diff options
Diffstat (limited to '78436-0.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | 78436-0.txt | 1446 |
1 files changed, 1446 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/78436-0.txt b/78436-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3ba5c58 --- /dev/null +++ b/78436-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1446 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78436 *** + + + + + LITTLE BLUE BOOK NO. 540 + Edited by E. Haldeman-Julius + + Stories in Yellow, Black, + White, Blue, Violet + and Red + + Remy de Gourmont + + Translated from the French by + Isaac Goldberg. + + HALDEMAN-JULIUS COMPANY + GIRARD, KANSAS + + + + + Copyright, 1924. + Haldeman-Julius Company. + + PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA + + + + + STORIES IN YELLOW, BLACK, WHITE, + BLUE, VIOLET AND RED + + + + +FOREWORD + + +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. + +At that time I said: + +“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 _Don Quixote_ is not a poem, that +_Pantagruel_ is not a poem, that _Salammbo_ is not a poem? The novel is +a poem; the novel that is not a poem does not exist.” + +Flaubert had not yet taught me, through the letters that narrate the +arduous composition of _Madame Bovary_, that one must “endow prose +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. + +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 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. + +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. + +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. + +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 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 _Satyre_ who scales the +mountain of mysteries, the _Bacchante au Thyrse_, 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. + +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. + + July 30, 1908. + + + + +YELLOW + + _Que c’est beau, le jaune!_ + + Van Gogh. + + +It was understood. + +The last time he had sent her a long kiss, his eyes closed as in +ecstasy, and she had smiled tenderly, drooping her lashes. + +They had never spoken to each other. + +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. + +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. + +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 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. + +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. + +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. + +It was on the next day that their mute agreement was concluded. + +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 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Then she turned her head; her eyes were serious; she abandoned all +resistance. Leaning against the arm that encircled her waist, she +surrendered her mouth to kisses, her body to caresses. + +They fell tenderly. + +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. + +She was smiling. + +He was dreaming. + +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.” + +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!” + +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. + +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. + +At last he spoke, mentioning the charm of the moment, the coolness of +this grotto, his happiness, his repose. + +She tapped her skirt awkwardly, twisted a scape of foxglove between her +fingers, smiled, but gave no sign of contentment. + +“It seems to me that I could love her, almost, if she would only fondle +me.” + +Wishing to take out his pipe, he put his hand into the wrong pocket and +struck his purse. + +“Ah!” + +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. + +On her knees before him, she kissed his eyes, his cheeks, his chin, the +corners of his lips. + +She was happy. + + + + +BLACK + + _Le charme inattendu d’un bijou rose et noir._ + + Baudelaire. + + +The most beautiful flower that Duclos had ever seen was a black dahlia. + +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. + +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! + +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 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. + +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. + +There were black flowers. + +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. + +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. + +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. 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. + +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. + +“This flower is only an idea, it is a desire. It is a flower?” + +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. + +“... 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?” + +He walked off ill content, his eyes lowered, thrusting at the pebbles +of the path with his 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. + +“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....” + +A cry interrupted his reflections. + +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. + +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 in +shade to the bindweed that opened, yonder, in the heart of the black +dahlia. + +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: “_The unexpected charm of a pink and black jewel._” + +“White, black and pink,” he amended, smiling. + +A somewhat forced smile replied to him. + +The spoke of the drama. And when he took a seat upon the bench no one +made a wry face. + +“Such stupidity!” exclaimed the lady, rolling up the pamphlet. + +Then he recited some verses for her: + + O music, music of the trees, + Lull me, cradle me. + Warm breath of the wind, cooled by the stream, + Caress me, fondle me.... + +She was soon gazing at him through tender eyes. + +Long, shrill whistles. The train rumbled by. + +“The station is near,” said Duclos. “You go down a small staircase.” + +“We have the afternoon,” murmured the lady. + +“I love you!” said the young man. + +“Why not?” replied the lady. + +“Who knows?” + +“Who knows?” + +They arose at the same impulse. + +As they passed the large black dahlia, black and pink now, Duclos +stopped, and pointing to the flower: + +“I love you, because I love this black and pink flower. I love you, +because you are both sisters.” + +“And to think,” she said, “that this morning I was weeping over the +wickedness of men....” + +“Not all men are wicked.” + +They gazed at each other for a long time, then took each other’s hands. + +“Are you my destined one?” + +“Perhaps,” she answered. + +Then she added, as at the first time: + +“Who knows?” + +“Quickly,” said Duclos, “this is the hour.” + +They hastened down the little staircase to the station. They set out on +their journey. + +Sometimes Duclos would call his lady friend “My Dahlia.” This would +make her laugh, and dream, too. + +As soon as they had known each other each loved the other with deep +passion. + +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. + + + + +WHITE + + _Cet unanime blanc conflit d’une guirlande avec la même._ + + S. Mallarmé. + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +“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.” + +“And what about me?” asked the little boy. + +“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....” + +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 +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. + +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. + +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.’....” + +She had uttered these words aloud. The little boy heard them and +asked, through tears: + +“It’s no longer I whom you love?” + +“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.” + +“To Jesus!” + +He shrugged his shoulders in peevish chagrin. + +“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?” + +“Really?” + +Overwhelmed, he meditated upon this Stranger, so strong and so cruel, +who had come to bear off his friend and to break his heart. + +“Ah! Let Him kill me, but let him not take you away!” + +“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?” + +“Then He won’t love you always?” + +“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 all +little girls who take their first communion.” + +“Does He enter the hearts of little boys, too?” + +“I don’t think so,” she replied in ironic tones. “He can offer to +little boys only a good, firm friendship.” + +“As for me, I’ll never love Him.” + +“You’ll be compelled to love Him, when you’ll have a pure heart, you’ll +see.” + +“Ah!” + +“Now, I have a pure heart, I’ve confessed all my sins!” + +“What sins!” + +“Silence, and ask pardon of God.” + +She renewed her prayers. + +Her friend meditated. + +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. + +“I only hope,” he told himself, “that He does her no harm!” + +At last the great day arrived. He saw his little friend pale and +winsome in a cloud of muslin. These two whitenesses were charming. +Drawing near to her, he murmured: + +“How I love you!” + +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: + +“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....” + +“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.... + +“And now all these pleasures she is to give to another! And I’m left +all alone.... She loves me no more....” + +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: + +“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.” + +She arose and spoke: + +“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 +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....” + +“She loves me no more,” he said to himself. “She will never love me +again.” + +He wept. The persons near him believed that it was through pious +emotion. + +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. + +“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!” + +The little boy had run to his friend’s house, where his family was +dining that day. He had 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. + +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: + +“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.” + +“I want you to love me as before.” + +“Here,” she said. + +She gave him her lips. + +“Are you satisfied? Let’s eat, now. I’m as hungry as a bear.” + + + + +BLUE + + +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. + +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 _vingt-et-un_; 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. + +As she was blonde, she liked blue stuffs, blue flowers, sapphires, as +blue as her eyes, so that 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: + +“So your husband is away, my dear? I believe he hasn’t come to pay his +respects to me.” + +“My husband seems absent to you today, but isn’t he absent every day?” + +“What do you mean?” + +“Isn’t he every day absent from himself?” + +“My poor friend, that signifies that he neglects you.” + +“He no longer loves me.” + +“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.” + +“Ah, madame! You believe, then, that hearts may be commanded?” + +“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.” + +“How long?” + +“Why, I should have loved him always, had he wished it. He did not wish +it.” + +“So you see.” + +“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?” + +The lady gazed at her mistress with respectful, sorrowful irony. + +Then she said: + +“I fear lest my husband has some lady-love upon his mind, or some +light-o’-love.” + +“Light-o’-love?” repeated the princess. “The word’s a pretty one. +Light-o’-love. That can hardly be serious, can it?” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“Perhaps, alas!” + +“Why ‘alas’? If it is I, you are saved.” + +At this moment the guard entered and advanced to salute the princess. + +“Monsieur,” she said to him, “I will receive you at six o’clock at the +palace, in private audience.” + +She arose and left. + +Everybody followed the example of the princess, and man and wife were +left face to face, both exceedingly uneasy. + +“Madame,” said the husband, “so you have displeased the princess? So +it’s to you that I owe this insult?” + +“Insult? What do you mean? The lady of your thoughts makes a private +appointment for you and yet you complain?” + +He was at a loss for reply, for this was the first time that his wife +had referred to feelings which he had imagined he held well hidden in +his heart. + +“The lady of my thoughts,” he answered, brutally, “is my career, and +you have doubtless ruined that with your prating.” + +“I’m no gossip.” + +“You’re stupid.” + +“Ah! Leave me. You don’t deserve to be loved.” + +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. + +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 brevet. He had the note in his wallet and it was supposed to +be delivered to the mistress at exactly six o’clock. + +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.” + +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. + +“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?” + +“Alas!” + +“And how about your sense of duty, of your honor?” + +“My honor?” + +“Yes. You had vowed to her, besides conjugal fidelity, an eternal +tenderness....” + +“She believed it.... Perhaps I, too, believed.” + +“It’s wrong to abandon her, to torment her.... She is weeping at this +moment, I am sure....” + +“I am not bad to her.” + +“Very well. Promise me never to cause her displeasure again.” + +“I will never voluntarily cause her displeasure.” + +“Good. But promise me more. Promise me....” + +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. + +“Promise me,” resumed the princess, “that you will be kind to her, very +kind, and that you will love her again....” + +The guard said nothing. + +“You promise?” + +Still he said nothing. + +“Then it’s no longer possible? All is then over between you? Have you +any serious fault to find with her?” + +“I have no fault to find. I no longer love her. That is all.” + +“Let her not discover this, at least!” + +“I was hoping that she would never discover it.” + +“One may cease loving a woman, then, without her discovering?” + +“It is hard. I lacked the necessary skill. What is too easy, alas, is +to love a woman without her discovering it.” + +“Oh! You really think so?” + +“I am sure of it. She whom I love has never suspected my love and will +never suspect it.” + +“Sir guard,” said the princess, “sir soldier man, you are a child. She +whom you love knows your love....” + +“Alas!” he said, incredulously. + +“... and she loves you,” she added, giving him her two hands. + +He threw himself upon the gift, but he was still undecided, so troubled +that he panted. + +“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.” + +On the next morning the maid said to her mistress: + +“Oh! Madame has a blue spot upon her throat.” + +“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....” + +“Perhaps that’s why they call Madame the blue princess?” continued the +innocent woman. + +“Go, see if my lady-in-waiting is there.” + +The princess, left for a moment by herself, gazed feelingly at her blue +spot. + +“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....” + +The lady-in-waiting entered excitedly. + +“Ah! Princess? I had to stay up for him till four in the morning! I am +beside myself! All is lost.” + +“There! Can’t you ever be reasonable? On the contrary, all is settled.” + +“Ah! Thanks!” + +“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 the +two of us we will keep watch over him....” + +“How good you are!” + +“Am I not, indeed?” + +“You are kindness itself.” + +“You are beautiful. You are, and that is worth more.” + +“Beautiful? Who is more beautiful than you?” + +“Flatterer! I am thirty and you are twenty-five.... Alas! I have +renounced everything. You will love me, at least?” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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!’...” + +“He said nothing else?” + +“I don’t think so. He is not very talkative.” + +“A precious virtue. What would you say of a husband who imparted +humiliating confidences?... There _are_ some like that.... Mine, for +example....” + +“You were indeed unhappy!” + +“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?” + +“You are adorable!” + +“And I am adored.” + +“Oh! Yes.” + +“My dear friend!” + +She did not withhold her hand, which the lady in waiting covered with +kisses. + +“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....” + +“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....” + +“Oh! Between husband and wife! Never mind. I will be discreet, generous +friend....” + +“More generous than you think! For, after all, your husband is +very seductive. He is young, younger than I,--handsome, ardent, +passionate....” + +“He was.” + +“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.” + +“Ah! Lord, I know your heart too well.” + +“Then you will go home in full confidence? Yet a mite sad.” + +“Yet a mite.” + +“But the clouds are scattering, the sky is beginning to turn blue +again?” + +“Yes.” + +“As blue as my soul, my tender darling, as blue as my heart.” + +And she thrust her finger into her bosom, toward the spot of the blue +bruise that so enchanted her amorous flesh. + + + + +VIOLET + + _L’heure violette._ + + Leo Larguier. + + +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. + +A single token betrayed her age--the color of her hair. Their very +ashen blond had become 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. + +In short, the old maid was an agreeable canoness. + +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. + +_Galeotto fu ’l libro e chi lo scrisse._[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.” + +She had not married, through piety, having, 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 studies, since he had just won a scholarship. + +The old maid consented. This seemed to her at first an act of charity. + +“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?” + +“Oh!” replied the mother, “very much. Thank the mademoiselle.” + +“Thank you, mademoiselle.” + +At the sound of this sweet voice, already almost masculine, the old +maid looked at the youngster. + +That was all. As night had fallen the peas were brought in, and the old +maid, summoned by the Angelus, went off to church. + +Rosalie, toward the middle of October, went to the academy. The boy was +given to her. + +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: + +“As soon as I shall have become a sub-lieutenant, I will marry; I +already am considering it.” + +“And perhaps you know whom?” + +“I know very well.” + +The servant laughed. She, too, knew whom he would marry as soon as it +would be possible. + +“Why, he’s charming--this little fellow!” exclaimed the old maid. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Come,” she said, “to my room. It’s the only cool place in the house.” + +And all this was innocent and inevitable. + +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. + +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. + +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 about and who brushes back all its feathers. + +“My little Jesus,” said the old maid, “Rosalie will soon be here.” + +The hours that intervened before dinner were like acts of grace. She +dined as one listening to mass. + +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! + +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. + +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. + +“I’ll see them through their school career,” she said. “But I want only +one at a time.” + +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 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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +RED + + _Cum vere rubenti Candida venit avis._ + + Virgil. + + +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: + +“It’s going to be a beautiful day.” + +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. + +“It’s going to be a beautiful day.” + +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. + +She mused again: + +“It’s going to be very warm.” + +Then a stem of buckwheat, lost there by a bird, suggested to her: + +“The buckwheat will be ripe for threshing.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +At the same moment she saw a cloudlet of smoke; a feather flew by her; +a wounded partridge fell amidst the gorse. + +“Here, Tom!” cried a voice. “Go look. Fetch it.” + +The dog bounded along the path, pressed forward, returned, intent and +troubled, but definitely resolved not to plunge into the dangerous +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. + +“Don’t fondle him, beat him!” cried the voice. + +It was that of a young man who now appeared, standing in the hedge +amidst the branches. + +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. + +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. + +The command was repeated, the dog pretended death. + +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. + +Having fetched the partridge she threw it into Tom’s mouth. + +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. + +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. + +She walked on, thinking no longer of anything but matters so vague and +so deep that her mind could not grasp them. + +Her legs were bleeding, her hand was bleeding, and around her right arm +was a scratch that encircled it like a bracelet. + +“That’s a briar.” + +The gorse pricks but does not tear. + +The milk pails, in the meantime, seemed to grow lighter. She walked on, +quickly, as quickly as her unstable burden would permit. + +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. + +The purple bracelet gripped her arm, but it was in her heart that she +felt the clutch. + +Tom was running up to her. She was afraid. + +“Is it going to begin all over again?” she asked herself, upset by +emotion. + +Panting but happy, the dog lay at her feet. Then, espying a bowl, she +poured out a little milk for him. + +“You spoil him,” said the young man, approaching. “I told you, he +rather deserved a beating.” + +She found some words to say: + +“Beat your dog?” + +“Upon my word, if I had been alone, the partridge should have remained +in the gorse. Did you hurt yourself? Oh! You’re bleeding?” + +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. + +“Let me see!” + +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: + +“Don’t say anything. But I don’t want anybody to know that I met you +near the gorse.” + +He went off, knowing full well what he was to do. + +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. + +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. + +A mad bite had placed upon the bracelet of blood a red clasp. + + + + +TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES + + +Typos in punctuation corrected, and author’s spelling of “Angéle” +retained. + +Unexpected change in character name from “Elizabeth” (page 37) to +“Ariane” (page 40) retained. + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78436 *** |