>He went away as he had done the day before after drinking a bottle of -champagne to dispel gloom, but the darkness of the way and the coolness -of the night air quickly dissipated his incipient tipsiness, and sorrow -again took possession of his devoted soul. He thought: "What am I to -do? Shall I remain here? Shall I be condemned for long to drag out this -desolate way of living?" It was very late when he got to sleep.</p> - -<p>The next morning he again installed himself in the hammock, and all at -once the sight of a man casting his net inspired him with the idea of -going fishing. The grocer from whom he bought his lines gave him some -instructions upon the soothing sport, and even offered to go with him -and act as his guide upon his first attempt. The offer was accepted, -and between nine o'clock and noon Mariolle succeeded, by dint of -vigorous exertion and unintermitting patience, in capturing three small -fish.</p> - -<p>When he had dispatched his breakfast he took up his march again for -Marlotte. Why? To kill time, of course.</p> - -<p>The little waitress began to laugh when she saw him coming. Amused by -her recognition of him, he smiled back at her, and tried to engage her -in conversation. She was more familiar than she had been the preceding -day, and met him halfway.</p> - -<p>Her name was Elisabeth Ledru. Her mother, who took in dressmaking, had -died the year before; then the husband, an accountant by profession, -always drunk and out of work, who had lived on the little earnings of -his wife and daughter, disappeared, for the girl could not support -two persons, though she shut herself up in her garret room and sewed -all day long. Tiring of her lonely occupation after a while, she got -a position as waitress in a cook-shop, remained there a year, and as -the hard work had worn her down, the proprietor of the Hotel Corot at -Marlotte, upon whom she had waited at times, engaged her for the summer -with two other girls who were to come down a little later on. It was -evident that the proprietor knew how to attract customers.</p> - -<p>Her little story pleased Mariolle, and by treating her with respect and -asking her a few discriminating questions, he succeeded in eliciting -from her many interesting details of this poor dismal home that had -been laid in ruins by a drunken father. She, poor, homeless, wandering -creature that she was, gay and cheerful because she could not help -it, being young, and feeling that the interest that this stranger -took in her was unfeigned, talked to him with confidence, with that -expansiveness of soul that she could no more restrain than she could -restrain the agile movements of her limbs.</p> - -<p>When she had finished he asked her: "And—do you expect to be a -waitress all your life?"</p> - -<p>"I could not answer that question, Monsieur. How can I tell what may -happen to me to-morrow?"</p> - -<p>"And yet it is necessary to think of the future."</p> - -<p>She had assumed a thoughtful air that did not linger long upon her -features, then she replied: "I suppose that I shall have to take -whatever comes to me. So much the worse!"</p> - -<p>They parted very good friends. After a few days he returned, then -again, and soon he began to go there frequently, finding a vague -distraction in the girl's conversation, and that her artless prattle -helped him somewhat to forget his grief.</p> - -<p>When he returned on foot to Montigny in the evening, however, he had -terrible fits of despair as he thought of Mme. de Burne. His heart -became a little lighter with the morning sun, but with the night his -bitter regrets and fierce jealousy closed in on him again. He had no -intelligence; he had written to no one and had received letters from no -one. Then, alone with his thoughts upon the dark road, his imagination -would picture the progress of the approaching <i>liaison</i> that he had -foreseen between his quondam mistress and the Comte de Bernhaus. This -had now become a settled idea with him and fixed itself more firmly in -his mind every day. That man, he thought, will be to her just what she -requires; a distinguished, assiduous, unexacting lover, contented and -happy to be the chosen one of this superlatively delicious coquette. He -compared him with himself. The other most certainly would not behave -as he had, would not be guilty of that tiresome impatience and of that -insatiable thirst for a return of his affection that had been the -destruction of their amorous understanding. He was a very discreet, -pliant, and well-posted man of the world, and would manage to get along -and content himself with but little, for he did not seem to belong to -the class of impassioned mortals.</p> - -<p>On one of André Mariolle's visits to Marlotte one day, he beheld two -bearded young fellows in the other arbor of the Hotel Corot, smoking -pipes and wearing Scotch caps on their heads. The proprietor, a big, -broad-faced man, came forward to pay his respects as soon as he saw -him, for he had an interested liking for this faithful patron of -his dinner-table, and said to him: "I have two new customers since -yesterday, two painters."</p> - -<p>"Those gentlemen sitting there?"</p> - -<p>"Yes. They are beginning to be heard of. One of them got a second-class -medal last year." And having told all that he knew about the embryo -artists, he asked: "What will you take to-day, Monsieur Mariolle?"</p> - -<p>"You may send me out a vermouth, as usual."</p> - -<p>The proprietor went away, and soon Elisabeth appeared, bringing the -salver, the glass, the <i>carafe</i>, and the bottle. Whereupon one of the -painters called to her: "Well! little one, are we angry still?"</p> - -<p>She did not answer and when she approached Mariolle he saw that her -eyes were red.</p> - -<p>"You have been crying," he said.</p> - -<p>"Yes, a little," she simply replied.</p> - -<p>"What was the matter?"</p> - -<p>"Those two gentlemen there behaved rudely to me."</p> - -<p>"What did they do to you?"</p> - -<p>"They took me for a bad character."</p> - -<p>"Did you complain to the proprietor?"</p> - -<p>She gave a sorrowful shrug of the shoulders, "Oh! Monsieur—the -proprietor. I know what he is now—the proprietor!"</p> - -<p>Mariolle was touched, and a little angry; he said to her: "Tell me what -it was all about."</p> - -<p>She told him of the brutal conduct of the two painters immediately -upon their arrival the night before, and then began to cry again, -asking what she was to do, alone in the country and without friends or -relatives, money or protection.</p> - -<p>Mariolle suddenly said to her: "Will you enter my service? You shall be -well treated in my house, and when I return to Paris you will be free -to do what you please."</p> - -<p>She looked him in the face with questioning eyes, and then quickly -replied: "I will, Monsieur.</p> - -<p>"How much are you earning here?"</p> - -<p>"Sixty francs a month," she added, rather uneasily, "and I have my -share of the <i>pourboires</i> besides; that makes it about seventy."</p> - -<p>"I will pay you a hundred."</p> - -<p>She repeated in astonishment: "A hundred francs a month?"</p> - -<p>"Yes. Is that enough?"</p> - -<p>"I should think that it was enough!"</p> - -<p>"All that you will have to do will be to wait on me, take care of my -clothes and linen, and attend to my room."</p> - -<p>"It is a bargain, Monsieur."</p> - -<p>"When will you come?"</p> - -<p>"To-morrow, if you wish. After what has happened here I will go to the -mayor and will leave whether they are willing or not."</p> - -<p>Mariolle took two louis from his pocket and handed them to her. -"There's the money to bind our bargain."</p> - -<p>A look of joy flashed across her face and she said in a tone of -decision: "I will be at your house before midday to-morrow, Monsieur."</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h5><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII">CHAPTER XII.</a></h5> - - -<h4>CONSOLATION</h4> - - -<p>Elisabeth came to Montigny next day, attended by a countryman with -her trunk on a wheelbarrow. Mariolle had made a generous settlement -with one of his old women and got rid of her, and the newcomer took -possession of a small room on the top floor adjoining that of the -cook. She was quite different from what she had been at Marlotte, -when she presented herself before her new master, less effusive, -more respectful, more self-contained; she was now the servant of the -gentleman to whom she had been almost an humble friend beneath the -arbor of the inn. He told her in a few words what she would have to do. -She listened attentively, went and took possession of her room, and -then entered upon her new service.</p> - -<p>A week passed and brought no noticeable change in the state of -Mariolle's feelings. The only difference was that he remained at home -more than he had been accustomed to do, for he had nothing to attract -him to Marlotte, and his house seemed less dismal to him than at first. -The bitterness of his grief was subsiding a little, as all storms -subside after a while; but in place of this aching wound there was -arising in him a settled melancholy, one of those deep-seated sorrows -that are like chronic and lingering maladies, and sometimes end in -death. His former liveliness of mind and body, his mental activity, -his interests in the pursuits that had served to occupy and amuse him -hitherto were all dead, and their place had been taken by a universal -disgust and an invincible torpor, that left him without even strength -of will to get up and go out of doors. He no longer left his house, -passing from the salon to the hammock and from the hammock to the -salon, and his chief distraction consisted in watching the current of -the Loing as it flowed by the terrace and the fisherman casting his net.</p> - -<p>When the reserve of the first few days had begun to wear off, Elisabeth -gradually grew a little bolder, and remarking with her keen feminine -instinct the constant dejection of her employer, she would say to him -when the other servant was not by: "Monsieur finds his time hang heavy -on his hands?"</p> - -<p>He would answer resignedly: "Yes, pretty heavy."</p> - -<p>"Monsieur should go for a walk."</p> - -<p>"That would not do me any good."</p> - -<p>She quietly did many little unassuming things for his pleasure and -comfort. Every morning when he came into his drawing-room, he found -it filled with flowers and smelling as sweetly as a conservatory. -Elisabeth must surely have enlisted all the boys in the village to -bring her primroses, violets, and buttercups from the forest, as well -as putting under contribution the small gardens where the peasant girls -tended their few plants at evening. In his loneliness and distress he -was grateful for her kind thoughtfulness and her unobtrusive desire to -please him in these small ways.</p> - -<p>It also seemed to him that she was growing prettier, more refined in -her appearance, and that she devoted more attention to the care of her -person. One day when she was handing him a cup of tea, he noticed that -her hands were no longer the hands of a servant, but of a lady, with -well-trimmed, clean nails, quite irreproachable. On another occasion he -observed that the shoes that she wore were almost elegant in shape and -material. Then she had gone up to her room one afternoon and come down -wearing a delightful little gray dress, quite simple and in perfect -taste. "Hallo!" he exclaimed, as he saw her, "how dressy you are -getting to be, Elisabeth!"</p> - -<p>She blushed up to the whites of her eyes. "What, I, Monsieur? Why, no. -I dress a little better because I have more money."</p> - -<p>"Where did you buy that dress that you have on?"</p> - -<p>"I made it myself, Monsieur."</p> - -<p>"You made it? When? I always see you busy at work about the house -during the day."</p> - -<p>"Why, during my evenings, Monsieur."</p> - -<p>"But where did you get the stuff? and who cut it for you?"</p> - -<p>She told him that the shopkeeper at Montigny had brought her some -samples from Fontainebleau, that she had made her selection from them, -and paid for the goods out of the two louis that he had paid her as -advanced wages. The cutting and fitting had not troubled her at all, -for she and her mother had worked four years for a ready-made clothing -house. He could not resist telling her: "It is very becoming to you. -You look very pretty in it." And she had to blush again, this time to -the roots of her hair.</p> - -<p>When she had left the room he said to himself: "I wonder if she is -beginning to fall in love with me?" He reflected on it, hesitated, -doubted, and finally came to the conclusion that after all it might be -possible. He had been kind and compassionate toward her, had assisted -her, and been almost her friend; there would be nothing very surprising -in this little girl being smitten with the master, who had been so -good to her. The idea did not strike him very disagreeably, moreover, -for she was really very presentable, and retained nothing of the -appearance of a servant about her. He experienced a flattering feeling -of consolation, and his masculine vanity, that had been so cruelly -wounded and trampled on and crushed by another woman, felt comforted. -It was a compensation—trivial and unnoteworthy though it might be, it -was a compensation—for when love comes to a man unsought, no matter -whence it comes, it is because that man possesses the capacity of -inspiring it. His unconscious selfishness was also gratified by it; -it would occupy his attention and do him a little good, perhaps, to -watch this young heart opening and beating for him. The thought never -occurred to him of sending the child away, of rescuing her from the -peril from which he himself was suffering so cruelly, of having more -pity for her than others had showed toward him, for compassion is never -an ingredient that enters into sentimental conquests.</p> - -<p>So he continued his observations, and soon saw that he had not been -mistaken. Petty details revealed it to him more clearly day by day. As -she came near him one morning while waiting on him at table, he smelled -on her clothing an odor of perfumery—villainous, cheap perfumery, -from the village shopkeeper's, doubtless, or the druggist's—so he -presented her with a bottle of Cyprus toilette-water that he had been -in the habit of using for a long time, and of which he always carried a -supply about with him. He also gave her fine soaps, tooth-washes, and -rice-powder. He thus lent his assistance to the transformation that was -becoming more apparent every day, watching it meantime with a pleased -and curious eye. While remaining his faithful and respectful servant, -she was thus becoming a woman in whom the coquettish instincts of her -sex were artlessly developing themselves.</p> - -<p>He, on his part, was imperceptibly becoming attached to her. She -inspired him at the same time with amusement and gratitude. He trifled -with this dawning tenderness as one trifles in his hours of melancholy -with anything that can divert his mind. He was conscious of no other -emotion toward her than that undefined desire which impels every man -toward a prepossessing woman, even if she be a pretty servant, or a -peasant maiden with the form of a goddess—a sort of rustic Venus. -He felt himself drawn to her more than all else by the womanliness -that he now found in her. He felt the need of that—an undefined and -irresistible need, bequeathed to him by that other one, the woman whom -he loved, who had first awakened in him that invincible and mysterious -fondness for the nature, the companionship, the contact of women, for -the subtle aroma, ideal or sensual, that every beautiful creature, -whether of the people or of the upper class, whether a lethargic, -sensual native of the Orient with great black eyes, or a blue-eyed, -keen-witted daughter of the North, inspires in men in whom still -survives the immemorial attraction of femininity.</p> - -<p>These gentle, loving, and unceasing attentions that were felt rather -than seen, wrapped his wound in a sort of soft, protecting envelope -that shielded it to some extent from its recurrent attacks of -suffering, which did return, nevertheless, like flies to a raw sore. -He was made especially impatient by the absence of all news, for his -friends had religiously respected his request not to divulge his -address. Now and then he would see Massival's or Lamarthe's name in the -newspapers among those who had been present at some great dinner or -ceremonial, and one day he saw Mme. de Burne's, who was mentioned as -being one of the most elegant, the prettiest, and best dressed of the -women who were at the ball at the Austrian embassy. It sent a trembling -through him from head to foot. The name of the Comte de Bernhaus -appeared a few lines further down, and that day Mariolle's jealousy -returned and wrung his heart until night. The suspected <i>liaison</i> was -no longer subject for doubt for him now. It was one of those imaginary -convictions that are even more torturing than reality, for there is no -getting rid of them and they leave a wound that hardly ever heals.</p> - -<p>No longer able to endure this state of ignorance and uncertainty, he -determined to write to Lamarthe, who was sufficiently well acquainted -with him to divine the wretchedness of his soul, and would be likely to -afford him some clew as to the justice of his suspicions, even without -being directly questioned on the subject. One evening, therefore, he -sat down and by the light of his lamp concocted a long, artful letter, -full of vague sadness and poetical allusions to the delights of early -spring in the country and veiled requests for information. When he got -his mail four days later he recognized at the very first glance the -novelist's firm, upright handwriting.</p> - -<p>Lamarthe sent him a thousand items of news that were of great -importance to his jealous eyes. Without laying more stress upon Mme. -de Burne and Bernhaus than upon any other of the crowd of people whom -he mentioned, he seemed to place them in the foreground by one of -those tricks of style characteristic of him, which led the attention -to just the point where he wished to lead it without revealing his -design. The impression that this letter, taken as a whole, left upon -Mariolle was that his suspicions were at least not destitute of -foundation. His fears would be realized to-morrow, if they had not been -yesterday. His former mistress was always the same, leading the same -busy, brilliant, fashionable life. He had been the subject of some talk -after his disappearance, as the world always talks of people who have -disappeared, with lukewarm curiosity.</p> - -<p>After the receipt of this letter he remained in his hammock until -nightfall; then he could eat no dinner, and after that he could get no -sleep; he was feverish through the night. The next morning he felt so -tired, so discouraged, so disgusted with his weary, monotonous life, -between the deep silent forest that was now dark with verdure on the -one hand and the tiresome little stream that flowed beneath his windows -on the other, that he did not leave his bed.</p> - -<p>When Elisabeth came to his room in response to the summons of his bell, -she stood in the doorway pale with surprise and asked him: "Is Monsieur -ill?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, a little."</p> - -<p>"Shall I send for the doctor?"</p> - -<p>"No. I am subject to these slight indispositions."</p> - -<p>"What can I do for Monsieur?"</p> - -<p>He ordered his bath to be got ready, a breakfast of eggs alone, and tea -at intervals during the day.</p> - -<p>About one o'clock, however, he became so restless that he determined to -get up. Elisabeth, whom he had rung for repeatedly during the morning -with the fretful irresolution of a man who imagines himself ill and who -had always come up to him with a deep desire of being of assistance, -now, beholding him so nervous and restless, with a blush for her own -boldness, offered to read to him.</p> - -<p>He asked her: "Do you read well?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, Monsieur; I gained all the prizes for reading when I was at -school in the city, and I have read so many novels to mamma that I -can't begin to remember the names of them."</p> - -<p>He was curious to see how she would do, and he sent her into the studio -to look among the books that he had packed up for the one that he -liked best of all, "Manon Lescaut."</p> - -<p>When she returned she helped him to settle himself in bed, arranged -two pillows behind his back, took a chair, and began to read. She read -well, very well indeed, intelligently and with a pleasing accent that -seemed a special gift. She evinced her interest in the story from the -commencement and showed so much feeling as she advanced in it that -he stopped her now and then to ask her a question and have a little -conversation about the plot and the characters.</p> - -<p>Through the open windows, on the warm breeze loaded with the sweet -odors of growing things, came the trills and <i>roulades</i> of the -nightingales among the trees saluting their mates with their amorous -ditties in this season of awakening love. The young girl, too, was -moved beneath André's gaze as she followed with bright eyes the plot -unwinding page by page.</p> - -<p>She answered the questions that he put to her with an innate -appreciation of the things connected with tenderness and passion, an -appreciation that was just, but, owing to the ignorance natural to -her position, sometimes crude. He thought: "This girl would be very -intelligent and bright if she had a little teaching."</p> - -<p>Her womanly charm had already begun to make itself felt in him, and -really did him good that warm, still, spring afternoon, mingling -strangely with that other charm, so powerful and so mysterious, of -"Manon," the strangest conception of woman ever evoked by human -ingenuity.</p> - -<p>When it became dark after this day of inactivity Mariolle sank into -a kind of dreaming, dozing state, in which confused visions of Mme. -de Burne and Elisabeth and the mistress of Des Grieux rose before his -eyes. As he had not left his room since the day before and had taken -no exercise to fatigue him he slept lightly and was disturbed by an -unusual noise that he heard about the house.</p> - -<p>Once or twice before he had thought that he heard faint sounds -and footsteps at night coming from the ground floor, not directly -underneath his room, but from the laundry and bath-room, small rooms -that adjoined the kitchen. He had given the matter no attention, -however.</p> - -<p>This evening, tired of lying in bed and knowing that he had a long -period of wakefulness before him, he listened and distinguished -something that sounded like the rustling of a woman's garments and -the splashing of water. He decided that he would go and investigate, -lighted a candle and looked at his watch; it was barely ten o'clock. He -dressed himself, and having slipped a revolver into his pocket, made -his way down the stairs on tiptoe with the stealthiness of a cat.</p> - -<p>When he reached the kitchen, he was surprised to see that there was a -fire burning in the furnace. There was not a sound to be heard, but -presently he was conscious of something stirring in the bath-room, a -small, whitewashed apartment that opened off the kitchen and contained -nothing but the tub. He went noiselessly to the door and threw it open -with a quick movement; there, extended in the tub, he beheld the most -beautiful form that he had ever seen in his life.</p> - -<p>It was Elisabeth.</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h5><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII">CHAPTER XIII.</a></h5> - - -<h4>MARIOLLE COPIES MME DE BURNE</h4> - - -<p>When she appeared before him next morning bringing him his tea and -toast, and their eyes met, she began to tremble so that the cup and -sugar-bowl rattled on the salver. Mariolle went to her and relieved her -of her burden and placed it on the table; then, as she still kept her -eyes fastened on the floor, he said to her: "Look at me, little one."</p> - -<p>She raised her eyes to him; they were full of tears.</p> - -<p>"You must not cry," he continued. As he held her in his arms, she -murmured: "<i>Oh! mon Dieu!"</i> He knew that it was not regret, nor sorrow, -nor remorse that had elicited from her those three agitated words, but -happiness, true happiness. It gave him a strange, selfish feeling of -delight, physical rather than moral, to feel this small person resting -against his heart, to feel there at last the presence of a woman who -loved him. He thanked her for it, as a wounded man lying by the -roadside would thank a woman who had stopped to succor him; he thanked -her with all his lacerated heart, and he pitied her a little, too, -in the depths of his soul. As he watched her thus, pale and tearful, -with eyes alight with love, he suddenly said to himself: "Why, she is -beautiful! How quickly a woman changes, becomes what she ought to be, -under the influence of the desires of her feelings and the necessities -of her existence!"</p> - -<p>"Sit down," he said to her. He took her hands in his, her poor toiling -hands that she had made white and pretty for his sake, and very gently, -in carefully chosen phrases, he spoke to her of the attitude that they -should maintain toward each other. She was no longer his servant, but -she would preserve the appearance of being so for a while yet, so as -not to create a scandal in the village. She would live with him as his -housekeeper and would read to him frequently, and that would serve to -account for the change in the situation. He would have her eat at his -table after a little, as soon as she should be permanently installed in -her position as his reader.</p> - -<p>When he had finished she simply replied: "No, Monsieur, I am your -servant, and I will continue to be so. I do not wish to have people -learn what has taken place and talk about it."</p> - -<p>He could not shake her determination, although he urged her -strenuously, and when he had drunk his tea she carried away the salver -while he followed her with a softened look.</p> - -<p>When she was gone he reflected. "She is a woman," he thought, "and -all women are equal when they are pleasing in our eyes. I have -made my waitress my mistress. She is pretty, she will be charming! -At all events she is younger and fresher than the <i>mondaines</i> and -the <i>cocottes</i>. What difference does it make, after all? How many -celebrated actresses have been daughters of <i>concierges</i>! And yet they -are received as ladies, they are adored like heroines of romance, and -princes bow before them as if they were queens. Is this to be accounted -for on the score of their talent, which is often doubtful, or of their -beauty, which is often questionable? Not at all. But a woman, in truth, -always holds the place that she is able to create for herself by the -illusion that she is capable of inspiring."</p> - -<p>He took a long walk that day, and although he still felt the same -distress at the bottom of his heart and his legs were heavy under him, -as if his suffering had loosened all the springs of his energy, there -was a feeling of gladness within him like the song of a little bird. He -was not so lonely, he felt himself less utterly abandoned; the forest -appeared to him less silent and less void.</p> - -<p>He returned to his house with the glad thought that Elisabeth would -come out to meet him with a smile upon her lips and a look of -tenderness in her eyes.</p> - -<p>The life that he now led for about a month on the bank of the little -stream was a real idyl. Mariolle was loved as perhaps very few men -have ever been, as a child is loved by its mother, as the hunter is -loved by his dog. He was all in all to her, her Heaven and earth, her -charm and delight. He responded to all her ardent and artless womanly -advances, giving her in a kiss her fill of ecstasy. In her eyes and in -her soul, in her heart and in her flesh there was no object but him; -her intoxication was like that of a young man who tastes wine for the -first time. Surprised and delighted, he reveled in the bliss of this -absolute self-surrender, and he felt that this was drinking of love at -its fountain-head, at the very lips of nature.</p> - -<p>Nevertheless he continued to be sad, sad, and haunted by his deep, -unyielding disenchantment. His little mistress was agreeable, but -he always felt the absence of another, and when he walked in the -meadows or on the banks of the Loing and asked himself: "Why does -this lingering care stay by me so?" such an intolerable feeling of -desolation rose within him as the recollection of Paris crossed his -mind that he had to return to the house so as not to be alone.</p> - -<p>Then he would swing in the hammock, while Elisabeth, seated on a -camp-chair, would read to him. As he watched her and listened to her he -would recall to mind conversations in the drawing-room of Michèle, in -the days when he passed whole evenings alone with her. Then tears would -start to his eyes, and such bitter regret would tear his heart that he -felt that he must start at once for Paris or else leave the country -forever.</p> - -<p>Elisabeth, seeing his gloom and melancholy, asked him: "Are you -suffering? Your eyes are full of tears."</p> - -<p>"Give me a kiss, little one," he replied; "you could not understand."</p> - -<p>She kissed him, anxiously, with a foreboding of some tragedy that was -beyond her knowledge. He, forgetting his woes for a moment beneath her -caresses, thought: "Oh! for a woman who could be these two in one, who -might have the affection of the one and the charm of the other! Why is -it that we never encounter the object of our dreams, that we always -meet with something that is only approximately like them?"</p> - -<p>He continued his vague reflections, soothed by the monotonous sound -of the voice that fell unheeded on his ear, upon all the charms that -had combined to seduce and vanquish him in the mistress whom he had -abandoned. In the besetment of her memory, of her imaginary presence, -by which he was haunted as a visionary by a phantom, he asked himself: -"Am I condemned to carry her image with me to all eternity?"</p> - -<p>He again applied himself to taking long walks, to roaming through the -thicknesses of the forest, with the vague hope that he might lose her -somewhere, in the depths of a ravine, behind a rock, in a thicket, as -a man who wishes to rid himself of an animal that he does not care to -kill sometimes takes it away a long distance so that it may not find -its way home.</p> - -<p>In the course of one of these walks he one day came again to the spot -where the beeches grew. It was now a gloomy forest, almost as black as -night, with impenetrable foliage. He passed along beneath the immense, -deep vault in the damp, sultry air, thinking regretfully of his earlier -visit when the little half-opened leaves resembled a verdant, sunshiny -mist, and as he was following a narrow path, he suddenly stopped in -astonishment before two trees that had grown together. It was a sturdy -beech embracing with two of its branches a tall, slender oak; and -there could have been no picture of his love that would have appealed -more forcibly and more touchingly to his imagination. Mariolle seated -himself to contemplate them at his ease. To his diseased mind, as -they stood there in their motionless strife, they became splendid and -terrible symbols, telling to him, and to all who might pass that way, -the everlasting story of his love.</p> - -<p>Then he went on his way again, sadder than before, and as he walked -along, slowly and with eyes downcast, he all at once perceived, half -hidden by the grass and stained by mud and rain, an old telegram that -had been lost or thrown there by some wayfarer. He stopped. What was -the message of joy or sorrow that the bit of blue paper that lay there -at his feet had brought to some expectant soul?</p> - -<p>He could not help picking it up and opening it with a mingled feeling -of curiosity and disgust. The words "Come—me—four o'clock—" were -still legible; the names had been obliterated by the moisture.</p> - -<p>Memories, at once cruel and delightful, thronged upon his mind of all -the messages that he had received from her, now to appoint the hour for -a rendezvous, now to tell him that she could not come to him. Never had -anything caused him such emotion, nor startled him so violently, nor -so stopped his poor heart and then set it thumping again as had the -sight of those messages, burning or freezing him as the case might be. -The thought that he should never receive more of them filled him with -unutterable sorrow.</p> - -<p>Again he asked himself what her thoughts had been since he left her. -Had she suffered, had she regretted the friend whom her coldness had -driven from her, or had she merely experienced a feeling of wounded -vanity and thought nothing more of his abandonment? His desire to learn -the truth was so strong and so persistent that a strange and audacious, -yet only half-formed resolve, came into his head. He took the road -to Fontainebleau, and when he reached the city went to the telegraph -office, his mind in a fluctuating state of unrest and indecision; but -an irresistible force proceeding from his heart seemed to urge him on. -With a trembling hand, then, he took from the desk a printed blank and -beneath the name and address of Mme. de Burne wrote this dispatch:</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>"I would so much like to know what you think of me! For my -part I can forget nothing. ANDRÉ MARIOLLE."</p></blockquote> - -<p>Then he went out, engaged a carriage, and returned to Montigny, -disturbed in mind by what he had done and regretting it already.</p> - -<p>He had calculated that in case she condescended to answer him he -would receive a letter from her two days later, but the fear and the -hope that she might send him a dispatch kept him in his house all the -following day. He was in his hammock under the lindens on the terrace, -when, about three o'clock, Elisabeth came to tell him that there was a -lady at the house who wanted to see him.</p> - -<p>The shock was so great that his breath failed him for a moment and his -legs bent under him, and his heart beat violently as he went toward -the house. And yet he could not dare hope that it was she.</p> - -<p>When he appeared at the drawing-room door Mme. de Burne arose from -the sofa where she was sitting and came forward to shake hands with a -rather reserved smile upon her face, with a slight constraint of manner -and attitude, saying: "I came to see how you are, as your message did -not give me much information on the subject."</p> - -<p>He had become so pale that a flash of delight rose to her eyes, and his -emotion was so great that he could not speak, could only hold his lips -glued to the hand that she had given him.</p> - -<p>"<i>Dieu!</i> how kind of you!" he said at last.</p> - -<p>"No; but I do not forget my friends, and I was anxious about you."</p> - -<p>She looked him in the face with that rapid, searching woman's look -that reads everything, fathoms one's thoughts to their very roots, -and unmasks every artifice. She was satisfied, apparently, for her -face brightened with a smile. "You have a pretty hermitage here," she -continued. "Does happiness reside in it?"</p> - -<p>"No, Madame."</p> - -<p>"Is it possible? In this fine country, at the side of this beautiful -forest, on the banks of this pretty stream? Why, you ought to be at -rest and quite contented here."</p> - -<p>"I am not, Madame."</p> - -<p>"Why not, then?"</p> - -<p>"Because I cannot forget."</p> - -<p>"Is it indispensable to your happiness that you should forget -something?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, Madame."</p> - -<p>"May one know what?"</p> - -<p>"You know."</p> - -<p>"And then?"</p> - -<p>"And then I am very wretched."</p> - -<p>She said to him with mingled fatuity and commiseration: "I thought that -was the case when I received your telegram, and that was the reason -that I came, with the resolve that I would go back again at once if I -found that I had made a mistake." She was silent a moment and then went -on: "Since I am not going back immediately, may I go and look around -your place? That little alley of lindens yonder has a very charming -appearance: it looks as if it might be cooler out there than here in -this drawing-room."</p> - -<p>They went out. She had on a mauve dress that harmonized so well with -the verdure of the trees and the blue of the sky that she appeared to -him like some amazing apparition, of an entirely new style of beauty -and seductiveness. Her tall and willowy form, her bright, clean-cut -features, the little blaze of blond hair beneath a hat that was mauve, -like the dress, and lightly crowned by a long plume of ostrich-feathers -rolled about it, her tapering arms with the two hands holding the -closed sunshade crosswise before her, the loftiness of her carriage, -and the directness of her step seemed to introduce into the humble -little garden something exotic, something that was foreign to it. It -was a figure from one of Watteau's pictures, or from some fairy-tale or -dream, the imagination of a poet's or an artist's fancy, which had been -seized by the whim of coming away to the country to show how beautiful -it was. As Mariolle looked at her, all trembling with his newly lighted -passion, he recalled to mind the two peasant women that he had seen in -Montigny village.</p> - -<p>"Who is the little person who opened the door for me?" she inquired.</p> - -<p>"She is my servant."</p> - -<p>"She does not look like a waitress."</p> - -<p>"No; she is very good looking."</p> - -<p>"Where did you secure her?"</p> - -<p>"Quite near here; in an inn frequented by painters, where her innocence -was in danger from the customers."</p> - -<p>"And you preserved it?"</p> - -<p>He blushed and replied: "Yes, I preserved it."</p> - -<p>"To your own advantage, perhaps."</p> - -<p>"Certainly, to my own advantage, for I would rather have a pretty face -about me than an ugly one."</p> - -<p>"Is that the only feeling that she inspires in you?"</p> - -<p>"Perhaps it was she who inspired in me the irresistible desire of -seeing you again, for every woman when she attracts my eyes, even if it -is only for the duration of a second, carries my thoughts back to you."</p> - -<p>"That was a very pretty piece of special pleading! And does she love -her preserver?"</p> - -<p>He blushed more deeply than before. Quick as lightning the thought -flashed through his mind that jealousy is always efficacious as a -stimulant to a woman's feelings, and decided him to tell only half a -lie, so he answered, hesitatingly: "I don't know how that is; it may be -so. She is very attentive to me."</p> - -<p>Rather pettishly, Mme. de Burne murmured: "And you?"</p> - -<p>He fastened upon her his eyes that were aflame with love, and replied: -"Nothing could ever distract my thoughts from you."</p> - -<p>This was also a very shrewd answer, but the phrase seemed to her so -much the expression of an indisputable truth, that she let it pass -without noticing it. Could a woman such as she have any doubts about -a thing like that? So she was satisfied, in fact, and had no further -doubts upon the subject of Elisabeth.</p> - -<p>They took two canvas chairs and seated themselves in the shade of the -lindens over the running stream. He asked her: "What did you think of -me?"</p> - -<p>"That you must have been very wretched."</p> - -<p>"Was it through my fault or yours?"</p> - -<p>"Through the fault of us both."</p> - -<p>"And then?"</p> - -<p>"And then, knowing how beside yourself you were, I reflected that it -would be best to give you a little time to cool down. So I waited."</p> - -<p>"What were you waiting for?"</p> - -<p>"For a word from you. I received it, and here I am. Now we are going to -talk like people of sense. So you love me still? I do not ask you this -as a coquette—I ask it as your friend."</p> - -<p>"I love you still."</p> - -<p>"And what is it that you wish?"</p> - -<p>"How can I answer that? I am in your power."</p> - -<p>"Oh! my ideas are very clear, but I will not tell you them without -first knowing what yours are. Tell me of yourself, of what has been -passing in your heart and in your mind since you ran away from me."</p> - -<p>"I have been thinking of you; I have had no other occupation." He told -her of his resolution to forget her, his flight, his coming to the -great forest in which he had found nothing but her image, of his days -filled with memories of her, and his long nights of consuming jealousy; -he told her everything, with entire truthfulness, always excepting his -love for Elisabeth, whose name he did not mention.</p> - -<p>She listened, well assured that he was not lying, convinced by her -inner consciousness of her power over him, even more than by the -sincerity of his manner, and delighted with her victory, glad that she -was about to regain him, for she loved him still.</p> - -<p>Then he bemoaned himself over this situation that seemed to have no -end, and warming up as he told of all that he had suffered after having -carried it so long in his thoughts, he again reproached her, but -without anger, without bitterness, in terms of impassioned poetry, with -that impotency of loving of which she was the victim. He told her over -and over: "Others have not the gift of pleasing; you have not the gift -of loving."</p> - -<p>She interrupted him, speaking warmly, full of arguments and -illustrations. "At least I have the gift of being faithful," she said. -"Suppose I had adored you for ten months, and then fallen in love with -another man, would you be less unhappy than you are?"</p> - -<p>He exclaimed: "Is it, then, impossible for a woman to love only one -man?"</p> - -<p>But she had her answer ready for him: "No one can keep on loving -forever; all that one can do is to be constant. Do you believe that -that exalted delirium of the senses can last for years? No, no. As -for the most of those women who are addicted to passions, to violent -caprices of greater or less duration, they simply transform life into -a novel. Their heroes are different, the events and circumstances are -unforeseen and constantly changing, the <i>dénouement</i> varies. I admit -that for them it is amusing and diverting, for with every change they -have a new set of emotions, but for <i>him</i>—when it is ended, that is -the last of it. Do you understand me?"</p> - -<p>"Yes; what you say has some truth in it. But I do not see what you are -getting at."</p> - -<p>"It is this: there is no passion that endures a very long time; by -that I mean a burning, torturing passion like that from which you are -suffering now. It is a crisis that I have made hard, very hard for you -to bear—I know it, and I feel it—by—by the aridity of my tenderness -and the paralysis of my emotional nature. This crisis will pass away, -however, for it cannot last forever."</p> - -<p>"And then?" he asked with anxiety.</p> - -<p>"Then I think that to a woman who is as reasonable and calm as I am you -can make yourself a lover who will be pleasing in every way, for you -have a great deal of tact. On the other hand you would make a terrible -husband. But there is no such thing as a good husband, there never can -be."</p> - -<p>He was surprised and a little offended. "Why," he asked, "do you wish -to keep a lover that you do not love?"</p> - -<p>She answered, impetuously: "I do love him, my friend, after my fashion. -I do not love ardently, but I love."</p> - -<p>"You require above everything else to be loved and to have your lovers -make a show of their love."</p> - -<p>"It is true. That is what I like. But beyond that my heart requires a -companion apart from the others. My vainglorious passion for public -homage does not interfere with my capacity for being faithful and -devoted; it does not destroy my belief that I have something of myself -that I could bestow upon a lover that no other man should have: my -loyal affection, the sincere attachment of my heart, the entire and -secret trustfulness of my soul; in exchange for which I should receive -from him, together with all the tenderness of a lover, the sensation, -so sweet and so rare, of not being entirely alone upon the earth. -That is not love from the way you look at it, but it is not entirely -valueless, either."</p> - -<p>He bent over toward her, trembling with emotion, and stammered: "Will -you let me be that man?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, after a little, when you are more yourself. In the meantime, -resign yourself to a little suffering once in a while, for my sake. -Since you have to suffer in any event, isn't it better to endure it at -my side rather than somewhere far from me?" Her smile seemed to say -to him: "Why can you not have confidence in me?" and as she eyed him -there, his whole frame quivering with passion, she experienced through -every fiber of her being a feeling of satisfied well-being that made -her happy in her way, in the way that the bird of prey is happy when -he sees his quarry lying fascinated beneath him and awaiting the fatal -talons.</p> - -<p>"When do you return to Paris?" she asked.</p> - -<p>"Why—to-morrow!"</p> - -<p>"To-morrow be it. You will come and dine with me?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, Madame."</p> - -<p>"And now I must be going," said she, looking at the watch set in the -handle of her parasol.</p> - -<p>"Oh! why so soon?"</p> - -<p>"Because I must catch the five o'clock train. I have company to dinner -to-day, several persons: the Princess de Malten, Bernhaus, Lamarthe, -Massival, De Maltry, and a stranger, M. de Charlaine, the explorer, who -is just back from upper Cambodia, after a wonderful journey. He is all -the talk just now."</p> - -<p>Mariolle's spirits fell; it hurt him to hear these names mentioned one -after the other, as if he had been stung by so many wasps. They were -poison to him.</p> - -<p>"Will you go now?" he said, "and we can drive through the forest and -see something of it."</p> - -<p>"I shall be very glad to. First give me a cup of tea and some toast."</p> - -<p>When the tea was served, Elisabeth was not to be found. The cook said -that she had gone out to make some purchases. This did not surprise -Mme. de Burne, for what had she to fear now from this servant? Then -they got into the landau that was standing before the door, and -Mariolle made the coachman take them to the station by a roundabout way -which took them past the Gorge-aux-Loups. As they rolled along beneath -the shade of the great trees where the nightingales were singing, -she was seized by the ineffable sensation that the mysterious and -all-powerful charm of nature impresses on the heart of man. "<i>Dieu!</i>" -she said, "how beautiful it is, how calm and restful!"</p> - -<p>He accompanied her to the station, and as they were about to part she -said to him: "I shall see you to-morrow at eight o'clock, then?"</p> - -<p>"To-morrow at eight o'clock, Madame."</p> - -<p>She, radiant with happiness, went her way, and he returned to his house -in the landau, happy and contented, but uneasy withal, for he knew that -this was not the end.</p> - -<p>Why should he resist? He felt that he could not. She held him by a -charm that he could not understand, that was stronger than all. Flight -would not deliver him, would not sever him from her, but would be an -intolerable privation, while if he could only succeed in showing a -little resignation, he would obtain from her at least as much as she -had promised, for she was a woman who always kept her word.</p> - -<p>The horses trotted along under the trees and he reflected that not -once during that interview had she put up her lips to him for a kiss. -She was ever the same; nothing in her would ever change and he would -always, perhaps, have to suffer at her hands in just that same way. -The remembrance of the bitter hours that he had already passed, with -the intolerable certainty that he would never succeed in rousing her -to passion, laid heavy on his heart, and gave him a clear foresight of -struggles to come and of similar distress in the future. Still, he was -content to suffer everything rather than lose her again, resigned even -to that everlasting, ever unappeased desire that rioted in his veins -and burned into his flesh.</p> - -<p>The raging thoughts that had so often possessed him on his way back -alone from Auteuil were now setting in again. They began to agitate -his frame as the landau rolled smoothly along in the cool shadows of -the great trees, when all at once the thought of Elisabeth awaiting -him there at his door, she, too, young and fresh and pretty, her -heart full of love and her mouth full of kisses, brought peace to his -soul. Presently he would be holding her in his arms, and, closing his -eyes and deceiving himself as men deceive others, confounding in the -intoxication of the embrace her whom he loved and her by whom he was -loved, he would possess them both at once. Even now it was certain that -he had a liking for her, that grateful attachment of soul and body that -always pervades the human animal as the result of love inspired and -pleasure shared in common. This child whom he had made his own, would -she not be to his dry and wasting love the little spring that bubbles -up at the evening halting place, the promise of the cool draught that -sustains our energy as wearily we traverse the burning desert?</p> - -<p>When he regained the house, however, the girl had not come in. He was -frightened and uneasy and said to the other servant: "You are sure that -she went out?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, Monsieur."</p> - -<p>Thereupon he also went out in the hope of finding her. When he had -taken a few steps and was about to turn into the long street that runs -up the valley, he beheld before him the old, low church, surmounted by -its square tower, seated upon a little knoll and watching the houses of -its small village as a hen watches over her chicks. A presentiment that -she was there impelled him to enter. Who can tell the strange glimpses -of the truth that a woman's heart is capable of perceiving? What had -she thought, how much had she understood? Where could she have fled for -refuge but there, if the shadow of the truth had passed before her eyes?</p> - -<p>The church was very dark, for night was closing in. The dim lamp, -hanging from its chain, suggested in the tabernacle the ideal presence -of the divine Consoler. With hushed footsteps Mariolle passed up along -the lines of benches. When he reached the choir he saw a woman on her -knees, her face hidden in her hands. He approached, recognized her, and -touched her on the shoulder. They were alone.</p> - -<p>She gave a great start as she turned her head. She was weeping.</p> - -<p>"What is the matter?" he said.</p> - -<p>She murmured: "I see it all. You came here because she had caused you -to suffer. She came to take you away."</p> - -<p>He spoke in broken accents, touched by the grief that he in turn had -caused: "You are mistaken, little one. I am going back to Paris, -indeed, but I shall take you with me."</p> - -<p>She repeated, incredulously: "It can't be true, it can't be true."</p> - -<p>"I swear to you that it is true."</p> - -<p>"When?"</p> - -<p>"To-morrow."</p> - -<p>She began again to sob and groan: "My God! My God!"</p> - -<p>Then he raised her to her feet and led her down the hill through the -thick blackness of the night, but when they came to the river-bank he -made her sit down upon the grass and placed himself beside her. He -heard the beating of her heart and her quick breathing, and clasping -her to his heart, troubled by his remorse, he whispered to her gentle -words that he had never used before. Softened by pity and burning with -desire, every word that he uttered was true; he did not endeavor to -deceive her, and surprised himself at what he said and what he felt, he -wondered how it was that, thrilling yet with the presence of that other -one whose slave he was always to be, he could tremble thus with longing -and emotion while consoling this love-stricken heart.</p> - -<p>He promised that he would love her,—he did not say simply "love"—, -that he would give her a nice little house near his own and pretty -furniture to put in it and a servant to wait on her. She was reassured -as she listened to him, and gradually grew calmer, for she could not -believe that he was capable of deceiving her, and besides his tone and -manner told her that he was sincere. Convinced at length and dazzled -by the vision of being a lady, by the prospect—so undreamed of by the -poor girl, the servant of the inn—of becoming the "good friend" of -such a rich, nice gentleman, she was carried away in a whirl of pride, -covetousness, and gratitude that mingled with her fondness for André. -Throwing her arms about his neck and covering his face with kisses, -she stammered: "Oh! I love you so! You are all in all to me!"</p> - -<p>He was touched and returned her caresses. "Darling! My little darling!" -he murmured.</p> - -<p>Already she had almost forgotten the appearance of the stranger who -but now had caused her so much sorrow. There must have been some vague -feeling of doubt floating in her mind, however, for presently she asked -him in a tremulous voice: "Really and truly, you will love me as you -love me now?"</p> - -<p>And unhesitatingly he replied: "I will love you as I love you now."</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h3><a name="THE_OLIVE_GROVE_a" id="THE_OLIVE_GROVE_a">THE OLIVE GROVE</a></h3> - -<h5>AND</h5> - -<h4>OTHER TALES</h4> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h4><a name="THE_OLIVE_GROVE" id="THE_OLIVE_GROVE">THE OLIVE GROVE</a></h4> - - -<p>When the 'longshoremen of Garandou, a little port of Provence, situated -in the bay of Pisca, between Marseilles and Toulon, perceived the boat -of the Abbé Vilbois entering the harbor, they went down to the beach to -help him pull her ashore.</p> - -<p>The priest was alone in the boat. In spite of his fifty-eight years, -he rowed with all the energy of a real sailor. He had placed his hat -on the bench beside him, his sleeves were rolled up, disclosing his -powerful arms, his cassock was open at the neck and turned over his -knees, and he wore a round hat of heavy, white canvas. His whole -appearance bespoke an odd and strenuous priest of southern climes, -better fitted for adventures than for clerical duties.</p> - -<p>He rowed with strong and measured strokes, as if to show the southern -sailors how the men of the north handle the oars, and from time to time -he turned around to look at the landing point.</p> - -<p>The skiff struck the beach and slid far up, the bow plowing through the -sand; then it stopped abruptly. The five men watching for the abbé -drew near, jovial and smiling.</p> - -<p>"Well!" said one, with the strong accent of Provence, "have you been -successful, Monsieur le Curé?"</p> - -<p>The abbé drew in the oars, removed his canvas head-covering, put on -his hat, pulled down his sleeves, and buttoned his coat. Then having -assumed the usual appearance of a village priest, he replied proudly: -"Yes, I have caught three red-snappers, two eels, and five sunfish."</p> - -<p>The fishermen gathered around the boat to examine, with the air of -experts, the dead fish, the fat red-snappers, the flat-headed eels, -those hideous sea-serpents, and the violet sunfish, streaked with -bright orange-colored stripes.</p> - -<p>Said one: "I'll carry them up to your house, Monsieur le Curé."</p> - -<p>"Thank you, my friend."</p> - -<p>Having shaken hands all around, the priest started homeward, followed -by the man with the fish; the others took charge of the boat.</p> - -<p>The Abbé Vilbois walked along slowly with an air of dignity. The -exertion of rowing had brought beads of perspiration to his brow and -he uncovered his head each time that he passed through the shade of an -olive grove. The warm evening air, freshened by a slight breeze from -the sea, cooled his high forehead covered with short, white hair, a -forehead far more suggestive of an officer than of a priest.</p> - -<p>The village appeared, built on a hill rising from a large valley which -descended toward the sea.</p> - -<p>It was a summer evening. The dazzling sun, traveling toward the ragged -crests of the distant hills, outlined on the white, dusty road the -figure of the priest, the shadow of whose three-cornered hat bobbed -merrily over the fields, sometimes apparently climbing the trunks of -the olive-trees, only to fall immediately to the ground and creep among -them.</p> - -<p>With every step he took, he raised a cloud of fine, white dust, the -invisible powder which, in summer, covers the roads of Provence; it -clung to the edge of his cassock turning it grayish white. Completely -refreshed, his hands deep in his pockets, he strode along slowly and -ponderously, like a mountaineer. His eyes were fixed on the distant -village where he had lived twenty years, and where he hoped to die. -Its church—his church—rose above the houses clustered around it; -the square turrets of gray stone, of unequal proportions and quaint -design, stood outlined against the beautiful southern valley; and their -architecture suggested the fortifications of some old château rather -than the steeples of a place of worship.</p> - -<p>The abbé was happy; for he had caught three red-snappers, two eels, -and five sunfish. It would enable him to triumph again over his flock, -which respected him, no doubt, because he was one of the most powerful -men of the place, despite his years. These little innocent vanities -were his greatest pleasures. He was a fine marksman; sometimes he -practiced with his neighbor, a retired army provost who kept a tobacco -shop; he could also swim better than anyone along the coast.</p> - -<p>In his day he had been a well-known society man, the Baron de Vilbois, -but had entered the priesthood after an unfortunate love-affair. Being -the scion of an old family of Picardy, devout and royalistic, whose -sons for centuries had entered the army, the magistracy, or the Church, -his first thought was to follow his mother's advice and become a -priest. But he yielded to his father's suggestion that he should study -law in Paris and seek some high office.</p> - -<p>While he was completing his studies his father was carried off by -pneumonia; his mother, who was greatly affected by the loss, died soon -afterward. He came into a fortune, and consequently gave up the idea of -following a profession to live a life of idleness. He was handsome and -intelligent, but somewhat prejudiced by the traditions and principles -which he had inherited, along with his muscular frame, from a long line -of ancestors.</p> - -<p>Society gladly welcomed him and he enjoyed himself after the fashion of -a well-to-do and seriously inclined young man. But it happened that a -friend introduced him to a young actress, a pupil of the Conservatoire, -who was appearing with great success at the Odéon. It was a case of -love at first sight.</p> - -<p>His sentiment had all the violence, the passion of a man born to -believe in absolute ideas. He saw her act the romantic rôle in which -she had achieved a triumph the first night of her appearance. She was -pretty, and, though naturally perverse, possessed the face of an angel.</p> - -<p>She conquered him completely; she transformed him into a delirious -fool, into one of those ecstatic idiots whom a woman's look will -forever chain to the pyre of fatal passions. She became his mistress -and left the stage. They lived together four years, his love for her -increasing during the time. He would have married her in spite of his -proud name and family traditions, had he not discovered that for a long -time she had been unfaithful to him with the friend who had introduced -them.</p> - -<p>The awakening was terrible, for she was about to become a mother, and -he was awaiting the birth of the child to make her his wife.</p> - -<p>When he held the proof of her transgressions,—some letters found in a -drawer,—he confronted her with his knowledge and reproached her with -all the savageness of his uncouth nature for her unfaithfulness and -deceit. But she, a child of the people, being as sure of this man as of -the other, braved and insulted him with the inherited daring of those -women, who, in times of war, mounted with the men on the barricades.</p> - -<p>He would have struck her to the ground—but she showed him her form. -As white as death, he checked himself, remembering that a child of his -would soon be born to this vile, polluted creature. He rushed at her -to crush them both, to obliterate this double shame. Reeling under his -blows, and seeing that he was about to stamp out the life of her unborn -babe, she realized that she was lost. Throwing out her hands to parry -the blows, she cried:</p> - -<p>"Do not kill me! It is his, not yours!"</p> - -<p>He fell back, so stunned with surprise that for a moment his rage -subsided. He stammered:</p> - -<p>"What? What did you say?"</p> - -<p>Crazed with fright, having read her doom in his eyes and gestures, she -repeated: "It's not yours, it's his."</p> - -<p>Through his clenched teeth he stammered:</p> - -<p>"The child?"</p> - -<p>"Yes."</p> - -<p>"You lie!"</p> - -<p>And again he lifted his foot as if to crush her, while she struggled to -her knees in a vain attempt to rise. "I tell you it's his. If it was -yours, wouldn't it have come much sooner?"</p> - -<p>He was struck by the truth of this argument. In a moment of strange -lucidity, his mind evolved precise, conclusive, irresistible reasons to -disclaim the child of this miserable woman, and he felt so appeased, so -happy at the thought, that he decided to let her live.</p> - -<p>He then spoke in a calmer voice: "Get up and leave, and never let me -see you again."</p> - -<p>Quite cowed, she obeyed him and went. He never saw her again.</p> - -<p>Then he left Paris and came south. He stopped in a village situated -in a valley, near the coast of the Mediterranean. Selecting for his -abode an inn facing the sea, he lived there eighteen months in complete -seclusion, nursing his sorrow and despair. The memory of the unfaithful -one tortured him; her grace, her charm, her perversity haunted him, and -withal came the regret of her caresses.</p> - -<p>He wandered aimlessly in those beautiful vales of Provence, baring his -head, filled with the thoughts of that woman, to the sun that filtered -through the grayish-green leaves of the olive-trees.</p> - -<p>His former ideas of religion, the abated ardor of his faith, returned -to him during his sorrowful retreat. Religion had formerly seemed a -refuge from the unknown temptations of life, now it appeared as a -refuge from its snares and tortures. He had never given up the habit of -prayer. In his sorrow, he turned anew to its consolations, and often -at dusk he would wander into the little village church, where in the -darkness gleamed the light of the lamp hung above the altar, to guard -the sanctuary and symbolize the Divine Presence.</p> - -<p>He confided his sorrow to his God, told Him of his misery, asking -advice, pity, help, and consolation. Each day, his fervid prayers -disclosed stronger faith.</p> - -<p>The bleeding heart of this man, crushed by love for a woman, still -longed for affection; and soon his prayers, his seclusion, his constant -communion with the Savior who consoles and cheers the weary, wrought a -change in him, and the mystic love of God entered his soul, casting out -the love of the flesh.</p> - -<p>He then decided to take up his former plans and to devote his life to -the Church.</p> - -<p>He became a priest. Through family connections he succeeded in -obtaining a call to the parish of this village which he had come across -by chance. Devoting a large part of his fortune to the maintenance of -charitable institutions, and keeping only enough to enable him to help -the poor as long as he lived, he sought refuge in a quiet life filled -with prayer and acts of kindness toward his fellow-men.</p> - -<p>Narrow-minded but kind-hearted, a priest with a soldier's temperament, -he guided his blind, erring flock forcibly through the mazes of this -life in which every taste, instinct, and desire is a pitfall. But -the old man in him never disappeared entirely. He continued to love -out-of-door exercise and noble sports, but he hated every woman, having -an almost childish fear of their dangerous fascination.</p> - - -<h5>II.</h5> - -<p>The sailor who followed the priest, being a southerner, found it -difficult to refrain from talking. But he did not dare start a -conversation, for the abbé exerted a great prestige over his flock. At -last he ventured a remark: "So you like your lodge, do you, Monsieur le -Curé?"</p> - -<p>This lodge was one of the tiny constructions that are inhabited during -the summer by the villagers and the town people alike. It was situated -in a field not far from the parish-house, and the abbé had hired it -because the latter was very small and built in the heart of the village -next to the church.</p> - -<p>During the summer time, he did not live altogether at the lodge, but -would remain a few days at a time to practice pistol-shooting and be -close to nature.</p> - -<p>"Yes, my friend," said the priest, "I like it very well."</p> - -<p>The low structure could now be seen; it was painted pink, and the walls -were almost hidden under the leaves and branches of the olive-trees -that grew in the open field. A tall woman was passing in and out of the -door, setting a small table at which she placed, at each trip, a knife -and fork, a glass, a plate, a napkin, and a piece of bread. She wore -the small cap of the women of Arles, a pointed cone of silk or black -velvet, decorated with a white rosette.</p> - -<p>When the abbé was near enough to make himself heard, he shouted:</p> - -<p>"Eh! Marguerite!"</p> - -<p>She stopped to ascertain whence the voice came, and recognizing her -master: "Oh! it's you, Monsieur le Curé!"</p> - -<p>"Yes. I have caught some fine fish, and want you to broil this sunfish -immediately, do you hear?"</p> - -<p>The servant examined, with a critical and approving glance, the fish -that the sailor carried.</p> - -<p>"Yes, but we are going to have a chicken for dinner," she said.</p> - -<p>"Well, it cannot be helped. To-morrow the fish will not be as fresh -as it is now. I mean to enjoy a little feast—it does not happen -often—and the sin is not great."</p> - -<p>The woman picked out a sunfish and prepared to go into the house. -"Ah!" she said, "a man came to see you three times while you were out, -Monsieur le Curé."</p> - -<p>Indifferently he inquired: "A man! What kind of man?"</p> - -<p>"Why, a man whose appearance was not in his favor."</p> - -<p>"What! a beggar?"</p> - -<p>"Perhaps—I don't know. But I think he is more of a 'maoufatan.'"</p> - -<p>The abbé smiled at this word, which, in the language of Provence means -a highwayman, a tramp, for he was well aware of Marguerite's timidity, -and knew that every day and especially every night she fancied they -would be murdered.</p> - -<p>He handed a few sous to the sailor, who departed. And just as he was -saying: "I am going to wash my hands,"—for his past dainty habits -still clung to him,—Marguerite called to him from the kitchen -where she was scraping the fish with a knife, thereby detaching its -blood-stained, silvery scales:</p> - -<p>"There he comes!"</p> - -<p>The abbé looked down the road and saw a man coming slowly toward -the house; he seemed poorly dressed, indeed, so far as he could -distinguish. He could not help smiling at his servant's anxiety, and -thought, while he waited for the stranger: "I think, after all, she is -right; he does look like a 'maoufatan.'"</p> - -<p>The man walked slowly, with his eyes on the priest and his hands buried -deep in his pockets. He was young and wore a full, blond beard; strands -of curly hair escaped from his soft felt hat, which was so dirty -and battered that it was impossible to imagine its former color and -appearance. He was clothed in a long, dark overcoat, from which emerged -the frayed edge of his trousers; on his feet were bathing shoes that -deadened his steps, giving him the stealthy walk of a sneak thief.</p> - -<p>When he had come within a few steps of the priest, he doffed, with a -sweeping motion, the ragged hat that shaded his brow. He was not bad -looking, though his face showed signs of dissipation and the top of his -head was bald, an indication of premature fatigue and debauch, for he -certainly was not over twenty-five years old.</p> - -<p>The priest responded at once to his bow, feeling that this fellow was -not an ordinary tramp, a mechanic out of work, or a jail-bird, hardly -able to speak any other tongue but the mysterious language of prisons.</p> - -<p>"How do you do, Monsieur le Curé?" said the man. The priest answered -simply, "I salute you," unwilling to address this ragged stranger as -"Monsieur." They considered each other attentively; the abbé felt -uncomfortable under the gaze of the tramp, invaded by a feeling of -unrest unknown to him.</p> - -<p>At last the vagabond continued: "Well, do you recognize me?"</p> - -<p>Greatly surprised, the priest answered: "Why, no, you are a stranger to -me."</p> - -<p>"Ah! you do not know me? Look at me well."</p> - -<p>"I have never seen you before."</p> - -<p>"Well, that may be true," replied the man sarcastically, "but let me -show you some one whom you will know better."</p> - -<p>He put on his hat and unbuttoned his coat, revealing his bare chest. A -red sash wound around his spare frame held his trousers in place. He -drew an envelope from his coat pocket, one of those soiled wrappers -destined to protect the sundry papers of the tramp, whether they be -stolen or legitimate property, those papers which he guards jealously -and uses to protect himself against the too zealous gendarmes. He -pulled out a photograph about the size of a folded letter, one of those -pictures which were popular long ago; it was yellow and dim with age, -for he had carried it around with him everywhere and the heat of his -body had faded it.</p> - -<p>Pushing it under the abbé's eyes, he demanded:</p> - -<p>"Do you know him?"</p> - -<p>The priest took a step forward to look and grew pale, for it was his -own likeness that he had given Her years ago.</p> - -<p>Failing to grasp the meaning of the situation he remained silent.</p> - -<p>The tramp repeated:</p> - -<p>"Do you recognize him?"</p> - -<p>And the priest stammered: "Yes."</p> - -<p>"Who is it?"</p> - -<p>"It is I."</p> - -<p>"It is you?"</p> - -<p>"Yes."</p> - -<p>"Well, then, look at us both,—at me and at your picture!"</p> - -<p>Already the unhappy man had seen that these two beings, the one in the -picture and the one by his side, resembled each other like brothers; -yet he did not understand, and muttered: "Well, what is it you wish?"</p> - -<p>Then in an ugly voice, the tramp replied: "What do I wish? Why, first I -wish you to recognize me."</p> - -<p>"Who are you?"</p> - -<p>"Who am I? Ask anybody by the roadside, ask your servant, let's go and -ask the mayor and show him this; and he will laugh, I tell you that! -Ah! you will not recognize me as your son, papa curé?"</p> - -<p>The old man raised his arms above his head, with a patriarchal gesture, -and muttered despairingly: "It cannot be true!"</p> - -<p>The young fellow drew quite close to him.</p> - -<p>"Ah! It cannot be true, you say! You must stop lying, do you hear?" -His clenched fists and threatening face, and the violence with which -he spoke, made the priest retreat a few steps, while he asked himself -anxiously which one of them was laboring under a mistake.</p> - -<p>Again he asserted: "I never had a child."</p> - -<p>The other man replied: "And no mistress, either?"</p> - -<p>The aged priest resolutely uttered one word, a proud admission:</p> - -<p>"Yes."</p> - -<p>"And was not this mistress about to give birth to a child when you left -her?"</p> - -<p>Suddenly the anger which had been quelled twenty-five years ago, not -quelled, but buried in the heart of the lover, burst through the wall -of faith, resignation, and renunciation he had built around it. Almost -beside himself, he shouted:</p> - -<p>"I left her because she was unfaithful to me and was carrying the child -of another man; had it not been for this, I should have killed both you -and her, sir!"</p> - -<p>The young man hesitated, taken aback at the sincerity of this outburst. -Then he replied in a gentler voice:</p> - -<p>"Who told you that it was another man's child?"</p> - -<p>"She told me herself and braved me."</p> - -<p>Without contesting this assertion the vagabond assumed the indifferent -tone of a loafer judging a case:</p> - -<p>"Well, then, mother made a mistake, that's all!"</p> - -<p>After his outburst of rage, the priest had succeeded in mastering -himself sufficiently to be able to inquire:</p> - -<p>"And who told you that you were my son?"</p> - -<p>"My mother, on her deathbed, M'sieur le Curé. And then—this!" And he -held the picture under the eyes of the priest.</p> - -<p>The old man took it from him; and slowly, with a heart bursting with -anguish, he compared this stranger with his faded likeness and doubted -no longer—it was his son.</p> - -<p>An awful distress wrung his very soul, a terrible, inexpressible -emotion invaded him; it was like the remorse of some ancient crime. He -began to understand a little, he guessed the rest. He lived over the -brutal scene of the parting. It was to save her life, then, that the -wretched and deceitful woman had lied to him, her outraged lover. And -he had believed her. And a son of his had been brought into the world -and had grown up to be this sordid tramp, who exhaled the very odor of -vice as a goat exhales its animal smell.</p> - -<p>He whispered: "Will you take a little walk with me, so that we can -discuss these matters?"</p> - -<p>The young man sneered: "Why, certainly! Isn't that what I came for?"</p> - -<p>They walked side by side through the olive grove. The sun had gone down -and the coolness of southern twilights spread an invisible cloak over -the country. The priest shivered, and raising his eyes with a familiar -motion, perceived the trembling gray foliage of the holy tree which had -spread its frail shadow over the Son of Man in His great trouble and -despondency.</p> - -<p>A short, despairing prayer rose within him, uttered by his soul's -voice, a prayer by which Christians implore the Savior's aid: "O Lord! -have mercy on me."</p> - -<p>Turning to his son he said: "So your mother is dead?"</p> - -<p>These words, "Your mother is dead," awakened a new sorrow; it was -the torment of the flesh which cannot forget, the cruel echo of past -sufferings; but mostly the thrill of the fleeting, delirious bliss of -his youthful passion.</p> - -<p>The young man replied: "Yes, Monsieur le Curé, my mother is dead."</p> - -<p>"Has she been dead a long while?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, three years."</p> - -<p>A new doubt entered the priest's mind. "And why did you not find me out -before?"</p> - -<p>The other man hesitated.</p> - -<p>"I was unable to, I was prevented. But excuse me for interrupting these -recollections—I will enter into more details later—for I have not had -anything to eat since yesterday morning."</p> - -<p>A tremor of pity shook the old man and holding forth both hands: "Oh! -my poor child!" he said.</p> - -<p>The young fellow took those big, powerful hands in his own slender and -feverish palms.</p> - -<p>Then he replied, with that air of sarcasm which hardly ever left his -lips: "Ah! I'm beginning to think that we shall get along very well -together, after all!"</p> - -<p>The curé started toward the lodge.</p> - -<p>"Let us go to dinner," he said.</p> - -<p>He suddenly remembered, with a vague and instinctive pleasure, the fine -fish he had caught, which, with the chicken, would make a good meal for -the poor fellow.</p> - -<p>The servant was in front of the door, watching their approach with an -anxious and forbidding face.</p> - -<p>"Marguerite," shouted the abbé, "take the table and put it into the -dining-room, right away; and set two places, as quick as you can."</p> - -<p>The woman seemed stunned at the idea that her master was going to dine -with this tramp.</p> - -<p>But the abbé, without waiting for her, removed the plate and napkin and -carried the little table into the dining-room.</p> - -<p>A few minutes later he was sitting opposite the beggar, in front of a -soup-tureen filled with savory cabbage soup, which sent up a cloud of -fragrant steam.</p> - - -<p>III.</p> - -<p>When the plates were filled, the tramp fell to with ravenous avidity. -The abbé had lost his appetite and ate slowly, leaving the bread in the -bottom of his plate. Suddenly he inquired:</p> - -<p>"What is your name?"</p> - -<p>The man smiled; he was delighted to satisfy his hunger.</p> - -<p>"Father unknown," he said, "and no other name but my mother's, which -you probably remember. But I possess two Christian names, which, by the -way, are quite unsuited to me—Philippe-Auguste."</p> - -<p>The priest whitened.</p> - -<p>"Why were you named thus?" he asked.</p> - -<p>The tramp shrugged his shoulders. "I fancy you ought to know. After -mother left you, she wished to make your rival believe that I was his -child. He did believe it until I was about fifteen. Then I began to -look too much like you. And he disclaimed me, the scoundrel. I had been -christened Philippe-Auguste; now, if I had not resembled a soul, or if -I had been the son of a third person, who had stayed in the background, -to-day I should be the Vicomte Philippe-Auguste de Pravallon, son of -the count and senator bearing this name. I have christened myself -'No-luck.'"</p> - -<p>"How did you learn all this?"</p> - -<p>"They discussed it before me, you know; pretty lively discussions they -were, too. I tell you, that's what shows you the seamy side of life!"</p> - -<p>Something more distressing than all he had suffered during the last -half hour now oppressed the priest. It was a sort of suffocation which -seemed as if it would grow and grow till it killed him; it was not due -so much to the things he heard as to the manner in which they were -uttered by this wayside tramp. Between himself and this beggar, between -his son and himself, he was discovering the existence of those moral -divergencies which are as fatal poisons to certain souls. Was this his -son? He could not yet believe it. He wanted all the proofs, every one -of them. He wanted to hear all, to listen to all. Again he thought of -the olive-trees that shaded his little lodge, and for the second time -he prayed: "O Lord! have mercy upon me."</p> - -<p>Philippe-Auguste had finished his soup. He inquired: "Is there nothing -else, abbé?"</p> - -<p>The kitchen was built in an annex. Marguerite could not hear her -master's voice. He always called her by striking a Chinese gong hung -on the wall behind his chair. He took the brass hammer and struck the -round metal plate. It gave a feeble sound, which grew and vibrated, -becoming sharper and louder till it finally died away on the evening -breeze.</p> - -<p>The servant appeared with a frowning face and cast angry glances at the -tramp, as if her faithful instinct had warned her of the misfortune -that had befallen her master. She held a platter on which was the -sunfish, spreading a savory odor of melted butter through the room. The -abbé divided the fish lengthwise, helping his son to the better half: -"I caught it a little while ago," he said, with a touch of pride in -spite of his keen distress.</p> - -<p>Marguerite had not left the room.</p> - -<p>The priest added: "Bring us some wine, the white wine of Cape Corse."</p> - -<p>She almost rebelled, and the priest, assuming a severe expression was -obliged to repeat: "Now, go, and bring two bottles, remember," for, -when he drank with anybody, a very rare pleasure, indeed, he always -opened one bottle for himself.</p> - -<p>Beaming, Philippe-Auguste remarked: "Fine! A splendid idea! It has been -a long time since I've had such a dinner." The servant came back after -a few minutes. The abbé thought it an eternity, for now a thirst for -information burned his blood like infernal fire.</p> - -<p>After the bottles had been opened, the woman still remained, her eyes -glued on the tramp.</p> - -<p>"Leave us," said the curé.</p> - -<p>She intentionally ignored his command.</p> - -<p>He repeated almost roughly: "I have ordered you to leave us."</p> - -<p>Then she left the room.</p> - -<p>Philippe-Auguste devoured the fish voraciously, while his father sat -watching him, more and more surprised and saddened at all the baseness -stamped on the face that was so like his own. The morsels the abbé -raised to his lips remained in his mouth, for his throat could not -swallow; so he ate slowly, trying to choose, from the host of questions -which besieged his mind, the one he wished his son to answer first. At -last he spoke:</p> - -<p>"What was the cause of her death?"</p> - -<p>"Consumption."</p> - -<p>"Was she ill a long time?"</p> - -<p>"About eighteen months."</p> - -<p>"How did she contract it?"</p> - -<p>"We could not tell."</p> - -<p>Both men were silent. The priest was reflecting. He was oppressed by -the multitude of things he wished to know and to hear, for since the -rupture, since the day he had tried to kill her, he had heard nothing. -Certainly, he had not cared to know, because he had buried her, along -with his happiest days, in forgetfulness; but now, knowing that she was -dead and gone, he felt within himself the almost jealous desire of a -lover to hear all.</p> - -<p>He continued: "She was not alone, was she?"</p> - -<p>"No, she lived with him."</p> - -<p>The old man started: "With him? With Pravallon?"</p> - -<p>"Why, yes."</p> - -<p>And the betrayed man rapidly calculated that the woman who had deceived -him, had lived over thirty years with his rival.</p> - -<p>Almost unconsciously he asked: "Were they happy?"</p> - -<p>The young man sneered. "Why, yes, with ups and downs! It would have -been better had I not been there. I always spoiled everything."</p> - -<p>"How, and why?" inquired the priest.</p> - -<p>"I have already told you. Because he thought I was his son up to my -fifteenth year. But the old fellow wasn't a fool, and soon discovered -the likeness. That created scenes. I used to listen behind the door. He -accused mother of having deceived him. Mother would answer: 'Is it my -fault? you knew quite well when you took me that I was the mistress of -that other man.' You were that other man."</p> - -<p>"Ah! They spoke of me sometimes?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, but never mentioned your name before me, excepting toward the -end, when mother knew she was lost. I think they distrusted me."</p> - -<p>"And you—and you learned quite early the irregularity of your mother's -position?"</p> - -<p>"Why, certainly. I am not innocent and I never was. Those things are -easy to guess as soon as one begins to know life."</p> - -<p>Philippe-Auguste had been filling his glass repeatedly. His eyes now -were beginning to sparkle, for his long fast was favorable to the -intoxicating effects of the wine. The priest noticed it and wished to -caution him. But suddenly the thought that a drunkard is imprudent and -loquacious flashed through him, and lifting the bottle he again filled -the young man's glass.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile Marguerite had brought the chicken. Having set it on the -table, she again fastened her eyes on the tramp, saying in an indignant -voice: "Can't you see that he's drunk, Monsieur le Curé?"</p> - -<p>"Leave us," replied the priest, "and return to the kitchen."</p> - -<p>She went out, slamming the door.</p> - -<p>He then inquired: "What did your mother say about me?"</p> - -<p>"Why, what a woman usually says of a man she has jilted: that you were -hard to get along with, very strange, and that you would have made her -life miserable with your peculiar ideas."</p> - -<p>"Did she say that often?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, but sometimes only in allusions, for fear I would understand; but -nevertheless I guessed all."</p> - -<p>"And how did they treat you in that house?"</p> - -<p>"Me? They treated me very well at first and very badly afterward. When -mother saw that I was interfering with her, she shook me."</p> - -<p>"How?"</p> - -<p>"How? very easily. When I was about sixteen years old, I got into -various scrapes, and those blackguards put me into a reformatory to get -rid of me." He put his elbows on the table and rested his cheeks in his -palms. He was hopelessly intoxicated, and felt the unconquerable desire -of all drunkards to talk and boast about themselves.</p> - -<p>He smiled sweetly, with a feminine grace, an arch grace the priest knew -and recognized as the hated charm that had won him long ago, and had -also wrought his undoing. Now it was his mother whom the boy resembled, -not so much because of his features, but because of his fascinating and -deceptive glance, and the seductiveness of the false smile that played -around his lips, the outlet of his inner ignominy.</p> - -<p>Philippe-Auguste began to relate: "Ah! Ah! Ah!—I've had a fine life -since I left the reformatory! A great writer would pay a large sum for -it! Why, old Père Dumas's Monte Cristo has had no stranger adventures -than mine."</p> - -<p>He paused to reflect with the philosophical gravity of the drunkard, -then he continued slowly:</p> - -<p>"When you wish a boy to turn out well, no matter what he has done, -never send him to a reformatory. The associations are too bad. Now, -I got into a bad scrape. One night about nine o'clock, I, with three -companions—we were all a little drunk—was walking along the road -near the ford of Folac. All at once a wagon hove in sight, with the -driver and his family asleep in it. They were people from Martinon on -their way home from town. I caught hold of the bridle, led the horse -to the ferryboat, made him walk into it, and pushed the boat into the -middle of the stream. This created some noise and the driver awoke. He -could not see in the dark, but whipped up the horse, which started on -a run and landed in the water with the whole load. All were drowned! -My companions denounced me to the authorities, though they thought it -was a good joke when they saw me do it. Really, we didn't think that it -would turn out that way. We only wanted to give the people a ducking, -just for fun. After that I committed worse offenses to revenge myself -for the first one, which did not, on my honor, warrant the reformatory. -But what's the use of telling them? I will speak only of the latest -one, because I am sure it will please you. Papa, I avenged you!"</p> - -<p>The abbé was watching his son with terrified eyes; he had stopped -eating.</p> - -<p>Philippe-Auguste was preparing to begin. "No, not yet," said the -priest, "in a little while."</p> - -<p>And he turned to strike the Chinese gong.</p> - -<p>Marguerite appeared almost instantly. Her master addressed her in -such a rough tone that she hung her head, thoroughly frightened and -obedient: "Bring in the lamp and the dessert, and then do not appear -until I summon you."</p> - -<p>She went out and returned with a porcelain lamp covered with a green -shade, and bringing also a large piece of cheese and some fruit.</p> - -<p>After she had gone, the abbé turned resolutely to his son.</p> - -<p>"Now I am ready to hear you."</p> - -<p>Philippe-Auguste calmly filled his plate with dessert and poured wine -into his glass. The second bottle was nearly empty, though the priest -had not touched it.</p> - -<p>His mouth and tongue, thick with food and wine, the man stuttered: -"Well, now for the last job. And it's a good one. I was home -again,—stayed there in spite of them, because they feared me,—yes, -feared me. Ah! you can't fool with me, you know,—I'll do anything, -when I'm roused. They lived together on and off. The old man had two -residences. One official, for the senator, the other clandestine, for -the lover. Still, he lived more in the latter than in the former, as -he could not get along without mother. Mother was a sharp one—she -knew how to hold a man! She had taken him body and soul, and kept him -to the last! Well, I had come back and I kept them down by fright. I -am resourceful at times—nobody can match me for sharpness and for -strength, too—I'm afraid of no one. Well, mother got sick and the old -man took her to a fine place in the country, near Meulan, situated in a -park as big as a wood. She lasted about eighteen months, as I told you. -Then we felt the end to be near. He came from Paris every day—he was -very miserable—really.</p> - -<p>"One morning they chatted a long time, over an hour, I think, and I -could not imagine what they were talking about. Suddenly mother called -me in and said:</p> - -<p>"'I am going to die, and there is something I want to tell you -beforehand, in spite of the Count's advice.' In speaking of him she -always said 'the Count.' 'It is the name of your father, who is alive.' -I had asked her this more than fifty times—more than fifty times—my -father's name—more than fifty times—and she always refused to tell. I -think I even beat her one day to make her talk, but it was of no use. -Then, to get rid of me, she told me that you had died penniless, that -you were worthless and that she had made a mistake in her youth, an -innocent girl's mistake. She lied so well, I really believed you had -died.</p> - -<p>"Finally she said: 'It is your father's name.'</p> - -<p>"The old man, who was sitting in an armchair, repeated three times, -like this: 'You do wrong, you do wrong, you do wrong, Rosette.'</p> - -<p>"Mother sat up in bed. I can see her now, with her flushed cheeks and -shining eyes; she loved me, in spite of everything; and she said: -'Then you do something for him, Philippe!' In speaking to him she -called him 'Philippe' and me 'Auguste.'</p> - -<p>"He began to shout like a madman: 'Do something for that loafer—that -blackguard, that convict? never!'</p> - -<p>"And he continued to call me names, as if he had done nothing else all -his life but collect them.</p> - -<p>"I was angry, but mother told me to hold my tongue, and she resumed: -'Then you must want him to starve, for you know that I leave no money.'</p> - -<p>"Without being deterred, he continued: 'Rosette, I have given you -thirty-five thousand francs a year for thirty years,—that makes more -than a million. I have enabled you to live like a wealthy, a beloved, -and I may say, a happy woman. I owe nothing to that fellow, who has -spoiled our late years, and he will not get a cent from me. It is -useless to insist. Tell him the name of his father, if you wish. I am -sorry, but I wash my hands of him.'</p> - -<p>"Then mother turned toward me. I thought: 'Good! now I'm going to find -my real father—if he has money, I'm saved.'</p> - -<p>"She went on: 'Your father, the Baron de Vilbois, is to-day the Abbé -Vilbois, curé of Garandou, near Toulon. He was my lover before I left -him for the Count!'</p> - -<p>"And she told me all, excepting that she had deceived you about her -pregnancy. But women, you know, never tell the whole truth."</p> - -<p>Sneeringly, unconsciously, he was revealing the depths of his foul -nature. With beaming face he raised the glass to his lips and -continued:</p> - -<p>"Mother died two days—two days later. We followed her remains to -the grave, he and I—say—wasn't it funny?—he and I—and three -servants—that was all. He cried like a calf—we were side by side—we -looked like father and son.</p> - -<p>"Then he went back to the house alone. I was thinking to myself: 'I'll -have to clear out now and without a penny, too.' I owned only fifty -francs. What could I do to revenge myself?</p> - -<p>"He touched me on the arm and said: 'I wish to speak to you.' I -followed him into his office. He sat down in front of the desk and, -wiping away his tears, he told me that he would not be as hard on me -as he had said he would to mother. He begged me to leave you alone. -That—that concerns only you and me. He offered me a thousand-franc -note—a thousand—a thousand francs. What could a fellow like me do -with a thousand francs?—I saw that there were very many bills in the -drawer. The sight of the money made me wild. I put out my hand as if to -take the note he offered me, but instead of doing so, I sprang at him, -threw him to the ground and choked him till he grew purple. When I saw -that he was going to give up the ghost, I gagged and bound him. Then I -undressed him, laid him on his stomach and—ah! ah! ah!—I avenged you -in a funny way!"</p> - -<p>He stopped to cough, for he was choking with merriment. His ferocious, -mirthful smile reminded the priest once more of the woman who had -wrought his undoing.</p> - -<p>"And then?" he inquired.</p> - -<p>"Then,—ah! ah! ah!—There was a bright fire in the fireplace—it -was in the winter—in December—mother died—a bright coal fire—I -took the poker—I let it get red-hot—and I made crosses on his back, -eight or more, I cannot remember how many—then I turned him over and -repeated them on his stomach. Say, wasn't it funny, papa? Formerly -they marked convicts in this way. He wriggled like an eel—but I had -gagged him so that he couldn't scream. I gathered up the bills—twelve -in all—with mine it made thirteen—an unlucky number. I left the -house, after telling the servants not to bother their master until -dinner-time, because he was asleep. I thought that he would hush the -matter up because he was a senator and would fear the scandal. I was -mistaken. Four days later I was arrested in a Paris restaurant. I got -three years for the job. That is the reason why I did not come to you -sooner." He drank again, and stuttering so as to render his words -almost unintelligible, continued:</p> - -<p>"Now—papa—isn't it funny to have one's papa a curé? You must be nice -to me, very nice, because, you know, I am not commonplace,—and I did a -good job—didn't I—on the old man?"</p> - -<p>The anger which years ago had driven the Abbé Vilbois to desperation -rose within him at the sight of this miserable man.</p> - -<p>He, who in the name of the Lord, had so often pardoned the infamous -secrets whispered to him under the seal of confession, was now -merciless in his own behalf. No longer did he implore the help of a -merciful God, for he realized that no power on earth or in the sky -could save those who had been visited by such a terrible disaster.</p> - -<p>All the ardor of his passionate heart and of his violent blood, which -long years of resignation had tempered, awoke against the miserable -creature who was his son. He protested against the likeness he bore to -him and to his mother, the wretched mother who had formed him so like -herself; and he rebelled against the destiny that had chained this -criminal to him, like an iron ball to a galley-slave.</p> - -<p>The shock roused him from the peaceful and pious slumber which had -lasted twenty-five years; with a wonderful lucidity he saw all that -would inevitably ensue.</p> - -<p>Convinced that he must talk loud so as to intimidate this man from the -first, he spoke with his teeth clenched with fury:</p> - -<p>"Now that you have told all, listen to me. You will leave here -to-morrow morning. You will go to a country that I shall designate, and -never leave it without my permission. I will give you a small income, -for I am poor. If you disobey me once, it will be withdrawn and you -will learn to know me."</p> - -<p>Though Philippe-Auguste was half dazed with wine, he understood the -threat. Instantly the criminal within him rebelled. Between hiccoughs -he sputtered: "Ah! papa, be careful what you say—you're a curé, -remember—I hold you—and you have to walk straight, like the rest!"</p> - -<p>The abbé started. Through his whole muscular frame crept the -unconquerable desire to seize this monster, to bend him like a twig, so -as to show him that he would have to yield.</p> - -<p>Shaking the table, he shouted: "Take care, take care—I am afraid of -nobody."</p> - -<p>The drunkard lost his balance and seeing that he was going to fall and -would forthwith be in the priest's power, he reached with a murderous -look for one of the knives lying on the table. The abbé perceived his -motion, and he gave the table a terrible shove; his son toppled over -and landed on his back. The lamp fell with a crash and went out.</p> - -<p>During a moment the clinking of broken glass was heard in the darkness, -then the muffled sound of a soft body creeping on the floor, and then -all was silent.</p> - -<p>With the crashing of the lamp a complete darkness spread over them; -it was so prompt and unexpected that they were stunned by it as by -some terrible event. The drunkard, pressed against the wall, did not -move; the priest remained on his chair in the midst of the night which -had quelled his rage. The somber veil that had descended so rapidly, -arresting his anger, also quieted the furious impulses of his soul; new -ideas, as dark and dreary as the obscurity, beset him.</p> - -<p>The room was perfectly silent, like a tomb where nothing draws the -breath of life. Not a sound came from outside, neither the rumbling of -a distant wagon, nor the bark of a dog, nor even the sigh of the wind -passing through the trees.</p> - -<p>This lasted a long time, perhaps an hour. Then suddenly the gong -vibrated! It rang once, as if it had been struck a short, sharp blow, -and was instantly followed by the noise of a falling body and an -overturned chair.</p> - -<p>Marguerite came running out of the kitchen, but as soon as she opened -the door she fell back, frightened by the intense darkness. Trembling, -her heart beating as if it would burst, she called in a low, hoarse -voice: "M'sieur le Curé! M'sieur le Curé!"</p> - -<p>Nobody answered, nothing stirred.</p> - -<p>"<i>Mon Dieu, mon Dieu</i>," she thought, "what has happened, what have they -done?"</p> - -<p>She did not dare enter the room, yet feared to go back to fetch a -light. She felt as if she would like to run away, to screech at the top -of her voice, though she knew her legs would refuse to carry her. She -repeated: "M'sieur le Curé! M'sieur le Curé! it is me, Marguerite."</p> - -<p>But, notwithstanding her terror, the instinctive desire of helping her -master and a woman's courage, which is sometimes heroic, filled her -soul with a terrified audacity, and running back to the kitchen she -fetched a lamp.</p> - -<p>She stopped at the doorsill. First, she caught sight of the tramp lying -against the wall, asleep, or simulating slumber; then she saw the -broken lamp, and then, under the table, the feet and black-stockinged -legs of the priest, who must have fallen backward, striking his head on -the gong.</p> - -<p>Her teeth chattering and her hands trembling with fright, she kept on -repeating: "My God! My God! what is this?"</p> - -<p>She advanced slowly, taking small steps, till she slid on something -slimy and almost fell.</p> - -<p>Stooping, she saw that the floor was red and that a red liquid was -spreading around her feet toward the door. She guessed that it was -blood. She threw down her light so as to hide the sight of it, and fled -from the room out into the fields, running half crazed toward the -village. She ran screaming at the top of her voice, and bumping against -the trees she did not heed, her eyes fastened on the gleaming lights of -the distant town.</p> - -<p>Her shrill voice rang out like the gloomy cry of the night-owl, -repeating continuously, "The maoufatan—the maoufatan—the -maoufatan——"</p> - -<p>When she reached the first house, some excited men came out and -surrounded her; but she could not answer them and struggled to escape, -for the fright had turned her head.</p> - -<p>After a while they guessed that something must have happened to the -curé, and a little rescuing party started for the lodge.</p> - -<p>The little pink house standing in the middle of the olive grove had -grown black and invisible in the dark, silent night. Since the gleam of -the solitary window had faded, the cabin was plunged in darkness, lost -in the grove, and unrecognizable for anyone but a native of the place.</p> - -<p>Soon lights began to gleam near the ground, between the trees, -streaking the dried grass with long, yellow reflections. The twisted -trunks of the olive-trees assumed fantastic shapes under the moving -lights, looking like monsters or infernal serpents. The projected -reflections suddenly revealed a vague, white mass, and soon the low, -square wall of the lodge grew pink from the light of the lanterns. -Several peasants were carrying the latter, escorting two gendarmes with -revolvers, the mayor, the <i>garde-champêtre</i>, and Marguerite, supported -by the men, for she was almost unable to walk.</p> - -<p>The rescuing party hesitated a moment in front of the open, grewsome -door. But the brigadier, snatching a lantern from one of the men, -entered, followed by the rest.</p> - -<p>The servant had not lied, blood covered the floor like a carpet. It had -spread to the place where the tramp was lying, bathing one of his hands -and legs.</p> - -<p>The father and son were asleep, the one with a severed throat, the -other in a drunken stupor. The two gendarmes seized the latter and -before he awoke they had him handcuffed. He rubbed his eyes, stunned, -stupefied with liquor, and when he saw the body of the priest, he -appeared terrified, unable to understand what had happened.</p> - -<p>"Why did he not escape?" said the mayor.</p> - -<p>"He was too drunk," replied the officer.</p> - -<p>And every man agreed with him, for nobody ever thought that perhaps the -Abbé Vilbois had taken his own life.</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h4><a name="REVENGE" id="REVENGE">REVENGE</a></h4> - - -<p>As they were still speaking of Pranzini, M. Maloureau, who had been -Attorney-General under the Empire, said:</p> - -<p>"I knew another case like that, a very curious affair, curious from -many points, as you shall see.</p> - -<p>"I was at that time Imperial attorney in the province, and stood -very well at Court, thanks to my father, who was first President at -Paris. I had charge of a still celebrated case, called 'The Affair of -Schoolmaster Moiron.'</p> - -<p>"M. Moiron, a schoolmaster in the north of France, bore an excellent -reputation in all the country thereabout. He was an intelligent, -reflective, very religious man, and had married in the district -of Boislinot, where he practiced his profession. He had had three -children, who all died in succession from weak lungs. After the loss of -his own little ones, he seemed to lavish upon the urchins confided to -his care all the tenderness concealed in his heart. He bought, with his -own pennies, playthings for his best pupils, the diligent and good. -He allowed them to have play dinners, and gorged them with dainties of -candies and cakes. Everybody loved and praised this brave man, this -brave heart, and it was like a blow when five of his pupils died of the -same disease that had carried off his children. It was believed that an -epidemic prevailed, caused by the water being made impure from drought. -They looked for the cause, without discovering it, more than they did -at the symptoms, which were very strange. The children appeared to be -taken with a languor, could eat nothing, complained of pains in the -stomach, and finally died in most terrible agony.</p> - -<p>"An autopsy was made of the last to die, but nothing was discovered. -The entrails were sent to Paris and analyzed, but showed no sign of any -toxic substance.</p> - -<p>"For one year no further deaths occurred; then two little boys, the -best pupils in the class, favorites of father Moiron, expired in four -days' time. An examination was ordered, and in each body fragments -of pounded glass were found imbedded in the organs. They concluded -that the two children had eaten imprudently of something carelessly -prepared. Sufficient broken glass remained in the bottom of a bowl of -milk to have caused this frightful accident, and the matter would have -rested there had not Moiron's servant been taken ill in the interval. -The physician found the same morbid signs that he observed in the -preceding attacks of the children, and, upon questioning her, finally -obtained the confession that she had stolen and eaten some bonbons, -bought by the master for his pupils.</p> - -<p>"Upon order of the court, the schoolhouse was searched and a closet was -found, full of sweetmeats and dainties for the children. Nearly all -these edibles contained fragments of glass or broken needles.</p> - -<p>"Moiron was immediately arrested. He was so indignant and stupefied -at the weight of suspicion upon him that he was nearly overcome. -Nevertheless, the indications of his guilt were so apparent that they -fought hard in my mind against my first conviction, which was based -upon his good reputation, his entire life of truthfulness, and the -absolute absence of any motive for such a crime.</p> - -<p>"Why should this good, simple religious man kill children, and the -children whom he seemed to love best? Why should he select those he had -feasted with dainties, for whom he had spent in playthings and bonbons -half his stipend?</p> - -<p>"To admit this, it must be concluded that he was insane. But Moiron -seemed so reasonable, so calm, so full of judgment and good sense! It -was impossible to prove insanity in him.</p> - -<p>"Proofs accumulated, nevertheless! Bonbons, cakes, <i>pâtés</i> of -marshmallow, and other things seized at the shops where the -schoolmaster got his supplies were found to contain no suspected -fragment.</p> - -<p>"He pretended that some unknown enemy had opened his closet with a -false key and placed the glass and needles in the eatables. And he -implied a story of heritage dependent on the death of a child, sought -out and discovered by a peasant, and so worked up as to make the -suspicion fall upon the schoolmaster. This brute, he said, was not -interested in the other poor children who had to die also.</p> - -<p>"This theory was plausible. The man appeared so sure of himself and -so pitiful, that we should have acquitted him without doubt, if two -overwhelming discoveries had not been made at one blow. The first was -a snuffbox full of ground glass! It was his own snuffbox, in a secret -drawer of his secretary, where he kept his money.</p> - -<p>"He explained this in a manner not acceptable, by saying that it was -the last ruse of an unknown guilty one. But a merchant of Saint-Marlouf -presented himself at the house of the judge, telling him that Moiron -had bought needles of him many times, the finest needles he could find, -breaking them to see whether they suited him.</p> - -<p>"The merchant brought as witnesses a dozen persons who recognized -Moiron at first glance. And the inquest revealed the fact that the -schoolmaster was at Saint-Marlouf on the days designated by the -merchant.</p> - -<p>"I pass over the terrible depositions of the children upon the master's -choice of dainties, and his care in making the little ones eat in his -presence and destroying all traces of the feast.</p> - -<p>"Public opinion, exasperated, recalled capital punishment, and took on -a new force from terror which permitted no delays or resistance.</p> - -<p>"Moiron was condemned to death. His appeal was rejected. No recourse -remained to him for pardon. I knew from my father that the Emperor -would not grant it.</p> - -<p>"One morning, as I was at work in my office, the chaplain of the prison -was announced. He was an old priest who had a great knowledge of men -and a large acquaintance among criminals. He appeared troubled and -constrained. After talking a few moments of other things, he said -abruptly, on rising:</p> - -<p>"'If Moiron is decapitated, Monsieur Attorney-General, you will have -allowed the execution of an innocent man.'</p> - -<p>"Then, without bowing, he went out, leaving me under the profound -effect of his words. He had pronounced them in a solemn, affecting -fashion, opening lips, closed and sealed by confession, in order to -save a life.</p> - -<p>"An hour later I was on my way to Paris, and my father, at my request, -asked an immediate audience with the Emperor.</p> - -<p>"I was received the next day. Napoleon III. was at work in a little -room when we were introduced. I exposed the whole affair, even to the -visit of the priest, and, in the midst of the story, the door opened -behind the chair of the Emperor, and the Empress, who believed in him -alone, entered. His Majesty consulted her. When she had run over the -facts, she exclaimed:</p> - -<p>"'This man must be pardoned! He must, because he is innocent.'</p> - -<p>"Why should this sudden conviction of a woman so pious throw into my -mind a terrible doubt?</p> - -<p>"Up to that time I had ardently desired a commutation of the sentence. -And now I felt myself the puppet, the dupe of a criminal ruse, which -had employed the priest and the confession as a means of defense.</p> - -<p>"I showed some hesitation to their Majesties. The Emperor remained -undecided, solicited on one hand by his natural goodness, and on the -other held back by the fear of allowing himself to play a miserable -part; but the Empress, convinced that the priest had obeyed a divine -call, repeated: 'What does it matter? It is better to spare a guilty -man than to kill an innocent one.' Her advice prevailed. The penalty of -death was commuted, and that of hard labor was substituted.</p> - -<p>"Some years after I heard that Moiron, whose exemplary conduct at -Toulon had been made known again to the Emperor, was employed as a -domestic by the director of the penitentiary. And then I heard no word -of this man for a long time.</p> - -<p>"About two years after this, when I was passing the summer at the house -of my cousin, De Larielle, a young priest came to me one evening, as we -were sitting down to dinner, and wished to speak to me.</p> - -<p>"I told them to let him come in, and he begged me to go with him to a -dying man, who desired, before all else, to see me. This had happened -often, during my long career as judge, and, although I had been put -aside by the Republic, I was still called upon from time to time in -like circumstances.</p> - -<p>"I followed the ecclesiastic, who made me mount into a little miserable -lodging, under the roof of a high house. There, upon a pallet of straw, -I found a dying man, seated with his back against the wall, in order to -breathe. He was a sort of grimacing skeleton, with deep, shining eyes.</p> - -<p>"When he saw me he murmured: 'You do not know me?'</p> - -<p>"'No.'</p> - -<p>"'I am Moiron.'</p> - -<p>"I shivered, but said: 'The schoolmaster?'</p> - -<p>"'Yes.'</p> - -<p>"'How is it you are here?'</p> - -<p>"'That would be too long—I haven't time—I am going to die—They -brought me this curate—and as I knew you were here, I sent him for -you—It is to you that I wish to confess—since you saved my life -before—the other time——'</p> - -<p>"He seized with his dry hands the straw of his bed, and continued, in a -rasping, bass voice:</p> - -<p>"'Here it is—I owe you the truth—to you, because it is necessary to -tell it to some one before leaving the earth.</p> - -<p>"'It was I who killed the children—all—it was I—for vengeance!</p> - -<p>"'Listen. I was an honest man, very honest—very honest—very -pure—adoring God—the good God—the God that they teach us to love, -and not the false God, the executioner, the robber, the murderer -who governs the earth—I had never done wrong, never committed a -villainous act. I was pure as one unborn.</p> - -<p>"'After I was married I had some children, and I began to love them as -never father or mother loved their own. I lived only for them. I was -foolish. They died, all three of them! Why? Why? What had I done? I? I -had a change of heart, a furious change. Suddenly I opened my eyes as -of one awakening; and I learned that God is wicked. Why had He killed -my children? I opened my eyes and I saw that He loved to kill. He loves -only that, Monsieur. He exists only to destroy! God is a murderer! Some -death is necessary to Him every day. He causes them in all fashions, -the better to amuse Himself. He has invented sickness and accident -in order to divert Himself through all the long months and years. -And, when He is weary, He has epidemics, pests, the cholera, quinsy, -smallpox.</p> - -<p>"'How do I know all that this monster has imagined? All these evils are -not enough to suffice. From time to time He sends war, in order to see -two hundred thousand soldiers laid low, bruised in blood and mire, with -arms and legs torn off, heads broken by bullets, like eggs that fall -along the road.</p> - -<p>"'That is not all. He has made men who eat one another. And then, as -men become better than He, He has made beasts to see the men chase -them, slaughter, and nourish themselves with them. That is not all. -He has made all the little animals that live for a day, flies which -increase by myriads in an hour, ants, that one crushes, and others, -many, so many that we cannot even imagine them. And all kill one -another, chase one another, devour one another, murdering without -ceasing. And the good God looks on and is amused, because He sees all -for Himself, the largest as well as the smallest, those which are in -drops of water, as well as those in the stars. He looks at them all and -is amused! Ugh! Beast!</p> - -<p>"'So I, Monsieur, I also have killed some children. I acted the part -for Him. It was not He who had them. It was not He, it was I. And I -would have killed still more, but you took me away. That's all!</p> - -<p>"'I was going to die, guillotined. I! How He would have laughed, the -reptile! Then I asked for a priest, and lied to him. I confessed. I -lied, and I lived.</p> - -<p>"'Now it is finished. I can no longer escape Him. But I have no fear of -Him, Monsieur, I understand Him too well.'</p> - -<p>"It was frightful to see this miserable creature, hardly able to -breathe, talking in hiccoughs, opening an enormous mouth to eject some -words scarcely heard, pulling up the cloth of his straw bed, and, under -a cover nearly black, moving his meager limbs as if to save himself.</p> - -<p>"Oh! frightful being and frightful remembrance!</p> - -<p>"I asked him: 'You have nothing more to say?'</p> - -<p>"'No, Monsieur.'</p> - -<p>"'Then, farewell.'</p> - -<p>"'Farewell, sir, one day or the other.'</p> - -<p>"I turned toward the priest, whose somber silhouette was on the wall.</p> - -<p>"'You will remain, M. Abbé?'</p> - -<p>"'I will remain.'</p> - -<p>"Then the dying man sneered: 'Yes, yes, he sends crows to dead bodies.'</p> - -<p>"As for me, I had seen enough. I opened the door and went away in -self-protection."</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h4><a name="AN_OLD_MAID" id="AN_OLD_MAID">AN OLD MAID</a></h4> - - -<p>In Argenteuil they called her Queen Hortense. No one ever knew the -reason why. Perhaps because she spoke firmly, like an officer in -command. Perhaps because she was large, bony, and imperious. Perhaps -because she governed a multitude of domestic animals, hens, dogs, cats, -canaries, and parrots,—those animals so dear to old maids. But she -gave these familiar subjects neither dainties, nor pretty words, nor -those tender puerilities which seem to slip from the lips of a woman to -the velvety coat of the cat she is fondling. She governed her beasts -with authority. She ruled.</p> - -<p>She was an old maid, one of those old maids with cracked voice, and -awkward gesture, whose soul seems hard. She never allowed contradiction -from any person, nor argument, nor would she tolerate hesitation, or -indifference, or idleness, or fatigue. No one ever heard her complain, -or regret what was, or desire what was not. "Each to his part," she -said, with the conviction of a fatalist. She never went to church, -cared nothing for the priests, scarcely believed in God, and called all -religious things "mourning merchandise."</p> - -<p>For thirty years she had lived in her little house, with its tiny -garden in front, extending along the street, never modifying her -garments, changing only maids, and that mercilessly, when they became -twenty-one years old.</p> - -<p>She replaced, without tears and without regrets, her dogs or cats -or birds, when they died of old age, or by accident, and she buried -trespassing animals in a flower-bed, heaping the earth above them and -treading it down with perfect indifference.</p> - -<p>She had in the town some acquaintances, the families of employers, -whose men went to Paris every day. Sometimes they would invite her -to go to the theater with them. She inevitably fell asleep on these -occasions, and they were obliged to wake her when it was time to go -home. She never allowed anyone to accompany her, having no fear by -night or day. She seemed to have no love for children.</p> - -<p>She occupied her time with a thousand masculine cares, carpentry, -gardening, cutting or sawing wood, repairing her old house, even doing -mason's work when it was necessary.</p> - -<p>She had some relatives who came to see her twice a year. Her two -sisters, Madame Cimme and Madame Columbel, were married, one to -a florist, the other to a small householder. Madame Cimme had no -children; Madame Columbel had three: Henry, Pauline, and Joseph. Henry -was twenty-one, Pauline and Joseph were three, having come when one -would have thought the mother past the age. No tenderness united this -old maid to her kinsfolk.</p> - -<p>In the spring of 1882, Queen Hortense became suddenly ill. The -neighbors went for a physician, whom she drove away. When the priest -presented himself she got out of bed, half naked, and put him out of -doors. The little maid, weeping, made gruel for her.</p> - -<p>After three days in bed, the situation became so grave that the -carpenter living next door, after counsel with the physician (now -reinstated with authority), took it upon himself to summon the two -families.</p> - -<p>They arrived by the same train, about ten o'clock in the morning; the -Columbels having brought their little Joseph.</p> - -<p>When they approached the garden gate, they saw the maid seated in a -chair against the wall, weeping. The dog lay asleep on the mat before -the door, under a broiling sun; two cats, that looked as if dead, lay -stretched out on the window-sills, with eyes closed and paws and tails -extended at full length. A great glossy hen was promenading before the -door, at the head of a flock of chickens, covered with yellow down, -and in a large cage hung against the wall, covered with chickweed, -were several birds, singing themselves hoarse in the light of this hot -spring morning.</p> - -<p>Two others, inseparable, in a little cage in the form of a cottage, -remained quiet, side by side on their perch.</p> - -<p>M. Cimme, a large, wheezy personage, who always entered a room first, -putting aside men and women when it was necessary, remarked to the -maid: "Eh, Celeste! Is it so bad as that?"</p> - -<p>The little maid sobbed through her tears:</p> - -<p>"She doesn't know me any more. The doctor says it is the end."</p> - -<p>They all looked at one another.</p> - -<p>Madame Cimme and Madame Columbel embraced each other instantly, not -saying a word.</p> - -<p>They resembled each other much, always wearing braids of hair and -shawls of red cashmere, as bright as hot coals.</p> - -<p>Cimme turned toward his brother-in-law, a pale man, yellow and thin, -tormented by indigestion, who limped badly, and said to him in a -serious tone:</p> - -<p>"Gad! It was time!"</p> - -<p>But no one dared to go into the room of the dying woman situated on -the ground floor. Cimme himself stopped at that step. Columbel was the -first to decide upon it; he entered, balancing himself like the mast of -a ship, making a noise on the floor with the iron of his cane.</p> - -<p>The two women ventured to follow, and M. Cimme brought up the line.</p> - -<p>Little Joseph remained outside, playing with the dog.</p> - -<p>A ray of sunlight fell on the bed, lighting up the hands which moved -nervously, opening and shutting without ceasing. The fingers moved -as if a thought animated them, as if they would signify something, -indicate some idea, obey some intelligence. The rest of the body -remained motionless under the covers. The angular figure gave no start. -The eyes remained closed.</p> - -<p>The relatives arranged themselves in a semicircle and, without saying a -word, regarded the heaving breast and the short breathing. The little -maid had followed them, still shedding tears.</p> - -<p>Finally, Cimme asked: "What was it the doctor said?"</p> - -<p>The servant whispered: "He said we should leave her quiet, that nothing -more could be done."</p> - -<p>Suddenly the lips of the old maid began to move. She seemed to -pronounce some silent words, concealed in her dying brain, and her -hands quickened their singular movement.</p> - -<p>Then she spoke in a little, thin voice, quite unlike her own, an -utterance that seemed to come from far off, perhaps from the bottom of -that heart always closed.</p> - -<p>Cimme walked upon tiptoe, finding this spectacle painful. Columbel, -whose lame leg wearied him, sat down.</p> - -<p>The two women remained standing.</p> - -<p>Queen Hortense muttered something quickly, which they were unable to -understand. She pronounced some names, called tenderly some imaginary -persons:</p> - -<p>"Come here, my little Philip, kiss your mother. You love mamma, don't -you, my child? You, Rose, you will watch your little sister while I am -out. Especially, don't leave her alone, do you hear? And I forbid you -to touch matches."</p> - -<p>She was silent some seconds; then, in a loud tone, as if she would -call, she said: "Henrietta!" She waited a little and continued: "Tell -your father to come and speak to me before going to his office." Then -suddenly: "I am suffering a little to-day, dear; promise me you will -not return late; you will tell your chief that I am ill. You know it is -dangerous to leave the children alone when I am in bed. I am going to -make you a dish of rice and sugar for dinner. The little ones like it -so much. Claire will be the happy one!"</p> - -<p>She began to laugh, a young and noisy laugh, as she had never laughed -before. "Look, John," she said, "what a droll head he has. He has -smeared himself with the sugarplums, the dirty thing! Look! my dear, -how funny he looks!"</p> - -<p>Columbel, who changed the position of his lame leg every moment, -murmured: "She is dreaming that she has children and a husband; the end -is near."</p> - -<p>The two sisters did not move, but seemed surprised and stupid.</p> - -<p>The little maid said: "Will you take off your hats and your shawls, and -go into the other room?"</p> - -<p>They went out without having said a word. And Columbel followed them -limping, leaving the dying woman alone again.</p> - -<p>When they were relieved of their outer garments, the women seated -themselves. Then one of the cats left the window, stretched herself, -jumped into the room, then upon the knees of Madame Cimme, who began to -caress her.</p> - -<p>They heard from the next room the voice of agony, living, without -doubt, in this last hour, the life she had expected, living her dreams -at the very moment when all would be finished for her.</p> - -<p>Cimme, in the garden, played with the little Joseph and the dog, -amusing himself much, with the gaiety of a great man in the country, -without thought of the dying woman.</p> - -<p>But suddenly he entered, addressing the maid: "Say, then, my girl, are -you going to give us some luncheon? What are you going to eat, ladies?"</p> - -<p>They decided upon an omelet of fine herbs, a piece of fillet with new -potatoes, a cheese, and a cup of coffee.</p> - -<p>And as Madame Columbel was fumbling in her pocket for her purse: Cimme -stopped her, and turning to the maid said, "You need money?" and she -answered: "Yes, sir."</p> - -<p>"How much?"</p> - -<p>"Fifteen francs."</p> - -<p>"Very well. Make haste, now, my girl, because I am getting hungry."</p> - -<p>Madame Cimme, looking out at the climbing flowers bathed in the -sunlight, and at two pigeons making love on the roof opposite, said, -with a wounded air: "It is unfortunate to have come for so sad an -event. It would be nice in the country, to-day."</p> - -<p>Her sister sighed without response, and Columbel murmured, moved -perhaps by the thought of a walk:</p> - -<p>"My leg plagues me awfully."</p> - -<p>Little Joseph and the dog made a terrible noise, one shouting with joy -and the other barking violently. They played at hide-and-seek around -the three flower-beds, running after each other like mad.</p> - -<p>The dying woman continued to call her children, chatting with each, -imagining that she was dressing them, that she caressed them, that she -was teaching them to read: "Come, Simon, repeat, A, B, C, D. You do -not say it well; see, D, D, D, do you hear? Repeat, then——"</p> - -<p>Cimme declared: "It is curious what she talks about at this time."</p> - -<p>Then said Madame Columbel: "It would be better, perhaps, to go in -there."</p> - -<p>But Cimme dissuaded her from it:</p> - -<p>"Why go in, since we are not able to do anything for her? Besides we -are as well off here."</p> - -<p>No one insisted. Madame observed the two green birds called -inseparable. She remarked pleasantly upon this singular fidelity, and -blamed men for not imitating these little creatures. Cimme looked -at his wife and laughed, singing with a bantering air, "Tra-la-la, -Tra-la-la," as if to say he could tell some things about her fidelity -to him.</p> - -<p>Columbel, taken with cramps in his stomach, struck the floor with his -cane. The other cat entered, tail in the air. They did not sit down at -table until one o'clock.</p> - -<p>When he had tasted the wine, Columbel, whom some one had recommended to -drink only choice Bordeaux, called the servant:</p> - -<p>"Say, is there nothing better than this in the cellar?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, sir; there is some of the wine that was served to you when you -were here before."</p> - -<p>"Oh, well, go and bring three bottles."</p> - -<p>They tasted this wine, which seemed excellent. Not that it proved to be -remarkable, but it had been fifteen years in the cellar. Cimme declared -it was just the wine for sickness.</p> - -<p>Columbel, seized with a desire of possessing some of it, asked of the -maid: "How much is left of it, my girl?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, nearly all, sir; Miss never drinks any of it. It is the heap at -the bottom."</p> - -<p>Then Columbel turned toward his brother-in-law: "If you wish, Cimme, I -will take this wine instead of anything else; it agrees with my stomach -wonderfully."</p> - -<p>The hen, in her turn, had entered with her troop of chickens; the two -women amused themselves by throwing crumbs to them. Joseph and the dog, -who had eaten enough, returned to the garden.</p> - -<p>Queen Hortense spoke continually, but the voice was lower now, so that -it was no longer possible to distinguish the words.</p> - -<p>When they had finished the coffee, they all went in to learn the -condition of the sick one. She seemed calm.</p> - -<p>They went out and seated themselves in a circle in the garden, to aid -digestion.</p> - -<p>Presently the dog began to run around the chairs with all speed, -carrying something in his mouth. The child ran after him violently. -Both disappeared into the house. Cimme fell asleep, with his stomach in -the sun.</p> - -<p>The dying one began to speak loud again. Then suddenly she shouted.</p> - -<p>The two women and Columbel hastened in to see what had happened. Cimme -awakened but did not move, liking better things as they were.</p> - -<p>The dying woman was sitting up, staring with haggard eyes. Her dog, -to escape the pursuit of little Joseph, had jumped upon the bed, -startling her from the death agony. The dog was intrenched behind the -pillow, peeping at his comrade with eyes glistening, ready to jump -again at the least movement. He held in his mouth one of the slippers -of his mistress, shorn of its heel in the hour he had played with it.</p> - -<p>The child, intimidated by the woman rising so suddenly before him, -remained motionless before the bed.</p> - -<p>The hen, having just entered, had jumped upon a chair, frightened -by the noise. She called desperately to her chickens, which peeped, -frightened, from under the four legs of the seat.</p> - -<p>Queen Hortense cried out with a piercing tone: "No, no, I do not wish -to die! I am not willing! Who will bring up my children? Who will care -for them? Who will love them? No, I am not willing! I am not——"</p> - -<p>She turned on her back. All was over.</p> - -<p>The dog, much excited, jumped into the room and skipped about.</p> - -<p>Columbel ran to the window and called his brother-in-law: "Come -quickly! come quickly! I believe she is gone."</p> - -<p>Then Cimme got up and resolutely went into the room, muttering: "It was -not as long as I should have believed."</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h4><a name="COMPLICATION" id="COMPLICATION">COMPLICATION</a></h4> - - -<p>After swearing for a long time that he would never marry, Jack -Boudillère suddenly changed his mind. It happened one summer at the -seashore, quite unexpectedly.</p> - -<p>One morning, as he was extended on the sand, watching the women come -out of the water, a little foot caught his attention, because of its -slimness and delicacy. Raising his eyes higher, the entire person -seemed attractive. Of this entire person he had, however, seen only -the ankles and the head, emerging from a white flannel bathing suit, -fastened with care. He may be called sensuous and impressionable, but -it was by grace of form alone that he was captured. Afterward, he was -held by the charm and sweet spirit of the young girl, who was simple -and good and fresh, like her cheeks and her lips.</p> - -<p>Presented to the family, he was pleased, and straightway became -love-mad. When he saw Bertha Lannis at a distance, on the long stretch -of yellow sand, he trembled from head to foot. Near her he was dumb, -incapable of saying anything or even of thinking, with a kind of -bubbling in his heart, a humming in his ears, and a frightened feeling -in his mind. Was this love?</p> - -<p>He did not know, he understood nothing of it, but the fact remained -that he was fully decided to make this child his wife.</p> - -<p>Her parents hesitated a long time, deterred by the bad reputation of -the young man. He had a mistress, it was said,—an old mistress, an old -and strong entanglement, one of those chains that is believed to be -broken, but which continues to hold, nevertheless. Beyond this, he had -loved, for a longer or shorter period, every woman who had come within -reach of his lips.</p> - -<p>But he withdrew from the woman with whom he had lived, not even -consenting to see her again. A friend arranged her pension, assuring -her a subsistence. Jack paid, but he did not wish to speak to her, -pretending henceforth that he did not know her name. She wrote letters -which he would not open. Each week brought him a new disguise in the -handwriting of the abandoned one. Each week a greater anger developed -in him against her, and he would tear the envelope in two, without -opening it, without reading a line, knowing beforehand the reproaches -and complaints of the contents.</p> - -<p>One could scarcely credit her perseverance, which lasted the whole -winter long, and it was not until spring that her demand was satisfied.</p> - -<p>The marriage took place in Paris during the early part of May. It was -decided that they should not take the regular wedding journey. After a -little ball, composed of a company of young cousins who would not stay -past eleven o'clock, and would not prolong forever the cares of the day -of ceremony, the young couple intended to pass their first night at the -family home and to set out the next morning for the seaside, where they -had met and loved.</p> - -<p>The night came, and they were dancing in the great drawing-room. The -newly-married pair had withdrawn from the rest into a little Japanese -boudoir shut off by silk hangings, and scarcely lighted this evening, -except by the dim rays from a colored lantern in the shape of an -enormous egg, which hung from the ceiling. The long window was open, -allowing at times a fresh breath of air from without to blow upon -their faces, for the evening was soft and warm, full of the odor of -springtime.</p> - -<p>They said nothing, but held each other's hands, pressing them from time -to time with all their force. She was a little dismayed by this great -change in her life, but smiling, emotional, ready to weep, often ready -to swoon from joy, believing the entire world changed because of what -had come to her, a little disturbed without knowing the reason why, -and feeling all her body, all her soul, enveloped in an indefinable, -delicious lassitude.</p> - -<p>Her husband she watched persistently, smiling at him with a fixed -smile. He wished to talk but found nothing to say, and remained quiet, -putting all his ardor into the pressure of the hand. From time to time -he murmured "Bertha!" and each time she raised her eyes to his with a -sweet and tender look. They would look at each other a moment, then his -eyes, fascinated by hers, would fall.</p> - -<p>They discovered no thought to exchange. But they were alone, except as -a dancing couple would sometimes cast a glance at them in passing, a -furtive glance, as if it were the discreet and confidential witness of -a mystery.</p> - -<p>A door at the side opened, a domestic entered, bearing upon a tray an -urgent letter which a messenger had brought. Jack trembled as he took -it, seized with a vague and sudden fear, the mysterious, abrupt fear of -misfortune.</p> - -<p>He looked long at the envelope, not knowing the handwriting, nor daring -to open it, wishing not to read, not to know the contents, desiring to -put it in his pocket and to say to himself: "To-morrow, to-morrow, I -shall be far away and it will not matter!" But upon the corner were two -words underlined: <i>very urgent</i>, which frightened him. "You will permit -me, my dear," said he, and he tore off the wrapper. He read the letter, -growing frightfully pale, running over it at a glance, and then seeming -to spell it out.</p> - -<p>When he raised his head his whole countenance was changed. He -stammered: "My dear little one, a great misfortune has happened to -my best friend. He needs me immediately, in a matter of—of life and -death. Allow me to go for twenty minutes. I will return immediately."</p> - -<p>She, trembling and affrighted, murmured: "Go, my friend!" not yet being -enough of a wife to dare to ask or demand to know anything. And he -disappeared. She remained alone, listening to the dance music in the -next room.</p> - -<p>He had taken a hat, the first he could find, and descended the -staircase upon the run. As soon as he was mingled with the people on -the street, he stopped under a gaslight in a vestibule and re-read the -letter. It said:</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>"SIR: The Ravet girl, your old mistress, has given birth to -a child which she asserts is yours. The mother is dying and -implores you to visit her. I take the liberty of writing -to you to ask whether you will grant the last wish of this -woman, who seems to be very unhappy and worthy of pity. -"Your servant, D. BONNARD."</p></blockquote> - -<p>When he entered the chamber of death, she was already in the last -agony. He would not have known her. The physician and the two nurses -were caring for her, dragging across the room some buckets full of ice -and linen.</p> - -<p>Water covered the floor, two tapers were burning on a table; behind -the bed, in a little wicker cradle, a child was crying, and, with each -of its cries, the mother would try to move, shivering under the icy -compresses.</p> - -<p>She was bleeding, wounded to death, killed by this birth. Her life was -slipping away; and, in spite of the ice, in spite of all care, the -hemorrhage continued, hastening her last hour.</p> - -<p>She recognized Jack, and tried to raise her hand. She was too weak for -that, but the warm tears began to glide down her cheeks.</p> - -<p>He fell on his knees beside the bed, seized one of her hands and kissed -it frantically; then, little by little, he approached nearer to the -wan face which strained to meet him. One of the nurses, standing with -a taper in her hand, observed them, and the doctor looked at them from -the remote corner of the room.</p> - -<p>With a far-off voice, breathing hard, she said: "I am going to die, my -dear; promise me you will remain till the end. Oh! do not leave me now, -not at the last moment!"</p> - -<p>He kissed her brow, her hair with a groan. "Be tranquil!" he murmured, -"I will stay."</p> - -<p>It was some minutes before she was able to speak again, she was so weak -and overcome. Then she continued: "It is yours, the little one. I swear -it before God, I swear it to you upon my soul, I swear it at the moment -of death. I have never loved any man but you—promise me not to abandon -it——" He tried to take in his arms the poor, weak body, emptied of -its life blood. He stammered, excited by remorse and chagrin: "I swear -to you I will bring it up and love it. It shall never be separated from -me." Then she held Jack in an embrace. Powerless to raise her head, she -held up her blanched lips in an appeal for a kiss. He bent his mouth to -receive this poor, suppliant caress.</p> - -<p>Calmed a little, she murmured in a low tone: "Take it, that I may see -that you love it."</p> - -<p>He went to the cradle and took up the child.</p> - -<p>He placed it gently on the bed between them. The little creature ceased -to cry. She whispered: "Do not stir!" And he remained motionless. There -he stayed, holding in his burning palms a hand that shook with the -shiver of death, as he had held, an hour before, another hand that had -trembled with the shiver of love. From time to time he looked at the -hour, with a furtive glance of the eye, watching the hand as it passed -midnight, then one o'clock, then two.</p> - -<p>The doctor retired. The two nurses, after roaming around for some time -with light step, slept now in their chairs. The child slept, and the -mother, whose eyes were closed, seemed to be resting also.</p> - -<p>Suddenly, as the pale daylight began to filter through the torn -curtains, she extended her arms with so startling and violent a motion -that she almost threw the child upon the floor. There was a rattling in -her throat; then she turned over motionless, dead.</p> - -<p>The nurses hastened to her side, declaring: "It is over."</p> - -<p>He looked once at this woman he had loved, then at the hand that marked -four o'clock, and, forgetting his overcoat, fled in his evening clothes -with the child in his arms.</p> - -<p>After she had been left alone, his young bride had waited calmly -at first, in the Japanese boudoir. Then, seeing that he did not -return, she went back to the drawing-room, indifferent and tranquil -in appearance, but frightfully disturbed. Her mother, perceiving her -alone, asked where her husband was. She replied: "In his room; he will -return presently."</p> - -<p>At the end of an hour, as everybody asked about him, she told of the -letter, of the change in Jack's face, and her fears of some misfortune.</p> - -<p>They still waited. The guests had gone; only the parents and near -relatives remained. At midnight, they put the bride in her bed, shaking -with sobs. Her mother and two aunts were seated on the bed listening -to her weeping. Her father had gone to the police headquarters to make -inquiries. At five o'clock a light sound was heard in the corridor. The -door opened and closed softly. Then suddenly a cry, like the miauling -of a cat, went through the house, breaking the silence.</p> - -<p>All the women of the house were out with one bound, and Bertha was the -first to spring forward, in spite of her mother and her aunts, clothed -only in her night-robe.</p> - -<p>Jack, standing in the middle of the room, livid, breathing hard, held -the child in his arms.</p> - -<p>The four women looked at him frightened; but Bertha suddenly became -rash, her heart wrung with anguish, and ran to him saying: "What is it? -What have you there?"</p> - -<p>He had a foolish air, and answered in a husky voice: "It is—it is—I -have here a child, whose mother has just died." And he put into her -arms the howling little marmot.</p> - -<p>Bertha, without saying a word, seized the child and embraced it, -straining it to her heart. Then, turning toward her husband with -her eyes full of tears, she said: "The mother is dead, you say?" He -answered: "Yes, just died—in my arms—I had broken with her since last -summer—I knew nothing about it—only the doctor sent for me and——"</p> - -<p>Then Bertha murmured: "Well, we will bring up this little one."</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h4><a name="FORGIVENESS" id="FORGIVENESS">FORGIVENESS</a></h4> - - -<p>She had been brought up in one of those families who live shut up -within themselves, entirely apart from the rest of the world. They pay -no attention to political events, except to chat about them at table, -and changes in government seem so far, so very far away that they are -spoken of only as a matter of history—like the death of Louis XVI., or -the advent of Napoleon.</p> - -<p>Customs change, fashions succeed each other, but changes are never -perceptible in this family, where old traditions are always followed. -And if some impossible story arises in the neighborhood, the scandal of -it dies at the threshold of this house.</p> - -<p>The father and mother, alone in the evening, sometimes exchange a few -words on such a subject, but in an undertone, as if the walls had ears.</p> - -<p>With great discretion, the father says: "Do you know about this -terrible affair in the Rivoil family?"</p> - -<p>And the mother replies: "Who would have believed it? It is frightful!"</p> - -<p>The children doubt nothing, but come to the age of living, in their -turn, with a bandage over their eyes and minds, without a suspicion of -any other kind of existence, without knowing that one does not always -think as he speaks, nor speak as he acts, without knowing that it is -necessary to live at war with the world, or at least, in armed peace, -without surmising that the ingenuous are frequently deceived, the -sincere trifled with, and the good wronged.</p> - -<p>Some live until death in this blindness of probity, loyalty, and honor; -so upright that nothing can open their eyes. Others, undeceived, -without knowing much, are weighed down with despair, and die believing -that they are the puppets of an exceptional fatality, the miserable -victims of unlucky circumstance or particularly bad men.</p> - -<p>The Savignols arranged a marriage for their daughter when she was -eighteen. She married a young man from Paris, George Barton, whose -business was on the Exchange. He was an attractive youth, with a -smooth tongue, and he observed all the outward proprieties necessary. -But at the bottom of his heart he sneered a little at his guileless -parents-in-law, calling them, among his friends, "My dear fossils."</p> - -<p>He belonged to a good family, and the young girl was rich. He took her -to live in Paris.</p> - -<p>She became one of the provincials of Paris, of whom there are many. -She remained ignorant of the great city, of its elegant people, of -its pleasures and its customs, as she had always been ignorant of the -perfidy and mystery of life.</p> - -<p>Shut up in her own household, she scarcely knew the street she lived -in, and when she ventured into another quarter, it seemed to her that -she had journeyed far, into an unknown, strange city. She would say in -the evening:</p> - -<p>"I crossed the boulevards to-day."</p> - -<p>Two or three times a year, her husband took her to the theater. These -were feast-days not to be forgotten, which she recalled continually.</p> - -<p>Sometimes at table, three months afterward, she would suddenly burst -out laughing and exclaim:</p> - -<p>"Do you remember that ridiculous actor who imitated the cock's crowing?"</p> - -<p>All her interests were within the boundaries of the two allied -families, who represented the whole of humanity to her. She designated -them by the distinguishing prefix "the," calling them respectively "the -Martinets," or "the Michelins."</p> - -<p>Her husband lived according to his fancy, returning whenever he wished, -sometimes at daybreak, pretending business, and feeling in no way -constrained, so sure was he that no suspicion would ruffle this candid -soul.</p> - -<p>But one morning she received an anonymous letter. She was too much -astonished and dismayed to scorn this letter, whose author declared -himself to be moved by interest in her happiness, by hatred of all -evil and love of truth. Her heart was too pure to understand fully the -meaning of the accusations.</p> - -<p>But it revealed to her that her husband had had a mistress for two -years, a young widow, Mrs. Rosset, at whose house he passed his -evenings.</p> - -<p>She knew neither how to pretend, nor to spy, nor to plan any sort of -ruse. When he returned for luncheon, she threw him the letter, sobbing, -and then fled to her room.</p> - -<p>He had time to comprehend the matter and prepare his response before he -rapped at his wife's door. She opened it immediately, without looking -at him. He smiled, sat down, and drew her to his knee. In a sweet -voice, and a little jocosely, he said:</p> - -<p>"My dear little one, Mrs. Rosset is a friend of mine. I have known her -for ten years and like her very much. I may add that I know twenty -other families of whom I have not spoken to you, knowing that you care -nothing for the world or for forming new friendships. But in order to -finish, once for all, these infamous lies, I will ask you to dress -yourself, after luncheon, and we will go to pay a visit to this young -lady, who will become your friend at once, I am sure." She embraced -her husband eagerly; and, from feminine curiosity, which no sooner -sleeps than wakes again, she did not refuse to go to see this unknown -woman, of whom, in spite of all, she was still suspicious. She felt by -instinct that a known danger is sooner overcome.</p> - -<p>They were ushered into a little apartment on the fourth floor of a -handsome house. It was a coquettish little place, full of bric-à-brac -and ornamented with works of art. After about five minutes' waiting, -in a drawing-room where the light was dimmed by its generous window -draperies and portières, a door opened and a young woman appeared. She -was very dark, small, rather plump, and looked astonished, although she -smiled. George presented them. "My wife, Madame Julie Rosset."</p> - -<p>The young widow uttered a little cry of astonishment and joy, and came -forward with both hands extended. She had not hoped for this happiness, -she said, knowing that Madame Barton saw no one. But she was so happy! -She was so fond of George! (She said George quite naturally, with -sisterly familiarity.) And she had had great desire to know his young -wife, and to love her, too.</p> - -<p>At the end of a month these two friends were never apart from each -other. They met every day, often twice a day, and nearly always dined -together, either at one house or at the other. George scarcely ever -went out now, no longer pretended delay on account of business, but -said he loved his own chimney corner.</p> - -<p>Finally, an apartment was left vacant in the house where Madame Rosset -resided. Madame Barton hastened to take it in order to be nearer her -new friend.</p> - -<p>During two whole years there was a friendship between them without a -cloud, a friendship of heart and soul, tender, devoted, and delightful. -Bertha could not speak without mentioning Julie's name, for to her -Julie represented perfection. She was happy with a perfect happiness, -calm and secure.</p> - -<p>But Madame Rosset fell ill. Bertha never left her. She passed nights of -despair; her husband, too, was broken-hearted.</p> - -<p>One morning, in going out from his visit the doctor took George and his -wife aside, and announced that he found the condition of their friend -very grave.</p> - -<p>When he had gone out, the young people, stricken down, looked at each -other and then began to weep. They both watched that night near the -bed. Bertha would embrace the sick one tenderly, while George, standing -silently at the foot of her couch, would look at them with dogged -persistence. The next day she was worse.</p> - -<p>Finally, toward evening, she declared herself better, and persuaded her -friends to go home to dinner.</p> - -<p>They were sitting sadly at table, scarcely eating anything, when the -maid brought George an envelope. He opened it, turned pale, and rising, -said to his wife, in a constrained way: "Excuse me, I must leave you -for a moment. I will return in ten minutes. Please don't go out." And -he ran into his room for his hat.</p> - -<p>Bertha waited, tortured by a new fear. But, yielding in all things, she -would not go up to her friend's room again until he had returned.</p> - -<p>As he did not re-appear, the thought came to her to look in his room to -see whether he had taken his gloves, which would show whether he had -really gone somewhere.</p> - -<p>She saw them there, at first glance. Near them lay a rumpled paper.</p> - -<p>She recognized it immediately; it was the one that had called George -away.</p> - -<p>And a burning temptation took possession of her, the first of her life, -to read—to know. Her conscience struggled in revolt, but curiosity -lashed her on and grief directed her hand. She seized the paper, opened -it, recognized the trembling handwriting as that of Julie, and read:</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>"Come alone and embrace me, my poor friend; I am going to -die."</p></blockquote> - -<p>She could not understand it all at once, but stood stupefied, struck -especially by the thought of death. Then, suddenly, the familiarity of -it seized upon her mind. This came like a great light, illuminating -her whole life, showing her the infamous truth, all their treachery, -all their perfidy. She saw now their cunning, their sly looks, her -good faith played with, her confidence turned to account. She saw -them looking into each other's faces, under the shade of her lamp at -evening, reading from the same book, exchanging glances at the end of -certain pages.</p> - -<p>And her heart, stirred with indignation, bruised with suffering, sunk -into an abyss of despair that had no boundaries.</p> - -<p>When she heard steps, she fled and shut herself in her room.</p> - -<p>Her husband called her: "Come quickly, Madame Rosset is dying!"</p> - -<p>Bertha appeared at her door and said with trembling lip:</p> - -<p>"Go alone to her; she has no need of me."</p> - -<p>He looked at her sheepishly, careless from anger, and repeated:</p> - -<p>"Quick, quick! She is dying!"</p> - -<p>Bertha answered: "You would prefer it to be I."</p> - -<p>Then he understood, probably, and left her to herself, going up again -to the dying one.</p> - -<p>There he wept without fear, or shame, indifferent to the grief of his -wife, who would no longer speak to him, nor look at him, but who lived -shut in with her disgust and angry revolt, praying to God morning and -evening.</p> - -<p>They lived together, nevertheless, eating together face to face, mute -and hopeless.</p> - -<p>After a time, he tried to appease her a little. But she would not -forget. And so the life continued, hard for them both.</p> - -<p>For a whole year they lived thus, strangers one to the other. Bertha -almost became mad.</p> - -<p>Then one morning, having set out at dawn, she returned toward eight -o'clock carrying in both hands an enormous bouquet of roses, of white -roses, all white.</p> - -<p>She sent word to her husband that she would like to speak to him. He -came in disturbed, troubled.</p> - -<p>"Let us go out together," she said to him. "Take these flowers, they -are too heavy for me."</p> - -<p>He took the bouquet and followed his wife. A carriage awaited them, -which started as soon as they were seated.</p> - -<p>It stopped before the gate of a cemetery. Then Bertha, her eyes full of -tears, said to George: "Take me to her grave."</p> - -<p>He trembled, without knowing why, but walked on before, holding the -flowers in his arms. Finally he stopped before a shaft of white marble -and pointed to it without a word.</p> - -<p>She took the bouquet from him, and, kneeling, placed it at the foot of -the grave. Then her heart was raised in suppliant, silent prayer.</p> - -<p>Her husband stood behind her, weeping, haunted by memories.</p> - -<p>She arose and put out her hands to him.</p> - -<p>"If you wish, we will be friends," she said.</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h4><a name="THE_WHITE_WOLF" id="THE_WHITE_WOLF">THE WHITE WOLF</a></h4> - - -<p>This is the story the old Marquis d'Arville told us after a dinner in -honor of Saint-Hubert, at the house of Baron des Ravels. They had run -down a stag that day. The Marquis was the only one of the guests who -had not taken part in the chase. He never hunted.</p> - -<p>During the whole of the long repast, they had talked of scarcely -anything but the massacre of animals. Even the ladies interested -themselves in the sanguinary and often unlikely stories, while the -orators mimicked the attacks and combats between man and beast, raising -their arms and speaking in thunderous tones.</p> - -<p>M. d'Arville talked much, with a certain poesy, a little flourish, -but full of effect. He must have repeated this story often, it ran so -smoothly, never halting at a choice of words in which to clothe an -image.</p> - -<p>"Gentlemen, I never hunt, nor did my father, nor my grandfather, nor -my great-great-grandfather. The last named was the son of a man who -hunted more than all of you. He died in 1764. I will tell you how. He -was named John, and was married, and became the father of the man who -was my great-great-grandfather. He lived with his younger brother, -Francis d'Arville, in our castle, in the midst of a deep forest in -Lorraine.</p> - -<p>"Francis d'Arville always remained a boy through his love for hunting. -They both hunted from one end of the year to the other without -cessation or weariness. They loved nothing else, understood nothing -else, talked only of this, and lived for this alone.</p> - -<p>"They were possessed by this terrible, inexorable passion. It consumed -them, having taken entire control of them, leaving no place for -anything else. They had agreed not to put off the chase for any reason -whatsoever. My great-great-grandfather was born while his father was -following a fox, but John d'Arville did not interrupt his sport, -and swore that the little beggar might have waited until after the -death-cry! His brother Francis showed himself still more hot-headed -than he. The first thing on rising, he would go to see the dogs, then -the horses; then he would shoot some birds about the place, even when -about to set out hunting big game.</p> - -<p>"They were called in the country Monsieur the Marquis and Monsieur the -Cadet, noblemen then not acting as do those of our time, who wish to -establish in their titles a descending scale of rank, for the son of a -marquis is no more a count, or the son of a viscount a baron, than the -son of a general is a colonel by birth. But the niggardly vanity of -the day finds profit in this arrangement. To return to my ancestors:</p> - -<p>"They were, it appears, immoderately large, bony, hairy, violent, and -vigorous. The younger one was taller than the elder, and had such a -voice that, according to a legend he was very proud of, all the leaves -of the forest moved when he shouted.</p> - -<p>"And when mounted, ready for the chase, it must have been a superb -sight to see these two giants astride their great horses.</p> - -<p>"Toward the middle of the winter of that year, 1764, the cold was -excessive and the wolves became ferocious.</p> - -<p>"They even attacked belated peasants, roamed around houses at night, -howled from sunset to sunrise, and ravaged the stables.</p> - -<p>"At one time a rumor was circulated. It was said that a colossal wolf, -of grayish-white color, which had eaten two children, devoured the arm -of a woman, strangled all the watchdogs of the country, was now coming -without fear into the house inclosures and smelling around the doors. -Many inhabitants affirmed that they had felt his breath, which made the -lights flicker. Shortly a panic ran through all the province. No one -dared to go out after nightfall. The very shadows seemed haunted by the -image of this beast.</p> - -<p>"The brothers D'Arville resolved to find and slay him. So they called -together for a grand chase all the gentlemen of the country.</p> - -<p>"It was in vain. They had beaten the forests and scoured the thickets, -but had seen nothing of him. They killed wolves, but not that one. And -each night after such a chase, the beast, as if to avenge himself, -attacked some traveler, or devoured some cattle, always far from the -place where they had sought him.</p> - -<p>"Finally, one night he found a way into the swine-house of the castle -D'Arville and ate two beauties of the best breed.</p> - -<p>"The two brothers were furious, interpreting the attack as one of -bravado on the part of the monster—a direct injury, a defiance. -Therefore, taking all their best-trained hounds, they set out to run -down the beast, with courage excited by anger.</p> - -<p>"From dawn until the sun descended behind the great nut-trees, they -beat about the forests with no result.</p> - -<p>"At last, both of them, angry and disheartened, turned their horses' -steps into a bypath bordered by brushwood. They were marveling at the -baffling power of this wolf, when suddenly they were seized with a -mysterious fear.</p> - -<p>"The elder said:</p> - -<p>"'This can be no ordinary beast. One might say he can think like a man.'</p> - -<p>"The younger replied:</p> - -<p>"'Perhaps we should get our cousin, the Bishop, to bless a bullet for -him, or ask a priest to pronounce some words to help us.'</p> - -<p>"Then they were silent.</p> - -<p>"John continued: 'Look at the sun, how red it is. The great wolf will -do mischief to-night.'</p> - -<p>"He had scarcely finished speaking when his horse reared. Francis's -horse started to run at the same time. A large bush covered with dead -leaves rose before them, and a colossal beast, grayish white, sprang -out, scampering away through the wood.</p> - -<p>"Both gave a grunt of satisfaction, and bending to the necks of their -heavy horses, they urged them on with the weight of their bodies, -exciting them, hastening with voice and spur, until these strong -riders seemed to carry the weight of their beasts between their knees, -carrying them by force as if they were flying.</p> - -<p>"Thus they rode, crashing through forests, crossing ravines, climbing -up the sides of steep gorges, and sounding the horn, at frequent -intervals, to arouse the people and the dogs of the neighborhood.</p> - -<p>"But suddenly, in the course of this breakneck ride, my ancestor struck -his forehead against a large branch and fractured his skull. He fell to -the ground as if dead, while his frightened horse disappeared in the -surrounding thicket.</p> - -<p>"The younger D'Arville stopped short, sprang to the ground, seized his -brother in his arms, and saw that he had lost consciousness.</p> - -<p>"He sat down beside him, took his disfigured head upon his knees, -looking earnestly at the lifeless face. Little by little a fear crept -over him, a strange fear that he had never before felt, fear of -the shadows, of the solitude, of the lonely woods, and also of the -chimerical wolf, which had now come to be the death of his brother.</p> - -<p>"The shadows deepened, the branches of the trees crackled in the sharp -cold. Francis arose shivering, incapable of remaining there longer, -and already feeling his strength fail. There was nothing to be heard, -neither the voice of dogs nor the sound of a horn; all within this -invisible horizon was mute. And in this gloomy silence and the chill of -evening there was something strange and frightful.</p> - -<p>"With his powerful hands he seized John's body and laid it across -the saddle to take it home; then mounted gently behind it, his mind -troubled by horrible, supernatural images, as if he were possessed.</p> - -<p>"Suddenly, in the midst of these fears, a great form passed. It was -the wolf. A violent fit of terror seized upon the hunter; something -cold, like a stream of ice-water seemed to glide through his veins, -and he made the sign of the cross, like a monk haunted with devils, so -dismayed was he by the reappearance of the frightful wanderer. Then, -his eyes falling upon the inert body before him, his fear was quickly -changed to anger, and he trembled with inordinate rage.</p> - -<p>"He pricked his horse and darted after him.</p> - -<p>"He followed him through copses, over ravines, and around great forest -trees, traversing woods that he no longer recognized, his eye fixed -upon a white spot, which was ever flying from him as night covered the -earth.</p> - -<p>"His horse also seemed moved by an unknown force. He galloped on with -neck extended, crashing over small trees and rocks, with the body of -the dead stretched across him on the saddle. Brambles caught in his -mane; his head, where it had struck the trunks of trees, was spattered -with blood; the marks of the spurs were over his flanks.</p> - -<p>"Suddenly the animal and its rider came out of the forest, rushing -through a valley as the moon appeared above the hills. This valley was -stony and shut in by enormous rocks, over which it was impossible to -pass; there was no other way for the wolf but to turn on his steps.</p> - -<p>"Francis gave such a shout of joy and revenge that the echo of it was -like the roll of thunder. He leaped from his horse, knife in hand.</p> - -<p>"The bristling beast, with rounded back, was awaiting him; his eyes -shining like two stars. But before joining in battle, the strong -hunter, grasping his brother, seated him upon a rock, supporting his -head, which was now but a mass of blood, with stones, and cried aloud -to him, as to one deaf: 'Look, John! Look here!'</p> - -<p>"Then he threw himself upon the monster. He felt himself strong enough -to overthrow a mountain, to crush the very rocks in his hands. The -beast meant to kill him by sinking his claws in his vitals; but the man -had seized him by the throat, without even making use of his weapon, -and strangled him gently, waiting until his breath stopped and he could -hear the death-rattle at his heart. And he laughed, with the joy of -dismay, clutching more and more with a terrible hold, and crying out in -his delirium: 'Look, John! Look!' All resistance ceased. The body of -the wolf was limp. He was dead.</p> - -<p>"Then Francis, taking him in his arms, threw him down at the feet of -his elder brother, crying out in expectant voice: 'Here, here, my -little John, here he is!'</p> - -<p>"Then he placed upon the saddle the two bodies, the one above the -other, and started on his way.</p> - -<p>"He returned to the castle laughing and weeping, like Gargantua at the -birth of Pantagruel, shouting in triumph and stamping with delight in -relating the death of the beast, and moaning and tearing at his beard -in calling the name of his brother.</p> - -<p>"Often, later, when he recalled this day, he would declare, with tears -in his eyes: 'If only poor John had seen me strangle the beast, he -would have died content, I am sure!'</p> - -<p>"The widow of my ancestor inspired in her son a horror of the chase, -which was transmitted from father to son down to myself."</p> - -<p>The Marquis d'Arville was silent. Some one asked: "Is the story a -legend or not?"</p> - -<p>And the narrator replied:</p> - -<p>"I swear to you it is true from beginning to end."</p> - -<p>Then a lady, in a sweet little voice, declared:</p> - -<p>"It is beautiful to have passions like that."</p> - - - - - - - - -<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 50477 ***</div> - - - -</body> -</html> -</div> - -</div> diff --git a/old/50477-h/images/arnot.jpg b/old/50477-h/images/arnot.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index d05d6cb..0000000 --- a/old/50477-h/images/arnot.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/50477-h/images/bourget.jpg b/old/50477-h/images/bourget.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index b9dd6ba..0000000 --- a/old/50477-h/images/bourget.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/50477-h/images/cover.jpg b/old/50477-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index d5ee17f..0000000 --- a/old/50477-h/images/cover.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/50477-h/images/img001.jpg b/old/50477-h/images/img001.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 43a0f19..0000000 --- a/old/50477-h/images/img001.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/50477-h/images/img002.jpg b/old/50477-h/images/img002.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 228f74c..0000000 --- a/old/50477-h/images/img002.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/50477-h/images/maupassant.jpg b/old/50477-h/images/maupassant.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 03ec423..0000000 --- a/old/50477-h/images/maupassant.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/old/50477-0.txt b/old/old/50477-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 124c25a..0000000 --- a/old/old/50477-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,10321 +0,0 @@ -Project Gutenberg's Notre Coeur or A Woman's Pastime, by Guy de Maupassant - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Notre Coeur or A Woman's Pastime - A Novel - -Author: Guy de Maupassant - -Release Date: November 18, 2015 [EBook #50477] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NOTRE COEUR OR A WOMAN'S PASTIME *** - - - - -Produced by Dagny and Marc D'Hooghe at -http://www.freeliterature.org (Images generously made -available by the Hathi Trust.) - - - - - -NOTRE CŒUR - -OR - -A WOMAN'S PASTIME - -_A NOVEL_ - - -_By_ - -GUY DE MAUPASSANT - - -SAINT DUNSTAN SOCIETY - -AKRON, OHIO - -1903 - - - - TABLE OF CONTENTS - - GUY DE MAUPASSANT - Critical Preface: Paul Bourget - INTRODUCTION - Robert Arnot, M. A. - - NOTRE CŒUR - - CHAPTER I. - THE INTRODUCTION - - CHAPTER II. - "WILL YOU WALK INTO MY PARLOR?" - - CHAPTER III. - THE THORNS OF THE ROSE - - CHAPTER IV. - THE BENEFIT OF CHANGE OF SCENE - - CHAPTER V. - CONSPIRACY - - CHAPTER VI. - QUESTIONINGS - - CHAPTER VII. - DEPRESSION - - CHAPTER VIII. - NEW HOPES - - CHAPTER IX. - DISILLUSION - - CHAPTER X. - FLIGHT - - CHAPTER XI. - LONELINESS - - CHAPTER XII. - CONSOLATION - - CHAPTER XIII. - MARIOLLE COPIES MME. DE BURNE - - - ADDENDA - - THE OLIVE GROVE - REVENGE - AN OLD MAID - COMPLICATION - FORGIVENESS - THE WHITE WOLF - - -ILLUSTRATIONS - -HENRI RENE GUY DE MAUPASSANT -"THEY WERE ALONE ... SHE WAS WEEPING" - - -[Illustration] - -[Illustration] - - -GUY DE MAUPASSANT - - -Of the French writers of romance of the latter part of the nineteenth -century no one made a reputation as quickly as did Guy de Maupassant. -Not one has preserved that reputation with more ease, not only during -life, but in death. None so completely hides his personality in -his glory. In an epoch of the utmost publicity, in which the most -insignificant deeds of a celebrated man are spied, recorded, and -commented on, the author of "Boule de Suif," of "Pierre et Jean," of -"Notre Cœur," found a way of effacing his personality in his work. - -Of De Maupassant we know that he was born in Normandy about 1850; that -he was the favorite pupil, if one may so express it, the literary -_protégé_, of Gustave Flaubert; that he made his _début_ late in 1880, -with a novel inserted in a small collection, published by Emile Zola -and his young friends, under the title: "The Soirées of Medan"; that -subsequently he did not fail to publish stories and romances every year -up to 1891, when a disease of the brain struck him down in the fullness -of production; and that he died, finally, in 1893, without having -recovered his reason. - -We know, too, that he passionately loved a strenuous physical life -and long journeys, particularly long journeys upon the sea. He owned -a little sailing yacht, named after one of his books, "Bel-Ami," in -which he used to sojourn for weeks and months. These meager details are -almost the only ones that have been gathered as food for the curiosity -of the public. - -I leave the legendary side, which is always in evidence in the case -of a celebrated man,--that gossip, for example, which avers that -Maupassant was a high liver and a worldling. The very number of his -volumes is a protest to the contrary. One could not write so large -a number of pages in so small a number of years without the virtue -of industry, a virtue incompatible with habits of dissipation. This -does not mean that the writer of these great romances had no love for -pleasure and had not tasted the world, but that for him these were -secondary things. The psychology of his work ought, then, to find an -interpretation other than that afforded by wholly false or exaggerated -anecdotes. I wish to indicate here how this work, illumined by the -three or four positive data which I have given, appears to me to demand -it. - -And first, what does that anxiety to conceal his personality prove, -carried as it was to such an extreme degree? The answer rises -spontaneously in the minds of those who have studied closely the -history of literature. The absolute silence about himself, preserved by -one whose position among us was that of a Tourgenief, or of a Mérimée, -and of a Molière or a Shakespeare among the classic great, reveals, to -a person of instinct, a nervous sensibility of extreme depth. There -are many chances for an artist of his kind, however timid, or for one -who has some grief, to show the depth of his emotion. To take up again -only two of the names just cited, this was the case with the author of -"Terres Vierges," and with the writer of "Colomba." - -A somewhat minute analysis of the novels and romances of Maupassant -would suffice to demonstrate, even if we did not know the nature of the -incidents which prompted them, that he also suffered from an excess of -nervous emotionalism. Nine times out of ten, what is the subject of -these stories to which freedom of style gives the appearance of health? -A tragic episode. I cite, at random, "Mademoiselle Fifi," "La Petite -Roque," "Inutile Beauté," "Le Masque," "Le Horla," "L'Épreuve," "Le -Champ d'Oliviers," among the novels, and among the romances, "Une Vie," -"Pierre et Jean," "Fort comme la Mort," "Notre Cœur." His imagination -aims to represent the human being as imprisoned in a situation at once -insupportable and inevitable. The spell of this grief and trouble -exerts such a power upon the writer that he ends stories commenced in -pleasantry with some sinister drama. Let me instance "Saint-Antonin," -"A Midnight Revel," "The Little Cask," and "Old Amable." You close the -book at the end of these vigorous sketches, and feel how surely they -point to constant suffering on the part of him who executed them. - -This is the leading trait in the literary physiognomy of Maupassant, -as it is the leading and most profound trait in the psychology of his -work, viz., that human life is a snare laid by nature, where joy is -always changed to misery, where noble words and the highest professions -of faith serve the lowest plans and the most cruel egoism, where -chagrin, crime, and folly are forever on hand to pursue implacably our -hopes, nullify our virtues, and annihilate our wisdom. But this is not -the whole. - -Maupassant has been called a literary nihilist--but (and this is the -second trait of his singular genius) in him nihilism finds itself -coexistent with an animal energy so fresh and so intense that for a -long time it deceives the closest observer. In an eloquent discourse, -pronounced over his premature grave, Emile Zola well defined this -illusion: "We congratulated him," said he, "upon that health which -seemed unbreakable, and justly credited him with the soundest -constitution of our band, as well as with the clearest mind and the -sanest reason. It was then that this frightful thunderbolt destroyed -him." - -It is not exact to say that the lofty genius of De Maupassant was that -of an absolutely sane man. We comprehend it to-day, and, on re-reading -him, we find traces everywhere of his final malady. But it is exact -to say that this wounded genius was, by a singular circumstance, the -genius of a robust man. A physiologist would without doubt explain -this anomaly by the coexistence of a nervous lesion, light at first, -with a muscular, athletic temperament. Whatever the cause, the effect -is undeniable. The skilled and dainty pessimism of De Maupassant was -accompanied by a vigor and physique very unusual. His sensations are -in turn those of a hunter and of a sailor, who have, as the old French -saying expressively puts it, "swift foot, eagle eye," and who are -attuned to all the whisperings of nature. - -The only confidences that he has ever permitted his pen to tell of -the intoxication of a free, animal existence are in the opening pages -of the story entitled "Mouche," where he recalls, among the sweetest -memories of his youth, his rollicking canoe parties upon the Seine, -and in the description in "La Vie Errante" of a night spent on the -sea,--"to be alone upon the water under the sky, through a warm -night,"--in which he speaks of the happiness of those "who receive -sensations through the whole surface of their flesh, as they do through -their eyes, their mouth, their ears, and sense of smell." - -His unique and too scanty collection of verses, written in early youth, -contains the two most fearless, I was going to say the most ingenuous, -paeans, perhaps, that have been written since the Renaissance: "At -the Water's Edge" (Au Bord de l'Eau) and the "Rustic Venus" (La -Venus Rustique). But here is a paganism whose ardor, by a contrast -which brings up the ever present duality of his nature, ends in an -inexpressible shiver of scorn: - - - "We look at each other, astonished, immovable, - And both are so pale that it makes us fear." - * * * * * * * * - "Alas! through all our senses slips life itself away." - - -This ending of the "Water's Edge" is less sinister than the murder -and the vision of horror which terminate the pantheistic hymn of the -"Rustic Venus." Considered as documents revealing the cast of mind -of him who composed them, these two lyrical essays are especially -significant, since they were spontaneous. They explain why De -Maupassant, in the early years of production, voluntarily chose, as -the heroes of his stories, creatures very near to primitive existence, -peasants, sailors, poachers, girls of the farm, and the source of the -vigor with which he describes these rude figures. The robustness of -his animalism permits him fully to imagine all the simple sensations -of these beings, while his pessimism, which tinges these sketches of -brutal customs with an element of delicate scorn, preserves him from -coarseness. It is this constant and involuntary antithesis which gives -unique value to those Norman scenes which have contributed so much -to his glory. It corresponds to those two contradictory tendencies -in literary art, which seek always to render life in motion with the -most intense coloring, and still to make more and more subtle the -impression of this life. How is one ambition to be satisfied at the -same time as the other, since all gain in color and movement brings -about a diminution of sensibility, and conversely? The paradox of his -constitution permitted to Maupassant this seemingly impossible accord, -aided as he was by an intellect whose influence was all powerful upon -his development--the writer I mention above, Gustave Flaubert. - -These meetings of a pupil and a master, both great, are indeed rare. -They present, in fact, some troublesome conditions, the first of -which is a profound analogy between two types of thought. There must -have been, besides, a reciprocity of affection, which does not often -obtain between a renowned senior who is growing old and an obscure -junior, whose renown is increasing. From generation to generation, envy -reascends no less than she redescends. For the honor of French men of -letters, let us add that this exceptional phenomenon has manifested -itself twice in the nineteenth century. Mérimée, whom I have also -named, received from Stendhal, at twenty, the same benefits that -Maupassant received from Flaubert. - -The author of "Une Vie" and the writer of "Clara Jozul" resemble -each other, besides, in a singular and analogous circumstance. Both -achieved renown at the first blow, and by a masterpiece which they -were able to equal but never surpass. Both were misanthropes early in -life, and practised to the end the ancient advice that the disciple of -Beyle carried upon his seal: μεμνήσο απιστἔιν--"Remember to distrust." -And, at the same time, both had delicate, tender hearts under this -affectation of cynicism, both were excellent sons, irreproachable -friends, indulgent masters, and both were idolized by their inferiors. -Both were worldly, yet still loved a wanderer's life; both joined to -a constant taste for luxury an irresistible desire for solitude. Both -belonged to the extreme left of the literature of their epoch, but kept -themselves from excess and used with a judgment marvelously sure the -sounder principles of their school. They knew how to remain lucid and -classic, in taste as much as in form--Mérimée through all the audacity -of a fancy most exotic, and Maupassant in the realism of the most -varied and exact observation. At a little distance they appear to be -two patterns, identical in certain traits, of the same family of minds, -and Tourgenief, who knew and loved the one and the other, never failed -to class them as brethren. - -They are separated, however, by profound differences, which perhaps -belong less to their nature than to that of the masters from whom -they received their impulses: Stendhal, so alert, so mobile, after a -youth passed in war and a ripe age spent in vagabond journeys, rich -in experiences, immediate and personal; Flaubert so poor in direct -impressions, so paralyzed by his health, by his family, by his theories -even, and so rich in reflections, for the most part solitary. - -Among the theories of the anatomist of "Madame Bovary," there are two -which appear without ceasing in his Correspondence, under one form -or another, and these are the ones which are most strongly evident -in the art of De Maupassant. We now see the consequences which were -inevitable by reason of them, endowed as Maupassant was with a double -power of feeling life bitterly, and at the same time with so much of -animal force. The first theory bears upon the choice of personages and -the story of the romance, the second upon the character of the style. -The son of a physician, and brought up in the rigors of scientific -method, Flaubert believed this method to be efficacious in art as in -science. For instance, in the writing of a romance, he seemed to be as -scientific as in the development of a history of customs, in which the -essential is absolute exactness and local color. He therefore naturally -wished to make the most scrupulous and detailed observation of the -environment. - -Thus is explained the immense labor in preparation which his stories -cost him--the story of "Madame Bovary," of "The Sentimental Education," -and "Bouvard and Pécuchet," documents containing as much _minutiæ_ -as his historical stories. Beyond everything he tried to select -details that were eminently significant. Consequently he was of the -opinion that the romance writer should discard all that lessened this -significance, that is, extraordinary events and singular heroes. The -exceptional personage, it seemed to him, should be suppressed, as -should also high dramatic incident, since, produced by causes less -general, these have a range more restricted. The truly scientific -romance writer, proposing to paint a certain class, will attain his -end more effectively if he incarnate personages of the middle order, -and, consequently, paint traits common to that class. And not only -middle-class traits, but middle-class adventures. - -From this point of view, examine the three great romances of the -Master from Rouen, and you will see that he has not lost sight of this -first and greatest principle of his art, any more than he has of the -second, which was that these documents should be drawn up in prose of -absolutely perfect technique. We know with what passionate care he -worked at his phrases, and how indefatigably he changed them over and -over again. Thus he satisfied that instinct of beauty which was born of -his romantic soul, while he gratified the demand of truth which inhered -from his scientific training by his minute and scrupulous exactness. - -The theory of the mean of truth on one side, as the foundation of -the subject,--"the humble truth," as he termed it at the beginning -of "Une Vie,"--and of the agonizing of beauty on the other side, in -composition, determines the whole use that Maupassant made of his -literary gifts. It helped to make more intense and more systematic -that dainty yet dangerous pessimism which in him was innate. The -middle-class personage, in wearisome society like ours, is always a -caricature, and the happenings are nearly always vulgar. When one -studies a great number of them, one finishes by looking at humanity -from the angle of disgust and despair. The philosophy of the romances -and novels of De Maupassant is so continuously and profoundly -surprising that one becomes overwhelmed by it. It reaches limitation; -it seems to deny that man is susceptible to grandeur, or that motives -of a superior order can uplift and ennoble the soul, but it does so -with a sorrow that is profound. All that portion of the sentimental and -moral world which in itself is the highest remains closed to it. - -In revenge, this philosophy finds itself in a relation cruelly exact -with the half-civilization of our day. By that I mean the poorly -educated individual who has rubbed against knowledge enough to justify -a certain egoism, but who is too poor in faculty to conceive an ideal, -and whose native grossness is corrupted beyond redemption. Under his -blouse, or under his coat--whether he calls himself Renardet, as does -the foul assassin in "Petite Roque," or Duroy, as does the sly hero -of "Bel-Ami," or Bretigny, as does the vile seducer of "Mont Oriol," -or Césaire, the son of Old Amable in the novel of that name,--this -degraded type abounds in Maupassant's stories, evoked with a ferocity -almost jovial where it meets the robustness of temperament which I -have pointed out, a ferocity which gives them a reality more exact -still because the half-civilized person is often impulsive and, in -consequence, the physical easily predominates. There, as elsewhere, -the degenerate is everywhere a degenerate who gives the impression of -being an ordinary man. - -There are quantities of men of this stamp in large cities. No writer -has felt and expressed this complex temperament with more justice than -De Maupassant, and, as he was an infinitely careful observer of _milieu_ -and landscape and all that constitutes a precise middle distance, his -novels can be considered an irrefutable record of the social classes -which he studied at a certain time and along certain lines. The -Norman peasant and the Provençal peasant, for example; also the small -officeholder, the gentleman of the provinces, the country squire, the -clubman of Paris, the journalist of the boulevard, the doctor at the -spa, the commercial artist, and, on the feminine side, the servant -girl, the working girl, the _demi-grisette_, the street girl, rich -or poor, the gallant lady of the city and of the provinces, and the -society woman--these are some of the figures that he has painted at -many sittings, and whom he used to such effect that the novels and -romances in which they are painted have come to be history. Just as it -is impossible to comprehend the Rome of the Cæsars without the work -of Petronius, so is it impossible to fully comprehend the France of -1850-90 without these stories of Maupassant. They are no more the whole -image of the country than the "Satyricon" was the whole image of Rome, -but what their author has wished to paint, he has painted to the life -and with a brush that is graphic in the extreme. - -If Maupassant had only painted, in general fashion, the characters and -the phase of literature mentioned, he would not be distinguished from -other writers of the group called "naturalists." His true glory is in -the extraordinary superiority of his art. He did not invent it, and his -method is not alien to that of "Madame Bovary," but he knew how to give -it a suppleness, a variety, and a freedom which were always wanting in -Flaubert. The latter, in his best pages, is always strained. To use the -expressive metaphor of the Greek athletes, he "smells of the oil." When -one recalls that when attacked by hysteric epilepsy, Flaubert postponed -the crisis of the terrible malady by means of sedatives, this strained -atmosphere of labor--I was going to say of stupor--which pervades his -work is explained. He is an athlete, a runner, but one who drags at his -feet a terrible weight. He is in the race only for the prize of effort, -an effort of which every motion reveals the intensity. - -Maupassant, on the other hand, if he suffered from a nervous lesion, -gave no sign of it, except in his heart. His intelligence was bright -and lively, and above all, his imagination, served by senses always on -the alert, preserved for some years an astonishing freshness of direct -vision. If his art was due to Flaubert, it is no more belittling to him -than if one call Raphael an imitator of Perugini. - -Like Flaubert, he excelled in composing a story, in distributing the -facts with subtle gradation, in bringing in at the end of a familiar -dialogue something startlingly dramatic; but such composition, with -him, seems easy, and while the descriptions are marvelously well -established in his stories, the reverse is true of Flaubert's, which -always appear a little veneered. Maupassant's phrasing, however -dramatic it may be, remains easy and flowing. - -Maupassant always sought for large and harmonious rhythm in his -deliberate choice of terms, always chose sound, wholesome language, -with a constant care for technical beauty. Inheriting from his master -an instrument already forged, he wielded it with a surer skill. In the -quality of his style, at once so firm and clear, so gorgeous yet so -sober, so supple and so firm, he equals the writers of the seventeenth -century. His method, so deeply and simply French, succeeds in giving an -indescribable "tang" to his descriptions. If observation from nature -imprints upon his tales the strong accent of reality, the prose in -which they are shrined so conforms to the genius of the race as to -smack of the soil. - -It is enough that the critics of to-day place Guy de Maupassant among -our classic writers. He has his place in the ranks of pure French -genius, with the Regniers, the La Fontaines, the Molières. And those -signs of secret ill divined everywhere under this wholesome prose -surround it for those who knew and loved him with a pathos that is -inexpressible. - - Paul Bourget - - - - -INTRODUCTION - - -Born in the middle year of the nineteenth century, and fated -unfortunately never to see its close, Guy de Maupassant was probably -the most versatile and brilliant among the galaxy of novelists who -enriched French literature between the years 1800 and 1900. Poetry, -drama, prose of short and sustained effort, and volumes of travel and -description, each sparkling with the same minuteness of detail and -brilliancy of style, flowed from his pen during the twelve years of his -literary life. - -Although his genius asserted itself in youth, he had the patience of -the true artist, spending his early manhood in cutting and polishing -the facets of his genius under the stern though paternal mentorship of -Gustave Flaubert. Not until he had attained the age of thirty did he -venture on publication, challenging criticism for the first time with a -volume of poems. - -Many and various have been the judgments passed upon Maupassant's work. -But now that the perspective of time is lengthening, enabling us to -form a more deliberate and therefore a juster, view of his complete -achievement, we are driven irresistibly to the conclusion that the -force that shaped and swayed Maupassant's prose writings was the -conviction that in life there could be no phase so noble or so mean, so -honorable or so contemptible, so lofty or so low as to be unworthy of -chronicling,--no groove of human virtue or fault, success or failure, -wisdom or folly that did not possess its own peculiar psychological -aspect and therefore demanded analysis. - -To this analysis Maupassant brought a facile and dramatic pen, a -penetration as searching as a probe, and a power of psychological -vision that in its minute detail, now pathetic, now ironical, in its -merciless revelation of the hidden springs of the human heart, whether -of aristocrat, _bourgeois_, peasant, or priest, allow one to call him a -Meissonier in words. - -The school of romantic realism which was founded by Mérimée and -Balzac found its culmination in De Maupassant. He surpassed his -mentor, Flaubert, in the breadth and vividness of his work, and one -of the greatest of modern French critics has recorded the deliberate -opinion, that of all Taine's pupils Maupassant had the greatest command -of language and the most finished and incisive style. Robust in -imagination and fired with natural passion, his psychological curiosity -kept him true to human nature, while at the same time his mental eye, -when fixed upon the most ordinary phases of human conduct, could see -some new motive or aspect of things hitherto unnoticed by the careless -crowd. - -It has been said by casual critics that Maupassant lacked one quality -indispensable to the production of truly artistic work, viz.: an -absolutely normal, that is, moral, point of view. The answer to this -criticism is obvious. No dissector of the gamut of human passion and -folly in all its tones could present aught that could be called new, if -ungifted with a view-point totally out of the ordinary plane. Cold and -merciless in the use of this _point de vue_ De Maupassant undoubtedly -is, especially in such vivid depictions of love, both physical and -maternal, as we find in "L'histoire d'une fille de ferme" and "La -femme de Paul." But then the surgeon's scalpel never hesitates at -giving pain, and pain is often the road to health and ease. Some of -Maupassant's short stories are sermons more forcible than any moral -dissertation could ever be. - -Of De Maupassant's sustained efforts "Une Vie" may bear the palm. This -romance has the distinction of having changed Tolstoi from an adverse -critic into a warm admirer of the author. To quote the Russian moralist -upon the book: - - "'Une Vie' is a romance of the best type, and in my judgment - the greatest that has been produced by any French writer - since Victor Hugo penned 'Les Misérables.' Passing over the - force and directness of the narrative, I am struck by the - intensity, the grace, and the insight with which the writer - treats the new aspects of human nature which he finds in the - life he describes." - -And as if gracefully to recall a former adverse criticism, Tolstoi adds: - - "I find in the book, in almost equal strength, the three - cardinal qualities essential to great work, viz: moral - purpose, perfect style, and absolute sincerity.... - Maupassant is a man whose vision has penetrated the - silent depths of human life, and from that vantage-ground - interprets the struggle of humanity." - -"Bel-Ami" appeared almost two years after "Une Vie," that is to say, -about 1885. Discussed and criticised as it has been, it is in reality -a satire, an indignant outburst against the corruption of society -which in the story enables an ex-soldier, devoid of conscience, honor, -even of the commonest regard for others, to gain wealth and rank. -The purport of the story is clear to those who recognize the ideas -that governed Maupassant's work, and even the hasty reader or critic, -on reading "Mont Oriol," which was published two years later and is -based on a combination of the _motifs_ which inspired "Une Vie" and -"Bel-Ami," will reconsider former hasty judgments, and feel, too, that -beneath the triumph of evil which calls forth Maupassant's satiric -anger there lies the substratum on which all his work is founded, viz: -the persistent, ceaseless questioning of a soul unable to reconcile or -explain the contradiction between love in life and inevitable death. -Who can read in "Bel-Ami" the terribly graphic description of the -consumptive journalist's demise, his frantic clinging to life, and his -refusal to credit the slow and merciless approach of death, without -feeling that the question asked at Naishapur many centuries ago is -still waiting for the solution that is always promised but never comes? - -In the romances which followed, dating from 1888 to 1890, a sort of -calm despair seems to have settled down upon De Maupassant's attitude -toward life. Psychologically acute as ever, and as perfect in style -and sincerity as before, we miss the note of anger. Fatality is -the keynote, and yet, sounding low, we detect a genuine subtone of -sorrow. Was it a prescience of 1893? So much work to be done, so much -work demanded of him, the world of Paris, in all its brilliant and -attractive phases, at his feet, and yet--inevitable, ever advancing -death, with the question of life still unanswered. - -This may account for some of the strained situations we find in his -later romances. Vigorous in frame and hearty as he was, the atmosphere -of his mental processes must have been vitiated to produce the dainty -but dangerous pessimism that pervades some of his later work. This was -partly a consequence of his honesty and partly of mental despair. He -never accepted other people's views on the questions of life. He looked -into such problems for himself, arriving at the truth, as it appeared -to him, by the logic of events, often finding evil where he wished to -find good, but never hoodwinking himself or his readers by adapting or -distorting the reality of things to suit a preconceived idea. - -Maupassant was essentially a worshiper of the eternal feminine. He was -persuaded that without the continual presence of the gentler sex man's -existence would be an emotionally silent wilderness. No other French -writer has described and analyzed so minutely and comprehensively -the many and various motives and moods that shape the conduct of a -woman in life. Take for instance the wonderfully subtle analysis of a -woman's heart as wife and mother that we find in "Une Vie." Could aught -be more delicately incisive? Sometimes in describing the apparently -inexplicable conduct of a certain woman he leads his readers to a point -where a false step would destroy the spell and bring the reproach of -banality and ridicule upon the tale. But the catastrophe never occurs. -It was necessary to stand poised upon the brink of the precipice to -realize the depth of the abyss and feel the terror of the fall. - -Closely allied to this phase of Maupassant's nature was the peculiar -feeling of loneliness that every now and then breaks irresistibly forth -in the course of some short story. Of kindly soul and genial heart, he -suffered not only from the oppression of spirit caused by the lack of -humanity, kindliness, sanity, and harmony which he encountered daily in -the world at large, but he had an ever abiding sense of the invincible, -unbanishable solitariness of his own Inmost self. I know of no more -poignant expression of such a feeling than the cry of despair which -rings out in the short story called "Solitude," in which he describes -the insurmountable barrier which exists between man and man, or man and -woman, however intimate the friendship between them. He could picture -but one way of destroying this terrible loneliness, the attainment of a -spiritual--a divine--state of love, a condition to which he would give -no name utterable by human lips, lest it be profaned, but for which -his whole being yearned. How acutely he felt his failure to attain his -deliverance may be drawn from his wail that mankind has no universal -measure of happiness. - -"Each one of us," writes De Maupassant, "forms for himself an illusion -through which he views the world, be it poetic, sentimental, joyous, -melancholy, or dismal; an illusion of beauty, which is a human -convention; of ugliness, which is a matter of opinion; of truth, -which, alas, is never immutable." And he concludes by asserting that -the happiest artist is he who approaches most closely to the truth of -things as he sees them through his own particular illusion. - -Salient points in De Maupassant's genius were that he possessed the -rare faculty of holding direct communion with his gifts, and of writing -from their dictation as it was interpreted by his senses. He had no -patience with writers who in striving to present life as a whole -purposely omit episodes that reveal the influence of the senses. "As -well," he says, "refrain from describing the effect of intoxicating -perfumes upon man as omit the influence of beauty on the temperament of -man." - -De Maupassant's dramatic instinct was supremely powerful. He seems -to select unerringly the one thing in which the soul of the scene is -prisoned, and, making that his keynote, gives a picture in words which -haunt the memory like a strain of music. The description of the ride of -Madame Tellier and her companions in a country cart through a Norman -landscape is an admirable example. You smell the masses of the colza -in blossom, you see the yellow carpets of ripe corn spotted here and -there by the blue coronets of the cornflower, and rapt by the red blaze -of the poppy beds and bathed in the fresh greenery of the landscape, -you share in the emotions felt by the happy party in the country cart. -And yet with all his vividness of description, De Maupassant is always -sober and brief. He had the genius of condensation and the reserve -which is innate in power, and to his reader could convey as much in a -paragraph as could be expressed in a page by many of his predecessors -and contemporaries, Flaubert not excepted. - -Apart from his novels, De Maupassant's tales may be arranged under -three heads: Those that concern themselves with Norman peasant life; -those that deal with Government employees (Maupassant himself had -long been one) and the Paris middle classes, and those that represent -the life of the fashionable world, as well as the weird and fantastic -ideas of the later years of his career. Of these three groups the tales -of the Norman peasantry perhaps rank highest. He depicts the Norman -farmer in surprisingly free and bold strokes, revealing him in all his -caution, astuteness, rough gaiety, and homely virtue. - -The tragic stage of De Maupassant's life may, I think, be set down as -beginning just before the drama of "Musotte" was issued, in conjunction -with Jacques Normand, in 1891. He had almost given up the hope of -interpreting his puzzles, and the struggle between the falsity of the -life which surrounded him and the nobler visions which possessed him -was wearing him out. Doubtless he resorted to unwise methods for the -dispelling of physical lassitude or for surcease from troubling mental -problems. To this period belong such weird and horrible fancies as -are contained in the short stories known as "He" and "The Diary of a -Madman." Here and there, we know, were rising in him inklings of a -finer and less sordid attitude 'twixt man and woman throughout the -world and of a purer constitution of existing things which no exterior -force should blemish or destroy. But with these yearningly prophetic -gleams came a period of mental death. Then the physical veil was torn -aside and for Guy de Maupassant the riddle of existence was answered. - - - Robert Arnot - - - - - - -NOTRE CŒUR - - - - -CHAPTER I. - - -THE INTRODUCTION - - -One day Massival, the celebrated composer of "Rebecca," who for fifteen -years, now, had been known as "the young and illustrious master," said -to his friend André Mariolle: - -"Why is it that you have never secured a presentation to Mme. Michèle -de Burne? Take my word for it, she is one of the most interesting women -in new Paris." - -"Because I do not feel myself at all adapted to her surroundings." - -"You are wrong, my dear fellow. It is a house where there is a great -deal of novelty and originality; it is wide-awake and very artistic. -There is excellent music, and the conversation is as good as in the -best salons of the last century. You would be highly appreciated--in -the first place because you play so well on the violin, then because -you have been very favorably spoken of in the house, and finally -because you have the reputation of being select in your choice of -friends." - -Flattered, but still maintaining his attitude of resistance, supposing, -moreover, that this urgent invitation was not given without the young -woman being aware of it, Mariolle ejaculated a "Bah! I shall not -bother my head at all about it," in which, through the disdain that he -intended to express, was evident his foregone acceptance. - -Massival continued: "Would you like to have me present you some of -these days? You are already known to her through all of us who are on -terms of intimacy with her, for we talk about you often enough. She is -a very pretty woman of twenty-eight, abounding in intelligence, who -will never take a second husband, for her first venture was a very -unfortunate one. She has made her abode a rendezvous for agreeable men. -There are not too many club-men or society-men found there--just enough -of them to give the proper effect. She will be delighted to have me -introduce you." - -Mariolle was vanquished; he replied: "Very well, then; one of these -days." - -At the beginning of the following week the musician came to his house -and asked him: "Are you disengaged to-morrow?" - -"Why, yes." - -"Very well. I will take you to dine with Mme. de Burne; she requested -me to invite you. Besides, here is a line from her." - -After a few seconds' reflection, for form's sake, Mariolle answered: -"That is settled!" - -André Mariolle was about thirty-seven years old, a bachelor without -a profession, wealthy enough to live in accordance with his likings, -to travel, and even to indulge himself in collecting modern paintings -and ancient knickknacks. He had the reputation of being a man of -intelligence, rather odd and unsociable, a little capricious and -disdainful, who affected the hermit through pride rather than through -timidity. Very talented and acute, but indolent, quick to grasp the -meaning of things, and capable, perhaps, of accomplishing something -great, he had contented himself with enjoying life as a spectator, or -rather as a _dilettante_. Had he been poor, he would doubtless have -turned out to be a remarkable or celebrated man; born with a good -income, he was eternally reproaching himself that he could never be -anything better than a nobody. - -It is true that he had made more than one attempt in the direction of -the arts, but they had lacked vigor. One had been in the direction of -literature, by publishing a pleasing book of travels, abounding in -incident and correct in style; one toward music by his violin-playing, -in which he had gained, even among professional musicians, a -respectable reputation; and, finally, one at sculpture, that art in -which native aptitude and the faculty of rough-hewing striking and -deceptive figures atone in the eyes of the ignorant for deficiencies in -study and knowledge. His statuette in terra-cotta, "Masseur Tunisien," -had even been moderately successful at the Salon of the preceding year. -He was a remarkable horseman, and was also, it was said, an excellent -fencer, although he never used the foils in public, owing, perhaps, to -the same self-distrustful feeling which impelled him to absent himself -from society resorts where serious rivalries were to be apprehended. - -His friends appreciated him, however, and were unanimous in extolling -his merits, perhaps for the reason that they had little to fear from -him in the way of competition. It was said of him that in every case he -was reliable, a devoted friend, extremely agreeable in manner, and very -sympathetic in his personality. - -Tall of stature, wearing his black beard short upon the cheeks and -trained down to a fine point upon the chin, with hair that was -beginning to turn gray but curled very prettily, he looked one straight -in the face with a pair of clear, brown, piercing eyes in which lurked -a shade of distrust and hardness. - -Among his intimates he had an especial predilection for artists of -every kind--among them Gaston de Lamarthe the novelist, Massival the -musician, and the painters Jobin, Rivollet, De Mandol--who seemed to -set a high value on his reason, his friendship, his intelligence, -and even his judgment, although at bottom, with the vanity that -is inseparable from success achieved, they set him down as a very -agreeable and very intelligent man who had failed to score a success. - -Mariolle's haughty reserve seemed to say: "I am nothing because I have -not chosen to be anything." He lived within a narrow circle, therefore, -disdaining gallantry and the great frequented salons, where others -might have shone more brilliantly than he, and might have obliged him -to take his place among the lay-figures of society. He visited only -those houses where appreciation was extended to the solid qualities -that he was unwilling to display; and though he had consented so -readily to allow himself to be introduced to Mme. Michèle de Burne, the -reason was that his best friends, those who everywhere proclaimed his -hidden merits, were the intimates of this young woman. - -She lived in a pretty _entresol_ in the Rue du Général-Foy, behind the -church of Saint Augustin. There were two rooms with an outlook on the -street--the dining-room and a salon, the one in which she received her -company indiscriminately--and two others that opened on a handsome -garden of which the owner of the property had the enjoyment. Of the -latter the first was a second salon of large dimensions, of greater -length than width, with three windows opening on the trees, the leaves -of which brushed against the awnings, a room which was embellished -with furniture and ornaments exceptionally rare and simple, in the -purest and soberest taste and of great value. The tables, the chairs, -the little cupboards or _étagères_, the pictures, the fans and the -porcelain figures beneath glass covers, the vases, the statuettes, the -great clock fixed in the middle of a panel, the entire decoration of -this young woman's apartment attracted and held attention by its shape, -its age, or its elegance. To create for herself this home, of which she -was almost as proud as she was of her own person, she had laid under -contribution the knowledge, the friendship, the good nature, and the -rummaging instinct of every artist of her acquaintance. She was rich -and willing to pay well, and her friends had discovered for her many -things, distinguished by originality, which the mere vulgar amateur -would have passed by with contempt. Thus, with their assistance, -she had furnished this dwelling, to which access was obtained with -difficulty, and where she imagined that her friends received more -pleasure and returned more gladly than elsewhere. - -It was even a favorite hobby of hers to assert that the colors of the -curtains and hangings, the comfort of the seats, the beauty of form, -and the gracefulness of general effect are of as much avail to charm, -captivate, and acclimatize the eye as are pretty smiles. Sympathetic -or antipathetic rooms, she would say, whether rich or poor, attract, -hold, or repel, just like the people who live in them. They awake the -feelings or stifle them, warm or chill the mind, compel one to talk or -be silent, make one sad or cheerful; in a word, they give every visitor -an unaccountable desire to remain or to go away. - -About the middle of this dimly lighted gallery a grand piano, standing -between two _jardinières_ filled with flowers, occupied the place of -honor and dominated the room. Beyond this a lofty door with two leaves -opened gave access to the bedroom, which in turn communicated with a -dressing-room, also very large and elegant, hung with chintz like a -drawing-room in summer, where Mme. de Burne generally kept herself when -she had no company. - -Married to a well-mannered good-for-nothing, one of those domestic -tyrants before whom everything must bend and yield, she had at -first been very unhappy. For five years she had had to endure the -unreasonable exactions, the harshness, the jealousy, even the violence -of this intolerable master, and terrified, beside herself with -astonishment, she had submitted without revolt to this revelation of -married life, crushed as she was beneath the despotic and torturing -will of the brutal man whose victim she had become. - -He died one night, from an aneurism, as he was coming home, and when -she saw the body of her husband brought in, covered with a sheet, -unable to believe in the reality of this deliverance, she looked at his -corpse with a deep feeling of repressed joy and a frightful dread lest -she might show it. - -Cheerful, independent, even exuberant by nature, very flexible and -attractive, with bright flashes of wit such as are shown in some -incomprehensible way in the intellects of certain little girls of -Paris, who seem to have breathed from their earliest childhood the -stimulating air of the boulevards--where every evening, through the -open doors of the theaters, the applause or the hisses that greet the -plays come forth, borne on the air--she nevertheless retained from her -five years of servitude a strange timidity grafted upon her old-time -audacity, a great fear lest she might say too much, do too much, -together with a burning desire for emancipation and a stern resolve -never again to do anything to imperil her liberty. - -Her husband, a man of the world, had trained her to receive like a mute -slave, elegant, polite, and well dressed. The despot had numbered among -his friends many artists, whom she had received with curiosity and -listened to with delight, without ever daring to allow them to see how -she understood and appreciated them. - -When her period of mourning was ended she invited a few of them to -dinner one evening. Two of them sent excuses; three accepted and -were astonished to find a young woman of admirable intelligence and -charming manners, who immediately put them at their ease and gracefully -told them of the pleasure that they had afforded her in former days -by coming to her house. From among her old acquaintances who had -ignored her or failed to recognize her qualities she thus gradually -made a selection according to her inclinations, and as a widow, an -enfranchised woman, but one determined to maintain her good name, she -began to receive all the most distinguished men of Paris whom she could -bring together, with only a few women. The first to be admitted became -her intimates, formed a nucleus, attracted others, and gave to the -house the air of a small court, to which every _habitué_ contributed -either personal merit or a great name, for a few well-selected titles -were mingled with the intelligence of the commonalty. - -Her father, M. de Pradon, who occupied the apartment over hers, served -as her chaperon and "sheep-dog." An old beau, very elegant and witty, -and extremely attentive to his daughter, whom he treated rather as -a lady acquaintance than as a daughter, he presided at the Thursday -dinners that were quickly known and talked of in Paris, and to which -invitations were much sought after. The requests for introductions -and invitations came in shoals, were discussed, and very frequently -rejected by a sort of vote of the inner council. Witty sayings that -had their origin in this circle were quoted and obtained currency in -the city. Actors, artists, and young poets made their _débuts_ there, -and received, as it were, the baptism of their future greatness. -Longhaired geniuses, introduced by Gaston de Lamarthe, seated -themselves at the piano and replaced the Hungarian violinists that -Massival had presented, and foreign ballet-dancers gave the company a -glimpse of their graceful steps before appearing at the Eden or the -Folies-Bergères. - -Mme. de Burne, over whom her friends kept jealous watch and ward and -to whom the recollection of her commerce with the world under the -auspices of marital authority was loathsome, was sufficiently wise -not to enlarge the circle of her acquaintance to too great an extent. -Satisfied and at the same time terrified as to what might be said -and thought of her, she abandoned herself to her somewhat Bohemian -inclinations with consummate prudence. She valued her good name, and -was fearful of any rashness that might jeopardize it; she never allowed -her fancies to carry her beyond the bounds of propriety, was moderate -in her audacity and careful that no _liaison_ or small love affair -should ever be imputed to her. - -All her friends had made love to her, more or less; none of them had -been successful. They confessed it, admitted it to each other with -surprise, for men never acknowledge, and perhaps they are right, the -power of resistance of a woman who is her own mistress. There was a -story current about her. It was said that at the beginning of their -married life her husband had exhibited such revolting brutality toward -her that she had been forever cured of the love of men. Her friends -would often discuss the case at length. They inevitably arrived at the -conclusion that a young girl who has been brought up in the dream -of future tenderness and the expectation of an awe-inspiring mystery -must have all her ideas completely upset when her initiation into the -new life is committed to a clown. That worldly philosopher, George de -Maltry, would give a gentle sneer and add: "Her hour will strike; it -always does for women like her, and the longer it is in coming the -louder it strikes. With our friend's artistic tastes, she will wind up -by falling in love with a singer or a pianist." - -Gaston de Lamarthe's ideas upon the subject were quite different. -As a novelist, observer, and psychologist, devoted to the study of -the inhabitants of the world of fashion, of whom he drew ironical -and lifelike portraits, he claimed to analyze and know women with -infallible and unique penetration. He put Mme. de Burne down among -those flighty creatures of the time, the type of whom he had given -in his interesting novel, "Une d'Elles." He had been the first -to diagnose this new race of women, distracted by the nerves of -reasoning, hysterical patients, drawn this way and that by a thousand -contradictory whims which never ripen into desires, disillusioned of -everything, without having enjoyed anything, thanks to the times, to -the way of living, and to the modern novel, and who, destitute of all -ardor and enthusiasm, seem to combine in their persons the capricious, -spoiled child and the old, withered sceptic. But he, like the rest of -them, had failed in his love-making. - -For all the faithful of the group had in turn been lovers of Mme. de -Burne, and after the crisis had retained their tenderness and their -emotion in different degrees. They had gradually come to form a sort of -little church; she was its Madonna, of whom they conversed constantly -among themselves, subject to her charm even when she was not present. -They praised, extolled, criticised, or disparaged her, according as she -had manifested irritation or gentleness, aversion or preference. They -were continually displaying their jealousy of each other, played the -spy on each other a little, and above all kept their ranks well closed -up, so that no rival might get near her who could give them any cause -for alarm. - -These assiduous ones were few in number: Massival, Gaston de Lamarthe, -big Fresnel, George de Maltry, a fashionable young philosopher, -celebrated for his paradoxes, for his eloquent and involved erudition -that was always up to date though incomprehensible even to the most -impassioned of his female admirers, and for his clothes, which were -selected with as much care as his theories. To this tried band she had -added a few more men of the world who had a reputation for wit, the -Comte de Marantin, the Baron de Gravil, and two or three others. - -The two privileged characters of this chosen battalion seemed to be -Massival and Lamarthe, who, it appears, had the gift of being always -able to divert the young woman by their artistic unceremoniousness, -their chaff, and the way they had of making fun of everybody, even of -herself, a little, when she was in humor to tolerate it. The care, -whether natural or assumed, however, that she took never to manifest -a marked and prolonged predilection for any one of her admirers, the -unconstrained air with which she practiced her coquetry and the real -impartiality with which she dispensed her favors maintained between -them a friendship seasoned with hostility and an alertness of wit that -made them entertaining. - -One of them would sometimes play a trick on the others by presenting -a friend; but as this friend was never a very celebrated or very -interesting man, the rest would form a league against him and quickly -send him away. - -It was in this way that Massival brought his comrade André Mariolle -to the house. A servant in black announced these names: "Monsieur -Massival! Monsieur Mariolle!" - -Beneath a great rumpled cloud of pink silk, a huge shade that was -casting down upon a square table with a top of ancient marble the -brilliant light of a lamp supported by a lofty column of gilded bronze, -one woman's head and three men's heads were bent over an album that -Lamarthe had brought in with him. Standing between them, the novelist -was turning the leaves and explaining the pictures. - -As they entered the room, one of the heads was turned toward them, -and Mariolle, as he stepped forward, became conscious of a bright, -blond face, rather tending to ruddiness, upon the temples of which the -soft, fluffy locks of hair seemed to blaze with the flame of burning -brushwood. The delicate _retroussé_ nose imparted a smiling expression -to this countenance, and the clean-cut mouth, the deep dimples in -the cheeks, and the rather prominent cleft chin, gave it a mocking -air, while the eyes, by a strange contrast, veiled it in melancholy. -They were blue, of a dull, dead blue as if they had been washed out, -scoured, used up, and in the center the black pupils shone, round and -dilated. The strange and brilliant glances that they emitted seemed to -tell of dreams of morphine, or perhaps, more simply, of the coquettish -artifice of belladonna. - -Mme. de Burne arose, gave her hand, thanked and welcomed them. - -"For a long time I have been begging my friends to bring you to my -house," she said to Mariolle, "but I always have to tell these things -over and over again in order to get them done." - -She was tall, elegantly shaped, rather deliberate in her movements, -modestly _décolletée_, scarcely showing the tips of her handsome -shoulders, the shoulders of a red-headed woman, that shone out -marvelously under the light. And yet her hair was not red, but of the -inexpressible color of certain dead leaves that have been burned by the -frosts of autumn. - -She presented M. Mariolle to her father, who bowed and shook hands. - -The men were conversing familiarly together in three groups; they -seemed to be at home, in a kind of club that they were accustomed -to frequent, to which the presence of a woman imparted a note of -refinement. - -Big Fresnel was chatting with the Comte de Marantin. Fresnel's frequent -visits to this house and the preference that Mme. de Burne evinced for -him shocked and often provoked her friends. Still young, but with the -proportions of a drayman, always puffing and blowing, almost beardless, -his head lost in a vague cloud of light, soft hair, commonplace, -tiresome, ridiculous, he certainly could have but one merit in the -young woman's eyes, a merit that was displeasing to the others but -indispensable to her,--that of loving her blindly. He had received the -nickname of "The Seal." He was married, but never said anything about -bringing his wife to the house. It was said that she was very jealous -in her seclusion. - -Lamarthe and Massival especially evinced their indignation at the -evident sympathy of their friend for this windy person, and when they -could no longer refrain from reproaching her with this reprehensible -inclination, this selfish and vulgar liking, she would smile and answer: - -"I love him as I would love a great, big, faithful dog." - -George de Maltry was entertaining Gaston de Lamarthe with the most -recent discovery, not yet fully developed, of the micro-biologists. -M. de Maltry was expatiating on his theme with many subtile and -far-reaching theories, and the novelist accepted them enthusiastically, -with the facility with which men of letters receive and do not dispute -everything that appears to them original and new. - -The philosopher of "high life," fair, of the fairness of linen, slender -and tall, was incased in a coat that fitted very closely about the -hips. Above, his pale, intelligent face emerged from his white collar -and was surmounted by smooth, blond hair, which had the appearance of -being glued on. - -As to Lamarthe, Gaston de Lamarthe, to whom the particle that divided -his name had imparted some of the pretensions of a gentleman and man -of the world, he was first, last, and all the time a man of letters, -a terrible and pitiless man of letters. Provided with an eye that -gathered in images, attitudes, and gestures with the rapidity and -accuracy of the photographer's camera, and endowed with penetration -and the novelist's instinct, which were as innate in him as the faculty -of scent is in a hound, he was busy from morning till night storing -away impressions to be used afterward in his profession. With these -two very simple senses, a distinct idea of form and an intuitive one -of substance, he gave to his books, in which there appeared none of -the ordinary aims of psychological writers, the color, the tone, the -appearance, the movement of life itself. - -Each one of his novels as it appeared excited in society curiosity, -conjecture, merriment, or wrath, for there always seemed to be -prominent persons to be recognized in them, only faintly disguised -under a torn mask; and whenever he made his way through a crowded salon -he left a wake of uneasiness behind him. Moreover, he had published a -volume of personal recollections, in which he had given the portraits -of many men and women of his acquaintance, without any clearly defined -intention of unkindness, but with such precision and severity that -they felt sore over it. Some one had applied to him the _sobriquet_, -"Beware of your friends." He kept his secrets close-locked within his -breast and was a puzzle to his intimates. He was reputed to have once -passionately loved a woman who caused him much suffering, and it was -said that after that he wreaked his vengeance upon others of her sex. - -Massival and he understood each other very well, although the musician -was of a very different disposition, more frank, more expansive, less -harassed, perhaps, but manifestly more impressible. After two great -successes--a piece performed at Brussels and afterward brought to -Paris, where it was loudly applauded at the Opéra-Comique; then a -second work that was received and interpreted at the Grand Opéra as -soon as offered--he had yielded to that species of cessation of impulse -that seems to smite the greater part of our contemporary artists like -premature paralysis. They do not grow old, as their fathers did, in the -midst of their renown and success, but seem threatened with impotence -even when in the very prime of life. Lamarthe was accustomed to say: -"At the present day there are in France only great men who have gone -wrong." - -Just at this time Massival seemed very much smitten with Mme. de Burne, -so that every eye was turned upon him when he kissed her hand with an -air of adoration. He inquired: - -"Are we late?" - -She replied: - -"No, I am still expecting the Baron de Gravil and the Marquise de -Bratiane." - -"Ah, the Marquise! What good luck! We shall have some music this -evening, then." - -"I hope so." - -The two laggards made their appearance. The Marquise, a woman perhaps a -little too diminutive, Italian by birth, of a lively disposition, with -very black eyes and eyelashes, black eyebrows, and black hair to match, -which grew so thick and so low down that she had no forehead to speak -of, her eyes even being threatened with invasion, had the reputation of -possessing the most remarkable voice of all the women in society. - -The Baron, a very gentlemanly man, hollow-chested and with a large -head, was never really himself unless he had his violoncello in his -hands. He was a passionate melomaniac, and only frequented those houses -where music received its due share of honor. - -Dinner was announced, and Mme. de Burne, taking André Mariolle's arm, -allowed her guests to precede her to the dining-room; then, as they -were left together, the last ones in the drawing-room, just as she was -about to follow the procession she cast upon him an oblique, swift -glance from her pale eyes with their dusky pupils, in which he thought -that he could perceive more complexity of thought and more curiosity of -interest than pretty women generally bestow upon a strange gentleman -when receiving him at dinner for the first time. - -The dinner was monotonous and rather dull. Lamarthe was nervous, and -seemed ill disposed toward everyone, not openly hostile, for he made a -point of his good-breeding, but displaying that almost imperceptible -bad humor that takes the life out of conversation. Massival, abstracted -and preoccupied, ate little, and from time to time cast furtive glances -at the mistress of the house, who seemed to be in any place rather than -at her own table. Inattentive, responding to remarks with a smile and -then allowing her face to settle back to its former intent expression, -she appeared to be reflecting upon something that seemed greatly to -preoccupy her, and to interest her that evening more than did her -friends. Still she contributed her share to the conversation--very -amply as regarded the Marquise and Mariolle,--but she did it from -habit, from a sense of duty, visibly absent from herself and from her -abode. Fresnel and M. de Maltry disputed over contemporary poetry. -Fresnel held the opinions upon poetry that are current among men of -the world, and M. de Maltry the perceptions of the spinners of most -complicated verse--verse that is incomprehensible to the general public. - -Several times during the dinner Mariolle had again encountered the -young woman's inquiring look, but more vague, less intent, less -curious. The Marquise de Bratiane, the Comte de Marantin, and the Baron -de Gravil were the only ones who kept up an uninterrupted conversation, -and they had quantities of things to say. - -After dinner, during the course of the evening, Massival, who had -kept growing more and more melancholy, seated himself at the piano -and struck a few notes, whereupon Mme. de Burne appeared to awake and -quickly organized a little concert, the numbers of which comprised the -pieces that she was most fond of. - -The Marquise was in voice, and, animated by Massival's presence, she -sang like a real artist. The master accompanied her, with that dreamy -look that he always assumed when he sat down to play. His long hair -fell over the collar of his coat and mingled with his full, fine, -shining, curling beard. Many women had been in love with him, and they -still pursued him with their attentions, so it was said. Mme. de Burne, -sitting by the piano and listening with all her soul, seemed to be -contemplating him and at the same time not to see him, and Mariolle -was a little jealous. He was not particularly jealous because of any -relation that there was between her and him, but in presence of that -look of a woman fixed so intently upon one of the Illustrious he felt -himself humiliated in his masculine vanity by the consciousness of the -rank that _They_ bestow on us in proportion to the renown that we have -gained. Often before this he had secretly suffered from contact with -famous men whom he was accustomed to meet in the presence of those -beings whose favor is by far the dearest reward of success. - -About ten o'clock the Comtesse de Frémines and two Jewesses of the -financial community arrived, one after the other. The talk was of a -marriage that was on the carpet and a threatened divorce suit. Mariolle -looked at Madame de Burne, who was now seated beneath a column that -sustained a huge lamp. Her well-formed, tip-tilted nose, the dimples in -her cheeks, and the little indentation that parted her chin gave her -face the frolicsome expression of a child, although she was approaching -her thirtieth year, and something in her glance that reminded one of -a withering flower cast a shade of melancholy over her countenance. -Beneath the light that streamed upon it her skin took on tones of blond -velvet, while her hair actually seemed colored by the autumnal sun -which dyes and scorches the dead leaves. - -She was conscious of the masculine glance that was traveling toward her -from the other end of the room, and presently she arose and went to -him, smiling, as if in response to a summons from him. - -"I am afraid you are somewhat bored," she said. "A person who has not -got the run of a house is always bored." - -He protested the contrary. She took a chair and seated herself by -him, and at once the conversation began to be animated. It was -instantaneous with both of them, like a fire that blazes up brightly -as soon as a match is applied to it. It seemed as if they had imparted -their sensations and their opinions to each other beforehand, as if a -similarity of disposition and education, of tastes and inclinations, -had predisposed them to a mutual understanding and fated them to meet. - -Perhaps there may have been a little artfulness on the part of the -young woman, but the delight that one feels in encountering one who is -capable of listening, who can understand you and reply to you and whose -answers give scope for your repartees, put Mariolle into a fine glow of -spirits. Flattered, moreover, by the reception which she had accorded -him, subjugated by the alluring favor that she displayed and by the -charm which she knew how to use so adroitly in captivating men, he -did his best to exhibit to her that shade of subdued but personal and -delicate wit which, when people came to know him well, had gained for -him so many and such warm friendships. - -She suddenly said to him: - -"Really, it is very pleasant to converse with you, Monsieur. I had been -told that such was the case, however." - -He was conscious that he was blushing, and replied at a venture: - -"And _I_ had been told, Madame, that you were----" - -She interrupted him: - -"Say a coquette. I am a good deal of a coquette with people whom I -like. Everyone knows it, and I do not attempt to conceal it from -myself, but you will see that I am very impartial in my coquetry, and -this allows me to keep or to recall my friends without ever losing -them, and to retain them all about me." - -She said this with a sly air which was meant to say: "Be easy and don't -be too presumptuous. Don't deceive yourself, for you will get nothing -more than the others." - -He replied: - -"That is what you might call warning your guests of the perils that -await them here. Thank you, Madame: I greatly admire your mode of -procedure." - -She had opened the way for him to speak of herself, and he availed -himself of it. He began by paying her compliments and found that she -was fond of them; then he aroused her woman's curiosity by telling -her what was said of her in the different houses that he frequented. -She was rather uneasy and could not conceal her desire for further -information, although she affected much indifference as to what might -be thought of herself and her tastes. He drew for her a charming -portrait of a superior, independent, intelligent, and attractive -woman, who had surrounded herself with a court of eminent men and -still retained her position as an accomplished member of society. She -disclaimed his compliments with smiles, with little disclaimers of -gratified egotism, all the while taking much pleasure in the details -that he gave her, and in a playful tone kept constantly asking him for -more, questioning him artfully, with a sensual appetite for flattery. - -As he looked at her, he said to himself, "She is nothing but a child -at heart, just like all the rest of them"; and he went on to finish a -pretty speech in which he was commending her love for art, so rarely -found among women. Then she assumed an air of mockery that he had not -before suspected in her, that playfully tantalizing manner that seems -inherent in the French. Mariolle had overdone his eulogy; she let him -know that she was not a fool. - -"_Mon Dieu!_" she said, "I will confess to you that I am not quite -certain whether it is art or artists that I love." - -He replied: "How could one love artists without being in love with art?" - -"Because they are sometimes more comical than men of the world." - -"Yes, but they have more unpleasant failings." - -"That is true." - -"Then you do not love music?" - -She suddenly dropped her bantering tone. "Excuse me! I adore music; I -think that I am more fond of it than of anything else. And yet Massival -is convinced that I know nothing at all about it." - -"Did he tell you so?" - -"No, but he thinks so." - -"How do you know?" - -"Oh! we women guess at almost everything that we don't know." - -"So Massival thinks that you know nothing of music?" - -"I am sure of it. I can see it only by the way that he has of -explaining things to me, by the way in which he underscores little -niceties of expression, all the while saying to himself: 'That won't be -of any use, but I do it because you are so nice.'" - -"Still he has told me that you have the best music in your house of any -in Paris, no matter whose the other may be." - -"Yes, thanks to him." - -"And literature, are you not fond of that?" - -"I am very fond of it; and I am even so audacious as to claim to have a -very good perception of it, notwithstanding Lamarthe's opinion." - -"Who also decides that you know nothing at all about it?" - -"Of course." - -"But who has not told you so in words, any more than the other." - -"Pardon me; he is more outspoken. He asserts that certain women -are capable of showing a very just and delicate perception of the -sentiments that are expressed, of the truthfulness of the characters, -of psychology in general, but that they are totally incapable of -discerning the superiority that resides in his profession, its art. -When he has once uttered this word, Art, all that is left one to do is -to show him the door." - -Mariolle smiled and asked: - -"And you, Madame, what do you think of it?" - -She reflected for a few seconds, then looked him straight in the face -to see if he was in a frame of mind to listen and to understand her. - -"I believe that sentiment, you understand--sentiment--can make a -woman's mind receptive of everything; only it is frequently the case -that what enters does not remain there. Do you follow me?" - -"No, not fully, Madame." - -"Very well! To make us comprehensive to the same degree as you, our -woman's nature must be appealed to before addressing our intelligence. -We take no interest in what a man has not first made sympathetic to us, -for we look at all things through the medium of sentiment. I do not say -through the medium of love; no,--but of sentiment, which has shades, -forms, and manifestations of every sort. Sentiment is something that -belongs exclusively to our domain, which you men have no conception -of, for it befogs you while it enlightens us. Oh! I know that all this -is incomprehensible to you, the more the pity! In a word, if a man -loves us and is agreeable to us, for it is indispensable that we should -feel that we are loved in order to become capable of the effort--and -if this man is a superior being, by taking a little pains he can make -us feel, know, and possess everything, everything, I say, and at odd -moments and by bits impart to us the whole of his intelligence. That -is all often blotted out afterward; it disappears, dies out, for we -are forgetful. Oh! we forget as the wind forgets the words that are -spoken to it. We are intuitive and capable of enlightenment, but -changeable, impressionable, readily swayed by our surroundings. If I -could only tell you how many states of mind I pass through that make -of me entirely different women, according to the weather, my health, -what I may have been reading, what may have been said to me! Actually -there are days when I have the feelings of an excellent mother without -children, and others when I almost have those of a _cocotte_ without -lovers." - -Greatly pleased, he asked: "Is it your opinion that intelligent women -generally are gifted with this activity of thought?" - -"Yes," she said. "Only they allow it to slumber, and then they have a -life shaped for them which draws them in one direction or the other." - -Again he questioned: "Then in your heart of hearts it is music that you -prefer above all other distractions?" - -"Yes! But what I was telling you just now is so true! I should -certainly never have enjoyed it as I do enjoy it, adored it as I do -adore it, had it not been for that angelic Massival. He seems to have -given me the soul of the great masters by teaching me to play their -works, of which I was passionately fond before. What a pity that he is -married!" - -She said these last words with a sprightly air, but so regretfully that -they threw everything else into shadow, her theories upon women and her -admiration for art. - -Massival was, in fact, married. Before the days of his success he had -contracted one of those unions that artists make and afterward trail -after them through their renown until the day of their death. He never -mentioned his wife's name, never presented her in society, which he -frequented a great deal; and although he had three children the fact -was scarcely known. - -Mariolle laughed. She was decidedly nice, was this unconventional -woman, pretty, and of a type not often met with. Without ever tiring, -with a persistency that seemed in no wise embarrassing to her, he kept -gazing upon that face, grave and gay and a little self-willed, with -its audacious nose and its sensual coloring of a soft, warm blonde, -warmed by the midsummer of a maturity so tender, so full, so sweet that -she seemed to have reached the very year, the month, the minute of -her perfect flowering. He wondered: "Is her complexion false?" And he -looked for the faint telltale line, lighter or darker, at the roots of -her hair, without being able to discover it. - -Soft footsteps on the carpet behind him made him start and turn his -head. It was two servants bringing in the tea-table. Over the blue -flame of the little lamp the water bubbled gently in a great silver -receptacle, as shining and complicated as a chemist's apparatus. - -"Will you have a cup of tea?" she asked. - -Upon his acceptance she arose, and with a firm step in which there was -no undulation, but which was rather marked by stiffness, proceeded to -the table where the water was simmering in the depths of the machine, -surrounded by a little garden of cakes, pastry, candied fruits, and -bonbons. Then, as her profile was presented in clear relief against the -hangings of the salon, Mariolle observed the delicacy of her form and -the thinness of her hips beneath the broad shoulders and the full chest -that he had been admiring a moment before. As the train of her light -dress unrolled and dragged behind her, seemingly prolonging upon the -carpet a body that had no end, this blunt thought arose to his mind: -"Behold, a siren! She is altogether promising." She was now going from -one to another, offering her refreshments with gestures of exquisite -grace. Mariolle was following her with his eyes; but Lamarthe, who was -walking about with his cup in his hand, came up to him and said: - -"Shall we go, you and I?" - -"Yes, I think so." - -"We will go at once, shall we not? I am tired." - -"At once. Come." - -They left the house. When they were in the street, the novelist asked: - -"Are you going home or to the club?" - -"I think that I will go and spend an hour at the club." - -"At the Tambourins?" - -"Yes." - -"I will go as far as the door with you. Those places are tiresome to -me; I never put my foot in them. I join them only because they enable -me to economize in hack-hire." - -They locked arms and went down the street toward Saint Augustin. They -walked a little way in silence; then Mariolle said: - -"What a singular woman! What do you think of her?" - -Lamarthe began to laugh outright. "It is the commencement of the -crisis," he said. "You will have to pass through it, just as we have -all done. I have had the malady, but I am cured of it now. My dear -friend, the crisis consists of her friends talking of nothing but of -her when they are together, whenever they chance to meet, wherever they -may happen to be." - -"At all events, it is the first time in my case, and it is very natural -for me to ask for information, since I scarcely know her." - -"Let it be so, then; we will talk of her. Well, you are bound to fall -in love with her. It is your fate, the lot that is shared by all." - -"She is so very seductive, then?" - -"Yes and no. Those who love the women of other days, women who have a -heart and a soul, women of sensibility, the women of the old-fashioned -novel, cannot endure her and execrate her to such a degree as to speak -of her with ignominy. We, on the other hand, who are disposed to look -favorably upon what is modern and fresh, are compelled to confess that -she is delicious, provided always that we don't fall in love with -her. And that is just exactly what everybody does. No one dies of the -complaint, however; they do not even suffer very acutely, but they fume -because she is not other than she is. You will have to go through it -all if she takes the fancy; besides, she is already preparing to snap -you up." - -Mariolle exclaimed, in response to his secret thought: - -"Oh! I am only a chance acquaintance for her, and I imagine that she -values acquaintances of all sorts and conditions." - -"Yes, she values them, _parbleu!_ and at the same time she laughs at -them. The most celebrated, even the most distinguished, man will not -darken her door ten times if he is not congenial to her, and she has -formed a stupid attachment for that idiotic Fresnel, and that tiresome -De Maltry. She inexcusably suffers herself to be carried away by those -idiots, no one knows why; perhaps because she gets more amusement out -of them than she does out of us, perhaps because their love for her is -deeper; and there is nothing in the world that pleases a woman so much -as to be loved like that." - -And Lamarthe went on talking of her, analyzing her, pulling her to -pieces, correcting himself only to contradict himself again, replying -with unmistakable warmth and sincerity to Mariolle's questions, like a -man who is deeply interested in his subject and carried away by it; a -little at sea also, having his mind stored with observations that were -true and deductions that were false. He said: - -"She is not the only one, moreover; at this minute there are fifty -women, if not more, who are like her. There is the little Frémines -who was in her drawing-room just now; she is Mme. de Burne's exact -counterpart, save that she is more forward in her manners and married -to an outlandish kind of fellow, the consequence of which is that her -house is one of the most entertaining lunatic asylums in Paris. I go -there a great deal." - -Without noticing it, they had traversed the Boulevard Malesherbes, the -Rue Royale, the Avenue des Champs-Élysées, and had reached the Arc de -Triomphe, when Lamarthe suddenly pulled out his watch. - -"My dear fellow," he said, "we have spent an hour and ten minutes in -talking of her; that is sufficient for to-day. I will take some other -occasion of seeing you to your club. Go home and go to bed; it is what -I am going to do." - - - - -CHAPTER II. - - -"WILL YOU WALK INTO MY PARLOR?" - - -The room was large and well lighted, the walls and ceiling hung with -admirable hangings of chintz that a friend of hers in the diplomatic -service had brought home and presented to her. The ground was yellow, -as if it had been dipped in golden cream, and the designs of all -colors, in which Persian green was predominant, represented fantastic -buildings with curving roofs, about which monstrosities in the shape of -beasts and birds were running and flying: lions wearing wigs, antelopes -with extravagant horns, and birds of paradise. - -The furniture was scanty. Upon three long tables with tops of green -marble were arranged all the implements requisite for a pretty woman's -toilette. Upon one of them, the central one, were the great basins -of thick crystal; the second presented an array of bottles, boxes, -and vases of all sizes, surmounted by silver caps bearing her arms -and monogram; while on the third were displayed all the tools and -appliances of modern coquetry, countless in number, designed to serve -various complex and mysterious purposes. The room contained only two -reclining chairs and a few low, soft, and luxurious seats, calculated -to afford rest to weary limbs and to bodies relieved of the restraint -of clothing. - -Covering one entire side of the apartment was an immense mirror, -composed of three panels. The two wings, playing on hinges, allowed -the young woman to view herself at the same time in front, rear, and -profile, to envelop herself in her own image. To the right, in a recess -that was generally concealed by hanging draperies, was the bath, or -rather a deep pool, reached by a descent of two steps. A bronze Love, a -charming conception of the sculptor Prédolé, poured hot and cold water -into it through the seashells with which he was playing. At the back -of this alcove a Venetian mirror, composed of smaller mirrors inclined -to each other at varying angles, ascended in a curved dome, shutting -in and protecting the bath and its occupant, and reflecting them in -each one of its many component parts. A little beyond the bath was her -writing-desk, a plain and handsome piece of furniture of modern English -manufacture, covered with a litter of papers, folded letters, little -torn envelopes on which glittered gilt initials, for it was in this -room that she passed her time and attended to her correspondence when -she was alone. - -Stretched at full length upon her reclining-chair, enveloped in a -dressing-gown of Chinese silk, her bare arms--and beautiful, firm, -supple arms they were--issuing forth fearlessly from out the wide folds -of silk, her hair turned up and burdening the head with its masses of -blond coils, Mme. de Burne was indulging herself with a gentle reverie -after the bath. The chambermaid knocked, then entered, bringing a -letter. She took it, looked at the writing, tore it open, and read the -first lines; then calmly said to the servant: "I will ring for you in -an hour." - -When she was alone she smiled with the delight of victory. The first -words had sufficed to let her understand that at last she had received -a declaration of love from Mariolle. He had held out much longer than -she had thought he was capable of doing, for during the last three -months she had been besieging him with such attentions, such display -of grace and efforts to charm, as she had never hitherto employed -for anyone. He had seemed to be distrustful and on his guard against -her, against the bait of insatiable coquetry that she was continually -dangling before his eyes. - -It had required many a confidential conversation, into which she had -thrown all the physical seduction of her being and all the captivating -efforts of her mind, many an evening of music as well, when, seated -before the piano that was ringing still, before the leaves of the -scores that were full of the soul of the tuneful masters, they had -both thrilled with the same emotion, before she at last beheld in his -eyes that avowal of the vanquished man, the mendicant supplication of -a love that can no longer be concealed. She knew all this so well, the -_rouée!_ Many and many a time, with feline cunning and inexhaustible -curiosity, she had made this secret, torturing plea rise to the eyes of -the men whom she had succeeded in beguiling. It afforded her so much -amusement to feel that she was gaining them, little by little, that -they were conquered, subjugated by her invincible woman's might, that -she was for them the Only One, the sovereign Idol whose caprices must -be obeyed. - -It had all grown up within her almost imperceptibly, like the -development of a hidden instinct, the instinct of war and conquest. -Perhaps it was that a desire of retaliation had germinated in her -heart during her years of married life, a dim longing to repay to men -generally that measure of ill which she had received from one of them, -to be in turn the strongest, to make stubborn wills bend before her, to -crush resistance and to make others, as well as she, feel the keen edge -of suffering. Above all else, however, she was a born coquette, and as -soon as her way in life was clear before her she applied herself to -pursuing and subjugating lovers, just as the hunter pursues the game, -with no other end in view than the pleasure of seeing them fall before -her. - -And yet her heart was not eager for emotion, like that of a tender and -sentimental woman; she did not seek a man's undivided love, nor did -she look for happiness in passion. All that she needed was universal -admiration, homage, prostrations, an incense-offering of tenderness. -Whoever frequented her house had also to become the slave of her -beauty, and no consideration of mere intellect could attach her for any -length of time to those who would not yield to her coquetry, disdainful -of the anxieties of love, their affections, perhaps, being placed -elsewhere. - -In order to retain her friendship it was indispensable to love her, -but that point once reached she was infinitely nice, with unimaginable -kindnesses and delightful attentions, designed to retain at her -side those whom she had captivated. Those who were once enlisted in -her regiment of adorers seemed to become her property by right of -conquest. She ruled them with great skill and wisdom, according to -their qualities and their defects and the nature of their jealousy. -Those who sought to obtain too much she expelled forthwith, taking them -back again afterward when they had become wiser, but imposing severe -conditions. And to such an extent did this game of bewitchment amuse -her, perverse woman that she was, that she found it as pleasurable to -befool steady old gentlemen as to turn the heads of the young. - -It might even have been said that she regulated her affection by the -fervency of the ardor that she had inspired, and that big Fresnel, a -dull, heavy companion who was of no imaginable benefit to her, retained -her favor thanks to the mad passion by which she felt that he was -possessed. She was not entirely indifferent to men's merits, either, -and more than once had been conscious of the commencement of a liking -that no one divined except herself, and which she quickly ended the -moment it became dangerous. - -Everyone who had approached her for the first time and warbled in -her ear the fresh notes of his hymn of gallantry, disclosing to her -the unknown quantity of his nature--artists more especially, who -seemed to her to possess more subtile and more delicate shades of -refined emotion--had for a time disquieted her, had awakened in her -the intermittent dream of a grand passion and a long _liaison_. But -swayed by prudent fears, irresolute, driven this way and that by her -distrustful nature, she had always kept a strict watch upon herself -until the moment she ceased to feel the influence of the latest lover. - -And then she had the sceptical vision of the girl of the period, who -would strip the greatest man of his prestige in the course of a few -weeks. As soon as they were fully in her toils, and in the disorder -of their heart had thrown aside their theatrical posturings and their -parade manners, they were all alike in her eyes, poor creatures whom -she could tyrannize over with her seductive powers. Finally, for a -woman like her, perfect as she was, to attach herself to a man, what -inestimable merits he would have had to possess! - -She suffered much from _ennui_, however, and was without fondness for -society, which she frequented for the sake of appearances, and the -long, tedious evenings of which she endured with heavy eyelids and -many a stifled yawn. She was amused only by its refined trivialities, -by her own caprices and by her quickly changing curiosity for certain -persons and certain things, attaching herself to it in such degree as -to realize that she had been appreciated or admired and not enough to -receive real pleasure from an affection or a liking--suffering from -her nerves and not from her desires. She was without the absorbing -preoccupations of ardent or simple souls, and passed her days in an -_ennui_ of gaieties, destitute of the simple faith that attends on -happiness, constantly on the lookout for something to make the slow -hours pass more quickly, and sinking with lassitude, while deeming -herself contented. - -She thought that she was contented because she was the most seductive -and the most sought after of women. Proud of her attractiveness, the -power of which she often made trial, in love with her own irregular, -odd, and captivating beauty, convinced of the delicacy of her -perceptions, which allowed her to divine and understand a thousand -things that others were incapable of seeing, rejoicing in the wit that -had been appreciated by so many superior men, and totally ignoring the -limitations that bounded her intelligence, she looked upon herself as -an almost unique being, a rare pearl set in the midst of this common, -workaday world, which seemed to her slightly empty and monotonous -because she was too good for it. - -Not for an instant would she have suspected that in her unconscious -self lay the cause of the melancholy from which she suffered so -continuously. She laid the blame upon others and held them responsible -for her _ennui_. If they were unable sufficiently to entertain and -amuse or even impassion her, the reason was that they were deficient -in agreeableness and possessed no real merit in her eyes. "Everyone," -she would say with a little laugh, "is tiresome. The only endurable -people are those who afford me pleasure, and that solely because they -do afford me pleasure." - -And the surest way of pleasing her was to tell her that there was no -one like her. She was well aware that no success is attained without -labor, and so she gave herself up, heart and soul, to her work of -enticement, and found nothing that gave her greater enjoyment than to -note the homage of the softening glance and of the heart, that unruly -organ which she could cause to beat violently by the utterance of a -word. - -She had been greatly surprised by the trouble that she had had in -subjugating André Mariolle, for she had been well aware, from the -very first day, that she had found favor in his eyes. Then, little by -little, she had fathomed his suspicious, secretly envious, extremely -subtile, and concentrated disposition, and attacking him on his -weak side, she had shown him so many attentions, had manifested -such preference and natural sympathy for him, that he had finally -surrendered. - -Especially in the last month had she felt that he was her captive; he -was agitated in her presence, now taciturn, now feverishly animated, -but would make no avowal. Oh, avowals! She really did not care very -much for them, for when they were too direct, too expressive, she found -herself obliged to resort to severe measures. Twice she had even had -to make a show of being angry and close her door to the offender. What -she adored were delicate manifestations, semi-confidences, discreet -allusions, a sort of moral getting-down-on-the-marrow-bones; and she -really showed exceptional tact and address in extorting from her -admirers this moderation in their expressions. - -For a month past she had been watching and waiting to hear fall from -Mariolle's lips the words, distinct or veiled, according to the nature -of the man, which afford relief to the overburdened heart. - -He had said nothing, but he had written. It was a long letter: four -pages! A thrill of satisfaction crept over her as she held it in her -hands. She stretched herself at length upon her lounge so as to be more -comfortable and kicked the little slippers from off her feet upon the -carpet; then she proceeded to read. She met with a surprise. In serious -terms he told her that he did not desire to suffer at her hands, and -that he already knew her too well to consent to be her victim. With -many compliments, in very polite words, which everywhere gave evidence -of his repressed love, he let her know that he was apprised of her -manner of treating men--that he, too, was in the toils, but that he -would release himself from the servitude by taking himself off. He -would just simply begin his vagabond life of other days over again. -He would leave the country. It was a farewell, an eloquent and firm -farewell. - -Certainly it was a surprise as she read, re-read, and commenced to read -again these four pages of prose that were so full of tender irritation -and passion. She arose, put on her slippers, and began to walk up and -down the room, her bare arms out of her turned-back sleeves, her hands -thrust halfway into the little pockets of her dressing-gown, one of -them holding the crumpled letter. - -Taken all aback by this unforeseen declaration, she said to herself: -"He writes very well, very well indeed; he is sincere, feeling, -touching. He writes better than Lamarthe; there is nothing of the novel -sticking out of his letter." - -She felt like smoking, went to the table where the perfumes were and -took a cigarette from a box of Dresden china; then, having lighted it, -she approached the great mirror in which she saw three young women -coming toward her in the three diversely inclined panels. When she was -quite near she halted, made herself a little bow with a little smile, -a friendly little nod of the head, as if to say: "Very pretty, very -pretty." She inspected her eyes, looked at her teeth, raised her arms, -placed her hands on her hips and turned her profile so as to behold her -entire person in the three mirrors, bending her head slightly forward. -She stood there amorously facing herself surrounded by the threefold -reflection of her own being, which she thought was charming, filled -with delight at sight of herself, engrossed by an egotistical and -physical pleasure in presence of her own beauty, and enjoying it with a -keen satisfaction that was almost as sensual as a man's. - -Every day she surveyed herself in this manner, and her maid, who had -often caught her at it, used to say, spitefully: - -"Madame looks at herself so much that she will end up by wearing out -all the looking-glasses in the house." - -In this love of herself, however, lay all the secret of her charm and -the influence that she exerted over men. Through admiring herself and -tenderly loving the delicacy of her features and the elegance of her -form, by constantly seeking for and finding means of showing them to -the greatest advantage, through discovering imperceptible ways of -rendering her gracefulness more graceful and her eyes more fascinating, -through pursuing all the artifices that embellished her to her own -vision, she had as a matter of course hit upon that which would most -please others. Had she been more beautiful and careless of her beauty, -she would not have possessed that attractiveness which drew to her -everyone who had not from the beginning shown himself unassailable. - -Wearying soon a little of standing thus, she spoke to her image that -was smiling to her still, and her image in the threefold mirror moved -its lips as if to echo: "We will see about it." Then she crossed the -room and seated herself at her desk. Here is what she wrote: - - "DEAR MONSIEUR MARIOLLE: Come to see me to-morrow at four - o'clock. I shall be alone, and hope to be able to reassure - you as to the imaginary danger that alarms you. - - "I subscribe myself your friend, and will prove to you that - I am..... MICHÈLE DE BURNE." - -How plainly she dressed next day to receive André Mariolle's visit! A -little gray dress, of a light gray bordering on lilac, melancholy as -the dying day and quite unornamented, with a collar fitting closely to -the neck, sleeves fitting closely to the arms, corsage fitting closely -to the waist and bust, and skirt fitting closely to the hips and legs. - -When he made his appearance, wearing rather a solemn face, she came -forward to meet him, extending both her hands. He kissed them, then -they seated themselves, and she allowed the silence to last a few -moments in order to assure herself of his embarrassment. - -He did not know what to say, and was waiting for her to speak. She made -up her mind to do so. - -"Well! let us come at once to the main question. What is the matter? -Are you aware that you wrote me a very insolent letter?" - -"I am very well aware of it, and I render my most sincere apology. I -am, I have always been with everyone, excessively, brutally frank. I -might have gone away without the unnecessary and insulting explanations -that I addressed to you. I considered it more loyal to act in -accordance with my nature and trust to your understanding, with which I -am acquainted." - -She resumed with an expression of pitying satisfaction: - -"Come, come! What does all this folly mean?" - -He interrupted her: "I would prefer not to speak of it." - -She answered warmly, without allowing him to proceed further: - -"I invited you here to discuss it, and we will discuss it until you are -quite convinced that you are not exposing yourself to any danger." She -laughed like a little girl, and her dress, so closely resembling that -of a boarding-school miss, gave her laughter a character of childish -youth. - -He hesitatingly said: "What I wrote you was the truth, the sincere -truth, the terrifying truth." - -Resuming her seriousness, she rejoined: "I do not doubt you: all my -friends travel that road. You also wrote that I am a fearful coquette. -I admit it, but then no one ever dies of it; I do not even believe that -they suffer a great deal. There is, indeed, what Lamarthe calls the -crisis. You are in that stage now, but that passes over and subsides -into--what shall I call it?--into the state of chronic love, which does -no harm to a body, and which I keep simmering over a slow fire in all -my friends, so that they may be very much attached, very devoted, very -faithful to me. Am not I, also, sincere and frank and nice with you? -Eh? Have you known many women who would dare to talk as I have talked -to you?" - -She had an air of such drollness, coupled with such decision, she was -so unaffected and at the same time so alluring, that he could not help -smiling in turn. "All your friends," he said, "are men who have often -had their fingers burned in that fire, even before it was done at your -hearth. Toasted and roasted already, it is easy for them to endure the -oven in which you keep them; but for my part, I, Madame, have never -passed through that experience, and I have felt for some time past that -it would be a dreadful thing for me to give way to the sentiment that -is growing and waxing in my heart." - -Suddenly she became familiar, and bending a little toward him, her -hands clasped over her knees: "Listen to me," she said, "I am in -earnest. I hate to lose a friend for the sake of a fear that I regard -as chimerical. You will be in love with me, perhaps, but the men of -this generation do not love the women of to-day so violently as to do -themselves any actual injury. You may believe me; I know them both." -She was silent; then with the singular smile of a woman who utters a -truth while she thinks she is telling a fib, she added: "Besides, I -have not the necessary qualifications to make men love me madly; I -am too modern. Come, I will be a friend to you, a real nice friend, -for whom you will have affection, but nothing more, for I will see to -it." She went on in a more serious tone: "In any case I give you fair -warning that I am incapable of feeling a real passion for anyone, let -him be who he may; you shall receive the same treatment as the others, -you shall stand on an equal footing with the most favored, but never -on any better; I abominate despotism and jealousy. I have had to endure -everything from a husband, but from a friend, a simple friend, I do not -choose to accept affectionate tyrannizings, which are the bane of all -cordial relations. You see that I am just as nice as nice can be, that -I talk to you like a comrade, that I conceal nothing from you. Are you -willing loyally to accept the trial that I propose? If it does not work -well, there will still be time enough for you to go away if the gravity -of the situation demands it. A lover absent is a lover cured." - -He looked at her, already vanquished by her voice, her gestures, all -the intoxication of her person; and quite resigned to his fate, and -thrilling through every fiber at the consciousness that she was sitting -there beside him, he murmured: - -"I accept, Madame, and if harm comes to me, so much the worse! I can -afford to endure a little suffering for your sake." - -She stopped him. - -"Now let us say nothing more about it," she said; "let us never speak -of it again." And she diverted the conversation to topics that might -calm his agitation. - -In an hour's time he took his leave; in torments, for he loved her; -delighted, for she had asked and he had promised that he would not go -away. - - - - -CHAPTER III. - - -THE THORNS OF THE ROSE - - -He was in torments, for he loved her. Differing in this from the -common run of lovers, in whose eyes the woman chosen of their heart -appears surrounded by an aureole of perfection, his attachment for -her had grown within him while studying her with the clairvoyant -eyes of a suspicious and distrustful man who had never been entirely -enslaved. His timid and sluggish but penetrating disposition, always -standing on the defensive in life, had saved him from his passions. A -few intrigues, two brief _liaisons_ that had perished of _ennui_, and -some mercenary loves that had been broken off from disgust, comprised -the history of his heart. He regarded women as an object of utility -for those who desire a well-kept house and a family, as an object of -comparative pleasure to those who are in quest of the pastime of love. - -Before he entered Mme. de Burne's house his friends had confidentially -warned him against her. What he had learned of her interested, -puzzled, and pleased him, but it was also rather distasteful to him. -As a matter of principle he did not like those gamblers who never pay -when they lose. After their first few meetings he had decided that she -was very amusing, and that she possessed a special charm that had a -contagion in it. The natural and artificial beauties of this charming, -slender, blond person, who was neither fat nor lean, who was furnished -with beautiful arms that seemed formed to attract and embrace, and with -legs that one might imagine long and tapering, calculated for flight, -like those of a gazelle, with feet so small that they would leave -no trace, seemed to him to be a symbol of hopes that could never be -realized. - -He had experienced, moreover, in his conversation with her a pleasure -that he had never thought of meeting with in the intercourse of -fashionable society. Gifted with a wit that was full of familiar -animation, unforeseen and mocking and of a caressing irony, she would, -notwithstanding this, sometimes allow herself to be carried away by -sentimental or intellectual influences, as if beneath her derisive -gaiety there still lingered the secular shade of poetic tenderness -drawn from some remote ancestress. These things combined to render her -exquisite. - -She petted him and made much of him, desirous of conquering him as -she had conquered the others, and he visited her house as often as he -could, drawn thither by his increasing need of seeing more of her. It -was like a force emanating from her and taking possession of him, a -force that lay in her charm, her look, her smile, her speech, a force -that there was no resisting, although he frequently left her house -provoked at something that she had said or done. - -The more he felt working on him that indescribable influence with which -a woman penetrates and subjugates us, the more clearly did he see -through her, the more did he understand and suffer from her nature, -which he devoutly wished was different. It was certainly true, however, -that the very qualities which he disapproved of in her were the -qualities that had drawn him toward her and captivated him, in spite -of himself, in spite of his reason, and more, perhaps, than her real -merits. - -Her coquetry, with which she toyed, making no attempt at concealing -it, as with a fan, opening and folding it in presence of everybody -according as the men to whom she was talking were pleasing to her -or the reverse; her way of taking nothing in earnest, which had -seemed droll to him upon their first acquaintance, but now seemed -threatening; her constant desire for distraction, for novelty, which -rested insatiable in her heart, always weary--all these things would -so exasperate him that sometimes upon returning to his house he would -resolve to make his visits to her more infrequent until such time as he -might do away with them altogether. The very next day he would invent -some pretext for going to see her. What he thought to impress upon -himself, as he became more and more enamored, was the insecurity of -this love and the certainty that he would have to suffer for it. - -He was not blind; little by little he yielded to this sentiment, -as a man drowns because his vessel has gone down under him and he -is too far from the shore. He knew her as well as it was possible -to know her, for his passion had served to make his mental vision -abnormally clairvoyant, and he could not prevent his thoughts from -going into indefinite speculations concerning her. With indefatigable -perseverance, he was continually seeking to analyze and understand -the obscure depths of this feminine soul, this incomprehensible -mixture of bright intelligence and disenchantment, of sober reason and -childish triviality, of apparent affection and fickleness, of all those -ill-assorted inclinations that can be brought together and co-ordinated -to form an unnatural, perplexing, and seductive being. - -But why was it that she attracted him thus? He constantly asked himself -this question, and was unable to find a satisfactory answer to it, -for, with his reflective, observing, and proudly retiring nature, -his logical course would have been to look in a woman for those -old-fashioned and soothing attributes of tenderness and constancy which -seem to offer the most reliable assurance of happiness to a man. In -her, however, he had encountered something that he had not expected to -find, a sort of early vegetable of the human race, as it were, one of -those creatures who are the beginning of a new generation, exciting -one by their strange novelty, unlike anything that one has ever known -before, and even in their imperfections awakening the dormant senses by -a formidable power of attraction. - -To the romantic and dreamily passionate women of the Restoration had -succeeded the gay triflers of the imperial epoch, convinced that -pleasure is a reality; and now, here there was afforded him a new -development of this everlasting femininity, a woman of refinement, -of indeterminate sensibility, restless, without fixed resolves, her -feelings in constant turmoil, who seemed to have made it part of her -experience to employ every narcotic that quiets the aching nerves: -chloroform that stupefies, ether and morphine that excite to abnormal -reverie, kill the senses, and deaden the emotions. - -He relished in her that flavor of an artificial nature, the sole -object of whose existence was to charm and allure. She was a rare and -attractive bauble, exquisite and delicate, drawing men's eyes to her, -causing the heart to throb, and desire to awake, as one's appetite is -excited when he looks through the glass of the shop-window and beholds -the dainty viands that have been prepared and arranged for the purpose -of making him hunger for them. - -When he was quite assured that he had started on his perilous descent -toward the bottom of the gulf, he began to reflect with consternation -upon the dangers of his infatuation. What would happen him? What would -she do with him? Most assuredly she would do with him what she had -done with everyone else: she would bring him to the point where a man -follows a woman's capricious fancies as a dog follows his master's -steps, and she would classify him among her collection of more or less -illustrious favorites. Had she really played this game with all the -others? Was there not one, not a single one, whom she had loved, if -only for a month, a day, an hour, in one of those effusions of feeling -that she had the faculty of repressing so readily? He talked with them -interminably about her as they came forth from her dinners, warmed -by contact with her. He felt that they were all uneasy, dissatisfied, -unstrung, like men whose dreams have failed of realization. - -No, she had loved no one among these paraders before public curiosity. -But he, who was a nullity in comparison with them, he, to whom it was -not granted that heads should turn and wondering eyes be fixed on him -when his name was mentioned in a crowd or in a salon,--what would he -be for her? Nothing, nothing; a mere supernumerary upon her scene, -a Monsieur, the sort of man that becomes a familiar, commonplace -attendant upon a distinguished woman, useful to hold her bouquet, a man -comparable to the common grade of wine that one drinks with water. Had -he been a famous man he might have been willing to accept this rôle, -which his celebrity would have made less humiliating; but unknown as he -was, he would have none of it. So he wrote to bid her farewell. - -When he received her brief answer he was moved by it as by the -intelligence of some unexpected piece of good fortune, and when she had -made him promise that he would not go away he was as delighted as a -schoolboy released for a holiday. - -Several days elapsed without bringing any fresh development to their -relations, but when the calm that succeeds the storm had passed, he -felt his longing for her increasing within him and burning him. He -had promised that he would never again speak to her on the forbidden -topic, but he had not promised that he would not write, and one night -when he could not sleep, when she had taken possession of all his -faculties in the restless vigil of his insomnia of love, he seated -himself at his table, almost against his will, and set himself to put -down his feelings and his sufferings upon fair, white paper. It was not -a letter; it was an aggregation of notes, phrases, thoughts, throbs of -moral anguish, transmuting themselves into words. It soothed him; it -seemed to him to give him a little comfort in his suffering, and lying -down upon his bed, he was at last able to obtain some sleep. - -Upon awaking the next morning he read over these few pages and decided -that they were sufficiently harrowing; then he inclosed and addressed -them, kept them by him until evening, and mailed them very late so that -she might receive them when she arose. He thought that she would not be -alarmed by these innocent sheets of paper. The most timorous of women -have an infinite kindness for a letter that speaks to them of a sincere -love, and when these letters are written by a trembling hand, with -tearful eyes and melancholy face, the power that they exercise over the -female heart is unbounded. - -He went to her house late that afternoon to see how she would receive -him and what she would say to him. He found M. de Pradon there, smoking -cigarettes and conversing with his daughter. He would often pass whole -hours with her in this way, for his manner toward her was rather that -of a gentleman visitor than of a father. She had brought into their -relations and their affection a tinge of that homage of love which she -bestowed upon herself and exacted from everyone else. - -When she beheld Mariolle her face brightened with delight; she shook -hands with him warmly and her smile told him: "You have afforded me -much pleasure." - -Mariolle was in hopes that the father would go away soon, but M. de -Pradon did not budge. Although he knew his daughter thoroughly, and -for a long time past had placed the most implicit confidence in her as -regarded her relations with men, he always kept an eye on her with a -kind of curious, uneasy, somewhat marital attention. He wanted to know -what chance of success there might be for this newly discovered friend, -who he was, what he amounted to. Would he be a mere bird of passage, -like so many others, or a permanent member of their usual circle? - -He intrenched himself, therefore, and Mariolle immediately perceived -that he was not to be dislodged. The visitor made up his mind -accordingly, and even resolved to gain him over if it were possible, -considering that his good-will, or at any rate his neutrality, would -be better than his hostility. He exerted himself and was brilliant -and amusing, without any of the airs of a sighing lover. She said to -herself contentedly: "He is not stupid; he acts his part in the comedy -extremely well"; and M. de Pradon thought: "This is a very agreeable -man, whose head my daughter does not seem to have turned." - -When Mariolle decided that it was time for him to take his leave, he -left them both delighted with him. - -But he left that house with sorrow in his soul. In the presence of -that woman he felt deeply the bondage in which she held him, realizing -that it would be vain to knock at that heart, as a man imprisoned -fruitlessly beats the iron door with his fist. He was well assured -that he was entirely in her power, and he did not try to free himself. -Such being the case, and as he could not avoid this fatality, he -resolved that he would be patient, tenacious, cunning, dissembling, -that he would conquer by address, by the homage that she was so greedy -of, by the adoration that intoxicated her, by the voluntary servitude -to which he would suffer himself to be reduced. - -His letter had pleased her; he would write. He wrote. Almost every -night, when he came home, at that hour when the mind, fresh from the -influence of the day's occurrences, regards whatever interests or moves -it with a sort of abnormally developed hallucination, he would seat -himself at his table by his lamp and exalt his imagination by thoughts -of her. The poetic germ, that so many indolent men suffer to perish -within them from mere slothfulness, grew and throve under this regimen. -He infused a feverish ardor into this task of literary tenderness by -means of constantly writing the same thing, the same idea, that is, -his love, in expressions that were ever renewed by the constantly -fresh-springing, daily renewal of his desire. All through the long day -he would seek for and find those irresistible words that stream from -the brain like fiery sparks, compelled by the over-excited emotions. -Thus he would breathe upon the fire of his own heart and kindle it into -raging flames, for often love-letters contain more danger for him who -writes than for her who receives them. - -By keeping himself in this continuous state of effervescence, by -heating his blood with words and peopling his brain with one solitary -thought, his ideas gradually became confused as to the reality of this -woman. He had ceased to entertain the opinion of her that he had first -held, and now beheld her only through the medium of his own lyrical -phrases, and all that he wrote of her night by night became to his -heart so many gospel truths. This daily labor of idealization displayed -her to him as in a dream. His former resistance melted away, moreover, -in presence of the affection that Mme. de Burne undeniably evinced -for him. Although no word had passed between them at this time, she -certainly showed a preference for him beyond others, and took no pains -to conceal it from him. He therefore thought, with a kind of mad hope, -that she might finally come to love him. - -The fact was that the charm of those letters afforded her a complicated -and naïve delight. No one had ever flattered and caressed her in that -manner, with such mute reserve. No one had ever had the delicious idea -of sending to her bedside, every morning, that feast of sentiment in -paper wrapping that her maid presented to her on the little silver -salver. And what made it all the dearer in her eyes was that he never -mentioned it, that he seemed to be quite unaware of it himself, that -when he visited her salon he was the most undemonstrative of her -friends, that he never by word or look alluded to those showers of -tenderness that he was secretly raining down upon her. - -Of course she had had love-letters before that, but they had been -pitched in a different key, had been less reserved, more pressing, more -like a summons to surrender. For the three months that his "crisis" had -lasted Lamarthe had dedicated to her a very nice correspondence from a -much-smitten novelist who maunders in a literary way. She kept in her -secretary, in a drawer specially allotted to them, these delicate and -seductive epistles from a writer who had shown much feeling, who had -caressed her with his pen up to the very day when he saw that he had no -hope of success. - -Mariolle's letters were quite different; they were so strong in their -concentrated desire, so deep in the expression of their sincerity, so -humble in their submissiveness, breathing a devotion that promised to -be lasting, that she received and read them with a delight that no -other writings could have afforded her. - -It was natural that her friendly feeling for the man should increase -under such conditions. She invited him to her house the more frequently -because he displayed such entire reserve in his relations toward -her, seeming not to have the slightest recollection in conversation -with her that he had ever taken up a sheet of paper to tell her of -his adoration. Moreover she looked upon the situation as an original -one, worthy of being celebrated in a book; and in the depths of her -satisfaction in having at her side a being who loved her thus, she -experienced a sort of active fermentation of sympathy which caused her -to measure him by a standard other than her usual one. - -Up to the present time, notwithstanding the vanity of her coquetry she -had been conscious of preoccupations that antagonized her in all the -hearts that she had laid waste. She had not held undisputed sovereignty -over them, she had found in them powerful interests that were entirely -dissociated from her. Jealous of music in Massival's case, of -literature in Lamarthe's, always jealous of something, discontented -that she only obtained partial successes, powerless to drive all before -her in the minds of these ambitious men, men of celebrity, or artists -to whom their profession was a mistress from whom nobody could part -them, she had now for the first time fallen in with one to whom she -was all in all. Certainly big Fresnel, and he alone, loved her to the -same degree. But then he was big Fresnel. She felt that it had never -been granted her to exercise such complete dominion over anyone, and -her selfish gratitude for the man who had afforded her this triumph -displayed itself in manifestations of tenderness. She had need of him -now; she had need of his presence, of his glance, of his subjection, -of all this domesticity of love. If he flattered her vanity less than -the others did, he flattered more those supreme exactions that sway -coquettes body and soul--her pride and her instinct of domination, her -strong instinct of feminine repose. - -Like an invader she gradually assumed possession of his life by a -series of small incursions that every day became more numerous. She got -up _fêtes_, theater-parties, and dinners at the restaurant, so that he -might be of the party. She dragged him after her with the satisfaction -of a conqueror; she could not dispense with his presence, or rather -with the state of slavery to which he was reduced. He followed in -her train, happy to feel himself thus petted, caressed by her eyes, -her voice, by her every caprice, and he lived only in a continuous -transport of love and longing that desolated and burned like a wasting -fever. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - - -THE BENEFIT OF CHANGE OF SCENE - - -One day Mariolle had gone to her house. He was awaiting her, for she -had not come in, although she had sent him a telegram to tell him -that she wanted to see him that morning. Whenever he was alone in -this drawing-room which it gave him such pleasure to enter and where -everything was so charming to him, he nevertheless was conscious -of an oppression of the heart, a slight feeling of affright and -breathlessness that would not allow him to remain seated as long as she -was not there. He walked about the room in joyful expectation, dashed -by the fear that some unforeseen obstacle might intervene to detain her -and cause their interview to go over until next day. His heart gave a -hopeful bound when he heard a carriage draw up before the street door, -and when the bell of the apartment rang he ceased to doubt. - -She came in with her hat on, a thing which she was not accustomed to -do, wearing a busy and satisfied look. "I have some news for you," she -said. - -"What is it, Madame?" - -She looked at him and laughed. "Well! I am going to the country for a -while." - -Her words produced in him a quick, sharp shock of sorrow that was -reflected upon his face. "Oh! and you tell me that as if you were glad -of it!" - -"Yes. Sit down and I will tell you all about it. I don't know whether -you are aware that M. Valsaci, my poor mother's brother, the engineer -and bridge-builder, has a country-place at Avranches where he spends a -portion of his time with his wife and children, for his business lies -mostly in that neighborhood. We pay them a visit every summer. This -year I said that I did not care to go, but he was greatly disappointed -and made quite a time over it with papa. Speaking of scenes, I will -tell you confidentially that papa is jealous of you and makes scenes -with me, too; he says that I am entangling myself with you. You will -have to come to see me less frequently. But don't let that trouble you; -I will arrange matters. So papa gave me a scolding and made me promise -to go to Avranches for a visit of ten days, perhaps twelve. We are to -start Tuesday morning. What have you got to say about it?" - -"I say that it breaks my heart." - -"Is that all?" - -"What more can I say? There is no way of preventing you from going." - -"And nothing presents itself to you?" - -"Why, no; I can't say that there does. And you?" - -"I have an idea; it is this: Avranches is quite near Mont Saint-Michel. -Have you ever been at Mont Saint-Michel?" - -"No, Madame." - -"Well, something will tell you next Friday that you want to go and -see this wonder. You will leave the train at Avranches; on Friday -evening at sunset, if you please, you will take a walk in the public -garden that overlooks the bay. We will happen to meet there. Papa -will grumble, but I don't care for that. I will make up a party to -go and see the abbey next day, including all the family. You must be -enthusiastic over it, and very charming, as you can be when you choose; -be attentive to my aunt and gain her over, and invite us all to dine -at the inn where we alight. We will sleep there, and will have all the -next day to be together. You will return by way of Saint Malo, and a -week later I shall be back in Paris. Isn't that an ingenious scheme? Am -I not nice?" - -With an outburst of grateful feeling, he murmured: "You are dearer to -me than all the world." - -"Hush!" said she. - -They looked each other for a moment in the face. She smiled, conveying -to him in that smile--very sincere and earnest it was, almost -tender--all her gratitude, her thanks for his love, and her sympathy as -well. He gazed upon her with eyes that seemed to devour her. He had an -insane desire to throw himself down and grovel at her feet, to kiss the -hem of her robe, to cry aloud and make her see what he knew not how to -tell in words, what existed in all his form from head to feet, in every -fiber of his body as well as in his heart, paining him inexpressibly -because he could not display it--his love, his terrible and delicious -love. - -There was no need of words, however; she understood him, as the -marksman instinctively feels that his ball has penetrated the -bull's-eye of the target. Nothing any longer subsisted within this man, -nothing, nothing but her image. He was hers more than she herself was -her own. She was satisfied, and she thought he was charming. - -She said to him, in high good-humor: "Then _that_ is settled; the -excursion is agreed on." - -He answered in a voice that trembled with emotion: "Why, yes, Madame, -it is agreed on." - -There was another interval of silence. "I cannot let you stay any -longer to-day," she said without further apology. "I only ran in to -tell you what I have told you, since I am to start day after to-morrow. -All my time will be occupied to-morrow, and I have still half-a-dozen -things to attend to before dinner-time." - -He arose at once, deeply troubled, for the sole desire of his heart was -to be with her always; and having kissed her hands, went his way, sore -at heart, but hopeful nevertheless. - -The four intervening days were horribly long ones to him. He got -through them somehow in Paris without seeing a soul, preferring silence -to conversation, and solitude to the company of friends. - -On Friday morning, therefore, he boarded the eight-o'clock express. -The anticipation of the journey had made him feverish, and he had not -slept a wink. The darkness of his room and its silence, broken only by -the occasional rattling of some belated cab that served to remind him -of his longing to be off, had weighed upon him all night long like a -prison. - -At the earliest ray of light that showed itself between his drawn -curtains, the gray, sad light of early morning, he jumped from his bed, -opened the window, and looked at the sky. He had been haunted by the -fear that the weather might be unfavorable. It was clear. There was a -light floating mist, presaging a warm day. He dressed more quickly than -was needful, and in his consuming impatience to get out of doors and -at last begin his journey he was ready two hours too soon, and nothing -would do but his valet must go out and get a cab lest they should all -be gone from the stand. As the vehicle jolted over the stones, its -movements were so many shocks of happiness to him, but when he reached -the Mont Parnasse station and found that he had fifty minutes to wait -before the departure of the train, his spirits fell again. - -There was a compartment disengaged; he took it so that he might be -alone and give free course to his reveries. When at last he felt -himself moving, hurrying along toward her, soothed by the gentle and -rapid motion of the train, his eagerness, instead of being appeased, -was still further excited, and he felt a desire, the unreasoning desire -of a child, to push with all his strength against the partition in -front of him, so as to accelerate their speed. For a long time, until -midday, he remained in this condition of waiting expectancy, but when -they were past Argentan his eyes were gradually attracted to the window -by the fresh verdure of the Norman landscape. - -The train was passing through a wide, undulating region, intersected -by valleys, where the peasant holdings, mostly in grass and -apple-orchards, were shut in by great trees, the thick-leaved tops of -which seemed to glow in the sunlight. It was late in July, that lusty -season when this land, an abundant nurse, gives generously of its sap -and life. In all the inclosures, separated from each other by these -leafy walls, great light-colored oxen, cows whose flanks were striped -with undefined figures of odd design, huge, red, wide-fronted bulls -of proud and quarrelsome aspect, with their hanging dewlaps of hairy -flesh, standing by the fences or lying down among the pasturage that -stuffed their paunches, succeeded each other, until there seemed to be -no end to them in this fresh, fertile land, the soil of which appeared -to exude cider and fat sirloins. In every direction little streams were -gliding in and out among the poplars, partially concealed by a thin -screen of willows; brooks glittered for an instant among the herbage, -disappearing only to show themselves again farther on, bathing all the -scene in their vivifying coolness. Mariolle was charmed at the sight, -and almost forgot his love for a moment in his rapid flight through -this far-reaching park of apple-trees and flocks and herds. - -When he had changed cars at Folligny station, however, he was again -seized with an impatient longing to be at his destination, and during -the last forty minutes he took out his watch twenty times. His head -was constantly turned toward the window of the car, and at last, -situated upon a hill of moderate height, he beheld the city where she -was waiting for his coming. The train had been delayed, and now only -an hour separated him from the moment when he was to come upon her, by -chance, on the public promenade. - -He was the only passenger that climbed into the hotel omnibus, which -the horses began to drag up the steep road of Avranches with slow and -reluctant steps. The houses crowning the heights gave to the place from -a distance the appearance of a fortification. Seen close at hand it -was an ancient and pretty Norman city, with small dwellings of regular -and almost similar appearance built closely adjoining one another, -giving an aspect of ancient pride and modern comfort, a feudal yet -peasant-like air. - -As soon as Mariolle had secured a room and thrown his valise into it, -he inquired for the street that led to the Botanical Garden and started -off in the direction indicated with rapid strides, although he was -ahead of time. But he was in hopes that perhaps she also would be on -hand early. When he reached the iron railings, he saw at a glance that -the place was empty or nearly so. Only three old men were walking about -in it, _bourgeois_ to the manner born, who probably were in the habit -of coming there daily to cheer their leisure by conversation, and a -family of English children, lean-legged boys and girls, were playing -about a fair-haired governess whose wandering looks showed that her -thoughts were far away. - -Mariolle walked straight ahead with beating heart, looking -scrutinizingly up and down the intersecting paths. He came to a great -alley of dark green elms which cut the garden in two portions crosswise -and stretched away in its center, a dense vault of foliage; he passed -through this, and all at once, coming to a terrace that commanded a -view of the horizon, his thoughts suddenly ceased to dwell upon her -whose influence had brought him hither. - -From the foot of the elevation upon which he was standing spread an -illimitable sandy plain that stretched away in the distance and blended -with sea and sky. Through it rolled a stream, and beneath the azure, -aflame with sunlight, pools of water dotted it with luminous sheets -that seemed like orifices opening upon another sky beneath. In the -midst of this yellow desert, still wet and glistening with the receding -tide, at twelve or fifteen kilometers from the shore rose a pointed -rock of monumental profile, like some fantastic pyramid, surmounted -by a cathedral. Its only neighbor in these immense wastes was a low, -round backed reef that the tide had left uncovered, squatting among -the shifting ooze: the reef of Tombelaine. Farther still away, other -submerged rocks showed their brown heads above the bluish line of the -waves, and the eye, continuing to follow the horizon to the right, -finally rested upon the vast green expanse of the Norman country lying -beside this sandy waste, so densely covered with trees that it had -the aspect of a limitless forest. It was all Nature offering herself -to his vision at a single glance, in a single spot, in all her might -and grandeur, in all her grace and freshness, and the eye turned from -those woodland glimpses to the stern apparition of the granite mount, -the hermit of the sands, rearing its strange Gothic form upon the -far-reaching strand. - -The strange pleasure which in other days had often made Mariolle -thrill, in the presence of the surprises that unknown lands preserve to -delight the eyes of travelers, now took such sudden possession of him -that he remained motionless, his feelings softened and deeply moved, -oblivious of his tortured heart. At the sound of a striking bell, -however, he turned, suddenly repossessed by the eager hope that they -were about to meet. The garden was still almost untenanted. The English -children had gone; the three old men alone kept up their monotonous -promenade. He came down and began to walk about like them. - -Immediately--in a moment--she would be there. He would see her at the -end of one of those roads that centered in this wondrous terrace. He -would recognize her form, her step, then her face and her smile; he -would soon be listening to her voice. What happiness! What delight! He -felt that she was near him, somewhere, invisible as yet, but thinking -of him, knowing that she was soon to see him again. - -With difficulty he restrained himself from uttering a little cry. For -there, down below, a blue sunshade, just the dome of a sunshade, was -visible, gliding along beneath a clump of trees. It must be she; there -could be no doubt of it. A little boy came in sight, driving a hoop -before him; then two ladies,--he recognized her,--then two men: her -father and another gentleman. She was all in blue, like the heavens in -springtime. Yes, indeed! he recognized her, while as yet he could not -distinguish her features; but he did not dare to go toward her, feeling -that he would blush and stammer, that he would be unable to account for -this chance meeting beneath M. de Pradon's suspicious glances. - -He went forward to meet them, however, keeping his field-glass to his -eye, apparently quite intent on scanning the horizon. She it was who -addressed him first, not even taking the trouble to affect astonishment. - -"Good day, M. Mariolle," she said. "Isn't it splendid?" - -He was struck speechless by this reception, and knew not what tone to -adopt in reply. Finally he stammered: "Ah, it is you, Madame; how glad -I am to meet you! I wanted to see something of this delightful country." - -She smiled as she replied: "And you selected the very time when I -chanced to be here. That was extremely kind of you." Then she proceeded -to make the necessary introductions. "This is M. Mariolle, one of my -dearest friends; my aunt, Mme. Valsaci; my uncle, who builds bridges." - -When salutations had been exchanged. M. de Pradon and the young man -shook hands rather stiffly and the walk was continued. - -She had made room for him between herself and her aunt, casting upon -him a very rapid glance, one of those glances which seem to indicate a -weakening determination. - -"How do you like the country?" she asked. - -"I think that I have never beheld anything more beautiful," he replied. - -"Ah! if you had passed some days here, as I have just been doing, you -would feel how it penetrates one. The impression that it leaves is -beyond the power of expression. The advance and retreat of the sea -upon the sands, that grand movement that is going on unceasingly, that -twice a day floods all that you behold before you, and so swiftly that -a horse galloping at top speed would scarce have time to escape before -it--this wondrous spectacle that Heaven gratuitously displays before -us, I declare to you that it makes me forgetful of myself. I no longer -know myself. Am I not speaking the truth, aunt?" - -Mme. Valsaci, an old, gray-haired woman, a lady of distinction in her -province and the respected wife of an eminent engineer, a supercilious -functionary who could not divest himself of the arrogance of the -school, confessed that she had never seen her niece in such a state -of enthusiasm. Then she added reflectively: "It is not surprising, -however, when, like her, one has never seen any but theatrical scenery." - -"But I go to Dieppe and Trouville almost every year." - -The old lady began to laugh. "People only go to Dieppe and Trouville to -see their friends. The sea is only there to serve as a cloak for their -rendezvous." It was very simply said, perhaps without any concealed -meaning. - -People were streaming along toward the terrace, which seemed to draw -them to it with an irresistible attraction. They came from every -quarter of the garden, in spite of themselves, like round bodies -rolling down a slope. The sinking sun seemed to be drawing a golden -tissue of finest texture, transparent and ethereally light, behind the -lofty silhouette of the abbey, which was growing darker and darker, -like a gigantic shrine relieved against a veil of brightness. Mariolle, -however, had eyes for nothing but the adored blond form walking at -his side, wrapped in its cloud of blue. Never had he beheld her so -seductive. She seemed to him to have changed, without his being able to -specify in what the change consisted; she was bright with a brightness -he had never seen before, which shone in her eyes and upon her flesh, -her hair, and seemed to have penetrated her soul as well, a brightness -emanating from this country, this sky, this sunlight, this verdure. -Never had he known or loved her thus. - -He walked at her side and could find no word to say to her. The rustle -of her dress, the occasional touch of her arm, the meeting, so mutely -eloquent, of their glances, completely overcame him. He felt as if -they had annihilated his personality as a man--felt himself suddenly -obliterated by contact with this woman, absorbed by her to such an -extent as to be nothing; nothing but desire, nothing but appeal, -nothing but adoration. She had consumed his being, as one burns a -letter. - -She saw it all very clearly, understood the full extent of her victory, -and thrilled and deeply moved, feeling life throb within her, too, more -keenly among these odors of the country and the sea, full of sunlight -and of sap, she said to him: "I am so glad to see you!" Close upon -this, she asked: "How long do you remain here?" - -He replied: "Two days, if to-day counts for a day." Then, turning to -the aunt: "Would Mme. Valsaci do me the honor to come and spend the -day to-morrow at Mont Saint-Michel with her husband?" - -Mme. de Burne made answer for her relative: "I will not allow her to -refuse, since we have been so fortunate as to meet you here." - -The engineer's wife replied: "Yes, Monsieur, I accept very gladly, upon -the condition that you come and dine with me this evening." - -He bowed in assent. All at once there arose within him a feeling of -delirious delight, such a joy as seizes you when news is brought that -the desire of your life is attained. What had come to him? What new -occurrence was there in his life? Nothing; and yet he felt himself -carried away by the intoxication of an indefinable presentiment. - -They walked upon the terrace for a long time, waiting for the sun to -set, so as to witness until the very end the spectacle of the black -and battlemented mount drawn in outline upon a horizon of flame. Their -conversation now was upon ordinary topics, such as might be discussed -in presence of a stranger, and from time to time Mme. de Burne and -Mariolle glanced at each other. Then they all returned to the villa, -which stood just outside Avranches in a fine garden, overlooking the -bay. - -Wishing to be prudent, and a little disturbed, moreover, by M. de -Pradon's cold and almost hostile attitude toward him, Mariolle withdrew -at an early hour. When he took Mme. de Burne's hand to raise it to his -lips, she said to him twice in succession, with a peculiar accent: -"Till to-morrow! Till to-morrow!" - -As soon as he was gone M. and Mme. Valsaci, who had long since -habituated themselves to country ways, proposed that they should go to -bed. - -"Go," said Mme. de Burne. "I am going to take a walk in the garden." - -"So am I," her father added. - -She wrapped herself in a shawl and went out, and they began to walk -side by side upon the white-sanded alleys which the full moon, -streaming over lawn and shrubbery, illuminated as if they had been -little winding rivers of silver. - -After a silence that had lasted for quite a while, M. de Pradon said in -a low voice: "My dear child, you will do me the justice to admit that I -have never troubled you with my counsels?" - -She felt what was coming, and was prepared to meet his attack. "Pardon -me, papa," she said, "but you did give me one, at least." - -"I did?" - -"Yes, yes." - -"A counsel relating to your way of life?" - -"Yes; and a very bad one it was, too. And so, if you give me any more, -I have made up my mind not to follow them." - -"What was the advice that I gave you?" - -"You advised me to marry M. de Burne. That goes to show that you are -lacking in judgment, in clearness of insight, in acquaintance with -mankind in general and with your daughter in particular." - -"Yes I made a mistake on that occasion; but I am sure that I am right -in the very paternal advice that I feel called upon to give you at the -present juncture." - -"Let me hear what it is. I will accept as much of it as the -circumstances call for." - -"You are on the point of entangling yourself." - -She laughed with a laugh that was rather too hearty, and completing the -expression of his idea, said: "With M. Mariolle, doubtless?" - -"With M. Mariolle." - -"You forget," she rejoined, "the entanglements that I have already had -with M. de Maltry, with M. Massival, with M. Gaston de Lamarthe, and a -dozen others, of all of whom you have been jealous; for I never fall in -with a man who is nice and willing to show a little devotion for me but -all my flock flies into a rage, and you first of all, you whom nature -has assigned to me as my noble father and general manager." - -"No, no, that is not it," he replied with warmth; "you have never -compromised your liberty with anyone. On the contrary you show a great -deal of tact in your relations with your friends." - -"My dear papa, I am no longer a child, and I promise you not to involve -myself with M. Mariolle any more than I have done with the rest of -them; you need have no fears. I admit, however, that it was at my -invitation that he came here. I think that he is delightful, just as -intelligent as his predecessors and less egotistical; and you thought -so too, up to the time when you imagined that you had discovered that -I was showing some small preference for him. Oh, you are not so sharp -as you think you are! I know you, and I could say a great deal more -on this head if I chose. As M. Mariolle was agreeable to me, then, I -thought it would be very nice to make a pleasant excursion in his -company, quite by chance, of course. It is a piece of stupidity to -deprive ourselves of everything that can amuse us when there is no -danger attending it. And I incur no danger of involving myself, since -you are here." - -She laughed openly as she finished, knowing well that every one of her -words had told, that she had tied his tongue by the adroit imputation -of a jealousy of Mariolle that she had suspected, that she had -instinctively scented in him for a long time past, and she rejoiced -over this discovery with a secret, audacious, unutterable coquetry. He -maintained an embarrassed and irritated silence, feeling that she had -divined some inexplicable spite underlying his paternal solicitude, the -origin of which he himself did not care to investigate. - -"There is no cause for alarm," she added. "It is quite natural to make -an excursion to Mont Saint-Michel at this time of the year in company -with you, my father, my uncle and aunt, and a friend. Besides no one -will know it; and even if they do, what can they say against it? When -we are back in Paris I will reduce this friend to the ranks again, to -keep company with the others." - -"Very well," he replied. "Let it be as if I had said nothing." - -They took a few steps more; then M. de Pradon asked: - -"Shall we return to the house? I am tired; I am going to bed." - -"No; the night is so fine. I am going to walk awhile yet." - -He murmured meaningly: "Do not go far away. One never knows what people -may be around." - -"Oh, I will be right here under the windows." - -"Good night, then, my dear child." - -He gave her a hasty kiss upon the forehead and went in. She took a -seat a little way off upon a rustic bench that was set in the ground -at the foot of a great oak. The night was warm, filled with odors from -the fields and exhalations from the sea and misty light, for beneath -the full moon shining brightly in the cloudless sky a fog had come up -and covered the waters of the bay. Onward it slowly crept, like white -smoke-wreaths, hiding from sight the beach that would soon be covered -by the incoming tide. - -Michèle de Burne, her hands clasped over her knees and her dreamy eyes -gazing into space, sought to look into her heart through a mist that -was as impenetrable and pale as that which lay upon the sands. How many -times before this, seated before her mirror in her dressing-room at -Paris, had she questioned herself: - -"What do I love? What do I desire? What do I hope for? What am I?" - -Apart from the pleasure of being beautiful, and the imperious necessity -which she felt of pleasing, which really afforded her much delight, she -had never been conscious of any appeal to her heart beyond some passing -fancy that she had quickly put her foot upon. She was not ignorant of -herself, for she had devoted too much of her time and attention to -watching and studying her face and all her person not to have been -observant of her feelings as well. Up to the present time she had -contented herself with a vague interest in that which is the subject of -emotion in others, but was powerless to impassion her, or capable at -best of affording her a momentary distraction. - -And yet, whenever she had felt a little warmer liking for anyone -arising within her, whenever a rival had tried to take away from her a -man whom she valued, and by arousing her feminine instincts had caused -an innocuous fever of attachment to simmer gently in her veins, she had -discovered that these false starts of love had caused her an emotion -that was much deeper than the mere gratification of success. But it -never lasted. Why? Perhaps because she was too clear-sighted; because -she allowed herself to become wearied, disgusted. Everything that at -first had pleased her in a man, everything that had animated, moved, -and attracted her, soon appeared in her eyes commonplace and divested -of its charm. They all resembled one another too closely, without ever -being exactly similar, and none of them had yet presented himself to -her endowed with the nature and the merits that were required to hold -her liking sufficiently long to guide her heart into the path of love. - -Why was this so? Was it their fault or was it hers? Were they wanting -in the qualities which she was looking for, or was it she who was -deficient in the attribute that makes one loved? Is love the result of -meeting with a person whom one believes to have been created expressly -for himself, or is it simply the result of having been born with the -faculty of loving? At times it seemed to her that everyone's heart -must be provided with arms, like the body, loving, outstretching arms -to attract, embrace, and enfold, and that her heart had only eyes and -nothing more. - -Men, superior men, were often known to become madly infatuated -with women who were unworthy of them, women without intelligence, -without character, often without beauty. Why was this? Wherein lay -the mystery? Was such a crisis in the existence of two beings not -to be attributed solely to a providential meeting, but to a kind of -seed that everyone carries about within him, and that puts forth its -buds when least expected? She had been intrusted with confidences, -she had surprised secrets, she had even beheld with her own eyes the -swift transfiguration that results from the breaking forth of this -intoxication of the feelings, and she had reflected deeply upon it. - -In society, in the unintermitting whirl of visiting and amusement, -in all the small tomfooleries of fashionable existence by which the -wealthy beguile their idle hours, a feeling of envious, jealous, and -almost incredulous astonishment had sometimes been excited in her -at the sight of men and women in whom some extraordinary change had -incontestably taken place. The change might not be conspicuously -manifest, but her watchful instinct felt it and divined it as the -hound holds the scent of his game. Their faces, their smiles, their -eyes especially would betray something that was beyond expression in -words, an ecstasy, a delicious, serene delight, a joy of the soul made -manifest in the body, illuming look and flesh. - -Without being able to account for it she was displeased with them for -this. Lovers had always been disagreeable objects to her, and she -imagined that the deep and secret feeling of irritation inspired in her -by the sight of people whose hearts were swayed by passion was simply -disdain. She believed that she could recognize them with a readiness -and an accuracy that were exceptional, and it was a fact that she -had often divined and unraveled _liaisons_ before society had even -suspected their existence. - -When she reflected upon all this, upon the fond folly that may be -induced in woman by the contact of some neighboring existence, his -aspect, his speech, his thought, the inexpressible something in the -loved being that robs the heart of tranquillity, she decided that -she was incapable of it. And yet, weary of everything, oppressed by -ineffable yearnings, tormented by a haunting longing after change and -some unknown state, feelings which were, perhaps, only the undeveloped -movements of an undefined groping after affection, how often had she -desired, with a secret shame that had its origin in her pride, to meet -with a man, who, for a time, were it only for a few months, might by -his sorceries raise her to an abnormally excited condition of mind and -body--for it seemed to her that life must assume strange and attractive -forms of ecstasy and delight during these emotional periods. Not -only had she desired such an encounter, but she had even sought it a -little--only a very little, however--with an indolent activity that -never devoted itself for any length of time to one pursuit. - -In all her inchoate attachments for the men called "superior," who -had dazzled her for a few weeks, the short-lived effervescence of -her heart had always died away in irremediable disappointment. She -looked for too much from their dispositions, their characters, their -delicacy, their renown, their merits. In the case of everyone of them -she had been compelled to open her eyes to the fact that the defects of -great men are often more prominent than their merits; that talent is a -special gift, like a good digestion or good eyesight, an isolated gift -to be exercised, and unconnected with the aggregate of personal charm -that makes one's relations cordial and attractive. - -Since she had known Mariolle, however, she was otherwise attached to -him. But did she love him, did she love him with the love of woman for -man? Without fame or prestige, he had conquered her affections by his -devotedness, his tenderness, his intelligence, by all the real and -unassuming attractions of his personality. He had conquered, for he -was constantly present in her thoughts; unremittingly she longed for -his society; in all the world there was no one more agreeable, more -sympathetic, more indispensable to her. Could this be love? - -She was not conscious of carrying in her soul that divine flame that -everyone speaks of, but for the first time she was conscious of the -existence there of a sincere wish to be something more to this man than -merely a charming friend. Did she love him? Does love demand that a -man appear endowed with exceptional attractions, that he be different -from all the world and tower above it in the aureole that the heart -places about its elect, or does it suffice that he find favor in your -eyes, that he please you to that extent that you scarce know how to do -without him? In the latter event she loved him, or at any rate she was -very near loving him. After having pondered deeply on the matter with -concentrated attention, she at length answered herself: "Yes, I love -him, but I am lacking in warmth; that is the defect of my nature." - -Still, she had felt some warmth a little while before when she saw him -coming toward her upon the terrace in the garden of Avranches. For -the first time she had felt that inexpressible something that bears -us, impels us, hurries us toward some one; she had experienced great -pleasure in walking at his side, in having him near her, burning with -love for her, as they watched the sun sinking behind the shadow of Mont -Saint-Michel, like a vision in a legend. Was not love itself a kind -of legend of the soul, in which some believe through instinct, and in -which others sometimes also come to believe through stress of pondering -over it? Would she end by believing in it? She had felt a strange, -half-formed desire to recline her head upon the shoulder of this man, -to be nearer to him, to seek that closer union that is never found, to -give him what one offers vainly and always retains: the close intimacy -with one's inner self. - -Yes, she had experienced a feeling of warmth toward him, and she still -felt it there at the bottom of her heart, at that very moment. Perhaps -it would change to passion should she give way to it. She opposed too -much resistance to men's powers of attraction; she reasoned on them, -combated them too much. How sweet it would be to walk with him on an -evening like this along the river-bank beneath the willows, and allow -him to taste her lips from time to time in recompense of all the love -he had given her! - -A window in the villa was flung open. She turned her head. It was her -father, who was doubtless looking to see if she were there. She called -to him: "You are not asleep yet?" - -He replied: "If you don't come in you will take cold." - -She arose thereupon and went toward the house. When she was in her room -she raised her curtains for another look at the mist over the bay, -which was becoming whiter and whiter in the moonlight, and it seemed to -her that the vapors in her heart were also clearing under the influence -of her dawning tenderness. - -For all that she slept soundly, and her maid had to awake her in the -morning, for they were to make an early start, so as to have breakfast -at the Mount. - -A roomy wagonette drew up before the door. When she heard the rolling -of the wheels upon the sand she went to her window and looked out, -and the first thing that her eyes encountered was the face of André -Mariolle who was looking for her. Her heart began to beat a little more -rapidly. She was astonished and dejected as she reflected upon the -strange and novel impression produced by this muscle, which palpitates -and hurries the blood through the veins merely at the sight of some -one. Again she asked herself, as she had done the previous night before -going to sleep: "Can it be that I am about to love him?" Then when -she was seated face to face with him her instinct told her how deeply -he was smitten, how he was suffering with his love, and she felt as -if she could open her arms to him and put up her mouth. They only -exchanged a look, however, but it made him turn pale with delight. - -The carriage rolled away. It was a bright summer morning; the air was -filled with the melody of birds and everything seemed permeated by the -spirit of youth. They descended the hill, crossed the river, and drove -along a narrow, rough, stony road that set the travelers bumping upon -their seats. Mme. de Burne began to banter her uncle upon the condition -of this road; that was enough to break the ice, and the brightness that -pervaded the air seemed to be infused into the spirit of them all. - -As they emerged from a little hamlet the bay suddenly presented itself -again before them, not yellow as they had seen it the evening before, -but sparkling with clear water which covered everything, sands, -salt-meadows, and, as the coachman said, even the very road itself a -little way further on. Then, for the space of an hour they allowed the -horses to proceed at a walk, so as to give this inundation time to -return to the deep. - -The belts of elms and oaks that inclosed the farms among which they -were now passing momentarily hid from their vision the profile of the -abbey standing high upon its rock, now entirely surrounded by the sea; -then all at once it was visible again between two farmyards, nearer, -more huge, more astounding than ever. The sun cast ruddy tones upon the -old crenelated granite church, perched on its rocky pedestal. Michèle -de Burne and André Mariolle contemplated it, both mingling with the -newborn or acutely sensitive disturbances of their hearts the poetry -of the vision that greeted their eyes upon this rosy July morning. - -The talk went on with easy friendliness. Mme. Valsaci told tragic tales -of the coast, nocturnal dramas of the yielding sands devouring human -life. M. Valsaci took up arms for the dike, so much abused by artists, -and extolled it for the uninterrupted communication that it afforded -with the Mount and for the reclaimed sand-hills, available at first for -pasturage and afterward for cultivation. - -Suddenly the wagonette came to a halt; the sea had invaded the road. It -did not amount to much, only a film of water upon the stony way, but -they knew that there might be sink-holes beneath, openings from which -they might never emerge, so they had to wait. "It will go down very -quickly," M. Valsaci declared, and he pointed with his finger to the -road from which the thin sheet of water was already receding, seemingly -absorbed by the earth or drawn away to some distant place by a powerful -and mysterious force. - -They got down from the carriage for a nearer look at this strange, -swift, silent flight of the sea, and followed it step by step. Now -spots of green began to appear among the submerged vegetation, lightly -stirred by the waves here and there, and these spots broadened, rounded -themselves out and became islands. Quickly these islands assumed the -appearance of continents, separated from each other by miniature -oceans, and finally over the whole expanse of the bay it was a headlong -flight of the waters retreating to their distant abode. It resembled -nothing so much as a long silvery veil withdrawn from the surface -of the earth, a great, torn, slashed veil, full of rents, which left -exposed the wide meadows of short grass as it was pulled aside, but did -not yet disclose the yellow sands that lay beyond. - -They had climbed into the carriage again, and everyone was standing in -order to obtain a better view. The road in front of them was drying and -the horses were sent forward, but still at a walk, and as the rough -places sometimes caused them to lose their equilibrium, André Mariolle -suddenly felt Michèle de Burne's shoulder resting against his. At first -he attributed this contact to the movement of the vehicle, but she did -not stir from her position, and at every jolt of the wheels a trembling -started from the spot where she had placed herself and shook all his -frame and laid waste his heart. He did not venture to look at the young -woman, paralyzed as he was by this unhoped-for familiarity, and with -a confusion in his brain such as arises from drunkenness, he said to -himself: "Is this real? Can it be possible? Can it be that we are both -losing our senses?" - -The horses began to trot and they had to resume their seats. Then -Mariolle felt some sudden, mysterious, imperious necessity of showing -himself attentive to M. de Pradon, and he began to devote himself to -him with flattering courtesy. Almost as sensible to compliments as his -daughter, the father allowed himself to be won over and soon his face -was all smiles. - -At last they had reached the causeway and were advancing rapidly toward -the Mount, which reared its head among the sands at the point where the -long, straight road ended. Pontorson river washed its left-hand slope, -while, to the right, the pastures covered with short grass, which the -coachman wrongly called "samphire," had given way to sand-hills that -were still trickling with the water of the sea. The lofty monument now -assumed more imposing dimensions upon the blue heavens, against which, -very clear and distinct now in every slightest detail, its summit stood -out in bold relief, with all its towers and belfries, bristling with -grimacing gargoyles, heads of monstrous beings with which the faith and -the terrors of our ancestors crowned their Gothic sanctuaries. - -It was nearly one o'clock when they reached the inn, where breakfast -had been ordered. The hostess had delayed the meal for prudential -reasons; it was not ready. It was late, therefore, when they sat down -at table and everyone was very hungry. Soon, however, the champagne -restored their spirits. Everyone was in good humor, and there were -two hearts that felt that they were on the verge of great happiness. -At dessert, when the cheering effect of the wine that they had drunk -and the pleasures of conversation had developed in their frames the -feeling of well-being and contentment that sometimes warms us after a -good meal, and inclines us to take a rosy view of everything, Mariolle -suggested: "What do you say to staying over here until to-morrow? It -would be so nice to look upon this scene by moonlight, and so pleasant -to dine here together this evening!" - -Mme. de Burne gave her assent at once, and the two men also concurred. -Mme. Valsaci alone hesitated, on account of the little boy that she had -left at home, but her husband reassured her and reminded her that she -had frequently remained away before; he at once sat down and dispatched -a telegram to the governess. André Mariolle had flattered him by giving -his approval to the causeway, expressing his judgment that it detracted -far less than was generally reported from the picturesque effect of the -Mount, thereby making himself _persona grata_ to the engineer. - -Upon rising from table they went to visit the monument, taking the -road of the ramparts. The city, a collection of old houses dating back -to the Middle Ages and rising in tiers one above the other upon the -enormous mass of granite that is crowned by the abbey, is separated -from the sands by a lofty crenelated wall. This wall winds about the -city in its ascent with many a twist and turn, with abrupt angles and -elbows and platforms and watchtowers, all forming so many surprises -for the eye, which, at every turn, rests upon some new expanse of the -far-reaching horizon. They were silent, for whether they had seen this -marvelous edifice before or not, they were equally impressed by it, -and the substantial breakfast that they had eaten, moreover, had made -them short-winded. There it rose above them in the sky, a wondrous -tangle of granite ornamentation, spires, belfries, arches thrown from -one tower to another, a huge, light, fairy-like lace-work in stone, -embroidered upon the azure of the heavens, from which the fantastic -and bestial-faced array of gargoyles seemed to be preparing to detach -themselves and wing their flight away. Upon the northern flank of the -Mount, between the abbey and the sea, a wild and almost perpendicular -descent that is called the Forest, because it is covered with ancient -trees, began where the houses ended and formed a speck of dark green -coloring upon the limitless expanse of yellow sands. Mme. de Burne and -Mariolle, who headed the little procession, stopped to enjoy the view. -She leaned upon his arm, her senses steeped in a rapture such as she -had never known before. With light steps she pursued her upward way, -willing to keep on climbing forever in his company toward this fabric -of a vision, or indeed toward any other end. She would have been glad -that the steep way should never have an ending, for almost for the -first time in her life she knew what it was to experience a plenitude -of satisfaction. - -"Heavens! how beautiful it is!" she murmured. - -Looking upon her, he answered: "I can think only of you." - -She continued, with a smile: "I am not inclined to be very poetical, -as a general thing, but this seems to me so beautiful that I am really -moved." - -He stammered: "I--I love you to distraction." - -He was conscious of a slight pressure of her arm, and they resumed the -ascent. - -They found a keeper awaiting them at the door of the abbey, and they -entered by that superb staircase, between two massive towers, which -leads to the Hall of the Guards. Then they went from hall to hall, from -court to court, from dungeon to dungeon, listening, wondering, charmed -with everything, admiring everything, the crypt, with its huge pillars, -so beautiful in their massiveness, which sustains upon its sturdy -arches all the weight of the choir of the church above, and all of the -_Wonder_, an awe-inspiring edifice of three stories of Gothic monuments -rising one above the other, the most extraordinary masterpiece of the -monastic and military architecture of the Middle Ages. - -Then they came to the cloisters. Their surprise was so great that they -involuntarily came to a halt at sight of this square court inclosing -the lightest, most graceful, most charming of colonnades to be seen in -any cloisters in the world. For the entire length of the four galleries -the slender shafts in double rows, surmounted by exquisite capitals, -sustain a continuous garland of flowers and Gothic ornamentation of -infinite variety and constantly changing design, the elegant and -unaffected fancies of the simple-minded old artists who thus worked out -their dreams in stone beneath the hammer. - -Michèle de Burne and André Mariolle walked completely around the -inclosure, very slowly, arm in arm, while the others, somewhat -fatigued, stood near the door and admired from a distance. - -"Heavens! what pleasure this affords me!" she said, coming to a stop. - -"For my part, I neither know where I am nor what my eyes behold. I am -conscious that you are at my side, and that is all." - -Then smiling, she looked him in the face and murmured: "André!" - -He saw that she was yielding. No further word was spoken, and they -resumed their walk. The inspection of the edifice was continued, but -they hardly had eyes to see anything. - -Nevertheless their attention was attracted for the space of a moment -by the airy bridge, seemingly of lace, inclosed within an arch thrown -across space between two belfries, as if to afford a way to scale the -clouds, and their amazement was still greater when they came to the -"Madman's Path," a dizzy track, devoid of parapet, that encircles the -farthest tower nearly at its summit. - -"May we go up there?" she asked. - -"It is forbidden," the guide replied. - -She showed him a twenty-franc piece. All the members of the party, -giddy at sight of the yawning gulf and the immensity of surrounding -space, tried to dissuade her from the imprudent freak. - -She asked Mariolle: "Will you go?" - -He laughed: "I have been in more dangerous places than that." And -paying no further attention to the others, they set out. - -He went first along the narrow cornice that overhung the gulf, and she -followed him, gliding along close to the wall with eyes downcast that -she might not see the yawning void beneath, terrified now and almost -ready to sink with fear, clinging to the hand that he held out to her; -but she felt that he was strong, that there was no sign of weakening -there, that he was sure of head and foot; and enraptured for all her -fears, she said to herself: "Truly, this is a man." They were alone in -space, at the height where the sea-birds soar; they were contemplating -the same horizon that the white-winged creatures are ceaselessly -scouring in their flight as they explore it with their little yellow -eyes. - -Mariolle felt that she was trembling; he asked: "Do you feel dizzy?" - -"A little," she replied in a low voice; "but in your company I fear -nothing." - -At this he drew near and sustained her by putting his arm about -her, and this simple assistance inspired her with such courage that -she ventured to raise her head and take a look at the distance. He -was almost carrying her and she offered no resistance, enjoying the -protection of those strong arms which thus enabled her to traverse the -heavens, and she was grateful to him with a romantic, womanly gratitude -that he did not mar their sea-gull flight by kisses. - -When they had rejoined the others of the party, who were awaiting them -with the greatest anxiety, M. de Pradon angrily said to his daughter: -"_Dieu!_ what a silly thing to do!" - -She replied with conviction: "No, it was not, papa, since it was -successfully accomplished. Nothing that succeeds is ever stupid." - -He merely gave a shrug of the shoulders, and they descended the -stairs. At the porter's lodge there was another stoppage to purchase -photographs, and when they reached the inn it was nearly dinner-time. -The hostess recommended a short walk upon the sands, so as to obtain a -view of the Mount toward the open sea, in which direction, she said, -it presented its most imposing aspect. Although they were all much -fatigued, the band started out again and made the tour of the ramparts, -picking their way among the treacherous downs, solid to the eye but -yielding to the step, where the foot that was placed upon the pretty -yellow carpet that was stretched beneath it and seemed solid would -suddenly sink up to the calf in the deceitful golden ooze. - -Seen from this point the abbey, all at once losing the cathedral-like -appearance with which it astounded the beholder on the mainland, -assumed, as if in menace of old Ocean, the martial appearance of a -feudal manor, with its huge battlemented wall picturesquely pierced -with loop-holes and supported by gigantic buttresses that sank their -Cyclopean stone foundations in the bosom of the fantastic mountain. -Mme. de Burne and André Mariolle, however, were not heedless of all -that. They were thinking only of themselves, caught in the meshes of -the net that they had set for each other, shut up within the walls of -that prison to which no sound comes from the outer world, where the eye -beholds only one being. - -When they found themselves again seated before their well-filled -plates, however, beneath the cheerful light of the lamps, they seemed -to awake, and discovered that they were hungry, just like other mortals. - -They remained a long time at table, and when the dinner was ended -the moonlight was quite forgotten in the pleasure of conversation. -There was no one, moreover, who had any desire to go out, and no one -suggested it. The broad moon might shed her waves of poetic light down -upon the little thin sheet of rising tide that was already creeping up -the sands with the noise of a trickling stream, scarcely perceptible -to the ear, but sinister and alarming; she might light up the ramparts -that crept in spirals up the flanks of the Mount and illumine the -romantic shadows of all the belfries of the old abbey, standing in -its wondrous setting of a boundless bay, in the bosom of which were -quiveringly reflected the lights that crawled along the downs--no one -cared to see more. - -It was not yet ten o'clock when Mme. Valsaci, overcome with sleep, -spoke of going to bed, and her proposition was received without a -dissenting voice. Bidding one another a cordial good night, each -withdrew to his chamber. - -André Mariolle knew well that he would not sleep; he therefore lighted -his two candles and placed them on the mantelpiece, threw open his -window, and looked out into the night. - -All the strength of his body was giving way beneath the torture of an -unavailing hope. He knew that she was there, close at hand, that there -were only two doors between them, and yet it was almost as impossible -to go to her as it would be to dam the tide that was coming in and -submerging all the land. There was a cry in his throat that strove to -liberate itself, and in his nerves such an unquenchable and futile -torment of expectation that he asked himself what he was to do, unable -as he was longer to endure the solitude of this evening of sterile -happiness. - -Gradually all the sounds had died away in the inn and in the single -little winding street of the town. Mariolle still remained leaning upon -his window-sill, conscious only that time was passing, contemplating -the silvery sheet of the still rising tide and rejecting the idea of -going to bed as if he had felt the undefined presentiment of some -approaching, providential good fortune. - -All at once it seemed to him that a hand was fumbling with the -fastening of his door. He turned with a start: the door slowly opened -and a woman entered the room, her head veiled in a cloud of white lace -and her form enveloped in one of those great dressing-gowns that seem -made of silk, cashmere, and snow. She closed the door carefully behind -her; then, as if she had not seen him where he stood motionless--as if -smitten with joy--in the bright square of moonlight of the window, she -went straight to the mantelpiece and blew out the two candles. - - - - -CHAPTER V. - - -CONSPIRACY - - -They were to meet next morning in front of the inn to say good-bye -to one another. André, the first one down, awaited her coming with a -poignant feeling of mixed uneasiness and delight. What would she do? -What would she be to him? What would become of her and of him? In -what thrice-happy or terrible adventure had he engaged himself? She -had it in her power to make of him what she would, a visionary, like -an opium-eater, or a martyr, at her will. He paced to and fro beside -the two carriages, for they were to separate, he, to continue the -deception, ending his trip by way of Saint Malo, they returning to -Avranches. - -When would he see her again? Would she cut short her visit to her -family, or would she delay her return? He was horribly afraid of what -she would first say to him, how she would first look at him, for he had -not seen her and they had scarcely spoken during their brief interview -of the night before. There remained to Mariolle from that strange, -fleeting interview the faint feeling of disappointment of the man who -has been unable to reap all that harvest of love which he thought was -ready for the sickle, and at the same time the intoxication of triumph -and, resulting from that, the almost assured hope of finally making -himself complete master of her affections. - -He heard her voice and started; she was talking loudly, evidently -irritated at some wish that her father had expressed, and when he -beheld her standing at the foot of the staircase there was a little -angry curl upon her lips that bespoke her impatience. - -Mariolle took a couple of steps toward her; she saw him and smiled. -Her eyes suddenly recovered their serenity and assumed an expression -of kindliness which diffused itself over the other features, and she -quickly and cordially extended to him her hand, as if in ratification -of their new relations. - -"So then, we are to separate?" she said to him. - -"Alas! Madame, the thought makes me suffer more than I can tell." - -"It will not be for long," she murmured. She saw M. de Pradon coming -toward them, and added in a whisper: "Say that you are going to take a -ten days' trip through Brittany, but do not take it." - -Mme. de Valsaci came running up in great excitement. "What is this that -your father has been telling me--that you are going to leave us day -after to-morrow? You were to stay until next Monday, at least." - -Mme. de Burne replied, with a suspicion of ill humor: "Papa is nothing -but a bungler, who never knows enough to hold his tongue. The sea-air -has given me, as it does every year, a very unpleasant neuralgia, and I -did say something or other about going away so as not to have to be ill -for a month. But this is no time for bothering over that." - -Mariolle's coachman urged him to get into the carriage and be off, so -that they might not miss the Pontorson train. - -Mme. de Burne asked: "And you, when do you expect to be back in Paris?" - -He assumed an air of hesitancy: "Well, I can't say exactly; I want to -see Saint Malo, Brest, Douarnenez, the Bay des Trépassés, Cape Raz, -Audierne, Penmarch, Morbihan, all this celebrated portion of the Breton -country, in a word. That will take me say--" after a silence devoted to -feigned calculation, he exceeded her estimate--"fifteen or twenty days." - -"That will be quite a trip," she laughingly said. "For my part, if my -nerves trouble me as they did last night, I shall be at home before I -am two days older." - -His emotion was so great that he felt like exclaiming: "Thanks!" He -contented himself with kissing, with a lover's kiss, the hand that she -extended to him for the last time, and after a profuse exchange of -thanks and compliments with the Valsacis and M. de Pradon, who seemed -to be somewhat reassured by the announcement of his projected trip, he -climbed into his vehicle and drove off, turning his head for a parting -look at her. - -He made no stop on his journey back to Paris and was conscious of -seeing nothing on the way. All night long he lay back in the corner -of his compartment with eyes half closed and folded arms, his mind -reverting to the occurrences of the last few hours, and all his -thoughts concentrated upon the realization of his dream. - -Immediately upon his arrival at his own abode, upon the cessation of -the noise and bustle of travel, in the silence of the library where -he generally passed his time, where he worked and wrote, and where he -almost always felt himself possessed by a restful tranquillity in the -friendly companionship of his books, his piano, and his violin, there -now commenced in him that unending torment of impatient waiting which -devours, as with a fever, insatiable hearts like his. He was surprised -that he could apply himself to nothing, that nothing served to occupy -his mind, that reading and music, the occupations that he generally -employed to while away the idle moments of his life, were unavailing, -not only to afford distraction to his thoughts, but even to give rest -and quiet to his physical being, and he asked himself what he was to -do to appease this new disturbance. An inexplicable physical need of -motion seemed to have taken possession of him--of going forth and -walking the streets, of constant movement, the crisis of that agitation -that is imparted by the mind to the body and which is nothing more than -an instinctive and unappeasable longing to seek and find some other -being. - -He put on his hat and overcoat, and as he was descending the stairs -he asked himself: "In which direction shall I go?" Thereupon an idea -occurred to him that he had not yet thought of: he must procure a -pretty and secluded retreat to serve them as a trysting place. - -He pursued his investigations in every quarter, ransacking streets, -avenues, and boulevards, distrustfully examining _concierges_ with -their servile smiles, lodging-house keepers of suspicious appearance -and apartments with doubtful furnishings, and at evening he returned -to his house in a state of discouragement. At nine o'clock the next -day he started out again, and at nightfall he finally succeeded in -discovering at Auteuil, buried in a garden that had three exits, a -lonely pavilion which an upholsterer in the neighborhood promised to -render habitable in two days. He ordered what was necessary, selecting -very plain furniture of varnished pine and thick carpets. A baker who -lived near one of the garden gates had charge of the property, and an -arrangement was completed with his wife whereby she was to care for the -rooms, while a gardener of the quarter also took a contract for filling -the beds with flowers. - -All these arrangements kept him busy until it was eight o'clock, and -when at last he got home, worn out with fatigue, he beheld with a -beating heart a telegram lying on his desk. He opened it and read: - - "I will be home to-morrow. Await instructions. "MICHE." - -He had not written to her yet, fearing that as she was soon to leave -Avranches his letter might go astray, and as soon as he had dined -he seated himself at his desk to lay before her what was passing in -his mind. The task was a long and difficult one, for all the words -and phrases that he could muster, and even his ideas, seemed to him -weak, mediocre, and ridiculous vehicles in which to convey to her the -delicacy and passionateness of his thanks. - -The letter that he received from her upon waking next morning confirmed -the statement that she would reach home that evening, and begged him -not to make his presence known to anyone for a few days, in order that -full belief might be accorded to the report that he was traveling. She -also requested him to walk upon the terrace of the Tuileries garden -that overlooks the Seine the following day at ten o'clock. - -He was there an hour before the time appointed, and to kill time -wandered about in the immense garden that was peopled only by a few -early pedestrians, belated officeholders on their way to the public -buildings on the left bank, clerks and toilers of every condition. -It was a pleasure to him to watch the hurrying crowds driven by the -necessity of earning their daily bread to brutalizing labors, and to -compare his lot with theirs, on this spot, at the minute when he was -awaiting his mistress--a queen among the queens of the earth. He felt -himself so fortunate a being, so privileged, raised to such a height -beyond their petty struggles, that he felt like giving thanks to the -blue sky, for to him Providence was but a series of alternations of -sunshine and of rain due to Chance, mysterious ruler over weather and -over men. - -When it wanted a few minutes of ten he ascended to the terrace and -watched for her coming. "She will be late!" he thought. He had scarcely -more than heard the clock in an adjacent building strike ten when -he thought he saw her at a distance, coming through the garden with -hurrying steps, like a working-woman in haste to reach her shop. "Can -it indeed be she?" He recognized her step but was astonished by her -changed appearance, so unassuming in a neat little toilette of dark -colors. She was coming toward the stairs that led up to the terrace, -however, in a bee-line, as if she had traveled that road many times -before. - -"Ah!" he said to himself, "she must be fond of this place and come to -walk here sometimes." He watched her as she raised her dress to put her -foot on the first step and then nimbly flew up the remaining ones, and -as he eagerly stepped forward to meet her she said to him as he came -near with a pleasant smile, in which there was a trace of uneasiness: -"You are very imprudent! You must not show yourself like that; I saw -you almost from the Rue de Rivoli. Come, we will go and take a seat on -a bench yonder. There is where you must wait for me next time." - -He could not help asking her: "So you come here often?" - -"Yes, I have a great liking for this place, and as I am an early walker -I come here for exercise and to look at the scenery, which is very -pretty. And then one never meets anybody here, while the Bois is out of -the question on just that account. But you must be careful not to give -away my secret." - -He laughed: "I shall not be very likely to do that." Discreetly taking -her hand, a little hand that was hanging at her side conveniently -concealed in the folds of her dress, he sighed: "How I love you! My -heart was sick with waiting for you. Did you receive my letter?" - -"Yes; I thank you for it. It was very touching." - -"Then you have not become angry with me yet?" - -"Why no! Why should I? You are just as nice as you can be." - -He sought for ardent words, words that would vibrate with his emotion -and his gratitude. As none came to him, and as he was too deeply moved -to permit of the free expression of the thought that was within him, he -simply said again: "How I love you!" - -She said to him: "I brought you here because there are water and boats -in this place as well as down yonder. It is not at all like what we saw -down there; still it is not disagreeable." - -They were sitting on a bench near the stone balustrade that runs along -the river, almost alone, invisible from every quarter. The only living -beings to be seen on the long terrace at that hour were two gardeners -and three nursemaids. Carriages were rolling along the quay at their -feet, but they could not see them; footsteps were resounding upon the -adjacent sidewalk, over against the wall that sustained the promenade; -and still unable to find words in which to express their thoughts, -they let their gaze wander over the beautiful Parisian landscape that -stretches from the Île Saint-Louis and the towers of Nôtre-Dame to the -heights of Meudon. She repeated her thought: "None the less, it is very -pretty, isn't it?" - -But he was suddenly seized by the thrilling remembrance of their -journey through space up on the summit of the abbey tower, and with a -regretful feeling for the emotion that was past and gone, he said: "Oh, -Madame, do you remember our escapade of the 'Madman's Path?'" - -"Yes; but I am a little afraid now that I come to think of it when it -is all over. _Dieu!_ how my head would spin around if I had it to do -over again! I was just drunk with the fresh air, the sunlight, and the -sea. Look, my friend, what a magnificent view we have before us. How I -do love Paris!" - -He was surprised, having a confused feeling of missing something that -had appeared in her down there in the country. He murmured: "It matters -not to me where I am, so that I am only near you!" - -Her only answer was a pressure of the hand. Inspired with greater -happiness, perhaps, by this little signal than he would have been by a -tender word, his heart relieved of the care that had oppressed it until -now, he could at last find words to express his feelings. He told her, -slowly, in words that were almost solemn, that he had given her his -life forever that she might do with it what she would. - -She was grateful; but like the child of modern scepticism that she -was and willing captive of her iconoclastic irony, she smiled as she -replied: "I would not make such a long engagement as that if I were -you!" - -He turned and faced her, and, looking her straight in the eyes with -that penetrating look which is like a touch, repeated what he had -just said at greater length, in a more ardent, more poetical form of -expression. All that he had written in so many burning letters he now -expressed with such a fervor of conviction that it seemed to her as she -listened that she was sitting in a cloud of incense. She felt herself -caressed in every fiber of her feminine nature by his adoring words -more deeply than ever before. - -When he had ended she simply said: "And I, too, love you dearly!" - -They were still holding each other's hand, like young folks walking -along a country road, and watching with vague eyes the little -steamboats plying on the river. They were alone by themselves in Paris, -in the great confused uproar, whether remote or near at hand, that -surrounded them in this city full of all the life of all the world, -more alone than they had been on the summit of their aerial tower, and -for some seconds they were quite oblivious that there existed on earth -any other beings but their two selves. - -She was the first to recover the sensation of reality and of the flight -of time. "Shall we see each other again to-morrow?" she said. - -He reflected for an instant, and abashed by what he had in mind to ask -of her: "Yes--yes--certainly," he replied. "But--shall we never meet -in any other place? This place is unfrequented. Still--people may come -here." - -She hesitated. "You are right. Still it is necessary also that you -should not show yourself for at least two weeks yet, so that people may -think that you are away traveling. It will be very nice and mysterious -for us to meet and no one know that you are in Paris. Meanwhile, -however, I cannot receive you at my house, so--I don't see----" - -He felt that he was blushing, and continued: "Neither can I ask you to -come to my house. Is there nothing else--is there no other place?" - -Being a woman of practical sense, logical and without false modesty, -she was neither surprised nor shocked. - -"Why, yes," she said, "only we must have time to think it over." - -"I have thought it over." - -"What! so soon?" - -"Yes, Madame." - -"Well?" - -"Are you acquainted with the Rue des Vieux-Champs at Auteuil?" - -"No." - -"It runs into the Rue Tournemine and the Rue Jean-de-Saulge." - -"Well?" - -"In this street, or rather lane, there is a garden, and in this -garden a pavilion that also communicates with the two streets that I -mentioned." - -"What next?" - -"That pavilion awaits you." - -She reflected, still with no appearance of embarrassment, and then -asked two or three questions that were dictated by feminine prudence. -His explanations seemed to be satisfactory, for she murmured as she -arose: - -"Well, I will go to-morrow." - -"At what time?" - -"Three o'clock." - -"Seven is the number; I will be waiting for you behind the door. Do not -forget. Give a knock as you pass." - -"Yes, my friend. Adieu, till to-morrow." - -"Till to-morrow, adieu. Thanks; I adore you." - -They had risen to their feet. "Do not come with me," she said. "Stay -here for ten minutes, and when you leave go by the way of the quay." - -"Adieu!" - -"Adieu!" - -She started off very rapidly, with such a modest, unassuming air, so -hurriedly, that actually she might have been mistaken for one of Paris' -pretty working-girls, who trot along the streets in the morning on the -way to their honest labors. - -He took a cab to Auteuil, tormented by the fear that the house might -not be ready against the following day. He found it full of workmen, -however; the hangings were all in place upon the walls, the carpets -laid upon the floors. Everywhere there was a sound of pounding, -hammering, beating, washing. In the garden, which was quite large and -rather pretty, the remains of an ancient park, containing a few large -old trees, a thick clump of shrubbery that stood for a forest, two -green tables, two grass-plots, and paths twisting about among the beds, -the gardener of the vicinity had set out rose-trees, geraniums, pinks, -reseda, and twenty other species of those plants, the growth of which -is advanced or retarded by careful attention, so that a naked field may -be transformed in a day into a blooming flower garden. - -Mariolle was as delighted as if he had scored another success with his -Michèle, and having exacted an oath from the upholsterer that all the -furniture should be in place the next day before noon, he went off to -various shops to buy some bric-à-brac and pictures for the adornment -of the interior of this retreat. For the walls he selected some of -those admirable photographs of celebrated pictures that are produced -nowadays, for the tables and mantelshelves some rare pottery and a few -of those familiar objects that women always like to have about them. -In the course of the day he expended the income of three months, and he -did it with great pleasure, reflecting that for the last ten years he -had been living very economically, not from penuriousness, but because -of the absence of expensive tastes, and this circumstance now allowed -him to do things somewhat magnificently. - -He returned to the pavilion early in the morning of the following day, -presided over the arrival and placing of the furniture, climbed ladders -and hung the pictures, burned perfumes and vaporized them upon the -hangings and poured them over the carpets. In his feverish joy, in the -excited rapture of all his being, it seemed to him that he had never in -his life been engaged in such an engrossing, such a delightful labor. -At every moment he looked to see what time it was, and calculated how -long it would be before she would be there; he urged on the workmen, -and stimulated his invention so to arrange the different objects that -they might be displayed in their best light. - -In his prudence he dismissed everyone before it was two o'clock, and -then, as the minute-hand of the clock tardily made its last revolution -around the dial, in the silence of that house where he was awaiting -the greatest happiness that ever he could have wished for, alone with -his reverie, going and coming from room to room, he passed the minutes -until she should be there. - -Finally he went out into the garden. The sunlight was streaming through -the foliage upon the grass and falling with especially charming -brilliancy upon a bed of roses. The very heavens were contributing -their aid to embellish this trysting-place. Then he went and stood by -the gate, partially opening it to look out from time to time for fear -she might mistake the house. - -Three o'clock rang out from some belfry, and forthwith the sounds -were echoed from a dozen schools and factories. He stood waiting now -with watch in hand, and gave a start of surprise when two little, -light knocks were given against the door, to which his ear was closely -applied, for he had heard no sound of footsteps in the street. - -He opened: it was she. She looked about her with astonishment. First -of all she examined with a distrustful glance the neighboring houses, -but her inspection reassured her, for certainly she could have no -acquaintances among the humble _bourgeois_ who inhabited the quarter. -Then she examined the garden with pleased curiosity, and finally placed -the backs of her two hands, from which she had drawn her gloves, -against her lover's mouth; then she took his arm. At every step she -kept repeating: "My! how pretty it is! how unexpected! how attractive!" -Catching sight of the rose-bed that the sun was shining upon through -the branches of the trees, she exclaimed: "Why, this is fairyland, my -friend!" - -She plucked a rose, kissed it, and placed it in her corsage. Then they -entered the pavilion, and she seemed so pleased with everything that -he felt like going down on his knees to her, although he may have felt -at the bottom of his heart that perhaps she might as well have shown -more attention to him and less to the surroundings. She looked about -her with the pleasure of a child who has received a new plaything, and -admired and appreciated the elegance of the place with the satisfaction -of a connoisseur whose tastes have been gratified. She had feared that -she was coming to some vulgar, commonplace resort, where the furniture -and hangings had been contaminated by other rendezvous, whereas all -this, on the contrary, was new, unforeseen, and alluring, prepared -expressly for her, and must have cost a lot of money. Really he was -perfect, this man. She turned to him and extended her arms, and their -lips met in one of those long kisses that have the strange, twofold -sensation of self-effacement and unadulterated bliss. - -When, at the end of three hours, they were about to separate, they -walked through the garden and seated themselves in a leafy arbor where -no eye could reach them. André addressed her with an exuberance of -feeling, as if she had been an idol that had come down for his sake -from her sacred pedestal, and she listened to him with that fatigued -languor which he had often seen reflected in her eyes after people had -tired her by too long a visit. She continued affectionate, however, -her face lighted up by a tender, slightly constrained smile, and she -clasped the hand that she held in hers with a continuous pressure that -perhaps was more studied than spontaneous. - -She could not have been listening to him, for she interrupted one of -his sentences to say: "Really, I must be going. I was to be at the -Marquise de Bratiane's at six o'clock, and I shall be very late." - -He conducted her to the gate by which she had obtained admission. They -gave each other a parting kiss, and after a furtive glance up and down -the street, she hurried away, keeping close to the walls. - -When he was alone he felt within him that sudden void that is ever -left by the disappearance of the woman whose kiss is still warm upon -your lips, the queer little laceration of the heart that is caused by -the sound of her retreating footsteps. It seemed to him that he was -abandoned and alone, that he was never to see her again, and he betook -himself to pacing the gravel-walks, reflecting upon this never-ceasing -contrast between anticipation and realization. He remained there until -it was dark, gradually becoming more tranquil and yielding himself more -entirely to her influence, now that she was away, than if she had been -there in his arms. Then he went home and dined without being conscious -of what he was eating, and sat down to write to her. - -The next day was a long one to him, and the evening seemed -interminable. Why had she not answered his letter, why had she sent him -no word? The morning of the second day he received a short telegram -appointing another rendezvous at the same hour. The little blue -envelope speedily cured him of the heart-sickness of hope deferred from -which he was beginning to suffer. - -She came, as she had done before, punctual, smiling, and affectionate, -and their second interview in the little house was in all respects -similar to the first. André Mariolle, surprised at first and vaguely -troubled that the ecstatic passion he had dreamed of had not made -itself felt between them, but more and more overmastered by his senses, -gradually forgot his visions of anticipation in the somewhat different -happiness of possession. He was becoming attached to her by reason of -her caresses, an invincible tie, the strongest tie of all, from which -there is no deliverance when once it has fully possessed you and has -penetrated through your flesh, into your veins. - -Twenty days rolled by, such sweet, fleeting days. It seemed to him -that there was to be no end to it, that he was to live forever thus, -nonexistent for all and living for her alone, and to his mental vision -there presented itself the seductive dream of an unlimited continuance -of this blissful, secret way of living. - -She continued to make her visits at intervals of three days, offering -no objections, attracted, it would seem, as much by the amusement she -derived from their clandestine meetings--by the charm of the little -house that had now been transformed into a conservatory of rare exotics -and by the novelty of the situation, which could scarcely be called -dangerous, since she was her own mistress, but still was full of -mystery--as by the abject and constantly increasing tenderness of her -lover. - -At last there came a day when she said to him: "Now, my dear friend, -you must show yourself in society again. You will come and pass the -afternoon with me to-morrow. I have given out that you are at home -again." - -He was heartbroken. "Oh, why so soon?" he said. - -"Because if it should leak out by any chance that you are in Paris your -absence would be too inexplicable not to give rise to gossip." - -He saw that she was right and promised that he would come to her house -the next day. Then he asked her: "Do you receive to-morrow?" - -"Yes," she replied. "It will be quite a little solemnity." - -He did not like this intelligence. "Of what description is your -solemnity?" - -She laughed gleefully. "I have prevailed upon Massival, by means of the -grossest sycophancy, to give a performance of his 'Dido,' which no one -has heard yet. It is the poetry of antique love. Mme. de Bratiane, who -considered herself Massival's sole proprietor, is furious. She will be -there, for she is to sing. Am I not a sly one?" - -"Will there be many there?" - -"Oh, no, only a few intimate friends. You know them nearly all." - -"Won't you let me off? I am so happy in my solitude." - -"Oh! no, my friend. You know that I count on you more than all the -rest." - -His heart gave a great thump. "Thank you," he said; "I will come." - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - - -QUESTIONINGS - - -Good day, M. Mariolle." - -Mariolle noticed that it was no longer the "dear friend" of Auteuil, -and the clasp of the hand was a hurried one, the hasty pressure of a -busy woman wholly engrossed in her social functions. As he entered the -salon Mme. de Burne was advancing to speak to the beautiful Mme. le -Prieur, whose sculpturesque form, and the audacious way that she had -of dressing to display it, had caused her to be nicknamed, somewhat -ironically, "The Goddess." She was the wife of a member of the -Institute, of the section of Inscriptions and Belles-Lettres. - -"Ah, Mariolle!" exclaimed Lamarthe, "where do you come from? We thought -that you were dead." - -"I have been making a trip through Finistère." - -He was going on to relate his impressions when the novelist interrupted -him: "Are you acquainted with the Baronne de Frémines?" - -"Only by sight; but I have heard a good deal of her. They say that she -is queer." - -"The very queen of crazy women, but with an exquisite perfume of -modernness. Come and let me present you to her." Taking him by the arm -he led him toward a young woman who was always compared to a doll, a -pale and charming little blond doll, invented and created by the devil -himself for the damnation of those larger children who wear beards -on their faces. She had long, narrow eyes, slightly turned up toward -the temples, apparently like the eyes of the Chinese; their soft blue -glances stole out between lids that were seldom opened to their full -extent, heavy, slowly-moving lids, designed to veil and hide this -creature's mysterious nature. - -Her hair, very light in color, shone with silky, silvery reflections, -and her delicate mouth, with its thin lips, seemed to have been cut by -the light hand of a sculptor from the design of a miniature-painter. -The voice that issued from it had bell-like intonations, and the -audacity of her ideas, of a biting quality that was peculiar to -herself, smacking of wickedness and drollery, their destructive charm, -their cold, corrupting seductiveness, all the complicated nature of -this full-grown, mentally diseased child acted upon those who were -brought in contact with her in such a way as to produce in them violent -passions and disturbances. - -She was known all over Paris as being the most extravagant of the -_mondaines_ of the real _monde_, and also the wittiest, but no one -could say exactly what she was, what were her ideas, what she did. She -exercised an irresistible sway over mankind in general. Her husband, -also, was quite as much of an enigma as she. Courteous and affable -and a great nobleman, he seemed quite unconscious of what was going -on. Was he indifferent, or complaisant, or was he simply blind? -Perhaps, after all, there was nothing in it more than those little -eccentricities which doubtless amused him as much as they did her. -All sorts of opinions, however, were prevalent in regard to him, and -some very ugly reports were circulated. Rumor even went so far as to -insinuate that his wife's secret vices were not unprofitable to him. - -Between her and Mme. de Burne there were natural attractions and fierce -jealousies, spells of friendship succeeded by crises of furious enmity. -They liked and feared each other and mutually sought each other's -society, like professional duelists, who appreciate at the same time -that they would be glad to kill each other. - -It was the Baronne de Frémines who was having the upper hand at this -moment. She had just scored a victory, an important victory: she -had conquered Lamarthe, had taken him from her rival and borne him -away ostentatiously to domesticate him in her flock of acknowledged -followers. The novelist seemed to be all at once smitten, puzzled, -charmed, and stupefied by the discoveries he had made in this creature -_sui generis_, and he could not help talking about her to everybody -that he met, a fact which had already given rise to much gossip. - -Just as he was presenting Mariolle he encountered Mme. de Burne's look -from the other end of the room; he smiled and whispered in his friend's -ear: "See, the mistress of the house is angry." - -André raised his eyes, but Madame had turned to meet Massival, who just -then made his appearance beneath the raised portière. He was followed -almost immediately by the Marquise de Bratiane, which elicited from -Lamarthe: "Ah! we shall only have a second rendition of 'Dido'; the -first has just been given in the Marquise's _coupé_." - -Mme. de Frémines added: "Really, our friend De Burne's collection is -losing some of its finest jewels." - -Mariolle felt a sudden impulse of anger rising in his heart, a kind -of hatred against this woman, and a brusque sensation of irritation -against these people, their way of life, their ideas, their tastes, -their aimless inclinations, their childish amusements. Then, as -Lamarthe bent over the young woman to whisper something in her ear, he -profited by the opportunity to slip away. - -Handsome Mme. le Prieur was sitting by herself only a few steps away; -he went up to her to make his bow. According to Lamarthe she stood -for the old guard among all this irruption of modernism. Young, -tall, handsome, with very regular features and chestnut hair through -which ran threads of gold, extremely affable, captivating by reason -of her tranquil, kindly charm of manner, by reason also of a calm, -well-studied coquetry and a great desire to please that lay concealed -beneath an outward appearance of simple and sincere affection, she had -many firm partisans, whom she took good care should never be exposed -to dangerous rivalries. Her house had the reputation of being a little -gathering of intimate friends, where all the _habitués_, moreover, -concurred in extolling the merits of the husband. - -She and Mariolle now entered into conversation. She held in high esteem -this intelligent and reserved man, who gave people so little cause to -talk about him and who was perhaps of more account than all the rest. - -The remaining guests came dropping in: big Fresnel, puffing and giving -a last wipe with his handkerchief to his shining and perspiring -forehead, the philosophic George de Maltry, finally the Baron de -Gravil accompanied by the Comte de Marantin. M. de Pradon assisted his -daughter in doing the honors of the house; he was extremely attractive -to Mariolle. - -But Mariolle, with a heavy heart, saw _her_ going and coming and -bestowing her attentions on everyone there more than on him. - -Twice, it is true, she had thrown him a swift look from a distance -which seemed to say, "I am not forgetting you," but they were so -fleeting that perhaps he had failed to catch their meaning. And then -he could not be unconscious to the fact that Lamarthe's aggressive -assiduities to Mme. de Frémines were displeasing to Mme. de Burne. -"That is only her coquettish feeling of spite," he said to himself, -"a woman's irritation from whose salon some valuable trinket has -been spirited away." Still it made him suffer, and his suffering was -the greater since he saw that she was constantly watching them in a -furtive, concealed kind of way, while she did not seem to trouble -herself a bit at seeing _him_ sitting beside Mme. le Prieur. - -The reason was that she had him in her power, she was sure of him, -while the other was escaping her. What, then, could be to her that love -of theirs, that love which was born but yesterday, and which in him had -banished and killed every other idea? - -M. de Pradon had called for silence, and Massival was opening the -piano, which Mme. de Bratiane was approaching, removing her gloves -meanwhile, for she was to sing the woes of "Dido," when the door again -opened and a young man appeared upon whom every eye was immediately -fixed. He was tall and slender, with curling side-whiskers, short, -blond, curly hair, and an air that was altogether aristocratic. Even -Mme. le Prieur seemed to feel his influence. - -"Who is it?" Mariolle asked her. - -"What! is it possible that you do not know him?" - -"No, I do not." - -"It is Comte Rudolph de Bernhaus." - -"Ah! the man who fought a duel with Sigismond Fabre." - -"Yes." - -The story had made a great noise at the time. The Comte de Bernhaus, -attached to the Austrian embassy and a diplomat of the highest promise, -an elegant Bismarck, so it was said, having heard some words spoken in -derogation of his sovereign at an official reception, had fought the -next day with the man who uttered them, a celebrated fencer, and killed -him. After this duel, in respect to which public opinion had been -divided, the Comte acquired between one day and the next a notoriety -after the manner of Sarah Bernhardt, but with this difference, that -his name appeared in an aureole of poetic chivalry. He was in addition -a man of great charm, an agreeable conversationalist, a man of -distinction in every respect. Lamarthe used to say of him: "He is the -one to tame our pretty wild beasts." - -He took his seat beside Mme. de Burne with a very gallant air, and -Massival sat down before the keyboard and allowed his fingers to run -over the keys for a few moments. - -Nearly all the audience changed their places and drew their chairs -nearer so as to hear better and at the same time have a better view of -the singer. Thus Mariolle and Lamarthe found themselves side by side. - -There was a great silence of expectation and respectful attention; -then the musician began with a slow, a very slow succession of notes, -something like a musical recitative. There were pauses, then the -air would be lightly caught up in a series of little phrases, now -languishing and dying away, now breaking out in nervous strength, -indicative, it would seem, of distressful emotion, but always -characterized by originality of invention. Mariolle gave way to -reverie. He beheld a woman, a woman in the fullness of her mature youth -and ripened beauty, walking slowly upon a shore that was bathed by the -waves of the sea. He knew that she was suffering, that she bore a great -sorrow in her soul, and he looked at Mme. de Bratiane. - -Motionless, pale beneath her wealth of thick black hair that seemed to -have been dipped in the shades of night, the Italian stood waiting, her -glance directed straight before her. On her strongly marked, rather -stern features, against which her eyes and eyebrows stood out like -spots of ink, in all her dark, powerful, and passionate beauty, there -was something that struck one, something like the threat of the coming -storm that we read in the blackening _sky._ - -Massival, slightly nodding his head with its long hair in cadence with -the rhythm, kept on relating the affecting tale that he was drawing -from the resonant keys of ivory. - -A shiver all at once ran through the singer; she partially opened her -mouth, and from it there proceeded a long-drawn, heartrending wail of -agony. It was not one of those outbursts of tragic despair that divas -give utterance to upon the stage, with dramatic gestures, neither was -it one of those pitiful laments for love betrayed that bring a storm -of bravos from an audience; it was a cry of supreme passion, coming -from the body and not from the soul, wrung from her like the roar of -a wounded animal, the cry of the feminine animal betrayed. Then she -was silent, and Massival again began to relate, more animatedly, more -stormily, the moving story of the miserable queen who was abandoned by -the man she loved. Then the woman's voice made itself heard again. She -used articulate language now; she told of the intolerable torture of -solitude, of her unquenchable thirst for the caresses that were hers no -more, and of the grief of knowing that he was gone from her forever. - -Her warm, ringing voice made the hearts of her audience beat beneath -the spell. This somber Italian, with hair like the darkness of the -night, seemed to be suffering all the sorrows that she was telling, -she seemed to love, or to have the capacity of loving, with furious -ardor. When she ceased her eyes were full of tears, and she slowly -wiped them away. Lamarthe leaned over toward Mariolle and said to him -in a quiver of artistic enthusiasm: "Good heavens! how beautiful she is -just now! She is a woman, the only one in the room." Then he added, -after a moment of reflection: "After all, who can tell? Perhaps there -is nothing there but the mirage of the music, for nothing has real -existence except our illusions. But what an art to produce illusions is -that of hers!" - -There was a short intermission between the first and the second parts -of the musical poem, and warm congratulations were extended to the -composer and his interpreter. Lamarthe in particular was very earnest -in his felicitations, and he was really sincere, for he was endowed -with the capacity to feel and comprehend, and beauty of all kinds -appealed strongly to his nature, under whatever form expressed. The -manner in which he told Mme. de Bratiane what his feelings had been -while listening to her was so flattering that it brought a slight blush -to her face and excited a little spiteful feeling among the other women -who heard it. Perhaps he was not altogether unaware of the feeling that -he had produced. - -When he turned around to resume his chair, he perceived Comte de -Bernhaus just in the act of seating himself beside Mme. de Frémines. -She seemed at once to be on confidential terms with him, and they -smiled at each other as if this close conversation was particularly -agreeable to them both. Mariolle, whose gloom was momentarily -increasing, stood leaning against a door; the novelist came and -stationed himself at his side. Big Fresnel, George de Maltry, the -Baron de Gravil and the Comte de Marantin formed a circle about Mme. -de Burne, who was going about offering tea. She seemed imprisoned in a -crown of adorers. Lamarthe ironically called his friend's attention to -it and added: "A crown without jewels, however, and I am sure that she -would be glad to give all those rhinestones for the brilliant that she -would like to see there." - -"What brilliant do you mean?" inquired Mariolle. - -"Why, Bernhaus, handsome, irresistible, incomparable Bernhaus, he in -whose honor this _fête_ is given, for whom the miracle was performed of -inducing Massival to bring out his 'Dido' here." - -André, though incredulous, was conscious of a pang of regret as he -heard these words. "Has she known him long?" he asked. - -"Oh, no; ten days at most. But she put her best foot foremost during -this brief campaign, and her tactics have been those of a conqueror. If -you had been here you would have had a good laugh." - -"How so?" - -"She met him for the first time at Mme. de Frémines's; I happened to -be dining there that evening. Bernhaus stands very well in the good -graces of the lady of that house, as you may see for yourself; all that -you have to do is to look at them at the present moment; and behold, -in the very minute that succeeded the first salutation that they ever -made each other, there is our pretty friend De Burne taking the field -to effect the conquest of the Austrian phœnix. And she is succeeding, -and will succeed, although the little Frémines is more than a match for -her in coquetry, real indifference, and perhaps perversity. But our -friend De Burne uses her weapons more scientifically, she is more of a -woman, by which I mean a modern woman, that is to say, irresistible by -reason of that artificial seductiveness which takes the place in the -modern woman of the old-fashioned natural charm of manner. And it is -not her artificiality alone that is to be taken into account, but her -æstheticism, her profound comprehension of feminine æsthetics; all her -strength lies therein. She knows herself thoroughly, because she takes -more delight in herself than in anything else, and she is never at -fault as to the best means of subjugating a man and making the best use -of her gifts in order to captivate men." - -Mariolle took exception to this. "I think that you put it too -strongly," he said. "She has always been very simple with me." - -"Because simplicity is the right thing to meet the requirements of your -case. I do not wish to speak ill of her, however. I think that she is -better than most of her set. But they are not women." - -Massival, striking a few chords on the piano, here reduced them to -silence, and Mme. de Bratiane proceeded to sing the second part of the -poem, in which her delineation of the title-role was a magnificent -study of physical passion and sensual regret. - -Lamarthe, however, never once took his eyes from Mme. de Frémines and -the Comte de Bernhaus, where they were enjoying their _tête-à-tête_, -and as soon as the last vibrations of the piano were lost in the -murmurs of applause, he again took up his theme as if in continuation -of an argument, or as if he were replying to an adversary: "No, they -are not women. The most honest of them are coquettes without being -aware of it. The more I know them the less do I find in them that -sensation of mild exhilaration that it is the part of a true woman to -inspire in us. They intoxicate, it is true, but the process wears upon -our nerves, for they are too sophisticated. Oh, it is very good as a -liqueur to sip now and then, but it is a poor substitute for the good -wine that we used to have. You see, my dear fellow, woman was created -and sent to dwell on earth for two objects only, and it is these two -objects alone that can avail to bring out her true, great, and noble -qualities--love and the family. I am talking like M. Prudhomme. Now -the women of to-day are incapable of loving, and they will not bear -children. When they are so inexpert as to have them, it is a misfortune -in their eyes; then a burden. Truly, they are not women; they are -monsters." - -Astonished by the writer's violent manner and by the angry look that -glistened in his eye, Mariolle asked him: "Why, then, do you spend half -your time hanging to their skirts?" - -Lamarthe hotly replied: "Why? Why? Because it interests me--_parbleu!_ -And then--and then--Would you prevent a physician from going to the -hospitals to watch the cases? Those women constitute my clinic." - -This reflection seemed to quiet him a little: he proceeded: "Then, too, -I adore them for the very reason that they are so modern. At bottom I -am really no more a man than they are women. When I am at the point -of becoming attached to one of them, I amuse myself by investigating -and analyzing all the resulting sensations and emotions, just like -a chemist who experiments upon himself with a poison in order to -ascertain its properties." After an interval of silence, he continued: -"In this way they will never succeed in getting me into their clutches. -_I_ can play their game as well as they play it themselves, perhaps -even better, and that is of use to me for my books, while their -proceedings are not of the slightest bit of use to them. What fools -they are! Failures, every one of them--charming failures, who will be -ready to die of spite as they grow older and see the mistake that they -have made." - -Mariolle, as he listened, felt himself sinking into one of those fits -of depression that are like the humid gloom with which a long-continued -rain darkens everything about us. He was well aware that the man of -letters, as a general thing, was not apt to be very far out of the way, -but he could not bring himself to admit that he was altogether right in -the present case. With a slight appearance of irritation, he argued, -not so much in defense of women as to show the causes of the position -that they occupy in contemporary literature. "In the days when poets -and novelists exalted them, and endowed them with poetic attributes," -he said, "they looked for in life, and seemed to find, that which -their heart had discovered in their reading. Nowadays you persist in -suppressing everything that has any savor of sentiment and poetry, and -in its stead give them only naked, undeceiving realities. Now, my dear -sir, the more love there is in books, the more love there is in life. -When you invented the ideal and laid it before them, they believed in -the truth of your inventions. Now that you give them nothing but stern, -unadorned realism, they follow in your footsteps and have come to -measure everything by that standard of vulgarity." - -Lamarthe, who was always ready for a literary discussion, was about to -commence a dissertation when Mme. de Burne came up to them. It was one -of the days when she looked at her best, with a toilette that delighted -the eye and with that aggressive and alluring air that denoted that -she was ready to try conclusions with anyone. She took a chair. "That -is what I like," she said; "to come upon two men and find that they -are not talking about me. And then you are the only men here that one -can listen to with any interest. What was the subject that you were -discussing?" - -Lamarthe, quite without embarrassment and in terms of elegant raillery, -placed before her the question that had arisen between himself and -Mariolle. Then he resumed his reasoning with a spirit that was inflamed -by that desire of applause which, in the presence of women, always -excites men who like to intoxicate themselves with glory. - -She at once interested herself in the discussion, and, warming to the -subject, took part in it in defense of the women of our day with a good -deal of wit and ingenuity. Some remarks upon the faithfulness and the -attachment that even those who were looked on with most suspicion might -be capable of, incomprehensible to the novelist, made Mariolle's heart -beat more rapidly, and when she left them to take a seat beside Mme. -de Frémines, who had persistently kept the Comte de Bernhaus near her, -Lamarthe and Mariolle, completely vanquished by her display of feminine -tact and grace, were united in declaring that, beyond all question, she -was exquisite. - -"And just look at them!" said the writer. - -The grand duel was on. What were they talking about now, the Austrian -and those two women? Mme. de Burne had come up just at the right -moment to interrupt a _tête-à-tête_ which, however agreeable the two -persons engaged in it might be to each other, was becoming monotonous -from being too long protracted, and she broke it up by relating with an -indignant air the expressions that she had heard from Lamarthe's lips. -To be sure, it was all applicable to Mme. de Frémines, it all resulted -from her most recent conquest, and it was all related in the hearing -of an intelligent man who was capable of understanding it in all its -bearings. The match was applied, and again the everlasting question of -love blazed up, and the mistress of the house beckoned to Mariolle and -Lamarthe to come to them; then, as their voices grew loud in debate, -she summoned the remainder of the company. - -A general discussion ensued, bright and animated, in which everyone had -something to say. Mme. de Burne was witty and entertaining beyond all -the rest, shifting her ground from sentiment, which might have been -factitious, to droll paradox. The day was a triumphant one for her, and -she was prettier, brighter, and more animated than she had ever been. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - - -DEPRESSION - - -When André Mariolle had parted from Mme. de Burne and the penetrating -charm of her presence had faded away, he felt within him and all about -him, in his flesh, in his heart, in the air, and in all the surrounding -world a sensation as if the delight of life which had been his support -and animating principle for some time past had been taken from him. - -What had happened? Nothing, or almost nothing. Toward the close of the -reception she had been very charming in her manner toward him, saying -to him more than once: "I am not conscious of anyone's presence here -but yours." And yet he felt that she had revealed something to him of -which he would have preferred always to remain ignorant. That, too, -was nothing, or almost nothing; still he was stupefied, as a man might -be upon hearing of some unworthy action of his father or his mother, -to learn that during those twenty days which he had believed were -absolutely and entirely devoted by her as well as by him, every minute -of them, to the sentiment of their newborn love, so recent and so -intense, she had resumed her former mode of life, had made many visits, -formed many plans, recommenced those odious flirtations, had run after -men and disputed them with her rivals, received compliments, and showed -off all her graces. - -So soon! All this she had done so soon! Had it happened later he -would not have been surprised. He knew the world, he knew women and -their ways of looking at things, he was sufficiently intelligent -to understand it all, and would never have been unduly exacting or -offensively jealous. She was beautiful; she was born--it was her -allotted destiny--to receive the homage of men and listen to their soft -nothings. She had selected him from among them all, and had bestowed -herself upon him courageously, royally. It was his part to remain, -he would remain in any event, a grateful slave to her caprices and a -resigned spectator of her triumphs as a pretty woman. But it was hard -on him; something suffered within him, in that obscure cavern down at -the bottom of the heart where the delicate sensibilities have their -dwelling. - -No doubt he had been in the wrong; he had always been in the wrong -since he first came to know himself. He carried too much sentimental -prudence into his commerce with the world; his feelings were too -thin-skinned. This was the cause of the isolated life that he had -always led, through his dread of contact with the world and of wounded -susceptibilities. He had been wrong, for this supersensitiveness is -almost always the result of our not admitting the existence of a nature -essentially different from our own, or else not tolerating it. He knew -this, having often observed it in himself, but it was too late to -modify the constitution of his being. - -He certainly had no right to reproach Mme. de Burne, for if she had -forbidden him her salon and kept him in hiding during those days of -happiness that she had afforded him, she had done it to blind prying -eyes and be more fully his in the end. Why, then, this trouble that had -settled in his heart? Ah! why? It was because he had believed her to be -wholly his, and now it had been made clear to him that he could never -expect to seize and hold this woman of a many-sided nature who belonged -to all the world. - -He was well aware, moreover, that all our life is made up of successes -relative in degree to the "almost," and up to the present time -he had borne this with philosophic resignation, dissembling his -dissatisfaction and his unsatisfied yearnings under the mask of an -assumed unsociability. This time he had thought that he was about to -obtain an absolute success--the "entirely" that he had been waiting and -hoping for all his life. The "entirely" is not to be attained in this -world. - -His evening was a dismal one, spent in analyzing the painful impression -that he had received. When he was in bed this impression, instead of -growing weaker, took stronger hold of him, and as he desired to leave -nothing unexplored, he ransacked his mind to ascertain the remotest -causes of his new troubles. They went, and came, and returned again -like little breaths of frosty air, exciting in his love a suffering -that was as yet weak and indistinct, like those vague neuralgic pains -that we get by sitting in a draft, presages of the horrible agonies -that are to come. - -He understood in the first place that he was jealous, no longer as the -ardent lover only but as one who had the right to call her his own. -As long as he had not seen her surrounded by men, her men, he had not -allowed himself to dwell upon this sensation, at the same time having -a faint prevision of it, but supposing that it would be different, -very different, from what it actually was. To find the mistress whom -he believed had cared for none but him during those days of secret -and frequent meetings--during that early period that should have been -entirely devoted to isolation and tender emotion--to find her as much, -and even more, interested and wrapped up in her former and frivolous -flirtations than she was before she yielded herself to him, always -ready to fritter away her time and attention on any chance comer, thus -leaving but little of herself to him whom she had designated as the man -of her choice, caused him a jealousy that was more of the flesh than of -the feelings, not an undefined jealousy, like a fever that lies latent -in the system, but a jealousy precise and well defined, for he was -doubtful of her. - -At first his doubts were instinctive, arising in a sensation of -distrust that had intruded itself into his veins rather than into his -thoughts, in that sense of dissatisfaction, almost physical, of the man -who is not sure of his mate. Then, having doubted, he began to suspect. - -What was his position toward her after all? Was he her first lover, or -was he the tenth? Was he the successor of M. de Burne, or was he the -successor of Lamarthe, Massival, George de Maltry, and the predecessor -as well, perhaps, of the Comte de Bernhaus? What did he know of her? -That she was surprisingly beautiful, stylish beyond all others, -intelligent, discriminating, witty, but at the same time fickle, quick -to weary, readily fatigued and disgusted with anyone or anything, and, -above all else, in love with herself and an insatiable coquette. Had -she had a lover--or lovers--before him? If not, would she have offered -herself to him as she did? Where could she have got the audacity that -made her come and open his bedroom door, at night, in a public inn? -And then after that, would she have shown such readiness to visit the -house at Auteuil? Before going there she had merely asked him a few -questions, such questions as an experienced and prudent woman would -naturally ask. He had answered like a man of circumspection, not -unaccustomed to such interviews, and immediately she had confidingly -said "Yes," entirely reassured, probably benefiting by her previous -experiences. - -And then her knock at that little door, behind which he was waiting, -with a beating heart, almost ready to faint, how discreetly -authoritative it had been! And how she had entered without any visible -display of emotion, careful only to observe whether she might be -recognized from the adjacent houses! And the way that she had made -herself at home at once in that doubtful lodging that he had hired and -furnished for her! Would a woman who was a novice, how daring soever -she might be, how superior to considerations of morality and regardless -of social prejudices, have penetrated thus calmly the mystery of a -first rendezvous? There is a trouble of the mind, a hesitation of the -body, an instinctive fear in the very feet, which know not whither they -are tending; would she not have felt all that unless she had had some -experience in these excursions of love and unless the practice of these -things had dulled her native sense of modesty? - -Burning with this persistent, irritating fever, which the warmth of -his bed seemed to render still more unendurable, Mariolle tossed -beneath the coverings, constantly drawn on by his chain of doubts and -suppositions; like a man that feels himself irrecoverably sliding down -the steep descent of a precipice. At times he tried to call a halt and -break the current of his thoughts; he sought and found, and was glad to -find, reflections that were more just to her and reassuring to him, but -the seeds of distrust had been sown in him and he could not help their -growing. - -And yet, with what had he to reproach her? Nothing, except that her -nature was not entirely similar to his own, that she did not look upon -life in the same way that he did and that she had not in her heart an -instrument of sensibility attuned to the same key as his. - -Immediately upon awaking next morning the longing to see her and to -re-enforce his confidence in her developed itself within him like a -ravening hunger, and he awaited the proper moment to go and pay her -the visit demanded by custom. The instant that she saw him at the door -of the little drawing-room devoted to her special intimates, where she -was sitting alone occupied with her correspondence, she came to him -with her two hands outstretched. - -"Ah! Good day, dear friend!" she said, with so pleased and frank -an air that all his odious suspicions, which were still floating -indeterminately in his brain, melted away beneath the warmth of her -reception. - -He seated himself at her side and at once began to tell her of the -manner in which he loved her, for their love was now no longer what it -had been. He gently gave her to understand that there are two species -of the race of lovers upon earth: those whose desire is that of madmen -and whose ardor disappears when once they have achieved a triumph, and -those whom possession serves to subjugate and capture, in whom the love -of the senses, blending with the inarticulate and ineffable appeals -that the heart of man at times sends forth toward a woman, gives rise -to the servitude of a complete and torturing love. - -Torturing it is, certainly, and forever so, however happy it may be, -for nothing, even in the moments of closest communion, ever sates the -need of her that rules our being. - -Mme. de Burne was charmed and gratified as she listened, carried away, -as one is carried away at the theater when an actor gives a powerful -interpretation of his rôle and moves us by awaking some slumbering echo -in our own life. It was indeed an echo, the disturbing echo of a real -passion; but it was not from her bosom that this passion sent forth -its cry. Still, she felt such satisfaction that she was the object -of so keen a sentiment, she was so pleased that it existed in a man -who was capable of expressing it in such terms, in a man of whom she -was really very fond, for whom she was really beginning to feel an -attachment and whose presence was becoming more and more a necessity to -her--not for her physical being but for that mysterious feminine nature -which is so greedy of tenderness, devotion, and subjection--that she -felt like embracing him, like offering him her mouth, her whole being, -only that he might keep on worshiping her in this way. - -She answered him frankly and without prudery, with that profound -artfulness that certain women are endowed with, making it clear to -him that he too had made great progress in her affections, and they -remained _tête-à-tête_ in the little drawing-room, where it so happened -that no one came that day until twilight, talking always upon the same -theme and caressing each other with words that to them did not have the -common significance. - -The servants had just brought in the lamps, when Mme. de Bratiane -appeared. Mariolle withdrew, and as Mme. de Burne was accompanying him -to the door through the main drawing-room, he asked her: "When shall I -see you down yonder?" - -"Will Friday suit you?" - -"Certainly. At what hour?" - -"The same, three o'clock." - -"Until Friday, then. Adieu. I adore you!" - -During the two days that passed before this interview, he experienced -a sensation of loneliness that he had never felt before in the same -way. A woman was wanting in his life--she was the only existent -object for him in the world, and as this woman was not far away and -he was prevented by social conventions alone from going to her, and -from passing a lifetime with her, he chafed in his solitude, in the -interminable lapse of the moments that seemed at times to pass so -slowly, at the absolute impossibility of a thing that was so easy. - -He arrived at the rendezvous on Friday three hours before the time, but -it was pleasing to him--it comforted his anxiety--to wait there where -she was soon to come, after having already suffered so much in awaiting -her mentally in places where she was not to come. - -He stationed himself near the door long before the clock had struck -the three strokes that he was expecting so eagerly, and when at last -he heard them he began to tremble with impatience. The quarter struck. -He looked out into the street, cautiously protruding his head between -the door and the casing; it was deserted from one end to the other. -The minutes seemed to stretch out in aggravating slowness. He was -constantly drawing his watch from his pocket, and at last when the hand -marked the half-hour it appeared to him that he had been standing there -for an incalculable length of time. Suddenly he heard a faint sound -upon the pavement outside, and the summons upon the door of the little -gloved hand quickly made him forget his disappointment and inspired in -him a feeling of gratitude toward her. - -She seemed a little out of breath as she asked: "I am very late, am I -not?" - -"No, not very." - -"Just imagine, I was near not being able to come at all. I had a -houseful, and I was at my wits' end to know what to do to get rid of -all those people. Tell me, do you go under your own name here?" - -"No. Why do you ask?" - -"So that I may send you a telegram if I should ever be prevented from -coming." - -"I am known as M. Nicolle." - -"Very well; I won't forget. My! how nice it is here in this garden!" - -There were five great splashes of perfumed, many-hued brightness -upon the grass-plots of the flowers, which were carefully tended and -constantly renewed, for the gardener had a customer who paid liberally. - -Halting at a bench in front of a bed of heliotrope: "Let us sit here -for a while," she said; "I have something funny to tell you." - -She proceeded to relate a bit of scandal that was quite fresh, and -from the effect of which she had not yet recovered. The story was that -Mme. Massival, the ex-mistress whom the artist had married, had come -to Mme. de Bratiane's, furious with jealousy, right in the midst of -an entertainment in which the Marquise was singing to the composer's -accompaniment, and had made a frightful scene: results, rage of the -fair Italian, astonishment and laughter of the guests. Massival, -quite beside himself, tried to take away his wife, who kept striking -him in the face, pulling his hair and beard, biting him and tearing -his clothes, but she clung to him with all her strength and held him -so that he could not stir, while Lamarthe and two servants, who had -hurried to them at the noise, did what they could to release him from -the teeth and claws of this fury. - -Tranquillity was not restored until after the pair had taken their -departure. Since then the musician had remained invisible, and the -novelist, witness of the scene, had been repeating it everywhere -in a very witty and amusing manner. The affair had produced a deep -impression upon Mme. de Burne; it preoccupied her thoughts to such an -extent that she hardly knew what she was doing. The constant recurrence -of the names of Massival and Lamarthe upon her lips annoyed Mariolle. - -"You just heard of this?" he said. - -"Yes, hardly an hour ago." - -"And that is the reason why she was late," he said to himself with -bitterness. Then he asked aloud, "Shall we go in?" - -"Yes," she absently murmured. - -When, an hour later, she had left him, for she was greatly hurried that -day, he returned alone to the quiet little house and seated himself on -a low chair in their apartment. The feeling that she had been no more -his than if she had not come there left a sort of black cavern in his -heart, in all his being, that he tried to probe to the bottom. He could -see nothing there, he could not understand; he was no longer capable -of understanding. If she had not abstracted herself from his kisses, -she had at all events escaped from the immaterial embraces of his -tenderness by a mysterious absence of the will of being his. She had -not refused herself to him, but it seemed as if she had not brought her -heart there with her; it had remained somewhere else, very far away, -idly occupied, distracted by some trifle. - -Then he saw that he already loved her with his senses as much as with -his feelings, even more perhaps. The deprivation of her soulless -caresses inspired him with a mad desire to run after her and bring her -back, to again possess himself of her. But why? What was the use--since -the thoughts of that fickle mind were occupied elsewhere that day? So -he must await the days and the hours when, to this elusive mistress of -his, there should come the caprice, like her other caprices, of being -in love with him. - -He returned wearily to his house, with heavy footsteps, his eyes fixed -on the sidewalk, tired of life, and it occurred to him that he had -made no appointment with her for the future, either at her house or -elsewhere. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - - -NEW HOPES - - -Until the setting in of winter she was pretty faithful to their -appointments; faithful, but not punctual. During the first three months -her tardiness on these occasions ranged between three-quarters of an -hour and two hours. As the autumnal rains compelled Mariolle to await -her behind the garden gate with an umbrella over his head, shivering, -with his feet in the mud, he caused a sort of little summer-house to -be built, a covered and inclosed vestibule behind the gate, so that he -might not take cold every time they met. - -The trees had lost their verdure, and in the place of the roses and -other flowers the beds were now filled with great masses of white, -pink, violet, purple, and yellow chrysanthemums, exhaling their -penetrating, balsamic perfume--the saddening perfume by which these -noble flowers remind us of the dying year--upon the moist atmosphere, -heavy with the odor of the rain upon the decaying leaves. In front -of the door of the little house the inventive genius of the gardener -had devised a great Maltese cross, composed of rarer plants arranged -in delicate combinations of color, and Mariolle could never pass this -bed, bright with new and constantly changing varieties, without the -melancholy reflection that this flowery cross was very like a grave. - -He was well acquainted now with those long watches in the little -summer-house behind the gate. The rain would fall sullenly upon the -thatch with which he had had it roofed and trickle down the board -siding, and while waiting in this receiving-vault he would give way -to the same unvarying reflections, go through the same process of -reasoning, be swayed in turn by the same hopes, the same fears, the -same discouragements. It was an incessant battle that he had to fight; -a fierce, exhausting mental struggle with an elusive force, a force -that perhaps had no real existence: the tenderness of that woman's -heart. - -What strange things they were, those interviews of theirs! Sometimes -she would come in with a smile upon her face, full to overflowing -with the desire of conversation, and would take a seat without -removing her hat and gloves, without raising her veil, often without -so much as giving him a kiss. It never occurred to her to kiss him -on such occasions; her head was full of a host of captivating little -preoccupations, each of them more captivating to her than the idea of -putting up her lips to the kiss of her despairing lover. He would take -a seat beside her, heart and mouth overrunning with burning words which -could find no way of utterance; he would listen to her and answer, -and while apparently deeply interested in what she was saying would -furtively take her hand, which she would yield to him calmly, amicably, -without an extra pulsation in her veins. - -At other times she would appear more tender, more wholly his; but he, -who was watching her with anxious and clear-sighted eyes, with the eyes -of a lover powerless to achieve her entire conquest, could see and -divine that this relative degree of affection was owing to the fact -that nothing had occurred on such occasions of sufficient importance to -divert her thoughts from him. - -Her persistent unpunctuality, moreover, proved to Mariolle with how -little eagerness she looked forward to these interviews. When we love, -when anything pleases and attracts us, we hasten to the anticipated -meeting, but once the charm has ceased to work, the appointed time -seems to come too quickly and everything serves as a pretext to delay -our loitering steps and put off the moment that has become indefinably -distasteful to us. An odd comparison with a habit of his own kept -incessantly returning to his mind. In summer-time the anticipation of -his morning bath always made him hasten his toilette and his visit to -the bathing establishment, while in the frosty days of winter he always -found so many little things to attend to at home before going out -that he was invariably an hour behind his usual time. The meetings at -Auteuil were to her like so many winter shower-baths. - -For some time past, moreover, she had been making these interviews more -infrequent, sending telegrams at the last hour, putting them off until -the following day and apparently seeking for excuses for dispensing -with them. She always succeeded in discovering excuses of a nature to -satisfy herself, but they caused him mental and physical worries and -anxieties that were intolerable. If she had manifested any coolness, if -she had shown that she was tiring of this passion of his that she felt -and knew was constantly increasing in violence, he might at first have -been irritated and then in turn offended, discouraged, and resigned, -but on the contrary she manifested more affection for him than ever, -she seemed more flattered by his love, more desirous of retaining -it, while not responding to it otherwise than by friendly marks of -preference which were beginning to make all her other admirers jealous. - -She could never see enough of him in her own house, and the same -telegram that would announce to André that she could not come to -Auteuil would convey to him her urgent request to dine with her or -come and spend an hour in the evening. At first he had taken these -invitations as her way of making amends to him, but afterward he came -to understand that she liked to have him near her and that she really -experienced the need of him, more so than of the others. She had need -of him as an idol needs prayers and faith in order to make it a god; -standing in the empty shrine it is but a bit of carved wood, but let -a believer enter the sanctuary, and kneel and prostrate himself and -worship with fervent prayers, drunk with religion, it becomes the equal -of Brahma or of Allah, for every loved being is a kind of god. Mme. de -Burne felt that she was adapted beyond all others to play this rôle of -fetich, to fill woman's mission, bestowed on her by nature, of being -sought after and adored, and of vanquishing men by the arms of her -beauty, grace, and coquetry. - -In the meantime she took no pains to conceal her affection and her -strong liking for Mariolle, careless of what folks might say about it, -possibly with the secret desire of irritating and inflaming the others. -They could hardly ever come to her house without finding him there, -generally installed in the great easy-chair that Lamarthe had come -to call the "pulpit of the officiating priest," and it afforded her -sincere pleasure to remain alone in his company for an entire evening, -talking and listening to him. She had taken a liking to this kind of -family life that he had revealed to her, to this constant contact with -an agreeable, well-stored mind, which was hers and at her command just -as much as were the little trinkets that littered her dressing-table. -In like manner she gradually came to yield to him much of herself, of -her thoughts, of her deeper mental personality, in the course of those -affectionate confidences that are as pleasant in the giving as in the -receiving. She felt herself more at ease, more frank and familiar with -him than with the others, and she loved him the more for it. She also -experienced the sensation, dear to womankind, that she was really -bestowing something, that she was confiding to some one all that she -had to give, a thing that she had never done before. - -In her eyes this was much, in his it was very little. He was still -waiting and hoping for the great final breaking up of her being which -should give him her soul beneath his caresses. - -Caresses she seemed to regard as useless, annoying, rather a nuisance -than otherwise. She submitted to them, not without returning them, but -tired of them quickly, and this feeling doubtless engendered in her -a shade of dislike to them. The slightest and most insignificant of -them seemed to be irksome to her. When in the course of conversation -he would take her hand and carry it to his lips and hold it there a -little, she always seemed desirous of withdrawing it, and he could feel -the movement of the muscles in her arm preparatory to taking it away. - -He felt these things like so many thrusts of a knife, and he carried -away from her presence wounds that bled unintermittently in the -solitude of his love. How was it that she had not that period of -unreasoning attraction toward him that almost every woman has when once -she has made the entire surrender of her being? It may be of short -duration, frequently it is followed quickly by weariness and disgust, -but it is seldom that it is not there at all, for a day, for an hour! -This mistress of his had made of him, not a lover, but a sort of -intelligent companion of her life. - -Of what was he complaining? Those who yield themselves entirely perhaps -have less to give than she! - -He was not complaining; he was afraid. He was afraid of that other one, -the man who would spring up unexpectedly whenever she might chance to -fall in with him, to-morrow, may be, or the day after, whoever he might -be, artist, actor, soldier, or man of the world, it mattered not what, -born to find favor in her woman's eyes and securing her favor for no -other reason, because he was _the man_, the one destined to implant in -her for the first time the imperious desire of opening her arms to him. - -He was now jealous of the future as before he had at times been -jealous of her unknown past, and all the young woman's intimates were -beginning to be jealous of him. He was the subject of much conversation -among them; they even made dark and mysterious allusions to the subject -in her presence. Some said that he was her lover, while others, guided -by Lamarthe's opinion, decided that she was only making a fool of him -in order to irritate and exasperate them, as it was her habit to do, -and that this was all there was to it. Her father took the matter up -and made some remarks to her which she did not receive with good grace, -and the more conscious she became of the reports that were circulating -among her acquaintance, the more, by an odd contradiction to the -prudence that had ruled her life, did she persist in making an open -display of the preference that she felt for Mariolle. - -He, however, was somewhat disturbed by these suspicious mutterings. He -spoke to her of it. - -"What do I care?" she said. - -"If you only loved me, as a lover!" - -"Do I not love you, my friend?" - -"Yes and no; you love me well enough in your own house, but very badly -elsewhere. I should prefer it to be just the opposite, for my sake, and -even, indeed, for your own." - -She laughed and murmured: "We can't do more than we can." - -"If you only knew the mental trouble that I experience in trying -to animate your love. At times I seem to be trying to grasp the -intangible, to be clasping an iceberg in my arms that chills me and -melts away within my embrace." - -She made no answer, not fancying the subject, and assumed the absent -manner that she often wore at Auteuil. He did not venture to press the -matter further. He looked upon her a good deal as amateurs look upon -the precious objects in a museum that tempt them so strongly and that -they know they cannot carry away with them. - -His days and nights were made up of hours of suffering, for he was -living in the fixed idea, and still more in the sentiment than in -the idea, that she was his and yet not his, that she was conquered -and still at liberty, captured and yet impregnable. He was living at -her side, as near her as could be, without ever reaching her, and he -loved her with all the unsatiated longings of his body and his soul. -He began to write to her again, as he had done at the commencement -of their _liaison_. Once before with ink he had vanquished her early -scruples; once again with ink he might be victorious over this later -and obstinate resistance. Putting longer intervals between his visits -to her, he told her in almost daily letters of the fruitlessness of -his love. Now and then, when he had been very eloquent and impassioned -and had evinced great sorrow, she answered him. Her letters, dated for -effect midnight, or one, two, or three o'clock in the morning, were -clear and precise, well considered, encouraging, and afflicting. She -reasoned well, and they were not destitute of wit and even fancy, but -it was in vain that he read them and re-read them, it was in vain that -he admitted that they were to the point, well turned, intelligent, -graceful, and satisfactory to his masculine vanity; they had in them -nothing of her heart, they satisfied him no more than did the kisses -that she gave him in the house at Auteuil. - -He asked himself why this was so, and when he had learned them by heart -he came to know them so well that he discovered the reason, for a -person's writings always afford the surest clue to his nature. Spoken -words dazzle and deceive, for lips are pleasing and eyes seductive, but -black characters set down upon white paper expose the soul in all its -nakedness. - -Man, thanks to the artifices of rhetoric, to his professional address -and his habit of using the pen to discuss all the affairs of life, -often succeeds in disguising his own nature by his impersonal prose -style, literary or business, but woman never writes unless it is of -herself and something of her being goes into her every word. She knows -nothing of the subtilities of style and surrenders herself unreservedly -in her ignorance of the scope and value of words. Mariolle called to -mind the memoirs and correspondence of celebrated women that he had -read; how distinctly their characters were all set forth there, the -_précieuses_, the witty, and the sensible! What struck him most in -Mme. de Burne's letters was that no trace of sensibility was to be -discovered in them. This woman had the faculty of thought but not of -feeling. He called to mind letters that he had received from other -persons; he had had many of them. A little _bourgeoise_ that he had met -while traveling and who had loved him for the space of three months had -written delicious, thrilling notes, abounding in fresh and unexpected -terms of sentiment; he had been surprised by the flexibility, the -elegant coloring, and the variety of her style. Whence had she -obtained this gift? From the fact that she was a woman of sensibility; -there could be no other answer. A woman does not elaborate her phrases; -they come to her intelligence straight from her emotions; she does -not rummage the dictionary for fine words. What she feels strongly -she expresses justly, without long and labored consideration, in the -adaptive sincerity of her nature. - -He tried to test the sincerity of his mistress's nature by means of -the lines which she wrote him. They were well written and full of -amiability, but how was it that she could find nothing better for him? -Ah! for her _he_ had found words that burned as living coals! - -When his valet brought in his mail he would look for an envelope -bearing the longed-for handwriting, and when he recognized it an -involuntary emotion would arise in him, succeeded by a beating of the -heart. He would extend his hand and grasp the bit of paper; again he -would scrutinize the address, then tear it open. What had she to say -to him? Would he find the word "love" there? She had never written or -uttered this word without qualifying it by the adverb "well": "I love -you well"; "I love you much"; "Do I not love you?" He knew all these -formulas, which are inexpressive by reason of what is tacked on to -them. Can there be such a thing as a comparison between the degrees of -love when one is in its toils? Can one decide whether he loves well or -ill? "To love much," what a dearth of love that expression manifests! -One loves, nothing more, nothing less; nothing can be said, nothing -expressed, nothing imagined that means more than that one simple -sentence. It is brief, it is everything. It becomes body, soul, life, -the whole of our being. We feel it as we feel the warm blood in our -veins, we inhale it as we do the air, we carry it within us as we carry -our thoughts, for it becomes the atmosphere of the mind. Nothing has -existence beside it. It is not a word, it is an inexpressible state of -being, represented by a few letters. All the conditions of life are -changed by it; whatever we do, there is nothing done or seen or tasted -or enjoyed or suffered just as it was before. Mariolle had become the -victim of this small verb, and his eye would run rapidly over the -lines, seeking there a tenderness answering to his own. He did in fact -find there sufficient to warrant him in saying to himself: "She loves -me very well," but never to make him exclaim: "She loves me!" She was -continuing in her correspondence the pretty, poetical romance that had -had its inception at Mont Saint-Michel. It was the literature of love, -not of _the_ love. - -When he had finished reading and re-reading them, he would lock the -precious and disappointing sheets in a drawer and seat himself in his -easy-chair. He had passed many a bitter hour in it before this. - -After a while her answers to his letters became less frequent; -doubtless she was somewhat weary of manufacturing phrases and ringing -the changes on the same stale theme. And then, besides, she was passing -through a period of unwonted fashionable excitement, of which André -had presaged the approach with that increment of suffering that such -insignificant, disagreeable incidents can bring to troubled hearts. - -It was a winter of great gaiety. A mad intoxication had taken -possession of Paris and shaken the city to its depths; all night long -cabs and _coupés_ were rolling through the streets and through the -windows were visible white apparitions of women in evening toilette. -Everyone was having a good time; all the conversation was on plays and -balls, matinées and soirées. The contagion, an epidemic of pleasure, as -it were, had quickly extended to all classes of society, and Mme. de -Burne also was attacked by it. - -It had all been brought about by the effect that her beauty had -produced at a dance at the Austrian embassy. The Comte de Bernhaus had -made her acquainted with the ambassadress, the Princess de Malten, -who had been immediately and entirely delighted with Mme. de Burne. -Within a very short time she became the Princess's very intimate friend -and thereby extended with great rapidity her relations among the most -select diplomatic and aristocratic circles. Her grace, her elegance, -her charming manners, her intelligence and wit quickly achieved a -triumph for her and made her _la mode_, and many of the highest titles -among the women of France sought to be presented to her. Every Monday -would witness a long line of _coupés_ with arms on their panels drawn -up along the curb of the Rue du Général-Foy, and the footmen would lose -their heads and make sad havoc with the high-sounding names that they -bellowed into the drawing-room, confounding duchesses with marquises, -countesses with baronnes. - -She was entirely carried off her feet. The incense of compliments -and invitations, the feeling that she was become one of the elect to -whom Paris bends the knee in worship as long as the fancy lasts, -the delight of being thus admired, made much of, and run after, were -too much for her and gave rise within her soul to an acute attack of -snobbishness. - -Her artistic following did not submit to this condition of affairs -without a struggle, and the revolution produced a close alliance among -her old friends. Fresnel, even, was accepted by them, enrolled on the -regimental muster and became a power in the league, while Mariolle was -its acknowledged head, for they were all aware of the ascendency that -he had over her and her friendship for him. He, however, watched her as -she was whirled away in this flattering popularity as a child watches -the vanishing of his red balloon when he has let go the string. It -seemed to him that she was eluding him in the midst of this elegant, -motley, dancing throng and flying far, far away from that secret -happiness that he had so ardently desired for both of them, and he was -jealous of everybody and everything, men, women, and inanimate objects -alike. He conceived a fierce detestation for the life that she was -leading, for all the people that she associated with, all the _fêtes_ -that she frequented, balls, theaters, music, for they were all in a -league to take her from him by bits and absorb her days and nights, -and only a few scant hours were now accorded to their intimacy. His -indulgence of this unreasoning spite came near causing him a fit of -sickness, and when he visited her he brought with him such a wan face -that she said to him: - -"What ails you? You have changed of late, and are very thin." - -"I have been loving you too much," he replied. - -She gave him a grateful look: "No one ever loves too much, my friend." - -"Can you say such a thing as that?" - -"Why, yes." - -"And you do not see that I am dying of my vain love for you." - -"In the first place it is not true that you love in vain; then no one -ever dies of that complaint, and finally all our friends are jealous of -you, which proves pretty conclusively that I am not treating you badly, -all things considered." - -He took her hand: "You do not understand me!" - -"Yes, I understand very well." - -"You hear the despairing appeal that I am incessantly making to your -heart?" - -"Yes, I have heard it." - -"And----" - -"And it gives me much pain, for I love you enormously." - -"And then?" - -"Then you say to me: 'Be like me; think, feel, express yourself as I -do.' But, my poor friend, I can't. I am what I am. You must take me as -God made me, since I gave myself thus to you, since I have no regrets -for having done so and no desire to withdraw from the bargain, since -there is no one among all my acquaintance that is dearer to me than you -are." - -"You do not love me!" - -"I love you with all the power of loving that exists in me. If it is -not different or greater, is that my fault?" - -"If I was certain of that I might content myself with it." - -"What do you mean by that?" - -"I mean that I believe you capable of loving otherwise, but that I do -not believe that it lies in me to inspire you with a genuine passion." - -"My friend, you are mistaken. You are more to me than anyone has ever -been hitherto, more than anyone will ever be in the future; at least -that is my honest conviction. I may lay claim to this great merit: that -I do not wear two faces with you, I do not feign to be what you so -ardently desire me to be, when many women would act quite differently. -Be a little grateful to me for this, and do not allow yourself to be -agitated and unstrung; trust in my affection, which is yours, sincerely -and unreservedly." - -He saw how wide the difference was that parted them. "Ah!" he murmured, -"how strangely you look at love and speak of it! To you, I am some one -that you like to see now and then, whom you like to have beside you, -but to me, you fill the universe: in it I know but you, feel but you, -need but you." - -She smiled with satisfaction and replied: "I know that; I understand. I -am delighted to have it so, and I say to you: Love me always like that -if you can, for it gives me great happiness, but do not force me to act -a part before you that would be distressing to me and unworthy of us -both. I have been aware for some time of the approach of this crisis; -it is the cause of much suffering to me, for I am deeply attached to -you, but I cannot bend my nature or shape it in conformity with yours. -Take me as I am." - -Suddenly he asked her: "Have you ever thought, have you ever believed, -if only for a day, only for an hour, either before or after, that you -might be able to love me otherwise?" - -She was at a loss for an answer and reflected for a few seconds. He -waited anxiously for her to speak, and continued: "You see, don't you, -that you have had other dreams as well?" - -"I may have been momentarily deceived in myself," she murmured, -thoughtfully. - -"Oh! how ingenious you are!" he exclaimed; "how psychological! No one -ever reasons thus from the impulse of the heart." - -She was reflecting still, interested in her thoughts, in this -self-investigation; finally she said: "Before I came to love you as -I love you now, I may indeed have thought that I might come to be -more--more--more captivated with you, but then I certainly should not -have been so frank and simple with you. Perhaps later on I should have -been less sincere." - -"Why less sincere later on?" - -"Because all of love, according to your idea, lies in this formula: -'Everything or nothing,' and this 'everything or nothing' as far as I -can see means: 'Everything at first, nothing afterward.' It is when the -reign of nothing commences that women begin to be deceitful." - -He replied in great distress: "But you do not see how wretched I -am--how I am tortured by the thought that you might have loved me -otherwise. You have felt that thought: therefore it is some other one -that you will love in that manner." - -She unhesitatingly replied: "I do not believe it." - -"And why? Yes, why, I ask you? Since you have had the foreknowledge of -love, since you have felt in anticipation the fleeting and torturing -hope of confounding soul and body with the soul and body of another, -of losing your being in his and taking his being to be portion of -your own, since you have perceived the possibility of this ineffable -emotion, the day will come, sooner or later, when you will experience -it." - -"No; my imagination deceived me, and deceived itself. I am giving you -all that I have to give you. I have reflected deeply on this subject -since I have been your mistress. Observe that I do not mince matters, -not even my words. Really and truly, I am convinced that I cannot love -you more or better than I do at this moment. You see that I talk to you -just as I talk to myself. I do that because you are very intelligent, -because you understand and can read me like a book, and the best way -is to conceal nothing from you; it is the only way to keep us long and -closely united. And that is what I hope for, my friend." - -He listened to her as a man drinks when he is thirsty, then kneeled -before her and laid his head in her lap. He took her little hands and -pressed them to his lips, murmuring: "Thanks! thanks!" When he raised -his eyes to look at her, he saw that there were tears standing in hers; -then placing her arms in turn about André's neck, she gently drew him -toward her, bent over and kissed him upon the eyelids. - -"Take a chair," she said; "it is not prudent to be kneeling before me -here." - -He seated himself, and when they had contemplated each other in -silence for a few moments, she asked him if he would take her some day -to visit the exhibition that the sculptor Prédolé, of whom everyone -was talking enthusiastically, was then giving of his works. She had -in her dressing-room a bronze Love of his, a charming figure pouring -water into her bath-tub, and she had a great desire to see the complete -collection of the eminent artist's works which had been delighting all -Paris for a week past at the Varin gallery. They fixed upon a date and -then Mariolle arose to take leave. - -"Will you be at Auteuil to-morrow?" she asked him in a whisper. - -"Oh! Yes!" - -He was very joyful on his way homeward, intoxicated by that "Perhaps?" -which never dies in the heart of a lover. - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - - -DISILLUSION - - -Mme. de Burne's _coupé_ was proceeding at a quick trot along the Rue -de Grenelle. It was early April, and the hailstones of a belated storm -beat noisily against the glasses of the carriage and rattled off upon -the roadway which was already whitened by the falling particles. Men -on foot were hurrying along the sidewalk beneath their umbrellas, with -coat-collars turned up to protect their necks and ears. After two -weeks of fine weather a detestable cold spell had set in, the farewell -of winter, freezing up everything and bringing chapped hands and -chilblains. - -With her feet resting upon a vessel filled with hot water and her -form enveloped in soft furs that warmed her through her dress with a -velvety caress that was so deliciously agreeable to her sensitive skin, -the young woman was sadly reflecting that in an hour at farthest she -would have to take a cab to go and meet Mariolle at Auteuil. She was -seized by a strong desire to send him a telegram, but she had promised -herself more than two months ago that she would not again have recourse -to this expedient unless compelled to, for she had been making a great -effort to love him in the same manner that he loved her. She had seen -how he suffered, and had commiserated him, and after that conversation -when she had kissed him upon the eyes in an outburst of genuine -tenderness, her sincere affection for him had, in fact, assumed a -warmer and more expansive character. In her surprise at her involuntary -coldness she had asked herself why, after all, she could not love him -as other women love their lovers, since she knew that she was deeply -attached to him and that he was more pleasing to her than any other -man. This indifference of her love could only proceed from a sluggish -action of the heart, which could be cured like any other sluggishness. - -She tried it. She endeavored to arouse her feelings by thoughts of him, -to be more demonstrative in his presence. She was successful now and -then, just as one excites his fears at night by thinking of ghosts or -robbers. Fired a little herself by this pretense of passion, she even -forced herself to be more caressing; she succeeded very well at first, -and delighted him to the point of intoxication. - -She thought that this was the beginning in her of a fever somewhat -similar to that with which she knew that he was consuming. Her old -intermittent hopes of love, that she had dimly seen the possibility -of realizing the night that she had dreamed her dreams among the -white mists of Saint-Michel's Bay, took form and shape again, not so -seductive as then, less wrapped in clouds of poetry and idealism, -but more clearly defined, more human, stripped of illusion after the -experience of her _liaison_. Then she had summoned up and watched for -that irresistible impulse of all the being toward another being that -arises, she had heard, when the emotions of the soul act upon two -physical natures. She had watched in vain; it had never come. - -She persisted, however, in feigning ardor, in making their interviews -more frequent, in saying to him: "I feel that I am coming to love you -more and more." But she became weary of it at last, and was powerless -longer to impose upon herself or deceive him. She was astonished to -find that the kisses that he gave her were becoming distasteful to her -after a while, although she was not by any means entirely insensible to -them. - -This was made manifest to her by the vague lassitude that took -possession of her from the early morning of those days when she had an -appointment with him. Why was it that on those mornings she did not -feel, as other women feel, all her nature troubled by the desire and -anticipation of his embraces? She endured them, indeed she accepted -them, with tender resignation, but as a woman conquered, brutally -subjugated, responding contrary to her own will, never voluntarily -and with pleasure. Could it be that her nature, so delicate, so -exceptionally aristocratic and refined, had in it depths of modesty, -the modesty of a superior and sacred animality, that were as yet -unfathomed by modern perceptions? - -Mariolle gradually came to understand this; he saw her factitious ardor -growing less and less. He divined the nature of her love-inspired -attempt, and a mortal, inconsolable sorrow took possession of his soul. - -She knew now, as he knew, that the attempt had been made and that all -hope was gone. The proof of this was that this very day, wrapped as -she was in her warm furs and with her feet on her hot-water bottle, -glowing with a feeling of physical comfort as she watched the hail -beating against the windows of her _coupé_, she could not find in her -the courage to leave this luxurious warmth to get into an ice-cold cab -to go and meet the poor fellow. - -The idea of breaking with him, of avoiding his caresses, certainly -never occurred to her for a moment. She was well aware that to -completely captivate a man who is in love and keep him as one's own -peculiar private property in the midst of feminine rivalries, a woman -must surrender herself to him body and soul. That she knew, for it is -logical, fated, indisputable. It is even the loyal course to pursue, -and she wanted to be loyal to him in all the uprightness of her nature -as his mistress. She would go to him then, she would go to him always; -but why so often? Would not their interviews even assume a greater -charm for him, an attraction of novelty, if they were granted more -charily, like rare and inestimable gifts presented to him by her and -not to be used too prodigally? - -Whenever she had gone to Auteuil she had had the impression that she -was bearing to him a priceless gift, the most precious of offerings. -In giving in this way, the pleasure of giving is inseparable from a -certain sensation of sacrifice; it is the pride that one feels in -being generous, the satisfaction of conferring happiness, not the -transports of a mutual passion. - -She even calculated that André's love would be more likely to be -enduring if she abated somewhat of her familiarity with him, for hunger -always increases by fasting, and desire is but an appetite. Immediately -that this resolution was formed she made up her mind that she would -go to Auteuil that day, but would feign indisposition. The journey, -which a minute ago had seemed to her so difficult through the inclement -weather, now appeared to her quite easy, and she understood, with a -smile at her own expense and at this sudden revelation, why she made -such a difficulty about a thing that was quite natural. But a moment -ago she would not, now she would. The reason why she would not a moment -ago was that she was anticipating the thousand petty disagreeable -details of the rendezvous! She would prick her fingers with pins that -she handled very awkwardly, she would be unable to find the articles -that she had thrown at random upon the bedroom floor as she disrobed in -haste, already looking forward to the hateful task of having to dress -without an attendant. - -She paused at this reflection, dwelling upon it and weighing it -carefully for the first time. After all, was it not rather repugnant, -rather vulgarizing, this idea of a rendezvous for a stated time, -settled upon a day or two days in advance, just like a business -appointment or a consultation with your doctor? There is nothing -more natural, after a long and charming _tête-à-tête_, than that the -lips which have been uttering warm, seductive words should meet in a -passionate kiss; but how different that was from the premeditated -kiss that she went there to receive, watch in hand, once a week. There -was so much truth in this that on those days when she was not to see -André she had frequently felt a vague desire of being with him, while -this desire was scarcely perceptible at all when she had to go to him -in foul cabs, through squalid streets, with the cunning of a hunted -thief, all her feelings toward him quenched and deadened by these -considerations. - -Ah! that appointment at Auteuil! She had calculated the time on all the -clocks of all her friends; she had watched the minutes that brought her -nearer to it slip away at Mme. de Frémines's, at Mme. de Bratiane's, -at pretty Mme. le Prieur's, on those afternoons when she killed time -by roaming about Paris so as not to remain in her own house, where she -might be detained by an inopportune visit or some other unforeseen -obstacle. - -She suddenly said to herself: "I will make to-day a day of rest; I -will go there very late." Then she opened a little cupboard in the -front of the carriage, concealed among the folds of black silk that -lined the _coupé_, which was fitted up as luxuriously as a pretty -woman's boudoir. The first thing that presented itself when she had -thrown open the doors of this secret receptacle was a mirror playing on -hinges that she moved so that it was on a level with her face. Behind -the mirror, in their satin-lined niches, were various small objects -in silver: a box for her rice-powder, a pencil for her lips, two -crystal scent-bottles, an inkstand and penholder, scissors, a pretty -paper-cutter to tear the leaves of the last novel with which she amused -herself as she rolled along the streets. The exquisite clock, of the -size and shape of a walnut, told her that it was four o'clock. Mme. de -Burne reflected: "I have an hour yet, at all events," and she touched -a spring that had the effect of making the footman who was seated -beside the coachman stoop and take up the speaking-tube to receive her -order. She pulled out the other end from where it was concealed in the -lining of the carriage, and applying her lips to the mouthpiece of -rock-crystal: "To the Austrian embassy!" she said. - -Then she inspected herself in the mirror. The look that she gave -herself expressed, as it always did, the delight that one feels in -looking upon one's best beloved; then she threw back her furs to judge -of the effect of her corsage. It was a toilette adapted to the chill -days of the end of winter. The neck was trimmed with a bordering of -very fine white down that shaded off into a delicate gray as it fell -over the shoulders, like the wing of a bird. Upon her hat--it was -a kind of toque--there towered an aigret of more brightly colored -feathers, and the general effect that her costume inspired was to make -one think that she had got herself up in this manner in preparation -for a flight through the hail and the gray sky in company with Mother -Carey's chickens. - -She was still complacently contemplating herself when the carriage -suddenly wheeled into the great court of the embassy. - -Thereupon she arranged her wrap, lowered the mirror to its place, -closed the doors of the little cupboard, and when the _coupé_ had come -to a halt said to her coachman: "You may go home; I shall not need -you any more." Then she asked the footman who came forward from the -entrance of the hotel: "Is the Princess at home?" - -"Yes, Madame." - -She entered and ascended the stairs and came to a small drawing-room -where the Princess de Malten was writing letters. - -The ambassadress arose with an appearance of much satisfaction when she -perceived her friend, and they kissed each other twice in succession -upon the cheek, close to the corner of the lips. Then they seated -themselves side by side upon two low chairs in front of the fire. -They were very fond of each other, took great delight in each other's -society and understood each other thoroughly, for they were almost -counterparts in nature and disposition, belonging to the same race of -femininity, brought up in the same atmosphere and endowed with the -same sensations, although Mme. de Malten was a Swede and had married -an Austrian. They had a strange and mysterious attraction for each -other, from which resulted a profound feeling of unmixed well-being -and contentment whenever they were together. Their babble would run on -for half a day on end, without once stopping, trivial, futile talk, -interesting to them both by reason of their similarity of tastes. - -"You see how I love you!" said Mme. de Burne. "You are to dine with me -this evening, and still I could not help coming to see you. It is a -real passion, my dear." - -"A passion that I share," the Swede replied with a smile. - -Following the habit of their profession, they put each her best foot -foremost for the benefit of the other; coquettish as if they had been -dealing with a man, but with a different style of coquetry, for the -strife was different, and they had not before them the adversary, but -the rival. - -Madame de Burne had kept looking at the clock during the conversation. -It was on the point of striking five. He had been waiting there an -hour. "That is long enough," she said to herself as she arose. - -"So soon?" said the Princess. - -"Yes," the other unblushingly replied. "I am in a hurry; there is some -one waiting for me. I would a great deal rather stay here with you." - -They exchanged kisses again, and Mme. de Burne, having requested the -footman to call a cab for her, drove away. - -The horse was lame and dragged the cab after him wearily, and the -animal's halting and fatigue seemed to have infected the young woman. -Like the broken-winded beast, she found the journey long and difficult. -At one moment she was comforted by the pleasure of seeing André, at -the next she was in despair at the thought of the discomforts of the -interview. - -She found him waiting for her behind the gate, shivering. The biting -blasts roared through the branches of the trees, the hailstones rattled -on their umbrella as they made their way to the house, their feet sank -deep into the mud. The garden was dead, dismal, miry, melancholy, and -André was very pale. He was enduring terrible suffering. - -When they were in the house: "Gracious, how cold it is!" she exclaimed. - -And yet a great fire was blazing in each of the two rooms, but they had -not been lighted until past noon and had not had time to dry the damp -walls, and shivers ran through her frame. "I think that I will not take -off my furs just yet," she added. She only unbuttoned her outer garment -and threw it open, disclosing her warm costume and her plume-decked -corsage, like a bird of passage that never remains long in one place. - -He seated himself beside her. - -"There is to be a delightful dinner at my house to-night," she said, -"and I am enjoying it in anticipation." - -"Who are to be there?" - -"Why, you, in the first place; then Prédolé, whom I have so long wanted -to know." - -"Ah! Prédolé is to be there?" - -"Yes; Lamarthe is to bring him." - -"But Prédolé is not the kind of a man to suit you, not a bit! Sculptors -in general are not so constituted as to please pretty women, and -Prédolé less so than any of them." - -"Oh, my friend, that cannot be. I have such an admiration for him!" - -The sculptor Prédolé had gained a great success and had captivated all -Paris some two months before by his exhibition at the Varin gallery. -Even before that he had been highly appreciated; people had said of -him, "His _figurines_ are delicious"; but when the world of artists and -connoisseurs had assembled to pass judgment upon his collected works -in the rooms of the Rue Varin, the outburst of enthusiasm had been -explosive. They seemed to afford the revelation of such an unlooked-for -charm, they displayed such a peculiar gift in the translation of -elegance and grace, that it seemed as if a new manner of expressing the -beauty of form had been born to the world. His specialty was statuettes -in extremely abbreviated costumes, in which his genius displayed an -unimaginable delicacy of form and airy lightness. His dancing girls, -especially, of which he had made many studies, displayed in the highest -perfection, in their pose and the harmony of their attitude and motion, -the ideal of female beauty and suppleness. - -For a month past Mme. de Burne had been unceasing in her efforts to -attract him to her house, but the artist was unsociable, even something -of a bear, so the report ran. At last she had succeeded, thanks to -the intervention of Lamarthe, who had made a touching, almost frantic -appeal to the grateful sculptor. - -"Whom have you besides?" Mariolle inquired. - -"The Princess de Malten." - -He was displeased; he did not fancy that woman. "Who else?" - -"Massival, Bernhaus, and George de Maltry. That is all: only my select -circle. You are acquainted with Prédolé, are you not?" - -"Yes, slightly." - -"How do you like him?" - -"He is delightful; I never met a man so enamored of his art and so -interesting when he holds forth on it." - -She was delighted and again said: "It will be charming." - -He had taken her hand under her fur cloak; he gave it a little squeeze, -then kissed it. Then all at once it came to her mind that she had -forgotten to tell him that she was ill, and casting about on the spur -of the moment for another reason, she murmured: "Gracious! how cold it -is!" - -"Do you think so?" - -"I am chilled to my very marrow." - -He arose to take a look at the thermometer, which was, in fact, pretty -low; then he resumed his seat at her side. - -She had said: "Gracious! how cold it is!" and he believed that he -understood her. For three weeks, now, at every one of their interviews, -he had noticed that her attempt to feign tenderness was gradually -becoming fainter and fainter. He saw that she was weary of wearing this -mask, so weary that she could continue it no longer, and he himself was -so exasperated by the little power that he had over her, so stung by -his vain and unreasoning desire of this woman, that he was beginning -to say to himself in his despairing moments of solitude: "It will be -better to break with her than to continue to live like this." - -He asked her, by way of fathoming her intentions: "Won't you take off -your cloak now?" - -"Oh, no," she said; "I have been coughing all the morning; this fearful -weather has given me a sore throat. I am afraid that I may be ill." She -was silent a moment, then added: "If I had not wanted to see you very -much indeed I would not have come to-day." As he did not reply, in his -grief and anger, she went on: "This return of cold weather is very -dangerous, coming as it does after the fine days of the past two weeks." - -She looked out into the garden, where the trees were already almost -green despite the clouds of snow that were driving among their -branches. He looked at her and thought: "So that is the kind of love -that she feels for me!" and for the first time he began to feel a sort -of jealous hatred of her, of her face, of her elusive affection, of -her form, so long pursued, so subtle to escape him. "She pretends that -she is cold," he said to himself. "She is cold only because I am here. -If it were a question of some party of pleasure, some of those idiotic -caprices that go to make up the useless existence of these frivolous -creatures, she would brave everything and risk her life. Does she not -ride about in an open carriage on the coldest days to show her fine -clothes? Ah! that is the way with them all nowadays!" - -He looked at her as she sat there facing him so calmly, and he knew -that in that head, that dear little head that he adored so, there was -one wish paramount, the wish that their _tête-à-tête_ might not be -protracted; it was becoming painful to her. - -Was it true that there had ever existed, that there existed now, -women capable of passion, of emotion, who weep, suffer, and bestow -themselves in a transport, loving with heart and soul and body, with -mouth that speaks and eyes that gaze, with heart that beats and hand -that caresses; women ready to brave all for the sake of their love, and -to go, by day or by night, regardless of menaces and watchful eyes, -fearlessly, tremorously, to him who stands with open arms waiting to -receive them, mad, ready to sink with their happiness? - -Oh, that horrible love that which now held him in its fetters!--love -without issue, without end, joyless and triumphless, eating away his -strength and devouring him with its anxieties; love in which there was -no charm and no delight, cause to him only of suffering, sorrow, and -bitter tears, where he was constantly pursued by the intolerable regret -of the impossibility of awaking responsive kisses upon lips that are as -cold and dry and sterile as dead trees! - -He looked at her as she sat there, so charming in her feathery dress. -Were not her dresses the great enemy that he had to contend against, -more than the woman herself, jealous guardians, coquettish and costly -barriers, that kept him from his mistress? - -"Your toilette is charming," he said, not caring to speak of the -subject that was torturing him so cruelly. - -She replied with a smile: "You must see the one that I shall wear -to-night." Then she coughed several times in succession and said: "I -am really taking cold. Let me go, my friend. The sun will show himself -again shortly, and I will follow his example." - -He made no effort to detain her, for he was discouraged, seeing that -nothing could now avail to overcome the inertia of this sluggish -nature, that his romance was ended, ended forever, and that it was -useless to hope for ardent words from those tranquil lips, or a -kindling glance from those calm eyes. All at once he felt rising with -gathering strength within him the stern determination to end this -torturing subserviency. She had nailed him upon a cross; he was -bleeding from every limb, and she watched his agony without feeling -for his suffering, even rejoicing that she had had it in her power to -effect so much. But he would tear himself from his deathly gibbet, -leaving there bits of his body, strips of his flesh, and all his -mangled heart. He would flee like a wild animal that the hunters have -wounded almost unto death, he would go and hide himself in some lonely -place where his wounds might heal and where he might feel only those -dull pangs that remain with the mutilated until they are released by -death. - -"Farewell, then," he said. - -She was struck by the sadness of his voice and rejoined: "Until this -evening, my friend." - -"Until this evening," he re-echoed. "Farewell." - -He saw her to the garden gate, and came back and seated himself, alone, -before the fire. - -Alone! How cold it was; how cold, indeed! How sad he was, how lonely! -It was all ended! Ah, what a horrible thought! There was an end of -hoping and waiting for her, dreaming of her, with that fierce blazing -of the heart that at times brings out our existence upon this somber -earth with the vividness of fireworks displayed against the blackness -of the night. Farewell those nights of solitary emotion when, almost -until the dawn, he paced his chamber thinking of her; farewell those -wakings when, upon opening his eyes, he said to himself: "Soon I shall -see her at our little house." - -How he loved her! how he loved her! What a long, hard task it would be -to him to forget her! She had left him because it was cold! He saw her -before him as but now, looking at him and bewitching him, bewitching -him the better to break his heart. Ah, how well she had done her work! -With one single stroke, the first and last, she had cleft it asunder. -He felt the old gaping wound begin to open, the wound that she had -dressed and now had made incurable by plunging into it the knife of -death-dealing indifference. He even felt that from this broken heart -there was something distilling itself through his frame, mounting to -his throat and choking him; then, covering his eyes with his hands, as -if to conceal this weakness even from himself, he wept. - -She had left him because it was cold! He would have walked naked -through the driving snow to meet her, no matter where; he would have -cast himself from the house top, only to fall at her feet. An old tale -came to his mind, that has been made into a legend: that of the Côte -des Deux Amans, a spot which the traveler may behold as he journeys -toward Rouen. A maiden, obedient to her father's cruel caprice, -which prohibited her from marrying the man of her choice unless she -accomplished the task of carrying him, unassisted, to the summit of the -steep mountain, succeeded in dragging him up there on her hands and -knees, and died as she reached the top. Love, then, is but a legend, -made to be sung in verse or told in lying romances! - -Had not his mistress herself, in one of their earliest interviews, made -use of an expression that he had never forgotten: "Men nowadays do not -love women so as really to harm themselves by it. You may believe me, -for I know them both." She had been wrong in his case, but not in her -own, for on another occasion she had said: "In any event, I give you -fair warning that I am incapable of being really smitten with anyone, -be he who he may." - -Be he who he may? Was that quite a sure thing? Of him, no; of that he -was quite well assured now, but of another? - -Of him? She could not love him. Why not? - -Then the feeling that his life had been a wasted one, which had haunted -him for a long time past, fell upon him as if it would crush him. He -had done nothing, obtained nothing, conquered nothing, succeeded in -nothing. When he had felt an attraction toward the arts he had not -found in himself the courage that is required to devote one's self -exclusively to one of them, nor the persistent determination that they -demand as the price of success. There had been no triumph to cheer him; -no elevated taste for some noble career to ennoble and aggrandize his -mind. The only strenuous effort that he had ever put forth, the attempt -to conquer a woman's heart, had proved ineffectual like all the rest. -Take him all in all, he was only a miserable failure. - -He was weeping still beneath his hands which he held pressed to his -eyes. The tears, trickling down his cheeks, wet his mustache and -left a salty taste upon his lips, and their bitterness increased his -wretchedness and his despair. - -When he raised his head at last he saw that it was night. He had only -just sufficient time to go home and dress for her dinner. - - - - -CHAPTER X. - - -FLIGHT - - -André Mariolle was the first to arrive at Mme. de Burne's. He took a -seat and gazed about him upon the walls, the furniture, the hangings, -at all the small objects and trinkets that were so dear to him from -their association with her--at the familiar apartment where he had -first known her, where he had come to her so many times since then, -and where he had discovered in himself the germs of that ill-starred -passion that had kept on growing, day by day, until the hour of his -barren victory. With what eagerness had he many a time awaited her -coming in this charming spot which seemed to have been made for no one -but her, an exquisite setting for an exquisite creature! How well he -knew the pervading odor of this salon and its hangings; a subdued odor -of iris, so simple and aristocratic. He grasped the arms of the great -armchair, from which he had so often watched her smile and listened -to her talk, as if they had been the hands of some friend that he was -parting with forever. It would have pleased him if she could not -come, if no one could come, and if he could remain there alone, all -night, dreaming of his love, as people watch beside a dead man. Then at -daylight he could go away for a long time, perhaps forever. - -The door opened, and she appeared and came forward to him with -outstretched hand. He was master of himself, and showed nothing of his -agitation. She was not a woman, but a living bouquet--an indescribable -bouquet of flowers. - -A girdle of pinks enclasped her waist and fell about her in cascades, -reaching to her feet. About her bare arms and shoulders ran a garland -of mingled myosotis and lilies-of-the-valley, while three fairy-like -orchids seemed to be growing from her breast and caressing the -milk-white flesh with the rosy and red flesh of their supernal blooms. -Her blond hair was studded with violets in enamel, in which minute -diamonds glistened, and other diamonds, trembling upon golden pins, -sparkled like dewdrops among the odorous trimming of her corsage. - -"I shall have a headache," she said, "but I don't care; my dress is -becoming." - -Delicious odors emanated from her, like spring among the gardens. She -was more fresh than the garlands that she wore. André was dazzled -as he looked at her, reflecting that it would be no less brutal and -barbarous to take her in his arms at that moment than it would be to -trample upon a blossoming flower-bed. So their bodies were no longer -objects to inspire love; they were objects to be adorned, simply frames -on which to hang fine clothes. They were like birds, they were like -flowers, they were like a thousand other things as much as they were -like women. Their mothers, all women of past and gone generations, had -used coquettish arts to enhance their natural beauties, but it had -been their aim to please in the first place by their direct physical -seductiveness, by the charm of native grace, by the irresistible -attraction that the female form exercises over the heart of the males. -At the present day coquetry was everything. Artifice was now the great -means, and not only the means, but the end as well, for they employed -it even more frequently to dazzle the eyes of rivals and excite barren -jealousy than to subjugate men. - -What end, then, was this toilette designed to serve, the gratification -of the eyes of him, the lover, or the humiliation of the Princess de -Malten? - -The door opened, and the lady whose name was in his thoughts was -announced. - -Mme. de Burne moved quickly forward to meet her and gave her a kiss, -not unmindful of the orchids during the operation, her lips slightly -parted, with a little grimace of tenderness. It was a pretty kiss, an -extremely desirable kiss, given and returned from the heart by those -two pairs of lips. - -Mariolle gave a start of pain. Never once had she run to meet him with -that joyful eagerness, never had she kissed him like that, and with a -sudden change of ideas he said to himself: "Women are no longer made to -fulfill our requirements." - -Massival made his appearance, then M. de Pradon and the Comte de -Bernhaus, then George de Maltry, resplendent with English "chic." - -Lamarthe and Prédolé were now the only ones missing. The sculptor's -name was mentioned, and every voice was at once raised in praise of -him. "He had restored to life the grace of form, he had recovered the -lost traditions of the Renaissance, with something additional: the -sincerity of modern art!" M. de Maltry maintained that he was the -exquisite revealer of the suppleness of the human form. Such phrases -as these had been current in the salons for the last two months, where -they had been bandied about from mouth to mouth. - -At last the great man appeared. Everyone was surprised. He was a large -man of uncertain age, with the shoulders of a coal-heaver, a powerful -face with strongly-marked features, surrounded by hair and beard that -were beginning to turn white, a prominent nose, thick full lips, -wearing a timid and embarrassed air. He held his arms away from his -body in an awkward sort of way that was doubtless to be attributed to -the immense hands that protruded from his sleeves. They were broad -and thick, with hairy and muscular fingers; the hands of a Hercules -or a butcher, and they seemed to be conscious of being in the way, -embarrassed at finding themselves there and looking vainly for some -convenient place to hide themselves. Upon looking more closely at his -face, however, it was seen to be illuminated by clear, piercing, gray -eyes of extreme expressiveness, and these alone served to impart some -degree of life to the man's heavy and torpid expression. They were -constantly searching, inquiring, scrutinizing, darting their rapid, -shifting glances here, there, and everywhere, and it was plainly to be -seen that these eager, inquisitive looks were the animating principle -of a deep and comprehensive intellect. - -Mme. de Burne was somewhat disappointed; she politely led the artist -to a chair which he took and where he remained seated, apparently -disconcerted by this introduction to a strange house. - -Lamarthe, master of the situation, approached his friend with the -intention of breaking the ice and relieving him from the awkwardness of -his position. "My dear fellow," he said, "let me make for you a little -map to let you know where you are. You have seen our divine hostess; -now look at her surroundings." He showed him upon the mantelpiece a -bust, authenticated in due form, by Houdon, then upon a cabinet in -buhl a group representing two women dancing, with arms about each -other's waists, by Clodion, and finally four Tanagra statuettes upon an -_étagère_, selected for their perfection of finish and detail. - -Then all at once Prédolé's face brightened as if he had found his -children in the desert. He arose and went to the four little earthen -figures, and when Mme. de Burne saw him grasp two of them at once in -his great hands that seemed made to slaughter oxen, she trembled for -her treasures. When he laid hands on them, however, it appeared that -it was only for the purpose of caressing them, for he handled them -with wonderful delicacy and dexterity, turning them about in his thick -fingers which somehow seemed all at once to have become as supple as a -juggler's. It was evident by the gentle way the big man had of looking -at and handling them that he had in his soul and his very finger-ends -an ideal and delicate tenderness for such small elegancies. - -"Are they not pretty?" Lamarthe asked him. - -The sculptor went on to extol them as if they had been his own, and -he spoke of some others, the most remarkable that he had met with, -briefly and in a voice that was rather low but confident and calm, the -expression of a clearly defined thought that was not ignorant of the -value of words and their uses. - -Still under the guidance of the author, he next inspected the other -rare bric-à-brac that Mme. de Burne had collected, thanks to the -counsels of her friends. He looked with astonishment and delight at -the various articles, apparently agreeably disappointed to find them -there, and in every case he took them up and turned them lightly over -in his hands, as if to place himself in direct personal contact with -them. There was a statuette of bronze, heavy as a cannon-ball, hidden -away in a dark corner; he took it up with one hand, carried it to the -lamp, examined it at length, and replaced it where it belonged without -visible effort. Lamarthe exclaimed: "The great, strong fellow! he is -built expressly to wrestle with stone and marble!" while the ladies -looked at him approvingly. - -Dinner was now announced. The mistress of the house took the sculptor's -arm to pass to the dining-room, and when she had seated him in the -place of honor at her right hand, she asked him out of courtesy, just -as she would have questioned a scion of some great family as to the -exact origin of his name: "Your art, Monsieur, has also the additional -honor, has it not, of being the most ancient of all?" - -He replied in his calm deep voice: _"Mon Dieu_, Madame, the shepherds -in the Bible play upon the flute, therefore music would seem to be the -more ancient--although true music, as we understand it, does not go -very far back, while true sculpture dates from remote antiquity." - -"You are fond of music?" - -"I love all the arts," he replied with grave earnestness. - -"Is it known who was the inventor of your art?" - -He reflected a moment, then replied in tender accents, as if he had -been relating some touching tale: "According to Grecian tradition it -was Dædalus the Athenian. The most attractive legend, however, is that -which attributes the invention to a Sicyonian potter named Dibutades. -His daughter Kora having traced her betrothed's profile with the -assistance of an arrow, her father filled in the rude sketch with clay -and modeled it. It was then that my art was born." - -"Charming!" murmured Lamarthe. Then turning to Mme. de Burne, he said: -"You cannot imagine, Madame, how interesting this man becomes when he -talks of what he loves; what power he has to express and explain it and -make people adore it." - -But the sculptor did not seem disposed either to pose for the -admiration of the guests or to perorate. He had tucked a corner of his -napkin between his shirt-collar and his neck and was reverentially -eating his soup, with that appearance of respect that peasants manifest -for that portion of the meal. Then he drank a glass of wine and drew -himself up with an air of greater ease, of making himself more at -home. Now and then he made a movement as if to turn around, for he had -perceived the reflection in a mirror of a modern group that stood on -the mantelshelf behind him. He did not recognize it and was seeking -to divine the author. At last, unable longer to resist the impulse, he -asked: "It is by Falguière, is it not?" - -Mme. de Burne laughed. "Yes, it is by Falguière. How could you tell, in -a glass?" - -He smiled in turn. "Ah, Madame, I can't explain how it is done, but -I can tell at a glance the sculpture of those men who are painters -as well, and the painting of those who also practice sculpture. It -is not a bit like the work of a man who devotes himself to one art -exclusively." - -Lamarthe, wishing to show off his friend, called for explanations, and -Prédolé proceeded to give them. In his slow, precise manner of speech -he defined and illustrated the painting of sculptors and the sculpture -of painters in such a clear and original way that he was listened -to as much with eyes as with ears. Commencing his demonstration at -the earliest period and pursuing it through the history of art and -gathering examples from epoch to epoch, he came down to the time of the -early Italian masters who were painters and sculptors at the same time, -Nicolas and John of Pisa, Donatello, Lorenzo Ghiberti. He spoke of -Diderot's interesting remarks upon the same subject, and in conclusion -mentioned Ghiberti's bronze gates of the baptistry of Saint John at -Florence, such living and dramatically forceful bas-reliefs that they -seem more like paintings upon canvas. He waved his great hands before -him as if he were modeling, with such ease and grace of motion as to -delight every eye, calling up above the plates and glasses the pictures -that his tongue told of, and reconstructing the work that he mentioned -with such conviction that everyone followed the motions of his fingers -with breathless attention. Then some dishes that he fancied were placed -before him and he ceased talking and began eating. - -He scarcely spoke during the remainder of the dinner, not troubling -himself to follow the conversation, which ranged from some bit of -theatrical gossip to a political rumor; from a ball to a wedding; from -an article in the "Revue des Deux Mondes" to the horse-show that had -just opened. His appetite was good, and he drank a good deal, without -being at all affected by it, having a sound, hard head that good wine -could not easily upset. - -When they had returned to the drawing-room, Lamarthe, who had not drawn -the sculptor out to the extent that he wished to do, drew him over -to a glass case to show him a priceless object, a classic, historic -gem: a silver inkstand carved by Benvenuto Cellini. The men listened -with extreme interest to his long and eloquent rhapsody as they stood -grouped about him, while the two women, seated in front of the fire -and rather disgusted to see so much enthusiasm wasted upon the form of -inanimate objects, appeared to be a little bored and chatted together -in a low voice from time to time. After that conversation became -general, but not animated, for it had been somewhat damped by the ideas -that had passed into the atmosphere of this pretty room, with its -furnishing of precious objects. - -Prédolé left early, assigning as a reason that he had to be at work -at daybreak every morning. When he was gone Lamarthe enthusiastically -asked Mme. de Burne: "Well, how did you like him?" - -She replied, hesitatingly and with something of an air of ill nature: -"He is quite interesting, but prosy." - -The novelist smiled and said to himself: "_Parbleu_, that is because -he did not admire your toilette; and you are the only one of all your -pretty things that he hardly condescended to look at." He exchanged a -few pleasant remarks with her and went over and took a seat by Mme. de -Malten, to whom he began to be very attentive. The Comte de Bernhaus -approached the mistress of the house, and taking a small footstool, -appeared sunk in devotion at her feet. Mariolle, Massival, Maltry, -and M. de Pradon continued to talk of the sculptor, who had made a -deep impression on their minds. M. de Maltry was comparing him to -the old masters, for whom life was embellished and illuminated by an -exclusive and consuming love of the manifestations of beauty, and he -philosophized upon his theme with many very subtle and very tiresome -observations. - -Massival, quickly tiring of a conversation which made no reference to -his own art, crossed the room to Mme. de Malten and seated himself -beside Lamarthe, who soon yielded his place to him and went and -rejoined the men. - -"Shall we go?" he said to Mariolle. - -"Yes, by all means!" - -The novelist liked to walk the streets at night with some friend and -talk, when the incisive, peremptory tones of his voice seemed to lay -hold of the walls of the houses and climb up them. He had an impression -that he was very eloquent, witty, and sagacious during these nocturnal -_tête-à-têtes_, which were monologues rather than conversations so far -as his part in them was concerned. The approbation that he thus gained -for himself sufficed his needs, and the gentle fatigue of legs and -lungs assured him a good night's rest. - -Mariolle, for his part, had reached the limit of his endurance. The -moment that he was outside her door all his wretchedness and sorrow, -all his irremediable disappointment, boiled up and overflowed his -heart. He could stand it no longer; he would have no more of it. He -would go away and never return. - -The two men found themselves alone with each other in the street. The -wind had changed and the cold that had prevailed during the day had -yielded; it was warm and pleasant, as it almost always is two hours -after a snowstorm in spring. The sky was vibrating with the light -of innumerable stars, as if a breath of summer in the immensity of -space had lighted up the heavenly bodies and set them twinkling. The -sidewalks were gray and dry again, while in the roadway pools of water -reflected the light of the gas-lamps. - -Lamarthe said: "What a fortunate man he is, that Prédolé! He lives -only for one thing, his art; thinks but of that, loves but that; it -occupies all his being; consoles and cheers him, and affords him a -life of happiness and comfort. He is really a great artist of the old -stock. Ah! he doesn't let women trouble his head, not much, our women -of to-day with their frills and furbelows and fantastic disguises! -Did you remark how little attention he paid to our two pretty dames? -And yet they were rather seductive. But what he is looking for is -the plastic--the plastic pure and simple; he has no use for the -artificial. It is true that our divine hostess put him down in her -books as an insupportable fool. In her estimation a bust by Houdon, -Tanagra statuettes, and an inkstand by Cellini are but so many -unconsidered trifles that go to the adornment and the rich and natural -setting of a masterpiece, which is Herself; she and her dress, for -dress is part and parcel of Herself; it is the fresh accentuation that -she places on her beauty day by day. What a trivial, personal thing is -woman!" - -He stopped and gave the sidewalk a great thump with his cane, so that -the noise resounded through the quiet street, then he went on. - -"They have a very clear and exact perception of what adds to their -attractions: the toilette and the ornaments in which there is an -entire change of fashion every ten years; but they are heedless of -that attribute which involves rare and constant power of selection, -which demands from them keen and delicate artistic penetration and a -purely æsthetic exercise of their senses. Their senses, moreover, are -extremely rudimentary, incapable of high development, inaccessible to -whatever does not touch directly the feminine egotism that absorbs -everything in them. Their acuteness is the stratagem of the savage, -of the red Indian; of war and ambush. They are even almost incapable -of enjoying the material pleasures of the lower order, which require -a physical education and the intelligent exercise of an organ, such -as good living. When, as they do in exceptional cases, they come to -have some respect for decent cookery, they still remain incapable of -appreciating our great wines, which speak to masculine palates only, -for wine does speak." - -He again thumped the pavement with his cane, accenting his last dictum -and punctuating the sentence, and continued. - -"It won't do, however, to expect too much from them, but this want of -taste and appreciation that so frequently clouds their intellectual -vision when higher considerations are at stake often serves to blind -them still more when our interests are in question. A man may have -heart, feeling, intelligence, exceptional merits, and qualities of all -kinds, they will all be unavailing to secure their favor as in bygone -days when a man was valued for his worth and his courage. The women of -to-day are actresses, second-rate actresses at that, who are merely -playing for effect a part that has been handed down to them and in -which they have no belief. They have to have actors of the same stamp -to act up to them and lie through the rôle just as they do; and these -actors are the coxcombs that we see hanging around them; from the -fashionable world, or elsewhere." - -They walked along in silence for a few moments, side by side. Mariolle -had listened attentively to the words of his companion, repeating them -in his mind and approving of his sentiments under the influence of his -sorrow. He was aware also that a sort of Italian adventurer who was -then in Paris giving lessons in swordsmanship, Prince Epilati by name, -a gentleman of the fencing-schools, of considerable celebrity for his -elegance and graceful vigor that he was in the habit of exhibiting -in black-silk tights before the upper ten and the select few of the -demimonde, was just then in full enjoyment of the attentions and -coquetries of the pretty little Baronne de Frémines. - -As Lamarthe said nothing further, he remarked to him: - -"It is all our own fault; we make our selections badly; there are other -women besides those." - -The novelist replied: "The only ones now that are capable of real -attachment are the shopgirls and some sentimental little _bourgeoises_, -poor and unhappily married. I have before now carried consolation to -one of those distressed souls. They are overflowing with sentiment, -but such cheap, vulgar sentiment that to exchange ours against it is -like throwing your money to a beggar. Now I assert that in our young, -wealthy society, where the women feel no needs and no desires, where -all that they require is some mild distraction to enable them to kill -time, and where the men regulate their pleasures as scrupulously as -they regulate their daily labors, I assert that under such conditions -the old natural attraction, charming and powerful as it was, that used -to bring the sexes toward each other, has disappeared." - -"You are right," Mariolle murmured. - -He felt an increasing desire to fly, to put a great distance between -himself and these people, these puppets who in their empty idleness -mimicked the beautiful, impassioned, and tender life of other days and -were incapable of savoring its lost delights. - -"Good night," he said; "I am going to bed." He went home and seated -himself at his table and wrote: - - "Farewell, Madame. Do you remember my first letter? In it - too I said farewell, but I did not go. What a mistake that - was! When you receive this I shall have left Paris; need - I tell you why? Men like me ought never to meet with women - like you. Were I an artist and were my emotions capable of - expression in such manner as to afford me consolation, you - would have perhaps inspired me with talent, but I am only a - poor fellow who was so unfortunate as to be seized with love - for you, and with it its accompanying bitter, unendurable - sorrow. - - "When I met you for the first time I could not have deemed - myself capable of feeling and suffering as I have done. - Another in your place would have filled my heart with divine - joy in bidding it wake and live, but you could do nothing - but torture it. It was not your fault, I know; I reproach - you with nothing and I bear you no hard feeling; I have not - even the right to send you these lines. Pardon me. You are - so constituted that you cannot feel as I feel; you cannot - even divine what passes in my breast when I am with you, - when you speak to me and I look on you. - - "Yes, I know; you have accepted me and offered me a rational - and tranquil happiness, for which I ought to thank you on my - knees all my life long, but I will not have it. Ah, what a - horrible, agonizing love is that which is constantly craving - a tender word, a warm caress, without ever receiving them! - My heart is empty, empty as the stomach of a beggar who has - long followed your carriage with outstretched hand and to - whom you have thrown out pretty toys, but no bread. It was - bread, it was love, that I hungered for. I am about to go - away wretched and in need, in sore need of your love, a few - crumbs of which would have saved me. I have nothing left in - the world but a cruel memory that clings and will not leave - me, and that I must try to kill. - - "Adieu, Madame. Thanks, and pardon me. I love you still, - this evening, with all the strength of my soul. Adieu. - - "ANDRÉ MARIOLLE." - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - - -LONELINESS - - -The city lay basking in the brightness of a sunny morning. Mariolle -climbed into the carriage that stood waiting at his door with a -traveling bag and two trunks on top. He had made his valet the night -before pack the linen and other necessaries for a long absence, and -now he was going away, leaving as his temporary address Fontainebleau -post-office. He was taking no one with him, it being his wish to see no -face that might remind him of Paris and to hear no voice that he had -heard while brooding over certain matters. - -He told the driver to go to the Lyons station and the cab started. -Then he thought of that other trip of his, last spring, to Mont -Saint-Michel; it was a year ago now lacking three months. He looked out -into the street to drive the recollection from his mind. - -The vehicle turned into the Avenue des Champs-Élysées, which was -flooded with the light of the sun of early spring. The green leaves, -summoned forth by the grateful warmth that had prevailed for a couple -of weeks and not materially retarded by the cold storm of the last -two days, were opening so rapidly on this bright morning that they -seemed to impregnate the air with an odor of fresh verdure and of sap -evaporating on the way to its work of building up new growths. It was -one of those growing mornings when one feels that the dome-topped -chestnut-trees in the public gardens and all along the avenues will -burst into bloom in a single day through the length and breadth of -Paris, like chandeliers that are lighted simultaneously. The earth was -thrilling with the movement preparatory to the full life of summer, -and the very street was silently stirred beneath its paving of bitumen -as the roots ate their way through the soil. He said to himself as he -jolted along in his cab: "At last I shall be able to enjoy a little -peace of mind. I will witness the birth of spring in solitude deep in -the forest." - -The journey seemed long to him. The few hours of sleeplessness that he -had spent in bemoaning his fate had broken him down as if he had passed -ten nights at the bedside of a dying man. When he reached the village -of Fontainebleau he went to a notary to see if there was a small house -to be had furnished in the neighborhood of the forest. He was told of -several. In looking over the photographs the one that pleased him most -was a cottage that had just been given up by a young couple, man and -wife, who had resided for almost the entire winter in the village of -Montigny-sur-Loing. The notary smiled, notwithstanding that he was a -man of serious aspect; he probably scented a love story. - -"You are alone, Monsieur!" he inquired. - -"I am alone." - -"No servants, even?" - -"No servants, even; I left them at Paris. I wish to engage some of the -residents here. I am coming here to work in complete seclusion." - -"You will have no difficulty in finding that, at this season of the -year." - -A few minutes afterward an open landau was whirling Mariolle and his -trunks away to Montigny. - -The forest was beginning to awake. The copses at the foot of the great -trees, whose heads were covered with a light veil of foliage, were -beginning to assume a denser aspect. The early birches, with their -silvery trunks, were the only trees that seemed completely attired -for the summer, while the great oaks only displayed small tremulous -splashes of green at the ends of their branches and the beeches, more -quick to open their pointed buds, were just shedding the dead leaves of -the past year. - -The grass by the roadside, unobscured as yet by the thick shade of the -tree-tops, was growing lush and bright with the influx of new sap, and -the odor of new growth that Mariolle had already remarked in the Avenue -des Champs-Élysées, now wrapped him about and immersed him in a great -bath of green life budding in the sunshine of the early season. He -inhaled it greedily, like one just liberated from prison, and with the -sensation of a man whose fetters have just been broken he luxuriously -extended his arms along the two sides of the landau and let his hands -hang down over the two wheels. - -He passed through Marlotte, where the driver called his attention to -the Hotel Corot, then just opened, of the original design of which -there was much talk. Then the road continued, with the forest on the -left hand and on the right a wide plain with trees here and there and -hills bounding the horizon. To this succeeded a long village street, -a blinding white street lying between two endless rows of little -tile-roofed houses. Here and there an enormous lilac bush displayed its -flowers over the top of a wall. - -This street followed the course of a narrow valley along which ran a -little stream. It was a narrow, rapid, twisting, nimble little stream, -on one of its banks laving the foundations of the houses and the -garden-walls and on the other bathing the meadows where the small trees -were just beginning to put forth their scanty foliage. The sight of it -inspired Mariolle with a sensation of delight. - -He had no difficulty in finding his house and was greatly pleased with -it. It was an old house that had been restored by a painter, who had -tired of it after living there five years and offered it for rent. It -was directly on the water, separated from the stream only by a pretty -garden that ended in a terrace of lindens. The Loing, which just above -this point had a picturesque fall of a foot or two over a dam erected -there, ran rapidly by this terrace, whirling in great eddies. From the -front windows of the house the meadows on the other bank were visible. - -"I shall get well here," Mariolle thought. - -Everything had been arranged with the notary in case the house should -prove suitable. The driver carried back his acceptance of it. Then -the housekeeping details had to be attended to, which did not take -much time, the mayor's clerk having provided two women, one to do the -cooking, the other to wash and attend to the chamber-work. - -Downstairs there were a parlor, dining-room, kitchen, and two small -rooms; on the floor above a handsome bedroom and a large apartment -that the artist owner had fitted up as a studio. The furniture had all -been selected with loving care, as people always furnish when they are -enamored of a place, but now it had lost a little of its freshness and -was in some disorder, with the air of desolation that is noticeable in -dwellings that have been abandoned by their master. A pleasant odor of -verbena, however, still lingered in the air, showing that the little -house had not been long uninhabited. "Ah!" thought Mariolle, "verbena, -that indicates simplicity of taste. The woman that preceded me could -not have been one of those complex, mystifying natures. Happy man!" - -It was getting toward evening, all these occupations having made the -day pass rapidly. He took a seat by an open window, drinking in the -agreeable coolness that exhaled from the surrounding vegetation and -watching the setting sun as it cast long shadows across the meadows. - -The two servants were talking while getting the dinner ready and the -sound of their voices ascended to him faintly by the stairway, while -through the window came the mingled sounds of the lowing of cows, -the barking of dogs, and the cries of men bringing home the cattle -or conversing with their companions on the other bank of the stream. -Everything was peaceful and restful. - -For the thousandth time since the morning Mariolle asked himself: -"What did she think when she received my letter? What will she do?" -Then he said to himself: "I wonder what she is doing now?" He looked at -his watch; it was half past six. "She has come in from the street. She -is receiving." - -There rose before his mental vision a picture of the drawing-room, and -the young woman chatting with the Princess de Malten, Mme. de Frémines, -Massival, and the Comte de Bernhaus. - -His soul was suddenly moved with an impulse that was something like -anger. He wished that he was there. It was the hour of his accustomed -visit to her, almost every day, and he felt within him a feeling of -discomfort, not of regret. His will was firm, but a sort of physical -suffering afflicted him akin to that of one who is denied his morphine -at the accustomed time. He no longer beheld the meadows, nor the sun -sinking behind the hills of the horizon; all that he could see was her, -among her friends, given over to those cares of the world that had -robbed him of her. "I will think of her no more," he said to himself. - -He arose, went down to the garden and passed on to the terrace. There -was a cool mist there rising from the water that had been agitated -in its fall over the dam, and this sensation of chilliness, striking -to a heart already sad, caused him to retrace his steps. His dinner -was awaiting him in the dining-room. He ate it quickly; then, having -nothing to occupy him, and feeling that distress of mind and body, of -which he had had the presage, now increasing on him, he went to bed and -closed his eyes in an attempt to slumber, but it was to no purpose. -His thoughts refused to leave that woman; he beheld her in his thought -and he suffered. - -On whom would she bestow her favor now? On the Comte de Bernhaus, -doubtless! He was just the man, elegant, conspicuous, sought after, to -suit that creature of display. He had found favor with her, for had she -not employed all her arts to conquer him even at a time when she was -mistress to another man? - -Notwithstanding that his mind was beset by these haunting thoughts, -it would still keep wandering off into that misty condition of -semi-somnolence in which the man and woman were constantly reappearing -to his eyes. Of true sleep he got none, and all night long he saw them -at his bedside, braving and mocking him, now retiring as if they would -at last permit him to snatch a little sleep, then returning as soon -as oblivion had begun to creep over him and awaking him with a spasm -of jealous agony in his heart. He left his bed at earliest break of -day and went away into the forest with a cane in his hand, a stout -serviceable stick that the last occupant of the house had left behind -him. - -The rays of the newly risen sun were falling through the tops of the -oaks, almost leafless as yet, upon the ground, which was carpeted in -spots by patches of verdant grass, here by a carpet of dead leaves and -there by heather reddened by the frosts of winter. Yellow butterflies -were fluttering along the road like little dancing flames. To the right -of the road was a hill, almost large enough to be called a mountain. -Mariolle ascended it leisurely, and when he reached the top seated -himself on a great stone, for he was quite out of breath. His legs -were overcome with weakness and refused to support him; all his system -seemed to be yielding to a sudden breaking down. He was well aware that -this languor did not proceed from fatigue; it came from her, from the -love that weighed him down like an intolerable burden, and he murmured: -"What wretchedness! why does it possess me thus, me, a man who has -always taken from existence only that which would enable him to enjoy -it without suffering afterward?" - -His attention was awakened by the fear of this malady that might prove -so hard to cure, and he probed his feelings, went down to the very -depths of his nature, endeavoring to know and understand it better, -and make clear to his own eyes the reason of this inexplicable crisis. -He said to himself: "I have never yielded to any undue attraction. -I am not enthusiastic or passionate by nature; my judgment is more -powerful than my instinct, my curiosity than my appetite, my fancy -than my perseverance. I am essentially nothing more than a man that is -delicate, intelligent, and hard to please in his enjoyments. I have -loved the things of this life without ever allowing myself to become -greatly attached to them, with the perceptions of an expert who sips -and does not suffer himself to become surfeited, who knows better -than to lose his head. I submit everything to the test of reason, and -generally I analyze my likings too severely to submit to them blindly. -That is even my great defect, the only cause of my weakness. - -"And now that woman has taken possession of me, in spite of myself, in -spite of my fears and of my knowledge of her, and she retains her hold -as if she had plucked away one by one all the different aspirations -that existed in me. That may be the case. Those aspirations of mine -went out toward inanimate objects, toward nature, that entices and -softens me, toward music, which is a sort of ideal caress, toward -reflection, which is the delicate feasting of the mind, toward -everything on earth that is beautiful and agreeable. - -"Then I met a creature who collected and concentrated all my somewhat -fickle and fluctuating likings, and directing them toward herself, -converted them into love. Charming and beautiful, she pleased my eyes; -bright, intelligent, and witty, she pleased my mind, and she pleased my -heart by the mysterious charm of her contact and her presence and by -the secret and irresistible emanation from her personality, until all -these things enslaved me as the perfume of certain flowers intoxicates. -She has taken the place of everything for me, for I no longer have any -aspirations, I no longer wish or care for anything." - -"In other days how my feelings would have thrilled and started in this -forest that is putting forth its new life! To-day I see nothing of it, -I am regardless of it; I am still at that woman's side, whom I desire -to love no more. - -"Come! I must kill these ideas by physical fatigue; unless I do I shall -never get well." - -He arose, descended the rocky hillside and resumed his walk with long -strides, but still the haunting presence crushed him as if it had -been a burden that he was bearing on his back. He went on, constantly -increasing his speed, now and then encountering a brief sensation of -comfort at the sight of the sunlight piercing through the foliage or at -a breath of perfumed air from some grove of resinous pine-trees, which -inspired in him a presentiment of distant consolation. - -Suddenly he came to a halt. "I am not walking any longer," he said, "I -am flying from something!" Indeed, he was flying, straight ahead, he -cared not where, pursued by the agony of his love. - -Then he started on again at a more reasonable speed. The appearance -of the forest was undergoing a change. The growth was denser and the -shadows deeper, for he was coming to the warmer portions of it, to the -beautiful region of the beeches. No sensation of winter lingered there. -It was wondrous spring, that seemed to have been the birth of a night, -so young and fresh was everything. - -Mariolle made his way among the thickets, beneath the gigantic trees -that towered above him higher and higher still, and in this way he went -on for a long time, an hour, two hours, pushing his way through the -branches, through the countless multitudes of little shining leaves, -bright with their varnish of new sap. The heavens were quite concealed -by the immense dome of verdure, supported on its lofty columns, now -perpendicular, now leaning, now of a whitish hue, now dark beneath the -black moss that drew its nourishment from the bark. - -Thus they towered, stretching away indefinitely in the distance, one -behind the other, lording it over the bushy young copses that grew -in confused tangles at their feet and wrapping them in dense shadow -through which in places poured floods of vivid sunlight. The golden -rain streamed down through all this luxuriant growth until the wood no -longer remained a wood, but became a brilliant sea of verdure illumined -by yellow rays. Mariolle stopped, seized with an ineffable surprise. -Where was he? Was he in a forest, or had he descended to the bottom of -a sea, a sea of leaves and light, an ocean of green resplendency? - -He felt better--more tranquil; more remote, more hidden from his -misery, and he threw himself down upon the red carpet of dead leaves -that these trees do not cast until they are ready to put on their new -garments. Rejoicing in the cool contact of the earth and the pure -sweetness of the air, he was soon conscious of a wish, vague at first -but soon becoming more defined, not to be alone in this charming spot, -and he said to himself: "Ah! if she were only here, at my side!" - -He suddenly remembered Mont Saint-Michel, and recollecting how -different she had been down there to what she was in Paris, how her -affection had blossomed out in the open air before the yellow sands, he -thought that on that day she had surely loved him a little for a few -hours. Yes, surely, on the road where they had watched the receding -tide, in the cloisters where, murmuring his name: "André," she had -seemed to say, "I am yours," and on the "Madman's Path," where he -had almost borne her through space, she had felt an impulsion toward -him that had never returned since she placed her foot, the foot of a -coquette, on the pavement of Paris. - -He continued to yield himself to his mournful reveries, still stretched -at length upon his back, his look lost among the gold and green of -the tree-tops, and little by little his eyes closed, weighed down with -sleep and the tranquillity that reigned among the trees. When he awoke -he saw that it was past two o'clock of the afternoon. - -When he arose and proceeded on his way he felt less sad, less ailing. -At length he emerged from the thickness of the wood and came to a great -open space where six broad avenues converged and then stretched away -and lost themselves in the leafy, transparent distance. A signboard -told him that the name of the locality was "Le Bouquet-du-Roi." It was -indeed the capital of this royal country of the beeches. - -A carriage passed, and as it was empty and disengaged Mariolle took it -and ordered the driver to take him to Marlotte, whence he could make -his way to Montigny after getting something to eat at the inn, for he -was beginning to be hungry. - -He remembered that he had seen this establishment, which was only -recently opened, the day before: the Hotel Corot, it was called, an -artistic public-house in middle-age style of decoration, modeled on -the Chat Noir in Paris. His driver set him down there and he passed -through an open door into a vast room where old-fashioned tables and -uncomfortable benches seemed to be awaiting drinkers of a past century. -At the far end a woman, a young waitress, no doubt, was standing on top -of a little folding ladder, fastening some old plates to nails that -were driven in the wall and seemed nearly beyond her reach. Now raising -herself on tiptoe on both feet, now on one, supporting herself with one -hand against the wall while the other held the plate, she reached up -with pretty and adroit movements; for her figure was pleasing and the -undulating lines from wrist to ankle assumed changing forms of grace at -every fresh posture. As her back was toward him she had been unaware of -Mariolle's entrance, who stopped to watch her. He thought of Prédolé -and his _figurines;_ "It is a pretty picture, though!" he said to -himself. "She is very graceful, that little girl." - -He gave a little cough. She was so startled that she came near falling, -but as soon as she had recovered her self-possession, she jumped down -from her ladder as lightly as a rope dancer, and came to him with a -pleasant smile on her face. "What will Monsieur have?" she inquired. - -"Breakfast, Mademoiselle." - -She ventured to say: "It should be dinner, rather, for it is half past -three o'clock." - -"We will call it dinner if you like. I lost myself in the forest." - -Then she told him what dishes there were ready; he made his selection -and took a seat. She went away to give the order, returning shortly to -set the table for him. He watched her closely as she bustled around -the table; she was pretty and very neat in her attire. She had a spry -little air that was very pleasant to behold, in her working dress with -skirt pinned up, sleeves rolled back, and neck exposed; and her corset -fitted closely to her pretty form, of which she had no reason to be -ashamed. - -Her face was rather red, painted by exposure to the open air, and it -seemed somewhat too fat and puffy, but it was as fresh as a new-blown -rose, with fine, bright, brown eyes, a large mouth with its complement -of handsome teeth, and chestnut hair that revealed by its abundance the -healthy vigor of this strong young frame. - -She brought radishes and bread and butter and he began to eat, ceasing -to pay attention to the attendant. He called for a bottle of champagne -and drank the whole of it, as he did two glasses of kummel after his -coffee, and as his stomach was empty--he had taken nothing before -he left his house but a little bread and cold meat--he soon felt a -comforting feeling of tipsiness stealing over him that he mistook for -oblivion. His griefs and sorrows were diluted and tempered by the -sparkling wine which, in so short a time, had transformed the torments -of his heart into insensibility. He walked slowly back to Montigny, and -being very tired and sleepy went to bed as soon as it was dark, falling -asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow. - -He awoke after a while, however, in the dense darkness, ill at ease and -disquieted as if a nightmare that had left him for an hour or two had -furtively reappeared at his bedside to murder sleep. She was there, -she, Mme. de Burne, back again, roaming about his bed, and accompanied -still by M. de Bernhaus. "Come!" he said, "it must be that I am -jealous. What is the reason of it?" - -Why was he jealous? He quickly told himself why. Notwithstanding all -his doubts and fears he knew that as long as he had been her lover -she had been faithful to him--faithful, indeed, without tenderness -and without transports, but with a loyal strength of resolution. -Now, however, he had broken it all off, and it was ended; he had -restored her freedom to her. Would she remain without a _liaison_? -Yes, doubtless, for a while. And then? This very fidelity that she had -observed toward him up to the present moment, a fidelity beyond the -reach of suspicion, was it not due to the feeling that if she left him, -Mariolle, because she was tired of him, she would some day, sooner or -later, have to take some one to fill his place, not from passion, but -from weariness of being alone? - -Is it not true that lovers often owe their long lease of favor simply -to the dread of an unknown successor? And then to dismiss one lover and -take up with another would not have seemed the right thing to such a -woman--she was too intelligent, indeed, to bow to social prejudices, -but was gifted with a delicate sense of moral purity that kept her from -real indelicacies. She was a worldly philosopher and not a prudish -_bourgeoise_, and while she would not have quailed at the idea of a -secret attachment, her nature would have revolted at the thought of a -succession of lovers. - -He had given her her freedom--and now? Now most certainly she would -take up with some one else, and that some one would be the Comte de -Bernhaus. He was sure of it, and the thought was now affording him -inexpressible suffering. Why had he left her? She had been faithful, -a good friend to him, charming in every way. Why? Was it because he -was a brutal sensualist who could not separate true love from its -physical transports? Was that it? Yes--but there was something besides. -He had fled from the pain of not being loved as he loved, from the -cruel feeling that he did not receive an equivalent return for the -warmth of his kisses, an incurable affliction from which his heart, -grievously smitten, would perhaps never recover. He looked forward with -dread to the prospect of enduring for years the torments that he had -been anticipating for a few months and suffering for a few weeks. In -accordance with his nature he had weakly recoiled before this prospect, -just as he had recoiled all his life long before any effort that called -for resolution. It followed that he was incapable of carrying anything -to its conclusion, of throwing himself heart and soul into such a -passion as one develops for a science or an art, for it is impossible, -perhaps, to have loved greatly without having suffered greatly. - -Until daylight he pursued this train of thought, which tore him like -wild horses; then he got up and went down to the bank of the little -stream. A fisherman was casting his net near the little dam, and when -he withdrew it from the water that flashed and eddied in the sunlight -and spread it on the deck of his small boat, the little fishes danced -among the meshes like animated silver. - -Mariolle's agitation subsided little by little in the balmy freshness -of the early morning air. The cool mist that rose from the miniature -waterfall, about which faint rainbows fluttered, and the stream that -ran at his feet in rapid and ceaseless current, carried off with them -a portion of his sorrow. He said to himself: "Truly, I have done -the right thing; I should have been too unhappy otherwise!" Then he -returned to the house, and taking possession of a hammock that he had -noticed in the vestibule, he made it fast between two of the lindens -and throwing himself into it, endeavored to drive away reflection by -fixing his eyes and thoughts upon the flowing stream. - -Thus he idled away the time until the hour of breakfast, in an -agreeable torpor, a physical sensation of well-being that communicated -itself to the mind, and he protracted the meal as much as possible -that he might have some occupation for the dragging minutes. There was -one thing, however, that he looked forward to with eager expectation, -and that was his mail. He had telegraphed to Paris and written to -Fontainebleau to have his letters forwarded, but had received nothing, -and the sensation of being entirely abandoned was beginning to be -oppressive. Why? He had no reason to expect that there would be -anything particularly pleasing or comforting for him in the little -black box that the carrier bore slung at his side, nothing beyond -useless invitations and unmeaning communications. Why, then, should he -long for letters of whose contents he knew nothing as if the salvation -of his soul depended on them? Was it not that there lay concealed in -his heart the vainglorious expectation that she would write to him? - -He asked one of his old women: "At what time does the mail arrive?" - -"At noon, Monsieur." - -It was just midday, and he listened with increased attention to the -noises that reached him from outdoors. A knock at the outer door -brought him to his feet; the messenger brought him only the newspapers -and three unimportant letters. Mariolle glanced over the journals until -he was tired, and went out. - -What should he do? He went to the hammock and lay down in it, but -after half an hour of that he experienced an uncontrollable desire to -go somewhere else. The forest? Yes, the forest was very pleasant, but -then the solitude there was even deeper than it was in his house, much -deeper than it was in the village, where there were at least some signs -of life now and then. And the silence and loneliness of all those trees -and leaves filled his mind with sadness and regrets, steeping him more -deeply still in wretchedness. He mentally reviewed his long walk of -the day before, and when he came to the wide-awake little waitress of -the Hotel Corot, he said to himself: "I have it! I will go and dine -there." The idea did him good; it was something to occupy him, a means -of killing two or three hours, and he set out forthwith. - -The long village street stretched straight away in the middle of the -valley between two rows of low, white, tile-roofed houses, some of them -standing boldly up with their fronts close to the road, others, more -retiring, situated in a garden where there was a lilac-bush in bloom -and chickens scratching over manure-heaps, where wooden stairways in -the open air climbed to doors cut in the wall. Peasants were at work -before their dwellings, lazily fulfilling their domestic duties. An -old woman, bent with age and with threads of gray in her yellow hair, -for country folk rarely have white hair, passed close to him, a ragged -jacket upon her shoulders and her lean and sinewy legs covered by a -woolen petticoat that failed to conceal the angles and protuberances -of her frame. She was looking aimlessly before her with expressionless -eyes, eyes that had never looked on other objects than those that might -be of use to her in her poor existence. - -Another woman, younger than this one, was hanging out the family wash -before her door. The lifting of her skirt as she raised her arms -aloft disclosed to view thick, coarse ankles incased in blue knitted -stockings, with great, projecting, fleshless bones, while the breast -and shoulders, flat and broad as those of a man, told of a body whose -form must have been horrible to behold. - -Mariolle thought: "They are women! Those scarecrows are women!" The -vision of Mme. de Burne arose before his eyes. He beheld her in all -her elegance and beauty, the perfection of the human female form, -coquettish and adorned to meet the looks of man, and again he smarted -with the sorrow of an irreparable loss; then he walked on more quickly -to shake himself free of this impression. - -When he reached the inn at Marlotte the little waitress recognized him -immediately, and accosted him almost familiarly: "Good day, Monsieur." - -"Good day, Mademoiselle." - -"Do you wish something to drink?" - -"Yes, to begin with; then I will have dinner." - -They discussed the question of what he should drink in the first place -and what he should eat subsequently. He asked her advice for the -pleasure of hearing her talk, for she had a nice way of expressing -herself. She had a short little Parisian accent, and her speech was as -unconstrained as was her movements. He thought as he listened: "The -little girl is quite agreeable; she seems to me to have a bit of the -_cocotte_ about her." - -"Are you a Parisian?" he inquired. - -"Yes, sir." - -"Have you been here long?" - -"Two weeks, sir." - -"And do you like it?" - -"Not very well so far, but it is too soon to tell, and then I was -tired of the air of Paris, and the country has done me good; that is -why I made up my mind to come here. Then I shall bring you a vermouth, -Monsieur?" - -"Yes, Mademoiselle, and tell the cook to be careful and pay attention -to my dinner." - -"Never fear, Monsieur." - -After she had gone away he went into the garden of the hotel, and took -a seat in an arbor, where his vermouth was served. He remained there -all the rest of the day, listening to a blackbird whistling in its -cage, and watching the little waitress in her goings and comings. She -played the coquette, and put on her sweetest looks for the gentleman, -for she had not failed to observe that he found her to his liking. - -He went away as he had done the day before after drinking a bottle of -champagne to dispel gloom, but the darkness of the way and the coolness -of the night air quickly dissipated his incipient tipsiness, and sorrow -again took possession of his devoted soul. He thought: "What am I to -do? Shall I remain here? Shall I be condemned for long to drag out this -desolate way of living?" It was very late when he got to sleep. - -The next morning he again installed himself in the hammock, and all at -once the sight of a man casting his net inspired him with the idea of -going fishing. The grocer from whom he bought his lines gave him some -instructions upon the soothing sport, and even offered to go with him -and act as his guide upon his first attempt. The offer was accepted, -and between nine o'clock and noon Mariolle succeeded, by dint of -vigorous exertion and unintermitting patience, in capturing three small -fish. - -When he had dispatched his breakfast he took up his march again for -Marlotte. Why? To kill time, of course. - -The little waitress began to laugh when she saw him coming. Amused by -her recognition of him, he smiled back at her, and tried to engage her -in conversation. She was more familiar than she had been the preceding -day, and met him halfway. - -Her name was Elisabeth Ledru. Her mother, who took in dressmaking, had -died the year before; then the husband, an accountant by profession, -always drunk and out of work, who had lived on the little earnings of -his wife and daughter, disappeared, for the girl could not support -two persons, though she shut herself up in her garret room and sewed -all day long. Tiring of her lonely occupation after a while, she got -a position as waitress in a cook-shop, remained there a year, and as -the hard work had worn her down, the proprietor of the Hotel Corot at -Marlotte, upon whom she had waited at times, engaged her for the summer -with two other girls who were to come down a little later on. It was -evident that the proprietor knew how to attract customers. - -Her little story pleased Mariolle, and by treating her with respect and -asking her a few discriminating questions, he succeeded in eliciting -from her many interesting details of this poor dismal home that had -been laid in ruins by a drunken father. She, poor, homeless, wandering -creature that she was, gay and cheerful because she could not help -it, being young, and feeling that the interest that this stranger -took in her was unfeigned, talked to him with confidence, with that -expansiveness of soul that she could no more restrain than she could -restrain the agile movements of her limbs. - -When she had finished he asked her: "And--do you expect to be a -waitress all your life?" - -"I could not answer that question, Monsieur. How can I tell what may -happen to me to-morrow?" - -"And yet it is necessary to think of the future." - -She had assumed a thoughtful air that did not linger long upon her -features, then she replied: "I suppose that I shall have to take -whatever comes to me. So much the worse!" - -They parted very good friends. After a few days he returned, then -again, and soon he began to go there frequently, finding a vague -distraction in the girl's conversation, and that her artless prattle -helped him somewhat to forget his grief. - -When he returned on foot to Montigny in the evening, however, he had -terrible fits of despair as he thought of Mme. de Burne. His heart -became a little lighter with the morning sun, but with the night his -bitter regrets and fierce jealousy closed in on him again. He had no -intelligence; he had written to no one and had received letters from no -one. Then, alone with his thoughts upon the dark road, his imagination -would picture the progress of the approaching _liaison_ that he had -foreseen between his quondam mistress and the Comte de Bernhaus. This -had now become a settled idea with him and fixed itself more firmly in -his mind every day. That man, he thought, will be to her just what she -requires; a distinguished, assiduous, unexacting lover, contented and -happy to be the chosen one of this superlatively delicious coquette. He -compared him with himself. The other most certainly would not behave -as he had, would not be guilty of that tiresome impatience and of that -insatiable thirst for a return of his affection that had been the -destruction of their amorous understanding. He was a very discreet, -pliant, and well-posted man of the world, and would manage to get along -and content himself with but little, for he did not seem to belong to -the class of impassioned mortals. - -On one of André Mariolle's visits to Marlotte one day, he beheld two -bearded young fellows in the other arbor of the Hotel Corot, smoking -pipes and wearing Scotch caps on their heads. The proprietor, a big, -broad-faced man, came forward to pay his respects as soon as he saw -him, for he had an interested liking for this faithful patron of -his dinner-table, and said to him: "I have two new customers since -yesterday, two painters." - -"Those gentlemen sitting there?" - -"Yes. They are beginning to be heard of. One of them got a second-class -medal last year." And having told all that he knew about the embryo -artists, he asked: "What will you take to-day, Monsieur Mariolle?" - -"You may send me out a vermouth, as usual." - -The proprietor went away, and soon Elisabeth appeared, bringing the -salver, the glass, the _carafe_, and the bottle. Whereupon one of the -painters called to her: "Well! little one, are we angry still?" - -She did not answer and when she approached Mariolle he saw that her -eyes were red. - -"You have been crying," he said. - -"Yes, a little," she simply replied. - -"What was the matter?" - -"Those two gentlemen there behaved rudely to me." - -"What did they do to you?" - -"They took me for a bad character." - -"Did you complain to the proprietor?" - -She gave a sorrowful shrug of the shoulders, "Oh! Monsieur--the -proprietor. I know what he is now--the proprietor!" - -Mariolle was touched, and a little angry; he said to her: "Tell me what -it was all about." - -She told him of the brutal conduct of the two painters immediately -upon their arrival the night before, and then began to cry again, -asking what she was to do, alone in the country and without friends or -relatives, money or protection. - -Mariolle suddenly said to her: "Will you enter my service? You shall be -well treated in my house, and when I return to Paris you will be free -to do what you please." - -She looked him in the face with questioning eyes, and then quickly -replied: "I will, Monsieur. - -"How much are you earning here?" - -"Sixty francs a month," she added, rather uneasily, "and I have my -share of the _pourboires_ besides; that makes it about seventy." - -"I will pay you a hundred." - -She repeated in astonishment: "A hundred francs a month?" - -"Yes. Is that enough?" - -"I should think that it was enough!" - -"All that you will have to do will be to wait on me, take care of my -clothes and linen, and attend to my room." - -"It is a bargain, Monsieur." - -"When will you come?" - -"To-morrow, if you wish. After what has happened here I will go to the -mayor and will leave whether they are willing or not." - -Mariolle took two louis from his pocket and handed them to her. -"There's the money to bind our bargain." - -A look of joy flashed across her face and she said in a tone of -decision: "I will be at your house before midday to-morrow, Monsieur." - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - - -CONSOLATION - - -Elisabeth came to Montigny next day, attended by a countryman with -her trunk on a wheelbarrow. Mariolle had made a generous settlement -with one of his old women and got rid of her, and the newcomer took -possession of a small room on the top floor adjoining that of the -cook. She was quite different from what she had been at Marlotte, -when she presented herself before her new master, less effusive, -more respectful, more self-contained; she was now the servant of the -gentleman to whom she had been almost an humble friend beneath the -arbor of the inn. He told her in a few words what she would have to do. -She listened attentively, went and took possession of her room, and -then entered upon her new service. - -A week passed and brought no noticeable change in the state of -Mariolle's feelings. The only difference was that he remained at home -more than he had been accustomed to do, for he had nothing to attract -him to Marlotte, and his house seemed less dismal to him than at first. -The bitterness of his grief was subsiding a little, as all storms -subside after a while; but in place of this aching wound there was -arising in him a settled melancholy, one of those deep-seated sorrows -that are like chronic and lingering maladies, and sometimes end in -death. His former liveliness of mind and body, his mental activity, -his interests in the pursuits that had served to occupy and amuse him -hitherto were all dead, and their place had been taken by a universal -disgust and an invincible torpor, that left him without even strength -of will to get up and go out of doors. He no longer left his house, -passing from the salon to the hammock and from the hammock to the -salon, and his chief distraction consisted in watching the current of -the Loing as it flowed by the terrace and the fisherman casting his net. - -When the reserve of the first few days had begun to wear off, Elisabeth -gradually grew a little bolder, and remarking with her keen feminine -instinct the constant dejection of her employer, she would say to him -when the other servant was not by: "Monsieur finds his time hang heavy -on his hands?" - -He would answer resignedly: "Yes, pretty heavy." - -"Monsieur should go for a walk." - -"That would not do me any good." - -She quietly did many little unassuming things for his pleasure and -comfort. Every morning when he came into his drawing-room, he found -it filled with flowers and smelling as sweetly as a conservatory. -Elisabeth must surely have enlisted all the boys in the village to -bring her primroses, violets, and buttercups from the forest, as well -as putting under contribution the small gardens where the peasant girls -tended their few plants at evening. In his loneliness and distress he -was grateful for her kind thoughtfulness and her unobtrusive desire to -please him in these small ways. - -It also seemed to him that she was growing prettier, more refined in -her appearance, and that she devoted more attention to the care of her -person. One day when she was handing him a cup of tea, he noticed that -her hands were no longer the hands of a servant, but of a lady, with -well-trimmed, clean nails, quite irreproachable. On another occasion he -observed that the shoes that she wore were almost elegant in shape and -material. Then she had gone up to her room one afternoon and come down -wearing a delightful little gray dress, quite simple and in perfect -taste. "Hallo!" he exclaimed, as he saw her, "how dressy you are -getting to be, Elisabeth!" - -She blushed up to the whites of her eyes. "What, I, Monsieur? Why, no. -I dress a little better because I have more money." - -"Where did you buy that dress that you have on?" - -"I made it myself, Monsieur." - -"You made it? When? I always see you busy at work about the house -during the day." - -"Why, during my evenings, Monsieur." - -"But where did you get the stuff? and who cut it for you?" - -She told him that the shopkeeper at Montigny had brought her some -samples from Fontainebleau, that she had made her selection from them, -and paid for the goods out of the two louis that he had paid her as -advanced wages. The cutting and fitting had not troubled her at all, -for she and her mother had worked four years for a ready-made clothing -house. He could not resist telling her: "It is very becoming to you. -You look very pretty in it." And she had to blush again, this time to -the roots of her hair. - -When she had left the room he said to himself: "I wonder if she is -beginning to fall in love with me?" He reflected on it, hesitated, -doubted, and finally came to the conclusion that after all it might be -possible. He had been kind and compassionate toward her, had assisted -her, and been almost her friend; there would be nothing very surprising -in this little girl being smitten with the master, who had been so -good to her. The idea did not strike him very disagreeably, moreover, -for she was really very presentable, and retained nothing of the -appearance of a servant about her. He experienced a flattering feeling -of consolation, and his masculine vanity, that had been so cruelly -wounded and trampled on and crushed by another woman, felt comforted. -It was a compensation--trivial and unnoteworthy though it might be, it -was a compensation--for when love comes to a man unsought, no matter -whence it comes, it is because that man possesses the capacity of -inspiring it. His unconscious selfishness was also gratified by it; -it would occupy his attention and do him a little good, perhaps, to -watch this young heart opening and beating for him. The thought never -occurred to him of sending the child away, of rescuing her from the -peril from which he himself was suffering so cruelly, of having more -pity for her than others had showed toward him, for compassion is never -an ingredient that enters into sentimental conquests. - -So he continued his observations, and soon saw that he had not been -mistaken. Petty details revealed it to him more clearly day by day. As -she came near him one morning while waiting on him at table, he smelled -on her clothing an odor of perfumery--villainous, cheap perfumery, -from the village shopkeeper's, doubtless, or the druggist's--so he -presented her with a bottle of Cyprus toilette-water that he had been -in the habit of using for a long time, and of which he always carried a -supply about with him. He also gave her fine soaps, tooth-washes, and -rice-powder. He thus lent his assistance to the transformation that was -becoming more apparent every day, watching it meantime with a pleased -and curious eye. While remaining his faithful and respectful servant, -she was thus becoming a woman in whom the coquettish instincts of her -sex were artlessly developing themselves. - -He, on his part, was imperceptibly becoming attached to her. She -inspired him at the same time with amusement and gratitude. He trifled -with this dawning tenderness as one trifles in his hours of melancholy -with anything that can divert his mind. He was conscious of no other -emotion toward her than that undefined desire which impels every man -toward a prepossessing woman, even if she be a pretty servant, or a -peasant maiden with the form of a goddess--a sort of rustic Venus. -He felt himself drawn to her more than all else by the womanliness -that he now found in her. He felt the need of that--an undefined and -irresistible need, bequeathed to him by that other one, the woman whom -he loved, who had first awakened in him that invincible and mysterious -fondness for the nature, the companionship, the contact of women, for -the subtle aroma, ideal or sensual, that every beautiful creature, -whether of the people or of the upper class, whether a lethargic, -sensual native of the Orient with great black eyes, or a blue-eyed, -keen-witted daughter of the North, inspires in men in whom still -survives the immemorial attraction of femininity. - -These gentle, loving, and unceasing attentions that were felt rather -than seen, wrapped his wound in a sort of soft, protecting envelope -that shielded it to some extent from its recurrent attacks of -suffering, which did return, nevertheless, like flies to a raw sore. -He was made especially impatient by the absence of all news, for his -friends had religiously respected his request not to divulge his -address. Now and then he would see Massival's or Lamarthe's name in the -newspapers among those who had been present at some great dinner or -ceremonial, and one day he saw Mme. de Burne's, who was mentioned as -being one of the most elegant, the prettiest, and best dressed of the -women who were at the ball at the Austrian embassy. It sent a trembling -through him from head to foot. The name of the Comte de Bernhaus -appeared a few lines further down, and that day Mariolle's jealousy -returned and wrung his heart until night. The suspected _liaison_ was -no longer subject for doubt for him now. It was one of those imaginary -convictions that are even more torturing than reality, for there is no -getting rid of them and they leave a wound that hardly ever heals. - -No longer able to endure this state of ignorance and uncertainty, he -determined to write to Lamarthe, who was sufficiently well acquainted -with him to divine the wretchedness of his soul, and would be likely to -afford him some clew as to the justice of his suspicions, even without -being directly questioned on the subject. One evening, therefore, he -sat down and by the light of his lamp concocted a long, artful letter, -full of vague sadness and poetical allusions to the delights of early -spring in the country and veiled requests for information. When he got -his mail four days later he recognized at the very first glance the -novelist's firm, upright handwriting. - -Lamarthe sent him a thousand items of news that were of great -importance to his jealous eyes. Without laying more stress upon Mme. -de Burne and Bernhaus than upon any other of the crowd of people whom -he mentioned, he seemed to place them in the foreground by one of -those tricks of style characteristic of him, which led the attention -to just the point where he wished to lead it without revealing his -design. The impression that this letter, taken as a whole, left upon -Mariolle was that his suspicions were at least not destitute of -foundation. His fears would be realized to-morrow, if they had not been -yesterday. His former mistress was always the same, leading the same -busy, brilliant, fashionable life. He had been the subject of some talk -after his disappearance, as the world always talks of people who have -disappeared, with lukewarm curiosity. - -After the receipt of this letter he remained in his hammock until -nightfall; then he could eat no dinner, and after that he could get no -sleep; he was feverish through the night. The next morning he felt so -tired, so discouraged, so disgusted with his weary, monotonous life, -between the deep silent forest that was now dark with verdure on the -one hand and the tiresome little stream that flowed beneath his windows -on the other, that he did not leave his bed. - -When Elisabeth came to his room in response to the summons of his bell, -she stood in the doorway pale with surprise and asked him: "Is Monsieur -ill?" - -"Yes, a little." - -"Shall I send for the doctor?" - -"No. I am subject to these slight indispositions." - -"What can I do for Monsieur?" - -He ordered his bath to be got ready, a breakfast of eggs alone, and tea -at intervals during the day. - -About one o'clock, however, he became so restless that he determined to -get up. Elisabeth, whom he had rung for repeatedly during the morning -with the fretful irresolution of a man who imagines himself ill and who -had always come up to him with a deep desire of being of assistance, -now, beholding him so nervous and restless, with a blush for her own -boldness, offered to read to him. - -He asked her: "Do you read well?" - -"Yes, Monsieur; I gained all the prizes for reading when I was at -school in the city, and I have read so many novels to mamma that I -can't begin to remember the names of them." - -He was curious to see how she would do, and he sent her into the studio -to look among the books that he had packed up for the one that he -liked best of all, "Manon Lescaut." - -When she returned she helped him to settle himself in bed, arranged -two pillows behind his back, took a chair, and began to read. She read -well, very well indeed, intelligently and with a pleasing accent that -seemed a special gift. She evinced her interest in the story from the -commencement and showed so much feeling as she advanced in it that -he stopped her now and then to ask her a question and have a little -conversation about the plot and the characters. - -Through the open windows, on the warm breeze loaded with the sweet -odors of growing things, came the trills and _roulades_ of the -nightingales among the trees saluting their mates with their amorous -ditties in this season of awakening love. The young girl, too, was -moved beneath André's gaze as she followed with bright eyes the plot -unwinding page by page. - -She answered the questions that he put to her with an innate -appreciation of the things connected with tenderness and passion, an -appreciation that was just, but, owing to the ignorance natural to -her position, sometimes crude. He thought: "This girl would be very -intelligent and bright if she had a little teaching." - -Her womanly charm had already begun to make itself felt in him, and -really did him good that warm, still, spring afternoon, mingling -strangely with that other charm, so powerful and so mysterious, of -"Manon," the strangest conception of woman ever evoked by human -ingenuity. - -When it became dark after this day of inactivity Mariolle sank into -a kind of dreaming, dozing state, in which confused visions of Mme. -de Burne and Elisabeth and the mistress of Des Grieux rose before his -eyes. As he had not left his room since the day before and had taken -no exercise to fatigue him he slept lightly and was disturbed by an -unusual noise that he heard about the house. - -Once or twice before he had thought that he heard faint sounds -and footsteps at night coming from the ground floor, not directly -underneath his room, but from the laundry and bath-room, small rooms -that adjoined the kitchen. He had given the matter no attention, -however. - -This evening, tired of lying in bed and knowing that he had a long -period of wakefulness before him, he listened and distinguished -something that sounded like the rustling of a woman's garments and -the splashing of water. He decided that he would go and investigate, -lighted a candle and looked at his watch; it was barely ten o'clock. He -dressed himself, and having slipped a revolver into his pocket, made -his way down the stairs on tiptoe with the stealthiness of a cat. - -When he reached the kitchen, he was surprised to see that there was a -fire burning in the furnace. There was not a sound to be heard, but -presently he was conscious of something stirring in the bath-room, a -small, whitewashed apartment that opened off the kitchen and contained -nothing but the tub. He went noiselessly to the door and threw it open -with a quick movement; there, extended in the tub, he beheld the most -beautiful form that he had ever seen in his life. - -It was Elisabeth. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - - -MARIOLLE COPIES MME DE BURNE - - -When she appeared before him next morning bringing him his tea and -toast, and their eyes met, she began to tremble so that the cup and -sugar-bowl rattled on the salver. Mariolle went to her and relieved her -of her burden and placed it on the table; then, as she still kept her -eyes fastened on the floor, he said to her: "Look at me, little one." - -She raised her eyes to him; they were full of tears. - -"You must not cry," he continued. As he held her in his arms, she -murmured: "_Oh! mon Dieu!"_ He knew that it was not regret, nor sorrow, -nor remorse that had elicited from her those three agitated words, but -happiness, true happiness. It gave him a strange, selfish feeling of -delight, physical rather than moral, to feel this small person resting -against his heart, to feel there at last the presence of a woman who -loved him. He thanked her for it, as a wounded man lying by the -roadside would thank a woman who had stopped to succor him; he thanked -her with all his lacerated heart, and he pitied her a little, too, -in the depths of his soul. As he watched her thus, pale and tearful, -with eyes alight with love, he suddenly said to himself: "Why, she is -beautiful! How quickly a woman changes, becomes what she ought to be, -under the influence of the desires of her feelings and the necessities -of her existence!" - -"Sit down," he said to her. He took her hands in his, her poor toiling -hands that she had made white and pretty for his sake, and very gently, -in carefully chosen phrases, he spoke to her of the attitude that they -should maintain toward each other. She was no longer his servant, but -she would preserve the appearance of being so for a while yet, so as -not to create a scandal in the village. She would live with him as his -housekeeper and would read to him frequently, and that would serve to -account for the change in the situation. He would have her eat at his -table after a little, as soon as she should be permanently installed in -her position as his reader. - -When he had finished she simply replied: "No, Monsieur, I am your -servant, and I will continue to be so. I do not wish to have people -learn what has taken place and talk about it." - -He could not shake her determination, although he urged her -strenuously, and when he had drunk his tea she carried away the salver -while he followed her with a softened look. - -When she was gone he reflected. "She is a woman," he thought, "and -all women are equal when they are pleasing in our eyes. I have -made my waitress my mistress. She is pretty, she will be charming! -At all events she is younger and fresher than the _mondaines_ and -the _cocottes_. What difference does it make, after all? How many -celebrated actresses have been daughters of _concierges_! And yet they -are received as ladies, they are adored like heroines of romance, and -princes bow before them as if they were queens. Is this to be accounted -for on the score of their talent, which is often doubtful, or of their -beauty, which is often questionable? Not at all. But a woman, in truth, -always holds the place that she is able to create for herself by the -illusion that she is capable of inspiring." - -He took a long walk that day, and although he still felt the same -distress at the bottom of his heart and his legs were heavy under him, -as if his suffering had loosened all the springs of his energy, there -was a feeling of gladness within him like the song of a little bird. He -was not so lonely, he felt himself less utterly abandoned; the forest -appeared to him less silent and less void. - -He returned to his house with the glad thought that Elisabeth would -come out to meet him with a smile upon her lips and a look of -tenderness in her eyes. - -The life that he now led for about a month on the bank of the little -stream was a real idyl. Mariolle was loved as perhaps very few men -have ever been, as a child is loved by its mother, as the hunter is -loved by his dog. He was all in all to her, her Heaven and earth, her -charm and delight. He responded to all her ardent and artless womanly -advances, giving her in a kiss her fill of ecstasy. In her eyes and in -her soul, in her heart and in her flesh there was no object but him; -her intoxication was like that of a young man who tastes wine for the -first time. Surprised and delighted, he reveled in the bliss of this -absolute self-surrender, and he felt that this was drinking of love at -its fountain-head, at the very lips of nature. - -Nevertheless he continued to be sad, sad, and haunted by his deep, -unyielding disenchantment. His little mistress was agreeable, but -he always felt the absence of another, and when he walked in the -meadows or on the banks of the Loing and asked himself: "Why does -this lingering care stay by me so?" such an intolerable feeling of -desolation rose within him as the recollection of Paris crossed his -mind that he had to return to the house so as not to be alone. - -Then he would swing in the hammock, while Elisabeth, seated on a -camp-chair, would read to him. As he watched her and listened to her he -would recall to mind conversations in the drawing-room of Michèle, in -the days when he passed whole evenings alone with her. Then tears would -start to his eyes, and such bitter regret would tear his heart that he -felt that he must start at once for Paris or else leave the country -forever. - -Elisabeth, seeing his gloom and melancholy, asked him: "Are you -suffering? Your eyes are full of tears." - -"Give me a kiss, little one," he replied; "you could not understand." - -She kissed him, anxiously, with a foreboding of some tragedy that was -beyond her knowledge. He, forgetting his woes for a moment beneath her -caresses, thought: "Oh! for a woman who could be these two in one, who -might have the affection of the one and the charm of the other! Why is -it that we never encounter the object of our dreams, that we always -meet with something that is only approximately like them?" - -He continued his vague reflections, soothed by the monotonous sound -of the voice that fell unheeded on his ear, upon all the charms that -had combined to seduce and vanquish him in the mistress whom he had -abandoned. In the besetment of her memory, of her imaginary presence, -by which he was haunted as a visionary by a phantom, he asked himself: -"Am I condemned to carry her image with me to all eternity?" - -He again applied himself to taking long walks, to roaming through the -thicknesses of the forest, with the vague hope that he might lose her -somewhere, in the depths of a ravine, behind a rock, in a thicket, as -a man who wishes to rid himself of an animal that he does not care to -kill sometimes takes it away a long distance so that it may not find -its way home. - -In the course of one of these walks he one day came again to the spot -where the beeches grew. It was now a gloomy forest, almost as black as -night, with impenetrable foliage. He passed along beneath the immense, -deep vault in the damp, sultry air, thinking regretfully of his earlier -visit when the little half-opened leaves resembled a verdant, sunshiny -mist, and as he was following a narrow path, he suddenly stopped in -astonishment before two trees that had grown together. It was a sturdy -beech embracing with two of its branches a tall, slender oak; and -there could have been no picture of his love that would have appealed -more forcibly and more touchingly to his imagination. Mariolle seated -himself to contemplate them at his ease. To his diseased mind, as -they stood there in their motionless strife, they became splendid and -terrible symbols, telling to him, and to all who might pass that way, -the everlasting story of his love. - -Then he went on his way again, sadder than before, and as he walked -along, slowly and with eyes downcast, he all at once perceived, half -hidden by the grass and stained by mud and rain, an old telegram that -had been lost or thrown there by some wayfarer. He stopped. What was -the message of joy or sorrow that the bit of blue paper that lay there -at his feet had brought to some expectant soul? - -He could not help picking it up and opening it with a mingled feeling -of curiosity and disgust. The words "Come--me--four o'clock--" were -still legible; the names had been obliterated by the moisture. - -Memories, at once cruel and delightful, thronged upon his mind of all -the messages that he had received from her, now to appoint the hour for -a rendezvous, now to tell him that she could not come to him. Never had -anything caused him such emotion, nor startled him so violently, nor -so stopped his poor heart and then set it thumping again as had the -sight of those messages, burning or freezing him as the case might be. -The thought that he should never receive more of them filled him with -unutterable sorrow. - -Again he asked himself what her thoughts had been since he left her. -Had she suffered, had she regretted the friend whom her coldness had -driven from her, or had she merely experienced a feeling of wounded -vanity and thought nothing more of his abandonment? His desire to learn -the truth was so strong and so persistent that a strange and audacious, -yet only half-formed resolve, came into his head. He took the road -to Fontainebleau, and when he reached the city went to the telegraph -office, his mind in a fluctuating state of unrest and indecision; but -an irresistible force proceeding from his heart seemed to urge him on. -With a trembling hand, then, he took from the desk a printed blank and -beneath the name and address of Mme. de Burne wrote this dispatch: - - "I would so much like to know what you think of me! For my - part I can forget nothing. ANDRÉ MARIOLLE." - -Then he went out, engaged a carriage, and returned to Montigny, -disturbed in mind by what he had done and regretting it already. - -He had calculated that in case she condescended to answer him he -would receive a letter from her two days later, but the fear and the -hope that she might send him a dispatch kept him in his house all the -following day. He was in his hammock under the lindens on the terrace, -when, about three o'clock, Elisabeth came to tell him that there was a -lady at the house who wanted to see him. - -The shock was so great that his breath failed him for a moment and his -legs bent under him, and his heart beat violently as he went toward -the house. And yet he could not dare hope that it was she. - -When he appeared at the drawing-room door Mme. de Burne arose from -the sofa where she was sitting and came forward to shake hands with a -rather reserved smile upon her face, with a slight constraint of manner -and attitude, saying: "I came to see how you are, as your message did -not give me much information on the subject." - -He had become so pale that a flash of delight rose to her eyes, and his -emotion was so great that he could not speak, could only hold his lips -glued to the hand that she had given him. - -"_Dieu!_ how kind of you!" he said at last. - -"No; but I do not forget my friends, and I was anxious about you." - -She looked him in the face with that rapid, searching woman's look -that reads everything, fathoms one's thoughts to their very roots, -and unmasks every artifice. She was satisfied, apparently, for her -face brightened with a smile. "You have a pretty hermitage here," she -continued. "Does happiness reside in it?" - -"No, Madame." - -"Is it possible? In this fine country, at the side of this beautiful -forest, on the banks of this pretty stream? Why, you ought to be at -rest and quite contented here." - -"I am not, Madame." - -"Why not, then?" - -"Because I cannot forget." - -"Is it indispensable to your happiness that you should forget -something?" - -"Yes, Madame." - -"May one know what?" - -"You know." - -"And then?" - -"And then I am very wretched." - -She said to him with mingled fatuity and commiseration: "I thought that -was the case when I received your telegram, and that was the reason -that I came, with the resolve that I would go back again at once if I -found that I had made a mistake." She was silent a moment and then went -on: "Since I am not going back immediately, may I go and look around -your place? That little alley of lindens yonder has a very charming -appearance: it looks as if it might be cooler out there than here in -this drawing-room." - -They went out. She had on a mauve dress that harmonized so well with -the verdure of the trees and the blue of the sky that she appeared to -him like some amazing apparition, of an entirely new style of beauty -and seductiveness. Her tall and willowy form, her bright, clean-cut -features, the little blaze of blond hair beneath a hat that was mauve, -like the dress, and lightly crowned by a long plume of ostrich-feathers -rolled about it, her tapering arms with the two hands holding the -closed sunshade crosswise before her, the loftiness of her carriage, -and the directness of her step seemed to introduce into the humble -little garden something exotic, something that was foreign to it. It -was a figure from one of Watteau's pictures, or from some fairy-tale or -dream, the imagination of a poet's or an artist's fancy, which had been -seized by the whim of coming away to the country to show how beautiful -it was. As Mariolle looked at her, all trembling with his newly lighted -passion, he recalled to mind the two peasant women that he had seen in -Montigny village. - -"Who is the little person who opened the door for me?" she inquired. - -"She is my servant." - -"She does not look like a waitress." - -"No; she is very good looking." - -"Where did you secure her?" - -"Quite near here; in an inn frequented by painters, where her innocence -was in danger from the customers." - -"And you preserved it?" - -He blushed and replied: "Yes, I preserved it." - -"To your own advantage, perhaps." - -"Certainly, to my own advantage, for I would rather have a pretty face -about me than an ugly one." - -"Is that the only feeling that she inspires in you?" - -"Perhaps it was she who inspired in me the irresistible desire of -seeing you again, for every woman when she attracts my eyes, even if it -is only for the duration of a second, carries my thoughts back to you." - -"That was a very pretty piece of special pleading! And does she love -her preserver?" - -He blushed more deeply than before. Quick as lightning the thought -flashed through his mind that jealousy is always efficacious as a -stimulant to a woman's feelings, and decided him to tell only half a -lie, so he answered, hesitatingly: "I don't know how that is; it may be -so. She is very attentive to me." - -Rather pettishly, Mme. de Burne murmured: "And you?" - -He fastened upon her his eyes that were aflame with love, and replied: -"Nothing could ever distract my thoughts from you." - -This was also a very shrewd answer, but the phrase seemed to her so -much the expression of an indisputable truth, that she let it pass -without noticing it. Could a woman such as she have any doubts about -a thing like that? So she was satisfied, in fact, and had no further -doubts upon the subject of Elisabeth. - -They took two canvas chairs and seated themselves in the shade of the -lindens over the running stream. He asked her: "What did you think of -me?" - -"That you must have been very wretched." - -"Was it through my fault or yours?" - -"Through the fault of us both." - -"And then?" - -"And then, knowing how beside yourself you were, I reflected that it -would be best to give you a little time to cool down. So I waited." - -"What were you waiting for?" - -"For a word from you. I received it, and here I am. Now we are going to -talk like people of sense. So you love me still? I do not ask you this -as a coquette--I ask it as your friend." - -"I love you still." - -"And what is it that you wish?" - -"How can I answer that? I am in your power." - -"Oh! my ideas are very clear, but I will not tell you them without -first knowing what yours are. Tell me of yourself, of what has been -passing in your heart and in your mind since you ran away from me." - -"I have been thinking of you; I have had no other occupation." He told -her of his resolution to forget her, his flight, his coming to the -great forest in which he had found nothing but her image, of his days -filled with memories of her, and his long nights of consuming jealousy; -he told her everything, with entire truthfulness, always excepting his -love for Elisabeth, whose name he did not mention. - -She listened, well assured that he was not lying, convinced by her -inner consciousness of her power over him, even more than by the -sincerity of his manner, and delighted with her victory, glad that she -was about to regain him, for she loved him still. - -Then he bemoaned himself over this situation that seemed to have no -end, and warming up as he told of all that he had suffered after having -carried it so long in his thoughts, he again reproached her, but -without anger, without bitterness, in terms of impassioned poetry, with -that impotency of loving of which she was the victim. He told her over -and over: "Others have not the gift of pleasing; you have not the gift -of loving." - -She interrupted him, speaking warmly, full of arguments and -illustrations. "At least I have the gift of being faithful," she said. -"Suppose I had adored you for ten months, and then fallen in love with -another man, would you be less unhappy than you are?" - -He exclaimed: "Is it, then, impossible for a woman to love only one -man?" - -But she had her answer ready for him: "No one can keep on loving -forever; all that one can do is to be constant. Do you believe that -that exalted delirium of the senses can last for years? No, no. As -for the most of those women who are addicted to passions, to violent -caprices of greater or less duration, they simply transform life into -a novel. Their heroes are different, the events and circumstances are -unforeseen and constantly changing, the _dénouement_ varies. I admit -that for them it is amusing and diverting, for with every change they -have a new set of emotions, but for _him_--when it is ended, that is -the last of it. Do you understand me?" - -"Yes; what you say has some truth in it. But I do not see what you are -getting at." - -"It is this: there is no passion that endures a very long time; by -that I mean a burning, torturing passion like that from which you are -suffering now. It is a crisis that I have made hard, very hard for you -to bear--I know it, and I feel it--by--by the aridity of my tenderness -and the paralysis of my emotional nature. This crisis will pass away, -however, for it cannot last forever." - -"And then?" he asked with anxiety. - -"Then I think that to a woman who is as reasonable and calm as I am you -can make yourself a lover who will be pleasing in every way, for you -have a great deal of tact. On the other hand you would make a terrible -husband. But there is no such thing as a good husband, there never can -be." - -He was surprised and a little offended. "Why," he asked, "do you wish -to keep a lover that you do not love?" - -She answered, impetuously: "I do love him, my friend, after my fashion. -I do not love ardently, but I love." - -"You require above everything else to be loved and to have your lovers -make a show of their love." - -"It is true. That is what I like. But beyond that my heart requires a -companion apart from the others. My vainglorious passion for public -homage does not interfere with my capacity for being faithful and -devoted; it does not destroy my belief that I have something of myself -that I could bestow upon a lover that no other man should have: my -loyal affection, the sincere attachment of my heart, the entire and -secret trustfulness of my soul; in exchange for which I should receive -from him, together with all the tenderness of a lover, the sensation, -so sweet and so rare, of not being entirely alone upon the earth. -That is not love from the way you look at it, but it is not entirely -valueless, either." - -He bent over toward her, trembling with emotion, and stammered: "Will -you let me be that man?" - -"Yes, after a little, when you are more yourself. In the meantime, -resign yourself to a little suffering once in a while, for my sake. -Since you have to suffer in any event, isn't it better to endure it at -my side rather than somewhere far from me?" Her smile seemed to say -to him: "Why can you not have confidence in me?" and as she eyed him -there, his whole frame quivering with passion, she experienced through -every fiber of her being a feeling of satisfied well-being that made -her happy in her way, in the way that the bird of prey is happy when -he sees his quarry lying fascinated beneath him and awaiting the fatal -talons. - -"When do you return to Paris?" she asked. - -"Why--to-morrow!" - -"To-morrow be it. You will come and dine with me?" - -"Yes, Madame." - -"And now I must be going," said she, looking at the watch set in the -handle of her parasol. - -"Oh! why so soon?" - -"Because I must catch the five o'clock train. I have company to dinner -to-day, several persons: the Princess de Malten, Bernhaus, Lamarthe, -Massival, De Maltry, and a stranger, M. de Charlaine, the explorer, who -is just back from upper Cambodia, after a wonderful journey. He is all -the talk just now." - -Mariolle's spirits fell; it hurt him to hear these names mentioned one -after the other, as if he had been stung by so many wasps. They were -poison to him. - -"Will you go now?" he said, "and we can drive through the forest and -see something of it." - -"I shall be very glad to. First give me a cup of tea and some toast." - -When the tea was served, Elisabeth was not to be found. The cook said -that she had gone out to make some purchases. This did not surprise -Mme. de Burne, for what had she to fear now from this servant? Then -they got into the landau that was standing before the door, and -Mariolle made the coachman take them to the station by a roundabout way -which took them past the Gorge-aux-Loups. As they rolled along beneath -the shade of the great trees where the nightingales were singing, -she was seized by the ineffable sensation that the mysterious and -all-powerful charm of nature impresses on the heart of man. "_Dieu!_" -she said, "how beautiful it is, how calm and restful!" - -He accompanied her to the station, and as they were about to part she -said to him: "I shall see you to-morrow at eight o'clock, then?" - -"To-morrow at eight o'clock, Madame." - -She, radiant with happiness, went her way, and he returned to his house -in the landau, happy and contented, but uneasy withal, for he knew that -this was not the end. - -Why should he resist? He felt that he could not. She held him by a -charm that he could not understand, that was stronger than all. Flight -would not deliver him, would not sever him from her, but would be an -intolerable privation, while if he could only succeed in showing a -little resignation, he would obtain from her at least as much as she -had promised, for she was a woman who always kept her word. - -The horses trotted along under the trees and he reflected that not -once during that interview had she put up her lips to him for a kiss. -She was ever the same; nothing in her would ever change and he would -always, perhaps, have to suffer at her hands in just that same way. -The remembrance of the bitter hours that he had already passed, with -the intolerable certainty that he would never succeed in rousing her -to passion, laid heavy on his heart, and gave him a clear foresight of -struggles to come and of similar distress in the future. Still, he was -content to suffer everything rather than lose her again, resigned even -to that everlasting, ever unappeased desire that rioted in his veins -and burned into his flesh. - -The raging thoughts that had so often possessed him on his way back -alone from Auteuil were now setting in again. They began to agitate -his frame as the landau rolled smoothly along in the cool shadows of -the great trees, when all at once the thought of Elisabeth awaiting -him there at his door, she, too, young and fresh and pretty, her -heart full of love and her mouth full of kisses, brought peace to his -soul. Presently he would be holding her in his arms, and, closing his -eyes and deceiving himself as men deceive others, confounding in the -intoxication of the embrace her whom he loved and her by whom he was -loved, he would possess them both at once. Even now it was certain that -he had a liking for her, that grateful attachment of soul and body that -always pervades the human animal as the result of love inspired and -pleasure shared in common. This child whom he had made his own, would -she not be to his dry and wasting love the little spring that bubbles -up at the evening halting place, the promise of the cool draught that -sustains our energy as wearily we traverse the burning desert? - -When he regained the house, however, the girl had not come in. He was -frightened and uneasy and said to the other servant: "You are sure that -she went out?" - -"Yes, Monsieur." - -Thereupon he also went out in the hope of finding her. When he had -taken a few steps and was about to turn into the long street that runs -up the valley, he beheld before him the old, low church, surmounted by -its square tower, seated upon a little knoll and watching the houses of -its small village as a hen watches over her chicks. A presentiment that -she was there impelled him to enter. Who can tell the strange glimpses -of the truth that a woman's heart is capable of perceiving? What had -she thought, how much had she understood? Where could she have fled for -refuge but there, if the shadow of the truth had passed before her eyes? - -The church was very dark, for night was closing in. The dim lamp, -hanging from its chain, suggested in the tabernacle the ideal presence -of the divine Consoler. With hushed footsteps Mariolle passed up along -the lines of benches. When he reached the choir he saw a woman on her -knees, her face hidden in her hands. He approached, recognized her, and -touched her on the shoulder. They were alone. - -She gave a great start as she turned her head. She was weeping. - -"What is the matter?" he said. - -She murmured: "I see it all. You came here because she had caused you -to suffer. She came to take you away." - -He spoke in broken accents, touched by the grief that he in turn had -caused: "You are mistaken, little one. I am going back to Paris, -indeed, but I shall take you with me." - -She repeated, incredulously: "It can't be true, it can't be true." - -"I swear to you that it is true." - -"When?" - -"To-morrow." - -She began again to sob and groan: "My God! My God!" - -Then he raised her to her feet and led her down the hill through the -thick blackness of the night, but when they came to the river-bank he -made her sit down upon the grass and placed himself beside her. He -heard the beating of her heart and her quick breathing, and clasping -her to his heart, troubled by his remorse, he whispered to her gentle -words that he had never used before. Softened by pity and burning with -desire, every word that he uttered was true; he did not endeavor to -deceive her, and surprised himself at what he said and what he felt, he -wondered how it was that, thrilling yet with the presence of that other -one whose slave he was always to be, he could tremble thus with longing -and emotion while consoling this love-stricken heart. - -He promised that he would love her,--he did not say simply "love"--, -that he would give her a nice little house near his own and pretty -furniture to put in it and a servant to wait on her. She was reassured -as she listened to him, and gradually grew calmer, for she could not -believe that he was capable of deceiving her, and besides his tone and -manner told her that he was sincere. Convinced at length and dazzled -by the vision of being a lady, by the prospect--so undreamed of by the -poor girl, the servant of the inn--of becoming the "good friend" of -such a rich, nice gentleman, she was carried away in a whirl of pride, -covetousness, and gratitude that mingled with her fondness for André. -Throwing her arms about his neck and covering his face with kisses, -she stammered: "Oh! I love you so! You are all in all to me!" - -He was touched and returned her caresses. "Darling! My little darling!" -he murmured. - -Already she had almost forgotten the appearance of the stranger who -but now had caused her so much sorrow. There must have been some vague -feeling of doubt floating in her mind, however, for presently she asked -him in a tremulous voice: "Really and truly, you will love me as you -love me now?" - -And unhesitatingly he replied: "I will love you as I love you now." - - - - -THE OLIVE GROVE - -AND - -OTHER TALES - - - - -THE OLIVE GROVE - - -When the 'longshoremen of Garandou, a little port of Provence, situated -in the bay of Pisca, between Marseilles and Toulon, perceived the boat -of the Abbé Vilbois entering the harbor, they went down to the beach to -help him pull her ashore. - -The priest was alone in the boat. In spite of his fifty-eight years, -he rowed with all the energy of a real sailor. He had placed his hat -on the bench beside him, his sleeves were rolled up, disclosing his -powerful arms, his cassock was open at the neck and turned over his -knees, and he wore a round hat of heavy, white canvas. His whole -appearance bespoke an odd and strenuous priest of southern climes, -better fitted for adventures than for clerical duties. - -He rowed with strong and measured strokes, as if to show the southern -sailors how the men of the north handle the oars, and from time to time -he turned around to look at the landing point. - -The skiff struck the beach and slid far up, the bow plowing through the -sand; then it stopped abruptly. The five men watching for the abbé -drew near, jovial and smiling. - -"Well!" said one, with the strong accent of Provence, "have you been -successful, Monsieur le Curé?" - -The abbé drew in the oars, removed his canvas head-covering, put on -his hat, pulled down his sleeves, and buttoned his coat. Then having -assumed the usual appearance of a village priest, he replied proudly: -"Yes, I have caught three red-snappers, two eels, and five sunfish." - -The fishermen gathered around the boat to examine, with the air of -experts, the dead fish, the fat red-snappers, the flat-headed eels, -those hideous sea-serpents, and the violet sunfish, streaked with -bright orange-colored stripes. - -Said one: "I'll carry them up to your house, Monsieur le Curé." - -"Thank you, my friend." - -Having shaken hands all around, the priest started homeward, followed -by the man with the fish; the others took charge of the boat. - -The Abbé Vilbois walked along slowly with an air of dignity. The -exertion of rowing had brought beads of perspiration to his brow and -he uncovered his head each time that he passed through the shade of an -olive grove. The warm evening air, freshened by a slight breeze from -the sea, cooled his high forehead covered with short, white hair, a -forehead far more suggestive of an officer than of a priest. - -The village appeared, built on a hill rising from a large valley which -descended toward the sea. - -It was a summer evening. The dazzling sun, traveling toward the ragged -crests of the distant hills, outlined on the white, dusty road the -figure of the priest, the shadow of whose three-cornered hat bobbed -merrily over the fields, sometimes apparently climbing the trunks of -the olive-trees, only to fall immediately to the ground and creep among -them. - -With every step he took, he raised a cloud of fine, white dust, the -invisible powder which, in summer, covers the roads of Provence; it -clung to the edge of his cassock turning it grayish white. Completely -refreshed, his hands deep in his pockets, he strode along slowly and -ponderously, like a mountaineer. His eyes were fixed on the distant -village where he had lived twenty years, and where he hoped to die. -Its church--his church--rose above the houses clustered around it; -the square turrets of gray stone, of unequal proportions and quaint -design, stood outlined against the beautiful southern valley; and their -architecture suggested the fortifications of some old château rather -than the steeples of a place of worship. - -The abbé was happy; for he had caught three red-snappers, two eels, -and five sunfish. It would enable him to triumph again over his flock, -which respected him, no doubt, because he was one of the most powerful -men of the place, despite his years. These little innocent vanities -were his greatest pleasures. He was a fine marksman; sometimes he -practiced with his neighbor, a retired army provost who kept a tobacco -shop; he could also swim better than anyone along the coast. - -In his day he had been a well-known society man, the Baron de Vilbois, -but had entered the priesthood after an unfortunate love-affair. Being -the scion of an old family of Picardy, devout and royalistic, whose -sons for centuries had entered the army, the magistracy, or the Church, -his first thought was to follow his mother's advice and become a -priest. But he yielded to his father's suggestion that he should study -law in Paris and seek some high office. - -While he was completing his studies his father was carried off by -pneumonia; his mother, who was greatly affected by the loss, died soon -afterward. He came into a fortune, and consequently gave up the idea of -following a profession to live a life of idleness. He was handsome and -intelligent, but somewhat prejudiced by the traditions and principles -which he had inherited, along with his muscular frame, from a long line -of ancestors. - -Society gladly welcomed him and he enjoyed himself after the fashion of -a well-to-do and seriously inclined young man. But it happened that a -friend introduced him to a young actress, a pupil of the Conservatoire, -who was appearing with great success at the Odéon. It was a case of -love at first sight. - -His sentiment had all the violence, the passion of a man born to -believe in absolute ideas. He saw her act the romantic rôle in which -she had achieved a triumph the first night of her appearance. She was -pretty, and, though naturally perverse, possessed the face of an angel. - -She conquered him completely; she transformed him into a delirious -fool, into one of those ecstatic idiots whom a woman's look will -forever chain to the pyre of fatal passions. She became his mistress -and left the stage. They lived together four years, his love for her -increasing during the time. He would have married her in spite of his -proud name and family traditions, had he not discovered that for a long -time she had been unfaithful to him with the friend who had introduced -them. - -The awakening was terrible, for she was about to become a mother, and -he was awaiting the birth of the child to make her his wife. - -When he held the proof of her transgressions,--some letters found in a -drawer,--he confronted her with his knowledge and reproached her with -all the savageness of his uncouth nature for her unfaithfulness and -deceit. But she, a child of the people, being as sure of this man as of -the other, braved and insulted him with the inherited daring of those -women, who, in times of war, mounted with the men on the barricades. - -He would have struck her to the ground--but she showed him her form. -As white as death, he checked himself, remembering that a child of his -would soon be born to this vile, polluted creature. He rushed at her -to crush them both, to obliterate this double shame. Reeling under his -blows, and seeing that he was about to stamp out the life of her unborn -babe, she realized that she was lost. Throwing out her hands to parry -the blows, she cried: - -"Do not kill me! It is his, not yours!" - -He fell back, so stunned with surprise that for a moment his rage -subsided. He stammered: - -"What? What did you say?" - -Crazed with fright, having read her doom in his eyes and gestures, she -repeated: "It's not yours, it's his." - -Through his clenched teeth he stammered: - -"The child?" - -"Yes." - -"You lie!" - -And again he lifted his foot as if to crush her, while she struggled to -her knees in a vain attempt to rise. "I tell you it's his. If it was -yours, wouldn't it have come much sooner?" - -He was struck by the truth of this argument. In a moment of strange -lucidity, his mind evolved precise, conclusive, irresistible reasons to -disclaim the child of this miserable woman, and he felt so appeased, so -happy at the thought, that he decided to let her live. - -He then spoke in a calmer voice: "Get up and leave, and never let me -see you again." - -Quite cowed, she obeyed him and went. He never saw her again. - -Then he left Paris and came south. He stopped in a village situated -in a valley, near the coast of the Mediterranean. Selecting for his -abode an inn facing the sea, he lived there eighteen months in complete -seclusion, nursing his sorrow and despair. The memory of the unfaithful -one tortured him; her grace, her charm, her perversity haunted him, and -withal came the regret of her caresses. - -He wandered aimlessly in those beautiful vales of Provence, baring his -head, filled with the thoughts of that woman, to the sun that filtered -through the grayish-green leaves of the olive-trees. - -His former ideas of religion, the abated ardor of his faith, returned -to him during his sorrowful retreat. Religion had formerly seemed a -refuge from the unknown temptations of life, now it appeared as a -refuge from its snares and tortures. He had never given up the habit of -prayer. In his sorrow, he turned anew to its consolations, and often -at dusk he would wander into the little village church, where in the -darkness gleamed the light of the lamp hung above the altar, to guard -the sanctuary and symbolize the Divine Presence. - -He confided his sorrow to his God, told Him of his misery, asking -advice, pity, help, and consolation. Each day, his fervid prayers -disclosed stronger faith. - -The bleeding heart of this man, crushed by love for a woman, still -longed for affection; and soon his prayers, his seclusion, his constant -communion with the Savior who consoles and cheers the weary, wrought a -change in him, and the mystic love of God entered his soul, casting out -the love of the flesh. - -He then decided to take up his former plans and to devote his life to -the Church. - -He became a priest. Through family connections he succeeded in -obtaining a call to the parish of this village which he had come across -by chance. Devoting a large part of his fortune to the maintenance of -charitable institutions, and keeping only enough to enable him to help -the poor as long as he lived, he sought refuge in a quiet life filled -with prayer and acts of kindness toward his fellow-men. - -Narrow-minded but kind-hearted, a priest with a soldier's temperament, -he guided his blind, erring flock forcibly through the mazes of this -life in which every taste, instinct, and desire is a pitfall. But -the old man in him never disappeared entirely. He continued to love -out-of-door exercise and noble sports, but he hated every woman, having -an almost childish fear of their dangerous fascination. - - -II. - -The sailor who followed the priest, being a southerner, found it -difficult to refrain from talking. But he did not dare start a -conversation, for the abbé exerted a great prestige over his flock. At -last he ventured a remark: "So you like your lodge, do you, Monsieur le -Curé?" - -This lodge was one of the tiny constructions that are inhabited during -the summer by the villagers and the town people alike. It was situated -in a field not far from the parish-house, and the abbé had hired it -because the latter was very small and built in the heart of the village -next to the church. - -During the summer time, he did not live altogether at the lodge, but -would remain a few days at a time to practice pistol-shooting and be -close to nature. - -"Yes, my friend," said the priest, "I like it very well." - -The low structure could now be seen; it was painted pink, and the walls -were almost hidden under the leaves and branches of the olive-trees -that grew in the open field. A tall woman was passing in and out of the -door, setting a small table at which she placed, at each trip, a knife -and fork, a glass, a plate, a napkin, and a piece of bread. She wore -the small cap of the women of Arles, a pointed cone of silk or black -velvet, decorated with a white rosette. - -When the abbé was near enough to make himself heard, he shouted: - -"Eh! Marguerite!" - -She stopped to ascertain whence the voice came, and recognizing her -master: "Oh! it's you, Monsieur le Curé!" - -"Yes. I have caught some fine fish, and want you to broil this sunfish -immediately, do you hear?" - -The servant examined, with a critical and approving glance, the fish -that the sailor carried. - -"Yes, but we are going to have a chicken for dinner," she said. - -"Well, it cannot be helped. To-morrow the fish will not be as fresh -as it is now. I mean to enjoy a little feast--it does not happen -often--and the sin is not great." - -The woman picked out a sunfish and prepared to go into the house. -"Ah!" she said, "a man came to see you three times while you were out, -Monsieur le Curé." - -Indifferently he inquired: "A man! What kind of man?" - -"Why, a man whose appearance was not in his favor." - -"What! a beggar?" - -"Perhaps--I don't know. But I think he is more of a 'maoufatan.'" - -The abbé smiled at this word, which, in the language of Provence means -a highwayman, a tramp, for he was well aware of Marguerite's timidity, -and knew that every day and especially every night she fancied they -would be murdered. - -He handed a few sous to the sailor, who departed. And just as he was -saying: "I am going to wash my hands,"--for his past dainty habits -still clung to him,--Marguerite called to him from the kitchen -where she was scraping the fish with a knife, thereby detaching its -blood-stained, silvery scales: - -"There he comes!" - -The abbé looked down the road and saw a man coming slowly toward -the house; he seemed poorly dressed, indeed, so far as he could -distinguish. He could not help smiling at his servant's anxiety, and -thought, while he waited for the stranger: "I think, after all, she is -right; he does look like a 'maoufatan.'" - -The man walked slowly, with his eyes on the priest and his hands buried -deep in his pockets. He was young and wore a full, blond beard; strands -of curly hair escaped from his soft felt hat, which was so dirty -and battered that it was impossible to imagine its former color and -appearance. He was clothed in a long, dark overcoat, from which emerged -the frayed edge of his trousers; on his feet were bathing shoes that -deadened his steps, giving him the stealthy walk of a sneak thief. - -When he had come within a few steps of the priest, he doffed, with a -sweeping motion, the ragged hat that shaded his brow. He was not bad -looking, though his face showed signs of dissipation and the top of his -head was bald, an indication of premature fatigue and debauch, for he -certainly was not over twenty-five years old. - -The priest responded at once to his bow, feeling that this fellow was -not an ordinary tramp, a mechanic out of work, or a jail-bird, hardly -able to speak any other tongue but the mysterious language of prisons. - -"How do you do, Monsieur le Curé?" said the man. The priest answered -simply, "I salute you," unwilling to address this ragged stranger as -"Monsieur." They considered each other attentively; the abbé felt -uncomfortable under the gaze of the tramp, invaded by a feeling of -unrest unknown to him. - -At last the vagabond continued: "Well, do you recognize me?" - -Greatly surprised, the priest answered: "Why, no, you are a stranger to -me." - -"Ah! you do not know me? Look at me well." - -"I have never seen you before." - -"Well, that may be true," replied the man sarcastically, "but let me -show you some one whom you will know better." - -He put on his hat and unbuttoned his coat, revealing his bare chest. A -red sash wound around his spare frame held his trousers in place. He -drew an envelope from his coat pocket, one of those soiled wrappers -destined to protect the sundry papers of the tramp, whether they be -stolen or legitimate property, those papers which he guards jealously -and uses to protect himself against the too zealous gendarmes. He -pulled out a photograph about the size of a folded letter, one of those -pictures which were popular long ago; it was yellow and dim with age, -for he had carried it around with him everywhere and the heat of his -body had faded it. - -Pushing it under the abbé's eyes, he demanded: - -"Do you know him?" - -The priest took a step forward to look and grew pale, for it was his -own likeness that he had given Her years ago. - -Failing to grasp the meaning of the situation he remained silent. - -The tramp repeated: - -"Do you recognize him?" - -And the priest stammered: "Yes." - -"Who is it?" - -"It is I." - -"It is you?" - -"Yes." - -"Well, then, look at us both,--at me and at your picture!" - -Already the unhappy man had seen that these two beings, the one in the -picture and the one by his side, resembled each other like brothers; -yet he did not understand, and muttered: "Well, what is it you wish?" - -Then in an ugly voice, the tramp replied: "What do I wish? Why, first I -wish you to recognize me." - -"Who are you?" - -"Who am I? Ask anybody by the roadside, ask your servant, let's go and -ask the mayor and show him this; and he will laugh, I tell you that! -Ah! you will not recognize me as your son, papa curé?" - -The old man raised his arms above his head, with a patriarchal gesture, -and muttered despairingly: "It cannot be true!" - -The young fellow drew quite close to him. - -"Ah! It cannot be true, you say! You must stop lying, do you hear?" -His clenched fists and threatening face, and the violence with which -he spoke, made the priest retreat a few steps, while he asked himself -anxiously which one of them was laboring under a mistake. - -Again he asserted: "I never had a child." - -The other man replied: "And no mistress, either?" - -The aged priest resolutely uttered one word, a proud admission: - -"Yes." - -"And was not this mistress about to give birth to a child when you left -her?" - -Suddenly the anger which had been quelled twenty-five years ago, not -quelled, but buried in the heart of the lover, burst through the wall -of faith, resignation, and renunciation he had built around it. Almost -beside himself, he shouted: - -"I left her because she was unfaithful to me and was carrying the child -of another man; had it not been for this, I should have killed both you -and her, sir!" - -The young man hesitated, taken aback at the sincerity of this outburst. -Then he replied in a gentler voice: - -"Who told you that it was another man's child?" - -"She told me herself and braved me." - -Without contesting this assertion the vagabond assumed the indifferent -tone of a loafer judging a case: - -"Well, then, mother made a mistake, that's all!" - -After his outburst of rage, the priest had succeeded in mastering -himself sufficiently to be able to inquire: - -"And who told you that you were my son?" - -"My mother, on her deathbed, M'sieur le Curé. And then--this!" And he -held the picture under the eyes of the priest. - -The old man took it from him; and slowly, with a heart bursting with -anguish, he compared this stranger with his faded likeness and doubted -no longer--it was his son. - -An awful distress wrung his very soul, a terrible, inexpressible -emotion invaded him; it was like the remorse of some ancient crime. He -began to understand a little, he guessed the rest. He lived over the -brutal scene of the parting. It was to save her life, then, that the -wretched and deceitful woman had lied to him, her outraged lover. And -he had believed her. And a son of his had been brought into the world -and had grown up to be this sordid tramp, who exhaled the very odor of -vice as a goat exhales its animal smell. - -He whispered: "Will you take a little walk with me, so that we can -discuss these matters?" - -The young man sneered: "Why, certainly! Isn't that what I came for?" - -They walked side by side through the olive grove. The sun had gone down -and the coolness of southern twilights spread an invisible cloak over -the country. The priest shivered, and raising his eyes with a familiar -motion, perceived the trembling gray foliage of the holy tree which had -spread its frail shadow over the Son of Man in His great trouble and -despondency. - -A short, despairing prayer rose within him, uttered by his soul's -voice, a prayer by which Christians implore the Savior's aid: "O Lord! -have mercy on me." - -Turning to his son he said: "So your mother is dead?" - -These words, "Your mother is dead," awakened a new sorrow; it was -the torment of the flesh which cannot forget, the cruel echo of past -sufferings; but mostly the thrill of the fleeting, delirious bliss of -his youthful passion. - -The young man replied: "Yes, Monsieur le Curé, my mother is dead." - -"Has she been dead a long while?" - -"Yes, three years." - -A new doubt entered the priest's mind. "And why did you not find me out -before?" - -The other man hesitated. - -"I was unable to, I was prevented. But excuse me for interrupting these -recollections--I will enter into more details later--for I have not had -anything to eat since yesterday morning." - -A tremor of pity shook the old man and holding forth both hands: "Oh! -my poor child!" he said. - -The young fellow took those big, powerful hands in his own slender and -feverish palms. - -Then he replied, with that air of sarcasm which hardly ever left his -lips: "Ah! I'm beginning to think that we shall get along very well -together, after all!" - -The curé started toward the lodge. - -"Let us go to dinner," he said. - -He suddenly remembered, with a vague and instinctive pleasure, the fine -fish he had caught, which, with the chicken, would make a good meal for -the poor fellow. - -The servant was in front of the door, watching their approach with an -anxious and forbidding face. - -"Marguerite," shouted the abbé, "take the table and put it into the -dining-room, right away; and set two places, as quick as you can." - -The woman seemed stunned at the idea that her master was going to dine -with this tramp. - -But the abbé, without waiting for her, removed the plate and napkin and -carried the little table into the dining-room. - -A few minutes later he was sitting opposite the beggar, in front of a -soup-tureen filled with savory cabbage soup, which sent up a cloud of -fragrant steam. - - -III. - -When the plates were filled, the tramp fell to with ravenous avidity. -The abbé had lost his appetite and ate slowly, leaving the bread in the -bottom of his plate. Suddenly he inquired: - -"What is your name?" - -The man smiled; he was delighted to satisfy his hunger. - -"Father unknown," he said, "and no other name but my mother's, which -you probably remember. But I possess two Christian names, which, by the -way, are quite unsuited to me--Philippe-Auguste." - -The priest whitened. - -"Why were you named thus?" he asked. - -The tramp shrugged his shoulders. "I fancy you ought to know. After -mother left you, she wished to make your rival believe that I was his -child. He did believe it until I was about fifteen. Then I began to -look too much like you. And he disclaimed me, the scoundrel. I had been -christened Philippe-Auguste; now, if I had not resembled a soul, or if -I had been the son of a third person, who had stayed in the background, -to-day I should be the Vicomte Philippe-Auguste de Pravallon, son of -the count and senator bearing this name. I have christened myself -'No-luck.'" - -"How did you learn all this?" - -"They discussed it before me, you know; pretty lively discussions they -were, too. I tell you, that's what shows you the seamy side of life!" - -Something more distressing than all he had suffered during the last -half hour now oppressed the priest. It was a sort of suffocation which -seemed as if it would grow and grow till it killed him; it was not due -so much to the things he heard as to the manner in which they were -uttered by this wayside tramp. Between himself and this beggar, between -his son and himself, he was discovering the existence of those moral -divergencies which are as fatal poisons to certain souls. Was this his -son? He could not yet believe it. He wanted all the proofs, every one -of them. He wanted to hear all, to listen to all. Again he thought of -the olive-trees that shaded his little lodge, and for the second time -he prayed: "O Lord! have mercy upon me." - -Philippe-Auguste had finished his soup. He inquired: "Is there nothing -else, abbé?" - -The kitchen was built in an annex. Marguerite could not hear her -master's voice. He always called her by striking a Chinese gong hung -on the wall behind his chair. He took the brass hammer and struck the -round metal plate. It gave a feeble sound, which grew and vibrated, -becoming sharper and louder till it finally died away on the evening -breeze. - -The servant appeared with a frowning face and cast angry glances at the -tramp, as if her faithful instinct had warned her of the misfortune -that had befallen her master. She held a platter on which was the -sunfish, spreading a savory odor of melted butter through the room. The -abbé divided the fish lengthwise, helping his son to the better half: -"I caught it a little while ago," he said, with a touch of pride in -spite of his keen distress. - -Marguerite had not left the room. - -The priest added: "Bring us some wine, the white wine of Cape Corse." - -She almost rebelled, and the priest, assuming a severe expression was -obliged to repeat: "Now, go, and bring two bottles, remember," for, -when he drank with anybody, a very rare pleasure, indeed, he always -opened one bottle for himself. - -Beaming, Philippe-Auguste remarked: "Fine! A splendid idea! It has been -a long time since I've had such a dinner." The servant came back after -a few minutes. The abbé thought it an eternity, for now a thirst for -information burned his blood like infernal fire. - -After the bottles had been opened, the woman still remained, her eyes -glued on the tramp. - -"Leave us," said the curé. - -She intentionally ignored his command. - -He repeated almost roughly: "I have ordered you to leave us." - -Then she left the room. - -Philippe-Auguste devoured the fish voraciously, while his father sat -watching him, more and more surprised and saddened at all the baseness -stamped on the face that was so like his own. The morsels the abbé -raised to his lips remained in his mouth, for his throat could not -swallow; so he ate slowly, trying to choose, from the host of questions -which besieged his mind, the one he wished his son to answer first. At -last he spoke: - -"What was the cause of her death?" - -"Consumption." - -"Was she ill a long time?" - -"About eighteen months." - -"How did she contract it?" - -"We could not tell." - -Both men were silent. The priest was reflecting. He was oppressed by -the multitude of things he wished to know and to hear, for since the -rupture, since the day he had tried to kill her, he had heard nothing. -Certainly, he had not cared to know, because he had buried her, along -with his happiest days, in forgetfulness; but now, knowing that she was -dead and gone, he felt within himself the almost jealous desire of a -lover to hear all. - -He continued: "She was not alone, was she?" - -"No, she lived with him." - -The old man started: "With him? With Pravallon?" - -"Why, yes." - -And the betrayed man rapidly calculated that the woman who had deceived -him, had lived over thirty years with his rival. - -Almost unconsciously he asked: "Were they happy?" - -The young man sneered. "Why, yes, with ups and downs! It would have -been better had I not been there. I always spoiled everything." - -"How, and why?" inquired the priest. - -"I have already told you. Because he thought I was his son up to my -fifteenth year. But the old fellow wasn't a fool, and soon discovered -the likeness. That created scenes. I used to listen behind the door. He -accused mother of having deceived him. Mother would answer: 'Is it my -fault? you knew quite well when you took me that I was the mistress of -that other man.' You were that other man." - -"Ah! They spoke of me sometimes?" - -"Yes, but never mentioned your name before me, excepting toward the -end, when mother knew she was lost. I think they distrusted me." - -"And you--and you learned quite early the irregularity of your mother's -position?" - -"Why, certainly. I am not innocent and I never was. Those things are -easy to guess as soon as one begins to know life." - -Philippe-Auguste had been filling his glass repeatedly. His eyes now -were beginning to sparkle, for his long fast was favorable to the -intoxicating effects of the wine. The priest noticed it and wished to -caution him. But suddenly the thought that a drunkard is imprudent and -loquacious flashed through him, and lifting the bottle he again filled -the young man's glass. - -Meanwhile Marguerite had brought the chicken. Having set it on the -table, she again fastened her eyes on the tramp, saying in an indignant -voice: "Can't you see that he's drunk, Monsieur le Curé?" - -"Leave us," replied the priest, "and return to the kitchen." - -She went out, slamming the door. - -He then inquired: "What did your mother say about me?" - -"Why, what a woman usually says of a man she has jilted: that you were -hard to get along with, very strange, and that you would have made her -life miserable with your peculiar ideas." - -"Did she say that often?" - -"Yes, but sometimes only in allusions, for fear I would understand; but -nevertheless I guessed all." - -"And how did they treat you in that house?" - -"Me? They treated me very well at first and very badly afterward. When -mother saw that I was interfering with her, she shook me." - -"How?" - -"How? very easily. When I was about sixteen years old, I got into -various scrapes, and those blackguards put me into a reformatory to get -rid of me." He put his elbows on the table and rested his cheeks in his -palms. He was hopelessly intoxicated, and felt the unconquerable desire -of all drunkards to talk and boast about themselves. - -He smiled sweetly, with a feminine grace, an arch grace the priest knew -and recognized as the hated charm that had won him long ago, and had -also wrought his undoing. Now it was his mother whom the boy resembled, -not so much because of his features, but because of his fascinating and -deceptive glance, and the seductiveness of the false smile that played -around his lips, the outlet of his inner ignominy. - -Philippe-Auguste began to relate: "Ah! Ah! Ah!--I've had a fine life -since I left the reformatory! A great writer would pay a large sum for -it! Why, old Père Dumas's Monte Cristo has had no stranger adventures -than mine." - -He paused to reflect with the philosophical gravity of the drunkard, -then he continued slowly: - -"When you wish a boy to turn out well, no matter what he has done, -never send him to a reformatory. The associations are too bad. Now, -I got into a bad scrape. One night about nine o'clock, I, with three -companions--we were all a little drunk--was walking along the road -near the ford of Folac. All at once a wagon hove in sight, with the -driver and his family asleep in it. They were people from Martinon on -their way home from town. I caught hold of the bridle, led the horse -to the ferryboat, made him walk into it, and pushed the boat into the -middle of the stream. This created some noise and the driver awoke. He -could not see in the dark, but whipped up the horse, which started on -a run and landed in the water with the whole load. All were drowned! -My companions denounced me to the authorities, though they thought it -was a good joke when they saw me do it. Really, we didn't think that it -would turn out that way. We only wanted to give the people a ducking, -just for fun. After that I committed worse offenses to revenge myself -for the first one, which did not, on my honor, warrant the reformatory. -But what's the use of telling them? I will speak only of the latest -one, because I am sure it will please you. Papa, I avenged you!" - -The abbé was watching his son with terrified eyes; he had stopped -eating. - -Philippe-Auguste was preparing to begin. "No, not yet," said the -priest, "in a little while." - -And he turned to strike the Chinese gong. - -Marguerite appeared almost instantly. Her master addressed her in -such a rough tone that she hung her head, thoroughly frightened and -obedient: "Bring in the lamp and the dessert, and then do not appear -until I summon you." - -She went out and returned with a porcelain lamp covered with a green -shade, and bringing also a large piece of cheese and some fruit. - -After she had gone, the abbé turned resolutely to his son. - -"Now I am ready to hear you." - -Philippe-Auguste calmly filled his plate with dessert and poured wine -into his glass. The second bottle was nearly empty, though the priest -had not touched it. - -His mouth and tongue, thick with food and wine, the man stuttered: -"Well, now for the last job. And it's a good one. I was home -again,--stayed there in spite of them, because they feared me,--yes, -feared me. Ah! you can't fool with me, you know,--I'll do anything, -when I'm roused. They lived together on and off. The old man had two -residences. One official, for the senator, the other clandestine, for -the lover. Still, he lived more in the latter than in the former, as -he could not get along without mother. Mother was a sharp one--she -knew how to hold a man! She had taken him body and soul, and kept him -to the last! Well, I had come back and I kept them down by fright. I -am resourceful at times--nobody can match me for sharpness and for -strength, too--I'm afraid of no one. Well, mother got sick and the old -man took her to a fine place in the country, near Meulan, situated in a -park as big as a wood. She lasted about eighteen months, as I told you. -Then we felt the end to be near. He came from Paris every day--he was -very miserable--really. - -"One morning they chatted a long time, over an hour, I think, and I -could not imagine what they were talking about. Suddenly mother called -me in and said: - -"'I am going to die, and there is something I want to tell you -beforehand, in spite of the Count's advice.' In speaking of him she -always said 'the Count.' 'It is the name of your father, who is alive.' -I had asked her this more than fifty times--more than fifty times--my -father's name--more than fifty times--and she always refused to tell. I -think I even beat her one day to make her talk, but it was of no use. -Then, to get rid of me, she told me that you had died penniless, that -you were worthless and that she had made a mistake in her youth, an -innocent girl's mistake. She lied so well, I really believed you had -died. - -"Finally she said: 'It is your father's name.' - -"The old man, who was sitting in an armchair, repeated three times, -like this: 'You do wrong, you do wrong, you do wrong, Rosette.' - -"Mother sat up in bed. I can see her now, with her flushed cheeks and -shining eyes; she loved me, in spite of everything; and she said: -'Then you do something for him, Philippe!' In speaking to him she -called him 'Philippe' and me 'Auguste.' - -"He began to shout like a madman: 'Do something for that loafer--that -blackguard, that convict? never!' - -"And he continued to call me names, as if he had done nothing else all -his life but collect them. - -"I was angry, but mother told me to hold my tongue, and she resumed: -'Then you must want him to starve, for you know that I leave no money.' - -"Without being deterred, he continued: 'Rosette, I have given you -thirty-five thousand francs a year for thirty years,--that makes more -than a million. I have enabled you to live like a wealthy, a beloved, -and I may say, a happy woman. I owe nothing to that fellow, who has -spoiled our late years, and he will not get a cent from me. It is -useless to insist. Tell him the name of his father, if you wish. I am -sorry, but I wash my hands of him.' - -"Then mother turned toward me. I thought: 'Good! now I'm going to find -my real father--if he has money, I'm saved.' - -"She went on: 'Your father, the Baron de Vilbois, is to-day the Abbé -Vilbois, curé of Garandou, near Toulon. He was my lover before I left -him for the Count!' - -"And she told me all, excepting that she had deceived you about her -pregnancy. But women, you know, never tell the whole truth." - -Sneeringly, unconsciously, he was revealing the depths of his foul -nature. With beaming face he raised the glass to his lips and -continued: - -"Mother died two days--two days later. We followed her remains to -the grave, he and I--say--wasn't it funny?--he and I--and three -servants--that was all. He cried like a calf--we were side by side--we -looked like father and son. - -"Then he went back to the house alone. I was thinking to myself: 'I'll -have to clear out now and without a penny, too.' I owned only fifty -francs. What could I do to revenge myself? - -"He touched me on the arm and said: 'I wish to speak to you.' I -followed him into his office. He sat down in front of the desk and, -wiping away his tears, he told me that he would not be as hard on me -as he had said he would to mother. He begged me to leave you alone. -That--that concerns only you and me. He offered me a thousand-franc -note--a thousand--a thousand francs. What could a fellow like me do -with a thousand francs?--I saw that there were very many bills in the -drawer. The sight of the money made me wild. I put out my hand as if to -take the note he offered me, but instead of doing so, I sprang at him, -threw him to the ground and choked him till he grew purple. When I saw -that he was going to give up the ghost, I gagged and bound him. Then I -undressed him, laid him on his stomach and--ah! ah! ah!--I avenged you -in a funny way!" - -He stopped to cough, for he was choking with merriment. His ferocious, -mirthful smile reminded the priest once more of the woman who had -wrought his undoing. - -"And then?" he inquired. - -"Then,--ah! ah! ah!--There was a bright fire in the fireplace--it -was in the winter--in December--mother died--a bright coal fire--I -took the poker--I let it get red-hot--and I made crosses on his back, -eight or more, I cannot remember how many--then I turned him over and -repeated them on his stomach. Say, wasn't it funny, papa? Formerly -they marked convicts in this way. He wriggled like an eel--but I had -gagged him so that he couldn't scream. I gathered up the bills--twelve -in all--with mine it made thirteen--an unlucky number. I left the -house, after telling the servants not to bother their master until -dinner-time, because he was asleep. I thought that he would hush the -matter up because he was a senator and would fear the scandal. I was -mistaken. Four days later I was arrested in a Paris restaurant. I got -three years for the job. That is the reason why I did not come to you -sooner." He drank again, and stuttering so as to render his words -almost unintelligible, continued: - -"Now--papa--isn't it funny to have one's papa a curé? You must be nice -to me, very nice, because, you know, I am not commonplace,--and I did a -good job--didn't I--on the old man?" - -The anger which years ago had driven the Abbé Vilbois to desperation -rose within him at the sight of this miserable man. - -He, who in the name of the Lord, had so often pardoned the infamous -secrets whispered to him under the seal of confession, was now -merciless in his own behalf. No longer did he implore the help of a -merciful God, for he realized that no power on earth or in the sky -could save those who had been visited by such a terrible disaster. - -All the ardor of his passionate heart and of his violent blood, which -long years of resignation had tempered, awoke against the miserable -creature who was his son. He protested against the likeness he bore to -him and to his mother, the wretched mother who had formed him so like -herself; and he rebelled against the destiny that had chained this -criminal to him, like an iron ball to a galley-slave. - -The shock roused him from the peaceful and pious slumber which had -lasted twenty-five years; with a wonderful lucidity he saw all that -would inevitably ensue. - -Convinced that he must talk loud so as to intimidate this man from the -first, he spoke with his teeth clenched with fury: - -"Now that you have told all, listen to me. You will leave here -to-morrow morning. You will go to a country that I shall designate, and -never leave it without my permission. I will give you a small income, -for I am poor. If you disobey me once, it will be withdrawn and you -will learn to know me." - -Though Philippe-Auguste was half dazed with wine, he understood the -threat. Instantly the criminal within him rebelled. Between hiccoughs -he sputtered: "Ah! papa, be careful what you say--you're a curé, -remember--I hold you--and you have to walk straight, like the rest!" - -The abbé started. Through his whole muscular frame crept the -unconquerable desire to seize this monster, to bend him like a twig, so -as to show him that he would have to yield. - -Shaking the table, he shouted: "Take care, take care--I am afraid of -nobody." - -The drunkard lost his balance and seeing that he was going to fall and -would forthwith be in the priest's power, he reached with a murderous -look for one of the knives lying on the table. The abbé perceived his -motion, and he gave the table a terrible shove; his son toppled over -and landed on his back. The lamp fell with a crash and went out. - -During a moment the clinking of broken glass was heard in the darkness, -then the muffled sound of a soft body creeping on the floor, and then -all was silent. - -With the crashing of the lamp a complete darkness spread over them; -it was so prompt and unexpected that they were stunned by it as by -some terrible event. The drunkard, pressed against the wall, did not -move; the priest remained on his chair in the midst of the night which -had quelled his rage. The somber veil that had descended so rapidly, -arresting his anger, also quieted the furious impulses of his soul; new -ideas, as dark and dreary as the obscurity, beset him. - -The room was perfectly silent, like a tomb where nothing draws the -breath of life. Not a sound came from outside, neither the rumbling of -a distant wagon, nor the bark of a dog, nor even the sigh of the wind -passing through the trees. - -This lasted a long time, perhaps an hour. Then suddenly the gong -vibrated! It rang once, as if it had been struck a short, sharp blow, -and was instantly followed by the noise of a falling body and an -overturned chair. - -Marguerite came running out of the kitchen, but as soon as she opened -the door she fell back, frightened by the intense darkness. Trembling, -her heart beating as if it would burst, she called in a low, hoarse -voice: "M'sieur le Curé! M'sieur le Curé!" - -Nobody answered, nothing stirred. - -"_Mon Dieu, mon Dieu_," she thought, "what has happened, what have they -done?" - -She did not dare enter the room, yet feared to go back to fetch a -light. She felt as if she would like to run away, to screech at the top -of her voice, though she knew her legs would refuse to carry her. She -repeated: "M'sieur le Curé! M'sieur le Curé! it is me, Marguerite." - -But, notwithstanding her terror, the instinctive desire of helping her -master and a woman's courage, which is sometimes heroic, filled her -soul with a terrified audacity, and running back to the kitchen she -fetched a lamp. - -She stopped at the doorsill. First, she caught sight of the tramp lying -against the wall, asleep, or simulating slumber; then she saw the -broken lamp, and then, under the table, the feet and black-stockinged -legs of the priest, who must have fallen backward, striking his head on -the gong. - -Her teeth chattering and her hands trembling with fright, she kept on -repeating: "My God! My God! what is this?" - -She advanced slowly, taking small steps, till she slid on something -slimy and almost fell. - -Stooping, she saw that the floor was red and that a red liquid was -spreading around her feet toward the door. She guessed that it was -blood. She threw down her light so as to hide the sight of it, and fled -from the room out into the fields, running half crazed toward the -village. She ran screaming at the top of her voice, and bumping against -the trees she did not heed, her eyes fastened on the gleaming lights of -the distant town. - -Her shrill voice rang out like the gloomy cry of the night-owl, -repeating continuously, "The maoufatan--the maoufatan--the -maoufatan----" - -When she reached the first house, some excited men came out and -surrounded her; but she could not answer them and struggled to escape, -for the fright had turned her head. - -After a while they guessed that something must have happened to the -curé, and a little rescuing party started for the lodge. - -The little pink house standing in the middle of the olive grove had -grown black and invisible in the dark, silent night. Since the gleam of -the solitary window had faded, the cabin was plunged in darkness, lost -in the grove, and unrecognizable for anyone but a native of the place. - -Soon lights began to gleam near the ground, between the trees, -streaking the dried grass with long, yellow reflections. The twisted -trunks of the olive-trees assumed fantastic shapes under the moving -lights, looking like monsters or infernal serpents. The projected -reflections suddenly revealed a vague, white mass, and soon the low, -square wall of the lodge grew pink from the light of the lanterns. -Several peasants were carrying the latter, escorting two gendarmes with -revolvers, the mayor, the _garde-champêtre_, and Marguerite, supported -by the men, for she was almost unable to walk. - -The rescuing party hesitated a moment in front of the open, grewsome -door. But the brigadier, snatching a lantern from one of the men, -entered, followed by the rest. - -The servant had not lied, blood covered the floor like a carpet. It had -spread to the place where the tramp was lying, bathing one of his hands -and legs. - -The father and son were asleep, the one with a severed throat, the -other in a drunken stupor. The two gendarmes seized the latter and -before he awoke they had him handcuffed. He rubbed his eyes, stunned, -stupefied with liquor, and when he saw the body of the priest, he -appeared terrified, unable to understand what had happened. - -"Why did he not escape?" said the mayor. - -"He was too drunk," replied the officer. - -And every man agreed with him, for nobody ever thought that perhaps the -Abbé Vilbois had taken his own life. - - - - -REVENGE - - -As they were still speaking of Pranzini, M. Maloureau, who had been -Attorney-General under the Empire, said: - -"I knew another case like that, a very curious affair, curious from -many points, as you shall see. - -"I was at that time Imperial attorney in the province, and stood -very well at Court, thanks to my father, who was first President at -Paris. I had charge of a still celebrated case, called 'The Affair of -Schoolmaster Moiron.' - -"M. Moiron, a schoolmaster in the north of France, bore an excellent -reputation in all the country thereabout. He was an intelligent, -reflective, very religious man, and had married in the district -of Boislinot, where he practiced his profession. He had had three -children, who all died in succession from weak lungs. After the loss of -his own little ones, he seemed to lavish upon the urchins confided to -his care all the tenderness concealed in his heart. He bought, with his -own pennies, playthings for his best pupils, the diligent and good. -He allowed them to have play dinners, and gorged them with dainties of -candies and cakes. Everybody loved and praised this brave man, this -brave heart, and it was like a blow when five of his pupils died of the -same disease that had carried off his children. It was believed that an -epidemic prevailed, caused by the water being made impure from drought. -They looked for the cause, without discovering it, more than they did -at the symptoms, which were very strange. The children appeared to be -taken with a languor, could eat nothing, complained of pains in the -stomach, and finally died in most terrible agony. - -"An autopsy was made of the last to die, but nothing was discovered. -The entrails were sent to Paris and analyzed, but showed no sign of any -toxic substance. - -"For one year no further deaths occurred; then two little boys, the -best pupils in the class, favorites of father Moiron, expired in four -days' time. An examination was ordered, and in each body fragments -of pounded glass were found imbedded in the organs. They concluded -that the two children had eaten imprudently of something carelessly -prepared. Sufficient broken glass remained in the bottom of a bowl of -milk to have caused this frightful accident, and the matter would have -rested there had not Moiron's servant been taken ill in the interval. -The physician found the same morbid signs that he observed in the -preceding attacks of the children, and, upon questioning her, finally -obtained the confession that she had stolen and eaten some bonbons, -bought by the master for his pupils. - -"Upon order of the court, the schoolhouse was searched and a closet was -found, full of sweetmeats and dainties for the children. Nearly all -these edibles contained fragments of glass or broken needles. - -"Moiron was immediately arrested. He was so indignant and stupefied -at the weight of suspicion upon him that he was nearly overcome. -Nevertheless, the indications of his guilt were so apparent that they -fought hard in my mind against my first conviction, which was based -upon his good reputation, his entire life of truthfulness, and the -absolute absence of any motive for such a crime. - -"Why should this good, simple religious man kill children, and the -children whom he seemed to love best? Why should he select those he had -feasted with dainties, for whom he had spent in playthings and bonbons -half his stipend? - -"To admit this, it must be concluded that he was insane. But Moiron -seemed so reasonable, so calm, so full of judgment and good sense! It -was impossible to prove insanity in him. - -"Proofs accumulated, nevertheless! Bonbons, cakes, _pâtés_ of -marshmallow, and other things seized at the shops where the -schoolmaster got his supplies were found to contain no suspected -fragment. - -"He pretended that some unknown enemy had opened his closet with a -false key and placed the glass and needles in the eatables. And he -implied a story of heritage dependent on the death of a child, sought -out and discovered by a peasant, and so worked up as to make the -suspicion fall upon the schoolmaster. This brute, he said, was not -interested in the other poor children who had to die also. - -"This theory was plausible. The man appeared so sure of himself and -so pitiful, that we should have acquitted him without doubt, if two -overwhelming discoveries had not been made at one blow. The first was -a snuffbox full of ground glass! It was his own snuffbox, in a secret -drawer of his secretary, where he kept his money. - -"He explained this in a manner not acceptable, by saying that it was -the last ruse of an unknown guilty one. But a merchant of Saint-Marlouf -presented himself at the house of the judge, telling him that Moiron -had bought needles of him many times, the finest needles he could find, -breaking them to see whether they suited him. - -"The merchant brought as witnesses a dozen persons who recognized -Moiron at first glance. And the inquest revealed the fact that the -schoolmaster was at Saint-Marlouf on the days designated by the -merchant. - -"I pass over the terrible depositions of the children upon the master's -choice of dainties, and his care in making the little ones eat in his -presence and destroying all traces of the feast. - -"Public opinion, exasperated, recalled capital punishment, and took on -a new force from terror which permitted no delays or resistance. - -"Moiron was condemned to death. His appeal was rejected. No recourse -remained to him for pardon. I knew from my father that the Emperor -would not grant it. - -"One morning, as I was at work in my office, the chaplain of the prison -was announced. He was an old priest who had a great knowledge of men -and a large acquaintance among criminals. He appeared troubled and -constrained. After talking a few moments of other things, he said -abruptly, on rising: - -"'If Moiron is decapitated, Monsieur Attorney-General, you will have -allowed the execution of an innocent man.' - -"Then, without bowing, he went out, leaving me under the profound -effect of his words. He had pronounced them in a solemn, affecting -fashion, opening lips, closed and sealed by confession, in order to -save a life. - -"An hour later I was on my way to Paris, and my father, at my request, -asked an immediate audience with the Emperor. - -"I was received the next day. Napoleon III. was at work in a little -room when we were introduced. I exposed the whole affair, even to the -visit of the priest, and, in the midst of the story, the door opened -behind the chair of the Emperor, and the Empress, who believed in him -alone, entered. His Majesty consulted her. When she had run over the -facts, she exclaimed: - -"'This man must be pardoned! He must, because he is innocent.' - -"Why should this sudden conviction of a woman so pious throw into my -mind a terrible doubt? - -"Up to that time I had ardently desired a commutation of the sentence. -And now I felt myself the puppet, the dupe of a criminal ruse, which -had employed the priest and the confession as a means of defense. - -"I showed some hesitation to their Majesties. The Emperor remained -undecided, solicited on one hand by his natural goodness, and on the -other held back by the fear of allowing himself to play a miserable -part; but the Empress, convinced that the priest had obeyed a divine -call, repeated: 'What does it matter? It is better to spare a guilty -man than to kill an innocent one.' Her advice prevailed. The penalty of -death was commuted, and that of hard labor was substituted. - -"Some years after I heard that Moiron, whose exemplary conduct at -Toulon had been made known again to the Emperor, was employed as a -domestic by the director of the penitentiary. And then I heard no word -of this man for a long time. - -"About two years after this, when I was passing the summer at the house -of my cousin, De Larielle, a young priest came to me one evening, as we -were sitting down to dinner, and wished to speak to me. - -"I told them to let him come in, and he begged me to go with him to a -dying man, who desired, before all else, to see me. This had happened -often, during my long career as judge, and, although I had been put -aside by the Republic, I was still called upon from time to time in -like circumstances. - -"I followed the ecclesiastic, who made me mount into a little miserable -lodging, under the roof of a high house. There, upon a pallet of straw, -I found a dying man, seated with his back against the wall, in order to -breathe. He was a sort of grimacing skeleton, with deep, shining eyes. - -"When he saw me he murmured: 'You do not know me?' - -"'No.' - -"'I am Moiron.' - -"I shivered, but said: 'The schoolmaster?' - -"'Yes.' - -"'How is it you are here?' - -"'That would be too long--I haven't time--I am going to die--They -brought me this curate--and as I knew you were here, I sent him for -you--It is to you that I wish to confess--since you saved my life -before--the other time----' - -"He seized with his dry hands the straw of his bed, and continued, in a -rasping, bass voice: - -"'Here it is--I owe you the truth--to you, because it is necessary to -tell it to some one before leaving the earth. - -"'It was I who killed the children--all--it was I--for vengeance! - -"'Listen. I was an honest man, very honest--very honest--very -pure--adoring God--the good God--the God that they teach us to love, -and not the false God, the executioner, the robber, the murderer -who governs the earth--I had never done wrong, never committed a -villainous act. I was pure as one unborn. - -"'After I was married I had some children, and I began to love them as -never father or mother loved their own. I lived only for them. I was -foolish. They died, all three of them! Why? Why? What had I done? I? I -had a change of heart, a furious change. Suddenly I opened my eyes as -of one awakening; and I learned that God is wicked. Why had He killed -my children? I opened my eyes and I saw that He loved to kill. He loves -only that, Monsieur. He exists only to destroy! God is a murderer! Some -death is necessary to Him every day. He causes them in all fashions, -the better to amuse Himself. He has invented sickness and accident -in order to divert Himself through all the long months and years. -And, when He is weary, He has epidemics, pests, the cholera, quinsy, -smallpox. - -"'How do I know all that this monster has imagined? All these evils are -not enough to suffice. From time to time He sends war, in order to see -two hundred thousand soldiers laid low, bruised in blood and mire, with -arms and legs torn off, heads broken by bullets, like eggs that fall -along the road. - -"'That is not all. He has made men who eat one another. And then, as -men become better than He, He has made beasts to see the men chase -them, slaughter, and nourish themselves with them. That is not all. -He has made all the little animals that live for a day, flies which -increase by myriads in an hour, ants, that one crushes, and others, -many, so many that we cannot even imagine them. And all kill one -another, chase one another, devour one another, murdering without -ceasing. And the good God looks on and is amused, because He sees all -for Himself, the largest as well as the smallest, those which are in -drops of water, as well as those in the stars. He looks at them all and -is amused! Ugh! Beast! - -"'So I, Monsieur, I also have killed some children. I acted the part -for Him. It was not He who had them. It was not He, it was I. And I -would have killed still more, but you took me away. That's all! - -"'I was going to die, guillotined. I! How He would have laughed, the -reptile! Then I asked for a priest, and lied to him. I confessed. I -lied, and I lived. - -"'Now it is finished. I can no longer escape Him. But I have no fear of -Him, Monsieur, I understand Him too well.' - -"It was frightful to see this miserable creature, hardly able to -breathe, talking in hiccoughs, opening an enormous mouth to eject some -words scarcely heard, pulling up the cloth of his straw bed, and, under -a cover nearly black, moving his meager limbs as if to save himself. - -"Oh! frightful being and frightful remembrance! - -"I asked him: 'You have nothing more to say?' - -"'No, Monsieur.' - -"'Then, farewell.' - -"'Farewell, sir, one day or the other.' - -"I turned toward the priest, whose somber silhouette was on the wall. - -"'You will remain, M. Abbé?' - -"'I will remain.' - -"Then the dying man sneered: 'Yes, yes, he sends crows to dead bodies.' - -"As for me, I had seen enough. I opened the door and went away in -self-protection." - - - - -AN OLD MAID - - -In Argenteuil they called her Queen Hortense. No one ever knew the -reason why. Perhaps because she spoke firmly, like an officer in -command. Perhaps because she was large, bony, and imperious. Perhaps -because she governed a multitude of domestic animals, hens, dogs, cats, -canaries, and parrots,--those animals so dear to old maids. But she -gave these familiar subjects neither dainties, nor pretty words, nor -those tender puerilities which seem to slip from the lips of a woman to -the velvety coat of the cat she is fondling. She governed her beasts -with authority. She ruled. - -She was an old maid, one of those old maids with cracked voice, and -awkward gesture, whose soul seems hard. She never allowed contradiction -from any person, nor argument, nor would she tolerate hesitation, or -indifference, or idleness, or fatigue. No one ever heard her complain, -or regret what was, or desire what was not. "Each to his part," she -said, with the conviction of a fatalist. She never went to church, -cared nothing for the priests, scarcely believed in God, and called all -religious things "mourning merchandise." - -For thirty years she had lived in her little house, with its tiny -garden in front, extending along the street, never modifying her -garments, changing only maids, and that mercilessly, when they became -twenty-one years old. - -She replaced, without tears and without regrets, her dogs or cats -or birds, when they died of old age, or by accident, and she buried -trespassing animals in a flower-bed, heaping the earth above them and -treading it down with perfect indifference. - -She had in the town some acquaintances, the families of employers, -whose men went to Paris every day. Sometimes they would invite her -to go to the theater with them. She inevitably fell asleep on these -occasions, and they were obliged to wake her when it was time to go -home. She never allowed anyone to accompany her, having no fear by -night or day. She seemed to have no love for children. - -She occupied her time with a thousand masculine cares, carpentry, -gardening, cutting or sawing wood, repairing her old house, even doing -mason's work when it was necessary. - -She had some relatives who came to see her twice a year. Her two -sisters, Madame Cimme and Madame Columbel, were married, one to -a florist, the other to a small householder. Madame Cimme had no -children; Madame Columbel had three: Henry, Pauline, and Joseph. Henry -was twenty-one, Pauline and Joseph were three, having come when one -would have thought the mother past the age. No tenderness united this -old maid to her kinsfolk. - -In the spring of 1882, Queen Hortense became suddenly ill. The -neighbors went for a physician, whom she drove away. When the priest -presented himself she got out of bed, half naked, and put him out of -doors. The little maid, weeping, made gruel for her. - -After three days in bed, the situation became so grave that the -carpenter living next door, after counsel with the physician (now -reinstated with authority), took it upon himself to summon the two -families. - -They arrived by the same train, about ten o'clock in the morning; the -Columbels having brought their little Joseph. - -When they approached the garden gate, they saw the maid seated in a -chair against the wall, weeping. The dog lay asleep on the mat before -the door, under a broiling sun; two cats, that looked as if dead, lay -stretched out on the window-sills, with eyes closed and paws and tails -extended at full length. A great glossy hen was promenading before the -door, at the head of a flock of chickens, covered with yellow down, -and in a large cage hung against the wall, covered with chickweed, -were several birds, singing themselves hoarse in the light of this hot -spring morning. - -Two others, inseparable, in a little cage in the form of a cottage, -remained quiet, side by side on their perch. - -M. Cimme, a large, wheezy personage, who always entered a room first, -putting aside men and women when it was necessary, remarked to the -maid: "Eh, Celeste! Is it so bad as that?" - -The little maid sobbed through her tears: - -"She doesn't know me any more. The doctor says it is the end." - -They all looked at one another. - -Madame Cimme and Madame Columbel embraced each other instantly, not -saying a word. - -They resembled each other much, always wearing braids of hair and -shawls of red cashmere, as bright as hot coals. - -Cimme turned toward his brother-in-law, a pale man, yellow and thin, -tormented by indigestion, who limped badly, and said to him in a -serious tone: - -"Gad! It was time!" - -But no one dared to go into the room of the dying woman situated on -the ground floor. Cimme himself stopped at that step. Columbel was the -first to decide upon it; he entered, balancing himself like the mast of -a ship, making a noise on the floor with the iron of his cane. - -The two women ventured to follow, and M. Cimme brought up the line. - -Little Joseph remained outside, playing with the dog. - -A ray of sunlight fell on the bed, lighting up the hands which moved -nervously, opening and shutting without ceasing. The fingers moved -as if a thought animated them, as if they would signify something, -indicate some idea, obey some intelligence. The rest of the body -remained motionless under the covers. The angular figure gave no start. -The eyes remained closed. - -The relatives arranged themselves in a semicircle and, without saying a -word, regarded the heaving breast and the short breathing. The little -maid had followed them, still shedding tears. - -Finally, Cimme asked: "What was it the doctor said?" - -The servant whispered: "He said we should leave her quiet, that nothing -more could be done." - -Suddenly the lips of the old maid began to move. She seemed to -pronounce some silent words, concealed in her dying brain, and her -hands quickened their singular movement. - -Then she spoke in a little, thin voice, quite unlike her own, an -utterance that seemed to come from far off, perhaps from the bottom of -that heart always closed. - -Cimme walked upon tiptoe, finding this spectacle painful. Columbel, -whose lame leg wearied him, sat down. - -The two women remained standing. - -Queen Hortense muttered something quickly, which they were unable to -understand. She pronounced some names, called tenderly some imaginary -persons: - -"Come here, my little Philip, kiss your mother. You love mamma, don't -you, my child? You, Rose, you will watch your little sister while I am -out. Especially, don't leave her alone, do you hear? And I forbid you -to touch matches." - -She was silent some seconds; then, in a loud tone, as if she would -call, she said: "Henrietta!" She waited a little and continued: "Tell -your father to come and speak to me before going to his office." Then -suddenly: "I am suffering a little to-day, dear; promise me you will -not return late; you will tell your chief that I am ill. You know it is -dangerous to leave the children alone when I am in bed. I am going to -make you a dish of rice and sugar for dinner. The little ones like it -so much. Claire will be the happy one!" - -She began to laugh, a young and noisy laugh, as she had never laughed -before. "Look, John," she said, "what a droll head he has. He has -smeared himself with the sugarplums, the dirty thing! Look! my dear, -how funny he looks!" - -Columbel, who changed the position of his lame leg every moment, -murmured: "She is dreaming that she has children and a husband; the end -is near." - -The two sisters did not move, but seemed surprised and stupid. - -The little maid said: "Will you take off your hats and your shawls, and -go into the other room?" - -They went out without having said a word. And Columbel followed them -limping, leaving the dying woman alone again. - -When they were relieved of their outer garments, the women seated -themselves. Then one of the cats left the window, stretched herself, -jumped into the room, then upon the knees of Madame Cimme, who began to -caress her. - -They heard from the next room the voice of agony, living, without -doubt, in this last hour, the life she had expected, living her dreams -at the very moment when all would be finished for her. - -Cimme, in the garden, played with the little Joseph and the dog, -amusing himself much, with the gaiety of a great man in the country, -without thought of the dying woman. - -But suddenly he entered, addressing the maid: "Say, then, my girl, are -you going to give us some luncheon? What are you going to eat, ladies?" - -They decided upon an omelet of fine herbs, a piece of fillet with new -potatoes, a cheese, and a cup of coffee. - -And as Madame Columbel was fumbling in her pocket for her purse: Cimme -stopped her, and turning to the maid said, "You need money?" and she -answered: "Yes, sir." - -"How much?" - -"Fifteen francs." - -"Very well. Make haste, now, my girl, because I am getting hungry." - -Madame Cimme, looking out at the climbing flowers bathed in the -sunlight, and at two pigeons making love on the roof opposite, said, -with a wounded air: "It is unfortunate to have come for so sad an -event. It would be nice in the country, to-day." - -Her sister sighed without response, and Columbel murmured, moved -perhaps by the thought of a walk: - -"My leg plagues me awfully." - -Little Joseph and the dog made a terrible noise, one shouting with joy -and the other barking violently. They played at hide-and-seek around -the three flower-beds, running after each other like mad. - -The dying woman continued to call her children, chatting with each, -imagining that she was dressing them, that she caressed them, that she -was teaching them to read: "Come, Simon, repeat, A, B, C, D. You do -not say it well; see, D, D, D, do you hear? Repeat, then----" - -Cimme declared: "It is curious what she talks about at this time." - -Then said Madame Columbel: "It would be better, perhaps, to go in -there." - -But Cimme dissuaded her from it: - -"Why go in, since we are not able to do anything for her? Besides we -are as well off here." - -No one insisted. Madame observed the two green birds called -inseparable. She remarked pleasantly upon this singular fidelity, and -blamed men for not imitating these little creatures. Cimme looked -at his wife and laughed, singing with a bantering air, "Tra-la-la, -Tra-la-la," as if to say he could tell some things about her fidelity -to him. - -Columbel, taken with cramps in his stomach, struck the floor with his -cane. The other cat entered, tail in the air. They did not sit down at -table until one o'clock. - -When he had tasted the wine, Columbel, whom some one had recommended to -drink only choice Bordeaux, called the servant: - -"Say, is there nothing better than this in the cellar?" - -"Yes, sir; there is some of the wine that was served to you when you -were here before." - -"Oh, well, go and bring three bottles." - -They tasted this wine, which seemed excellent. Not that it proved to be -remarkable, but it had been fifteen years in the cellar. Cimme declared -it was just the wine for sickness. - -Columbel, seized with a desire of possessing some of it, asked of the -maid: "How much is left of it, my girl?" - -"Oh, nearly all, sir; Miss never drinks any of it. It is the heap at -the bottom." - -Then Columbel turned toward his brother-in-law: "If you wish, Cimme, I -will take this wine instead of anything else; it agrees with my stomach -wonderfully." - -The hen, in her turn, had entered with her troop of chickens; the two -women amused themselves by throwing crumbs to them. Joseph and the dog, -who had eaten enough, returned to the garden. - -Queen Hortense spoke continually, but the voice was lower now, so that -it was no longer possible to distinguish the words. - -When they had finished the coffee, they all went in to learn the -condition of the sick one. She seemed calm. - -They went out and seated themselves in a circle in the garden, to aid -digestion. - -Presently the dog began to run around the chairs with all speed, -carrying something in his mouth. The child ran after him violently. -Both disappeared into the house. Cimme fell asleep, with his stomach in -the sun. - -The dying one began to speak loud again. Then suddenly she shouted. - -The two women and Columbel hastened in to see what had happened. Cimme -awakened but did not move, liking better things as they were. - -The dying woman was sitting up, staring with haggard eyes. Her dog, -to escape the pursuit of little Joseph, had jumped upon the bed, -startling her from the death agony. The dog was intrenched behind the -pillow, peeping at his comrade with eyes glistening, ready to jump -again at the least movement. He held in his mouth one of the slippers -of his mistress, shorn of its heel in the hour he had played with it. - -The child, intimidated by the woman rising so suddenly before him, -remained motionless before the bed. - -The hen, having just entered, had jumped upon a chair, frightened -by the noise. She called desperately to her chickens, which peeped, -frightened, from under the four legs of the seat. - -Queen Hortense cried out with a piercing tone: "No, no, I do not wish -to die! I am not willing! Who will bring up my children? Who will care -for them? Who will love them? No, I am not willing! I am not----" - -She turned on her back. All was over. - -The dog, much excited, jumped into the room and skipped about. - -Columbel ran to the window and called his brother-in-law: "Come -quickly! come quickly! I believe she is gone." - -Then Cimme got up and resolutely went into the room, muttering: "It was -not as long as I should have believed." - - - - -COMPLICATION - - -After swearing for a long time that he would never marry, Jack -Boudillère suddenly changed his mind. It happened one summer at the -seashore, quite unexpectedly. - -One morning, as he was extended on the sand, watching the women come -out of the water, a little foot caught his attention, because of its -slimness and delicacy. Raising his eyes higher, the entire person -seemed attractive. Of this entire person he had, however, seen only -the ankles and the head, emerging from a white flannel bathing suit, -fastened with care. He may be called sensuous and impressionable, but -it was by grace of form alone that he was captured. Afterward, he was -held by the charm and sweet spirit of the young girl, who was simple -and good and fresh, like her cheeks and her lips. - -Presented to the family, he was pleased, and straightway became -love-mad. When he saw Bertha Lannis at a distance, on the long stretch -of yellow sand, he trembled from head to foot. Near her he was dumb, -incapable of saying anything or even of thinking, with a kind of -bubbling in his heart, a humming in his ears, and a frightened feeling -in his mind. Was this love? - -He did not know, he understood nothing of it, but the fact remained -that he was fully decided to make this child his wife. - -Her parents hesitated a long time, deterred by the bad reputation of -the young man. He had a mistress, it was said,--an old mistress, an old -and strong entanglement, one of those chains that is believed to be -broken, but which continues to hold, nevertheless. Beyond this, he had -loved, for a longer or shorter period, every woman who had come within -reach of his lips. - -But he withdrew from the woman with whom he had lived, not even -consenting to see her again. A friend arranged her pension, assuring -her a subsistence. Jack paid, but he did not wish to speak to her, -pretending henceforth that he did not know her name. She wrote letters -which he would not open. Each week brought him a new disguise in the -handwriting of the abandoned one. Each week a greater anger developed -in him against her, and he would tear the envelope in two, without -opening it, without reading a line, knowing beforehand the reproaches -and complaints of the contents. - -One could scarcely credit her perseverance, which lasted the whole -winter long, and it was not until spring that her demand was satisfied. - -The marriage took place in Paris during the early part of May. It was -decided that they should not take the regular wedding journey. After a -little ball, composed of a company of young cousins who would not stay -past eleven o'clock, and would not prolong forever the cares of the day -of ceremony, the young couple intended to pass their first night at the -family home and to set out the next morning for the seaside, where they -had met and loved. - -The night came, and they were dancing in the great drawing-room. The -newly-married pair had withdrawn from the rest into a little Japanese -boudoir shut off by silk hangings, and scarcely lighted this evening, -except by the dim rays from a colored lantern in the shape of an -enormous egg, which hung from the ceiling. The long window was open, -allowing at times a fresh breath of air from without to blow upon -their faces, for the evening was soft and warm, full of the odor of -springtime. - -They said nothing, but held each other's hands, pressing them from time -to time with all their force. She was a little dismayed by this great -change in her life, but smiling, emotional, ready to weep, often ready -to swoon from joy, believing the entire world changed because of what -had come to her, a little disturbed without knowing the reason why, -and feeling all her body, all her soul, enveloped in an indefinable, -delicious lassitude. - -Her husband she watched persistently, smiling at him with a fixed -smile. He wished to talk but found nothing to say, and remained quiet, -putting all his ardor into the pressure of the hand. From time to time -he murmured "Bertha!" and each time she raised her eyes to his with a -sweet and tender look. They would look at each other a moment, then his -eyes, fascinated by hers, would fall. - -They discovered no thought to exchange. But they were alone, except as -a dancing couple would sometimes cast a glance at them in passing, a -furtive glance, as if it were the discreet and confidential witness of -a mystery. - -A door at the side opened, a domestic entered, bearing upon a tray an -urgent letter which a messenger had brought. Jack trembled as he took -it, seized with a vague and sudden fear, the mysterious, abrupt fear of -misfortune. - -He looked long at the envelope, not knowing the handwriting, nor daring -to open it, wishing not to read, not to know the contents, desiring to -put it in his pocket and to say to himself: "To-morrow, to-morrow, I -shall be far away and it will not matter!" But upon the corner were two -words underlined: _very urgent_, which frightened him. "You will permit -me, my dear," said he, and he tore off the wrapper. He read the letter, -growing frightfully pale, running over it at a glance, and then seeming -to spell it out. - -When he raised his head his whole countenance was changed. He -stammered: "My dear little one, a great misfortune has happened to -my best friend. He needs me immediately, in a matter of--of life and -death. Allow me to go for twenty minutes. I will return immediately." - -She, trembling and affrighted, murmured: "Go, my friend!" not yet being -enough of a wife to dare to ask or demand to know anything. And he -disappeared. She remained alone, listening to the dance music in the -next room. - -He had taken a hat, the first he could find, and descended the -staircase upon the run. As soon as he was mingled with the people on -the street, he stopped under a gaslight in a vestibule and re-read the -letter. It said: - - "SIR: The Ravet girl, your old mistress, has given birth to - a child which she asserts is yours. The mother is dying and - implores you to visit her. I take the liberty of writing - to you to ask whether you will grant the last wish of this - woman, who seems to be very unhappy and worthy of pity. - "Your servant, D. BONNARD." - -When he entered the chamber of death, she was already in the last -agony. He would not have known her. The physician and the two nurses -were caring for her, dragging across the room some buckets full of ice -and linen. - -Water covered the floor, two tapers were burning on a table; behind -the bed, in a little wicker cradle, a child was crying, and, with each -of its cries, the mother would try to move, shivering under the icy -compresses. - -She was bleeding, wounded to death, killed by this birth. Her life was -slipping away; and, in spite of the ice, in spite of all care, the -hemorrhage continued, hastening her last hour. - -She recognized Jack, and tried to raise her hand. She was too weak for -that, but the warm tears began to glide down her cheeks. - -He fell on his knees beside the bed, seized one of her hands and kissed -it frantically; then, little by little, he approached nearer to the -wan face which strained to meet him. One of the nurses, standing with -a taper in her hand, observed them, and the doctor looked at them from -the remote corner of the room. - -With a far-off voice, breathing hard, she said: "I am going to die, my -dear; promise me you will remain till the end. Oh! do not leave me now, -not at the last moment!" - -He kissed her brow, her hair with a groan. "Be tranquil!" he murmured, -"I will stay." - -It was some minutes before she was able to speak again, she was so weak -and overcome. Then she continued: "It is yours, the little one. I swear -it before God, I swear it to you upon my soul, I swear it at the moment -of death. I have never loved any man but you--promise me not to abandon -it----" He tried to take in his arms the poor, weak body, emptied of -its life blood. He stammered, excited by remorse and chagrin: "I swear -to you I will bring it up and love it. It shall never be separated from -me." Then she held Jack in an embrace. Powerless to raise her head, she -held up her blanched lips in an appeal for a kiss. He bent his mouth to -receive this poor, suppliant caress. - -Calmed a little, she murmured in a low tone: "Take it, that I may see -that you love it." - -He went to the cradle and took up the child. - -He placed it gently on the bed between them. The little creature ceased -to cry. She whispered: "Do not stir!" And he remained motionless. There -he stayed, holding in his burning palms a hand that shook with the -shiver of death, as he had held, an hour before, another hand that had -trembled with the shiver of love. From time to time he looked at the -hour, with a furtive glance of the eye, watching the hand as it passed -midnight, then one o'clock, then two. - -The doctor retired. The two nurses, after roaming around for some time -with light step, slept now in their chairs. The child slept, and the -mother, whose eyes were closed, seemed to be resting also. - -Suddenly, as the pale daylight began to filter through the torn -curtains, she extended her arms with so startling and violent a motion -that she almost threw the child upon the floor. There was a rattling in -her throat; then she turned over motionless, dead. - -The nurses hastened to her side, declaring: "It is over." - -He looked once at this woman he had loved, then at the hand that marked -four o'clock, and, forgetting his overcoat, fled in his evening clothes -with the child in his arms. - -After she had been left alone, his young bride had waited calmly -at first, in the Japanese boudoir. Then, seeing that he did not -return, she went back to the drawing-room, indifferent and tranquil -in appearance, but frightfully disturbed. Her mother, perceiving her -alone, asked where her husband was. She replied: "In his room; he will -return presently." - -At the end of an hour, as everybody asked about him, she told of the -letter, of the change in Jack's face, and her fears of some misfortune. - -They still waited. The guests had gone; only the parents and near -relatives remained. At midnight, they put the bride in her bed, shaking -with sobs. Her mother and two aunts were seated on the bed listening -to her weeping. Her father had gone to the police headquarters to make -inquiries. At five o'clock a light sound was heard in the corridor. The -door opened and closed softly. Then suddenly a cry, like the miauling -of a cat, went through the house, breaking the silence. - -All the women of the house were out with one bound, and Bertha was the -first to spring forward, in spite of her mother and her aunts, clothed -only in her night-robe. - -Jack, standing in the middle of the room, livid, breathing hard, held -the child in his arms. - -The four women looked at him frightened; but Bertha suddenly became -rash, her heart wrung with anguish, and ran to him saying: "What is it? -What have you there?" - -He had a foolish air, and answered in a husky voice: "It is--it is--I -have here a child, whose mother has just died." And he put into her -arms the howling little marmot. - -Bertha, without saying a word, seized the child and embraced it, -straining it to her heart. Then, turning toward her husband with -her eyes full of tears, she said: "The mother is dead, you say?" He -answered: "Yes, just died--in my arms--I had broken with her since last -summer--I knew nothing about it--only the doctor sent for me and----" - -Then Bertha murmured: "Well, we will bring up this little one." - - - - -FORGIVENESS - - -She had been brought up in one of those families who live shut up -within themselves, entirely apart from the rest of the world. They pay -no attention to political events, except to chat about them at table, -and changes in government seem so far, so very far away that they are -spoken of only as a matter of history--like the death of Louis XVI., or -the advent of Napoleon. - -Customs change, fashions succeed each other, but changes are never -perceptible in this family, where old traditions are always followed. -And if some impossible story arises in the neighborhood, the scandal of -it dies at the threshold of this house. - -The father and mother, alone in the evening, sometimes exchange a few -words on such a subject, but in an undertone, as if the walls had ears. - -With great discretion, the father says: "Do you know about this -terrible affair in the Rivoil family?" - -And the mother replies: "Who would have believed it? It is frightful!" - -The children doubt nothing, but come to the age of living, in their -turn, with a bandage over their eyes and minds, without a suspicion of -any other kind of existence, without knowing that one does not always -think as he speaks, nor speak as he acts, without knowing that it is -necessary to live at war with the world, or at least, in armed peace, -without surmising that the ingenuous are frequently deceived, the -sincere trifled with, and the good wronged. - -Some live until death in this blindness of probity, loyalty, and honor; -so upright that nothing can open their eyes. Others, undeceived, -without knowing much, are weighed down with despair, and die believing -that they are the puppets of an exceptional fatality, the miserable -victims of unlucky circumstance or particularly bad men. - -The Savignols arranged a marriage for their daughter when she was -eighteen. She married a young man from Paris, George Barton, whose -business was on the Exchange. He was an attractive youth, with a -smooth tongue, and he observed all the outward proprieties necessary. -But at the bottom of his heart he sneered a little at his guileless -parents-in-law, calling them, among his friends, "My dear fossils." - -He belonged to a good family, and the young girl was rich. He took her -to live in Paris. - -She became one of the provincials of Paris, of whom there are many. -She remained ignorant of the great city, of its elegant people, of -its pleasures and its customs, as she had always been ignorant of the -perfidy and mystery of life. - -Shut up in her own household, she scarcely knew the street she lived -in, and when she ventured into another quarter, it seemed to her that -she had journeyed far, into an unknown, strange city. She would say in -the evening: - -"I crossed the boulevards to-day." - -Two or three times a year, her husband took her to the theater. These -were feast-days not to be forgotten, which she recalled continually. - -Sometimes at table, three months afterward, she would suddenly burst -out laughing and exclaim: - -"Do you remember that ridiculous actor who imitated the cock's crowing?" - -All her interests were within the boundaries of the two allied -families, who represented the whole of humanity to her. She designated -them by the distinguishing prefix "the," calling them respectively "the -Martinets," or "the Michelins." - -Her husband lived according to his fancy, returning whenever he wished, -sometimes at daybreak, pretending business, and feeling in no way -constrained, so sure was he that no suspicion would ruffle this candid -soul. - -But one morning she received an anonymous letter. She was too much -astonished and dismayed to scorn this letter, whose author declared -himself to be moved by interest in her happiness, by hatred of all -evil and love of truth. Her heart was too pure to understand fully the -meaning of the accusations. - -But it revealed to her that her husband had had a mistress for two -years, a young widow, Mrs. Rosset, at whose house he passed his -evenings. - -She knew neither how to pretend, nor to spy, nor to plan any sort of -ruse. When he returned for luncheon, she threw him the letter, sobbing, -and then fled to her room. - -He had time to comprehend the matter and prepare his response before he -rapped at his wife's door. She opened it immediately, without looking -at him. He smiled, sat down, and drew her to his knee. In a sweet -voice, and a little jocosely, he said: - -"My dear little one, Mrs. Rosset is a friend of mine. I have known her -for ten years and like her very much. I may add that I know twenty -other families of whom I have not spoken to you, knowing that you care -nothing for the world or for forming new friendships. But in order to -finish, once for all, these infamous lies, I will ask you to dress -yourself, after luncheon, and we will go to pay a visit to this young -lady, who will become your friend at once, I am sure." She embraced -her husband eagerly; and, from feminine curiosity, which no sooner -sleeps than wakes again, she did not refuse to go to see this unknown -woman, of whom, in spite of all, she was still suspicious. She felt by -instinct that a known danger is sooner overcome. - -They were ushered into a little apartment on the fourth floor of a -handsome house. It was a coquettish little place, full of bric-à-brac -and ornamented with works of art. After about five minutes' waiting, -in a drawing-room where the light was dimmed by its generous window -draperies and portières, a door opened and a young woman appeared. She -was very dark, small, rather plump, and looked astonished, although she -smiled. George presented them. "My wife, Madame Julie Rosset." - -The young widow uttered a little cry of astonishment and joy, and came -forward with both hands extended. She had not hoped for this happiness, -she said, knowing that Madame Barton saw no one. But she was so happy! -She was so fond of George! (She said George quite naturally, with -sisterly familiarity.) And she had had great desire to know his young -wife, and to love her, too. - -At the end of a month these two friends were never apart from each -other. They met every day, often twice a day, and nearly always dined -together, either at one house or at the other. George scarcely ever -went out now, no longer pretended delay on account of business, but -said he loved his own chimney corner. - -Finally, an apartment was left vacant in the house where Madame Rosset -resided. Madame Barton hastened to take it in order to be nearer her -new friend. - -During two whole years there was a friendship between them without a -cloud, a friendship of heart and soul, tender, devoted, and delightful. -Bertha could not speak without mentioning Julie's name, for to her -Julie represented perfection. She was happy with a perfect happiness, -calm and secure. - -But Madame Rosset fell ill. Bertha never left her. She passed nights of -despair; her husband, too, was broken-hearted. - -One morning, in going out from his visit the doctor took George and his -wife aside, and announced that he found the condition of their friend -very grave. - -When he had gone out, the young people, stricken down, looked at each -other and then began to weep. They both watched that night near the -bed. Bertha would embrace the sick one tenderly, while George, standing -silently at the foot of her couch, would look at them with dogged -persistence. The next day she was worse. - -Finally, toward evening, she declared herself better, and persuaded her -friends to go home to dinner. - -They were sitting sadly at table, scarcely eating anything, when the -maid brought George an envelope. He opened it, turned pale, and rising, -said to his wife, in a constrained way: "Excuse me, I must leave you -for a moment. I will return in ten minutes. Please don't go out." And -he ran into his room for his hat. - -Bertha waited, tortured by a new fear. But, yielding in all things, she -would not go up to her friend's room again until he had returned. - -As he did not re-appear, the thought came to her to look in his room to -see whether he had taken his gloves, which would show whether he had -really gone somewhere. - -She saw them there, at first glance. Near them lay a rumpled paper. - -She recognized it immediately; it was the one that had called George -away. - -And a burning temptation took possession of her, the first of her life, -to read--to know. Her conscience struggled in revolt, but curiosity -lashed her on and grief directed her hand. She seized the paper, opened -it, recognized the trembling handwriting as that of Julie, and read: - - "Come alone and embrace me, my poor friend; I am going to - die." - -She could not understand it all at once, but stood stupefied, struck -especially by the thought of death. Then, suddenly, the familiarity of -it seized upon her mind. This came like a great light, illuminating -her whole life, showing her the infamous truth, all their treachery, -all their perfidy. She saw now their cunning, their sly looks, her -good faith played with, her confidence turned to account. She saw -them looking into each other's faces, under the shade of her lamp at -evening, reading from the same book, exchanging glances at the end of -certain pages. - -And her heart, stirred with indignation, bruised with suffering, sunk -into an abyss of despair that had no boundaries. - -When she heard steps, she fled and shut herself in her room. - -Her husband called her: "Come quickly, Madame Rosset is dying!" - -Bertha appeared at her door and said with trembling lip: - -"Go alone to her; she has no need of me." - -He looked at her sheepishly, careless from anger, and repeated: - -"Quick, quick! She is dying!" - -Bertha answered: "You would prefer it to be I." - -Then he understood, probably, and left her to herself, going up again -to the dying one. - -There he wept without fear, or shame, indifferent to the grief of his -wife, who would no longer speak to him, nor look at him, but who lived -shut in with her disgust and angry revolt, praying to God morning and -evening. - -They lived together, nevertheless, eating together face to face, mute -and hopeless. - -After a time, he tried to appease her a little. But she would not -forget. And so the life continued, hard for them both. - -For a whole year they lived thus, strangers one to the other. Bertha -almost became mad. - -Then one morning, having set out at dawn, she returned toward eight -o'clock carrying in both hands an enormous bouquet of roses, of white -roses, all white. - -She sent word to her husband that she would like to speak to him. He -came in disturbed, troubled. - -"Let us go out together," she said to him. "Take these flowers, they -are too heavy for me." - -He took the bouquet and followed his wife. A carriage awaited them, -which started as soon as they were seated. - -It stopped before the gate of a cemetery. Then Bertha, her eyes full of -tears, said to George: "Take me to her grave." - -He trembled, without knowing why, but walked on before, holding the -flowers in his arms. Finally he stopped before a shaft of white marble -and pointed to it without a word. - -She took the bouquet from him, and, kneeling, placed it at the foot of -the grave. Then her heart was raised in suppliant, silent prayer. - -Her husband stood behind her, weeping, haunted by memories. - -She arose and put out her hands to him. - -"If you wish, we will be friends," she said. - - - - -THE WHITE WOLF - - -This is the story the old Marquis d'Arville told us after a dinner in -honor of Saint-Hubert, at the house of Baron des Ravels. They had run -down a stag that day. The Marquis was the only one of the guests who -had not taken part in the chase. He never hunted. - -During the whole of the long repast, they had talked of scarcely -anything but the massacre of animals. Even the ladies interested -themselves in the sanguinary and often unlikely stories, while the -orators mimicked the attacks and combats between man and beast, raising -their arms and speaking in thunderous tones. - -M. d'Arville talked much, with a certain poesy, a little flourish, -but full of effect. He must have repeated this story often, it ran so -smoothly, never halting at a choice of words in which to clothe an -image. - -"Gentlemen, I never hunt, nor did my father, nor my grandfather, nor -my great-great-grandfather. The last named was the son of a man who -hunted more than all of you. He died in 1764. I will tell you how. He -was named John, and was married, and became the father of the man who -was my great-great-grandfather. He lived with his younger brother, -Francis d'Arville, in our castle, in the midst of a deep forest in -Lorraine. - -"Francis d'Arville always remained a boy through his love for hunting. -They both hunted from one end of the year to the other without -cessation or weariness. They loved nothing else, understood nothing -else, talked only of this, and lived for this alone. - -"They were possessed by this terrible, inexorable passion. It consumed -them, having taken entire control of them, leaving no place for -anything else. They had agreed not to put off the chase for any reason -whatsoever. My great-great-grandfather was born while his father was -following a fox, but John d'Arville did not interrupt his sport, -and swore that the little beggar might have waited until after the -death-cry! His brother Francis showed himself still more hot-headed -than he. The first thing on rising, he would go to see the dogs, then -the horses; then he would shoot some birds about the place, even when -about to set out hunting big game. - -"They were called in the country Monsieur the Marquis and Monsieur the -Cadet, noblemen then not acting as do those of our time, who wish to -establish in their titles a descending scale of rank, for the son of a -marquis is no more a count, or the son of a viscount a baron, than the -son of a general is a colonel by birth. But the niggardly vanity of -the day finds profit in this arrangement. To return to my ancestors: - -"They were, it appears, immoderately large, bony, hairy, violent, and -vigorous. The younger one was taller than the elder, and had such a -voice that, according to a legend he was very proud of, all the leaves -of the forest moved when he shouted. - -"And when mounted, ready for the chase, it must have been a superb -sight to see these two giants astride their great horses. - -"Toward the middle of the winter of that year, 1764, the cold was -excessive and the wolves became ferocious. - -"They even attacked belated peasants, roamed around houses at night, -howled from sunset to sunrise, and ravaged the stables. - -"At one time a rumor was circulated. It was said that a colossal wolf, -of grayish-white color, which had eaten two children, devoured the arm -of a woman, strangled all the watchdogs of the country, was now coming -without fear into the house inclosures and smelling around the doors. -Many inhabitants affirmed that they had felt his breath, which made the -lights flicker. Shortly a panic ran through all the province. No one -dared to go out after nightfall. The very shadows seemed haunted by the -image of this beast. - -"The brothers D'Arville resolved to find and slay him. So they called -together for a grand chase all the gentlemen of the country. - -"It was in vain. They had beaten the forests and scoured the thickets, -but had seen nothing of him. They killed wolves, but not that one. And -each night after such a chase, the beast, as if to avenge himself, -attacked some traveler, or devoured some cattle, always far from the -place where they had sought him. - -"Finally, one night he found a way into the swine-house of the castle -D'Arville and ate two beauties of the best breed. - -"The two brothers were furious, interpreting the attack as one of -bravado on the part of the monster--a direct injury, a defiance. -Therefore, taking all their best-trained hounds, they set out to run -down the beast, with courage excited by anger. - -"From dawn until the sun descended behind the great nut-trees, they -beat about the forests with no result. - -"At last, both of them, angry and disheartened, turned their horses' -steps into a bypath bordered by brushwood. They were marveling at the -baffling power of this wolf, when suddenly they were seized with a -mysterious fear. - -"The elder said: - -"'This can be no ordinary beast. One might say he can think like a man.' - -"The younger replied: - -"'Perhaps we should get our cousin, the Bishop, to bless a bullet for -him, or ask a priest to pronounce some words to help us.' - -"Then they were silent. - -"John continued: 'Look at the sun, how red it is. The great wolf will -do mischief to-night.' - -"He had scarcely finished speaking when his horse reared. Francis's -horse started to run at the same time. A large bush covered with dead -leaves rose before them, and a colossal beast, grayish white, sprang -out, scampering away through the wood. - -"Both gave a grunt of satisfaction, and bending to the necks of their -heavy horses, they urged them on with the weight of their bodies, -exciting them, hastening with voice and spur, until these strong -riders seemed to carry the weight of their beasts between their knees, -carrying them by force as if they were flying. - -"Thus they rode, crashing through forests, crossing ravines, climbing -up the sides of steep gorges, and sounding the horn, at frequent -intervals, to arouse the people and the dogs of the neighborhood. - -"But suddenly, in the course of this breakneck ride, my ancestor struck -his forehead against a large branch and fractured his skull. He fell to -the ground as if dead, while his frightened horse disappeared in the -surrounding thicket. - -"The younger D'Arville stopped short, sprang to the ground, seized his -brother in his arms, and saw that he had lost consciousness. - -"He sat down beside him, took his disfigured head upon his knees, -looking earnestly at the lifeless face. Little by little a fear crept -over him, a strange fear that he had never before felt, fear of -the shadows, of the solitude, of the lonely woods, and also of the -chimerical wolf, which had now come to be the death of his brother. - -"The shadows deepened, the branches of the trees crackled in the sharp -cold. Francis arose shivering, incapable of remaining there longer, -and already feeling his strength fail. There was nothing to be heard, -neither the voice of dogs nor the sound of a horn; all within this -invisible horizon was mute. And in this gloomy silence and the chill of -evening there was something strange and frightful. - -"With his powerful hands he seized John's body and laid it across -the saddle to take it home; then mounted gently behind it, his mind -troubled by horrible, supernatural images, as if he were possessed. - -"Suddenly, in the midst of these fears, a great form passed. It was -the wolf. A violent fit of terror seized upon the hunter; something -cold, like a stream of ice-water seemed to glide through his veins, -and he made the sign of the cross, like a monk haunted with devils, so -dismayed was he by the reappearance of the frightful wanderer. Then, -his eyes falling upon the inert body before him, his fear was quickly -changed to anger, and he trembled with inordinate rage. - -"He pricked his horse and darted after him. - -"He followed him through copses, over ravines, and around great forest -trees, traversing woods that he no longer recognized, his eye fixed -upon a white spot, which was ever flying from him as night covered the -earth. - -"His horse also seemed moved by an unknown force. He galloped on with -neck extended, crashing over small trees and rocks, with the body of -the dead stretched across him on the saddle. Brambles caught in his -mane; his head, where it had struck the trunks of trees, was spattered -with blood; the marks of the spurs were over his flanks. - -"Suddenly the animal and its rider came out of the forest, rushing -through a valley as the moon appeared above the hills. This valley was -stony and shut in by enormous rocks, over which it was impossible to -pass; there was no other way for the wolf but to turn on his steps. - -"Francis gave such a shout of joy and revenge that the echo of it was -like the roll of thunder. He leaped from his horse, knife in hand. - -"The bristling beast, with rounded back, was awaiting him; his eyes -shining like two stars. But before joining in battle, the strong -hunter, grasping his brother, seated him upon a rock, supporting his -head, which was now but a mass of blood, with stones, and cried aloud -to him, as to one deaf: 'Look, John! Look here!' - -"Then he threw himself upon the monster. He felt himself strong enough -to overthrow a mountain, to crush the very rocks in his hands. The -beast meant to kill him by sinking his claws in his vitals; but the man -had seized him by the throat, without even making use of his weapon, -and strangled him gently, waiting until his breath stopped and he could -hear the death-rattle at his heart. And he laughed, with the joy of -dismay, clutching more and more with a terrible hold, and crying out in -his delirium: 'Look, John! Look!' All resistance ceased. The body of -the wolf was limp. He was dead. - -"Then Francis, taking him in his arms, threw him down at the feet of -his elder brother, crying out in expectant voice: 'Here, here, my -little John, here he is!' - -"Then he placed upon the saddle the two bodies, the one above the -other, and started on his way. - -"He returned to the castle laughing and weeping, like Gargantua at the -birth of Pantagruel, shouting in triumph and stamping with delight in -relating the death of the beast, and moaning and tearing at his beard -in calling the name of his brother. - -"Often, later, when he recalled this day, he would declare, with tears -in his eyes: 'If only poor John had seen me strangle the beast, he -would have died content, I am sure!' - -"The widow of my ancestor inspired in her son a horror of the chase, -which was transmitted from father to son down to myself." - -The Marquis d'Arville was silent. Some one asked: "Is the story a -legend or not?" - -And the narrator replied: - -"I swear to you it is true from beginning to end." - -Then a lady, in a sweet little voice, declared: - -"It is beautiful to have passions like that." - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Notre Coeur or A Woman's Pastime, by -Guy de Maupassant - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NOTRE COEUR OR A WOMAN'S PASTIME *** - -***** This file should be named 50477-0.txt or 50477-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/0/4/7/50477/ - -Produced by Dagny and Marc D'Hooghe at -http://www.freeliterature.org (Images generously made -available by the Hathi Trust.) - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Notre Coeur or A Woman's Pastime - A Novel - -Author: Guy de Maupassant - -Release Date: November 18, 2015 [EBook #50477] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NOTRE COEUR OR A WOMAN'S PASTIME *** - - - - -Produced by Dagny and Marc D'Hooghe at -http://www.freeliterature.org (Images generously made -available by the Hathi Trust.) - - - - - - -</pre> - - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="500" alt="" /> -</div> -<h1>NOTRE CŒUR</h1> - -<h4>OR</h4> - -<h2>A WOMAN'S PASTIME</h2> - -<h4><i>A NOVEL</i></h4> - - -<h3><i>By</i></h3> - -<h2>GUY DE MAUPASSANT</h2> - - -<h5>SAINT DUNSTAN SOCIETY</h5> - -<h5>AKRON, OHIO</h5> - -<h5>1903</h5> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;"> -<img src="images/maupassant.jpg" width="450" alt="" /> -</div> - - -<h4>CONTENTS</h4> -<p class="center" style="font-size: 0.8em;"> -<a href="#GUY_DE_MAUPASSANT">GUY DE MAUPASSANT</a> - Critical Preface: Paul Bourget<br /> -<a href="#INTRODUCTION">INTRODUCTION</a> - Robert Arnot, M. A.<br /> -<br /> -<a href="#NOTRE_COEUR">NOTRE CŒUR</a><br /> -<br /> -CHAPTER I.<br /> -<a href="#CHAPTER_I">THE INTRODUCTION</a><br /> -<br /> -CHAPTER II.<br /> -<a href="#CHAPTER_II">"WILL YOU WALK INTO MY PARLOR?"</a><br /> -<br /> -CHAPTER III.<br /> -<a href="#CHAPTER_III">THE THORNS OF THE ROSE</a><br /> -<br /> -CHAPTER IV.<br /> -<a href="#CHAPTER_IV">THE BENEFIT OF CHANGE OF SCENE</a><br /> -<br /> -CHAPTER V.<br /> -<a href="#CHAPTER_V">CONSPIRACY</a><br /> -<br /> -CHAPTER VI.<br /> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VI">QUESTIONINGS</a><br /> -<br /> -CHAPTER VII.<br /> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VII">DEPRESSION</a><br /> -<br /> -CHAPTER VIII.<br /> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">NEW HOPES</a><br /> -<br /> -CHAPTER IX.<br /> -<a href="#CHAPTER_IX">DISILLUSION</a><br /> -<br /> -CHAPTER X.<br /> -<a href="#CHAPTER_X">FLIGHT</a><br /> -<br /> -CHAPTER XI.<br /> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XI">LONELINESS</a><br /> -<br /> -CHAPTER XII.<br /> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XII">CONSOLATION</a><br /> -<br /> -CHAPTER XIII.<br /> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">MARIOLLE COPIES MME. DE BURNE</a><br /> -<br /> -<br /> -<a href="#THE_OLIVE_GROVE_a">ADDENDA</a><br /> -<br /> -<a href="#THE_OLIVE_GROVE">THE OLIVE GROVE</a><br /> -<a href="#REVENGE">REVENGE</a><br /> -<a href="#AN_OLD_MAID">AN OLD MAID</a><br /> -<a href="#COMPLICATION">COMPLICATION</a><br /> -<a href="#FORGIVENESS">FORGIVENESS</a><br /> -<a href="#THE_WHITE_WOLF">THE WHITE WOLF</a><br /> -</p> -<hr class="tb" /> - -<h5>ILLUSTRATIONS</h5> - -<p class="center" style="font-size: 0.8em;">HENRI RENE GUY DE MAUPASSANT<br /> -"THEY WERE ALONE ... SHE WAS WEEPING"</p> -<hr class="tb" /> -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/img002.jpg" width="500" alt="" /> -</div> - - - - - -<h4><a id="GUY_DE_MAUPASSANT"></a>GUY DE MAUPASSANT</h4> - - -<p>Of the French writers of romance of the latter part of the nineteenth -century no one made a reputation as quickly as did Guy de Maupassant. -Not one has preserved that reputation with more ease, not only during -life, but in death. None so completely hides his personality in -his glory. In an epoch of the utmost publicity, in which the most -insignificant deeds of a celebrated man are spied, recorded, and -commented on, the author of "Boule de Suif," of "Pierre et Jean," of -"Notre Cœur," found a way of effacing his personality in his work.</p> - -<p>Of De Maupassant we know that he was born in Normandy about 1850; that -he was the favorite pupil, if one may so express it, the literary -<i>protégé</i>, of Gustave Flaubert; that he made his <i>début</i> late in 1880, -with a novel inserted in a small collection, published by Emile Zola -and his young friends, under the title: "The Soirées of Medan"; that -subsequently he did not fail to publish stories and romances every year -up to 1891, when a disease of the brain struck him down in the fullness -of production; and that he died, finally, in 1893, without having -recovered his reason.</p> - -<p>We know, too, that he passionately loved a strenuous physical life -and long journeys, particularly long journeys upon the sea. He owned -a little sailing yacht, named after one of his books, "Bel-Ami," in -which he used to sojourn for weeks and months. These meager details are -almost the only ones that have been gathered as food for the curiosity -of the public.</p> - -<p>I leave the legendary side, which is always in evidence in the case -of a celebrated man,—that gossip, for example, which avers that -Maupassant was a high liver and a worldling. The very number of his -volumes is a protest to the contrary. One could not write so large -a number of pages in so small a number of years without the virtue -of industry, a virtue incompatible with habits of dissipation. This -does not mean that the writer of these great romances had no love for -pleasure and had not tasted the world, but that for him these were -secondary things. The psychology of his work ought, then, to find an -interpretation other than that afforded by wholly false or exaggerated -anecdotes. I wish to indicate here how this work, illumined by the -three or four positive data which I have given, appears to me to demand -it.</p> - -<p>And first, what does that anxiety to conceal his personality prove, -carried as it was to such an extreme degree? The answer rises -spontaneously in the minds of those who have studied closely the -history of literature. The absolute silence about himself, preserved by -one whose position among us was that of a Tourgenief, or of a Mérimée, -and of a Molière or a Shakespeare among the classic great, reveals, to -a person of instinct, a nervous sensibility of extreme depth. There -are many chances for an artist of his kind, however timid, or for one -who has some grief, to show the depth of his emotion. To take up again -only two of the names just cited, this was the case with the author of -"Terres Vierges," and with the writer of "Colomba."</p> - -<p>A somewhat minute analysis of the novels and romances of Maupassant -would suffice to demonstrate, even if we did not know the nature of the -incidents which prompted them, that he also suffered from an excess of -nervous emotionalism. Nine times out of ten, what is the subject of -these stories to which freedom of style gives the appearance of health? -A tragic episode. I cite, at random, "Mademoiselle Fifi," "La Petite -Roque," "Inutile Beauté," "Le Masque," "Le Horla," "L'Épreuve," "Le -Champ d'Oliviers," among the novels, and among the romances, "Une Vie," -"Pierre et Jean," "Fort comme la Mort," "Notre Cœur." His imagination -aims to represent the human being as imprisoned in a situation at once -insupportable and inevitable. The spell of this grief and trouble -exerts such a power upon the writer that he ends stories commenced in -pleasantry with some sinister drama. Let me instance "Saint-Antonin," -"A Midnight Revel," "The Little Cask," and "Old Amable." You close the -book at the end of these vigorous sketches, and feel how surely they -point to constant suffering on the part of him who executed them.</p> - -<p>This is the leading trait in the literary physiognomy of Maupassant, -as it is the leading and most profound trait in the psychology of his -work, viz., that human life is a snare laid by nature, where joy is -always changed to misery, where noble words and the highest professions -of faith serve the lowest plans and the most cruel egoism, where -chagrin, crime, and folly are forever on hand to pursue implacably our -hopes, nullify our virtues, and annihilate our wisdom. But this is not -the whole.</p> - -<p>Maupassant has been called a literary nihilist—but (and this is the -second trait of his singular genius) in him nihilism finds itself -coexistent with an animal energy so fresh and so intense that for a -long time it deceives the closest observer. In an eloquent discourse, -pronounced over his premature grave, Emile Zola well defined this -illusion: "We congratulated him," said he, "upon that health which -seemed unbreakable, and justly credited him with the soundest -constitution of our band, as well as with the clearest mind and the -sanest reason. It was then that this frightful thunderbolt destroyed -him."</p> - -<p>It is not exact to say that the lofty genius of De Maupassant was that -of an absolutely sane man. We comprehend it to-day, and, on re-reading -him, we find traces everywhere of his final malady. But it is exact -to say that this wounded genius was, by a singular circumstance, the -genius of a robust man. A physiologist would without doubt explain -this anomaly by the coexistence of a nervous lesion, light at first, -with a muscular, athletic temperament. Whatever the cause, the effect -is undeniable. The skilled and dainty pessimism of De Maupassant was -accompanied by a vigor and physique very unusual. His sensations are -in turn those of a hunter and of a sailor, who have, as the old French -saying expressively puts it, "swift foot, eagle eye," and who are -attuned to all the whisperings of nature.</p> - -<p>The only confidences that he has ever permitted his pen to tell of -the intoxication of a free, animal existence are in the opening pages -of the story entitled "Mouche," where he recalls, among the sweetest -memories of his youth, his rollicking canoe parties upon the Seine, -and in the description in "La Vie Errante" of a night spent on the -sea,—"to be alone upon the water under the sky, through a warm -night,"—in which he speaks of the happiness of those "who receive -sensations through the whole surface of their flesh, as they do through -their eyes, their mouth, their ears, and sense of smell."</p> - -<p>His unique and too scanty collection of verses, written in early youth, -contains the two most fearless, I was going to say the most ingenuous, -paeans, perhaps, that have been written since the Renaissance: "At -the Water's Edge" (Au Bord de l'Eau) and the "Rustic Venus" (La -Venus Rustique). But here is a paganism whose ardor, by a contrast -which brings up the ever present duality of his nature, ends in an -inexpressible shiver of scorn:</p> - -<p style="margin-left: 15%;"> -"We look at each other, astonished, immovable,<br /> -And both are so pale that it makes us fear."<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">* * * * * * * *</span><br /> -"Alas! through all our senses slips life itself away."<br /> -</p> - -<p>This ending of the "Water's Edge" is less sinister than the murder -and the vision of horror which terminate the pantheistic hymn of the -"Rustic Venus." Considered as documents revealing the cast of mind -of him who composed them, these two lyrical essays are especially -significant, since they were spontaneous. They explain why De -Maupassant, in the early years of production, voluntarily chose, as -the heroes of his stories, creatures very near to primitive existence, -peasants, sailors, poachers, girls of the farm, and the source of the -vigor with which he describes these rude figures. The robustness of -his animalism permits him fully to imagine all the simple sensations -of these beings, while his pessimism, which tinges these sketches of -brutal customs with an element of delicate scorn, preserves him from -coarseness. It is this constant and involuntary antithesis which gives -unique value to those Norman scenes which have contributed so much -to his glory. It corresponds to those two contradictory tendencies -in literary art, which seek always to render life in motion with the -most intense coloring, and still to make more and more subtle the -impression of this life. How is one ambition to be satisfied at the -same time as the other, since all gain in color and movement brings -about a diminution of sensibility, and conversely? The paradox of his -constitution permitted to Maupassant this seemingly impossible accord, -aided as he was by an intellect whose influence was all powerful upon -his development—the writer I mention above, Gustave Flaubert.</p> - -<p>These meetings of a pupil and a master, both great, are indeed rare. -They present, in fact, some troublesome conditions, the first of -which is a profound analogy between two types of thought. There must -have been, besides, a reciprocity of affection, which does not often -obtain between a renowned senior who is growing old and an obscure -junior, whose renown is increasing. From generation to generation, envy -reascends no less than she redescends. For the honor of French men of -letters, let us add that this exceptional phenomenon has manifested -itself twice in the nineteenth century. Mérimée, whom I have also -named, received from Stendhal, at twenty, the same benefits that -Maupassant received from Flaubert.</p> - -<p>The author of "Une Vie" and the writer of "Clara Jozul" resemble -each other, besides, in a singular and analogous circumstance. Both -achieved renown at the first blow, and by a masterpiece which they -were able to equal but never surpass. Both were misanthropes early in -life, and practised to the end the ancient advice that the disciple of -Beyle carried upon his seal: μεμνήσο απιστἔιν—"Remember to distrust." -And, at the same time, both had delicate, tender hearts under this -affectation of cynicism, both were excellent sons, irreproachable -friends, indulgent masters, and both were idolized by their inferiors. -Both were worldly, yet still loved a wanderer's life; both joined to -a constant taste for luxury an irresistible desire for solitude. Both -belonged to the extreme left of the literature of their epoch, but kept -themselves from excess and used with a judgment marvelously sure the -sounder principles of their school. They knew how to remain lucid and -classic, in taste as much as in form—Mérimée through all the audacity -of a fancy most exotic, and Maupassant in the realism of the most -varied and exact observation. At a little distance they appear to be -two patterns, identical in certain traits, of the same family of minds, -and Tourgenief, who knew and loved the one and the other, never failed -to class them as brethren.</p> - -<p>They are separated, however, by profound differences, which perhaps -belong less to their nature than to that of the masters from whom -they received their impulses: Stendhal, so alert, so mobile, after a -youth passed in war and a ripe age spent in vagabond journeys, rich -in experiences, immediate and personal; Flaubert so poor in direct -impressions, so paralyzed by his health, by his family, by his theories -even, and so rich in reflections, for the most part solitary.</p> - -<p>Among the theories of the anatomist of "Madame Bovary," there are two -which appear without ceasing in his Correspondence, under one form -or another, and these are the ones which are most strongly evident -in the art of De Maupassant. We now see the consequences which were -inevitable by reason of them, endowed as Maupassant was with a double -power of feeling life bitterly, and at the same time with so much of -animal force. The first theory bears upon the choice of personages and -the story of the romance, the second upon the character of the style. -The son of a physician, and brought up in the rigors of scientific -method, Flaubert believed this method to be efficacious in art as in -science. For instance, in the writing of a romance, he seemed to be as -scientific as in the development of a history of customs, in which the -essential is absolute exactness and local color. He therefore naturally -wished to make the most scrupulous and detailed observation of the -environment.</p> - -<p>Thus is explained the immense labor in preparation which his stories -cost him—the story of "Madame Bovary," of "The Sentimental Education," -and "Bouvard and Pécuchet," documents containing as much <i>minutiæ</i> -as his historical stories. Beyond everything he tried to select -details that were eminently significant. Consequently he was of the -opinion that the romance writer should discard all that lessened this -significance, that is, extraordinary events and singular heroes. The -exceptional personage, it seemed to him, should be suppressed, as -should also high dramatic incident, since, produced by causes less -general, these have a range more restricted. The truly scientific -romance writer, proposing to paint a certain class, will attain his -end more effectively if he incarnate personages of the middle order, -and, consequently, paint traits common to that class. And not only -middle-class traits, but middle-class adventures.</p> - -<p>From this point of view, examine the three great romances of the -Master from Rouen, and you will see that he has not lost sight of this -first and greatest principle of his art, any more than he has of the -second, which was that these documents should be drawn up in prose of -absolutely perfect technique. We know with what passionate care he -worked at his phrases, and how indefatigably he changed them over and -over again. Thus he satisfied that instinct of beauty which was born of -his romantic soul, while he gratified the demand of truth which inhered -from his scientific training by his minute and scrupulous exactness.</p> - -<p>The theory of the mean of truth on one side, as the foundation of -the subject,—"the humble truth," as he termed it at the beginning -of "Une Vie,"—and of the agonizing of beauty on the other side, in -composition, determines the whole use that Maupassant made of his -literary gifts. It helped to make more intense and more systematic -that dainty yet dangerous pessimism which in him was innate. The -middle-class personage, in wearisome society like ours, is always a -caricature, and the happenings are nearly always vulgar. When one -studies a great number of them, one finishes by looking at humanity -from the angle of disgust and despair. The philosophy of the romances -and novels of De Maupassant is so continuously and profoundly -surprising that one becomes overwhelmed by it. It reaches limitation; -it seems to deny that man is susceptible to grandeur, or that motives -of a superior order can uplift and ennoble the soul, but it does so -with a sorrow that is profound. All that portion of the sentimental and -moral world which in itself is the highest remains closed to it.</p> - -<p>In revenge, this philosophy finds itself in a relation cruelly exact -with the half-civilization of our day. By that I mean the poorly -educated individual who has rubbed against knowledge enough to justify -a certain egoism, but who is too poor in faculty to conceive an ideal, -and whose native grossness is corrupted beyond redemption. Under his -blouse, or under his coat—whether he calls himself Renardet, as does -the foul assassin in "Petite Roque," or Duroy, as does the sly hero -of "Bel-Ami," or Bretigny, as does the vile seducer of "Mont Oriol," -or Césaire, the son of Old Amable in the novel of that name,—this -degraded type abounds in Maupassant's stories, evoked with a ferocity -almost jovial where it meets the robustness of temperament which I -have pointed out, a ferocity which gives them a reality more exact -still because the half-civilized person is often impulsive and, in -consequence, the physical easily predominates. There, as elsewhere, -the degenerate is everywhere a degenerate who gives the impression of -being an ordinary man.</p> - -<p>There are quantities of men of this stamp in large cities. No writer -has felt and expressed this complex temperament with more justice than -De Maupassant, and, as he was an infinitely careful observer of <i>milieu</i> -and landscape and all that constitutes a precise middle distance, his -novels can be considered an irrefutable record of the social classes -which he studied at a certain time and along certain lines. The -Norman peasant and the Provençal peasant, for example; also the small -officeholder, the gentleman of the provinces, the country squire, the -clubman of Paris, the journalist of the boulevard, the doctor at the -spa, the commercial artist, and, on the feminine side, the servant -girl, the working girl, the <i>demi-grisette</i>, the street girl, rich -or poor, the gallant lady of the city and of the provinces, and the -society woman—these are some of the figures that he has painted at -many sittings, and whom he used to such effect that the novels and -romances in which they are painted have come to be history. Just as it -is impossible to comprehend the Rome of the Cæsars without the work -of Petronius, so is it impossible to fully comprehend the France of -1850-90 without these stories of Maupassant. They are no more the whole -image of the country than the "Satyricon" was the whole image of Rome, -but what their author has wished to paint, he has painted to the life -and with a brush that is graphic in the extreme.</p> - -<p>If Maupassant had only painted, in general fashion, the characters and -the phase of literature mentioned, he would not be distinguished from -other writers of the group called "naturalists." His true glory is in -the extraordinary superiority of his art. He did not invent it, and his -method is not alien to that of "Madame Bovary," but he knew how to give -it a suppleness, a variety, and a freedom which were always wanting in -Flaubert. The latter, in his best pages, is always strained. To use the -expressive metaphor of the Greek athletes, he "smells of the oil." When -one recalls that when attacked by hysteric epilepsy, Flaubert postponed -the crisis of the terrible malady by means of sedatives, this strained -atmosphere of labor—I was going to say of stupor—which pervades his -work is explained. He is an athlete, a runner, but one who drags at his -feet a terrible weight. He is in the race only for the prize of effort, -an effort of which every motion reveals the intensity.</p> - -<p>Maupassant, on the other hand, if he suffered from a nervous lesion, -gave no sign of it, except in his heart. His intelligence was bright -and lively, and above all, his imagination, served by senses always on -the alert, preserved for some years an astonishing freshness of direct -vision. If his art was due to Flaubert, it is no more belittling to him -than if one call Raphael an imitator of Perugini.</p> - -<p>Like Flaubert, he excelled in composing a story, in distributing the -facts with subtle gradation, in bringing in at the end of a familiar -dialogue something startlingly dramatic; but such composition, with -him, seems easy, and while the descriptions are marvelously well -established in his stories, the reverse is true of Flaubert's, which -always appear a little veneered. Maupassant's phrasing, however -dramatic it may be, remains easy and flowing.</p> - -<p>Maupassant always sought for large and harmonious rhythm in his -deliberate choice of terms, always chose sound, wholesome language, -with a constant care for technical beauty. Inheriting from his master -an instrument already forged, he wielded it with a surer skill. In the -quality of his style, at once so firm and clear, so gorgeous yet so -sober, so supple and so firm, he equals the writers of the seventeenth -century. His method, so deeply and simply French, succeeds in giving an -indescribable "tang" to his descriptions. If observation from nature -imprints upon his tales the strong accent of reality, the prose in -which they are shrined so conforms to the genius of the race as to -smack of the soil.</p> - -<p>It is enough that the critics of to-day place Guy de Maupassant among -our classic writers. He has his place in the ranks of pure French -genius, with the Regniers, the La Fontaines, the Molières. And those -signs of secret ill divined everywhere under this wholesome prose -surround it for those who knew and loved him with a pathos that is -inexpressible.</p> - -<p style="text-align: right;">Paul Bourget</p> - -<div class="figright" style="width: 200px;"> -<img src="images/bourget.jpg" width="200" alt="" /> -</div> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h4><a name="INTRODUCTION" id="INTRODUCTION">INTRODUCTION</a></h4> - - -<p>Born in the middle year of the nineteenth century, and fated -unfortunately never to see its close, Guy de Maupassant was probably -the most versatile and brilliant among the galaxy of novelists who -enriched French literature between the years 1800 and 1900. Poetry, -drama, prose of short and sustained effort, and volumes of travel and -description, each sparkling with the same minuteness of detail and -brilliancy of style, flowed from his pen during the twelve years of his -literary life.</p> - -<p>Although his genius asserted itself in youth, he had the patience of -the true artist, spending his early manhood in cutting and polishing -the facets of his genius under the stern though paternal mentorship of -Gustave Flaubert. Not until he had attained the age of thirty did he -venture on publication, challenging criticism for the first time with a -volume of poems.</p> - -<p>Many and various have been the judgments passed upon Maupassant's work. -But now that the perspective of time is lengthening, enabling us to -form a more deliberate and therefore a juster, view of his complete -achievement, we are driven irresistibly to the conclusion that the -force that shaped and swayed Maupassant's prose writings was the -conviction that in life there could be no phase so noble or so mean, so -honorable or so contemptible, so lofty or so low as to be unworthy of -chronicling,—no groove of human virtue or fault, success or failure, -wisdom or folly that did not possess its own peculiar psychological -aspect and therefore demanded analysis.</p> - -<p>To this analysis Maupassant brought a facile and dramatic pen, a -penetration as searching as a probe, and a power of psychological -vision that in its minute detail, now pathetic, now ironical, in its -merciless revelation of the hidden springs of the human heart, whether -of aristocrat, <i>bourgeois</i>, peasant, or priest, allow one to call him a -Meissonier in words.</p> - -<p>The school of romantic realism which was founded by Mérimée and -Balzac found its culmination in De Maupassant. He surpassed his -mentor, Flaubert, in the breadth and vividness of his work, and one -of the greatest of modern French critics has recorded the deliberate -opinion, that of all Taine's pupils Maupassant had the greatest command -of language and the most finished and incisive style. Robust in -imagination and fired with natural passion, his psychological curiosity -kept him true to human nature, while at the same time his mental eye, -when fixed upon the most ordinary phases of human conduct, could see -some new motive or aspect of things hitherto unnoticed by the careless -crowd.</p> - -<p>It has been said by casual critics that Maupassant lacked one quality -indispensable to the production of truly artistic work, viz.: an -absolutely normal, that is, moral, point of view. The answer to this -criticism is obvious. No dissector of the gamut of human passion and -folly in all its tones could present aught that could be called new, if -ungifted with a view-point totally out of the ordinary plane. Cold and -merciless in the use of this <i>point de vue</i> De Maupassant undoubtedly -is, especially in such vivid depictions of love, both physical and -maternal, as we find in "L'histoire d'une fille de ferme" and "La -femme de Paul." But then the surgeon's scalpel never hesitates at -giving pain, and pain is often the road to health and ease. Some of -Maupassant's short stories are sermons more forcible than any moral -dissertation could ever be.</p> - -<p>Of De Maupassant's sustained efforts "Une Vie" may bear the palm. This -romance has the distinction of having changed Tolstoi from an adverse -critic into a warm admirer of the author. To quote the Russian moralist -upon the book:</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>"'Une Vie' is a romance of the best type, and in my judgment -the greatest that has been produced by any French writer -since Victor Hugo penned 'Les Misérables.' Passing over the -force and directness of the narrative, I am struck by the -intensity, the grace, and the insight with which the writer -treats the new aspects of human nature which he finds in the -life he describes."</p></blockquote> - -<p>And as if gracefully to recall a former adverse criticism, Tolstoi adds:</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>"I find in the book, in almost equal strength, the three -cardinal qualities essential to great work, viz: moral -purpose, perfect style, and absolute sincerity.... -Maupassant is a man whose vision has penetrated the silent -depths of human life, and from that vantage-ground -interprets the struggle of humanity."</p></blockquote> - -<p>"Bel-Ami" appeared almost two years after "Une Vie," that is to say, -about 1885. Discussed and criticised as it has been, it is in reality -a satire, an indignant outburst against the corruption of society -which in the story enables an ex-soldier, devoid of conscience, honor, -even of the commonest regard for others, to gain wealth and rank. -The purport of the story is clear to those who recognize the ideas -that governed Maupassant's work, and even the hasty reader or critic, -on reading "Mont Oriol," which was published two years later and is -based on a combination of the <i>motifs</i> which inspired "Une Vie" and -"Bel-Ami," will reconsider former hasty judgments, and feel, too, that -beneath the triumph of evil which calls forth Maupassant's satiric -anger there lies the substratum on which all his work is founded, viz: -the persistent, ceaseless questioning of a soul unable to reconcile or -explain the contradiction between love in life and inevitable death. -Who can read in "Bel-Ami" the terribly graphic description of the -consumptive journalist's demise, his frantic clinging to life, and his -refusal to credit the slow and merciless approach of death, without -feeling that the question asked at Naishapur many centuries ago is -still waiting for the solution that is always promised but never comes?</p> - -<p>In the romances which followed, dating from 1888 to 1890, a sort of -calm despair seems to have settled down upon De Maupassant's attitude -toward life. Psychologically acute as ever, and as perfect in style -and sincerity as before, we miss the note of anger. Fatality is -the keynote, and yet, sounding low, we detect a genuine subtone of -sorrow. Was it a prescience of 1893? So much work to be done, so much -work demanded of him, the world of Paris, in all its brilliant and -attractive phases, at his feet, and yet—inevitable, ever advancing -death, with the question of life still unanswered.</p> - -<p>This may account for some of the strained situations we find in his -later romances. Vigorous in frame and hearty as he was, the atmosphere -of his mental processes must have been vitiated to produce the dainty -but dangerous pessimism that pervades some of his later work. This was -partly a consequence of his honesty and partly of mental despair. He -never accepted other people's views on the questions of life. He looked -into such problems for himself, arriving at the truth, as it appeared -to him, by the logic of events, often finding evil where he wished to -find good, but never hoodwinking himself or his readers by adapting or -distorting the reality of things to suit a preconceived idea.</p> - -<p>Maupassant was essentially a worshiper of the eternal feminine. He was -persuaded that without the continual presence of the gentler sex man's -existence would be an emotionally silent wilderness. No other French -writer has described and analyzed so minutely and comprehensively -the many and various motives and moods that shape the conduct of a -woman in life. Take for instance the wonderfully subtle analysis of a -woman's heart as wife and mother that we find in "Une Vie." Could aught -be more delicately incisive? Sometimes in describing the apparently -inexplicable conduct of a certain woman he leads his readers to a point -where a false step would destroy the spell and bring the reproach of -banality and ridicule upon the tale. But the catastrophe never occurs. -It was necessary to stand poised upon the brink of the precipice to -realize the depth of the abyss and feel the terror of the fall.</p> - -<p>Closely allied to this phase of Maupassant's nature was the peculiar -feeling of loneliness that every now and then breaks irresistibly forth -in the course of some short story. Of kindly soul and genial heart, he -suffered not only from the oppression of spirit caused by the lack of -humanity, kindliness, sanity, and harmony which he encountered daily in -the world at large, but he had an ever abiding sense of the invincible, -unbanishable solitariness of his own Inmost self. I know of no more -poignant expression of such a feeling than the cry of despair which -rings out in the short story called "Solitude," in which he describes -the insurmountable barrier which exists between man and man, or man and -woman, however intimate the friendship between them. He could picture -but one way of destroying this terrible loneliness, the attainment of a -spiritual—a divine—state of love, a condition to which he would give -no name utterable by human lips, lest it be profaned, but for which -his whole being yearned. How acutely he felt his failure to attain his -deliverance may be drawn from his wail that mankind has no universal -measure of happiness.</p> - -<p>"Each one of us," writes De Maupassant, "forms for himself an illusion -through which he views the world, be it poetic, sentimental, joyous, -melancholy, or dismal; an illusion of beauty, which is a human -convention; of ugliness, which is a matter of opinion; of truth, -which, alas, is never immutable." And he concludes by asserting that -the happiest artist is he who approaches most closely to the truth of -things as he sees them through his own particular illusion.</p> - -<p>Salient points in De Maupassant's genius were that he possessed the -rare faculty of holding direct communion with his gifts, and of writing -from their dictation as it was interpreted by his senses. He had no -patience with writers who in striving to present life as a whole -purposely omit episodes that reveal the influence of the senses. "As -well," he says, "refrain from describing the effect of intoxicating -perfumes upon man as omit the influence of beauty on the temperament of -man."</p> - -<p>De Maupassant's dramatic instinct was supremely powerful. He seems -to select unerringly the one thing in which the soul of the scene is -prisoned, and, making that his keynote, gives a picture in words which -haunt the memory like a strain of music. The description of the ride of -Madame Tellier and her companions in a country cart through a Norman -landscape is an admirable example. You smell the masses of the colza -in blossom, you see the yellow carpets of ripe corn spotted here and -there by the blue coronets of the cornflower, and rapt by the red blaze -of the poppy beds and bathed in the fresh greenery of the landscape, -you share in the emotions felt by the happy party in the country cart. -And yet with all his vividness of description, De Maupassant is always -sober and brief. He had the genius of condensation and the reserve -which is innate in power, and to his reader could convey as much in a -paragraph as could be expressed in a page by many of his predecessors -and contemporaries, Flaubert not excepted.</p> - -<p>Apart from his novels, De Maupassant's tales may be arranged under -three heads: Those that concern themselves with Norman peasant life; -those that deal with Government employees (Maupassant himself had -long been one) and the Paris middle classes, and those that represent -the life of the fashionable world, as well as the weird and fantastic -ideas of the later years of his career. Of these three groups the tales -of the Norman peasantry perhaps rank highest. He depicts the Norman -farmer in surprisingly free and bold strokes, revealing him in all his -caution, astuteness, rough gaiety, and homely virtue.</p> - -<p>The tragic stage of De Maupassant's life may, I think, be set down as -beginning just before the drama of "Musotte" was issued, in conjunction -with Jacques Normand, in 1891. He had almost given up the hope of -interpreting his puzzles, and the struggle between the falsity of the -life which surrounded him and the nobler visions which possessed him -was wearing him out. Doubtless he resorted to unwise methods for the -dispelling of physical lassitude or for surcease from troubling mental -problems. To this period belong such weird and horrible fancies as -are contained in the short stories known as "He" and "The Diary of a -Madman." Here and there, we know, were rising in him inklings of a -finer and less sordid attitude 'twixt man and woman throughout the -world and of a purer constitution of existing things which no exterior -force should blemish or destroy. But with these yearningly prophetic -gleams came a period of mental death. Then the physical veil was torn -aside and for Guy de Maupassant the riddle of existence was answered.</p> - - -<p style="text-align: right">Robert Arnot</p> - -<div class="figright" style="width: 200px;"> -<img src="images/arnot.jpg" width="200" alt="" /> -</div> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h3><a name="NOTRE_COEUR" id="NOTRE_COEUR">NOTRE CŒUR</a></h3> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h5><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I.</a></h5> - - -<h4>THE INTRODUCTION</h4> - - -<p>One day Massival, the celebrated composer of "Rebecca," who for fifteen -years, now, had been known as "the young and illustrious master," said -to his friend André Mariolle:</p> - -<p>"Why is it that you have never secured a presentation to Mme. Michèle -de Burne? Take my word for it, she is one of the most interesting women -in new Paris."</p> - -<p>"Because I do not feel myself at all adapted to her surroundings."</p> - -<p>"You are wrong, my dear fellow. It is a house where there is a great -deal of novelty and originality; it is wide-awake and very artistic. -There is excellent music, and the conversation is as good as in the -best salons of the last century. You would be highly appreciated—in -the first place because you play so well on the violin, then because -you have been very favorably spoken of in the house, and finally -because you have the reputation of being select in your choice of -friends."</p> - -<p>Flattered, but still maintaining his attitude of resistance, supposing, -moreover, that this urgent invitation was not given without the young -woman being aware of it, Mariolle ejaculated a "Bah! I shall not -bother my head at all about it," in which, through the disdain that he -intended to express, was evident his foregone acceptance.</p> - -<p>Massival continued: "Would you like to have me present you some of -these days? You are already known to her through all of us who are on -terms of intimacy with her, for we talk about you often enough. She is -a very pretty woman of twenty-eight, abounding in intelligence, who -will never take a second husband, for her first venture was a very -unfortunate one. She has made her abode a rendezvous for agreeable men. -There are not too many club-men or society-men found there—just enough -of them to give the proper effect. She will be delighted to have me -introduce you."</p> - -<p>Mariolle was vanquished; he replied: "Very well, then; one of these -days."</p> - -<p>At the beginning of the following week the musician came to his house -and asked him: "Are you disengaged to-morrow?"</p> - -<p>"Why, yes."</p> - -<p>"Very well. I will take you to dine with Mme. de Burne; she requested -me to invite you. Besides, here is a line from her."</p> - -<p>After a few seconds' reflection, for form's sake, Mariolle answered: -"That is settled!"</p> - -<p>André Mariolle was about thirty-seven years old, a bachelor without -a profession, wealthy enough to live in accordance with his likings, -to travel, and even to indulge himself in collecting modern paintings -and ancient knickknacks. He had the reputation of being a man of -intelligence, rather odd and unsociable, a little capricious and -disdainful, who affected the hermit through pride rather than through -timidity. Very talented and acute, but indolent, quick to grasp the -meaning of things, and capable, perhaps, of accomplishing something -great, he had contented himself with enjoying life as a spectator, or -rather as a <i>dilettante</i>. Had he been poor, he would doubtless have -turned out to be a remarkable or celebrated man; born with a good -income, he was eternally reproaching himself that he could never be -anything better than a nobody.</p> - -<p>It is true that he had made more than one attempt in the direction of -the arts, but they had lacked vigor. One had been in the direction of -literature, by publishing a pleasing book of travels, abounding in -incident and correct in style; one toward music by his violin-playing, -in which he had gained, even among professional musicians, a -respectable reputation; and, finally, one at sculpture, that art in -which native aptitude and the faculty of rough-hewing striking and -deceptive figures atone in the eyes of the ignorant for deficiencies in -study and knowledge. His statuette in terra-cotta, "Masseur Tunisien," -had even been moderately successful at the Salon of the preceding year. -He was a remarkable horseman, and was also, it was said, an excellent -fencer, although he never used the foils in public, owing, perhaps, to -the same self-distrustful feeling which impelled him to absent himself -from society resorts where serious rivalries were to be apprehended.</p> - -<p>His friends appreciated him, however, and were unanimous in extolling -his merits, perhaps for the reason that they had little to fear from -him in the way of competition. It was said of him that in every case he -was reliable, a devoted friend, extremely agreeable in manner, and very -sympathetic in his personality.</p> - -<p>Tall of stature, wearing his black beard short upon the cheeks and -trained down to a fine point upon the chin, with hair that was -beginning to turn gray but curled very prettily, he looked one straight -in the face with a pair of clear, brown, piercing eyes in which lurked -a shade of distrust and hardness.</p> - -<p>Among his intimates he had an especial predilection for artists of -every kind—among them Gaston de Lamarthe the novelist, Massival the -musician, and the painters Jobin, Rivollet, De Mandol—who seemed to -set a high value on his reason, his friendship, his intelligence, -and even his judgment, although at bottom, with the vanity that -is inseparable from success achieved, they set him down as a very -agreeable and very intelligent man who had failed to score a success.</p> - -<p>Mariolle's haughty reserve seemed to say: "I am nothing because I have -not chosen to be anything." He lived within a narrow circle, therefore, -disdaining gallantry and the great frequented salons, where others -might have shone more brilliantly than he, and might have obliged him -to take his place among the lay-figures of society. He visited only -those houses where appreciation was extended to the solid qualities -that he was unwilling to display; and though he had consented so -readily to allow himself to be introduced to Mme. Michèle de Burne, the -reason was that his best friends, those who everywhere proclaimed his -hidden merits, were the intimates of this young woman.</p> - -<p>She lived in a pretty <i>entresol</i> in the Rue du Général-Foy, behind the -church of Saint Augustin. There were two rooms with an outlook on the -street—the dining-room and a salon, the one in which she received her -company indiscriminately—and two others that opened on a handsome -garden of which the owner of the property had the enjoyment. Of the -latter the first was a second salon of large dimensions, of greater -length than width, with three windows opening on the trees, the leaves -of which brushed against the awnings, a room which was embellished -with furniture and ornaments exceptionally rare and simple, in the -purest and soberest taste and of great value. The tables, the chairs, -the little cupboards or <i>étagères</i>, the pictures, the fans and the -porcelain figures beneath glass covers, the vases, the statuettes, the -great clock fixed in the middle of a panel, the entire decoration of -this young woman's apartment attracted and held attention by its shape, -its age, or its elegance. To create for herself this home, of which she -was almost as proud as she was of her own person, she had laid under -contribution the knowledge, the friendship, the good nature, and the -rummaging instinct of every artist of her acquaintance. She was rich -and willing to pay well, and her friends had discovered for her many -things, distinguished by originality, which the mere vulgar amateur -would have passed by with contempt. Thus, with their assistance, -she had furnished this dwelling, to which access was obtained with -difficulty, and where she imagined that her friends received more -pleasure and returned more gladly than elsewhere.</p> - -<p>It was even a favorite hobby of hers to assert that the colors of the -curtains and hangings, the comfort of the seats, the beauty of form, -and the gracefulness of general effect are of as much avail to charm, -captivate, and acclimatize the eye as are pretty smiles. Sympathetic -or antipathetic rooms, she would say, whether rich or poor, attract, -hold, or repel, just like the people who live in them. They awake the -feelings or stifle them, warm or chill the mind, compel one to talk or -be silent, make one sad or cheerful; in a word, they give every visitor -an unaccountable desire to remain or to go away.</p> - -<p>About the middle of this dimly lighted gallery a grand piano, standing -between two <i>jardinières</i> filled with flowers, occupied the place of -honor and dominated the room. Beyond this a lofty door with two leaves -opened gave access to the bedroom, which in turn communicated with a -dressing-room, also very large and elegant, hung with chintz like a -drawing-room in summer, where Mme. de Burne generally kept herself when -she had no company.</p> - -<p>Married to a well-mannered good-for-nothing, one of those domestic -tyrants before whom everything must bend and yield, she had at -first been very unhappy. For five years she had had to endure the -unreasonable exactions, the harshness, the jealousy, even the violence -of this intolerable master, and terrified, beside herself with -astonishment, she had submitted without revolt to this revelation of -married life, crushed as she was beneath the despotic and torturing -will of the brutal man whose victim she had become.</p> - -<p>He died one night, from an aneurism, as he was coming home, and when -she saw the body of her husband brought in, covered with a sheet, -unable to believe in the reality of this deliverance, she looked at his -corpse with a deep feeling of repressed joy and a frightful dread lest -she might show it.</p> - -<p>Cheerful, independent, even exuberant by nature, very flexible and -attractive, with bright flashes of wit such as are shown in some -incomprehensible way in the intellects of certain little girls of -Paris, who seem to have breathed from their earliest childhood the -stimulating air of the boulevards—where every evening, through the -open doors of the theaters, the applause or the hisses that greet the -plays come forth, borne on the air—she nevertheless retained from her -five years of servitude a strange timidity grafted upon her old-time -audacity, a great fear lest she might say too much, do too much, -together with a burning desire for emancipation and a stern resolve -never again to do anything to imperil her liberty.</p> - -<p>Her husband, a man of the world, had trained her to receive like a mute -slave, elegant, polite, and well dressed. The despot had numbered among -his friends many artists, whom she had received with curiosity and -listened to with delight, without ever daring to allow them to see how -she understood and appreciated them.</p> - -<p>When her period of mourning was ended she invited a few of them to -dinner one evening. Two of them sent excuses; three accepted and -were astonished to find a young woman of admirable intelligence and -charming manners, who immediately put them at their ease and gracefully -told them of the pleasure that they had afforded her in former days -by coming to her house. From among her old acquaintances who had -ignored her or failed to recognize her qualities she thus gradually -made a selection according to her inclinations, and as a widow, an -enfranchised woman, but one determined to maintain her good name, she -began to receive all the most distinguished men of Paris whom she could -bring together, with only a few women. The first to be admitted became -her intimates, formed a nucleus, attracted others, and gave to the -house the air of a small court, to which every <i>habitué</i> contributed -either personal merit or a great name, for a few well-selected titles -were mingled with the intelligence of the commonalty.</p> - -<p>Her father, M. de Pradon, who occupied the apartment over hers, served -as her chaperon and "sheep-dog." An old beau, very elegant and witty, -and extremely attentive to his daughter, whom he treated rather as -a lady acquaintance than as a daughter, he presided at the Thursday -dinners that were quickly known and talked of in Paris, and to which -invitations were much sought after. The requests for introductions -and invitations came in shoals, were discussed, and very frequently -rejected by a sort of vote of the inner council. Witty sayings that -had their origin in this circle were quoted and obtained currency in -the city. Actors, artists, and young poets made their <i>débuts</i> there, -and received, as it were, the baptism of their future greatness. -Longhaired geniuses, introduced by Gaston de Lamarthe, seated -themselves at the piano and replaced the Hungarian violinists that -Massival had presented, and foreign ballet-dancers gave the company a -glimpse of their graceful steps before appearing at the Eden or the -Folies-Bergères.</p> - -<p>Mme. de Burne, over whom her friends kept jealous watch and ward and -to whom the recollection of her commerce with the world under the -auspices of marital authority was loathsome, was sufficiently wise -not to enlarge the circle of her acquaintance to too great an extent. -Satisfied and at the same time terrified as to what might be said -and thought of her, she abandoned herself to her somewhat Bohemian -inclinations with consummate prudence. She valued her good name, and -was fearful of any rashness that might jeopardize it; she never allowed -her fancies to carry her beyond the bounds of propriety, was moderate -in her audacity and careful that no <i>liaison</i> or small love affair -should ever be imputed to her.</p> - -<p>All her friends had made love to her, more or less; none of them had -been successful. They confessed it, admitted it to each other with -surprise, for men never acknowledge, and perhaps they are right, the -power of resistance of a woman who is her own mistress. There was a -story current about her. It was said that at the beginning of their -married life her husband had exhibited such revolting brutality toward -her that she had been forever cured of the love of men. Her friends -would often discuss the case at length. They inevitably arrived at the -conclusion that a young girl who has been brought up in the dream -of future tenderness and the expectation of an awe-inspiring mystery -must have all her ideas completely upset when her initiation into the -new life is committed to a clown. That worldly philosopher, George de -Maltry, would give a gentle sneer and add: "Her hour will strike; it -always does for women like her, and the longer it is in coming the -louder it strikes. With our friend's artistic tastes, she will wind up -by falling in love with a singer or a pianist."</p> - -<p>Gaston de Lamarthe's ideas upon the subject were quite different. -As a novelist, observer, and psychologist, devoted to the study of -the inhabitants of the world of fashion, of whom he drew ironical -and lifelike portraits, he claimed to analyze and know women with -infallible and unique penetration. He put Mme. de Burne down among -those flighty creatures of the time, the type of whom he had given -in his interesting novel, "Une d'Elles." He had been the first -to diagnose this new race of women, distracted by the nerves of -reasoning, hysterical patients, drawn this way and that by a thousand -contradictory whims which never ripen into desires, disillusioned of -everything, without having enjoyed anything, thanks to the times, to -the way of living, and to the modern novel, and who, destitute of all -ardor and enthusiasm, seem to combine in their persons the capricious, -spoiled child and the old, withered sceptic. But he, like the rest of -them, had failed in his love-making.</p> - -<p>For all the faithful of the group had in turn been lovers of Mme. de -Burne, and after the crisis had retained their tenderness and their -emotion in different degrees. They had gradually come to form a sort of -little church; she was its Madonna, of whom they conversed constantly -among themselves, subject to her charm even when she was not present. -They praised, extolled, criticised, or disparaged her, according as she -had manifested irritation or gentleness, aversion or preference. They -were continually displaying their jealousy of each other, played the -spy on each other a little, and above all kept their ranks well closed -up, so that no rival might get near her who could give them any cause -for alarm.</p> - -<p>These assiduous ones were few in number: Massival, Gaston de Lamarthe, -big Fresnel, George de Maltry, a fashionable young philosopher, -celebrated for his paradoxes, for his eloquent and involved erudition -that was always up to date though incomprehensible even to the most -impassioned of his female admirers, and for his clothes, which were -selected with as much care as his theories. To this tried band she had -added a few more men of the world who had a reputation for wit, the -Comte de Marantin, the Baron de Gravil, and two or three others.</p> - -<p>The two privileged characters of this chosen battalion seemed to be -Massival and Lamarthe, who, it appears, had the gift of being always -able to divert the young woman by their artistic unceremoniousness, -their chaff, and the way they had of making fun of everybody, even of -herself, a little, when she was in humor to tolerate it. The care, -whether natural or assumed, however, that she took never to manifest -a marked and prolonged predilection for any one of her admirers, the -unconstrained air with which she practiced her coquetry and the real -impartiality with which she dispensed her favors maintained between -them a friendship seasoned with hostility and an alertness of wit that -made them entertaining.</p> - -<p>One of them would sometimes play a trick on the others by presenting -a friend; but as this friend was never a very celebrated or very -interesting man, the rest would form a league against him and quickly -send him away.</p> - -<p>It was in this way that Massival brought his comrade André Mariolle -to the house. A servant in black announced these names: "Monsieur -Massival! Monsieur Mariolle!"</p> - -<p>Beneath a great rumpled cloud of pink silk, a huge shade that was -casting down upon a square table with a top of ancient marble the -brilliant light of a lamp supported by a lofty column of gilded bronze, -one woman's head and three men's heads were bent over an album that -Lamarthe had brought in with him. Standing between them, the novelist -was turning the leaves and explaining the pictures.</p> - -<p>As they entered the room, one of the heads was turned toward them, -and Mariolle, as he stepped forward, became conscious of a bright, -blond face, rather tending to ruddiness, upon the temples of which the -soft, fluffy locks of hair seemed to blaze with the flame of burning -brushwood. The delicate <i>retroussé</i> nose imparted a smiling expression -to this countenance, and the clean-cut mouth, the deep dimples in -the cheeks, and the rather prominent cleft chin, gave it a mocking -air, while the eyes, by a strange contrast, veiled it in melancholy. -They were blue, of a dull, dead blue as if they had been washed out, -scoured, used up, and in the center the black pupils shone, round and -dilated. The strange and brilliant glances that they emitted seemed to -tell of dreams of morphine, or perhaps, more simply, of the coquettish -artifice of belladonna.</p> - -<p>Mme. de Burne arose, gave her hand, thanked and welcomed them.</p> - -<p>"For a long time I have been begging my friends to bring you to my -house," she said to Mariolle, "but I always have to tell these things -over and over again in order to get them done."</p> - -<p>She was tall, elegantly shaped, rather deliberate in her movements, -modestly <i>décolletée</i>, scarcely showing the tips of her handsome -shoulders, the shoulders of a red-headed woman, that shone out -marvelously under the light. And yet her hair was not red, but of the -inexpressible color of certain dead leaves that have been burned by the -frosts of autumn.</p> - -<p>She presented M. Mariolle to her father, who bowed and shook hands.</p> - -<p>The men were conversing familiarly together in three groups; they -seemed to be at home, in a kind of club that they were accustomed -to frequent, to which the presence of a woman imparted a note of -refinement.</p> - -<p>Big Fresnel was chatting with the Comte de Marantin. Fresnel's frequent -visits to this house and the preference that Mme. de Burne evinced for -him shocked and often provoked her friends. Still young, but with the -proportions of a drayman, always puffing and blowing, almost beardless, -his head lost in a vague cloud of light, soft hair, commonplace, -tiresome, ridiculous, he certainly could have but one merit in the -young woman's eyes, a merit that was displeasing to the others but -indispensable to her,—that of loving her blindly. He had received the -nickname of "The Seal." He was married, but never said anything about -bringing his wife to the house. It was said that she was very jealous -in her seclusion.</p> - -<p>Lamarthe and Massival especially evinced their indignation at the -evident sympathy of their friend for this windy person, and when they -could no longer refrain from reproaching her with this reprehensible -inclination, this selfish and vulgar liking, she would smile and answer:</p> - -<p>"I love him as I would love a great, big, faithful dog."</p> - -<p>George de Maltry was entertaining Gaston de Lamarthe with the most -recent discovery, not yet fully developed, of the micro-biologists. -M. de Maltry was expatiating on his theme with many subtile and -far-reaching theories, and the novelist accepted them enthusiastically, -with the facility with which men of letters receive and do not dispute -everything that appears to them original and new.</p> - -<p>The philosopher of "high life," fair, of the fairness of linen, slender -and tall, was incased in a coat that fitted very closely about the -hips. Above, his pale, intelligent face emerged from his white collar -and was surmounted by smooth, blond hair, which had the appearance of -being glued on.</p> - -<p>As to Lamarthe, Gaston de Lamarthe, to whom the particle that divided -his name had imparted some of the pretensions of a gentleman and man -of the world, he was first, last, and all the time a man of letters, -a terrible and pitiless man of letters. Provided with an eye that -gathered in images, attitudes, and gestures with the rapidity and -accuracy of the photographer's camera, and endowed with penetration -and the novelist's instinct, which were as innate in him as the faculty -of scent is in a hound, he was busy from morning till night storing -away impressions to be used afterward in his profession. With these -two very simple senses, a distinct idea of form and an intuitive one -of substance, he gave to his books, in which there appeared none of -the ordinary aims of psychological writers, the color, the tone, the -appearance, the movement of life itself.</p> - -<p>Each one of his novels as it appeared excited in society curiosity, -conjecture, merriment, or wrath, for there always seemed to be -prominent persons to be recognized in them, only faintly disguised -under a torn mask; and whenever he made his way through a crowded salon -he left a wake of uneasiness behind him. Moreover, he had published a -volume of personal recollections, in which he had given the portraits -of many men and women of his acquaintance, without any clearly defined -intention of unkindness, but with such precision and severity that -they felt sore over it. Some one had applied to him the <i>sobriquet</i>, -"Beware of your friends." He kept his secrets close-locked within his -breast and was a puzzle to his intimates. He was reputed to have once -passionately loved a woman who caused him much suffering, and it was -said that after that he wreaked his vengeance upon others of her sex.</p> - -<p>Massival and he understood each other very well, although the musician -was of a very different disposition, more frank, more expansive, less -harassed, perhaps, but manifestly more impressible. After two great -successes—a piece performed at Brussels and afterward brought to -Paris, where it was loudly applauded at the Opéra-Comique; then a -second work that was received and interpreted at the Grand Opéra as -soon as offered—he had yielded to that species of cessation of impulse -that seems to smite the greater part of our contemporary artists like -premature paralysis. They do not grow old, as their fathers did, in the -midst of their renown and success, but seem threatened with impotence -even when in the very prime of life. Lamarthe was accustomed to say: -"At the present day there are in France only great men who have gone -wrong."</p> - -<p>Just at this time Massival seemed very much smitten with Mme. de Burne, -so that every eye was turned upon him when he kissed her hand with an -air of adoration. He inquired:</p> - -<p>"Are we late?"</p> - -<p>She replied:</p> - -<p>"No, I am still expecting the Baron de Gravil and the Marquise de -Bratiane."</p> - -<p>"Ah, the Marquise! What good luck! We shall have some music this -evening, then."</p> - -<p>"I hope so."</p> - -<p>The two laggards made their appearance. The Marquise, a woman perhaps a -little too diminutive, Italian by birth, of a lively disposition, with -very black eyes and eyelashes, black eyebrows, and black hair to match, -which grew so thick and so low down that she had no forehead to speak -of, her eyes even being threatened with invasion, had the reputation of -possessing the most remarkable voice of all the women in society.</p> - -<p>The Baron, a very gentlemanly man, hollow-chested and with a large -head, was never really himself unless he had his violoncello in his -hands. He was a passionate melomaniac, and only frequented those houses -where music received its due share of honor.</p> - -<p>Dinner was announced, and Mme. de Burne, taking André Mariolle's arm, -allowed her guests to precede her to the dining-room; then, as they -were left together, the last ones in the drawing-room, just as she was -about to follow the procession she cast upon him an oblique, swift -glance from her pale eyes with their dusky pupils, in which he thought -that he could perceive more complexity of thought and more curiosity of -interest than pretty women generally bestow upon a strange gentleman -when receiving him at dinner for the first time.</p> - -<p>The dinner was monotonous and rather dull. Lamarthe was nervous, and -seemed ill disposed toward everyone, not openly hostile, for he made a -point of his good-breeding, but displaying that almost imperceptible -bad humor that takes the life out of conversation. Massival, abstracted -and preoccupied, ate little, and from time to time cast furtive glances -at the mistress of the house, who seemed to be in any place rather than -at her own table. Inattentive, responding to remarks with a smile and -then allowing her face to settle back to its former intent expression, -she appeared to be reflecting upon something that seemed greatly to -preoccupy her, and to interest her that evening more than did her -friends. Still she contributed her share to the conversation—very -amply as regarded the Marquise and Mariolle,—but she did it from -habit, from a sense of duty, visibly absent from herself and from her -abode. Fresnel and M. de Maltry disputed over contemporary poetry. -Fresnel held the opinions upon poetry that are current among men of -the world, and M. de Maltry the perceptions of the spinners of most -complicated verse—verse that is incomprehensible to the general public.</p> - -<p>Several times during the dinner Mariolle had again encountered the -young woman's inquiring look, but more vague, less intent, less -curious. The Marquise de Bratiane, the Comte de Marantin, and the Baron -de Gravil were the only ones who kept up an uninterrupted conversation, -and they had quantities of things to say.</p> - -<p>After dinner, during the course of the evening, Massival, who had -kept growing more and more melancholy, seated himself at the piano -and struck a few notes, whereupon Mme. de Burne appeared to awake and -quickly organized a little concert, the numbers of which comprised the -pieces that she was most fond of.</p> - -<p>The Marquise was in voice, and, animated by Massival's presence, she -sang like a real artist. The master accompanied her, with that dreamy -look that he always assumed when he sat down to play. His long hair -fell over the collar of his coat and mingled with his full, fine, -shining, curling beard. Many women had been in love with him, and they -still pursued him with their attentions, so it was said. Mme. de Burne, -sitting by the piano and listening with all her soul, seemed to be -contemplating him and at the same time not to see him, and Mariolle -was a little jealous. He was not particularly jealous because of any -relation that there was between her and him, but in presence of that -look of a woman fixed so intently upon one of the Illustrious he felt -himself humiliated in his masculine vanity by the consciousness of the -rank that <i>They</i> bestow on us in proportion to the renown that we have -gained. Often before this he had secretly suffered from contact with -famous men whom he was accustomed to meet in the presence of those -beings whose favor is by far the dearest reward of success.</p> - -<p>About ten o'clock the Comtesse de Frémines and two Jewesses of the -financial community arrived, one after the other. The talk was of a -marriage that was on the carpet and a threatened divorce suit. Mariolle -looked at Madame de Burne, who was now seated beneath a column that -sustained a huge lamp. Her well-formed, tip-tilted nose, the dimples in -her cheeks, and the little indentation that parted her chin gave her -face the frolicsome expression of a child, although she was approaching -her thirtieth year, and something in her glance that reminded one of -a withering flower cast a shade of melancholy over her countenance. -Beneath the light that streamed upon it her skin took on tones of blond -velvet, while her hair actually seemed colored by the autumnal sun -which dyes and scorches the dead leaves.</p> - -<p>She was conscious of the masculine glance that was traveling toward her -from the other end of the room, and presently she arose and went to -him, smiling, as if in response to a summons from him.</p> - -<p>"I am afraid you are somewhat bored," she said. "A person who has not -got the run of a house is always bored."</p> - -<p>He protested the contrary. She took a chair and seated herself by -him, and at once the conversation began to be animated. It was -instantaneous with both of them, like a fire that blazes up brightly -as soon as a match is applied to it. It seemed as if they had imparted -their sensations and their opinions to each other beforehand, as if a -similarity of disposition and education, of tastes and inclinations, -had predisposed them to a mutual understanding and fated them to meet.</p> - -<p>Perhaps there may have been a little artfulness on the part of the -young woman, but the delight that one feels in encountering one who is -capable of listening, who can understand you and reply to you and whose -answers give scope for your repartees, put Mariolle into a fine glow of -spirits. Flattered, moreover, by the reception which she had accorded -him, subjugated by the alluring favor that she displayed and by the -charm which she knew how to use so adroitly in captivating men, he -did his best to exhibit to her that shade of subdued but personal and -delicate wit which, when people came to know him well, had gained for -him so many and such warm friendships.</p> - -<p>She suddenly said to him:</p> - -<p>"Really, it is very pleasant to converse with you, Monsieur. I had been -told that such was the case, however."</p> - -<p>He was conscious that he was blushing, and replied at a venture:</p> - -<p>"And <i>I</i> had been told, Madame, that you were——"</p> - -<p>She interrupted him:</p> - -<p>"Say a coquette. I am a good deal of a coquette with people whom I -like. Everyone knows it, and I do not attempt to conceal it from -myself, but you will see that I am very impartial in my coquetry, and -this allows me to keep or to recall my friends without ever losing -them, and to retain them all about me."</p> - -<p>She said this with a sly air which was meant to say: "Be easy and don't -be too presumptuous. Don't deceive yourself, for you will get nothing -more than the others."</p> - -<p>He replied:</p> - -<p>"That is what you might call warning your guests of the perils that -await them here. Thank you, Madame: I greatly admire your mode of -procedure."</p> - -<p>She had opened the way for him to speak of herself, and he availed -himself of it. He began by paying her compliments and found that she -was fond of them; then he aroused her woman's curiosity by telling -her what was said of her in the different houses that he frequented. -She was rather uneasy and could not conceal her desire for further -information, although she affected much indifference as to what might -be thought of herself and her tastes. He drew for her a charming -portrait of a superior, independent, intelligent, and attractive -woman, who had surrounded herself with a court of eminent men and -still retained her position as an accomplished member of society. She -disclaimed his compliments with smiles, with little disclaimers of -gratified egotism, all the while taking much pleasure in the details -that he gave her, and in a playful tone kept constantly asking him for -more, questioning him artfully, with a sensual appetite for flattery.</p> - -<p>As he looked at her, he said to himself, "She is nothing but a child -at heart, just like all the rest of them"; and he went on to finish a -pretty speech in which he was commending her love for art, so rarely -found among women. Then she assumed an air of mockery that he had not -before suspected in her, that playfully tantalizing manner that seems -inherent in the French. Mariolle had overdone his eulogy; she let him -know that she was not a fool.</p> - -<p>"<i>Mon Dieu!</i>" she said, "I will confess to you that I am not quite -certain whether it is art or artists that I love."</p> - -<p>He replied: "How could one love artists without being in love with art?"</p> - -<p>"Because they are sometimes more comical than men of the world."</p> - -<p>"Yes, but they have more unpleasant failings."</p> - -<p>"That is true."</p> - -<p>"Then you do not love music?"</p> - -<p>She suddenly dropped her bantering tone. "Excuse me! I adore music; I -think that I am more fond of it than of anything else. And yet Massival -is convinced that I know nothing at all about it."</p> - -<p>"Did he tell you so?"</p> - -<p>"No, but he thinks so."</p> - -<p>"How do you know?"</p> - -<p>"Oh! we women guess at almost everything that we don't know."</p> - -<p>"So Massival thinks that you know nothing of music?"</p> - -<p>"I am sure of it. I can see it only by the way that he has of -explaining things to me, by the way in which he underscores little -niceties of expression, all the while saying to himself: 'That won't be -of any use, but I do it because you are so nice.'"</p> - -<p>"Still he has told me that you have the best music in your house of any -in Paris, no matter whose the other may be."</p> - -<p>"Yes, thanks to him."</p> - -<p>"And literature, are you not fond of that?"</p> - -<p>"I am very fond of it; and I am even so audacious as to claim to have a -very good perception of it, notwithstanding Lamarthe's opinion."</p> - -<p>"Who also decides that you know nothing at all about it?"</p> - -<p>"Of course."</p> - -<p>"But who has not told you so in words, any more than the other."</p> - -<p>"Pardon me; he is more outspoken. He asserts that certain women -are capable of showing a very just and delicate perception of the -sentiments that are expressed, of the truthfulness of the characters, -of psychology in general, but that they are totally incapable of -discerning the superiority that resides in his profession, its art. -When he has once uttered this word, Art, all that is left one to do is -to show him the door."</p> - -<p>Mariolle smiled and asked:</p> - -<p>"And you, Madame, what do you think of it?"</p> - -<p>She reflected for a few seconds, then looked him straight in the face -to see if he was in a frame of mind to listen and to understand her.</p> - -<p>"I believe that sentiment, you understand—sentiment—can make a -woman's mind receptive of everything; only it is frequently the case -that what enters does not remain there. Do you follow me?"</p> - -<p>"No, not fully, Madame."</p> - -<p>"Very well! To make us comprehensive to the same degree as you, our -woman's nature must be appealed to before addressing our intelligence. -We take no interest in what a man has not first made sympathetic to us, -for we look at all things through the medium of sentiment. I do not say -through the medium of love; no,—but of sentiment, which has shades, -forms, and manifestations of every sort. Sentiment is something that -belongs exclusively to our domain, which you men have no conception -of, for it befogs you while it enlightens us. Oh! I know that all this -is incomprehensible to you, the more the pity! In a word, if a man -loves us and is agreeable to us, for it is indispensable that we should -feel that we are loved in order to become capable of the effort—and -if this man is a superior being, by taking a little pains he can make -us feel, know, and possess everything, everything, I say, and at odd -moments and by bits impart to us the whole of his intelligence. That -is all often blotted out afterward; it disappears, dies out, for we -are forgetful. Oh! we forget as the wind forgets the words that are -spoken to it. We are intuitive and capable of enlightenment, but -changeable, impressionable, readily swayed by our surroundings. If I -could only tell you how many states of mind I pass through that make -of me entirely different women, according to the weather, my health, -what I may have been reading, what may have been said to me! Actually -there are days when I have the feelings of an excellent mother without -children, and others when I almost have those of a <i>cocotte</i> without -lovers."</p> - -<p>Greatly pleased, he asked: "Is it your opinion that intelligent women -generally are gifted with this activity of thought?"</p> - -<p>"Yes," she said. "Only they allow it to slumber, and then they have a -life shaped for them which draws them in one direction or the other."</p> - -<p>Again he questioned: "Then in your heart of hearts it is music that you -prefer above all other distractions?"</p> - -<p>"Yes! But what I was telling you just now is so true! I should -certainly never have enjoyed it as I do enjoy it, adored it as I do -adore it, had it not been for that angelic Massival. He seems to have -given me the soul of the great masters by teaching me to play their -works, of which I was passionately fond before. What a pity that he is -married!"</p> - -<p>She said these last words with a sprightly air, but so regretfully that -they threw everything else into shadow, her theories upon women and her -admiration for art.</p> - -<p>Massival was, in fact, married. Before the days of his success he had -contracted one of those unions that artists make and afterward trail -after them through their renown until the day of their death. He never -mentioned his wife's name, never presented her in society, which he -frequented a great deal; and although he had three children the fact -was scarcely known.</p> - -<p>Mariolle laughed. She was decidedly nice, was this unconventional -woman, pretty, and of a type not often met with. Without ever tiring, -with a persistency that seemed in no wise embarrassing to her, he kept -gazing upon that face, grave and gay and a little self-willed, with -its audacious nose and its sensual coloring of a soft, warm blonde, -warmed by the midsummer of a maturity so tender, so full, so sweet that -she seemed to have reached the very year, the month, the minute of -her perfect flowering. He wondered: "Is her complexion false?" And he -looked for the faint telltale line, lighter or darker, at the roots of -her hair, without being able to discover it.</p> - -<p>Soft footsteps on the carpet behind him made him start and turn his -head. It was two servants bringing in the tea-table. Over the blue -flame of the little lamp the water bubbled gently in a great silver -receptacle, as shining and complicated as a chemist's apparatus.</p> - -<p>"Will you have a cup of tea?" she asked.</p> - -<p>Upon his acceptance she arose, and with a firm step in which there was -no undulation, but which was rather marked by stiffness, proceeded to -the table where the water was simmering in the depths of the machine, -surrounded by a little garden of cakes, pastry, candied fruits, and -bonbons. Then, as her profile was presented in clear relief against the -hangings of the salon, Mariolle observed the delicacy of her form and -the thinness of her hips beneath the broad shoulders and the full chest -that he had been admiring a moment before. As the train of her light -dress unrolled and dragged behind her, seemingly prolonging upon the -carpet a body that had no end, this blunt thought arose to his mind: -"Behold, a siren! She is altogether promising." She was now going from -one to another, offering her refreshments with gestures of exquisite -grace. Mariolle was following her with his eyes; but Lamarthe, who was -walking about with his cup in his hand, came up to him and said:</p> - -<p>"Shall we go, you and I?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, I think so."</p> - -<p>"We will go at once, shall we not? I am tired."</p> - -<p>"At once. Come."</p> - -<p>They left the house. When they were in the street, the novelist asked:</p> - -<p>"Are you going home or to the club?"</p> - -<p>"I think that I will go and spend an hour at the club."</p> - -<p>"At the Tambourins?"</p> - -<p>"Yes."</p> - -<p>"I will go as far as the door with you. Those places are tiresome to -me; I never put my foot in them. I join them only because they enable -me to economize in hack-hire."</p> - -<p>They locked arms and went down the street toward Saint Augustin. They -walked a little way in silence; then Mariolle said:</p> - -<p>"What a singular woman! What do you think of her?"</p> - -<p>Lamarthe began to laugh outright. "It is the commencement of the -crisis," he said. "You will have to pass through it, just as we have -all done. I have had the malady, but I am cured of it now. My dear -friend, the crisis consists of her friends talking of nothing but of -her when they are together, whenever they chance to meet, wherever they -may happen to be."</p> - -<p>"At all events, it is the first time in my case, and it is very natural -for me to ask for information, since I scarcely know her."</p> - -<p>"Let it be so, then; we will talk of her. Well, you are bound to fall -in love with her. It is your fate, the lot that is shared by all."</p> - -<p>"She is so very seductive, then?"</p> - -<p>"Yes and no. Those who love the women of other days, women who have a -heart and a soul, women of sensibility, the women of the old-fashioned -novel, cannot endure her and execrate her to such a degree as to speak -of her with ignominy. We, on the other hand, who are disposed to look -favorably upon what is modern and fresh, are compelled to confess that -she is delicious, provided always that we don't fall in love with -her. And that is just exactly what everybody does. No one dies of the -complaint, however; they do not even suffer very acutely, but they fume -because she is not other than she is. You will have to go through it -all if she takes the fancy; besides, she is already preparing to snap -you up."</p> - -<p>Mariolle exclaimed, in response to his secret thought:</p> - -<p>"Oh! I am only a chance acquaintance for her, and I imagine that she -values acquaintances of all sorts and conditions."</p> - -<p>"Yes, she values them, <i>parbleu!</i> and at the same time she laughs at -them. The most celebrated, even the most distinguished, man will not -darken her door ten times if he is not congenial to her, and she has -formed a stupid attachment for that idiotic Fresnel, and that tiresome -De Maltry. She inexcusably suffers herself to be carried away by those -idiots, no one knows why; perhaps because she gets more amusement out -of them than she does out of us, perhaps because their love for her is -deeper; and there is nothing in the world that pleases a woman so much -as to be loved like that."</p> - -<p>And Lamarthe went on talking of her, analyzing her, pulling her to -pieces, correcting himself only to contradict himself again, replying -with unmistakable warmth and sincerity to Mariolle's questions, like a -man who is deeply interested in his subject and carried away by it; a -little at sea also, having his mind stored with observations that were -true and deductions that were false. He said:</p> - -<p>"She is not the only one, moreover; at this minute there are fifty -women, if not more, who are like her. There is the little Frémines -who was in her drawing-room just now; she is Mme. de Burne's exact -counterpart, save that she is more forward in her manners and married -to an outlandish kind of fellow, the consequence of which is that her -house is one of the most entertaining lunatic asylums in Paris. I go -there a great deal."</p> - -<p>Without noticing it, they had traversed the Boulevard Malesherbes, the -Rue Royale, the Avenue des Champs-Élysées, and had reached the Arc de -Triomphe, when Lamarthe suddenly pulled out his watch.</p> - -<p>"My dear fellow," he said, "we have spent an hour and ten minutes in -talking of her; that is sufficient for to-day. I will take some other -occasion of seeing you to your club. Go home and go to bed; it is what -I am going to do."</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h5><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II.</a></h5> - - -<h4>"WILL YOU WALK INTO MY PARLOR?"</h4> - - -<p>The room was large and well lighted, the walls and ceiling hung with -admirable hangings of chintz that a friend of hers in the diplomatic -service had brought home and presented to her. The ground was yellow, -as if it had been dipped in golden cream, and the designs of all -colors, in which Persian green was predominant, represented fantastic -buildings with curving roofs, about which monstrosities in the shape of -beasts and birds were running and flying: lions wearing wigs, antelopes -with extravagant horns, and birds of paradise.</p> - -<p>The furniture was scanty. Upon three long tables with tops of green -marble were arranged all the implements requisite for a pretty woman's -toilette. Upon one of them, the central one, were the great basins -of thick crystal; the second presented an array of bottles, boxes, -and vases of all sizes, surmounted by silver caps bearing her arms -and monogram; while on the third were displayed all the tools and -appliances of modern coquetry, countless in number, designed to serve -various complex and mysterious purposes. The room contained only two -reclining chairs and a few low, soft, and luxurious seats, calculated -to afford rest to weary limbs and to bodies relieved of the restraint -of clothing.</p> - -<p>Covering one entire side of the apartment was an immense mirror, -composed of three panels. The two wings, playing on hinges, allowed -the young woman to view herself at the same time in front, rear, and -profile, to envelop herself in her own image. To the right, in a recess -that was generally concealed by hanging draperies, was the bath, or -rather a deep pool, reached by a descent of two steps. A bronze Love, a -charming conception of the sculptor Prédolé, poured hot and cold water -into it through the seashells with which he was playing. At the back -of this alcove a Venetian mirror, composed of smaller mirrors inclined -to each other at varying angles, ascended in a curved dome, shutting -in and protecting the bath and its occupant, and reflecting them in -each one of its many component parts. A little beyond the bath was her -writing-desk, a plain and handsome piece of furniture of modern English -manufacture, covered with a litter of papers, folded letters, little -torn envelopes on which glittered gilt initials, for it was in this -room that she passed her time and attended to her correspondence when -she was alone.</p> - -<p>Stretched at full length upon her reclining-chair, enveloped in a -dressing-gown of Chinese silk, her bare arms—and beautiful, firm, -supple arms they were—issuing forth fearlessly from out the wide folds -of silk, her hair turned up and burdening the head with its masses of -blond coils, Mme. de Burne was indulging herself with a gentle reverie -after the bath. The chambermaid knocked, then entered, bringing a -letter. She took it, looked at the writing, tore it open, and read the -first lines; then calmly said to the servant: "I will ring for you in -an hour."</p> - -<p>When she was alone she smiled with the delight of victory. The first -words had sufficed to let her understand that at last she had received -a declaration of love from Mariolle. He had held out much longer than -she had thought he was capable of doing, for during the last three -months she had been besieging him with such attentions, such display -of grace and efforts to charm, as she had never hitherto employed -for anyone. He had seemed to be distrustful and on his guard against -her, against the bait of insatiable coquetry that she was continually -dangling before his eyes.</p> - -<p>It had required many a confidential conversation, into which she had -thrown all the physical seduction of her being and all the captivating -efforts of her mind, many an evening of music as well, when, seated -before the piano that was ringing still, before the leaves of the -scores that were full of the soul of the tuneful masters, they had -both thrilled with the same emotion, before she at last beheld in his -eyes that avowal of the vanquished man, the mendicant supplication of -a love that can no longer be concealed. She knew all this so well, the -<i>rouée!</i> Many and many a time, with feline cunning and inexhaustible -curiosity, she had made this secret, torturing plea rise to the eyes of -the men whom she had succeeded in beguiling. It afforded her so much -amusement to feel that she was gaining them, little by little, that -they were conquered, subjugated by her invincible woman's might, that -she was for them the Only One, the sovereign Idol whose caprices must -be obeyed.</p> - -<p>It had all grown up within her almost imperceptibly, like the -development of a hidden instinct, the instinct of war and conquest. -Perhaps it was that a desire of retaliation had germinated in her -heart during her years of married life, a dim longing to repay to men -generally that measure of ill which she had received from one of them, -to be in turn the strongest, to make stubborn wills bend before her, to -crush resistance and to make others, as well as she, feel the keen edge -of suffering. Above all else, however, she was a born coquette, and as -soon as her way in life was clear before her she applied herself to -pursuing and subjugating lovers, just as the hunter pursues the game, -with no other end in view than the pleasure of seeing them fall before -her.</p> - -<p>And yet her heart was not eager for emotion, like that of a tender and -sentimental woman; she did not seek a man's undivided love, nor did -she look for happiness in passion. All that she needed was universal -admiration, homage, prostrations, an incense-offering of tenderness. -Whoever frequented her house had also to become the slave of her -beauty, and no consideration of mere intellect could attach her for any -length of time to those who would not yield to her coquetry, disdainful -of the anxieties of love, their affections, perhaps, being placed -elsewhere.</p> - -<p>In order to retain her friendship it was indispensable to love her, -but that point once reached she was infinitely nice, with unimaginable -kindnesses and delightful attentions, designed to retain at her -side those whom she had captivated. Those who were once enlisted in -her regiment of adorers seemed to become her property by right of -conquest. She ruled them with great skill and wisdom, according to -their qualities and their defects and the nature of their jealousy. -Those who sought to obtain too much she expelled forthwith, taking them -back again afterward when they had become wiser, but imposing severe -conditions. And to such an extent did this game of bewitchment amuse -her, perverse woman that she was, that she found it as pleasurable to -befool steady old gentlemen as to turn the heads of the young.</p> - -<p>It might even have been said that she regulated her affection by the -fervency of the ardor that she had inspired, and that big Fresnel, a -dull, heavy companion who was of no imaginable benefit to her, retained -her favor thanks to the mad passion by which she felt that he was -possessed. She was not entirely indifferent to men's merits, either, -and more than once had been conscious of the commencement of a liking -that no one divined except herself, and which she quickly ended the -moment it became dangerous.</p> - -<p>Everyone who had approached her for the first time and warbled in -her ear the fresh notes of his hymn of gallantry, disclosing to her -the unknown quantity of his nature—artists more especially, who -seemed to her to possess more subtile and more delicate shades of -refined emotion—had for a time disquieted her, had awakened in her -the intermittent dream of a grand passion and a long <i>liaison</i>. But -swayed by prudent fears, irresolute, driven this way and that by her -distrustful nature, she had always kept a strict watch upon herself -until the moment she ceased to feel the influence of the latest lover.</p> - -<p>And then she had the sceptical vision of the girl of the period, who -would strip the greatest man of his prestige in the course of a few -weeks. As soon as they were fully in her toils, and in the disorder -of their heart had thrown aside their theatrical posturings and their -parade manners, they were all alike in her eyes, poor creatures whom -she could tyrannize over with her seductive powers. Finally, for a -woman like her, perfect as she was, to attach herself to a man, what -inestimable merits he would have had to possess!</p> - -<p>She suffered much from <i>ennui</i>, however, and was without fondness for -society, which she frequented for the sake of appearances, and the -long, tedious evenings of which she endured with heavy eyelids and -many a stifled yawn. She was amused only by its refined trivialities, -by her own caprices and by her quickly changing curiosity for certain -persons and certain things, attaching herself to it in such degree as -to realize that she had been appreciated or admired and not enough to -receive real pleasure from an affection or a liking—suffering from -her nerves and not from her desires. She was without the absorbing -preoccupations of ardent or simple souls, and passed her days in an -<i>ennui</i> of gaieties, destitute of the simple faith that attends on -happiness, constantly on the lookout for something to make the slow -hours pass more quickly, and sinking with lassitude, while deeming -herself contented.</p> - -<p>She thought that she was contented because she was the most seductive -and the most sought after of women. Proud of her attractiveness, the -power of which she often made trial, in love with her own irregular, -odd, and captivating beauty, convinced of the delicacy of her -perceptions, which allowed her to divine and understand a thousand -things that others were incapable of seeing, rejoicing in the wit that -had been appreciated by so many superior men, and totally ignoring the -limitations that bounded her intelligence, she looked upon herself as -an almost unique being, a rare pearl set in the midst of this common, -workaday world, which seemed to her slightly empty and monotonous -because she was too good for it.</p> - -<p>Not for an instant would she have suspected that in her unconscious -self lay the cause of the melancholy from which she suffered so -continuously. She laid the blame upon others and held them responsible -for her <i>ennui</i>. If they were unable sufficiently to entertain and -amuse or even impassion her, the reason was that they were deficient -in agreeableness and possessed no real merit in her eyes. "Everyone," -she would say with a little laugh, "is tiresome. The only endurable -people are those who afford me pleasure, and that solely because they -do afford me pleasure."</p> - -<p>And the surest way of pleasing her was to tell her that there was no -one like her. She was well aware that no success is attained without -labor, and so she gave herself up, heart and soul, to her work of -enticement, and found nothing that gave her greater enjoyment than to -note the homage of the softening glance and of the heart, that unruly -organ which she could cause to beat violently by the utterance of a -word.</p> - -<p>She had been greatly surprised by the trouble that she had had in -subjugating André Mariolle, for she had been well aware, from the -very first day, that she had found favor in his eyes. Then, little by -little, she had fathomed his suspicious, secretly envious, extremely -subtile, and concentrated disposition, and attacking him on his -weak side, she had shown him so many attentions, had manifested -such preference and natural sympathy for him, that he had finally -surrendered.</p> - -<p>Especially in the last month had she felt that he was her captive; he -was agitated in her presence, now taciturn, now feverishly animated, -but would make no avowal. Oh, avowals! She really did not care very -much for them, for when they were too direct, too expressive, she found -herself obliged to resort to severe measures. Twice she had even had -to make a show of being angry and close her door to the offender. What -she adored were delicate manifestations, semi-confidences, discreet -allusions, a sort of moral getting-down-on-the-marrow-bones; and she -really showed exceptional tact and address in extorting from her -admirers this moderation in their expressions.</p> - -<p>For a month past she had been watching and waiting to hear fall from -Mariolle's lips the words, distinct or veiled, according to the nature -of the man, which afford relief to the overburdened heart.</p> - -<p>He had said nothing, but he had written. It was a long letter: four -pages! A thrill of satisfaction crept over her as she held it in her -hands. She stretched herself at length upon her lounge so as to be more -comfortable and kicked the little slippers from off her feet upon the -carpet; then she proceeded to read. She met with a surprise. In serious -terms he told her that he did not desire to suffer at her hands, and -that he already knew her too well to consent to be her victim. With -many compliments, in very polite words, which everywhere gave evidence -of his repressed love, he let her know that he was apprised of her -manner of treating men—that he, too, was in the toils, but that he -would release himself from the servitude by taking himself off. He -would just simply begin his vagabond life of other days over again. -He would leave the country. It was a farewell, an eloquent and firm -farewell.</p> - -<p>Certainly it was a surprise as she read, re-read, and commenced to read -again these four pages of prose that were so full of tender irritation -and passion. She arose, put on her slippers, and began to walk up and -down the room, her bare arms out of her turned-back sleeves, her hands -thrust halfway into the little pockets of her dressing-gown, one of -them holding the crumpled letter.</p> - -<p>Taken all aback by this unforeseen declaration, she said to herself: -"He writes very well, very well indeed; he is sincere, feeling, -touching. He writes better than Lamarthe; there is nothing of the novel -sticking out of his letter."</p> - -<p>She felt like smoking, went to the table where the perfumes were and -took a cigarette from a box of Dresden china; then, having lighted it, -she approached the great mirror in which she saw three young women -coming toward her in the three diversely inclined panels. When she was -quite near she halted, made herself a little bow with a little smile, -a friendly little nod of the head, as if to say: "Very pretty, very -pretty." She inspected her eyes, looked at her teeth, raised her arms, -placed her hands on her hips and turned her profile so as to behold her -entire person in the three mirrors, bending her head slightly forward. -She stood there amorously facing herself surrounded by the threefold -reflection of her own being, which she thought was charming, filled -with delight at sight of herself, engrossed by an egotistical and -physical pleasure in presence of her own beauty, and enjoying it with a -keen satisfaction that was almost as sensual as a man's.</p> - -<p>Every day she surveyed herself in this manner, and her maid, who had -often caught her at it, used to say, spitefully:</p> - -<p>"Madame looks at herself so much that she will end up by wearing out -all the looking-glasses in the house."</p> - -<p>In this love of herself, however, lay all the secret of her charm and -the influence that she exerted over men. Through admiring herself and -tenderly loving the delicacy of her features and the elegance of her -form, by constantly seeking for and finding means of showing them to -the greatest advantage, through discovering imperceptible ways of -rendering her gracefulness more graceful and her eyes more fascinating, -through pursuing all the artifices that embellished her to her own -vision, she had as a matter of course hit upon that which would most -please others. Had she been more beautiful and careless of her beauty, -she would not have possessed that attractiveness which drew to her -everyone who had not from the beginning shown himself unassailable.</p> - -<p>Wearying soon a little of standing thus, she spoke to her image that -was smiling to her still, and her image in the threefold mirror moved -its lips as if to echo: "We will see about it." Then she crossed the -room and seated herself at her desk. Here is what she wrote:</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>"<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">DEAR MONSIEUR MARIOLLE</span>: Come to see me to-morrow at four -o'clock. I shall be alone, and hope to be able to reassure -you as to the imaginary danger that alarms you.</p> - -<p>"I subscribe myself your friend, and will prove to you that -I am..... </p> -<p style="font-size: 0.8em; margin-left: 65%;">MICHÈLE DE BURNE."</p></blockquote> - -<p>How plainly she dressed next day to receive André Mariolle's visit! A -little gray dress, of a light gray bordering on lilac, melancholy as -the dying day and quite unornamented, with a collar fitting closely to -the neck, sleeves fitting closely to the arms, corsage fitting closely -to the waist and bust, and skirt fitting closely to the hips and legs.</p> - -<p>When he made his appearance, wearing rather a solemn face, she came -forward to meet him, extending both her hands. He kissed them, then -they seated themselves, and she allowed the silence to last a few -moments in order to assure herself of his embarrassment.</p> - -<p>He did not know what to say, and was waiting for her to speak. She made -up her mind to do so.</p> - -<p>"Well! let us come at once to the main question. What is the matter? -Are you aware that you wrote me a very insolent letter?"</p> - -<p>"I am very well aware of it, and I render my most sincere apology. I -am, I have always been with everyone, excessively, brutally frank. I -might have gone away without the unnecessary and insulting explanations -that I addressed to you. I considered it more loyal to act in -accordance with my nature and trust to your understanding, with which I -am acquainted."</p> - -<p>She resumed with an expression of pitying satisfaction:</p> - -<p>"Come, come! What does all this folly mean?"</p> - -<p>He interrupted her: "I would prefer not to speak of it."</p> - -<p>She answered warmly, without allowing him to proceed further:</p> - -<p>"I invited you here to discuss it, and we will discuss it until you are -quite convinced that you are not exposing yourself to any danger." She -laughed like a little girl, and her dress, so closely resembling that -of a boarding-school miss, gave her laughter a character of childish -youth.</p> - -<p>He hesitatingly said: "What I wrote you was the truth, the sincere -truth, the terrifying truth."</p> - -<p>Resuming her seriousness, she rejoined: "I do not doubt you: all my -friends travel that road. You also wrote that I am a fearful coquette. -I admit it, but then no one ever dies of it; I do not even believe that -they suffer a great deal. There is, indeed, what Lamarthe calls the -crisis. You are in that stage now, but that passes over and subsides -into—what shall I call it?—into the state of chronic love, which does -no harm to a body, and which I keep simmering over a slow fire in all -my friends, so that they may be very much attached, very devoted, very -faithful to me. Am not I, also, sincere and frank and nice with you? -Eh? Have you known many women who would dare to talk as I have talked -to you?"</p> - -<p>She had an air of such drollness, coupled with such decision, she was -so unaffected and at the same time so alluring, that he could not help -smiling in turn. "All your friends," he said, "are men who have often -had their fingers burned in that fire, even before it was done at your -hearth. Toasted and roasted already, it is easy for them to endure the -oven in which you keep them; but for my part, I, Madame, have never -passed through that experience, and I have felt for some time past that -it would be a dreadful thing for me to give way to the sentiment that -is growing and waxing in my heart."</p> - -<p>Suddenly she became familiar, and bending a little toward him, her -hands clasped over her knees: "Listen to me," she said, "I am in -earnest. I hate to lose a friend for the sake of a fear that I regard -as chimerical. You will be in love with me, perhaps, but the men of -this generation do not love the women of to-day so violently as to do -themselves any actual injury. You may believe me; I know them both." -She was silent; then with the singular smile of a woman who utters a -truth while she thinks she is telling a fib, she added: "Besides, I -have not the necessary qualifications to make men love me madly; I -am too modern. Come, I will be a friend to you, a real nice friend, -for whom you will have affection, but nothing more, for I will see to -it." She went on in a more serious tone: "In any case I give you fair -warning that I am incapable of feeling a real passion for anyone, let -him be who he may; you shall receive the same treatment as the others, -you shall stand on an equal footing with the most favored, but never -on any better; I abominate despotism and jealousy. I have had to endure -everything from a husband, but from a friend, a simple friend, I do not -choose to accept affectionate tyrannizings, which are the bane of all -cordial relations. You see that I am just as nice as nice can be, that -I talk to you like a comrade, that I conceal nothing from you. Are you -willing loyally to accept the trial that I propose? If it does not work -well, there will still be time enough for you to go away if the gravity -of the situation demands it. A lover absent is a lover cured."</p> - -<p>He looked at her, already vanquished by her voice, her gestures, all -the intoxication of her person; and quite resigned to his fate, and -thrilling through every fiber at the consciousness that she was sitting -there beside him, he murmured:</p> - -<p>"I accept, Madame, and if harm comes to me, so much the worse! I can -afford to endure a little suffering for your sake."</p> - -<p>She stopped him.</p> - -<p>"Now let us say nothing more about it," she said; "let us never speak -of it again." And she diverted the conversation to topics that might -calm his agitation.</p> - -<p>In an hour's time he took his leave; in torments, for he loved her; -delighted, for she had asked and he had promised that he would not go -away.</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h5><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III.</a></h5> - - -<h4>THE THORNS OF THE ROSE</h4> - - -<p>He was in torments, for he loved her. Differing in this from the -common run of lovers, in whose eyes the woman chosen of their heart -appears surrounded by an aureole of perfection, his attachment for -her had grown within him while studying her with the clairvoyant -eyes of a suspicious and distrustful man who had never been entirely -enslaved. His timid and sluggish but penetrating disposition, always -standing on the defensive in life, had saved him from his passions. A -few intrigues, two brief <i>liaisons</i> that had perished of <i>ennui</i>, and -some mercenary loves that had been broken off from disgust, comprised -the history of his heart. He regarded women as an object of utility -for those who desire a well-kept house and a family, as an object of -comparative pleasure to those who are in quest of the pastime of love.</p> - -<p>Before he entered Mme. de Burne's house his friends had confidentially -warned him against her. What he had learned of her interested, -puzzled, and pleased him, but it was also rather distasteful to him. -As a matter of principle he did not like those gamblers who never pay -when they lose. After their first few meetings he had decided that she -was very amusing, and that she possessed a special charm that had a -contagion in it. The natural and artificial beauties of this charming, -slender, blond person, who was neither fat nor lean, who was furnished -with beautiful arms that seemed formed to attract and embrace, and with -legs that one might imagine long and tapering, calculated for flight, -like those of a gazelle, with feet so small that they would leave -no trace, seemed to him to be a symbol of hopes that could never be -realized.</p> - -<p>He had experienced, moreover, in his conversation with her a pleasure -that he had never thought of meeting with in the intercourse of -fashionable society. Gifted with a wit that was full of familiar -animation, unforeseen and mocking and of a caressing irony, she would, -notwithstanding this, sometimes allow herself to be carried away by -sentimental or intellectual influences, as if beneath her derisive -gaiety there still lingered the secular shade of poetic tenderness -drawn from some remote ancestress. These things combined to render her -exquisite.</p> - -<p>She petted him and made much of him, desirous of conquering him as -she had conquered the others, and he visited her house as often as he -could, drawn thither by his increasing need of seeing more of her. It -was like a force emanating from her and taking possession of him, a -force that lay in her charm, her look, her smile, her speech, a force -that there was no resisting, although he frequently left her house -provoked at something that she had said or done.</p> - -<p>The more he felt working on him that indescribable influence with which -a woman penetrates and subjugates us, the more clearly did he see -through her, the more did he understand and suffer from her nature, -which he devoutly wished was different. It was certainly true, however, -that the very qualities which he disapproved of in her were the -qualities that had drawn him toward her and captivated him, in spite -of himself, in spite of his reason, and more, perhaps, than her real -merits.</p> - -<p>Her coquetry, with which she toyed, making no attempt at concealing -it, as with a fan, opening and folding it in presence of everybody -according as the men to whom she was talking were pleasing to her -or the reverse; her way of taking nothing in earnest, which had -seemed droll to him upon their first acquaintance, but now seemed -threatening; her constant desire for distraction, for novelty, which -rested insatiable in her heart, always weary—all these things would -so exasperate him that sometimes upon returning to his house he would -resolve to make his visits to her more infrequent until such time as he -might do away with them altogether. The very next day he would invent -some pretext for going to see her. What he thought to impress upon -himself, as he became more and more enamored, was the insecurity of -this love and the certainty that he would have to suffer for it.</p> - -<p>He was not blind; little by little he yielded to this sentiment, -as a man drowns because his vessel has gone down under him and he -is too far from the shore. He knew her as well as it was possible -to know her, for his passion had served to make his mental vision -abnormally clairvoyant, and he could not prevent his thoughts from -going into indefinite speculations concerning her. With indefatigable -perseverance, he was continually seeking to analyze and understand -the obscure depths of this feminine soul, this incomprehensible -mixture of bright intelligence and disenchantment, of sober reason and -childish triviality, of apparent affection and fickleness, of all those -ill-assorted inclinations that can be brought together and co-ordinated -to form an unnatural, perplexing, and seductive being.</p> - -<p>But why was it that she attracted him thus? He constantly asked himself -this question, and was unable to find a satisfactory answer to it, -for, with his reflective, observing, and proudly retiring nature, -his logical course would have been to look in a woman for those -old-fashioned and soothing attributes of tenderness and constancy which -seem to offer the most reliable assurance of happiness to a man. In -her, however, he had encountered something that he had not expected to -find, a sort of early vegetable of the human race, as it were, one of -those creatures who are the beginning of a new generation, exciting -one by their strange novelty, unlike anything that one has ever known -before, and even in their imperfections awakening the dormant senses by -a formidable power of attraction.</p> - -<p>To the romantic and dreamily passionate women of the Restoration had -succeeded the gay triflers of the imperial epoch, convinced that -pleasure is a reality; and now, here there was afforded him a new -development of this everlasting femininity, a woman of refinement, -of indeterminate sensibility, restless, without fixed resolves, her -feelings in constant turmoil, who seemed to have made it part of her -experience to employ every narcotic that quiets the aching nerves: -chloroform that stupefies, ether and morphine that excite to abnormal -reverie, kill the senses, and deaden the emotions.</p> - -<p>He relished in her that flavor of an artificial nature, the sole -object of whose existence was to charm and allure. She was a rare and -attractive bauble, exquisite and delicate, drawing men's eyes to her, -causing the heart to throb, and desire to awake, as one's appetite is -excited when he looks through the glass of the shop-window and beholds -the dainty viands that have been prepared and arranged for the purpose -of making him hunger for them.</p> - -<p>When he was quite assured that he had started on his perilous descent -toward the bottom of the gulf, he began to reflect with consternation -upon the dangers of his infatuation. What would happen him? What would -she do with him? Most assuredly she would do with him what she had -done with everyone else: she would bring him to the point where a man -follows a woman's capricious fancies as a dog follows his master's -steps, and she would classify him among her collection of more or less -illustrious favorites. Had she really played this game with all the -others? Was there not one, not a single one, whom she had loved, if -only for a month, a day, an hour, in one of those effusions of feeling -that she had the faculty of repressing so readily? He talked with them -interminably about her as they came forth from her dinners, warmed -by contact with her. He felt that they were all uneasy, dissatisfied, -unstrung, like men whose dreams have failed of realization.</p> - -<p>No, she had loved no one among these paraders before public curiosity. -But he, who was a nullity in comparison with them, he, to whom it was -not granted that heads should turn and wondering eyes be fixed on him -when his name was mentioned in a crowd or in a salon,—what would he -be for her? Nothing, nothing; a mere supernumerary upon her scene, -a Monsieur, the sort of man that becomes a familiar, commonplace -attendant upon a distinguished woman, useful to hold her bouquet, a man -comparable to the common grade of wine that one drinks with water. Had -he been a famous man he might have been willing to accept this rôle, -which his celebrity would have made less humiliating; but unknown as he -was, he would have none of it. So he wrote to bid her farewell.</p> - -<p>When he received her brief answer he was moved by it as by the -intelligence of some unexpected piece of good fortune, and when she had -made him promise that he would not go away he was as delighted as a -schoolboy released for a holiday.</p> - -<p>Several days elapsed without bringing any fresh development to their -relations, but when the calm that succeeds the storm had passed, he -felt his longing for her increasing within him and burning him. He -had promised that he would never again speak to her on the forbidden -topic, but he had not promised that he would not write, and one night -when he could not sleep, when she had taken possession of all his -faculties in the restless vigil of his insomnia of love, he seated -himself at his table, almost against his will, and set himself to put -down his feelings and his sufferings upon fair, white paper. It was not -a letter; it was an aggregation of notes, phrases, thoughts, throbs of -moral anguish, transmuting themselves into words. It soothed him; it -seemed to him to give him a little comfort in his suffering, and lying -down upon his bed, he was at last able to obtain some sleep.</p> - -<p>Upon awaking the next morning he read over these few pages and decided -that they were sufficiently harrowing; then he inclosed and addressed -them, kept them by him until evening, and mailed them very late so that -she might receive them when she arose. He thought that she would not be -alarmed by these innocent sheets of paper. The most timorous of women -have an infinite kindness for a letter that speaks to them of a sincere -love, and when these letters are written by a trembling hand, with -tearful eyes and melancholy face, the power that they exercise over the -female heart is unbounded.</p> - -<p>He went to her house late that afternoon to see how she would receive -him and what she would say to him. He found M. de Pradon there, smoking -cigarettes and conversing with his daughter. He would often pass whole -hours with her in this way, for his manner toward her was rather that -of a gentleman visitor than of a father. She had brought into their -relations and their affection a tinge of that homage of love which she -bestowed upon herself and exacted from everyone else.</p> - -<p>When she beheld Mariolle her face brightened with delight; she shook -hands with him warmly and her smile told him: "You have afforded me -much pleasure."</p> - -<p>Mariolle was in hopes that the father would go away soon, but M. de -Pradon did not budge. Although he knew his daughter thoroughly, and -for a long time past had placed the most implicit confidence in her as -regarded her relations with men, he always kept an eye on her with a -kind of curious, uneasy, somewhat marital attention. He wanted to know -what chance of success there might be for this newly discovered friend, -who he was, what he amounted to. Would he be a mere bird of passage, -like so many others, or a permanent member of their usual circle?</p> - -<p>He intrenched himself, therefore, and Mariolle immediately perceived -that he was not to be dislodged. The visitor made up his mind -accordingly, and even resolved to gain him over if it were possible, -considering that his good-will, or at any rate his neutrality, would -be better than his hostility. He exerted himself and was brilliant -and amusing, without any of the airs of a sighing lover. She said to -herself contentedly: "He is not stupid; he acts his part in the comedy -extremely well"; and M. de Pradon thought: "This is a very agreeable -man, whose head my daughter does not seem to have turned."</p> - -<p>When Mariolle decided that it was time for him to take his leave, he -left them both delighted with him.</p> - -<p>But he left that house with sorrow in his soul. In the presence of -that woman he felt deeply the bondage in which she held him, realizing -that it would be vain to knock at that heart, as a man imprisoned -fruitlessly beats the iron door with his fist. He was well assured -that he was entirely in her power, and he did not try to free himself. -Such being the case, and as he could not avoid this fatality, he -resolved that he would be patient, tenacious, cunning, dissembling, -that he would conquer by address, by the homage that she was so greedy -of, by the adoration that intoxicated her, by the voluntary servitude -to which he would suffer himself to be reduced.</p> - -<p>His letter had pleased her; he would write. He wrote. Almost every -night, when he came home, at that hour when the mind, fresh from the -influence of the day's occurrences, regards whatever interests or moves -it with a sort of abnormally developed hallucination, he would seat -himself at his table by his lamp and exalt his imagination by thoughts -of her. The poetic germ, that so many indolent men suffer to perish -within them from mere slothfulness, grew and throve under this regimen. -He infused a feverish ardor into this task of literary tenderness by -means of constantly writing the same thing, the same idea, that is, -his love, in expressions that were ever renewed by the constantly -fresh-springing, daily renewal of his desire. All through the long day -he would seek for and find those irresistible words that stream from -the brain like fiery sparks, compelled by the over-excited emotions. -Thus he would breathe upon the fire of his own heart and kindle it into -raging flames, for often love-letters contain more danger for him who -writes than for her who receives them.</p> - -<p>By keeping himself in this continuous state of effervescence, by -heating his blood with words and peopling his brain with one solitary -thought, his ideas gradually became confused as to the reality of this -woman. He had ceased to entertain the opinion of her that he had first -held, and now beheld her only through the medium of his own lyrical -phrases, and all that he wrote of her night by night became to his -heart so many gospel truths. This daily labor of idealization displayed -her to him as in a dream. His former resistance melted away, moreover, -in presence of the affection that Mme. de Burne undeniably evinced -for him. Although no word had passed between them at this time, she -certainly showed a preference for him beyond others, and took no pains -to conceal it from him. He therefore thought, with a kind of mad hope, -that she might finally come to love him.</p> - -<p>The fact was that the charm of those letters afforded her a complicated -and naïve delight. No one had ever flattered and caressed her in that -manner, with such mute reserve. No one had ever had the delicious idea -of sending to her bedside, every morning, that feast of sentiment in -paper wrapping that her maid presented to her on the little silver -salver. And what made it all the dearer in her eyes was that he never -mentioned it, that he seemed to be quite unaware of it himself, that -when he visited her salon he was the most undemonstrative of her -friends, that he never by word or look alluded to those showers of -tenderness that he was secretly raining down upon her.</p> - -<p>Of course she had had love-letters before that, but they had been -pitched in a different key, had been less reserved, more pressing, more -like a summons to surrender. For the three months that his "crisis" had -lasted Lamarthe had dedicated to her a very nice correspondence from a -much-smitten novelist who maunders in a literary way. She kept in her -secretary, in a drawer specially allotted to them, these delicate and -seductive epistles from a writer who had shown much feeling, who had -caressed her with his pen up to the very day when he saw that he had no -hope of success.</p> - -<p>Mariolle's letters were quite different; they were so strong in their -concentrated desire, so deep in the expression of their sincerity, so -humble in their submissiveness, breathing a devotion that promised to -be lasting, that she received and read them with a delight that no -other writings could have afforded her.</p> - -<p>It was natural that her friendly feeling for the man should increase -under such conditions. She invited him to her house the more frequently -because he displayed such entire reserve in his relations toward -her, seeming not to have the slightest recollection in conversation -with her that he had ever taken up a sheet of paper to tell her of -his adoration. Moreover she looked upon the situation as an original -one, worthy of being celebrated in a book; and in the depths of her -satisfaction in having at her side a being who loved her thus, she -experienced a sort of active fermentation of sympathy which caused her -to measure him by a standard other than her usual one.</p> - -<p>Up to the present time, notwithstanding the vanity of her coquetry she -had been conscious of preoccupations that antagonized her in all the -hearts that she had laid waste. She had not held undisputed sovereignty -over them, she had found in them powerful interests that were entirely -dissociated from her. Jealous of music in Massival's case, of -literature in Lamarthe's, always jealous of something, discontented -that she only obtained partial successes, powerless to drive all before -her in the minds of these ambitious men, men of celebrity, or artists -to whom their profession was a mistress from whom nobody could part -them, she had now for the first time fallen in with one to whom she -was all in all. Certainly big Fresnel, and he alone, loved her to the -same degree. But then he was big Fresnel. She felt that it had never -been granted her to exercise such complete dominion over anyone, and -her selfish gratitude for the man who had afforded her this triumph -displayed itself in manifestations of tenderness. She had need of him -now; she had need of his presence, of his glance, of his subjection, -of all this domesticity of love. If he flattered her vanity less than -the others did, he flattered more those supreme exactions that sway -coquettes body and soul—her pride and her instinct of domination, her -strong instinct of feminine repose.</p> - -<p>Like an invader she gradually assumed possession of his life by a -series of small incursions that every day became more numerous. She got -up <i>fêtes</i>, theater-parties, and dinners at the restaurant, so that he -might be of the party. She dragged him after her with the satisfaction -of a conqueror; she could not dispense with his presence, or rather -with the state of slavery to which he was reduced. He followed in -her train, happy to feel himself thus petted, caressed by her eyes, -her voice, by her every caprice, and he lived only in a continuous -transport of love and longing that desolated and burned like a wasting -fever.</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h5><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV.</a></h5> - - -<h4>THE BENEFIT OF CHANGE OF SCENE</h4> - - -<p>One day Mariolle had gone to her house. He was awaiting her, for she -had not come in, although she had sent him a telegram to tell him -that she wanted to see him that morning. Whenever he was alone in -this drawing-room which it gave him such pleasure to enter and where -everything was so charming to him, he nevertheless was conscious -of an oppression of the heart, a slight feeling of affright and -breathlessness that would not allow him to remain seated as long as she -was not there. He walked about the room in joyful expectation, dashed -by the fear that some unforeseen obstacle might intervene to detain her -and cause their interview to go over until next day. His heart gave a -hopeful bound when he heard a carriage draw up before the street door, -and when the bell of the apartment rang he ceased to doubt.</p> - -<p>She came in with her hat on, a thing which she was not accustomed to -do, wearing a busy and satisfied look. "I have some news for you," she -said.</p> - -<p>"What is it, Madame?"</p> - -<p>She looked at him and laughed. "Well! I am going to the country for a -while."</p> - -<p>Her words produced in him a quick, sharp shock of sorrow that was -reflected upon his face. "Oh! and you tell me that as if you were glad -of it!"</p> - -<p>"Yes. Sit down and I will tell you all about it. I don't know whether -you are aware that M. Valsaci, my poor mother's brother, the engineer -and bridge-builder, has a country-place at Avranches where he spends a -portion of his time with his wife and children, for his business lies -mostly in that neighborhood. We pay them a visit every summer. This -year I said that I did not care to go, but he was greatly disappointed -and made quite a time over it with papa. Speaking of scenes, I will -tell you confidentially that papa is jealous of you and makes scenes -with me, too; he says that I am entangling myself with you. You will -have to come to see me less frequently. But don't let that trouble you; -I will arrange matters. So papa gave me a scolding and made me promise -to go to Avranches for a visit of ten days, perhaps twelve. We are to -start Tuesday morning. What have you got to say about it?"</p> - -<p>"I say that it breaks my heart."</p> - -<p>"Is that all?"</p> - -<p>"What more can I say? There is no way of preventing you from going."</p> - -<p>"And nothing presents itself to you?"</p> - -<p>"Why, no; I can't say that there does. And you?"</p> - -<p>"I have an idea; it is this: Avranches is quite near Mont Saint-Michel. -Have you ever been at Mont Saint-Michel?"</p> - -<p>"No, Madame."</p> - -<p>"Well, something will tell you next Friday that you want to go and -see this wonder. You will leave the train at Avranches; on Friday -evening at sunset, if you please, you will take a walk in the public -garden that overlooks the bay. We will happen to meet there. Papa -will grumble, but I don't care for that. I will make up a party to -go and see the abbey next day, including all the family. You must be -enthusiastic over it, and very charming, as you can be when you choose; -be attentive to my aunt and gain her over, and invite us all to dine -at the inn where we alight. We will sleep there, and will have all the -next day to be together. You will return by way of Saint Malo, and a -week later I shall be back in Paris. Isn't that an ingenious scheme? Am -I not nice?"</p> - -<p>With an outburst of grateful feeling, he murmured: "You are dearer to -me than all the world."</p> - -<p>"Hush!" said she.</p> - -<p>They looked each other for a moment in the face. She smiled, conveying -to him in that smile—very sincere and earnest it was, almost -tender—all her gratitude, her thanks for his love, and her sympathy as -well. He gazed upon her with eyes that seemed to devour her. He had an -insane desire to throw himself down and grovel at her feet, to kiss the -hem of her robe, to cry aloud and make her see what he knew not how to -tell in words, what existed in all his form from head to feet, in every -fiber of his body as well as in his heart, paining him inexpressibly -because he could not display it—his love, his terrible and delicious -love.</p> - -<p>There was no need of words, however; she understood him, as the -marksman instinctively feels that his ball has penetrated the -bull's-eye of the target. Nothing any longer subsisted within this man, -nothing, nothing but her image. He was hers more than she herself was -her own. She was satisfied, and she thought he was charming.</p> - -<p>She said to him, in high good-humor: "Then <i>that</i> is settled; the -excursion is agreed on."</p> - -<p>He answered in a voice that trembled with emotion: "Why, yes, Madame, -it is agreed on."</p> - -<p>There was another interval of silence. "I cannot let you stay any -longer to-day," she said without further apology. "I only ran in to -tell you what I have told you, since I am to start day after to-morrow. -All my time will be occupied to-morrow, and I have still half-a-dozen -things to attend to before dinner-time."</p> - -<p>He arose at once, deeply troubled, for the sole desire of his heart was -to be with her always; and having kissed her hands, went his way, sore -at heart, but hopeful nevertheless.</p> - -<p>The four intervening days were horribly long ones to him. He got -through them somehow in Paris without seeing a soul, preferring silence -to conversation, and solitude to the company of friends.</p> - -<p>On Friday morning, therefore, he boarded the eight-o'clock express. -The anticipation of the journey had made him feverish, and he had not -slept a wink. The darkness of his room and its silence, broken only by -the occasional rattling of some belated cab that served to remind him -of his longing to be off, had weighed upon him all night long like a -prison.</p> - -<p>At the earliest ray of light that showed itself between his drawn -curtains, the gray, sad light of early morning, he jumped from his bed, -opened the window, and looked at the sky. He had been haunted by the -fear that the weather might be unfavorable. It was clear. There was a -light floating mist, presaging a warm day. He dressed more quickly than -was needful, and in his consuming impatience to get out of doors and -at last begin his journey he was ready two hours too soon, and nothing -would do but his valet must go out and get a cab lest they should all -be gone from the stand. As the vehicle jolted over the stones, its -movements were so many shocks of happiness to him, but when he reached -the Mont Parnasse station and found that he had fifty minutes to wait -before the departure of the train, his spirits fell again.</p> - -<p>There was a compartment disengaged; he took it so that he might be -alone and give free course to his reveries. When at last he felt -himself moving, hurrying along toward her, soothed by the gentle and -rapid motion of the train, his eagerness, instead of being appeased, -was still further excited, and he felt a desire, the unreasoning desire -of a child, to push with all his strength against the partition in -front of him, so as to accelerate their speed. For a long time, until -midday, he remained in this condition of waiting expectancy, but when -they were past Argentan his eyes were gradually attracted to the window -by the fresh verdure of the Norman landscape.</p> - -<p>The train was passing through a wide, undulating region, intersected -by valleys, where the peasant holdings, mostly in grass and -apple-orchards, were shut in by great trees, the thick-leaved tops of -which seemed to glow in the sunlight. It was late in July, that lusty -season when this land, an abundant nurse, gives generously of its sap -and life. In all the inclosures, separated from each other by these -leafy walls, great light-colored oxen, cows whose flanks were striped -with undefined figures of odd design, huge, red, wide-fronted bulls -of proud and quarrelsome aspect, with their hanging dewlaps of hairy -flesh, standing by the fences or lying down among the pasturage that -stuffed their paunches, succeeded each other, until there seemed to be -no end to them in this fresh, fertile land, the soil of which appeared -to exude cider and fat sirloins. In every direction little streams were -gliding in and out among the poplars, partially concealed by a thin -screen of willows; brooks glittered for an instant among the herbage, -disappearing only to show themselves again farther on, bathing all the -scene in their vivifying coolness. Mariolle was charmed at the sight, -and almost forgot his love for a moment in his rapid flight through -this far-reaching park of apple-trees and flocks and herds.</p> - -<p>When he had changed cars at Folligny station, however, he was again -seized with an impatient longing to be at his destination, and during -the last forty minutes he took out his watch twenty times. His head -was constantly turned toward the window of the car, and at last, -situated upon a hill of moderate height, he beheld the city where she -was waiting for his coming. The train had been delayed, and now only -an hour separated him from the moment when he was to come upon her, by -chance, on the public promenade.</p> - -<p>He was the only passenger that climbed into the hotel omnibus, which -the horses began to drag up the steep road of Avranches with slow and -reluctant steps. The houses crowning the heights gave to the place from -a distance the appearance of a fortification. Seen close at hand it -was an ancient and pretty Norman city, with small dwellings of regular -and almost similar appearance built closely adjoining one another, -giving an aspect of ancient pride and modern comfort, a feudal yet -peasant-like air.</p> - -<p>As soon as Mariolle had secured a room and thrown his valise into it, -he inquired for the street that led to the Botanical Garden and started -off in the direction indicated with rapid strides, although he was -ahead of time. But he was in hopes that perhaps she also would be on -hand early. When he reached the iron railings, he saw at a glance that -the place was empty or nearly so. Only three old men were walking about -in it, <i>bourgeois</i> to the manner born, who probably were in the habit -of coming there daily to cheer their leisure by conversation, and a -family of English children, lean-legged boys and girls, were playing -about a fair-haired governess whose wandering looks showed that her -thoughts were far away.</p> - -<p>Mariolle walked straight ahead with beating heart, looking -scrutinizingly up and down the intersecting paths. He came to a great -alley of dark green elms which cut the garden in two portions crosswise -and stretched away in its center, a dense vault of foliage; he passed -through this, and all at once, coming to a terrace that commanded a -view of the horizon, his thoughts suddenly ceased to dwell upon her -whose influence had brought him hither.</p> - -<p>From the foot of the elevation upon which he was standing spread an -illimitable sandy plain that stretched away in the distance and blended -with sea and sky. Through it rolled a stream, and beneath the azure, -aflame with sunlight, pools of water dotted it with luminous sheets -that seemed like orifices opening upon another sky beneath. In the -midst of this yellow desert, still wet and glistening with the receding -tide, at twelve or fifteen kilometers from the shore rose a pointed -rock of monumental profile, like some fantastic pyramid, surmounted -by a cathedral. Its only neighbor in these immense wastes was a low, -round backed reef that the tide had left uncovered, squatting among -the shifting ooze: the reef of Tombelaine. Farther still away, other -submerged rocks showed their brown heads above the bluish line of the -waves, and the eye, continuing to follow the horizon to the right, -finally rested upon the vast green expanse of the Norman country lying -beside this sandy waste, so densely covered with trees that it had -the aspect of a limitless forest. It was all Nature offering herself -to his vision at a single glance, in a single spot, in all her might -and grandeur, in all her grace and freshness, and the eye turned from -those woodland glimpses to the stern apparition of the granite mount, -the hermit of the sands, rearing its strange Gothic form upon the -far-reaching strand.</p> - -<p>The strange pleasure which in other days had often made Mariolle -thrill, in the presence of the surprises that unknown lands preserve to -delight the eyes of travelers, now took such sudden possession of him -that he remained motionless, his feelings softened and deeply moved, -oblivious of his tortured heart. At the sound of a striking bell, -however, he turned, suddenly repossessed by the eager hope that they -were about to meet. The garden was still almost untenanted. The English -children had gone; the three old men alone kept up their monotonous -promenade. He came down and began to walk about like them.</p> - -<p>Immediately—in a moment—she would be there. He would see her at the -end of one of those roads that centered in this wondrous terrace. He -would recognize her form, her step, then her face and her smile; he -would soon be listening to her voice. What happiness! What delight! He -felt that she was near him, somewhere, invisible as yet, but thinking -of him, knowing that she was soon to see him again.</p> - -<p>With difficulty he restrained himself from uttering a little cry. For -there, down below, a blue sunshade, just the dome of a sunshade, was -visible, gliding along beneath a clump of trees. It must be she; there -could be no doubt of it. A little boy came in sight, driving a hoop -before him; then two ladies,—he recognized her,—then two men: her -father and another gentleman. She was all in blue, like the heavens in -springtime. Yes, indeed! he recognized her, while as yet he could not -distinguish her features; but he did not dare to go toward her, feeling -that he would blush and stammer, that he would be unable to account for -this chance meeting beneath M. de Pradon's suspicious glances.</p> - -<p>He went forward to meet them, however, keeping his field-glass to his -eye, apparently quite intent on scanning the horizon. She it was who -addressed him first, not even taking the trouble to affect astonishment.</p> - -<p>"Good day, M. Mariolle," she said. "Isn't it splendid?"</p> - -<p>He was struck speechless by this reception, and knew not what tone to -adopt in reply. Finally he stammered: "Ah, it is you, Madame; how glad -I am to meet you! I wanted to see something of this delightful country."</p> - -<p>She smiled as she replied: "And you selected the very time when I -chanced to be here. That was extremely kind of you." Then she proceeded -to make the necessary introductions. "This is M. Mariolle, one of my -dearest friends; my aunt, Mme. Valsaci; my uncle, who builds bridges."</p> - -<p>When salutations had been exchanged. M. de Pradon and the young man -shook hands rather stiffly and the walk was continued.</p> - -<p>She had made room for him between herself and her aunt, casting upon -him a very rapid glance, one of those glances which seem to indicate a -weakening determination.</p> - -<p>"How do you like the country?" she asked.</p> - -<p>"I think that I have never beheld anything more beautiful," he replied.</p> - -<p>"Ah! if you had passed some days here, as I have just been doing, you -would feel how it penetrates one. The impression that it leaves is -beyond the power of expression. The advance and retreat of the sea -upon the sands, that grand movement that is going on unceasingly, that -twice a day floods all that you behold before you, and so swiftly that -a horse galloping at top speed would scarce have time to escape before -it—this wondrous spectacle that Heaven gratuitously displays before -us, I declare to you that it makes me forgetful of myself. I no longer -know myself. Am I not speaking the truth, aunt?"</p> - -<p>Mme. Valsaci, an old, gray-haired woman, a lady of distinction in her -province and the respected wife of an eminent engineer, a supercilious -functionary who could not divest himself of the arrogance of the -school, confessed that she had never seen her niece in such a state -of enthusiasm. Then she added reflectively: "It is not surprising, -however, when, like her, one has never seen any but theatrical scenery."</p> - -<p>"But I go to Dieppe and Trouville almost every year."</p> - -<p>The old lady began to laugh. "People only go to Dieppe and Trouville to -see their friends. The sea is only there to serve as a cloak for their -rendezvous." It was very simply said, perhaps without any concealed -meaning.</p> - -<p>People were streaming along toward the terrace, which seemed to draw -them to it with an irresistible attraction. They came from every -quarter of the garden, in spite of themselves, like round bodies -rolling down a slope. The sinking sun seemed to be drawing a golden -tissue of finest texture, transparent and ethereally light, behind the -lofty silhouette of the abbey, which was growing darker and darker, -like a gigantic shrine relieved against a veil of brightness. Mariolle, -however, had eyes for nothing but the adored blond form walking at -his side, wrapped in its cloud of blue. Never had he beheld her so -seductive. She seemed to him to have changed, without his being able to -specify in what the change consisted; she was bright with a brightness -he had never seen before, which shone in her eyes and upon her flesh, -her hair, and seemed to have penetrated her soul as well, a brightness -emanating from this country, this sky, this sunlight, this verdure. -Never had he known or loved her thus.</p> - -<p>He walked at her side and could find no word to say to her. The rustle -of her dress, the occasional touch of her arm, the meeting, so mutely -eloquent, of their glances, completely overcame him. He felt as if -they had annihilated his personality as a man—felt himself suddenly -obliterated by contact with this woman, absorbed by her to such an -extent as to be nothing; nothing but desire, nothing but appeal, -nothing but adoration. She had consumed his being, as one burns a -letter.</p> - -<p>She saw it all very clearly, understood the full extent of her victory, -and thrilled and deeply moved, feeling life throb within her, too, more -keenly among these odors of the country and the sea, full of sunlight -and of sap, she said to him: "I am so glad to see you!" Close upon -this, she asked: "How long do you remain here?"</p> - -<p>He replied: "Two days, if to-day counts for a day." Then, turning to -the aunt: "Would Mme. Valsaci do me the honor to come and spend the -day to-morrow at Mont Saint-Michel with her husband?"</p> - -<p>Mme. de Burne made answer for her relative: "I will not allow her to -refuse, since we have been so fortunate as to meet you here."</p> - -<p>The engineer's wife replied: "Yes, Monsieur, I accept very gladly, upon -the condition that you come and dine with me this evening."</p> - -<p>He bowed in assent. All at once there arose within him a feeling of -delirious delight, such a joy as seizes you when news is brought that -the desire of your life is attained. What had come to him? What new -occurrence was there in his life? Nothing; and yet he felt himself -carried away by the intoxication of an indefinable presentiment.</p> - -<p>They walked upon the terrace for a long time, waiting for the sun to -set, so as to witness until the very end the spectacle of the black -and battlemented mount drawn in outline upon a horizon of flame. Their -conversation now was upon ordinary topics, such as might be discussed -in presence of a stranger, and from time to time Mme. de Burne and -Mariolle glanced at each other. Then they all returned to the villa, -which stood just outside Avranches in a fine garden, overlooking the -bay.</p> - -<p>Wishing to be prudent, and a little disturbed, moreover, by M. de -Pradon's cold and almost hostile attitude toward him, Mariolle withdrew -at an early hour. When he took Mme. de Burne's hand to raise it to his -lips, she said to him twice in succession, with a peculiar accent: -"Till to-morrow! Till to-morrow!"</p> - -<p>As soon as he was gone M. and Mme. Valsaci, who had long since -habituated themselves to country ways, proposed that they should go to -bed.</p> - -<p>"Go," said Mme. de Burne. "I am going to take a walk in the garden."</p> - -<p>"So am I," her father added.</p> - -<p>She wrapped herself in a shawl and went out, and they began to walk -side by side upon the white-sanded alleys which the full moon, -streaming over lawn and shrubbery, illuminated as if they had been -little winding rivers of silver.</p> - -<p>After a silence that had lasted for quite a while, M. de Pradon said in -a low voice: "My dear child, you will do me the justice to admit that I -have never troubled you with my counsels?"</p> - -<p>She felt what was coming, and was prepared to meet his attack. "Pardon -me, papa," she said, "but you did give me one, at least."</p> - -<p>"I did?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, yes."</p> - -<p>"A counsel relating to your way of life?"</p> - -<p>"Yes; and a very bad one it was, too. And so, if you give me any more, -I have made up my mind not to follow them."</p> - -<p>"What was the advice that I gave you?"</p> - -<p>"You advised me to marry M. de Burne. That goes to show that you are -lacking in judgment, in clearness of insight, in acquaintance with -mankind in general and with your daughter in particular."</p> - -<p>"Yes I made a mistake on that occasion; but I am sure that I am right -in the very paternal advice that I feel called upon to give you at the -present juncture."</p> - -<p>"Let me hear what it is. I will accept as much of it as the -circumstances call for."</p> - -<p>"You are on the point of entangling yourself."</p> - -<p>She laughed with a laugh that was rather too hearty, and completing the -expression of his idea, said: "With M. Mariolle, doubtless?"</p> - -<p>"With M. Mariolle."</p> - -<p>"You forget," she rejoined, "the entanglements that I have already had -with M. de Maltry, with M. Massival, with M. Gaston de Lamarthe, and a -dozen others, of all of whom you have been jealous; for I never fall in -with a man who is nice and willing to show a little devotion for me but -all my flock flies into a rage, and you first of all, you whom nature -has assigned to me as my noble father and general manager."</p> - -<p>"No, no, that is not it," he replied with warmth; "you have never -compromised your liberty with anyone. On the contrary you show a great -deal of tact in your relations with your friends."</p> - -<p>"My dear papa, I am no longer a child, and I promise you not to involve -myself with M. Mariolle any more than I have done with the rest of -them; you need have no fears. I admit, however, that it was at my -invitation that he came here. I think that he is delightful, just as -intelligent as his predecessors and less egotistical; and you thought -so too, up to the time when you imagined that you had discovered that -I was showing some small preference for him. Oh, you are not so sharp -as you think you are! I know you, and I could say a great deal more -on this head if I chose. As M. Mariolle was agreeable to me, then, I -thought it would be very nice to make a pleasant excursion in his -company, quite by chance, of course. It is a piece of stupidity to -deprive ourselves of everything that can amuse us when there is no -danger attending it. And I incur no danger of involving myself, since -you are here."</p> - -<p>She laughed openly as she finished, knowing well that every one of her -words had told, that she had tied his tongue by the adroit imputation -of a jealousy of Mariolle that she had suspected, that she had -instinctively scented in him for a long time past, and she rejoiced -over this discovery with a secret, audacious, unutterable coquetry. He -maintained an embarrassed and irritated silence, feeling that she had -divined some inexplicable spite underlying his paternal solicitude, the -origin of which he himself did not care to investigate.</p> - -<p>"There is no cause for alarm," she added. "It is quite natural to make -an excursion to Mont Saint-Michel at this time of the year in company -with you, my father, my uncle and aunt, and a friend. Besides no one -will know it; and even if they do, what can they say against it? When -we are back in Paris I will reduce this friend to the ranks again, to -keep company with the others."</p> - -<p>"Very well," he replied. "Let it be as if I had said nothing."</p> - -<p>They took a few steps more; then M. de Pradon asked:</p> - -<p>"Shall we return to the house? I am tired; I am going to bed."</p> - -<p>"No; the night is so fine. I am going to walk awhile yet."</p> - -<p>He murmured meaningly: "Do not go far away. One never knows what people -may be around."</p> - -<p>"Oh, I will be right here under the windows."</p> - -<p>"Good night, then, my dear child."</p> - -<p>He gave her a hasty kiss upon the forehead and went in. She took a -seat a little way off upon a rustic bench that was set in the ground -at the foot of a great oak. The night was warm, filled with odors from -the fields and exhalations from the sea and misty light, for beneath -the full moon shining brightly in the cloudless sky a fog had come up -and covered the waters of the bay. Onward it slowly crept, like white -smoke-wreaths, hiding from sight the beach that would soon be covered -by the incoming tide.</p> - -<p>Michèle de Burne, her hands clasped over her knees and her dreamy eyes -gazing into space, sought to look into her heart through a mist that -was as impenetrable and pale as that which lay upon the sands. How many -times before this, seated before her mirror in her dressing-room at -Paris, had she questioned herself:</p> - -<p>"What do I love? What do I desire? What do I hope for? What am I?"</p> - -<p>Apart from the pleasure of being beautiful, and the imperious necessity -which she felt of pleasing, which really afforded her much delight, she -had never been conscious of any appeal to her heart beyond some passing -fancy that she had quickly put her foot upon. She was not ignorant of -herself, for she had devoted too much of her time and attention to -watching and studying her face and all her person not to have been -observant of her feelings as well. Up to the present time she had -contented herself with a vague interest in that which is the subject of -emotion in others, but was powerless to impassion her, or capable at -best of affording her a momentary distraction.</p> - -<p>And yet, whenever she had felt a little warmer liking for anyone -arising within her, whenever a rival had tried to take away from her a -man whom she valued, and by arousing her feminine instincts had caused -an innocuous fever of attachment to simmer gently in her veins, she had -discovered that these false starts of love had caused her an emotion -that was much deeper than the mere gratification of success. But it -never lasted. Why? Perhaps because she was too clear-sighted; because -she allowed herself to become wearied, disgusted. Everything that at -first had pleased her in a man, everything that had animated, moved, -and attracted her, soon appeared in her eyes commonplace and divested -of its charm. They all resembled one another too closely, without ever -being exactly similar, and none of them had yet presented himself to -her endowed with the nature and the merits that were required to hold -her liking sufficiently long to guide her heart into the path of love.</p> - -<p>Why was this so? Was it their fault or was it hers? Were they wanting -in the qualities which she was looking for, or was it she who was -deficient in the attribute that makes one loved? Is love the result of -meeting with a person whom one believes to have been created expressly -for himself, or is it simply the result of having been born with the -faculty of loving? At times it seemed to her that everyone's heart -must be provided with arms, like the body, loving, outstretching arms -to attract, embrace, and enfold, and that her heart had only eyes and -nothing more.</p> - -<p>Men, superior men, were often known to become madly infatuated -with women who were unworthy of them, women without intelligence, -without character, often without beauty. Why was this? Wherein lay -the mystery? Was such a crisis in the existence of two beings not -to be attributed solely to a providential meeting, but to a kind of -seed that everyone carries about within him, and that puts forth its -buds when least expected? She had been intrusted with confidences, -she had surprised secrets, she had even beheld with her own eyes the -swift transfiguration that results from the breaking forth of this -intoxication of the feelings, and she had reflected deeply upon it.</p> - -<p>In society, in the unintermitting whirl of visiting and amusement, -in all the small tomfooleries of fashionable existence by which the -wealthy beguile their idle hours, a feeling of envious, jealous, and -almost incredulous astonishment had sometimes been excited in her -at the sight of men and women in whom some extraordinary change had -incontestably taken place. The change might not be conspicuously -manifest, but her watchful instinct felt it and divined it as the -hound holds the scent of his game. Their faces, their smiles, their -eyes especially would betray something that was beyond expression in -words, an ecstasy, a delicious, serene delight, a joy of the soul made -manifest in the body, illuming look and flesh.</p> - -<p>Without being able to account for it she was displeased with them for -this. Lovers had always been disagreeable objects to her, and she -imagined that the deep and secret feeling of irritation inspired in her -by the sight of people whose hearts were swayed by passion was simply -disdain. She believed that she could recognize them with a readiness -and an accuracy that were exceptional, and it was a fact that she -had often divined and unraveled <i>liaisons</i> before society had even -suspected their existence.</p> - -<p>When she reflected upon all this, upon the fond folly that may be -induced in woman by the contact of some neighboring existence, his -aspect, his speech, his thought, the inexpressible something in the -loved being that robs the heart of tranquillity, she decided that -she was incapable of it. And yet, weary of everything, oppressed by -ineffable yearnings, tormented by a haunting longing after change and -some unknown state, feelings which were, perhaps, only the undeveloped -movements of an undefined groping after affection, how often had she -desired, with a secret shame that had its origin in her pride, to meet -with a man, who, for a time, were it only for a few months, might by -his sorceries raise her to an abnormally excited condition of mind and -body—for it seemed to her that life must assume strange and attractive -forms of ecstasy and delight during these emotional periods. Not -only had she desired such an encounter, but she had even sought it a -little—only a very little, however—with an indolent activity that -never devoted itself for any length of time to one pursuit.</p> - -<p>In all her inchoate attachments for the men called "superior," who -had dazzled her for a few weeks, the short-lived effervescence of -her heart had always died away in irremediable disappointment. She -looked for too much from their dispositions, their characters, their -delicacy, their renown, their merits. In the case of everyone of them -she had been compelled to open her eyes to the fact that the defects of -great men are often more prominent than their merits; that talent is a -special gift, like a good digestion or good eyesight, an isolated gift -to be exercised, and unconnected with the aggregate of personal charm -that makes one's relations cordial and attractive.</p> - -<p>Since she had known Mariolle, however, she was otherwise attached to -him. But did she love him, did she love him with the love of woman for -man? Without fame or prestige, he had conquered her affections by his -devotedness, his tenderness, his intelligence, by all the real and -unassuming attractions of his personality. He had conquered, for he -was constantly present in her thoughts; unremittingly she longed for -his society; in all the world there was no one more agreeable, more -sympathetic, more indispensable to her. Could this be love?</p> - -<p>She was not conscious of carrying in her soul that divine flame that -everyone speaks of, but for the first time she was conscious of the -existence there of a sincere wish to be something more to this man than -merely a charming friend. Did she love him? Does love demand that a -man appear endowed with exceptional attractions, that he be different -from all the world and tower above it in the aureole that the heart -places about its elect, or does it suffice that he find favor in your -eyes, that he please you to that extent that you scarce know how to do -without him? In the latter event she loved him, or at any rate she was -very near loving him. After having pondered deeply on the matter with -concentrated attention, she at length answered herself: "Yes, I love -him, but I am lacking in warmth; that is the defect of my nature."</p> - -<p>Still, she had felt some warmth a little while before when she saw him -coming toward her upon the terrace in the garden of Avranches. For -the first time she had felt that inexpressible something that bears -us, impels us, hurries us toward some one; she had experienced great -pleasure in walking at his side, in having him near her, burning with -love for her, as they watched the sun sinking behind the shadow of Mont -Saint-Michel, like a vision in a legend. Was not love itself a kind -of legend of the soul, in which some believe through instinct, and in -which others sometimes also come to believe through stress of pondering -over it? Would she end by believing in it? She had felt a strange, -half-formed desire to recline her head upon the shoulder of this man, -to be nearer to him, to seek that closer union that is never found, to -give him what one offers vainly and always retains: the close intimacy -with one's inner self.</p> - -<p>Yes, she had experienced a feeling of warmth toward him, and she still -felt it there at the bottom of her heart, at that very moment. Perhaps -it would change to passion should she give way to it. She opposed too -much resistance to men's powers of attraction; she reasoned on them, -combated them too much. How sweet it would be to walk with him on an -evening like this along the river-bank beneath the willows, and allow -him to taste her lips from time to time in recompense of all the love -he had given her!</p> - -<p>A window in the villa was flung open. She turned her head. It was her -father, who was doubtless looking to see if she were there. She called -to him: "You are not asleep yet?"</p> - -<p>He replied: "If you don't come in you will take cold."</p> - -<p>She arose thereupon and went toward the house. When she was in her room -she raised her curtains for another look at the mist over the bay, -which was becoming whiter and whiter in the moonlight, and it seemed to -her that the vapors in her heart were also clearing under the influence -of her dawning tenderness.</p> - -<p>For all that she slept soundly, and her maid had to awake her in the -morning, for they were to make an early start, so as to have breakfast -at the Mount.</p> - -<p>A roomy wagonette drew up before the door. When she heard the rolling -of the wheels upon the sand she went to her window and looked out, -and the first thing that her eyes encountered was the face of André -Mariolle who was looking for her. Her heart began to beat a little more -rapidly. She was astonished and dejected as she reflected upon the -strange and novel impression produced by this muscle, which palpitates -and hurries the blood through the veins merely at the sight of some -one. Again she asked herself, as she had done the previous night before -going to sleep: "Can it be that I am about to love him?" Then when -she was seated face to face with him her instinct told her how deeply -he was smitten, how he was suffering with his love, and she felt as -if she could open her arms to him and put up her mouth. They only -exchanged a look, however, but it made him turn pale with delight.</p> - -<p>The carriage rolled away. It was a bright summer morning; the air was -filled with the melody of birds and everything seemed permeated by the -spirit of youth. They descended the hill, crossed the river, and drove -along a narrow, rough, stony road that set the travelers bumping upon -their seats. Mme. de Burne began to banter her uncle upon the condition -of this road; that was enough to break the ice, and the brightness that -pervaded the air seemed to be infused into the spirit of them all.</p> - -<p>As they emerged from a little hamlet the bay suddenly presented itself -again before them, not yellow as they had seen it the evening before, -but sparkling with clear water which covered everything, sands, -salt-meadows, and, as the coachman said, even the very road itself a -little way further on. Then, for the space of an hour they allowed the -horses to proceed at a walk, so as to give this inundation time to -return to the deep.</p> - -<p>The belts of elms and oaks that inclosed the farms among which they -were now passing momentarily hid from their vision the profile of the -abbey standing high upon its rock, now entirely surrounded by the sea; -then all at once it was visible again between two farmyards, nearer, -more huge, more astounding than ever. The sun cast ruddy tones upon the -old crenelated granite church, perched on its rocky pedestal. Michèle -de Burne and André Mariolle contemplated it, both mingling with the -newborn or acutely sensitive disturbances of their hearts the poetry -of the vision that greeted their eyes upon this rosy July morning.</p> - -<p>The talk went on with easy friendliness. Mme. Valsaci told tragic tales -of the coast, nocturnal dramas of the yielding sands devouring human -life. M. Valsaci took up arms for the dike, so much abused by artists, -and extolled it for the uninterrupted communication that it afforded -with the Mount and for the reclaimed sand-hills, available at first for -pasturage and afterward for cultivation.</p> - -<p>Suddenly the wagonette came to a halt; the sea had invaded the road. It -did not amount to much, only a film of water upon the stony way, but -they knew that there might be sink-holes beneath, openings from which -they might never emerge, so they had to wait. "It will go down very -quickly," M. Valsaci declared, and he pointed with his finger to the -road from which the thin sheet of water was already receding, seemingly -absorbed by the earth or drawn away to some distant place by a powerful -and mysterious force.</p> - -<p>They got down from the carriage for a nearer look at this strange, -swift, silent flight of the sea, and followed it step by step. Now -spots of green began to appear among the submerged vegetation, lightly -stirred by the waves here and there, and these spots broadened, rounded -themselves out and became islands. Quickly these islands assumed the -appearance of continents, separated from each other by miniature -oceans, and finally over the whole expanse of the bay it was a headlong -flight of the waters retreating to their distant abode. It resembled -nothing so much as a long silvery veil withdrawn from the surface -of the earth, a great, torn, slashed veil, full of rents, which left -exposed the wide meadows of short grass as it was pulled aside, but did -not yet disclose the yellow sands that lay beyond.</p> - -<p>They had climbed into the carriage again, and everyone was standing in -order to obtain a better view. The road in front of them was drying and -the horses were sent forward, but still at a walk, and as the rough -places sometimes caused them to lose their equilibrium, André Mariolle -suddenly felt Michèle de Burne's shoulder resting against his. At first -he attributed this contact to the movement of the vehicle, but she did -not stir from her position, and at every jolt of the wheels a trembling -started from the spot where she had placed herself and shook all his -frame and laid waste his heart. He did not venture to look at the young -woman, paralyzed as he was by this unhoped-for familiarity, and with -a confusion in his brain such as arises from drunkenness, he said to -himself: "Is this real? Can it be possible? Can it be that we are both -losing our senses?"</p> - -<p>The horses began to trot and they had to resume their seats. Then -Mariolle felt some sudden, mysterious, imperious necessity of showing -himself attentive to M. de Pradon, and he began to devote himself to -him with flattering courtesy. Almost as sensible to compliments as his -daughter, the father allowed himself to be won over and soon his face -was all smiles.</p> - -<p>At last they had reached the causeway and were advancing rapidly toward -the Mount, which reared its head among the sands at the point where the -long, straight road ended. Pontorson river washed its left-hand slope, -while, to the right, the pastures covered with short grass, which the -coachman wrongly called "samphire," had given way to sand-hills that -were still trickling with the water of the sea. The lofty monument now -assumed more imposing dimensions upon the blue heavens, against which, -very clear and distinct now in every slightest detail, its summit stood -out in bold relief, with all its towers and belfries, bristling with -grimacing gargoyles, heads of monstrous beings with which the faith and -the terrors of our ancestors crowned their Gothic sanctuaries.</p> - -<p>It was nearly one o'clock when they reached the inn, where breakfast -had been ordered. The hostess had delayed the meal for prudential -reasons; it was not ready. It was late, therefore, when they sat down -at table and everyone was very hungry. Soon, however, the champagne -restored their spirits. Everyone was in good humor, and there were -two hearts that felt that they were on the verge of great happiness. -At dessert, when the cheering effect of the wine that they had drunk -and the pleasures of conversation had developed in their frames the -feeling of well-being and contentment that sometimes warms us after a -good meal, and inclines us to take a rosy view of everything, Mariolle -suggested: "What do you say to staying over here until to-morrow? It -would be so nice to look upon this scene by moonlight, and so pleasant -to dine here together this evening!"</p> - -<p>Mme. de Burne gave her assent at once, and the two men also concurred. -Mme. Valsaci alone hesitated, on account of the little boy that she had -left at home, but her husband reassured her and reminded her that she -had frequently remained away before; he at once sat down and dispatched -a telegram to the governess. André Mariolle had flattered him by giving -his approval to the causeway, expressing his judgment that it detracted -far less than was generally reported from the picturesque effect of the -Mount, thereby making himself <i>persona grata</i> to the engineer.</p> - -<p>Upon rising from table they went to visit the monument, taking the -road of the ramparts. The city, a collection of old houses dating back -to the Middle Ages and rising in tiers one above the other upon the -enormous mass of granite that is crowned by the abbey, is separated -from the sands by a lofty crenelated wall. This wall winds about the -city in its ascent with many a twist and turn, with abrupt angles and -elbows and platforms and watchtowers, all forming so many surprises -for the eye, which, at every turn, rests upon some new expanse of the -far-reaching horizon. They were silent, for whether they had seen this -marvelous edifice before or not, they were equally impressed by it, -and the substantial breakfast that they had eaten, moreover, had made -them short-winded. There it rose above them in the sky, a wondrous -tangle of granite ornamentation, spires, belfries, arches thrown from -one tower to another, a huge, light, fairy-like lace-work in stone, -embroidered upon the azure of the heavens, from which the fantastic -and bestial-faced array of gargoyles seemed to be preparing to detach -themselves and wing their flight away. Upon the northern flank of the -Mount, between the abbey and the sea, a wild and almost perpendicular -descent that is called the Forest, because it is covered with ancient -trees, began where the houses ended and formed a speck of dark green -coloring upon the limitless expanse of yellow sands. Mme. de Burne and -Mariolle, who headed the little procession, stopped to enjoy the view. -She leaned upon his arm, her senses steeped in a rapture such as she -had never known before. With light steps she pursued her upward way, -willing to keep on climbing forever in his company toward this fabric -of a vision, or indeed toward any other end. She would have been glad -that the steep way should never have an ending, for almost for the -first time in her life she knew what it was to experience a plenitude -of satisfaction.</p> - -<p>"Heavens! how beautiful it is!" she murmured.</p> - -<p>Looking upon her, he answered: "I can think only of you."</p> - -<p>She continued, with a smile: "I am not inclined to be very poetical, -as a general thing, but this seems to me so beautiful that I am really -moved."</p> - -<p>He stammered: "I—I love you to distraction."</p> - -<p>He was conscious of a slight pressure of her arm, and they resumed the -ascent.</p> - -<p>They found a keeper awaiting them at the door of the abbey, and they -entered by that superb staircase, between two massive towers, which -leads to the Hall of the Guards. Then they went from hall to hall, from -court to court, from dungeon to dungeon, listening, wondering, charmed -with everything, admiring everything, the crypt, with its huge pillars, -so beautiful in their massiveness, which sustains upon its sturdy -arches all the weight of the choir of the church above, and all of the -<i>Wonder</i>, an awe-inspiring edifice of three stories of Gothic monuments -rising one above the other, the most extraordinary masterpiece of the -monastic and military architecture of the Middle Ages.</p> - -<p>Then they came to the cloisters. Their surprise was so great that they -involuntarily came to a halt at sight of this square court inclosing -the lightest, most graceful, most charming of colonnades to be seen in -any cloisters in the world. For the entire length of the four galleries -the slender shafts in double rows, surmounted by exquisite capitals, -sustain a continuous garland of flowers and Gothic ornamentation of -infinite variety and constantly changing design, the elegant and -unaffected fancies of the simple-minded old artists who thus worked out -their dreams in stone beneath the hammer.</p> - -<p>Michèle de Burne and André Mariolle walked completely around the -inclosure, very slowly, arm in arm, while the others, somewhat -fatigued, stood near the door and admired from a distance.</p> - -<p>"Heavens! what pleasure this affords me!" she said, coming to a stop.</p> - -<p>"For my part, I neither know where I am nor what my eyes behold. I am -conscious that you are at my side, and that is all."</p> - -<p>Then smiling, she looked him in the face and murmured: "André!"</p> - -<p>He saw that she was yielding. No further word was spoken, and they -resumed their walk. The inspection of the edifice was continued, but -they hardly had eyes to see anything.</p> - -<p>Nevertheless their attention was attracted for the space of a moment -by the airy bridge, seemingly of lace, inclosed within an arch thrown -across space between two belfries, as if to afford a way to scale the -clouds, and their amazement was still greater when they came to the -"Madman's Path," a dizzy track, devoid of parapet, that encircles the -farthest tower nearly at its summit.</p> - -<p>"May we go up there?" she asked.</p> - -<p>"It is forbidden," the guide replied.</p> - -<p>She showed him a twenty-franc piece. All the members of the party, -giddy at sight of the yawning gulf and the immensity of surrounding -space, tried to dissuade her from the imprudent freak.</p> - -<p>She asked Mariolle: "Will you go?"</p> - -<p>He laughed: "I have been in more dangerous places than that." And -paying no further attention to the others, they set out.</p> - -<p>He went first along the narrow cornice that overhung the gulf, and she -followed him, gliding along close to the wall with eyes downcast that -she might not see the yawning void beneath, terrified now and almost -ready to sink with fear, clinging to the hand that he held out to her; -but she felt that he was strong, that there was no sign of weakening -there, that he was sure of head and foot; and enraptured for all her -fears, she said to herself: "Truly, this is a man." They were alone in -space, at the height where the sea-birds soar; they were contemplating -the same horizon that the white-winged creatures are ceaselessly -scouring in their flight as they explore it with their little yellow -eyes.</p> - -<p>Mariolle felt that she was trembling; he asked: "Do you feel dizzy?"</p> - -<p>"A little," she replied in a low voice; "but in your company I fear -nothing."</p> - -<p>At this he drew near and sustained her by putting his arm about -her, and this simple assistance inspired her with such courage that -she ventured to raise her head and take a look at the distance. He -was almost carrying her and she offered no resistance, enjoying the -protection of those strong arms which thus enabled her to traverse the -heavens, and she was grateful to him with a romantic, womanly gratitude -that he did not mar their sea-gull flight by kisses.</p> - -<p>When they had rejoined the others of the party, who were awaiting them -with the greatest anxiety, M. de Pradon angrily said to his daughter: -"<i>Dieu!</i> what a silly thing to do!"</p> - -<p>She replied with conviction: "No, it was not, papa, since it was -successfully accomplished. Nothing that succeeds is ever stupid."</p> - -<p>He merely gave a shrug of the shoulders, and they descended the -stairs. At the porter's lodge there was another stoppage to purchase -photographs, and when they reached the inn it was nearly dinner-time. -The hostess recommended a short walk upon the sands, so as to obtain a -view of the Mount toward the open sea, in which direction, she said, -it presented its most imposing aspect. Although they were all much -fatigued, the band started out again and made the tour of the ramparts, -picking their way among the treacherous downs, solid to the eye but -yielding to the step, where the foot that was placed upon the pretty -yellow carpet that was stretched beneath it and seemed solid would -suddenly sink up to the calf in the deceitful golden ooze.</p> - -<p>Seen from this point the abbey, all at once losing the cathedral-like -appearance with which it astounded the beholder on the mainland, -assumed, as if in menace of old Ocean, the martial appearance of a -feudal manor, with its huge battlemented wall picturesquely pierced -with loop-holes and supported by gigantic buttresses that sank their -Cyclopean stone foundations in the bosom of the fantastic mountain. -Mme. de Burne and André Mariolle, however, were not heedless of all -that. They were thinking only of themselves, caught in the meshes of -the net that they had set for each other, shut up within the walls of -that prison to which no sound comes from the outer world, where the eye -beholds only one being.</p> - -<p>When they found themselves again seated before their well-filled -plates, however, beneath the cheerful light of the lamps, they seemed -to awake, and discovered that they were hungry, just like other mortals.</p> - -<p>They remained a long time at table, and when the dinner was ended -the moonlight was quite forgotten in the pleasure of conversation. -There was no one, moreover, who had any desire to go out, and no one -suggested it. The broad moon might shed her waves of poetic light down -upon the little thin sheet of rising tide that was already creeping up -the sands with the noise of a trickling stream, scarcely perceptible -to the ear, but sinister and alarming; she might light up the ramparts -that crept in spirals up the flanks of the Mount and illumine the -romantic shadows of all the belfries of the old abbey, standing in -its wondrous setting of a boundless bay, in the bosom of which were -quiveringly reflected the lights that crawled along the downs—no one -cared to see more.</p> - -<p>It was not yet ten o'clock when Mme. Valsaci, overcome with sleep, -spoke of going to bed, and her proposition was received without a -dissenting voice. Bidding one another a cordial good night, each -withdrew to his chamber.</p> - -<p>André Mariolle knew well that he would not sleep; he therefore lighted -his two candles and placed them on the mantelpiece, threw open his -window, and looked out into the night.</p> - -<p>All the strength of his body was giving way beneath the torture of an -unavailing hope. He knew that she was there, close at hand, that there -were only two doors between them, and yet it was almost as impossible -to go to her as it would be to dam the tide that was coming in and -submerging all the land. There was a cry in his throat that strove to -liberate itself, and in his nerves such an unquenchable and futile -torment of expectation that he asked himself what he was to do, unable -as he was longer to endure the solitude of this evening of sterile -happiness.</p> - -<p>Gradually all the sounds had died away in the inn and in the single -little winding street of the town. Mariolle still remained leaning upon -his window-sill, conscious only that time was passing, contemplating -the silvery sheet of the still rising tide and rejecting the idea of -going to bed as if he had felt the undefined presentiment of some -approaching, providential good fortune.</p> - -<p>All at once it seemed to him that a hand was fumbling with the -fastening of his door. He turned with a start: the door slowly opened -and a woman entered the room, her head veiled in a cloud of white lace -and her form enveloped in one of those great dressing-gowns that seem -made of silk, cashmere, and snow. She closed the door carefully behind -her; then, as if she had not seen him where he stood motionless—as if -smitten with joy—in the bright square of moonlight of the window, she -went straight to the mantelpiece and blew out the two candles.</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h5><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V.</a></h5> - - -<h4>CONSPIRACY</h4> - - -<p>They were to meet next morning in front of the inn to say good-bye -to one another. André, the first one down, awaited her coming with a -poignant feeling of mixed uneasiness and delight. What would she do? -What would she be to him? What would become of her and of him? In -what thrice-happy or terrible adventure had he engaged himself? She -had it in her power to make of him what she would, a visionary, like -an opium-eater, or a martyr, at her will. He paced to and fro beside -the two carriages, for they were to separate, he, to continue the -deception, ending his trip by way of Saint Malo, they returning to -Avranches.</p> - -<p>When would he see her again? Would she cut short her visit to her -family, or would she delay her return? He was horribly afraid of what -she would first say to him, how she would first look at him, for he had -not seen her and they had scarcely spoken during their brief interview -of the night before. There remained to Mariolle from that strange, -fleeting interview the faint feeling of disappointment of the man who -has been unable to reap all that harvest of love which he thought was -ready for the sickle, and at the same time the intoxication of triumph -and, resulting from that, the almost assured hope of finally making -himself complete master of her affections.</p> - -<p>He heard her voice and started; she was talking loudly, evidently -irritated at some wish that her father had expressed, and when he -beheld her standing at the foot of the staircase there was a little -angry curl upon her lips that bespoke her impatience.</p> - -<p>Mariolle took a couple of steps toward her; she saw him and smiled. -Her eyes suddenly recovered their serenity and assumed an expression -of kindliness which diffused itself over the other features, and she -quickly and cordially extended to him her hand, as if in ratification -of their new relations.</p> - -<p>"So then, we are to separate?" she said to him.</p> - -<p>"Alas! Madame, the thought makes me suffer more than I can tell."</p> - -<p>"It will not be for long," she murmured. She saw M. de Pradon coming -toward them, and added in a whisper: "Say that you are going to take a -ten days' trip through Brittany, but do not take it."</p> - -<p>Mme. de Valsaci came running up in great excitement. "What is this that -your father has been telling me—that you are going to leave us day -after to-morrow? You were to stay until next Monday, at least."</p> - -<p>Mme. de Burne replied, with a suspicion of ill humor: "Papa is nothing -but a bungler, who never knows enough to hold his tongue. The sea-air -has given me, as it does every year, a very unpleasant neuralgia, and I -did say something or other about going away so as not to have to be ill -for a month. But this is no time for bothering over that."</p> - -<p>Mariolle's coachman urged him to get into the carriage and be off, so -that they might not miss the Pontorson train.</p> - -<p>Mme. de Burne asked: "And you, when do you expect to be back in Paris?"</p> - -<p>He assumed an air of hesitancy: "Well, I can't say exactly; I want to -see Saint Malo, Brest, Douarnenez, the Bay des Trépassés, Cape Raz, -Audierne, Penmarch, Morbihan, all this celebrated portion of the Breton -country, in a word. That will take me say—" after a silence devoted to -feigned calculation, he exceeded her estimate—"fifteen or twenty days."</p> - -<p>"That will be quite a trip," she laughingly said. "For my part, if my -nerves trouble me as they did last night, I shall be at home before I -am two days older."</p> - -<p>His emotion was so great that he felt like exclaiming: "Thanks!" He -contented himself with kissing, with a lover's kiss, the hand that she -extended to him for the last time, and after a profuse exchange of -thanks and compliments with the Valsacis and M. de Pradon, who seemed -to be somewhat reassured by the announcement of his projected trip, he -climbed into his vehicle and drove off, turning his head for a parting -look at her.</p> - -<p>He made no stop on his journey back to Paris and was conscious of -seeing nothing on the way. All night long he lay back in the corner -of his compartment with eyes half closed and folded arms, his mind -reverting to the occurrences of the last few hours, and all his -thoughts concentrated upon the realization of his dream.</p> - -<p>Immediately upon his arrival at his own abode, upon the cessation of -the noise and bustle of travel, in the silence of the library where -he generally passed his time, where he worked and wrote, and where he -almost always felt himself possessed by a restful tranquillity in the -friendly companionship of his books, his piano, and his violin, there -now commenced in him that unending torment of impatient waiting which -devours, as with a fever, insatiable hearts like his. He was surprised -that he could apply himself to nothing, that nothing served to occupy -his mind, that reading and music, the occupations that he generally -employed to while away the idle moments of his life, were unavailing, -not only to afford distraction to his thoughts, but even to give rest -and quiet to his physical being, and he asked himself what he was to -do to appease this new disturbance. An inexplicable physical need of -motion seemed to have taken possession of him—of going forth and -walking the streets, of constant movement, the crisis of that agitation -that is imparted by the mind to the body and which is nothing more than -an instinctive and unappeasable longing to seek and find some other -being.</p> - -<p>He put on his hat and overcoat, and as he was descending the stairs -he asked himself: "In which direction shall I go?" Thereupon an idea -occurred to him that he had not yet thought of: he must procure a -pretty and secluded retreat to serve them as a trysting place.</p> - -<p>He pursued his investigations in every quarter, ransacking streets, -avenues, and boulevards, distrustfully examining <i>concierges</i> with -their servile smiles, lodging-house keepers of suspicious appearance -and apartments with doubtful furnishings, and at evening he returned -to his house in a state of discouragement. At nine o'clock the next -day he started out again, and at nightfall he finally succeeded in -discovering at Auteuil, buried in a garden that had three exits, a -lonely pavilion which an upholsterer in the neighborhood promised to -render habitable in two days. He ordered what was necessary, selecting -very plain furniture of varnished pine and thick carpets. A baker who -lived near one of the garden gates had charge of the property, and an -arrangement was completed with his wife whereby she was to care for the -rooms, while a gardener of the quarter also took a contract for filling -the beds with flowers.</p> - -<p>All these arrangements kept him busy until it was eight o'clock, and -when at last he got home, worn out with fatigue, he beheld with a -beating heart a telegram lying on his desk. He opened it and read:</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>"I will be home to-morrow. Await instructions. "MICHE."</p></blockquote> - -<p>He had not written to her yet, fearing that as she was soon to leave -Avranches his letter might go astray, and as soon as he had dined -he seated himself at his desk to lay before her what was passing in -his mind. The task was a long and difficult one, for all the words -and phrases that he could muster, and even his ideas, seemed to him -weak, mediocre, and ridiculous vehicles in which to convey to her the -delicacy and passionateness of his thanks.</p> - -<p>The letter that he received from her upon waking next morning confirmed -the statement that she would reach home that evening, and begged him -not to make his presence known to anyone for a few days, in order that -full belief might be accorded to the report that he was traveling. She -also requested him to walk upon the terrace of the Tuileries garden -that overlooks the Seine the following day at ten o'clock.</p> - -<p>He was there an hour before the time appointed, and to kill time -wandered about in the immense garden that was peopled only by a few -early pedestrians, belated officeholders on their way to the public -buildings on the left bank, clerks and toilers of every condition. -It was a pleasure to him to watch the hurrying crowds driven by the -necessity of earning their daily bread to brutalizing labors, and to -compare his lot with theirs, on this spot, at the minute when he was -awaiting his mistress—a queen among the queens of the earth. He felt -himself so fortunate a being, so privileged, raised to such a height -beyond their petty struggles, that he felt like giving thanks to the -blue sky, for to him Providence was but a series of alternations of -sunshine and of rain due to Chance, mysterious ruler over weather and -over men.</p> - -<p>When it wanted a few minutes of ten he ascended to the terrace and -watched for her coming. "She will be late!" he thought. He had scarcely -more than heard the clock in an adjacent building strike ten when -he thought he saw her at a distance, coming through the garden with -hurrying steps, like a working-woman in haste to reach her shop. "Can -it indeed be she?" He recognized her step but was astonished by her -changed appearance, so unassuming in a neat little toilette of dark -colors. She was coming toward the stairs that led up to the terrace, -however, in a bee-line, as if she had traveled that road many times -before.</p> - -<p>"Ah!" he said to himself, "she must be fond of this place and come to -walk here sometimes." He watched her as she raised her dress to put her -foot on the first step and then nimbly flew up the remaining ones, and -as he eagerly stepped forward to meet her she said to him as he came -near with a pleasant smile, in which there was a trace of uneasiness: -"You are very imprudent! You must not show yourself like that; I saw -you almost from the Rue de Rivoli. Come, we will go and take a seat on -a bench yonder. There is where you must wait for me next time."</p> - -<p>He could not help asking her: "So you come here often?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, I have a great liking for this place, and as I am an early walker -I come here for exercise and to look at the scenery, which is very -pretty. And then one never meets anybody here, while the Bois is out of -the question on just that account. But you must be careful not to give -away my secret."</p> - -<p>He laughed: "I shall not be very likely to do that." Discreetly taking -her hand, a little hand that was hanging at her side conveniently -concealed in the folds of her dress, he sighed: "How I love you! My -heart was sick with waiting for you. Did you receive my letter?"</p> - -<p>"Yes; I thank you for it. It was very touching."</p> - -<p>"Then you have not become angry with me yet?"</p> - -<p>"Why no! Why should I? You are just as nice as you can be."</p> - -<p>He sought for ardent words, words that would vibrate with his emotion -and his gratitude. As none came to him, and as he was too deeply moved -to permit of the free expression of the thought that was within him, he -simply said again: "How I love you!"</p> - -<p>She said to him: "I brought you here because there are water and boats -in this place as well as down yonder. It is not at all like what we saw -down there; still it is not disagreeable."</p> - -<p>They were sitting on a bench near the stone balustrade that runs along -the river, almost alone, invisible from every quarter. The only living -beings to be seen on the long terrace at that hour were two gardeners -and three nursemaids. Carriages were rolling along the quay at their -feet, but they could not see them; footsteps were resounding upon the -adjacent sidewalk, over against the wall that sustained the promenade; -and still unable to find words in which to express their thoughts, -they let their gaze wander over the beautiful Parisian landscape that -stretches from the Île Saint-Louis and the towers of Nôtre-Dame to the -heights of Meudon. She repeated her thought: "None the less, it is very -pretty, isn't it?"</p> - -<p>But he was suddenly seized by the thrilling remembrance of their -journey through space up on the summit of the abbey tower, and with a -regretful feeling for the emotion that was past and gone, he said: "Oh, -Madame, do you remember our escapade of the 'Madman's Path?'"</p> - -<p>"Yes; but I am a little afraid now that I come to think of it when it -is all over. <i>Dieu!</i> how my head would spin around if I had it to do -over again! I was just drunk with the fresh air, the sunlight, and the -sea. Look, my friend, what a magnificent view we have before us. How I -do love Paris!"</p> - -<p>He was surprised, having a confused feeling of missing something that -had appeared in her down there in the country. He murmured: "It matters -not to me where I am, so that I am only near you!"</p> - -<p>Her only answer was a pressure of the hand. Inspired with greater -happiness, perhaps, by this little signal than he would have been by a -tender word, his heart relieved of the care that had oppressed it until -now, he could at last find words to express his feelings. He told her, -slowly, in words that were almost solemn, that he had given her his -life forever that she might do with it what she would.</p> - -<p>She was grateful; but like the child of modern scepticism that she -was and willing captive of her iconoclastic irony, she smiled as she -replied: "I would not make such a long engagement as that if I were -you!"</p> - -<p>He turned and faced her, and, looking her straight in the eyes with -that penetrating look which is like a touch, repeated what he had -just said at greater length, in a more ardent, more poetical form of -expression. All that he had written in so many burning letters he now -expressed with such a fervor of conviction that it seemed to her as she -listened that she was sitting in a cloud of incense. She felt herself -caressed in every fiber of her feminine nature by his adoring words -more deeply than ever before.</p> - -<p>When he had ended she simply said: "And I, too, love you dearly!"</p> - -<p>They were still holding each other's hand, like young folks walking -along a country road, and watching with vague eyes the little -steamboats plying on the river. They were alone by themselves in Paris, -in the great confused uproar, whether remote or near at hand, that -surrounded them in this city full of all the life of all the world, -more alone than they had been on the summit of their aerial tower, and -for some seconds they were quite oblivious that there existed on earth -any other beings but their two selves.</p> - -<p>She was the first to recover the sensation of reality and of the flight -of time. "Shall we see each other again to-morrow?" she said.</p> - -<p>He reflected for an instant, and abashed by what he had in mind to ask -of her: "Yes—yes—certainly," he replied. "But—shall we never meet -in any other place? This place is unfrequented. Still—people may come -here."</p> - -<p>She hesitated. "You are right. Still it is necessary also that you -should not show yourself for at least two weeks yet, so that people may -think that you are away traveling. It will be very nice and mysterious -for us to meet and no one know that you are in Paris. Meanwhile, -however, I cannot receive you at my house, so—I don't see——"</p> - -<p>He felt that he was blushing, and continued: "Neither can I ask you to -come to my house. Is there nothing else—is there no other place?"</p> - -<p>Being a woman of practical sense, logical and without false modesty, -she was neither surprised nor shocked.</p> - -<p>"Why, yes," she said, "only we must have time to think it over."</p> - -<p>"I have thought it over."</p> - -<p>"What! so soon?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, Madame."</p> - -<p>"Well?"</p> - -<p>"Are you acquainted with the Rue des Vieux-Champs at Auteuil?"</p> - -<p>"No."</p> - -<p>"It runs into the Rue Tournemine and the Rue Jean-de-Saulge."</p> - -<p>"Well?"</p> - -<p>"In this street, or rather lane, there is a garden, and in this -garden a pavilion that also communicates with the two streets that I -mentioned."</p> - -<p>"What next?"</p> - -<p>"That pavilion awaits you."</p> - -<p>She reflected, still with no appearance of embarrassment, and then -asked two or three questions that were dictated by feminine prudence. -His explanations seemed to be satisfactory, for she murmured as she -arose:</p> - -<p>"Well, I will go to-morrow."</p> - -<p>"At what time?"</p> - -<p>"Three o'clock."</p> - -<p>"Seven is the number; I will be waiting for you behind the door. Do not -forget. Give a knock as you pass."</p> - -<p>"Yes, my friend. Adieu, till to-morrow."</p> - -<p>"Till to-morrow, adieu. Thanks; I adore you."</p> - -<p>They had risen to their feet. "Do not come with me," she said. "Stay -here for ten minutes, and when you leave go by the way of the quay."</p> - -<p>"Adieu!"</p> - -<p>"Adieu!"</p> - -<p>She started off very rapidly, with such a modest, unassuming air, so -hurriedly, that actually she might have been mistaken for one of Paris' -pretty working-girls, who trot along the streets in the morning on the -way to their honest labors.</p> - -<p>He took a cab to Auteuil, tormented by the fear that the house might -not be ready against the following day. He found it full of workmen, -however; the hangings were all in place upon the walls, the carpets -laid upon the floors. Everywhere there was a sound of pounding, -hammering, beating, washing. In the garden, which was quite large and -rather pretty, the remains of an ancient park, containing a few large -old trees, a thick clump of shrubbery that stood for a forest, two -green tables, two grass-plots, and paths twisting about among the beds, -the gardener of the vicinity had set out rose-trees, geraniums, pinks, -reseda, and twenty other species of those plants, the growth of which -is advanced or retarded by careful attention, so that a naked field may -be transformed in a day into a blooming flower garden.</p> - -<p>Mariolle was as delighted as if he had scored another success with his -Michèle, and having exacted an oath from the upholsterer that all the -furniture should be in place the next day before noon, he went off to -various shops to buy some bric-à-brac and pictures for the adornment -of the interior of this retreat. For the walls he selected some of -those admirable photographs of celebrated pictures that are produced -nowadays, for the tables and mantelshelves some rare pottery and a few -of those familiar objects that women always like to have about them. -In the course of the day he expended the income of three months, and he -did it with great pleasure, reflecting that for the last ten years he -had been living very economically, not from penuriousness, but because -of the absence of expensive tastes, and this circumstance now allowed -him to do things somewhat magnificently.</p> - -<p>He returned to the pavilion early in the morning of the following day, -presided over the arrival and placing of the furniture, climbed ladders -and hung the pictures, burned perfumes and vaporized them upon the -hangings and poured them over the carpets. In his feverish joy, in the -excited rapture of all his being, it seemed to him that he had never in -his life been engaged in such an engrossing, such a delightful labor. -At every moment he looked to see what time it was, and calculated how -long it would be before she would be there; he urged on the workmen, -and stimulated his invention so to arrange the different objects that -they might be displayed in their best light.</p> - -<p>In his prudence he dismissed everyone before it was two o'clock, and -then, as the minute-hand of the clock tardily made its last revolution -around the dial, in the silence of that house where he was awaiting -the greatest happiness that ever he could have wished for, alone with -his reverie, going and coming from room to room, he passed the minutes -until she should be there.</p> - -<p>Finally he went out into the garden. The sunlight was streaming through -the foliage upon the grass and falling with especially charming -brilliancy upon a bed of roses. The very heavens were contributing -their aid to embellish this trysting-place. Then he went and stood by -the gate, partially opening it to look out from time to time for fear -she might mistake the house.</p> - -<p>Three o'clock rang out from some belfry, and forthwith the sounds -were echoed from a dozen schools and factories. He stood waiting now -with watch in hand, and gave a start of surprise when two little, -light knocks were given against the door, to which his ear was closely -applied, for he had heard no sound of footsteps in the street.</p> - -<p>He opened: it was she. She looked about her with astonishment. First -of all she examined with a distrustful glance the neighboring houses, -but her inspection reassured her, for certainly she could have no -acquaintances among the humble <i>bourgeois</i> who inhabited the quarter. -Then she examined the garden with pleased curiosity, and finally placed -the backs of her two hands, from which she had drawn her gloves, -against her lover's mouth; then she took his arm. At every step she -kept repeating: "My! how pretty it is! how unexpected! how attractive!" -Catching sight of the rose-bed that the sun was shining upon through -the branches of the trees, she exclaimed: "Why, this is fairyland, my -friend!"</p> - -<p>She plucked a rose, kissed it, and placed it in her corsage. Then they -entered the pavilion, and she seemed so pleased with everything that -he felt like going down on his knees to her, although he may have felt -at the bottom of his heart that perhaps she might as well have shown -more attention to him and less to the surroundings. She looked about -her with the pleasure of a child who has received a new plaything, and -admired and appreciated the elegance of the place with the satisfaction -of a connoisseur whose tastes have been gratified. She had feared that -she was coming to some vulgar, commonplace resort, where the furniture -and hangings had been contaminated by other rendezvous, whereas all -this, on the contrary, was new, unforeseen, and alluring, prepared -expressly for her, and must have cost a lot of money. Really he was -perfect, this man. She turned to him and extended her arms, and their -lips met in one of those long kisses that have the strange, twofold -sensation of self-effacement and unadulterated bliss.</p> - -<p>When, at the end of three hours, they were about to separate, they -walked through the garden and seated themselves in a leafy arbor where -no eye could reach them. André addressed her with an exuberance of -feeling, as if she had been an idol that had come down for his sake -from her sacred pedestal, and she listened to him with that fatigued -languor which he had often seen reflected in her eyes after people had -tired her by too long a visit. She continued affectionate, however, -her face lighted up by a tender, slightly constrained smile, and she -clasped the hand that she held in hers with a continuous pressure that -perhaps was more studied than spontaneous.</p> - -<p>She could not have been listening to him, for she interrupted one of -his sentences to say: "Really, I must be going. I was to be at the -Marquise de Bratiane's at six o'clock, and I shall be very late."</p> - -<p>He conducted her to the gate by which she had obtained admission. They -gave each other a parting kiss, and after a furtive glance up and down -the street, she hurried away, keeping close to the walls.</p> - -<p>When he was alone he felt within him that sudden void that is ever -left by the disappearance of the woman whose kiss is still warm upon -your lips, the queer little laceration of the heart that is caused by -the sound of her retreating footsteps. It seemed to him that he was -abandoned and alone, that he was never to see her again, and he betook -himself to pacing the gravel-walks, reflecting upon this never-ceasing -contrast between anticipation and realization. He remained there until -it was dark, gradually becoming more tranquil and yielding himself more -entirely to her influence, now that she was away, than if she had been -there in his arms. Then he went home and dined without being conscious -of what he was eating, and sat down to write to her.</p> - -<p>The next day was a long one to him, and the evening seemed -interminable. Why had she not answered his letter, why had she sent him -no word? The morning of the second day he received a short telegram -appointing another rendezvous at the same hour. The little blue -envelope speedily cured him of the heart-sickness of hope deferred from -which he was beginning to suffer.</p> - -<p>She came, as she had done before, punctual, smiling, and affectionate, -and their second interview in the little house was in all respects -similar to the first. André Mariolle, surprised at first and vaguely -troubled that the ecstatic passion he had dreamed of had not made -itself felt between them, but more and more overmastered by his senses, -gradually forgot his visions of anticipation in the somewhat different -happiness of possession. He was becoming attached to her by reason of -her caresses, an invincible tie, the strongest tie of all, from which -there is no deliverance when once it has fully possessed you and has -penetrated through your flesh, into your veins.</p> - -<p>Twenty days rolled by, such sweet, fleeting days. It seemed to him -that there was to be no end to it, that he was to live forever thus, -nonexistent for all and living for her alone, and to his mental vision -there presented itself the seductive dream of an unlimited continuance -of this blissful, secret way of living.</p> - -<p>She continued to make her visits at intervals of three days, offering -no objections, attracted, it would seem, as much by the amusement she -derived from their clandestine meetings—by the charm of the little -house that had now been transformed into a conservatory of rare exotics -and by the novelty of the situation, which could scarcely be called -dangerous, since she was her own mistress, but still was full of -mystery—as by the abject and constantly increasing tenderness of her -lover.</p> - -<p>At last there came a day when she said to him: "Now, my dear friend, -you must show yourself in society again. You will come and pass the -afternoon with me to-morrow. I have given out that you are at home -again."</p> - -<p>He was heartbroken. "Oh, why so soon?" he said.</p> - -<p>"Because if it should leak out by any chance that you are in Paris your -absence would be too inexplicable not to give rise to gossip."</p> - -<p>He saw that she was right and promised that he would come to her house -the next day. Then he asked her: "Do you receive to-morrow?"</p> - -<p>"Yes," she replied. "It will be quite a little solemnity."</p> - -<p>He did not like this intelligence. "Of what description is your -solemnity?"</p> - -<p>She laughed gleefully. "I have prevailed upon Massival, by means of the -grossest sycophancy, to give a performance of his 'Dido,' which no one -has heard yet. It is the poetry of antique love. Mme. de Bratiane, who -considered herself Massival's sole proprietor, is furious. She will be -there, for she is to sing. Am I not a sly one?"</p> - -<p>"Will there be many there?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, no, only a few intimate friends. You know them nearly all."</p> - -<p>"Won't you let me off? I am so happy in my solitude."</p> - -<p>"Oh! no, my friend. You know that I count on you more than all the -rest."</p> - -<p>His heart gave a great thump. "Thank you," he said; "I will come."</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h5><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI.</a></h5> - - -<h4>QUESTIONINGS</h4> - - -<p>Good day, M. Mariolle."</p> - -<p>Mariolle noticed that it was no longer the "dear friend" of Auteuil, -and the clasp of the hand was a hurried one, the hasty pressure of a -busy woman wholly engrossed in her social functions. As he entered the -salon Mme. de Burne was advancing to speak to the beautiful Mme. le -Prieur, whose sculpturesque form, and the audacious way that she had -of dressing to display it, had caused her to be nicknamed, somewhat -ironically, "The Goddess." She was the wife of a member of the -Institute, of the section of Inscriptions and Belles-Lettres.</p> - -<p>"Ah, Mariolle!" exclaimed Lamarthe, "where do you come from? We thought -that you were dead."</p> - -<p>"I have been making a trip through Finistère."</p> - -<p>He was going on to relate his impressions when the novelist interrupted -him: "Are you acquainted with the Baronne de Frémines?"</p> - -<p>"Only by sight; but I have heard a good deal of her. They say that she -is queer."</p> - -<p>"The very queen of crazy women, but with an exquisite perfume of -modernness. Come and let me present you to her." Taking him by the arm -he led him toward a young woman who was always compared to a doll, a -pale and charming little blond doll, invented and created by the devil -himself for the damnation of those larger children who wear beards -on their faces. She had long, narrow eyes, slightly turned up toward -the temples, apparently like the eyes of the Chinese; their soft blue -glances stole out between lids that were seldom opened to their full -extent, heavy, slowly-moving lids, designed to veil and hide this -creature's mysterious nature.</p> - -<p>Her hair, very light in color, shone with silky, silvery reflections, -and her delicate mouth, with its thin lips, seemed to have been cut by -the light hand of a sculptor from the design of a miniature-painter. -The voice that issued from it had bell-like intonations, and the -audacity of her ideas, of a biting quality that was peculiar to -herself, smacking of wickedness and drollery, their destructive charm, -their cold, corrupting seductiveness, all the complicated nature of -this full-grown, mentally diseased child acted upon those who were -brought in contact with her in such a way as to produce in them violent -passions and disturbances.</p> - -<p>She was known all over Paris as being the most extravagant of the -<i>mondaines</i> of the real <i>monde</i>, and also the wittiest, but no one -could say exactly what she was, what were her ideas, what she did. She -exercised an irresistible sway over mankind in general. Her husband, -also, was quite as much of an enigma as she. Courteous and affable -and a great nobleman, he seemed quite unconscious of what was going -on. Was he indifferent, or complaisant, or was he simply blind? -Perhaps, after all, there was nothing in it more than those little -eccentricities which doubtless amused him as much as they did her. -All sorts of opinions, however, were prevalent in regard to him, and -some very ugly reports were circulated. Rumor even went so far as to -insinuate that his wife's secret vices were not unprofitable to him.</p> - -<p>Between her and Mme. de Burne there were natural attractions and fierce -jealousies, spells of friendship succeeded by crises of furious enmity. -They liked and feared each other and mutually sought each other's -society, like professional duelists, who appreciate at the same time -that they would be glad to kill each other.</p> - -<p>It was the Baronne de Frémines who was having the upper hand at this -moment. She had just scored a victory, an important victory: she -had conquered Lamarthe, had taken him from her rival and borne him -away ostentatiously to domesticate him in her flock of acknowledged -followers. The novelist seemed to be all at once smitten, puzzled, -charmed, and stupefied by the discoveries he had made in this creature -<i>sui generis</i>, and he could not help talking about her to everybody -that he met, a fact which had already given rise to much gossip.</p> - -<p>Just as he was presenting Mariolle he encountered Mme. de Burne's look -from the other end of the room; he smiled and whispered in his friend's -ear: "See, the mistress of the house is angry."</p> - -<p>André raised his eyes, but Madame had turned to meet Massival, who just -then made his appearance beneath the raised portière. He was followed -almost immediately by the Marquise de Bratiane, which elicited from -Lamarthe: "Ah! we shall only have a second rendition of 'Dido'; the -first has just been given in the Marquise's <i>coupé</i>."</p> - -<p>Mme. de Frémines added: "Really, our friend De Burne's collection is -losing some of its finest jewels."</p> - -<p>Mariolle felt a sudden impulse of anger rising in his heart, a kind -of hatred against this woman, and a brusque sensation of irritation -against these people, their way of life, their ideas, their tastes, -their aimless inclinations, their childish amusements. Then, as -Lamarthe bent over the young woman to whisper something in her ear, he -profited by the opportunity to slip away.</p> - -<p>Handsome Mme. le Prieur was sitting by herself only a few steps away; -he went up to her to make his bow. According to Lamarthe she stood -for the old guard among all this irruption of modernism. Young, -tall, handsome, with very regular features and chestnut hair through -which ran threads of gold, extremely affable, captivating by reason -of her tranquil, kindly charm of manner, by reason also of a calm, -well-studied coquetry and a great desire to please that lay concealed -beneath an outward appearance of simple and sincere affection, she had -many firm partisans, whom she took good care should never be exposed -to dangerous rivalries. Her house had the reputation of being a little -gathering of intimate friends, where all the <i>habitués</i>, moreover, -concurred in extolling the merits of the husband.</p> - -<p>She and Mariolle now entered into conversation. She held in high esteem -this intelligent and reserved man, who gave people so little cause to -talk about him and who was perhaps of more account than all the rest.</p> - -<p>The remaining guests came dropping in: big Fresnel, puffing and giving -a last wipe with his handkerchief to his shining and perspiring -forehead, the philosophic George de Maltry, finally the Baron de -Gravil accompanied by the Comte de Marantin. M. de Pradon assisted his -daughter in doing the honors of the house; he was extremely attractive -to Mariolle.</p> - -<p>But Mariolle, with a heavy heart, saw <i>her</i> going and coming and -bestowing her attentions on everyone there more than on him.</p> - -<p>Twice, it is true, she had thrown him a swift look from a distance -which seemed to say, "I am not forgetting you," but they were so -fleeting that perhaps he had failed to catch their meaning. And then -he could not be unconscious to the fact that Lamarthe's aggressive -assiduities to Mme. de Frémines were displeasing to Mme. de Burne. -"That is only her coquettish feeling of spite," he said to himself, -"a woman's irritation from whose salon some valuable trinket has -been spirited away." Still it made him suffer, and his suffering was -the greater since he saw that she was constantly watching them in a -furtive, concealed kind of way, while she did not seem to trouble -herself a bit at seeing <i>him</i> sitting beside Mme. le Prieur.</p> - -<p>The reason was that she had him in her power, she was sure of him, -while the other was escaping her. What, then, could be to her that love -of theirs, that love which was born but yesterday, and which in him had -banished and killed every other idea?</p> - -<p>M. de Pradon had called for silence, and Massival was opening the -piano, which Mme. de Bratiane was approaching, removing her gloves -meanwhile, for she was to sing the woes of "Dido," when the door again -opened and a young man appeared upon whom every eye was immediately -fixed. He was tall and slender, with curling side-whiskers, short, -blond, curly hair, and an air that was altogether aristocratic. Even -Mme. le Prieur seemed to feel his influence.</p> - -<p>"Who is it?" Mariolle asked her.</p> - -<p>"What! is it possible that you do not know him?"</p> - -<p>"No, I do not."</p> - -<p>"It is Comte Rudolph de Bernhaus."</p> - -<p>"Ah! the man who fought a duel with Sigismond Fabre."</p> - -<p>"Yes."</p> - -<p>The story had made a great noise at the time. The Comte de Bernhaus, -attached to the Austrian embassy and a diplomat of the highest promise, -an elegant Bismarck, so it was said, having heard some words spoken in -derogation of his sovereign at an official reception, had fought the -next day with the man who uttered them, a celebrated fencer, and killed -him. After this duel, in respect to which public opinion had been -divided, the Comte acquired between one day and the next a notoriety -after the manner of Sarah Bernhardt, but with this difference, that -his name appeared in an aureole of poetic chivalry. He was in addition -a man of great charm, an agreeable conversationalist, a man of -distinction in every respect. Lamarthe used to say of him: "He is the -one to tame our pretty wild beasts."</p> - -<p>He took his seat beside Mme. de Burne with a very gallant air, and -Massival sat down before the keyboard and allowed his fingers to run -over the keys for a few moments.</p> - -<p>Nearly all the audience changed their places and drew their chairs -nearer so as to hear better and at the same time have a better view of -the singer. Thus Mariolle and Lamarthe found themselves side by side.</p> - -<p>There was a great silence of expectation and respectful attention; -then the musician began with a slow, a very slow succession of notes, -something like a musical recitative. There were pauses, then the -air would be lightly caught up in a series of little phrases, now -languishing and dying away, now breaking out in nervous strength, -indicative, it would seem, of distressful emotion, but always -characterized by originality of invention. Mariolle gave way to -reverie. He beheld a woman, a woman in the fullness of her mature youth -and ripened beauty, walking slowly upon a shore that was bathed by the -waves of the sea. He knew that she was suffering, that she bore a great -sorrow in her soul, and he looked at Mme. de Bratiane.</p> - -<p>Motionless, pale beneath her wealth of thick black hair that seemed to -have been dipped in the shades of night, the Italian stood waiting, her -glance directed straight before her. On her strongly marked, rather -stern features, against which her eyes and eyebrows stood out like -spots of ink, in all her dark, powerful, and passionate beauty, there -was something that struck one, something like the threat of the coming -storm that we read in the blackening <i>sky.</i></p> - -<p>Massival, slightly nodding his head with its long hair in cadence with -the rhythm, kept on relating the affecting tale that he was drawing -from the resonant keys of ivory.</p> - -<p>A shiver all at once ran through the singer; she partially opened her -mouth, and from it there proceeded a long-drawn, heartrending wail of -agony. It was not one of those outbursts of tragic despair that divas -give utterance to upon the stage, with dramatic gestures, neither was -it one of those pitiful laments for love betrayed that bring a storm -of bravos from an audience; it was a cry of supreme passion, coming -from the body and not from the soul, wrung from her like the roar of -a wounded animal, the cry of the feminine animal betrayed. Then she -was silent, and Massival again began to relate, more animatedly, more -stormily, the moving story of the miserable queen who was abandoned by -the man she loved. Then the woman's voice made itself heard again. She -used articulate language now; she told of the intolerable torture of -solitude, of her unquenchable thirst for the caresses that were hers no -more, and of the grief of knowing that he was gone from her forever.</p> - -<p>Her warm, ringing voice made the hearts of her audience beat beneath -the spell. This somber Italian, with hair like the darkness of the -night, seemed to be suffering all the sorrows that she was telling, -she seemed to love, or to have the capacity of loving, with furious -ardor. When she ceased her eyes were full of tears, and she slowly -wiped them away. Lamarthe leaned over toward Mariolle and said to him -in a quiver of artistic enthusiasm: "Good heavens! how beautiful she is -just now! She is a woman, the only one in the room." Then he added, -after a moment of reflection: "After all, who can tell? Perhaps there -is nothing there but the mirage of the music, for nothing has real -existence except our illusions. But what an art to produce illusions is -that of hers!"</p> - -<p>There was a short intermission between the first and the second parts -of the musical poem, and warm congratulations were extended to the -composer and his interpreter. Lamarthe in particular was very earnest -in his felicitations, and he was really sincere, for he was endowed -with the capacity to feel and comprehend, and beauty of all kinds -appealed strongly to his nature, under whatever form expressed. The -manner in which he told Mme. de Bratiane what his feelings had been -while listening to her was so flattering that it brought a slight blush -to her face and excited a little spiteful feeling among the other women -who heard it. Perhaps he was not altogether unaware of the feeling that -he had produced.</p> - -<p>When he turned around to resume his chair, he perceived Comte de -Bernhaus just in the act of seating himself beside Mme. de Frémines. -She seemed at once to be on confidential terms with him, and they -smiled at each other as if this close conversation was particularly -agreeable to them both. Mariolle, whose gloom was momentarily -increasing, stood leaning against a door; the novelist came and -stationed himself at his side. Big Fresnel, George de Maltry, the -Baron de Gravil and the Comte de Marantin formed a circle about Mme. -de Burne, who was going about offering tea. She seemed imprisoned in a -crown of adorers. Lamarthe ironically called his friend's attention to -it and added: "A crown without jewels, however, and I am sure that she -would be glad to give all those rhinestones for the brilliant that she -would like to see there."</p> - -<p>"What brilliant do you mean?" inquired Mariolle.</p> - -<p>"Why, Bernhaus, handsome, irresistible, incomparable Bernhaus, he in -whose honor this <i>fête</i> is given, for whom the miracle was performed of -inducing Massival to bring out his 'Dido' here."</p> - -<p>André, though incredulous, was conscious of a pang of regret as he -heard these words. "Has she known him long?" he asked.</p> - -<p>"Oh, no; ten days at most. But she put her best foot foremost during -this brief campaign, and her tactics have been those of a conqueror. If -you had been here you would have had a good laugh."</p> - -<p>"How so?"</p> - -<p>"She met him for the first time at Mme. de Frémines's; I happened to -be dining there that evening. Bernhaus stands very well in the good -graces of the lady of that house, as you may see for yourself; all that -you have to do is to look at them at the present moment; and behold, -in the very minute that succeeded the first salutation that they ever -made each other, there is our pretty friend De Burne taking the field -to effect the conquest of the Austrian phœnix. And she is succeeding, -and will succeed, although the little Frémines is more than a match for -her in coquetry, real indifference, and perhaps perversity. But our -friend De Burne uses her weapons more scientifically, she is more of a -woman, by which I mean a modern woman, that is to say, irresistible by -reason of that artificial seductiveness which takes the place in the -modern woman of the old-fashioned natural charm of manner. And it is -not her artificiality alone that is to be taken into account, but her -æstheticism, her profound comprehension of feminine æsthetics; all her -strength lies therein. She knows herself thoroughly, because she takes -more delight in herself than in anything else, and she is never at -fault as to the best means of subjugating a man and making the best use -of her gifts in order to captivate men."</p> - -<p>Mariolle took exception to this. "I think that you put it too -strongly," he said. "She has always been very simple with me."</p> - -<p>"Because simplicity is the right thing to meet the requirements of your -case. I do not wish to speak ill of her, however. I think that she is -better than most of her set. But they are not women."</p> - -<p>Massival, striking a few chords on the piano, here reduced them to -silence, and Mme. de Bratiane proceeded to sing the second part of the -poem, in which her delineation of the title-role was a magnificent -study of physical passion and sensual regret.</p> - -<p>Lamarthe, however, never once took his eyes from Mme. de Frémines and -the Comte de Bernhaus, where they were enjoying their <i>tête-à-tête</i>, -and as soon as the last vibrations of the piano were lost in the -murmurs of applause, he again took up his theme as if in continuation -of an argument, or as if he were replying to an adversary: "No, they -are not women. The most honest of them are coquettes without being -aware of it. The more I know them the less do I find in them that -sensation of mild exhilaration that it is the part of a true woman to -inspire in us. They intoxicate, it is true, but the process wears upon -our nerves, for they are too sophisticated. Oh, it is very good as a -liqueur to sip now and then, but it is a poor substitute for the good -wine that we used to have. You see, my dear fellow, woman was created -and sent to dwell on earth for two objects only, and it is these two -objects alone that can avail to bring out her true, great, and noble -qualities—love and the family. I am talking like M. Prudhomme. Now -the women of to-day are incapable of loving, and they will not bear -children. When they are so inexpert as to have them, it is a misfortune -in their eyes; then a burden. Truly, they are not women; they are -monsters."</p> - -<p>Astonished by the writer's violent manner and by the angry look that -glistened in his eye, Mariolle asked him: "Why, then, do you spend half -your time hanging to their skirts?"</p> - -<p>Lamarthe hotly replied: "Why? Why? Because it interests me—<i>parbleu!</i> -And then—and then—Would you prevent a physician from going to the -hospitals to watch the cases? Those women constitute my clinic."</p> - -<p>This reflection seemed to quiet him a little: he proceeded: "Then, too, -I adore them for the very reason that they are so modern. At bottom I -am really no more a man than they are women. When I am at the point -of becoming attached to one of them, I amuse myself by investigating -and analyzing all the resulting sensations and emotions, just like -a chemist who experiments upon himself with a poison in order to -ascertain its properties." After an interval of silence, he continued: -"In this way they will never succeed in getting me into their clutches. -<i>I</i> can play their game as well as they play it themselves, perhaps -even better, and that is of use to me for my books, while their -proceedings are not of the slightest bit of use to them. What fools -they are! Failures, every one of them—charming failures, who will be -ready to die of spite as they grow older and see the mistake that they -have made."</p> - -<p>Mariolle, as he listened, felt himself sinking into one of those fits -of depression that are like the humid gloom with which a long-continued -rain darkens everything about us. He was well aware that the man of -letters, as a general thing, was not apt to be very far out of the way, -but he could not bring himself to admit that he was altogether right in -the present case. With a slight appearance of irritation, he argued, -not so much in defense of women as to show the causes of the position -that they occupy in contemporary literature. "In the days when poets -and novelists exalted them, and endowed them with poetic attributes," -he said, "they looked for in life, and seemed to find, that which -their heart had discovered in their reading. Nowadays you persist in -suppressing everything that has any savor of sentiment and poetry, and -in its stead give them only naked, undeceiving realities. Now, my dear -sir, the more love there is in books, the more love there is in life. -When you invented the ideal and laid it before them, they believed in -the truth of your inventions. Now that you give them nothing but stern, -unadorned realism, they follow in your footsteps and have come to -measure everything by that standard of vulgarity."</p> - -<p>Lamarthe, who was always ready for a literary discussion, was about to -commence a dissertation when Mme. de Burne came up to them. It was one -of the days when she looked at her best, with a toilette that delighted -the eye and with that aggressive and alluring air that denoted that -she was ready to try conclusions with anyone. She took a chair. "That -is what I like," she said; "to come upon two men and find that they -are not talking about me. And then you are the only men here that one -can listen to with any interest. What was the subject that you were -discussing?"</p> - -<p>Lamarthe, quite without embarrassment and in terms of elegant raillery, -placed before her the question that had arisen between himself and -Mariolle. Then he resumed his reasoning with a spirit that was inflamed -by that desire of applause which, in the presence of women, always -excites men who like to intoxicate themselves with glory.</p> - -<p>She at once interested herself in the discussion, and, warming to the -subject, took part in it in defense of the women of our day with a good -deal of wit and ingenuity. Some remarks upon the faithfulness and the -attachment that even those who were looked on with most suspicion might -be capable of, incomprehensible to the novelist, made Mariolle's heart -beat more rapidly, and when she left them to take a seat beside Mme. -de Frémines, who had persistently kept the Comte de Bernhaus near her, -Lamarthe and Mariolle, completely vanquished by her display of feminine -tact and grace, were united in declaring that, beyond all question, she -was exquisite.</p> - -<p>"And just look at them!" said the writer.</p> - -<p>The grand duel was on. What were they talking about now, the Austrian -and those two women? Mme. de Burne had come up just at the right -moment to interrupt a <i>tête-à-tête</i> which, however agreeable the two -persons engaged in it might be to each other, was becoming monotonous -from being too long protracted, and she broke it up by relating with an -indignant air the expressions that she had heard from Lamarthe's lips. -To be sure, it was all applicable to Mme. de Frémines, it all resulted -from her most recent conquest, and it was all related in the hearing -of an intelligent man who was capable of understanding it in all its -bearings. The match was applied, and again the everlasting question of -love blazed up, and the mistress of the house beckoned to Mariolle and -Lamarthe to come to them; then, as their voices grew loud in debate, -she summoned the remainder of the company.</p> - -<p>A general discussion ensued, bright and animated, in which everyone had -something to say. Mme. de Burne was witty and entertaining beyond all -the rest, shifting her ground from sentiment, which might have been -factitious, to droll paradox. The day was a triumphant one for her, and -she was prettier, brighter, and more animated than she had ever been.</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h5><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII.</a></h5> - - -<h4>DEPRESSION</h4> - - -<p>When André Mariolle had parted from Mme. de Burne and the penetrating -charm of her presence had faded away, he felt within him and all about -him, in his flesh, in his heart, in the air, and in all the surrounding -world a sensation as if the delight of life which had been his support -and animating principle for some time past had been taken from him.</p> - -<p>What had happened? Nothing, or almost nothing. Toward the close of the -reception she had been very charming in her manner toward him, saying -to him more than once: "I am not conscious of anyone's presence here -but yours." And yet he felt that she had revealed something to him of -which he would have preferred always to remain ignorant. That, too, -was nothing, or almost nothing; still he was stupefied, as a man might -be upon hearing of some unworthy action of his father or his mother, -to learn that during those twenty days which he had believed were -absolutely and entirely devoted by her as well as by him, every minute -of them, to the sentiment of their newborn love, so recent and so -intense, she had resumed her former mode of life, had made many visits, -formed many plans, recommenced those odious flirtations, had run after -men and disputed them with her rivals, received compliments, and showed -off all her graces.</p> - -<p>So soon! All this she had done so soon! Had it happened later he -would not have been surprised. He knew the world, he knew women and -their ways of looking at things, he was sufficiently intelligent -to understand it all, and would never have been unduly exacting or -offensively jealous. She was beautiful; she was born—it was her -allotted destiny—to receive the homage of men and listen to their soft -nothings. She had selected him from among them all, and had bestowed -herself upon him courageously, royally. It was his part to remain, -he would remain in any event, a grateful slave to her caprices and a -resigned spectator of her triumphs as a pretty woman. But it was hard -on him; something suffered within him, in that obscure cavern down at -the bottom of the heart where the delicate sensibilities have their -dwelling.</p> - -<p>No doubt he had been in the wrong; he had always been in the wrong -since he first came to know himself. He carried too much sentimental -prudence into his commerce with the world; his feelings were too -thin-skinned. This was the cause of the isolated life that he had -always led, through his dread of contact with the world and of wounded -susceptibilities. He had been wrong, for this supersensitiveness is -almost always the result of our not admitting the existence of a nature -essentially different from our own, or else not tolerating it. He knew -this, having often observed it in himself, but it was too late to -modify the constitution of his being.</p> - -<p>He certainly had no right to reproach Mme. de Burne, for if she had -forbidden him her salon and kept him in hiding during those days of -happiness that she had afforded him, she had done it to blind prying -eyes and be more fully his in the end. Why, then, this trouble that had -settled in his heart? Ah! why? It was because he had believed her to be -wholly his, and now it had been made clear to him that he could never -expect to seize and hold this woman of a many-sided nature who belonged -to all the world.</p> - -<p>He was well aware, moreover, that all our life is made up of successes -relative in degree to the "almost," and up to the present time -he had borne this with philosophic resignation, dissembling his -dissatisfaction and his unsatisfied yearnings under the mask of an -assumed unsociability. This time he had thought that he was about to -obtain an absolute success—the "entirely" that he had been waiting and -hoping for all his life. The "entirely" is not to be attained in this -world.</p> - -<p>His evening was a dismal one, spent in analyzing the painful impression -that he had received. When he was in bed this impression, instead of -growing weaker, took stronger hold of him, and as he desired to leave -nothing unexplored, he ransacked his mind to ascertain the remotest -causes of his new troubles. They went, and came, and returned again -like little breaths of frosty air, exciting in his love a suffering -that was as yet weak and indistinct, like those vague neuralgic pains -that we get by sitting in a draft, presages of the horrible agonies -that are to come.</p> - -<p>He understood in the first place that he was jealous, no longer as the -ardent lover only but as one who had the right to call her his own. -As long as he had not seen her surrounded by men, her men, he had not -allowed himself to dwell upon this sensation, at the same time having -a faint prevision of it, but supposing that it would be different, -very different, from what it actually was. To find the mistress whom -he believed had cared for none but him during those days of secret -and frequent meetings—during that early period that should have been -entirely devoted to isolation and tender emotion—to find her as much, -and even more, interested and wrapped up in her former and frivolous -flirtations than she was before she yielded herself to him, always -ready to fritter away her time and attention on any chance comer, thus -leaving but little of herself to him whom she had designated as the man -of her choice, caused him a jealousy that was more of the flesh than of -the feelings, not an undefined jealousy, like a fever that lies latent -in the system, but a jealousy precise and well defined, for he was -doubtful of her.</p> - -<p>At first his doubts were instinctive, arising in a sensation of -distrust that had intruded itself into his veins rather than into his -thoughts, in that sense of dissatisfaction, almost physical, of the man -who is not sure of his mate. Then, having doubted, he began to suspect.</p> - -<p>What was his position toward her after all? Was he her first lover, or -was he the tenth? Was he the successor of M. de Burne, or was he the -successor of Lamarthe, Massival, George de Maltry, and the predecessor -as well, perhaps, of the Comte de Bernhaus? What did he know of her? -That she was surprisingly beautiful, stylish beyond all others, -intelligent, discriminating, witty, but at the same time fickle, quick -to weary, readily fatigued and disgusted with anyone or anything, and, -above all else, in love with herself and an insatiable coquette. Had -she had a lover—or lovers—before him? If not, would she have offered -herself to him as she did? Where could she have got the audacity that -made her come and open his bedroom door, at night, in a public inn? -And then after that, would she have shown such readiness to visit the -house at Auteuil? Before going there she had merely asked him a few -questions, such questions as an experienced and prudent woman would -naturally ask. He had answered like a man of circumspection, not -unaccustomed to such interviews, and immediately she had confidingly -said "Yes," entirely reassured, probably benefiting by her previous -experiences.</p> - -<p>And then her knock at that little door, behind which he was waiting, -with a beating heart, almost ready to faint, how discreetly -authoritative it had been! And how she had entered without any visible -display of emotion, careful only to observe whether she might be -recognized from the adjacent houses! And the way that she had made -herself at home at once in that doubtful lodging that he had hired and -furnished for her! Would a woman who was a novice, how daring soever -she might be, how superior to considerations of morality and regardless -of social prejudices, have penetrated thus calmly the mystery of a -first rendezvous? There is a trouble of the mind, a hesitation of the -body, an instinctive fear in the very feet, which know not whither they -are tending; would she not have felt all that unless she had had some -experience in these excursions of love and unless the practice of these -things had dulled her native sense of modesty?</p> - -<p>Burning with this persistent, irritating fever, which the warmth of -his bed seemed to render still more unendurable, Mariolle tossed -beneath the coverings, constantly drawn on by his chain of doubts and -suppositions; like a man that feels himself irrecoverably sliding down -the steep descent of a precipice. At times he tried to call a halt and -break the current of his thoughts; he sought and found, and was glad to -find, reflections that were more just to her and reassuring to him, but -the seeds of distrust had been sown in him and he could not help their -growing.</p> - -<p>And yet, with what had he to reproach her? Nothing, except that her -nature was not entirely similar to his own, that she did not look upon -life in the same way that he did and that she had not in her heart an -instrument of sensibility attuned to the same key as his.</p> - -<p>Immediately upon awaking next morning the longing to see her and to -re-enforce his confidence in her developed itself within him like a -ravening hunger, and he awaited the proper moment to go and pay her -the visit demanded by custom. The instant that she saw him at the door -of the little drawing-room devoted to her special intimates, where she -was sitting alone occupied with her correspondence, she came to him -with her two hands outstretched.</p> - -<p>"Ah! Good day, dear friend!" she said, with so pleased and frank -an air that all his odious suspicions, which were still floating -indeterminately in his brain, melted away beneath the warmth of her -reception.</p> - -<p>He seated himself at her side and at once began to tell her of the -manner in which he loved her, for their love was now no longer what it -had been. He gently gave her to understand that there are two species -of the race of lovers upon earth: those whose desire is that of madmen -and whose ardor disappears when once they have achieved a triumph, and -those whom possession serves to subjugate and capture, in whom the love -of the senses, blending with the inarticulate and ineffable appeals -that the heart of man at times sends forth toward a woman, gives rise -to the servitude of a complete and torturing love.</p> - -<p>Torturing it is, certainly, and forever so, however happy it may be, -for nothing, even in the moments of closest communion, ever sates the -need of her that rules our being.</p> - -<p>Mme. de Burne was charmed and gratified as she listened, carried away, -as one is carried away at the theater when an actor gives a powerful -interpretation of his rôle and moves us by awaking some slumbering echo -in our own life. It was indeed an echo, the disturbing echo of a real -passion; but it was not from her bosom that this passion sent forth -its cry. Still, she felt such satisfaction that she was the object -of so keen a sentiment, she was so pleased that it existed in a man -who was capable of expressing it in such terms, in a man of whom she -was really very fond, for whom she was really beginning to feel an -attachment and whose presence was becoming more and more a necessity to -her—not for her physical being but for that mysterious feminine nature -which is so greedy of tenderness, devotion, and subjection—that she -felt like embracing him, like offering him her mouth, her whole being, -only that he might keep on worshiping her in this way.</p> - -<p>She answered him frankly and without prudery, with that profound -artfulness that certain women are endowed with, making it clear to -him that he too had made great progress in her affections, and they -remained <i>tête-à-tête</i> in the little drawing-room, where it so happened -that no one came that day until twilight, talking always upon the same -theme and caressing each other with words that to them did not have the -common significance.</p> - -<p>The servants had just brought in the lamps, when Mme. de Bratiane -appeared. Mariolle withdrew, and as Mme. de Burne was accompanying him -to the door through the main drawing-room, he asked her: "When shall I -see you down yonder?"</p> - -<p>"Will Friday suit you?"</p> - -<p>"Certainly. At what hour?"</p> - -<p>"The same, three o'clock."</p> - -<p>"Until Friday, then. Adieu. I adore you!"</p> - -<p>During the two days that passed before this interview, he experienced -a sensation of loneliness that he had never felt before in the same -way. A woman was wanting in his life—she was the only existent -object for him in the world, and as this woman was not far away and -he was prevented by social conventions alone from going to her, and -from passing a lifetime with her, he chafed in his solitude, in the -interminable lapse of the moments that seemed at times to pass so -slowly, at the absolute impossibility of a thing that was so easy.</p> - -<p>He arrived at the rendezvous on Friday three hours before the time, but -it was pleasing to him—it comforted his anxiety—to wait there where -she was soon to come, after having already suffered so much in awaiting -her mentally in places where she was not to come.</p> - -<p>He stationed himself near the door long before the clock had struck -the three strokes that he was expecting so eagerly, and when at last -he heard them he began to tremble with impatience. The quarter struck. -He looked out into the street, cautiously protruding his head between -the door and the casing; it was deserted from one end to the other. -The minutes seemed to stretch out in aggravating slowness. He was -constantly drawing his watch from his pocket, and at last when the hand -marked the half-hour it appeared to him that he had been standing there -for an incalculable length of time. Suddenly he heard a faint sound -upon the pavement outside, and the summons upon the door of the little -gloved hand quickly made him forget his disappointment and inspired in -him a feeling of gratitude toward her.</p> - -<p>She seemed a little out of breath as she asked: "I am very late, am I -not?"</p> - -<p>"No, not very."</p> - -<p>"Just imagine, I was near not being able to come at all. I had a -houseful, and I was at my wits' end to know what to do to get rid of -all those people. Tell me, do you go under your own name here?"</p> - -<p>"No. Why do you ask?"</p> - -<p>"So that I may send you a telegram if I should ever be prevented from -coming."</p> - -<p>"I am known as M. Nicolle."</p> - -<p>"Very well; I won't forget. My! how nice it is here in this garden!"</p> - -<p>There were five great splashes of perfumed, many-hued brightness -upon the grass-plots of the flowers, which were carefully tended and -constantly renewed, for the gardener had a customer who paid liberally.</p> - -<p>Halting at a bench in front of a bed of heliotrope: "Let us sit here -for a while," she said; "I have something funny to tell you."</p> - -<p>She proceeded to relate a bit of scandal that was quite fresh, and -from the effect of which she had not yet recovered. The story was that -Mme. Massival, the ex-mistress whom the artist had married, had come -to Mme. de Bratiane's, furious with jealousy, right in the midst of -an entertainment in which the Marquise was singing to the composer's -accompaniment, and had made a frightful scene: results, rage of the -fair Italian, astonishment and laughter of the guests. Massival, -quite beside himself, tried to take away his wife, who kept striking -him in the face, pulling his hair and beard, biting him and tearing -his clothes, but she clung to him with all her strength and held him -so that he could not stir, while Lamarthe and two servants, who had -hurried to them at the noise, did what they could to release him from -the teeth and claws of this fury.</p> - -<p>Tranquillity was not restored until after the pair had taken their -departure. Since then the musician had remained invisible, and the -novelist, witness of the scene, had been repeating it everywhere -in a very witty and amusing manner. The affair had produced a deep -impression upon Mme. de Burne; it preoccupied her thoughts to such an -extent that she hardly knew what she was doing. The constant recurrence -of the names of Massival and Lamarthe upon her lips annoyed Mariolle.</p> - -<p>"You just heard of this?" he said.</p> - -<p>"Yes, hardly an hour ago."</p> - -<p>"And that is the reason why she was late," he said to himself with -bitterness. Then he asked aloud, "Shall we go in?"</p> - -<p>"Yes," she absently murmured.</p> - -<p>When, an hour later, she had left him, for she was greatly hurried that -day, he returned alone to the quiet little house and seated himself on -a low chair in their apartment. The feeling that she had been no more -his than if she had not come there left a sort of black cavern in his -heart, in all his being, that he tried to probe to the bottom. He could -see nothing there, he could not understand; he was no longer capable -of understanding. If she had not abstracted herself from his kisses, -she had at all events escaped from the immaterial embraces of his -tenderness by a mysterious absence of the will of being his. She had -not refused herself to him, but it seemed as if she had not brought her -heart there with her; it had remained somewhere else, very far away, -idly occupied, distracted by some trifle.</p> - -<p>Then he saw that he already loved her with his senses as much as with -his feelings, even more perhaps. The deprivation of her soulless -caresses inspired him with a mad desire to run after her and bring her -back, to again possess himself of her. But why? What was the use—since -the thoughts of that fickle mind were occupied elsewhere that day? So -he must await the days and the hours when, to this elusive mistress of -his, there should come the caprice, like her other caprices, of being -in love with him.</p> - -<p>He returned wearily to his house, with heavy footsteps, his eyes fixed -on the sidewalk, tired of life, and it occurred to him that he had -made no appointment with her for the future, either at her house or -elsewhere.</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h5><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII.</a></h5> - - -<h4>NEW HOPES</h4> - - -<p>Until the setting in of winter she was pretty faithful to their -appointments; faithful, but not punctual. During the first three months -her tardiness on these occasions ranged between three-quarters of an -hour and two hours. As the autumnal rains compelled Mariolle to await -her behind the garden gate with an umbrella over his head, shivering, -with his feet in the mud, he caused a sort of little summer-house to -be built, a covered and inclosed vestibule behind the gate, so that he -might not take cold every time they met.</p> - -<p>The trees had lost their verdure, and in the place of the roses and -other flowers the beds were now filled with great masses of white, -pink, violet, purple, and yellow chrysanthemums, exhaling their -penetrating, balsamic perfume—the saddening perfume by which these -noble flowers remind us of the dying year—upon the moist atmosphere, -heavy with the odor of the rain upon the decaying leaves. In front -of the door of the little house the inventive genius of the gardener -had devised a great Maltese cross, composed of rarer plants arranged -in delicate combinations of color, and Mariolle could never pass this -bed, bright with new and constantly changing varieties, without the -melancholy reflection that this flowery cross was very like a grave.</p> - -<p>He was well acquainted now with those long watches in the little -summer-house behind the gate. The rain would fall sullenly upon the -thatch with which he had had it roofed and trickle down the board -siding, and while waiting in this receiving-vault he would give way -to the same unvarying reflections, go through the same process of -reasoning, be swayed in turn by the same hopes, the same fears, the -same discouragements. It was an incessant battle that he had to fight; -a fierce, exhausting mental struggle with an elusive force, a force -that perhaps had no real existence: the tenderness of that woman's -heart.</p> - -<p>What strange things they were, those interviews of theirs! Sometimes -she would come in with a smile upon her face, full to overflowing -with the desire of conversation, and would take a seat without -removing her hat and gloves, without raising her veil, often without -so much as giving him a kiss. It never occurred to her to kiss him -on such occasions; her head was full of a host of captivating little -preoccupations, each of them more captivating to her than the idea of -putting up her lips to the kiss of her despairing lover. He would take -a seat beside her, heart and mouth overrunning with burning words which -could find no way of utterance; he would listen to her and answer, -and while apparently deeply interested in what she was saying would -furtively take her hand, which she would yield to him calmly, amicably, -without an extra pulsation in her veins.</p> - -<p>At other times she would appear more tender, more wholly his; but he, -who was watching her with anxious and clear-sighted eyes, with the eyes -of a lover powerless to achieve her entire conquest, could see and -divine that this relative degree of affection was owing to the fact -that nothing had occurred on such occasions of sufficient importance to -divert her thoughts from him.</p> - -<p>Her persistent unpunctuality, moreover, proved to Mariolle with how -little eagerness she looked forward to these interviews. When we love, -when anything pleases and attracts us, we hasten to the anticipated -meeting, but once the charm has ceased to work, the appointed time -seems to come too quickly and everything serves as a pretext to delay -our loitering steps and put off the moment that has become indefinably -distasteful to us. An odd comparison with a habit of his own kept -incessantly returning to his mind. In summer-time the anticipation of -his morning bath always made him hasten his toilette and his visit to -the bathing establishment, while in the frosty days of winter he always -found so many little things to attend to at home before going out -that he was invariably an hour behind his usual time. The meetings at -Auteuil were to her like so many winter shower-baths.</p> - -<p>For some time past, moreover, she had been making these interviews more -infrequent, sending telegrams at the last hour, putting them off until -the following day and apparently seeking for excuses for dispensing -with them. She always succeeded in discovering excuses of a nature to -satisfy herself, but they caused him mental and physical worries and -anxieties that were intolerable. If she had manifested any coolness, if -she had shown that she was tiring of this passion of his that she felt -and knew was constantly increasing in violence, he might at first have -been irritated and then in turn offended, discouraged, and resigned, -but on the contrary she manifested more affection for him than ever, -she seemed more flattered by his love, more desirous of retaining -it, while not responding to it otherwise than by friendly marks of -preference which were beginning to make all her other admirers jealous.</p> - -<p>She could never see enough of him in her own house, and the same -telegram that would announce to André that she could not come to -Auteuil would convey to him her urgent request to dine with her or -come and spend an hour in the evening. At first he had taken these -invitations as her way of making amends to him, but afterward he came -to understand that she liked to have him near her and that she really -experienced the need of him, more so than of the others. She had need -of him as an idol needs prayers and faith in order to make it a god; -standing in the empty shrine it is but a bit of carved wood, but let -a believer enter the sanctuary, and kneel and prostrate himself and -worship with fervent prayers, drunk with religion, it becomes the equal -of Brahma or of Allah, for every loved being is a kind of god. Mme. de -Burne felt that she was adapted beyond all others to play this rôle of -fetich, to fill woman's mission, bestowed on her by nature, of being -sought after and adored, and of vanquishing men by the arms of her -beauty, grace, and coquetry.</p> - -<p>In the meantime she took no pains to conceal her affection and her -strong liking for Mariolle, careless of what folks might say about it, -possibly with the secret desire of irritating and inflaming the others. -They could hardly ever come to her house without finding him there, -generally installed in the great easy-chair that Lamarthe had come -to call the "pulpit of the officiating priest," and it afforded her -sincere pleasure to remain alone in his company for an entire evening, -talking and listening to him. She had taken a liking to this kind of -family life that he had revealed to her, to this constant contact with -an agreeable, well-stored mind, which was hers and at her command just -as much as were the little trinkets that littered her dressing-table. -In like manner she gradually came to yield to him much of herself, of -her thoughts, of her deeper mental personality, in the course of those -affectionate confidences that are as pleasant in the giving as in the -receiving. She felt herself more at ease, more frank and familiar with -him than with the others, and she loved him the more for it. She also -experienced the sensation, dear to womankind, that she was really -bestowing something, that she was confiding to some one all that she -had to give, a thing that she had never done before.</p> - -<p>In her eyes this was much, in his it was very little. He was still -waiting and hoping for the great final breaking up of her being which -should give him her soul beneath his caresses.</p> - -<p>Caresses she seemed to regard as useless, annoying, rather a nuisance -than otherwise. She submitted to them, not without returning them, but -tired of them quickly, and this feeling doubtless engendered in her -a shade of dislike to them. The slightest and most insignificant of -them seemed to be irksome to her. When in the course of conversation -he would take her hand and carry it to his lips and hold it there a -little, she always seemed desirous of withdrawing it, and he could feel -the movement of the muscles in her arm preparatory to taking it away.</p> - -<p>He felt these things like so many thrusts of a knife, and he carried -away from her presence wounds that bled unintermittently in the -solitude of his love. How was it that she had not that period of -unreasoning attraction toward him that almost every woman has when once -she has made the entire surrender of her being? It may be of short -duration, frequently it is followed quickly by weariness and disgust, -but it is seldom that it is not there at all, for a day, for an hour! -This mistress of his had made of him, not a lover, but a sort of -intelligent companion of her life.</p> - -<p>Of what was he complaining? Those who yield themselves entirely perhaps -have less to give than she!</p> - -<p>He was not complaining; he was afraid. He was afraid of that other one, -the man who would spring up unexpectedly whenever she might chance to -fall in with him, to-morrow, may be, or the day after, whoever he might -be, artist, actor, soldier, or man of the world, it mattered not what, -born to find favor in her woman's eyes and securing her favor for no -other reason, because he was <i>the man</i>, the one destined to implant in -her for the first time the imperious desire of opening her arms to him.</p> - -<p>He was now jealous of the future as before he had at times been -jealous of her unknown past, and all the young woman's intimates were -beginning to be jealous of him. He was the subject of much conversation -among them; they even made dark and mysterious allusions to the subject -in her presence. Some said that he was her lover, while others, guided -by Lamarthe's opinion, decided that she was only making a fool of him -in order to irritate and exasperate them, as it was her habit to do, -and that this was all there was to it. Her father took the matter up -and made some remarks to her which she did not receive with good grace, -and the more conscious she became of the reports that were circulating -among her acquaintance, the more, by an odd contradiction to the -prudence that had ruled her life, did she persist in making an open -display of the preference that she felt for Mariolle.</p> - -<p>He, however, was somewhat disturbed by these suspicious mutterings. He -spoke to her of it.</p> - -<p>"What do I care?" she said.</p> - -<p>"If you only loved me, as a lover!"</p> - -<p>"Do I not love you, my friend?"</p> - -<p>"Yes and no; you love me well enough in your own house, but very badly -elsewhere. I should prefer it to be just the opposite, for my sake, and -even, indeed, for your own."</p> - -<p>She laughed and murmured: "We can't do more than we can."</p> - -<p>"If you only knew the mental trouble that I experience in trying -to animate your love. At times I seem to be trying to grasp the -intangible, to be clasping an iceberg in my arms that chills me and -melts away within my embrace."</p> - -<p>She made no answer, not fancying the subject, and assumed the absent -manner that she often wore at Auteuil. He did not venture to press the -matter further. He looked upon her a good deal as amateurs look upon -the precious objects in a museum that tempt them so strongly and that -they know they cannot carry away with them.</p> - -<p>His days and nights were made up of hours of suffering, for he was -living in the fixed idea, and still more in the sentiment than in -the idea, that she was his and yet not his, that she was conquered -and still at liberty, captured and yet impregnable. He was living at -her side, as near her as could be, without ever reaching her, and he -loved her with all the unsatiated longings of his body and his soul. -He began to write to her again, as he had done at the commencement -of their <i>liaison</i>. Once before with ink he had vanquished her early -scruples; once again with ink he might be victorious over this later -and obstinate resistance. Putting longer intervals between his visits -to her, he told her in almost daily letters of the fruitlessness of -his love. Now and then, when he had been very eloquent and impassioned -and had evinced great sorrow, she answered him. Her letters, dated for -effect midnight, or one, two, or three o'clock in the morning, were -clear and precise, well considered, encouraging, and afflicting. She -reasoned well, and they were not destitute of wit and even fancy, but -it was in vain that he read them and re-read them, it was in vain that -he admitted that they were to the point, well turned, intelligent, -graceful, and satisfactory to his masculine vanity; they had in them -nothing of her heart, they satisfied him no more than did the kisses -that she gave him in the house at Auteuil.</p> - -<p>He asked himself why this was so, and when he had learned them by heart -he came to know them so well that he discovered the reason, for a -person's writings always afford the surest clue to his nature. Spoken -words dazzle and deceive, for lips are pleasing and eyes seductive, but -black characters set down upon white paper expose the soul in all its -nakedness.</p> - -<p>Man, thanks to the artifices of rhetoric, to his professional address -and his habit of using the pen to discuss all the affairs of life, -often succeeds in disguising his own nature by his impersonal prose -style, literary or business, but woman never writes unless it is of -herself and something of her being goes into her every word. She knows -nothing of the subtilities of style and surrenders herself unreservedly -in her ignorance of the scope and value of words. Mariolle called to -mind the memoirs and correspondence of celebrated women that he had -read; how distinctly their characters were all set forth there, the -<i>précieuses</i>, the witty, and the sensible! What struck him most in -Mme. de Burne's letters was that no trace of sensibility was to be -discovered in them. This woman had the faculty of thought but not of -feeling. He called to mind letters that he had received from other -persons; he had had many of them. A little <i>bourgeoise</i> that he had met -while traveling and who had loved him for the space of three months had -written delicious, thrilling notes, abounding in fresh and unexpected -terms of sentiment; he had been surprised by the flexibility, the -elegant coloring, and the variety of her style. Whence had she -obtained this gift? From the fact that she was a woman of sensibility; -there could be no other answer. A woman does not elaborate her phrases; -they come to her intelligence straight from her emotions; she does -not rummage the dictionary for fine words. What she feels strongly -she expresses justly, without long and labored consideration, in the -adaptive sincerity of her nature.</p> - -<p>He tried to test the sincerity of his mistress's nature by means of -the lines which she wrote him. They were well written and full of -amiability, but how was it that she could find nothing better for him? -Ah! for her <i>he</i> had found words that burned as living coals!</p> - -<p>When his valet brought in his mail he would look for an envelope -bearing the longed-for handwriting, and when he recognized it an -involuntary emotion would arise in him, succeeded by a beating of the -heart. He would extend his hand and grasp the bit of paper; again he -would scrutinize the address, then tear it open. What had she to say -to him? Would he find the word "love" there? She had never written or -uttered this word without qualifying it by the adverb "well": "I love -you well"; "I love you much"; "Do I not love you?" He knew all these -formulas, which are inexpressive by reason of what is tacked on to -them. Can there be such a thing as a comparison between the degrees of -love when one is in its toils? Can one decide whether he loves well or -ill? "To love much," what a dearth of love that expression manifests! -One loves, nothing more, nothing less; nothing can be said, nothing -expressed, nothing imagined that means more than that one simple -sentence. It is brief, it is everything. It becomes body, soul, life, -the whole of our being. We feel it as we feel the warm blood in our -veins, we inhale it as we do the air, we carry it within us as we carry -our thoughts, for it becomes the atmosphere of the mind. Nothing has -existence beside it. It is not a word, it is an inexpressible state of -being, represented by a few letters. All the conditions of life are -changed by it; whatever we do, there is nothing done or seen or tasted -or enjoyed or suffered just as it was before. Mariolle had become the -victim of this small verb, and his eye would run rapidly over the -lines, seeking there a tenderness answering to his own. He did in fact -find there sufficient to warrant him in saying to himself: "She loves -me very well," but never to make him exclaim: "She loves me!" She was -continuing in her correspondence the pretty, poetical romance that had -had its inception at Mont Saint-Michel. It was the literature of love, -not of <i>the</i> love.</p> - -<p>When he had finished reading and re-reading them, he would lock the -precious and disappointing sheets in a drawer and seat himself in his -easy-chair. He had passed many a bitter hour in it before this.</p> - -<p>After a while her answers to his letters became less frequent; -doubtless she was somewhat weary of manufacturing phrases and ringing -the changes on the same stale theme. And then, besides, she was passing -through a period of unwonted fashionable excitement, of which André -had presaged the approach with that increment of suffering that such -insignificant, disagreeable incidents can bring to troubled hearts.</p> - -<p>It was a winter of great gaiety. A mad intoxication had taken -possession of Paris and shaken the city to its depths; all night long -cabs and <i>coupés</i> were rolling through the streets and through the -windows were visible white apparitions of women in evening toilette. -Everyone was having a good time; all the conversation was on plays and -balls, matinées and soirées. The contagion, an epidemic of pleasure, as -it were, had quickly extended to all classes of society, and Mme. de -Burne also was attacked by it.</p> - -<p>It had all been brought about by the effect that her beauty had -produced at a dance at the Austrian embassy. The Comte de Bernhaus had -made her acquainted with the ambassadress, the Princess de Malten, -who had been immediately and entirely delighted with Mme. de Burne. -Within a very short time she became the Princess's very intimate friend -and thereby extended with great rapidity her relations among the most -select diplomatic and aristocratic circles. Her grace, her elegance, -her charming manners, her intelligence and wit quickly achieved a -triumph for her and made her <i>la mode</i>, and many of the highest titles -among the women of France sought to be presented to her. Every Monday -would witness a long line of <i>coupés</i> with arms on their panels drawn -up along the curb of the Rue du Général-Foy, and the footmen would lose -their heads and make sad havoc with the high-sounding names that they -bellowed into the drawing-room, confounding duchesses with marquises, -countesses with baronnes.</p> - -<p>She was entirely carried off her feet. The incense of compliments -and invitations, the feeling that she was become one of the elect to -whom Paris bends the knee in worship as long as the fancy lasts, -the delight of being thus admired, made much of, and run after, were -too much for her and gave rise within her soul to an acute attack of -snobbishness.</p> - -<p>Her artistic following did not submit to this condition of affairs -without a struggle, and the revolution produced a close alliance among -her old friends. Fresnel, even, was accepted by them, enrolled on the -regimental muster and became a power in the league, while Mariolle was -its acknowledged head, for they were all aware of the ascendency that -he had over her and her friendship for him. He, however, watched her as -she was whirled away in this flattering popularity as a child watches -the vanishing of his red balloon when he has let go the string. It -seemed to him that she was eluding him in the midst of this elegant, -motley, dancing throng and flying far, far away from that secret -happiness that he had so ardently desired for both of them, and he was -jealous of everybody and everything, men, women, and inanimate objects -alike. He conceived a fierce detestation for the life that she was -leading, for all the people that she associated with, all the <i>fêtes</i> -that she frequented, balls, theaters, music, for they were all in a -league to take her from him by bits and absorb her days and nights, -and only a few scant hours were now accorded to their intimacy. His -indulgence of this unreasoning spite came near causing him a fit of -sickness, and when he visited her he brought with him such a wan face -that she said to him:</p> - -<p>"What ails you? You have changed of late, and are very thin."</p> - -<p>"I have been loving you too much," he replied.</p> - -<p>She gave him a grateful look: "No one ever loves too much, my friend."</p> - -<p>"Can you say such a thing as that?"</p> - -<p>"Why, yes."</p> - -<p>"And you do not see that I am dying of my vain love for you."</p> - -<p>"In the first place it is not true that you love in vain; then no one -ever dies of that complaint, and finally all our friends are jealous of -you, which proves pretty conclusively that I am not treating you badly, -all things considered."</p> - -<p>He took her hand: "You do not understand me!"</p> - -<p>"Yes, I understand very well."</p> - -<p>"You hear the despairing appeal that I am incessantly making to your -heart?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, I have heard it."</p> - -<p>"And——"</p> - -<p>"And it gives me much pain, for I love you enormously."</p> - -<p>"And then?"</p> - -<p>"Then you say to me: 'Be like me; think, feel, express yourself as I -do.' But, my poor friend, I can't. I am what I am. You must take me as -God made me, since I gave myself thus to you, since I have no regrets -for having done so and no desire to withdraw from the bargain, since -there is no one among all my acquaintance that is dearer to me than you -are."</p> - -<p>"You do not love me!"</p> - -<p>"I love you with all the power of loving that exists in me. If it is -not different or greater, is that my fault?"</p> - -<p>"If I was certain of that I might content myself with it."</p> - -<p>"What do you mean by that?"</p> - -<p>"I mean that I believe you capable of loving otherwise, but that I do -not believe that it lies in me to inspire you with a genuine passion."</p> - -<p>"My friend, you are mistaken. You are more to me than anyone has ever -been hitherto, more than anyone will ever be in the future; at least -that is my honest conviction. I may lay claim to this great merit: that -I do not wear two faces with you, I do not feign to be what you so -ardently desire me to be, when many women would act quite differently. -Be a little grateful to me for this, and do not allow yourself to be -agitated and unstrung; trust in my affection, which is yours, sincerely -and unreservedly."</p> - -<p>He saw how wide the difference was that parted them. "Ah!" he murmured, -"how strangely you look at love and speak of it! To you, I am some one -that you like to see now and then, whom you like to have beside you, -but to me, you fill the universe: in it I know but you, feel but you, -need but you."</p> - -<p>She smiled with satisfaction and replied: "I know that; I understand. I -am delighted to have it so, and I say to you: Love me always like that -if you can, for it gives me great happiness, but do not force me to act -a part before you that would be distressing to me and unworthy of us -both. I have been aware for some time of the approach of this crisis; -it is the cause of much suffering to me, for I am deeply attached to -you, but I cannot bend my nature or shape it in conformity with yours. -Take me as I am."</p> - -<p>Suddenly he asked her: "Have you ever thought, have you ever believed, -if only for a day, only for an hour, either before or after, that you -might be able to love me otherwise?"</p> - -<p>She was at a loss for an answer and reflected for a few seconds. He -waited anxiously for her to speak, and continued: "You see, don't you, -that you have had other dreams as well?"</p> - -<p>"I may have been momentarily deceived in myself," she murmured, -thoughtfully.</p> - -<p>"Oh! how ingenious you are!" he exclaimed; "how psychological! No one -ever reasons thus from the impulse of the heart."</p> - -<p>She was reflecting still, interested in her thoughts, in this -self-investigation; finally she said: "Before I came to love you as -I love you now, I may indeed have thought that I might come to be -more—more—more captivated with you, but then I certainly should not -have been so frank and simple with you. Perhaps later on I should have -been less sincere."</p> - -<p>"Why less sincere later on?"</p> - -<p>"Because all of love, according to your idea, lies in this formula: -'Everything or nothing,' and this 'everything or nothing' as far as I -can see means: 'Everything at first, nothing afterward.' It is when the -reign of nothing commences that women begin to be deceitful."</p> - -<p>He replied in great distress: "But you do not see how wretched I -am—how I am tortured by the thought that you might have loved me -otherwise. You have felt that thought: therefore it is some other one -that you will love in that manner."</p> - -<p>She unhesitatingly replied: "I do not believe it."</p> - -<p>"And why? Yes, why, I ask you? Since you have had the foreknowledge of -love, since you have felt in anticipation the fleeting and torturing -hope of confounding soul and body with the soul and body of another, -of losing your being in his and taking his being to be portion of -your own, since you have perceived the possibility of this ineffable -emotion, the day will come, sooner or later, when you will experience -it."</p> - -<p>"No; my imagination deceived me, and deceived itself. I am giving you -all that I have to give you. I have reflected deeply on this subject -since I have been your mistress. Observe that I do not mince matters, -not even my words. Really and truly, I am convinced that I cannot love -you more or better than I do at this moment. You see that I talk to you -just as I talk to myself. I do that because you are very intelligent, -because you understand and can read me like a book, and the best way -is to conceal nothing from you; it is the only way to keep us long and -closely united. And that is what I hope for, my friend."</p> - -<p>He listened to her as a man drinks when he is thirsty, then kneeled -before her and laid his head in her lap. He took her little hands and -pressed them to his lips, murmuring: "Thanks! thanks!" When he raised -his eyes to look at her, he saw that there were tears standing in hers; -then placing her arms in turn about André's neck, she gently drew him -toward her, bent over and kissed him upon the eyelids.</p> - -<p>"Take a chair," she said; "it is not prudent to be kneeling before me -here."</p> - -<p>He seated himself, and when they had contemplated each other in -silence for a few moments, she asked him if he would take her some day -to visit the exhibition that the sculptor Prédolé, of whom everyone -was talking enthusiastically, was then giving of his works. She had -in her dressing-room a bronze Love of his, a charming figure pouring -water into her bath-tub, and she had a great desire to see the complete -collection of the eminent artist's works which had been delighting all -Paris for a week past at the Varin gallery. They fixed upon a date and -then Mariolle arose to take leave.</p> - -<p>"Will you be at Auteuil to-morrow?" she asked him in a whisper.</p> - -<p>"Oh! Yes!"</p> - -<p>He was very joyful on his way homeward, intoxicated by that "Perhaps?" -which never dies in the heart of a lover.</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h5><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX.</a></h5> - - -<h4>DISILLUSION</h4> - - -<p>Mme. de Burne's <i>coupé</i> was proceeding at a quick trot along the Rue -de Grenelle. It was early April, and the hailstones of a belated storm -beat noisily against the glasses of the carriage and rattled off upon -the roadway which was already whitened by the falling particles. Men -on foot were hurrying along the sidewalk beneath their umbrellas, with -coat-collars turned up to protect their necks and ears. After two -weeks of fine weather a detestable cold spell had set in, the farewell -of winter, freezing up everything and bringing chapped hands and -chilblains.</p> - -<p>With her feet resting upon a vessel filled with hot water and her -form enveloped in soft furs that warmed her through her dress with a -velvety caress that was so deliciously agreeable to her sensitive skin, -the young woman was sadly reflecting that in an hour at farthest she -would have to take a cab to go and meet Mariolle at Auteuil. She was -seized by a strong desire to send him a telegram, but she had promised -herself more than two months ago that she would not again have recourse -to this expedient unless compelled to, for she had been making a great -effort to love him in the same manner that he loved her. She had seen -how he suffered, and had commiserated him, and after that conversation -when she had kissed him upon the eyes in an outburst of genuine -tenderness, her sincere affection for him had, in fact, assumed a -warmer and more expansive character. In her surprise at her involuntary -coldness she had asked herself why, after all, she could not love him -as other women love their lovers, since she knew that she was deeply -attached to him and that he was more pleasing to her than any other -man. This indifference of her love could only proceed from a sluggish -action of the heart, which could be cured like any other sluggishness.</p> - -<p>She tried it. She endeavored to arouse her feelings by thoughts of him, -to be more demonstrative in his presence. She was successful now and -then, just as one excites his fears at night by thinking of ghosts or -robbers. Fired a little herself by this pretense of passion, she even -forced herself to be more caressing; she succeeded very well at first, -and delighted him to the point of intoxication.</p> - -<p>She thought that this was the beginning in her of a fever somewhat -similar to that with which she knew that he was consuming. Her old -intermittent hopes of love, that she had dimly seen the possibility -of realizing the night that she had dreamed her dreams among the -white mists of Saint-Michel's Bay, took form and shape again, not so -seductive as then, less wrapped in clouds of poetry and idealism, -but more clearly defined, more human, stripped of illusion after the -experience of her <i>liaison</i>. Then she had summoned up and watched for -that irresistible impulse of all the being toward another being that -arises, she had heard, when the emotions of the soul act upon two -physical natures. She had watched in vain; it had never come.</p> - -<p>She persisted, however, in feigning ardor, in making their interviews -more frequent, in saying to him: "I feel that I am coming to love you -more and more." But she became weary of it at last, and was powerless -longer to impose upon herself or deceive him. She was astonished to -find that the kisses that he gave her were becoming distasteful to her -after a while, although she was not by any means entirely insensible to -them.</p> - -<p>This was made manifest to her by the vague lassitude that took -possession of her from the early morning of those days when she had an -appointment with him. Why was it that on those mornings she did not -feel, as other women feel, all her nature troubled by the desire and -anticipation of his embraces? She endured them, indeed she accepted -them, with tender resignation, but as a woman conquered, brutally -subjugated, responding contrary to her own will, never voluntarily -and with pleasure. Could it be that her nature, so delicate, so -exceptionally aristocratic and refined, had in it depths of modesty, -the modesty of a superior and sacred animality, that were as yet -unfathomed by modern perceptions?</p> - -<p>Mariolle gradually came to understand this; he saw her factitious ardor -growing less and less. He divined the nature of her love-inspired -attempt, and a mortal, inconsolable sorrow took possession of his soul.</p> - -<p>She knew now, as he knew, that the attempt had been made and that all -hope was gone. The proof of this was that this very day, wrapped as -she was in her warm furs and with her feet on her hot-water bottle, -glowing with a feeling of physical comfort as she watched the hail -beating against the windows of her <i>coupé</i>, she could not find in her -the courage to leave this luxurious warmth to get into an ice-cold cab -to go and meet the poor fellow.</p> - -<p>The idea of breaking with him, of avoiding his caresses, certainly -never occurred to her for a moment. She was well aware that to -completely captivate a man who is in love and keep him as one's own -peculiar private property in the midst of feminine rivalries, a woman -must surrender herself to him body and soul. That she knew, for it is -logical, fated, indisputable. It is even the loyal course to pursue, -and she wanted to be loyal to him in all the uprightness of her nature -as his mistress. She would go to him then, she would go to him always; -but why so often? Would not their interviews even assume a greater -charm for him, an attraction of novelty, if they were granted more -charily, like rare and inestimable gifts presented to him by her and -not to be used too prodigally?</p> - -<p>Whenever she had gone to Auteuil she had had the impression that she -was bearing to him a priceless gift, the most precious of offerings. -In giving in this way, the pleasure of giving is inseparable from a -certain sensation of sacrifice; it is the pride that one feels in -being generous, the satisfaction of conferring happiness, not the -transports of a mutual passion.</p> - -<p>She even calculated that André's love would be more likely to be -enduring if she abated somewhat of her familiarity with him, for hunger -always increases by fasting, and desire is but an appetite. Immediately -that this resolution was formed she made up her mind that she would -go to Auteuil that day, but would feign indisposition. The journey, -which a minute ago had seemed to her so difficult through the inclement -weather, now appeared to her quite easy, and she understood, with a -smile at her own expense and at this sudden revelation, why she made -such a difficulty about a thing that was quite natural. But a moment -ago she would not, now she would. The reason why she would not a moment -ago was that she was anticipating the thousand petty disagreeable -details of the rendezvous! She would prick her fingers with pins that -she handled very awkwardly, she would be unable to find the articles -that she had thrown at random upon the bedroom floor as she disrobed in -haste, already looking forward to the hateful task of having to dress -without an attendant.</p> - -<p>She paused at this reflection, dwelling upon it and weighing it -carefully for the first time. After all, was it not rather repugnant, -rather vulgarizing, this idea of a rendezvous for a stated time, -settled upon a day or two days in advance, just like a business -appointment or a consultation with your doctor? There is nothing -more natural, after a long and charming <i>tête-à-tête</i>, than that the -lips which have been uttering warm, seductive words should meet in a -passionate kiss; but how different that was from the premeditated -kiss that she went there to receive, watch in hand, once a week. There -was so much truth in this that on those days when she was not to see -André she had frequently felt a vague desire of being with him, while -this desire was scarcely perceptible at all when she had to go to him -in foul cabs, through squalid streets, with the cunning of a hunted -thief, all her feelings toward him quenched and deadened by these -considerations.</p> - -<p>Ah! that appointment at Auteuil! She had calculated the time on all the -clocks of all her friends; she had watched the minutes that brought her -nearer to it slip away at Mme. de Frémines's, at Mme. de Bratiane's, -at pretty Mme. le Prieur's, on those afternoons when she killed time -by roaming about Paris so as not to remain in her own house, where she -might be detained by an inopportune visit or some other unforeseen -obstacle.</p> - -<p>She suddenly said to herself: "I will make to-day a day of rest; I -will go there very late." Then she opened a little cupboard in the -front of the carriage, concealed among the folds of black silk that -lined the <i>coupé</i>, which was fitted up as luxuriously as a pretty -woman's boudoir. The first thing that presented itself when she had -thrown open the doors of this secret receptacle was a mirror playing on -hinges that she moved so that it was on a level with her face. Behind -the mirror, in their satin-lined niches, were various small objects -in silver: a box for her rice-powder, a pencil for her lips, two -crystal scent-bottles, an inkstand and penholder, scissors, a pretty -paper-cutter to tear the leaves of the last novel with which she amused -herself as she rolled along the streets. The exquisite clock, of the -size and shape of a walnut, told her that it was four o'clock. Mme. de -Burne reflected: "I have an hour yet, at all events," and she touched -a spring that had the effect of making the footman who was seated -beside the coachman stoop and take up the speaking-tube to receive her -order. She pulled out the other end from where it was concealed in the -lining of the carriage, and applying her lips to the mouthpiece of -rock-crystal: "To the Austrian embassy!" she said.</p> - -<p>Then she inspected herself in the mirror. The look that she gave -herself expressed, as it always did, the delight that one feels in -looking upon one's best beloved; then she threw back her furs to judge -of the effect of her corsage. It was a toilette adapted to the chill -days of the end of winter. The neck was trimmed with a bordering of -very fine white down that shaded off into a delicate gray as it fell -over the shoulders, like the wing of a bird. Upon her hat—it was -a kind of toque—there towered an aigret of more brightly colored -feathers, and the general effect that her costume inspired was to make -one think that she had got herself up in this manner in preparation -for a flight through the hail and the gray sky in company with Mother -Carey's chickens.</p> - -<p>She was still complacently contemplating herself when the carriage -suddenly wheeled into the great court of the embassy.</p> - -<p>Thereupon she arranged her wrap, lowered the mirror to its place, -closed the doors of the little cupboard, and when the <i>coupé</i> had come -to a halt said to her coachman: "You may go home; I shall not need -you any more." Then she asked the footman who came forward from the -entrance of the hotel: "Is the Princess at home?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, Madame."</p> - -<p>She entered and ascended the stairs and came to a small drawing-room -where the Princess de Malten was writing letters.</p> - -<p>The ambassadress arose with an appearance of much satisfaction when she -perceived her friend, and they kissed each other twice in succession -upon the cheek, close to the corner of the lips. Then they seated -themselves side by side upon two low chairs in front of the fire. -They were very fond of each other, took great delight in each other's -society and understood each other thoroughly, for they were almost -counterparts in nature and disposition, belonging to the same race of -femininity, brought up in the same atmosphere and endowed with the -same sensations, although Mme. de Malten was a Swede and had married -an Austrian. They had a strange and mysterious attraction for each -other, from which resulted a profound feeling of unmixed well-being -and contentment whenever they were together. Their babble would run on -for half a day on end, without once stopping, trivial, futile talk, -interesting to them both by reason of their similarity of tastes.</p> - -<p>"You see how I love you!" said Mme. de Burne. "You are to dine with me -this evening, and still I could not help coming to see you. It is a -real passion, my dear."</p> - -<p>"A passion that I share," the Swede replied with a smile.</p> - -<p>Following the habit of their profession, they put each her best foot -foremost for the benefit of the other; coquettish as if they had been -dealing with a man, but with a different style of coquetry, for the -strife was different, and they had not before them the adversary, but -the rival.</p> - -<p>Madame de Burne had kept looking at the clock during the conversation. -It was on the point of striking five. He had been waiting there an -hour. "That is long enough," she said to herself as she arose.</p> - -<p>"So soon?" said the Princess.</p> - -<p>"Yes," the other unblushingly replied. "I am in a hurry; there is some -one waiting for me. I would a great deal rather stay here with you."</p> - -<p>They exchanged kisses again, and Mme. de Burne, having requested the -footman to call a cab for her, drove away.</p> - -<p>The horse was lame and dragged the cab after him wearily, and the -animal's halting and fatigue seemed to have infected the young woman. -Like the broken-winded beast, she found the journey long and difficult. -At one moment she was comforted by the pleasure of seeing André, at -the next she was in despair at the thought of the discomforts of the -interview.</p> - -<p>She found him waiting for her behind the gate, shivering. The biting -blasts roared through the branches of the trees, the hailstones rattled -on their umbrella as they made their way to the house, their feet sank -deep into the mud. The garden was dead, dismal, miry, melancholy, and -André was very pale. He was enduring terrible suffering.</p> - -<p>When they were in the house: "Gracious, how cold it is!" she exclaimed.</p> - -<p>And yet a great fire was blazing in each of the two rooms, but they had -not been lighted until past noon and had not had time to dry the damp -walls, and shivers ran through her frame. "I think that I will not take -off my furs just yet," she added. She only unbuttoned her outer garment -and threw it open, disclosing her warm costume and her plume-decked -corsage, like a bird of passage that never remains long in one place.</p> - -<p>He seated himself beside her.</p> - -<p>"There is to be a delightful dinner at my house to-night," she said, -"and I am enjoying it in anticipation."</p> - -<p>"Who are to be there?"</p> - -<p>"Why, you, in the first place; then Prédolé, whom I have so long wanted -to know."</p> - -<p>"Ah! Prédolé is to be there?"</p> - -<p>"Yes; Lamarthe is to bring him."</p> - -<p>"But Prédolé is not the kind of a man to suit you, not a bit! Sculptors -in general are not so constituted as to please pretty women, and -Prédolé less so than any of them."</p> - -<p>"Oh, my friend, that cannot be. I have such an admiration for him!"</p> - -<p>The sculptor Prédolé had gained a great success and had captivated all -Paris some two months before by his exhibition at the Varin gallery. -Even before that he had been highly appreciated; people had said of -him, "His <i>figurines</i> are delicious"; but when the world of artists and -connoisseurs had assembled to pass judgment upon his collected works -in the rooms of the Rue Varin, the outburst of enthusiasm had been -explosive. They seemed to afford the revelation of such an unlooked-for -charm, they displayed such a peculiar gift in the translation of -elegance and grace, that it seemed as if a new manner of expressing the -beauty of form had been born to the world. His specialty was statuettes -in extremely abbreviated costumes, in which his genius displayed an -unimaginable delicacy of form and airy lightness. His dancing girls, -especially, of which he had made many studies, displayed in the highest -perfection, in their pose and the harmony of their attitude and motion, -the ideal of female beauty and suppleness.</p> - -<p>For a month past Mme. de Burne had been unceasing in her efforts to -attract him to her house, but the artist was unsociable, even something -of a bear, so the report ran. At last she had succeeded, thanks to -the intervention of Lamarthe, who had made a touching, almost frantic -appeal to the grateful sculptor.</p> - -<p>"Whom have you besides?" Mariolle inquired.</p> - -<p>"The Princess de Malten."</p> - -<p>He was displeased; he did not fancy that woman. "Who else?"</p> - -<p>"Massival, Bernhaus, and George de Maltry. That is all: only my select -circle. You are acquainted with Prédolé, are you not?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, slightly."</p> - -<p>"How do you like him?"</p> - -<p>"He is delightful; I never met a man so enamored of his art and so -interesting when he holds forth on it."</p> - -<p>She was delighted and again said: "It will be charming."</p> - -<p>He had taken her hand under her fur cloak; he gave it a little squeeze, -then kissed it. Then all at once it came to her mind that she had -forgotten to tell him that she was ill, and casting about on the spur -of the moment for another reason, she murmured: "Gracious! how cold it -is!"</p> - -<p>"Do you think so?"</p> - -<p>"I am chilled to my very marrow."</p> - -<p>He arose to take a look at the thermometer, which was, in fact, pretty -low; then he resumed his seat at her side.</p> - -<p>She had said: "Gracious! how cold it is!" and he believed that he -understood her. For three weeks, now, at every one of their interviews, -he had noticed that her attempt to feign tenderness was gradually -becoming fainter and fainter. He saw that she was weary of wearing this -mask, so weary that she could continue it no longer, and he himself was -so exasperated by the little power that he had over her, so stung by -his vain and unreasoning desire of this woman, that he was beginning -to say to himself in his despairing moments of solitude: "It will be -better to break with her than to continue to live like this."</p> - -<p>He asked her, by way of fathoming her intentions: "Won't you take off -your cloak now?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, no," she said; "I have been coughing all the morning; this fearful -weather has given me a sore throat. I am afraid that I may be ill." She -was silent a moment, then added: "If I had not wanted to see you very -much indeed I would not have come to-day." As he did not reply, in his -grief and anger, she went on: "This return of cold weather is very -dangerous, coming as it does after the fine days of the past two weeks."</p> - -<p>She looked out into the garden, where the trees were already almost -green despite the clouds of snow that were driving among their -branches. He looked at her and thought: "So that is the kind of love -that she feels for me!" and for the first time he began to feel a sort -of jealous hatred of her, of her face, of her elusive affection, of -her form, so long pursued, so subtle to escape him. "She pretends that -she is cold," he said to himself. "She is cold only because I am here. -If it were a question of some party of pleasure, some of those idiotic -caprices that go to make up the useless existence of these frivolous -creatures, she would brave everything and risk her life. Does she not -ride about in an open carriage on the coldest days to show her fine -clothes? Ah! that is the way with them all nowadays!"</p> - -<p>He looked at her as she sat there facing him so calmly, and he knew -that in that head, that dear little head that he adored so, there was -one wish paramount, the wish that their <i>tête-à-tête</i> might not be -protracted; it was becoming painful to her.</p> - -<p>Was it true that there had ever existed, that there existed now, -women capable of passion, of emotion, who weep, suffer, and bestow -themselves in a transport, loving with heart and soul and body, with -mouth that speaks and eyes that gaze, with heart that beats and hand -that caresses; women ready to brave all for the sake of their love, and -to go, by day or by night, regardless of menaces and watchful eyes, -fearlessly, tremorously, to him who stands with open arms waiting to -receive them, mad, ready to sink with their happiness?</p> - -<p>Oh, that horrible love that which now held him in its fetters!—love -without issue, without end, joyless and triumphless, eating away his -strength and devouring him with its anxieties; love in which there was -no charm and no delight, cause to him only of suffering, sorrow, and -bitter tears, where he was constantly pursued by the intolerable regret -of the impossibility of awaking responsive kisses upon lips that are as -cold and dry and sterile as dead trees!</p> - -<p>He looked at her as she sat there, so charming in her feathery dress. -Were not her dresses the great enemy that he had to contend against, -more than the woman herself, jealous guardians, coquettish and costly -barriers, that kept him from his mistress?</p> - -<p>"Your toilette is charming," he said, not caring to speak of the -subject that was torturing him so cruelly.</p> - -<p>She replied with a smile: "You must see the one that I shall wear -to-night." Then she coughed several times in succession and said: "I -am really taking cold. Let me go, my friend. The sun will show himself -again shortly, and I will follow his example."</p> - -<p>He made no effort to detain her, for he was discouraged, seeing that -nothing could now avail to overcome the inertia of this sluggish -nature, that his romance was ended, ended forever, and that it was -useless to hope for ardent words from those tranquil lips, or a -kindling glance from those calm eyes. All at once he felt rising with -gathering strength within him the stern determination to end this -torturing subserviency. She had nailed him upon a cross; he was -bleeding from every limb, and she watched his agony without feeling -for his suffering, even rejoicing that she had had it in her power to -effect so much. But he would tear himself from his deathly gibbet, -leaving there bits of his body, strips of his flesh, and all his -mangled heart. He would flee like a wild animal that the hunters have -wounded almost unto death, he would go and hide himself in some lonely -place where his wounds might heal and where he might feel only those -dull pangs that remain with the mutilated until they are released by -death.</p> - -<p>"Farewell, then," he said.</p> - -<p>She was struck by the sadness of his voice and rejoined: "Until this -evening, my friend."</p> - -<p>"Until this evening," he re-echoed. "Farewell."</p> - -<p>He saw her to the garden gate, and came back and seated himself, alone, -before the fire.</p> - -<p>Alone! How cold it was; how cold, indeed! How sad he was, how lonely! -It was all ended! Ah, what a horrible thought! There was an end of -hoping and waiting for her, dreaming of her, with that fierce blazing -of the heart that at times brings out our existence upon this somber -earth with the vividness of fireworks displayed against the blackness -of the night. Farewell those nights of solitary emotion when, almost -until the dawn, he paced his chamber thinking of her; farewell those -wakings when, upon opening his eyes, he said to himself: "Soon I shall -see her at our little house."</p> - -<p>How he loved her! how he loved her! What a long, hard task it would be -to him to forget her! She had left him because it was cold! He saw her -before him as but now, looking at him and bewitching him, bewitching -him the better to break his heart. Ah, how well she had done her work! -With one single stroke, the first and last, she had cleft it asunder. -He felt the old gaping wound begin to open, the wound that she had -dressed and now had made incurable by plunging into it the knife of -death-dealing indifference. He even felt that from this broken heart -there was something distilling itself through his frame, mounting to -his throat and choking him; then, covering his eyes with his hands, as -if to conceal this weakness even from himself, he wept.</p> - -<p>She had left him because it was cold! He would have walked naked -through the driving snow to meet her, no matter where; he would have -cast himself from the house top, only to fall at her feet. An old tale -came to his mind, that has been made into a legend: that of the Côte -des Deux Amans, a spot which the traveler may behold as he journeys -toward Rouen. A maiden, obedient to her father's cruel caprice, -which prohibited her from marrying the man of her choice unless she -accomplished the task of carrying him, unassisted, to the summit of the -steep mountain, succeeded in dragging him up there on her hands and -knees, and died as she reached the top. Love, then, is but a legend, -made to be sung in verse or told in lying romances!</p> - -<p>Had not his mistress herself, in one of their earliest interviews, made -use of an expression that he had never forgotten: "Men nowadays do not -love women so as really to harm themselves by it. You may believe me, -for I know them both." She had been wrong in his case, but not in her -own, for on another occasion she had said: "In any event, I give you -fair warning that I am incapable of being really smitten with anyone, -be he who he may."</p> - -<p>Be he who he may? Was that quite a sure thing? Of him, no; of that he -was quite well assured now, but of another?</p> - -<p>Of him? She could not love him. Why not?</p> - -<p>Then the feeling that his life had been a wasted one, which had haunted -him for a long time past, fell upon him as if it would crush him. He -had done nothing, obtained nothing, conquered nothing, succeeded in -nothing. When he had felt an attraction toward the arts he had not -found in himself the courage that is required to devote one's self -exclusively to one of them, nor the persistent determination that they -demand as the price of success. There had been no triumph to cheer him; -no elevated taste for some noble career to ennoble and aggrandize his -mind. The only strenuous effort that he had ever put forth, the attempt -to conquer a woman's heart, had proved ineffectual like all the rest. -Take him all in all, he was only a miserable failure.</p> - -<p>He was weeping still beneath his hands which he held pressed to his -eyes. The tears, trickling down his cheeks, wet his mustache and -left a salty taste upon his lips, and their bitterness increased his -wretchedness and his despair.</p> - -<p>When he raised his head at last he saw that it was night. He had only -just sufficient time to go home and dress for her dinner.</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h5><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X">CHAPTER X.</a></h5> - - -<h4>FLIGHT</h4> - - -<p>André Mariolle was the first to arrive at Mme. de Burne's. He took a -seat and gazed about him upon the walls, the furniture, the hangings, -at all the small objects and trinkets that were so dear to him from -their association with her—at the familiar apartment where he had -first known her, where he had come to her so many times since then, -and where he had discovered in himself the germs of that ill-starred -passion that had kept on growing, day by day, until the hour of his -barren victory. With what eagerness had he many a time awaited her -coming in this charming spot which seemed to have been made for no one -but her, an exquisite setting for an exquisite creature! How well he -knew the pervading odor of this salon and its hangings; a subdued odor -of iris, so simple and aristocratic. He grasped the arms of the great -armchair, from which he had so often watched her smile and listened -to her talk, as if they had been the hands of some friend that he was -parting with forever. It would have pleased him if she could not -come, if no one could come, and if he could remain there alone, all -night, dreaming of his love, as people watch beside a dead man. Then at -daylight he could go away for a long time, perhaps forever.</p> - -<p>The door opened, and she appeared and came forward to him with -outstretched hand. He was master of himself, and showed nothing of his -agitation. She was not a woman, but a living bouquet—an indescribable -bouquet of flowers.</p> - -<p>A girdle of pinks enclasped her waist and fell about her in cascades, -reaching to her feet. About her bare arms and shoulders ran a garland -of mingled myosotis and lilies-of-the-valley, while three fairy-like -orchids seemed to be growing from her breast and caressing the -milk-white flesh with the rosy and red flesh of their supernal blooms. -Her blond hair was studded with violets in enamel, in which minute -diamonds glistened, and other diamonds, trembling upon golden pins, -sparkled like dewdrops among the odorous trimming of her corsage.</p> - -<p>"I shall have a headache," she said, "but I don't care; my dress is -becoming."</p> - -<p>Delicious odors emanated from her, like spring among the gardens. She -was more fresh than the garlands that she wore. André was dazzled -as he looked at her, reflecting that it would be no less brutal and -barbarous to take her in his arms at that moment than it would be to -trample upon a blossoming flower-bed. So their bodies were no longer -objects to inspire love; they were objects to be adorned, simply frames -on which to hang fine clothes. They were like birds, they were like -flowers, they were like a thousand other things as much as they were -like women. Their mothers, all women of past and gone generations, had -used coquettish arts to enhance their natural beauties, but it had -been their aim to please in the first place by their direct physical -seductiveness, by the charm of native grace, by the irresistible -attraction that the female form exercises over the heart of the males. -At the present day coquetry was everything. Artifice was now the great -means, and not only the means, but the end as well, for they employed -it even more frequently to dazzle the eyes of rivals and excite barren -jealousy than to subjugate men.</p> - -<p>What end, then, was this toilette designed to serve, the gratification -of the eyes of him, the lover, or the humiliation of the Princess de -Malten?</p> - -<p>The door opened, and the lady whose name was in his thoughts was -announced.</p> - -<p>Mme. de Burne moved quickly forward to meet her and gave her a kiss, -not unmindful of the orchids during the operation, her lips slightly -parted, with a little grimace of tenderness. It was a pretty kiss, an -extremely desirable kiss, given and returned from the heart by those -two pairs of lips.</p> - -<p>Mariolle gave a start of pain. Never once had she run to meet him with -that joyful eagerness, never had she kissed him like that, and with a -sudden change of ideas he said to himself: "Women are no longer made to -fulfill our requirements."</p> - -<p>Massival made his appearance, then M. de Pradon and the Comte de -Bernhaus, then George de Maltry, resplendent with English "chic."</p> - -<p>Lamarthe and Prédolé were now the only ones missing. The sculptor's -name was mentioned, and every voice was at once raised in praise of -him. "He had restored to life the grace of form, he had recovered the -lost traditions of the Renaissance, with something additional: the -sincerity of modern art!" M. de Maltry maintained that he was the -exquisite revealer of the suppleness of the human form. Such phrases -as these had been current in the salons for the last two months, where -they had been bandied about from mouth to mouth.</p> - -<p>At last the great man appeared. Everyone was surprised. He was a large -man of uncertain age, with the shoulders of a coal-heaver, a powerful -face with strongly-marked features, surrounded by hair and beard that -were beginning to turn white, a prominent nose, thick full lips, -wearing a timid and embarrassed air. He held his arms away from his -body in an awkward sort of way that was doubtless to be attributed to -the immense hands that protruded from his sleeves. They were broad -and thick, with hairy and muscular fingers; the hands of a Hercules -or a butcher, and they seemed to be conscious of being in the way, -embarrassed at finding themselves there and looking vainly for some -convenient place to hide themselves. Upon looking more closely at his -face, however, it was seen to be illuminated by clear, piercing, gray -eyes of extreme expressiveness, and these alone served to impart some -degree of life to the man's heavy and torpid expression. They were -constantly searching, inquiring, scrutinizing, darting their rapid, -shifting glances here, there, and everywhere, and it was plainly to be -seen that these eager, inquisitive looks were the animating principle -of a deep and comprehensive intellect.</p> - -<p>Mme. de Burne was somewhat disappointed; she politely led the artist -to a chair which he took and where he remained seated, apparently -disconcerted by this introduction to a strange house.</p> - -<p>Lamarthe, master of the situation, approached his friend with the -intention of breaking the ice and relieving him from the awkwardness of -his position. "My dear fellow," he said, "let me make for you a little -map to let you know where you are. You have seen our divine hostess; -now look at her surroundings." He showed him upon the mantelpiece a -bust, authenticated in due form, by Houdon, then upon a cabinet in -buhl a group representing two women dancing, with arms about each -other's waists, by Clodion, and finally four Tanagra statuettes upon an -<i>étagère</i>, selected for their perfection of finish and detail.</p> - -<p>Then all at once Prédolé's face brightened as if he had found his -children in the desert. He arose and went to the four little earthen -figures, and when Mme. de Burne saw him grasp two of them at once in -his great hands that seemed made to slaughter oxen, she trembled for -her treasures. When he laid hands on them, however, it appeared that -it was only for the purpose of caressing them, for he handled them -with wonderful delicacy and dexterity, turning them about in his thick -fingers which somehow seemed all at once to have become as supple as a -juggler's. It was evident by the gentle way the big man had of looking -at and handling them that he had in his soul and his very finger-ends -an ideal and delicate tenderness for such small elegancies.</p> - -<p>"Are they not pretty?" Lamarthe asked him.</p> - -<p>The sculptor went on to extol them as if they had been his own, and -he spoke of some others, the most remarkable that he had met with, -briefly and in a voice that was rather low but confident and calm, the -expression of a clearly defined thought that was not ignorant of the -value of words and their uses.</p> - -<p>Still under the guidance of the author, he next inspected the other -rare bric-à-brac that Mme. de Burne had collected, thanks to the -counsels of her friends. He looked with astonishment and delight at -the various articles, apparently agreeably disappointed to find them -there, and in every case he took them up and turned them lightly over -in his hands, as if to place himself in direct personal contact with -them. There was a statuette of bronze, heavy as a cannon-ball, hidden -away in a dark corner; he took it up with one hand, carried it to the -lamp, examined it at length, and replaced it where it belonged without -visible effort. Lamarthe exclaimed: "The great, strong fellow! he is -built expressly to wrestle with stone and marble!" while the ladies -looked at him approvingly.</p> - -<p>Dinner was now announced. The mistress of the house took the sculptor's -arm to pass to the dining-room, and when she had seated him in the -place of honor at her right hand, she asked him out of courtesy, just -as she would have questioned a scion of some great family as to the -exact origin of his name: "Your art, Monsieur, has also the additional -honor, has it not, of being the most ancient of all?"</p> - -<p>He replied in his calm deep voice: <i>"Mon Dieu</i>, Madame, the shepherds -in the Bible play upon the flute, therefore music would seem to be the -more ancient—although true music, as we understand it, does not go -very far back, while true sculpture dates from remote antiquity."</p> - -<p>"You are fond of music?"</p> - -<p>"I love all the arts," he replied with grave earnestness.</p> - -<p>"Is it known who was the inventor of your art?"</p> - -<p>He reflected a moment, then replied in tender accents, as if he had -been relating some touching tale: "According to Grecian tradition it -was Dædalus the Athenian. The most attractive legend, however, is that -which attributes the invention to a Sicyonian potter named Dibutades. -His daughter Kora having traced her betrothed's profile with the -assistance of an arrow, her father filled in the rude sketch with clay -and modeled it. It was then that my art was born."</p> - -<p>"Charming!" murmured Lamarthe. Then turning to Mme. de Burne, he said: -"You cannot imagine, Madame, how interesting this man becomes when he -talks of what he loves; what power he has to express and explain it and -make people adore it."</p> - -<p>But the sculptor did not seem disposed either to pose for the -admiration of the guests or to perorate. He had tucked a corner of his -napkin between his shirt-collar and his neck and was reverentially -eating his soup, with that appearance of respect that peasants manifest -for that portion of the meal. Then he drank a glass of wine and drew -himself up with an air of greater ease, of making himself more at -home. Now and then he made a movement as if to turn around, for he had -perceived the reflection in a mirror of a modern group that stood on -the mantelshelf behind him. He did not recognize it and was seeking -to divine the author. At last, unable longer to resist the impulse, he -asked: "It is by Falguière, is it not?"</p> - -<p>Mme. de Burne laughed. "Yes, it is by Falguière. How could you tell, in -a glass?"</p> - -<p>He smiled in turn. "Ah, Madame, I can't explain how it is done, but -I can tell at a glance the sculpture of those men who are painters -as well, and the painting of those who also practice sculpture. It -is not a bit like the work of a man who devotes himself to one art -exclusively."</p> - -<p>Lamarthe, wishing to show off his friend, called for explanations, and -Prédolé proceeded to give them. In his slow, precise manner of speech -he defined and illustrated the painting of sculptors and the sculpture -of painters in such a clear and original way that he was listened -to as much with eyes as with ears. Commencing his demonstration at -the earliest period and pursuing it through the history of art and -gathering examples from epoch to epoch, he came down to the time of the -early Italian masters who were painters and sculptors at the same time, -Nicolas and John of Pisa, Donatello, Lorenzo Ghiberti. He spoke of -Diderot's interesting remarks upon the same subject, and in conclusion -mentioned Ghiberti's bronze gates of the baptistry of Saint John at -Florence, such living and dramatically forceful bas-reliefs that they -seem more like paintings upon canvas. He waved his great hands before -him as if he were modeling, with such ease and grace of motion as to -delight every eye, calling up above the plates and glasses the pictures -that his tongue told of, and reconstructing the work that he mentioned -with such conviction that everyone followed the motions of his fingers -with breathless attention. Then some dishes that he fancied were placed -before him and he ceased talking and began eating.</p> - -<p>He scarcely spoke during the remainder of the dinner, not troubling -himself to follow the conversation, which ranged from some bit of -theatrical gossip to a political rumor; from a ball to a wedding; from -an article in the "Revue des Deux Mondes" to the horse-show that had -just opened. His appetite was good, and he drank a good deal, without -being at all affected by it, having a sound, hard head that good wine -could not easily upset.</p> - -<p>When they had returned to the drawing-room, Lamarthe, who had not drawn -the sculptor out to the extent that he wished to do, drew him over -to a glass case to show him a priceless object, a classic, historic -gem: a silver inkstand carved by Benvenuto Cellini. The men listened -with extreme interest to his long and eloquent rhapsody as they stood -grouped about him, while the two women, seated in front of the fire -and rather disgusted to see so much enthusiasm wasted upon the form of -inanimate objects, appeared to be a little bored and chatted together -in a low voice from time to time. After that conversation became -general, but not animated, for it had been somewhat damped by the ideas -that had passed into the atmosphere of this pretty room, with its -furnishing of precious objects.</p> - -<p>Prédolé left early, assigning as a reason that he had to be at work -at daybreak every morning. When he was gone Lamarthe enthusiastically -asked Mme. de Burne: "Well, how did you like him?"</p> - -<p>She replied, hesitatingly and with something of an air of ill nature: -"He is quite interesting, but prosy."</p> - -<p>The novelist smiled and said to himself: "<i>Parbleu</i>, that is because -he did not admire your toilette; and you are the only one of all your -pretty things that he hardly condescended to look at." He exchanged a -few pleasant remarks with her and went over and took a seat by Mme. de -Malten, to whom he began to be very attentive. The Comte de Bernhaus -approached the mistress of the house, and taking a small footstool, -appeared sunk in devotion at her feet. Mariolle, Massival, Maltry, -and M. de Pradon continued to talk of the sculptor, who had made a -deep impression on their minds. M. de Maltry was comparing him to -the old masters, for whom life was embellished and illuminated by an -exclusive and consuming love of the manifestations of beauty, and he -philosophized upon his theme with many very subtle and very tiresome -observations.</p> - -<p>Massival, quickly tiring of a conversation which made no reference to -his own art, crossed the room to Mme. de Malten and seated himself -beside Lamarthe, who soon yielded his place to him and went and -rejoined the men.</p> - -<p>"Shall we go?" he said to Mariolle.</p> - -<p>"Yes, by all means!"</p> - -<p>The novelist liked to walk the streets at night with some friend and -talk, when the incisive, peremptory tones of his voice seemed to lay -hold of the walls of the houses and climb up them. He had an impression -that he was very eloquent, witty, and sagacious during these nocturnal -<i>tête-à-têtes</i>, which were monologues rather than conversations so far -as his part in them was concerned. The approbation that he thus gained -for himself sufficed his needs, and the gentle fatigue of legs and -lungs assured him a good night's rest.</p> - -<p>Mariolle, for his part, had reached the limit of his endurance. The -moment that he was outside her door all his wretchedness and sorrow, -all his irremediable disappointment, boiled up and overflowed his -heart. He could stand it no longer; he would have no more of it. He -would go away and never return.</p> - -<p>The two men found themselves alone with each other in the street. The -wind had changed and the cold that had prevailed during the day had -yielded; it was warm and pleasant, as it almost always is two hours -after a snowstorm in spring. The sky was vibrating with the light -of innumerable stars, as if a breath of summer in the immensity of -space had lighted up the heavenly bodies and set them twinkling. The -sidewalks were gray and dry again, while in the roadway pools of water -reflected the light of the gas-lamps.</p> - -<p>Lamarthe said: "What a fortunate man he is, that Prédolé! He lives -only for one thing, his art; thinks but of that, loves but that; it -occupies all his being; consoles and cheers him, and affords him a -life of happiness and comfort. He is really a great artist of the old -stock. Ah! he doesn't let women trouble his head, not much, our women -of to-day with their frills and furbelows and fantastic disguises! -Did you remark how little attention he paid to our two pretty dames? -And yet they were rather seductive. But what he is looking for is -the plastic—the plastic pure and simple; he has no use for the -artificial. It is true that our divine hostess put him down in her -books as an insupportable fool. In her estimation a bust by Houdon, -Tanagra statuettes, and an inkstand by Cellini are but so many -unconsidered trifles that go to the adornment and the rich and natural -setting of a masterpiece, which is Herself; she and her dress, for -dress is part and parcel of Herself; it is the fresh accentuation that -she places on her beauty day by day. What a trivial, personal thing is -woman!"</p> - -<p>He stopped and gave the sidewalk a great thump with his cane, so that -the noise resounded through the quiet street, then he went on.</p> - -<p>"They have a very clear and exact perception of what adds to their -attractions: the toilette and the ornaments in which there is an -entire change of fashion every ten years; but they are heedless of -that attribute which involves rare and constant power of selection, -which demands from them keen and delicate artistic penetration and a -purely æsthetic exercise of their senses. Their senses, moreover, are -extremely rudimentary, incapable of high development, inaccessible to -whatever does not touch directly the feminine egotism that absorbs -everything in them. Their acuteness is the stratagem of the savage, -of the red Indian; of war and ambush. They are even almost incapable -of enjoying the material pleasures of the lower order, which require -a physical education and the intelligent exercise of an organ, such -as good living. When, as they do in exceptional cases, they come to -have some respect for decent cookery, they still remain incapable of -appreciating our great wines, which speak to masculine palates only, -for wine does speak."</p> - -<p>He again thumped the pavement with his cane, accenting his last dictum -and punctuating the sentence, and continued.</p> - -<p>"It won't do, however, to expect too much from them, but this want of -taste and appreciation that so frequently clouds their intellectual -vision when higher considerations are at stake often serves to blind -them still more when our interests are in question. A man may have -heart, feeling, intelligence, exceptional merits, and qualities of all -kinds, they will all be unavailing to secure their favor as in bygone -days when a man was valued for his worth and his courage. The women of -to-day are actresses, second-rate actresses at that, who are merely -playing for effect a part that has been handed down to them and in -which they have no belief. They have to have actors of the same stamp -to act up to them and lie through the rôle just as they do; and these -actors are the coxcombs that we see hanging around them; from the -fashionable world, or elsewhere."</p> - -<p>They walked along in silence for a few moments, side by side. Mariolle -had listened attentively to the words of his companion, repeating them -in his mind and approving of his sentiments under the influence of his -sorrow. He was aware also that a sort of Italian adventurer who was -then in Paris giving lessons in swordsmanship, Prince Epilati by name, -a gentleman of the fencing-schools, of considerable celebrity for his -elegance and graceful vigor that he was in the habit of exhibiting -in black-silk tights before the upper ten and the select few of the -demimonde, was just then in full enjoyment of the attentions and -coquetries of the pretty little Baronne de Frémines.</p> - -<p>As Lamarthe said nothing further, he remarked to him:</p> - -<p>"It is all our own fault; we make our selections badly; there are other -women besides those."</p> - -<p>The novelist replied: "The only ones now that are capable of real -attachment are the shopgirls and some sentimental little <i>bourgeoises</i>, -poor and unhappily married. I have before now carried consolation to -one of those distressed souls. They are overflowing with sentiment, -but such cheap, vulgar sentiment that to exchange ours against it is -like throwing your money to a beggar. Now I assert that in our young, -wealthy society, where the women feel no needs and no desires, where -all that they require is some mild distraction to enable them to kill -time, and where the men regulate their pleasures as scrupulously as -they regulate their daily labors, I assert that under such conditions -the old natural attraction, charming and powerful as it was, that used -to bring the sexes toward each other, has disappeared."</p> - -<p>"You are right," Mariolle murmured.</p> - -<p>He felt an increasing desire to fly, to put a great distance between -himself and these people, these puppets who in their empty idleness -mimicked the beautiful, impassioned, and tender life of other days and -were incapable of savoring its lost delights.</p> - -<p>"Good night," he said; "I am going to bed." He went home and seated -himself at his table and wrote:</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>"Farewell, Madame. Do you remember my first letter? In it -too I said farewell, but I did not go. What a mistake that -was! When you receive this I shall have left Paris; need -I tell you why? Men like me ought never to meet with women -like you. Were I an artist and were my emotions capable of -expression in such manner as to afford me consolation, you -would have perhaps inspired me with talent, but I am only a -poor fellow who was so unfortunate as to be seized with love -for you, and with it its accompanying bitter, unendurable -sorrow.</p> - -<p>"When I met you for the first time I could not have deemed -myself capable of feeling and suffering as I have done. -Another in your place would have filled my heart with divine -joy in bidding it wake and live, but you could do nothing -but torture it. It was not your fault, I know; I reproach -you with nothing and I bear you no hard feeling; I have not -even the right to send you these lines. Pardon me. You are -so constituted that you cannot feel as I feel; you cannot -even divine what passes in my breast when I am with you, -when you speak to me and I look on you.</p> - -<p>"Yes, I know; you have accepted me and offered me a rational -and tranquil happiness, for which I ought to thank you on my -knees all my life long, but I will not have it. Ah, what a -horrible, agonizing love is that which is constantly craving -a tender word, a warm caress, without ever receiving them! -My heart is empty, empty as the stomach of a beggar who has -long followed your carriage with outstretched hand and to -whom you have thrown out pretty toys, but no bread. It was -bread, it was love, that I hungered for. I am about to go -away wretched and in need, in sore need of your love, a few -crumbs of which would have saved me. I have nothing left in -the world but a cruel memory that clings and will not leave -me, and that I must try to kill.</p> - -<p>"Adieu, Madame. Thanks, and pardon me. I love you still, -this evening, with all the strength of my soul. Adieu.</p> - -<p style="font-size: 0.8em; margin-left: 65%;">"ANDRÉ MARIOLLE."</p></blockquote> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h5><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI">CHAPTER XI.</a></h5> - - -<h4>LONELINESS</h4> - - -<p>The city lay basking in the brightness of a sunny morning. Mariolle -climbed into the carriage that stood waiting at his door with a -traveling bag and two trunks on top. He had made his valet the night -before pack the linen and other necessaries for a long absence, and -now he was going away, leaving as his temporary address Fontainebleau -post-office. He was taking no one with him, it being his wish to see no -face that might remind him of Paris and to hear no voice that he had -heard while brooding over certain matters.</p> - -<p>He told the driver to go to the Lyons station and the cab started. -Then he thought of that other trip of his, last spring, to Mont -Saint-Michel; it was a year ago now lacking three months. He looked out -into the street to drive the recollection from his mind.</p> - -<p>The vehicle turned into the Avenue des Champs-Élysées, which was -flooded with the light of the sun of early spring. The green leaves, -summoned forth by the grateful warmth that had prevailed for a couple -of weeks and not materially retarded by the cold storm of the last -two days, were opening so rapidly on this bright morning that they -seemed to impregnate the air with an odor of fresh verdure and of sap -evaporating on the way to its work of building up new growths. It was -one of those growing mornings when one feels that the dome-topped -chestnut-trees in the public gardens and all along the avenues will -burst into bloom in a single day through the length and breadth of -Paris, like chandeliers that are lighted simultaneously. The earth was -thrilling with the movement preparatory to the full life of summer, -and the very street was silently stirred beneath its paving of bitumen -as the roots ate their way through the soil. He said to himself as he -jolted along in his cab: "At last I shall be able to enjoy a little -peace of mind. I will witness the birth of spring in solitude deep in -the forest."</p> - -<p>The journey seemed long to him. The few hours of sleeplessness that he -had spent in bemoaning his fate had broken him down as if he had passed -ten nights at the bedside of a dying man. When he reached the village -of Fontainebleau he went to a notary to see if there was a small house -to be had furnished in the neighborhood of the forest. He was told of -several. In looking over the photographs the one that pleased him most -was a cottage that had just been given up by a young couple, man and -wife, who had resided for almost the entire winter in the village of -Montigny-sur-Loing. The notary smiled, notwithstanding that he was a -man of serious aspect; he probably scented a love story.</p> - -<p>"You are alone, Monsieur!" he inquired.</p> - -<p>"I am alone."</p> - -<p>"No servants, even?"</p> - -<p>"No servants, even; I left them at Paris. I wish to engage some of the -residents here. I am coming here to work in complete seclusion."</p> - -<p>"You will have no difficulty in finding that, at this season of the -year."</p> - -<p>A few minutes afterward an open landau was whirling Mariolle and his -trunks away to Montigny.</p> - -<p>The forest was beginning to awake. The copses at the foot of the great -trees, whose heads were covered with a light veil of foliage, were -beginning to assume a denser aspect. The early birches, with their -silvery trunks, were the only trees that seemed completely attired -for the summer, while the great oaks only displayed small tremulous -splashes of green at the ends of their branches and the beeches, more -quick to open their pointed buds, were just shedding the dead leaves of -the past year.</p> - -<p>The grass by the roadside, unobscured as yet by the thick shade of the -tree-tops, was growing lush and bright with the influx of new sap, and -the odor of new growth that Mariolle had already remarked in the Avenue -des Champs-Élysées, now wrapped him about and immersed him in a great -bath of green life budding in the sunshine of the early season. He -inhaled it greedily, like one just liberated from prison, and with the -sensation of a man whose fetters have just been broken he luxuriously -extended his arms along the two sides of the landau and let his hands -hang down over the two wheels.</p> - -<p>He passed through Marlotte, where the driver called his attention to -the Hotel Corot, then just opened, of the original design of which -there was much talk. Then the road continued, with the forest on the -left hand and on the right a wide plain with trees here and there and -hills bounding the horizon. To this succeeded a long village street, -a blinding white street lying between two endless rows of little -tile-roofed houses. Here and there an enormous lilac bush displayed its -flowers over the top of a wall.</p> - -<p>This street followed the course of a narrow valley along which ran a -little stream. It was a narrow, rapid, twisting, nimble little stream, -on one of its banks laving the foundations of the houses and the -garden-walls and on the other bathing the meadows where the small trees -were just beginning to put forth their scanty foliage. The sight of it -inspired Mariolle with a sensation of delight.</p> - -<p>He had no difficulty in finding his house and was greatly pleased with -it. It was an old house that had been restored by a painter, who had -tired of it after living there five years and offered it for rent. It -was directly on the water, separated from the stream only by a pretty -garden that ended in a terrace of lindens. The Loing, which just above -this point had a picturesque fall of a foot or two over a dam erected -there, ran rapidly by this terrace, whirling in great eddies. From the -front windows of the house the meadows on the other bank were visible.</p> - -<p>"I shall get well here," Mariolle thought.</p> - -<p>Everything had been arranged with the notary in case the house should -prove suitable. The driver carried back his acceptance of it. Then -the housekeeping details had to be attended to, which did not take -much time, the mayor's clerk having provided two women, one to do the -cooking, the other to wash and attend to the chamber-work.</p> - -<p>Downstairs there were a parlor, dining-room, kitchen, and two small -rooms; on the floor above a handsome bedroom and a large apartment -that the artist owner had fitted up as a studio. The furniture had all -been selected with loving care, as people always furnish when they are -enamored of a place, but now it had lost a little of its freshness and -was in some disorder, with the air of desolation that is noticeable in -dwellings that have been abandoned by their master. A pleasant odor of -verbena, however, still lingered in the air, showing that the little -house had not been long uninhabited. "Ah!" thought Mariolle, "verbena, -that indicates simplicity of taste. The woman that preceded me could -not have been one of those complex, mystifying natures. Happy man!"</p> - -<p>It was getting toward evening, all these occupations having made the -day pass rapidly. He took a seat by an open window, drinking in the -agreeable coolness that exhaled from the surrounding vegetation and -watching the setting sun as it cast long shadows across the meadows.</p> - -<p>The two servants were talking while getting the dinner ready and the -sound of their voices ascended to him faintly by the stairway, while -through the window came the mingled sounds of the lowing of cows, -the barking of dogs, and the cries of men bringing home the cattle -or conversing with their companions on the other bank of the stream. -Everything was peaceful and restful.</p> - -<p>For the thousandth time since the morning Mariolle asked himself: -"What did she think when she received my letter? What will she do?" -Then he said to himself: "I wonder what she is doing now?" He looked at -his watch; it was half past six. "She has come in from the street. She -is receiving."</p> - -<p>There rose before his mental vision a picture of the drawing-room, and -the young woman chatting with the Princess de Malten, Mme. de Frémines, -Massival, and the Comte de Bernhaus.</p> - -<p>His soul was suddenly moved with an impulse that was something like -anger. He wished that he was there. It was the hour of his accustomed -visit to her, almost every day, and he felt within him a feeling of -discomfort, not of regret. His will was firm, but a sort of physical -suffering afflicted him akin to that of one who is denied his morphine -at the accustomed time. He no longer beheld the meadows, nor the sun -sinking behind the hills of the horizon; all that he could see was her, -among her friends, given over to those cares of the world that had -robbed him of her. "I will think of her no more," he said to himself.</p> - -<p>He arose, went down to the garden and passed on to the terrace. There -was a cool mist there rising from the water that had been agitated -in its fall over the dam, and this sensation of chilliness, striking -to a heart already sad, caused him to retrace his steps. His dinner -was awaiting him in the dining-room. He ate it quickly; then, having -nothing to occupy him, and feeling that distress of mind and body, of -which he had had the presage, now increasing on him, he went to bed and -closed his eyes in an attempt to slumber, but it was to no purpose. -His thoughts refused to leave that woman; he beheld her in his thought -and he suffered.</p> - -<p>On whom would she bestow her favor now? On the Comte de Bernhaus, -doubtless! He was just the man, elegant, conspicuous, sought after, to -suit that creature of display. He had found favor with her, for had she -not employed all her arts to conquer him even at a time when she was -mistress to another man?</p> - -<p>Notwithstanding that his mind was beset by these haunting thoughts, -it would still keep wandering off into that misty condition of -semi-somnolence in which the man and woman were constantly reappearing -to his eyes. Of true sleep he got none, and all night long he saw them -at his bedside, braving and mocking him, now retiring as if they would -at last permit him to snatch a little sleep, then returning as soon -as oblivion had begun to creep over him and awaking him with a spasm -of jealous agony in his heart. He left his bed at earliest break of -day and went away into the forest with a cane in his hand, a stout -serviceable stick that the last occupant of the house had left behind -him.</p> - -<p>The rays of the newly risen sun were falling through the tops of the -oaks, almost leafless as yet, upon the ground, which was carpeted in -spots by patches of verdant grass, here by a carpet of dead leaves and -there by heather reddened by the frosts of winter. Yellow butterflies -were fluttering along the road like little dancing flames. To the right -of the road was a hill, almost large enough to be called a mountain. -Mariolle ascended it leisurely, and when he reached the top seated -himself on a great stone, for he was quite out of breath. His legs -were overcome with weakness and refused to support him; all his system -seemed to be yielding to a sudden breaking down. He was well aware that -this languor did not proceed from fatigue; it came from her, from the -love that weighed him down like an intolerable burden, and he murmured: -"What wretchedness! why does it possess me thus, me, a man who has -always taken from existence only that which would enable him to enjoy -it without suffering afterward?"</p> - -<p>His attention was awakened by the fear of this malady that might prove -so hard to cure, and he probed his feelings, went down to the very -depths of his nature, endeavoring to know and understand it better, -and make clear to his own eyes the reason of this inexplicable crisis. -He said to himself: "I have never yielded to any undue attraction. -I am not enthusiastic or passionate by nature; my judgment is more -powerful than my instinct, my curiosity than my appetite, my fancy -than my perseverance. I am essentially nothing more than a man that is -delicate, intelligent, and hard to please in his enjoyments. I have -loved the things of this life without ever allowing myself to become -greatly attached to them, with the perceptions of an expert who sips -and does not suffer himself to become surfeited, who knows better -than to lose his head. I submit everything to the test of reason, and -generally I analyze my likings too severely to submit to them blindly. -That is even my great defect, the only cause of my weakness.</p> - -<p>"And now that woman has taken possession of me, in spite of myself, in -spite of my fears and of my knowledge of her, and she retains her hold -as if she had plucked away one by one all the different aspirations -that existed in me. That may be the case. Those aspirations of mine -went out toward inanimate objects, toward nature, that entices and -softens me, toward music, which is a sort of ideal caress, toward -reflection, which is the delicate feasting of the mind, toward -everything on earth that is beautiful and agreeable.</p> - -<p>"Then I met a creature who collected and concentrated all my somewhat -fickle and fluctuating likings, and directing them toward herself, -converted them into love. Charming and beautiful, she pleased my eyes; -bright, intelligent, and witty, she pleased my mind, and she pleased my -heart by the mysterious charm of her contact and her presence and by -the secret and irresistible emanation from her personality, until all -these things enslaved me as the perfume of certain flowers intoxicates. -She has taken the place of everything for me, for I no longer have any -aspirations, I no longer wish or care for anything."</p> - -<p>"In other days how my feelings would have thrilled and started in this -forest that is putting forth its new life! To-day I see nothing of it, -I am regardless of it; I am still at that woman's side, whom I desire -to love no more.</p> - -<p>"Come! I must kill these ideas by physical fatigue; unless I do I shall -never get well."</p> - -<p>He arose, descended the rocky hillside and resumed his walk with long -strides, but still the haunting presence crushed him as if it had -been a burden that he was bearing on his back. He went on, constantly -increasing his speed, now and then encountering a brief sensation of -comfort at the sight of the sunlight piercing through the foliage or at -a breath of perfumed air from some grove of resinous pine-trees, which -inspired in him a presentiment of distant consolation.</p> - -<p>Suddenly he came to a halt. "I am not walking any longer," he said, "I -am flying from something!" Indeed, he was flying, straight ahead, he -cared not where, pursued by the agony of his love.</p> - -<p>Then he started on again at a more reasonable speed. The appearance -of the forest was undergoing a change. The growth was denser and the -shadows deeper, for he was coming to the warmer portions of it, to the -beautiful region of the beeches. No sensation of winter lingered there. -It was wondrous spring, that seemed to have been the birth of a night, -so young and fresh was everything.</p> - -<p>Mariolle made his way among the thickets, beneath the gigantic trees -that towered above him higher and higher still, and in this way he went -on for a long time, an hour, two hours, pushing his way through the -branches, through the countless multitudes of little shining leaves, -bright with their varnish of new sap. The heavens were quite concealed -by the immense dome of verdure, supported on its lofty columns, now -perpendicular, now leaning, now of a whitish hue, now dark beneath the -black moss that drew its nourishment from the bark.</p> - -<p>Thus they towered, stretching away indefinitely in the distance, one -behind the other, lording it over the bushy young copses that grew -in confused tangles at their feet and wrapping them in dense shadow -through which in places poured floods of vivid sunlight. The golden -rain streamed down through all this luxuriant growth until the wood no -longer remained a wood, but became a brilliant sea of verdure illumined -by yellow rays. Mariolle stopped, seized with an ineffable surprise. -Where was he? Was he in a forest, or had he descended to the bottom of -a sea, a sea of leaves and light, an ocean of green resplendency?</p> - -<p>He felt better—more tranquil; more remote, more hidden from his -misery, and he threw himself down upon the red carpet of dead leaves -that these trees do not cast until they are ready to put on their new -garments. Rejoicing in the cool contact of the earth and the pure -sweetness of the air, he was soon conscious of a wish, vague at first -but soon becoming more defined, not to be alone in this charming spot, -and he said to himself: "Ah! if she were only here, at my side!"</p> - -<p>He suddenly remembered Mont Saint-Michel, and recollecting how -different she had been down there to what she was in Paris, how her -affection had blossomed out in the open air before the yellow sands, he -thought that on that day she had surely loved him a little for a few -hours. Yes, surely, on the road where they had watched the receding -tide, in the cloisters where, murmuring his name: "André," she had -seemed to say, "I am yours," and on the "Madman's Path," where he -had almost borne her through space, she had felt an impulsion toward -him that had never returned since she placed her foot, the foot of a -coquette, on the pavement of Paris.</p> - -<p>He continued to yield himself to his mournful reveries, still stretched -at length upon his back, his look lost among the gold and green of -the tree-tops, and little by little his eyes closed, weighed down with -sleep and the tranquillity that reigned among the trees. When he awoke -he saw that it was past two o'clock of the afternoon.</p> - -<p>When he arose and proceeded on his way he felt less sad, less ailing. -At length he emerged from the thickness of the wood and came to a great -open space where six broad avenues converged and then stretched away -and lost themselves in the leafy, transparent distance. A signboard -told him that the name of the locality was "Le Bouquet-du-Roi." It was -indeed the capital of this royal country of the beeches.</p> - -<p>A carriage passed, and as it was empty and disengaged Mariolle took it -and ordered the driver to take him to Marlotte, whence he could make -his way to Montigny after getting something to eat at the inn, for he -was beginning to be hungry.</p> - -<p>He remembered that he had seen this establishment, which was only -recently opened, the day before: the Hotel Corot, it was called, an -artistic public-house in middle-age style of decoration, modeled on -the Chat Noir in Paris. His driver set him down there and he passed -through an open door into a vast room where old-fashioned tables and -uncomfortable benches seemed to be awaiting drinkers of a past century. -At the far end a woman, a young waitress, no doubt, was standing on top -of a little folding ladder, fastening some old plates to nails that -were driven in the wall and seemed nearly beyond her reach. Now raising -herself on tiptoe on both feet, now on one, supporting herself with one -hand against the wall while the other held the plate, she reached up -with pretty and adroit movements; for her figure was pleasing and the -undulating lines from wrist to ankle assumed changing forms of grace at -every fresh posture. As her back was toward him she had been unaware of -Mariolle's entrance, who stopped to watch her. He thought of Prédolé -and his <i>figurines;</i> "It is a pretty picture, though!" he said to -himself. "She is very graceful, that little girl."</p> - -<p>He gave a little cough. She was so startled that she came near falling, -but as soon as she had recovered her self-possession, she jumped down -from her ladder as lightly as a rope dancer, and came to him with a -pleasant smile on her face. "What will Monsieur have?" she inquired.</p> - -<p>"Breakfast, Mademoiselle."</p> - -<p>She ventured to say: "It should be dinner, rather, for it is half past -three o'clock."</p> - -<p>"We will call it dinner if you like. I lost myself in the forest."</p> - -<p>Then she told him what dishes there were ready; he made his selection -and took a seat. She went away to give the order, returning shortly to -set the table for him. He watched her closely as she bustled around -the table; she was pretty and very neat in her attire. She had a spry -little air that was very pleasant to behold, in her working dress with -skirt pinned up, sleeves rolled back, and neck exposed; and her corset -fitted closely to her pretty form, of which she had no reason to be -ashamed.</p> - -<p>Her face was rather red, painted by exposure to the open air, and it -seemed somewhat too fat and puffy, but it was as fresh as a new-blown -rose, with fine, bright, brown eyes, a large mouth with its complement -of handsome teeth, and chestnut hair that revealed by its abundance the -healthy vigor of this strong young frame.</p> - -<p>She brought radishes and bread and butter and he began to eat, ceasing -to pay attention to the attendant. He called for a bottle of champagne -and drank the whole of it, as he did two glasses of kummel after his -coffee, and as his stomach was empty—he had taken nothing before -he left his house but a little bread and cold meat—he soon felt a -comforting feeling of tipsiness stealing over him that he mistook for -oblivion. His griefs and sorrows were diluted and tempered by the -sparkling wine which, in so short a time, had transformed the torments -of his heart into insensibility. He walked slowly back to Montigny, and -being very tired and sleepy went to bed as soon as it was dark, falling -asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow.</p> - -<p>He awoke after a while, however, in the dense darkness, ill at ease and -disquieted as if a nightmare that had left him for an hour or two had -furtively reappeared at his bedside to murder sleep. She was there, -she, Mme. de Burne, back again, roaming about his bed, and accompanied -still by M. de Bernhaus. "Come!" he said, "it must be that I am -jealous. What is the reason of it?"</p> - -<p>Why was he jealous? He quickly told himself why. Notwithstanding all -his doubts and fears he knew that as long as he had been her lover -she had been faithful to him—faithful, indeed, without tenderness -and without transports, but with a loyal strength of resolution. -Now, however, he had broken it all off, and it was ended; he had -restored her freedom to her. Would she remain without a <i>liaison</i>? -Yes, doubtless, for a while. And then? This very fidelity that she had -observed toward him up to the present moment, a fidelity beyond the -reach of suspicion, was it not due to the feeling that if she left him, -Mariolle, because she was tired of him, she would some day, sooner or -later, have to take some one to fill his place, not from passion, but -from weariness of being alone?</p> - -<p>Is it not true that lovers often owe their long lease of favor simply -to the dread of an unknown successor? And then to dismiss one lover and -take up with another would not have seemed the right thing to such a -woman—she was too intelligent, indeed, to bow to social prejudices, -but was gifted with a delicate sense of moral purity that kept her from -real indelicacies. She was a worldly philosopher and not a prudish -<i>bourgeoise</i>, and while she would not have quailed at the idea of a -secret attachment, her nature would have revolted at the thought of a -succession of lovers.</p> - -<p>He had given her her freedom—and now? Now most certainly she would -take up with some one else, and that some one would be the Comte de -Bernhaus. He was sure of it, and the thought was now affording him -inexpressible suffering. Why had he left her? She had been faithful, -a good friend to him, charming in every way. Why? Was it because he -was a brutal sensualist who could not separate true love from its -physical transports? Was that it? Yes—but there was something besides. -He had fled from the pain of not being loved as he loved, from the -cruel feeling that he did not receive an equivalent return for the -warmth of his kisses, an incurable affliction from which his heart, -grievously smitten, would perhaps never recover. He looked forward with -dread to the prospect of enduring for years the torments that he had -been anticipating for a few months and suffering for a few weeks. In -accordance with his nature he had weakly recoiled before this prospect, -just as he had recoiled all his life long before any effort that called -for resolution. It followed that he was incapable of carrying anything -to its conclusion, of throwing himself heart and soul into such a -passion as one develops for a science or an art, for it is impossible, -perhaps, to have loved greatly without having suffered greatly.</p> - -<p>Until daylight he pursued this train of thought, which tore him like -wild horses; then he got up and went down to the bank of the little -stream. A fisherman was casting his net near the little dam, and when -he withdrew it from the water that flashed and eddied in the sunlight -and spread it on the deck of his small boat, the little fishes danced -among the meshes like animated silver.</p> - -<p>Mariolle's agitation subsided little by little in the balmy freshness -of the early morning air. The cool mist that rose from the miniature -waterfall, about which faint rainbows fluttered, and the stream that -ran at his feet in rapid and ceaseless current, carried off with them -a portion of his sorrow. He said to himself: "Truly, I have done -the right thing; I should have been too unhappy otherwise!" Then he -returned to the house, and taking possession of a hammock that he had -noticed in the vestibule, he made it fast between two of the lindens -and throwing himself into it, endeavored to drive away reflection by -fixing his eyes and thoughts upon the flowing stream.</p> - -<p>Thus he idled away the time until the hour of breakfast, in an -agreeable torpor, a physical sensation of well-being that communicated -itself to the mind, and he protracted the meal as much as possible -that he might have some occupation for the dragging minutes. There was -one thing, however, that he looked forward to with eager expectation, -and that was his mail. He had telegraphed to Paris and written to -Fontainebleau to have his letters forwarded, but had received nothing, -and the sensation of being entirely abandoned was beginning to be -oppressive. Why? He had no reason to expect that there would be -anything particularly pleasing or comforting for him in the little -black box that the carrier bore slung at his side, nothing beyond -useless invitations and unmeaning communications. Why, then, should he -long for letters of whose contents he knew nothing as if the salvation -of his soul depended on them? Was it not that there lay concealed in -his heart the vainglorious expectation that she would write to him?</p> - -<p>He asked one of his old women: "At what time does the mail arrive?"</p> - -<p>"At noon, Monsieur."</p> - -<p>It was just midday, and he listened with increased attention to the -noises that reached him from outdoors. A knock at the outer door -brought him to his feet; the messenger brought him only the newspapers -and three unimportant letters. Mariolle glanced over the journals until -he was tired, and went out.</p> - -<p>What should he do? He went to the hammock and lay down in it, but -after half an hour of that he experienced an uncontrollable desire to -go somewhere else. The forest? Yes, the forest was very pleasant, but -then the solitude there was even deeper than it was in his house, much -deeper than it was in the village, where there were at least some signs -of life now and then. And the silence and loneliness of all those trees -and leaves filled his mind with sadness and regrets, steeping him more -deeply still in wretchedness. He mentally reviewed his long walk of -the day before, and when he came to the wide-awake little waitress of -the Hotel Corot, he said to himself: "I have it! I will go and dine -there." The idea did him good; it was something to occupy him, a means -of killing two or three hours, and he set out forthwith.</p> - -<p>The long village street stretched straight away in the middle of the -valley between two rows of low, white, tile-roofed houses, some of them -standing boldly up with their fronts close to the road, others, more -retiring, situated in a garden where there was a lilac-bush in bloom -and chickens scratching over manure-heaps, where wooden stairways in -the open air climbed to doors cut in the wall. Peasants were at work -before their dwellings, lazily fulfilling their domestic duties. An -old woman, bent with age and with threads of gray in her yellow hair, -for country folk rarely have white hair, passed close to him, a ragged -jacket upon her shoulders and her lean and sinewy legs covered by a -woolen petticoat that failed to conceal the angles and protuberances -of her frame. She was looking aimlessly before her with expressionless -eyes, eyes that had never looked on other objects than those that might -be of use to her in her poor existence.</p> - -<p>Another woman, younger than this one, was hanging out the family wash -before her door. The lifting of her skirt as she raised her arms -aloft disclosed to view thick, coarse ankles incased in blue knitted -stockings, with great, projecting, fleshless bones, while the breast -and shoulders, flat and broad as those of a man, told of a body whose -form must have been horrible to behold.</p> - -<p>Mariolle thought: "They are women! Those scarecrows are women!" The -vision of Mme. de Burne arose before his eyes. He beheld her in all -her elegance and beauty, the perfection of the human female form, -coquettish and adorned to meet the looks of man, and again he smarted -with the sorrow of an irreparable loss; then he walked on more quickly -to shake himself free of this impression.</p> - -<p>When he reached the inn at Marlotte the little waitress recognized him -immediately, and accosted him almost familiarly: "Good day, Monsieur."</p> - -<p>"Good day, Mademoiselle."</p> - -<p>"Do you wish something to drink?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, to begin with; then I will have dinner."</p> - -<p>They discussed the question of what he should drink in the first place -and what he should eat subsequently. He asked her advice for the -pleasure of hearing her talk, for she had a nice way of expressing -herself. She had a short little Parisian accent, and her speech was as -unconstrained as was her movements. He thought as he listened: "The -little girl is quite agreeable; she seems to me to have a bit of the -<i>cocotte</i> about her."</p> - -<p>"Are you a Parisian?" he inquired.</p> - -<p>"Yes, sir."</p> - -<p>"Have you been here long?"</p> - -<p>"Two weeks, sir."</p> - -<p>"And do you like it?"</p> - -<p>"Not very well so far, but it is too soon to tell, and then I was -tired of the air of Paris, and the country has done me good; that is -why I made up my mind to come here. Then I shall bring you a vermouth, -Monsieur?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, Mademoiselle, and tell the cook to be careful and pay attention -to my dinner."</p> - -<p>"Never fear, Monsieur."</p> - -<p>After she had gone away he went into the garden of the hotel, and took -a seat in an arbor, where his vermouth was served. He remained there -all the rest of the day, listening to a blackbird whistling in its -cage, and watching the little waitress in her goings and comings. She -played the coquette, and put on her sweetest looks for the gentleman, -for she had not failed to observe that he found her to his liking.</p> - -<p>He went away as he had done the day before after drinking a bottle of -champagne to dispel gloom, but the darkness of the way and the coolness -of the night air quickly dissipated his incipient tipsiness, and sorrow -again took possession of his devoted soul. He thought: "What am I to -do? Shall I remain here? Shall I be condemned for long to drag out this -desolate way of living?" It was very late when he got to sleep.</p> - -<p>The next morning he again installed himself in the hammock, and all at -once the sight of a man casting his net inspired him with the idea of -going fishing. The grocer from whom he bought his lines gave him some -instructions upon the soothing sport, and even offered to go with him -and act as his guide upon his first attempt. The offer was accepted, -and between nine o'clock and noon Mariolle succeeded, by dint of -vigorous exertion and unintermitting patience, in capturing three small -fish.</p> - -<p>When he had dispatched his breakfast he took up his march again for -Marlotte. Why? To kill time, of course.</p> - -<p>The little waitress began to laugh when she saw him coming. Amused by -her recognition of him, he smiled back at her, and tried to engage her -in conversation. She was more familiar than she had been the preceding -day, and met him halfway.</p> - -<p>Her name was Elisabeth Ledru. Her mother, who took in dressmaking, had -died the year before; then the husband, an accountant by profession, -always drunk and out of work, who had lived on the little earnings of -his wife and daughter, disappeared, for the girl could not support -two persons, though she shut herself up in her garret room and sewed -all day long. Tiring of her lonely occupation after a while, she got -a position as waitress in a cook-shop, remained there a year, and as -the hard work had worn her down, the proprietor of the Hotel Corot at -Marlotte, upon whom she had waited at times, engaged her for the summer -with two other girls who were to come down a little later on. It was -evident that the proprietor knew how to attract customers.</p> - -<p>Her little story pleased Mariolle, and by treating her with respect and -asking her a few discriminating questions, he succeeded in eliciting -from her many interesting details of this poor dismal home that had -been laid in ruins by a drunken father. She, poor, homeless, wandering -creature that she was, gay and cheerful because she could not help -it, being young, and feeling that the interest that this stranger -took in her was unfeigned, talked to him with confidence, with that -expansiveness of soul that she could no more restrain than she could -restrain the agile movements of her limbs.</p> - -<p>When she had finished he asked her: "And—do you expect to be a -waitress all your life?"</p> - -<p>"I could not answer that question, Monsieur. How can I tell what may -happen to me to-morrow?"</p> - -<p>"And yet it is necessary to think of the future."</p> - -<p>She had assumed a thoughtful air that did not linger long upon her -features, then she replied: "I suppose that I shall have to take -whatever comes to me. So much the worse!"</p> - -<p>They parted very good friends. After a few days he returned, then -again, and soon he began to go there frequently, finding a vague -distraction in the girl's conversation, and that her artless prattle -helped him somewhat to forget his grief.</p> - -<p>When he returned on foot to Montigny in the evening, however, he had -terrible fits of despair as he thought of Mme. de Burne. His heart -became a little lighter with the morning sun, but with the night his -bitter regrets and fierce jealousy closed in on him again. He had no -intelligence; he had written to no one and had received letters from no -one. Then, alone with his thoughts upon the dark road, his imagination -would picture the progress of the approaching <i>liaison</i> that he had -foreseen between his quondam mistress and the Comte de Bernhaus. This -had now become a settled idea with him and fixed itself more firmly in -his mind every day. That man, he thought, will be to her just what she -requires; a distinguished, assiduous, unexacting lover, contented and -happy to be the chosen one of this superlatively delicious coquette. He -compared him with himself. The other most certainly would not behave -as he had, would not be guilty of that tiresome impatience and of that -insatiable thirst for a return of his affection that had been the -destruction of their amorous understanding. He was a very discreet, -pliant, and well-posted man of the world, and would manage to get along -and content himself with but little, for he did not seem to belong to -the class of impassioned mortals.</p> - -<p>On one of André Mariolle's visits to Marlotte one day, he beheld two -bearded young fellows in the other arbor of the Hotel Corot, smoking -pipes and wearing Scotch caps on their heads. The proprietor, a big, -broad-faced man, came forward to pay his respects as soon as he saw -him, for he had an interested liking for this faithful patron of -his dinner-table, and said to him: "I have two new customers since -yesterday, two painters."</p> - -<p>"Those gentlemen sitting there?"</p> - -<p>"Yes. They are beginning to be heard of. One of them got a second-class -medal last year." And having told all that he knew about the embryo -artists, he asked: "What will you take to-day, Monsieur Mariolle?"</p> - -<p>"You may send me out a vermouth, as usual."</p> - -<p>The proprietor went away, and soon Elisabeth appeared, bringing the -salver, the glass, the <i>carafe</i>, and the bottle. Whereupon one of the -painters called to her: "Well! little one, are we angry still?"</p> - -<p>She did not answer and when she approached Mariolle he saw that her -eyes were red.</p> - -<p>"You have been crying," he said.</p> - -<p>"Yes, a little," she simply replied.</p> - -<p>"What was the matter?"</p> - -<p>"Those two gentlemen there behaved rudely to me."</p> - -<p>"What did they do to you?"</p> - -<p>"They took me for a bad character."</p> - -<p>"Did you complain to the proprietor?"</p> - -<p>She gave a sorrowful shrug of the shoulders, "Oh! Monsieur—the -proprietor. I know what he is now—the proprietor!"</p> - -<p>Mariolle was touched, and a little angry; he said to her: "Tell me what -it was all about."</p> - -<p>She told him of the brutal conduct of the two painters immediately -upon their arrival the night before, and then began to cry again, -asking what she was to do, alone in the country and without friends or -relatives, money or protection.</p> - -<p>Mariolle suddenly said to her: "Will you enter my service? You shall be -well treated in my house, and when I return to Paris you will be free -to do what you please."</p> - -<p>She looked him in the face with questioning eyes, and then quickly -replied: "I will, Monsieur.</p> - -<p>"How much are you earning here?"</p> - -<p>"Sixty francs a month," she added, rather uneasily, "and I have my -share of the <i>pourboires</i> besides; that makes it about seventy."</p> - -<p>"I will pay you a hundred."</p> - -<p>She repeated in astonishment: "A hundred francs a month?"</p> - -<p>"Yes. Is that enough?"</p> - -<p>"I should think that it was enough!"</p> - -<p>"All that you will have to do will be to wait on me, take care of my -clothes and linen, and attend to my room."</p> - -<p>"It is a bargain, Monsieur."</p> - -<p>"When will you come?"</p> - -<p>"To-morrow, if you wish. After what has happened here I will go to the -mayor and will leave whether they are willing or not."</p> - -<p>Mariolle took two louis from his pocket and handed them to her. -"There's the money to bind our bargain."</p> - -<p>A look of joy flashed across her face and she said in a tone of -decision: "I will be at your house before midday to-morrow, Monsieur."</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h5><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII">CHAPTER XII.</a></h5> - - -<h4>CONSOLATION</h4> - - -<p>Elisabeth came to Montigny next day, attended by a countryman with -her trunk on a wheelbarrow. Mariolle had made a generous settlement -with one of his old women and got rid of her, and the newcomer took -possession of a small room on the top floor adjoining that of the -cook. She was quite different from what she had been at Marlotte, -when she presented herself before her new master, less effusive, -more respectful, more self-contained; she was now the servant of the -gentleman to whom she had been almost an humble friend beneath the -arbor of the inn. He told her in a few words what she would have to do. -She listened attentively, went and took possession of her room, and -then entered upon her new service.</p> - -<p>A week passed and brought no noticeable change in the state of -Mariolle's feelings. The only difference was that he remained at home -more than he had been accustomed to do, for he had nothing to attract -him to Marlotte, and his house seemed less dismal to him than at first. -The bitterness of his grief was subsiding a little, as all storms -subside after a while; but in place of this aching wound there was -arising in him a settled melancholy, one of those deep-seated sorrows -that are like chronic and lingering maladies, and sometimes end in -death. His former liveliness of mind and body, his mental activity, -his interests in the pursuits that had served to occupy and amuse him -hitherto were all dead, and their place had been taken by a universal -disgust and an invincible torpor, that left him without even strength -of will to get up and go out of doors. He no longer left his house, -passing from the salon to the hammock and from the hammock to the -salon, and his chief distraction consisted in watching the current of -the Loing as it flowed by the terrace and the fisherman casting his net.</p> - -<p>When the reserve of the first few days had begun to wear off, Elisabeth -gradually grew a little bolder, and remarking with her keen feminine -instinct the constant dejection of her employer, she would say to him -when the other servant was not by: "Monsieur finds his time hang heavy -on his hands?"</p> - -<p>He would answer resignedly: "Yes, pretty heavy."</p> - -<p>"Monsieur should go for a walk."</p> - -<p>"That would not do me any good."</p> - -<p>She quietly did many little unassuming things for his pleasure and -comfort. Every morning when he came into his drawing-room, he found -it filled with flowers and smelling as sweetly as a conservatory. -Elisabeth must surely have enlisted all the boys in the village to -bring her primroses, violets, and buttercups from the forest, as well -as putting under contribution the small gardens where the peasant girls -tended their few plants at evening. In his loneliness and distress he -was grateful for her kind thoughtfulness and her unobtrusive desire to -please him in these small ways.</p> - -<p>It also seemed to him that she was growing prettier, more refined in -her appearance, and that she devoted more attention to the care of her -person. One day when she was handing him a cup of tea, he noticed that -her hands were no longer the hands of a servant, but of a lady, with -well-trimmed, clean nails, quite irreproachable. On another occasion he -observed that the shoes that she wore were almost elegant in shape and -material. Then she had gone up to her room one afternoon and come down -wearing a delightful little gray dress, quite simple and in perfect -taste. "Hallo!" he exclaimed, as he saw her, "how dressy you are -getting to be, Elisabeth!"</p> - -<p>She blushed up to the whites of her eyes. "What, I, Monsieur? Why, no. -I dress a little better because I have more money."</p> - -<p>"Where did you buy that dress that you have on?"</p> - -<p>"I made it myself, Monsieur."</p> - -<p>"You made it? When? I always see you busy at work about the house -during the day."</p> - -<p>"Why, during my evenings, Monsieur."</p> - -<p>"But where did you get the stuff? and who cut it for you?"</p> - -<p>She told him that the shopkeeper at Montigny had brought her some -samples from Fontainebleau, that she had made her selection from them, -and paid for the goods out of the two louis that he had paid her as -advanced wages. The cutting and fitting had not troubled her at all, -for she and her mother had worked four years for a ready-made clothing -house. He could not resist telling her: "It is very becoming to you. -You look very pretty in it." And she had to blush again, this time to -the roots of her hair.</p> - -<p>When she had left the room he said to himself: "I wonder if she is -beginning to fall in love with me?" He reflected on it, hesitated, -doubted, and finally came to the conclusion that after all it might be -possible. He had been kind and compassionate toward her, had assisted -her, and been almost her friend; there would be nothing very surprising -in this little girl being smitten with the master, who had been so -good to her. The idea did not strike him very disagreeably, moreover, -for she was really very presentable, and retained nothing of the -appearance of a servant about her. He experienced a flattering feeling -of consolation, and his masculine vanity, that had been so cruelly -wounded and trampled on and crushed by another woman, felt comforted. -It was a compensation—trivial and unnoteworthy though it might be, it -was a compensation—for when love comes to a man unsought, no matter -whence it comes, it is because that man possesses the capacity of -inspiring it. His unconscious selfishness was also gratified by it; -it would occupy his attention and do him a little good, perhaps, to -watch this young heart opening and beating for him. The thought never -occurred to him of sending the child away, of rescuing her from the -peril from which he himself was suffering so cruelly, of having more -pity for her than others had showed toward him, for compassion is never -an ingredient that enters into sentimental conquests.</p> - -<p>So he continued his observations, and soon saw that he had not been -mistaken. Petty details revealed it to him more clearly day by day. As -she came near him one morning while waiting on him at table, he smelled -on her clothing an odor of perfumery—villainous, cheap perfumery, -from the village shopkeeper's, doubtless, or the druggist's—so he -presented her with a bottle of Cyprus toilette-water that he had been -in the habit of using for a long time, and of which he always carried a -supply about with him. He also gave her fine soaps, tooth-washes, and -rice-powder. He thus lent his assistance to the transformation that was -becoming more apparent every day, watching it meantime with a pleased -and curious eye. While remaining his faithful and respectful servant, -she was thus becoming a woman in whom the coquettish instincts of her -sex were artlessly developing themselves.</p> - -<p>He, on his part, was imperceptibly becoming attached to her. She -inspired him at the same time with amusement and gratitude. He trifled -with this dawning tenderness as one trifles in his hours of melancholy -with anything that can divert his mind. He was conscious of no other -emotion toward her than that undefined desire which impels every man -toward a prepossessing woman, even if she be a pretty servant, or a -peasant maiden with the form of a goddess—a sort of rustic Venus. -He felt himself drawn to her more than all else by the womanliness -that he now found in her. He felt the need of that—an undefined and -irresistible need, bequeathed to him by that other one, the woman whom -he loved, who had first awakened in him that invincible and mysterious -fondness for the nature, the companionship, the contact of women, for -the subtle aroma, ideal or sensual, that every beautiful creature, -whether of the people or of the upper class, whether a lethargic, -sensual native of the Orient with great black eyes, or a blue-eyed, -keen-witted daughter of the North, inspires in men in whom still -survives the immemorial attraction of femininity.</p> - -<p>These gentle, loving, and unceasing attentions that were felt rather -than seen, wrapped his wound in a sort of soft, protecting envelope -that shielded it to some extent from its recurrent attacks of -suffering, which did return, nevertheless, like flies to a raw sore. -He was made especially impatient by the absence of all news, for his -friends had religiously respected his request not to divulge his -address. Now and then he would see Massival's or Lamarthe's name in the -newspapers among those who had been present at some great dinner or -ceremonial, and one day he saw Mme. de Burne's, who was mentioned as -being one of the most elegant, the prettiest, and best dressed of the -women who were at the ball at the Austrian embassy. It sent a trembling -through him from head to foot. The name of the Comte de Bernhaus -appeared a few lines further down, and that day Mariolle's jealousy -returned and wrung his heart until night. The suspected <i>liaison</i> was -no longer subject for doubt for him now. It was one of those imaginary -convictions that are even more torturing than reality, for there is no -getting rid of them and they leave a wound that hardly ever heals.</p> - -<p>No longer able to endure this state of ignorance and uncertainty, he -determined to write to Lamarthe, who was sufficiently well acquainted -with him to divine the wretchedness of his soul, and would be likely to -afford him some clew as to the justice of his suspicions, even without -being directly questioned on the subject. One evening, therefore, he -sat down and by the light of his lamp concocted a long, artful letter, -full of vague sadness and poetical allusions to the delights of early -spring in the country and veiled requests for information. When he got -his mail four days later he recognized at the very first glance the -novelist's firm, upright handwriting.</p> - -<p>Lamarthe sent him a thousand items of news that were of great -importance to his jealous eyes. Without laying more stress upon Mme. -de Burne and Bernhaus than upon any other of the crowd of people whom -he mentioned, he seemed to place them in the foreground by one of -those tricks of style characteristic of him, which led the attention -to just the point where he wished to lead it without revealing his -design. The impression that this letter, taken as a whole, left upon -Mariolle was that his suspicions were at least not destitute of -foundation. His fears would be realized to-morrow, if they had not been -yesterday. His former mistress was always the same, leading the same -busy, brilliant, fashionable life. He had been the subject of some talk -after his disappearance, as the world always talks of people who have -disappeared, with lukewarm curiosity.</p> - -<p>After the receipt of this letter he remained in his hammock until -nightfall; then he could eat no dinner, and after that he could get no -sleep; he was feverish through the night. The next morning he felt so -tired, so discouraged, so disgusted with his weary, monotonous life, -between the deep silent forest that was now dark with verdure on the -one hand and the tiresome little stream that flowed beneath his windows -on the other, that he did not leave his bed.</p> - -<p>When Elisabeth came to his room in response to the summons of his bell, -she stood in the doorway pale with surprise and asked him: "Is Monsieur -ill?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, a little."</p> - -<p>"Shall I send for the doctor?"</p> - -<p>"No. I am subject to these slight indispositions."</p> - -<p>"What can I do for Monsieur?"</p> - -<p>He ordered his bath to be got ready, a breakfast of eggs alone, and tea -at intervals during the day.</p> - -<p>About one o'clock, however, he became so restless that he determined to -get up. Elisabeth, whom he had rung for repeatedly during the morning -with the fretful irresolution of a man who imagines himself ill and who -had always come up to him with a deep desire of being of assistance, -now, beholding him so nervous and restless, with a blush for her own -boldness, offered to read to him.</p> - -<p>He asked her: "Do you read well?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, Monsieur; I gained all the prizes for reading when I was at -school in the city, and I have read so many novels to mamma that I -can't begin to remember the names of them."</p> - -<p>He was curious to see how she would do, and he sent her into the studio -to look among the books that he had packed up for the one that he -liked best of all, "Manon Lescaut."</p> - -<p>When she returned she helped him to settle himself in bed, arranged -two pillows behind his back, took a chair, and began to read. She read -well, very well indeed, intelligently and with a pleasing accent that -seemed a special gift. She evinced her interest in the story from the -commencement and showed so much feeling as she advanced in it that -he stopped her now and then to ask her a question and have a little -conversation about the plot and the characters.</p> - -<p>Through the open windows, on the warm breeze loaded with the sweet -odors of growing things, came the trills and <i>roulades</i> of the -nightingales among the trees saluting their mates with their amorous -ditties in this season of awakening love. The young girl, too, was -moved beneath André's gaze as she followed with bright eyes the plot -unwinding page by page.</p> - -<p>She answered the questions that he put to her with an innate -appreciation of the things connected with tenderness and passion, an -appreciation that was just, but, owing to the ignorance natural to -her position, sometimes crude. He thought: "This girl would be very -intelligent and bright if she had a little teaching."</p> - -<p>Her womanly charm had already begun to make itself felt in him, and -really did him good that warm, still, spring afternoon, mingling -strangely with that other charm, so powerful and so mysterious, of -"Manon," the strangest conception of woman ever evoked by human -ingenuity.</p> - -<p>When it became dark after this day of inactivity Mariolle sank into -a kind of dreaming, dozing state, in which confused visions of Mme. -de Burne and Elisabeth and the mistress of Des Grieux rose before his -eyes. As he had not left his room since the day before and had taken -no exercise to fatigue him he slept lightly and was disturbed by an -unusual noise that he heard about the house.</p> - -<p>Once or twice before he had thought that he heard faint sounds -and footsteps at night coming from the ground floor, not directly -underneath his room, but from the laundry and bath-room, small rooms -that adjoined the kitchen. He had given the matter no attention, -however.</p> - -<p>This evening, tired of lying in bed and knowing that he had a long -period of wakefulness before him, he listened and distinguished -something that sounded like the rustling of a woman's garments and -the splashing of water. He decided that he would go and investigate, -lighted a candle and looked at his watch; it was barely ten o'clock. He -dressed himself, and having slipped a revolver into his pocket, made -his way down the stairs on tiptoe with the stealthiness of a cat.</p> - -<p>When he reached the kitchen, he was surprised to see that there was a -fire burning in the furnace. There was not a sound to be heard, but -presently he was conscious of something stirring in the bath-room, a -small, whitewashed apartment that opened off the kitchen and contained -nothing but the tub. He went noiselessly to the door and threw it open -with a quick movement; there, extended in the tub, he beheld the most -beautiful form that he had ever seen in his life.</p> - -<p>It was Elisabeth.</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h5><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII">CHAPTER XIII.</a></h5> - - -<h4>MARIOLLE COPIES MME DE BURNE</h4> - - -<p>When she appeared before him next morning bringing him his tea and -toast, and their eyes met, she began to tremble so that the cup and -sugar-bowl rattled on the salver. Mariolle went to her and relieved her -of her burden and placed it on the table; then, as she still kept her -eyes fastened on the floor, he said to her: "Look at me, little one."</p> - -<p>She raised her eyes to him; they were full of tears.</p> - -<p>"You must not cry," he continued. As he held her in his arms, she -murmured: "<i>Oh! mon Dieu!"</i> He knew that it was not regret, nor sorrow, -nor remorse that had elicited from her those three agitated words, but -happiness, true happiness. It gave him a strange, selfish feeling of -delight, physical rather than moral, to feel this small person resting -against his heart, to feel there at last the presence of a woman who -loved him. He thanked her for it, as a wounded man lying by the -roadside would thank a woman who had stopped to succor him; he thanked -her with all his lacerated heart, and he pitied her a little, too, -in the depths of his soul. As he watched her thus, pale and tearful, -with eyes alight with love, he suddenly said to himself: "Why, she is -beautiful! How quickly a woman changes, becomes what she ought to be, -under the influence of the desires of her feelings and the necessities -of her existence!"</p> - -<p>"Sit down," he said to her. He took her hands in his, her poor toiling -hands that she had made white and pretty for his sake, and very gently, -in carefully chosen phrases, he spoke to her of the attitude that they -should maintain toward each other. She was no longer his servant, but -she would preserve the appearance of being so for a while yet, so as -not to create a scandal in the village. She would live with him as his -housekeeper and would read to him frequently, and that would serve to -account for the change in the situation. He would have her eat at his -table after a little, as soon as she should be permanently installed in -her position as his reader.</p> - -<p>When he had finished she simply replied: "No, Monsieur, I am your -servant, and I will continue to be so. I do not wish to have people -learn what has taken place and talk about it."</p> - -<p>He could not shake her determination, although he urged her -strenuously, and when he had drunk his tea she carried away the salver -while he followed her with a softened look.</p> - -<p>When she was gone he reflected. "She is a woman," he thought, "and -all women are equal when they are pleasing in our eyes. I have -made my waitress my mistress. She is pretty, she will be charming! -At all events she is younger and fresher than the <i>mondaines</i> and -the <i>cocottes</i>. What difference does it make, after all? How many -celebrated actresses have been daughters of <i>concierges</i>! And yet they -are received as ladies, they are adored like heroines of romance, and -princes bow before them as if they were queens. Is this to be accounted -for on the score of their talent, which is often doubtful, or of their -beauty, which is often questionable? Not at all. But a woman, in truth, -always holds the place that she is able to create for herself by the -illusion that she is capable of inspiring."</p> - -<p>He took a long walk that day, and although he still felt the same -distress at the bottom of his heart and his legs were heavy under him, -as if his suffering had loosened all the springs of his energy, there -was a feeling of gladness within him like the song of a little bird. He -was not so lonely, he felt himself less utterly abandoned; the forest -appeared to him less silent and less void.</p> - -<p>He returned to his house with the glad thought that Elisabeth would -come out to meet him with a smile upon her lips and a look of -tenderness in her eyes.</p> - -<p>The life that he now led for about a month on the bank of the little -stream was a real idyl. Mariolle was loved as perhaps very few men -have ever been, as a child is loved by its mother, as the hunter is -loved by his dog. He was all in all to her, her Heaven and earth, her -charm and delight. He responded to all her ardent and artless womanly -advances, giving her in a kiss her fill of ecstasy. In her eyes and in -her soul, in her heart and in her flesh there was no object but him; -her intoxication was like that of a young man who tastes wine for the -first time. Surprised and delighted, he reveled in the bliss of this -absolute self-surrender, and he felt that this was drinking of love at -its fountain-head, at the very lips of nature.</p> - -<p>Nevertheless he continued to be sad, sad, and haunted by his deep, -unyielding disenchantment. His little mistress was agreeable, but -he always felt the absence of another, and when he walked in the -meadows or on the banks of the Loing and asked himself: "Why does -this lingering care stay by me so?" such an intolerable feeling of -desolation rose within him as the recollection of Paris crossed his -mind that he had to return to the house so as not to be alone.</p> - -<p>Then he would swing in the hammock, while Elisabeth, seated on a -camp-chair, would read to him. As he watched her and listened to her he -would recall to mind conversations in the drawing-room of Michèle, in -the days when he passed whole evenings alone with her. Then tears would -start to his eyes, and such bitter regret would tear his heart that he -felt that he must start at once for Paris or else leave the country -forever.</p> - -<p>Elisabeth, seeing his gloom and melancholy, asked him: "Are you -suffering? Your eyes are full of tears."</p> - -<p>"Give me a kiss, little one," he replied; "you could not understand."</p> - -<p>She kissed him, anxiously, with a foreboding of some tragedy that was -beyond her knowledge. He, forgetting his woes for a moment beneath her -caresses, thought: "Oh! for a woman who could be these two in one, who -might have the affection of the one and the charm of the other! Why is -it that we never encounter the object of our dreams, that we always -meet with something that is only approximately like them?"</p> - -<p>He continued his vague reflections, soothed by the monotonous sound -of the voice that fell unheeded on his ear, upon all the charms that -had combined to seduce and vanquish him in the mistress whom he had -abandoned. In the besetment of her memory, of her imaginary presence, -by which he was haunted as a visionary by a phantom, he asked himself: -"Am I condemned to carry her image with me to all eternity?"</p> - -<p>He again applied himself to taking long walks, to roaming through the -thicknesses of the forest, with the vague hope that he might lose her -somewhere, in the depths of a ravine, behind a rock, in a thicket, as -a man who wishes to rid himself of an animal that he does not care to -kill sometimes takes it away a long distance so that it may not find -its way home.</p> - -<p>In the course of one of these walks he one day came again to the spot -where the beeches grew. It was now a gloomy forest, almost as black as -night, with impenetrable foliage. He passed along beneath the immense, -deep vault in the damp, sultry air, thinking regretfully of his earlier -visit when the little half-opened leaves resembled a verdant, sunshiny -mist, and as he was following a narrow path, he suddenly stopped in -astonishment before two trees that had grown together. It was a sturdy -beech embracing with two of its branches a tall, slender oak; and -there could have been no picture of his love that would have appealed -more forcibly and more touchingly to his imagination. Mariolle seated -himself to contemplate them at his ease. To his diseased mind, as -they stood there in their motionless strife, they became splendid and -terrible symbols, telling to him, and to all who might pass that way, -the everlasting story of his love.</p> - -<p>Then he went on his way again, sadder than before, and as he walked -along, slowly and with eyes downcast, he all at once perceived, half -hidden by the grass and stained by mud and rain, an old telegram that -had been lost or thrown there by some wayfarer. He stopped. What was -the message of joy or sorrow that the bit of blue paper that lay there -at his feet had brought to some expectant soul?</p> - -<p>He could not help picking it up and opening it with a mingled feeling -of curiosity and disgust. The words "Come—me—four o'clock—" were -still legible; the names had been obliterated by the moisture.</p> - -<p>Memories, at once cruel and delightful, thronged upon his mind of all -the messages that he had received from her, now to appoint the hour for -a rendezvous, now to tell him that she could not come to him. Never had -anything caused him such emotion, nor startled him so violently, nor -so stopped his poor heart and then set it thumping again as had the -sight of those messages, burning or freezing him as the case might be. -The thought that he should never receive more of them filled him with -unutterable sorrow.</p> - -<p>Again he asked himself what her thoughts had been since he left her. -Had she suffered, had she regretted the friend whom her coldness had -driven from her, or had she merely experienced a feeling of wounded -vanity and thought nothing more of his abandonment? His desire to learn -the truth was so strong and so persistent that a strange and audacious, -yet only half-formed resolve, came into his head. He took the road -to Fontainebleau, and when he reached the city went to the telegraph -office, his mind in a fluctuating state of unrest and indecision; but -an irresistible force proceeding from his heart seemed to urge him on. -With a trembling hand, then, he took from the desk a printed blank and -beneath the name and address of Mme. de Burne wrote this dispatch:</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>"I would so much like to know what you think of me! For my -part I can forget nothing. ANDRÉ MARIOLLE."</p></blockquote> - -<p>Then he went out, engaged a carriage, and returned to Montigny, -disturbed in mind by what he had done and regretting it already.</p> - -<p>He had calculated that in case she condescended to answer him he -would receive a letter from her two days later, but the fear and the -hope that she might send him a dispatch kept him in his house all the -following day. He was in his hammock under the lindens on the terrace, -when, about three o'clock, Elisabeth came to tell him that there was a -lady at the house who wanted to see him.</p> - -<p>The shock was so great that his breath failed him for a moment and his -legs bent under him, and his heart beat violently as he went toward -the house. And yet he could not dare hope that it was she.</p> - -<p>When he appeared at the drawing-room door Mme. de Burne arose from -the sofa where she was sitting and came forward to shake hands with a -rather reserved smile upon her face, with a slight constraint of manner -and attitude, saying: "I came to see how you are, as your message did -not give me much information on the subject."</p> - -<p>He had become so pale that a flash of delight rose to her eyes, and his -emotion was so great that he could not speak, could only hold his lips -glued to the hand that she had given him.</p> - -<p>"<i>Dieu!</i> how kind of you!" he said at last.</p> - -<p>"No; but I do not forget my friends, and I was anxious about you."</p> - -<p>She looked him in the face with that rapid, searching woman's look -that reads everything, fathoms one's thoughts to their very roots, -and unmasks every artifice. She was satisfied, apparently, for her -face brightened with a smile. "You have a pretty hermitage here," she -continued. "Does happiness reside in it?"</p> - -<p>"No, Madame."</p> - -<p>"Is it possible? In this fine country, at the side of this beautiful -forest, on the banks of this pretty stream? Why, you ought to be at -rest and quite contented here."</p> - -<p>"I am not, Madame."</p> - -<p>"Why not, then?"</p> - -<p>"Because I cannot forget."</p> - -<p>"Is it indispensable to your happiness that you should forget -something?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, Madame."</p> - -<p>"May one know what?"</p> - -<p>"You know."</p> - -<p>"And then?"</p> - -<p>"And then I am very wretched."</p> - -<p>She said to him with mingled fatuity and commiseration: "I thought that -was the case when I received your telegram, and that was the reason -that I came, with the resolve that I would go back again at once if I -found that I had made a mistake." She was silent a moment and then went -on: "Since I am not going back immediately, may I go and look around -your place? That little alley of lindens yonder has a very charming -appearance: it looks as if it might be cooler out there than here in -this drawing-room."</p> - -<p>They went out. She had on a mauve dress that harmonized so well with -the verdure of the trees and the blue of the sky that she appeared to -him like some amazing apparition, of an entirely new style of beauty -and seductiveness. Her tall and willowy form, her bright, clean-cut -features, the little blaze of blond hair beneath a hat that was mauve, -like the dress, and lightly crowned by a long plume of ostrich-feathers -rolled about it, her tapering arms with the two hands holding the -closed sunshade crosswise before her, the loftiness of her carriage, -and the directness of her step seemed to introduce into the humble -little garden something exotic, something that was foreign to it. It -was a figure from one of Watteau's pictures, or from some fairy-tale or -dream, the imagination of a poet's or an artist's fancy, which had been -seized by the whim of coming away to the country to show how beautiful -it was. As Mariolle looked at her, all trembling with his newly lighted -passion, he recalled to mind the two peasant women that he had seen in -Montigny village.</p> - -<p>"Who is the little person who opened the door for me?" she inquired.</p> - -<p>"She is my servant."</p> - -<p>"She does not look like a waitress."</p> - -<p>"No; she is very good looking."</p> - -<p>"Where did you secure her?"</p> - -<p>"Quite near here; in an inn frequented by painters, where her innocence -was in danger from the customers."</p> - -<p>"And you preserved it?"</p> - -<p>He blushed and replied: "Yes, I preserved it."</p> - -<p>"To your own advantage, perhaps."</p> - -<p>"Certainly, to my own advantage, for I would rather have a pretty face -about me than an ugly one."</p> - -<p>"Is that the only feeling that she inspires in you?"</p> - -<p>"Perhaps it was she who inspired in me the irresistible desire of -seeing you again, for every woman when she attracts my eyes, even if it -is only for the duration of a second, carries my thoughts back to you."</p> - -<p>"That was a very pretty piece of special pleading! And does she love -her preserver?"</p> - -<p>He blushed more deeply than before. Quick as lightning the thought -flashed through his mind that jealousy is always efficacious as a -stimulant to a woman's feelings, and decided him to tell only half a -lie, so he answered, hesitatingly: "I don't know how that is; it may be -so. She is very attentive to me."</p> - -<p>Rather pettishly, Mme. de Burne murmured: "And you?"</p> - -<p>He fastened upon her his eyes that were aflame with love, and replied: -"Nothing could ever distract my thoughts from you."</p> - -<p>This was also a very shrewd answer, but the phrase seemed to her so -much the expression of an indisputable truth, that she let it pass -without noticing it. Could a woman such as she have any doubts about -a thing like that? So she was satisfied, in fact, and had no further -doubts upon the subject of Elisabeth.</p> - -<p>They took two canvas chairs and seated themselves in the shade of the -lindens over the running stream. He asked her: "What did you think of -me?"</p> - -<p>"That you must have been very wretched."</p> - -<p>"Was it through my fault or yours?"</p> - -<p>"Through the fault of us both."</p> - -<p>"And then?"</p> - -<p>"And then, knowing how beside yourself you were, I reflected that it -would be best to give you a little time to cool down. So I waited."</p> - -<p>"What were you waiting for?"</p> - -<p>"For a word from you. I received it, and here I am. Now we are going to -talk like people of sense. So you love me still? I do not ask you this -as a coquette—I ask it as your friend."</p> - -<p>"I love you still."</p> - -<p>"And what is it that you wish?"</p> - -<p>"How can I answer that? I am in your power."</p> - -<p>"Oh! my ideas are very clear, but I will not tell you them without -first knowing what yours are. Tell me of yourself, of what has been -passing in your heart and in your mind since you ran away from me."</p> - -<p>"I have been thinking of you; I have had no other occupation." He told -her of his resolution to forget her, his flight, his coming to the -great forest in which he had found nothing but her image, of his days -filled with memories of her, and his long nights of consuming jealousy; -he told her everything, with entire truthfulness, always excepting his -love for Elisabeth, whose name he did not mention.</p> - -<p>She listened, well assured that he was not lying, convinced by her -inner consciousness of her power over him, even more than by the -sincerity of his manner, and delighted with her victory, glad that she -was about to regain him, for she loved him still.</p> - -<p>Then he bemoaned himself over this situation that seemed to have no -end, and warming up as he told of all that he had suffered after having -carried it so long in his thoughts, he again reproached her, but -without anger, without bitterness, in terms of impassioned poetry, with -that impotency of loving of which she was the victim. He told her over -and over: "Others have not the gift of pleasing; you have not the gift -of loving."</p> - -<p>She interrupted him, speaking warmly, full of arguments and -illustrations. "At least I have the gift of being faithful," she said. -"Suppose I had adored you for ten months, and then fallen in love with -another man, would you be less unhappy than you are?"</p> - -<p>He exclaimed: "Is it, then, impossible for a woman to love only one -man?"</p> - -<p>But she had her answer ready for him: "No one can keep on loving -forever; all that one can do is to be constant. Do you believe that -that exalted delirium of the senses can last for years? No, no. As -for the most of those women who are addicted to passions, to violent -caprices of greater or less duration, they simply transform life into -a novel. Their heroes are different, the events and circumstances are -unforeseen and constantly changing, the <i>dénouement</i> varies. I admit -that for them it is amusing and diverting, for with every change they -have a new set of emotions, but for <i>him</i>—when it is ended, that is -the last of it. Do you understand me?"</p> - -<p>"Yes; what you say has some truth in it. But I do not see what you are -getting at."</p> - -<p>"It is this: there is no passion that endures a very long time; by -that I mean a burning, torturing passion like that from which you are -suffering now. It is a crisis that I have made hard, very hard for you -to bear—I know it, and I feel it—by—by the aridity of my tenderness -and the paralysis of my emotional nature. This crisis will pass away, -however, for it cannot last forever."</p> - -<p>"And then?" he asked with anxiety.</p> - -<p>"Then I think that to a woman who is as reasonable and calm as I am you -can make yourself a lover who will be pleasing in every way, for you -have a great deal of tact. On the other hand you would make a terrible -husband. But there is no such thing as a good husband, there never can -be."</p> - -<p>He was surprised and a little offended. "Why," he asked, "do you wish -to keep a lover that you do not love?"</p> - -<p>She answered, impetuously: "I do love him, my friend, after my fashion. -I do not love ardently, but I love."</p> - -<p>"You require above everything else to be loved and to have your lovers -make a show of their love."</p> - -<p>"It is true. That is what I like. But beyond that my heart requires a -companion apart from the others. My vainglorious passion for public -homage does not interfere with my capacity for being faithful and -devoted; it does not destroy my belief that I have something of myself -that I could bestow upon a lover that no other man should have: my -loyal affection, the sincere attachment of my heart, the entire and -secret trustfulness of my soul; in exchange for which I should receive -from him, together with all the tenderness of a lover, the sensation, -so sweet and so rare, of not being entirely alone upon the earth. -That is not love from the way you look at it, but it is not entirely -valueless, either."</p> - -<p>He bent over toward her, trembling with emotion, and stammered: "Will -you let me be that man?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, after a little, when you are more yourself. In the meantime, -resign yourself to a little suffering once in a while, for my sake. -Since you have to suffer in any event, isn't it better to endure it at -my side rather than somewhere far from me?" Her smile seemed to say -to him: "Why can you not have confidence in me?" and as she eyed him -there, his whole frame quivering with passion, she experienced through -every fiber of her being a feeling of satisfied well-being that made -her happy in her way, in the way that the bird of prey is happy when -he sees his quarry lying fascinated beneath him and awaiting the fatal -talons.</p> - -<p>"When do you return to Paris?" she asked.</p> - -<p>"Why—to-morrow!"</p> - -<p>"To-morrow be it. You will come and dine with me?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, Madame."</p> - -<p>"And now I must be going," said she, looking at the watch set in the -handle of her parasol.</p> - -<p>"Oh! why so soon?"</p> - -<p>"Because I must catch the five o'clock train. I have company to dinner -to-day, several persons: the Princess de Malten, Bernhaus, Lamarthe, -Massival, De Maltry, and a stranger, M. de Charlaine, the explorer, who -is just back from upper Cambodia, after a wonderful journey. He is all -the talk just now."</p> - -<p>Mariolle's spirits fell; it hurt him to hear these names mentioned one -after the other, as if he had been stung by so many wasps. They were -poison to him.</p> - -<p>"Will you go now?" he said, "and we can drive through the forest and -see something of it."</p> - -<p>"I shall be very glad to. First give me a cup of tea and some toast."</p> - -<p>When the tea was served, Elisabeth was not to be found. The cook said -that she had gone out to make some purchases. This did not surprise -Mme. de Burne, for what had she to fear now from this servant? Then -they got into the landau that was standing before the door, and -Mariolle made the coachman take them to the station by a roundabout way -which took them past the Gorge-aux-Loups. As they rolled along beneath -the shade of the great trees where the nightingales were singing, -she was seized by the ineffable sensation that the mysterious and -all-powerful charm of nature impresses on the heart of man. "<i>Dieu!</i>" -she said, "how beautiful it is, how calm and restful!"</p> - -<p>He accompanied her to the station, and as they were about to part she -said to him: "I shall see you to-morrow at eight o'clock, then?"</p> - -<p>"To-morrow at eight o'clock, Madame."</p> - -<p>She, radiant with happiness, went her way, and he returned to his house -in the landau, happy and contented, but uneasy withal, for he knew that -this was not the end.</p> - -<p>Why should he resist? He felt that he could not. She held him by a -charm that he could not understand, that was stronger than all. Flight -would not deliver him, would not sever him from her, but would be an -intolerable privation, while if he could only succeed in showing a -little resignation, he would obtain from her at least as much as she -had promised, for she was a woman who always kept her word.</p> - -<p>The horses trotted along under the trees and he reflected that not -once during that interview had she put up her lips to him for a kiss. -She was ever the same; nothing in her would ever change and he would -always, perhaps, have to suffer at her hands in just that same way. -The remembrance of the bitter hours that he had already passed, with -the intolerable certainty that he would never succeed in rousing her -to passion, laid heavy on his heart, and gave him a clear foresight of -struggles to come and of similar distress in the future. Still, he was -content to suffer everything rather than lose her again, resigned even -to that everlasting, ever unappeased desire that rioted in his veins -and burned into his flesh.</p> - -<p>The raging thoughts that had so often possessed him on his way back -alone from Auteuil were now setting in again. They began to agitate -his frame as the landau rolled smoothly along in the cool shadows of -the great trees, when all at once the thought of Elisabeth awaiting -him there at his door, she, too, young and fresh and pretty, her -heart full of love and her mouth full of kisses, brought peace to his -soul. Presently he would be holding her in his arms, and, closing his -eyes and deceiving himself as men deceive others, confounding in the -intoxication of the embrace her whom he loved and her by whom he was -loved, he would possess them both at once. Even now it was certain that -he had a liking for her, that grateful attachment of soul and body that -always pervades the human animal as the result of love inspired and -pleasure shared in common. This child whom he had made his own, would -she not be to his dry and wasting love the little spring that bubbles -up at the evening halting place, the promise of the cool draught that -sustains our energy as wearily we traverse the burning desert?</p> - -<p>When he regained the house, however, the girl had not come in. He was -frightened and uneasy and said to the other servant: "You are sure that -she went out?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, Monsieur."</p> - -<p>Thereupon he also went out in the hope of finding her. When he had -taken a few steps and was about to turn into the long street that runs -up the valley, he beheld before him the old, low church, surmounted by -its square tower, seated upon a little knoll and watching the houses of -its small village as a hen watches over her chicks. A presentiment that -she was there impelled him to enter. Who can tell the strange glimpses -of the truth that a woman's heart is capable of perceiving? What had -she thought, how much had she understood? Where could she have fled for -refuge but there, if the shadow of the truth had passed before her eyes?</p> - -<p>The church was very dark, for night was closing in. The dim lamp, -hanging from its chain, suggested in the tabernacle the ideal presence -of the divine Consoler. With hushed footsteps Mariolle passed up along -the lines of benches. When he reached the choir he saw a woman on her -knees, her face hidden in her hands. He approached, recognized her, and -touched her on the shoulder. They were alone.</p> - -<p>She gave a great start as she turned her head. She was weeping.</p> - -<p>"What is the matter?" he said.</p> - -<p>She murmured: "I see it all. You came here because she had caused you -to suffer. She came to take you away."</p> - -<p>He spoke in broken accents, touched by the grief that he in turn had -caused: "You are mistaken, little one. I am going back to Paris, -indeed, but I shall take you with me."</p> - -<p>She repeated, incredulously: "It can't be true, it can't be true."</p> - -<p>"I swear to you that it is true."</p> - -<p>"When?"</p> - -<p>"To-morrow."</p> - -<p>She began again to sob and groan: "My God! My God!"</p> - -<p>Then he raised her to her feet and led her down the hill through the -thick blackness of the night, but when they came to the river-bank he -made her sit down upon the grass and placed himself beside her. He -heard the beating of her heart and her quick breathing, and clasping -her to his heart, troubled by his remorse, he whispered to her gentle -words that he had never used before. Softened by pity and burning with -desire, every word that he uttered was true; he did not endeavor to -deceive her, and surprised himself at what he said and what he felt, he -wondered how it was that, thrilling yet with the presence of that other -one whose slave he was always to be, he could tremble thus with longing -and emotion while consoling this love-stricken heart.</p> - -<p>He promised that he would love her,—he did not say simply "love"—, -that he would give her a nice little house near his own and pretty -furniture to put in it and a servant to wait on her. She was reassured -as she listened to him, and gradually grew calmer, for she could not -believe that he was capable of deceiving her, and besides his tone and -manner told her that he was sincere. Convinced at length and dazzled -by the vision of being a lady, by the prospect—so undreamed of by the -poor girl, the servant of the inn—of becoming the "good friend" of -such a rich, nice gentleman, she was carried away in a whirl of pride, -covetousness, and gratitude that mingled with her fondness for André. -Throwing her arms about his neck and covering his face with kisses, -she stammered: "Oh! I love you so! You are all in all to me!"</p> - -<p>He was touched and returned her caresses. "Darling! My little darling!" -he murmured.</p> - -<p>Already she had almost forgotten the appearance of the stranger who -but now had caused her so much sorrow. There must have been some vague -feeling of doubt floating in her mind, however, for presently she asked -him in a tremulous voice: "Really and truly, you will love me as you -love me now?"</p> - -<p>And unhesitatingly he replied: "I will love you as I love you now."</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h3><a name="THE_OLIVE_GROVE_a" id="THE_OLIVE_GROVE_a">THE OLIVE GROVE</a></h3> - -<h5>AND</h5> - -<h4>OTHER TALES</h4> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h4><a name="THE_OLIVE_GROVE" id="THE_OLIVE_GROVE">THE OLIVE GROVE</a></h4> - - -<p>When the 'longshoremen of Garandou, a little port of Provence, situated -in the bay of Pisca, between Marseilles and Toulon, perceived the boat -of the Abbé Vilbois entering the harbor, they went down to the beach to -help him pull her ashore.</p> - -<p>The priest was alone in the boat. In spite of his fifty-eight years, -he rowed with all the energy of a real sailor. He had placed his hat -on the bench beside him, his sleeves were rolled up, disclosing his -powerful arms, his cassock was open at the neck and turned over his -knees, and he wore a round hat of heavy, white canvas. His whole -appearance bespoke an odd and strenuous priest of southern climes, -better fitted for adventures than for clerical duties.</p> - -<p>He rowed with strong and measured strokes, as if to show the southern -sailors how the men of the north handle the oars, and from time to time -he turned around to look at the landing point.</p> - -<p>The skiff struck the beach and slid far up, the bow plowing through the -sand; then it stopped abruptly. The five men watching for the abbé -drew near, jovial and smiling.</p> - -<p>"Well!" said one, with the strong accent of Provence, "have you been -successful, Monsieur le Curé?"</p> - -<p>The abbé drew in the oars, removed his canvas head-covering, put on -his hat, pulled down his sleeves, and buttoned his coat. Then having -assumed the usual appearance of a village priest, he replied proudly: -"Yes, I have caught three red-snappers, two eels, and five sunfish."</p> - -<p>The fishermen gathered around the boat to examine, with the air of -experts, the dead fish, the fat red-snappers, the flat-headed eels, -those hideous sea-serpents, and the violet sunfish, streaked with -bright orange-colored stripes.</p> - -<p>Said one: "I'll carry them up to your house, Monsieur le Curé."</p> - -<p>"Thank you, my friend."</p> - -<p>Having shaken hands all around, the priest started homeward, followed -by the man with the fish; the others took charge of the boat.</p> - -<p>The Abbé Vilbois walked along slowly with an air of dignity. The -exertion of rowing had brought beads of perspiration to his brow and -he uncovered his head each time that he passed through the shade of an -olive grove. The warm evening air, freshened by a slight breeze from -the sea, cooled his high forehead covered with short, white hair, a -forehead far more suggestive of an officer than of a priest.</p> - -<p>The village appeared, built on a hill rising from a large valley which -descended toward the sea.</p> - -<p>It was a summer evening. The dazzling sun, traveling toward the ragged -crests of the distant hills, outlined on the white, dusty road the -figure of the priest, the shadow of whose three-cornered hat bobbed -merrily over the fields, sometimes apparently climbing the trunks of -the olive-trees, only to fall immediately to the ground and creep among -them.</p> - -<p>With every step he took, he raised a cloud of fine, white dust, the -invisible powder which, in summer, covers the roads of Provence; it -clung to the edge of his cassock turning it grayish white. Completely -refreshed, his hands deep in his pockets, he strode along slowly and -ponderously, like a mountaineer. His eyes were fixed on the distant -village where he had lived twenty years, and where he hoped to die. -Its church—his church—rose above the houses clustered around it; -the square turrets of gray stone, of unequal proportions and quaint -design, stood outlined against the beautiful southern valley; and their -architecture suggested the fortifications of some old château rather -than the steeples of a place of worship.</p> - -<p>The abbé was happy; for he had caught three red-snappers, two eels, -and five sunfish. It would enable him to triumph again over his flock, -which respected him, no doubt, because he was one of the most powerful -men of the place, despite his years. These little innocent vanities -were his greatest pleasures. He was a fine marksman; sometimes he -practiced with his neighbor, a retired army provost who kept a tobacco -shop; he could also swim better than anyone along the coast.</p> - -<p>In his day he had been a well-known society man, the Baron de Vilbois, -but had entered the priesthood after an unfortunate love-affair. Being -the scion of an old family of Picardy, devout and royalistic, whose -sons for centuries had entered the army, the magistracy, or the Church, -his first thought was to follow his mother's advice and become a -priest. But he yielded to his father's suggestion that he should study -law in Paris and seek some high office.</p> - -<p>While he was completing his studies his father was carried off by -pneumonia; his mother, who was greatly affected by the loss, died soon -afterward. He came into a fortune, and consequently gave up the idea of -following a profession to live a life of idleness. He was handsome and -intelligent, but somewhat prejudiced by the traditions and principles -which he had inherited, along with his muscular frame, from a long line -of ancestors.</p> - -<p>Society gladly welcomed him and he enjoyed himself after the fashion of -a well-to-do and seriously inclined young man. But it happened that a -friend introduced him to a young actress, a pupil of the Conservatoire, -who was appearing with great success at the Odéon. It was a case of -love at first sight.</p> - -<p>His sentiment had all the violence, the passion of a man born to -believe in absolute ideas. He saw her act the romantic rôle in which -she had achieved a triumph the first night of her appearance. She was -pretty, and, though naturally perverse, possessed the face of an angel.</p> - -<p>She conquered him completely; she transformed him into a delirious -fool, into one of those ecstatic idiots whom a woman's look will -forever chain to the pyre of fatal passions. She became his mistress -and left the stage. They lived together four years, his love for her -increasing during the time. He would have married her in spite of his -proud name and family traditions, had he not discovered that for a long -time she had been unfaithful to him with the friend who had introduced -them.</p> - -<p>The awakening was terrible, for she was about to become a mother, and -he was awaiting the birth of the child to make her his wife.</p> - -<p>When he held the proof of her transgressions,—some letters found in a -drawer,—he confronted her with his knowledge and reproached her with -all the savageness of his uncouth nature for her unfaithfulness and -deceit. But she, a child of the people, being as sure of this man as of -the other, braved and insulted him with the inherited daring of those -women, who, in times of war, mounted with the men on the barricades.</p> - -<p>He would have struck her to the ground—but she showed him her form. -As white as death, he checked himself, remembering that a child of his -would soon be born to this vile, polluted creature. He rushed at her -to crush them both, to obliterate this double shame. Reeling under his -blows, and seeing that he was about to stamp out the life of her unborn -babe, she realized that she was lost. Throwing out her hands to parry -the blows, she cried:</p> - -<p>"Do not kill me! It is his, not yours!"</p> - -<p>He fell back, so stunned with surprise that for a moment his rage -subsided. He stammered:</p> - -<p>"What? What did you say?"</p> - -<p>Crazed with fright, having read her doom in his eyes and gestures, she -repeated: "It's not yours, it's his."</p> - -<p>Through his clenched teeth he stammered:</p> - -<p>"The child?"</p> - -<p>"Yes."</p> - -<p>"You lie!"</p> - -<p>And again he lifted his foot as if to crush her, while she struggled to -her knees in a vain attempt to rise. "I tell you it's his. If it was -yours, wouldn't it have come much sooner?"</p> - -<p>He was struck by the truth of this argument. In a moment of strange -lucidity, his mind evolved precise, conclusive, irresistible reasons to -disclaim the child of this miserable woman, and he felt so appeased, so -happy at the thought, that he decided to let her live.</p> - -<p>He then spoke in a calmer voice: "Get up and leave, and never let me -see you again."</p> - -<p>Quite cowed, she obeyed him and went. He never saw her again.</p> - -<p>Then he left Paris and came south. He stopped in a village situated -in a valley, near the coast of the Mediterranean. Selecting for his -abode an inn facing the sea, he lived there eighteen months in complete -seclusion, nursing his sorrow and despair. The memory of the unfaithful -one tortured him; her grace, her charm, her perversity haunted him, and -withal came the regret of her caresses.</p> - -<p>He wandered aimlessly in those beautiful vales of Provence, baring his -head, filled with the thoughts of that woman, to the sun that filtered -through the grayish-green leaves of the olive-trees.</p> - -<p>His former ideas of religion, the abated ardor of his faith, returned -to him during his sorrowful retreat. Religion had formerly seemed a -refuge from the unknown temptations of life, now it appeared as a -refuge from its snares and tortures. He had never given up the habit of -prayer. In his sorrow, he turned anew to its consolations, and often -at dusk he would wander into the little village church, where in the -darkness gleamed the light of the lamp hung above the altar, to guard -the sanctuary and symbolize the Divine Presence.</p> - -<p>He confided his sorrow to his God, told Him of his misery, asking -advice, pity, help, and consolation. Each day, his fervid prayers -disclosed stronger faith.</p> - -<p>The bleeding heart of this man, crushed by love for a woman, still -longed for affection; and soon his prayers, his seclusion, his constant -communion with the Savior who consoles and cheers the weary, wrought a -change in him, and the mystic love of God entered his soul, casting out -the love of the flesh.</p> - -<p>He then decided to take up his former plans and to devote his life to -the Church.</p> - -<p>He became a priest. Through family connections he succeeded in -obtaining a call to the parish of this village which he had come across -by chance. Devoting a large part of his fortune to the maintenance of -charitable institutions, and keeping only enough to enable him to help -the poor as long as he lived, he sought refuge in a quiet life filled -with prayer and acts of kindness toward his fellow-men.</p> - -<p>Narrow-minded but kind-hearted, a priest with a soldier's temperament, -he guided his blind, erring flock forcibly through the mazes of this -life in which every taste, instinct, and desire is a pitfall. But -the old man in him never disappeared entirely. He continued to love -out-of-door exercise and noble sports, but he hated every woman, having -an almost childish fear of their dangerous fascination.</p> - - -<h5>II.</h5> - -<p>The sailor who followed the priest, being a southerner, found it -difficult to refrain from talking. But he did not dare start a -conversation, for the abbé exerted a great prestige over his flock. At -last he ventured a remark: "So you like your lodge, do you, Monsieur le -Curé?"</p> - -<p>This lodge was one of the tiny constructions that are inhabited during -the summer by the villagers and the town people alike. It was situated -in a field not far from the parish-house, and the abbé had hired it -because the latter was very small and built in the heart of the village -next to the church.</p> - -<p>During the summer time, he did not live altogether at the lodge, but -would remain a few days at a time to practice pistol-shooting and be -close to nature.</p> - -<p>"Yes, my friend," said the priest, "I like it very well."</p> - -<p>The low structure could now be seen; it was painted pink, and the walls -were almost hidden under the leaves and branches of the olive-trees -that grew in the open field. A tall woman was passing in and out of the -door, setting a small table at which she placed, at each trip, a knife -and fork, a glass, a plate, a napkin, and a piece of bread. She wore -the small cap of the women of Arles, a pointed cone of silk or black -velvet, decorated with a white rosette.</p> - -<p>When the abbé was near enough to make himself heard, he shouted:</p> - -<p>"Eh! Marguerite!"</p> - -<p>She stopped to ascertain whence the voice came, and recognizing her -master: "Oh! it's you, Monsieur le Curé!"</p> - -<p>"Yes. I have caught some fine fish, and want you to broil this sunfish -immediately, do you hear?"</p> - -<p>The servant examined, with a critical and approving glance, the fish -that the sailor carried.</p> - -<p>"Yes, but we are going to have a chicken for dinner," she said.</p> - -<p>"Well, it cannot be helped. To-morrow the fish will not be as fresh -as it is now. I mean to enjoy a little feast—it does not happen -often—and the sin is not great."</p> - -<p>The woman picked out a sunfish and prepared to go into the house. -"Ah!" she said, "a man came to see you three times while you were out, -Monsieur le Curé."</p> - -<p>Indifferently he inquired: "A man! What kind of man?"</p> - -<p>"Why, a man whose appearance was not in his favor."</p> - -<p>"What! a beggar?"</p> - -<p>"Perhaps—I don't know. But I think he is more of a 'maoufatan.'"</p> - -<p>The abbé smiled at this word, which, in the language of Provence means -a highwayman, a tramp, for he was well aware of Marguerite's timidity, -and knew that every day and especially every night she fancied they -would be murdered.</p> - -<p>He handed a few sous to the sailor, who departed. And just as he was -saying: "I am going to wash my hands,"—for his past dainty habits -still clung to him,—Marguerite called to him from the kitchen -where she was scraping the fish with a knife, thereby detaching its -blood-stained, silvery scales:</p> - -<p>"There he comes!"</p> - -<p>The abbé looked down the road and saw a man coming slowly toward -the house; he seemed poorly dressed, indeed, so far as he could -distinguish. He could not help smiling at his servant's anxiety, and -thought, while he waited for the stranger: "I think, after all, she is -right; he does look like a 'maoufatan.'"</p> - -<p>The man walked slowly, with his eyes on the priest and his hands buried -deep in his pockets. He was young and wore a full, blond beard; strands -of curly hair escaped from his soft felt hat, which was so dirty -and battered that it was impossible to imagine its former color and -appearance. He was clothed in a long, dark overcoat, from which emerged -the frayed edge of his trousers; on his feet were bathing shoes that -deadened his steps, giving him the stealthy walk of a sneak thief.</p> - -<p>When he had come within a few steps of the priest, he doffed, with a -sweeping motion, the ragged hat that shaded his brow. He was not bad -looking, though his face showed signs of dissipation and the top of his -head was bald, an indication of premature fatigue and debauch, for he -certainly was not over twenty-five years old.</p> - -<p>The priest responded at once to his bow, feeling that this fellow was -not an ordinary tramp, a mechanic out of work, or a jail-bird, hardly -able to speak any other tongue but the mysterious language of prisons.</p> - -<p>"How do you do, Monsieur le Curé?" said the man. The priest answered -simply, "I salute you," unwilling to address this ragged stranger as -"Monsieur." They considered each other attentively; the abbé felt -uncomfortable under the gaze of the tramp, invaded by a feeling of -unrest unknown to him.</p> - -<p>At last the vagabond continued: "Well, do you recognize me?"</p> - -<p>Greatly surprised, the priest answered: "Why, no, you are a stranger to -me."</p> - -<p>"Ah! you do not know me? Look at me well."</p> - -<p>"I have never seen you before."</p> - -<p>"Well, that may be true," replied the man sarcastically, "but let me -show you some one whom you will know better."</p> - -<p>He put on his hat and unbuttoned his coat, revealing his bare chest. A -red sash wound around his spare frame held his trousers in place. He -drew an envelope from his coat pocket, one of those soiled wrappers -destined to protect the sundry papers of the tramp, whether they be -stolen or legitimate property, those papers which he guards jealously -and uses to protect himself against the too zealous gendarmes. He -pulled out a photograph about the size of a folded letter, one of those -pictures which were popular long ago; it was yellow and dim with age, -for he had carried it around with him everywhere and the heat of his -body had faded it.</p> - -<p>Pushing it under the abbé's eyes, he demanded:</p> - -<p>"Do you know him?"</p> - -<p>The priest took a step forward to look and grew pale, for it was his -own likeness that he had given Her years ago.</p> - -<p>Failing to grasp the meaning of the situation he remained silent.</p> - -<p>The tramp repeated:</p> - -<p>"Do you recognize him?"</p> - -<p>And the priest stammered: "Yes."</p> - -<p>"Who is it?"</p> - -<p>"It is I."</p> - -<p>"It is you?"</p> - -<p>"Yes."</p> - -<p>"Well, then, look at us both,—at me and at your picture!"</p> - -<p>Already the unhappy man had seen that these two beings, the one in the -picture and the one by his side, resembled each other like brothers; -yet he did not understand, and muttered: "Well, what is it you wish?"</p> - -<p>Then in an ugly voice, the tramp replied: "What do I wish? Why, first I -wish you to recognize me."</p> - -<p>"Who are you?"</p> - -<p>"Who am I? Ask anybody by the roadside, ask your servant, let's go and -ask the mayor and show him this; and he will laugh, I tell you that! -Ah! you will not recognize me as your son, papa curé?"</p> - -<p>The old man raised his arms above his head, with a patriarchal gesture, -and muttered despairingly: "It cannot be true!"</p> - -<p>The young fellow drew quite close to him.</p> - -<p>"Ah! It cannot be true, you say! You must stop lying, do you hear?" -His clenched fists and threatening face, and the violence with which -he spoke, made the priest retreat a few steps, while he asked himself -anxiously which one of them was laboring under a mistake.</p> - -<p>Again he asserted: "I never had a child."</p> - -<p>The other man replied: "And no mistress, either?"</p> - -<p>The aged priest resolutely uttered one word, a proud admission:</p> - -<p>"Yes."</p> - -<p>"And was not this mistress about to give birth to a child when you left -her?"</p> - -<p>Suddenly the anger which had been quelled twenty-five years ago, not -quelled, but buried in the heart of the lover, burst through the wall -of faith, resignation, and renunciation he had built around it. Almost -beside himself, he shouted:</p> - -<p>"I left her because she was unfaithful to me and was carrying the child -of another man; had it not been for this, I should have killed both you -and her, sir!"</p> - -<p>The young man hesitated, taken aback at the sincerity of this outburst. -Then he replied in a gentler voice:</p> - -<p>"Who told you that it was another man's child?"</p> - -<p>"She told me herself and braved me."</p> - -<p>Without contesting this assertion the vagabond assumed the indifferent -tone of a loafer judging a case:</p> - -<p>"Well, then, mother made a mistake, that's all!"</p> - -<p>After his outburst of rage, the priest had succeeded in mastering -himself sufficiently to be able to inquire:</p> - -<p>"And who told you that you were my son?"</p> - -<p>"My mother, on her deathbed, M'sieur le Curé. And then—this!" And he -held the picture under the eyes of the priest.</p> - -<p>The old man took it from him; and slowly, with a heart bursting with -anguish, he compared this stranger with his faded likeness and doubted -no longer—it was his son.</p> - -<p>An awful distress wrung his very soul, a terrible, inexpressible -emotion invaded him; it was like the remorse of some ancient crime. He -began to understand a little, he guessed the rest. He lived over the -brutal scene of the parting. It was to save her life, then, that the -wretched and deceitful woman had lied to him, her outraged lover. And -he had believed her. And a son of his had been brought into the world -and had grown up to be this sordid tramp, who exhaled the very odor of -vice as a goat exhales its animal smell.</p> - -<p>He whispered: "Will you take a little walk with me, so that we can -discuss these matters?"</p> - -<p>The young man sneered: "Why, certainly! Isn't that what I came for?"</p> - -<p>They walked side by side through the olive grove. The sun had gone down -and the coolness of southern twilights spread an invisible cloak over -the country. The priest shivered, and raising his eyes with a familiar -motion, perceived the trembling gray foliage of the holy tree which had -spread its frail shadow over the Son of Man in His great trouble and -despondency.</p> - -<p>A short, despairing prayer rose within him, uttered by his soul's -voice, a prayer by which Christians implore the Savior's aid: "O Lord! -have mercy on me."</p> - -<p>Turning to his son he said: "So your mother is dead?"</p> - -<p>These words, "Your mother is dead," awakened a new sorrow; it was -the torment of the flesh which cannot forget, the cruel echo of past -sufferings; but mostly the thrill of the fleeting, delirious bliss of -his youthful passion.</p> - -<p>The young man replied: "Yes, Monsieur le Curé, my mother is dead."</p> - -<p>"Has she been dead a long while?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, three years."</p> - -<p>A new doubt entered the priest's mind. "And why did you not find me out -before?"</p> - -<p>The other man hesitated.</p> - -<p>"I was unable to, I was prevented. But excuse me for interrupting these -recollections—I will enter into more details later—for I have not had -anything to eat since yesterday morning."</p> - -<p>A tremor of pity shook the old man and holding forth both hands: "Oh! -my poor child!" he said.</p> - -<p>The young fellow took those big, powerful hands in his own slender and -feverish palms.</p> - -<p>Then he replied, with that air of sarcasm which hardly ever left his -lips: "Ah! I'm beginning to think that we shall get along very well -together, after all!"</p> - -<p>The curé started toward the lodge.</p> - -<p>"Let us go to dinner," he said.</p> - -<p>He suddenly remembered, with a vague and instinctive pleasure, the fine -fish he had caught, which, with the chicken, would make a good meal for -the poor fellow.</p> - -<p>The servant was in front of the door, watching their approach with an -anxious and forbidding face.</p> - -<p>"Marguerite," shouted the abbé, "take the table and put it into the -dining-room, right away; and set two places, as quick as you can."</p> - -<p>The woman seemed stunned at the idea that her master was going to dine -with this tramp.</p> - -<p>But the abbé, without waiting for her, removed the plate and napkin and -carried the little table into the dining-room.</p> - -<p>A few minutes later he was sitting opposite the beggar, in front of a -soup-tureen filled with savory cabbage soup, which sent up a cloud of -fragrant steam.</p> - - -<p>III.</p> - -<p>When the plates were filled, the tramp fell to with ravenous avidity. -The abbé had lost his appetite and ate slowly, leaving the bread in the -bottom of his plate. Suddenly he inquired:</p> - -<p>"What is your name?"</p> - -<p>The man smiled; he was delighted to satisfy his hunger.</p> - -<p>"Father unknown," he said, "and no other name but my mother's, which -you probably remember. But I possess two Christian names, which, by the -way, are quite unsuited to me—Philippe-Auguste."</p> - -<p>The priest whitened.</p> - -<p>"Why were you named thus?" he asked.</p> - -<p>The tramp shrugged his shoulders. "I fancy you ought to know. After -mother left you, she wished to make your rival believe that I was his -child. He did believe it until I was about fifteen. Then I began to -look too much like you. And he disclaimed me, the scoundrel. I had been -christened Philippe-Auguste; now, if I had not resembled a soul, or if -I had been the son of a third person, who had stayed in the background, -to-day I should be the Vicomte Philippe-Auguste de Pravallon, son of -the count and senator bearing this name. I have christened myself -'No-luck.'"</p> - -<p>"How did you learn all this?"</p> - -<p>"They discussed it before me, you know; pretty lively discussions they -were, too. I tell you, that's what shows you the seamy side of life!"</p> - -<p>Something more distressing than all he had suffered during the last -half hour now oppressed the priest. It was a sort of suffocation which -seemed as if it would grow and grow till it killed him; it was not due -so much to the things he heard as to the manner in which they were -uttered by this wayside tramp. Between himself and this beggar, between -his son and himself, he was discovering the existence of those moral -divergencies which are as fatal poisons to certain souls. Was this his -son? He could not yet believe it. He wanted all the proofs, every one -of them. He wanted to hear all, to listen to all. Again he thought of -the olive-trees that shaded his little lodge, and for the second time -he prayed: "O Lord! have mercy upon me."</p> - -<p>Philippe-Auguste had finished his soup. He inquired: "Is there nothing -else, abbé?"</p> - -<p>The kitchen was built in an annex. Marguerite could not hear her -master's voice. He always called her by striking a Chinese gong hung -on the wall behind his chair. He took the brass hammer and struck the -round metal plate. It gave a feeble sound, which grew and vibrated, -becoming sharper and louder till it finally died away on the evening -breeze.</p> - -<p>The servant appeared with a frowning face and cast angry glances at the -tramp, as if her faithful instinct had warned her of the misfortune -that had befallen her master. She held a platter on which was the -sunfish, spreading a savory odor of melted butter through the room. The -abbé divided the fish lengthwise, helping his son to the better half: -"I caught it a little while ago," he said, with a touch of pride in -spite of his keen distress.</p> - -<p>Marguerite had not left the room.</p> - -<p>The priest added: "Bring us some wine, the white wine of Cape Corse."</p> - -<p>She almost rebelled, and the priest, assuming a severe expression was -obliged to repeat: "Now, go, and bring two bottles, remember," for, -when he drank with anybody, a very rare pleasure, indeed, he always -opened one bottle for himself.</p> - -<p>Beaming, Philippe-Auguste remarked: "Fine! A splendid idea! It has been -a long time since I've had such a dinner." The servant came back after -a few minutes. The abbé thought it an eternity, for now a thirst for -information burned his blood like infernal fire.</p> - -<p>After the bottles had been opened, the woman still remained, her eyes -glued on the tramp.</p> - -<p>"Leave us," said the curé.</p> - -<p>She intentionally ignored his command.</p> - -<p>He repeated almost roughly: "I have ordered you to leave us."</p> - -<p>Then she left the room.</p> - -<p>Philippe-Auguste devoured the fish voraciously, while his father sat -watching him, more and more surprised and saddened at all the baseness -stamped on the face that was so like his own. The morsels the abbé -raised to his lips remained in his mouth, for his throat could not -swallow; so he ate slowly, trying to choose, from the host of questions -which besieged his mind, the one he wished his son to answer first. At -last he spoke:</p> - -<p>"What was the cause of her death?"</p> - -<p>"Consumption."</p> - -<p>"Was she ill a long time?"</p> - -<p>"About eighteen months."</p> - -<p>"How did she contract it?"</p> - -<p>"We could not tell."</p> - -<p>Both men were silent. The priest was reflecting. He was oppressed by -the multitude of things he wished to know and to hear, for since the -rupture, since the day he had tried to kill her, he had heard nothing. -Certainly, he had not cared to know, because he had buried her, along -with his happiest days, in forgetfulness; but now, knowing that she was -dead and gone, he felt within himself the almost jealous desire of a -lover to hear all.</p> - -<p>He continued: "She was not alone, was she?"</p> - -<p>"No, she lived with him."</p> - -<p>The old man started: "With him? With Pravallon?"</p> - -<p>"Why, yes."</p> - -<p>And the betrayed man rapidly calculated that the woman who had deceived -him, had lived over thirty years with his rival.</p> - -<p>Almost unconsciously he asked: "Were they happy?"</p> - -<p>The young man sneered. "Why, yes, with ups and downs! It would have -been better had I not been there. I always spoiled everything."</p> - -<p>"How, and why?" inquired the priest.</p> - -<p>"I have already told you. Because he thought I was his son up to my -fifteenth year. But the old fellow wasn't a fool, and soon discovered -the likeness. That created scenes. I used to listen behind the door. He -accused mother of having deceived him. Mother would answer: 'Is it my -fault? you knew quite well when you took me that I was the mistress of -that other man.' You were that other man."</p> - -<p>"Ah! They spoke of me sometimes?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, but never mentioned your name before me, excepting toward the -end, when mother knew she was lost. I think they distrusted me."</p> - -<p>"And you—and you learned quite early the irregularity of your mother's -position?"</p> - -<p>"Why, certainly. I am not innocent and I never was. Those things are -easy to guess as soon as one begins to know life."</p> - -<p>Philippe-Auguste had been filling his glass repeatedly. His eyes now -were beginning to sparkle, for his long fast was favorable to the -intoxicating effects of the wine. The priest noticed it and wished to -caution him. But suddenly the thought that a drunkard is imprudent and -loquacious flashed through him, and lifting the bottle he again filled -the young man's glass.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile Marguerite had brought the chicken. Having set it on the -table, she again fastened her eyes on the tramp, saying in an indignant -voice: "Can't you see that he's drunk, Monsieur le Curé?"</p> - -<p>"Leave us," replied the priest, "and return to the kitchen."</p> - -<p>She went out, slamming the door.</p> - -<p>He then inquired: "What did your mother say about me?"</p> - -<p>"Why, what a woman usually says of a man she has jilted: that you were -hard to get along with, very strange, and that you would have made her -life miserable with your peculiar ideas."</p> - -<p>"Did she say that often?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, but sometimes only in allusions, for fear I would understand; but -nevertheless I guessed all."</p> - -<p>"And how did they treat you in that house?"</p> - -<p>"Me? They treated me very well at first and very badly afterward. When -mother saw that I was interfering with her, she shook me."</p> - -<p>"How?"</p> - -<p>"How? very easily. When I was about sixteen years old, I got into -various scrapes, and those blackguards put me into a reformatory to get -rid of me." He put his elbows on the table and rested his cheeks in his -palms. He was hopelessly intoxicated, and felt the unconquerable desire -of all drunkards to talk and boast about themselves.</p> - -<p>He smiled sweetly, with a feminine grace, an arch grace the priest knew -and recognized as the hated charm that had won him long ago, and had -also wrought his undoing. Now it was his mother whom the boy resembled, -not so much because of his features, but because of his fascinating and -deceptive glance, and the seductiveness of the false smile that played -around his lips, the outlet of his inner ignominy.</p> - -<p>Philippe-Auguste began to relate: "Ah! Ah! Ah!—I've had a fine life -since I left the reformatory! A great writer would pay a large sum for -it! Why, old Père Dumas's Monte Cristo has had no stranger adventures -than mine."</p> - -<p>He paused to reflect with the philosophical gravity of the drunkard, -then he continued slowly:</p> - -<p>"When you wish a boy to turn out well, no matter what he has done, -never send him to a reformatory. The associations are too bad. Now, -I got into a bad scrape. One night about nine o'clock, I, with three -companions—we were all a little drunk—was walking along the road -near the ford of Folac. All at once a wagon hove in sight, with the -driver and his family asleep in it. They were people from Martinon on -their way home from town. I caught hold of the bridle, led the horse -to the ferryboat, made him walk into it, and pushed the boat into the -middle of the stream. This created some noise and the driver awoke. He -could not see in the dark, but whipped up the horse, which started on -a run and landed in the water with the whole load. All were drowned! -My companions denounced me to the authorities, though they thought it -was a good joke when they saw me do it. Really, we didn't think that it -would turn out that way. We only wanted to give the people a ducking, -just for fun. After that I committed worse offenses to revenge myself -for the first one, which did not, on my honor, warrant the reformatory. -But what's the use of telling them? I will speak only of the latest -one, because I am sure it will please you. Papa, I avenged you!"</p> - -<p>The abbé was watching his son with terrified eyes; he had stopped -eating.</p> - -<p>Philippe-Auguste was preparing to begin. "No, not yet," said the -priest, "in a little while."</p> - -<p>And he turned to strike the Chinese gong.</p> - -<p>Marguerite appeared almost instantly. Her master addressed her in -such a rough tone that she hung her head, thoroughly frightened and -obedient: "Bring in the lamp and the dessert, and then do not appear -until I summon you."</p> - -<p>She went out and returned with a porcelain lamp covered with a green -shade, and bringing also a large piece of cheese and some fruit.</p> - -<p>After she had gone, the abbé turned resolutely to his son.</p> - -<p>"Now I am ready to hear you."</p> - -<p>Philippe-Auguste calmly filled his plate with dessert and poured wine -into his glass. The second bottle was nearly empty, though the priest -had not touched it.</p> - -<p>His mouth and tongue, thick with food and wine, the man stuttered: -"Well, now for the last job. And it's a good one. I was home -again,—stayed there in spite of them, because they feared me,—yes, -feared me. Ah! you can't fool with me, you know,—I'll do anything, -when I'm roused. They lived together on and off. The old man had two -residences. One official, for the senator, the other clandestine, for -the lover. Still, he lived more in the latter than in the former, as -he could not get along without mother. Mother was a sharp one—she -knew how to hold a man! She had taken him body and soul, and kept him -to the last! Well, I had come back and I kept them down by fright. I -am resourceful at times—nobody can match me for sharpness and for -strength, too—I'm afraid of no one. Well, mother got sick and the old -man took her to a fine place in the country, near Meulan, situated in a -park as big as a wood. She lasted about eighteen months, as I told you. -Then we felt the end to be near. He came from Paris every day—he was -very miserable—really.</p> - -<p>"One morning they chatted a long time, over an hour, I think, and I -could not imagine what they were talking about. Suddenly mother called -me in and said:</p> - -<p>"'I am going to die, and there is something I want to tell you -beforehand, in spite of the Count's advice.' In speaking of him she -always said 'the Count.' 'It is the name of your father, who is alive.' -I had asked her this more than fifty times—more than fifty times—my -father's name—more than fifty times—and she always refused to tell. I -think I even beat her one day to make her talk, but it was of no use. -Then, to get rid of me, she told me that you had died penniless, that -you were worthless and that she had made a mistake in her youth, an -innocent girl's mistake. She lied so well, I really believed you had -died.</p> - -<p>"Finally she said: 'It is your father's name.'</p> - -<p>"The old man, who was sitting in an armchair, repeated three times, -like this: 'You do wrong, you do wrong, you do wrong, Rosette.'</p> - -<p>"Mother sat up in bed. I can see her now, with her flushed cheeks and -shining eyes; she loved me, in spite of everything; and she said: -'Then you do something for him, Philippe!' In speaking to him she -called him 'Philippe' and me 'Auguste.'</p> - -<p>"He began to shout like a madman: 'Do something for that loafer—that -blackguard, that convict? never!'</p> - -<p>"And he continued to call me names, as if he had done nothing else all -his life but collect them.</p> - -<p>"I was angry, but mother told me to hold my tongue, and she resumed: -'Then you must want him to starve, for you know that I leave no money.'</p> - -<p>"Without being deterred, he continued: 'Rosette, I have given you -thirty-five thousand francs a year for thirty years,—that makes more -than a million. I have enabled you to live like a wealthy, a beloved, -and I may say, a happy woman. I owe nothing to that fellow, who has -spoiled our late years, and he will not get a cent from me. It is -useless to insist. Tell him the name of his father, if you wish. I am -sorry, but I wash my hands of him.'</p> - -<p>"Then mother turned toward me. I thought: 'Good! now I'm going to find -my real father—if he has money, I'm saved.'</p> - -<p>"She went on: 'Your father, the Baron de Vilbois, is to-day the Abbé -Vilbois, curé of Garandou, near Toulon. He was my lover before I left -him for the Count!'</p> - -<p>"And she told me all, excepting that she had deceived you about her -pregnancy. But women, you know, never tell the whole truth."</p> - -<p>Sneeringly, unconsciously, he was revealing the depths of his foul -nature. With beaming face he raised the glass to his lips and -continued:</p> - -<p>"Mother died two days—two days later. We followed her remains to -the grave, he and I—say—wasn't it funny?—he and I—and three -servants—that was all. He cried like a calf—we were side by side—we -looked like father and son.</p> - -<p>"Then he went back to the house alone. I was thinking to myself: 'I'll -have to clear out now and without a penny, too.' I owned only fifty -francs. What could I do to revenge myself?</p> - -<p>"He touched me on the arm and said: 'I wish to speak to you.' I -followed him into his office. He sat down in front of the desk and, -wiping away his tears, he told me that he would not be as hard on me -as he had said he would to mother. He begged me to leave you alone. -That—that concerns only you and me. He offered me a thousand-franc -note—a thousand—a thousand francs. What could a fellow like me do -with a thousand francs?—I saw that there were very many bills in the -drawer. The sight of the money made me wild. I put out my hand as if to -take the note he offered me, but instead of doing so, I sprang at him, -threw him to the ground and choked him till he grew purple. When I saw -that he was going to give up the ghost, I gagged and bound him. Then I -undressed him, laid him on his stomach and—ah! ah! ah!—I avenged you -in a funny way!"</p> - -<p>He stopped to cough, for he was choking with merriment. His ferocious, -mirthful smile reminded the priest once more of the woman who had -wrought his undoing.</p> - -<p>"And then?" he inquired.</p> - -<p>"Then,—ah! ah! ah!—There was a bright fire in the fireplace—it -was in the winter—in December—mother died—a bright coal fire—I -took the poker—I let it get red-hot—and I made crosses on his back, -eight or more, I cannot remember how many—then I turned him over and -repeated them on his stomach. Say, wasn't it funny, papa? Formerly -they marked convicts in this way. He wriggled like an eel—but I had -gagged him so that he couldn't scream. I gathered up the bills—twelve -in all—with mine it made thirteen—an unlucky number. I left the -house, after telling the servants not to bother their master until -dinner-time, because he was asleep. I thought that he would hush the -matter up because he was a senator and would fear the scandal. I was -mistaken. Four days later I was arrested in a Paris restaurant. I got -three years for the job. That is the reason why I did not come to you -sooner." He drank again, and stuttering so as to render his words -almost unintelligible, continued:</p> - -<p>"Now—papa—isn't it funny to have one's papa a curé? You must be nice -to me, very nice, because, you know, I am not commonplace,—and I did a -good job—didn't I—on the old man?"</p> - -<p>The anger which years ago had driven the Abbé Vilbois to desperation -rose within him at the sight of this miserable man.</p> - -<p>He, who in the name of the Lord, had so often pardoned the infamous -secrets whispered to him under the seal of confession, was now -merciless in his own behalf. No longer did he implore the help of a -merciful God, for he realized that no power on earth or in the sky -could save those who had been visited by such a terrible disaster.</p> - -<p>All the ardor of his passionate heart and of his violent blood, which -long years of resignation had tempered, awoke against the miserable -creature who was his son. He protested against the likeness he bore to -him and to his mother, the wretched mother who had formed him so like -herself; and he rebelled against the destiny that had chained this -criminal to him, like an iron ball to a galley-slave.</p> - -<p>The shock roused him from the peaceful and pious slumber which had -lasted twenty-five years; with a wonderful lucidity he saw all that -would inevitably ensue.</p> - -<p>Convinced that he must talk loud so as to intimidate this man from the -first, he spoke with his teeth clenched with fury:</p> - -<p>"Now that you have told all, listen to me. You will leave here -to-morrow morning. You will go to a country that I shall designate, and -never leave it without my permission. I will give you a small income, -for I am poor. If you disobey me once, it will be withdrawn and you -will learn to know me."</p> - -<p>Though Philippe-Auguste was half dazed with wine, he understood the -threat. Instantly the criminal within him rebelled. Between hiccoughs -he sputtered: "Ah! papa, be careful what you say—you're a curé, -remember—I hold you—and you have to walk straight, like the rest!"</p> - -<p>The abbé started. Through his whole muscular frame crept the -unconquerable desire to seize this monster, to bend him like a twig, so -as to show him that he would have to yield.</p> - -<p>Shaking the table, he shouted: "Take care, take care—I am afraid of -nobody."</p> - -<p>The drunkard lost his balance and seeing that he was going to fall and -would forthwith be in the priest's power, he reached with a murderous -look for one of the knives lying on the table. The abbé perceived his -motion, and he gave the table a terrible shove; his son toppled over -and landed on his back. The lamp fell with a crash and went out.</p> - -<p>During a moment the clinking of broken glass was heard in the darkness, -then the muffled sound of a soft body creeping on the floor, and then -all was silent.</p> - -<p>With the crashing of the lamp a complete darkness spread over them; -it was so prompt and unexpected that they were stunned by it as by -some terrible event. The drunkard, pressed against the wall, did not -move; the priest remained on his chair in the midst of the night which -had quelled his rage. The somber veil that had descended so rapidly, -arresting his anger, also quieted the furious impulses of his soul; new -ideas, as dark and dreary as the obscurity, beset him.</p> - -<p>The room was perfectly silent, like a tomb where nothing draws the -breath of life. Not a sound came from outside, neither the rumbling of -a distant wagon, nor the bark of a dog, nor even the sigh of the wind -passing through the trees.</p> - -<p>This lasted a long time, perhaps an hour. Then suddenly the gong -vibrated! It rang once, as if it had been struck a short, sharp blow, -and was instantly followed by the noise of a falling body and an -overturned chair.</p> - -<p>Marguerite came running out of the kitchen, but as soon as she opened -the door she fell back, frightened by the intense darkness. Trembling, -her heart beating as if it would burst, she called in a low, hoarse -voice: "M'sieur le Curé! M'sieur le Curé!"</p> - -<p>Nobody answered, nothing stirred.</p> - -<p>"<i>Mon Dieu, mon Dieu</i>," she thought, "what has happened, what have they -done?"</p> - -<p>She did not dare enter the room, yet feared to go back to fetch a -light. She felt as if she would like to run away, to screech at the top -of her voice, though she knew her legs would refuse to carry her. She -repeated: "M'sieur le Curé! M'sieur le Curé! it is me, Marguerite."</p> - -<p>But, notwithstanding her terror, the instinctive desire of helping her -master and a woman's courage, which is sometimes heroic, filled her -soul with a terrified audacity, and running back to the kitchen she -fetched a lamp.</p> - -<p>She stopped at the doorsill. First, she caught sight of the tramp lying -against the wall, asleep, or simulating slumber; then she saw the -broken lamp, and then, under the table, the feet and black-stockinged -legs of the priest, who must have fallen backward, striking his head on -the gong.</p> - -<p>Her teeth chattering and her hands trembling with fright, she kept on -repeating: "My God! My God! what is this?"</p> - -<p>She advanced slowly, taking small steps, till she slid on something -slimy and almost fell.</p> - -<p>Stooping, she saw that the floor was red and that a red liquid was -spreading around her feet toward the door. She guessed that it was -blood. She threw down her light so as to hide the sight of it, and fled -from the room out into the fields, running half crazed toward the -village. She ran screaming at the top of her voice, and bumping against -the trees she did not heed, her eyes fastened on the gleaming lights of -the distant town.</p> - -<p>Her shrill voice rang out like the gloomy cry of the night-owl, -repeating continuously, "The maoufatan—the maoufatan—the -maoufatan——"</p> - -<p>When she reached the first house, some excited men came out and -surrounded her; but she could not answer them and struggled to escape, -for the fright had turned her head.</p> - -<p>After a while they guessed that something must have happened to the -curé, and a little rescuing party started for the lodge.</p> - -<p>The little pink house standing in the middle of the olive grove had -grown black and invisible in the dark, silent night. Since the gleam of -the solitary window had faded, the cabin was plunged in darkness, lost -in the grove, and unrecognizable for anyone but a native of the place.</p> - -<p>Soon lights began to gleam near the ground, between the trees, -streaking the dried grass with long, yellow reflections. The twisted -trunks of the olive-trees assumed fantastic shapes under the moving -lights, looking like monsters or infernal serpents. The projected -reflections suddenly revealed a vague, white mass, and soon the low, -square wall of the lodge grew pink from the light of the lanterns. -Several peasants were carrying the latter, escorting two gendarmes with -revolvers, the mayor, the <i>garde-champêtre</i>, and Marguerite, supported -by the men, for she was almost unable to walk.</p> - -<p>The rescuing party hesitated a moment in front of the open, grewsome -door. But the brigadier, snatching a lantern from one of the men, -entered, followed by the rest.</p> - -<p>The servant had not lied, blood covered the floor like a carpet. It had -spread to the place where the tramp was lying, bathing one of his hands -and legs.</p> - -<p>The father and son were asleep, the one with a severed throat, the -other in a drunken stupor. The two gendarmes seized the latter and -before he awoke they had him handcuffed. He rubbed his eyes, stunned, -stupefied with liquor, and when he saw the body of the priest, he -appeared terrified, unable to understand what had happened.</p> - -<p>"Why did he not escape?" said the mayor.</p> - -<p>"He was too drunk," replied the officer.</p> - -<p>And every man agreed with him, for nobody ever thought that perhaps the -Abbé Vilbois had taken his own life.</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h4><a name="REVENGE" id="REVENGE">REVENGE</a></h4> - - -<p>As they were still speaking of Pranzini, M. Maloureau, who had been -Attorney-General under the Empire, said:</p> - -<p>"I knew another case like that, a very curious affair, curious from -many points, as you shall see.</p> - -<p>"I was at that time Imperial attorney in the province, and stood -very well at Court, thanks to my father, who was first President at -Paris. I had charge of a still celebrated case, called 'The Affair of -Schoolmaster Moiron.'</p> - -<p>"M. Moiron, a schoolmaster in the north of France, bore an excellent -reputation in all the country thereabout. He was an intelligent, -reflective, very religious man, and had married in the district -of Boislinot, where he practiced his profession. He had had three -children, who all died in succession from weak lungs. After the loss of -his own little ones, he seemed to lavish upon the urchins confided to -his care all the tenderness concealed in his heart. He bought, with his -own pennies, playthings for his best pupils, the diligent and good. -He allowed them to have play dinners, and gorged them with dainties of -candies and cakes. Everybody loved and praised this brave man, this -brave heart, and it was like a blow when five of his pupils died of the -same disease that had carried off his children. It was believed that an -epidemic prevailed, caused by the water being made impure from drought. -They looked for the cause, without discovering it, more than they did -at the symptoms, which were very strange. The children appeared to be -taken with a languor, could eat nothing, complained of pains in the -stomach, and finally died in most terrible agony.</p> - -<p>"An autopsy was made of the last to die, but nothing was discovered. -The entrails were sent to Paris and analyzed, but showed no sign of any -toxic substance.</p> - -<p>"For one year no further deaths occurred; then two little boys, the -best pupils in the class, favorites of father Moiron, expired in four -days' time. An examination was ordered, and in each body fragments -of pounded glass were found imbedded in the organs. They concluded -that the two children had eaten imprudently of something carelessly -prepared. Sufficient broken glass remained in the bottom of a bowl of -milk to have caused this frightful accident, and the matter would have -rested there had not Moiron's servant been taken ill in the interval. -The physician found the same morbid signs that he observed in the -preceding attacks of the children, and, upon questioning her, finally -obtained the confession that she had stolen and eaten some bonbons, -bought by the master for his pupils.</p> - -<p>"Upon order of the court, the schoolhouse was searched and a closet was -found, full of sweetmeats and dainties for the children. Nearly all -these edibles contained fragments of glass or broken needles.</p> - -<p>"Moiron was immediately arrested. He was so indignant and stupefied -at the weight of suspicion upon him that he was nearly overcome. -Nevertheless, the indications of his guilt were so apparent that they -fought hard in my mind against my first conviction, which was based -upon his good reputation, his entire life of truthfulness, and the -absolute absence of any motive for such a crime.</p> - -<p>"Why should this good, simple religious man kill children, and the -children whom he seemed to love best? Why should he select those he had -feasted with dainties, for whom he had spent in playthings and bonbons -half his stipend?</p> - -<p>"To admit this, it must be concluded that he was insane. But Moiron -seemed so reasonable, so calm, so full of judgment and good sense! It -was impossible to prove insanity in him.</p> - -<p>"Proofs accumulated, nevertheless! Bonbons, cakes, <i>pâtés</i> of -marshmallow, and other things seized at the shops where the -schoolmaster got his supplies were found to contain no suspected -fragment.</p> - -<p>"He pretended that some unknown enemy had opened his closet with a -false key and placed the glass and needles in the eatables. And he -implied a story of heritage dependent on the death of a child, sought -out and discovered by a peasant, and so worked up as to make the -suspicion fall upon the schoolmaster. This brute, he said, was not -interested in the other poor children who had to die also.</p> - -<p>"This theory was plausible. The man appeared so sure of himself and -so pitiful, that we should have acquitted him without doubt, if two -overwhelming discoveries had not been made at one blow. The first was -a snuffbox full of ground glass! It was his own snuffbox, in a secret -drawer of his secretary, where he kept his money.</p> - -<p>"He explained this in a manner not acceptable, by saying that it was -the last ruse of an unknown guilty one. But a merchant of Saint-Marlouf -presented himself at the house of the judge, telling him that Moiron -had bought needles of him many times, the finest needles he could find, -breaking them to see whether they suited him.</p> - -<p>"The merchant brought as witnesses a dozen persons who recognized -Moiron at first glance. And the inquest revealed the fact that the -schoolmaster was at Saint-Marlouf on the days designated by the -merchant.</p> - -<p>"I pass over the terrible depositions of the children upon the master's -choice of dainties, and his care in making the little ones eat in his -presence and destroying all traces of the feast.</p> - -<p>"Public opinion, exasperated, recalled capital punishment, and took on -a new force from terror which permitted no delays or resistance.</p> - -<p>"Moiron was condemned to death. His appeal was rejected. No recourse -remained to him for pardon. I knew from my father that the Emperor -would not grant it.</p> - -<p>"One morning, as I was at work in my office, the chaplain of the prison -was announced. He was an old priest who had a great knowledge of men -and a large acquaintance among criminals. He appeared troubled and -constrained. After talking a few moments of other things, he said -abruptly, on rising:</p> - -<p>"'If Moiron is decapitated, Monsieur Attorney-General, you will have -allowed the execution of an innocent man.'</p> - -<p>"Then, without bowing, he went out, leaving me under the profound -effect of his words. He had pronounced them in a solemn, affecting -fashion, opening lips, closed and sealed by confession, in order to -save a life.</p> - -<p>"An hour later I was on my way to Paris, and my father, at my request, -asked an immediate audience with the Emperor.</p> - -<p>"I was received the next day. Napoleon III. was at work in a little -room when we were introduced. I exposed the whole affair, even to the -visit of the priest, and, in the midst of the story, the door opened -behind the chair of the Emperor, and the Empress, who believed in him -alone, entered. His Majesty consulted her. When she had run over the -facts, she exclaimed:</p> - -<p>"'This man must be pardoned! He must, because he is innocent.'</p> - -<p>"Why should this sudden conviction of a woman so pious throw into my -mind a terrible doubt?</p> - -<p>"Up to that time I had ardently desired a commutation of the sentence. -And now I felt myself the puppet, the dupe of a criminal ruse, which -had employed the priest and the confession as a means of defense.</p> - -<p>"I showed some hesitation to their Majesties. The Emperor remained -undecided, solicited on one hand by his natural goodness, and on the -other held back by the fear of allowing himself to play a miserable -part; but the Empress, convinced that the priest had obeyed a divine -call, repeated: 'What does it matter? It is better to spare a guilty -man than to kill an innocent one.' Her advice prevailed. The penalty of -death was commuted, and that of hard labor was substituted.</p> - -<p>"Some years after I heard that Moiron, whose exemplary conduct at -Toulon had been made known again to the Emperor, was employed as a -domestic by the director of the penitentiary. And then I heard no word -of this man for a long time.</p> - -<p>"About two years after this, when I was passing the summer at the house -of my cousin, De Larielle, a young priest came to me one evening, as we -were sitting down to dinner, and wished to speak to me.</p> - -<p>"I told them to let him come in, and he begged me to go with him to a -dying man, who desired, before all else, to see me. This had happened -often, during my long career as judge, and, although I had been put -aside by the Republic, I was still called upon from time to time in -like circumstances.</p> - -<p>"I followed the ecclesiastic, who made me mount into a little miserable -lodging, under the roof of a high house. There, upon a pallet of straw, -I found a dying man, seated with his back against the wall, in order to -breathe. He was a sort of grimacing skeleton, with deep, shining eyes.</p> - -<p>"When he saw me he murmured: 'You do not know me?'</p> - -<p>"'No.'</p> - -<p>"'I am Moiron.'</p> - -<p>"I shivered, but said: 'The schoolmaster?'</p> - -<p>"'Yes.'</p> - -<p>"'How is it you are here?'</p> - -<p>"'That would be too long—I haven't time—I am going to die—They -brought me this curate—and as I knew you were here, I sent him for -you—It is to you that I wish to confess—since you saved my life -before—the other time——'</p> - -<p>"He seized with his dry hands the straw of his bed, and continued, in a -rasping, bass voice:</p> - -<p>"'Here it is—I owe you the truth—to you, because it is necessary to -tell it to some one before leaving the earth.</p> - -<p>"'It was I who killed the children—all—it was I—for vengeance!</p> - -<p>"'Listen. I was an honest man, very honest—very honest—very -pure—adoring God—the good God—the God that they teach us to love, -and not the false God, the executioner, the robber, the murderer -who governs the earth—I had never done wrong, never committed a -villainous act. I was pure as one unborn.</p> - -<p>"'After I was married I had some children, and I began to love them as -never father or mother loved their own. I lived only for them. I was -foolish. They died, all three of them! Why? Why? What had I done? I? I -had a change of heart, a furious change. Suddenly I opened my eyes as -of one awakening; and I learned that God is wicked. Why had He killed -my children? I opened my eyes and I saw that He loved to kill. He loves -only that, Monsieur. He exists only to destroy! God is a murderer! Some -death is necessary to Him every day. He causes them in all fashions, -the better to amuse Himself. He has invented sickness and accident -in order to divert Himself through all the long months and years. -And, when He is weary, He has epidemics, pests, the cholera, quinsy, -smallpox.</p> - -<p>"'How do I know all that this monster has imagined? All these evils are -not enough to suffice. From time to time He sends war, in order to see -two hundred thousand soldiers laid low, bruised in blood and mire, with -arms and legs torn off, heads broken by bullets, like eggs that fall -along the road.</p> - -<p>"'That is not all. He has made men who eat one another. And then, as -men become better than He, He has made beasts to see the men chase -them, slaughter, and nourish themselves with them. That is not all. -He has made all the little animals that live for a day, flies which -increase by myriads in an hour, ants, that one crushes, and others, -many, so many that we cannot even imagine them. And all kill one -another, chase one another, devour one another, murdering without -ceasing. And the good God looks on and is amused, because He sees all -for Himself, the largest as well as the smallest, those which are in -drops of water, as well as those in the stars. He looks at them all and -is amused! Ugh! Beast!</p> - -<p>"'So I, Monsieur, I also have killed some children. I acted the part -for Him. It was not He who had them. It was not He, it was I. And I -would have killed still more, but you took me away. That's all!</p> - -<p>"'I was going to die, guillotined. I! How He would have laughed, the -reptile! Then I asked for a priest, and lied to him. I confessed. I -lied, and I lived.</p> - -<p>"'Now it is finished. I can no longer escape Him. But I have no fear of -Him, Monsieur, I understand Him too well.'</p> - -<p>"It was frightful to see this miserable creature, hardly able to -breathe, talking in hiccoughs, opening an enormous mouth to eject some -words scarcely heard, pulling up the cloth of his straw bed, and, under -a cover nearly black, moving his meager limbs as if to save himself.</p> - -<p>"Oh! frightful being and frightful remembrance!</p> - -<p>"I asked him: 'You have nothing more to say?'</p> - -<p>"'No, Monsieur.'</p> - -<p>"'Then, farewell.'</p> - -<p>"'Farewell, sir, one day or the other.'</p> - -<p>"I turned toward the priest, whose somber silhouette was on the wall.</p> - -<p>"'You will remain, M. Abbé?'</p> - -<p>"'I will remain.'</p> - -<p>"Then the dying man sneered: 'Yes, yes, he sends crows to dead bodies.'</p> - -<p>"As for me, I had seen enough. I opened the door and went away in -self-protection."</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h4><a name="AN_OLD_MAID" id="AN_OLD_MAID">AN OLD MAID</a></h4> - - -<p>In Argenteuil they called her Queen Hortense. No one ever knew the -reason why. Perhaps because she spoke firmly, like an officer in -command. Perhaps because she was large, bony, and imperious. Perhaps -because she governed a multitude of domestic animals, hens, dogs, cats, -canaries, and parrots,—those animals so dear to old maids. But she -gave these familiar subjects neither dainties, nor pretty words, nor -those tender puerilities which seem to slip from the lips of a woman to -the velvety coat of the cat she is fondling. She governed her beasts -with authority. She ruled.</p> - -<p>She was an old maid, one of those old maids with cracked voice, and -awkward gesture, whose soul seems hard. She never allowed contradiction -from any person, nor argument, nor would she tolerate hesitation, or -indifference, or idleness, or fatigue. No one ever heard her complain, -or regret what was, or desire what was not. "Each to his part," she -said, with the conviction of a fatalist. She never went to church, -cared nothing for the priests, scarcely believed in God, and called all -religious things "mourning merchandise."</p> - -<p>For thirty years she had lived in her little house, with its tiny -garden in front, extending along the street, never modifying her -garments, changing only maids, and that mercilessly, when they became -twenty-one years old.</p> - -<p>She replaced, without tears and without regrets, her dogs or cats -or birds, when they died of old age, or by accident, and she buried -trespassing animals in a flower-bed, heaping the earth above them and -treading it down with perfect indifference.</p> - -<p>She had in the town some acquaintances, the families of employers, -whose men went to Paris every day. Sometimes they would invite her -to go to the theater with them. She inevitably fell asleep on these -occasions, and they were obliged to wake her when it was time to go -home. She never allowed anyone to accompany her, having no fear by -night or day. She seemed to have no love for children.</p> - -<p>She occupied her time with a thousand masculine cares, carpentry, -gardening, cutting or sawing wood, repairing her old house, even doing -mason's work when it was necessary.</p> - -<p>She had some relatives who came to see her twice a year. Her two -sisters, Madame Cimme and Madame Columbel, were married, one to -a florist, the other to a small householder. Madame Cimme had no -children; Madame Columbel had three: Henry, Pauline, and Joseph. Henry -was twenty-one, Pauline and Joseph were three, having come when one -would have thought the mother past the age. No tenderness united this -old maid to her kinsfolk.</p> - -<p>In the spring of 1882, Queen Hortense became suddenly ill. The -neighbors went for a physician, whom she drove away. When the priest -presented himself she got out of bed, half naked, and put him out of -doors. The little maid, weeping, made gruel for her.</p> - -<p>After three days in bed, the situation became so grave that the -carpenter living next door, after counsel with the physician (now -reinstated with authority), took it upon himself to summon the two -families.</p> - -<p>They arrived by the same train, about ten o'clock in the morning; the -Columbels having brought their little Joseph.</p> - -<p>When they approached the garden gate, they saw the maid seated in a -chair against the wall, weeping. The dog lay asleep on the mat before -the door, under a broiling sun; two cats, that looked as if dead, lay -stretched out on the window-sills, with eyes closed and paws and tails -extended at full length. A great glossy hen was promenading before the -door, at the head of a flock of chickens, covered with yellow down, -and in a large cage hung against the wall, covered with chickweed, -were several birds, singing themselves hoarse in the light of this hot -spring morning.</p> - -<p>Two others, inseparable, in a little cage in the form of a cottage, -remained quiet, side by side on their perch.</p> - -<p>M. Cimme, a large, wheezy personage, who always entered a room first, -putting aside men and women when it was necessary, remarked to the -maid: "Eh, Celeste! Is it so bad as that?"</p> - -<p>The little maid sobbed through her tears:</p> - -<p>"She doesn't know me any more. The doctor says it is the end."</p> - -<p>They all looked at one another.</p> - -<p>Madame Cimme and Madame Columbel embraced each other instantly, not -saying a word.</p> - -<p>They resembled each other much, always wearing braids of hair and -shawls of red cashmere, as bright as hot coals.</p> - -<p>Cimme turned toward his brother-in-law, a pale man, yellow and thin, -tormented by indigestion, who limped badly, and said to him in a -serious tone:</p> - -<p>"Gad! It was time!"</p> - -<p>But no one dared to go into the room of the dying woman situated on -the ground floor. Cimme himself stopped at that step. Columbel was the -first to decide upon it; he entered, balancing himself like the mast of -a ship, making a noise on the floor with the iron of his cane.</p> - -<p>The two women ventured to follow, and M. Cimme brought up the line.</p> - -<p>Little Joseph remained outside, playing with the dog.</p> - -<p>A ray of sunlight fell on the bed, lighting up the hands which moved -nervously, opening and shutting without ceasing. The fingers moved -as if a thought animated them, as if they would signify something, -indicate some idea, obey some intelligence. The rest of the body -remained motionless under the covers. The angular figure gave no start. -The eyes remained closed.</p> - -<p>The relatives arranged themselves in a semicircle and, without saying a -word, regarded the heaving breast and the short breathing. The little -maid had followed them, still shedding tears.</p> - -<p>Finally, Cimme asked: "What was it the doctor said?"</p> - -<p>The servant whispered: "He said we should leave her quiet, that nothing -more could be done."</p> - -<p>Suddenly the lips of the old maid began to move. She seemed to -pronounce some silent words, concealed in her dying brain, and her -hands quickened their singular movement.</p> - -<p>Then she spoke in a little, thin voice, quite unlike her own, an -utterance that seemed to come from far off, perhaps from the bottom of -that heart always closed.</p> - -<p>Cimme walked upon tiptoe, finding this spectacle painful. Columbel, -whose lame leg wearied him, sat down.</p> - -<p>The two women remained standing.</p> - -<p>Queen Hortense muttered something quickly, which they were unable to -understand. She pronounced some names, called tenderly some imaginary -persons:</p> - -<p>"Come here, my little Philip, kiss your mother. You love mamma, don't -you, my child? You, Rose, you will watch your little sister while I am -out. Especially, don't leave her alone, do you hear? And I forbid you -to touch matches."</p> - -<p>She was silent some seconds; then, in a loud tone, as if she would -call, she said: "Henrietta!" She waited a little and continued: "Tell -your father to come and speak to me before going to his office." Then -suddenly: "I am suffering a little to-day, dear; promise me you will -not return late; you will tell your chief that I am ill. You know it is -dangerous to leave the children alone when I am in bed. I am going to -make you a dish of rice and sugar for dinner. The little ones like it -so much. Claire will be the happy one!"</p> - -<p>She began to laugh, a young and noisy laugh, as she had never laughed -before. "Look, John," she said, "what a droll head he has. He has -smeared himself with the sugarplums, the dirty thing! Look! my dear, -how funny he looks!"</p> - -<p>Columbel, who changed the position of his lame leg every moment, -murmured: "She is dreaming that she has children and a husband; the end -is near."</p> - -<p>The two sisters did not move, but seemed surprised and stupid.</p> - -<p>The little maid said: "Will you take off your hats and your shawls, and -go into the other room?"</p> - -<p>They went out without having said a word. And Columbel followed them -limping, leaving the dying woman alone again.</p> - -<p>When they were relieved of their outer garments, the women seated -themselves. Then one of the cats left the window, stretched herself, -jumped into the room, then upon the knees of Madame Cimme, who began to -caress her.</p> - -<p>They heard from the next room the voice of agony, living, without -doubt, in this last hour, the life she had expected, living her dreams -at the very moment when all would be finished for her.</p> - -<p>Cimme, in the garden, played with the little Joseph and the dog, -amusing himself much, with the gaiety of a great man in the country, -without thought of the dying woman.</p> - -<p>But suddenly he entered, addressing the maid: "Say, then, my girl, are -you going to give us some luncheon? What are you going to eat, ladies?"</p> - -<p>They decided upon an omelet of fine herbs, a piece of fillet with new -potatoes, a cheese, and a cup of coffee.</p> - -<p>And as Madame Columbel was fumbling in her pocket for her purse: Cimme -stopped her, and turning to the maid said, "You need money?" and she -answered: "Yes, sir."</p> - -<p>"How much?"</p> - -<p>"Fifteen francs."</p> - -<p>"Very well. Make haste, now, my girl, because I am getting hungry."</p> - -<p>Madame Cimme, looking out at the climbing flowers bathed in the -sunlight, and at two pigeons making love on the roof opposite, said, -with a wounded air: "It is unfortunate to have come for so sad an -event. It would be nice in the country, to-day."</p> - -<p>Her sister sighed without response, and Columbel murmured, moved -perhaps by the thought of a walk:</p> - -<p>"My leg plagues me awfully."</p> - -<p>Little Joseph and the dog made a terrible noise, one shouting with joy -and the other barking violently. They played at hide-and-seek around -the three flower-beds, running after each other like mad.</p> - -<p>The dying woman continued to call her children, chatting with each, -imagining that she was dressing them, that she caressed them, that she -was teaching them to read: "Come, Simon, repeat, A, B, C, D. You do -not say it well; see, D, D, D, do you hear? Repeat, then——"</p> - -<p>Cimme declared: "It is curious what she talks about at this time."</p> - -<p>Then said Madame Columbel: "It would be better, perhaps, to go in -there."</p> - -<p>But Cimme dissuaded her from it:</p> - -<p>"Why go in, since we are not able to do anything for her? Besides we -are as well off here."</p> - -<p>No one insisted. Madame observed the two green birds called -inseparable. She remarked pleasantly upon this singular fidelity, and -blamed men for not imitating these little creatures. Cimme looked -at his wife and laughed, singing with a bantering air, "Tra-la-la, -Tra-la-la," as if to say he could tell some things about her fidelity -to him.</p> - -<p>Columbel, taken with cramps in his stomach, struck the floor with his -cane. The other cat entered, tail in the air. They did not sit down at -table until one o'clock.</p> - -<p>When he had tasted the wine, Columbel, whom some one had recommended to -drink only choice Bordeaux, called the servant:</p> - -<p>"Say, is there nothing better than this in the cellar?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, sir; there is some of the wine that was served to you when you -were here before."</p> - -<p>"Oh, well, go and bring three bottles."</p> - -<p>They tasted this wine, which seemed excellent. Not that it proved to be -remarkable, but it had been fifteen years in the cellar. Cimme declared -it was just the wine for sickness.</p> - -<p>Columbel, seized with a desire of possessing some of it, asked of the -maid: "How much is left of it, my girl?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, nearly all, sir; Miss never drinks any of it. It is the heap at -the bottom."</p> - -<p>Then Columbel turned toward his brother-in-law: "If you wish, Cimme, I -will take this wine instead of anything else; it agrees with my stomach -wonderfully."</p> - -<p>The hen, in her turn, had entered with her troop of chickens; the two -women amused themselves by throwing crumbs to them. Joseph and the dog, -who had eaten enough, returned to the garden.</p> - -<p>Queen Hortense spoke continually, but the voice was lower now, so that -it was no longer possible to distinguish the words.</p> - -<p>When they had finished the coffee, they all went in to learn the -condition of the sick one. She seemed calm.</p> - -<p>They went out and seated themselves in a circle in the garden, to aid -digestion.</p> - -<p>Presently the dog began to run around the chairs with all speed, -carrying something in his mouth. The child ran after him violently. -Both disappeared into the house. Cimme fell asleep, with his stomach in -the sun.</p> - -<p>The dying one began to speak loud again. Then suddenly she shouted.</p> - -<p>The two women and Columbel hastened in to see what had happened. Cimme -awakened but did not move, liking better things as they were.</p> - -<p>The dying woman was sitting up, staring with haggard eyes. Her dog, -to escape the pursuit of little Joseph, had jumped upon the bed, -startling her from the death agony. The dog was intrenched behind the -pillow, peeping at his comrade with eyes glistening, ready to jump -again at the least movement. He held in his mouth one of the slippers -of his mistress, shorn of its heel in the hour he had played with it.</p> - -<p>The child, intimidated by the woman rising so suddenly before him, -remained motionless before the bed.</p> - -<p>The hen, having just entered, had jumped upon a chair, frightened -by the noise. She called desperately to her chickens, which peeped, -frightened, from under the four legs of the seat.</p> - -<p>Queen Hortense cried out with a piercing tone: "No, no, I do not wish -to die! I am not willing! Who will bring up my children? Who will care -for them? Who will love them? No, I am not willing! I am not——"</p> - -<p>She turned on her back. All was over.</p> - -<p>The dog, much excited, jumped into the room and skipped about.</p> - -<p>Columbel ran to the window and called his brother-in-law: "Come -quickly! come quickly! I believe she is gone."</p> - -<p>Then Cimme got up and resolutely went into the room, muttering: "It was -not as long as I should have believed."</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h4><a name="COMPLICATION" id="COMPLICATION">COMPLICATION</a></h4> - - -<p>After swearing for a long time that he would never marry, Jack -Boudillère suddenly changed his mind. It happened one summer at the -seashore, quite unexpectedly.</p> - -<p>One morning, as he was extended on the sand, watching the women come -out of the water, a little foot caught his attention, because of its -slimness and delicacy. Raising his eyes higher, the entire person -seemed attractive. Of this entire person he had, however, seen only -the ankles and the head, emerging from a white flannel bathing suit, -fastened with care. He may be called sensuous and impressionable, but -it was by grace of form alone that he was captured. Afterward, he was -held by the charm and sweet spirit of the young girl, who was simple -and good and fresh, like her cheeks and her lips.</p> - -<p>Presented to the family, he was pleased, and straightway became -love-mad. When he saw Bertha Lannis at a distance, on the long stretch -of yellow sand, he trembled from head to foot. Near her he was dumb, -incapable of saying anything or even of thinking, with a kind of -bubbling in his heart, a humming in his ears, and a frightened feeling -in his mind. Was this love?</p> - -<p>He did not know, he understood nothing of it, but the fact remained -that he was fully decided to make this child his wife.</p> - -<p>Her parents hesitated a long time, deterred by the bad reputation of -the young man. He had a mistress, it was said,—an old mistress, an old -and strong entanglement, one of those chains that is believed to be -broken, but which continues to hold, nevertheless. Beyond this, he had -loved, for a longer or shorter period, every woman who had come within -reach of his lips.</p> - -<p>But he withdrew from the woman with whom he had lived, not even -consenting to see her again. A friend arranged her pension, assuring -her a subsistence. Jack paid, but he did not wish to speak to her, -pretending henceforth that he did not know her name. She wrote letters -which he would not open. Each week brought him a new disguise in the -handwriting of the abandoned one. Each week a greater anger developed -in him against her, and he would tear the envelope in two, without -opening it, without reading a line, knowing beforehand the reproaches -and complaints of the contents.</p> - -<p>One could scarcely credit her perseverance, which lasted the whole -winter long, and it was not until spring that her demand was satisfied.</p> - -<p>The marriage took place in Paris during the early part of May. It was -decided that they should not take the regular wedding journey. After a -little ball, composed of a company of young cousins who would not stay -past eleven o'clock, and would not prolong forever the cares of the day -of ceremony, the young couple intended to pass their first night at the -family home and to set out the next morning for the seaside, where they -had met and loved.</p> - -<p>The night came, and they were dancing in the great drawing-room. The -newly-married pair had withdrawn from the rest into a little Japanese -boudoir shut off by silk hangings, and scarcely lighted this evening, -except by the dim rays from a colored lantern in the shape of an -enormous egg, which hung from the ceiling. The long window was open, -allowing at times a fresh breath of air from without to blow upon -their faces, for the evening was soft and warm, full of the odor of -springtime.</p> - -<p>They said nothing, but held each other's hands, pressing them from time -to time with all their force. She was a little dismayed by this great -change in her life, but smiling, emotional, ready to weep, often ready -to swoon from joy, believing the entire world changed because of what -had come to her, a little disturbed without knowing the reason why, -and feeling all her body, all her soul, enveloped in an indefinable, -delicious lassitude.</p> - -<p>Her husband she watched persistently, smiling at him with a fixed -smile. He wished to talk but found nothing to say, and remained quiet, -putting all his ardor into the pressure of the hand. From time to time -he murmured "Bertha!" and each time she raised her eyes to his with a -sweet and tender look. They would look at each other a moment, then his -eyes, fascinated by hers, would fall.</p> - -<p>They discovered no thought to exchange. But they were alone, except as -a dancing couple would sometimes cast a glance at them in passing, a -furtive glance, as if it were the discreet and confidential witness of -a mystery.</p> - -<p>A door at the side opened, a domestic entered, bearing upon a tray an -urgent letter which a messenger had brought. Jack trembled as he took -it, seized with a vague and sudden fear, the mysterious, abrupt fear of -misfortune.</p> - -<p>He looked long at the envelope, not knowing the handwriting, nor daring -to open it, wishing not to read, not to know the contents, desiring to -put it in his pocket and to say to himself: "To-morrow, to-morrow, I -shall be far away and it will not matter!" But upon the corner were two -words underlined: <i>very urgent</i>, which frightened him. "You will permit -me, my dear," said he, and he tore off the wrapper. He read the letter, -growing frightfully pale, running over it at a glance, and then seeming -to spell it out.</p> - -<p>When he raised his head his whole countenance was changed. He -stammered: "My dear little one, a great misfortune has happened to -my best friend. He needs me immediately, in a matter of—of life and -death. Allow me to go for twenty minutes. I will return immediately."</p> - -<p>She, trembling and affrighted, murmured: "Go, my friend!" not yet being -enough of a wife to dare to ask or demand to know anything. And he -disappeared. She remained alone, listening to the dance music in the -next room.</p> - -<p>He had taken a hat, the first he could find, and descended the -staircase upon the run. As soon as he was mingled with the people on -the street, he stopped under a gaslight in a vestibule and re-read the -letter. It said:</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>"SIR: The Ravet girl, your old mistress, has given birth to -a child which she asserts is yours. The mother is dying and -implores you to visit her. I take the liberty of writing -to you to ask whether you will grant the last wish of this -woman, who seems to be very unhappy and worthy of pity. -"Your servant, D. BONNARD."</p></blockquote> - -<p>When he entered the chamber of death, she was already in the last -agony. He would not have known her. The physician and the two nurses -were caring for her, dragging across the room some buckets full of ice -and linen.</p> - -<p>Water covered the floor, two tapers were burning on a table; behind -the bed, in a little wicker cradle, a child was crying, and, with each -of its cries, the mother would try to move, shivering under the icy -compresses.</p> - -<p>She was bleeding, wounded to death, killed by this birth. Her life was -slipping away; and, in spite of the ice, in spite of all care, the -hemorrhage continued, hastening her last hour.</p> - -<p>She recognized Jack, and tried to raise her hand. She was too weak for -that, but the warm tears began to glide down her cheeks.</p> - -<p>He fell on his knees beside the bed, seized one of her hands and kissed -it frantically; then, little by little, he approached nearer to the -wan face which strained to meet him. One of the nurses, standing with -a taper in her hand, observed them, and the doctor looked at them from -the remote corner of the room.</p> - -<p>With a far-off voice, breathing hard, she said: "I am going to die, my -dear; promise me you will remain till the end. Oh! do not leave me now, -not at the last moment!"</p> - -<p>He kissed her brow, her hair with a groan. "Be tranquil!" he murmured, -"I will stay."</p> - -<p>It was some minutes before she was able to speak again, she was so weak -and overcome. Then she continued: "It is yours, the little one. I swear -it before God, I swear it to you upon my soul, I swear it at the moment -of death. I have never loved any man but you—promise me not to abandon -it——" He tried to take in his arms the poor, weak body, emptied of -its life blood. He stammered, excited by remorse and chagrin: "I swear -to you I will bring it up and love it. It shall never be separated from -me." Then she held Jack in an embrace. Powerless to raise her head, she -held up her blanched lips in an appeal for a kiss. He bent his mouth to -receive this poor, suppliant caress.</p> - -<p>Calmed a little, she murmured in a low tone: "Take it, that I may see -that you love it."</p> - -<p>He went to the cradle and took up the child.</p> - -<p>He placed it gently on the bed between them. The little creature ceased -to cry. She whispered: "Do not stir!" And he remained motionless. There -he stayed, holding in his burning palms a hand that shook with the -shiver of death, as he had held, an hour before, another hand that had -trembled with the shiver of love. From time to time he looked at the -hour, with a furtive glance of the eye, watching the hand as it passed -midnight, then one o'clock, then two.</p> - -<p>The doctor retired. The two nurses, after roaming around for some time -with light step, slept now in their chairs. The child slept, and the -mother, whose eyes were closed, seemed to be resting also.</p> - -<p>Suddenly, as the pale daylight began to filter through the torn -curtains, she extended her arms with so startling and violent a motion -that she almost threw the child upon the floor. There was a rattling in -her throat; then she turned over motionless, dead.</p> - -<p>The nurses hastened to her side, declaring: "It is over."</p> - -<p>He looked once at this woman he had loved, then at the hand that marked -four o'clock, and, forgetting his overcoat, fled in his evening clothes -with the child in his arms.</p> - -<p>After she had been left alone, his young bride had waited calmly -at first, in the Japanese boudoir. Then, seeing that he did not -return, she went back to the drawing-room, indifferent and tranquil -in appearance, but frightfully disturbed. Her mother, perceiving her -alone, asked where her husband was. She replied: "In his room; he will -return presently."</p> - -<p>At the end of an hour, as everybody asked about him, she told of the -letter, of the change in Jack's face, and her fears of some misfortune.</p> - -<p>They still waited. The guests had gone; only the parents and near -relatives remained. At midnight, they put the bride in her bed, shaking -with sobs. Her mother and two aunts were seated on the bed listening -to her weeping. Her father had gone to the police headquarters to make -inquiries. At five o'clock a light sound was heard in the corridor. The -door opened and closed softly. Then suddenly a cry, like the miauling -of a cat, went through the house, breaking the silence.</p> - -<p>All the women of the house were out with one bound, and Bertha was the -first to spring forward, in spite of her mother and her aunts, clothed -only in her night-robe.</p> - -<p>Jack, standing in the middle of the room, livid, breathing hard, held -the child in his arms.</p> - -<p>The four women looked at him frightened; but Bertha suddenly became -rash, her heart wrung with anguish, and ran to him saying: "What is it? -What have you there?"</p> - -<p>He had a foolish air, and answered in a husky voice: "It is—it is—I -have here a child, whose mother has just died." And he put into her -arms the howling little marmot.</p> - -<p>Bertha, without saying a word, seized the child and embraced it, -straining it to her heart. Then, turning toward her husband with -her eyes full of tears, she said: "The mother is dead, you say?" He -answered: "Yes, just died—in my arms—I had broken with her since last -summer—I knew nothing about it—only the doctor sent for me and——"</p> - -<p>Then Bertha murmured: "Well, we will bring up this little one."</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h4><a name="FORGIVENESS" id="FORGIVENESS">FORGIVENESS</a></h4> - - -<p>She had been brought up in one of those families who live shut up -within themselves, entirely apart from the rest of the world. They pay -no attention to political events, except to chat about them at table, -and changes in government seem so far, so very far away that they are -spoken of only as a matter of history—like the death of Louis XVI., or -the advent of Napoleon.</p> - -<p>Customs change, fashions succeed each other, but changes are never -perceptible in this family, where old traditions are always followed. -And if some impossible story arises in the neighborhood, the scandal of -it dies at the threshold of this house.</p> - -<p>The father and mother, alone in the evening, sometimes exchange a few -words on such a subject, but in an undertone, as if the walls had ears.</p> - -<p>With great discretion, the father says: "Do you know about this -terrible affair in the Rivoil family?"</p> - -<p>And the mother replies: "Who would have believed it? It is frightful!"</p> - -<p>The children doubt nothing, but come to the age of living, in their -turn, with a bandage over their eyes and minds, without a suspicion of -any other kind of existence, without knowing that one does not always -think as he speaks, nor speak as he acts, without knowing that it is -necessary to live at war with the world, or at least, in armed peace, -without surmising that the ingenuous are frequently deceived, the -sincere trifled with, and the good wronged.</p> - -<p>Some live until death in this blindness of probity, loyalty, and honor; -so upright that nothing can open their eyes. Others, undeceived, -without knowing much, are weighed down with despair, and die believing -that they are the puppets of an exceptional fatality, the miserable -victims of unlucky circumstance or particularly bad men.</p> - -<p>The Savignols arranged a marriage for their daughter when she was -eighteen. She married a young man from Paris, George Barton, whose -business was on the Exchange. He was an attractive youth, with a -smooth tongue, and he observed all the outward proprieties necessary. -But at the bottom of his heart he sneered a little at his guileless -parents-in-law, calling them, among his friends, "My dear fossils."</p> - -<p>He belonged to a good family, and the young girl was rich. He took her -to live in Paris.</p> - -<p>She became one of the provincials of Paris, of whom there are many. -She remained ignorant of the great city, of its elegant people, of -its pleasures and its customs, as she had always been ignorant of the -perfidy and mystery of life.</p> - -<p>Shut up in her own household, she scarcely knew the street she lived -in, and when she ventured into another quarter, it seemed to her that -she had journeyed far, into an unknown, strange city. She would say in -the evening:</p> - -<p>"I crossed the boulevards to-day."</p> - -<p>Two or three times a year, her husband took her to the theater. These -were feast-days not to be forgotten, which she recalled continually.</p> - -<p>Sometimes at table, three months afterward, she would suddenly burst -out laughing and exclaim:</p> - -<p>"Do you remember that ridiculous actor who imitated the cock's crowing?"</p> - -<p>All her interests were within the boundaries of the two allied -families, who represented the whole of humanity to her. She designated -them by the distinguishing prefix "the," calling them respectively "the -Martinets," or "the Michelins."</p> - -<p>Her husband lived according to his fancy, returning whenever he wished, -sometimes at daybreak, pretending business, and feeling in no way -constrained, so sure was he that no suspicion would ruffle this candid -soul.</p> - -<p>But one morning she received an anonymous letter. She was too much -astonished and dismayed to scorn this letter, whose author declared -himself to be moved by interest in her happiness, by hatred of all -evil and love of truth. Her heart was too pure to understand fully the -meaning of the accusations.</p> - -<p>But it revealed to her that her husband had had a mistress for two -years, a young widow, Mrs. Rosset, at whose house he passed his -evenings.</p> - -<p>She knew neither how to pretend, nor to spy, nor to plan any sort of -ruse. When he returned for luncheon, she threw him the letter, sobbing, -and then fled to her room.</p> - -<p>He had time to comprehend the matter and prepare his response before he -rapped at his wife's door. She opened it immediately, without looking -at him. He smiled, sat down, and drew her to his knee. In a sweet -voice, and a little jocosely, he said:</p> - -<p>"My dear little one, Mrs. Rosset is a friend of mine. I have known her -for ten years and like her very much. I may add that I know twenty -other families of whom I have not spoken to you, knowing that you care -nothing for the world or for forming new friendships. But in order to -finish, once for all, these infamous lies, I will ask you to dress -yourself, after luncheon, and we will go to pay a visit to this young -lady, who will become your friend at once, I am sure." She embraced -her husband eagerly; and, from feminine curiosity, which no sooner -sleeps than wakes again, she did not refuse to go to see this unknown -woman, of whom, in spite of all, she was still suspicious. She felt by -instinct that a known danger is sooner overcome.</p> - -<p>They were ushered into a little apartment on the fourth floor of a -handsome house. It was a coquettish little place, full of bric-à-brac -and ornamented with works of art. After about five minutes' waiting, -in a drawing-room where the light was dimmed by its generous window -draperies and portières, a door opened and a young woman appeared. She -was very dark, small, rather plump, and looked astonished, although she -smiled. George presented them. "My wife, Madame Julie Rosset."</p> - -<p>The young widow uttered a little cry of astonishment and joy, and came -forward with both hands extended. She had not hoped for this happiness, -she said, knowing that Madame Barton saw no one. But she was so happy! -She was so fond of George! (She said George quite naturally, with -sisterly familiarity.) And she had had great desire to know his young -wife, and to love her, too.</p> - -<p>At the end of a month these two friends were never apart from each -other. They met every day, often twice a day, and nearly always dined -together, either at one house or at the other. George scarcely ever -went out now, no longer pretended delay on account of business, but -said he loved his own chimney corner.</p> - -<p>Finally, an apartment was left vacant in the house where Madame Rosset -resided. Madame Barton hastened to take it in order to be nearer her -new friend.</p> - -<p>During two whole years there was a friendship between them without a -cloud, a friendship of heart and soul, tender, devoted, and delightful. -Bertha could not speak without mentioning Julie's name, for to her -Julie represented perfection. She was happy with a perfect happiness, -calm and secure.</p> - -<p>But Madame Rosset fell ill. Bertha never left her. She passed nights of -despair; her husband, too, was broken-hearted.</p> - -<p>One morning, in going out from his visit the doctor took George and his -wife aside, and announced that he found the condition of their friend -very grave.</p> - -<p>When he had gone out, the young people, stricken down, looked at each -other and then began to weep. They both watched that night near the -bed. Bertha would embrace the sick one tenderly, while George, standing -silently at the foot of her couch, would look at them with dogged -persistence. The next day she was worse.</p> - -<p>Finally, toward evening, she declared herself better, and persuaded her -friends to go home to dinner.</p> - -<p>They were sitting sadly at table, scarcely eating anything, when the -maid brought George an envelope. He opened it, turned pale, and rising, -said to his wife, in a constrained way: "Excuse me, I must leave you -for a moment. I will return in ten minutes. Please don't go out." And -he ran into his room for his hat.</p> - -<p>Bertha waited, tortured by a new fear. But, yielding in all things, she -would not go up to her friend's room again until he had returned.</p> - -<p>As he did not re-appear, the thought came to her to look in his room to -see whether he had taken his gloves, which would show whether he had -really gone somewhere.</p> - -<p>She saw them there, at first glance. Near them lay a rumpled paper.</p> - -<p>She recognized it immediately; it was the one that had called George -away.</p> - -<p>And a burning temptation took possession of her, the first of her life, -to read—to know. Her conscience struggled in revolt, but curiosity -lashed her on and grief directed her hand. She seized the paper, opened -it, recognized the trembling handwriting as that of Julie, and read:</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>"Come alone and embrace me, my poor friend; I am going to -die."</p></blockquote> - -<p>She could not understand it all at once, but stood stupefied, struck -especially by the thought of death. Then, suddenly, the familiarity of -it seized upon her mind. This came like a great light, illuminating -her whole life, showing her the infamous truth, all their treachery, -all their perfidy. She saw now their cunning, their sly looks, her -good faith played with, her confidence turned to account. She saw -them looking into each other's faces, under the shade of her lamp at -evening, reading from the same book, exchanging glances at the end of -certain pages.</p> - -<p>And her heart, stirred with indignation, bruised with suffering, sunk -into an abyss of despair that had no boundaries.</p> - -<p>When she heard steps, she fled and shut herself in her room.</p> - -<p>Her husband called her: "Come quickly, Madame Rosset is dying!"</p> - -<p>Bertha appeared at her door and said with trembling lip:</p> - -<p>"Go alone to her; she has no need of me."</p> - -<p>He looked at her sheepishly, careless from anger, and repeated:</p> - -<p>"Quick, quick! She is dying!"</p> - -<p>Bertha answered: "You would prefer it to be I."</p> - -<p>Then he understood, probably, and left her to herself, going up again -to the dying one.</p> - -<p>There he wept without fear, or shame, indifferent to the grief of his -wife, who would no longer speak to him, nor look at him, but who lived -shut in with her disgust and angry revolt, praying to God morning and -evening.</p> - -<p>They lived together, nevertheless, eating together face to face, mute -and hopeless.</p> - -<p>After a time, he tried to appease her a little. But she would not -forget. And so the life continued, hard for them both.</p> - -<p>For a whole year they lived thus, strangers one to the other. Bertha -almost became mad.</p> - -<p>Then one morning, having set out at dawn, she returned toward eight -o'clock carrying in both hands an enormous bouquet of roses, of white -roses, all white.</p> - -<p>She sent word to her husband that she would like to speak to him. He -came in disturbed, troubled.</p> - -<p>"Let us go out together," she said to him. "Take these flowers, they -are too heavy for me."</p> - -<p>He took the bouquet and followed his wife. A carriage awaited them, -which started as soon as they were seated.</p> - -<p>It stopped before the gate of a cemetery. Then Bertha, her eyes full of -tears, said to George: "Take me to her grave."</p> - -<p>He trembled, without knowing why, but walked on before, holding the -flowers in his arms. Finally he stopped before a shaft of white marble -and pointed to it without a word.</p> - -<p>She took the bouquet from him, and, kneeling, placed it at the foot of -the grave. Then her heart was raised in suppliant, silent prayer.</p> - -<p>Her husband stood behind her, weeping, haunted by memories.</p> - -<p>She arose and put out her hands to him.</p> - -<p>"If you wish, we will be friends," she said.</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h4><a name="THE_WHITE_WOLF" id="THE_WHITE_WOLF">THE WHITE WOLF</a></h4> - - -<p>This is the story the old Marquis d'Arville told us after a dinner in -honor of Saint-Hubert, at the house of Baron des Ravels. They had run -down a stag that day. The Marquis was the only one of the guests who -had not taken part in the chase. He never hunted.</p> - -<p>During the whole of the long repast, they had talked of scarcely -anything but the massacre of animals. Even the ladies interested -themselves in the sanguinary and often unlikely stories, while the -orators mimicked the attacks and combats between man and beast, raising -their arms and speaking in thunderous tones.</p> - -<p>M. d'Arville talked much, with a certain poesy, a little flourish, -but full of effect. He must have repeated this story often, it ran so -smoothly, never halting at a choice of words in which to clothe an -image.</p> - -<p>"Gentlemen, I never hunt, nor did my father, nor my grandfather, nor -my great-great-grandfather. The last named was the son of a man who -hunted more than all of you. He died in 1764. I will tell you how. He -was named John, and was married, and became the father of the man who -was my great-great-grandfather. He lived with his younger brother, -Francis d'Arville, in our castle, in the midst of a deep forest in -Lorraine.</p> - -<p>"Francis d'Arville always remained a boy through his love for hunting. -They both hunted from one end of the year to the other without -cessation or weariness. They loved nothing else, understood nothing -else, talked only of this, and lived for this alone.</p> - -<p>"They were possessed by this terrible, inexorable passion. It consumed -them, having taken entire control of them, leaving no place for -anything else. They had agreed not to put off the chase for any reason -whatsoever. My great-great-grandfather was born while his father was -following a fox, but John d'Arville did not interrupt his sport, -and swore that the little beggar might have waited until after the -death-cry! His brother Francis showed himself still more hot-headed -than he. The first thing on rising, he would go to see the dogs, then -the horses; then he would shoot some birds about the place, even when -about to set out hunting big game.</p> - -<p>"They were called in the country Monsieur the Marquis and Monsieur the -Cadet, noblemen then not acting as do those of our time, who wish to -establish in their titles a descending scale of rank, for the son of a -marquis is no more a count, or the son of a viscount a baron, than the -son of a general is a colonel by birth. But the niggardly vanity of -the day finds profit in this arrangement. To return to my ancestors:</p> - -<p>"They were, it appears, immoderately large, bony, hairy, violent, and -vigorous. The younger one was taller than the elder, and had such a -voice that, according to a legend he was very proud of, all the leaves -of the forest moved when he shouted.</p> - -<p>"And when mounted, ready for the chase, it must have been a superb -sight to see these two giants astride their great horses.</p> - -<p>"Toward the middle of the winter of that year, 1764, the cold was -excessive and the wolves became ferocious.</p> - -<p>"They even attacked belated peasants, roamed around houses at night, -howled from sunset to sunrise, and ravaged the stables.</p> - -<p>"At one time a rumor was circulated. It was said that a colossal wolf, -of grayish-white color, which had eaten two children, devoured the arm -of a woman, strangled all the watchdogs of the country, was now coming -without fear into the house inclosures and smelling around the doors. -Many inhabitants affirmed that they had felt his breath, which made the -lights flicker. Shortly a panic ran through all the province. No one -dared to go out after nightfall. The very shadows seemed haunted by the -image of this beast.</p> - -<p>"The brothers D'Arville resolved to find and slay him. So they called -together for a grand chase all the gentlemen of the country.</p> - -<p>"It was in vain. They had beaten the forests and scoured the thickets, -but had seen nothing of him. They killed wolves, but not that one. And -each night after such a chase, the beast, as if to avenge himself, -attacked some traveler, or devoured some cattle, always far from the -place where they had sought him.</p> - -<p>"Finally, one night he found a way into the swine-house of the castle -D'Arville and ate two beauties of the best breed.</p> - -<p>"The two brothers were furious, interpreting the attack as one of -bravado on the part of the monster—a direct injury, a defiance. -Therefore, taking all their best-trained hounds, they set out to run -down the beast, with courage excited by anger.</p> - -<p>"From dawn until the sun descended behind the great nut-trees, they -beat about the forests with no result.</p> - -<p>"At last, both of them, angry and disheartened, turned their horses' -steps into a bypath bordered by brushwood. They were marveling at the -baffling power of this wolf, when suddenly they were seized with a -mysterious fear.</p> - -<p>"The elder said:</p> - -<p>"'This can be no ordinary beast. One might say he can think like a man.'</p> - -<p>"The younger replied:</p> - -<p>"'Perhaps we should get our cousin, the Bishop, to bless a bullet for -him, or ask a priest to pronounce some words to help us.'</p> - -<p>"Then they were silent.</p> - -<p>"John continued: 'Look at the sun, how red it is. The great wolf will -do mischief to-night.'</p> - -<p>"He had scarcely finished speaking when his horse reared. Francis's -horse started to run at the same time. A large bush covered with dead -leaves rose before them, and a colossal beast, grayish white, sprang -out, scampering away through the wood.</p> - -<p>"Both gave a grunt of satisfaction, and bending to the necks of their -heavy horses, they urged them on with the weight of their bodies, -exciting them, hastening with voice and spur, until these strong -riders seemed to carry the weight of their beasts between their knees, -carrying them by force as if they were flying.</p> - -<p>"Thus they rode, crashing through forests, crossing ravines, climbing -up the sides of steep gorges, and sounding the horn, at frequent -intervals, to arouse the people and the dogs of the neighborhood.</p> - -<p>"But suddenly, in the course of this breakneck ride, my ancestor struck -his forehead against a large branch and fractured his skull. He fell to -the ground as if dead, while his frightened horse disappeared in the -surrounding thicket.</p> - -<p>"The younger D'Arville stopped short, sprang to the ground, seized his -brother in his arms, and saw that he had lost consciousness.</p> - -<p>"He sat down beside him, took his disfigured head upon his knees, -looking earnestly at the lifeless face. Little by little a fear crept -over him, a strange fear that he had never before felt, fear of -the shadows, of the solitude, of the lonely woods, and also of the -chimerical wolf, which had now come to be the death of his brother.</p> - -<p>"The shadows deepened, the branches of the trees crackled in the sharp -cold. Francis arose shivering, incapable of remaining there longer, -and already feeling his strength fail. There was nothing to be heard, -neither the voice of dogs nor the sound of a horn; all within this -invisible horizon was mute. And in this gloomy silence and the chill of -evening there was something strange and frightful.</p> - -<p>"With his powerful hands he seized John's body and laid it across -the saddle to take it home; then mounted gently behind it, his mind -troubled by horrible, supernatural images, as if he were possessed.</p> - -<p>"Suddenly, in the midst of these fears, a great form passed. It was -the wolf. A violent fit of terror seized upon the hunter; something -cold, like a stream of ice-water seemed to glide through his veins, -and he made the sign of the cross, like a monk haunted with devils, so -dismayed was he by the reappearance of the frightful wanderer. Then, -his eyes falling upon the inert body before him, his fear was quickly -changed to anger, and he trembled with inordinate rage.</p> - -<p>"He pricked his horse and darted after him.</p> - -<p>"He followed him through copses, over ravines, and around great forest -trees, traversing woods that he no longer recognized, his eye fixed -upon a white spot, which was ever flying from him as night covered the -earth.</p> - -<p>"His horse also seemed moved by an unknown force. He galloped on with -neck extended, crashing over small trees and rocks, with the body of -the dead stretched across him on the saddle. Brambles caught in his -mane; his head, where it had struck the trunks of trees, was spattered -with blood; the marks of the spurs were over his flanks.</p> - -<p>"Suddenly the animal and its rider came out of the forest, rushing -through a valley as the moon appeared above the hills. This valley was -stony and shut in by enormous rocks, over which it was impossible to -pass; there was no other way for the wolf but to turn on his steps.</p> - -<p>"Francis gave such a shout of joy and revenge that the echo of it was -like the roll of thunder. He leaped from his horse, knife in hand.</p> - -<p>"The bristling beast, with rounded back, was awaiting him; his eyes -shining like two stars. But before joining in battle, the strong -hunter, grasping his brother, seated him upon a rock, supporting his -head, which was now but a mass of blood, with stones, and cried aloud -to him, as to one deaf: 'Look, John! Look here!'</p> - -<p>"Then he threw himself upon the monster. He felt himself strong enough -to overthrow a mountain, to crush the very rocks in his hands. The -beast meant to kill him by sinking his claws in his vitals; but the man -had seized him by the throat, without even making use of his weapon, -and strangled him gently, waiting until his breath stopped and he could -hear the death-rattle at his heart. And he laughed, with the joy of -dismay, clutching more and more with a terrible hold, and crying out in -his delirium: 'Look, John! Look!' All resistance ceased. The body of -the wolf was limp. He was dead.</p> - -<p>"Then Francis, taking him in his arms, threw him down at the feet of -his elder brother, crying out in expectant voice: 'Here, here, my -little John, here he is!'</p> - -<p>"Then he placed upon the saddle the two bodies, the one above the -other, and started on his way.</p> - -<p>"He returned to the castle laughing and weeping, like Gargantua at the -birth of Pantagruel, shouting in triumph and stamping with delight in -relating the death of the beast, and moaning and tearing at his beard -in calling the name of his brother.</p> - -<p>"Often, later, when he recalled this day, he would declare, with tears -in his eyes: 'If only poor John had seen me strangle the beast, he -would have died content, I am sure!'</p> - -<p>"The widow of my ancestor inspired in her son a horror of the chase, -which was transmitted from father to son down to myself."</p> - -<p>The Marquis d'Arville was silent. Some one asked: "Is the story a -legend or not?"</p> - -<p>And the narrator replied:</p> - -<p>"I swear to you it is true from beginning to end."</p> - -<p>Then a lady, in a sweet little voice, declared:</p> - -<p>"It is beautiful to have passions like that."</p> - - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Notre Coeur or A Woman's Pastime, by -Guy de Maupassant - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NOTRE COEUR OR A WOMAN'S PASTIME *** - -***** This file should be named 50477-h.htm or 50477-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/0/4/7/50477/ - -Produced by Dagny and Marc D'Hooghe at -http://www.freeliterature.org (Images generously made -available by the Hathi Trust.) - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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