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diff --git a/9161-0.txt b/9161-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1f452d6 --- /dev/null +++ b/9161-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,10772 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Comedy of Marriage and Other Tales, by +Guy De Maupassant + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: A Comedy of Marriage and Other Tales + +Author: Guy De Maupassant + + +Release Date: October, 2005 [EBook #9161] +This file was first posted on September 10, 2003 +Last Updated: February 23, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COMEDY OF MARRIAGE *** + + + + +Produced by Tiffany Vergon, Sandra Brown and Distributed Proofreaders + + + + + + + + + +A COMEDY OF MARRIAGE + + +MUSOTTE + +THE LANCER'S WIFE + +AND OTHER TALES + + +By Guy De Maupassant + + +TABLE OF CONTENTS + + +LA PAIX DU MÉNAGE + +MUSOTTE + +ADDENDA + +THE LANCER'S WIFE + +HAUTOT SENIOR AND HAUTOT JUNIOR + +NO QUARTER + +THE ORPHAN + +A LIVELY FRIEND + +THE BLIND MAN + +THE IMPOLITE SEX + +THE CAKE + +CORSICAN BANDIT + +THE DUEL + + + + + +LA PAIX DU MÉNAGE + + +DRAMATIS PERSONAE + + +MONSIEUR DE SALLUS + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +MADAME DE SALLUS + + +Time: Paris, 1890 + + + + +ACT I. + + + + +SCENE I. + +Mme. de Sallus _in her drawing-room, seated in a corner by the +fireplace. Enter_ Jacques de RANDOL _noiselessly; glances to see that no +one is looking, and kisses_ Mme. de Sallus _quickly upon her hair. She +starts; utters a faint cry, and turns upon him._ + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Oh! How imprudent you are! + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Don't be afraid; no one saw me. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +But the servants! + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Oh, they are in the outer hall. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +How is that? No one announced you + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +No, they simply opened the door for me. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +But what will _they_ think? + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Well, they will doubtless think that _I_ don't count. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +But I will not permit it. I must have you announced in future. It does +not look well. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL [_laughs_] + +Perhaps they will even go so far as to announce your husband-- + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Jacques, this jesting is out of place. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Forgive me. [_Sits_.] Are you waiting for anybody? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Yes--probably. You know that I always receive when I am at home. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +I know that I always have the pleasure of seeing you for about five +minutes--just enough time to ask you how you feel, and then some one +else comes in--some one in love with you, of course,--who impatiently +awaits my departure. + +MME. DE SALLUS [_smiles_] + +Well, what can I do? I am not your wife, so how can it be otherwise? + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Ah! If you only were my wife! + +MME. DE SALLUS + +If I were your wife? + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +I would snatch you away for five or six months, far from this horrible +town, and keep you all to myself. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +You would soon have enough of me. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +No, no! + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Yes, yes! + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Do you know that it is absolute torture to love a woman like you? + +MME. DE SALLUS [_bridles_] + +And why? + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Because I covet you as the starving covet the food they see behind the +glassy barriers of a restaurant. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Oh, Jacques! + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +I tell you it is true! A woman of the world belongs to the world; that +is to say, to everyone except the man to whom she gives herself. He can +see her with open doors for a quarter of an hour every three days--not +oftener, because of servants. In exceptional cases, with a thousand +precautions, with a thousand fears, with a thousand subterfuges, she +visits him once or twice a month, perhaps, in a furnished room. Then she +has just a quarter of an hour to give him, because she has just left +Madame X in order to visit Madame Z, where she has told her coachman to +take her. If he complains, she will not come again, because it is +impossible for her to get rid of her coachman. So, you see, the +coachman, and the footman, and Madame Z, and Madame X, and all the +others, who visit her house as they would a museum,--a museum that never +closes,--all the he's and all the she's who eat up her leisure minute by +minute and second by second, to whom she owes her time as an employee +owes his time to the State, simply because she belongs to the world--all +these persons are like the transparent and impassable glass: they keep +you from my love. + +MME. DE SALLUS [_dryly_] + +You seem upset to-day. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +No, no, but I hunger to be alone with you. You are mine, are you not? +Or, I should say, I am yours. Isn't it true? I spend my life in looking +for opportunities to meet you. Our love is made up of chance meetings, +of casual bows, of stolen looks, of slight touches--nothing more. We +meet on the avenue in the morning--a bow; we meet at your house, or at +that of some other acquaintance--twenty words; we dine somewhere at the +same table, too far from each other to talk, and I dare not even look at +you because of hostile eyes. Is that love? We are simply acquaintances. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Then you would like to carry me off? + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Unhappily, I cannot. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Then what? + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +I do not know. I only know this life is wearing me out. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +It is just because there are so many obstacles in the way of your love +that it does not fade. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Oh! Madeline, can you say that? + +MME. DE SALLUS [_softening_] + +Believe me, dear, if your love has to endure these hardships, it is +because it is not lawful love. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Well, I never met a woman as positive as you. Then you think that if +chance made me your husband, I should cease to love you? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Not all at once, perhaps, but--eventually. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +What you say is revolting to me. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Nevertheless, it is quite true. You know that when a confectioner hires +a greedy saleswoman he says to her, “Eat all the sweets you wish, my +dear.” She stuffs herself for eight days, and then she is satisfied for +the rest of her life. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Ah! Indeed! But why do you include me in that class? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Really, I do not know--perhaps as a joke! + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Please do not mock me. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +I say to myself, here is a man who is very much in love with me. So far +as I am concerned, I am perfectly free, morally, since for two years +past I have altogether ceased to please my husband. Now, since this man +loves me, why should I not love him? + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +You are philosophic--and cruel. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +On the contrary, I have _not_ been cruel. Of what do you complain? + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Stop! you anger me with this continual raillery. Ever since I began to +love you, you have tortured me in this manner, and now I do not even +know whether you have the slightest affection for me. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Well, you must admit that I have always been--good-natured. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Oh, you have played a queer little game! From the day I first met you I +felt that you were coquetting with me, coquetting mysteriously, +obscurely, coquetting as only you can without showing it to others. +Little by little you conquered me with looks, with smiles, with +pressures of the hand, without compromising yourself, without pledging +yourself, without revealing yourself. You have been horribly +upright--and seductive. I have loved you with all my soul, yes, +sincerely and loyally, and to-day I do not know what feeling you have in +the depths of your heart, what thoughts you have hidden in your brain; +in fact, I know-I know nothing. I look at you, and I see a woman who +seems to have chosen me, and seems also to have forgotten that she _has_ +chosen me. Does she love me, or is she tired of me? Has she simply made +an experiment--taken a lover in order to see, to know, to +taste,--without desire, hunger, or thirst? There are days when I ask +myself if among those who love you and who tell you so unceasingly there +is not one whom you really love. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Good heavens! Really, there are _some_ things into which it is not +necessary to inquire. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Oh, how hard you are! Your tone tells me that you do not love me. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Now, what _are_ you complaining about? Of things I do not +say?--because--I do not think you have anything else to reproach me +with. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Forgive me, I am jealous. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Of whom? + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +I do not know. I am jealous of everything that I do not know about you. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Yes, and without my knowing anything about these things, too. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Forgive me, I love you too much--so much that everything disturbs me. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Everything? + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Yes, everything. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Are you jealous of my husband? + +JACQUES DE RANDOL [_amazed_] + +What an idea! + +MME. DE SALLUS [_dryly_] + +Well, you are wrong. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Always this raillery! + +MME. DE SALLUS No, I want to speak to you seriously about him, and to +ask your advice. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +About your husband? + +MME. DE SALLUS [_seriously_] + +Yes, I am not laughing, or rather I do not laugh any more. [_In lighter +tone_.] Then you are not jealous of my husband? And yet you know he is +the only man who has authority over me. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +It is just because he has authority that I am not jealous. A woman's +heart gives nothing to the man who has authority. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +My dear, a husband's right is a positive thing; it is a title-deed that +he can lock up--just as my husband has for more than two years--but it +is also one that he can use at any given moment, as lately he has seemed +inclined to do. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL [_astonished_] + +You tell me that your husband-- + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Yes. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Impossible! + +MME. DE SALLUS [_bridles_] + +And why impossible? + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Because your husband has--has--other occupations. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Well, it pleases him to vary them, it seems. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Jesting apart, Madeline, what has happened? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Ah! Ah! Then you _are_ becoming jealous of him. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Madeline, I implore you; tell me, are you mocking me, or are you +speaking seriously? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +I am speaking seriously, indeed, very seriously. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Then what has happened? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Well, you know my position, although I have never told you all my past +life. It is all very simple and very brief. At the age of nineteen I +married the Count de Sallus, who fell in love with me after he had seen +me at the Opéra-Comique. He already knew my father's lawyer. He was very +nice to me in those early days; yes, very nice, and I really believed he +loved me. As for myself, I was very circumspect in my behavior toward +him, very circumspect indeed, so that he could never cast a shadow of +reproach on my name. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Well, did you love him? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Good gracious! Why ask such questions? + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Then you did love him? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Yes and no. If I loved him, it was the love of a little fool; but I +certainly never told him, for positively I do not know how to show love. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +I can vouch for that! + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Well, it is possible that I cared for him sometimes, idiotically, like a +timid, restless, trembling, awkward, little girl, always in fear of that +disturbing thing--the love of a man--that disturbing thing that is +sometimes so sweet! As for him,--you know him. He was a sweetheart, a +society sweetheart, who are always the worst of all. Such men really +have a lasting affection only for those girls who are fitting companions +for clubmen--girls who have a habit of telling doubtful stories and +bestowing depraved kisses. It seems to me that to attract and to hold +such people, the nude and obscene are necessary both in word and in +body--unless--unless--it is true that men are incapable of loving any +woman for a length of time. + +However, I soon became aware that he was indifferent to me, for he used +to kiss me as a matter of course and look at me without realizing my +presence; and in his manners, in his actions, in his conversation, he +showed that I attracted him no longer. As soon as he came into the room +he would throw himself upon the sofa, take up the newspaper, read it, +shrug his shoulders, and when he read anything he did not agree with, he +would express his annoyance audibly. Finally, one day, he yawned and +stretched his arms in my face. On that day I understood that I was no +longer loved. Keenly mortified I certainly was. But it hurt me so much +that I did not realize it was necessary to coquet with him in order to +retain his affection. I soon learned that he had a mistress, a woman of +the world. Since then we have lived separate lives--after a very stormy +explanation. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +What do you mean? What sort of explanation? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Well-- + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +About--his mistress? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Yes and no. I find it difficult to express myself. To avoid my +suspicions he found himself obliged, doubtless, to dissimulate from time +to time, although rarely, and to feign a certain affection for his +legitimate wife, the woman who had the right to his affection. I told +him that he might abstain in future from such a mockery of love. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +How did you tell him that? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +I don't remember. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +It must have been amusing. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +No, he appeared very much surprised at first. Then I formulated a nice +little speech and learned it by heart, in which I asked him to carry +such intermittent fancies elsewhere. He understood me, saluted me very +courteously, and--did as I asked him. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Did he never come back? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Never, until-- + +JACQUES DE RANDOL [_interrupts_] + +Has he never again tried to tell you of his love? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +No, never, until-- + +JACQUES DE RANDOL [_interrupts_] + +Have you regretted it? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +That is of small importance. What is of importance, though, is that he +has had innumerable mistresses whom he entertains, whom he supports, +whom he takes out. It is this that has irritated and humiliated me--in +fact, cut me to the quick. But then I took heart of grace, and too late, +two years too late, I took a lover--you! + +JACQUES DE RANDOL [_kisses her hand_] + +And I, Madeline, I love you with my whole soul. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Well, all this is not at all proper. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +What do you mean by “all this”? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Life in general--my husband--his mistresses--myself--and you. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Your words--prove beyond a doubt that you do not love me. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Why? + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +You dare to say of love that it is not proper? If you loved me, it might +be divine, but a loving woman would abhor a phrase which should contain +such an idea. What! True love not proper? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Possibly. It all depends upon the point of view. For myself, I see too +much. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +What do you see? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +I see too well, too far, too clearly. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +You do not love me? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +If I did not love you--a little--I should have had no excuse for giving +myself to you. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +A little--just sufficient to warrant that excuse! + +MME. DE SALLUS + +But I do not excuse myself: I accuse myself. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Then you did love me a little--and then--now--you love me no more! + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Do not let us argue. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +You do nothing else. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +No, I only judge the present by the past; the only just ideas and sane +notions of life one can form are those concerning that which is past. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +And do you regret-- + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Perhaps! + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +And what about to-morrow? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +I do not know. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Is it nothing to you to have one who is yours, body and soul? MME. DE +SALLUS [_shrugs her shoulders_] + +Yes, mine to-day. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL [_vehemently_] + +And to-morrow! + +MME. DE SALLUS [_shrugs her shoulders again_] + +Yes, the to-morrow that follows to-night, but not the to-morrow of a +year hence. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL [_emphatically_] + +You shall see. But how about your husband? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Does he annoy you? + +JACQUES DE RANDOL By heaven-- + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Hush! [_Archly._] My husband has fallen in love with me again. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Is it possible? + +MME. DE SALLUS [_indignantly_] + +What do you mean by such an insolent question, and why should it not be +possible? + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +A man falls in love with his wife before he marries her, but after +marriage he never commits the same mistake. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +But perhaps he has never really been in love with me until now. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +It is absolutely impossible that he could have lived with you--even in +his curt, cavalier fashion--without loving you. + +MME. DE SALLUS [_indifferently_] + +It is of little importance. He has either loved me in the past, or is +now beginning to love me. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Truly, I do not understand you. Tell me all about it. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +But I have nothing to tell. He declares his love for me, takes me in his +arms, and threatens me with his conjugal rights. This upsets me, +torments me, and annoys me. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Madeline you torture me. + +MME. DE SALLUS [_quickly_] + +And what about me? Do you think that I do not suffer? I know that I am +not exactly a faithful woman since I received your addresses, but I +have, and shall retain, a single heart. It is either you _or_ he. It +will never be you _and_ he. For me that would be infamy--the greatest +infamy of a guilty woman, the sharing of her heart--a thing that debases +her. One may fall, perhaps, because there are ditches along the wayside +and it is not always easy to follow the right path. But if one falls, +that is no reason to throw oneself in the abyss. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL [_takes her in his arms and kisses her_] + +I simply adore you! + +MME. DE SALLUS [_melts_] + +And I, too, love you dearly, Jacques, and that is the reason why I fear. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +But, tell me, Madeline how long has it been since your husband reformed? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Possibly fifteen days or three weeks. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Without relapse? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Without relapse. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +I will explain the mystery. The fact of the matter is this, your husband +has simply become a widower. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +What do you say? + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +I mean that your husband is unattached just now, and seeks to spend his +leisure time with his wife. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +But I tell you that he is in love with me. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Yes--yes--and no. He is in love with you--and also with another. Tell +me, his temper is usually bad, isn't it? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Execrable! + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Well, then, here is a man in love with you who shows his wonderful +return of tenderness by moods that are simply unsupportable--for they +are unsupportable, aren't they? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Absolutely. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +If he wooed you with tenderness you would not feel fear. You would say +to yourself, “My turn has come at last,” and then he would inspire you +with a little pity for him, for a woman has always a sneaking sort of +compassion for the man who loves her, even though that man be her +husband. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Perhaps that is true. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Is he nervous, preoccupied? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Yes. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +And he is abrupt with you, not to say brutal? He demands his right +without even praying for it? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +True. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +My darling, for the moment you are simply a substitute. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Oh! no, no! + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +My dearest girl, your husband's latest mistress was Madame de Bardane, +whom he left very abruptly about two months ago to run after the +Santelli. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +What, the singer? + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Yes, a capricious, saucy, cunning, venal little woman. A woman not at +all uncommon upon the stage, or in the world either, for that matter. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Then that is why he haunts the Opéra. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL [_laughs_] + +Without a doubt. + +MME. DE SALLUS [_dreamily_] + +No, no, you are deceiving yourself. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL [_emphatically_] + +The Santelli resists him and repulses him; then, burdened with a heart +full of longing that has no outlet, he deigns to offer you a portion. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +My dear, you are dreaming. If he were in love with the Santelli, he +would not tell me that he loves me. If he were so entirely preoccupied +with this creature, he would not woo me. If he coveted her, he would not +desire me at the same time. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +How little you understand certain kinds of men! Men like your husband, +once inoculated with the poison of love,--which in them is nothing but +brutal desire,--men like him, I say, when a woman they desire escapes or +resists them, become raging beasts. They behave like madmen, like men +possessed, with arms outstretched and lips wide open. They must love +some one, no matter whom just as a mad dog with open jaws bites anything +and everybody. The Santelli has unchained this raging brute, and you +find yourself face to face with his dripping jaws. Take care! You call +that love! It is nothing but animal passion. + +MME. DE SALLUS [_sarcastically_] + +Really, you are very unfair to him. I am afraid jealousy is blinding +you. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Oh, no, I am not deceiving myself, you may be sure. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Yes, I think you are. Formerly my husband neglected and abandoned me, +doubtless finding me very insipid; but now he finds me much improved, +and has returned to me. It is very easy to understand, and moreover, it +is the worse for him, for he _must_ believe that I have been a +_faithful_ wife to him all my life. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Madeline! + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Well, what? + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Does a girl cease to be a faithful wife, if, when deserted by the man +who has assumed charge of her existence, and her happiness, and her +love, and her ideals, she refuses to resign herself--young, beautiful, +and full of hope--to eternal isolation and everlasting solitude? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +I think I have already told you that there are certain things which it +is _not_ necessary to discuss, and this is one of them. [_The front door +bell sounds twice._] Here is my husband. Please be silent. He is in a +gloomy mood just now. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL [_rises_] + +I think I shall go. I am not in love with your husband any more, for +many reasons, and it is difficult for me to be polite to him when I +despise him, and when I know that he ought to despise me, and would +despise me when I shake hands with him, did he know all. + +MME. DE SALLUS [_annoyed_] + +How many times must I tell you that all this is entirely out of place? + + + + +SCENE II. + +(_The same, including_ M. de Sallus.) + +_Enter_ M. de Sallus, _evidently in a bad temper. He looks for a moment +at_ Mme. de Sallus _and at_ Jacques de Randol, _who is taking his leave; +then comes forward_. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Ah! Sallus. + +M. DE SALLUS + +How are you, Randol? Surely you are not going because I came. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +No, but my time is up. I have an appointment at the club at midnight, +and now it is half after eleven. [_They shake hands._] Have you come +from the first performance of “Mahomet”? + +M. DE SALLUS + +Oh! Of course. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +People say that it should be a great success. + +M. DE SALLUS + +It doubtless will be. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL [_shakes hands again with_ De SALLUS _and_ Madame de +Sallus] + +Well, till I see you again. + +M. DE SALLUS + +Till then, my dear fellow. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Madame, adieu. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Adieu, Monsieur de Randol. [_Exit_ Randol.] + + + + +SCENE III. + +(M. de Sallus _and_ Mme. de Sallus.) + +M. DE SALLUS [_sinks into an armchair_] + +Was Randol here any length of time? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +No, possibly half an hour. + +M. DE SALLUS [_meditatively_] + +Half an hour plus a whole hour makes an hour and a half, does it not? +Time seems to fly when you are with him. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +What do you mean by an hour and a half? + +M. DE SALLUS + +Just what I say. When I saw the carriage waiting at the door, I asked +the footman, who was within. He told me that it was M. Jacques de +Randol. “Has he been here long?” I asked. “He has been here since ten,” + said the footman. Admitting that the man might have been mistaken, we +will say, in the matter of a quarter of an hour, that would make an hour +and a quarter, at the least. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Oh, ho! What is this new attitude of yours? Have I not a right to +receive whom I like now? + +M. DE SALLUS + +Oh, my dear, I deny you nothing, nothing, nothing. The only thing that +astonishes me is that you do not know the difference between half an +hour and an hour and a half. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Are you looking for a scene? If you wish a quarrel, say so. I shall know +how to answer you. You are simply in a bad temper. Go to bed and sleep, +if you can. + +M. DE SALLUS + +I am not looking for a quarrel, neither am I in bad humor. I only state +that time flies with you when you pass it in the company of Jacques de +Randol. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Yes, it does go quickly; far more quickly than when I am with you. + +M. DE SALLUS + +He is a very charming fellow, and I know you like him; and, moreover, he +must like you very much, since he comes here every day. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +These insinuations are distasteful to me. Please speak plainly and say +what you mean. Are you assuming the rôle of a jealous husband? + +M. DE SALLUS + +God forbid! I have too much confidence in you, and far too much esteem +for you, to reproach you with anything, for I know that you have too +much tact ever to give rise to calumny or scandal. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Do not play with words. You think that M. Jacques de Randol comes too +often to this house--to your house? + +M. DE SALLUS + +I do not find any fault with you for that. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Thank you. You simply have not the right. However, since you adopt this +attitude, let us settle this question once for all, for I loathe +misunderstandings. It seems to me that you have an exceedingly short +memory. Let me come to your aid. Be frank with me. Through some +occurrence, the nature of which I do not know, your attitude is +different today from that of the past two years. Cast your memory over +the past, to the time when you began to neglect me in a manner that was +plain to all. I became very uneasy. Then I knew--I was told, and I +saw--that you were in love with Madame de Servières. I told you how hurt +I was, how grieved I was. What did you reply? Just what every man +replies when he no longer loves the woman who reproaches him. You +shrugged your shoulders, smiled impatiently, told me I was mad, and then +expounded to me--I must admit, in a most skillful manner--those grand +principles of freedom in love that are adopted by every husband who +deceives his wife and thinks she will not deceive him. You gave me to +understand that marriage is not a bond, but simply an association of +mutual interests, a social rather than a moral alliance; that it does +not demand friendship or affection between married couples, provided +there be no scandal. You did not absolutely confess the existence of +your mistresses, but you pleaded extenuating circumstances. You were +very sarcastic upon the subject of those poor, silly women who object to +their husbands being gallant toward other women, since, according to +you, such gallantry is one of the laws of the polished society to which +you belong. You laughed at the foolish man who does not dare to pay +compliments to a woman in the presence of his own wife, and ridiculed +the gloomy look of a wife whose eyes follow her husband into every +corner, imagining that because the poor man disappears into an adjoining +room he is at the feet of a rival. All this was very airy, funny, and +disagreeable, wrapped up in compliments and spiced with cynicism--sweet +and bitter at the same time, and calculated to banish from the heart all +love for a smooth, false, and well-bred man who could talk in such a +manner. I understood, I wept, I suffered, and then I shut my door upon +you. You made no objection; you judged me better than you thought; and +since then we have lived completely separate lives. Such has been the +case for the past two years, two long years and more, which certainly +have not seemed more than six months to you. We go into society as +usual, we return from society as usual, and we each enter our own temple +of life. The situation was established by you in consequence of your +first infidelity, an infidelity which has been followed by many others. +I have said nothing; I have resigned myself to the situation; and I have +banished you from my heart. Now that I have finished, what do you wish? + +M. DE SALLUS + +My dear, I am not asking for anything. I do not even wish to answer the +very aggressive speech you have done me the honor to make. I only wish +to give you advice--the advice of a friend--upon a situation that may +possibly endanger your reputation. You are beautiful, always in the +public eye, and much envied. Scandal could have easy birth. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Pardon me. If we are to speak of scandal, I must have leave to balance +my account with you. + +M. DE SALLUS + +Come, do not let us joke over this thing. I speak to you as a +friend--seriously, as a friend. As to what you have said about me, it is +all extremely exaggerated. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Not at all. You have never tried to conceal, in fact, you have actually +proclaimed to all the world your infidelities--a fact which gives me the +right to go and do likewise, and, my friend, believe what I say-- + +M. DE SALLUS + +One moment-- + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Let me finish. According to you, I am beautiful, I am young, and yet +condemned by my husband to live, and watch him live, as if I were a +widow. Look at me [_rises_], is it just to consign me to play the rôle +of an abandoned Ariadne, while my husband runs from this woman to that +woman, and this girl to that girl? [_Grows excited_.] A faithful wife! I +cry you mercy! Is a faithful wife compelled to sacrifice all her life, +all her happiness, all her affections, everything, in fact, every +privilege, every expectation, every claim, which is hers by birth and +for which she has been born? Look at me! Am I made for a nunnery? The +fact that I married you should answer that question. And yet, you, +_you_, who took me from my father's house, neglect me to run after +others. And what others? I am not in their circle, neither am I one of +those who would share your life with others. So much the worse for +you--for I am free, and you have no right to give me advice since I _am_ +free. + +M. DE SALLUS + +My dear girl, be calm. You misunderstand me completely. I have never +suspected you. Indeed, I have the most profound esteem and friendship +for you--a loving friendship which grows greater every day. I have no +wish to comment upon that past with which you reproach me so cruelly. +Perhaps I am a little too--too--what shall I say? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Oh! Say that you belong to the period of the Regency. I know that method +of excusing all male weaknesses and follies. Oh! yes; that eighteenth +century, that _dainty_ century, so full of _elegance_, so full of +delicious _fantasies_ and adorable _whims_! Alas! my dear, that is +ancient history. + +M. DE SALLUS + +No, no, you misunderstand me again. Believe me, I am and have been above +everything too--too--much of a Parisian, too much accustomed to turning +night into day, for the sedate life of marriage. I have been too much +accustomed to go behind the scenes of theaters, to various clubs, to a +thousand other forms of dissipation; and you know a man cannot change +all at once,--it takes time. Marriage seeks to change us all too +suddenly. It ought to give us time to get accustomed to it, little by +little. You would practically take away from me the joy of life were I +to behave as you seem to desire. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +I am so grateful; and now, perhaps, you wish to offer me a new proof--a +new proof-- + +M. DE SALLUS + +Oh, as you please. Really, when a man who has lived as I have marries, +he can hardly help looking upon his wife as a new mistress--I mean to +say a faithful mistress--and it is only when it is too late that he +understands more clearly,--comes to his senses and repents. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Well, my friend, it _is_ too late. As I have already told you, I mean to +have my innings. I have taken nearly three years to think it over. You +may think that is long, but I need some amusement as well as you. The +fact that I have taken nearly three years to think it over is a +compliment to you, but you fail to see it. + +M. DE SALLUS + +Madeline, this jesting is altogether out of place. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Oh! no, because I am compelled to think that every one of your +mistresses was far more attractive than I, since you have preferred them +to me. + +M. DE SALLUS + +What sort of mood are you in? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +In the same mood that I always am. It is you who have changed. + +M. DE SALLUS + +True, I _have_ changed. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +And that is to say-- + +M. DE SALLUS + +That I have been an idiot. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +And that-- + +M. DE SALLUS + +I am sane once more. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +And that-- + +M. DE SALLUS + +That I am again in love with my wife. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +You must have returned to your youth. + +M. DE SALLUS + +What do you say? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +I say that you must have returned to your youth. + +M. DE SALLUS + +What do you mean? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Let me illustrate. When you are young you are always hungry, and when a +youth is hungry he often eats things that he would not eat at another +time. Well, I am the dish,--the dish that you have neglected in your +days of plenty, the dish to which you return in the days of +scarcity--[_slowly_] for which I thank you! + +M. DE SALLUS + +I have never looked upon you as you think. You pain me as well as +astonish me. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +So much the worse for both of us. If I astonish you, you repel me. Learn +now, once for all, that I am not made for the rôle of a substitute. + +M. DE SALLUS [_approaches her, takes her hand and presses a long kiss +upon it_] + +Madeline, I swear to you that I love you, in truth, devotedly, now and +forever. + +MME. DE SALLUS [_ironically_] + +You must really believe it! [_Suddenly._] But who is the woman that +attracts--and repels you--just now? + +M. DE SALLUS + +Madeline, I swear-- + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Oh, a truce to your swearing! I know that you have just broken with one +of your mistresses; you need another and you cannot find one, so you +come to me. For nearly three years you have forgotten all about me, so +that now you find I am somewhat of a novelty. It is not your wife you +are seeking now, but a woman with whom you have formerly had a rupture, +and with whom you now desire to make up. To speak the truth you are +simply playing the game of a libertine. + +M. DE SALLUS + +I do not ask you whether you be my wife or not my wife. You are the +woman I love, the woman who possesses my heart. You are the woman of +whom I dream, whose image follows me everywhere, whom I continually +desire. It happens that you are my wife. So much the worse, or so much +the better. What matters it? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Truly, it is a distinguished part that you offer me. After Mademoiselle +Zozo, after Mademoiselle Lilie, Mademoiselle Tata, you have the audacity +to offer to your wife--to Madame de Sallus--the place left vacant, +asking her to become her husband's mistress for a short space of time. + +M. DE SALLUS + +No; now, and--forever. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Pardon me. You ask that I should re-become your wife forever? That is +out of the question; I have already ceased to entertain the idea. The +reason may be obscure, but nevertheless it is real; and after all, the +idea of making me your _legitimate_ mistress seems to be far more +entertaining to you than assuming the rôle of a _faithful_ husband. + +M. DE SALLUS [_laughs_] + +Well, why should not the wife become the husband's mistress? You are +right in what you say; you are absolutely free and I own my faults. Yet, +I am in love with you-for the second time, if you will-and I say to you, +here and now, Madeline, since you confess that your heart is empty, have +pity upon me, for I tell you that I love you. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +And you ask me to give you a husband's right? + +M. DE SALLUS + +I do. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +And you acknowledge that I am free, absolutely free? + +M. DE SALLUS + +I do. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +And you really wish me to become your mistress? + +M. DE SALLUS + +I do. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +You understand what I mean--your mistress? + +M. DE SALLUS + +Yes. + +MME. DE SALLUS [_sarcastically_] + +Well, well! I think I would rather accept another offer that I have, but +since you are good enough to ask me to give you the preference, I may +give it to you--for a fair sum. + +M. DE SALLUS + +What do you mean? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Just what I say. Listen! Do you consider me as attractive as any of your +mistresses? Now, be frank with me. + +M. DE SALLUS + +A thousand times more! + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Really! + +M. DE SALLUS + +I swear it! + +MME. DE SALLUS + +What, better than the best? + +M. DE SALLUS + +A thousand times! + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Well, tell me, now, truly, how much has the one you liked best among all +your numerous mistresses cost you, let us say--in three months? + +M. DE SALLUS + +I cannot tell. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Listen to me. I repeat the question. How much has the most charming of +your numerous mistresses cost you in the space of three months--not only +in money, but in gifts of jewelry, in dainty little suppers, in +ceremonious dinners, in theater boxes,--in everything? + +M. DE SALLUS + +How can I tell? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +You should be able to. Come, let us make an estimate. Did you give her a +round sum, or did you pay for everything separately? However, I know you +are not a man to bother over details, so I conclude that you gave her a +round sum. + +M. DE SALLUS + +Madeline, you are absolutely unbearable. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Follow me closely. When you began to neglect me, you took away three +horses from our stables--one of them was mine and the other two were +yours. Then you took away a coachman and a footman; you then found it +necessary to make me economize at home in order that you might be +extravagant abroad. + +M. DE SALLUS + +That is not true. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Oh! yes, it is. I have every date; do not deny it, for I shall confound +you if you do. You also stopped giving me jewels, for, of course, you +had other ears, other fingers, other wrists, and other necks to adorn. +You also deprived me of one of my nights at the Opéra, and I do not know +how many other things less important. And all this, according to my +idea, should mean about five thousand francs a month. Am I not right? + +M. DE SALLUS + +You may be, but you are mad. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +No, no, confess; did the most expensive one of your mistresses cost you +about five thousand francs a month? + +M. DE SALLUS + +You are crazy. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +If you are going to answer me thus, I bid you good evening. [_She rises +as if to retire, but_ M. de Sallus _interposes_.] + +M. DE SALLUS + +Come now, Madeline, a truce to this jesting. + +MME. DE SALLUS [_in a determined manner_] + +Five thousand francs? Tell me, did she cost you five thousand francs? + +M. DE SALLUS [_shrugs his shoulders_] + +Oh, yes, thereabouts. + +MME. DE SALLUS [_looks him straight in the face_] + +Ah, ah! Well, listen. If you will give me immediately five thousand +francs, you may be my husband for a month--but only a month. + +M. DE SALLUS + +You have lost your head! + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Well, farewell, good night! + +M. DE SALLUS + +What a farce! Stop, Madeline, let us talk seriously. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +About what? + +M. DE SALLUS + +Of--of--hang it--of my love for you. + +MME. DE SALLUS [_archly_] + +But that's not a serious question at all. + +M. DE SALLUS + +I swear it is! + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Hypocrite! You make me thirsty with so much talk. [_Goes to a +chiffonier, where there is a decanter and various liqueurs, and pours +herself out a glass of water. At the instant she begins to drink_, M. de +Sallus _steals up and kisses her on the back of the neck. She turns with +a start and throws the glass of water in his face_.] + +M. DE SALLUS + +I suppose you think that funny. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +It may or may not be. Certainly what you have done, or tried to do, was +ridiculous. + +M. DE SALLUS + +Madeline, I ask-- + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Five--thousand--francs. + +M. DE SALLUS + +But that would be idiotic. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +And why? + +M. DE SALLUS + +Ask me why a husband should pay his wife--his lawful wife--when he has +the right? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Oh, no, no. You may have the strength, but I can have my revenge. + +M. DE SALLUS + +Madeline-- + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Five--thousand--francs. + +M. DE SALLUS + +I should be an object of ridicule forever if I were to pay my +wife--yes--not only an object of ridicule, but an idiot, an imbecile. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Well, don't you think it is still more imbecile, when you have such a +wife as I, to--to go outside and--pay mistresses? + +M. DE SALLUS + +Madeline, I confess it; but now--we are husband and wife, and it is not +necessary to ruin me, is it? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Allow me. When you took your wealth--the wealth which was also partly +mine by marriage--to pay for your folly, you committed an action that +was more than doubtful. In fact, it was criminal, for you ruined me at +the same time you ruined yourself. I use your own language. I have +refrained from asking you more about the folly that is in question; +moreover, the five thousand francs that you must give me will be spent +upon your own house. You must admit that is practical economy. But I +know you; I know that you are never in love with anything that is lawful +and right; so in paying dearly--very dearly, because I shall probably +seek an increase--for what you have the right to take, you will find +our--_liaison_--far more to your taste. [_Smiles_.] Good night, I am +going to bed. + +M. DE SALLUS [_angrily_] + +Will you take it in cash, or have a cheque? + +MME. DE SALLUS [_haughtily_] + +I prefer cash. + +M. DE SALLUS [_opening a pocketbook_] + +I have only three bank-notes. I will give you the rest in a cheque. +[_Writes a cheque and hands it to_ Mme. de Sallus.] + +MME. DE SALLUS [_takes the cheque, looks at_ M. de Sallus _with disgust, +and Speaks in harsh tones_] + +You are just the kind of man I took you to be. After paying your +numerous mistresses, you actually consent to pay me as if I were like +them--without any feeling of disgust or realizing the difference in our +situation. You have said that I asked too much, you have pleaded the +fear of ridicule, but you could not understand that you were consenting +to _buy_ me--_me_--your _wife_! You wished to possess me for a little, +as a sort of variation to your usual list, although your heart must have +told you that it was degrading to me to be placed on such a plane. You +did not recoil from such an idea, but pursued it, just as you pursue +them, and the more eagerly, because I was more expensive. But you have +deceived yourself, not me. Not thus will you ever regain possession of +your wife. Adieu, Monsieur! [_Throws the money in his face, and makes a +haughty exit_.] + + + + +ACT II. + + + + +SCENE I. + +Madame de Sallus _alone in her drawing-room, as in_ Act I. _She is +writing; she stops and looks at the clock. A servant announces_ Monsieur +Jacques de Randol. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL [_after kissing_ Mme. de Sallus's _hand_] + +I trust you are well, Madame. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Oh, yes, thank you. + +[_Exit servant_.] + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +What is it all about? Your letter has completely upset me. I thought +some accident had occurred, and I came immediately. + +MME. DE SALLUS [_looks at him steadfastly_] + +My dear Jacques, we must decide upon some course of action immediately. +The important hour has come. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL [_surprised_] + +What do you mean? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +For two days I have undergone all the anguish that a woman's heart can +endure. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL [_still more surprised_] + +What has happened? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +I am about to tell you, but I wish to do so with calmness and moderation +lest you think me mad. That is the reason why I sent for you. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +You know that I am yours entirely. Tell me what I must do. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +I cannot live near him any longer. It is absolutely impossible. It is an +hourly crucifixion. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Near your husband? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Yes, my husband. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +What has he done? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +It is necessary to revert to the other evening, after you took your +leave. When we were alone he tried to make a jealous scene, with you as +the subject. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +With me as the subject? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Yes, a scene which proved to me that he had been watching us. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +How? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +He had been questioning a servant. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Nothing more than that? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +No. That in itself, however, is not of much importance, for I believe he +really likes you. But, after that, he told me of his love for me. +Perhaps I was a little too insolent, too disdainful. I do not know +exactly how far I went; but I found myself in such a perplexing, such a +painful, such an extraordinary situation, that I dared everything to +escape it. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +What did you do? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +I sought to wound him so deeply that he would leave me forever. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Apparently you have not succeeded. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +No. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Of course not; that method never does succeed. On the contrary, it often +brings about a reconciliation. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +The next day, during luncheon, he was sulky, irritable, and gloomy. +Then, as he was rising from the table, he said, “I have not forgotten +your behavior of yesterday, and shall not let you forget it. You wish +for war, let it be war; but I warn you that I shall conquer you, because +I am your master.” I answered him, “Be it so; but if you drive me to +extremity, take care,--it is not always safe to make a woman desperate.” + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Especially when that woman is his wife. And what did he reply? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +He did not reply in words; but he treated me brutally. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Did he strike you? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Yes and no. He jostled me, he squeezed me, he suffocated me. I have +bruises all along my arms, but he did not strike me. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Then what did he do? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +He hugged and embraced me, trying to overcome my resistance. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Is that all? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +What do you mean by saying, “Is that all?” Don't you think that is +enough? + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +You do not understand me. I only wish to know whether he struck you. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Oh, no. I am not afraid of that from him; but luckily I was able to ring +the bell. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +You rang the bell? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Yes. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +What a thing to do! [_Smiles_.] And when the servant came, did you ask +him to show your husband out? + +MME. DE SALLUS [_pouts_] + +You seem to find this very funny. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Oh, no, my dear Madame; it is all exceedingly painful to me, but I +cannot help realizing the grotesqueness of the situation. Pardon +me,--and what then? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +I ordered my carriage. And then, as soon as Joseph had gone out, my +husband said, with that arrogant air which you know so well in him, +“Today, or to-morrow--it matters not which.” + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +And-- + +MME. DE SALLUS + +And that is almost all. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Almost? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Yes, because since then I have locked myself in my room as soon as I +heard him coming in. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Haven't you seen him since? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Oh, yes, several times, but only for a few minutes each time. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +What has he said to you? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Little or nothing. He either sneers or insolently asks whether I am less +savage to-day. Last night at the table he brought out a little book, +which he read during dinner. As I did not wish to appear embarrassed or +anxious, and desired to maintain my dignity, I said: “Your manners +toward me are certainly exceedingly courteous.” He smiled and replied: +“What did you say?” “It is strange that, for reading, you should choose +the time that we are together,” I said. He answered: “Great heavens! It +is all your fault, since you do not care to be amiable. Besides, this +little book is very interesting. It is the Civil Code. Perhaps you would +like to become acquainted with some clauses in it. They would certainly +interest you.” Then he read me the law concerning marriage; the duties +of a wife and the rights of a husband. Then he looked me full in the +face, and asked me whether I understood. I answered in the same tone +that I understood too much,--especially did I understand the kind of man +I had married. Then I went out and I have not seen him since. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Haven't you seen him to-day? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +No. He lunched alone. As for myself, I have thought over the situation, +and have decided not to meet him _tête-à-tête_ any more. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +But are you quite sure that at bottom his attitude is not induced by +anger, by wounded vanity, by disappointment, and perhaps by a little +bravado? Possibly he will behave himself better in future. To-night he +is at the Opéra. The Santelli has scored a great success in “Mahomet,” + and I think she has invited him to supper after the performance. Now, if +the supper is very much to his taste, he will probably be in good humor +when he comes home. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Oh! How provoking you are. Can't you understand that I am in the power +of this man, that I belong to him even more than his valet or his dog, +because he has those abominable legal rights over me? The Code, your +barbarous Code, puts me entirely in his power without any possible +defense on my part; save actually killing me, he can do everything. +Can't you understand that? Can't you realize the horror of my situation? +Imagine, save actual murder, he can do anything to me, and he has the +strength--not only physical but legal--to obtain anything from me. And +I, I have not a single avenue of escape from a man whom I despise and +hate. And that is the law made by you men! He took me, married me, +deserted me. On my part, I have an absolutely moral right to leave him. +And yet, despite this righteous hatred, this overpowering disgust, this +loathing which creeps through me in the presence of the man who has +scorned me, deceived me, and who has fluttered, right under my eyes, +from girl to girl--this man, I say, has the right to demand from me a +shameful and infamous concession. I have no right to hide myself; I have +no right even to a key to my own door. Everything belongs to him--the +key, the door, and even the woman who hates him. It is monstrous! Can +you imagine such a horrible situation? That a woman should not be +mistress of herself, should not even have the sacred right of preserving +her person from a loathsome stain? And all this is the consequence of +the infamous law which you men have made! + +JACQUES DE RANDOL [_appealingly_] + +My darling! I fully understand what you must be suffering; but how can I +help it? No magistrate can protect you; no statute can preserve you. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +I know it. But when you have neither mother nor father to protect you, +when the law is against you, and when you shrink from complicity in +those degrading transactions to which many women yield themselves, there +is always one means of escape. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +And that? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Flight. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +You mean to say-- + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Flight. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Alone? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +No--with you. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +With me! Are you dreaming? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +No; so much the better. The scandal of it will prevent him from taking +me back. I have gained courage now. Since he forces me to dishonor, I +shall see that that dishonor is complete and overwhelming--even though +it be the worse for him and for me. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Oh! Beware, beware, my darling! You are in one of those moments of +exaltation and nervous excitement in which a woman sometimes commits a +folly that is irreparable. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Well, I would rather commit such a folly and ruin myself--if that be +ruin--than expose myself to the infamous struggle with which each day I +am threatened. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Madeline, hear me. You are in a terrible situation, but for God's sake +do not throw yourself into one that is irretrievable. Be calm, I implore +you. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Well, what do you advise? + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +I do not know; we shall see. But I do not, I cannot, advise you to +venture on a scandal which will put you outside the pale of society. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Well, yes, there is another law, an unwritten law which permits one to +have lovers, even though it be shameful, because [_sarcastically_] it +does not outrage society. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +That is not the question. The thing is to avoid taking up a wrong +position in your quarrel with your husband. Have you decided to leave +him? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Yes. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Finally and forever? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Yes. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Do you mean for _all_ time? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +For _all_ time. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Well, now, be cautious; be careful and cunning; guard your reputation +and your name. Make neither commotion nor scandal, and await your +opportunity. + +MME. DE SALLUS [_ironically_] + +And must I continue to be very charming when he returns to me, and be +ready for all his fancies? + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Oh, Madeline, I speak to you in the truest friendship. + +MME. DE SALLUS [_bitterly_] + +In the truest friendship! + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Yea, as a friend who loves you far too dearly to advise you to commit +any folly. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +And loves me just enough to advise me to be complaisant to a man I +despise. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +I! Never, never. My most ardent desire is to be with you forever. Get a +divorce, and then if you still love me, let us wed. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Oh, yes, yes--two years from now. Certainly, you _are_ a patient lover! + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +But supposing I were to carry you off, he would take you back to-morrow; +would shut you up in his house, and would never get a divorce lest you +should become my wife. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Well, do you mean to say I could fly nowhere but to your house, that I +could not hide myself in such fashion that he would never find me? + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Yes, you could hide yourself, but it would be necessary for you to live +abroad under another name, or buried in the country, till death. That is +the curse of our love. In three months you would hate me. I never will +let you commit such a folly. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +I thought you loved me enough to fly with me, but it seems that I am +mistaken. Adieu! + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Madeline, listen to me for God's-- + +MME. DE SALLUS Jacques, take me, or leave me--answer! + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Madeline, I implore you! + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Never! Adieu! [_Rises and goes to the door_.] + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Once more I implore you, Madeline, listen to me. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Oh, no, no; adieu! [De Randol _takes her by the arms; she frees herself +angrily_.] Unhand me! Let me go, or I shall call for help! + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Call if you will, but listen to me. I would not that you should ever be +able to reproach me for the madness that you meditate. God forbid that +you should hate me, but, bound to me by this flight that you propose, +you would carry with you forever a keen and unavailing regret that I +allowed you to do it. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Let me go! I despise you! Let me go! + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Well, if you wish to fly, why, let us fly. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Oh, no, not now. I know you now. It is too late. Let me go. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +I have done exactly what I ought to have done; I have said exactly what +I ought to have said; consequently, I am no longer responsible for you, +and you have no right to reproach me with the consequences. So let us +fly. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Oh, no, it is too late, and I do not care to accept sacrifices. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +There is no more any question of sacrifice. To fly with you is my most +ardent desire. + +MME. DE SALLUS [_astonished_] + +You are mad. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Well, suppose I am mad. That is only natural, since I love you. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +What do you mean? + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +I mean what I say. I love you; I have nothing else to say. Let us fly. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Ah, you were altogether too cautious just now to become so brave all at +once. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Will you ever understand me? Listen to me. When I first realized that I +adored you, I made a solemn vow concerning what might happen between you +and me. The man who falls in love with a woman such as you, a woman +married yet deserted; a slave in fact yet morally free, institutes +between her and himself a bond which only she can break. The woman risks +everything. Ay, it is just because she does this, because she gives +everything--her heart, her body, her soul, her honor, her life, because +she has foreseen all the miseries, all the dangers, all the misfortunes +that can happen, because she dares to take so bold, and fearless a step, +and because she is ready and determined to hazard everything--a husband +who could kill her, and a world that would scorn her--it is for all this +and for the heroism of her conjugal infidelity, that her lover, in +taking her, ought to foresee all, to guard her against every ill that +can possibly happen. I have nothing more to say. I spoke at first as a +calm and foreseeing man who wished to protect you against +everything--now I am simply and only the man who loves you. Order me as +you please. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +That is all very prettily said; but is it true? + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +I swear it! + +MME. DE SALLUS + +You wish to fly with me? + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Yes. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +From the bottom of your heart? + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +From the bottom of my heart. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +To-day? + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Yes, and whenever you please. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +It is now a quarter to eight. My husband will be coming in directly, for +we dine at eight. I shall be free at half past nine or ten o'clock. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Where shall I wait for you? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +At the end of the street in a _coupé_. [_The bell rings_.] There he is, +and for the last time, thank God! + + + + +SCENE II. + +(_The same characters, and_ M. de Sallus.) + +M. DE SALLUS [_enters. To_ Jacques de Randol, _who has risen to take his +leave_] + +Well, you are not going again, are you? Why, it seems that I need only +come in to make you take your leave. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +No, no, my dear fellow; you don't make me go, but I must. + +M. DE SALLUS + +That is just what I say. You always go the very moment I come in. Of +course, I understand that a husband is less attractive than a wife. But, +at least, let me believe that _I_ am not objectionable to you. +[_Laughs_.] + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +On the contrary, my dear fellow, you know I like you. And if you would +acquire the habit of coming into your own house without ringing the +bell, you would never find me taking my leave when you come. + +M. DE SALLUS + +How is that? Is it not natural to ring the door bell? + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Oh, yes; but a ring of the bell always makes me feel that I must go, and +surely, coming into your own house, you can dispense with that habit. + +M. DE SALLUS + +I don't understand you. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Why, it is very simple. When I visit people whom I like, such as Madame +de Sallus and yourself, I do not expect to meet the Paris that flutters +from house to house in the evening, gossiping and scandalizing. I have +had my experience of gossip and tittle-tattle. It needs only one of +these talkative dames or men to take away all the pleasure there is for +me in visiting the lady on whom I happen to have called. Sometimes when +I am anchored perforce upon my seat, I feel lost; I do not know how to +get away. I have to take part in the whirlpool of foolish chatter. I +know all the set questions and answers better than I do the catechism +itself, and it bores me to have to remain until the very end and hear +the very last opinion of some fool upon the comedy, or the book, or the +divorce, or the marriage, or the death that is being discussed. Now, do +you understand why I always get up and go at the sound of a bell? + +M. DE SALLUS [_laughs_] + +What you say is very true. Drawing-rooms now are not habitable from four +o'clock to seven, and our wives have no right to complain if we leave +them to go to the club. + +MME. DE SALLUS [_sarcastically_] + +Nevertheless, I do not see my way to receiving ballet girls, or chorus +girls, or actresses, or so-called painters, poets, musicians, and +others--in order to keep you near me. + +M. DE SALLUS + +I do not ask so much as that. All I desire is a few witty fellows, some +charming women, and by no means a crowd. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +You talk nonsense; you cannot pick and choose. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +No, truly, you cannot sift and strain the flow of idiocy that you meet +in the drawing-rooms of to-day. + +M. DE SALLUS + +Why? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Simply because it is as it is--to-day. + +M. DE SALLUS + +What a pity! How I should love the intimacy of a small and carefully +selected circle of men and women. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +You? + +M. DE SALLUS + +Yes, why not? + +MME. DE SALLUS [_laughs_] + +Ha, ha, ha! What a charming little intimate circle you would bring to +me! Ha, ha, ha! The fascinating men, and the fashionable women that you +would invite! My dear sir, it is I who would leave the house then. + +M. DE SALLUS + +My dear girl, I only asked for three or four women like yourself. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Pray repeat that. + +M. DE SALLUS + +Three or four such women as you. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +If you need four, I can understand how you found your house lonesome. + +M. DE SALLUS + +You understand very well what I wish to say, and it is not necessary for +me to explain myself. And you know that you need only be alone to please +me better than I could possibly be pleased elsewhere. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Really, I do not recognize you. I am afraid you must be ill--very ill. +You are not going to die, are you? + +M. DE SALLUS + +Oh, chaff me as much as you like, you won't worry me. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +And is this mood of yours going to last? + +M. DE SALLUS + +Forever. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Men often change. + +M. DE SALLUS [_turns to_ Jacques de Randol] + +My dear Randol, will you give us the pleasure of your company at dinner +to-night? You may help me to turn aside the epigrams that my wife seems +to have barbed and ready for me. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +A thousand thanks, my dear Sallus! You are very, very good, but +unfortunately, I am not free. + +M. DE SALLUS + +But, my dear fellow, send your excuses. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +I cannot. + +M. DE SALLUS + +Are you dining in town? + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Yes, well--not altogether. I have an appointment at nine o'clock. + +M. DE SALLUS + +Is it very important? + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Very important + +M. DE SALLUS + +With a lady? + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +My dear fellow, what a question! + +M. DE SALLUS + +Oh, I am discreet! But that need not prevent you from dining with us. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Thank you, my dear fellow, I cannot. + +M. DE SALLUS + +You know you can go away when you wish. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +But I am not in evening dress. + +M. DE SALLUS + +I can easily send for your things. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +No, truly, thank you; I cannot. + +M. DE SALLUS [_to_ Mme. de Sallus] + +My dear girl, won't you keep Randol? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Why ask me? You know that I have no influence over him. + +M. DE SALLUS + +You are charming enough to influence the world this evening, so why +can't you make him stay? + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Good gracious! I cannot make my friends stay in order to please you, and +keep them in your house against their wish. Bring _your_ friends. + +M. DE SALLUS + +Well, I shall remain at home this evening in any case, and we shall then +be _tête-à-tête_. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Really? + +M. DE SALLUS + +Yes. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +You will be at home all the evening? + +M. DE SALLUS + +All the evening. + +MME. DE SALLUS [_sarcastically_] + +Good gracious! How you surprise me--and how you honor me! + +M. DE SALLUS + +No, it is a pleasure to be with you. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +What a charming mood you are in to-night! + +M. DE SALLUS + +Now ask Randol to remain. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +My dear sir, Monsieur de Randol will do as he pleases. He knows that I +am always glad to see him. [_Rises, and after reflecting for a second_.] +Will you dine with us, Monsieur de Randol? You know you can go directly +after dinner. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +With the greatest pleasure, Madame. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Excuse my absence for a minute. It is eight o'clock, and I must give +some new directions for dinner. + +[_Exit_ Mme. de Sallus.] + + + + +SCENE III. + +(M. de Sallus _and_ M. Jacques de Randol.) + +M. DE SALLUS + +My dear fellow, you will do me the greatest service if you will pass the +whole evening here. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +But I have told you that I cannot. + +M. DE SALLUS + +Is it altogether--absolutely--impossible? + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Absolutely. + +M. DE SALLUS + +I most earnestly ask you to remain. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +And why? + +M. DE SALLUS + +For the best of reasons--because--because I want to make peace with my +wife. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Peace? Is there a rupture between you? + +M. DE SALLUS + +Not a very great one, but you know what you have seen this evening. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Is it your fault or hers? + +M. DE SALLUS + +Oh, mine, I suppose. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +The devil! + +M. DE SALLUS + +I have had annoyances outside, serious annoyances, and they have made me +bad-tempered, so much so that I have been unpleasant and aggressive in +my behavior toward her. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +But I don't see how a third party can contribute toward peace between +you. + +M. DE SALLUS + +My dear fellow, you will enable me to make her understand in an indirect +manner, while avoiding all indelicate and wounding explanations, that my +ideas concerning life have altogether changed. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Then you wish to be--to be--reconciled to her altogether? + +M. DE SALLUS + +Oh, no, no, no--on the contrary-- + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Pardon me, I do not understand you. + +M. DE SALLUS + +Listen: I wish to establish and maintain a _status quo_ of a pacific +neutrality--a sort of Platonic peace. [_Laughs_.] But I am going into +details that cannot interest you. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Pardon me again. From the moment that you ask me to play a part in this +very interesting affair, I must know exactly what part I am to play. + +M. DE SALLUS + +Why, just a conciliatory rôle. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Then you wish to conclude a peace without restrictions for yourself? + +M. DE SALLUS + +Now you have it. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +That is to say, that, after the disappointments and annoyances of which +you have just told me, and which I presume are ended, you wish to have +peace at home and yet be free to enjoy any happiness that you may +acquire outside. + +M. DE SALLUS + +Let me go farther. My dear fellow, the present situation between my wife +and myself is very much strained, and I never care to find myself alone +with her altogether, because my position is a false one. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Oh, in that case, my dear fellow, I will remain. + +M. DE SALLUS + +All the evening? + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +All the evening. + +M. DE SALLUS + +My dear De Randol, you are indeed a friend! I shall never forget it. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Oh, never mind that. [_A short silence_.] Were you at the Opéra last +night? + +M. DE SALLUS + +As usual. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +So it is a good performance? + +M. DE SALLUS + +Admirable. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +The Santelli scored a great success, didn't she? + +M. DE SALLUS + +Not only a success, but a veritable triumph. She was recalled six times. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +She _is_ good, isn't she? + +M. DE SALLUS + +More than admirable. She never sang better. In the first act she has a +long recitative: “O God of all believers, hear my prayer,” which made +the body of the house rise to their feet. And in the third act, after +that phrase, “Bright heaven of beauty,” I never saw such enthusiasm. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +She was pleased? + +M. DE SALLUS + +Pleased? She was enchanted. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +You know her well, don't you? + +M. DE SALLUS + +Oh, yes, for some time back. I had supper with her and some of her +friends after the performance. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Were there many of you? + +M. DE SALLUS + +No, about a dozen. You know she is rather particular. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL. + +It is pleasant to be intimate with her, is it not? + +M. DE SALLUS + +Exquisite! And then, you know, she is a woman in a million. I do not +know whether you agree with me, but I find there are so few women that +are really women. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL [_laughs_] + +I have found that out. + +M. DE SALLUS + +Yes, and you have found out that there are women who have a feminine +air, but who are not women. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Explain yourself. + +M. DE SALLUS + +Good gracious! Our society women, with very rare exceptions, are simply +pictures; they are pretty; they are distinguished; but they charm you +only in their drawing-rooms. The part they play consists entirely in +making men admire their dress, their dainty ways, all of which are +assumed. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Men love them, nevertheless. + +M. DE SALLUS + +Oh, very rarely, my dear fellow. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Pardon me! + +M. DE SALLUS + +Oh, yes, dreamers do. But men--real men--men who are passionate, men who +are positive, men who are tender, do not love the society woman of +to-day, since she is incapable of love. My dear fellow, look around you. +You see intrigues--everyone sees them; but can you lay your finger upon +a single real love affair--a love that is disinterested, such a love as +there used to be--inspired by a single woman of our acquaintance? Don't +I speak the truth? It flatters a man to have a mistress--it flatters +him, it amuses him, and then it tires him. But turn to the other picture +and look at the woman of the stage. There is not one who has not at +least five or six love affairs on the carpet; idiotic follies, causing +bankruptcy, scandal, and suicides. Men love them; yes, they love these +women because these women know how to inspire love, and because they are +loving women. Yes, indeed, _they_ know how to conquer men; they +understand the seduction of a smile; they know how to attract, seize, +and wrap us up in their hearts, how to enslave us with a look, and they +need not be beautiful at that. They have a conquering power that we +never find in our wives. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +And the Santelli is a seductress of this kind? + +M. DE SALLUS + +She is first among the first! Ah, the cunning little coquette! _She_ +knows how to make men run after her. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Does she do only that? + +M. DE SALLUS + +A woman of that sort does not give herself the trouble of making men run +after her unless she has some further object in view. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +The devil! You make me believe you attend two first nights in the same +evening. + +M. DE SALLUS + +My dear boy, don't imagine such a thing. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Great heavens! you have such a satisfied and triumphant air--an air so +desirous of calm at home. If I am deceived I am sorry--for your sake. + +M. DE SALLUS + +Well, we will assume that you are deceived and-- + + + + +SCENE IV. + +(_The same, and_ Mme. de Sallus.) + +M. DE SALLUS [_gaily_] + +Well, my dear, Jacques remains. He has consented for my sake. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +I congratulate you. And how did you achieve that miracle? + +M. DE SALLUS + +Oh, easily enough, in the course of conversation. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +And of what have you been talking? + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Of the happiness that comes to a man who remains quietly at home. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +That sort of happiness has but little attraction for me. I like the +excitement of travel. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +There is a time for everything; and travel is very often inopportune and +very inconvenient. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +But how about that important appointment of yours at nine o'clock? Have +you given it up altogether, Monsieur de Randol? + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +I have, Madame. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +You are very changeable. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +No, no, I am simply adapting myself to circumstances. + +M. DE SALLUS + +Will you pardon me if I write a note? [_Sits at desk at the other end of +the drawing-room._] + +MME. DE SALLUS [_to_ Jacques de Randol] + +What has happened? + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Oh, nothing; everything is all right. + +MME, DE SALLUS + +When do we go? + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Not at all. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Are you mad? Why? + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Please don't ask me now about it. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +I am sure that he is laying a trap for us. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Not at all. He is very quiet, very contented, and has absolutely no +suspicion. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Then what does it all mean? + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Now, be calm. He is happy, I tell you. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +That is not true. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +I tell you it is. He has made me the confidant of all his happiness. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +It is just a trick; he wishes to watch us. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Oh, no; he is confiding and conciliatory. The only fear he has is of +you. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Of me? + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Yes; in the same way that you are, all the time, afraid of him. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Great heavens! You have lost your head. You are talking at random. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Listen--I am sure that he intends to go out this evening. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Well, in that case, let us go out too. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +No, no,--I tell you there is nothing more for us to fear. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +What nonsense! You will end by maddening me with your blindness. + +M. DE SALLUS [_from the other end of the drawing-room_] + +My dear, I have some good news for you. I have been able to get another +night at the Opera for you every week. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Really, it is very good of you to afford me the opportunity of +applauding Madame Santelli so often. + +M. DE SALLUS [_from the same place_] + +Well, she is very clever. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +And everybody says she is charming. + +MME. DE SALLUS [_irritably_] + +Yes; it is only such women who please men. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +You are unjust. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Oh, my dear Randol; it is only for such women that men commit follies, +and [_sarcastically_], understand me, the measure of a man's folly is +often the measure of his love. + +M. DE SALLUS [_from the same place_] + +Oh, no, my dear girl,--men do not marry them, and marriage is the only +real folly that a man can commit with a woman. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +A beautiful idea, truly, when a woman has to endure all man's caprices. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Oh, no, not having anything to lose, they have nothing to risk. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +Ah, men are sad creatures! They marry a young girl because she is demure +and self-contained, and they leave her on the morrow to dangle after a +girl who is not young and who certainly is not demure, her chief +attraction being that all the rich and well-known men about town have at +one time been in her favor. The more danglers she has after her, the +more she is esteemed, the more she is sought after, and the more she is +respected; that is to say, with that kind of Parisian respect which +accrues to a woman in the degree of her notoriety--a notoriety due +either to the scandal she creates, or the scandal men create about her. +Ah, yes, you men are so nice in these things! + +M. DE SALLUS [_laughs gently_] + +Take care! One would think you were jealous. + +MME. DE SALLUS + +I? Jealous? For whom do you take me? [_The butler announces_.] Madame is +served. [_Hands a letter to_ M. de Sallus.] + +MME. DE SALLUS [_to_ Jacques de Randol] + +Your arm, M. Jacques de Randol. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL [_in a low tone_] + +How I love you! + +MME. DE SALLUS [_indifferently_] + +Just a little, I suppose. + +JACQUES DE RANDOL + +Ah, no; with all my soul! + +M. DE SALLUS [_after reading his letter_] + +Come along, then, let us go to dinner. I have to go out this evening. + + +_Curtain._ + + + + +MUSOTTE + + +OR + + +A CRITICAL SITUATION + + +A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS + + + +DRAMATIS PERSONAE + + +JEAN MARTINEL + +Nephew of M. Martinel, a painter; not yet thirty years of age, but +already well known and the recipient of various honors. + + +LEON DE PETITPRÉ + +Brother to Gilberts Martinel, a young lawyer about thirty years of age. + + +M. MARTINEL + +An old gunmaker of Havre, aged fifty-five. + + +M. DE PETITPRÉ + +An old magistrate, officer of the Legion of Honor. Aged sixty. + + +DR. PELLERIN + +A fashionable physician of about thirty-five. + + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +Sister to M. de Petitpré, about fifty-five years of age. + + +HENRIETTE LÉVÊQUE + +Nicknamed Musotte; a little model, formerly Jean Martinel's mistress. +Twenty-two years of age. + + +MME. FLACHE + +A midwife. Formerly a ballet-dancer at the Opera. About thirty-five +years of age. + + +GILBERTE MARTINEL + +Daughter of M. and Mme. de Petitpré, married in the morning to Jean +Martinel. About twenty years old. + +LISE BABIN + +A nurse, about twenty-six. + +SERVANTS + +_Time: Paris of to-day. The first and third acts take place in_ M. de +Petitpré's _drawing-room. + +The second act takes place in_ Musotte's _bedchamber_. + + + + +ACT I + + + + +SCENE I. + +(_A richly yet classically furnished drawing-room in_ M. de Petitpré's +house. _A table_, C.; _sofas_, R.; _chairs and armchairs_, L. _Wide +doors_, C., _opening upon a terrace or gallery. Doors_ R. _and_ L. _of_ +C. _Lighted lamps_.) + +_Enter from_ R. M. de Petitpré, Monsieur Martinel, Madame de Ronchard, +Léon de Petitpré, Jean _and_ Gilberte. Gilberte _is in her bridal +attire, but without wreath and veil_. + +MME. DE RONCHARD [_after bowing to_ M. Martinel, _whose arm she +relinquishes, seats herself_ R.] + +Gilberte, Gilberte! + +GILBERTE [_leaves Jean's arm_] + +What is it, Auntie? + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +The coffee, my dear child. + +GILBERTE [_goes to the table_] + +I will give you some, Auntie. + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +Don't soil your gown. + +LÉON [_comes up_] + +No, no, not to-day shall my sister serve coffee. The day of her +marriage! No, indeed, I will take care of that. [_To_ Mme. de Ronchard.] +You know that I am a lawyer, my dear Aunt, and therefore can do +everything. + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +Oh, I know your abilities, Léon, and I appreciate them-- + +LÉON [_smiles, and gives his Aunt a cup of coffee_] + +You are too good. + +MME. DE RONCHARD [_taking cup, dryly_] + +For what they are worth. + +LÉON [_aside, turns to the table_] + +There she goes again--another little slap at me! That is never wanting. +[_offers a cup to_ Martinel.] You will take a small cup, won't you, M. +Martinel, and a nip of old brandy with it? I know your tastes. We will +take good care of you. + +MARTINEL + +Thank you, Léon. + +LÉON [_to_ Petitpré] + +Will you have a cup, father? + +PETITPRÉ + +I will, my son. + +LÉON [_to the newly married couple, seated L. and talking aside_] + +And you, you bridal pair there? [_The couple, absorbed in each other, do +not answer._] Oh, I suppose we must not bother you. [_He sets cup down +on the table_]. + +PETITPRÉ [_to_ Martinel] + +You don't smoke, I believe? + +MARTINEL + +Never, thank you. + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +You astonish me! My brother and Léon would not miss smoking each day for +anything in the world. But what an abomination a cigar is! + +PETITPRÉ + +A delicious abomination, Clarisse. + +LÉON [_turns to_ Mme. de Ronchard] + +Almost all abominations are delicious, Auntie; in fact many of them, to +my personal knowledge, are exquisite. + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +You naughty fellow! + +PETITPRÉ [_takes_ Léon's _arm_] + +Come and smoke in the billiard-room, since your aunt objects to it here. + +LÉON [_to_ Petitpré] + +The day when she will love anything except her spaniels-- + +PETITPRÉ + +Hold your tongue and come along. [_Exit_ C.] + +MARTINEL [_to_ Mme. de Ronchard] + +This is the sort of marriage that I like--a marriage that, in this Paris +of yours, you don't have very often. After the wedding breakfast, which +takes place directly after you come from the church, all the guests go +home, even the maids of honor and the ushers. The married couple remain +at home and dine with their parents or relatives. In the evening they +play billiards or cards, just as on an ordinary night; the newly married +couple entertain each other. [Gilberte _and_ Jean _rise, and hand in +hand slowly retire_ C.] Then, before midnight, good night! + +MME. DE RONCHARD [_aside_] + +Which is altogether very _bourgeois_! + +MARTINEL [_sits_ R. _upon the sofa beside_ Mme. de Ronchard] + +As to newly married couples--instead of going on that absurd and +traditional thing you call a honeymoon, it is far better for them to go +at once to the apartment or house prepared for them. I dare say you will +think my plan lacking in fashion and display, but I cannot help that. +For myself, I must say that I like absence of all ostentation. + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +Your plan is not according to the customs of polite society, Monsieur. + +MARTINEL + +Polite society, indeed! Why, there are thirty-six different kinds of +polite society. For instance, take Havre. + +MME. DE RONCHARD [_interrupts_] + +I know only ours. [_Corrects herself._] That is, I mean to say, mine, +which is the correct one. + +MARTINEL + +Oh, naturally, naturally! Nevertheless, simple as it may be, this +marriage is an acknowledged fact, and I hope that you have taken into +your good books my dear nephew, who, until now-- + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +I can hardly help doing so since he is my brother's son-in-law, and my +niece's husband. + +MARTINEL + +Well, that is not the only thing, is it? I am very happy that the affair +is over--although my life has been spent in the midst of difficulties. + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +What! Your life? + +MARTINEL + +I mean commercial difficulties, not matrimonial. + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +What commercial difficulties can you have--you, a Croesus who has just +given five hundred thousand francs in dowry to his nephew. [_With a +sigh._] Five hundred thousand francs! Just what my late husband +squandered. + +MARTINEL + +Oh! Yes, I know that, Madame de Ronchard. + +MME. DE RONCHARD [_sighs again_] + +I was ruined and deserted after just one year of married life, +Monsieur--one year. I just had time to realize how happy I could be, for +the scoundrel, the wretch, knew how to make me love him. + +MARTINEL + +Then he was a scoundrel? + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +Oh! Monsieur, he was a man of fashion. + +MARTINEL + +Well, that did not prevent him from-- + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +Oh, don't let us talk any more about my misfortunes. It would be too +long and too sad, and everybody else is so happy here just now. + +MARTINEL + +And I am happier than anybody else, I assure you. My nephew is such a +good fellow. I love him as I would a son. Now, as for myself, I made my +fortune in trade-- + +MME. DE RONCHARD [_aside_] + +That is very evident. + +MARTINEL [_resumes_] + +In the sea-going trade. But my nephew will gain fame for our name by his +renown as an artist; the only difference between us is that he makes his +fortune with his brushes, and I have made mine with ships. Art, to-day, +Madame, may be as important as trade, but it is less profitable. Take my +nephew. Although he has made a very early success, it is I who have +enabled him to. When my poor brother died, his wife following him almost +immediately, I found myself, while quite a young man, left alone with +this baby. Well, I made him learn everything that I could. He studied +chemistry, music, and literature, but he had a leaning toward art more +than to the other things. I assure you that I encouraged him in it, and +you see how he has succeeded. He is only just thirty, is well known, and +has just been decorated. + +MME. DE RONCHARD [_dryly_] + +Thirty years old, and only just decorated; that is slow for an artist. + +MARTINEL + +Pshaw! He will make up for lost time. [_Rises_] But I am afraid I am +getting boastful. You must pardon me, I am a plain man, and just now a +little exhilarated by dining. It is all Petitpré's fault. His Burgundy +is excellent. It is a wine that you may say is a friend to wisdom. And +we are accustomed to drink a good deal at Havre. [_Takes up his glass of +brandy and finishes it._] + +MME. DE RONCHARD [_aside_] + +Surely that is enough about Havre. + +MARTINEL [_turns to_ Mme. de Ronchard] + +Well, there is a treaty between us--a treaty which will last--which no +foolishness can break, such as that which has failed to break this +marriage. + +MME. DE RONCHARD [_rises and crosses_ L.] + +Foolishness! You speak very lightly about it. But now that the marriage +is a thing accomplished, it is all right. I had destined my niece for +another sphere than a painter's world. However, when you can't get a +thrush, eat a blackbird, as the proverb says. + +MARTINEL + +But a white blackbird, Madame, for your niece is a pearl. Let me tell +you, the happiness of these children will be the happiness of my +declining years. + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +I wish that it may be, Monsieur, without daring to hope for it. + +MARTINEL + +Never mind. There are two things on which I am an expert--the merits of +women and of wine. + +MME. DE RONCHARD [_aside_] + +Especially upon the latter. + +MARTINEL + +They are the only two things worth knowing in life. + + + + +SCENE II. + +(_The same characters and_ Petitpré _who enters_ C, _with_ Léon.) + +PETITPRÉ + +Now that this red-letter day has gone by as any other day goes, will you +play a game of billiards with me, Monsieur Martinel? + +MARTINEL + +Most certainly, I am very fond of billiards. + +LÉON [_comes down stage_] + +You are like my father. It seems to me that when anyone begins to like +billiards at all, they become infatuated with the game; and you two +people are two of a kind. + +MARTINEL + +My son, when a man grows old, and has no family, he has to take refuge +in such pleasures as these. If you take bait-fishing as your diversion +in the morning and billiards for the afternoon and evening, you have two +kinds of amusement that are both worthy and attractive. + +LÉON + +Oh, ho! Bait-fishing, indeed! That means to say, getting up early and +sitting with your feet in the water through wind and rain in the hope of +catching, perhaps each quarter of an hour, a fish about the size of a +match. And you call that an attractive pastime? + +MARTINEL + +I do, without a doubt. But do you believe that there is a single lover +in the world capable of doing as much for his mistress throughout ten, +twelve, or fifteen years of life? If you asked my opinion, I think he +would give it up at the end of a fortnight. + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +Of a truth; he would. + +LÉON [_interrupts_] + +Pardon me, I should give it up at the end of a week. + +MARTINEL + +You speak sensibly. + +PETITPRÉ + +Come along, my dear fellow. + +MARTINEL + +Shall we play fifty up? + +PETITPRÉ + +Fifty up will do. + +MARTINEL [_turns to_ Mme. de Ronchard] + +We shall see you again shortly, Madame. + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +Well, I have had enough of Havre for the present. + +[_Exit_ Martinel _and_ Petitpré C.] + + + + +SCENE III. + +(Leon _and_ Mme. de Ronchard.) + +LÉON + +Martinel is a good fellow. Not a man of culture, but bright as sunshine +and straight as a rule. + +MME. DE RONCHARD [_seated_ L.] + +He is lacking in distinction of manner. + +LÉON [_inadvertently_] + +How about yourself, Aunt? + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +What do you mean? + +LÉON [_corrects himself and approaches_ Mme. de Ronchard] + +I said, how about yourself? You know what I mean--you have such an +intimate knowledge of the world that you are a better judge of human +nature than anyone I know. + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +Indeed, I am. You were too small a boy to recollect it, but +nevertheless, I went a great deal into society before my husband spent +all my money, and let me tell you that I was a great success. For +instance, at a grand ball given by the Turkish ambassador, at which I +was dressed as Salammbô-- + +LÉON [_interrupts_] + +What, you, the Carthaginian princess? + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +Certainly. Why not? Let me tell you that I was greatly admired, for my +appearance was exquisite. My dear, that was in eighteen hundred and +sixty-- + +LÉON [_sits near_ Mme. de Ronchard] + +Oh, no dates! for goodness sake, no dates! + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +It is not necessary to be sarcastic. + +LÉON + +What! I, sarcastic? God forbid! It is simply this: in view of the fact +that you did not wish this marriage to take place, and that I did, and +that the marriage has taken place, I feel very happy. Do you understand +me? It is a triumph for me, and I must confess that I feel very +triumphant this evening. Tomorrow, however, vanish the triumpher, and +there will remain only your affectionate little nephew. Come, smile, +Auntie. At heart you are not as ill-natured as you pretend to be, and +that is proved by the generosity of soul you have evinced in founding at +Neuilly, despite your modest means, a hospital for--lost dogs! + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +What else could I do. When a woman is alone and has no children--and I +was married such a short time--do you know what I am, after all? Simply +an old maid, and like all old maids-- + +LÉON [_finishes the sentence for her_] + +You love toy dogs. + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +As much as I hate men. + +LÉON + +You mean to say one man. Well, I could hardly blame you for hating him. + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +And you know for what kind of girl he abandoned and ruined me. You never +saw her, did you? + +LÉON + +Pardon me, I did see her once in the Champs-Elysées. I was walking with +you and my father. A gentleman and lady came toward us; you became +excited, quickened your steps, and clutched nervously at my father's +arm, and I heard you say in a low voice, “Don't look at them; it is +she!” + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +And what were you doing? + +LÉON + +I?--I was looking at him. + +MME. DE RONCHARD [_rises_] + +And you thought her horrible, didn't you? + +LÉON + +I really don't know. You know I was only eleven years old. + +MME. DE RONCHARD [_crosses_ R.] + +You are insufferable! Go away, or I shall strike you. + +LÉON [_soothingly, and rising_] + +There, there, Aunt, I won't do it again. I will be good, I promise you, +if you will forgive me. + +MME. DE RONCHARD [_rises, as if to go out_ C.] + +I will not! + +LÉON + +Please do! + +MME. DE RONCHARD [_returns_] + +I will not! If it were simply a case of teasing me, I could let it pass, +for I can take care of myself; but you have done your sister a wrong, +and that is unforgivable. + +LÉON + +How? + +MME. DE RONCHARD [_stands_ R. _of table and drums on it with her +fingers_] + +Why, this marriage! You brought it about. + +LÉON [_imitates her action at_ L. _of table_] + +That is true, and I did right. Moreover, I shall never be tired +asserting that what I did was right. + +MME. DE RONCHARD [_still tapping on the table_] + +And for my part I shall never be tired of saying that Gilberte has not +married the right man. + +LÉON [_still tapping_] + +Well, what kind of man do you think Gilberte ought to have married? + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +A man of position, a public official, or an eminent physician, or--an +engineer. + +LÉON + +Do you mean a theatrical engineer? + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +There are other kinds of engineers. Then, above all, she should not have +married a handsome man. + +LÉON + +Do you reproach Jean for his good looks? If you do, my dear Aunt, there +are a good many men in the world who must plead guilty. Suppose, even, +that a man has no need of good looks, it does not follow that he ought +to be ugly. + +MME. DE RONCHARD [_sits on a little stool by the table, clasps her +hands, and looks upward_] + +My husband was handsome, nay, superb, a veritable guardsman--and I know +how much it cost me. + +LÉON + +It might have cost you a great deal more if he had been ugly! [Mme. de +Ronchard _rises to go away_.] Besides Jean is not only good-looking but +he is good. He is not vain, but modest; and he has genius, which is +manifesting itself more and more every day. He will certainly attain +membership in the Institute. That would please you, would it not? That +would be worth more than a simple engineer; and, moreover, every woman +finds him charming, except you. + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +That's the very thing for which I blame him. He is too good and too +honest. He has already painted the portraits of a crowd of women, and he +will continue to do that. They will be alone with him in his studio for +hours at a time, and everybody knows what goes on in those studios. + +LÉON + +You have been accustomed to go there, my dear Aunt? + +MME. DE RONCHARD [_dreamily_] + +Oh, yes. [_Corrects herself_.] I mean to say, once I went to Horace +Vernet's studio. + +LÉON + +The painter of battle scenes! + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +Well, what I say of Jean, I say of all artists--that they ought not to +be allowed to marry into a family of lawyers and magistrates, such as +ours. Such doings always bring trouble. I ask you as a man, is it +possible to be a good husband under such conditions--among a crowd of +women continually around you who do nothing but unrobe and re-dress +themselves, whether they be clients or models (_pointedly_), especially +models? [Mme. de Ronchard _rises and_ Léon _is silent_.] I said +_models_, Léon. + +LÉON + +I understand you, Aunt. You make a very pointed and delicate allusion to +Jean's past. Well, what of it? If he did have one of his models for a +mistress, he loved her, and loved her sincerely for three years-- + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +You mean to tell me a man can love such women? + +LÉON + +Every woman can be loved, my dear Aunt; and this woman certainly +deserved to be loved more than most women. + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +A great thing, truly, for a model to be pretty! That is the essential +thing, I should think. + +LÉON + +Whether it be essential or not, it is nevertheless very nice to be +pretty. But this girl was better than pretty, for she had a nature which +was exceptionally tender, good, and sincere. + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +Well, then, why did he leave her? + +LÉON + +What! Can you ask me such a question?--you, who know so much about the +world and the world's opinions? [_Folds his arms_.] Would you advocate +free love? + +MME. DE RONCHARD [_indignantly_] + +You know I would not. + +LÉON [_seriously_] + +Listen. The truth is, that it happened to Jean as it has happened to +many others besides him--that is to say, there was a pretty little +nineteen-year-old girl whom he met, whom he loved, and with whom he +established an intimacy little by little--an intimacy which lasted one, +two, three years--the usual duration of that sort of thing. Then, as +usually happens, there came a rupture--a rupture which is sometimes +violent, sometimes gentle, but which is never altogether good-natured. +Then also, as usual in such cases, each went a separate way--the eternal +ending, which is always prosaic, because it is true to life. But the one +thing that distinguishes Jean's _liaison_ from the usual affair is the +truly admirable character of the girl in the case. + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +Oh, admirable character! Mademoiselle--tell me, what is the name of this +young lady? If you mentioned it I have forgotten it. Mademoiselle +Mus--Mus-- + +LÉON + +Musotte, Auntie; little Musotte. + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +Musette! Pshaw, that's a very common name. It reminds me of the Latin +quarter and of Bohemian life. [_With disgust._] Musette! + +LÉON + +No, no; not Musette. Musotte, with an O instead of an E. She is named +Musotte because of her pretty little nose; can't you understand? +Musotte, the name explains itself. + +MME. DE RONCHARD [_with contempt_] + +Oh, yes; a _fin-de-siècle_ Musotte, which is still worse. Musotte is not +a name. + +LÉON + +My dear Aunt, it is only a nickname. The nick-name of a model. Her true +name is Henriette Lévêque. + + +MME. DE RONCHARD [_puzzled_] + +Lévêque? + +LÉON + +Yes, Lévêque. What does this questioning mean? It is just as I told you, +or else I know nothing about it. Now, Henriette Lévêque, or Musotte, if +you prefer that term, has not only been faithful to Jean during the +course of her love affair with him; has not only been devoted and +adoring, and full of a tenderness which was ever watchful, but at the +very hour of her rupture with him, she gave proof of her greatness of +soul. She accepted everything without reproach, without recrimination; +the poor little girl understood everything--understood that all was +finished and finished forever. With the intuition of a woman, she felt +that Jean's love for my sister was real and deep, she bowed her head to +circumstances and she departed, accepting, without a murmur, the +loneliness that Jean's action brought upon her. She carried her fidelity +to the end, for she would have slain herself sooner than become +[_hesitating out of respect for_ Mme. de Ronchard] a courtesan. And this +I _know_. + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +And has Jean never seen her since? + +LÉON + +Not once; and that is more than eight months ago. He wished for news of +her, and he gave me the task of getting it. I never found her and I have +never been able to gain any knowledge of her, so cunningly did she +arrange this flight of hers--this flight which was so noble and so +self-sacrificing. [_Changing his tone._] But I don't know why I repeat +all this. You know it just as well as I do, for I have told it to you a +dozen times. + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +It is just as incredible at the twentieth time as at the first. + +LÉON + +It is nevertheless the truth. + +MME. DE RONCHARD [_sarcastically_] + +Well, if it is really the truth, you were terribly wrong in helping Jean +to break his connection with such an admirable woman. + +LÉON + +Oh, no, Aunt, I only did my duty. You have even called me hairbrained, +and perhaps you were right; but you know that I can be very serious when +I wish. If this three-year-old _liaison_ had lasted until now, Jean +would have been ruined. + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +Well, how could we help that? + +LÉON + +Well, these things are frightful--these entanglements--I can't help +using the word. It was my duty as a friend--and I wish to impress it +upon you--to rescue Jean; and as a brother, it was my duty to marry my +sister to such a man as he. The future will tell you whether I was right +or not. [_Coaxingly._] And then, my dear Aunt, when later you have a +little nephew or a little niece to take care of, to dandle in your arms, +you will banish all these little spaniels that you are taking care of at +Neuilly. + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +The poor little darlings! I, abandon them! Don't you know that I love +them as a mother loves her children? + +LÉON + +Oh, yes; you can become an aunt to them, then, because you will have to +become a mother to your little nephew. + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +Oh, hold your tongue; you irritate me. (Jean _appears with_ Gilberte +_for a moment at C._) + +JEAN [_to servant entering_ R.] + +Joseph, have you forgotten nothing, especially the flowers? + +SERVANT + +Monsieur and Madame may rest assured that everything has been done. + +[_Exit servant_ L.] + +LÉON [_to_ Mme. de Ronchard] + +Look at them; aren't they a bonny couple? + + + + +SCENE IV. + +(_The same with_ Jean _and_ Gilberte.) + +JEAN [_approaches_ Mme. de Ronchard _and speaks to her_] + +Do you know of whom we were talking just now? We were talking of you. + +LÉON [_aside_] + +Ahem! ahem! + +JEAN + +Yes; I was just saying that I had not made you a present on the occasion +of my nuptials, because the choosing of it demanded a great deal of +reflection. + +MME. DE RONCHARD [_dryly_] + +But Gilberte made me a very pretty one for you both, Monsieur. + +JEAN + +But that is not enough. I have been looking for something which I +thought would be particularly acceptable to you; and do you know what I +found? It is a very small thing, but I ask you, Madame, to be so good as +to accept this little pocketbook, which holds some bank-notes, for the +benefit of your dear little deserted pets. You can add to your home for +these little pets some additional kennels on the sole condition that you +will allow me from time to time to come and pet your little pensioners, +and on the additional condition that you will not pick out the most +vicious among them to greet me. + +MME. DE RONCHARD [_greatly impressed_] + +With all my heart, I thank you. How good of you to think of my poor +little orphans! + +LÉON [_whispers to_ Jean] + +You diplomat, you! + +JEAN + +There is nothing extraordinary about it, Madame. I am very fond of dumb +animals. They are really the foster-brothers of man, sacrificed for +them, slaves to them, and in many cases their food. They are the true +martyrs of the world. + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +What you say is very true, Monsieur, and I have often thought of it in +that way. For instance, take those poor horses, scourged and beaten by +coachmen in the streets. + +LÉON [_with sarcastic emphasis_] + +And the pheasants, Auntie, and the partridges and the blackcock falling +on all sides under a hail of lead, flying panic-stricken before the +horrible massacre of the guns. + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +Oh, don't talk like that, it makes me shudder; it is horrible! + +JEAN [_turns to_ Gilberte] + +Horrible, indeed! + +LÉON [_after a pause, in light tone_] + +Perhaps so, but they are good eating. + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +You are pitiless. + +LÉON [_aside to his aunt_] + +Pitiless, perhaps, toward animals, but not pitiless, like you, toward +people. + +MME. DE RONCHARD [_in the same tone_] + +What do you mean by that? + +LÉON [_in the same tone pointing to_ Jean _and_ Gilberte, _who are +seated on a sofa_ R.] + +Do you think that your presence here can be acceptable to those two +lovers? [_Takes her arm_.] My father has certainly finished smoking; +come into the billiard-room for a little while. + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +And what are you going to do? + +LÉON + +I am going down into my study on the ground floor, and I shall come up +here after a little while. + +MME. DE RONCHARD [_sarcastically_] + +Your study, indeed--your studio--you mean, you rascal, where your +clients are--models-- + +LÉON [_with mock modesty_] + +Oh, Auntie. My clients, at least, don't unrobe--alas! [_Exit_ Léon R., +_giving a mock benediction to the lovers_.] Children, receive my +benediction! + +[_Exit_ Madame de Ronchard C.] + + + + +SCENE V. + +(Jean _and_ Gilberte _seated on the sofa at right_.) + +JEAN + +At last, you are my wife, Mademoiselle. + +GILBERTE + +Mademoiselle? + +JEAN + +Forgive me. I hardly know how to address you. + +GILBERTE + +Call me Gilberte. There is nothing shocking about that, is there? + +JEAN + +Gilberte, at last, at last, at last, you are my wife! + +GILBERTE + +And truly, not without a good deal of trouble. + +JEAN + +And what a dainty, energetic little creature you are! How you fought +with your father, and with your aunt, for it is only through you, and +thanks to you, that we are married, for which I thank you with all my +heart--the heart which belongs to you. + +GILBERTE + +But it is only because I trusted you, and that is all. + +JEAN + +And have you only trust for me? + +GILBERTE + +Stupid boy! You know that you pleased me. If you had only pleased me, my +confidence in you would have been useless. One must love first. Without +that, Monsieur, nothing can come. + +JEAN + +Call me Jean, just as I have called you Gilberte. + +GILBERTE [_hesitates_] + +But that is not altogether the same thing. It seems to me--that--that--I +cannot do it. [_Rises and crosses_ L.] + +JEAN [_rises_] + +But I love you. I am no trifler, believe me; I love you. I am the man +who loves you because he has found in you qualities that are +inestimable. You are one of those perfect creatures who have as much +brains as sentiment; and the sentimentality that permeates you is not +the sickly sentimentality of ordinary women. It is that gloriously +beautiful faculty of tenderness which characterizes great souls, and +which one never meets elsewhere in the world. And then, you are so +beautiful, so graceful, with a grace that is all your own, and I, who am +a painter, you know how I adore the beautiful. Then, above everything, +you drew me to you, but not only that, you wiped out the traces of the +world from my mind and eyes. + +GILBERTE + +I like to hear you say that. But, don't talk any more just now in that +way, because it embarrasses me. However, I know, for I try to foresee +everything, that to enjoy these things I must listen to them to-day, for +your words breathe the passion of a lover. Perhaps in the future your +words will be as sweet, for they could not help being so when a man +speaks as you spoke and loves as you appear to love, but at the same +time, they will be different. + +JEAN + +Oh! + +GILBERTE [_sits on stool near the table_] + +Tell me it over again. + +JEAN + +What drew me to you was the mysterious harmony between your natural form +and the soul within it. Do you recollect my first visit to this house? + +GILBERTE + +Oh, yes, very well. My brother brought you to dinner, and I believe that +you did not wish to come. + +JEAN [_laughs_] + +If that were true, it was very indiscreet of your brother to tell you. +And he told you that? I am annoyed that he did so, and I confess I did +hesitate somewhat, for you know I was an artist accustomed to the +society of artists, which is lively, witty, and sometimes rather free, +and I felt somewhat disturbed at the idea of entering a house so serious +as yours--a house peopled by dignified lawyers and young ladies. But I +was so fond of your brother, I found him so full of novelty, so gay, so +wittily sarcastic and discerning, under his assumed levity, that not +only did I go everywhere with him, but I followed him to the extent of +meeting you. And I never cease to thank him for it. Do you remember when +I entered the drawing-room where you and your family were sitting, you +were arranging in a china vase some flowers that had just been sent to +you? + +GILBERTE + +I do. + +JEAN + +Your father spoke to me of my Uncle Martinel, whom he had formerly +known. This at once formed a link between us, for all the time that I +was talking to him I was watching you arrange your flowers. + +GILBERTE [_smiles_] + +You looked far too long and too steadfastly for a first introduction. + +JEAN + +I was looking at you as an artist looks, and was admiring you, for I +found your figure, your movements, and your entire self attractive. And +then for the last six months I have often come to this house, to which +your brother invited me and whither your presence attracted me, and +finally I felt your sway as a lover feels the sway of the one he adores. +There was an inexplicable, unseen attraction calling me to you. [_Sits +beside her_ R. _of table_.] Then a dim idea entered my brain,--an idea +that one day you might become my wife. It gained possession of my soul, +and I immediately took steps to renew the friendship between your father +and my uncle. The two men again became friends. Did you never divine my +maneuvers? + +GILBERTE + +Divine your maneuvers? No, I suspected a little at times, but I was so +astounded that a man like you--in the full flush of success, so well +known, so sought after--should concern himself with such a little, +unimportant girl as I, that, really, I could place no faith in the +sincerity of your attention. + +JEAN + +Nevertheless, we quickly knew how to understand each other, did we not? + +GILBERTE + +Your character pleased me. I felt that you were loyal, and then you +entertained me greatly, for you brought into our house that artistic air +which gave my fancies life. I ought to tell you that my brother had +already warned me that I should like you. You know that Léon loves you. + +JEAN + +I know it, and I think it was in _his_ brain that the first idea of our +marriage had birth. [_After a short silence_] You remember our return +from Saint-Germain after we had dined in the Henri IV. Pavilion? + +GILBERTE + +I remember it well. + +JEAN + +My uncle and your aunt were in the front of the landau, and you and I on +the rear seat, and in another carriage were your father and Léon. What a +glorious spring night! But how coldly you treated me! + +GILBERTE + +I was so embarrassed! + +JEAN + +You ought to recall that I put to you that day a question which I had +already asked you, because you cannot deny that I had paid you very +tender attention and that you had captured my heart. + +GILBERTE + +True. Nevertheless it surprised and upset me. Oh, how often have I +remembered it since! But I have never been able to recall the very words +you used. Do you remember them? + +JEAN + +No; they came from my lips, issuing from the bottom of my heart like a +prayer for mercy. I only know that I told you that I should never +re-enter your house if you did not give me some little hope that there +should be a day when you would know me better. You pondered a long time +before you answered me, but you spoke in such a low tone that I was +anxious to make you repeat it. + +GILBERTE [_takes up his sentence and speaks as if in a dream_] + +I said that it would pain me greatly if I should see you no more. + +JEAN + +Yes, that is what you said. + +GILBERTE + +You have forgotten nothing! + +JEAN + +Could anyone forget that? [_With deep emotion._] Do you know what I +think? As we look at each other and examine our hearts, our souls, our +mutual understanding, our love, I verily believe that we have set out on +the true road to happiness. [_Kisses her. For a moment they are +silent._] + +GILBERTE [_rises_] + +But I must leave you. [_Goes toward door_ L.] I must prepare for our +journey. Meanwhile, go and find my father. + +JEAN [_follows her_] + +Yes, but tell me before you go that you love me. + +GILBERTE + +Yes--I love you. + +JEAN [_kisses her forehead_] + +My only one. + +[_Exit_ Gilberte L., _a second after. Enter_ M. Martinel C. _with a very +agitated air, and a letter in his hand_.] + +MARTINEL [_perceives_ Jean, _quickly slips the letter into his pocket; +then, recollecting himself_] + +Have you seen Léon? + +JEAN + +No, are you looking for him? + +MARTINEL + +No, no, I have just a word to say to him concerning an engagement of +small importance. + +JEAN [_perceives_ Léon] + +Wait a moment. Here he comes. + +[_Enter_ Léon R. _Exit_ Jean. C.] + + + + +SCENE VI. + +(Martinel _and_ Léon.) + +MARTINEL [_goes quickly up to_ Léon] + +I must have five minutes with you. Something terrible has happened. +Never in the course of my life have I been placed in so awkward and so +embarrassing a situation. + +LÉON + +Quick! What is it? + +MARTINEL + +I had just finished my game at billiards when a servant brought me a +letter addressed to M. Martinel, without any Christian name by which to +identify it, but with these words on the letter “Exceedingly urgent.” I +thought it was addressed to me, so I tore open the envelope, and I read +words intended for Jean--words which have well-nigh taken away my +reason. I came to find you in order to ask advice, for this is a thing +which must be decided upon the moment. + +LÉON + +Tell me, what is it? + +MARTINEL + +I am responsible for my own actions, M. Léon, and I would ask advice of +no one if the matter concerned myself only, but unfortunately it +concerns Jean; therefore, I hesitate--the matter is so grave, and then +the secret is not mine--I came upon it accidentally. + +LÉON + +Tell me quickly, and do not doubt my faith. + +MARTINEL + +I do not doubt your faith. Here is the letter. It is from Dr. Pellerin, +who is Jean's physician, who is his friend, our friend, a good fellow, a +free liver, and a physician to many women of the world, and one who +would not write such things unless necessity compelled him. [_Hands the +letter to_ Léon, _who holds it close to his eyes._] + +LÉON [_reads_] + +“MY DEAR FRIEND: + +“I am more than annoyed at having to communicate with you upon this +evening, above every other evening, upon such a subject as this. But I +am sure that if I did otherwise you would never forgive me. Your former +mistress, Henriette Lévêque, is dying and would bid you farewell. +[_Throws a glance at_ Martinel _who signs to him to continue._] She will +not live through the night. She dies after bringing into the world, some +fifteen days ago, a child who on her deathbed she swears is yours. So +long as she was in no danger, she determined to leave you in ignorance +of this child's existence. But, to-day, doomed to death, she calls to +you. I know how you have loved her in the past. But you must do as you +think fit. She lives in the Rue Chaptal at Number 31. Let me know how I +can serve you, my dear fellow, and believe me, + +“Always yours, + +“PELLERIN.” + + +MARTINEL + +There you are. That letter came this evening. That is to say, at the one +moment above all others when such a misfortune could threaten the whole +future--the whole life of your sister and of Jean. What would you do if +you were I? Would you keep this confounded letter, or would you give it +to him? If I keep it, we may save appearances, but such an act would be +unworthy of me. + +LÉON [_energetically_] + +I should say so. You must give the letter to Jean. + +MARTINEL + +Well, what will he do? + +LÉON + +He alone is the judge of his own actions. We have no right to hide +anything from him. + +MARTINEL + +Supposing he consults me? + +LÉON + +He will not do it. In such situations a man consults only his +conscience. + +MARTINEL + +But he treats me like a father. If he hesitates a moment between his +attention to his wife and the effacement of his happiness, what shall I +tell him to do? + +LÉON + +Just what you would do yourself in like case. + +MARTINEL + +My impulse would be to go to the woman. What would be yours? + +LÉON [_resolutely_] + +I should go. + +MARTINEL + +But how about your sister? + +LÉON [_sadly, seating himself by the table_] + +Yes, my poor little sister! What an awakening for her! + +MARTINEL [_after a few seconds' hesitation, crosses abruptly from_ L. +_to_ R.] + +No; it is too hard a thing to do. I shall not give him this letter. I +shall be blamed perhaps, but so much the worse. In any case, I save him. + +LÉON + +You cannot do such a thing, sir. We both know my sister, poor little +girl, and I am sure that if this marriage is annulled, she will die. +[_Rises_.] When a man has for three years enjoyed the love of such a +woman as the one who sends for him, he cannot refuse to see her on her +deathbed whatever may happen. + + +MARTINEL + +What will Gilberte do? + +LÉON + +She worships Jean--but you know how proud she is. + +MARTINEL + +Will she accept the situation? Will she forgive it? + +LÉON + +Of that I am very doubtful, especially after all that has been said +about this poor girl in the family circle. But what does that matter? +Jean must be warned at once. I am going to find him and bring him to +you. [_Rises as if to go out_ C.] + +MARTINEL + +Well, how would you like me to tell him? + +LÉON Simply give him the letter. [_Exit_ Léon C.] + + + + +SCENE VII. + +MARTINEL [_alone_] + +Poor children! in the midst of their happiness and at the zenith of joy! +And that other poor girl, who is now suffering and slowly dying! +Heavens! How unjust and how cruel life is at times. + + + + +SCENE VIII. + +(_Re-enter_ Léon _with_ Jean) + +JEAN [_walks briskly to_ C. _of stage_] + +What is it all about? + +MARTINEL + +One minute, my poor boy; read this, and forgive me for having opened +your letter. I opened it because I thought it was intended for me. +[_Gives letter to_ Jean, _and watches him read it._ Léon _also watches +him, standing_ L.] + +JEAN [_after reading the letter, speaks to himself in a low tone, +touched with deep but contained emotion_] + +I must do it! I owe it to her! [_To Martinel._] Uncle, I leave my wife +in your charge. Say nothing until I return, and remain here till I come +back. Wait for me. [_Turns to_ Léon.] I know you well enough to realize +that you do not disapprove of what I am doing. To you I confide my +future. I am going. [_Turns to the door_ R., _but after casting a glance +at the door_ L., _which leads to his wife's chamber, says to_ Léon.] To +you I owe the love your sister has bestowed upon me. Help me now to +preserve it. + +[_Exit quickly_ R.] + + + + +SCENE IX. + +(Martinel _and_ Léon.) + +MARTINEL [_seated_ R.] + +What shall we do now? What are we going to say? What explanations can we +give? + +LÉON + +Let me manage it. It is only right that I should do it since I brought +about this marriage. + +MARTINEL [_rises_] + +Well, I'd dearly love to be forty-eight hours older. [_Rising_.] I +confess I do not like these love tragedies, and moreover the fact of the +child entering into the case is awful. What is going to become of that +poor little mortal? We cannot send him to the foundling asylum. [_Enter_ +Gilberte L.] Gilberte! + + + + +SCENE X. + +Gilberte _has removed her marriage robes, and now wears a handsome house +gown. She carries an opera cloak, which she throws over a chair neat the +door_. + +GILBERTE + +Where is Jean? + +LÉON + +Do not be disturbed, he will be back directly. + +GILBERTE [_in astonishment_] + +Has he gone out? + +LÉON + +Yes. + +GILBERTE + +Gone out? And on this evening, above all others! + +LÉON + +A sudden and grave circumstance compelled him to go out for an hour. + +GILBERTE [_excitedly_] + +What is going on? What is it that you are hiding from me? Your story is +impossible. Some awful misfortune must have happened. + +LÉON AND MARTINEL [_together_] + +Oh, no, no! + +GILBERTE + +Then, what is it? Tell me! Speak! + +LÉON + +I cannot tell you anything. Be patient for an hour. It is Jean's duty to +tell you of the sudden and unexpected call which has summoned him hence +at such a time. + +GILBERTE + +What curious words you use! A sudden and unexpected call? He is an +orphan--his uncle is his only relative,--then what? Who? Why? Oh, God, +how you frighten me! + +LÉON + +There are duties of many kinds, my dear; friendship, pity, sympathy can +impose many of them. But I must not say any more. Be patient for an +hour, I implore you. + +GILBERTE [_to_ Martinel] + +And you, Uncle? Speak! I implore you! What is he doing? Where has he +gone? I feel--oh, I feel the shadow of a terrible misfortune hovering +over us; speak, I entreat. + +MARTINEL [_with tears in his eyes_] + +But I cannot tell you any more, my dear child. I cannot. Like your +brother, I promised to say nothing, and I would have done just as Jean +has done. Wait for an hour, I beseech you--just an hour. + +GILBERTE + +And you, too, are upset. It must be a catastrophe. + +MARTINEL + +No, no! The fact that you are so distressed agitates me, because you +know I love you with my whole heart. [_Embraces her_.] + +GILBERTE [_to_ Léon] + +You have spoken of friendship, of pity, and of sympathy, but if it were +any of these reasons you could tell me so; meanwhile, as I look at you +two, I feel that here is some unspoken reason, some mystery which +appalls me. + +LÉON [_resolutely_] + +My dear little sister, won't you trust in me? + +GILBERTE + +Yes, you ought to know all. + +LÉON + +Will you trust me absolutely? + +GILBERTE + +Absolutely. + +LÉON + +I swear to you, on my faith as a gentleman, that I would have done just +as Jean has done; that his absolute fidelity to you, his fidelity, which +perhaps is even exaggerated by love for you, is the only reason which +had led him to forget at this very moment the very thing that he has +gone to learn anew. + +GILBERTE [_looks_ Léon _straight in the eyes_] + +I believe you, Léon, and I thank you. Nevertheless, I tremble yet and I +shall tremble until he returns. If you swear to me that my husband was +entirely ignorant of the cause which has made him leave me at this +supreme moment, I will content myself as well as I can, trusting in you +two. [_She stretches both hands to the two men_.] + + + + +SCENE XI. + +(_The same, with_ M. de Petitpré _and_ Mme. de Ronchard, _who enters +quickly_ C.) + +PETITPRÉ + +What is this I hear? Jean Martinel gone out? + +MARTINEL + +He is coming back very soon, sir. + +PETITPRÉ + +But why on earth did he go out on such an evening as this without a word +of explanation to his wife? [_Turns to_ Gilberte] You know nothing about +it, do you? + +GILBERTE [_seated_ L. _of table_] + +Father, I know nothing at all about it. + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +And without a word of explanation to the family! That is indeed a lack +of courtesy. + +PETITPRÉ [_to_ Martinel] + +And why has he acted in this way, sir? + +MARTINEL + +Your son knows as much as I do, sir; but neither of us can reveal it to +you. Moreover, your daughter has consented to wait until she can learn +all about it from her husband on his return. + +PETITPRÉ + +My daughter has consented--but I do not consent! Besides, it seems that +you alone were forewarned of this sudden departure. + +MME. DE RONCHARD [_in agitation to_ Martinel] + +It was to you they brought the letter, and you were the one who read it +first. + +MARTINEL + +You are correctly informed, Madame; a letter was delivered here, but I +would not shoulder the responsibility of this matter, and I showed the +letter to your son, sir [_turns to_ Petitpré], and asked his advice with +the intention of following it. + +LÉON + +The advice that I gave is exactly what my brother-in-law has done of his +own volition, and I esteem him all the more for it. + +PETITPRÉ [_turns to_ Léon] + +It is I who should have been consulted, not you. If Jean's action is +indeed excusable, his want of courtesy is absolutely unpardonable. + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +It is scandalous! + +LÉON [_to_ M. Petitpré] + +Yes, it would have been better to consult you, but the urgency of the +matter did not allow it. You would have discussed the matter; my aunt +would have discussed the matter; we should all have discussed the matter +the whole night long, and you know there are times when one cannot +afford to lose even seconds. Silence was necessary until Jean's return. +When he does return he will hide nothing from you, and I feel sure that +you will judge him as I myself have judged him. + +MME. DE RONCHARD [_turns to_ Martinel] + +But this letter, from whom did it come? + +MARTINEL + +Oh, I can tell you that. It came from a physician. + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +From a physician--a physician--then he must have a sick patient--and it +is on account of this patient that he made Jean come to him. But who is +the patient? Oh, ho! I surmise that it is a woman--that woman--his +former mistress, who has played this card today. Sick! I suppose she has +made a pretense of poisoning herself in order to show him that she loves +him still and will always love him. Oh, the little wretch! [_To_ Léon.] +This is the kind of people you stand up for! Yes, you! + +LÉON + +It would be only reasonable, my dear Aunt, not to air all these +revolting theories of yours in Gilberte's presence, especially when you +really know nothing at all. + +GILBERTE [_rises_] + +Do not speak any more about it, I pray you. Everything that I have heard +just now distresses me beyond measure. I will wait for my husband; I do +not wish to know anything except from his lips, as I have absolute +confidence in him. If misfortune has threatened us, I will not hear such +things talked of. [_Exit_ L, _accompanied by_ Petitpré. _Short +silence_.] + +MME. DE RONCHARD [_turns to_ Léon] + +Well, Léon, do you always win? You see what charming fellows these +husbands are--every one of them! + + + + +ACT II. + + + + +SCENE I. + +Musotte's _bedroom, neatly furnished, but without luxury. Disordered bed +stands_ L. _A screen stands_ L. I. E., _almost hiding_ Musotte, _who +lies stretched at length upon a steamer-chair. Beside the bed is a +cradle, the head of which is turned up stage. On the mantelpiece and on +small tables at_ R. _and_ L. _are vials of medicine, cups, chafing-dish, +etc. A table stands_, R. I. E. Musotte _is sleeping_. La Babin _and_ +Mme. Flache _stand_ C. _looking at her_. + +LA BABIN [_in low tones_] + +How she sleeps! + +MME. FLACHE [_in the same voice_] + +But she will not sleep long now, unless she is going into her last +sleep. + +LA BABIN + +Oh, there is no chance of that. That is enough to give one the horrors. +Fancy losing one's life for a child! + +MME. FLACHE + +But how can you prevent it? Death is as necessary as birth, or the world +would become too small for us all. + +LA BABIN [_sits_ R. _of table_] + +All people ought to die in the same way and at the same age--every one +of us; then one would know what to expect. + +MME. FLACHE [_pours out some tea_] + +What simple ideas you have, Madame Babin! Personally, I would rather not +know the hour of my death. I would sooner finish my life while sleeping +in the middle of the night--during slumber--without suffering--by a +sudden failure of the heart. + +LA BABIN + +Look at the sick woman. How silly of her to wish to rest upon that +steamer-chair as she has done. The doctor told her plainly that such an +effort would probably finish her. + +MME. FLACHE [_sits_ L. _of table_] + +Oh, I understand her motive. When a girl like her has a lover she +commits every kind of folly, and more especially, nurse, when they are +at all coquettish; but you country people do not know anything about +such things. They are coquettish through and through. That is the reason +she wished to look her prettiest. She was afraid of being thought ugly, +don't you understand? So I had to put on her _peignoir_, and tidy her +up, and arrange her hair just as I have done. + +LA BABIN + +Oh, these Parisians! It is necessary that they should have a hairdresser +even to the last gasp! [_A short silence_.] But will this gentleman of +hers come? + +MME. FLACHE + +I do not think so. Men are not overfond of obeying the calls of their +former mistresses at such times, and then, this lover of hers was +married to-day, poor fellow! + +LA BABIN + +Well, that is a joke. + +MME. FLACHE + +I should say so. + +LA BABIN + +Certainly, then, he won't come. In such a case would _you_ go to see a +man? + +MME. FLACHE + +Oh, if I loved him very much I should go. + +LA BABIN + +Even if you were marrying another the same day? + +MME. FLACHE + +Just the same. For such a combination of circumstances would pierce my +heart; would penetrate me with a strong emotion,--and, oh, I am so fond +of such emotions! + +LA BABIN + +Well, so far as I am concerned, I certainly would not go. I should be +too much afraid of the shock. + +MME. FLACHE + +But Doctor Pellerin asserts that the man will come. + +LA BABIN + +Do you know this physician well? + +MME. FLACHE + +Who, Doctor Pellerin? + +LA BABIN + +Yes; he has the air of a charming man of the world. + +MME. FLACHE + +Oh, yes; he is all that, but he is also a good physician. Then he is +such good company, and has such a smooth tongue. And you know he is not +physician to the Opera for nothing. + +LA BABIN + +That little puppy of a-- + +MME. FLACHE + +A puppy! You don't very often find puppies among men of his caliber, and +then,-oh, how he used to love the girls! Oh, oh! Although, for the +matter of that, there are many physicians who are like him. It was at +the Opera that I first met him. + +LA BABIN + +At the Opera! + +MME. FLACHE + +Yes, at the Opera. You know, I was a dancer there for eight years. Yes, +indeed, even I--just as you see me, a dancer at the Opera. + +LA BABIN + +You, Madame Flache! + +MME. FLACHE + +Yes, my mother was a midwife, and taught me the business at the same +time that she taught me dancing, because she always said it was well to +have two strings to your bow. Dancing, you see, is all very well, +provided you are not too ambitious of appearing on first nights, but, +unhappily, that was the case with me. I was as slender as a thread when +I was twenty, and very agile, but I grew fat and scant of breath, and +became rather heavy in my steps; so when my mother died, as I had my +diploma as a midwife, I took her apartment and her business, and I added +the title of “Midwife to the Opera,” for all their business comes to me. +They like me very much there. When I was dancing, they used to call me +Mademoiselle Flacchi the première. + +LA BABIN + +Then you have been married since then? + +MME. FLACHE + +No, but a woman in my profession should always assume the title of +Madame for the sake of its dignity. You know, it gives confidence. But, +how about you, nurse, from what place do you come? You know, you have +only just come here, and nobody consulted me about engaging you. + +LA BABIN + +I am from Yvetot. + +MME. FLACHE + +Is this your first engagement as a nurse? + +LA BABIN + +No, my third. I have had two daughters and a little boy. + +MME. FLACHE + +And your husband, is he a farmer or a gardener? + +LA BABIN [_Simply_] + +I am not married. + +MME. FLACHE [_laughing_] + +Not married, and with three children! Upon my word, let me compliment +you; you are indeed precocious. + +LA BABIN + +Don't talk about it; it was not my will. It is the good God who does +these things. One cannot prevent it. + +MME. FLACHE + +How simple you are! Now you will probably have a fourth child. + +LA BABIN + +That's very possible. + +MME. FLACHE + +Well, what does your lover do? What is his business? Or perhaps you have +more than one? + +LA BABIN [_with indignation_] + +There has never been more than one. I give you my word, upon my hope of +salvation. He is a lemonade-seller at Yvetot. + +MME. FLACHE + +Is he a handsome fellow? + +LA BABIN + +I believe you, indeed! He is handsome! [_Confidentially_.] If I tell you +all this, it is only because you are a midwife, and a midwife in such +affairs as this is like a priest in the confessional. But you, Madame +Flache, you, who have been a dancer at the Opera, you must also have +had, surely--little love affairs--little intrigues? + +MME. FLACHE [_evidently flattered, and in a dreamy tone_] + +Oh, yes, one or two! + +LA BABIN [_laughs_] + +And have you never had--this sort of accident? [_Points to the cradle_.] + +MME. FLACHE + +No. + +LA BABIN + +How did that come? + +MME. FLACHE [_rises and approaches the mantelpiece_] + +Probably because I was a midwife. + +LA BABIN + +Well, I know one in your profession who has had five. + +MME. FLACHE [_with contempt_] + +She evidently did not come from Paris. + +LA BABIN + +That's true; she came from Courbevoie. + +MUSOTTE [_in a feeble voice_] Is no one there? + +MME. FLACHE + +She is awakening. There, there! [_Folds up the screen which hides the +long steamer-chair_.] + +MUSOTTE + +Hasn't he come yet? + +MME. FLACHE + +No. + +MUSOTTE + +He will arrive too late--my God! My God! + +MME. FLACHE + +What an idea! He will come. + +MUSOTTE + +And my little darling--my child? + +MME. FLACHE + +He is sleeping like an angel. + +MUSOTTE [_after looking at herself in a hand-mirror_] + +I must not look like this when he comes. Oh, God! Bring my child--I want +to see him. + +MME. FLACHE + +But if I show him to you he will wake up, and who knows if he will go to +sleep again. + +MUSOTTE + +Bring the cradle here. [_A gesture of refusal from_ Mme Flache.] Yes, +yes! I insist, [Mme. Flache _and the nurse gently bring the cradle to +her_.] Nearer, nearer, so that I can see him well--the darling! My +child, my child! And I am going to leave him! Soon I shall disappear +into the unknown. Oh. God, what agony! + +MME. FLACHE + +Now don't go worrying yourself like that; you are not as ill as you +think. I have seen lots worse than you. Come, come! you are going to +recover. Take away the cradle, nurse. [_They put the cradle again in its +place; then to the nurse_.] That will do, that will do. Watch me. You +know very well that it is only I who can quiet it. [_Sits near the +cradle, and sings a lullaby while rocking it_.] + + “A little gray fowl + Came into the barn, + To lay a big egg + For the good boy that sleeps. + Go to sleep, go to sleep, + My little chicken! + Go to sleep, sleep, my chick!” + +LA BABIN [_stands near the end of the mantelpiece, drinks the sugared +water, and slips loaf sugar into her pocket; aside_] + +I must not forget the main thing. I have just seen in the kitchen the +remains of a leg of mutton, to which I should like to go and say a few +words. I am breaking in two with hunger just now. + +MME. FLACHE [_sings softly_] + + “A little black fowl + Came into the room, + To lay a big egg + For the good boy that sleeps. + Sleep, sleep, my little chicken, + Sleep, oh, sleep, my chick!” + +MUSOTTE [_from the long chair, after moaning several times_] + +Has he gone to sleep again? + +MME. FLACHE [_goes toward_ Musotte] + +Yes, Mademoiselle, just as if he were a little Jesus. Do you wish to +know what I think about him, this young man lying here? You will lead +him to the altar for his marriage. He is a jewel, like yourself, my +dear. + +MUSOTTE + +Do you really think him pretty? + +MME. FLACHE + +On the honor of a midwife, I have seldom brought into the world one so +pretty. It is a pleasure to know that one has brought to the light such +a little Cupid as he is. + +MUSOTTE + +And to think that in a few hours, perhaps, I shall see him no more; look +at him no more; love him no more! + +MME. FLACHE + +Oh, no, no! You are talking unreasonably. + +MUSOTTE + +Ah, I know it too well! I heard you talking with the nurse. I know that +the end is very near; this night, perhaps. Would the doctor have written +to Jean to come and see me on this evening--the evening of his +marriage--if I were not at the point of death? [_The bell rings_. +Musotte _utters a cry_.] Ah, there he is! it is he! Quick! quick! Oh, +God, how I suffer! [_Exit_ Mme. Flache C. Musotte _gazes after her. +Enter_ Dr. Pellerin, _in evening clothes_.] + + + + +SCENE II. + +MUSOTTE [_despairingly_] + +Ah! it is not he! + +PELLERIN [_approaches_ Musotte] + +Has he not come yet? + +MUSOTTE + +He will not come. + +DR. PELLERIN + +He will! I am certain of it; I know it. + +MUSOTTE + +No! + +DR. PELLERIN + +I swear it! [_Turns toward_ Mme. Flache.] Hasn't he answered the note +yet? + +MME. FLACHE + +No, Doctor. + +DR. PELLERIN + +Well, he will come. How is my patient? + +MME. FLACHE + +She has rested a little. + +MUSOTTE [_in an agitated voice_] + +All is over! I feel that I shall not rest any more until he comes, or +until I depart without having seen him. + +DR. PELLERIN + +He will come if you will go to sleep immediately and sleep until +to-morrow morning. + +MUSOTTE + +You would not have written to him to come this evening if I had been +able to wait until to-morrow morning. [_The bell rings_.] If that is not +he, I am lost--lost! [Mme. Flache _runs to open the door_. Musotte +_listens intently, and hears from below a man's voice; then murmurs +despairingly_.] It is not he! + +MME. FLACHE [_re-enters with a vial in her hand_] + +It is the medicine from the chemist. + +MUSOTTE [_agitated_] + +Oh, God! how horrible! He is not coming; what have I done? Doctor, show +me my child. I will see him once more. + +DR. PELLERIN + +But he sleeps, my little Musotte. + +MUSOTTE + +Well, he has plenty of time in the future for sleep. + +DR. PELLERIN + +Come, come, calm yourself. + +MUSOTTE + +If Jean does not come, who will take care of my child?--for it is Jean's +child, I swear to you. Do you believe me? Oh, how I loved him! + +DR. PELLERIN + +Yes, my dear little child, we believe you. But please be calm. + +MUSOTTE [_with increasing agitation_] + +Tell me, when you went away just now where did you go? + +DR. PELLERIN + +To see a patient. + +MUSOTTE + +That is not true. You went to see Jean, and he would not come with you, +or he would be here now. + +DR. PELLERIN + +On my word of honor, no. + +MUSOTTE + +Yes, I feel it. You have seen him, and you do not dare to tell me for +fear it would kill me. + +DR. PELLERIN + +Ah, the fever is coming back again. This must not go on. I don't wish +you to be delirious when he comes. [_Turns to_ Mme. Flache.] We must +give her a hypodermic injection. Give me the morphia. [Mme. Flache +_brings the needle and morphia, from the mantelpiece and gives it to_ +Dr. Pellerin.] + +MUSOTTE [_uncovers her own arm_] + +But for this relief, I do not know how I should have borne up during the +last few days. [Dr. Pellerin _administers the hypodermic_.] + +DR. PELLERIN + +Now, you must go to sleep; I forbid you to speak. I won't answer you, +and I tell you of a certainty that in a quarter of an hour Jean will be +here. [Musotte _stretches herself out obediently upon the couch and goes +to sleep_.] + +LA BABIN [_silently replaces the screen which hides_ Musotte] + +How she sleeps! What a benediction that drug is! But I don't want any of +it. It scares me; it is a devil's potion. [_Sits near the cradle and +reads a newspaper_.] + +MME. FLACHE [_in a low voice to_ Dr. Pellerin] + +Oh, the poor girl, what misery! + +DR. PELLERIN [_in the same tone_] + +Yes, she is a brave girl. It is some time since I first met her with +Jean Martinel, who gave her three years of complete happiness. She has a +pure and simple soul. + +MME. FLACHE + +Well, will this Monsieur Martinel come? + +DR. PELLERIN + +I think so. He is a man of feeling, but it is a difficult thing for him +to leave his wife and his people on such a day as this. + +MME. FLACHE + +It certainly is a most extraordinary case. A veritable _fiasco_. + +DR. PELLERIN + +It is, indeed. + +MME. FLACHE [_changes her tone_] + +Where have you been just now? You did not put on evening dress and a +white cravat to go and see a patient? + +DR. PELLERIN + +I went to see the first part of the Montargy ballet danced. + +MME. FLACHE [_interested, and leaning upon the edge of the table_] + +And was it good? Tell me. + +DR. PELLERIN [_sits_ L. _of table_] + +It was very well danced. + +MME. FLACHE + +The new directors do things in style, don't they? + +DR. PELLERIN + +Jeanne Merali and Gabrielle Poivrier are first class. + +MME. FLACHE + +Poivrier--the little Poivrier--is it possible! As to Merali I am not so +much astonished; although she is distinctly ugly, she has her good +points. And how about Mauri? + +DR. PELLERIN + +Oh, a marvel--an absolute marvel, who dances as no one else can. A human +bird with limbs for wings. It was absolute perfection. + +MME. FLACHE + +Are you in love with her? + +DR. PELLERIN + +Oh, no; merely an admirer. You know how I worship the dance. + +MME. FLACHE + +And the _danseuses_ also, at times. [_Lowering her eyes._] Come, have +you forgotten? + +DR. PELLERIN + +One can never forget artists of your worth, my dear. + +MME. FLACHE + +You are simply teasing me. + +DR. PELLERIN + +I only do you justice. You know that formerly, when I was a young +doctor, I had for you a very ardent passion which lasted six weeks. Tell +me, don't you regret the time of the grand _fête_? + +MME. FLACHE + +A little. But reason comes when one is young no longer, and I have +nothing to complain of. My business is very prosperous. + +DR. PELLERIN + +You are making money, then? They tell me that you are giving dainty +little dinners. + +MME. FLACHE + +I believe you, and I have a particularly good _chef_. Won't you give me +the pleasure of entertaining you at dinner one of these days, my dear +Doctor? + +DR. PELLERIN + +Very willingly, my dear. + +MME. FLACHE + +Shall I have any other physicians, or do you prefer to come alone? + +DR. PELLERIN + +Alone, if you please. I am not fond of a third party. [_The bell +rings._] + +MUSOTTE [_awakens_] + +Ah, some one rang, run and see. [_Exit_ Mme. Flache. _A short silence._] + +A VOICE [_without_] + +Madame Henriette Lévêque? + +MUSOTTE [_emitting an anguished cry_] + +Ah, it is he! There he is! [_Makes an effort to rise. Enter_ Jean +Martinel.] Jean! Jean! At last! [_Springs up and stretches her arms to +him._] + + + + +SCENE III. + +(_The same,--with_ Jean Martinel.) + +JEAN [_comes rapidly forward, kneels near the long steamer-chair, and +kisses_ Musotte's _hands_] + +My poor little Musotte! [_They begin to weep and dry their eyes; then +they remain silent and motionless. At last_ Jean _rises and holds up his +hand to_ Dr. Pellerin.] + +PELLERIN + +Did I do well? + +JEAN + +You did indeed, and I thank you. + +PELLERIN [_introduces them_] + +Madame Flache, the midwife--the nurse--[_indicates the cradle with a +grave gesture_] and there! + +JEAN [_approaches the cradle and lifts the little curtain, takes up the +child and kisses it on the mouth; then lays it down again_] + +He is a splendid boy! + +DR. PELLERIN + +A very pretty child. + +MME. FLACHE + +A superb morsel--one of my prettiest. + +JEAN [_in a low voice_] + +And Musotte, how is she? + +MUSOTTE [_who has heard him_] + +I,--I am almost lost. I know surely that all is over. [_To_ Jean.] Take +that little chair, dear, and seat yourself near me, and let us talk as +long as I am able to speak. I have so many things to say to you, for we +shall never be together any more. I am so glad to see you again that +nothing else now seems of any importance. + +JEAN [_approaching her_] Don't agitate yourself. Don't get excited. + +MUSOTTE + +How can I help being agitated at seeing you again? + +JEAN [_sits on the low chair, takes_ Musotte's _hand_] + +My poor Musotte, I cannot tell you what a shock it was to me when I +learned just now that you were so ill. + +MUSOTTE + +And on this day of all days! It must have shocked you greatly. + +JEAN + +What! Do you know of it then? + +MUSOTTE + +Yes, since I felt so ill, I kept myself informed about you every day, in +order that I might not pass away without having seen you and spoken to +you again, for I have so much to say to you. [_At a sign from_ Jean, +Mme. Flache, Pellerin, _and_ La Babin _exit_ R.] + + + + +SCENE IV. + +(Musotte _and_ Jean.) + +MUSOTTE + +Then you received the letter? + +JEAN + +Yes. + +MUSOTTE + +And you came immediately? + +JEAN + +Certainly. + +MUSOTTE + +Thanks--ah! thanks. I hesitated a long time before warning +you--hesitated even this morning, but I heard the midwife talking with +the nurse and learned that to-morrow perhaps it might be too late, so I +sent Doctor Pellerin to call you immediately. + +JEAN + +Why didn't you call me sooner? + +MUSOTTE + +I never thought that my illness would become so serious. I did not wish +to trouble your life. + +JEAN [_points to the cradle_] + +But that child! How is it that I was not told of this sooner? + +MUSOTTE + +You would never have known it, if his birth had not killed me. I would +have spared you this pain--this cloud upon your life. When you left me, +you gave me enough to live upon. Everything was over between us; and +besides, at any other moment than this, would you believe me if I said +to you: “This is your child?” + +JEAN + +Yes, I have never doubted you. + +MUSOTTE + +You are as good as ever, my Jean. No, no, I am not lying to you; he is +yours, that little one there. I swear it to you on my deathbed; I swear +it to you before God! + +JEAN + +I have already told you that I believed you. I have always believed you. + +MUSOTTE + +Listen, this is all that has happened. As soon as you left me, I became +very ill. I suffered so much that I thought I was going to die. The +doctor ordered a change of air. You remember, it was in the spring. I +went to Saint-Malo--to that old relative, of whom I have often talked to +you. + +JEAN + +Yes, yes. + +MUSOTTE + +It was in Saint-Malo, after some days, that I realized that you had left +me a pledge of your affection. My first desire was to tell you +everything, for I knew that you were an honest man--that you would have +recognized this child, perhaps even have given up your marriage; but I +would not have had you do that. All was over; was it not?--and it was +better that it should be so. I knew that I could never be your wife +[_smiles_], Musotte, me, Madame Martinel--oh, no! + +JEAN + +My poor, dear girl. How brutal and hard we men are, without thinking of +it and without wishing to be so! + +MUSOTTE + +Don't say that. I was not made for you. I was only a little model; and +you, you were a rising artist, and I never thought that you would belong +to me forever. [Jean _sheds tears_.] No, no, don't cry; you have nothing +to reproach yourself with. You have always been so good to me. It is +only God who has been cruel to me. + +JEAN + +Musotte! + +MUSOTTE + +Let me go on. I remained at Saint-Malo without revealing my condition. +Then I came back to Paris, and here some months afterward the little one +was born--the child! When I fully understood what had happened to me, I +experienced at first such fear; yes, such fear! Then I remembered that +he was bone of your bone, and flesh of your flesh; that you had given +him life, and that he was a pledge from you. But one is so stupid when +one knows nothing. One's ideas change just as one's moods change, and I +became contented all at once; contented with the thought that I would +bring him up, that he would grow to be a man, that he would call me +mother. [_Weeps._] Now, he will never call me mother. He will never put +his little arms around my neck, because I am going to leave him; because +I am going away--I don't know where; but there, where everybody goes. +Oh, God! My God! + +JEAN + +Calm yourself, my little Musotte. Would you be able to speak as you do +speak if you were as ill as you think you are? + +MUSOTTE + +You do not see that the fever is burning within me; that I am losing my +head, and don't know longer what I say. + +JEAN + +No, no; please calm yourself. + +MUSOTTE + +Pet me; pet me, Jean, and you will calm me. + +JEAN [_kisses her hair; then resumes_] + +There, there; don't speak any more for a minute or two. Let us remain +quietly here near each other. + +MUSOTTE + +But I must speak to you; I have so many things to say to you yet, and do +not know how to say them. My head is beyond my control. Oh, my God! how +shall I do it? [_Raises herself, looks around her and sees the cradle._] +Ah, yes, I know; I recollect, it is he, my child. Tell me, Jean, what +will you do with him? You know that I am an orphan, and when I am gone +he will be here all alone--alone in the world! Poor little thing! Listen, +Jean, my head is quite clear now. I shall understand very well what you +answer me now, and the peace of my closing moments depends upon it. I +have no one to leave the little one to but you. + +JEAN + +I promise you that I will take him, look after him, and bring him up. + +MUSOTTE + +As a father? + +JEAN + +As a father. + +MUSOTTE + +You have already seen him? + +JEAN + +Yes. + +MUSOTTE + +Go and look at him again. [Jean _goes over to the cradle._] + +JEAN + +He is pretty, isn't he? + +MUSOTTE + +Everybody says so. Look at him, the poor little darling, who has enjoyed +only a few days of life as yet. He belongs to us. You are his father; I +am his mother, but soon he will have a mother no more. [_In anguish._] +Promise me that he shall always have a father. + +JEAN [_goes over to her_] + +I promise it, my darling! + +MUSOTTE + +A true father, who will always love him well? + +JEAN I promise it. + +MUSOTTE + +You will be good--very good--to him? + +JEAN + +I swear it to you! + +MUSOTTE + +And then, there is something else--but I dare not-- + +JEAN + +Tell it to me. + +MUSOTTE + +Since I came back to Paris, I have sought to see you without being seen +by you, and I have seen you three times. Each time you were with +her--with your sweetheart, your wife, and with a gentleman--her father, +I think. Oh, how I looked at her! I asked myself: “Will she love him as +I have loved him? Will she make him happy? Is she good?” Tell me, do you +really believe she is very good? + +JEAN + +Yes, darling, I believe it. + +MUSOTTE + +You are very certain of it? + +JEAN + +Yes, indeed. + +MUSOTTE + +And I thought so, too, simply from seeing her pass by. She is so pretty! +I have been a little jealous, and I wept on coming back. But what are +you going to do now as between her and your son? + +JEAN + +I shall do my duty. + +MUSOTTE + +Your duty? Does that mean by her or by him? + +JEAN + +By him. + +MUSOTTE + +Listen, Jean: when I am no more, ask your wife from me, from the mouth +of a dead woman, to adopt him, this dear little morsel of humanity-to +love him as I would have loved him; to be a mother to him in my stead. +If she is tender and kind, she will consent. Tell her how you saw me +suffer--that my last prayer, my last supplication on earth was offered +up for her. Will you do this? + +JEAN + +I promise you that I will. + +MUSOTTE + +Ah! How good you are! Now I fear nothing; my poor little darling is +safe, and I am happy and calm. Ah, how calm I am! You didn't know, did +you, that I called him Jean, after you? That does not displease you, +does it? + +JEAN [_weeps_] + +No, no! + +MUSOTTE + +You weep--so you still love me a little, Jean? Ah, how I thank you for +this! But if I only could live; it must be possible. I feel so much +better since you came here, and since you have promised me all that I +have asked you. Give me your hand. At this moment I can recall all our +life together, and I am content--almost gay; in fact, I can laugh--see, +I can laugh, though I don't know why. [_Laughs._] + +JEAN + +Oh, calm yourself for my sake, dear little Musotte. + +MUSOTTE + +If you could only understand how recollections throng upon me. Do you +remember that I posed for your “Mendiante,” for your “Violet Seller,” + for your “Guilty Woman,” which won for you your first medal? And do you +remember the breakfast at Ledoyen's on Varnishing Day? There were more +than twenty-five at a table intended for ten. What follies we committed, +especially that little, little--what did he call himself--I mean that +little comic fellow, who was always making portraits which resembled no +one? Oh, yes, Tavernier! And you took me home with you to your studio, +where you had two great manikins which frightened me so, and I called to +you, and you came in to reassure me. Oh, how heavenly all that was! Do +you remember? [_Laughs again_.] Oh, if that life could only begin over +again! [_Cries suddenly_.] Ah, what pain! [_To_ Jean, _who is going for +the doctor_.] No, stay, stay! [_Silence. A sudden change comes over her +face_.] See, Jean, what glorious weather! If you like, we will take the +baby for a sail on a river steamboat; that will be so jolly! I love +those little steamboats; they are so pretty. They glide over the water +quickly and without noise. Now that I am your wife, I can assert +myself--I am armed. Darling, I never thought that you would marry me. +And look at our little one--how pretty he is, and how he grows! He is +called Jean after you. And I--I have my two little Jeans--mine--altogether +mine! You don't know how happy I am. And the little one walks to-day for +the first time! [_Laughs aloud, with her arms stretched out, pointing to +the child which she thinks is before her_.] + +JEAN [_weeps_] + +Musotte! Musotte! Don't you know me? + +MUSOTTE + +Indeed I know you! Am I not your wife? Kiss me, darling. Kiss me, my +little one. + +JEAN [_takes her in his arms, weeping and repeating_] + +Musotte! Musotte! [Musotte _rises upon her couch, and with a gesture to_ +Jean _points to the cradle, toward which he goes, nodding “Yes, yes,” + with his head. When_ Jean _reaches the cradle,_ Musotte, _who has raised +herself upon her hands, falls lifeless upon the long steamer-chair._ +Jean, _frightened, calls out_] Pellerin! Pellerin! + + + + +SCENE V. + +(_The same:_ Pellerin, Mme. Flache, _and_ La Babin, _enter quickly_ R.) + +PELLERIN [_who has gone swiftly to_ Musotte, _feels her pulse and +listens at the heart_] + +Her heart is not beating! Give me a mirror, Madame Flache. + +JEAN + +My God! [Mme. Flache _gives a hand-mirror to_ Pellerin, _who holds it +before the lips of_ Musotte, _Pause_.] + +PELLERIN [_in a low voice_] + +She is dead! + +JEAN [_takes the dead woman's hand and kisses it fondly, his voice +choked with emotion_] + +Farewell, my dear little Musotte! To think that a moment ago you were +speaking to me--a moment ago you were looking at me, you saw me, and +now--all is over! + +PELLERIN [_goes to_ Jean _and takes him by the shoulder_] + +Now, you must go at once. Go! You have nothing more to do here. Your +duty is over. + +JEAN [_rises_] + +I go. Farewell, poor little Musotte! + +PELLERIN + +I will take care of everything this evening. But the child, do you wish +me to find an asylum for him? + +JEAN + +Oh, no, I will take him. I have sworn it to that poor, dead darling. +Come and join me immediately at my house, and bring him with you. Then I +shall have another service to request of you. But how about Musotte, who +is going to remain with her? + +MME. FLACHE + +I, Monsieur. Have no anxiety; I am acquainted with all that must be +done. + +JEAN + +Thank you, Madame. [_Approaches the bed; closes_ Musotte's _eyes and +kisses her fondly and for a long time upon her forehead_.] Farewell, +Musotte, forever! [_Goes softly to the cradle, removes the veil, kisses +the child and speaks to it in a firm voice which at the same time is +full of tears_.] I shall see you again directly, my little Jean! + +[_Exit quickly_]. + + + + +ACT III. + + + + +SCENE I. + +(_Same setting as in_ Act I.) + +(Monsieur de Petitpré, Mme. de Ronchard, M. Martinel, _and_ Léon.) + +MME. DE RONCHARD [_walks about in an agitated manner_] + +Seven minutes to midnight! It is nearly two hours since Jean left us! + +LEON [_seated_ L.] + +But, my dear Aunt, just allow a half hour in the carriage for going and +a half hour for returning, and there remains just one hour for the +business he had to attend to. + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +Was it so very long, then--the business that called him hence? + +LEON + +Yes, my dear Aunt; and now, why worry yourself by counting the minutes? +Your agitation will change nothing in the end, and will not hasten +Jean's return by a single second, or make the hands of the clock move +more quickly. + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +How can you ask me not to worry when my mind is full of anxiety, when my +heart is beating, and I feel the tears rising into my eyes? + +LÉON + +But, my dear Aunt, you know very well you do not feel as badly as that. + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +Oh, you irritate me! + +MARTINEL [_seated near the table_] + +Don't torment yourself, Madame. True, the situation is a rather delicate +one, but it need not disquiet you or frighten us, if we know how to +bring to its consideration at this moment coolness and reason. + +LÉON + +Just so, my dear Aunt, Monsieur Martinel speaks truly. + +MME. DE RONCHARD [_crosses_ R.] + +You ought to be beaten, you two! You know everything, and won't tell +anything. How annoying men are! There is never any means of making them +tell a secret. + +MARTINEL + +Jean will come presently and will tell you everything. Have a little +patience. + +PETITPRÉ + +Yes; let us be calm. Let us talk of other things, or be silent, if we +can. + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +Be silent! That is about, the most difficult thing-- + +A SERVANT [_enters_ R.] + +A gentleman wishes to see M. Martinel. + +MARTINEL [_rises_.] + +Pardon me for a moment. [_To the servant._] Very well, I am coming. +[_Exit_ R.] + + + + +SCENE II. + +MME. DE RONCHARD [_approaches servant quickly_] + +Baptiste, Baptiste! Who is asking for M. Martinel? + +SERVANT + +I do not know, Madame. It was the hall porter who came upstairs. + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +Well, run now and look without showing yourself, and come back and tell +us at once. + +PETITPRÉ [_who has risen at the entrance of the servant_] + +No, I will permit no spying; let us wait. We shall not have to wait long +now. [_To the servant._] You may go. [_Exit servant._] + +MME. DE RONCHARD [_to_ Petitpré] + +I do not understand you at all. You are absolutely calm. One would think +that your daughter's happiness was nothing to you. For myself, I am +profoundly agitated. + +PETITPRÉ + +That will do no good. [_Sits near the table_ R.] Let us talk--talk +reasonably, now that we are a family party and Monsieur Martinel is +absent. + +MME. DE RONCHARD [_Sits_ R.] + +If that man would only go back to Havre! + +LÉON [_Sits_ L. _of table_] + +That would not change anything even if he could go back to Havre. + +PETITPRÉ + +For my part, I think-- + +MME. DE RONCHARD [_interrupts_] + +Do you wish to hear my opinion? Well, I think that they are preparing us +for some unpleasant surprise; that they wish to entrap us, as one might +say. + +PETITPRÉ + +But why? In whose interest? Jean Martinel is an honest man, and he loves +my child. Léon, whose judgment I admire, although he is my son-- + +LEON + +Thank you, father! + +PETITPRÉ + +Léon bears Jean as much affection as esteem. As to the uncle-- + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +Don't talk about them, I pray. It is this woman who is seeking to entrap +us. She has played some little comedy, and she chooses to-day above all +others for its _dénouement_. It is her stage climax; her masterpiece of +treachery. + +LÉON + +As in “The Ambigu.” + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +Do not laugh. I know these women. I have suffered enough at their hands. + +PETITPRÉ + +Oh, my poor Clarisse; if you really understood them, you would have held +your husband better than you did. + +MME. DE RONCHARD [_rises_] + +What do you mean by “understanding” them? Pardon me--to live with that +roisterer coming in upon me when and whence he pleased--I prefer my +broken life and my loneliness--with you! + +PETITPRÉ + +No doubt you are right from your point of view of a married woman; but +there are other points of view, perhaps less selfish and certainly +superior, such as that of family interest. + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +Of family interest, indeed? Do you mean to say that I was wrong from the +point of view of the family interest--you, a magistrate! + +PETITPRÉ + +My duties as a magistrate have made me very prudent, for I have seen +pass under my eyes many equivocal and terrible situations, which not +only agonized my conscience but gave me many cruel hours of indecision. +Man is often so little responsible and circumstances are often so +powerful. Our impenetrable nature is so capricious, our instincts are so +mysterious that we must be tolerant and even indulgent in the presence +of faults which are not really crimes, and which exhibit nothing vicious +or abandoned in the man himself. + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +So, then, to deceive one's wife is not deceitful, and you say such a +thing before your son? Truly, a pretty state of affairs! [_Crosses_ L.] + +LÉON + +Oh, I have my opinion also about that, my dear Aunt. + +PETITPRÉ [_rises_] + +It is not almost a crime,--it is one. But it is looked upon to-day as so +common a thing that one scarcely punishes it at all. It is punished by +divorce, which is a house of refuge for most men. The law prefers to +separate them with decency--timidly, rather than drag them apart as in +former times. + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +Your learned theories are revolting, and I wish-- + +LÉON [_rises_] + +Ah, here is Monsieur Martinel. + + + + +SCENE III. + +(_The same, and_ Monsieur Martinel.) + +MARTINEL [_with great emotion_] + +I come to fulfill an exceedingly difficult task. Jean, who has gone to +his own house, before daring to present himself here, has sent Doctor +Pellerin to me. I am commissioned by him to make you acquainted with the +sad position in which Jean finds himself,--in which we all find +ourselves. + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +Ah, ha! Now, I am going to learn something! + +MARTINEL + +By a letter which you will read presently, we have learned this evening, +in this house, of a new misfortune. A woman of whose existence you are +all aware was at the point of death. + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +Did I not predict that she would do just this thing? + +LÉON + +Let M. Martinel speak, my dear Aunt. + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +And now that this woman has seen him, how does she feel--his dying +patient? Better, without a doubt? + +MARTINEL [_quietly_] + +She died, Madame, died before his eyes. + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +Died this evening! Impossible! + +MARTINEL + +Nevertheless, it is so, Madame. + +LÉON [_aside_] + +Poor little Musotte! + +MARTINEL + +There is a serious thing to be considered here. This woman left a child, +and that child's father is Jean. + +MME. DE RONCHARD [_stupefied_] + +A child! + +MARTINEL [_to_ Petitpré] + +Read the physician's letter, Monsieur. [_Hands_ Petitpré _the letter, +and_ Petitpré _reads it_.] + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +He had a child and he has never confessed it; has never said anything +about it; has hidden it from us! What infamy! + +MARTINEL + +He would have told you in due time. + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +He would have told! That is altogether too strong--you are mocking us! + +LÉON + +But, my dear Aunt, let my father answer. I shall go and find Gilberte. +She will be dying of anxiety. We have no right to hide the truth from +her any longer. I am going to acquaint her with it. + +MME. DE RONCHARD [_accompanying him to the door_] + +You have a pleasant task, but you will not succeed in arranging matters. + +LÉON [_at door_ L.] + +In any case I shall not embroil them with each other as you would. + +[_Exit_ L.] + + + + +SCENE IV. + +(Petitpré, Martinel, _and_ Madame de Ronchard.) + +PETITPRÉ [_who has finished reading the letter_] + +Then, Martinel, you say that your nephew was ignorant of the situation +of this woman. + +MARTINEL + +Upon my honor. + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +It is incredible. + +MARTINEL + +I will answer you in a word. If my nephew had known of this situation, +would he have done what he has this evening? + +PETITPRÉ + +Explain yourself more clearly. + +MARTINEL + +It is very simple. If he had known sooner of the danger this woman was +in, do you think that he would have waited until the last moment, and +have chosen this very evening--this supreme moment--to say good-bye to +this poor, dying woman, and to reveal to you the existence of his +illegitimate son? No, men hide these unfortunate children when and how +they please. You know that as well as I, Monsieur. To run the risk of +throwing us all into such a state of emotion and threatening his own +future, as he has done, it would seem that Jean must be a madman, and he +is by no means that. Had he known sooner of this situation, do you think +that he would not have confided in me, and that I would have been so +stupid--yes, I--as not to avert this disaster? Why, I tell you it is as +clear as day. + +MME. DE RONCHARD [_agitated, walks to and fro rapidly_ L.] + +Clear as the day--clear as the day! + +MARTINEL + +Yes, indeed. If we had not received this piece of news as a bomb which +destroys the power of reflection, if we could have taken time to reason +the thing out, to make plans, we could have hidden everything from you, +and the devil would have been in it before you would have known +anything! Our fault has been that of being too sincere and too loyal. +Yet, I do not regret it; it is always better to act openly in life. + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +Permit me, Monsieur-- + +PETITPRÉ + +Silence, Clarisse. [_To_ Martinel.] Be it so, Monsieur. There is no +question of your honor or of your loyalty, which have been absolutely +patent in this unfortunate affair. I willingly admit that your nephew +knew nothing of the situation, but how about the child? What is there to +prove that it is Jean's? + +MARTINEL + +Jean alone can prove or disprove that. He believes it, and you know that +it is not to his interest to believe it. There is nothing very joyful +about such a complication--a poor, little foundling thrusting himself +upon one like a thunderbolt, without warning, and upon the very evening +of one's marriage. But Jean believes that the child is his, and I--and +all of us--must we not accept it as he has accepted it, as the child's +father has accepted it? Come, now. [_A short silence._] You ask me to +prove to you that this child belongs to Jean? + +MME. DE RONCHARD AND PETITPRÉ [_together_] + +Yes! + +MARTINEL + +Then first prove to me that it is not Jean's child. + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +You ask an impossibility. + +MARTINEL + +And so do you. The principal judge in the matter, look you, is my nephew +himself. We others can do nothing but accept his decision. + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +But meanwhile-- + +PETITPRÉ + +Silence, Clarisse. Monsieur Martinel is right. + +MME. DE RONCHARD [_ironically_] + +Say that again. + +MARTINEL + +There can be no better reason, Madame. [_To_ Petitpré.] I was quite sure +that you would understand me, Monsieur, for you are a man of sense. + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +And what am I, then? + +MARTINEL + +You are a woman of the world, Madame. + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +And it is exactly as a woman of the world that I protest, Monsieur. You +have a very pretty way of putting things, but none the less this is a +fact: Jean Martinel brings to his bride, as a nuptial present, on the +day of his marriage, an illegitimate child. Well, I ask you, woman of +the world or not, can she accept such a thing? + +PETITPRÉ + +My sister is in the right this time, Monsieur Martinel. + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +And by no means too soon. + +PETITPRÉ + +It is evident that a situation exists patent and undeniable, which +places us in an awkward dilemma. We have wedded our daughter to a man +supposedly free from all ties and all complications in life, and then +comes--what you know has come. The consequences should be endured by +him, not by us. We have been wounded and deceived in our confidence, and +the consent that we have given to this marriage we should certainly have +refused, had we known the actual circumstances. + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +We should have refused? I should say so--not only once, but twice. +Besides, this child, if Jean brings it into the house, will certainly be +a cause of trouble among us all. Consider, Gilberte will probably become +a mother in her turn, and then what jealousies, what rivalries, what +hatred, perhaps, will arise between this intruder and her own children. +This child will be a veritable apple of discord. + +MARTINEL + +Oh, no, no! he will not be a burden to anyone. Thanks to Jean's +liberality, this child's mother will have left him enough to live +comfortably, and, later, when he has become a man, he will travel, no +doubt. He will do as I have done; as nine-tenths of the human race do. + +PETITPRÉ + +Well, until then, who will take care of it? + +MARTINEL + +I, if it is agreeable. I am a free man, retired from business; and it +will give me something to do, something to distract me. I am ready to +take him with me at once, the poor little thing--[_looks at_ Mme. de +Ronchard] unless Madame, who is so fond of saving lost dogs-- + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +That child! I! Oh, that would be a piece of foolishness. + +MARTINEL + +Yet, Madame, if you care to have him, I will yield my right most +willingly. + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +But Monsieur, I never said-- + +MARTINEL + +Not as yet, true, but perhaps you will say it before very long, for I am +beginning to understand you. You are an assumed man-hater and nothing +else. You have been unhappy in your married life and that has embittered +you--just as milk may turn upon its surface, but at the bottom of the +churn there is butter of fine quality. + +MME. DE RONCHARD [_frowns_] + +What a comparison!--milk--butter--pshaw! how vulgar! + +PETITPRÉ + +But Clarisse-- + +MARTINEL + +Here is your daughter. + + + + +SCENE V. + +(_The same, and_ Gilberte _and_ Leon _who enter_ L.) + +PETITPRÉ [_approaches Gilberte_] + +Before seeing your husband again, if you decide to see him, it is +necessary that we should decide exactly what you are going to say to +him. + +GILBERTE [_greatly moved, sits_ L. _of table_] + +I knew it was some great misfortune. + +MARTINEL [_sits beside her_] + +Yes, my child; but there are two kinds of misfortune--those that come +from the faults of men, and those that spring purely from the hazards of +fate; that is to say, destiny. In the first case, the man is guilty; in +the second case, he is a victim. Do you understand me? + +GILBERTE + +Yes, Monsieur. + +MARTINEL + +A misfortune of which some one person is the victim can also wound +another person very cruelly. But will not the heart of this second +wounded and altogether innocent, person bestow a pardon upon the +involuntary author of her disaster? + +GILBERTE [_in a sad voice_] + +That depends upon the suffering which she undergoes. + +MARTINEL Meanwhile, you knew that before Jean loved you, before he +conceived the idea of marrying you, he had--an intrigue. You accepted +the fact as one which had nothing exceptional about it. + +GILBERTE + +I did accept it. + +MARTINEL + +And now your brother may tell you the rest. + +GILBERTE + +Yes, Monsieur. + +MARTINEL + +What shall I say to Jean? + +GILBERTE + +I am too much agitated to tell you yet. This woman, of whom I did not +think at all, whose very existence was a matter of indifference to +me--her death has frightened me. It seems that she has come between Jean +and me, and will always remain there. Everything that I have heard of +her prophesies this estrangement. But you knew her--this woman did you +not, Monsieur? + +MARTINEL + +Yes, Madame, and I can say nothing but good of her. Your brother and I +have always looked upon her as irreproachable in her fidelity to Jean. +She loved him with a pure, devoted, absolute, and lasting affection. I +speak as a man who has deplored deeply this intrigue, for I look upon +myself as a father to Jean, but we must try to be just to everyone. + +GILBERTE + +And did Jean love her very much, too? + +MARTINEL + +Oh, yes, certainly he did, but his love began to wane. Between them +there was too much of a moral and social distance. He lived with her, +however, drawn to her by the knowledge of the deep and tender affection +which she bestowed upon him. + +GILBERTE [_gravely_] + +And Jean went to see her die? + +MARTINEL + +He had just time to say farewell to her. + +GILBERTE [_to herself_] + +If I could only tell what passed between them at that moment! Ah, this +wretched death is worse for me than if she were alive! + +MME. DE RONCHARD [_rises_ R. _and goes up stage_] + +I really do not understand you, my dear. The woman has died--so much the +better for you. May God deliver you from all such! + +GILBERTE + +No, my dear Aunt; the feeling I have just now is so painful that I would +sooner know her to be far away than to know her dead. + +PETITPRÉ [_comes down_] + +Yes, I admit that is the sentiment of a woman moved by a horrible +catastrophe; but there is one grave complication in the matter--that of +the child. Whatever may be done with it, he will none the less be the +son of my son-in-law and a menace to us all. + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +And a subject for ridicule. See what the world will say of us in a +little while. + +LÉON + +Leave the world to itself, my dear Aunt, and let us occupy ourselves +with our own business. [_Goes to Gilberte_.] Now, Gilberte, is it the +idea of the child that moves you so deeply? + +GILBERTE + +Oh, no,--the poor little darling! + +PETITPRÉ + +Such is the foolishness of women who know nothing of life. + +LÉON + +Well, father, why, if we have so many different views,--according as we +are spectators or actors in the course of events,--why is there so much +difference between the life of the imagination and the actual life; +between that which one ought to do; that which you would that others +should do, and that which you do yourself. Yes, what has happened is +very painful; but the surprise of the event, its coincidence with the +nuptial day makes it still more painful. We magnify--everything in our +emotion, when it is ourselves that misfortune touches. Suppose, for a +moment, that you had read this in your daily newspaper-- + +MME. DE RONCHARD [_seated_ L. _of table, indignantly_] + +In my daily newspaper! + +LÉON + +Or in a romance. What emotion we should feel; what tears we should shed! +How your sympathy would quickly go out to the poor little child whose +birth was attained at the cost of his mother's life! How Jean would go +up in your esteem; how frank, how loyal, how stanch in his fealty you +would consider him; while, on the other hand, if he had deserted the +dying woman, and had spirited away the little one into some distant +village, you would not have had enough scorn for him, or enough insults +for him. You would look upon him as a being without heart and without +fear; and, you, my dear Aunt, thinking of the innumerable little bad +dogs who owe you their lives, you would cry out with forcible gestures: +“What a miserable scoundrel!” + +MARTINEL [_seated_ L.] + +That's perfectly true. + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +Dogs are worth more than men. + +LÉON + +Little children are not men, my dear Aunt. They have not had time to +become bad. + +PETITPRÉ + +All that is very ingenious, Leon, and your special pleading is +magnificent. + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +Yes, if you would only plead like that at the Palais. + +PETITPRÉ + +But this has nothing to do with a romance or with imaginary personages. +We have married Gilberte to a young man in the ordinary conditions of +life. + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +Without enthusiasm. + +PETITPRÉ + +Without enthusiasm, it is true, but nevertheless they are married, just +the same. Now, on the evening of his nuptials, he brings us a present--I +must say I do not care for a present which bawls. + +LÉON + +What does that prove, unless it is that your son-in-law is a brave man? +What he has just done--risked his happiness in order to accomplish his +duty--does it not say better than anything else could, how capable of +devotion he is? + +MARTINEL + +Clear as the day. + +MME. DE RONCHARD [_aside_] + +And this man from Havre admires him! + +PETITPRÉ + +Then you maintain that Gilberte, on the day, of her entry upon married +life, should become the adopted mother of the son of her husband's +mistress? + +LÉON + +Exactly; just as I maintain all that is honorable and disinterested. And +you would think as I do if the thing did not concern your daughter. + +PETITPRÉ + +No; it is an inexcusable situation. + +LÉON + +Well, then, what do you propose to do? + +PETITPRÉ + +Well, nothing less than a divorce. The scandal of this night is +sufficient. + +MME. DE RONCHARD [_rises_] + +Gilberte divorced! You don't dream of that, do you? Have all our friends +closing their doors on her, the greater part of her relatives lost to +her! Divorced! Come, come! in spite of your new law, that has not yet +come into our custom and shall not come in so soon. Religion forbids it; +the world accepts it only under protest; and when you have against you +both religion and the world-- + +PETITPRÉ + +But statistics prove-- + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +Pshaw! Statistics! You can make them say what you wish. No, no divorce +for Gilberte. [_In a soft, low voice_.] Simply a legal separation--that +is admissible, at least, and it is good form. Let them separate. I am +separated--all fashionable people separate, and everything goes all +right, but as to divorce-- + +LÉON [_seriously_] + +It seems to me that only one person has a right to speak in this matter, +and we are forgetting her too long. [_Turns to Gilberte_.] You have +heard everything, Gilberte; you are mistress of your own judgment and of +your decision. Upon a word from you depend either pardon or rupture. My +father has made his argument. What does your heart say? [_Gilberte tries +to speak, but stops and breaks down_.] Think always that in refusing to +pardon Jean you wound me, and if I see you unhappy from your +determination to say no, I shall suffer exceedingly. Monsieur Martinel +asks from you at once an answer for Jean. Let us do better. I will go +and find him. It is from your lips; it is, above all, in your eyes, that +he will learn his fate. [_Brings her gently to the front of the stage_.] +My little sister, my. dear little sister, don't be too proud; don't be +too haughty! Listen to that which your chagrin murmurs in your soul. +Listen well, but do not mistake it for pride. + +GILBERTE + +But I have no pride. I do not know how I feel. I am ill. My joy has been +blighted, and it poisons me. + +LÉON + +Take care! It takes so little in such moments as these to make wounds +which are incurable. + +GILBERTE + +No, no! I am too much distressed. Perhaps I shall be hard, for I am +afraid of him and of myself. I am afraid of breaking off everything, or +of yielding everything. + +LÉON + +I am going to find Jean. + +GILBERTE [_resolutely_] + +No, I do not wish to see him. I forbid it! + +LÉON + +Let me tell you something, my little Gilberte: You are less intelligent +than I thought. + +GILBERTE + +Why? + +LÉON + +Because in such moments as these it is necessary to say yes or no at +once. [_Jean appears at door_ R.] + + + + +SCENE VI. + +(_The same, and_ Jean Martinel _standing at door_ R.) + +GILBERTE [_with a stifled cry_] + +It is he! + +LÉON [_goes up to_ Jean _and taking him by the hand_] + +Welcome! + +JEAN + +I am like a prisoner awaiting the decision of his judges--whether it be +acquittal or death. The moments through which I have just passed I shall +never forget. + +LÉON + +Your uncle and I have said all that we had to say. Now speak for +yourself. + +JEAN + +I do not know how. It must be to my wife alone. I dare not speak before +you all. I ask but a moment. After that I go, and I shall leave the +house if my wife's attitude indicates that I ought. I shall do exactly +what she would have me. I shall become that which she may order. But I +must hear from her _own_ lips her decision as to my life. [_To_ +Gilberte.] You cannot refuse me that, Madame. It is the only prayer that +I shall ever make to you, I swear, if this request to you remains +ungranted. [_They stand face to face and look at each other_.] + +GILBERTE + +No, I cannot refuse you. Father, Aunt, please leave me alone for a few +minutes with Monsieur Martinel. You can see that I am perfectly calm. + +PETITPRÉ + +But--but-- + +JEAN [_determinedly to_ M. Petitpré] + +Monsieur, I shall not gainsay your will in anything. I shall do nothing +without your approval. I have not returned here to contest your +authority or to speak of rights; but I respectfully ask permission to +remain alone a few minutes with--my wife! Consider that this is perhaps +our last interview and that our future depends upon it. + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +It is solely the future of Gilberte which concerns me. + +JEAN [_to_ Mme. de Ronchard] + +I appeal simply to your heart, Madame; your heart, which has suffered. +Do not forget that your irritation and your bitterness against me come +from the misfortune that another man has inflicted upon you. Your life +has been broken by him. Do not wish the same for me. You have been +unhappy; married scarcely a year. [_Points to_ Gilberte.] Will you say +that she shall be married scarcely a day, and that later she shall talk +of her broken life--ceaselessly guarding in her mind the memory of this +evening's disaster? [_At a movement of_ Mme. de Ronchard.] I know you to +be kind, although you deny it, and I promise you, Madame, that if I +remain Gilberte's husband, I shall love you as a son, as a son worthy of +you. + +MME. DE RONCHARD [_very much moved_] + +A son! He has stirred me deeply! [_Whispers to_ Petitpré.] Come away, +let us leave them alone. [_Embraces_ Gilberte.] + +PETITPRÉ [_to_ Jean] + +Well, so be it, Monsieur. [_Rises and exit_ C., _offering his arm to_ +Mme. de Ronchard.] + +MARTINEL [_to_ Léon] + +They are going to talk with that [_touches his heart_]; it is the only +true eloquence. + +[_Exit with_ Léon C.] + + + + +SCENE VII. + + +(Gilberte and Jean.) + +JEAN + +You know all, do you not? + +GILBERTE + +Yes. And I have been deeply wounded. + +JEAN + +I hope you do not accuse me of lying or of any other dissimulation. + +GILBERTE + +Oh, no! + +JEAN + +Do you blame me for having left you this evening? + + +GILBERTE + +I blame no one who does his duty. + +JEAN + +You did not know this woman--and she is dead. + +GILBERTE + +It is just because she is dead that she troubles me thus. + +JEAN + +Impossible; you must have another reason. [_With hesitation._] The +child? + +GILBERTE [_quickly_] + +No, no! don't deceive yourself. The poor little darling! it is not his +fault. No, I suffer from something which is peculiar to myself, which +can come only from me, and which I cannot confess to you. It is a sorrow +deep in my heart, so keen, when I felt it spring to birth under the +words of my brother and your uncle, that, should I ever experience it +again when living with you as your wife, I should never be able to +dispel it. + +JEAN + +What is it? + +GILBERTE + +I cannot tell it. [_Sits_ L.] + +JEAN [_stands_] + +Listen to me. It is necessary that at this moment there should not be +between us the shadow of a misunderstanding. All our life depends upon +it. You are my wife, but I admit that you are absolutely free after what +has happened. I will do as you wish. I am ready to agree to everything +you desire, even to a divorce if you demand it. But what will happen to +me after that I do not know, for I love you so that the thought of +losing you after winning you will throw me mercilessly into some +desperate resolve. [_Sees_ Gilberte _moved._] I do not seek to soften +you, to move you--I simply tell you the naked truth. I feel, and I have +felt during the whole night, through all the shocks and horrible +emotions of the drama that has just been enacted, that you hold for me +the keenest wound. If you banish me now, I am a lost man. + +GILBERTE [_much moved_] + +Do you really love me as much as that? + +JEAN + +With a love that I feel is ineffaceable. + +GILBERTE + +Did you love her? + +JEAN + +I did indeed love her. I experienced a tender attachment for a gentle +and devoted girl. [_In a low voice, with passion._] Listen: that which I +am going to tell you is unworthy, perhaps infamous, but I am only a +human being, feeble as anyone else. Well, just now, in the presence of +this poor, dying girl, my eyes were filled with tears and my sobs choked +me--all my being vibrated with sorrow; but at the bottom of my soul, in +the depths of my being, I thought only of you. + +GILBERTE [_rises quickly_] + +Do you mean that? + +JEAN [_simply_] + +I cannot lie to you. + +GILBERTE + +Well, do you know what made me suffer just now when my brother told me +of this intrigue and death? I can tell it to you now. I was jealous! It +was unworthy of me, wasn't it? Jealous of this poor, dead woman! But he +spoke so well of her as to move me, and I felt that she loved you so +much that you might find me perhaps indifferent and cold after her, and +that hurt me so! I had so much fear of experiencing that that I thought +of renouncing you. + +JEAN + +And now?--Gilberte! Gilberte! + +GILBERTE [_extends her hands_] + +I am here, Jean! take me! + +JEAN + +Ah, how grateful I am. [_Kisses her hands; then immediately after, with +emotion._] But here another anguish seizes me. I have promised this poor +woman to take and cherish this child in my own home. [Gilberte _makes a +movement_.] That is not all. Do you know what her last thought, her last +prayer was? She entreated me to commend the child to you. + +GILBERTE + +To me! + +JEAN + +To you, Gilberte. + +GILBERTE [_profoundly moved_] + +She did this, the poor woman? Did she believe that I would take-- + +JEAN + +She hoped it, and in that hope her death was made easier. + +GILBERTE [_in exalted mood, crosses_ R.] + +Yes, I will take it! where is it? + +JEAN + +At my house. + +GILBERTE + +At your house? You must go to it immediately. + +JEAN + +What! leave you now, at this moment? + +GILBERTE + +We will go together, since I was to have accompanied you to your house +this evening. + +JEAN [_joyously_] + +Oh, Gilberte! But your father will not let us go. + +GILBERTE + +Well, do you know what we must do, since my packing is finished, and my +maid awaits me at your house? You must carry me off. + +JEAN + +Carry you off? + +GILBERTE + +Give me my cloak and let us go. All can be explained tomorrow. [_Shows +the cloak that she had left upon the chair in the first act._] My cloak, +please. + +JEAN [_picks up the cloak quickly and throws it over her shoulders_] + +You are the most adorable creature! [Gilberte _takes his arm and they go +toward door_ R.] + + + + +SCENE VIII. + +(_Enter_ Mme. de Ronchard, M. Petitpré, M. Martinel, _and_ Léon C.) + +MME. DE RONCHARD + +Well, what are they doing? Are they going away now? + +PETITPRÉ + +Why, what does it mean? + +GILBERTE + +Yes; father, I am going away. I am going with my husband; but I shall be +here to-morrow to ask pardon for this hurried flight, and to explain to +you the reason for it. + +PETITPRÉ + +Were you going without saying good-bye to us--without embracing us? + +GILBERTE + +Yes, in order to avoid more discussions. + +LÉON + +She is right. Let them go. + +GILBERTE [_throws herself upon_ Petitpré's _neck_] + +Till to-morrow, father; till to-morrow, my dear Aunt. Good night, all; I +have had enough of emotion and fatigue. + +MME. DE RONCHARD [_goes to_ Gilberte _and embraces her_] + +Yes, run along, darling--there is a little one over there who waits for +a mother! + +_Curtain._ + + + + + +THE LANCER'S WIFE AND OTHER TALES + + + + +THE LANCER'S WIFE + + +It was after Bourbaki's defeat in the east of France. The army, broken +up, decimated and worn out, had been obliged to retreat into +Switzerland, after that terrible campaign. It was only the short +duration of the struggle that saved a hundred and fifty thousand men +from certain death. Hunger, the terrible cold, and forced marches in the +snow without boots, over bad mountainous roads, had caused the +_francs-tireurs_ especially the greatest suffering, for we were without +tents and almost without food, always in front when we were marching +toward Belfort, and in the rear when returning by the Jura. Of our +brigade, that had numbered twelve hundred men on the first of January, +there remained only twenty-two pale, thin, ragged wretches, when at +length we succeeded in reaching Swiss territory. + +There we were safe and could rest. Everybody knows what sympathy was +shown to the unfortunate French army, and how well it was cared for. We +all gained fresh life, and those who had been rich and happy before the +war declared that they had never experienced a greater feeling of +comfort than they did then. Just think. We actually had something to eat +every day, and could sleep every night. + +Meanwhile, the war continued in the east of France, which had been +excluded from the armistice. Besançon still kept the enemy in check, and +the latter had their revenge by ravaging the Comte Franché. Sometimes we +heard that they had approached quite close to the frontier, and we saw +Swiss troops, who were to form a line of observation between us and the +Germans, set out on their march. + +But this hurt our pride, and as we regained health and strength the +longing for fighting laid hold of us. It was disgraceful and irritating +to know that within two or three leagues of us the Germans were +victorious and insolent, to feel that we were protected by our +captivity, and to feel that on that account we were powerless against +them. + +One day, our captain took five or six of us aside, and spoke to us about +it, long and earnestly. He was a fine fellow, that captain. He had been +a sub-lieutenant in the Zouaves, was tall and thin and as hard as steel, +and during the whole campaign had given a great deal of trouble to the +Germans. He fretted in inactivity and could not accustom himself to the +idea of being a prisoner and of doing nothing. + +“Confound it!” he said to us, “does it not pain you to know that there +are a lot of uhlans within two hours of us? Does it not almost drive you +mad to know that those beggarly wretches are walking about as masters in +our mountains, where six determined men might kill a whole troop any +day? I cannot endure it any longer, and I must go there.” + +“But how can you manage it, Captain?” + +“How? It is not very difficult! Just as if we had not done a thing or +two within the last six months, and got out of woods that were guarded +by men very different from the Swiss. The day that you wish to cross +over into France, I will undertake to get you there.” + +“That may be; but what shall we do in France without any arms?” + +“Without arms? We will get them over yonder, by Jove!” + +“You are forgetting the treaty,” another soldier said; “we shall run the +risk of doing the Swiss an injury, if Manteuffel learns that they have +allowed prisoners to return to France.” + +“Come,” said the captain, “those are all poor reasons. I mean to go and +kill some Prussians; that is all I care about. If you do not wish to do +as I do, well and good; only say so at once. I can quite well go by +myself; I do not require anybody's company.” + +Naturally we all protested, and as it was quite impossible to make the +captain alter his mind, we felt obliged to promise to go with him. We +liked him too much to leave him in the lurch, since he had never failed +us in any extremity; and so the expedition was decided on. + + + + +II. + + +The captain had a plan of his own, a plan he had been cogitating over +for some time. A man in that part of the country, whom he knew, was +going to lend him a cart, and six suits of peasants' clothes. We could +hide under some straw at the bottom of the wagon, which would be loaded +with Gruyère cheese. This cheese he was supposed to be going to sell in +France. The captain told the sentinels that he was taking two friends +with him to protect his goods, in case anyone should try to rob him, +which did not seem an extraordinary precaution. A Swiss officer seemed +to look at the wagon in a knowing manner, but that was in order to +impress his soldiers. In a word, neither officers nor men made it out. + +“Get on,” the captain said to the horses, as he cracked his whip, while +our men quietly smoked their pipes. I was half suffocated in my box, +which only admitted the air through some holes in front, while at the +same time I was nearly frozen, for it was terribly cold. + +“Get on,” the captain said again, and the wagon loaded with Gruyère +cheese entered France. + +The Prussian lines were very badly guarded, as the enemy trusted to the +watchfulness of the Swiss. The sergeant spoke North German, while our +captain spoke the bad German of the “Four Cantons”; so they could not +understand each other. The sergeant, however, pretended to be very +intelligent, and in order to make us believe that he understood us, they +allowed us to continue our journey, and after traveling for seven hours, +being continually stopped in the same manner, we arrived at a small +village of the Jura, in ruins, at nightfall. + +What were we going to do? Our only arms were the captain's whip, our +uniforms, the peasants' blouses, and our food the Gruyère cheese. Our +sole riches consisted in our ammunition, packets of cartridges which we +had stowed away inside some of the huge cheeses. We had about a thousand +of them, just two hundred each; but then we wanted rifles, and they must +be _chassepots_; luckily, however, the captain was a bold man of an +inventive mind, and this was the plan that he hit upon: + +While three of us remained hidden in a cellar in the abandoned village, +he continued his journey as far as Besançon with the empty wagon and one +man. The town was invested, but one can always make one's way into a +town among the hills by crossing the table-land till within about ten +miles of the walls, and then by following paths and ravines on foot. +They left their wagon at Omans, among the Germans, and escaped out of it +at night on foot, so as to gain the heights which border the river +Doubs; the next day they entered Besançon, where there were plenty of +_chassepots_. There were nearly forty thousand of them left in the +arsenal, and General Roland, a brave marine, laughed at the captain's +daring project, but let him have six rifles and wished him “good luck.” + There he also found his wife, who had been through all the war with us +before the campaign in the east, and who had been only prevented by +illness from continuing with Bourbaki's army. She had recovered, +however, in spite of the cold, which was growing more and more intense, +and in spite of the numberless privations that awaited her, she insisted +on accompanying her husband. He was obliged to give way to her, and all +three, the captain, his wife, and our comrade, started on their +expedition. + +Going was nothing in comparison to returning. They were obliged to +travel by night, so as to avoid meeting anybody, as the possession of +six rifles would have made them liable to suspicion. But in spite of +everything, a week after leaving us, the captain and his “two men” were +back with us again. The campaign was about to begin. + + + + +III. + + +The first night of his arrival, the captain began it himself. Under the +pretext of examining the country round, he went along the highroad. I +must tell you that the little village which served as our fortress was a +small collection of poor, badly built houses, which had been deserted +long before. It lay on a steep slope, which terminated in a wooded +plain. The country people sold wood; they sent it down the ravines, +which are called _coulées_ locally, and which led down to the plain, and +there they stacked it into piles, which were sold thrice a year to the +wood merchants. The spot where this market was held was indicated by two +small houses by the side of the highroad, which served for +public-houses. The captain had gone down there by one of these +_coulées_. + +He had been gone about half an hour, and we were on the lookout at the +top of the ravine, when we heard a shot. The captain had ordered us not +to stir, and only to come to him when we heard him blow his trumpet. It +was made of a goat's horn, and could be heard a league off, but it gave +no sound, and in spite of our cruel anxiety, we were obliged to wait in +silence, with our rifles by our side. + +To go down these _coulées_ is easy, you need only let yourself glide +down; but it is more difficult to get up again. You have to scramble up +by catching hold of the hanging branches of the trees, and sometimes on +all fours, by sheer strength. A whole mortal hour passed, and still the +captain did not come, nothing moved in the brushwood. The captain's wife +began to grow impatient; what could he be doing? Why did he not call us? +Did the shot that we had heard proceed from an enemy, and had he killed +or wounded our leader, her husband? They did not know what to think, but +I myself fancied that either he was dead or that his enterprise was +successful. I was merely anxious and curious to know which. + +Suddenly, we heard the sound of his trumpet, and were much surprised +that instead of coming from below, as we had expected, it came from the +village behind us. What did that mean? It was a mystery to us, but the +same idea struck us all, that he had been killed, and that the Prussians +were blowing the trumpet to draw us into an ambush. We therefore +returned to the cottage, keeping a careful lookout, with our fingers on +the trigger and hiding under the branches. But his wife, in spite of our +entreaties, rushed on, leaping like a tigress. She thought that she had +to avenge her husband, and had fixed the bayonet to her rifle. We lost +sight of her at the moment that we heard the trumpet again, and a few +moments later we heard her calling out to us: + +“Come on! come on! he is alive! it is he!” + +We hastened on, and saw the captain smoking his pipe at the entrance of +the village, but strangely enough he was on horseback. + +“Ah!” said he to us, “you see that there is something to be done here. +Here I am on horseback already; I knocked over a uhlan yonder, and took +his horse; I suppose they were guarding the wood, but it was by drinking +and swilling in clover. One of them, the sentry at the door, had not +time to see me before I gave him a sugarplum in his stomach, and then, +before the others could come out, I jumped on to the horse and was off +like a shot. Eight or ten of them followed me, I think, but I took the +crossroads through the wood; I have got scratched and torn a bit, but +here I am. And now, my good fellows, attention, and take care! Those +brigands will not rest until they have caught us, and we must receive +them with rifle bullets. Come along; let us take up our posts!” + +We set out. One of us took up his position a good way from the village +of the crossroads; I was posted at the entrance of the main street, +where the road from the level country enters the village, while the two +others, with the captain and his wife, took up positions in the middle +of the village, near the church, whose tower served for an observatory +and citadel. + +We had not been in our places long before we heard a shot followed by +another; then two, then three. The first was evidently a +_chassepot_,--one recognized it by the sharp report, which sounds like +the crack of a whip,--while the other three came from the lancers' +carbines. + +The captain was furious. He had given orders to the outpost to let the +enemy pass, and merely to follow them at a distance if they marched +toward the village, and to join me when they had gone well between the +houses. Then they were to appear suddenly, take the patrol between two +fires, and not allow a single man to escape, for posted as we were, the +six of us could have hemmed in ten Prussians, if needful. + +“That confounded Piédelot has roused them,” the captain said, “and they +will not venture to come on blindfold any longer. And then I am quite +sure that he has managed to get wounded himself somehow or other, for we +hear nothing of him. It serves him right; why did he not obey orders?” + And then, after a moment, he grumbled in his beard: “After all, I am +sorry for the poor fellow; he is so brave and shoots so well!” + +The captain was right in his conjectures. We waited until evening, +without seeing the uhlans; they had retreated after the first attack, +but unfortunately we had not seen Piédelot either. Was he dead or a +prisoner? When night came the captain proposed that we should go out and +look for him, and so the three of us started. At the crossroads we found +a broken rifle and some blood, while the ground was trampled down. But +we did not find either a wounded man or a dead body, although we +searched every thicket. At midnight we returned without having +discovered anything of our unfortunate comrade. + +“It is very strange,” the captain growled. “They must have killed him +and thrown him into the bushes somewhere; they cannot possibly have +taken him prisoner, as he would have called out for help. I cannot +understand it all.” Just as he said that, bright, red flames shot up in +the direction of the inn on the highroad, which illuminated the sky. + +“Scoundrels! cowards!” shouted the captain. “I will bet that they have +set fire to the two houses in the market-place, in order to have their +revenge, and then they will scuttle off without saying a word. They will +be satisfied with having killed a man and setting fire to two houses. +All right. It shall not pass over like that. We must go for them; they +will not like to leave their illuminations in order to fight.” + +“It would be a great stroke of luck if we could set Piédelot free at the +same time,” said some one. + +The five of us set off, full of rage and hope. In twenty minutes we had +got to the bottom of the _couleé_, and had not yet seen anyone when +within a hundred yards of the inn. The fire was behind the house, and so +all that we saw of it was the reflection above the roof. However, we +were walking rather slowly, as we were afraid of a trap, when suddenly +we heard Piédelot's well-known voice. It had a strange sound, however, +for it was at the same time dull and vibrant, stifled and clear, as if +he was calling out as loud as he could with a gag in his mouth. He +seemed to be hoarse and panting, and the unlucky fellow kept exclaiming: +“Help! Help!” + +We sent all thoughts of prudence to the devil and in two bounds were at +the back of the inn, where a terrible sight met our eyes. + + + + + +IV. + + +Piédelot was being burned alive. He was writhing in the middle of a heap +of fagots, against a stake to which they had fastened him, and the +flames were licking him with their sharp tongues. When he saw us, his +tongue seemed to stick in his throat, he drooped his head, and seemed as +if he were going to die. It was only the affair of a moment to upset the +burning pile, to scatter the embers, and to cut the ropes that fastened +him. + +Poor fellow! In what a terrible state we found him. The evening before +he had had his left arm broken, and it seemed as if he had been badly +beaten since then, for his whole body was covered with wounds, bruises, +and blood. The flames had also begun their work on him, and he had two +large burns, one on his loins, and the other on his right thigh, and his +beard and his hair were scorched. Poor Piédelot! + +Nobody knows the terrible rage we felt at this sight! We would have +rushed headlong at a hundred thousand Prussians. Our thirst for +vengeance was intense; but the cowards had run away, leaving their crime +behind them. Where could we find them now? Meanwhile, however, the +captain's wife was looking after Piédelot, and dressing his wounds as +best she could, while the captain himself shook hands with him +excitedly. In a few minutes he came to himself. + +“Good morning, Captain, good morning, all of you,” he said. “Ah! the +scoundrels, the wretches! Why, twenty of them came to surprise us.” + +“Twenty, do you say?” + +“Yes, there was a whole band of them, and that is why I disobeyed +orders, Captain, and fired on them, for they would have killed you all. +So I preferred to stop them. That frightened them, and they did not +venture to go further than the crossroads. They were such cowards. Four +of them shot at me at twenty yards, as if I had been a target, and then +they slashed me with their swords. My arm was broken, so that I could +only use my bayonet with one hand.” + +“But why did you not call for help?” + +“I took good care not to do that, for you would all have come, and you +would neither have been able to defend me nor yourselves, being only +five against twenty.” + +“You know that we should not have allowed you to have been taken, poor +old fellow.” + +“I preferred to die by myself, don't you see! I did not want to bring +you there, for it would have been a mere ambush.” + +“Well, we will not talk about it any more. Do you feel rather easier?” + +“No, I am suffocating. I know that I cannot live much longer. The +brutes! They tied me to a tree, and beat me till I was half dead, and +then they shook my broken arm, but I did not make a sound. I would +rather have bitten my tongue out than have called out before them. Now I +can say what I am suffering and shed tears; it does one good. Thank you, +my kind friends.” + +“Poor Piédelot! But we will avenge you, you may be sure!” + +“Yes, yes, I want you to do that. Especially, there is a woman among +them, who passes as the wife of the lancer whom the captain killed +yesterday. She is dressed like a lancer, and it was she who tortured me +the most yesterday, and suggested burning me. In fact it was she who set +fire to the wood. Oh! the wretch, the brute--Ah! how I am suffering! My +loins, my arms!” and he fell back panting and exhausted, writhing in his +terrible agony, while the captain's wife wiped the perspiration from his +forehead. We all shed tears of grief and rage, as if we had been +children. I will not describe the end to you; he died half an hour +later, but before that he told us in which direction the enemy had gone. +When he was dead, we gave ourselves time to bury him, and then we set +out in pursuit of them, with our hearts full of fury and hatred. + +“We will throw ourselves on the whole Prussian army, if it be needful,” + the captain said, “but we will avenge Piédelot. We must catch those +scoundrels. Let us swear to die, rather than not to find them, and if I +am killed first, these are my orders: all the prisoners that you make +are to be shot immediately, and as for the lancer's wife, she is to be +violated before she is put to death.” + +“She must not be shot, because she is a woman,” the captain's wife said. +“If you survive, I am sure that you would not shoot a woman. Outraging +her will be quite sufficient. But if you are killed in this pursuit, I +want one thing, and that is to fight with her; I will kill her with my +own hands, and the others can do what they like with her if she kills +me.” + +“We will outrage her! We will burn her! We will tear her to pieces! +Piédelot shall be avenged, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth!” + + + + +V. + + +The next morning we unexpectedly fell on an outpost of uhlans four +leagues away. Surprised by our sudden attack, they were not able to +mount their horses, nor even to defend themselves, and in a few moments +we had five prisoners, corresponding to our own number. The captain +questioned them, and from their answers we felt certain that they were +the same whom we had encountered the previous day. Then a very curious +operation took place. One of us was told off to ascertain their sex, and +nothing can depict our joy when we discovered what we were seeking among +them, the female executioner who had tortured our friend. + +The four others were shot on the spot, with their backs toward us and +close to the muzzles of our rifles, and then we turned our attention to +the woman. What were we going to do with her? I must acknowledge that we +were all of us in favor of shooting her. Hatred, and the wish to avenge +Piédelot had extinguished all pity in us, and we had forgotten that we +were going to shoot a woman. But a woman reminded us of it, the +captain's wife; at her entreaties, therefore, we determined to keep her +a prisoner. The captain's poor wife was to be severely punished for this +act of clemency. + +The next day we heard that the armistice had been extended to the +eastern part of France, and we had to put an end to our little campaign. +Two of us, who belonged to the neighborhood, returned home. So there +remained only four of us, all told: the captain, his wife, and two men. +We belonged to Besançon, which was still being besieged in spite of the +armistice. + +“Let us stop here,” said the captain. “I cannot believe that the war is +going to end like this. The devil take it! Surely there are men still +left in France, and now is the time to prove what they are made of. The +spring is coming on, and the armistice is only a trap laid for the +Prussians. During the time that it lasts, a new army will be formed, and +some fine morning we shall fall upon them again. We shall be ready, and +we have a hostage--let us remain here.” + +We fixed our quarters there. It was terribly cold, and we did not go out +much, as somebody had always to keep the female prisoner in sight. + +She was sullen and never spoke save to refer to her husband, whom the +captain had killed. She looked at him continually with fierce eyes, and +we felt that she was tortured by a wild longing for revenge. That seemed +to us to be the most suitable punishment for the terrible torments that +she had made Piédelot suffer, for impotent vengeance is such intense +pain! + +Alas! we who knew how to avenge our comrade ought to have known that +this woman would find a way to avenge her husband, and should have been +on our guard. It is true that one of us kept watch every night, and that +at first we tied her by a long rope to the great oak bench that was +fastened to the wall. But, by and by, as she had never tried to escape, +in spite of her hatred for us, we relaxed our extreme prudence and +allowed her to sleep somewhere else, and without being tied. What had we +to fear? She was at the end of the room, a man was on guard at the door, +and between her and the sentinel the captain's wife and two other men +used to lie. She was alone and unarmed against four, so there could be +no danger. + +One night when we were asleep, and the captain was on guard, the +lancer's wife was lying more quietly in her corner than usual. She had +even smiled during the evening for the first time since she had been our +prisoner. Suddenly, however, in the middle of the night, we were +awakened by a terrible cry. We got up, groping about. Scarcely were we +up when we stumbled over a furious couple who were rolling about and +fighting on the ground. It was the captain and the lancer's wife. We +threw ourselves on to them and separated them in a moment. She was +shouting and laughing, and he seemed to have the death rattle. All this +took place in the dark. Two of us held her, and when a light was struck, +a terrible sight met our eyes. The captain was lying on the floor in a +pool of blood, with an enormous wound in his throat, and his sword +bayonet, that had been taken from his rifle, was sticking in the red, +gaping wound. A few minutes afterward he died, without having been able +to utter a word. + +His wife did not shed a tear. Her eyes were dry, her throat was +contracted, and she looked at the lancer's wife steadfastly, and with a +calm ferocity that inspired fear. + +“This woman belongs to me,” she said to us suddenly. “You swore to me +not a week ago to let me kill her as I chose if she killed my husband, +and you must keep your oath. You must fasten her securely to the +fireplace, upright against the back of it, and then you can go where you +like, but far from here. I will take my revenge on her to myself. Leave +the captain's body, and we three, he, she, and I, will remain here.” + +We obeyed and went away. She promised to write to us to Geneva, as we +were returning there. + + + + +VI. + + +Two days later, I received the following letter, dated the day after we +had left. It had been written at an inn on the highroad: + +“My Friend: + +“I am writing to you, according to my promise. For the moment I am at +this inn, where I have just handed my prisoner over to a Prussian +officer. + +“I must tell you, my friend, that this poor woman left two children in +Germany. She had followed her husband, whom she adored, as she did not +wish him to be exposed to the risks of war by himself, and as her +children were with their grandparents. I have learned all this since +yesterday, and it has turned my ideas of vengeance into more humane +feelings. At the very moment when I felt pleasure in insulting this +woman, and in threatening her with the most fearful torments--in +recalling Piédelot, who had been burned alive, and in threatening her +with a similar death, she looked at me coldly, and said: + +“'Why should you reproach me, Frenchwoman? You think that you will do +right in avenging your husband's death, is not that so?' + +“'Yes,' I replied. + +“'Very well then; in killing him, I did what you are going to do in +burning me. I avenged my husband, for your husband killed him.' + +“'Well,' I replied, 'as you approve of this vengeance, prepare to endure +it.' + +“'I do not fear it.' + +“And in fact she did not seem to have lost courage. Her face was calm, +and she looked at me without trembling, while I brought wood and dried +leaves together, and feverishly threw on to them the powder from some +cartridges, to make her funeral pile the more cruel. + +“I hesitated in my thoughts of persecution for a moment. But the +captain's body was there, pale and covered with blood, and he seemed to +be looking at me with large, glassy eyes, and I applied myself to my +work again after kissing his pale lips. Suddenly, however, on raising my +head, I saw that she was crying, and I felt rather surprised. + +“'So you are frightened?' I said to her. + +“'No, but when I saw you kiss your husband, I thought of mine, of all +whom I love.' + +“She continued to sob, but stopping suddenly she said to me in broken +words, and in a low voice: + +“'Have you any children?' + +“A shiver ran over me, for I guessed that this poor woman had some. She +asked me to look in a pocketbook which was in her bosom, and in it I saw +two photographs of quite young children, a boy and a girl, with those +kind, gentle, chubby faces that German children have. In it there were +also two locks of light hair and a letter in a large childish hand, +beginning with German words which meant: 'My dear little mother.' + +“I could not restrain my tears, my dear friend, and so I untied her, and +without venturing to look at the face of my poor, dead husband, who was +not to be avenged, I went with her as far as the inn. She is free; I +have just left her, and she kissed me with tears. I am going upstairs to +my husband; come as soon as possible, my dear friend, to look for our +two bodies.” + +I set off with all speed, and when I arrived there was a Prussian patrol +at the cottage. When I asked what it all meant, I was told that there +was a captain of _francs-tireurs_ and his wife inside, both dead. I gave +their names; they saw that I knew them, and I begged to be allowed to +undertake their funeral. + +“Somebody has already undertaken it,” was the reply. “Go in if you wish +to, as you knew them. You can settle about their funeral with their +friend.” + +I went in. The captain and his wife were lying side by side on a bed, +and were covered by a sheet. I raised it, and saw that the woman had +inflicted a wound in her throat similar to that from which her husband +had died. + +At the side of the bed there sat, watching and weeping, the woman who +had been mentioned to me as their last friend. It was the lancer's wife. + + + + +HAUTOT SENIOR AND HAUTOT JUNIOR + + + + +I. + + +In front of the building, half farmhouse, half manor-house, one of those +rural habitations of a mixed character which were all but seigneurial, +and which are at the present time occupied by large cultivators, the +dogs, lashed beside the apple-trees in the orchard near the house, kept +barking and howling at the sight of the shooting-bags carried by the +gamekeepers and the boys. In the spacious dining-room kitchen, Hautot +Senior and Hautot Junior, M. Bermont, the tax-collector, and M. Mondaru, +the notary, were taking a bite and drinking some wine before going out +to shoot, for it was the opening day. + +Hautot Senior, proud of all his possessions, talked boastfully +beforehand of the game which his guests were going to find on his lands. +He was a big Norman, one of those powerful, ruddy, bony men, who can +lift wagonloads of apples on their shoulders. Half peasant, half +gentleman, rich, respected, influential, invested with authority, he +made his son César go as far as the third form at school, so that he +might be an educated man, and there he had brought his studies to a stop +for fear of his becoming a fine gentleman and paying no attention to the +land. + +César Hautot, almost as tall as his father, but thinner, was a good son, +docile, content with everything, full of admiration, respect, and +deference for the wishes and opinions of his sire. + +M. Bermont, the tax-collector, a stout little man, who showed on his red +cheeks a thin network of violet veins resembling the tributaries and the +winding courses of rivers on maps, asked: + +“And hares--are there any hares on it?” + +Hautot Senior answered: “As many as you like, especially in the +Puysatier lands.” + +“Which direction shall we begin in?” asked the notary, a jolly notary, +fat and pale, big-paunched too, and strapped up in an entirely new +hunting costume bought at Rouen. + +“Well, that way, through these grounds. We will drive the partridges +into the plain, and we will beat there again.” + +And Hautot Senior rose up. They all followed his example, took their +guns out of the corners, examined the locks, stamped with their feet in +order to feel themselves firmer in their boots which were rather hard, +not having as yet been rendered flexible by the heat of the blood. Then +they went out; and the dogs, standing erect at the ends of their +leashes, gave vent to piercing howls while beating the air with their +paws. + +They set forth for the lands referred to. These consisted of a little +glen, or rather a long undulating stretch of inferior soil, which had on +that account remained uncultivated, furrowed with mountain-torrents, +covered with ferns, an excellent preserve for game. + +The sportsmen took up their positions at some distance from each other, +Hautot Senior posting himself at the right, Hautot Junior at the left, +and the two guests in the middle. The keeper and those who carried the +game-bags followed. It was the anxious moment when the first shot is +awaited, when the heart beats a little, while the nervous finger keeps +feeling at the trigger every second. + +Suddenly the shot went off. Hautot Senior had fired. They all stopped, +and saw a partridge breaking off from a covey which was rushing along at +great speed to fall down into a ravine under a thick growth of +brushwood. The sportsman, becoming excited, rushed forward with rapid +strides, thrusting aside the briers which stood in his path, and +disappeared in his turn into the thicket in quest of his game. + +Almost at the same instant, a second shot was heard. + +“Ha! ha! the rascal!” exclaimed M. Bermont, “he will unearth a hare down +there.” + +They all waited, with their eyes riveted on the heap of branches through +which their gaze failed to penetrate. + +The notary, making a speaking-trumpet of his hands, shouted: + +“Have you got them?” + +Hautot Senior made no response. + +Then César, turning toward the keeper, said to him: + +“Just go and assist him, Joseph. We must keep walking in a straight +line. We'll wait.” + +And Joseph, an old stump of a man, lean and knotty, all of whose joints +formed protuberances, proceeded at an easy pace down the ravine, +searching at every opening through which a passage could be effected +with the cautiousness of a fox. Then, suddenly, he cried: + +“Oh! come! come! an unfortunate thing has occurred.” + +They all hurried forward, plunging through the briers. + +The elder Hautot, who had fallen on his side, in a fainting condition, +kept both his hands over his stomach, from which flowed down upon the +grass through the linen vest torn by the lead, long streamlets of blood. +As he was laying down his gun, in order to seize the partridge within +reach of him, he had let the firearm fall, and the second discharge, +going off with the shock, had torn open his entrails. They drew him out +of the trench; they removed his clothes and they saw a frightful wound, +through which the intestines came out. Then, after having bandaged him +the best way they could, they brought him back to his own house, and +awaited the doctor, who had been sent for, as well as a priest. + +When the doctor arrived, he gravely shook his head, and, turning toward +young Hautot, who was sobbing on a chair: + +“My poor boy,” said he, “this does not look well.” + +But, when the dressing was finished, the wounded man moved his fingers, +opened his mouth, then his eyes, cast around him troubled, haggard +glances, then appeared to search about in his memory, to recollect, to +understand, and he murmured: + +“Ah! good God! this has done for me!” + +The doctor held his hand. + +“Why no, why no, some days of rest merely--it will be nothing.” + +Hautot returned: + +“It has done for me! My stomach is split open! I know it well.” + +Then, all of a sudden: + +“I want to talk to the son, if I have the time.” + +Hautot Junior, in spite of himself, shed tears, and kept repeating like +a little boy: + +“P'pa, p'pa, poor p'pa!” + +But the father, in a firmer tone: + +“Come! stop crying--this is not the time for it. I have to talk to you. +Sit down there quite close to me. It will be quickly done, and I shall +be more calm. As for the rest of you, kindly give me one minute.” + +They all went out, leaving the father and son face to face. + +As soon as they were alone: + +“Listen, son! you are twenty-four years; one can say things like this to +you. And then there is not such mystery about these matters as we import +into them. You know well that your mother has been seven years dead, +isn't that so? and that I am not more than forty-five years myself, +seeing that I got married at nineteen? Is not that true?” + +The son faltered: + +“Yes, it is true.” + +“So then your mother has been seven years dead, and I have remained a +widower. Well! a man like me cannot remain without a wife at +thirty-eight, isn't that true?” + +The son replied: + +“Yes, it is true.” + +The father, out of breath, quite pale, and his face contracted with +suffering, went on: + +“God! what pain I feel! Well, you understand. Man is not made to live +alone, but I did not want to take a successor to your mother, since I +promised her not to do so. Then--you understand?” + +“Yes, father.” + +“So, I kept a young girl at Rouen, Rue d'Eperlan 18, in the third story, +the second door,--I tell you all this, don't forget,--but a young girl, +who has been very nice to me, loving, devoted, a true woman, eh? You +comprehend, my lad?” + +“Yes, father.” + +“So then, if I am carried off, I owe something to her, something +substantial, that will place her in a safe position. You understand?” + +“Yes, father.” + +“I tell you that she is an honest girl, and that, but for you, and the +remembrance of your mother, and again but for the house in which we +three lived, I would have brought her here, and then married her, for +certain--listen--listen, my lad. I might have made a will--I haven't +done so. I did not wish to do so--for it is not necessary to write down +things--things of this sort--it is too hurtful to the legitimate +children--and then it embroils everything--it ruins everyone! Look you, +the stamped paper, there's no need of it--never make use of it. If I am +rich, it is because I have not made waste of what I have during my own +life. You understand, my son?” + +“Yes, father.” + +“Listen again--listen well to me! So then, I have made no will--I did +not desire to do so--and then I knew what you were; you have a good +heart; you are not niggardly, not too near, in any way; I said to myself +that when my end approached I would tell you all about it, and that I +would beg of you not to forget the girl. And then listen again! When I +am gone, make your way to the place at once--and make such arrangements +that she may not blame my memory. You have plenty of means. I leave it +to you--I leave you enough. Listen! You won't find her at home every day +in the week. She works at Madame Moreau's in the Rue Beauvoisine. Go +there on a Thursday. That is the day she expects me. It has been my day +for the past six years. Poor little thing! she will weep!--I say all +this to you because I have known you so well, my son. One does not tell +these things in public either to the notary or to the priest. They +happen--everyone knows that--but they are not talked about, save in case +of necessity. Then there is no outsider in the secret, nobody except the +family, because the family consists of one person alone. You +understand?” + +“Yes, father.” + +“Do you promise?” + +“Yes, father.” + +“Do you swear it?” + +“Yes, father.” + +“I beg of you, I implore of you, so do not forget. I bind you to it.” + +“No, father.” + +“You will go yourself. I want you to make sure of everything.” + +“Yes, father.” + +“And, then, you will see--you will see what she will explain to you. As +for me, I can say no more to you. You have vowed to do it.” + +“Yes, father.” + +“That's good, my son. Embrace me. Farewell. I am going to break up, I'm +sure. Tell them they may come in.” + +Young Hautot embraced his father, groaning while he did so; then, always +docile, he opened the door, and the priest appeared in a white surplice, +carrying the holy oils. + +But the dying man had closed his eyes and he refused to open them again, +he refused to answer, he refused to show, even by a sign, that he +understood. + +He had spoken enough, this man; he could speak no more. Besides he now +felt his heart calm; he wanted to die in peace. What need had he to make +a confession to the deputy of God, since he had just done so to his son, +who constituted his own family? + +He received the last rites, was purified and absolved, in the midst of +his friends and his servants on their bended knees, without any movement +of his face indicating that he still lived. + +He expired about midnight, after four hours' convulsive movements, which +showed that he must have suffered dreadfully in his last moments. + + + + +II. + + +It was on the following Tuesday that they buried him; the shooting had +opened on Sunday. On his return home, after having accompanied his +father to the cemetery, César Hautot spent the rest of the day weeping. +He scarcely slept at all on the following night, and he felt so sad on +awakening that he asked himself how he could go on living. + +However, he kept thinking until evening that, in order to obey the last +wish of his father, he ought to repair to Rouen next day, and see this +girl Catholine Donet, who resided in the Rue d'Eperlan in the third +story, second door. He had repeated to himself in a whisper, just as a +little boy repeats a prayer, this name and address a countless number of +times, so that he might not forget them, and he ended by lisping them +continually, without being able to stop or to think of what they were, +so much were his tongue and his mind possessed by the commission. + +Accordingly, on the following day, about eight o'clock, he ordered +Graindorge to be yoked to the tilbury, and set forth at the quick +trotting pace of the heavy Norman horse, along the highroad from +Ainville to Rouen. He wore his black frock-coat, a tall silk hat on his +head, and breeches with straps; and he did not, on account of the +occasion, dispense with the handsome costume, the blue overalls which +swelled in the wind, protecting the cloth from dust and from stains, and +which was to be removed quickly the moment he jumped out of the coach. + +He entered Rouen accordingly just as it was striking ten o'clock, drew +up, as he had usually done, at the Hôtel des Bon-Enfants, in the Rue des +Trois-Marcs, submitted to the hugs of the landlord and his wife and +their five children, for they had heard the melancholy news. After that, +he had to tell them all the particulars about the accident, which caused +him to shed tears, to repel all the proffered attentions which they +sought to thrust upon him merely because he was wealthy, and to decline +even the breakfast they wanted him to partake of, thus wounding their +sensibilities. + +Then, having wiped the dust off his hat, brushed his coat and removed +the mud stains from his boots, he set forth in search of the Rue +d'Eperlan, without venturing to make inquiries from anyone, for fear of +being recognized and arousing suspicions. + +At length, being unable to find the place, he saw a priest passing by, +and, trusting to the professional discretion which churchmen possess, he +questioned the ecclesiastic. + +He had only a hundred steps farther to go; it was exactly the second +street to the right. + +Then he hesitated. Up to that moment, he had obeyed, like a mere animal, +the expressed wish of the deceased. Now he felt quite agitated, +confused, humiliated, at the idea of finding himself--the son--in the +presence of this woman who had been his father's mistress. All the +morality which lies buried in our breasts, heaped up at the bottom of +our sensuous emotions by centuries of hereditary instruction, all that +he had been taught, since he had learned his catechism, about creatures +of evil life, the instinctive contempt which every man entertains for +them, even though he may marry one of them, all the narrow honesty of +the peasant in his character, was stirred up within him and held him +back, making him grow red with shame. + +But he said to himself: + +“I promised the father, I must not break my promise.” + +Then he gave a push to the door of the house bearing the number 18, +which stood ajar, discovered a gloomy-looking staircase, ascended three +flights, perceived a door, then a second door, came upon the string of a +bell, and pulled it. The ringing, which resounded in the apartment +before which he stood, sent a shiver through his frame. The door was +opened, and he found himself facing a young lady very well dressed, a +brunette with a fresh complexion, who gazed at him with eyes of +astonishment. + +He did not know what to say to her, and she, who suspected nothing, and +who was waiting for him to speak, did not invite him to come in. They +stood looking thus at one another for nearly half a minute, at the end +of which she said in a questioning tone: + +“You have something to tell me, Monsieur?” + +He falteringly replied: + +“I am M. Hautot's son.” + +She gave a start, turned pale, and stammered out as if she had known him +for a long time: + +“Monsieur César?” + +“Yes.” + +“And what next?” + +“I have come to speak to you on the part of my father.” + +She articulated: + +“Oh, my God!” + +She then drew back so that he might enter. He shut the door and followed +her into the interior. Then he saw a little boy of four or five years +playing with a cat, seated on the floor in front of a stove, from which +rose the steam of dishes which were being kept hot. + +“Take a seat,” she said. + +He sat down. + +She asked: + +“Well?” + +He no longer ventured to speak, keeping his eyes fixed on the table +which stood in the center of the room, with three covers laid on it, one +of which was for a child. He glanced at the chair which had its back +turned to the fire. They had been expecting him. That was his bread +which he saw, and which he recognized near the fork, for the crust had +been removed on account of Hautot's bad teeth. Then, raising his eyes, +he noticed on the wall his father's portrait, the large photograph taken +at Paris the year of the exhibition, the same as that which hung above +the bed in the sleeping apartment at Ainville. + +The young woman again asked: + +“Well, Monsieur César?” + +He kept staring at her. Her face was livid with anguish; and she waited, +her hands trembling with fear. + +Then he took courage. + +“Well, Mam'zelle, papa died on Sunday last just after he had opened the +shooting.” + +She was so much overwhelmed that she did not move. After a silence of a +few seconds, she faltered in an almost inaudible tone: + +“Oh! it is not possible!” + +Then, on a sudden, tears showed themselves in her eyes, and covering her +face with her hands, she burst out sobbing. + +At that point the little boy turned round, and, seeing his mother +weeping, began to howl. Then, realizing that this sudden trouble was +brought about by the stranger, he rushed at César, caught hold of his +breeches with one hand and with the other hit him with all his strength +on the thigh. And César remained agitated, deeply affected, with this +woman mourning for his father at one side of him, and the little boy +defending his mother at the other. He felt their emotion taking +possession of himself, and his eyes were beginning to brim over with the +same sorrow; so, to recover his self-command, he began to talk: + +“Yes,” he said, “the accident occurred on Sunday, at eight o'clock--” + +And he told, as if she were listening to him, all the facts without +forgetting a single detail, mentioning the most trivial matters with the +minuteness of a countryman. And the child still kept assailing him, +making kicks at his ankles. + +When he came to the time at which his father had spoken about her, her +attention was caught by hearing her own name, and, uncovering her face, +she said: + +“Pardon me! I was not following you; I would like to know--if you do not +mind beginning over again.” + +He related everything at great length, with stoppages, breaks, and +reflections of his own from time to time. She listened to him eagerly +now perceiving with a woman's keen sensibility all the sudden changes of +fortune which his narrative indicated, and trembling with horror, every +now and then, exclaiming: + +“Oh, my God!” + +The little fellow, believing that she had calmed down, ceased beating +César, in order to catch his mother's hand, and he listened, too, as if +he understood. + +When the narrative was finished, young Hautot continued: + +“Now, we will settle matters together in accordance with his wishes. +Listen: I am well off, he has left me plenty of means. I don't want you +to have anything to complain about--” + +But she quickly interrupted him: + +“Oh! Monsieur César, Monsieur César, not today. I am cut to the +heart--another time--another day. No, not to-day. If I accept, listen! +'Tis not for myself--no, no, no, I swear to you. 'Tis for the child. +Besides this provision will be put to his account.” + +Thereupon César scared, divined the truth, and stammering: + +“So then--'tis his--the child?” + +“Why, yes,” she said. + +And Hautot Junior gazed at his brother with a confused emotion, intense +and painful. + +After a lengthened silence, for she had begun to weep afresh, César, +quite embarrassed, went on: + +“Well, then, Mam'zelle Donet, I am going. When would you wish to talk +this over with me?” + +She exclaimed: + +“Oh! no, don't go! don't go! Don't leave me all alone with Emile. I +would die of grief. I have no longer anyone, anyone but my child. Oh! +what wretchedness, what wretchedness. Monsieur César! Stop! Sit down +again. You will say something more to me. You will tell me what he was +doing over there all the week.” + +And César resumed his seat, accustomed to obey. + +She drew over another chair for herself in front of the stove, where the +dishes had all this time been simmering, took Emile upon her knees, and +asked César a thousand questions about his father with reference to +matters of an intimate nature, which made him feel, without reasoning on +the subject, that she had loved Hautot with all the strength of her +frail woman's heart. + +And, by the natural concatenation of his ideas--which were rather +limited in number--he recurred once more to the accident, and set about +telling the story over again with all the same details. + +When he said: “He had a hole in his stomach--you could put your two +fists into it,” she gave vent to a sort of shriek, and the tears gushed +forth again from her eyes. + +Then, seized by the contagion of her grief, César began to weep, too, +and as tears always soften the fibers of the heart, he bent over Emile +whose forehead was close to his own mouth and kissed him. + +The mother, recovering her breath, murmured: + +“Poor lad, he is an orphan now!” + +“And so am I,” said César. + +And they ceased to talk. + +But suddenly the practical instinct of the housewife, accustomed to be +thoughtful about many things, revived in the young woman's breast. + +“You have perhaps taken nothing all the morning, Monsieur César.” + +“No, Mam'zelle.” + +“Oh! you must be hungry. You will eat a morsel.” + +“Thanks,” he said, “I am not hungry; I have had too much trouble.” + +She replied: + +“In spite of sorrow, we must live. You will not refuse to let me get +something for you! And then you will remain a little longer. When you +are gone I don't know what will become of me.” + +He yielded after some further resistance, and, sitting down with his +back to the fire, facing her, he ate a plateful of tripe, which had been +bubbling in the stove, and drank a glass of red wine. But he would not +allow her to uncork the bottle of white wine. He several times wiped the +mouth of the little boy, who had smeared all his chin with sauce. + +As he was rising up to go, he asked: + +“When would you like me to come back to speak about this business to +you, Mam'zelle Donet?” + +“If it is all the same to you, say next Thursday, Monsieur César. In +that way I would lose none of my time, as I always have my Thursdays +free.” + +“That will suit me--next Thursday.” + +“You will come to lunch. Won't you?” + +“Oh! On that point I can't give you a promise.” + +“The reason I suggested it is that people can chat better when they are +eating. One has more time, too.” + +“Well, be it so. About twelve o'clock, then.” And he took his departure, +after he had again kissed little Emile, and pressed Mademoiselle Donet's +hand. + + + + +III. + + +The week appeared long to César Hautot. He had never before found +himself alone, and the isolation seemed to him insupportable. Till now, +he had lived at his father's side, just like his shadow, followed him +into the fields, superintended the execution of his orders, and, when +they had been a short time separated, again met him at dinner. They had +spent the evenings smoking their pipes, face to face with one another, +chatting about horses, cows, or sheep, and the grip of their hands when +they rose up in the morning might have been regarded as a manifestation +of deep family affection on both sides. + +Now César was alone, he went vacantly through the process of dressing +the soil in autumn, every moment expecting to see the tall gesticulating +silhouette of his father rising up at the end of a plain. To kill time, +he entered the houses of his neighbors, told about the accident to all +who had not heard of it, and sometimes repeated it to the others. Then, +after he had finished his occupations and his reflections, he would sit +down at the side of the road, asking himself whether this kind of life +was going to last forever. + +He frequently thought of Mademoiselle Donet. He liked her. He considered +her thoroughly respectable, a gentle and honest young woman, as his +father had said. Yes, undoubtedly she was an honest girl. He resolved to +act handsomely toward her, and to give her two thousand francs a year, +settling the capital on the child. He even experienced a certain +pleasure in thinking that he was going to see her on the following +Thursday and arrange this matter with her. And then the notion of this +brother, this little chap of five, who was his father's son, plagued +him, annoyed him a little, and at the same time, excited him. He had, as +it were, a family in this brat, sprung from a clandestine alliance, who +would never bear the name of Hautot, a family which he might take or +leave, just as he pleased, but which would recall his father. + +And so, when he saw himself on the road to Rouen on Thursday morning, +carried along by Graindorge trotting with clattering foot-beats, he felt +his heart lighter, more at peace than he had hitherto felt it since his +bereavement. + +On entering Mademoiselle Donet's apartment, he saw the table laid as on +the previous Thursday, with the sole difference that the crust had not +been removed from the bread. He pressed the young woman's hand, kissed +Emile on the cheeks, and sat down, more or less as if he were in his own +house, his heart swelling in the same way. Mademoiselle Donet seemed to +him a little thinner and paler. She must have grieved sorely. She wore +now an air of constraint in his presence, as if she understood what she +had not felt the week before under the first blow of her misfortune, and +she exhibited an excessive deference toward him, a mournful humility, +and made touching efforts to please him, as if to pay him back by her +attentions for the kindness he had manifested toward her. They were a +long time at lunch talking over the business which had brought him +there. She did not want so much money. It was too much. She earned +enough to live on herself, but she only wished that Emile might find a +few sous awaiting him when he grew big. César held out, however, and +even added a gift of a thousand francs for herself for the expense of +mourning. + +When he had taken his coffee, she asked: + +“Do you smoke?” + +“Yes--I have my pipe.” + +He felt in his pocket. Good God! He had forgotten it! He was becoming +quite woe-begone about it when she offered him a pipe of his father's +that had been shut up in a cupboard. He accepted it, took it up in his +hand, recognized it, smelled it, spoke of its quality in a tone of +emotion, filled it with tobacco, and lighted it. Then he set Emile +astride on his knee, and made him play the cavalier, while she removed +the tablecloth and put the soiled plates at one end of the sideboard in +order to wash them as soon as he was gone. + +About three o'clock, he rose up with regret, quite annoyed at the +thought of having to go. + +“Well! Mademoiselle Donet,” he said, “I wish you good evening, and am +delighted to have found you like this.” + +She remained standing before him, blushing, much affected, and gazed at +him while she thought of the other. + +“Shall we not see one another again?” she said. + +He replied simply: + +“Why, yes, Mam'zelle, if it gives you pleasure.” + +“Certainly, Monsieur César. Will next Thursday suit you then?” + +“Yes, Mademoiselle Donet.” + +“You will come to lunch, of course?” + +“Well--if you are so kind as to invite me, I can't refuse.” + +“It is understood, then, Monsieur César--next Thursday, at twelve, the +same as to-day.” + +“Thursday at twelve, Mam'zelle Donet!” + + + + +NO QUARTER + + +The broad sunlight threw its burning rays on the fields, and under this +shower of flame life burst forth in glowing vegetation from the earth. +As far as the eye could see, the soil was green; and the sky was blue to +the verge of the horizon. The Norman farms scattered through the plain +seemed at a distance like little woods inclosed each in a circle of thin +beech-trees. Coming closer, on opening the worm-eaten stile, one fancied +that he saw a giant garden, for all the old apple-trees, as knotted as +the peasants, were in blossom. The weather-beaten black trunks, crooked, +twisted, ranged along the inclosure, displayed beneath the sky their +glittering domes, rosy and white. The sweet perfume of their blossoms +mingled with the heavy odors of the open stables and with the fumes of +the steaming dunghill, covered with hens and their chickens. It was +midday. The family sat at dinner in the shadow of the pear-tree planted +before the door--the father, the mother, the four children, the two +maidservants, and the three farm laborers. They scarcely uttered a word. +Their fare consisted of soup and of a stew composed of potatoes mashed +up in lard. + +From time to time one of the maidservants rose up, and went to the +cellar to fetch a pitcher of cider. + +The husband, a big fellow of about forty, stared at a vine-tree, quite +exposed to view, which stood close to the farmhouse, twining like a +serpent under the shutters the entire length of the wall. + +He said, after a long silence: + +“The father's vine-tree is blossoming early this year. Perhaps it will +bear good fruit.” + +The peasant's wife also turned round, and gazed at the tree without +speaking. + +This vine-tree was planted exactly in the place where the father of the +peasant had been shot. + +It was during the war of 1870. The Prussians were in occupation of the +entire country. General Faidherbe, with the Army of the North, was at +their head. + +Now the Prussian staff had taken up its quarters in this farmhouse. The +old peasant who owned it, Père Milon, received them, and gave them the +best treatment he could. + +For a whole month the German vanguard remained on the lookout in the +village. The French were posted ten leagues away without moving, and +yet, each night, some of the uhlans disappeared. + +All the isolated scouts, those who were sent out on patrol, whenever +they started in groups of two or three, never came back. + +They were picked up dead in the morning in a field, near a farmyard, in +a ditch. Their horses even were found lying on the roads with their +throats cut by a saber stroke. These murders seemed to have been +accomplished by the same men, who could not be discovered. + +The country was terrorized. Peasants were shot on mere information, +women were imprisoned, attempts were made to obtain revelations from +children by fear. + +But, one morning, Père Milon was found stretched in his stable with a +gash across his face. + +Two uhlans ripped open were seen lying three kilometers away from the +farmhouse. One of them still grasped in his hand his blood-stained +weapon. He had fought and defended himself. + +A council of war having been immediately constituted, in the open air, +in front of the farmhouse, the old man was brought before it. + +He was sixty-eight years old. He was small, thin, a little crooked, with +long hands resembling the claws of a crab. His faded hair, scanty and +slight, like the down on a young duck, allowed his scalp to be plainly +seen. The brown, crimpled skin of his neck showed the big veins which +sank under his jaws and reappeared at his temples. He was regarded in +the district as a miser and a hard man in business transactions. + +He was placed standing between four soldiers in front of the kitchen +table, which had been carried out of the house for the purpose. Five +officers and the Colonel sat facing him. The Colonel was the first to +speak. + +“Père Milon,” he said, in French, “since we came here we have had +nothing to say of you but praise. You have always been obliging, and +even considerate toward us. But to-day a terrible accusation rests on +you, and the matter must be cleared up. How did you get the wound on +your face?” + +The peasant gave no reply. + +The Colonel went on: + +“Your silence condemns you, Père Milon. But I want you to answer me, do +you understand? Do you know who has killed the two uhlans who were found +this morning near the crossroads?” + +The old man said in a clear voice: + +“It was I!” + +The Colonel, surprised, remained silent for a second, looking steadfully +at the prisoner. Père Milon maintained his impassive demeanor, his air +of rustic stupidity, with downcast eyes, as if he were talking to his +cure. There was only one thing that could reveal his internal agitation, +the way in which he slowly swallowed his saliva with a visible effort, +as if he were choking. + +The old peasant's family--his son Jean, his daughter-in-law, and two +little children stood ten paces behind, scared and dismayed. + +The Colonel continued: + +“Do you know also who killed all the scouts of our army whom we have +found every morning, for the past month, lying here and there in the +fields?” + +The old man answered with the same brutal impassiveness: + +“It was I!” + +“It is you, then, that killed them all?” + +“All of them-yes, it was I.” + +“You alone?” + +“I alone.” + +“Tell me the way you managed to do it?” + +This time the peasant appeared to be affected; the necessity of speaking +at some length incommoded him. + +“I know myself. I did it the way I found easiest.” + +The Colonel proceeded: + +“I warn you, you must tell me everything. You will do well, therefore, +to make up your mind about it at once. How did you begin it?” + +The peasant cast an uneasy glance toward his family, who remained in a +listening attitude behind him. He hesitated for another second or so, +then all of a sudden he came to a resolution on the matter. + +“I came home one night about ten o'clock, and the next day you were +here. You and your soldiers gave me fifty crowns for forage with a cow +and two sheep. Said I to myself: 'As long as I get twenty crowns out of +them, I'll sell them the value of it.' But then I had other things in my +heart, which I'll tell you about now. I came across one of your +cavalrymen smoking his pipe near my dike, just behind my barn. I went +and took my scythe off the hook, and I came back with short steps from +behind, while he lay there without hearing anything. And I cut off his +head with one stroke, like a feather, while he only said 'Oof!' You have +only to look at the bottom of the pond; you'll find him there in a coal +bag with a big stone tied to it. + +“I got an idea into my head. I took all he had on him from his boots to +his cap, and I hid them in the bakehouse in the Martin wood behind the +farmyard.” + +The old man stopped. The officers, speechless, looked at one another. +The examination was resumed, and this is what they were told. + +Once he had accomplished this murder, the peasant lived with only one +thought: “To kill the Prussians!” He hated them with the sly and +ferocious hatred of a countryman who was at the same time covetous and +patriotic. He had got an idea into his head, as he put it. He waited for +a few days. + +He was allowed to go and come freely, to go out and return just as he +pleased, as long as he displayed humility, submissiveness, and +complaisance toward the conquerors. + +Now, every evening he saw the cavalrymen bearing dispatches leaving the +farmhouse; and he went out, one night, after discovering the name of the +village to which they were going, and after picking up by associating +with the soldiers the few words of German he needed. + +He made his way through his farmyard, slipped into the wood, reached the +bakehouse, penetrated to the end of the long passage, and having found +the clothes of the soldier which he had hidden there, he put them on. +Then he went prowling about the fields, creeping along, keeping to the +slopes so as to avoid observation, listening to the least sounds, +restless as a poacher. + +When he believed the time had arrived he took up his position at the +roadside, and hid himself in a clump of brushwood. He still waited. At +length, near midnight, he heard the galloping of a horse's hoofs on the +hard soil of the road. The old man put his ear to the ground to make +sure that only one cavalryman was approaching; then he got ready. + +The uhlan came on at a very quick pace, carrying some dispatches. He +rode forward with watchful eyes and strained ears. As soon as he was no +more than ten paces away, Père Milon dragged himself across the road, +groaning: “Hilfe! hilfe!” (“Help! help!”). + +The cavalryman drew up, recognized a German soldier dismounted, believed +that he was wounded, leaped down from his horse, drew near the prostrate +man, never suspecting anything, and, as he stooped over the stranger, he +received in the middle of the stomach the long, curved blade of the +saber. He sank down without any death throes, merely quivering with a +few last shudders. + +Then the Norman, radiant with the mute joy of an old peasant, rose up, +and merely to please himself, cut the dead soldier's throat. After that, +he dragged the corpse to the dike and threw it in. + +The horse was quietly waiting for its rider, Père Milon got on the +saddle and started across the plain at the gallop. + +At the end of an hour, he perceived two more uhlans approaching the +staff-quarters side by side. He rode straight toward them, crying: +“Hilfe! hilfe!” The Prussians let him come on, recognizing the uniform +without any distrust. + +And like a cannon ball the old man shot between the two, bringing both +of them to the ground with his saber and a revolver. The next thing he +did was to cut the throats of the horses--the German horses! Then, +softly he re-entered the bakehouse and hid the horse he had ridden +himself in the dark passage. There he took off the uniform, put on once +more his own old clothes, and going to his bed, slept till morning. + +For four days, he did not stir out, awaiting the close of the open +inquiry as to the cause of the soldiers' deaths; but, on the fifth day, +he started out again, and by a similar stratagem killed two more +soldiers. + +Thenceforth, he never stopped. Each night he wandered about, prowled +through the country at random, cutting down some Prussians, sometimes +here, sometimes there, galloping through the deserted fields under the +moonlight, a lost uhlan, a hunter of men. Then, when he had finished his +task, leaving behind him corpses lying along the roads, the old horseman +went to the bakehouse where he concealed both the animal and the +uniform. About midday he calmly returned to the spot to give the horse a +feed of oats and some water, and he took every care of the animal, +exacting therefore the hardest work. + +But, the night before his arrest, one of the soldiers he attacked put +himself on his guard, and cut the old peasant's face with a slash of a +saber. + +He had, however, killed both of them. He had even managed to go back and +hide his horse and put on his everyday garb, but, when he reached the +stable, he was overcome by weakness and was not able to make his way +into the house. + +He had been found lying on the straw, his face covered with blood. + +When he had finished his story, he suddenly lifted his head and glanced +proudly at the Prussian officers. + +The Colonel, tugging at his mustache, asked: + +“Have you anything more to say?” + +“No, nothing more; we are quits. I killed sixteen, not one more, not one +less.” + +“You know you have to die?” + +“I ask for no quarter!” + +“Have you been a soldier?” + +“Yes, I served at one time. And 'tis you killed my father, who was a +soldier of the first Emperor, not to speak of my youngest son François, +whom you killed last month near Evreux. I owed this to you, and I've +paid you back. 'Tis tit for tat!” + +The officers stared at one another. + +The old man went on: + +“Eight for my father, eight for my son--that pays it off! I sought for +no quarrel with you. I don't know you! I only know where you came from. +You came to my house here and ordered me about as if the house was +yours. I have had my revenge, and I'm glad of it!” + +And stiffening up his old frame, he folded his arms in the attitude of a +humble hero. + +The Prussians held a long conference. A captain, who had also lost a son +the month before defended the brave old farmer. + +Then the Colonel rose up, and, advancing toward Père Milon, he said, +lowering his voice: + +“Listen, old man! There is perhaps one way of saving your life--it is--” + +But the old peasant was not listening to him, and, fixing his eyes +directly on the German officer, while the wind made the scanty hair move +to and fro on his skull, he made a frightful grimace, which shriveled up +his pinched countenance scarred by the saber-stroke, and, puffing out +his chest, he spat, with all his strength, right into the Prussian's +face. + +The Colonel, stupefied, raised his hand, and for the second time the +peasant spat in his face. + +All the officers sprang to their feet and yelled out orders at the same +time. + +In less than a minute the old man, still as impassive as ever, was stuck +up against the wall and shot, while he cast a smile at Jean, his eldest +son, and then at his daughter-in-law and the two children, who were +staring with terror at the scene. + + + + +THE ORPHAN + + +Mademoiselle Source had adopted this boy under very sad circumstances. +She was at the time thirty-six years old. She was disfigured, having in +her infancy slipped off her nurse's lap into the fireplace, and getting +her face so shockingly burned that it ever afterward presented a +frightful appearance. This deformity had made her resolve not to marry, +for she did not want any man to marry her for her money. + +A female neighbor of hers, being left a widow during her pregnancy, died +in childbirth, without leaving a sou. Mademoiselle Source took the +newborn child, put him out to nurse, reared him, sent him to a +boarding-school, then brought him home in his fourteenth year, in order +to have in her empty house somebody who would love her, who would look +after her, who would make her old age pleasant. + +She resided on a little property four leagues away from Rennes, and she +now dispensed with a servant. The expenses having increased to more than +double what they had been since this orphan's arrival, her income of +three thousand francs was no longer sufficient to support three persons. + +She attended to the housekeeping and the cooking herself, and sent the +boy out on errands, letting him further occupy himself with cultivating +the garden. He was gentle, timid, silent, and caressing. And she +experienced a deep joy, a fresh joy at being embraced by him, without +any apparent surprise or repugnance being exhibited by him on account of +her ugliness. He called her “Aunt” and treated her as a mother. + +In the evening they both sat down at the fireside, and she got nice +things ready for him. She heated some wine and toasted a slice of bread, +and it made a charming little meal before going to bed. She often took +him on her knees and covered him with kisses, murmuring in his ear with +passionate tenderness. She called him: “My little flower, my cherub, my +adored angel, my divine jewel.” He softly accepted her caresses, +concealing his head on the old maid's shoulder. Although he was now +nearly fifteen years old, he had remained small and weak, and had a +rather sickly appearance. + +Sometimes Mademoiselle Source brought him to the city to see two married +female relatives of hers, distant cousins, who were living in the +suburbs, and who were the only members of her family in existence. The +two women had always found fault with her for having adopted this boy, +on account of the inheritance; but for all that they gave her a cordial +welcome, having still hopes of getting a share for themselves, a third, +no doubt, if what she possessed were only equally divided. + +She was happy, very happy, always taken up with her adopted child. She +bought books for him to improve his mind, and he devoted himself +ardently to reading. + +He no longer now climbed on her knees to fondle her as he had formerly +done; but instead would go and sit down in his little chair in the +chimney-corner and open a volume. The lamp placed at the edge of the +little table, above his head, shone on his curly hair and on a portion +of his forehead; he did not move, he did not raise his eyes, he did not +make any gesture. He read on, interested, entirely absorbed in the +adventures which formed the subject of the book. + +She, seated opposite to him, gazed at him with an eager, steady look, +astonished at his studiousness, jealous, often on the point of bursting +into tears. + +She said to him now and then: “You will fatigue yourself, my treasure!” + in the hope that he would raise his head and come across to embrace her; +but he did not even answer her; he had not heard or understood what she +was saying; he paid no attention to anything save what he read in these +pages. + +For two years he devoured an incalculable number of volumes. His +character changed. + +After this, he asked Mademoiselle Source many times for money, which she +gave him. As he always wanted more, she ended by refusing, for she was +both regular and energetic and knew how to act rationally when it was +necessary to do so. By dint of entreaties he obtained a large sum one +night from her; but when he urged her to give him another sum a few days +later, she showed herself inflexible, and did not give way to him +further, in fact. + +He appeared to be satisfied with her decision. + +He again became quiet, as he had formerly been, loving to remain seated +for entire hours, without moving, plunged in deep reverie. He now did +not even talk to Madame Source, merely answering her remarks with short, +formal words. Nevertheless, he was agreeable and attentive in his manner +toward her; but he never embraced her now. + +She had by this time grown slightly afraid of him when they sat facing +one another at night at opposite sides of the fireplace. She wanted to +wake him up, to make him say something, no matter what, that would break +this dreadful silence, which was like the darkness of a wood. But he did +not appear to listen to her, and she shuddered with the terror of a poor +feeble woman when she had spoken to him five or six times successively +without being able to get a word out of him. + +What was the matter with him? What was going on in that closed-up head? +When she had been thus two or three hours sitting opposite him, she felt +herself getting daft, and longed to rush away and to escape into the +open country in order to avoid that mute, eternal companionship and also +some vague danger, which she could not define, but of which she had a +presentiment. + +She frequently shed tears when she was alone. What was the matter with +him? When she gave expression to a desire, he unmurmuringly carried it +into execution. When she wanted to have anything brought to her from the +city, he immediately went there to procure it. She had no complaint to +make of him; no, indeed! And yet-- + +Another year flitted by, and it seemed to her that a new modification +had taken place in the mind of the young man. She perceived it; she felt +it; she divined it. How? No matter! She was sure she was not mistaken; +but she could not have explained in what the unknown thoughts of this +strange youth had changed. + +It seemed to her that till now he had been like a person in a hesitating +frame of mind who had suddenly arrived at a determination. This idea +came to her one evening as she met his glance, a fixed, singular glance +which she had not seen in his face before. + +Then he commenced to watch her incessantly, and she wished she could +hide herself in order to avoid that cold eye, riveted on her. + +He kept staring at her, evening after evening for hours together, only +averting his eyes when she said, utterly unnerved: + +“Do not look at me like that, my child!” + +Then he bowed his head. + +But the moment her back was turned, she once more felt that his eye was +upon her. Wherever she went he pursued her with his persistent gaze. + +Sometimes, when she was walking in her little garden, she suddenly +noticed him squatted on the stump of a tree as if he were lying in wait +for her; and again when she sat in front of the house mending stockings +while he was digging some cabbage-bed, he kept watching her, as he +worked, in a sly, continuous fashion. + +It was in vain that she asked him: + +“What's the matter with you, my boy? For the last three years, you have +become very different. I don't find you the same. Tell me what ails you, +and what you are thinking of, I beg of you.” + +He invariably replied, in a quiet, weary tone: + +“Why, nothing ails me, Aunt!” + +And when she persisted, appealing to him thus: “Ah! my child, answer me, +answer me when I speak to you. If you knew what grief you caused me, you +would always answer, and you would not look at me that way. Have you any +trouble? Tell me, I'll console you!” he would turn away with a tired +air, murmuring: + +“But there is nothing the matter with me, I assure you.” + +He had not grown much, having always a childish aspect, although the +features of his face were those of a man. They were, however, hard and +badly cut. He seemed incomplete, abortive, only half finished, and +disquieting as a mystery. He was a close impenetrable being, in whom +there seemed always to be some active, dangerous mental travail taking +place. + +Mademoiselle Source was quite conscious of all this, and she could not, +from that time forth, sleep at night, so great was her anxiety. +Frightful terrors, dreadful nightmares assailed her. She shut herself up +in her own room and barricaded the door, tortured by fear. + +What was she afraid of? She could not tell. + +Fear of everything, of the night, of the walls, of the shadows thrown by +the moon on the white curtains of the windows, and, above all, fear of +him. + +Why? What had she to fear? Did she know what it was? She could live this +way no longer! She felt certain that a misfortune threatened her, a +frightful misfortune. + +She set forth secretly one morning and went into the city to see her +relatives. She told them about the matter in a gasping voice. The two +women thought she was going mad and tried to reassure her. + +She said: + +“If you knew the way he looks at me from morning till night. He never +takes his eyes off me! At times I feel a longing to cry for help, to +call in the neighbors, so much am I afraid. But what could I say to +them? He does nothing to me except to keep looking at me.” + +The two female cousins asked: + +“Is he ever brutal to you? Does he give you sharp answers?” + +She replied: + +“No, never; he does everything I wish; he works hard; he is steady; but +I am so frightened I don't mind that much. He has something in his head, +I am certain of that--quite certain. I don't care to remain all alone +like that with him in the country.” + +The relatives, scared by her words, declared to her that they were +astonished and could not understand her; and they advised her to keep +silent about her fears and her plans, without, however, dissuading her +from coming to reside in the city, hoping in that way that the entire +inheritance would eventually fall into their hands. + +They even promised to assist her in selling her house and in finding +another near them. + +Mademoiselle Source returned home. But her mind was so much upset that +she trembled at the slightest noise, and her hands shook whenever any +trifling disturbance agitated her. + +Twice she went again to consult her relatives, quite determined now not +to remain any longer in this way in her lonely dwelling. At last she +found a little cottage in the suburbs, which suited her, and privately +she bought it. + +The signature of the contract took place on a Tuesday morning, and +Mademoiselle Source devoted the rest of the day to the preparations for +her change of residence. + +At eight o'clock in the evening she got into the diligence which passed +within a few hundred yards of her house, and she told the conductor to +let her down in the place where it was his custom to stop for her. The +man called out to her as he whipped his horses: + +“Good evening, Mademoiselle Source--good night!” + +She replied as she walked on: + +“Good evening, Père Joseph.” Next morning, at half past seven, the +postman who conveyed letters to the village, noticed at the crossroad, +not far from the highroad, a large splash of blood not yet dry. He said +to himself: “Hallo! some boozer must have been bleeding from the nose.” + +But he perceived ten paces farther on a pocket-handkerchief also stained +with blood. He picked them up. The linen was fine, and the postman, in +alarm, made his way over to the dike, where he fancied he saw a strange +object. + +Mademoiselle Source was lying at the foot on the grass, her throat cut +open with a knife. + +An hour later, the gendarmes, the examining magistrate, and other +authorities made an inquiry as to the cause of death. + +The two female relatives, called as witnesses, told all about the old +maid's fears and her last plans. + +The orphan was arrested. Since the death of the woman who had adopted +him, he wept from morning till night, plunged, at least to all +appearance, in the most violent grief. + +He proved that he had spent the evening up to eleven o'clock in a cafe. +Ten persons had seen him, having remained there till his departure. + +Now the driver of the diligence stated that he had set down the murdered +woman on the road between half past nine and ten o'clock. + +The accused was acquitted. A will, a long time made, which had been left +in the hands of a notary in Rennes, made him universal legatee. So he +inherited everything. + +For a long time the people of the country put him into quarantine, as +they still suspected him. His house, which was that of the dead woman, +was looked upon as accursed. People avoided him in the street. + +But he showed himself so good-natured, so open, so familiar, that +gradually these horrible doubts were forgotten. He was generous, +obliging, ready to talk to the humblest about anything as long as they +cared to talk to him. + +The notary, Maître Rameay, was one of the first to take his part, +attracted by his smiling loquacity. He said one evening at a dinner at +the tax-collector's house: + +“A man who speaks with such facility and who is always in good-humor +could not have such a crime on his conscience.” + +Touched by this argument, the others who were present reflected, and +they recalled to mind the long conversations with this man who made them +stop almost by force at the road corners to communicate his ideas to +them, who insisted on their going into his house when they were passing +by his garden, who could crack a joke better than the lieutenant of the +gendarmes himself, and who possessed such contagious gaiety that, in +spite of the repugnance with which he inspired them, they could not keep +from always laughing when in his company. + +All doors were opened to him after a time. + +He is, to-day, the mayor of his own community. + + + + +A LIVELY FRIEND + + +They had beer, constantly in each other's society for a whole winter in +Paris. After having lost sight of each other, as generally happens in +such cases, after leaving college, the two friends met again one night, +long years after, already old and white-haired, the one a bachelor, the +other married. + +M. de Meroul lived six months in Paris and six months in his little +château at Tourbeville. Having married the daughter of a gentleman in +the district, he had lived a peaceful, happy life with the indolence of +a man who has nothing to do. With a calm temperament and a sedate mind, +without any intellectual audacity or tendency toward revolutionary +independence of thought, he passed his time in mildly regretting the +past, in deploring the morals and the institutions of to-day, and in +repeating every moment to his wife, who raised her eyes to heaven, and +sometimes her hands also, in token of energetic assent: + +“Under what a government do we live, great God!” + +Madame de Meroul mentally resembled her husband, just as if they had +been brother and sister. She knew by tradition that one ought, first of +all, to reverence the Pope and the King! + +And she loved them and respected them from the bottom of her heart, +without knowing them, with a poetic exaltation, with a hereditary +devotion, with all the sensibility of a well-born woman. She was kindly +in every feeling of her soul. She had no child, and was incessantly +regretting it. + +When M. de Meroul came across his old schoolfellow Joseph Mouradour at a +ball, he experienced from this meeting a profound and genuine delight, +for they had been very fond of one another in their youth. + +After exclamations of astonishment over the changes caused by age in +their bodies and their faces, they had asked one another a number of +questions as to their respective careers. + +Joseph Mouradour, a native of the south of France, had become a +councillor-general in his own neighborhood. Frank in his manners, he +spoke briskly and without any circumspection, telling all his thoughts +with sheer indifference to prudential considerations. He was a +Republican, of that race of good-natured Republicans who make their own +ease the law of their existence, and who carry freedom of speech to the +verge of brutality. + +He called at his friend's address in Paris, and was immediately a +favorite, on account of his easy cordiality, in spite of his advanced +opinions. Madame de Meroul exclaimed: + +“What a pity! such a charming man!” + +M. de Meroul said to his friend, in a sincere and confidential tone: +“You cannot imagine what a wrong you do to our country.” He was attached +to his friend nevertheless, for no bonds are more solid than those of +childhood renewed in later life. Joseph Mouradour chaffed the husband +and wife, called them “my loving turtles,” and occasionally gave vent to +loud declarations against people who were behind the age, against all +sorts of prejudices and traditions. + +When he thus directed the flood of his democratic eloquence, the married +pair, feeling ill at ease, kept silent through a sense of propriety and +good-breeding; then the husband tried to turn off the conversation in +order to avoid any friction. Joseph Mouradour did not want to know +anyone unless he was free to say what he liked. + +Summer came round. The Merouls knew no greater pleasure than to receive +their old friends in their country house at Tourbeville. It was an +intimate and healthy pleasure, the pleasure of homely gentlefolk who had +spent most of their lives in the country. They used to go to the nearest +railway station to meet some of their guests, and drove them to the +house in their carriage, watching for compliments on their district, on +the rapid vegetation, on the condition of the roads in the department, +on the cleanliness of the peasants' houses, on the bigness of the cattle +they saw in the fields, on everything that met the eye as far as the +edge of the horizon. + +They liked to have it noticed that their horse trotted in a wonderful +manner for an animal employed a part of the year in field-work; and they +awaited with anxiety the newcomer's opinion on their family estate, +sensitive to the slightest word, grateful for the slightest gracious +attention. + +Joseph Mouradour was invited, and he announced his arrival. The wife and +the husband came to meet the train, delighted to have the opportunity of +doing the honors of their house. + +As soon as he perceived them, Joseph Mouradour jumped out of his +carriage with a vivacity which increased their satisfaction. He grasped +their hands warmly, congratulated them, and intoxicated them with +compliments. + +He was quite charming in his manner as they drove along the road to the +house; he expressed astonishment at the height of the trees, the +excellence of the crops, and the quickness of the horse. + +When he placed his foot on the steps in front of the chateau, M. de +Meroul said to him with a certain friendly solemnity: + +“Now you are at home.” + +Joseph Mouradour answered: “Thanks, old fellow; I counted on that. For +my part, besides, I never put myself out with my friends. That's the +only hospitality I understand.” + +Then he went up to his own room, where he put on the costume of a +peasant, as he was pleased to describe it, and he came down again not +very long after, attired in blue linen, with yellow boots, in the +careless rig-out of a Parisian out for a holiday. He seemed, too, to +have become more common, more jolly, more familiar, having assumed along +with his would-be rustic garb a free and easy swagger which he thought +suited the style of dress. His new apparel somewhat shocked M. and +Madame de Meroul, who even at home on their estate always remained +serious and respectable, as the particle “de” before their name exacted +a certain amount of ceremonial even with their intimate friends. + +After lunch they went to visit the farms; and the Parisian stupefied the +respectable peasants by talking to them as if he were a comrade of +theirs. + +In the evening, the curé dined at the house--a fat old priest, wearing +his Sunday suit, who had been specially asked that day in order to meet +the newcomer. + +When Joseph saw him he made a grimace, then he stared at the priest in +astonishment as if he belonged to some peculiar race of beings, the like +of which he had never seen before at such close quarters. He told a few +stories allowable enough with a friend after dinner, but apparently +somewhat out of place in the presence of an ecclesiastic. He did not +say, “Monsieur l'Abbé,” but merely “Monsieur”; and he embarrassed the +priest with philosophical views as to the various superstitions that +prevailed on the surface of the globe. + +He remarked: + +“Your God, Monsieur, is one of those persons whom we must respect, but +also one of those who must be discussed. Mine is called Reason; he has +from time immemorial been the enemy of yours.” + +The Merouls, greatly put out, attempted to divert his thoughts. The curé +left very early. + +Then the husband gently remarked: + +“You went a little too far with that priest.” + +But Joseph immediately replied: + +“That's a very good joke, too! Am I to bother my brains about a +devil-dodger? At any rate, do me the favor of not ever again having such +an old fogy to dinner. Confound his impudence!” + +“But, my friend, remember his sacred character.” + +Joseph Mouradour interrupted him: + +“Yes, I know. We must treat them like girls who get roses for being well +behaved! That's all right, my boy! When these people respect my +convictions, I will respect theirs!” + +This was all that happened that day. + +Next morning Madame de Meroul, on entering her drawing-room, saw lying +on the table three newspapers which made her draw back in horror, “Le +Voltaire,” “La République Française,” and “La Justice.” + +Presently Joseph Mouradour, still in his blue blouse, appeared on the +threshold, reading “L'Intransigéant” attentively. He exclaimed: + +“Here is a splendid article by Rochefort. That fellow is marvelous.” + +He read the article in a loud voice, laying so much stress on its most +striking passages that he did not notice the entrance of his friend. + +M. de Meroul had a paper in each hand: “Le Gaulois” for himself and “Le +Clarion” for his wife. + +The ardent prose of the master-writer who overthrew the empire, +violently declaimed, recited in the accent of the south, rang through +the peaceful drawing-room, shook the old curtains with their rigid +folds, seemed to splash the walls, the large upholstered chairs, the +solemn furniture fixed in the same position for the past century, with a +hail of words, rebounding, impudent, ironical, and crushing. + +The husband and the wife, the one standing, the other seated, listened +in a state of stupor, so scandalized that they no longer even ventured +to make a gesture. Mouradour flung out the concluding passage in the +article as one sets off a stream of fireworks; then in an emphatic tone +he remarked: + +“That's a stinger, eh?” + +But suddenly he perceived the two prints belonging to his friend, and he +seemed himself for a moment overcome with astonishment. Then he came +across to his host with great strides, demanding in an angry tone: + +“What do you want to do with these papers?” + +M. de. Meroul replied in a hesitating voice: + +“Why, these--these are my--my newspapers.” + +“Your newspapers! Look here, now, you are only laughing at me! You will +do me the favor to read mine, to stir you up with a few new ideas, and, +as for yours--this is what I do with them--” + +And before his host, filled with confusion, could prevent him, he seized +the two newspapers and flung them out through the window. Then he +gravely placed “La Justice” in the hands of Madame de Meroul and “Le +Voltaire” in those of her husband, himself sinking into an armchair to +finish “L'Intransigéant.” + +The husband and the wife, through feelings of delicacy, made a show of +reading a little, then they handed back the Republican newspapers which +they touched with their finger-tips as if they had been poisoned. + +Then Mouradour burst out laughing, and said: + +“A week of this sort of nourishment, and I'll have you converted to my +ideas.” + +At the end of a week, in fact, he ruled the house. He had shut the door +on the curé, whom Madame de Meroul went to see in secret. He gave orders +that neither the “Gaulois” nor the “Clarion” were to be admitted into +the house, which a manservant went to get in a mysterious fashion at the +post-office, and which, on his entrance, were hidden away under the sofa +cushions. He regulated everything just as he liked, always charming, +always good-natured, a jovial and all-powerful tyrant. + +Other friends were about to come on a visit, religious people with +Legitimist opinions. The master and mistress of the chateau considered +it would be impossible to let them meet their lively guest, and not +knowing what to do, announced to Joseph Mouradour one evening that they +were obliged to go away from home for a few days about a little matter +of business, and they begged of him to remain in the house alone. + +He showed no trace of emotion, and replied: + +“Very well; 'tis all the same to me; I'll wait here for you as long as +you like. What I say is this--there need be no ceremony between friends. +You're quite right to look after your own affairs--why the devil +shouldn't you? I'll not take offense at your doing that, quite the +contrary. It only makes me feel quite at my ease with you. Go, my +friends--I'll wait for you.” + +M. and Madame de Meroul started next morning. + +He is waiting for them. + + + + +THE BLIND MAN + + +How is it that the sunlight gives us such joy? Why does this radiance +when it falls on the earth fill us so much with the delight of living? +The sky is all blue, the fields are all green, the houses all white; and +our ravished eyes drink in those bright colors which bring mirthfulness +to our souls. And then there springs up in our hearts a desire to dance, +a desire to run, a desire to sing, a happy lightness of thought, a sort +of enlarged tenderness; we feel a longing to embrace the sun. + +The blind, as they sit in the doorways, impassive in their eternal +darkness, remain as calm as ever in the midst of this fresh gaiety, and, +not comprehending what is taking place around them, they continue every +moment to stop their dogs from gamboling. + +When, at the close of the day, they are returning home on the arm of a +young brother or a little sister, if the child says: “It was a very fine +day!” the other answers: “I could notice that 'twas fine. Lulu wouldn't +keep quiet.” + +I have known one of these men whose life was one of the most cruel +martyrdoms that could possibly be conceived. + +He was a peasant, the son of a Norman farmer. As long as his father and +mother lived, he was more or less taken care of; he suffered little save +from his horrible infirmity; but as soon as the old people were gone, a +life of atrocious misery commenced for him. A dependent on a sister of +his, everybody in the farmhouse treated him as a beggar who is eating +the bread of others. At every meal the very food he swallowed was made a +subject of reproach against him; he was called a drone, a clown; and +although his brother-in-law had taken possession of his portion of the +inheritance, the soup was given to him grudgingly--just enough to save +him from dying. + +His face was very pale and his two big white eyes were like wafers. He +remained unmoved in spite of the insults inflicted upon him, so shut up +in himself that one could not tell whether he felt them at all. + +Moreover, he had never known any tenderness; his mother had always +treated him very unkindly, caring scarcely at all for him; for in +country places the useless are obnoxious, and the peasants would be +glad, like hens, to kill the infirm of their species. + +As soon as the soup had been gulped down, he went to the door in summer +time and sat down, to the chimney-corner in winter time, and, after +that, never stirred till night. He made no gesture, no movement; only +his eyelids, quivering from some nervous affection, fell down sometimes +over his white sightless orbs. Had he any intellect, any thinking +faculty, any consciousness of his own existence? Nobody cared to inquire +as to whether he had or no. + +For some years things went on in this fashion But his incapacity for +doing anything as well as his impassiveness eventually exasperated his +relatives, and he became a laughing-stock, a sort of martyred buffoon, a +prey given over to native ferocity, to the savage gaiety of the brutes +who surrounded him. + +It is easy to imagine all the cruel practical jokes inspired by his +blindness. And, in order to have some fun in return for feeding him, +they now converted his meals into hours of pleasure for the neighbors +and of punishment for the helpless creature himself. + +The peasants from the nearest houses came to this entertainment; it was +talked about from door to door, and every day the kitchen of the +farmhouse was full of people. For instance, they put on the table in +front of his plate, when he was beginning to take the soup, a cat or a +dog. The animal instinctively scented out the man's infirmity, and, +softly approaching, commenced eating noiselessly, lapping up the soup +daintily; and, when a rather loud licking of the tongue awakened the +poor fellow's attention, it would prudently scamper away to avoid the +blow of the spoon directed at it by the blind man at random! + +Then the spectators, huddled against the walls, burst out laughing, +nudged each other, and stamped their feet on the floor. And he, without +ever uttering a word, would continue eating with the aid of his right +hand, while stretching out his left to protect and defend his plate. + +At another time they made him chew corks, bits of wood, leaves, or even +filth, which he was unable to distinguish. + +After this, they got tired even of these practical jokes; and the +brother-in-law, mad at having to support him always, struck him, cuffed +him incessantly, laughing at the useless efforts of the other to ward +off or return the blows. Then came a new pleasure--the pleasure of +smacking his face. And the plowmen, the servant-girls, and even every +passing vagabond were every moment giving him cuffs, which caused his +eyelashes to twitch spasmodically. He did not know where to hide himself +and remained with his arms always held out to guard against people +coming too close to him. + +At last he was forced to beg. + +He was placed somewhere on the highroad on market-days, and, as soon as +he heard the sound of footsteps or the rolling of a vehicle, he reached +out his hat, stammering: + +“Charity, if you please!” + +But the peasant is not lavish, and, for whole weeks, he did not bring +back a sou. + +Then he became the victim of furious, pitiless hatred. And this is how +he died. + +One winter, the ground was covered with snow, and it froze horribly. Now +his brother-in-law led him one morning at this season a great distance +along the highroad in order that he might solicit alms. The blind man +was left there all day, and, when night came on, the brother-in-law told +the people of his house that he could find no trace of the mendicant. +Then he added: + +“Pooh! best not bother about him! He was cold, and got some one to take +him away. Never fear! he's not lost. He'll turn up soon enough to-morrow +to eat the soup.” + +Next day he did not come back. + +After long hours of waiting, stiffened with the cold, feeling that he +was dying, the blind man began to walk. Being unable to find his way +along the road, owing to its thick coating of ice, he went on at random, +falling into dikes, getting up again, without uttering a sound, his sole +object being to find some house where he could take shelter. + +But by degrees the descending snow made a numbness steal over him, and +his feeble limbs being incapable of carrying him farther, he had to sit +down in the middle of an open field. He did not get up again. + +The white flakes which kept continually falling buried him, so that his +body, quite stiff and stark, disappeared under the incessant +accumulation of their rapidly thickening mass; and nothing any longer +indicated the place where the corpse was lying. + +His relatives made pretense of inquiring about him and searching for him +for about a week. They even made a show of weeping. + +The winter was severe, and the thaw did not set in quickly. Now, one +Sunday, on their way to mass, the farmers noticed a great flight of +crows, who were whirling endlessly above the open field, and then, like +a shower of black rain, descended in a heap at the same spot, ever going +and coming. + +The following week these gloomy birds were still there. There was a +crowd of them up in the air, as if they had gathered from all corners of +the horizon; and they swooped down with a great cawing into the shining +snow, which they filled curiously with patches of black, and in which +they kept rummaging obstinately. A young fellow went to see what they +were doing, and discovered the body of the blind man, already half +devoured, mangled. His wan eyes had disappeared, pecked out by the long +voracious beaks. + +And I can never feel the glad radiance of sunlit days without sadly +remembering and gloomily pondering over the fate of the beggar so +deprived of joy in life that his horrible death was a relief for all +those who had known him. + + + + +THE IMPOLITE SEX + + +MADAME DE X. TO MADAME DE L. + +ETRETAT, Friday. + +MY DEAR AUNT,--I am going to pay you a visit without making much fuss +about it. I shall be at Les Fresnes on the second of September, the day +before the hunting season opens; I do not want to miss it, so that I may +tease these gentlemen. You are very obliging, Aunt, and I would like you +to allow them to dine with you, as you usually do when there are no +strange guests, without dressing or shaving for the occasion, on the +ground that they are fatigued. + +They are delighted, of course, when I am not present. But I shall be +there, and I shall hold a review, like a general, at the dinner-hour; +and, if I find a single one of them at all careless in dress, no matter +how little, I mean to send him down to the kitchen to the servant-maids. + +The men of to-day have so little consideration for others and so little +good manners that one must be always severe with them. We live indeed in +an age of vulgarity. When they quarrel with one another, they attack one +another with insults worthy of street porters, and, in our presence, +they do not conduct themselves even as well as our servants. It is at +the seaside that you see this most clearly. They are to be found there +in battalions, and you can judge them in the lump. Oh, what coarse +beings they are! + +Just imagine, in a train, one of them, a gentleman who looked well as I +thought, at first sight, thanks to his tailor, was dainty enough to take +off his boots in order to put on a pair of old shoes! Another, an old +man, who was probably some wealthy upstart (these are the most +ill-bred), while sitting opposite to me, had the delicacy to place his +two feet on the seat quite close to me. This is a positive fact. + +At the watering-places, there is an unrestrained outpouring of +unmannerliness. I must here make one admission--that my indignation is +perhaps due to the fact that I am not accustomed to associate as a rule +with the sort of people one comes across here, for I should be less +shocked by their manners if I had the opportunity of observing them +oftener. In the inquiry-office of the hotel I was nearly thrown down by +a young man, who snatched the key over my head. Another knocked against +me so violently without begging my pardon or lifting his hat, coming +away from a ball at the Casino, that he gave me a pain in the chest. It +is the same way with all of them. Watch them addressing ladies on the +terrace: they scarcely ever bow. They merely raise their hands to their +headgear. But indeed, as they are all more or less bald, it is the best +plan. + +But what exasperates and disgusts me especially is the liberty they take +of talking publicly, without any precaution whatsoever, about the most +revolting adventures. When two men are together, they relate to each +other, in the broadest language and with the most abominable comments, +really horrible stories, without caring in the slightest degree whether +a woman's ear is within reach of their voices. Yesterday, on the beach, +I was forced to go away from the place where I sat in order not to be +any longer the involuntary confidant of an obscene anecdote, told in +such immodest language that I felt as much humiliated as I was indignant +at having heard it. Would not the most elementary good-breeding have +taught them to speak in a lower tone about such matters when we are near +at hand? Etretat is, moreover, the country of gossip and scandal. From +five to seven o'clock you can see people wandering about in quest of +nasty stories about others, which they retail from group to group. As +you remarked to me, my dear Aunt, tittle-tattle is the mark of petty +individuals and petty minds. It is also the consolation of women who are +no longer loved or sought after. It is enough for me to observe the +women who are fondest of gossiping to be persuaded that you are quite +right. + +The other day I was present at a musical evening at the Casino, given by +a remarkable artist, Madame Masson, who sings in a truly delightful +manner. I took the opportunity of applauding the admirable Coquelin, as +well as two charming boarders of the Vaudeville, M---- and Meillet. I +was able, on the occasion, to see all the bathers collected together +this year on the beach. There were not many persons of distinction among +them. + +One day I went to lunch at Yport. I noticed a tall man with a beard who +was coming out of a large house like a castle. It was the painter, Jean +Paul Laurens. He is not satisfied apparently with imprisoning the +subjects of his pictures; he insists on imprisoning himself. + +Then I found myself seated on the shingle close to a man still young, of +gentle and refined appearance, who was reading some verses. But he read +them with such concentration, with such passion, I may say, that he did +not even raise his eyes toward me. I was somewhat astonished, and I +asked the conductor of the baths, without appearing to be much +concerned, the name of this gentleman. I laughed inwardly a little at +this reader of rhymes: he seemed behind the age, for a man. This person, +I thought, must be a simpleton. Well, Aunt, I am now infatuated about +this stranger. Just fancy, his name is Sully Prudhomme! I turned round +to look at him at my ease, just where I sat. His face possesses the two +qualities of calmness and elegance. As somebody came to look for him, I +was able to hear his voice, which is sweet and almost timid. He would +certainly not tell obscene stories aloud in public, or knock against +ladies without apologizing. He is sure to be a man of refinement, but +his refinement is of an almost morbid, vibrating character. I will try +this winter to get an introduction to him. + +I have no more news to tell you, my dear Aunt, and I must interrupt this +letter in haste, as the post-hour is near. I kiss your hands and your +cheeks. + +Your devoted niece, + +BERTHE DE X. + +P.S.--I should add, however, by way of justification of French +politeness, that our fellow-countrymen are, when traveling, models of +good manners in comparison with the abominable English, who seem to have +been brought up by stable-boys, so much do they take care not to +incommode themselves in any way, while they always incommode their +neighbors. + + +MADAME DE L. TO MADAME DE X. + +LES FRESNES, Saturday. + +My dear child,--Many of the things you have said to me are very +reasonable, but that does not prevent you from being wrong. Like you, I +used formerly to feel very indignant at the impoliteness of men, who, as +I supposed, constantly treated me with neglect; but, as I grew older and +reflected on everything, putting aside coquetry and observing things +without taking any part in them myself, I perceived this much--that if +men are not always polite, women are always indescribably rude. + +We imagine that we should be permitted to do anything, my darling, and +at the same time we consider that we have a right to the utmost respect, +and in the most flagrant manner we commit actions devoid of that +elementary good-breeding of which you speak with passion. + +I find, on the contrary, that men have, for us, much consideration, as +compared with our bearing toward them. Besides, darling, men must needs +be, and are, what we make them. In a state of society where women are +all true gentlewomen all men would become gentlemen. + +Mark my words; just observe and reflect. + +Look at two women meeting in the street. What an attitude each assumes +toward the other! What disparaging looks! What contempt they throw into +each glance! How they toss their heads while they inspect each other to +find something to condemn! And, if the footpath is narrow, do you think +one woman will make room for another, or will beg pardon as she sweeps +by? Never! When two men jostle each other by accident in some narrow +lane, each of them bows and at the same time gets out of the other's +way, while we women press against each other, stomach to stomach, face +to face, insolently staring each other out of countenance. + +Look at two women who are acquaintances meeting on a staircase before +the drawing-room door of a friend of theirs to whom one has just paid a +visit, and to whom the other is about to pay a visit. They begin to talk +to each other, and block up the passage. If anyone happens to be coming +up behind them, man or woman, do you imagine that they will put +themselves half an inch out of their way? Never! never! + +I was waiting myself, with my watch in my hands, one day last winter, at +a certain drawing-room door. Behind me two gentlemen were also waiting +without showing any readiness to lose their temper, like me. The reason +was that they had long grown accustomed to our unconscionable insolence. + +The other day, before leaving Paris, I went to dine with no less a +person than your husband in the Champs-Elysees, in order to enjoy the +open air. Every table was occupied. The waiter asked us not to go, and +there would soon be a vacant table. + +At that moment, I noticed an elderly lady of noble figure, who, having +paid the amount of her check, seemed on the point of going away. She saw +me, scanned me from head to foot, and did not budge. For more than a +full quarter of an hour she sat there, immovable, putting on her gloves, +and calmly staring at those who were waiting like myself. Now, two young +men who were just finishing their dinner, having seen me in their turn, +quickly summoned the waiter in order to pay whatever they owed, and at +once offered me their seats, even insisting on standing while waiting +for their change. And, bear in mind, my fair niece, that I am no longer +pretty, like you, but old and white-haired. + +It is we (do you see?) who should be taught politeness; and the task +would be such a difficult one that Hercules himself would not be equal +to it. You speak to me about Etretat, and about the people who indulge +in “tittle-tattle” along the beach of that delightful watering-place. It +is a spot now lost to me, a thing of the past, but I found much +amusement there in days gone by. + +There were only a few of us, people in good society, really good +society, and a few artists, and we all fraternized. We paid little +attention to gossip in those days. + +Well, as we had no insipid Casino, where people only gather for show, +where they talk in whispers, where they dance stupidly, where they +succeed in thoroughly boring one another, we sought some other way of +passing our evenings pleasantly. Now, just guess what came into the head +of one of our husbandry? Nothing less than to go and dance each night in +one of the farmhouses in the neighborhood. + +We started out in a group with a street-organ, generally played by Le +Poittevin, the painter, with a cotton nightcap on his head. Two men +carried lanterns. We followed in procession, laughing and chattering +like a pack of fools. + +We woke up the farmer and his servant-maids and laboring men. We got +them to make onion-soup (horror!), and we danced under the apple-trees, +to the sound of the barrel-organ. The cocks waking up began to crow in +the darkness of the outhouses; the horses began prancing on the straw of +their stables. The cool air of the country caressed our cheeks with the +smell of grass and of new-mown hay. + +How long ago it is! How long ago it is. It is thirty years since then! + +I do not want you, my darling, to come for the opening of the hunting +season. Why spoil the pleasure of our friends by inflicting on them +fashionable toilettes after a day of vigorous exercise in the country? +This is the way, child, that men are spoiled. I embrace you. + +Your old aunt, + +GENEVIEVE DE L. + + + + +THE CAKE + + +Let us say that her name was Madame Anserre so as not to reveal her real +name. + +She was one of those Parisian comets which leave, as it were, a trail of +fire behind them. She wrote verses and novels; she had a poetic heart, +and was rarely beautiful. She opened her doors to very few--only to +exceptional people, those who are commonly described as princes of +something or other. To be a visitor at her house constituted a claim, a +genuine claim to intellect: at least this was the estimate set on her +invitations. Her husband played the part of an obscure satellite. To be +the husband of a comet is not an easy thing. This husband had, however, +an original idea, that of creating a State within a State, of possessing +a merit of his own, a merit of the second order, it is true; but he did, +in fact, in this fashion, on the days when his wife held receptions, +hold receptions also on his own account. He had his special set who +appreciated him, listened to him, and bestowed on him more attention +than they did on his brilliant partner. + +He had devoted himself to agriculture--to agriculture in the Chamber. +There are in the same way generals in the Chamber--those who are born, +who live, and who die, on the round leather chairs of the War Office, +are all of this sort, are they not? Sailors in the Chamber,--viz., in +the Admiralty,--colonizers in the Chamber, etc., etc. So he had studied +agriculture, had studied it deeply, indeed, in its relations to the +other sciences, to political economy, to the Fine Arts--we dress up the +Fine Arts with every kind of science, and we even call the horrible +railway bridges “works of art.” At length he reached the point when it +was said of him: “He is a man of ability.” He was quoted in the +technical reviews; his wife had succeeded in getting him appointed a +member of a committee at the Ministry of Agriculture. + +This latest glory was quite sufficient for him. + +Under the pretext of diminishing the expenses, he sent out invitations +to his friends for the day when his wife received hers, so that they +associated together, or rather did not--they formed two distinct groups. +Madame, with her escort of artists, academicians, and ministers, +occupied a kind of gallery, furnished and decorated in the style of the +Empire. Monsieur generally withdrew with his agriculturists into a +smaller portion of the house used as a smoking-room and ironically +described by Madame Anserre as the Salon of Agriculture. + +The two camps were clearly separate. Monsieur, without jealousy, +moreover, sometimes penetrated into the Academy, and cordial +hand-shakings were exchanged; but the Academy entertained infinite +contempt for the Salon of Agriculture, and it was rarely that one of the +princes of science, of thought, or of anything else, mingled with the +agriculturists. + +These receptions occasioned little expense--a cup of tea, a cake, that +was all. Monsieur, at an earlier period, had claimed two cakes, one for +the Academy, and one for the agriculturists, but Madame having rightly +suggested that this way of acting seemed to indicate two camps, two +receptions, two parties, Monsieur did not press the matter, so that they +used only one cake, of which Madame Anserre did the honors at the +Academy, and which then passed into the Salon de Agriculture. + +Now, this cake was soon, for the Academy, a subject of observation well +calculated to arouse curiosity. Madame Anserre never cut it herself. +That function always fell to the lot of one or other of the illustrious +guests. The particular duty, which was supposed to carry with it +honorable distinction, was performed by each person for a pretty long +period, in one case for three months, scarcely ever for more; and it was +noticed that the privilege of “cutting the cake” carried with it a heap +of other marks of superiority--a sort of royalty, or rather very +accentuated viceroyalty. + +The reigning cutter spoke in a haughty tone, with an air of marked +command; and all the favors of the mistress of the house were for him +alone. + +These happy individuals were in moments of intimacy described in hushed +tones behind doors as the “favorites of the cake,” and every change of +favorite introduced into the Academy a sort of revolution. The knife was +a scepter, the pastry an emblem; the chosen ones were congratulated. The +agriculturists never cut the cake. Monsieur himself was always excluded, +although he ate his share. + +The cake was cut in succession by poets, by painters, and by novelists. +A great musician had the privilege of measuring the portions of the cake +for some time; an ambassador succeeded him. Sometimes a man less well +known, but elegant and sought after, one of those who are called +according to the different epochs, “true gentleman,” or “perfect +knight,” or “dandy,” or something else, seated himself, in his turn, +before the symbolic cake. Each of them, during this ephemeral reign, +exhibited greater consideration toward the husband; then, when the hour +of his fall had arrived, he passed on the knife toward the other, and +mingled once more with the crowd of followers and admirers of the +“beautiful Madame Anserre.” + +This state of things lasted a long time; but comets do not always shine +with the same brilliance. Everything gets worn out in society. One would +have said that gradually the eagerness of the cutters grew feebler; they +seemed to hesitate at times when the tray was held out to them; this +office, once so much coveted, became less and less desired. It was +retained for a shorter time; they appeared to be less proud of it. + +Madame Anserre was prodigal of smiles and civilities. Alas! no one was +found any longer to cut it voluntarily. The newcomers seemed to decline +the honor. The “old favorites” reappeared one by one like dethroned +princes who have been replaced for a brief spell in power. Then, the +chosen ones became few, very few. For a month (oh, prodigy!) M, Anserre +cut open the cake; then he looked as if he were getting tired of it; and +one evening Madame Anserre, the beautiful Madame Anserre, was seen +cutting it herself. But this appeared to be very wearisome to her, and, +next day, she urged one of her guests so strongly to do it that he did +not dare to refuse. + +The symbol was too well known, however; the guests stared at one another +with scared, anxious faces. To cut the cake was nothing, but the +privileges to which this favor had always given a claim now frightened +people; therefore, the moment the dish made its appearance the +academicians rushed pellmell into the Salon of Agriculture, as if to +shelter themselves behind the husband, who was perpetually smiling. And +when Madame Anserre, in a state of anxiety, presented herself at the +door with a cake in one hand and the knife in the other, they all seemed +to form a circle around her husband as if to appeal to him for +protection. + +Some years more passed. Nobody cut the cake now; but yielding to an old +inveterate habit, the lady who had always been gallantly called “the +beautiful Madame Anserre” looked out each evening for some devotee to +take the knife, and each time the same movement took place around her, a +general flight, skillfully arranged and full of combined maneuvers that +showed great cleverness, in order to avoid the offer that was rising to +her lips. + +But, one evening, a young man presented himself at her reception--an +innocent, unsophisticated youth. He knew nothing about the mystery of +the cake; accordingly, when it appeared, and when all the rest ran away, +when Madame Anserre took from the manservant's hands the dish and the +pastry, he remained quietly by her side. + +She thought that perhaps he knew about the matter; she smiled, and in a +tone which showed some emotion, said: + +“Will you be kind enough, dear Monsieur, to cut this cake?” + +He displayed the utmost readiness, and took off his gloves, flattered at +such an honor being conferred on him. + +“Oh, to be sure, Madame, with the greatest pleasure.” + +Some distance away in the corner of the gallery, in the frame of the +door which led into the Salon of the Agriculturists, faces which +expressed utter amazement were staring at him. Then, when the spectators +saw the newcomer cutting without any hesitation, they quickly came +forward. + +An old poet jocosely slapped the neophyte on the shoulder. + +“Bravo, young man!” he whispered in his ear. + +The others gazed at him with curiosity. Even the husband appeared to be +surprised. As for the young man, he was astonished at the consideration +which they suddenly seemed to show toward him; above all, he failed to +comprehend the marked attentions, the manifest favor, and the species of +mute gratitude which the mistress of the house bestowed on him. + +It appears, however, that he eventually found out. + +At what moment, in what place, was the revelation made to him? Nobody +could tell; but, when he again presented himself at the reception, he +had a preoccupied air, almost a shamefaced look, and he cast around him +a glance of uneasiness. + +The bell rang for tea. The manservant appeared. Madame Anserre, with a +smile, seized the dish, casting a look about her for her young friend; +but he had fled so precipitately that no trace of him could be seen any +longer. Then, she went looking everywhere for him, and ere long she +discovered him in the Salon of the Agriculturists. With his arm locked +in that of the husband, he was consulting that gentleman as to the means +employed for destroying phylloxera. + +“My dear Monsieur,” she said to him, “will you be so kind as to cut this +cake for me?” + +He reddened to the roots of his hair, and hanging down his head, +stammered out some excuses. Thereupon M. Anserre took pity on him, and +turning toward his wife, said: + +“My dear, you might have the goodness not to disturb us. We are talking +about agriculture. So get your cake cut by Baptiste.” + +And since that day nobody has ever cut Madame Anserre's cake. + + + + +THE CORSICAN BANDIT + + +The road, with a gentle winding, reached the middle of the forest. The +huge pine-trees spread above our heads a mournful-looking vault, and +gave forth a kind of long, sad wail, while at either side their +straight, slender trunks formed, as it were, an army of organ-pipes, +from which seemed to issue the low, monotonous music of the wind through +the tree-tops. + +After three hours' walking there was an opening in this row of tangled +branches. Here and there an enormous pine-parasol, separated from the +others, opening like an immense umbrella, displayed its dome of dark +green; then, all of a sudden, we gained the boundary of the forest, some +hundreds of meters below the defile which leads into the wild valley of +Niolo. + +On the two projecting heights which commanded a view of this pass, some +old trees, grotesquely twisted, seemed to have mounted with painful +efforts, like scouts who had started in advance of the multitude heaped +together in the rear. When we turned round we saw the entire forest +stretched beneath our feet, like a gigantic basin of verdure, whose +edges, which seemed to reach the sky, were composed of bare racks +shutting in on every side. + +We resumed our walk, and, ten minutes later, we found ourselves in the +defile. + +Then I beheld an astonishing landscape. Beyond another forest, a valley, +but a valley such as I had never seen before, a solitude of stone ten +leagues long, hollowed out between two high mountains, without a field +or a tree to be seen. This was the Niolo valley, the fatherland of +Corsican liberty, the inaccessible citadel, from which the invaders had +never been able to drive out the mountaineers. + +My companion said to me: “It is here, that all our bandits have taken +refuge.” + +Ere long we were at the further end of this chasm, so wild, so +inconceivably beautiful. + +Not a blade of grass, not a plant--nothing but granite. As far as our +eyes could reach we saw in front of us a desert of glittering stone, +heated like an oven by a burning sun which seemed to hang for that very +purpose right above the gorge. When we raised our eyes toward the crests +we stood dazzled and stupefied by what we saw. They looked red and +notched like festoons of coral, for all the summits are made of +porphyry; and the sky overhead seemed violet, lilac, discolored by the +vicinity of these strange mountains. Lower down the granite was of +scintillating gray, and under our feet it seemed rasped, pounded; we +were walking over shining powder. At our right, along a long and +irregular course, a tumultuous torrent ran with a continuous roar. And +we staggered along under this heat, in this light, in this burning, +arid, desolate valley cut by this ravine of turbulent water which seemed +to be ever hurrying onward, without being able to fertilize these rocks, +lost in this furnace which greedily drank it up without being penetrated +or refreshed by it. + +But suddenly there was visible at our right a little wooden cross sunk +in a little heap of stones. A man had been killed there; and I said to +my companion: + +“Tell me about your bandits.” + +He replied: + +“I knew the most celebrated of them, the terrible St. Lucia. I will tell +you his history. + +“His father was killed in a quarrel by a young man of the same district, +it is said; and St. Lucia was left alone with his sister. He was a weak +and timid youth, small, often ill, without any energy. He did not +proclaim the _vendetta_ against the assassin of his father. All his +relatives came to see him, and implored of him to take vengeance; he +remained deaf to their menaces and their supplications. + +“Then, following the old Corsican custom, his sister, in her +indignation, carried away his black clothes, in order that he might not +wear mourning for a dead man who had not been avenged. He was insensible +to even this outrage, and rather than take down from the rack his +father's gun, which was still loaded, he shut himself up, not daring to +brave the looks of the young men of the district. + +“He seemed to have even forgotten the crime, and he lived with his +sister in the obscurity of their dwelling. + +“But, one day, the man who was suspected of having committed the murder +was about to get married. St. Lucia did not appear to be moved by this +news; but, no doubt out of sheer bravado, the bridegroom, on his way to +the church, passed before the two orphans' house. + +“The brother and the sister, at their window, were eating little fried +cakes when the young man saw the bridal procession moving past the +house. Suddenly he began to tremble, rose up without uttering a word, +made the sign of the cross, took the gun which was hanging over the +fireplace, and went out. + +“When he spoke of this later on, he said: 'I don't know what was the +matter with me; it was like fire in my blood; I felt that I should do +it, that in spite of everything, I could not resist, and I concealed the +gun in a cave on the road to Corte.' + +“An hour later, he came back, with nothing in his hand, and with his +habitual sad air of weariness. His sister believed that there was +nothing further in his thoughts. + +“But when night fell he disappeared. + +“His enemy had, the same evening, to repair to Corte on foot, +accompanied by his two bridesmen. + +“He was pursuing his way, singing as he went, when St. Lucia stood +before him, and looking straight in the murderer's face, exclaimed: 'Now +is the time!' and shot him point-blank in the chest. + +“One of the bridesmen fled; the other stared at the young man, saying: + +“'What have you done, St. Lucia?' + +“Then he was going to hasten to Corte for help, but St. Lucia said in a +stern tone: + +“'If you move another step, I'll shoot you through the legs.' + +“The other, aware that till now he had always appeared timid, said to +him: 'You would not dare to do it!' and he was hurrying off when he +fell, instantaneously, his thigh shattered by a bullet. + +“And St. Lucia, coming over to where he lay, said: + +“'I am going to look at your wound; if it is not serious, I'll leave you +there; if it is mortal, I'll finish you off.' + +“He inspected the wound, considered it mortal, and slowly re-loading his +gun, told the wounded man to say a prayer, and shot him through the +head. + +“Next day he was in the mountains. + +“And do you know what this St. Lucia did after this? + +“All his family were arrested by the gendarmes. His uncle, the curé, who +was suspected of having incited him to this deed of vengeance, was +himself put into prison, and accused by the dead man's relatives. But he +escaped, took a gun in his turn, and went to join his nephew in the +cave. + +“Next, St. Lucia killed, one after the other, his uncle's accusers, and +tore out their eyes to teach the others never to state what they had +seen with their eyes. + +“He killed all the relatives, all the connections of his enemy's family. +He massacred during his life fourteen gendarmes, burned down the houses +of his adversaries, and was up to the day of his death the most terrible +of the bandits, whose memory we have preserved.” + + * * * * * + +The sun disappeared behind Monte Cinto and the tall shadow of the +granite mountain went to sleep on the granite of the valley. We +quickened our pace in order to reach before night the little village of +Albertaccio, nothing better than a heap of stones welded beside the +stone flanks of a wild gorge. And I said as I thought of the bandit: + +“What a terrible custom your _vendetta_ is!” + +My companion answered with an air of resignation: + +“What would you have? A man must do his duty!” + + + + +THE DUEL + + +In society, they called him “The handsome Signoles.” He called himself +Viscount Gontran Joseph de Signoles. + +An orphan and master of a sufficient fortune, he cut something of a +figure, as the saying is. He had an attractive form, enough readiness of +speech to make some attempt at wit, a certain natural grace of manner, +an air of nobility and pride, and a mustache which was both formidable +and pleasant to the eye--a thing that pleases the ladies. + +He was in demand in drawing-rooms, sought for by waltzers, and he +inspired in men that smiling enmity which one has for people of +energetic physique. He was suspected of some love affairs which showed +him capable of much discretion, for a young man. He lived happy, +tranquil, in a state of moral well-being most complete. It was well +known that he was good at handling a sword, and still better with a +pistol. + +“If I were to fight,” he said, “I should choose a pistol. With that +weapon, I am sure of killing my man.” + +Now, one evening, having escorted two young women, friends of his, to +the theater, being also accompanied by their husbands, he offered them, +after the play, an ice at Tortoni's. They had been there about ten +minutes, when he perceived that a gentleman, seated at a neighboring +table, gazed persistently at one of the ladies of his party. She seemed +troubled and disturbed, lowering her eyes. Finally, she said to her +husband: + +“That man is staring me out of countenance. I do not know him; do you?” + +The husband, who had seen nothing, raised his eyes but declared: + +“No, not at all.” + +The young woman replied, half laughing, half angry: “It is very +annoying; that individual is spoiling my ice.” + +The husband shrugged his shoulders, replying: + +“Pshaw! Pay no attention to him. If we were to notice all the insolent +people we meet, there would be no end to it.” + +But the Viscount arose brusquely. He could not allow this unknown man to +spoil an ice he had offered. It was to him that the injury was +addressed, as it was through him and for him that his friends had +entered this _café_. The affair, then, concerned him only. He advanced +toward the man and said to him: + +“You have, sir, a manner of looking at these ladies that is not to be +tolerated. I beg to ask you to cease this attention.” + +The other replied: “So you command me to keep the peace, do you?” + +With set teeth, the Viscount answered: “Take care, sir, or you will +force me to forget myself!” + +The gentleman replied with a single word, an obscene word which +resounded from one end of the _café_ to the other, and made each guest +start with a sudden movement as if they were all on springs. Those that +were in front turned around; all the others raised their heads; three +waiters turned about on their heels as if on pivots; the two ladies at +the counter bounded forward, then entirely turned their backs upon the +scene, as if they had been two automatons obeying the same manipulation. + +There was a great silence. Then, suddenly, a sharp noise rent the air. +The Viscount had struck his adversary. Everybody got up to interpose. +Cards were exchanged. + +After the Viscount had returned home, he walked up and down his room at +a lively pace for some minutes. He was too much agitated to reflect upon +anything. One idea only hovered over his mind: “a duel”; and yet this +idea awoke in him as yet, no emotion whatever. He had done what he ought +to do; he had shown himself what he ought to be. People would talk of +it, approve of it, and congratulate him. He said aloud, in a high voice, +as one speaks when he is much troubled in thought: + +“What a beast that man is.” + +Then he sat down and began to reflect. He would have to find some +seconds in the morning. Whom should he choose? He thought over the +people of his acquaintance who were the most celebrated and in the best +positions. He took finally, Marquis de la Tour-Noire and Colonel +Bourdin, a great lord and a soldier who was very strong. Their names +would carry in the journals. He perceived that he was thirsty and he +drank, one after the other, three glasses of water; then he began to +walk again. He felt himself full of energy. By showing himself +hot-brained, resolute in all things, by exacting rigorous, dangerous +conditions, and by claiming a serious duel, a very serious one, his +adversary would doubtless withdraw and make some excuses. + +He took up the card which he had drawn from his pocket and thrown upon +the table and re-read it as he had in the _café,_ by a glance of the +eye, and again in the cab, on returning home, by the light of a gas jet: +“George Lamil, 51 Moncey street.” That was all. + +He examined these assembled letters which appeared so mysterious to him, +his senses all confused: George Lamil? Who was this man? What had he +done? Why had he looked at that woman in such a way? Was it not +revolting that a stranger, an unknown should come to trouble his life +thus, at a blow, because he had been pleased to fix his insolent gaze +upon a woman? And the Viscount repeated again, in a loud voice: + +“What a brute.” + +Then he remained motionless, standing, thinking, his look ever fixed +upon the card. A certain anger against this piece of paper was awakened +in him, a hateful anger which was mingled with a strange sentiment of +malice. It was stupid, this whole story! He took a penknife which lay +open at his hand, and pricked the card through the middle of-the printed +name, as if he were using a poignard upon some one. + +So he must fight! Should he choose the sword or pistol, for he +considered himself the insulted one. With the sword he risked less; but +with the pistol, there was a chance of his adversary withdrawing. It is +rarely that a duel with the sword is mortal, a reciprocal prudence +hindering the combatants from keeping near enough to each other for the +point to strike very deep; with the pistol he risked his life very +seriously; but he could also meet the affair with all the honors of the +situation and without arriving at a meeting. He said aloud: + +“It is necessary to be firm. He will be afraid.” + +The sound of his own voice made him tremble and he began to look about +him. He felt very nervous. He drank still another glass of water, then +commenced to undress, preparatory to retiring. + +When he was ready, he put out his light and closed his eyes. Then he +thought: + +“I have all day to-morrow to busy myself with my affairs. I must sleep +first, in order to be calm.” + +He was very warm under the clothes, but he could not succeed in falling +asleep. He turned and turned again, remained for five minutes upon his +back, then placed himself upon his left side, then rolled over to the +right. + +He was still thirsty. He got up and drank. Then a kind of disquiet +seized him: + +“Can it be that I am afraid?” said he. + +Why should his heart begin to beat so foolishly at each of the customary +noises about his room?--when the clock was going to strike and the +spring made that little grinding noise as it raised itself to make the +turn? And he found it was necessary for him to open his mouth in order +to breathe for some seconds following this start, so great was his +feeling of oppression. He began to reason with himself upon the +possibilities of the thing: + +“What have I to fear?” + +No, certainly, he should not fear, since he was resolved to follow it +out to the end and since he had fully made up his mind to fight without +a qualm. But he felt himself so profoundly troubled that he asked +himself: + +“Can it be that I am afraid in spite of myself?” + +And this doubt invaded him, this disquiet, this fear; if a force more +powerful than his will, dominating, irresistible, should conquer him, +what would happen to him? Yes, what would happen? Certainly he could +walk upon the earth, if he wished to go there. But if he should tremble? +And if he should lose consciousness? And he thought of his situation, of +his reputation, of his name. + +And a singular desire took possession of him to get up and look at +himself in the glass. He relighted his candle. When he perceived his +face reflected in the polished glass, he scarcely knew himself, and it +seemed to him that he had never seen himself before. His eyes appeared +enormous; he was pale, certainly; he was pale, very pale. + +He remained standing there before the mirror. He put out his tongue as +if to examine the state of his health, and suddenly this thought entered +his brain after the fashion of a bullet: + +“After to-morrow at this time, I shall perhaps be dead.” + +And his heart began to beat furiously. + +“After to-morrow at this time, I shall perhaps be dead. This person +opposite me, this being I have so often seen in this glass, will be no +more. How can it be! I am here, I see myself, I feel that I am alive, +and in twenty-four hours I shall be stretched upon that bed, dead, my +eyes closed, cold, inanimate, departed.” + +He turned around to the bed and distinctly saw himself stretched on his +back in the same clothes he had worn on going out. In his face were the +lines of death, and a rigidity in the hands that would never stir again. + +Then a fear of his bed came over him, and in order to see it no more he +passed into his smoking-room. Mechanically he took a cigar, lighted it, +and began to walk about. He was cold. He went toward the bell to waken +his valet; but he stopped with his hand on the cord: + +“This man would perceive at once that I am afraid.” + +He did not ring, but made a fire. His hands trembled a little from a +nervous shiver when they came in contact with any object. His mind +wandered; his thoughts from trouble became frightened, hasty, and +sorrowful; an intoxication seemed to invade his mind as if he were +drunk. And without ceasing he asked: + +“What am I going to do? What is going to become of me?” + +His whole body was vibrating, traversed by a jerking and a trembling; he +got up and approached the window, opening the curtains. + +The day had dawned, a summer day. A rose-colored sky made the city rosy +on roof and wall. A great fall of spread out light, like a caress from +the rising sun, enveloped the waking world; and, with this light, a gay, +rapid, brutal hope invaded the heart of the Viscount! He was a fool to +allow himself to be thus cast down by fear, even before anything was +decided, before his witnesses had seen those of this George Lamil, +before he yet knew whether he were going to fight a duel. + +He made his toilette, dressed himself, and walked out with firm step. + +He repeated constantly, in walking: “It will be necessary for me to be +energetic, very energetic. I must prove that I am not afraid.” + +His witnesses, the Marquis and the Colonel, placed themselves at his +disposal and, after having shaken hands with him energetically, +discussed the conditions. The Colonel asked: + +“Do you wish it to be a serious duel?” + +The Viscount responded: “Very serious.” + +The Marquis continued: “Will you use a pistol?” + +“Yes.” + +“We leave you free to regulate the rest.” + +The Viscount enunciated, in a dry, jerky voice: + +“Twenty steps at the order, and on raising the arm instead of lowering +it. Exchange of bullets until one is grievously wounded.” + +The Colonel declared, in a satisfied tone: + +“These are excellent conditions. You shoot well, all the chances are in +your favor.” + +They separated. The Viscount returned home to wait for them. His +agitation, appeased, for a moment, grew now from minute to minute. He +felt along his arms, his legs, and in his breast a kind of trembling, of +continued vibration; he could not keep still, either sitting or +standing. There was no longer an appearance of saliva in his mouth, and +each instant he made a noisy movement with his tongue, as if to unglue +it from the roof of his mouth. + +He wished to breakfast but he could not eat. Then the idea came to him +of drinking to give himself courage and he brought out a small bottle of +rum, which he swallowed in six little glasses, one after the other. + +A heat, like that of a burning fire, invaded him, followed almost +immediately by a numbness of the soul. He thought: + +“I have found the remedy. Now all goes well.” + +But at the end of an hour, he had emptied the bottle and his state of +agitation became intolerable. He felt a foolish impulse to roll on the +ground, to cry out and bite. Then night fell. + +A stroke of the bell gave him such a shock that he had not sufficient +strength left to rise and receive his witnesses. He dared not even speak +to them to say “Good evening,” to pronounce a single word, for fear that +they would discover a change in his voice. + +The Colonel announced: + +“All is arranged according to the conditions that you have fixed upon. +Your adversary claimed the privileges of the offended, but he soon +yielded and accepted all. His witnesses are two military men.” + +The Viscount pronounced the word: + +“Thanks.” + +The Marquis continued: + +“Excuse us if we only come in and go out, for we have still a thousand +things to occupy our attention. A good doctor will be necessary, since +the combat is only to cease after a severe wound, and you know that +bullets are no trifles. Then, a place must be found, in some proximity +to a house, where we may carry the wounded, if necessary, etc., etc.; +finally, we have but two or three hours for it.” + +The Viscount, for the second time, articulated: + +“Thanks.” + +The Colonel asked: + +“How is it with you? Are you calm?” + +“Yes, very calm, thank you.” + +The two men then retired. + +When he again found himself alone, it seemed to him that he was mad. His +domestic having lighted the lamps, he seated himself before his table to +write some letters. After having traced, at the top of a page: “This is +my testament--” he arose with a shake and put it away from him, feeling +himself incapable of forming two ideas, or of sufficient resolution to +decide what was to be done. + +So he was going to fight a duel! There was no way to avoid it. How could +he ever go through it? He wished to fight, it was his intention and firm +resolution so to do; and yet, he felt, that in spite of all his effort +of mind and all the tension of his will, he would not be able to +preserve even the necessary force to go to the place of meeting. He +tried to imagine the combat, his own attitude, and the position of his +adversary. + +From time to time, his teeth chattered in his mouth with a little hard +noise. He tried to read, and took down the Chateauvillard code of +dueling. Then he asked himself: + +“Has my opponent frequently fought? Is he known? Is he classed? How am I +to know?” + +He remembered Baron de Vaux's book upon experts with the pistol, and he +ran through it from one end to the other. George Lamil was not +mentioned. Nevertheless, if this man were not an expert, he would not so +readily have accepted this dangerous weapon and these mortal conditions. + +He opened, in passing, a box of Gastinne Renettes which stood on a +little stand, took out one of the pistols, held it in a position to +fire, and raised his arm. But he trembled from head to foot and the gun +worked upon all his senses. + +Then he said: “It is impossible. I cannot fight in this condition.” + +He looked at the end of the barrel, at that little black, deep hole that +spits out death, he thought of the dishonor, of the whisperings in his +circle, of the laughs in the drawing-rooms, of the scorn of the ladies, +of the allusions of the journals, of all the insults that cowards would +throw at him. + +He continued to examine the weapon, and, raising the cock, he suddenly +saw a priming glittering underneath like a little red flame. The pistol +was loaded then, through a chance forgetfulness. And he found in this +discovery a confused, inexplicable joy. + +If in the presence of the other man he did not have that calm, noble +bearing that he should have, he would be lost forever. He would be +spotted, branded with the sign of infamy, hunted from the world! And +this calm, heroic bearing he would not have, he knew it, he felt it. +However, he was brave, since he did wish to fight! He was brave, +since.... The thought that budded never took form, even in his own mind; +for, opening his mouth wide he brusquely thrust the barrel of his pistol +into his throat, and pulled the trigger.... + +When his valet, hearing the report, hastened to him, he found him dead +upon his back. A jet of blood had splashed upon the white paper on the +table and made a great red spot upon these four words: + +“This is my testament.” + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of A Comedy of Marriage and Other Tales, by +Guy De Maupassant + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COMEDY OF MARRIAGE *** + +***** This file should be named 9161-0.txt or 9161-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/9/1/6/9161/ + +Produced by Tiffany Vergon, Sandra Brown and Distributed Proofreaders + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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