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| author | www-data <www-data@mail.pglaf.org> | 2026-04-13 09:19:47 -0700 |
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| committer | www-data <www-data@mail.pglaf.org> | 2026-04-13 09:19:47 -0700 |
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diff --git a/78436-h/78436-h.htm b/78436-h/78436-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e2aa1b5 --- /dev/null +++ b/78436-h/78436-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,2144 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1"> + <meta name="format-detection" content="telephone=no,date=no,address=no,email=no,url=no"> + <title> + Stories in yellow, black, white, blue, violet and red | Project Gutenberg + </title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; +} + +p { + margin-top: .5em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .5em; +} + +.p6 {margin-top: 6em;} + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: 33.5%; + margin-right: 33.5%; + clear: both; +} + +hr.chap {width: 65%; margin-left: 17.5%; margin-right: 17.5%;} +@media print { hr.chap {display: none; visibility: hidden;} } + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always;} +h2.nobreak {page-break-before: avoid;} + +table { + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; +} + +.pagenum { + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: small; + text-align: right; + font-style: normal; + font-weight: normal; + font-variant: normal; + text-indent: 0; +} /* page numbers */ + + +blockquote { + margin-top: 0; + margin-bottom: 0; + margin-left: 5%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + + +.center {text-align: center; text-indent: 0;} + +.right {text-align: right;} + +figcaption {font-weight: bold;} +figcaption p {margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: .2em; text-align: inherit;} + +/* Footnotes */ + +.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; +} + +/* Poetry */ +/* uncomment the next line for centered poetry */ +/* .poetry-container {display: flex; justify-content: center;} */ +.poetry-container {text-align: center;} +.poetry {text-align: left; margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%;} +.poetry .stanza {margin: 1em auto;} +.poetry .verse {text-indent: -3em; padding-left: 3em;} + +/* Transcriber's notes */ +.transnote {background-color: #E6E6FA; + color: black; + font-size:small; + padding:0.5em; + margin-bottom:5em; + font-family:sans-serif, serif; +} + + +.ph2 { + text-align: center; + font-size: x-large; + font-weight: bold; +} +.transnote { + margin-left:17.5%; + margin-right:17.5%; +} + + +.x-ebookmaker .ep6 {margin-top: 6em;} + +/* Poetry indents */ +.poetry .indent0 {text-indent: -3.0em;} +.poetry .indent2 {text-indent: -2.0em;} + + </style> +</head> +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78436 ***</div> + + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</span></p> +<p class="center"> + LITTLE BLUE BOOK NO. 540<br> + Edited by E. Haldeman-Julius +</p> +<h1> + Stories in Yellow, Black,<br> + White, Blue, Violet<br> + and Red +</h1> +<p class="center" style="font-weight: bold; font-size: x-large;"> + Remy de Gourmont +</p> +<p class="center"> + Translated from the French by<br> + Isaac Goldberg. +</p> + +<p class="center p6"> + HALDEMAN-JULIUS COMPANY<br> + GIRARD, KANSAS +</p> + +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</span></p> +<p class="center ep6"> + Copyright, 1924.<br> + Haldeman-Julius Company. +</p> +<p class="center p6"> +PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA +</p> + +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</span></p> +<p class="ph2 ep6"> + STORIES IN YELLOW, BLACK, WHITE,<br> + BLUE, VIOLET AND RED +</p> + +</div> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_4"></a><a id="Page_5"></a>[Pg 5]</span></p> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="FOREWORD"> + FOREWORD + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>It is now some time since I wrote, somewhat +vaguely (with reference to one of +d’Annunzio’s books) that a novel is a poem +and should be conceived and executed as such +if it is to prove of worth.</p> + +<p>At that time I said:</p> + +<p>“The novel is based upon the same esthetic +as the poem; the original novel was composed +in verse: for example, the Odyssey, a novel of +adventure; the Aeneid, a chivalrous romance; +the first French novels, as everybody knows, +were poems, and it is only at a fairly late day +that they were transposed into prose to adapt +them to the indolence and the ignorance of a +larger reading public. From this origin the +novel inherits the possibility of a certain +nobility, and any genuine writer, if he concerns +himself with it, will restore that nobility +to the form: whom would one wish to convince +that <i>Don Quixote</i> is not a poem, that <i>Pantagruel</i> +is not a poem, that <i>Salammbo</i> is not +a poem? The novel is a poem; the novel that +is not a poem does not exist.”</p> + +<p>Flaubert had not yet taught me, through the +letters that narrate the arduous composition +of <i>Madame Bovary</i>, that one must “endow prose +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</span>with the rhyme of verse (leaving to it, however, +its distinctly prosaic character) and write to +ordinary life as one writes history or epic.” +Upon thinking this over I found that Flaubert +carried a bit too far the idea that we must +achieve a literary prose whose beauty may be +fashioned only of words and rhythm, the +rhythm being primordial. The method that he +prescribed for the novel I believe suited likewise +to the play, the tale, even when it is but +an anecdote—almost all form of composition—even +the simple article done for the morning-paper. +There is no inferior art. An article may +be a poem from the moment one has assigned +to it the rhythm against which it will dance +its brief pavan. Once the rhythm has been +found, all is found, for the idea incorporates +itself into the tempo, and the ball of yarn or +silk is formed almost without the intervention +of any consciousness of a task.</p> + +<p>The tale, it seems to me, demands a special +condition: in order to write it one must possess +the illusion, no matter how fleeting, of being +happy; a merry afternoon is enough. And this +relates it more closely to the poem than any +reasoned-out theory could do. To be happy—that +is to say, to have enjoyed a flower, the +flower of one’s choice, or the bright glance of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</span>certain eyes: then one becomes interested in +the games of others. In fact, when one is happy, +or almost so, one can no longer stay inside, +where one sees well only through desire. A tale +is a stroll.</p> + +<p>Almost all the stories that you are about +to read were written in a single breath, save +the polishing touches, the expansion of too +slender parts, and excisions. Thus there comes, +at certain times, a moment when the breath +runs short. One lays the work aside for the +following day, and this is a pity, for dreams +trouble one’s days.</p> + +<p>I do not write all this to instruct in a method +a public that cares very little for methods. The +stream of these notes flowed one evening in a +few moments on to a stray sheet of paper.</p> + +<p>I clarified it, at first for my own pleasure, +and then in an attempt to solve a problem. +Take this poet who now overflows in novels, +even in feuilletons, in all the petty tasks of a +man of letters—do you really think him unfaithful +to his first muse? Yes, doubtless, +often. Not always. As long as rhythm sings +within him, he is faithful. His downfall does +not begin until that day when the harmony of +the phrase is utterly sacrificed to reason—to +what persons without any beyond in their +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</span>spirits call truth. The true poet and the true +sage can always, like Goethe, conciliate Poesy +and Reality, and all the more easily since Poesy +is the daughter of Reality. I remember hearing +M. Quinton express surprise that Pasteur +should have written a tragedy. Beyond doubt +it was very bad (not worse than those in +which M. Claretie’s abilities as régisseur excel), +but this exercise attests an original sense +of rhythm. His beautiful experiments were, in +the days that followed, rhythmed like poems, +like the marbles of his compatriots Hugo, Rude, +Clésinger. The <i>Satyre</i> who scales the mountain +of mysteries, the <i>Bacchante au Thyrse</i>, who +rushes into voluptuousness, the game of chemical +retorts which prove that life arises only +from life—these are the gestures of genius +animated by one and the same rhythm. One +likes to recall that Descartes composed a ballet +to pleasure the great Christine; one is fond +of remembering that Montesquieu rhythmed +the games of his young imagination, that Pascal +composed a symphony upon the Passions +of love, that Nietzsche caused the forests to +resound with the superhuman laughter of Zarathustra, +that Flaubert rhythmed like Homeric +verses the quotidian words of that Stupidity to +whom he played Hercules.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</span></p> + +<p>It is rhythm that lends beauty to the poor +ballerina who seems draped only in her chemise. +May it lend a little to those women who, +in their rushing adventures, dance too madly +perhaps, each in one of the rays of light resolved +by the naïve prism of their desire.—⁠R. G.</p> + +<p> + July 30, 1908. +</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="YELLOW"> + YELLOW + </h2> +</div> + +<p class="right"> + <i>Que c’est beau, le jaune!</i> +</p> + +<p class="right"> + Van Gogh. +</p> + + +<p>It was understood.</p> + +<p>The last time he had sent her a long kiss, +his eyes closed as in ecstasy, and she had +smiled tenderly, drooping her lashes.</p> + +<p>They had never spoken to each other.</p> + +<p>She lived there. There were houses, along +the river bank and half way up the hill, bordering +the road that wound up the slope: there +was a mill, a tavern, a sabot factory and two +or three little farmhouses, with a shed in which +slumbered a cart. One could hear whinnying, +a waggoner’s heavy oath, the crowing of a +cock, the patter of the water under the mill +wheels and its murmuring beneath the wooden +bridge.</p> + +<p>He, too, lived there, but higher up, behind +the trees that framed the horizon. At evening, +returning from the hunt, he would pause upon +the bridge, look at the water, the willows, the +grass, the narrow valley, where the sun, before +dying, came to rest for a moment.</p> + +<p>It was from this point that he had beheld +her. She was spreading out upon the fresh lawn +some strips of unbleached linen. He thought +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</span>she must be the daughter of the weaver who +could be heard at work near the tavern, or else +some servant. On other days she would be +washing clothes beneath the large hazel tree +whose branches bent to kiss the stream, and +would lay them on the bushes; then, before +returning, she would pick some hazel nuts, or +flowers, or would throw pebbles into the water. +When she felt that she was being observed +she would laugh, but she refused to be +disturbed in her work or her play.</p> + +<p>One day, however, she stood for a long time +looking at him, eating hazel nuts that she +cracked between her teeth with all the nimbleness +of a squirrel.</p> + +<p>Then he came daily. She would be there, +or else she would arrive slowly, raising her +head. They might have spoken to each other, +but they said nothing. He threw flowers to her, +or twigs, and she paid no attention. He brought +her a yellow carnation: she hid it in her corsage +and, without a token, disappeared.</p> + +<p>It was on the next day that their mute agreement +was concluded.</p> + +<p>The following evening, after the first glances +had been exchanged, he saw her climb in the +direction of the woods and plunge into the +coppice. He made a detour and caught up +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</span>with her just as she was clearing the rails of a +fence. Her short skirt pulled up. She showed +a white knee. That decided him. This fresh +little peasant lass was just the thing. Desire +made him tremble a little.</p> + +<p>He received her into his arms, pressed her +close, kissed her upon the lips, but gently she +freed herself and, curving her shoulders, glided +in under the branches.</p> + +<p>It was a sunken, abandoned path that led to +an old cart-road; she ran quickly, avoiding the +brambles, grazing the broom, the honeysuckle +and the foxglove that made a crazy arabesque +in this sombre lair of sand and gravel which +the branches of the beeches, the ash-trees and +the oaks sheltered with their thick green mantle.</p> + +<p>Stopped by a bramble that clutched at her +legs, she was caught by him; he knelt down, +vanquished the bramble and threw his arm +about her knees. But she did not wish to fall +yet. She stiffened; she turned her back upon +him. He rose to his feet; his hands ascended +to the breasts which she was pressing; he +kissed the back of her neck; he nibbled at an +ear.</p> + +<p>Then she turned her head; her eyes were +serious; she abandoned all resistance. Leaning +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</span>against the arm that encircled her waist, she +surrendered her mouth to kisses, her body to +caresses.</p> + +<p>They fell tenderly.</p> + +<p>Seated now side by side they glanced at each +other from the corners of their eyes, occupied +in similar motions. She was dressing her hair; +he was knotting his cravat.</p> + +<p>She was smiling.</p> + +<p>He was dreaming.</p> + +<p>This happy encounter enchanted him. In his +career as an equivocal huntsman he had met +with few that could match it. “But how difficult +it is to rouse women! The transports of +this loving lass were pretty feeble. She seemed +more ashamed than tender, more resolved than +self-abandoned, I can’t just say.”</p> + +<p>He, however, had tasted intense happiness, +and what sweet peace he now enjoyed! What +charm in this young body, in those contours +fresh with their first form. “She is as lissome +as the trunk of a beech-tree and her flesh +yielded with such pride, yet with such simplicity +as well! How simple is love!”</p> + +<p>He looked at the young girl, hunting words +to say to her, but he did not have the habit of +speech, and above all of tender speeches.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</span></p> + +<p>She appeared prettier than ever, now—more +natural. This sensation of naturalness he had +never before experienced. Perhaps the silence +had led him to reflect.</p> + +<p>At last he spoke, mentioning the charm of +the moment, the coolness of this grotto, his +happiness, his repose.</p> + +<p>She tapped her skirt awkwardly, twisted a +scape of foxglove between her fingers, smiled, +but gave no sign of contentment.</p> + +<p>“It seems to me that I could love her, almost, +if she would only fondle me.”</p> + +<p>Wishing to take out his pipe, he put his hand +into the wrong pocket and struck his purse.</p> + +<p>“Ah!”</p> + +<p>Secretly he extracted a gold-piece, took the +child’s hand and clamped her fingers over the +surprise. She opened them immediately, looked, +and blushed; her bosom swelled, she heaved a +deep sigh, then crushed into her friend’s arms, +all aquiver with nervous sobs of joy.</p> + +<p>On her knees before him, she kissed his eyes, +his cheeks, his chin, the corners of his lips.</p> + +<p>She was happy.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="BLACK"> + BLACK + </h2> +</div> + +<blockquote> +<p><i>Le charme inattendu d’un bijou rose et noir.</i></p> +</blockquote> + +<p class="right"> + Baudelaire. +</p> + + +<p>The most beautiful flower that Duclos had +ever seen was a black dahlia.</p> + +<p>It was in the public garden of a little town +in Normandy—a garden of tulips, of daisies, of +wistaria, hornbeams and orange trees—a garden +where the rare plant, sprung up amidst the +familiar ones, seemed truly rare, exceptional +and beautiful.</p> + +<p>How well a bunch of white violets would go +in a torrid greenhouse, amidst the singularity +of the orchids! How welcome is an orchid, and +how strangely it strikes the eye in a spacious +provincial garden, where three children are +laughing, or an ecclesiastic, who has just finished +his breviary, exchanges timorous words +with two old ladies in black!</p> + +<p>This garden was fresh and attractive, as elegant +as a young woman who is perhaps on her +way to love, for surely enough one discovers +here the four-leaf clover. Its plots and its beds +mingled willingly with the hothouse flowers +that were out to take the air, and with the +rustic blossoms that sleep outside—those that +close at night the eyes which they open to the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</span>sun, those that have always a new smile to +take the place of the one that has died, and +those who surrender completely, all at once, +in a single great kiss.</p> + +<p>There were also numerous trees, and even +ash, willows and red osiers, among the lilacs, +the snowballs and the roses of Jericho. There +were lawns, basins, fountains, red fishes and +white fishes.</p> + +<p>There were black flowers.</p> + +<p>During all the summer that he spent in this +little town, Duclos came every morning for a +walk along the avenue of dahlias. He looked +like an inspector of flowers. He examined them +one by one, welcoming the newcomers and deploring +the fate of those which were about to +die.</p> + +<p>He would pause for a long time before the +clump of black dahlias. A black flower is black. +It is a strip of black velvet cut in the shape of +a flower, and nothing more.</p> + +<p>Black dahlias are simple or double, like all +dahlias. The double dahlias are fluted balls, +stiff, seemingly fashioned of metal or linen +that has been well starched and ironed. Simple +dahlias are shaped like a sun or a monstrance +and seem, from the height of their +green stems, to spread a friendly benediction. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</span>They have an eye, and almost always, in the +black dahlias, a yellow eye—an insolvent louis +d’or placed in the center of the black velvet +sun. They inspire fear, for they seem to be +alive, and this is contrary to the nature of +flowers, which must be only things, pretty +things.</p> + +<p>However, the black dahlias that so exalted +Duclos every morning in the large solitary garden +had no eyes: crisp, curly petals intertwined +above the mystery of the stamens and pistils.</p> + +<p>“This flower is only an idea, it is a desire. +It is a flower?”</p> + +<p>One day he met with a surprise. A tiny +bindweed had slipped its supple stem in between +the petals of a large dahlia and had just +opened in the heart of the flower. It had dared +to set amidst this night of black velvet the +caress of a carnal mother-of-pearl.</p> + +<p>“... And I,” he said to himself, “... to +think that I never understood that line of +Baudelaire’s.... No, it’s impossible.... Farewell, +innocent flower that offends the peace of +my heart.... Whom am I to love now, since +you are not a woman and this country is a +desert of love?”</p> + +<p>He walked off ill content, his eyes lowered, +thrusting at the pebbles of the path with his +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</span>foot and with the tip of his cane, meditating +upon the disharmony between thought and deed +that renders pleasant realizations so difficult +and so rare.</p> + +<p>“Desire comes rarely at the right moment. +One yearns only after the impossible—water +that flows, the bird that flies off, the woman +who goes back into the house and rudely slams +her door. Wisdom would consist in never desiring +anything save the bit of bread one is raising +to his mouth. And even then, who knows +whether one’s throat will not contract as the +food is swallowed? Better, then, to desire only +that which has already been accomplished, to +accept chance and live over again those moments +which were happy....”</p> + +<p>A cry interrupted his reflections.</p> + +<p>He looked up and perceived, seated upon a +bench before him, a young woman who, with +the hem of her skirt turned up somewhat, was +feeling her ankle uneasily, above a white shoe. +The hem was black.</p> + +<p>Duclos was not timid. As he bowed, his hat +in hand, explaining the wickedness of the pebbles +that one is apt to trip over, he observed +the severity of a toilette that enchanted him. +Everything was black and white, save, at the +neck, the gleam of a pink ribbon, quite similar +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</span>in shade to the bindweed that opened, yonder, +in the heart of the black dahlia.</p> + +<p>Near the woman, a play in brochure form, +yellow and somewhat soiled. He connected this +with a large poster that he had seen that morning, +and still drunk with his flower and his +desire, he murmured, looking at her neck, +which was so fresh, then at her subdued, golden +face and her very sombre eyes: “<i>The unexpected +charm of a pink and black jewel.</i>”</p> + +<p>“White, black and pink,” he amended, smiling.</p> + +<p>A somewhat forced smile replied to him.</p> + +<p>The spoke of the drama. And when he took +a seat upon the bench no one made a wry face.</p> + +<p>“Such stupidity!” exclaimed the lady, rolling +up the pamphlet.</p> + +<p>Then he recited some verses for her:</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">O music, music of the trees,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Lull me, cradle me.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Warm breath of the wind, cooled by the stream,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Caress me, fondle me....</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p>She was soon gazing at him through tender +eyes.</p> + +<p>Long, shrill whistles. The train rumbled by.</p> + +<p>“The station is near,” said Duclos. “You go +down a small staircase.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</span></p> + +<p>“We have the afternoon,” murmured the lady.</p> + +<p>“I love you!” said the young man.</p> + +<p>“Why not?” replied the lady.</p> + +<p>“Who knows?”</p> + +<p>“Who knows?”</p> + +<p>They arose at the same impulse.</p> + +<p>As they passed the large black dahlia, black +and pink now, Duclos stopped, and pointing to +the flower:</p> + +<p>“I love you, because I love this black and +pink flower. I love you, because you are both +sisters.”</p> + +<p>“And to think,” she said, “that this morning +I was weeping over the wickedness of men....”</p> + +<p>“Not all men are wicked.”</p> + +<p>They gazed at each other for a long time, +then took each other’s hands.</p> + +<p>“Are you my destined one?”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps,” she answered.</p> + +<p>Then she added, as at the first time:</p> + +<p>“Who knows?”</p> + +<p>“Quickly,” said Duclos, “this is the hour.”</p> + +<p>They hastened down the little staircase to +the station. They set out on their journey.</p> + +<p>Sometimes Duclos would call his lady friend +“My Dahlia.” This would make her laugh, and +dream, too.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</span></p> + +<p>As soon as they had known each other each +loved the other with deep passion.</p> + +<p>The black dahlia with the pink heart became +for Duclos an everlasting comfort. The large +velvet flower soothed his brow, his heart and +his lips. It made a beautiful mystery against +the marble whiteness.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="WHITE"> + WHITE + </h2> +</div> + +<blockquote> +<p><i>Cet unanime blanc conflit d’une guirlande avec +la même.</i></p> +</blockquote> + +<p class="right"> + S. Mallarmé. +</p> + + +<p>Once upon a time there were two children +of the same age—a little boy and a little girl. +They were exceedingly fond of each other, were +never happy unless together, and there was +something tender about their games. At hide +and seek, when the little girl had been caught, +she would drop into the arms of her companion, +throw back her head, lower her lashes, +purse her lips; and if the kisses did not rain +down, she would demand them, or go to seek +them by graciously raising her lips to the other +pair of distrait or timid lips. They had just +passed their tenth year.</p> + +<p>One very warm day they rolled down their +stockings to go wading in the brook. They got +very wet and lay down to dry upon the warm +grass, in the sun. The sight of their little pink +legs, however, and of their dripping knees excited +their curiosity. They made comparisons, +and the little boy was wise enough to adjudge +his skin the less smooth. “It is also less soft,” +he said; and his hands went in company of his +eyes.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</span></p> + +<p>They began anew the next day, and each day +they read more. Their kisses, now, were companioned +by sweet caresses that sent the blood +swirling to their heads. But the very next instant +they had already forgotten this and their +innocence burst into laughter. They were +happy.</p> + +<p>With the coming of the first cold weather +and the rain, they transferred their games to +a large, half empty room that was left to them. +The little boy, who went to school, would spend +all his spare time at his friend’s. The little +girl received her instruction at home. Upon +certain days when the weather was bad the +little boy would take his lessons with her. +Their parents, with an eye to the future, observed +this childish tenderness of the two pupils +with great pleasure.</p> + +<p>Towards the month of December a curate +came to the house and was led by the mother +to the large room in which the children were +playing. An armchair and a footstool were +brought for him. He sat down, took out his +snuff-box, wiped his lips, sniffed a generous +pinch and spoke of the good Lord. This subject +was already known to him, but the little +girl grew attentive when the priest, turning +toward her, addressed her thus:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</span></p> + +<p>“My child, you will soon, I hope, make the +acquaintance of your Creator. You know how +much he loves you, and you love him, too. Pure +hearts always love the good Lord. But real love +demands closer intimacy and more abandon. +Jesus will come to you and you will surrender +to him confidently. You will feel the sacred +embraces of your Creator. In a word, my dear +little girl, we are going to prepare you for +your first communion.”</p> + +<p>“And what about me?” asked the little boy.</p> + +<p>“Listen,” said the priest, “and profit duly +by my words. You know,” he continued, turning +back to the little girl, “the great importance +of such an act. The catechism has instructed +you in the grandeur of the sacrament. What a +mystery is the union of the Creator and the +created! This union is effected by the eucharistic +communion and it brings to those beings +who know how to prepare for it and make +themselves worthy of it all the ineffable joys +of divine love....”</p> + +<p>He spoke for a long time, and the coldness +of his speech contrasted with the exaltation of +the sentiments that he expressed. At every +moment he would unfold a large red, very dirty +handkerchief, open his snuff-box, take a pinch, +hawk and sneeze. The little girl understood +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</span>nothing of the great words of love uttered by +this old automaton; still, he spoke of love and +this word, even in such a mouth, charmed her +and made her shudder a little.</p> + +<p>Her confessor had not yet questioned her +upon the sixth commandment, but, upon the +approach of the great day, he abandoned his +reserve or his indifference. His very precise +questions, which for the rest conformed to the +manuals of devotion, interested the little girl +deeply. Upon reflection she became heartbroken. +So all those nice things were sins. +Those games, those kisses, those touches, those +caresses—sins! The priest taught her, then, +only this—that without realizing it she had +ceased to be innocent.</p> + +<p>One afternoon she refused her friend’s kiss +and, with no further explanation, went to a +corner of the room and sank to her knees. +Then she took a book and read: “Let us faithfully +remove all obstacles that might impede +the arrival of Jesus into us. Let us prepare +for Him a pure sanctuary, adorned and aglow +with love; and when He shall have come, we +will be able to say to Him, in the fervor of +our joy: ‘My well-beloved is mine, he has reposed +upon my heart.’....”</p> + +<p>She had uttered these words aloud. The little +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</span>boy heard them and asked, through tears:</p> + +<p>“It’s no longer I whom you love?”</p> + +<p>“You can’t understand those things. I love +you as my brother and as my little friend; I +have a deep affection for you, but my love belongs +to Jesus.”</p> + +<p>“To Jesus!”</p> + +<p>He shrugged his shoulders in peevish +chagrin.</p> + +<p>“Jesus loves me. How then can I not love +Him? He courts me; how then resist Him? +Don’t you know that He is all-powerful and +that He can pulverize the both of us on the +spot?”</p> + +<p>“Really?”</p> + +<p>Overwhelmed, he meditated upon this +Stranger, so strong and so cruel, who had come +to bear off his friend and to break his heart.</p> + +<p>“Ah! Let Him kill me, but let him not take +you away!”</p> + +<p>“He won’t take me away. Did He take away +Angéle, Laure, Juliette, whom He loved so much +a year ago and who are all still so happy with +Him?”</p> + +<p>“Then He won’t love you always?”</p> + +<p>“He will love me always, but from afar, and +I, too, shall love Him. But I’m not the only +one on earth and He must enter the hearts of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</span>all little girls who take their first communion.”</p> + +<p>“Does He enter the hearts of little boys, too?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t think so,” she replied in ironic tones. +“He can offer to little boys only a good, firm +friendship.”</p> + +<p>“As for me, I’ll never love Him.”</p> + +<p>“You’ll be compelled to love Him, when you’ll +have a pure heart, you’ll see.”</p> + +<p>“Ah!”</p> + +<p>“Now, I have a pure heart, I’ve confessed all +my sins!”</p> + +<p>“What sins!”</p> + +<p>“Silence, and ask pardon of God.”</p> + +<p>She renewed her prayers.</p> + +<p>Her friend meditated.</p> + +<p>Little boys, less early developed, generally +take their first communion a year later than +little girls of their age. This was a custom; +he did not feel humiliated by it. Nevertheless, +he would have liked very much to share in the +mysteries into which his friend was about to +be initiated. He felt a mingled jealousy and +fear.</p> + +<p>“I only hope,” he told himself, “that He does +her no harm!”</p> + +<p>At last the great day arrived. He saw his +little friend pale and winsome in a cloud of +muslin. These two whitenesses were charming. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</span>Drawing near to her, he murmured:</p> + +<p>“How I love you!”</p> + +<p>She lowered her eyes and rolled in her white-gloved +fingers the beads of her mother-of-pearl +chaplet. She walked on without answer, without +so much as looking at him. He was sad +throughout the ceremony. The recital of acts +stirred him a trifle, but at the sound of his +friend’s voice his heart broke:</p> + +<p>“Oh, my sole possession, my treasure, my +life, my paradise, my love, my All, I wish to +receive You with a heart aflame with love.... +Oh, my treasure, I wish to live and die in a +continual union with You!... My well-beloved +has given Himself all to me I give myself +likewise all to Him. Oh, my Jesus, I desire no +longer to belong to myself. I would be yours +alone. Let my senses belong to You and may +they no longer serve for aught but to give You +pleasure....”</p> + +<p>“Ungrateful wretch!” he thought. He stirred +with anger. Then he recalled the charming +hours spent with his friend—their games, their +laughter, those long kisses that put them out of +breath, those embraces out of which they came +blushing, with scorching skin and moist eyes....</p> + +<p>“And now all these pleasures she is to give to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</span>another! And I’m left all alone.... She loves +me no more....”</p> + +<p>The little girl had the honor of speaking +again after the communion. She returned to +her place, the first one in the white procession, +kneeled with her head in her hands and remained +for a long time absorbed. A powerful +emotion crushed her. She felt at once grieved +and happy:</p> + +<p>“He is within me, I feel Him in my heart.... +My heart swells.... I stifle, but it is with happiness.... +I am beloved, I am beloved.... Is it +Thou, my love? Oh! Stay in my arms, clasp +me tightly yet again! Ah! I feel bad.... My +head is in a whirl.... Ah! Ah! What a feeling! +Now I will declare my love for Him unafraid. +I am well content, deeply proud.... +Thou lovest me, say? He loves me.”</p> + +<p>She arose and spoke:</p> + +<p>“Oh loving Savior, I have given myself to +You and You have given Yourself to me. I +wish to sacrifice to You all the pleasures of +the earth; I sacrifice to you my body, my soul, +my will. I have only these to offer You, alas! +If I had more, I would give You more. I would +gladly die for you.... Kindle me with Your +love! But I am not satisfied with a spark, I +want a flame, I want a thousand flames, I +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</span>want a conflagration that shall on the instant +destroy within me all attachment to earthly +creatures.... Vain creatures, leave me; you will +never again behold me. Ask no more for my +affection. My heart belongs entirely to my well-beloved....”</p> + +<p>“She loves me no more,” he said to himself. +“She will never love me again.”</p> + +<p>He wept. The persons near him believed that +it was through pious emotion.</p> + +<p>At last mass was over and the seats were +heard to move about on the lower floor of the +church. The little girl who had been reborn +through love felt likewise devoured by hunger. +Then she began to think of her house, her parents, +her friend, the beautiful table set for the +celebration, aglitter with flowers, with crystal +and silver; she thought of the kitchen, of the +cook. Surely a good plate of soup was getting +cold for her.</p> + +<p>“After that, I’ll eat a nice tart.... My friend +will be there, eager to serve me attentively.... +I love him so.... While waiting for vespers +we’ll take a stroll, we’ll pick flowers, only white +flowers, as white as my veil, as my heart. I’m +so happy!”</p> + +<p>The little boy had run to his friend’s house, +where his family was dining that day. He had +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</span>gone to notify the cook, and, in the pantry, on +a corner of the table, there had been laid aside +specially two plates of soup, two royal patties +and two glasses of wine.</p> + +<p>When the little girl arrived he took her by +the hand and she let him pull her along. At the +sight of the dainty banquet her little feminine +heart melted with tenderness. She threw herself +around the little boy’s neck and hugging +him with all her might, said:</p> + +<p>“You know, Jesus is my mystic husband, but +that isn’t going to last long. While he loves +me, tell me what you want, for He’ll refuse his +little wife nothing.”</p> + +<p>“I want you to love me as before.”</p> + +<p>“Here,” she said.</p> + +<p>She gave him her lips.</p> + +<p>“Are you satisfied? Let’s eat, now. I’m as +hungry as a bear.”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="BLUE"> + BLUE + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>She was a princess. A sister of the queen; +she lived at her side and shared her honors. +But the fancy of the princess, suggested less +pompous pleasures to her, and she gladly would +visit one of her ladies in waiting whose husband +was a simple member of the bodyguard +and moreover an excellent gentleman—young, +handsome, witty, tender.</p> + +<p>The princess had been married in her country +to a prince who might become king, if several +generations were to disappear in some +cataclysm. They had never loved each other. +The princess, too, who was at times mocking +and always proud, was reputed to have a heart +of iron. She had been showered with plenty +of homage, but had accepted no one. Now she +would scoff, now she would assume a glacial +tone. She was fond only of her toilette, gaming +and domination. What pleased her about +the guard was that he accepted her smiles as +commands; then, she always won at <i>vingt-et-un</i>; +and her gowns and her diamonds eclipsed all +other adornments and all other gowns. The +guard had never displayed for her any feeling +other than a deep respect.</p> + +<p>As she was blonde, she liked blue stuffs, blue +flowers, sapphires, as blue as her eyes, so that +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</span>people began to call her the Blue Princess. +The name, which seemed to have come out of +a fairy tale, pleasured her. One day, hearing +the sad confidences of her lady in waiting, she +felt a certain languor steal through her +thoughts and into her limbs, and she said: +“My soul is a blue bird.” This phrase, which +she repeated several times, restored all her serenity, +so beautiful it was. Then she looked +about her:</p> + +<p>“So your husband is away, my dear? I believe +he hasn’t come to pay his respects to me.”</p> + +<p>“My husband seems absent to you today, but +isn’t he absent every day?”</p> + +<p>“What do you mean?”</p> + +<p>“Isn’t he every day absent from himself?”</p> + +<p>“My poor friend, that signifies that he neglects +you.”</p> + +<p>“He no longer loves me.”</p> + +<p>“Truly, this is fine behavior. But it’s impossible. +Besides, I’ll not allow it. I don’t want +my friend to be unhappy. He is going to get +orders from me.”</p> + +<p>“Ah, madame! You believe, then, that hearts +may be commanded?”</p> + +<p>“Why, without a doubt. Was I consulted +when they married me off—me, a princess? I +was told to love my husband, and I loved him.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</span></p> + +<p>“How long?”</p> + +<p>“Why, I should have loved him always, had +he wished it. He did not wish it.”</p> + +<p>“So you see.”</p> + +<p>“He did not wish it, or perhaps he could not. +The marriage gave me no pleasure; he reproached +me for my coldness, and I wept. Since +that moment we have never met without witnesses. +At first I felt exceedingly humiliated, +then I appreciated the quietude of solitary +nights. I am very happy to be a girl again. +But since my experience I understand somewhat +the less all games, dramas and comedies +of love.... Then you find amusement, do +you, in the conjugal ceremony?”</p> + +<p>The lady gazed at her mistress with respectful, +sorrowful irony.</p> + +<p>Then she said:</p> + +<p>“I fear lest my husband has some lady-love +upon his mind, or some light-o’-love.”</p> + +<p>“Light-o’-love?” repeated the princess. “The +word’s a pretty one. Light-o’-love. That can +hardly be serious, can it?”</p> + +<p>“Serious? No. Light-o’-love passes and love +remains. But I don’t know. Perhaps it’s a +genuine love passion that takes him from me. +I’m afraid, really.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</span></p> + +<p>“I understand almost nothing of all this,” +said the princess, “but I should be glad to see +you as happy as I myself am. As far as that is +concerned, I need only the life that goes by and +that I breathe. As for you, since you need love, +I’ll do my best, I repeat, to help you. The +word of his princess will touch his heart.... +Eh! My good friend, perhaps it is I whom he +adores?”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps, alas!”</p> + +<p>“Why ‘alas’? If it is I, you are saved.”</p> + +<p>At this moment the guard entered and advanced +to salute the princess.</p> + +<p>“Monsieur,” she said to him, “I will receive +you at six o’clock at the palace, in private audience.”</p> + +<p>She arose and left.</p> + +<p>Everybody followed the example of the princess, +and man and wife were left face to face, +both exceedingly uneasy.</p> + +<p>“Madame,” said the husband, “so you have +displeased the princess? So it’s to you that I +owe this insult?”</p> + +<p>“Insult? What do you mean? The lady of +your thoughts makes a private appointment for +you and yet you complain?”</p> + +<p>He was at a loss for reply, for this was the +first time that his wife had referred to feelings +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</span>which he had imagined he held well hidden +in his heart.</p> + +<p>“The lady of my thoughts,” he answered, +brutally, “is my career, and you have doubtless +ruined that with your prating.”</p> + +<p>“I’m no gossip.”</p> + +<p>“You’re stupid.”</p> + +<p>“Ah! Leave me. You don’t deserve to be +loved.”</p> + +<p>The lady in waiting fled, brimming with a +sad anger. But, in defiance of all reason, she +hoped that the intercession of the princess +would prove fruitful, and she spent the rest of +that day weeping softly.</p> + +<p>The guard adored the princess secretly and +without hope. Timid and violent, he saved his +timidity for his divinity, his violence for his +wife; but when he had been brutal he would be +overwhelmed with shame and his timidity +would cause him much suffering. He was almost +always unhappy. Thus, for some time he +had been seeking in ambition a remedy for his +ills. He had just spent the afternoon in executing +the most humiliating errands for the king’s +mistress, who was troubled by the attentions of +a lover of inferior station whom she had dismissed. +The guard, in exchange for a note +three lines long, was to receive a captain’s +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</span>brevet. He had the note in his wallet and it +was supposed to be delivered to the mistress +at exactly six o’clock.</p> + +<p>Love, curiosity and disquietude triumphed +over ambition. He went to dress for the occasion, +perfumed himself and ran to the interview, +saying to himself: “Perhaps it’s a rendez-vouz.”</p> + +<p>The princess, instead of letting him dance attendance, +was herself waiting for him when he +arrived, and not without impatience. She was +prettier than ever, because more pale, with +sparkling eyes. Her face was as tender as a +cluster of white lilacs hidden beneath the +leaves, but these leaves were blonde: her coiffure, +in most artistic disarray, let a few curly +tresses droop to her shoulders.</p> + +<p>“Come nearer,” she said in a sorrowing voice. +“Come nearer. Stand here, beside me. I am +suffering, and can speak only in the lowest +tones. And then, it’s the friend, the friend of +your wife who receives you—not the princess. +Now, then: I have become aware that you no +longer love Elizabeth and that gives me pain. +Have you really ceased to love her?”</p> + +<p>“Alas!”</p> + +<p>“And how about your sense of duty, of your +honor?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</span></p> + +<p>“My honor?”</p> + +<p>“Yes. You had vowed to her, besides conjugal +fidelity, an eternal tenderness....”</p> + +<p>“She believed it.... Perhaps I, too, believed.”</p> + +<p>“It’s wrong to abandon her, to torment her.... +She is weeping at this moment, I am +sure....”</p> + +<p>“I am not bad to her.”</p> + +<p>“Very well. Promise me never to cause her +displeasure again.”</p> + +<p>“I will never voluntarily cause her displeasure.”</p> + +<p>“Good. But promise me more. Promise me....”</p> + +<p>She seemed oppressed, and her voice sank so +low that, in order to hear it, the guard had to +lean toward the princess, almost grazing her +tresses. This man, although he was accustomed +to all the dissemblances of the courtly +folk, suffered frightfully. To love the princess +from afar had seemed to him a sweet torture +in comparison to the agony which, at this moment, +was stirred in him by desire. Were she +any other woman, either he would have fallen +to his knees or taken to flight; with the princess, +he must remain, keep silent and preserve +the attitude of a soldier receiving orders.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</span></p> + +<p>“Promise me,” resumed the princess, “that +you will be kind to her, very kind, and that +you will love her again....”</p> + +<p>The guard said nothing.</p> + +<p>“You promise?”</p> + +<p>Still he said nothing.</p> + +<p>“Then it’s no longer possible? All is then +over between you? Have you any serious fault +to find with her?”</p> + +<p>“I have no fault to find. I no longer love +her. That is all.”</p> + +<p>“Let her not discover this, at least!”</p> + +<p>“I was hoping that she would never discover +it.”</p> + +<p>“One may cease loving a woman, then, without +her discovering?”</p> + +<p>“It is hard. I lacked the necessary skill. +What is too easy, alas, is to love a woman without +her discovering it.”</p> + +<p>“Oh! You really think so?”</p> + +<p>“I am sure of it. She whom I love has never +suspected my love and will never suspect it.”</p> + +<p>“Sir guard,” said the princess, “sir soldier +man, you are a child. She whom you love +knows your love....”</p> + +<p>“Alas!” he said, incredulously.</p> + +<p>“... and she loves you,” she added, giving +him her two hands.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</span></p> + +<p>He threw himself upon the gift, but he was +still undecided, so troubled that he panted.</p> + +<p>“Kiss them, my child,” said the princess. +“Kiss me, you who love me, you who have desired +me so long in the secret chamber of your +heart. Kiss your blue princess, kiss your love.”</p> + +<p>On the next morning the maid said to her +mistress:</p> + +<p>“Oh! Madame has a blue spot upon her +throat.”</p> + +<p>“That doesn’t surprise me. It’s a mark. But +so strange! Now it’s here, now there. It appears, +it vanishes. On my throat, it’s true, and +on my heart....”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps that’s why they call Madame the +blue princess?” continued the innocent woman.</p> + +<p>“Go, see if my lady-in-waiting is there.”</p> + +<p>The princess, left for a moment by herself, +gazed feelingly at her blue spot.</p> + +<p>“Lord, how happy I am!” she said to herself. +“And how cunning! And how stupid is my +friend! To confide her love troubles! Poor +Ariane, without you, I should perhaps never +have known anything. Those glances which I +took for the signs of an ardent, respectful attachment +were love!... But here she +comes....”</p> + +<p>The lady-in-waiting entered excitedly.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</span></p> + +<p>“Ah! Princess? I had to stay up for him +till four in the morning! I am beside myself! +All is lost.”</p> + +<p>“There! Can’t you ever be reasonable? On +the contrary, all is settled.”</p> + +<p>“Ah! Thanks!”</p> + +<p>“Listen to me. I received his confession. It +was difficult, it was long. At last I know the +truth. It’s a light-o’-love. The person who has +turned your husband’s head is a humble actress +of no consequence. Men take them, drop them, +pick them up again. This one had already +passed through many hands, and among others, +through my husband’s.... You see, you +and I have a family relationship.... Now +then. An actress is hardly ever free during the +day time. Her liberty begins when that of +other women ends, at midnight. So I have decided +that your husband’s duties shall be shifted +to my palace from midnight to four in the +morning.... Naturally he will receive compensation, +for that’s an arduous task.... +His future is assured, and his happiness.... +Is he ambitious? Yes. Very well. Would he +like a title? A decoration? At first I’ll attach +him to my personal suite. As soon as there is +an opening, in six months, in three, he will be +made my aide-de-camp, my secretary. He will +leave me only to court you, happy wife. Between +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</span>the two of us we will keep watch over +him....”</p> + +<p>“How good you are!”</p> + +<p>“Am I not, indeed?”</p> + +<p>“You are kindness itself.”</p> + +<p>“You are beautiful. You are, and that is +worth more.”</p> + +<p>“Beautiful? Who is more beautiful than +you?”</p> + +<p>“Flatterer! I am thirty and you are twenty-five.... +Alas! I have renounced everything. +You will love me, at least?”</p> + +<p>“I have always loved you. Henceforth I will +adore you. My life belongs to you. I will devote +myself to you until death, and my husband, +too, I fondly hope.”</p> + +<p>“I, too, hope so. I have perhaps delivered +him from a grave peril, from an unhappy love, +for what joy can one find in the adventure that +he was engaged in?”</p> + +<p>“When he comes to his right senses he will +be deeply grateful to you.... Yesterday +evening, that is to say this morning, he was +greatly troubled. When he returned, I thought +him drunk. He stared at me out of wandering +eyes. As soon as he entered his room he bolted +the door and I heard him cry out: ‘Ah! Ah! +Ah!’...”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</span></p> + +<p>“He said nothing else?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t think so. He is not very talkative.”</p> + +<p>“A precious virtue. What would you say of a +husband who imparted humiliating confidences?... +There <i>are</i> some like that.... Mine, +for example....”</p> + +<p>“You were indeed unhappy!”</p> + +<p>“Yes and no. I never think of it any more +The present exalts my heart.... To bring +happiness to those you love and who love you,—can +anything in the world equal that?”</p> + +<p>“You are adorable!”</p> + +<p>“And I am adored.”</p> + +<p>“Oh! Yes.”</p> + +<p>“My dear friend!”</p> + +<p>She did not withhold her hand, which the +lady in waiting covered with kisses.</p> + +<p>“They are superimposed,” she thought, “but +the last does not efface the first. Your lips, +poor couple, still meet in fervor, but upon my +skin.... It is indeed curious....”</p> + +<p>“Ah!” she resumed, aloud, “now that you are +sure to rediscover your happiness one day or +another, I hope that you will be prudent. According +to the tales confided to me, your husband +has been a trifle fatigued by conjugal +joys. Men don’t like to have advances made +to them....”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</span></p> + +<p>“Oh! Between husband and wife! Never +mind. I will be discreet, generous friend....”</p> + +<p>“More generous than you think! For, after +all, your husband is very seductive. He is +young, younger than I,—handsome, ardent, passionate....”</p> + +<p>“He was.”</p> + +<p>“He still is, you may be sure, and you will notice +it soon enough. If I had not renounced +everything, if I were not a princess.... In +your place I should be jealous.”</p> + +<p>“Ah! Lord, I know your heart too well.”</p> + +<p>“Then you will go home in full confidence? +Yet a mite sad.”</p> + +<p>“Yet a mite.”</p> + +<p>“But the clouds are scattering, the sky is beginning +to turn blue again?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“As blue as my soul, my tender darling, as +blue as my heart.”</p> + +<p>And she thrust her finger into her bosom, +toward the spot of the blue bruise that so enchanted +her amorous flesh.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="VIOLET"> + VIOLET + </h2> +</div> + +<p class="right"> + <i>L’heure violette.</i> +</p> + +<p class="right"> + Leo Larguier. +</p> + + +<p>They called her the old maid, and yet, though +she was both a maid and old, she looked like +neither one nor the other. Her appearance suggested +a widow just past her prime. She always +dressed in black, with a profusion of embroidery, +ornaments and violet ribbons. Most +frequently a bouquet of pale violets would +bedeck her corsage and would be repeated, +artificially, upon her hat. The scent of violets +floated through her garden, her house and her +heart: her soft eyes were two beautiful violets. +The old maid was jolly and religious; and +the curates were not slow in adducing this as +a proof that good humor is the inseparable +companion of virtue and piety: “Just see the +old maid. Heaven is in her soul and in her +eyes.” Her eyes were indeed of the sweetest, +and a smile, at once celestial and childish, +would scatter its benediction over the pink +plenitude of her countenance. She was, in +every aspect, plump, but not to excess, and the +entire effect revealed that restful suavity of +definite architectural structures.</p> + +<p>A single token betrayed her age—the color of +her hair. Their very ashen blond had become +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</span>even more faded when she reached forty, dissolving +into the shade of tawny linen which +the years, those skilful laundresses, bleach at +each springtime a little.</p> + +<p>In short, the old maid was an agreeable +canoness.</p> + +<p>Toward that period in which she had to undergo +the great feminine crisis, her fortune, +through the establishment of a railroad that +cut across one of her farms, rose considerably. +Then, her head being troubled by vapors, she +felt a desire to move. She made distant pilgrimages, +but only in the company of a lady +friend, and at her leisure. Having seen the +provinces and some new faces, she felt different; +her curiosity, too long dormant, awoke. A +literary ecclesiastic loaned her some books of +history. The novel treats only of possible loves, +while history speaks of real loves attested by +letters and relics. The old maid was surprised; +one day she dreamed for a long time before the +picture of a handsome worldly cardinal which +decorated a serious book.</p> + +<p><i>Galeotto fu ’l libro e chi lo scrisse.</i>⁠<a id="FNanchor_A_1" href="#Footnote_A_1" class="fnanchor">[A]</a>⁠</p> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_A_1" href="#FNanchor_A_1" class="label">[A]</a> Translator’s Note—This is the famous line from +Dante’s Inferno,—episode of Paolo and Francesca. +“Galeotto was the book and he who wrote it.”</p></div> + +<p>She had not married, through piety, having, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</span>at the hands of a priest implacable before all +terrestrial pleasures, taken a vow to consecrate +herself to the Lord. Her mother, informed of +this, wept and threatened to die; then the +daughter deferred, postponing this abandonment +of the world until her mother should have +departed. But the years, without abating her +piety, had little by little effaced in her spirit +even the memory of this vow, and when she +had found herself free to fulfill it, she had no +longer thought of it. The fanatical priest was +dead. The hour of marriage was dead, too. +Having refused all the eligibles of the region, +she had become, without noticing it, the old +maid; and now that she did realize it, it was +too late. Besides, she was happy thus, and +happier still since she had taken to dreaming.</p> + +<p>So the old maid was dreaming, one beautiful +twilight toward the end of September, as +she shelled peas in her garden together with +her servant. One could descry the little town, +reclining like a lazy lass along the river bank; +one of her arms, half bare, rose toward the +station; the other was lost in a forest; her +head was formed by the church; her body, the +city; and her legs, the suburbs. And all this +dozed, even the station, between two cries.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</span></p> + +<p>The old maid was dreaming so well that her +servant, wearied of not obtaining any replies +to her talk, had ceased speaking; she was +dreaming so well that, at the sound of the +front-door bell, she started and half rose with +a bewildered air.</p> + +<p>The visitor did not correspond to her dream. +She recognized one of her girlhood companions, +a poor woman who lived in the country, +married to a petty notary and burdened with +children. An urchin of some twelve years, +garbed in a sorry gray uniform, followed this +figure, with humble mien and his cap in his +hands.</p> + +<p>The reception was a cold one, but the poor +woman was so amiable and she brought such +pretty rustic flowers and such large plums, +that the old maid rediscovered her smile. The +youngster was introduced to her; he was going, +on the following day, to enter the town academy +as a pensioner. Now, the parents, who were +too busy and not wealthy, could come all that +distance to see him only three or four times +per year, perhaps. What was desired of her +was, that if it did not inconvenience her too +greatly, she should board during holidays this +youngster, who was so well-behaved, so gentle, +so respectful, and so well advanced in his +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</span>studies, since he had just won a scholarship.</p> + +<p>The old maid consented. This seemed to her +at first an act of charity.</p> + +<p>“If I can’t attend to it,” she said, “Rosalie +will hunt him up and see after him. She’ll take +him to my Pine farm in good weather. He’ll +drink milk. Is he fond of milk?”</p> + +<p>“Oh!” replied the mother, “very much. Thank +the mademoiselle.”</p> + +<p>“Thank you, mademoiselle.”</p> + +<p>At the sound of this sweet voice, already almost +masculine, the old maid looked at the +youngster.</p> + +<p>That was all. As night had fallen the peas +were brought in, and the old maid, summoned +by the Angelus, went off to church.</p> + +<p>Rosalie, toward the middle of October, went +to the academy. The boy was given to her.</p> + +<p>Mademoiselle would not return till evening. +Alone with a servant, the boy soon began to +take liberties. Then, tired, he became serious +and spoke of his studies, of his plans for the +future. When Mademoiselle arrived unexpectedly, +she found a young man who was saying, +solemnly:</p> + +<p>“As soon as I shall have become a sub-lieutenant, +I will marry; I already am considering +it.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</span></p> + +<p>“And perhaps you know whom?”</p> + +<p>“I know very well.”</p> + +<p>The servant laughed. She, too, knew whom +he would marry as soon as it would be possible.</p> + +<p>“Why, he’s charming—this little fellow!” exclaimed +the old maid.</p> + +<p>After this first day, she never failed to be +at home during the school holidays. They would +chat, take strolls, or play by the fire. She used +the familiar form of address when speaking +to him, she would kiss him, touch his clothes, +mother him; she loved him.</p> + +<p>In the meantime the youngster became thirteen, +then came vacation days; she let them +pass, and herself went on a trip. But the end +of September was like an anniversary; she +wished herself to go and fetch him whom she +called her protégé. While waiting for school +to reopen, he spent three days in her home. +She was so attentive, so tender, almost, that +Rosalie felt pangs of jealousy.</p> + +<p>The holidays came around again, all alike, +all happy. There were hours of intimacy, family +hours, but mingled with a certain indescribable +uneasiness, ever so sweet, of an acute, +enervating sweetness. The days went by and +the boy grew to fourteen.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</span></p> + +<p>The absence of Rosalie on one afternoon that +she went to the farm troubled them as an animal +is troubled by the sudden opening of his +cage. By a common impulse they went into the +house. It was stormy and very warm.</p> + +<p>“Come,” she said, “to my room. It’s the only +cool place in the house.”</p> + +<p>And all this was innocent and inevitable.</p> + +<p>In her room they drew near to a table where +there were albums; they looked them over together, +but without seeing anything. Their +voices, when they spoke, seemed to them different. +Their knees touched, then their hands, +then their lips, and the rest came, too, though +with difficulty.</p> + +<p>The thrill of the chaste old maid was moving. +She wept. Then she sank to her knees and +worshipped, as a sacred symbol, the adorable +body of her little friend. The god that she had +sought distractedly on her pious journeys had +at last appeared, and the happiness that the +priests had prophesied for her she had at last +felt swelling her heart.</p> + +<p>The young boy was far less perturbed, for +at that age pleasure does not radiate. He was +absorbed by anatomical curiosity. He made a +tour of the woman he had conquered, like the +adolescent who feels his first partridge all +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</span>about and who brushes back all its feathers.</p> + +<p>“My little Jesus,” said the old maid, “Rosalie +will soon be here.”</p> + +<p>The hours that intervened before dinner were +like acts of grace. She dined as one listening +to mass.</p> + +<p>And this continued for four years, from +Thursday to Thursday, from vacation to vacation. +The young boy, at times, felt a desire +for other loves, but tiny hamlets are not very +fertile in adventures and, then again, such +powerful arms enfolded him, such generous +hands!</p> + +<p>Rosalie, who detected the secret of her mistress, +took advantage of it to procure herself +a dowry in view of the uncertainty of the future, +and the adopted son of the “old maid” +became a young man who enjoyed high esteem.</p> + +<p>And now the old maid discovered that, +among her friend’s children there were two +other little boys, one of twelve and one of +eight.</p> + +<p>“I’ll see them through their school career,” +she said. “But I want only one at a time.”</p> + +<p>And thus it was arranged. These three little +friends took care of her to her sixtieth year. +Rich in the years of youth that she had +economised, and unceasingly refreshed by +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</span>youthful flesh, this innocent Ninon continued, +up to an advanced age, to be the benefactress +of the honorable poor families who had sons +to send to school. Her piety, now become uncertain, +gave concern to the clergy, but since +one of her pupils, disgusted with his love tasks, +entered the ecclesiastical seminary, where the +old maid paid his expenses generously, the +church was reassured. There are crises of indifference +even in the souls of the most religious.</p> + +<p>Only the confessor of the old maid, for she +confessed regularly and voluptuously—only this +honest old canon knew the whole truth. He +would lower his eyes as they met those of his +penitent and would flee at her approach. The +odor of the secret that sealed his lips poisoned +his heart. He died of grief at the sight of his +tender lioness devouring her seventh lamb.</p> + +<p>Violets continued ever to adorn and to perfume +the corsage and the hat, the garden and +the heart of the old maid with the violet eyes.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="RED"> + RED + </h2> +</div> + +<blockquote> +<p><i>Cum vere rubenti Candida venit avis.</i></p> +</blockquote> + +<p class="right"> + Virgil. +</p> + + +<p>She was already returning, her arms rigid +with the weight of the milk pails; her sabots +were wet with the dew, and the hem of her +skirt felt cold. When the sun became visible, +red through the morning mist, she said to herself:</p> + +<p>“It’s going to be a beautiful day.”</p> + +<p>She mused upon this for a long while, avoiding +the pebbles of the path so as not to spill her +milk, and the tall bending, weeping grass because +her bare legs were really cold.</p> + +<p>“It’s going to be a beautiful day.”</p> + +<p>She walked on, now crossing a field of gorse +where the path, much wider, made expressly +for the farmhands, stretched straight ahead of +her. The mist had disappeared, enchanted by +the sun—had risen yonder above, doubtless, +whence it would descend again gently, as serene +dew, a mantle of coolness which the stars +spread fraternally over the shoulders of the +parched earth.</p> + +<p>She mused again:</p> + +<p>“It’s going to be very warm.”</p> + +<p>Then a stem of buckwheat, lost there by a +bird, suggested to her:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</span></p> + +<p>“The buckwheat will be ripe for threshing.”</p> + +<p>This idea gave her pleasure, then became a +source of worriment, for the season had been a +wet one, and if the buckwheat were ripe for +threshing, surely it would be threshed. This +meant that she must quickly get in, quickly +strain the milk, feed the fowl and many things, +so many that she felt a tug at her heart.</p> + +<p>As she was striding along too quickly, a +drop of milk splashed from the pail and fell +upon her sabot. She stopped, put down the +pails, happy for a chance to rest, although she +was somewhat remorseful, too; in order to limber +them she raised her beautiful pink arms +very high, thus gilding them with the fire of the +sun.</p> + +<p>Suddenly she started, becoming almost pale, +and bringing her hand to her bosom. She had +not been frightened. She had simply been surprised +by the first gun shot of the year.</p> + +<p>At the same moment she saw a cloudlet of +smoke; a feather flew by her; a wounded +partridge fell amidst the gorse.</p> + +<p>“Here, Tom!” cried a voice. “Go look. Fetch +it.”</p> + +<p>The dog bounded along the path, pressed forward, +returned, intent and troubled, but definitely +resolved not to plunge into the dangerous +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</span>forest. As the voice, now more imperious, +more angry and nearer as well, repeated the +commandment, Tom, his tail between his legs, +took refuge in the skirts of the young girl, +who bent over to caress him and encourage +him.</p> + +<p>“Don’t fondle him, beat him!” cried the +voice.</p> + +<p>It was that of a young man who now appeared, +standing in the hedge amidst the +branches.</p> + +<p>The milk maid straightened up, looked and +turned red. From the voice she had not been +able to tell whether it was the father or the +son. She thought that it was the father; she +wished it were, for the scorn of the haughty +young man, who had never spoken a word to +her, pained her deeply.</p> + +<p>She went red and felt uneasy, but could not +lower her glance. She was lost in admiration, +she was ready to fall to her knees.</p> + +<p>The command was repeated, the dog pretended +death.</p> + +<p>Then, with legs and arm bare, she plunged +into the gorse and was badly scratched. She +walked along almost blindly, as fast as she +could, holding back her tears.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</span></p> + +<p>Having fetched the partridge she threw it +into Tom’s mouth.</p> + +<p>The young man, still standing amidst the +trees, above the sea of cruel gorse, made her +a friendly sign then jumped forward, proceeding +in front of his hound.</p> + +<p>She, without replying, perhaps without having +seen the friendly gesture that thanked the +poor servant, once more bent her shoulders +beneath the neck yoke, and the milk pails, well +balanced, hung from her red hands.</p> + +<p>She walked on, thinking no longer of anything +but matters so vague and so deep that +her mind could not grasp them.</p> + +<p>Her legs were bleeding, her hand was bleeding, +and around her right arm was a scratch +that encircled it like a bracelet.</p> + +<p>“That’s a briar.”</p> + +<p>The gorse pricks but does not tear.</p> + +<p>The milk pails, in the meantime, seemed to +grow lighter. She walked on, quickly, as quickly +as her unstable burden would permit.</p> + +<p>A man whom she passed near the farmhouse +looked at her bleeding arm. Then she turned +red. Later, as she strained the milk, she +thought that she felt ill.</p> + +<p>The purple bracelet gripped her arm, but it +was in her heart that she felt the clutch.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</span></p> + +<p>Tom was running up to her. She was afraid.</p> + +<p>“Is it going to begin all over again?” she +asked herself, upset by emotion.</p> + +<p>Panting but happy, the dog lay at her feet. +Then, espying a bowl, she poured out a little +milk for him.</p> + +<p>“You spoil him,” said the young man, approaching. +“I told you, he rather deserved a +beating.”</p> + +<p>She found some words to say:</p> + +<p>“Beat your dog?”</p> + +<p>“Upon my word, if I had been alone, the +partridge should have remained in the gorse. +Did you hurt yourself? Oh! You’re bleeding?”</p> + +<p>She was so happy that she no longer felt her +joy. She was in another world. She was a +woman face to face with a man.</p> + +<p>“Let me see!”</p> + +<p>She held out her pink, golden arm and at +once drew it back, thus causing her breasts to +shake under the coarse plaited linen. The +young man was tempted, but controlled himself:</p> + +<p>“Don’t say anything. But I don’t want anybody +to know that I met you near the gorse.”</p> + +<p>He went off, knowing full well what he was +to do.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</span></p> + +<p>The next morning as the dew was disappearing +and Tom was off in search of yesterday’s +partridges, a sudden cry, a sweet and dolorous +cry, rose from amidst the tall dry grass, near +the gorse field, yonder where the heather begins.</p> + +<p>The servant returned as on the previous day, +her shoulders beneath the yoke, her hands +hanging, holding the milk pails. She did not +stop on the way, although she was very weary +and deeply moved. She strained her milk, as +on every other day, sunk in vague thought. But, +her task finished, she sat down upon a stool +and gazed at her arm.</p> + +<p>A mad bite had placed upon the bracelet of +blood a red clasp.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> +<div class="transnote"> + <p class="ph2"> + TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES + </p> + + +<p>Typos in punctuation corrected, and author’s spelling of +“Angéle” retained.</p> + +<p>Unexpected change in character name from “Elizabeth” (<a href="#Page_37">page 37</a>) to +“Ariane” (<a href="#Page_40">page 40</a>) retained.</p> +</div> +</div> + +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78436 ***</div> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/78436-h/images/cover.jpg b/78436-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..4ef2d9e --- /dev/null +++ b/78436-h/images/cover.jpg |
