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+Project Gutenberg’s The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard, by Anatole France
+
+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: The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard
+
+Author: Anatole France
+
+Release Date: March, 2000 [EBook #2123]
+Last Updated: October 5, 2016
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Brett Fishburne
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD
+
+By Anatole France
+
+
+
+
+PART I--THE LOG
+
+
+
+
+December 24, 1849.
+
+
+I had put on my slippers and my dressing-gown. I wiped away a tear with
+which the north wind blowing over the quay had obscured my vision. A
+bright fire was leaping in the chimney of my study. Ice-crystals, shaped
+like fern-leaves, were sprouting over the windowpanes and concealed from
+me the Seine with its bridges and the Louvre of the Valois.
+
+I drew up my easy-chair to the hearth, and my table-volante, and took
+up so much of my place by the fire as Hamilcar deigned to allow me.
+Hamilcar was lying in front of the andirons, curled up on a cushion,
+with his nose between his paws. His think find fur rose and fell with
+his regular breathing. At my coming, he slowly slipped a glance of his
+agate eyes at me from between his half-opened lids, which he closed
+again almost at once, thinking to himself, “It is nothing; it is only my
+friend.”
+
+“Hamilcar,” I said to him, as I stretched my legs--“Hamilcar, somnolent
+Prince of the City of Books--thou guardian nocturnal! Like that Divine
+Cat who combated the impious in Heliopolis--in the night of the great
+combat--thou dost defend from vile nibblers those books which the old
+savant acquired at the cost of his slender savings and indefatigable
+zeal. Sleep, Hamilcar, softly as a sultana, in this library, that
+shelters thy military virtues; for verily in thy person are united the
+formidable aspect of a Tatar warrior and the slumbrous grace of a
+woman of the Orient. Sleep, thou heroic and voluptuous Hamilcar, while
+awaiting the moonlight hour in which the mice will come forth to dance
+before the Acta Sanctorum of the learned Bolandists!”
+
+The beginning of this discourse pleased Hamilcar, who accompanied it
+with a throat-sound like the song of a kettle on the fire. But as my
+voice waxed louder, Hamilcar notified me by lowering his ears and by
+wrinkling the striped skin of his brow that it was bad taste on my part
+so to declaim.
+
+“This old-book man,” evidently thought Hamilcar, “talks to no purpose at
+all while our housekeeper never utters a word which is not full of good
+sense, full of significance--containing either the announcement of a
+meal or the promise of a whipping. One knows what she says. But this old
+man puts together a lot of sounds signifying nothing.”
+
+So thought Hamilcar to himself. Leaving him to his reflections, I opened
+a book, which I began to read with interest; for it was a catalogue of
+manuscripts. I do not know any reading more easy, more fascinating, more
+delightful than that of a catalogue. The one which I was reading--edited
+in 1824 by Mr. Thompson, librarian to Sir Thomas Raleigh--sins, it
+is true, by excess of brevity, and does not offer that character of
+exactitude which the archivists of my own generation were the first to
+introduce into works upon diplomatics and paleography. It leaves a good
+deal to be desired and to be divined. This is perhaps why I find
+myself aware, while reading it, of a state of mind which in nature more
+imaginative than mine might be called reverie. I had allowed myself
+to drift away this gently upon the current of my thoughts, when my
+housekeeper announced, in a tone of ill-humor, that Monsieur Coccoz
+desired to speak with me.
+
+In fact, some one had slipped into the library after her. He was a
+little man--a poor little man of puny appearance, wearing a thin jacket.
+He approached me with a number of little bows and smiles. But he was
+very pale, and, although still young and alert, he looked ill. I thought
+as I looked at him, of a wounded squirrel. He carried under his arm a
+green toilette, which he put upon a chair; then unfastening the four
+corners of the toilette, he uncovered a heap of little yellow books.
+
+“Monsieur,” he then said to me, “I have not the honour to be known to
+you. I am a book-agent, Monsieur. I represent the leading houses of
+the capital, and in the hope that you will kindly honour me with your
+confidence, I take the liberty to offer you a few novelties.”
+
+Kind gods! just gods! such novelties as the homunculus Coccoz showed me!
+The first volume that he put in my hand was “L’Histoire de la Tour
+de Nesle,” with the amours of Marguerite de Bourgogne and the Captain
+Buridan.
+
+“It is a historical book,” he said to me, with a smile--“a book of real
+history.”
+
+“In that case,” I replied, “it must be very tiresome; for all the
+historical books which contain no lies are extremely tedious. I write
+some authentic ones myself; and if you were unlucky enough to carry a
+copy of any of them from door to door you would run the risk of keeping
+it all your life in that green baize of yours, without ever finding even
+a cook foolish enough to buy it from you.”
+
+“Certainly Monsieur,” the little man answered, out of pure good-nature.
+
+And, all smiling again, he offered me the “Amours d’Heloise et
+d’Abeilard”; but I made him understand that, at my age, I had no use for
+love-stories.
+
+Still smiling, he proposed me the “Regle des Jeux de la
+Societe”--piquet, bezique, ecarte, whist, dice, draughts, and chess.
+
+“Alas!” I said to him, “if you want to make me remember the rules of
+bezique, give me back my old friend Bignan, with whom I used to play
+cards every evening before the Five Academies solemnly escorted him
+to the cemetery; or else bring down to the frivolous level of human
+amusements the grave intelligence of Hamilcar, whom you see on that
+cushion, for he is the sole companion of my evenings.”
+
+The little man’s smile became vague and uneasy.
+
+“Here,” he said, “is a new collection of society amusements--jokes and
+puns--with a receipt for changing a red rose to a white rose.”
+
+I told him that I had fallen out with the roses for a long time, and
+that, as to jokes, I was satisfied with those which I unconsciously
+permitted myself to make in the course of my scientific labours.
+
+The homunculus offered me his last book, with his last smile. He said to
+me:
+
+“Here is the Clef des Songes--the ‘Key of Dreams’--with the explanation
+of any dreams that anybody can have; dreams of gold, dreams of robbers,
+dreams of death, dreams of falling from the top of a tower.... It is
+exhaustive.”
+
+I had taken hold of the tongs, and, brandishing them energetically, I
+replied to my commercial visitor:
+
+“Yes, my friend; but those dreams and a thousand others, joyous or
+tragic, are all summed up in one--the Dream of Life; is your little
+yellow book able to give me the key to that?”
+
+“Yes, Monsieur,” answered the homunculus; “the book is complete, and it
+is not dear--one franc twenty-five centimes, Monsieur.”
+
+I called my housekeeper--for there is no bell in my room--and said to
+her:
+
+“Therese, Monsieur Coccoz--whom I am going to ask you to show out--has a
+book here which might interest you: the ‘Key of Dreams.’ I shall be very
+glad to buy it for you.”
+
+My housekeeper responded:
+
+“Monsieur, when one has not even time to dream awake, one has still less
+time to dream asleep. Thank God, my days are just enough for my work and
+my work for my days, and I am able to say every night, ‘Lord, bless Thou
+the rest which I am going to take.’ I never dream, either on my feet or
+in bed; and I never mistake my eider-down coverlet for a devil, as my
+cousin did; and, if you will allow me to give my opinion about it,
+I think you have books enough here now. Monsieur has thousands and
+thousands of books, which simply turn his head; and as for me, I have
+just tow, which are quite enough for all my wants and purposes--my
+Catholic prayer-book and my Cuisiniere Bourgeoise.”
+
+And with those words my housekeeper helped the little man to fasten up
+his stock again within the green toilette.
+
+The homunculus Coccoz had ceased to smile. His relaxed features took
+such an expression of suffering that I felt sorry to have made fun of
+so unhappy a man. I called him back, and told him that I had caught a
+glimpse of a copy of the “Histoire d’Estelle et de Nemorin,” which
+he had among his books; that I was very fond of shepherds and
+shepherdesses, and that I would be quite willing to purchase, at a
+reasonable price, the story of these two perfect lovers.
+
+“I will sell you that book for one franc twenty-five centimes,
+Monsieur,” replied Coccoz, whose face at once beamed with joy. “It is
+historical; and you will be pleased with it. I know now just what suits
+you. I see that you are a connoisseur. To-morrow I will bring you
+the Crimes des Papes. It is a good book. I will bring you the edition
+d’amateur, with coloured plates.”
+
+I begged him not to do anything of the sort, and sent him away happy.
+When the green toilette and the agent had disappeared in the shadow of
+the corridor I asked my housekeeper whence this little man had dropped
+upon us.
+
+“Dropped is the word,” she answered; “he dropped on us from the roof,
+Monsieur, where he lives with his wife.”
+
+“You say he has a wife, Therese? That is marvelous! Women are very
+strange creatures! This one must be a very unfortunate little woman.”
+
+“I don’t really know what she is,” answered Therese; “but every morning
+I see her trailing a silk dress covered with grease-spots over the
+stairs. She makes soft eyes at people. And, in the name of common sense!
+does it become a woman that has been received here out of charity to
+make eyes and to wear dresses like that? For they allowed the couple
+to occupy the attic during the time the roof was being repaired, in
+consideration of the fact that the husband is sick and the wife in an
+interesting condition. The concierge even says that the pain came on
+her this morning, and that she is now confined. They must have been very
+badly off for a child!”
+
+“Therese,” I replied, “they had no need of a child, doubtless. But
+Nature had decided that they should bring one into the world; Nature
+made them fall into her snare. One must have exceptional prudence to
+defeat Nature’s schemes. Let us be sorry for them and not blame them!
+As for silk dresses, there is no young woman who does not like them.
+The daughters of Eve adore adornment. You yourself, Therese--who are so
+serious and sensible--what a fuss you make when you have no white apron
+to wait at table in! But, tell me, have they got everything necessary in
+their attic?”
+
+“How could they have it, Monsieur?” my housekeeper made answer. “The
+husband, whom you have just seen, used to be a jewellery-peddler--at
+least, so the concierge tells me--and nobody knows why he stopped
+selling watches, you have just seen that his is now selling almanacs.
+That is no way to make an honest living, and I never will believe that
+God’s blessing can come to an almanac-peddler. Between ourselves,
+the wife looks to me for all the world like a good-for-nothing--a
+Marie-couche toi-la. I think she would be just as capable of bringing up
+a child as I should be of playing the guitar. Nobody seems to know where
+they came from; but I am sure they must have come by Misery’s coach from
+the country of Sans-souci.”
+
+“Wherever they have come from, Therese, they are unfortunate; and their
+attic is cold.”
+
+“Pardi!--the roof is broken in several places and the rain comes through
+in streams. They have neither furniture nor clothing. I don’t think
+cabinet-makers and weavers work much for Christians of that sect!”
+
+“That is very sad, Therese; a Christian woman much less well provided
+for than this pagan, Hamilcar here!--what does she have to say?”
+
+“Monsieur, I never speak to those people; I don’t know what she says or
+what she sings. But she sings all day long; I hear her from the stairway
+whenever I am going out or coming in.”
+
+“Well! the heir of the Coccoz family will be able to say, like the Egg
+in the village riddle: Ma mere me fit en chantant. [“My mother sang when
+she brought me into the world.”] The like happened in the case of Henry
+IV. When Jeanne d’Albret felt herself about to be confined she began to
+sing an old Bearnaise canticle:
+
+    “Notre-Dame du bout du pont,
+     Venez a mon aide en cette heure!
+     Priez le Dieu du ciel
+     Qu’il me delivre vite,
+     Qu’il me donne un garcon!
+
+“It is certainly unreasonable to bring little unfortunates into the
+world. But the thing is done every day, my dear Therese and all the
+philosophers on earth will never be able to reform the silly custom.
+Madame Coccoz has followed it, and she sings. This is creditable at
+all events! But, tell me, Therese, have you not put the soup to boil
+to-day?”
+
+“Yes, Monsieur; and it is time for me to go and skim it.”
+
+“Good! but don’t forget, Therese, to take a good bowl of soup out of the
+pot and carry it to Madame Coccoz, our attic neighbor.”
+
+My housekeeper was on the point of leaving the room when I added, just
+in time:
+
+“Therese, before you do anything else, please call your friend the
+porter, and tell him to take a good bundle of wood out of our stock and
+carry it up to the attic of those Coccoz folks. See, above all, that
+he puts a first-class log in the lot--a real Christmas log. As for the
+homunculus, if he comes back again, do not allow either himself or any
+of his yellow books to come in here.”
+
+Having taken all these little precautions with the refined egotism of an
+old bachelor, I returned to my catalogue again.
+
+With what surprise, with what emotion, with what anxiety did I therein
+discover the following mention, which I cannot even now copy without
+feeling my hand tremble:
+
+“LA LEGENDE DOREE DE JACQUES DE GENES (Jacques de Voragine);--traduction
+francaise, petit in-4.
+
+“This MS. of the fourteenth century contains, besides the tolerably
+complete translation of the celebrated work of Jacques de Voragine,
+1. The Legends of Saints Ferreol, Ferrution, Germain, Vincent,
+and Droctoveus; 2. A poem ‘On the Miraculous Burial of Monsieur
+Saint-Germain of Auxerre.’ This translation, as well as the legends and
+the poem, are due to the Clerk Alexander.
+
+“This MS. is written upon vellum. It contains a great number of
+illuminated letters, and two finely executed miniatures, in a rather
+imperfect state of preservation:--one represents the Purification of the
+Virgin, and the other the Coronation of Proserpine.”
+
+What a discovery! Perspiration moistened my forehead, and a veil seemed
+to come before my eyes. I trembled; I flushed; and, without being able
+to speak, I felt a sudden impulse to cry out at the top of my voice.
+
+What a treasure! For more than forty years I had been making a special
+study of the history of Christian Gaul, and particularly of that
+glorious Abbey of Saint-Germain-des-Pres, whence issued forth those
+King-Monks who founded our national dynasty. Now, despite the culpable
+insufficiency of the description given, it was evident to me that
+the MS. of the Clerk Alexander must have come from the great Abbey.
+Everything proved this fact. All the legends added by the translator
+related to the pious foundation of the Abbey by King Childebert. Then
+the legend of Saint-Droctoveus was particularly significant; being the
+legend of the first abbot of my dear Abbey. The poem in French verse
+on the burial of Saint-Germain led me actually into the nave of that
+venerable basilica which was the umbilicus of Christian Gaul.
+
+The “Golden Legend” is in itself a vast and gracious work. Jacques de
+Voragine, Definitor of the Order of Saint-Dominic, and Archbishop
+of Genoa, collected in the thirteenth century the various legends of
+Catholic saints, and formed so rich a compilation that from all the
+monasteries and castles of the time there arouse the cry: “This is the
+‘Golden Legend.’” The “Legende Doree” was especially opulent in Roman
+hagiography. Edited by an Italian monk, it reveals its best merits in
+the treatment of matters relating to the terrestrial domains of Saint
+Peter. Voragine can only perceive the greater saints of the Occident
+as through a cold mist. For this reason the Aquitanian and Saxon
+translators of the good legend-writer were careful to add to his recital
+the lives of their own national saints.
+
+I have read and collated a great many manuscripts of the “Golden
+Legend.” I know all those described by my learned colleague, M. Paulin
+Paris, in his handsome catalogue of the MSS. of the Biblotheque du Roi.
+There were two among them which especially drew my attention. One is
+of the fourteenth century and contains a translation by Jean Belet; the
+other, younger by a century, presents the version of Jacques Vignay.
+Both come from the Colbert collection, and were placed on the shelves of
+that glorious Colbertine library by the Librarian Baluze--whose name I
+can never pronounce without uncovering my head; for even in the century
+of the giants of erudition, Baluze astounds by his greatness. I know
+also a very curious codex in the Bigot collection; I know seventy-four
+printed editions of the work, commencing with the venerable ancestor of
+all--the Gothic of Strasburg, begun in 1471, and finished in 1475. But
+no one of those MSS., no one of those editions, contains the legends
+of Saints Ferreol, Ferrution, Germain, Vincent, and Droctoveus; no one
+bears the name of the Clerk Alexander; no one, in find, came from the
+Abbey of Saint-Germain-des-Pres. Compared with the MS. described by Mr.
+Thompson, they are only as straw to gold. I have seen with my eyes,
+I have touched with my fingers, an incontrovertible testimony to the
+existence of this document. But the document itself--what has become of
+it? Sir Thomas Raleigh went to end his days by the shores of the Lake of
+Como, whither he carried with him a part of his literary wealth. Where
+did the books go after the death of that aristocratic collector? Where
+could the manuscript of the Clerk Alexander have gone?
+
+“And why,” I asked myself, “why should I have learned that this precious
+book exists, if I am never to possess it--never even to see it? I would
+go to seek it in the burning heart of Africa, or in the icy regions of
+the Pole if I knew it were there. But I do not know where it is. I do
+not know if it be guarded in a triple-locked iron case by some jealous
+biblomaniac. I do not know if it be growing mouldy in the attic of some
+ignoramus. I shudder at the thought that perhaps its tore-out leaves may
+have been used to cover the pickle-jars of some housekeeper.”
+
+
+
+
+August 30, 1850
+
+
+The heavy heat compelled me to walk slowly. I kept close to the walls of
+the north quays; and, in the lukewarm shade, the shops of the dealers
+in old books, engravings, and antiquated furniture drew my eyes and
+appealed to my fancy. Rummaging and idling among these, I hastily
+enjoyed some verses spiritedly thrown off by a poet of the Pleiad. I
+examined an elegant Masquerade by Watteau. I felt, with my eye, the
+weight of a two-handed sword, a steel gorgerin, a morion. What a thick
+helmet! What a ponderous breastplate--Seigneur! A giant’s garb? No--the
+carapace of an insect. The men of those days were cuirassed like
+beetles; their weakness was within them. To-day, on the contrary, our
+strength is interior, and our armed souls dwell in feeble bodies.
+
+...Here is a pastel-portrait of a lady of the old time--the face, vague
+like a shadow, smiles; and a hand, gloved with an openwork mitten,
+retains upon her satiny knees a lap-dog, with a ribbon about its neck.
+That picture fills me with a sort of charming melancholy. Let those who
+have no half-effaced pastels in their own hearts laugh at me! Like the
+horse that scents the stable, I hasten my pace as I near my lodgings.
+There it is--that great human hive, in which I have a cell, for the
+purpose of therein distilling the somewhat acrid honey of erudition. I
+climb the stairs with slow effort. Only a few steps more, and I shall be
+at my own door. But I divine, rather than see, a robe descending with a
+sound of rustling silk. I stop, and press myself against the balustrade
+to make room. The lady who is coming down is bareheaded; she is young;
+she sings; her eyes and teeth gleam in the shadow, for she laughs with
+lips and eyes at the same time. She is certainly a neighbor, and a very
+familiar one. She holds in her arms a pretty child, a little boy--quite
+naked, like the son of a goddess; he has a medal hung round his neck
+by a little silver chain. I see him sucking his thumb and looking at
+me with those big eyes so newly opened on this old universe. The mother
+simultaneously looks at me in a sly, mysterious way; she stops--I think
+blushes a little--and holds out the little creature to me. The baby has
+a pretty wrinkle between wrist and arm, a pretty wrinkle about his neck,
+and all over him, from head to foot, the daintiest dimples laugh in his
+rosy flesh.
+
+The mamma shows him to me with pride.
+
+“Monsieur,” she says, “don’t you think he is very pretty--my little
+boy?”
+
+She takes one tiny hand, lifts it to the child’s own lips, and, drawing
+out the darling pink fingers again towards me, says,
+
+“Baby, throw the gentleman a kiss.”
+
+Then, folding the little being in her arms, she flees away with the
+agility of a cat, and is lost to sight in a corridor which, judging by
+the odour, must lead to some kitchen.
+
+I enter my own quarters.
+
+“Therese, who can that young mother be whom I saw bareheaded on the
+stairs just now, with a pretty little boy?”
+
+And Therese replies that it was Madame Coccoz.
+
+I stare up at the ceiling, as if trying to obtain some further
+illumination. Therese then recalls to me the little book-peddler who
+tried to sell me almanacs last year, while his wife was lying in.
+
+“And Coccoz himself?” I asked.
+
+I was answered that I would never see him again. The poor little man had
+been laid away underground, without my knowledge, and, indeed, with the
+knowledge of very few people, on a short time after the happy delivery
+of Madame Coccoz. I leaned that his wife had been able to console
+herself: I did likewise.
+
+“But, Therese,” I asked, “has Madame Coccoz got everything she needs in
+that attic of hers?”
+
+“You would be a great dupe, Monsieur,” replied my housekeeper, “if you
+should bother yourself about that creature. They gave her notice to quit
+the attic when the roof was repaired. But she stays there yet--in spite
+of the proprietor, the agent, the concierge, and the bailiffs. I think
+she has bewitched every one of them. She will leave the attic when she
+pleases, Monsieur; but she is going to leave in her own carriage. Let me
+tell you that!”
+
+Therese reflected for a moment; and then uttered these words:
+
+“A pretty face is a curse from Heaven.”
+
+“Then I ought to thank Heaven for having spared me that curse. But here!
+put my hat and cane away. I am going to amuse myself with a few pages
+of Moreri. If I can trust my old fox-nose, we are going to have a nicely
+flavoured pullet for dinner. Look after that estimable fowl, my girl,
+and spare your neighbors, so that you and your old master may be spared
+by them in turn.”
+
+Having thus spoken, I proceeded to follow out the tufted ramifications
+of a princely genealogy.
+
+
+
+
+May 7, 1851
+
+
+I have passed the winter according to the ideal of the sages, in angello
+cum libello; and now the swallows of the Quai Malaquais find me on their
+return about as when they left me. He who lives little, changes little;
+and it is scarcely living at all to use up one’s days over old texts.
+
+Yet I feel myself to-day a little more deeply impregnated than ever
+before with that vague melancholy which life distils. The economy of
+my intelligence (I dare scarcely confess it to myself!) has remained
+disturbed ever since that momentous hour in which the existence of the
+manuscript of the Clerk Alexander was first revealed to me.
+
+It is strange that I should have lost my rest simply on account of a few
+old sheets of parchment; but it is unquestionably true. The poor man who
+has no desires possesses the greatest of riches; he possesses himself.
+The rich man who desires something is only a wretched slave. I am just
+such a slave. The sweetest pleasures--those of converse with some one
+of a delicate and well-balanced mind, or dining out with a friend--are
+insufficient to enable me to forget the manuscript which I know that I
+want, and have been wanting from the moment I knew of its existence. I
+feel the want of it by day and by night: I feel the want of it in all my
+joys and pains; I feel the want of it while at work or asleep.
+
+I recall my desires as a child. How well I can now comprehend the
+intense wishes of my early years!
+
+I can see once more, with astonishing vividness, a certain doll which,
+when I was eight years old, used to be displayed in the window of an
+ugly little shop of the Rue de Seine. I cannot tell how it happened
+that this doll attracted me. I was very proud of being a boy; I despised
+little girls; and I longed impatiently for the day (which alas! has
+come) when a strong beard should bristle on my chin. I played at being
+a soldier; and, under the pretext of obtaining forage for my
+rocking-horse, I used to make sad havoc among the plants my poor mother
+delighted to keep on her window-sill. Manly amusements those, I
+should say! And, nevertheless, I was consumed with longing for a doll.
+Characters like Hercules have such weaknesses occasionally. Was the one
+I had fallen in love with at all beautiful? No. I can see her now. She
+had a splotch of vermilion on either cheek, short soft arms, horrible
+wooden hands, and long sprawling legs. Her flowered petticoat was
+fastened at the waist with two pins. Even now I cans see the black
+heads of those two pins. It was a decidedly vulgar doll--smelt of the
+faubourg. I remember perfectly well that, child as I was then, before
+I had put on my first pair of trousers, I was quite conscious in my own
+way that this doll lacked grace and style--that she was gross, that she
+was course. But I loved her in spite of that; I loved her just for that;
+I loved her only; I wanted her. My soldiers and my drums had become as
+nothing in my eyes, I ceased to stick sprigs of heliotrope and veronica
+into the mouth of my rocking-horse. That doll was all the world to me. I
+invented ruses worthy of a savage to oblige Virginie, my nurse, to take
+me by the little shop in the Rue de Seine. I would press my nose against
+the window until my nurse had to take my arm and drag me away. “Monsieur
+Sylvestre, it is late, and your mamma will scold you.” Monsieur
+Sylvestre in those days made very little of either scoldings or
+whippings. But his nurse lifted him up like a feather, and Monsieur
+Sylvestre yielded to force. In after-years, with age, he degenerated,
+and sometimes yielded to fear. But at that time he used to fear nothing.
+
+I was unhappy. An unreasoning but irresistible shame prevented me from
+telling my mother about the object of my love. Thence all my sufferings.
+For many days that doll, incessantly present in fancy, danced before
+my eyes, stared at me fixedly, opened her arms to me, assuming in my
+imagination a sort of life which made her appear at once mysterious and
+weird, and thereby all the more charming and desirable.
+
+Finally, one day--a day I shall never forget--my nurse took me to see my
+uncle, Captain Victor, who had invited me to lunch. I admired my uncle
+a great deal, as much because he had fired the last French cartridge
+at Waterloo, as because he used to prepare with his own hands, at my
+mother’s table, certain chapons-a-l’ail [Crust on which garlic has been
+rubbed], which he afterwards put in the chicory salad. I thought that
+was very fine! My Uncle Victor also inspired me with much respect by
+his frogged coat, and still more by his way of turning the whole house
+upside down from the moment he came into it. Even now I cannot tell just
+how he managed it, but I can affirm that whenever my Uncle Victor found
+himself in any assembly of twenty persons, it was impossible to see or
+to hear anybody but him. My excellent father, I have reason to believe,
+never shared my admiration for Uncle Victor, who used to sicken him with
+his pipe, give him great thumps in the back by way of friendliness,
+and accuse him of lacking energy. My mother, though always showing a
+sister’s indulgence to the Captain, sometimes advised him to fold the
+brandy-bottle a little less frequently. But I had no part either in
+these repugnances or these reproaches, and Uncle Victor inspired me with
+the purest enthusiasm. It was therefore with a feeling of pride that I
+entered into the little lodging he occupied in the Rue Guenegaud. The
+entire lunch, served on a small table close to the fireplace, consisted
+of cold meats and confectionery.
+
+The Captain stuffed me with cakes and undiluted wine. He told me of
+numberless injustices to which he had been a victim. He complained
+particularly of the Bourbons; and as he neglected to tell me who the
+Bourbons were, I got the idea--I can’t tell how--that the Bourbons
+were horse-dealers established at Waterloo. The Captain, who never
+interrupted his talk except for the purpose of pouring out wine,
+furthermore made charges against a number of dirty scoundrels,
+blackguards, and good-for-nothings whom I did not know anything about,
+but whom I hated from the bottom of my heart. At dessert I thought I
+heard the Captain say my father was a man who could be led anywhere by
+the nose; but I am not quite sure that I understood him. I had a buzzing
+in my ears; and it seemed to me that the table was dancing.
+
+My uncle put on his frogged coat, took his bell shaped hat, and we
+descended to the street, which seemed to me singularly changed. It
+looked to me as if I had not been in it before for ever so long a time.
+Nevertheless, when we came to the Rue de Seine, the idea of my doll
+suddenly returned to my mind and excited me in an extraordinary way. My
+head was on fire. I resolved upon a desperate expedient. We were passing
+before the window. She was there, behind the glass--with her red checks,
+and her flowered petticoat, and her long legs.
+
+“Uncle,” I said, with a great effort, “will you buy that doll for me?”
+
+And I waited.
+
+“Buy a doll for a boy--sacrebleu!” cried my uncle, in a voice of
+thunder. “Do you wish to dishonour yourself? And it is that old Mag
+there that you want! Well, I must compliment you, my young fellow! If
+you grow up with such tastes as that, you will never have any pleasure
+in life; and your comrades will call you a precious ninny. If you asked
+me for a sword or a gun, my boy, I would buy them for you with the last
+silver crown of my pension. But to buy a doll for you--by all that’s
+holy!--to disgrace you! Never in the world! Why, if I were ever to see
+you playing with a puppet rigged out like that, Monsieur, my sister’s
+son, I would disown you for my nephew!”
+
+On hearing these words, I felt my heart so wrung that nothing but
+pride--a diabolical pride--kept me from crying.
+
+My uncle, suddenly calming down, returned to his ideas about the
+Bourbons; but I, still smarting under the weight of his indignation,
+felt an unspeakable shame. My resolve was quickly made. I promised
+myself never to disgrace myself--I firmly and for ever renounced that
+red-cheeked doll.
+
+I felt that day, for the first time, the austere sweetness of sacrifice.
+
+Captain, though it be true that all your life you swore like a pagan,
+smoked like a beadle, and drank like a bell-ringer, be your memory
+nevertheless honoured--not merely because you were a brave soldier,
+but also because you revealed to your little nephew in petticoats
+the sentiment of heroism! Pride and laziness had made you almost
+insupportable, Uncle Victor!--but a great heart used to beat under those
+frogs upon your coat. You always used to wear, I now remember, a rose
+in your button-hole. That rose which you offered so readily to the
+shop-girls--that large, open-hearted flower, scattering its petals
+to all the winds, was the symbol of your glorious youth. You despised
+neither wine nor tobacco; but you despised life. Neither delicacy nor
+common sense could have been learned from you, Captain; but you taught
+me, even at an age when my nurse had to wipe my nose, a lesson of honour
+and self-abrogation that I shall never forget.
+
+You have now been sleeping for many years in the Cemetery of
+Mont-Parnasse, under a plain slab bearing the epitaph:
+
+                           CI-GIT
+                   ARISTIDE VICTOR MALDENT,
+                    Capitaine d’Infanterie,
+               Chevalier de la Legion d’Honneur.
+
+But such, Captain, was not the inscription devised by yourself to be
+placed above those old bones of yours--knocked about so long on fields
+of battle and in haunts of pleasure. Among your papers was found this
+proud and bitter epitaph, which, despite your last will none could have
+ventured to put upon your tomb:
+
+                           CI-GIT
+                    UN BRIGAND DE LA LOIRE
+
+“Therese, we will get a wreath of immortelles to-morrow, and lay them on
+the tomb of the Brigand of the Loire.”...
+
+But Therese is not here. And how, indeed, could she be near me,
+seeing that I am at the rondpoint of the Champs-Elysees? There, at the
+termination of the avenue, the Arc de Triomphe, which bears under its
+vaults the names of Uncle Victor’s companions-in-arms, opens its giant
+gate against the sky. The trees of the avenue are unfolding to the sun
+of spring their first leaves, still all pale and chilly. Beside me the
+carriages keep rolling by to the Bois de Boulogne. Unconsciously I have
+wandered into this fashionable avenue on my promenade, and halted, quite
+stupidly, in front of a booth stocked with gingerbread and decanters of
+liquorice-water, each topped by a lemon. A miserable little boy, covered
+with rags, which expose his chapped skin, stares with widely opened
+eyes at those sumptuous sweets which are not for such as he. With the
+shamelessness of innocence he betrays his longing. His round, fixed eyes
+contemplate a certain gingerbread man of lofty stature. It is a general,
+and it looks a little like Uncle Victor. I take it, I pay for it,
+and present it to the little pauper, who dares not extend his hand to
+receive it--for, by reason of precocious experience, he cannot believe
+in luck; he looks at me, in the same way that certain big dogs do, with
+the air of one saying, “You are cruel to make fun of me like that!”
+
+“Come, little stupid,” I say to him, in that rough tone I am accustomed
+to use, “take it--take it, and eat it; for you, happier than I was
+at your age, you can satisfy your tastes without disgracing
+yourself.”...And you, Uncle Victor--you, whose manly figure has been
+recalled to me by that gingerbread general, come, glorious Shadow, help
+me to forget my new doll. We remain for ever children, and are always
+running after new toys.
+
+
+
+Same day.
+
+
+In the oddest way that Coccoz family has become associated in my mind
+with the Clerk Alexander.
+
+“Therese,” I said, as I threw myself into my easy-chair, “tell me if the
+little Coccoz is well, and whether he has got his first teeth yet--and
+bring me my slippers.”
+
+“He ought to have them by this time, Monsieur,” replied Therese; “but I
+never saw them. The very first fine day of spring the mother disappeared
+with the child, leaving furniture and clothes and everything behind her.
+They found thirty-eight empty pomade-pots in the attic. It passes all
+belief! She had visitors latterly; and you may be quite sure she is not
+now in a convent of nuns. The niece of the concierge says she saw her
+driving about in a carriage on the boulevards. I always told you she
+would end badly.”
+
+“Therese,” I replied, “that young woman has not ended either badly or
+well as yet. Wait until the term of her life is over before you judge
+her. And be careful not to talk too much with that concierge. It seemed
+to me--though I only saw her for a moment on the stairs--that Madame
+Coccoz was very fond of her child. For that mother’s love at least, she
+deserves credit.”
+
+“As far as that goes, Monsieur, certainly the little one never wanted
+for anything. In all the Quarter one could not have found a child better
+kept, or better nourished, or more petted and coddled. Every day that
+God makes she puts a clean bib on him, and sings to him to make him
+laugh from morning till night.”
+
+“Therese, a poet has said, ‘That child whose mother has never smiled
+upon him is worthy neither of the table of the gods nor of the couch of
+the goddesses.’”
+
+
+
+
+July 8, 1852.
+
+
+Having been informed that the Chapel of the Virgin at
+Saint-Germain-des-Pres was being repaved, I entered the church with
+the hope of discovering some old inscriptions, possibly exposed by the
+labours of the workmen. I was not disappointed. The architect kindly
+showed me a stone which he had just had raised up against the wall.
+I knelt down to look at the inscription engraved upon that stone; and
+then, half aloud, I read in the shadow of the old apsis these words,
+which made my heart leap:
+
+“Cy-gist Alexandre, moyne de ceste eglise, qui fist mettre en argent le
+menton de Saint-Vincent et de Saint-Amant et le pie des Innocens; qui
+toujours en son vivant fut preud’homme et vayllant. Priez pour l’ame de
+lui.”
+
+I wiped gently away with my handkerchief the dust covering that
+gravestone; I could have kissed it.
+
+“It is he! it is Alexander!” I cried out; and from the height of the
+vaults the name fell back upon me with a clang, as if broken.
+
+The silent severity of the beadle, whom I saw advancing towards me,
+made me ashamed of my enthusiasm; and I fled between the two holy water
+sprinklers with which tow rival “rats d’eglise” seemed desirous of
+barring my way.
+
+At all events it was certainly my own Alexander! there could be no more
+doubt possible; the translator of the “Golden Legend,” the author of
+the saints lives of Saints Germain, Vincent, Ferreol, Ferrution,
+and Droctoveus was, just as I had supposed, a monk of
+Saint-Germain-des-Pres. And what a monk, too--pious and generous! He
+had a silver chin, a silver head, and a silver foot made, that certain
+precious remains should be covered with an incorruptible envelope! But
+shall I never be able to view his handiwork? or is this new discovery
+only destined to increase my regrets?
+
+
+
+
+August 20, 1859.
+
+
+  “I, that please some, try all; both joy and terror
+   Of good and bad; that make and unfold error--
+   Now take upon me, in the name of Time
+   To use my wings.  Impute it not a crime
+   To me or my swift passage, that I slide
+   O’er years.”
+
+   Who speaks thus? ‘Tis an old man whom I know too well. It is Time.
+
+Shakespeare, after having terminated the third act of the “Winter’s
+Tale,” pauses in order to leave time for little Perdita to grow up in
+wisdom and in beauty; and when he raises the curtain again he evokes the
+ancient Scythe-bearer upon the stage to render account to the audience
+of those many long days which have weighted down upon the head of the
+jealous Leontes.
+
+Like Shakespeare in his play, I have left in this diary of mine a long
+interval to oblivion; and after the fashion of the poet, I make Time
+himself intervene to explain the omission of ten whole years. Ten whole
+years, indeed, have passed since I wrote one single line in this diary;
+and now that I take up the pen again, I have not the pleasure, alas!
+to describe a Perdita “now grown in grace.” Youth and beauty are the
+faithful companions of poets; but those charming phantoms scarcely visit
+the rest of us, even for the space of a season. We do not know how to
+retain them with us. If the fair shade of some Perdita should ever,
+through some inconceivable whim, take a notion to traverse my brain, she
+would hurt herself horribly against heaps of dog-eared parchments. Happy
+the poets!--their white hairs never scare away the hovering shades of
+Helens, Francescas, Juliets, Julias, and Dorotheas! But the nose alone
+of Sylvestre Bonnard would put to flight the whole swarm of love’s
+heroines.
+
+Yet I, like others, have felt beauty; I have known that mysterious charm
+which Nature has lent to animate form; and the clay which lives has
+given to me that shudder of delight which makes the lover and the poet.
+But I have never known either how to love or how to sing. Now in my
+memory--all encumbered as it is with the rubbish of old texts--I can
+discern again, like a miniature forgotten in some attic, a certain
+bright young face, with violet eyes.... Why, Bonnard, my friend, what
+an old fool you are becoming! Read that catalogue which a Florentine
+bookseller sent you this very morning. It is a catalogue of Manuscripts;
+and he promises you a description of several famous ones, long preserved
+by the collectors of Italy and Sicily. There is something better suited
+to you, something more in keeping with your present appearance.
+
+I read; I cry out! Hamilcar, who has assumed with the approach of age an
+air of gravity that intimidates me, looks at me reproachfully, and seems
+to ask me whether there is any rest in this world, since he cannot enjoy
+it beside me, who am old also like himself.
+
+In the sudden joy of my discovery, I need a confidant; and it is to the
+sceptic Hamilcar that I address myself with all the effusion of a happy
+man.
+
+“No, Hamilcar! no,” I said to him; “there is no rest in this world, and
+the quietude which you long for is incompatible with the duties of
+life. And you say that we are old, indeed! Listen to what I read in this
+catalogue, and then tell me whether this is a time to be reposing:
+
+“‘LA LEGENDE DOREE DE JACQUES DE VORAGINE;--traduction francaise du
+quatorzieme sicle, par le Clerc Alexandre.
+
+“‘Superb MS., ornamented with two miniatures, wonderfully executed, and
+in a perfect state of preservation:--one representing the Purification
+of the Virgin; the other the Coronation of Proserpine.
+
+“‘At the termination of the “Legende Doree” are the Legends of Saints
+Ferreol, Ferrution, Germain, and Droctoveus (xxxviii pp.) and the
+Miraculous Sepulture of Monsieur Saint-Germain d’Auxerre (xii pp.).
+
+“‘This rare manuscript, which formed part of the collection of Sir
+Thomas Raleigh, is now in the private study of Signor Michel-Angelo
+Polizzi, of Girgenti.’”
+
+“You hear that, Hamilcar? The manuscript of the Clerk Alexander is in
+Sicily, at the house of Michel-Angelo Polizzi. Heaven grant he may be a
+friend of learned men! I am going to write him!”
+
+Which I did forthwith. In my letter I requested Signor Polizzi to allow
+me to examine the manuscript of Clerk Alexander, stating on what grounds
+I ventured to consider myself worthy of so great a favour. I offered at
+the same time to put at his disposal several unpublished texts in my
+own possession, not devoid of interest. I begged him to favour me with
+a prompt reply, and below my signature I wrote down all my honorary
+titles.
+
+“Monsieur! Monsieur! where are you running like that?” cried Therese,
+quite alarmed, coming down the stairs in pursuit of me, four steps at a
+time, with my hat in her hand.
+
+“I am going to post a letter, Therese.”
+
+“Good God! is that a way to run out in the street, bareheaded, like a
+crazy man?”
+
+“I am crazy, I know, Therese. But who is not? Give me my hat, quick!”
+
+“And your gloves, Monsieur! and your umbrella!”
+
+I had reached the bottom of the stairs, but still heard her protesting
+and lamenting.
+
+
+
+
+October 10, 1859.
+
+
+I awaited Signor Polizzi’s reply with ill-contained impatience. I could
+not even remain quiet; I would make sudden nervous gestures--open books
+and violently close them again. One day I happened to upset a book
+with my elbow--a volume of Moreri. Hamilcar, who was washing himself,
+suddenly stopped, and looked angrily at me, with his paw over his ear.
+Was this the tumultuous existence he must expect under my roof? Had
+there not been a tacit understanding between us that we should live a
+peaceful life? I had broken the covenant.
+
+“My poor dear comrade,” I made answer, “I am the victim of a violent
+passion, which agitates and masters me. The passions are enemies of
+peace and quiet, I acknowledge; but without them there would be no arts
+or industries in the world. Everybody would sleep naked on a dung-heap;
+and you would not be able, Hamilcar, to repose all day on a silken
+cushion, in the City of Books.”
+
+I expatiated no further to Hamilcar on the theory of the passions,
+however, because my housekeeper brought me a letter. It bore the
+postmark of Naples and read as follows:
+
+“Most Illustrious Sir,--I do indeed possess that incomparable manuscript
+of the ‘Golden Legend’ which could not escape your keen observation.
+All-important reasons, however, forbid me, imperiously, tyrannically, to
+let the manuscript go out of my possession for a single day, for even a
+single minute. It will be a joy and pride for me to have you examine it
+in my humble home in Girgenti, which will be embellished and illuminated
+by your presence. It is with the most anxious expectation of your visit
+that I presume to sign myself, Seigneur Academician,
+
+“Your humble and devoted servant
+
+“Michel-Angelo Polizzi,
+
+“Wine-merchant and Archaeologist at Girgenti, Sicily.”
+
+
+Well, then! I will go to Sicily:
+
+“Extremum hunc, Arethusa, mihi concede laborem.”
+
+
+
+
+October 25, 1859.
+
+
+My resolve had been taken and my preparations made; it only remained
+for me to notify my housekeeper. I must acknowledge it was a long time
+before I could make up my mind to tell her I was going away. I feared
+her remonstrances, her railleries, her objurgations, her tears. “She is
+a good, kind girl,” I said to myself; “she is attacked to me; she will
+want to prevent me from going; and the Lord knows that when she has her
+mind set upon anything, gestures and cries cost her no effort. In this
+instance she will be sure to call the concierge, the scrubber, the
+mattress-maker, and the seven sons of the fruit-seller; they will all
+kneel down in a circle around me; they will begin to cry, and then they
+will look so ugly that I shall be obliged to yield, so as not to have
+the pain of seeing them any more.”
+
+Such were the awful images, the sick dreams, which fear marshaled before
+my imagination. Yes, fear--“fecund Fear,” as the poet says--gave
+birth to these monstrosities in my brain. For--I may as well make the
+confession in these private pages--I am afraid of my housekeeper. I am
+aware that she knows I am weak; and this fact alone is sufficient to
+dispel all my courage in any contest with her. Contests are of frequent
+occurrence; and I invariably succumb.
+
+But for all that, I had to announce my departure to Therese. She came
+into the library with an armful of wood to make a little fire--“une
+flambe,” she said. For the mornings are chilly. I watched her out of the
+corner of my eye while she crouched down at the hearth, with her head in
+the opening of the fireplace. I do not know how I then found the courage
+to speak, but I did so without much hesitation. I got up, and, walking
+up and down the room, observed in a careless tone, with that swaggering
+manner characteristic of cowards,
+
+“By the way, Therese, I am going to Sicily.”
+
+Having thus spoken, I awaited the consequence with great anxiety.
+Therese did not reply. Her head and her vast cap remained buried in the
+fireplace; and nothing in her person, which I closely watched, betrayed
+the least emotion. She poked some paper under the wood, and blew up the
+fire. That was all!
+
+Finally I saw her face again;--it was calm--so calm that it made me
+vexed. “Surely,” I thought to myself, “this old maid has no heart. She
+lets me go away without saying so much as AH! Can the absence of her old
+master really affect her so little?”
+
+“Well, then go, Monsieur,” she answered at last, “only be back here by
+six o’clock! There is a dish for dinner to-day which will not wait for
+anybody.”
+
+
+
+
+Naples, November 10, 1859.
+
+
+“Co tra calle vive, magna, e lave a faccia.”
+
+I understand, my friend--for three centimes I can eat, drink, and wash
+my face, all by means of one of those slices of watermelon you display
+there on a little table. But Occidental prejudices would prevent me from
+enjoying that simple pleasure freely and frankly. And how could I suck
+a watermelon? I have enough to do merely to keep on my feet in this
+crowd. What a luminous, noisy night in the Strada di Porto! Mountains of
+fruit tower up in the shops, illuminated by multicoloured lanterns. Upon
+charcoal furnaces lighted in the open air water boils and steams, and
+ragouts are singing in frying-pans. The smell of fried fish and hot
+meats tickles my nose and makes me sneeze. At this moment I find that my
+handkerchief has left the pocket of my frock-coat. I am pushed,
+lifted up, and turned about in every direction by the gayest, the most
+talkative, the most animated and the most adroit populace possible to
+imagine; and suddenly a young woman of the people, while I am admiring
+her magnificent hair, with a single shock of her powerful elastic
+shoulder, pushes me staggering three paces back at least, without
+injury, into the arms of a maccaroni-eater, who receives me with a
+smile.
+
+I am in Naples. How I ever managed to arrive here, with a few mutilated
+and shapeless remains of baggage, I cannot tell, because I am no longer
+myself. I have been travelling in a condition of perpetual fright; and I
+think that I must have looked awhile ago in this bright city like an owl
+bewildered by sunshine. To-night it is much worse! Wishing to obtain a
+glimpse of popular manners, I went to the Strada di Porto, where I now
+am. All about me animated throngs of people crowd and press before the
+eating-places; and I float like a waif among these living surges, which,
+even while they submerge you, still caress. For this Neopolitan people
+has, in its very vivacity, something indescribably gentle and polite.
+I am not roughly jostled, I am merely swayed about; and I think that
+by dint of thus rocking me to and fro, these good folks want to lull
+me asleep on my feet. I admire, as I tread the lava pavements of the
+strada, those porters and fishermen who move by me chatting, singing,
+smoking, gesticulating, quarrelling, and embracing each other the next
+moment with astonishing versatility of mood. They live through all their
+sense at the same time; and, being philosophers without knowing it, keep
+the measure of their desires in accordance with the brevity of life. I
+approach a much-patronised tavern, and see inscribed above the entrance
+this quatrain in Neopolitan patois:
+
+
+           “Amice, alliegre magnammo e bevimmo
+            N fin che n’ce stace noglio a la lucerna:
+            Chi sa s’a l’autro munno n’ce verdimmo?
+            Chi sa s’a l’autro munno n’ce taverna?”
+          [“Friends, let us merrily eat and drink
+           as long as oil remains in the lamp:
+           Who knows if we shall meet again in another world?
+           Who knows if in the other world there will be a tavern?”]
+
+
+Even such counsels was Horace wont to give to his friends. You received
+them, Posthumus; you heard them also, Leuconoe, perverse beauty who
+wished to know the secrets of the future. That future is now the past,
+and we know it well. Of a truth you were foolish to worry yourselves
+about so small a matter; and your friend showed his good sense when he
+told you to take life wisely and to filter your Greek wines--“Sapias,
+vina liques.” Even thus the sight of a fair land under a spotless sky
+urges to the pursuit of quiet pleasures, but there are souls for ever
+harassed by some sublime discontent; those are the noblest. You were
+of such, Leuconoe; and I, visiting for the first time, in my declining
+years, that city where your beauty was famed of old, I salute with
+deep respect your melancholy memory. Those souls of kin to your own
+who appeared in the age of Christianity were souls of saints; and the
+“Golden Legend” is full of the miracles they wrought. Your friend Horace
+left a less noble posterity, and I see one of his descendants in the
+person of that tavern poet, who at this moment is serving out wine in
+cups under the epicurean motto of his sign.
+
+And yet life decides in favour of friend Flaccus, and his philosophy
+is the only one which adapts itself to the course of events. There is a
+fellow leaning against that trellis-work covered with vine-leaves, and
+eating an ice, while watching the stars. He would not stoop even to
+pick up the old manuscript I am going to seek with so much trouble and
+fatigue. And in truth man is made rather to eat ices than to pore over
+old texts.
+
+I continued to wander about among the drinkers and the singers. There
+were lovers biting into beautiful fruit, each with an arm about the
+other’s waist. Man must be naturally bad; for all this strange joy only
+evoked in me a feeling of uttermost despondency. That thronging populace
+displayed such artless delight in the simple act of living, that all the
+shynesses begotten by my old habits as an author awoke and intensified
+into something like fright. Furthermore, I found myself much discouraged
+by my inability to understand a word of all the storm of chatter about
+me. It was a humiliating experience for a philologist. Thus I had begun
+to feel quite sulky, when I was startled to hear someone behind me
+observe:
+
+“Dimitri, that old man is certainly a Frenchman. He looks so bewildered
+that I really fell sorry for him. Shall I speak to him? ...He has such
+a goo-natured look, with that round back of his--do you not think so,
+Dimitri?”
+
+It was said in French by a woman’s voice. For the moment it was
+disagreeable to hear myself spoken of as an old man. Is a man old at
+sixty-two? Only the other day, on the Pont des Arts, my colleague Perrot
+d’Avrignac complimented me on my youthful appearance; and I should think
+him a better authority about one’s age than that young chatterbox who
+has taken it on herself to make remarks about my back. My back is round,
+she says. Ah! ah! I had some suspicion myself to that effect, but I
+am not going now to believe it at all, since it is the opinion of a
+giddy-headed young woman. Certainly I will not turn my head round to see
+who it was that spoke; but I am sure it was a pretty woman. Why? Because
+she talks like a capricious person and like a spoiled child. Ugly women
+may be naturally quite as capricious as pretty ones; but as they are
+never petted and spoiled, and as no allowances are made for them, they
+soon find themselves obliged either to suppress their whims or to hide
+them. On the other hand, the pretty women can be just as fantastical as
+they please. My neighbour is evidently one of the latter.... But, after
+all, coming to think it over, she really did nothing worse than to
+express, in her own way, a kindly thought about me, for which I ought to
+feel grateful.
+
+These reflections--include the last and decisive one--passed through my
+mind in less than a second; and if I have taken a whole minute to tell
+them, it is characteristic of most philologists. In less than a second,
+therefore, after the voice had ceased, I did turn round, and saw a
+pretty little woman--a sprightly brunette.
+
+“Madame,” I said, with a bow, “excuse my involuntary indiscretion. I
+could not help overhearing what you have just said. You would like to
+be of service to a poor old man. And the wish, Madame, has already been
+fulfilled--the mere sound of a French voice has given me such pleasure
+that I must thank you.”
+
+I bowed again, and turned to go away; but my foot slipped upon a
+melon-rind, and I should certainly have embraced the Parthenopean soil
+had not the young lady put out her hand and caught me.
+
+There is a force in circumstances--even in the very smallest
+circumstances--against which resistance is vain. I resigned myself to
+remain the protege of the fair unknown.
+
+“It is late,” she said; “do you not wish to go back to your hotel, which
+must be quite close to ours--unless it be the same one?”
+
+“Madame,” I replied, “I do not know what time it is, because somebody
+has stolen my watch; but I think, as you say, that it must be time to
+retire; and I shall be very glad to regain my hotel in the company of
+such courteous compatriots.”
+
+So saying, I bowed once more to the young lady, and also saluted her
+companion, a silent colossus with a gentle and melancholy face.
+
+After having gone a little way with them, I learned, among other
+matters, that my new acquaintances were the Prince and Princess Trepof,
+and that they were making a trip round the world for the purpose of
+finding match-boxes, of which they were making a collection.
+
+We proceeded along a narrow, tortuous vicoletto, lighted only by
+a single lamp burning in the niche of a Madonna. The purity and
+transparency of the air gave a celestial softness and clearness to the
+very darkness itself; and one could find one’s way without difficulty
+under such a limpid night. But in a little while we began to pass
+through a “venella,” or, in Neopolitan parlance, a sottoportico, which
+led under so many archways and so many far-projecting balconies that no
+gleam of light from the sky could reach us. My young guide had made us
+take this route as a short cut, she assured us; but I think she did so
+quite as much simply in order to show that she felt at home in Naples,
+and knew the city thoroughly. Indeed, she needed to know it very
+thoroughly to venture by night into that labyrinth of subterranean
+alleys and flights of steps. If ever any many showed absolute docility
+in allowing himself to be guided, that man was myself. Dante never
+followed the steps of Beatrice with more confidence than I felt in
+following those of Princess Trepof.
+
+The lady appeared to find some pleasure in my conversation, for she
+invited me to take a carriage-drive with her on the morrow to visit the
+grotto of Posilippo and the tomb of Virgil. She declared she had seen me
+somewhere before; but she could not remember if it had been a Stockholm
+or at Canton. In the former event I was a very celebrated professor of
+geology; in the latter, a provision-merchant whose courtesy and kindness
+had been much appreciated. One thing certain was that she had seen my
+back somewhere before.
+
+“Excuse me,” she added; “we are continually travelling, my husband and
+I, to collect match-boxes and to change our ennui by changing country.
+Perhaps it would be more reasonable to content ourselves with a single
+variety of ennui. But we have made all our preparations and arrangements
+for travelling: all our plans have been laid out in advance, and it
+gives us no trouble, whereas it would be very troublesome for us to
+stop anywhere in particular. I tell you all this so that you many not
+be surprised if my recollections have become a little mixed up. But from
+the moment I first saw you at a distance this evening, I felt--in fact
+I knew--that I had seen you before. Now the question is, ‘Where was
+it that I saw you?’ You are not then, either the geologist or the
+provision-merchant?”
+
+“No, Madame,” I replied, “I am neither the one nor the other; and I am
+sorry for it--since you have had reason to esteem them. There is really
+nothing about me worthy of your interest. I have spent all my life
+poring over books, and I have never traveled: you might have known that
+from my bewilderment, which excited your compassion. I am a member of
+the Institute.”
+
+“You are a member of the Institute! How nice! Will you not write
+something for me in my album? Do you know Chinese? I would like so much
+to have you write something in Chinese or Persian in my album. I will
+introduce you to my friend, Miss Fergusson, who travels everywhere
+to see all the famous people in the world. She will be delighted....
+Dimitri, did you hear that?--this gentleman is a member of the
+Institute, and he has passed all his life over books.”
+
+The prince nodded approval.
+
+“Monsieur,” I said, trying to engage him in our conversation, “it is
+true that something can be learned from books; but a great deal more can
+be learned by travelling, and I regret that I have not been able to
+go round the world like you. I have lived in the same house for thirty
+years and I scarcely every go out.”
+
+“Lived in the same house for thirty years!” cried Madame Trepof; “is it
+possible?”
+
+“Yes, Madame,” I answered. “But you must know the house is situated on
+the bank of the Seine, and in the very handsomest and most famous part
+of the world. From my window I can see the Tuileries and the Louvre,
+the Pont-Neuf, the towers of Notre-Dame, the turrets of the Palais de
+Justice, and the spire of the Sainte-Chapelle. All those stones speak to
+me; they tell me stories about the days of Saint-Louis, of the Valois,
+of Henri IV., and of Louis XIV. I understand them, and I love them all.
+It is only a very small corner of the world, but honestly, Madame, where
+is there a more glorious spot?”
+
+At this moment we found ourselves upon a public square--a largo steeped
+in the soft glow of the night. Madame Trepof looked at me in an uneasy
+manner; her lifted eyebrows almost touched the black curls about her
+forehead.
+
+“Where do you live then?” she demanded brusquely.
+
+“On the Quai Malaquais, Madame, and my name is Bonnard. It is not a name
+very widely known, but I am contented if my friends do not forget it.”
+
+This revelation, unimportant as it was, produced an extraordinary effect
+upon Madame Trepof. She immediately turned her back upon me and caught
+her husband’s arm.
+
+“Come, Dimitri!” she exclaimed, “do walk a little faster. I am horribly
+tired, and you will not hurry yourself in the least. We shall never get
+home.... As for you, monsieur, your way lies over there!”
+
+She made a vague gesture in the direction of some dark vicolo, pushed
+her husband the opposite way, and called to me, without even turning her
+head.
+
+“Adieu, Monsieur! We shall not go to Posilippo to-morrow, nor the
+day after, either. I have a frightful headache!... Dimitri, you are
+unendurable! will you not walk faster?”
+
+I remained for the moment stupefied, vainly trying to think what I could
+have done to offend Madame Trepof. I had also lost my way, and seemed
+doomed to wander about all night. In order to ask my way, I would have
+to see somebody; and it did not seem likely that I should find a single
+human being who could understand me. In my despair I entered a street
+at random--a street, or rather a horrible alley that had the look of a
+murderous place. It proved so in fact, for I had not been two minutes in
+it before I saw two men fighting with knives. They were attacking each
+other more fiercely with their tongues than with their weapons; and I
+concluded from the nature of the abuse they were showering upon each
+other that it was a love affair. I prudently made my way into a side
+alley while those two good fellows were still much too busy with their
+own affairs to think about mine. I wandered hopelessly about for a
+while, and at last sat down, completely discouraged, on a stone bench,
+inwardly cursing the strange caprices of Madame Trepof.
+
+“How are you, Signor? Are you back from San Carlo? Did you hear the diva
+sing? It is only at Naples you can hear singing like hers.”
+
+I looked up, and recognised my host. I had seated myself with my back to
+the facade of my hotel, under the window of my own room.
+
+
+
+
+Monte-Allegro, November 30, 1859.
+
+
+We were all resting--myself, my guides, and their mules--on a road
+from Sciacca to Girgenti, at a tavern in the miserable village of
+Monte-Allegro, whose inhabitants, consumed by the mal aria, continually
+shiver in the sun. But nevertheless they are Greeks, and their gaiety
+triumphs over all circumstances. A few gather about the tavern, full of
+smiling curiosity. One good story would have sufficed, had I known how
+to tell it to them, to make them forget all the woes of life. They had
+all a look of intelligence! and their women, although tanned and faded,
+wore their long black cloaks with much grace.
+
+Before me I could see old ruins whitened by the sea-wind--ruins about
+which no grass ever grows. The dismal melancholy of deserts prevails
+over this arid land, whose cracked surface can barely nourish a few
+shriveled mimosas, cacti, and dwarf palms. Twenty yards away, along the
+course of a ravine, stones were gleaming whitely like a long line of
+scattered bones. They told me that was the bed of a stream.
+
+I had been fifteen days in Sicily. On coming into the Bay of
+Palermo--which opens between the two mighty naked masses of the
+Pelligrino and the Catalfano, and extends inward along the “Golden
+Conch”--the view inspired me with such admiration that I resolved to
+travel a little in this island, so ennobled by historic memories, and
+rendered so beautiful by the outlines of its hills, which reveal the
+principles of Greek art. Old pilgrim though I was, grown hoary in
+the Gothic Occident--I dared to venture upon that classic soil; and,
+securing a guide, I went from Palermo to Trapani, from Trapani to
+Selinonte, from Selinonte to Sciacca--which I left this morning to go to
+Girgenti, where I am to find the MS. of Clerk Alexander. The beautiful
+things I have seen are still so vivid in my mind that I feel the task of
+writing them would be a useless fatigue. Why spoil my pleasure-trip
+by collecting notes? Lovers who love truly do not write down their
+happiness.
+
+Wholly absorbed by the melancholy of the present and the poetry of
+the past, my thoughts people with beautiful shapes, and my eyes ever
+gratified by the pure and harmonious lines of the landscape, I was
+resting in the tavern at Monte-Allegro, sipping a glass of heavy, fiery
+wine, when I saw two persons enter the waiting-room, whom, after a
+moment’s hesitation, I recognised as the Prince and Princess Trepof.
+
+This time I saw the princess in the light--and what a light! He who has
+known that of Sicily can better comprehend the words of Sophocles:
+“Oh holy light!... Eye of the Golden Day!” Madame Trepof, dressed in a
+brown-holland and wearing a broad-brimmed straw hat, appeared to me a
+very pretty woman of about twenty-eight. Her eyes were luminous as a
+child’s; but her slightly plump chin indicated the age of plenitude.
+She is, I must confess it, quite an attractive person. She is supple
+and changeful; her mood is like water itself--and, thank Heaven! I am
+no navigator. I thought I discerned in her manner a sort of ill-humour,
+which I attributed presently, by reason of some observations she uttered
+at random, to the fact that she had met no brigands upon her route.
+
+“Such things only happen to us!” she exclaimed, with a gesture of
+discouragement.
+
+She called for a glass of iced water, which the landlord presented to
+her with a gesture that recalled to me those scenes of funeral offerings
+painted upon Greek vases.
+
+I was in no hurry to introduce myself to a lady who had so abruptly
+dropped my acquaintance in the public square at Naples; but she
+perceived me in my corner, and her frown notified me very plainly that
+our accidental meeting was disagreeable to her.
+
+After she had sipper her ice-water for a few moments--whether because
+her whim had suddenly changed, or because my loneliness aroused her
+pity, I did not know--she walked directly to me.
+
+“Good-day, Monsieur Bonnard,” she said. “How do you do? What strange
+chance enables us to meet again in this frightful country?”
+
+“This country is not frightful, Madame,” I replied. “Beauty is so great
+and so august a quality that centuries of barbarism cannot efface it
+so completely that adorable vestiges of it will not always remain. The
+majesty of the antique Ceres still overshadows these arid valleys; and
+that Greek Muse who made Arethusa and Maenalus ring with her divine
+accents, still sings for my ears upon the barren mountain and in the
+place of the dried-up spring. Yes, Madame, when our globe, no longer
+inhabited, shall, like the moon, roll a wan corpse through space, the
+soil which bears the ruins of Selinonte will still keep the seal of
+beauty in the midst of universal death; and then, then, at least
+there will be no frivolous mouth to blaspheme the grandeur of these
+solitudes.”
+
+I knew well enough that my words were beyond the comprehension of the
+pretty little empty-head which heard them. But an old fellow like myself
+who has worn out his life over books does not know how to adapt his tone
+to circumstances. Besides I wished to give Madame Trepof a lesson in
+politeness. She received it with so much submission, and with such
+an air of comprehension, that I hastened to add, as good-naturedly as
+possible,
+
+“As to whether the chance which has enabled me to meet you again be
+lucky or unlucky, I cannot decide the question until I am sure that my
+presence be not disagreeable to you. You appeared to become weary of my
+company very suddenly at Naples the other day. I can only attribute that
+misfortune to my naturally unpleasant manner--since, on that occasion, I
+had had the honour of meeting you for the first time in my life.”
+
+These words seem to cause her inexplicable joy. She smiled upon me in
+the most gracious, mischievous way, and said very earnestly, holding out
+her hand, which I touched with my lips,
+
+“Monsieur Bonnard, do not refuse to accept a seat in my carriage. You
+can chat with me on the way about antiquity, and that will amuse me ever
+so much.”
+
+“My dear,” exclaimed the prince, “you can do just as you please; but
+you ought to remember that one is horribly cramped in that carriage of
+yours; and I fear that you are only offering Monsieur Bonnard the chance
+of getting a frightful attack of lumbago.”
+
+Madame Trepof simply shook her head by way of explaining that such
+considerations had no weight with her whatever; then she untied her hat.
+The darkness of her black curls descended over her eyes, and bathed them
+in velvety shadow. She remained a little while quite motionless, and her
+face assumed a surprising expression of reverie. But all of a sudden she
+darted at some oranges which the tavern-keeper had brought in a basket,
+and began to throw them, one by one, into a fold of her dress.
+
+“These will be nice on the road,” she said. “We are going just where you
+are going--to Girgenti. I must tell you all about it; you know that
+my husband is making a collection of match-boxes. We bought thirteen
+hundred match-boxes at Marseilles. But we heard there was a factory of
+them at Girgenti. According to what we were told, it is a very small
+factory, and its products--which are very ugly--never go outside
+the city and its suburbs. So we are going to Girgenti just to buy
+match-boxes. Dimitri has been a collector of all sorts of things; but
+the only kind of collection which can now interest him is a collection
+of match-boxes. He has already got five thousand two hundred and
+fourteen different kinds. Some of them gave us frightful trouble to
+find. For instance, we knew that at Naples boxes were once made with
+the portraits of Mazzini and Garibaldi on them; and that the police had
+seized the plates from which the portraits were printed, and put the
+manufacturer in gaol. Well, by dint of searching and inquiring for ever
+so long a while, we found one of those boxes at last for sale at one
+hundred francs, instead of two sous. It was not really too dear at
+that price; but we were denounced for buying it. We were taken for
+conspirators. All our baggage was searched; they could not find the box,
+because I had hidden it so well; but they found my jewels, and carried
+them off. They have them still. The incident made quite a sensation, and
+we were going to get arrested. But the king was displeased about it, and
+he ordered them to leave us alone. Up to that time, I used to think it
+was very stupid to collect match-boxes; but when I found that there were
+risks of losing liberty, and perhaps even life, by doing it, I began to
+feel a taste for it. Now I am an absolute fanatic on the subject. We
+are going to Sweden next summer to complete our series.... Are we not,
+Dimitri?”
+
+I felt--must I confess it?--a thorough sympathy with these intrepid
+collectors. No doubt I would rather have found Monsieur and Madame
+Trepof engaged in collecting antique marbles or painted vases in
+Sicily. I should have like to have found them interested in the ruins
+of Syracuse, or the poetical traditions of the Eryx. But at all events,
+they were making some sort of a collection--they belonged to the great
+confraternity--and I could not possibly make fun of them without making
+fun of myself. Besides, Madame Trepof had spoken of her collection
+with such an odd mingling of irony and enthusiasm that I could not help
+finding the idea a very good one.
+
+We were getting ready to leave the tavern, when we noticed some people
+coming downstairs from the upper room, carrying carbines under their
+dark cloaks, to me they had the look of thorough bandits; and after they
+were gone I told Monsieur Trepof my opinion of them. He answered me,
+very quietly, that he also thought they were regular bandits; and the
+guides begged us to apply for an escort of gendarmes, but Madame Trepof
+besought us not to do anything of the kind. She declared that we must
+not “spoil her journey.”
+
+Then, turning her persuasive eyes upon me, she asked,
+
+“Do you not believe, Monsieur Bonnard, that there is nothing in life
+worth having except sensations?”
+
+“Why, certainly, Madame,” I answered; “but then we must take into
+consideration the nature of the sensations themselves. Those which a
+noble memory or a grand spectacle creates within us certainly represent
+what is best in human life; but those merely resulting from the menace
+of danger seem to me sensations which one should be very careful to
+avoid as much as possible. For example, would you think it a very
+pleasant thing, Madame, while travelling over the mountains at midnight,
+to find the muzzle of a carbine suddenly pressed against your forehead?”
+
+“Oh, no!” she replied; “the comic-operas have made carbines absolutely
+ridiculous, and it would be a great misfortune to any young woman to
+find herself in danger from an absurd weapon. But it would be quite
+different with a knife--a very cold and very bright knife blade, which
+makes a cold shudder go right through one’s heart.”
+
+She shuddered even as she spoke; closed her eyes, and threw her head
+back. Then she resumed:
+
+“People like you are so happy! You can interest yourselves in all sorts
+of things!”
+
+She gave a sidelong look at her husband, who was talking with the
+innkeeper. Then she leaned towards me, and murmured very low:
+
+“You see, Dimitri and I, we are both suffering from ennui! We have
+still the match-boxes. But at last one gets tired even of match-boxes.
+Besides, our collection will soon be complete. And then what are we
+going to do?”
+
+“Oh, Madame!” I exclaimed, touched by the moral unhappiness of this
+pretty person, “if you only had a son, then you would know what to do.
+You would then learn the purpose of your life, and your thoughts would
+become at once more serious and yet more cheerful.”
+
+“But I have a son,” she replied. “He is a big boy; he is eleven years
+old, and he suffers from ennui like the rest of us. Yes, my George has
+ennui, too; he is tired of everything. It is very wretched.”
+
+She glanced again towards her husband, who was superintending the
+harnessing of the mules on the road outside--testing the condition of
+girths and straps. Then she asked me whether there had been many changes
+on the Quai Malaquais during the past ten years. She declared she never
+visited that neighbourhood because it was too far way.
+
+“Too far from Monte Allegro?” I queried.
+
+“Why, no!” she replied. “Too far from the Avenue des Champs Elysees,
+where we live.”
+
+And she murmured over again, as if talking to herself, “Too far!--too
+far!” in a tone of reverie which I could not possibly account for. All
+at once she smiled again, and said to me,
+
+“I like you, Monsieur Bonnard!--I like you very, very much!”
+
+The mules had been harnessed. The young woman hastily picked up a few
+oranges which had rolled off her lap; rose up; looked at me, and burst
+out laughing.
+
+“Oh!” she exclaimed, “how I should like to see you grappling with the
+brigands! You would say such extraordinary things to them!... Please
+take my hat, and hold my umbrella for me, Monsieur Bonnard.”
+
+“What a strange little mind!” I thought to myself, as I followed her.
+“It could only have been in a moment of inexcusable thoughtlessness that
+Nature gave a child to such a giddy little woman!”
+
+
+
+
+Girgenti. Same day.
+
+
+Her manners had shocked me. I left her to arrange herself in her
+lettica, and I made myself as comfortable as I could in my own. These
+vehicles, which have no wheels, are carried by two mules--one before and
+one behind. This kind of litter, or chaise, is of ancient origin. I had
+often seen representations of similar ones in the French MSS. of the
+fourteenth century. I had no idea then that one of those vehicles would
+be at a future day placed at my own disposal. We must never be too sure
+of anything.
+
+For three hours the mules sounded their little bells, and thumped the
+calcined ground with their hoofs. On either hand there slowly defiled by
+us the barren monstrous shapes of a nature totally African.
+
+Half-way we made a halt to allow our animals to recover breath.
+
+Madame Trepof came to me on the road, took my arm, and drew me a little
+away from the party. Then, very suddenly, she said to me in a tone of
+voice I had never heard before:
+
+“Do not think that I am a wicked woman. My George knows that I am a good
+mother.”
+
+We walked side by side for a moment in silence. She looked up, and I saw
+that she was crying.
+
+“Madame,” I said to her, “look at this soil which has been burned and
+cracked by five long months of fiery heat. A little white lily has
+sprung up from it.”
+
+And I pointed with my cane to the frail stalk, tipped by a double
+blossom.
+
+“Your heart,” I said, “however arid it be, bears also its white lily;
+and that is reason enough why I do not believe that you are what you
+say--a wicked woman.”
+
+“Yes, yes, yes!” she cried, with the obstinacy of a child--“I am a
+wicked woman. But I am ashamed to appear so before you who are so
+good--so very, very good.”
+
+“You do not know anything at all about it,” I said to her.
+
+“I know it! I know all about you, Monsieur Bonnard!” she declared, with
+a smile.
+
+And she jumped back into her lettica.
+
+
+
+
+Girgenti, November 30, 1859.
+
+
+I awoke the following morning in the House of Gellias. Gellias was a
+rich citizen of ancient Agrigentum. He was equally celebrated for his
+generosity and for his wealth; and he endowed his native city with a
+great number of free inns. Gellias has been dead for thirteen hundred
+years; and nowadays there is no gratuitous hospitality among civilised
+peoples. But the name of Gellias has become that of a hotel in which, by
+reason of fatigue, I was able to obtain one good night’s sleep.
+
+The modern Girgenti lifts its high, narrow, solid streets, dominated
+by a sombre Spanish cathedral, upon the side of the acropolis of the
+antique Agrigentum. I can see from my windows, half-way on the hillside
+towards the sea, the white range of temples partially destroyed. The
+ruins alone have some aspect of coolness. All the rest is arid. Water
+and life have forsaken Agrigentine. Water--the divine Nestis of the
+Agrigentine Empedocles--is so necessary to animated beings that nothing
+can live far from the rivers and the springs. But the port of Girgenti,
+situated at a distance of three kilometres from the city, has a great
+commerce. “And it is in this dismal city,” I said to myself, “upon
+this precipitous rock, that the manuscript of Clerk Alexander is to be
+found!” I asked my way to the house of Signor Michel-Angelo Polizzi, and
+proceeded thither.
+
+I found Signor Polizzi, dressed all in white from head to feet, busy
+cooking sausages in a frying-pan. At the sight of me, he let go the
+frying-pan, threw up his arms in the air, and uttered shrieks of
+enthusiasm. He was a little man whose pimply features, aquiline nose,
+round eyes, and projecting chin formed a very expressive physiognomy.
+
+He called me “Excellence,” said he was going to mark the day with a
+white stone, and made me sit down. The hall in which we were represented
+the union of the kitchen, reception-room, bedchamber, studio, and
+wine-cellar. There were charcoal furnaces visible, a bed, paintings, an
+easel, bottles, strings of onions, and a magnificent lustre of coloured
+glass pendants. I glanced at the paintings on the wall.
+
+“The arts! the arts!” cried Signor Polizzi, throwing up his arms again
+to heaven--“the arts! What dignity! what consolation! Excellence, I am a
+painter!”
+
+And he showed me an unfinished Saint-Francis, which indeed could very
+well remain unfinished for ever without any loss to religion or to art.
+Next he showed me some old paintings of a better style, but apparently
+restored after a decidedly reckless manner.
+
+“I repair,” he said--“I repair old paintings. Oh, the Old Masters! What
+genius, what soul!”
+
+“Why, then,” I said to him, “you must be a painter, an archaeologist,
+and a wine-merchant all in one?”
+
+“At your service, Excellence,” he answered. “I have a zucco here at this
+very moment--a zucco of which every single drop is a pearl of fire. I
+want your Lordship to taste of it.”
+
+“I esteem the wines of Sicily,” I responded, “but it was not for the
+sake of your flagons that I came to see you, Signor Polizzi.”
+
+He: “Then you have come to see me about paintings. You are an amateur.
+It is an immense delight for me to receive amateurs. I am going to show
+you the chef-d’oeuvre of Monrealese; yes, Excellence, his chef-d’oeuvre!
+An Adoration of Shepherds! It is the pearl of the whole Sicilian
+school!”
+
+I: “Later on I will be glad to see the chef-d’oeuvre; but let us first
+talk about the business which brings me here.”
+
+His little quick bright eyes watched my face curiously; and I perceived,
+with anguish, that he had not the least suspicion of the purpose of my
+visit.
+
+A cold sweat broke out over my forehead; and in the bewilderment of my
+anxiety I stammered out something to this effect:
+
+“I have come from Paris expressly to look at a manuscript of the Legende
+Doree, which you informed me was in your possession.”
+
+At these words he threw up his arms, opened his mouth and eyes to the
+widest possible extent, and betrayed every sign of extreme nervousness.
+
+“Oh! the manuscript of the ‘Golden Legend!’ A pearl, Excellence! a ruby,
+a diamond! Two miniatures so perfect that they give one the feeling
+of glimpses of Paradise! What suavity! Those colours ravished from the
+corollas of flowers make a honey for the eyes! Even a Sicilian could
+have done no better!”
+
+“Let me see it, then,” I asked; unable to conceal either my anxiety or
+my hope.
+
+“Let you see it!” cried Polizzi. “But how can I, Excellence? I have not
+got it any longer! I have not got it!”
+
+And he seemed determined to tear out his hair. He might indeed have
+pulled every hair in his head out of his hide before I should have tried
+to prevent him. But he stopped of his own accord, before he had done
+himself any grievous harm.
+
+“What!” I cried out in anger--“what! you make me come all the way from
+Paris to Girgenti, by promising to show me a manuscript, and now, when I
+come, you tell me you have not got it! It is simply infamous, Monsieur!
+I shall leave your conduct to be judged by all honest men!”
+
+Anybody who could have seen me at that moment would have been able to
+form a good idea of the aspect of a furious sheep.
+
+“It is infamous! it is infamous!” I repeated, waving my arms, which
+trembled from anger.
+
+Then Michel-Angelo Polizzi let himself fall into a chair in the attitude
+of a dying hero. I saw his eyes fill with tears, and his hair--until
+then flamboyant and erect upon his head--fall down in limp disorder over
+his brow.
+
+“I am a father, Excellence! I am a father!” he groaned, wringing his
+hands.
+
+He continued, sobbing:
+
+“My son Rafael--the son of my poor wife, for whose death I have been
+mourning fifteen years--Rafael, Excellence, wanted to settle at Paris;
+he hired a shop in the Rue Lafitte for the sale of curiosities. I gave
+him everything precious which I had--I gave him my finest majolicas;
+my most beautiful Urbino ware; my masterpieces of art; what paintings,
+Signor! Even now they dazzle me with I see them only in imagination! And
+all of them signed! Finally, I gave him the manuscript of the ‘Golden
+Legend’! I would have given him my flesh and my blood! An only son,
+Signor! the son of my poor saintly wife!”
+
+“So,” I said, “while I--relying on your written word, Monsieur--was
+travelling to the very heart of Sicily to find the manuscript of the
+Clerk Alexander, the same manuscript was actually exposed for sale in a
+window in the Rue Lafitte, only fifteen hundred yards from my house?”
+
+“Yes, it was there! that is positively true!” exclaimed Signor Polizzi,
+suddenly growing calm again; “and it is there still--at least I hope it
+is, Excellence.”
+
+He took a card from a shelf as he spoke, and offered it to me, saying,
+
+“Here is the address of my son. Make it known to your friends, and you
+will oblige me. Faience and enameled wares; hangings; pictures. He has
+a complete stock of objects of art--all at the fairest possible
+prices--and everything authentic, I can vouch for it, upon my honour! Go
+and see him. He will show you the manuscript of the ‘Golden Legend.’ Two
+miniatures miraculously fresh in colour!”
+
+I was feeble enough to take the card he held out to me.
+
+The fellow was taking further advantage of my weakness to make me
+circulate the name of Rafael Polizzi among the Societies of the learned!
+
+My hand was already on the door-knob, when the Sicilian caught me by the
+arm; he had a look as of sudden inspiration.
+
+“Ah! Excellence!” he cried, “what a city is this city of ours! It gave
+birth to Empedocles! Empedocles! What a great man what a great citizen!
+What audacity of thought! what virtue! what soul! At the port over there
+is a statue of Empedocles, before which I bare my head each time that I
+pass by! When Rafael, my son, was going away to found an establishment
+of antiquities in the Rue Lafitte, at Paris, I took him to the port, and
+there, at the foot of that statue of Empedocles, I bestowed upon him my
+paternal benediction! ‘Always remember Empedocles!’ I said to him. Ah!
+Signor, what our unhappy country needs to-day is a new Empedocles! Would
+you not like me to show you the way to his statue, Excellence? I will
+be your guide among the ruins here. I will show you the temple of
+Castor and Pollux, the temple of the Olympian Jupiter, the temple of
+the Lucinian Juno, the antique well, the tomb of Theron, and the Gate
+of Gold! All the professional guides are asses; but we--we shall make
+excavations, if you are willing--and we shall discover treasures! I know
+the science of discovering hidden treasures--the secret art of finding
+their whereabouts--a gift from Heaven!”
+
+I succeeded in tearing myself away from his grasp. But he ran after me
+again, stopped me at the foot of the stairs, and said in my ear,
+
+“Listen, Excellence. I will conduct you about the city; I will introduce
+you to some Girgentines! What a race! what types! what forms! Sicilian
+girls, Signor!--the antique beauty itself!”
+
+“Go to the devil!” I cried at last, in anger, and rushed into the
+street, leaving him still writhing in the loftiness of his enthusiasm.
+
+When I had got out of his sight, I sank down upon a stone, and began to
+think, with my face in my hands.
+
+“And it was for this,” I said to myself--“it was to hear such
+propositions as this that I came to Sicily! That Polizzi is simply a
+scoundrel, and his son another; and they made a plan together to ruin
+me.” But what was their scheme? I could not unravel it. Meanwhile, it
+may be imagined how discouraged and humiliated I felt.
+
+A merry burst of laughter caused me to turn my head, and I saw Madame
+Trepof running in advance of her husband, and holding up something which
+I could not distinguish clearly.
+
+She sat down beside me, and showed me--laughing more merrily all the
+while--an abominable little paste-board box, on which was printed a
+red and blue face, which the inscription declared to be the face of
+Empedocles.
+
+“Yes, Madame,” I said, “but that abominable Polizzi, to whom I advise
+you not to send Monsieur Trepof, has made me fall out for ever with
+Empedocles; and this portrait is not at all of a nature to make me feel
+more kindly to the ancient philosopher.”
+
+“Oh!” declared Madame Trepof, “it is ugly, but it is rare! These boxes
+are not exported at all; you can buy them only where they are made.
+Dimitri has six others just like this in his pocket. We got them so as
+to exchange with other collectors. You understand? At none o’clock this
+morning we were at the factory. You see we did not waste our time.”
+
+“So I certainly perceive, Madame,” I replied, bitterly; “but I have lost
+mine.”
+
+I then saw that she was a naturally good-hearted woman. All her
+merriment vanished.
+
+“Poor Monsieur Bonnard! poor Monsieur Bonnard!” she murmured.
+
+And, taking my hand in hers, she added:
+
+“Tell me about your troubles.”
+
+I told her about them. My story was long; but she was evidently touched
+by it, for she asked me quite a number of circumstantial questions,
+which I took for proof of her friendly interest. She wanted to know the
+exact title of the manuscript, its shape, its appearance, and its age;
+she asked me for the address of Signor Rafael Polizzi.
+
+And I gave it to her; thus doing (O destiny!) precisely what the
+abominable Polizzi had told me to do.
+
+It is sometimes difficult to check oneself. I recommenced my plaints and
+my imprecations. But this time Madame Trepof only burst out laughing.
+
+“Why do you laugh?” I asked her.
+
+“Because I am a wicked woman,” she answered.
+
+And she fled away, leaving me all disheartened on my stone.
+
+
+
+
+Paris, December 8, 1859.
+
+
+My unpacked trunks still encumbered the hall. I was seated at a tabled
+covered with all those good things which the land of France produces for
+the delectation of gourmets. I was eating a pate le Chartres, which
+is alone sufficient to make one love one’s country. Therese, standing
+before me with her hands joined over her white apron, was looking at
+me with benignity, with anxiety, and with pity. Hamilcar was rubbing
+himself against my legs, wild with delight.
+
+These words of an old poet came back to my memory:
+
+“Happy is he who, like Ulysses, hath made a goodly journey.”
+
+...“Well,” I thought to myself, “I travelled to no purpose; I have come
+back with empty hands; but, like Ulysses, I made a goodly journey.”
+
+And having taken my last sip of coffee, I asked Therese for my hat and
+cane, which she gave me not without dire suspicions; she feared I might
+be going upon another journey. But I reassured her by telling her to
+have dinner ready at six o’clock.
+
+It had always been a keen pleasure for me to breathe the air in
+those Parisian streets whose every paving-slab and every stone I love
+devotedly. But I had an end in view, and I took my way straight to the
+Rue Lafitte. I was not long in find the establishment of Signor Rafael
+Polizzi. It was distinguishable by a great display of old paintings
+which, although all bearing the signature of some illustrious artist,
+had a certain family air of resemblance that might have suggested some
+touching idea about the fraternity of genius, had it not still more
+forcibly suggested the professional tricks of Polizzi senior. Enriched
+by these doubtful works of art, the shop was further rendered attractive
+by various petty curiosities: poniards, drinking-vessels, goblets,
+figulines, brass guadrons, and Hispano-Arabian wares of metallic lustre.
+
+Upon a Portuguese arm-chair, decorated with an escutcheon, lay a copy of
+the “Heures” of Simon Vostre, open at the page which has an astrological
+figure on it; and an old Vitruvius, placed upon a quaint chest,
+displayed its masterly engravings of caryatides and telamones. This
+apparent disorder which only masked cunning arrangement, this factitious
+hazard which had placed the best objects in the most favourable light,
+would have increased my distrust of the place, but that the distrust
+which the mere name of Polizzi had already inspired could not have been
+increased by any circumstances--being already infinite.
+
+Signor Rafael, who sat there as the presiding genius of all these vague
+and incongruous shapes, impressed me as a phlegmatic young man, with
+a sort of English character, he betrayed no sign whatever of those
+transcendent faculties displayed by his father in the arts of mimicry and
+declamation.
+
+I told him what I had come for; he opened a cabinet and drew from it
+a manuscript, which he placed on a table that I might examine it at my
+leisure.
+
+Never in my life did I experience such an emotion--except, indeed,
+during some few brief months of my youth, months whose memories, though
+I should live a hundred years, would remain as fresh at my last hour as
+in the first day they came to me.
+
+It was, indeed, the very manuscript described by the librarian of Sir
+Thomas Raleigh; it was, indeed, the manuscript of the Clerk Alexander
+which I saw, which I touched! The work of Voragine himself had been
+perceptibly abridged; but that made little difference to me. All the
+inestimable additions of the monk of Saint-Germain-des-Pres were there.
+That was the main point! I tried to read the Legend of Saint Droctoveus;
+but I could not--all the lines of the page quivered before my eyes, and
+there was a sound in my ears like the noise of a windmill in the country
+at night. Nevertheless, I was able to see that the manuscript offered
+every evidence of indubitable authenticity. The two drawings of the
+Purification of the Virgin and the Coronation of Proserpine were meagre
+in design and vulgar in violence of colouring. Considerably damaged
+in 1824, as attested by the catalogue of Sir Thomas, they had obtained
+during the interval a new aspect of freshness. But this miracle did
+not surprise me at all. And, besides, what did I care about the two
+miniatures? The legends and the poem of Alexander--those alone formed
+the treasure I desired. My eyes devoured as much of it as they had the
+power to absorb.
+
+I affected indifference while asking Signor Polizzi the price of the
+manuscript; and, while awaiting his reply, I offered up a secret
+prayer that the price might not exceed the amount of ready money at my
+disposal--already much diminished by the cost of my expensive voyage.
+Signor Polizzi, however, informed me that he was not at liberty to
+dispose of the article, inasmuch as it did not belong to him, and was
+to be sold at auction shortly, at the Hotel des Ventes, with a number of
+other MSS. and several incunabula.
+
+This was a severe blow to me. It tried to preserve my calmness,
+notwithstanding, and replied somewhat to this effect:
+
+“You surprise me, Monsieur! Your father, whom I talked with recently at
+Girgenti, told me positively that the manuscript was yours. You cannot
+now attempt to make me discredit your father’s word.”
+
+“I DID own the manuscript, indeed,” answered Signor Rafael with absolute
+frankness; “but I do not own it any longer. I sold that manuscript--the
+remarkable interest of which you have not failed to perceive--to an
+amateur whom I am forbidden to name, and who, for reasons which I am not
+at liberty to mention, finds himself obliged to sell his collection. I
+am honoured with the confidence of my customer, and was commissioned by
+him to draw up the catalogue and manage the sale, which takes place
+the 24th of December. Now, if you will be kind enough to give me your
+address, I shall have the pleasure of sending you the catalogue, which
+is already in the press; you fill find the ‘Legende Doree’ described in
+it as ‘No. 42.’”
+
+I gave my address, and left the shop.
+
+The polite gravity of the son impressed me quite as disagreeably as the
+impudent buffoonery of the father. I hated, from the bottom of my heart,
+the tricks of the vile hagglers! It was perfectly evident that the
+two rascals had a secret understanding, and had only devised this
+auction-sale, with the aid of a professional appraiser, to force the
+bidding on the manuscript I wanted so much up to an outrageous figure.
+I was completely at their mercy. There is one evil in all passionate
+desires, even the noblest--namely, that they leave us subject to the
+will of others, and in so far dependent. This reflection made me suffer
+cruelly; but it did not conquer my longing to won the work of Clerk
+Alexander. While I was thus meditating, I heard a coachman swear. And I
+discovered it was I whom he was swearing at only when I felt the pole of
+a carriage poke me in the ribs. I started aside, barely in time to save
+myself from being run over; and whom did I perceive through the windows
+of the coupe? Madame Trepof, being taken by two beautiful horses, and
+a coachman all wrapped up in furs like a Russian Boyard, into the very
+street I had just left. She did not notice me; she was laughing to
+herself with that artless grace of expression which still preserved for
+her, at thirty years, all the charm of her early youth.
+
+“Well, well!” I said to myself, “she is laughing! I suppose she must
+have just found another match-box.”
+
+And I made my way back to the Ponts, feeling very miserable.
+
+Nature, eternally indifferent, neither hastened nor hurried the
+twenty-fourth day of December. I went to the Hotel Bullion, and took
+my place in Salle No. 4, immediately below the high desk at which the
+auctioneer Boulouze and the expert Polizzi were to sit. I saw the hall
+gradually fill with familiar faces. I shook hands with several old
+booksellers of the quays; but that prudence which any large interest
+inspires in even the most self-assured caused me to keep silence in
+regard to the reason of my unaccustomed presence in the halls of the
+Hotel Bullion. On the other hand, I questioned those gentlemen at the
+auction sale; and I had the satisfaction of finding them all interested
+about matters in no wise related to my affair.
+
+Little by little the hall became thronged with interested or merely
+curious spectators; and, after half an hour’s delay, the auctioneer with
+his ivory hammer, the clerk with his bundle of memorandum-papers, and
+the crier, carrying his collection-box fixed to the end of a pole, all
+took their places on the platform in the most solemn business manner.
+The attendants ranged themselves at the foot of the desk. The presiding
+officer having declared the sale open, a partial hush followed.
+
+A commonplace series of Preces dia, with miniatures, were first sold off
+at mediocre prices. Needless to say, the illuminations of these books
+were in perfect condition!
+
+The lowness of the bids gave courage to the gathering of second-hand
+booksellers present, who began to mingle with us, and become more
+familiar. The dealers in old brass and bric-a-brac pressed forward in
+their tun, waiting for the doors of an adjoining room to be opened; and
+the voice of the auctioneer was drowned by the jests of the Auvergnats.
+
+A magnificent codex of the “Guerre des Juifs” revived attention. It was
+long disputed for. “Five thousand francs! five thousand!” called the
+crier, while the bric-a-brac dealers remained silent with admiration.
+Then seven or eight antiphonaries brought us back again to low prices.
+A fat old woman, in a loose gown, bareheaded--a dealer in second-hand
+goods--encouraged by the size of the books and the low prices bidden,
+had one of the antiphonaries knocked down to her for thirty francs.
+
+At last the expert Polizzi announced No. 42: “The ‘Golden Legend’;
+French MS.; unpublished; two superb miniatures, with a starting bid of
+three thousand francs.”
+
+“Three thousand! three thousand bid!” yelled the crier.
+
+“Three thousand!” dryly repeated the auctioneer.
+
+There was a buzzing in my head, and, as through a cloud, I saw a host
+of curious faces all turning towards the manuscript, which a boy was
+carrying open through the audience.
+
+“Three thousand and fifty!” I said.
+
+I was frightened by the sound of my own voice, and further confused by
+seeing, or thinking that I saw, all eyes turned on me.
+
+“Three thousand and fifty on the right!” called the crier, taking up my
+bid.
+
+“Three thousand one hundred!” responded Signor Polizzi.
+
+Then began a heroic duel between the expert and myself.
+
+“Three thousand five hundred!”
+
+“Six hundred!”
+
+“Seven hundred!”
+
+“Four thousand!”
+
+“Four thousand five hundred.”
+
+Then by a sudden bold stroke, Signor Polizzi raised the bid at once to
+six thousand.
+
+Six thousand francs was all the money I could dispose of. It represented
+the possible. I risked the impossible.
+
+“Six thousand one hundred!”
+
+Alas! even the impossible did not suffice.
+
+“Six thousand five hundred!” replied Signor Polizzi, with calm.
+
+I bowed my head and sat there stupefied, unable to answer either yes or
+no to the crier, who called to me:
+
+“Six thousand five hundred, by me--not by you on the right there!--it is
+my bid--no mistake! Six thousand five hundred!”
+
+“Perfectly understood!” declared the auctioneer. “Six thousand five
+hundred. Perfectly clear; perfectly plain.... Any more bids? The last
+bid is six thousand five hundred francs.”
+
+A solemn silence prevailed. Suddenly I felt as if my head had burst
+open. It was the hammer of the officiant, who, with a loud blow on the
+platform, adjudged No. 42 irrevocably to Signor Polizzi. Forthwith the
+pen of the clerk, coursing over the papier-timbre, registered that great
+fact in a single line.
+
+I was absolutely prostrated, and I felt the utmost need of rest and
+quiet. Nevertheless, I did not leave my seat. My powers of reflection
+slowly returned. Hope is tenacious. I had one more hope. It occurred to
+me that the new owner of the “Legende Doree” might be some intelligent
+and liberal bibliophile who would allow me to examine the MS., and
+perhaps even to publish the more important parts. And, with this idea,
+as soon as the sale was over I approached the expert as he was leaving
+the platform.
+
+“Monsieur,” I asked him, “did you buy in No. 42 on your own account, or
+on commission?”
+
+“On commission. I was instructed not to let it go at any price.”
+
+“Can you tell me the name of the purchaser?”
+
+“Monsieur, I regret that I cannot serve you in that respect. I have been
+strictly forbidden to mention the name.”
+
+I went home in despair.
+
+
+
+
+December 30, 1859.
+
+
+“Therese! don’t you hear the bell? Somebody has been ringing at the door
+for the last quarter of an hour?”
+
+Therese does not answer. She is chattering downstairs with the
+concierge, for sure. So that is the way you observe your old master’s
+birthday? You desert me even on the eve of Saint-Sylvestre! Alas! if I
+am to hear any kind wishes to-day, they must come up from the ground;
+for all who love me have long been buried. I really don’t know what I
+am still living for. There is the bell again!... I get up slowly from
+my seat at the fire, with my shoulders still bent from stooping over it,
+and go to the door myself. Whom do I see at the threshold? It is not
+a dripping love, and I am not an old Anacreon; but it is a very pretty
+little boy of about ten years old. He is alone; he raises his face to
+look at me. His cheeks are blushing; but his little pert nose gives one
+an idea of mischievous pleasantry. He has feathers in his cap, and a
+great lace-ruff on his jacket. The pretty little fellow! He holds in
+both arms a bundle as big as himself, and asks me if I am Monsieur
+Sylvestre Bonnard. I tell him yes; he gives me the bundle, tells me his
+mamma sent it to me, and then he runs downstairs.
+
+I go down a few steps; I lean over the balustrade, and see the little
+cap whirling down the spiral of the stairway like a feather in the wind.
+“Good-bye, my little boy!” I should have liked so much to question him.
+But what, after all, could I have asked? It is not polite to question
+children. Besides, the package itself will probably give me more
+information than the messenger could.
+
+It is a very big bundle, but not very heavy. I take it into my library,
+and there untie the ribbons and unfasten the paper wrappings; and I
+see--what? a log! a first-class log! a real Christmas log, but so light
+that I know it must be hollow. Then I find that it is indeed composed of
+two separate pieces, opening on hinges, and fastened with hooks. I slip
+the hooks back, and find myself inundated with violets! Violets! they
+pour over my table, over my knees, over the carpet. They tumble into my
+vest, into my sleeves. I am all perfumed with them.
+
+“Therese! Therese! fill me some vases with water, and bring them here,
+quick! Here are violets sent to us I know not from what country nor
+by what hand; but it must be from a perfumed country, and by a very
+gracious hand.... Do you hear me, old crow?”
+
+I have put all the violets on my table--now completely covered by
+the odorous mass. But there is still something in the log...a book--a
+manuscript. It is...I cannot believe it, and yet I cannot doubt it....
+It is the “Legende Doree”!--It is the manuscript of the Clerk Alexander!
+Here is the “Purification of the Virgin” and the “Coronation of
+Proserpine”;--here is the legend of Saint Droctoveus. I contemplate this
+violet-perfumed relic. I turn the leaves of it--between which the dark
+rich blossoms have slipped in here and there; and, right opposite the
+legend of Saint-Cecilia, I find a card bearing this name:
+
+“Princess Trepof.”
+
+Princess Trepof!--you who laughed and wept by turns so sweetly under the
+fair sky of Agrigentum!--you, whom a cross old man believed to be only a
+foolish little woman!--to-day I am convinced of your rare and beautiful
+folly; and the old fellow whom you now overwhelm with happiness will
+go to kiss your hand, and give you back, in another form, this precious
+manuscript, of which both he and science owe you an exact and sumptuous
+publication!
+
+Therese entered my study just at that moment; she seemed to be very much
+excited.
+
+“Monsieur!” she cried, “guess whom I saw just now in a carriage, with a
+coat-of-arms painted on it, that was stopping before the door?”
+
+“Parbleu!--Madame Trepof,” I exclaimed.
+
+“I don’t know anything about any Madame Trepof,” answered my
+housekeeper. “The woman I saw just now was dressed like a duchess, and
+had a little boy with her, with lace-frills all along the seams of his
+clothes. And it was that same little Madame Coccoz you once sent a log
+to, when she was lying-in here about eleven years ago. I recognized her
+at once.”
+
+“What!” I exclaimed, “you mean to say it was Madame Coccoz, the widow of
+the almanac-peddler?”
+
+“Herself, Monsieur! The carriage-door was open for a minute to let
+her little boy, who had just come from I don’t know where, get in.
+She hasn’t changed scarcely at all. Well, why should those women
+change?--they never worry themselves about anything. Only the Coccoz
+woman looks a little fatter than she used to be. And the idea of a
+woman that was taken in here out of pure charity coming to show off her
+velvets and diamonds in a carriage with a crest painted on it! Isn’t it
+shameful!”
+
+“Therese!” I cried, in a terrible voice, “if you ever speak to me again
+about that lady except in terms of the deepest respect, you and I will
+fall out!...Bring me the Sevres vases to put those violets in, which now
+give the City of Books a charm it never had before.”
+
+While Therese went off with a sigh to get the Sevres vases, I continued
+to contemplate those beautiful scattered violets, whose odour spread all
+about me like the perfume of some sweet presence, some charming soul;
+and I asked myself how it had been possible for me never to recognise
+Madame Coccoz in the person of the Princess Trepof. But that vision of
+the young widow, showing me her little child on the stairs, had been
+a very rapid one. I had much more reason to reproach myself for having
+passed by a gracious and lovely soul without knowing it.
+
+“Bonnard,” I said to myself, “thou knowest how to decipher old texts;
+but thou dost not know how to read in the Book of Life. That giddy
+little Madame Trepof, whom thou once believed to possess no more soul
+than a bird, has expended, in pure gratitude, more zeal and finer tact
+than thou didst ever show for anybody’s sake. Right royally hath she
+repaid thee for the log-fire of her churching-day!
+
+“Therese! Awhile ago you were a magpie; now you are becoming a tortoise!
+Come and give some water to these Parmese violets.”
+
+
+
+
+
+PART II--THE DAUGHTER OF CLEMENTINE
+
+
+
+
+Chapter I--The Fairy
+
+
+When I left the train at the Melun station, night had already spread its
+peace over the silent country. The soil, heated through all the long
+day by a strong sun--by a “gros soleil,” as the harvesters of the Val de
+Vire say--still exhaled a warm heavy smell. Lush dense odours of grass
+passed over the level of the fields. I brushed away the dust of
+the railway carriage, and joyfully inhaled the pure air. My
+travelling-bag--filled by my housekeeper wit linen and various small
+toilet articles, munditiis, seemed so light in my hand that I swung it
+about just as a schoolboy swings his strapped package of rudimentary
+books when the class is let out.
+
+Would to Heaven that I were again a little urchin at school! But it is
+fully fifty years since my good dead mother made me some tartines of
+bread and preserves, and placed them in a basket of which she slipped
+the handle over my arm, and then led me, thus prepared, to the school
+kept by Monsieur Douloir, at a corner of the Passage du Commerce well
+known to the sparrows, between a court and a garden. The enormous
+Monsieur Douloir smiled upon us genially, and patted my cheek to show,
+no doubt, the affectionate interest which my first appearance had
+inspired. But when my mother had passed out of the court, startling the
+sparrows as she went, Monsieur Douloir ceased to smile--he showed no
+more affectionate interest; he appeared, on the contrary, to consider
+me as a very troublesome little fellow. I discovered, later on, that
+he entertained the same feelings towards all his pupils. He distributed
+whacks of his ferule with an agility no one could have expected on the
+part of so corpulent a person. But his first aspect of tender interest
+invariably reappeared when he spoke to any of our mothers in our
+presence; and always at such times, while warmly praising our remarkable
+aptitudes, he would cast down upon us a look of intense affection.
+Still, those were happy days which I passed on the benches of the
+Monsieur Couloir with my little playfellows, who, like myself, cried and
+laughed by turns with all their might, from morning till evening.
+
+After a whole half-century these souvenirs float up again, fresh and
+bright as ever, to the surface of memory, under this starry sky, whose
+face has in no wise changed since then, and whose serene and immutable
+lights will doubtless see many other schoolboys such as I was slowly
+turn into grey-headed servants, afflicted with catarrh.
+
+Stars, who have shown down upon each wise or foolish head among all my
+forgotten ancestors, it is under your soft light that I now feel stir
+within me a certain poignant regret! I would that I could have a son who
+might be able to see you when I shall see you no more. How I should love
+him! Ah! such a son would--what am I saying?--why, he would be no just
+twenty years old if you had only been willing, Clementine--you whose
+cheeks used to look so ruddy under your pink hood! But you are married
+to that young bank clerk, Noel Alexandre, who made so many millions
+afterwards! I never met you again after your marriage, Clementine, but I
+can see you now, with your bright curls and your pink hood.
+
+A looking-glass! a looking-glass! a looking-glass! Really, it would
+be curious to see what I look like now, with my white hair, sighing
+Clementine’s name to the stars! Still, it is not right to end with
+sterile irony the thought begun in the spirit of faith and love. No,
+Clementine, if your name came to my lips by chance this beautiful night,
+be it for ever blessed, your dear name! and may you ever, as a happy
+mother, a happy grandmother, enjoy to the very end of life with your
+rich husband the utmost degree of that happiness which you had the right
+to believe you could not win with the poor young scholar who loved you!
+If--though I cannot even now imagine it--if your beautiful hair has
+become white, Clementine, bear worthily the bundle of keys confided to
+you by Noel Alexandre, and impart to your grandchildren the knowledge of
+all domestic virtues!
+
+Ah! beautiful Night! She rules, with such noble repose, over men and
+animals alike, kindly loosed by her from the yoke of daily toil; and
+even I feel her beneficent influence, although my habits of sixty years
+have so changed me that I can feel most things only through the signs
+which represent them. My world is wholly formed of words--so much of a
+philologist I have become! Each one dreams the dream of life in his own
+way. I have dreamed it in my library; and when the hour shall come in
+which I must leave this world, may it please God to take me from my
+ladder--from before my shelves of books!...
+
+“Well, well! it is really himself, pardieu! How are you, Monsieur
+Sylvestre Bonnard? And where have you been travelling to all this time,
+over the country, while I was waiting for you at the station with my
+cabriolet? You missed me when the train came in, and I was driving back,
+quite disappointed, to Lusance. Give me your valise, and get up here
+beside me in the carriage. Why, do you know it is fully seven kilometres
+from here to the chateau?”
+
+Who addresses me thus, at the very top of his voice from the height
+of his cabriolet? Monsieur Paul de Gabry, nephew and heir of Monsieur
+Honore de Gabry, peer of France in 1842, who recently died at Monaco.
+And it was precisely to Monsieur Paul de Gabry’s house that I was going
+with that valise of mine, so carefully strapped by my housekeeper.
+This excellent young man has just inherited, conjointly with his two
+brothers-in-law, the property of his uncle, who, belonging to a very
+ancient family of distinguished lawyers, had accumulated in his chateau
+at Lusance a library rich in MSS., some dating back to the fourteenth
+century. It was for the purpose of making an inventory and catalogue of
+these MSS. that I had come to Lusance at the urgent request of Monsieur
+Paul de Gabry, whose father, a perfect gentleman and distinguished
+bibliophile, had maintained the most pleasant relations with me during
+his lifetime. To tell the truth, Monsieur Paul has not inherited the
+fine tastes of his father. Monsieur Paul likes sporting; he is a great
+authority on horses and dogs; and I much fear that of all the sciences
+capable of satisfying or of duping the inexhaustible curiosity of
+mankind, those of the stable and the dog-kennel are the only ones
+thoroughly mastered by him.
+
+I cannot say I was surprised to meet him, since we had made a
+rendezvous; but I acknowledge that I had become so preoccupied with my
+own thoughts that I had forgotten all about the Chateau de Lusance and
+its inhabitants, and that the voice of the gentleman calling out to me
+as I started to follow the country road winding away before me--“un bon
+ruban de queue,” as they say--had given me quite a start.
+
+I fear my face must have betrayed my incongruous distraction by a
+certain stupid expression which it is apt to assume in most of my social
+transactions. My valise was pulled up into the carriage, and I followed
+my valise. My host pleased me by his straightforward simplicity.
+
+“I don’t know anything myself about your old parchments,” he said; “but
+I think you will find some folks to talk to at the house. Besides the
+cure, who writes books himself, and the doctor, who is a very good
+fellow--although a radical--you will meet somebody able to keep your
+company. I mean my wife. She is not a very learned woman, but there are
+few things which she can’t divine pretty well. Then I count upon
+being able to keep you with us long enough to make you acquainted with
+Mademoiselle Jeanne, who has the fingers of a magician and the soul of
+an angel.”
+
+“And is this delightfully gifted young lady one of your family?” I
+asked.
+
+“Not at all,” replied Monsieur Paul.
+
+“Then she is just a friend of yours?” I persisted, rather stupidly.
+
+“She has lost both her father and mother,” answered Monsieur de Gabry,
+keeping his eyes fixed upon the ears of his horse, whose hoofs rang
+loudly over the road blue-tinted by the moonshine. “Her father managed
+to get us into some very serious trouble; and we did not get off with a
+fright either!”
+
+Then he shook his head, and changed the subject. He gave me due warning
+of the ruinous condition in which I should find the chateau and the
+park; they had been absolutely deserted for thirty-two years.
+
+I learned from him that Monsieur Honore de Gabry, his uncle, had been
+on very bad terms with some poachers, whom he used to shoot at like
+rabbits. One of them, a vindictive peasant, who had received a whole
+charge of shot in his face, lay in wait for the Seigneur one evening
+behind the trees of the mall, and very nearly succeeded in killing him,
+for the ball took off the tip of his ear.
+
+“My uncle,” Monsieur Paul continued, “tried to discover who had fired
+the shot; but he could not see any one, and he walked back slowly to the
+house. The day after he called his steward and ordered him to close up
+the manor and the park, and allow no living soul to enter. He expressly
+forbade that anything should be touched, or looked after, or any repairs
+made on the estate during his absence. He added, between his teeth, that
+he would return at Easter, or Trinity Sunday, as they say in the song;
+and, just as the song has it, Trinity Sunday passed without a sign of
+him. He died last year at Monaco; my brother-in-law and myself were the
+first to enter the chateau after it had been abandoned for thirty-two
+years. We found a chestnut-tree growing in the middle of the parlour. As
+for the park, it was useless trying to visit it, because there were no
+longer any paths or alleys.”
+
+My companion ceased to speak; and only the regular hoof-beat of the
+trotting horse, and the chirping of insects in the grass, broke the
+silence. On either hand, the sheaves standing in the fields took, in the
+vague moonlight, the appearance of tall white women kneeling down; and
+I abandoned myself awhile to those wonderful childish fancies which the
+charm of night always suggests. After driving under the heavy shadows
+of the mall, we turned to the right and rolled up a lordly avenue at
+the end of which the chateau suddenly rose into view--a black mass, with
+turrets en poivriere. We followed a sort of causeway, which gave access
+to the court-of-honor, and which, passing over a moat full of running
+water, doubtless replaced a long-vanished drawbridge. The loss of that
+draw-bridge must have been, I think, the first of various humiliations
+to which the warlike manor had been subjected ere being reduced to that
+pacific aspect with which it received me. The stars reflected themselves
+with marvelous clearness in the dark water. Monsieur Paul, like a
+courteous host, escorted me to my chamber at the very top of the
+building, at the end of a long corridor; and then, excusing himself for
+not presenting me at once to his wife by reason of the lateness of the
+hour, bade me good-night.
+
+My apartment, painted in white and hung with chintz, seemed to keep some
+traces of the elegant gallantry of the eighteenth century. A heap
+of still-glowing ashes--which testified to the pains taken to dispel
+humidity--filled the fireplace, whose marble mantlepiece supported
+a bust of Marie Antoinette in bisuit. Attached to the frame of the
+tarnished and discoloured mirror, two brass hooks, that had once
+doubtless served the ladies of old-fashioned days to hang their
+chatelaines on, seemed to offer a very opportune means of suspending
+my watch, which I took care to wind up beforehand; for, contrary to the
+opinion of the Thelemites, I hold that man is only master of time,
+which is Life itself, when he has divided it into hours, minutes and
+seconds--that is to say, into parts proportioned to the brevity of human
+existence.
+
+And I thought to myself that life really seems short to us only because
+we measure it irrationally by our own mad hopes. We have all of us, like
+the old man in the fable, a new wing to add to our building. I want,
+for example, before I die, to finish my “History of the Abbots of
+Saint-Germain-de-Pres.” The time God allots to each one of us is like a
+precious tissue which we embroider as we best know how. I had begun my
+woof with all sorts of philological illustrations.... So my thoughts
+wandered on; and at last, as I bound my foulard about my head, the
+notion of Time led me back to the past; and for the second time within
+the same round of the dial I thought of you, Clementine--to bless you
+again in your prosperity, if you have any, before blowing out my candle
+and falling asleep amid the chanting of the frogs.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter II
+
+
+During breakfast I had many opportunities to appreciate the good taste,
+tact, and intelligence of Madame de Gabry, who told me that the
+chateau had its ghosts, and was especially haunted by the
+“Lady-with-three-wrinkles-in-her-back,” a prisoner during her lifetime,
+and thereafter a Soul-in-pain. I could never describe how much wit and
+animation she gave to this old nurse’s tale. We took out, coffee on
+the terrace, whose balusters, clasped and forcibly torn away from their
+stone coping by a vigorous growth of ivy, remained suspended in the
+grasp of the amorous plant like bewildered Athenian women in the arms of
+ravishing Centaurs.
+
+The chateau, shaped something like a four-wheeled wagon, with a turret
+at each of the four angles, had lost all original character by reason of
+repeated remodellings. It was merely a fine spacious building, nothing
+more. It did not appear to me to have suffered much damage during its
+abandonment of thirty-two years. But when Madame de Gabry conducted me
+into the great salon of the ground-floor, I saw that the planking was
+bulged in and out, the plinths rotten, the wainscotings split apart, the
+paintings of the piers turned black and hanging more than half out of
+their settings. A chestnut-tree, after forcing up the planks of the
+floor, had grown tall under the ceiling, and was reaching out its
+large-leaved branches towards the glassless windows.
+
+This spectacle was not devoid of charm; but I could not look at it
+without anxiety as I remembered that the rich library of Monsieur Honore
+de Gabry, in an adjoining apartment, must have been exposed for the
+same length of time to the same forces of decay. Yet, as I looked at the
+young chestnut-tree in the salon, I could not but admire the magnificent
+vigour of Nature, and that resistless power which forces every germ
+to develop into life. On the other hand I felt saddened to think that,
+whatever effort we scholars may make to preserve dead things from
+passing away, we are labouring painfully in vain. Whatever has lived
+becomes the necessary food of new existences. And the Arab who builds
+himself a hut out of the marble fragments of a Palmyra temple is really
+more of a philosopher than all the guardians of museums at London,
+Munich, or Paris.
+
+
+
+August 11.
+
+
+All day long I have been classifying MSS.... The sun came in through
+the loft uncurtained windows; and, during my reading, often very
+interesting, I could hear the languid bumblebees bump heavily against
+the windows, and the flies intoxicated with light and heat, making their
+wings hum in circles around my head. So loud became their humming
+about three o’clock that I looked up from the document I was reading--a
+document containing very precious materials for the history of Melun in
+the thirteenth century--to watch the concentric movements of those tiny
+creatures. “Bestions,” Lafontaine calls them: he found this form of
+the word in the old popular speech, whence also the term,
+tapisserie-a-bestions, applied to figured tapestry. I was compelled
+to confess that the effect of heat upon the wings of a fly is totally
+different from that it exerts upon the brain of a paleographical
+archivist; for I found it very difficult to think, and a rather pleasant
+languor weighing upon me, from which I could rouse myself only by a very
+determined effort. The dinner-bell then startled me in the midst of my
+labours; and I had barely time to put on my new dress-coat, so as to
+make a respectable appearance before Madame de Gabry.
+
+The repast, generously served, seemed to prolong itself for my benefit.
+I am more than a fair judge of wine; and my hostess, who discovered my
+knowledge in this regard, was friendly enough to open a certain bottle
+of Chateau-Margaux in my honour. With deep respect I drank of this
+famous and knightly old wine, which comes from the slopes of Bordeaux,
+and of which the flavour and exhilarating power are beyond praise.
+The ardour of it spread gently through my veins, and filled me with an
+almost juvenile animation. Seated beside Madame de Gabry on the terrace,
+in the gloaming which gave a charming melancholy to the park, and lent
+to every object an air of mystery, I took pleasure in communicating
+my impression of the scene to my hostess. I discoursed with a vivacity
+quite remarkable on the part of a man so devoid of imagination as I am.
+I described to her spontaneously, without quoting from an old texts, the
+caressing melancholy of the evening, and the beauty of that natal earth
+which feeds us, not only with bread and wine, but also with ideas,
+sentiments, and beliefs, and which will at last take us all back to her
+maternal breast again, like so many tired little children at the close
+of a long day.
+
+“Monsieur,” said the kind lady, “you see these old towers, those trees,
+that sky; is it not quite natural that the personage of the popular
+tales and folk-songs should have been evoked by such scenes? Why, over
+there is the very path which Little Red Riding-hood followed when she
+went to the woods to pick nuts. Across this changeful and always vapoury
+sky the fairy chariots used to roll; and the north tower might have
+sheltered under its pointed roof that same old spinning woman whose
+distaff picked the Sleeping Beauty in the Wood.”
+
+I continued to muse upon her pretty fancies, while Monsieur Paul related
+to me, as he puffed a very strong cigar, the history of some suit he
+had brought against the commune about a water-right. Madame de Gabry,
+feeling the chill night air, began to shiver under the shawl her husband
+had wrapped about her, and left us to go to her room. I then decided,
+instead of going to my own, to return to the library and continue my
+examination of the manuscripts. In spite of the protests of Monsieur
+Paul, I entered what I may call, in old-fashioned phrase, “the
+book-room,” and started to work by the light of a lamp.
+
+After having read fifteen pages, evidently written by some ignorant and
+careless scribe, for I could scarcely discern their meaning, I plunged
+my hand into the pocket of my coat to get my snuff-box; but this
+movement, usually so natural and almost instinctive, this time cost me
+some effort and even fatigue. Nevertheless, I got out the silver box,
+and took from it a pinch of the odorous powder, which, somehow or other,
+I managed to spill all over my shirt-bosom under my baffled nose. I am
+sure my nose must have expressed its disappointment, for it is a very
+expressive nose. More than once it has betrayed my secret thoughts, and
+especially upon a certain occasion at the public library of Coutances,
+where I discovered, right in front of my colleague Brioux, the
+“Cartulary of Notre-Dame-des-Anges.”
+
+What a delight! My little eyes remained as dull and expressionless as
+ever behind my spectacles. But at the mere sight of my thick pug-nose,
+which quivered with joy and pride, Brioux knew that I had found
+something. He noted the volume I was looking at, observed the place
+where I put it back, pounced upon it as soon as I turned my heel, copied
+it secretly, and published in haste, for the sake of playing me a
+trick. But his edition swarms with errors, and I had the satisfaction of
+afterwards criticising some of the gross blunders he made.
+
+But to come back to the point at which I left off: I began to suspect
+that I was getting very sleepy indeed. I was looking at a chart of which
+the interest may be divined from the fact that it contained mention of
+a hutch sold to Jehan d’Estonville, priest, in 1312. But although, even
+then, I could recognise the importance of the document, I did not give
+it that attention it so strongly invited. My eyes would keep turning,
+against my will, towards a certain corner of the table where there was
+nothing whatever interesting to a learned mind. There was only a big
+German book there, bound in pigskin, with brass studs on the sides, and
+very thick cording upon the back. It was a find copy of a compilation
+which has little to recommend it except the wood engravings it contains,
+and which is known as the “Cosmography of Munster.” This volume, with
+its covers slightly open, was placed upon edge with the back upwards.
+
+I could not say for how long I had been staring causelessly at the
+sixteenth-century folio, when my eyes were captivated by a sight so
+extraordinary that even a person as devoid of imagination as I could not
+but have been greatly astonished by it.
+
+I perceived, all of a sudden, without having noticed her coming into the
+room, a little creature seated on the back of the book, with one knee
+bent and one leg hanging down--somewhat in the attitude of the amazons
+of Hyde Park or the Bois de Boulogne on horseback. She was so small that
+her swinging foot did not reach the table, over which the trail of her
+dress extended in a serpentine line. But her face and figure were those
+of an adult. The fulness of her corsage and the roundness of her waist
+could leave no doubt of that, even for an old savant like myself. I will
+venture to add that she was very handsome, with a proud mien; for my
+iconographic studies have long accustomed me to recognise at once the
+perfection of a type and the character of a physiognomy. The countenance
+of this lady who had seated herself inopportunely on the back of
+“Cosmography of Munster” expressed a mingling of haughtiness and
+mischievousness. She had the air of a queen, but a capricious queen; and
+I judged, from the mere expression of her eyes, that she was accustomed
+to wield great authority somewhere, in a very whimsical manner. Her
+mouth was imperious and mocking, and those blue eyes of hers seemed to
+laugh in a disquieting way under her finely arched black eyebrows. I
+have always heard that black eyebrows are very becoming to blondes; but
+this lady was very blonde. On the whole, the impression she gave me was
+one of greatness.
+
+It may seem odd to say that a person who was no taller than a
+wine-bottle, and who might have been hidden in my coat pocket--but
+that it would have been very disrespectful to put her in it--gave me
+precisely an idea of greatness. But in the fine proportions of the
+lady seated upon the “Cosmography of Munster” there was such a proud
+elegance, such a harmonious majesty, and she maintained an attitude at
+once so easy and so noble, that she really seemed to me a very great
+person. Although my ink-bottle, which she examined with an expression of
+such mockery as appeared to indicate that she knew in advance every word
+that would come out of it at the end of my pen, was for her a deep basin
+in which she would have blackened her gold-clocked pink stockings up to
+the garter, I can assure you that she was great, and imposing even in
+her sprightliness.
+
+Her costume, worthy of her face, was extremely magnificent; it consisted
+of a robe of gold-and-silver brocade, and a mantle of nacarat velvet,
+lined with vair. Her head-dress was a sort of hennin, with two high
+points; and pearls of splendid lustre made it bright and luminous as
+a crescent moon. Her little white hand held a wand. That wand drew my
+attention very strongly, because my archaeological studies had taught me
+to recognise with certainty every sign by which the notable personages
+of legend and of history are distinguished. This knowledge came to my
+aid during various very queer conjectures with which I was labouring.
+I examined the wand, and saw that it appeared to have been cut from a
+branch of hazel.
+
+“Then its a fairy’s wand,” I said to myself; “consequently the lady who
+carries it is a fairy.”
+
+Happy at thus discovering what sort of a person was before me, I tried
+to collect my mind sufficiently to make her a graceful compliment. It
+would have given me much satisfaction, I confess, if I could have talked
+to her about the part taken by her people, not less in the life of the
+Saxon and Germanic races, than in that of the Latin Occident. Such a
+dissertation, it appeared to me, would have been an ingenious method of
+thanking the lady for having thus appeared to an old scholar, contrary
+to the invariable custom of her kindred, who never show themselves but
+to innocent children or ignorant village-folk.
+
+Because one happens to be a fairy, one is none the less a woman, I said
+to myself; and since Madame Recamier, according to what I heard J. J.
+Ampere say, used to blush with pleasure when the little chimney-sweeps
+opened their eyes as wide as they could to look at her, surely the
+supernatural lady seated upon the “Cosmography of Munster” might feel
+flattered to hear an erudite man discourse learnedly about her, as about
+a medal, a seal, a fibula, or a token. But such an undertaking, which
+would have cost my timidity a great deal, became totally out of the
+question when I observed the Lady of the Cosmography suddenly take from
+an alms purse hanging at her girdle the very smallest of nuts I had ever
+seen, crack the shells between her teeth, and throw them at my nose,
+while she nibbled the kernels with the gravity of a sucking child.
+
+At this conjuncture, I did what the dignity of science demanded of me--I
+remained silent. But the nut-shells caused such a painful tickling that
+I put up my hand to my nose, and found, to my great surprise, that my
+spectacles were straddling the very end of it--so that I was actually
+looking at the lady, not through my spectacles, but over them. This
+was incomprehensible, because my eyes, worn out over old texts, cannot
+ordinarily distinguish anything without glasses--could not tell a melon
+from a decanter, though the two were placed close up to my nose.
+
+That nose of mine, remarkable for its size, its shape, and its
+coloration, legitimately attracted the attention of the fairy; for she
+seized my goose-quill pen, which was sticking up from the ink-bottle
+like a plume, and she began to pass the feather-end of that pen over
+my nose. I had had more than once, in company, occasion to suffer
+cheerfully from the innocent mischief of young ladies, who made me join
+their games, and would offer me their cheeks to kiss through the back
+of a chair, or invite me to blow out a candle which they would lift
+suddenly above the range of my breath. But until that moment no person
+of the fair sex had ever subjected me to such a whimsical piece of
+familiarity as that of tickling my nose with my own feather pen. Happily
+I remembered the maxim of my late grandfather, who was accustomed to say
+that everything was permissible on the part of ladies, and that whatever
+they do to us is to be regarded as a grace and a favour. Therefore, as a
+grace and a favour I received the nutshells and the titillations with my
+own pen, and I tried to smile. Much more!--I even found speech.
+
+“Madame,” I said, with dignified politeness, “you accord the honour of
+a visit not to a silly child, not to a boor, but to a bibliophile who
+is very happy to make your acquaintance, and who knows that long ago you
+used to make elf-knots in the manes of mares at the crib, drink the milk
+from the skimming-pails, slip graines-a-gratter down the backs of our
+great-grandmothers, make the hearth sputter in the faces of the old
+folks, and, in short, fill the house with disorder and gaiety. You
+can also boast of giving the nicest frights in the world to lovers who
+stayed out in the woods too late of evenings. But I thought you had
+vanished out of existence at least three centuries ago. Can it really
+be, Madame, that you are still to be seen in this age of railways and
+telegraphs? My concierge, who used to be a nurse in her young days, does
+not know your story; and my little boy-neighbour, whose nose is still
+wiped for him by his bonne, declares that you do not exist.”
+
+“What do you yourself think about it?” she cried, in a silvery voice,
+straightening up her royal little figure in a very haughty fashion, and
+whipping the back of the “Cosmography of Munster” as though it were a
+hippogriff.
+
+“I don’t really know,” I answered rubbing my eyes.
+
+This reply, indicating a deeply scientific scepticism, had the most
+deplorable effect upon my questioner.
+
+“Monsieur Sylvestre Bonnard,” she said to me, “you are nothing but an
+old pedant. I always suspected as much. The smallest little ragamuffin
+who goes along the road with his shirt-tail sticking out through a hole
+in his pantaloons knows more about me than all the old spectacled folks
+in your Institutes and your Academies. To know is nothing at all; to
+imagine is everything. Nothing exists except that which is imagined. I
+am imaginary. That is what it is to exist, I should think! I am dreamed
+of, and I appear. Everything is only dream; and as nobody ever dreams
+about you, Sylvestre Bonnard, it is YOU who do not exist. I charm the
+world; I am everywhere--on a moon-beam, in the trembling of a hidden
+spring, in the moving of leaves that murmur, in the white vapours
+that rise each morning from the hollow meadow, in the thickets of pink
+brier--everywhere!... I am seen; I am loved. There are sighs uttered,
+weird thrills of pleasure felt by those who follow the light print of
+my feet, as I make the dead leaves whisper. I make the little children
+smile; I give wit to the dullest-minded nurses. Leaning above the
+cradles, I play, I comfort, I lull to sleep--and you doubt whether I
+exist! Sylvestre Bonnard, your warm coat covers the hide of an ass!”
+
+She ceased speaking; her delicate nostrils swelled with indignation; and
+while I admired, despite my vexation, the heroic anger of this little
+person, she pushed my pen about in the ink-bottle, backward and forward,
+like an oar, and then suddenly threw it at my nose, point first.
+
+I rubbed by face, and felt it all covered with ink. She had disappeared.
+My lamp was extinguished. A ray of moonlight streamed down through a
+window and descended upon the “Cosmography of Munster.” A strong cool
+wind, which had arisen very suddenly without my knowledge, was blowing
+my papers, pens, and wafers about. My table was all stained with ink. I
+had left my window open during the storm. What an imprudence!
+
+
+
+
+Chapter III
+
+
+I wrote to my housekeeper, as I promised, that I was safe and sound. But
+I took good care not to tell her that I had caught a cold from going to
+sleep in the library at night with the window open; for the good woman
+would have been as unsparing in her remonstrances to me as parliaments
+to kings. “At your age, Monsieur,” she would have been sure to say, “one
+ought to have more sense.” She is simple enough to believe that sense
+grows with age. I seem to her an exception to this rule.
+
+Not having any similar motive for concealing my experiences from Madame
+de Gabry, I told her all about my vision, which she seemed to enjoy very
+much.
+
+“Why, that was a charming dream of yours,” she said; “and one must have
+real genius to dream such a dream.”
+
+“Then I am a real genius when I am asleep,” I responded.
+
+“When you dream,” she replied; “and you are always dreaming.”
+
+I know that Madame de Gabry, in making this remark, only wished to
+please me; but that intention alone deserves my utmost gratitude; and it
+is therefore in a spirit of thankfulness and kindliest remembrance that
+I write down her words, which I will read over and over again until my
+dying day, and which will never be read by any one save myself.
+
+I passed the next few days in completing the inventory of the
+manuscripts in the Lusance library. Certain confidential observations
+dropped by Monsieur Paul de Gabry, however, caused me some painful
+surprise, and made me decide to pursue the work after a different manner
+from that in which I had begun it. From those few words I learned that
+the fortune of Monsieur Honore de Gabry, which had been badly managed
+for many years, and subsequently swept away to a large extent through
+the failure of a banker whose name I do not know, had been transmitted
+to the heirs of the old French nobleman only under the form of mortgaged
+real estate and irrecoverable assets.
+
+Monsieur Paul, by agreement with his joint heirs, had decided to sell
+the library, and I was intrusted with the task of making arrangements to
+have the sale effected upon advantageous terms. But totally ignorant as
+I was of all the business methods and trade-customs, I thought it best
+to get the advice of a publisher who was one of my private friends. I
+wrote him at once to come and join me at Lusance; and while waiting
+for his arrival I took my hat and cane and made visits to the different
+churches of the diocese, in several of which I knew there were certain
+mortuary inscriptions to be found which had never been correctly copied.
+
+So I left my hosts and departed my pilgrimage. Exploring the churches
+and the cemeteries every day, visiting the parish priests and the
+village notaries, supping at the public inns with peddlers and
+cattle-dealers, sleeping at night between sheets scented with lavender,
+I passed one whole week in the quiet but profound enjoyment of observing
+the living engaged in their various daily occupations even while I was
+thinking of the dead. As for the purpose of my researches, I made only
+a few mediocre discoveries, which caused me only a mediocre joy, and
+one therefore salubrious and not at all fatiguing. I copied a few
+interesting epitaphs; and I added to this little collection a few
+recipes for cooking country dishes, which a certain good priest kindly
+gave me.
+
+With these riches, I returned to Lusance; and I crossed the
+court-of-honour with such secret satisfaction as a bourgeois fells on
+entering his own home. This was the effect of the kindness of my hosts;
+and the impression I received on crossing their threshold proves, better
+than any reasoning could do, the excellence of their hospitality.
+
+I entered the great parlour without meeting anybody; and the young
+chestnut-tree there spreading out its broad leaves seemed to me like an
+old friend. But the next thing which I saw--on the pier-table--caused me
+such a shock of surprise that I readjusted my glasses upon my nose with
+both hands at once, and then felt myself over so as to get at least some
+superficial proof of my own existence. In less than one second there
+thronged from my mind twenty different conjectures--the most rational of
+which was that I had suddenly become crazy. It seemed to me absolutely
+impossible that what I was looking at could exist; yet it was equally
+impossible for me not to see it as a thing actually existing. What
+caused my surprise was resting on the pier-table, above which rose a
+great dull speckled mirror.
+
+I saw myself in that mirror; and I can say that I saw for once in my
+life the perfect image of stupefaction. But I made proper allowance for
+myself; I approved myself for being so stupefied by a really stupefying
+thing.
+
+The object I was thus examining with a degree of astonishment that all
+my reasoning power failed to lessen, obtruded itself on my attention
+though quite motionless. The persistence and fixity of the phenomenon
+excluded any idea of hallucination. I am totally exempt from all nervous
+disorders capable of influencing the sense of sight. The cause of such
+visual disturbance is, I think, generally due to stomach trouble; and,
+thank God! I have an excellent stomach. Moreover, visual illusions are
+accompanied with special abnormal conditions which impress the victims
+of hallucination themselves, and inspire them with a sort of terror.
+Now, I felt nothing of this kind; the object which I saw, although
+seemingly impossible in itself, appeared to me under all the natural
+conditions of reality. I observed that it had three dimensions, and
+colours, and that it cast a shadow. Ah! how I stared at it! The water
+came into my eyes so that I had to wipe the glasses of my spectacles.
+
+Finally I found myself obliged to yield to the evidence, and to affirm
+that I had really before my eyes the Fairy, the very same Fairy I had
+been dreaming of in the library a few evenings before. It was she, it
+was her very self, I assure you! She had the same air of child-queen,
+the same proud supple poise; she held the same hazel wand in her hand;
+she still wore her double-peaked head-dress, and the train of her long
+brocade robe undulated about her little feet. Same face, same figure. It
+was she indeed; and to prevent any possible doubt of it, she was
+seated on the back of a huge old-fashioned book strongly resembling the
+“Cosmography of Munster.” Her immobility but half reassured me; I was
+really afraid that she was going to take some more nuts out of her
+alms-purse and throw the shells at my face.
+
+I was standing there, waving my hands and gaping, when the musical and
+laughing voice of Madame de Gabry suddenly rang in my ears.
+
+“So you are examining your fairy, Monsieur Bonnard!” said my hostess.
+“Well, do you think the resemblance good?”
+
+It was very quickly said; but even while hearing it I had time to
+perceive that my fairy was a statuette in coloured wax, modeled with
+much taste and spirit by some novice hand. But the phenomenon, even thus
+reduced by a rational explanation, did not cease to excite my surprise.
+How, and by whom, had the Lady of the Cosmography been enabled to assume
+plastic existence? That was what remained for me to learn.
+
+Turning towards Madame de Gabry, I perceived that she was not alone.
+A young girl dressed in black was standing beside her. She had large
+intelligent eyes, of a grey as sweet as that of the sky of the Isle of
+France, and at once artless and characteristic in their expression.
+At the extremities of her rather thin arms were fidgeting uneasily two
+slender hands, supple but slightly red, as it becomes the hands of young
+girls to be. Sheathed in her closely fitting merino robe, she had the
+slim grace of a young tree; and her large mouth bespoke frankness. I
+could not describe how much the child pleased me at first sight! She was
+not beautiful; but the three dimples of her cheeks and chin seemed
+to laugh, and her whole person, which revealed the awkwardness of
+innocence, had something in it indescribably good and sincere.
+
+My gaze alternated from the statuette to the young girl; and I saw her
+blush--so frankly and fully!--the crimson passing over her face as by
+waves.
+
+“Well,” said my hostess, who had become sufficiently accustomed to my
+distracted moods to put the same question to me twice, “is that the very
+same lady who came in to see you through the window that you left open?
+She was very saucy, but then you were quite imprudent! Anyhow, do you
+recognise her?”
+
+“It is her very self,” I replied; “I see her now on that pier-table
+precisely as I saw her on the table in the library.”
+
+“Then, if that be so,” replied Madame de Gabry, “you have to blame for
+it, in the first place, yourself, as a man who, although devoid of all
+imagination, to use your own words, knew how to depict your dream in
+such vivid colours; in the second place, me, who was able to remember
+and repeat faithfully all your dream; and lastly, Mademoiselle Jeanne,
+whom I now introduce to you, for she herself modeled that wax figure
+precisely according to my instructions.”
+
+Madame de Gabry had taken the young girl’s hand as she spoke; but
+the latter had suddenly broken away from her, and was already running
+through the park with the speed of a bird.
+
+“Little crazy creature!” Madame de Gabry cried after her. “How can one
+be so shy? Come back here to be scolded and kissed!”
+
+But it was all of no avail; the frightened child disappeared among the
+shrubbery. Madame de Gabry seated herself in the only chair remaining in
+the dilapidated parlour.
+
+“I should be much surprised,” she said, “If my husband had not already
+spoken to you of Jeanne. She is a sweet child, and we both lover her
+very much. Tell me the plain truth; what do you think of her statuette?”
+
+I replied that the work was full of good taste and spirit, but that it
+showed some want of study and practice on the author’s part; otherwise I
+had been extremely touched to think that those young fingers should have
+thus embroidered an old man’s rough sketch of fancy, and given form so
+brilliantly to the dreams of a dotard like myself.
+
+“The reason I ask your opinion,” replied Madame de Gabry, seriously, “is
+that Jeanne is a poor orphan. Do you think she could earn her living by
+modelling statuettes like this one?”
+
+“As for that, no!” I replied; “and I think there is no reason to regret
+the fact. You say the girl is affectionate and sensitive; I can
+well believe you; I could believe it from her face alone. There are
+excitements in artist-life which impel generous hearts to act out of all
+rule and measure. This young creature is made to love; keep her for the
+domestic hearth. There only is real happiness.”
+
+“But she has no dowry!” replied Madame de Gabry.
+
+Then, extending her hand to me, she continued:
+
+“You are our friend; I can tell you everything. The father of this
+child was a banker, and one of our friends. He went into a colossal
+speculation, and it ruined him. He survived only a few months after
+his failure, in which, as Paul must have told you, three-fourths of my
+uncle’s fortune were lost, and more than half of our own.
+
+“We had made his acquaintance at Manaco, during the winter we passed
+there at my uncle’s house. He had an adventurous disposition, but such
+an engaging manner! He deceived himself before ever he deceived others.
+After all, it is in the ability to deceive oneself that the greatest
+talent is shown, is it not? Well, we were captured--my husband, my
+uncle, and I; and we risked much more than a reasonable amount in a very
+hazardous undertaking. But, bah! as Paul says, since we have no children
+we need not worry about it. Besides, we have the satisfaction of knowing
+that the friend in whom we trusted was an honest man.... You must know
+his name, it was so often in the papers an on public placards--Noel
+Alexandre. His wife was a very sweet person. I knew her only when she
+was already past her prime, with traces of having once been very
+pretty, and a taste for fashionable style and display which seemed quite
+becoming to her. She was naturally fond of social excitement; but
+she showed a great deal of courage and dignity after the death of her
+husband. She died a year after him, leaving Jeanne alone in the world.”
+
+“Clementine!” I cried out.
+
+And on thus learning what I had never imagined--the mere idea of which
+would have set all the forces of my soul in revolt--upon hearing that
+Clementine was no longer in this world, something like a great silence
+came upon me; and the feeling which flooded my whole being was not a
+keen, strong pain, but a quiet and solemn sorrow. Yet I was conscious of
+some incomprehensible sense of alleviation, and my thought rose suddenly
+to heights before unknown.
+
+“From wheresoever thou art at this moment, Clementine,” I said to
+myself, “look down upon this old heart now indeed cooled by age,
+yet whose blood once boiled for thy sake, and say whether it is not
+reanimated by the mere thought of being able to love all that remains
+of thee on earth. Everything passes away since thou thyself hast passed
+away; but Life is immortal; it is that Life we must love in its forms
+eternally renewed. All the rest is child’s play; and I myself, with
+all my books, am only like a child playing with marbles. The purpose of
+life--it is thou, Clementine, who has revealed it to me!”...
+
+Madame de Gabry aroused me from my thoughts by murmuring,
+
+“The child is poor.”
+
+“The daughter of Clementine is poor!” I exclaimed aloud; “how fortunate
+that is so! I would not whish that any one by myself should proved for
+her and dower her! No! the daughter of Clementine must not have her
+dowry from any one but me.”
+
+And, approaching Madame de Gabry as she rose from her chair, I took her
+right hand; I kissed that hand, and placed it on my arm, and said:
+
+“You will conduct me to the grave of the widow of Noel Alexandre.”
+
+And I heard Madame de Gabry asking me:
+
+“Why are you crying?”
+
+
+
+
+Chapter IV--The Little Saint-George
+
+
+
+
+April 16.
+
+
+Saint Drocoveus and the early abbots of Saint-Germain-des-Pres have been
+occupying me for the past forty years; but I do not know if I shall
+be able to write their history before I go to join them. It is already
+quite a long time since I became an old man. One day last year, on the
+Pont des Arts, one of my fellow members at the Institute was lamenting
+before me over the ennui of becoming old.
+
+“Still,” Saint-Beuve replied to him, “it is the only way that has yet
+been found of living a long time.”
+
+I have tried this way, and I know just what it is worth. The trouble of
+it is not that one lasts too long, but that one sees all about him pass
+away--mother, wife, friends, children. Nature makes and unmakes all
+these divine treasures with gloomy indifference, and at last we find
+that we have not loved, we have only been embracing shadows. But how
+sweet some shadows are! If ever creature glided like a shadow through
+the life of a man, it was certainly that young girl whom I fell in love
+with when--incredible though it now seems--I was myself a youth.
+
+A Christian sarcophagus from the catacombs of Rome bears a formula of
+imprecation, the whole terrible meaning of which I only learned with
+time. It says: “Whatsoever impious man violates this sepulchre, may he
+die the last of his own people!” In my capacity of archaeologist, I
+have opened tombs and disturbed ashes in order to collect the shreds of
+apparel, metal ornaments, or gems that were mingled with those ashes.
+But I did it only through that scientific curiosity which does not
+exclude feelings of reverence and of piety. May that malediction graven
+by some one of the first followers of the apostles upon a martyr’s tomb
+never fall upon me! I ought not to fear to survive my own people so long
+as there are men in the world; for there are always some whom one can
+love.
+
+But the power of love itself weakens and gradually becomes lost with
+age, like all the other energies of man. Example proves it; and it
+is this which terrifies me. Am I sure that I have not myself already
+suffered this great loss? I should surely have felt it, but for the
+happy meeting which has rejuvenated me. Poets speak of the Fountain of
+Youth; it does exist; it gushes up from the earth at every step we take.
+And one passes by without drinking of it!
+
+The young girl I loved, married of her own choice to a rival, passed,
+all grey-haired, into the eternal rest. I have found her daughter--so
+that my life, which before seemed to me without utility, now once more
+finds a purpose and a reason for being.
+
+To-day I “take the sun,” as they say in Provence; I take it on the
+terrace of the Luxembourg, at the foot of the statue of Marguerite
+de Navarre. It is a spring sun, intoxicating as young wine. I sit and
+dream. My thoughts escape from my head like the foam from a bottle
+of beer. They are light, and their fizzing amuses me. I dream; such
+a pastime is certainly permissible to an old fellow who has published
+thirty volumes of texts, and contributed to the ‘Journal des Savants’
+for twenty-six years. I have the satisfaction of feeling that I
+performed my task as well as it was possible for me to do, and that I
+utilised to their fullest extent those mediocre faculties with
+which Nature endowed me. My efforts were not all in vain, and I have
+contributed, in my own modest way, to that renaissance of historical
+labours which will remain the honour of this restless century. I shall
+certainly be counted among those ten or twelve who revealed to France
+her own literary antiquities. My publication of the poetical works of
+Gautier de Coincy inaugurated a judicious system and fixed a date. It
+is in the austere calm of old age that I decree to myself this deserved
+credit, and God, who sees my heart, knows whether pride or vanity have
+aught to do with this self-award of justice.
+
+But I am tired; my eyes are dim; my hand trembles, and I see an image of
+myself in those old me of Homer, whose weakness excluded them from the
+battle, and who, seated upon the ramparts, lifted up their voices like
+crickets among the leaves.
+
+So my thoughts were wandering when three young men seated themselves
+near me. I do not know whether each one of them had come in three
+boats, like the monkey of Lafontaine, but the three certainly displayed
+themselves over the space of twelve chairs. I took pleasure in watching
+them, not because they had anything very extraordinary about them, but
+because I discerned in them that brave joyous manner which is natural to
+youth. They were from the schools. I was less assured of it by the books
+they were carrying than by the character of their physiognomy. For
+all who busy themselves with the things of the mind can be at once
+recognised by an indescribably something which is common to all of them.
+I am very fond of young people; and these pleased me, in spite of a
+certain provoking wild manner which recalled to me my own college days
+with marvellous vividness. But they did not wear velvet doublets and
+long hair, as we used to do; they did not walk about, as we used to do,
+“Hell and malediction!” They were quite properly dressed, and neither
+their costume nor their language had anything suggestive of the Middle
+Ages. I must also add that they paid considerable attention to the women
+passing on the terrace, and expressed their admiration of some of them
+in very animated language. But their reflections, even on this subject,
+were not of a character to oblige me to flee from my seat. Besides, so
+long as youth is studious, I think it has a right to its gaieties.
+
+One of them, having made some gallant pleasantry which I forget, the
+smallest and darkest of the three exclaimed, with a slight Gascon
+accent,
+
+“What a thing to say! Only physiologists like us have any right to
+occupy ourselves about living matter. As for you, Gelis, who only live
+in the past--like all your fellow archivists and paleographers--you will
+do better to confine yourself to those stone women over there, who are
+your contemporaries.”
+
+And he pointed to the statues of the Ladies of Ancient France which
+towered up, all white, in a half-circle under the trees of the terrace.
+This joke, though in itself trifling, enabled me to know that the
+young man called Gelis was a student at the Ecole des Chartes. From the
+conversation which followed I was able to learn that his neighbor, blond
+and wan almost to diaphaneity, taciturn and sarcastic was Boulmier, a
+fellow student. Gelis and the future doctor (I hope he will become one
+some day) discoursed together with much fantasy and spirit. In the midst
+of the loftiest speculations they would play upon words, and make jokes
+after the peculiar fashion of really witty persons--that is to say, in
+a style of enormous absurdity. I need hardly say, I suppose, that they
+only deigned to maintain the most monstrous kind of paradoxes. They
+employed all their powers of imagination to make themselves as ludicrous
+as possible, and all their powers of reasoning to assert the contrary of
+common sense. All the better for them! I do not like to see young folks
+too rational.
+
+The student of medicine, after glancing at the title of the book that
+Boulmier held in his hand, exclaimed,
+
+“What!--you read Michelet--you?”
+
+“Yes,” replied Boulmier, very gravely. “I like novels.”
+
+Gelis, who dominated both by his fine stature, imperious gestures, and
+ready wit, took the book, turned over a few pages rapidly, and said,
+
+“Michelet always had a great propensity to emotional tenderness. He
+wept sweet tears over Maillard, that nice little man introduced la
+paperasserie into the September massacres. But as emotional tenderness
+leads to fury, he becomes all at once furious against the victims. There
+was no help for it. It is the sentimentality of the age. The assassin
+is pitied, but the victim is considered quite unpardonable. In his later
+manner Michelet is more Michelet than ever before. There is no common
+sense in it; it is simply wonderful! Neither art nor science, neither
+criticism nor narrative; only furies and fainting-spells and
+epileptic fits over matters which he never deigns to explain. Childish
+outcries--envies de femme grosse!--and a style, my friends!--not a
+single finished phrase! It is astounding!”
+
+And he handed the book back to his comrade. “This is amusing madness,”
+ I thought to myself, “and not quite so devoid of common sense as it
+appears. This young man, though only playing has sharply touched the
+defect in the cuirass.”
+
+But the Provencal student declared that history was a thoroughly
+despicable exercise of rhetoric. According to him, the only true history
+was the natural history of man. Michelet was in the right path when he
+came in contact with the fistula of Louis XIV., but he fell back into
+the old rut almost immediately afterwards.
+
+After this judicious expression of opinion, the young physiologist
+went to join a party of passing friends. The two archivists, less
+well acquainted in the neighbourhood of a garden so far from the Rue
+Paradis-au-Marais, remained together, and began to chat about their
+studies. Gelis, who had completed his third class-year, was preparing a
+thesis on the subject of which he expatiated with youthful enthusiasm.
+Indeed, I thought the subject a very good one, particularly because I
+had recently thought myself called upon to treat a notable part of it.
+It was the Monasticon Gallicanum. The young erudite (I give him the name
+as a presage) wanted to describe all the engravings made about 1690 for
+the work which Dom Michel Germain would have had printed but for the one
+irremediable hindrance which is rarely foreseen and never avoided.
+Dom Michel Germain would have had printed but for the one irremediable
+hindrance which is rarely foreseen and never avoided. Dom Michel Germain
+left his manuscript complete, however, and in good order when he died.
+Shall I be able to do as much with mine?--but that is not the present
+question. So far as I am able to understand, Monsieur Gelis intends to
+devote a brief archaeological notice to each of the abbeys pictured by
+the humble engravers of Dom Michel Germain.
+
+His friend asked him whether he was acquainted with all the manuscripts
+and printed documents relating to the subject. It was then that I
+pricked up my ears. They spoke at first of original sources; and I must
+confess they did so in a satisfactory manner, despite their innumerable
+and detestable puns. Then they began to speak about contemporary studies
+on the subject.
+
+“Have you read,” asked Boulmier, “the notice of Courajod?”
+
+“Good!” I thought to myself.
+
+“Yes,” replied Gelis; “it is accurate.”
+
+“Have you read,” said Boulmier, “the article of Tamisey de Larroque in
+the ‘Revue des Questions Historiques’?”
+
+“Good!” I thought to myself, for the second time.
+
+“Yes,” replied Gelis, “it is full of things.”...
+
+“Have you read,” said Boulmier, “the ‘Tableau des Abbayes Benedictines
+en 1600,’ by Sylvestre Bonnard?”
+
+“Good!” I said to myself, for the third time.
+
+“Mai foi! no!” replied Gelis. “Bonnard is an idiot!” Turning my head, I
+perceived that the shadow had reached the place where I was sitting. It
+was growing chilly, and I thought to myself what a fool I was to have
+remained sitting there, at the risk of getting rheumatism, just to
+listen to the impertinence of those two young fellows!
+
+“Well! well!” I said to myself as I got up. “Let this prattling
+fledgling write his thesis and sustain it! He will find my colleague,
+Quicherat, or some other professor at the school, to show him what an
+ignoramus he is. I consider him neither more nor less than a rascal;
+and really, now that I come to think of it, what he said about Michelet
+awhile ago was quite insufferable, outrageous! To talk in that way about
+an old master replete with genius! It was simply abominable!”
+
+
+
+
+April 17.
+
+
+“Therese, give me my new hat, my best frock-coat, and my silver-headed
+cane.”
+
+But Therese is deaf as a sack of charcoal and slow as Justice. Years
+have made her so. The worst is that she thinks she can hear well and
+move about well; and, proud of her sixty years of upright domesticity,
+she serves her old master with the most vigilant despotism.
+
+“What did I tell you?”...And now she will not give me my silver-headed
+cane, for fear that I might lose it! It is true that I often forget
+umbrellas and walking-sticks in the omnibuses and booksellers’ shops.
+But I have a special reason for wanting to take out with me to-day my
+old cane with the engraved silver head representing Don Quixote charging
+a windmill, lance in rest, while Sancho Panza, with uplifted arms,
+vainly conjures him to a stop. That cane is all that came to me from the
+heritage of my uncle, Captain Victor, who in his lifetime resembled Don
+Quixote much more than Sancho Panza, and who loved blows quite as much
+as most people fear them.
+
+For thirty years I have been in the habit of carrying this cane upon all
+memorable or solemn visits which I make; and those two figures of knight
+and squire give me inspiration and counsel. I imagine I can hear them
+speak. Don Quixote says,
+
+“Think well about great things; and know that thought is the only
+reality in this world. Lift up Nature to thine own stature; and let
+the whole universe be for thee no more than the reflection of thine own
+heroic soul. Combat for honour’s sake: that alone is worthy of a man!
+and if it should fall thee to receive wounds, shed thy blood as a
+beneficent dew, and smile.”
+
+And Sancho Panza says to me in his turn,
+
+“Remain just what heaven made thee, comrade! Prefer the bread-crust
+which has become dry in thy wallet to all the partridges that roast in
+the kitchen of lords. Obey thy master, whether he by a wise man or a
+fool, and do not cumber thy brain with too many useless things. Fear
+blows; ‘tis verily tempting God to seek after danger!”
+
+But if the incomparable knight and his matchless squire are imagined
+only upon this cane of mine, they are realities to my inner conscience.
+Within every one of us there lives both a Don Quixote and a Sancho Panza
+to whom we hearken by turns; and though Sancho most persuades us, it is
+Don Quixote that we find ourselves obliged to admire.... But a truce to
+this dotage!--and let us go to see Madame de Gabry about some matters
+more important than the everyday details of life....
+
+
+Same day.
+
+
+I found Madame de Gabry dressed in black, just buttoning her gloves.
+
+“I am ready,” she said.
+
+Ready!--so I have always found her upon any occasion of doing a
+kindness.
+
+After some compliments about the good health of her husband, who was
+taking a walk at the time, we descended the stairs and got into the
+carriage.
+
+I do not know what secret influence I feared to dissipate by breaking
+silence, but we followed the great deserted drives without speaking,
+looking at the crosses, the monumental columns, and the mortuary wreaths
+awaiting sad purchasers.
+
+The vehicle at last halted at the extreme verge of the land of the
+living, before the gate upon which words of hope are graven.
+
+“Follow me,” said Madame de Gabry, whose tall stature I noticed then for
+the first time. She first walked down an alley of cypresses, and then
+took a very narrow path contrived between the tombs. Finally, halting
+before a plain slab, she said to me,
+
+“It is here.”
+
+And she knelt down. I could not help noticing the beautiful and easy
+manner in which this Christian woman fell upon her knees, leaving the
+folds of her robe to spread themselves at random about her. I had
+never before seen any lady kneel down with such frankness and such
+forgetfulness of self, except two fair Polish exiles, one evening long
+ago, in a deserted church in Paris.
+
+This image passed like a flash; and I saw only the sloping stone on
+which was graven the name of Clementine. What I then felt was something
+so deep and vague that only the sound of some rich music could convey
+the idea of it. I seemed to hear instruments of celestial sweetness
+make harmony in my old heart. With the solemn accords of a funeral chant
+there seemed to mingle the subdued melody of a song of love; for my
+soul blended into one feeling the grave sadness of the present with the
+familiar graces of the past.
+
+I cannot tell whether we had remained a long time at the tomb of
+Clementine before Madame de Gabry arose. We passed through the cemetery
+again without speaking to each other. Only when we found ourselves among
+the living once more did I feel able to speak.
+
+“While following you there,” I said to Madame de Gabry, “I could not
+help thinking of those angels with whom we are said to meet on the
+mysterious confines of life and death. That tomb you led me to, of which
+I knew nothing--as I know nothing, or scarcely anything, concerning
+her whom it covers--brought back to me emotions which were unique in
+my life, and which seem in the dullness of that life like some light
+gleaming upon a dark road. The light recedes farther and farther away as
+the journey lengthens; I have now almost reached the bottom of the last
+slope; and, nevertheless, each time I turn to look back I see the glow
+as bright as ever.
+
+“You, Madame, who knew Clementine as a young wife and mother after her
+hair had become grey, you cannot imagine her as I see her still; a young
+fair girl, all pink and white. Since you have been so kind as to be my
+guide, dear Madame, I ought to tell you what feelings were awakened in
+me by the sight of that grave to which you led me. Memories throng back
+upon me. I feel myself like some old gnarled and mossy oak which awakens
+a nestling world of birds by shaking its branches. Unfortunately
+the song my birds sing is old as the world, and can amuse no one but
+myself.”
+
+“Tell me your souvenirs,” said Madame de Gabry. “I cannot read your
+books, because they are written only for scholars; but I like very much
+to have you talk to me, because you know how to give interest to the
+most ordinary things in life. And talk to me just as you would talk to
+an old woman. This morning I found three grey threads in my hair.”
+
+“Let them come without regret, Madame,” I replied. “Time deals gently
+only with those who take it gently. And when in some years more you will
+have a silvery fringe under your black fillet, you will be reclothed
+with a new beauty, less vivid but more touching than the first; and you
+will find your husband admiring your grey tresses as much as he did that
+black curl which you gave him when about to be married, and which he
+preserves in a locket as a thing sacred.... These boulevards are broad
+and very quiet. We can talk at our ease as we walk along. I will tell
+you, to begin with, how I first made the acquaintance of Clementine’s
+father. But you must not expect anything extraordinary, or anything even
+remarkable; you would be greatly deceived.
+
+“Monsieur de Lessay used to live in the second storey of an old house in
+the Avenue de l’Observatoire, having a stuccoed front, ornamented with
+antique busts, and a large unkept garden attached to it. That facade and
+that garden were the first images my child-eyes perceived; and they will
+be the last, no doubt, which I still see through my closed eyelids when
+the Inevitable Day comes. For it was in that house that I was born; it
+was in that garden I first learned, while playing, to feel and know some
+particles of this old universe. Magical hours!--sacred hours!--when the
+soul, all fresh from the making, first discoveries the world, which
+for its sake seems to assume such caressing brightness, such mysterious
+charm! And that, Madame, is indeed because the universe itself is only
+the reflection of our soul.
+
+“My mother was being very happily constituted. She rose with the sun,
+like the birds; and she herself resembled the birds by her domestic
+industry, by her maternal instinct, by her perpetual desire to sing, and
+by a sort of brusque grace, which I could feel the of very well even
+as a child. She was the soul of the house, which she filled with her
+systematic and joyous activity. My father was just as slow as she was
+brisk. I can recall very well that placid face of his, over which at
+times an ironical smile used to flit. He was fatigued with active life;
+and he loved his fatigue. Seated beside the fire in his big arm-chair,
+he used to read from morning till night; and it is from him that I
+inherit my love of books. I have in my library a Mably and a Raynal,
+which he annotated with his own hand from beginning to end. But it
+was utterly useless attempting to interest him in anything practical
+whatever. When my mother would try, by all kinds of gracious little
+ruses, to lure him out of his retirement, he would simply shake his head
+with that inexorable gentleness which is the force of weak characters.
+He used in this way greatly to worry the poor woman, who could not enter
+at all into his own sphere of meditative wisdom, and could understand
+nothing of life except its daily duties and the merry labour of each
+hour. She thought him sick, and feared he was going to become still more
+so. But his apathy had a different cause.
+
+“My father, entering the Naval office under Monsieur Decres, in 1801,
+gave early proof of high administrative talent. There was a great deal
+of activity in the marine department in those times; and in 1805 my
+father was appointed chief of the Second Administrative Division. That
+same year, the Emperor, whose attention had been called to him by the
+Minister, ordered him to make a report upon the organisation of the
+English navy. This work, which reflected a profoundly liberal and
+philosophic spirit, of which the editor himself was unconscious, was
+only finished in 1807--about eighteen months after the defeat of Admiral
+Villeneuve at Trafalgar. Napoleon, who, from that disastrous day, never
+wanted to hear the word ship mentioned in his presence, angrily
+glanced over a few pages of the memoir, and then threw it in the
+fire, vociferating, ‘Words!--words! I said once before that I hated
+ideologists.’ My father was told afterwards that the Emperor’s anger was
+so intense at the moment that he stamped the manuscript down into the
+fire with his boot-heels. At all events, it was his habit, when very
+much irritated, to poke down the fire with his boot-soles. My father
+never fully recovered from this disgrace; and the fruitlessness of all
+his efforts towards reform was certainly the cause of the apathy which
+came upon him at a later day. Nevertheless, Napoleon, after his return
+from Elba, sent for him, and ordered him to prepare some liberal and
+patriotic bulletins and proclamations for the fleet. After Waterloo, my
+father, whom the event had rather saddened than surprised, retired into
+private life, and was not interfered with--except that it was generally
+averred of him that he was a Jacobin, a buveur-de-sang--one of those
+men with whom no one could afford to be on intimate terms. My mother’s
+eldest brother, Victor Maldent, and infantry captain--retired on
+half-pay in 1814, and disbanded in 1815--aggravated by his bad attitude
+the situation in which the fall of the Empire had placed my father.
+Captain Victor used to shout in the cafes and the public balls that the
+Bourbons had sold France to the Cossacks. He used to show everybody a
+tricoloured cockade hidden in the lining of his hat; and carried with
+much ostentation a walking-stick, the handle of which had been so carved
+that the shadow thrown by it made the silhouette of the Emperor.
+
+“Unless you have seen certain lithographs by Charlet, Madame, you could
+form no idea of the physiognomy of my Uncle Victor, when he used to
+stride about the garden of the Tuileries with a fiercely elegant manner
+of his own--buttoned up in his frogged coat, with his cross-of-honour
+upon his breast, and a bouquet of violets in his button-hole.
+
+“Idleness and intemperance greatly intensified the vulgar recklessness
+of his political passions. He used to insult people whom he happened to
+see reading the ‘Quotidienne,’ or the ‘Drapeau Blanc,’ and compel them
+to fight with him. In this way he had the pain and the shame of wounding
+a boy of sixteen in a duel. In short, my Uncle Victor was the very
+reverse of a well-behaved person; and as he came to lunch and dine
+at our house every blessed day in the year, his bad reputation became
+attached to our family. My poor father suffered cruelly from some of his
+guest’s pranks; but being very good-natured, he never made any remarks,
+and continued to give the freedom of his house to the captain, who only
+despised him for it.
+
+“All this which I have told you, Madame, was explained to me afterwards.
+But at the time in question, my uncle the captain filled me with the
+very enthusiasm of admiration, and I promised myself to try to become
+some day as like him as possible. So one fine morning, in order to
+begin the likeness, I put my arms akimbo, and swore like a trooper. My
+excellent mother at once gave me such a box on the ear that I remained
+half stupefied for some little while before I could even burst out
+crying. I can still see the old arm-chair, covered with yellow Utrecht
+velvet, behind which I wept innumerable tears that day.
+
+“I was a very little fellow then. One morning my father, lifting me
+upon his knees, as he was in the habit of doing, smiled at me with that
+slightly ironical smile which gave a certain piquancy to his perpetual
+gentleness of manner. As I sat on his knee, playing with his long white
+hair, he told me something which I did not understand very well,
+but which interested me very much, for the simple reason that it was
+mysterious to me. I think but am not quite sure, that he related to me
+that morning the story of the little King of Yvetot, according to the
+song. All of a sudden we heard a great report; and the windows rattled.
+My father slipped me down gently on the floor at his feet; he threw up
+his trembling arms, with a strange gesture; his face became all inert
+and white, and his eyes seemed enormous. He tried to speak, but his
+teeth were chattering. At last he murmured, ‘They have shot him!’ I did
+not know what he meant, and felt only a vague terror. I knew afterwards,
+however, that hew was speaking of Marshal Ney, who fell on the 7th of
+December, 1815, under the wall enclosing some waste ground beside our
+house.
+
+“About that time I used often to meet on the stairway an old man (or,
+perhaps, not exactly an old man) with little black eyes which flashed
+with extraordinary vivacity, and an impassive, swarthy face. He did not
+seem to me alive--or at least he did not seem to me alive in the same
+way that other men are alive. I had once seen, at the residence of
+Monsieur Denon, where my father had taken me with him on a visit, a
+mummy brought from Egypt; and I believed in good faith that Monsieur
+Denon’s mummy used to get up when no one was looking, leave its gilded
+case, put on a brown coat and powdered wig, and become transformed into
+Monsieur de Lessay. And even to-day, dear Madame, while I reject that
+opinion as being without foundation, I must confess that Monsieur de
+Lessay bore a very strong resemblance to Monsieur Denon’s mummy. The
+fact is enough to explain why this person inspired me with fantastic
+terror.
+
+“In reality, Monsieur de Lessay was a small gentleman and a great
+philosopher. As a disciple of Mably and Rousseau, he flattered himself
+on being a man without any prejudices; and this pretension itself is a
+very great prejudice.
+
+“He professed to hate fanaticism, yet was himself a fanatic on the topic
+of toleration. I am telling you, Madame, about a character belonging to
+an age that is past. I fear I may not be able to make you understand,
+and I am sure I shall not be able to interest you. It was so long ago!
+But I will abridge as much as possible: besides, I did not promise
+you anything interesting; and you could not have expected to hear of
+remarkable adventures in the life of Sylvestre Bonnard.”
+
+Madame de Gabry encouraged me to proceed, and I resumed:
+
+“Monsieur de Lessay was brusque with men and courteous to ladies. He
+used to kiss the hand of my mother, whom the customs of the Republic and
+the Empire had not habituated to such gallantry. In him, I touched the
+age of Louis XVI. Monsieur de Lessay was a geographer; and nobody, I
+believe, ever showed more pride then he in occupying himself with the
+face of the earth. Under the Old Regime he had attempted philosophical
+agriculture, and thus squandered his estates to the very last acre. When
+he had ceased to own one square foot of ground, he took possession of
+the whole globe, and prepared an extraordinary number of maps, based
+upon the narratives of travellers. But as he had been mentally nourished
+with the very marrow of the “Encyclopedie,” he was not satisfied with
+merely parking off human beings within so many degrees, minutes, and
+seconds of latitude and longitude, he also occupied himself, alas! with
+the question of their happiness. It is worthy of remark, Madame, that
+those who have given themselves the most concern about the happiness of
+peoples have made their neighbors very miserable. Monsieur de
+Lessay, who was more of a geometrician than D’Alembert, and more of a
+philosopher than Jean Jacques, was also more of a royalist than Louis
+XVIII. But his love for the King was nothing to his hate for the
+Emperor. He had joined the conspiracy of Georges against the First
+Consul; but in the framing of the indictment he was not included among
+the inculpated parties, having been either ignored or despised, and
+this injury he never could forgive Bonaparte, whom he called the Ogre
+of Corsica, and to whom he used to say he would never have confided even
+the command of a regiment, so pitiful a soldier he judged him to be.
+
+“In 1820, Monsieur de Lessay, who had then been a widower for many
+years, married again, at the age of sixty, a very young woman, whom
+he pitilessly kept at work preparing maps for him, and who gave him
+a daughter some years after their marriage, and died in childbed. My
+mother had nursed her during her brief illness, and had taken care of
+the child. The name of that child was Clementine.
+
+“It was from the time of that birth and that death that the relations
+between our family and Monsieur de Lessay began. In the meanwhile I had
+been growing dull as I began to leave my true childhood behind me. I
+had lost the charming power of being able to see and feel; and things no
+longer caused me those delicious surprises which form the enchantment
+of the more tender age. For the same reason, perhaps, I have no distinct
+remembrance of the period following the birth of Clementine; I only know
+that a few months afterwards I had a misfortune, the mere thought of
+which still wrings my heart. I lost my mother. A great silence, a great
+coldness, and a great darkness seemed all at once to fill the house.
+
+“I fell into a sort of torpor. My father sent me to the lycee, but I
+could only arouse myself from my lethargy with the greatest of effort.
+
+“Still, I was not altogether a dullard, and my professors were able to
+teach me almost everything they wanted, namely, a little Greek and a
+great deal of Latin. My acquaintances were confined to the ancients.
+I learned to esteem Miltiades, and to admire Themistocles. I became
+familiar with Quintus Fabius, as far, at least, as it was possible
+to become familiar with so great a Consul. Proud of these lofty
+acquaintances, I scarcely ever condescended to notice little Clementine
+and her old father, who, in any event, went away to Normandy one fine
+morning without my having deigned to give a moment’s thought to their
+possible return.
+
+“They came back, however, Madame, they came back! Influences of Heaven,
+forces of nature, all ye mysterious powers which vouchsafe to man the
+ability to love, you know how I again beheld Clementine! They re-entered
+our melancholy home. Monsieur de Lessay no longer wore a wig. Bald,
+with a few grey locks about his ruddy temples, he had all the aspect of
+robust old age. But that divine being whom I saw all resplendent, as
+she leaned upon his arm--she whose presence illuminated the old faded
+parlour--she was not an apparition! It was Clementine herself! I am
+speaking the simple truth: her violet eyes seemed to me in that moment
+supernatural, and even to-day I cannot imagine how those two living
+jewels could have endured the fatigues of life, or become subjected to
+the corruption of death.
+
+“She betrayed a little shyness in greeting my father, whom she did
+not remember. Her complexion was slightly pink, and her half-open lips
+smiled with that smile which makes one think of the Infinite--perhaps
+because it betrays no particular thought, and expresses only the joy
+of living and the bliss of being beautiful. Under a pink hood her face
+shone like a gem in an open casket; she wore a cashmere scarf over a
+robe of white muslin plaited at the waist, from beneath which protruded
+the tip of a little Morocco shoe.... Oh! you must not make fun of me,
+dear Madame, that was the fashion of the time; and I do not know
+whether our new fashions have nearly so much simplicity, brightness, and
+decorous grace.
+
+“Monsieur de Lessay informed us that, in consequence of having
+undertaken the publication of a historical atlas, he had come back
+to live in Paris, and that he would be pleased to occupy his former
+apartment, if it was still vacant. My father asked Mademoiselle de
+Lessay whether she was pleased to visit the capital. She appeared to
+be, for her smile blossomed out in reply. She smiled at the windows that
+looked out upon the green and luminous garden; she smiled at the bronze
+Marius seated among the ruins of Carthage above the dial of the clock;
+she smiled a the old yellow-velveted arm-chairs, and at the poor student
+who was afraid to lift his eyes to look at her. From that day--how I
+loved her!
+
+“But here we are already a the Rue de Severs, and in a little while we
+shall be in sight of your windows. I am a very bad story-teller; and if
+I were--by some impossible chance--to take it into my head to compose
+a novel, I know I should never succeed. I have been drawing out to
+tiresome length a narrative which I must finish briefly; for there is
+a certain delicacy, a certain grace of soul, which an old man could not
+help offending by an complacent expatiation upon the sentiments of even
+the purest love. Let us take a short turn on this boulevard, lined with
+convents; and my recital will be easily finished within the distance
+separating us from that little spire you see over there....
+
+“Monsieur de Lessay, on finding that I had graduated at the Ecole des
+Chartes, judged me worthy to assist him in preparing his historical
+atlas. The plan was to illustrate, by a series of maps, what the old
+philosopher termed the Vicissitudes of Empires from the time of Noah
+down to that of Charlemagne. Monsieur de Lessay had stored up in his
+head all the errors of the eighteenth century in regard to antiquity.
+I belonged, so far as my historical studies were concerned, to the
+new school; and I was just at that age when one does not know how to
+dissemble. The manner in which the old man understood, or, rather,
+misunderstood, the epoch of the Barbarians--his obstinate determination
+to find in remote antiquity only ambitious princes, hypocritical and
+avaricious prelates, virtuous citizens, poet-philosophers, and other
+personages who never existed outside of the novels of Marmontel,--made
+me dreadfully unhappy, and at first used to excite me into attempts
+at argument,--rational enough, but perfectly useless and sometimes
+dangerous, for Monsieur de Lessay was very irascible, and Clementine was
+very beautiful. Between her and him I passed many hours of torment and
+of delight. I was in love; I was a coward, and I granted to him all that
+he demanded of me in regard to the political and historical aspect which
+the Earth--that was at a later day to bear Clementine--presented in the
+time of Abraham, of Menes, and of Deucalion.
+
+“As fast as we drew our maps, Mademoiselle de Lessay tinted them in
+water-colours. Bending over the table, she held the brush lightly
+between two fingers; the shadow of her eyelashes descended upon her
+cheeks, and bather her half-closed eyes in a delicious penumbra.
+Sometimes she would lift her head, and I would see her lips pout. There
+was so much expression in her beauty that she could not breathe without
+seeming to sigh; and her most ordinary poses used to throw me into the
+deepest ecstasies of admiration. Whenever I gazed at her I fully agreed
+with Monsieur de Lessay that Jupiter had once reigned as a despot-king
+over the mountainous regions of Thessaly, and that Orpheus had committed
+the imprudence of leaving the teaching of philosophy to the clergy. I am
+not now quite sure whether I was a coward or a hero when I accorded al
+this to the obstinate old man.
+
+“Mademoiselle de Lessay, I must acknowledge, paid very little attention
+to me. But this indifference seemed to me so just and so natural that
+I never even dreamed of thinking I had a right to complain about it; it
+made me unhappy, but without my knowing that I was unhappy at the
+time. I was hopeful;--we had then only got as far as the First Assyrian
+Empire.
+
+“Monsieur de Lessay came every evening to take coffee with my father.
+I do not know how they became such friends; for it would have been
+difficult to find two characters more oppositely constituted. My father
+was a man who admired very few things, but was still capable of excusing
+a great many. Still, as he grew older, he evinced more and more dislike
+of everything in the shape of exaggeration. He clothed his ideas with a
+thousand delicate shades of expression, and never pronounced an opinion
+without all sorts of reservations. These conversational habits, natural
+to a finely trained mind, used greatly to irritate the dry, terse old
+aristocrat, who was never in the least disarmed by the moderation of an
+adversary--quite the contrary! I always foresaw one danger. That
+danger was Bonaparte. My father had not himself retained an particular
+affection for his memory; but, having worked under his direction, he
+did not like to hear him abused, especially in favour of the Bourbons,
+against whom he had serious reason to feel resentment. Monsieur de
+Lessay, more of a Voltairean and a Legitimist than ever, now traced back
+to Bonaparte the origin of every social, political, and religious
+evil. Such being the situation, the idea of Uncle Victor made me
+feel particularly uneasy. This terrible uncle had become absolutely
+unsufferable now that his sister was no longer there to calm him down.
+The harp of David was broken, and Saul was wholly delivered over to the
+spirit of madness. The fall of Charles X. had increased the audacity of
+the old Napoleonic veteran, who uttered all imaginable bravadoes. He no
+longer frequented our house, which had become too silent for him.
+But sometimes, at the dinner-hour, we would see him suddenly make his
+appearance, all covered with flowers, like a mausoleum. Ordinarily he
+would sit down to table with an oath, growled out from the very bottom
+of his chest, and brag, between every two mouthfuls, of his good fortune
+with the ladies as a vieux brave. Then, when the dinner was over, he
+would fold up his napkin in the shape of a bishop’s mitre, gulp down
+half a decanter of brandy, and rush away with the hurried air of a man
+terrified at the mere idea of remaining for any length of time, without
+drinking, in conversation with an old philosopher and a young scholar. I
+felt perfectly sure that, if ever he and Monsieur de Lessay should come
+together, all would be lost. But that day came, Madame!
+
+“The captain was almost hidden by flowers that day, and seemed so much
+like a monument commemorating the glories of the Empire that one would
+have liked to pass a garland of immortelles over each of his arms. He
+was in an extraordinarily good humour; and the first person to profit by
+that good humour was our cook--for he put his arm around her waist while
+she was placing the roast on the table.
+
+“After dinner he pushed away the decanter presented to him, observing
+that he was going to burn some brandy in his coffee later on. I asked
+him tremblingly whether he would not prefer to have his coffee at once.
+He was very suspicious, and not at all dull of comprehension--my Uncle
+Victor. My precipitation seemed to him in very bad taste; for he looked
+at me in a peculiar way, and said,
+
+“‘Patience! my nephew. It isn’t the business of the baby of the regiment
+to sound the retreat! Devil take it! You must be in a great hurry,
+Master Pedant, to see if I’ve got spurs on my boots!’
+
+“It was evident the captain had divined that I wanted him to go. And I
+knew him well enough to be sure that he was going to stay. He stayed.
+The least circumstances of that evening remain impressed on my memory.
+My uncle was extremely jovial. The mere idea of being in somebody’s way
+was enough to keep him in good humour. He told us, in regular barrack
+style, ma foi! a certain story about a monk, a trumpet, and five
+bottles of Chambertin, which must have been much enjoyed in the garrison
+society, but which I would not venture to repeat to you, Madame, even if
+I could remember it. When we passed into the parlour, the captain called
+attention to the bad condition of our andirons, and learnedly discoursed
+on the merits of rotten-stone as a brass-polisher. Not a word on the
+subject of politics. He was husbanding his forces. Eight o’clock sounded
+from the ruins of Carthage on the mantlepiece. It was Monsieur de
+Lessay’s hour. A few moments later he entered the parlour with his
+daughter. The ordinary evening chat began. Clementine sat down and began
+to work on some embroidery beside the lamp, whose shade left her pretty
+head in a soft shadow, and threw down upon her fingers a radiance that
+made them seem almost self-luminous. Monsieur de Lessay spoke of a comet
+announced by the astronomers, and developed some theories in relation
+to the subject, which, however audacious, betrayed at least a certain
+degree of intellectual culture. My father, who knew a good deal about
+astronomy, advanced some sound ideas of his own, which he ended up with
+his eternal, ‘But what do we know about it, after all?’ In my turn I
+cited the opinion of our neighbour of the Observatory--the great Arago.
+My Uncle Victor declared that comets had a peculiar influence on
+the quality of wines, and related in support of this view a jolly
+tavern-story. I was so delighted with the turn the conversation had
+taken that I did all in my power to maintain it in the same groove, with
+the help of my most recent studies, by a long exposition of the chemical
+composition of those nebulous bodies which, although extending over a
+length of billions of leagues, could be contained in a small bottle. My
+father, a little surprised at my unusual eloquence, watched me with
+his peculiar, placid, ironical smile. But one cannot always remain
+in heaven. I spoke, as I looked at Clementine, of a certain comete of
+diamonds, which I had been admiring in a jeweller’s window the evening
+before. It was a most unfortunate inspiration of mine.
+
+“‘Ah! my nephew,’ cried Uncle Victor, that “comete” of yours was nothing
+to the one which the Empress Josephine wore in her hair when she came to
+Strasburg to distribute crosses to the army.’
+
+“‘That little Josephine was very fond of finery and display,’ observed
+Monsieur de Lessay, between two sips of coffee. ‘I do not blame her for
+it; she had good qualities, though rather frivolous in character. She
+was a Tascher, and she conferred a great honour on Bonaparte by marrying
+him. To say a Tascher does not, of course, mean a great deal; but to say
+a Bonaparte simply means nothing at all.’
+
+“‘What do you mean by that, Monsieur the Marquis?’ demanded Captain
+Victor.
+
+“‘I am not a marquis,’ dryly responded Monsieur de Lessay; ‘and I mean
+simply that Bonaparte would have been very well suited had he
+married one of those cannibal women described by Captain Cook in his
+voyages--naked, tattooed, with a ring in her nose--devouring with
+delight putrefied human flesh.’
+
+“I had foreseen it, and in my anguish (O pitiful human heart!) my first
+idea was about the remarkable exactness of my anticipations. I must say
+that the captain’s reply belonged to the sublime order. He put his arms
+akimbo, eyed Monsieur de Lessay contemptuously from head to food, and
+said,
+
+“‘Napoleon, Monsieur the Vidame, had another spouse besides Josephine,
+another spouse besides Marie-Louise, that companion you know nothing
+of; but I have seen her, close to me. She wears a mantle of azure gemmed
+with stars; she is crowned with laurels; the Cross-of-Honour flames upon
+her breast. Her name is GLORY!’
+
+“Monsieur de Lessay set his cup on the mantlepiece and quietly observed,
+
+“‘Your Bonaparte was a blackguard!’
+
+“My father rose up calmly, extended his arm, and said very softly to
+Monsieur de Lessay,
+
+“Whatever the man was who died at St. Helena, I worked for ten years in
+his government, and my brother-in-law was three times wounded under his
+eagles. I beg of you, dear sir and friend, never to forget these facts
+in future.’
+
+“What the sublime and burlesque insolence of the captain could not do,
+the courteous remonstrance of my father effected immediately, throwing
+Monsieur de Lessay into a furious passion.
+
+“‘I did forget,’ he exclaimed, between his set teeth, livid in his rage,
+and fairly foaming at the mouth; ‘the herring-cask always smells of
+herring and when one has been in the service of rascals---’
+
+“As he uttered the word, the Captain sprang at his throat; I am sure he
+would have strangled him upon the spot but for his daughter and me.
+
+“My father, a little paler than his wont, stood there with his arms
+folded, and watched the scene with a look of inexpressible pity. What
+followed was still more lamentable--but why dwell further upon the folly
+of two old men. Finally I succeeded in separating them. Monsieur
+de Lessay made a sign to his daughter and left the room. As she was
+following him, I ran out into the stairway after her.
+
+“‘Mademoiselle,’ I said to her, wildly, taking her hand as I spoke, ‘I
+love you! I love you!’
+
+“For a moment she pressed my hand; her lips opened. What was it that
+she was going to say to me? But suddenly, lifting her eyes towards
+her father ascending the stairs, she drew her hand away, and made me a
+gesture of farewell.
+
+“I never saw her again. Her father went to live in the neighbourhood of
+the Pantheon, in an apartment which he had rented for the sale of his
+historical atlas. He died in a few months afterward of an apoplectic
+stroke. His daughter, I was told, retired to Caen to live with some aged
+relative. It was there that, later on, she married a bank-clerk, the
+same Noel Alexandre who became so rich and died so poor.
+
+“As for me, Madame, I have lived alone, at peace with myself; my
+existence, equally exempt from great pains and great joys, has been
+tolerably happy. But for many years I could never see an empty chair
+beside my own of a winter’s evening without feeling a sudden painful
+sinking at my heart. Last year I learned from you, who had known her,
+the story of her old age and death. I saw her daughter at your house. I
+have seen her; but I cannot yet say like the aged mad of Scripture, ‘And
+now, O Lord, let thy servant depart in peace!’ For if an old fellow like
+me can be of any use to anybody, I would wish, with your help, to devote
+my last energies and abilities to the care of this orphan.”
+
+I had uttered these last words in Madame de Gabry’s own vestibule; and I
+was about to take leave of my kind guide when she said to me,
+
+“My dear Monsieur, I cannot help you in this matter as much as I would
+like to do. Jeanne is an orphan and a minor. You cannot do anything for
+her without the authorisation of her guardian.”
+
+“Ah!” I exclaimed, “I had not the least idea in the wold that Jeanne had
+a guardian!”
+
+Madame de Gabry looked at me with visible surprise. She had not expected
+to find the old man quite so simple.
+
+She resumed:
+
+“The guardian of Jeanne Alexandre is Maitre Mouche, notary at
+Levallois-Perret. I am afraid you will not be able to come to any
+understanding with him; for he is a very serious person.”
+
+“Why! good God!” I cried, “with what kind of people can you expect me to
+have any sort of understanding at my age, except serious persons.”
+
+She smiled with a sweet mischievousness--just as my father used to
+smile--and answered:
+
+“With those who are like you--the innocent folks who wear their hearts
+on their sleeves. Monsieur Mouche is not exactly that kind. He is
+cunning and light-fingered. But although I have very little liking
+for him, we will go together and see him, if you wish, and ask his
+permission to visit Jeanne, whom he has sent to a boarding-school at Les
+Ternes, where she is very unhappy.”
+
+We agreed at once upon a day; I kissed Madame de Gabry’s hands, and we
+bade each other good-bye.
+
+
+
+
+From May 2 to May 5.
+
+
+I have seen him in his office, Maitre Mouche, the guardian of Jeanne.
+Small, thin, and dry; his complexion looks as if it was made out of the
+dust of his pigeon-holes. He is a spectacled animal; for to imagine him
+without his spectacles would be impossible. I have heard him speak,
+this Maitre Mouche; he has a voice like a tin rattle, and he uses choice
+phrases; but I should have been better pleased if he had not chosen his
+phrases so carefully. I have observed him, this Maitre Mouche; he is
+very ceremonious, and watches his visitors slyly out of the corner of
+his eye.
+
+Maitre Mouche is quite pleased, he informs us; he is delighted to find
+we have taken such an interest in his ward. But he does not think we are
+placed in this world just to amuse ourselves. No: he does not believe
+it; and I am free to acknowledge that anybody in his company is likely
+to reach the same conclusion, so little is he capable of inspiring
+joyfulness. He fears that it would be giving his dear ward a false and
+pernicious idea of life to allow her too much enjoyment. It is for this
+reason that he requests Madame de Gabry not to invite the young girl to
+her house except at very long intervals.
+
+We left the dusty notary and his dusty study with a permit in due form
+(everything which issues from the office of Maitre Mouche is in due
+form) to visit Mademoiselle Jeanne Alexandre on the first Thursday of
+each month at Mademoiselle Prefere’s private school, Rue Demours, Aux
+Ternes.
+
+The first Thursday in May I set out to pay a visit to Mademoiselle
+Prefere, whose establishment I discerned from afar off by a big sign,
+painted with blue letters. That blue tint was the first indication I
+received of Mademoiselle Prefere’s character, which I was able to see
+more of later on. A scared-looking servant took my card, and abandoned
+me without one word of hope at the door of a chilly parlour full of that
+stale odour peculiar to the dining-rooms of educational establishments.
+The floor of this parlour had been waxed with such pitiless energy,
+that I remained for awhile in distress upon the threshold. But happily
+observing that little strips of woollen carpet had been scattered over
+the floor in front of each horse-hair chair, I succeeded, by cautiously
+stepping from one carpet-island to another in reaching the angle of the
+mantlepiece, where I sat down quite out of breath.
+
+Over the mantelpiece, in a large gilded frame, was a written document,
+entitled in flamboyant Gothic lettering, Tableau d’Honneur, with a long
+array of names underneath, among which I did not have the pleasure of
+finding that of Jeanne Alexandre. After having read over several times
+the names of those girl-pupils who had thus made themselves honoured in
+the eyes of Mademoiselle Prefere, I began to feel uneasy at not hearing
+any one coming. Mademoiselle Prefere would certainly have succeeded in
+establishing the absolute silence of interstellar spaces throughout her
+pedagogical domains, had it not been that the sparrows had chosen her
+yard to assemble in by legions, and chirp at the top of their voices.
+It was a pleasure to hear them. But there was no way of seeing
+them--through the ground-glass windows. I had to content myself with the
+sights of the parlour, decorated from floor to ceiling, on all of its
+four walls, with drawings executed by the pupils of the institution.
+There were Vestals, flowers, thatched cottages, column-capitals, and
+an enormous head of Tatius, King of the Sabines, bearing the signature
+Estelle Mouton.
+
+I had already passed some time in admiring the energy with which
+Mademoiselle Mouton had delineated the bushy eyebrows and the fierce
+gaze of the antique warrior, when a sound, faint like the rustling of
+a dead leaf moved by the wind, caused me to turn my head. It was not a
+dead leaf at all--it was Mademoiselle Prefere. With hands jointed before
+her, she came gliding over the mirror-polish of that wonderful floor
+as the Saints of the Golden Legend were wont to glide over the
+crystal surface of the waters. But upon any other occasion, I am sure,
+Mademoiselle Prefere would not have made me think in the least about
+those virgins dear to mystical fancy. Her face rather gave me the
+idea of a russet-apple preserved or a whole winter in an attic by
+some economical housekeeper. Her shoulders were covered with a fringed
+pelerine, which had nothing at all remarkable about it, but which she
+wore as if it were a sacerdotal vestment, or the symbol of some high
+civic function.
+
+I explained to her the purpose of my visit, and gave her my letter of
+introduction.
+
+“Ah!--so you are Monsieur Mouche!” she exclaimed. “Is his health VERY
+good? He is the most upright of men, the most---”
+
+She did not finish the phrase, but raised her eyes to the ceiling. My
+own followed the direction of their gaze, and observed a little spiral
+of paper lace, suspended from the place of the chandelier, which was
+apparently destined, so far as I could discover, to attract the flies
+away from the gilded mirror-frames and the Tableau d’Honneur.
+
+“I have met Mademoiselle Jeanne Alexandre,” I observed, “at the
+residence of Madame de Gabry and had reason to appreciate the excellent
+character and quick intelligence of the young girl. As I used to know
+her parents very well, the friendship which I felt for them naturally
+inclines me to take an interest in her.”
+
+Mademoiselle Prefere, in lieu of making any reply, sighed profoundly,
+pressed her mysterious pelerine to her heart, and again contemplated the
+paper spiral.
+
+At last she observed,
+
+“Since you were once the friend of Monsieur and Madame Alexandre, I hope
+and trust that, like Monsieur Mouche and myself, you deplore those
+crazy speculations which led them to ruin, and reduced their daughter to
+absolute poverty!”
+
+I thought to myself, on hearing these words, how very wrong it is to
+be unlucky, and how unpardonable such an error on the part of those
+previously in a position worthy of envy. Their fall at once avenges and
+flatters us; and we are wholly pitiless.
+
+After having answered, very frankly, that I knew nothing whatever about
+the history of the bank, I asked the schoolmistress if she was satisfied
+with Mademoiselle Alexandre.
+
+“That child is indomitable!” cried Mademoiselle Prefere.
+
+And she assumed an attitude of lofty resignation, to symbolise the
+difficult situation she was placed in by a pupil so hard to train. Then,
+with more calmness of manner, she added:
+
+“The young person is not unintelligent. But she cannot resign herself to
+learn things by rule.”
+
+What a strange old maid was this Mademoiselle Prefere! She walked
+without lifting her legs, and spoke without moving her lips! Without,
+however, considering her peculiarities for more than a reasonable
+instant, I replied that principles were, no doubt, very excellent
+things, and that I could trust myself to her judgement in regard to
+their value; but that, after all, when one had learned something, it
+very little difference what method had been followed in the learning of
+it.
+
+Mademoiselle made a slow gesture of dissent. Then with a sigh, she
+declared,
+
+“Ah, Monsieur! those who do not understand educational methods are apt
+to have very false ideas on these subjects. I am certain they express
+their opinions with the best intentions in the world; but they would do
+better, a great deal better, to leave all such questions to competent
+people.”
+
+I did not attempt to argue further; and simply asked her whether I could
+see Mademoiselle Alexandre at once.
+
+She looked at her pelerine, as if trying to read in the entanglements
+of its fringes, as in a conjuring book, what sort of answer she ought to
+make; then said,
+
+“Mademoiselle Alexandre has a penance to perform, and a class-lesson to
+give; but I should be very sorry to let you put yourself to the trouble
+of coming here all to no purpose. I am going to send for her. Only first
+allow me, Monsieur--as is our custom--to put your name on the visitors’
+register.”
+
+She sat down at the table, opened a large copybook, and, taking out
+Maitre Mouche’s letter again from under her pelerine, where she had
+placed it, looked at it, and began to write.
+
+“‘Bonnard’--with a ‘d,’ is it not?” she asked. “Excuse me for being so
+particular; but my opinion is that proper names have an orthography.
+We have dictation-lessons in proper names, Monsieur, at this
+school--historical proper names, of course!”
+
+After I had written down my name in a running hand, she inquired whether
+she should not put down after it my profession, title, quality--such
+as “retired merchant,” “employe,” “independent gentleman,” or something
+else. There was a column in her register expressly for that purpose.
+
+“My goodness, Madame!” I said, “if you must absolutely fill that column
+of yours, put down ‘Member of the Institute.’”
+
+It was still Mademoiselle Prefere’s pelerine I saw before me; but it was
+not Mademoiselle Prefere who wore it; it was a totally different person,
+obliging, gracious, caressing, radiant, happy. Her eyes, smiled; the
+little wrinkles of her face (there were a vast number of them!) also
+smiled; her mouth smiled likewise, but only on one side. I discovered
+afterwards that was her best side. She spoke: her voice had also changed
+with her manner; it was now sweet as honey.
+
+“You said, Monsieur, that our dear Jeanne was very intelligent. I
+discovered the same thing myself, and I am proud of being able to
+agree with you. This young girl has really made me feel a great deal of
+interest in her. She has what I call a happy disposition.... But excuse
+me for thus drawing upon your valuable time.”
+
+She summoned the servant-girl, who looked much more hurried and scared
+than before, and who vanished with the order to go and tell Mademoiselle
+Alexandre that Monsieur Sylvestre Bonnard, Member of the Institute, was
+waiting to see her in the parlour.
+
+Mademoiselle Prefere had barely time to confide in me that she had the
+most profound respect for all decisions of the Institute--whatever they
+might be--when Jeanne appeared, out of breath, red as a poppy, with
+her eyes very wide open, and her arms dangling helplessly at her
+sides--charming in her artless awkwardness.
+
+“What a state you are in, my dear child!” murmured Mademoiselle Prefere,
+with maternal sweetness, as she arranged the girl’s collar.
+
+Jeanne certainly did present an odd aspect. Her hair combed back, and
+imperfectly held by a net from which loose curls were escaping; her
+slender arms, sheathed down to the elbows in lustring sleeves; her
+hands, which she did not seem to know what to do with, all red with
+chillblains; her dress, much too short, revealing that she had on
+stockings much too large for her, and shoes worn down at the heel; and
+a skipping-rope tied round her waist in lieu of a belt,--all combined to
+lend Mademoiselle Jeanne an appearance the reverse of presentable.
+
+“Oh, you crazy girl!” sighed Mademoiselle Prefere, who now seemed no
+longer like a mother, but rather like an elder sister.
+
+Then she suddenly left the room, gliding like a shadow over the polished
+floor.
+
+I said to Jeanne,
+
+“Sit down, Jeanne, and talk to me as you would to a friend. Are you not
+better satisfied here now than you were last year?”
+
+She hesitated; then answered with a good-natured smile of resignation,
+
+“Not much better.”
+
+I asked her to tell me about her school life. She began at once to
+enumerate all her different studies--piano, style, chronology of the
+Kings of France, sewing, drawing, catechism, deportment... I could never
+remember them all! She still held in her hands, all unconsciously, the
+two ends of her skipping-rope, and she raised and lowered them regularly
+while making her enumeration. Then all at once she became conscious of
+what she was doing, blushed, stammered, and became so confused that I
+had to renounce my desire to know the full programme of study adopted in
+the Prefere Institution.
+
+After having questioned Jeanne on various matters, and obtained only the
+vaguest of answers, I perceived that her young mind was totally absorbed
+by the skipping-rope, and I entered bravely into that grave subject.
+
+“So you have been skipping?” I said. “It is a very nice amusement, but
+one that you must not exert yourself too much at; for any excessive
+exercise of that kind might seriously injure your health, and I should
+be very much grieved about it Jeanne--I should be very much grieved,
+indeed!”
+
+“You are very kind, Monsieur,” the young girl said, “to have come to see
+me and talk to me like this. I did not think about thanking you when
+I came in, because I was too much surprised. Have you seen Madame de
+Gabry? Please tell me something about her, Monsieur.”
+
+“Madame de Gabry,” I answered, “is very well. I can only tell you about
+her, Jeanne, what an old gardener once said of the lady of the castle,
+his mistress, when somebody anxiously inquired about her: ‘Madame is
+in her road.’ Yes, Madame de Gabry is in her own road; and you know,
+Jeanne, what a good road it is, and how steadily she can walk upon it. I
+went out with her the other day, very, very far away from the house;
+and we talked about you. We talked about you, my child, at your mother’s
+grave.”
+
+“I am very glad,” said Jeanne.
+
+And then, all at once, she began to cry.
+
+I felt too much reverence for those generous tears to attempt in any way
+to check the emotion that had evoked them. But in a little while, as the
+girl wiped her eyes, I asked her,
+
+“Will you not tell me, Jeanne, why you were thinking so much about that
+skipping-rope a little while ago?”
+
+“Why, indeed I will, Monsieur. It was only because I had no right to
+come into the parlour with a skipping-rope. You know, of course, that I
+am past the age for playing at skipping. But when the servant said there
+was an old gentleman... oh!... I mean... that a gentleman was waiting for
+me in the parlour, I was making the little girls jump. Then I tied the
+rope round my waist in a hurry, so that it might not get lost. It was
+wrong. But I have not been in the habit of having many people come to
+see me. And Mademoiselle Prefere never lets us off if we commit any
+breach of deportment: so I know she is going to punish me, and I am very
+sorry about it.”...
+
+“That is too bad, Jeanne!”
+
+She became very grave, and said,
+
+“Yes, Monsieur, it is too bad; because when I am punished myself, I have
+no more authority over the little girls.”
+
+I did not at once fully understand the nature of this unpleasantness;
+but Jeanne explained to me that, as she was charged by Mademoiselle
+Prefere with the duties of taking care of the youngest class, of washing
+and dressing the children, of teaching them how to behave, how to sew,
+how to say the alphabet, of showing them how to play, and, finally, of
+putting them to bed at the close of the day, she could not make herself
+obeyed by those turbulent little folks on the days she was condemned
+to wear a night-cap in the class-room, or to eat her meals standing up,
+from a plate turned upside down.
+
+Having secretly admired the punishments devised by the Lady of the
+Enchanted Pelerine, I responded:
+
+“Then, if I understand you rightly, Jeanne, you are at once a pupil here
+and a mistress? It is a condition of existence very common in the world.
+You are punished, and you punish?”
+
+“Oh, Monsieur!” she exclaimed. “No! I never punish!”
+
+“Then, I suspect,” said I, “that your indulgence gets you many scoldings
+from Mademoiselle Prefere?”
+
+She smiled, and blinked.
+
+Then I said to her that the troubles in which we often involve
+ourselves, by trying to act according to our conscience and to do the
+best we can, are never of the sort that totally dishearten and weary
+us, but are, on the contrary, wholesome trials. This sort of philosophy
+touched her very little. She even appeared totally unmoved by my moral
+exhortations. But was not this quite natural on her part?--and ought I
+not to have remembered that it is only those no longer innocent who can
+find pleasure in the systems of moralists?... I had at least good sense
+enough to cut short my sermonising.
+
+“Jeanne,” I said, “you were asking a moment ago about Madame de Gabry.
+Let us talk about that Fairy of yours She was very prettily made. Do you
+do any modelling in wax now?”
+
+“I have not a bit of wax,” she exclaimed, wringing her hands--“no wax at
+all!”
+
+“No wax!” I cried--“in a republic of busy bees?”
+
+She laughed.
+
+“And, then, you see, Monsieur, my FIGURINES, as you call them, are not
+in Mademoiselle Prefere’s programme. But I had begun to make a very
+small Saint-George for Madame de Gabry--a tiny little Saint-George,
+with a golden cuirass. Is not that right, Monsieur Bonnard--to give
+Saint-George a gold cuirass?”
+
+“Quite right, Jeanne; but what became of it?”
+
+“I am going to tell you, I kept it in my pocket because I had no other
+place to put it, and--and I sat down on it by mistake.”
+
+She drew out of her pocket a little wax figure, which had been squeezed
+out of all resemblance to human form, and of which the dislocated limbs
+were only attached to the body by their wire framework. At the sight of
+her hero thus marred, she was seized at once with compassion and gaiety.
+The latter feeling obtained the mastery, and she burst into a clear
+laugh, which, however, stopped as suddenly as it had begun.
+
+Mademoiselle Prefere stood at the parlour door, smiling.
+
+“That dear child!” sighed the schoolmistress in her tenderest tone. “I
+am afraid she will tire you. And, then, your time is so precious!”
+
+I begged Mademoiselle Prefere to dismiss that illusion, and, rising to
+take my leave, I took from my pocket some chocolate-cakes and sweets
+which I had brought with me.
+
+“That is so nice!” said Jeanne; “there will be enough to go round the
+whole school.”
+
+The lady of the pelerine intervened.
+
+“Mademoiselle Alexandre,” she said, “thank Monsieur for his generosity.”
+
+Jeanne looked at her for an instant in a sullen way; then, turning to
+me, said with remarkable firmness,
+
+“Monsieur, I thank you for your kindness in coming to see me.”
+
+“Jeanne,” I said, pressing both her hands, “remain always a good,
+truthful, brave girl. Good-bye.”
+
+As she left the room with her packages of chocolate and confectionery,
+she happened to strike the handles of her skipping-rope against the
+back of a chair. Mademoiselle Prefere, full of indignation, pressed both
+hands over her heart, under her pelerine; and I almost expected to see
+her give up her scholastic ghost.
+
+When we found ourselves alone, she recovered her composure; and I must
+say, without considering myself thereby flattered, that she smiled upon
+me with one whole side of her face.
+
+“Mademoiselle,” I said, taking advantage of her good humour, “I noticed
+that Jeanne Alexandre looks a little pale. You know better than I how
+much consideration and care a young girl requires at her age. It would
+only be doing you an injustice by implication to recommend her still
+more earnestly to your vigilance.”
+
+These words seemed to ravish her with delight. She lifted her eyes, as
+in ecstasy, to the paper spirals of the ceiling, and, clasping her hands
+exclaimed,
+
+“How well these eminent men know the art of considering the most
+trifling details!”
+
+I called her attention to the fact that the health of a young girl was
+not a trifling detail, and made my farewell bow. But she stopped me on
+the threshold to say to me, very confidentially,
+
+“You must excuse me, Monsieur. I am a woman, and I love glory. I cannot
+conceal from you the fact that I feel myself greatly honoured by the
+presence of a Member of the Institute in my humble institution.”
+
+I duly excused the weakness of Mademoiselle Prefere; and, thinking only
+of Jeanne, with the blindness of egotism, kept asking myself all along
+the road, “What are we going to do with this child?”
+
+
+
+
+June 3.
+
+
+I had escorted to the Cimetiere de Marnes that day a very aged colleague
+of mine who, to use the words of Goethe, had consented to die. The great
+Goethe, whose own vital force was something extraordinary, actually
+believed that one never dies until one really wants to die--that is to
+say, when all those energies which resist dissolution, and teh sum of
+which make up life itself, have been totally destroyed. In other words,
+he believed that people only die when it is no longer possible for them
+to live. Good! it is merely a question of properly understanding one
+another; and when fully comprehended, the magnificent idea of Goethe
+only brings us quietly back to the song of La Palisse.
+
+Well, my excellent colleague had consented to die--thanks to several
+successive attacks of extremely persuasive apoplexy--the last of which
+proved unanswerable. I had been very little acquainted with him during
+his lifetime; but it seems that I became his friend the moment he was
+dead, for our colleagues assured me in a most serious manner, with
+deeply sympathetic countenances, that I should act as one of the
+pall-bearers, and deliver an address over the tomb.
+
+After having read very badly a short address I had written as well as I
+could--which is not saying much for it--I started out for a walk in the
+woods of Ville-d’Avray, and followed, without leaning too much on
+the Captain’s cane, a shaded path on which the sunlight fell, through
+foliage, in little discs of gold. Never had the scent of grass and fresh
+leaves,--never had the beauty of the sky over the trees, and the serene
+might of noble tree contours, so deeply affected my senses and all my
+being; and the pleasure I felt in that silence, broken only by faintest
+tinkling sounds, was at once of the senses and of the soul.
+
+I sat down in the shade of the roadside under a clump of young oaks. And
+there I made a promise to myself not to die, or at least not to consent
+to die, before I should be again able to sit down under and oak,
+where--in the great peace of the open country--I could meditate on the
+nature of the soul and the ultimate destiny of man. A bee, whose brown
+breast-plate gleamed in the sun like armour of old gold, came to light
+upon a mallow-flower close by me--darkly rich in colour, and fully
+opened upon its tufted stalk. It was certainly not the first time I had
+witnessed so common an incident; but it was the first time that I had
+watched it with such comprehensive and friendly curiosity. I could
+discern that there were all sorts of sympathies between the insect and
+the flower--a thousand singular little relationships which I had never
+before even suspected.
+
+Satiated with nectar, the insect rose and buzzed away in a straight
+line, while I lifted myself up as best I could, and readjusted myself
+upon my legs.
+
+“Adieu!” I said to the flower and to the bee. “Adieu! Heaven grant I
+may live long enough to discover the secret of your harmonies. I am very
+tired. But man is so made that he can only find relaxation from one kind
+of labour by taking up another. The flowers and insects will give me
+that relaxation, with God’s will, after my long researches in philology
+and diplomatics. How full of meaning is that old myth of Antaeus! I have
+touched the Earth and I am a new man; and now at seventy years of age,
+new feelings of curiosity take birth in my mind, even as young shoots
+sometimes spring up from the hollow trunk of an aged oak!”
+
+
+
+
+June 4.
+
+
+I like to look out of my window at the Seine and its quays on those
+soft grey mornings which give such an infinite tenderness of tint to
+everything. I have seen that azure sky which flings so luminous a calm
+over the Bay of Naples. But our Parisian sky is more animated, more
+kindly, more spiritual. It smiles, threatens, caresses--takes an aspect
+of melancholy or a look of merriment like a human gaze. At this moment
+it is pouring down a very gentle light on the men and beasts of the city
+as they accomplish their daily tasks. Over there, on the opposite bank,
+the stevedores of the Port Saint-Nicholas are unloading a cargo of cow’s
+horns; while two men standing on a gangway are tossing sugar-loaves from
+one to the other, and thence to somebody in the hold of a steamer. On
+the north quay, the cab-horses, standing in a line under the shade of
+the plane-trees each with its head in a nose-bag, are quietly munching
+their oats, while the rubicund drivers are drinking at the counter of
+the wine-seller opposite, but all the while keeping a sharp lookout for
+early customers.
+
+The dealers in second-hand books put their boxes on the parapet. These
+good retailers of Mind, who are always in the open air, with blouses
+loose to the breeze, have become so weatherbeaten by the wind, the
+rain, the frost, the snow, the fog, and the great sun, that they end
+by looking very much like the old statues of cathedrals. They are all
+friends of mine, and I scarcely ever pass by their boxes without picking
+out of one of them some old book which I had always been in need of up
+to that very moment, without any suspicion of the fact on my part.
+
+Then on my return home I have to endure the outcries of my housekeeper,
+who accuses me of bursting all my pockets and filling the house with
+waste paper to attract the rats. Therese is wise about that, and it
+is because she is wise that I do not listen to her; for in spite of my
+tranquil mien, I have always preferred the folly of the passions to the
+wisdom of indifference. But just because my own passions are not of that
+sort which burst out with violence to devastate and kill, the common
+mind is not aware of their existence. Nevertheless, I am greatly moved
+by them at times, and it has more than once been my fate to lose my
+sleep for the sake of a few pages written by some forgotten monk or
+printed by some humble apprentice of Peter Schaeffer. And if these
+fierce enthusiasms are slowly being quenched in me, it is only because
+I am being slowly quenched myself. Our passions are ourselves. My old
+books are Me. I am just as old and thumb-worn as they are.
+
+A light breeze sweeps away, along with the dust of the pavements, the
+winged seeds of the plane trees, and the fragments of hay dropped from
+the mouths of the horses. The dust is nothing remarkable in itself; but
+as I watch it flying, I remember a moment in my childhood when I watched
+just such a swirl of dust; and my old Parisian soul is much affected by
+that sudden recollection. All that I see from my window--that horizon
+which extends to the left as far as the hills of Chaillot, and enables
+me to distinguish the Arc de Triomphe like a die of stone, the Seine,
+river of glory, and its bridges, the ash-trees of the terrace of
+the Tuileries, the Louvre of the Renaissance, cut and graven like
+goldsmith-work; and on my right, towards the Pont-Neuf (pons Lutetiae
+Novus dictus, as it is named on old engravings), all the old and
+venerable part of Paris, with its towers and spires:--all that is my
+life, it is myself; and I should be nothing but for all those things
+which are thus reflected in me through my thousand varying shades of
+thought, inspiring me and animating me. That is why I love Paris with an
+immense love.
+
+And nevertheless I am weary, and I know that there can be no rest for me
+in the heart of this great city which thinks so much, which has taught
+me to think, and which for ever urges me to think more. And how avoid
+being exited among all these books which incessantly tempt my curiosity
+without ever satisfying it? At one moment it is a date I have to look
+for; at another it is the name of a place I have to make sure of,
+or some quaint term of which it is important to determine the exact
+meaning. Words?--why, yes! words. As a philologist, I am their
+sovereign; they are my subjects, and, like a good king, I devote my
+whole life to them. But shall I not be able to abdicate some day? I have
+an idea that there is somewhere or other, quite far from here, a certain
+little cottage where I could enjoy the quiet I so much need, while
+awaiting that day in which a greater quiet--that which can be never
+broken--shall come to wrap me all about. I dream of a bench before the
+threshold, and of fields spreading away out of sight. But I must have a
+fresh smiling young face beside me, to reflect and concentrate all that
+freshness of nature. I could then imagine myself a grandfather, and all
+the long void of my life would be filled....
+
+I am not a violent man, and yet I become easily vexed, and all my works
+have caused me quite as much pain as pleasure. And I do not know how
+it is that I still keep thinking about that very conceited and very
+inconsiderated impertinence which my young friend of the Luxembourg took
+the liberty to utter about me some three months ago. I do not call him
+“friend” in irony, for I love studious youth with all it temerities and
+imaginative eccentricities. Still, my young friend certainly went beyond
+all bounds. Master Ambroise Pare, who was the first to attempt the
+ligature of arteries, and who, having commenced his profession at a time
+when surgery was only performed by quack barbers, nevertheless succeeded
+in lifting the science to the high place it now occupies, was assailed
+in his old age by all the young sawbones’ apprentices. Being grossly
+abused during a discussion by some young addlehead who might have
+been the best son in the world, but who certainly lacked all sense of
+respect, the old master answered him in his treatise De la Mumie, de la
+Licorne, des Venins et de la Peste. “I pray him,” said the great man--“I
+pray him, that if he desire to make any contradictions to my reply, he
+abandon all animosities, and treat the good old man with gentleness.”
+ This answer seems admirable from the pen of Ambroise Pare; but even had
+it been written by a village bonesetter, grown grey in his calling, and
+mocked by some young stripling, it would still be worthy of all praise.
+
+It might perhaps seem that my memory of the incident had been kept alive
+only by a base feeling of resentment. I thought so myself at first, and
+reproached myself for thus dwelling on the saying of a boy who could
+not yet know the meaning of his own words. But my reflections on this
+subject subsequently took a better course: that is why I now note them
+down in my diary. I remembered that one day when I was twenty years old
+(that was more than half a century ago) I was walking about in that very
+same garden of the Luxembourg with some comrades. We were talking about
+our old professors; and one of us happened to name Monsieur Petit-Radel,
+an estimable and learned man, who was the first to throw some light upon
+the origins of early Etruscan civilisation, but who had been unfortunate
+enough to prepare a chronological table of the lovers of Helen. We all
+laughed a great deal about that chronological table; and I cried out,
+“Petit-Radel is an ass, not in three letters, but in twelve whole
+volumes!”
+
+This foolish speech of my adolescence was uttered too lightly to be a
+weight on my conscience as an old man. May God kindly prove to me some
+day that I never used an less innocent shaft of speech in the battle of
+life! But I now ask myself whether I really never wrote, at any time in
+my life, something quite as unconsciously absurd as the chronological
+table of the lovers of Helen. The progress of science renders useless
+the very books which have been the greatest aids to that progress. As
+those works are no longer useful, modern youth is naturally inclined to
+believe they never had any value; it despises them, and ridicules them
+if they happen to contain any superannuated opinion whatever. That is
+why, in my twentieth year, I amused myself at the expense of Monsieur
+Petit-Radel and his chronological table; and that was why, the other
+day, at the Luxembourg, my young and irreverent friend...
+
+“Rentre en toi-meme, Octave, et cesse de te plaindre. Quoi! tu veux
+qu’on t’epargne et n’as rien epargne!” [ “Look into thyself, Octavius,
+and cease complaining. What! thou wouldst be spared, and thou thyself
+hast spared none!”]
+
+
+
+
+June 6.
+
+
+It was the first Thursday in June. I shut up my books and took my
+leave of the holy abbot Droctoveus, who, being now in the enjoyment of
+celestial bliss, cannot feel very impatient to behold his name and works
+glorified on earth through the humble compilation being prepared by my
+hands. Must I confess it? That mallow-plant I saw visited by a bee the
+other day has been occupying my thoughts much more than all the ancient
+abbots who ever bore croisers or wore mitres. There is in one of
+Sprengel’s books which I read in my youth, at that time when I used
+to read in my youth, at that time when I used to read anything and
+everything, some ideas about “the loves of flowers” which now return to
+memory after having been forgotten for half a century, and which
+to-day interest me so much that I regret not to have devoted the humble
+capacities of my mind to the study of insects and of plants.
+
+And only awhile ago my housekeeper surprised me at the kitchen window,
+in the act of examining some wallflowers through a magnifying-glass....
+
+It was while looking for my cravat that I made these reflections. But
+after searching to no purpose in a great number of drawers, I found
+myself obliged, after all, to have recourse to my housekeeper. Therese
+came limping in.
+
+“Monsieur,” she said, “you ought to have told me you were going out, and
+I would have given you your cravat!”
+
+“But Therese,” I replied, “would it not be a great deal better to put in
+some place where I could find it without your help?”
+
+Therese did not deign to answer me.
+
+Therese no longer allows me to arrange anything. I cannot even have a
+handkerchief without asking her for it; and as she is deaf, crippled,
+and, what is worse, beginning to lose her memory, I languish in
+perpetual destitution. But she exercises her domestic authority with
+such quiet pride that I do not feel the courage to attempt a coup d’etat
+against her government.
+
+“My cravat! Therese!--do you hear?--my cravat! if you drive me wild like
+this with your slow ways, it will not be a cravat I shall need, but a
+rope to hang myself!”
+
+“You must be in a very great hurry, Monsieur,” replied Therese. “Your
+cravat is not lost. Nothing is ever lost in this house, because I have
+charge of everything. But please allow me the time at least to find it.”
+
+“Yet here,” I thought to myself--“here is the result of half a century
+of devotedness and self-sacrifice!... Ah! if by any happy chance this
+inexorable Therese had once in her whole life, only once, failed in her
+duty as a servant--if she had ever been at fault for one single instant,
+she could never have assumed this inflexible authority over me, and I
+should at least have the courage to resist her. But how can one resist
+virtue? The people who have no weaknesses are terrible; there is no way
+of taking advantage of them. Just look at Therese, for example; she
+has not a single fault for which you can blame her! She has no doubt
+of herself; nor of God, nor of the world. She is the valiant woman, the
+wise virgin of Scripture; others may know nothing about her, but I
+know her worth. In my fancy I always see her carrying a lamp, a humble
+kitchen lamp, illuminating the beams of some rustic roof--a lamp which
+will never go out while suspended from that meagre arm of hers, scraggy
+and strong as a vine-branch.
+
+“Therese, my cravat! Don’t you know, wretched woman, that to-day is the
+first Thursday in June, and that Mademoiselle Jeanne will be waiting for
+me? The schoolmistress has certainly had the parlour floor vigorously
+waxed: I am sure one can look at oneself in it now; and it will be quite
+a consolation for me when I slip and break my old bones upon it--which
+is sure to happen sooner or later--to see my rueful countenance
+reflected in it as in a looking-glass. Then taking for my model that
+amiable and admirable hero whose image is carved upon the handle of
+Uncle Victor’s walking-stick, I will control myself so as not to make
+too ugly a grimace.... See what a splendid sun! The quays are all gilded
+by it, and the Seine smiles in countless little flashing wrinkles. The
+city is gold: a dust-haze, blonde and gold-toned as a woman’s hair,
+floats above its beautiful contours.... Therese, my cravat!... Ah! I
+can now comprehend the wisdom of that old Chrysal who used to keep his
+neckbands in a big Plutarch. Hereafter I shall follow his example by
+laying all my neckties away between the leaves of the Acta Sanctorum.”
+
+Therese let me talk on, and keeps looking for the necktie in silence. I
+hear a gentle ringing at our door-bell.
+
+“Therese,” I exclaim; “there is somebody ringing the bell! Give me my
+cravat, and go to the door; or, rather, go to the door first, and then,
+with the help of Heaven, you will give me my cravat. But please do
+not stand there between the clothes-press and the door like an old
+hack-horse between two saddles.”
+
+Therese marched to the door as if advancing upon the enemy. My excellent
+housekeeper becomes more inhospitable the older she grows. Every
+stranger is an object of suspicion to her. According to her own
+assertion, this disposition is the result of a long experience with
+human nature. I had not the time to consider whether the same experience
+on the part of another experimenter would produce the same results.
+Maitre Mouche was waiting to see me in the ante-room.
+
+Maitre Mouche is still more yellow than I had believed him to be. He
+wears blue glasses, and his eyes keep moving uneasily behind them, like
+mice running about behind a screen.
+
+Maitre Mouche excuses himself for having intruded upon me at a moment
+when.... He does not characterise the moment; but I think he means to
+say a moment in which I happen to be without my cravat. It is not my
+fault, as you very well know. Maitre Mouche, who does not know, does not
+appear to be at all shocked, however. He is only afraid that he might
+have dropped in at the wrong moment. I succeeded in partially reassuring
+him at once upon that point. He then tells me it is as guardian of
+Mademoiselle Alexandre that he has come to talk with me. First of all,
+he desires that I shall not hereafter pay any heed to those restrictions
+he had at first deemed necessary to put upon the permit given to visit
+Mademoiselle Jeanne at the boarding-school. Henceforth the establishment
+of Mademoiselle Prefere will be open to me any day that I might choose
+to call--between the hours of midday and four o’clock. Knowing the
+interest I have taken in the young girl, he considers it his duty to
+give me some information about the person to whom he has confided his
+ward. Mademoiselle Prefere, whom he has known for many years, is in
+possession of his utmost confidence. Mademoiselle Prefere is, in his
+estimation, an enlightened person, of excellent morals, and capable of
+giving excellent counsel.
+
+“Mademoiselle Prefer,” he said to me, “has principles; and principles
+are rare these days, Monsieur. Everything has been totally changed; and
+this epoch of ours cannot compare with the preceding ones.”
+
+“My stairway is a good example, Monsieur,” I replied; “twenty-five years
+ago it used to allow me to climb it without any trouble, and now it
+takes my breath away, and wears my legs out before I have climbed half
+a dozen steps. It has had its character spoiled. Then there are
+those journals and books I used once to devour without difficulty
+by moonlight: to-day, even in the brightest sunlight, they mock my
+curiosity, and exhibit nothing but a blur of white and black when I have
+not got my spectacles on. Then the gout has got into my limbs. That is
+another malicious trick of the times!”
+
+“Not only that, Monsieur,” gravely replied Maitre Mouche, “but what is
+really unfortunate in our epoch is that no one is satisfied with his
+position. From the top of society to the bottom, in every class, there
+prevails a discontent, a restlessness, a love of comfort....”
+
+“Mon Dieu, Monsieur!” I exclaimed. “You think this love of comfort is a
+sign of the times? Men have never had at any epoch a love of discomfort.
+They have always tried to better their condition. This constant effort
+produces constant changes, and the effort is always going on--that is
+all there is about it!”
+
+“Ah! Monsieur,” replied Maitre Mouche, “it is easy to see that you live
+in your books--out of the business world altogether. You do not see, as
+I see them, the conflicts of interest, the struggle for money. It is
+the same effervescence in all minds, great or small. The wildest
+speculations are being everywhere indulged in. What I see around me
+simply terrifies me!”
+
+I wondered within myself whether Maitre Mouche had called upon me only
+for the purpose of expressing his virtuous misanthropy; but all at once
+I heard words of a more consoling character issue from his lips. Maitre
+Mouche began to speak to me of Virginie Prefere as a person worthy of
+respect, of esteem, and of sympathy,--highly honourable, capable of
+great devotedness, cultivated, discreet,--able to read aloud remarkably
+well, extremely modest, and skillful in the art of applying blisters.
+Then I began to understand that he had only been painting that dismal
+picture of universal corruption in order the better to bring out, by
+contrast, the virtues of the schoolmistress. I was further informed that
+the institution in the Rue Demours was well patronised, prosperous, and
+enjoyed a high reputation with the public. Maitre Mouche lifted up his
+hand--with a black woollen glove on it--as if making oath to the truth
+of these statements. Then he added:
+
+“I am enabled, by the very character of my profession, to know a great
+deal about people. A notary is, to a certain extent, a father-confessor.
+
+“I deemed it my duty, Monsieur, to give you this agreeable information
+at the moment when a lucky chance enabled you to meet Mademoiselle
+Prefere. There is only one thing more which I would like to say. This
+lady--who is, of course, quite unaware of my action in the matter--spoke
+to me of you the other day in terms of deepest sympathy. I could only
+weaken their expression by repeating them to you; and furthermore,
+I could not repeat them without betraying, to a certain extent, the
+confidence of Mademoiselle Prefere.”
+
+“Do not betray it, Monsieur; do not betray it!” I responded. “To tell
+you the truth, I had no idea that Mademoiselle Prefere knew anything
+whatever about me. But since you have the influence of an old friend
+with her, I will take advantage of your good will, Monsieur, to ask you
+to exercise that influence in behalf of Mademoiselle Jeanne Alexandre.
+The child--for she is still a child--is overloaded with work. She is at
+once a pupil and a mistress--she is overtasked. Besides, she is punished
+in petty disgusting ways; and hers is one of those generous natures
+which will be forced into revolt by such continual humiliation.”
+
+“Alas!” replied Maitre Mouche, “she must be trained to take her part in
+the struggle of life. One does not come into this world simply to amuse
+oneself, and to do just what one pleases.”
+
+“One comes into this world,” I responded, rather warmly, “to enjoy what
+is beautiful and what is good, and to do as one pleases, when the things
+one wants to do are noble, intelligent, and generous. An education which
+does not cultivate the will, is an education that depraves the mind. It
+is a teacher’s duty to teach the pupil HOW to will.”
+
+I perceived that Maitre Mouche began to think me a rather silly man.
+With a great deal of quiet self-assurance, he proceeded:
+
+“You must remember, Monsieur, that the education of the poor has to be
+conducted with a great deal of circumspection, and with a view to that
+future state of dependence they must occupy in society. Perhaps you are
+not aware that the late Noel Alexandre died a bankrupt, and that his
+daughter is being educated almost by charity?”
+
+“Oh! Monsieur!” I exclaimed, “do not say it! To say it is to pay oneself
+back, and then the statement ceases to be true.”
+
+“The liabilities of the estate,” continued the notary, “exceeded the
+assets. But I was able to effect a settlement with the creditors in
+favour of the minor.”
+
+He undertook to explain matters in detail. I declined to listen to
+these explanations, being incapable of understanding business methods in
+general, and those of Maitre Mouche in particular. The notary then took
+it upon himself to justify Mademoiselle Prefere’s educational system,
+and observed by way of conclusion,
+
+“It is not by amusing oneself that one can learn.”
+
+“It is only by amusing oneself that one can learn,” I replied. “The
+whole art of teaching is only the art of awakening the natural curiosity
+of young minds for the purpose of satisfying it afterwards; and
+curiosity itself can be vivid and wholesome only in proportion as the
+mind is contented and happy. Those acquirements crammed by force into
+the minds of children simply clog and stifle intelligence. In order that
+knowledge be properly digested, it must have been swallowed with a good
+appetite. I know Jeanne! If that child were intrusted to my care, I
+should make of her--not a learned woman, for I would look to her future
+happiness only--but a child full of bright intelligence and full of
+life, in whom everything beautiful in art or nature would awaken some
+gentle responsive thrill. I would teach her to live in sympathy with
+all that is beautiful--comely landscapes, the ideal scenes of poetry and
+history, the emotional charm of noble music. I would make lovable to her
+everything I would wish her to love. Even her needlework I would
+make pleasurable to her, by a proper choice of fabrics, the style of
+embroideries, the designs of lace. I would give her a beautiful dog,
+and a pony to teach her how to manage animals; I would give her birds to
+take care of, so that she could learn the value of even a drop of water
+and a crumb of bread. And in order that she should have a still higher
+pleasure, I would train her to find delight in exercising charity.
+And inasmuch as none of us may escape pain, I should teach her that
+Christian wisdom which elevates us above all suffering, and gives a
+beauty even to grief itself. That is my idea of the right way to educate
+a young girl.”
+
+“I yield, Monsieur,” replied Maitre Mouche, joining his black-gloved
+hands together.
+
+And he rose.
+
+“Of course you understand,” I remarked, as I went to the door with him,
+“that I do not pretend for a moment to impose my educational system
+upon Mademoiselle Prefere; it is necessarily a private one, and quite
+incompatible with the organisation of even the best-managed boarding
+schools. I only ask you to persuade her to give Jeanne less work and
+more play, and not to punish her except in case of absolute necessity,
+and to let her have as much freedom of mind and body as the regulations
+of the institution permit.”
+
+It was with a pale and mysterious smile that Maitre Mouche informed me
+that my observations would be taken in good part, and should receive all
+possible consideration.
+
+Therewith he made me a little bow, and took his departure, leaving me
+with a peculiar feeling of discomfort and uneasiness. I have met a great
+many strange characters in my time, but never any at all resembling
+either this notary or this schoolmistress.
+
+
+
+
+July 6.
+
+
+Maitre Mouche has so much delayed me by his visit that I gave up going
+to see Jeanne that day. Professional duties kept me very busy for the
+rest of the week. Although at the age when most men retire altogether
+from active life, I am still attached by a thousand ties to the society
+in which I have lived. I have to reside at meetings of academies,
+scientific congresses, assemblies of various learned bodies. I am
+overburdened with honorary functions; I have seven of these in one
+governmental department alone. The bureaux would be very glad to get rid
+of them. But habit is stronger than both of us together, and I continue
+to hobble up the stairs of various government buildings. Old clerks
+point me out to each other as I go by like a ghost wandering through the
+corridors. When one has become very old one finds it extremely difficult
+to disappear. Nevertheless, it is time, as the old song says, “de
+prendre ma retraite et de songer a faire un fin”--to retire on my
+pension and prepare myself to die a good death.
+
+An old marchioness, who used to be a friend of Hevetius in her youth,
+and whom I once met at my father’s house when a very old woman, was
+visited during her last sickness by the priest of her parish, who wanted
+to prepare her to die.
+
+“Is that really necessary?” she asked. “I see everybody else manage it
+perfectly well the first time.”
+
+My father went to see her very soon afterwards and found her extremely
+ill.
+
+“Good-evening, my friend!” she said, pressing his hand. “I am going to
+see whether God improves upon acquaintance.”
+
+So were wont to die the belles amies of the philosophers. Such an end is
+certainly not vulgar nor impertinent, and such levities are not of the
+sort that emanate from dull minds. Nevertheless, they shock me. Neither
+my fears nor my hopes could accommodate themselves to such a mode of
+departure. I would like to make mine with a perfectly collected mind;
+and that is why I must begin to think, in a year or two, about some
+way of belonging to myself; otherwise, I should certainly risk.... But,
+hush! let Him not hear His name and turn to look as He passes by! I can
+still lift my fagot without His aid.
+
+... I found Jeanne very happy indeed. She told me that, on the Thursday
+previous, after the visit of her guardian, Mademoiselle Prefere had
+set her free from the ordinary regulations and lightened her tasks
+in several ways. Since that lucky Thursday she could walk in the
+garden--which only lacked leaves and flowers--as much as she liked; and
+she had been given facilities to work at her unfortunate little figure
+of Saint-George.
+
+She said to me, with a smile,
+
+“I know very well that I owe all of this to you.”
+
+I tried to talk with her about other matters, but I remarked that she
+could not attend to what I was saying, in spite of her effort to do so.
+
+“I see you are thinking about something else,” I said. “Well, tell me
+what it is; for, if you do not, we shall not be able to talk to each
+other at all, which would be very unworthy of both of us.”
+
+She answered,
+
+“Oh! I was really listening to you, Monsieur; but it is true that I was
+thinking about something else. You will excuse me, won’t you? I could
+not help thinking that Mademoiselle Prefere must like you very, very
+much indeed, to have become so good to me all of a sudden.”
+
+Then she looked at me in an odd, smiling, frightened way, which made me
+laugh.
+
+“Does that surprise you?” I asked.
+
+“Very much,” she replied.
+
+“Please tell me why?”
+
+“Because I can see no reason, no reason at all... but there!... no reason
+at all why you should please Mademoiselle Prefere so much.”
+
+“So, then, you think I am very displeasing, Jeanne?”
+
+She bit her lips, as if to punish them for having made a mistake; and
+then, in a coaxing way, looking at me with great soft eyes, gentle and
+beautiful as a spaniel’s, she said,
+
+“I know I said a foolish think; but, still, I do not see any reason why
+you should be so pleasing to Mademoiselle Prefere. And, nevertheless,
+you seem to please her a great deal--a very great deal. She called me
+one day, and asked me all sorts of questions about you.”
+
+“Really?”
+
+“Yes; she wanted to find out all about your house. Just think! she even
+asked me how old your servant was!”
+
+And Jeanne burst out laughing.
+
+“Well, what do you think about it?” I asked.
+
+She remained a long while with her eyes fixed on the worn-out cloth of
+her shoes, and seemed to be thinking very deeply. Finally, looking up
+again, she answered,
+
+“I am distrustful. Isn’t it very natural to feel uneasy about what one
+cannot understand; I know I am foolish; but you won’t be offended with
+me, will you?”
+
+“Why, certainly not, Jeanne. I am not a bit offended with you.”
+
+I must acknowledge that I was beginning to share her surprise; and I
+began to turn over in my old head the singular thought of this young
+girl--“One is uneasy about what one cannot understand.”
+
+But, with a fresh burst of merriment, she cried out,
+
+“She asked me...guess! I will give you a hundred guesses--a thousand
+guesses. You give it up?... She asked me if you liked good eating.”
+
+“And how did you receive this shower of interrogations, Jeanne?”
+
+“I replied, ‘I don’t know, Mademoiselle.’ And Mademoiselle then said to
+me, ‘You are a little fool. The least details of the life of an eminent
+man ought to be observed. Please to know, Mademoiselle, that Monsieur
+Sylvestre Bonnard is one of the glories of France!’”
+
+“Stuff!” I exclaimed. “And what did YOU think about it, Mademoiselle?”
+
+“I thought that Mademoiselle Prefere was right. But I don’t care at
+all...(I know it is naughty what I am going to say)...I don’t care a
+bit, not a bit, whether Mademoiselle Prefere is or is not right about
+anything.”
+
+“Well, then, content yourself, Jeanne, Mademoiselle Prefere was not
+right.”
+
+“Yes, yes, she was quite right that time; but I wanted to love everybody
+who loved you--everybody without exception--and I cannot do it, because
+it would never be possible for me to love Mademoiselle Prefere.”
+
+“Listen, Jeanne,” I answered, very seriously, “Mademoiselle Prefere has
+become good to you; try now to be good to her.”
+
+She answered sharply,
+
+“It is very easy for Mademoiselle Prefere to be good to me, and it would
+be very difficult indeed for me to be good to her.”
+
+I then said, in a still more serious tone:
+
+“My child, the authority of a teacher is sacred. You must consider your
+schoolmistress as occupying the place to you of the mother whom you
+lost.”
+
+I had scarcely uttered this solemn stupidity when I bitterly regretted
+it. The child turned pale, and the tears sprang to her eyes.
+
+“Oh, Monsieur!” she cried, “how could you say such a thing--YOU? You
+never knew mamma!”
+
+Ay, just Heaven! I did know her mamma. And how indeed could I have been
+foolish enough to have said what I did?
+
+She repeated, as if to herself:
+
+“Mamma! my dear mamma! my poor mamma!”
+
+A lucky chance prevented me from playing the fool any further. I do not
+know how it happened at that moment I looked as if I was going to cry.
+At my age one does not cry. It must have been a bad cough which brought
+the tears into my eyes. But, anyhow, appearances were in my favour.
+Jeanne was deceived by them. Oh! what a pure and radiant smile suddenly
+shone out under her beautiful wet eyelashes--like sunshine among
+branches after a summer shower! We took each other by the hand and sat
+a long while without saying a word--absolutely happy. Those celestial
+harmonies which I once thought I heard thrilling through my soul while I
+knelt before that tomb to which a saintly woman had guided me, suddenly
+awoke again in my heart, slow-swelling through the blissful moments with
+infinite softness. Doubtless the child whose hand pressed my own also
+heard them; and then, elevated by their enchantment above the material
+world, the poor old man and the artless young girl both knew that a
+tender ghostly Presence was making sweetness all about them.
+
+“My child,” I said at last, “I am very old, and many secrets of life,
+which you will only learn little by little, have been revealed to me.
+Believe me, the future is shaped out of the past. Whatever you can do
+to live contentedly here, without impatience and without fretting, will
+help you live some future day in peace and joy in your own home. Be
+gentle, and learn how to suffer. When one suffers patiently one suffers
+less. If you should be badly treated, Madame de Gabry and I would both
+consider ourselves badly treated in your person.”...
+
+“Is your health very good indeed, dear Monsieur?”
+
+It was Mademoiselle Prefere, approaching stealthily behind us, who had
+asked the question with a peculiar smile. My first idea was to tell her
+to go to the devil; my second, that her mouth was as little suited for
+smiling as a frying-pan for musical purposes; my third was to answer her
+politely and assure her that I hoped she was very well.
+
+She sent the young girl out to take a walk in the garden; then, pressing
+one hand upon her pelerine and extending the other towards the Tableau
+d’Honneur, she showed me the name of Jeanne Alexandre written at the
+head of the list in large text.
+
+“I am very much pleased,” I said to her, “to find that you are satisfied
+with the behaviour of that child. Nothing could delight me more; and
+I am inclined to attribute this happy result to your affectionate
+vigilance. I have taken the liberty to send you a few books which I
+think may serve both to instruct and to amuse young girls. You will
+be able to judge by glancing over them whether they are adapted to the
+perusal of Mademoiselle Alexandre and her companions.”
+
+The gratitude of the schoolmistress not only overflowed in words, but
+seemed about to take the form of tearful sensibility. In order to change
+the subject I observed,
+
+“What a beautiful day this is!”
+
+“Yes,” she replied; “and if this weather continues, those dear children
+will have a nice time for their enjoyment.”
+
+“I suppose you are referring to the holidays. But Mademoiselle
+Alexandre, who has no relatives, cannot go away. What in the world is
+she going to do all alone in this great big house?”
+
+“Oh, we will do everything we can to amuse her.... I will take her to
+the museums and---”
+
+She hesitated, blushed, and continued,
+
+“--and to your house, if you will permit me.”
+
+“Why of course!” I exclaimed. “That is a first-rate idea.”
+
+We separated very good friends with one another. I with her, because I
+had been able to obtain what I desired; she with me, for no appreciable
+motive--which fact, according to Plato, elevated her into the highest
+rank of the Hierarchy of Souls.
+
+... And nevertheless it is not without a presentiment of evil that I
+find myself on the point of introducing this person into my house. And I
+would be very glad indeed to see Jeanne in charge of anybody else rather
+than of her. Maitre Mouche and Mademoiselle Prefere are characters whom
+I cannot at all understand. I never can imagine why they say what they
+do say, nor why they do what they do; they have a mysterious something
+in common which makes me feel uneasy. As Jeanne said to me a little
+while ago: “One is uneasy about what one cannot understand.”
+
+Alas! at my age one has learned only too well how little sincerity there
+is in life; one has learned only too well how much one loses by living a
+long time in this world; and one feels that one can no longer trust any
+except the young.
+
+
+
+
+August 12.
+
+
+I waited for them. In fact, I waited for them very impatiently. I
+exerted all my powers of insinuation and of coaxing to induce Therese to
+receive them kindly; but my powers in this direction are very limited.
+They came. Jeanne was neater and prettier than I had ever expected to
+see her. She has not, it is true, anything approaching the charm of
+her mother. But to-day, for the first time, I observed that she has a
+pleasing face; and a pleasing face is of great advantage to a woman
+in this world. I think that her hat was a little on one side; but she
+smiled, and the City of Books was all illuminated by that smile.
+
+I watched Therese to see whether the rigid manners of the old
+housekeeper would soften a little at the sight of the young girl. I saw
+her turning her lustreless eyes upon Jeanne; I saw her long wrinkled
+face, her toothless mouth, and that pointed chin of hers--like the chin
+of some puissant old fairy. And that was all I could see.
+
+Mademoiselle Prefere made her appearance all in blue--advanced,
+retreated, skipped, tripped, cried out, sighed, cast her eyes down,
+rolled her eyes up, bewildered herself with excuses--said she dared
+not, and nevertheless dared--said she would never dare again, and
+nevertheless dared again--made courtesies innumerable--made, in short,
+all the fuss she could.
+
+“What a lot of books!” she screamed. “And have you really read them all,
+Monsieur Bonnard?”
+
+“Alas! I have,” I replied, “and that is just the reason that I do not
+know anything; for there is not a single one of those books which does
+not contradict some other book; so that by the time one has read them
+all one does not know what to think about anything. That is just my
+condition, Madame.”
+
+Thereupon she called Jeanne for the purpose of communicating her
+impressions. But Jeanne was looking out of the window.
+
+“How beautiful it is!” she said to us. “How I love to see the river
+flowing! It makes you think about all kinds of things.”
+
+Mademoiselle Prefere having removed her hat and exhibited a forehead
+tricked out with blonde curls, my housekeeper sturdily snatched up the
+hat at once, with the observation that she did not like to see people’s
+clothes scattered over the furniture. Then she approached Jeanne and
+asked her for her “things,” calling her “my little lady!” Where-upon
+the little lady, giving up her cloak and hat, exposed to view a very
+graceful neck and a lithe figure, whose outlines were beautifully
+relieved against the great glow of the open window; and I could have
+wished that some one else might have seen her at that moment--some one
+very different from an aged housekeeper, a schoolmistress frizzled like
+a sheep, and this old humbug of an archivist and paleographer.
+
+“So you are looking at the Seine,” I said to her. “See how it sparkles
+in the sun!”
+
+“Yes,” she replied, leaning over the windowbar, “it looks like a flowing
+of fire. But see how nice and cool it looks on the other side over
+there under the shadow of the willows! That little spot there pleases me
+better than all the rest.”
+
+“Good!” I answered. “I see that the river has a charm for you. How would
+you like, with Mademoiselle Prefere’s permission, to make a trip to
+Saint-Cloud? We should certainly be in time to catch the steamboat just
+below the Pont-Royal.”
+
+Jeanne was delighted with my suggestion, and Mademoiselle Prefere
+willing to make any sacrifice. But my housekeeper was not at all willing
+to let us go off so unconcernedly. She summoned me into the dining-room,
+whither I followed her in fear and trembling.
+
+“Monsieur,” she said to me as soon as we found ourselves alone, “you
+never think about anything, and it is always I who have to think about
+everything. Luckily for you I have a good memory.”
+
+I did not think that it was a favourable moment for any attempt to
+dispel this wild illusion. She continued:
+
+“So you were going off without saying a word to me about what this
+little lady likes to eat? At her age one does not know anything, one
+does not care about anything in particular, one eats like a bird. You
+yourself, Monsieur, are very difficult to please; but at least you know
+what is good: it is very different with these young people--they do not
+know anything about cooking. It is often the very best thing which
+they think the worst, and what is bad seems to them good, because their
+stomachs are not quite formed yet--so that one never knows just what to
+do for them. Tell me if the little lady would like a pigeon cooked with
+green peas, and whether she is fond of vanilla ice-cream.”
+
+“My good Therese,” I answered, “just do whatever you think best, and
+whatever that may be I am sure it will be very nice. Those ladies will
+be quite contented with our humble ordinary fare.”
+
+Therese replied, very dryly,
+
+“Monsieur, I am asking you about the little lady: she must not leave
+this house without having enjoyed herself a little. As for that old
+frizzle-headed thing, if she doesn’t like my dinner she can suck her
+thumbs. I don’t care what she likes!”
+
+My mind being thus set at rest, I returned to the City of Books, where
+Mademoiselle Prefere was crocheting as calmly as if she were at home. I
+almost felt inclined myself to think she was. She did not take up much
+room, it is true, in the angle of the window. But she had chosen her
+chair and her footstool so well that those articles of furniture seemed
+to have been made expressly for her.
+
+Jeanne, on the other hand, devoted her attention to the books and
+pictures--gazing at them in a kindly, expressive, half-sad way, as if
+she were bidding them an affectionate farewell.
+
+“Here,” I said to her, “amuse yourself with this book, which I am sure
+you cannot help liking, because it is full of beautiful engravings.” And
+I threw open before her Vecellio’s collection of costume-designs--not
+the commonplace edition, by your leave, so meagrely reproduced by modern
+artists, but in truth a magnificent and venerable copy of that editio
+princeps which is noble as those noble dames who figure upon its
+yellowed leaves, made beautiful by time.
+
+While turning over the engravings with artless curiosity, Jeanne said
+to me,
+
+“We were talking about taking a walk; but this is a great journey you
+are making me take. And I would like to travel very, very far away!”
+
+“In that case, Mademoiselle,” I said to her, “you must arrange yourself
+as comfortably as possible for travelling. But you are now sitting on
+one corner of your chair, so that the chair is standing upon only one
+leg, and that Vecellio must tire your knees. Sit down comfortably; put
+your chair on its four feet, and put your book on the table.”
+
+She obeyed me with a laugh.
+
+I watched her. She cried out suddenly,
+
+“Oh, come look at this beautiful costume!” (It was that of the wife of
+a Doge of Venice.) “How noble it is! What magnificent ideas it gives one
+of that life! Oh, I must tell you--I adore luxury!”
+
+“You must not express such thoughts as those, Mademoiselle,” said the
+schoolmistress, lifting up her little shapeless nose from her work.
+
+“Nevertheless, it was a very innocent utterance,” I replied. “There
+are splendid souls in whom the love of splendid things is natural and
+inborn.”
+
+The little shapeless nose went down again.
+
+“Mademoiselle Prefere likes luxury too,” said Jeanne; “she cuts out
+paper trimmings and shades for the lamps. It is economical luxury; but
+it is luxury all the same.”
+
+Having returned to the subject of Venice, we were just about to make
+the acquaintance of a certain patrician lady attired in an embroidered
+dalmatic, when I heard the bell ring. I thought it was some peddler with
+his basket; but the gate of the City of Books opened, and... Well, Master
+Sylvestre Bonnard, you were wishing awhile ago that the grace of your
+protegee might be observed by some other eyes than old withered ones
+behind spectacles. Your wishes have been fulfilled in a most unexpected
+manner, and a voice cries out to you as to the imprudent Theseus,
+
+   “Craignez, Seigneur, craignez que le
+    Ciel rigoureux Ne vous Haisse assez pour exaucer vos voeux!
+    Souvent dans sa colere il recoit nos victimes,
+    Ses presents sont souvent la peine de nos crimes.”
+
+   [“Beware my lord! Beware lest stern
+     Heaven  hate you enough to hear your prayers!
+     Often ‘tis in wrath that Heaven receives our sacrifices:
+     its gifts are often the punishment of our crimes.”]
+
+The gate of the City of Books had opened, and a handsome young man made
+his appearance, ushered in by Therese. That good old soul only knows how
+to open the door for people and to shut it behind them; she has no idea
+whatever of the tact requisite for the waiting-room and for the parlour.
+It is not in her nature either to make any announcements or to make
+anybody wait. She either throws people out on the lobby, or simply
+pitches them at your head.
+
+And here is this handsome young man already inside; and I cannot really
+take the girl at once and hide her like a secret treasure in the next
+room. I wait for him to explain himself; he does it without the least
+embarrassment; but it seems to me that he has already observed the
+young girl who is still bending over the table looking at Vecellio. As
+I observe the young man it occurs to me that I have seen him somewhere
+before, or else I must be very much mistaken. His name is Gelis. That
+is a name which I have heard somewhere,--I can’t remember where. At all
+events, Monsieur Gelis (since there is a Gelis) is a fine-looking young
+fellow. He tells me that this is his third class-year at the Ecole des
+Chartes, and that he has been working for the past fifteen or eighteen
+months upon his graduation thesis, the subject of which is the Condition
+of the Benedictine Abbeys in 1700. He has just read my works upon the
+“Monasticon”; and he is convinced that he cannot terminate this thesis
+successfully without my advice, to begin with, and in the second place
+without a certain manuscript which I possess, and which is nothing less
+than the “Register of the Accounts of the Abbey of Citeaux from 1683 to
+1704.”
+
+Having thus explained himself, he hands me a letter of introduction
+bearing the signature of one of the most illustrious of my colleagues.
+
+Good! Now I know who he is! Monsieur Gelis is the very same young man
+who last year under the chestnut-trees called me an idiot! And while
+unfolding his letter of introduction I think to myself:
+
+“Aha! my unlucky youth, you are very far from suspecting that I
+overheard what you said, and that I know what you think of me--or, at
+least, what you did think of me that day, for these young minds are so
+fickle? I have got you now, my friend! You have fallen into the lion’s
+den, and so unexpectedly, in good sooth, that the astonished old lion
+does not know what to do with his prey. But come now, old lion! do not
+act like an idiot! Is it not possible that you were an idiot? If you
+are not one now, you certainly were one! You were a fool to have been
+listening to Monsieur Gelis at the foot of the statue of Marguerite de
+Valois; you were doubly a fool to have heard what he said; and you were
+trebly a fool not to have forgotten what it would have been much better
+never to have heard.”
+
+Having thus scolded the old lion, I exhorted him to show clemency.
+He did not appear to require much coaxing, and gradually became so
+good-natured that he had some difficulty in restraining himself from
+bursting out into joyous roarings. From the way in which I had read my
+colleague’s letter one might have supposed me a man who did not know his
+alphabet. I took a long while to read it; and Monsieur Gelis might have
+become very tired under different circumstances; but he was watching
+Jeanne, and endured the trial with exemplary patience. Jeanne
+occasionally turned her face in our direction. Well you could not expect
+a person to remain perfectly motionless, could you? Mademoiselle Prefere
+was arranging her curls, and her bosom occasionally swelled with little
+sighs. It may be observed that I have myself often been honoured with
+those little sighs.
+
+“Monsieur,” I said, as I folded up the letter, “I shall be very happy
+to be of any service to you. You are occupied with researches in which I
+myself have always felt a very lively interest. I have done all that lay
+in my power. I know, as you do--and still better than you can know--how
+much there remains to do. The manuscript you asked for is at your
+disposal; you may take it home with you, but it is not a manuscript of
+the smallest kind, and I am afraid---”
+
+“Oh, Monsieur,” said Gelis, “big books have never been able to make me
+afraid of them.”
+
+I begged the young man to wait for me, and I went into the next room to
+get the Register, which I could not find at first, and which I almost
+despaired of finding, as I discerned, from certain familiar signs, that
+Therese had been setting the room in order. But the Register was so big
+and so heavy that, luckily for me, Therese had not been able to put it
+in order as she had doubtless wished to do. I could scarcely lift it up
+myself; and I had the pleasure of finding it quite as heavy as I could
+have hoped.
+
+“Wait, my boy,” I said, with a smile which must have been very
+sarcastic--“wait! I am going to give you something to do which will
+break your arms first, and afterwards your head. That will be the first
+vengeance of Sylvestre Bonnard. Later on we shall see what else there is
+to be done.”
+
+When I returned to the City of Books I heard Monsieur Gelis and
+Mademoiselle Jeanne chatting--chatting together, if you please! as if
+they were the best friends in the world. Mademoiselle Prefere, being
+full of decorum, did not say anything; but the other two were chatting
+like birds. And what about? About the blond tint used by Venetian
+painters! Yes, about the “Venetian blond.” That little serpent of a
+Gelis was telling Jeanne the secret of the dye with which, according to
+the best authorities, the women of Titian and of Veronese tinted their
+hair. And Mademoiselle Jeanne was expressing her opinion very prettily
+about the honey tint and the golden tint. I understood that that scamp
+of a Vecellio was responsible--that they had been bending over the book
+together, and that they had been admiring either that Doge’s wife we had
+been looking at awhile before, or some other patrician woman of Venice.
+
+Never mind! I appeared with my enormous old book, thinking that Gelis
+was going to make a grimace. It was as much as one could have asked a
+porter to carry, and my arms were stiff merely with lifting it. But the
+young man caught it up like a feather, and slipped it under his arm
+with a smile. Then he thanked me with that sort of brevity which I
+like, reminded me that he had need of my advice, and, having made an
+appointment to meet me another day, took his departure after bowing to
+us with the most perfect self-possession conceivable.
+
+“He seems quite a decent lad,” I said.
+
+Jeanne turned over a few more pages of Vecellio, and made no answer.
+
+“Aha!” I thought to myself.... And then we went to Saint-Cloud.
+
+
+
+
+September-December.
+
+
+The regularity with which visit succeeded visit to the old man’s house
+thereafter made me feel very grateful to Mademoiselle Prefere, who
+succeeded at last in winning her right to occupy a special corner in
+the City of Books. She now says “MY chair,” “MY footstool,” “MY pigeon
+hole.” Her pigeon hole is really a small shelf properly belonging to the
+poets of La Champagne, whom she expelled therefrom in order to obtain
+a lodging for her work-bag. She is very amiable, and I must really be
+a monster not to like her. I can only endure her--in the severest
+signification of the word. But what would one not endure for Jeanne’s
+sake? Her presence lends to the City of Books a charm which seems to
+hover about it even after she has gone. She is very ignorant; but she
+is so finely gifted that whenever I show her anything beautiful I am
+astounded to find that I had never really seen it before, and that it is
+she who makes me see it. I have found it impossible so far to make her
+follow some of my ideas, but I have often found pleasure in following
+the whimsical and delicate course of her own.
+
+A more practical man than I would attempt to teach her to make herself
+useful; but is not the capacity of being amiable a useful think in life?
+Without being pretty, she charms; and the power to charm is perhaps,
+after all, worth quite as much as the ability to darn stockings.
+Furthermore, I am not immortal; and I doubt whether she will have become
+very old when my notary (who is not Maitre Mouche) shall read to her a
+certain paper which I signed a little while ago.
+
+I do not wish that any one except myself should provide for her, and
+give her her dowry. I am not, however, very rich, and the paternal
+inheritance did not gain bulk in my hands. One does not accumulate money
+by poring over old texts. But my books--at the price which such noble
+merchandise fetches to-day--are worth something. Why, on that shelf
+there are some poets of the sixteenth century for which bankers would
+bid against princes! And I think that those “Heures” of Simon Vostre
+would not be readily overlooked at the Hotel Sylvestre any more than
+would those Preces Piae compiled for the use of Queen Claude. I have
+taken great pains to collect and to preserve all those rare and curious
+editions which people the City of Books; and for a long time I used to
+believe that they were as necessary to my life as air and light. I have
+loved them well, and even now I cannot prevent myself from smiling at
+them and caressing them. Those morocco bindings are so delightful to the
+eye! These old vellums are so soft to the touch! There is not a single
+one among those books which is not worthy, by reason of some special
+merit, to command the respect of an honourable man. What other owner
+would ever know how to dip into hem in the proper way? Can I be even
+sure that another owner would not leave them to decay in neglect, or
+mutilate them at the prompting of some ignorant whim? Into whose
+hands will fall that incomparable copy of the “Histoire de l’Abbaye de
+Saint-Germain-des-Pres,” on the margins of which the author himself, in
+the person of Jacques Bouillard, made such substantial notes in his
+own handwriting?... Master Bonnard, you are an old fool! Your
+housekeeper--poor soul!--is nailed down upon her bed with a merciless
+attack of rheumatism. Jeanne is to come with her chaperon, and, instead
+of thinking how you are going to receive them, you are thinking about
+a thousand stupidities. Sylvestre Bonnard, you will never succeed at
+anything in this world, and it is I myself who tell you so!
+
+And at this very moment I catch sight of them from my window, as they
+get out of the omnibus. Jeanne leaps down lie a kitten; but Mademoiselle
+Prefere intrusts herself to the strong arm of the conductor, with the
+shy grace of a Virginia recovering after the shipwreck, and this time
+quite resigned to being saved. Jeanne looks up, sees me, laughs, and
+Mademoiselle Prefere has to prevent her from waving her umbrella at me
+as a friendly signal. There is a certain stage of civilisation to which
+Mademoiselle Jeanne never can be brought. You can teach her all the arts
+if you like (it is not exactly to Mademoiselle Prefere that I am now
+speaking); but you will never be able to teach her perfect manners. As
+a charming child she makes the mistake of being charming only in her own
+way. Only an old fool like myself could forgive her pranks. As for young
+fools--and there are several of them still to be found--I do not know
+what they would think about it; and what they might think is none of my
+business. Just look at her running along the pavement, wrapped in her
+cloak, with her hat tilted back on her head, and her feather fluttering
+in the wind, like a schooner in full rig! And really she has a grace
+of poise and motion which suggests a fine sailing-vessel--so much
+so, indeed, that she makes me remember seeing one day, when I was at
+Havre.... But, Bonnard, my friend, how many times is it necessary to
+tell you that your housekeeper is in bed, and that you must go and open
+the door yourself?
+
+Open, Old Man Winter! ‘tis Spring who rings the bell.
+
+It is Jeanne herself--Jeanne is all flushed like a rose. Mademoiselle
+Prefere, indignant and out of breath, has still another whole flight to
+climb before reaching our lobby.
+
+I explained the condition of my housekeeper, and proposed that we should
+dine at a restaurant. But Therese--all-powerful still, even upon her
+sick-bed--decided that we should dine at home, whether we wanted to
+or no. Respectable people, in her opinion, never dined at restaurants.
+Moreover, she had made all necessary arrangements--the dinner had been
+bought; the concierge would cook it.
+
+The audacious Jeanne insisted upon going to see whether the old woman
+wanted anything. As you might suppose, she was sent back to the parlour
+with short shrift, but not so harshly as I had feared.
+
+“If I want anybody to do anything for me, which, thank God, I do not,”
+ Therese had replied, “I would get somebody less delicate and dainty than
+you are. What I want is rest. That is a merchandise which is not sold
+at fairs under the sign of ‘Motus with finger on lip.’ Go and have your
+fun, and don’t stay here--for old age might be catching.”
+
+Jeanne, after telling us what she had said, added that she liked very
+much to hear old Therese talk. Whereupon Mademoiselle Prefere reproached
+her for expressing such unladylike tastes.
+
+I tried to excuse her by citing the example of Moliere. Just at that
+moment it came to pass that, while climbing the ladder to get a book,
+she upset a whole shelf-row. There was a heavy crash; and Mademoiselle
+Prefere, being, of course, a very delicate person, almost fainted.
+Jeanne quickly followed the books to the foot of the ladder. She made
+one think of a kitten suddenly transformed into a woman, catching mice
+which had been transformed into old books. While picking them up, she
+found one which happened to interest her, and she began to read it,
+squatting down upon her heels. It was the “Prince Grenouille,” she told
+us. Mademoiselle Prefere took occasion to complain that Jeanne had so
+little taste for poetry. It was impossible to get her to recite Casimir
+Delavigne’s poem on the death of Joan of Arc without mistakes. It
+was the very most she could do to learn “Le Petit Savoyard.” The
+schoolmistress did not think that any one should read the “Prince
+Grenouille” before learning by heart the stanzas to Duperrier; and,
+carried away by her enthusiasm, she began to recite them in a voice
+sweeter than the bleating of a sheep:
+
+  “Ta douleur, Duperrier, sera donc eternelle,
+     Et les tristes discours
+   Que te met en l’esprit l’amitie paternelle
+     L’augmenteront toujours;
+
+ .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .
+
+  “Je sais de quels appas son enfance etait pleine,
+     Et n’ai pas entrepris,
+   Injurieux ami, de consoler ta peine
+     Avecque son mepris.”
+
+Then in ecstacy, she exclaimed,
+
+“How beautiful that is! What harmony! How is it possible for any one
+not to admire such exquisite, such touching verses! But why did Malherbe
+call that poor Monsieur Duperrier his injurieux ami at a time when
+he had been so severely tied by the death of his daughter? Injurieux
+ami--you must acknowledge that the term is very harsh.”
+
+I explained to this poetical person that the phrase “Injurieux ami,”
+ which shocked her so much, was in apposition, etc. etc. What I said,
+however, had so little effect towards clearing her head that she was
+seized with a severe and prolonged fit of sneezing. Meanwhile it was
+evident that the history of “Prince Grenouille” had proved extremely
+funny; for it was all that Jeanne could do, as she crouched down
+there on the carpet, to keep herself from bursting into a wild fit of
+laughter. But when she had finished with the prince and princess of the
+story, and the multitude of their children, she assumed a very suppliant
+expression, and begged me as a great favour to allow her to put on a
+white apron and go to the kitchen to help in getting the dinner ready.
+
+“Jeanne,” I replied, with the gravity of a master, “I think that if
+it is a question of breaking plates, knocking off the edges of dishes,
+denting all the pans, and smashing all the skimmers, the person whom
+Therese has set to work in the kitchen already will be able to perform
+her task without assistance; for it seems to me at this very moment I
+can hear disastrous noises in that kitchen. But anyhow, Jeanne, I will
+charge you with the duty of preparing the dessert. So go and get your
+white apron; I will tie it on for you.”
+
+Accordingly, I solemnly knotted the linen apron about her waist; and she
+rushed into the kitchen, where she proceeded at once--as we discovered
+later on--to prepare various dishes unknown to Vatel, unknown even to
+that great Careme who began his treatise upon pieces montees with these
+words: “The Fine Arts are five in number: Painting, Music, Poetry,
+Sculpture, and Architecture--whereof the principal branch is
+Confectionery.” But I had no reason to be pleased with this little
+arrangement--for Mademoiselle Prefere, on finding herself alone with me,
+began to act after a fashion which filled me with frightful anxiety. She
+gazed upon me with eyes full of tears and flames, and uttered enormous
+sighs.
+
+“Oh, how I pity you!” she said. “A man like you--a man so superior
+as you are--having to live alone with a coarse servant (for she is
+certainly coarse, that is incontestable)! How cruel such a life must
+be! You have need of repose--you have need of comfort, of care, of every
+kind of attention; you might fall sick. And yet there is no woman
+who would not deem it an honour to bear your name, and to share your
+existence. No, there is none; my own heart tells me so.”
+
+And she squeezed both hands over that heart of hers--always so ready to
+fly away.
+
+I was driven almost to distraction. I tried to make Mademoiselle Prefere
+comprehend that I had no intention whatever of changing my habits at so
+advanced an age, and that I found just as much happiness in life as my
+character and my circumstances rendered possible.
+
+“No, you are not happy!” she cried. “You need to have always beside you
+a mind capable of comprehending your own. Shake off your lethargy, and
+cast your eyes about you. Your professional connections are of the most
+extended character, and you must have charming acquaintances. One cannot
+be a Member of the Institute without going into society. See, judge,
+compare. No sensible woman would refuse you her hand. I am a woman,
+Monsieur; my instinct never deceives me--there is something within me
+which assures me that you would find happiness in marriage. Women are so
+devoted, so loving (not all, of course, but some)! And, then, they are
+so sensitive to glory. Remember that at your age one has need, like
+Oedipus, of an Egeria! Your cook is no longer able--she is deaf, she
+is infirm. If anything should happen to you at night! Oh! it makes me
+shudder even to think of it!”
+
+And she really shuddered--she closed her eyes, clenched her hands,
+stamped on the floor. Great was my dismay. With awful intensity she
+resumed,
+
+“Your health--your dear health! The health of a Member of the Institute!
+How joyfully I would shed the very last drop of my blood to preserve the
+life of a scholar, of a litterateur, of a man of worth. And any woman
+who would not do as much, I should despise her! Let me tell you,
+Monsieur--I used to know the wife of a great mathematician, a man who
+used to fill whole note-books with calculations--so many note-books that
+they filled all the cupboards in the house. He had heart-disease, and
+he was visibly pining away. And I saw that wife of his, sitting there
+beside him, perfectly calm! I could not endure it. I said to her one
+day, ‘My dear, you have no heart! If I were in your place I should...I
+should...I do not know what I should do!’”
+
+She paused for want of breath. My situation was terrible. As for telling
+Mademoiselle Prefere what I really thought about her advice--that was
+something which I could not even dream of daring to do. For to fall out
+with her was to lose the chance of seeing Jeanne. So I resolved to take
+the matter quietly. In any case, she was in my house: that consideration
+helped me to treat her with something of courtesy.
+
+“I am very old, Mademoiselle,” I answered her, “and I am very much
+afraid that your advice comes to me rather late in life. Still, I will
+think about it. In the meanwhile let me beg of you to be calm. I think a
+glass of eau sucree would do you good!”
+
+To my great surprise, these words calmed her at once; and I saw her
+sit down very quietly in HER corner, close to HER pigeon-hole, upon HER
+chair, with her feet upon HER footstool.
+
+The dinner was a complete failure. Mademoiselle Prefere, who seemed lost
+in a brown study, never noticed the fact. As a rule I am very sensitive
+about such misfortunes; but this one caused Jeanne so much delight that
+at last I could not help enjoying it myself. Even at my age I had not
+been able to learn before that a chicken, raw on one side and burned on
+the other, was a funny thing; but Jeanne’s bursts of laughter taught me
+that it was. That chicken caused us to say a thousand very witty
+things, which I have forgotten; and I was enchanted that it had not been
+properly cooked. Jeanne put it back to roast again; then she broiled it;
+then she stewed it with butter. And every time it came back to the table
+it was much less appetising and much more mirth-provoking than before.
+When we did eat it, at last, it had become a thing for which there is no
+name in any cuisine.
+
+The almond cake was much more extraordinary. It was brought to the table
+in the pan, because it never could have got out of it. I invited Jeanne
+to help us all to a piece thinking that I was going to embarrass her;
+but she broke the pan and gave each of us a fragment. To think that
+anybody at my age could eat such things was an idea possible only to
+the very artless mind. Mademoiselle Prefere, suddenly awakened from her
+dream, indignantly pushed away the sugary splinter of earthenware,
+and deemed it opportune to inform me that she herself was exceedingly
+skilful in making confectionery.
+
+“Ah!” exclaimed Jeanne, with an air of surprise not altogether without
+malice. Then she wrapped all the fragments of the pan in a piece
+of paper, for the purpose of giving them to her little
+playmates--especially to the three little Mouton girls, who are
+naturally inclined to gluttony.
+
+Secretly, however, I was beginning to feel very uneasy. It did not
+now seem in any way possible to keep much longer upon good terms with
+Mademoiselle Prefere since her matrimonial fury had this burst forth.
+And that lady affronted, good-bye to Jeanne! I took advantage of a
+moment while the sweet soul was busy putting on her cloak, in order to
+ask Jeanne to tell me exactly what her own age was. She was eighteen
+years and one month old. I counted on my fingers, and found she would
+not come of age for another two years and eleven months. And how should
+we be able to manage during all that time?
+
+At the door Mademoiselle Prefere squeezed my hand with so much meaning
+that I fairly shook from head to foot.
+
+“Good-bye,” I said very gravely to the young girl. “But listen to me
+a moment: your friend is very old, and might perhaps fail you when you
+need him most. Promise me never to fail in your duty to yourself, and
+then I shall have no fear. God keep you, my child!”
+
+After closing the door behind them, I opened the window to get a last
+look at her as she was going away. But the night was dark, and I could
+see only two vague shadows flitting across the quay. I heard the vast
+deep hom of the city rising up about me; and I suddenly felt a great
+sinking at my heart.
+
+Poor child!
+
+
+
+
+December 15.
+
+
+The King of Thule kept a goblet of gold which his dying mistress had
+bequeathed him as a souvenir. When about to die himself, after having
+drunk from it for the last time, he threw the goblet into the sea. And I
+keep this diary of memories even as that old prince of the mist-haunted
+seas kept his carven goblet; and even as he flung away at last his
+love-pledge, so will I burn this book of souvenirs. Assuredly it is not
+through any arrogant avarice nor through any egotistical pride, that I
+shall destroy this record of a humble life--it is only because I fear
+lest those things which are dear and sacred to me might appear
+before others, because of my inartistic manner of expression, either
+commonplace or absurd.
+
+I do not say this in view of what is going to follow. Absurd I certainly
+must have been when, having been invited to dinner by Mademoiselle
+Prefere, I took my seat in a bergere (it was really a bergere) at the
+right hand of that alarming person. The table had been set in a little
+parlour; and I could observe from the poor way in which it was set out
+that the schoolmistress was one of those ethereal souls who soar above
+terrestrial things. Chipped plates, unmatched glasses, knives with loose
+handles, forks with yellow prongs--there was absolutely nothing wanting
+to spoil the appetite of an honest man.
+
+I was assured that the dinner had been cooked for me--for me
+alone--although Maitre Mouche had also been invited. Mademoiselle
+Prefere must have imagined that I had Sarmatian tastes on the subject
+of butter; for that which she offered me, served up in little thin pats,
+was excessively rancid.
+
+The roast very nearly poisoned me. But I had the pleasure of hearing
+Maitre Mouche and Mademoiselle Prefere discourse upon virtue. I said the
+pleasure--I ought to have said the shame; for the sentiments to which
+they gave expression soared far beyond the range of my vulgar nature.
+
+What they said proved to me as clear as day that devotedness was their
+daily bread, and that self-sacrifice was not less necessary to
+their existence than air and water. Observing that I was not eating,
+Mademoiselle Prefere made a thousand efforts to overcome that which she
+was good enough to term my “discretion.” Jeanne was not of the party,
+because, I was told, her presence at it would have been contrary to the
+rules, and would have wounded the feelings of the other school-children,
+among whom it was necessary to maintain a certain equality. I secretly
+congratulated her upon having escaped from the Merovingian butter; from
+the huge radishes, empty as funeral-urns; form the leathery roast, and
+from various other curiosities of diet to which I had exposed myself for
+the love of her.
+
+The extremely disconsolate-looking servant served up some liquid to
+which they gave the name of cream--I do not know why--and vanished away
+like a ghost.
+
+Then Mademoiselle Prefere related to Maitre Mouche, with extraordinary
+transports of emotion, all that she had said to me in the City of Books,
+during the time that my housekeeper was sick in bed. Her admiration for
+a Member of the Institute, her terror lest I should be taken ill while
+unattended, and the certainty she felt that any intelligent woman would
+be proud and happy to share my existence--she concealed nothing, but,
+on the contrary, added many fresh follies to the recital. Maitre Mouche
+kept nodding his head in approval while cracking nuts. Then, after all
+this verbiage, he demanded, with an agreeable smile, what my answer had
+been.
+
+Mademoiselle Prefere, pressing her hand upon her heart and extending the
+other towards me, cried out,
+
+“He is so affectionate, so superior, so good, and so great! He
+answered... But I could never, because I am only a humble woman--I could
+never repeat the words of a Member of the Institute. I can only utter
+the substance of them. He answered, ‘Yes, I understand you--yes.’”
+
+And with these words she reached out and seized one of my hands. Then
+Maitre Mouche, also overwhelmed with emotion, arose and seized my other
+hand.
+
+“Monsieur,” he said, “permit me to offer my congratulations.”
+
+Several times in my life I have known fear; but never before had I
+experienced any fright of so nauseating a character. A sickening terror
+came upon me.
+
+I disengaged by two hands, and, rising to my feet, so as to give all
+possible seriousness to my words, I said,
+
+“Madame, either I explained myself very badly when you were at my house,
+or I have totally misunderstood you here in your own. In either case, a
+positive declaration is absolutely necessary. Permit me, Madame, to
+make it now, very plainly. No--I never did understand you; I am totally
+ignorant of the nature of this marriage project that you have been
+planning for me--if you really have been planning one. In any event, I
+should not think of marrying. It would be unpardonable folly at my age,
+and even now, at this moment, I cannot conceive how a sensible person
+like you could ever have advised me to marry. Indeed, I am strongly
+inclined to believe that I must have been mistaken, and that you never
+said anything of the kind before. In the latter case, please excuse an
+old man totally unfamiliar with the usages of society, unaccustomed to
+the conversation of ladies, and very contrite for his mistake.”
+
+Maitre Mouche went back very softly to his place, where, not finding any
+more nuts to crack, he began to whittle a cork.
+
+Mademoiselle Prefere, after staring at me for a few moments with an
+expression in her little round dry eyes which I had never seen there
+before, suddenly resumed her customary sweetness and graciousness. Then
+she cried out in honeyed tones,
+
+“Oh! these learned men!--these studious men! They are like children.
+Yes, Monsieur Bonnard, you are a real child!”
+
+Then, turning to the notary, who still sat very quietly in his corner,
+with his nose over his cork, she exclaimed, in beseeching tones,
+
+“Oh, do not accuse him! Do not accuse him! Do not think any evil of him,
+I beg of you! Do not think it at all! Must I ask you upon my knees?”
+
+Maitre Mouche continued to examine all the various aspects and surfaces
+of his cork without making any further manifestation.
+
+I was very indignant; and I know that my cheeks must have been extremely
+red, if I could judge by the flush of heat which I felt rise to my
+face. This would enable me to explain the words I heard through all the
+buzzing in my ears:
+
+“I am frightened about him! our poor friend!... Monsieur Mouche, be kind
+enough to open a window! It seems to me that a compress of arnica would
+do him some good.”
+
+I rushed out into the street with an unspeakable feeling of shame.
+
+“My poor Jeanne!”
+
+
+
+
+December 20.
+
+
+I passed eight days without hearing anything further in regard to the
+Prefere establishment. Then, feeling myself unable to remain any longer
+without some news of Clementine’s daughter, and feeling furthermore that
+I owed it as a duty to myself not to cease my visits with the school
+without more serious cause, I took my way to Les Ternes.
+
+The parlour seemed to me more cold, more damp, more inhospitable, and
+more insidious than ever before; and the servant much more silent and
+much more scared. I asked to see Mademoiselle Jeanne; but, after a very
+considerable time, it was Mademoiselle Prefere who made her appearance
+instead--severe and pale, with lips compressed and a hard look in her
+eyes.
+
+“Monsieur,” she said, folding her arms over her pelerine, “I regret very
+much that I cannot allow you to see Mademoiselle Alexandre to-day; but I
+cannot possibly do it.”
+
+“Why not?” I asked in astonishment.
+
+“Monsieur,” she replied, “the reasons which compel me to request that
+your visits shall be less frequent hereafter are of an excessively
+delicate nature; and I must beg you to spare me the unpleasantness of
+mentioning them.”
+
+“Madame,” I replied, “I have been authorized by Jeanne’s guardian to
+see his ward every day. Will you please to inform me of your reasons for
+opposing the will of Monsieur Mouche?”
+
+“The guardian of Mademoiselle Alexandre,” she replied (and she dwelt
+upon that word “guardian” as upon a solid support), “desires, quite as
+strongly as I myself do, that your assiduities may come to an end as
+soon as possible.”
+
+“Then, if that be the case,” I said, “be kind enough to let me know his
+reasons and your own.”
+
+She looked up at the little spiral of paper on the ceiling, and then
+replied, with stern composure,
+
+“You insist upon it? Well, although such explanations are very painful
+for a woman to make, I will yield to your exaction. This house, Monsieur
+is an honourable house. I have my responsibility. I have to watch like
+a mother over each one of my pupils. Your assiduities in regard to
+Mademoiselle Alexandre could not possibly be continued without serious
+injury to the young girl herself; and it is my duty to insist that they
+shall cease.”
+
+“I do not really understand you,” I replied--and I was telling the plain
+truth. Then she deliberately resumed:
+
+“Your assiduities in this house are being interpreted, by the most
+respectable and the least suspicious persons, in such a manner that I
+find myself obliged, both in the interest of my establishment and in the
+interest of Mademoiselle Alexandre, to see that they end at once.”
+
+“Madame,” I cried, “I have heard a great many silly things in my life,
+but never anything so silly as what you have just said!”
+
+She answered me quietly,
+
+“Your words of abuse will not affect me in the slightest. When one has a
+duty to accomplish, one is strong enough to endure all.”
+
+And she pressed her pelerine over her heart once more--not perhaps on
+this occasion to restrain, but doubtless only to caress that generous
+heart.
+
+“Madame,” I said, shaking my finger at her, “you have wantonly aroused
+the indignation of an aged man. Be good enough to act in such a fashion
+that the old man may be able at least to forget your existence, and do
+not add fresh insults to those which I have already sustained from your
+lips. I give you fair warning that I shall never cease to look after
+Mademoiselle Alexandre; and that should you attempt to do her any harm,
+in any manner whatsoever, you will have serious reason to regret it!”
+
+The more I became excited, the more she became cool; and she answered in
+a tone of superb indifference:
+
+“Monsieur, I am much too well informed in regard to the nature of
+the interest which you take in this young girl, not to withdraw her
+immediately from that very surveillance with which you threaten me.
+After observing the more than equivocal intimacy in which you are living
+with your housekeeper, I ought to have taken measures at once to render
+it impossible for you ever to come into contact with an innocent child.
+In the future I shall certainly do it. If up to this time I have been
+too trustful, it is for Mademoiselle Alexandre, and not for you, to
+reproach me with it. But she is too artless and too pure--thanks to
+me!--ever to have suspected the nature of that danger into which you
+were trying to lead her. I scarcely suppose that you will place me under
+the necessity of enlightening her upon the subject.”
+
+“Come, my poor old Bonnard,” I said to myself, as I shrugged my
+shoulders--“so you had to live as long as this in order to learn for the
+first time exactly what a wicked woman is. And now your knowledge of the
+subject is complete.”
+
+I went out without replying; and I had the pleasure of observing, from
+the sudden flush which overspread the face of the schoolmistress, that
+my silence had wounded her far more than my words.
+
+As I passed through the court I looked about me in every direction for
+Jeanne. She was watching for me, and she ran to me.
+
+“If anybody touches one little hair of your head, Jeanne, write to me!
+Good-bye!”
+
+“No, not good-bye.”
+
+I replied,
+
+“Well, no--not good-bye! Write to me!”
+
+
+I went straight to Madame de Gabry’s residence.
+
+“Madame is at Rome with Monsieur. Did not Monsieur know it?”
+
+“Why, yes,” I replied. “Madame wrote to me.”...
+
+She had indeed written to me in regard to her leaving home; but my head
+must have become very much confused, so that I had forgotten all about
+it. The servant seemed to be of the same opinion, for he looked at me
+in a way that seemed to signify, “Monsieur Bonnard is doting”--and he
+leaned down over the balustrade of the stairway to see if I was not
+going to do something extraordinary before I got to the bottom. But I
+descended the stairs rationally enough; and then he drew back his head
+in disappointment.
+
+On returning home I was informed that Monsieur Gelis was waiting for
+me in the parlour. (This young man has become a constant visitor. His
+judgement is at fault at times; but his mind is not at all commonplace.)
+On this occasion, however, his usually welcome visit only embarrassed
+me. “Alas!” I thought to myself, “I shall be sure to say something
+very stupid to my young friend to-day, and he also will think that my
+facilities are becoming impaired. But still I cannot really explain to
+him that I had first been demanded in wedlock, and subsequently traduced
+as a man wholly devoid of morals--that even Therese had become an object
+of suspicion--and that Jeanne remains in the power of the most rascally
+woman on the face of the earth. I am certainly in an admirable state
+of mind for conversing about Cistercian abbeys with a young and
+mischievously minded man. Nevertheless, we shall see--we shall try.”...
+
+But Therese stopped me:
+
+“How red you are, Monsieur!” she exclaimed, in a tone of reproach.
+
+“It must be the spring,” I answered.
+
+She cried out,
+
+“The spring!--in the month of December?”
+
+That is a fact! this is December. Ah! what is the matter with my head?
+what a fine help I am going to be to poor Jeanne!
+
+“Therese, take my cane; and put it, if you possibly can, in some place
+where I shall be able to find it again.
+
+“Good-day, Monsieur Gelis. How are you?”
+
+
+Undated.
+
+
+Next morning the old boy wanted to get up; but the old boy could not
+get up. A merciless invisible hand kept him down upon his bed. Finding
+himself immovably riveted there, the old boy resigned himself to remain
+motionless; but his thoughts kept running in all directions.
+
+He must have had a very violent fever; for Mademoiselle Prefere, the
+Abbots of Saint-Germain-des-Pres, and the servant of Madame de Gabry
+appeared to him in divers fantastic shapes. The figure of the servant
+in particular lengthened weirdly over his head, grimacing like some
+gargoyle of a cathedral. Then it seemed to me that there were a great
+many people, much too many people, in my bedroom.
+
+This bedroom of mine is furnished after the antiquated fashion. The
+portrait of my father in full uniform, and the portrait of my mother in
+her cashmere dress, are suspended on the wall. The wall-paper is covered
+with green foliage designs. I am aware of all this, and I am even
+conscious that everything is faded, very much faded. But an old man’s
+room does not require to be pretty; it is enough that it should be
+clean, and Therese sees to that. At all events my room is sufficiently
+decorated to please a mind like mine, which has always remained somewhat
+childish and dreamy. There are things hanging on the wall or scattered
+over the tables and shelves which usually please my fancy and amuse me.
+But to-day it would seem as if all those objects had suddenly conceived
+some kind of ill-will against me. They have all become garish,
+grimacing, menacing. That statuette, modelled after one of the
+Theological Virtues of Notre-Dame de Brou, always so ingenuously
+graceful in its natural condition, is now making contortions and putting
+out its tongue at me. And that beautiful miniature--in which one of the
+most skilful pupils of Jehan Fouquet depicted himself, girdled with the
+cord-girdle of the Sons of St. Francis, offering his book, on bended
+knee, to the good Duc d’Angouleme--who has taken it out of its frame
+and put in its place a great ugly cat’s head, which stares at me with
+phosphorescent eyes. And the designs on the wall-paper have also turned
+into heads--hideous green heads.... But no--I am sure that wall-paper
+must have foliage-designs upon it at this moment just as it had twenty
+years ago, and nothing else.... But no, again--I was right before--they
+are heads, with eyes, noses, mouths--they are heads!... Ah! now I
+understand! they are both heads and foliage-designs at the same time. I
+wish I could not see them at all.
+
+And there, on my right, the pretty miniature of the Franciscan has come
+back again; but it seems to me as if I can only keep it in its frame by
+a tremendous effort of will, and that the moment I get tired the ugly
+cat-head will appear in its place. Certainly I am not delirious; I can
+see Therese very plainly, standing at the foot of my bed; I can hear her
+speaking to me perfectly well, and I should be able to answer her
+quite satisfactorily if I were not kept so busy in trying to compel the
+various objects about me to maintain their natural aspect.
+
+Here is the doctor coming. I never sent for him, but it gives me
+pleasure to see him. He is an old neighbor of mine; I have never been of
+much service to him, but I like him very much. Even if I do not say much
+to him, I have at least full possession of all my faculties, and I even
+find myself extraordinarily crafty and observant to-day, for I note all
+his gestures, his every look, the least wrinkling of his face. But the
+doctor is very cunning, too, and I cannot really tell what he thinks
+about me. The deep thought of Goethe suddenly comes to my mind and I
+exclaim,
+
+“Doctor, the old man has consented to allow himself to become sick; but
+he does not intend, this time at least, to make any further concessions
+to nature.”
+
+Neither the doctor nor Therese laughs at my little joke. I suppose they
+cannot have understood it.
+
+The doctor goes away; evening comes; and all sorts of strange shadows
+begin to shape themselves about my bed-curtains, forming and dissolving
+by turns. And other shadows--ghosts--throng by before me; and through
+them I can see distinctively the impassive face of my faithful servant.
+And suddenly a cry, a shrill cry, a great cry of distress, rends my
+ears. Was it you who called me Jeanne?
+
+The day is over; and the shadows take their places at my bedside to
+remain with me all through the long night.
+
+Then morning comes--I feel a peace, a vast peace, wrapping me all about.
+
+Art Thou about to take me into Thy rest, my dear Lord God?
+
+
+
+
+February 186-.
+
+
+The doctor is quite jovial. It seems that I am doing him a great deal
+of credit by being able to get out of bed. If I must believe him,
+innumerable disorders must have pounced down upon my poor old body all
+at the same time.
+
+These disorders, which are the terror of ordinary mankind, have names
+which are the terror of philologists. They are hybrid names, half Greek,
+half Latin, with terminations in “itis,” indicating the inflammatory
+condition, and in “algia,” indicating pain. The doctor gives me all
+their names, together with a corresponding number of adjectives ending
+in “ic,” which serve to characterise their detestable qualities. In
+short, they represent a good half of that most perfect copy of the
+Dictionary of Medicine contained in the too-authentic box of Pandora.
+
+“Doctor, what an excellent common-sense story the story of Pandora
+is!--if I were a poet I would put it into French verse. Shake hands,
+doctor! You have brought me back to life; I forgive you for it. You
+have given me back to my friends; I thank you for it. You say I am quite
+strong. That may be, that may be; but I have lasted a very long time.
+I am a very old article of furniture; I might be very satisfactorily
+compared to my father’s arm-chair. It was an arm-chair which the good
+man had inherited, and in which he used to lounge from morning until
+evening. Twenty times a day, when I was quite a baby, I used to climb up
+and seat myself on one of the arms of that old-fashioned chair. So long
+as the chair remained intact, nobody paid any particular attention to
+it. But it began to limp on one foot and then folks began to say that it
+was a very good chair. Afterwards it became lame in three legs, squeaked
+with the fourth leg, and lost nearly half of both arms. Then everybody
+would exclaim, ‘What a strong chair!’ They wondered how it was that
+after its arms had been worn off and all its legs knocked out of
+perpendicular, it could yet preserve the recognisable shape of a chair,
+remains nearly erect, and still be of some service. The horse-hair came
+out of its body at last, and it gave up the ghost. And when Cyprien,
+our servant, sawed up its mutilated members for fire-wood, everybody
+redoubled their cries of admiration. Oh! what an excellent--what a
+marvellous chair! It was the chair of Pierre Sylvestre Bonnard, the
+cloth merchant--of Epimenide Bonnard, his son--of Jean-Baptiste Bonnard,
+the Pyrrhonian philosopher and Chief of the Third Maritime Division.
+Oh! what a robust and venerable chair!’ In reality it was a dead chair.
+Well, doctor, I am that chair. You think I am solid because I have been
+able to resist an attack which would have killed many people, and which
+only three-fourths killed me. Much obliged! I feel none the less that I
+am something which has been irremediably damaged.”
+
+The doctor tries to prove to me, with the help of enormous Greek and
+Latin words, that I am really in a very good condition. It would, of
+course, be useless to attempt any demonstration of this kind in so lucid
+a language as French. However, I allow him to persuade me at last; and I
+see him to the door.
+
+“Good! good!” exclaimed Therese; “that is the way to put the doctor out
+of the house! Just do the same thing once or twice again, and he will
+not come to see you any more--and so much the better?”
+
+“Well, Therese, now that I have become such a hearty man again, do not
+refuse to give me my letters. I am sure there must be quite a big bundle
+of letters, and it would be very wicked to keep me any longer from
+reading them.”
+
+Therese, after some little grumbling, gave me my letters. But what did
+it matter?--I looked at all the envelopes, and saw that no one of them
+had been addressed by the little hand which I so much wish I could see
+here now, turning over the pages of the Vecellio. I pushed the whole
+bundle of letters away: they had no more interest for me.
+
+
+
+
+April-June
+
+
+It was a hotly contested engagement.
+
+“Wait, Monsieur, until I have put on my clean things,” exclaimed
+Therese, “and I will go out with you this time also; I will carry your
+folding-stool as I have been doing these last few days, and we will go
+and sit down somewhere in the sun.”
+
+Therese actually thinks me infirm. I have been sick, it is true, but
+there is an end to all things! Madame Malady has taken her departure
+quite awhile ago, and it is now more than three months since her pale
+and gracious-visaged handmaid, Dame Convalescence, politely bade me
+farewell. If I were to listen to my housekeeper, I should become a
+veritable Monsieur Argant, and I should wear a nightcap with ribbons for
+the rest of my life.... No more of this!--I propose to go out by myself!
+Therese will not hear of it. She takes my folding-stool, and wants to
+follow me.
+
+“Therese, to-morrow, if you like, we will take our seats on the sunny
+side of the wall of La Petite Provence and stay there just as long as
+you please. But to-day I have some very important affairs to attend to.”
+
+“So much the better! But your affairs are not the only affairs in this
+world.”
+
+I beg; I scold; I make my escape.
+
+It is quite a pleasant day. With the aid of a cab and the help of
+almighty God, I trust to be able to fulfil my purpose.
+
+There is the wall on which is painted in great blue letters the words
+“Pensionnat de Demoiselles tenu par Mademoiselle Virginie Prefere.”
+ There is the iron gate which would give free entrance into the
+court-yard if it were ever opened. But the lock is rusty, and sheets
+of zinc put up behind the bars protect the indiscreet observation
+those dear little souls to whom Mademoiselle Prefere doubtless teaches
+modesty, sincerity, justice, and disinterestedness. There is a window,
+with iron bars before it, and panes daubed over with white paint--the
+window of the domestic offices, like a glazed eye--the only aperture
+of the building opening upon the exterior world. As for the house-door,
+through which I entered so often, but which is now closed against me for
+ever, it is just as I saw it the last time, with its little iron-grated
+wicket. The single stone step in front of it is deeply worn, and,
+without having very good eyes behind my spectacles, I can see the little
+white scratches on the stone which have been made by the nails in the
+shoes of the girls going in and out. And why cannot I also go in? I
+have a feeling that Jeanne must be suffering a great deal in this dismal
+house, and that she calls my name in secret. I cannot go away from
+the gate! A strange anxiety takes hold of me. I pull the bell. The
+scared-looking servant comes to the door, even more scared-looking than
+when I saw her the last time. Strict orders have been given; I am not to
+be allowed to see Mademoiselle Jeanne. I beg the servant to be so kind
+as to tell me how the child is. The servant, after looking to her right
+and then to her left, tells me that Mademoiselle Jeanne is well, and
+then shuts the door in my face. And I am all alone in the street again.
+
+How many times since then have I wandered in the same way under that
+wall, and passed before the little door,--full of shame and despair to
+find myself even weaker than that poor child, who has no other help of
+friend except myself in the world!
+
+Finally I overcame my repugnance sufficiently to call upon Maitre
+Mouche. The first thing I remarked was that his office is much more
+dusty and much more mouldy this year that it was last year. The notary
+made his appearance after a moment, with his familiar stiff gestures,
+and his restless eyes quivering behind his eye-glasses. I made my
+complaints to him. He answered me.... But why should I write down, even
+in a notebook which I am going to burn, my recollections of a downright
+scoundrel? He takes sides with Mademoiselle Prefere, whose intelligent
+mind and irreproachable character he has long appreciated. He does
+not feel himself in a position to decide the nature of the question at
+issue; but he must assure me that appearances have been greatly against
+me. That of course makes no difference to me. He adds--(and this does
+make some sense to me)--that the small sum which had been placed in
+his hands to defray the expenses of the education of his ward has been
+expended, and that, in view of the circumstances, he cannot but gently
+admire the disinterestedness of Mademoiselle Prefere in consenting to
+allow Mademoiselle Jeanne to remain with her.
+
+A magnificent light, the light of a perfect day, floods the sordid place
+with its incorruptible torrent, and illuminates teh person of that man!
+
+And outside it pours down its splendour upon all the wretchedness of a
+populous quarter.
+
+How sweet it is,--this light with which my eyes have so long been
+filled, and which ere long I must for ever cease to enjoy! I wander out
+with my hands behind me, dreaming as I go, following the line of the
+fortifications; and I find myself after awhile, I know not how, in an
+out-of-the-way suburb full of miserable little gardens. By the dusty
+roadside I observe a plant whose flower, at once dark and splendid,
+seems worthy of association with the noblest and purest mourning for the
+dead. It is a columbine. Our fathers called it “Our Lady’s Glove”--le
+gant de Notre-Dame. Only such a “Notre-Dame” as might make herself very,
+very small, for the sake of appearing to little children, could ever
+slip her dainty fingers into the narrow capsue of that flower.
+
+And there is a big bumble-bee who tries to force himself into the
+flower, brutally; but his mouth cannot reach the nectar, and the poor
+glutton strives and strives in vain. He has to give up the attempt, and
+comes out of the flower all smeared over with pollen. He flies off in
+his own heavy lumbering way; but there are not many flowers in this
+portion of the suburbs, which has been defiled by the soot and smoke
+of factories. So he comes back to the columbine again, and this time he
+pierces the corolla and sucks the honey through the little hole which
+he has made; I should never have thought that a bumble-bee had so much
+sense! Why, that is admirable! The more I observe, them, the more do
+insects and flowers fill me with astonishment. I am like that good
+Rollin who went wild with delight over the flowers of his peach-trees. I
+wish I could have a fine garden, and live at the verge of a wood.
+
+
+
+
+August, September.
+
+
+It occurred to me one Sunday morning to watch for the moment when
+Mademoiselle Prefere’s pupils were leaving the school in procession
+to attend Mass at the parish church. I watched them passing two by
+two,--the little ones first with very serious faces. There were three of
+them all dressed exactly alike--dumpy, plump, important-looking little
+creatures, whom I recognized at once as the Mouton girls. Their elder
+sister is the artist who drew that terrible head of Tatius, King of
+the Sabines. Beside the column, the assistant school-teacher, with her
+prayer-book in her hand, was gesturing and frowning. Then came the next
+oldest class, and finally the big girls, all whispering to each other,
+as they went by. But I did not see Jeanne.
+
+I went to police-headquarters and inquired whether they chanced to
+have, filed away somewhere or other, any information regarding the
+establishment in the Rue Demours. I succeeded in inducing them to send
+some female inspectors there. These returned bringing with them the most
+favourable reports about the establishment. In their opinion the Prefere
+School was a model school. It is evident that if I were to force an
+investigation, Mademoiselle Prefere would receive academic honours.
+
+
+
+
+October 3.
+
+
+This Thursday being a school-holiday I had teh chance of meeting the
+three little Mouton girls in the vicinity of the Rue Demours. After
+bowing to their mother, I asked the eldest who appears to be about ten
+years old, how was her playmate, Mademoiselle Jeanne Alexandre.
+
+The little Mouton girl answered me, all in a breath,
+
+“Jeanne Alexandre is not my playmate. She is only kept in the school for
+charity--so they make her sweep the class-rooms. It was Mademoiselle who
+said so. And Jeanne Alexandre is a bad girl; so they lock her up in the
+dark room--and it serves her right--and I am a good girl--and I am never
+locked up in the dark room.”
+
+The three little girls resumed their walk, and Madame Mouton followed
+close behind them, looking back over her broad shoulder at me, in a very
+suspicious manner.
+
+Alas! I find myself reduced to expedients of a questionable character.
+Madame de Gabry will not come back to Paris for at least three months
+more, at the very soonest. Without her, I have no tact, I have no common
+sense--I am nothing but a cumbersome, clumsy, mischief-making machine.
+
+Nevertheless, I cannot possibly permit them to make Jeanne a
+boarding-school servant!
+
+
+
+
+December 28.
+
+
+The idea that Jeanne was obliged to sweep the rooms had become
+absolutely unbearable.
+
+The weather was dark and cold. Night had already begun. I rang the
+school-door bell with the tranquillity of a resolute man. The moment
+that the timid servant opened the door, I slipped a gold piece into her
+hand, and promised her another if she would arrange matters so that I
+could see Mademoiselle Alexandre. Her answer was,
+
+“In one hour from now, at the grated window.”
+
+And she slammed the door in my face so rudely that she knocked my
+hat into the gutter. I waited for one very long hour in a violent
+snow-storm; then I approached the window. Nothing! The wind raged, and
+the snow fell heavily. Workmen passing by with their implements on their
+shoulders, and their heads bent down to keep the snow from coming in
+their faces, rudely jostled me. Still nothing. I began to fear I had
+been observed. I knew that I had done wrong in bribing a servant, but
+I was not a bit sorry for it. Woe to the man who does not know how to
+break through social regulations in case of necessity! Another quarter
+of an hour passed. Nothing. At last the window was partly opened.
+
+“Is that you, Monsieur Bonnard?”
+
+“Is that you, Jeanne?--tell me at once what has become of you.”
+
+“I am well--very well.”
+
+“But what else!”
+
+“They have put me in the kitchen, and I have to sweep the school-rooms.”
+
+“In the kitchen! Sweeping--you! Gracious goodness!”
+
+“Yes, because my guardian does not pay for my schooling any longer.”
+
+“Gracious goodness! Your guardian seems to me to be a thorough
+scoundrel.”
+
+“Then you know---”
+
+“What?”
+
+“Oh! don’t ask me to tell you that!--but I would rather die than find
+myself alone with him again.”
+
+“And why did you not write to me?”
+
+“I was watched.”
+
+At this instant I formed a resolve which nothing in this world could
+have induced me to change. I did, indeed, have some idea that I might
+be acting contrary to law; but I did not give myself the least concern
+about that idea. And, being firmly resolved, I was able to be prudent. I
+acted with remarkable coolness.
+
+“Jeanne,” I asked, “tell me! does that room you are in open into the
+court-yard?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Can you open the street-door from the inside yourself?”
+
+“Yes,--if there is nobody in the porter’s lodge.”
+
+“Go and see if there is any one there, and be careful that nobody
+observes you.”
+
+Then I waited, keeping a watch on the door and window.
+
+In six or seven seconds Jeanne reappeared behind the bars, and said,
+
+“The servant is in the porter’s lodge.”
+
+“Very well,” I said, “have you a pen and ink?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“A pencil?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Pass it out here.”
+
+I took an old newspaper out of my pocket, and--in a wind which blew
+almost hard enough to put the street-lamps out, in a downpour of snow
+which almost blinded me--I managed to wrap up and address that paper to
+Mademoiselle Prefere.
+
+While I was writing I asked Jeanne,
+
+“When the postman passes he puts the papers and letters in the box,
+doesn’t he? He rings the bell and goes away? Then the servant opens the
+letter-box and takes whatever she finds there to Mademoiselle Prefere
+immediately; is not that about the way the thing is managed whenever
+anything comes by post?”
+
+Jeanne thought it was.
+
+“Then we shall soon see. Jeanne, go and watch again; and, as soon as the
+servant leaves the lodge, open the door and come out here to me.”
+
+Having said this, I put my newspaper in the box, gave the bell a
+tremendous pull, and then hid myself in the embrasure of a neighbouring
+door.
+
+I might have been there several minutes, when the little door quivered,
+then opened, and a young girl’s head made its appearance through the
+opening. I took hold of it; I pulled it towards me.
+
+“Come, Jeanne! come!”
+
+She stared at me uneasily. Certainly she must have been afraid that I
+had gone mad; but, on the contrary, I was very rational indeed.
+
+“Come, my child! come!”
+
+“Where?”
+
+“To Madame de Gabry’s.”
+
+Then she took my arm. For some time we ran like a couple of thieves.
+But running is an exercise ill-suited to one as corpulent as I am,
+and, finding myself out of breath at last, I stopped and leaned upon
+something which turned out to be the stove of a dealer in roasted
+chestnuts, who was doing business at the corner of a wine-seller’s shop,
+where a number of cabmen were drinking. One of them asked us if we
+did not want a cab. Most assuredly we wanted a cab! The driver, after
+setting down his glass on the zinc counter, climbed upon his seat and
+urged his horse forward. We were saved.
+
+“Phew!” I panted, wiping my forehead. For, in spite of the cold, I was
+perspiring profusely.
+
+What seemed very odd was that Jeanne appeared to be much more conscious
+than I was of the enormity which we had committed. She looked very
+serious indeed, and was visibly uneasy.
+
+“In the kitchen!” I cried out, with indignation.
+
+She shook her head, as if to say, “Well, there or anywhere else, what
+does it matter to me?” And by the light of the street-lamps, I observed
+with pain that her face was very thin and her features all pinched. I
+did not find in her any of that vivacity, any of those bright impulses,
+any of that quickness of expression, which used to please me so much.
+Her gaze had become timid, her gestures constrained, her whole attitude
+melancholy. I took her hand--a little cold hand, which had become all
+hardened and bruised. The poor child must have suffered very much. I
+questioned her. She told me very quietly that Mademoiselle Prefere
+had summoned her one day, and called her a little monster and a little
+viper, for some reason which she had never been able to learn.
+
+She had added, “You shall not see Monsieur Bonnard any more; for he
+has been giving you bad advice, and he has conducted himself in a most
+shameful manner towards me.” “I then said to her, ‘That, Mademoiselle,
+you will never be able to make me believe.’ Then Mademoiselle slapped my
+face and sent me back to the school-room. The announcement that I should
+never be allowed to see you again made me feel as if night had come down
+upon me. Don’t you know those evenings when one feels so sad to see
+the darkness come?--well, just imagine such a moment stretched out into
+weeks--into whole months! Don’t you remember my little Saint-George? Up
+to that time I had worked at it as well as I could--just simply to work
+at it--just to amuse myself. But when I lost all hope of ever seeing you
+again I took my little wax figure, and I began to work at it in quite
+another way. I did not try to model it with wooden matches any more, as
+I had been doing, but with hair pins. I even made use of epingles a la
+neige. But perhaps you do not know what epingles a la neige are? Well,
+I became more particular about than you can possibly imagine. I put a
+dragon on Saint-George’s helmet; and I passed hours and hours in making
+a head and eyes and tail for the dragon. Oh the eyes! the eyes, above
+all! I never stopped working at them till I got them so that they had
+red pupils and white eye-lids and eye-brows and everything! I know I am
+very silly; I had an idea that I was going to die as soon as my little
+Saint-George would be finished. I worked at it during recreation-hours,
+and Mademoiselle Prefere used to let me alone. One day I learned that
+you were in the parlour with the schoolmistress; I watched for you; we
+said ‘Au revoir!’ that day to each other. I was a little consoled by
+seeing you. But, some time after that, my guardian came and wanted to
+make me go to his house,--but please don’t ask me why, Monsieur. He
+answered me, quite gently, that I was a very whimsical little girl. And
+then he left me alone. But the next day Mademoiselle Prefere came to me
+with such a wicked look on her face that I was really afraid. She had
+a letter in her hand. ‘Mademoiselle,’ she said to me, ‘I am informed
+by your guardian that he has spent all the money which belonged to
+you. Don’t be afraid! I do not intend to abandon you; but, you must
+acknowledge yourself, it is only right that you should earn your own
+livelihood.’ Then she put me to work house-cleaning; and whenever I made
+a mistake she would lock me up in the garet for days together. And that
+is what has happened to me since I saw you last. Even if I had been able
+to write to you I do not know whether I should have done it, because I
+did not think you could possibly take me away from the school; and, as
+Maitre Mouche did not come back to see me, there was no hurry. I thought
+I could wait for awhile in the garret and the kitchen.
+
+“Jeanne,” I cried, “even if we should have to flee to Oceania, the
+abominable Prefere shall never get hold of you again. I will take a
+great oath on that! And why should we not go to Oceania? The climate
+is very healthy; and I read in a newspaper the other day that they have
+pianos there. But, in the meantime, let us go to the house of Madame de
+Gabry, who returned to Paris, as luck would have it, some three or four
+days ago; for you and I are two innocent fools, and we have great need
+of some one to help us.”
+
+Even as I was speaking Jeanne’s features suddenly became pale, and
+seemed to shrink into lifelessness; her eyes became all dim; her lips,
+half open, contracted with an expression of pain. Then her head sank
+sideways on her shoulder;--she had fainted.
+
+I lifter her in my arms, and carried her up Madame de Gabry’s staircase
+like a little baby asleep. But I was myself on the point of fainting
+from emotional excitement and fatigue together, when she came to herself
+again.
+
+“Ah! it is you.” she said: “so much the better!”
+
+Such was our condition when we rang our friend’s door-bell.
+
+
+Same day.
+
+
+It was eight o’clock. Madame de Gabry, as might be supposed, was very
+much surprised by our unexpected appearance. But she welcomed the old
+man and the child with that glad kindness which always expresses itself
+in her beautiful gestures. It seems to me,--if I might use the language
+of devotion so familiar to her,--it seems to me as though some heavenly
+grace streams from her hands when ever she opens them; and even the
+perfume which impregnates her robes seems to inspire the sweet calm zeal
+of charity and good works. Surprised she certainly was; but she asked us
+no question,--and that silence seemed to me admirable.
+
+“Madame,” I said to her, “we have both come to place ourselves under
+your protection. And, first of all, we are going to ask you to give us
+some super--or to give Jeanne some, at least; for a moment ago, in the
+carriage, she fainted from weakness. As for myself, I could not eat a
+bite at this late hour without passing a night of agony in consequence.
+I hope that Monsieur de Gabry is well.”
+
+“Oh, he is here!” she said.
+
+And she called him immediately.
+
+“Come in here, Paul! Come and see Monsieur Bonnard and Mademoiselle
+Alexandre.”
+
+He came. It was a pleasure for me to see his frank broad face, and to
+press his strong square hand. Then we went, all four of us, into the
+dining-room; and while some cold meat was being cut for Jeanne--which
+she never touched notwithstanding--I related our adventure. Paul de
+Gabry asked me permission to smoke his pipe, after which he listened to
+me in silence. When I had finished my recital he scratched the short,
+stiff beard upon his chin, and uttered a tremendous “Sacrebleu!” But,
+seeing Jeanne stare at each of us in turn, with a frightened look in her
+face, he added:
+
+“We will talk about this matter to-morrow morning. Come into my study
+for a moment; I have an old book to show you that I want you to tell me
+something about.”
+
+I followed him into his study, where the steel of guns and hunting
+knives, suspended against the dark hangings, glimmered in the
+lamp-light. There, pulling me down beside him upon a leather-covered
+sofa, he exclaimed,
+
+“What have you done? Great God! Do you know what you have done?
+Corruption of a minor, abduction, kidnapping! You have got yourself into
+a nice mess! You have simply rendered yourself liable to a sentence of
+imprisonment of not less than five nor more than ten years.”
+
+“Mercy on us!” I cried; “ten years imprisonment for having saved an
+innocent child.”
+
+“That is the law!” answered Monsieur de Gabry. “You see, my dear
+Monsieur Bonnard, I happen to know the Code pretty well--not because I
+ever studied law as a profession, but because, as mayor of Lusance, I
+was obliged to teach myself something about it in order to be able to
+give information to my subordinates. Mouche is a rascal; that woman
+Prefere is a vile hussy; and you are a...Well! I really cannot find a
+word strong enough to signify what you are!”
+
+After opening his bookcase, where dog-collars, riding-whips, stirrups,
+spurs, cigar-boxes, and a few books of reference were indiscriminately
+stowed away, he took out of it a copy of the Code, and began to turn
+over the leaves.
+
+“‘CRIMES AND MISDEMEANOURS’...’SEQUESTRATION OF PERSONS’--that is
+not your case.... ‘ABDUCTION OF MINORS’--here we are....’ARTICLE
+354’:--‘Whosever shall, either by fraud or violence, have abducted or
+have caused to be abducted any minor or minors, or shall have enticed
+them, or turned them away from, or forcibly removed them, or shall have
+caused them to be enticed, or turned away from or forcibly removed from
+the places in which they have been placed by those to whose authority or
+direction they have been submitted or confided, shall be liable to the
+penalty of imprisonment. See PENAL CODE, 21 and 28.’ Here is 21:--‘The
+term of imprisonment shall not be less than five years.’ 28. ‘The
+sentence of imprisonment shall be considered as involving a loss of
+civil rights.’ Now all that is very plain, is it not, Monsieur Bonnard?”
+
+“Perfectly plain.”
+
+“Now let us go on: ‘ARTICLE 356’:--‘In case the abductor be under the
+age of 21 years at the time of the offense, he shall only be punished
+with’...But we certainly cannot invoke this article in your favour.
+‘ARTICLE 357:’:--‘In case the abductor shall have married the girl
+by him abducted, he can only be prosecuted at the insistence of such
+persons as, according to the Civil Code, may have the right to demand
+that the marriage shall be declared null; nor can he be condemned until
+after the nullity of the marriage shall have been pronounced.’ I do not
+know whether it is a part of your plans to marry Mademoiselle Alexandre!
+You can see that the code is good-natured about it; it leaves you one
+door of escape. But no--I ought not to joke with you, because really you
+have put yourself in a very unfortunate position! And how could a man
+like you imagine that here in Paris, in the middle of the nineteenth
+century, a young girl can be abducted with absolute impunity? We are not
+living in the Middle Ages now; and such things are no longer permitted
+by law.”
+
+“You need not imagine,” I replied, “that abduction was lawful under the
+ancient Code. You will find in Baluze a decree issued by King Cheldebert
+at Cologne, either in 593 or 594, on the subject: moreover, everybody
+knows that the famous ‘Ordonance de Blois,’ of May 1579, formally
+enacted that any persons convicted of having suborned any son or
+daughter under the age of twenty-five years, whether under promise of
+marriage or otherwise, without the full knowledge, will, or consent of
+the father, mother, and guardians, should be punished with death; and
+the ordinance adds: ‘Et pareillement seront punis extraordinairement
+tous ceux qui auront participe audit rapt, et qui auront prete conseil,
+confort, et aide en aucune maniere que ce soit.’ (And in like manner
+shall be extraordinarily punished all persons whomsoever, who shall have
+participated in the said abduction, and who shall have given thereunto
+counsel, succor, or aid in any manner whatsoever.) Those are the exact,
+or very nearly the exact, terms of the ordinance. As for that article of
+the Code-Napoleon which you have just told me of, and which excepts
+from liability to prosecution the abductor who marries the young girl
+abducted by him, it reminds me that according to the laws of Bretagne,
+forcible abduction, followed by marriage, was not punished. But this
+usage, which involved various abuses, was suppressed in 1720--at least I
+give you the date within ten years. My memory is not very good now,
+and the time is long passed when I could repeat by heart without even
+stopping to take breath, fifteen hundred verses of Girart de Rousillon.
+
+“As far as regards the Capitulary of Charlemagne, which fixes the
+compensation for abduction, I have not mentioned it because I am sure
+that you must remember it. So, my dear Monsieur de Gabry, you see
+abduction was considered as decidedly a punishable offense under the
+three dynasties of Old France. It is a very great mistake to suppose
+that the Middle Ages represent a period of social chaos. You must
+remember, on the contrary---”
+
+Monsieur de Gabry here interrupted me:
+
+“So,” he exclaimed, “you know of the Ordonnacne de Blois, you know
+Baluze, you know Childebert, you know the Capitularies--and you don’t
+know anything about the Code-Napoleon!”
+
+I replied that, as a matter of fact, I never had read the Code; and he
+looked very much surprised.
+
+“And now do you understand,” he asked, “the extreme gravity of the
+action you have committed?”
+
+I had not indeed been yet able to understand it fully. But little by
+little, with the aid of Monsieur Paul’s very sensible explanations, I
+reached the conviction at last that I should not be judged in regard to
+my motives, which were innocent, but only according to my action, which
+was punishable. Thereupon I began to feel very despondent, and to utter
+divers lamentations.
+
+“What am I to do?” I cried out, “what am I to do? Am I then
+irretrievably ruined?--and have I also ruined the poor child whom I
+wanted to save?”
+
+Monsieur de Gabry silently filled his pipe, and lighted it so slowly
+that his kind broad face remained for at least three or four minutes
+glowing red behind the light, like a blacksmith’s in the gleam of his
+forge-fire. Then he said,
+
+“You want to know what to do? Why, don’t do anything, my dear Monsieur
+Bonnard! For God’s sake, and for your own sake, don’t do anything at
+all! Your situation is bad enough as it is; don’t try to meddle with it
+now, unless you want to create new difficulties for yourself. But you
+must promise me to sustain me in any action that I may take. I shall go
+to see Monsieur Mouche the very first thing to-morrow morning; and if
+he turns out to be what I think he is--that is to say, a consummate
+rascal--I shall very soon find means of making him harmless, even if the
+devil himself should take sides with him. For everything depends on him.
+As it is too late this evening to take Mademoiselle Jeanne back to her
+boarding-school, my wife will keep the young lady here to-night. This of
+course plainly constitues the misdemeanour of complicity; but it saves
+the girl from anything like an equivocal position. As for you, my dear
+Monsieur, you just go back to the Quai Malaquais as quickly as you can;
+and if they come to look for Jeanne there, it will be very easy for you
+to prove she is not in your house.”
+
+While we were thus talking, Madame de Gabry was preparing to make her
+young lodger comfortable for the night. When she bade me good-bye at the
+door, she was carrying a pair of clean sheets, scented with lavender,
+thrown over her arm.
+
+“That,” I said, “is a sweet honest smell.”
+
+“Well, of course,” answered Madame de Gabry, “you must remember we are
+peasants.”
+
+“Ah!” I answered her, “heaven grant that I also may be able one of these
+days to become a peasant! Heaven grant that one of these days I may
+be able, as you are at Lusance, to inhale the sweet fresh odour of the
+country, and live in some little house all hidden among trees; and if
+this wish of mine be too ambitious on the part of an old man whose life
+is nearly closed, then I will only wish that my winding-sheet may be as
+sweetly scented with lavender as that linen you have on your arm.”
+
+It was agreed that I should come to lunch the following morning. But
+I was positively forbidden to show myself at the house before midday.
+Jeanne, as she kissed me good-bye, begged me not to take her back to the
+school any more. We felt much affected at parting, and very anxious.
+
+I found Therese waiting for me on the landing, in such a condition of
+worry about me that it had made her furious. She talked of nothing less
+than keeping me under lock and key in the future.
+
+What a night I passed! I never closed my eyes for one single instant.
+From time to time I could not help laughing like a boy at the success of
+my prank; and then again, an inexpressible feeling of horror would come
+upon me at the thought of being dragged before some magistrate, and
+having to take my place upon the prisoner’s bench, to answer for the
+crime which I had so naturally committed. I was very much afraid; and
+nevertheless I felt no remorse or regret whatever. The sun, coming into
+my room at last, merrily lighted upon the foot of my bed, and then I
+made this prayer:
+
+“My God, Thou who didst make the sky and the dew, as it is said in
+‘Tristan,’ judge me in Thine equity, not indeed according unto my acts,
+but according only to my motives, which Thou knowest have been upright
+and pure; and I will say: Glory to Thee in heaven, and peace on earth to
+men of good-will. I give into Thy hands the child I stole away. Do that
+for her which I have not known how to do; guard for her from all her
+enemies;--and blessed for ever be Thy name!”
+
+
+
+
+December 29.
+
+
+When I arrived at Madame de Gabry’s, I found Jeanne completely
+transfigured.
+
+Had she also, like myself, at the very first light of dawn, called upon
+Him who made the sky and the dew? She smiled with such a sweet calm
+smile!
+
+Madame de Gabry called her away to arrange her hair for the amiable lady
+had insisted upon combing and plaiting, with her own hands, the hair of
+the child confided to her care. As I had come a little before the
+hour agreed upon, I had interrupted this charming toilet. By way of
+punishment I was told to go and wait in the parlour all by myself.
+Monsieur de Gabry joined me there in a little while. He had evidently
+just come in, for I could see on his forehead the mark left my
+the lining of his hat. His frank face wore an expression of joyful
+excitement. I thought I had better not ask him any questions; and we all
+went to lunch. When the servants had finished waiting at table, Monsieur
+Paul, who had been keeping his good story for the dessert, said to us,
+
+“Well! I went to Levallois.”
+
+“Did you see Maitre Mouche?” excitedly inquired Madame de Gabry.
+
+“No,” he replied, curiously watching the expression of disappointment
+upon our faces.
+
+After having amused himself with our anxiety for a reasonable time, the
+good fellow added:
+
+“Maitre Mouche is no longer at Levallois. Maitre Mouche has gone away
+from France. The day after to-morrow will make just eight days since
+he decamped, taking with him all the money of his clients--a tolerably
+large sum. I found the office closed. A woman who lived close by told
+me all about it with an abundance of curses and imprecations. The
+notary did not take the 7:55 train all by himself; he took with him the
+daughter of the hairdresser of Levallois, a young person quite famous in
+that part of the country for her beauty and her accomplishments;--they
+say she could shave better than her father. Well, anyhow Mouche has run
+away with her; the Commissaire de Police confirmed the fact for me. Now,
+really, could it have been possible for Maitre Mouche to have left the
+country at a more opportune moment? If he had only deferred his escapade
+one week longer, he would have been still the representative of society,
+and would have had you dragged off to gaol, Monsieur Bonnard, like a
+criminal. At present we have nothing whatever to fear from him. Here is
+to the health of Maitre Mouche!” he cried, pouring out a glass of white
+wine.
+
+I would like to live a long time if it were only to remember that
+delightful morning. We four were all assembled in the big white
+dining-room around the waxed oak table. Monsieur Paul’s mirth was’
+of the hearty kind,--even perhaps a little riotous; and the good man
+quaffed deeply. Madame de Gabry smiled at me, with a smile so sweet, so
+perfect, and so noble, that I thought such a woman ought to keep smiles
+like that simply as a reward for good actions, and thus make everybody
+who knew her do all the good of which they were capable. Then, to reward
+us for our pains, Jeanne, who had regained something of her former
+vivacity, asked us in less than a quarter of an hour one dozen
+questions, to answer which would have required an exhaustive exposition
+on the nature of man, the nature of the universe, the science of physics
+and of metaphysics, the Macrocosm and the Microcosm--not to speak of the
+Ineffable and the Unknowable. Then she drew out of her pocket her little
+Saint-George, who had suffered most cruelly during our flight. His legs
+and arms were gone; but he still had his gold helmet with the green
+dragon on it. Jeanne solemnly pledged herself to make a restoration of
+him in honour of Madame de Gabry.
+
+Delightful friends! I left them at last overwhelmed with fatigue and
+joy.
+
+
+On re-entering my lodgings I had to endure the very sharpest
+remonstrances from Therese, who said she had given up trying to
+understand my new way of living. In her opinion Monsieur had really lost
+his mind.
+
+“Yes, Therese, I am a mad old man and you are a mad old woman. That
+is certain! May the good God bless us both, Therese, and give us new
+strength; for we now have new duties to perform, but let me lie down
+upon the sofa; for I really cannot keep myself on my feet any longer.”
+
+
+
+
+January 15, 186-.
+
+
+“Good-morning, Monsieur,” said Jeanne, letting herself in; while Therese
+remained grumbling in the corridor because she had not been able to get
+to the door in time.
+
+“Mademoiselle, I beg you will be kind enough to address me very solemnly
+by my title, and to say to me, ‘Good-morning, my guardian.’”
+
+“Then it has all been settled? Oh, how nice!” cried the child, clapping
+her hands.
+
+“It has all been arranged, Mademoiselle, in the Salle-commune and before
+the Justice of the Peace; and from to-day you are under my authority....
+What are you laughing about, my ward? I see it in your eyes. You have
+some crazy idea in your head this very moment--some more nonsense, eh?”
+
+“Oh, no! Monsieur.... I mean, my guardian. I was looking at your white
+hair. It curls out from under the edge of your hat like honeysuckle on a
+balcony. It is very handsome, and I like it very much!”
+
+“Be good enough to sit down, my ward, and, if you can possibly help it,
+stop saying ridiculous things, because I have some very serious things
+to say to you. Listen. I suppose you are not going to insist upon being
+sent back to the establishment of Mademoiselle Prefere?... No. Well,
+then, what would you say if I should take you here to live with me,
+and to finish your education, and keep you here until... what shall I
+say?--for ever, as the song has it?”
+
+“Oh, Monsieur!” she cried, flushing crimson with pleasure.
+
+I continued,
+
+“Behind there we have a nice little room, which my housekeeper has
+cleaned up and furnished for you. You are going to take the place of the
+books which used to be in it; you will succeed them as the day succeeds
+night. Go with Therese and look at it, and see if you think you will be
+able to live in it. Madame de Gabry and I have made up our minds that
+you can sleep there to-night.”
+
+She had already started to run; I called her back for a moment.
+
+“Jeanne, listen to me a moment longer! You have always until now made
+yourself a favourite with my housekeeper, who, like all very old people,
+is apt to be cross at times. Be gentle and forebearing. Make every
+allowance for her. I have thought it my duty to make every allowance for
+her myself, and to put up with all her fits of impatience. Now, let me
+tell you, Jeanne:--Respect her! And when I say that, I do not forget
+that she is my servant and yours; neither will she ever allow herself
+to forget it for a moment. But what I want you to respect in her is her
+great age and her great heart. She is a humble woman who has lived a
+very, very long time in the habit of doing good; and she has become
+hardened and stiffened in that habit. Bear patiently with the harsh ways
+of that upright soul. If you know how to command, she will know how to
+obey. Go now, my child; arrange your room in whatever way may seem to
+you best suited for your studies and for your repose.”
+
+Having started Jeanne, with this viaticum, upon her domestic career, I
+began to read a Review, which, although conducted by very young men,
+is excellent. The tone of it is somewhat unpolished, but the spirit
+is zealous. The article I read was certainly far superior, in point of
+precision and positiveness, to anything of the sort ever written when I
+was a young man. The author of the article, Monsieur Paul Meyer, points
+out every error with a remarkably lucid power of incisive criticism.
+
+We used not in my time to criticise with such strict justice. Our
+indulgence was vast. It went even so far as to confuse the scholar and
+the ignoramus in the same burst of praise. And nevertheless one must
+learn how to find fault; and it is even an imperative duty to blame when
+the blame is deserved.
+
+I remember little Raymond (that was the name we gave him); he did not
+know anything, and his mind was not a mind capable of absorbing any
+solid learning; but he was very fond of his mother. We took very good
+care never to utter a hint of the ignorance of so perfect a son; and,
+thanks, to our forbearance, little Raymond made his way to the highest
+positions. He had lost his mother then; but honours of all kinds were
+showered upon him. He became omnipotent--to the grievous injury of
+his colleagues and of science.... But here comes my young fiend of the
+Luxembourg.
+
+“Good-evening, Gelis. You look very happy to-day. What good fortune has
+come to you, my dear lad?”
+
+His good fortune is that he has been able to sustain his thesis very
+credibly, and that he has taken high rank in his class. He tells me
+this with the additional information that my own words, which were
+incidentally referred to in the course of the examination, had been
+spoken of by the college professors in terms of the most unqualified
+praise.
+
+“That is very nice,” I replied; “and it makes me very happy, Gelis, to
+find my old reputation thus associated with your own youthful honours.
+I was very much interested, you know, in that thesis of yours;--but some
+domestic arrangements have been keeping me so busy lately that I quite
+forgot this was the day on which you were to sustain it.”
+
+Mademoiselle Jeanne made her appearance very opportunely, as if in order
+to suggest to him something about the nature of those very domestic
+arrangements. The giddy girl burst into the City of Books like a fresh
+breeze, crying at the top of her voice that her room was a perfect
+little wonder; then she became very red indeed on seeing Monsieur Gelis
+there. But none of us can escape our destiny.
+
+Monsieur Gelis asked her how she was with the tone of a young fellow who
+resumes upon a previous acquaintance, and who proposes to put himself
+forward as an old friend. Oh, never fear!--she had not forgotten him
+at all; that was very evident from the fact that then and there, right
+under my nose, they resumed their last year’s conversation on the
+subject of the “Venetian blond”! They continued the discussion after
+quite an animated fashion. I began to ask myself what right I had to be
+in the room at all. The only thing I could do in order to make myself
+heard was to cough. As for getting in a word, they never even gave me a
+chance. Gelis discoursed enthusiastically, not only about the Venetian
+colourists, but also upon all other matters relating to nature or
+to mankind. And Jeanne kept answering him, “Yes, Monsieur, you are
+right.”.... “That is just what I supposed, Monsieur.”.... “Monsieur,
+you express so beautifully just what I feel.”... “I am going to think a
+great deal about what you have just told me, Monsieur.”
+
+When I speak, Mademoiselle never answers me in that tone. It is
+only with the very tip of her tongue that she will even taste any
+intellectual food which I set before her. Usually she will not touch
+it at all. But Monsieur Gelis seems to be in her opinion the supreme
+authority upon all subjects. It was always, “Oh, yes!”--“Oh, of
+course!”--to all his empty chatter. And, then, the eyes of Jeanne! I
+had never seen them look so large before; I had never before observed in
+them such fixity of expression; but her gaze otherwise remained what it
+always is--artless, frank, and brave. Gelis evidently pleased her; she
+like Gelis, and her eyes betrayed the fact. They would have published it
+to the entire universe! All very fine, Master Bonnard!--you have been so
+deeply interested in observing your ward, that you have been forgetting
+you are her guardian! You began only this morning to exercise that
+function; and you can already see that it involves some very delicate
+and difficult duties. Bonnard, you must really try to devise some means
+of keeping that young man away from her; you really ought.... Eh! how am
+I to know what I am to do?...
+
+I have picked up a book at random from the nearest shelf; I open it, and
+I enter respectfully into the middle of a drama of Sophocles. The older
+I grow, the more I learn to love the two civilisations of the antique
+world; and now I always keep the poets of Italy and of Greece on a shelf
+within easy reach of my arm in the City of Books.
+
+Monsieur and Mademoiselle finally condescend to take some notice of me,
+now that I seem too busy to take any notice of them. I really think that
+Mademoiselle Jeanne has even asked me what I am reading. No, indeed, I
+will not tell her what it is. What I am reading, between ourselves,
+is the change of that smooth and luminous Chorus which rolls out its
+magnificent tunefulness through a scene of passionate violence--the
+Chorus of the Old Men of Thebes--‘Erws avixate...’ “Invincible Love,
+O thou who descendest upon rich houses,--Thou who dost rest upon the
+delicate cheek of the maiden,--Thou who dost traverse all seas,--surely
+none among the Immortals can escape Thee, nor indeed any among men who
+live but for a little space; and he who is possessed by Thee, there is a
+madness upon him.” And when I had re-read that delicious chant, the
+face of Antigone appeared before me in all its passionless purity. What
+images! Gods and goddesses who hover in the highest heights of Heaven!
+The blind old man, the long-wandering beggar-king, led by Antigone, has
+now been buried with holy rites; and his daughter, fair as the fairest
+dream ever conceived by human soul, resists the will of the tyrant and
+gives pious sepulture to her brother. She loves the son of the tyrant,
+and that son loves her also. And as she goes on her way to execution,
+the victim of her own sweet piety, the old men sing, “Invincible Love,
+O Thou who dost descend upon rich houses,--Thou who dost rest upon the
+delicate cheek of the maiden.”...
+
+“Mademoiselle Jeanne, are you really very anxious to know what I am
+reading? I am reading, Mademoiselle--I am reading that Antigone, having
+buried the blind old man, wove a fair tapestry embroidered with images
+in the likeness of laughing faces.”
+
+“Ah!” said Gelis, as he burs out laughing “that is not in the text.”
+
+“It is a scholium,” I said.
+
+“Unpublished,” he added, getting up.
+
+
+I am not an egotist. But I am prudent. I have to bring up this child;
+she is much too young to be married now. No! I am not an egotist, but
+I must certainly keep her with me for a few years more--keep her alone
+with me. She can surely wait until I am dead! Fear not, Antigone, old
+Oedipus will find holy burial soon enough.
+
+In the meanwhile, Antigone is helping our housekeeper to scrape the
+carrots. She says she like to do it--that it is in her line, being
+related to the art of sculpture.
+
+
+
+
+May.
+
+
+Who would recognise the City of Books now? There are flowers
+everywhere--even upon all the articles of furniture. Jeanne was right:
+those roses do look very nice in that blue china vase. She goes to
+market every day with Therese, under the pretext of helping the old
+servant to make her purchases, but she never brings anything back with
+her except flowers. Flowers are really very charming creatures. And one
+of these days, I must certainly carry out my plan, and devote myself to
+the study of them, in their own natural domain, in the country--with all
+the science and earnestness which I possess.
+
+For what have I to do here? Why should I burn my eyes out over these old
+parchments which cannot now tell me anything worth knowing? I used to
+study them, these old texts, with the most ardent enjoyment. What was
+it which I was then so anxious to find in them? The date of a pious
+foundation--the name of some monkish imagier or copyist--the price of
+a loaf, of an ox, or of a field--some judicial or administrative
+enactment--all that, and yet something more, a Something vaguely
+mysterious and sublime which excited my enthusiasm. But for sixty years
+I have been searching in vain for that Something. Better men than I--the
+masters, the truly great, the Fauriels, the Thierrys, who found so many
+things--died at their task without having been able, any more than I
+have been, to find that Something which, being incorporeal, has no name,
+and without which, nevertheless, no great mental work would ever be
+undertaken in this world. And now that I am only looking for what I
+should certainly be able to find, I cannot find anything at all; and
+it is probable that I shall never be able to finish the history of the
+Abbots of Saint-Germain-des-Pres.
+
+“Guardian, just guess what I have in my handkerchief.”
+
+“Judging from appearances, Jeanne, I should say flowers.”
+
+“Oh, no--not flowers. Look!”
+
+I look, and I see a little grey head poking itself out of the
+handkerchief. It is the head of a little grey cat. The handkerchief
+opens; the animal leaps down upon the carpet, shakes itself, pricks up
+first one ear and then the other, and begins to examine with due caution
+the locality and the inhabitants thereof.
+
+Therese, out of breath, with her basket on her arm, suddenly makes her
+appearance in time to take an objective part in this examination, which
+does not appear to result altogether in her favour; for the young cat
+moves slowly away from her, without, however, venturing near my legs, or
+approaching Jeanne, who displays extraordinary volubility in the use of
+caressing appellations. Therese, whose chief fault is her inability
+to hide her feelings, thereupon vehemently reproaches Mademoiselle for
+bringing home a cat that she did not know anything about. Jeanne, in
+order to justify herself, tells the whole story. While she was passing
+with Therese before a chemist’s shop, she saw the assistant kick a
+little cat into the street. The cat, astonished and frightened, seemed
+to be asking itself whether to remain in the street where it was being
+terrified and knocked about by the people passing by, or whether to go
+back into the chemist’s even at the risk of being kicked out a second
+time. Jeanne thought it was in a very critical position, and understood
+its hesitation. It looked so stupid; and she knew it looked stupid only
+because it could not decide what to do. So she took it up in her arms.
+And as it had not been able to obtain any rest either indoors out
+out-of-doors, it allowed her to hold it. Then she stroked and petted it
+to keep it from being afraid, and boldly went to the chemist’s assistant
+and said,
+
+“If you don’t like that animal, you mustn’t beat it; you must give it to
+me.”
+
+“Take it,” said the assistant.
+
+... “Now there!” adds Jeanne, by way of conclusion; and then she changes
+her voice again to a flute-tone in order to say all kinds of sweet
+things to the cat.
+
+“He is horribly thin,” I observe, looking at the wretched
+animal;--“moreover, he is horribly ugly.” Jeanne thinks he is not ugly
+at all, but she acknowledges that he looks even more stupid than he
+looked at first: this time she thinks it not indecision, but surprise,
+which gives that unfortunate aspect to his countenance. She asks us to
+imagine ourselves in his place;--then we are obliged to acknowledge that
+he cannot possibly understand what has happened to him. And then we all
+burst out laughing in the face of the poor little beast, which maintains
+the most comical look of gravity. Jeanne wants to take him up; but he
+hides himself under the table, and cannot even be tempted to come out by
+the lure of a saucer of milk.
+
+We all turn our backs and promise not to look; when we inspect the
+saucer again, we find it empty.
+
+“Jeanne,” I observe, “your protege has a decidedly tristful aspect of
+countenance; he is of sly and suspicious disposition; I trust he is not
+going to commit in the City of Books any such misdemeanours as might
+render it necessary for us to send him back to his chemist’s shop. In
+the meantime we must give him a name. Suppose we call him ‘Don Gris
+de Gouttiere’; but perhaps that is too long. ‘Pill,’ ‘Drug,’ or
+‘Castor-oil’ would be short enough, and would further serve to recall
+his early condition in life. What do you think about it?
+
+“‘Pill’ would not sound bad,” answers Jeanne, “but it would be very
+unkind to give him a name which would be always reminding him of the
+misery from which we saved him. It would be making him pay too dearly
+for our hospitality. Let us be more generous, and give him a pretty
+name, in hopes that he is going to deserve it. See how he looks at us!
+He knows that we are talking about him. And now that he is no longer
+unhappy, he is beginning to look a great deal less stupid. I am not
+joking! Unhappiness does make people look stupid,--I am perfectly sure
+it does.”
+
+“Well, Jeanne, if you like, we will call your protege Hannibal. The
+appropriateness of that name does not seem to strike you at once. But
+the Angora cat who preceded him here as an intimate of the City of
+Books, and to whom I was in the habit of telling all my secrets--for he
+was a very wise and discreet person--used to be called Hamilcar. It is
+natural that this name should beget the other, and that Hannibal should
+succeed Hamilcar.”
+
+We all agreed upon this point.
+
+“Hannibal!” cried Jeanne, “come here!”
+
+Hannibal, greatly frightened by the strange sonority of his own name,
+ran to hid himself under a bookcase in an orifice so small that a rat
+could not have squeezed himself into it.
+
+A nice way of doing credit to so great a name!
+
+
+I was in a good humour for working that day, and I had just dipped the
+nib of my pen into the ink-bottle when I heard some one ring. Should any
+one ever read these pages written by an unimaginative old man, he
+will be sure to laugh at the way that bell keeps ringing through my
+narrative, without ever announcing the arrival of a new personage or
+introducing any unexpected incident. On the stage things are managed
+on the reverse principle. Monsieur Scribe never has the curtain raised
+without good reason, and for the greater enjoyment of ladies and young
+misses. That is art! I would rather hang myself than write a play,--not
+that I despise life, but because I should never be able to invent
+anything amusing. Invent! In order to do that one must have received
+the gift of inspiration. It would be a very unfortunate thing for me
+to possess such a gift. Suppose I were to invent some monkling in my
+history of the Abbey of Saint-Germain-des-Pres! What would our young
+erudites say? What a scandal for the School! As for the Institute, it
+would say nothing and probably not even think about the matter either.
+Even if my colleagues still write a little sometimes, they never read.
+They are of the opinion of Parny, who said,
+
+     “Une paisible indifference
+      Est la plus sage des vertus.”
+      [“The most wise of the virtues is a calm indifference.”]
+
+To be the least wise in order to become the most wise--this is precisely
+what those Buddhists are aiming at without knowing it. If there is any
+wiser wisdom than that I will go to Rome to report upon it.... And all
+this because Monsieur Gelis happened to ring the bell!
+
+This young man has latterly changed his manner completely with Jeanne.
+He is now quite as serious as he used to be frivolous, and quite as
+silent as he used to be chatty. And Jeanne follows his example. We have
+reached the phase of passionate love under constraint. For, old as I
+am, I cannot be deceived about it: these two children are violently
+and sincerely in love with each other. Jeanne now avoids him--she hides
+herself in her room when he comes into the library--but how well she
+knows how to reach him when she is alone! alone at her piano! Every
+evening she talks to him through the music she plays with a rich thrill
+of passional feeling which is the new utterance of her new soul.
+
+Well, why should I not confess it? Why should I not avow my weakness?
+Surely my egotism would not become any less blameworthy by keeping it
+hidden from myself? So I will write it. Yes! I was hoping for something
+else;--yes! I thought I was going to keep her all to myself, as my own
+child, as my own daughter--not always, of course, not even perhaps for
+very long, but just for a few short years more. I am so old! Could she
+not wait? And, who knows? With the help of the gout, I would not have
+imposed upon her patience too much. That was my wish; that was my hope.
+I had made my plans--I had not reckoned upon the coming of this wild
+young man. But the mistake is none the less cruel because my reckoning
+happened to be wrong. And yet it seems to me that you are condemning
+yourself very rashly, friend Sylvestre Bonnard: if you did want to keep
+this young girl a few years longer, it was quite as much in her own
+interest as in yours. She has a great deal to learn yet, and you are
+not a master to be despised. When that miserable notary Mouche--who
+subsequently committed his rascalities at so opportune a moment--paid
+you the honour of a visit, you explained to him your ideas of education
+with all the fervour of high enthusiasm. Then you attempted to put that
+system of yours into practice;--Jeanne is certainly an ungrateful girl,
+and Gelis a much too seductive young man!
+
+But still,--unless I put him out of the house, which would be a
+detestably ill-mannered and ill-natured thing to do,--I must continue to
+receive him. He has been waiting ever so long in my little parlour, in
+front of those Sevres vases with which King Louis Philippe so graciously
+presented me. The Moissonneurs and the Pecheurs of Leopold Robert are
+painted upon those porcelain vases, which Gelis nevertheless dares to
+call frightfully ugly, with the warm approval of Jeanne, whom he has
+absolutely bewitched.
+
+“My dear lad, excuse me for having kept you waiting so long. I had a
+little bit of work to finish.”
+
+I am telling the truth. Meditation is work, but of course Gelis does not
+know what I mean; he thinks I am referring to something archaeological,
+and, his question in regard to the health of Mademoiselle Jeanne having
+been answered by a “Very well indeed,” uttered in that extremely dry
+tone which reveals my moral authority as guardian, we begin to
+converse about historical subjects. We first enter upon generalities.
+Generalities are sometimes extremely serviceable. I try to inculcate
+into Monsieur Gelis some respect for that generation of historians to
+which I belong. I say to him,
+
+“History, which was formerly an art, and which afforded place for the
+fullest exercise of the imagination, has in our time become a science,
+the study of which demands absolute exactness of knowledge.”
+
+Gelis asks leave to differ from me on this subject. He tells me he does
+not believe that history is a science, or that it could possibly ever
+become a science.
+
+“In the first place,” he says to me, “what is history? The written
+representation of past events. But what is an event? Is it merely
+a commonplace fact? It is any fact? No! You say yourself it is a
+noteworthy fact. Now, how is the historian to tell whether a fact is
+noteworthy or not? He judges it arbitrarily, according to his tastes and
+his caprices and his ideas--in short, as an artist? For facts cannot by
+reason of their own intrinsic character be divided into historical facts
+and non-historical facts. But any fact is something exceedingly complex.
+Will the historian represent facts in all their complexity? No, that is
+impossible. Then he will represent them stripped of the greater part
+of the peculiarities which constituted them, and consequently
+lopped, mutilated, different from what they really were. As for the
+inter-relation of facts, needless to speak of it! If a so-called
+historical fact be brought into notice--as is very possible--by one or
+more facts which are not historical at all, and are for that very reason
+unknown, how is the historian going to establish the relation of
+these facts one to another? And in saying this, Monsieur Bonnard, I am
+supposing that the historian has positive evidence before him, whereas
+in reality he feels confidence only in such or such a witness for
+sympathetic reasons. History is not a science; it is an art, and one
+can succeed in that art only through the exercise of his faculty of
+imagination.”
+
+Monsieur Gelis reminds me very much at this moment of a certain
+young fool whom I heard talking wildly one day in the garden of the
+Luxembourg, under the statue of Marguerite of Navarre. But at another
+turn of the conversation we find ourselves face to face with Walter
+Scott, whose work my disdainful young friend pleases to term “rococo,
+troubadourish, and only fit to inspire somebody engaged in making
+designs for cheap bronze clocks.” Those are his very words!
+
+“Why!” I exclaim, zealous to defend the magnificent creator of ‘The
+Bride of Lammermoor’ and ‘The Fair Maid of Perth,’ “the whole past lives
+in those admirable novels of his;--that is history, that is epic!”
+
+“It is frippery,” Gelis answers me.
+
+And,--will you believe it?--this crazy boy actually tells me that no
+matter how learned one may be, one cannot possibly know just how men
+used to live five or ten centuries ago, because it is only with the very
+greatest difficulty that one can picture them to oneself even as they
+were only ten or fifteen years ago. In his opinion, the historical poem,
+the historical novel, the historical painting, are all, according to
+their kind, abominably false as branches of art.
+
+“In all the arts,” he adds, “the artist can only reflect his own
+soul. His work, no matter how it may be dressed up, is of necessity
+contemporary with himself, being the reflection of his own mind. What do
+we admire in the ‘Divine Comedy’ unless it be the great soul of Dante?
+And the marbles of Michael Angelo, what do they represent to us that
+is at all extraordinary unless it be Michael Angelo himself? The artist
+either communicates his own life to his creations, or else merely
+whittles out puppets and dresses up dolls.”
+
+What a torrent of paradoxes and irreverences! But boldness in a young
+man is not displeasing to me. Gelis gets up from his chair and sits
+down again. I know perfectly well what is worrying him, and whom he is
+waiting for. And now he begins to talk to me about his being able to
+make fifteen hundred francs a year, to which he can add the revenue
+he derives from a little property that he has inherited--two thousand
+francs a year more. And I am not in the least deceived as to the purpose
+of these confidences on his part. I know perfectly well that he is only
+making his little financial statements in order to persuade me that
+he is comfortably circumstanced, steady, fond of home, comparatively
+independent--or, to put the matter in the fewest words possible, able to
+marry. Quod erat demonstrandum,--as the geometricians say.
+
+He has got up and sat down just twenty times. He now rises for the
+twenty-first time; and, as he has not been able to see Jeanne, he goes
+away feeling as unhappy as possible.
+
+The moment he has gone, Jeanne comes into the City of Books, under the
+pretext of looking for Hannibal. She is also quite unhappy; and her
+voice becomes singularly plaintive as she calls her pet to give him some
+milk. Look at that sad little face, Bonnard! Tyrant, gaze upon thy work!
+Thou hast been able to keep them from seeing each other; but they have
+now both of them the same expression of countenance, and thou mayest
+discern from that similarity of expression that in spite of thee they
+are united in thought. Cassandra, be happy! Bartholo, rejoice! This is
+what it means to be a guardian! Just see her kneeling down there on the
+carpet with Hannibal’s head between her hands!
+
+Yes, caress the stupid animal!--pity him!--moan over him!--we know very
+well, you little rogue, the real cause of all these sighs and plaints!
+Nevertheless, it makes a very pretty picture. I look at it for a long
+time; then, throwing a glance around my library, I exclaim,
+
+“Jeanne, I am tired of all those books; we must sell them.”
+
+
+
+
+September 20.
+
+
+It is done!--they are betrothed. Gelis, who is an orphan, as Jeanne is,
+did not make his proposal to me in person. He got one of his professors,
+an old colleague of mine, highly esteemed for his learning and
+character, to come to me on his behalf. But what a love messenger! Great
+Heavens! A bear--neat a bear of the Pyrenees, but a literary bear, and
+this latter variety of bear is much more ferocious than the former.
+
+“Right or wrong (in my opinion wrong) Gelis says that he does not want
+any dowry; he takes your ward with nothing but her chemise. Say yes,
+and the thing is settled! Make haste about it! I want to show you two
+or three very curious old tokens from Lorraine which I am sure you never
+saw before.”
+
+That is literally what he said to me. I answered him that I would
+consult Jeanne, and I found no small pleasure in telling him that my
+ward had a dowry.
+
+Her dowry--there it is in front of me! It is my library. Henri and
+Jeanne have not even the faintest suspicion about it; and the fact is I
+am commonly believed to be much richer than I am. I have the face of
+an old miser. It is certainly a lying face; but its untruthfulness has
+often won for me a great deal of consideration. There is nobody so much
+respected in this world as a stingy rich man.
+
+I have consulted Jeanne,--but what was the need of listening for her
+answer? It is done! They are betrothed.
+
+It would ill become my character as well as my face to watch these young
+people any longer for the mere purpose of noting down their words and
+gestures. Noli me tangere:--that is the maxim for all charming love
+affairs. I know my duty. It is to respect all the little secrets of that
+innocent soul intrusted to me. Let these children love each other
+all they can! Never a word of their fervent outpouring of mutual
+confidences, never a hint of their artless self-betrayals, will be set
+down in this diary by the old guardian whose authority was so gentle and
+so brief.
+
+At all events, I am not going to remain with my arms folded; and if they
+have their business to attend to, I have mine also. I am preparing a
+catalogue of my books, with a view to having them all sold at auction.
+It is a task which saddens and amuses me at the same time. I linger over
+it, perhaps a good deal longer than I ought to do; turning the leaves
+of all those works which have become so familiar to my thought, to my
+touch, to my sight--even out of all necessity and reason. But it is
+a farewell; and it has ever been in the nature of man to prolong a
+farewell.
+
+This ponderous volume here, which has served me so much for thirty long
+years, how can I leave it without according it every kindness that
+a faithful servant deserves? And this one again, which has so often
+consoled me by its wholesome doctrines, must I not bow down before it
+for the last time, as to a Master? But each time that I meet with a
+volume which led me into error, which ever afflicted me with false
+dates, omissions, lies, and other plagues of the archaeologist, I say to
+it with bitter joy: “Go! imposter, traitor, false-witness! flee thou far
+away from me for ever;--vade retro! all absurdly covered with gold
+as thou art! and I pray it may befall thee--thanks to thy usurped
+reputation and thy comely morocco attire--to take thy place in the
+cabinet of some banker-bibliomaniac, whom thou wilt never be able to
+seduce as thou has seduced me, because he will never read one single
+line of thee.”
+
+I laid aside some books I must always keep--those books which were given
+to me as souvenirs. As I placed among them the manuscript of the
+“Golden Legend,” I could not but kiss it in memory of Madame Trepof,
+who remained grateful to me in spite of her high position and all her
+wealth, and who became my benefactress merely to prove to me that she
+felt I had once done her a kindness.... Thus I had made a reserve. It
+was then that, for the first time, I felt myself inclined to commit
+a deliberate crime. All through that night I was strongly tempted; by
+morning the temptation had become irresistible. Everybody else in the
+house was still asleep. I got out of bed and stole softly from my room.
+
+Ye powers of darkness! ye phantoms of the night! if while lingering
+within my home after the crowing of the cock, you saw me stealing about
+on tiptoe in the City of Books, you certainly never cried out, as Madame
+Trepof did at Naples, “That old man has a good-natured round back!” I
+entered the library; Hannibal, with his tail perpendicularly erected,
+came to rub himself against my legs and purr. I seized a volume from
+its shelf, some venerable Gothic text or some noble poet of the
+Renaissance--the jewel, the treasure which I had been dreaming about
+all night, I seized it and slipped it away into the very bottom of the
+closet which I had reserved for those books I intended to retain, and
+which soon became full almost to bursting. It is horrible to relate:
+I was stealing from the dowry of Jeanne! And when the crime had been
+consummated I set myself again sturdily to the task of cataloguing,
+until Jeanne came to consult me in regard to something about a dress or
+a trousseau. I could not possibly understand just what she was
+talking about, through my total ignorance of the current vocabulary of
+dress-making and linen-drapery. Ah! if a bride of the fourteenth century
+had come to talk to me about the apparel of her epoch, then, indeed, I
+should have been able to understand her language! But Jeanne does not
+belong to my time, and I have to send her to Madame de Gabry, who on
+this important occasion will take the place of her mother.
+
+... Night has come! Leaning from the window, we gaze at the vast sombre
+stretch of the city below us, pierced with multitudinous points of
+light. Jeanne presses her hand to her forehead as she leans upon the
+window-bar, and seems a little sad. And I say to myself as I watch her:
+All changes even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we
+leave behind us is a part of ourselves: we must die to one life before
+we can enter into another!
+
+And as if answering my thought, the young girl murmurs to me,
+
+“My guardian, I am so happy; and still I feel as if I wanted to cry!”
+
+
+
+
+The Last Page
+
+
+
+
+August 21, 1869.
+
+Page eighty-seven.... Only twenty lines more and I shall have finished
+my book about insects and flowers. Page eighty-seventh and last.... “As
+we have already seen, the visits of insects are of the utmost importance
+to plants; since their duty is to carry to the pistils the pollen of
+the stamens. It seems also that the flower itself is arranged and made
+attractive for the purpose of inviting this nuptial visit. I think I
+have been able to show that the nectary of the plant distils a sugary
+liquid which attracts the insects and obliges it to aid unconsciously
+in the work of direct or cross fertilisation. The last method of
+fertilisation is the more common. I have shown that flowers are coloured
+and perfumed so as to attract insects, and interiorly so constructed as
+to offer those visitors such a mode of access that they cannot penetrate
+into the corolla without depositing upon the stigma the pollen with
+which they have been covered. My most venerated master Sprengel
+observes in regard to that fine down which lines the corolla of the
+wood-geranium: ‘The wise Author of Nature has never created a single
+useless hair!’ I say in my turn: If that Lily of the Valley whereof the
+Gospel makes mention is more richly clad than King Solomon in all his
+glory, its mantle of purple is a wedding-garment, and that rich apparel
+is necessary to the perpetuation of the species.”
+
+“Brolles, August 21, 1869.”
+
+[Monsieur Sylvestre Bonnard was not aware that several very illustrious
+naturalists were making researches at the same time as he in regard to
+the relation between insects and plants. He was not acquainted with
+the labours of Darwin, with those of Dr. Hermann Muller, nor with
+the observations of Sir John Lubbock. It is worthy of note that the
+conclusions of Monsieur Sylvestre Bonnard are very nearly similar to
+those reached by the three scientists above mentioned. Less important,
+but perhaps equally interesting, is the fact that Sir John Lubbock is,
+like Monsieur Bonnard, an archaeologist who began to devote himself only
+late in life to the natural sciences.--Note by the French Editor.]
+
+Brolles! My house is the last one you pass in the single street of the
+village, as you go to the woods. It is a gabled house with a slate roof,
+which takes iridescent tints in the sun like a pigeon’s breast. The
+weather-vane above that roof has won more consideration for me among the
+country people than all my works upon history and philology. There is
+not a single child who does not know Monsieur Bonnard’s weather-vane. It
+is rusty, and squeaks very sharply in the wind. Sometimes it refuses
+to do any work at all--just like Therese, who now allows herself to be
+assisted by a young peasant girl--though she grumbles a good deal about
+it. The house is not large, but I am very comfortable in it. My room
+has two windows, and gets the sun in the morning. The children’s room is
+upstairs. Jeanne and Henri come twice a year to occupy it.
+
+Little Sylvestre’s cradle used to be in it. He was a very pretty child,
+but very pale. When he used to play on the grass, his mother would watch
+him very anxiously; and every little while she would stop her sewing in
+order to take him upon her lap. The poor little fellow never wanted to
+go to sleep. He used to say that when he was asleep he would go away,
+very far away, to some place where it was all dark, and where he saw
+things that made him afraid--things he never wanted to see again.
+
+Then his mother would call me, and I would sit down beside his cradle.
+He would take one of my fingers in his little dry warm hand, and say to
+me,
+
+“Godfather, you must tell me a story.”
+
+Then I would tell him all kinds of stories, which he would listen to
+very seriously. They all interested him, but there was one especially
+which filled his little soul with delight. It was “The Blue Bird.”
+ Whenever I finished that, he would say to me, “Tell it again! tell it
+again!” And I would tell it again until his little pale blue-veined head
+sank back upon the pillow in slumber.
+
+The doctor used to answer all our questions by saying,
+
+“There is nothing extraordinary the matter with him!”
+
+No! There was nothing extraordinary the matter with little Sylvestre.
+One evening last year his father called me.
+
+“Come,” he said, “the little one is still worse.”
+
+I approached the cradle over which the mother hung motionless, as if
+tied down above it by all the powers of her soul.
+
+Little Sylvestre turned his eyes towards me; their pupils had already
+rolled up beneath his eyelids, and could not descend again.
+
+“Godfather,” he said, “you are not to tell me any more stories.”
+
+No, I was not to tell him any more stories!
+
+Poor Jeanne!--poor mother!
+
+I am too old now to feel very deeply; but how strangely painful a
+mystery is the death of a child!
+
+
+To-day, the father and mother have come to pass six weeks under the old
+man’s roof. I see them now returning from the woods, walking arm-in-arm.
+Jeanne is closely wrapped in her black shawl, and Henri wears a crape
+band on his straw hat; but they are both of them radiant with youth,
+and they smile very sweetly at each other. They smile at the earth which
+sustains them; they smile at the air which bathes them; they smile at
+the light which each one sees in the eyes of the other. From my window I
+wave my handkerchief at them,--and they smile at my old age.
+
+Jeanne comes running lightly up the stairs; she kisses me, and then
+whispers in my ear something which I divine rather than hear. And I make
+answer to her: “May God’s blessing be with you, Jeanne, and with your
+husband, and with your children, and with your children’s children for
+ever!”... Et nunc dimittis servum tuum, Domine!
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of Project Gutenberg’s The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard, by Anatole France
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diff --git a/The Red Lily, Complete.txt b/The Red Lily, Complete.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..24abf3a
--- /dev/null
+++ b/The Red Lily, Complete.txt	
@@ -0,0 +1,9381 @@
+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Red Lily, Complete, by Anatole France
+
+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: The Red Lily, Complete
+
+Author: Anatole France
+
+Release Date: October 4, 2006 [EBook #3922]
+Last Updated: August 23, 2016
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RED LILY, COMPLETE ***
+
+
+
+Produced by David Widger
+
+
+
+
+
+THE RED LILY
+
+By Anatole France
+
+
+
+The real name of the subject of this preface is Jacques-Anatole
+Thibault. He was born in Paris, April 16, 1844, the son of a bookseller
+of the Quai Malaquais, in the shadow of the Institute. He was educated
+at the College Stanislas and published in 1868 an essay upon Alfred de
+Vigny. This was followed by two volumes of poetry: ‘Les Poemes Dores’
+(1873), and ‘Les Noces Corinthiennes’ (1876). With the last mentioned
+book his reputation became established.
+
+Anatole France belongs to the class of poets known as “Les Parnassiens.”
+ Yet a book like ‘Les Noces Corinthiennes’ ought to be classified among
+a group of earlier lyrics, inasmuch as it shows to a large degree the
+influence of Andre Chenier and Alfred de Vigny. France was, and is, also
+a diligent contributor to many journals and reviews, among others, ‘Le
+Globe, Les Debats, Le Journal Officiel, L’Echo de Paris, La Revue de
+Famille, and Le Temps’. On the last mentioned journal he succeeded Jules
+Claretie. He is likewise Librarian to the Senate, and has been a member
+of the French Academy since 1896.
+
+The above mentioned two volumes of poetry were followed by many works in
+prose, which we shall notice. France’s critical writings are collected
+in four volumes, under the title, ‘La Vie Litteraire’ (1888-1892); his
+political articles in ‘Opinions Sociales’ (2 vols., 1902). He combines
+in his style traces of Racine, Voltaire, Flaubert, and Renan, and,
+indeed, some of his novels, especially ‘Thais’ (1890), ‘Jerome Coignard’
+(1893), and Lys Rouge (1894), which was crowned by the Academy, are
+romances of the first rank.
+
+Criticism appears to Anatole France the most recent and possibly the
+ultimate evolution of literary expression, “admirably suited to a
+highly civilized society, rich in souvenirs and old traditions.... It
+proceeds,” in his opinion, “from philosophy and history, and demands for
+its development an absolute intellectual liberty..... It is the last in
+date of all literary forms, and it will end by absorbing them all ....
+To be perfectly frank the critic should say: ‘Gentlemen, I propose to
+enlarge upon my own thoughts concerning Shakespeare, Racine, Pascal,
+Goethe, or any other writer.’”
+
+It is hardly necessary to say much concerning a critic with such
+pronounced ideas as Anatole France. He gives us, indeed, the full flower
+of critical Renanism, but so individualized as to become perfection in
+grace, the extreme flowering of the Latin genius. It is not too much to
+say that the critical writings of Anatole France recall the Causeries du
+Lundi, the golden age of Sainte-Beuve!
+
+As a writer of fiction, Anatole France made his debut in 1879 with
+‘Jocaste’, and ‘Le Chat Maigre’. Success in this field was yet decidedly
+doubtful when ‘Le Crime de Sylvestre Bonnard’ appeared in 1881. It at
+once established his reputation; ‘Sylvestre Bonnard’, as ‘Le Lys Rouge’
+later, was crowned by the French Academy. These novels are replete with
+fine irony, benevolent scepticism and piquant turns, and will survive
+the greater part of romances now read in France. The list of Anatole
+France’s works in fiction is a large one. The titles of nearly all of
+them, arranged in chronological order, are as follows: ‘Les Desirs de
+Jean Seyvien (1882); Abeille (1883); Le Livre de mon Ami (1885); Nos
+Enfants (1886); Balthazar (1889); Thais (1890); L’Etui de Naire (1892);
+Jerome Coignard, and La Rotisserie de la Reine Pedanque (1893); and
+Histoire Contemporaine (1897-1900), the latter consisting of four
+separate works: ‘L’Orme du Mail, Le Mannequin d’Osier, L’Anneau
+d’Amethyste, and Monsieur Bergeret a Paris’. All of his writings show
+his delicately critical analysis of passion, at first playfully tender
+in its irony, but later, under the influence of his critical antagonism
+to Brunetiere, growing keener, stronger, and more bitter. In ‘Thais’ he
+has undertaken to show the bond of sympathy that unites the pessimistic
+sceptic to the Christian ascetic, since both despise the world. In ‘Lys
+Rouge’, his greatest novel, he traces the perilously narrow line that
+separates love from hate; in ‘Opinions de M. l’Abbe Jerome Coignard’ he
+has given us the most radical breviary of scepticism that has appeared
+since Montaigne. ‘Le Livre de mon Ami’ is mostly autobiographical;
+‘Clio’ (1900) contains historical sketches.
+
+To represent Anatole France as one of the undying names in literature
+would hardly be extravagant. Not that I would endow Ariel with the
+stature and sinews of a Titan; this were to miss his distinctive
+qualities: delicacy, elegance, charm. He belongs to a category of
+writers who are more read and probably will ever exercise greater
+influence than some of greater name. The latter show us life as a whole;
+but life as a whole is too vast and too remote to excite in most of
+us more than a somewhat languid curiosity. France confines himself to
+themes of the keenest personal interest, the life of the world we live
+in. It is herein that he excels! His knowledge is wide, his sympathies
+are many-sided, his power of exposition is unsurpassed. No one has
+set before us the mind of our time, with its half-lights, its shadowy
+vistas, its indefiniteness, its haze on the horizon, so vividly as he.
+
+In Octave Mirbeau’s notorious novel, a novel which it would be
+complimentary to describe as naturalistic, the heroine is warned by
+her director against the works of Anatole France, “Ne lisez jamais du
+Voltaire... C’est un peche mortel... ni de Renan... ni de l’Anatole
+France. Voila qui est dangereux.” The names are appropriately united; a
+real, if not precisely an apostolic, succession exists between the three
+writers.
+
+               JULES LEMAITRE
+   de l’Academie Francais
+
+
+
+
+BOOK 1.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I. “I NEED LOVE”
+
+She gave a glance at the armchairs placed before the chimney, at the
+tea-table, which shone in the shade, and at the tall, pale stems of
+flowers ascending above Chinese vases. She thrust her hand among the
+flowery branches of the guelder roses to make their silvery balls
+quiver. Then she looked at herself in a mirror with serious attention.
+She held herself sidewise, her neck turned over her shoulder, to follow
+with her eyes the spring of her fine form in its sheath-like black satin
+gown, around which floated a light tunic studded with pearls wherein
+sombre lights scintillated. She went nearer, curious to know her face
+of that day. The mirror returned her look with tranquillity, as if this
+amiable woman whom she examined, and who was not unpleasing to her,
+lived without either acute joy or profound sadness.
+
+On the walls of the large drawing-room, empty and silent, the figures
+of the tapestries, vague as shadows, showed pallid among their antique
+games and dying graces. Like them, the terra-cotta statuettes on slender
+columns, the groups of old Saxony, and the paintings of Sevres, spoke of
+past glories. On a pedestal ornamented with precious bronzes, the marble
+bust of some princess royal disguised as Diana appeared about to fly
+out of her turbulent drapery, while on the ceiling a figure of Night,
+powdered like a marquise and surrounded by cupids, sowed flowers.
+Everything was asleep, and only the crackling of the logs and the light
+rattle of Therese’s pearls could be heard.
+
+Turning from the mirror, she lifted the corner of a curtain and saw
+through the window, beyond the dark trees of the quay, the Seine
+spreading its yellow reflections. Weariness of the sky and of the water
+was reflected in her fine gray eyes. The boat passed, the ‘Hirondelle’,
+emerging from an arch of the Alma Bridge, and carrying humble travellers
+toward Grenelle and Billancourt. She followed it with her eyes, then let
+the curtain fall, and, seating herself under the flowers, took a book
+from the table. On the straw-colored linen cover shone the title in
+gold: ‘Yseult la Blonde’, by Vivian Bell. It was a collection of French
+verses composed by an Englishwoman, and printed in London. She read
+indifferently, waiting for visitors, and thinking less of the poetry
+than of the poetess, Miss Bell, who was perhaps her most agreeable
+friend, and whom she almost never saw; who, at every one of their
+meetings, which were so rare, kissed her, calling her “darling,”
+ and babbled; who, plain yet seductive, almost ridiculous, yet wholly
+exquisite, lived at Fiesole like a philosopher, while England celebrated
+her as her most beloved poet. Like Vernon Lee and like Mary Robinson,
+she had fallen in love with the life and art of Tuscany; and, without
+even finishing her Tristan, the first part of which had inspired in
+Burne-Jones dreamy aquarelles, she wrote Provencal verses and French
+poems expressing Italian ideas. She had sent her ‘Yseult la Blonde’
+to “Darling,” with a letter inviting her to spend a month with her at
+Fiesole. She had written: “Come; you will see the most beautiful things
+in the world, and you will embellish them.”
+
+And “darling” was saying to herself that she would not go, that she
+must remain in Paris. But the idea of seeing Miss Bell in Italy was not
+indifferent to her. And turning the leaves of the book, she stopped by
+chance at this line:
+
+          Love and gentle heart are one.
+
+And she asked herself, with gentle irony, whether Miss Bell had ever
+been in love, and what manner of man could be the ideal of Miss Bell.
+The poetess had at Fiesole an escort, Prince Albertinelli. He was
+very handsome, but rather coarse and vulgar; too much so to please
+an aesthete who blended with the desire for love the mysticism of an
+Annunciation.
+
+“Good-evening, Therese. I am positively worn out.”
+
+The Princess Seniavine had entered, supple in her furs, which almost
+seemed to form a part of her dark beauty. She seated herself brusquely,
+and, in a voice at once harsh yet caressing, said:
+
+“This morning I walked through the park with General Lariviere. I met
+him in an alley and made him go with me to the bridge, where he wished
+to buy from the guardian a learned magpie which performs the manual of
+arms with a gun. Oh! I am so tired!”
+
+“But why did you drag the General to the bridge?”
+
+“Because he had gout in his toe.”
+
+Therese shrugged her shoulders, smiling:
+
+“You squander your wickedness. You spoil things.”
+
+“And you wish me, dear, to save my kindness and my wickedness for a
+serious investment?”
+
+Therese made her drink some Tokay.
+
+Preceded by the sound of his powerful breathing, General Lariviere
+approached with heavy state and sat between the two women, looking
+stubborn and self-satisfied, laughing in every wrinkle of his face.
+
+“How is Monsieur Martin-Belleme? Always busy?”
+
+Therese thought he was at the Chamber, and even that he was making a
+speech there.
+
+Princess Seniavine, who was eating caviare sandwiches, asked Madame
+Martin why she had not gone to Madame Meillan’s the day before. They had
+played a comedy there.
+
+“A Scandinavian play? Was it a success?”
+
+“Yes--I don’t know. I was in the little green room, under the portrait
+of the Duc d’Orleans. Monsieur Le Menil came to me and did me one of
+those good turns that one never forgets. He saved me from Monsieur
+Garain.”
+
+The General, who knew the Annual Register, and stored away all useful
+information, pricked up his ears.
+
+“Garain,” he asked, “the minister who was in the Cabinet when the
+princes were exiled?”
+
+“Himself. I was excessively agreeable to him. He talked to me of the
+yearnings of his heart and he looked at me with alarming tenderness.
+And from time to time he gazed, with sighs, at the portrait of the Duc
+d’Orleans. I said to him: ‘Monsieur Garain, you are making a mistake.
+It is my sister-in-law who is an Orleanist. I am not.’ At this moment
+Monsieur Le Menil came to escort me to the buffet. He paid great
+compliments--to my horses! He said, also, there was nothing so beautiful
+as the forest in winter. He talked about wolves. That refreshed me.”
+
+The General, who did not like young men, said he had met Le Menil the
+day before in the forest, galloping, with vast space between himself and
+his saddle.
+
+He declared that old cavaliers alone retained the traditions of good
+horsemanship; that people in society now rode like jockeys.
+
+“It is the same with fencing,” he added. “Formerly--”
+
+Princess Seniavine interrupted him:
+
+“General, look and see how charming Madame Martin is. She is always
+charming, but at this moment she is prettier than ever. It is because
+she is bored. Nothing becomes her better than to be bored. Since we
+have been here, we have bored her terribly. Look at her: her forehead
+clouded, her glance vague, her mouth dolorous. Behold a victim!”
+
+She arose, kissed Therese tumultuously, and fled, leaving the General
+astonished.
+
+Madame Martin-Belleme prayed him not to listen to what the Princess had
+said.
+
+He collected himself and asked:
+
+“And how are your poets, Madame?”
+
+It was difficult for him to forgive Madame Martin her preference for
+people who lived by writing and were not of his circle.
+
+“Yes, your poets. What has become of that Monsieur Choulette, who visits
+you wrapped in a red muffler?”
+
+“My poets? They forget me, they abandon me. One should not rely on
+anybody. Men and women--nothing is sure. Life is a continual betrayal.
+Only that poor Miss Bell does not forget me. She has written to me from
+Florence and sent her book.”
+
+“Miss Bell? Isn’t she that young person who looks, with her yellow
+waving hair, like a little lapdog?”
+
+He reflected, and expressed the opinion that she must be at least
+thirty.
+
+An old lady, wearing with modest dignity her crown of white hair, and a
+little vivacious man with shrewd eyes, came in suddenly--Madame Marmet
+and M. Paul Vence. Then, carrying himself very stiffly, with a square
+monocle in his eye, appeared M. Daniel Salomon, the arbiter of elegance.
+The General hurried out.
+
+They talked of the novel of the week. Madame Marmet had dined often with
+the author, a young and very amiable man. Paul Vence thought the book
+tiresome.
+
+“Oh,” sighed Madame Martin, “all books are tiresome. But men are more
+tiresome than books, and they are more exacting.”
+
+Madame Marmet said that her husband, who had much literary taste, had
+retained, until the end of his days, a horror of naturalism. She was the
+widow of a member of the ‘Academie des Inscriptions’, and plumed herself
+upon her illustrious widowhood. She was sweet and modest in her black
+gown and her beautiful white hair.
+
+Madame Martin said to M. Daniel Salomon that she wished to consult him
+particularly on the picture of a group of beautiful children.
+
+“You will tell me if it pleases you. You may also give me your opinion,
+Monsieur Vence, unless you disdain such trifles.”
+
+M. Daniel Salomon looked at Paul Vence through his monocle with disdain.
+Paul Vence surveyed the drawing-room.
+
+“You have beautiful things, Madame. That would be nothing. But you have
+only beautiful things, and all serve to set off your own beauty.”
+
+She did not conceal her pleasure at hearing him speak in that way. She
+regarded Paul Vence as the only really intelligent man she knew. She
+had appreciated him before his books had made him celebrated. His
+ill-health, his dark humor, his assiduous labor, separated him from
+society. The little bilious man was not very pleasing; yet he attracted
+her. She held in high esteem his profound irony, his great pride, his
+talent ripened in solitude, and she admired him, with reason, as an
+excellent writer, the author of powerful essays on art and on life.
+
+Little by little the room filled with a brilliant crowd. Within the
+large circle of armchairs were Madame de Wesson, about whom people told
+frightful stories, and who kept, after twenty years of half-smothered
+scandal, the eyes of a child and cheeks of virginal smoothness; old
+Madame de Morlaine, who shouted her witty phrases in piercing cries;
+Madame Raymond, the wife of the Academician; Madame Garain, the wife
+of the exminister; three other ladies; and, standing easily against the
+mantelpiece, M. Berthier d’Eyzelles, editor of the ‘Journal des Debats’,
+a deputy who caressed his white beard while Madame de Morlaine shouted
+at him:
+
+“Your article on bimetallism is a pearl, a jewel! Especially the end of
+it.”
+
+Standing in the rear of the room, young clubmen, very grave, lisped
+among themselves:
+
+“What did he do to get the button from the Prince?”
+
+“He, nothing. His wife, everything.”
+
+They had their own cynical philosophy. One of them had no faith in
+promises of men.
+
+“They are types that do not suit me. They wear their hearts on their
+hands and on their mouths. You present yourself for admission to a club.
+They say, ‘I promise to give you a white ball. It will be an alabaster
+ball--a snowball! They vote. It’s a black ball. Life seems a vile affair
+when I think of it.”
+
+“Then don’t think of it.”
+
+Daniel Salomon, who had joined them, whispered in their ears spicy
+stories in a lowered voice. And at every strange revelation concerning
+Madame Raymond, or Madame Berthier, or Princess Seniavine, he added,
+negligently:
+
+“Everybody knows it.”
+
+Then, little by little, the crowd of visitors dispersed. Only Madame
+Marmet and Paul Vence remained.
+
+The latter went toward Madame Martin, and asked:
+
+“When do you wish me to introduce Dechartre to you?”
+
+It was the second time he had asked this of her. She did not like to see
+new faces. She replied, unconcernedly:
+
+“Your sculptor? When you wish. I saw at the Champ de Mars medallions
+made by him which are very good. But he does not work much. He is an
+amateur, is he not?”
+
+“He is a delicate artist. He does not need to work in order to live. He
+caresses his figures with loving slowness. But do not be deceived about
+him, Madame. He knows and he feels. He would be a master if he did not
+live alone. I have known him since his childhood. People think that he
+is solitary and morose. He is passionate and timid. What he lacks, what
+he will lack always to reach the highest point of his art, is simplicity
+of mind. He is restless, and he spoils his most beautiful impressions.
+In my opinion he was created less for sculpture than for poetry or
+philosophy. He knows a great deal, and you will be astonished at the
+wealth of his mind.”
+
+Madame Marmet approved.
+
+She pleased society by appearing to find pleasure in it. She listened
+a great deal and talked little. Very affable, she gave value to her
+affability by not squandering it. Either because she liked Madame
+Martin, or because she knew how to give discreet marks of preference in
+every house she went, she warmed herself contentedly, like a relative,
+in a corner of the Louis XVI chimney, which suited her beauty. She
+lacked only her dog.
+
+“How is Toby?” asked Madame Martin. “Monsieur Vence, do you know Toby?
+He has long silky hair and a lovely little black nose.”
+
+Madame Marmet was relishing the praise of Toby, when an old man, pink
+and blond, with curly hair, short-sighted, almost blind under his golden
+spectacles, rather short, striking against the furniture, bowing to
+empty armchairs, blundering into the mirrors, pushed his crooked nose
+before Madame Marmet, who looked at him indignantly.
+
+It was M. Schmoll, member of the Academie des Inscriptions. He smiled
+and turned a madrigal for the Countess Martin with that hereditary
+harsh, coarse voice with which the Jews, his fathers, pressed their
+creditors, the peasants of Alsace, of Poland, and of the Crimea. He
+dragged his phrases heavily. This great philologist knew all languages
+except French. And Madame Martin enjoyed his affable phrases, heavy and
+rusty like the iron-work of brica-brac shops, among which fell dried
+leaves of anthology. M. Schmoll liked poets and women, and had wit.
+
+Madame Marmet feigned not to know him, and went out without returning
+his bow.
+
+When he had exhausted his pretty madrigals, M. Schmoll became sombre
+and pitiful. He complained piteously. He was not decorated enough, not
+provided with sinecures enough, nor well fed enough by the State--he,
+Madame Schmoll, and their five daughters. His lamentations had some
+grandeur. Something of the soul of Ezekiel and of Jeremiah was in them.
+
+Unfortunately, turning his golden-spectacled eyes toward the table, he
+discovered Vivian Bell’s book.
+
+“Oh, ‘Yseult La Blonde’,” he exclaimed, bitterly. “You are reading that
+book, Madame? Well, learn that Mademoiselle Vivian Bell has stolen an
+inscription from me, and that she has altered it, moreover, by putting
+it into verse. You will find it on page 109 of her book: ‘A shade may
+weep over a shade.’ You hear, Madame? ‘A shade may weep over a shade.’
+Well, those words are translated literally from a funeral inscription
+which I was the first to publish and to illustrate. Last year, one
+day, when I was dining at your house, being placed by the side of
+Mademoiselle Bell, I quoted this phrase to her, and it pleased her a
+great deal. At her request, the next day I translated into French the
+entire inscription and sent it to her. And now I find it changed in this
+volume of verses under this title: ‘On the Sacred Way’--the sacred way,
+that is I.”
+
+And he repeated, in his bad humor:
+
+“I, Madame, am the sacred way.”
+
+He was annoyed that the poet had not spoken to him about this
+inscription. He would have liked to see his name at the top of the poem,
+in the verses, in the rhymes. He wished to see his name everywhere,
+and always looked for it in the journals with which his pockets were
+stuffed. But he had no rancor. He was not really angry with Miss Bell.
+He admitted gracefully that she was a distinguished person, and a poet
+that did great honor to England.
+
+When he had gone, the Countess Martin asked ingenuously of Paul Vence if
+he knew why that good Madame Marmet had looked at M. Schmoll with such
+marked though silent anger. He was surprised that she did not know.
+
+“I never know anything,” she said.
+
+“But the quarrel between Schmoll and Marmet is famous. It ceased only at
+the death of Marmet.
+
+“The day that poor Marmet was buried, snow was falling. We were wet and
+frozen to the bones. At the grave, in the wind, in the mud, Schmoll read
+under his umbrella a speech full of jovial cruelty and triumphant pity,
+which he took afterward to the newspapers in a mourning carriage. An
+indiscreet friend let Madame Marmet hear of it, and she fainted. Is it
+possible, Madame, that you have not heard of this learned and ferocious
+quarrel?
+
+“The Etruscan language was the cause of it. Marmet made it his unique
+study. He was surnamed Marmet the Etruscan. Neither he nor any one else
+knew a word of that language, the last vestige of which is lost.
+Schmoll said continually to Marmet: ‘You do not know Etruscan, my dear
+colleague; that is the reason why you are an honorable savant and
+a fair-minded man.’ Piqued by his ironic praise, Marmet thought of
+learning a little Etruscan. He read to his colleague a memoir on the
+part played by flexions in the idiom of the ancient Tuscans.”
+
+Madame Martin asked what a flexion was.
+
+“Oh, Madame, if I explain anything to you, it will mix up everything. Be
+content with knowing that in that memoir poor Marmet quoted Latin texts
+and quoted them wrong. Schmoll is a Latinist of great learning, and,
+after Mommsen, the chief epigraphist of the world.
+
+“He reproached his young colleague--Marmet was not fifty years old--with
+reading Etruscan too well and Latin not well enough. From that time
+Marmet had no rest. At every meeting he was mocked unmercifully; and,
+finally, in spite of his softness, he got angry. Schmoll is without
+rancor. It is a virtue of his race. He does not bear ill-will to those
+whom he persecutes. One day, as he went up the stairway of the Institute
+with Renan and Oppert, he met Marmet, and extended his hand to him.
+Marmet refused to take it, and said ‘I do not know you.’--‘Do you take
+me for a Latin inscription?’ Schmoll replied. Marmet died and was buried
+because of that satire. Now you know the reason why his widow sees his
+enemy with horror.”
+
+“And I have made them dine together, side by side.”
+
+“Madame, it was not immoral, but it was cruel.”
+
+“My dear sir, I shall shock you, perhaps; but if I had to choose, I
+should like better to do an immoral thing than a cruel one.”
+
+A young man, tall, thin, dark, with a long moustache, entered, and bowed
+with brusque suppleness.
+
+“Monsieur Vence, I think that you know Monsieur Le Menil.”
+
+They had met before at Madame Martin’s, and saw each other often at the
+Fencing Club. The day before they had met at Madame Meillan’s.
+
+“Madame Meillan’s--there’s a house where one is bored,” said Paul Vence.
+
+“Yet Academicians go there,” said M. Robert Le Menil. “I do not
+exaggerate their value, but they are the elite.”
+
+Madame Martin smiled.
+
+“We know, Monsieur Le Menil, that at Madame Meillan’s you are
+preoccupied by the women more than by the Academicians. You escorted
+Princess Seniavine to the buffet and talked to her about wolves.”
+
+“What wolves?”
+
+“Wolves, and forests blackened by winter. We thought that with so pretty
+a woman your conversation was rather savage!”
+
+Paul Vence rose.
+
+“So you permit, Madame, that I should bring my friend Dechartre? He has
+a great desire to know you, and I hope he will not displease you. There
+is life in his mind. He is full of ideas.”
+
+“Oh, I do not ask for so much,” Madame Martin said. “People that are
+natural and show themselves as they are rarely bore me, and sometimes
+they amuse me.”
+
+When Paul Vence had gone, Le Menil listened until the noise of footsteps
+had vanished; then, coming nearer:
+
+“To-morrow, at three o’clock? Do you still love me?”
+
+He asked her to reply while they were alone. She answered that it was
+late, that she expected no more visitors, and that no one except her
+husband would come.
+
+He entreated. Then she said:
+
+“I shall be free to-morrow all day. Wait for me at three o’clock.”
+
+He thanked her with a look. Then, placing himself on at the other
+side of the chimney, he asked who was that Dechartre whom she wished
+introduced to her.
+
+“I do not wish him to be introduced to me. He is to be introduced to me.
+He is a sculptor.”
+
+He deplored the fact that she needed to see new faces, adding:
+
+“A sculptor? They are usually brutal.”
+
+“Oh, but this one does so little sculpture! But if it annoys you that I
+should meet him, I will not do so.”
+
+“I should be sorry if society took any part of the time you might give
+to me.”
+
+“My friend, you can not complain of that. I did not even go to Madame
+Meillan’s yesterday.”
+
+“You are right to show yourself there as little as possible. It is not a
+house for you.”
+
+He explained. All the women that went there had had some spicy adventure
+which was known and talked about. Besides, Madame Meillan favored
+intrigue. He gave examples. Madame Martin, however, her hands extended
+on the arms of the chair in charming restfulness, her head inclined,
+looked at the dying embers in the grate. Her thoughtful mood had flown.
+Nothing of it remained on her face, a little saddened, nor in her
+languid body, more desirable than ever in the quiescence of her mind.
+She kept for a while a profound immobility, which added to her personal
+attraction the charm of things that art had created.
+
+He asked her of what she was thinking. Escaping the magic of the blaze
+in the ashes, she said:
+
+“We will go to-morrow, if you wish, to far distant places, to the odd
+districts where the poor people live. I like the old streets where
+misery dwells.”
+
+He promised to satisfy her taste, although he let her know that he
+thought it absurd. The walks that she led him sometimes bored him, and
+he thought them dangerous. People might see them.
+
+“And since we have been successful until now in not causing gossip--”
+
+She shook her head.
+
+“Do you think that people have not talked about us? Whether they know
+or do not know, they talk. Not everything is known, but everything is
+said.”
+
+She relapsed into her dream. He thought her discontented, cross, for
+some reason which she would not tell. He bent upon her beautiful, grave
+eyes which reflected the light of the grate. But she reassured him.
+
+“I do not know whether any one talks about me. And what do I care?
+Nothing matters.”
+
+He left her. He was going to dine at the club, where a friend was
+waiting for him. She followed him with her eyes, with peaceful sympathy.
+Then she began again to read in the ashes.
+
+She saw in them the days of her childhood; the castle wherein she had
+passed the sweet, sad summers; the dark and humid park; the pond where
+slept the green water; the marble nymphs under the chestnut-trees, and
+the bench on which she had wept and desired death. To-day she still
+ignored the cause of her youthful despair, when the ardent awakening of
+her imagination threw her into a troubled maze of desires and of fears.
+When she was a child, life frightened her. And now she knew that life is
+not worth so much anxiety nor so much hope; that it is a very ordinary
+thing. She should have known this. She thought:
+
+“I saw mamma; she was good, very simple, and not very happy. I dreamed
+of a destiny different from hers. Why? I felt around me the insipid
+taste of life, and seemed to inhale the future like a salt and pungent
+aroma. Why? What did I want, and what did I expect? Was I not warned
+enough of the sadness of everything?”
+
+She had been born rich, in the brilliancy of a fortune too new. She was
+a daughter of that Montessuy, who, at first a clerk in a Parisian bank,
+founded and governed two great establishments, brought to sustain them
+the resources of a brilliant mind, invincible force of character, a rare
+alliance of cleverness and honesty, and treated with the Government as
+if he were a foreign power. She had grown up in the historical castle of
+Joinville, bought, restored, and magnificently furnished by her father.
+Montessuy made life give all it could yield. An instinctive and powerful
+atheist, he wanted all the goods of this world and all the desirable
+things that earth produces. He accumulated pictures by old masters, and
+precious sculptures. At fifty he had known all the most beautiful women
+of the stage, and many in society. He enjoyed everything worldly with
+the brutality of his temperament and the shrewdness of his mind.
+
+Poor Madame Montessuy, economical and careful, languished at Joinville,
+delicate and poor, under the frowns of twelve gigantic caryatides which
+held a ceiling on which Lebrun had painted the Titans struck by Jupiter.
+There, in the iron cot, placed at the foot of the large bed, she died
+one night of sadness and exhaustion, never having loved anything
+on earth except her husband and her little drawing-room in the Rue
+Maubeuge.
+
+She never had had any intimacy with her daughter, whom she felt
+instinctively too different from herself, too free, too bold at heart;
+and she divined in Therese, although she was sweet and good, the strong
+Montessuy blood, the ardor which had made her suffer so much, and which
+she forgave in her husband, but not in her daughter.
+
+But Montessuy recognized his daughter and loved her. Like most hearty,
+full-blooded men, he had hours of charming gayety. Although he lived out
+of his house a great deal, he breakfasted with her almost every day, and
+sometimes took her out walking. He understood gowns and furbelows. He
+instructed and formed Therese. He amused her. Near her, his instinct for
+conquest inspired him still. He desired to win always, and he won his
+daughter. He separated her from her mother. Therese admired him, she
+adored him.
+
+In her dream she saw him as the unique joy of her childhood. She was
+persuaded that no man in the world was as amiable as her father.
+
+At her entrance in life, she despaired at once of finding elsewhere
+so rich a nature, such a plenitude of active and thinking forces. This
+discouragement had followed her in the choice of a husband, and perhaps
+later in a secret and freer choice.
+
+She had not really selected her husband. She did not know: she had
+permitted herself to be married by her father, who, then a widower,
+embarrassed by the care of a girl, had wished to do things quickly and
+well. He considered the exterior advantages, estimated the eighty years
+of imperial nobility which Count Martin brought. The idea never came to
+him that she might wish to find love in marriage.
+
+He flattered himself that she would find in it the satisfaction of
+the luxurious desires which he attributed to her, the joy of making a
+display of grandeur, the vulgar pride, the material domination, which
+were for him all the value of life, as he had no ideas on the subject
+of the happiness of a true woman, although he was sure that his daughter
+would remain virtuous.
+
+While thinking of his absurd yet natural faith in her, which accorded
+so badly with his own experiences and ideas regarding women, she smiled
+with melancholy irony. And she admired her father the more.
+
+After all, she was not so badly married. Her husband was as good as any
+other man. He had become quite bearable. Of all that she read in the
+ashes, in the veiled softness of the lamps, of all her reminiscences,
+that of their married life was the most vague. She found a few isolated
+traits of it, some absurd images, a fleeting and fastidious impression.
+The time had not seemed long and had left nothing behind. Six years had
+passed, and she did not even remember how she had regained her liberty,
+so prompt and easy had been her conquest of that husband, cold, sickly,
+selfish, and polite; of that man dried up and yellowed by business and
+politics, laborious, ambitious, and commonplace. He liked women only
+through vanity, and he never had loved his wife. The separation had been
+frank and complete. And since then, strangers to each other, they felt
+a tacit, mutual gratitude for their freedom. She would have had some
+affection for him if she had not found him hypocritical and too
+subtle in the art of obtaining her signature when he needed money for
+enterprises that were more for ostentation than real benefit. The man
+with whom she dined and talked every day had no significance for her.
+
+With her cheek in her hand, before the grate, as if she questioned
+a sibyl, she saw again the face of the Marquis de Re. She saw it so
+precisely that it surprised her. The Marquis de Re had been presented
+to her by her father, who admired him, and he appeared to her grand and
+dazzling for his thirty years of intimate triumphs and mundane glories.
+His adventures followed him like a procession. He had captivated three
+generations of women, and had left in the heart of all those whom he had
+loved an imperishable memory. His virile grace, his quiet elegance, and
+his habit of pleasing had prolonged his youth far beyond the ordinary
+term of years. He noticed particularly the young Countess Martin.
+The homage of this expert flattered her. She thought of him now with
+pleasure. He had a marvellous art of conversation. He amused her.
+She let him see it, and at once he promised to himself, in his heroic
+frivolity, to finish worthily his happy life by the subjugation of this
+young woman whom he appreciated above every one else, and who evidently
+admired him. He displayed, to capture her, the most learned stratagems.
+But she escaped him very easily.
+
+She yielded, two years later, to Robert Le Menil, who had desired her
+ardently, with all the warmth of his youth, with all the simplicity of
+his mind. She said to herself: “I gave myself to him because he loved
+me.” It was the truth. The truth was, also, that a dumb yet powerful
+instinct had impelled her, and that she had obeyed the hidden impulse of
+her being. But even this was not her real self; what awakened her
+nature at last was the fact that she believed in the sincerity of his
+sentiment. She had yielded as soon as she had felt that she was loved.
+She had given herself, quickly, simply. He thought that she had yielded
+easily. He was mistaken. She had felt the discouragement which the
+irreparable gives, and that sort of shame which comes of having suddenly
+something to conceal. Everything that had been whispered before
+her about other women resounded in her burning ears. But, proud and
+delicate, she took care to hide the value of the gift she was making. He
+never suspected her moral uneasiness, which lasted only a few days, and
+was replaced by perfect tranquillity. After three years she defended her
+conduct as innocent and natural.
+
+Having done harm to no one, she had no regrets. She was content. She was
+in love, she was loved. Doubtless she had not felt the intoxication she
+had expected, but does one ever feel it? She was the friend of the good
+and honest fellow, much liked by women who passed for disdainful and
+hard to please, and he had a true affection for her. The pleasure she
+gave him and the joy of being beautiful for him attached her to this
+friend. He made life for her not continually delightful, but easy to
+bear, and at times agreeable.
+
+That which she had not divined in her solitude, notwithstanding vague
+yearnings and apparently causeless sadness, he had revealed to her.
+She knew herself when she knew him. It was a happy astonishment. Their
+sympathies were not in their minds. Her inclination toward him was
+simple and frank, and at this moment she found pleasure in the idea of
+meeting him the next day in the little apartment where they had met
+for three years. With a shake of the head and a shrug of her shoulders,
+coarser than one would have expected from this exquisite woman, sitting
+alone by the dying fire, she said to herself: “There! I need love!”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II. “ONE CAN SEE THAT YOU ARE YOUNG!”
+
+It was no longer daylight when they came out of the little apartment in
+the Rue Spontini. Robert Le Menil made a sign to a coachman, and entered
+the carriage with Therese. Close together, they rolled among the vague
+shadows, cut by sudden lights, through the ghostly city, having in their
+minds only sweet and vanishing impressions while everything around them
+seemed confused and fleeting.
+
+The carriage approached the Pont-Neuf. They stepped out. A dry cold
+made vivid the sombre January weather. Under her veil Therese joyfully
+inhaled the wind which swept on the hardened soil a dust white as salt.
+She was glad to wander freely among unknown things. She liked to see the
+stony landscape which the clearness of the air made distinct; to walk
+quickly and firmly on the quay where the trees displayed the black
+tracery of their branches on the horizon reddened by the smoke of the
+city; to look at the Seine. In the sky the first stars appeared.
+
+“One would think that the wind would put them out,” she said.
+
+He observed, too, that they scintillated a great deal. He did not think
+it was a sign of rain, as the peasants believe. He had observed, on
+the contrary, that nine times in ten the scintillation of stars was an
+augury of fine weather.
+
+Near the little bridge they found old iron-shops lighted by smoky lamps.
+She ran into them. She turned a corner and went into a shop in which
+queer stuffs were hanging. Behind the dirty panes a lighted candle
+showed pots, porcelain vases, a clarinet, and a bride’s wreath.
+
+He did not understand what pleasure she found in her search.
+
+“These shops are full of vermin. What can you find interesting in them?”
+
+“Everything. I think of the poor bride whose wreath is under that globe.
+The dinner occurred at Maillot. There was a policeman in the procession.
+There is one in almost all the bridal processions one sees in the
+park on Saturdays. Don’t they move you, my friend, all these poor,
+ridiculous, miserable beings who contribute to the grandeur of the
+past?”
+
+Among cups decorated with flowers she discovered a little knife, the
+ivory handle of which represented a tall, thin woman with her hair
+arranged a la Maintenon. She bought it for a few sous. It pleased her,
+because she already had a fork like it. Le Menil confessed that he had
+no taste for such things, but said that his aunt knew a great deal about
+them. At Caen all the merchants knew her. She had restored and furnished
+her house in proper style. This house was noted as early as 1690. In one
+of its halls were white cases full of books. His aunt had wished to put
+them in order. She had found frivolous books in them, ornamented with
+engravings so unconventional that she had burned them.
+
+“Is she silly, your aunt?” asked Therese.
+
+For a long time his anecdotes about his aunt had made her impatient.
+Her friend had in the country a mother, sisters, aunts, and numerous
+relatives whom she did not know and who irritated her. He talked of them
+with admiration. It annoyed her that he often visited them. When he came
+back, she imagined that he carried with him the odor of things that had
+been packed up for years. He was astonished, naively, and he suffered
+from her antipathy to them.
+
+He said nothing. The sight of a public-house, the panes of which were
+flaming, recalled to him the poet Choulette, who passed for a drunkard.
+He asked her if she still saw that Choulette, who called on her wearing
+a mackintosh and a red muffler.
+
+It annoyed her that he spoke like General Lariviere. She did not say
+that she had not seen Choulette since autumn, and that he neglected her
+with the capriciousness of a man not in society.
+
+“He has wit,” she said, “fantasy, and an original temperament. He
+pleases me.”
+
+And as he reproached her for having an odd taste, she replied:
+
+“I haven’t a taste, I have tastes. You do not disapprove of them all, I
+suppose.”
+
+He replied that he did not criticise her. He was only afraid that she
+might do herself harm by receiving a Bohemian who was not welcome in
+respectable houses.
+
+She exclaimed:
+
+“Not welcome in respectable houses--Choulette? Don’t you know that
+he goes every year for a month to the Marquise de Rieu? Yes, to the
+Marquise de Rieu, the Catholic, the royalist. But since Choulette
+interests you, listen to his latest adventure. Paul Vence related it to
+me. I understand it better in this street, where there are shirts and
+flowerpots at the windows.
+
+“This winter, one night when it was raining, Choulette went into a
+public-house in a street the name of which I have forgotten, but which
+must resemble this one, and met there an unfortunate girl whom the
+waiters would not have noticed, and whom he liked for her humility. Her
+name was Maria. The name was not hers. She found it nailed on her
+door at the top of the stairway where she went to lodge. Choulette was
+touched by this perfection of poverty and infamy. He called her his
+sister, and kissed her hands. Since then he has not quitted her a
+moment. He takes her to the coffee-houses of the Latin Quarter where the
+rich students read their reviews. He says sweet things to her. He weeps,
+she weeps. They drink; and when they are drunk, they fight. He loves
+her. He calls her his chaste one, his cross and his salvation. She was
+barefooted; he gave her yarn and knitting-needles that she might make
+stockings. And he made shoes for this unfortunate girl himself, with
+enormous nails. He teaches her verses that are easy to understand. He is
+afraid of altering her moral beauty by taking her out of the shame where
+she lives in perfect simplicity and admirable destitution.”
+
+Le Menil shrugged his shoulders.
+
+“But that Choulette is crazy, and Paul Vence has no right to tell you
+such stories. I am not austere, assuredly; but there are immoralities
+that disgust me.” They were walking at random. She fell into a dream.
+
+“Yes, morality, I know--duty! But duty--it takes the devil to discover
+it. I can assure you that I do not know where duty is. It’s like a young
+lady’s turtle at Joinville. We spent all the evening looking for it
+under the furniture, and when we had found it, we went to bed.”
+
+He thought there was some truth in what she said. He would think about
+it when alone.
+
+“I regret sometimes that I did not remain in the army. I know what you
+are going to say--one becomes a brute in that profession. Doubtless, but
+one knows exactly what one has to do, and that is a great deal in life.
+I think that my uncle’s life is very beautiful and very agreeable.
+But now that everybody is in the army, there are neither officers nor
+soldiers. It all looks like a railway station on Sunday. My uncle
+knew personally all the officers and all the soldiers of his brigade.
+Nowadays, how can you expect an officer to know his men?”
+
+She had ceased to listen. She was looking at a woman selling fried
+potatoes. She realized that she was hungry and wished to eat fried
+potatoes.
+
+He remonstrated:
+
+“Nobody knows how they are cooked.”
+
+But he had to buy two sous’ worth of fried potatoes, and to see that the
+woman put salt on them.
+
+While Therese was eating them, he led her into deserted streets far from
+the gaslights. Soon they found themselves in front of the cathedral. The
+moon silvered the roofs.
+
+“Notre Dame,” she said. “See, it is as heavy as an elephant yet as
+delicate as an insect. The moon climbs over it and looks at it with
+a monkey’s maliciousness. She does not look like the country moon at
+Joinville. At Joinville I have a path--a flat path--with the moon at
+the end of it. She is not there every night; but she returns faithfully,
+full, red, familiar. She is a country neighbor. I go seriously to
+meet her. But this moon of Paris I should not like to know. She is not
+respectable company. Oh, the things that she has seen during the time
+she has been roaming around the roofs!”
+
+He smiled a tender smile.
+
+“Oh, your little path where you walked alone and that you liked because
+the sky was at the end of it! I see it as if I were there.”
+
+It was at the Joinville castle that he had seen her for the first time,
+and had at once loved her. It was there, one night, that he had told her
+of his love, to which she had listened, dumb, with a pained expression
+on her mouth and a vague look in her eyes.
+
+The reminiscence of this little path where she walked alone moved him,
+troubled him, made him live again the enchanted hours of his first
+desires and hopes. He tried to find her hand in her muff and pressed her
+slim wrist under the fur.
+
+A little girl carrying violets saw that they were lovers, and offered
+flowers to them. He bought a two-sous’ bouquet and offered it to
+Therese.
+
+She was walking toward the cathedral. She was thinking: “It is like an
+enormous beast--a beast of the Apocalypse.”
+
+At the other end of the bridge a flower-woman, wrinkled, bearded, gray
+with years and dust, followed them with her basket full of mimosas and
+roses. Therese, who held her violets and was trying to slip them into
+her waist, said, joyfully:
+
+“Thank you, I have some.”
+
+“One can see that you are young,” the old woman shouted with a wicked
+air, as she went away.
+
+Therese understood at once, and a smile came to her lips and eyes. They
+were passing near the porch, before the stone figures that wear sceptres
+and crowns.
+
+“Let us go in,” she said.
+
+He did not wish to go in. He declared that the door was closed. She
+pushed it, and slipped into the immense nave, where the inanimate trees
+of the columns ascended in darkness. In the rear, candles were moving
+in front of spectre-like priests, under the last reverberations of the
+organs. She trembled in the silence, and said:
+
+“The sadness of churches at night moves me; I feel in them the grandeur
+of nothingness.”
+
+He replied:
+
+“We must believe in something. If there were no God, if our souls were
+not immortal, it would be too sad.”
+
+She remained for a while immovable under the curtains of shadow hanging
+from the arches. Then she said:
+
+“My poor friend, we do not know what to do with this life, which is so
+short, and yet you desire another life which shall never finish.”
+
+In the carriage that took them back he said gayly that he had passed a
+fine afternoon. He kissed her, satisfied with her and with himself. But
+his good-humor was not communicated to her. The last moments they passed
+together were spoiled for her always by the presentiment that he would
+not say at parting the thing that he should say. Ordinarily, he quitted
+her brusquely, as if what had happened were not to last. At every one
+of their partings she had a confused feeling that they were parting
+forever. She suffered from this in advance and became irritable.
+
+Under the trees he took her hand and kissed her.
+
+“Is it not rare, Therese, to love as we love each other?”
+
+“Rare? I don’t know; but I think that you love me.”
+
+“And you?”
+
+“I, too, love you.”
+
+“And you will love me always?”
+
+“What does one ever know?”
+
+And seeing the face of her lover darken:
+
+“Would you be more content with a woman who would swear to love only you
+for all time?”
+
+He remained anxious, with a wretched air. She was kind and she reassured
+him:
+
+“You know very well, my friend, that I am not fickle.”
+
+Almost at the end of the lane they said good-by. He kept the carriage
+to return to the Rue Royale. He was to dine at the club and go to the
+theatre, and had no time to lose.
+
+Therese returned home on foot. Opposite the Trocadero she remembered
+what the old flower-woman had said: “One can see that you are young.”
+ The words came back to her with a significance not immoral but sad. “One
+can see that you are young!” Yes, she was young, she was loved, and she
+was bored to death.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III. A DISCUSSION ON THE LITTLE CORPORAL
+
+In the centre of the table flowers were disposed in a basket of gilded
+bronze, decorated with eagles, stars, and bees, and handles formed like
+horns of plenty. On its sides winged Victorys supported the branches
+of candelabra. This centrepiece of the Empire style had been given
+by Napoleon, in 1812, to Count Martin de l’Aisne, grandfather of
+the present Count Martin-Belleme. Martin de l’Aisne, a deputy to the
+Legislative Corps in 1809, was appointed the following year member of
+the Committee on Finance, the assiduous and secret works of which suited
+his laborious temperament. Although a Liberal, he pleased the Emperor by
+his application and his exact honesty. For two years he was under a
+rain of favors. In 1813 he formed part of the moderate majority which
+approved the report in which Laine censured power and misfortune, by
+giving to the Empire tardy advice. January 1, 1814, he went with his
+colleagues to the Tuileries. The Emperor received them in a terrifying
+manner. He charged on their ranks. Violent and sombre, in the horror of
+his present strength and of his coming fall, he stunned them with his
+anger and his contempt.
+
+He came and went through their lines, and suddenly took Count Martin by
+the shoulders, shook him and dragged him, exclaiming: “A throne is four
+pieces of wood covered with velvet? No! A throne is a man, and that man
+is I. You have tried to throw mud at me. Is this the time to remonstrate
+with me when there are two hundred thousand Cossacks at the frontiers?
+Your Laine is a wicked man. One should wash one’s dirty linen at home.”
+ And while in his anger he twisted in his hand the embroidered collar of
+the deputy, he said: “The people know me. They do not know you. I am the
+elect of the nation. You are the obscure delegates of a department.”
+ He predicted to them the fate of the Girondins. The noise of his spurs
+accompanied the sound of his voice. Count Martin remained trembling the
+rest of his life, and tremblingly recalled the Bourbons after the defeat
+of the Emperor. The two restorations were in vain; the July government
+and the Second Empire covered his oppressed breast with crosses and
+cordons. Raised to the highest functions, loaded with honors by three
+kings and one emperor, he felt forever on his shoulder the hand of the
+Corsican. He died a senator of Napoleon III, and left a son agitated by
+the same fear.
+
+This son had married Mademoiselle Belleme, daughter of the first
+president of the court of Bourges, and with her the political glories
+of a family which gave three ministers to the moderate monarch. The
+Bellemes, advocates in the time of Louis XV, elevated the Jacobin
+origins of the Martins. The second Count Martin was a member of all the
+Assemblies until his death in 1881. His son took without trouble his
+seat in the Chamber of Deputies. Having married Mademoiselle Therese
+Montessuy, whose dowry supported his political fortune, he appeared
+discreetly among the four or five bourgeois, titled and wealthy, who
+rallied to democracy, and were received without much bad grace by the
+republicans, whom aristocracy flattered.
+
+In the dining-room, Count Martin-Belleme was doing the honors of his
+table with the good grace, the sad politeness, recently prescribed at
+the Elysee to represent isolated France at a great northern court. From
+time to time he addressed vapid phrases to Madame Garain at his right;
+to the Princess Seniavine at his left, who, loaded with diamonds, felt
+bored. Opposite him, on the other side of the table, Countess Martin,
+having by her side General Lariviere and M. Schmoll, member of the
+Academie des Inscriptions, caressed with her fan her smooth white
+shoulders. At the two semicircles, whereby the dinner-table was
+prolonged, were M. Montessuy, robust, with blue eyes and ruddy
+complexion; a young cousin, Madame Belleme de Saint-Nom, embarrassed by
+her long, thin arms; the painter Duviquet; M. Daniel Salomon; then Paul
+Vence and Garain the deputy; Belleme de Saint-Nom; an unknown senator;
+and Dechartre, who was dining at the house for the first time. The
+conversation, at first trivial and insignificant, was prolonged into a
+confused murmur, above which rose Garain’s voice:
+
+“Every false idea is dangerous. People think that dreamers do no harm.
+They are mistaken: dreamers do a great heal of harm. Even apparently
+inoffensive utopian ideas really exercise a noxious influence. They tend
+to inspire disgust at reality.”
+
+“It is, perhaps, because reality is not beautiful,” said Paul Vence.
+
+M. Garain said that he had always been in favor of all possible
+improvements. He had asked for the suppression of permanent armies in
+the time of the Empire, for the separation of church and state, and had
+remained always faithful to democracy. His device, he said, was “Order
+and Progress.” He thought he had discovered that device.
+
+Montessuy said:
+
+“Well, Monsieur Garain, be sincere. Confess that there are no reforms
+to be made, and that it is as much as one can do to change the color of
+postage-stamps. Good or bad, things are as they should be. Yes, things
+are as they should be; but they change incessantly. Since 1870 the
+industrial and financial situation of the country has gone through four
+or five revolutions which political economists had not foreseen
+and which they do not yet understand. In society, as in nature,
+transformations are accomplished from within.”
+
+As to matters of government his ideas were terse and decided. He was
+strongly attached to the present, heedless of the future, and the
+socialists troubled him little. Without caring whether the sun and
+capital should be extinguished some day, he enjoyed them. According
+to him, one should let himself be carried. None but fools resisted the
+current or tried to go in front of it.
+
+But Count Martin, naturally sad, had, dark presentiments. In veiled
+words he announced catastrophes. His timorous phrases came through the
+flowers, and irritated M. Schmoll, who began to grumble and to prophesy.
+He explained that Christian nations were incapable, alone and by
+themselves, of throwing off barbarism, and that without the Jews and the
+Arabs Europe would be to-day, as in the time of the Crusades, sunk in
+ignorance, misery, and cruelty.
+
+“The Middle Ages,” he said, “are closed only in the historical manuals
+that are given to pupils to spoil their minds. In reality, barbarians
+are always barbarians. Israel’s mission is to instruct nations. It was
+Israel which, in the Middle Ages, brought to Europe the wisdom of ages.
+Socialism frightens you. It is a Christian evil, like priesthood. And
+anarchy? Do you not recognize in it the plague of the Albigeois and of
+the Vaudois? The Jews, who instructed and polished Europe, are the only
+ones who can save it to-day from the evangelical evil by which it
+is devoured. But they have not fulfilled their duty. They have made
+Christians of themselves among the Christians. And God punishes them. He
+permits them to be exiled and to be despoiled. Anti-Semitism is making
+fearful progress everywhere. From Russia my co-religionists are expelled
+like savage beasts. In France, civil and military employments are
+closing against Jews. They have no longer access to aristocratic
+circles. My nephew, young Isaac Coblentz, has had to renounce a
+diplomatic career, after passing brilliantly his admission examination.
+The wives of several of my colleagues, when Madame Schmoll calls on
+them, display with intention, under her eyes, anti-Semitic newspapers.
+And would you believe that the Minister of Public Instruction has
+refused to give me the cross of the Legion of Honor for which I have
+applied? There’s ingratitude! Anti-Semitism is death--it is death, do
+you hear? to European civilization.”
+
+The little man had a natural manner which surpassed all the art in the
+world. Grotesque and terrible, he threw the table into consternation by
+his sincerity. Madame Martin, whom he amused, complimented him on this:
+
+“At least,” she said, “you defend your co-religionists. You are not,
+Monsieur Schmoll, like a beautiful Jewish lady of my acquaintance who,
+having read in a journal that she received the elite of Jewish society,
+went everywhere shouting that she had been insulted.”
+
+“I am sure, Madame, that you do not know how beautiful and superior to
+all other moralities is Jewish morality. Do you know the parable of the
+three rings?”
+
+This question was lost in the murmur of the dialogues wherein were
+mingled foreign politics, exhibitions of paintings, fashionable
+scandals, and Academy speeches. They talked of the new novel and of the
+coming play. This was a comedy. Napoleon was an incidental character in
+it.
+
+The conversation settled upon Napoleon I, often placed on the stage
+and newly studied in books--an object of curiosity, a personage in the
+fashion, no longer a popular hero, a demi-god, wearing boots for his
+country, as in the days when Norvins and Beranger, Charlet and Raffet
+were composing his legend; but a curious personage, an amusing type in
+his living infinity, a figure whose style is pleasant to artists, whose
+movements attract thoughtless idlers.
+
+Garain, who had founded his political fortune on hatred of the Empire,
+judged sincerely that this return of national taste was only an absurd
+infatuation. He saw no danger in it and felt no fear about it. In him
+fear was sudden and ferocious. For the moment he was very quiet; he
+talked neither of prohibiting performances nor of seizing books, of
+imprisoning authors, or of suppressing anything. Calm and severe, he saw
+in Napoleon only Taine’s ‘condottiere’ who kicked Volney in the stomach.
+Everybody wished to define the true Napoleon. Count Martin, in the face
+of the imperial centrepiece and of the winged Victorys, talked suitably
+of Napoleon as an organizer and administrator, and placed him in a high
+position as president of the state council, where his words threw light
+upon obscure questions. Garain affirmed that in his sessions, only too
+famous, Napoleon, under pretext of taking snuff, asked the councillors
+to pass to him their gold boxes ornamented with miniatures and decked
+with diamonds, which they never saw again. The anecdote was told to him
+by the son of Mounier himself.
+
+Montessuy esteemed in Napoleon the genius of order. “He liked,” he said,
+“work well done. That is a taste most persons have lost.”
+
+The painter Duviquet, whose ideas were those of an artist, was
+embarrassed. He did not find on the funeral mask brought from St. Helena
+the characteristics of that face, beautiful and powerful, which medals
+and busts have consecrated. One must be convinced of this now that the
+bronze of that mask was hanging in all the old shops, among eagles and
+sphinxes made of gilded wood. And, according to him, since the true face
+of Napoleon was not that of the ideal Napoleon, his real soul may not
+have been as idealists fancied it. Perhaps it was the soul of a good
+bourgeois. Somebody had said this, and he was inclined to think that it
+was true. Anyway, Duviquet, who flattered himself with having made the
+best portraits of the century, knew that celebrated men seldom resemble
+the ideas one forms of them.
+
+M. Daniel Salomon observed that the fine mask about which Duviquet
+talked, the plaster cast taken from the inanimate face of the Emperor,
+and brought to Europe by Dr. Antommarchi, had been moulded in bronze and
+sold by subscription for the first time in 1833, under Louis Philippe,
+and had then inspired surprise and mistrust. People suspected the
+Italian chemist, who was a sort of buffoon, always talkative and
+famished, of having tried to make fun of people. Disciples of Dr. Gall,
+whose system was then in favor, regarded the mask as suspicious. They
+did not find in it the bumps of genius; and the forehead, examined in
+accordance with the master’s theories, presented nothing remarkable in
+its formation.
+
+“Precisely,” said Princess Seniavine. “Napoleon was remarkable only for
+having kicked Volney in the stomach and stealing a snuffbox ornamented
+with diamonds. Monsieur Garain has just taught us.”
+
+“And yet,” said Madame Martin, “nobody is sure that he kicked Volney.”
+
+“Everything becomes known in the end,” replied the Princess, gayly.
+“Napoleon did nothing at all. He did not even kick Volney, and his head
+was that of an idiot.”
+
+General Lariviere felt that he should say something. He hurled this
+phrase:
+
+“Napoleon--his campaign of 1813 is much discussed.”
+
+The General wished to please Garain, and he had no other idea. However,
+he succeeded, after an effort, in formulating a judgment:
+
+“Napoleon committed faults; in his situation he should not have
+committed any.” And he stopped abruptly, very red.
+
+Madame Martin asked:
+
+“And you, Monsieur Vence, what do you think of Napoleon?”
+
+“Madame, I have not much love for sword-bearers, and conquerors seem to
+me to be dangerous fools. But in spite of everything, that figure of the
+Emperor interests me as it interests the public. I find character and
+life in it. There is no poem or novel that is worth the Memoirs of Saint
+Helena, although it is written in ridiculous fashion. What I think
+of Napoleon, if you wish to know, is that, made for glory, he had the
+brilliant simplicity of the hero of an epic poem. A hero must be human.
+Napoleon was human.”
+
+“Oh, oh!” every one exclaimed.
+
+But Paul Vence continued:
+
+“He was violent and frivolous; therefore profoundly human. I mean,
+similar to everybody. He desired, with singular force, all that most men
+esteem and desire. He had illusions, which he gave to the people. This
+was his power and his weakness; it was his beauty. He believed in glory.
+He had of life and of the world the same opinion as any one of his
+grenadiers. He retained always the infantile gravity which finds
+pleasure in playing with swords and drums, and the sort of innocence
+which makes good military men. He esteemed force sincerely. He was a man
+among men, the flesh of human flesh. He had not a thought that was not
+in action, and all his actions were grand yet common. It is this vulgar
+grandeur which makes heroes. And Napoleon is the perfect hero. His brain
+never surpassed his hand--that hand, small and beautiful, which grasped
+the world. He never had, for a moment, the least care for what he could
+not reach.”
+
+“Then,” said Garain, “according to you, he was not an intellectual
+genius. I am of your opinion.”
+
+“Surely,” continued Paul Vence, “he had enough genius to be brilliant
+in the civil and military arena of the world. But he had not speculative
+genius. That genius is another pair of sleeves, as Buffon says. We have
+a collection of his writings and speeches. His style has movement and
+imagination. And in this mass of thoughts one can not find a philosophic
+curiosity, not one expression of anxiety about the unknowable, not an
+expression of fear of the mystery which surrounds destiny. At Saint
+Helena, when he talks of God and of the soul, he seems to be a little
+fourteen-year-old school-boy. Thrown upon the world, his mind found
+itself fit for the world, and embraced it all. Nothing of that mind was
+lost in the infinite. Himself a poet, he knew only the poetry of action.
+He limited to the earth his powerful dream of life. In his terrible and
+touching naivete he believed that a man could be great, and neither time
+nor misfortune made him lose that idea. His youth, or rather his sublime
+adolescence, lasted as long as he lived, because life never brought him
+a real maturity. Such is the abnormal state of men of action. They live
+entirely in the present, and their genius concentrates on one point.
+The hours of their existence are not connected by a chain of grave and
+disinterested meditations. They succeed themselves in a series of
+acts. They lack interior life. This defect is particularly visible
+in Napoleon, who never lived within himself. From this is derived the
+frivolity of temperament which made him support easily the enormous load
+of his evils and of his faults. His mind was born anew every day. He
+had, more than any other person, a capacity for diversion. The first day
+that he saw the sun rise on his funereal rock at Saint Helena, he jumped
+from his bed, whistling a romantic air. It was the peace of a
+mind superior to fortune; it was the frivolity of a mind prompt in
+resurrection. He lived from the outside.”
+
+Garain, who did not like Paul Vence’s ingenious turn of wit and
+language, tried to hasten the conclusion:
+
+“In a word,” he said, “there was something of the monster in the man.”
+
+“There are no monsters,” replied Paul Vence; “and men who pass for
+monsters inspire horror. Napoleon was loved by an entire people. He had
+the power to win the love of men. The joy of his soldiers was to die for
+him.”
+
+Countess Martin would have wished Dechartre to give his opinion. But he
+excused himself with a sort of fright.
+
+“Do you know,” said Schmoll again, “the parable of the three rings,
+sublime inspiration of a Portuguese Jew.”
+
+Garain, while complimenting Paul Vence on his brilliant paradox,
+regretted that wit should be exercised at the expense of morality and
+justice.
+
+“One great principle,” he said, “is that men should be judged by their
+acts.”
+
+“And women?” asked Princess Seniavine, brusquely; “do you judge them by
+their acts? And how do you know what they do?”
+
+The sound of voices was mingled with the clear tintinabulation of
+silverware. A warm air bathed the room. The roses shed their leaves on
+the cloth. More ardent thoughts mounted to the brain.
+
+General Lariviere fell into dreams.
+
+“When public clamor has split my ears,” he said to his neighbor, “I
+shall go to live at Tours. I shall cultivate flowers.”
+
+He flattered himself on being a good gardener; his name had been given
+to a rose. This pleased him highly.
+
+Schmoll asked again if they knew the parable of the three rings.
+
+The Princess rallied the Deputy.
+
+“Then you do not know, Monsieur Garain, that one does the same things
+for very different reasons?”
+
+Montessuy said she was right.
+
+“It is very true, as you say, Madame, that actions prove nothing. This
+thought is striking in an episode in the life of Don Juan, which was
+known neither to Moliere nor to Mozart, but which is revealed in an
+English legend, a knowledge of which I owe to my friend James Russell
+Lowell of London. One learns from it that the great seducer lost his
+time with three women. One was a bourgeoise: she was in love with her
+husband; the other was a nun: she would not consent to violate her vows;
+the third, who had for a long time led a life of debauchery, had become
+ugly, and was a servant in a den. After what she had done, after what
+she had seen, love signified nothing to her. These three women behaved
+alike for very different reasons. An action proves nothing. It is the
+mass of actions, their weight, their sum total, which makes the value of
+the human being.”
+
+“Some of our actions,” said Madame Martin, “have our look, our face:
+they are our daughters. Others do not resemble us at all.”
+
+She rose and took the General’s arm.
+
+On the way to the drawing-room the Princess said:
+
+“Therese is right. Some actions do not express our real selves at all.
+They are like the things we do in nightmares.”
+
+The nymphs of the tapestries smiled vainly in their faded beauty at the
+guests, who did not see them.
+
+Madame Martin served the coffee with her young cousin, Madame Belleme de
+Saint-Nom. She complimented Paul Vence on what he had said at the table.
+
+“You talked of Napoleon with a freedom of mind that is rare in the
+conversations I hear. I have noticed that children, when they are
+handsome, look, when they pout, like Napoleon at Waterloo. You have made
+me feel the profound reasons for this similarity.”
+
+Then, turning toward Dechartre:
+
+“Do you like Napoleon?”
+
+“Madame, I do not like the Revolution. And Napoleon is the Revolution in
+boots.”
+
+“Monsieur Dechartre, why did you not say this at dinner? But I see you
+prefer to be witty only in tete-a-tetes.”
+
+Count Martin-Belleme escorted the men to the smoking-room. Paul Vence
+alone remained with the women. Princess Seniavine asked him if he had
+finished his novel, and what was the subject of it. It was a study
+in which he tried to reach the truth through a series of plausible
+conditions.
+
+“Thus,” he said, “the novel acquires a moral force which history, in its
+heavy frivolity, never had.”
+
+She inquired whether the book was written for women. He said it was not.
+
+“You are wrong, Monsieur Vence, not to write for women. A superior man
+can do nothing else for them.”
+
+He wished to know what gave her that idea.
+
+“Because I see that all the intelligent women love fools.”
+
+“Who bore them.”
+
+“Certainly! But superior men would weary them more. They would have
+more resources to employ in boring them. But tell me the subject of your
+novel.”
+
+“Do you insist?”
+
+“Oh, I insist upon nothing.”
+
+“Well, I will tell you. It is a study of popular manners; the history of
+a young workman, sober and chaste, as handsome as a girl, with the mind
+of a virgin, a sensitive soul. He is a carver, and works well. At night,
+near his mother, whom he loves, he studies, he reads books. In his mind,
+simple and receptive, ideas lodge themselves like bullets in a wall. He
+has no desires. He has neither the passions nor the vices that attach
+us to life. He is solitary and pure. Endowed with strong virtues, he
+becomes conceited. He lives among miserable people. He sees suffering.
+He has devotion without humanity. He has that sort of cold charity which
+is called altruism. He is not human because he is not sensual.”
+
+“Oh! One must be sensual to be human?”
+
+“Certainly, Madame. True pity, like tenderness, comes from the heart. He
+is not intelligent enough to doubt. He believes what he has read. And
+he has read that to establish universal happiness society must be
+destroyed. Thirst for martyrdom devours him. One morning, having kissed
+his mother, he goes out; he watches for the socialist deputy of his
+district, sees him, throws himself on him, and buries a poniard in
+his breast. Long live anarchy! He is arrested, measured, photographed,
+questioned, judged, condemned to death, and guillotined. That is my
+novel.”
+
+“It is not very amusing,” said the Princess; “but that is not your
+fault. Your anarchists are as timid and moderate as other Frenchmen. The
+Russians have more audacity and more imagination.”
+
+Countess Martin asked Paul Vence whether he knew a silent, timid-looking
+man among the guests. Her husband had invited him. She knew nothing of
+him, not even his name. Paul Vence could only say that he was a senator.
+He had seen him one day by chance in the Luxembourg, in the gallery that
+served as a library.
+
+“I went there to look at the cupola, where Delacroix has painted, in a
+wood of bluish myrtles, heroes and sages of antiquity. That gentleman
+was there, with the same wretched and pitiful air. His coat was damp and
+he was warming himself. He was talking with old colleagues and saying,
+while rubbing his hands: ‘The proof that the Republic is the best of
+governments is that in 1871 it could kill in a week sixty thousand
+insurgents without becoming unpopular. After such a repression any other
+regime would have been impossible.’”
+
+“He is a very wicked man,” said Madame Martin. “And to think that I was
+pitying him!”
+
+Madame Garain, her chin softly dropped on her chest, slept in the peace
+of her housewifely mind, and dreamed of her vegetable garden on the
+banks of the Loire, where singing-societies came to serenade her.
+
+Joseph Schmoll and General Lariviere came out of the smoking-room. The
+General took a seat between Princess Seniavine and Madame Martin.
+
+“I met this morning, in the park, Baronne Warburg, mounted on a
+magnificent horse. She said, ‘General, how do you manage to have such
+fine horses?’ I replied: Madame, to have fine horses, you must be either
+very wealthy or very clever.’”
+
+He was so well satisfied with his reply that he repeated it twice.
+
+Paul Vence came near Countess Martin:
+
+“I know that senator’s name: it is Lyer. He is the vice-president of a
+political society, and author of a book entitled, The Crime of December
+Second.”
+
+The General continued:
+
+“The weather was horrible. I went into a hut and found Le Menil there.
+I was in a bad humor. He was making fun of me, I saw, because I sought
+shelter. He imagines that because I am a general I must like wind
+and snow. He said that he liked bad weather, and that he was to go
+foxhunting with friends next week.”
+
+There was a pause; the General continued:
+
+“I wish him much joy, but I don’t envy him. Foxhunting is not
+agreeable.”
+
+“But it is useful,” said Montessuy.
+
+The General shrugged his shoulders.
+
+“Foxes are dangerous for chicken-coops in the spring when the fowls have
+to feed their families.”
+
+“Foxes are sly poachers, who do less harm to farmers than to hunters. I
+know something of this.”
+
+Therese was not listening to the Princess, who was talking to her. She
+was thinking:
+
+“He did not tell me that he was going away!”
+
+“Of what are you thinking, dear?” inquired the Princess.
+
+“Of nothing interesting,” Therese replied.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV. THE END OF A DREAM
+
+In the little shadowy room, where sound was deadened by curtains,
+portieres, cushions, bearskins, and carpets from the Orient, the
+firelight shone on glittering swords hanging among the faded favors of
+the cotillons of three winters. The rosewood chiffonier was surmounted
+by a silver cup, a prize from some sporting club. On a porcelain plaque,
+in the centre of the table, stood a crystal vase which held branches
+of white lilacs; and lights palpitated in the warm shadows. Therese and
+Robert, their eyes accustomed to obscurity, moved easily among these
+familiar objects. He lighted a cigarette while she arranged her hair,
+standing before the mirror, in a corner so dim she could hardly see
+herself. She took pins from the little Bohemian glass cup standing on
+the table, where she had kept it for three years. He looked at her,
+passing her light fingers quickly through the gold ripples of her hair,
+while her face, hardened and bronzed by the shadow, took on a mysterious
+expression. She did not speak.
+
+He said to her:
+
+“You are not cross now, my dear?”
+
+And, as he insisted upon having an answer, she said:
+
+“What do you wish me to say, my friend? I can only repeat what I said
+at first. I think it strange that I have to learn of your projects from
+General Lariviere.”
+
+He knew very well that she had not forgiven him; that she had remained
+cold and reserved toward him. But he affected to think that she only
+pouted.
+
+“My dear, I have explained it to you. I have told you that when I
+met Lariviere I had just received a letter from Caumont, recalling my
+promise to hunt the fox in his woods, and I replied by return post. I
+meant to tell you about it to-day. I am sorry that General Lariviere
+told you first, but there was no significance in that.”
+
+Her arms were lifted like the handles of a vase. She turned toward him a
+glance from her tranquil eyes, which he did not understand.
+
+“Then you are going?”
+
+“Next week, Tuesday or Wednesday. I shall be away only ten days at
+most.”
+
+She put on her sealskin toque, ornamented with a branch of holly.
+
+“Is it something that you can not postpone?”
+
+“Oh, yes. Fox-skins would not be worth anything in a month. Moreover,
+Caumont has invited good friends of mine, who would regret my absence.”
+
+Fixing her toque on her head with a long pin, she frowned.
+
+“Is fox-hunting interesting?”
+
+“Oh, yes, very. The fox has stratagems that one must fathom. The
+intelligence of that animal is really marvellous. I have observed at
+night a fox hunting a rabbit. He had organized a real hunt. I assure you
+it is not easy to dislodge a fox. Caumont has an excellent cellar. I do
+not care for it, but it is generally appreciated. I will bring you half
+a dozen skins.”
+
+“What do you wish me to do with them?”
+
+“Oh, you can make rugs of them.”
+
+“And you will be hunting eight days?”
+
+“Not all the time. I shall visit my aunt, who expects me. Last year at
+this time there was a delightful reunion at her house. She had with her
+her two daughters and her three nieces with their husbands. All five
+women are pretty, gay, charming, and irreproachable. I shall probably
+find them at the beginning of next month, assembled for my aunt’s
+birthday, and I shall remain there two days.”
+
+“My friend, stay as long as it may please you. I should be inconsolable
+if you shortened on my account a sojourn which is so agreeable.”
+
+“But you, Therese?”
+
+“I, my friend? I can take care of myself.”
+
+The fire was languishing. The shadows were deepening between them. She
+said, in a dreamy tone:
+
+“It is true, however, that it is never prudent to leave a woman alone.”
+
+He went near her, trying to see her eyes in the darkness. He took her
+hand.
+
+“You love me?” he said.
+
+“Oh, I assure you that I do not love another but--”
+
+“What do you mean?”
+
+“Nothing. I am thinking--I am thinking that we are separated all through
+the summer; that in winter you live with your parents and your friends
+half the time; and that, if we are to see so little of each other, it is
+better not to see each other at all.”
+
+He lighted the candelabra. His frank, hard face was illuminated. He
+looked at her with a confidence that came less from the conceit common
+to all lovers than from his natural lack of dignity. He believed in her
+through force of education and simplicity of intelligence.
+
+“Therese, I love you, and you love me, I know. Why do you torment me?
+Sometimes you are painfully harsh.”
+
+She shook her little head brusquely.
+
+“What will you have? I am harsh and obstinate. It is in the blood. I
+take it from my father. You know Joinville; you have seen the
+castle, the ceilings, the tapestries, the gardens, the park, the
+hunting-grounds, you have said that none better were in France; but you
+have not seen my father’s workshop--a white wooden table and a mahogany
+bureau. Everything about me has its origin there. On that table my
+father made figures for forty years; at first in a little room, then in
+the apartment where I was born. We were not very wealthy then. I am a
+parvenu’s daughter, or a conqueror’s daughter, it’s all the same. We are
+people of material interests. My father wanted to earn money, to possess
+what he could buy--that is, everything. I wish to earn and keep--what?
+I do not know--the happiness that I have--or that I have not. I have my
+own way of being exacting. I long for dreams and illusions. Oh, I know
+very well that all this is not worth the trouble that a woman takes in
+giving herself to a man; but it is a trouble that is worth something,
+because my trouble is myself, my life. I like to enjoy what I like, or
+think what I like. I do not wish to lose. I am like papa: I demand what
+is due to me. And then--”
+
+She lowered her voice:
+
+“And then, I have--impulses! Now, my dear, I bore you. What will you
+have? You shouldn’t have loved me.”
+
+This language, to which she had accustomed him, often spoiled his
+pleasure. But it did not alarm him. He was sensitive to all that she
+did, but not at all to what she said; and he attached no importance to
+a woman’s words. Talking little himself, he could not imagine that often
+words are the same as actions.
+
+Although he loved her, or, rather, because he loved her with strength
+and confidence, he thought it his duty to resist her whims, which he
+judged absurd. Whenever he played the master, he succeeded with her;
+and, naively, he always ended by playing it.
+
+“You know very well, Therese, that I wish to do nothing except to be
+agreeable to you. Don’t be capricious with me.”
+
+“And why should I not be capricious? If I gave myself to you, it was not
+because I was logical, nor because I thought I must. It was because I
+was capricious.”
+
+He looked at her, astonished and saddened.
+
+“The word is not pleasant to you, my friend? Well let us say that it was
+love. Truly it was, with all my heart, and because I felt that you
+loved me. But love must be a pleasure, and if I do not find in it the
+satisfaction of what you call my capriciousness, but which is really my
+desire, my life, my love, I do not want it; I prefer to live alone.
+You are astonishing! My caprices! Is there anything else in life? Your
+foxhunt, isn’t that capricious?”
+
+He replied, very sincerely:
+
+“If I had not promised, I swear to you, Therese, that I would sacrifice
+that small pleasure with great joy.”
+
+She felt that he spoke the truth. She knew how exact he was in filling
+the most trifling engagements, yet realized that if she insisted he
+would not go. But it was too late: she did not wish to win. She would
+seek hereafter only the violent pleasure of losing. She pretended to
+take his reason seriously, and said:
+
+“Ah, you have promised!”
+
+And she affected to yield.
+
+Surprised at first, he congratulated himself at last on having made her
+listen to reason. He was grateful to her for not having been stubborn.
+He put his arm around her waist and kissed her on the neck and eyelids
+as a reward. He said:
+
+“We may meet three or four times before I go, and more, if you wish. I
+will wait for you as often as you wish to come. Will you meet me here
+to-morrow?”
+
+She gave herself the satisfaction of saying that she could not come the
+next day nor any other day.
+
+Softly she mentioned the things that prevented her.
+
+The obstacles seemed light; calls, a gown to be tried on, a charity
+fair, exhibitions. As she dilated upon the difficulties they seemed to
+increase. The calls could not be postponed; there were three fairs; the
+exhibitions would soon close. In fine, it was impossible for her to see
+him again before his departure.
+
+As he was well accustomed to making excuses of that sort, he failed to
+observe that it was not natural for Therese to offer them. Embarrassed
+by this tissue of social obligations, he did not persist, but remained
+silent and unhappy.
+
+With her left arm she raised the portiere, placed her right hand on
+the key of the door; and, standing against the rich background of the
+sapphire and ruby-colored folds of the Oriental draperies, she
+turned her head toward the friend she was leaving, and said, a little
+mockingly, yet with a touch of tragic emotion:
+
+“Good-by, Robert. Enjoy yourself. My calls, my errands, your little
+visits are nothing. Life is made up of just such trifles. Good-by!”
+
+She went out. He would have liked to accompany her, but he made it a
+point not to show himself with her in the street, unless she absolutely
+forced him to do so.
+
+In the street, Therese felt suddenly that she was alone in the world,
+without joy and without pain. She returned to her house on foot, as was
+her habit. It was night; the air was frozen, clear, and tranquil. But
+the avenues through which she walked, in shadows studded with lights,
+enveloped her with that mild atmosphere of the queen of cities, so
+agreeable to its inhabitants, which makes itself felt even in the cold
+of winter. She walked between the lines of huts and old houses, remains
+of the field-days of Auteuil, which tall houses interrupted here and
+there. These small shops, these monotonous windows, were nothing to her.
+Yet she felt that she was under the mysterious spell of the friendship
+of inanimate things; and it seemed to her that the stones, the doors of
+houses, the lights behind the windowpanes, looked kindly upon her. She
+was alone, and she wished to be alone. The steps she was taking between
+the two houses wherein her habits were almost equal, the steps she had
+taken so often, to-day seemed to her irrevocable. Why? What had that day
+brought? Not exactly a quarrel. And yet the words spoken that day had
+left a subtle, strange, persistent sting, which would never leave her.
+What had happened? Nothing. And that nothing had effaced everything. She
+had a sort of obscure certainty that she would never return to that room
+which had so recently enclosed the most secret and dearest phases of her
+life. She had loved Robert with the seriousness of a necessary joy. Made
+to be loved, and very reasonable, she had not lost in the abandonment of
+herself that instinct of reflection, that necessity for security, which
+was so strong in her. She had not chosen: one seldom chooses. She had
+not allowed herself to be taken at random and by surprise. She had done
+what she had wished to do, as much as one ever does what one wishes to
+do in such cases. She had nothing to regret. He had been to her what it
+was his duty to be. She felt, in spite of everything, that all was at
+an end. She thought, with dry sadness, that three years of her life had
+been given to an honest man who had loved her and whom she had loved.
+“For I loved him. I must have loved him in order to give myself to him.”
+ But she could not feel again the sentiments of early days, the movements
+of her mind when she had yielded. She recalled small and insignificant
+circumstances: the flowers on the wall-paper and the pictures in the
+room. She recalled the words, a little ridiculous and almost touching,
+that he had said to her. But it seemed to her that the adventure had
+occurred to another woman, to a stranger whom she did not like and whom
+she hardly understood. And what had happened only a moment ago seemed
+far distant now. The room, the lilacs in the crystal vase, the little
+cup of Bohemian glass where she found her pins--she saw all these things
+as if through a window that one passes in the street. She was without
+bitterness, and even without sadness. She had nothing to forgive, alas!
+This absence for a week was not a betrayal, it was not a fault against
+her; it was nothing, yet it was everything. It was the end. She knew it.
+She wished to cease. It was the consent of all the forces of her being.
+She said to herself: “I have no reason to love him less. Do I love him
+no more? Did I ever love him?” She did not know and she did not care to
+know. Three years, during which there had been months when they had seen
+each other every day--was all this nothing? Life is not a great thing.
+And what one puts in it, how little that is!
+
+In fine, she had nothing of which to complain. But it was better to end
+it all. All these reflections brought her back to that point. It was not
+a resolution; resolutions may be changed. It was graver: it was a state
+of the body and of the mind.
+
+When she arrived at the square, in the centre of which is a fountain,
+and on one side of which stands a church of rustic style, showing its
+bell in an open belfry, she recalled the little bouquet of violets that
+he had given to her one night on the bridge near Notre Dame. They had
+loved each other that day--perhaps more than usual. Her heart softened
+at that reminiscence. But the little bouquet remained alone, a poor
+little flower skeleton, in her memory.
+
+While she was thinking, passers-by, deceived by the simplicity of her
+dress, followed her. One of them made propositions to her: a dinner and
+the theatre. It amused her. She was not at all disturbed; this was not a
+crisis. She thought: “How do other women manage such things? And I, who
+promised myself not to spoil my life. What is life worth?”
+
+Opposite the Greek lantern of the Musee des Religions she found the soil
+disturbed by workmen. There were paving-stones crossed by a bridge made
+of a narrow flexible plank. She had stepped on it, when she saw at the
+other end, in front of her, a man who was waiting for her. He recognized
+her and bowed. It was Dechartre. She saw that he was happy to meet her;
+she thanked him with a smile. He asked her permission to walk a few
+steps with her, and they entered into the large and airy space. In this
+place the tall houses, set somewhat back, efface themselves, and reveal
+a glimpse of the sky.
+
+He told her that he had recognized her from a distance by the rhythm of
+her figure and her movements, which were hers exclusively.
+
+“Graceful movements,” he added, “are like music for the eyes.”
+
+She replied that she liked to walk; it was her pleasure, and the cause
+of her good health.
+
+He, too, liked to walk in populous towns and beautiful fields. The
+mystery of highways tempted him. He liked to travel. Although voyages
+had become common and easy, they retained for him their powerful charm.
+He had seen golden days and crystalline nights, Greece, Egypt, and the
+Bosporus; but it was to Italy that he returned always, as to the mother
+country of his mind.
+
+“I shall go there next week,” he said. “I long to see again Ravenna
+asleep among the black pines of its sterile shore. Have you seen
+Ravenna, Madame? It is an enchanted tomb where sparkling phantoms
+appear. The magic of death lies there. The mosaic works of Saint Vitale,
+with their barbarous angels and their aureolated empresses, make one
+feel the monstrous delights of the Orient. Despoiled to-day of its
+silver lamels, the grave of Galla Placidia is frightful under its
+crypt, luminous yet gloomy. When one looks through an opening in the
+sarcophagus, it seems as if one saw the daughter of Theodosius,
+seated on her golden chair, erect in her gown studded with stones and
+embroidered with scenes from the Old Testament; her beautiful, cruel
+face preserved hard and black with aromatic plants, and her ebony
+hands immovable on her knees. For thirteen centuries she retained this
+funereal majesty, until one day a child passed a candle through the
+opening of the grave and burned the body.”
+
+Madame Martin-Belleme asked what that dead woman, so obstinate in her
+conceit, had done during her life.
+
+“Twice a slave,” said Dechartre, “she became twice an empress.”
+
+“She must have been beautiful,” said Madame Martin. “You have made
+me see her too vividly in her tomb. She frightens me. Shall you go to
+Venice, Monsieur Dechartre? Or are you tired of gondolas, of canals
+bordered by palaces, and of the pigeons of Saint Mark? I confess that I
+still like Venice, after being there three times.”
+
+He said she was right. He, too, liked Venice.
+
+Whenever he went there, from a sculptor he became a painter, and made
+studies. He would like to paint its atmosphere.
+
+“Elsewhere,” he said, “even in Florence, the sky is too high. At Venice
+it is everywhere; it caresses the earth and the water. It envelops
+lovingly the leaden domes and the marble facades, and throws into the
+iridescent atmosphere its pearls and its crystals. The beauty of Venice
+is in its sky and its women. What pretty creatures the Venetian women
+are! Their forms are so slender and supple under their black shawls. If
+nothing remained of these women except a bone, one would find in that
+bone the charm of their exquisite structure. Sundays, at church, they
+form laughing groups, agitated, with hips a little pointed, elegant
+necks, flowery smiles, and inflaming glances. And all bend, with the
+suppleness of young animals, at the passage of a priest whose head
+resembles that of Vitellius, and who carries the chalice, preceded by
+two choir-boys.”
+
+He walked with unequal step, following the rhythm of his ideas,
+sometimes quick, sometimes slow. She walked more regularly, and almost
+outstripped him. He looked at her sidewise, and liked her firm and
+supple carriage. He observed the little shake which at moments her
+obstinate head gave to the holly on her toque.
+
+Without expecting it, he felt a charm in that meeting, almost intimate,
+with a young woman almost unknown.
+
+They had reached the place where the large avenue unfolds its four rows
+of trees. They were following the stone parapet surmounted by a hedge of
+boxwood, which entirely hides the ugliness of the buildings on the quay.
+One felt the presence of the river by the milky atmosphere which in
+misty days seems to rest on the water. The sky was clear. The lights
+of the city were mingled with the stars. At the south shone the three
+golden nails of the Orion belt. Dechartre continued:
+
+“Last year, at Venice, every morning as I went out of my house, I saw at
+her door, raised by three steps above the canal, a charming girl, with
+small head, neck round and strong, and graceful hips. She was there, in
+the sun and surrounded by vermin, as pure as an amphora, fragrant as
+a flower. She smiled. What a mouth! The richest jewel in the most
+beautiful light. I realized in time that this smile was addressed to a
+butcher standing behind me with his basket on his head.”
+
+At the corner of the short street which goes to the quay, between two
+lines of small gardens, Madame Martin walked more slowly.
+
+“It is true that at Venice,” she said, “all women are pretty.”
+
+“They are almost all pretty, Madame. I speak of the common girls--the
+cigar-girls, the girls among the glass-workers. The others are
+commonplace enough.”
+
+“By others you mean society women; and you don’t like these?”
+
+“Society women? Oh, some of them are charming. As for loving them,
+that’s a different affair.”
+
+“Do you think so?”
+
+She extended her hand to him, and suddenly turned the corner.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V. A DINNER ‘EN FAMILLE’
+
+She dined that night alone with her husband. The narrow table had not
+the basket with golden eagles and winged Victorys. The candelabra did
+not light Oudry’s paintings. While he talked of the events of the day,
+she fell into a sad reverie. It seemed to her that she floated in a
+mist. It was a peaceful and almost sweet suffering. She saw vaguely
+through the clouds the little room of the Rue Spontini transported by
+angels to one of the summits of the Himalaya Mountains, and Robert Le
+Menil--in the quaking of a sort of world’s end--had disappeared while
+putting on his gloves. She felt her pulse to see whether she were
+feverish. A rattle of silverware on the table awoke her. She heard her
+husband saying:
+
+“My dear friend Gavaut delivered to-day, in the Chamber, an excellent
+speech on the question of the reserve funds. It’s extraordinary how his
+ideas have become healthy and just. Oh, he has improved a great deal.”
+
+She could not refrain from smiling.
+
+“But Gavaut, my friend, is a poor devil who never thought of anything
+except escaping from the crowd of those who are dying of hunger.
+Gavaut never had any ideas except at his elbows. Does anybody take him
+seriously in the political world? You may be sure that he never gave an
+illusion to any woman, not even his wife. And yet to produce that sort
+of illusion a man does not need much.” She added, brusquely:
+
+“You know Miss Bell has invited me to spend a month with her at Fiesole.
+I have accepted; I am going.”
+
+Less astonished than discontented, he asked her with whom she was going.
+
+At once she answered:
+
+“With Madame Marmet.”
+
+There was no objection to make. Madame Marmet was a proper companion,
+and it was appropriate for her to visit Italy, where her husband had
+made some excavations. He asked only:
+
+“Have you invited her? When are you going?”
+
+“Next week.”
+
+He had the wisdom not to make any objection, judging that opposition
+would only make her capriciousness firmer, and fearing to give impetus
+to that foolish idea. He said:
+
+“Surely, to travel is an agreeable pastime. I thought that we might in
+the spring visit the Caucasus and Turkestan. There is an interesting
+country. General Annenkoff will place at our disposal carriages, trains,
+and everything else on his railway. He is a friend of mine; he is quite
+charmed with you. He will provide us with an escort of Cossacks.”
+
+He persisted in trying to flatter her vanity, unable to realize that
+her mind was not worldly. She replied, negligently, that it might be a
+pleasant trip. Then he praised the mountains, the ancient cities, the
+bazaars, the costumes, the armor.
+
+He added:
+
+“We shall take some friends with us--Princess Seniavine, General
+Lariviere, perhaps Vence or Le Menil.”
+
+She replied, with a little dry laugh, that they had time to select their
+guests.
+
+He became attentive to her wants.
+
+“You are not eating. You will injure your health.”
+
+Without yet believing in this prompt departure, he felt some anxiety
+about it. Each had regained freedom, but he did not like to be alone. He
+felt that he was himself only when his wife was there. And then, he had
+decided to give two or three political dinners during the session. He
+saw his party growing. This was the moment to assert himself, to make a
+dazzling show. He said, mysteriously:
+
+“Something might happen requiring the aid of all our friends. You have
+not followed the march of events, Therese?”
+
+“No, my dear.”
+
+“I am sorry. You have judgment, liberality of mind. If you had followed
+the march of events you would have been struck by the current that is
+leading the country back to moderate opinions. The country is tired of
+exaggerations. It rejects the men compromised by radical politics and
+religious persecution. Some day or other it will be necessary to make
+over a Casimir-Perier ministry with other men, and that day--”
+
+He stopped: really she listened too inattentively.
+
+She was thinking, sad and disenchanted. It seemed to her that the pretty
+woman, who, among the warm shadows of a closed room, placed her bare
+feet in the fur of the brown bear rug, and to whom her lover gave kisses
+while she twisted her hair in front of a glass, was not herself, was
+not even a woman that she knew well, or that she desired to know, but a
+person whose affairs were of no interest to her. A pin badly set in her
+hair, one of the pins from the Bohemian glass cup, fell on her neck. She
+shivered.
+
+“Yet we really must give three or four dinners to our good political
+friends,” said M. Martin-Belleme. “We shall invite some of the ancient
+radicals to meet the people of our circle. It will be well to find some
+pretty women. We might invite Madame Berard de la Malle; there has been
+no gossip about her for two years. What do you think of it?”
+
+“But, my dear, since I am to go next week--”
+
+This filled him with consternation.
+
+They went, both silent and moody, into the drawing-room, where Paul
+Vence was waiting. He often came in the evening.
+
+She extended her hand to him.
+
+“I am very glad to see you. I am going out of town. Paris is cold and
+bleak. This weather tires and saddens me. I am going to Florence, for
+six weeks, to visit Miss Bell.”
+
+M. Martin-Belleme then lifted his eyes to heaven.
+
+Vence asked whether she had been in Italy often.
+
+“Three times; but I saw nothing. This time I wish to see, to throw
+myself into things. From Florence I shall take walks into Tuscany, into
+Umbria. And, finally, I shall go to Venice.”
+
+“You will do well. Venice suggests the peace of the Sabbath-day in the
+grand week of creative and divine Italy.”
+
+“Your friend Dechartre talked very prettily to me of Venice, of the
+atmosphere of Venice, which sows pearls.”
+
+“Yes, at Venice the sky is a colorist. Florence inspires the mind. An
+old author has said: ‘The sky of Florence is light and subtle, and feeds
+the beautiful ideas of men.’ I have lived delicious days in Tuscany. I
+wish I could live them again.”
+
+“Come and see me there.”
+
+He sighed.
+
+The newspaper, books, and his daily work prevented him.
+
+M. Martin-Belleme said everyone should bow before such reasons, and that
+one was too happy to read the articles and the fine books written by M.
+Paul Vence to have any wish to take him from his work.
+
+“Oh, my books! One never says in a book what one wishes to say. It is
+impossible to express one’s self. I know how to talk with my pen as well
+as any other person; but, after all, to talk or to write, what futile
+occupations! How wretchedly inadequate are the little signs which form
+syllables, words, and phrases. What becomes of the idea, the beautiful
+idea, which these miserable hieroglyphics hide? What does the reader
+make of my writing? A series of false sense, of counter sense, and
+of nonsense. To read, to hear, is to translate. There are beautiful
+translations, perhaps. There are no faithful translations. Why should
+I care for the admiration which they give to my books, since it is what
+they themselves see in them that they admire? Every reader substitutes
+his visions in the place of ours. We furnish him with the means to
+quicken his imagination. It is a horrible thing to be a cause of such
+exercises. It is an infamous profession.”
+
+“You are jesting,” said M. Martin-Belleme.
+
+“I do not think so,” said Therese. “He recognizes that one mind is
+impenetrable to another mind, and he suffers from this. He feels that he
+is alone when he is thinking, alone when he is writing. Whatever one may
+do, one is always alone in the world. That is what he wishes to say. He
+is right. You may always explain: you never are understood.”
+
+“There are signs--” said Paul Vence.
+
+“Don’t you think, Monsieur Vence, that signs also are a form of
+hieroglyphics? Give me news of Monsieur Choulette. I do not see him any
+more.”
+
+Vence replied that Choulette was very busy in forming the Third Order of
+Saint Francis.
+
+“The idea, Madame, came to him in a marvellous fashion one day when he
+had gone to call on his Maria in the street where she lives, behind
+the public hospital--a street always damp, the houses on which are
+tottering. You must know that he considers Maria the saint and martyr
+who is responsible for the sins of the people.
+
+“He pulled the bell-rope, made greasy by two centuries of visitors.
+Either because the martyr was at the wine-shop, where she is familiarly
+known, or because she was busy in her room, she did not open the door.
+Choulette rang for a long time, and so violently that the bellrope
+remained in his hand. Skilful at understanding symbols and the hidden
+meaning of things, he understood at once that this rope had not been
+detached without the permission of spiritual powers. He made of it
+a belt, and realized that he had been chosen to lead back into its
+primitive purity the Third Order of Saint Francis. He renounced the
+beauty of women, the delights of poetry, the brightness of glory, and
+studied the life and the doctrine of Saint Francis. However, he has sold
+to his editor a book entitled ‘Les Blandices’, which contains, he says,
+the description of all sorts of loves. He flatters himself that in it
+he has shown himself a criminal with some elegance. But far from harming
+his mystic undertakings, this book favors them in this sense, that,
+corrected by his later work, he will become honest and exemplary; and
+the gold that he has received in payment, which would not have been paid
+to him for a more chaste volume, will serve for a pilgrimage to Assisi.”
+
+Madame Martin asked how much of this story was really true. Vence
+replied that she must not try to learn.
+
+He confessed that he was the idealist historian of the poet, and that
+the adventures which he related of him were not to be taken in the
+literal and Judaic sense.
+
+He affirmed that at least Choulette was publishing Les Blandices, and
+desired to visit the cell and the grave of St. Francis.
+
+“Then,” exclaimed Madame Martin, “I will take him to Italy with me. Find
+him, Monsieur Vence, and bring him to me. I am going next week.”
+
+M. Martin then excused himself, not being able to remain longer. He had
+to finish a report which was to be laid before the Chamber the next day.
+
+Madame Martin said that nobody interested her so much as Choulette. Paul
+Vence said that he was a singular specimen of humanity.
+
+“He is not very different from the saints of whose extraordinary lives
+we read. He is as sincere as they. He has an exquisite delicacy of
+sentiment and a terrible violence of mind. If he shocks one by many of
+his acts, the reason is that he is weaker, less supported, or perhaps
+less closely observed. And then there are unworthy saints, just as there
+are bad angels: Choulette is a worldly saint, that is all. But his poems
+are true poems, and much finer than those written by the bishops of the
+seventeenth century.”
+
+She interrupted him:
+
+“While I think of it, I wish to congratulate you on your friend
+Dechartre. He has a charming mind.”
+
+She added:
+
+“Perhaps he is a little too timid.”
+
+Vence reminded her that he had told her she would find Dechartre
+interesting.
+
+“I know him by heart; he has been my friend since our childhood.”
+
+“You knew his parents?”
+
+“Yes. He is the only son of Philippe Dechartre.”
+
+“The architect?”
+
+“The architect who, under Napoleon III, restored so many castles and
+churches in Touraine and the Orleanais. He had taste and knowledge.
+Solitary and quiet in his life, he had the imprudence to attack
+Viollet-le-Duc, then all-powerful. He reproached him with trying to
+reestablish buildings in their primitive plan, as they had been, or
+as they might have been, at the beginning. Philippe Dechartre, on the
+contrary, wished that everything which the lapse of centuries had added
+to a church, an abbey, or a castle should be respected. To abolish
+anachronisms and restore a building to its primitive unity, seemed to
+him to be a scientific barbarity as culpable as that of ignorance. He
+said: ‘It is a crime to efface the successive imprints made in stone
+by the hands of our ancestors. New stones cut in old style are false
+witnesses.’ He wished to limit the task of the archaeologic architect to
+that of supporting and consolidating walls. He was right. Everybody said
+that he was wrong. He achieved his ruin by dying young, while his rival
+triumphed. He bequeathed an honest fortune to his widow and his son.
+Jacques Dechartre was brought up by his mother, who adored him. I do
+not think that maternal tenderness ever was more impetuous. Jacques is a
+charming fellow; but he is a spoiled child.”
+
+“Yet he appears so indifferent, so easy to understand, so distant from
+everything.”
+
+“Do not rely on this. He has a tormented and tormenting imagination.”
+
+“Does he like women?”
+
+“Why do you ask?”
+
+“Oh, it isn’t with any idea of match-making.”
+
+“Yes, he likes them. I told you that he was an egoist. Only selfish men
+really love women. After the death of his mother, he had a long liaison
+with a well-known actress, Jeanne Tancrede.”
+
+Madame Martin remembered Jeanne Tancrede; not very pretty, but graceful
+with a certain slowness of action in playing romantic roles.
+
+“They lived almost together in a little house at Auteuil,” Paul Vence
+continued. “I often called on them. I found him lost in his dreams,
+forgetting to model a figure drying under its cloths, alone with
+himself, pursuing his idea, absolutely incapable of listening to
+anybody; she, studying her roles, her complexion burned by rouge, her
+eyes tender, pretty because of her intelligence and her activity. She
+complained to me that he was inattentive, cross, and unreasonable. She
+loved him and deceived him only to obtain roles. And when she deceived
+him, it was done on the spur of the moment. Afterward she never thought
+of it. A typical woman! But she was imprudent; she smiled upon Joseph
+Springer in the hope that he would make her a member of the Comedie
+Francaise. Dechartre left her. Now she finds it more practical to live
+with her managers, and Jacques finds it more agreeable to travel.”
+
+“Does he regret her?”
+
+“How can one know the things that agitate a mind anxious and mobile,
+selfish and passionate, desirous to surrender itself, prompt in
+disengaging itself, liking itself most of all among the beautiful things
+that it finds in the world?”
+
+Brusquely she changed the subject.
+
+“And your novel, Monsieur Vence?”
+
+“I have reached the last chapter, Madame. My little workingman has been
+guillotined. He died with that indifference of virgins without desire,
+who never have felt on their lips the warm taste of life. The
+journals and the public approve the act of justice which has just been
+accomplished. But in another garret, another workingman, sober, sad, and
+a chemist, swears to himself that he will commit an expiatory murder.”
+
+He rose and said good-night.
+
+She called him back.
+
+“Monsieur Vence, you know that I was serious. Bring Choulette to me.”
+
+When she went up to her room, her husband was waiting for her, in his
+red-brown plush robe, with a sort of doge’s cap framing his pale and
+hollow face. He had an air of gravity. Behind him, by the open door of
+his workroom, appeared under the lamp a mass of documents bound in blue,
+a collection of the annual budgets. Before she could reach her room he
+motioned that he wished to speak to her.
+
+“My dear, I can not understand you. You are very inconsequential. It
+does you a great deal of harm. You intend to leave your home without any
+reason, without even a pretext. And you wish to run through Europe with
+whom? With a Bohemian, a drunkard--that man Choulette.”
+
+She replied that she should travel with Madame Marmet, in which there
+could be nothing objectionable.
+
+“But you announce your going to everybody, yet you do not even know
+whether Madame Marmet can accompany you.”
+
+“Oh, Madame Marmet will soon pack her boxes. Nothing keeps her in Paris
+except her dog. She will leave it to you; you may take care of it.”
+
+“Does your father know of your project?”
+
+It was his last resource to invoke the authority of Montessuy. He knew
+that his wife feared to displease her father. He insisted:
+
+“Your father is full of sense and tact. I have been happy to find him
+agreeing with me several times in the advices which I have permitted
+myself to give you. He thinks as I do, that Madame Meillan’s house is
+not a fit place for you to visit. The company that meets there is mixed,
+and the mistress of the house favors intrigue. You are wrong, I must
+say, not to take account of what people think. I am mistaken if your
+father does not think it singular that you should go away with so much
+frivolity, and the absence will be the more remarked, my dear, since
+circumstances have made me eminent in the course of this legislature. My
+merit has nothing to do with the case, surely. But if you had consented
+to listen to me at dinner I should have demonstrated to you that the
+group of politicians to which I belong has almost reached power. In such
+a moment you should not renounce your duties as mistress of the house.
+You must understand this yourself.”
+
+She replied “You annoy me.” And, turning her back to him, she shut the
+door of her room between them. That night in her bed she opened a book,
+as she always did before going to sleep. It was a novel. She was turning
+the leaves with indifference, when her eyes fell on these lines:
+
+“Love is like devotion: it comes late. A woman is hardly in love or
+devout at twenty, unless she has a special disposition to be either, a
+sort of native sanctity. Women who are predestined to love, themselves
+struggle a long time against that grace of love which is more terrible
+than the thunderbolt that fell on the road to Damascus. A woman oftenest
+yields to the passion of love only when age or solitude does not
+frighten her. Passion is an arid and burning desert. Passion is profane
+asceticism, as harsh as religious asceticism. Great woman lovers are as
+rare as great penitent women. Those who know life well know that women
+do not easily bind themselves in the chains of real love. They know that
+nothing is less common than sacrifice among them. And consider how much
+a worldly woman must sacrifice when she is in love--liberty, quietness,
+the charming play of a free mind, coquetry, amusement, pleasure--she
+loses everything.
+
+“Coquetry is permissible. One may conciliate that with all the
+exigencies of fashionable life. Not so love. Love is the least mundane
+of passions, the most anti-social, the most savage, the most barbarous.
+So the world judges it more severely than mere gallantry or looseness
+of manners. In one sense the world is right. A woman in love betrays
+her nature and fails in her function, which is to be admired by all men,
+like a work of art. A woman is a work of art, the most marvellous that
+man’s industry ever has produced. A woman is a wonderful artifice, due
+to the concourse of all the arts mechanical and of all the arts liberal.
+She is the work of everybody, she belongs to the world.”
+
+Therese closed the book and thought that these ideas were only the
+dreams of novelists who did not know life. She knew very well that there
+was in reality neither a Carmel of passion nor a chain of love, nor
+a beautiful and terrible vocation against which the predestined
+one resisted in vain; she knew very well that love was only a brief
+intoxication from which one recovered a little sadder. And yet, perhaps,
+she did not know everything; perhaps there were loves in which one was
+deliciously lost. She put out her lamp. The dreams of her first youth
+came back to her.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI. A DISTINGUISHED RELICT
+
+It was raining. Madame Martin-Belleme saw confusedly through the glass
+of her coupe the multitude of passing umbrellas, like black turtles
+under the watery skies. She was thinking. Her thoughts were gray and
+indistinct, like the aspect of the streets and the squares.
+
+She no longer knew why the idea had come to her to spend a month with
+Miss Bell. Truly, she never had known. The idea had been like a spring,
+at first hidden by leaves, and now forming the current of a deep and
+rapid stream. She remembered that Tuesday night at dinner she had said
+suddenly that she wished to go, but she could not remember the first
+flush of that desire. It was not the wish to act toward Robert Le Menil
+as he was acting toward her. Doubtless she thought it excellent to go
+travelling in Italy while he went fox-hunting. This seemed to her a
+fair arrangement. Robert, who was always pleased to see her when he came
+back, would not find her on his return. She thought this would be right.
+She had not thought of it at first. And since then she had thought
+little of it, and really she was not going for the pleasure of making
+him grieve. She had against him a thought less piquant, and more
+harsh. She did not wish to see him soon. He had become to her almost
+a stranger. He seemed to her a man like others--better than most
+others--good-looking, estimable, and who did not displease her; but he
+did not preoccupy her. Suddenly he had gone out of her life. She could
+not remember how he had become mingled with it. The idea of belonging
+to him shocked her. The thought that they might meet again in the small
+apartment of the Rue Spontini was so painful to her that she discarded
+it at once. She preferred to think that an unforeseen event would
+prevent their meeting again--the end of the world, for example. M.
+Lagrange, member of the Academie des Sciences, had told her the day
+before of a comet which some day might meet the earth, envelop it with
+its flaming hair, imbue animals and plants with unknown poisons, and
+make all men die in a frenzy of laughter. She expected that this, or
+something else, would happen next month. It was not inexplicable that
+she wished to go. But that her desire to go should contain a vague joy,
+that she should feel the charm of what she was to find, was inexplicable
+to her.
+
+Her carriage left her at the corner of a street.
+
+There, under the roof of a tall house, behind five windows, in a small,
+neat apartment, Madame Marmet had lived since the death of her husband.
+
+Countess Martin found her in her modest drawing-room, opposite M.
+Lagrange, half asleep in a deep armchair. This worldly old savant had
+remained ever faithful to her. He it was who, the day after M. Marmet’s
+funeral, had conveyed to the unfortunate widow the poisoned speech
+delivered by Schmoll. She had fainted in his arms. Madame Marmet thought
+that he lacked judgment, but he was her best friend. They dined together
+often with rich friends.
+
+Madame Martin, slender and erect in her zibeline corsage opening on a
+flood of lace, awakened with the charming brightness of her gray eyes
+the good man, who was susceptible to the graces of women. He had told
+her the day before how the world would come to an end. He asked her
+whether she had not been frightened at night by pictures of the earth
+devoured by flames or frozen to a mass of ice. While he talked to her
+with affected gallantry, she looked at the mahogany bookcase. There were
+not many books in it, but on one of the shelves was a skeleton in armor.
+It amazed one to see in this good lady’s house that Etruscan warrior
+wearing a green bronze helmet and a cuirass. He slept among boxes of
+bonbons, vases of gilded porcelain, and carved images of the Virgin,
+picked up at Lucerne and on the Righi. Madame Marmet, in her widowhood,
+had sold the books which her husband had left. Of all the ancient
+objects collected by the archaeologist, she had retained nothing except
+the Etruscan. Many persons had tried to sell it for her. Paul Vence had
+obtained from the administration a promise to buy it for the Louvre, but
+the good widow would not part with it. It seemed to her that if she lost
+that warrior with his green bronze helmet she would lose the name that
+she wore worthily, and would cease to be the widow of Louis Marmet of
+the Academie des Inscriptions.
+
+“Do not be afraid, Madame; a comet will not soon strike the earth. Such
+a phenomenon is very improbable.”
+
+Madame Martin replied that she knew no serious reason why the earth and
+humanity should not be annihilated at once.
+
+Old Lagrange exclaimed with profound sincerity that he hoped the
+cataclysm would come as late as possible.
+
+She looked at him. His bald head could boast only a few hairs dyed
+black. His eyelids fell like rags over eyes still smiling; his cheeks
+hung in loose folds, and one divined that his body was equally withered.
+She thought, “And even he likes life!”
+
+Madame Marmet hoped, too, that the end of the world was not near at
+hand.
+
+“Monsieur Lagrange,” said Madame Martin, “you live, do you not, in
+a pretty little house, the windows of which overlook the Botanical
+Gardens? It seems to me it must be a joy to live in that garden, which
+makes me think of the Noah’s Ark of my infancy, and of the terrestrial
+paradises in the old Bibles.”
+
+But he was not at all charmed with his house. It was small, unimproved,
+infested with rats.
+
+She acknowledged that one seldom felt at home anywhere, and that rats
+were found everywhere, either real or symbolical, legions of pests that
+torment us. Yet she liked the Botanical Gardens; she had always wished
+to go there, yet never had gone. There was also the museum, which she
+was curious to visit.
+
+Smiling, happy, he offered to escort her there. He considered it his
+house. He would show her rare specimens, some of which were superb.
+
+She did not know what a bolide was. She recalled that some one had
+said to her that at the museum were bones carved by primitive men, and
+plaques of ivory on which were engraved pictures of animals, which were
+long ago extinct. She asked whether that were true. Lagrange ceased to
+smile. He replied indifferently that such objects concerned one of his
+colleagues.
+
+“Ah!” said Madame Martin, “then they are not in your showcase.”
+
+She observed that learned men were not curious, and that it is
+indiscreet to question them on things that are not in their own
+showcases. It is true that Lagrange had made a scientific fortune in
+studying meteors. This had led him to study comets. But he was wise. For
+twenty years he had been preoccupied by nothing except dining out.
+
+When he had left, Countess Martin told Madame Marmet what she expected
+of her.
+
+“I am going next week to Fiesole, to visit Miss Bell, and you are coming
+with me.”
+
+The good Madame Marmet, with placid brow yet searching eyes, was silent
+for a moment; then she refused gently, but finally consented.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII. MADAME HAS HER WAY
+
+The Marseilles express was ready on the quay, where the postmen ran,
+and the carriages rolled amid smoke and noise, under the light that fell
+from the windows. Through the open doors travellers in long cloaks came
+and went. At the end of the station, blinding with soot and dust, a
+small rainbow could be discerned, not larger than one’s hand. Countess
+Martin and the good Madame Marniet were already in their carriage, under
+the rack loaded with bags, among newspapers thrown on the cushions.
+Choulette had not appeared, and Madame Martin expected him no longer.
+Yet he had promised to be at the station. He had made his arrangements
+to go, and had received from his publisher the price of Les Blandices.
+Paul Vence had brought him one evening to Madame Martin’s house. He
+had been sweet, polished, full of witty gayety and naive joy. She had
+promised herself much pleasure in travelling with a man of genius,
+original, picturesquely ugly, with an amusing simplicity; like a child
+prematurely old and abandoned, full of vices, yet with a certain degree
+of innocence. The doors closed. She expected him no longer. She should
+not have counted on his impulsive and vagabondish mind. At the moment
+when the engine began to breathe hoarsely, Madame Marmet, who was
+looking out of the window, said, quietly:
+
+“I think that Monsieur Choulette is coming.”
+
+He was walking along the quay, limping, with his hat on the back of his
+head, his beard unkempt, and dragging an old carpet-bag. He was almost
+repulsive; yet, in spite of his fifty years of age, he looked young, so
+clear and lustrous were his eyes, so much ingenuous audacity had been
+retained in his yellow, hollow face, so vividly did this old man express
+the eternal adolescence of the poet and artist. When she saw him,
+Therese regretted having invited so strange a companion. He walked
+along, throwing a hasty glance into every carriage--a glance which,
+little by little, became sullen and distrustful. But when he recognized
+Madame Martin, he smiled so sweetly and said good-morning to her in so
+caressing a voice that nothing was left of the ferocious old vagabond
+walking on the quay, nothing except the old carpet-bag, the handles of
+which were half broken.
+
+He placed it in the rack with great care, among the elegant bags
+enveloped with gray cloth, beside which it looked conspicuously sordid.
+It was studded with yellow flowers on a blood-colored background.
+
+He was soon perfectly at ease, and complimented Madame Martin on the
+elegance of her travelling attire.
+
+“Excuse me, ladies,” he added, “I was afraid I should be late. I went
+to six o’clock mass at Saint Severin, my parish, in the Virgin Chapel,
+under those pretty, but absurd columns that point toward heaven though
+frail as reeds-like us, poor sinners that we are.”
+
+“Ah,” said Madame Martin, “you are pious to-day.”
+
+And she asked him whether he wore the cordon of the order which he was
+founding. He assumed a grave and penitent air.
+
+“I am afraid, Madame, that Monsieur Paul Vence has told you many absurd
+stories about me. I have heard that he goes about circulating rumors
+that my ribbon is a bell-rope--and of what a bell! I should be pained if
+anybody believed so wretched a story. My ribbon, Madame, is a symbolical
+ribbon. It is represented by a simple thread, which one wears under
+one’s clothes after a pauper has touched it, as a sign that poverty is
+holy, and that it will save the world. There is nothing good except in
+poverty; and since I have received the price of Les Blandices, I feel
+that I am unjust and harsh. It is a good thing that I have placed in my
+bag several of these mystic ribbons.”
+
+And, pointing to the horrible carpet-bag:
+
+“I have also placed in it a host which a bad priest gave to me, the
+works of Monsieur de Maistre, shirts, and several other things:”
+
+Madame Martin lifted her eyebrows, a little ill at ease. But the good
+Madame Marmet retained her habitual placidity.
+
+As the train rolled through the homely scenes of the outskirts, that
+black fringe which makes an unlovely border to the city, Choulette took
+from his pocket an old book which he began to fumble. The writer, hidden
+under the vagabond, revealed himself. Choulette, without wishing to
+appear to be careful of his papers, was very orderly about them. He
+assured himself that he had not lost the pieces of paper on which
+he noted at the coffeehouse his ideas for poems, nor the dozen of
+flattering letters which, soiled and spotted, he carried with him
+continually, to read them to his newly-made companions at night. After
+assuring himself that nothing was missing, he took from the book a
+letter folded in an open envelope. He waved it for a while, with an air
+of mysterious impudence, then handed it to the Countess Martin. It was
+a letter of introduction from the Marquise de Rieu to a princess of the
+House of France, a near relative of the Comte de Chambord, who, old and
+a widow, lived in retirement near the gates of Florence. Having enjoyed
+the effect which he expected to produce, he said that he should perhaps
+visit the Princess; that she was a good person, and pious.
+
+“A truly great lady,” he added, “who does not show her magnificence
+in gowns and hats. She wears her chemises for six weeks, and sometimes
+longer. The gentlemen of her train have seen her wear very dirty white
+stockings, which fell around her heels. The virtues of the great queens
+of Spain are revived in her. Oh, those soiled stockings, what real glory
+there is in them!”
+
+He took the letter and put it back in his book. Then, arming himself
+with a horn-handled knife, he began, with its point, to finish a figure
+sketched in the handle of his stick. He complimented himself on it:
+
+“I am skilful in all the arts of beggars and vagabonds. I know how to
+open locks with a nail, and how to carve wood with a bad knife.”
+
+The head began to appear. It was the head of a thin woman, weeping.
+
+Choulette wished to express in it human misery, not simple and touching,
+such as men of other times may have felt it in a world of mingled
+harshness and kindness; but hideous, and reflecting the state of
+ugliness created by the free-thinking bourgeois and the military
+patriots of the French Revolution. According to him the present regime
+embodied only hypocrisy and brutality.
+
+“Their barracks are a hideous invention of modern times. They date from
+the seventeenth century. Before that time there were only guard-houses
+where the soldiers played cards and told tales. Louis XIV was a
+precursor of Bonaparte. But the evil has attained its plenitude since
+the monstrous institution of the obligatory enlistment. The shame of
+emperors and of republics is to have made it an obligation for men to
+kill. In the ages called barbarous, cities and princes entrusted their
+defence to mercenaries, who fought prudently. In a great battle only
+five or six men were killed. And when knights went to the wars, at least
+they were not forced to do it; they died for their pleasure. They were
+good for nothing else. Nobody in the time of Saint Louis would have
+thought of sending to battle a man of learning. And the laborer was
+not torn from the soil to be killed. Nowadays it is a duty for a poor
+peasant to be a soldier. He is exiled from his house, the roof of which
+smokes in the silence of night; from the fat prairies where the oxen
+graze; from the fields and the paternal woods. He is taught how to kill
+men; he is threatened, insulted, put in prison and told that it is
+an honor; and, if he does not care for that sort of honor, he is
+fusilladed. He obeys because he is terrorized, and is of all domestic
+animals the gentlest and most docile. We are warlike in France, and we
+are citizens. Another reason to be proud, this being a citizen! For the
+poor it consists in sustaining and preserving the wealthy in their power
+and their laziness. The poor must work for this, in presence of the
+majestic quality of the law which prohibits the wealthy as well as the
+poor from sleeping under the bridges, from begging in the streets, and
+from stealing bread. That is one of the good effects of the Revolution.
+As this Revolution was made by fools and idiots for the benefit of those
+who acquired national lands, and resulted in nothing but making the
+fortune of crafty peasants and financiering bourgeois, the Revolution
+only made stronger, under the pretence of making all men equal, the
+empire of wealth. It has betrayed France into the hands of the men of
+wealth. They are masters and lords. The apparent government, composed of
+poor devils, is in the pay of the financiers. For one hundred years, in
+this poisoned country, whoever has loved the poor has been considered
+a traitor to society. A man is called dangerous when he says that there
+are wretched people. There are laws against indignation and pity, and
+what I say here could not go into print.”
+
+Choulette became excited and waved his knife, while under the wintry
+sunlight passed fields of brown earth, trees despoiled by winter, and
+curtains of poplars beside silvery rivers.
+
+He looked with tenderness at the figure carved on his stick.
+
+“Here you are,” he said, “poor humanity, thin and weeping, stupid with
+shame and misery, as you were made by your masters--soldiers and men of
+wealth.”
+
+The good Madame Marmet, whose nephew was a captain in the artillery, was
+shocked at the violence with which Choulette attacked the army. Madame
+Martin saw in this only an amusing fantasy. Choulette’s ideas did not
+frighten her. She was afraid of nothing. But she thought they were a
+little absurd. She did not think that the past had ever been better than
+the present.
+
+“I believe, Monsieur Choulette, that men were always as they are to-day,
+selfish, avaricious, and pitiless. I believe that laws and manners were
+always harsh and cruel to the unfortunate.”
+
+Between La Roche and Dijon they took breakfast in the dining-car, and
+left Choulette in it, alone with his pipe, his glass of benedictine, and
+his irritation.
+
+In the carriage, Madame Marmet talked with peaceful tenderness of
+the husband she had lost. He had married her for love; he had written
+admirable verses to her, which she had kept, and never shown to any one.
+He was lively and very gay. One would not have thought it who had seen
+him later, tired by work and weakened by illness. He studied until the
+last moment. Two hours before he died he was trying to read again.
+He was affectionate and kind. Even in suffering he retained all his
+sweetness. Madame Martin said to her:
+
+“You have had long years of happiness; you have kept the reminiscence of
+them; that is a share of happiness in this world.”
+
+But good Madame Marmet sighed; a cloud passed over her quiet brow.
+
+“Yes,” she said, “Louis was the best of men and the best of husbands.
+Yet he made me very miserable. He had only one fault, but I suffered
+from it cruelly. He was jealous. Good, kind, tender, and generous as he
+was, this horrible passion made him unjust, ironical, and violent. I can
+assure you that my behavior gave not the least cause for suspicion. I
+was not a coquette. But I was young, fresh; I passed for beautiful.
+That was enough. He would not let me go out alone, and would not let
+me receive calls in his absence. Whenever we went to a reception, I
+trembled in advance with the fear of the scene which he would make later
+in the carriage.”
+
+And the good Madame Marmet added, with a sigh:
+
+“It is true that I liked to dance. But I had to renounce going to balls;
+it made him suffer too much.”
+
+Countess Martin expressed astonishment. She had always imagined Marmet
+as an old man, timid, and absorbed by his thoughts; a little ridiculous,
+between his wife, plump, white, and amiable, and the skeleton wearing a
+helmet of bronze and gold. But the excellent widow confided to her that,
+at fifty-five years of age, when she was fifty-three, Louis was just as
+jealous as on the first day of their marriage.
+
+And Therese thought that Robert had never tormented her with jealousy.
+Was it on his part a proof of tact and good taste, a mark of confidence,
+or was it that he did not love her enough to make her suffer? She did
+not know, and she did not have the heart to try to know. She would have
+to look through recesses of her mind which she preferred not to open.
+
+She murmured carelessly:
+
+“We long to be loved, and when we are loved we are tormented or
+worried.”
+
+The day was finished in reading and thinking. Choulette did not
+reappear. Night covered little by little with its gray clouds the
+mulberry-trees of the Dauphine. Madame Marmet went to sleep peacefully,
+resting on herself as on a mass of pillows. Therese looked at her and
+thought:
+
+“She is happy, since she likes to remember.”
+
+The sadness of night penetrated her heart. And when the moon rose on
+the fields of olive-trees, seeing the soft lines of plains and of hills
+pass, Therese, in this landscape wherein everything spoke of peace and
+oblivion, and nothing spoke of her, regretted the Seine, the Arc de
+Triomphe with its radiating avenues, and the alleys of the park where,
+at least, the trees and the stones knew her.
+
+Suddenly Choulette threw himself into the carriage. Armed with his
+knotty stick, his face and head enveloped in red wool and a fur cap,
+he almost frightened her. It was what he wished to do. His violent
+attitudes and his savage dress were studied. Always seeking to produce
+effects, it pleased him to seem frightful.
+
+He was a coward himself, and was glad to inspire the fears he often
+felt. A moment before, as he was smoking his pipe, he had felt, while
+seeing the moon swallowed up by the clouds, one of those childish
+frights that tormented his light mind. He had come near the Countess to
+be reassured.
+
+“Arles,” he said. “Do you know Arles? It is a place of pure beauty. I
+have seen, in the cloister, doves resting on the shoulders of statues,
+and I have seen the little gray lizards warming themselves in the sun on
+the tombs. The tombs are now in two rows on the road that leads to the
+church. They are formed like cisterns, and serve as beds for the poor at
+night. One night, when I was walking among them, I met a good old woman
+who was placing dried herbs in the tomb of an old maid who had died
+on her wedding-day. We said goodnight to her. She replied: ‘May God
+hear-you! but fate wills that this tomb should open on the side of the
+northwest wind. If only it were open on the other side, I should be
+lying as comfortably as Queen Jeanne.’”
+
+Therese made no answer. She was dozing. And Choulette shivered in the
+cold of the night, in the fear of death.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII. THE LADY OF THE BELLS
+
+In her English cart, which she drove herself, Miss Bell had brought
+over the hills, from the railway station at Florence, the Countess
+Martin-Belleme and Madame Marmet to her pink-tinted house at Fiesole,
+which, crowned with a long balustrade, overlooked the incomparable city.
+The maid followed with the luggage. Choulette, lodged, by Miss Bell’s
+attention, in the house of a sacristan’s widow, in the shadow of the
+cathedral of Fiesole, was not expected until dinner. Plain and gentle,
+wearing short hair, a waistcoat, a man’s shirt on a chest like a boy’s,
+almost graceful, with small hips, the poetess was doing for her French
+friends the honors of the house, which reflected the ardent delicacy of
+her taste. On the walls of the drawing-room were pale Virgins, with
+long hands, reigning peacefully among angels, patriarchs, and saints in
+beautiful gilded frames. On a pedestal stood a Magdalena, clothed only
+with her hair, frightful with thinness and old age, some beggar of the
+road to Pistoia, burned by the suns and the snows, whom some unknown
+precursor of Donatello had moulded. And everywhere were Miss Bell’s
+chosen arms-bells and cymbals. The largest lifted their bronze clappers
+at the angles of the room; others formed a chain at the foot of the
+walls. Smaller ones ran along the cornices. There were bells over the
+hearth, on the cabinets, and on the chairs. The shelves were full of
+silver and golden bells. There were big bronze bells marked with the
+Florentine lily; bells of the Renaissance, representing a lady wearing
+a white gown; bells of the dead, decorated with tears and bones; bells
+covered with symbolical animals and leaves, which had rung in the
+churches in the time of St. Louis; table-bells of the seventeenth
+century, having a statuette for a handle; the flat, clear cow-bells of
+the Ruth Valley; Hindu bells; Chinese bells formed like cylinders--they
+had come from all countries and all times, at the magic call of little
+Miss Bell.
+
+“You look at my speaking arms,” she said to Madame Martin. “I think
+that all these Misses Bell are pleased to be here, and I should not be
+astonished if some day they all began to sing together. But you must not
+admire them all equally. Reserve your purest and most fervent praise for
+this one.”
+
+And striking with her finger a dark, bare bell which gave a faint sound:
+
+“This one,” she said, “is a holy village-bell of the fifth century. She
+is a spiritual daughter of Saint Paulin de Nole, who was the first to
+make the sky sing over our heads. The metal is rare. Soon I will show to
+you a gentle Florentine, the queen of bells. She is coming. But I bore
+you, darling, with my babble. And I bore, too, the good Madame Marmet.
+It is wrong.”
+
+She escorted them to their rooms.
+
+An hour later, Madame Martin, rested, fresh, in a gown of foulard and
+lace, went on the terrace where Miss Bell was waiting for her. The
+humid air, warmed by the sun, exhaled the restless sweetness of spring.
+Therese, resting on the balustrade, bathed her eyes in the light. At her
+feet, the cypress-trees raised their black distaffs, and the olive-trees
+looked like sheep on the hills. In the valley, Florence extended its
+domes, its towers, and the multitudes of its red roofs, through which
+the Arno showed its undulating line. Beyond were the soft blue hills.
+
+She tried to recognize the Boboli Gardens, where she had walked at her
+first visit; the Cascine, which she did not like; the Pitti Palace. Then
+the charming infinity of the sky attracted her. She looked at the forms
+in the clouds.
+
+After a long silence, Vivian Bell extended her hand toward the horizon.
+
+“Darling, I do not know how to say what I wish. But look, darling, look
+again. What you see there is unique in the world. Nature is nowhere else
+so subtle, elegant, and fine. The god who made the hills of Florence
+was an artist. Oh, he was a jeweller, an engraver, a sculptor, a
+bronze-founder, and a painter; he was a Florentine. He did nothing else
+in the world, darling. The rest was made by a hand less delicate, whose
+work was less perfect. How can you think that that violet hill of San
+Miniato, so firm and so pure in relief, was made by the author of Mont
+Blanc? It is not possible. This landscape has the beauty of an antique
+medal and of a precious painting. It is a perfect and measured work of
+art. And here is another thing that I do not know how to say, that I
+can not even understand, but which is a real thing. In this country I
+feel--and you will feel as I do, darling--half alive and half dead; in
+a condition which is sad, noble, and very sweet. Look, look again; you
+will realize the melancholy of those hills that surround Florence, and
+see a delicious sadness ascend from the land of the dead.”
+
+The sun was low over the horizon. The bright points of the
+mountain-peaks faded one by one, while the clouds inflamed the sky.
+Madame Marmet sneezed.
+
+Miss Bell sent for some shawls, and warned the French women that the
+evenings were fresh and that the night-air was dangerous.
+
+Then suddenly she said:
+
+“Darling, you know Monsieur Jacques Dechartre? Well, he wrote to me that
+he would be at Florence next week. I am glad Monsieur Jacques Dechartre
+is to meet you in our city. He will accompany us to the churches and
+to the museums, and he will be a good guide. He understands beautiful
+things, because he loves them. And he has an exquisite talent as a
+sculptor. His figures in medallions are admired more in England than in
+France. Oh, I am so glad Monsieur Jacques Dechartre and you are to meet
+at Florence, darling!”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX. CHOULETTE FINDS A NEW FRIEND
+
+She next day, as they were traversing the square where are planted, in
+imitation of antique amphitheatres, two marble pillars, Madame Marmet
+said to the Countess Martin:
+
+“I think I see Monsieur Choulette.”
+
+Seated in a shoemaker’s shop, his pipe in his hand, Choulette was making
+rhythmic gestures, and appeared to be reciting verses. The Florentine
+cobbler listened with a kind smile. He was a little, bald man, and
+represented one of the types familiar to Flemish painters. On a table,
+among wooden lasts, nails, leather, and wax, a basilic plant displayed
+its round green head. A sparrow, lacking a leg, which had been replaced
+by a match, hopped on the old man’s shoulder and head.
+
+Madame Martin, amused by this spectacle, called Choulette from the
+threshold. He was softly humming a tune, and she asked him why he had
+not gone with her to visit the Spanish chapel.
+
+He arose and replied:
+
+“Madame, you are preoccupied by vain images; but I live in life and in
+truth.”
+
+He shook the cobbler’s hand and followed the two ladies.
+
+“While going to church,” he said, “I saw this old man, who, bending over
+his work, and pressing a last between his knees as in a vise, was sewing
+coarse shoes. I felt that he was simple and kind. I said to him, in
+Italian: ‘My father, will you drink with me a glass of Chianti?’ He
+consented. He went for a flagon and some glasses, and I kept the shop.”
+
+And Choulette pointed to two glasses and a flagon placed on a stove.
+
+“When he came back we drank together; I said vague but kind things to
+him, and I charmed him by the sweetness of sounds. I will go again
+to his shop; I will learn from him how to make shoes, and how to live
+without desire. After which, I shall not be sad again. For desire and
+idleness alone make us sad.”
+
+The Countess Martin smiled.
+
+“Monsieur Choulette, I desire nothing, and, nevertheless, I am not
+joyful. Must I make shoes, too?”
+
+Choulette replied, gravely:
+
+“It is not yet time for that.”
+
+When they reached the gardens of the Oricellari, Madame Marmet sank on
+a bench. She had examined at Santa Maria-Novella the frescoes of
+Ghirlandajo, the stalls of the choir, the Virgin of Cimabue, the
+paintings in the cloister. She had done this carefully, in memory of her
+husband, who had greatly liked Italian art. She was tired. Choulette sat
+by her and said:
+
+“Madame, could you tell me whether it is true that the Pope’s gowns are
+made by Worth?”
+
+Madame Marmet thought not. Nevertheless, Choulette had heard people say
+this in cafes. Madame Marmet was astonished that Choulette, a Catholic
+and a socialist, should speak so disrespectfully of a pope friendly to
+the republic. But he did not like Leo XIII.
+
+“The wisdom of princes is shortsighted,” he said; “the salvation of the
+Church must come from the Italian republic, as Leo XIII believes and
+wishes; but the Church will not be saved in the manner which this pious
+Machiavelli thinks. The revolution will make the Pope lose his last
+sou, with the rest of his patrimony. And it will be salvation. The
+Pope, destitute and poor, will then become powerful. He will agitate the
+world. We shall see again Peter, Lin, Clet, Anaclet, and Clement; the
+humble, the ignorant; men like the early saints will change the face
+of the earth. If to-morrow, in the chair of Peter, came to sit a real
+bishop, a real Christian, I would go to him, and say: ‘Do not be an
+old man buried alive in a golden tomb; quit your noble guards and your
+cardinals; quit your court and its similacrums of power. Take my arm and
+come with me to beg for your bread among the nations. Covered with rags,
+poor, ill, dying, go on the highways, showing in yourself the image of
+Jesus. Say, “I am begging my bread for the condemnation of the wealthy.”
+ Go into the cities, and shout from door to door, with a sublime
+stupidity, “Be humble, be gentle, be poor!” Announce peace and charity
+to the cities, to the dens, and to the barracks. You will be disdained;
+the mob will throw stones at you. Policemen will drag you into prison.
+You shall be for the humble as for the powerful, for the poor as for
+the rich, a subject of laughter, an object of disgust and of pity. Your
+priests will dethrone you, and elevate against you an anti-pope, or will
+say that you are crazy. And it is necessary that they should tell the
+truth; it is necessary that you should be crazy; the lunatics have
+saved the world. Men will give to you the crown of thorns and the reed
+sceptre, and they will spit in your face, and it is by that sign that
+you will appear as Christ and true king; and it is by such means that
+you will establish Christian socialism, which is the kingdom of God on
+earth.’”
+
+Having spoken in this way, Choulette lighted one of those long and
+tortuous Italian cigars, which are pierced with a straw. He drew from it
+several puffs of infectious vapor, then he continued, tranquilly:
+
+“And it would be practical. You may refuse to acknowledge any quality in
+me except my clear view of situations. Ah, Madame Marmet, you will
+never know how true it is that the great works of this world were always
+achieved by madmen. Do you think, Madame Martin, that if Saint Francis
+of Assisi had been reasonable, he would have poured upon the earth,
+for the refreshment of peoples, the living water of charity and all the
+perfumes of love?”
+
+“I do not know,” replied Madame Martin; “but reasonable people have
+always seemed to me to be bores. I can say this to you, Monsieur
+Choulette.”
+
+They returned to Fiesole by the steam tramway which goes up the hill.
+The rain fell. Madame Marmet went to sleep and Choulette complained. All
+his ills came to attack him at once: the humidity in the air gave him
+a pain in the knee, and he could not bend his leg; his carpet-bag, lost
+the day before in the trip from the station to Fiesole, had not been
+found, and it was an irreparable disaster; a Paris review had just
+published one of his poems, with typographical errors as glaring as
+Aphrodite’s shell.
+
+He accused men and things of being hostile to him. He became puerile,
+absurd, odious. Madame Martin, whom Choulette and the rain saddened,
+thought the trip would never end. When she reached the house she found
+Miss Bell in the drawing-room, copying with gold ink on a leaf of
+parchment, in a handwriting formed after the Aldine italics, verses
+which she had composed in the night. At her friend’s coming she raised
+her little face, plain but illuminated by splendid eyes.
+
+“Darling, permit me to introduce to you the Prince Albertinelli.”
+
+The Prince possessed a certain youthful, godlike beauty, that his black
+beard intensified. He bowed.
+
+“Madame, you would make one love France, if that sentiment were not
+already in our hearts.”
+
+The Countess and Choulette asked Miss Bell to read to them the verses
+she was writing. She excused herself from reciting her uncertain cadence
+to the French poet, whom she liked best after Francois Villon. Then she
+recited in her pretty, hissing, birdlike voice.
+
+“That is very pretty,” said Choulette, “and bears the mark of Italy
+softly veiled by the mists of Thule.”
+
+“Yes,” said the Countess Martin, “that is pretty. But why, dear Vivian,
+did your two beautiful innocents wish to die?”
+
+“Oh, darling, because they felt as happy as possible, and desired
+nothing more. It was discouraging, darling, discouraging. How is it that
+you do not understand that?”
+
+“And do you think that if we live the reason is that we hope?”
+
+“Oh, yes. We live in the hope of what to-morrow, tomorrow, king of the
+land of fairies, will bring in his black mantle studded with stars,
+flowers, and tears. Oh, bright king, To-morrow!”
+
+
+
+
+BOOK 2.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X. DECHARTRE ARRIVES IN FLORENCE
+
+They had dressed for dinner. In the drawing-room Miss Bell was sketching
+monsters in imitation of Leonard. She created them, to know what they
+would say afterward, sure that they would speak and express rare ideas
+in odd rhythms, and that she would listen to them. It was in this way
+that she often found her inspiration.
+
+Prince Albertinelli strummed on the piano the Sicilian ‘O Lola’! His
+soft fingers hardly touched the keys.
+
+Choulette, even harsher than was his habit, asked for thread and needles
+that he might mend his clothes. He grumbled because he had lost a
+needle-case which he had carried for thirty years in his pocket, and
+which was dear to him for the sweetness of the reminiscences and the
+strength of the good advice that he had received from it. He thought
+he had lost it in the hall devoted to historic subjects in the Pitti
+Palace; and he blamed for this loss the Medicis and all the Italian
+painters.
+
+Looking at Miss Bell with an evil eye, he said:
+
+“I compose verses while mending my clothes. I like to work with my
+hands. I sing songs to myself while sweeping my room; that is the reason
+why my songs have gone to the hearts of men, like the old songs of the
+farmers and artisans, which are even more beautiful than mine, but not
+more natural. I have pride enough not to want any other servant than
+myself. The sacristan’s widow offered to repair my clothes. I would not
+permit her to do it. It is wrong to make others do servilely for us work
+which we can do ourselves with noble pride.”
+
+The Prince was nonchalantly playing his nonchalant music. Therese, who
+for eight days had been running to churches and museums in the company
+of Madame Marmet, was thinking of the annoyance which her companion
+caused her by discovering in the faces of the old painters resemblances
+to persons she knew. In the morning, at the Ricardi Palace, on the
+frescoes of Gozzoli, she had recognized M. Gamin, M. Lagrange, M.
+Schmoll, the Princess Seniavine as a page, and M. Renan on horseback.
+She was terrified at finding M. Renan everywhere. She led all her ideas
+back to her little circle of academicians and fashionable people, by an
+easy turn, which irritated her friend. She recalled in her soft voice
+the public meetings at the Institute, the lectures at the Sorbonne,
+the evening receptions where shone the worldly and the spiritualist
+philosophers. As for the women, they were all charming and
+irreproachable. She dined with all of them. And Therese thought: “She
+is too prudent. She bores me.” And she thought of leaving her at Fiesole
+and visiting the churches alone. Employing a word that Le Menil had
+taught her, she said to herself:
+
+“I will ‘plant’ Madame Marmet.”
+
+A lithe old man came into the parlor. His waxed moustache and his white
+imperial made him look like an old soldier; but his glance betrayed,
+under his glasses, the fine softness of eyes worn by science and
+voluptuousness. He was a Florentine, a friend of Miss Bell and of the
+Prince, Professor Arrighi, formerly adored by women, and now celebrated
+in Tuscany for his studies of agriculture. He pleased the Countess
+Martin at once. She questioned him on his methods, and on the results
+he obtained from them. He said that he worked with prudent energy. “The
+earth,” he said, “is like women. The earth does not wish one to treat
+it with either timidity or brutality.” The Ave Maria rang in all
+the campaniles, seeming to make of the sky an immense instrument of
+religious music. “Darling,” said Miss Bell, “do you observe that the air
+of Florence is made sonorous and silvery at night by the sound of the
+bells?”
+
+“It is singular,” said Choulette, “we have the air of people who are
+waiting for something.”
+
+Vivian Bell replied that they were waiting for M. Dechartre. He was a
+little late; she feared he had missed the train.
+
+Choulette approached Madame Marmet, and said, gravely “Madame Marmet,
+is it possible for you to look at a door--a simple, painted, wooden
+door like yours, I suppose, or like mine, or like this one, or like any
+other--without being terror-stricken at the thought of the visitor who
+might, at any moment, come in? The door of one’s room, Madame Marmet,
+opens on the infinite. Have you ever thought of that? Does one ever
+know the true name of the man or woman, who, under a human guise, with a
+known face, in ordinary clothes, comes into one’s house?”
+
+He added that when he was closeted in his room he could not look at the
+door without feeling his hair stand on end. But Madame Marmet saw the
+doors of her rooms open without fear. She knew the name of every one who
+came to see her--charming persons.
+
+Choulette looked at her sadly, and said, shaking his head: “Madame
+Marmet, those whom you call by their terrestrial names have other names
+which you do not know, and which are their real names.”
+
+Madame Martin asked Choulette if he thought that misfortune needed to
+cross the threshold in order to enter one’s life.
+
+“Misfortune is ingenious and subtle. It comes by the window, it goes
+through walls. It does not always show itself, but it is always there.
+The poor doors are innocent of the coming of that unwelcome visitor.”
+
+Choulette warned Madame Martin severely that she should not call
+misfortune an unwelcome visitor.
+
+“Misfortune is our greatest master and our best friend. Misfortune
+teaches us the meaning of life. Madame, when you suffer, you know what
+you must know; you believe what you must believe; you do what you must
+do; you are what you must be. And you shall have joy, which pleasure
+expels. True joy is timid, and does not find pleasure among a
+multitude.”
+
+Prince Albertinelli said that Miss Bell and her French friends did not
+need to be unfortunate in order to be perfect, and that the doctrine of
+perfection reached by suffering was a barbarous cruelty, held in horror
+under the beautiful sky of Italy. When the conversation languished,
+he prudently sought again at the piano the phrases of the graceful and
+banal Sicilian air, fearing to slip into an air of Trovatore, which was
+written in the same manner.
+
+Vivian Bell questioned the monsters she had created, and complained of
+their absurd replies.
+
+“At this moment,” she said, “I should like to hear speak only figures
+on tapestries which should say tender things, ancient and precious as
+themselves.”
+
+And the handsome Prince, carried away by the flood of melody, sang. His
+voice displayed itself like a peacock’s plumage, and died in spasms of
+“ohs” and “ahs.”
+
+The good Madame Marmet, her eyes fixed on the door, said:
+
+“I think that Monsieur Dechartre is coming.”
+
+He came in, animated, with joy on his usually grave face.
+
+Miss Bell welcomed him with birdlike cries.
+
+“Monsieur Dechartre, we were impatient to see you. Monsieur Choulette
+was talking evil of doors--yes, of doors of houses; and he was saying
+also that misfortune is a very obliging old gentleman. You have lost
+all these beautiful things. You have made us wait very long, Monsieur
+Dechartre. Why?”
+
+He apologized; he had taken only the time to go to his hotel and change
+his dress. He had not even gone to bow to his old friend the bronze San
+Marco, so imposing in his niche on the San Michele wall. He praised the
+poetess and saluted the Countess Martin with joy hardly concealed.
+
+“Before quitting Paris I went to your house, where I was told you had
+gone to wait for spring at Fiesole, with Miss Bell. I then had the hope
+of finding you in this country, which I love now more than ever.”
+
+She asked him whether he had gone to Venice, and whether he had seen
+again at Ravenna the empresses wearing aureolas, and the phantoms that
+had formerly dazzled him.
+
+No, he had not stopped anywhere.
+
+She said nothing. Her eyes remained fixed on the corner of the wall, on
+the St. Paulin bell.
+
+He said to her:
+
+“You are looking at the Nolette.”
+
+Vivian Bell laid aside her papers and her pencils.
+
+“You shall soon see a marvel, Monsieur Dechartre. I have found the queen
+of small bells. I found it at Rimini, in an old building in ruins, which
+is used as a warehouse. I bought it and packed it myself. I am waiting
+for it. You shall see. It bears a Christ on a cross, between the Virgin
+and Saint John, the date of 1400, and the arms of Malatesta--Monsieur
+Dechartre, you are not listening enough. Listen to me attentively. In
+1400 Lorenzo Ghiberti, fleeing from war and the plague, took refuge at
+Rimini, at Paola Malatesta’s house. It was he that modelled the figures
+of my bell. And you shall see here, next week, Ghiberti’s work.”
+
+The servant announced that dinner was served.
+
+Miss Bell apologized for serving to them Italian dishes. Her cook was a
+poet of Fiesole.
+
+At table, before the fiascani enveloped with corn straw, they talked of
+the fifteenth century, which they loved. Prince Albertinelli praised the
+artists of that epoch for their universality, for the fervent love they
+gave to their art, and for the genius that devoured them. He talked with
+emphasis, in a caressing voice.
+
+Dechartre admired them. But he admired them in another way.
+
+“To praise in a becoming manner,” he said, “those men, who worked so
+heartily, the praise should be modest and just. They should be placed in
+their workshops, in the shops where they worked as artisans. It is
+there that one may admire their simplicity and their genius. They were
+ignorant and rude. They had read little and seen little. The hills that
+surround Florence were the boundary of their horizon. They knew
+only their city, the Holy Scriptures, and some fragments of antique
+sculptures, studied and caressed lovingly.”
+
+“You are right,” said Professor Arrighi. “They had no other care than to
+use the best processes. Their minds bent only on preparing varnish and
+mixing colors. The one who first thought of pasting a canvas on a panel,
+in order that the painting should not be broken when the wood was split,
+passed for a marvellous man. Every master had his secret formulae.”
+
+“Happy time,” said Dechartre, “when nobody troubled himself about that
+originality for which we are so avidly seeking to-day. The apprentice
+tried to work like the master. He had no other ambition than to resemble
+him, and it was without trying to be that he was different from the
+others. They worked not for glory, but to live.”
+
+“They were right,” said Choulette. “Nothing is better than to work for a
+living.”
+
+“The desire to attain fame,” continued Dechartre, “did not trouble them.
+As they did not know the past, they did not conceive the future; and
+their dream did not go beyond their lives. They exercised a powerful
+will in working well. Being simple, they made few mistakes, and saw the
+truth which our intelligence conceals from us.”
+
+Choulette began to relate to Madame Marmet the incidents of a call he
+had made during the day on the Princess of the House of France to whom
+the Marquise de Rieu had given him a letter of introduction. He liked
+to impress upon people the fact that he, the Bohemian and vagabond, had
+been received by that royal Princess, at whose house neither Miss
+Bell nor the Countess Martin would have been admitted, and whom Prince
+Albertinelli prided himself on having met one day at some ceremony.
+
+“She devotes herself,” said the Prince, “to the practices of piety.”
+
+“She is admirable for her nobility, and her simplicity,” said Choulette.
+“In her house, surrounded by her gentlemen and her ladies, she causes
+the most rigorous etiquette to be observed, so that her grandeur is
+almost a penance, and every morning she scrubs the pavement of the
+church. It is a village church, where the chickens roam, while the
+‘cure’ plays briscola with the sacristan.”
+
+And Choulette, bending over the table, imitated, with his napkin, a
+servant scrubbing; then, raising his head, he said, gravely:
+
+“After waiting in consecutive anterooms, I was at last permitted to kiss
+her hand.”
+
+And he stopped.
+
+Madame Martin asked, impatiently:
+
+“What did she say to you, that Princess so admirable for her nobility
+and her simplicity?”
+
+“She said to me: ‘Have you visited Florence? I am told that recently
+new and handsome shops have been opened which are lighted at night.’ She
+said also ‘We have a good chemist here. The Austrian chemists are not
+better. He placed on my leg, six months ago, a porous plaster which
+has not yet come off.’ Such are the words that Maria Therese deigned
+to address to me. O simple grandeur! O Christian virtue! O daughter
+of Saint Louis! O marvellous echo of your voice, holy Elizabeth of
+Hungary!”
+
+Madame Martin smiled. She thought that Choulette was mocking. But he
+denied the charge, indignantly, and Miss Bell said that Madame Martin
+was wrong. It was a fault of the French, she said, to think that people
+were always jesting.
+
+Then they reverted to the subject of art, which in that country is
+inhaled with the air.
+
+“As for me,” said the Countess Martin, “I am not learned enough to
+admire Giotto and his school. What strikes me is the sensuality of that
+art of the fifteenth century which is said to be Christian. I have seen
+piety and purity only in the images of Fra Angelico, although they
+are very pretty. The rest, those figures of Virgins and angels, are
+voluptuous, caressing, and at times perversely ingenuous. What is there
+religious in those young Magian kings, handsome as women; in that Saint
+Sebastian, brilliant with youth, who seems merely the dolorous Bacchus
+of Christianity?”
+
+Dechartre replied that he thought as she did, and that they must be
+right, she and he; since Savonarola was of the same opinion, and,
+finding no piety in any work of art, wished to burn them all.
+
+“There were at Florence, in the time of the superb Manfred, who was half
+a Mussulman, men who were said to be of the sect of Epicurus, and who
+sought for arguments against the existence of God. Guido Cavalcanti
+disdained the ignorant folk who believed in the immortality of the soul.
+The following phrase by him was quoted: ‘The death of man is exactly
+similar to that of brutes.’ Later, when antique beauty was excavated
+from ruins, the Christian style of art seemed sad. The painters that
+worked in the churches and cloisters were neither devout nor chaste.
+Perugino was an atheist, and did not conceal it.”
+
+“Yes,” said Miss Bell; “but it was said that his head was hard, and that
+celestial truths, could not penetrate his thick cranium. He was harsh
+and avaricious, and quite embedded in material interests. He thought
+only of buying houses.”
+
+Professor Arrighi defended Pietro Vanucci of Perugia.
+
+“He was,” he said, “an honest man. And the prior of the Gesuati of
+Florence was wrong to mistrust him. That monk practised the art
+of manufacturing ultramarine blue by crushing stones of burned
+lapis-lazuli. Ultramarine was then worth its weight in gold; and the
+prior, who doubtless had a secret, esteemed it more precious than rubies
+or sapphires. He asked Pietro Vanucci to decorate the two cloisters of
+his convent, and he expected marvels, less from the skilfulness of the
+master than from the beauty of that ultramarine in the skies. During
+all the time that the painter worked in the cloisters at the history
+of Jesus Christ, the prior kept by his side and presented to him the
+precious powder in a bag which he never quitted. Pietro took from it,
+under the saintly man’s eyes, the quantity he needed, and dipped his
+brush, loaded with color, in a cupful of water, before rubbing the wall
+with it. He used in that manner a great quantity of the powder. And the
+good father, seeing his bag getting thinner, sighed: ‘Jesus! How that
+lime devours the ultramarine!’ When the frescoes were finished, and
+Perugino had received from the monk the agreed price, he placed in
+his hand a package of blue powder: ‘This is for you, father. Your
+ultramarine which I took with my brush fell to the bottom of my cup,
+whence I gathered it every day. I return it to you. Learn to trust
+honest people.”
+
+“Oh,” said Therese, “there is nothing extraordinary in the fact that
+Perugino was avaricious yet honest. Interested people are not always the
+least scrupulous. There are many misers who are honest.”
+
+“Naturally, darling,” said Miss Bell. “Misers do not wish to owe
+anything, and prodigal people can bear to have debts. They do not think
+of the money they have, and they think less of the money they owe. I
+did not say that Pietro Vanucci of Perugia was a man without property.
+I said that he had a hard business head and that he bought houses. I am
+very glad to hear that he returned the ultramarine to the prior of the
+Gesuati.”
+
+“Since your Pietro was rich,” said Choulette, “it was his duty to return
+the ultramarine. The rich are morally bound to be honest; the poor are
+not.”
+
+At this moment, Choulette, to whom the waiter was presenting a silver
+bowl, extended his hands for the perfumed water. It came from a vase
+which Miss Bell passed to her guests, in accordance with antique usage,
+after meals.
+
+“I wash my hands,” he said, “of the evil that Madame Martin does or may
+do by her speech, or otherwise.”
+
+And he rose, awkwardly, after Miss Bell, who took the arm of Professor
+Arrighi.
+
+In the drawing-room she said, while serving the coffee:
+
+“Monsieur Choulette, why do you condemn us to the savage sadness of
+equality? Why, Daphnis’s flute would not be melodious if it were made of
+seven equal reeds. You wish to destroy the beautiful harmonies between
+masters and servants, aristocrats and artisans. Oh, I fear you are a sad
+barbarian, Monsieur Choulette. You are full of pity for those who are in
+need, and you have no pity for divine beauty, which you exile from this
+world. You expel beauty, Monsieur Choulette; you repudiate her, nude and
+in tears. Be certain of this: she will not remain on earth when the poor
+little men shall all be weak, delicate, and ignorant. Believe me, to
+abolish the ingenious grouping which men of diverse conditions form in
+society, the humble with the magnificent, is to be the enemy of the poor
+and of the rich, is to be the enemy of the human race.”
+
+“Enemies of the human race!” replied Choulette, while stirring his
+coffee. “That is the phrase the harsh Roman applied to the Christians
+who talked of divine love to him.”
+
+Dechartre, seated near Madame Martin, questioned her on her tastes
+about art and beauty, sustained, led, animated her admirations, at times
+prompted her with caressing brusquerie, wished her to see all that he
+had seen, to love all that he loved.
+
+He wished that she should go in the gardens at the first flush of
+spring. He contemplated her in advance on the noble terraces; he saw
+already the light playing on her neck and in her hair; the shadow
+of laurel-trees falling on her eyes. For him the land and the sky of
+Florence had nothing more to do than to serve as an adornment to this
+young woman.
+
+He praised the simplicity with which she dressed, the characteristics
+of her form and of her grace, the charming frankness of the lines which
+every one of her movements created. He liked, he said, the animated and
+living, subtle, and free gowns which one sees so rarely, which one never
+forgets.
+
+Although she had been much lauded, she had never heard praise which had
+pleased her more. She knew she dressed well, with bold and sure
+taste. But no man except her father had made to her on the subject the
+compliments of an expert. She thought that men were capable of feeling
+only the effect of a gown, without understanding the ingenious details
+of it. Some men who knew gowns disgusted her by their effeminate air.
+She was resigned to the appreciation of women only, and these had in
+their appreciation narrowness of mind, malignity, and envy. The artistic
+admiration of Dechartre astonished and pleased her. She received
+agreeably the praise he gave her, without thinking that perhaps it was
+too intimate and almost indiscreet.
+
+“So you look at gowns, Monsieur Dechartre?”
+
+No, he seldom looked at them. There were so few women well dressed, even
+now, when women dress as well as, and even better, than ever. He found
+no pleasure in seeing packages of dry-goods walk. But if a woman having
+rhythm and line passed before him, he blessed her.
+
+He continued, in a tone a little more elevated:
+
+“I can not think of a woman who takes care to deck herself every day,
+without meditating on the great lesson which she gives to artists. She
+dresses for a few hours, and the care she has taken is not lost. We
+must, like her, ornament life without thinking of the future. To paint,
+carve, or write for posterity is only the silliness of conceit.”
+
+“Monsieur Dechartre,” asked Prince Albertinelli, “how do you think a
+mauve waist studded with silver flowers would become Miss Bell?”
+
+“I think,” said Choulette, “so little of a terrestrial future, that I
+have written my finest poems on cigarette paper. They vanished easily,
+leaving to my verses only a sort of metaphysical existence.”
+
+He had an air of negligence for which he posed. In fact, he had never
+lost a line of his writing. Dechartre was more sincere. He was not
+desirous of immortality. Miss Bell reproached him for this.
+
+“Monsieur Dechartre, that life may be great and complete, one must put
+into it the past and the future. Our works of poetry and of art must be
+accomplished in honor of the dead and with the thought of those who are
+to come after us. Thus we shall participate in what has been, in what
+is, and in what shall be. You do not wish to be immortal, Monsieur
+Dechartre? Beware, for God may hear you.”
+
+Dechartre replied:
+
+“It would be enough for me to live one moment more.”
+
+And he said good-night, promising to return the next day to escort
+Madame Martin to the Brancacci chapel.
+
+An hour later, in the aesthetic room hung with tapestry, whereon
+citron-trees loaded with golden fruit formed a fairy forest, Therese,
+her head on the pillow, and her handsome bare arms folded under her
+head, was thinking, seeing float confusedly before her the images of her
+new life: Vivian Bell and her bells, her pre-Raphaelite figures, light
+as shadows, ladies, isolated knights, indifferent among pious scenes, a
+little sad, and looking to see who was coming; she thought also of the
+Prince Albertinelli, Professor Arrighi, Choulette, with his odd play of
+ideas, and Dechartre, with youthful eyes in a careworn face.
+
+She thought he had a charming imagination, a mind richer than all those
+that had been revealed to her, and an attraction which she no longer
+tried to resist. She had always recognized his gift to please. She
+discovered now that he had the will to please. This idea was delightful
+to her; she closed her eyes to retain it. Then, suddenly, she shuddered.
+She had felt a deep blow struck within her in the depth of her being.
+She had a sudden vision of Robert, his gun under his arm, in the woods.
+He walked with firm and regular step in the shadowy thicket. She could
+not see his face, and that troubled her. She bore him no ill-will. She
+was not discontented with him, but with herself. Robert went straight
+on, without turning his head, far, and still farther, until he was only
+a black point in the desolate wood. She thought that perhaps she had
+been capricious and harsh in leaving him without a word of farewell,
+without even a letter. He was her lover and her only friend. She never
+had had another. “I do not wish him to be unfortunate because of me,”
+ she thought.
+
+Little by little she was reassured. He loved her, doubtless; but he was
+not susceptible, not ingenious, happily, in tormenting himself. She said
+to herself:
+
+“He is hunting and enjoying the sport. He is with his aunt, whom he
+admires.” She calmed her fears and returned to the charming gayety
+of Florence. She had seen casually, at the Offices, a picture that
+Dechartre liked. It was a decapitated head of the Medusa, a work wherein
+Leonardo, the sculptor said, had expressed the minute profundity and
+tragic refinement of his genius. She wished to see it again, regretting
+that she had not seen it better at first. She extinguished her lamp and
+went to sleep.
+
+She dreamed that she met in a deserted church Robert Le Menil enveloped
+in furs which she had never seen him wear. He was waiting for her, but a
+crowd of priests had separated them. She did not know what had become of
+him. She had not seen his face, and that frightened her. She awoke and
+heard at the open window a sad, monotonous cry, and saw a humming-bird
+darting about in the light of early dawn. Then, without cause, she began
+to weep in a passion of self-pity, and with the abandon of a child.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XI. “THE DAWN OF FAITH AND LOVE”
+
+She took pleasure in dressing early, with delicate and subtle taste. Her
+dressing-room, an aesthetic fantasy of Vivian Bell, with its coarsely
+varnished pottery, its tall copper pitchers, and its faience pavement,
+like a chess-board, resembled a fairy’s kitchen. It was rustic and
+marvellous, and the Countess Martin could have in it the agreeable
+surprise of mistaking herself for a fairy. While her maid was dressing
+her hair, she heard Dechartre and Choulette talking under her windows.
+She rearranged all the work Pauline had done, and uncovered the line of
+her nape, which was fine and pure. She looked at herself in the glass,
+and went into the garden.
+
+Dechartre was there, reciting verses of Dante, and looking at Florence:
+“At the hour when our mind, a greater stranger to the flesh...”
+
+Near him, Choulette, seated on the balustrade of the terrace, his legs
+hanging, and his nose in his beard, was still at work on the figure of
+Misery on his stick.
+
+Dechartre resumed the rhymes of the canticle: “At the hour when our
+mind, a greater stranger to the flesh; and less under the obsession of
+thoughts, is almost divine in its visions,...”
+
+She approached beside the boxwood hedge, holding a parasol and dressed
+in a straw-colored gown. The faint sunlight of winter enveloped her in
+pale gold.
+
+Dechartre greeted her joyfully.
+
+She said:
+
+“You are reciting verses that I do not know. I know only Metastasio. My
+teacher liked only Metastasio. What is the hour when the mind has divine
+visions?”
+
+“Madame, that hour is the dawn of the day. It may be also the dawn of
+faith and of love.”
+
+Choulette doubted that the poet meant dreams of the morning, which leave
+at awakening vivid and painful impressions, and which are not altogether
+strangers to the flesh. But Dechartre had quoted these verses in the
+pleasure of the glorious dawn which he had seen that morning on the
+golden hills. He had been, for a long time, troubled about the images
+that one sees in sleep, and he believed that these images were not
+related to the object that preoccupies one the most, but, on the
+contrary, to ideas abandoned during the day.
+
+Therese recalled her morning dream, the hunter lost in the thicket.
+
+“Yes,” said Dechartre, “the things we see at night are unfortunate
+remains of what we have neglected the day before. Dreams avenge things
+one has disdained. They are reproaches of abandoned friends. Hence their
+sadness.”
+
+She was lost in dreams for a moment, then she said:
+
+“That is perhaps true.”
+
+Then, quickly, she asked Choulette if he had finished the portrait
+of Misery on his stick. Misery had now become a figure of Piety, and
+Choulette recognized the Virgin in it. He had even composed a quatrain
+which he was to write on it in spiral form--a didactic and moral
+quatrain. He would cease to write, except in the style of the
+commandments of God rendered into French verses. The four lines
+expressed simplicity and goodness. He consented to recite them.
+
+Therese rested on the balustrade of the terrace and sought in the
+distance, in the depth of the sea of light, the peaks of Vallambrosa,
+almost as blue as the sky. Jacques Dechartre looked at her. It seemed
+to him that he saw her for the first time, such was the delicacy that he
+discovered in her face, which tenderness and intelligence had invested
+with thoughtfulness without altering its young, fresh grace. The
+daylight which she liked, was indulgent to her. And truly she was
+pretty, bathed in that light of Florence, which caresses beautiful forms
+and feeds noble thoughts. A fine, pink color rose to her well-rounded
+cheeks; her eyes, bluish-gray, laughed; and when she talked, the
+brilliancy of her teeth set off her lips of ardent sweetness. His look
+embraced her supple bust, her full hips, and the bold attitude of her
+waist. She held her parasol with her left hand, the other hand played
+with violets. Dechartre had a mania for beautiful hands. Hands presented
+to his eyes a physiognomy as striking as the face--a character, a soul.
+These hands enchanted him. They were exquisite. He adored their slender
+fingers, their pink nails, their palms soft and tender, traversed by
+lines as elegant as arabesques, and rising at the base of the fingers
+in harmonious mounts. He examined them with charmed attention until she
+closed them on the handle of her umbrella. Then, standing behind her, he
+looked at her again. Her bust and arms, graceful and pure in line, her
+beautiful form, which was like that of a living amphora, pleased him.
+
+“Monsieur Dechartre, that black spot over there is the Boboli Gardens,
+is it not? I saw the gardens three years ago. There were not many
+flowers in them. Nevertheless, I liked their tall, sombre trees.”
+
+It astonished him that she talked, that she thought. The clear sound of
+her voice amazed him, as if he never had heard it.
+
+He replied at random. He was awkward. She feigned not to notice it, but
+felt a deep inward joy. His low voice, which was veiled and softened,
+seemed to caress her. She said ordinary things:
+
+“That view is beautiful, The weather is fine.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XII. HEARTS AWAKENED
+
+In the morning, her head on the embroidered pillow, Therese was thinking
+of the walks of the day before; of the Virgins, framed with angels; of
+the innumerable children, painted or carved, all beautiful, all happy,
+who sing ingenuously the Alleluia of grace and of beauty. In the
+illustrious chapel of the Brancacci, before those frescoes, pale and
+resplendent as a divine dawn, he had talked to her of Masaccio, in
+language so vivid that it had seemed to her as if she had seen him, the
+adolescent master of the masters, his mouth half open, his eyes dark
+and blue, dying, enchanted. And she had liked these marvels of a morning
+more charming than a day. Dechartre was for her the soul of those
+magnificent forms, the mind of those noble things. It was by him, it was
+through him, that she understood art and life. She took no interest in
+things that did not interest him. How had this affection come to her?
+She had no precise remembrance of it. In the first place, when Paul
+Vence wished to introduce him to her, she had no desire to know him,
+no presentiment that he would please her. She recalled elegant bronze
+statuettes, fine waxworks signed with his name, that she had remarked
+at the Champ de Mars salon or at Durand-Ruel’s. But she did not imagine
+that he could be agreeable to her, or more seductive than many artists
+and lovers of art at whom she laughed with her friends. When she saw
+him, he pleased her; she had a desire to attract him, to see him often.
+The night he dined at her house she realized that she had for him a
+noble and elevating affection. But soon after he irritated her a little;
+it made her impatient to see him closeted within himself and too little
+preoccupied by her. She would have liked to disturb him. She was in that
+state of impatience when she met him one evening, in front of the grille
+of the Musee des Religions, and he talked to her of Ravenna and of the
+Empress seated on a gold chair in her tomb. She had found him serious
+and charming, his voice warm, his eyes soft in the shadow of the night,
+but too much a stranger, too far from her, too unknown. She had felt
+a sort of uneasiness, and she did not know, when she walked along the
+boxwood bordering the terrace, whether she desired to see him every day
+or never to see him again.
+
+Since then, at Florence, her only pleasure was to feel that he was near
+her, to hear him. He made life for her charming, diverse, animated, new.
+He revealed to her delicate joys and a delightful sadness; he awakened
+in her a voluptuousness which had been always dormant. Now she was
+determined never to give him up. But how? She foresaw difficulties; her
+lucid mind and her temperament presented them all to her. For a moment
+she tried to deceive herself; she reflected that perhaps he, a dreamer,
+exalted, lost in his studies of art, might remain assiduous without
+being exacting. But she did not wish to reassure herself with that idea.
+If Dechartre were not a lover, he lost all his charm. She did not dare
+to think of the future. She lived in the present, happy, anxious, and
+closing her eyes.
+
+She was dreaming thus, in the shade traversed by arrows of light, when
+Pauline brought to her some letters with the morning tea. On an envelope
+marked with the monogram of the Rue Royale Club she recognized the
+handwriting of Le Menil. She had expected that letter. She was only
+astonished that what was sure to come had come, as in her childhood,
+when the infallible clock struck the hour of her piano lesson.
+
+In his letter Robert made reasonable reproaches. Why did she go without
+saying anything, without leaving a word of farewell? Since his return to
+Paris he had expected every morning a letter which had not come. He was
+happier the year before, when he had received in the morning, two
+or three times a week, letters so gentle and so well written that he
+regretted not being able to print them. Anxious, he had gone to her
+house.
+
+“I was astounded to hear of your departure. Your husband received me. He
+said that, yielding to his advice, you had gone to finish the winter at
+Florence with Miss Bell. He said that for some time you had looked pale
+and thin. He thought a change of air would do you good. You had not
+wished to go, but, as you suffered more and more, he succeeded in
+persuading you.
+
+“I had not noticed that you were thin. It seemed to me, on the contrary,
+that your health was good. And then Florence is not a good winter
+resort. I cannot understand your departure. I am much tormented by it.
+Reassure me at once, I pray you.
+
+“Do you think it is agreeable for me to get news of you from your
+husband and to receive his confidences? He is sorry you are not here; it
+annoys him that the obligations of public life compel him to remain in
+Paris. I heard at the club that he had chances to become a minister.
+This astonishes me, because ministers are not usually chosen among
+fashionable people.”
+
+Then he related hunting tales to her. He had brought for her three
+fox-skins, one of which was very beautiful; the skin of a brave animal
+which he had pulled by the tail, and which had bitten his hand.
+
+In Paris he was worried. His cousin had been presented at the club. He
+feared he might be blackballed. His candidacy had been posted. Under
+these conditions he did not dare advise him to withdraw; it would be
+taking too great a responsibility. If he were blackballed it would be
+very disagreeable. He finished by praying her to write and to return
+soon.
+
+Having read this letter, she tore it up gently, threw it in the fire,
+and calmly watched it burn.
+
+Doubtless, he was right. He had said what he had to say; he had
+complained, as it was his duty to complain. What could she answer?
+Should she continue her quarrel? The subject of it had become so
+indifferent to her that it needed reflection to recall it. Oh, no; she
+had no desire to be tormented. She felt, on the contrary, very gentle
+toward him! Seeing that he loved her with confidence, in stubborn
+tranquillity, she became sad and frightened. He had not changed. He was
+the same man he had been before. She was not the same woman. They were
+separated now by imperceptible yet strong influences, like essences in
+the air that make one live or die. When her maid came to dress her, she
+had not begun to write an answer.
+
+Anxious, she thought: “He trusts me. He suspects nothing.” This made her
+more impatient than anything. It irritated her to think that there were
+simple people who doubt neither themselves nor others.
+
+She went into the parlor, where she found Vivian Bell writing. The
+latter said:
+
+“Do you wish to know, darling, what I was doing while waiting for you?
+Nothing and everything. Verses. Oh, darling, poetry must be our souls
+naturally expressed.”
+
+Therese kissed Miss Bell, rested her head on her friend’s shoulder, and
+said:
+
+“May I look?”
+
+“Look if you wish, dear. They are verses made on the model of the
+popular songs of your country.”
+
+“Is it a symbol, Vivian? Explain it to me.”
+
+“Oh, darling, why explain, why? A poetic image must have several
+meanings. The one that you find is the real one. But there is a very
+clear meaning in them, my love; that is, that one should not lightly
+disengage one’s self from what one has taken into the heart.”
+
+The horses were harnessed. They went, as had been agreed, to visit the
+Albertinelli gallery. The Prince was waiting for them, and Dechartre was
+to meet them in the palace. On the way, while the carriage rolled along
+the wide highway, Vivian Bell talked with her usual transcendentalism.
+As they were descending among houses pink and white, gardens and
+terraces ornamented with statues and fountains, she showed to her friend
+the villa, hidden under bluish pines, where the ladies and the cavaliers
+of the Decameron took refuge from the plague that ravaged Florence, and
+diverted one another with tales frivolous, facetious, or tragic. Then
+she confessed the thought which had come to her the day before.
+
+“You had gone, darling, to Carmine with Monsieur Dechartre, and you had
+left at Fiesole Madame Marmet, who is an agreeable person, a moderate
+and polished woman. She knows many anecdotes about persons of
+distinction who live in Paris. And when she tells them, she does as my
+cook Pompaloni does when he serves eggs: he does not put salt in them,
+but he puts the salt-cellar next to them. Madame Marmet’s tongue is very
+sweet, but the salt is near it, in her eyes. Her conversation is like
+Pompaloni’s dish, my love--each one seasons to his taste. Oh, I like
+Madame Marmet a great deal. Yesterday, after you had gone, I found
+her alone and sad in a corner of the drawing-room. She was thinking
+mournfully of her husband. I said to her: ‘Do you wish me to think of
+your husband, too? I will think of him with you. I have been told that
+he was a learned man, a member of the Royal Society of Paris. Madame
+Marmet, talk to me of him.’ She replied that he had devoted himself
+to the Etruscans, and that he had given to them his entire life. Oh,
+darling, I cherished at once the memory of that Monsieur Marmet, who
+lived for the Etruscans. And then a good idea came to me. I said to
+Madame Marmet, ‘We have at Fiesole, in the Pretorio Palace, a modest
+little Etruscan museum. Come and visit it with me. Will you?’ She
+replied it was what she most desired to see in Italy. We went to
+the Pretorio Palace; we saw a lioness and a great many little bronze
+figures, grotesque, very fat or very thin. The Etruscans were
+a seriously gay people. They made bronze caricatures. But the
+monkeys--some afflicted with big stomachs, others astonished to show
+their bones--Madame Marmet looked at them with reluctant admiration. She
+contemplated them like--there is a beautiful French word that escapes
+me--like the monuments and the trophies of Monsieur Marmet.”
+
+Madame Martin smiled. But she was restless. She thought the sky dull,
+the streets ugly, the passers-by common.
+
+“Oh, darling, the Prince will be very glad to receive you in his
+palace.”
+
+“I do not think so.”
+
+“Why, darling, why?”
+
+“Because I do not please him much.”
+
+Vivian Bell declared that the Prince, on the contrary, was a great
+admirer of the Countess Martin.
+
+The horses stopped before the Albertinelli palace. On the sombre facade
+were sealed those bronze rings which formerly, on festival nights, held
+rosin torches. These bronze rings mark, in Florence, the palaces of the
+most illustrious families. The palace had an air of lofty pride. The
+Prince hastened to meet them, and led them through the empty salons into
+the gallery. He, apologized for showing canvases which perhaps had not
+an attractive aspect. The gallery had been formed by Cardinal Giulio
+Albertinelli at a time when the taste for Guido and Caraccio, now
+fallen, had predominated. His ancestor had taken pleasure in gathering
+the works of the school of Bologna. But he would show to Madame Martin
+several paintings which had not displeased Miss Bell, among others a
+Mantegna.
+
+The Countess Martin recognized at once a banal and doubtful collection;
+she felt bored among the multitude of little Parrocels, showing in the
+darkness a bit of armor and a white horse.
+
+A valet presented a card.
+
+The Prince read aloud the name of Jacques Dechartre. At that moment he
+was turning his back on the two visitors. His face wore the expression
+of cruel displeasure one finds on the marble busts of Roman emperors.
+Dechartre was on the staircase.
+
+The Prince went toward him with a languid smile. He was no longer Nero,
+but Antinous.
+
+“I invited Monsieur Dechartre to come to the Albertinelli palace,” said
+Miss Bell. “I knew it would please you. He wished to see your gallery.”
+
+And it is true that Dechartre had wished to be there with Madame Martin.
+Now all four walked among the Guidos and the Albanos.
+
+Miss Bell babbled to the Prince--her usual prattle about those old
+men and those Virgins whose blue mantles were agitated by an immovable
+tempest. Dechartre, pale, enervated, approached Therese, and said to
+her, in a low tone:
+
+“This gallery is a warehouse where picture dealers of the entire world
+hang the things they can not sell. And the Prince sells here things that
+Jews could not sell.”
+
+He led her to a Holy Family exhibited on an easel draped with green
+velvet, and bearing on the border the name of Michael-Angelo.
+
+“I have seen that Holy Family in the shops of picture-dealers of London,
+of Basle, and of Paris. As they could not get the twenty-five louis that
+it is worth, they have commissioned the last of the Albertinellis to
+sell it for fifty thousand francs.”
+
+The Prince, divining what they were saying, approached them gracefully.
+
+“There is a copy of this picture almost everywhere. I do not affirm
+that this is the original. But it has always been in the family, and old
+inventories attribute it to Michael-Angelo. That is all I can say about
+it.”
+
+And the Prince turned toward Miss Bell, who was trying to find pictures
+by the pre-Raphaelites.
+
+Dechartre felt uneasy. Since the day before he had thought of Therese.
+He had all night dreamed and yearned over her image. He saw her again,
+delightful, but in another manner, and even more desirable than he had
+imagined in his insomnia; less visionary, of a more vivid piquancy, and
+also of a mind more mysteriously impenetrable. She was sad; she seemed
+cold and indifferent. He said to himself that he was nothing to her;
+that he was becoming importunate and ridiculous. This irritated him. He
+murmured bitterly in her ear: “I have reflected. I did not wish to come.
+Why did I come?” She understood at once what he meant, that he feared
+her now, and that he was impatient, timid, and awkward. It pleased her
+that he was thus, and she was grateful to him for the trouble and the
+desires he inspired in her. Her heart throbbed faster. But, affecting to
+understand that he regretted having disturbed himself to come and
+look at bad paintings, she replied that in truth this gallery was not
+interesting. Already, under the terror of displeasing her, he felt
+reassured, and believed that, really indifferent, she had not perceived
+the accent nor the significance of what he had said. He said “No,
+nothing interesting.” The Prince, who had invited the two visitors to
+breakfast, asked their friend to remain with them. Dechartre excused
+himself. He was about to depart when, in the large empty salon, he found
+himself alone with Madame Martin. He had had the idea of running away
+from her. He had no other wish now than to see her again. He recalled
+to her that she was the next morning to visit the Bargello. “You have
+permitted me to accompany you.” She asked him if he had not found her
+moody and tiresome. Oh, no; he had not thought her tiresome, but he
+feared she was sad.
+
+“Alas,” he added, “your sadness, your joys, I have not the right to know
+them.” She turned toward him a glance almost harsh. “You do not think
+that I shall take you for a confidante, do you?” And she walked away
+brusquely.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIII. “YOU MUST TAKE ME WITH MY OWN SOUL!”
+
+After dinner, in the salon of the bells, under the lamps from which
+the great shades permitted only an obscure light to filter, good Madame
+Marmet was warming herself by the hearth, with a white cat on her knees.
+The evening was cool. Madame Martin, her eyes reminiscent of the golden
+light, the violet peaks, and the ancient trees of Florence, smiled with
+happy fatigue. She had gone with Miss Bell, Dechartre, and Madame Marmet
+to the Chartrist convent of Ema. And now, in the intoxication of her
+visions, she forgot the care of the day before, the importunate
+letters, the distant reproaches, and thought of nothing in the world
+but cloisters chiselled and painted, villages with red roofs, and roads
+where she saw the first blush of spring. Dechartre had modelled for Miss
+Bell a waxen figure of Beatrice. Vivian was painting angels. Softly bent
+over her, Prince Albertinelli caressed his beard and threw around him
+glances that appeared to seek admiration.
+
+Replying to a reflection of Vivian Bell on marriage and love:
+
+“A woman must choose,” he said. “With a man whom women love her heart is
+not quiet. With a man whom the women do not love she is not happy.”
+
+“Darling,” asked Miss Bell, “what would you wish for a friend dear to
+you?”
+
+“I should wish, Vivian, that my friend were happy. I should wish
+also that she were quiet. She should be quiet in hatred of treason,
+humiliating suspicions, and mistrust.”
+
+“But, darling, since the Prince has said that a woman can not have at
+the same time happiness and security, tell me what your friend should
+choose.”
+
+“One never chooses, Vivian; one never chooses. Do not make me say what I
+think of marriage.”
+
+At this moment Choulette appeared, wearing the magnificent air of those
+beggars of whom small towns are proud. He had played briscola with
+peasants in a coffeehouse of Fiesole.
+
+“Here is Monsieur Choulette,” said Miss Bell. “He will teach what we are
+to think of marriage. I am inclined to listen to him as to an oracle. He
+does not see the things that we see, and he sees things that we do not
+see. Monsieur Choulette, what do you think of marriage?”
+
+He took a seat and lifted in the air a Socratic finger:
+
+“Are you speaking, Mademoiselle, of the solemn union between man and
+woman? In this sense, marriage is a sacrament. But sometimes, alas! it
+is almost a sacrilege. As for civil marriage, it is a formality. The
+importance given to it in our society is an idiotic thing which would
+have made the women of other times laugh. We owe this prejudice, like
+many others, to the bourgeois, to the mad performances of a lot of
+financiers which have been called the Revolution, and which seem
+admirable to those that have profited by it. Civil marriage is, in
+reality, only registry, like many others which the State exacts in order
+to be sure of the condition of persons: in every well organized state
+everybody must be indexed. Morally, this registry in a big ledger has
+not even the virtue of inducing a wife to take a lover. Who ever thinks
+of betraying an oath taken before a mayor? In order to find joy in
+adultery, one must be pious.”
+
+“But, Monsieur,” said Therese, “we were married at the church.”
+
+Then, with an accent of sincerity:
+
+“I can not understand how a man ever makes up his mind to marry; nor how
+a woman, after she has reached an age when she knows what she is doing,
+can commit that folly.”
+
+The Prince looked at her with distrust. He was clever, but he was
+incapable of conceiving that one might talk without an object,
+disinterestedly, and to express general ideas. He imagined that Countess
+Martin-Belleme was suggesting to him projects that she wished him to
+consider. And as he was thinking of defending himself and also avenging
+himself, he made velvet eyes at her and talked with tender gallantry:
+
+“You display, Madame, the pride of the beautiful and intelligent French
+women whom subjection irritates. French women love liberty, and none of
+them is as worthy of liberty as you. I have lived in France a little.
+I have known and admired the elegant society of Paris, the salons, the
+festivals, the conversations, the plays. But in our mountains, under our
+olive-trees, we become rustic again. We assume golden-age manners, and
+marriage is for us an idyl full of freshness.”
+
+Vivian Bell examined the statuette which Dechartre had left on the
+table.
+
+“Oh! it was thus that Beatrice looked, I am sure. And do you know,
+Monsieur Dechartre, there are wicked men who say that Beatrice never
+existed?”
+
+Choulette declared he wished to be counted among those wicked men. He
+did not believe that Beatrice had any more reality than other ladies
+through whom ancient poets who sang of love represented some scholastic
+idea, ridiculously subtle.
+
+Impatient at praise which was not destined for himself, jealous of Dante
+as of the universe, a refined man of letters, Choulette continued:
+
+“I suspect that the little sister of the angels never lived, except in
+the imagination of the poet. It seems a pure allegory, or, rather, an
+exercise in arithmetic or a theme of astrology. Dante, who was a good
+doctor of Bologna and had many moons in his head, under his
+pointed cap--Dante believed in the virtue of numbers. That inflamed
+mathematician dreamed of figures, and his Beatrice is the flower of
+arithmetic, that is all.”
+
+And he lighted his pipe.
+
+Vivian Bell exclaimed:
+
+“Oh, do not talk in that way, Monsieur Choulette. You grieve me much,
+and if our friend Monsieur Gebhart heard you, he would not be pleased
+with you. To punish you, Prince Albertinelli will read to you the
+canticle in which Beatrice explains the spots on the moon. Take the
+Divine Comedy, Eusebio. It is the white book which you see on the table.
+Open it and read it.”
+
+During the Prince’s reading, Dechartre, seated on the couch near
+Countess Martin, talked of Dante with enthusiasm as the best sculptor
+among the poets. He recalled to Therese the painting they had seen
+together two days before, on the door of the Servi, a fresco almost
+obliterated, where one hardly divined the presence of the poet wearing a
+laurel wreath, Florence, and the seven circles. This was enough to exalt
+the artist. But she had distinguished nothing, she had not been moved.
+And then she confessed that Dante did not attract her. Dechartre,
+accustomed to her sharing all his ideas of art and poetry, felt
+astonishment and some discontent. He said, aloud:
+
+“There are many grand and strong things which you do not feel.”
+
+Miss Bell, lifting her head, asked what were these things that “darling”
+ did not feel; and when she learned that it was the genius of Dante, she
+exclaimed, in mock anger:
+
+“Oh, do you not honor the father, the master worthy of all praise, the
+god? I do not love you any more, darling. I detest you.”
+
+And, as a reproach to Choulette and to the Countess Martin, she recalled
+the piety of that citizen of Florence who took from the altar the
+candles that had been lighted in honor of Christ, and placed them before
+the bust of Dante.
+
+The Prince resumed his interrupted reading. Dechartre persisted in
+trying to make Therese admire what she did not know. Certainly he would
+have easily sacrificed Dante and all the poets of the universe for her.
+But near him, tranquil, and an object of desire, she irritated him,
+almost without his realizing it, by the charm of her laughing beauty. He
+persisted in imposing on her his ideas, his artistic passions, even his
+fantasy, and his capriciousness. He insisted in a low tone, in phrases
+concise and quarrelsome. She said:
+
+“Oh, how violent you are!”
+
+Then he bent to her ear, and in an ardent voice, which he tried to
+soften:
+
+“You must take me with my own soul!”
+
+Therese felt a shiver of fear mingled with joy.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIV. THE AVOWAL
+
+She next day she said to herself that she would reply to Robert. It was
+raining. She listened languidly to the drops falling on the terrace.
+Vivian Bell, careful and refined, had placed on the table artistic
+stationery, sheets imitating the vellum of missals, others of pale
+violet powdered with silver dust; celluloid pens, white and light, which
+one had to manage like brushes; an iris ink which, on a page, spread a
+mist of azure and gold. Therese did not like such delicacy. It seemed
+to her not appropriate for letters which she wished to make simple and
+modest. When she saw that the name of “friend,” given to Robert on
+the first line, placed on the silvery paper, tinted itself like
+mother-of-pearl, a half smile came to her lips. The first phrases were
+hard to write. She hurried the rest, said a great deal of Vivian Bell
+and of Prince Albertinelli, a little of Choulette, and that she had seen
+Dechartre at Florence. She praised some pictures of the museums, but
+without discrimination, and only to fill the pages. She knew that Robert
+had no appreciation of painting; that he admired nothing except a little
+cuirassier by Detaille, bought at Goupil’s.
+
+She saw again in her mind this cuirassier, which he had shown to her
+one day, with pride, in his bedroom, near the mirror, under family
+portraits. All this, at a distance, seemed to her petty and tiresome.
+She finished her letter with words of friendship, the sweetness of which
+was not feigned. Truly, she had never felt more peaceful and gentle
+toward her lover. In four pages she had said little and explained less.
+She announced only that she should stay a month in Florence, the air of
+which did her good. Then she wrote to her father, to her husband, and to
+Princess Seniavine. She went down the stairway with the letters in her
+hand. In the hall she threw three of them on the silver tray destined
+to receive papers for the post-office. Mistrusting Madame Marmet, she
+slipped into her pocket the letter to Le Menil, counting on chance to
+throw it into a post-box.
+
+Almost at the same time Dechartre came to accompany the three friends
+in a walk through the city. As he was waiting he saw the letters on the
+tray.
+
+Without believing that characters could be divined through penmanship,
+he was susceptible to the form of letters as to elegance of drawing. The
+writing of Therese charmed him, and he liked its openness, the bold and
+simple turn of its lines. He looked at the addresses without reading
+them, with an artist’s admiration.
+
+They visited, that morning, Santa Maria Novella, where the Countess
+Martin had already gone with Madame Marmet. But Miss Bell had reproached
+them for not observing the beautiful Ginevra of Benci on a fresco of the
+choir. “You must visit that figure of the morning in a morning light,”
+ said Vivian. While the poetess and Therese were talking together,
+Dechartre listened patiently to Madame Marmet’s conversation, filled
+with anecdotes, wherein academicians dined with elegant women, and
+shared the anxiety of that lady, much preoccupied for several days by
+the necessity to buy a tulle veil. She could find none to her taste in
+the shops of Florence.
+
+As they came out of the church they passed the cobbler’s shop. The good
+man was mending rustic shoes. Madame Martin asked the old man whether he
+was well, whether he had enough work for a living, whether he was happy.
+To all these questions he replied with the charming affirmative of
+Italy, the musical si, which sounded melodious even in his toothless
+mouth. She made him tell his sparrow’s story. The poor bird had once
+dipped its leg in burning wax.
+
+“I have made for my little companion a wooden leg out of a match, and he
+hops upon my shoulder as formerly,” said the cobbler.
+
+“It is this good old man,” said Miss Bell, “who teaches wisdom to
+Monsieur Choulette. There was at Athens a cobbler named Simon, who wrote
+books on philosophy, and who was the friend of Socrates. I have always
+thought that Monsieur Choulette resembled Socrates.”
+
+Therese asked the cobbler to tell his name and his history. His name was
+Serafino Stoppini, and he was a native of Stia. He was old. He had had
+much trouble in his life.
+
+He lifted his spectacles to his forehead, uncovering blue eyes, very
+soft, and almost extinguished under their red lids.
+
+“I have had a wife and children; I have none now. I have known things
+which I know no more.”
+
+Miss Bell and Madame Marmet went to look for a veil.
+
+“He has nothing in the world,” thought Therese, “but his tools, a
+handful of nails, the tub wherein he dips his leather, and a pot of
+basilick, yet he is happy.”
+
+She said to him:
+
+“This plant is fragrant, and it will soon be in bloom.”
+
+He replied:
+
+“If the poor little plant comes into bloom it will die.”
+
+Therese, when she left him, placed a coin on the table.
+
+Dechartre was near her. Gravely, almost severely, he said to her:
+
+“You know...”
+
+She looked at him and waited.
+
+He finished his phrase:
+
+“... that I love you?”
+
+She continued to fix on him, silently, the gaze of her clear eyes, the
+lids of which were trembling. Then she made a motion with her head that
+meant Yes. And, without his trying to stop her, she rejoined Miss Bell
+and Madame Marmet, who were waiting for her at the corner.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XV. THE MYSTERIOUS LETTER
+
+Therese, after quitting Dechartre, took breakfast with her friend
+and Madame Marmet at the house of an old Florentine lady whom Victor
+Emmanuel had loved when he was Duke of Savoy. For thirty years she had
+not once gone out of her palace on the Arno, where, she painted, and
+wearing a wig, she played the guitar in her spacious white salon. She
+received the best society of Florence, and Miss Bell often called on
+her. At table this recluse, eighty-seven years of age, questioned the
+Countess Martin on the fashionable world of Paris, whose movement was
+familiar to her through the journals. Solitary, she retained respect and
+a sort of devotion for the world of pleasure.
+
+As they came out of the palazzo, in order to avoid the wind which was
+blowing on the river, Miss Bell led her friends into the old streets
+with black stone houses and a view of the distant horizon, where, in
+the pure air, stands a hill with three slender trees. They walked; and
+Vivian showed to her friend, on facades where red rags were hanging,
+some marble masterpiece--a Virgin, a lily, a St. Catherine. They
+walked through these alleys of the antique city to the church of Or
+San Michele, where it had been agreed that Dechartre should meet them.
+Therese was thinking of him now with deepest interest. Madame Marmet
+was thinking of buying a veil; she hoped to find one on the Corso. This
+affair recalled to her M. Lagrange, who, at his regular lecture one day,
+took from his pocket a veil with gold dots and wiped his forehead with
+it, thinking it was his handkerchief. The audience was astonished, and
+whispered to one another. It was a veil that had been confided to him
+the day before by his niece, Mademoiselle Jeanne Michot, whom he had
+accompanied to the theatre, and Madame Marmet explained how, finding
+it in the pocket of his overcoat, he had taken it to return it to his
+niece.
+
+At Lagrange’s name, Therese recalled the flaming comet announced by the
+savant, and said to herself, with mocking sadness, that it was time for
+that comet to put an end to the world and take her out of her trouble.
+But above the walls of the old church she saw the sky, which, cleared
+of clouds by the wind from the sea, shone pale blue and cold. Miss
+Bell showed to her one of the bronze statues which, in their chiselled
+niches, ornament the facade of the church.
+
+“See, darling, how young and proud is Saint George. Saint George was
+formerly the cavalier about whom young girls dreamed.”
+
+But “darling” said that he looked precise, tiresome, and stubborn.
+At this moment she recalled suddenly the letter that was still in her
+pocket.
+
+“Ah! here comes Monsieur Dechartre,” said the good Madame Marmet.
+
+He had looked for them in the church, before the tabernacle. He should
+have recalled the irresistible attraction which Donatello’s St. George
+held for Miss Bell. He too admired that famous figure. But he retained
+a particular friendship for St. Mark, rustic and frank, whom they could
+see in his niche at the left.
+
+When Therese approached the statue which he was pointing out to her, she
+saw a post-box against the wall of the narrow street opposite the saint.
+Dechartre, placed at the most convenient point of view, talked of his
+St. Mark with abundant friendship.
+
+“It is to him I make my first visit when I come to Florence. I failed to
+do this only once. He will forgive me; he is an excellent man. He is
+not appreciated by the crowd, and does not attract attention. I take
+pleasure in his society, however. He is vivid. I understand that
+Donatello, after giving a soul to him, exclaimed: ‘Mark, why do you not
+speak?’”
+
+Madame Marmet, tired of admiring St. Mark, and feeling on her face the
+burning wind, dragged Miss Bell toward Calzaioli Street in search of a
+veil.
+
+Therese and Dechartre remained.
+
+“I like him,” continued the sculptor; “I like Saint Mark because I
+feel in him, much more than in the Saint George, the hand and mind of
+Donatello, who was a good workman. I like him even more to-day, because
+he recalls to me, in his venerable and touching candor, the old cobbler
+to whom you were speaking so kindly this morning.”
+
+“Ah,” she said, “I have forgotten his name. When we talk with Monsieur
+Choulette we call him Quentin Matsys, because he resembles the old men
+of that painter.”
+
+As they were turning the corner of the church to see the facade, she
+found herself before the post-box, which was so dusty and rusty that it
+seemed as if the postman never came near it. She put her letter in it
+under the ingenuous gaze of St. Mark.
+
+Dechartre saw her, and felt as if a heavy blow had been struck at
+his heart. He tried to speak, to smile; but the gloved hand which had
+dropped the letter remained before his eyes. He recalled having seen in
+the morning Therese’s letters on the hall tray. Why had she not put
+that one with the others? The reason was not hard to guess. He remained
+immovable, dreamy, and gazed without seeing. He tried to be reassured;
+perhaps it was an insignificant letter which she was trying to hide from
+the tiresome curiosity of Madame Marmet.
+
+“Monsieur Dechartre, it is time to rejoin our friends at the
+dressmaker’s.”
+
+Perhaps it was a letter to Madame Schmoll, who was not a friend of
+Madame Marmet, but immediately he realized that this idea was foolish.
+
+All was clear. She had a lover. She was writing to him. Perhaps she was
+saying to him: “I saw Dechartre to-day; the poor fellow is deeply in
+love with me.” But whether she wrote that or something else, she had a
+lover. He had not thought of that. To know that she belonged to another
+made him suffer profoundly. And that hand, that little hand dropping the
+letter, remained in his eyes and made them burn.
+
+She did not know why he had become suddenly dumb and sombre. When she
+saw him throw an anxious glance back at the post-box, she guessed the
+reason. She thought it odd that he should be jealous without having the
+right to be jealous; but this did not displease her.
+
+When they reached the Corso, they saw Miss Bell and Madame Marmet coming
+out of the dressmaker’s shop.
+
+Dechartre said to Therese, in an imperious and supplicating voice:
+
+“I must speak to you. I must see you alone tomorrow; meet me at six
+o’clock at the Lungarno Acciaoli.”
+
+She made no reply.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVI. “TO-MORROW?”
+
+When, in her Carmelite mantle, she came to the Lungarno Acciaoli, at
+about half-past six, Dechartre greeted her with a humble look that moved
+her. The setting sun made the Arno purple. They remained silent for a
+moment. While they were walking past the monotonous line of palaces to
+the old bridge, she was the first to speak.
+
+“You see, I have come. I thought I ought to come. I do not think I am
+altogether innocent of what has happened. I know: I have done what was
+my fate in order that you should be to me what you are now. My attitude
+has put thoughts into your head which you would not have had otherwise.”
+
+He looked as if he did not understand. She continued:
+
+“I was selfish, I was imprudent. You were agreeable to me; I liked your
+wit; I could not get along without you. I have done what I could
+to attract you, to retain you. I was a coquette--not coldly, nor
+perfidiously, but a coquette.”
+
+He shook his head, denying that he ever had seen a sign of this.
+
+“Yes, I was a coquette. Yet it was not my habit. But I was a coquette
+with you. I do not say that you have tried to take advantage of it,
+as you had the right to do, nor that you are vain about it. I have not
+remarked vanity in you. It may be possible that you had not noticed.
+Superior men sometimes lack cleverness. But I know very well that I was
+not as I should have been, and I beg your pardon. That is the reason why
+I came. Let us be good friends, since there is yet time.”
+
+He repeated, with sombre softness, that he loved her. The first hours of
+that love had been easy and delightful. He had only desired to see her,
+and to see her again. But soon she had troubled him. The evil had come
+suddenly and violently one day on the terrace of Fiesole. And now he had
+not the courage to suffer and say nothing. He had not come with a fixed
+design. If he spoke of his passion he spoke by force and in spite of
+himself; in the strong necessity of talking of her to herself, since
+she was for him the only being in the world. His life was no longer in
+himself, it was in her. She should know it, then, that he was in love
+with her, not with vague tenderness, but with cruel ardor. Alas! his
+imagination was exact and precise. He saw her continually, and she
+tortured him.
+
+And then it seemed to him that they might have joys which should make
+life worth living. Their existence might be a work of art, beautiful and
+hidden. They would think, comprehend, and feel together. It would be a
+marvellous world of emotions and ideas.
+
+“We could make of life a delightful garden.”
+
+She feigned to think that the dream was innocent.
+
+“You know very well that I am susceptible to the charm of your mind. It
+has become a necessity to see you and hear you. I have allowed this to
+be only too plain to you. Count upon my friendship and do not torment
+yourself.” She extended her hand to him. He did not take it, but
+replied, brusquely:
+
+“I do not desire your friendship. I will not have it. I must have you
+entirely or never see you again. You know that very well. Why do you
+extend your hand to me with derisive phrases? Whether you wished it or
+not, you have made me desperately in love with you. You have become
+my evil, my suffering, my torture, and you ask me to be an agreeable
+friend. Now you are coquettish and cruel. If you can not love me, let me
+go; I will go, I do not know where, to forget and hate you. For I have
+against you a latent feeling of hatred and anger. Oh, I love you, I love
+you!”
+
+She believed what he was saying, feared that he might go, and feared the
+sadness of living without him. She replied:
+
+“I found you in my path. I do not wish to lose you. No, I do not wish to
+lose you.”
+
+Timid yet violent, he stammered; the words were stifled in his throat.
+Twilight descended from the far-off mountains, and the last reflections
+of the sun became pallid in the east. She said:
+
+“If you knew my life, if you had seen how empty it was before I
+knew you, you would know what you are to me, and would not think of
+abandoning me.”
+
+But, with the tranquil tone of her voice and with the rustle of her
+skirts on the pavement, she irritated him.
+
+He told her how he suffered. He knew now the divine malady of love.
+
+“The grace of your thoughts, your magnificent courage, your superb
+pride, I inhale them like a perfume. It seems to me when you speak that
+your mind is floating on your lips. Your mind is for me only the odor of
+your beauty. I have retained the instincts of a primitive man; you have
+reawakened them. I feel that I love you with savage simplicity.”
+
+She looked at him softly and said nothing. They saw the lights of
+evening, and heard lugubrious songs coming toward them. And then, like
+spectres chased by the wind, appeared the black penitents. The crucifix
+was before them. They were Brothers of Mercy, holding torches, singing
+psalms on the way to the cemetery. In accordance with the Italian
+custom, the cortege marched quickly. The crosses, the coffin, the
+banners, seemed to leap on the deserted quay. Jacques and Therese stood
+against the wall in order that the funeral train might pass.
+
+The black avalanche had disappeared. There were women weeping behind the
+coffin carried by the black phantoms, who wore heavy shoes.
+
+Therese sighed:
+
+“What will be the use of having tormented ourselves in this world?”
+
+He looked as if he had not heard, and said:
+
+“Before I knew you I was not unhappy. I liked life. I was retained in
+it by dreams. I liked forms, and the mind in forms, the appearances that
+caress and flatter. I had the joy of seeing and of dreaming. I enjoyed
+everything and depended upon nothing. My desires, abundant and light, I
+gratified without fatigue. I was interested in everything and wished for
+nothing. One suffers only through the will. Without knowing it, I was
+happy. Oh, it was not much, it was only enough to live. Now I have no
+joy in life. My pleasures, the interest that I took in the images of
+life and of art, the vivid amusement of creating with my hands the
+figures of my dreams--you have made me lose everything and have not
+left me even regret. I do not want my liberty and tranquillity again. It
+seems to me that before I knew you I did not live; and now that I feel
+that I am living, I can not live either far from you or near you. I am
+more wretched than the beggars we saw on the road to Ema. They had air
+to breathe, and I can breathe only you, whom I have not. Yet I am glad
+to have known you. That alone counts in my existence. A moment ago I
+thought I hated you. I was wrong; I adore you, and I bless you for the
+harm you have done me. I love all that comes to me from you.”
+
+They were nearing the black trees at the entrance to San Niccola bridge.
+On the other side of the river the vague fields displayed their sadness,
+intensified by night. Seeing that he was calm and full of a soft
+languor, she thought that his love, all imagination, had fled in words,
+and that his desires had become only a reverie. She had not expected so
+prompt a resignation. It almost disappointed her to escape the danger
+she had feared.
+
+She extended her hand to him, more boldly this time than before.
+
+“Then, let us be friends. It is late. Let us return. Take me to my
+carriage. I shall be what I have been to you, an excellent friend. You
+have not displeased me.”
+
+But he led her to the fields, in the growing solitude of the shore.
+
+“No, I will not let you go without having told you what I wish to say.
+But I know no longer how to speak; I can not find the words. I love you.
+I wish to know that you are mine. I swear to you that I will not live
+another night in the horror of doubting it.”
+
+He pressed her in his arms; and seeking the light of her eyes through
+the obscurity of her veil, said “You must love me. I desire you to love
+me, and it is your fault, for you have desired it too. Say that you are
+mine. Say it.”
+
+Having gently disengaged herself, she replied, faintly and slowly “I can
+not! I can not! You see I am acting frankly with you. I said to you
+a moment ago that you had not displeased me. But I can not do as you
+wish.”
+
+And recalling to her thought the absent one who was waiting for her,
+she repeated: “I can not!” Bending over her he anxiously questioned her
+eyes, the double stars that trembled and veiled themselves. “Why? You
+love me, I feel it, I see it. You love me. Why will you do me this
+wrong?”
+
+He drew her to him, wishing to lay his soul, with his lips, on her
+veiled lips. She escaped him swiftly, saying: “I can not. Do not ask
+more. I can not be yours.”
+
+His lips trembled, his face was convulsed. He exclaimed “You have a
+lover, and you love him. Why do you mock me?”
+
+“I swear to you I have no desire to mock you, and that if I loved any
+one in the world it would be you.” But he was not listening to her.
+
+“Leave me, leave me!” And he ran toward the dark fields. The Arno formed
+lagoons, upon which the moon, half veiled, shone fitfully. He walked
+through the water and the mud, with a step rapid, blind, like that of
+one intoxicated. She took fright and shouted. She called him. But he
+did not turn his head and made no answer. He fled with alarming
+recklessness. She ran after him. Her feet were hurt by the stones, and
+her skirt was heavy with water, but soon she overtook him.
+
+“What were you about to do?”
+
+He looked at her, and saw her fright in her eyes. “Do not be afraid,” he
+said. “I did not see where I was going. I assure you I did not intend to
+kill myself. I am desperate, but I am calm. I was only trying to escape
+from you. I beg your pardon. But I could not see you any longer. Leave
+me, I pray you. Farewell!”
+
+She replied, agitated and trembling: “Come! We shall do what we can.”
+
+He remained sombre and made no reply. She repeated “Come!”
+
+She took his arm. The living warmth of her hand animated him. He said:
+
+“Do you wish it?”
+
+“I can not leave you.”
+
+“You promise?”
+
+“I must.”
+
+And, in her anxiety and anguish, she almost smiled, in thinking that he
+had succeeded so quickly by his folly.
+
+“To-morrow?” said he, inquiringly.
+
+She replied quickly, with a defensive instinct:
+
+“Oh, no; not to-morrow!”
+
+“You do not love me; you regret that you have promised.”
+
+“No, I do not regret, but--”
+
+He implored, he supplicated her. She looked at him for a moment, turned
+her head, hesitated, and said, in a low tone:
+
+“Saturday.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVII. MISS BELL ASKS A QUESTION
+
+After dinner, Miss Bell was sketching in the drawing-room. She was
+tracing, on canvas, profiles of bearded Etruscans for a cushion which
+Madame Marmet was to embroider. Prince Albertinelli was selecting the
+wool with an almost feminine knowledge of shades. It was late when
+Choulette, having, as was his habit, played briscola with the cook at
+the caterer’s, appeared, as joyful as if he possessed the mind of a
+god. He took a seat on a sofa, beside Madame Martin, and looked at her
+tenderly. Voluptuousness shone in his green eyes. He enveloped her,
+while talking to her, with poetic and picturesque phrases. It was like
+the sketch of a lovesong that he was improvising for her. In oddly
+involved sentences, he told her of the charm that she exhaled.
+
+“He, too!” said she to herself.
+
+She amused herself by teasing him. She asked whether he had not found in
+Florence, in the low quarters, one of the kind of women whom he liked
+to visit. His preferences were known. He could deny it as much as he
+wished: no one was ignorant of the door where he had found the cordon of
+his Third Order. His friends had met him on the boulevard. His taste for
+unfortunate women was evident in his most beautiful poems.
+
+“Oh, Monsieur Choulette, so far as I am able to judge, you like very bad
+women.”
+
+He replied with solemnity:
+
+“Madame, you may collect the grain of calumny sown by Monsieur Paul
+Vence and throw handfuls of it at me. I will not try to avoid it. It is
+not necessary you should know that I am chaste and that my mind is pure.
+But do not judge lightly those whom you call unfortunate, and who should
+be sacred to you, since they are unfortunate. The disdained and lost
+girl is the docile clay under the finger of the Divine Potter: she is
+the victim and the altar of the holocaust. The unfortunates are nearer
+God than the honest women: they have lost conceit. They do not glorify
+themselves with the untried virtue the matron prides herself on. They
+possess humility, which is the cornerstone of virtues agreeable to
+heaven. A short repentance will be sufficient for them to be the first
+in heaven; for their sins, without malice and without joy, contain
+their own forgiveness. Their faults, which are pains, participate in the
+merits attached to pain; slaves to brutal passion, they are deprived
+of all voluptuousness, and in this they are like the men who practise
+continence for the kingdom of God. They are like us, culprits; but shame
+falls on their crime like a balm, suffering purifies it like fire. That
+is the reason why God will listen to the first voice which they shall
+send to him. A throne is prepared for them at the right hand of the
+Father. In the kingdom of God, the queen and the empress will be happy
+to sit at the feet of the unfortunate; for you must not think that the
+celestial house is built on a human plan. Far from it, Madame.”
+
+Nevertheless, he conceded that more than one road led to salvation. One
+could follow the road of love.
+
+“Man’s love is earthly,” he said, “but it rises by painful degrees, and
+finally leads to God.”
+
+The Prince had risen. Kissing Miss Bell’s hand, he said:
+
+“Saturday.”
+
+“Yes, the day after to-morrow, Saturday,” replied Vivian.
+
+Therese started. Saturday! They were talking of Saturday quietly, as of
+an ordinary day. Until then she had not wished to think that Saturday
+would come so soon or so naturally.
+
+The guests had been gone for half an hour. Therese, tired, was thinking
+in her bed, when she heard a knock at the door of her room. The panel
+opened, and Vivian’s little head appeared.
+
+“I am not intruding, darling? You are not sleepy?”
+
+No, Therese had no desire to sleep. She rose on her elbow. Vivian sat on
+the bed, so light that she made no impression on it.
+
+“Darling, I am sure you have a great deal of reason. Oh, I am sure
+of it. You are reasonable in the same way that Monsieur Sadler is a
+violinist. He plays a little out of tune when he wishes. And you,
+too, when you are not quite logical, it is for your own pleasure. Oh,
+darling, you have a great deal of reason and of judgment, and I come to
+ask your advice.”
+
+Astonished, and a little anxious, Therese denied that she was logical.
+She denied this very sincerely. But Vivian would not listen to her.
+
+“I have read Francois Rabelais a great deal, my love. It is in Rabelais
+and in Villon that I studied French. They are good old masters of
+language. But, darling, do you know the ‘Pantagruel?’ ‘Pantagruel’ is
+like a beautiful and noble city, full of palaces, in the resplendent
+dawn, before the street-sweepers of Paris have come. The sweepers have
+not taken out the dirt, and the maids have not washed the marble steps.
+And I have seen that French women do not read the ‘Pantagruel.’ You do
+not know it? Well, it is not necessary. In the ‘Pantagruel,’ Panurge
+asks whether he must marry, and he covers himself with ridicule, my
+love. Well, I am quite as laughable as he, since I am asking the same
+question of you.”
+
+Therese replied with an uneasiness she did not try to conceal:
+
+“As for that, my dear, do not ask me. I have already told you my
+opinion.”
+
+“But, darling, you have said that only men are wrong to marry. I can not
+take that advice for myself.”
+
+Madame Martin looked at the little boyish face and head of Miss Bell,
+which oddly expressed tenderness and modesty.
+
+Then she embraced her, saying:
+
+“Dear, there is not a man in the world exquisite and delicate enough for
+you.”
+
+She added, with an expression of affectionate gravity:
+
+“You are not a child. If some one loves you, and you love him, do what
+you think you ought to do, without mingling interests and combinations
+that have nothing to do with sentiment. This is the advice of a friend.”
+
+Miss Bell hesitated a moment. Then she blushed and arose. She had been a
+little shocked.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVIII. “I KISS YOUR FEET BECAUSE THEY HAVE COME!”
+
+Saturday, at four o’clock, Therese went, as she had promised, to the
+gate of the English cemetery. There she found Dechartre. He was serious
+and agitated; he spoke little. She was glad he did not display his joy.
+He led her by the deserted walls of the gardens to a narrow street which
+she did not know. She read on a signboard: Via Alfieri. After they had
+taken fifty steps, he stopped before a sombre alley:
+
+“It is in there,” he said.
+
+She looked at him with infinite sadness.
+
+“You wish me to go in?”
+
+She saw he was resolute, and followed him without saying a word, into
+the humid shadow of the alley. He traversed a courtyard where the grass
+grew among the stones. In the back was a pavilion with three windows,
+with columns and a front ornamented with goats and nymphs. On the
+moss-covered steps he turned in the lock a key that creaked and
+resisted. He murmured,
+
+“It is rusty.”
+
+She replied, without thought “All the keys are rusty in this country.”
+
+They went up a stairway so silent that it seemed to have forgotten the
+sound of footsteps. He pushed open a door and made Therese enter the
+room. She went straight to a window opening on the cemetery. Above the
+wall rose the tops of pine-trees, which are not funereal in this land
+where mourning is mingled with joy without troubling it, where the
+sweetness of living extends to the city of the dead. He took her hand
+and led her to an armchair. He remained standing, and looked at the room
+which he had prepared so that she would not find herself lost in it.
+Panels of old print cloth, with figures of Comedy, gave to the walls the
+sadness of past gayeties. He had placed in a corner a dim pastel which
+they had seen together at an antiquary’s, and which, for its shadowy
+grace, she called the shade of Rosalba. There was a grandmother’s
+armchair; white chairs; and on the table painted cups and Venetian
+glasses. In all the corners were screens of colored paper, whereon were
+masks, grotesque figures, the light soul of Florence, of Bologna, and
+of Venice in the time of the Grand Dukes and of the last Doges. A mirror
+and a carpet completed the furnishings.
+
+He closed the window and lighted the fire. She sat in the armchair, and
+as she remained in it erect, he knelt before her, took her hands, kissed
+them, and looked at her with a wondering expression, timorous and proud.
+Then he pressed his lips to the tip of her boot.
+
+“What are you doing?”
+
+“I kiss your feet because they have come.”
+
+He rose, drew her to him softly, and placed a long kiss on her lips. She
+remained inert, her head thrown back, her eyes closed. Her toque fell,
+her hair dropped on her shoulders.
+
+Two hours later, when the setting sun made immeasurably longer the
+shadows on the stones, Therese, who had wished to walk alone in the
+city, found herself in front of the two obelisks of Santa Maria Novella
+without knowing how she had reached there. She saw at the corner of the
+square the old cobbler drawing his string with his eternal gesture. He
+smiled, bearing his sparrow on his shoulder.
+
+She went into the shop, and sat on a chair. She said in French:
+
+“Quentin Matsys, my friend, what have I done, and what will become of
+me?”
+
+He looked at her quietly, with laughing kindness, not understanding nor
+caring. Nothing astonished him. She shook her head.
+
+“What I did, my good Quentin, I did because he was suffering, and
+because I loved him. I regret nothing.”
+
+He replied, as was his habit, with the sonorous syllable of Italy:
+
+“Si! si!”
+
+“Is it not so, Quentin? I have not done wrong? But, my God! what will
+happen now?”
+
+She prepared to go. He made her understand that he wished her to wait.
+He culled carefully a bit of basilick and offered it to her.
+
+“For its fragrance, signora!”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIX. CHOULETTE TAKES A JOURNEY
+
+It was the next day.
+
+Having carefully placed on the drawing-room table his knotty stick, his
+pipe, and his antique carpet-bag, Choulette bowed to Madame Martin, who
+was reading at the window. He was going to Assisi. He wore a sheepskin
+coat, and resembled the old shepherds in pictures of the Nativity.
+
+“Farewell, Madame. I am quitting Fiesole, you, Dechartre, the too
+handsome Prince Albertinelli, and that gentle ogress, Miss Bell. I am
+going to visit the Assisi mountain, which the poet says must be named no
+longer Assisi, but the Orient, because it is there that the sun of love
+rose. I am going to kneel before the happy crypt where Saint Francis is
+resting in a stone manger, with a stone for a pillow. For he would not
+even take out of this world a shroud--out of this world where he left
+the revelation of all joy and of all kindness.”
+
+“Farewell, Monsieur Choulette. Bring me a medal of Saint Clara. I like
+Saint Clara a great deal.”
+
+“You are right, Madame; she was a woman of strength and prudence. When
+Saint Francis, ill and almost blind, came to spend a few days at Saint
+Damien, near his friend, she built with her own hands a hut for him in
+the garden. Pain, languor, and burning eyelids deprived him of sleep.
+Enormous rats came to attack him at night. Then he composed a joyous
+canticle in praise of our splendid brother the Sun, and our sister the
+Water, chaste, useful, and pure. My most beautiful verses have less
+charm and splendor. And it is just that it should be thus, for Saint
+Francis’s soul was more beautiful than his mind. I am better than all
+my contemporaries whom I have known, yet I am worth nothing. When Saint
+Francis had composed his Song of the Sun he rejoiced. He thought: ‘We
+shall go, my brothers and I, into the cities, and stand in the public
+squares, with a lute, on the market-day. Good people will come near us,
+and we shall say to them: “We are the jugglers of God, and we shall
+sing a lay to you. If you are pleased, you will reward us.” They will
+promise, and when we shall have sung, we shall recall their promise to
+them. We shall say to them: “You owe a reward to us. And the one that we
+ask of you is that you love one another.” Doubtless, to keep their
+word and not injure God’s poor jugglers, they will avoid doing ill to
+others.’”
+
+Madame Martin thought St. Francis was the most amiable of the saints.
+
+“His work,” replied Choulette, “was destroyed while he lived. Yet he
+died happy, because in him was joy with humility. He was, in fact, God’s
+sweet singer. And it is right that another poor poet should take his
+task and teach the world true religion and true joy. I shall be that
+poet, Madame, if I can despoil myself of reason and of conceit. For all
+moral beauty is achieved in this world through the inconceivable wisdom
+that comes from God and resembles folly.”
+
+“I shall not discourage you, Monsieur Choulette. But I am anxious about
+the fate which you reserve for the poor women in your new society. You
+will imprison them all in convents.”
+
+“I confess,” replied Choulette, “that they embarrass me a great deal in
+my project of reform. The violence with which one loves them is harsh
+and injurious. The pleasure they give is not peaceful, and does not lead
+to joy. I have committed for them, in my life, two or three abominable
+crimes of which no one knows. I doubt whether I shall ever invite you to
+supper, Madame, in the new Saint Mary of the Angels.” He took his pipe,
+his carpet-bag, and his stick:
+
+“The crimes of love shall be forgiven. Or, rather, one can not do
+evil when one loves purely. But sensual love is formed of hatred,
+selfishness, and anger as much as of passion. Because I found you
+beautiful one night, on this sofa, I was assailed by a cloud of violent
+thoughts. I had come from the Albergo, where I had heard Miss Bell’s
+cook improvise magnificently twelve hundred verses on Spring. I was
+inundated by a celestial joy which the sight of you made me lose. It
+must be that a profound truth is enclosed in the curse of Eve. For, near
+you, I felt reckless and wicked. I had soft words on my lips. They were
+lies. I felt that I was your adversary and your enemy; I hated you. When
+I saw you smile, I felt a desire to kill you.”
+
+“Truly?”
+
+“Oh, Madame, it is a very natural sentiment, which you must have
+inspired more than once. But common people feel it without being
+conscious of it, while my vivid imagination represents me to myself
+incessantly. I contemplate my mind, at times splendid, often hideous.
+If you had been able to read my mind that night you would have screamed
+with fright.”
+
+Therese smiled:
+
+“Farewell, Monsieur Choulette. Do not forget my medal of Saint Clara.”
+
+He placed his bag on the floor, raised his arm, and pointed his finger:
+
+“You have nothing to fear from me. But the one whom you will love and
+who will love you will harm you. Farewell, Madame.”
+
+He took his luggage and went out. She saw his long, rustic form
+disappear behind the bushes of the garden.
+
+In the afternoon she went to San Marco, where Dechartre was waiting for
+her. She desired yet she feared to see him again so soon. She felt an
+anguish which an unknown sentiment, profoundly soft, appeased. She did
+not feel the stupor of the first time that she had yielded for love;
+she did not feel the brusque vision of the irreparable. She was under
+influences slower, more vague, and more powerful. This time a charming
+reverie bathed the reminiscence of the caresses which she had received.
+She was full of trouble and anxiety, but she felt no regret. She had
+acted less through her will than through a force which she divined to
+be higher. She absolved herself because of her disinterestedness. She
+counted on nothing, having calculated nothing.
+
+Doubtless, she had been wrong to yield, since she was not free; but she
+had exacted nothing. Perhaps she was for him only a violent caprice.
+She did not know him. She had not one of those vivid imaginations that
+surpass immensely, in good as in evil, common mediocrity. If he went
+away from her and disappeared she would not reproach him for it; at
+least, she thought not. She would keep the reminiscence and the imprint
+of the rarest and most precious thing one may find in the world. Perhaps
+he was incapable of real attachment. He thought he loved her. He had
+loved her for an hour. She dared not wish for more, in the embarrassment
+of the false situation which irritated her frankness and her pride, and
+which troubled the lucidity of her intelligence. While the carriage
+was carrying her to San Marco, she persuaded herself that he would say
+nothing to her of the day before, and that the room from which one could
+see the pines rise to the sky would leave to them only the dream of a
+dream.
+
+He extended his hand to her. Before he had spoken she saw in his look
+that he loved her as much now as before, and she perceived at the same
+time that she wished him to be thus.
+
+“You--” he said, “I have been here since noon. I was waiting, knowing
+that you would not come so soon, but able to live only at the place
+where I was to see you. It is you! Talk; let me see and hear you.”
+
+“Then you still love me?”
+
+“It is now that I love you. I thought I loved you when you were only a
+phantom. Now, you are the being in whose hands I have put my soul. It
+is true that you are mine! What have I done to obtain the greatest, the
+only, good of this world? And those men with whom the earth is covered
+think they are living! I alone live! Tell me, what have I done to obtain
+you?”
+
+“Oh, what had to be done, I did. I say this to you frankly. If we have
+reached that point, the fault is mine. You see, women do not always
+confess it, but it is always their fault. So, whatever may happen, I
+never will reproach you for anything.”
+
+An agile troupe of yelling beggars, guides, and coachmen surrounded them
+with an importunity wherein was mingled the gracefulness which Italians
+never lose. Their subtlety made them divine that these were lovers, and
+they knew that lovers are prodigal. Dechartre threw coin to them, and
+they all returned to their happy laziness.
+
+A municipal guard received the visitors. Madame Martin regretted that
+there was no monk. The white gown of the Dominicans was so beautiful
+under the arcades of the cloister!
+
+They visited the cells where, on the bare plaster, Fra Angelico, aided
+by his brother Benedetto, painted innocent pictures for his companions.
+
+“Do you recall the winter night when, meeting you before the Guimet
+Museum, I accompanied you to the narrow street bordered by small gardens
+which leads to the Billy Quay? Before separating we stopped a moment on
+the parapet along which runs a thin boxwood hedge. You looked at that
+boxwood, dried by winter. And when you went away I looked at it for a
+long time.”
+
+They were in the cell wherein Savonarola lived. The guide showed to them
+the portrait and the relics of the martyr.
+
+“What could there have been in me that you liked that day? It was dark.”
+
+“I saw you walk. It is in movements that forms speak. Each one of your
+steps told me the secrets of your charming beauty. Oh! my imagination
+was never discreet in anything that concerned you. I did not dare to
+speak to you. When I saw you, it frightened me. It frightened me because
+you could do everything for me. When you were present, I adored you
+tremblingly. When you were far from me, I felt all the impieties of
+desire.”
+
+“I did not suspect this. But do you recall the first time we saw each
+other, when Paul Vence introduced you? You were seated near a screen.
+You were looking at the miniatures. You said to me: ‘This lady, painted
+by Siccardi, resembles Andre Chenier’s mother.’ I replied to you: ‘She
+is my husband’s great-grandmother. How did Andre Chenier’s mother look?’
+And you said: ‘There is a portrait of her: a faded Levantine.’”
+
+He excused himself and thought that he had not spoken so impertinently.
+
+“You did. My memory is better than yours.”
+
+They were walking in the white silence of the convent. They saw the cell
+which Angelico had ornamented with the loveliest painting. And there,
+before the Virgin who, in the pale sky, receives from God the Father
+the immortal crown, he took Therese in his arms and placed a kiss on her
+lips, almost in view of two Englishwomen who were walking through the
+corridors, consulting their Baedeker. She said to him:
+
+“We must not forget Saint Anthony’s cell.”
+
+“Therese, I am suffering in my happiness from everything that is yours
+and that escapes me. I am suffering because you do not live for me
+alone. I wish to have you wholly, and to have had you in the past.”
+
+She shrugged her shoulders a little.
+
+“Oh, the past!”
+
+“The past is the only human reality. Everything that is, is past.”
+
+She raised toward him her eyes, which resembled bits of blue sky full of
+mingled sun and rain.
+
+“Well, I may say this to you: I never have felt that I lived except with
+you.”
+
+When she returned to Fiesole, she found a brief and threatening letter
+from Le Menil. He could not understand, her prolonged absence, her
+silence. If she did not announce at once her return, he would go to
+Florence for her.
+
+She read without astonishment, but was annoyed to see that everything
+disagreeable that could happen was happening, and that nothing would
+be spared to her of what she had feared. She could still calm him and
+reassure him: she had only to say to him that she loved him; that she
+would soon return to Paris; that he should renounce the foolish idea
+of rejoining her here; that Florence was a village where they would be
+watched at once. But she would have to write: “I love you.” She must
+quiet him with caressing phrases.
+
+She had not the courage to do it. She would let him guess the truth. She
+accused herself in veiled terms. She wrote obscurely of souls carried
+away by the flood of life, and of the atom one is on the moving ocean of
+events. She asked him, with affectionate sadness, to keep of her a fond
+reminiscence in a corner of his soul.
+
+She took the letter to the post-office box on the Fiesole square.
+Children were playing in the twilight. She looked from the top of the
+hill to the beautiful cup which carried beautiful Florence like a jewel.
+And the peace of night made her shiver. She dropped the letter into the
+box. Then only she had the clear vision of what she had done and of what
+the result would be.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XX. WHAT IS FRANKNESS?
+
+In the square, where the spring sun scattered its yellow roses, the
+bells at noon dispersed the rustic crowd of grain-merchants assembled
+to sell their wares. At the foot of the Lanzi, before the statues, the
+venders of ices had placed, on tables covered with red cotton, small
+castles bearing the inscription: ‘Bibite ghiacciate’. And joy descended
+from heaven to earth. Therese and Jacques, returning from an early
+promenade in the Boboli Gardens, were passing before the illustrious
+loggia. Therese looked at the Sabine by John of Bologna with that
+interested curiosity of a woman examining another woman. But Dechartre
+looked at Therese only. He said to her:
+
+“It is marvellous how the vivid light of day flatters your beauty, loves
+you, and caresses the mother-of-pearl on your cheeks.”
+
+“Yes,” she said. “Candle-light hardens my features. I have observed
+this. I am not an evening woman, unfortunately. It is at night that
+women have a chance to show themselves and to please. At night, Princess
+Seniavine has a fine blond complexion; in the sun she is as yellow as a
+lemon. It must be owned that she does not care. She is not a coquette.”
+
+“And you are?”
+
+“Oh, yes. Formerly I was a coquette for myself, now I am a coquette for
+you.”
+
+She looked at the Sabine woman, who with her waving arms, long and
+robust, tried to avoid the Roman’s embraces.
+
+“To be beautiful, must a woman have that thin form and that length of
+limb? I am not shaped in that way.”
+
+He took pains to reassure her. But she was not disturbed about it. She
+was looking now at the little castle of the ice-vender. A sudden desire
+had come to her to eat an ice standing there, as the working-girls of
+the city stood.
+
+“Wait a moment,” said Dechartre.
+
+He ran toward the street that follows the left side of the Lanzi, and
+disappeared.
+
+After a moment he came back, and gave her a little gold spoon, the
+handle of which was finished in a lily of Florence, with its chalice
+enamelled in red.
+
+“You must eat your ice with this. The man does not give a spoon with
+his ices. You would have had to put out your tongue. It would have been
+pretty, but you are not accustomed to it.”
+
+She recognized the spoon, a jewel which she had remarked the day before
+in the showcase of an antiquarian.
+
+They were happy; they disseminated their joy, which was full and simple,
+in light words which had no sense. And they laughed when the Florentine
+repeated to them passages of the old Italian writers. She enjoyed the
+play of his face, which was antique in style and jovial in expression.
+But she did not always understand what he said. She asked Jacques:
+
+“What did he say?”
+
+“Do you really wish to know?”
+
+Yes, she wished to know.
+
+“Well, he said he should be happy if the fleas in his bed were shaped
+like you!”
+
+When she had eaten the ice, he asked her to return to San Michele.
+It was so near! They would cross the square and at once discover the
+masterpiece in stone. They went. They looked at the St. George and at
+the bronze St. Mark. Dechartre saw again on the wall the post-box, and
+he recalled with painful exactitude the little gloved hand that had
+dropped the letter. He thought it hideous, that copper mouth which had
+swallowed Therese’s secret. He could not turn his eyes away from it. All
+his gayety had fled. She admired the rude statue of the Evangelist.
+
+“It is true that he looks honest and frank, and it seems that, if he
+spoke, nothing but words of truth would come out of his mouth.”
+
+He replied bitterly:
+
+“It is not a woman’s mouth.”
+
+She understood his thought, and said, in her soft tone:
+
+“My friend, why do you say this to me? I am frank.”
+
+“What do you call frank? You know that a woman is obliged to lie.”
+
+She hesitated. Then she said:
+
+“A woman is frank when she does not lie uselessly.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXI. “I NEVER HAVE LOVED ANY ONE BUT YOU!”
+
+Therese was dressed in sombre gray. The bushes on the border of
+the terrace were covered with silver stars and on the hillsides the
+laurel-trees threw their odoriferous flame. The cup of Florence was in
+bloom.
+
+Vivian Bell walked, arrayed in white, in the fragrant garden.
+
+“You see, darling, Florence is truly the city of flowers, and it is not
+inappropriate that she should have a red lily for her emblem. It is a
+festival to-day, darling.”
+
+“A festival, to-day?”
+
+“Darling, do you not know this is the first day of May? You did not wake
+this morning in a charming fairy spectacle? Do you not celebrate the
+Festival of Flowers? Do you not feel joyful, you who love flowers? For
+you love them, my love, I know it: you are very good to them. You said
+to me that they feel joy and pain; that they suffer as we do.”
+
+“Ah! I said that they suffer as we do?”
+
+“Yes, you said it. It is their festival to-day. We must celebrate it
+with the rites consecrated by old painters.”
+
+Therese heard without understanding. She was crumpling under her glove
+a letter which she had just received, bearing the Italian postage-stamp,
+and containing only these two lines:
+
+“I am staying at the Great Britain Hotel, Lungarno Acciaoli. I shall
+expect you to-morrow morning. No. 18.”
+
+“Darling, do you not know it is the custom of Florence to celebrate
+spring on the first day of May every year? Then you did not understand
+the meaning of Botticelli’s picture consecrated to the Festival of
+Flowers. Formerly, darling, on the first day of May the entire city
+gave itself up to joy. Young girls, crowned with sweetbrier and other
+flowers, made a long cortege through the Corso, under arches, and sang
+choruses on the new grass. We shall do as they did. We shall dance in
+the garden.”
+
+“Ah, we shall dance in the garden?”
+
+“Yes, darling; and I will teach you Tuscan steps of the fifteenth
+century which have been found in a manuscript by Mr. Morrison, the
+oldest librarian in London. Come back soon, my love; we shall put on
+flower hats and dance.”
+
+“Yes, dear, we shall dance,” said Therese.
+
+And opening the gate, she ran through the little pathway that hid its
+stones under rose-bushes. She threw herself into the first carriage she
+found. The coachman wore forget-me-nots on his hat and on the handle of
+his whip:
+
+“Great Britain Hotel, Lungarno Acciaoli.”
+
+She knew where that was, Lungarno Acciaoli. She had gone there at
+sunset, and she had seen the rays of the sun on the agitated surface of
+the river. Then night had come, the murmur of the waters in the silence,
+the words and the looks that had troubled her, the first kiss of
+her lover, the beginning of incomparable love. Oh, yes, she recalled
+Lungarno Acciaoli and the river-side beyond the old bridge--Great
+Britain Hotel--she knew: a big stone facade on the quay. It was
+fortunate, since he would come, that he had gone there. He might as
+easily have gone to the Hotel de la Ville, where Dechartre was. It was
+fortunate they were not side by side in the same corridor. Lungarno
+Acciaoli! The dead body which they had seen pass was at peace somewhere
+in the little flowery cemetery.
+
+“Number 18.”
+
+It was a bare hotel room, with a stove in the Italian fashion, a set
+of brushes displayed on the table, and a time-table. Not a book, not
+a journal. He was there; she saw suffering on his bony face, a look of
+fever. This produced on her a sad impression. He waited a moment for
+a word, a gesture; but she dared do nothing. He offered a chair. She
+refused it and remained standing.
+
+“Therese, something has happened of which I do not know. Speak.”
+
+After a moment of silence, she replied, with painful slowness:
+
+“My friend, when I was in Paris, why did you go away from me?”
+
+By the sadness of her accent he believed, he wished to believe, in the
+expression of an affectionate reproach. His face colored. He replied,
+ardently:
+
+“Ah, if I could have foreseen! That hunting party--I cared little
+for it, as you may think! But you--your letter, that of the
+twenty-seventh”--he had a gift for dates--“has thrown me into a horrible
+anxiety. Something has happened. Tell me everything.”
+
+“My friend, I believed you had ceased to love me.”
+
+“But now that you know the contrary?”
+
+“Now--”
+
+She paused, her arms fell before her and her hands were joined.
+
+Then, with affected tranquillity, she continued:
+
+“Well, my friend, we took each other without knowing. One never knows.
+You are young; younger than I, since we are of the same age. You have,
+doubtless, projects for the future.”
+
+He looked at her proudly. She continued:
+
+“Your family, your mother, your aunts, your uncle the General, have
+projects for you. That is natural. I might have become an obstacle. It
+is better that I should disappear from your life. We shall keep a fond
+remembrance of each other.”
+
+She extended her gloved hand. He folded his arms:
+
+“Then, you do not want me? You have made me happy, as no other man ever
+was, and you think now to brush me aside? Truly, you seem to think you
+have finished with me. What have you come to say to me? That it was a
+liaison, which is easily broken? That people take each other, quit each
+other--well, no! You are not a person whom one can easily quit.”
+
+“Yes,” said Therese, “you had perhaps given me more of your heart than
+one does ordinarily in such 180 cases. I was more than an amusement for
+you. But, if I am not the woman you thought I was, if I have deceived
+you, if I am frivolous--you know people have said so--well, if I have
+not been to you what I should have been--”
+
+She hesitated, and continued in a brave tone, contrasting with what she
+said:
+
+“If, while I was yours, I have been led astray; if I have been curious;
+if I say to you that I was not made for serious sentiment--”
+
+He interrupted her:
+
+“You are not telling the truth.”
+
+“No, I am not telling the truth. And I do not know how to lie. I wished
+to spoil our past. I was wrong. It was--you know what it was. But--”
+
+“But?”
+
+“I have always told you I was not sure of myself. There are women, it
+is said, who are sure of themselves. I warned you that I was not like
+them.”
+
+He shook his head violently, like an irritated animal.
+
+“What do you mean? I do not understand. I understand nothing. Speak
+clearly. There is something between us. I do not know what. I demand to
+know what it is. What is it?”
+
+“There is the fact that I am not a woman sure of herself, and that you
+should not rely on me. No, you should not rely on me. I had promised
+nothing--and then, if I had promised, what are words?”
+
+“You do not love me. Oh, you love me no more! I can see it. But it is so
+much the worse for you! I love you. You should not have given yourself
+to me. Do not think that you can take yourself back. I love you and I
+shall keep you. So you thought you could get out of it very quietly?
+Listen a moment. You have done everything to make me love you, to attach
+me to you, to make it impossible for me to live without you.
+
+“Six weeks ago you asked for nothing better. You were everything for me,
+I was everything for you. And now you desire suddenly that I should
+know you no longer; that you should be to me a stranger, a lady whom one
+meets in society. Ah, you have a fine audacity! Have I dreamed? All the
+past is a dream? I invented it all? Oh, there can be no doubt of it. You
+loved me. I feel it still. Well, I have not changed. I am what I was;
+you have nothing to complain of. I have not betrayed you for other
+women. It isn’t credit that I claim. I could not have done it. When one
+has known you, one finds the prettiest women insipid. I never have had
+the idea of deceiving you. I have always acted well toward you. Why
+should you not love me? Answer! Speak! Say you love me still. Say it,
+since it is true. Come, Therese, you will feel at once that you love as
+you loved me formerly in the little nest where we were so happy. Come!”
+
+He approached her ardently. She, her eyes full of fright, pushed him
+away with a kind of horror.
+
+He understood, stopped, and said:
+
+“You have a lover.”
+
+She bent her head, then lifted it, grave and dumb.
+
+Then he made a gesture as if to strike her, and at once recoiled in
+shame. He lowered his eyes and was silent. His fingers to his lips, and
+biting his nails, he saw that his hand had been pricked by a pin on her
+waist, and bled. He threw himself in an armchair, drew his handkerchief
+to wipe off the blood, and remained indifferent and without thought.
+
+She, with her back to the door, her face calm and pale, her look
+vague, arranged her hat with instinctive care. At the noise, formerly
+delicious, that the rustle of her skirts made, he started, looked at
+her, and asked furiously:
+
+“Who is he? I will know.”
+
+She did not move. She replied with soft firmness:
+
+“I have told you all I can. Do not ask more; it would be useless.”
+
+He looked at her with a cruel expression which she had never seen
+before.
+
+“Oh, do not tell me his name. It will not be difficult for me to find
+it.”
+
+She said not a word, saddened for him, anxious for another, full of
+anguish and fear, and yet without regret, without bitterness, because
+her real soul was elsewhere.
+
+He had a vague sensation of what passed in her mind. In his anger to
+see her so sweet and so serene, to find her beautiful, and beautiful for
+another, he felt a desire to kill her, and he shouted at her:
+
+“Go!”
+
+Then, weakened by this effort of hatred, which was not natural to him,
+he buried his head in his hands and sobbed.
+
+His pain touched her, gave her the hope of quieting him. She thought
+she might perhaps console him for her loss. Amicably and comfortably she
+seated herself beside him.
+
+“My friend, blame me. I am to blame, but more to be pitied. Disdain
+me, if you wish, if one can disdain an unfortunate creature who is the
+plaything of life. In fine, judge me as you wish. But keep for me a
+little friendship in your anger, a little bitter-sweet reminiscence,
+something like those days of autumn when there is sunlight and strong
+wind. That is what I deserve. Do not be harsh to the agreeable but
+frivolous visitor who passed through your life. Bid good-by to me as to
+a traveller who goes one knows not where, and who is sad. There is so
+much sadness in separation! You were irritated against me a moment ago.
+Oh, I do not reproach you for it. I only suffer for it. Reserve a little
+sympathy for me. Who knows? The future is always unknown. It is very
+gray and obscure before me. Let me say to myself that I have been kind,
+simple, frank with you, and that you have not forgotten it. In time you
+will understand, you will forgive; to-day have a little pity.”
+
+He was not listening to her words. He was appeased simply by the caress
+of her voice, of which the tone was limpid and clear. He exclaimed:
+
+“You do not love him. I am the one whom you love. Then--”
+
+She hesitated:
+
+“Ah, to say whom one loves or loves not is not an easy thing for a
+woman, or at least for me. I do not know how other women do. But life is
+not good to me. I am tossed to and fro by force of circumstances.”
+
+He looked at her calmly. An idea came to him. He had taken a resolution;
+he forgave, he forgot, provided she returned to him at once.
+
+“Therese, you do not love him. It was an error, a moment of
+forgetfulness, a horrible and stupid thing that you did through
+weakness, through surprise, perhaps in spite. Swear to me that you never
+will see him again.”
+
+He took her arm:
+
+“Swear to me!”
+
+She said not a word, her teeth were set, her face was sombre. He
+wrenched her wrist. She exclaimed:
+
+“You hurt me!”
+
+However, he followed his idea; he led her to the table, on which, near
+the brushes, were an ink-stand, and several leaves of letter-paper
+ornamented with a large blue vignette, representing the facade of the
+hotel, with innumerable windows.
+
+“Write what I am about to dictate to you. I will call somebody to take
+the letter.”
+
+And as she resisted, he made her fall on her knees. Proud and
+determined, she said:
+
+“I can not, I will not.”
+
+“Why?”
+
+“Because--do you wish to know?--because I love him.”
+
+Brusquely he released her. If he had had his revolver at hand, perhaps
+he would have killed her. But almost at once his anger was dampened by
+sadness; and now, desperate, he was the one who wished to die.
+
+“Is what you say true? Is it possible?”
+
+“How do I know? Can I say? Do I understand? Have I an idea, a sentiment,
+about anything?”
+
+With an effort she added:
+
+“Am I at this moment aware of anything except my sadness and your
+despair?”
+
+“You love him, you love him! What is he, who is he, that you should love
+him?”
+
+His surprise made him stupid; he was in an abyss of astonishment.
+But what she had said separated them. He dared not complain. He only
+repeated:
+
+“You love him, you love him! But what has he done to you, what has he
+said, to make you love him? I know you. I have not told you every time
+your ideas shocked me. I would wager he is not even a man in society.
+And you believe he loves you? You believe it? Well, you are deceiving
+yourself. He does not love you. You flatter him, simply. He will quit
+you at the first opportunity. When he shall have compromised you, he
+will abandon you. Next year people will say of you: ‘She is not at all
+exclusive.’ I am sorry for your father; he is one of my friends, and
+will know of your behavior. You can not expect to deceive him.”
+
+She listened, humiliated but consoled, thinking how she would have
+suffered had she found him generous.
+
+In his simplicity he sincerely disdained her. This disdain relieved him.
+
+“How did the thing happen? You can tell me.”
+
+She shrugged her shoulders with so much pity that he dared not continue.
+He became contemptuous again.
+
+“Do you imagine that I shall aid you in saving appearances, that I shall
+return to your house, that I shall continue to call on your husband?”
+
+“I think you will continue to do what a gentleman should. I ask nothing
+of you. I should have liked to preserve of you the reminiscence of an
+excellent friend. I thought you might be indulgent and kind to, me, but
+it is not possible. I see that lovers never separate kindly. Later, you
+will judge me better. Farewell!”
+
+He looked at her. Now his face expressed more pain than anger. She never
+had seen his eyes so dry and so black. It seemed as if he had grown old
+in an hour.
+
+“I prefer to tell you in advance. It will be impossible for me to see
+you again. You are not a woman whom one may meet after one has been
+loved by her. You are not like others. You have a poison of your own,
+which you have given to me, and which I feel in me, in my veins. Why
+have I known you?”
+
+She looked at him kindly.
+
+“Farewell! Say to yourself that I am not worthy of being regretted so
+much.”
+
+Then, when he saw that she placed her hand on the latch of the door,
+when he felt at that gesture that he was to lose her, that he should
+never have her again, he shouted. He forgot everything. There remained
+in him only the dazed feeling of a great misfortune accomplished, of
+an irreparable calamity. And from the depth of his stupor a desire
+ascended. He desired to possess again the woman who was leaving him and
+who would never return. He drew her to him. He desired her, with all the
+strength of his animal nature. She resisted with all the force of her
+will, which was free and on the alert. She disengaged herself, crumpled,
+torn, without even having been afraid.
+
+He understood that everything was useless; he realized she was no longer
+for him, because she belonged to another. As his suffering returned, he
+pushed her out of the door.
+
+She remained a moment in the corridor, proudly waiting for a word.
+
+But he shouted again, “Go!” and shut the door violently.
+
+On the Via Alfieri, she saw again the pavilion in the rear of the
+courtyard where pale grasses grew. She found it silent and tranquil,
+faithful, with its goats and nymphs, to the lovers of the time of the
+Grand Duchess Eliza. She felt at once freed from the painful, brutal
+world, and transported to ages wherein she had not known the sadness of
+life. At the foot of the stairs, the steps of which were covered with
+roses, Dechartre was waiting. She threw herself in his arms. He carried
+her inert, like a precious trophy before which he had become pallid and
+trembling. She enjoyed, her eyelids half closed, the superb humiliation
+of being a beautiful prey. Her fatigue, her sadness, her disgust with
+the day, the reminiscence of violence, her regained liberty, the need
+of forgetting, remains of fright, everything vivified, awakened her
+tenderness. She threw her arms around the neck of her lover.
+
+They were as gay as children. They laughed, said tender nothings,
+played, ate lemons, oranges, and other fruits piled up near-them on
+painted plates. Her lips, half-open, showed her brilliant teeth. She
+asked, with coquettish anxiety, if he were not disillusioned after the
+beautiful dream he had made of her.
+
+In the caressing light of the day, for the enjoyment of which he had
+arranged, he contemplated her with youthful joy. He lavished praise
+and kisses upon her. They forgot themselves in caresses, in friendly
+quarrels, in happy glances.
+
+He asked her how a little red mark on her temple had come there. She
+replied that she had forgotten; that it was nothing. She hardly lied;
+she had really forgotten.
+
+They recalled to each other their short but beautiful history, all their
+life, which began upon the day when they had met.
+
+“You know, on the terrace, the day after your arrival, you said vague
+things to me. I guessed that you loved me.”
+
+“I was afraid to seem stupid to you.”
+
+“You were, a little. It was my triumph. It made me impatient to see you
+so little troubled near me. I loved you before you loved me. Oh, I do
+not blush for it!”
+
+He gave her a glass of Asti. But there was a bottle of Trasimene. She
+wished to taste it, in memory of the lake which she had seen silent and
+beautiful at night in its opal cup. That was when she had first visited
+Italy, six years before.
+
+He chided her for having discovered the beauty of things without his
+aid.
+
+She said:
+
+“Without you, I did not know how to see anything. Why did you not come
+to me before?”
+
+He closed her lips with a kiss. Then she said:
+
+“Yes, I love you! Yes, I never have loved any one but you!”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXII. A MEETING AT THE STATION
+
+Le Menil had written: “I leave tomorrow evening at seven o’clock. Meet
+me at the station.”
+
+She had gone to meet him. She saw him in long coat and cape, precise and
+calm, in front of the hotel stages. He said only:
+
+“Ah, you have come.”
+
+“But, my friend, you called me.”
+
+He did not confess that he had written in the absurd hope that she would
+love him again and that the rest would be forgotten, or that she would
+say to him: “It was only a trial of your love.”
+
+If she had said so he would have believed her, however.
+
+Astonished because she did not speak, he said, dryly:
+
+“What have you to say to me? It is not for me to speak, but for you. I
+have no explanations to give you. I have not to justify a betrayal.”
+
+“My friend, do not be cruel, do not be ungrateful. This is what I had
+to say to you. And I must repeat that I leave you with the sadness of a
+real friend.”
+
+“Is that all? Go and say this to the other man. It will interest him
+more than it interests me.”
+
+“You called me, and I came; do not make me regret it.”
+
+“I am sorry to have disturbed you. You could doubtless find a better
+employment for your time. I will not detain you. Rejoin him, since you
+are longing to do so.”
+
+At the thought that his unhappy words expressed a moment of eternal
+human pain, and that tragedy had illustrated many similar griefs, she
+felt all the sadness and irony of the situation, which a curl of her
+lips betrayed. He thought she was laughing.
+
+“Do not laugh; listen to me. The other day, at the hotel, I wanted to
+kill you. I came so near doing it that now I know what I escaped. I will
+not do it. You may rest secure. What would be the use? As I wish to keep
+up appearances, I shall call on you in Paris. It will grieve me to learn
+that you can not receive me. I shall see your husband, I shall see your
+father also. It will be to say good-by to them, as I intend to go on a
+long voyage. Farewell, Madame!”
+
+At the moment when he turned his back to her, Therese saw Miss Bell and
+Prince Albertinelli coming out of the freight-station toward her.
+The Prince was very handsome. Vivian was walking by his side with the
+lightness of chaste joy.
+
+“Oh, darling, what a pleasant surprise to find you here! The Prince, and
+I have seen, at the customhouse, the new bell, which has just come.”
+
+“Ah, the bell has come?”
+
+“It is here, darling, the Ghiberti bell. I saw it in its wooden cage. It
+did not ring, because it was a prisoner. But it will have a campanile in
+my Fiesole house.
+
+“When it feels the air of Florence, it will be happy to let its silvery
+voice be heard. Visited by the doves, it will ring for all our joys and
+all our sufferings. It will ring for you, for me, for the Prince, for
+good Madame Marmet, for Monsieur Choulette, for all our friends.”
+
+“Dear, bells never ring for real joys and for real sufferings. Bells are
+honest functionaries, who know only official sentiments.”
+
+“Oh, darling, you are much mistaken. Bells know the secrets of souls;
+they know everything. But I am very glad to find you here. I know, my
+love, why you came to the station. Your maid betrayed you. She told me
+you were waiting for a pink gown which was delayed in coming and that
+you were very impatient. But do not let that trouble you. You are always
+beautiful, my love.”
+
+She made Madame Martin enter her wagon.
+
+“Come, quick, darling; Monsieur Jacques Dechartre dines at the house
+to-night, and I should not like to make him wait.”
+
+And while they were driving through the silence of the night, through
+the pathways full of the fresh perfume of wildflowers, she said:
+
+“Do you see over there, darling, the black distaffs of the Fates, the
+cypresses of the cemetery? It is there I wish to sleep.”
+
+But Therese thought anxiously: “They saw him. Did they recognize him? I
+think not. The place was dark, and had only little blinding lights.
+Did she know him? I do not recall whether she saw him at my house last
+year.”
+
+What made her anxious was a sly smile on the Prince’s face.
+
+“Darling, do you wish a place near me in that rustic cemetery? Shall we
+rest side by side under a little earth and a great deal of sky? But I do
+wrong to extend to you an invitation which you can not accept. It will
+not be permitted to you to sleep your eternal sleep at the foot of the
+hill of Fiesole, my love. You must rest in Paris, in a handsome tomb, by
+the side of Count Martin-Belleme.”
+
+“Why? Do you think, dear, that the wife must be united to her husband
+even after death?”
+
+“Certainly she must, darling. Marriage is for time and for eternity.
+Do you not know the history of a young pair who loved each other in the
+province of Auvergne? They died almost at the same time, and were placed
+in two tombs separated by a road. But every night a sweetbrier bush
+threw from one tomb to the other its flowery branches. The two coffins
+had to be buried together.”
+
+When they had passed the Badia, they saw a procession coming up the
+side of the hill. The wind blew on the candles borne in gilded wooden
+candlesticks. The girls of the societies, dressed in white and
+blue, carried painted banners. Then came a little St. John, blond,
+curly-haired, nude, under a lamb’s fleece which showed his arms and
+shoulders; and a St. Mary Magdalene, seven years old, crowned only with
+her waving golden hair. The people of Fiesole followed. Countess Martin
+recognized Choulette among them. With a candle in one hand, a book in
+the other, and blue spectacles on the end of his nose, he was singing.
+His unkempt beard moved up and down with the rhythm of the song. In the
+harshness of light and shade that worked in his face, he had an air that
+suggested a solitary monk capable of accomplishing a century of penance.
+
+“How amusing he is!” said Therese. “He is making a spectacle of himself
+for himself. He is a great artist.”
+
+“Darling, why will you insist that Monsieur Choulette is not a pious
+man? Why? There is much joy and much beauty in faith. Poets know this.
+If Monsieur Choulette had not faith, he could not write the admirable
+verses that he does.”
+
+“And you, dear, have you faith?”
+
+“Oh, yes; I believe in God and in the word of Christ.”
+
+Now the banners and the white veils had disappeared down the road. But
+one could see on the bald cranium of Choulette the flame of the candle
+reflected in rays of gold.
+
+Dechartre, however, was waiting alone in the garden. Therese found
+him resting on the balcony of the terrace where he had felt the first
+sufferings of love. While Miss Bell and the Prince were trying to fix
+upon a suitable place for the campanile, Dechartre led his beloved under
+the trees.
+
+“You promised me that you would be in the garden when I came. I have
+been waiting for you an hour, which seemed eternal. You were not to go
+out. Your absence has surprised and grieved me.”
+
+She replied vaguely that she had been compelled to go to the station,
+and that Miss Bell had brought her back in the wagon.
+
+He begged her pardon for his anxiety, but everything alarmed him. His
+happiness made him afraid.
+
+They were already at table when Choulette appeared, with the face of an
+antique satyr. A terrible joy shone in his phosphorous eyes. Since his
+return from Assisi, he lived only among paupers, drank chianti all
+day with girls and artisans to whom he taught the beauty of joy and
+innocence, the advent of Jesus Christ, and the imminent abolition of
+taxes and military service. At the beginning of the procession he had
+gathered vagabonds in the ruins of the Roman theatre, and had delivered
+to them in a macaronic language, half French and half Tuscan, a sermon,
+which he took pleasure in repeating:
+
+“Kings, senators, and judges have said: ‘The life of nations is in us.’
+Well, they lie; and they are the coffin saying: ‘I am the cradle.’
+
+“The life of nations is in the crops of the fields yellowing under the
+eye of the Lord. It is in the vines, and in the smiles and tears with
+which the sky bathes the fruits on the trees.
+
+“The life of nations is not in the laws, which were made by the rich and
+powerful for the preservation of riches and power.
+
+“The chiefs of kingdoms and of republics have said in their books
+that the right of peoples is the right of war, and they have glorified
+violence. And they render honors unto conquerors, and they raise in the
+public squares statues to the victorious man and horse. But one has not
+the right to kill; that is the reason why the just man will not draw
+from the urn a number that will send him to the war. The right is not to
+pamper the folly and crimes of a prince raised over a kingdom or over a
+republic; and that is the reason why the just man will not pay taxes and
+will not give money to the publicans. He will enjoy in peace the fruit
+of his work, and he will make bread with the wheat that he has sown, and
+he will eat the fruits of the trees that he has cut.”
+
+“Ah, Monsieur Choulette,” said Prince Albertinelli, gravely, “you are
+right to take interest in the state of our unfortunate fields, which
+taxes exhaust. What fruit can be drawn from a soil taxed to thirty-three
+per cent. of its net income? The master and the servants are the prey of
+the publicans.”
+
+Dechartre and Madame Martin were struck by the unexpected sincerity of
+his accent.
+
+He added:
+
+“I like the King. I am sure of my loyalty, but the misfortunes of the
+peasants move me.”
+
+The truth was, he pursued with obstinacy a single aim: to reestablish
+the domain of Casentino that his father, Prince Carlo, an officer of
+Victor Emmanuel, had left devoured by usurers. His affected gentleness
+concealed his stubbornness. He had only useful vices. It was to become
+a great Tuscan landowner that he had dealt in pictures, sold the famous
+ceilings of his palace, made love to rich old women, and, finally,
+sought the hand of Miss Bell, whom he knew to be skilful at earning
+money and practised in the art of housekeeping. He really liked
+peasants. The ardent praises of Choulette, which he understood vaguely,
+awakened this affection in him. He forgot himself enough to express his
+mind:
+
+“In a country where master and servants form one family, the fate of the
+one depends on that of the others. Taxes despoil us. How good are our
+farmers! They are the best men in the world to till the soil.”
+
+Madame Martin confessed that she should not have believed it. The
+country of Lombardy alone seemed to her to be well cultivated. Tuscany
+appeared a beautiful, wild orchard.
+
+The Prince replied, smilingly, that perhaps she would not speak in that
+way if she had done him the honor of visiting his farms of Casentino,
+although these had suffered from long and ruinous lawsuits. She would
+have seen there what an Italian landscape really is.
+
+“I take a great deal of care of my domain. I was coming from it to-night
+when I had the double pleasure of finding at the station Miss Bell,
+who had gone there to find her Ghiberti bell, and you, Madame, who were
+talking with a friend from Paris.”
+
+He had the idea that it would be disagreeable to her to hear him speak
+of that meeting. He looked around the table, and saw the expression of
+anxious surprise which Dechartre could not restrain. He insisted:
+
+“Forgive, Madame, in a rustic, a certain pretension to knowing something
+about the world. In the man who was talking to you I recognized
+a Parisian, because he had an English air; and while he affected
+stiffness, he showed perfect ease and particular vivacity.”
+
+“Oh,” said Therese, negligently, “I have not seen him for a long time.
+I was much surprised to meet him at Florence at the moment of his
+departure.”
+
+She looked at Dechartre, who affected not to listen.
+
+“I know that gentleman,” said Miss Bell. “It is Monsieur Le Menil. I
+dined with him twice at Madame Martin’s, and he talked to me very well.
+He said he liked football; that he introduced the game in France,
+and that now football is quite the fashion. He also related to me his
+hunting adventures. He likes animals. I have observed that hunters like
+animals. I assure you, darling, that Monsieur Le Menil talks admirably
+about hares. He knows their habits. He said to me it was a pleasure to
+look at them dancing in the moonlight on the plains. He assured me that
+they were very intelligent, and that he had seen an old hare, pursued
+by dogs, force another hare to get out of the trail so as to deceive the
+hunters. Darling, did Monsieur Le Menil ever talk to you about hares?”
+
+Therese replied she did not know, and that she thought hunters were
+tiresome.
+
+Miss Bell exclaimed. She did not think M. Le Menil was ever tiresome
+when talking of the hares that danced in the moonlight on the plains and
+among the vines. She would like to raise a hare, like Phanion.
+
+“Darling, you do not know Phanion. Oh, I am sure that Monsieur Dechartre
+knows her. She was beautiful, and dear to poets. She lived in the Island
+of Cos, beside a dell which, covered with lemon-trees, descended to
+the blue sea. And they say that she looked at the blue waves. I related
+Phanion’s history to Monsieur Le Menil, and he was very glad to hear it.
+She had received from some hunter a little hare with long ears. She
+held it on her knees and fed it on spring flowers. It loved Phanion and
+forgot its mother. It died before having eaten too many flowers. Phanion
+lamented over its loss. She buried it in the lemon-grove, in a grave
+which she could see from her bed. And the shade of the little hare was
+consoled by the songs of the poets.”
+
+The good Madame Marmet said that M. Le Menil pleased by his elegant and
+discreet manners, which young men no longer practise. She would have
+liked to see him. She wanted him to do something for her.
+
+“Or, rather, for my nephew,” she said. “He is a captain in the
+artillery, and his chiefs like him. His colonel was for a long time
+under orders of Monsieur Le Menil’s uncle, General La Briche. If
+Monsieur Le Menil would ask his uncle to write to Colonel Faure in favor
+of my nephew I should be grateful to him. My nephew is not a stranger to
+Monsieur Le Menil. They met last year at the masked ball which Captain
+de Lassay gave at the hotel at Caen.”
+
+Madame Marmet cast down her eyes and added:
+
+“The invited guests, naturally, were not society women. But it is said
+some of them were very pretty. They came from Paris. My nephew, who gave
+these details to me, was dressed as a coachman. Monsieur Le Menil was
+dressed as a Hussar of Death, and he had much success.”
+
+Miss Bell said that she was sorry not to have known that M. Le Menil was
+in Florence. Certainly, she should have invited him to come to Fiesole.
+
+Dechartre remained sombre and distant during the rest of the dinner: and
+when, at the moment of leaving, Therese extended her hand to him, she
+felt that he avoided pressing it in his.
+
+
+
+
+BOOK 3.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIII. “ONE IS NEVER KIND WHEN ONE IS IN LOVE”
+
+The next day, in the hidden pavilion of the Via Alfieri, she found him
+preoccupied. She tried to distract him with ardent gayety, with the
+sweetness of pressing intimacy, with superb humility. But he remained
+sombre. He had all night meditated, labored over, and recognized his
+sadness. He had found reasons for suffering. His thought had brought
+together the hand that dropped a letter in the post-box before the
+bronze San Marco and the dreadful unknown who had been seen at the
+station. Now Jacques Dechartre gave a face and a name to the cause of
+his suffering. In the grandmother’s armchair where Therese had been
+seated on the day of her welcome, and which she had this time offered to
+him, he was assailed by painful images; while she, bent over one of
+his arms, enveloped him with her warm embrace and her loving heart. She
+divined too well what he was suffering to ask it of him simply.
+
+In order to bring him back to pleasanter ideas, she recalled the secrets
+of the room where they were and reminiscences of their walks through the
+city. She was gracefully familiar.
+
+“The little spoon you gave me, the little red lily spoon, I use for my
+tea in the morning. And I know by the pleasure I feel at seeing it when
+I wake how much I love you.”
+
+Then, as he replied only in sentences sad and evasive, she said:
+
+“I am near you, but you do not care for me. You are preoccupied by some
+idea that I do not fathom. Yet I am alive, and an idea is nothing.”
+
+“An idea is nothing? Do you think so? One may be wretched or happy for
+an idea; one may live and one may die for an idea. Well, I am thinking.”
+
+“Of what are you thinking?”
+
+“Why do you ask? You know very well I am thinking of what I heard last
+night, which you had concealed from me. I am thinking of your meeting at
+the station, which was not due to chance, but which a letter had caused,
+a letter dropped--remember!--in the postbox of San Michele. Oh, I do not
+reproach you for it. I have not the right. But why did you give yourself
+to me if you were not free?”
+
+She thought she must tell an untruth.
+
+“You mean some one whom I met at the station yesterday? I assure you it
+was the most ordinary meeting in the world.”
+
+He was painfully impressed with the fact that she did not dare to name
+the one she spoke of. He, too, avoided pronouncing that name.
+
+“Therese, he had not come for you? You did not know he was in Florence?
+He is nothing more to you than a man whom you meet socially? He is not
+the one who, when absent, made you say to me, ‘I can not?’ He is nothing
+to you?”
+
+She replied resolutely:
+
+“He comes to my house at times. He was introduced to me by General
+Lariviere. I have nothing more to say to you about him. I assure you he
+is of no interest to me, and I can not conceive what may be in your mind
+about him.”
+
+She felt a sort of satisfaction at repudiating the man who had insisted
+against her; with so much harshness and violence, upon his rights of
+ownership. But she was in haste to get out of her tortuous path. She
+rose and looked at her lover, with beautiful, tender, and grave eyes.
+
+“Listen to me: the day when I gave my heart to you, my life was yours
+wholly. If a doubt or a suspicion comes to you, question me. The present
+is yours, and you know well there is only you, you alone, in it. As for
+my past, if you knew what nothingness it was you would be glad. I do not
+think another woman made as I was, to love, would have brought to you
+a mind newer to love than is mine. That I swear to you. The years that
+were spent without you--I did not live! Let us not talk of them. There
+is nothing in them of which I should be ashamed. To regret them is
+another thing. I regret to have known you so late. Why did you not come
+sooner? You could have known me five years ago as easily as to-day. But,
+believe me, we should not tire ourselves with speaking of time that has
+gone. Remember Lohengrin. If you love me, I am for you like the swan’s
+knight. I have asked nothing of you. I have wanted to know nothing. I
+have not chided you about Mademoiselle Jeanne Tancrede. I saw you loved
+me, that you were suffering, and it was enough--because I loved you.”
+
+“A woman can not be jealous in the same manner as a man, nor feel what
+makes us suffer.”
+
+“I do not know that. Why can not she?”
+
+“Why? Because there is not in the blood, in the flesh of a woman that
+absurd and generous fury for ownership, that primitive instinct of which
+man has made a right. Man is the god who wants his mate to himself.
+Since time immemorial woman is accustomed to sharing men’s love. It is
+the past, the obscure past, that determines our passions. We are already
+so old when we are born! Jealousy, for a woman, is only a wound to her
+own self-love. For a man it is a torture as profound as moral suffering,
+as continuous as physical suffering. You ask the reason why? Because,
+in spite of my submission and of my respect, in spite of the alarm you
+cause me, you are matter and I am the idea; you are the thing and I
+am the mind; you are the clay and I am the artisan. Do not complain of
+this. Near the perfect amphora, surrounded with garlands, what is the
+rude and humble potter? The amphora is tranquil and beautiful; he is
+wretched; he is tormented; he wills; he suffers; for to will is to
+suffer. Yes, I am jealous. I know what there is in my jealousy. When I
+examine it, I find in it hereditary prejudices, savage conceit, sickly
+susceptibility, a mingling of rudest violence and cruel feebleness,
+imbecile and wicked revolt against the laws of life and of society.
+But it does not matter that I know it for what it is: it exists and it
+torments me. I am the chemist who, studying the properties of an acid
+which he has drunk, knows how it was combined and what salts form it.
+Nevertheless the acid burns him, and will burn him to the bone.”
+
+“My love, you are absurd.”
+
+“Yes, I am absurd. I feel it better than you feel it yourself. To desire
+a woman in all the brilliancy of her beauty and her wit, mistress
+of herself, who knows and who dares; more beautiful in that and more
+desirable, and whose choice is free, voluntary, deliberate; to desire
+her, to love her for what she is, and to suffer because she is not
+puerile candor nor pale innocence, which would be shocking in her if it
+were possible to find them there; to ask her at the same time that she
+be herself and not be herself; to adore her as life has made her, and
+regret bitterly that life, which has made her so beautiful, has touched
+her--Oh, this is absurd! I love you! I love you with all that you bring
+to me of sensations, of habits, with all that comes of your experiences,
+with all that comes from him-perhaps, from them-how do I know? These
+things are my delight and they are my torture. There must be a profound
+sense in the public idiocy which says that love like ours is guilty.
+Joy is guilty when it is immense. That is the reason why I suffer, my
+beloved.”
+
+She knelt before him, took his hands, and drew him to her.
+
+“I do not wish you to suffer; I will not have it. It would be folly. I
+love you, and never have loved any one but you. You may believe me; I do
+not lie.”
+
+He kissed her forehead.
+
+“If you deceived me, my dear, I should not reproach you for that; on
+the contrary, I should be grateful to you. Nothing is so legitimate, so
+human, as to deceive pain. What would become of us if women had not for
+us the pity of untruth? Lie, my beloved, lie for the sake of charity.
+Give me the dream that colors black sorrow. Lie; have no scruples. You
+will only add another illusion to the illusion of love and beauty.”
+
+He sighed:
+
+“Oh, common-sense, common wisdom!”
+
+She asked him what he meant, and what common wisdom was. He said it was
+a sensible proverb, but brutal, which it was better not to repeat.
+
+“Repeat it all the same.”
+
+“You wish me to say it to you: ‘Kissed lips do not lose their
+freshness.’”
+
+And he added:
+
+“It is true that love preserves beauty, and that the beauty of women is
+fed on caresses as bees are fed on flowers.”
+
+She placed on his lips a pledge in a kiss.
+
+“I swear to you I never loved any one but you. Oh, no, it is not
+caresses that have preserved the few charms which I am happy to have in
+order to offer them to you. I love you! I love you!”
+
+But he still remembered the letter dropped in the post-box, and the
+unknown person met at the station.
+
+“If you loved me truly, you would love only me.”
+
+She rose, indignant:
+
+“Then you believe I love another? What you are saying is monstrous. Is
+that what you think of me? And you say you love me! I pity you, because
+you are insane.”
+
+“True, I am insane.”
+
+She, kneeling, with the supple palms of her hands enveloped his temples
+and his cheeks. He said again that he was mad to be anxious about a
+chance and commonplace meeting. She forced him to believe her, or,
+rather, to forget. He no longer saw or knew anything. His vanished
+bitterness and anger left him nothing but the harsh desire to forget
+everything, to make her forget everything.
+
+She asked him why he was sad.
+
+“You were happy a moment ago. Why are you not happy now?”
+
+And as he shook his head and said nothing:
+
+“Speak! I like your complaints better than your silence.”
+
+Then he said:
+
+“You wish to know? Do not be angry. I suffer now more than ever, because
+I know now what you are capable of giving.”
+
+She withdrew brusquely from his arms and, with eyes full of pain and
+reproach, said:
+
+“You can believe that I ever was to another what I am to you! You
+wound me in my most susceptible sentiment, in my love for you. I do not
+forgive you for this. I love you! I never have loved any one except you.
+I never have suffered except through you. Be content. You do me a great
+deal of harm. How can you be so unkind?”
+
+“Therese, one is never kind when one is in love.”
+
+She remained for a long time immovable and dreamy. Her face flushed, and
+a tear rose to her eyes.
+
+“Therese, you are weeping!”
+
+“Forgive me, my heart, it is the first time that I have loved and that I
+have been really loved. I am afraid.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIV. CHOULETTE’S AMBITION
+
+While the rolling of arriving boxes filled the Bell villa; while
+Pauline, loaded with parcels, lightly came down the steps; while good
+Madame Marmet, with tranquil vigilance, supervised everything; and
+while Miss Bell finished dressing in her room, Therese, dressed in gray,
+resting on the terrace, looked once again at the Flower City.
+
+She had decided to return home. Her husband recalled her in every one
+of his letters. If, as he asked her to do, she returned to Paris in the
+first days of May, they might give two or three dinners, followed by
+receptions. His political group was supported by public opinion. The
+tide was pushing him along, and Garain thought the Countess Martin’s
+drawing-room might exercise an excellent influence on the future of
+the country. These reasons moved her not; but she felt a desire to be
+agreeable to her husband. She had received the day before a letter from
+her father, Monsieur Montessuy, who, without sharing the political
+views of his son-in-law and without giving any advice to his daughter,
+insinuated that society was beginning to gossip of the Countess Martin’s
+mysterious sojourn at Florence among poets and artists. The Bell villa
+took, from a distance, an air of sentimental fantasy. She felt herself
+that she was too closely observed at Resole. Madame Marmet annoyed her.
+Prince Albertinelli disquieted her. The meetings in the pavilion of the
+Via Alfieri had become difficult and dangerous. Professor Arrighi, whom
+the Prince often met, had seen her one night as she was walking through
+the deserted streets leaning on Dechartre. Professor Arrighi, author
+of a treatise on agriculture, was the most amiable of wise men. He had
+turned his beautiful, heroic face, and said, only the next day, to the
+young woman “Formerly, I could discern from a long distance the coming
+of a beautiful woman. Now that I have gone beyond the age to be viewed
+favorably by women, heaven has pity on me. Heaven prevents my seeing
+them. My eyes are very bad. The most charming face I can no longer
+recognize.” She had understood, and heeded the warning. She wished now
+to conceal her joy in the vastness of Paris.
+
+Vivian, to whom she had announced her departure, had asked her to remain
+a few days longer. But Therese suspected that her friend was still
+shocked by the advice she had received one night in the lemon-decorated
+room; that, at least, she did not enjoy herself entirely in the
+familiarity of a confidante who disapproved of her choice, and whom the
+Prince had represented to her as a coquette, and perhaps worse. The date
+of her departure had been fixed for May 5th.
+
+The day shone brilliant, pure, and charming on the Arno valley. Therese,
+dreamy, saw from the terrace the immense morning rose placed in the
+blue cup of Florence. She leaned forward to discover, at the foot of
+the flowery hills, the imperceptible point where she had known infinite
+joys. There the cemetery garden made a small, sombre spot near which
+she divined the Via Alfieri. She saw herself again in the room wherein,
+doubtless, she never would enter again. The hours there passed had for
+her the sadness of a dream. She felt her eyes becoming veiled, her knees
+weaken, and her soul shudder. It seemed to her that life was no longer
+in her, and that she had left it in that corner where she saw the black
+pines raise their immovable summits. She reproached herself for feeling
+anxiety without reason, when, on the contrary, she should be reassured
+and joyful. She knew she would meet Jacques Dechartre in Paris. They
+would have liked to arrive there at the same time, or, rather, to go
+there together. They had thought it indispensable that he should remain
+three or four days longer in Florence, but their meeting would not be
+retarded beyond that. They had appointed a rendezvous, and she rejoiced
+in the thought of it. She wore her love mingled with her being and
+running in her blood. Still, a part of herself remained in the pavilion
+decorated with goats and nymphs a part of herself which never would
+return to her. In the full ardor of life, she was dying for things
+infinitely delicate and precious. She recalled that Dechartre had said
+to her: “Love likes charms. I gathered from the terrace the leaves of a
+tree that you had admired.” Why had she not thought of taking a stone of
+the pavilion wherein she had forgotten the world?
+
+A shout from Pauline drew her from her thoughts. Choulette, jumping from
+a bush, had suddenly kissed the maid, who was carrying overcoats and
+bags into the carriage. Now he was running through the alleys, joyful,
+his ears standing out like horns. He bowed to the Countess Martin.
+
+“I have, then, to say farewell to you, Madame.”
+
+He intended to remain in Italy. A lady was calling him, he said: it was
+Rome. He wanted to see the cardinals. One of them, whom people praised
+as an old man full of sense, would perhaps share the ideas of the
+socialist and revolutionary church. Choulette had his aim: to plant on
+the ruins of an unjust and cruel civilization the Cross of Calvary, not
+dead and bare, but vivid, and with its flowery arms embracing the world.
+He was founding with that design an order and a newspaper. Madame Martin
+knew the order. The newspaper was to be sold for one cent, and to be
+written in rhythmic phrases. It was a newspaper to be sung. Verse,
+simple, violent, or joyful, was the only language that suited the
+people. Prose pleased only people whose intelligence was very subtle. He
+had seen anarchists in the taverns of the Rue Saint Jacques. They spent
+their evenings reciting and listening to romances.
+
+And he added:
+
+“A newspaper which shall be at the same time a song-book will touch the
+soul of the people. People say I have genius. I do not know whether they
+are right. But it must be admitted that I have a practical mind.”
+
+Miss Bell came down the steps, putting on her gloves:
+
+“Oh, darling, the city and the mountains and the sky wish you to lament
+your departure. They make themselves beautiful to-day in order to make
+you regret quitting them and desire to see them again.”
+
+But Choulette, whom the dryness of the Tuscan climate tired, regretted
+green Umbria and its humid sky. He recalled Assisi. He said:
+
+“There are woods and rocks, a fair sky and white clouds. I have walked
+there in the footsteps of good Saint Francis, and I transcribed his
+canticle to the sun in old French rhymes, simple and poor.”
+
+Madame Martin said she would like to hear it. Miss Bell was already
+listening, and her face wore the fervent expression of an angel
+sculptured by Mino.
+
+Choulette told them it was a rustic and artless work. The verses were
+not trying to be beautiful. They were simple, although uneven, for the
+sake of lightness. Then, in a slow and monotonous voice, he recited the
+canticle.
+
+“Oh, Monsieur Choulette,” said Miss Bell, “this canticle goes up to
+heaven, like the hermit in the Campo Santo of Pisa, whom some one saw
+going up the mountain that the goats liked. I will tell you. The old
+hermit went up, leaning on the staff of faith, and his step was unequal
+because the crutch, being on one side, gave one of his feet an advantage
+over the other. That is the reason why your verses are unequal. I have
+understood it.”
+
+The poet accepted this praise, persuaded that he had unwittingly
+deserved it.
+
+“You have faith, Monsieur Choulette,” said Therese. “Of what use is it
+to you if not to write beautiful verses?”
+
+“Faith serves me to commit sin, Madame.”
+
+“Oh, we commit sins without that.”
+
+Madame Marmet appeared, equipped for the journey, in the tranquil joy of
+returning to her pretty apartment, her little dog Toby, her old friend
+Lagrange, and to see again, after the Etruscans of Fiesole, the skeleton
+warrior who, among the bonbon boxes, looked out of the window.
+
+Miss Bell escorted her friends to the station in her carriage.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXV. “WE ARE ROBBING LIFE”
+
+Dechartre came to the carriage to salute the two travellers. Separated
+from him, Therese felt what he was to her: he had given to her a new
+taste of life, delicious and so vivid, so real, that she felt it on her
+lips. She lived under a charm in the dream of seeing him again, and was
+surprised when Madame Marmet, along the journey, said: “I think we are
+passing the frontier,” or “Rose-bushes are in bloom by the seaside.” She
+was joyful when, after a night at the hotel in Marseilles, she saw the
+gray olive-trees in the stony fields, then the mulberry-trees and the
+distant profile of Mount Pilate, and the Rhone, and Lyons, and then
+the familiar landscapes, the trees raising their summits into bouquets
+clothed in tender green, and the lines of poplars beside the rivers.
+She enjoyed the plenitude of the hours she lived and the astonishment of
+profound joys. And it was with the smile of a sleeper suddenly awakened
+that, at the station in Paris, in the light of the station, she greeted
+her husband, who was glad to see her. When she kissed Madame Marmet,
+she told her that she thanked her with all her heart. And truly she was
+grateful to all things, like M. Choulette’s St. Francis.
+
+In the coupe, which followed the quays in the luminous dust of the
+setting sun, she listened without impatience to her husband confiding
+to her his successes as an orator, the intentions of his parliamentary
+groups, his projects, his hopes, and the necessity to give two or three
+political dinners. She closed her eyes in order to think better. She
+said to herself: “I shall have a letter to-morrow, and shall see him
+again within eight days.” When the coupe passed on the bridge, she
+looked at the water, which seemed to roll flames; at the smoky arches;
+at the rows of trees; at the heads of the chestnut-trees in bloom on the
+Cours-la-Reine; all these familiar aspects seemed to be clothed for her
+in novel magnificence. It seemed to her that her love had given a new
+color to the universe. And she asked herself whether the trees and the
+stones recognized her. She was thinking; “How is it that my silence, my
+eyes, and heaven and earth do not tell my dear secret?”
+
+M. Martin-Belleme, thinking she was a little tired, advised her to rest.
+And at night, closeted in her room, in the silence wherein she heard the
+palpitations of her heart, she wrote to the absent one a letter full of
+these words, which are similar to flowers in their perpetual novelty:
+“I love you. I am waiting for you. I am happy. I feel you are near me.
+There is nobody except you and me in the world. I see from my window a
+blue star which trembles, and I look at it, thinking that you see it in
+Florence. I have put on my table the little red lily spoon. Come!
+Come!” And she found thus, fresh in her mind, the eternal sensations and
+images.
+
+For a week she lived an inward life, feeling within her the soft warmth
+which remained of the days passed in the Via Alfieri, breathing the
+kisses which she had received, and loving herself for being loved. She
+took delicate care and displayed attentive taste in new gowns. It was
+to herself, too, that she was pleasing. Madly anxious when there
+was nothing for her at the postoffice, trembling and joyful when she
+received through the small window a letter wherein she recognized the
+large handwriting of her beloved, she devoured her reminiscences, her
+desires, and her hopes. Thus the hours passed quickly.
+
+The morning of the day when he was to arrive seemed to her to be
+odiously long. She was at the station before the train arrived. A
+delay had been signalled. It weighed heavily upon her. Optimist in her
+projects, and placing by force, like her father, faith on the side of
+her will, that delay which she had not foreseen seemed to her to be
+treason. The gray light, which the three-quarters of an hour filtered
+through the window-panes of the station, fell on her like the rays of an
+immense hour-glass which measured for her the minutes of happiness lost.
+She was lamenting her fate, when, in the red light of the sun, she saw
+the locomotive of the express stop, monstrous and docile, on the quay,
+and, in the crowd of travellers coming out of the carriages, Jacques
+approached her. He was looking at her with that sort of sombre and
+violent joy which she had often observed in him. He said:
+
+“At last, here you are. I feared to die before seeing you again. You do
+not know, I did not know myself, what torture it is to live a week away
+from you. I have returned to the little pavilion of the Via Alfieri. In
+the room you know, in front of the old pastel, I have wept for love and
+rage.”
+
+She looked at him tenderly.
+
+“And I, do you not think that I called you, that I wanted you, that when
+alone I extended my arms toward you? I had hidden your letters in the
+chiffonier where my jewels are. I read them at night: it was delicious,
+but it was imprudent. Your letters were yourself--too much and not
+enough.”
+
+They traversed the court where fiacres rolled away loaded with boxes.
+She asked whether they were to take a carriage.
+
+He made no answer. He seemed not to hear. She said:
+
+“I went to see your house; I did not dare go in. I looked through the
+grille and saw windows hidden in rose-bushes in the rear of a yard,
+behind a tree, and I said: ‘It is there!’ I never have been so moved.”
+
+He was not listening to her nor looking at her. He walked quickly with
+her along the paved street, and through a narrow stairway reached a
+deserted street near the station. There, between wood and coal yards,
+was a hotel with a restaurant on the first floor and tables on the
+sidewalk. Under the painted sign were white curtains at the windows.
+Dechartre stopped before the small door and pushed Therese into the
+obscure alley. She asked:
+
+“Where are you leading me? What is the time? I must be home at half-past
+seven. We are mad.”
+
+When they left the house, she said:
+
+“Jacques, my darling, we are too happy; we are robbing life.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXVI. IN DECHARTRE’S STUDIO
+
+A fiacre brought her, the next day, to a populous street, half sad, half
+gay, with walls of gardens in the intervals of new houses, and stopped
+at the point where the sidewalk passes under the arcade of a mansion
+of the Regency, covered now with dust and oblivion, and fantastically
+placed across the street. Here and there green branches lent gayety to
+that city corner. Therese, while ringing at the door, saw in the limited
+perspective of the houses a pulley at a window and a gilt key, the sign
+of a locksmith. Her eyes were full of this picture, which was new to
+her. Pigeons flew above her head; she heard chickens cackle. A servant
+with a military look opened the door. She found herself in a yard
+covered with sand, shaded by a tree, where, at the left, was the
+janitor’s box with bird-cages at the windows. On that side rose, under a
+green trellis, the mansard of the neighboring house. A sculptor’s studio
+backed on it its glass-covered roof, which showed plaster figures asleep
+in the dust. At the right, the wall that closed the yard bore debris of
+monuments, broken bases of columnettes. In the rear, the house, not very
+large, showed the six windows of its facade, half hidden by vines and
+rosebushes.
+
+Philippe Dechartre, infatuated with the architecture of the
+fifteenth century in France, had reproduced there very cleverly the
+characteristics of a private house of the time of Louis XII. That house,
+begun in the middle of the Second Empire, had not been finished. The
+builder of so many castles died without being able to finish his own
+house. It was better thus. Conceived in a manner which had then its
+distinction and its value, but which seems to-day banal and outlandish,
+having lost little by little its large frame of gardens, cramped now
+between the walls of the tall buildings, Philippe Dechartre’s little
+house, by the roughness of its stones, by the naive heaviness of its
+windows, by the simplicity of the roof, which the architect’s widow had
+caused to be covered with little expense, by all the lucky accidents of
+the unfinished and unpremeditated, corrected the lack of grace of its
+new and affected antiquity and archeologic romanticism, and harmonized
+with the humbleness of a district made ugly by progress of population.
+
+In fine, notwithstanding its appearance of ruin and its green drapery,
+that little house had its charm. Suddenly and instinctively, Therese
+discovered in it other harmonies. In the elegant negligence which
+extended from the walls covered with vines to the darkened panes of the
+studio, and even in the bent tree, the bark of which studded with its
+shells the wild grass of the courtyard, she divined the mind of the
+master, nonchalant, not skilful in preserving, living in the long
+solitude of passionate men. She had in her joy a sort of grief at
+observing this careless state in which her lover left things around
+him. She found in it a sort of grace and nobility, but also a spirit of
+indifference contrary to her own nature, opposite to the interested
+and careful mind of the Montessuys. At once she thought that, without
+spoiling the pensive softness of that rough corner, she would bring to
+it her well-ordered activity; she would have sand thrown in the alley,
+and in the angle wherein a little sunlight came she would put the gayety
+of flowers. She looked sympathetically at a statue which had come there
+from some park, a Flora, lying on the earth, eaten by black moss, her
+two arms lying by her sides. She thought of raising her soon, of making
+of her a centrepiece for a fountain. Dechartre, who for an hour had
+been watching for her coming, joyful, anxious, trembling in his agitated
+happiness, descended the steps. In the fresh shade of the vestibule,
+wherein she divined confusedly the severe splendor of bronze and marble
+statues, she stopped, troubled by the beatings of her heart, which
+throbbed with all its might in her chest. He pressed her in his arms and
+kissed her. She heard him, through the tumult of her temples, recalling
+to her the short delights of the day before. She saw again the lion
+of the Atlas on the carpet, and returned to Jacques his kisses with
+delicious slowness. He led her, by a wooden stairway, into the vast hall
+which had served formerly as a workshop, where he designed and modelled
+his figures, and, above all, read; he liked reading as if it were opium.
+
+Pale-tinted Gothic tapestries, which let one perceive in a marvellous
+forest a lady at the feet of whom a unicorn lay on the grass, extended
+above cabinets to the painted beams of the ceiling. He led her to
+a large and low divan, loaded with cushions covered with sumptuous
+fragments of Spanish and Byzantine cloaks; but she sat in an armchair.
+“You are here! You are here! The world may come to an end.”
+
+She replied “Formerly I thought of the end of the world, but I was not
+afraid of it. Monsieur Lagrange had promised it to me, and I was waiting
+for it. When I did not know you, I felt so lonely.” She looked at the
+tables loaded with vases and statuettes, the tapestries, the confused
+and splendid mass of weapons, the animals, the marbles, the paintings,
+the ancient books. “You have beautiful things.”
+
+“Most of them come from my father, who lived in the golden age of
+collectors. These histories of the unicorn, the complete series of which
+is at Cluny, were found by my father in 1851 in an inn.”
+
+But, curious and disappointed, she said: “I see nothing that you have
+done; not a statue, not one of those wax figures which are prized so
+highly in England, not a figurine nor a plaque nor a medal.”
+
+“If you think I could find any pleasure in living among my works! I know
+my figures too well--they weary me. Whatever is without secret lacks
+charm.” She looked at him with affected spite.
+
+“You had not told me that one had lost all charm when one had no more
+secrets.”
+
+He put his arm around her waist.
+
+“Ah! The things that live are only too mysterious; and you remain for
+me, my beloved, an enigma, the unknown sense of which contains the light
+of life. Do not fear to give yourself to me. I shall desire you always,
+but I never shall know you. Does one ever possess what one loves? Are
+kisses, caresses, anything else than the effort of a delightful despair?
+When I embrace you, I am still searching for you, and I never have you;
+since I want you always, since in you I expect the impossible and the
+infinite. What you are, the devil knows if I shall ever know! Because I
+have modelled a few bad figures I am not a sculptor; I am rather a sort
+of poet and philosopher who seeks for subjects of anxiety and torment
+in nature. The sentiment of form is not sufficient for me. My colleagues
+laugh at me because I have not their simplicity. They are right. And
+that brute Choulette is right too, when he says we ought to live without
+thinking and without desiring. Our friend the cobbler of Santa
+Maria Novella, who knows nothing of what might make him unjust and
+unfortunate, is a master of the art of living. I ought to love you
+naively, without that sort of metaphysics which is passional and makes
+me absurd and wicked. There is nothing good except to ignore and to
+forget. Come, come, I have thought of you too cruelly in the tortures of
+your absence; come, my beloved! I must forget you with you. It is with
+you only that I can forget you and lose myself.”
+
+He took her in his arms and, lifting her veil, kissed her on the lips.
+
+A little frightened in that vast, unknown hall, embarrassed by the look
+of strange things, she drew the black tulle to her chin.
+
+“Here! You can not think of it.”
+
+He said they were alone.
+
+“Alone? And the man with terrible moustaches who opened the door?”
+
+He smiled:
+
+“That is Fusellier, my father’s former servant. He and his wife take
+charge of the house. Do not be afraid. They remain in their box. You
+shall see Madame Fusellier; she is inclined to familiarity. I warn you.”
+
+“My friend, why has Monsieur Fusellier, a janitor, moustaches like a
+Tartar?”
+
+“My dear, nature gave them to him. I am not sorry that he has the air of
+a sergeant-major and gives me the illusion of being a country neighbor.”
+
+Seated on the corner of the divan, he drew her to his knees and gave to
+her kisses which she returned.
+
+She rose quickly.
+
+“Show me the other rooms. I am curious. I wish to see everything.”
+
+He escorted her to the second story. Aquarelles by Philippe Dechartre
+covered the walls of the corridor. He opened the door and made her enter
+a room furnished with white mahogany:
+
+It was his mother’s room. He kept it intact in its past. Uninhabited for
+nine years, the room had not the air of being resigned to its solitude.
+The mirror waited for the old lady’s glance, and on the onyx clock a
+pensive Sappho was lonely because she did not hear the noise of the
+pendulum.
+
+There were two portraits on the walls. One by Ricard represented
+Philippe Dechartre, very pale, with rumpled hair, and eyes lost in a
+romantic dream. The other showed a middle-aged woman, almost beautiful
+in her ardent slightness. It was Madame Philippe Dechartre.
+
+“My poor mother’s room is like me,” said Jacques; “it remembers.”
+
+“You resemble your mother,” said Therese; “you have her eyes. Paul Vence
+told me she adored you.”
+
+“Yes,” he replied, smilingly. “My mother was excellent, intelligent,
+exquisite, marvellously absurd. Her madness was maternal love. She did
+not give me a moment of rest. She tormented herself and tormented me.”
+
+Therese looked at a bronze figure by Carpeaux, placed on the chiffonier.
+
+“You recognize,” said Dechartre, “the Prince Imperial by his ears, which
+are like the wings of a zephyr, and which enliven his cold visage.
+This bronze is a gift of Napoleon III. My parents went to Compiegne.
+My father, while the court was at Fontainebleau, made the plan of the
+castle, and designed the gallery. In the morning the Emperor would come,
+in his frock-coat, and smoking his meerschaum pipe, to sit near him like
+a penguin on a rock. At that time I went to day-school. I listened to
+his stories at table, and I have not forgotten them. The Emperor stayed
+there, peaceful and quiet, interrupting his long silence with few words
+smothered under his big moustache; then he roused himself a little and
+explained his ideas of machinery. He was an inventor. He would draw
+a pencil from his pocket and make drawings on my father’s designs. He
+spoiled in that way two or three studies a week. He liked my father a
+great deal, and promised works and honors to him which never came. The
+Emperor was kind, but he had no influence, as mamma said. At that time
+I was a little boy. Since then a vague sympathy has remained in me for
+that man, who was lacking in genius, but whose mind was affectionate and
+beautiful, and who carried through great adventures a simple courage
+and a gentle fatalism. Then he is sympathetic to me because he has been
+combated and insulted by people who were eager to take his place, and
+who had not, as he had, in the depths of their souls, a love for the
+people. We have seen them in power since then. Heavens, how ugly
+they are! Senator Loyer, for instance, who at your house, in the
+smoking-room, filled his pockets with cigars, and invited me to do
+likewise. That Loyer is a bad man, harsh to the unfortunate, to the
+weak, and to the humble. And Garain, don’t you think his mind is
+disgusting? Do you remember the first time I dined at your house and we
+talked of Napoleon? Your hair, twisted above your neck, and shot through
+by a diamond arrow, was adorable. Paul Vence said subtle things. Garain
+did not understand. You asked for my opinion.”
+
+“It was to make you shine. I was already conceited for you.”
+
+“Oh, I never could say a single phrase before people who are so serious.
+Yet I had a great desire to say that Napoleon III pleased me more than
+Napoleon I; that I thought him more touching; but perhaps that idea
+would have produced a bad effect. But I am not so destitute of talent as
+to care about politics.”
+
+He looked around the room, and at the furniture with familiar
+tenderness. He opened a drawer:
+
+“Here are mamma’s eye-glasses. How she searched for these eye-glasses!
+Now I will show you my room. If it is not in order you must excuse
+Madame Fusellier, who is trained to respect my disorder.”
+
+The curtains at the windows were down. He did not lift them. After an
+hour she drew back the red satin draperies; rays of light dazzled her
+eyes and fell on her floating hair. She looked for a mirror and found
+only a looking-glass of Venice, dull in its wide ebony border. Rising on
+the tips of her toes to see herself in it, she said:
+
+“Is that sombre and far-away spectre I? The women who have looked at
+themselves in this glass can not have complimented you on it.”
+
+As she was taking pins from the table she noticed a little bronze figure
+which she had not yet seen. It was an old Italian work of Flemish taste:
+a nude woman, with short legs and heavy stomach, who apparently ran with
+an arm extended. She thought the figure had a droll air. She asked what
+she was doing.
+
+“She is doing what Madame Mundanity does on the portal of the cathedral
+at Basle.”
+
+But Therese, who had been at Basle, did not know Madame Mundanity. She
+looked at the figure again, did not understand, and asked:
+
+“Is it something very bad? How can a thing shown on the portal of a
+church be so difficult to tell here?”
+
+Suddenly an anxiety came to her:
+
+“What will Monsieur and Madame Fusellier think of me?”
+
+Then, discovering on the wall a medallion wherein Dechartre had modelled
+the profile of a girl, amusing and vicious:
+
+“What is that?”
+
+“That is Clara, a newspaper girl. She brought the Figaro to me every
+morning. She had dimples in her cheeks, nests for kisses. One day I said
+to her: ‘I will make your portrait.’ She came, one summer morning, with
+earrings and rings which she had bought at the Neuilly fair. I never saw
+her again. I do not know what has become of her. She was too instinctive
+to become a fashionable demi-mondaine. Shall I take it out?”
+
+“No; it looks very well in that corner. I am not jealous of Clara.”
+
+It was time to return home, and she could not decide to go. She put her
+arms around her lover’s neck.
+
+“Oh, I love you! And then, you have been to-day good-natured and gay.
+Gayety becomes you so well. I should like to make you gay always. I need
+joy almost as much as love; and who will give me joy if you do not?”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXVII. THE PRIMROSE PATH
+
+After her return to Paris, for six weeks Therese lived in the ardent
+half sleep of happiness, and prolonged delightfully her thoughtless
+dream. She went to see Jacques every day in the little house shaded by a
+tree; and when they had at last parted at night, she took away with her
+adored reminiscences. They had the same tastes; they yielded to the same
+fantasies. The same capricious thoughts carried them away. They found
+pleasure in running to the suburbs that border the city, the streets
+where the wine-shops are shaded by acacia, the stony roads where the
+grass grows at the foot of walls, the little woods and the fields over
+which extended the blue sky striped by the smoke of manufactories. She
+was happy to feel him near her in this region where she did not know
+herself, and where she gave to herself the illusion of being lost with
+him.
+
+One day they had taken the boat that she had seen pass so often under
+her windows. She was not afraid of being recognized. Her danger was
+not great, and, since she was in love, she had lost prudence. They saw
+shores which little by little grew gay, escaping the dusty aridity
+of the suburbs; they went by islands with bouquets of trees shading
+taverns, and innumerable boats tied under willows. They debarked at
+Bas-Meudon. As she said she was warm and thirsty, he made her enter a
+wine-shop. It was a building with wooden galleries, which solitude made
+to appear larger, and which slept in rustic peace, waiting for Sunday
+to fill it with the laughter of girls, the cries of boatmen, the odor of
+fried fish, and the smoke of stews.
+
+They went up the creaking stairway, shaped like a ladder, and in a
+first-story room a maid servant brought wine and biscuits to them. On
+the mantelpiece, at one of the corners of the room, was an oval mirror
+in a flower-covered frame. Through the open window one saw the Seine,
+its green shores, and the hills in the distance bathed with warm air.
+The trembling peace of a summer evening filled the sky, the earth, and
+the water.
+
+Therese looked at the running river. The boat passed on the water, and
+when the wake which it left reached the shore it seemed as if the house
+rocked like a vessel.
+
+“I like the water,” said Therese. “How happy I am!”
+
+Their lips met.
+
+Lost in the enchanted despair of love, time was not marked for them
+except by the cool plash of the water, which at intervals broke under
+the half-open window. To the caressing praise of her lover she replied:
+
+“It is true I was made for love. I love myself because you love me.”
+
+Certainly, he loved her; and it was not possible for him to explain to
+himself why he loved her with ardent piety, with a sort of sacred fury.
+It was not because of her beauty, although it was rare and infinitely
+precious. She had exquisite lines, but lines follow movement, and escape
+incessantly; they are lost and found again; they cause aesthetic joys
+and despair. A beautiful line is the lightning which deliciously wounds
+the eyes. One admires and one is surprised. What makes one love is a
+soft and terrible force, more powerful than beauty. One finds one woman
+among a thousand whom one wants always. Therese was that woman whom one
+can not leave or betray.
+
+She exclaimed, joyfully:
+
+“I never shall be forsaken?”
+
+She asked why he did not make her bust, since he thought her beautiful.
+
+“Why? Because I am an ordinary sculptor, and I know it; which is not the
+faculty of an ordinary mind. But if you wish to think that I am a great
+artist, I will give you other reasons. To create a figure that will
+live, one must take the model like common material from which one will
+extract the beauty, press it, crush it, and obtain its essence. There is
+nothing in you that is not precious to me. If I made your bust I should
+be servilely attached to these things which are everything to me because
+they are something of you. I should stubbornly attach myself to the
+details, and should not succeed in composing a finished figure.”
+
+She looked at him astonished.
+
+He continued:
+
+“From memory I might. I tried a pencil sketch.” As she wished to see it,
+he showed it to her. It was on an album leaf, a very simple sketch. She
+did not recognize herself in it, and thought he had represented her with
+a kind of soul that she did not have.
+
+“Ah, is that the way in which you see me? Is that the way in which you
+love me?”
+
+He closed the album.
+
+“No; this is only a note. But I think the note is just. It is probable
+you do not see yourself exactly as I see you. Every human creature is a
+different being for every one that looks at it.”
+
+He added, with a sort of gayety:
+
+“In that sense one may say one woman never belonged to two men. That is
+one of Paul Vence’s ideas.”
+
+“I think it is true,” said Therese.
+
+It was seven o’clock. She said she must go. Every day she returned home
+later. Her husband had noticed it. He had said: “We are the last to
+arrive at all the dinners; there is a fatality about it!” But, detained
+every day in the Chamber of Deputies, where the budget was being
+discussed, and absorbed by the work of a subcommittee of which he was
+the chairman, state reasons excused Therese’s lack of punctuality. She
+recalled smilingly a night when she had arrived at Madame Garain’s at
+half-past eight. She had feared to cause a scandal. But it was a day of
+great affairs. Her husband came from the Chamber at nine o’clock only,
+with Garain. They dined in morning dress. They had saved the Ministry.
+
+Then she fell into a dream.
+
+“When the Chamber shall be adjourned, my friend, I shall not have a
+pretext to remain in Paris. My father does not understand my devotion to
+my husband which makes me stay in Paris. In a week I shall have to go to
+Dinard. What will become of me without you?”
+
+She clasped her hands and looked at him with a sadness infinitely
+tender. But he, more sombre, said:
+
+“It is I, Therese, it is I who must ask anxiously, What will become
+of me without you? When you leave me alone I am assailed by painful
+thoughts; black ideas come and sit in a circle around me.”
+
+She asked him what those ideas were.
+
+He replied:
+
+“My beloved, I have already told you: I have to forget you with you.
+When you are gone, your memory will torment me. I have to pay for the
+happiness you give me.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXVIII. NEWS OF LE MENIL
+
+The blue sea, studded with pink shoals, threw its silvery fringe softly
+on the fine sand of the beach, along the amphitheatre terminated by two
+golden horns. The beauty of the day threw a ray of sunlight on the tomb
+of Chateaubriand. In a room where a balcony looked out upon the beach,
+the ocean, the islands, and the promontories, Therese was reading the
+letters which she had found in the morning at the St. Malo post-office,
+and which she had not opened in the boat, loaded with passengers. At
+once, after breakfast, she had closeted herself in her room, and there,
+her letters unfolded on her knees, she relished hastily her furtive
+joy. She was to drive at two o’clock on the mall with her father, her
+husband, the Princess Seniavine; Madame Berthier-d’Eyzelles, the wife of
+the Deputy, and Madame Raymond, the wife of the Academician. She had two
+letters that day. The first one she read exhaled a tender aroma of love.
+Jacques had never displayed more simplicity, more happiness, and more
+charm.
+
+Since he had been in love with her, he said, he had walked so lightly
+and was supported by such joy that his feet did not touch the earth. He
+had only one fear, which was that he might be dreaming, and might awake
+unknown to her. Doubtless he was only dreaming. And what a dream! He
+was like one intoxicated and singing. He had not his reason, happily.
+Absent, he saw her continually. “Yes, I see you near me; I see your
+lashes shading eyes the gray of which is more delicious than all the
+blue of the sky and the flowers; your lips, which have the taste of a
+marvellous fruit; your cheeks, where laughter puts two adorable dimples;
+I see you beautiful and desired, but fleeing and gliding away; and when
+I open my arms, you have gone; and I see you afar on the long, long
+beach, not taller than a fairy, in your pink gown, under your parasol.
+Oh, so small!--small as you were one day when I saw you from the height
+of the Campanile in the square at Florence. And I say to myself, as I
+said that day: ‘A bit of grass would suffice to hide her from me, yet
+she is for me the infinite of joy and of pain.’”
+
+He complained of the torments of absence. And he mingled with his
+complaints the smiles of fortunate love. He threatened jokingly to
+surprise her at Dinard. “Do not be afraid. They will not recognize me. I
+shall be disguised as a vender of plaster images. It will not be a lie.
+Dressed in gray tunic and trousers, my beard and face covered with white
+dust, I shall ring the bell of the Montessuy villa. You may recognize
+me, Therese, by the statuettes on the plank placed on my head. They will
+all be cupids. There will be faithful Love, jealous Love, tender Love,
+vivid Love; there will be many vivid Loves. And I shall shout in the
+rude and sonorous language of the artisans of Pisa or of Florence:
+‘Tutti gli Amori per la Signora Teersinal!”
+
+The last page of this letter was tender and grave. There were pious
+effusions in it which reminded Therese of the prayer-books she read
+when a child. “I love you, and I love everything in you: the earth that
+carries you, on which you weigh so lightly, and which you embellish; the
+light that allows me to see you; the air you breathe. I like the bent
+tree of my yard because you have seen it. I have walked tonight on the
+avenue where I met you one winter night. I have culled a branch of the
+boxwood at which you looked. In this city, where you are not, I see only
+you.”
+
+He said at the end of his letter that he was to dine out. In the absence
+of Madame Fusellier, who had gone to the country, he should go to
+a wine-shop of the Rue Royale where he was known. And there, in the
+indistinct crowd, he should be alone with her.
+
+Therese, made languid by the softness of invisible caresses, closed her
+eyes and threw back her head on the armchair. When she heard the noise
+of the carriage coming near the house, she opened the second letter. As
+soon as she saw the altered handwriting of it, the lines precipitate and
+uneven, the distracted look of the address, she was troubled.
+
+Its obscure beginning indicated sudden anguish and black suspicion:
+“Therese, Therese, why did you give yourself to me if you were not
+giving yourself to me wholly? How does it serve me that you have
+deceived me, now that I know what I did not wish to know?”
+
+She stopped; a veil came over her eyes. She thought:
+
+“We were so happy a moment ago. What has happened? And I was so pleased
+at his joy, when it had already gone; it would be better not to write,
+since letters show only vanished sentiments and effaced ideas.”
+
+She read further. And seeing that he was full of jealousy, she felt
+discouraged.
+
+“If I have not proved to him that I love him with all my strength, that
+I love him with all there is in me, how am I ever to persuade him of
+it?”
+
+And she was impatient to discover the cause of his folly. Jacques
+told it. While taking breakfast in the Rue Royale he had met a former
+companion who had just returned from the seaside. They had talked
+together; chance made that man speak of the Countess Martin, whom
+he knew. And at once, interrupting the narration, Jacques exclaimed:
+“Therese, Therese, why did you lie to me, since I was sure to learn some
+day that of which I alone was ignorant? But the error is mine more than
+yours. The letter which you put into the San Michele post-box, your
+meeting at the Florence station, would have enlightened me if I had not
+obstinately retained my illusions and disdained evidence.
+
+“I did not know; I wished to remain ignorant. I did not ask you
+anything, from fear that you might not be able to continue to lie; I
+was prudent; and it has happened that an idiot suddenly, brutally, at a
+restaurant table, has opened my eyes and forced me to know. Oh, now that
+I know, now that I can not doubt, it seems to me that to doubt would be
+delicious! He gave the name--the name which I heard at Fiesole from Miss
+Bell, and he added: ‘Everybody knows about that.’
+
+“So you loved him. You love him still! He is near you, doubtless. He
+goes every year to the Dinard races. I have been told so. I see him. I
+see everything. If you knew the images that worry me, you would say, ‘He
+is mad,’ and you would take pity on me. Oh, how I should like to forget
+you and everything! But I can not. You know very well I can not forget
+you except with you. I see you incessantly with him. It is torture. I
+thought I was unfortunate that night on the banks of the Arno. But I did
+not know then what it is to suffer. To-day I know.”
+
+As she finished reading that letter, Therese thought: “A word thrown
+haphazard has placed him in that condition, a word has made him
+despairing and mad.” She tried to think who might be the wretched fellow
+who could have talked in that way. She suspected two or three young men
+whom Le Menil had introduced to her once, warning her not to trust them.
+And with one of the white and cold fits of anger she had inherited
+from her father she said to herself: “I must know who he is.” In the
+meanwhile what was she to do? Her lover in despair, mad, ill, she could
+not run to him, embrace him, and throw herself on him with such an
+abandonment that he would feel how entirely she was his, and be forced
+to believe in her. Should she write? How much better it would be to go
+to him, to fall upon his heart and say to him: “Dare to believe I am not
+yours only!” But she could only write. She had hardly begun her letter
+when she heard voices and laughter in the garden. Therese went
+down, tranquil and smiling; her large straw hat threw on her face a
+transparent shadow wherein her gray eyes shone.
+
+“How beautiful she is!” exclaimed Princess Seniavine. “What a pity it
+is we never see her! In the morning she is promenading in the alleys of
+Saint Malo, in the afternoon she is closeted in her room. She runs away
+from us.”
+
+The coach turned around the large circle of the beach at the foot of
+the villas and gardens on the hillside. And they saw at the left the
+ramparts and the steeple of St. Malo rise from the blue sea. Then the
+coach went into a road bordered by hedges, along which walked Dinard
+women, erect under their wide headdresses.
+
+“Unfortunately,” said Madame Raymond, seated on the box by Montessuy’s
+side, “old costumes are dying out. The fault is with the railways.”
+
+“It is true,” said Montessuy, “that if it were not for the railways the
+peasants would still wear their picturesque costumes of other times. But
+we should not see them.”
+
+“What does it matter?” replied Madame Raymond. “We could imagine them.”
+
+“But,” asked the Princess Seniavine, “do you ever see interesting
+things? I never do.”
+
+Madame Raymond, who had taken from her husband’s books a vague tint of
+philosophy, declared that things were nothing, and that the idea was
+everything.
+
+Without looking at Madame Berthier-d’Eyzelles, seated at her right, the
+Countess Martin murmured:
+
+“Oh, yes, people see only their ideas; they follow only their ideas.
+They go along, blind and deaf. One can not stop them.”
+
+“But, my dear,” said Count Martin, placed in front of her, by the
+Princess’s side, “without leading ideas one would go haphazard. Have you
+read, Montessuy, the speech delivered by Loyer at the unveiling of
+the Cadet-Gassicourt statue? The beginning is remarkable. Loyer is not
+lacking in political sense.”
+
+The carriage, having traversed the fields bordered with willows, went
+up a hill and advanced on a vast, wooded plateau. For a long time it
+skirted the walls of the park.
+
+“Is it the Guerric?” asked the Princess Seniavine.
+
+Suddenly, between two stone pillars surmounted by lions, appeared the
+closed gate. At the end of a long alley stood the gray stones of a
+castle.
+
+“Yes,” said Montessuy, “it is the Guerric.”
+
+And, addressing Therese:
+
+“You knew the Marquis de Re? At sixty-five he had retained his strength
+and his youth. He set the fashion and was loved. Young men copied his
+frockcoat, his monocle, his gestures, his exquisite insolence, his
+amusing fads. Suddenly he abandoned society, closed his house, sold his
+stable, ceased to show himself. Do you remember, Therese, his sudden
+disappearance? You had been married a short time. He called on you
+often. One fine day people learned that he had quitted Paris. This is
+the place where he had come in winter. People tried to find a reason for
+his sudden retreat; some thought he had run away under the influence of
+sorrow or humiliation, or from fear that the world might see him grow
+old. He was afraid of old age more than of anything else. For seven
+years he has lived in retirement from society; he has not gone out of
+the castle once. He receives at the Guerric two or three old men who
+were his companions in youth. This gate is opened for them only. Since
+his retirement no one has seen him; no one ever will see him. He shows
+the same care to conceal himself that he had formerly to show himself.
+He has not suffered from his decline. He exists in a sort of living
+death.”
+
+And Therese, recalling the amiable old man who had wished to finish
+gloriously with her his life of gallantry, turned her head and looked at
+the Guerric lifting its four towers above the gray summits of oaks.
+
+On their return she said she had a headache and that she would not take
+dinner. She locked herself in her room and drew from her jewel casket
+the lamentable letter. She read over the last page.
+
+“The thought that you belong to another burns me. And then, I did not
+wish that man to be the one.”
+
+It was a fixed idea. He had written three times on the same leaf these
+words: “I did not wish that man to be the one.”
+
+She, too, had only one idea: not to lose him. Not to lose him, she would
+have said anything, she would have done anything. She went to her table
+and wrote, under the spur of a tender, and plaintive violence, a letter
+wherein she repeated like a groan: “I love you, I love you! I never have
+loved any one but you. You are alone, alone--do you hear?--in my mind,
+in me. Do not think of what that wretched man said. Listen to me! I
+never loved any one, I swear, any one, before you.”
+
+As she was writing, the soft sigh of the sea accompanied her own sigh.
+She wished to say, she believed she was saying, real things; and all
+that she was saying was true of the truth of her love. She heard the
+heavy step of her father on the stairway. She hid her letter and opened
+the door. Montessuy asked her whether she felt better.
+
+“I came,” he said, “to say good-night to you, and to ask you something.
+It is probable that I shall meet Le Menil at the races. He goes there
+every year. If I meet him, darling, would you have any objection to my
+inviting him to come here for a few days? Your husband thinks he would
+be agreeable company for you. We might give him the blue room.”
+
+“As you wish. But I should prefer that you keep the blue room for Paul
+Vence, who wishes to come. It is possible, too, that Choulette may come
+without warning. It is his habit. We shall see him some morning ringing
+like a beggar at the gate. You know my husband is mistaken when he
+thinks Le Menil pleases me. And then I must go to Paris next week for
+two or three days.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIX. JEALOUSY
+
+Twenty-four hours after writing her letter, Therese went from Dinard
+to the little house in the Ternes. It had not been difficult for her to
+find a pretext to go to Paris. She had made the trip with her husband,
+who wanted to see his electors whom the Socialists were working over.
+She surprised Jacques in the morning, at the studio, while he was
+sketching a tall figure of Florence weeping on the shore of the Arno.
+
+The model, seated on a very high stool, kept her pose. She was a long,
+dark girl. The harsh light which fell from the skylight gave precision
+to the pure lines of her hip and thighs, accentuated her harsh visage,
+her dark neck, her marble chest, the lines of her knees and feet,
+the toes of which were set one over the other. Therese looked at her
+curiously, divining her exquisite form under the miseries of her flesh,
+poorly fed and badly cared for.
+
+Dechartre came toward Therese with an air of painful tenderness which
+moved her. Then, placing his clay and the instrument near the easel, and
+covering the figure with a wet cloth, he said to the model:
+
+“That is enough for to-day.”
+
+She rose, picked up awkwardly her clothing, a handful of dark wool and
+soiled linen, and went to dress behind the screen.
+
+Meanwhile the sculptor, having dipped in the water of a green bowl his
+hands, which the tenacious clay made white, went out of the studio with
+Therese.
+
+They passed under the tree which studded the sand of the courtyard with
+the shells of its flayed bark. She said:
+
+“You have no more faith, have you?”
+
+He led her to his room.
+
+The letter written from Dinard had already softened his painful
+impressions. She had come at the moment when, tired of suffering, he
+felt the need of calm and of tenderness. A few lines of handwriting had
+appeased his mind, fed on images, less susceptible to things than to the
+signs of things; but he felt a pain in his heart.
+
+In the room where everything spoke of her, where the furniture, the
+curtains, and the carpets told of their love, she murmured soft words:
+
+“You could believe--do you not know what you are?--it was folly! How can
+a woman who has known you care for another after you?”
+
+“But before?”
+
+“Before, I was waiting for you.”
+
+“And he did not attend the races at Dinard?”
+
+She did not think he had, and it was very certain she did not attend
+them herself. Horses and horsey men bored her.
+
+“Jacques, fear no one, since you are not comparable to any one.”
+
+He knew, on the contrary, how insignificant he was and how insignificant
+every one is in this world where beings, agitated like grains in a van,
+are mixed and separated by a shake of the rustic or of the god. This
+idea of the agricultural or mystical van represented measure and order
+too well to be exactly applied to life. It seemed to him that men were
+grains in a coffee-mill. He had had a vivid sensation of this the day
+before, when he saw Madame Fusellier grinding coffee in her mill.
+
+Therese said to him:
+
+“Why are you not conceited?”
+
+She added few words, but she spoke with her eyes, her arms, the breath
+that made her bosom rise.
+
+In the happy surprise of seeing and hearing her, he permitted himself to
+be convinced.
+
+She asked who had said so odious a thing.
+
+He had no reason to conceal his name from her. It was Daniel Salomon.
+
+She was not surprised. Daniel Salomon, who passed for not having been
+the lover of any woman, wished at least to be in the confidence of all
+and know their secrets. She guessed the reason why he had talked.
+
+“Jacques, do not be cross at what I say to you. You are not skilful in
+concealing your sentiments. He suspected you were in love with me, and
+he wished to be sure of it. I am persuaded that now he has no doubt of
+our relations. But that is indifferent to me. On the contrary, if you
+knew better how to dissimulate, I should be less happy. I should think
+you did not love me enough.”
+
+For fear of disquieting him, she turned to other thoughts:
+
+“I have not told you how much I like your sketch. It is Florence on the
+Arno. Then it is we?”
+
+“Yes, I have placed in that figure the emotion of my love. It is sad,
+and I wish it were beautiful. You see, Therese, beauty is painful. That
+is why, since life is beautiful, I suffer.”
+
+He took out of his flannel coat his cigarette-holder, but she told him
+to dress. She would take him to breakfast with her. They would not quit
+each other that day. It would be delightful.
+
+She looked at him with childish joy. Then she became sad, thinking
+she would have to return to Dinard at the end of the week, later go to
+Joinville, and that during that time they would be separated.
+
+At Joinville, at her father’s, she would cause him to be invited for a
+few days. But they would not be free and alone there, as they were in
+Paris.
+
+“It is true,” he said, “that Paris is good to us in its confused
+immensity.”
+
+And he added:
+
+“Even in your absence I can not quit Paris. It would be terrible for
+me to live in countries that do not know you. A sky, mountains, trees,
+fountains, statues which do not know how to talk of you would have
+nothing to say to me.”
+
+While he was dressing she turned the leaves of a book which she had
+found on the table. It was The Arabian Nights. Romantic engravings
+displayed here and there in the text grand viziers, sultanas, black
+tunics, bazaars, and caravans.
+
+She asked:
+
+“The Arabian Nights-does that amuse you?”
+
+“A great deal,” he replied, tying his cravat. “I believe as much as I
+wish in these Arabian princes whose legs become black marble, and in
+these women of the harem who wander at night in cemeteries. These tales
+give me pleasant dreams which make me forget life. Last night I went to
+bed in sadness and read the history of the Three Calendars.”
+
+She said, with a little bitterness:
+
+“You are trying to forget. I would not consent for anything in the world
+to lose the memory of a pain which came to me from you.”
+
+They went down together to the street. She was to take a carriage a
+little farther on and precede him at her house by a few minutes.
+
+“My husband expects you to breakfast.”
+
+They talked, on the way, of insignificant things, which their love made
+great and charming. They arranged their afternoon in advance in order to
+put into it the infinity of profound joy and of ingenious pleasure. She
+consulted him about her gowns. She could not decide to leave him, happy
+to walk with him in the streets, which the sun and the gayety of noon
+filled. When they reached the Avenue des Ternes they saw before them,
+on the avenue, shops displaying side by side a magnificent abundance
+of food. There were chains of chickens at the caterer’s, and at the
+fruiterer’s boxes of apricots and peaches, baskets of grapes, piles
+of pears. Wagons filled with fruits and flowers bordered the sidewalk.
+Under the awning of a restaurant men and women were taking breakfast.
+Therese recognized among them, alone, at a small table against a
+laurel-tree in a box, Choulette lighting his pipe.
+
+Having seen her, he threw superbly a five-franc piece on the table,
+rose, and bowed. He was grave; his long frock-coat gave him an air of
+decency and austerity.
+
+He said he should have liked to call on Madame Martin at Dinard, but he
+had been detained in the Vendee by the Marquise de Rieu. However, he
+had issued a new edition of the Jardin Clos, augmented by the Verger de
+Sainte-Claire. He had moved souls which were thought to be insensible,
+and had made springs come out of rocks.
+
+“So,” he said, “I was, in a fashion, a Moses.”
+
+He fumbled in his pocket and drew from a book a letter, worn and
+spotted.
+
+“This is what Madame Raymond, the Academician’s wife, writes me. I
+publish what she says, because it is creditable to her.”
+
+And, unfolding the thin leaves, he read:
+
+“I have made your book known to my husband, who exclaimed: ‘It is pure
+spiritualism. Here is a closed garden, which on the side of the lilies
+and white roses has, I imagine, a small gate opening on the road to the
+Academie.’”
+
+Choulette relished these phrases, mingled in his mouth with the perfume
+of whiskey, and replaced carefully the letter in its book.
+
+Madame Martin congratulated the poet on being Madame Raymond’s
+candidate.
+
+“You should be mine, Monsieur Choulette, if I were interested in
+Academic elections. But does the Institute excite your envy?”
+
+He kept for a few moments a solemn silence, then:
+
+“I am going now, Madame, to confer with divers notable persons of the
+political and religious worlds who reside at Neuilly. The Marquise de
+Rieu wishes me to be a candidate, in her country, for a senatorial seat
+which has become vacant by the death of an old man, who was, they say,
+a general during his illusory life. I shall consult with priests,
+women and children--oh, eternal wisdom!--of the Bineau Boulevard. The
+constituency whose suffrages I shall attempt to obtain inhabits an
+undulated and wooded land wherein willows frame the fields. And it is
+not a rare thing to find in the hollow of one of these old willows the
+skeleton of a Chouan pressing his gun against his breast and holding his
+beads in his fleshless fingers. I shall have my programme posted on the
+bark of oaks. I shall say ‘Peace to presbyteries! Let the day come when
+bishops, holding in their hands the wooden crook, shall make themselves
+similar to the poorest servant of the poorest parish! It was the bishops
+who crucified Jesus Christ. Their names were Anne and Caiph. And they
+still retain these names before the Son of God. While they were nailing
+Him to the cross, I was the good thief hanged by His side.’”
+
+He lifted his stick and pointed toward Neuilly:
+
+“Dechartre, my friend, do you not think the Bineau Boulevard is the
+dusty one over there, at the right?”
+
+“Farewell, Monsieur Choulette,” said Therese. “Remember me when you are
+a senator.”
+
+“Madame, I do not forget you in any of my prayers, morning and evening.
+And I say to God: ‘Since, in your anger, you gave to her riches and
+beauty, regard her, Lord, with kindness, and treat her in accordance
+with your sovereign mercy.”
+
+And he went erect, and dragging his leg, along the populous avenue.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXX. A LETTER FROM ROBERT
+
+Enveloped in a mantle of pink broad cloth, Therese went down the steps
+with Dechartre. He had come in the morning to Joinville. She had made
+him join the circle of her intimate friends, before the hunting-party to
+which she feared Le Menil had been invited, as was the custom. The light
+air of September agitated the curls of her hair, and the sun made golden
+darts shine in the profound gray of her eyes. Behind them, the facade of
+the palace displayed above the three arcades of the first story, in the
+intervals of the windows, on long tables, busts of Roman emperors. The
+house was placed between two tall pavilions which their great slate
+roofs made higher, over pillars of the Ionic order. This style betrayed
+the art of the architect Leveau, who had constructed, in 1650, the
+castle of Joinville-sur-Oise for that rich Mareuilles, creature of
+Mazarin, and fortunate accomplice of Fouquet.
+
+Therese and Jacques saw before them the flower-beds designed by Le
+Notre, the green carpet, the fountain; then the grotto with its five
+rustic arcades crowned by the tall trees on which autumn had already
+begun to spread its golden mantle.
+
+“This green geometry is beautiful,” said Dechartre.
+
+“Yes,” said Therese. “But I think of the tree bent in the small
+courtyard where grass grows among the stones. We shall build a beautiful
+fountain in it, shall we not, and put flowers in it?”
+
+Leaning against one of the stone lions with almost human faces, that
+guarded the steps, she turned her head toward the castle, and, looking
+at one of the windows, said:
+
+“There is your room; I went into it last night. On the same floor, on
+the other side, at the other end, is my father’s office. A white wooden
+table, a mahogany portfolio, a decanter on the mantelpiece: his office
+when he was a young man. Our entire fortune came from that place.”
+
+Through the sand-covered paths between the flowerbeds they walked to the
+boxwood hedge which bordered the park on the southern side. They passed
+before the orange-grove, the monumental door of which was surmounted by
+the Lorraine cross of Mareuilles, and then passed under the linden-trees
+which formed an alley on the lawn. Statues of nymphs shivered in the
+damp shade studded with pale lights. A pigeon, posed on the shoulder
+of one of the white women, fled. From time to time a breath of wind
+detached a dried leaf which fell, a shell of red gold, where remained a
+drop of rain. Therese pointed to the nymph and said:
+
+“She saw me when I was a girl and wishing to die. I suffered from dreams
+and from fright. I was waiting for you. But you were so far away!”
+
+The linden alley stopped near the large basin, in the centre of which
+was a group of tritons blowing in their shells to form, when the waters
+played, a liquid diadem with flowers of foam.
+
+“It is the Joinville crown,” she said.
+
+She pointed to a pathway which, starting from the basin, lost itself in
+the fields, in the direction of the rising sun.
+
+“This is my pathway. How often I walked in it sadly! I was sad when I
+did not know you.”
+
+They found the alley which, with other lindens and other nymphs, went
+beyond. And they followed it to the grottoes. There was, in the rear
+of the park, a semicircle of five large niches of rocks surmounted by
+balustrades and separated by gigantic Terminus gods. One of these gods,
+at a corner of the monument, dominated all the others by his monstrous
+nudity, and lowered on them his stony look.
+
+“When my father bought Joinville,” she said, “the grottoes were only
+ruins, full of grass and vipers. A thousand rabbits had made holes in
+them. He restored the Terminus gods and the arcades in accordance with
+prints by Perrelle, which are preserved at the Bibliotheque Nationale.
+He was his own architect.”
+
+A desire for shade and mystery led them toward the arbor near the
+grottoes. But the noise of footsteps which they heard, coming from the
+covered alley, made them stop for a moment, and they saw, through the
+leaves, Montessuy, with his arm around the Princess Seniavine’s waist.
+Quietly they were walking toward the palace. Jacques and Therese, hiding
+behind the enormous Terminus god, waited until they had passed.
+
+Then she said to Dechartre, who was looking at her silently:
+
+“That is amazing! I understand now why the Princess Seniavine, this
+winter, asked my father to advise her about buying horses.”
+
+Yet Therese admired her father for having conquered that beautiful
+woman, who passed for being hard to please, and who was known to be
+wealthy, in spite of the embarrassments which her mad disorder had
+caused her. She asked Jacques whether he did not think the Princess was
+beautiful. He said she had elegance. She was beautiful, doubtless.
+
+Therese led Jacques to the moss-covered steps which, ascending behind
+the grottoes, led to the Gerbe-de-l’Oise, formed of leaden reeds in
+the midst of a great pink marble vase. Tall trees closed the park’s
+perspective and stood at the beginning of the forest. They walked under
+them. They were silent under the faint moan of the leaves.
+
+He pressed her in his arms and placed kisses on her eyelids. Night was
+descending, the first stars were trembling among the branches. In the
+damp grass sighed the frog’s flutes. They went no farther.
+
+When she took with him, in darkness, the road to the palace, the taste
+of kisses and of mint remained on her lips, and in her eyes was the
+image of her lover. She smiled under the lindens at the nymphs who had
+seen the tears of her childhood. The Swan lifted in the sky its cross of
+stars, and the moon mirrored its slender horn in the basin of the crown.
+Insects in the grass uttered appeals to love. At the last turn of the
+boxwood hedge, Therese and Jacques saw the triple black mass of
+the castle, and through the wide bay-windows of the first story
+distinguished moving forms in the red light. The bell rang.
+
+Therese exclaimed:
+
+“I have hardly time to dress for dinner.”
+
+And she passed swiftly between the stone lions, leaving her lover under
+the impression of a fairy-tale vision.
+
+In the drawing-room, after dinner, M. Berthier d’Eyzelles read the
+newspaper, and the Princess Seniavine played solitaire. Therese sat, her
+eyes half closed over a book.
+
+The Princess asked whether she found what she was reading amusing.
+
+“I do not know. I was reading and thinking. Paul Vence is right: ‘We
+find only ourselves in books.’”
+
+Through the hangings came from the billiard-room the voices of the
+players and the click of the balls.
+
+“I have it!” exclaimed the Princess, throwing down the cards.
+
+She had wagered a big sum on a horse which was running that day at the
+Chantilly races.
+
+Therese said she had received a letter from Fiesole. Miss Bell announced
+her forthcoming marriage with Prince Eusebia Albertinelli della Spina.
+
+The Princess laughed:
+
+“There’s a man who will render a service to her.”
+
+“What service?” asked Therese.
+
+“He will disgust her with men, of course.”
+
+Montessuy came into the parlor joyfully. He had won the game.
+
+He sat beside Berthier-d’Eyzelles, and, taking a newspaper from the
+sofa, said:
+
+“The Minister of Finance announces that he will propose, when the
+Chamber reassembles, his savings-bank bill.”
+
+This bill was to give to savings-banks the authority to lend money to
+communes, a proceeding which would take from Montessuy’s business houses
+their best customers.
+
+“Berthier,” asked the financier, “are you resolutely hostile to that
+bill?”
+
+Berthier nodded.
+
+Montessuy rose, placed his hand on the Deputy’s shoulder, and said:
+
+“My dear Berthier, I have an idea that the Cabinet will fall at the
+beginning of the session.”
+
+He approached his daughter.
+
+“I have received an odd letter from Le Menil.”
+
+Therese rose and closed the door that separated the parlor from the
+billiard-room.
+
+She was afraid of draughts, she said.
+
+“A singular letter,” continued Montessuy. “Le Menil will not come to
+Joinville. He has bought the yacht Rosebud. He is on the Mediterranean,
+and can not live except on the water. It is a pity. He is the only one
+who knows how to manage a hunt.”
+
+At this instant Dechartre came into the room with Count Martin, who,
+after beating him at billiards, had acquired a great affection for him
+and was explaining to him the dangers of a personal tax based on the
+number of servants one kept.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXI. AN UNWELCOME APPARITION
+
+A pale winter sun piercing the mists of the Seine, illuminated the dogs
+painted by Oudry on the doors of the dining room.
+
+Madame Martin had at her right Garain the Deputy, formerly Chancellor,
+also President of the Council, and at her left Senator Loyer. At Count
+Martin-Belleme’s right was Monsieur Berthier-d’Eyzelles. It was an
+intimate and serious business gathering. In conformity with Montessuy’s
+prediction, the Cabinet had fallen four days before. Called to the
+Elysee the same morning, Garain had accepted the task of forming a
+cabinet. He was preparing, while taking breakfast, the combination which
+was to be submitted in the evening to the President. And, while they
+were discussing names, Therese was reviewing within herself the images
+of her intimate life.
+
+She had returned to Paris with Count Martin at the opening of the
+parliamentary session, and since that moment had led an enchanted life.
+
+Jacques loved her; he loved her with a delicious mingling of passion and
+tenderness, of learned experience and curious ingenuity. He was nervous,
+irritable, anxious. But the uncertainty of his humor made his gayety
+more charming. That artistic gayety, bursting out suddenly like a flame,
+caressed love without offending it. And the playful wit of her lover
+made Therese marvel. She never could have imagined the infallible taste
+which he exercised naturally in joyful caprice and in familiar fantasy.
+At first he had displayed only the monotony of passionate ardor. That
+alone had captured her. But since then she had discovered in him a
+gay mind, well stored and diverse, as well as the gift of agreeable
+flattery.
+
+“To assemble a homogeneous ministry,” exclaimed Garain, “is easily said.
+Yet one must be guided by the tendencies of the various factions of the
+Chamber.”
+
+He was uneasy. He saw himself surrounded by as many snares as those
+which he had laid. Even his collaborators became hostile to him.
+
+Count Martin wished the new ministry to satisfy the aspirations of the
+new men.
+
+“Your list is formed of personalities essentially different in origin
+and in tendency,” he said. “Yet the most important fact in the political
+history of recent years is the possibility, I should say the necessity,
+to introduce unity of views in the government of the republic. These are
+ideas which you, my dear Garin, have expressed with rare eloquence.”
+
+M. Berthier-d’Eyzelles kept silence.
+
+Senator Loyer rolled crumbs with his fingers. He had been formerly a
+frequenter of beer-halls, and while moulding crumbs or cutting corks
+he found ideas. He raised his red face. And, looking at Garain with
+wrinkled eyes wherein red fire sparkled, he said:
+
+“I said it, and nobody would believe it. The annihilation of the
+monarchical Right was for the chiefs of the Republican party an
+irreparable misfortune. We governed formerly against it. The real
+support of a government is the Opposition. The Empire governed
+against the Orleanists and against us; MacMahon governed against
+the Republicans. More fortunate, we governed against the Right. The
+Right--what a magnificent Opposition it was! It threatened, was candid,
+powerless, great, honest, unpopular! We should have nursed it. We did
+not know how to do that. And then, of course, everything wears out. Yet
+it is always necessary to govern against something. There are to-day
+only Socialists to give us the support which the Right lent us fifteen
+years ago with so constant a generosity. But they are too weak. We
+should reenforce them, make of them a political party. To do this at the
+present hour is the first duty of a State minister.”
+
+Garain, who was not cynical, made no answer.
+
+“Garain, do you not yet know,” asked Count Martin, “whether with the
+Premiership you are to take the Seals or the Interior?”
+
+Garain replied that his decision would depend on the choice which some
+one else would make. The presence of that personage in the Cabinet was
+necessary, and he hesitated between two portfolios. Garain sacrificed
+his personal convenience to superior interests.
+
+Senator Loyer made a wry face. He wanted the Seals. It was a
+long-cherished desire. A teacher of law under the Empire, he gave, in
+cafes, lessons that were appreciated. He had the sense of chicanery.
+Having begun his political fortune with articles skilfully written in
+order to attract to himself prosecution, suits, and several weeks of
+imprisonment, he had considered the press as a weapon of opposition
+which every good government should break. Since September 4, 1870, he
+had had the ambition to become Keeper of the Seals, so that everybody
+might see how the old Bohemian who formerly explained the code while
+dining on sauerkraut, would appear as supreme chief of the magistracy.
+
+Idiots by the dozen had climbed over his back. Now having become aged
+in the ordinary honors of the Senate, unpolished, married to a brewery
+girl, poor, lazy, disillusioned, his old Jacobin spirit and his sincere
+contempt for the people surviving his ambition, made of him a good man
+for the Government. This time, as a part of the Garain combination, he
+imagined he held the Department of Justice. And his protector, who would
+not give it to him, was an unfortunate rival. He laughed, while moulding
+a dog from a piece of bread.
+
+M. Berthier-d’Eyzelles, calm and grave, caressed his handsome white
+beard.
+
+“Do you not think, Monsieur Garain, that it would be well to give a
+place in the Cabinet to the men who have followed from the beginning the
+political principles toward which we are directing ourselves to-day?”
+
+“They lost themselves in doing it,” replied Garam, impatiently. “The
+politician never should be in advance of circumstances. It is an error
+to be in the right too soon. Thinkers are not men of business. And
+then--let us talk frankly--if you want a Ministry of the Left Centre
+variety, say so: I will retire. But I warn you that neither the Chamber
+nor the country will sustain you.”
+
+“It is evident,” said Count Martin, “that we must be sure of a
+majority.”
+
+“With my list, we have a majority,” said Garain. “It is the minority
+which sustained the Ministry against us. Gentlemen, I appeal to your
+devotion.”
+
+And the laborious distribution of the portfolios began again. Count
+Martin received, in the first place, the Public Works, which he refused,
+for lack of competency, and afterward the Foreign Affairs, which he
+accepted without objection.
+
+But M. Berthier-d’Eyzelles, to whom Garain offered Commerce and
+Agriculture, reserved his decision.
+
+Loyer got the Colonies. He seemed very busy trying to make his bread dog
+stand on the cloth. Yet he was looking out of the corners of his little
+wrinkled eyelids at the Countess Martin and thinking that she was
+desirable. He vaguely thought of the pleasure of meeting her again.
+
+Leaving Garain to his combination, he was preoccupied by his fair
+hostess, trying to divine her tastes and her habits, asking her
+whether she went to the theatre, and if she ever went at night to the
+coffee-house with her husband. And Therese was beginning to think he
+was more interesting than the others, with his apparent ignorance of her
+world and his superb cynicism.
+
+Gamin arose. He had to see several persons before submitting his list
+to the President of the Republic. Count Martin offered his carriage, but
+Garain had one.
+
+“Do you not think,” asked Count Martin, “that the President might object
+to some names?”
+
+“The President,” replied Garain, “will be inspired by the necessities of
+the situation.”
+
+He had already gone out of the door when he struck his forehead with his
+hand.
+
+“We have forgotten the Ministry of War.”
+
+“We shall easily find somebody for it among the generals,” said Count
+Martin.
+
+“Ah,” exclaimed Garain, “you believe the choice of a minister of war is
+easy. It is clear you have not, like me, been a member of three cabinets
+and President of the Council. In my cabinets, and during my presidency
+the greatest difficulties came from the Ministry of War. Generals are
+all alike. You know the one I chose for the cabinet that I formed. When
+we took him, he knew nothing of affairs. He hardly knew there were
+two Chambers. We had to explain to him all the wheels of parliamentary
+machinery; we had to teach him that there were an army committee,
+finance committee, subcommittees, presidents of committees, a budget. He
+asked that all this information be written for him on a piece of paper.
+His ignorance of men and of things amazed and alarmed us. In a fortnight
+he knew the most subtle tricks of the trade; he knew personally all the
+senators and all the deputies, and was intriguing with them against us.
+If it had not been for President Grevy’s help, he would have overthrown
+us. And he was a very ordinary general, a general like any other. Oh,
+no; do not think that the portfolio of war may be given hastily, without
+reflection.”
+
+And Garain still shivered at the thought of his former colleague.
+
+Therese rose. Senator Loyer offered his arm to her, with the
+graceful attitude that he had learned forty years before at Bullier’s
+dancing-hall. She left the politicians in the drawing-room, and hastened
+to meet Dechartre.
+
+A rosy mist covered the Seine, the stone quays, and the gilded trees.
+The red sun threw into the cloudy sky the last glories of the year.
+Therese, as she went out, relished the sharpness of the air and the
+dying splendor of the day. Since her return to Paris, happy, she found
+pleasure every morning in the changes of the weather. It seemed to her,
+in her generous selfishness, that it was for her the wind blew in the
+trees, or the fine, gray rain wet the horizon of the avenues; for her,
+so that she might say, as she entered the little house of the Ternes,
+“It is windy; it is raining; the weather is pleasant;” mingling thus the
+ocean of things in the intimacy of her love. And every day was beautiful
+for her, since each one brought her to the arms of her beloved.
+
+While on her way that day to the little house of the Ternes she thought
+of her unexpected happiness, so full and so secure. She walked in the
+last glory of the sun already touched by winter, and said to herself:
+
+“He loves me; I believe he loves me entirely. To love is easier and more
+natural for him than for other men. They have in life ideas they think
+superior to love--faith, habits, interests. They believe in God, or
+in duties, or in themselves. He believes in me only. I am his God, his
+duty, and his life.”
+
+Then she thought:
+
+“It is true, too, that he needs nobody, not even me. His thoughts alone
+are a magnificent world in which he could easily live by himself. But
+I can not live without him. What would become of me if I did not have
+him?”
+
+She was not alarmed by the violent passion that he had for her. She
+recalled that she had said to him one day: “Your love for me is only
+sensual. I do not complain of it; it is perhaps the only true love.” And
+he had replied: “It is also the only grand and strong love. It has its
+measure and its weapons. It is full of meaning and of images. It is
+violent and mysterious. It attaches itself to the flesh and to the soul
+of the flesh. The rest is only illusion and untruth.” She was almost
+tranquil in her joy. Suspicions and anxieties had fled like the mists of
+a summer storm. The worst weather of their love had come when they had
+been separated from each other. One should never leave the one whom one
+loves.
+
+At the corner of the Avenue Marceau and of the Rue Galilee, she divined
+rather than recognized a shadow that had passed by her, a forgotten
+form. She thought, she wished to think, she was mistaken. The one whom
+she thought she had seen existed no longer, never had existed. It was
+a spectre seen in the limbo of another world, in the darkness of a half
+light. And she continued to walk, retaining of this ill-defined meeting
+an impression of coldness, of vague embarrassment, and of pain in the
+heart.
+
+As she proceeded along the avenue she saw coming toward her newspaper
+carriers holding the evening sheets announcing the new Cabinet. She
+traversed the square; her steps followed the happy impatience of her
+desire. She had visions of Jacques waiting for her at the foot of the
+stairway, among the marble figures; taking her in his arms and carrying
+her, trembling from kisses, to that room full of shadows and of
+delights, where the sweetness of life made her forget life.
+
+But in the solitude of the Avenue MacMahon, the shadow which she had
+seen at the corner of the Rue Galilee came near her with a directness
+that was unmistakable.
+
+She recognized Robert Le Menil, who, having followed her from the quay,
+was stopping her at the most quiet and secure place.
+
+His air, his attitude, expressed the simplicity of motive which had
+formerly pleased Therese. His face, naturally harsh, darkened by
+sunburn, somewhat hollowed, but calm, expressed profound suffering.
+
+“I must speak to you.”
+
+She slackened her pace. He walked by her side.
+
+“I have tried to forget you. After what had happened it was natural, was
+it not? I have done all I could. It was better to forget you, surely;
+but I could not. So I bought a boat, and I have been travelling for six
+months. You know, perhaps?”
+
+She made a sign that she knew.
+
+He continued:
+
+“The Rosebud, a beautiful yacht. There were six men in the crew. I
+manoeuvred with them. It was a pastime.”
+
+He paused. She was walking slowly, saddened, and, above all, annoyed.
+It seemed to her an absurd and painful thing, beyond all expression, to
+have to listen to such words from a stranger.
+
+He continued:
+
+“What I suffered on that boat I should be ashamed to tell you.”
+
+She felt he spoke the truth.
+
+“Oh, I forgive you--I have reflected alone a great deal. I passed many
+nights and days on the divan of the deckhouse, turning always the same
+ideas in my mind. For six months I have thought more than I ever did in
+my life. Do not laugh. There is nothing like suffering to enlarge the
+mind. I understand that if I have lost you the fault is mine. I should
+have known how to keep you. And I said to myself: ‘I did not know. Oh;
+if I could only begin again!’ By dint of thinking and of suffering, I
+understand. I know now that I did not sufficiently share your tastes
+and your ideas. You are a superior woman. I did not notice it before,
+because it was not for that that I loved you. Without suspecting it, I
+irritated you.”
+
+She shook her head. He insisted.
+
+“Yes, yes, I often wounded your feelings. I did not consider your
+delicacy. There were misunderstandings between us. The reason was, we
+have not the same temperament. And then, I did not know how to amuse
+you. I did not know how to give you the amusement you need. I did
+not procure for you the pleasures that a woman as intelligent as you
+requires.”
+
+So simple and so true was he in his regrets and in his pain, she found
+him worthy of sympathy. She said to him, softly:
+
+“My friend, I never had reason to complain of you.”
+
+He continued:
+
+“All I have said to you is true. I understood this when I was alone in
+my boat. I have spent hours on it to which I would not condemn my worst
+enemy. Often I felt like throwing myself into the water. I did not do
+it. Was it because I have religious principles or family sentiments, or
+because I have no courage? I do not know. The reason is, perhaps, that
+from a distance you held me to life. I was attracted by you, since I am
+here. For two days I have been watching you. I did not wish to reappear
+at your house. I should not have found you alone; I should not have been
+able to talk to you. And then you would have been forced to receive me.
+I thought it better to speak to you in the street. The idea came to me
+on the boat. I said to myself: ‘In the street she will listen to me only
+if she wishes, as she wished four years ago in the park of Joinville,
+you know, under the statues, near the crown.’”
+
+He continued, with a sigh:
+
+“Yes, as at Joinville, since all is to be begun again. For two days
+I have been watching you. Yesterday it was raining; you went out in a
+carriage. I might have followed you and learned where you were going
+if I wished to do it. I did not do it. I do not wish to do what would
+displease you.”
+
+She extended her hand to him.
+
+“I thank you. I knew I should not regret the trust I have placed in
+you.”
+
+Alarmed, impatient, fearing what more he might say, she tried to escape
+him.
+
+“Farewell! You have all life before you. You should be happy. Appreciate
+it, and do not torment yourself about things that are not worth the
+trouble.”
+
+He stopped her with a look. His face had changed to the violent and
+resolute expression which she knew.
+
+“I have told you I must speak to you. Listen to me for a minute.”
+
+She was thinking of Jacques, who was waiting for her. An occasional
+passer-by looked at her and went on his way. She stopped under the black
+branches of a tree, and waited with pity and fright in her soul.
+
+He said:
+
+“I forgive you and forget everything. Take me back. I will promise never
+to say a word of the past.”
+
+She shuddered, and made a movement of surprise and distaste so natural
+that he stopped. Then, after a moment of reflection:
+
+“My proposition to you is not an ordinary one, I know it well. But I
+have reflected. I have thought of everything. It is the only possible
+thing. Think of it, Therese, and do not reply at once.”
+
+“It would be wrong to deceive you. I can not, I will not do what you
+say; and you know the reason why.”
+
+A cab was passing slowly near them. She made a sign to the coachman to
+stop. Le Menil kept her a moment longer.
+
+“I knew you would say this to me, and that is the reason why I say to
+you, do not reply at once.”
+
+Her fingers on the handle of the door, she turned on him the glance of
+her gray eyes.
+
+It was a painful moment for him. He recalled the time when he saw those
+charming gray eyes gleam under half-closed lids. He smothered a sob, and
+murmured:
+
+“Listen; I can not live without you. I love you. It is now that I love
+you. Formerly I did not know.”
+
+And while she gave to the coachman, haphazard, the address of a tailor,
+Le Menil went away.
+
+The meeting gave her much uneasiness and anxiety. Since she was forced
+to meet him again, she would have preferred to see him violent and
+brutal, as he had been at Florence. At the corner of the avenue she said
+to the coachman:
+
+“To the Ternes.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXII. THE RED LILY
+
+It was Friday, at the opera. The curtain had fallen on Faust’s
+laboratory. From the orchestra, opera-glasses were raised in a surveying
+of the gold and purple theatre. The sombre drapery of the boxes framed
+the dazzling heads and bare shoulders of women. The amphitheatre bent
+above the parquette its garland of diamonds, hair, gauze, and satin. In
+the proscenium boxes were the wife of the Austrian Ambassador and the
+Duchess Gladwin; in the amphitheatre Berthe d’Osigny and Jane Tulle, the
+latter made famous the day before by the suicide of one of her lovers;
+in the boxes, Madame Berard de La Malle, her eyes lowered, her long
+eyelashes shading her pure cheeks; Princess Seniavine, who, looking
+superb, concealed under her fan panther--like yawnings; Madame de
+Morlaine, between two young women whom she was training in the elegances
+of the mind; Madame Meillan, resting assured on thirty years of
+sovereign beauty; Madame Berthier d’Eyzelles, erect under iron-gray hair
+sparkling with diamonds. The bloom of her cheeks heightened the austere
+dignity of her attitude. She was attracting much notice. It had been
+learned in the morning that, after the failure of Garain’s latest
+combination, M. Berthier-d’Eyzelles had, undertaken the task of forming
+a Ministry. The papers published lists with the name of Martin-Belleme
+for the treasury, and the opera-glasses were turned toward the still
+empty box of the Countess Martin.
+
+A murmur of voices filled the hall. In the third rank of the parquette,
+General Lariviere, standing at his place, was talking with General de La
+Briche.
+
+“I will do as you do, my old comrade, I will go and plant cabbages in
+Touraine.”
+
+He was in one of his moments of melancholy, when nothingness appeared to
+him to be the end of life. He had flattered Garain, and Garain, thinking
+him too clever, had preferred for Minister of War a shortsighted and
+national artillery general. At least, the General relished the pleasure
+of seeing Garain abandoned, betrayed by his friends Berthier-d’Eyzelles
+and Martin-Belleme. It made him laugh even to the wrinkles of his small
+eyes. He laughed in profile. Weary of a long life of dissimulation, he
+gave to himself suddenly the joy of expressing his thoughts.
+
+“You see, my good La Briche, they make fools of us with their civil
+army, which costs a great deal, and is worth nothing. Small armies are
+the only good ones. This was the opinion of Napoleon I, who knew.”
+
+“It is true, it is very true,” sighed General de La Briche, with tears
+in his eyes.
+
+Montessuy passed before them; Lariviere extended his hand to him.
+
+“They say, Montessuy, that you are the one who checked Garain. Accept my
+compliments.”
+
+Montessuy denied that he had exercised any political influence. He
+was not a senator nor a deputy, nor a councillor-general. And, looking
+through his glasses at the hall:
+
+“See, Lariviere, in that box at the right, a very beautiful woman, a
+brunette.”
+
+And he took his seat quietly, relishing the sweets of power.
+
+However, in the hall, in the corridors, the names of the new
+Ministers went from mouth to mouth in the midst of profound
+indifference: President of the Council and Minister of the Interior,
+Berthier-d’Eyzelles; justice and Religions, Loyer; Treasury,
+Martin-Belleme. All the ministers were known except those of Commerce,
+War, and the Navy, who were not yet designated.
+
+The curtain was raised on the wine-shop of Bacchus. The students were
+singing their second chorus when Madame Martin appeared in her box. Her
+white gown had sleeves like wings, and on the drapery of her corsage, at
+the left breast, shone a large ruby lily.
+
+Miss Bell sat near her, in a green velvet Queen Anne gown. Betrothed to
+Prince Eusebio Albertinelli della Spina, she had come to Paris to order
+her trousseau.
+
+In the movement and the noise of the kermess she said:
+
+“Darling, you have left at Florence a friend who retains the charm
+of your memory. It is Professor Arrighi. He reserves for you the
+praise-which he says is the most beautiful. He says you are a musical
+creature. But how could Professor Arrighi forget you, darling, since
+the trees in the garden have not forgotten you? Their unleaved branches
+lament your absence. Even they regret you, darling.”
+
+“Tell them,” said Therese, “that I have of Fiesole a delightful
+reminiscence, which I shall always keep.”
+
+In the rear of the opera-box M. Martin-Belleme was explaining in a
+low voice his ideas to Joseph Springer and to Duviquet. He was saying:
+“France’s signature is the best in the world.” He was inclined to
+prudence in financial matters.
+
+And Miss Bell said:
+
+“Darling, I will tell the trees of Fiesole that you regret them and that
+you will soon come to visit them on their hills. But I ask you, do you
+see Monsieur Dechartre in Paris? I should like to see him very much.
+I like him because his mind is graceful. Darling, the mind of Monsieur
+Dechartre is full of grace and elegance.”
+
+Therese replied M. Jacques Dechartre was doubtless in the theatre, and
+that he would not fail to come and salute Miss Bell.
+
+The curtain fell on the gayety of the waltz scene. Visitors crowded the
+foyers. Financiers, artists, deputies met in the anteroom adjoining the
+box. They surrounded M. Martin-Belleme, murmured polite congratulations,
+made graceful gestures to him, and crowded one another in order to shake
+his hand. Joseph Schmoll, coughing, complaining, blind and deaf, made
+his way through the throng and reached Madame Martin. He took her hand
+and said:
+
+“They say your husband is appointed Minister. Is it true?”
+
+She knew they were talking of it, but she did not think he had been
+appointed yet. Her husband was there, why not ask him?
+
+Sensitive to literal truths only, Schmoll said:
+
+“Your husband is not yet a Minister? When he is appointed, I will ask
+you for an interview. It is an affair of the highest importance.”
+
+He paused, throwing from his gold spectacles the glances of a blind man
+and of a visionary, which kept him, despite the brutal exactitude of his
+temperament, in a sort of mystical state of mind. He asked, brusquely:
+
+“Were you in Italy this year, Madame?”
+
+And, without giving her time to answer:
+
+“I know, I know. You went to Rome. You have looked at the arch of
+the infamous Titus, that execrable monument, where one may see the
+seven-branched candlestick among the spoils of the Jews. Well, Madame,
+it is a shame to the world that that monument remains standing in the
+city of Rome, where the Popes have subsisted only through the art of
+the Jews, financiers and money-changers. The Jews brought to Italy the
+science of Greece and of the Orient. The Renaissance, Madame, is the
+work of Israel. That is the truth, certain but misunderstood.”
+
+And he went through the crowd of visitors, crushing hats as he passed.
+
+Princess Seniavine looked at her friend from her box with the curiosity
+that the beauty of women at times excited in her. She made a sign to
+Paul Vence who was near her:
+
+“Do you not think Madame Martin is extraordinarily beautiful this year?”
+
+In the lobby, full of light and gold, General de La Briche asked
+Lariviere:
+
+“Did you see my nephew?”
+
+“Your nephew, Le Menil?”
+
+“Yes--Robert. He was in the theatre a moment ago.”
+
+La Briche remained pensive for a moment. Then he said:
+
+“He came this summer to Semanville. I thought him odd. A charming
+fellow, frank and intelligent. But he ought to have some occupation,
+some aim in life.”
+
+The bell which announced the end of an intermission between the acts had
+hushed. In the foyer the two old men were walking alone.
+
+“An aim in life,” repeated La Briche, tall, thin, and bent, while his
+companion, lightened and rejuvenated, hastened within, fearing to miss a
+scene.
+
+Marguerite, in the garden, was spinning and singing. When she had
+finished, Miss Bell said to Madame Martin:
+
+“Darling, Monsieur Choulette has written me a perfectly beautiful
+letter. He has told me that he is very celebrated. And I am glad to
+know it. He said also: ‘The glory of other poets reposes in myrrh and
+aromatic plants. Mine bleeds and moans under a rain of stones and of
+oyster-shells.’ Do the French, my love, really throw stones at Monsieur
+Choulette?”
+
+While Therese reassured Miss Bell, Loyer, imperious and somewhat noisy,
+caused the door of the box to be opened. He appeared wet and spattered
+with mud.
+
+“I come from the Elysee,” he said.
+
+He had the gallantry to announce to Madame Martin, first, the good news
+he was bringing:
+
+“The decrees are signed. Your husband has the Finances. It is a good
+portfolio.”
+
+“The President of the Republic,” inquired M. Martin--Belleme, “made no
+objection when my name was pronounced?”
+
+“No; Berthier praised the hereditary property of the Martins,
+your caution, and the links with which you are attached to certain
+personalities in the financial world whose concurrence may be useful
+to the government. And the President, in accordance with Garain’s happy
+expression, was inspired by the necessities of the situation. He has
+signed.”
+
+On Count Martin’s yellowed face two or three wrinkles appeared. He was
+smiling.
+
+“The decree,” continued Loyer, “will be published tomorrow. I
+accompanied myself the clerk who took it to the printer. It was surer.
+In Grevy’s time, and Grevy was not an idiot, decrees were intercepted in
+the journey from the Elysee to the Quai Voltaire.”
+
+And Loyer threw himself on a chair. There, enjoying the view of Madame
+Martin, he continued:
+
+“People will not say, as they did in the time of my poor friend
+Gambetta, that the republic is lacking in women. You will give us fine
+festivals, Madame, in the salons of the Ministry.”
+
+Marguerite, looking at herself in the mirror, with her necklace and
+earrings, was singing the jewel song.
+
+“We shall have to compose the declaration,” said Count Martin. “I have
+thought of it. For my department I have found, I think, a fine formula.”
+
+Loyer shrugged his shoulders.
+
+“My dear Martin, we have nothing essential to change in the declaration
+of the preceding Cabinet; the situation is unchanged.”
+
+He struck his forehead with his hand.
+
+“Oh, I had forgotten. We have made your friend, old Lariviere, Minister
+of War, without consulting him. I have to warn him.”
+
+He thought he could find him in the boulevard cafe, where military men
+go. But Count Martin knew the General was in the theatre.
+
+“I must find him,” said Loyer.
+
+Bowing to Therese, he said:
+
+“You permit me, Countess, to take your husband?”
+
+They had just gone out when Jacques Dechartre and Paul Vence came into
+the box.
+
+“I congratulate you, Madame,” said Paul Vence.
+
+But she turned toward Dechartre:
+
+“I hope you have not come to congratulate me, too.”
+
+Paul Vence asked her if she would move into the apartments of the
+Ministry.
+
+“Oh, no,” she replied.
+
+“At least, Madame,” said Paul Vence, “you will go to the balls at
+the Elysees, and we shall admire the art with which you retain your
+mysterious charm.”
+
+“Changes in cabinets,” said Madame Martin, “inspire you, Monsieur Vence,
+with very frivolous reflections.”
+
+“Madame,” continued Paul Vence, “I shall not say like Renan, my beloved
+master: ‘What does Sirius care?’ because somebody would reply with
+reason ‘What does little Earth care for big Sirius?’ But I am always
+surprised when people who are adult, and even old, let themselves be
+deluded by the illusion of power, as if hunger, love, and death, all
+the ignoble or sublime necessities of life, did not exercise on men an
+empire too sovereign to leave them anything other than power written on
+paper and an empire of words. And, what is still more marvellous, people
+imagine they have other chiefs of state and other ministers than their
+miseries, their desires, and their imbecility. He was a wise man who
+said: ‘Let us give to men irony and pity as witnesses and judges.’”
+
+“But, Monsieur Vence,” said Madame Martin, laughingly, “you are the man
+who wrote that. I read it.”
+
+The two Ministers looked vainly in the theatre and in the corridors for
+the General. On the advice of the ushers, they went behind the scenes.
+
+Two ballet-dancers were standing sadly, with a foot on the bar placed
+against the wall. Here and there men in evening dress and women in gauze
+formed groups almost silent.
+
+Loyer and Martin-Belleme, when they entered, took off their hats. They
+saw, in the rear of the hall, Lariviere with a pretty girl whose pink
+tunic, held by a gold belt, was open at the hips.
+
+She held in her hand a gilt pasteboard cup. When they were near her,
+they heard her say to the General:
+
+“You are old, to be sure, but I think you do as much as he does.”
+
+And she was pointing disdainfully to a grinning young man, with a
+gardenia in his button-hole, who stood near them.
+
+Loyer motioned to the General that he wished to speak to him, and,
+pushing him against the bar, said:
+
+“I have the pleasure to announce to you that you have been appointed
+Minister of War.”
+
+Lariviere, distrustful, said nothing. That badly dressed man with long
+hair, who, under his dusty coat, resembled a clown, inspired so little
+confidence in him that he suspected a snare, perhaps a bad joke.
+
+“Monsieur Loyer is Keeper of the Seals,” said Count Martin.
+
+“General, you cannot refuse,” Loyer said. “I have said you will accept.
+If you hesitate, it will be favoring the offensive return of Garain. He
+is a traitor.”
+
+“My dear colleague, you exaggerate,” said Count Martin; “but Garain,
+perhaps, is lacking a little in frankness. And the General’s support is
+urgent.”
+
+“The Fatherland before everything,” replied Lariviere with emotion.
+
+“You know, General,” continued Loyer, “the existing laws are to be
+applied with moderation.”
+
+He looked at the two dancers who were extending their short and muscular
+legs on the bar.
+
+Lariviere murmured:
+
+“The army’s patriotism is excellent; the good-will of the chiefs is at
+the height of the most critical circumstances.”
+
+Loyer tapped his shoulder.
+
+“My dear colleague, there is some use in having big armies.”
+
+“I believe as you do,” replied Lariviere; “the present army fills the
+superior necessities of national defence.”
+
+“The use of big armies,” continued Loyer, “is to make war impossible.
+One would be crazy to engage in a war these immeasurable forces, the
+management of which surpasses all human faculty. Is not this your
+opinion, General?”
+
+General Lariviere winked.
+
+“The situation,” he said, “exacts circumspection. We are facing a
+perilous unknown.”
+
+Then Loyer, looking at his war colleague with cynical contempt, said:
+
+“In the very improbable case of a war, don’t you think, my dear
+colleague, that the real generals would be the station-masters?”
+
+The three Ministers went out by the private stairway. The President of
+the Council was waiting for them.
+
+The last act had begun; Madame Martin had in her box only Dechartre and
+Miss Bell. Miss Bell was saying:
+
+“I rejoice, darling, I am exalted, at the thought that you wear on
+your heart the red lily of Florence. Monsieur Dechartre, whose soul is
+artistic, must be very glad, too, to see at your corsage that charming
+jewel.
+
+“I should like to know the jeweller that made it, darling. This lily
+is lithe and supple like an iris. Oh, it is elegant, magnificent, and
+cruel. Have you noticed, my love, that beautiful jewels have an air of
+magnificent cruelty?”
+
+“My jeweller,” said Therese, “is here, and you have named him; it is
+Monsieur Dechartre who designed this jewel.”
+
+The door of the box was opened. Therese half turned her head and saw in
+the shadow Le Menil, who was bowing to her with his brusque suppleness.
+
+“Transmit, I pray you, Madame, my congratulations to your husband.”
+
+He complimented her on her fine appearance. He spoke to Miss Bell a few
+courteous and precise words.
+
+Therese listened anxiously, her mouth half open in the painful effort
+to say insignificant things in reply. He asked her whether she had had a
+good season at Joinville. He would have liked to go in the hunting time,
+but could not. He had gone to the Mediterranean, then he had hunted at
+Semanville.
+
+“Oh, Monsieur Le Menil,” said Miss Bell, “you have wandered on the blue
+sea. Have you seen sirens?”
+
+No, he had not seen sirens, but for three days a dolphin had swum in the
+yacht’s wake.
+
+Miss Bell asked him if that dolphin liked music.
+
+He thought not.
+
+“Dolphins,” he said, “are very ordinary fish that sailors call
+sea-geese, because they have goose-shaped heads.”
+
+But Miss Bell would not believe that the monster which had earned the
+poet Arion had a goose-shaped head.
+
+“Monsieur Le Menil, if next year a dolphin comes to swim near your boat,
+I pray you play to him on the flute the Delphic Hymn to Apollo. Do you
+like the sea, Monsieur Le Menil?”
+
+“I prefer the woods.”
+
+Self-contained, simple, he talked quietly.
+
+“Oh, Monsieur Le Menil, I know you like woods where the hares dance in
+the moonlight.”
+
+Dechartre, pale, rose and went out.
+
+The church scene was on. Marguerite, kneeling, was wringing her hands,
+and her head drooped with the weight of her long tresses. The voices of
+the organ and the chorus sang the death-song.
+
+“Oh, darling, do you know that that death-song, which is sung only in
+the Catholic churches, comes from a Franciscan hermitage? It sounds
+like the wind which blows in winter in the trees on the summit of the
+Alverno.”
+
+Therese did not hear. Her soul had followed Dechartre through the door
+of her box.
+
+In the anteroom was a noise of overthrown chairs. It was Schmoll coming
+back. He had learned that M. Martin-Belleme had recently been appointed
+Minister. At once he claimed the cross of Commander of the Legion of
+Honor and a larger apartment at the Institute. His apartment was small,
+narrow, insufficient for his wife and his five daughters. He had been
+forced to put his workshop under the roof. He made long complaints, and
+consented to go only after Madame Martin had promised that she would
+speak to her husband.
+
+“Monsieur Le Menil,” asked Miss Bell, “shall you go yachting next year?”
+
+Le Menil thought not. He did not intend to keep the Rosebud. The water
+was tiresome.
+
+And calm, energetic, determined, he looked at Therese.
+
+On the stage, in Marguerite’s prison, Mephistopheles sang, and the
+orchestra imitated the gallop of horses. Therese murmured:
+
+“I have a headache. It is too warm here.”
+
+Le Menil opened the door.
+
+The clear phrase of Marguerite calling the angels ascended to heaven in
+white sparks.
+
+“Darling, I will tell you that poor Marguerite does not wish to be saved
+according to the flesh, and for that reason she is saved in spirit and
+in truth. I believe one thing, darling, I believe firmly we shall all be
+saved. Oh, yes, I believe in the final purification of sinners.”
+
+Therese rose, tall and white, with the red flower at her breast. Miss
+Bell, immovable, listened to the music. Le Menil, in the anteroom, took
+Madame Martin’s cloak, and, while he held it unfolded, she traversed the
+box, the anteroom, and stopped before the mirror of the half-open door.
+He placed on her bare shoulders the cape of red velvet embroidered with
+gold and lined with ermine, and said, in a low tone, but distinctly:
+
+“Therese, I love you. Remember what I asked you the day before
+yesterday. I shall be every day, at three o’clock, at our home, in the
+Rue Spontini.”
+
+At this moment, as she made a motion with her head to receive the cloak,
+she saw Dechartre with his hand on the knob of the door. He had heard.
+He looked at her with all the reproach and suffering that human eyes can
+contain. Then he went into the dim corridor. She felt hammers of fire
+beating in her chest and remained immovable on the threshold.
+
+“You were waiting for me?” said Montessuy. “You are left alone to-day. I
+will escort you and Miss Bell.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXIII. A WHITE NIGHT
+
+In the carriage, and in her room, she saw again the look of her lover,
+that cruel and dolorous look. She knew with what facility he fell into
+despair, the promptness of his will not to will. She had seen him run
+away thus on the shore of the Arno. Happy then in her sadness and in her
+anguish, she could run after him and say, “Come.” Now, again surrounded,
+watched, she should have found something to say, and not have let him
+go from her dumb and desolate. She had remained surprised, stunned. The
+accident had been so absurd and so rapid! She had against Le Menil the
+sentiment of simple anger which malicious things cause. She reproached
+herself bitterly for having permitted her lover to go without a word,
+without a glance, wherein she could have placed her soul.
+
+While Pauline waited to undress her, Therese walked to and fro
+impatiently. Then she stopped suddenly. In the obscure mirrors, wherein
+the reflections of the candles were drowned, she saw the corridor of the
+playhouse, and her beloved flying from her through it.
+
+Where was he now? What was he saying to himself alone? It was torture
+for her not to be able to rejoin him and see him again at once.
+
+She pressed her heart with her hands; she was smothering.
+
+Pauline uttered a cry. She saw drops of blood on the white corsage of
+her mistress.
+
+Therese, without knowing it, had pricked her hand with the red lily.
+
+She detached the emblematic jewel which she had worn before all as
+the dazzling secret of her heart, and, holding it in her fingers,
+contemplated it for a long time. Then she saw again the days of
+Florence--the cell of San Marco, where her lover’s kiss weighed
+delicately on her mouth, while, through her lowered lashes, she vaguely
+perceived again the angels and the sky painted on the wall, and the
+dazzling fountain of the ice-vender against the bright cloth; the
+pavilion of the Via Alfieri, its nymphs, its goats, and the room where
+the shepherds and the masks on the screens listened to her sighs and
+noted her long silences.
+
+No, all these things were not shadows of the past, spectres of ancient
+hours. They were the present reality of her love. And a word stupidly
+cast by a stranger would destroy these beautiful things! Happily, it was
+not possible. Her love, her lover, did not depend on such insignificant
+matters. If only she could run to his house! She would find him before
+the fire, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands, sad. Then she
+would run her fingers through his hair, force him to lift his head, to
+see that she loved him, that she was his treasure, palpitating with joy
+and love.
+
+She had dismissed her maid. In her bed she thought of only one thing.
+
+It was an accident, an absurd accident. He would understand it; he would
+know that their love had nothing to do with anything so stupid. What
+folly for him to care about another! As if there were other men in the
+world!
+
+M. Martin-Belleme half opened the bedroom door. Seeing a light he went
+in.
+
+“You are not asleep, Therese?”
+
+He had been at a conference with his colleagues. He wanted advice from
+his wife on certain points. He needed to hear sincere words.
+
+“It is done,” he said. “You will help me, I am sure, in my situation,
+which is much envied, but very difficult and even perilous. I owe it to
+you somewhat, since it came to me through the powerful influence of your
+father.”
+
+He consulted her on the choice of a Chief of Cabinet.
+
+She advised him as best she could. She thought he was sensible, calm,
+and not sillier than many others.
+
+He lost himself in reflections.
+
+“I have to defend before the Senate the budget voted by the Chamber of
+Deputies. The budget contains innovations which I did not approve. When
+I was a deputy I fought against them. Now that I am a minister I must
+support them. I saw things from the outside formerly. I see them from
+the inside now, and their aspect is changed. And, then, I am free no
+longer.”
+
+He sighed:
+
+“Ah, if the people only knew the little that we can do when we are
+powerful!”
+
+He told her his impressions. Berthier was reserved. The others were
+impenetrable. Loyer alone was excessively authoritative.
+
+She listened to him without attention and without impatience. His pale
+face and voice marked for her like a clock the minutes that passed with
+intolerable slowness.
+
+Loyer had odd sallies of wit. Immediately after he had declared his
+strict adhesion to the Concordat, he said: “Bishops are spiritual
+prefects. I will protect them since they belong to me. And through them
+I shall hold the guardians of souls, curates.”
+
+He recalled to her that she would have to meet people who were not of
+her class and who would shock her by their vulgarity. But his situation
+demanded that he should not disdain anybody. At all events, he counted
+on her tact and on her devotion.
+
+She looked at him, a little astonished.
+
+“There is no hurry, my dear. We shall see later.”
+
+He was tired. He said good-night and advised her to sleep. She was
+ruining her health by reading all night. He left her.
+
+She heard the noise of his footsteps, heavier than usual, while he
+traversed the library, encumbered with blue books and journals, to reach
+his room, where he would perhaps sleep. Then she felt the weight on her
+of the night’s silence. She looked at her watch. It was half-past one.
+
+She said to herself: “He, too, is suffering. He looked at me with so
+much despair and anger.”
+
+She was courageous and ardent. She was impatient at being a prisoner.
+When daylight came, she would go, she would see him, she would explain
+everything to him. It was so clear! In the painful monotony of her
+thought, she listened to the rolling of wagons which at long intervals
+passed on the quay. That noise preoccupied, almost interested her. She
+listened to the rumble, at first faint and distant, then louder, in
+which she could distinguish the rolling of the wheels, the creaking
+of the axles, the shock of horses’ shoes, which, decreasing little by
+little, ended in an imperceptible murmur.
+
+And when silence returned, she fell again into her reverie.
+
+He would understand that she loved him, that she had never loved any one
+except him. It was unfortunate that the night was so long. She did not
+dare to look at her watch for fear of seeing in it the immobility of
+time.
+
+She rose, went to the window, and drew the curtains. There was a pale
+light in the clouded sky. She thought it might be the beginning of dawn.
+She looked at her watch. It was half-past three.
+
+She returned to the window. The sombre infinity outdoors attracted her.
+She looked. The sidewalks shone under the gas-jets. A gentle rain was
+falling. Suddenly a voice ascended in the silence; acute, and then
+grave, it seemed to be made of several voices replying to one another.
+It--was a drunkard disputing with the beings of his dream, to whom he
+generously gave utterance, and whom he confounded afterward with great
+gestures and in furious sentences. Therese could see the poor man
+walk along the parapet in his white blouse, and she could hear words
+recurring incessantly: “That is what I say to the government.”
+
+Chilled, she returned to her bed. She thought, “He is jealous, he is
+madly jealous. It is a question of nerves and of blood. But his love,
+too, is an affair of blood and of nerves. His love and his jealousy are
+one and the same thing. Another would understand. It would be sufficient
+to please his self-love.” But he was jealous from the depth of his soul.
+She knew this; she knew that in him jealousy was a physical torture, a
+wound enlarged by imagination. She knew how profound the evil was. She
+had seen him grow pale before the bronze St. Mark when she had thrown
+the letter in the box on the wall of the old Florentine house at a time
+when she was his only in dreams.
+
+She recalled his smothered complaints, his sudden fits of sadness, and
+the painful mystery of the words which he repeated frequently: “I can
+forget you only when I am with you.” She saw again the Dinard letter and
+his furious despair at a word overheard at a wine-shop table. She felt
+that the blow had been struck accidentally at the most sensitive point,
+at the bleeding wound. But she did not lose courage. She would tell
+everything, she would confess everything, and all her avowals would say
+to him: “I love you. I have never loved any one except you!” She had not
+betrayed him. She would tell him nothing that he had not guessed. She
+had lied so little, as little as possible, and then only not to give
+him pain. How could he not understand? It was better he should know
+everything, since everything meant nothing. She represented to herself
+incessantly the same ideas, repeated to herself the same words.
+
+Her lamp gave only a smoky light. She lighted candles. It was six
+o’clock. She realized that she had slept. She ran to the window. The sky
+was black, and mingled with the earth in a chaos of thick darkness. Then
+she was curious to know exactly at what hour the sun would rise. She had
+had no idea of this. She thought only that nights were long in December.
+She did not think of looking at the calendar. The heavy step of workmen
+walking in squads, the noise of wagons of milkmen and marketmen, came
+to her ear like sounds of good augury. She shuddered at this first
+awakening of the city.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXIV. “I SEE THE OTHER WITH YOU ALWAYS!”
+
+At nine o’clock, in the yard of the little house, she observed M.
+Fusellier sweeping, in the rain, while smoking his pipe. Madame
+Fusellier came out of her box. Both looked embarrassed. Madame Fusellier
+was the first to speak:
+
+“Monsieur Jacques is not at home.” And, as Therese remained silent,
+immovable, Fusellier came near her with his broom, hiding with his left
+hand his pipe behind his back--
+
+“Monsieur Jacques has not yet come home.”
+
+“I will wait for him,” said Therese.
+
+Madame Fusellier led her to the parlor, where she lighted the fire. As
+the wood smoked and would not flame, she remained bent, with her hands
+on her knees.
+
+“It is the rain,” she said, “which causes the smoke.”
+
+Madame Martin said it was not worth while to make a fire, that she did
+not feel cold.
+
+She saw herself in the glass.
+
+She was livid, with glowing spots on her cheeks. Then only she felt that
+her feet were frozen. She approached the fire. Madame Fusellier, seeing
+her anxious, spoke softly to her:
+
+“Monsieur Jacques will come soon. Let Madame warm herself while waiting
+for him.”
+
+A dim light fell with the rain on the glass ceiling.
+
+Upon the wall, the lady with the unicorn was not beautiful among the
+cavaliers in a forest full of flowers and birds. Therese was repeating
+to herself the words: “He has not yet come home.” And by dint of saying
+this she lost the meaning of it. With burning eyes she looked at the
+door.
+
+She remained thus without a movement, without a thought, for a time the
+duration of which she did not know; perhaps half an hour. The noise of
+a footstep came to her, the door was opened. He came in. She saw that he
+was wet with rain and mud, and burning with fever.
+
+She fixed on him a look so sincere and so frank that it struck him. But
+almost at once he recalled within himself all his sufferings.
+
+He said to her:
+
+“What do you want of me? You have done me all the harm you could do me.”
+
+Fatigue gave him an air of gentleness. It frightened her.
+
+“Jacques, listen to me!”
+
+He motioned to her that he wished to hear nothing from her.
+
+“Jacques, listen to me. I have not deceived you. Oh, no, I have not
+deceived you. Was it possible? Was it--”
+
+He interrupted her:
+
+“Have some pity for me. Do not make me suffer again. Leave me, I pray
+you. If you knew the night I have passed, you would not have the courage
+to torment me again.”
+
+He let himself fall on the divan. He had walked all night. Not to suffer
+too much, he had tried to find diversions. On the Bercy Quay he had
+looked at the moon floating in the clouds. For an hour he had seen it
+veil itself and reappear. Then he had counted the windows of houses with
+minute care. The rain began to fall. He had gone to the market and had
+drunk whiskey in a wine-room. A big girl who squinted had said to him,
+“You don’t look happy.” He had fallen half asleep on the leather bench.
+It had been a moment of oblivion. The images of that painful night
+passed before his eyes. He said: “I recalled the night of the Arno. You
+have spoiled for me all the joy and beauty in the world.” He asked her
+to leave him alone. In his lassitude he had a great pity for himself. He
+would have liked to sleep--not to die; he held death in horror--but
+to sleep and never to wake again. Yet, before him, as desirable
+as formerly, despite the painful fixity of her dry eyes, and more
+mysterious than ever, he saw her. His hatred was vivified by suffering.
+
+She extended her arms to him. “Listen to me, Jacques.” He motioned to
+her that it was useless for her to speak. Yet he wished to listen to
+her, and already he was listening with avidity. He detested and rejected
+in advance what she would say, but nothing else in the world interested
+him.
+
+She said:
+
+“You may have believed I was betraying you, that I was not living for
+you alone. But can you not understand anything? You do not see that if
+that man were my lover it would not have been necessary for him to talk
+to me at the play-house in that box; he would have a thousand other ways
+of meeting me. Oh, no, my friend, I assure you that since the day when I
+had the happiness to meet you, I have been yours entirely. Could I have
+been another’s? What you imagine is monstrous. But I love you, I love
+you! I love only you. I never have loved any one except you.”
+
+He replied slowly, with cruel heaviness:
+
+“‘I shall be every day, at three o’clock, at our home, in the Rue
+Spontini.’ It was not a lover, your lover, who said these things? No! it
+was a stranger, an unknown person.”
+
+She straightened herself, and with painful gravity said:
+
+“Yes, I had been his. You knew it. I have denied it, I have told an
+untruth, not to irritate or grieve you. I saw you so anxious. But I lied
+so little and so badly. You knew. Do not reproach me for it. You knew;
+you often spoke to me of the past, and then one day somebody told you
+at the restaurant--and you imagined much more than ever happened. While
+telling an untruth, I was not deceiving you. If you knew the little that
+he was in my life! There! I did not know you. I did not know you were to
+come. I was lonely.”
+
+She fell on her knees.
+
+“I was wrong. I should have waited for you. But if you knew how slight a
+matter that was in my life!”
+
+And with her voice modulated to a soft and singing complaint she said:
+
+“Why did you not come sooner, why?”
+
+She dragged herself to him, tried to take his hands. He repelled her.
+
+“I was stupid. I did not think. I did not know. I did not wish to know.”
+
+He rose and exclaimed, in an explosion of hatred:
+
+“I did not wish him to be that man.”
+
+She sat in the place which he had left, and there, plaintively, in a
+low voice, she explained the past. In that time she lived in a world
+horribly commonplace. She had yielded, but she had regretted at once.
+If he but knew the sadness of her life he would not be jealous. He
+would pity her. She shook her head and said, looking at him through the
+falling locks of her hair:
+
+“I am talking to you of another woman. There is nothing in common
+between that woman and me. I exist only since I have known you, since I
+have belonged to you.”
+
+He walked about the room madly. He laughed painfully.
+
+“Yes; but while you loved me, the other woman--the one who was not you?”
+
+She looked at him indignantly:
+
+“Can you believe--”
+
+“Did you not see him again at Florence? Did you not accompany him to the
+station?”
+
+She told him that he had come to Italy to find her; that she had seen
+him; that she had broken with him; that he had gone, irritated, and that
+since then he was trying to win her back; but that she had not even paid
+any attention to him.
+
+“My beloved, I see, I know, only you in the world.” He shook his head.
+
+“I do not believe you.”
+
+She revolted.
+
+“I have told you everything. Accuse me, condemn me, but do not offend me
+in my love for you.”
+
+He shook his head.
+
+“Leave me. You have harmed me too much. I have loved you so much that
+all the pain which you could have given me I would have taken, kept,
+loved; but this is too hideous. I hate it. Leave me. I am suffering too
+much. Farewell!”
+
+She stood erect.
+
+“I have come. It is my happiness, it is my life, I am fighting for. I
+will not go.”
+
+And she said again all that she had already said. Violent and sincere,
+sure of herself, she explained how she had broken the tie which was
+already loose and irritated her; how since the day when she had loved
+him she had been his only, without regret, without a wandering look or
+thought. But in speaking to him of another she irritated him. And he
+shouted at her:
+
+“I do not believe you.”
+
+She only repeated her declarations.
+
+And suddenly, instinctively, she looked at her watch:
+
+“Oh, it is noon!”
+
+She had often given that cry of alarm when the farewell hour had
+surprised them. And Jacques shuddered at the phrase which was so
+familiar, so painful, and was this time so desperate. For a few minutes
+more she said ardent words and shed tears. Then she left him; she had
+gained nothing.
+
+At her house she found in the waiting-room the marketwoman, who had come
+to present a bouquet to her. She remembered that her husband was a
+State minister. There were telegrams, visiting-cards and letters,
+congratulations and solicitations. Madame Marmet wrote to recommend her
+nephew to General Lariviere.
+
+She went into the dining-room and fell in a chair. M. Martin-Belleme was
+just finishing his breakfast. He was expected at the Cabinet Council and
+at the former Finance Minister’s, to whom he owed a call.
+
+“Do not forget, my dear friend, to call on Madame Berthier d’Eyzelles.
+You know how sensitive she is.”
+
+She made no answer. While he was dipping his fingers in the glass bowl,
+he saw she was so tired that he dared not say any more. He found himself
+in the presence of a secret which he did not wish to know; in presence
+of an intimate suffering which one word would reveal. He felt anxiety,
+fear, and a certain respect.
+
+He threw down his napkin.
+
+“Excuse me, dear.”
+
+He went out.
+
+She tried to eat, but could swallow nothing.
+
+At two o’clock she returned to the little house of the Ternes. She
+found Jacques in his room. He was smoking a wooden pipe. A cup of coffee
+almost empty was on the table. He looked at her with a harshness that
+chilled her. She dared not talk, feeling that everything that she could
+say would offend and irritate him, and yet she knew that in remaining
+discreet and dumb she intensified his anger. He knew that she would
+return; he had waited for her with impatience. A sudden light came to
+her, and she saw that she had done wrong to come; that if she had been
+absent he would have desired, wanted, called for her, perhaps. But it
+was too late; and, at all events, she was not trying to be crafty.
+
+She said to him:
+
+“You see I have returned. I could not do otherwise. And then it was
+natural, since I love you. And you know it.”
+
+She knew very well that all she could say would only irritate him. He
+asked her whether that was the way she spoke in the Rue Spontini.
+
+She looked at him with sadness.
+
+“Jacques, you have often told me that there were hatred and anger in
+your heart against me. You like to make me suffer. I can see it.”
+
+With ardent patience, at length, she told him her entire life, the
+little that she had put into it; the sadness of the past; and how, since
+he had known her, she had lived only through him and in him.
+
+The words fell as limpid as her look. She sat near him. He listened
+to her with bitter avidity. Cruel with himself, he wished to know
+everything about her last meetings with the other. She reported
+faithfully the events of the Great Britain Hotel; but she changed the
+scene to the outside, in an alley of the Casino, from fear that the
+image of their sad interview in a closed room should irritate her lover.
+Then she explained the meeting at the station. She had not wished to
+cause despair to a suffering man who was so violent. But since then
+she had had no news from him until the day when he spoke to her on the
+street. She repeated what she had replied to him. Two days later she had
+seen him at the opera, in her box. Certainly, she had not encouraged him
+to come. It was the truth.
+
+It was the truth. But the old poison, slowly accumulating in his mind,
+burned him. She made the past, the irreparable past, present to him, by
+her avowals. He saw images of it which tortured him. He said:
+
+“I do not believe you.”
+
+And he added:
+
+“And if I believed you, I could not see you again, because of the idea
+that you have loved that man. I have told you, I have written to you,
+you remember, that I did not wish him to be that man. And since--”
+
+He stopped.
+
+She said:
+
+“You know very well that since then nothing has happened.”
+
+He replied, with violence:
+
+“Since then I have seen him.”
+
+They remained silent for a long time. Then she said, surprised and
+plaintive:
+
+“But, my friend, you should have thought that a woman such as I, married
+as I was--every day one sees women bring to their lovers a past darker
+than mine and yet they inspire love. Ah, my past--if you knew how
+insignificant it was!”
+
+“I know what you can give. One can not forgive to you what one may
+forgive to another.”
+
+“But, my friend, I am like others.”
+
+“No, you are not like others. To you one can not forgive anything.”
+
+He talked with set teeth. His eyes, which she had seen so large, glowing
+with tenderness, were now dry, harsh, narrowed between wrinkled lids and
+cast a new glance at her. He frightened her. She went to the rear of
+the room, sat on a chair, and there she remained, trembling, for a long
+time, smothered by her sobs. Then she broke into tears.
+
+He sighed:
+
+“Why did I ever know you?”
+
+She replied, weeping:
+
+“I do not regret having known you. I am dying of it, and I do not regret
+it. I have loved.”
+
+He stubbornly continued to make her suffer. He felt that he was playing
+an odious part, but he could not stop.
+
+“It is possible, after all, that you have loved me too.”
+
+She answered, with soft bitterness:
+
+“But I have loved only you. I have loved you too much. And it is for
+that you are punishing me. Oh, can you think that I was to another what
+I have been to you?”
+
+“Why not?”
+
+She looked at him without force and without courage.
+
+“It is true that you do not believe me.”
+
+She added softly:
+
+“If I killed myself would you believe me?”
+
+“No, I would not believe you.”
+
+She wiped her cheeks with her handkerchief; then, lifting her eyes,
+shining through her tears, she said:
+
+“Then, all is at an end!”
+
+She rose, saw again in the room the thousand things with which she had
+lived in laughing intimacy, which she had regarded as hers, now suddenly
+become nothing to her, and confronting her as a stranger and an enemy.
+She saw again the nude woman who made, while running, the gesture which
+had not been explained to her; the Florentine models which recalled
+to her Fiesole and the enchanted hours of Italy; the profile sketch by
+Dechartre of the girl who laughed in her pretty pathetic thinness. She
+stopped a moment sympathetically in front of that little newspaper
+girl who had come there too, and had disappeared, carried away in the
+irresistible current of life and of events.
+
+She repeated:
+
+“Then all is at an end?”
+
+He remained silent.
+
+The twilight made the room dim.
+
+“What will become of me?” she asked.
+
+“And what will become of me?” he replied.
+
+They looked at each other with sympathy, because each was moved with
+self-pity.
+
+Therese said again:
+
+“And I, who feared to grow old in your eyes, for fear our beautiful
+love should end! It would have been better if it had never come. Yes,
+it would be better if I had not been born. What a presentiment was that
+which came to me, when a child, under the lindens of Joinville, before
+the marble nymphs! I wished to die then.”
+
+Her arms fell, and clasping her hands she lifted her eyes; her wet
+glance threw a light in the shadows.
+
+“Is there not a way of my making you feel that what I am saying to you
+is true? That never since I have been yours, never--But how could I? The
+very idea of it seems horrible, absurd. Do you know me so little?”
+
+He shook his head sadly. “I do not know you.”
+
+She questioned once more with her eyes all the objects in the room.
+
+“But then, what we have been to each other was vain, useless. Men and
+women break themselves against one another; they do not mingle.”
+
+She revolted. It was not possible that he should not feel what he was
+to her. And, in the ardor of her love, she threw herself on him and
+smothered him with kisses and tears. He forgot everything, and took her
+in his arms--sobbing, weak, yet happy--and clasped her close with the
+fierceness of desire. With her head leaning back against the pillow, she
+smiled through her tears. Then, brusquely he disengaged himself.
+
+“I do not see you alone. I see the other with you always.” She looked at
+him, dumb, indignant, desperate. Then, feeling that all was indeed at
+an end, she cast around her a surprised glance of her unseeing eyes, and
+went slowly away.
+
+
+     ETEXT EDITOR’S BOOKMARKS:
+
+     A woman is frank when she does not lie uselessly
+     A hero must be human. Napoleon was human
+     Anti-Semitism is making fearful progress everywhere
+     Brilliancy of a fortune too new
+     Curious to know her face of that day
+     Disappointed her to escape the danger she had feared
+     Do you think that people have not talked about us?
+     Does not wish one to treat it with either timidity or brutality
+     Does one ever possess what one loves?
+     Each had regained freedom, but he did not like to be alone
+     Each was moved with self-pity
+     Everybody knows about that
+     Fringe which makes an unlovely border to the city
+     Gave value to her affability by not squandering it
+     He could not imagine that often words are the same as actions
+     He studied until the last moment
+     He is not intelligent enough to doubt
+     He does not bear ill-will to those whom he persecutes
+     He knew now the divine malady of love
+     Her husband had become quite bearable
+     His habit of pleasing had prolonged his youth
+     (Housemaid) is trained to respect my disorder
+     I love myself because you love me
+     I can forget you only when I am with you
+     I wished to spoil our past
+     I feel in them (churches) the grandeur of nothingness
+     I have to pay for the happiness you give me
+     I gave myself to him because he loved me
+     I haven’t a taste, I have tastes
+     I have known things which I know no more
+     I do not desire your friendship
+     Ideas they think superior to love--faith, habits, interests
+     Immobility of time
+     Impatient at praise which was not destined for himself
+     Incapable of conceiving that one might talk without an object
+     It was torture for her not to be able to rejoin him
+     It is an error to be in the right too soon
+     It was too late: she did not wish to win
+     Jealous without having the right to be jealous
+     Kisses and caresses are the effort of a delightful despair
+     Knew that life is not worth so much anxiety nor so much hope
+     Laughing in every wrinkle of his face
+     Learn to live without desire
+     Let us give to men irony and pity as witnesses and judges
+     Life as a whole is too vast and too remote
+     Life is made up of just such trifles
+     Life is not a great thing
+     Little that we can do when we are powerful
+     Love is a soft and terrible force, more powerful than beauty
+     Love was only a brief intoxication
+     Lovers never separate kindly
+     Made life give all it could yield
+     Magnificent air of those beggars of whom small towns are proud
+     Miserable beings who contribute to the grandeur of the past
+     Nobody troubled himself about that originality
+     None but fools resisted the current
+     Not everything is known, but everything is said
+     Nothing is so legitimate, so human, as to deceive pain
+     One would think that the wind would put them out: the stars
+     One who first thought of pasting a canvas on a panel
+     One is never kind when one is in love
+     One should never leave the one whom one loves
+     Picturesquely ugly
+     Recesses of her mind which she preferred not to open
+     Relatives whom she did not know and who irritated her
+     Seemed to him that men were grains in a coffee-mill
+     She pleased society by appearing to find pleasure in it
+     She is happy, since she likes to remember
+     Should like better to do an immoral thing than a cruel one
+     Simple people who doubt neither themselves nor others
+     Since she was in love, she had lost prudence
+     So well satisfied with his reply that he repeated it twice
+     Superior men sometimes lack cleverness
+     That sort of cold charity which is called altruism
+     That if we live the reason is that we hope
+     That absurd and generous fury for ownership
+     The most radical breviary of scepticism since Montaigne
+     The door of one’s room opens on the infinite
+     The past is the only human reality--Everything that is, is past
+     The one whom you will love and who will love you will harm you
+     The violent pleasure of losing
+     The discouragement which the irreparable gives
+     The real support of a government is the Opposition
+     The politician never should be in advance of circumstances
+     There is nothing good except to ignore and to forget
+     There are many grand and strong things which you do not feel
+     They are the coffin saying: ‘I am the cradle’
+     To be beautiful, must a woman have that thin form
+     Trying to make Therese admire what she did not know
+     Umbrellas, like black turtles under the watery skies
+     Unfortunate creature who is the plaything of life
+     Was I not warned enough of the sadness of everything?
+     We are too happy; we are robbing life
+     What will be the use of having tormented ourselves in this world
+     Whether they know or do not know, they talk
+     Women do not always confess it, but it is always their fault
+     You must take me with my own soul!
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of Project Gutenberg’s The Red Lily, Complete, by Anatole France
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diff --git a/beken.ipynb b/beken.ipynb
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..5e25d9f
--- /dev/null
+++ b/beken.ipynb
@@ -0,0 +1,319 @@
+{
+ "cells": [
+  {
+   "cell_type": "markdown",
+   "metadata": {},
+   "source": [
+    "### Example 1 Compare word frequencies in 2 books of the same author\n",
+    "\n",
+    "Books are The Red Lily, Complete and The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard.\n"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "code",
+   "execution_count": 5,
+   "metadata": {},
+   "outputs": [],
+   "source": [
+    "import requests, re, nltk\n",
+    "from bs4 import BeautifulSoup\n",
+    "from nltk import clean_html\n",
+    "from collections import Counter\n",
+    "import operator\n",
+    "\n",
+    "# we may not care about the usage of stop words\n",
+    "stop_words = nltk.corpus.stopwords.words('english') + [\n",
+    " 'ut', '\\'re','.', ',', '--', '\\'s', '?', ')', '(', ':', '\\'',\n",
+    " '\\\"', '-', '}', '{', '&', '|', u'\\u2014' ]\n",
+    "\n",
+    "# We most likely would like to remove html markup\n",
+    "def cleanHtml (html):\n",
+    "    from bs4 import BeautifulSoup\n",
+    "    soup = BeautifulSoup(html, 'html.parser')\n",
+    "    return soup .get_text()\n",
+    "\n",
+    "# We also want to remove special characters, quotes, etc. from each word\n",
+    "def cleanWord (w):\n",
+    "    # r in r'[.,\"\\']' tells to treat \\ as a regular character \n",
+    "    # but we need to escape ' with \\'\n",
+    "    # any character between the brackets [] is to be removed \n",
+    "    wn = re.sub('[,\"\\.\\'&\\|:@>*;/=]', \"\", w)\n",
+    "    # get rid of numbers\n",
+    "    return re.sub('^[0-9\\.]*$', \"\", wn)\n",
+    "       \n",
+    "# define a function to get text/clean/calculate frequency\n",
+    "def get_wf (URL):\n",
+    "    # first get the web page\n",
+    "    r = requests .get(URL)\n",
+    "    \n",
+    "    # Now clean\n",
+    "    # remove html markup\n",
+    "    t = cleanHtml (r .text) .lower()\n",
+    "    \n",
+    "    # split string into an array of words using any sequence of spaces \"\\s+\" \n",
+    "    wds = re .split('\\s+',t)\n",
+    "    \n",
+    "    # remove periods, commas, etc stuck to the edges of words\n",
+    "    for i in range(len(wds)):\n",
+    "        wds [i] = cleanWord (wds [i])\n",
+    "    \n",
+    "    # If satisfied with results, lets go to the next step: calculate frequencies\n",
+    "    # We can write a loop to create a dictionary, but \n",
+    "    # there is a special function for everything in python\n",
+    "    # in particular for counting frequencies (like function table() in R)\n",
+    "    wf = Counter (wds)\n",
+    "    \n",
+    "    # Remove stop words from the dictionary wf\n",
+    "    for k in stop_words:\n",
+    "        wf. pop(k, None)\n",
+    "        \n",
+    "    #how many regular words in the document?\n",
+    "    tw = 0\n",
+    "    for w in wf:\n",
+    "       tw += wf[w] \n",
+    "        \n",
+    "    \n",
+    "    # Get ordered list\n",
+    "    wfs = sorted (wf .items(), key = operator.itemgetter(1), reverse=True)\n",
+    "    ml = min(len(wfs),15)\n",
+    "\n",
+    "    #Reverse the list because barh plots items from the bottom\n",
+    "    return (wfs [ 0:ml ] [::-1], tw)\n",
+    "        \n",
+    "# Now populate two lists    \n",
+    "(wf_ee, tw_ee) = get_wf('https://www.gutenberg.org/files/2123/2123-0.txt')\n",
+    "(wf_bu, tw_bu) = get_wf('https://www.gutenberg.org/files/3922/3922-0.txt')\n"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "code",
+   "execution_count": 7,
+   "metadata": {},
+   "outputs": [
+    {
+     "data": {
+      "image/png": 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\n",
+      "text/plain": [
+       "<Figure size 720x432 with 3 Axes>"
+      ]
+     },
+     "metadata": {},
+     "output_type": "display_data"
+    }
+   ],
+   "source": [
+    "#Plot the results: are there striking differences in language?\n",
+    "import numpy as np\n",
+    "import pylab\n",
+    "import matplotlib.pyplot as plt\n",
+    "\n",
+    "%matplotlib inline\n",
+    "def plotTwoLists (wf_ee, wf_bu, title):\n",
+    "    f = plt.figure (figsize=(10, 6))\n",
+    "    # this is painfully tedious....\n",
+    "    f .suptitle (title, fontsize=20)\n",
+    "    ax = f.add_subplot(111)\n",
+    "    ax .spines ['top'] .set_color ('none')\n",
+    "    ax .spines ['bottom'] .set_color ('none')\n",
+    "    ax .spines ['left'] .set_color ('none')\n",
+    "    ax .spines ['right'] .set_color ('none')\n",
+    "    ax .tick_params (labelcolor='w', top='off', bottom='off', left='off', right='off', labelsize=20)\n",
+    "\n",
+    "    # Create two subplots, this is the first one\n",
+    "    ax1 = f .add_subplot (121)\n",
+    "    plt .subplots_adjust (wspace=.5)\n",
+    "\n",
+    "    pos = np .arange (len(wf_ee)) \n",
+    "    ax1 .tick_params (axis='both', which='major', labelsize=14)\n",
+    "    pylab .yticks (pos-1, [ x [0] for x in wf_ee ])\n",
+    "    ax1 .barh (range(len(wf_ee)), [ x [1] for x in wf_ee ], align='center')\n",
+    "\n",
+    "    ax2 = f .add_subplot (122)\n",
+    "    ax2 .tick_params (axis='both', which='major', labelsize=14)\n",
+    "    pos = np .arange (len(wf_bu)) \n",
+    "    pylab .yticks (pos, [ x [0] for x in wf_bu ])\n",
+    "    ax2 .barh (range (len(wf_bu)), [ x [1] for x in wf_bu ], align='center')\n",
+    "\n",
+    "plotTwoLists (wf_ee, wf_bu, 'Difference between The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard and The Red Lily ')"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "markdown",
+   "metadata": {},
+   "source": [
+    "### Example 2 Compare word frequencies between works of two authors.\n",
+    "\n",
+    "Books are The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard and Celebrated Crimes."
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "code",
+   "execution_count": 9,
+   "metadata": {},
+   "outputs": [
+    {
+     "data": {
+      "image/png": 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\n",
+      "text/plain": [
+       "<Figure size 720x432 with 3 Axes>"
+      ]
+     },
+     "metadata": {},
+     "output_type": "display_data"
+    }
+   ],
+   "source": [
+    "(wf_cc, tw_cc) = get_wf('https://www.gutenberg.org/files/2760/2760-0.txt') \n",
+    "plotTwoLists (wf_ee, wf_cc, 'Difference between The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard and Celebrated Crimes')\n"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "code",
+   "execution_count": 3,
+   "metadata": {},
+   "outputs": [
+    {
+     "name": "stdout",
+     "output_type": "stream",
+     "text": [
+      "of\t2455\n",
+      "to\t2199\n",
+      "I\t2002\n",
+      "and\t1637\n",
+      "a\t1635\n",
+      "in\t1112\n",
+      "that\t892\n",
+      "my\t814\n",
+      "is\t671\n",
+      "with\t641\n",
+      "was\t586\n",
+      "her\t552\n",
+      "you\t514\n",
+      "me\t510\n"
+     ]
+    }
+   ],
+   "source": [
+    "#In case Project gutenberg is blocked you can download text to your laptop and copy to the docker container via scp\n",
+    "#Assuming the file name you copy is pg4680.txt here is how you change the script\n",
+    "# Please note the option errors='replace'\n",
+    "# without it python invariably runs into unicode errors\n",
+    "f = open ('sylvester.txt', 'r', encoding=\"ascii\", errors='replace')\n",
+    "    \n",
+    "# What comes back includes headers and other HTTP stuff, get just the body of the response\n",
+    "t = f.read()\n",
+    "\n",
+    "# obtain words by splitting a string using as separator one or more (+) space/like characters (\\s) \n",
+    "wds = re.split('\\s+',t)\n",
+    "\n",
+    "# now populate a dictionary (wf)\n",
+    "wf = {}\n",
+    "for w in wds:\n",
+    "    if w in wf: wf [w] = wf [w] + 1\n",
+    "    else:  wf [w] = 1\n",
+    "\n",
+    "# dictionaries can not be sorted, so lets get a sorted *list*        \n",
+    "wfs = sorted (wf .items(), key = operator .itemgetter (1), reverse=True)   \n",
+    "\n",
+    "# lets just have no more than 15 words \n",
+    "ml = min(len(wfs),15)\n",
+    "for i in range(1,ml,1):\n",
+    "    print (wfs[i][0]+\"\\t\"+str(wfs[i][1]))  "
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "code",
+   "execution_count": null,
+   "metadata": {},
+   "outputs": [],
+   "source": []
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "markdown",
+   "metadata": {},
+   "source": [
+    "# Assignment 1\n",
+    "\n",
+    "1. Compare word frequencies between two works of a single author.\n",
+    "1. Compare word frequencies between works of two authors.\n",
+    "1. Are there some words preferred by one author but used less frequently by another author?\n",
+    "\n",
+    "Extra credit\n",
+    "\n",
+    "1. The frequency of a specific word, e.g., \"would\" should follow a binomial distribution (each regular word in a document is a trial and with probability p that word is \"would\". The estimate for p is N(\"would\")/N(regular word)). Do these binomial distributions for your chosen word differ significantly between books of the same author or between authors? \n",
+    "\n",
+    "Project Gutenberg is a good source of for fiction and non-fiction.\n",
+    "\n",
+    "E.g below are two most popular books from Project Gutenberg:\n",
+    "- Pride and Prejudice at http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1342.txt.utf-8\n",
+    "- Adventures of Huckleberry Finn at http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/76.txt.utf-8"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "code",
+   "execution_count": 6,
+   "metadata": {},
+   "outputs": [],
+   "source": [
+    "import requests, re, nltk\n",
+    "#In case your text is not on Project Gutenberg but at some other URL\n",
+    "#http://www.fullbooks.com/Our-World-or-The-Slaveholders-Daughter2.html\n",
+    "# that contains 12 parts\n",
+    "t = \"\"\n",
+    "for i in range(2,13):\n",
+    "  r = requests .get('http://www.fullbooks.com/Our-World-or-The-Slaveholders-Daughter' + str(i) + '.html')\n",
+    "  t = t + r.text"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "code",
+   "execution_count": 7,
+   "metadata": {},
+   "outputs": [
+    {
+     "data": {
+      "text/plain": [
+       "1323653"
+      ]
+     },
+     "execution_count": 7,
+     "metadata": {},
+     "output_type": "execute_result"
+    }
+   ],
+   "source": [
+    "len(t)"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "code",
+   "execution_count": null,
+   "metadata": {
+    "collapsed": true
+   },
+   "outputs": [],
+   "source": []
+  }
+ ],
+ "metadata": {
+  "kernelspec": {
+   "display_name": "Python 3 (ipykernel)",
+   "language": "python",
+   "name": "python3"
+  },
+  "language_info": {
+   "codemirror_mode": {
+    "name": "ipython",
+    "version": 3
+   },
+   "file_extension": ".py",
+   "mimetype": "text/x-python",
+   "name": "python",
+   "nbconvert_exporter": "python",
+   "pygments_lexer": "ipython3",
+   "version": "3.8.10"
+  }
+ },
+ "nbformat": 4,
+ "nbformat_minor": 1
+}