Authors Digest Volume VI

AUTHORS DIGEST

THE WORLD'S GREAT STORIES IN BRIEF, PREPARED

BY A STAFF OF LITERARY EXPERTS. WITH

THE ASSISTANCE OF MANY

LIVING NOVELISTS

ROSSITER JOHNSON, PH.D., LL.D.

EDITOB-IN-CHIEF

ISSUED UNDER THE AUSPICES OF TBM

AUTHORS PRESS

AUTHORS DIGEST

VOLUME VI

FRANCOIS COPP^E

>

TO
CHARLES DICKENS

Issued under the auspices of the
AUTHORS PRESS

COPYRIGHT, 1908,

BY THE AUTHORS PRESS

CONTENTS

FRANCOIS COPPE

A Romance of Youth ....... i

MARIE CORELLI

A Romance of Two Worlds 8

FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD

Mr. Isaacs 20

A Roman Singer 31

SAMUEL RUTHERFORD CROCKETT

The Lilac Sunbonnet 40

GEORGE CROLY

Salathicl 49

MARIA SUSANNA CUMMINS

The Lamplighter ...60

GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS

Trumps fl

ALPHONSE DAUDET

Tartarin of Tarascon 80

Fromont and Risler 92

Jack 102

Kings in Exile 113

The Nabob 124

Sappho 135

ix

CONTENTS

ALPHONSE DAUDET (Continued)

PAGE

Numa Roumestan 149

The Evangelist 158

The Immortal 168

Rose and Ninette . . 182

The Little Parish Church 187

The Support of the Family 195

REBECCA HARDING DAVIS

Waiting for the Verdict 204

RICHARD HARDING DAVIS

Soldiers of Fortune 215

EDMONDO DE AMICIS

The Romance of a Schoolmaster . . . . .221

CHARLES DE BERNARD

Gerfaut 234

DANIEL DEFOE

The Adventures of Robinson Crusoe 245

STEPHANIE DE GENLIS

Louisa de Clermont 255

EDMOND and JULES DE GONCOURT

Rene de Mauperin . . . 264

EDUARD DOUWES DEKKER

Max Havelaar 269

CHARLES PAUL DE ROCK

The Maid of Belleville 279

CONTENTS xi

MARGARETTA WADE DELAND

PAGE

The Awakening of Helena Richie 290

PHILIPPE DE MASSA

Zibeline 302

GUY DE MAUPASSANT

Mont Oriol 307

A Life 316

Bel Ami 326

Pierre and Jean 335

JAMES DE MILLE

Cord and Creese 344

ALFRED DE MUSSET

Confessions of a Child of the Century .... 354

THOMAS DE QUINCEY

The Avenger 366

BERNARDIN DE ST. PIERRE

Paul and Virginia .....374

ANNE LOUISE DE STAEL

Corinne 385

ALFRED DE VIGNY

Cinq-Mars 392

CHARLES DICKENS

Pickwick Papers 400

Oliver Twist 410

Nicholas Nickleby 420

(Continued in Volume VII.)

FRANCOIS COPPEE

(France, 1842-1908)
A ROMANCE OF YOUTH (1897)

This romance was written in 1896, and was crowned by the French Acad-
emy. While it is not strictly an autobiography, it chronicles the inner life of
the poet, playwright, and novelist, Francois Copped. Many of the outward
circumstances also, by a slight kaleidoscopic change, may be made to fit the
writer's own history. Like Ame'de'e Violette, his father was a government clerk
on a pitiful salary, his mother died in his youth, to be followed by his father
some years later, leaving the family to struggle with poverty. The litterateurs,
poets, and politicians who move in its pages are the men who made the era of
the third Napoleon and the Commune: under the assumed names it is easy
to read their identities. The poet owed much to the reciting of his verses by
great actors, as in the story he gives credit to Jocelet (Coquelin) for having made
his fame in a single night.

far back as Amde Violette could remember,
he saw himself in an infant's cap upon a small
balcony covered with convolvulus. Amde had
received a present of a box of water-colors, and
was coloring the old prints in a magazine. Louise
Gerard, one of the little girls next door, was
playing Marcailhou's Indiana Waltz. Amdde
never afterward was able to hear this waltz with-
out tears of homesickness coming to his eyes.
Suddenly his mother's soft voice called him to make ready for
the evening meal. Then his father came home, and after their
simple meal the three sat upon the high balcony and talked
with their neighbors, Monsieur and Madame Gerard, on the
other side. M. Gerard was an engraver, and was always to
be seen bending over his work, while Madame Gerard cooked
delicious meals in the little kitchen.

Winter came, and the two families no longer spent the eve-
nings on the balcony, Amde's frail and beautiful young
mother was sinking in consumption, and the little home was

A.D.. VOL. VI. I I

2 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH

very sad. Every night when his father, a mild, unpretentious
man, who let everyone run over him, returned from his work
in the government office, he inquired of his wife, "Have you
coughed much to-day ?" In spite of her invariably cheerful
reply, "No, not very much," she failed steadily, and then
Amddde was sent every day to play with the little Gdrards next
door, while she lay dying, and at last the terrible time came
that Amd6e never forgot, although he was a very small child
the day when his father awoke him in a passionately sad em-
brace, and they took his mother away, never to be seen by him
again.

Monsieur Violette, whose union with his wife had been one
of deep and sincere devotion, was so dispirited by her death that
the care of his son became a burden, and he placed him when
very young in a day-school, that his education might begin in
earnest. He himself, by the most enormous self-denial on the
part of his own father, a watchmaker, had risen to a government
place, where his days were passed in dull routine, and he des-
tined his son for the same occupation. The child hated school,
and learned more from the little Grards Louise, older than
himself, who taught him, and Maria, growing to be a beautiful
and fascinating girl. His happiest hours were passed in that
little home of four rooms, while his father, who could not be
consoled for his loss, became a victim of absinthe and avoided
the society of his son.

Amede's mother had had an uncle, a Monsieur Gaufre, who
had made a fortune in the business of supplying sacred books
and religious objects to the clergy. This Bon Marchl des
Paroisses was famous among them. The business was carried
on in an old hdtel, and all day long priests, bishops, and even
cardinals, might be seen going in and out. The grand salons
of the old house were filled with the glittering luxury of the
Church's symbols. As M. Violette had hopes that this uncle,
who was a widower and childless, might remember Amde in
his will, the two paid him occasional visits, although they were
treated by the old man with the scant courtesy given to poor
relations. This uncle, moreover, although making his fortune
by the sale of religious objects, was a libertine, and was com-
pletely under the domination of his housekeeper, B6rnice, a

FRANCOIS COPPEE 3

girl of great beauty and insolence, remarkable for her talents
as a cook. It did not look as if Amde would receive much
assistance in his career from him. M. Violette allowed himself
to become more and more depressed by these circumstances,
and more confirmed in the absinthe habit, each day recalling
by its power the few years of happiness with his lost wife.

Amdde grew from boyhood to youth and, changing from
his old school to the Lyce Henri IV, met a handsome and fas-
cinating youth, named Maurice Roger. This young man, of
a gay and pleasure-loving disposition, was the son of a rich
officer's widow and had been indulged from infancy. A de-
voted friendship sprang up between the two which lasted, not-
withstanding the strain of many circumstances, through life.
Maurice asked Amde to his house, and there the timid youth
was introduced to the elegancies of polite society. Madame
Roger, Maurice's mother, a handsome woman, except for the
signs of mourning for her dead husband, was kind to him, and
he met Colonel Lantz, an old soldier of the Crimean campaign,
and his three portionless daughters, all pretty and dressed with
daintiness, exactly alike. Maurice was evidently the idol of this
little group, and Amdde admired anew his graceful manners
and generous disposition. The latter had noticed, however,
on entering, the pretty maid who waited on the door and at the
table. When the two young men left the house this maid spoke
familiarly to Maurice, who answered her in the same strain.
As the door closed upon them, Maurice uttered some words
about this circumstance that opened Amde's eyes to his
friend's character. The latter was in truth, although kind and
open-hearted, an avowed pleasure-seeker, and utterly unprinci-
pled so far as women were concerned.

This discovery disturbed Amddee, himself innocent, but
with the natural impulses of youth. An element of uneasiness
which he could not put from his mind was the evident im-
pression his friend had made upon the Grards, in a short visit,
at which he had been particularly courteous to the youngei
girl, Maria, now an exquisite beauty, with whom Amde himself,
all unconsciously, was falling in love. Louise was absent dur-
ing this visit, as she was teaching music, but M. Gerard showed
him all his treasures of cweos and engravings, and the simple

4 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH

family were enthusiastic over him. He later, in response to
Amde's inquiry as to how he liked Maria, responded in but
one word, "delicious," and changed the subject.

Amde received his degree at graduation, and his father,
repenting his former resolve to devote him to the dulness that
office work implied, took him to his uncle, Gaufre, hoping he
might be started on a business career. This uncle made him
a careless offer, insolent to a degree, telling him he might do
errands for the business, and asking Bgr&iice if he might possi-
bly be allowed to eat with them. M. Violette took him at once
back to his own office, where they were received with a dry cor-
diality, and Amd6e was provided with a place at the very
respectable sum of one hundred and twenty francs a month.

Here he was bored by the heat of the office and the musty
odor of old books, but he had time to dream, and in the many
leisure moments between tasks, as well as in the early morning
hours, he began his literary life by working at sonnets, princi-
pally in honor of the beautiful Maria. Yet she was not the
only one. Amde was in love with love, and his susceptible
heart was stirred at the sight of any beautiful girl. He had a
sensitive and refined nature and was frightened and repelled
by the gay crowd that Maurice gathered around himself, al-
though his friendship for the latter grew with the years.

There were many things in Amde's life to deter him from
passing his time in gaiety. He became uneasy about his father,
whose fatal habit was increasing in strength. He sought coun-
sel and help of the gentle Louise Gerard. This young girl, not
pretty, but with fine eyes, was already marked for a life of self-
sacrifice. She truly loved Amde, under her gentle and self-
contained manner, and devoted herself to her family, teaching
music that she might add to their resources. Her talk was very
comforting to the young man. She told him that he must cul-
tivate confidence in life and a sincere devotion to his loved ones,
as all true happiness consisted in making them happy. After
this he had a short talk with his father, who told him to live his
life of youth and pleasure, and not to trouble about himself,
whose happiness was all in the past.

Accordingly, Am6d6e accepted an invitation to a restaurant
dinner, given by Maurice. At this dinner he renewed his ac-

FRAN9OIS COPPEE 5

quaintance with his old schoolmates, Jocelet, studying at the
Conservatoire to be an actor; Arthur Papillon, formerly an ex-
cellent Latin scholar, now entering on a legal and political
career, and Gustave, a rich man's son, giving himself up to wild
dissipation. Their talk and revelry opened Amde's eyes still
further to the life of the world around him, to the distaste of the
young man, already growing in his intellectual powers and
grasp of the ideal life. His reflections on going home were
upon the nature of a true and high love in contrast with the
follies of dissipation.

He was warm with the pleasures his fancy called up, when
a fearful shock awaited him on entering his own door. A
stream of light was shining under the door of his father's sleep-
ing-room. Am6d6e opened the door, and there lay his father
dead. His shirt was covered with blood, and a razor was held
in his right hand. Weary of his lonely life, M. Violette had
committed suicide.

Changes in life seldom come singly. The good friend, M.
Gdrard, soon succumbed to a stroke of apoplexy, leaving his
widow and daughters to face extreme poverty alone. They
moved to a distant locality, Montmartre, and lived a life of
extreme economy. In his own sorrow and the inability to see
these friends daily as heretofore, Amdde threw himself With
ardor into the expression of his inner life, tasting the glorious
delights of pure enthusiasm and joy in the conscious power of
creation, when the artist lives for his work alone, unaffected by
the illusions of popularity and worldly success. He arose at
six and worked by candle-light, and was proud to see that his
mind expanded rapidly and was ready to receive the germs that
were blown to him by the mysterious winds of inspiration.

His Sundays were spent with the Grards. He now was in
love unmistakably with Maria, and constantly thought how he
might help them all in their poverty. Maria, petted and beau-
tiful, wished to assist her mother and sister by earning, and
went daily to copy pictures at the Louvre, notwithstanding the
imprudence of her being there alone. She had a stroke of good
fortune in that a dealer in antiquities gave her an order to
paint a dozen "ancestors" for his nouveau riche clientele a
paying business in the days of the exaltation of the bourgeoisie.

6 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH

At this time Amde had composed^some fine verses on a
military subject. While still in the glow of enthusiasm over them,
he ran across Jocelet, already famous as the coming actor.
Jocelet, an egoist, inquired about his work and asked whether
he had some verses fit for recitation. He instantly recognized
the genius in the copy Amde showed him, and promised to
recite them the next day at a benefit, which he did, and made
an intoxicating success for himself and for the young poet.
Jocelet introduced Amde also to the group of young poets
and politicians who frequented the famous Cafe Seville. The
poets all had long hair, and the politicians long beards, and
they received Amdee fraternally. His progress, guided by
these new friends, particularly Paul Sillery, the journalist, was
rapid, and he began to know the joy of earning substantially by
his writings.

He then made up his mind to marry Maria Gerard and care
for her and the family. But to his horror he learned from
Louise that his friend Maurice, benefiting by the freedom of
finding Maria alone in the Louvre, and the innocence of her
youth, had ruined her, and that she was about to become a
mother.

Amde, in his misery, went to Maurice and accused him
of this. Maurice admitted its truth, and said he had intended
to marry her, but feared his mother's displeasure. Amde
urged him to repair the wrong he had done, and so influenced
his volatile friend that he at once went to the Guards' and
married Maria without delay. Madame Roger forgave the
young couple, and Maurice made a kind and loving husband
to the adoring Maria. Their son was born, and Amde found
a melancholy pleasure in visiting their home.

With a bitter disappointment in his heart, Am6d6e now
plunged into some of the pleasures of the world. His uncle
had died, leaving him his property after all, and he was able to
gratify his desires. But he soon wearied of this and settled
to a life of quiet work. So matters went on until the breaking
out of the Prussian war of 1870, when Amde entered the
military service. Maurice also entered it and the aged Colonel
Lantz as well. Maurice, now freed from the restraints of domes-
ticity, plunged again into dissipation.

FRANCOIS COPPEE 7

At length, in an act of bravery, Colonel Lantz and Maurice
were mortally wounded, and were carried where Amde could
comfort them at the last. The last words of Maurice were a
charge to Am6d6t to marry his widow and take care of her and
of his son.

Married to the woman he had always loved, successful in his
chosen career of literature, possessed of a competence fully
equal to his modest needs, Amde would seem in the years that
followed to have all that man could wish. Yet he was con-
scious of a melancholy, a sadness of the soul, that never could
be cured. His wife, while gentle and loving with him, was in
her heart Maurice's widow, and she kept his shrine forever
guarded. His son was Maurice's son and promised to inherit
the charms and faults of his father. The melancholy of autumn
was upon him. As he stood in the garden of his pleasant home
the leaves fell about him, and all Nature sympathized with the
gentle sadness of his inner life.

MARIE CORELLI

(MINNIE MACKAY)

(England, 1864)

A ROMANCE OF TWO WORLDS (1886)

This was the author's first book, and in reference to it she has said: "I
wrote it simply because I strongly felt the force of the spiritual suggestions I
have sought to convey in its pages." After its appearance the book became
the subject of much discussion, and the author was subjected to no little
cross-questioning concerning its theories; but she disclaimed all sympathy with
hypnotism, clairvoyance, or mesmerism, and declared that in the teachings of
Christ alone could be found the secrets of occult science.

?N the winter of 188- I was afflicted by a series
of nervous ailments, brought on by overwork and
worry. Chief among them was a protracted and
terrible insomnia, accompanied by the utmost
depression of spirits and anxiety of mind. Work
was impossible; music, my one passion, intoler-
able, and even books became wearisome to my
sight.

In such a condition of health medical aid
became a necessity, and I sought a physician of great repute
who tried all his remedies upon me without avail. Finally,
realizing that drugs were unable to meet the requirements of
my case, the doctor suggested change of air and scene and
urged me to leave London, with its darkness and fogs, and to
try a winter among the sunshine and roses of the Riviera.

The idea was agreeable to me, and I determined to take the
proffered advice and set out at once. Hearing of my intention,
some American friends, Colonel Everard and his charming
young wife, decided to accompany me, and I was only too glad
to have such pleasant traveling companions.

We left London one damp and foggy evening, when the cold

8

MARIE CORELLI 9

was intense, and arrived in Cannes two days later, to find roses
and orange-trees in full bloom and casting their fragrance on
the warm, delicious air. Amid these new and delightful sur-
roundings I hoped to throw off the physical and mental misery
against which I had fought for so many weary months; but,
struggle as I might, I could not get away from the wretchedness
of my condition.

I began to lose hope of ever recovering my once buoyant
health and strength, and the prospect of a brilliant career which
once stretched brightly before me seemed shattered forever.
I was still young, nevertheless I saw before me only a life of
miserable invalidism, in which I should be a burden to myself
and to those about me.

But a rescue was approaching a rescue so sudden and
marvelous that in my wildest fancies I never could have dreamed
it possible.

Staying at the hotel with us was a young Italian artist, named
Raffaello Cellini, whose pictures were beginning to attract
much attention both in Paris and Rome, not only for their fault-
less drawing but for their wonderfully exquisite coloring. In-
deed, so remarkable were the hues that Cellini transferred to
his canvases that other artists declared he must have invented
some foreign compound, or else discovered the secrets of the old
masters.

My friends and I were fortunate in forming an acquaintance
with Signor Cellini, and our visits to his studio proved most
delightful. Especially to me were these visits enjoyable, as,
strange to say, they had a remarkably soothing and calming
effect upon my suffering nerves. Cellini himself had a fas-
cination for me, for he seemed to radiate serenity, and when in
his presence I felt a sense of absolute rest. On one occasion,
when seized with an attack of nervous agitation, I was pacing
restlessly up and down the garden, I saw Cellini approaching;
as he drew near me, he raised his eyes and regarded me stead-
fastly, then passed on, saying nothing. The effect of his pres-
ence upon me was remarkable; I was no longer agitated, but
soothed and almost happy.

I was utterly unable to account for the remedial influence
Raffaello Cellini exerted over me, but so grateful was I for any

io A ROMANCE OF TWO WORLDS

respite from my sufferings that I counted my daily visits to his
studio a privilege not to be foregone.

One afternoon while Mrs. Everard and I were with Signor
Cellini, he requested me to allow him to paint my portrait. I
was filled with astonishment and expressed my surprise that
he should desire a subject so unworthy. He responded that he
sought intelligence and inward refinement, and added: "Made-
moiselle, you have the face of one whom the inner soul con-
sumes, and I plead that you will give me a little of your spare
time; you will not regret it, I assure you."

These words were said so impressively that a strange thrill
ran through me, and I at once acceded to his request and agreed
to come for a sitting the following day.

At the appointed hour I entered the studio and found it
deserted save for the presence of a magnificent Newfoundland
dog; feeling somewhat thirsty I was about to drink some clear
water, which sparkled temptingly in a decanter on the table,
when the cup was suddenly snatched from my hand by Cellini,
who had just entered and who forbade me to drink.

He afterward explained to me that to have drunk of that
liquid would have proved fatal, as it was a powerful elixir which
would have rushed through the veins with the swiftness of
electricity, bringing instant death, as I was not prepared to
receive it.

He then offered me some wine, which was delicious, and
which I sipped with great satisfaction.

I questioned Cellini with regard to the dog, and he told
me he was only visiting him, having arrived from Paris bearing
a message the evening before. He added: " He does not belong
to me, Mademoiselle; his master is my master, one who among
men is supremely intelligent ; among teachers, absolutely unself-
ish; among thinkers, purely impersonal; among friends, inflex-
ibly faithful. To him I owe everything even life itself. For
him no sacrifice, no extreme devotion would be too great,
could I hope thereby to show my gratitude. But he is as far
above human thanks or human rewards as the sun is above
the sea."

My sitting followed, and during it a strange sensation took
possession of me, which caused me to think I was affected by

MARIE CORELLI n

the wine I had taken, as I felt an unusual elation, accompanied
by a feeling of calmness and peace.

After leaving the studio, however, and returning to my room,
the sense of exhilaration that had possessed me seemed to leave
me and I was overcome with an intense weariness. I threw
myself upon my bed and soon fell into a deep and tranquil
slumber, during which I was visited by three wonderful visions.

The first was of a mass of roses and, in the distance, the
golden crescent of a new moon, which, as I gazed upon it,
broke into a thousand points of vivid light and then met in bla-
zing letters of fire. These letters formed the word Heliobas, and
soon all became darkness and only this name in burning gold
was written on the blackness of the heavens.

I next found myself in a vast cathedral where priests in
glittering raiment were conducting the service, while the tones
of a magnificent organ were swelling through the incense-laden
air. I was approached by twenty beautiful maidens, crowned
with myrtle, who gazed at me with joyous eyes and murmured :
"Art thou a) so one of us?" Then one of the number, leaving
her companions, came to my side, holding a tablet in her hand,
and said in a thrilling whisper: "Write, and write quickly! for
whatever thou shalt now inscribe is the clue to thy destiny."
I obeyed her mechanically, and some unknown, powerful force
within me caused me to trace on the tablet the one word
Heliobas.

My third vision was of a man of noble features and com-
manding ' presence seated at a table covered with books and
manuscripts. He was in the full prime of life; his dark hair
had no thread of silver to mar its luxuriance; his face was un-
wrinkled; his forehead unfurrowed by care; his eyes, deeply
sunk beneath his shelving brows, were of a singularly clear and
penetrating blue, with an absorbed and watchful look in them.
His hand rested on the open pages of a massive volume, and
he was uttering words that held me spellbound.

"Azul!" he exclaimed, "messenger of my fate, thou who
art a guiding spirit of the elements, thou who ridest the storm-
cloud and sittest throned on the edge of the lightning! By that
electric spark within me, of which thou art the Twin Flame, I
ask of thee to send me this one more poor human soul; let me

12 A ROMANCE OF TWO WORLDS

change its unrestfulness into repose, its hesitation to certainty,
its weakness to strength, its weary imprisonment to the light
of liberty! Azull"

His voice ceased, his extended hands fell slowly, and grad-
ually he turned his whole figure toward me. He faced me
his intense eyes burned through me his strange yet tender
smile absorbed me. Yet I was full of unreasoning terror; I
trembled, I strove to turn away from that searching and mag-
netic gaze. His deep, melodious tones again rang softly on the
silence. He addressed me:

" Fearest thou me, my child? Am I not thy friend ? Know-
est thou not the name of Heliobas?"

At this word I started and gasped for breath. I would have
shrieked but could not, for a heavy hand seemed to close my
mouth, and an immense weight pressed me down. I struggled
violently with this unseen Power little by little I gained ad-
vantage. One effort more! I won the victory I woke!

I came to myself feeling somewhat drowsy, but thoroughly
rested and marvelously tranquil. Upon arising I was amazed
to see the change that had taken place in my appearance, for,
as if by magic, the marks of illness had left me and my face had
assumed the look of one in perfect health.

At my next meeting with Cellini, he told me that he had
given me the remedy as an experiment, and its beneficial effect
upon me had exceeded his anticipations, but unfortunately it
would prove only transitory. He said that after forty-eight
hours I should relapse into my former prostrate condition and
that he would be powerless to prevent it, but that I could be
helped by a friend of his who had cured him from a long and
hopeless illness.

Laying my hand on his arm, and looking him full in the
face, I said slowly and distinctly:

"This friend of yours that you speak of is not his name
Heliobas?"

Cellini started violently; the blood rushed to his brows and
as quickly receded; his dark eyes glowed with suppressed excite-
ment, his hand tremoled. Recovering himself slowly, he met
my gaze fixedly; his glance softened, and he bent his head with
an air of respect and reverence.

MARIE CORELLI 13

"Mademoiselle, I see that you must know all. It is your
fate. You are greatly to be envied. Come to me to-morrow,
and I will tell you everything that is to be told. Afterward your
destiny rests in your own hands. Ask nothing more of me just
now."

The following morning at the appointed hour I went to
Cellini's studio, and he unfolded to me the wonderful experi-
ence that had come to him and changed his life. He told me
that, broken in health by overwork, fearing madness, and dis-
couraged because he could not discover the secret of mixing
colors like the old masters, which had been his one aspiration,
he had decided one day to end his life.

He was saved from this fatal step by the interference of a
stranger, who took him to his home and by his marvelous mag-
netic powers cured him of his ill health, showed him the art of
mixing colors, and most inestimable of all taught him a re-
ligious faith that was the joy of his whole existence.

This stranger was one Heliobas, a rich and influential Chal-
dean, residing in Paris, who, by exerting his powers as a "phys-
ical electrician/' could bring about wonderful results.

Cellini also informed me that he had felt, from his first meet-
ing with me, that I possessed this same magnetic power; and
now my visions proved that I was already in connection with
Heliobas, who was beginning to exert his influence over me.

He advised my going at once to Paris and putting myself un-
der his master's care; and, being only too glad to follow his ad-
vice, I parted with my friends, the Everards, and set out on
my journey. After reaching Paris I hastened at my earliest
opportunity to the house of Heliobas, and found it magnificent
in every detail. Indeed, so luxurious was it in all its appoint-
ments that I was almost bewildered by the loveliness that sur-
rounded me, and felt as I gazed about as if I had entered upon
a dream of the Arabian Nights.

I was soon shown into the presence of the master, and I
realized instantly that he was the man I had seen in my vision,
and I felt that I knew him well. My interview with him proved
most satisfying, and he assured me that if I would trust myself
to him and follow his rules I should be well in a fortnight. He
also informed me that his soul and mine were placed in the same

i 4 A ROMANCE OF TWO WORLDS

circle of electricity; for that reason a strong connection existed
between us, he said, and he was compelled to help me by some
inner force that could not be explained.

When I tried to question him further with regard to this
mysterious force he said:

"All other explanations, if you desire them, shall be given
you in due time. In the power I possess over you, and over
some others, there is neither mesmerism nor magnetism nothing
but a purely scientific fact, which can be clearly and reasonably
proved and demonstrated. But, until you are restored to
health, we will defer all discussion."

The following day I sought Heliobas again, feeling already
greatly benefited by his treatment, and looking forward with
pleasure to dining with him and meeting his sister Zara, as he
had invited me to do.

My host greeted me cordially, and, telling me he was pleased
to see that I was already feeling better, conducted me at once
to his sister's apartments. Here a room of such wondrous
beauty met my eyes that I should have been overwhelmed by
its sumptuousness had it not been wholly surpassed by the love-
liness of the woman that occupied it. Never shall I behold
again any face or form so divinely beautiful! She was about
medium height, but her small, finely shaped head was set upon
so slender and proud a throat that she appeared taller than she
actually was. Her complexion was transparently clear and
her eyes were large, luminous, yet dark as night, fringed with
long silky black lashes. Her rich black hair hung down in one
long, loose, thick braid that nearly reached the hem of her dress;
and she was attired in a robe of deep old-gold Indian silk, which
was gathered around her waist by an antique belt of curious
jewel-work, in which rubies and turquoises appeared to be
thickly studded. On her bosom shone a strange gem, the
color and form of which I could not determine. It glowed
with many various hues and its luster was intense, almost daz-
zling to the eye. Its beautiful wearer gave me welcome with
a radiant soiile and a few cordial words, and, drawing me by
the hand to a low couch she had just vacated, made me sit
down beside her.

Before long dinner was announced and we joined our host

MARIE CORELLI 15

and his friend, Prince Ivan Petroffsky, who was a handsome
man, and evidently an ardent admirer of the beautiful Zara,
who as evidently did not reciprocate his affection.

After dinner Leo, the dog I had seen in Cellini's studio,
made his appearance, and later his master explained to me
what wonderful power he had developed in the animal, and
how, by forcing him to receive a thought, he could make him
do anything he desired.

Before leaving my new friends I was invited by them to stay
at their house during my sojourn in Paris, which invitation I
gratefully accepted, and shortly after took up my abode with
them.

Under the treatment of Heliobas, my health improved rap-
idly, my musical ability returned, and I was able to improvise
and perform as I never had before.

At last the day arrived when a wonderful experience was to
come to me; my soul was to be released temporarily from this
earthly body, through an electric trance into which I was to be
thrown by Heliobas, and I was to have a glimpse of the wonders
of the celestial world.

Just before entering into this state, which was brought about
by my taking a draught of a wonderful electric fluid, given me
by Heliobas, I realized that he stood before me with arms ex-
tended, repeating the following words:

"Azul! Azul! Lift up this light and daring spirit unto
thyself; be its pioneer upon the path it must pursue; suffer it
to float untrammeled through the wide and glorious Continents
of Air; give it form and force to alight on any of the vast and
beautiful spheres it may desire to behold; and, if worthy, per-
mit it to gaze, if only for a brief interval, upon the supreme
vision of the First and Last of worlds. By the force thou givest
unto me, I free this soul; do thou, Azul, quickly receive it I' 1

A dense darkness now grew thickly around me; I lost all
power over my limbs; I felt myself being lifted forcibly and
rapidly up, up, into some illimitable, terrible space of blackness
and nothingness. I could not think, move, or cry outr J could
only feel that I was rising, rising, steadily, swiftly, breathlessly,
when suddenly a long, quivering flash of radiance, like the
fragment of a rainbow, struck dazzlingly across my sight.

i6 A ROMANCE OF TWO WORLDS

Darkness? What had I to do with darkness? I knew not the
word; I was only conscious of light light exquisitely pure and
brilliant light through which I stepped as easily as a bird flies
in air. Perfectly awake to my sensations, I felt somehow that
there was nothing remarkable in them; I seemed to be at home
in some familiar element. Delicate hands held mine; a face far
lovelier than the loveliest face of woman ever dreamed of by
poet or painter, smiled at me, and I smiled back again.

From that instant the scenes that I witnessed, guided by this
wonderful spirit, were such that they remain beyond the power
of human description. I learned that my celestial guide was
Azul, the twin soul of Heliobas, and I realized that I was formed
of an indestructible essence which was to exist forever, and that
I was a part of the great universe which was constructed on so
marvelous a plan.

I began to understand the illimitable electrical force that
governs the universe, and saw clearly how this spirit emanated
from my Creator, whose power was so far beyond human
conception.

The religious doubts which previous to this time had as-
sailed me were cleared away by the wonderful visions that were
given me of the celestial world, and when I awoke from my
trance I realized that at last I had come into a perfect faith.

Upon recovering consciousness I saw Heliobas standing
beside me, and learned that I had been absent for thirty-six
hours, which was an unusually long period for the soul to be
separated from the body. I related the scenes I had passed
through to my master, and he told me mine had been a most
wonderful and exceptional experience.

The following day I received word that my friends the Ever-
ards had arrived in Paris, and I hastened to call upon them,
accompanied by Zara, who charmed them with her beauty and
invited them to dine with us the next evening.

On this occasion Zara was so gloriously beautiful that no
words can adequately describe her. She was dressed in a cling-
ing robe of the richest white satin, her only ornament being the
dazzling electric jewel, which was supported by twelve rows
of priceless pearls clasped around her slender throat.

Before the arrival of our friends, I was impressed by some-

MARIE CORELLI 17

thing unusual in Zara's manner, but, knowing of her spiritual
sympathies, and how closely she was in touch with her brother,
who had imbued her with his own occult powers, I did not try
to fathom the mystery.

She asked me to kiss her before going down-stairs, and begged
me never to forget her, even though she were no longer in this
world.

These remarks had a depressing effect upon me, though I
tried to treat them lightly, and I could not fail to connect them
with the assertion she had made to me earlier in the day that
she was soon going on a long journey, in the event of which she
asked me to execute certain commands for her.

After the dinner, which was a most superb affair, we ad-
journed to the drawing-room and had some music, during
which Zara withdrew from her guests and went out on a bal-
cony to watch a thunder-storm, which had come up with much
violence.

Suddenly a tumultuous crash of thunder made us look at
one another with anxious faces. Horror! What was that?
A lithe serpent of fire twisting venomously through the dark
heavens! Zara raised her arms, looked up, smiled, and fell
senseless, with such appalling suddenness that we had hardly
recovered from the blinding terror of that forked lightning flash
before we saw her lying prone before us on the balcony, where
one instant previously she had stood erect and smiling! With
exclamations of alarm and distress, we lifted and bore her within
the room and laid her tenderly down upon the nearest sofa.
Everything within human power was tried to restore life to the
inanimate form lying before us, but without avail; Zara's spirit
had soared to the celestial world with which she had been so
closely connected while upon the earth.

While we were hoping against hope that she might be re-
stored, the physician that had been called in gave the terrible
verdict that life was extinct, and, moving aside from her breast
the electric jewel which now appeared merely a lusterless
pebble he showed a small black spot where the fatal electric
current had entered.

In a short time Zara's body was prepared for burial and
carried to the private chapel of her family, where I knelt heart-

A.D., VOL. vi. 2

i8 A ROMANCE OF TWO WORLDS

broken beside it. Suddenly the sound of an organ fell upon
my ears, and a flood of music drowned the noise of the storm
without

I hid my face in my hands and was praying earnestly when
a touch aroused me, and looking up I beheld an airy brightness,
like the effect of sunlight streaming through a cloud, hovering
over Zara's bier. A face looked at me a face angelic, beau-
tiful! It smiled. I stretched out my hands; I struggled for
speech, and managed to whisper:

"Zara! Zara! you have come back!"

Her voice, so sweetly familiar, answered me:

"To life? Ah, never again! I am too happy to return.
But save him save my brother! Go to him; he is in danger;
to you is given the rescue. Save him; and for me rejoice, and
grieve no more!"

The face vanished; the brightness faded; and I sprang up
from my knees in haste. For one instant I looked at the beau-
tiful dead body of the friend I loved, with its set mouth and
placid features, and then I smiled. This was not Zara she
was alive and happy; this fair clay was but clay doomed to per-
ish, but she was imperishable.

"Save him save my brother!" These words rang in my
ears. I hesitated no longer, but determined to seek Heliobas
at once. Swiftly and noiselessly I slipped out of the chapel.
As the door swung behind me I heard a sound that first made
me stop in sudden alarm, and then hurry on with increased
eagerness. There was no mistaking it it was the clash of
steel!

I rushed to the study door, tore aside the velvet hangings,
and faced Heliobas and Prince Ivan Petroffsky with drawn
weapons, prepared for deadly conflict.

With much difficulty I succeeded in restraining the com-
batants, and the message from the dead which I delivered to
them had the desired effect of quieting their angry excitement.
I learned afterward that the Prince, upon hearing of Zara's
death, had become frenzied with grief, rushed to Heliobas and
accused him of causing his sister's death by his experiments,
calling him a murderer and striking him violently in the face.
Such an outrage had called forth the righteous wrath of

MARIE CORELLI 19

Heliobas, who had commanded him to choose his weapon
and defend himself.

After Zara's funeral I took leave of my friend and master,
Heliobas, to whose influence I owed my recovered health and
my strong belief in things spiritual and eternal. In bidding me
farewell, he brightened the parting by assuring me that we
should meet again in the future many times, and also by asking
me to write to him and keep him informed of my movements.

The last glimpse I had of Heliobas was his stately form as he
stood on the steps of his mansion, watching my carriage out of
sight; and the picture of his noble figure, erect in the light of
the winter sunshine, was destined thenceforth to remain un-
fading forever in my memory.

FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD

(United States, 1854)
MR. ISAACS (1882)

Son of the American sculptor Crawford, this author was born in Lucca,
Italy, and his adventurous spirit has made him a true cosmopolite, not only
as a traveler but as a sojourner in many lands. Thus his novels, with the
truthfulness of a keen observer, give varied pictures of social life and local
color in Italy, Bohemia, Russia, England, Turkey, and India, while he has
written two fine historical and descriptive works on Constantinople and Rome.
Mr. Isaacs was his first tale. In it he introduces the figure of a capable Amer-
ican newspaper man abroad Paul Griggs by name who tells the story, and
who reappears in other tales in a similar convenient rdle. Mr. Isaacs well
fulfils its sub-title as A Tale of Modern India, and the modernism of the char-
acters combines with the ancientry of the adept philosophy of that venerable
land to make an impressive and fascinating narrative. It is held by many the
best as well as the first of Mr. Crawford's many prosperous essays in the broad
field of fiction.

September, 1879, I was at Simla, in the lower
Himalayas, in the interests of an Anglo-Indian
newspaper. In India there is only one health-
resort " the hills," and chief of " hill-stations"
is Simla. Thither in the summer migrates an
endless variety of the Anglo-Indian population.

Having established my servants and luggage
in one of the hotels, at dinner I was placed oppo-
site a man who arrested my attention. He was
above the medium stature, and an easy grace marked every
movement. An oval face of olive tint showed strikingly hand-
some features; but I was enthralled by his large, dark eyes, full
of life and light. I addressed him in Italian, but he did not
understand until I spoke English, when he replied with ease.
We readily became acquainted, and I accepted his invitation to
smoke in his rooms after dinner. Learning from the hotel
office that he was a "Mr. Isaacs," I went to his apartments.
It seemed as if I had entered Aladdin's cave, so resplendently did

FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD 21

the room gleam on all sides with gold, jeweled ornaments, and
weapons. The floor was covered with rich rugs; divans and
cushions heaped the sides and corners. Mr. Isaacs smiled at
my amazement, but soon we were smoking on the veranda, and
after a little he told me something of himself.

He was a Persian: his name was Abdul Hafiz-ben-Isak,
simplified to "Mr. Isaacs" for business convenience, as he was
a dealer in precious stones. He was the son of a wealthy and
learned father, but had been stolen and sold as a slave, and
after many adventures in Turkey, Arabia, and India, had
found friends and utilized opportunities of learning, and finally
of trading, that had yielded him vast wealth and much knowl-
edge of the world.

For several days we were often together. I am not prone
to confidences, but something about this man seemed to banish
distrust, and I longed to know the fine spirit, while he seemed
also ready to seek me. One day we talked of marriage. He
had three wives, he said (he was a Mohammedan), and, find-
ing it hard to keep peace among them, he wondered whether a
fourth might act as a regulating fly-wheel. But suddenly he
proposed a ride, and off we went, on two of his superb Arabian
horses. As we rounded a sharp corner, we ran into an elderly
man on a pony, and after suitable apologies, Mr. Isaacs intro-
duced me, Mr. Paul Griggs, to Revenue Commissioner Ghyr-
kins, and then to his elegant niece, Miss Katherine Weston-
haugh, and her companion, Lord Steepleton Kildare, a fine,
soldierly cavalry officer both handsomely mounted all of
whom he knew well. Mr. Ghyrkins and I were soon on friendly
terms. The lady, fair as a Swede, but with dark eyes and
heavy lashes, was a splendid young Englishwoman, and I
thought what a wife she would be for my delightful young Per-
sian, to make him a real home and genuine happiness. Yet
there was an incongruity in the idea, and I dropped it as absurd.
We rode home with them, and parted after cordial invitations
to call. In our talk that evening Isaacs talked again of mar-
riage, affirming woman to be " a thing of the devil, jealous and
hard to manage"; while I, though a bachelor, was eloquent on
the joys of a life-companionship with the ideal woman. As
the talk continued, I began to think him desirous of being con-

22 MR. ISAACS

verted; and when we became silent I mentally pursued my
fancy of a union of those two interesting beings, at last asking
myself: "Why not? "

"You are right. Yes: why not?" said Isaacs in a sleepy
voice.

But his eyes were dreamy, and I went on wondering whether
he were really converted, really sincere.

"Yes I think I am," he said, in the same mechanical tone.

Startled by this reading of my thoughts, I scrutinized him,
and saw that he was asleep with his eyes open in a trance. I
spoke : no answer. Then, having learned of such matters from
my old Brahman teacher, I made the necessary passes; and on
awaking he told me of a dazzling vision he had had of the fair
Englishwoman. He ended by saying: "Griggs, this is all very
strange. I believe I am in love for the first time. Good night!"
and I left him.

As the days passed, Isaacs and I called repeatedly on Mr.
Ghyrkins, with whom I discussed Anglo-Indian politics, while
it was evident that my friend was making a strong impression
on Miss Westonhaugh. Lord Steepleton was often there, too
no mean rival and the tactics of the young men were exceed-
ingly interesting. One day a game of polo was proposed, in
which they, I and Mr. John Westonhaugh, the lady's brother,
were to play. Isaacs had discovered in the latter the English-
man who had given him, during his poverty in Bombay, his
first rupee, which he insisted was the foundation of his im-
mense fortune ; and he expressed his gratitude to the elder man,
who made little of it, yet was pleased.

I had a plain talk with my friend that night, and, on his
asserting that he meant to divorce and provide for his Indian
women (the English hardly regard their facile relations as
marriage) and to win and wed Miss Westonhaugh, holding
to her alone in English fashion, I pledged him my aid.

He took me one afternoon as witness to an interview with
the Rajah of Baithopoor, then in Simla, concerning a large
sum he had loaned the Rajah during the last famine. We were
ushered into the presence of the old Maharajah in a darkened
room, where he sat smoking cross-legged on his cushions.
After the usual Oriental flatteries, Isaacs talked very plainly.

FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD 23

The Rajah had offered to sell him the famous Afghan chieftain,
Shere Ali, who had escaped from the English after his defeat at
Ali Unsjid and taken refuge at Baithopoor, and the treacherous
old man had imprisoned him. Showing him that, by informing
the English about Shere Ali, he could plunge Baithopoor into
danger, Isaacs demanded that the Emir of Afghanistan be
safely delivered to him at Keitung, three weeks from that day,
offering in return to remit the large amount of interest due on
his loan, giving time for repayment of the debt itself. The
trembling old rascal perforce agreed.

When we had left, I asked Isaacs what he would do with
Shere Ali, the "jewel" he had bought.

" Do with him? He is a true believer and a brave man. I
will give him money and letters, and he shall deport, free as air."

On our return we met the Ghyrkins party, including Lord
Steepleton, who had proposed to Mr. Ghyrkins a tiger-hunt,
the party to consist of the commissioner, his niece, her brother,
Isaacs, Kildare himself, and me. The careful uncle at first
violently opposed taking his niece, but, as we all approved of it,
and I recalled his old exploits with tigers, which had had some
notoriety, the old fellow became as enthusiastic as any, and the
affair was agreed upon. As Isaacs and I were riding home in
the darkness, the horses suddenly reared, stopped, and trem-
bled. Presently a low, musical voice on the other side of Isaacs
said: "Peace, Abdul Hafiz." "And with you peace, Ram
Lai," replied Isaacs quietly. Further saying that he had busi-
ness with Abdul and would see him in the evening, the tall figure
disappeared. Isaacs told me the man was a Brahman by birth,
a Buddhist by religion, and an adept (Buddhistic miracle-
worker) by profession. "A very wise man, who comes and
goes like a shadow, and often advises me. He speaks many lan-
guages, was educated as a physician in Edinburgh, and has
great knowledge in all directions."

In the evening I went to Isaacs, and he said smilingly : " So
you would like to see Ram Lai. He will be here presently,
unless he changes his mind." A voice outside was heard in-
quiring for Isaacs, and a tall figure in a gray caftan and plain
white turban entered.

"I never change my mind," said the stranger in excellent

24 MR. ISAACS

English. "I am here. Is it well with you?" After seating
himself on a divan, he proceeded: "Abdul, you have done a good
deed to-day. I trust you will complete it before you alter your
purpose."

"I never change my mind," said Isaacs, smiling at the
repetition.

"Pardon me if I contradict you," replied Ram Lai. "Who
was it that lately scoffed at women, their immortality, their
virtue, their intellect? And do you now think of anything,
sleeping or waking, but the one woman for whom you have
changed your mind? I congratulate you. You have made a
step toward a higher understanding of the world you live in."

Evidently this was a seer and a knower of men's hearts.

"I have come to give you some good advice," pursued the
Buddhist. "Do not let this projected tiger-hunt take place if
you can prevent it. No good can come from it, and harm
may."

Isaacs thanked Ram Lai for the counsel, which nevertheless
he must disregard, but asked for some hint about getting Shere
Ali off safely. "He will be escorted by a band of sowars; and,
while I am alive to disgrace the Rajah with the British, he is
safe, but the sowars could easily kill us both, since I must go
without escort."

Ram Lai promised to help him, though he would not say
how. Then, pointing to the wall behind us, he said: "What a
singular piece of workmanship is that yataghan!" We looked,
and Isaacs turned again to reply, but the divan was vacant.
Ram Lai was gone!

"He would not allow this or any of his marvels to be a mir-
acle," said Isaacs. "The Buddhist ' adepts ' claim only a bet-
ter knowledge of natural forces than others possess. They be-
lieve that by attenuating through fasting and meditation
the bond between soul and body, the soul can be liberated, and
can temporarily identify itself with other objects, animate or
inanimate, besides the special body to which it belongs, acquir-
ing thus direct knowledge of those objects, while also they cul-
tivate a highly analytical knowledge of external nature through
the senses, which they train to an infinite refinement of suscep-
tibility by rigid abstention from indulgences not indispensable

FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD 25

to maintaining the relation between the physical and the intellec-
tual powers."

With this, and much other talk, during which I spurred him
on by questions, Isaacs gave me a clearer understanding how
the Asiatic mind differs from our Occidental pursuit of facts
and inductions; and his personality impressed me more and
more.

At the polo match Westonhaugh and Isaacs distinguished
themselves; but the latter received an accidental blow on the
back of the head which stunned him for a while. He was able
to ride home, later, and under his direction I applied a powerful
unguent to the wound, which was so effective that by morning
he declared himself as well as ever, and on that day our party
of six set out for the tiger-hunt. The first day we rode in
tongas a strong-wheeled cart changing horses every five or
six miles; that night we spent in a railroad express train; and
another day on horses brought us to Pegnuggcr, where Isaacs
and Ghyrkins had accumulated great store of tents, weapons,
ammunition, edibles and potables, with guides and shikarries
the native huntsmen and the little Collector of Pcgnugger, a
famous tiger-slayer, to go with us. The first night in camp
was gay with stories and songs; and the next morning, with four
elephants for our party and twenty-odd to crush through and
open the jungle and to beat up our game, we went to the field.
Kildare shot the first tiger, a huge beast that had sprung upon
his elephant's head. The Collector shot the second, and then
we returned to camp.

That evening a ryot, or peasant, told Isaacs where there was
a great man-eating tiger. Miss Westonhaugh had laughingly
wished for a pair of tiger's ears, which the natives always prompt-
ly purloin as a charm against evil spirits. This was enough
for Isaacs, who quietly went out alone, that night, with knife
and gun, and the trembling ryot as guide, and returned before
dawn with the ears, which he sent to Miss Westonhaugh in a
beautiful silver box. Old Ghyrkins was indignant with his
niece to have wished for tiger'.s ears, and she, poor girl, was
shocked to find a life risked for her careless word. But the
exploit again glorified Isaacs.

Thus passed a week shooting, and resting every other day

26 MR. ISAACS

while the love-affair of our young folk prosperrxl, even Kildare
mournfully seeing it. There was a mango grove near our
tenting-place, and a well with a small temple where a Brahman
dwelt, receiving the gifts of the neighborhood. One afternoon
as I sat before my tent, reading, I saw Isaacs and the lady saun-
tering toward the well, and soon the beautiful couple were joined
by the old priest. Isaacs called me, and I went over, and
offered the Brahman money if he would perform some wonder.

"I will do no wonder for the unbeliever's bucksheesh," he
replied, " but I will do it for the lady with shining hair, whose
face resembles Chunder."

At his direction I called a servant to draw water from the
well; but while the old priest looked intently at the man he
could not by the most violent efforts raise the bucket, until the
priest's lips moved silently, when the bucket rose with a bound
and the man fell backward, sprang up, and ran off, shouting,
Shut I Bhut I ("devils") at the top of his voice. The old Brah'
man then turned to Isaacs, and said:

"I have done a wonder for you. I will also tell you a say-
ing. You have done wrong in not taking the advice of your
friend. You should not have brought the white-haired lady
into the tiger's jaws. I have spoken. Peace be with you."
And he moved away.

I left them together. At dinner the lady was very serious.
Isaacs had told her that he must go ciway on urgent business,
although without mentioning the affair of Shere Ali; and, when
he told the party, there was strong protest and regret

After all had separated for the night Kildare and I strolled
about for a while, when suddenly we saw among the trees the
figures of a man and a woman, his arm about her, and her head
on his shoulder. We turned away to our tents. That night
Isaacs acknowledged to me that the old Brahman's words, show-
ing that Ram Lai's warning had been for Miss Westonhaugh,
had shocked him, and he concluded:

"The light of life is woman; the love of life is the love of
woman my light, my life, and my love!"

It was a long and cheering talk, and at last, be getting my
promise to join him if Ram Lai should need me, we separated.
Before dawn he was in the saddle. Suddenly a figure swept out

FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD 27

of the shadows to his side; he halted, bent over a whisper the
sound of a kiss the figure disappeared, and he rode away.
What I could do to cheer Miss Westonhaugh I did, and in a long
morning together I told her our friend had gone to do a very
noble deed to save the life of a man he never had seen; and
her pale cheeks flushed with joyous color. That afternoon a
messenger galloped up, and handed me a letter from Isaacs,
informing me that Ram Lai desired that I should meet them
below Keitung on the afternoon of the day when the moon
should be full "for friendship's sake, for love's sake, come!"
At dawn next morning I set out. At the same spot where Isaacs
had been halted stood the same shadowy figure, awaiting me.
"Give him this from me. God be with you!" And, putting
into my hands a small package, she was gone.

In order to reach Isaacs, I must ride more than two hundred
miles up into the vast wilderness of the Himalayas. But, leav-
ing the railroad at Zulinder, I found that relays of horses had
been arranged, so on I galloped, getting a fresh pony every six
or seven miles. In twenty-four hours I had climbed a hundred
and thirty miles; after which relays of mountaineers bore me
up into unimaginable heights, along the brink of profound
abysses. At my journey's end I met the one man on earth who
seemed worth having as a friend; and when he had beamed
over the splendid tress of hair I had brought him in the silver
box of the tiger's ears, we found Ram Lai, who greeted me in
friendly fashion.

The delivery of Shere Ali was to be in a neighboring valley.
Rnm Lai said the intention of the band was to murder both the
prisoner and Isaacs; the captain giving the signal by laying his
hand on Isaacs' s shoulder. At that instant, he said, I must
seize and cripple or kill the captain, and Ram Lai would attend
to the rest. And so it fell out. While the captain pretended
to compare two copies of the agreement with the Rajah, Abdul
told Shere Ali of the plot. Presently the captain handed Isaacs
a receipt to sign. Ram Lai stood, leaning on his staff and
gazing intently at the moon. As Isaacs took the receipt the
captain laid his hand on his shoulder, raising his other arm
toward his men. Instantly I gripped the captain by his throat
and the upraised arm, and held him helpless as he writhed and

28 MR. ISAACS

struggled, sinking my fingers ever deeper in his throat and bend-
ing his arm back until it snapped like a pipe-stem, and he col-
lapsed. Meantime, while Isaacs and Shere AH struck down
the two nearest sowars, a heavy pall of freezing fog came down
and hid all things. Isaacs seized Shere Ali, Ram Lai laid hold
on me, and we rushed far up the stony pass.

"Friend/' said Isaacs to the Afghan, "you are free. Praise
Allah, and let us depart in peace."

The savage old warrior grasped the outstretched hand of
the Persian, and yelled aloud:

" Illallaho-ho-ho-ho! "

And Isaacs responded in clarion tones: "La illah il Allah! 1 '

"Thank God!" said I.

"Call Him as you please, friend Griggs," answered Ram
Lai serenely.

And the next morning, provided with money, the grateful
Shere Ali departed with Ram Lai, who would conduct him to
Thibet.

Isaacs and I returned slowly back to Simla. On my table
were letters one from Mr. Ghyrkins, dated two days before,
begging me to come to him immediately, adding that his niece
was seriously ill. I thought the poor girl had worried herself
into sickness, but that in this clear air and with her lover's re-
turn, all would be well. I told Isaacs that I should be back
in an hour to breakfast, and galloped to the bungalow. Mr.
Ghyrkins, on my asking after Miss Westonhaugh, broke down,
saying that she was desperately ill of jungle fever, and he feared
the worst. Learning that she wished to see me, I found her
lying on a long cane-chair, her face startling in its emaciation.
She greeted me sweetly, and, inquiring after my friend, said:

"Tell him to come to me now. I am dying. I shall be
dead before night. Don't tell him that. Did he save the man's
life?"

"Yes, the man is safe and free in Thibet."

"That was nobly done. You have always been kind to
me, and you love him. Good-by, dear Mr. Griggs. God keep
you!"

I tore back to the hotel, and as gently as I could I told Isaacs
of the jungle fever. He was brave, and of surpassing endur-

FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD 29

ance, but great purple rings came out under his eyes, as, sup-
pressing his profound emotion, he hastened away. And I sat
thinking of his piteous case, and, bearded man as I was, I wept
in bitterness of heart.

" Oh, Ram Lai/' I cried aloud, "you are a wise man. What
shall come of this?"

A cold draught passed over my head, and in terror I saw
Ram Lai quietly sitting by the door.

"I come opportunely, it seems, Mr. Griggs, since you pro-
nounce my name."

"Will Miss Westonhaugh recover?" I asked.

"No, she will die at sunset."

"Why can you not save her? if I am talking to you at all.
Perhaps you are in Thibet with Shere Ali, and this is your
astral body."

"Quite right, Mr. Griggs. My body is quietly asleep in a
monastery in Thibet, and this is my astral shape, which I am
getting to like almost as well. But I am not omnipotent.
Given certain conditions and I can produce certain results;
but my power, as you know, is merely the knowledge of laws of
nature, which your wise Western scientists ignore. I can re-
plenish the oil in the lamp, and while there is a wick the lamp
will burn; but if the wick is consumed as in Miss Weston-
haugh's case it is the lamp must go out. And yet even this
is better for both of them. She is not suffering in body, and,
as for 'the untold agony of souP you attribute to Isaacs" for
we had altogether a long conversation "it is a wholesome
medicine for such a soul as his. Believe me, these two will be
happier far, and far more blessed, in a few short years, than
ever you and I shall be."

Ram Lai sighed as he spoke the last words, and was gone.

After a miserable night of thinking and distorted dreaming,
I awoke to find Isaacs standing by my bedside, himself grayer
than the dawn. His hands were icy. I led him to the outer
room, not knowing how to comfort him.

"It is all over, my friend," said he.

"It has but begun," said the solemn tones of Ram Lai from
the door. He entered, and continued: "Friend Isaacs, I am
not here to weary your strained heart-strings with petty con-

3 o MR. ISAACS

dolences. But I love you, my brother, and have somewhat
to say to you. Let me show you three pictures of yourself."

And the tenderly eloquent old man depicted the beauty and
vigor of his first phase of life, its power, and wealth, and material
enjoyment; then passed with sympathetic insight to his second
destiny, learning the worth of a noble woman and the wealth
of a true love; and finally he laid before the thoughtful, suffering
man a third destiny, great and awful, but grand beyond telling.

"Take my hand, brother," he continued, "and seek with
me the path to the heights. You have endured too much to
mix again with the world. Come forth, and your soul shall
live forever, your grief shall be turned to joy, and the sinking
heart be lifted above earthly sorrow. Remember the past,
think also upon the future. Be bold, aspiring, firm of purpose.
Tenfold is it truer now than when you said it, that with her was
your life, your light, and your love; for with her is life eternal,
light ethereal, love spiritual. Come, brother, come with me!"

Gently Isaacs raised his head from his hands and gazed
long on the old man, while over his pale face the burning spirit
came and went and came again, like flashes in the northern sky.
Slowly he rose, and, laying his hand in the Buddhist's, spoke
at last.
- "Brother, I come. Show me the way."

Then, turning to me, he said: "My friend, I bid you fare-
well. You will never see me again. I thank you for your
friendship and kind offices, for the strength of your arm in time
of need, for the gold of your words in time of uncertainty. I
shall bestow my worldly possessions on the one man to whom,
besides yourself, I owe a debt of gratitude, John Westonhaugh.
Only this I beg of you : Take this gem, and keep it always for
my sake. Think of me not as mourning for the departed day,
but as watching longingly for the first dawn of the day eternal."

One last loving look one more pressure of the reluctant
fingers, and those two went out hand in hand, under the clear
stars, and I saw them no more.

A ROMAN SINGER (1883)

This romantic tale first appeared in the pages of the Atlantic Monthly. It
abounds in realistic touches which reproduce with great fidelity Italian home
life. Modern Rome is vividly presented to the reader, who is given little
glimpses of the side streets and of the quaint people, artists as well as artisans,
who live in unbeautiful surroundings wnile evolving beautiful creations. Nino
lived with the gentle old Count, who tells the story, in the Via dei Funari. The
palace of one of the greatest nobles in Rome lies across the way, and the ancient
Palazzo Gabrielli is not far distant

CORNELIO GRANDI, who tell you these
things, was not always poor, nor always a pro-
fessor of philosophy, nor a scribbler of pedantic
articles for a living. Many of you can remember
why I was driven to sell my patrimony, the dear
castello in the Sabines. But now that Nino is
growing to be a famous man in the world, and
people are saying good things, and bad, about
him, I think it best to tell you the whole truth
and what I think of it.

Nino is just like a son to me; I brought him up from a little
child, instructed him, and would have made a philosopher of
him, but he had set his heart on being a singer. His mother
used to sing and her voice was wonderful; but I never heard
her sing after her husband was killed. One day the fever took
her, and Nino was left a little baby. About the time of her
death I came to live in Rome, for I had sold Castel Serveti, and
a few years later Nino was brought to me here; he was an ugly
little boy with great black eyes. Mariuccia, my old servant,
begged that he should be left with us until the following day,
and we could never let him go away again; that is how Nino
came to live with us.

The day came when the great singer, De Pretis, who had
heard his voice, claimed him for his pupil. "He has a voice

31

32 A ROMAN SINGER

like a trumpet and the patience of all the angels. He will be
a great singer," said De Pretis, later.

One Sunday afternoon I had gone with Nino to St. Peter's
to hear Maestro de Pretis sing; in the crowd I found myself
pushed against a tall man with an immense gray moustache
standing out across his face like the horns of a beetle. When
I apologized for crowding against him he said something with
a German accent, which seemed to be courteous.

The lady with him was dressed entirely in black, and her
fair face stood out wonderfully clear and bright against the
darkness. Truly she looked more like an angel than a woman.
And now, as the people kneeled to the benediction, imagine a
little what Nino did! He just dropped on his knees with his
face to the white lady and his back to the procession, looking
as if his heart would break.

Nino, who had never before cared to look at a woman,
learned afterward from De Pretis that she was a Prussian,
daughter of the Count von Lira, a retired colonel. The name
of the lady was Edvigia, or Hedwig, and the maestro had her
upon his list of singing pupils.

As we walked home Nino said : " I swear to you, here, that
I will marry the Contessina di Lira if that is her name before
two years are out. Ah, you do not believe me. Very well. I
have nothing more to say."

Nino appealed to De Pretis to aid him in meeting the Con-
tessina, and the maestro consented when he detected the new
quality which the young man's ardor had imparted to his voice;
he said to himself: "In order to be a great artist, Nino must be
in love always."

And so De Pretis arranged with the Prussian Colonel to pro-
cure for his daughter an instructor in literature; and the en-
raptured Nino found himself engaged by the pompous for-
eigner to teach his daughter three times a week. The training
that I had given Nino in the Italian classics now stood him in
good stead, and enabled him to act well the part of a professor
of literature; and what days of happiness those were for him
when he might sit close beside the lovely Contessina, reading
Dante and at the same time studying her expressive face !

One day the Contessina began asking questions about the

FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD 33

Pantheon, which she declared she must see at night, with just
one ray of moonlight falling through the opening in the top of
the rotunda. Nino volunteered to guide a party thither upon
some moonlight night; and so it came about that on a certain
evening four people were conducted through the little entrance
at the back of the Pantheon by the sacristan, who struck a light to
show them the way, and then put out his taper and left them.
While they stood in the lonely place, illuminated only by the one
ray of moonlight, a wonderful voice broke the silence; hidden
by the darkness, Nino sang, putting his whole soul into those
waves of sound. All were tremendously impressed and long-
ing to meet the singer; but Nino said the singer was a cousin
of his who had withdrawn as soon as he had finished singing.

A charming Baroness in the party joined Hedwig in inquiries
about the singer; and learning of Hedwig's lessons, engaged
Nino to instruct her also, and made an appointment with him
for the following day, which he kept with reluctance.

Upon reaching the house of the Baroness he found her at the
piano studying a certain song; she begged him to help her with
it, and when he denied any understanding of music, urged him
at least to assist her in pronouncing the words; as he followed
the music, Nino unconsciously began to sing, when suddenly
the Baroness turned on him, clapping her hands: "I have found
you out," she cried. "You are the tenor of the Pantheon!"

Nino was thoroughly alarmed by her discovery, for it por-
tended the loss of everything most dear to him; let it once be
known what he was, and there would be no more lessons with
the lovely Hedwig.

Then ensued a heated discussion with the wily Baroness,
who, though ten years Nino's senior, had taken a sudden fancy to
him. As she could easily reveal his secret to the irascible father
of Hedwig, and so destroy his happiness, he agreed to come
often to sing to her while she promised to aid him to the best
of her ability.

In the days that ensued Hedwig was by turns studious and
neglectful of her lessons, and often asked Nino about his cousin
with the wonderful voice.

As the time approached for Nino to make his dbut, an-
nouncements were placarded that "Giovanni Cardegna, the

A.D., VOL. vi. 3

34 A ROMAN SINGER

most distinguished pupil of the Maestro Ercole de Pretis,
will appear in Donizetti's opera, La Favorita" As he read
these announcements Nino's heart sank, for he felt that the
moment had almost arrived which was to separate him from
his adored Contessina.

Hedwig was filled with keen anticipation at the thought of
hearing again the voice which had entranced her, and talked
continually to Nino of his talented cousin, for whose perform-
ance she and her father had secured the best possible seats.

At last the crucial night arrived, and Nino, although dis-
guised by his monk's costume, stood revealed before those who
had thought him the humble professor of literature. His suc-
cess was instantaneous; the audience sat entranced, and the
maestro watched with delight the public recognition of the
master-singer he had discovered and trained. But Nino sang
only to one person in the crowded theater, and Hedwig saw him,
the singer of her dreams, looking straight at her as if to say:
"I have done it for you, and for you only." Nino, in the
young innocence of his heart, had prepared such a surprise for
his lady as might have turned the head of a hardened woman
of the world, much sooner an imaginative German girl.

On the morning following his dbut, a note summoned him
to breakfast with the Baroness. During their conversation
Hedwig was ushered in and stood transfixed to hear from the
Baroness:

" You are free now. Your appearance in public has put an
end to all. You are not tied to me now unless you wish it."

The Baroness, seeing Nino's sudden change of expression,
turned to her feminine visitor with a ready explanation of her
remark; but the effect was embarrassing to all concerned.
Hedwig became cold and silent, and Nino soon withdrew.

Nino's success was followed by advantageous offers from
operatic managers in other cities, and he found himself all at
once in affluent circumstances. This was, however, to him but
a slight matter compared with the necessity for reinstating him-
self with Hedwig, whom he fancied offended with him. A
serenade under her window gave him a chance to express his
emotions; and she in response dropped him a rose.

Another note, filled with protestations of friendship, sum-

FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD 35

moned Nino again to the side of the Baroness, who now exerted
every wile to win from him some response to her passion. Be-
ing repulsed, she turned upon him like a tiger, vowing to ruin
his chances with the woman he loved. The interview was
interrupted by the sudden appearance of the Conte di Lira,
which gave the Baroness her coveted opportunity to denounce
the man who had humiliated her.

"This man, sir/ 7 she said, in measured tones, "this low-
born singer, who has palmed himself off on us as a respectable
instructor in language, has the audacity to love your daughter.
For the sake of pressing his odious suit he has wormed himself
into your house, as into mine; he has sung beneath your
daughter's window, and she has dropped letters to him, love-
letters, do you understand? And now he has the effrontery to
come to me to me of all women and to confess his abomi-
nable passion for that pure angel, imploring me to assist him in
bringing destruction upon her and you."

This outburst so roused the anger of the Count that he
rushed upon Nino, brandishing his stick wildly to strike him; the
other, seizing the sharp dagger which the Baroness used as a
paper-cutter, forced the elder man to a seat and made him listen
while he indignantly denied the false accusations of the jealous
woman, stating his own position truthfully, and boldly asserting
his love for the Count's daughter, whom he declared his in-
tention of marrying if she would consent. This dramatic scene
concluded with the fainting Baroness prostrate upon the floor,
and with the angry retreat of the Conte di Lira.

A tragedy followed this exciting day; for the next morning
found the passionate and disappointed Baroness dead from
poison taken in a moment of despair. Foul play was sus-
pected; and Nino, who had been the last one to see her alive,
was accused of murdering her; but it was soon ascertained that
the poison must have been taken some hours after he left her.

Nino now thought of nothing day or night but how he might
see Hedwig, and at last hit upon the plan of visiting her during
the funeral of the Baroness, when he knew the Conte di Lira
would be absent; this he accomplished by bribing the servant
to admit him to the room where his mistress was having her
music-lesson with De Pretis. This amiable friend discreetly

36 A ROMAN SINGER

withdrew to the background while the young people con-
versed; and during this brief interview Nino made the most of
his opportunity to declare his love to Hedwig, who acknowledged
that she returned it. According to agreement he waited under
her window that night; a few words scrawled on a handkerchief
told him to do nothing until he heard from her.

The same night Nino made the acquaintance of the eccentric
Baron Benoni, whom he chanced to encounter in the street and
who persuaded him to spend a few hours with him that he might
hear a great musician play on the violin. Nino returned with
him to his palazzo, where his host himself proved to be the mar-
velous musician, and also a man of extraordinary age and ex-
perience, who now seemed brimming with youthful vitality,
and anon aged and withered. From this time the Baron
became a menace to the young man's happiness; he made the
acquaintance of Hedwig and her father and proceeded at once
to pay marked attention to the beautiful girl, who from the
first shrank from him, -while her father encouraged the aged
suitor on account of his reputed wealth.

A few days after Nino's interview with Hedwig the Conte
di Lira disappeared from Rome with his household. A parting
line from Hedwig had told Nino that their destination was
Paris, and he immediately accepted an engagement in that city;
but no trace of Hedwig and her father could be found; and then
he sang in London, searching that city also in vain. He was ill
and worn with anxiety, and begged me to aid him, if it were in
my power to do so; and I, Signer Grandi, made up my mind
that I would leave no stone unturned to restore my boy's happi-
ness and peace of mind. During a visit I had had from the
eccentric Baron Benoni (who, some say, is no other than the
Wandering Jew himself), I learned that in all likelihood the
Conte di Lira had never left Italy, but had sought some mountain
stronghold in which to immure his obstinate daughter. In the
watches of the night I thought over my resources, which were
but meager. In order to undertake my quest I must have at
least a thousand francs; how was I to obtain such a sum? Then
I bethought me of my little vineyard beyond Porta Salara; and
after some difficulty, and by taking considerably less than my
land was worth, I found myself in possession of the necessary

FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD 37

funds, and started for Palestrina, because all foreigners go there,
and also because there one gets news from all other parts of the
mountains.

I had not been long in this vicinity when I heard of a "gran
signore, who had gone to live at Fillettino a crazy man, with
a daughter as beautiful as an angel."

It was a tiresome journey, but at last I found myself at
Fillettino, and secured lodgings close by a certain frowning
castle that loomed up high above the town; its new tenant had
taken it for a year, I was informed, having already expended
much money in furnishings.

I learned also, that there was a third inmate of the castle:
an elderly gentleman who rode out with the others frequently.
This proved to be Baron Benoni, who had told me he was off
for Austria.

On the third day after my arrival I called upon the Baron;
our interview was not marked by cordiality on his side, or friend-
liness on mine; but as I left the outer hall I had a glimpse of the
sad countenance of Hedwig; I had in my pocket a letter to her
from Nino, which I had promised to deliver whenever the
chance arose. After being bowed out by the Baron, I rang the
bell again and when the servant reappeared gave him the
letter for his mistress, and with it a hundred francs to deliver it
to her. "If you bring me an answer here at this hour to-
morrow," I told him, "I will give you as much more."

The following morning I learned from the servant that at
the earliest opportunity I should have an interview with the
Contessina. He would come for me some evening after eight
and would conduct me into the castle by a secret passage.

A whole week passed without the coming of the summons,
but I had cheering news in a letter from Nino, which told me
his engagement was over and that he would join me at once.

Picture to yourself how I looked and felt, a sober old pro-
fessor, stealing out at night wrapped in a cloak, as dark and
shabby as any conspirator's, threading my way behind the ser-
vant who had come to guide me. It was a perilous trip, skirting
rocks and mounting winding stairs and hurrying through narrow
passages; at last I stood in the presence of Hedwig von Lira.
In the brief interview that followed I learned of the mental

38 A ROMAN SINGER

sufferings which were her portion. Her father intended to keep
her here a prisoner until she consented to marry the abhorred
Benoni, who made her life miserable by his hated attentions.
I learned from her sweet lips that she loved Nino madly and
would love him forever. Poor, beautiful, tormented Hedwig!
I did my best to cheer her and told her that Nino was on the
way and might be there to-morrow. I asked if she could meet
me at this place upon the following night; and she assured me
she would do her best to be there.

The next morning brought Nino, whose first words, after
greeting me, were those of anxious inquiry concerning Hedwig;
after I had told him my story, we discussed what course was
best for him to pursue. Nino declared that he would see the
Count once more and would again make honorable offer of his
hand in marriage, from which I tried in vain to dissuade him.

"Take my advice, Nino," I said. "Carry her off first, and
ask permission afterward. It is much better."

But he insisted that his was the more honorable way; and
that Hedwig would be more inclined for flight after it had been
tried if it should prove fruitless.

Nino rode out planning to meet the Count, and before he
returned the fateful meeting had taken place. Once more the
young man had asked the Count for his daughter's hand,
assuring him that he had now an ample income and an assured
position as an artist. To all this the Count had responded that
he would have none of an alliance with a "man of the people,"
a "plebeian," who was also a man of uncertain fortune, and,
worst of all, an "artist." And so they parted.

Hedwig meanwhile was left alone with Baron Benoni, who
took this opportunity to press his suit, which the young lady
coldly refused. Then, angered by her dismissal, the Baron
became intolerably insulting, insisting that she must marry him
to reclaim that reputation which she had thrown away for the
young singer, who was not worth a thought from her; but his
slanders did not trouble Hedwig, who loved and trusted Nino.

Promptly upon the Count's return his daughter poured into
his ears an indignant account of the Baron's insulting conduct
and high-handed method of trying to wring from her a consent
to his proposal. The Count, although himself something of a

FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD 39

tyrant, did not relish the treatment of his daughter by the Baron,
and promised her that he would dismiss his suit at once and take
her wherever she chose to go if she would relinquish all thoughts
of the singer. Hedwig's gentle pleading proved of no avail; and
so she made up her mind to take her happiness into her own
hands, which meant to place it in those of Nino.

Briefly, then, on this very evening Hedwig stole quietly down
the long winding staircase, leaving a note to tell her father that
she had gone; and a few moments later the lovers were locked in
each other's arms. What Nino said, and what responses were
made by his adored one, need not be chronicled by one who
stood close by merely to keep guard over the stout mules which
had been provided for the flight. The gorge we had to descend
was steep and most precipitous; but there was some light from
the moon to guide us and the trusty mules carried us safely.
At last we reached a place where Nino could find lodgings for
us at a little inn. Here we had rest and some refreshment, and
here till dawn Nino kept guard outside his lady's door lest they
should be overtaken and discovered; then early in the morning
the ceremony was performed, at which I was a witness.

This is the story of the Roman singer whose great genius is
making such a stir in the world. I have told it to you, because
people must not think that he did wrong to carry Hedwig von
Lira away from her father, nor that Hedwig was so very unfilial
and heartless. I know that they were both right, and the day
will come when old Lira will acknowledge it.

As for Benoni, the Count himself became convinced during
a heated interview which took place between them, that he was
hardly sane; and this belief was soon verified by the following
line in a certain paper: " Baron Benoni, the wealthy banker,
who was many years ago an inmate of a private lunatic asylum
in Paris, is reported to be dangerously insane in Rome."

They are happy and glad together, those two hearts that
never knew love save for each other, and they will be happy
always. Perhaps you will say that there is nothing in this
story but love. And if so, it is well; for where there is naught
else there can surely be no sinning, nor wrong-doing, nor weak-
ness, nor meanness; nor aught that is not pure and undefiled.

SAMUEL RUTHERFORD CROCKETT

(Scotland, 1860)
THE LILAC SUNBONNET (1894)

This was its author's fourth novel, and it is one of the most popular and
characteristic of his pictures of Scottish life.

JALPH PEDEN lay well content under a thorn-
bush that grew beside the Grannoch water. It
was the second day of his sojourning in Galloway,
as on the previous day he had arrived at the home
of Allan Welsh, minister of the Marrow Kirk, in
the parish of Dullarg, bearing with him a quaint-
ly sealed and delicately written letter from his
father in Edinburgh.

This letter, which Ralph duly delivered, ex-
plained that the bearer was being fitted for the ministry and
was trysted to "the kirk of the Marrow, the sole repository of
orthodox truth in Scotland." It also requested the recipient to
take the young man under his guidance for a season, and to
assist him with his studies, and also to discover whether the lad
had a heart; " for," added the writer, who was Allan Welsh's
old friend and fellow-minister, "he shews it not to me."

The subject of these remarks was a tall, clean-limbed young
fellow, with a student's pallor on his handsome, clear-cut face;
he had dark-brown curls clustering over a white forehead, and
eyes that were steadfast and true. He had lived all his life
with his father in an old house in James's Court, Edinburgh,
and had been trained to think more of a professor's opinion on
his Hebrew exercise than of a woman's opinion on any subject
whatever.

Ralph, being a natural student, had devoted himself to his

40

SAMUEL RUTHERFORD CROCKETT 41

books, and had found in them his greatest pleasure and recrea-
tion. He was reserved and distant with his companions, and
although he had reached the age of twenty-four years he never
had felt aught but indifference for the other sex.

On this summer day Ralph had come out into the morning
air with his note-book and his Hebrew lexicon, prepared for a
day of uninterrupted study. But soon his peace and quietude
was disturbed by the arrival upon the scene of two young
women carrying pails of water and other necessary adjuncts for
a Galloway blanket-washing. This interruption, which was
not at all pleasing to the devout student, would have had the
effect of driving him away at once, had it not been that his atten-
tion was arrested by the beauty and charm of one of the maidens.

This was Winifred, better known as Winsome Charteris, a
very important young person, to whose beauty and wit the poets
of three parishes did vain reverence.

She had golden hair, crisping and tendriling over her brow,
blue eyes, to which no poet ever had done justice, and a mouth
the description of which had already wrecked three promising
literary reputations. Her figure was tall and shapely, and she
wore a light summer gown and a lilac sunbonnet, which hung
by the strings upon her shoulders.

This seemed to Ralph a singularly attractive bit of color in
the landscape, and he did not resent it, but continued to gaze
upon it with increasing interest.

Soon the blanket- washing reached a point where the delicacy
of the onlooker's feelings would not allow him to linger longer, as
he saw one maid tuck up her skirts in a professional manner and
step barefoot into the tub, at which spectacle he fled precipitately.

His departure was noted by Winsome just as he was disap-
pearing from view, and she was much amused at the apparent
timidity of the young stranger, who in his haste had left his
books behind. These were at once discovered by the merry
lass, who immediately appropriated them and took them home,
prepared to restore them to their rightful owner the following
day all but the note-book, in which she read these words
faintly penciled: "Of all colors I do love the lilac. I wonder
all maids do not wear gowns of that hue!"

Winsome sighed a little and looked at the lilac sunbonnet.

42 THE LILAC SUNBONNET

"At any rate, he has very good taste/' she said, but the Ulac
sunbonnet said never a word.

The following day Winsome returned to the scene of the
blanket-washing, taking with her the books, and came face to
face with their owner, who had come in search of his property.
He introduced himself to his fair companion, who returned his
books, and when he began his search for his missing note-book
he was aided in his quest by the deceitful Winsome, who had
this property safely tucked away in the bosom of her gown.

So Ralph and Winsome continued the search, and when
from time to time they came close together, the propinquity of
the girPs flushed cheek and mazy ringlets stirred something in
the lad's heart that never had been touched before, and his
father, had he witnessed the scene on that "broomy knowe,"
might have been fearful of that heart's too sudden awakening.

Winsome, who found herself strongly attracted to the young
stranger, conducted him to her home and introduced him to her
grandparents, with whom she lived. Here Ralph received a
cordial welcome; his father was an old and valued friend of the
aged couple, and they offered the hospitality of their house to
Gilbert Peden's son.

Ralph's admiration for Winsome warmed rapidly into a love
so intense that everything else paled before it, and his devotion
to his books and his calling seemed completely overshadowed.

The ministry of the Marrow Kirk, which called for his entire
allegiance and forbade his thoughts to dwell on worldly things,
no longer appealed to him, and he realized that the love Win-
some had awakened in his heart took precedence over every
other emotion he had experienced.

The only obstacle to his love-making, besides Winsome's
own reluctance to acknowledge her surrender, was Jess Kissock,
a young and pretty serving-maid who had conceived a violent
affection for the young student and did everything in her power
to come between him and her mistress. She intercepted notes
and did various things that caused trouble between the lovers,
and endeavored to make Winsome believe that Ralph was dis-
loyal to her.

While affairs were in this unsettled condition, Ralph re-
ceived a letter from his father requesting him to return to Edin-

SAMUEL RUTHERFORD CROCKETT 43

burgh to go before the presbytery of the Marrow Kirk to pass
the examination for his license. Upon the receipt of this com-
munication Ralph felt a tingling sense of shame, as he realized
that he had of late neglected his studies, and had paid more
attention to his growing volume of poems than he had to his
discourses for a license. He spent a night and a day in silent
self-accusation, during which he searched his heart and ques-
tioned whether, indeed, he were fit for the high office of minister
in Marrow kirk, and whether he could now accept that narrow
creed and take up conscientiously the work for which he had
been prepared.

He recalled the years spent upon his Latin, Greek, and
Hebrew, and in acquiring the knowledge of the great truths of
the protesting Kirk, though he realized that through it all his
bent had really been toward literature. The books of verses
that he kept under lock and key were the only things he ever
had concealed from his father, and since he had come to man's
estate, the articles he had covertly sent to the Edinburgh Maga-
zine were manifest tokens of the natural trend of his mind.

This call to Edinburgh, he reflected, did not mean the giving
up of Winsome; his father could not utterly refuse his consent;
and though he might urge a long delay, he surely would not
blight his son's happiness.

Ralph decided to write Winsome at once, asking her to see
him again before his departure, and despatched a letter in which
he said:

" I am at the cross-roads, and I cannot tell which way to go. But I am sure
that you can tell me, for your word shall be to me as the whisper of a kind
angel. Meet me to-night, I beseech you, for ere long I must go very far away,
and I have much to say to thee, my beloved. Believing that you will grant me
this request for it is the first time and may be the last and with all my heart
going out to thee, I am the man who truly loves thee.

"RALPH PEDEN."

This note fell into the hands of the unfaithful Jess, who
opened it, perused it, and then, for reasons of her own, re-
sealed it and delivered it to her mistress. With a tumultuous
heart Winsome read her lover's words, and without a moment 's
hesitation sat down and penned the following line, "I shall be
at the gate of the hill pasture at ten o'clock to-night," and gave
it to Jess to deliver to the messenger who waited for an answer.

44 THE LILAC SUNBONNET

But, before doing this, the wily Jess, who was clever with her
pen, substituted another message, which read: "Meet me at the
water-side bridge at ten o'clock."

Thrilled with the subtle hope of strange possibilities, Ralph
waited at the place of his love-tryst, and soon heard a light foot-
step and saw a dark shape coming toward him against the
faint gray glimmer of the loch. It was his love, and she had
come out to him at his bidding; he opened his arms to receive
her, and for the first time in his life drew them to him again
not empty.

The thrill electric of the contact, the yielding quiescence
of the girl whom he held to his breast, stilled his heart's tumul-
tuous beating. She raised her head, and their lips drew together
in a long kiss. What was this thing? It was a kiss in which
he tasted a strange alien flavor even through the passion of it.
A sense of wrong and disappointment flowed round Ralph's
heart.

"Beloved," he said tenderly, looking down, "you are very
good to me to come! "

For all reply a face was held close pressed to his. He passed
his hand across the ripples of her hair.

It was harder in texture than he had fancied Winsome's hair
would be. He had thought a woman's hair was like floss silk
at least Winsome's, for he had theorized about none other.

"Winsome, dear!" he said, again bending his head to look
down, "I have to go far away, and I wanted to tell you. You
are not angry with me, sweetest, for asking you to come? I could
not go without bidding you good-by, and in the daytime I might
not have seen you alone. You know that I love you with all
my life and all my heart. And you love me at least a little.
Tell me, beloved!"

Still there was no answer. Ralph waited with some certitude
and ease from pain, for indeed the clasping arms told him all
he wished to know.

There was a brightness low in the west. The shawl fell
back like a hood from off the girl's shoulders. She looked up
throbbing and palpitating. Ralph Peden was clasping Jess
Kissock in his arms ! His heart stopped beating for a tremendous
interval of seconds. Then the dammed-back blood-surge drovt

SAMUEL RUTHERFORD CROCKETT 45

thundering in his ears. He swayed, and would have fallen but
for the parapet of the bridge and the clinging arms about his
neck. All his nature and love in full career stopped dead.
The shock almost unhinged his soul and reason. It was still so
dark that, though he could see the outline of her head and the
paleness of her face, nothing held him but the intense and vivid
fascination of her eyes. Ralph would have broken away, in-
dignant and amazed, but her arms and eyes held him close
prisoner, the dismayed turmoil in his own heart aiding.

"Yes, Ralph Peden," said Jess Kissock, cleaving to him,
"and you hate me because it is I and not another. You think
me a wicked girl to come to you in her place. But you called
her because you loved her, and I have come because I loved you
as much. Have I not as much right? Do not dream that I
came for aught but that. Have I not as good a right to love as
you? Yet I know you will despise me for loving you, and hate
me for coming in her place."

"I do not hate you!" said Ralph, striving to go, for in spite
of his anger and disappointment his heart was somewhat touched
by the girl's confession.

Suddenly out of the darkness came a cry, a woman's cry of
pain, anger, and danger, which said, "Ralph! Ralph! come to
me come!" and recognizing the voice of his love, Ralph Peden
sprang from the hands that were holding him and plunged into
the darkness of the wood whence the cry had come.

True to her promise, at the appointed hour Winsome had
come to keep her tryst, and had found waiting for her a cloaked
figure who instantly enclosed her in his strong arms. Suddenly
she felt her breath shorten. She panted as if she could not get
air, like the bird as it flutters and palpitates.

"Oh, I ought not to have come!" she said, "but I could not
help it!"

There was no word in answer, only a closer folding of the
arms that encircled her.

When for the first time she looked shyly upward, Winsome
found herself in the arms of Agnew Greatorix, a rejected suitor
of rich and influential connections, who, on account of his un-
principled life, was held in hatred and dread by those who knew
him.

4 6 THE LILAC SUNBONNET

Wrapped in his great military cloak, with a triumphant look
in his handsome face, he smiled down upon her.

"Winsome, my darling!" he said, "you have come to me.
You are mine" bending his face to hers. She pushed against
him with her hands, straining him from her by the rigid tension
of her arms, setting her face far from his, but she was still unable
to break the clasp of his arms about her.

"Let me go! let me go!" she cried, in a hoarse and laboring
whisper.

"Gently, gently, fair and softly, my birdie! "said Great-
orix; "surely you have not forgotten that you sent for me to
meet you here. Well, I am here, and I am not such a fool as
to come for nothing!"

The very impossibility of words steeled Winsome's heart.

"I send for you!" cried Winsome; "I never had message or
word with you in my life to give you a right to touch me with
your little finger. Let me go, and this instant, Agnew Great -
orix!"

"Winsome, sweetest girl, it pleases you to jest. Have not
I your own letter in my pocket telling me where to meet you?
Did you not write it? I am not angry. You can play out your
play and pretend you do not care for me as much as you like ;
but I will not let you go. I have loved you too long, though
till now you were cruel and would give me no hope. So when I
got your letter I knew it was love, after all, that had been in your
eyes as I rode away."

"Listen," said Winsome eagerly; "there is some terrible
mistake; I never wrote a line to you "

"It matters not; it was to me that your letter came, brought
by a messenger to the castle an hour ago. So here I am; and
here you are, my beauty, and we shall just make the best of
it, as lovers should when the nights are short."

He closed his arms about her; a numbness and a deadness
spread through her being as he compelled her nearer to him.
Her head spun round with the fear of fainting.

"Ralph! Ralph! Hdp me help! Oh, come to me!"
she cried in her extremity of terror and oncoming rigor of un-
consciousness.

The next moment she dropped limp and senseless into the

SAMUEL RUTHERFORD CROCKETT 47

arms of Agnew Greatorix, and he, laying her senseless body on
the heather, was about to take his will from her lips, now pale
and defenseless, when something that had been crouching,
beastlike, in the heather for an hour, suddenly sprang upon
him and gripping him by the throat bore him backward to the
ground. This opportune interference came from demented Jack
Gordon, usually harmless and inoffensive, but a warm cham-
pion and admirer of Winsome, who, hearing her cries, had rushed
to her rescue, and in his insane fury had almost killed Greatorix
before he and his victim were dragged apart.

Ralph reached the scene in time to carry his unconscious
love to a place of safety, where she soon recovered her senses,
and except for the shock was none the worse for her terrible
experience.

The following day Ralph had an interview with Allan Welsh,
in which the latter expressed his strong disapproval of his mar-
riage with Winsome and said he should do all in his power to
prevent it. When Ralph declared he never would give her up,
Welsh replied that there was an insurmountable obstacle which
must prevent their union. He then explained that he was Win-
some's own father, though the fact was known only to her grand-
parents and to Ralph's father, who had been his dearest friend
in their youth, when Gilbert Peden had been betrothed to Win-
some's mother. He, Welsh, had played the false friend, and,
winning the love of Peden's betrothed, had eloped with her when
she was on the eve of her marriage. The eloping couple fled
without the blessing of minister or kirk, but were joined by a
"welder" of Gretna Green, which did not make the marriage
legal, and in consequence, Winsome, who was the child of this
union, was illegitimate and never could properly be mated with
a minister of the Marrow Kirk. The mother, who had died
in giving her birth, had left behind a broken-hearted com-
panion who had tried in his long years of ministry to expiate the
sin he had committed.

After hearing this revelation, which greatly astonished him,
Ralph was more than ever convinced that his duty to Winsome
came before that to the kirk, and, telling Welsh of this decision,
he took an affectionate farewell of his love and went to his father
in Edinburgh. The elder Peden was much displeased when he

48 THE LILAC SUNBONNET

learned from his son that Allan Welsh had expelled him from
his house, and said that he could not receive him under his roof
until he had proved himself innocent of wrong-doing before
the presbytery.

Ralph went at once to the house of an uncle, who was an
"outcast of the true faith," but who gladly sheltered his nephew
during this trying time.

Ralph, having made the decision to give up his ministerial
career, devoted himself to literary pursuits, and was soon able
to make Winsome his wife and to overcome his father's dis-
pleasure.

A parting glimpse of this united couple, some years later,
shows them in their own home and with their children about
their knees. They are the same devoted lovers as of yore. Lit-
tle five-year-old Mistress Winifred appears upon the scene, be-
decked in an old sunbonnet, which is frayed and faded and has
lost both strings. Ralph stoops and kisses it and the face under
it, and then looks up and kisses his wife, who is still his sweet-
heart; for the love the lilac sunbonnet had brought them so many
years ago is still fresh with the dew of their youth.

GEORGE CROLY

(Ireland, 1780 England, 1860)

SALATHIEL, A STORY OF THE PAST, PRESENT
AND FUTURE ( 1 8 2 7)

This is the author's chief novel. It is founded on the ancient legend of
the Wandering Jew. The first account of this legendary person is the narrative
of Matthew Paris, of the thirteenth century, and he has since formed the in-
spiration for many stories, notably that by Eugene Sue. He has been reported
as having been met with in various lands and towns, the last rumor to that effect
coming from England in the year 1830.

jjARRY THOU TILL I COME!" The words
shot through me I felt them like an arrow in
my heart my brain whirled my eyes grew dim.
The troops, the priests, the populace, the world,
passed away from before my senses like phan-
toms. But my mind had a horrible clearness.
The whole expanse of the future spread under
my mental gaze. I saw at once the whole guilt
> of my crime the fierce folly the mad ingrati-
tude the desperate profanation. I lived over again in fright-
ful distinctness every act and instant of the night of my un-
speakable sacrilege. Accursed be the night in which I fell
before the tempter! Every fiber of my frame quivers, every drop
of my blood curdles, as I still hear the echo of the anathema,
that on the night of wo sprang first from my lips: "His BLOOD

BE UPON US, AND UPON OUR CHILDREN!"

I heard through all the voices of Jerusalem I should have
heard through all the thunders of heaven the calm, low voice:
"Tarry thou till I come!"

I felt my fate at once! Immortality on Earth! the com-
pulsion of perpetual existence in a world made for change. I

A.D., VOL. vi. 4 49

5 o SALATHIEL

would rather have b ;en blown about on the storms of every
region of the universe.

Immortality on Earth! I was still in the vigor of life; but
must it be always so? Might I not sink into a perpetual sick-
bed, decrepitude, pain, disease, madness? Yet this was to be
borne for ages and ages!

Immortality on Earth! I was to survive my country. I
was to feel the still keener misery of surviving all whom I loved.
In the world I must remain, and remain alone.

Overwhelmed with despair, I rushed through Jerusalem.
It was the time of the Passover and the city was crowded. Ter-
ror exhausted me; and, throwing myself on the ground under
the shade of a palm-tree, I fell asleep. When I awoke a trum-
pet sounded from the Temple. It was the signal for the daily
sacrifice, and this day's service fell to me. I rose and found
my way to my home, and dressed for the altar. At the close of
the sacrifice the trampling of multitudes, and cries of fury and
fear, echoed round the Temple, and a gloom overspread the sky.
The darkness deepened, the blackness of night fell far and fear-
ful upon the horizon. I felt that I was the cause of this calam-
ity, and I determined at once to fly from my priesthood, from
my kindred and my country. Through the solid gloom I made
my way to my dwelling, and found my wife in terror. I threw
off my priestly robe, and followed by my wife, with our child in
her arms, I went forth. I left wealth behind me, but I cared
not for that.

I made my way among the crowds that strewed the court
of the Gentiles. Everyone was prostrate with terror. Sud-
denly a large sphere of fire shot fiercely through the heavens.
It stopped above the city and exploded with a thunderous sound,
covering the Temple with a blaze of light that showed every
outline of the architecture. Again, all vanished, and I heard
the roar of an earthquake. In the next moment I felt the
ground give way beneath me, a sulphurous vapor took away my
breath, and I was swept away in a whirlwind of dust and ashes!

When I recovered all was changed. I was in a tent, and
Miriam, my wife, was beside me. I had been flung under the
shelter of one of those caves which abound in the gorges of the
mountains around Jerusalem, and Miriam and her infant were

GEORGE CROLY 51

at my side. A troop of our kinsmen found us and brought us
on their camels to Samaria.

I pass over some years. The sunshine of life was gone; I
found myself incapable of contentment. I protest against being
charged with ambition; but I was weary of the utter unpro-
ductiveness of the animal enjoyments with which the multitude
round me were content. I longed for an opportunity of con-
tributing my mite to the solid possessions by which posterity is
wiser, happier, or purer than the generation before it. I was
not grieved by the change which I saw overshadowing the gor-
geous empire of Rome.

I followed my tribe on their annual progress to the Holy
City. Trumpets now rang; I recognized the charging shout of
the Romans. I found my kinsmen in front, battling desperately
against the long spears of a Roman column, and burst into the
circle of their spears, waving my standard. I was hailed with
shouts, and the men of Naphtali claimed me for their own. In
one night the Holy City was cleared of every foot of the idolater.

At a meeting of the council, Onias, who had been High Priest,
was opposed to war with Rome. His had been a life of am-
bition. By the dagger, and by subserviency to the Roman
procurators, he had risen to the highest rank below the throne.
He wished to send an embassy to the proconsul, and his words
were received with applause. My voice was at length heard;
the name of Salathiel had become powerful.

"War," I exclaimed, "is wisdom, honor, security."

My words were few, but they were followed by shouts for
instant battle. The result of our deliberation was that Israel
should make a last grand effort. With me, every pulse was
now for war. Attempts had been made by our rulers to pro-
pitiate the Roman emperor, but their answer was the march of
a legion to Jerusalem.

I returned to my home to find it in ruins, ind my wife and
daughters gone, I knew not whert. My brain had received an
overwhelming blow, and for a time I was mad, but not all my
madness was painful. Books, my old delight, still lulled my
mind. I imagined myself the great King of Babylon, Bd-
shazzar. I sat in the halls of glory; then I was driven out to
sea in a bark that let in every wave. I struggled to reach the

52 SALATHIEL

land. My visitation changed. ... I wandered at midnight
through a country of mountains. Worn out with fatigue, I
lay down upon a rock. I heard a thunder-peal, and soon the
mountains were in flames. I ran, I flew, with scorching feet.
The land afforded no further room for flight, and I stood on the
verge of the ocean. Death was inevitable, and so I plunged
into the sea.

Then I was Prometheus on his rock. ... I strayed through
an Egyptian city; all was silence. . . . I lay in the sepulcher, but
with the full vividness of life, and with a perfect knowledge that
there it was my doom to lie forever.

The past returned to my mind. With the increase of my
strength, I became a wanderer to great distances among the
mountains. My kinsmen with whom I dwelt could not restrain
me. One evening I wandered to the sea, and saw a large war-
galley running before the wind. Constantius, the commander
of the vessel, was a Greek. To warn the galley of the nearness
of the shore, I gathered brushwood and set it on fire. I rushed
into the surf as the wrecked vessel came to land, and grasped a
human form that proved to be Miriam. My daughters, too,
were rescued.

We returned to our kinsmen, who had rebuilt our home.
Public events had rapidly ripened in my absence. A menial
in my house was detected with letters from an agent of the
Roman governor. They required details of my habits and
resources.

Jubal, the son of Miriam's brother Eleazar, wished to marry
my daughter Salome, but she refused him for she had given her
heart to Constantius, who was our guest. I sternly reprimanded
her, and commanded her to marry Jubal. She appeared to
consent, and preparations for the marriage went forward. When
the wedding-day arrived she had eloped with Constantius. A
servant brought me a letter describing two fugitives who had
made their escape to Cesarea. I was instantly on horseback,
and entered the gates of the city just as they were about to be
closed for the night. My attendant went forth to obtain in-
formation. My door opened, soldiers entered, and I was ar-
rested. They led me to the palace, where I was taken before
Gessius Floras. I spent the night in prison, and was then put

GEORGE CROLY 53

on board ship for Rome. Nero was to be my judge, and I was
brought before him in his palace, where he was teaching Greek
words to a parrot. I was taken to a cell. As the sun sank, the
door of my cell opened, and a masked figure stood upon the
threshold. He gave me the dress of a Roman slave, which I
put on, and followed him. The palace was in confusion. At
the extremity of the gardens we found horses, and mounted.
We rode furiously until we were a few miles from Rome. The
city was on fire. We rode back through indescribable scenes
of terror and confusion, and reached a palace where fire streamed
from every window. My companion was in despair on seeing
a woman at one of the windows. I plunged in and ran from
room to room. I saw my child, Salome, insensible on the floor,
and bore her in my arms to the window. She saw my dis-
figured face and rushed away from me, and I fell to the floor.

I awoke with a sensation of pain in every limb. An old
woman and her husband had discovered me among the ruins,
and I was now in their home. They were Jews, and the hus-
band went out and brought some elders of our people. I was
carried to their house of assemblage. The conflagration of
Rome continued for six days.

An imperial edict was proclaimed pardoning all offenses on
the part of whosoever should discover any Christians. My
safety was important to the Jewish cause. Money soon effected
the discovery of a Christian assemblage; I appeared before the
pretor with my documents, and received the imperial pardon.
The Christians were seized; they were to be executed in the
gardens of the imperial palace. I was to form a part of the
ceremony, and my national dress fixed every eye on me. A
portal of the arena opened and die combatant was led in. His
eyes turned on mine. It was Constantius! All my rancor
vanished. He fought a lion, and at last lay motionless on the
ground. There was a struggle at the portal; a woman rushed
in and flung herself upon the victim. It was Salome ! I sprang
upon my feet; I called her name, then plunged into the arena
by her side. The lion sprang upon me, but it was killed by
Constantius. Nero waved a signal to the guards; the portal
was opened, and my children led me from the arena.

We returned to Judea. I was in the midst of our harvest

54 SALATHIEL

when I received the formidable summons to present myself
before Florus, who had heard of my opulence. I determined to
retire into the mountains and defy him, so I summoned the
chief men of the tribe. With Eleazar and Constantius I cast
my eyes over the map, and an attack on Masada was finally
planned. Constantius was to march at dusk, and attempt the
fortress by surprise. Meantime, Eleazar was to rouse his re-
tainers, and I was to await at their head the result of the enter-
prise, and if successful, unfurl the standard of Naphtali and
advance on Jerusalem.

My preparations were quickly made. I put on an Arabian
turban, and mounted my favorite barb. After riding some dis-
tance I was overtaken by a Roman squadron and made prisoner,
and was taken before Florus. By pretending to be a juggler I
escaped, and rode rapidly toward Masada, I lost my way, so
1 dismounted, and wandered about in the darkness. Presently
my foot struck against a human body. It was Constantius,
who lay wounded. He had attacked the fortress, but without
success. I suggested the possibility of gaining the fortress by
a renewal of the attack. This was done; we overcame the
Romans, and I became master of the strongest fortress in
Palestine! The first decided blow of the war was given. I had
incurred the full wrath of Rome; the trench between me and
forgiveness was impassable.

I ordered the great standard of Naphtali to be hoisted on
the citadel. The huge scarlet folds spread out, majestically
displaying the emblem of our tribe, the Silver Stag.

I decided on making a rapid march to Jerusalem. Before
the week was over T was at the head of a hundred thousand
men, the champion of a great country.

My family joined me in Masada. Eleazar took charge of
them, and also of the command of Masada. By the next dawn
the trumpet sounded for the march, and I went forth with my
army. We repulsed the Romans outside the walls of Jerusalem,
and I determined to give the enemy no respite. The whole
preparation for the siege of Jerusalem fell into our hands. Then
was the hour to have struck the final blow for freedom. The
walls of Bethhoron, manned only with the wreck of the troops
that we had routed from all their positions, could offer no im-

GEORGE CROLY 55

pediment to hands and hearts like ours. I ordered an immedi-
ate assault. We were twice repulsed, and I headed the third
attack myself. I was at the summit of fortune! In the next
moment I felt a sudden shock; darkness covered my eyes, and
I fell headlong. I awoke in a dungeon.

In that dungeon I lay for two years! How I lived, or how I
bore existence, I now have no conception. I was not mad nor
altogether insensible to things about me, and I made no attempt
to escape. Cold, heat, hunger, waking, sleep, were the calendar
of my year.

Here Jubal found me at last, and together we made our es-
cape, taking refuge in a cave of smugglers. They had had
word that the Romans were pursuing them, and they put to sea,
though stormy the night, taking us with them. We met the
Roman fleet and attacked it, doing considerable damage. I
climbed up the side of a Roman trireme, torch in hand, and I
was a wild and formidable apparition to men already harassed
out of all courage. They plunged overboard, and I was mon-
arch of the finest war-galley on the coast of Syria. But I was
alone, and the ship was on fire. The first sense of triumph was
past, and I found myself deserted. On the back of a huge wave
the ship shot out to sea, a flying pyramid of fire.

A sheet of lightning wrapped sea and sky. It struck the
hold of my trireme, and there was an explosion. It rose to the
surface from a prodigious depth, then I was engulfed in a whirl-
pool. At last I was thrown up to the surface in a little bay
sheltered by hills. The retiring waves left me; I lay down
among some trees and fainted. This occurred on a small island
near the mainland. After several days I swam across the water,
and, reaching the mainland, set out for Jerusalem, guided by
sun and star. I reached Masada only to find the city in ruins,
the Romans having conquered and destroyed it. I wandered
through the streets and cried aloud, and met Jubal, who told
me my family had gone to Alexandria.

"By dawn," said I, "we must set out for Jerusalem."

That night a squadron of Roman cavalry, marching to Jeru-
salem, entered the village where we were staying, and we were
taken prisoners. The cavalry moved at daybreak, and at night
we saw on the horizon the hills surrounding Jerusalem. Our

56 SALATHIEL

final station was upon the hill of Scopas, seven furlongs from
Jerusalem. I now saw Jerusalem only in her final struggle.
Others have given the history of that most memorable siege,
but my own knowledge was limited to the last hideous days of
an existence long declining.

A midnight tempest aroused me; a flash of lightning struck
the tower in which I was confined. A column of infantry passed
while I was extricating myself from the ruins, and I followed
them.

I wandered day by day, an utter stranger, through Jerusa-
lem. All the familiar faces were gone. I had rescued Con-
stantius, but he was so severely wounded that I could not ques-
tion him regarding my family. In the furious warfare that
went on within the walls of the city, I took my share with the
rest; handled the spear, and fought and watched without think-
ing of any distinction of rank.

On the night that the fatal wall was completed, and Titus
was going its round in triumph, I led an attack against the
Romans. They were surprised, and we repulsed them and
fired the rampart. A fearful storm came up, and flight was in
vain. The weapons were seen to drop from the Jewish host,
and despair seized upon our souls. The whole multitude scat-
tered silently, with soundless steps, like an army of specters.

In the deepest dejection I returned to the city. On my way
to my comfortless shelter I heard the singing of a hymn, as I
passed a large building. I thought I knew the voices. I struck
open the door, and beheld my wife and daughters. I took them
to my lodging, and to Constantius.

It was the season of the Passover, and the sons of Judea
were once more filling the courts of the city. The enemy, evi-
dently disheartened by their late losses and the destruction of
the rampart, remained collected in their camps. The hope of
treaty with the besiegers was now nearly desperate. My name
was high; and my decided refusal of all command gave me an
influence that threw more grasping ambition into the shade.

I had rescued Septimius, a Roman officer, and brought him
to my house, where he remained my guest for some weeks. On
returning from a walk one day, I found that he had left us, and
my daughter Esther was missing. It was nearly midnight, but

GEORGE CROLY 57

I set out at once to see the Roman general. On my way I was
taken prisoner and confined in a tower. From this place I was
helped to escape by a minstrel, but was again taken prisoner
and brought before Cestus. I was imprisoned in a huge coun-
try mansion, within sound of a fierce battle.

The war had progressed from one cruelty to another. To
the Roman the Jew was a rebel, and he had a rebel's treatment.
I made my escape and flew to the tent of Titus, to implore him
to spare the life of Eleazar, who was to be crucified. I was
admitted to his presence, but he refused to save Eleazar, and
begged me to join the Roman forces. I refused to desert my
countrymen.

"Spare Eleazar," was all that I could utter. Titus made a
sign to a tribune, who flew to bear, if not too late, the command
of mercy.

I was about to depart when a note was brought to Titus of
a tenor that caused him to suspect me of the design of intending
to assassinate him. He said he felt that he must detain me,
but that my treatment should be honorable.

I was confined in a large building a few miles from the camp,
but I made my escape at night and reached a little forest. On
emerging from it, a long line of light to the south showed me
where Jerusalem was struggling against an assault. I joined
a multitude of Jews marching to the city. The Romans
attacked us with partial success. But the population, once
aroused, was terrible to an enemy fighting against walls and
ramparts, and the assailants, after long slaughter on both sides,
were drawn off at the sight of our columns moving from the
hills. We thus marched in unassailed, a host of fifty thousand
men. I was again arrested and confined in a dungeon, and
shortly after midnight I was brought before the tribunal. Loud
shouts soon put an end to the tribunal, and I was taken back to
my dungeon. The enemy was attacking the citadel. In my
cell daylight never came. The air grew close, as the heat in-
creased, and at last the walls began to split under its intensity.
There was an explosion, and I found myself at the bottom of a
valley, with the tower of Antonia five hundred feet above me.
I crept through the deserted entrenchments of the enemy, and
reached the city. The whole force of the enemy had been

5 8 SALATHIEL

brought up for final assault, and every portion of the walls was
<he scene of unprecedented fury of battle. The Jews fought
the enemy with the rage of wild beasts, and the legions at length
established themselves in front of the Sanctuary, whereat a howl
of wrath rose from the multitude. My attack had repelled the
legionaries, and Titus, exhausted and dispirited, began to with-
draw the routed columns from the front of the Temple. The
inner Temple was in a blaze, for a new enemy had come fire!
The Romans rushed to the portal but they were doomed. They
rushed back, tore down the veil, and the Holy of Holies stood
open! On the sacred Ark the flames had no power.

Bleeding, blind, frantic, I still fought until I sank under a
heap of dead. In defiance of all prediction, I now believed my
death inevitable. Simultaneously I heard the shouts of the
conquerors and the fall of the pillars of the Temple. I wel-
comed the living grave! In all the wildness of the uproar again
I heard the voice: "TARRY THOU TILL I COME!" The world
disappeared from before me!

Here I pause. My life as father, husband, and citizen was
at an end. Thenceforth I was to be a solitary being. In re-
venge for the fall of Jerusalem, I traversed the globe to seek
out an enemy of Rome. I stirred up the soul of Alaric and led
him to the rock of Rome. In revenge for the insults heaped on
the Jew in the city of Constantino, I sought out an instrument
of compendious ruin, and found him in the Arabian sands, and
I poured ambition into the soul of the enthusiast of Mecca. In
revenge for the pollution of the ruins of the Temple, I roused
the iron tribes of the West, and at the head of the crusaders
expelled the Saracens.

A passion to pry into the mysteries of nature seized me, and
I toiled with the alchemist. A passion for fame seized me, and
I drew my sword in the Italian wars. Then a passion for gold
seized me, so I found a bold Genoese and led him to the dis-
covery of a new world.

But calmer and nobler aspirations were to rise in my melan-
choly heart. I saw at last the birth of true science, true liberty,
and true wisdom. I lived with Petrarch, and stood enraptured

GEORGE CROLY 59

beside the easels of Angelo and Raphael. I conversed with the
merchant kings of the Mediterranean, and stood at Mentz be-
side the wonder-working machine that makes knowledge im-
perishable. At the pulpit of the mighty man of Wurtemberg
I knelt; Israelite as I was, and am, I did voluntary homage to
the mind of Luther!

I have more to tell strange, magnificent, and sad.

But I must wait the impulse of my heart. Or, can the happy
and the high-born, treading upon roses, have an ear for the
story of the Exile, whose path has for a thousand years been in
the brier and the thorn?

MARIA SUSANNA CUMMINS

(United States, 1827-1866)
THE LAMPLIGHTER (1854)

This story for young readers has been in constant demand for half a century.
At the time of its publication it enjoyed an immediate popularity, second only
to Uncle Tom's Cabin and The Scarlet Letter, which were then the most recent
successes in American fiction. Forty thousand copies of The Lamplighter were
sold within the first two months and its authorized sales soon exceeded one hun-
dred and twenty thousand copies. It was its author's first book and by far the
most popular of her works. Originally written for the entertainment of a sick
niece, to whom it brought great joy during a long illness, its author had no
thought of its publication. The manuscript, however, soon found friends, at
whose urgent request it was brought out anonymously. But its writer was
soon identified as Miss Cummins, the fact that one of its characters was drawn
closely from a recognizable person leading to the discovery of the author.

was growing dark in the city. Upon the door-
step of a low-roofed, unwholesome-looking house
sat a little girl, gazing up the street with much
earnestness. She was scantily clad in garments
of the poorest description, and her uncombed
hair hung in a thick mass about her sharp and
sallow little face. Her eyes were dark and hand-
some, but so unnaturally large that in contrast
to her pinched features, they only increased the
peculiarity of her appearance. She was but eight years old,
and all alone in the world; no one loved her or treated her
kindly, and she loved no one.

There was one thing only in which she found pleasure, and
that was in watching for the coming of the old man who lighted
the street-lamp in front of the house. To see the bright torch
he carried flicker in the wind and then to see him run up his
ladder and light the lamp so easily, was the one gleam of joy
that was shed daily on her desolate little heart. She had never

MARIA SUSANNA CUMMINS 61

spoken to the lamplighter nor had he ever apparently noticed
her; nevertheless she felt as if he were a friend.

"Gerty," suddenly exclaimed a harsh voice within, "have
you been for the milk?"

The child made no answer, but, gliding off the doorstep ran
quickly round the corner of the house and hid a little out of
sight. Her hiding-place was soon discovered by Nan Grant,
the owner of the voice, and with one blow for her "ugliness"
and another for her "impudence" Gerty was despatched for
the milk.

She ran fast, fearing the lamplighter would come in her
absence, and was rejoiced on her return to catch sight of him
just going up his ladder. She stationed herself at the foot of it,
and was so engaged in watching the bright flame that she did
not observe when the man began to descend; and as he sprang
to the ground he struck against her and she fell upon the pave-
ment. "Hullo, my little one!" exclaimed he, "how's this?"

She was upon her feet in an instant; for she was so used to
hard knocks that she did not mind a few bruises. But the milk!
it was all spilt.

"Well, now, I declare!" said the man, "that's too bad!
what'll mammy say? Never mind if she does scold you a lit-
tle. Tell her I did it. I'll bring you something to-morrow
that I think you'll like. But didn't I hurt you? What was you
doing with my ladder?"

"I was seeing you light the lamp," said Gerty, "and I ain't
hurt a bit; but I wish I hadn't spilt the milk."

When Nan Grant came to the door she saw what had hap-
pened, and pulled the child into the house, with blows, threats,
and profane and brutal language. The lamplighter tried to
appease her; but she shut the door in his face. Gerty was
scolded, beaten, deprived of the crust she usually got for her
supper, and shut up in her dark attic for the night. Her mother
had died in Nan Grant's house five years before; and she had
been tolerated there since, because Nan had reasons of her own
for keeping her, not caring to excite inquiries by trying to dis-
pose of her elsewhere.

When Gerty found herself locked up for the night in the
dark garret, she began to stamp and scream, tried to open the

62 THE LAMPLIGHTER

door, and shouted: "I hate you, Nan Grant! Old Nan Grant,
I hate you!" But nobody came near her; and, after a while,
she grew more quiet, went and threw herself down on her mis-
erable bed, and sobbed and cried until she was utterly ex-
hausted; then gradually growing calmer she looked out of her
miserable little window and saw shining down upon her one
bright star. It seemed to say : " Gerty, poor little Gerty ! " She
thought it seemed like a kind face that she had seen a long time
ago, and she fell asleep wondering who had lit it, and how the
person who did so had managed to get up so high.

The following night Gerty was at her post to watch for her
friend the lamplighter. When he came he greeted her kindly
and put into her arms a little gray and white kitten. Gerty was
delighted with the gift, but knowing Nan Grant would never
consent to her keeping it, resolved to hide it in her garret.

For a month Gerty was able to keep her secret, feeding the
kitten with scraps from her own poor meals, carrying it in and
out of the house tucked away in her clothing and lavishing upon
it all the affection of her half-starved nature. Then came the
terrible moment when Nan, discovering the kitten devouring
some remnants of food on the table, seized it and flung it into
a kettle of boiling water, where the poor little animal struggled
and writhed in torture for a moment and then died.

All the fury of Gerty's nature was aroused by this cruel ac-
tion, and seizing a stick of wood which lay near her, she hurled
it at Nan with all her strength, striking her in the head and
making a wound that caused the blood to flow.

Nan's anger against Gerty was so great that she hardly felt
the blow, and seizing her roughly she thrust her out of the house,
saying, "Ye'll never darken my doors again, yer imp of wick-
edness"; and the child was left alone in the cold, dark night.

When Gerty found herself in the street, horror and grief
at the fate of the only thing she loved in the world filled her
soul, and crouching against the house with her face hid in her
hands she gave vent to a succession of piercing shrieks. From
this state of misery she was rescued by Trucman Flint, the lamp-
lighter, who, after fruitlessly endeavoring to make her peace
with Nan Grant, took her with him to his own home.

Trueman. or True Flint, as he was generally called, was a

MARIA SUSANNA CUMMINS 63

middle-aged bachelor who lived by himself in the rear of a two-
story house, where he took the entire care of himself and his
rooms. He had come to Boston (where the scene of this story
is laid) at the age of fifteen, a penniless orphan, and since that
time had supported himself by whatever employment he could
obtain.

Before becoming a lamplighter he had worked for a wealthy
merchant, Mr. Graham, in whose employ he had sustained an
injury which had incapacitated him for further hard labor.
Appreciating his faithful services Mr. Graham had secured for
him his present place, and he and his blind daughter Emily had
been True's generous benefactors for many years.

Gerty's first real experience of comfort and happiness was
when, seated by True's blazing fire, she shared his simple sup-
per. Later, when she had fallen into a troubled sleep she mur-
mured plaintively: "Dear, good old man, let me stay with you,
do let me stay."

To this petition, True, who was of a kind and deeply re-
ligious nature, responded: "Stay with me, so you shall, poor
little birdie, all alone in this big world; so am I. Please God
we'll bide together."

Through a severe illness that followed, Gerty was tenderly
nursed by her kind protector, assisted by a sympathetic neigh-
bor, Mrs. Sullivan, the widow of a clergyman, who had died
when her only son, Willie, was an infant; since that time she
had made her home with her father, a sexton named Cooper, a
warm friend of Trueman Flint's.

Mrs. Sullivan was a noble and God-fearing woman whose
life was an example to all who knew her. Her son was a hand-
some and manly little fellow three years Gerty's senior, who
showed plainly the result of his mother's careful training.

Several years of happiness for Gerty followed her advent
into the home of Trueman Flint; and in the Christian atmos-
phere which surrounded her she became a docile and obedient
girl. Her devotion to the kind lamplighter was unbounded
and she endeavored in every way to repay him for the kindness
he had shown her. The last year of True's life he was a great
invalid, being rendered almost helpless by a paralytic shock,
and Gerty was his devoted nurse and loving companion. Be-

64 THE LAMPLIGHTER

fore his death the anxiety he felt with regard to leaving Gerty
was greatly relieved by the assurance of Miss Graham that
Gerty should always have a home with her.

Gerty had now reached the age of thirteen, and ever since
her coming to the home of Trueman Flint she and Willie Sulli-
van had been inseparable companions. The two children
loved each other deeply, and Willie's influence over Gerty,
which was always of the best, inspired in her a feeling akin to
worship.

After going to live with Miss Graham, Gerty was sent to a
private school and educated to become a teacher.

A great sorrow came to her before long in the departure of
Willie for Calcutta, where he was sent by his employer for a
stay of several years. Before leaving, Willie took an affection-
ate farewell of Gerty and received her promise to look after his
mother and grandfather.

By the time Gerty had reached the age of eighteen years she
had developed into a charming and lovable girl, and while she
was not strictly handsome, possessed a winning personality
which made her greatly admired.

She was devoted to her dear friend Emily Graham, whose
beautiful nature inspired her with an affection which showed
itself in untiring service.

Gerty's life in the Graham household was most agreeable,
as she had the constant companionship of Emily and was sur-
rounded by all the comforts and luxuries which wealth could
supply. Mr. Graham, a stern and quick-tempered man,
idolized his blind daughter and did everything in his power to
make her happy, gratifying her every wish. For this reason he
gladly educated Gerty and gave her a home, feeling repaid by
the pleasure which his daughter derived from this arrange-
ment.

When Gerty finished school, Mr. Graham made a plan for a
Southern trip to last for several months and to include a visit
to Bermuda and to several other places. He counted on
Gerty's accompanying his daughter as her companion. There
was nothing that the girl would more thoroughly have enjoyed;
but just at this time Mrs. Sullivan was taken seriously ill, and
Mr. Cooper being in failing health, Gerty felt it her duty to

MARIA SUSANNA CUMMINS 65

minister to them. This decision, which meant real self-sacri-
fice on her part, was received by Mr. Graham with much anger
and indignation. He upbraided her for her ingratitude and
told her he would have nothing more to do with her.

Gerty was deeply hurt by Mr. Graham's attitude toward
her, but feeling it was her duty to stay with Mrs. Sullivan she
did not alter her decision.

She tended Willie's mother and grandfather faithfully till
their deaths, and wrote the sorrowing son long letters acquaint-
ing him with all details of his mother's last days on earth.

When all was over, Gerty found herself once more alone;
and so taking a room with some friends she continued her teach-
ing, which she had taken up upon leaving the Grahams.

In course of time Gerty learned that during the Southern
trip Mr. Graham had contracted a second marriage with a dis-
agreeable woman who was not at all congenial to his daughter
Emily. This news was soon followed by plans for a European
trip, in which Gerty was ungraciously requested by Mr. Graham
to join them as his daughter's companion.

Gerty overlooked Mr. Graham's discourteous letter and de-
cided on account of Emily to accept; but before the trip ma-
terialized Mr. Graham was taken ill and Gerty and Emily
took merely a trip to Saratoga.

On the journey Gerty became acquainted with an interesting
man named Phillips, who conversed with her at every oppor-
tunity, but avoided meeting Miss Graham. He was prema-
turely gray, seeming like a man who had known deep sorrow,
and was quite a mystery to those who came in contact with him.

While in Saratoga, to Gerty 's intense surprise she recog-
nized one day on the street her old friend, Willie Sullivan, whom
she supposed still in Calcutta. He was handsomer than ever,
and was with his employer's daughter, Isabel Clinton, a school-
mate of Gerty 's, to whom he seemed to be paying marked
attention.

He passed Gerty without recognizing her and this seemed to
her the tragic ending of the dream she had lived in so long.
For years she had looked forward to Willie's return as the
climax of all her hopes; and now he had come back and the
friend of his childhood was apparently completely forgotten.
A.D., VOL. vi. 5

66 THE LAMPLIGHTER

Gerty was heart-broken and was glad that she and Emily
were to leave Saratoga on the following day. When taking the
steamer on the Hudson, Gerty again saw Willie, apparently
taking an earnest farewell of Miss Clinton, who was taking
passage on the same boat with them.

Before reaching their destination the steamer was discov-
ered to be on fire, and a horrible scene ensued. The passengers
were frenzied with fear; shrieks rose upon the air, and many
a brave heart sickened in the terrible ordeal. Gerty suddenly
felt herself encircled by a pair of powerful arms while a familiar
voice gasped the words: "Gertrude, my child! my own darling!
Be quiet be quiet! I will save you!"

Well might he urge her to be quiet, for she was struggling
madly. "No, no!" shouted she. "Emily! Emily! Let me
die! let me die! but I must find Emily!"

"Where is she?" asked Mr. Phillips; for it was he.

"There, there," pointed Gertrude, "in the cabin. Let me
go! let me go!"

He cast one look around him, then said in a firm tone : " Be
calm, my child! I can save you both; follow me closely!"

With a leap he cleared the staircase, and rushed into the
cabin. In the farthest corner knelt Emily, her head thrown
back, her hands clasped, and her face like the face of an
angel.

Gertrude and Mr. Phillips were by her side in an instant.
He stooped to lift her in his arms, Gertrude at the same time
exclaiming: "Come, Emily, come! He will save us!"

But Emily resisted. "Leave me, Gertrude leave me, and
save yourself!" and to the stranger: "Oh, leave me, and save
pay child!" Ere the words had left her lips, however, she was
borne half-way across the saloon, Gertrude following closely.

"If we can cross to the bows of the boat, we are safe!" said
Mr. Phillips in a husky voice.

To do so, however, proved impossible. The whole center
of the boat was now one sheet of flame. "Good heavens I"
he exclaimed, "we are too late! we must go back!"

Mr. Phillips's first thought, on gaining the saloon, was to
beat down a window-sash, spring upon the guards, and drag
Emily and Gertrude after him. Some ropes hung upon the

MARIA SUSANNA CUMMINS 67

guards; he seized one, and with the ease and skill of an old sailor
made it fast to the boat; then turned to Gertrude, who stood
firm and unwavering by his side.

"Gertrude," said he, speaking distinctly and steadily, "I
shall swim to the shore with Emily. If the fire comes too near,
cling to the guards; as a last chance, hold on to the rope. Keep
your veil flying; I shall return."

"No, no!" cried Emily. "Gertrude, go first!"

"Hush, Emily!" exclaimed Gertrude; "we shall both be
saved."

"Cling to my shoulder in the water, Emily," said Mr. Phil-
lips, utterly regardless of her protestations. He took her once
more in his arms; there was a splash and they were gone. At
the same instant Gertrude was seized from behind. She turned,
and found herself grasped by Isabel Clinton, who, kneeling
upon the platform and frantic with terror, was clinging so closely
to her as utterly to disable them both, at the same time shrieking
in pitiable tones: "O Gertrude! Gertrude! save me!" And
now a new and heroic resolution took possession of the mind of
Gertrude. One of them could be saved, for Mr. Phillips was
within a few rods of the wreck. It should be Isabel! She had
called on her for protection, and it should not be denied her!
Moreover, Willie loved Isabel. Willie would weep for her loss,
and that must not be. He would not weep for Gertrude at
least not much; and if one must die, it should be she.

This unselfish resolve taken, Gerty slipped her veil over
Isabel's face and after seeing her safe in Mr. Phillips's arms,
seized a piece of rope and gave herself to the mercy of the
waves.

It was not meant, however, that this noble life should be
sacrificed, and Gerty was rescued. Neither she nor Emily suf-
fered except from the shock of the terrible experience through
which they had passed.

Soon after their return home Gerty received a letter from
Mr. Phillips which filled her with amazement and joy.

In it he explained that he was her father, that his real name
was Philip Amory and that he had been Emily Graham's un-
fortunate lover, whom she had thought dead for many years.
He told of the terrible experience in which he had accidentally

68 THE LAMPLIGHTER

caused Emily's blindness and which had blighted his whole life
as well as hers.

While engaged to her, and in her father's employ, the latter
had falsely accused him of forgery, while in her presence, and
Emily fainting from the shock, he had snatched what he sup-
posed was a restorative and dashed it wildly into her face. To
his horror he found he had seized a violent poison which ruined
her eyesight forever. His anguish knew no bounds, and while
Emily lay in her darkened room the family gave him to under-
stand that she would never forgive him; and so, nearly crazed
with grief, he embarked on a vessel bound for a foreign land.
While on the voyage the captain died leaving his daughter, a
gentle young girl, who had been kind to Philip in his grief,
orphaned and alone.

Philip felt deep sympathy for her in her lonely condition
and decided to marry her as she had no one else in the world
to whom to turn.

A little daughter was born of this union, and two months
after this event Philip was called to a foreign land on business,
where he was stricken with a fever and lay for weeks at the
point of death. After his recovery, months later, he returned
to his home to find it deserted and his wife and child gone. He
was unable to trace them, though he searched for them un-
ceasingly, but after many years he learned their history through
a sailor named Ben Grant in whose home his wife had died.

Learning that his lost child had been adopted by Emily
Graham, he returned to his early home to see her without ob-
truding himself on the Grahams, who, he presumed, retained
the same bitter feeling against him.

Gerty responded at once to her father's appeal for her affec-
tion and after the many years of separation the sorrowing parent
and his child were at last happily reunited.

This event was speedily followed by the reconciliation of
Philip and Emily, as the latter had always loved him and had
mourned him for years as dead, so that his return brought her
unspeakable happiness.

Soon also was the misunderstanding between Gerty and
Willie cleared away, the former realizing how entirely mistaken
she had been in her hasty judgment of her old friend.

MARIA SUSANNA CUMMINS 69

After her return from Saratoga, Willie immediately sought
her out and greeted her with his old-time affection, but Gerty
felt he could not be sincere in his expressions and treated him
coldly.

On the seventh anniversary of Uncle True's death, Gerty
went to the cemetery to put flowers on his grave, and while there
sadly uttered the following words: "Oh, Uncle True! you and
I are not parted yet; but Willie is not of us!"

"Oh, Gertrude," said a reproachful voice at her side, "is
Willie to blame for that?"

She started, turned, saw the object of her thoughts with his
mild eyes fixed inquiringly upon her, and without replying to
his question buried her face in her hands.

He threw himself upon the ground at her feet, gently lifted
her bowed head from the hands upon which it had fallen, and
compelled her to look him in the face, saying at the same time,
in the most imploring accents: "Tell me, Gerty, in pity tell me
why am I excluded from your sympathy?"

But still she made no reply, except by the tears that coursed
down her cheeks.

"You make me miserable," continued he vehemently.
"What have I done that you have so shut me out from your
affection? Why do you look so coldly upon me and even
shrink from my sight?" added he, as Gertrude, unable to en-
dure his steadfast, searching look, turned her eyes in another
direction, and strove to free her hands from his grasp.

Then she explained that she had witnessed his apparent de-
votion to Isabel Clinton in Saratoga, and had become con-
vinced that he loved her and no longer cared for his childhood's
friend.

Willie was amazed at Gerty 's words, and at once explained
how he was called to Saratoga to the bedside of his sick em-
ployer, as soon as he reached his native land, and in that way
was prevented from going first to her, as he had intended doing.
If Gerty had heard him urge Miss Clinton not to leave Saratoga,
it was entirely on her father's account that he had done so, as
he could not believe she could be so heartless as to leave the
sick man in his miserable condition of health.

When Willie had finished, Gerty looked up at him through

70 THE LAMPLIGHTER

a rain of tears and said: "You understand my coldness now,
you know why I dared not let my heart speak out?"

"And this was all, then?" cried Willie; "and you are free
and I may love you still?"

"Free from all bonds, dear Willie, but those which you your-
self clasped around me, and which have encircled me from my
childhood."

And now, with heart pressed to heart, they pour in each
other's ears the tale of a mutual affection, planted in infancy,
nourished in youth, fostered and strengthened amid separation
and absence, and perfected through trial, to bless and sanctify
every year of their after-life.

Very soon the two loyal and devoted lovers were married,
and this happy event was shortly followed by the marriage of
Philip and Emily; the latter, in spite of her frail health and
great infirmity, finally agreeing to give herself to the man who
loved her so truly and who desired nothing in life but to make
her declining years happy.

GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS

(United States, 1824-1892)
TRUMPS (1856)

This is the second of the two novels by this author, who was destined to
be known rather as a political reformer and an essayist on uncompromising
moral standards than as a novelist. It is specially noted in American literature
as foreshadowing those characteristics which have been since raised by the
preaching and practise of William Dean Howells into a distinct school of fiction.

^MONG the principal senior boys in the boarding-
school of Mr. Gray at Delafield were Abel Newt,
Gabriel Bennett, and a lad known as Little
Malacca. The beauty of the young heiress,
Hope Wayne, granddaughter of the rich manu-
facturer Burt, whose residence was near by, had
occasioned much discussion among the students.
They greatly desired to obtain the entree of the
house, which was jealously guarded. Abel, au-
dacious and unscrupulous as he was good-looking, succeeded
by representing himself as an artist desiring to sketch. He
made an impression on her innocent nature; and the fact that
she witnessed, when passing in her carriage, a cruel battering
given by Abel Newt to his school-fellow Gabriel Bennett, did
not lessen the feeling. Gabriel was taken to her own house to
be nursed, but she nevertheless clung to the image of his con-
queror as a bold and dashing hero. When he had completed
his eighteenth year he was taken from school by his father, a
commission dry-goods merchant, and inaugurated into business
with the purpose of his early becoming a partner in the firm of
Boniface Newt and Company.

The Newt family, reputed among the New York aristoc-
racy of trade and society, was represented by two brothers totally

71

72 TRUMPS

different in taste, temperament, and character; Lawrence, the
younger, also a successful merchant, being as generous and
high-minded as Boniface was hard and self-seeking. The
former, in his earlier life an East Indian resident, had mellowed
much in foreign travel. Boniface, a Tammany Sachem as well
as a man of business, aspired to all that came within the ten-
tacles of that intersecting sphere. His philosophy of life was
expressed in a homily to his son, shortly after the young man
had entered his counting-room: "In this world we must do the
best we can. As a rule, men are rascals. Because your neigh-
bors are dishonest, why should you starve? People are goug-
ing, and skimming, and sucking all around. A lie well stuck
to is better than the truth wavering. The only happy people
are the rich. I am not here to look out for other men I am
here to take care of myself, for no one else will." Abel received
this with tongue stuck in check, as if saying to himself: "You
old innocent, don't you suppose I know these things already?"

Miss Fanny Newt, a handsome, bold-eyed girl, twin to her
brother's character, and a younger sister, May, of more gentle
and shrinking temper, completed a typical New York house-
hold; for Mrs. Newt was little else than her husband's sounding-
board. About the same time that Abel entered his father's
business, Gabriel Bennett was accepted as a clerk by Lawrence
Newt, who recognized speedily, in the applicant's account of
himself, the son of a lady he had known. Mr. Bennett, a gen-
tle, scholarly man, had failed in business and was now book-
keeper for an ignorant curmudgeon, yet a highly successful
banker and money-lender, Jacob Van Boozenberg.

At a party given by Mrs. Newt, Abel was making violent
love to Miss Grace Plumer, a rich Southern heiress, when the
two passed close to a settee in the conservatory where sat Law-
rence Newt and Hope Wayne; for Abel's uncle had recently
made the acquaintance of the young lady in virtue of having
been a former friend of her family. Hope heard the ardent
words spoken, and colored deeply as she met this pseudo-ad-
mirer's eye. Already had the ambition of Abel planned a rich
marriage and the pursuit of every trail thitherward. When he
had to leave Grace to another wooer, Sligo Moultrie, also a rich
Southerner, and turned in vain to recover the favor of Miss

GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS 73

Wayne, she eluded him, and Abel thought bitterly to himself:
"What a fool I am: I have lost Hope Wayne before I had won
her!"

If the brother was thus animated by the commercial ideal
of love, it was also the guiding animus of his sister Fanny. She
had fixed her eyes on Alfred Binks, a stupid young man of for-
tune, the son of a man of reputed wealth, a cousin, too, of Hope
Wayne, with some expectations from the Burt importance.
There had been a rumor that the two would marry. To win
young Binks then would be to Fanny's intriguing mind a double
coup in the interests of the Newt family.

Lawrence Newt introduced Hope at the same party to Miss
Amy Waring, a beautiful girl whose charm and goodness ex-
pressed themselves with winning directness in her face, and
the two became great friends in after-time. Nor did this lessen
because Miss Waring, who had begun to entertain a half-
unconscious affection for Lawrence, suspected that, singularly
young in heart and nature though a middle-aged man, he was
drawn powerfully to Hope Wayne. She was yet to learn that
this evident tenderness grew from the fact that Lawrence in
early manhood had been the accepted lover of Hope's mother,
whose heart was broken by an enforced marriage with the bril-
liant and heartless Colonel Wayne, supposed to be a man of
large estate. The memory of this disappointment had kept
Lawrence a bachelor for many years; and it was not till he met
Amy Waring, a cousin of Gabriel Bennett, that his heart blos-
somed anew with a passion as genuine as that of his youth.
Then frequent association in enterprises of human sympathy
and helpfulness had drawn them the more closely together,
though this sort of rapprochement perhaps deceived them a little
as to the real nature of the mutual sentiment.

During the Saratoga season Fanny Newt threw herself
constantly in the way of the young exquisite who gave his par-
ents, General and Mrs. Budlong Binks, reason to suppose that
he was devoting his sedulous attentions to Hope. She so en-
meshed Alfred Binks with flattery and enticing coquetries that
she snared him into an offer of marriage, which for some time
was kept secret, and the pretense of his prior devotion was con-
tinued.

74 TRUMPS

If Fanny had won her prize, Abel had made no further
progress in securing a conjugal conquest, except by striving to
impress society with a dazzling conception of his gifts as a man
of the world and a personage of great future mark. Young as
he was, he had succeeded in inspiring his pompous father with
a notion of his business and social diplomacy. He had been
taken into partnership, persuading the senior that great com-
mercial success needed a life of show and glitter, as well as
devotion to the duties of the counting-room and sagacity in the
transactions of buying and selling. Abel remitted the latter
to his father, and disported himself to the extreme length of the
tether in performing the more agreeable function.

He established an elaborate suite of apartments, equipped
with all the accompaniments of art and luxury. He dressed in
the most elegant manner of the day, and aped the ideal of
Bulwer's Pelham, which at that time was the rage in literary
fashion. He and the set of whom he aspired to be the leader
"did all they could to repair the misfortune of being born
Americans by imitating the habits of foreign life." His rooms
were the club and lounging-place of gay gentlemen about town,
many of them with much larger incomes than he could control.
He gave frequent dinners here to little parties, which some-
times included vivacious and fashionably dressed young women,
whom he would hardly have ventured to introduce to his own
family. All this cost a good deal of money, till his hitherto
:redulous partner and father began to remonstrate: "How
do you suppose I can pay, or that the business can pay, for such
extravagances?" Abel propounded the answer to this indict-
nent in the assertion that this was all necessary to his marriage
tfith a wealthy woman, which would recoup everything. It
ivas a frequent jest of his, with the elder Newt, after this con-
versation, that "credit was the most creditable thing going."
3is easy-going sophistry and selfishness, behind which was an
mperious will, had its way, and affairs went on as before, in
ipite of the fact that the firm was beginning to struggle with
inancial trouble. Abel's peculiar beauty of face and carriage
telped to make him a social favorite.

Arthur Moslin, an artist, who had in hand a picture of
'Diana and Endymion," for which Hope Wayne, whom the

GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS 75

painter secretly loved, had inspired the ideal of the goddess,
saw Abel one night at Delmonico's in a party of gay revelers.
"There," said he, turning to Lawrence Newt, who sat with him,
" is my notion of Endymion."

Fanny Newt, who had begun to be uneasy in the knowledge
that the Binks family would try to break off her relations with
their son if they knew of the betrothal, persuaded her foolish
fianct to an immediate secret marriage. Then she led him
into the presence of the parents, and the disagreeable truth was
made known. She found that her husband had really but
little expectation from the Burt estate, only a small allowance
from his father, and, worse even than that, her own father could
do but little for them. Her intrigue had only saddled her with
a poverty-stricken fool, perhaps for life; and there was nothing
ahead for her but penury and obscurity.

Business had begun to go badly for Boniface Newt and
Son. Abel's reckless extravagance had become known where
it would hurt the most. The discounting of a large note quite
essential to the firm was refused by Van Boozenburg; and what
that sharp financier denied no other bill-broker would accept.
Abel, in prosecuting his designs on the beautiful and wealthy
Grace Plumer, invited her and her mother with several other
brilliant social personages to a banquet at his rooms. His
rival, Sligo Moultrie, was also present, but Abel hoped by the
superior charm of his conversation and the favoring auspices of
the occasion to make a permanent impression on the lady's
heart. The function passed delightfully, and everyone was
quite rapturous over a perfect dinner presided over by a perfect
host. As the guests were departing, to the strains of music
of the fine band which had been provided, Abel pressed forward
to conduct Grace to her carriage, but found that Sligo Moultrie
had secured the privilege before him. Something peculiar in
the manner of the couple, which had been noticeable during the
dinner, struck a cold chill to the heart of the host. A few days
later he called on the Plumers to find Moultrie sitting with
Grace as if he had a right there, and he was speedily convinced
that his chance was gone.

His sordid hopes might have gone to Hope Wayne, who had
now come into the fortune of her grandfather, whose will

76 TRUMPS

totally cut off the Binks family from any participation in a great
estate. But his reckless attitude in pursuing that adventure
had chilled the strong interest which at one time had been felt
by the young heiress. His moral repute, too, which to many
would offer no insuperable bar, had suffered some eclipse,
which would strongly affect a woman of Hope Wayne's tem-
perament. Intensely egotistic as Abel was, his conscience
could not be fully stifled. His Uncle Lawrence had taken
occasion to remonstrate with him and point out the inevitable
end of the career he was running. But he rejoined with shrugs
and sneers. Perhaps there would have been a better fruition
had not Abel regarded his uncle as being in the running for
Hope Wayne's hand. This impression had affected others, too,
and it had caused Amy Waring no little pain. It had prevented
her from showing her feeling. That revelation would have
caused Lawrence to speak plainly, and thus have cleared up
all misunderstandings. But the delicacy of the man made him
the last to suspect a false interpretation of his strong fatherly
affection for the daughter of her mother. It had been Law-
rence's desire to foster an attachment between his artist friend,
Arthur Moslin, and Hope; but, much as the lady liked the
painter, she seemed to construe his attentions from the esthetic
rather than from the personal standpoint. This, combined
with a lingering penchant for the brilliant Abel, which per-
sisted in spite of better judgment, shut her susceptibilities against
the timid approaches of the artist.

Lawrence Newt gave a birthday dinner in honor of his
favorite clerk, Gabriel Bennett, at which his small circle of
intimates was present. In offering the toast he gave them all a
pleasant surprise, especially the principal guest. He ended his
brief speech with these words: "Any firm that gets an honest
man into it gets an accession of the most available capital in
the world. This little feast is to celebrate the fact that my
firm has been so enriched; I invite you to drink the health of
Gabriel Bennett, junior partner of the firm of Lawrence Newt
and Company." Gabriel's heart beat with a double pleasure,
not the least being that he was in love with May Newt, the
pearl of that family, and all obstacles would be thus removed.

The happy pair went next day to see Mrs. Fanny Binks,

GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS 77

whom May alone of her kin continued to visit. During their
call the husband, who had become a drunken reprobate, lurched
into the room and said with surly brutality: "Look here, don't
be fooling around. The old man's bust up." This brutal
announcement was indeed true. A large note given by Boni-
face Newt, Son and Company had gone to protest, and the firm
once so prosperous had gone into bankruptcy. Abel's prof-
ligacy and spendthrift habits, his gambling losses, his utter
inattention to business, had borne their inevitable harvest.
Yet Fortune had not altogether turned her back on the cause
of disaster. He received a note from General Arcularius Belch,
one of the most unscrupulous of Tammany lawyers and poli-
ticians, appointing an interview. The result was a gathering
at a "champagne supper" attended by several "molders of pub-
lic opinion," desperate gamblers in politics, who were in it for
what it was worth. It was important to put a disreputable job,
carrying large spoils, through Congress, and difficult to find
a candidate so devoid of all righteous instinct as to manipulate
it, when he should be seated in the national legislature. Con-
gressman Bodley had been induced to resign at the dictate of
his masters, and Abel Newt was deemed the most fitting person
to be the instrument of a nefarious scheme. The political man-
agement was successful, and Abel Newt became an M.C. with
the understanding that he should be the servile mouthpiece of
a Tammany cabal of spoilers.

In the mean while Abel's father with his family had been
compelled to vacate his fashionable home and seek a humble
domicile. The generosity of Lawrence eased the friction of
downfall in many ways, though he had not been disposed to
buttress business interests in which Abel was a partner. The
commercial management of Lawrence had received an acces-
sion in Little Malacca, otherwise Edward Wayne, the old school-
mate of Gabriel and Abel. The mystery of his parentage, which
alone stood in the way of his wooing of Ellen Bennett, Gabriel's
pretty sister, was finally solved. He proved to be the offspring
of an unfortunate union in which "Aunt Martha," the sister of
Mrs. Bennett and of Amy Waring's mother, had been betrayed
into a "sinless sin." The memory of this misfortune had made
her a melancholy and isolated ascetic. The child had been

78 TRUMPS

placed at school by the connivance of Lawrence Newt, and the
whereabouts of the mother was known only to him and to Amy,
who had visited her aunt with watchful solicitude. The father
of the lad was the same Colonel Wayne who had wrecked the
happiness of Hope's mother, and thus Little Malacca turned
out to be her half-brother. The shadow on the happiness of the
circle of friends was the dismal apparition of Boniface Newt,
broken down in mind and body, on the verge of insanity, who
could do little all day but brood over his miseries, wring his
hands, and mumble to himself: "Riches have wings, riches have
wings."

Before going to Washington the new legislator forged notes
and acceptances, with his Uncle Lawrence's name indorsed on
them, which he put by for future use. He also called on Hope
Wayne to make his last throw of the dice in that quarter. He
offered his hand, and told her he was utterly ruined and she
alone could save him. A brief hesitation moved her, a surge
of memory, but she returned a firm negative. Shrieking male-
dictions, he rushed away, and she shuddered, as if something
demoniac had come and gone from her presence. Shortly after
the new representative arrived at the capital, his shrewdness
mrmised the presence of a spy in the handsome person of Mrs.
* Delilah Jones"; and through the disguises of an artificial toilet
lie identified a woman of questionable antecedents whom he
himself had often entertained. She became his ally rather than
that of his Tammany owners, who had been obliged already to
bleed largely at his compulsion. By skilful handling he and
she got the bill for the big " grant" reported, and he supported
it with such dexterous eloquence on the floor that it easily passed
the House.

A nature so profoundly demoralized could find no satisfac-
tion in the rewards of ambition and political success. He con-
fided to Mrs. Delilah Jones, alias Kitty Dunhaus, the brilliant
coup he contemplated, of which she consented to become the
sharer. The twain returned to New York, and he secured
passage in a brig that would clear a day later for the Mediter-
ranean- With the forged acceptances indorsed by Lawrence
Newt be had no difficulty in raising one hundred thousand dol-
lars in bills on London and Paris. The brig would sail with

GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS 79

the morning tide, but some irresistible temptation carried him
back in the evening to visit some of his old haunts. On his
way back, half-intoxicated, he yielded to his raging alcoholic
thirst; and in a low dive on the river-front he was assaulted
with a fatal blow in a quarrel which his recklessness provoked.
Gabriel speedily discovered the forgery, and the bUls of ex-
change found on the body of the murdered man explained the
episode and its animus.

All the reticences and misunderstandings of love had been
explained between Lawrence Newt and Amy Waring and they
had been united before fate had finally wrought its justice on
Abel Newt, whose end so terribly contrasted with the other lives
in the web of which his thread had been crossed. Hope Wayne
did not marry, in spite of the lifelong devotion of Arthur Mos-
lin; but she remained a sort of fairy-godmother to the groups
of blooming children that rapidly grew around her, heirs by
wholesale adoption.

ALPHONSE DAUDET

(France, 1840-1897)
TARTARIN OF TARASCON (1872)

The figure of Tartarin is the first sustained character created by this author.
In it he intended to draw a humorous portrait of the exaggerated, self-deceived
romancer, the native of the south of France. "The man of the South," says
Daudet, "does not lie; he deceives himself. He does not always tell the truth,
but he thinks he does. A lie to him is not a lie, it is a species of mirage. Yes,
mirage. In order to understand me perfectly, go to the South. You will see
that devil of a land where the sun transfigures everything and makes it greater
than nature. You will see those little hills of Provence that are no higher than
Montmartre, and yet they will seem to you gigantic. The sole liar (if there
be one) in the South is the sun. All he touches he exaggerates." That the
citizens of Tarascon were grievously offended at this story is perhaps one of
the highest tributes to the accuracy of the picture.

IASCON is an ancient town (the Romans
knew it as Tarasco) situated on the Rh6ne, ten
miles north of Aries. It holds an annual festival
in commemoration of the legendary preserva-
tion of the town from a gigantic monster, known
as La Tarasque.

So Tartarin, the mightiest of the hunters of
Tarascon, came rightly by his desire to kill "big
game." Small game long ago fled the region.
When the wild ducks, flying south in long Vs, perceive from
afar the steeples of the town, the leader screams, " Tarascon!
there's Tarascon 1" and the flock makes a detour around it.

For hunting is the passion of the Tarasconese. Every Sun-
day morning all Tarascon issues into the fields, gun on shoulder,
game-bag on back, with a turmoil of dogs, ferrets, and hunting-
horns.

"But," you will say, "if game is so scarce in Tarascon, what
do these hunters shoot at?"

Caps, my dear sir, caps flying through the air, for no gunner

So

ALPHONSE DAUDET 81

of Tarascon is .so unsportsmanlike as to shoot at a stationary
target. Each gentleman tosses his cap as high as he can send
it, and fires at it on the wing. He who hits his mark oftenest is
hailed king of the hunt, and returns triumphant to town amid
the barking of dogs and blare of trumpets, with hiss riddled cap
on the muzzle of his gun.

These triumphs, which fell almost invariably to Tartarin,
palled upon him. He had heard of the exploits of one Bom-
bonnel among the giant felines of Algeria, and the triumphs of
this Miltiades would not let him sleep. He burned to add to
the name that had made Tarascon famous the surname Afri-
canus, which should similarly endow the most neglected of
continents with immortal glory.

That is, one of his natures burned to do so; for Tartarin of
Tarascon, the mighty hunter of whom his townsmen said in
tones of admiring awe, "He has double muscles!" had also a
double personality, but half of which we have as yet presented.
There were two very distinct natures in him. He had the
passion for the romantic and grandiose which characterized
the famous Knight of La Mancha, but unfortunately he was
without that hidalgo's thin and bony frame on which material
life could get no grip. Tartarin's body, on the contrary, was
very fat and very sensual, full of bourgeois appetites and domes-
tic requirements, the short and pot-bellied body on paws of the
knight's immortal squire.

Don Quixote and Sancho Panza in the same man! what
struggles! what wrenchings!

Oh, the fine dialogue that a Lucian could 'write of it! Tar-
tarin- Quixote, inspired by the exploits of Bombonnel, crying,
"I go!" Tartarin-Sancho, thinking only of his rheumatism,
mumbling, "I stay."

TARTARIN-QUIXOTE, all enthusiasm: "Cover thyself with
glory, Tartarin!"

TARTARIN-SANCHO, calmly: "Cover thyself with flannel,
Tartarin."

TARTARIN-QUIXOTE, more and more enthusiastic: "Oh,
the double-barreled rifles! Oh, the fine revolvers! the keen
hunting-knives!"

A.D., VOL, VL 6

82 TARTARIN OF TARASCON

TARTARIN-SANCHO, more calmly still: "Oh, those knitted
waistcoats! those good, warm caps with ear-pads!"

TARTARIN-QUIXOTE, beside himself: "A horse! a horse!
bring me an Arab steed!"

TARTARIN-SANCHO, ringing for the maid: " Jeannette, my
chocolate."

It needed that most awe-inspiring of all sounds in nature,
the roar of a lion, to bring Tartarin-Quixote uppermost in the
struggle.

The Menagerie Mitaine, returning from the fair at Beau-
caire, had consented to halt for a few days at Tarascon. It
exhibited in the Place du Chateau a mass of boas, crocodiles,
trained seals, and a magnificent lion of the Atlas!

Standing in the shop of the gunsmith Costecalde, explaining
the mechanism of a needle-gun, then a novelty, to a group of his
fellow-huntsmen, Tartarin heard the distant voice of a beast
in the menagerie. Costecalde heard it, too, and said: "One of
the sea-lions." "No!" cried Tartarin, who, though he had
never before heard the sound, recognized instinctively the chal-
lenge of the monarch of beasts; "it is the lion; it is Himself!"

His eyes flamed. He flung the needle-gun upon his shoul-
der, and, turning to his comrades, cried: "Let us go and see
THAT!"

"Hey! but hey! My gun, my needle-gun, you are taking
with you!" objected timidly the prudent Costecalde. But Tar-
tarin was already in the street, at the head of the cap-hunters,
proudly keeping step.

When they reached the menagerie a crowd had already col-
lected. Tarascon, race heroic, too long deprived of sensations,
had rushed to the barrack Mitaine and taken it by storm.
Walking tranquilly before the cages, without weapons, without
a thought of fear, they felt a natural sense of terror on seeing
the great Tartarin enter the tent with his formidable engine of
war. Surely there must be something to fear, since he, that
hero In the twinkling of an eye the space before the cages
was left vacant; the children screamed with terror; the ladies
moved toward the door; Bzuquet, the apothecary, slipped out,
muttering something about getting his gun.

ALPHONSE DAUDET 83

Gradually Tartarin's attitude reassured the crowd. Calm,
his head held high, that intrepid man walked slowly the circuit
of the cages, finally pausing before the king of beasts.

Terrible and solemn interview ! The lion of Tarascon and
the lion of the Atlas, face to face !

Scenting one who was to become the enemy of his race, the
beast, who up to this time had looked with lordly contempt upon
the Tarasconese, yawning even in their faces, arose, erected
his noble head, shook his tawny mane, opened his vast jaws,
and uttered a formidable roar.

A cry of terror answered him. All Tarascon, mad with
fright, rushed to the door, children, women, even the cap-
hunters. Tartarin alone did not stir. He stood there with that
terrible expression the whole town knew so well upon his face.
After a time the cap-hunters, reassured by the attitude of their
leader, stole back. They heard him murmur, as he gazed at
the lion: "That, yes, that is game."

It was Tartarin-Quixote who said it. It was all he said, but
for Tartarin-Sancho it was far too much.

The next day nothing was talked of in the town but the com-
ing departure of Tartarin for Algeria to hunt lions. You are
witnesses, dear readers, that he said not one word about it; but
that bounding ability of the Southern temperament to leap to
conclusions well, you understand how it is.

The most surprised man in all Tarascon at the news that
Tartarin was going to Africa was Tartarin himself. But see
what vanity will do! Without intending in the least to go, Tar-
tarin at first answered, with an evasive air: "Hm! hm! perhaps
I can't say." The second time the subject was mentioned,
he answered: "Probably"; the third time: "Certainly."

Then the whole town gave him a grand serenade. While it
was still sounding beneath his windows Tartarin-Sancho made
Tartarin-Quixote a terrible scene, picturing the many catas-
trophes that awaited him: shipwreck, rheumatism, fevers, ele-
phantiasis, and .finally utter demolition in the jaws of the lion.
The heroic Tartarin could only pacify the prudent one by re-
minding him that after all they were not yet gone there was
no hurry.

For one must carefully prepare for such an expedition. So

84 TARTARIN OF TARASCON

Tartarin procured all the books he could find on African ex-
ploration. From these he learned that the explorers prepared
themselves to endure hunger and thirst, forced marches, etc.,
by fasting, and by hardening their muscles by exercise, long
beforehand. From that day forth he fed on nothing but eau
bouillie, a Tarascon dish consisting of bread steeped in hot
water and seasoned with a clove of garlic, a sprig of thyme, and
a pinch of bay-leaf. You can fancy what a face poor Sancho
made at it!

To harden his muscles for the long marches, Tartarin every
morning compelled himself to walk around the town seven
times elbows at sides and pebbles in mouth according to the
rules of classic training. To accustom himself to night air and
to learn to see in the dark, he stood sentinel, gun on shoulder,
every evening until midnight in his garden, watching for cats
on the wall. After midnight, belated townspeople saw a mys-
terious figure pacing up and down behind the tent of the
Menagerie Mitaine. 'Twas Tartarin, getting used to hear
without a shudder the roaring of the lion through the darksome
night.

But the menagerie had departed more than three months,
and still the lion-killer remained in Tarascon. The cap-
hunters began to murmur. Judge Ladevfcze composed a song
called "Maitre Gervais," relating to a doughty lion-hunter
whose gun was always loaded but never went off I

In a trice that song became popular. When Tartarin passed
the porters on the quay or the little shoeblacks in the street,
they sang or whistled it but at a distance on account of his
double muscles.

One man alone stood by Tartarin. It was Commander
Bravida, captain of equipment. One evening while our un-
fortunate hero sat in his study alone with his melancholy
thoughts (for Tartarin had by this time discontinued his self-
imposed sentinel duty), the commander opened the door
grave, wearing black gloves, with coat buttoned to the chin.

Rigid and grand as duty, Bravida stood in the door-frame:
" Tartarin, you must go!"

Tartarin rose; he looked about his warm and cozy room;
he sighed; then, advancing to the brave commander, he took

ALPHONSE DAUDET 85

his hand, wrung it, and said in a voice suffused with tears: "I
will go, Bravida."

But he did not depart immediately. There was the outfit
to procure: preserved aliments, pemmican, portable shelter-
tent, sailor boots, two umbrellas, a waterproof, blue spectacles
to prevent ophthalmia, portable pharmacy, etc.

This was to appease the wrath of Tartarin-Sancho, who
night and day called down maledictions on Tartarin-Quixote.

At last no reason for further delay remained. Tartarin,
dressed in Algerian costume, with a heavy gun on each shoulder,
a large hunting-knife in hi3 belt upon his stomach, a revolver
upon his hip, and blue goggles over his eyes, stood in the sta-
tion among innumerable boxes waiting for the express to Mar-
seilles. All the cap-hunters, even Judge Ladevfcze, crowded
about him. Tartarin promised to send each a lion's skin.

The train -men wept in corners. Outside, the populace
gazed through the bars and shouted: " Vive Tartarin!"

The train arrived.

"Adieu, Tartarin! adieu !"

" Adieu, all!" murmured the hero, and on the cheek of
Commander Bravida he kissed his dear Tarascon good-by.

Then he jumped into a carriage. It was full of gay Parisian
women, who nearly died of fright at the sudden appearance
among them of this strange man with the carbines, knives, and
revolvers.

Ah, if the Tarascon cse could have looked within the packet
Zouave during its three days' voyage from Marseilles to Al-
giers, and seen the man whom their taunts drove into exile,
how remorse had struck through their hearts! Suddenly over-
taken by nausea, poor Tartarin had neither time nor spirit to
strip himself of his arsenal. The hunting-knife bruised his
stomach, the revolver-sheath flayed his hip. And to cap it all,
the moanings and maledictions of Tartarin-Sancho never
ceased to excoriate his soul: "Imbecile! I told you so. You
would go to Africa. Well, here you are going. How do you
find yourself?"

Suddenly the boat stopped. The heavy boots of the sailors
were running overhead. The Captain was shouting hoarse
orders.

86 TARTARIN OF TARASCON

"Mercy on us! we are sinking !" shrieked Tartarin, and,
recovering his strength as if by magic, he bounded from his
berth and rushed on deck with his arsenal.

The first thing he saw was a row of big black hands clutching
the bulwarks from the outside. These were followed by a row
of woolly heads and swarthy faces; and before he had time to
cry out in warning to the other passengers, the deck was in-
vaded by a swarm of half-naked men, black, yellow, hideous,
terrible.

Unsheathing his knife, Tartarin ran toward them. " Pirates !
To arms! to arms!" he cried.

The Captain caught him by the belt just as he was about to
hurl himself on a negro who was stooping to pick up the port-
able pharmacy from a heap of luggage on the deck.

"Be quiet, you idiot! Those are not pirates; there are
no pirates nowadays those are porters. Follow that man to
your hotel."

'Twas a great wild desert on the outskirts of Algiers, all
bristling with fantastic plants that in the starlight looked like
savage beasts. With one gun laid before him, the other in hand,
Tartarin knelt one knee to earth and waited. One hour, two
hours passed. Nothing! Then he remembered that in the
books no great lion-hunter ever lay in wait without a kid
tethered hard by, which he forced to cry by pulling its foot
with a string. So Tartarin bleated in imitation of a kid:
"Mea! mea!"

Nothing appeared. He bleated again, more loudly. Still
nothing. At last he was bellowing, "Mea! mea!" with the
voice of an ox.

Suddenly the dark form of an animal appeared before him.
Two terrible eyes glared at him from the darkness. Pan! pant
with one gun; pan! pan! with the other. One bound back-
ward with hunting-knife drawn to receive the attack of the
wounded lion.

But it fled, roaring. The wise Tartarin did not stir. He
awaited the female, as the books had warned him. He waited
till daybreak. Then she came!

She came terrible and roaring, under the form of an old

ALPHONSE DAUDET 87

Alsatian woman in whose garden Tartarin had made his am-
bush. She came flourishing a great red umbrella, and demand-
ing back her donkey from the echoes of Algeria. And Tartarin,
ready to face a lioness, fled before the infuriated woman. She
fell upon him and beat him to earth with the umbrella.

The upshot was that Tartarin paid two hundred francs for
a donkey worth ten. He was informed that lions did not infest
the market-gardens of Algiers. Away to the south, perhaps,
in the Atlas mountains

Lions of Atlas, sleep! For some days yet you will not be
massacred by your terrible enemy from Tarascon. Tartarin is
in love with a Moorish lady in Algiers. How they met we need
not relate. Suffice it to say that it was she who, fascinated by
his noble appearance, made the first advances.

She knew not a word of French, and their wooing was con-
ducted in the primitive and romantic language of signs. Tar-
tarin rented for themselves a gem of a cottage in the native
quarter, furnished with every Moorish comfort. All day long
Sidi Tart'ri, as he was called, lay on a divan, puffing at his
narghile, eating sweetmeats flavored with musk, and watching
Bai'a perform the stomach-dance as only a native can, or lis-
tening as, guitar in hand, she sang lulling, monotonous airs
through her nose.

Every night, on the minaret of a neighboring mosque, stood
a stately muezzin, his white form outlined on the deep blue of
the night, and chanted the glory of Allah in a marvelous tone
beyond the power of earthly passion to inspire.

Bai'a, letting fall her guitar, would stand quivering in
religious fervor. Tartarin, looking at her as she prayed,
thought to himself: "What a beautiful faith to cause such
ecstasy!"

Tarascon, toll thy bells! thy Tartarin is on the point of
becoming a renegade.

One day when Baia had gone shopping, a ship-captain passed
his garden. It was Barbassou, of the Zouave. "Hello! Mon-
sieur Tartarin," he cried; "so it is true you've turned Turk.
And little Bai'a, does she still sing Marco la Belle ? "

" Marco la Belief cried Tartarin indignantly. "I would

88 TARTARIN OF TARASCON

have you know that the person of whom you speak is a vir-
tuous Moorish lady who does not know a word of French."

"Boujrel" exclaimed the Captain, laughing. Then, seeing
how the face of Sidi Tart'ri was lengthening, he changed the
subject. "Here is the latest Marseilles newspaper."

After the Captain had passed on, Tartarin read a paragraph
in the journal telling of the great anxiety in Tarascon over the
fate of its leading citizen, who had plunged into the wilds of
Africa some months ago to hunt lions, and who had not been
heard of since. When he read this, Tartarin, blushing with
shame, bounded to his feet.

"To the lions! to the lions I" he cried.

He took the diligence for the south. A Trappist monk,
two cocottes rejoining their regiment, and a photographer with
his camera, were the other passengers. At Blidah a small,
bald-headed man got on, who had some trouble in finding
room for himself and umbrella by Tartarin's side, on account
or our hero's arsenal, at the extent of which the newcomer
seemed excessively amazed.

"Does that surprise you?" asked Tartarin.

"No; it inconveniences me."

"Do you suppose that I am going to hunt lions with your
umbrella?"

"Then, Monsieur, you are "

" Tartarin of Tarascon, lion-slayer."

The monk crossed himself, the cocottes shrieked with alarm,
the photographer began to adjust his camera as if preparing
to take the hero's picture. The little gentleman, however, was
not disconcerted.

"Have you killed many lions, Monsieur Tartarin?" he asked
quietly.

"Many? I wish you had as many hairs on your head."

All the diligence looked at the newcomer's shining pate, and
laughed.

The photographer now spoke up: "Terrible profession,
yours. For instance, that brave Monsieur Bombonnel "

"Brave killer of panthers," said Tartarin disdainfully.

"Did you know him?" asked the little gentleman.

ALPHONSE DAUDET 89

"Know him! We have hunted together a score of times."

The little gentleman smiled. "Oh, then you do hunt
panthers, Monsieur Tartarin?"

"Occasionally, to pass the time," said the ruffled Tartarin;
" but they are nothing to lions. I am after these now."

"Then," said the little gentleman, "you had better return
to Tarascon. There's not a lion left in Algeria. My friend
Chassaing killed the last. There are still a few panthers, but
fie! that is much too small game for you."

Here the diligence stopped. The conductor, opening the
door, respectfully addressed the little old gentleman:

"Here we are, Monsieur Bombonnel."

Nevertheless, Tartarin continued his journey. He got out
at Milianah, and, buying a camel, set off across the vast plain
of the Chliff. But riding camelback made him seasick, so he
walked. He poked among the dwarf palm-trees with his car-
bine, and called "Scat!" at every bush; every night he lay in
wait for two or three hours but no lion appeared.

At last he came upon a marabout (tomb of a saint) within a
grove. The branches before him parted, and there stalked
forth a gigantic lion, with erect head and roars that shook the
white walls of the tomb and rattled the saint's bones within it.

But the hero was not alarmed. "At last!" he cried, and
pan! pan! two explosive bullets scattered blood and brains and
tawny fur over the white marabout. Out of the tomb rushed
two big negroes with cudgels keepers of the blind old lion
that they had taught to beg for alms from pilgrims.

To pay for the damage he had wrought, Tartarin had to
part with all his possessions, save the camel. This was an old,
mangy beast, and for it he could not get a cent. So he de-
cided to abandon it. Begging the lion's skin of the negroes, he
sent it on by diligence to Tarascon. Then he set out to walk
to Algiers. His faithful camel would not be left behind, but
followed him.

Tartarin tried to run; the camel ran faster. He shouted
"Go away!" and flung stones at him; the camel stopped, gazed
at him with mournful eye and followed on.

In eight weary days they reached Algiers. On the out-

90 TARTARIN OF TARASCON

skirts Tartarin eluded his follower by slipping into a ditch.
He entered the town by a byway that ran by the wall of his
garden.

Within the garden he heard a woman's voice singing. It was
Marco la Belle! Clambering over the wall he saw Bala in a
gauze chemise and pale rose trousers, and, with the cap of a
naval officer on one ear, singing and dancing for Barbassou!

The ship's captain was not disturbed at the apparition of
Tartarin, dusty, haggard, wild with rage.

"Hey! Monsieur Tartarin, what do you say now? Doesn't
she speak French?"

Tartarin sank in a heap on the ground. "Come," said
Barbassou, "don't take it so hard. Of course Ba'ia can't help
making love to every man she sees. It's in her Marseilles blood.
Why, she even flirts with the muezzin, who fixes his meetings
with her while invoking the name of Allah."

That night Tartarin went to the mosque, pounced upon the
muezzin and frightened him into giving over his turban and
mantle. Putting these on, Tartarin ascended the minaret and
intoned :

"La Allah il Allah! Mohammed is an old rogue. Orient,
Koran, lions, Moorish women are not worth a damn. There
are no Turks only swindlers. Vive Tarascon /"

From minaret to minaret the clear, solemn voices of the
other muezzins answered him, and all the faithful beat their
breasts.

The next day Tartarin took ship for Marseilles with Bar-
bassou. After they had left the dock the Captain saw a camel
swimming after the boat. "Is it yours?" he asked of Tartarin.

"Not at all."

"Well, anyway, I'll take him aboard, and present him to
the Zoological Garden in Marseilles."

Tartarin hid himself from the camel during the voyage.
When, however, he took train for Tarascon, it caught sight of
him, and followed after, loping along the track.

Tartarin leaned back in his seat with bitter reflections.
Good God, what was this for a triumphant return! Not a sou;
not a lion; nothing. Yes, that cursed camel!

ALPHONSE DAUDET 91

" Tarascon ! Tarascon ! "

He had to get out.

Oh, stupefaction! what an ovation!

" Vive Tartarin! Long live the lion-killer!" All Tarascon
was there, cheering and waving its arms. The noble army of
cap-hunters was in front and these bore him off upon their
shoulders.

It was the lion's skin that had done it. Placed on exhibi-
tion at Costecalde's gun-shop, it had turned the heads of the
people. A drama was constructed. It was not one lion that
Tartarin had killed, it was ten lions, twenty lions, a marmalade
of lions! Barbassou had telegraphed the news of Tartarin's
home-coming, and they were ready for him.

But it was the camel that capped the climax of the triumph.
This strange, fantastic beast descended, clopetty-clop, the
stairway of the station behind Tartarin and his bearers. Tar-
ascon fancied for a moment that La Tarasque had returned.

" That is my camel," announced Tartarin proudly. " J Tis a
noble beast! he saw me kill all my lions."

FROMONT AND RISLER (1874)
(Fromont Jeune et Risler Ain)

This is the novel that first made Daudet famous. He had won a creditable
literary place for himself before its publication, but when Fromont Jeune et
Risler Atnc appeared, he was at once hailed as one of the few really great
novelists of his time, one of the few who knew how to deal adequately with the
mysteries, the complexities, and the subtleties of human nature and human
passion. The novel was crowned by the French Academy, but that was a
small and insignificant part of its success. It was everywhere read and talked
of by the people, from the highest to the lowest ranks of those who read at all.
Numberless editions of the book were printed sumptuous editions, library edi-
tions, and editions so cheap that the gamins of the streets might buy and read ;
and clamorous demands poured in for the privilege of translation into the Ian-
guages of other countries.

was at the Cafd Ve*four that the wedding of
Risler, a man in middle life, with Sidonie Chebe
was celebrated. Risler was an employ^ of the
ancient and honored house of Fromont, makers
of wall-paper; and on this same happy day there
had come to him the two crowning glories of
his life, admission to a partnership in the house
of Fromont henceforth to be known as Fro-
mont and Risler and his marriage with the
beautiful Sidonie. He could only go about saying to everyone :
"I am happy! I am happy!"

Madame Chfcbe, Sidonie's mother, was there ; so was Madame
Georges Fromont Claire Fromont, Sidonie's best friend, the
wife of Georges Fromont, Risler's partner, and the daughter of
the late head of the house, whom Risler had worshiped. Claire
Fromont was to Risler, with his half-German Swiss-French,
" Madame Chorche."

Everybody whom Risler loved was there to rejoice in his
happiness everybody except Frantz, his younger brother, who
was off engineering in Africa. Monsieur Chfebe, Sidonie's
father, a little man full of pretension, was there; so was Mon-

o*

ALPHONSE DAUDET 93

sieur Gardinois, the very rich ex-peasant, grandfather of Georges
Fromont and of Claire, Georges's recently married wife. There
was Delobelle, too, the old retired actor, whose glory lay in the
histrionic things he had never had a chance to do, but of which
he dreamed incessantly while living and indulging his every
whim of luxury upon the proceeds of the toil of his wife and
daughter as makers of articles de Paris.

When the dancing began, Risler rejoiced to see his young
wife dancing with Georges Fromont, they seemed to him to
dance so well. He did not hear what they said in undertones:
"You lie," Sidonie said. "I do not lie," answered the other.
"My uncle insisted upon my marriage. You were away.
What could I do?"

Behind those words was a story. This is the story:

Sidonie was the daughter of Ferdinand Ch&be, a visionary
who had wasted his wife's little fortune in futile projects.
Sidonie had been brought up in the precincts of the Fromont
wall-paper factory. Across the hall from her apartments were
those of the Delobelles, where Madame Delobelle and her
deformed daughter, Ddsirde, toiled day and night to provide
the worthless actor with a living. Also across the hall was the
apartment of the Rislers, two brothers, the elder of whom was
a designer of patterns for the Fromont factory, and the younger
a student of engineering, whom the older man cherished in
boundless affection.

The kindly elder Risler was a sort of divine Providence
both to the Chfcbes and to the Delobelles. He took them to the
theaters and on Sunday excursions; and if unusual distress fell
upon them, he was always generously ready to aid. But Risler
worked day and night at his trade of pattern-designing; and so
he was only tolerated by Chfebe and Delobelle, and graciously
permitted to pay for the beer when they drank together at the
brewery.

The boy, Frantz Risler, and Sidonie were playfellows; and
as they grew older they learned to love so far at least as the
selfish nature of Sidonie could feel a passion so unselfish as
love. As a child Sidonie had become acquainted with the Fro-
monts Claire and her Cousin Georges and was the playmate
of both. They loved her; she bitterly envied them their wealth

9 4 FROMONT AND RISLER

and all that it gave to them. Child as she was, she had begun
to see visions and dream dreams.

The time of separation came. Georges was sent to college,
Claire to a convent, with an outfit becoming a queen; Sidonie
was apprenticed to a trade. It was old Risler who suggested
the apprenticeship. He promised later to set the girl up in
business for herself.

The years passed. Frantz graduated as an engineer, and
his brother celebrated the event with a theater-party, where
Frantz and Sidonie were thrown close together. That night
they became engaged, and D^sire'e, the poor lame girl, who
loved Frantz, was left desolate but unselfishly patient and
submissive.

In the summer Claire lived with her grandfather, the rich
old peasant Gardinois, at his beautiful place at Savigny, near
Paris. She was lonely and begged Sidonie to come to her.
Her letter was suggested by Gardinois himself, who liked " the
little Chfcbe."

At Savigny Sidonie again met Georges Fromont, the younj;
heir to the Fromont factory and to all the wealth it represented.
He was predestined to marry Claire; but the fact did not pre-
vent him from making love to Sidonie. She, dazzled and in-
toxicated by the prospect of wealth, fine clothes, jewels, and
luxury, decided that she would become his wife, supplanting
Claire. He wrote her surreptitious love-letters which she was
delighted to receive; but her final reply to all of them was that
the man she loved must be her husband, not merely a lover.

An accident occurred. Monsieur Fromont the elder, the
uncle of Georges, was shot in the hunting-field. The merry
party must disperse. Sidonie returned to her unlovely home in
Paris, after she and Georges Fromont had promised to love
each other always and some day to be man and wife.

Frantz Risler, as Sidonie's betrothed, began now to insist
upon the fulfilment of his desires; and Sidonie had no excuse
with which to put him off. He had secured a good position
in the south as an engineer, and was able to support a little
establishment. Why should not the marriage be celebrated?
But Sidonie had made up her mind to marry Georges Fromont.
In default of other excuse she pleaded the love that D&ire'e,

ALPHONSE DAUDET 95

the litde lame girl, felt for Frantz. Posing as a woman of
heroic self-sacrifice, she refused to stand in De*sireVs way.
Frantz went to Suez, where the canal was in construction, and
Sidonie waited in vain for the promised letters from Georges
Fromont. At last old Risler, bubbling with joy, brought the
news that in accordance with his uncle's last wishes, Georges
Fromont had married Claire; that he had become head of the
Fromont firm, and that he old Risler had become his partner
in the factory.

Sidonie posed as a heart-broken maiden for a time; and
then, through her mother, she informed old Risler that it was
for love of him that she pined. If she could not marry Fro-
mont she would marry his new partner, Risler, and after that
she had visions.

Fromont and Claire lived on one floor of the factory build-
ing; Risler and Sidonie, after their marriage, on the floor
above. Risler was inventing a new machine the Risler press
which would reduce the cost of manufacture to one fourth
and make the firm's fortune a colossal one. His mind was so
absorbed in his machine that he was heedless of everything
else. To Claire a little daughter had been born and she was
so absorbed in the child that she, too, was heedless of everything
but the child's welfare.

Thus conditions were created in which the liaison between
Fromont and Sidonie was easy. Sidonie's pleasure in it was
largely gratified jealousy and spite. She hated the friend who
had done so much for her because that friend was better placed
than she, and felt savage delight in knowing that she was be-
traying that friend and wronging her. Still more she delighted
in the luxuries Fromont gave her the jewels, the costly gar-
ments, the luxurious apartments he hired for her in a good
quarter of Paris, where he and she met when he was supposed
to be at his club talking business, apd she was understood to be
enjoying herself at the theater. She had her own coupe* also,
furnished by Fromont and charged to the firm's expense account,
on the ground that a certain style of living on the part of the
members of the firm and their families was a valuable advertise-
ment. She had jewels of fabulous cost, which poor, innocent
Risler supposed to be gewgaws of almost no cost at all. Fro-

96 FROMONT AND RISLER

mont sent her a single shawl, the bill for which, six thousand
francs, frightened old Sigismund Planus, the lifelong cashier
of the firm; and he was still further frightened by the heavy
drafts Fromont was constantly making upon his cash-box.
He spoke to Risler about these extravagant drafts, but, in
his loyalty to the Fromont name and family, Risler paid no
attention, leaving all finance to his partner and devoting him-
self night and day to his work upon the new machine.

Finally Fromont set up a costly, toylike country-place for
Sidonie, and spent most of his time there, though he was sup-
posed to be all the time in Paris engaged in business negotiations.

After a while Fromont's drafts upon the cash-box ceased;
but old Sigismund Planus discovered that the young man had
been collecting heavy sums from the customers of the firm and
not reporting the collections.

Old Planus's eyes were opened. He saw clearly what was
going on, but he misinterpreted it. He believed that Risler
also knew and consented to the infamy. Revolted and shocked,
he ceased to meet Risler with his old cordiality, and spoke to
him only when business necessity required.

Finally he made up his mind to act. He wrote to Frantz
Risler, summoning him home to save the honor of his family
name; and Frantz came, full of anger and determination. Ar-
riving on a Saturday afternoon, he found nobody at the factory
but old Sigismund Planus, paying off the hands. The Fro-
monts and the Rislers had gone to their chateaux.

Planus told him of the situation and the squandering and
all the rest of it. Then Frantz visited the Delobelles, and the
old wreck of an actor declaimed to the same effect. He had
planned to return to the stage as manager and star of a theater
of his own, for which he had intended that the elder Risler
should furnish the money. As Risler had declined to do so,
old Delobelle was full of criticism of Sidonie's luxurious
squandering.

Frantz found his old room to let and hired it. He met
D6sire and in some degree fell in love with her. But he had
come from Suez to Paris to deliver a stern judgment, and the
culprits were not yet arraigned before him.

On the Sunday morning the elder Risler returned to the

ALPHONSE DAUDET 97

factory to work upon his machine, and learning that his brother
was there, seized upon him and took him to Sidonie's chAteau
at Asniferes. Their talk was all of Risler's machine, which was
perfected now; but in the course of it Risler spoke so much of
Sidonie, and so unsuspectingly, that Frantz was reassured.
Whatever might be true of Sidonie, his brother, he was sure,
remained an honest man a husband wronged, perhaps, but
not disgraced by consent to the wrong.

Sidonie had not expected Risler to quit his machine that
day and return to the ch&teau. So when the brothers arrived
they found young Fromont there, in suspiciously close inter-
course with his partner's wife.

Sidonie was ready with explanations, and Risler's faith in
his wife was so unquestioning that no explanation at all seemed
necessary to satisfy him.

Frantz understood, however, and he sought occasion to
challenge Sidonie. So far from shunning the ordeal, Sidonie
courted it; and when Frantz accused her of betraying her hus-
band, she frankly admitted the fact. When he asked for ex-
planation or excuse, she told him that she cherished an unholy
passion for himself Frantz; and Frantz fell a victim to her
wile. He had loved her before; he loved her even more pas-
sionately now. He cast honor and all else to the winds and
began planning to rob his brother of his wife.

Sidonie managed the affair so adroitly that presently she was
in possession of a mad letter from Frantz, proposing that she
should meet him at a railway terminus, where he would have
tickets ready, and they two should elope.

With such a letter in her hands, Sidonie could afford to dis-
regard Frantz as a factor in the complicated problem of her
life. Should he accuse her she had only to produce the letter
and attribute his accusation to the vengeance of a scorned
lover, who had shamefully sought to betray his own brother.
She did not meet him at the station, but she jealously preserved
his letter. She had ahready sunk under Fremont's care from
the position of a well-considered bourgeoise to that of a mis-
tress surrounded only with such companions as a courtesan
might have. She was engaged in a second liaison, with a cer-
tain Italian tenor, Cazabon, alias Cazaboni. But she had
A.D., VOL. vi. 7

98 FROMONT AND RISLER

now no fear. When Frantz came to reproach her with her
betrayal, she bade him remember the letter she held from him,
and not to tell ugly stories about her, lest she should show the
missive.

Frantz suddenly left Paris, and poor little Ddsire'e, to whom
he had made love before his infatuation with Sidonie, wandered
to the Seine and threw herself into the water. She was rescued,
for the sake of the reward the law offers in such cases; but she
fell ill with pneumonia and died.

The day of reckoning for the firm of Fromont and Risler
drew near. There were notes to be met in January, amounting
to a hundred thousand francs; and for the first time in a genera-
tion the strong-box was empty. Worse still, when old Planus
tried to collect sums due the house he found that they had been
collected already and squandered by Fromont upon Sidonie.
It was useless for the old cashier to appeal to the members of
the firm. Risler was absorbed in the final perfecting of the
machine that promised limitless profit to the factory. Fromont
put everything aside because he was insanely perplexed with
his own affairs. He had discovered that Sidonie was unfaithful
to him, precisely as she had been unfaithful for him, and that
the Italian tenor was her lover. When charged with this she
had not taken the trouble to lie in denial.

In the midst of his anxiety over the notes, Georges Fromont
slept uneasily, and the loving, faithful Claire waked him to
question him. She guessed that he had been gambling, and
he let her think so. But she offered to go to old Gardinois,
her grandfather, and persuade him to lend the money necessary
for the emergency.

But old Gardinois knew what had been going on and what
had become of the firm's money. With merciless frankness he
told her of her husband's unfaithfulness and of Sidonie's per-
fidy. When he saw that she doubted he gave her proofs, re-
ferring her to the jewelers, the shawl-importers, and the rest,
and giving dates of purchases made and prices paid. He told
her of a diamond necklace, bought for thirty thousand francs
only a fortnight before and given to Sidonie.

Claire's first impulse was to take flight; but, believing that
her husband was financially ruined, she resolved not to desert

ALPHONSE DAUDET 99

him. He fell ill and, without aught of love left and in pure
loyalty to duty, she attended him.

Then Risler learned the truth from old Sigismund Planus;
his horror of the disgrace and degradation of his wife quickly
convinced Planus that he had really not known before; and
instantly their old friendship was restored. But Risler decided
to act at once. Angry, insulted, desperate, he went to his
apartments where Sidonie was holding a dance, seized the
jewels and everything else of value, and placed them in Planus's
hands that they might be sold and their proceeds used to meet
the notes and avert disaster from the house of Fromont. He
placed the chateau, too, and all it contained in Planus' s hands
for sale, and Planus advanced enough money of his own upon
the property to meet the emergency. Risler threw into the
strong-box every article he possessed of any value, his watch
and chain, his portfolio of designs. He gave his now perfected
Risler press to the firm without charge or conditions. He re-
signed all his claims as a partner in the house and made himself
again merely an employ^.

Bringing Sidonie into the presence of Planus and Claire, he
compelled her to kneel. Claire begged him to spare the woman
who had so grievously wronged her; but, wrathfully determined
as he was to exhaust every possibility of atonement, Risler in-
sisted that his wife should from her knees beg forgiveness of
Claire Fromont, repeating the words as he should dictate them.
She began, but, suddenly springing up, escaped through the
door and fled into the night.

Claire begged the two men to follow and save her from her-
self; but Risler refused on the ground that they had done with
Madame Risler and had more important matters to discuss.

Sidonie fled to old Delobelle's newly established quarters,
where he was supported in comfort by the underpaid toil of his
wife. She was convinced that it was Frantz Risler that had in-
formed her husband of her sins and that he had done so in re-
sentment of the humiliation she had inflicted upon him by her
failure to elope with him. Ruined, disgraced, outcast as she
was, her thought now was solely for revenge. She still had
Frantz Risler' s mad, compromising letter. She would send it
to her husband in order to break his heart and at the same time

ioo FROMONT AND RISLER

be revenged upon Frantz. Then she would join her Italian
tenor.

Having saved the firm at this crisis, Risler went to work to
meet other obligations that must soon fall due. He toiled day
and night to set the new Risler press at work and to enrich the
house by its wonderful productiveness. Not one franc would
he take for himself except his clerk's wages; and he managed
matters so successfully that within a brief time the old house
was as prosperous as ever.

Sidonie had sought her revenge by sending a packet to Ris-
ler; he had feared to open it until his work of saving the house
should be done, and, fearing to keep it in his possession lest he
should be tempted to open it, had placed it in old Planus's
hands, begging him to keep it until called for. He had sold out
even his furniture, to the last piece, and had turned the proceeds
into the firm as a part of his restitution in behalf of his aban-
doned and repudiated wife. He had returned to his lodgings
under the eaves and was toiling night and day for the firm, re-
joicing in his ability to save its good name and restore it to its
old commanding place in the trade. He continued his allow-
ance to the Chfebes Sidonie's father and mother paying it
out of the meager salary he allowed himself as an employ^.

At last, feeling that his work of restitution was accom-
plished, he went to old Planus and asked for the packet so long
ago committed to his friend's care. The time had come when
he could dare open it and learn what message Sidonie had sent
him.

The package was not at hand. It was locked in a drawer at
Planus's house at Montrouge. Planus proposed that the two
should enjoy an evening at a ca)& chantant and then go for the
night to Montrouge.

Feeling that he had at last earned a right to an evening's
pleasure, Risler accepted the invitation.

At the ca]i chantant they saw Sidonie, sunk now to the
depths and earning her way by singing risque songs to an
audience of "lewd iellows of the baser sort."

The shock to Risler was terrible. He had believed that
Sidonie was living with her parents upon the allowance he made
to them. He learned now for the first time what the extent of

ALPHONSE DAUDET 101

her degradation was; but still he did not fail of courage. This
was only one more affliction added to the burden of sorrows he
was so bravely bearing.

He went with his friend to Montrouge to pass the night.
Planus gave him the key to the drawers in his room, bidding
him use it at will.

In the morning Risler was missing.

In his dead hand, when they found him hanging in the
quarries, was Sidonie's packet. It contained the letter that
Frantz had written to her proposing an elopement.

He had endured Sidonie's betrayal of his trust and had
bravely met the proofs of her shame. But the knowledge that
his own Frantz, whom he had cherished from childhood, had
been untrue to him, was more than he could bear. Upon read-
ing the letter that revealed the terrible truth he had destroyed
himself, saying no word of farewell to a world in which he had
suffered so much wrong.

JACK (1876)

As was Daudet's usual habit, he took a framework of fact upon which
to build the present story. In its main outlines the tale is true, and Daudet
published a sketch of the original of his hero after the publication of the novel.

JACK ("with a k, Father Superior," insisted his
mother) was to be entered at the fashionable
Jesuit school at Vaugirard. The boy was seven
or eight years of age, and was dressed in a High-
land costume, grotesque on a lad of his physical
development. The keen Father Superior had
his doubts about the mother, despite her elegance
and beauty. She gave her name as Ida de Ba-
rancy, and claimed to belong to an ancient family
of Touraine; he was from Touraine himself, and knew that there
was no noble family there of that name. He found it necessary
to speak frankly and advise her to take the boy elsewhere, since
only boys of unimpeachable birth and social standing could be
received there. Moved by her frantic entreaties, he finally
consented to accept Jack, on condition that all the boy's holi-
days should be passed at the school, and that she should be seen
by no one on her visits to him. She indignantly refused, as the
Superior had expected. He understood that she had counted
upon boasting of her encounters with the aristocratic mothers
of other pupils in the reception-room. Jack, returning from
the garden, heard the Superior murrrur, "Poor child! " as the
"Countess de Barancy" dragged him wrathfully away. He
wondered why he was being pitied.

While his mother was amusing herself at balls and else-
where, Jack was in the care of Mademoiselle Constant, her
maid, who ruled the household in the elegant little h6tel kept
up for Ida de Barancy by the elderly admirer known to its
occupants as " Bon Ami." His mother, no longer interested in

ALPHONSE DAUDET 103

his education, accepted the advice of Constant to send him to
the Gymnase Moronval, situated in a dilapidated mews and
thieves' paradise adjoining the Champs Elyses. The stu-
dents were all foreigners; Moronval himself was a fluent, pre-
tentious mulatto adventurer from Guadaloupe, who avenged
himself for his own black blood on his half-breed pupils. The
little King of Dahomey, who had been his special pride for a
time, was converted into a slave of all work when a revolution
deprived him of his throne and remittances ceased.

The professors were a set of Failures, each in his chosen line :
a doctor without a diploma, a poet without a publisher, a singer
without an engagement. In the "great poet," Amaury d'Ar-
genton, the professor of literature, Jack had a premonition that
he saw a future implacable enemy. His sole friend was the
little negro servant-king, who told him about his happy days in
his own sunny land far away. He also told Jack that Moronval
had said to his wife that the boy's mother was a cocotte, and he
asked what that meant.

For a few months Jack was happy. Everyone treated him
well and affectionately, and listened eagerly to his mother's
absurdly boastful stories when she visited him. Moronval
cherished hopes of inducing her to furnish the money for a
review devoted to colonial interests and, incidentally, to ad-
vertising himself. But Ida de Barancy fell hopelessly in love,
for the first time in her life, when she heard Amaury d'Argenton
recite his threadbare, empty poem, " The Creed of Love." D'Ar-
genton allowed himself to be won, and, having come into an in-
heritance, went off to the country with her. Moronval, seeing
that his plan for his review was ruined, vented his rage on Jack.
The little King of Dahomey, worn out with homesickness and
ill-treatment, ran away, was brought back a week later, and
died shortly after of despair and the hardships he had under-
gone. While walking back from his funeral, wretched little
Jack ran away to his former home, and finding that his mother
was at Etiolles, walked the twenty-four miles that night, and
fell unconscious before her house. He was taken in and cared
for by his conscience-stricken mother, and attended by good old
Dr. Rivals.

D'Argenton, who grudged the expense of the school, was not

104 JACK

greatly incensed by Jack's flight, and even undertook to teach
the lad many incoherent things himself. But he soon wearied
of this and devoted himself to writing poetry, never getting
beyond ambitious titles to works that were never written. He
had renamed Ida "Charlotte," and blamed her for the inartistic
atmosphere which prevented his emitting works of immortal
genius. Charlotte listened in reverential silence; even believed
him when he accused famous dramatists and poets of having
stolen his unwritten works. Jack spent happy days roaming
the forest with the old gamekeeper, whose wife acted as servant
to the household.

D'Argenton had a weak digestion, and now fancied himself
dangerously ill. Dr. Rivals declared that all he needed was
amusement; and Charlotte hit upon the idea of inviting some of
his former friends to visit them. D'Argenton brightened up;
Jack was terrified. Dr. Hirsch, the physician-Failure, estab-
lished himself permanently in the house as Assistant-Dictator.
All the other Failures came down, sometimes accompanied by
the wives who supported them. One Sunday the Vicomtesse
d'Argenton (as she was known at Etiolles) offered the pain btni
at the village church. At the beadle's suggestion, she appointed
Dr. Rivals's little granddaughter, Ccile, to carry the collection-
bag, while Jack walked in front with the big decorated candle.
Madame Rivals invited Jack to breakfast; and this was the be-
ginning of a happy friendship for the lonely little boy. Soon he
spent all his time at the Rivals's; and the doctor, who had begun
by believing D'Argenton's assertion that Jack was stupid, soon
thought it worth his while to forego his daily siesta for the pur-
pose of teaching the boy. Charlotte and D'Argenton knew
nothing of this. At the end of ten months Dr. Rivals proudly
told them of Jack's wonderful progress and guaranteed that, if
they would send him to a public school, he would make a name
for himself. Charlotte was delighted; D'Argenton's opportunity
for revenging himself on the doctor and the child had come.
He consulted Labassindre, the singer, and decided to make an
iron-worker of Jack, because, as he pompously told Charlotte,
"the man of the future is the working man." Labassindre's
real name was Roudic; he was from the Breton village of La
Basse Indret, on the Loire, and had been employed in the iron-

ALPHONSE DAUDET 105

works at Indret until two fine bass notes in his voice had at-
tracted attention, and he had become a conceited pretender to
operatic fame. Through his brother, who was foreman of a
department at Indret, he got a promise that Jack should be re-
ceived as an apprentice. Dr. Rivals indignantly warned d'Ar-
genton and the mother that not only was the child unfit for such
a life, but that he had a fine mind which would be killed by the
forced inaction. This rendered D'Argenton more determined
than ever. At his instigation, Charlotte argued fluently with
Jack; to no avail, until she told him that some day she might
be obliged to have recourse to him as her only friend and pro-
tector. Jack yielded. A week later, Labassindre took him to
Indret and handed him over to his brother, Roudic, in whose
house the lad was to live.

Jack did his best, thinking always of his mother. But his
health was soon affected. At first he tried to continue his edu-
cation and offset the repulsive coarseness of the men by read-
ing, on Sundays, the classical books of which good Dr. Rivals
had given him a boxful. Sometimes he read aloud to Roudic
and his family, which consisted of his wife and a daughter by
a former marriage. Pretty Clarisse, his second wife, was many
years his junior, and was in love with his nephew, Chariot, from
Nantes "the Nantais," as he was generally called. Roudic
was very proud of her, and suspected nothing; but his daughter,
Zenaide, watched over and remonstrated with her stepmother.
One day Jack found an old acquaintance, Blisaire, a seller of
hats, to whom he had once done a kindness, now acting as
postman between the Nantais and Madame Roudic. They
were in the habit of meeting at a house hired on the shore
opposite the island. Everyone in the place, from manager
to ferryman, including Jack, knew of their relations, except
Roudic.

Jack slept in an attic, reached by a ladder from Zenaide's
room, which was burning hot in summer, icy cold in winter.
His health continued to deteriorate. At the end of a year he
received a letter from his mother urging him to take care of his
health and work well, as the day might not be far distant when
she would require his support. Jack resolved to conquer his
repugnance, and become a good artisan. As a beginning, he

io6 JACK

sorrowfully nailed up all his books in their box and strove more
heroically than ever to learn.

Zenaide had relaxed her watchfulness over her stepmother.
She had no thought except for her betrothal and approaching
marriage to a good-looking brigadier in the Custom House,
Mangin. He had cost her father dear, seven thousand francs,
the savings of twenty years; but his wife had persuaded him to
pay it, as he could put by more. Zenaide was perfectly con-
scious of her own unattractiveness, her squat, uncouth figure,
her ugly face, and that she was being married for her money;
but she was very happy. The banns for the marriage had al-
ready been published once, the wedding was only a fortnight oil,
when Jack received from his mother one hundred francs, pain-
fully economized from her meager allowance. She suggested
that he buy a little gift for Zenaide and some clothing for him-
self. He was trying to think of a suitable gift when, one dark
evening, he brushed against someone who was running past
the house. Zenaide had been showing her trousseau to friends
during the day, and it was scattered over her room when Jack
passed through to his attic. She proudly exhibited it to him,
and wound up by showing him the cash-box containing her
dowry, which was concealed under her great store of linen in
her big wardrobe.

When the house was still, Madame Roudic went down-
stairs to meet the Nantais, who had written that he was coming.
She thought it was for a love- meeting she had never admitted
him to her house like that before; but she had yielded. What
he wanted proved to be Zenaide's dowry as a loan for two days;
five thousand francs would pay his gambling debt, and the re-
maining two thousand would enable him to win a fortune.
Madame Roudic refused; the absence of the money would be
noticed, she said; Zenaide counted it over every day, and that
very night she had heard her showing it to the apprentice. The
Nantais threatened to kill himself. Clarisse declared that she
would die also she was weary of this life of sin and falsehood.
The Nantais rushed up the stairs; she tried to detain him,
threatened to cry for help; but he conquered.

The next day the Nantais met Jack and induced him to
drink at a tavern. Proud of his money, Jack insisted upon pay-

ALPHONSE DAUDET 107

ing for the third round of drinks, displaying a gold piece, and
saying he had more and was going to buy a gift for Zenai'de.
He met other acquaintances, drank more, and was arrested for
drunkenness; and the next day, Zenai'de's loss having been dis-
covered, he was accused of the theft upon circumstantial evi-
dence. The manager and Roudic promised forgiveness if he
would restore the rest of the stolen funds. Jack firmly denied
the theft, but would not tell where he had got his money because
his mother had bade him say that it was his own savings which
was a manifest impossibility. Zenaide visited him in his prison,
whither he was relegated until the evening, and entreated him,
on her knees, to restore the money, without which Mangin would
not marry her. The manager wrote to "the young villain's "
mother, giving her three days in which to replace the money.

D'Argenton's eyes flashed with cruel triumph as he read
this letter. Charlotte felt that it was her fault for having aban-
doned Jack, and suggested that she apply to "Bon Ami,"
whose offer of several thousand francs when she left him for
D'Argenton she had rejected. D'Argenton hated the child,
and was avaricious. He approved her plan, and escorted her
to Tours, where the kindly aristocrat gladly gave her the money.
The two set out for Indret. D'Argenton, leaving Charlotte at
a roadside inn on the shore, went to Roudic's, where he found,
to his amazement, a lively wedding festival in progress, and
Jack, "the thief, the future convict," skipping gaily about in
the dance. What had happened? This: on the day after the
manager had written to Charlotte, Madame Roudic had pre-
sented herself to him, and had declared that she had stolen the
money herself, and given it to the Nantais, who had been in
the house that night. The manager sent for the Nantais, who
was known to be in Indret, and confronted him unexpectedly
with Madame Roudic. The Nantais cast a look of agonized
gratitude at his mistress, whose lie had saved him, and pro-
duced the money, minus eight hundred francs, which, he as-
serted, he had lost. The manager promised to replace that sum
himself, then forced the Nantais to write a confession that he
himself had stolen the money, threatening to have Madame
Roudic arrested if he did not sign it. The spell was broken:
Madame Roudic gave her lover not a glance at parting; and

io8 JACK

the manager persuaded her to relinquish her avowed intention
of committing suicide by way of expiation. Jack, under-
standing only that the poet had made a long journey to bring the
money and save him from disgrace, assumed that the money
was D'Argenton's own, and that he had been mistaken in the
man's character. D'Argenton exhorted him to "work, work"
told him that "dreamers" were the most mischievous people
in the world ; and went away without letting the boy know that
his mother was near; and it was many a year before Jack saw
his mother again.

Two years elapsed. Jack's life had been utterly uneventful.
Letters from his mother had been rare. The Rivals family and
little Ccile had twice omitted to answer his yearly letter at the
New Year. One thought alone sustained him: "Earn your
living; your mother will, some day, have need of you." Alas!
his wages continued very low, and Roudic declared that he had
no knack, would always be employed only on the coarsest work.
He suggested that the lad ship aboard the Cydnus, just about
to sail, as stoker the common resource of unskilled iron-
workers and see the world. Jack assented, and Roudic took
him aboard at Nantes, after four years spent at Indrel. He
was now sixteen. At first he resisted the craving for liquor
which the terrible life of the stoker engenders; but soon he was
compelled to yield. This mad dream of drunkenness and tor-
ture lasted three years, during which he sailed all over the
world, seeing nothing of it. In the night of this abyss there
was one spot of light, like a Madonna in a dark chapel his
mother. Once, at Havana, a packet reached him the first
number of The Review o] the Races of the Future, edited by the
Vicomte d'Argenton, who contributed two articles. Labassindre
also contributed two, while the names of Dr. Hirsch and of
Moronval were each appended to one. The Moronvals had
long since found it expedient to forgive D'Argenton for having
robbed them of their intended prey, Jack's mother. As the
coarse stoker read this collection of absurdities, and beheld the
names of all his executioners on the smooth, daintily colored
cover, upon which his rough hands left black marks, he shook
his fist in a thrill of rage and indignation, exclaiming: "Ah>
wretches, wretches, see what you have made of mel" Not long

ALPHONSE DAUDET 109

after this the Cydnus was run into by an American vessel, off
Cape Verde, and sank.

So far the Review had found only two stockholders, D'Argen-
ton and Jack. Jack's name was down for ten thousand francs
the money Charlotte had got from "Bon Ami" to save her
boy. She had wished to keep it, and hand it over to him at his
majority; but D'Argenton had insisted that the Review was
a magnificent investment just look at the Revue des Deux
Mondes and the price of its shares! and had wrested consent
from her. In the first six months he had sunk more than thirty
thousand francs himself in the publication.

One evening Dr. Hirsch entered and contrived to tell D'Ar-
genton, with his lips only, that the Cydnus had gone down in the
open sea, and all lives on board had been lost. D'Argenton
felt that he must get into the open air to allay the agitation this
news caused him. Charlotte, thus left alone, with the storm
beating heavily outside, fancied she saw a wreck, that she heard
a faint voice call, "Mother!" The sound seemed to come from
the staircase; and when she looked, there was her Jack, a big,
wounded working man, on crutches, so overcome, so trembling
at the idea of seeing his mother again, that he had had to halt
half-way up and emit a cry of distress. Not a word did mother
and son utter; they only gazed at each other and wept. D'Ar-
genton received the news of Jack's safety with a sickly smile.

One day Jack told his mother that he must have made a
voyage in his very early youth ; everything had seemed so famil-
iar to him when he shipped on the Cydnus. Charlotte confessed
that she had brought him from Algeria at the age of three, his
father having died suddenly. What was his father's name?
She hesitated, was much upset, but could not refuse to tell him.
His father had borne one of the greatest names in France,
which she and Jack would also have borne had not a terrible
catastrophe interfered, just as he was about to make reparation.
She had met him this Marquis de PEpan, of the Third Regi-
ment of Hussars at a wild-boar hunt in Algeria. Jack took
the news of his father's great name calmly; he, at least, had no
illusions.

D'Argenton soon began to complain that Jack was well
enough to go to work again; the young man's cough did not

no JACK

matter Dr. Hirsch said he would cough all his life and he
ate like a wolf. Eventually, it was decided to send him down
to the house at Etiolles, the lease of which still had two years to
run, in order that he might grow stronger and, incidentally,
help lease the house by inhabiting it. Jack, conscious of his
own roughness and of the long silence on the part of Dr. Rivals,
was embarrassed at his first meeting with the doctor, who at-
tributed this embarrassment to his consciousness of his theft,
Dr. Hirsch having taken pains to inform Dr. Rivals of the accu-
sation, but not of Jack's innocence. An explanation ensued,
and Dr. Rivals read and reread, with delight, the Indret mana-
ger's certificate of Jack's good character. He insisted that
Jack should come to his house as of yore; his wife was dead,
but Cecile would welcome him heartily. Ccile was beautiful,
gentle, friendly. Jack was overwhelmed with the conscious-
ness of his physical uncouthness, and his moral deterioration.
He soon became conscious that he loved Cecile. The question
of his birth engrossed his mind, and he walked to Paris to see
his mother, who told him that his father was Baron de Bulac,
lieutenant in the navy, and had died long ago. Yes, probably
that much was true, Jack reflected bitterly; his father was dead.
He resisted his first impulse, which was to take to drink again,
on hearing this; but, utterly crushed, he fell ill with grief, and
Dr. Rivals carried him to his own house for treatment and care.
At last, feeling that he could never ask for Cecile, Jack de-
termined to go away. But Dr. Rivals divined the cause, and
offered him Ccile, encouraging him also to work, so that he need
no longer be a mechanic. Jack was illegitimate? Well, so was
Cecile; and he narrated the history of his daughter's supposed
marriage to a " Count Nadine," who had turned out to be a
Jew from South Russia, with several wives. She had died in
giving birth to Cecile; and as soon as old Mother Archambauld
had informed him, years ago, of Jack's standing, he had decided
upon him as a suitable husband for his granddaughter. He
now suggested that Jack should study medicine and become his
successor at Etiolles, four years of hard work being sufficient
to win the degree of health officer all that was required at such
a small place. Jack must find work in Paris, and in the eve-
nings he must study at home and attend medical lectures, spend-

ALPHONSE DAUDET m

ing his Sundays with C&ile and himself. At the doctor's sug-
gestion Jack at once spoke to Ccile, who confessed her love
for him and promised to wait for him forever.

Jack promptly found work at a good shop in Paris and set
out in search of a lodging. During his quest, he came across
Bflisaire; and having convinced the hawker (who was now
established in Paris) of his innocence in the matter of the theft,
he was invited to become the "mate" the paying third person
whose sharing of expenses would render possible Blisaire's
marriage with a thrifty, energetic bread-carrier, Madame
Weber. Jack accepted and settled down to work and study.
He took an interest in life hitherto unknown to him, and was
making splendid progress when, one morning, Charlotte dashed
into the attic he was occupying with B&isaire and begged him
to protect her. D'Argenton had taken, of late, to spending his
time at the cafes and taverns with low women; and when she
had dared to remonstrate he had beaten her. She enlightened
Jack as to the use which had been made of his ten thousand
francs. She had asked her poet to return them; but he had
drawn up a bill of fifteen thousand francs for Jack's board at
Etiolles and at Indret. Jack's friend gave up his place to Char-
lotte, who declared that she had left D'Argenton forever; but
he sent her a copy of the Review, with some verses entitled
" Broken Vows," which flattered her, and followed it up with
a visit, resulting in a reconciliation; and when he afterward
wrote pretending that he was ill, she went back to him.

Jack made such progress in his studies that Dr. Rivals said
he would be able to pass his examination for the medical college
in less than a year; but in the autumn his cough returned; and
a new trouble came upon him, Cecile having let him know
through her grandfather that she could not marry him. One
night the doctor was called to attend a dying man, who insisted
that his wife should make a confession to the doctor. It ap-
peared that Dr. Hirsch had given her twenty francs if she would
tell Cecile the story of her father and mother. Dr. Rivals, hav-
ing thus found the key to Ccile's refusal to marry Jack, nar-
rated to her the history of patient, loving Jack's martyred life,
and his parentage. This blow, like all the rest of his niisfojj
tunes, had come to the poor fellow through his mother. Jack

ii2 JACK

had told her C6cile's history; and from her D'Argenton and
Hirsch had learned it.

D'Argenton was giving a grand literary evening party to
celebrate the return of Charlotte. He had completed his great
poem, " Broken Vows," and was reading it aloud to the assem-
bled Failures in her presence, when he was called out by a
messenger, who told him that Jack was ill and not expected to
live a week. He sent the man away and did not tell Charlotte.

Jack's savings had been exhausted on his mother, and he
was obliged to go to the Charity Hospital. His messengers
having failed to reach Charlotte, Madame Bflisaire declared
that she would go herself and bring his mother. But Jack rose
up in a sort of frenzy, crying that she was a bad, heartless
mother, who had caused every grief of his life. She had gone
at once to "the other one" when he pretended to be ill; but she
had killed him, Jack, and now would not even come to see him
die.

As Madame Bflisaire left the hospital Dr. Rivals and Ccile
arrived. Ccile assured Jack that she had never loved, never
would love, anyone but him. Jack told her that she had given
him all he had lacked in life and had been everything to him
friend, sister, wife, mother.

Madame B61isaire found Charlotte and D'Argenton, attired
in velvets and furs, alighting from a carriage, and insisted that
the mother should come to her son; and she went, notwithstand-
ing D'Argenton's protests. Suddenly, as Jack was talking with
Ccile, he exclaimed, with the prescience of the dying, that his
mother was coming. In fact, she and Madame Bdlisaire were
on the stairs. It was past the visiting hour, but all rules give
way on occasion, and they entered, Charlotte hanging back
with dread. C&ile was supporting Jack's head. He did not
answer his mother's frantic appeal, and she uttered a cry of
horror: "Dead?"

"No," said old Dr. Rivals, in a stern voice, "no! RE-
LEASED!"

KINGS IN EXILE (1879)

The monarchs of whom this novel treats are of course the imaginary rulers
of unreal kingdoms; yet there is traceable an attempt at the delineation of actual
character, especially in some of the minor personages. The Duke of Palma,
for instance, is evidently the Spanish pretender, Don Carlos, while the disrepu-
table Prince d'Axel is the Crown Prince of the Netherlands, once a notorious
figure in Paris. It has been guessed that the Mexican experience of Maxi-
milian and Carlotta had something to do with the genesis of this story. Daudet
could hardly have published it in the days of the Empire, and we are probably
indebted for its appearance to the 'all of Napoleon III. The tutor, Me*raut,
may have been Auguste Brachct, a teacher of the Empress Eugenie.

^UEEN FREDERICA of Illyria had slept since
morning a sleep shaken with remembrances of
fatigue, bloody siege, and exile, from which she
had awaked with a start of terror. The little
Prince, the Comte de Zara, had been sleeping
quietly in his room, and the King had been out
since midday. The Queen stepped to the long
balcony of the Hotel des Pyramides, and looked
down on the Rue de Rivoli the long stream of
carriages, the crowd in the Tuileries garden, the military music.
"Paris is fine, isn't it?" said a voice behind her. The King
had returned, and he had little Zara in his arms. The crowd
began to notice the royal exiles; a man leaped to the top of the
railing. Frederica jumped back, half expecting a shot, but he
held up his hat and shouted: " Vive le roil" Such a welcome
in republican France to the discrowned sovereigns of Illyria
warmed her to the heart.

She was called within to welcome the Baron de Rosen.
The exiled Illyrian minister, unavailingly displaced three years
before by a Liberal, had unselfishly come to offer his services to
his sovereign and to present his son, Herbert, and his son's
wife, who had been Colette Sauvadon, a rich Parisian bour-
geoise. It was settled that the Duke, according to his earnest
request, should assume charge of the King's new household,

A0>., VOL. VL8 "3

ii 4 KINGS IN EXILE

that Herbert should act as his aide-de-camp, and that Colette
should be the Queen's maid of honor. The Duke returned to
suggest that hdtel life would be beneath the royal dignity, but
Christian II was sure that their exile would be but temporary.
They might, he thought, be summoned to reign again at a day's
notice. The Rosens stayed until after dinner, when the exiled
Queen of Palermo was announced. While the two royal cousins
went over together the weary days of the siege of Ragusa, and
while Pfere Alphe, the King's chaplain, a rough Dalmatian
monk, told tales of the same to Rosen, relating how the Queen
had visited the outposts on horseback while her royal spouse
dallied, God knows where that royal spouse inhaled the
Parisian air and proposed to Herbert that they should have a
taste of the pleasures of Paris, Colette meanwhile wondering
what affairs of state the King was discussing with her husband.

They descended to the street and took a cab. "Whereto,
my Prince?" said the cabman, little suspecting that he spoke
true. The King answered, with the joy of an emancipated
schoolboy: "To MabUle!"

The first necessity was a tutor for the little Prince, and for
this post Pre Alphe recommended Elyse Mraut, a Gascon,
brought up by a Royalist father in an atmosphere of respect for
kings and for monarchy. To educate a prince for his royal
career was a work for which he had longed. But before he be-
gan this work the court of the exiled Illyrian monarchs had
already been set up in the suburb of St. Mand, the Duke de
Rosen having won his point. The house was of comfortable
size, with grounds; and in it the royal family lived in considerable
style and luxury. The Duke de Rosen managed the finances
and paid the bills. "I am sure I don't see how he manages,"
said the King. "We may be certain none of the money is from
his own pocket." In Illyria the Duke had a reputation for
stinginess, though in Paris his great h6tel was filled with treas-
ures the spoil of more than one foreign war.

The King was enjoying Paris to the full. Welcomed at the
great clubs, sought in the salons, his delicate, sarcastic profile
became a familiar sight in the theaters, at the races and in the
cafes. The Queen he seldom saw except on Sundays; but she
had long lost her respect for him as a man, though she rever-

ALPHONSE DAUDET 115

enced him as a sovereign. For him, while he became more and
more intoxicated in the diabolical whirl of Paris life, she con-
spired, she corresponded, she planned to regain their lost crown.
The society of exiled royalties which they frequented looked
at her with amusement. That sort of thing was long ago over
for them; their motto was: Cui bono!

On a rainy winter morning Elyse Mraut gave his first im-
portant lesson to the royal child while his mother sat near by.
And while he explained to the boy in simple words, yet straight
from his heart, the duties, privileges, and responsibilities of a
king, Frederica listened in delighted surprise. These were the
words for which she had despairingly waited for years. If
Christian had been like that he would still have been on the
throne. Her eyes shone, her bosom heaved, and Mraut
thought he could almost see the diadem on her brow. The
midday hour struck before the lesson was over. The little court
awaited the royal pair for the ceremonial breakfast, but to its
dismay the King appeared not. The pleasures of Paris had
detained him and his night was not yet over! The Queen hesi-
tated for an instant and then she said, "Let us go to breakfast,"
and, turning to the little Zara: "Come, Sire!" So the King
who was to be that day took the place of the King who had
deserved to lose his crown.

Christian II was "making file" as they called it then in
the fashionable Paris clubs; that is, he was going the full round
of dissipation. Always unfaithful to his wife, he had at first
taken to himself the little Colette, who, after a brief dream of
royal favor, was cast aside for Amy Ferat, an actress. Step
by step, then, he abandoned himself to the pleasure of the de-
scent that leads at last to the gutter. He took with fervor to
Parisian slang. Everything he liked was rigolo ("comical"),
so that Rigolo became his nickname, just as his boon com-
panion Prince d'Axel, the disgraced Crown Prince of Finland,
was known as Qtteue-de-Poule ("Chicken-tail").

One day, after breakfast, Frederica, glancing at the Illyrian
papers, cried out aloud. "Read that!" she said to Boscovich,
the King's secretary, as she handed the paper to him. The
Illyrian Diet had passed a resolution to return to the exiled
sovereigns the crown property, valued at two hundred millions

ii6 KINGS IN EXILE

of francs, on condition that Christian II should renounce for
himself and his descendants all rights to the throne.

The salon resounded with indignation. "We cannot keep
silent under this blow," cried the Queen, turning involuntarily
to Mraut, who was feverishly writing something with a pencil.
It was a proclamation rejecting the conditions and reassuring
the King's faithful adherents. All glanced at the King, who
stood biting his nails. "That's all very fine," he muttered.
" But can we keep to it ? " The Queen turned pale. " Is it the
King who speaks?"

"When Ragusa had no food, it had to surrender Rosen!
You alone can tell us. How long can we go on?" "Five
years, Sire." "Very good. Mfraut, give me the letter; I will
sign it."

The proclamation had a good effect in Illyria. The people,
moved by the eloquence of their King, began to send in patri-
otic addresses, and soon pilgrimages and deputations began to
arrive. These bored Christian excessively; they interfered with
his pleasures. Finally, on a Sunday afternoon, preparations
were made to receive an unusually important delegation a
royalist party from the Diet itself to consult the King regarding
the best way to bring about his restoration. The house was
alive with coming and going, and the gravel outside was echo-
ing with the roll of the state coaches. Mdraut was sitting alone
in his schoolroom, expecting to hear the King's voice, reading
his speech. But there was only silence. Suddenly he saw
Christian II outside, sidling toward the house slowly and awk-
wardly. He disappeared within; then there was the sound of
a fall in the room above. Meraut ran up and threw open the
door. The King stood leaning against the wall, pale and with
rumpled linen. His condition was only too plain. The Queen
was speaking in a low voice but sternly: "You must come; you
must!" "I cannot; you see I cannot!" Then he stammered
excuses in a silly, childish voice. She tried to steady him, but
even as she held him he collapsed; and letting him fall on a
divan she left the room.

It was not long after this that Christian II made a momen-
tous acquaintance that of Sdphora, the beautiful wife of Tom
Levis, the English broker and dealer in curios. "Tom" was

ALPHONSE DAUDET

117

really a Parisian who chose to masquerade as a cockney, and
she was a Jewess with a past. To the King she seemed emi-
nently desirable, and he gave up all his other pleasures in her
pursuit. His boon friend, Queue-de-Poule, assured him that
she was unapproachable; but the King had not been flattered
by all Paris to believe that. There was a wager a large one
which was duly recorded on the club-books and duly read and
laughed over by its members.

Not long after this the Queen discovered by accident that
the greater part of the royal expenses were paid out of the
pocket of the faithful Baron Rosen. There was a scene, but
she was inexorable. Servants were dismissed and carriages
and horses were sold. A sad state of affairs for a high-flying
monarch ! Soon there were disquieting rumors that the national
orders and decorations of Illyria could be had for money. To
such expedients was the King put to pay the costs of " making
fete." The Bohemia of exile was beginning to swallow the
house of Illyria. More and more stringent became the ne-
cessities of the royal household, until one night the Queen, with
Mraut to aid her, actually pried some of the jewels from the
royal crown the only valuable relic of the exiled Illyrian
couple.

But the next day Elyse brought back the jewels, pale and
agitated. "What is the matter?" faltered the Queen. "They
are all false!" "False?" "Yes, quite worthless; very care-
fully imitated in paste!"

His Majesty, Christian II, had been before them!

But events spell ruin or good fortune, as you look at them;
and all these things suggested to the fertile brain of Tom Levis
what he called his Grand Stroke. The idea of it pleased him
so much that he danced a frantic jig as he and his wife stood
alone in the little basement office of the " Levis Agency." When
he was tired he whispered a name in Sphora's ear. Her face
fell.

"What! that great baby! . . . Why, he hasn't a sou."

"Don't scoff at the Lion of Illyria, my girl," said Tom.
"His skin alone is worth two hundred millions!"

This was his plan: Christian must be induced to accept the
proposition of the Diet, ceding his rights in return for a fortune.

n8 KINGS IN EXILE

He must come to it sooner or later. Poverty was pressing;
creditors became importunate; he had grown to think con-
stantly of the wealth to be had by the scratching of a pen. It
was the plan of this worldly couple to increase the pressure, to
multiply the debts, and to make the creditors bolder. Two
things were needed : a considerable sum of money and a clever
woman. The money they trusted to worm out of Sphora's
father, who had plenty. But the woman?

" S^phora, you've begun; you must go on," said Tom. "He
makes no secret of his infatuation; why, he has even recorded
a wager in the club-book!" The tranquil Sphora was roused.
"He has, has he? Upon my word!"

That decided her. Christian II had fallen into the habit
of frequenting the "Levis Agency." Sphora had been calm
and cold, but on the day after her talk with Tom there was a
change. They fell into a conversation. Sphora longed to
go to Les Fantaisies, but her husband never would take her to
the theater. His Majesty offered to accompany her. The
evening was delightful; but before it ended Sphora took occa-
sion to let him know that she knew of his wager and to reproach
him with it an admirable stroke, for she meant to be cold
and to lead him on gradually; and the insulting bet was a
fine excuse for coldness. They grew, however, more and
more friendly. The King was seen with her everywhere; Paris
began to talk. But whenever Christian declared his love the
coy one sighed and said that royalty was too far above her.
"That can be remedied," said Christian; "I will make you a
countess."

Matters had now gone far enough to bring in her father,
who was to furnish the sinews of war. She showed him a great
package of the King's notes of hand, and asked if he would
cash them. The old man laughed at her, but grew serious
when she explained the Grand Stroke. " We will see we will
see," he said; "but we must be very sure of the woman. Who
is she?" "You don't know her," replied Sphora. "Yes;
but what is her name?" Sephora stopped a moment to tie her
bonnet-strings, and incidentally to look at her beautiful face.

"She is the Comtesse de Spalato," said she gravely.

Not long after this there was a notable gathering in the gray

ALPHONSE DAUDET 119

old building of the Institute of France, a meeting of the Acad-
mie Franf aise, at which was present all the royalist society of
Paris, which rarely shows itself nowadays at a public function.
The occasion was the crowning of the Memorial of the Siege of
Ragusa, by the Duke de Rosen's son, Prince Herbert. Elys6e
Mdraut had written the book for him, and so it really had merit.
It was regarded as in some wise a Royalist manifesto. But the
principal honors of the day were not for Prince Herbert. While
the amphitheater rang with applause for him, the slam of a
door drew all eyes to a box in which a very beautiful woman
had just taken her seat. All Paris knew her, her magnificent
house, her royal protector. The poor Queen of Illyria, who
sat in the next box, knew also, but her face betrayed no con-
sciousness. The clubmen whispered: "Very chic"', the jour-
nalists: "That's pluck!" And all smiled benevolently.

Meanwhile the magnificent sentences of the Memorial rang
out from the rostrum. The virtues of the exiled Christian, his
heroism in the siege, were duly celebrated. The Queen's eyes
filled with tears; she had no illusions; she thought only of
Elyse, who had created this ideal king, so different from the
base reality. Mraut was in the rear of her box, and she turned
to him with the words: "Thank you; thank you!" Baron
Rosen took her outstretched hand. He thought she was con-
gratulating him on his son's success!

That evening Mraut, walking in the garden, encountered
poor Councilor Boscovich in tears. Seeing Elysee, he sobbed
out that Christian was even now signing his Act of Renuncia-
tion in an upper chamber. Mraut was stunned for a moment;
then he ran off to find the Queen, into whose presence he almost
forced himself. At his first word she bounded. "It shall not
be!" Giving orders to waken the little Prince, she ran up the
stairs and burst into the room where the King had just affixed
his name to the fatal document. For a time she pleaded in vain;
then she brought in the child, and, causing him to kneel, made
him plead in turn for his crown, his royal rights. She poured
into the King's ears what had hitherto been kept from him a
plan to invade Illyria, to win back the crown on the field of
battle. It seemed in vain. Then she caught up the child and
going to the window threatened to leap from it, to destroy her-

120 KINGS IN EXILE

self and him in the wreck of their throne. Then Christian re-
sisted no longer. His heart burst in his bosom; and, flinging
away the crumpled deed, he fell sobbing into his chair.

In the house of old Leemans, S^phora's father, the conspir-
ators were assembled, gleefully discussing the success of their
plot. Christian's extravagances had driven him to the ex-
tremity of debt; his renunciation could not be much longer
delayed. Into this happy group like a bombshell fell Lebeau,
the King's faithless valet and the conspirators' go-between.
He had been watched for days, he said, but he had finally eluded
his guards and flown to tell them bad news. The Queen had
won; the renunciation, already signed, had been destroyed, and
a plan for the invasion of Illyria was well advanced. Conster-
nation reigned. "It is robbery!" "The Government must
prevent it," cried the disappointed plotters. Suddenly Sphora
cried out: "Listen, Lebeau. If the King goes with the expe-
dition, warn me. If I know one hour in advance, I swear to
you that it shall not take place!"

Not long afterward there was a grand jete at a Royalist
garden on the Quai d'Anjou. The Illyrian volunteers, and
with them the flower of the French Royalist youth, were dan-
cing farewell to Paris. On the morrow they were off, taking
separate trains to Marseilles, the point of embarkation, in order
not to engender suspicion. Lebeau saw and understood; and
the promised warning was sent to the "Comtesse de Spalato."
In her magnificent palace she awaited the King, for she was
sure he would come to bid her good -by. Then? But she had
reckoned without her host. Christian vacillated, it is true,
but he knew that danger lurked in such a farewell and he held
himself from it. Almost to the surprise of his incredulous fol-
lowers, he was at the station in time for the midnight train.
He flung himself into the corner of a carriage and was off. At
first he did not notice the woman in the opposite corner. He
prepared to sleep, when of a sudden he felt a caress on his
cheek, and heard a murmured word: "Cruel! without bidding
me farewell!"

Ten hours later Christian awoke in the Hdtel du Faisan at
Fontainebleau. One day with Sphora would not matter, he
thought he could take a later train to Marseilles. His day

ALPHONSE DAUDET 121

was enjoyable indeed, but when he finally reached the seaport
it was only to walk into the arms of a commissary of police.
The French Government, he was told, could not countenance
an attempt against a sister power. His Majesty must return
to Paris. S^phora's plans had worked well!

And what of the expedition, which had set sail as planned,
though without a leader? The first news reached Paris through
a letter from Herbert de Rosen to Colette, his wife the farewell
of a condemned man to the woman soon to be his widow. The
ill-fated expedition, betrayed into an ambush, had been over-
whelmed almost as soon as it had landed, and its leaders were
to be executed. And so it was.

There was now but one course for Christian to take, Mdraut
advised him. He must abdicate in favor of his son. Christian
was quite willing, and the ceremony took place soon afterward,
in the midst of a throng of exiled royalties, all alas! in black,
for the unfortunate expedition to Illyria had claimed a victim
from each of them. The King signed the document and then
made homage to the little Zara, who by this act became, in the
eyes of those present, Leopold V, King of Illyria and Dalmatia.
Then the boy darted away to play, and the ex-King, with his
dear Queue-de-Poule, departed in his phaeton. The Queen
heard him go, for the first time without regret. What mattered
it now? It was no longer the King of Illyria that the women
of Paris were taking from her.

On the day after the news of the disaster to the expedition,
Christian had sworn that he would never see Sdphora again;
and he had indeed kept away from her for a long time, during
which she and Tom Levis were spending a delightful holiday
in the palatial house on the avenue. But one day the bell rang
hurriedly. "The King!" Tom vanished. Sphora prepared
herself, for she understood that something new had happened.
Christian knelt before her. "It is I really I and forever!"
She looked at him wildly. "Yes, I am no longer the King;
only a man who will spend his life in loving you."

"I cannot believe it; have you really renounced "

"Better than that read this!" and he thrust the abdication
into her hand.

She read slowly, and as she gradually saw the two hundred

122 KINGS IN EXILE

millions crumbling and sinking from her grasp her face fell.
Her six months of useless sacrifice the fury of the conspirators,
robbed by this ninny's false maneuver, all rose before her, while
Christian stood smiling, expecting an explosion of tenderness!
It was so droll! She rose with a frantic laugh, and shouting
to the stupefied ex-King, "Idiot, begone!" she bolted into her
own chamber.

Without a sou, without crown, without wife, without mistress,
he cut a sorry figure as he went down that staircase.

After the abdication life went on much as usual in the royal
household, but a change had taken place in the Queen-mother.
She loved the boy now not only as her son but as her sovereign.
One day as she took her morning walk with him, the news came
that the abdication had had an excellent effect in Illyria and
that the name of little Leopold V was becoming popular. Al-
ready she saw him with the crown on his head. While she
dreamed, Mraut led the lad away to practise shooting at a tar-
get. Of a sudden the Queen heard a shot and a loud piercing
cry. Leaping up and running to where her child was, she saw
him lying on the ground, while Mraut cried out despairingly:
"I did it!" The little King had been struck by a shot fired
by Elyse, which had rebounded from a trellis. There was a
moment of awful suspense. She watched the wounded boy
until she saw him move. "He lives!" she shouted deliriously.
Then her gaze rested on M&raut faithful Mraut, whose mind
and soul had upheld them all through these years. The mem-
ory of it all passed quickly through her mind. His devotion
his love was it all for the sovereign or partly for the woman?
Had he dared! "Begone! Begone!" she cried. "Let me
never see you again!"

The little King had lost the sight of one eye. His general
health recovered, but would the Illyrians restore a one-eyed
monarch? One day a mother, closely veiled, brought a little
boy to the rooms of a great Parisian oculist. "This lad will
lose also the sight of his other eye," said the physician, "unless
he is operated upon at once. But his constitution would not
bear it; it would kill him. The alternatives are death or
total blindness."

"Poor little Zara!" cried the agonized mother, as she led him

ALPHONSE DAUDET 123

away. "What matter whether he reign; oh, my God! ... let
him livel let him livel"

In the carriage the child turned to her:

" Mamma, if I am no longer a king, will you love me just the
same?"

"Oh, my treasure!"

She pressed the little hand passionately. Warmed and
comforted by that clasp, Frederica was then a mother only;
and as she passed the ruined Tuileries, where once, as a young
Queen, she had danced in the clays of the Second Empire, she
gazed on them without emotion, as if she looked on some
ancient ruin of Assyria or of Egypt.

THE NABOB (1878)

This novel, considered by many critics and readers as the finest of Daudet's
sustained efforts, probably aroused more speculation and complaint than any
other of his books upon its first appearance. As the author said: "Not a line of
my work, not one of its heroes, not even a character of secondary importance,
but has become a pretext for allusions and protestations." Daudet admitted
and defended his taking the Due de Morny for the character of the minister of
state in this much-discussed novel; he also acknowledged having known, in 1864,
the real Nabob, whose dazzling career shot swiftly across the Parisian sky like
a meteor, and "evidently served as the framework of The Nabob, a picture
of manners and morals at the close of the Second Empire," to quote the author's
own words. But Daudet never permitted it to be said that the other characters
were drawn from those real personages which commentators presumed to
identify in The Nabob that Sarah Bernhardt served for the delineation of
Felicia, for instance. Usually a Daudrt novel is a gallery of pictures presented
by a master craftsman, and The Nabob is a noteworthy example of this; as
Henry James has observed, it is "full of episodes which are above all pages of
execution, triumphs of translation."

j(NE misty morning toward the end of November,
1864, Dr. Robert Jenkins, the fashionable phy-
sician of Paris, and inventor of the Jenkins
Arsenical Pills, stood on the stoop of his little
house to bid his wife adieu before starting upon
his daily round. He told her he would breakfast
with the Nabob, that personage out of the
Thousand and One Nights, of whom all Paris
was then talking. The coupe* stopped first at
the H6tel de Mora, where the suave Irish doctor examined his
illustrious patient, the highest functionary of the Empire, and
simply recommended the Due to continue with the " Jenkins
Pearls." They talked of the Nabob, otherwise Monsieur Jan-
soulet, who had made a colossal fortune in Tunis, and the Due
de Mora consented that the bronzed Croesus should be pre-
sented to him at a forthcoming affair to be given by Madame
Jenkins. Delighted, the physician sped on to his next patient,
the old dandy, the Marquis de Monpavon, who was in the
midst of his matutinal make-up. He declared the pearls were
working wonders in his worn-out system. Dr. Jenkins in-

"4

ALPHONSE DAUDET 125

cautiously betrayed the fact that Monsieur le Due had promised
to meet the Nabob, whereupon Monpavon became greatly
agitated, and warned the speaker that it was long understood
that he, the Marquis, would present the golden parvenu to his
Excellency. Blandly acquiescing, Jfcnkins took his departure
for the studio of Felicia Ruys, whom he found at work upon her
new animal group. This famous, erratic sculptor received him
coldly, even contemptuously, while he fawned for a kind word.
Again the Nabob was talked about, and the strange, capricious
girl said she would like to model "that white Ethiopian visage."
Dr. Jenkins soon left his hostile hostess for an equally unfriendly
host, Andre Marannc, his stepson, who had taken cheap quar-
ters as a photographer. The Irish physician made that dis-
agreeable call because his wife had urged it; now the determined
Andr refused all conciliation, and rejected every gilded offer
advanced by his mother's second husband, who angrily closed
the interview with the words: "Never apply to us." Andr6
was bound to earn his own living, and devote his leisure to
literature. So be it! Jenkins dismissed the subject and bade
the coachman drive to the Place Vend6me mansion, where the
Nabob lived.

Breakfast at the Nabob's was merely a feast for the para-
sites, whereat they fell upon the rich man to carry off some of
the spoil so good-naturedly given. Monpavon and his con-
fr&re, Paganetti, secured a big check for the Caisse Territorial
of Corsica, a vast financial enterprise; Jenkins easily obtained
two hundred thousand francs for his humanitarian scheme of
the Work of Bethlehem, which fed infants artificially. Then
there was Cardailhac, a theatrical manager, whose theater was
supported by the generous Nabob, and Moessard, a journalist,
who " puffed " the millionaire for a substantial consideration.
Many other leeches attended these wonderful morning meals,
but the aforesaid individuals led the van, with their early prom-
ises of the cross, and the possibility of becoming a deputy.
Nabob Jansoulet eagerly swallowed all baits. But it was a
relief when a young man, Paul de G&y, fresh from the beloved
mother of the Nabob, appeared on the scene, not to solicit money,
but to offer his services to the wealthy parvenu, which the latter
gladly accepted. De Gery was at once appointed his secretary.

126 THE NABOB

In due time, the ardent wish of Jansoulet was fulfilled: he
met the Due de Mora, and that great personage was conde-
scending enough to play cart6 with him, during which the
Nabob gratefully lost thousands of francs. Paul de G&y ac-
companied his patron to this Jenkins party, and witnessed the
insult hurled at the Nabob by Baronne Hemerlingue, a former
odalisque of a harem in Tunis. She and her husband were
desperate and deadly enemies of Jansoulet, though Banker
Hemerlingue had once been his closest friend in their days
together of hardship and struggle. To Paul, Parisian society
seemed a hideous, fantastic farce. He overheard several bits
of scandal that caused him bewilderment and pain. Someone
said that the Jenkins couple were not married, another whis-
pered of a liaison between the lovely Felicia Ruys and the im-
passible Due de Mora; then Paul was more horrified than ever
to learn the things in circulation about the Nabob, whom gossip
reported to have stolen his millions from the Bey of Tunis, among
other nefarious deeds. The young secretary was shocked, but
did not believe these rumors, and he resolved to watch over the
interest of his simple and trusting master. One of the steps
toward this protective attitude was that of acquiring financial
and banking knowledge.

Chance led the young mentor to Monsieur Joyeuse, late
cashier for the Hemerlingue establishment, who was glad to
give instructions that he might support his motherless family of
four fair daughters, Aline, known as " Grandmamma " in that
charmed circle, Elise, Henrietta, and Yaia. Chance also would
have it that the literary photographer, Andr6 Maranne, lived
upstairs in the same house with this Joyeuse family, and was
on friendly terms with its members, especially with Elise. De
Gry was enchanted by the domestic harmony and purity of
the old cashier's household, and he could not refrain from con-
trasting it with the discordant homes of so-called society.

Felicia was at work on the bust of the Nabob, and Paul
never missed one of the Sundays on which the artist allowed
her friends access to her studio. The young fellow felt an irre-
sistible attraction to the wild, brilliant girl, who seemed to vent
all her sarcasm and scorn on the willing head of Dr. Jenkins.
Paul did not know of a dark and dastardly attempt, made by

ALPHONSE DAUDET 127

the smug physician, upon the virtue of Felicia, when she was
merely a girl, and which had destroyed her faith in mankind;
for her father had singled out Jenkins as her protector! That
estimable guardian still retained an incurable passion for his
charge, but she repulsed him with verbal vitriol. Jenkins was
now jealous of the sittings given the Nabob. Once he broke in
upon them; Felicia was incensed, and Jenkins was taken to
task mercilessly. When the Nabob had passed out of hearing,
Felicia announced that she intended making him marry her.
Jenkins went livid, and informed her that Jansoulet was a
married man. It was only too true. Angry, disgusted, the
sculptor overturned the clay model of her latest subject and it
fell to the floor a shapeless mass.

Not long after Madame Jansoulet arrived in Paris with her
three children and retinue of servants. She was an obese Le-
vantine, useless to herself and to everybody else. Paris nau-
seated her, and she spent her days hi seclusion, smoking, and
amusing herself criticizing manuscripts sent her by the accom-
modating Cardailhac, manager of the Nouveautls. The Nabob
employed his time in numerous ways, working particularly for
the cross of the Legion of Honor, and for a seat in the Chamber
of Deputies. These were absorbing ambitions. He thought
himself a sure candidate for both houses, through founding the
Work of Bethlehem and by supporting the Caisse Territoriale.
It was therefore a keen disappointment when Dr. Jenkins re-
ceived the coveted order, as a tribute to his artificial nursing
establishment, which, by the way, killed more infants than it
saved. Of course the smooth Irishman offered his cross and
letters patent to Jansoulet, who very naturally rejected them,
though the distinction had cost him four hundred and thirty
thousand francs!

Meanwhile Paul de Ge*ry shouldered most of the Nabob's
responsibilities, and went thrice a week to M. Joyeuse for
lessons hi accounting. Paul began to feel extraordinary interest
in Aline Joyeuse "Grandmamma," as her father and sisters
called her while the photographer, Andre* Maranne, who
worked on his drama, R&uolte, day and night, showed de-
cided predilection for the society of Elise. And many were the
merry evenings passed together, with Pfere Joyeuse watching the

x*8 THE NABOB

young folks and building innumerable air-castles, as was his
habit. About this time, too, Paul discovered that Felicia Ruys
and Aline had been chums during school-days, though so
widely different in disposition. Silently he contrasted the two
and realized that while the artist fascinated, enthralled him,
" Grandmamma " exercised a gentle, irresistible influence over
him. Paul was often puzzled to know which of the girls he pre-
ferred. As for them, they both treated him as an exceptionally
welcome visitor and friend. This attitude was more noticeable
in Felicia, as she was brusque, bitter-tongued with everybody,
the Due de Mora not excepted. That gentleman of the world,
however, stood her rebuffs with good grace. It may be said
here, also, that the Nabob had won high favor with his Ex-
cellency, and the strange companions were frequently together,
usually at the gaming-table.

Baron Hemerlingue and Jansoulet were deadly rivals, in
spite of their former friendship in Tunis. The latest move
made by the latter to retain the Bey's good-will was a loan of
fifteen million francs; and that African ruler was now expected
to visit Paris. The Nabob made the most elaborate prepara-
tions at his chateau, St. Romans, to receive the monarch.
FHes were planned for several days, Cardailhac assuming the
management of them and sparing no expense. Excitement
was at fever pitch, and even that hard-working, good old peasant,
Mfere Jansoulet, flew about as never before. Imagine the con-
sternation, then, when the royal train passed by the Nabob and
his corps of merrymakers, only stopping long enough to allow
the Bey of Tunis to call the master of St. Romans a thief, and
Hemerlingue and his son witnessed this cruel scene, for they
were in the car beside the dusky Prince. Through some under-
hand trick the enemy of Jansoulet had triumphed over him.
The poor Nabob reflected what the Bey's insult meant the
confiscation of his vast estates and property in Tunis. But
while he was on the verge of despair, a despatch arriving from
the Due de Mora conveyed the glorious news that he was the
official candidate of Corsica. A deputyship meant salvation,
for the Bey of Tunis would not dare treat a representative of the
French nation without a fair trial in reference to any accusa-
tion; and of this the Nabob had no fear.

ALPHONSE DAUDET 129

An electoral cyclone enveloped Corsica, which cost the
Nabob a mint of money; but he was elected, and all that re-
mained to make him a deputy indeed was verification of his
credentials to use parliamentary parlance. But his enemies
were at work, circulating slanderous stories against him. The
Hemerlingues were waging a war of hatred and spite. It was
a crisis in the Nabob's financial, political, and social life.
Either all or nothing. The strain was terrible. Disgusted
with the swarm of parasites and blackmailers filling the house
morning, noon, and night, Paul de Gry decided to leave the
employ of the Nabob; but the latter pleaded with him to remain
until the agony was over; and the young man, realizing the
plight of the tormented rich man, resolved to see him through
at any cost. And the first thing he did toward helping his
patron out of the mire was to persuade the capricious Felicia to
\\ork over and finish the bust of him begun some months ago.
It would then be exhibited at the Salon, which would in a way
help him to regain prestige. Ah, that interview between Paul
and Felicia how by a hair's breadth it escaped being a declara-
tion of love! But two things prevented it: the Due de Mora
had been expected to dinner, and Felicia herself drew a sketch,
from memory, of Aline's pure profile, which was eriven to Paul.
And even when the enigmatical daughter of Sebastian Ruys re-
fused to see the Due, evidently preferring the company of Paul,
whom she coaxed to dine with her, not a word betraying his
emotion came from the lips of the favored guest.

Both the animal group and the bust of the Nabob won dis-
tinction at the Spring Exhibition. Felicia had honors heaped
upon her; but at last she saw with her own eyes the love between
Aline Joyeuse and Paul de Gry, and became desperate. She
told the Due de Mora she would accept him as a lover, which
startled him out of his usual reserve. He was exultant, and
greeted the Nabob, when he caught sight of him, as "my dear
Deputy," a salutation that made Jansoulet's heart leap, his
brain whirl. That day was altogether a triumph for the Nabob,
whose bust attracted hundreds of visitors, among whom were
the Bey and his suite. The ruler of Tunis had been duly im-
pressed by the position evidently accorded his former subject
in the French capital. Hemerlingue, fatter and yellower than

A.D., VOL. vi. 9

i 3 o THE NABOB

ever, felt himself losing ground in that variable royal mind.
Had he known of one fatal mistake made by the Nabob dur-
ing his intoxicating triumph, the Baron would have rejoiced.
Jansoulet had snubbed his insolent creature, the journalist
Moessard, whose pen would henceforth be dipped in gall, in
return for the slight. And it was. Vituperative articles ap-
peared regularly in the Messager, setting forth supposed shame-
ful enterprises engaged in by Jansoulet some years ago. Hemer-
lingue therefore employed Moessard to keep up the nefarious
attack.

Intensely wrought up over the calumnious stories, the poor
Nabob sought the Due de Mora, who assured him that he would
stand by him and have his election confirmed by the Chamber;
but his Excellency was in bad health, and when Jansoulet had
this encouraging interview, the affable Dr. Jenkins was present,
ascertaining the condition of his anaemic patient, which led to
the advice that he should change his dissolute habits. Monsieur
le Due laughed as he requested plenty of the Jenkins Pearls, and
toyed with a scented note in his hand a missive which bore
every characteristic of Felicia, a fact that almost maddened the
dissembling physician.

The Nabob carried away the sage counsel of De Mora to
keep cool under fire; but when he read the next article in the
Messager, branding his mother with infamy, "the drunkenness
of blood demanding blood enveloped him." Unfortunately
Moessard hove in sight; and but for the spectators the Nabob
would have killed the wretch; as it was, he administered a
thrashing to the contemptible blackguard.

To return to our friends, the Joyeuses, Andr Maranne, and
Paul de Gry, a multiplied happiness had come to them. R6-
volte, the drama of the poet-photographer, had been accepted by
Monsieur Caxdailhac. To celebrate the memorable event they
all went on a picnic; and before that outdoor excursion was over
two pairs of lovers had plighted troth: Andrg and Elise, Paul
and Aline. One thing only marred the family rejoicing, and that
was when Felicia Ruys and the Due de Mora passed on horse-
back, in an out-of-the-way path. The riders were linked in an
affectionate attitude, and their direction indicated the Duke's
private ch&let, the rendezvous of his assignations. "Grand-

ALPHONSE DAUDET 131

mamma" pitied her reckless friend, but Paul sadly felt the
truth of his intuition.

About a week after the Moessard-Jansoulet encounter and
that ride in the woods of Felicia and the Due de Mora, the latter
was taken hopelessly ill, and after a brave fight, died like the
man of the world he prided himself on being. This casualty
destroyed the Nabob's last hope, withdrew powerful protection
from Monpavon against his creditors, which caused the Marquis
to take to his bed at such a calamity, and, finally, deprived
Jenkins of a profitable patient, but gave the conniving doctor
an opportunity of gaining possession of Felicia's letters to the
departed statesman. The unlucky Nabob had but one vague
hope now. Paul de Gdry had gone to Tunis to negotiate with
the Bey for a percentage of his patron's vast wealth tied up
there. Jansoulet imagined that with a remnant of his fortune
he might still fight his powerful, relentless enemies, and win
his election as a Deputy.

Nothing could surpass the magnificence of the Minister of
State's funeral. All Paris mourned, or seemed to, for the de-
ceased Duke. Business was suspended during the obsequies.
Felicia, stricken with an indefinable dread, fled from the city
and turned her face toward the kingdom of the Bey, who had
offered her magnificent chances for work in Tunis. In the
cemetery where De Mora was laid at rest, Baron Hemerlingue
and the Nabob met, and the latter humbly sought reconciliation.
Hemerlingue said they might again be friends if Madame Jan-
soulet would only call upon the Baronne Hemerlingue, and thus
make peace possible; for his wife could not forget nor forgive
till that time the insults Jansoulet's wife had heaped upon her
in the Orient, by despising her as a harem slave. The Nabob
must also placate Monsieur Le Merquier, of the Chamber, who
had charge of his case before it. As Le Merquier was a creature
of Hemerlingue nothing could be easier to arrange. Every-
thing again looked rosy in the anxious eyes of the Nabob until
his wife, his obstinate, brainless Levantine wife, refused to call
upon Baronne Hemerlingue. She could not, would not, meet
a harem slave as her equal, and that settled the matter ! Driven
to desperation, the Nabob paid the promised visit alone; but
the vindictive Baronne was not appeased; instead she became

I 3 2 THE NABOB

more enraged than ever at the affront. Then the harassed
man solicited an interview with Le Merquier, only to be repulsed;
for that hypocrite belonged body and soul to the Hemerlingues.

At last the day dawned during which the validity of M.
Jansoulet's election was to be decided before the Chamber of
Deputies. Led by some strange instinct, Mfere Jansoulet left
the Chateau St. Romans in time to witness her boy's trial,
though he was not aware of her presence until he stood upon
his feet in brave defense of his honor against the insidious and
false charges read before the Assembly by Le Merquier. He
had won the sympathy of the audience for his political cam-
paign in Corsica, and was about to explain the unsavory repu-
tation given to the name of Jansoulet, in the city, when he
caught sight of his dear old mother's face. Poor Nabob! he
could not go on and smirch his brother's character in her eyes.
That elder brother had been the one guilty of the misdemeanors
attributed to the candidate; but he suddenly resolved to with-
hold his vindication, the presentation of which might mean
election, fame, fortune. The Nabob sat down amid wild con-
fusion. M. Jansoulet's election was declared void. It was then
that Mere Jansoulet understood her boy's supreme sacrifice;
and she endeavored to tell the crowd about her two sons, but her
effort was fruitless. She was found by the Nabob, who gently
guided her to their carriage, and as they rolled away he laid his
head against her shoulder and wept like a child.

If the Jansoulet household was disrupted, the Jenkins
manage kept it company. The inventor of the Pearls, the
arsenic charlatan, disappeared, leaving instructions to sell
everything he possessed. Madame Jenkins, practically aban-
doned, and not the rascal's legal wife, was forced out of her
home. With mind on suicide bent, she paid a farewell visit to
Andre*, her son. Guessing, ay, knowing her straits, he saved
her from the rash deed, and declared she should always share
his home. Another remnant of the general upheaval was not
so fortunate. The Marquis de Monpavon, without friend or a
sou, made his way to a cheap bath and cut his throat. Two
slashes of the razor, and all his factitious majesty burst like a
bubble. Of course the Caisse Territoriale went into insolv-
ency, and Paganetti became a fugitive.

ALPHONSE DAUDET 133

Paul de G6ry really succeeded in wresting ten millions of
francs from the rapacious Bey; and, this in hand, he hastily
made his exit from the atmosphere of injustice and fraud. But
a fearful experience was in reserve for the clever emissary ere
he reached Paris. At Bordighera, in a hotel where he stopped
a few hours, he happened to be assigned the room adjoining
that of Felicia Ruys, still bound on her trip to Tunis. Loud
voices attracted his startled attention. A few moments passed,
and Paul realized that Dr. Jenkins had pursued her and was
with her in the room. Wildly he pleaded his love with the en-
raged girl, who lashed him with words that stung like whips.
Jenkins grovelecl, while Felicia launched forth her pitiless ar-
raignment. The unwilling listener, horrified, at length left his
apartment and rushed down-stairs. As the post-chaise started,
he saw a pale face, black hair, and blazing eyes watching at a
window for him to pass. Felicia knew him. To banish the
memory of that passionate interview Paul held before him a
sketch of Aline's face, which had effectually cured him of the
fascination once exercised by the unhappy Felicia.

Revolte, the play with a virtuous theme, by an unknown
writer, was ready for its presentation to the blast Parisian
theater-goers. A magnificent audience filled the hall to the
ceiling that unforgetable first night. From the opening act
the drama was an assured success. Its author, in the back
of a box with his mother, who desired to remain unseen, trembled
with excitement, while she shared his every apprehension.
Not far off one could catch a glimpse of Pfere Joyeuse and his
pretty daughters, all eager anticipation. Moessard was present,
as well as Hemerlingue and his snakelike wife. Apparently
all were enjoying the performance. Suddenly the Nabob en-
tered his large proscenium box, looking fully twenty years
older since his last public appearance. That morning word
from Paul had reached him; and in view of the speedy receipt
of the ten million francs, he had shaken off his despair and
resolved to face the world once more, to battle with its edict of
shame. Now the great audience of Revoke leveled their glasses
at him. Sneers were depicted on many faces, insulting ex-
clamations were heard on every side. Between the acts cruel
remarks, spoken aloud, reverberated through the house. The

T 3 4 THE NABOB

poor wretch was pilloried in his own theater! Precious Parisian
society had ostracized him; but the kindly Pere Joyeuse came
to the Nabob's box to salute him, an act which delighted the
dear daughters. Nevertheless, the play of Revoltc, despite the
added sensation, was a great success. Its satirical lines were,
in the heartless audience's opinion, directed at the Nabob, too.
And how did the victim, the cynosure of these mocking
glances, stand the terrible ordeal? He sat silent; but madness
was swooping down upon him, when a light touch caused him
to turn; then two convulsive hands grasped those of Paul de
Gry. "Ah! my dear my dear " stammered the poor man.
The Nabob melted into a sob of tears, of blood, of choking
speech. He became unconscious and was borne to a couch,
where he lay inert. All expedients failed to resuscitate him
from the attack of apoplexy. Paul, broken-hearted, gazed sadly
at that homely though kindly face. At that moment the young
protcgt felt how ineffectual had been his efforts against the am-
buscades of Paris. Even his rescued fragment of the once
colossal fortune was useless now. Before the Nabob died his
lips moved, and his eyes turned toward De Gry with a sorrow-
ful, imploring, rebellious expression, as if entreating him to
bear witness to one of the greatest, the most cruel acts of injus-
tice ever committed by Paris.

SAPPHO (1884)

Sapho, which is the French spelling of the name of the Greek poetess, cor-
rectly written in English as Sappho, although universally, by usage dating
even from her lifetime, erroneously pronounced safo, is a psychological study
of the ruin of a young man wrought by a courtesan. The author called it a
novel of Parisian manners, and inscribed it: "For my sons, when they are
twenty years of age." It has been dramatized in several unauthorized versions,
more or less prurient, and there has been much controversy over the production
of these on the stage, leading to a general misconception of the nature and
purpose of the original novel.

j[HE Gaussins of Armandy had lived "for all time'*
on the wine-growing estate of Castelet in Pro-
vence. Generation after generation held it in
common, but by custom it was managed by a
younger son, since the eldest, also by custom,
was destined to the consular service.

Unfortunately, Nature does not always adapt
herself to human arrangements, and if there ever
was a person incapable of managing an estate, or
of managing anything else, it was surely Cdsaire Gaussin, on
whom at twenty-four this responsibility devolved.

After some years of neglect, silly waste, and ruinous gambling
at the clubs of Avignon and Orange, Cdsaire, or Lc Final (" the
Scamp "), as he had come to be known, was at the end of his
resources. He had sold all the stores of wine, disposed of the
growing crop in advance, and mortgaged the estate to the
greatest possible extent. Then, just before the final seizure,
forging the name of his elder brother, a consul at Shanghai, he
drew three bills on that consulate, hoping that he would be able
to find the money to take them up before they became due.

This hope proved false, and the bills reached the Consul in
the same mail with a desperate letter from Csaire confessing
his crime.

The Consul paid the bills at the cost of his entire private

136 SAPPHO

fortune, threw up his position, which promised a brilliant career,
and hurried home to Castelet to preserve the family honor and
restore the estate, resigning himself to remain a simple wine-
grower throughout the rest of his life.

He proved to be as clever an agriculturist as he had been an
official. Under his efforts Castelet prospered greatly. A son
was born to him whom he named Jean; in him he hoped to see
achieved for the family all the honors in the public service that
he had foregone.

All this time Csaire, the Scamp, wandered idly about the
estate borne down by the burden of his Jns, scarcely daring to
look in the face of his brother, who crushed him with con-
temptuous silence. At table he never spoke, notwithstanding
the kindly smile of his sister-in-law, who had great compassion
upon him. She supplied him with pocket-money, unknown to
her husband, who kept the Scamp very close, less in punishment
of past follies than for fear of new ones.

With all his caution, however, the pride of the elder Gaus-
sin was destined to endure a new trial. There came to do sew-
ing at Castelet a fisher-girl, Divonne Abrieu, who, though
peasant-born, was superb as a done (lady) of the Courts of
Love which were held in olden days in that region. With her
the Scamp fell madly in love. He endeavored to take liberties
with her, and she sent him rolling ten yards away. Thereafter
she kept him at a distance with her sewing-shears.

C6saire confided his passion to his indulgent sister-in-law,
announcing his desire to marry Divonne. Madame Gaussin,
hoping that a marriage to a good woman, however humble in
birth, might be the saving of the Scamp, encouraged him in
the plan, and secured her husband's consent to the misalliance,
but only on condition that the couple should remove themselves
from Castelet, where the sight of them would form too poignant a
reminder of how low the proud Gaussins d'Armandy had fallen.

Divonne's consent was even more difficult to secure. While
the Scamp had lovable traits, there was nothing about him
which the peasant woman could respect. It was chiefly out of
regard for Madame Gaussin that she finally assented to the
marriage.

The banishment of the strangely matched pair came to an

ALPHONSE DAUDET 137

end when girl twins were born to the Consul and his wife. The
mother became a permanent invalid after the double birth, and
Divonne came to take charge of her and of the household.
Gradually Cesaire crept back into his old place in the house.

Divonne was a second mother to the little boy, Jean, and
his baby sisters, Martha and Mary. After Jean had gone to
Paris to prepare for his consular examination, he was vastly
comforted by the thought that the great-hearted, calm-souled
peasant woman was keeping guard over Castelet and sustain-
ing it by her will.

Jean had been in Paris a month, studying faithfully to pre-
pare for the examination, and he felt that he owed himself a
treat. So he accepted an invitation to go with a fellow-student
to a masked ball given by Ddchelette, the famous engineer.

Dechelette now was constructing a railroad between Tauris
and Teheran. During the two months of the hot season he
lived in Paris in a mansion on the Rue de Rome, which was
furnished like a summer palace. Here he refreshed himself for
his arduous work among the wild Kurds by giving a succession
of magnificent entertainments to his friends in the artistic
bohemian circle of the pleasure-loving metropolis who had not
gone to the country.

Jean was attired in the hot sheepskin dress of a Savoyard
bagpipe-player. He felt disgusted at his choice of costume
when he saw all the other guests more lightly and comfortably,
though far less decently attired. His friend had become lost
in the crowd. He knew no one else, not even his host. So he
wandered lonely about, not noticing that wherever he went
there was a buzz of admiration over his beautiful sun-browned
face and fair hair, crisping in close, short curls about a head so
shapely that every sculptor in the room desired to model it.
He seemed to himself to be far apart in kind from the gay artists
about him.

Leaving the crowd, he entered a gallery where it was cooler,
and seated himself on a divan under some tropic greenery. A
woman followed and sat down beside him. She was dressed
as an Egyptian princess. A long blue gown fell over a voluptu-
ous form; her rounded arms were bare to the shoulder, save for
a number of bracelets and armlets of antique pattern; her

138 SAPPHO

small hands were laden with rings; her large gray eyes were
intensified in prominence by a circlet of heavy iron ornaments
hung across her forehead.

It seemed to Jean that he had seen her before, that, in fact,
he had always known her. An actress, no doubt, he thought,
whose portrait he had seen in the public prints. This reflection
was not calculated to put him at his ease, for he had rather a
fear of the bold women of the stage.

She certainly was most familiar.

"Look at me!" she commanded. "So! I like the color of
your eyes. What is your name?"

"Jean Gaussin."

"No more?"

"D'Armandy."

"Ah, from the South. And with such fair hair! How ex-
traordinary! You are not an artist, are you? I picked you out
as not being one. I hate artists!"

She extorted from him much of his family history, and all
of the circumstances of his being in Paris. Jean reasoned that
this questioning must be a habit of hers, for she seemed to know
all the guests at the ball, and all about them. Dancing had
begun in the great hall, and as each fantastic mummer went
skipping by the door before them, she named and described
him: There were Pfere Corot in a pensioner's cap, Couture as
a bulldog, Cham as a tropical bird; D^chelette, the host, as a
Tatar; the sculptor Caoudal, in kilts, dancing the Highland
fling; De Potter, the musician, dressed as a muezzin, performing
the "stomach-dance," and squalling Allah il Allah! at the top
of his voice.

" And there is the poet Gournerie, dressed as a village bride-
groom."

What! that fat, sweating little man the author of the grand
despairing cries of the Book of Love? It could not be. Jean
began to murmur one of his favorite passages in the work:

"To quicken the cold marble of thy form,
O Sappho, have I given my heart's hot blood!"

His companion spoke sharply: "What are you muttering
there?"

ALPHONSE DAUDET 139

"Verses of Gournerie."

"I don't like verse," she said curtly. " Good night." And
she was gone.

While Jean was wondering what he had said to displease
her, the friend with whom he had come to the ball discovered
him. "I have been looking everywhere for you!" he cried.
"That girl in Japanese costume over at yon table is crazy to
meet you. Come along," and he darted away.

Jean turned to follow, when a voice behind him said:
"Don't go to that woman. Come with me."

It was his former acquaintance, who had returned to claim
his attendance. He followed her without hesitation. Why?
She was not as pretty to his taste as the dainty little geisha
yonder, who was even now beckoning to him. But he was
obeying a force stronger than his will, the impetuous violence
of a desire.

Suddenly he found himself and his companion in the street.

"To your house or mhic?" she asked.

"My house," he answered; and they took a fiacre to the Rue
Jacob.

His lodging was four flights up. She was so sleepy that he
asked laughingly:

"Would you like me to carry you up?"

She did not reply, but gave him a disdainful yet tender
glance that seemed to gauge him from a rich experience, and
said : " Poor little man ! "

Piqued by it, he took her up and carried her like a child, for
he was stout and lusty for all his feminine fairness. He as-
cended the first flight without pausing, thrilling with the clasp
of her naked arms about his neck. Up the second flight the
woman was a dead weight, and her iron armlets indented his
neck cruelly. At the third landing he was panting like a piano-
carrier, while she sleepily murmured: "How delicious!" It
seemed to him that he would never reach the last landing. The
stairway wound in an interminable spiral. He was no longer
carrying a woman, but something heavy, horrible a suffocating
vampire, which he felt tempted to throw from him at risk of a
brutal crash.

Arrived before his door, "So soon?" she said, opening her

i 4 o SAPPHO

eyes. He was thinking "At last!" but could not have said so.
He leaned against the door, deadly pale, and with hands upon
his chest, which felt ready to burst.

Their whole future history, this ascent of the staircase in
the sad, gray light of the morning!

Fanny Legrand, as she gave her name, visited Jean with
greater and greater frequency.

"Oh, I know quite well I bore you," she said. "I ought to
have more pride. Every morning as I leave your room, I swear
I will never enter it again, but I come back in the evening as if
I were possessed."

Fanny differed from all girls the young countryman had
known. She had a smattering of art, music, poetry, sculpture,
which rendered her conversation very interesting. Then she
made a most admirable companion upon excursions into the
country, where she knew all the charming corners.

One day he proposed going to the Vaux de Cernay. She
cried: "No, no! there are too many artists there." He re-
membered that this antipathy for artists had led to their ac-
quaintance. When he inquired the reason for it, she answered:
"They have done me a great deal of injury."

One day when they were dining at a lakeside inn, Caoudal,
the sculptor, happened in on them.

"Hello, Fanny!" he cried familiarly, and sat down with
them. He began talking of old times.

"Do you remember, little one, a breakfast we had here a
long time ago? Ezano, Dejoie, and all the set were along.
You fell in the pond, and they dressed you up in the landlord's
clothes. They suited you to perfection."

"I don't remember," she said, coldly, and probably truth-
fully; for women of her class forget the past and refuse to think
of the future, living wholly in the present.

They returned from this excursion late, and Fanny per-
suaded Jean to go to her rooms, which were nearer than his,
for the night. The apartments were voluptuously furnished,
and an old woman was in attendance who set out champagne
at Fanny's orders.

In the morning Jean was awakened by the servant calling
to Fanny:

ALPHONSE DAUDET 141

" He is here, and he says he will speak to you."

She sprang up in a rage and ran out of the room in her night-
gown. Jean heard a man's voice imploring, and another which
at first he did not recognize answering with curses of inconceiv-
able foulness. Slowly it came to him that this was Fanny's voice.
Jean arose and dressed. How he had degraded himself! All
the amorous luxuriousness about him was stained with vileness.

She came in breathless. "What a fool a man is who cries!"
she exclaimed. Then seeing Jean dressed, she realized that he
was leaving her, and for what reason.

"Don't go away!" she pleaded. "For if you do I know
you'll never return."

He insisted on going. She detained him by embraces.
Finally he tore himself away. As they approached the door a
letter was thrust under it. She opened it and cried triumphantly:
"Look, I am free!" She gave him the missive: a humble love-
letter written on a caf table by the man she had scorned, prom-
ising to grant her everything if only he did not lose her! O
God, not to lose her!

Fanny's cruelty to a man who had given her every luxury
appalled Jean. The next time she came to his room he refused
to see her. She waylaid him at his restaurant, humbly begged
leave to come to him, and patiently accepted what pretext he
chose to give for not receiving her.

The shame of his situation caused Jean to fall ill. For
several days he was out of his head. One morning he felt a
cool hand on his head.

" Thank you, Divonne," he murmured.

"It is not Divonne; it is Fanny."

She had been tending him all through his illness, sleeping on
his hard, lumpy lodging-house sofa.

"I had no other place to stay," she said. "I gave every-
thing back to the man the man who was before you."

Jean and Fanny set up housekeeping in a little flat on the
Rue d' Amsterdam. He had no fears that his home circle would
discover that he was living with a mistress. He also kept the
fact secret from his Parisian acquaintances. During the fol-
lowing summer he met Caoudal and D^chelette at a cafe. When
the sculptor inquired about Fanny, Jean lied:

I 4 2 SAPPHO

"Oh, that's done with long ago."

"Fanny Legrand who's she?" asked the engineer.

"Why, Sappho, don't you know?" answered Caoudal.
''She was at your ball last summer, superb as an Egyptian
princess. She has the gift of immortal youth. Last fall I saw
her with this handsome fellow here looking like a seventeen-
year-old bride. She was just seventeen years old when I used
her as the model of my ' Sappho.' "

"What, that bronze Fve been seeing everywhere since I was
a young man?" asked D^chelette. And Jean with a pang
learned why Fanny's features had from the first seemed so
familiar, for a copy of Caoudal's " Sappho " had graced his
father's library ever since he could remember.

" Yes, that was twenty years ago," said the sculptor. " What
a woman she has been, what experiences she has had! 'The
whole gamut,' as Gournerie used to say."

Jean, very pale, asked: "Was he her lover, too?"

"I should think so. After I had taken her from the gutter,
and cleaned and polished and set her like a precious stone in
my immortal art, that rhymester came and took her from the
table whereat I had welcomed him every Sunday. And he
treated her shamefully. Gournerie was a maniac. He would
beat her, and thrust her out of doors, and she would lie on his
door-mat till morning. Once he called the police to take her
away. But cruelest of all, he finally emptied on her head a
Volume of driveling, spiteful verses, called the Book of Love.

" She then took up with Dejoie, the novelist he died. Then
Ezano he married she made a terrible scene at the wedding.
Afterward came the engraver Flamant, a handsome man, such
as she always selects and you know the terrible sequel."

"What?" asked Jean, sucking assiduously through the straw
in his empty glass.

"The engraver was poor; Sappho extravagant. He forged
bank-notes to keep her in luxury. He was almost immediately
discovered, and sentenced to ten years' imprisonment. When
they took him away, she threw a kiss to him in the court-room,
and promised to be waiting for him when his sentence expired."

Jean was pleased at the last story. It revealed that there
was a basis of loyalty in her nature. Perhaps he could rebuild

ALPHONSE DAUDET 143

her character upon it. Still, he felt that he ought to leave her
while it was possible to do so amicably. How fortunate that
none of his family knew of the entanglement !

On his return to the flat he found his Uncle C^saire playing
cards with Fanny.

Said the Scamp: "You see, I've made myself at home.
I'm playing bzique with my niece."

His niece! the Scamp was certainly accepting the situation
very thoroughly.

Indeed, he congratulated his nephew on the possession of
such a charming mistress. She reminded him of his own
Pellicule in the days when he was a young man in Paris.

Csaire brought bad news from home. The phylloxera was
devastating the vineyards. The present crop was a total loss,
and the Consul was bent on planting new vines, which, in
Csaire's opinion, were certain to be destroyed in turn, instead
of cultivating olives and capers.

Fortunately Cesaire had an inheritance from an old friend
who had lately died in Paris eight thousand francs. He had
come to the city to receive it. He was going to take this and
experiment with a new process that had been discovered for
protecting vines from the pest, on a small vineyard belonging
to Divonne and himself. Divonne had the fullest faith in it.
She was a jewel! Would his niece like to see her portrait?

Jean had so often spoken with filial regard of his aunt that
Fanny expected to see a motherly matron of fifty or sixty years
of age. She was therefore completely taken aback when she
saw the beautiful face, with its pure lines set off by the white
head-dress, and the elegant form of a woman of thirty-five.

"Very pretty," she said, in a curious tone.

When the Scamp had gone to his h6tel an old one where
he had lodged in his youthful Parisian days Fanny said in a
careless tone: "That aunt of yours is a pretty piece. No won-
der you talk of her so much. Better quit doing so before your
uncle, or he'll be jealous."

Divonne! who had been a second mother to him, dressing
him as an infant, nursing him in sickness! Faany's suggestion
was shameful.

"Go along with you!" she cried harshly. "Such a pretty

144 SAPPHO

woman is not insensible to the charms of a handsome young
man like yourself, I'll warrant. On the banks of Rh6ne or Seine
we are all alike."

Uncle C^saire received his eight thousand francs, and gam-
bled them all away the next day. In his remorse he burst out
to Jean before Fanny in wild confession of his misdeeds past
and present.

Fanny put on her hat and went out. Some time later she
returned with eight thousand francs that Ddchelette had given
her. She gave it as an indeterminate loan to C^saire.

The Scamp was transported with gratitude. " What a treas-
ure you have!" he said to Jean at the railroad station. "You
must do your best to make her happy."

Thereafter Fanny made to Jean no reference to the service
she had rendered his uncle. Neither did she speak of the
family skeleton that the Scamp had disclosed, until one day an
old dirty, drunken cabman hailed her on the street as she was
walking with Jean. "It is my father," she whispered.

Jean walked along moodily, comparing the disgusting fellow
with his own noble father. Fanny rightly construed from his
silence his repugnance against the social quagmire into which
he was sinking through her.

"After all," she said philosophically, "there is something
of this kind in every family. One is not responsible. I have
Father Legrand, you have Uncle Csaire."

That he might escape meeting Father Legrand again, Jean
decided to move to the country. They settled at Chaville in
an old hunting-lodge. Life was more comfortable for Jean,
who went to Paris every day to his studies; but Fanny, who was
lazy and had no lesources within herself for amusement, be-
came very lonesome. She begged Jean to permit her to adopt
an orphan child that she knew, a country lad of six, and he
finally consented. After Josaph, as he was called, came, Fanny
was much happier.

Within a year Uncle Csaire returned to Fanny the loan she
had made him. The experiments against the vine-pest had
proved a great success.

Fanny said: "We must invest this money."

"But it is not yours!" objected Jean.

ALPHONSE DAUDET 145

"Well, the fact is, D6chelette learned what we were doing
for Josaph, and wrote me to keep the money for his education."

Jean knew now that she was lying, and had lied all along
about the money. It had been a gift, which she now was ap-
plying to a child that was her bastard. Yet so involved had he
become in this mesh of deceit that he could not protest. In-
deed, he was beginning to feel that he never would break his
shameful bonds.

One day he came home with the news: "I am nominated."

"Ah, to what place?" She asked the question with as-
sumed indifference, but there was such distress in her face that
he said:

"I am not going yet. I relinquished my turn. This will
give us six months more together."

She laughed, cried, covered his face with kisses. "What a
happy life I shall make yours now! It was the thought that
you wanted to leave me that made me naughty."

She kept her word. She sent the child to a boys' school.
She wooed Jean as in the first days of their acquaintance, and
refused to think of the coming separation.

But Jean could not forget this. His life with Fanny had
killed his ambition. Had it not been for his parents and
Divonne, he would have thrown up the consulate.

And for whom? For an elderly, faded woman, such as
Sappho was rapidly becoming, a woman he no longer cared for,
yet to whom he was bound by a kind of witchcraft the spell of
circumstance. She had killed his youth and love, as well as
his ambition, he thought, until one day in the car he saw the
face of a girl-woman, so pure and sweet that all the lost glories
of manhood returned to his heart. He saw her often in the
car, and by inquiry learned that she was the daughter of a re-
tired merchant living in a suburb near to his own. He ob-
tained an introduction to her father, and in a short time became
her accepted suitor.

He delayed until the last day to announce to Fanny that he
must leave her. He took her for a walk in the woods. On
their way they met a forester who was carrying his little girl,
wasting away with malaria.

"She is trembling," said Fanny.

A.D., VOL. vi. 10

i 4 6 SAPPHO

"It is the chill of her fever, ma'am."

"Then we will soon warm her," and Fanny took the lace
mantilla she was carrying, and wrapped it around the little
girl.

"Keep it for her wedding- veil," she said to the protesting
father.

Fanny clung to Jean with that tenderness which com-
passion for the unfortunate makes a woman feel toward the
man she loves.

"What a good girl she is!" thought Jean. It made his task
all the harder, but he stuck to his purpose to go through with it.

They sat down on a fallen tree. She leaned languidly on
his shoulder and sought a place on his neck to kiss. He drew
away.

"Why, what is the matter?"

"Bad news, my poor dear. The man who took the consu-
late in my place is ill and wishes to return home. I am ordered
to relieve him at once."

She was calm, but deathly pale.

"When do you start?"

"To-night."

"You lie!" she burst forth. "You are leaving me for a

woman, either that of a Divonne, or some girl your parents

have selected for your wife. And you dragged me out in the
woods to tell me, so that nobody should hear my screams.
No, there will be no screaming and no tears. I have had

enough of you, handsome though you be. You !" and she

called him all the vile names in her vocabulary of slime.

Jean was glad she was thus low and ' insulting the true
daughter of Father Legrand; it made the separation less cruel.
Some thought of this must have occurred to Fanny, for she
suddenly fell forward and buried her face on her lover's knees
with a great sob.

"Forgive me. I love you so. I have no one but you. Do
not leave me. What do you expect I shall become? You have
plenty of time to marry you are so young. I shall soon be
an old woman, and then we shall separate naturally."

Jean was firm, however, and left her that evening by the
last train to Paris. He busied himself making arrangements

ALPHONSE DAUDET 147

*or his marriage and his departure immediately thereafter for
his consulate. Every day a letter came from Fanny beseeching
him to have pity on her and pay her one last parting visit.
She wrote that little Josaph had returned from school, and
missed his "Papa Jean." On being informed that he had
gone away, the child had said: "All my papas go away."

One letter he found thrust under his door. She had been
in Paris and delivered it herself. Jean thought of the day
when she had heartlessly laughed at the letter his predecessor
had put under her door. He who contemned her then, him-
self, was he not equally heartless?

One day he learned from Caoudal that Flamant, the forger,
the former lover of Fanny, was pardoned. Jean recalled that
she had promised to receive him when he came out of prison.
He became alarmed at the thought that Flamant might gain
possession for evil ends of the love-letters he, Jean, had written
to Fanny. So he went to get them from her, much as he feared
the result of seeing her again.

On the way from the station to the cottage he met a man
and a boy, followed by a railroad porter pushing a barrow of
luggage. The boy averted his face. "Why, it is Josaph,"
said Jean to himself, sad at the child's ingratitude. He looked
at the man, and from his pallor surmised him to be Flamant.
In his intelligent face he saw a resemblance to Josaph. Father
and son ! He had been supporting the convict's bastard.

Flamant and Josaph were departing. Would he find Fanny
at the cottage?

She was in bed, though it was noon. She uttered an ex-
clamation: "Oh, they have gone; do not be angry! I ought
to have told you about Josaph. But I was afraid you would
turn him out, poor child and I had promised his father."

Jean said he had come for his letters. She brought out a
packet. " They are all here."

Jean asked bitterly: "And when do you follow Flamant? "

She muttered a half denial that she was going anywhere.

"You may as well say at once you are going to rejoin your
convict. Bad woman and forger go well together. He stayed
here last night and with you."

"Well, what of it?" She brought her face close to his, her

i 4 8 SAPPHO

great gray eyes lighted with passion. "Having lost you, what
did all the rest matter?"

He lifted his hand. She saw the blow coining, but did not
avoid it, receiving it full in the face. Then, with an exultant
cry she leaped upon him, clasping him in her arms: "My own,
my own, you love me still!"

Jean was too honorable to return to his fianc&e after this
treason. He said to Fanny: "1 can get an appointment at
Arica in Peru. We will go there together." He closed his
eyes and let himself sink gently into the mire.

There was a terrible scene at Castelct when Jean confessed
his degradation, and announced his determination to abide by
its consequences. At the end he fled away, disowned, a prey
to remorse that he must carry through every day of his life.

He went to the h6tel in Marseilles where Fanny was to
await him. Their ship left the next day. She was not there.

" A letter for Monsieur le Consul," said the portier. It was
from Fanny. He tore it open and read :

"I cannot go. The transplanting of one's life alarms me I, who have
never been farther from Paris than St. Germain. And women age so rapidly
in the tropics. I should be yellow and wrinkled before you are thirty. I have
heard that down there, when a woman deceives her husband, they sew her up
in a bag with a cat, and each tears the other to pieces fighting for life. It may
not be in Peru, but no matter. That's the kind of life we should lead.

"I am going to Flamant. Don't think I love him. My heart is dead.
But I cannot exist without the boy, and I have pity for the father, who ruined
himself for love of me. I tell you now he did not sleep in my bed that night.
He passed the long hours weeping on my shoulder. You have no cause to be
jealous.

"Flamant is the one man with whom I can spend the rest of my days in
peace. He will never see a wrinkle in my face, a gray hair in my head, and if
I conclude to marry him, it will be a favor on my side. And you, too, will some
day find peace, for you shall never hear of me again. Adieu, one last kiss, on
the neck, my own!"

NUMA ROUMESTAN (1881)

The author intended first to call this novel North and South, a title indica-
tive of his purpose, which was to contrast the north and south of France, not
exactly to the credit of the section where he was born. In the chief character
he draws the portrait of his friend Gambetta, the great French statesman.

?N open-air festival was held in the amphitheater
of Aps, in Provence, one hot Sunday in July,
1875. The greatest attraction was Numa Rou-
mestan, for ten years leader and deputy. Every
summer when he went to Aps, during the vaca-
tion of the Chamber of Deputies, he received an
ovation.

Numa heard the talk of his services going on
about him, and he became exhilarated, but Ma-
dame Roumestan appeared indifferent. She did not care for the
turbulent gaiety of the South; it was opposed to her self-con-
tained nature; she saw enough of it in her husband, to whom
she had been married for ten years. Hortense, her sister, was
with her.

Roumestan shook hands with everyone, making promises
to all.

"But, my dear Numa," cried Hortense, "where will you find
all these tobacco-shops you have been promising them ? ' '

"They are promised, little sister, not given," he answered.
He added, laughing, that people in Provence understood each
other's language, and the value of a promise: they did not ex-
pect promises to be fulfilled. Promises excited their imagination,
and gave them pleasure. In Provence words had a relative
meaning. "It is merely putting things in their proper focus."
Valmajour, a taborist, appeared, and his playing produced
enthusiasm. Numa, with his eyes full of tears, embraced the
taborist and told him he must come to Paris and make a for-
tune. Valmajour played the farandole, and everyone danced.

ISO NUMA ROUMESTAN

Numa was twenty-two when he went to Paris to study law.
He lived in the Quartier Latin, and took the lead in his circle,
playing cards and billiards, and taking no interest in study or
reading; but Southern audacity and slyness carried him through
his examinations.

He had a good voice, and was invited to sing at the house of
the Duchesse de San Donnino, where he met Sagnier, a music
enthusiast and a distinguished Legitimist lawyer, who offered
Numa a place in his office. While with Sagnier Numa adopted
his politics, and became ambitious for political honors and
glory. After a few years he made some success as a lawyer and
gained the approbation of his Aunt Portal, who wrote him that
she wished him to marry Mademoiselle Le Quesnoy, the daugh-
ter of a councilor in the court of appeals, promising that on
his wedding-day she would give him one hundred thousand
francs. Madame Le Quesnoy had been her schoolmate.

The Le Quesnoy family received Numa cordially. Rosa-
lie, the elder daughter, fell in love with him and they were
married. They kept open house; Numa had many intimate
friends who came and went, but Bompard, who was born in the
same street at Aps with Roumestan, stayed ; he served to adver-
tise Roumestan. Rosalie did not like him: she said he told lies.
Roumestan laughed and said it was not lying; it was using the
imagination.

They were in the country for the summer, when one day
Rosalie, being in Paris to do some shopping, went to her house.
As she opened the door of the library she saw her husband and
Madame Escarbfes. The shock to the young wife resulted in
a miscarriage. She forgave Numa, but warned him that she
would not forgive him a second time.

Numa was a Legitimist. He had met many Imperialists
at the house of Madame Escarbfes, and the Emperor offered
him the position of councilor of state. He was writing a letter
of acceptance, when Rosalie interfered; and so the fine phrases
were used in the letter of refusal and won him great favor for
his incorruptibility. He was made councilor-general in his own
department by his own party. After the fall of the Empire
his father-in-law became first president of the court of
appeals.

ALPHONSE DAUDET 151

Numa, his wife, and Hortense spent two months with Aunt
Portal in Aps. Hortense and Numa drove to see Valmajour
and his sister, Audiberte, and urged them to come to Paris.

Three months later Parliament met at Versailles. Roumes-
tan was excited; he addressed various meetings. He continued
to practise law, and for two hours every evening received his
clients in his office. He had three secretaries, Mdjean, De
Rochemaure, and De Lappara.

Roumestan was appointed Minister of Public Instruction.
On the same evening he was to dine with the Marshal at Ver-
sailles; when Valmajour, whom he had forgotten, insisted on
seeing the Minister. Valmajour told him they had sold their
farm, and his father and sister were with him in Paris. Numa
was embarrassed : he would do what he could. His wife's words
came to his mind: "Still, words must mean something^ He
had made trouble for himself by being too kind!

Many times after that Valmajour tried to see Numa, but
without success. "The great Numa" was too much occupied
to pay attention to a peasant. Finally, Audiberte went to see
Hortense, who arranged that Valmajour should play at a con-
cert to be given by Monsieur and Madame Roumestan.

A stage was being erected for the concert. The rehearsal
was over, when a footman announced Mademoiselle Bachellery,
a girl of sixteen who was to sing at the concert and had brought
her mother. Numa turned scarlet; he was in love with this
child.

Valmajour played at the concert and created great en-
thusiasm, which he took coolly. He played the farandole again,
and again everybody danced.

Audiberte went often to see Hortense, flattering the young
girl, and talking to her of her brother; she desired to bring about
a marriage between them. Hortense possessed much of the
Southern vivacity and imagination, inherited from her mother,
who was from the South.

Hortense had a severe cold which did not yield to treatment,
and following the doctor's advice Madame Le Quesnoy took
her to Arvillard. Mademoiselle Bachellery was there with her
mother.

Numa came to Arvillard, ostensibly to lay the corner-stone

IS* NUMA ROUMESTAN

of a new college at Chambry, near that town, remembering,
when he found that Alice Bachellery was there, that he had
promised to make a speech on the occasion. During a flirtation
lasting five months she had kept him at arm's length. She
wanted a nomination as prima donna at the Opra, a contract,
and various perquisites. She had no faith in Roumestan's
promises; she would be satisfied only with a signed contract.
So she went to Arvillard.

His arrival created a great sensation: he was "the great
Numa." He became the chief subject of conversation, and
people promenaded before his windows merely to get a glimpse
of him. His good looks, his manners, won all hearts. Es-
pecially was he liked for his sympathy for the poor. All the
distinguished residents called on him. But he pleaded for rest:
he wanted to enjoy a few quiet days with his family, and leisure
to write his Chamb^ry speech, an important one.

Mademoiselle Bachellery kept him at a distance, and went
off on picnics every day with a lively party of young people.

One day Numa had a talk with the famous Dr. Bouchereau,
who was at Arvillard for his health; the doctor, not knowing
his relationship to Hortense, told him that she would not live
a year.

Hortense was talking to Numa when Bompard appeared
with a newspaper and began to read an account of Valmajour's
d^but at the opera, which turned him and the Minister of Pub-
lic Instruction into ridicule. Numa took the paper from
him. Hortense turned pale and asked Numa if he intended
to abandon Valmajour. He replied that it would be useless
to fight for him if Paris did not want him. Hortense was
indignant, but declared that she should remain true to her
enthusiasms. She went to her room, wrote a line on a photo-
graph of herself wearing the Arlesian head-dress, and sent it to
Valmajour.

A few days later the Le Quesnoys returned to Paris. As for
Numa, he would stay a few days longer, for a little medical
treatment, and would write his speech. It would make a great
sensation.

Mademoiselle Bachellery was finishing her toilet prepara-
tory to going on a picnic. There was a knock at the door and

ALPHONSE DAUDET 153

Roumestan entered. He was excited, and handed her an en-
velope containing the contract she wished for: it was an engage-
ment at the Opra for five years with all the desired perquisites.
She read the paper through from beginning to end with busi-
ness coolness. Then she raised her veil and said:

" You are very good I love you "

The great man forgot all the troubles that he knew this en-
gagement would cause him. However, he said coldly that he
did not wish to disarrange her plans for the day. She insisted
that he should accompany her; they were going to the Chateau
Bayard.

When it became known that Roumestan was to join the
picnic there was great excitement; everyone crowded to see
him pass, and saluted him, " the grand master of the University
of France."

They drove on. Numa admired the landscape; his "dear
Provence " could hardly provide a better. His happiness was
complete; he felt neither anxiety nor remorse. His trusting
wife, the near prospect of a child, Bouchereau's prophecy re-
garding the fatal termination of Hortense's illness, the troubles
which would be caused by his nomination of Cadaillac as direc-
tor of the Opra these things, for the moment, ceased to exist
for him; he was absorbed in Alice Bachellery.

After breakfast on the terrace Numa began to think of his
speech: ideas came to him in the home of the chevalier sans
peur el sans reproche. He would write it and date it from
Chateau Bayard. He was shown to a small room and sat down
to write. After a time he fell asleep, but was awakened by a
thunder-clap, and went into the garden. A maid told him that
the young lady had a headache, and had gone to lie down in
Bayard's room.

Numa returned to his writing; but the knowledge that Alice
Bachellery was in the next room was strangely exciting. He
struggled with himself against the temptation, repeating the
phrases of his speech.

Then he went into the next room.

Valmajour was admitted to Roumestan's office only to re-
ceive abuse. Numa was in a rage. The Chambry speech,

154 NUMA ROUMESTAN

and other "oratorical triumphs," had elated him, and brought
him extra glory. His head was turned, and his amiability had
passed into irritability.

Madame Roumestan entered. She wanted Numa to go
with her to her mother's house; he said he ought to be at Ver-
sailles at noon; however, he would drive with her to her des-
tination.

Rosalie was so happy at the prospect of having a child that
she wanted everyone to be as happy as she was. Roumestan
talked to his friends with tears in his eyes of the expected child.

In the carriage he spoke of his troubles, of Cadaillac. Ros-
alie mentioned Mademoiselle Bachellery; said it was unfortu-
nate that Cadaillac had engaged her; spoke of a report of in-
fluence in high quarters that had brought it about. Numa
turned red. They saw placards with portraits of Valmajour
in a ridiculous costume in which he was to appear at a skating-
rink. Rosalie told him of Hortense' s infatuation for the man,
caused by Numa's enthusiasm and romantic stories about him.
Numa was indignant. "One of his dupes," she called Val-
majour. Numa held her hand and tears came to his eyes. He
told her that she alone understood him, and ought never to
leave his side for a moment.

He left her at her mother's door, and ordered the coachman
to drive to the Rue de Londres. Rosalie heard, but she was
not suspicious, although he had said that he was going to the
St. Lazare station. She asked herself why his words and his
acts were always at variance.

When Rosalie entered her sister's room, Audiberte was
there, urging Hortense to go and hear her brother play his
tabor at the skating-rink. Audiberte and Rosalie had a mutual
aversion to each other.

Hortense no longer cared for Valmajour. Absence and mis-
fortune had transfigured him; but on her return to Paris she
saw matters more clearly, and she perceived that she had made
a terrible mistake in sending her photograph to him. He had
come to see her and had put his arm around her waist. She
shrank from him, and Audiberte reprimanded him.

Hortense went with Audiberte to the skating-rink to hear
Valmajour play. The whole affair was pitiably grotesque; the

ALPHONSE DAUDET 155

place was low and vulgar; Valmajour's playing was a failure.
Back in her own room Hortense looked at herself in the mirror
and suddenly saw her doom in her hollow cheeks and narrow
shoulders.

Hortense was very ill.

Roumestan sent Mjean to Audiberte with five thousand
francs to pay the Valmajours for their losses, and a request that
they should leave Paris without delay. Also, he would give
them another five thousand francs for the photograph of Hor-
tense. Audiberte refused the money and would not surrender
the photograph. The Commissary of Police sent for her and,
frightened, she gave up the photograph, and signed a receipt
for ten thousand francs, renouncing all suits at law.

Audiberte was revengeful. She hated the Roumestans, be-
lieving them the cause of her brother's failure in Paris. She
learned that, at a certain shop, Roumestan ordered once a week
a codfish a la brandade, a famous Southern dish. She learned
further that the fish was to be sent on a certain day, not to his
home, but to Mademoiselle Bachellery's house in the Rue de
Londres. And at this shop, kept by Southern people, there was
much talk and laughter about the establishment set up by
Numa. They knew all about Alice Bachellery and her mother.

Madame Roumestan was in her room looking over the little
garments made for the expected child some time before. She
thought of that sad past and then of the present, and her happy
expectations. Her husband was much improved; he now dis-
played less of the excitement and violence of the Southerner.

A letter was brought to her. It was some time before she
opened it. In it she read that a codfish a la brandade would be
served for supper that evening at Mademoiselle Bachellery's
house in the Rue de Londres, and that M. Roumestan would
pay for it.

Rosalie recalled certain phrases of Numa's, articles in the
papers concerning Mademoiselle Bachellery, the address Numa
gave the coachman in her hearing; she remembered how he had
lingered at Arvillard. She knew now that she was his dupe a
second time, and blamed herself for being so easily taken in by
his lies and pretended affection. She thought of her child and
tried to be calm. When Numa came in she was embroidering.

156 NUMA ROUMESTAN

She asked him to dine with her, but he pleaded a business en-
gagement. As soon as he was gone she sent for a cab and
ordered a box containing the baby's layette put into it. She
told her maid she should dine at her father's, and should prob-
ably spend the night there.

But perhaps there was a mistake; she must make sure.
She ordered the coachman to drive to the Rue de Londres.
Rosalie entered the house, and saw an unforgetable scene.
Numa, in his shirt-sleeves, had his arm around Alice Bachellery,
who wore a loose morning-gown. He was flushed, and in an
excited manner was calling for the brandade.

Eight days later the formal New Year's reception at the
Ministry was a gloomy affair. Everybody knew of Rosalie's
departure and the cause. But, for the sake of appearances,
Numa had caused it to be said that his wife had gone to be with
her father while Madame Le Quesnoy was in the South with
Hortense.

Rosalie's father wished her to give up all idea of a divorce
and return to her husband. Madame Le Quesnoy begged her
to forgive Numa. But Rosalie was obdurate. She said her
husband was a hypocrite, a man of two characters, and not to
be believed or depended upon. As a last argument Monsieur
Le Quesnoy persuaded his wife to tell Rosalie of his own delin-
quency in a similar affair. Rosalie was terribly hurt, for she
had placed her father on a pedestal. But for her parents' sake
she decided to renounce the suit for divorce, and would go
South with her sister.

It was with a feeling of intense relief and happiness that
Numa heard Rosalie had left the city and that there would
be no suit for divorce. He thought he would make a call,
friendly, of course, on Alice Bachellery, and relieve her anxiety.
He had kept away from her for a fortnight. He entered the
house with his key, and ran up-stairs, where he found his secre-
tary, De Lappara, with the girl. Numa was beside himself with
rage, and got away as quickly as possible, fearing what he might
do. At the Ministry he found a telegram from his Aunt Portal
saying that Hortense was dying, and wished to see him. The
next morning he took the train for Aps.

ALPHONSE DAUDET 157

At Hortense's bedside Rosalie became reconciled to her
husband. It was the dying girl's last request.

Rosalie's son was baptized in February. It was a ftte day
for the townspeople. The son of "the great Numa" must be
driven through the market-place and be shown off to the people;
they would have it so. The women praised his beauty and said
he was just like his father. Crowds followed the carriage to
the Portal mansion, and Numa made one of his customary
speeches from the balcony. There were the usual phrases:
the patriotr moral, and religious references. And Rosalie
sat in her room hearing the cheers, and feeling that because of
her child she could never be unhappy again. Numa went to
her, wrought up to a pitch of tenderness and enthusiasm by his
speech and the kindness of the people. She asked him what
the proverb was that Aunt Portal had quoted a few days ago,
and he told her:

"Happiness of the street, sorrow of the house."

THE EVANGELIST (1883)

The departure of the great French novelist from the wider field of human
observation, denoting the comedy and tragedy of contemporary life, perceptible
in the every-day phases of society and its varied humors, to a specialized study
in the somber secrets of psychology innate in religious fanaticism, is an inter-
esting literary fact. It primarily denotes the breadth of the author's perspective.
More than that, it indicates the significance of movements in French society,
which respond curiously to the recognition of religious force whether in the
perverse and abnormal way or in its more wholesome evolution. The per-
sonality and propaganda of Madame Autheman, which constitute the imme-
diate object of L'Evangeliste, envisage a conception appalling as that of a
demon masking itself in the livery of heaven," and yet so vivid on the human
side that it escapes the grotesque and imaginary. The stir the story made in
the reading public at the time of publication testified to the realism of the theme
and its atmosphere.

SALINE EBSEN, living with her mother, and earn-
ing a comfortable income by teaching, in which
both were successful, had lost the old Danish
grandmother, whose sweet, homely nature was
delightfully reproduced in the young girl's grace
and freshness. When she who had been the
tutelary deity of a serene household, where all
was love and mutual devotion, had passed away,
the bereaved mourners turned to each other with
an accent of even tenderer feeling. "Let us love each other
dearly, my Linette, and let us never part," said Madame Ebsen,
embracing her daughter with tearful fondness, filine answered
with equal emotion: "Never, you know it, mother, never." It
was a dedication much savored by the holiest sentiment, and
perhaps transfused, on the part of filine, by a certain capac-
ity of spiritual exaltation, of which she, in the wholesome
exercise of domestic and professional life full of pleasant occu-
pation, was scarcely conscious. What her grandmother had
been in cheerful self-sacrifice and family devotion, that she
would be, she thought, as her heart overflowed with memories
of the past and the responsibilities of the present.

158

ALPHONSE DAUDET 159

The ground-floor apartment of the same little house in the
Rue du Val-de-Gr&ce was occupied by an ex-functionary
Charles Lorie-Dufresne, formerly subprefect in Algeria, but
now straitened in means, while awaiting further appointment
to office. His little daughter, Fanny, a lovable sprite of eight
years, was a pupil of Mademoiselle Ebsen; and the father, still
a young man, who had been widowed several years, as familiar
intercourse made him acquainted with the charming character
of feline, not less marked than her graces of person, was strongly
moved to solicit her hand. But his own comparative penury
restrained him. feline appeared to harbor no thought of love
and marriage. Her fine, large nature, however rich in emo-
tional capacity, found sufficient outlet in the radiation of kind-
ness and good offices toward all who came within her sphere,
and her amiable pupil Fanny gave a field to her latent maternal
tenderness. It was in a hope allied to this that Monsieur Lorie-
Dufrcsne warmed with a little glow against the chill of feline's
friendly indifference. Her hand had been previously sought by
a young army physician, the son of Pastor Aussandon, the dean
of the Protestant faculty and a noted preacher, with whose
family the Ebsens had always been intimate, as they lived near
each other. Madame Aussandon, however, had been a little
hurt and estranged by feline's rejection of the young doctor's
suit. Sylvanire, a rough but faithful peasant woman, who had
been the nurse of the Lorie-Dufresne children and was devoted
to Fanny, was the wife of Remain, the quondam gardener of the
ex-prefect. She had refused to live with him while her young
charges needed her services. But when he secured an appoint-
ment as lockkeeper at the canal passing through Port-Sauveur,
near Paris, and it seemed likely that Fanny would find in feline
of whom Sylvanire had ceased to be jealous when she fully
recognized the goodness of the young teacher the love and
guidance of a second mother, she consented to go to Remain's
cabin at the lock.

feline, who augmented the family income by playing on the
organ in church and by making translations, as she was an excel-
lent linguist, came home one day to find her mother pleasantly
excited. She had received a call from one who proved to be a
former pupil, Madame Autheman, now the wife of the richest

160 THE EVANGELIST

banker in Paris. Madame Ebsen's teaching reminiscences in-
cluded experience at Madame de Bourlon's seminary for rich
young demoiselles. Among these had been Lonie Rougier,
now Countess d'Arlat; Deborah Becker, a Hebrew heiress, now
Baroness Gerspach, and Jeanne Chatelus, daughter of a rich
silk manufacturer of Lyons, a pretty, singular girl, who, a
fanatical Protestant and incessant Bible-reader, was wont to
hold little religious meetings on the playground every day, when
she could persuade her companions to listen.

It was rumored, Madame Ebsen said, that she was to marry
a young missionary and go out to Africa to convert the Basutos.
But she returned from a vacation in Switzerland only to leave
school and become Madame Autheman. Hllas, what courage !
Croesus as he was, all one side of his face was a gigantic blazing
wen, which could be only partly concealed by a silk band, a skin
disease hereditary in his family and their Semitic kin, obvious,
in lesser degree, in his cousin, Baroness Gerspach. The visitor
had brought a book full of meditations and prayers, Morning
Hours, which she wished translated into English and German.

filine glanced over the book with a vehement gesture of re-
pulsion, as she read such fragments as these: "Laughter and
gaiety are the accompaniments of a corrupt heart. Our hearts
have no need of these things when the peace of God reigns in
them. ... A father, a mother, husband, and children deceive
the affection. To attach one's heart to them is to make a poor
reckoning. ... It is for this reason we make war on idols and
expel from our hearts everything that might rival Him." She
was not disposed to undertake the commission under the first
force of her shock, but Madame Ebsen, who had been flattered
by the visit of the wealthy Madame Autheman, overpersuaded
her,. A little additional money was always welcome. Such
work, too, if it continued, might pay, by and by, for Lina's trous-
seau, if she should ever marry. They discussed such matters
openly before M. Lorie, who came and went as an inmate; and
the lonely man, who had secured a small official place at last,
felt the whole being of himself and his family sweetened in the
mellow sunshine of filine's daily life. When the translations
were done they were taken to Madame Autheman at her office.
The girl was ushered into the presence by Anne de Beuil, the

ALPHONSE DAUDET 161

familiar of the mistress of that great establishment, a tall;
haggard person with the blaze of insane enthusiasm in her
sunken eyes. Madame Autheman, who preserved the remains
of much beauty, and was richly garbed with a kind of austere
coquetry in the gown of a religious order, received her effusively.
She gave her a check with much flattery, and then spoke of
her dead grandmother. "I hope she knew the Saviour before
she died?"

filine could not say she did her grandmother was not a
professing Christian. Thereupon Madame apostrophized the
grandmother, sighing oratorically: "Where are you now, poor
soul? How you must suffer; how you must curse those who
eft you without succor!"

filine's heart was wrung by such an allusion, but there was
something fascinating in the basilisk look, that strangely moved
the occult mysticism and sentiment of the woman of the North,
even in her recoil. The sensitive girl burst into tears which
the other soothed with practised skill, and finally extorted half
a promise to attend some of her prayer- meetings at Paris, or at
Port-Sauveur, where she would hear soul-comforting confessions
and pledges. At the latter place the Authemans had their
country establishment and by their wealth largely controlled
its municipal affairs.

Jeanne Chatelus, as a child serious and absorbed in relig-
ious problems, had been brought up by an aunt ascetic in tem-
perament and steeped in the narrowest Protestantism. All the
proclivities of her nature were thus accentuated by her training;
and, as her youth passed into womanhood, she became so thin
and nervous that she was ordered to the Swiss mountains. There
she met a young theological student, preparing for the mission-
ary field, whose shrewd mother noted in the young girl an ad-
mirable wife for her son, since there was large wealth as well
as fitness of temperament. What little emotion lay in Jeanne
responded to the addresses of a handsome young fellow, reek-
ing with piety. So they became betrothed on the congealed
waves of the Mer de Glace, though their avowals and promises
were as cold as the north wind that blew across the icy peaks.
She returned to enter Madame de Bourlon's school to study
English and geography; but she had been there only a few

A.D., VOL. VI. II,

162 THE EVANGELIST

months when her father's firm became bankrupt. Her theo-
logian quickly found a polite pretext to break the engagement.
This humiliation was a terrible blow to Jeanne, though no one
but Deborah Becker, who was of the Autheman kin, was made
a confidant, the emotional Jewess having fallen much under
her domination.

Old Madame Autheman one day called and formally asked
Jeanne's hand in marriage for her son. The pale, silent young
man, depressed on account of his facial deformity, had seen
and fallen in love with the peculiar beauty of the girl. All men
were alike to her, then, in her fierce abasement; and the great
wealth which would be at her disposal made temptation suc-
cessful, in spite of the Hebraism of the family. After mar-
riage she soon made a convert of her timid and adoring spouse,
and the reception of the young Israelitish banker into the Tem-
ple of the Oratory was one of the sensations of the time. The
frozen soul of Jeanne Autheman, lighted by the fires of fanati-
cism, like a glacial peak glittering in the sun, exorcised every
other sympathy and ardor and sentiment as born of Satan.
She devoted herself and her husband's colossal wealth to the
evangelization of Paris, and her spiritual pride became an in-
satiable ogre devouring all the resources of her being. She
had seen filine, of whom she had heard in connection with her
former teacher, and in this tender soul her depraved instincts of
salvation sensed another fit victim to be melted and recast in her
terrible crucible, a soul to be saved and refined at the expense
of the body, even at the expense of her happiness, and the hap-
piness of all others connected with her.

filine had finally determined to marry her friend, M. Lorie,
the assent having come to her thought in a visit they made to
the humble home of Sylvanire. She heard Fanny scream in
her novel excitement and filine turned pale with fear.

"How good you are to that child," he murmured; and she
answered: "I love her as if she were mine, and the thought of
giving her up causes me so much pain!" This plastic mood
led to further exchanges of confidence. She would not be
obliged to leave her home, and she told the happy man she
would be a mother to his children.

As the holiday-makers floated on the canal, Sylvanire

ALPHONSE DAUDET 163

pointed out the memorial chateau of Autheman with its tur-
reted and balustraded roofs, its park, its lawns, and a massive
marble cross marking what looked like a great tomb or temple.
There came across Eline an inexplicable shiver of uneasiness,
dimming the beautiful spring morning and the lucent air fra-
grant with violets. The gossip of the place was full of strange
stories about Madame Autheman. She bribed Catholics and
other reprobates to attend chapel and the Protestant commun-
ion; and gathered the children into her schools with a scoop-
net which permitted no escape. One beautiful young girl had
tried to escape, but had been beguiled back and died at the
chateau of some strange medicine, which drugged her sensi-
bility and made her a raving maniac. The great manor was
always buried in gloomy silence, though Madame Autheman
lived there eight months in the year. Toward evening there
came a little change. The gates would open, showing the
mausoleum-like chapel more clearly as wheels ground over the
gravel. 'Twas then that the banker returned, always in a close
carriage, from Paris. He shrank from showing his dreary face
to public curiosity. To receive a chilly salute, then to be
dropped out of Jeanne's thoughts, to know that her room was
nightly locked against him, to feel his tender devotion thrust
back into his face, as if love were an outrage that was the
great banker's home-life. Better, he thought, as he sometimes
brooded behind the marble balustrade and watched the pass-
ing trains, to hurl his quivering body under those roaring wheels.
But the poor wretch would yet linger, for he sometimes per-
mitted his heart to hope that marble might soften into flesh.

One day Eline received a note from Madame Autheman
asking her to attend a meeting at Hall B, Avenue des Ternes.
The curiosity of mother and daughter led them to accept. A
dreary shop turned into a prayer-room, deal benches, a queer, ill-
assorted audience, with the gaunt fanatic, Anne de Beuil, beat-
ing time to shrill hymns and the statue-like Madame Authe-
man, watching everything with cold, gray eyes the ensemble
was not inspiring. The high priestess deduced with withering
logic from her arid premises that there were no consistent Chris-
tians now, no more devotees suffering and struggling for Christ;
but instead of that, mumbled prayers and easy sacrifices costing

164 THE EVANGELIST

nothing. Then young Nicholas, a lad from the Port-Sau-
veur schools, his young-old face etched with vice and ignoble
instinct, with a sing-song whine intoned a pious profession,
gesticulating with the license of a street gamin and winking
with a cunning leer. Then Watson of Cardiff, an apparition
with bloodshot eyes, took part in the show, feline had been
motioned by the stage-director to assume a seat on the plat-
form, and translate the story into French. The demented
creature had deserted her husband and children, after one had
been drowned, that she might give her testimony for an inex-
orable and jealous God. feline shuddered as she fluently trans-
lated, to the delight of her doting but shallow mother; yet the
fascination of the scene sank into her soul and she felt the in-
fection of the hysteric creature panting out its crazy babble,
as if it were a hypnotic spell.

Soon afterward the Ebsen household was again visited by
Madame Autheman. feline was absent, but the great lady
made a proposition to utilize the accomplished young girl's
talents in her schools, for which she would pay double what
could be earned anywhere else by teaching. To Madame
Ebsen it appeared a windfall, and the arrangement was made.

A terrible conflict had already begun to rage in feline's soul,
as if a monster had raised its head from unknown depths. With
her growing absorption in Madame Autheman's propaganda,
feline becam ecold and abstracted from the things which had
formerly given her all the joy of accomplished duty. She re-
turned every night to her home, but with a physical lassitude
which betrayed the exhaustion of battle. The prattle of Fanny
irritated hen and the little girl said sobbingly to her father:
"Mamma feline no longer loves me." She listened to M.
Lorie's talk about their coming marriage, as if she hardly
knew the meaning of his words. At last she peremptorily said
to her fianc6 that, unless he and his children accepted her re-
ligious faith they were Catholics there could be no marriage.
The distracted man went for advice to the good old Aussandon,
who united the robust sense of the man of the world with the
piety of the Christian.

"Oh! yes, I know her, that Jeanne Autheman ... a
woman who breaks and tears the closest ties, a creature with-

ALPHONSE DAUDET 165

out heart, without pity. . . . Warn the mother. . . . See that
she takes Lina away at once . . . from this living death, from
this devourer of souls, who is as cold as a ghoul in the cemetery."
That is what the old man thought and longed to say, but he did
not, as he caught the warning glance of his more prudent wife.

At last line remained altogether at the Autheman retreat
except at rare intervals; and Madame Ebscn received a letter
from her saying that God had called her and that thenceforward
till the day of probation was over they could not see each other,
but only communicate occasionally by letter. The distracted
mother hastened to Port-Sauveur, and with difficulty secured
an interview with Madame Autheman, who quoted to her
pious phrases from sermons and tracts with the monition: "It
is you, wretched woman, that line wishes to save. Your deep
sorrow is the beginning of salvation." She had fainted at the
chateau gate; but finally found her way to Sylvanire's cottage,
where she was ill a week before returning to Paris, bent on in-
voking the intervention of public justice. At the very time that
the mother had sought her at the chateau, line, on the eve of
departure to carry on the Work, was, day after day, alternating
between the convulsions of religious ecstasy and the agony of
sundering her dearest ties. Almost mad as she tossed in the
darkness, she would put out her hand for the sleeping-draught
prepared for her and sink into a prolonged coma.

Madame Ebscn appealed to her friends, such as the Countess
d'Arlat and Baroness Gerspach, to intervene through their hus-
bands' political and social influence. Tears and sympathy were
profuse; but the name, Madame Autheman, with the great
banking-house behind, paralyzed all effort on the part of the
men. She was at last introduced by the Countess to the great
lawyer, Monsieur Raveraud, who heard her story with a burst
of fierce indignation. This reached its climax when she showed
him a vial discovered among filine's things since her departure.
It had been analyzed and found to be an extract bringing on
stupor and convulsions. "Who is this monster?" asked the
lawyer. The answer, "Madame Autheman," chilled his ar-
dor, and he advised her to apply to the Danish Consul, a rich
manufacturer, Monsieur Desnos. But he, too, when he heard
the magical name, grew cold. He could not listen to such

166 THE EVANGELIST

calumny. The honor of the Authemans was the backbone of
commercial Paris. Everywhere Madame Ebsen went it was
either disbelief or the "no" of sordid business policy. The
last news she received from filine was a postcard, marked
Jersey, with the heartless words from one who once had the
tenderest of hearts: "These trials draw you every day nearer
to God. As for me, my sole concern is for your salvation and
my own. I must live far from the world and keep myself from
evil." She was weeping over this at the window when she
saw the noble white head of Monsieur Aussandon in his garden.
"I am going to preach to-morrow in the Oratory. It is for you.
. . . Come and hear me," he said.

The good dean had not been able to stifle his conscience.
He resolved to trumpet the affaire Ebsen from the pulpit of
God, regardless of all consequences to self. The great church
was packed, for it was Communion Sunday, and the Oratory
was the Protestant cathedral of Paris. The preacher painted
the outlines of the case with pathetic eloquence and force.
When he came to speak of the pitiless woman, who sheltered
herself and her deeds behind a respectable name and a colossal
fortune, all knew it to be an indictment of Madame Autheman,
who sat, an impassive listener, before him. The thunders of
his denunciation rang through the arches, yet there was scarcely
a flush on her face. When he dispensed the sacramental bread,
he paused before this human statue and said, with a tense whis-
per and a piercing eye: "Where is Lina?" Silence. Again
he put the query. "I know not. . . . God has taken her."
"Retire," was the stern rejoinder, "you are unworthy. There
is nothing for you at the table of the Lord." With serene, hard
eyes, proud and erect in figure, Madame Aulheman, after this
insult, disappeared in the audience, far less agitated than the
pastor. Bonne, his wife, met him in the robing-room, and,
prudent woman as she was, approved him with streaming eyes.
She had not known his intention. Let the authorities dismiss
him, if they would; her heart would still rejoice in the castiga-
tion of that robber of the soul.

M. Autheman adored his wife with a passion which nothing
could quench. To her he was but the miner's pick, the car-
penter's chisel, the mason's trowel. Despair convulsed hi&

ALPHONSE DAUDET 167

spirit before this iceberg, that yet consumed him with fire.
One day he sought her in the chateau garden with anguish in
his burning eyes, and heard her say, "The soul that wishes to
be united to God must forget all created things, all perishable
persons," as he burst into her presence. The attendant was
ordered to retire, and the man poured out his soul at the feet of
the woman. It was a volcanic gush of ardor and tenderness.
He besought her to be his loving wife or he would die. A blush
stained her pallor at the insult and she exclaimed: "Enough!
not another word. I thought you understood me. God and
my work! Nothing else exists for me."

The express train an hour later stopped to investigate a mass
of mangled flesh which clogged the metals. It was identified
by a silk bandage concealing an enormous wen, on what seemed
to be a human head. Yet the shock which perturbed the
Parisian world at the accident to the great banker did not
prevent the widow from writing to filine Ebsen, that she must
return at once to her mother for a little, to allay rumor and
suspicion, as the newspapers had begun to spread scandal.

Madame Ebsen's delight in seeing her daughter again was
short-lived. Kline's face was pale and haggard, and on it were
etched the marks of weariness and suffering. Her answers to
questions as to her wanderings were vague and embarrassed,
as if she had been in a dream, and they would more often take
the shape of Biblical quotations than of plain statements.
Madame Ebsen would go to her room at night and find her
kneeling on the rug, at which filine would say harshly: "Leave
me with God, mother." Her eyes had the hard, vacant stare of
a somnambulist. Little Fanny she looked at as if she were a
stranger. Her whole manner was that of one performing a
difficult and enforced duty, and awaiting some order of libera-
tion. Three weeks thus dragged themselves by when one day
the girl appeared dressed for travel. "I can save you only by
tearing myself away," she said mechanically, as she allowed
icy lips to touch her mother's cheek. "It is for our salvation."

She departed, and Madame Ebsen never saw nor heard from
her again.

THE IMMORTAL (1888)

This novel was published as a serial in L? Illustration, May 5 to July 7,
1888, and soon thereafter in book form. Being a sweeping and trenchant
attack upon the French Academy, the self -perpetuating body of forty authors,
known as "The Immortals," founded by Cardinal Richelieu, it at once
called forth a storm of criticism. Defenders of the Academy, such as Mon-
sieur Brunetiere, charged that Daudet had written the novel out of revenge
for being excluded from the institution. In reply the author prefixed to the
subsequent editions of his work the following quotation from a letter he had
written in 1883 to Figaro: "I am not now a candidate, I never have been a
candidate, and I never shall be a candidate for the Academy." The incident
of the forged letters foisted on the historian Astier-Re'hu by Fage, the book-
binder, is founded on an occurrence in real life. Monsieur Michel Chasles, a
distinguished geometrician, produced between 1867 and 1869 certain auto-
graph manuscripts which gave evidence that Pascal should have all the
credit for the great discoveries of Newton. The discussion which arose over
these documents ended in the disclosure that M. Chasles had been for eight
years the dupe of a forger named Vrain-Lucas, who had sold him twenty-seven
thousand spurious documents for one hundred and forty thousand francs.
Among the manuscripts were letters purporting to be from Lazarus and Mary
Magdalen to St. Peter, from Pythagoras to ^schylus and Sappho, and from
Cleopatra to Caesar, and a passport from Vercingetorix, all written in old French!

IDER the title ASTIER-REHU, in the Dictionary
of Contemporary Celebrities, edition of 1880, we
read the following:

"AsxiER, otherwise ASTIER-REHU, Leonard,
born in 1816 at Sauvagnat (Puy-de-D6me) of a
family of humble farmers, displayed in early
childhood a rare aptitude for history. His par-
ents made great sacrifices to give him an aca-
demic education. He began his studies at the
college of Riom and completed them at Louis-le-Grand, whither
he was destined to return later as professor of history. His
first published work, an Essay on Marcus AureUus, was crowned
by the French Academy; and the young student was encouraged
thereby to go to Paris and devote himself to historical author-
ship. He published in rapid succession The Great Ministers
of Louis XIV (crowned by the Academy), Bonaparte and the

1 68

ALPHONSE DAUDET 169

Concordat (crowned by the Academy), and the admirable In-
troduction to the History of the House of Orleans, that noble
gateway to the work to which the historian was to give twenty
years of his life. Then the Academy, having no more crowns
to offer him, chose him to a seat among its elect. He was al-
ready, in a certain sense, in the family of the Immortals, having
married Adelaide Rhu, granddaughter of Jean Rhu, the
venerable dean of the Academy, whose hale old age, verging
upon one hundred, is the admiration of the Institute.

" Professor Astier-Re*hu announces for early publication an
Unknown Galileo, based upon most interesting documents
hitherto unpublished. All of his works are for sale by Petit-
Se*quard, at the publishing house of the Academy."

The authenticity of this account is beyond question, since it
is the practise of the editor of the Dictionary of Celebrities to
allow each subject to prepare his own notice.

The same could not be said, however, of the documents
upon which the monographs of the historian were based. Schol-
ars of other lands scouted his claim to erudition (Mommsen in
one of his notes has written ineptissimus vir Astier-R6hu), and
refused to accept his authorities as genuine. Even in France
Astier had his detractors. Baron Huchenard, a famous auto-
graphile, spread widely the rumor that many of the documents
upon whose possession Astier particularly prided himself were
clumsy forgeries in particular, three letters, from Charles the
Fifth to Rabelais, wherein the Emperor addresses the author as
Maitre, instead of Frbre. However, Astier had many warm
friends who stoutly contended that it is just such slips as this
which prove authenticity. Indeed, they succeeded in placing
on the minutes of the Academy an indorsement of this princi-
ple of paleography in the case of a letter from Rotrou to Car-
dinal Richelieu concerning the Academy, which was presented
to it by Astier-Rhu, and had been objected to as spurious,
because of inherent errors.

Professor Astier had stumbled upon what was apparently
an inexhaustible mine of autographic wealth, which was guarded
by a gnome who doled it out piecemeal at prices that kept the
collector and his family continually pinched for living expenses.
Albin Fage was the name of the treasure's guardian. He was

I7 o THE IMMORTAL

a hunchback; by vocation a bookbinder, and by avocation a
lady-killer. Pretty actresses and handsome women of the demi-
monde seemed infatuated with his wizen face and distorted
figure.

Page had first called upon Professor Astier shortly after an
announcement by Petit-Squard that a monograph on Galileo
was in preparation by the distinguished historian. He diffi-
dently explained that he was an ignorant bookbinder, who had
been engaged by a maiden lady of noble birth but in reduced
circumstances to prepare for sale certain old manuscripts which
seemed to be of rare value. As some of the documents related
to Galileo, he had come to the acknowledged authority upon
that subject to find whether they were genuine. If Professor
Astier gave a favorable opinion he purposed selling the letters to
Baron Huchenard, the rich collector.

They were indeed treasures correspondence between Maria
de' Medici and Pope Urban VIII, concerning the heretic who
was overturning the foundations of belief by his astounding
theory that the earth moved about the sun.

Astier at once said : " You need not go to Huchenard. Bring
me all the manuscripts you have concerning Galileo. I will
buy them."

And when the monograph on the Italian philosopher was
finished, Fage brought other manuscripts which very well fell
in with whatever work was engaging at the time the historian's
attention. Astier never had a doubt as to their authenticity.
The venomous observations of Huchenard upon his Galileo he
laid to the jealousy of a disappointed collector. He stinted his
family to buy one treasure after another. If his wife had only
known what these repeated calls of the bookbinder meant!

For Madame Astier was hard pressed for other than house-
hold outlays. Paul, the only child, was an architect, who, on
the pretense of furthering his professional ambitions, was living
in extravagant style, far beyond his earnings. He was a hand-
some, athletic young fellow and knew how to make the most
of his attractions with women, his mother among the rest. He
was the great passion of her life. She had married Leonard
Astier as a coming academician and not as a man. The affec-
tion which at different stages in other women is given to lover,

ALPHONSE DAUDET 171

to husband, to child, she reserved for her son and poured it out
upon him alone. She could deny him nothing.

To provide Paul with money she was, unknown to him,
acting as matrimonial agent for a certain Prince d'Athis, for-
merly known as Monsieur Samy, endeavoring to procure a wife
for him in the person of a recently bereaved young widow of
enormous wealth, the Princess Colette von Rosen. Samy for
fourteen years had been the openly accepted lover of Maria
Antonia, Duchess of Padovani, a Corsican noblewoman of
mature age but well-preserved charms, who lived apart from
her husband. To her were due all of Samy's honors; she had
bought for him his title from a petty Italian state; and, through
her connection with royalty, and by her shrewd but not flatter-
ing advice always to look wise and keep silent, he had risen to
high position in the diplomatic service, receiving only recently
appointment as Ambassador to Russia. Now he needed a rich
wife to support the new position. He preferred a young widow
to a divorcee of middle age if indeed the Duchess were willing
to seek a legal separation from her husband, whose tide, if not
person, she prized. Certainly Prince d'Athis did not question
her upon this subject. She had taught him to say nothing.
He merely prepared to drop her when his marriage with the
Princess von Rosen had been definitely decided upon.

This royal lady, however, was still in the depths of bereave-
ment. She had employed Paul Astier to build a mausoleum
to her dear Herbert in Pere Lachaise, where she was in frequent
consultation with the handsome young architect. For consul-
tation with his clients, especially when they were beautiful
young women, was Paul's specialty. He had a sculptor named
Wdrine to supply him with ideas and to do the work on his
jobs.

Before these consultations began, Madame Astier had been
making satisfactory progress in her mission. By carefully
graduated depreciation of the dead Prince, she had brought his
widow to note the contrast to him in many respects which the
live Prince presented. Soon Colette agreed that D'Athis alone
could induce her to renounce her widowhood. But suddenly
she changed, and ordered Madame Astier never again to men-
tion marriage to her. Her heart was in her husband's tomb.

i 7 2 THE IMMORTAL

And this expression was true in the letter if not in spirit.
Unknown to his mother, Paul had conceived the idea of bringing
the whole of the Von Rosen millions into the Astier family, in-
stead of a mere broker's commission thereon. So he brought
all his practised arts in feminine conquest to bear on the widow
with such success that it was to meet the fascinating young
architect rather than to commune with the memory of "dear
Herbert" that she daily frequented the unfinished mausoleum.

Mother and son were thus playing at cross purposes. He
believed that he might bridge the social gap between himself
and the Princess by entering her world as a brilliant and suc-
cessful architect. To do this he required money. So he asked
his mother to get for him by hook or crook twenty thousand
francs. With her matrimonial plans for D'Athis blocked by
the very purpose for which the money was wanted (though of
this purpose she was ignorant) she was in despair. Where
could she raise such a large sum? Ah, her husband's manu-
scripts!

That night she slipped from the side of her snoring spouse,
rifled his pockets of his keys, and robbed his collection of its
latest and chief acquisition, the letters of Charles the Fifth to
"Maitre" Rabelais. Early next morning she took them to
Monsieur Bos, a dealer in antiquities. Because of the public
controversy over their authenticity between Astier-Rhu and
Baron Huchenard, Bos knew that the Baron would pay a high
price for them, whether genuine or not indeed, that he would
prefer them to prove spurious. So he readily paid Madame
Astier the twenty thousand francs she required.

After she had placed the money irretrievably in the hands of
Paul, Madame Astier openly confessed her theft to her hus-
band. He stormed savagely at wife and son, and threatened
to expose them. They dared him to do his worst. "What?
air a family scandal the man who expects to step into the sine-
cure of Perpetual Secretary of the French Academy when the
present incumbent, now on his death-bed, shall have expired?
Ridiculous!" So the trunk which the historian packed for
going back to Sauvagnat and leaving them in their infamy, re-
mained in the hall for a month, until, at a wink from her mis-
tress, Corentine, the servant, dumped the clothing out of it, and,

ALPHONSE DAUDET 173

unopposed by the master, restored it to its former office of wood-
box.

With the twenty thousand francs Paul made a brilliant dis-
play in society, and greatly impressed the young Princess von
Rosen with his importance. In their meetings at the tomb of
the Prince, the widow gave indications that she was coming to
look upon the handsome architect as a possible successor to
that empty bed which was represented by the granite sarcoph-
agus a bare couch within a tent awaiting the warrior that
was never to return. One day she came in advance of Paul's
arrival. She entered the tomb and kneeled at a prie-dieu be-
fore a Gothic cross. It was sweet to pray there in the cool dusk
of the mausoleum, amid the black marbles whereon Prince
Herbert's name stood forth with all his titles opposite verses
from the " Song of Songs."

She heard the step of the architect without on the gravel.
It was beginning to rain, but he did not enter. She ap-
proved this evidence of his delicacy of feeling. She called to
him:

"Monsieur Paul, pray come in."

He replied, very low :

"I cannot you love him too dearly."

She went outside and, taking his hand, drew him within.
They stood by the sarcophagus looking out through the rain
upon the old Paris of the dead. The flowers filled the air with
a fresh and penetrating fragrance brought out by the shower.
Man and woman stood so still and silent, like mortuary stat-
u"fcs, that a little rust-colored bird hopped in, shook its feathers,
and began pecking for worms between the flag-stones.

"It is a nightingale," said Paul, under his breath; "the
bird of"

"Love," her lips moved to say in completing the sentence,
but her voice refused to sound.

He seized her, and, sittiijg upon the edge of the granite bed,
drew her down upon his knee; then, putting her head back, he
pressed upon her parted lips a slow, deep kiss, which she
passionately returned. "Because love is stronger than death,"
said the verse of the Sulamite, written on the marble wall above
them.

174 THE IMMORTAL

It was in the Turkish bath of the "Keyser Hydropathic
Establishment," whither he was wont to resort, that there fell
upon Paul Astier's soul, glowing with his conquest, the sudden
douche of cold disillusionment. Lavaux, scandal-monger of
the Academy circle, pointed out to him a lean, stooping figure,
in an ample india-rubber cap which concealed the features,
coming up from the tank.

" There's Samy. He comes here every day to rejuvenate
himself. Going to marry a young wife, you know. The Prin-
cess left to-day for St. Petersburg. Tried to keep it secret for
some reason, but I know. He follows to-morrow. Will be
married there at the Embassy."

Paul had an instinctive feeling of disaster.

"The Princess! Whom is he going to marry?"

"Why, Colette, of course. Don't you know? They say
your mother arranged it."

Paul Astier, naked as the primitive man, was seized with
a brute impulse to pounce on the stooping form of the retreating
Prince, who was, as it were, running away with the fortune he
had thought in his own hands, and to wrench from him an
explanation. Then the second thought of civilized, sophisti-
cated man came to him, and he decided first to see his mother,
have it out with her, and get his exact bearings. He found her
with the Duchess Padovani in the latter's box at the Com&lie
Franf aise. Mother and son conversed in undertones.

"Answer me plainly," he began. "Prince d'Athis is to be
married?"

"Yes, the Duchess found it out yesterday. But she came
none the less. These Corsicans are so proud."

"And the woman's name?"

"Why, Colette, of course. Didn't you suspect it?"

"Not the least in the world. How much do you get for
this?"

"Two hundred thousand," she whispered triumphantly.
"She almost backed out at the last moment, but I had com-
mitted her too deeply for her to do so without scandal."

"Well, your intriguing has cost me twenty millions! twenty
millions and the woman!" he crushed her wrists, and hissed,
"Meddler!"

ALPHONSE DAUDET 175

The next day Paul sought out D'Athis, insulted him on
some trivial pretext, and accepted his challenge to a duel with
rapiers. Astier was an accomplished swordsman. His ex-
pectation that he would kill the Prince, an older and weaker
man than he, was as certain as his determination to do so. In
the encounter he was pressing his antagonist hard, when fate,
contrary to all anticipation, all logic, took a hand, and, hidden
in the cloud by which the attendant god in Homeric combat is
enshrouded, dealt a final blow to the seeming victor. The fresh
young athlete was spitted by the worn-out rout.

The surgeon examined the wound. "A close shave to the
carotid. You'll be all right in three weeks."

The Prince went home in Paul's hired caliche, courteously
leaving his own more comfortable carriage to convey the wounded
man and his second. In the coup Paul reflected upon the
situation. The Princess was hopelessly lost to him; but what
of the Duchess? His eyes flashed; he would yet retrieve him-
self. He scrawled upon one of his visiting cards: "Fate is as
treacherous as men are. I tried to avenge you. I failed.
Forgive me." He signed his name. When the carriage was
passing a grocery store, he had the driver stop and procure an
envelope, a shocking affair, adorned with flowers. He ad-
dressed it "Duchess Padovani," enclosed the card within it,
and begged his second to post it at once.

The sword-thrust which nearly killed Paul brought peace
between his parents. Moreover, prosperity had at last come
to them. Loisillon, Perpetual Secretary of the Academy, was
deatl, and Professor Astier had been appointed in his stead.
The family moved into the commodious secretarial apartments
at the Institute. To Madame Astier, who found souvenirs of
her childhood in every paving-stone in the courtyard, it was like
coming home after a long absence. To Professor Astier it was
the culmination of his ambition. He at once began preparing
a second edition of his House of Orleans, that he might intro-
duce in it a number of his newly discovered documents, and
might place beneath his name on the title-page, "Perpetual
Secretary of the French Academy."

He sat writing a letter one day, enthusiastically recounting

176 THE IMMORTAL

the new glory and power he had achieved to a former pupil of his
professorial days, and a present protg&. This was Abel de
Freydet, a minor poet, known to the scoffing authors outside
of the Academy as the "perpetual candidate " from his repeated
and unsuccessful efforts to secure an election to that august
body.

"My dear pupil," he wrote, "my recent appointment has
made me all-powerful in the Academy. I shall be able to block
once and for all the absurd attempt of my detractor, Baron
Huchenard, to force his way into our honored circle. And it is
you who shall fill the vacant chair; for at last I am in a position
to fulfil my promise. You may safely count upon the votes of
your old professor and his friends, who now constitute a major-
ity"

At this point the door of the study was burst in by M.
Bos, who had bought from Madame Astier the letters of Charles
the Fifth. With haggard face and arms in air, the dealer cried
out: "The letters are forged! I have proofs of it proofs!"

Baron Huchenard entered behind the excited man. He
unbuttoned his coat and drew forth the letters in question.
They had been bleached from their former smoky hue to dead
white. On each was clearly legible this water-mark :

BB

Angouleme
1836

"Delpech, the chemist, " began the Baron.

"The twenty thousand francs will be at your house this
evening, Monsieur Bos," said the professor.

"But Monsieur le Baron gave me twenty-two thousand/'
whined Bos.

"Very well, twenty-two thousand," said Astier-R6hu, and
bowed him out. He detained the Baron, and begged him to
say nothing of the unfortunate affair.

"Certainly not, my dear master that is, on one condition."

"What is it? what is it?"

"I am a candidate for Loisillon's chair, and "

The Perpetual Secretary grasped the Baron by the hand and
pledged him the votes of himself and friends.

ALPHONSE DAUDET 177

Alone, Astier-R^hu sat stunned in the midst of his manu-
scripts. There were thousands of them, and they had cost him
hundreds of thousands of francs. All came from the same
source. All were undoubtedly forged. And his books, founded
on these documents oh, the thought of them was intolerable!
He would die with the shame of it.

The next morning he went to Page's bindery; but the forger,
who had evidently heard of Delpech's investigations, had flown.

On the day following the performance at which she had
shown a smiling face, despite her lover's desertion, the Duchess
Padovani left Paris for her estate at Mousseaux. For two days
her fierce Corsican temper plotted all sorts of schemes for ven-
geance upon the man whom she had lifted as high as she could,
only to find herself spurned and prostrated in the last upward
spring that landed him beyond her reach. On the third day
came Paul's note, and newspapers containing an account of
the duel. She had something like the joyous sensation of an
embrace. Noble, gallant boy! She sent him her physician,
and invited him to come to Mousseaux as soon as he was recov-
ered. She decided to reconstruct her chateau in order to give
him employment.

When, one evening, three weeks later, the young architect
put in an appearance, still pale from his wound, she could not
wait until morning but entered his apartment to pour forth her
pent-up woes.

She paced the room like a tigress. "Think of it!" she cried,
in a broken voice, "twelve years of my life to such a man!
And now he has no further use for me, and leaves me it is he,
he, who has broken it off!" Her pride rebelled at the idea,
and she strode from the broad, low bed, within the shadow of
whose old-fashioned curtains Paul reclined, resting from his
journey, and the luminous circle of the central hanging-lamp,
asking herself aloud the reasons for the rupture. Was it that
little fooFs fortune? As if she, too, had not great wealth. She
would rebuild her chateau with such magnificence that the
fame of it would spread to St. Petersburg, and taunt the am-
bassador with the thought of what he had lost. Was it in-
fluence? As if the widow of a German princeling, herself a
A.D., VOL, vi. 12

178 THE IMMORTAL

nobody, could compare with a duchess connected by blood
with half the royalty of Europe. What was it, then? Youth?
She gave a savage laugh. "Ha! poor little fool! little he cared
for her youth!"

"So I imagine," murmured Paul, sitting up upon the edge
of the bed. This was the sore point; she dwelt upon it as if to
cause herself pain. Youth! does a woman's age depend on the
almanac? Standing underneath the lamp, within the full glow
of its radiance, she turned toward Paul and impulsively, with
both hands, put aside her lace peignoir from her firm, beautiful
neck, her fair and rounded breast. "There," she exclaimed
to the young man, who had risen and was drawing near her,
"there is where women show their youth."

She had come in a rage of grief and jealousy and wounded
pride, thinking only of vengeance on her recreant lover; her
impetuous action was not, as Paul was justified in thinking, an
intended invitation to him. But she was in a mood to be won
by his bold advances; the old love died, the desire for vengeance
faded away; and the mercenary architect had secured his prize.
She loved him.

A few days later news came of the death in Corsica of the
Duke of Padovani. Within a month thereafter his widow
married her architect.

The French Academy was in a ferment of excitement. A
morning paper had printed in full a scathing report of the
Academy at Florence on Astier-Rehu's Galileo, charging that
the documents on which the monograph was based were im-
pudent and farcical forgeries. The historian had promised
to reply at a meeting of the French Academy in the evening.
When his confreres assembled, he rose in his place and said :

" Messieurs, I have unpleasant news for you. I have sub-
mitted to experts the twelve thousand and odd autographs
which compose what I called my collection. Messieurs, they
are all forged, every one. The Academy of Florence told the
truth. I am the victim of a most extensive fraud."

The speaker wiped his brow, on which stood great drops of
perspiration. There was silence in the hall. Each member
thought: "How shall we escape the odium of this disclosure?"

ALPHONSE DAUDET 179

Answering this universal query, deaf old Rhu, the centenarian,
illumined by one of those curious flashes of divination which
sometimes come to the most hopeless cases of deafness, arose
and said:

"Under the Restoration we turned out eleven members for
purely political reasons."

One cynical member observed: "All organized bodies are
cowardly; it's the law of nature; we must live."

At this juncture Picheral, the secretary, forestalled the im-
minent action of the Academy by reading an extract from its
former minutes, in which that most palpable of the forgeries,
the letter from Rotrou to Cardinal Richelieu, was officially de-
fended by the body. "You see," he observed, "we shall cut a
very poor figure visiting our wrath on our unfortunate confrere. 99
Then, turning to the Perpetual Secretary, he adjured him to
forego the scandal of a prosecution.

But Astier-Rhu was set in his determination to punish
Fage, who had been found by the police and was incar-
cerated :

"You talk of ridicule! Why, the Academy is far too ex-
alted to fear anything of the sort. As for me, ruined, scoffed
at as I am, I shall at least have the proud satisfaction of having
plated my name, my work, and the dignity of history beyond
reach of calumny. I ask no more."

The trial of Fage, the little imp that had made fools of the
learned Academy, was one of the notable events of the season.
Every order of society was represented in its audience and all
wtre convulsed with laughter as letters of kings, popes, em-
perors, too clumsily concocted to deceive even a child, were
read in evidence. The little hunchback was well salted: five
years' imprisonment; but how funny his advocate was! His
sly gibes at the learned historian and his confreres were more
amusing than a play. Marguerite Oger, the leading actress
of the day, was present; she laughed as in the second act of
Musidora: "Oh! children! children!"

Astier-Rfliu returned home at dusk with that insulting
laughter ringing in his ears. "Laugh, laugh, ye baboons!
posterity will judge!" He consoled himself thus as he crept
up-stairs to his study. There he discovered an indistinct figure

i8o THE IMMORTAL

by the window. It was his wife waiting to add the last possible
insults to his load of humiliation:

" You would have your way, and bring Page to trial. Now
you are covered with ridicule mired with it from head to foot,
so you will never dare show yourself again. Oh! it was very
fine to shriek that your son was dishonoring the name of Astier
by marrying an old woman for her money; but thanks to you
that name has become the synonym of fatuous credulity no
one will mention it without a laugh. And all to save your his-
torical work. Fool! who knows or cares anything about your
historical work? You know very well that nobody reads what
you write. Why, it was not your books that got you in the
Academy. It was I, by my intrigues, by my endurance of the
disgusting advances of lecherous old men, who secured your
election. Why, your remark that my violets always smelled
of tobacco, though you never smoked, has made you more
famous than all your books!"

The broken man made a feeble attempt to assert his au-
thority.

The virago continued: "Oh, nobody minds your bluster.
Pack your trunk once for all. Leave us. Paul is rich and
will send you money; for you will never find a publisher after
this who will look at your twaddle. So your son's 'dishonor'
will keep you from starving to death!"

"This is too much," muttered the poor man, and left the
room. He finds his way to the Pont des Arts, where the cool
air from the water revives his benumbed faculties. At the end
of the bridge he sees a black mass in the darkness, surmounted
by a dome. It is the Academy. Thither he had gone in
search of a wife, without love, simply to gain admission within
its portals and now he knows how he gained it!

The veil has fallen. He would like to cry out with a hun-
dred voices to the young men of France: "The Academy is a
fraud, a mirage! Do your work and make your way outside
of it. It has nothing to give you of what you do not bring to it
neither talent, nor fame, nor self-content. They who turn to
it in distress embrace naught but a shadow and emptiness
emptiness."

When they drew his body from the water the next day, the

ALPHONSE DAUDET 181

clenched teeth and the fierce protruding jaw, which had pro-
cured for him the nickname of "Crocodilus" among his pupils,
told of his stern determination to die.

The first to recognize the corpse was Freydet, the "per-
petual candidate," who had sacrificed his estate, his budding
fame as a poet, even the life of his sister, who, an invalid, wore
herself out entertaining Academicians in his behalf, in his
attempts to become one of the "Immortals." Though Astier-
Rhu had broken his pledge to vote for his former pupil by
joining in the election of Baron Huchenard to fill the latest
vacancy, Freydet was on his way to express to his old master
his love and loyalty in the hour of anguish.

Nevertheless, as Freydet wiped from his eyes his tears for
the dead man, he thought deep down in his heart, not withou/
a sense of shame, that another chair was vacant.

ROSE AND NINETTE (1892)

The author heads this story with a quotation from Alfred de Vigny, as
follows: "After clearly perceiving that study of books and striving after nicety
of language merely lead us into paradoxes, I have resolved never to make any
sacrifices save in favor of conviction and truth, in order that a complete and
profound sincerity shall dominate my works, and lend them that consecrated
character which the divine presence of the truth ought to give, that character
which makes tears come to our eyes when a child bears witness to what it has
seen."

^IFTEEN days after his divorce, Rgis de Fagan
was expecting his daughters, Rose and Ninette,
to spend the day with him, as the law permitted
them to spend two Sundays every month with
their father. Rose was sixteen and Ninette
nearly twelve.

With those two days every month he felt that
he could retain the love of his children. They
came in suddenly, looking to him taller and more
womanly than when he last saw them. He was agitated as he
helped them to take off their jackets and hats. The children
were a little embarrassed; but of course he was still their father,
although he was no longer the husband of their mother. He
was to take them to the Theatre Franf ais to see one of his plays.
Madame de Fagan, or, rather, Madame Ravaut, as she pre-
ferred to call herself by her maiden name, had warned the chil-
dren that they must not talk about her to their father, or give
him any information regarding her plans. Rose was ingenuous
and thoughtless, but Ninette was shrewd and sharp.

In the dining-room there was a bouquet at each plate,
placed there by Madame Hulin, the landlady, as De Fagan ex-
plained. She was a widow and lived on the ground floor with
her little boy. Rgis learned from the conversation of his daugh-
ters that "Cousin" had taken them to the Opra Comique.
" Cousin " was a forbidden subject. They told their father

182

ALPHONSE DAUDET 183

they were glad to leave the convent, and he expressed surprise,
as they had always been glad to return. But that was because
of the quarrels between their parents. Fagan saw that Madame
Ravaut meant to win the hearts of her daughters in order to
make him unhappy.

Maurice Hulin called to them from the garden to come
down and play with him, and Fagan urged them to go down
and meet Madame Hulin, the mother, but they would not.

Fagan and Pauline Hulin became very friendly, and he often
passed the evening with her. She wondered at the quiet life he
led he, a successful dramatist. He told her that actresses
did not attract him; they were too artificial. He went on to
speak of his wife, how she liked going about to all the theaters,
her love of petty gossip, her indifference to his happiness. When
Madame Hulin referred to his divorce he related the truth:
they were tired of each other, and Counselor de Malville said
there must be proofs in order to obtain a divorce; so a scandal
was arranged, and he was found at a hotel with a woman.

Perhaps the friendship of Madame de Fagan and her cousin,
La Posterolle, would have furnished proofs enough for a divorce;
but he had encouraged the young man to come to the house, and
if a woman is blamed the odium falls upon her daughters. He
was thankful to be rid of an abominable woman; she was false
in every way, and she lied persistently, lied without reason, tell-
ing the most abominable falsehoods about everybody. Then
she had pretended he was intimate with a perverted woman
whom he had never seen; and she appeared so unhappy that her
friends advised her to get a divorce.

One day the two young girls asked their father to increase
the allowance made to their mother, and when he refused they
said it was for their clothes. They spoke of a marriage, and
Fagan asked if Madame Ravaut intended to marry "Cousin."
The girls were embarrassed and did not answer. Fagan was
angry and jealous; he feared they might become more fond of
La Posterolle than of himself. He showed his anger like the
Creole that he was, then suddenly became calm.

He met Madame Ravaut by appointment in the Avenue de
1'Observatoire to discuss her marriage. She told him that it
was not decided; but it would give her a good social position,

184 ROSE AND NINETTE

and opportunities to marry their daughters well. She promised
she would not take them away from Paris. She advised him to
many, and said it was a pity that Madame Hulin was not free;
she was separated from her husband. Fagan had believed her
a widow. On his return home he learned that Maurice was ill,
and that Madame Hulin had sent for a surgeon. Later he
heard a dispute on the floor below, and opened his door. An
angry man was leaving the house; he was abusive and slammed
the door. Fagan went into the drawing-room and saw Madame
Hulin. She told him that the man was her husband, and that
she had left him because he was brutally jealous. In a fit of
jealous anger he had expressed doubt as to their son's legitimacy,
and thrown him on the floor. After that she obtained a separa-
tion, and Counselor de Malville gave the father the right to
direct the education of the child after he should reach the age of
ten years. That evening he had come to inquire for the child,
and approached her while she was with the boy; when she re-
fused to have anything to do with him he became angry and
abusive. Fagan told her she should get a divorce and marry
again, but she said she would never ask for a divorce.

Madame Ravaut understood the character of her daughters,
and knew how to arouse ill feeling toward their father; Rose was
jealous of Madame Hulin taking any place in her father's heart;
Ninette was encouraged to believe that Fagan would adopt
Maurice and leave him a fortune.

Madame Ravaut married Monsieur La Posterolle, and a
few weeks later the bridegroom was made Prefect in Corsica.
Three months later Madame La Posterolle was giving a ball
at the prefecture in Ajaccio. A note from Rdgis was brought to
Rose, who took it to her mother. Rgis was at the H6tel de
France waiting to see his daughters, and if they did not come
in half an hour he would go to the prefecture for them. Rose
and Ninette, with Mademoiselle, their governess, went to see
their father, whom they met affectionately, but remonstrated
gently with him for his imprudence in coming to Ajaccio. No
one knew of the divorce, and it might interfere with Rose's
marriage if it were known. A Monsieur Rmory, a deputy at
Bastia, had made proposals of marriage.

Rdgis spent his days in his room, and in the evening met his

ALPHONSE DAUDET 185

daughters and their governess on the beach. Madame La Pos-
terolle was to give a fancy-dress and mask ball on Shrove Tues-
day; Pagan regretted that he was to sail for home on that day,
and so could not see his daughters in their costumes. He sailed
as he intended, but a violent storm coming up, the steamer was
much disabled, and was obliged to return to Ajaccio. Fagan
met Baron Rouchouze, an old acquaintance, who took him to
his house to dinner, and provided him with a fancy costume and
mask, for he wished Fagan to accompany him and a few others,
in visiting several houses on this last night of the Carnival. They
went to the prefecture, where Rdgis spoke a word to his daugh-
ters, and Madame La Posterolle recognized him. She vowed
that he should pay for his boldness.

On his return to Paris, Fagan found that Madame Hulin
and her boy had gone to Havre. A few days later the news-
papers announced that Regis de Fagan, the dramatist, had gone
insane, the result of malarial fever contracted in Ajaccio; that
the first manifestations of the dread disease had appeared at a
ball in Ajaccio. Fagan showed himself everywhere in Paris
that day in order to prove to the world his perfect sanity.

Rdgis learned that Monsieur Hulin had committed suicide,
and felt that now the obstacle to a second marriage was removed,
and he would ask Pauline to marry him. He was strangely
happy. That night he was taken ill. After several days he
opened his eyes and saw Madame Hulin and Maurice sitting by
the window. The boy rushed into his arms, and Fagan wept
and kissed the hands of Pauline, telling her she was free at last;
but^she begged him not to speak of that.

Mademoiselle, the governess, came to inquire for Fagan's
health. Madame La Posterolle and her daughters had been in
Paris three days, but she did not wish the girls to go to see their
father for fear they might meet Madame Hulin. Rose thought
''that was over long ago." Mademoiselle was sent to fmd out
the state of affairs, and reported that she was received by
Madame Hulin. Rose was wounded, and thought he did not
need her, and neither she nor Ninette went to see him.

One day Madame Hulin spoke of her husband, and told
Rdgis she did not know why he had committed suicide. While
they were talking Rose and Ninette entered suddenly; Fagan

i86 ROSE AND NINETTE

stretched out his arms; but Rose stood still and told her father
that neither she nor Ninette would remain a moment longer
unless he ordered Madame Hulin to leave the room. He re-
fused, saying that they, "the undutiful daughters," might leave
the room, but not the woman who had nursed him faithfully.
Suddenly, with much tenderness, he asked Rose to beg Madame
Hulin's pardon, and insisted, although Madame Hulin protested.
The two girls refused to do his bidding. Then he told them to
leave him, that he was " divorced from his wife, and henceforth
he would be divorced from his children."

Fagan met Madame La Posterolle in the Avenue de 1'Ob-
servatoire to consult about Rose's wedding; Rose wished to
enter the church on her father's arm. La Posterolle, too, must
be in the procession. It was amicably arranged, and then she
asked him when he intended to be married. Hulin had com-
mitted suicide, she said, after a night spent with his wife, she
having yielded to his demands in order to keep her son; he
really was not her husband, for they had been legally separated
for five years; and he wrote De Malville that he did not care to
live "after that happiness without a morrow." She enjoyed the
look of pain that came into Pagan's face. Telling him the
children were near there, waiting for her, she asked if he would
like to see them; but he felt he could not see them just then.

Fagan rejoined Madame Hulin and Maurice, who had ac-
companied him. He understood her scruples now. She had
spent the night with a man whom she detested, a man not her
husband! Pauline was right, and her scruples were his.

" Where there are children, divorce does not solve the prob-
lem," he said to her, and she replied that neither did a separation.

"Perfect purity in marriage that would be the only true
happiness," Fagan said.

He saw his daughters driving away with their mother, while
he stood with a woman and child into whose past he could not
enter, and to whom he should remain forever a stranger.

THE LITTLE PARISH CHURCH (1895)

Baudot's psychological study of the passion of jealousy in the novel of La
Petite Paroisse, which has in the French the phrase Mceurs Conjugate ("con-
jugal habits") as its sub-title, hinges on what allies it to the problem novel. It
suggests another solution of conjugal infidelity in the forum of justice than that
of vengeance either personal or legal. Forgiveness of the repentant sinner is
the text of this vivid homily in fiction.

RICHARD FENIGAN, an enthusiastic hunter and
fisherman of Seine-et-Oise, had inherited a for-
tune from his father, a notary, and lived with his
mother the year round in the country. The
Uzellcs estate consisted of a park with two build-
ings, the chateau occupied by the dowager,
Madame Fenigan, who ruled the domestic
regime with a somewhat imperious hand, and the
Pavilion, an old structure of earlier date, separated
by a hedgerow, where Richard and his wife were domiciled. On
the Corbeil road, which bordered the property, and not far from
the park-gate, was a white church with this inscription on its
rough-cast wall: "Napol&m Merivet, Chevalier of the Order
of St. Grgoire-lc- Grand, built this church in memory of his
wife, Ir&ne, and Presented it to the Village of Uzelles." Mon-
sieur Merivet, a pious Christian, had been betrayed by his
spouse, and, having fully forgiven and taken her back, had
thereafter preached this doctrine of pardon with increasing
unction. The satire of the neighborhood had therefore char-
acterized the little edifice as "The Church of the Good Cuck-
old." Monsieur Richard, one morning on his return from
drawing his nets, was met near the church by his wife's maid,
who asked, to his consternation, if his wife had not gone with
him, as she had sometimes been wont to do. Madame could
nowhere be found. Then came his mother, of whom he asked.
"Where is Lydie, mother?" to be answered with: "Your

187

188 THE LITTLE PARISH CHURCH

wife has gone, my child, and it's the only favor she ever did us.
And not alone, as you may imagine."

The younger Madame Fenigan, who had been adored by
her husband, a shy, taciturn man with but little power to ex-
press his strong emotions, was an inmate of the orphanage in the
village, with no knowledge of her origin. When Richard had
avowed his predilection for the pretty face, doomed to the
cloister unless its owner should marry, the mother had con-
sented; for in such an alliance she could see no danger of that
rivalry in domestic authority which she dreaded. If Lydie
had escaped the fate of the nun, she had yet found herself
exiled from the active occupation of mind and heart which
maternity and household responsibility give to a woman; while
her husband's deep-rooted reserve concealed from her the depth
and strength of his tenderness. If her life was free from care,
it was yet devoured with ennui. It was from the acquaintance
of the Dauvergne family that the tragical episode came to pass.

Under the First Empire, Charles Dauvergne had risen to
be Marshal, Due d' Alcantara, and Prince d'Olmutz. His son,
Alexis Dauvergne, became a general of rank, and, succeeding
to the family title and wealth, greatly increased the latter by his
marriage with the daughter of a millionaire banker of Vienna.
The heir, known as the Prince d'Olmutz and christened Char-
lexis, concealed under his adolescence the finished depravity of
a Don Juan, and was rotten to the core with vice and sensuality.
Young as he was, woman to him was merely the object of licen-
tious pursuit; and all the energy and ambition which had made
his forebears distinguished in soldiership and public service were,
in this decadent, poured into the cowardly mold of iniquity.

Grosbourg, the seat of the noble family, was just across the
Seine from Uzelles, and a sort of business intimacy, begun be-
tween the great soldier and Fenigan pere, the bourgeois notary,
had been transmitted to the next generation. Young Charlexis,
as he grew toward manhood, found in his neighbor, the hunter
and fisherman, an agreeable companion for his many idle hours.
In that neighbor's wife he realized a more piquant intercourse
in the appeal to propensities far advanced beyond his years.
What had at first amused and interested her idle thoughts, in
the devotion of a handsome youth, became finally infected with

ALPHONSE DAUDET 189

an emotional taint under his cunning assiduity, which her ig-
norance of the world did not allow her to interpret. When the
moral catastrophe came she scarcely realized her tremendous
lapse, though she knew it opened a gulf between herself and the
husband, whose utter devotion she had not grasped. The father
of the young Prince had banished him to a preparatory school
for St. Cyr, expressly to separate him from Lydie Fenigan; but
through an ex-intendant of the Duke, who had been the pander
of his vices, he had made an arrangement for a considerable
sum of money, and had hired a fully equipped yacht, which
waited his arrival at Brest. This was the destination of the
elopers.

The point of view of the D' Alcantaras, when Madame Feni-
gan went to Grosbourg to unbottle her wrath, was indicated by
the shrug and sneer of the Duke. Their dear innocent had de-
parted with a hundred thousand borrowed francs, which would
cost them twice that amount, whereas his Danae had fled with
only the chemise to her back. The grotesqueness and horror
of the episode to the husband had been the thought that his wife
had seduced and carried off a schoolboy. It was expressed in a
sentence: "Let her go where she pleases; we will never mention
her name again." He tried to regard her as a diseased creature,
an hysterical subject, though his heart-strings quivered at her
memory. M. Napoleon Mrivet, his elder brother in misfor-
tune, sought to comfort him and urged him to the policy of for-
giveness, but to little immediate purpose. Much as Richard
Fenigan sought to feed the conviction of Lydie's worthlessness,
the -spirit of jealousy and vengeance grew amain in his dis-
turbed spirit. He could not bridle his imagination from dwell-
ing on her happiness in the arms of her lover. But he became
doubly taciturn, and schooled himself to bide his time. It be-
came known, however, that he spent much time in practising
with sword and pistol, vastly to the alarm of Madame la Duch-
esse. She sent word to her son of his danger through Monsieur
Alexandre, the ex-intendant, who had helped the successful
intrigue with Lydie, and was also the medium of lavish money-
supplies to Charlexis. The youthful roue, disporting himself
at Monte Carlo, soon made it clear to his mistress that he was
incapable of even short-lived fidelity. The scales fell from

THE LITTLE PARISH CHURCH

Lydie's eyes, and she began to measure the hideous folly and
wickedness of the step she had so rashly taken.

When M. Alexandre arrived without warning and apprised
the Prince that Fenigan was searching for him in Monaco, bent
on bloody vengeance, it suited them to take flight in the yacht,
he, through prudence, she through poignant shame at meeting
the man whose life she had blighted, much as she had begun
to deplore the sin now so naked in her eyes. Lydie was landed
again and hurried across France by the perfidious M. Alexan-
dre, while the Prince, putting to sea in the Red, White, and Blue,
was wrecked in a collision and barely escaped with his life. The
victim of her own folly and man's perfidy, who had begun to
fear that she might be enceinte, found in Quiberon in Brittany
so remote a place that she could hope to escape from all but the
tortures of her own conscience.

Richard's mother sought diligently to make her son forget
his misfortune. She invited his cousin, filise, a pretty widow,
once Richard's child-sweetheart, to visit them. There was a
vague hope that divorce and remarriage might restore her son's
peace of mind. But while he was affectionate to the guest, his
demeanor proved that he continued to brood over his lost wife.
One day Madame Fenigan mbre ventured to chide him and
openly exulted over her son's freedom. He turned fiercely on
her and told her she had spoiled his life, and dwarfed his de-
velopment even in youth by her selfish and domineering rule.
It was she who had thrown Lydie into his arms, in hope of find-
ing a mere household appendage in her son's wife. It was her
despotic jealousy and Phariseeism that had alienated Lydie
and had driven her to ruin. Finally, he loved the fugitive yet,
and was determined to forgive her when the time should come,
and restore her to her lost happiness and virtue. This bolt
shattered the maternal armor, and soon after pregnant sentences
in the prayers of the church so haunted her conscience that she
began to realize that she herself had been largely responsible
for the domestic wreck.

The hasty flight from Monte Carlo was not compelled by
Fenigan's persistent pursuit, as the pretext was a mere deceit
of M. Alexandre, at the instigation of Madame la Duchesse, to
break up the relation of Charlexis to his mistress. The victim

ALPHONSE DAUDET 191

was to be bought off, if possible, by a lavish money-settlement.
The Prince had already determined to forsake his conquest,
and, when he returned after his sea-adventure, his facile mind
easily accorded with the sordid views of his mother on the effi-
cacy of such a compensating salve. It relieved him of fear of
consequences; and on his appointment to a military sinecure in
the district, he made bold to appear openly at Grosbourg. The
family learned at once that they had reckoned too hastily.
Richard Fenigan despatched a cartel to the young Prince
demanding satisfaction. This was suppressed by the Due
d' Alcantara, but was followed by others in still more imperative
terms. The worried father, though an invalid, proposed to
meet Fenigan on the dueling-ground in his son's place if he
could be permitted to receive and deliver fire sitting. But this
substitution was, of course, refused. The injured man did not
succeed in getting his enemy on the field of honor, but he im-
pressed on the D'Alcantaras a sense of his deadly purpose.

Madame Fenigan in the mean time was deeply agitated by
the new light which had illuminated her conscience. Her very
force of character made her all the more firm to make prompt
reparation, and she told her son that she should accompany
filise back to Brittany. She had been led to suspect that Lydie
was at Quiberon from clues indiscreetly revealed by M. Alex-
andre. The small port narrowed the field of inquisition, and
she had no difficulty in finding the forlorn waif, of whom she
was in search. Lydie, given over to grief and despair, believing
that she was abandoned by God and man, had attempted sui-
cide, and had undergone a severe operation. Madame Feni-
gan's womanly tenderness, fully aroused under her stern nature,
found, at first, difficulty in wakening a response from Lydie;
but at last it won its way, and the word "mother" again flut-
tered to her lips. When the sick woman was able to travel,
the two returned to Uzelles, and Lydie was placed for tem-
porary seclusion in the convent home whence she had emerged
to be married. Here she now received the tenderest nursing
from the good nuns, who had never ceased to love her. Madame
Fenigan told Richard of her journey to Quiberon, and that she
had reconciled the unhappy wife again to life, though she did
not reveal that Lydie was then very near his house.

i 9 2 THE LITTLE PARISH CHURCH

One day he met Eugene Sautecceur, head gamekeeper of
the Grosbourg preserves, and went with him to his house,
known as the Hermitage, where the daughter-in-law of the
"Indian" (as the man was dubbed from his saturnine com-
plexion and fierce black eyes) was visiting. The son and hus-
band, a floor-walker in a Paris magasin, a good-natured, easy-
going fellow, had married a shop-girl, who was a typical Parisian
coquette. Young Sautecoeur was with his battalion, the same
in which the Prince d'Olmiitz was serving, in the military
maneuvers. The Indian was disturbed over the handsome
earrings which the young wife had received through M. Alex-
andre, as she said, from the Duchesse d' Alcantara. When he
thanked the great lady for a gift far too handsome, her amazed
expression, and the manner of M. Alexandre, who was present,
had at once revealed the truth. He had then waited for Alex-
andre, and warned him he would put a bullet through his fore-
head if he ever dared to undertake such a commission again.
The dark shadow of Charlexis arising from this episode again
fevered Richard's jealousy, and when he saw his wife for the
first time after their separation, even the raptures of the meet-
ing could not banish the ominous specter. He felt that he
could not yet fully forgive the woman, for whom he had a
stronger passion than ever before, much as his heart longed for
her, under that resurgent memory. In consequence, he ac-
cepted an invitation from M. Mdrivet, who had business in
Algeria, to be a companion of the trip. Lydie was now at the
chateau, living in great amity with her mother-in-law, who was
as devoted to her as she had once been cold.

Interesting as Algeria might be, Richard was so eager to
see Lydie again that he could scarcely wait for the time to roll
by. He would not abide the delay of old Mdrivet's affairs in
Marseilles, but caught the first express for Paris. The omnibus
carried his luggage to his park-gate; but having walked through
the forest, he was astonished to see a large concourse of excited
people in the road; and lying there, too, a lifeless form partly
covered with a great yellow umbrella. " Ah, my dear Fenigan,
this is horrible," cried Monsieur Delcrous, the district magis-
trate. "What! you don't know? Why, it's the Prince d'Ol-
miitz. He has been dead, as we suppose, for two or three days."

ALPHONSE DAUDET 193

Richard's lips paled, as he gasped with amazement. God had
taken vengeance out of his hands.

They had just been putting the body back where Alexandra
had found it some hours before to await medical examination.
The Prince had lef Grosbourg on Friday evening after dinner,
and this was Monday morning. But no one had been alarmed
till Sunday evening, as he had been in the habit of sudden dis-
appearances. That being the arrival of his nineteenth anni-
versary, to celebrate which the whole neighborhood had been
invited to dinner, his absence had inspired alarm. M. Alex-
andre, on being notified, had told the Duke that he had seen
the Prince both Sunday and Saturday, lying under a big um-
brella in the ferns, apparently waiting for someone. The ex-
steward went to search again and found the body with the same
umbrella near the Fenigan's gate. The head was a hideous
mask of disfigured death, where the ravens had had their will,
and ants and maggots and worms swarmed in sickening riot.
That was what so many women had loved and caressed, and
had driven so many men mad with jealousy. M. Delcrous and
the physicians were inclined to believe that death came of a
sudden congestion of the heart, a family trouble. Yet there
was a possibility of murder, too, he said, though far less prob-
able. When Madame Fenigan first heard of it, she had said to
herself: "How fortunate that Richard is away!" When Lydie
saw the luggage betokening Richard near at hand, it went
through her heart like a daj^er. " It was he who killed Char-
ley." The two women had looked at each other with terror.
Yet pven in Lydie's agony she felt a wave of affection, a fever of
intense love in the thought of what her Richard had done. As
he, too, pressed her to his heart, a thrill of passion and admira-
tion shook him in the fancy: "What if Charlexis had ap-
proached her again, and she herself had killed him?"

M. Delcrous had been the successful suitor for the hand of
Elise, and was looking forward to a superior Paris appointment
through the powerful influence of the Due d'Alcantara. He
was greatly surprised when his patron insisted that Richard
Fenigan had killed his son. To the logic of motives he added
circumstantial proof of violent threats and persistent hatred.
So venomously in earnest was the indictment of the magnate

A.D., VOL. VI. 1^

194 THE LITTLE PARISH CHURCH

that the magistrate yielded inclination to self-interest, and caused
the arrest and confinement of Richard. Active investigation
of all the circumstances was entered on, and, pending conclu-
sion, the hideous remains were laid in a brick vault in the Gros-
bourg woods, where tennis balls and rackets had been kept.
The Duchesse, one day, insisted on the building being opened
she knew nothing of her son's terrible fate to get out some
balls, and saw the awful figure; and the ghastly shriek that
pealed from her lips had been repeated intermittently ever since
in her lunacy.

M. Delcrous came to see the Duke the paralytic sat help-
lessly in his chair to say that the proof of Fenigan's innocence
was overwhelming; that he positively could not have committed
the crime, as he was absent at that time. To which the Duke
had answered with rage: "Here am I in my invalid's chair
between that dead boy and that mad woman. And you talk to
me about letting the assassin go." But even as they were talk-
ing, the gamekeeper, Sautecceur, demanded admittance. The
Indian, a mere ghost of a figure, then confessed that he had
fired the fatal shot. He had received warning that someone
had an assignation with his daughter-in-law, and had lain in
wait with his gun. When, near daybreak, a figure had slipped
out of her window and raised the umbrella against the rain, he
had fired. By the light of the lantern, he saw whom he had
killed, and with the aid of the horrified woman he had first
dragged the body to an old stone quarry, then into the ferns;
chen to the grass bordering the Fenigan park on the night before
discovery. The Duke could not make him admit that he had
been instigated by another. He reiterated that he confessed
because an innocent man was accused. The Duke did not
think it politic to press the matter against Sautecoeur, and
Richard Fenigan was released from confinement. When he
and Lydie met that night there was the fullest outpouring of
mutual love and confidence. Each had fancied the other the
perpetrator of the deed, in a cause which each justified.

Richard's refusal to exculpate himself had been the final
test of his single-minded devotion, as he had been willing to
take any risk in his determination to avert possible suspicion
from his wife.

THE SUPPORT OF THE FAMILY (1899)

This tragic little tale was dramatized for the French stage under its original
title, Ije Soutien de Famille.

office-boy brought Pierre Izoard a letter, as he
was sitting down to breakfast. Without read-
ing as far as the signature, he sprang up, and,
calling the first cab, jumped into it, shouting
above the rattling of the wheels:

"Eudeline take his own life! Eudeline for-
feit his honor! Macareul I must see that be-
fore I believe it!"

But when, on alighting, he saw the placard,
Premises to Let, and was confronted with the despairing family,
the Marseillais felt a pang.

Victor Eudeline, involved in hopeless business complica-
tions, had, for the sake of his wife, two boys, and little girl, left
them to gain by compassion what he could not gain by justice.
Marc Javel, the Under-Secretary of State, his new land-
lord, who had been about to commit him for arrears of rent,
when confronted by his orphaned boys and the fear of news-
paper notoriety, forbade the sale he had ordered, and declared
himself their friend and protector.

"Children," he said at the funeral, "all that Victor Eude-
line, in his letter from beyond the tomb, asks of us for Raymond
Eudeline, his oldest son and the support of the family, shall be
done." From that day Javel became popular.

The dead man's one wish had been that his boys should
learn Latin and get away from business. He had risen from
the ranks, and had married his employer's daughter, making
havoc, by his violent temper and impractical methods, of the
old and flourishing establishment.

Raymond continued his studies at the Lyce, but the little
one, Antonin, was apprenticed to an electrical contractor. The

195

196 THE SUPPORT OF THE FAMILY

mother and little Dina were sent south to live with relatives
till Raymond should send for them to come back to Paris.

Izoard, the children's godfather, lived at Morangis, a hamlet
in the suburbs. He was a stenographer to the Government and
knew all the political celebrities. He had an invalid wife and a
daughter, Genevi&ve, a pure and beautiful girl, four years older
than Raymond, whose education he entrusted to Sophia Cas-
tagnozoff, an ugly, but amiable and learned woman, and a kind-
hearted Russian, who harbored many refugees. Next door to
Izoard lived Mauglas, the journalist, who always seemed to be
smiling at his own thoughts, and who was in love with Gene-
vifeve. Grandfather Aillaume, too, owned an old chateau near,
and the families, all together, made happy parties every Sunday.
Tantine, as they called Genevi&ve, helped them with their les-
sons; and Raymond fell in love for the first time as he leaned
against her knees and looked into that beautiful face. She,
too, loved him, though hardly realizing it; but at their first kiss,
in the gardens of the chateau, when he was about seventeen,
she knew that she would never love anyone else, although she
would marry where her father wished.

On that very day, her father was obliged to confess to her
avowed suitor, a government clerk, that he had lent part of her
dowry to Raymond's father; and with the confession Genevifcve's
prospect of a husband had disappeared; for the young man
bowed his departure, saying he had been deceived.

Raymond did not make brilliant progress in his education,
but the little Antonin went forward steadily in his business.
He felt himself hopelessly inferior to his handsome brother, who
was the head of the family, as his hands were hard and stubbly
from work and his manners timid. He made so much money
that, after a time, he rented a small shop near the Seine for his
mother and Dina, filled with electrical lampyres of beautiful
shapes and shades, and bearing the sign "The Wonderful
Lamp"; and here the widow with her long English curls sat and
read novels, while Dina worked as a telegraph clerk, and Ray-
mond, now in the employ of the Government, with a small
salary, but very much taken up by fashionable society, came
and went, waited on by the two women, who lent him money
and cooked him dainty dishes.

ALPHONSE DAUDET 197

Raymond's great friend was Marques, whose mother had
married, for her second husband, Monsieur Valfon, one of the
ministers. Valfon was a hideous person, the son of an actor,
who in the changes possible in democratic France had risen
to power. This amiable man fell in love with his wife's daugh-
ter, the beautiful Florence Marques; and it required all her
mother's care and jealousy to guard the girl from him. Madame
Marques, to be requited, fell in love with the handsome Ray-
mond; this brilliant intrigue turned his head, and he needed all
the money he could borrow from his mother to keep up the
necessary appearance. The old friends, the Izoards, were
somewhat lost sight of for a time, but Genevifcve loved Ray-
mond, and when in need, the Eudelines looked to her for
comfort.

A very grand minuet was to be danced at Madame Valfon's.
Madame Eudcline and Dina taxed themselves to the utmost to
dress Raymond in a manner befitting his character. As he
drove off in his coach, which could hardly turn in the little alley,
he looked like some grand prince, waving farewell to his humble
subjects. They were making merry contentedly in the humbly
furnished back room, with the Izoards, when suddenly their
prince reappeared with the news that the leader of the shep-
herdesses had sprained her ankle, and that he had bespoken
that office for his beautiful little sister, Dina, so piquant and
fascinating. Ah, then he was indeed the "support of the
family," the hero! All flew about, and the charming Dina was
dressed in costume, with wig, powder, and patches, and flew
off in the coach to all the splendors of the grand ball, where the
little Cinderella made the hit of the evening, and captivated
the lover of Mademoiselle Florence herself, who quarreled with
that young lady and canceled his wedding on Dina's account.

This evening was an eventful one for Raymond as well; for
Madame Valfon had declared her love for him, and had ap-
pointed a rendezvous for the first time. Then indeed he felt
himself to be a successful man, the lover of a lady so highly con-
nected; and his only regret was that he had no suitable rooms
where he might receive her, the poor place where his mother and
sister lived being out of the question.

It was necessary, however, that she should come to see him.

198 THE SUPPORT OF THE FAMILY

A little ready money must be forthcoming, and where could he
turn for this? He had borrowed all possible, and Tonin was
away on business. He bethought himself of Marqufes, Madame
Valfon's son. This young man was very willing to lend his
friend a few louis, and an embarrassing difficulty was thus
overcome.

Raymond took Madame Valfon to an inn in an obscure part
of Paris. Somewhat timid, the young man did not conduct the
affair with the abandon of a practised gallant. Alone together
in the little room, the lovers were embarrassed and self-con-
scious. As Raymond was beginning to feel somewhat easier,
they were both horrified to hear the sound of a violent quarrel
in the adjoining apartment. A loud shriek and then a heavy
fall proclaimed a tragedy. Raymond, gasping in terror, looked
out of the window just in time to gaze into the face of a man,
crawling by on the roof a face ghastly white, and eyes that
looked into his own with an expression strangely familiar.

Horrified, the couple took advantage of the confusion to
make their escape from the place; and the incident put an end
to their love-making for some time.

The next day the papers were full of the horrible murder of
General Dejarinc, the former Prefect of Police at St. Peters-
burg, taken at a rendezvous, a furnished lodging-house near the
Bastile. Only by an oversight of the coroner had they failed
to search the house with all in it at the time. Raymond shud-
dered to think of his escape.

It soon appeared that Marqufcs was also in love with Dina
and wished to marry her. He enlisted Raymond's cooperation
by the threat of defeating him in his running for the presidency
of the Association, a much-coveted honor, which would bring
the young man no money, but further honors and social obli-
gations. Dina was in love with Claudius Jacquand, however,
and refused to listen to the suit of Marques. Soon after,
Claudius and Madame Eudeline began to be pestered with
anonymous letters, assailing the character of Dina. A violent
scene between the brother and sister ensued, in which he re-
minded her of the sacrifices he had made for the family, and
she taunted him with his selfishness and constant change of
plans. He had tried to enter the Normal School, to be a lawyer,

ALPHONSE DAUDET 199

to go to Indo-China, she exclaimed; all of which truths further
enraged the pious Raymond.

Tonin, who was constantly increasing his fortune, now felt
himself able to provide his beloved brother with a set of rooms,
a dignity which the latter sorely needed. Weeks of preparation,
of choosing furniture, of measuring and putting up curtains,
of selecting ornaments, were necessary before the presentation
could be made. Great was Tonin's joy when that charming
little suite, overlooking the Seine, and shaped so curiously like
a steamboat, was ready, and the head of the family introduced
to his new possessions. Raymond was gratified; tears of pat-
ronizing affection stood in his eyes as he complimented the
humble brother on his taste. Now, he reflected, he should be
able to receive Madame Valfon as befitted her dignity. He
accepted the rooms, but insisted upon giving his brother his
bond, the money being not forthcoming, and thus ridding him-
self of all sense of obligation.

In leaving his family and taking up independent existence,
Raymond felt dethroned. There was something annoying to
his pride in taking so much from his brother, in spite of the bond
just given. He could hardly forgive the little one for having
accumulated the necessary money. He needed affection and
admiration, and thought of his old friends, the Izoards, who
had gone to the country shortly before.

To them he confessed that his life had been a failure; with
tears and protestations he declared the burden his father had
laid upon him had been too heavy.

Greatly comforted, he left these dear friends and returned
to his new rooms late that night.

Who was it that awaited him tremblingly in the recesses of
the tiny bedroom? Who but the pure, the lovely Genevifeve?
Touched to the quick by his recital of his shortcomings and un-
happiness, the young girl, loving him all her life, had determined
to surrender herself to him herself and her thirty thousand
francs, all that was left of her fortune, which he scorned to
take, but did not prevent her from putting in a cabinet drawer
in case he should change his mind.

Genevifcve's motive in this was of the highest. True love
illuminated her mind. She felt herself to be Raymond's lawful

aoo THE SUPPORT OF THE FAMILY

wife. Moved by her unselfishness, Raymond determined to be
always true to her, and ordered the conc&rge to admit no other
woman to his apartment.

One day, however, owing to some disturbance in the street,
the doors were left open; and Raymond returning, found the
apartment tenanted and by Madame Valfon, who had come
to give him a charming surprise. The support of his family
yielded, with his usual facility, to circumstances, and his days
passed smoothly and agreeably.

Where did the money come from that supported this little
manage? Luxury and display marked all Raymond's sur-
roundings. He was now devoting himself to literature; and it
was said that, contrary to usage, it rewarded him substantially.
The roll of francs in the cabinet drawer grew less, but Gene-
vifcve never looked.

She, poor child, was living a life of deception. Her old
friend, the Russian Castagnozoff, was living for the poor and
sick in the hospitals; and her father, who was obliged by busi-
ness to spend his nights away from home, imagined that Gene-
vifeve was with her.

Sophia still continued to harbor refugees, and it was sup-
posed that she knew the whereabouts of the fearful Lupniak,
who had killed D^jarine, and whom they had all known in the
old days when they were living happily in the country.

Mauglas, the journalist, was enabled to make himself valu-
able to the Russian Government as a spy. Naturally this was
not known, though it was in some quarters suspected. M. Val-
fon, whom little escaped, was, as became his governmental
position, aware of it; and he employed the spy to watch the
movements of Madame Valfon, discovering, as he expected to,
her liaison with Raymond. He thus knew to whom the drafts
of passionate love-letters, discovered in his wife's desk, were
addressed. Mauglas, in his turn, found out the secrets of Ray-
mond's life, his luxury, extravagance, and near approach to
poverty, Genevifeve's fortune being nearly spent.

He therefore renewed his acquaintance with the young man,
and telling him the story of his own life his passion for letters
and for spending time in polishing his sentences that were paid
for by the line, the slight remuneration resultant, his enormous

ALPHONSE DAUDET 201

responsibility, the responsibility of a wife who must feed all her
relatives and friends, and of his successful following of the
well, perhaps at first sight, not altogether admirable profession
of getting information for a foreign government came round to
the real object he had in view the suggestion that Raymond
should help him. There were some quarters in which he was
a little too well known, and the services of a younger man were
needed. Raymond repelled these advances with scorn.

Raymond's rooms now became the rendezvous of a set of
young men who followed the newer lights of literature. Their
writing consisted of a series of sharp, elliptical expressions,
which had but slight meaning for the old-fashioned reader.
Of these, Raymond became the chief, and was dubbed by them
the Symboliste.

Tonin, coming home from England, on one of his vacations,
saw flaming advertisements of a new novel, A French Family.
With pride he purchased a copy, and holding it conspicuously,
endeavored to read it on the train. The short, crisp sentences
puzzled him, and he contented himself with regarding the cover
and signature with brotherly affection.

When he reached "The Wonderful Lamp," he found the
little circle there somewhat distraite and depressed. At last it
all came out. Raymond had written a disgraceful book a
book which travestied them all and which represented them as
parasites hanging on himself, preventing him, the patient, self-
denying one, from achieving his true success. They were all
in the book, and all were travestied. The home ones asked
awkward questions about Raymond, too. Where did he get
his money? Tonin's loving heart was sadly troubled.

Madame Valfon, being of a deeply religious nature, and
feeling that Raymond's love for her was practically dead; more-
over, being confronted with her husband's threats and reproaches
at the discovery of her unfaithfulness, carried out a determina-
tion she had formed some time before, and departed with Sophia
Castagnozoff to nurse the wounded in Indo-China. Her daugh-
ter was thus left at the mercy of her stepfather, who did not
hesitate to make use of his opportunity. The girl, half dead
from wounded pride and fury, cut off her magnificent hair, and
was discovered by her friend, Jeannette, in a fainting and do

202 THE SUPPORT OF THE FAMILY

spairing condition. Jeannette, frivolous and longing for gaiety
herself, persuaded her to go to a luncheon, given for a colonel,
who had just returned from Africa, bringing with him a queen of
the dwarfs and a collection of curiosities. The beautiful girl,
with the strange, feverishly excited expression, and cropped
head, aroused more interest than the Colonel, with his tales of
African swamps and wild adventures. The tiny queen herself
hardly awakened more than a perfunctory comment, so deeply
did they all feel that a tragedy was being enacted before them.
Among his curiosities, the Colonel showed five poisoned arrows,
which, he said, would cause death within five minutes after
even scratching the flesh. He left these, with the other curi-
osities, in one of the state rooms, while most of the party went
for a drive.

When Valfon returned from the drive, he went at once to
the shelf where these curiosities lay. " Duperron," he called, to
the usher, "did the Colonel leave four of these arrows or five?"
"Five, Monsieur," was the reply. There were but four on the
shelf. Valfon, possessed by a fearful thought, rushed into his
stepdaughter's room.

That night, as Raymond perused the evening papers, his
eye caught the headlines: "Fearful catastrophe in the family
of the Minister of Accounts. Instant death of Mademoiselle
Florence Marques, stepdaughter of the Minister, Valfon."

The good Tonin had but one dread that he should be
drafted for the army. What, in this case, would become of the
little family at the sign of " The Wonderful Lamp " ? When one
dreads a thing, is it not sure to happen? At the drawing, the
unlucky number came to poor Tonin, and great was the grief
of the little circle.

At this juncture, who should step forward and offer himself
in Tonin's place but Raymond? Raymond, now indeed the
support of the family, now that he would leave the one who
could earn for them free to pursue his humble way; Raymond,
who had spent the last cent of Genevifcve's money; Raymond,
whose book had failed to make the sensation he had expected!
He was at last the hero, the unselfish one, and could be wor-
shiped to their heart's content.

After he sailed, a letter came from Raymond, a letter in

ALPHONSE DAUDET 203

which he laid bare as well as he was able, the mainspring which
had governed his actions. This letter ran as follows:

"AT SEA, STRAITS OF BONACO.

"This is my confession, written for you, my Antonin, for you alone. I
shall not go away behind a hypocritical mask, applauded as a hero, when in
reality I am a coward. I am a weakling, and still I have this excuse for my
weakness, that it dates from my father's death. That tragical shock, too
violent for young children, caused in your case embarrassment of speech, in
mine, nothing apparent, but some organic disturbance. Until then, I had
been very strong in my studies; afterward I was simply a passable scholar,
diligent as before, but one whose efforts never once succeeded. Was it that my
will-power had been impaired? Probably. It seemed to me that after that
day only the outside of me lived; beneath, everything was empty, hollowed out.

"In spite of everything, I have delightful memories of my life at the Lycde,
because all there was ordered for me. I did not have to think for myself. I
was too weak, when it came to real life, to hold the burden imposed upon me.

"Ah, the irony of life! To think that at home all are praising me, when I
am simply running away! I know that if I stay Pierre Izoard will make me
marry his daughter. I am fleeing from a family that I could not support, the
prospect of a family of my own, for Gcnevieve will soon be a mother. I was
incapable of doing that thing, simple as it seems, and dreaded it almost as much
as death a household, a home to construct, children to rear, an example to set
them, and a career to choose for them. It was in face of all this that I was
afraid and recoiled.

"Before long, our little Cinderella's miraculous marriage will have made
the family burden less heavy for you. Dina, when she is Madame Claudius
Jacquand, will not leave her mother behind a shop-counter.

"Oh, my brother, I implore you, do not desert Genevieve. She knows
my weakness better than anyone, but she loves me through it all. She has been
more of a mother than anything else to me.

"And, above all, Tonin, Tantine, I implore you, do not let my child learn
Latin, do not let him study the classics! By making the opposite request for
his son, my father spoiled my life."

REBECCA HARDING DAVIS

(United States, 1831)
WAITING FOR THE VERDICT (1867)

To the reader unfamiliar with this novel as a whole, the following abridg-
ment of it will not give the significance of its title, because "waiting for the
verdict," according to the author's intention, meant the momentous decision
which would be rendered to the freed negro by the white man; whether the
four millions of emancipated slaves should remain "beasts or men," as Mrs.
Davis phrased it. Indeed this novel, aside from its diversified characters and
plot, is nothing short of a powerful plea for equality for the negro. The dedi-
cation indicated this purpose: "To my friend, who is a friend to all the weak
and wronged among God's creatures, they owe the few words which he urged
me to write in their behalf."

COWARD the close of a chilly, pale, November
day in the late 'forties, the ferry-boat plying be-
tween the great flat Quaker City and the oppo-
site shore was making her final trip. There were
not many passengers: Ann Gates, a little apple-
cheeked Quakeress; James Strebling, a gentle-
man from Alabama, with his mulatto slave-boy,
Sap; and old Joe Burley, who came aboard guid-
ing his big Conestoga wagon, while his diminutive
granddaughter, Rosslyn, watched his skilful management of
the eight roadsters. The mulatto boy helped the jolly drover
with the horses, eliciting thereby a cry of admiration from the
Quakeress, who conversed with his thin master about the past,
bringing out the information that his wife had died, and that
he had a boy, Bob, now eight years old. James Strebling
evinced extraordinary interest in the child, Rosslyn, the market
herb-girl, as she played with Sap's dog, Luff. When he had
ascertained her identity it had even a more marked effect upon
him. He scrutinized keenly the yellow hair and brown eyes.
"I mean to be a good friend to you, child," he said. "It is not

REBECCA HARDING DAVIS

205

my fault if I have been late." Little Ross did not understand,
but she was glad that the kind gentleman gave her Luff. This
disposal of his property almost broke Sap's heart, and before
the trip across the water was over, he had killed the dog rather
than let another possess him. Then the poor lad lost con-
sciousness. Rosslyn was sorry, and took hold of the yellow
fingers. Ann Gates was deeply moved, too. When they
landed she detained him in the darkness. "Here, boy, I must
have a word with thee," she said.

Meanwhile Strebling was following the big Conestoga as it
lumbered into the country beyond Camden, and drew up in
front of a house as square, and short, and dumpy as Ross
herself. Old Joe fed and stowed away his horses, while his
capable little granddaughter prepared supper. After the meal
the two comrades talked of the child's mother, who had died
when Ross was born. There was a strained, strange something
in the good old fellow's voice as he talked of his daughter. Ross-
lyn vaguely understood that some wrong had been done, and
she strove to soothe her agitated grandfather. After she had
climbed the crooked stairs to bed, a long, tense argument en-
sued between the two men, in which the gentleman from Ala-
bama tried to prove that the drover should relinquish Rosslyn.
" I'd like a daughter about me in my old age . . . you are mak-
ing a market huckster out of her/' said Strebling. He pushed
the point. Old Joe was sorely bewildered by the man he thor-
oughly hated, when Ross appeared. She had overheard the
heated conversation, and understood the men were going to
allow her to choose her own course. Facing Strebling, the
child told him never to come back again. She rejected his
proffered gift of a watch and chain, and clung to her grand-
father. The Alabama gentleman hastily took his leave. From
that night Rosslyn Burley made a child's resolve, but one worthy
of a mature woman, to raise herself above the circumstances
sneered at by James Strebling.

Fifteen years passed, bringing the time to the early days of
the Civil War. A young woman, Margaret Conrad by name,
a guest of Garrick Randolph, living beside the Cumberland
River in Kentucky, discovered the body of a dead scout in a
thicket. Though Rob Strebling, a soldier in the Confederate

206 WAITING FOR THE VERDICT

ranks, and his father were visiting their kinsman, Randolph,
who was a scholar and book-worm, Miss Conrad revealed her
discovery to the student, rather than to the soldier. Thereupon
Garrick had the scout buried secretly; and a sham bullet, held
in the clenched hand, containing a cipher message, was un-
screwed by Margaret. Upon sudden and unusual impulse,
Garrick decided to deliver this despatch, fulfilling the com-
mission of the slain man, despite all danger. It was the least
service he could render the Federal cause, in which his sympa-
thies were enlisted, though he was of the Randolph-Page blood.
Margaret Conrad tried to dissuade him, reminding him of the
terrible hazard of crossing into Ohio. As she had come from
Pennsylvania into Kentucky to sell mules for her blind father,
and was under a flag of truce, she offered to smuggle the cipher
message through on her way home; she would start the next
day. But Garrick was firm in his purpose. He insisted upon
taking the risk. Even Aunt Laura could not deter him from
his quixotic quest, so the cultured, honorable scion, who proudly
traced his lineage back to the Champernouns of Elizabeth's
time, set forth in the night. The next day Margaret Conrad
started for Philadelphia. Before she left, the elder Strebling
told her that he had known some persons in that city : a Quakeress
named Gates, who had taken an odd fancy to his boy, Sap, a
mulatto. Sap had died, he believed. Then there had been a
girl, Rosslyn, but of course Miss Conrad would never meet her
because she was a market huckster. James Strebling spoke
vehemently, and an awkward silence succeeded his unusual
outbreak.

It was in November, 1861, when the forces of North and
South were grappling in every county of Kentucky to end her
sham of neutrality, that Garrick escaped pursuit and certain
death, and was enabled to deliver the cipher despatch within
the Federal lines at Louisville. But it was owing first to the
quick wit of a negro driver, who changed places with him, and
then to the courage of Rosslyn Burley, who happened to be in
the neighborhood with her aged friend and companion, Abigail
Blanchard, a Quakeress. Indeed, the latter proved to be an
old-time associate of the Randolph-Page clan, and had known
Coyne Randolph, the father of Garrick. This chance meeting

REBECCA HARDING DAVIS 207

developed into closer association; and after Garrick had ascer-
tained that the name of the poor scout whose place he had
taken would receive proper recognition for service rendered
the Government, he accompanied Friend Blanchard and Miss
Burley to Philadelphia, where he hoped to obtain a commission
and enter the army.

Long before these events had taken place, Margaret Conrad
had reached the Quaker City; and her sole object seemed to be
the restoration of her father's sight. Hugh Conrad was a
Methodist preacher of the old-fashioned type, strong, rugged,
and eloquent in his own rough way. Margaret was devoted to
him. His blindness was a deep grief to her, though, like every
other emotion of hers, it was concealed under a mask of seem-
ingly imperturbable calm. As a last resort, she had determined
that her father should be examined by Dr. Broderip, a very
famous surgeon and oculist, who also bore a reputation for ex-
tortion, strange vagaries, and noble charities. Hugh Conrad
was prejudiced against the physician, but Margaret brought
about their meeting by means of a ruse. Contrary to all ex-
pectation, the dogged old preacher took a great fancy to Dr.
Broderip, in spite of his singular whims and unfathomable
actions. The men began an odd friendship, but there was no
help for the stricken sight of Conrad, and nothing could induce
the celebrated surgeon to accept any payment for his examina-
tion and opinion. However, he would like to retain a bracelet
of rose-colored shells, worn by Margaret and dropped by her
during the first visit to his house. Of course this apparently
childish fancy was gratified, and the sallow, insignificant-looking
doctor seemed highly pleased with the pretty bauble.

That was a memorable journey from Louisville to Phila-
delphia for Garrick Randolph. The trip was made partly by
water, and there was plenty of time in which to study and ad-
mire the character and mind of Rosslyn Burley. He grew to
consider the girl a part of his daily life, and the shrewd old
Quakeress speculated on the outcome, for the difference between
the two was vast in birth, breeding, and ideas. Garrick was a
conservative, a representative of the old regime, while Ross was
an ardent radical, and an active apostle of equality. Yet their
friendship progressed, though the golden-haired, brown-eyed

2 o8 WAITING FOR THE VERDICT

girl felt that an indefinable barrier separated her from the aris-
tocratic Southerner, whose pride of blood and family honor
were always in evidence. He, too, was aware of an obstacle to
their companionship; once when he asked to be admitted into
her life as a friend, with all that term signified, she had warded
off his protestations. Rosslyn Burley could not forget the past.
She knew, moreover, that he was the cousin of James Strebling.
Mention of that man had also revealed an unknown circum-
stance in the life of his father to Garrick. Friend Blanchard
told him in confidence that she had been witness to a will, drawn
by his irascible grandfather, in which his father, Coyne Ran-
dolph, had been disinherited, and James Strebling made bene-
ficiary instead. Why? Because Garrick's father had been
fond of a gay, careless life, spending money lavishly, and incur-
ring debt. Abigail Blanchard wondered what had happened to
that will, which would have beggared Coyne Randolph and his
son. If anyone knew, the old slave Hugh was the man, for he
had been body-servant, aye, foster-brother, to the late Coyne
Randolph. Garrick listened to the gossipy old Quakeress, and
was startled and stung to the quick; he dwelt on every detail of
the painful story, rejecting every suggestion of guilt as to his
dear, dead father's conduct. It galled, angered him to enter-
tain such notions, but he resolved to interview old Hugh, who,
he recalled, had two sons long ago, one of whom was a boy
called Sap.

After their arrival in Philadelphia, Friend Blanchard went
to live with Rosslyn Burley in her small farmhouse beyond
Camden, where the girl resumed her designing work, at which
she had achieved a reputation. The good Quakeress had not
been able to obtain a commission for Garrick and he was lonely
and disheartened, when one day he ran across Margaret Conrad,
who gave him cordial greeting and congratulations on his suc-
cess in carrying the cipher to the authorities. She invited him
to come home with her, and he was introduced to the blind
preacher and Dr. Broderip, who had become an habitu of the
Conrad household; the latter regarded Garrick with a curious
expression, but evinced an uncalled-for desire to please him;
Garrick experienced an unusual twinge of envy at seeing the
famous surgeon, a man no older than himself, yet so renowned.

REBECCA HARDING DAVIS 209

Dr. Broderip soon left them, and extended a cordial invitation
to Garrick for his reception on the next night. But the phy-
sician was in a dangerous, evil humor upon reaching the hos-
pital, where his assistants, knowing the mood, trembled for his
patients. Certainly this man was an odd mixture of kindliness
and brutality, one moment as winning as a woman, the next a
surly misanthrope.

The following day a lawyer named Ottley, a friend of the
Conrads and of the surgeon, visited Broderip to urge that the
powerful doctor interest himself in securing an appointment
for Garrick Randolph. A queer look came into the intent, sal-
low face; but its owner did not exactly promise his aid. When
the lawyer had gone the physician sought his mother's apart-
ment. She was a very old woman and partially paralyzed.
Conversation with her son was full of mysterious allusions;
there was some unmentionable secret between them. Love and
marriage were under discussion, but, judging by their oblique
colloquy, John Broderip had an ineffaceable stain upon his life
that would forever bar him from domestic felicity. His aged,
weak -brained mother saw that he was in love, and her distress
almost equaled his agony. Yet before he quitted the room
Dr. Broderip had determined on two heroic measures : to extend
a helping hand to an enemy bitterly hated, and to confide the
truth of his past to Margaret before declaring his passion.

Among his guests that night the little surgeon singled out
Garrick to tell him that he had written to Washington a letter
which would secure him a place in the civil service. Air. Ran-
dolph was elated but bewildered at this sudden step. Brod-
erip watched his opportunity of being alone with Margaret,
and when it came he fairly overwhelmed the stately, reserved
girl. She felt the power, the magnetism of this man as of no
other, but there was also an undefined fear of him in her con-
sciousness. He caressed the string of rose-colored shells which
had been around her wrist, and in other subtle ways acknowl-
edged his love. Margaret was pale and trembled with emo-
tion, but forbade him telling her a certain story he was anxious
to narrate. Thus ended a strange interview, one that had
stunned Margaret Conrad, but had given Broderip a sense of
delirious pleasure. To see that strong, impassive girl so mov*4

A.D., VOL. vi. 14

210 WAITING FOR THE VERDICT

had been a sweet triumph to the imagination of the man. In
the same gathering that night two others began to understand
the bond between them, for without a word Rosslyn Burley and
Garrick Randolph knew that they loved each other.

And Garrick spent several hours of the following day at the
old farmhouse. Rosslyn was supremely happy for a while, un-
til their talk revealed more sharply and surely than ever the
gap between them. His life had been so unsullied, while hers
she thought of the circumstances of her birth, the years at the
market. Garrick talked on. He told her of the will which
had been made in favor of his cousin, Strebling, and of the part
the negro Hugh had supposedly played in concealing or de-
stroying it. Dully the girl listened, but she advised him to in-
vestigate the affair, prove its truth or falsity, and abide by the
consequences, even if they meant transferring the property over
to the detestable James Strebling. After Garrick had taken
his departure, Rosslyn flung herself on her knees to pray. Now
she knew the bitter path she must tread; never to marry the
man she loved, but remain content to devote all thought and
tenderness to that grandfather who had nursed her and cared
for her through childhood and girlhood.

Meanwhile where was old Joe Burley? Out among the
snow-covered Cumberland hills, in the Federal uniform, search-
ing for a lost comrade, Lieutenant Markle, who had strayed while
reconnoitering. For days he had tramped amid dangers, and
when rations had vanished, and death was nigh, he found the
missing man in a hut. Markle had been shot, but a negro was
caring for him. This fair-skinned member of the black race
had taken a fancy to the young lieutenant, who expected to be
well enough to walk within a few days. Then Markle planned
to escape with Nat, the slave, and take him to the Union camp,
where he would be free. Poor Nat was looking forward to this
great event that he might search for his wife and little boy, from
whom he had been separated for years. Incidentally, it came
out that Nat had once been a Strebling chattel, and that he had
had a brother, Sap, and a father, Hugh, the latter being with the
Randolphs of Kentucky. Old Joe grimly listened to the in-
formation. "That cuss Strebling " seemed bound to cross his
life.

REBECCA HARDING DAVIS 211

Plans were laid, and Joe, Lieutenant Markle, and Nat had
apparently solved every difficulty; but there was always danger
of pursuit. Nat secured a skiff and they were to make their
way to camp by water. Big Joe carried the wounded lieutenant
down to the stream, where Nat was to meet them. The boat
was there, but when Nat appeared, it was simultaneously with
men giving chase. The moonlight revealed them to be James
Strebling and his son, Major Bob. Alas, for the poor negro
with his dreams of family reunion! He was caught in a spot
where his companions were helpless to lend succor. Burley
and Markle, indeed, had to use all their time to escape them-
selves. In this they barely succeeded. As it was, Major Bob
fired upon them in their tiny boat, and the bullet hit old Joe in
the shoulder. But their pursuers were baffled in the long run.

Hugh Conrad had lost his money, and was compelled to
sell his place and move West. Margaret looked forward to
the change like the stoic she was. Relations between her and
Broderip were at the same tensity the atmosphere required
clearing. A second time had he attempted the task of telling
her his secret, but a trifling incident prevented the revelation.
Margaret was puzzled and pained, yet she trusted him, allowing
for his peculiarities. With the blind preacher it was otherwise.
He grew jealous of his daughter's happiness, and the move
West would be a good thing for her. Therefore the Conrads
left Philadelphia, prepared to battle against adverse circum-
stances. But the misunderstood little surgeon was alert for
their welfare, and became the means of their renting the Markle
farm in the region in which they had settled. Both the Markle
boys had gone to the war, and the place needed a caretaker.

Old Joe reached home at last. His wound had laid him
low. Rosslyn was a capital nurse, and coddled the incapaci-
tated, aged soldier. It was during these convalescent days of
the brave old man that Garrick Randolph, back from Washing-
ton and civil service, pleaded his love. Rosslyn heard him with
sore misgiving, but she did not hesitate to tell her proud suitor
of her ignominious origin. Though it was a shock to his sen-
sibilities and ideals, he was man enough to sweep all caste preju-
dice aside; and ere he left Rosslyn they were betrothed. In-
describable was their happiness, and old Joe participated in the

212 WAITING FOR THE VERDICT

joyous compact. Dr. Broderip attended the wounded man, and
sneered at the engagement, but then everybody knew that the
surgeon was unbalanced. No time was lost in celebrating the
nuptials of Rosslyn and Garrick, in spite of the caustic com-
ments of Broderip and the antagonism of Abigail Blanchard,
who was loath to lose her favorite friend. However, she did
not immediately suffer separation from Rosslyn, for Garrick
went South to prepare the way for his wife. Upon reaching his
plantation Garrick hastened to cross-question Hugh about the
will drawn in Strebling's favor, and learned many bitter, humili-
ating truths. Troubled, tempted, Garrick, under a pretense,
delivered the old slave over to a taskmaster, without discover-
ing that the faithful servitor possessed the very document which
deprived him of his birthright. But in ridding himself of the
old slave he felt he had saved the honor of the Randolphs.

Meanwhile Lieutenant Markle, on a furlough, had fallen
in love with Margaret Conrad; and when he returned to camp
he was full of her praise. The advent of old Burley, cured,
prevented further expatiation on the subject. And then, to-
gether, the friends effected the rescue of Nat, who had been
imprisoned in a calaboose in a neighboring town. Not till then
did Joe Burley trace a striking resemblance between the tired-
out, sanguine Nat and the Philadelphia surgeon, Dr. Broderip.
Bluff and outspoken, he remarked it, and the opinion impressed
Nat. This idea also disturbed Markle so that he could not
sleep; for he had heard of Broderip's vacillating attentions to
Margaret Conrad. Forty miles away from this scene there was
sleeplessness, too, for if one could pierce the darkness one might
see Anny and Tom, the wife and son of Nat, plodding along
the weary roads, walking miles and miles, tirelessly seeking
Nat, the weak, shivering mulatto, whose life meant everything
to them.

Markle's injury produced a nervous disease, and he was
advised to go to a Philadelphia hospital, where relief might be
obtained. At first he demurred, but, learning that Margaret
Conrad and her father had returned there, he delayed no longer.
Faithful Nat went with him. Fate had a finger in the affair.
One day the ailing Lieutenant and Nat saw Dr. Broderip in
the company of Hugh Conrad and his haughty daughter. The

REBECCA HARDING DAVIS 213

negro was startled. He asked permission to leave Ma'kle for
a short time, a privilege readily granted. Nat made his way to
Dr. Broderip, who received him coldly, discourteously. The
former slave asked the fastidious surgeon to examine a wound.
Then, incoherently, he talked of slave days, of slave life; he
even dared to call Broderip his brother! Though reputed cold,
merciless, and cruel, the little physician was moved to hysterical
tears. He sought Margaret Conrad and told his long-post-
poned story. He met the issue, the call of the blood! Yes; he
was the brother of Nat, the despised negro slave. Miss Conrad
heard the narrative, hardly believing her ears, and at the end
turned away from him in horror.

The action of Margaret was but a prelude of what followed.
Courageously, Broderip made known the so-called taint of his
blood. All the world, with the exception of a few tried, liberal
friends, forsook him. He faced contumely at every turn. Such
treatment he expected. Filled with enthusiasm for his down-
trodden people, the famous Dr. Broderip once the neglected,
obscure Sap sold all his possessions, gave the price to the
cause of freedom, and enlisted at the head of a regiment of
negroes. He had lost Margaret, but he had gained the glory
of self-renunciation.

Bewildered, sorrowing, Nat made his way to the home of
Mr. and Mrs. Randolph. The moment was propitious at which
he appeared. Garrick had suffered, and longed to atone for
his wrong to old Hugh. Eagerly he accompanied Nat in search
of his father, whom they eventually found, and touching was the
reunion of father and son.

The war was over. Joe Burley Captain Burley now
received his honorable discharge. On the journey home to
Rosslyn, he stopped for Anny and Tom, wife and child of Nat's,
having kept track of their whereabouts. Generous soul, he did
not pause here, but found James Strebling, and persuaded the
tottering old man to join him. Major Bob was dead, and his
father had little now to live for. It was not long before the
broken old fellow died, but he had the happiness of dying in the
arms of Rosslyn, who tearfully forgave him the wrong he had
done her.

Aged Hugh, his son Nat, Anny, and Tom were at length

2i 4 WAITING FOR THE VERDICT

united in a cozy home provided by Rosslyn. As for her, she
was thankful for all God's blessings. Her grandfather had re-
turned safe and sound from the war's bloody ground; Garrick
was a new man; and her child her boy crowed in her arms.
If there was a shadow in her home it fell upon Hugh Conrad
and his pale, immovable daughter, who had given up her life to
educating the negro. Broderip had died, after serving his race
and country, at the hands of a cowardly assassin. Lieutenant
Markle had brought Margaret the sad tidings. She listened
with bowed head. After he had told her the pitiable tale, he
asked if he might not see her again. Realizing his sincerity and
truth, she replied that they must see each other. Enough.
The little soldier drew a long, brave breath: "Come what may,
what better thing is there for a manly man to do than to share in
her despised work?"

RICHARD HARDING DAVIS

(United States, 1864)
SOLDIERS OF FORTUNE (1899)

This story was dramatized by Augustus Thomas, and was played first at
the Hyperion Theater, New Haven, February 17, 1902. Robert Edeson starred
for the first time in the role of Robert Clay. A month later it began its success-
ful run at the Savoy Theater, New York City. We present here the author's
own version of the story.

LICE LANGHAM, a society beauty of inter-
national reputation, was placed between Reggie
King and Robert Clay at a certain New York
dinner-party. That King should have been
seated next to her was taken as a matter of
course. For several successive seasons, it had
been generally understood that the agreeable mil-
lionaire, who by birth and breeding was in every
way desirable, was waiting to marry Miss Lang-
ham as soon as she gave any evidence that she was ready; but
with Clay it was different. No one knew anything about him,
save that he had come from Mexico with a good letter of intro-
duction and that he talked very little. During a conversation
about civil engineering, in which King spoke in high praise of
the Jalisco and Mexican Railroad, Clay was forced to explain
that he had built that railroad.

Urged by the thought that he was sailing the next day for a
long absence, he took the liberty of telling Miss Langham, when
they were alone together after dinner, how, through the news-
papers, he had followed her social career since her dbut; how
he always knew they should meet; and he showed her her pic-
ture, reduced from a photograph he had bought, which he al-
ways carried in his watch.

Immediately after returning home, Alice sought her father

215

2i6 SOLDIERS OF FORTUNE

and asked him if he knew of a Robert Clay. He told her Robert
Clay was going to sail the next morning for Valencia, the capital
of Olancho, one of the South American republics, to open up
the largest iron deposits in that country for the Valencia Mining
Company and that he, her father, was the company.

Clay accomplished the herculean task of throwing out a
pier, building a freight railroad, and dumping five mountains
of ore into the cars, helped by an unruly gang of lazy natives
and a man named Mac Williams, a humorous chap, who had
had charge of the railroad when Clay arrived as general mana-
ger and resident director.

Shortly after his arrival, Teddy Langham came to learn
engineering and to look after his father's interests. Then fol-
lowed the announcement that Mr. Langham and his two daugh-
ters, Alice and Hope, were coming, the doctors having ordered
him South for rest and quiet.

A charming bungalow was built for them near the mines.
Clay's dreams of future happiness were interwoven with every
effort they put forth to make the place attractive to Alice Lang-
ham. One of these dreams was interrupted by an unexpected
call from General Mendoza, the leader of the opposition in the
Senate. Ostensibly he came in behalf of his party, which he
represented as being dissatisfied with the Government's disposal
of the mines for ten per cent, of their profits. Really he came
to get Clay to bribe him with a handsome profit to keep silent
about the mines. Clever subterfuge on Clay's part soon made
it evident that Mendoza was the opposition; and then Clay
called Langham and MacWilliams, whom he had sent away
so that they could be unseen witnesses of the interview, and
dismissed the irate and defeated General, who swore revenge,
and predicted a new government, a new president, and a new
director for the mines within two months. He was enraged that
the fearless Clay should have fifteen hundred of his men work-
ing in the mines and devoted to him.

On the night of the Langhams' arrival, the boys called at
the bungalow; and Clay, although he felt that he could love
Alice Langham as he believed her to be, was not so bold as he
had been the first night he met her, because, after all, he had
only a drawing-room knowledge of her.

RICHARD HARDING DAVIS 217

Before the evening's pleasure had come to an end, they
sighted Reggie King's yacht in the harbor. Clay contrasted
his childhood of poverty, when his mother taught a little school
at Pike's Peak, his early orphanage, his life as a sailor, as a
cowboy, in the mines of South Africa, his war experiences in
Madagascar, Egypt, and Algiers, with King's life of ease; and
he determined to fight for the girl, if she proved to be worth
fighting for.

It was a gay party that set out to see the beauties of Valen-
cia; and the excursion ended by Clay's calling and introducing
them all to President Alvarez and his wife, also to an attractive
English youth, Captain Stuart, of the President's household
troops, in whom he had the most perfect trust, knowing full well
the young man's regard for his wife.

The charm of the place, the novel dinners, the unusual dis-
tinction of the men, all had its effect; but in time Alice Langham,
although delighted, was forced to caution Clay that if they were
to remain good friends he must be more reserved ; she told him
that he really did not know what his own feelings about her
were; and until he did, there should be less said about them.
Clay needed no second reprimand.

Her younger sister, Hope, found Clay a most romantic and
interesting figure. She liked to hear of his building the highest
bridge in Peru, of his bravery, of his marksmanship, of his being
made a baron by the German Emperor in recognition of his
engineering feats; and she enjoyed every minute she spent with
him, whether it was on King's yacht, where they entertained
the President and Madame Alvarez, or on her pony inspecting
the mines, in which she was deeply and intelligently interested,
much to Clay's surprise and pleasure. Miss Langham and
King, who were bored, and had dropped out of the party of in-
spection on one occasion, sought the shelter of the bungalow,
where they learned that Madame Alvarez, who before her mar-
riage was a Spanish countess, wished to overthrow the Republic,
establish a monarchy and proclaim her husband king and her-
self queen at the very least, report had it, she was plotting to
make Olancho into a Spanish dependency. General Mendoza
was the leader against her and, as commander-in-chief of the
army, was a formidable antagonist. The Vice-President, Gen-

218 SOLDIERS OF FORTUNE

eral Rojas, stood high in popular favor; and if the people were
allowed to vote he would be their choice for the next President.

Mendoza had threatened to take the mines, to turn the whole
plant into a government monopoly; and while he was trying to
make himself President, Alvarez was waiting to proclaim him-
self Dictator.

Shortly after the visit to the mines, President Alvarez gave
a ball in honor of the Langhams; and Alice, when Hope was all
dressed to go, decided against her going because she was not
yet " out." Clay, who had begun to think, since the visit to the
mines, that Alice and he had not much in common particularly
after she had told him that the work he had done was not worth
while slipped away from the ball on the pretext of riding back
to the bungalow for Alice's lost fan, which he found in the
carriage and sent back to her by Stuart, while he called on
Hope, whom he saw that evening for the first time in evening
dress and realized that she was grown up. Hope's pleasure at
seeing him so unexpectedly was genuine, although she told him
jestingly that he only came back to see if she were crying. He
blurted out that he came to tell her he thought she had been
treated abominably; then they ate the bonbons he had stolen
for her; and she insisted that he tell her all about the decora-
tions he wore. He went further and told her of his early life
and ambitions; and when he left her, he felt that her sympathy
with his experiences and work was the sweetest thing that had
ever come into his lonely life.

On his return to the ball, Stuart asked him to meet him
secretly later; and then he found that the revolution was im-
minent. Placards concerning Stuart and Madame Alvarez
detrimental to her honor had been pasted up in the street, and
Stuart's men had been tearing them down. Mendoza' s troops
were crowding into the city for the annual review, which was
to take place in a day or two. Alvarez, fearful of the upris-
ing, had all the drafts and his wife's jewels packed ready for
flight.

Early the next day, Clay, by accident, met a professional
filibuster whom he had known in some of his past war experi-
ences and quietly arrested him; and later it was learned from
him where he had hidden the arms he had brought into the

RICHARD HARDING DAVIS 219

country for Mendoza, who ordered Clay's miners to appear in
the review, and said if Clay refused he would fetch them.

Clay had been waiting for this. With the knowledge of
where the hidden firearms were, they took a force of his men,
found them, loaded them on the waiting cars that MacWilliams
had run down to the place of concealment, and had them in the
mines before midnight, much to the rage of Mendoza's men,
who arrived only to find the men who were left in charge gagged
and the firearms gone.

The review was a brilliant sight. Madame Alvarez spied
Hope, who had stolen away to see the excitement, and Clay,
who, she knew by what he had said, cared for her. She was
made to come close to Madame Alvarez.

There in full view, amid his own army troopers, Mendoza
galloped up to President Alvarez and arrested him for high
treason, and arrested the Vice-President also. Stuart without
waiting for orders galloped off to rescue the state carriage, and
seizing the bridle of the nearest horse, shouted to his men: "To
the palace shoot anyone who tries to stop you!" Effort was
made to guard the palace from the mob. Hope got in through
the rear and went to Madame Alvarez, who had left the drafts,
but had packed her jewels ready for flight. All the servants had
fled at the first sound of the uproar. Stuart, with his men at his
heels, rushed up the stairs of the palace on his way to protect
Madame Alvarez. Noticing that his men grouped themselves
at the foot of the staircase and stopped, he turned and went down
several steps to meet them, asking them what it meant. Clay,
who had just reached the top of the stairs and saw Hope and
Madame Alvarez coming toward them, yelled to him to come
back and reached him just in time to catch him as he fell, shot
dead by the maddened turncoat soldiers, whom Mendoza had
bought for his own ends. Stuart, whose innocent and loyal
love for Madame Alvarez was returned in kind, was avenged by
Clay's shooting as many of the panic-stricken and retreating
soldiers as he could before he left the palace.

Hope and Madame Alvarez were concealed in the state car-
riage and with MacWilliams on the box with the driver, and
Langham and Clay riding beside them, they started out of
the city to the chosen place where King was to meet them

2*0 SOLDIERS OF FORTUNE

with his yacht, on which Madame Alvarez was to make her
escape.

It was a perilous journey; they drove at high speed, being
stopped by Mendoza's men, who were fooled by subterfuge
and bribery as to Madame Alvarez; there was a price on her
head, as it was believed she was leaving the country with the
government drafts in her possession.

Finally they reached the beach off which King's yacht was
anchored. Madame Alvarez was escorted to the launch by the
three men, who had left Hope in charge of the driver. When
Madame was finally safe in the launch and the men turned to
come back to Hope, they were shot at by concealed marksmen
on all sides. Escape seemed an impossibility, when suddenly
they saw coming toward them the forgotten carriage, being
driven furiously by Hope, who was alone on the box. Taking
in the situation, she cried to them as she got within calling
distance: "I am going to turn slowly; run and jump in." This
they managed to do, Clay working his way finally to Hope and
taking the reins from her. That ride sealed their fate; and at its
termination, they told her brother and Mac Williams of their
engagement.

When they returned to the Langhams they learned that
Alvarez had been shot, that Mendoza was Dictator, and that
General Rojas was still imprisoned.

Disappointed with Mendoza's attitude, the soldiers begged
Clay to take his men and lead them against Mendoza, which
he was compelled to do; and Fate so favored him that it was he
who shot Mendoza and proclaimed Rojas President. And so,
with Mendoza dead and Rojas imprisoned, he found himself
for a brief hour Dictator of Olancho.

With Rojas President, Langham had nothing to fear for his
mines; and at midnight the whole party were aboard a steamer
bound for New York.

In the cabin Alice Langham smiled across her book at King,
who smiled back contentedly, while Clay and Hope went on
deck planning to have Mac Williams for their best man and
discussing where they should spend their honeymoon.

EDMONDO DE AMICIS

(Italy, 1846-1908)
THE ROMANCE OF A SCHOOLMASTER (1876)

This is the only work of fiction by this author, who is known chiefly by
his accounts of travel in the Orient and elsewhere. This story was bitterly
condemned in Italy, because of its frank revelations of the peculiar methods
followed in the Department of Public Instruction.

CIRCUMSTANCES, as well as temperament and
innate aptitude, conspired to make of Emilio
Ratti an ideal schoolmaster. His father, the pro-
prietor of a small printing-office, died suddenly,
just as he was on the highroad to fortune, leav-
ing penniless his widow and four children, of
which Emilio was the eldest. Near relatives
there were none, with the exception of a cross-
grained uncle, whose only daughter had been
obliged to leave home, and was studying to become a school-
mistress. The distant relatives did not help, and strangers
provided for the children. A well-to-do and childless family
named Goli took charge of the little girl, and maintained Emilio
until he could refresh his memory of his studies (which he had
abandoned to work in his father's printing-office) sufficiently
to enter the local Normal School as a free pupil. His mother
died on the day he announced to her his admission to the school.
Meanwhile, Emilio's love for children had been awakened by
the pity he felt for his unattractive little brothers and sister,
as he dragged them about in his efforts to provide for them.

The students at the Normal School came from the most
varied social classes, and ranged from seventeen to thirty years
of age. The two with whom Ratti was thrown almost ex-
clusively were Lrica, a former corporal, of somewhat violent

222 THE ROMANCE OF A SCHOOLMASTER

disposition, who had huge moustaches, protruding eyes, enor-
mous fists, a cannon-like voice, and a face to inspire terror in
small boys; and Labaccio, an industrious, tranquil fellow, proud
of his uncle, the Mayor of Azzorno. The best of the professors
was Megari, instructor in pedagogy, beloved by all the students.
This man placed his own individual stamp upon young Ratti.
It seemed to Ratti that the professor sometimes looked at him
in a particular manner; and, in fact, when they parted, Megari
gave him a note which his mother had written in pencil the last
day of her life: " I commend to you, from my death-bed, my poor
young son."

When he was graduated, the Goli family (who had become
much attached to his sister and were greatly pleased at his
success) presented Ratti with the money they would have spent
upon him had he not obtained a scholarship, and found him a
place in the neighboring village of Garasco. He was to serve
as substitute, for a year, for the schoolmaster who was ill in
Turin, at a salary of seven hundred lire.

The Mayor of Garasco, a very wealthy landowner, spent
most of his time in the country, rarely going to Turin, but de-
voted rather too little time to his duties because of hunting and
social distractions. His plans for improving everything were
magnificent; but pending these improvements, the conditions
were extremely bad, including the state of the schools. He had
appointed an old college friend as the Communal Secretary,
and when any troublesome affair cropped up the two young
men mounted their bicycles and rode off, leaving the burden
on the shoulders of Toppo, the assessor, who was much dis-
liked in the village. Contrary to the law, he allowed his sister
to keep a private school alongside the communal school, rather
than support her, although she w r as an old peasant who knew
nothing beyond the alphabet. The parish priest, a decrepit
old man of more than eighty years, was ruled by his house-
keeper who, having been in the service of the school superin-
tendent for ten years, aspired to rule the schools by becoming
an inspectress. The other schoolmaster, Don Leri, was a
priest, most majestic of aspect, with a fine, grave, dignified face
fit for a cardinal. He welcomed Ratti cordially, and expressed
the hope that he would call occasionally; but not in the evening,

EDMONDO DE AMICIS 223

as for years he had consecrated his evenings to a very important
work which he had begun in his youth, and which still required
much reading. Don Lri always seemed anxious to avoid
Ratti when the latter tried to avail himself of the invitation,
which wounded the young man until he accidentally discovered
that Don Llri's "great work" was imaginary, and that his eve-
nings were devoted to reading works of fiction.

Ratti's first impressions of his pupils were not favorable.
They were chiefly peasants, over whom his predecessor had
evidently exercised no authority. He had been engaged to
teach the first elementary class, but found the second class also
imposed upon him. Full of good-will, he did not refuse the
burden, and found his task, in general, infinitely more difficult
than he had expected. He had to contend with a sort of leaden
inertia, not only in the schoolboys, but in everything else.

He led a solitary life; especially after yielding to the urgent
invitations of the assessor to call, when he began to receive
hints to marry the assessor's niece, and discovered that he was
regarded in the community as an aspirant to her hand. His
best friend was Schoolmistress Strinati, an old woman of the
village, who counseled him not to cease his visits too abruptly,
lest Toppo should play him some scurvy trick with the author-
ities. Moreover, no one knew whether the girl's license to
teach was genuine or had been forged, for a consideration.
But in spite of his precautions, Toppo took umbrage, made
things as unpleasant as possible for him and was aided therein
by the parish priest's ambitious servant, who spied on him,
tattled disingenuously to Toppo, and instigated parents to find
fault. The servant's grievance was that Ratti did not take his
hat off to her in the street. As to the dispositions of pupils
and parents, Ratti began from the first day to accumulate a
stock of surprising knowledge. One result of this was to con-
vince him that his theory of ruling by kindness was wrong, and
that the opposite theory was correct, namely, that neither boys
nor men can be governed or improved by gentleness; that they
respect only that which they fear. In this conviction he was
confirmed by the advice of the Inspector, and resolved to adopt
a sterner method in his next post, for which he had already
applied

224 THE ROMANCE OF A SCHOOLMASTER

With the warm weather arrived numerous summer resi-
dents, and Ratti, who was agreeable and adaptable, speedily
acquired the polish that made him a welcome guest among them.
But he was soon disillusioned as to the estimation in which his
profession was held. He found that, while these well-born
people expected schoolmasters to impart culture to their chil-
dren, they regarded the masters themselves and their profession
as petty, inferior, and rather ridiculous.

A part of his vacation he passed with the Goli family; then
went to call upon his cousin in the mountain village of Pilona,
where she was schoolmistress. As they dined under an open
shed, where his cousin caused the meal to be served, she nar-
rated to him a most astonishing history of her experiences with
the school authorities and scandal-mongering villagers, and with
the pupils, whom she loved and taught with enthusiasm.

Ratti's next post was at Piazzena, a village on the plain.
He bore a letter of recommendation to Don Pirotta, the chaplain
of a fraternity and founder of an orphan asylum, which had
procured him an order of knighthood. But the dominating
party of the village was headed by Don Pirotta's enemy, the
parish priest, who was jealous, and exercised his authority to
render life unpleasant accordingly. Here the school building
was good, and Ratti's colleagues were worthy and agreeable.
It was contrary to his nature, and correspondingly difficult, for
him to carry out his plan of severity, especially as some of the
boys inspired him with sympathy, which he dared not show.
He soon found that the Mayor was inclined to correct his Italian
in school, and the priest was given to preaching against persons
whose identity was perfectly plain to the congregation. School-
mistress Fanari was the priest's pet detestation, because she
had chosen Don Pirotta as her confessor instead of himself.
The Mayor soon began to find fault with Ratti's choice of sub-
jects for his pupils' compositions; and the priest himself ques-
tioned them as to Ratti's remarks on religion in school. One
compensation for many of these annoyances was a visit from the
Inspector, who happened to be the one of whom Ratti had
asked advice the year before. The Inspector approved of
Ratti's methods, and comforted him when he complained that
he could not force his heart to be as severe as his exterior by

EDMONDO DE AMICIS 225

telling him that if a schoolmaster were resigned inwardly he
would no longer be a good teacher, since he would not love his
boys sufficiently.

After the examinations, Ratti tried to apply himself to his
studies, with a view to passing the examinations for a place in
Turin. But, to his surprise, he found that he could not work;
there was an absolute lack of stimulus in the atmosphere and
people. His friend Don Pirotta died suddenly in September;
and, hearing that the Council intended to engage a priest for a
schoolmaster, he decided not to renew his contract with them
for an extra term of two years, at the expiration of the two for
which he had signed, and resigned. This had the effect of
rendering somewhat less acrid the parish priest's rancor toward
him. But the priest gave such an outrageous sermon against
Signorina Fanari (inspired by some advice she had given con-
trary to his, and by a new gown she wore and a call made upon
her by a good-looking stranger) that the schoolmistress instituted
a suit for defamation of character. Almost everyone was against
her, chiefly because they suspected her of being happy, and be-
cause she had committed no other fault, or even unpleasant
action against them. It ended in the schoolmistress withdraw-
ing the suit on the eve of the trial ; and the priest paying her an
indemnity of a thousand lire, and giving her a document wherein
he stated that he had had no intention of attacking her honor.
For the rest of that year the priest and his assistant did not
meddle with the schools, and Ratti was relieved from the
Mayor's interference with his choice of themes.

Meantime, Ratti had competed for a post in the mountain
commune of Altarana, where the democratic and progressive
Mayor wanted a young master. The indirect recommenda-
tions of the Goli family had settled the choice in his favor. But
some time before his departure from Piazzena he abandoned his
strictness for his previous milder methods, partly to rest his
spirit, partly by way of experiment. Only four or five of the
very best and most docile boys refrained from abusing this
slackening of the reins. The rest, in less than a week, were so
transformed with a so/t of savage joy that he was instantly con-
vinced that, while it may sometimes be possible, though with
difficulty, to pass from gentleness to severity, it is absolutely

A.D., VOL. vi. 15

226 THE ROMANCE OF A SCHOOLMASTER

impossible to reverse the operation without reducing the school
to a bedlam. Threats proved useless; he was an abdicated sov-
ereign. Enlightened by this experience, he resolved to adopt the
severe method with his future pupils, and swore to himself a
solemn oath nevermore to abandon it.

Ratti's new post, Altarana, was a village in the western Alps.
It was the first year of obligatory school attendance, and Ratti's
official list of pupils numbered seventy-four. The Mayor in-
structed all the teachers to exact with the utmost rigor the fines
for non-attendance; but, in practise, this proved impossible.
Some of the parents even calmly argued that they were rendering
the Government a service in sending their children to school,
and demanded a recompense. Ratti's schoolroom was badly
lighted, dirty, inadequately furnished. Warned by his experi-
ence in Piazzena, Ratti went at once to call on the parish priest.
To his amazement, the priest declared that Ratti had disturbed
himself unnecessarily; he, the priest, did not bother himself
about the schools in the least, as he disapproved of the manner
in which religion \vas spoken of in them. To avoid complica-
tions, he never set his foot inside them. Altogether, Ratli
thought, for three months, that he had reached a harbor of peace.
But Schoolmistress Falbrizio revealed to him that there were
troubled waters even in Altarana. The Mayor, a widower and
a ladies 7 man, had had her discharged, because he wished to
have her predecessor brought back. The predecessor had a
husband now, and so there would be no more of the scandal
about her and the Mayor which had forced her to leave. How-
ever, men were changeable, and Signora Falbrizio thought the
Mayor did not care for that woman any longer. He was inter-
esting himself in a competition for the place of Schoolmistress
Pezza, who had resigned. The competition had already been
advertised, and candidates had been requested to send their
photographs along with their papers, young teachers being in
demand, "as if it were a matrimonial competition!" com-
mented Ratti. When the photographs arrived (only three can-
didates sent them), the one that pleased the Mayor and the
Council showed a Madonna-like face, with smooth bands of
hair and a very beautiful mouth. Its possessor had good
recommendations, and was chosen.

EDMONDO DE AMICIS 227

The state of Ratti's finances did not permit him to leave
Altarana that summer. But he was drawn into the life of the
summer residents, to which, after his previous experience, he
no longer aspired, by the visit of one of them, who was cordial,
without arrogance, and invited Ratti to his villa. This visitor
was a wealthy lawyer named Samis, a native of the place, who
lived in Turin, and had made a name for himself. He was
interested in elementary education, and told Ratti of an ex-
periment he was desirous to make. He wished to take a coun-
try lad, willing and talented, and make him study, in order that
he might observe, step by step, the moral and intellectual trans-
formation that would be produced in him by instruction and
civil education; and the progressive alteration, so to speak, of
his horizon in life. Ratti began to frequent Signer Samis's
house, where he was well received by Signora Samis, a very
charming woman, whose exquisite manners put him at his ease
and removed all suspicion that he was being patronized or
scorned. Shortly after this agreeable family had departed, the
schoolmistress arrived with her small, aged, half -paralyzed
father, and took up her abode in the quarters vacated by the
former incumbent, on the same floor with Ratti. She was small,
not pretty, but had fine chestnut hair and tiny hands. Ratti
thought he never had beheld so tiny, so beautiful, so good and
sweet a mouth as this Signorina Faustina Galli possessed.

The wing of the house in which Ratti lived opened on a
little terrace at right angles to which ran the terrace upon
which Signorina Galli's quarters opened. The two terraces
were separated by a wooden balustrade. Before long Ratti
and Signorina Galli were saying "good morning" to each other,
and exchanging their views on children and education. Ratti
was astonished to find how exactly her views as to the gentle
treatment of children, and on many other points, coincided with
his own. At first no one else paid much attention to her, as she
was small, delicate, and badly dressed. But the Mayor soon
began to take an interest in her school, and the doctor's wife
(who had been apj. Dinted inspectrcss at the beginning of the
scholastic year) called one morning to inspect the woman. The
mother of the praetor seemed friendly, at first; but turned cold
when Signorina Galli repelled the advances of her idolized son.

228 THE ROMANCE OF A SCHOOLMASTER

The woman clerk at the post-office, whose aspiration toward
the young praetor had been scorned by his mother, was insolent
to the new schoolmistress, and the Communal Secretary (to
whom Ratti had applied for an explanation of the mysterious
cause) advised that Signorina Galli should "look out for her-
self. " Enmities were accumulating, as usual. Ratti called on
the young lady two or three times, and felt his affection for her
steadily increasing; so much so that the sight of the Mayor at
his neighbor's door one evening rendered him jealous, and he
questioned her the next morning. The Mayor had called on a
matter connected with some of her pupils, the girl told Ratti,
with apparently complete indifference. Ratti suggested cau-
tiously that perhaps the Mayor was so foolish as to be capable
of hoping that his time was not wasted. "That hope cannot
last long in my case," the girl curtly replied.

By this time Ratti admitted to himself that he was in love
with Faustina Galli. Consequently, he was deeply wounded
by the coldness which she began to display toward him im-
mediately after this conversation. He caught the Mayor's
official servant spying on his brief talks with her, and presently
the Mayor began to turn his, back instead of responding to
Ratti's salute. The Mayor's persecution of Signorina Galli
promptly made itself felt. First he tried to transfer her to a
remote suburb, which was contrary to her contract. Next she
was ordered to report at Turin, and on arriving there she found
that the Mayor had recommended the transfer "in the inter-
ests of morality" because she had received calls from Ratti,
in the presence of her father. (The Mayor asserted that the
father was too old to be a proper protector, though he had him-
self called under the same auspices.) In the ensuing long and
bitter struggle between the Mayor and Signorina Galli, the
authorities at Turin sometimes upheld one, sometimes the
other. The Mayor closed the school, and the girl was deprived
of her paltry salary. She was obliged to encroach on her tiny
hoard, saved for giving her aged father a proper burial ; and she
showed signs of starvation, as matters grew worse daily. Ratti
repeatedly offered her his small savings, which she refused.
Everyone turned against her, for one petty reason or another.
No one except Ratti and Signora Falbrizio showed her any

EDMONDO DE AMICIS 229

sympathy, and the shopkeepers refused her credit, or gave il on
exorbitant terms. The local authorities even refused to p.iy
her the salary due her for the time she had taught. When the
Turin authorities ordered the school reopened, the Mayor, in-
stead of obeying, flew to Turin and invented fresh calumnies.

One evening, when Ratti knocked at her door and again
offered her his savings, she broke down, after refusing, dropped
her head on his shoulder, crying, "I can endure it no longer!"
and wept. Ratti wept with her, and kissed her. Three days
later an official was sent down from Turin to order the reopen-
ing of the school, to see that it was done, and that the salary
was paid. The Mayor and his allies were quelled; the general
public became friendly and admiring toward Signorina Galli;
but Ratti's love-making was checked to his great surprise
by a definitive refusal from the girl. The Mayor revenged him-
self on Ratti by preventing the municipal servant from cleaning
the school, which encouraged the pupils to insolence and insub-
ordination. In their faces he could read a set intention to do
him serious harm. He was so unhappy that he took to drink.
Signorina Galli eventually begged him to abandon it, matters
having become very desperate. Ratti found himself obliged
to use strenuous measures to repress the insolence of the liquor-
dealer's son; and a few days later the father made his appear-
ance in the school in the quality of school superintendent. With
a view to injuring Ratti, the Mayor had secretly retired the
former superintendent and appointed this irate father. Ratti
vigorously remonstrated, and ordered the lad out of the school,
along with the father. Both parties appealed to Turin, and
Ratti was ordered to report there. By the time he was admitted
to the officiars presence he was intoxicated almost to the point
of stupidity. Happily, the official proved to be his old friend
and professor, Meglri, who treated him with all possible consid-
eration, brought him to a sense of his position, and gave him
a chance to retrieve himself.

On returning to the village he ceased to drink, confided to
Signorina Galli the whole truth about his trip to Turin, and
resumed his studk >, hoping that time would plead for him
with the girl. The advent for the summer of the Samis family
rekindled his ambition to rise in the world. Several things,

230 THE ROMANCE OF A SCHOOLMASTER

however, had disgusted him both with his own condition and
with Altarana. A visit from his easy-going comrade of the
Normal School, Labaccio (who had thriven exceedingly), was
one item; another was an unpleasant experience connected with
some private lessons which he had been requested to give to
the son of one of the Samises' friends, resulting, among other
things, in a coldness on the part of Schoolmistress Galli. He
decided that he could not pursue his studies for a post in Turin
in this uncongenial atmosphere, where the Samis family alone
now attracted him. Samis asked him, in pursuance of the plan
he had already outlined the previous summer, to give private
lessons to a peasant lad whom he had selected for experiment;
and Ratti consented. This occupation, and the observation of
the clear-headed, cold-hearted peasant boy in process of evolu-
tion, served him as an agreeable distraction. Ratti left Altarana
with regret, chiefly on account of Signorina Galli; his former
admiration for her heroic life and his love for her having
returned.

That summer he passed two months in the house of the
Goli family, with his sister. Later, Ratti betook himself to his
new post, Camina, refreshed and encouraged by this brief taste
of family life. The most interesting features of his experience
here were the two schoolmistresses. Signorina Pedani was a
cool, athletic young woman, with a magnificent figure, who took
her girls on long walks, and attended so strictly to her duties
that it was not easy either to make trouble for her or love to
her, and she was much respected. The other teacher, Signorina
Adelina Gamelli, suffered from the fame which had preceded
her. Some injudicious friend had sent on in advance a journal
containing an extremely sentimental article from her pen (she
had an extraordinary mania for writing about every trifle), and
the community supposed she had done it by way of heralding
herself. Though outwardly courteous, the people ridiculed
her incessantly, without her suspecting it. The Mayor, a self-
made man, held no great opinion of schooling as an essential,
would not furnish Ratti with the proper lists of pupils, and
frankly declared that Italy would not suffer if a few boys played
truant for weeks at a time; men could become great without
schooling! This reasoning confounded Ratti, who could find

EDMONDO DE AMICIS 231

no reply. Here he returned to his early method of gentleness
and persuasion, with good results, on the whole. When the
vacation arrived, he would have been glad to rest for a month;
but he was obliged to qualify for his license in gymnastics, and
consequently applied for admission to a course of training in
his native town. Among other old acquaintances whom he
met at the exercises was Schoolmistress Strinati, from whom he
learned the news at Garasco. His old enemy, Toppc, had
fallen into utter disgrace. It had been proved that the niece's
license to teach was forged, and not only had she been excluded
for life from examinations, but Toppo had been forced to resign
as superintendent. The news which interested him most was
furnished by Signora Falbrizio, of Altarana. Signorina Galli's
father was dead, and the vindictive Mayor had allowed her only
three days' vacation, though she had spent twenty nights at
the dying man's bedside. The peasant prottge of Signer
Samis was performing wonders at the Technical School in Turin,
and his manners had become so refined that he would no longer
eat at table with his father, because, he said, the old man had
no teeth and spat in his plate!

The second year at Camina was not agreeable. The au-
thorities appropriated Ratti's schoolroom for other uses, and
installed the school in the theater, to the delight of the boys;
but the unsuitable arrangements added greatly to the master's
difficulties. One of the lads who had responded best to his
efforts was the son of the Deputy. Ratti learned that the boy
had never known affection or happy family life, as his father
and mother fought continually, and the Deputy, in addition,
was jealous of his wife, a woman of easy virtue. This winter
the woman began to accompany her boy to school, and to in-
veigle Ratti into the house, under various specious pretexts, so
that he could not avoid going in, despite the warnings that had
been given him. His repulse of her advances resulted in acri-
monious hostility on her part, as well as on the part of her hus-
band, which last Ratti had been utterly unable to avoid. The
Mayor and the Deputy began to prowl about and watch him with
menacing looks. Conscious of his own rectitude, Ratti paid no
heed. He felt more and more as though all the lads were his
little brothers. The boys responded, and during leisure hours

232 THE ROMANCE OF A SCHOOLMASTER

many came to him for explanations of difficult points. To
some he gave lessons in free-hand drawing; to others he lent
books or journals. Suddenly they ceased to come, and when,
suspecting some plot against him, he asked explanations, they
became confused, and would not even tell him whether they
had been forbidden by their parents. Matters at last reached
such a pass that he demanded an explanation from the Mayor
and the Deputy, and, after considerable evasion, received from
the latter an insulting reply which resulted in his dealing the
man a heavy blow, sending him reeling against the wall. The
whole place rose against him; but he appealed to the Proveditore
and Prefect of Turin, who were convinced of his uprightness;
and this conviction was confirmed by the report of the Inspector,
who was sent to obtain testimony at Camina. So evident was
it that Ratti had a strong case of defamation of character
against the Deputy, that the latter even prudently refrained
from claiming indemnity for his broken spectacles.

Ratti was so determined to obtain a post at Turin that he
now regarded his provincial peregrinations as practically at an
end, and took very little interest in Bossolano, where he passed
his last winter. The persons who most attracted his sympathy
were the organist, Schoolmaster Delli, and Schoolmistress Mar-
ticani, whose boy was in his school. Signora Marticani's hus-
band had never been seen in Eossolano; he was a very busy
official of the post-office in Turin, she said. The village busy-
bodies began to calumniate her and her boy, and to doubt the
husband's existence to such an unpleasant extent that she was
obliged to send for him and exhibit him.

During the last months of his stay in Bossolano Ratti lived
in almost complete seclusion. A competitive examination for
sixteen posts at Turin had been announced, and he had sent in
his papers, which spurred him on to intensified preparations.
At Turin he would feel sure of the stability of his post, would
have the opportunity to attend university courses, and the
society of cultivated colleagues. When he set out, at the end
of July, he was accompanied by the hearty good wishes of the
community. Most of the vacancies were for schoolmistresses.
Out of the three men who passed the examinations successfully
were Ratti and the ex-corporal, Carlo Lrica. His nomination

EDMONDO DE AMICIS 233

to the suburban school of Lucenta, in the environs of Turin, at
a salary of one thousand lire, promptly followed, to the great
gratification of his relatives and the Goli family. His career
as a rural schoolmaster was concluded by an important event.

A pedagogical conference for the school-teachers throughout
Piedmont had been appointed for RattFs native town, and im-
mediately followed the examinations at Turin.

One morning, as he was crossing the public square, Ratti
came face to face with Faustina Galli. Ratti already knew,
through his friend Samis, that, unable to endure the village
where her father had died, Signorina Galli had succeeded in
obtaining a place in the suburbs of Turin, where she had been
for the past year. The three years which had elapsed since
their meeting had not passed over them without leaving visible
traces; but their former sympathy survived. At the end of
their brief conversation they expressed the hope that they would
meet in Turin, but the young woman evaded Ratti's suggestion
that they bear each other company in the train thither. Never-
theless, the young man became more and more engrossed with
the thought of the straightforward, charming girl, which out-
weighed all the pleasant meetings of old friends and the new
friendships begun at the Conference. Eventually they traveled
to Turin together, with a throng of other schoolmasters and
mistresses, yet isolated by their feeling for each other and their
dreams of what might be. When the train stopped, they were
conscious of each other's feeling, dreaded parting; and then
suddenly exchanged a fervent kiss, just before they alighted and
joined the undulating throng that surrounded the white-haired
Proveditore.

CHARLES DE BERNARD

(France, 1805-1850)
GERFAUT (1838)

Charles de Bernard was at one time Balzac's secretary, as well as his pro-
fessed disciple. He had a great knowledge of life in Paris and the country round
about, a knowledge upon which he drew extensively in writing this book, which
was crowned by the French Academy soon after its publication.

JARLY in September, 1832, a man about thirty
years of age was walking through a valley of
Lorraine, which was watered by a little river.
The road climbed the hills as they closed in upon
the stream. The man was in workman's dress,
but his white hands showed that it was an as-
sumed costume. At last he came out upon the
river-bank, opposite an immense chateau built
on a thirty -foot rocky bluff.
"An ugly castle," said a gruff voice behind him. "But the
cage is fit for the bird. The Baron de Bergenheim is a rich
nobleman, and I a poor carpenter. I have been carving his
wood-work for six months, but yesterday that wild boar turned
me out because they said I talked too much with the servants.
I have cut this cudgel in his own woods, and shall use it on him."
Just then, the energetic, soldierly, handsome Baron rode up,
and, as the carpenter threatened him, he quietly dismounted,
took the stick away, thrashed the man well, and whirled him
into the ditch. The young man, concealed in a thicket, saw it
all. A furious thunderstorm now suddenly broke, the Baron
spurred across the bridge, and the young man sought an inn.

On the first floor of the chdteau was a very large room,
lighted by three windows, the middle one opening like a door
upon the balcony over the river. A graceful young woman

234

CHARLES DE BERNARD 235

was watching the storm outside. Suddenly an old voice, from
an armchair near the fire, said:

"You are crazy, Clmence, to leave that window open: air-
currents attract lightning. Pray close it." The speaker was
Mademoiselle de Corandeuil, a withered crone, about seventy
years of age, who then went on to chide her niece for her
restlessness.

"Have you had trouble with your husband?" she asked.

"No, aunt, Christian is very kind and full of good- humor.
He tries to do everything for my pleasure."

"What is it, then? Two months ago, in Paris, you insisted
on coming hither to rejoin your husband; now, you yearn for
Paris. Whom have you left there to regret some of your
adorers? Monsieur de Maul eon, Monsieur d'Argenac, Mon-
sieur de Gerfaut?"

"Ah, aunt, you do them too much honor. As to Monsieur
de Gerfaut, he writes books that one hardly dares read and
plays that it is almost a sin to sec."

"Well, he is very clever. I never could understand your
dislike of him, nor your haughty treatment of him, especially
during the latter part of our stay in Paris."

"But, aunt, it is no one of those gentlemen that I think
about only, I want some amusement."

The old lady resumed her Gazelle, while the younger took
up La Mode. Soon she gave a cry of surprise. On the first
page, where the Duchesse de Berry's coat-of-arms was engraved,
in the shield now empty of the fleur de Us was sketched a
bird, its head surmounted by a baron's coronet. Curious to
see, Mademoiselle de Corandeuil said: "A cock! Upon Ma-
dame's shield! What can that mean?"

"It is not a cock," said Clmence, "it is a coroneted gerfaut
[gerfalcon]."

" Bah! I tell you it is a cock, and what you take for a crown
is a badly drawn cock's comb. Who can have done it?" And
the old lady summoned the ancient servitor, who confessed that
at the inn the daughter of the inn-mistress had looked at La
Mode, and that, later, of two young men sitting there, one
smoked while the other looked at the same journal.

With a reprimand the old man was dismissed, as a slight,

236 GERFAUT

pretty girl bounced in Aline, the Baron's sister gleeful at
having defeated her brother at billiards. Mademoiselle de
Corandeuil reproved her for her rough tastes billiards and
horses (since she was in riding-habit) and left the room. As
soon as Aline and Christian had clattered out of the courtyard
on their side, Cldmencc descended to the gardens, passed the
gate in the shrubbery, and walked slowly along the river-
avenue. Presently a man wearing a blouse followed and joined
her.

"It is you!" he exclaimed, "you, whom I had lost and now
find again."

"What madness, Monsieur!"

"Ctemence!"

"Call me Madame, Monsieur de Gerfaut," she interrupted
severely; but she slowly withdrew to a retired place in the park,
granting him "one moment," after which he promised to leave
her. She reproached him with endangering her peace and
safety. He pleaded the long two-months' absence, and his
urgent desire to see her. But she denied his prayer that she
would meet him occasionally in the park, adding:

"You do not know Monsieur de Bergenheim; you cannot
come to the chdteau. I recognized your peculiar visiting-card,
drawn in La Mode, and was astonished and afraid. The whole
thing is perilous and crazy. You shall see me next winter in
Paris. Adieu, Monsieur."

But Gerfaut declared that if she would not meet him outside
he would shortly, in some way, be admitted to her drawing-
room. Cldmence replied:

" Since I am to see you to-morrow, I will leave you to-day.
I should not stand here in the wet grass," and, raising her skirt
a trifle, she showed her slipper, beaded with rain. Gerfaut
quickly kneeled, and with his handkerchief began wiping off the
water. She drew back her foot and the slipper remained in
his hand. At last he restored it, with the privilege of putting
it on, concluding by kissing the pretty instep through its open-
work stocking.

"My husband!" she exclaimed, at the rattle of horses'
hoofs, and fled to the chateau. Gerfaut disappeared in the
woods.

CHARLES DE BERNARD 237

A league below the castle was the inn of La Femme-Sans-TSte.
In the great room, this evening, sat peasants drinking, and at
one end a buxom damsel, while an artistic-looking, bearded
young fellow was painting her portrait, and grumbling because
"that Gerfaut" did not come to supper. At last he came, and,
after supping, the two friends retired to their room, where Ger-
faut related his love affair.

Gerfaut was a talented writer. He had been bred to the
law, but had been drawn into literary work, achieving success
in all departments by his versatility and industry. Marillac,
his fellow law-student, had also entered the literary life, but had
accomplished little besides showing himself a brave, happy
fellow and a sterling friend to Gerfaut.

The tale recalled to Marillac how worn out Gerfaut had
been the year before, until his physician ordered him to Swit-
zerland. One day, climbing the road to the Mer dc Glace, feel-
ing renewed vigor, he threw his alpenstock across the road at a
tree, frightening a mule just turning the corner, on which rode
a charming young woman, ahead of her party. The pass was
narrow and the mule balky, but Gerfaut seized the bridle and
led the animal to safer ground. The young woman looked
up as he apologized, and, seeing some rhododendrons he had
gathered, exclaimed with pleasure, when he presented them to
her. Her friends coming up, they all passed on. But in the
afternoon he saw them descending from Montanvert to the
Mer de Glace and followed them. His imagination was al-
ready fired by the simple charms of the young woman, and he
saw her lightly running upon the ice, bounding over the small
crevasses, while her friends remained at the border of the gla-
cier. Suddenly she stopped, paralyzed, at the edge of a deep
crevasse. Knowing the dangerous attraction of such abysses,
he ran, and, putting his arms about her, led her back to her
friends. When they departed he saw her name on the register
Baroness Clmence de Bergenheim.

In Paris Gerfaut had heard that name among the families
of the Faubourg St. Germain, and he determined to find her,
recalling every slightest circumstance of their meeting and
every impression and fleeting sensation he hacj experienced.
Before her return to Paris, he discovered in his family records

238 GERFAUT

that in 1569 one of his ancestors had married a Yolande de
Corandeuil; so that, the first time he met Madame de Ber-
genheim and her aunt, he claimed kinship with the old lady,
securing her regard by sacrificing himself at whist with her.
He was invited to call; and, as the Baron de Bergenheim was
at his estate, pursuing his country duties and his hunting,
Gerfaut could devote himself to the younger dame. Ma-
dame de Bergenheim had admirers, but no lovers, and soon
Gerfaut dared to intimate, to say, and at last to write, the senti-
ment with which she inspired him. She never had loved even
her handsome husband, whom she had married because he was
an eligible parti, approved by her aristocratic aunt her guar-
dian since orphaned childhood. But, while susceptible to the
charm of this famous and fascinating young author, the lady
was self-respecting and careful. She enjoyed attention, and
though not seemingly responsive to his love, she did not repel
or reprove it. One day, however, by her manner she incau-
tiously betrayed a weakness she had not acknowledged to her-
self, and he clasped her in his arms. The next day he had to
go to Lyons, and she fled and took refuge with her husband.
Gerfaut had not seen her since until this very day.

On the morrow Marillac, who knew De Bergenheim well,
called at the chateau; but, while he was making his visit, the
Baron and Aline were out riding; her horse ran, and was stopped
by a young gentleman, who was thrown against a tree, cutting
his head. Of course he was taken to the chateau; and thus was
Gerfaut introduced to the household, paeans of gratitude at-
tending. Clemence received him politely, but coldly, and
Gerfaut devoted himself to the rescued Aline and to Made-
moiselle de Corandeuil.

That night Clemence spent hours in her own apartment,
contrasting her manly husband with the pale and rather tired-
looking poet, whose intelligent eyes and arch smile were his
only beauty. She reviewed all Christian's fine qualities, but,
at last, burying her face in her pillow, sobbed "I cannot, I can-
not love him!" and wept bitterly. Having virtuously deter-
mined to plead illness and remain in her room the next day,
hoping that Gerfaut would go, she arose, and from a secret
closet in the wall-paneling took some letters of his, then return-

CHARLES DE BERNARD 239

ing to bed to enjoy a brief, sad happiness. But alas! the wine
of the letters ran through her veins, and, closing her eyes, she
murmured softly, "I love thee! I am thine !"

The next day Clmence remained in bed, saying that she
was ill with neuralgia. But Aline, and then Christian, came
to her, begging her to get well, and to come down to dinner.
They were followed by Mademoiselle de Corandeuil, scolding
her for pretending illness just to show discourtesy to a man
she disliked, although he was a relative. When the old lady
had gone, Clmence leaped from her bed.

"He has bewitched everybody," she cried; " Aline, my hus-
band, my aunt to say nothing of myself. I shall end by
going mad." And sitting at her desk she wrote, dashing her
pen along, and ending with an energetic flourish.

That evening, when Madame de Bergenheim accepted Ger-
faut's arm from dinner to the drawing-room, she gave him
her note. After reaching his room, he kissed it ecstatically.
On opening it, he saw first the vigorous final word "Adieu!"
Then he read it all, and raged inwardly, so that when Marillac
came in, trying to joke with him, he broke forth.

"She has treated me shamefully," he told Marillac. "This
note was a most insolent dismissal. The woman is a monster.
I hate her! I abhor her!"

But, after he had unpacked his heart of its anger, sundry
philosophical reflections upon woman's nature cooled Ger-
faut's ire, and he affirmed that she loved him, and that it was
written in eternity that she should be his.

The next morning Marillac rode off early to meet the buxom
daughter of the inn, to finish her portrait, in the woods. They
were broken in upon by Lambernicr, the carpenter, in scornful
mood. Marillac quarreled with him and struck him with his
riding- whip, when the carpenter pulled out his compasses and
rushed at his opponent. Marillac drew a poniard, and Lam-
bernier halted. Then they talked. Finally Marillac gave him
ten francs, promising ten napoleons if he should come at four
o'clock the next Monday afternoon to the rocks above the park,
with proof that Madame de Bergenheim had a lover which
accusation had come out amid Lambernier's denunciations of
the chateau and everyone in it.

240 GERFAUT

Festive entertainments enlivened the castle during the next
few days. Cl^mence remained cool and polite, while Gerfaut
tried to arouse her jealousy by attentions to the pretty Aline,
and pleased the Baron by searching the library for material
with which Marillac should engross a Bergenheim genealogical
tree. Clmence began to fear him less, and to wonder what
attraction he found in Aline. Gerfaut was bringing her to
wish for an explanation. One day, none being about except
the old lady in the drawing-room and Clmence in her boudoir,
Gerfaut mounted a staircase from the library to a small ward-
robe-room, separated only by a muslin-curtained glass door
from Madame dc Bergenheim's private parlor. Clmence lay
on her divan. Presently Aline came and talked with her,
finally telling her that recently, when she teased her brother
for a watch, he said: "It is hardly worth while now; when you
are the Vicomtesse de Gerfaut your husband will give you one."
Clemence assured Aline that her brother was joking: this led
to sharp talk, during which Aline flung out of the room. While
Gerfaut was considering whether he should enter, Clemence
sprang up and hurried out. Gerfaut, returning to the library,
presently heard from the drawing-room such a Niagara of
piano-playing that he recognized the woman's way of relieving
her mind. He went to the drawing-room door and listened.
The storm gradually subsided to gentle melancholy, and then
to tenderness and he entered. He was taken aback by seeing
the old aunt asleep by the fireplace, but he passed on to the
piano, and a mutual smile over the sleeper brought him into
amicable relations with Clemence, who began with her right
hand playing a dreamy waltz, while he deftly took up the bass
with his left hand. Then, what could the two unoccupied
hands do but gently join! Silently he raised her fingers to his
lips. He was understood and forgiven. They sat happily a
long time, without speaking, when suddenly a terrific trumpet-
blast burst upon them. All sprang up, including the awakened
old lady. It was Christian, who slowly pushed open the door.

"Aha!" he cried. "You did not expect such an accom-
paniment. Come, Vicomte, take a gun and come along.
We're going to shoot in the woods before dinner."

They set out the Baron, Gerfaut, Marillac, some neighbors,

CHARLES DE BERNARD 241

and the dogs. Some distance up the road they jumped a ditch
to a field leading to the woods. Gerfaut saw Clemence strolling
in the other direction, and in jumping he stumbled over a vine,
twisting his foot, and fell. The Baron sent him back. Of
course he found his lady; the interrupted drawing-room inter-
view was renewed and completed with a final kiss, that sent
Clemence to rapid flight.

Gerfaut stood awhile, reflecting, and then, turning away
from the chateau, climbed the river-rocks. But he quickly
stopped, shocked to see the Baron in the bushes at the top, as
if watching whom, was not clear. It was the afternoon when
Lambernier was to meet Marillac on the rocks. On his way
thither he had quarreled with two of the Bergenheim servants,
stabbing one of them with his compasses. The Baron, passing
through the woods, had seen this, and had cut off the carpenter's
retreat, awaiting him at the top of the path.

Lambernier soon appeared, haggard and bloody. Desper-
ate at being halted, he again drew his compasses, but the
Baron's leveled gun stopped that. Finally he threatened that,
if delivered to the police, he would tell what the Baron would
not like to have told. Forced to reveal it, he related how, at
Maclamc's request, he had finished the paneling in her chamber
with a secret closet; and how later, examining the wood-work
for shrinkage, he had found in the closet some letters, one of
which he had taken.

" And what has that to do with your attempt at murder?"

"Oh, nothing; only I thought you would not care to have
people know that Madame has a lover. "

The Baron paled, forced the letter from Lambernier, read
it, and then told the carpenter that he might go. ''Leave the
country," he said. "But if you breathe a word of this I shall
find you, and kill you. Go!" And he pushed the man toward
the downward path. But the push was so sudden and so un-
intentionally vigorous, that Lambernier, weakened by struggles
and emotions, fell, struck his head on the rocks, and with a
shriek rolled into the river. Gerfaut had seen it ; but the unwitt-
ing Baron, with a double torture in his heart, went gloomily home.

That evening there was a men's hunting-supper at the cha-
teau, and the guests became excited with wine, especially Maril-
A.D., VOL. vi. 16

242 GERFAUT

lac; but two the gloomy Baron and the pale Gerfaut re-
mained sober. At last, in his intoxicated vanity, Marillac began
a story: subject, "The husband, the wife, and the lover." The
more Gerfaut tried to stop him, the more he drunkenly persisted,
until, when he called for water, Gerfaut filled his glass with the
clear but potent Kirsch } and Marillac fell like a log.

This broke up the party, and the Baron, who had been
roused by the talk and the story, rushed out for air, and for
reflection. After a while he went to his wife's chamber, and,
sending her on an errand to her aunt, he opened the secret re-
pository, read some of Gerfaut's later letters, and replaced
them before her return. Then he told her he had to go away
on business, but should return on Wednesday.

All day Tuesday Ckfmence remained with her aunt; for it
seemed base to take advantage of Christian's absence: and she
spent the entire evening in her little parlor, dreaming of Gerfaut,
but bitterly. She must choose between two abysses, shame in
her love, or despair in her virtue. At midnight she heard a
slight noise that petrified her. " It is he! " she thought. It was.
As she felt Gerfaut's hands touch hers, she drew back and said:

"You deceive me when you say you love me. I will accept
only one proof of it go away ! ' '

Instead of going, he seized her in his arms. She reeled,
and fell over, fainting. He bathed her temples and chafed her
hands until the spasm relaxed, and unconsciously she passed her
arm over his neck as he kneeled by the divan. When she was
once again awake, she again repulsed him; but at last allowed
him to sit beside her, and they talked in low tones. A distant
noise startled her, but he calmed her, and they continued their
loving discourse, until the glass door quietly opened, and Chris-
tian stood on the threshold. Clemence fell lifeless to the floor.

The Baion made a step backward. "Come, Monsieur/'
he said ; and they silently left the room and traversed the castle
to the Baron's apartment.

As they faced each other, Gerfaut declared that he had en-
tered Madame de Bergenheim's apartment without the slightest
authorization from her. "There is only one guilty person in
this affair," he said, "and I am the one. Necessity obliges me
to admit a love that is an outrage to you, and I offer any rep-

CHARLES DE BERNARD 243

aration you demand. But I insist upon exculpating Madame
de Bergenheim from any accusation against her reputation or
her virtue."

"As to her reputation I will watch over that," replied the
Baron; "as to her virtue " and his face took on an ironical
expression.

Gerfaut passionately persisted in his defense of Cl^mence,
but the Baron said:

"Enough, Monsieur. A false oath under such circum-
stances is no dishonor to you, but let us return to facts. One of
us must die. I might have killed you, but that would have been
inconvenient. It is necessary to guard my wife's name." And
then he unfolded a plan for a boar-hunt, in which he and Ger-
fant should be stationed fifty paces apart, and when he should
cry "Take care!" as the boar sped by, one or the other should
fire first. Gerfaut acceded, and a tossed coin gave the lover the
first shot. The Baron asked that, whatever the result, it should
all be kept profoundly secret. And Gerfaut, agreeing, asked
the Baron's intentions concerning his wife, if he should survive,
again asseverating her innocence. The Baron coldly denied
his right to concern himself with that matter.

"But I have ruined her," cried Gerfaut, "while her inno-
cence is unsullied, and I will protect her." Then, leaning over
the table, he said savagely, "You killed Lambernier!"

Christian bounded back.

"It is true, I am a gentleman and not an informer," pur-
sued Gerfaut, "but I shall write a deposition of what I wit-
nessed on the rocks, and place it in trustworthy hands. You
will be watched after I am dead, and when you abuse your
power over her the deposition will be given to the authorities
and you will be condemned, thus giving her a legal separation
from you. Yes: I will pick up this stone from the mud, and I
will crush your head with it."

When Gerfaut had departed, the Baron went to his wife,
and, after making her swear to her innocence, got out Ger-
faut's letters, and shamed her with them. A pebble struck her
blinds. Christian ordered her to open them, when there came
in another wrapped around a letter from Gerfaut a letter of
farewell, and finally of a craving for pardon in that his love had

244 GERFAUT

ruined her life. This frightened Cl^mence, who saw that the
men were to fight, and she begged Christian to kill her, and let
that end it. But he cut her with sarcasms, and crushed her
with reproaches, ending by cursing her if he being killed she
should follow her lover. He left her more dead than alive.

The next day was gloriously brilliant. The boar-hunt began
in gaiety, which was checked by the dogs discovering the body
of Lambernier, cast up by the current. One of the hunters, the
public prosecutor, remained by the body to prepare a report,
and the rest rode on, Gerfaut casting a keen glance at the Baron.

The boar was located; the hunters were placed along his
probable route; and, at the end, fifty paces apart, stood Ger-
faut and the Baron. The dogs gave tongue; distant shots were
heard; the trampling of the boar sounded from the wood.

"Take care!" shouted the Baron, and after the report of a
single gun, the boar vanished, and De Bergcnheim lay bleeding.

The morning scene in the drawing-room showed Made-
moiselle de Corandeuil reading, Aline at the piano, and
Clmence embroidering. A disturbance in the court-yard
aroused them, and Aline rushed out, soon coming back with
a piercing shriek as the Baron was borne in. He roused,
called his wife, and sent all others away.

Clmence, racked with remorse, devoured with fever, knelt
by her husband, begging him to live and to forgive her, while
the Baron taunted her, savagely reproached her, and with his
failing breath said:

"Some women do not see their husband's blood on their
lover's hands, but I would curse you" his eyes closed and his
mouth frothed: "I would curse you I would curse " and
Clmence rushed from him, and like an insane woman gazed
at herself in the mirror. Her face, her hands, her clothing, were
stained with blood. Then, in sheer madness, she ran out on
to the balcony, and, before he died, De Bergenhcim heard his
wife's body fall into the river.

The world saw only a sad hunting accident, and the suicide
of a devoted wife. Gerfaut wore his mourning in his heart,
and the exquisite tone of his lyre was evermore softened by
the sad memory of the woman he had loved and ruined.

DANIEL DEFOE

(England, 1661-1731)
THE ADVENTURES OF ROBINSON CRUSOE (1719)

The most widely known work of fiction in any language, The Adventures
of Robinson Crusoe, ran through four editions in four months after its publica-
tion. A second part was then added, and a year later a third part, the "Serious
Reflections" now rarely included in the volume. DeFoe was charged with hav-
ing obtained the material for his masterpiece from Alexander Selkirk, a South
Sea buccaneer, who in a quarrel with his captain was left (1704), by his own
request, on the desolate island of Juan Fernandez, where he lived alone four
years; but the whole construction of the story is proof that DeFoe obtained
nothing more than a suggestion from Selkirk's experience. The association of
Crusoe with Juan Fernandez has persisted in the general mind to the present
time. The press continually refers to it as Crusoe's island. But the scene of
DeFoe's story was a totally different one, on the northeast coast of South America,
just off the mouth of the Orinoco. A charge was also made that the Crusoe
story was written by DeFoe's patron, Lord Oxford, in 1715, while confined on an
accusation of high treason in the Tower of London. It was also ascribed to
Arbuthnot. Many imitations have appeared and the stage has seen its repre-
sentation in various ways.

WAS born in the year 1632 in the City of York
of a good family, though not of that country,
my father being a foreigner from Bremen, named
Kreutzner. My mother was from York, of a
family named Robinson, after whom I was called,
that is to say, Robinson Kreutzner; but by a cor-
ruption of the name such as is frequent in Eng-
land, we are now called, nay, we call ourselves,
and write our name, Crusoe. As I was the third
son of the family and not bred to any trade, my head began to be
filled very early with rambling thoughts. My father designed
me for the law, but I would be satisfied with nothing but going
to sea. When I was eighteen years old, being one day at Hull,
whither I went casually, I met one of my companions then going
to London by sea in his father's ship, who invited me to go with

245

246 THE ADVENTURES OF ROBINSON CRUSOE

him free. I consulted neither father nor mother nor so much
as sent them word of it, but embarked on the first of September,
1651. We had a storm; and, as I had never been at sea be-
fore, I was most inexpressibly sick in body and terrified in mind.
On the sixth day we came to anchor in Yarmouth Roads, and
there it blew a terrible storm; and all the vessels around us, as
well as our own, were in distress. Our ship at length was but
a wreck upon the water; but another ventured a boat to help us,
and with much difficulty we all got safe to shore.

I now should have gone back to Hull; but my ill fate pushed
me on with an obstinacy that nothing could resist; and I went
on board a vessel bound for Africa, not as a sailor, but as a
gentleman and a friend of the Captain. This was the only
voyage in all my adventures which I may say was successful.
I then set up for a Guinea trader and resolved to make the
voyage over again. But I was doomed to misfortune. Our
ship was surprised in the gray of the morning by a Turkish
rover of Sallee and we were carried all prisoners into that port,
which belongs to the Moors. Being young and nimble I was
kept by the Captain as his proper prize, and for two years I
served him, continually thinking to make my escape. He
caused the long-boat of our English ship to be comfortably made
over to be used for cruising after fish; and we frequently went
out in it for that purpose. One day this boat was provided
extraordinarily for a pleasure cruise; but his guests put off
going; and I was ordered to go out with a man and boy as usual
and catch some fish, for his friends were to sup at his house. 1
prepared not for fishing but for a voyage I knew not where:
anywhere to get out of this place. We put out, and I maneu-
vered to get as far away as possible and then brought to as if I
would fish. Then, giving the boy the helm, I stepped forward
to where the Moor was and took him by surprise, with my arm
under his waist, and tossed him clear overboard into the sea.
He swam like a cork, begged to be taken in, and would have
reached me very quickly, there being little wind; but I stepped
into the cabin and fetching a fowling-piece, presented it at him,
and told him I had done him no hurt. "But," said I, "you
swim well enough to reach the shore, and the sea is calm; make
the best of your way to shore, and I will do you no harm; but

DANIEL DEFOE 247

if you come near the boat I will shoot you through the head."
So he turned himself about and swam for the shore; and I make
no doubt but he reached it with ease, for he was an excellent
swimmer.

I would have been content to take this Moor with me and
drown the boy; but there was no venturing to trust him, and the
boy, Xury, swore to be faithful to me and to go all over the
world with me. We kept the boat's course down the coast of
Africa, from time to time going on shore for water and meeting
with some negroes, who offered me no harm. After twenty-five
days or more, doubling a point at about two leagues from the
land, I saw plainly land on the other side to leeward. I con-
cluded this was the Cape de Verd and those the islands called
from thence Cape de Verd Islands. I now could not tell what
I had best do; but in this dilemma a sail appeared. They saw
my signals, and in about three hours I came up with them. It
was a Portuguese ship; and the Captain treated me very gener-
ously and told me he would take me free with him to the Brazils,
whither he was bound. He bought my boat for eighty pieces
of eight and gave me sixty pieces of eight for my boy Xury, with
an obligation to set him free in ten years if the boy turned
Christian. In the Brazils I sold all those things which I had
brought away from the Moors, and resolved to turn planter.

When I had prospered here about four years, some of my
fellow-planters, knowing I had been on the coast of Africa, pro-
posed secretly to fit out a ship to go to Guinea to secure negroes
for their plantations. If I would go as supercargo, they offered
to give me an equal share of the negroes without my providing
any part of the stock. I told them I would go with all my
heart if they would undertake to look after my plantation in
my absence, and would dispose of it as I should direct if I mis-
carried. I also made a will. In short, I took all possible pre-
caution to preserve my effects and to keep up my plantation.
Our ship was about one hundred and twenty tons burden,
carried six guns and fourteen men, besides the master, his boy,
and myself. We set sail, standing away to the northward. In
about twelve days' time we passed the line and were by our
last observation in 7 22' north latitude, when a violent tornado
took us quite out of our knowledge. We could do nothing but

248 THE ADVENTURES OF ROBINSON CRUSOE

drive before the hurricane, which settled in the northeast.
When the weather abated a little, the master found that he was
upon the north part of Brazil, toward the river Orinoco.

We resolved to stand away for Barbadoes; but when we
were in latitude 12 18', a second storm carried us westward.
In this distress, the wind still blowing very hard, one of our men
early in the morning cried out, "Land!" and we had no sooner
run out of the cabin than the ship struck upon the sand; and
in a moment, her motion being so stopped, the sea broke over
her in such manner that we were driven into our close quarters.
We knew nothing of where we were. The boat we had at our
stern broke away; but we had another on board which we flung
over the ship's side; and all getting into her we let go, and com-
mitted ourselves, being eleven in number, to God's mercy and
the wild sea. After we had driven about a league and a half,
a raging wave came rolling astern and took us with such fury
that it overset the boat at once; and separating us, as well from
the boat as from one another, gave us hardly time to say " O
God!" for we were all swallowed up in a moment. The wave
carried me a vast way on toward the shore, and went back only
to come on me again and again, the shore being very flat. At
last I got to the mainland and sat me down on the grass, free
from danger. Then I walked about on the shore lifting up my
hands, my whole being, as I may say, wrapped up in the con-
templation of my deliverance. As for my comrades, I never
saw them afterward or any sign of them, except three of their
hats, one cap, and two shoes that were not fellows.

About a furlong from the shore I found some fresh water,
to my great joy. The night I passed in a tree with a truncheon
for my defense. When I waked it was broad day, the weather
clear, and the storm abated. By the swelling of the tide the
ship was driven within a mile of the shore, seeming now to stand
upright, so that I wished myself on board that I might save some
necessary things for my use. I saw the ship's boat tossed on the
land about two miles on my right, but an inlet of water, I found,
lay between. A little after noon the sea became very calm, and
the tide ebbed so far out that I could come within a quarter of
a mile of the ship. I pulled off my clothes and took to the
water; for though it was October the weather was hot to ex*

DANIEL DEFOE 249

tremity. By the help of a rope I got into the forecastle. First
I found that all the ship's provisions were dry; and being well
disposed to eat, I filled my pockets with biscuit and ate as I went
about. Instead of a boat, I flung over some spars and made a
raft of them. On this I laid all the planks and boards I could
get, and having considered well what I most wanted, I loaded
my raft with provisions, viz., bread, rice, three Dutch cheeses,
five pieces of dried goat's flesh, and some other like things.
There had been some barley and wheat together; but to my
great disappointment, I found that the rats had eaten or spoiled
it all. As for liquors, I found several cases of bottles belonging
to our skipper, and these I stowed by themselves. Of clothes
I found enough, but took no more than I wanted for present
use. After long searching, I found the carpenter's chest and
took that. My next care was for ammunition and arms. There
were two very good fowling-pieces in the great cabin and two
pistols; these I secured first, with some powder-horns and a
small bag of shot and two rusty swords. With much search I
found three barrels of powder, two of them dry and good; the
third had taken water. Those two I got on the raft, with the
arms.

Having found two or three broken oars belonging to the
boat, and, besides the tools in the chest, two saws, an ax, and
a hammer, I put to sea with this cargo. I saw the mouth of a
little river, where I succeeded in landing in a small cove on the
right-hand side. My next work was to view the country and
seek a proper place to build my habitation and store my goods
to secure them from whatever might happen. Whether I was
on a continent or an island I knew not, nor whether the land
was inhabited. I traveled for discovery to the top of a hill;
there I saw my fate, to my great affliction, viz., that I was on an
island environed every way with the sea, with two small islands
which lay about three leagues to the west.

I made eleven voyages to the ship and brought away all that
one pair of hands could well be supposed capable to bring; but
the twelfth time the wind rose very hastily and soon it blew a
storm. But I returned home to my little tent, where I lay with
all my wealth about me very secure. It blew very hard all that
night and in the morning when I looked out, behold, no more

250 THE ADVENTURES OF ROBINSON CRUSOE

ship was to be seen. I now made for my dwelling a strong
place like a fortification, semicircular before a large rock, with
strong stakes in two rows about six inches apart, which inter-
vening space I filled in up to the top with pieces of cable from
the ship. The entrance to it was by a short ladder over the
top, which ladder, when I was in, I lifted over after me. Here
I placed all my possessions, and I made within a large hut to
preserve me from the rains, with a tarpaulin over the top. I
discovered that there were goats on the island, very shy, but
I finally killed one. I divided my powder into near a hundred
parcels laid in different places, in hope that whatever might
come it might not all take fire at once. I had a dismal prospect
before me. In this desolate place, and in this desolate man-
ner, I should end my days. The tears would run plentifully
down my face when I made these reflections. To prevent los-
ing my reckoning, I cut with my knife upon a large post which
I made into a cross and set up on the shore where I had first
landed: viz., "I came on shore here on the 3oth of September,
1659." Upon the sides of this square post I cut every day a
notch with my knife, and every seventh day was as long again
as the rest, and every first day of the month as long again as
that long one. We had in the ship a dog and two cats. I car-
ried both cats with me and the dog swam to shore, so now I had
their company. I found pens, ink, and paper in rummaging
the chests, and I kept a journal, till having no more ink I was
forced to leave it off. This place I called the Island of Despair.
Having no light, I made a little dish out of clay, which I baked
in the sun, and with the tallow of the goat and some oakum for
a wick I made me a lamp; and this gave me a light, though not
like a candle. The bag of corn, or what was left by the rats, I
emptied by my rock, needing the bag for another purpose.
There was liitle besides dust and husks in it ; but about a month
afterward, the great rain having set in, I saw some stalks of
something green shooting out of the ground. After a little
longer time I saw that it was English barley and rice. I care-
fully saved the seed and in successive years so husbanded it that
I came to have crops of a goodly magnitude.

When I went to explore the other or west side of my island,
it being a clear day I fairly descried land. It lay very high and

DANIEL DEFOE

25*

was not less than fifteen or twenty leagues off. Whether it was
an island or continent I could not tell, though I knew it must
be a part of America. I soon left off afflicting myself with use-
less wishes of being there. I was comfortable in my island with
meat and food in plenty, then why go there, perhaps among
wild savages? But nevertheless I made a large canoe from the
trunk of a tree. Many a weary stroke it cost me; and then I
could neither get it down to the sea nor the sea up to it, and so
I left it. This was in my fourth year on the island. The cloth-
ing I had brought from the wreck now was near worn out, but
I had saved the skins of all the creatures I had killed, and from
these I made a cap and a suit of clothes. And I made an um-
brella, as I was in great want of one, and covered it with skins,
the hair upward, which both shed the rain and kept off the sun
effectually. For five years more I lived on in the same course
just as before, and I built another canoe, but a smaller one. I
filled a mast in this and went on a cruise around my island.
As I came near being carried out to sea, I made no more long
voyages in this craft. It was in the eleventh year of my
residence that I trapped three kids and reared them; and in
about a year and a half I had about twelve goats, and in
two years more I had forty-three. Sometimes I had a gallon
of milk a day.

It happened one day about noon, going toward my boat, I
was exceedingly surprised with the print of a man's naked foot
on the shore. I stood like one thunderstruck. I listened, I
looked round me, but I could hear nothing nor see anything.
I slept none that night thinking of how this footprint got there.
For two years I lived in apprehension. Then, going to a part
I had not before visited, I was confounded to find the shore
spread with skulls, hands, feet, and other bones of human bodies;
and there was a spot near where a fire had been. I had been
here now almost eighteen years, and I observed that these
wretches who had sat at their inhuman feastings never came
to search for what they could get, and I might be here eighteen
years more as entirely concealed as now. In the month of De-
cember of my twenty-third year on the island I was going out
early in the morning and was surprised by the light of some fire
on the shore. It proved to be from the fire of nine naked sav-

252 THE ADVENTURES OF ROBINSON CRUSOE

ages, whom I could see with my perspective glass from my safe
position. As soon as the tide was right they took to their canoes
and paddled away. I then examined the place and also the
spot where I had first found signs of them, and all about I saw
the marks of horror the blood, the bones, and part of the flesh
of human bodies, eaten and devoured by these wretches with
merriment and sport. I was so filled with indignation that I
now began to premeditate the destruction of the next that I
saw there, let them be how many soever.

It was the next year that I saw them again, just after the
wreck of an unfortunate ship on the rocks. All from the ship
were lost, to my deep regret. From the wreck I obtained many
stores as well as a great deal of money, which I put with that
which I had obtained from our own vessel. Following this I
was surprised one morning to see no less than five canoes all :>n
shore together and at least thirty savages with a fire kindled
and meat dressed, as I plainly saw with my perspective glass.
Two wretches were brought out for slaughter, one knocked
down immediately; and two or three set to work cutting him
open for their cookery, while the other victim was left standing
by himself. This one suddenly darted away and ran with in-
credible swiftness along the sands directly toward me. He
outstripped his pursuers exceedingly, only two at last following
him. It came upon my thoughts that now was the time to get
me a servant. With my two guns I placed myself in the way,
hallooing aloud to him that fled and beckoning him to come
on. Rushing upon the foremost pursuer I knocked him down
with the stock of my piece. The other fixed an arrow to his
bow but I killed him at the first shot. The savage who fled
was so frightened that he stood stock-still. I got him to come
to me a little at a time, and then he kneeled down, kissed the
ground, and set my foot on his head. The savage I had knocked
down now revived. Upon this the one I had rescued spoke
some words to me, and though I could not understand them,
yet I thought they were pleasant to hear; for they were the first
sound of man's voice that I had heard, my own excepted, for
above twenty-five years. My savage, for so I called him now,
made a motion to me to lend him my sword, which I did. He
no sooner had it but at one blow he cut off his enemy's head

DANIEL DEFOE 253

so cleverly no executioner in Germany could have done it bet-
ter. Then he came laughing to me in sign of triumph. He
was a comely fellow of a tawny color, and he had a very good
countenance. In a little while I taught him to speak to me,
and I let him know his name should be Friday, which was the
day I saved his life. I likewise taught him to call me Master.
He was the aptest scholar that ever was. Now my life began
to be so easy that could I have been safe from more savages I
cared not if I was never to remove from the place where I lived.
But I determined to go to the land to the west, which Friday
said was his; and we built a canoe for that purpose. This plan
was frustrated by the arrival of another band of savages with a
bearded man as a captive. There were twenty of these wretches
this time; but with Friday I attacked them, and with the fire-
arms routed them and saved the man. The living fled to their
canoes and escaped. In a canoe that was left behind we found
another living victim. When Friday saw this man he went
into a frenzy of joy, for it was his father. The bearded man
was a Spaniard, one of seventeen who had been wrecked on the
mainland, his companions being still alive there, but sore pressed
for necessaries. 1 planned to send him and Friday's father
over to get them to come to my island; but he was not to bring
any man who would not first swear that he would in no way
injure me. While waiting for his return I discovered a ship
one day at anchor about two leagues distant from me. This
turned out to be an English vessel with a mutinous crew, who
brought their captain on shore to kill him. By my strategy
and timely help the wretches were overpowered and some of
them killed; and he regained his command, whereupon he said,
as I was his deliverer, the ship and all that belonged to her were
mine. I was at first ready to sink down with surprise, for I
saw my deliverance. It was then arranged that I should de-
part with my man Friday in this ship, while several of the worst
of the mutineers were left there. And thus I left the island
the nineteenth of December, after I had been upon it eight and
twenty years, two months and nineteen days. I arrived, a per-
fect stranger to all the world, in England the eleventh of June,
1687, having been thirty-five years absent.

My estate had been well administered and I found myself

254 THE ADVENTURES OF ROBINSON CRUSOE

a rich man. After some eventful travel on the Continent, re-
turning from Lisbon, I settled down in England and married,
and had three children; but my wife dying I went on a voyage
as a private trader, on the eighth of January, 1695. I visited
my island and took out supplies for those who might be there.
The Spaniards had come over and with the mutineers, who had
taken wives from among some savages, the population was
greatly increased. I was able to arrange the troubles that had
beset the island during my absence, and I left them all in good
circumstances and in a flourishing condition and proceeded
on my voyage after twenty-five days among them. On the way
to the Brazils poor Friday was killed by savages who attacked
us. From the Brazils we made the Cape of Good Hope, then
Madagascar and so on, with some adventure, around to the
China coast. While in the city of Nanquin I saw a great cara-
van of Muscovite and Polish merchants preparing to start by
land to Moscow; and I resolved to join them, which, indeed, I
did, and spent that winter at Tobolsk! in Siberia, letting the
caravan go on. The following year I went on to Archangel,
whence I sailed for Hamburg. From there I went to The Hague
where I got passage for London, arriving there the tenth of
January, 1705, having been absent from England ten years and
nine months. And here I resolved to prepare for a longer
journey than all these, having lived a life of infinite variety for
seventy-two years, and learned sufficiently to know the value of
retirement and the blessing of ending our days in peace.

STEPHANIE DE GENLIS

(France, 1746-1830)
LOUISA DE CLERMONT (1802)

This story, which appeared in a series of moral tales by the author, is
characteristic of a style of thought and speech in vogue at the time of its produc-
tion. It was translated into English in 1825. The character of Louisa de
Clermont was drawn from life, this heroine being an interesting historical per-
son, sister of the Duke of Concle", who was Prime Minister during the minority
of Louis XV.

^OUISA DE CLERMONT had received from
nature and fortune every enviable endowment.
She had royal birth, enchanting beauty, and a
meekness and equability of temper seldom met
with in persons of her rank and station. Pos-
sessing great intellect and a soul of deep
sensibility, she was simple and unaffected in
her ways and was admired and beloved by all
who knew her.
At the ago of twenty Louisa de Clermont, a princess in rank,
a favorite of the King, and courted by many suitors, was as yet
untouched by love or passion. Her brother, who was Prime
Minister, and with whom she made her home, was her only
relative, and on account of the superiority to which his age and
character entitled him, he was regarded by his sister with timid-
ity and reserve.

With this brother she visited Chantilly, a place rich in nat-
ural beauties, which comprised, besides an excess of social
magnificence, the rural seclusion and peaceful retreats that
appeal to the heart of the sentimentalist. In this beguiling
place, Mademoiselle de Clermont, who had always loved books,
found her taste for them becoming a passion, and devoted a
large portion of her time to this congenial pursuit. Besides the

255

256 LOUISA DE CLERMONT

enjoyment that she herself derived from this source, she added
much to the pleasure of others by frequently reading aloud
from her favorite romances. On these occasions the favored
company never failed to praise the exquisite manner in which
she rendered her selections, and she was warmly applauded by
her admiring audiences, who alternately wept and smiled.

One man alone, who was always present at these readings,
preserved a frigid and melancholy silence, and his apparent
indifference did not escape the notice of Mademoiselle de Cler-
mont. This was the Due de Melun, the last descendant of an
illustrious house. His character and virtues gave him personal
consideration independent of his fortune and birth, and he was
endowed with a noble form, expressive features, and a brilliant
mind. In society his manner was apt to be distant and re-
served, his indifference, however, not being caused by pride or
disdain, but by his entire lack of dissimulation and of the en-
deavor to captivate. In spite of his coldness, he was generally
beloved and respected, and Mademoiselle de Clermont realized
with an emotion of pain that he was the only one who withheld
from her his tribute of applause. She finally inquired of his
relative, the Marchioness de G , as to the cause of his aloof-
ness, and learned that he did not listen to her reading, but re-
mained in the room simply because the atmosphere was more
quiet than that of the billiard-hall or the saloon. Piqued by
this information, she resolved to question the Duke with regard
to the matter, and find out whether the frivolous character of her
reading repelled him.

Upon being interrogated, the Duke was astonished and re-
mained for a moment speechless, and then recovering from his
confusion, said:

"I see, without pain, people of middling condition and
talents squander their youthful faculties in vain and frivolous
pursuits; but this abuse of them in persons whom rank and
superiority elevate above others afflicts me most sensibly.
Mademoiselle orders me to lay my heart open to her; she now
has read it."

The Duke pronounced these last words feelingly. Made-
moiselle de Clermont blushed, looked down, and was silent.

The next day, at the reading-hour, a novel was handed to

STEPHANIE DE GENLIS 257

Mademoiselle de Clermont, which she had begun the evening
before.

"I am tired of novels/' said she, looking at the Due de
Melun. "Can we not read something more useful and im-
proving ?"

A volume of history was brought, which she began with a
look of interest and attention which did not escape the Duke.
That evening at the supper-table she placed him at her side.
They were both silent until the general gaiety became so ex-
cited as to favor a private conversation.

"You saw, a while ago,' 7 said Mademoiselle de Clermont,
"that I know how to benefit by the advice that is given to me;
I hope this fact will encourage you."

"The fear of displeasing you," answered the Duke, "can
alone repress my zeal; sanctioned by you, I feel that hereafter
it will be boundless."

These words, uttered with warmth, affected Mademoiselle
de Clermont; and a look of feeling was her only answer. Never
had she felt so lively a desire to please, and she displayed that
evening all the fascinations of her wit. On his side, the Duke
astonished her by a vivacity which she had never observed in
him before, and by the choice, as well as delicacy, of his ex-
pressions.

The following days, Mademoiselle de Clermont dared not
show for the Due de Melun that preference which would not
have escaped the prying eyes of courtiers, but she lavished her

attentions on the Marchioness de G , cousin to the Duke,

whom he had loved from his infancy. In friendship, as well as
in love, princesses are obliged to make the first overtures, but the
Duke, who appreciated the distance in rank that lay between
them, dared not give rein to the fancies with which this intimacy
inspired him.

Although Mademoiselle de Clermont, who was surrounded
by her attendants, found difficulty in indulging in any private
interviews, she did on one occasion succeed in eluding her
companions and joined the Marchioness and the Duke in
an evening walk. This event proved most enjoyable and
Mademoiselle de Clermont found herself becoming more and
more interested in her new friend.

A.D., VOL. vi. 17

258 LOUISA DE CLERMONT

While she and the Duke were conversing together they were
interrupted by an elderly man who approached Mademoiselle,
presented her with a petition which he said was of great im-
portance, and begged her to secure for him her brother's signa-
ture that very evening. With this request she gracefully com-
plied, assuring the man that his commission should be executed
without fail. Upon returning to the castle, however, she became
interested in discussing the fancy-dress ball that was to take
place later in the evening, and learning that her new ball-gown
had arrived during her absence, she hurriedly went to her room.
In her haste the petition was completely forgotten, and was
left lying on the table, where the Duke found it and took it into
his possession.

Louisa de Clermont arrayed herself for the ball with most
joyful anticipations as she looked forward to the attentions of
the Duke, who was accounted one of the best dancers at court,
and to whom she was desirous of displaying her own accom-
plishments in that line. What were her disappointment and
chagrin, when she appeared in her dazzling attire, which won
for her universal admiration, to learn that the only person whose
applause she desired had absented himself from the ball. Irri-
tated and vexed, she endeavored to assume a gaiety that she did
not feel; but after a time this effort became irksome and she
left the ball, filled with unconquerable disgust and with the
desire to be alone.

Sorrowful reflections filled her thoughts during the remain-
der of the night, and rising early the following morning she was
setting out for a walk when she was confronted by the man
who had given her the petition the night before. Her first feel-
ing was that of acute self-reproach for her forgetfulness, but
to her astonishment the man approached her with a beaming
face and, thanking her, told her that to her goodness he owed
the happiness of his future life.

When she questioned him on the subject he responded that
the Due de Melun had condescended to hand him the petition
with his signature affixed, telling him he was indebted to the
kindness of Mademoiselle de Clermont for this fortunate con-
clusion.

Louisa de Clermont at once sought her brother, who con-

STEPHANIE DE GENLIS 259

firmed the man's statement that the Duke's intercession had
procured his desired signature, and she was overcome by her
varied emotions. Seeking the Duke at her earliest opportunity,
she acknowledged her shame and mortification and said that
in reparation of her fault she would make a vow to pass a whole
year without dancing.

Soon after this conversation the Duke, realizing how deep
his infatuation was becoming for the lovely Princess, decided
that he must tear himself away from her before he had betrayed
the secret of his heart. Besides feeling that it was dishonorable
to try to win the affection of one destined for a royal alliance,
he was opposed to offending the Duke her brother, who was a
warm friend, and to whom he felt he owed a strict allegiance.
Accordingly, he returned to Paris, causing Mademoiselle de
Clermont to experience such melancholy and ennui that she
hailed with joy the day that conducted her back to the capital.

After her return, she saw with solicitude that the Duke
shunned her society, but this fact only attracted her more
strongly to him. Winter was approaching, and a dress ball
was announced at Versailles, in which the King, condescending
to dance a quadrille, selected Mademoiselle de Clermont for his
partner. The favored lady, however, remembering her vow,
notified the court that a sprained ankle would prevent her
dancing at the coming ball and would oblige her to keep her
room for six weeks; and this position she maintained for that
period, reclining on her sofa and receiving her friends who
flocked to do her homage. When visited by the Duke she ex-
plained to him her stratagem, and he was greatly overcome by
this proof of her loyalty.

From this time he was assiduous in his attentions, and finally
on one occasion, finding himself alone with her, he threw him-
self upon his knees and declared that human reason could no
longer withstand the feelings that were agitating him. Before
the lovers were able to indulge in any further conversation,
steps were heard approaching ; but this interruption did not pre-
vent the vehement words, " Forever/' which fell from Made-
moiselle de Qermont's lips, while the response, "Till death,"
came in the passionate accents of the Duke.

The recollection of this scene engrossed the whole soul of

2<5o LOUISA DE CLERMONT

Mademoiselle de Clermont. Nothing now could affright her.
She saw her lover faithful till death, and thenceforth no obstacle
could daunt her.

In the mean time, the Duke, reflecting upon his infatuation,
was struck with horror at his own weakness. He was thirty,
was one of her brother's friends, and possessed his full confi-
dence; he was under the highest personal obligations to him,
and he had just declared an extravagant passion to his sister,
to a Princess of the blood, youthful and inexperienced. He
knew that, even at that moment, her brother was engaged in a
negotiation, the object of which was to form a matrimonial
connection between Mademoiselle de Clermont and a crowned
head. Under these circumstances, to take advantage of her
partiality for him, to seduce her affections, was to mar her bril-
liant destiny, and to be wanting in all the duties of gratitude
and honesty. He hesitated not for a moment to sacrifice his
love to his duty; but how could he restrain, how hope to conceal
it, after his imprudence of the preceding evening? As the result
of these reflections, he addressed to Mademoiselle de Clermont
a letter, couched in the following terms:

" MADEMOISELLE:

"Yesterday, I was but a madman; to-day, I should be the vilest of men
if I felt aught but the deepest remorse. Would that, at the expense of my
blood, I could recall the rash and guilty avowal; but I swear, at least, even by
the feelings that have led me astray, hereafter to preserve an eternal silence.
This idea, become my only resource, will make everything possible to me. I
will exile myself, but it shall be for your repose, for your reputation, for your
glory; I shall suffer, but it will be for you Ah! fulfil your noble destiny, and
do not pity me. During six months, has not my very existence been identified
with yours ? Is it not as indispensable for me to see you the object of universal
admiration, as it is for me to preserve my own esteem ? Live happy, live peace-
ful, and my own fate will yet be enviable.

"DE MELUN."

He had just finished this letter, when a page entered and
handed him a note from the Princess, the first he had ever
received from her. He opened it with extreme perturbation to
find it merely contained a few formal lines, but upon examining
it further, to his great surprise, he discovered stamped upon

STEPHANIE DE GENLIS 261

the sealing-wax his own words, "Till death." This note was
followed by another, which was in response to his own, and this
bore simply the words, " Forever."

This affecting billet he kissed passionately and, putting it
in his bosom, said: "Thou shalt remain there till the last flutter
of this agonized heart is over."

Soon after this he took his departure, but after an absence
of several months returned to find the love between himself
and Mademoiselle de Clermont unabated. He departed again,
this time to return and find her the victim of a violent illness
brought on by her disappointment and sorrow.

His anguish was extreme when he learned of her pitiable
plight, and he haunted her bedchamber, listening to her fevered
accents. The disease, a dangerous case of measles, had proved
almost fatal when one day he stole a short interview with her in
the absence of her nurse, and this caused a crisis, which was
followed by her recovery.

The Duke himself contracted the disease and after a severe
illness was forced to seek health in a milder climate, where he
remained many months. Upon his return, Mademoiselle de
Clermont and her brother were on the point of setting out for
another sojourn in Chantilly, and he had the pleasure of accom-
panying them.

With what joy the Princess found herself again at Chantilly
with her lover! After two years of love, surrounded by diffi-
culties, and strengthened by mental sacrifices, what happiness
to be at last together! The only way that they could secure any
private interview was by meeting at the cottage of one of the
Princess's dairymaids, who had been taken into their confidence,
and finally a secret marriage in this place was decided upon.

After this event, great preparations were made at Chantilly
for the coming of the King, who was to pass a few days there.
During the festivities that attended his arrival the most con-
spicuous ornament was Mademoiselle de Clermont, whose
loveliness was so enhanced by her perfect happiness that she
attracted all eyes, and the young King singled her out for his
attentions.

The devotion of the Duke was noted by her brother with
much displeasure, and on the occasion of a stag-hunt in which

262 LOUISA DE CLERMONT

all were to participate, he approached his sister as she was
about to enter her carriage and sternly commanded that she
should forbid the Duke to follow her calash.

This command filled the Princess with agitation and alarm,
and as soon as her husband approached her she leaned toward
him and whispered: " Leave me; go and rejoin the King and
my brother; this evening I will tell you why."

The Duke made no further inquiry; but saying that he in-
tended to join the hunt by the shortest route, he took leave of
the Princess, and set off at full gallop, followed by a single
groom. Before entering a little side alley, he turned his head
and looked at the Princess, who followed him with her eyes.
This sad look was a last, an eternal adieu. He entered the
fatal alley and disappeared forever. At the end of two or three
minutes a piercing shriek was heard, and at the same moment
the Duke's groom was seen coming at full speed toward them.
The calash stopped, while, pale and trembling, Mademoiselle
de Clermont interrogated the groom, who exclaimed that the
Duke had just been unhorsed and wounded by the stag, which
had burst through the alley.

The unfortunate Princess, stupefied by grief and despair,
indicated that she wished to alight. She was supported out of
the carriage; she could neither speak nor stand, and they placed
her at the foot of a tree. She again expressed, by a gesture,
that they should all hurry to the Duke's assistance, with the
calash, and she was immediately obeyed. The Marchioness,
in tears, placed herself on her knees beside her, and, supporting
her fainting head on her bosom, told her they were far from the
castle, and that the Duke would be promptly succored. Made-
moiselle de Clermont, looking at the Marchioness, with an air
of stupefaction, said:

"It is I who told him to leave me!"

With these words, she made an attempt to rise, intending to
go toward the fatal spot, but she fell back into the arms of the
Marchioness.

In a short time the news was brought that the Duke, though
seriously wounded, still lived; and the Princess, who refused to
return to the gaiety of the castle, remained for several hours
in the forest accompanied by her ladies in waiting.

STEPHANIE DE GENLIS 263

When returning to the castle the first thing that greeted her
was the sound of the funeral bell, which announced the admin-
istration of the last sacraments to the dying. With death in
her heart, the Princess alighted, and saying, "At least I shall
see him once more," joined the procession of priests that was
then crossing the courtyard. As they entered the palace they
met the Duke, her brother, hastening to meet the procession,
and he was greatly surprised and displeased to note his sister's
presence. He at once requested her to withdraw, and on her
refusing to do so, he waited until they had reached the Duke's
apartments, and then, drawing her into an anteroom, forbade
her to enter the dying man's chamber.

The Princess then proclaimed that the Duke was her hus-
band, to the astonishment and rage of her brother, who still
declined to allow her to go to him. Finally, persuaded that the
injured man was in no immediate danger, the Princess returned
to her own apartment, where later the news of her husband's
death was brought to her by his confidential servant, who also
presented a letter from his dead master.

The wretched Princess threw herself on her knees to re-
ceive it, and rallying the little strength that remained to her,
she opened the fatal scroll ; it was the first note she had formerly
written to her lover, which contained only these words: " For-
ever!" But her dying husband, before he uttered the last
sigh, had also retraced, on the note, his own declaration, add-
ing these affecting words: "I deposit in your hands all I held
most sacred. Farewell; forget not him who loved you 'Till
death!' "

EDMOND AND JULES DE GONCOURT

(France, 1822-1896; 1830-1870)
RENEE MAUPERIN (1864)

In a preface to an edition of this novel published in 1875, Edmond de Gon-
court writes: "Would not the title under which we first announced this book,
The Young Bourgeoisie, have been better than the present? Did it not better
define the psychological analysis of the contemporaneous youth which we have
attempted? It is now too late to change the name, but I wish to warn the
possible reader that, unlike other novels, the plot of this story is secondary.
The authors have rather preferred to paint, with the least amount of literary
elaboration, the modern young woman as she is; the product of the artistic and
masculine system of education in force during the last thirty years. We have
also attempted to portray the modern young college man influenced by the
republican ideas of the time since Louis Philippe."

DISLIKE society; perhaps it is that I have met
only poor representatives of it. My brother's
friends do nothing but quote. As to the women,
with them you can only discuss the latest sermon,
the latest concert, or the latest fashion in dress";
and Rene turned in the water toward the man
who was swimming beside her.

"Nor must you read," she continued; " every-
thing you undertake has its limits of decency.
I paint in oils; everybody is shocked. I ought only to paint
roses in water-colors. To swim here is indecent; on the sea-
shore it would be quite proper. Why should the waters of the
Seine be indecent?"

Rente's father, Charles Louis Mauperin, born in 1787, was
of good family, and had been educated for the army. He had
participated in the Russian campaign, and had undergone all
the vicissitudes of the politics of that time. He had married a
cousin, by whom he had a boy, and a year later a girl. To these
children he remained indifferent; for the boy developed into
an effeminate prig, while the girl was an intellectual nonentity.

264

EDMOND AND JULES DE GONCOURT 265

Several years later Rene was born; and on her Mauperin
centered all his affections. Rende was now twenty, and heiress
of a fair fortune.

Her sister had married and lived an empty society life.
Now all Madame Mauperin's efforts were engaged in finding
a suitable match for Renee. But Rende was a wilful child.
Every eligible man presented to her she soon shocked by
some exceptionally unconventional bit of behavior. Her mother
was each time indignant; but her father was secretly pleased
and encouraged her, seconded by an old family friend, Denoisel.

Denoisel was a true Parisian, a middle-aged man who lived
economically on the income from a small fortune. He was
clever, intelligent, and universally esteemed. He came often
to the Mauperins' and was an intimate friend of Renee.

In disgust, Madame Mauperin turned her attention to her
son, Henri. He was a discreet young man; he had made up
his mind that the way to good position was through an ad-
vantageous marriage, and he frequented those social functions
that seemed likely to serve his purpose. His mother adored him;
his every action was to her perfect.

Renee had undertaken to organize an amateur theatrical
company, and had chosen Le Caprice to be played; but it was
difficult to find women suitable for the parts. Henri, who had
volunteered to play, casually suggested that Noemi Bourjot be
invited into the company. Rene was delighted, for Noemi
had been her school comrade, though Madame Bourjot had
displayed a decided coldness toward Madame Mauperin.

Renee persuaded her mother to visit the Bourjots, who
lived showily in a luxurious, fashionable house. Madame
Bourjot this time received her cordially, deploring the length
of time between her visits. Henri had been coming frequently
to her salons. She eagerly consented to her daughter's taking
part in the amateur theatricals.

The rehearsals were under DenoiseFs management. Noemi,
a shy girl, of a tender, timid nature, attended; and she and
Rene renewed the intimacy of their school-days.

At last came the evening of the performance; and the salon
of the Mauperins was crowded with a brilliant assembly of
bejeweled women. Madame Bourjot feared that Noemi's timid-

266 RENEE MAUPERIN

ity would cause her to fail in her part; but to her gratification,
Noemi came through brilliantly. Henri, whose part was that
of lover to Noemi, surprised those that knew his cold nature
with his successful acting. He was just in the middle of a
passionate love-scene when a commotion arose amid the audi-
ence. Madame Bourjot had fainted.

"You cannot deny it," she whispered, after she had recov-
ered, to Henri, who had followed when she was carried out.
"You love her. I saw it in your acting."

"Laure," replied Henri sadly, "I cannot deny it. I have
learned to love her, though I have struggled against it."

Madame Bourjot returned to the drawing-room, but despair
had gripped her heart. She had never loved her husband, but
for twenty years she had been a faithful wife. Then Henri
came, and to him she had given herself up entirely.

After the revelation of that evening, she sought an interview
with him, which he reluctantly granted. She told him then
that she had grown reconciled to the situation; more, she would
even use all her influence with her husband to obtain his con-
sent. But she warned him that Monsieur Bourjot was am-
bitious; he wished a title for his daughter. She suggested then
that Henri add "de Villacourt" to his name, the title that went
with the estate his father had bought from the last of the De
Villacourt family.

The marriage was successfully arranged. Noemi was
deeply depressed; and one day she confided to Rene that she
knew of the relations between her mother and Henri. Rente's
indignation was intense. That night she entered her brother's
room and made a futile appeal to his better nature. He rose
from his chair, white with rage, and pointed to the door.

"Go!" he commanded.

For a week after this interview, Rene was confined to her
room, suffering from palpitation of the heart. Henri, fearing
her now, attempted with assiduous attentions to regain her con-
fidence; but her repugnance for her brother was insurmountable.

Henri found that the last of the Villacourt family was dead;
so he began the necessary legal proceedings for assuming the title.
One day he took Rene with him to the public library, leaving
her in the reading-room while he went into the reference annex.

EDMOND AND JULES DE GONCOURT 267

Two attendants, behind her, were carrying on a whispered,
though, to her, perfectly audible conversation. On hearing
that her brother was the subject of their remarks, she listened
intently.

"Yes, he has taken the title," said one. "He believes the
last of the family dead."

"And that is true, is it not?" asked the other.

"The last of the Villacourts is not dead," came to Renee
distinctly. "He lives like a peasant, at La Motte-Noire, in the
woods of Croix-du-Soldat."

Rene made a note of the address.

The legal assumption of the title of the extinct family of De
Villacourt by Henri Mauperin was officially announced in the
papers. Noemi seemed reconciled now to her coming mar-
riage, more, even happy. Rendc, in conversation with her
one day, became convinced that Noemi now regarded Henri
in a different light than she had when she had confided
to her the repugnance with which she regarded the proposed
marriage.

One day Denoisel and Henri were sitting in the latter's
comfortable quarters in Paris when a commotion was heard
in the outer hall; and a stranger, a roughly clad man, broke
into the room.

"Monsieur Mauperin de Villacourt?" demanded the
stranger, with a fierce glare. Henri rose.

"I, sir, am Boisjorand de Villacourt." And with a sudden
swing he struck Henri a savage blow in the face.

"Monsieur," calmly replied Henri, wiping the blood from
his cheek, "leave your address with my servant; my second
shall call on you to-morrow. Evidently there is one De Villa-
court too many."

Denoisel, as Henri's second, made the necessary arrange-
ments; and next day the two principals met in a wood outside
the city. The measurements were made; the two, with loaded
pistols, advanced toward each other. Henri fired first, and De
Villacourt fell to his kneas.

"I am done for!" he gasped.

Henri was turning away when suddenly De Villacourt
called hoarsely.

268 RENEE MAUPERIN

"Monsieur, to your place."

Henri stood. His antagonist, with a violent effort, crawled
to the barrier between them, leveled his pistol, and fired. Henri
staggered and sank on his hands, digging his fingers into the
soil convulsively; then rolled over on his side.

Next day Denoisel appeared at Villacourt and broke the
news of the calamity to the family.

"Rene," he said, taking the girPs hand, "this is the work
of an enemy."

She raised her terrified eyes to his, then dropped them,
cowering.

"That man," continued he, "living a hermit's life, outside
the world, would otherwise not have known. He was not a
subscriber to Le Moniteur, but his second showed me a copy
of it with the announcement of Henri's taking up the title under-
scored. It had been sent to him."

Renee raised her hands to her temples; the self-accusing
words she thought she uttered became an inarticulate shriek,
and she sank fainting to the floor.

Never had her malady gripped her so firmly. She rallied
apparently, for a while; and noted specialists who were sum-
moned spoke hopeful words; but Rente's form wasted day by
day. Then it dawned on the distracted parents that the girl's
life was doomed.

Denoisel came. At first she feared him, believing that that
last shriek had betrayed her guilty secret; but she soon realized
that he did not know.

"My friend," she told him, smiling wanly, "I shall leave
you soon. No, do not weep so, for then I, too, shall weep."

The end came soon. And when the last repose came over
the wasted face, all traces of suffering were gone, as though she
lay in a serene and beautiful dream.

An old, gray-haired couple are often met, on boats, on rail-
roads, in hotels, ever traveling one day in Russia, another
day in Egypt seeking forgetfulness in the fatigues of constant
movement. They are Monsieur and Madame Mauperin, child-
less now for their eldest daughter had died in childbirth
homeless, hopeless wanderers.

EDUARD DOUWES DEKKER

(Holland, 1820-1887)
MAX HAVELAAR (1860)

The public of Holland, and to some extent of Continental Europe and of
Great Britain, was much aroused by the publication of this work of fiction,
which described with literal truth the cruel oppression of the native Javanese
by their chiefs, with the connivance of the Dutch Government at home and in
Batavia, and of the great commercial forces behind. For that reason it has
been called the Uncle Tom's Cabin of Holland. Mynheer Douwes Dekker, the
author, had been for sixteen years an officer in the service of the Dutch East
Indian Government. Mynherr Dekker challenged the Parliament and official-
dom of Holland to contravene the substance of the allegations; but no serious
attempt to invalidate them ever was made, except through the medium of abuse
and slander. The translation into English was made in 1868 by Baron Alphonse
Nahuys from the original Dutch manuscript.

ten Vc lock one morning there was an un-
usual bustle on the frontiers between Lebak and
Pandaglang, in the residency of Bantam, Java.
The Regent of Lebak, Radien Adhipatti Karter
Natter Negara, with a big retinue, mounted men
and foot-runners, had come from Rankas-Be-
tong, thirteen miles away, notwithstanding his
great age, to receive the new Assistant Resident
in accordance with the fixed custom in the Dutch
Indies. The Controller, a man of middle age, who had filled
the functions of the last Assistant Resident since the latter's
death, was with him. The Dutch and native officials were
assembled under a peradoppo (a great thatch of palm leaves
supported on bamboo canes) to meet their new chief.

To understand something of the situation, it is necessary
to explain briefly the machinery of government in these regions.
The Dutch Indies are divided into residences where the burden
of administrative government is carried on. The Governor-
General, though assisted by a Senate, is practically all-powerful;

260

270 MAX HAVELAAR

and the chiefs of the government departments at Batavia are
the connecting links between the Viceroy and the Residents,
except that in political matters the latter apply directly to the
Supreme head. Each residency has from three to five depart-
ments, controlled by Assistant Residents, and under these are
controllers, military commandants, overseers, and other offi-
cers. In every department the Assistant Resident is aided by
a native chief of high rank, known as the Regent, who is a paid
official and always belongs to the highest Javanese aristocracy,
usually of princely rank. The feudal rule of the princes still
remains a part of the religious cult, and thus Dutch adminis-
tration is the regime of an olden time. The mass of the natives
know nothing of the Batavian Government, only submission
to the Regents who are hereditary, the Assistant Residents, and
the Resident. Nominally the Assistant Resident is higher in
authority, but practically he is compelled to pay great deference
to the native functionary, who has so much power and influence
over the people as to make him a very dangerous factor in
possible disturbance. The Assistant Residents live simply in
single houses and have moderate salaries; the Regents are domi-
ciled in palatial quarters with a great retinue of retainers, and
thus incur heavy expense. Many of these chiefs, with incomes
of two or three hundred thousand guilders, are always heavily
in debt. The revenues of such native grandees are derived
from monthly pay, subsidies to indemnify their bought-up rights,
premiums on all products, and arbitrary disposal of the labor
and property of subject peasantry. The Javanese obey their
chiefs. It was only necessary for Dutch intrigue to win the
chiefs to subdue the country. When the Regent is displeased
with the action of an Assistant Resident he can appeal to the
Resident, who is usually disposed to get along with as little
trouble as possible. Each native chief pushes too far the lim-
its of the lawful disposal of labor and property, and all Assistant
Residents axe under oath to resist this. As Regents are rarely
accused of arbitrary conduct, it shows some insurmountable
difficulty in keeping the oath to protect the native population
against tyranny and extortion.

At the very time that the Regent and Controller Verbrugge
were awaiting the arrival of the Resident of Lebak with the

EDUARD DOUWES DEKKER 271

newly appointed Assistant Resident, the Military Commandant,
Duclari, who had ridden up, was commenting to Verbrugge
in Dutch, to escape the suspicious ears of the Regent on the
strange conduct of a common Javanese, so different from the
ordinary native reticence. The petitioner had complained bit-
terly of the tyranny of the Adhipatti, and asked him if nothing
could be done to lighten the pressure. The arrival of a mud-
bespattered coach relieved the suspense. The Resident as-
sisted a lady and a child from the carriage and the respectful
homage of the Regent and the Controller bespoke his impor-
tance. But the keener curiosity was to behold the newcomer,
Max Havelaar, now to be inducted in district authority. Im-
mediately after salutations Havelaar began to question his pre-
ceding locum tenens on taxation in the district. To Verbrugge's
wonder, he proved himself already a master of main facts and
statistics.

The journey, after refreshments, was resumed to Rankas-
Betong, the capital, where the simple ceremony of installa-
tion was performed at once at the Regent's palace. All the
Dutch officials and the native grandees were present. When
Havelaar took the oath, which included protecting the native
population against oppression, ill-treatment, and extortion, there
was that in his expression, voice, mien, and uplifted finger which
spoke eloquently to everyone present. It was as if he had said :
" I should do all that without any oath." Havelaar had recently
returned from Europe, after resigning from an Assistant Resi-
dentship at Amboyna in the Moluccas, where he had done ster-
ling work in suppressing rebellion and straightening the affairs
of an embarrassed district. He had spent most of his resources
in recuperating health broken by faithful and intelligent per-
formance, and had a right to expect a full Residentship. Yet
he did not complain when he was appointed Assistant to manage
the poor district of Lebak. His ambition was of that noble
kind which appraised itself for valuable service rather than
for emolument. So when he took possession of his mansion,
with its large garden, he and his wife, who was completely iden-
tified with his disinterested ambition, saw themselves happy in
a long term of fruitful and faithful devotion to duty. Perhaps
by simple living, too, he would be able to pay his debts.

272 MAX HAVELAAR

Havelaar requested the chiefs who had assembled at Rankas-
Betong to convene for a council the next morning. He then told
them his plans, his hopes, his wishes for the good of the people,
speaking in Malay, of which he was a master. He appealed to
them to cooperate with him in the enforcement of the laws and
in the administration of evenhanded justice. He would be
lenient in ordinary mistakes or negligences.

" Only," he said, "where negligence becomes a custom I will
oppose it. Of faults of a graver kind of tyranny and extor-
tion I do not speak; such a thing shall not happen is it not
so, Regent?" That dignitary gave him grave assurance, and
he concluded: "Well, then, gentlemen, Chiefs of Bantam
Kidool [the native name of the province], let us be glad that our
province is so poor. We have a noble work before us. If
Allah preserves us alive, we shall take care that prosperity
comes. The ground is fertile enough, the population willing.
If everyone is suffered to remain in the enjoyment of the fruits
of his labor, there is no doubt that within a short time the popu-
lation will improve as well both in the number of souls as in
possessions and civilization, for these things usually go hand in
hand."

The Adhipatti accompanied Max Havelaar to his house,
and as soon as he took his leave the new official turned sharply
to Verbrugge and said:

"People at Lebak abuse their power in a fearful way, you
ought to know it do you know it?"

Verbrugge was silent.

"I know it," said the other. "Did not Mr. Slotering [the
preceding Assistant Resident] die in November? Well, the day
after his death, the Regent forced the population to labor in his
rice-fields without payment."

Havelaar by questions compelled the Controller to admit
that previous reports made by the Adhipatti and other chiefs
were false, and that the unopened reports just received were
probably so; that what the Regent himself had not dared to
take from the people by seizing their goods and sequestrating
their labor in his own fields many times more than was allowed
by law, the other officials especially his son-in-law, the De-
meny of Porang-Koodjang completed by their extortion.

EDUARD DOUWES DEKKER 273

" I do not care to know too exactly what has happened. But
all that happens henceforth is on my responsibility," said he.

An examination of Mr. Slotering's papers fully verified all
his suspicions. That official, an honest and able man with an
alert conscience, had reported the facts to the Resident by word
of mouth, as the latter objected to written reports. All that had
resulted was quick information given to the Regent, which en-
abled that chief to terrify the witnesses into denying what they
had before declared. Vcrbrugge was an honest but a timid
man, willing to cooperate as long as he did not need to take the
initiative.

That night at dinner Max Havelaar gave to his two guests,
Verbrugge and Commandant Duclari, a sketch of his official
experiences in Sumatra, where he had filled similar offices. He
had been suspended or relieved or compelled to resign in several
instances because he had stirred up hornets' nests by insistence
on telling the truth and attempting to make reforms in dealing
with the same kind of problems. He had angered Residents
General, even the Governor-General, who would obstinately
remain blind whatever the effort made to open their eyes and
minds. But an honest man, with a single eye to duty and con-
science, he thought, had but one pathway to travel, whatever
the consequences. The latest instance of his misfortune had
been a suspension on the pretext of dishonesty, as his accounts
had been technically defective. Yet this malfeasance had oc-
curred through his books being in the hands of incompetent
clerks, when he himself was away prosecuting successful at-
tempts to prevent a revolt, which otherwise would have renewed
a war with the Atchincse, entailing large cost of life and
treasure.

The little Havelaar family lived for a while in peace at
Rankas-Betong. Havelaar was indefatigable in his work,
riding every day through the district with the keenest inspection,
often without the knowledge of the Regent or of the Controller.
His relations with the Resident, with the Commandant, and
with Verbrugge were cordial. He treated the Regent, who
called him his "elder brother," with great consideration, and
gave this aged spendthrift financial assistance when he could
do so consistently with official duty. One thing he had occasion
A.D., VOL. vi. 18

274 MAX HAVELAAR

to note with curiosity : Madame Slotering, widow of his prede-
cessor, occupied, with her children, a cottage in the grounds.
She was a native Javanese of superior intelligence and birth,
to whom Madame Havelaar made the friendliest overtures.
Yet she could rarely be persuaded to join the Havelaar family
even at their veranda teas. She spoke little, and spent much
of her time in watching everyone that approached her own
or Havelaar's house. It was almost a monomania. Natives
sometimes came to her gate stealthily by nightfall and ex-
changed a few words.

One thing distressed the Havelaars, for it curtailed the hap-
piness of little Max: they were able to keep only a small portion
of their large grounds free from grass and weeds where venom-
ous snakes flourished in excess. To pay a premium for every
reptile killed by native help in that serpent-breeding climate
would have taxed Havelaar's slender resources. He would not
levy unpaid labor, which he could easily have done. That would
be an example, even if a trifling one, to betray his own set
policy, the prevention of that system of semi-slavery which he
recognized as the great economic and social wrong of the Dutch
Indies. So little M'ax was not allowed to play far from his
father's bungalow, and Lina, the mother, had not the pleasure
in the flowers she had hoped for.

But it was not this that accounted for the growing gloom
that clouded Havelaar's brow. As time passed, his convictions
of the rottenness of conditions in Lcbak were fully confirmed.
He had spoken to the Chief of the whole regency about prevalent
abuses and wrongs while with him at Serang, and had been
answered "that this was everywhere the case in greater or less
degree." He had responded that the question was not of abuses
"more or less," but of abuses on a very large scale, whereon
the Resident had dryly answered that "it was still worse at
Tjiringien" [also belonging to Bantam]. The whole Dutch
Government seemed to be pervaded by the spirit of brutal
optimism, which completely veiled the truth. The reports of
Controllers to Assistant Residents, of these two Residents, of
Residents to the Senate and Governor- General, and of these
high functionaries to The Hague, were always couleur de rose.
Any irrepressible misfortune was painted as mere exception

EDUARD DOUWES DEKKER 275

and accident, and never of misgovernment. The memorandum
of Havelaar's predecessor, who had probed the rampant evils
of the district, was unofficial, and such as the Resident need not
place among the public archives; and rebuke had been forth-
coming for even that. Slotering had had good intentions and
burned with indignation; but he had many children, and needed
the salary, so he for the most part spoke to the Resident about
excessive abuses, and did not incorporate them with definite
exactness in an official indictment. Often the Government
was directly interested in these abuses, too. In many of the
provinces the Government had its coffee-plantations on a large
scale; and those gave the greatest yield to which the Regent
drove men, women, and children to work for nothing, the ob-
sequious tyrant of course receiving a percentage. The whole
affair in its wide ramifications was a dangerous subject to
touch.

The story of the Javanese Saidjah, to which Havelaar, in
the course of his constant investigation, secured ample testi-
mony, illustrates another form of extortion of which this is
but one of many cases, the wholesale robbery of buffalos, the
draft animals of agriculture, from the people for the benefit
of the Regent. This, indeed, was one of the causes that de-
populated the district. Saidjah \s factor had had several buffa-
los taken from him on different pretexts; and finally one of
them, to which the boy was very much attached, killed a tiger,
which had leaped on the lad, with his sharp horns. So every-
body wept when the faithful animal was taken away by the
Regent's emissaries to be butchered for meat. The family
without any buffalo, for they had no means to buy another,
managed to live, but were at last forced, by starvation and
inability to pay their land laxes, to emigrate.

Saidjah, setting forth on his wanderings, had a promise from
his sweetheart, and his bosom was full when after three years
he returned with a little money to marry Adinda. She and
her people were gone, driven out of the district, for their buf-
falos, too, had been taken. The factor had heard how Said-
jah' s factor had been whipped near to death for leaving without
a passport, so he concealed himself and his family in the woods
by the sea. Others, exiled for a similar cause, joined them,

276 MAX HAVELAAR

and they seized a fishing-smack and sailed to the Lampoons,
where the inhabitants were in rebellion against the Dutch.

'Saidjah, after much wandering, arrived there, seeking his
betrothed. He found her in a burning village, which had just
been taken by the Dutch troops, her father and brothers lying
dead with wounds, herself naked, outraged, and mutilated.
The maddened lover sought his own instant death by rushing
on the soldiers' bayonets. The wholesale robbery of their
draft cattle not only depopulated districts, but was one of the
principal causes of native outbreaks, to be suppressed after-
ward by fire and sword. Havclaar was fully armed with a
variety of such and correlated facts. Not only had he learned
these in the villages, but hundreds of natives had stolen to his
house at night, appealing to his chivalry. They had instinc-
tively recognized the man, and knew of the solemn public oath
he had taken. He had frequently expostulated, pleaded,
warned, threatened the Regent; he had made informal state-
ments to the Resident, but all in vain. Still he restrained him-
self from more explicit action till that occurred which set a torch
to his heaped-up resentment.

One afternoon he observed Madame Slotering ordering a
man at the gate away with violent gestures. When he asked
her why she always dismissed persons that were trying to enter
the grounds, she, after much urging, told her story. She re-
minded Havclaar that her husband, who had been his prede-
cessor, like himself had been true to his oath in seeking to pro-
tect the people against oppression. Finally he had said openly
that if no alteration took place by the end of the year, he should
make a direct report to the Governor-General. A few days
after this, in a journey of inspection, he dined at the house of the
Demang of Parang-Koodjang, whom Havelaar knew to be one
of the most unscrupulous of the Regent 's underlings. Sloter-
ing returned agonized with pain, and died in a few hours. The
woman knew the cause her husband had beeri a very healthy
man for poison administered to remove one's enemies is almost
as common in Java as the venom of serpents' fangs. She had
not dared to whisper her suspicion even to the doctor, for fear
of consequences. But she now was determined, as far as she
could, to keep anyone from approaching the Havelaar kitchen.

EDUARD DOUWES DEKKER 277

Verbrugge, on being questioned, quaintly acknowledged his
belief that, if the dead Slotering had not been poisoned, he
would have been had he lived much longer.

Havelaar proceeded at once to draw up a formal indictment
of the Regent, demanding his removal pending investigation.
He accused him of unlawfully compelling the labor of the people,
and of extortion by taking property and fixing arbitrary prices.
He included in these charges also the Regent's son-in-law, the
Demang of Parang-Koodjang. A private letter came in answer,
from Mr. " Slymering/' not from the Resident. It deplored the
fact that the Assistant Resident had not first communicated his
intention verbally, but said he would arrive next day at Rankas-
Betong. Havelaar provided that another missive should meet
him en route, with the information that there were still other
charges which would be made later. lie asked that there
should be no communication with the Regent till the Resident
had seen him; but, instead of complying, Slymering promptly
visited the Regent and gave him more than a hint of the situa-
tion. He urged the Assistant Resident to withdraw his accu-
sation and compromise the matter, but without avail; and the
affair as interpreted by the Resident was placed in the hands
of the Governor-General. The papers relating to the affirma-
tion of the charges had also been sent in duplicate by Havelaar,
with Verbrugge's affirmation of their truth. Of course the
Havelaar charges had not been officially sanctioned by the
Resident.

In due time a portentous document arrived from Buitenzorg,
the viceregal palace, which severely disapproved the course of
Havetaar. "Such conduct," said the great dignitary, "merits
all disapprobation, and sanctions belief in your incapacity to
bear office in the interior government of Java. I am therefore
obliged to dismiss you from your employment as Assistant
Resident of Lebak." He was named to a temporary office in
another district, but with the intimation that he must conduct
himself very carefully if he would retain that or any post in
Java.

The righteous man, wounded to the soul, went to Batavia to
make personal protest and present his case viva voce. He was
refused an interview time and again. At last he was informed

278 MAX HAVELAAR

that the Viceroy had resigned office and had sailed the night
before for home on a man-of-war. His conscience and sense
of personal honor united in compelling him to think no more
of official work in a country where doing his duty would only
bring him into perpetual collision with higher authorities. The
last episode was only a more bitter repetition of earlier experience.
So Max Havclaar was disgraced and impoverished, for he had
spent his life in the official service because he had sought to
introduce a nobler principle into the performance of duty than
sordid acquiescence with gigantic wrongs.

CHARLES PAUL DE KOCK

(France, 1794-1871)
THE MAID OF BELLEVILLE (1830)

This lively tale has long been a favorite with the French public, in its
dramatic version as well as in its original form.

JIRGINIE TROUPEAU, to whom her fond
father was accustomed to allude as "The Maid
of Belleville/' was a very pretty girl of seventeen,
full of life, and very restive under the severe rule
of her old and prudish great- aunt. But she wa^
politic, and concealed her dislike for reading
aloud the arid parts of the Old Testament, and
similar exercises, because she hoped to inherit
the old lady's income of twenty-five thousand
francs a year, and a pretty country-seat.

Virginie's parents shared the old lady's view, and thought a
young girl should be reared like a hothouse plant. Under this
system, they flattered themselves that she was absolutely ig-
norant of coquetry. Their friends, the Vauxdores, on the con-
trary, thought that plants were rendered more hardy by the
fresh- air plan, and had reared their orphan niece, Adrienne,
accordingly. Virginie, the demure, and Adrienne, the merry,
were intimate friends, despite the difference in their future for-
tunes; for Adrienne would have no dowry.

Monsieur Troupeau was much addicted to the expression,
"My means permit me to do it," and easily flattered (now that
he had retired from business) by allusions to his wealth. On
one of the frequent trips which he and his friend Vauxdore*
made from Belleville to Paris, he called upon the Count de
Senneville, who had owed him four thousand crowns for five or
six years. The Count was a spendthrift, overwhelmed with

279

280 THE MAID OF BELLEVILLE

debts, and had original methods of dealing with his creditors.
When Trotipeau called, he was penniless, having gambled away
his last sou the night before. He was intending (as often be-
fore) to borrow some money from his lady-love; but by dint
of grossly flattering Troupeau, inviting him to breakfast, and
inquiring after his family, he contrived (while pretending to in-
sist upon paying his debt) to borrow four thousand francs more.
To cap the climax, when he heard that Troupeau had a pretty
daughter, he promised to call upon the family in Belleville, and
invited Troupeau to visit him again whenever he was in Paris.

Thenceforth the Troupeau family existed, practically, for
that happy day. But they unintentionally wounded the fine
sense of modesty of Mademoiselle Bellavoine (Virginic's great-
aunt); whereupon she hastily departed for her own home in
Senlis. The next day, the Vauxdor family came, as was their
wont, to spend the evening; and while their elders played cards,
the two young girls chatted in Virginie's chamber. Adrienne,
Virginie's elder by two years, a frank, lively girl, told her friend
about a young man who had recently come to live in Belleville
with his mother: Monsieur Ledoux, generally called Doudoux.
Adrienne had been eavesdropping, and had heard him tell his
friends that he w r as too shy to declare his feelings, though he was
always falling in love. Virginie said nothing, but thought a
great deal.

The following evening, the Troupeau family went to the
Vauxdords', and young Doudoux w r as among the guests. He
was given to quoting Latin, on slight (or no) provocation;
and Virginie, thanks to the prudish training of her aunt, called
ordinary things by extraordinary names for example, she
alluded to the cat's tail as its "superfluity." This sympathy
of souls, aided by certain sly tricks of glance and manner, en-
abled Virginie to flatter herself, on her return home, that Dou-
doux had begun to look at her more than at Adrienne; a fact of
which Adrienne was also sadly aware. After a few more meet-
ings, varied by hand-pressures and tender words, Virginie sug-
gested that the young man might promenade in front of the
house, and see her, as she took the air at a window, a cough on
her part signifying that she was not alone, while permission to
talk to her would be indicated by her singing. But this afforded

CHARLES PAUL DE KOCK 281

him no opportunity to express his sentiments; accordingly she
told him to come, on a certain evening, to a little gate (usually
kept locked) which opened into the garden. He had made
some progress in expressing his feelings, and was about to risk
a kiss, when the aged wooden bench on which they were seated
collapsed. At this moment, Adrienne happened to pass the
open door (having been sent for some rolls and milk by her
aunt), and announced herself. Virginie hastily thrust Dou-
doux into the street, slammed the gate in his face, and scurried
to her room, resolved to maintain that she had never left it, in
case Adrienne should say anything. Adrienne, left in the little-
frequented street with Doudoux, proceeded to tell him her
opinion of his conduct in plain terms, but was suddenly in-
terrupted by Troupeau, who was returning from Paris, whither
his wife had insisted upon his going to call upon the Count de
Senneville. Shocked at this apparent rendezvous, Troupeau
decided that Adrienne was not a fit companion for his immacu-
late Virginie, and he even went so far as to warn Vauxdor
about his niece. The latter, when interrogated by her aunt,
frankly said that she had encountered the young man by chance
in the street; and, although she might have justified herself and
condemned Virginie with a word, she refrained.

Shortly afterward a troop of cuirassiers were quartered in
Belleville, and distrusting the gallantry and charms of the mili-
tary, Troupeau contrived to have the keep of four horses allotted
to his share, instead of any soldiers. The Vauxdors found that
their handsome, dashing nephew, Godibert, whom they had
not seen for years, was assigned to them. One evening, Adri-
enne proudly introduced Godibert to Virginie, to show that she
also could have a cavalier. Virginie promptly attracted his
attention by hiding behind the window-curtains and feigning
fear of the cuirassier when she was discovered there; after which
she riveted it by a few well-chosen words and timid but effective
glances. Godibert could talk of nothing but Virginie as he
escorted Adricnne homeward. Soon afterward Virginie's
parents celebrated her name-day by a dinner and an excursion
to the forest of Romainville, to which the Vauxdor^s, Adrienne
and Godibert (among others) were invited. At Romainville
Virginie insisted upon mounting a horse, although she had

282 THE MAID OF BELLEVILLE

never ridden, while Adrienne was restricted to a donkey. The
handsome Godibert undertook to guard Virginie, and presently
they galloped out of sight of the rest, when Godibert persuaded
the young girl to dismount. As he was about to kiss her, Adri-
enne arrived on her donkey, saw the horses, and hunted up the
pair. Virginie made haste to decamp, leaving Adrienne to re-
proach her cousin, and quietly appropriating Adrienne's don-
key, trotted back to the party, where she informed her mother
that she had lent Adrienne her horse, whose return alone had
already alarmed them. Troupeau and Vauxdor went in
search of Adrienne, apprehending an accident, and found her
sitting on the grass with Godibert, weeping, and with reddened
eyes. As they approached, Godibert begged his cousin not to
compromise Virginie, to which she readily agreed, again as-
suming the consequences of her former friend's indiscretion.
People chattered and gossiped, and Virginie's parents re-
solved to appease the wrath of her wealthy great-aunt and
remove her from the pernicious society of Adrienne by sending
her to Senlis for a prolonged visit. Vauxdor6 demanded his
nephew's intentions in regard to Adrienne, and the nephew
announced that as he was not in love with her he declined to
marry her. Attracted by Virginie's coquetry and money, he
resolved to retire from the army and marry her. Meanwhile
Doudoux's mother, fearing that he was studying too hard,
ordered him off to England for his health; and while Adrienne
speedily consoled herself for Godibert's absence, and had long
since banished Doudoux from her mind, the demure Virginie
found it extremely stupid to have no one to whom she could
make signs from the windows. Before Mademoiselle Bella-
voine relented and replied to M. Troupeau's letter, a new
young man came on the scene. The Vauxdors had a small
bachelor apartment in their house, which was taken by a good-
looking lodger, so one of the gossips informed Troupeau, in
Virginie's absence. The young man was rather mysterious in
his actions, passed all his evenings with the Vauxdorifs, had a
superb piano, and appeared to be wealthy. As Virginie's
parents were obdurate about her associating with Adrienne, she
was in despair; she could bethink herself of no means whereby
she could meet him. But suddenly a Monsieur Tir, who was

CHARLES PAUL DE KOCK 283

an enthusiastic inventor of fireworks, invited them to an ex-
hibition of his latest designs, for which he had borrowed the
courtyard of the Vauxdor house. By an accident, too many
of the fireworks were set off together, a panic ensued, the
scaffolding seats began to give way, and a cry was started that
the house was on fire. The young man, named Auguste Montre-
ville (who had been Adrienne's escort), seeing the distress of
M. Troupeau, went to the rescue of Virginie, who was in no
danger, and offered her his hand to descend. She preferred to
swoon in his arms. Her parents overwhelmed him with thanks;
and Adrienne felt uneasy, being now fond of Montreville.

Three days later, M. Montreville called on the Troupcaux,
and they learned that he was not only wealthy but well con-
nected. When he dined with them, a few days after this,
he said that he had come to Belleville to get away from his
relatives, who did not approve of his vocation, which was that
of a composer; and that the music which he had written for a
little comic opera had just achieved success. Before going to
this dinner, he had promised to tell Adrienne the secret of his
actions, and of his evident gratification over that morning's
journals, if she would allow him to do so in private, that eve-
ning. The argument which finally conquered her resistance was
his promise never to go to the Troupeau house again. This
promise he kept, although Virginie had given him very marked
reasons for thinking that his presence would not be disagreeable
to her; and her efforts to induce her parents (who scorned his
profession) to bring him to the house again were soon inter-
rupted by a call from the Count de Senneville and its conse-
quences. The Count pretended that a bag of gold, which he
had brought to pay his debt, had been stolen from his carriage.
Virginie gave him a chance to admire her by fainting; the Trou-
peaux were so overjoyed by this aristocratic acquaintance that
they piled wood into the fireplace until the Count was nearly
roasted, and the chimney set afire; and having inquired as to
her financial prospects, the young man, swearing Troupeau to
secrecy, gave him to understand that he would speedily propose
for her hand. On the strength of this half-promise, Troupeau
eagerly offered another loan of five thousand francs. Virginie
soon learned of the project from the hints of her parents, but

s&4 THE MAID OF BELLEVILLE

thought Montreville nicer than the Count; and she particularly
disliked the latter because, in her quality of a future countess,
she was no longer allowed to see any men at all.

By this time it was generally known that Montreville was
Adrienne's lover; and now Doudoux returned from England,
and Godibert having secured his release from the service
were also in Belleville again. At this juncture, Mademoiselle
Bellavoine sent her cabriolet, with her old horse and coachman,
in charge of Monsieur Baisemon, her manager, to bring Vir-
ginie to her for a visit of several months. Virginie protested;
but her parents, with an eye to the heritage, as well as to the
presence in town of the two undesirable young men, were stern,
and confided her to Baisemon, explaining to him her future
grandeur and the necessity for strict supervision. Virginie con-
trived to inform Doudoux and Godibert, as they patrolled the
street in front of the house, of this decree, and that she should
die of ennui if she had no one to amuse her. Both young men
took the hint, and followed the cabriolet, one on foot, the other
on horseback. Godibert even contrived to clamber up behind
the cabriolet and make love to Virginie through the window,
while Baisemon slept, and the coachman wondered at the
weight of the vehicle and the slow progress of the aged steed.
Eventually, the coachman and Baisemon got a good look at the
two suitors even suspected Virginie of knowing them, which
she roundly denied and only escaped their pursuit when the
rivals fell to pummeling each other out of jealousy.

Mademoiselle Bellavoine's house was an isolated dwelling
on the verge of the town, with iron bars on the ground-floor
windows, and double shutters on those of the first story, while
the garden walls were eleven feet in height. Outwardly sub-
missive, Virginie inwardly rebelled. When she found herself
in her chamber, with a little light reading supplied, such as
The Perfect Gardener, The Bourgeoise Kitchen, and A
Treatise on Mushrooms, she resolved to "amuse" the family.
The first night, after everyone was asleep, she roused the entire
household to find out whether there was anyone under her bed.
The second night she hurled every movable object in her room
on the floor in the noisiest possible manner, then pretended that
she was in a somnambulistic slumber from which they dared

CHARLES PAUL DE KOCK 285

not awaken her too suddenly. On the ninth night, just as the
girl began to fear that her ingenuity was exhausted, the big
watch-dog began to growl and bark, as if burglars had
effected an entrance. But while Virginie (who suspected that
Doudoux and Godibert might be at the bottom of the matter)
stifled her laughter in bed, the harassed household could detect
no cause. This continued night after night, the fact being that
the young men had entered into an agreement to aid each other,
and abide by the girPs choice, when she should have an oppor-
tunity of pronouncing it which it was their object to provide.

Meanwhile matters were reaching a crisis in Belleville.
Montreville had decided to atone for his misconduct by mar-
rying Adrienne. He was talented, had some fortune, more
expectations, wealthy parents, a distinguished family. Adrienne
had nothing. He promised her that he would never abandon
her, and thus cheered, she made no secret of the matter. Her
aunt interceded for her with her angry uncle, and the marriage
was to take place as soon as Montreville could make certain
family arrangements. Unhappily, Montreville encountered one
of the male busybodics of the place, who officiously informed
him that Adrienne had had little adventures with Ledoux and
her cousin Godibert. This was just as the wedding had been
postponed because of old Madame Vauxdor's sudden death.
Montreville jumped to the conclusion that Adrienne was perfidi-
ous, and that fear lest he should discover this fact had caused
her to exact the promise that he would not go to the Troupeau
house. Having (apparently) obtained confirmation from various
persons acquainted with the local gossip, he departed that night
without saying farewell, leaving notes for Adrienne and her
uncle. To the latter he wrote merely that he could not marry
Adrienne. To Adrienne he wrote that he would have pardoned
her and married her, had she frankly confessed her intrigues,
instead of making him believe that he alone possessed her heart.
Vauxdor promptly ordered Adrienne out of his house. Re-
penting, two hours later, and returning home to pardon and
detain her, he found that she had departed, leaving no trace.

Virginie had worn out her aunt's household: Baisemon had
taken to his bed, the maid-servant had her hands full with the
work and with waiting upon him; while the coachman was in

286 THE MAID OF BELLEVILLE

an equally feeble state. Perpdtue, the maid, suggested that
the fruit-vender had highly recommended two young men, who
might be hired, one for the garden, the other for the stable work.
In truth, Doudoux and Godibert had bribed the fruit-vender
to get them into the house, and now presented themselves dis-
guised with wigs and long blue smocks. Virginic recognized
them at once; and her aunt was satisfied, now that the dog had
ceased to bark by night. They proved unsatisfactory as ser-
vants, chased away the dog, deliberately ruined the dinners
and contrived to obtain brief interviews with Virginie, but
without in the least advancing their cause. Eventually, when
Baisemon and the coachman were able to be about, the young
men were recognized as the suspicious characters who had
pursued the cabriolet on the way from Belleville; but out of
fear, they were allowed to remain one night longer. Aided by
accident, and (half-intcntionally) by the mischievous Virginie,
they had some startling midnight adventures with the supposed
peasants, which Virginie discovered by eavesdropping, and
which gave her a valuable hold over her aunt.

The old aunt owned another house, in the center of the
town. Thither she removed soon afterward; and although a
rear chamber was allotted to Virginie, she determined to get
the advantages of the lively street-front when her aunt's back
should be turned. As she was gazing from the window one
morning, with this laudable object in view, she recognized
Montreville, and promptly tossed out the first thing which
came- to hand her scissors; then she ran down-stairs and
cajoled the old coachman to unlock the street-door, and let her
get them. In the conversation which ensued, she learned from
Montreville that he had been living in Paris, but had been
ordered to the country for his health, and so was visiting a rela-
tive in Senlis. As she did not see him pass the house again, she
adopted other means to meet him. First she fascinated old
Baisemon; then she begged her aunt to allow her to go out
walking under Baisemon's charge (as the town house had no
garden for exercise) ; but although she kept the old man on his
feet for hours during the first two days, she did not succeed in
encountering Montreville. On the third day, she recognized
him, seated at the foot of a tree, in a little grove, and plunged

CHARLES PAUL DE KOCK 287

in meditation. Pretending that she wished to sleep, leaning
against a tree, she induced Baisemon to sleep in reality, a little
way off, then uttered a cry and attracted Montreville's atten-
tion, which resulted in a long conversation. On the following
days Virginie repeated the maneuver, and Montreville, though
at first too reserved for her taste, gradually allowed himself to
relax his severe resolve never to love again, after Adrienne's
perfidy.

He soon began to court her mildly, and Virginie told him
that while she loved him, her parents were determined upon
marrying her to the Count de Senneville. Just as he was em-
bracing her, and vowing nevermore to think cf any ether wom-
an, an insect stung Baisemon and awakened him. Virginie
promptly introduced Montreville as the Count de Senneville,
saying that he was there incognito, to discuss certain matters
with her, and therefore would not present himself to her aunt.
Thereafter, their daily interviews were superintended by the
vigilant Baisemon, who slept no more. But one afternoon
Troupeau unexpectedly arrived, to entreat Mademoiselle Bella-
voine to make them a visit at Belleville, bringing Virginie with
her, as he and his wife were horribly lonely without their daugh-
ter. Baisemon, thinking to give him pleasure, betrayed the
secret of the meetings between Virginie and the " Count de
Senneville" the real Count being in England, as Troupeau well
knew. Accordingly, with the collusion of Baisemon, Troupeau
joined the young pair on the following day, recognized Montre-
ville (he had hoped it was really the Count), and was horrified
when his daughter informed him that she loved Montreville',
wished to be his wife, and expected to become so, as her parents
would hardly wish to render their only child unhappy. Trou-
peau announced his intention of taking her home on the follow-
ing day, and Mademoiselle Bellavoine undertook to reprimand
her severely, and subdue her before they set out. But Virginie
subdued her great-aunt by a brief allusion to the facts which
she had learned by eavesdropping; after which the old lady
refused to meddle, or to hear another word about the matter
from Troupeau.

The wilful damsel remained firm in her determination
to wed Montreville, even after her parents had shut her up in

288 THE MAID OF BELLEVILLE

her room for six weeks. When they gave her permission to
walk in the garden, she refused. She did not complain; but
her health began to suffer, and Mademoiselle Bellavoine au-
thorized Madame Troupcau to tell her daughter that she would
cut her off from the inheritance if she did not forthwith consent
to marry the Count. Virginia again brought her great-aunt to
terms by an allusion to some of the occurrences at Scnlis; so
thoroughly, in fact, that the old lady advised the parents to
marry the girl to Montreville. Then Troupeau wrote to sum-
mon Montreville. A fortnight sufficed for him to procure the
necessary papers. It was decided that the young couple should
live in Paris, as Montreville did not seem to like Belleville.
Only ten days remained to the wedding, when a letter came
from the Count de Senneville, in England, announcing his arri-
val in a week. To avoid complications it was decided to has-
ten the wedding, and Virginie decided to go to Paris in person,
to see about her unfinished frocks, while her father arranged
the affair to take place two days before the Count could arrive.
Accompanied by Baisemon, the girl visited the dress-
maker, and found that her frock for the wedding-ball was done,
but not the one for the wedding. It appeared that the very
clever seamstress who was at work upon the latter lived in the
attic of the same house, and being a young mother, could not
leave her baby. Virginie insisted upon going to the room
and there found Adrienne. For the first time she learned the
truth, including the name of the infant's father, which she could
not doubt, so strong was the resemblance between the two.
Adrienne even showed Virginie Montreville's letter which con-
tained the accusation of intrigues with Doudoux and Godibert.
Virginie wept, refused to try on her frock, refused to tell Adri-
enne whom she was about to marry, and affectionately kissing
her unhappy friend, and promising to return, hastened away.
She made Baisemon drive with her to Montreville's apartment,
and wait in the carriage while she had an interview with her
betrothed. To him she frankly confessed that it was she with
whom Ledoux and Godibert had had rendezvous not Adri-
enne; but that she had always managed to make good her escape,
leaving the odium to fall upon Adrienne, who had nobly refused
to betray her. Montreville on hearing this, and learning that

CHARLES PAUL DE KOCK 289

Adrienne still loved him, begged to be taken to her and his son.
Virginie released him from his engagement to her, and took
him to Adrienne. Before she left them, she announced that
she was going to wed the Count of Senneville. On reaching
home, she astounded her parents by declaring that she had
changed her mind, and would marry the Count.

The Count arrived on time (the first instance in his life),
having spent his last sou, squandered his estate in Touraine,
and realized that he must make a good marriage at once. Vir-
ginie paid a private visit to the notary, and arranged that her
dowry should be used to buy back the Touraine property, while
reserving for herself the inheritance from her aunt. The Count
was not well pleased with this arrangement, but Virginie gave
him leave to break off, if he cared nothing for her and objected
to this wise precaution for their future.

The wedding took place a fortnight later (Adrienne and
Montreville having been married in the interim), and Virginie
particularly requested her parents to invite to the feast (at a
fashionable Paris restaurant) "those very amiable young men,
Lcdoux and Godibert," whom she wished to introduce to her
hnsband. This she did, and the Count invited them to visit
at the estate in Touraine, and to call at the apartment in town,
which as the invitation was cordially seconded by the Countess
they promised to do.

Vauxdore* took his niece into favor again, and frequently
visited her pretty home, where happiness reigned.

A.D., VOL. vi. 19

MARGARETTA WADE DELAND

(United States, 1857)
THE AWAKENING OF HELENA RICHIE (1906)

The scene of this story is in Old Chester, the half-mythical Pennsylvania
town that Mrs. Deland has made famous in other stories. Persons who are
already familiar friends of many readers reappear here, playing their respective
parts in the solution of Helena Richie's problem without becoming new char-
acters. The main action of the story, covering a few months, is in the present
day. We present here the author's own synopsis of the story.

?R. LAVENDAR was somewhat perplexed by a
request from a country parson that he find a
home for a seven-year-old boy, the last of
whose relatives had died; he asked Dr. William
King whether he knew anybody who might
take the lad.

"Well," said King, "there's Mrs. Richie."
The clergyman demurred that they knew
very little about the lady. She was a widow who
had taken possession of the Stuffed Animal House as tenant of
Sam Wright; she lived simply, but with evidence of having
plenty of money; once in a while she attended church, but she
was so reserved that nobody felt acquainted with her, and nobody
visited her except her brother, Mr. Lloyd Pryor, of whom the
Old Chester people knew less than they did of his sister. Dr.
King, who was better acquainted with her than Dr. Lavendar
was, because the ailments of her servants had made him a com-
paratively frequent caller at the Stuffed Animal House, was sure
she was a nice woman, shy but not really unsociable. Sam
Wright had told him she thought of buying the house. " Sam's
Sam," as the villagers called Wright's son, called on her fre-
quently. It was said he was making sheep's eyes at her.

Dr. Lavendar hoped she did not encourage the young man ;

290

MARGARETTA WADE DELAND 291

Sam's Sam was twenty-three, and Mrs. Richie was, according
to feminine Old Chester, forty-five, or, to avoid exaggeration,
forty. (As a matter of fact, she was thirty-three.) King was
sure she did not encourage Sam's Sam, and, recurring to the
original subject of the conversation, said he would sound Mrs.
Richie about taking the boy, David Allison.

This he did when professional duty next took him to the
Stuffed Animal House. Mrs. Richie was so astonished at the
suggestion that she laughed; it was not to be thought of; but she
talked about it, and thus William King came to know more
about her early life than had been known by anybody in Old
Chester before that day. She did not volunteer her story. He
dragged it from her, bit by bit, questioning her as if she were a
patient whose symptoms he must know. It seemed that she
had had a baby boy of her own twelve years ago; his father
was a brute; he hurt the little one when he was only eight
months old, and the baby died soon afterward. It was evident
to sympathetic Willy King that here was mother-love waiting
for the hapless David; but Mrs. Richie still shook her head.
She might take the boy for a week, perhaps two, if that would
help Dr. Lavendar; and King was sure that it would.

The physician's visit awakened many memories of her life
that she had not confided to him. Her childhood had passed
with her father's mother, a silent woman who, with bitter ex-
pectation of success, had set herself to discover in Helena traits
of the poor, dead, foolish wife who had broken her son's heart.
"She begrudged me the least little bit of pleasure," thought
Helena; "why didn't she like me to be happy?" That was
ever the cry of her heart happiness! It was her one unques-
tioned conviction that she had a right to be happy. She had not
desired love, but escape from her grandmother's gray life had
seemed an avenue to happiness, and at the age of eighteen she
had married Frederick. He had made such promises! She
was to have every kind of happiness. Of course she had mar-
ried him. As for love, she never thought of it. She married
him because he wanted her to, and because he would make her
happy. And, oh, how glad her grandmother had been! At
the memory of that passionate satisfaction, Helena laughed
aloud. Happy !

292 THE AWAKENING OF HELENA RICHIE

If she could only have forgotten the baby! Lloyd had told
her she would. Lloyd's tenderness had been convincing, twelve
years ago. He had let her talk of the baby all she wished.
Of course, after a while he got tired of the subject, and naturally.
It was Frederick's boy! And Lloyd hated Frederick as much
as she. How they used to talk about him in those days ! " Have
you heard anything?'' "Yes, running down hill every day."
"Is there any news?" "Yes, he'll drink himself into his grave
in six months." Ah, that was happiness indeed! "His grave,
in six months!" . . . She flung herself back in her chair, her
hands dropping listlessly in her lap. "Oh, my little dead
baby!"

Mrs. Richie wrote to Lloyd about David Allison, and the
moment Mr. Pryor, in Philadelphia, read her letter, he ex-
claimed: "Just the thing for her!" He was so sure of it that
he went down to Old Chester to say so in person. It was six
weeks since he had visited Helena. There was a long stage
journey from Mercer, the nearest railway station, and it hap-
pened that his fellow-passenger in the stage-coach was young
David, then on his way to Dr. Lavendar's. Mr. Pryor spoke
to the little fellow in a friendly way, and gave him an apple.
Presently the boy asked him whether he had any little boys and
girls. Yes, Lloyd Pryor had a girl. He smiled as he answered.

"Is she as old as me? I'm seven, going on eight."

"Well, then, let's see. Alice is she is twice and five years
more as old. What do you make of that?"

The child began to count on his fingers, and Mr. Pryor re-
sumed the reading that the conversation had interrupted. After
a while the boy said suddenly : " In the flood the ducks couldn't
be drowned, could they?" Mr. Pryor told the boy that he
talked too much, and for the rest of the journey there was n
talking.

Lloyd had not been long at the Stuffed Animal House when
Helena interrupted her joy in his presence to ask: "Have you
heard anything of Frederick?"

He replied curtly: "No, nothing. Perfectly well, the last
I heard. In Paris, and enjoying himself in his own peculiar
fashion."

She drew in her breath, and turned her face away; they were

MARGARETTA WADE DELAND 293

both silent for a time, and when they spoke again it was of other
matters.

Mrs. Richie had a caller that afternoon, old Benjamin Wright,
grandfather of Sam's Sam. He lived with his canaries and one
aged man-servant, in a great house farther up the hill. He was
the only man in Old Chester who came anywhere near under-
standing Sam's Sam. Everybody else called young Sam a fool;
so did old Benjamin, for that matter, and cursed him roundly
for his follies; but it was Benjamin who encouraged the boy's
taste for literature, and who stimulated his endeavors to express
himself in verse. He loved the dreamy, impulsive, utterly ''un-
practical" youth the more, perhaps, because between himself
and young Sam's father a feud of such bitterness had existed
that for thirty-two years neither had spoken a word to the other.
The aged man knew that his grandson spent many long eve-
nings at Mrs. Richie's, and that she had praised a drama that
Sam had just brought to completion. He had called to invite
her to come to his own house for the purpose of hearing the
drama read through in its finished form. Mrs. Richie ner-
vously feared that she must decline. Old Benjamin thought it
was because she had a visitor, and told her to bring her brother
as a matter of course. That, too, she said would be impossible.

"Well, then," said old Benjamin, "wait till he goes. Come
Monday night."

"Oh," she said, her voice fluttering, "I really can't."

He insisted querulously on knowing the reason why. "I
don't make visits," she stammered. "Gad-a-mercy! Why
not?" he interrupted. "Do you think you are too good for us
here in Old Chester? Or perhaps Old Chester is too good for
you?"

He was looking at her with the same quizzical delight with
which he would look at one of his canaries when he caught it
and held it struggling in his hand. " Are we too good for you?"
he jeered.

He stopped abruptly, and his mouth fell slowly open in blank
amazement. "Where is that gentleman?" he demanded.

"Mr. Pryor went in to dinner," she said faintly. "Please
excuse him. He was tired."

Mr. Wright pulled himself to his feet and felt his way around

294 THE AWAKENING OF HELENA RICHIE

the table until he stood directly in front of her; he put his face
close to hers and stared into her eyes. Then he groped for his
hat and stick. "I will bid you good-day," he said. Without
another word he shuffled out. At the front door he turned and
looked back at her; then slowly shook his head.

Mrs. Richie and Mr. Pryor quarreled more than once during
his brief visit. That had come to be no uncommon matter
in recent years. He was finical about his food, and on this
occasion Helena's cook was ill. Little things went wrong, and
Pryor was impatient. Helena was sensitive, and showed it.
But the worst came when they were discussing young Sam
Wright's attentions, which amused Pryor at first, and then in-
terested him. "I suppose," he said, "your adorer is a good
deal younger than you are?"

She lifted her head sharply. "Yes; what of it?"

"Oh, nothing. In the first place the health of our friend,
Frederick, is excellent. But if this fellow were not younger
Of course, Helena, my great desire is for your happiness; but in
my position I I am not as free as I once was to follow my own
inclinations. And if Frederick should "

"Oh, my God!" she said violently, and fled from the room-
It was hours before she would speak to him, but he was per-
sistent, and persuaded her at last that he had been joking.

Lloyd Pryor urged Helena to take little David. She visited
the lad at Dr. Lavendar's and speedily came to want him with
a great longing. Dr. Lavendar shrewdly contrived delays un-
til the three were better acquainted, but the end of it was
that David went to the Stuffed Animal House where, out of
school hours, he had a playmate who never tired. Helena
romped with him in the yard, took her turn at being a pirate
king, or a shipwrecked maiden, according to David's inventive
turn of the moment, played backgammon with him in the eve-
ning, heard his prayers she, who never prayed and actually
got up to breakfast, something she had not done since she could
remember. There were hours, aye, days on end, when she was
jubilantly happy. She loved the lad, and if he did not respond
as fully as she wished, that was but incentive for loving him
more; and her life became in away a courtship of the little boy, in
which there was every wholesome indication that she would win.

MARGARETTA WADE DELANO 295

Meantime Sam's Sam continued to call and lay his calf-love
at her feet. She snubbed him repeatedly, but without diminish-
ing his ardor. And this, viewed from a distance by Old Chester,
was causing anxiety in three places and gossip everywhere.
Sam's father had no influence with him whatever. The young
man endured his scolding without hearing it. Grandfather
Benjamin offered young Sam money to go away and see the
world, suggesting, as an object for a journey, a search for a
publisher for his play. Young Sam declined. He preferred
to stay in Old Chester. Dr. Lavendar did not share the anxiety
of grandfather and father on the young man's score, but he tried
to make the situation a means to a reconciliation between the old
men. He, too, advised that young Sam be got out of town, and
lie succeeded just so far as in getting Benjamin and his son
together to discuss the matter. It was the first time they had
met in thirty-two years. They passed a stubborn, uncomfort-
able hour, and did not discuss young Sam's affairs. Young
Sam settled the matter in his own way. He proposed mar-
riage to Helena and was decisively, unmistakably rejected.

That was on a Sunday evening, the same evening when Dr.
Lavendar's meeting between Benjamin and his son failed to
effect a reconciliation. Next day Benjamin called again on
Helena. His purpose this time was to persuade her to send
young Sam about his business. "I want you to forbid his
visits," he said, in his domineering way.

David stood by. "You are not very polite, Mr. Old Gen-
tleman," he said thoughtfully.

"Is that your child?" Wright demanded, seeing David for
the first time.

Helena told him it was a boy who was visiting her. Wright
sneered. "Rather remarkable that a child should visit you,"
said he. "I should think his parents "

"Hush!" she broke in violently, and sent David away.
Then, turning on her visitor: "How dare you? Dr. Lavendar
brought him to me. I never asked your grandson to come here.
I don't want him."

Benjamin Wright bent his fierce brows upon her. "What
does Lavendar mean by sending a child to you?" he growled.
"What's he thinking of? But of course he never had any

396 THE AWAKENING OF HELENA RICHIE

sense. Well, madam, you will, I know, protect yourself by for-
bidding my grandson to inflict further calls on you?"

The color faded out of Helena's face, and, when Wright went
tottering down the path, she staggered after him. He turned
and waited. "Mr. Wright, you won't " Her face trembled
with dismay. His hard eyes softened. "You think I'll tell,"
said he. " Gad-a-mercy, madam, I'm a gentleman. I shall
say nothing to Lavendar, or anybody else. You and I under-
stand each other. I'm a man of the world. But with Sam,
it's different, isn't it? He's in love with you, and I thought
you might but I see you wouldn't think of such a thing. I
make you my apologies." And he turned away, mumbling,
"Poor bird!"

Shortly after his return to the great house up the hill, young
Sam came to say that he would take money now, and go away
from Old Chester. The money was supplied in liberal measure,
and he departed on the following day.

Helena soon forgot her terror at the old man's discovery of
her secret in anger at his insinuation that harm could come to
David by being with her. Of course her way of living was con-
sidered "wrong" by people who could not understand such
situations, but the idea of any harm coming to David was
ridiculous! As for Sam Wright, all that sort of thing was im-
possible because it was repugnant. She detested his love-mak-
ing. As she thought of it all she fell in a fury of temper against
old Benjamin, against Old Chester, against respectability. She
determined to leave Old Chester.

Mrs. Richie was independently wealthy, but she gave no
personal attention to her business affairs, which were in the
hands of an agent. From him she received a telegram an-
nouncing the death of Frederick in Paris. She immediately
telegraphed the glad news to Lloyd Pryor, and then watched
the road for the coming of a messenger with a reply from him
that he was on his way to see her. No reply came, and, with
her heart heavy with apprehension, she concluded that he would
come without announcing his journey. But the week passed,
and instead of Lloyd a letter came from him, coldly inform-
ing her that he was setting out on a journey of several weeks'
duration. A uostscript referred to her telegram. "We must

MARGARETTA WADE DELAND 297

talk things over the next time I come to Old Chester," he
wrote.

The passion of disappointment, which endured long, was
followed by hope that he would write fully in a few days. He
did not, and Helena found it hard to excuse him, though she
tried to, for she had to have excuses. She played with David
as eagerly as ever, but her spirits drooped. Then young Sam
came home. "I had to come back," he told his mother, kissing
her, and her heart leaped with joy. "I had to come back," he
told his grandfather a few hours later. Old Benjamin supposed
he had run out of money, but he still appeared to have had
plenty. Had he found a publisher for his drama? No, it had
been rejected once, and he had destroyed it. "Fool!" said
grandfather; "but I hope you've got over your fool falling in
love with a woman old enough to be your mother?"

"I love Mrs. Richie as much as I ever did," said Sam. Old
Benjamin flew into a rage, storming mainly about the disparity
in years. Sam made nothing of that saying that Mrs. Richie
would overlook it.

"Damnation!" roared Benjamin. "She, overlook! She
isn't fit to marry."

The young man gaped at him blankly.

"She's bad/' Benjamin Wright said in a low voice.

"How dare you!" cried Sam, in a sudden fury. "If her
brother were here, he'd shoot you, but she has me, and I "

"Her brother!" sneered Benjamin Wright. "He is her
lover, my boy."

Sam gasped, and swayed from side to side for a moment.
Then he struck his grandfather full in the face. " You old fool !
You lie! You lie! Do you hear me?"

The boy dashed away and ran straight to the Stuffed Animal
House. Helena met him in the doorway, and he grasped her
arm so hard that his nails cut into her flesh.

" You will tell me that he lied," said Sam. " My grandfather
said your brother was not your brother. He said he was your
lover. My God! did he lie?"

She tried to pull her wrist away from his grasp, but he pressed
after her, his face dreadfully close to hers. She stared at him
in a trance of fright for a long minute of silence. Then Sam

298 THE AWAKENING OF HELENA RICHIE

said slowly, as if reading the words from the open page of her
face: "He did not lie." He dropped her wrist. "So this
is life," he added thoughtfully. "Well, I have had enough
of it."

He went quickly out into the night, and for an hour Helena
was dazed. Slowly the idea of immediate flight began to form
in her mind, when suddenly the significance of Sam's last words
occurred to her. She leaped to her feet and ran all the way to
William King, to whom she told her fear that Sam meant to kill
himself. King laughed at the thought, but, to comfort her,
went with her to the Wright home. Sam shot himself in his
room, and died instantly, while Dr. King and Helena were at
the gate.

It was given out, and his mother believed it, that the weapon
was discharged accidentally. Three persons, at least, knew
better, and each of them charged himself with the fault. Sam's
father, because he had not welcomed his son's return, but had
scolded him contemptuously; Sam's grandfather, for having
betrayed Helena's secret; and Helena, for reasons so deep that
she herself could not have explained them clearly at that time.

After the shock of the tragedy she accomplished what she had
told Willy King would be impossible: she attended Sam's funeral.
It was a terrifying episode. When the coffin was borne down
the aisle, the solid ground of experience heaved and staggered
under her feet, and in the midst of the elemental tumult she had
her first glimpse of responsibility a blasting glimpse that sent
her cowering back to assertions of her right to her own happi-
ness; but these assertions now found weak arguments to sus-
tain them. In the crack of the pistol and the crash of ruined
family life she heard for the first time the dreadful sound of the
argument of her life to other lives; and at that sound the very
foundation of those excuses of her right to happiness rocked
and crumbled, and left her selfishness naked before her eyes.
She was driven to the shelter of marriage: obedience to the letter
of the law, for in her confusion she mistook marriage for moral-
ity. At once! And she left the church determined to hold
Lloyd Pryor to his promise.

Dr. King called on her. He observed her somber mood
and took her kindly to task for it. "You mustn't be morbid,"

MARGARETTA WADE DELAND 299

he said. "You are no more responsible for young Sam's folly
than I am."

She shook her head dubiously, and the physician proceeded
to argue with her. How could she help it if Sam did love her?
Her gentleness and goodness were like something he had never
seen before. Willy here had pronounced a text that stirred his
warm heart to extended utterance. He preached away about
her goodness, in spite of her interruptions and protests, until
he frenzied her, and she blurted the truth about herself. Willy
was inexpressibly shocked, and the pain in his white face tor-
tured her further. "But I am going to be married !" she cried
desperately as he turned away.

At last Lloyd came. He told her he would keep his promise
if she insisted on it, but he begged her to release him. Marriage
with her would put him in a very awkward position with regard
to his daughter Alice. How could they hope to deceive her, a
grown woman, about their past relations? And Alice was so
devoted to truth; she had such implicit confidence in him as the
soul of honor; she was so pure, he said.

"Alice is not the only person in the world," said Helena, and
held him to his promise. He yielded, and they discussed de-
tails. A casual allusion to David brought out Lloyd's indiffer-
ence to the boy and Helena's profound love for him. She had
not dreamed that Lloyd would not take David when he should
take her, but had no intention of doing anything of the kind.
"I can't give him up," Helena pleaded. "You needn't," Lloyd
replied. "Of course you'll leave Old Chester. Very well,
take him with you and I will visit you as often as I can."

She fled from him again, and this time he did not try to per-
suade her that he was joking. He sent a note to her room, giv-
ing it as his opinion that she had settled the problem wisely.
She penciled a reply: "I will never see you again. I never
want to hear your name again."

Just at this time David went with Dr. Lavendar on a long
contemplated but brief visit to Philadelphia. During the boy's
absence Willy King nerved himself to the performance of a most
painful duty.

It was unthinkable to him that a woman of Helena's manner
of life should be entrusted with the care and bringing up of a

300 THE AWAKENING OF HELENA RICHIE

child. He had to tell her so, and to assure her that if she did
not return David voluntarily to Dr. Lavendar, he would tell
the clergyman what ought to be known about her. She re-
belled at his cruelty, but she dared not defy him; and, to gain
time for thought, she wrote Dr. Lavendar, asking him to keep
David for a few days. The doctor did so, and the days passed
without bringing her any light. At last she saw there was no
choice, and herself told Dr. Lavendar the truth.

The shock did not paralyze him, as it had paralyzed King,
but he was firm in his attitude: she was not a proper person to
rear a child, though he did not say that in so many words. On
the contrary, when she pleaded that her wickedness had gone
with the past, that she would be good and sacrifice herself for
David, he told her that it was not his intention to take the boy
from her. The substance of his argument was this: she had
given up Lloyd because she would be happier with David; she
had, therefore, made no sacrifice, but had chosen her course
solely with a view to her own good ; the real question was, could
she do David any good? And this question he pressed upon
her until in shameful humility she answered: "No."

"I am not worthy to have him/' she moaned at last. "I
give him up."

Dr. Lavendar then sought to guide her future. That she
should leave Old Chester admitted of no argument. He recom-
mended her to go to a Western town where he had friends to
whom he would introduce her, and who would welcome her for
his sake. Helena agreed humbly to all his suggestions. They
talked the matter over and over for many days, and never once
did she let her yearning for the boy overcome the new con-
victions as to the life that Dr. Lavendar had awakened in her.
On the day before her departure she had David with her for a
last visit, and the boy protested bitterly because she was going
to leave him. Helena's wooing of the lad had triumphed. He
loved her! But she put him by, and next morning climbed into
the stage to begin her journey. The vehicle stopped at the
rectory and Dr. Lavendar came out to say good-by. He asked
her whether she would take a package with her. Of course
she would; where was it? The driver had it, Dr. Lavendar
said. She looked pathetically about for David.

MARGARETTA WADE DELAND 301

"Oh, Dr. Lavendar," she said, "tell him I love him!
Don't let him forget me!"

"He won't forget you," replied the doctor. "Helena, your
Master came into the world as a little child. Receive him in
thy heart with thanksgiving."

She looked at him, trembling and without words, but he
understood her. Then she said faintly: "Good-by." She was
so blinded with tears that she stumbled back into the stage be-
fore she saw David, buttoned up to his ears in his first great-
coat, and bubbling over with excitement. Even when she did
see him she did not at first understand. She looked at him, and
then at Dr. Lavendar, and then back at David, to whom it was
all a delightful game which, the night before, Dr. Lavendar and
he had got up between them. It served its purpose, for the
child had no suspicion of anything unusual in the situation.

"I'm the package!" said David joyously.

The stage rumbled down the road, and Dr. Lavendar went
back to his empty house.

PHILIPPE DE MASSA

(France, 1831)
ZIBELINE (1892)

As a writer of stories depicting the gaiety and amusements of polite French
society, De Massa has always been a favorite, and the following example was
crowned by the French Academy soon after its publication.

Marquis Henri dc Prerolles, a young sub-
lieutenant of chasseurs, stationed at Vincennes,
had won the great military steeplechase at La
Manche, and one of his debtors had offered to
liquidate his obligations by a supper at the Res-
taurant des Frkres Provenfeaux, largely patron-
ized in the days of the Second Empire.

About half-past eleven o'clock the dining-
table was turned into a gaming-table; and before
the night was over the Marquis had lost four hundred thousand
francs to a certain Paul Landry, an ambitious and calculating
plebeian, addicted to high play, and something of an adventurer.
Reaching the barracks in time for roll-call, the Marquis went
through the duties of the morning as if nothing had happened,
for, in order to escape the inevitable gossip over his escapade,
he had fully determined to ask to be transferred to Africa; but
his plans were suddenly changed, for at noon orders came for
the eighteenth battalion of infantry to go, in less than a month,
to assist the Emperor Maximilian in his invasion of Mexico.
He at once sought his brother-in-law, the Due de Montgeron,
proprietor of the estate of La Sarthe, deputy of the Legitimist
Opposition of the Empire, who lent him some money until the
Marquis's ancestral chateau and lands could be sold to liquidate
his gaming debt. This was soon done, and on the eve of
his departure for Mexico, Henri found himself, after all hk

302

PHILIPPE DE MASSA 303

debts had been settled, with only sixteen thousand francs and
his pay.

In a farewell visit to the house of his ancestors, he vowed
before the portrait of that Marshal of France whose name he
bore either to vanquish the enemy or to add glory to his family's
history. He served the doomed cause in Mexico with dis-
tinction; and on one occasion, after capturing a band of guer-
rillas, he found among them the reckless adventurer, Paul
Landry, the chief cause of his ruin. With noble generosity, he
restored to the astonished Landry his accouterments and let
him escape, saying simply: "This is my revenge!"

Twenty-three years later, one cold afternoon in February,
when the Bois de Bologne was covered with snow, the Marquis
de Prrolles, now a general in command of one of the infantry
divisions of the army of Paris, and retaining at forty-five the
slight figure, quick eye, and strong voice of his youth, saw at
the Skaters' Club a young woman with dark waving hair, small,
well-set head, brilliant eyes, pale complexion, and a dignified
and graceful carriage, of whom Parisian society had been gos-
siping all winter, since she had, unchaperoned, set up an ele-
gant establishment and appeared in all fashionable public
places. It was said that she was a rich American, and she was
known as Mademoiselle de Vermont; but because of her fond-
ness for wearing the fur of an extremely rare animal found in
Alaska and Greenland, some of the envious Parisiennes had
given her the nickname of "Zibeline."

That evening the Marquis saw the fair stranger in her box
at the Comdie Fran^aise, and she observed him in the third
row of orchestra seats. Valentine de Vermont was not yet
twenty-two years old, and, having only recently come to Paris,
she knew few people in society; but she had with her in her box
a distant relative, the elderly Chevalier de Sainte-Foy, who
presently was seen by interested observers of all that went on
in that box to confer with Monsieur Durand, a notary, and the
Baron de Samoreau, a banker.

The next day, the committee of the Industrial Orphan Asy-
lum met at the house of the Duchess de Montgeron, the Gen-
eral's sister, and a statement was made that it had become
necessary to purchase a new site for the institution; a motion

304 ZIBELINE

followed to ascertain whether the annual resources of the or-
ganization would be sufficient to conduct the asylum, and at
this point its treasurer, M. Durand, appeared, and said one of
his rich clients had offered to assume all expenses provided she
be allowed to choose the site herself, stipulating that her name
be unknown until the offer was accepted; when, within three
months, she agreed to make over to the society in a formal
deed of gift the title of the real estate. This munificent offer
was accepted with alacrity, and then the name was revealed.
The generous donor proved to be Valentine de Vermont. The
Duchess, finding that the young American was in her carriage
at the gates, awaiting the return of M. Durand, invited her in,
the Duke himself escorting her, and she was invited to sit in their
box that evening at the opera.

About this time the Due de Montgeron told his brother-in-
law, the Marquis de Prrolles, that his intimacy with the actress
Mademoiselle Eugenie Gontier, of the Comdie Franchise, was
beginning to reflect upon his military standing, and the General
at once determined to break it off. He told the actress his
reason, and she soon consoled herself very philosophically by
marrying the rich banker, the Baron de Samoreau.

The afternoon after the opera Mademoiselle de Vermont
called upon the Duchess de Montgeron and presented her with
the signed contract which she had undertaken for the Orphan
Asylum; and the Duchess, who was the president of the or-
ganization, gave a dinner in her honor. A fortnight later Val-
entine entertained the Due and Duchesse de Montgeron, with
their friends, at dinner in her own magnificent hotel; and during
the dancing that followed the dinner Henri de Pr6rolles became
more deeply interested than before in the beautiful American.
From a feeling of pride, and remorse at having thrown away
his patrimony that mad night years before, he had forbidden
himself ever to think of marriage. To defy this self-punish-
ment, should he allow himself to ask for the hand of Made-
moiselle de Vermont, would seem to sacrifice to the allurement
of wealth the proud poverty he had borne so long. But temp-
tation lurked in the shadow, the witness of this duel between
pride and love. Valentine was often in the country, but Henri
saw her at the review of the troops at Vincennes, and also on a

PHILIPPE DE MASSA 305

May morning where the Bagatelle road crosses the Pr-Catelan.
She was mounted on her favorite horse, Seaman, and he on his
famous charger, Aida. She challenged him to a race, and when
they reached the Auteuil Hippodrome, which, although it was
a race day, was not yet open to the public, she entered on the
steeplechase track. In vain the General, knowing the dangers
ahead, pleaded with her to desist. Their horses leaped all ob-
stacles until Seaman, now beyond Zibeline's control, and not
having taken sufficient time to prepare for the leap, struck the
heavy beams put to obstruct further progress on the opposite
side of a brook with such force that he fell with broken bones
on the other side. Unhorsed by the shock, Valentine had gone
over the animal's head and lay insensible on the grass. The
General knelt beside her, and listened to her labored breathing.
Assisted by two laborers and her groom, he placed her on a
litter, and had her taken in a spring carriage to her home,
where the surgeon said there was no fracture, but that he could
not answer for the consequences of the shock; if she revived soon,
her faculties would be unimpaired; if not, her condition was
serious. But youth triumphed over death, and her first word
was " Henri!" Valentine was saved, but from that word almost
unconsciously spoken the General had learned her secret, and
he felt more than ever the loss of his property and the family
chateau, and his scruples about marrying returned. While
Valentine was regaining consciousness, he left her to summon
his sister, the Duchess, and Valentine's elderly relative, the
Chevalier de Sainte-Foy.

Two days later Mademoiselle de Vermont went to the
country to recover from the shock, and from there she sent a
note to the Marquis, asking him to accompany his sister to
inspect the Orphan Asylum before it was formally handed over
to the Society. Therefore, the next day he went with the Due
and the Duchesse de Montgeron to Proles, and after driving a
quarter of an hour they stopped at Valpendant, a feudal manor
which had formerly belonged to the lords of Prrolles. The
exact location of the asylum had been kept a secret, and it was
a great surprise to Henri de Pr^rolles to find on this old place
two fine buildings thoroughly equipped with everything neces-
sary for the intellectual and manual training of children. The
A.D., VOL. vi. 20

306 ZIBELINE

old tower alone remained, and even that had been turned into
an abode for the future Director.

The General did not seem as much interested as Zibeline
had expected, but when he expressed a wish to see the old
chateau she offered to drive him there. What was his astonish-
ment to find, instead of the factory and cottages which he and
the Duchess had seen erected there nine years after the property
was sold to pay Henri's debts, the chateau restored, its garden-
wall rebuilt, and instead of kitchen-gardens, the green fields as
smooth as they used to be. Then Zibeline told Henri that she
was the daughter of Paul Landry, who had won from him the
four hundred thousand francs, with which he had founded and
built up a great fur-trading business in America. She said
that when her father was on his death-bed he had told her that
the ruin he had brought upon the Marquis had been the re-
morse of his whole life; and that after his death she had resolved
to take her mother's name of De Vermont, to return to France,
and restore to the Marquis his ancestral estates. They then
drove up to the door of the chateau and entered Pr^rolles. The
Duchess had assisted in arranging the interior, especially the
gallery, where the family portraits had been rehung. Among
them was now that of the General of Divisions, Henri, Marquis
de Prerolles, in full uniform, mounted on Ai'da a portrait which
Zibeline had secretly engaged a distinguished artist to paint.
The Marquis was deeply touched by her though tfulness in
placing his own portrait among those of his ancestors. Lead-
ing her to that picture of the ancestral Marshal of France before
which he had made his vow twenty-three years before either to
vanquish the enemy or to regain with honor all that he had lost
at play, he said, "I have kept my word," and asked her to be
his wife. She promised him, and he turned to meet the Duke
and Duchess, who were entering the room, and presented
Zibeline to them as " the Marquise de Prerolles."

At the opening of the Orphan Asylum the next day their
engagement was made known by the announcement that the
Marquis and Marquise de Prdrolles would assume the re-
sponsibility of the support of the Orphan Asylum, and that this
promise would form a special clause in their marriage contract.

HENRI RENE ALBERT GUY DE
MAUPASSANT

(France, 1850-1893)
MONT ORIOL (1883)

The following talc was the first full-length novel from the pen of De Maupas-
sant, who was aptly called "the master of the short story." In alluding to his
own first attempt at writing a sustained narrative, he says: "After a succession
of literary schools, which have given us deformed, superhuman, poetic, pathetic,
charming, or splendid pictures of life, a naturalistic school has arisen, which
maintains that it shows us the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth."

BONNEFILLE discovered a great spring in
Enval, Auvcrgne, and called it the Bonnefille
Spring. Some landed proprietors in the neigh-
borhood put up a building designed to serve as
bathing establishment and casino; baths were to
be had on the first floor, and music and wine on
the floor above. Three hotels also were built
for the accommodation of patients, and two new
doctors soon made their appearance, the one from
Paris, Dr. Latonne, and Dr. Honorat, an Auvergnat.

The Marquis de Ravenel, his daughter, Madame Ander-
matt, and her husband were at Enval. The Marquis met Dr.
Bonnefille and asked him to come to see his daughter. Mon-
sieur Andermatt had a letter to Dr. Latonne, but he, the Mar-
quis, had perfect confidence in Dr. Bonnefille.

Madame Andermatt was not very ill; she was nervous and
anaemic, and disappointed at not having a child in her two
years of married life. M. Andermatt, a Jew, devoted to busi-
ness, related to the doctor his wife's symptoms and their dis-
appointment at having no offspring, which disappointment they
hoped would be turned to joy, as Dr. Bonnefille's pamphlet on
the waters of Enval declared they were a cure for sterility.

307

308 MONT ORIOL

Madame Andermatt, Christiane, was twenty-one. She knew
nothing of love, and did not look below the surface of things,
but took life as she found it. At first she had not liked the idea
of marrying M. Andermatt, because he was a Jew. But Ma-
dame Icardon, an old friend of her mother, persuaded the Mar-
quis that it would be a good match for his daughter, as William
Andermatt was very rich and amiable.

Christiane's brother, Gontran, arrived at Enval, and brought
with him his friend, Monsieur Paul Brctigny.

Pfere Oriol, the richest peasant in the neighborhood, was
going to blast his hill, which he had talked of doing for six
years. He owned large tracts of land, including extensive vine-
yards, and this hill threw a shadow over half of a large field.
It would be a great event, this blasting, and everyone went to
see it. After it was over a spring gushed out from the exposed
ground, and everyone was excited about it. Andermatt, also,
was excited over the new spring; if the analysis of the water
should prove satisfactory he would establish a spa. He re-
quested Gontran to take him to see Pfcre Oriol. Andermatt
told Gontran that business was very amusing; one must be al-
ways on the lookout for something new; the great battle of to-
day is fought with money, and he fought continually. The rich
business men, he said, are the men of might to-day. He should
succeed, because he had the money and knew how to lead men.

They found Pfere Oriol, his son, and two daughters, at home.
Andermatt asked the old man how much he would take for his
spring, and a certain portion of land, if the analysis of the water
proved satisfactory, and told him to think the matter over and
let him know.

Pre Oriol and his son were excited over the discovery of
the spring, and over Andermatt' s offer. The old man woke
early the next morning, and, fearing the spring might have
disappeared, he and his son went to look at it. On their way
they met Pfcre Clovis, a paralytic, well known in the neighbor-
hood; he had been a poacher, and became rheumatic from ex-
posure in the streams and damp grass, watching for his prey.
For ten years he had been going about on crutches, dragging
his right leg behind him. There were those who declared that
his lameness was assumed in order to deceive the gendarmes.

GUY DE MAUPASSANT 309

The water was gushing from the spring and showing un-
mistakable evidences of iron. The two Oriols then went to
Pfere Clovis and by offering him money persuaded him to con-
sent to take a bath in the spring every day, and to be cured
at the end of the month. And if he became lame again that
would be a matter of no consequence, for the cure would have
been made through the use of the water. When Andermatt
and Dr. Latonne appeared, Pfcre Oriol suddenly seemed to see
Pfere Clovis, and arranged with the two men to try the effect
of the water on the paralytic.

Christiane asked Gontran to tell her something about his
friend, who, she said, did not attract her. Gontran told her
that Paul was very impetuous; he yielded to every impulse, not
controlling any desire, whether virtuous or otherwise. He had
had many love-affairs, and had fought several duels.

Bretigny, talking to Christiane, was enthusiastic about Na-
ture and perfumes. Christiane was astonished, as she had never
heard anyone talk like that before.

The Marquis told his daughter that her husband wished to
win over to his views the whole Oriol family, and in order that
it might be done with tact, they would organize a fete, and
Christiane should make the acquaintance of the Oriol girls.
The lite was a success, and raised a large sum of money for
the parish.

Paul talked to Christiane about music, and his enthusiasm
about such things continued to astonish her. Although she
had felt a slight repugnance to him at first, it had passed off, and
they were now friends. He appealed to her intellect in a way
that no man ever had before; he discoursed of art, of beauty, and
quoted poetry.

The Oriol girls had been educated at a convent, and were
ladylike and pleasing, and Christiane became very friendly
with them. Andermatt, full of his project to build a spa, went
to Paris for a fortnight.

The conversations between Paul and Christiane became
more intimate. He related to her many of his experiences, and
talked of love, of jealousy, of many romantic incidents that
touched her heart. She became aware that he was paying
court to her. Other men had done this, but she had laughed

310 MONT ORIOL

at them. Paul found her inexperienced in love, but was at-
tracted by her ingenuousness. He treated her as a young girl;
he desired her, but he would not touch her; he felt he should
like to protect her from harm and trouble of all kinds.

There was an excursion to the lake of Tazenat, and the re-
turn was by moonlight. Paul was just behind Christiane in
the moonlight, and she heard him say: "I love you! I love
you! I love you!" When she awoke the next morning she
remembered these words, and she was very happy.

A few days later, Christiane, her father, and Paul went to
see the ruins of Tournoel by moonlight. The Marquis was
tired and sat down to rest, while the others went on. Chris-
tiane was agitated; Paul took her in his arms, and kissed her
lips. Her strength seemed to leave her and she yielded.

The next morning Andcrmalt returned. Christiane did not
wish him to come near her, so she told him she thought she was
pregnant, and he was delighted. When she saw Paul she said:
"I belong to you, body and soul. Do with me henceforth what
you please.' '

Andermatt went to see how Pre Clovis was getting on, and
to see P&re Oriol about the land. The analysis of the spring
water was satisfactory, and Andermatt was now more enthusi-
astic than ever about his project, and returned to Paris
that evening. Christiane was glad to have him go. She
went to her room early and sat in the moonlight; a shadow
fell across her balcony; it was Paul, and she sprang into his
arms.

The whole town and the surrounding country were ab-
sorbed in Andermatt's project; a brilliant future was predicted
for the place, and nothing else was talked of. And in perfect
security Paul and Christiane met and loved each other without
anyone paying the slightest heed to them. Christiane saw only
one man in the world, and that was Paul; she was oblivious of
everything but his love.

One evening the Marquis told them that Andermatt would
return in four days, as everything was settled, and they should
leave the day after his arrival. Andermatt brought friends
with him, members of the new company, and a meeting was
held, Pfere Oriol and his son being present. Final matters were

GUY DE MAUPASSANT 311

discussed, and Mont Oriol was the name selected by Ander-
matt for the new establishment.

The lovers were distressed at the idea of a separation, and
Paul asked Christiane to meet him at a group of chestnut-trees
on the road to La Roche Pradifere. He arrived first, and
watched her as she approached him in the moonlight. Her
shadow on the white, dusty road preceded her, and when it
reached him he went down on his hands and knees and kissing
the outline of it, came to her, and, still on his knees, clasped her
in his arms. They made plans to meet frequently in Paris.

The following summer at Mont Oriol everything was going
on well; there were a casino and a new hotel, and the baths were
opened in June, but the official opening of the grand new estab-
lishment was postponed until the first of July. There was to
be a fete, the naming and blessing of the springs, and in the
evening fireworks and a ball.

In the evening Andermatt took Gontran aside for a talk.
He had lent his brother-in-law large sums with great amiability;
now he advised him to marry, and suggested one of the Oriol
girls, as they would be rich. Pere Oriol had told him that cer-
tain vineyards near the hotel and casino would be the dowries
of these girls, and if they could be added to the establishment
they would enhance its value greatly. Gontran said he would
consider the matter.

Christiane looked ill, and as if her accouchement were very
near. She was looking at the fireworks with Paul, and asked
him why he had not come sooner to Enval. He replied that he
was detained by business, and moved his chair away from hers
a little, as she leaned toward him. She was very happy at hav-
ing him with her, and told him she wished to go at once to the
place near La Roche Pradiere where they had said good-by the
year before. He begged her not to think of it, for she was
not able to walk so far; but she insisted, and he was obliged to
go with her. He told her they might be seen, and she replied
that he had not said that last year. She said she was very
happy at the prospect of having a child that would be hers and
his. She did not know that Paul had little of the paternal in-
stinct, and that she was repugnant to him in her present con-
dition. The "soaring of two hearts toward an inaccessible

3 i2 MONT ORIOL

ideal" was delicious and poetic to him; but the idea of a child
of which he was the father coming from the ugly body of this
woman, was disgusting to him.

When they reached the road she would go through a scene
resembling that of last year. She moved from him and drew
his attention to her shadow on the road; and when he saw the
shadow of her altered shape he was angry -with her that she
could not understand his feelings, and told her that she was
childish and ridiculous. She threw herself on his breast, telling
him that she knew he loved her less. He felt some pity for
her, and kissed her eyes.

It was soon rumored that Gontran was paying attention to
Charlotte Oriol, the younger of the two sisters. Christiane
and Paul spoke to him, telling him not to compromise the girl.
Gontran laughed, and said that perhaps he wished to marry
her, and if he should marry her it would be the only sensible
thing he ever had done. One day he told Andermatt he thought
the time had come to propose to Charlotte; he had not committed
himself, but he felt that she would accept him. But first he
wished Andermatt to sound Pfcre Oriol, and his brother-in-law
agreed to do so. Gontran went to Royat for the day, and on
his return he sought Andermatt, who told him that Louise's
dowry would be the lands near the casino, that were valuable,
while Charlotte would have as dowry the land on the other side
of the hill, which was of no value. Gontran was stunned, and
knew not what to say or do. Andermatt would not advise him,
but told him to think over the matter before deciding.

The next day Gontran brought the two sisters to dine with
Christiane. With much tact he made himself very agreeable to
Louise without appearing to neglect Charlotte. He preferred
Charlotte; she was more engaging, but his interests compelled
him to court Louise, and it irritated him to be obliged to do so.
But Louise, more dignified than Charlotte, would perhaps make
a more distinguished appearance as Comtesse de Ravenel.

For some time Christiane had felt that there was a change in
Paul's love for her; it made her unhappy, but she had no idea
of the cause. It began on the day when she told him that she
was really enceinte] so happy was she to be in that condition that
she talked of it incessantly. To him the affair was ugly and re-

GUY DE MAUPASSANT 313

pugnant, and he thought she should have kept away from him,
to reappear afterward more attractive than ever. He had ex-
pected her to show tact enough to permit him to remain in Paris
during the summer, while she was at Mont Oriol, and so pre-
vent his seeing her ungainly shape and hollow cheeks. But she
had written him urgent letters, and he came out of pity. She
wearied him with her caresses and talk of love, and he had a
strong desire to leave her. His irritation and weariness often
showed in his words. They wounded her, for in her condition
she needed sympathy more than ever. She loved him utterly,
completely; she felt more like his wife than his mistress. She
made him promise that he would tell her when he should no
longer love her.

Andermatt told Paul that he looked very unhappy since his
arrival at Enval, and that one would think he was losing a great
deal of money every day.

For two years Gontran had been in great pecuniary distress,
and a rich marriage was the only thing that could help him; yet
so irritated was he to be obliged to turn his attentions to Louise
that he almost resolved to remain a bachelor forever. But a
loss at the casino strengthened his determination to marry.

In the presence of Paul and Christiane, Charlotte showed
distress at Gontran' s desertion, and they felt much sympathy
for her. Paul spoke to Gontran about the girl's grief, and
Gontran replied that he found he preferred Louise, adding
allusions that disturbed Paul, as they made him fear Gontran
knew of his intimacy with his sister.

Christiane being no longer able to go out, Gontran was
obliged to find someone to replace her as a companion, in order
that he might see Louise frequently. He decided upon Dr.
Honorat's wife, a rather common person, who was delighted to
further any plans of the Comte de Ravenel, and Dr. Honorat
had been intimate with the Oriol family for many years. Gon-
tran took Paul into his confidence, and the two young men went
often to the doctor's house, where they met the two sisters.
When Gontran told Paul that he had declared himself to Louise,
Paul felt a great tenderness for Charlotte. For some time he
had been attracted by her goodness and her ingenuousness;
there was no artificiality about her; she was simple and natural.

314 MONT ORIOL

After an interview with Pere Oriol, in which everything was
arranged, Andermatt announced to the Marquis that Gontran
would marry Louise Oriol in about six weeks.

Paul went to see Christiane, who now kept her room. She
looked at him reproachfully, asking many questions as to how
he spent his days; for she was jealous, fearing he was falling in
love with some other woman.

Paul's visits to the Oriols continued, and he soon became
jealous of Dr. Mazelli, who was there frequently. Paul looked
upon the man as an adventurer, and resolved to warn Charlotte
of him. He spoke to Gontran, who arranged an interview,
which ended in a declaration and an embrace, cut short by the
entrance of Pere Oriol. Charlotte fled, leaving her lover with
the angry old man. Paul assured him solemnly that he had
never embraced his daughter before, and that he desired to
marry her.

Dr. Latonne told Andermatt that Paul was to marry Char-
lotte Oriol. Christiane, being in bed and feeling very miser-
able, asked her husband to send for Dr. Black, and he con-
sented to do so. Gontran and Andermatt were astonished at
the news of Paul's engagement. He requested them not to tell
Christiane, as he preferred to tell her himself. Dr. Black went
in to see Christiane; and after he had prescribed for her, he be-
gan to talk of various matters in Enval, and mentioned Paul's
engagement. As soon as she realized what the doctor was
saying, Christiane fainted. Suddenly pains came upon her,
and she screamed. Fifteen hours later her daughter was born,
and she felt that she never could touch it. But when her hu.--
band brought the child to her later, her repugnance vanished;
she kissed the infant and held it in her arms, and felt a little
less unhappy.

Gontran spoke to her of Paul's marriage, every word piciv ing
her heart. Madame Honorat came to take care of her, and
Christiane asked her innumerable questions about Paul and
Charlotte. Christiane was delirious all that night. The next
day she was calm, but felt that after this terrible crisis she could
never be the same again. Even in her lover's arms, she now
understood, when they sought to intermingle body and soul,
they had not, and never could succeed in really coming close

GUY DE MAUPASSANT 315

together. She saw that from the beginning of the world it had
been so, and that it would be so even unto the end.

Andermatt told Christiane that Paul wished to know whether
she had heard of his intended marriage, and she sent him word
that she entirely approved of it. Paul desired to see the child,
and to know what name she would give it, whether Marguerite
or Genevieve. Christiane said she should call the child Arlette.

On the first day that Christiane was able to sit up there was
to be a public exhibition and experiments at the establishment,
in which Pere Clovis was to take part. Christiane asked her
husband to tell Paul that she would like to see him, and he
could keep her company while the others were enjoying the
experiments.

For some days Paul had thought of their first meeting and
dreaded it. He feared to meet Christiane's eyes, the eyes of the
woman whom he had loved so fiercely and for so short a time.
What would be her attitude, and how should he conduct himself?

She was lying down, one hand on the cradle beside her, the
curtains of which were closely pinned together. A few com-
monplace remarks regarding her health passed between them,
and then the child began to cry. Christiane excused herself,
saying that she must attend to her daughter. Paul kissed the
hand she held out to him, as she said:

"I pray that you may be happy."

A LIFE (1883)

The controversy over the following story among French critics was long and
spirited; some declared that such revelations of vice and domestic infelicity
should find no place in modern fiction; others maintained that its truth over-
shadowed its unpleasantness.

JEANNE had left the convent of the Sacred Heart,
in Rouen, the second of May, after five years of
residence there, and now, a tall, well-developed
girl of seventeen, looking like a portrait by Paul
Veronese, with an appetite for happiness, she
was eager to taste all the joys of life. Her eyes
were of the opaque blue of Holland faience; her
hair was fair and shining. Her parents had come
to take her to The Poplars, an old family chateau
on the cliff, near Yport, which was to be hers when she married.
Of late years, Jeanne's mother had grown enormous, and she
suffered from hypertrophy of the heart. Her husband used to
address her as "Madame Adelaide." *

Baron Simon- Jacques Le Pcrthuis des Vaucls was an aris-
tocrat, a disciple of Jean-Jacques Rousseau, immensely good-
natured. The family lived simply, and their income of twenty
thousand livres would have amply sufficed but for their good-
natured generosity. The chateau of The Poplars was an
enormous Norman residence of gray stone. The drawing-
room was hung with tapestries, and the furniture was up-
holstered in the same, illustrating La Fontaine's Fables.
Jeanne's apartment had been newly refurnished, and the girl
uttered a cry of delight over the superb canopied bed, whose
tapestries represented "Pyramus and Thisbe" very naively.
An Empire clock represented a golden beehive, the pendulum
an enameled bee swinging over a bed of golden flowers.

The little park was bounded by avenues of enormous pop-
lars, which bordered two of the farms. Beyond, a long plain,

316

GUY DE MAUPASSANT 317

thick with furze, fell in a cliff steep and white, whose base the
ocean bathed. The perfumed air had a saline odor. As Jeanne
looked at it all, strange shivers ran through her, and she began
to dream of love. When would He oome?

Her life became a free and dreamy existence. She loved to
wander along the cliff, and took a passionate delight in long
baths in the cool blue ocean. Her white-haired father busied
himself about the estate, and her stout mother would dream,
motionless, or take very short walks.

One Sunday the two women met the cur after mass, and
he presented to them an elegant young man, the Vicomte de
Lamare. His black, curly hair shaded a smooth brow, and
perfectly curved eyebrows gave his dark eyes, fringed with long
lashes and with a bluish tinge to the whites, an eloquent, lan-
guorous charm. A thick beard, glossy and fine, concealed a
rather heavy chin. Two days later he called, and his glances,
admiring and sympathetic, awoke a singular perturbation in
Jeanne. He talked with the Baronne about the aristocrats in
the neighborhood, the Marquis dc Coutelier, the De Brisevilles,
and Comte de Fourville, a great hunter, whose chateau was
called " La Vrillitte" a sort of bogey who was said to be kill-
ing his wife with sorrow. These were the only neighbors in
their class.

They invited the Vicomte to dinner the next Sunday, and
after that he called frequently. There was an excursion to
Etretat, and Jeanne and the Vicomte walked and exchanged
views, aspirations, and personal sentiments. When Jeanne re-
tired that night she hunted up an old doll and cuddled and
kissed it, and wondered whether the Vicomte were the husband
Providence had sent her.

In six weeks they were married, and after the ceremony
they strolled through the wooded valley. His arm stole about
her waist. " This evening you will be my wife." She, who had
thought only of the poetry of love, was surprised. Was she
not his wife already?

Suddenly, placing his hands upon her shoulders, he planted,
full on her mouth, a long kiss. It penetrated her veins, her
marrow, giving her such a shock that she wildly pushed him
away. "Let us go away from here/' she stammered.

3 i8 A LIFE

When Jeanne went up to her bed-room that evening, Rosalie,
weeping so that she could hardly undress her mistress, got her
into her night-robes and fled, still sobbing. She seemed much
more moved than her mistress. Jeanne, in the cool sheets,
shivered and waited, anxious and oppressed. Then she heard
a light tap at the door, and he entered. Later, she asked her-
self, despondent, disillusioned: "So this is what he calls being
his wife?" She pondered thus a long while, disconsolate.
Then, as Julien neither spoke nor moved, she turned her head
slowly toward him. He lay at her side asleep, and she felt more
outraged than by his brutality. Was what had passed between
them nothing more to him than that?

Four days later they set out on their bridal tour to Corsica,
the Baroness slipping a purse into her hand. Toward evening,
Julien asked how much her mother had given her. She looked.
It was two thousand francs. She clapped her hands. " I will
do all sorts of foolish things with it." His solicitude as to how
much would do for this or that "tip" during the trip annoyed
Jeanne. He was captious about the bills, and when he secured
a slight reduction he would rub his hands and say: "I don't
like to be robbed." He persuaded Jeanne to give him her purse,
later, as it would be safer in his belt.

After their arrival in Paris, on their return, she asked for
this money of hers for purchases, and he gave her a hundred
francs, with the advice not to waste it.

" We have the same purse now, but you see I do not refuse
you money," he said.

In a week they were again at The Poplars. But how changed
everything seemed! Was it the same place she had known and
Drilled over in May? A presentiment of the long weariness of
the monotonous life awaiting her weighed on Jeanne's soul.
Her relations with Julien changed completely. He was like an
actor who had played his part and can be himself again. He
assumed control of the property, neglected his clothes and the
care of his person, and met Jeanne's tender reproaches with a
"Let me alone, won't you?" which checked her effectually.
They became as strangers to each other. Julien's economy
made many changes, some of them ridiculous. In a fit of
anger, he beat poor Marius, the boy that drove for him, until

GUY DE MAUPASSANT 319

the Baron sternly made him desist. But at dinner, Julien was
as charming as if nothing had happened.

At Christmas, the Baron and his wife went to Rouen, to
their house there, leaving The Poplars to the two. They played
cards, Jeanne embroidered, and Julien's parsimony kept him
busy in retrenching needless expenses, including a little Nor-
man cake the baker used to bring for Jeanne's breakfast!

"Will you ever learn the worth of money ?" he used to say
to her. Her mother had taught her that " money was made to
spend."

Jeanne's sadness did not prevent her remarking a fearful
change in her light-hearted maid, the once round and pink-
cheeked Rosalie.

"Are you sick?" she would ask.

"No, Madame," the girl answered, her pale, hollow cheeks
flushing as she hurried away. One dismal morning Rosalie
was seized with labor pains as she was making the bed, and
gave birth to a boy. Julien's one concern was to get the two
out of the house after this; but Jeanne's kind heart was bent
on discovering the father and making him marry the girl.

"She has sinned; but she is my foster-sister, and I will not
put her out. And, if necessary, I will raise her child."

Her husband went out, furious, and slammed the door.
But he was more considerate of his wife after this, and visited
her before retiring almost every three days. Jeanne waited
anxiously for the return of spring. One bitter cold night he
said to her good-naturedly:

"This is a good night to cuddle up, isn't it, little one?" with
a happy laugh.

She put her arms around him, whispering why she preferred
to be alone, telling her hopes and fears. Julien had a fire made
in her room, and went to his own.

Her fears and oppression and chilliness during the night
made Jeanne afraid she might be dying. Rosalie did not hear
her ring. She went up-stairs to her room, but it had not been
occupied that night. Jeanne was irritated that she should have
gone out in the snow. She was still fearful, and went to
Julien's room. The candle-light showed her Rosalie lying by
her husband's side! She gave a horrible scream, which awak-

320 A LIFE

ened them, and then ran to her room. Julien had called to
her. She could not see him. She rushed out into the snow,
barefoot, with only her night-robe on. Better die; then all
would be over! She stumbled on, until she paused on the
cliff, ready to throw herself over, the word on her lip which the
young soldier on the battle-field murmurs with his dying
breath "Mother!" She fell back in the snow, powerless;
and then came blankness.

When she came to her senses, in her own bed, she knew she
had been ill. She told her mother of her discovery, and Julien
declared it was a hallucination of her brain-fever. Jeanne
had Rosalie brought before them and the priest, and the girl,
sobbing, confessed everything. Julien had secreted himself in
her room the first time he had come to The Poplars for dinner.
He had resumed his relations with her the first night of his re-
turn from the bridal tour. Her child was his.

A dull despair, which nothing could ever allay, penetrated
Jeanne's soul now. Her eyes filled with tears. Her servant's
child belonged to the same father as her own! Julien had left
her to go to this girl!

"Make her go. Take her away," said she to her father.

Rosalie left The Poplars, and through the Abb Picot's inter-
cession an open rupture was averted.

"In your child's name, forgive your husband. Your child
will be a bond between you: a pledge of his future faithfulness."

The gentle Baronne urged this also. Bruised and weary in
soul and body, Jeanne had strength for neither anger nor for-
giveness.

A stout peasant woman took Rosalie's place at The Poplars.
The spring came, and one day the De Fourvilles called. A
pretty, blonde woman, with large luminous eyes, presented her
husband to Jeanne. He was a giant, with a large, red mustache.
The lady was so charming and refined that Jeanne loved her at
once. Julien entered, looking so handsome and attractive that
his wife wondered. The lady invited Julien to ride with her
the following Thursday.

"When you are well," she said to Jeanne, "we three will
take long rides together."

In July, Jeanne was delivered of a son, and her joy knew no

GUY DE MAUPASSANT 321

bounds. That little child was her safeguard against despair.
When she became stronger, Julien and she and the De Four-
villes took their rides together. A change seemed to have come
over Madame de Fourville; she was so tender and gay.

One day Jeanne felt a dreamy, springtime fancy to revisit
the woods near Etretat, where Julien had spoken his first words
of love to her. Therefore, she rode thither. She discovered
two horses tethered near the spot, while a woman's glove and
two riding-whips lay on the grass. She called to them; but
neither Gilberte nor her husband responded. A sudden sus-
picion entered her mind. She saw it all now, and rode home
very seriously. Julien's course did not distress her, but the
treachery of the Countess her friend! was revolting.

Her parents visited her in May, and she was never so glad to
see them. But the Baroness had aged terribly and could hardly
move. The poor lady was listless, and spent hours reading her
old letters in the "souvenir drawer." When alone, she would
kiss some of them, and weep. When the Baron caught his wife
thus, he would say to Jeanne: "Burn your letters. They will
sadden you some day."

One day, in taking her walk, the Baroness fell to the ground,
black in the face. They brought her in, and summoned the
doctor, but she never revived. Jeanne insisted on spending the
night alone by her dead mother, and as she watched there a
sweet, consoling inspiration seized her. She would read her
mother's letters, as she would read a pious book. This would
please her mother in the other world.

She drew them out, and read them. One package con-
tained burning love-letters, and at last she found the name of
the writer her mother's lover appended to the acceptance of
a dinner invitation. It was that of her father's "old friend
Paul," whose wife had been the Baroness's best friend! She
cast the letters from her, and burst into bitter tears. But as her
father might come and surprise her and the letters she gath-
ered them all and burned them in the fireplace.

Gloomy days followed. Jeanne's mangled heart refused to
heal; her last confidence and last belief had disappeared together.
Her father went away for change of scene, and then Paul, her
son, was taken ill, and she watched twelve nights by him, frantic

A.D., VOL. VI. 21

322 A LIFE

with anxiety. He recovered; but what would she have done if
he had died? A longing for another child possessed her.
Every night she saw in her dreams a little girl playing under the
plane-tree with Paul. Twice she crept softly to her husband's
door, despite remembrance of Rosalie and her conviction that
he had now another attachment. But without turning the knob
she went back, burning with shame.

She discovered that Julien wished for no more children. It
was only by diplomacy and a little lying that she accomplished
her desire, and became happy at finding herself enceinte. She
now thought that nothing could ever hurt her. Her children
would grow up and cherish her, and she could spend her old
age in peace under their fostering care.

A new abb had succeeded Abbd Picot. He was of the
narrowest and most dogmatic type, and soon made himself
universally detested. What most aroused his intolerance was
illicit love. He discovered the liaison of Julien and the Countess
Gilberte, and even hinted at it from the pulpit. They often
saw him when they were out riding. They used to avail them-
selves of a shepherd's traveling-hut on wheels, abandoned on the
crest of the hilly clifif of Vaucotte. The Abb Tolbiac apprised
Comte de Fourville of his wife's treachery, and he took a fright-
ful revenge. He trailed the pair to their hut, slid the bolt, and
then sent the thing rolling down the hill, while those inside were
shrieking. It reached the verge, shot into the air, and was
crushed like an egg-shell on the beach. When the two bodies
were discovered they were so shattered that their mangled
remains seemed boneless.

When Julien's corpse was brought to The Poplars Jeanne
fainted with horror, and that night she gave birth to a dead
baby, a girl. For three months she kept her room, and when
she raflied she had a nervous malady. She remembered only
the brief happy days of her married life.

Her father and Aunt Lison, her mother's sister, an old
maid, lived with her at The Poplars, and the three united to
spoil young Paul, who was nicknamed " Poulet." Jeanne could
hardly consent to his going to college, even when he was a big,
turbulent lad of fifteen. He showed little interest in his studies,
and after four years had got no farther than rhetoric. He used

GUY DE MAUPASSANT 323

to ride over to see them, at first, but his visits grew fewer and
shorter. They discovered that he gambled, and had to pay a
thousand francs to save his honor. The Baron went to Rouen.
"Poulet" had not been there for a month. They found him
with a loose woman, and brought him back to The Poplars, but
he was idle, irritable, and brutal. A month later, he disap-
peared, and they learned that he had gone to England with the
same woman. A letter found in Paul's room showed her pas-
sionate love for him, and that she was supplying the money for
this journey.

Jeanne's hair had become almost white. The women of
position in the neighborhood had discontinued visiting The
Poplars, because the fanatical zeal of the Abb Tolbiac had
turned its inmates from religious observances.

Then Paul wrote from London. He wished Jeanne to ad-
vance him fifteen thousand francs of his father's inheritance, as
he would soon attain his majority, and they were very poor, as
the woman, "whom I love with all my soul," had spent her five
thousand francs in order to live with him.

Jeanne sent the money, but she realized that this woman
was her rival in Paul's love. They heard nothing more from
him for five months. Then he returned to Paris and received
Julien's legacy of one hundred and twenty thousand francs.
In the next six months four curt, cool notes came from him.
Not a word of his mistress. A long time elapsed, and then a
letter that announced the failure of a speculation he had en-
gaged in, and such need of forty-five thousand francs that he
would be ruined without it. "I will blow out my brains rather
than survive disgrace," he wrote. The Baron mortgaged his
estates for that sum.

A year passed, without Paul's coming to see them, although
he wrote three letters saying in each that he would. He had
organized a steamboat company now, which would bring in a
fortune; but the company failed. Jeanne had hysterics for
several hours, and the Baron heavily mortgaged the chateau of
The Poplars, and farms, to meet the liabilities. Shortly after-
ward her father was stricken with apoplexy, and died before
Jeanne could reach his side.

Abb Tolbiac refused a church funeral to the free-thinking

324 A LIFE

Baron; so he was buried at nightfall without any religious
ceremonies. Paul wrote to Jeanne that he had heard the news
too late to come to the funeral, but would soon return from
England to see her. At the end of the winter Aunt Lison passed
away with pneumonia.

Jeanne sank to the ground as she saw the earth fall on the
coffin, with a yearning for death in her soul. A strong peasant
woman lifted her in her arms and carried her home, undressed
her gently, and put her to bed, as if she were a child. She be-
gan to cry and to kiss Jeanne's cheeks, her eyes, her hair.

"My poor mistress, Mam'zelle Jeanne, don't you remember
me?" she exclaimed tenderly.

"Rosalie!" cried Jeanne, and they clung to each other, and
sobbed as if their hearts would break. They had not met for
twenty-four years. Rosalie was a widow, with a snug fortune,
and a good son who had charge of the farm. She had come to
devote herself to her impoverished mistress, now little richer
than herself.

"But I will look after all that now, and quick, too," she
said, in indignant tones. "For I am going to serve you. But
not for money, you understand."

In eight days Rosalie had taken into her own hands the
management of all the household affairs. One day she startled
Jeanne by saying that she must sell The Poplars. Jeanne
sprang up in revolt; but the level-headed peasant woman soon
convinced her of the reasonableness of this. Soon afterward a
letter from Paul demanded ten thousand francs, and Jeanne
wrote:

MY DEAR BOY : I can do nothing more for you. You have ruined me. I
have been obliged to sell The Poplars. But never forget you will always find a
home with your poor mother, whom you have made to suffer so much.

Through Rosalie, she bought a little farmhouse in Batte-
ville. It was hard to determine what familiar household objects
to take with her when Denis Lecoq, a red, vigorous, blue-eyed
peasant, came to drive her to her new home. He was her ser-
vant's son, Julien's son, Paul's half-brother. Jeanne felt her
heart stop beating, and yet she could have kissed him.

The arranging of her new home occupied her awhile. Then

GUY DE MAUPASSANT

3*5

she became despondent. There was no distraction; she saw
no one; she missed the ocean; her one thought was Paul.
Spring and summer passed, and in the autumn she wrote to
Paul, entreating him to return to her, saying she was ill, alone,
longing for him. "Come back to me, oh, my little Poulet!
Come back to your old mother Jeanne, who stretches her arms
to you." In a few days he wrote to say that he would come,
but that he must marry the woman who had been so loyal to
him. He asked her consent to the marriage, and that they all
might live together.

Jeanne, stunned by this, went to Paris to rescue her boy.
But he had removed, and she could not find him. So she re-
turned one cold snowy morning to Batteville, and lived on list-
lessly, dreaming over her life and murmuring, "Poulet, my
little Poulet," as if he were beside her.

One day, Rosalie took her to The Poplars. A letter from
Paul was under the door when she returned to her farm. It
said his wife was dying after the birth of a little girl; he had no
money, and he feared the baby would die.

"I will go and get the child," said Rosalie.

Three days later she returned, and Jeanne met her at the
station.

"Well, she died last night," said Rosalie. "They were
married, and here's the child. Paul will come as soon as the
funeral is over."

As they drove back, an infinite peace lay over the earth.
Jeanne watched the sky. Suddenly the warmth of the little
creature penetrated her lap, and she uncovered its face. Her
son's daughter, so frail, opened blue eyes on the glaring light.
Jeanne kissed it rapturously and pressed it to her breast.

Rosalie, as if answering a thought of her own, said: "You
see, life is never quite so bad, or so pleasant, as one imagines
it is."

BEL AMI: OR, THE HISTORY OF A
SCOUNDREL (1885)

No less excitement was caused in France by this story than by its prede-
oessors; but, in spite of the severe censure it met, it was pronounced a master-
piece of analytical writing.

GEORGES DUROY had come to his last two
francs when pay-day was still forty-eight hours
distant. He was the son of ignorant peasants,
but had been fairly educated, had served as a
soldier more than two years in Algeria, and now,
having become discontented with army life and
prospects, was clerk in a railway office at a piti-
ably small salary. He was immeasurably dis-
contented with his present career and prospects,
but saw no way to improve either. He wandered in the boule-
vards, clinging to his remnant of money lest he go hungry during
the next two days, when he chanced to encounter Forestier, an
army comrade who was now a political writer for La Vie Fran-
faise, an obscure newspaper. When they had done with
reminiscences and come to the present, and Forestier had
learned of his friend's pinched condition, he suggested that
Duroy try journalism, and promised to use his influence to get
him a place as reporter. He lent Duroy money that he might
obtain suitable clothes to attend a private dinner and meet
Monsieur Walter, the editor of La Vie Fran$aise. Duroy ac-
cepted the money and used part of it in entertaining a woman
who had smiled at him; but he presented himself at the dinner
suitably garbed and made a favorable impression on Walter,
who asked him to prove his ability by writing a paper on Algeria,
a subject then of great interest to all Frenchmen.

There were present at the dinner, besides Forestier and his
wife, and Walter, Madame Clotilde de Marelle and her little

3*6

GUY DE MAUPASSANT 327

daughter, Laurine. Duroy, who felt very awkward in his
ignorance of etiquette, devoted himself as much as possible to
the child, with the effect of charming not only the little girl but
her mother also, who invited him to call.

Duroy went to his cheap lodging feeling that his future was
assured. He began at once to prepare the special article or-
dered by Walter, but he could get no further than to lay paper
on the table and dip his pen in ink. He never had written more
than short letters to his parents, and he struggled helplessly with
the first sentence. It was just as difficult next morning, and in
despair he went to Forestier to beg assistance. Forestier was
hurrying to his office, and told Duroy to ask his wife's aid. He
did so, and Madame Forestier dictated the article to him after
he had told her, in an offhand way, some of his experiences in
Algeria.

While they were at work, Duroy writing, Madame leaning
against the mantel and smoking cigarettes as she dictated, an
elderly man entered unannounced. He appeared to be sur-
prised at finding anybody with Madame, and she was the least
bit confused for an instant; but she recovered immediately and
introduced the gentlemen in a natural manner. The new-
comer was the Count de Vaudrec, "our best friend." Duroy
bowed stiffly and took his departure as soon thereafter as he
could, feeling strangely uncomfortable.

Walter was highly pleased with the article on Algeria, and
ordered another, which Duroy found it equally difficult to
write. Again he sought his friend's assistance; but when he
called Madame was dictating a political leader to her husband,
and Forestier irritably told him to help himself. In a rage,
he returned to his lodging and scribbled several pages of im-
possible stuff, which, naturally, were returned as unsatisfactory.

But Duroy obtained employment as a reporter and quickly
developed a knack at news-gathering which made him valuable
to the paper, and before long he acquired some facility in the
composition of extended articles. But there were not many
subjects on which he was qualified to write as yet, and his in-
come remained small. It was larger than his pay as a clerk,
but was far too little for the needs that developed from his new
mode of life.

328 BEL AMI

One day he bethought him of Madame de Marelle's in-
vitation, and he called on her. She was glad to see him, and
little Laurine was delighted. The child promptly nicknamed
him "Bel Ami," an appellation that eventually came into com-
mon use among his new friends. Duroy learned that Madame
de Marelle was married to a railway contractor, who passed
no more than one week in every month at home. She was very
pleasant; he called again, and presently he was launched on his
first intrigue. She visited him at his cheap lodgings until in-
considerate remarks by other tenants of the building offended
her. Then she engaged a room on the ground floor of a house
in the Rue de Constantinople. It was in Duroy's name, but
she had paid the rent. He protested somewhat, but she told
him he could take her to see things in Paris that were strange
to her, which he did, and fell rapidly into debt. The time came
when he could not conceal from her his utter poverty. She
willingly gave up the excursions and dinners that cost money,
and slipped a gold piece into his pocket, which he found after
they parted. He swore to himself that he would not use it,
but he had to breakfast, and when the coin had been broken,
he assured himself that he would repay her soon. Before he
had repaid a sou he had borrowed two hundred and eighty
francs from her, and then they quarreled over something that
had nothing to do with money. In a rage of wounded dignity,
he tried to borrow enough from his newspaper associates to
repay her in full. He scraped together in this way all of eighty
francs, and gave it up. The debt could wait, and he spent the
eighty francs on his own devices.

Meantime, Duroy was an occasional visitor at the For-
estiers', where he often met persons of importance. One eve-
ning he was frozen to the marrow by the discovery that Clotilde
de Marelle was among the guests. He tried to avoid seeing
her, dreading a scandalous scene, but presently she accosted
him suavely and talked with him as if nothing had happened.
The meetings in the Rue de Constantinople were resumed, and
Duroy also called on Clotilde at her own apartments and met
her husband. It was embarrassing at first, but he soon accus-
tomed himself to the situation and enjoyed its humorous aspect.

His advance in journalism was steady, though not rapid.

GUY DE MAUPASSANT 329

Something was necessary to establish him firmly in his pro-
fession, and a duel did it. A writer on a rival sheet took ex-
ception to one of Duroy's most commonplace paragraphs, and
there were two or three days of controversy, ending in such an
insulting statement by the adversary that Duroy was compelled
to challenge. The affair was conducted with all solemnity and
realism, so far as Duroy was concerned. He could not under-
stand why he should have to shoot at a man and be shot at. It
all seemed cruelly absurd, but he was not afraid. He told him-
self so at every stage in the proceeding, and on the field itself
his deportment outwardly was unexceptionable. Both adver-
saries fired at the word, and two bullets went somewhere out
of harm. The seconds, in preparing the necessary account of
the combat for publication, interpreted the fact that each fired
once as "two shots were exchanged," and Duroy was thence-
forth an undeniable journalist of the first rank. Clotilde was
so wrought up by the account she read that she telegraphed for
him to meet her at once, and there were raptures to compensate
Duroy for his ordeal.

Forestier had been an invalid from the time when Duroy re-
newed his acquaintance. He died after a lingering illness, and
his wife had sent for Duroy, as their closest friend, to be with
him at the last. Forestier was not yet buried when Duroy
delicately intimated to Madame that he loved her. She re-
ceived the declaration calmly, and within a year accepted him;
but she made certain terms. There was to be no jealousy; she
was to be free to do as she pleased, to see such friends as she
liked, without question. Duroy consented, for he knew that in
her he would have an ally who would make his professional work
doubly effective. Madeleine also asked him to change his name,
confessing with charming frankness that she thought Duroy just
a little plebeian, and that she longed to be distinguished. They
experimented with names. Duroy was born at Canteleu. By
modifying this, and dividing his right name, they arrived at
Georges du Roy de Cantel, which signature thereafter was
appended to his serious articles.

They were married, and Du Roy succeeded to Forestier's
work for the paper. Some time before the ceremony he told
Clotilde of his marriage, anticipating a troublesome scene.

330 BEL AMI

She took it sadly, but there was no scene, for she seemed to be
convinced, as he was, that it was a step necessary to his ad-
vancement. Count de Vaudrec called on Madeleine as he had
done during Forestier's lifetime, and Du Roy tolerated him.
Important persons came to his apartment. Indeed, Madeleine's
political salon was of much more consequence than she had been
able to make it during her first husband's life. One of the most
frequent visitors was Deputy Laroche-Mathieu, a stockholder
in La Vie Fran$aise, and a rising man in the Government. He
inspired many articles for Du Roy, who in turn helped the
paper to increase in influence. It was already a sheet that had
to be reckoned with.

Monsieur and Madame Walter occasionally graced the
political salon, and once Madame Walter brought her two
grown-up daughters, one of whom, Suzanne, the elder, was
rather attractive. Du Roy thoughtfully, and with remarkable
moderation, began to make himself agreeable to Madame
Walter. There was no difficulty in winning her esteem, for
everybody liked Du Roy, he was so unassuming and so hand-
some, but it was not easy to bring his employer's wife to the
expression of any deeper sentiment. She was startled, ap-
parently unspeakably shocked, when he despairingly made
known the hopeless passion he had conceived for her. She
wept violently, and Du Roy was sure she loved him. So it
proved, after a tactful and patient wooing. They met in the
Rue de Constantinople at hours when Clotilde could not possibly
be there. Madame Walter became madly infatuated, and she
was able to be of material benefit to her lover in one instance.
A conversation she overheard at home convinced her that
Laroche-Mathieu was purposely misinforming Du Roy about
the contemplated action of the Government in a certain matter,
meaning through the newspaper to mislead the public so that
he and Walter could profit by an unexpected rise in the shares
of a great enterprise. Madame W T alter bought a considerable
number of shares for Du Roy and held them until she sold at
a profit and had seventy thousand francs for him.

Before the profit was taken, however, he had grown desper-
ately tired of her, and other things had happened. Vaudrec died,
leaving all his property, more than a million, to Madeleine; and

GUY DE MAUPASSANT 331

Du Roy considered this matter with his usual gravity and
moderation.

" We cannot accept this legacy," he said, " because it would be
tantamount to an admission that your relations with Vaudrec
were improper."

His wife replied that he, as head of the household, had the
right to decline the legacy. It was a matter of indifference to
her. Her coolness annoyed him. He tried in every way he
could think of to induce her to confess that she had sustained
illicit relations with Vaudrec. She refused contemptuously to
answer him, one way or the other. After announcing for a
dozen times that dignity forbade the acceptance of the legacy,
he had Vaudrec's attorney draw up a deed by the terms of which
Madeleine made over one half of the legacy to her husband.
This, Du Roy argued, made it appear that Vaudrec had divided
his fortune between them, and relieved him of any mortification
in accepting the Count's money.

At this critical period he became so tired of Madame
Walter that he ignored her letters and avoided meeting her.
Laroche-Mathieu and Walter had profited enormously by the
scheme which Du Roy, for a time unwittingly and afterward
consciously, had fostered by his articles in the paper. Laroche-
Mathieu became a minister, Walter was a multimillionaire,
La Vie Fran$aise a power. Du Roy was maddened by jealousy
when he contemplated his employer's wealth, and cursed him-
self for having married Madeleine. Why should he not have
waited, and paid court to one of Walter's daughters? He be-
gan forthwith to cultivate the friendship of Suzanne Walter.

This beautiful girl was already his friend, and he counseled
with her in an elder-brotherly way.

"You are an heiress now, and therefore a great catch,"
said he. "There is the greatest danger that you will be thrown
away on some worthless fellow who may have a title but nothing
more to recommend him. Promise me that, before you accept
any of the suitors who will be thrown at you, you will ask my
advice."

Suzanne promised. In order to meet her and make as
much headway as this, Du Roy had to be present at one of the
extravagant entertainments that now were frequently given by

332 BEL AMI

the over-wealthy Walter. Madame Walter managed to get a
moment alone with Du Roy, in which she protested that she
must see him occasionally or die. Merely to look at him would
suffice, but she could not endure his utter absence from her
monotonous life.

"Very well," he replied coldly, "you see I am here."

He gave her no further comfort, and roughly refused the
packet of bank-notes representing the profits she had gained
for him in the transaction engineered by Laroche-Mathieu.
Madame Walter had been carrying it for weeks without oppor-
tunity to give it to him. When he refused it, she cried that she
would throw it into the sewer; and then he took it.

Laroche-Mathieu obtained for Du Roy the decoration of
the Legion of Honor, at which Madeleine thought her hus-
band would be delighted; but he affected to despise the dis-
tinction.

"Laroche-Mathieu owes me much more," he grumbled.

This was quite true, and Du Roy forced him to pay. He
visited the Walters on Fridays throughout the winter. Made-
leine accompanied him sometimes, but she usually remained at
home on one pretext or another. When March came, gossip
began to busy herself with rumors about the marriage of
Suzanne to a man of title, and Du Roy reminded the girl of her
promise. She remembered, and he proceeded to abuse her
suitor for a fop and an intriguer.

"What ails you?" she cried, astonished.

He replied, as if tearing a secret from the depths of his
heart: "I am jealous of him. I love you, and you know it."

She said severely: "You are mad, Bel Ami!"

He replied: "I know it! Should I, a married man, make
such confession to you, a young girl? I am worse than mad.
When I hear that you are to be married, I feel murder in my
heart."

The young girl murmured half sadly, half gaily: "It is a
pity you are married."

"If I were free, would you marry me?" he asked abruptly.

"Yes, Bel Ami, for I love you better than any of the others."

"Then," said he, "do not, I implore you, say yes to anyone.
Wait a while. Promise."

GUY DE MAUPASSANT

333

Suzanne, confused, not half comprehending what he asked,
promised.

Du Roy was wholly prepared for this contingency. He had
been watching Madeleine all winter. A day or two after his
interview with Suzanne he summoned a police commissioner
and conducted him to an apartment where Madeleine and
Laroche-Mathieu were found under circumstances that made
divorce proceedings absurdly easy. Three months later, Du
Roy, a free man, asked Suzanne to elope with him. She con-
sented and fled with him that very night. He took her to a
quiet place in the country, where she passed as his sister, and
they spent a week in innocent enjoyment while Du Roy was
negotiating by letter with her father.

There was a serious division in the Walter household.
Madame cried frantically that the marriage must never be
permitted; while her husband, at first shocked and enraged,
came presently to admire Du Roy's ability. A title in the
family would have been agreeable, yes; but Du Roy was shrewd ;
he succeeded; there were those shameful revelations, whatever
they might be, that were so pointedly hinted at in the letters
that came from the summer place. So at last, despite Madame
Walter's undiminished hysteria, terms were made. It had
been given out that Suzanne had gone to visit her old convent,
and when she returned her engagement was announced and
preparations for her marriage were begun at once.

Of course Clotilde de Marelle learned that Du Roy was to
be married again. She had quarreled with him when she found
evidence that he received somebody besides herself in the Rue
de Constantinople, and on that occasion she struck him in the
face and left him; but they had made it up and resumed their
meetings. On this occasion, when they discussed the forth-
coming marriage, and Clotilde was furiously angry, he lost his
temper and struck her. Indeed, he struck her more than once,
and when he left the place, she lay on the floor, moaning, almost
unconscious.

In September, Du Roy became the editor-in-chief of La Vie
Fran$aise, Walter retiring under the vague title of manager, and
shortly afterward a great throng assembled at a church for the
wedding. Madame Walter wept throughout the ceremony,

334 BEL AMI

which was so impressive and beautiful, and the Bishop's ad-
dress so respectful, that Du Roy felt almost pious. At the
end, he gave his arm to his wife and they passed into the sacristy,
where they met a stream of people. Georges shook hands with
many, and murmured words of appreciation for their con-
gratulations.

Suddenly he saw Madame de Marelle, and the recollection
of all their caresses possessed him with the mad desire to re-
gain her. She advanced somewhat timidly and offered him
her hand, which he took, retained, and pressed, as if to say:
"I shall love you always, I am yours."

Their eyes met, smiling, bright, full of love. "Until we
meet again," she murmured softly, and he gaily repeated her
words.

With his bride upon his arm, he leisurely descended the steps
between two rows of spectators, but he did not see them; his
thoughts had returned to the past, and before his eyes floated
the image of Madame de Marelle, rearranging the curly locks
upon her temples before the mirror in their apartment.

PIERRE AND JEAN (i

The greater fame of De Maupassant as a short-story writer does not eclipse
the standard reached in a few of his novels, among which Pierre et Jean is the
die) d'auvrc. In his latter years the effervescence of youth, running to natural-
ism and sensuality, gave way to something akin to pessimism; but the morbid
quality in Pierre et Jean is qualified by severe restraint.

D ROLAND, a retired Parisian jeweler, had
settled at Havre, where a moderate fortune allowed
him to indulge in his love of the sea and of fishing.
Madame Roland, a woman of forty -eight, looking
younger than her years, though a good and pru-
dent housewife, had a vein of sentiment which
was lost on her prosaic husband, however sin-
cerely attached to his family, of whom he was
proud, for there were two fine sons. Pierre,
older than his brother Jean by five years, was, after making
several professional essays that proved futile, finally gradu-
ated as a physician. The younger brother had, on the other
hand, pursued one aim with steadfastness that of the law
and became a licentiate. The two were as different in their
persons as in their temperaments. The senior was dark, thin,
and nervous, while the junior was blonde, a little lymphatic, and
handsome. Answering to these exteriors, the one was satur-
nine, jealous, and easily moved by the vagaries of his imagina-
tion; the other had always been a model of sweetness, gentle-
ness, and good nature, inclined to take the things of life as they
came, without too much question. There had always been
little rivalries between the brothers, mostly initiated by Pierre,
whose ever-alert suspicion made him sensitive and disposed to
brood over apparent slights. Yet they had always loved each
other, and, up to the time of their arrival at Havre, after they
had completed their professional studies, there had never been
any serious disagreement between them.

33$

334 BEL AMI

which was so impressive and beautiful, and the Bishop's ad-
dress so respectful, that Du Roy felt almost pious. At the
end, he gave his arm to his wife and they passed into the sacristy,
where they met a stream of people. Georges shook hands with
many, and murmured words of appreciation for their con-
gratulations.

Suddenly he saw Madame de Marelle, and the recollection
of all their caresses possessed him with the mad desire to re-
gain her. She advanced somewhat timidly and offered him
her hand, which he took, retained, and pressed, as if to say:
" I shall love you always, I am yours."

Their eyes met, smiling, bright, full of love. "Until we
meet again," she murmured softly, and he gaily repeated her
words.

With his bride upon his arm, he leisurely descended the steps
between two rows of spectators, but he did not see them; his
thoughts had returned to the past, and before his eyes floated
the image of Madame de Marelle, rearranging the curly locks
upon her temples before the mirror in their apartment.

PIERRE AND JEAN (r

The greater fame of De Maupassant as a short-story writer does not eclipse
the standard reached in a few of his novels, among which Pierre et Jean is the
chef d'ceuvre. In his latter years the effervescence of youth, running to natural-
ism and sensuality, gave way to something akin to pessimism; but the morbid
quality in Pierre et Jean is qualified by severe restraint.

j(LD ROLAND, a retired Parisian jeweler, had
settled at Havre, where a moderate fortune allowed
him to indulge in his love of the sea and of fishing.
Madame Roland, a woman of forty-eight, looking
younger than her years, though a good and pru-
dent housewife, had a vein of sentiment which
was lost on her prosaic husband, however sin-
cerely attached to his family, of whom he was
proud, for there were two fine sons. Pierre,
older than his brother Jean by five years, was, after making
several professional essays that proved futile, finally gradu-
ated as a physician. The younger brother had, on the other
hand, pursued one aim with steadfastness that of the law
and became a licentiate. The two were as different in their
persons as in their temperaments. The senior was dark, thin,
and nervous, while the junior was blonde, a little lymphatic, and
handsome. Answering to these exteriors, the one was satur-
nine, jealous, and easily moved by the vagaries of his imagina-
tion; the other had always been a model of sweetness, gentle-
ness, and good nature, inclined to take the things of life as they
came, without too much question. There had always been
little rivalries between the brothers, mostly initiated by Pierre,
whose ever-alert suspicion made him sensitive and disposed to
brood over apparent slights. Yet they had always loved each
other, and, up to the time of their arrival at Havre, after they
had completed their professional studies, there had never been
any serious disagreement between them.

13$

336 PIERRE AND JEAN

Among the intimates of the family Roland was Madame
Rosmilly, the charming young widow of a sea-captain, who
had left her with a comfortable fortune. The two brothers,
meeting her for the first time, were both attracted; but Pierre
instantly surmised that her preference was for his brother.
This was accentuated one day when they had been on a fishing
excursion. The wind failing, they had to betake themselves to
the oars; and the look of admiration in the widow's eyes, when
the more enduring strength of Jean was made manifest, gave
point to Pierre's quick jealousy. Curiosity, on their return
home, was piqued by the report that the well-known lawyer,
Maitre Lecanu, had called three times during their absence,
and left word that he would come again in the evening on
what was evidently an affair of moment.

The lawyer arrived promptly and informed the family that
an old bachelor friend of Monsieur and Madame Roland, Mon-
sieur Leon Mar&hal, head-clerk of the Exchequer Office, had
died and left his entire fortune, about twenty thousand francs
a year, to Jean Roland, the younger son. Madame Roland was
greatly affected, tears and sobs attesting her grief. Her hus-
band was evidently more gratified by the bequest than grieved
at the loss of the friend. Both sons looked sorrowful, and Jean
stroked his fair beard cogitating deeply, till he finally murmured:
"Yes! he was certainly fond of me. He always embraced me
when I went to see him."

"You used to know this Marshal well, then?" asked Pierre
curiously of his father.

Old Roland, who had been capering about the room with
crazy antics, replied that the testator had been their guest at
breakfast the day Jean was born, and had gone for the ac-
coucheur. "Surely," the father chuckled, "he must have con-
cluded that, having helped to bring the boy into the world, he
would help him to live in it." Alone with his wife, M. Roland
remarked that Jean would surely help his brother now. " No!"
said Madame Roland, "Pierre would not accept. This legacy
is Jean's and his alone. "

Pierre paced up and down on the Rue de Paris that night,
uneasy and gloomy, as one suffering from some indescribable
wound he could not locate. He turned in aversion from the

GUY DE MAUPASSANT 337

invitation of the brilliant cafes. Why should such an irritable
mood obsess him, he pondered, as he emerged on the Grand
Quay. It could not be that he was jealous about Madame
Ros^milly; and as to the inheritance he shuddered at the
thought of such despicable meanness. A man sat at the ex-
treme end of the breakwater whom, on approaching, he found
to be his brother Jean, lost in thought. He squeezed Jean's
hand, offering sincere congratulation and assurance of his own
warm brotherly love in a husky voice, then turned away with a
heavy step and thought he would go to see old Marowsko, a
Polish chemist, recently come to Havre, whom he had met in a
Parisian hospital. He loved to chat with the old man, who was
much attached to him. As he sat sipping a glass of cordial, he
mentioned the news of Jean's inheritance of a large fortune from
an old friend of his father. Marowsko looked astonished and
vexed and repeated more than once, with a strange shake of the
head: "It will not look well." The next day Pierre con-
tinued distrait, except that he was calculating on the preliminary
expense of beginning practise with the thought that, perchance,
Jean would loan him the money. Taking his afternoon walk,
the restless man, his imagination full of vague phantoms,
stopped at a cafe where he had often been served. In an absent
way he told the barmaid of his younger brother's fortune. She,
too, commented with a queer smile: "My word! no wonder he
is so different from you!" An explicit thought at once sounded
an unknown abyss in his soul. Could it be the girl hinted at
MarechaTs paternity of the heir? He quivered as he recalled
the enigmatic expression of Marowsko. The awful doubt of
his mother's honor obsessed him like a waking nightmare. He
must speak to Jean about this, and tell him what the acceptance
of the fortune would entail imperiling one so dear to both.

When he arrived home, worn with his thoughts, he found all
arrangements made for a splendid feast. Jean had formally
accepted the bequest, and the family were intoxicated with joy.
Madame Rosdmilly, who was present, reproached him for his
gloom during the gay repast, where so much fine wine made
thought effervescent, as if to say: "You are jealous; it is
shameful!" She gave a toast to the memory of M. Marshal;
and Beausire, another guest, asked about him. M. Roland,

A.D., VOL. vi. 22

338 PIERRE AND JEAN

made emotional with champagne, wept and said: "Like j,
brother a friend we were inseparable dined with us every
day would treat us to the play a real, true friend, wasn't he,
Louise ?" His wife merely answered: "Yes! he was a faithful
friend."

Pierre arose next morning in more cheerful mood. After
all, what substantial reason had he for such a dreadful and un-
filial conclusion? It must be that his imagination had fed on
jealousy of his brother's luck; and he determined to tear up by
the roots an envy so ignoble. Yet when he met his mother at
dinner, her face radiant with pleasure, and she told him that
she had found a most charming apartment for Jean, who would
make his dbut as a wealthy bachelor, he found his blood cor-
roding again with venomous thought over which will could ex-
ercise no control. He thought again over the meetings in Paris
when M. Mar&hal had entertained himself and his brother at
dinner, and had shown no difference of manner toward them.
Yet to that uprose a dreadful corollary: " There must have been
some very strong private reason why he should have left his
entire fortune to Jean." His mind went back to the period,
before he could remember M. Marshal, to reconstruct that
pregnant beginning of things with remorseless logic. His
mother, a handsome woman, had always cherished sentiment,
a love of poetry and the ideal. Yoked to a man prosaic and
commonplace, she had met Marshal, a gentleman, a man of
culture, and well-to-do, who from buying things in the shop had
gradually become intimate with these bourgeois friends. So
love had come, that love which she could not give her dull hus-
band, and which must seem to the heart of every young and
romantic woman as her rightful due. Then there flashed across
his brain the memory of a photograph which had of late years
disappeared from view, a picture of M. Mar&hal in his prime.
Both he and Jean were blond and rosy. Pierre lashed himself
with savage remorse for accusing the mother who had given him
birth; but the terrible specter would not down.

Time and again as the days went by he burned to say to
Jean, "You should not keep this legacy which may bring sus-
picion and dishonor on our mother"; but the odious words
froze on his lips when he sought to utter them.

GUY DE MAUPASSANT 339

One day he asked her what had become of the photograph,
which he dimly remembered. The words faltered, but some
inward compulsion drove them through his teeth. She said
she would look for it, and a few days afterward Pierre asked
again. "Oho!" said his father, who was present, "was it not
a queer coincidence that it should have turned up only two or
three days before Jean got news of his legacy a presentiment
indeed?"

"So she has lied to me," whispered the son's angry heart,
while she went to get the picture. Perhaps there was nothing
striking in the likeness, yet there was a certain kinship of
physiognomy. As the younger son looked at it in turn, Madame
Roland said it must be his, as he was the heir, and Pierre went
out with a gloomy brow just as Madame Rosmilly rang the bell
for an evening call, while Jean muttered: "What a bear the
fellow has become!"

When his father scolded him for his moodiness of habit, the
unhappy man offered the excuse that he was lamenting the loss
of one he had loved very deeply, a woman who was ruined.
His mother, who heard Pierre speak thus, looked as if she would
collapse, and became so ill that M. Roland insisted on Pierre's
prescribing for her. Her pulse was high, her skin feverish,
and she rushed from the room swiftly to shut herself up in her
own. Yet Pierre's anguish was no less than hers; for he
suffered frightfully from the fact that he could love and respect
her no more do nothing but torment her. As the days went
by he was so stung by remorse and crushed by pity that he
would have liked to drown himself in the sea, because he could
do nothing but yield to some fatal impulse leading him to give
signs of unfilial scorn.

Whatever Jean noticed he put down to jealousy, and prom-
ised himself that some day he would have it out with Pierre.
But the young fellow was very happy and busy with his own
new plans. These were soon to receive a fresh and delightful
factor in their evolution. On a shrimping excursion one day,
Jean, who soorted the pretty widow, was so carried away by
her charm and gaiety that he confessed his sentiments; and
Madame Rosmilly gave him the answer he hoped for. Pierre
and his mother, who had not joined in the sport, sat at some dis-

340 PIERRE AND JEAN

tance, each dreading to speak to the other. Suddenly they
noted the forms of Madame Rosmilly and Jean outlined
against the sky, looking as if there was something peculiar and
unusual between them; and both divined the truth. Pierre
burst into a hoarse and sneering laugh. "I am learning how a
man lays himself out to be managed by his wife," said he.

When the engagement was made known that evening at
Jean's apartment, Pierre's satirical bitterness provoked Jean to
charge his brother with jealousy as to both Madame Rosdmilly
and the fortune. With that, all of the elder brother's latent
venom exuded: "It is not right," said he, "to accept a fortune
from one man so long as another has the repute of being your
father. . . . Everybody is whispering that you are the son of
the man who left you his fortune. ... I am so wretched with
sorrow that I scarcely know what I am doing." And so with
almost maniacal passion and choked with sobs he poured forth
in a flood his suspicions, his doubts, and what he regarded
as circumstantial proofs. "I am a brute," he ended with a
quick revulsion, " to have told you this," and rushed bareheaded
downstairs.

Madame Roland was in the adjoining room, and Jean, who
had tried in vain to stop his brother's speech, knew this; she
must have heard every word.

After a few moments of stupefaction, the sense of misery
arose in such unendurable degree that he opened his mother's
door as if he had been an automaton. The poor woman lay
with her face buried in the pillows. "Mother," he cried, "I
know it is not true. Do not weep; I know it."

After gasping a while for breath, the pale woman said: "It
is true, my child; why should I lie about it? you would not be-
lieve me." As Jean kissed her with the utmost tenderness, she
told him that his forgiveness had saved her life, but that she
must go away and never see him or the others again; that her
presence would condemn them all to the torments of hell. She
said she had known his brother's suspicions for a month; that
his guesses at the truth had made her life a constant and ex-
cruciating martyrdom. He begged her passionately to stay.

"If I am to stay," she answered, "you must not forgive me;
nothing is so hurtful as forgiveness. You must simply bear me

GUY DE MAUPASSANT

no grudge, and be able to own to yourself the fact that you are
not Roland's son without a blush and without despising me."
Then she spoke of Mar&hal, his father: " Listen, my boy! I
declare before God that I should never have known a joy in life
had I not met him, not a touch of love or kindness, not an hour
which would have made me regret growing old. To him I owe
everything; I had but him and you two boys. ... I belonged
to him forever; for ten years we were husband and wife before
God, who made us for each other. And then I saw he began to
care less for me by degrees. He was kind and gentle always,
but things became different. After we came here I never saw
him again, though he often promised in his letters to come. I
always expected him now he is dead. But his remembrance
of you showed he still cared. I shall never cease to love him
and will never deny him; and I love you because you are his son.
I could never be ashamed of him before you, and you must love
him a little. If you cannot do this, then it must be good-by, my
child, for we could not live together. I shall act as you decide."
Jean told her with tender caresses to stay.

All this had occurred at Jean's apartment, and he succeeded
in finally soothing her only by promising that he would find
some way of relieving her of Pierre's silent reproaches.

He left her at her own house as the town clock was striking
three in the morning. There was a light in Pierre's room, but
M. Roland was placidly snoring. The next morning a cold
kiss passed between Pierre and his mother at the breakfast-
table. Neither had slept during the night. Jean, too, had
pondered, but his lawyer's mind had been less confused. At
first his conscience had said: "You cannot keep the fortune."
Would not that be giving up Madame Rosemilly? Instinctive
selfishness had then hunted for some pretext which would satisfy
his natural probity. He had asked himself over and over:
" Since I am this man's son and acknowledge it, why should I
not accept the inheritance?" Then followed the thought that
he could give up his share in the Roland estate, so that each son
would have his own father's money. Thus the delicate question
was disposed of on that side. But what about the continual ap-
parition of Pierre, the knowledge of whose conviction would
haunt their peace of mind, like some grim phantom?

342 PIERRE AND JEAN

Conversation at the breakfast-table turned on the splendid
new transatlantic liner, Lorraine, just about to go into com-
mission. Her officers would be finely paid, suggested Jean,
into whose shrewd brain a swift thought had leaped. He had
been told by some of the company's directors that none of her
staff had yet been assigned. The ship-doctor's position was
an excellent one. Pierre looked up, with an eager question as
to the difficulty of obtaining such a position. This led to the
determination to bring every pressure to bear to secure the ap-
pointment for him. There would be no difficulty in obtaining
the best recommendations from the medical faculty at Paris,
and so all the mechanism of influence was set at work that very
day.

As Madame Roland and Jean went to call on Madame Rose-
milly in the afternoon, the mother said with passionate regret:
"How happy I might have been with another man!" She
wished to throw all the responsibility on the stupidity, dulness,
and vulgarity of Roland. Jean, too, was thinking of his puta-
tive father, and how he had long unconsciously chafed under the
sense of being the son of this well-meaning boor. Even Pierre
had continually satirized him, and the very kitchen-wench
treated him with contempt. They found the fair widow at
home, tired after her fishing excursion; and the three proceeded
to make arrangements for an early espousal. The common-
place pathos of the pictures, the showy furniture, the brilliancy
of the carpets and draperies pleased Jean, who thought what
charming taste his fiancee possessed. Complacency even
smoothed the anxieties out of Madame Roland's face for a little.
She had lost a son, but had gained a grown-up daughter. That
night she put her arm about Jean's neck with a tender kiss and
pressed into his hand a small packet; he recognized the shape of
the photograph frame.

Pierre received his appointment, and in spite of the misery
of the immediate past a dreadful nostalgia seized his soul. His
mother asked him for a list of the necessaries he must take with
him; and, as she looked into his face, her eyes were full of the
humble, beseeching expression of a dog that has been beaten.
She expressed a desire to see the quarters where Pierre would
spend so much of his life, only to be told harshly that there was

GUY DE MAUPASSANT 343

nothing to see but a very small and ugly cabin. His rough
tongue girded savagely at everything till immediately on the
eve of departure. He then asked them all, Monsieur and
Madame Roland, Madame Ros^milly, and Jean, to wish him
bon voyage on board, as with a revulsion of feeling. After
the parting they sailed down the harbor in Roland's boat to see
the last of the ship. They watched him through their glasses,
blowing the conventional kisses. Madame Roland's eyes were
suffused, and to her husband, who asked her why she cried,
she answered: "I don't know; I cry because I am hurt." She
felt then as if half her heart were gone, and that she never would
see her elder boy again. The mother's passion and tenderness
reigned in spite of all.

JAMES DE MILLE

(Canada, 1837-1880)
CORD AND CREESE (1867)

This story exploited a society which the British Government first tried to
exterminate about seventy-five years ago. The Thugs were a sect of assassins
who professed to regard the murders they committed as religious acts; but as
their victims were usually wealthy persons, they were also looked upon as
robbers. The sect flourished in northern India, where many travelers were
found evidently strangled in their sleep. Though membership in the society
is punishable with imprisonment for life, it is by no means extirpated at the
present day.

j[N the morning of July 21, 1846, Louis Brandon,
of the firm of Compton and Brandon, at Sydney,
New South Wales, received a letter by the Eng-
lish mail from his aged father, who, feeling him-
self at the point of death, sought to effect a recon-
ciliation and to make clear some events of the
past. He told his son that the great poverty to
which they were reduced was due entirely to a
man named John Potts, who had come to him
with a recommendation from his friend General Despard just
a year after that officer's mysterious murder at sea. He heard
nothing more of Potts till two years later, when he returned
with such glowing accounts of tin mines he had been develop-
ing that Mr. Brandon at once took many shares of the stock.
The large dividends and increasing values caused him to
put so much trust in the man that he refused to listen to the
warnings of his friends, and had commanded Louis to apologize
or leave for having denounced Potts as a villain; now he mourned
the departure of his son. He had lost everything, and Brandon
Hall and his estates were in the hands of Potts. He now had
suspicions as to the murder of his friend. Potts was with him
at the time and was the chief witness against the Malay who was

344

JAMES DE MILLE 345

executed for the murder. A fear haunted him that he should
have investigated his friend's murder more closely; and that, be-
cause he had not, punishment had been sent to make the same
man his ruin also. Reminding his son of his helpless mother,
of his brother and sister, he begged him to leave all and come
home. He warned him of Potts's hatred of him and urged him
to be on his guard, but yet to take vengeance. He had nothing
of all his estates to leave his son, but enclosed a coarse paper
covered with faded but still legible writing.

The paper had been in the family for centuries and was
written by a certain Ralph Brandon, who, when he went down
with his ship, Phcenix, sent the communication by a sailor.
The document said that the owner, surrounded by Spaniards,
was about to sink his ship, loaded with treasure, near the island
of Santa Cruz, north of San Salvador.

Brandon at once prepared to go to the aid of his family and
communicated his plans to the senior partner. Mr. Compton
was much grieved at his decision and insisted upon an equal
division of the business profits as only a fair recompense for
Brandon's efforts. There was a condition attached, which
necessitated his telling Brandon some facts from his life. He
acknowledged that he had a wife and son. During the son's
childhood, they had lived happily in York, but the boy became
the victim of evil companions. Three were arrested for bur-
glary, one turned King's evidence, while his son and the other
miscreant were condemned to transportation. To pacify the
mother, Compton then moved to Australia, and, changing their
names, they took their son as a nominal servant, since the Gov-
vernment gave him permission to hire out on account of good
conduct. When his term expired the boy again joined his old
associates and went to India. The parents followed and found
him at last. The companions had given assumed names; one
was Clark and the other Potts. " Potts! " cried Brandon. " Yes/ 1
said the other, not noticing the surprise of Brandon. "He was
in the employ of Colonel Despard at Calcutta and enjoyed much
of his confidence." He continued, saying that he was obliged
to return to his business, but that his wife, preferring to be near
her boy, refused to come with him and remained as a nurse in
Colonel Despard's family. Three years later he received a

346 CORD AND CREESE

letter and papers from his wife telling of Colonel Despard's
murder on board the Vishnu, bound for Manila. A boat had
arrived at Manila bringing the crew of the Vishnu, Potts, Clark,
the Colonel's Malay attendant, and the Captain, an Italian
named Cigole. They all swore that the Malay was the mur-
derer and that they caught him just as he was about to leap
overboard with his creese in his hand covered with blood. On
their testimony the fellow was condemned and executed. They
said that a storm had come up, the Vishnu had sprung a leak,
and they all had had to take to the boat.

After this narrative, Brandon readily agreed to the elder
man's condition and promised to help him find his family.
His suspicions were roused when he found that the only passen-
ger with himself on the ship bound for England was Cigole, an
Italian, who represented himself as a wool merchant. One
day during a hurricane, Cigole darted quickly toward Brandon
and fell against him, pushing him headlong into the sea, and
shouted: "Man overboard!" The Captain thrust out a hen-
coop and two wooden pails, but could do nothing. The ship was
at the mercy of the hurricane.

With the aid of the hen-coop Brandon, who was a good
swimmer, succeeded in reaching the shore. He was on a sand
island where he found a cistern of fresh water and some clams
along the shore, which sustained him for several weeks. At
length there was a terrific storm, which swept the sand from
the mound on his island and revealed a long-buried ship. He
at once began investigating, but the mold and sand had so
worn it away that the parts he touched fell to pieces in his hands.
To his astonishment, he made out the name Vishnu. In the
last room he entered, he discovered lying on a bunk the skeleton
of a man. As he prepared to give it decent burial, he found the
hand still grasping a bottle tightly corked. The bottle was
filled with paper, but before reading this, he noticed on break-
ing the bottle that there also fell from it a plaited cord with a
piece of bronze the size of a marble at one end, carved with the
hideous face of a Hindu deity. The manuscript began: "Brig
Vishnu, Adrift in the Chinese Sea, July 10, 1828. Whoever
finds this, let him know that I, Lionel Despard, Colonel of H. M.
37th Regiment, have been the victim of a foul conspiracy per-

JAMES DE MILLE 347

formed against me by the Captain and crew of the brig
and especially by my servant, John Potts." The writer then
went on to instruct the finder to bear the contents to his friend,
Ralph Brandon, of England. He told how he had been sent
into a district in India to put down a band of assassins, members
of a society called the Thuggee. They had captured a band of
them and found among the number an Englishman and his
little boy. The man, who said his name was John Potts, said he
had been captured and his life spared only on condition that he
would join them. Both he and his son were branded with the
name of their god Bowhani in Hindu characters. He said their
method of assassination was to throw a cord with a peculiar
jerk around the neck of the victim. The weight of bronze at
the end swung the cord round and round and the result was
inevitable. The motive was purely religious zeal, and the more
persons a thug could kill the more of a saint he became.

Great sympathy was felt for Potts, and Colonel Despard
engaged him at once as his servant. After three years, he de-
sired to go to England and then it was Despard wrote the letter
of introduction. Before his departure, Mrs. Despard died and
the Colonel went on this voyage with a crew all of whom he now
believed to be hirelings of Potts. The Malay servant was de-
voted to his master, and Potts tried every device to get him
away. One night Colonel Despard was awakened by a tre-
mendous struggle in his cabin between Potts and the Malay.
Someone had tried to put the cord about his neck. When he
fircvl, Potts went out dragging the Malay with him and leaving
hi:n locked behind. After much noise and trampling above,
all became quiet; and when he finally broke out, he found him-
self alone on the ship. A fire had been started in the cargo of
staves, but had not spread, and for three months lie had drifted
about on those lonely seas. Evidently his life had ended with
the wreck of the ship.

Brandon took from Despard' s Deck a locket containing his
wife's miniature and buried the crumbling remains. He then
watched more eagerly for rescue; and when one day he saw a ship
he waved his coat all day from a frail staff he had made, and at
night built a fire by shooting his revolver into the dry staves
he had spread in the sun; but the ship went out of sight. How-

348 CORD AND CREESE

ever, another passed that way and he found himself surrounded
by friendly faces and was quickly borne on board their vessel.
Only two days had passed after his rescue when by certain
ominous sounds they knew there were pirates in the vicinity at-
tacking a ship. The Captain at once manned his boat and set
out to the relief of his countrymen. The pirates were in pos-
session, but were forced to retire. Brandon held down the
leader of the band and was about to kill him when the man spoke
in English, saying that he had fought for vengeance, and had
killed every Englishman, hoping thereby to kill John Potts, who
was the murderer of his brother, Colonel Despard's Malay ser-
vant. He drew out his creese and Brandon read carved on it the
name John Potts. Brandon took the knife and let the man escape.

The pirates had left only two persons alive, the Hindu cook
Cato and a beautiful girl on her way from China to join her father
in England, who were taken on board. The girl was a musician
of great ability, and talked often to Brandon of her art and of
her teacher, Langhetti, whom she loved with great devotion.
The girl had no occasion to tell her name for some time and
when she did, Brandon, who had become greatly interested in
her, was completely overcome. The name was Beatrice Potts,
and she was the daughter of his deadly foe. She saw clearly
the effect her name had upon him and marveled greatly.

When they were in the latitude of the Guinea coast, a ter-
rific storm assailed them, which shook the ship to its very cen-
ter. The Captain and the officers were swept overboard.
Brandon with great presence of mind took command of the
ship and for four days they weathered the storm. Then it be-
came evident that the ship was doomed. Brandon ordered the
boats lowered, but all capsized save the one holding Beatrice
and himself with the Hindu servant Cato. On the afternoon
of the seventh day they reached the coast, but Brandon, over-
come by the heat and toil, fell headlong into the water just as
he was landing.

While Brandon was lying helpless, the fortunes of his family
were being eagerly discussed in a small English town by Cour-
tenay Despard, the young rector, and his friend, Mrs. Thornton.
Mrs. Thornton was in receipt of a letter from her brother, Paolo
Langhetti, who had gone to Canada on the Tecumseh.

JAMES DE MILLE 349

He told her of the horrors of the sickness among the emigrants
and the discovery of the Brandons, who had once greatly assisted
their own father. The mother had died at sea tind the son
must have died soon after landing. During Langhetti's own
temporary illness, Edith Brandon had been buried while in a
trance, but he had caused her to be disinterred and she had
regained consciousness.

These letters stirred Despard and Mrs. Thornton deeply,
and they at once took steps to find the remaining relative of
Edith Brandon. A notice of the death of Louis by falling over-
board from the ship bound from Sydney was found in an old
paper.

Brandon, overcome by the heat, had lain for three weeks in
a stupor. Beatrice, thinking him dead, had read his papers and
learned of the awful part her wicked father had played in the
life of this man and his friends, and on his recovery told him she
knew all. Both confessed their love, but recognized the barrier
that stood between them. As soon as he was able, Brandon
assisted Cato to row the boat to Sierra Leone and from here
they took passage to England. Brandon did not desert his
charge until he had put her in the carriage for her father's house,
which was no other than Brandon Hall.

Brandon then made inquiries concerning his family in the
village and learned that his father had died in the almshouse
and the family had emigrated to America. He went immedi-
ately to Canada, and by means of advertisements found his
brother Frank, who agreed to join in the search for the lost
treasure, that they might make themselves as powerful as their
enemy.

Brandon bought diving armor and learned the art himself.
His servant Cato was an experienced pearl-fisher; so having
equipped their own ship, they went in search of Santa Cruz
and the Phcenix. When they had decided upon the spot, Cato
first went down, but after twelve trials and a desperate encounter
with sharks, returned with no news. At length Louis himself,
clad in the diving armor, went to the bottom of the sea and
searched till what appeared to be a rock in the distance finally
proved to be the hull of a ship. To his delight, he found the
name, Phcenix. Going through room after room, he was about

3SG CORD AND CREESE

to give up the search for the treasure, convinced that after all
the Spaniards had found their booty, when suddenly standing
before the grim skeleton, whose seal ring had proved him to be
the brave ancestor, he felt the floor giving away and soon his
hands grasped the rich metallic bars. Besides the bars of yel-
low gold, he found caskets of jewels in countless store and could
hardly tear himself away to take the news to his brother, who
was still pumping down to him the necessary air.

While Brandon was searching for his family and his treasure,
Beatrice was accustoming herself to her new home. She found
nothing congenial in her surroundings, and even her music was
denied her. Potts, eager to advance in society, tried to draw
people to his house by giving a ball for his daughter; but no
one came. When she sought to go abroad, she found herself a
prisoner. Her only companion was an old woman, Mrs. Comp-
ton, who lived in constant terror of Potts. The only one who
treated her with any respect was Potts's secretary, Phillips, a
meek, inoffensive man. When Potts found that society wat
not to be won by balls, he tried another scheme and opened a
bank. This soon drew the patronage he wished and he felt his
wealth was fast making him a power in the county. He was
encouraged in this belief by a call from an old, gray-bearded
man named Smithers, the head of the famous banking-house
under which the minor banks of the country flourished. Smith-
ers assured Potts his credit with them was good and encouraged
him in many wild investments.

Meanwhile Paolo Langhetti, accompanied always by his
charge, Edith Brandon, arrived at Mrs. Thornton's. Under
Edith's inspiration, he had written an opera, which he wished
to produce in London. He was looking everywhere for his
former pupil, Beatrice Potts, who alone, he felt, had the voice
to make it a success. The rector told him such a person was
then with Potts, but how to get her was a serious problem.
Beatrice, little knowing that such good friends were near, now
found her life unbearable and resolved to make her escape.
As she crept through the darkened house and into the grounds,
she came upon the Malay, who was in Potts's service. Mindful
of a past kindness, he helped Beatrice over the wall, and by
morning she was well on her way from the hated place. Just

JAMES DE MILLE 351

as she was quite worn out by her unwonted exercise, she met
Despard and Langhetti in a carriage. She fainted with joy at
sight of her old teacher, and they determined to save her at any
cost. To make explanations unnecessary, she was to pass as
Despard's sister; and as soon as possible they put her in Mrs.
Thornton's charge. When she recovered sufficiently to take
up her music again, she entered heartily into the plans for
Langhetti's opera.

Unknown to Langhetti, Frank Brandon, though not yet
ready to disclose himself, turned his great fortune to make the
production a success. Beatrice's voice did all the rest. One
night when the opera was over, Langhetti could not take her
home as usual; so, stepping into the only cab standing near, she
was soon speeding through the streets. To her surprise she was
put down at a strange house and before she could cry out, she
found herself in the hands of John Potts. He conveyed her
quickly to the Hall, but on the way there Smithers met them
at the inn and managed to make Beatrice aware that he was
her friend, Louis Brandon; to insure her safety, he had asked
Mr. Potts to take into his household his servant Cato.

Potts now took every precaution to make his captive secure,
and as a last resort resolved to marry her to his friend, Clark,
the escaped convict. On the eve of this event Beatrice was
about to end her life with a draught of poison, when Mrs.
Compton brought a letter from her son, the secretary, Phillips,
telling them both to be ready to escape with Cato that very
night. The party were taken to a little cottage opposite the
inn, where Brandon met them.

Soon after, Brandon called on Courtenay Despard and giv-
ing an assumed name told him of his discovery of the Vishnu
and gave him his father's letter and his mother's picture.
Despard read the manuscript and vowed to avenge his fa-
ther's wrongs. He told all to Langhetti, and together they
came to the conclusion that the stranger could be only Louis
Brandon.

Despard now displayed renewed energy in helping Lang-
hetti in his search for Beatrice. While they were deliberating
on what plans to pursue, an anonymous letter was handed them
telling where she was to be found. As they reached an inn

352 CORD AND CREESE

near the place, they saw Clark. Langhetti rode ahead, but
Despard became suspicious of Clark and followed. Clark with
his ferocious bulldog had attacked Langhetti and would have
killed him, but for Despard's timely arrival. Despard shot the
dog and bore Langhetti to the cottage after a struggle with
Clark, whom he left bound, the three red scars of the branded
convict plainly visible on his back.

At Brandon Hall there was great gloom. There had been
a fatal run on the bank and now the dread of settling with
Smithers and Co. was facing them, when a stranger was an-
nounced. Father and son welcomed him in a somewhat threat-
ening manner, which the stranger never heeded. "Perhaps
you, too, have a draft on me," sneered Potts. "Yes," replied
the stranger, "and my draft was drawn twenty years ago by
Colonel Lionel Despard." Pie then recalled to Potts the hor-
rible details of his crime, and ordered him to pull up his sleeve
to show the Bowhani characters on his arm. "This," he said,
" is the draft you will not reject," and he flung at Potts the cord,
at the end of which was the metallic ball. "Thug," he cried,
"do you know what that is?"

Potts summoned his servants. They gathered in the hall,
but not one would lift his hand in behalf of his master.

"Who are you?" cried Potts. " I am Louis Brandon," was
the answer.

At the end of an hour, Brandon of Brandon Hall was the
master in the home of his ancestors, and John Potts and his
son had left.

On the following morning, as Brandon was riding out, he
was overtaken by Potts 7 s Malay servant; but Brandon caught
him as he was about to throw the cord at his neck. When he
had the Malay in his power, he learned that the man believed
he was avenging his father's murder, for Potts had told him
Brandon was the one who killed his father, Colonel Despard's
servant. Brandon then told him of his encounter with his
uncle, Zangorri, and unbuttoning his coat, drew out the Malay
creese. The man read the words, " John Potts."

The Malay was convinced; he rode back to the village of
Brandon and that night went to the hotel where Potts's son
was sleeping. The next morning the father found his son dead

JAMES DE MILLE 353

in his bed, and around his neck was a faint line, which might
have been made by a cord.

The following day, when Brandon went to the cottage he
learned of his sister's existence. Shortly after his arrival all
the family were summoned to Langhetti's bedside, as he felt
himself to be dying and wished to talk with Mrs. Compton
before them all. Being convinced that the master whom she
had so long feared was now powerless, she declared that Beatrice
was the daughter of Colonel Despard; and Langhetti's surmise
as to the markings B. D. on her clothing was at last confirmed.

"Beatrice," said Brandon when he was master of himself,
" Beatrice, I am yours and you are mine. It was a lie that kept
us apart."

Still Despard' s vengeance was not satisfied, but another did
the work. Some hours later when he rode along the way he
knew Potts to have taken, he came upon a group of men about
a prostrate body. Around the neck he could see the cord with
the leaden bullet hanging at the end, and on the hilt of the
weapon plunged in his heart he saw carved the name JOHN
POTTS. The weapon was a Malay creese.

Louis Brandon did not forget his promise to his former part-
ner, and Mrs. Compton and her son, Philip, were returned to
their home.

As Langhetti lay dying at the cottage, Edith Brandon came
to him. He played for her daily on his violin till one day her
soul went out never to return and soon after he, too, was dead.

Frank Brandon continued to look after the business, and at
Brandon Hall, Beatrice, who had so long been a prisoner there,
was mistress.

A.D, VOL. VI. 23

ALFRED DE MUSSET

(France, 1810-1857)

CONFESSIONS OF A CHILD OF THE
CENTURY (1836)

This novel was the result of the author's liaison and quarrel with George
Sand, who also wrote a book on this episode in their lives, entitled Rile et Lui
("She and He"). The two were very bitter after the separation, and friends
on either side were drawn into the recriminations and accusations in which
they indulged. De Musset's story was crowned by the French Academy and
has become the most popular of his works.

(N the time of Napoleon, when the men of France
were at war, the spirit of the age was one of fever-
ish unrest, and anxious mothers gave birth to
an ardent, pale, neurotic generation.

When nineteen years old, I was attacked by
the abnormal moral malady of the age, and these
memoirs relate to my life during the three years
that it lasted.

The attack began as follows. After a mas-
querade, I was seated at supper with my mistress by my side.
I had drunk rather heavily, and my fork having dropped under
the table I stooped to pick it up. I saw that the foot of my mis-
tress touched that of a young man. I watched, and saw that
their feet remained in the same position during the supper, al-
though the man was talking to another woman all the time.

My mistress was a widow, and lived with an elderly rela-
tive. I was to see her home.

"Come, Octave," she said at last, "let us go! Here I am!"

I laughed, and left her there without saying a word. I did

not think much about this incident until I was in bed, but then

I became very angry, and was seized with desire for revenge.

That young man had been my dearest friend from child-

354

ALFRED DE MUSSET 355

hood, which made the matter worse. The next day we went to
the woods of Vincennes and fought a duel, in which I was
wounded in the arm, and a fever followed.

My friend Desgcnais, who had been my second, told me
that my mistress was unworthy, and made me promise not to
see her again. But, notwithstanding my promise, I went to
see her as soon as I was able. I abhorred her, but at the same
time I idolized her. I reproached her with being false to me,
with flirting with my friend in fact, I was beside myself with
jealousy. She was greatly moved at my harsh words, flung her-
self on the floor and implored my forgiveness. Her hair fell
about her shoulders like a halo. She was beautiful. When I
left her I wished never to see her again; but in a quarter of an
hour I retraced my steps and walked softly up to her room.
There I found the woman, her hair perfectly arranged; her face,
which had been suffused with tears, was now wreathed with
smiles, and her dressing-table was covered with jewels. She
was arraying herself for a ball to which my rival was to take her.
When I looked at her she compressed her lips and frowned. I
turned to leave the room, then suddenly stepped back and
slapped her on her beautiful white shoulders. She cried out in
terror, and buried her face in her hands.

When I reached home my wound had reopened, and the
fever had returned. About midnight I awoke from a restless
sleep, and there before me stood my mistress.

" It is I!" she said, as she threw her arms around me.

"What do you want of me?" I cried. " Leave me! I am
afraid I shall kill you."

"Very well, kill me," she said. "I have deceived you; but
I love you and I cannot live without you."

She looked so beautiful that I took her in my arms.

"Very well," I said, "but before God, who sees us, by the
soul of my father, I swear that I will kill you, and that I wili
die with you."

I saw a knife on the table and I placed it under my pillow.
"Come, Octave," sht said, as she kissed me, "don't be foolish,
These horrors have unsettled your mind. Give me the knife/'

"Listen to me," I said. "You have told me that you love
me, and I hope that it is true, but I would not take you back as

356 A CHILD OF THE CENTURY

my mistress, for I hate you as much as I love you. Before
God, if you wish to stay here to-night I will kill you in the
morning. "

Then I became delirious, and she left me. Desgenais said
I must find another mistress and so forget her. After he left, I
wrote to her that I wished never to see her again. I had no
occupation. My days had been spent with my mistress, and
now I was turned adrift. I could think only of women, and I
did not believe in true love. I was in despair. Though I had
written to my mistress that I did not wish to see her again, I
passed the nights on a bench under her window; I saw the light
jn her room; I listened to the sound of her piano; and sometimes
I thought I saw a shadow passing to and fro.

One night, while watching there, I saw an intoxicated man.
"He has forgotten his sorrows," said I, "let me do likewise."
Then I entered the nearest tavern and drank my fill. The next
morning I was disgusted with myself and lay in bed looking at
a brace of pistols that hung on the wall, when in walked Des-
genais. He told me that my mistress had not only two, but
three lovers. "One moonlight night," said he, "while they
were quarreling and threatening to kill her, down in the street a
shadow was seen that resembled you most closely."

"Who says so?"

"Your mistress herself."

" I in the street, bathed in tears of despair, and during that
time, that encounter was going on within! Can it be possible,
Desgenais?"

"My friend," said Desgenais, "don't take things too seri-
ously. Come to supper with me this evening, and to-mcrrow
morning we will go to the country."

I spent the entire season at Desgenais's house. We had
many jetes which ended in general intoxication and riotous be-
havior. I took a prominent part in these, wishing to appear
blase, but at last I became thoroughly disgusted with that life.

One evening a servant came to me and whispered: "Sir, I
have come to inform you that your father is dying."

I set out at once for my father's house, which was some dis-
tance from Paris. The doctor met me at the door, and told me
that I was too late, and that my father had desired to see me be-

ALFRED DE MUSSET 357

fore he died. I went to his room without delay. As soon as I
was alone, I looked on that beloved face, now so motionless.

" What did you wish to say to me, father?" I said. "What
was your last thought concerning your child ?"

His diary lay open on the table. I knelt before it and read
the last sentence he had written. It was this: "Adieu, my son!
1 love you and I die."

My father had been greatly worried because I led such a dis-
sipated life; yet in these, the last words he had written, he only
wrote how he loved me. I was deeply moved.

Every day I sat by his grave in the village cemetery, and
thought of him. I lived quietly in his house and saw no visitors.
I tried to read, but had no comprehension of what I read. As
I sat in my father's armchair, a feeble voice seemed to whisper:
"Where is the father? It is plainly to be seen that this is an
orphan."

I wandered in the woods almost every day, and then I would
return and read his diary, and learn of his devotion to his
friends, his appreciation of nature, his sublime love of God. I
contrasted this with the dissipated life I had been leading, and
I determined to follow in the footsteps of my father. For the
first time in my life I was happy.

One evening while I was out walking near the village, I saw
a charming young woman crossing a field. A white goat ran up
to her. I plucked a branch of wild mulberry for the goat, then
I bowed to the lady and passed on.

When I readied home I questioned our old family servant,
and learned that the lady I had seen was Madame Pierson, a
widow; that she lived quietly with her aunt not far from our
estate, and that she spent most of her time doing good among
the poor.

I returned at once to the spot where I had met her, and
followed the path I had seen her take to the mountains. I had
proceeded but a short distance when a thunder-storm came up
and I had to seek shelter in a farmhouse. The farmer took me
into a lighted room, and there I saw a tall, slender woman with
ash-blond hair and large, dark eyes. It was Madame Pierson.
She was bending over the farmer's wife, who was dying. I sat
silently by, awestruck. One of the children sat on my knee.

358 A CHILD OF THE CENTURY

"That is Brigitte la Rose," said the child; "don't you know
her?"

Presently the storm passed over, and the farmer's boy was
about to see her home, but I offered my escort. When she

learned that I was Octave de T she said that she had known

my father, and allowed me to accompany her. On the way
I told her how lonely I was, and she invited me to visit her.

The next morning I was at her house. I found her on the
piazza. We talked of literature, music, and art, and she showed
me her greenhouse. "This is my little world," she said. "You
have seen all I possess, and my domain ends here."

Three months passed, and I called on Madame Pierson al-
most every day. We read together, walked together, and visited
the poor together. When she sang for me I lived in the dream-
land of love. O God! of what do men complain? What is
there sweeter than love? I had fallen in love with Madame
Pierson at first sight, but dared not tell her that I loved her.

One night after I had been at her house, instead of returning
home I wandered about in the woods. About midnight I re-
traced my steps, and saw her standing at her window. She was
singing. She saw me.

"Who is there at this hour?" she said. "Is it you, Octave?"

I opened the gate. By the light of the moon I could see her
open the door, hesitate, and then walk toward me. I was com-
pletely overcome. I could not speak. I knelt and held her
hand.

"Listen to me," she said; "I know all, but if it has come to
this, Octave, you must go away. My friendship you have won ;
1 wish I had been able to keep yours longer."

She waited a moment, and then went into the house.

I reached home exhausted. My thoughts were confused. I
made up my mind to go away but where?

Madame Pierson then wrote to me that she esteemed me,
but that she was several years older than I, and that she did not
wish to see me again. "I do not take leave of you with sor-
row," she said. "I expect to be gone some time. If, when I
return, I find that you have gone away, I shall appreciate your
action."

For a week I was ill in bed with a fever. I wrote to Madame

ALFRED DE MUSSET

359

Pierson that I would go away; and I actually set out for Paris,
but my resolution failed me, and I told the coachman to drive
me to N , where Madame Pierson was.

As soon as I reached there, I called on her, and told her that
I would never breathe another word of love if she would permit
me to see her as before.

She gave me a cold reception, told me I had been very im-
prudent to follow her, and gave me an errand to do for her at a
distance, bidding me stay away a month or two.

In three weeks I had returned. I found her looking pale
and ill. I, too, had greatly changed.

"All my dream of happiness," said I, "all my hopes, all my
ambition are enclosed in the little corner of the earth where you
dwell; outside of the air that you breathe there is no life for me."

One day a priest brought me a message from Madame Pier-
son that she was ill and could not see me that day. I did not
believe him. For three weeks I called three times a day, but
was always refused admittance. Then she wrote me a letter, in
which she said that my frequent calls were causing gossip in the
village, and begged me not to come so often.

Once, when I met her in the woods, I could not restrain my
tears. She turned pale, and as I was leaving, she said:

"To-morrow I am going to Sainte Luce. Be here with your
horse early in the morning, if you have nothing to do, and go
with me."

The next morning we rode along in silence for some time, but
when we reached the foot of the mountains I felt that a crisis
had come. I took her hand.

"Brigitte," I said, "are you weary of my complaints? Do
you realize that I love you?"

"Let us return!" she said.

I seized her horse's bridle. "No," I replied, "for I have
spoken. If we return I lose you."

I clasped her in my arms and pressed my lips to hers. Her
cheeks grew white, her eyes closed, her bridle slipped from her
hand, and she sank to the ground.

" God be praised ! " I said, " she loves me ! She has returned
my kiss!"

Two days after this I was Madame Pierson's lover. Then she

360 A CHILD OF THE CENTURY

showed me her diary. She said she wished me to see what she
had written about me. But while I was reading, suddenly she
said: "Do not read that!" What secret can she have from
me?

I had now known Madame Pierson four months and had no
definite knowledge as to who she was. So on my return home
I asked my faithful servant whether he knew anything of her,
and he told me that she was the ministering angel of the valley,
and lived quietly with her aunt, receiving no one but the cure
and a certain Monsieur Dalens.

Who can this M. Dalens be? Another lover, perhaps! I
am determined to find out.

When I next called on Madame Pierson I was extremely
jealous, and I asked her about this M. Dalens in such a cruel
way that she suddenly placed her hand to her heart and swooned.
I was overwhelmed with remorse. I restored her to conscious-
ness, and made her listen to me.

"Alas! alas!" I said, "my dear mistress, if you only knew
whom you love! Do not reproach me, but rather pity me.
God intended me to be a better man than the one you see before
you."

Then she told me that Dalens had loved her, but that she
never had cared for him. Then we made peace, and sealed it
with a kiss. But even after this, we often had stormy scenes,
owing to my uncontrollable emotions.

1 had told her about my former mistresses, and one day
when she saw me looking sad, she said : "I know you are think-
ing of the mistress you loved so well. Let me try to be like her.
Teach me how to please you always. I am perhaps as pretty
as those you mourn ; if I have not their skill to divert you, 1 beg
that you will instruct me." Then she would be wildly gay, and
dress herself in ball costume. "Am I to your taste?" she would
ask. "Which one of your inamoratas do I resemble?"

"Stop!" I would cry. "You resemble but too closely that
which you imitate, that which my lips have been vile enough to
conjure up for you. Lay aside those flowers and that dress.
Do not remind me that I am a prodigal son. I remember the
past too well."

One night, when we had lost our way in the woods, we sat

ALFRED DE MUSSET 361

down on a rock to wait for morning. Brigitte threw hex arms
around me and said:

" Do not think that I do not understand your heart, or that
I would reproach you for what you make me suffer. It is not
your fault, my friend, if you have not the power to forget your
past. You thought that you were entering a new life, and that
with me you would forget the woman who had deceived you.
I thought I had but to will it, and all that was good in your heart
would come to your lips with my first kiss. You, too, believed
it, but we were both mistaken. You do not know my life. You
do not know that I who speak to you have had an experience as
terrible as yours. There is hidden in my heart a fatal story
that I wish you to know."

Then she told me that when very young she had been en-
gaged to be married. The wedding-day had been set, and her
lover had told her that consequently they were as good as mar-
ried, so she had yielded to his entreaties, with the result that a
week later he had left his father's house and gone to Germany
with another woman. He wrote that he never should return.

Brigitte's eyes were full of tears; she could not finish.

All was silent about us; above our heads spread the heavens,
resplendent with stars.

One day Brigitte sent for me to come to her.

"My aunt is dead," she said. "I have lost the only relative
I had on earth. I am now alone in the world, and I am going
to leave the country."

"Leave the country if you choose; I will either kill myself or
follow you."

Then she told me that she could no longer endure the gossip
about herself and me. In fact, the news had spread that
Brigitte was living openly with a libertine from Paris, and that
he ill-treated her. But I persuaded her to remain and to pay
no attention to these reports; and so we spent many more happy
days together, though at times I became madly jealous, without
any apparent cause.

One night about one o'clock we sat down to a late supper,
and I picked up Brigitte's diary, which lay on the table. I
opened it, with her permission, and read: "This is my last will

362 A CHILD OF THE CENTURY

and testament." She had written that she would endure every-
thing in the way of jealousy and selfishness so long as I loved
her, but that should I leave her she would take poison, though
she charged that her death should not be attributed to me. This
strange entry closed with the words: "Pray for him!"

On a shelf near by I found a little box containing a bluish
powder. I raised it to my lips. Brigitte screamed, and flung
herself upon me.

"Brigitte," I said, "bid me farewell. I shall carry this box
of poison away with me. You will forget me, and you will live
if you wish to save me from becoming a murderer. I shall set
out this very night. Give me a last kiss."

"Not yet!" she cried. But I pushed her back and left the
room.

Three hours later the coach was at the door and I stepped
in to leave the place forever. But Brigitte followed me, threw
her arms about me, and entreated me to take her with me. My
remonstrances were unavailing.

" Drive on," I said at last to the coachman. We threw our-
selves into each other's arms, and the horses set out.

We went to Paris, where we hired an apartment, and from
there we intended to go to Geneva, to live in fairyland among
the Alps. But letters for Brigitte arrived, and I noticed that
after reading them she looked sad; later I saw that she had been
crying, and when I showed her our tickets for seats in the car-
riage to Besanfon, she screamed, and sank at my feet.

I told her that I must know what was grieving her, so she
showed me the letters. Her relatives had written to her that
they knew she was living openly as my mistress, and that she
had disgraced the family. After reading these letters, I asked
her whether she preferred to remain, or to go away, or whether
she wished me to go alone.

"I will do as you please," she said.

I called to see Mr. Smith, the young man who had brought
the letters, and talked to him about the journey and other mat-
ters. When he heard that Brigitte was ill he could not conceal
his grief.

" Pardon me," he said; " I fear I am not well. When I have
recovered sufficiently I will return your visit."

ALFRED DE MUSSET 363

Brigitte soon improved in health, and soon Mr. Smith came
to see her every day. Although his presence in the house was
the cause of great anxiety to me, I was not jealous of him at
first; besides, Brigitte was always very reserved in his presence.
But why were they both ill and sad? What secret were they
hiding from me?

Mr. Smith was a very ordinary kind of man, but he was good
and apparently a devoted friend. I often left him alone with
Brigitte, and sometimes I would send them to the theater; then
I would conceal myself in the auditorium and watch them.

One night on my return I saw that the man had been weep-
ing. After that I was disturbed whenever he came to the house.

This could not last long. Tired of uncertainty, I deter-
mined to discover the truth. So one night I ordered the car-
riage to be at the door to take us away. I said nothing about it
to Brigitte; Mr. Smith came to dinner, and the evening was
spent pleasantly. But suddenly I announced that we were
about to depart at once, that the carriage was waiting at the
door. While Brigitte was getting ready, I sat on the sofa watch-
ing Mr. Smith, who did not seem troubled or surprised. He
held out both his hands to us.

"Bon voyage, my friends!" he said.

A few kind words were said, and then Mr. Smith rose to go.
I left the room before him, and then, in jealous rage, I pressed
my ear to the keyhole.

"When shall I see you again ?" he asked.

" Never," said Brigitte; "adieu, Henri."

Once more I was alone with Brigitte, and my heart was
troubled. I told her that the change in her had driven me to
despair. I asked her the cause, and said that if she preferred
to remain I would be resigned.

"Let us go! let us go!" she replied.

"Brigitte," I asked suddenly, "what secret are you conceal-
ing from me? If you love me, what horrible comedy is this you
are acting?"

"Let us go, let us go," she repeated.

"No, on my soul! No, not at present! No, not while there
is between us a lie, a mask. I like unhappiness much better
than cheerfulness like yours."

364 A CHILD OF THE CENTURY

She begged me not to press her further. "I love you, Oc-
tave; cease tormenting me," she said. "Let us go away to-
gether; the carriage is waiting. // must be"

"It must be" I repeated to myself. "What do you mean by
that, Brigitte? Why must you love me?"

She wrung her hands in grief. I insisted that she should
tell me at last the secret that was oppressing our lives.

"No, I will not speak," she said.

" I have loved long enough in the dark. Yes or no, will you
answer me?"

"No."

"As you please; I will wait."

I told the driver we should not depart that night. After a
long conversation, during which, however, I could elicit no real
information, I accused Brigitte plainly of deceiving me, and of
loving another man.

"Who is it?" she inquired.

"Smith."

"What do you mean?" she asked. "What do you wish me
to tell you?" She became greatly agitated, and we had a
fiercely stormy scene, during which she spoke of her happy life
before she had known me, and reproached me bitterly for what
I had made her suffer. At last she said: "Oh, Octave! Why
have you loved me if it is all to end thus?" and fainted. When
she regained consciousness I kissed her tenderly; we were tem-
porarily reconciled, and she slept tranquilly on my breast. But
I realized that there was no hope of our living together in peace,
and as I did not wish to kill her, there seemed nothing for me
to do but to go away. I determined to leave her the next day,
and rose to make my final preparations.

I was beside myself with grief. I walked to and fro, not
knowing what I did, hoping to find some instrument of death.
Then I recoiled in horror. "If I kill myself," I said, "I shall
be sleeping underground, and Brigitte will probably take another
lover!"

I took up a knife I found on the table. " What will be said
if I should kill Brigitte?" I reflected a moment, pointed the
knife at her bosom, and drew back the covers to find her heart.
Then I saw an ebony crucifix fastened to a chain about her neck.

ALFRED DE MUSSET 365

I drew back; the knife fell to the floor. I leaned once more
over this sleeping woman whom I loved, and kissed the crucifix.

"Sleep in peace!" I said, "God watches over you. But
while your lips were parted in a smile, you were in greater dan^
ger than you have ever known."

Then I swore never to kill either her or myself.

The first rays of morning light were illuminating the room,
and I was going to take a little rest, when I saw a dress on a
chair; it fell to the floor, and out of it slipped a piece of paper.
It was a letter addressed to Mr. Smith, in which Brigitte told
him that her destiny was bound up in mine, and that as I could
not live without her, she intended to die for me. The last words
were: "I love you; adieu, and pity us."

When I read this my resolution was taken. The next day
was cool and clear, and a young man and a woman were seen
in a jeweler's shop. They chose two similar rings. Then they
breakfasted in a private room at the restaurant. The man's
face shone with joy. At times he looked at the woman and
wept, smiling through his tears. The woman was pale and
thoughtful. They spoke in low tones. The clock struck one.
The woman sighed, and said:

"Octave, are you sure of yourself?"

" Yes, my friend, I am resolved. I shall suffer much, a long
time, perhaps forever; but we will cure ourselves, you with
time, I with God. I do not believe we can forget each other,
but I believe that we can forgive; and it is that which I desire,
even at the price of separation."

"Why can we not meet again?" she said.

"No, my friend, I could not see you again without loving
you. May he to whom I bequeath you be worthy of you.
Smith is a brave, good, and honest man. Let us be friends and
part forever."

The woman wept, then she stood before the mirror and cut
off a long lock of her hair, which she gave to her lover. Then
they left the restaurant, and were soon lost in the crowd.

Some time after this, a young man rode away from his native-
town, alone, thanking God that, of the three people who had
suffered through Jiis fault, only one remained unhappy.

THOMAS DE QUINCEY

(England, 1785-1859)
THE AVENGER

This story was first published in book form in America in 1853, when the
author's works were collected by Mr. James T. Fields and issued by the firm of
Ticknor and Fields. Like the writer's other works, The Avenger had previously
appeared in an English periodical. Although De Quincey had been urged to
make a collection of his writings, he had excused himself from doing so, and no
collection was made until the enterprising American publisher accomplished the
task of gathering the scattered writings of which the author himself had lost
all track.

IAT series of terrific events by which our quiet
city and university in the northeastern quarter of
Germany were convulsed during the year 1816,
is too memorable to be forgotten or to be left
without its own separate record. No tragedy,
indeed, among all the sad ones by which the
affections of the human heart or of the fireside
have been outraged, can better merit a chapter in
history than this unparalleled case. And in re-
lating the horrors of that period no one can put in a better claim
to be the historian than myself.

I was at the time, and still am, a professor in that city and
university which had the melancholy distinction of being its
theater. I knew familiarly all the persons who were concerned
in this tragedy either as sufferers or as agents, and I was present
during the whole course of the mysterious storm which fell
upon our quiet city with the streagth of a West Indian hur-
ricane and threatens d at ooc time to depopulate it.

In September, 1815, 1 received a friendly letter from the

chief secretary to the Prince of M , a nobleman connected

with the diplomatic service of Russia, introducing to me a young

366

THOMAS DE QUINCEY 367

man who was about to put himself under my instruction in the
university. The letter described him as rich and handsome
and already far advanced in a military career, although only in
his twenty-second year. He was English by birth, being a
nephew of the Earl of E , and heir presumptive to his im-
mense estates. His father and mother were both dead; and there
was a rumor current to the effect that the latter had been a gipsy
of marvelous beauty, which might account for the somewhat
Moorish complexion of the son. Of military honors he had
already accumulated an unusual share, as he had been aide-de-
camp to a Dutch officer at the battle of Waterloo, and had
been decorated for distinctions won on that day. He had
served under various banners, but, though he was an English-
man of rank, he did not belong to the English service, being at
present in the cavalry of the Imperial Guard of Russia; and the
Czar himself had taken an especial interest in him. His devo-
tion to military life had interfered with the cultivation of his
mind, and for that reason he wished to put himself under my
tutelage for the study of Greek.

After some correspondence on the matter, it was arranged
that Mr. Maximilian Wyndham, for this was the new student's
name, should take up his residence at my monastic abode for
one year. He was to keep a table and an establishment of ser-
vants at his own cost; was to have a large suite of apartments,
unrestricted use of the library and other privileges not usually
accorded. In return he was to pay me the sum of one thousand
guineas, and, in acknowledgment of various courtesies granted
him, he sent in advance a sum of three hundred guineas to be
given in charity to those institutions for the poor that most re-
quired it.

The news of the expected arrival of this wonderful young
Englishman aroused great excitement in our stagnant town;
and every tongue was busied in discussing his probable appear-
ance and character.

When he finally arrived I was at once struck with the fact
that the letter had failed to give any adequate idea of the gran-
deur of his personal appearance, as it transcended anything I
had ever previously met with. Indeed, his countenance so ex-
pressed the supremacy of beauty and power that my composure

3 68 THE AVENGER

almost left me as I gazed upon him. He bowed, and then raised
his eyes to mine; and I was instantly impressed by the profound
look of sadness which seemed settled in them, and which seemed
so unaccountable in one of his years and station.

Mr. Wyndham was at once warmly received into the best
social circles of our town and was universally admired and
sought after. He was the recipient of numerous invitations,
which he usually accepted courteously ; but on all social occa-
sions the profound melancholy which possessed him outweighed
the general frankness and kindness of his manner, and seemed to
cast a feeling of awe on those about him.

One person only seemed able to penetrate this atmosphere
of sadness and not be affected by it, and that was Margaret
Liebenheim, whose wondrous beauty and charm seemed to
make a complete conquest of the young guardsman at the
moment of their first meeting.

Indeed, a rapturous interchange of sympathy appeared in-
stantly to take place between these two young hearts, each find-
ing in the other the realization of its dream. After a very short
acquaintance the lovers became engaged, in spite of the oppo-
sition of Margaret's aged grandfather; he refused his consent
and favored the suit of Ferdinand von Harrelstein, who had loved
Margaret with the ardor of his whole soul for many years. Fer-
dinand was the son of a German baron of good family but small
estates, and was a general favorite on account of his amiable
temper and agreeable manners. But his great disappointment
at seeing Margaret won by another seemed wholly to unbalance
his nature; and he became irritable and moody, and given to
fits of muttering and wrath, appearing as if he were mentally
distraught.

So matters stood among us, when on the night of January
twenty-second, 1816, while a large ball was in progress at the
residence of one of our wealthy townsmen, the joyous company
were suddenly startled by the sound of a piercing shriek. This
was followed by a succession of shrieks so blood-curdling that
faces blanched and the scene was turned into one of consterna-
tion and fear. Suddenly in the midst of the dancers appeared
a young rustic girl, who had recently come to live with her uncle,
a tradesman, who resided in the neighborhood. The girl was

THOMAS DE QUINCEY 369

exhausted with excitement and with the horror of the shock she
had sustained; but finally was able, through her weeping, to tell
her tragic story. She explained that her uncle's whole family,
consisting of himself, two maiden sisters, and an elderly female
domestic, had been foully murdered in their home, and no clue
remained to show who had perpetrated the horrible deed.

Immediately all was confusion and excitement; ladies
fainted, and men rushed out to see if any trace of the murderer
could be found. No motive could be assigned for this crime,
as no robbery had occurred, and the victims were quiet persons,
not known to have any enemies.

Our peaceful town was shaken to its foundation by this un-
accountable crime; and the fact that no trace of the assassin
could be discovered caused much consternation among our
people. Three weeks passed, and the first flutterings of the
panic were beginning to subside when suddenly, in the middle
of a cold and frosty night, the church-bell pealed a loud alarm.

Another dastardly murder had taken place, and again there
was no clue to the mystery; two aged brothers and their two
sisters who resided with them, had been the victims; and as
before, no robbery had occurred. Wild excitement now pre-
vailed in our quiet town ; a mounted patrol was organized at the
suggestion of Maximilian, and he and a number of the university
students formed a mounted guard which patrolled the street
from sunset to sunrise. In spite of this surveillance, however,
murder followed murder in horrible succession, until this reign
of terror seemed to have reached the acme of its height.

During this period the conduct of the Russian guardsman
evoked much criticism among our people: he took reasonable
interest in every case and listened to the details with attention,
but manifested a coolness almost amounting to carelessness,
which to many appeared revolting.

It soon became apparent that these terrible outrages were
being committed by a band of assassins, since on one or two oc-
casions eye-witnesses that had escaped the fate of those about
them had described the assailants as a band of masked ruffians,
who had managed to secrete themselves in the homes which they
were to lay waste, and at a given signal had attacked their help-
less victims. Added to this report was the startling declaration
A.D., VOL. vi. 24

370 THE AVENGER

that a servant in one of the houses, who had discovered two of
the murderers stealing up the stairs, had recognized the aca-
demic dress of the students belonging to the university. This
sensational charge added to the mystery and horror of that
terrible time.

While these strange and unaccountable outrages were taking
place another of entirely different nature occurred. The chief
jailer of our city, who was in the habit of taking long rides in
the forest, was suddenly missed; and it was some months before
his body was discovered crucified there in a most brutal manner.
Ferdinand von Harrelstein, who was now a ruin of what he
once had been, both morally and intellectually, was thought by
some to have been guilty of this crime, but his innocence was
proved later.

Meantime the marriage of Margaret and Maximilian was
supposed to be drawing near, and her friends were looking for-
ward to this happy event, when, suddenly, a thunderbolt de-
scended upon our city. For several months the murderer's
hand had been stayed; and encouraged by the thought that the
storm had passed over, confidence had been restored and peace
and tranquillity had returned to our firesides.

But, alas, this peace was soon to be shattered, for Mr. Lie-
benheim and his household, with the exception of Margaret,
were suddenly felled by the assassin's hand. This atrocious
deed renewed the horror, and was followed by a succession of
calamities.

Margaret, who was at home at the time of the murder, in-
stead of being away on a visit as she had planned, was found
lying in her boudoir in an unconscious condition.

It was some time before she recovered from her swoon, and
the following evening the shock was succeeded by thr premature
birth of a male child which lived only a few hours. But before
a breath of scandal could reach her, Maximilian appeared with
the family confessor and produced the proofs of his secret mar-
riage with Margaret eight months before.

Upon the night of Mr. Liebenheim's murder Maximilian
had been away on a hunting trip; and on his return the following
morning he seemed greatly agitated by the news which greeted
him, and was convulsed with anxiety regarding Margaret. The

THOMAS DE QUINCEY 371

latter lay for several weeks in a condition of insensibility alter-
nating with delirium, during which time Maximilian's grief and
anxiety were intense; and then she passed away after a short
period of consciousness in the arms of her heart-broken husband.

Maximilian, to the astonishment of everybody, attended the
funeral, which was celebrated in the cathedral, and appeared
like a pillar of stone, motionless, torpid, frozen. When the
ceremony was concluded he strode rapidly homeward and half
an hour later I was summoned to his bedroom.

He was in bed, calm and collected, and what he said I re-
member as if it were but yesterday, though twenty years have
passed since then.

"I have not long to live," he declared; and seeing me start,
he added: "You fancy I have taken poison; no matter whether
I have or not; if I have, the poison is such that no antidote will
now avail; or if any would, you well know that some griefs are
of a kind that leave no opening to hope. Be assured that
whatever I have determined to do is beyond the power of human
opposition, and I beg you to listen calmly to me as my time is
short."

Maximilian then handed me his will, in which he had com-
mitted all his immense property to my discretion, and with it
another paper which he said was of even more importance in
his life, and which he begged me to read at once and promise
to keep the contents secret until three years had passed. He
then made me promise that he should be buried in the same
grave with his wife; and when I had acceded to his requests he
asked me to leave him and return again in three hours.

Feeling extremely uneasy, I returned to him when half that
time had elapsed, and finding his form quiet in death realized
that he and all his splendid endowments had departed from this
world forever. I took up his two testamentary documents and
found that the first was a rapid though distinct appropriation
of his enormous property, general rules for which were laid
down, but the details were left to my discretion. I then took
up the second document, and looking for a solution of the pro-
found sadness which had enveloped this gifted and mysterious
writer, I seated myself beside his corpse and read the statement
which he had committed to my care:

372 THE AVENGER

"MARCH 36,

"My trial is finished: my conscience, my duty, my honor, are liberated; my
warfare is accomplished. Margaret, my innocent young wife, I have seen for
the last time. Her, the crown that might have been of my earthly felicity, even
her, I have sacrificed. Before I go, partly lest the innocent should be brought
into question for the acts almost exclusively mine, but still more lest the lesson
and the warning which God, by my hand, has written in blood upon your guilty
walls, should perish for want of authentic exposition, hear my last dying avowal:
that the murders which have desolated so many families within your walls, and
made the household hearth no sanctuary and age no charter of protection, are
all due originally to my head, if not always to my hand, as the minister of a dread-
ful retribution.

"That account of my history and my prospects which you received from
the Russian diplomatist is essentially correct.

"My father claimed descent from an English family of even higher dis-
tinction than that which is assigned in the Russian statement; but his immediate
progenitors had been settled in Italy, and so his whole property, large and
scattered, came by the progress of the Revolution under French dominion.
Many complications arose through this state of affairs; and my father at length
under pressure of necessity accepted the place of commissary to the French forces
in Italy. This position brought him many enemies and into many difficulties,
and while serving in the German campaign he was caught in one of the snares
laid for him and thrown into prison in your city. Here he was subjected to most
atrocious treatment by your inhuman jailer, and sinking under the torture and
degradation, he soon died. Before his death he had sent for his wife and
children, who reached him in time for the sad parting.

"My mother, whom he had married when holding a brigadier-general's
commission in the Austrian service, was by birth and religion a Jewess, and was
of exquisite beauty. Upon reaching your city she was subjected to insults and
indignities on account of her nationality, which later took the form of the grossest
outrages.

"After my father's death and burial, which had been connected with insults
and degradation too outrageous for human patience to endure, my mother, in
the fury of her righteous grief, publicly and in court, denounced the conduct of
the magistracy.

"She taxed some of them with the vilest proposals to herself, with having
used instruments of torture upon my father, and finally of being in collusion with
the French military oppressors of the district.

" My heart sank within me when I looked up at the bench, that tribunal of
tyrants, all purple with rage; when I looked alternately at them and at my noble
mother with her weeping daughters these so powerless, those so basely vindictive
and locally so omnipotent. Willingly would I have sacrificed all my wealth for
a simple permission to quit this infernal city with my mother and sisters safe and
undishonored. But far other were the intentions of that incensed magistracy.
My mother was arrested, charged with some offense equal to petty treason,
and sentenced to be twice scourged upon the bare back upon the street at
noonday.

"After once enduring the horrible torture and degradation, which she did
without uttering a sound, my mother succumbed to the shock of her terrible

THOMAS DE QUINCEY 373

txpcrience and died before the second part of her sentence could be executed
upon her.

" My two poor sisters were then left to their fate, as I, though but a young
boy, was forced to leave them and go to Vienna to sue for their release. After
an absence of eight months, caused by delay in securing an audience with the
Emperor, I returned to find both sisters dead from the abuse and ill-treatment
they had received. They had fallen into the insidious hands of your ruffianly
jailer, who, attracted by my elder sister's wondrous beauty, had wreaked his
worst vengeance upon her. The misery of my two innocent sisters can better
be imagined than described.

"I now vowed before Heaven to avenge the wrongs of my family, and
devoted the rest of my life to that end. I entered the Russian service with the
view of gaining some appointment on the Polish frontier that might put it in my
power to execute my vow of destroying all the magistrates of your city. This
course proving unavailing, I secured eight men from an assembly of Jews at
Paris, who were hardened by military experience and unsusceptible to pity, and
enrolled them with myself as students at the university.

"Then followed the vengeance which for years I had sought. The details
of the cases I need not repeat; but all those who suffered were either the guilty
magistrates that condemned my mother, or those that turned away with mockery
from her son when he supplicated for her pardon. Who I was, what I avenged,
and whom, I made every man aware, and every woman, before I punished them.

"It pleased God, however, to place a mighty temptation in my path in
the person of Margaret Liebenhcim; her devotion to her grandfather, who had
been one of the guiltiest toward my mother, made me hesitate to wreak my
vengeance upon him. I delayed his punishment till the last, and then might
have pardoned him had it not been that one of my agents, a fierce Jew, who
had a personal hatred for him, swore he would kill him, and perhaps Margaret
too, if I longer hesitated. Accordingly, a night was chosen when I knew Mar.
garet was to be absent; but what was my horror when I saw her flying to het
grandfather's rescue 1 She recqgnized me as his murderer; but in our parting
interview I explained my course to her and a few words righted all misunder.
standing between us.

"The fate of the jailer needs no further reference; but had he possessed
forty thousand lives my thirst for vengeance would not have been gratified.

"Now then, all is finished, and human nature is avenged. Yet, if you
complain of the bloodshed and the terror, think of the wrongs which created
my rights; think of the sacrifice by which I gave a tenfold strength to those
rights; and ye, victims of dishonor, will be glorified in your deaths; ye will not
have suffered in vain, nor died without a monument. Sleep, therefore, sister
Berenice sleep, gentle Mariamne, in peace! And thou, noble mother, let the
outrages sown in thy dishonor rise again and blossom in wide harvests of honor
for the women of thy afflicted race! Sleep, daughters of Jerusalem, in the
lanctity of your sufferings! And, thou, if it be possible, even more beloved
daughter of a Christian fold, whose company was too soon denied to him in life,
open thy grave to receive him who, in the hour of death, wishes to remember
no title which he wore on earth but that of thy chosen and adoring lover,

" MAXIMILIAN."

HENRI JACQUES BERNARDIN DE
ST. PIERRE

(France, 1737-1814)
PAUL AND VIRGINIA (1788)

Although this charming romance is usually published and treated as an
independent work, its author, in his own introduction, described it as " only an
episode" of his "Studies of Nature," "the application of her laws to the happi-
ness of two unfortunate families." For some time before its publication it lay
in his portfolio, and the author had read it to various persons of distinction and
culture. They had shed tears over the narrative, but had given it no praise.
When it came from the press to the public, however, it obtained an enthusiastic
reception. Not only men of science, like Humboldt, but generals like Napoleon
were among its admirers. The latter was in the habit of saying, whenever he
saw De St. Pierre: "Monsieur Bernardin, when do you mean to give us more
Pauls and Virginias and Indian cottages ? You ought to give us some every six
months." It was translated into the chief European languages; gave rise to
idyls and dramatic versions, and received the most undoubted proofs of its
popularity in the host of children who thereafter were baptized with the names
of its youthful hero and heroine. These names were not accidents. In child-
hood the author had known a friar named Paul, for whom he had the warmest
admiration. In Berlin, he and a German maiden, named Virginia Taubenheim,
had been in love with each other, but he was too poor to marry her. Nor were
these the only respects in which his writings grew out of his personal experience.
Many of the most apparently imaginative passages of Paul and Virginia are
drawn from actual incidents in his visit to the Isle of France, where he went
as a civil engineer about 1767. In reply to many inquiries, De St. Pierre
averred both in speech and in print that the families he describes had had
an actual existence, and that the narrative was in most respects true. "I
have described real places and customs, examples of which may perhaps still
be found in some retired spots of the Isle of France or the neighboring Isle
of Bourbon, and an actual catastrophe for which I can produce unimpeach-
able witnesses even in Paris." For one day in Paris, at the Jardin du Roi,
he says, a lady, Madame de Bonneud, accosted him, and, having learned that
he was the author of Paul and Virginia, she told him that the young woman
whose mournful fate he had described in the wreck of the Saint Gtran was

374

BERNARDIN DE ST. PIERRE 375

a relative of hers; and, besides giving her testimony to the truth of the catas-
trophe, Madame de Bonneud added further circumstances adapted, to use
De St. Pierre's own words, " to heighten the interest inspired by the death of
this sublime victim to modesty."

the eastern coast of the mountain which rises
above Port Louis in the Mauritius, in the center
of a secluded valley surrounded by immense
rocks, stood, in the early part of the eighteenth
century, two cottages, each occupied by a small
family, who found happiness in this beautiful
nook. In the lower cottage dwelt a peasant
woman from Brittany, Margaret by name, and
her babe, Paul. Misled by the weakness of a
tender heart, Margaret had yielded to the passion of a gentleman
in her neighborhood. He had promised to marry her, but when
she proved likely to become a mother he inhumanly abandoned
her. To conceal the loss of her virtue, Margaret left her native
village, purchased an old negro slave, Domingo by name, and
began to cultivate a little piece of land in this sequestered spot.
The cottage near by, built soon after this, was occupied by
Madame de la Tour, a lady from Normandy. She belonged to
a rich and ancient family, but her husband had married her
without fortune and in opposition to the will of his relatives, who
objected to her because she was descended from parents who
had no claim to nobility. Leaving his wife at Port Louis, Mon-
sieur de la Tour sailed to Madagascar on a business venture,
caught a fever and died. Madame de la Tour was left a poor
widow in a strange land, with no one to aid her except her
negro woman, Mary. Seeking some retired shelter where the
calm of Nature might hush the tumults of the soul, she happened
to come to the same valley where Margaret and her babe were
already settled. Margaret hospitably opened to the newcomer
her hut, and offered her aid and companionship. Drawn to-
gether by similar trials, the two families soon became devoted
friends. Another cottage was built for Madame de la Tour, a
little farther up the valley. Hardly was it finished before
Madame de la Tour gave birth to a girl, who was christened
Virginia. Margaret's slave, Domingo, who had already be-
:ome attracted to Madame de la Tour's negro woman, Mary,

376 PAUL AND VIRGINIA

drew the two households still more closely together by marrying
her. The two Africans, with cheerful zest and indefatigable
industry, cultivated the land of both families, and sold at Port
Louis the superfluous produce of the two plantations. Thus
the two families found in their retreat neatness, independence,
health, and a modest subsistence; all the services and blessings
which spring from honest toil and mutual affection. All their
possessions were in common and they had but one table, one
will, one interest. The two mothers, looking on each other as
sisters, delighted in washing their infants in the same bath,
putting them to rest in the same cradle, and sometimes they
even exchanged the babes at the breast. "My friend," ex-
claimed Madame de la Tour, "we shall each of us have two
children, and each of our children will have two mothers."

While the children were still in their cradles their mothers
talked of their marriage, and soothed their own cares and re-
grets by this happy anticipation of the conjugal felicity and
blessings of equality which their more fortunate offspring, far
from the cruel prejudices of Europe, would enjoy.

Nothing could exceed the attachment which the two children
displayed for each other. They walked together hand in hand,
and at night often refused to be separated and were found sleep-
ing in the same cradle, locked in each other's arms. As they
grew up, they continued inseparable. When you met one, you
would be sure to find the other near by.

When a summer shower began to descend, you might see
their two faces laughing under the swelling petticoat that Vir-
ginia had pulled up to screen them from the rain. Whenever
and wherever Virginia wished to go, to discover new nooks in
the forest, or to ask pardon for some poor slave-woman, there
Paul was ready to accompany her. If they came to a stream
so deep that the girl dared not wade through it, the boy took
her up in his arms, and carried her over. If she cut her feet on
the sharp stones, Paul made buskins for her out of leaves.
When they got lost in the forest depths, Paul kindled a fire by
rubbing dry sticks together, burned down a young palm-tree
and fed Virginia with the edible head at the top. At twelve he
was stronger and more mature than European boys at fifteen,
and with all kinds of lovely flowers and fruit-trees had em-

BERNARDIN DE ST. PIERRE 377

bellished the plantations, where Domingo had raised only what
was useful. In the neighboring woods Paul made all sorts of
picturesque paths and nooks, greenswards for dancing, and
other pleasant meeting-places for the two families, and he bap-
tized them with delightful names such as " Concord," "The
Discovery of Friendship," "Virginia's Resting-place." When
the rising sun lighted up the points of the rocks that towered
above the valley, Margaret and Paul went to the dwelling of
Madame de la Tour, and all offered up together their morning
prayers and then partook of the first repast, usually on the
grass under the grateful shade of a plantain-tree. When night
came they all supped together, and the mothers told moving
stories of adventure on land or sea; or perhaps Madame de la
Tour would read some affecting history from the Bible. When
the weather was fine, they went to church at the Shaddock
Grove. Invitations from the wealthier members of the com-
munity, which they often received, were respectfully declined,
but they were always ready to go to the poor and ill with com-
fort and help. Instead of the conventional gaieties of polite
society, the young folks swam in the surf, or danced and enacted
pantomimes, often in the manner of the negroes.

With a few exceptions, they had no particular days, some
being devoted to pleasure and others to sadness. Every day
was to them a holiday, and all which surrounded them one holy
temple. The birthdays of their mothers, however, were cele-
brated in an especial fashion. Virginia made white wheaten
cakes for the poor, to whom it was a thing unknown, and Paul
carried the cakes about and distributed them, with cordial in-
vitations to visit their homes on the coming birthdays. When
the poor whites came, all the household united in entertaining
them in the most hospitable fashion possible; for, as they told
their guests: "We are happy only when we are seeking the
happiness of our guests."

Thus grew up these children of Nature. Neither ambition
nor envy disturbed them. "No care had troubled their peace,
no intemperance had corrupted their blood; no misplaced pas-
sion had depraved their hearts. Their countenances beamed
with purity and peace. Love, innocence, and piety were each
day unfolding the beauty of their souls. Such in the garden of

3 ?8 PAUL AND VIRGINIA

Eden appeared our first parents when, coming from the hand
of God, they first saw, approached, and conversed together, like
brother and sister. Virginia was as gentle, modest, and con-
fiding as Eve; and Paul, like Adam, united the figure of man-
hood with the simplicity of a child.

When Paul confided to Virginia that the azure of the skies
was less charming to him than the blue of her eyes, and that if
he only touched her with the tip of his finger his whole frame
trembled with pleasure, Virginia would assure him in return
that the rays of the sun in the morning, brightening the tops of
the rocks, gave her less joy than the sight of his face. And in
reply to his question as to why he loved her, she ingenuously
answered: "Why! all creatures that are brought up together
love one another. Look at our birds! Reared in the same
nests, they love as we do; they are always together, as we are."

But new and strange sensations came to agitate the heart
of Virginia. She fled her innocent sports and wandered alone
in unfrequented paths. At the sight of Paul, she advanced
sportively ; then was seized with sudden confusion, and her pale
cheeks were overspread with blushes. Paul endeavored to
soothe her with his embraces, as in former days. But she fled,
trembling, to her mother. The caresses of her brother excited
too much emotion in her agitated heart. Paul could not com-
prehend these novel caprices. But the more experienced
mother, discerning this strong attachment between the two
young people, proposed to Madame de la Tour to unite them
in marriage. To the latter, however, the proposal seemed pre-
mature, and the young lovers too young and too poor. A com-
mercial trip that might increase Paul's fortune and add to his
years was therefore proposed.

But before anything of this sort could be arranged, a letter
came from Madame de la Tour's wealthy aunt in France, in-
viting her and Virginia to come to Paris and let her daughter be
educated there, and become the heiress of the aged relative who
now feared she might soon pass away. Margaret and Paul
warmly protested against this suggestion, declaring that they
would so labor for Virginia and her mother that they should
never feel any want.

The next day, at sunrise, the Governor of the Colony, Mon-

BERNARDIN DE ST. PIERRE 379

sieur dc la Bourdonnais, appeared at Madame de la Tour's
door, and in the most emphatic way told her that she could not,
without injustice, deprive her daughter of the noble inheritance
that the rich aunt in France promised. The Governor brought
with him a great bag of money allotted by the aunt for the
preparations for the voyage, and taking Madame de la Tour
aside, he informed her that a vessel would soon sail on which
would go a lady, related to him, suitable to chaperon Virginia.

To Madame de la Tour it seemed best to provide in this
way for the education and comfortable maintenance of her
daughter, and at the same time separate her from Paul until he
was older and Virginia was better prepared to choose a husband.

Virginia was at first resolved not to leave her mother and
the lover who she confessed was so dear. But when the coun-
sels of her mother and the Governor were reenforced by those
of the priest, who was her confessor, and who assured her that
it was the command of God and her duty to her relatives, Vir-
ginia, trembling and weeping, consented to make the sacrifice.

In reply to Paul's excited expostulations and gloomy appre-
hensions, Virginia, with a heart broken with sobs, assured him
that she was going chiefly for his sake, to relieve him from the
burden of two infirm families, under which he was bowed down,
and that she would live but for him and one day would return
to be his wife.

The agitation of the two families over the parting was so
great that Madame de la Tour declared that this painful sep-
aration should not take place. But in the morning Paul was
overwhelmed by the news that in the night the Governor him-
self had come with a palanquin for Virginia, as the ship was
about to weigh anchor; and, in spite of Madame de la Tour's
tearful opposition, Virginia, almost dying, was carried away to
the ship. From a rocky cone called "The Thumb," Paul,
stunned with grief, watched the ship for the greater part of the
day, until it was lost in the mists of the horizon.

For several days, the poor young lover wandered about in
melancholy despair, now visiting the various resorts where he
had walked and sat with his beloved companion; now gathering
together and gazing again at everything that had belonged to
her. Then he began eagerly to learn to read and write, that

380 PAUL AND VIRGINIA

he might correspond with his dear Virginia; and he wished to be
instructed in geography and history, that he might have a juster
idea of the country to which she had gone.

More than a year and a half passed before Madame de la
Tour received the first tidings from her daughter. Virginia
had been placed in a great abbey near Paris, where she had
masters of all sorts, was waited on by finely dressed maids,
clothed in elegant robes, and given the title of Countess. Her
aunt had forbidden Virginia to correspond with her mother,
and even caused her early letters home to be intercepted. It was
only by strategy that after more than a year she had at length
been able to send this letter. No one was allowed to see her
at the abbey grating except her aunt and an old nobleman, whom
the aunt wished her to marry. Though she lived in the midst
of affluence, she had not a sou at her disposal, and her aunt had
cruelly refused to give the least assistance to Madame de la
Tour. The only gifts she was able to send were a few products
of her needle and some seeds of the flowers and trees in the
abbey park. The seeds were put in a little purse of her own
handiwork, embroidered with a P and a V entwined together
and formed of Virginia's own hair.

Paul and Madame de la Tour promptly wrote to Virginia in
reply to the welcome letter. But for long, long months no
further message came.

Paul, sad and depressed, knew not what to do. Often he
would talk over the situation with an old friend of the two fam-
ilies, who lived a solitary life in a hermitage in the forest a league
and a half away. Paul was eager to embark for France, enter
the army, make a fortune, and demand of the aunt Virginia's
hand. But his aged counselor warned him of the insuperable
obstacles to this in his poverty, low birth, and especially his hon-
esty. For it had come about, said the old man, that the dis-
tinctions which should be reserved for virtue could be obtained
only by money. To marry a lady in France with rich relatives,
such as Virginia had, it was necessary that the suitor also be
rich, and able to live without work.

In the fullest and plainest manner the old man disclosed to
the ingenuous Paul the political and social corruption and un-
natural customs of marriage that existed in France. It was

BERNARDIN DE ST. PIERRE 381

not possible, the old man told Paul, for one educated according
to Nature, as his young friend was, to comprehend this de-
praved state of society. " You are in a country and a condition
in which, in order to live, it is not necessary for you to deceive
nor flatter nor debase yourself, as most of those who seek for-
tune in Europe are obliged to do. You are in a land in which
the exercise of no virtue is forbidden to you. Heaven has given
you liberty, health, a good conscience, and friends; the kings
whose favor you desire are not so happy."

By such sage counsels, in many and lengthy conversations
under the papaw-tree, did Paul's wise old friend seek to instruct
and console him and lead him to contentment with his lot. But
Paul could think only of Virginia; and because no letter had
come from her for a long time, he was persuaded she had for-
gotten him and had taken some rich husband in France.

At length one day a vessel, the Saint Geran from France, was
signaled, four leagues out at sea, and letters conveyed by it were
brought in by the pilot-boat. Among them was a letter from
Virginia, who was on board.

She wrote that her aunt had quarreled with her because she
would not marry the rich and aged suitor whom the aunt had
selected for her niece. Not only had her aunt disinherited Vir-
ginia, but she had summarily sent her home on the Saint Geran,
although it was a time of the year when she would arrive at the
Isle of France in the hurricane season. Virginia wrote that she
was delighted at the prospect of so soon embracing her beloved
family, and had been eager to go ashore in the pilot-boat; but the
Captain, on account of the distance and the threatening swell,
had not allowed it.

Hardly was the letter read before all the family, transported
with joy, cried: "Virginia has arrived!"

Paul and his friend, the old soldier, started for the port.
But as they were walking through the woods in the darkness of
the night, they were overtaken by a negro messenger who told
them that a vessel from France had anchored off the shore three
leagues away and was firing guns to obtain help, as the sea was
dangerously rough. Paul and his friend turned to the north
shore of the island through a suffocating heat and a frightful
darkness, occasionally lighted up by flashes of distant lightning.

382 PAUL AND VIRGINIA

When morning came, and the increasing hurricane dispelled
the fog that for so many hours had shrouded the coast, the ill-
fated ship on which Virginia had embarked was clearly seen, its
deck crowded with people. The ship was moored by cables
between the adjacent Isle of Amber and the mainland, and in-
side the belt of reefs that encircles the island. In this unfortu-
nate position, driven by the wind and waves, it was impossible
for her to get out to the open sea, through the narrow entrance
by which, on account of the Captain's mistake, she had entered;
nor, on the other hand, was it possible to reach the beach with-
out being wrecked on the intervening reefs of rocks. The whole
channel was a sheet of white foam, full of yawning black depths.
The hawsers broke, and the Saint Geran was dashed on the
rocks, half a cable's length from shore. Paul, distracted, pre-
cipitated himself into the boiling waves, sometimes swimming,
sometimes walking on the rocks. Sometimes he nearly reached
the ship; then he was buried under mountains of water and
thrown back bleeding on the shore. The crew, despairing of
safety, threw themselves into the raging sea, clinging to what-
ever might help them to float. Then Virginia was seen at the
stern of the Saint Geran, stretching out her arms toward her
lover, whom she recognized by his intrepid and repeated efforts
to rescue her. Virginia, with a noble and dignified bearing, now
waved her hand to her friends, as if bidding them an eternal
farewell. One sailor, however, still remained on deck, anxious
to save the poor girl. Already prepared to swim for his life, he
stood before Virginia, naked and strong as Hercules. He ap-
proached her with respect, knelt at her feet, tried to make her
also throw off her clothes; but the modest maiden repelled him
and turned away her head. The spectators cried: "Save her!
save her!" At that moment a mountain of water, of frightful
size and aspect, advanced with a roar upon the vessel. Vir-
ginia, seeing death inevitable, pressed one hand to her heart
and with the other held her robe about her and raising upward
her serene eyes, appeared like an angel ready to take her flight.

It was at first feared that the body of the unfortunate girl
never would be recovered. But at length, on the shore of the
opposite bay, it was found, half covered with sand. On her
cheeks the livid hue of death blended with the blush of virgin

BERNARDIN DE ST. PIERRE 383

modesty. One hand still held her robe; in the other, pressed
against her heart, was the picture of St. Paul, that she had prom-
ised her lover never to part with while she lived.

The funeral services were held in the church of Shaddock
Grove, attended by a deeply sympathizing throng of the island-
ers and accompanied with all the honors that the Governor
could give.

The young girls of the neighborhood touched her coffin with
handkerchiefs and crowns of flowers and invoked her as a saint.
Mothers asked of heaven a daughter like Virginia; lovers, a
heart as faithful; the poor, a friend as tender; slaves, a mistress
as good.

It was three weeks before Paul could walk, and when he
regained his physical powers his grief seemed increased. The
wise old man, his friend, employed every means to divert his
thoughts. But the soul of a lover finds everywhere traces of the
beloved object, and there was no other recourse but to address
to him the plainest and most serious remonstrances upon his
useless grief. His friend pointed out to Paul that his inconso-
lable sorrow was bringing his mother and Virginia's mother to
the grave. Neither Virginia's end nor her present state was a
thing for which to grieve, his friend assured him. Death is a
benefit to all. Everything changes in this earth, but nothing
is lost.

" Without doubt there is some place where virtue receives its
recompense. Virginia is now happy. Ah! if from the abode
of angels she could communicate with you, she would say, as in
her last adieu : ' O Paul! Life is only a trial. I have been found
faithful to the laws of Nature, of love and virtue. Heaven found
my probation sufficient. I have escaped forever from poverty
and calumny, and from the sight of others' griefs. Support the
trials that are assigned you, that you may heighten the hap-
piness of your Virginia by a love which shall have no end.
Oh, my friend, my husband, raise your thoughts toward the
infinite, that you may endure the pains of a moment ! ' "

By such lofty expostulations and many other consolatory
counsels did Paul's gray-haired friend seek to moderate his
despair. But it was of no avail. Paul died two months after
the fatal shipwreck, with Virginia's name on his lips. A week

384 PAUL AND VIRGINIA

after his death, Margaret saw her own last hour approach with
a joy which only the pure-hearted can experience. A month
later Madame de la Tour passed on to join her loved ones beyond
the veil. As for the unnatural aunt, her very wealth com-
pleted her ruin. Endeavoring to save her fortune from falling
into the hands of relatives whom she hated, she found herself
confined by their orders as a lunatic, and soon died.

Paul was laid by the side of Virginia, and near them their
tender mothers and their faithful servants also were buried.
"No marble marks the spot of their humble graves." "Their
spirits do not need the display that they shunned during their
lives. But if they still take an interest in what passes on earth,
they no doubt love to wander beneath the roofs of those dwell-
ings, inhabited by industrious virtue, to console unhappy pov-
erty, to cherish in the hearts of lovers unchanging fidelity, a taste
for the blessings of Nature, the love of labor, and the fear of
riches."

ANNE LOUISE GERMAINE NECKER
DE STAEL-HOLSTEIN

(France, 1766-1817)
CORINNE: OR, ITALY (1807)

When this story first appeared it aroused the greatest enthusiasm; a success
which so enrajv'd Napoleon, who hated the author, that he himself wrote an
unfavorable criticism, which appeared in Le Moniteur. The author intended to
represent the ideal woman of Italy in the heroine of this romance, and also to
embody her own feelings concerning the art and literature of that country.
The novel, indeed, served for many years as a guide-book for travelers in Italy,
until modern discoveries made it of less value in that respect.

^SWALD, LORD NEVIL, a handsome Scotch
nobleman of fine mind, good name, and inde-
pendent fortune, left Edinburgh to spend the
winter of 1794 in Italy, hoping to regain his
health, which had been impaired through grief
for the death of his father.

When visiting in Innsbruck, he became inter-
ested in Count d'Erfeuil, a French nobleman of
cheerful disposition, who had lost his fortune and
was maintaining himself by his musical talents, and invited him
to accompany him to Rome. Neither he nor the Count under-
stood Italy or the Italians. The Roman campagna was to
them but so much uncultivated land, and historic spots possessed
no interest; for travel, instead of diverting Oswald's grief, had
redoubled his despondency until he was unable to find solace
in nature or art; while the Count, guide-book in hand, com-
pared everything with Paris, even the dome of St. Peter's with
that of Les Invalides.

Their first morning in Rome opened by a ringing of bells and
firing of cannon; and they found the streets decorated in honor
of the poet and improvisatrice who was to be crowned with
A.D., VOL. vi. 25 3 8 S

386 CORINNE

leaves at the Capitol. Though the fortunate fair one was one
of the loveliest women in Rome, nearly twenty-six years old,
and apparently noble, besides being wealthy, her history and
family were unknown, and she was called by the name under
which her first book was published Corinne.

Wending his way with the triumphal procession, Oswald
saw her received at the Capitol by the most distinguished citi-
zens of Rome. After listening to tributes of praise, she im-
provised upon her lyre an ode to the glory of Italy. Noticing
that the Englishman did not applaud, and that he seemed to be
in grief, she took up her lyre again, and improvised verses cal-
culated to assuage sorrow. Oswald was enchanted, and ap-
plauded vehemently.

The Count also had been at the Capitol, and the next day,
unknown to Oswald, he obtained invitations for them both to
call upon the fair Corinne. For a fortnight after this, Oswald
devoted himself exclusively to her. Corinne, accustomed to the
lively and flattering tributes of the Italians, found in Oswald's
calmness an elevation of character which enveloped her in a
purer, sweeter atmosphere, giving her a happiness she did not
seek to define. Finding that he was seeing nothing of Rome,
and desirous that he should appreciate Italy and make it his
home, she offered to guide him through the principal buildings.
Oswald was delighted, and they visited many places of interest,
until one morning, just after they had spent two days exploring
the Seven Hills, she received a ceremonious note saying that an
indisposition would confine him to the house for some days.
Corinne's hopes were shattered, and even Count d'Erfeuil, who
called occasionally, failed to relieve her anxiety and met her
ardent inquiries with imperturbable silence.

Oswald, remembering his father's wish that he marry Lucy
Edgarmond, the daughter of his old friend, felt, although he
had made no promise, that he could no longer be thrown into the
constant companionship of Corinne without succumbing to her
charms; and he doubted that his father would approve of any-
one who led a life so independent. He first thought of leaving
Rome and writing Corinnne an explanation; but, not having
sufficient resolution, he simply denied himself the pleasure of
her society. On the evening of the fourth day of absence from

ANNE LOUISE DE STAEL 387

her, torn by the emotion caused by his self-inflicted punishment,
he went to the fountain of Trfeve in the heart of Rome. Corinne,
unable to sustain the thought of never seeing him again, had
also gone thither, and when they unexpectedly discovered each
other in the reflection of their profiles in the water, their friend-
ship was renewed.

About this time Lucy Edgarmond's nearest relative called
on Oswald, on his way to join his regiment embarking from
Naples, and asked the favor of an introduction to Corinne.
He was entranced, but announced his intention of leaving the
following day, saying that, even at fifty years of age, he would
not risk being enslaved by Corinne, adding a homily on the
superiority of Englishwomen as wives, and especially of his
young cousin Lucy. He alluded also to Oswald's sainted
mother and revered father, all of which so affected Oswald that
he was seized with a serious attack of the trouble that affected
his lungs.

Corinne, upon receiving a line from him to account for his
absence, instantly went to see him, and in six days nursed him
back to health, exacting a promise that he would not leave Italy
without informing her. Thenceforth she endeavored to make
his life calm, carefully avoiding explanations, and taking him
on pleasant strolls through the galleries and museums. When
he told her he was going to Naples she suggested accompanying
him, and while there, near the hermitage of St. Salvadore, he
told her the story of his life.

He had been educated at home until nearly twenty-one
years old, and was then sent to France for six months. There
he met Count Raimond and his widowed sister, Madame d'Ar-
bigny. A letter from his father recalled him to Scotland, where
he stayed a year, and then was sent to London on business. He
had been there only a week when he received a letter from
Madame d'Arbigny, saying that her brother had been killed at
the Tuileries while defending King Louis XVI, and that he had
taken all her fortune, with his own, to settle in England, and
asking Oswald whether he had received it or knew to whom
he had entrusted it. She entreated him, as she was obliged to
flee, and as English people could still travel in France with
safety, to come and save her.

388 CORINNE

Without hesitation, after sending word to his father, Oswald
set out for Paris, and there he learned that Corinne was at a
provincial town sixty miles away. Later one of her kinsmen
told him that her fortress was safe, and that never at any time
had she cause for uneasiness, adding that her letter was but a
ruse to bring him back to her.

Although Corinne gave Oswald the rights of a husband after
he rejoined her, she refused to go to England with him in order
that he might implore his father's consent to their union, as she
wished to be married in France. His father, hearing of his
danger, entreated him to take no important step without his
advice.

About this time Oswald fought a duel with one of the rela-
tives of Corinne, who wished to marry her; and out of gratitude
for mercy shown by his adversary, this rival handed over to
Oswald a packet of letters which Corinne had written to him.
After reading these letters, Oswald decided to leave her forever;
and, remembering the last letter of his father, full of anxiety for
his future, he journeyed night and day toward England, only
to find his father had died from grief at his son's prolonged
absence, and fear lest he renounce his military career, marry
unhappily, and settle in France. Although twenty months had
passed since his father's death, Oswald was pursued by remorse
and grief.

Corinne had promised to tell him the history of her life
upon their return to Naples. As they were landing, Oswald,
in saving an old man from drowning, wet the portrait of his
father, which he always wore around his neck. Overcome
with sorrow that these beloved features should be dimmed, he
showed the portrait to Corinne, who volunteered to restore it.
In three days she returned him a perfect likeness, which seemed
as if done by inspiration. In his gratitude he drew from his
finger the ring his father had given his mother, and offered it to
Corinne, but she refused it, saying that her work was done not
through inspiration; that she had seen his father many times;
and, in reply to his astonishment, she sent him the papers she
had prepared for his perusal.

From these he learned that Corinne was the daughter of his
father's old friend, Lord Edgarmond, whose first wife was a

ANNE LOUISE DE STAEL 389

Roman, and that she was born in Italy; also that Lucy, whom
his father had wished him to marry, was her half-sister, Lord
Edgarmond having married again in England. Corinne's
mother had died when the little girl was ten years old, and she
had lived with her aunt until she was fifteen; when, at her
death, she went to England. Her father received her with
tenderness, but his second wife was a cold, dignified, silent
woman who was displeased with her Italian manners. The
winters of the northern provincial town were damp and cold,
and there were no theaters, music, or pictures, nor any of the
things to which Corinne was accustomed in sunny Italy. The
conversation of the women was insipid, and the faces, even of the
young girls, were immovable as that of an automaton. No one
showed any interest in science, art, or literature; and the young
girl's only amusement was to teach her little blue-eyed, fair-
haired half-sister drawing and Italian. When she was nearly
twenty years old, her father wished her to marry Lord Nevil,
but his father, when on a visit, was so alarmed by her vivacity
that he said his son was too young, being eighteen months her
junior. She was then urged to marry her stepmother's eldest
brother, a thrifty, rich, well-born and honorable man of no
imagination. Her refusal was upheld by her father, though
his wife and everyone else upbraided her. When she was
about twenty-one, her father died, and, being most unhappy
in England, she went to Italy, accompanied by her faithful
Thdresine. Her disagreeable stepmother wrote to her that her
departure had been accounted for by spreading the report that
the voyage had been ordered by the physicians, and that she
had died on the passage. Five years after this time she met
Lord Nevil in Rome, where she had settled under the name of
Corinne. During that time the fame of her talents had spread,
and two noblemen, one a German and the other an Italian,
had been affianced to her; but she broke both engagements,
feeling that neither man could satisfy her soul. Her half-sister,
Lucy, as she remembered her, was quiet and gentle, and was
twelve years her junior.

Oswald was disturbed by these revelations, and they re-
turned to Rome, to find there an epidemic of fever. Corinne
took it, but recovered. Later they went to Venice, where she

390 CORINNE

was overwhelmed with tributes of praise. While there Oswald
was summoned to join his regiment in England, to sail for the
West Indies. He promised Corinne to try to restore her to her
rank in English society, and should he fail, to return and live
with her in Italy. He wished to marry her at once, but she
said he must first see his country and his friends.

Once in London, surrounded by old associations, Oswald
wished only to live in Scotland with Corinne, He went to Lady
Edgarmond, who was then in London, and tried in vain to make
her recognize her stepdaughter; then he went to Scotland, where,
at Lady Edgarmond's request, he received the letter his father
wrote to Lord Edgarmond in regard to the marriage of his son,
in which he spoke of Corinne as charming, but as one who
would wean his son from England; he urged him to try to bring
about a union with Lucy, who was a true Englishwoman and
who would constitute his happiness. After reading this letter,
Oswald felt that he must either break the heart of Corinne or
outrage the memory of his father; and his irritation showed
itself in his letters.

Corinne, hearing that his regiment was detained, sailed for
England. Upon her arrival, she heard that it was still further
delayed, and that Lord Nevil had gone to Scotland, but must
shortly return to join it. One evening she saw him unexpectedly
at the theater, but he was so engrossed in looking at Lady Ed-
garmond and Lucy, now a beautiful girl of twenty, that he
did not see her. She sent to his house to see whether he were
there, but word always came back that he was at Lady Edgar-
mond's, and finally that he had gone to Scotland. Then Cor-
inne resolved to go to her father's estate in Scotland. Suppos-
ing Lady Edgarmond and Lucy to be still in London, she was
surprised to find a ball in progress at the castle in Scotland,
and to hear that Lord Nevil was leading it with Lucy, the
heiress. Hiding in the shadows of the garden, Corinne saw
Oswald for a moment on a balcony; and later Lucy looked out
of a window and pointed at what she supposed was an appa-
rition of her dead sister. Recovering, she went to their father's
tomb, followed by Corinne, and uttered a prayer so sweet and
gentle that Corinne resolved to send Oswald the ring he had
given her, and to break all ties between them forever. Already

ANNE LOUISE DE STAEL 391

she had been told that he loved Lucy, and that his love was
returned; she heard also that he had said only three days before
that he would marry Lucy if he were free from entanglements,
and Corinne believed it.

Oswald, not having heard from Corinne for several months,
believed himself forgotten; and when he received the ring with
the words "You are free," he was overcome with emotion.
Lady Edgarmond, observing his distraction and knowing that
her daughter loved him, and that she herself was suffering from
a fatal illness, at last offered to recognize her stepdaughter.
Lord Nevil then demanded Lucy's hand and the mother gave
her consent, though the instant it was done Oswald was plunged
into memories of Corinne, and with difficulty recalled himself
to his duty to Lucy.

Corinne read among the society news in the London news-
papers that her presence in England, as the daughter of Lord
Edgarmond, was recognized by Lady Edgarmond, and then,
with the aid of Count d'Erfeuil, who had come to England to
see Oswald, she and Thresine sailed to Italy.

Lord Nevil and Lucy were married immediately, but he
soon left England for the West Indies. In four years he re-
turned, and for the first time saw his little daughter, who had
dark eyes and hair like Corinne's. Later, after the death of
Lady Edgarmond, he and his wife and child went to Italy for
his health. Corinne was ill at the villa on the Paventa, which
she had taken at the time Oswald left Italy. The child was
sent to visit Corinne every day, and toward the end of her illness
Lucy also went; but Corinne would not receive Oswald until
the day when she summoned them all to hear her improvise
for the last time publicly. Oswald fainted from sadness, and
Corinne returned home to die. Her former lover followed the
funeral procession to Rome, then, after spending some time in
seclusion in Tivoli, he returned with his family to England.

ALFRED VICTOR DE VIGNY

(France, 1797-1863)
CINQ-MARS (1826)

Before writing this historical romance its author had published a volume
of poems and several dramas, of which Chatterton, based on the career of the
young English poet, is the most notable, having been produced on the stage
with immense applause. But his most famous work is Cinq-Mars, which was
crowned by the Academy. It adheres closely to historic fact as to the course
of the conspiracy of the Marquis de Cinq-Mars, and gives what is regarded as
the most masterly portrait in fiction of the groat Cardinal Richelieu, the minister
of Louis XIII, who saved the monarchy and broke the power of the French
nobility.

"**""!

j(HE first scene of the brief, stormy career of Cinq-
Mars opens at the stately chateau of Chaumont,
near the famous chateau of Chambard, in the
province of Touraine. Chaumont was the seat
of the family of the late Marechal d'Effiat, dead
six months. Marie de Gonzaga, Duchess of
Mantua, with her Italian retainers, had also re-
tired at Chaumont at that time for reasons of
state. This, too, was the birthplace and home
of Henri d'Effiat, Marquis of Cinq-Mars, a name taken from
a family estate. All the morning a certain subdued bustle had
been evident at the chateau. The Marchale d'Effiat, the
stately mother of Cinq-Mars, was dressed in deeper mourning
than usual, and her eyes were moist with tears. Word had
been received that the King had summoned Cinq-Mars to the
court, being interested in what he had learned of the capacity
of this noble youth of seventeen. News of this nature, usually
received with joy as the precursor of position and power, had
quite the opposite effect on the widowed mother. Intrigue was
rife. The air was tainted with suspicion. No one in the circles
of the great knew the intentions of the Cardinal Due de Riche-

392

ALFRED VICTOR DE VIGNY 393

lieu, who practically ruled the weak monarch and through him
the nation. No one knew what dark purposes might be con-
cealed under the velvet-lined, far-reaching policy of the inex-
orable Prime Minister. Therefore, the Marchale d'Effiat wept
with forebodings when she saw the royal messenger enter the
gates of her castle with a mandate for her son. But no pleas
on her part would avail, while the rest of the family and guests
saw in this simple incident a first step up the ladder of fame.
The message admitted of no delay. Immediate preparations
were therefore made for departure. The horses were saddled,
and old Grandchamp, a lifelong, faithful servitor of the house,
who, with the death of his old master, supposed his active
duties were closed, now found himself the one selected to ac-
company his new and younger master on a journey full of
possibilities and results not to be foreseen. A troop of mounted
servants attended them.

The entire family were at last assembled at dinner, a for-
mal, stately function. Marie de Gonzaga, her eyes red with
weeping, came in last but one, followed by Cinq-Mars. She
glanced significantly toward him, while he turned pale in return.

The hour came for the departure of Cinq-Mars. The Mare'-
chale rose from the table in tears. Everyone rose with her.
She took two steps, and sank into another chair. All gathered
anxiously around her.

"Pardon, my friends! It is foolish of me but I am weak at
present. We were thirteen at table! and you, my dear Duchess,
were the cause of it. Farewell, my child; give me your fore-
head to kiss, and may God guide you. Be worthy of your
name and of your father!"

Then, smiling through her tears, she pushed her son from
her, and said: "Come, let us see you on horseback, fair sir!"

Cinq-Mars set off at a gallop, with old Grandchamp follow-
ing close after.

"Oh, heavens!" cried the young Princess, retiring from the
window.

"What is the matter?" said the mother.

"Nothing, nothing!" said Monsieur de Launay, a secret
agent of Richelieu. "Your son's horse merely stumbled under
the gateway; but he soon pulled him up."

394 CINQ-MARS

"Another ominous presage!" gasped the Marquise, retiring
to her apartments.

After night set in Cinq-Mars returned on his tracks, and
under the gloom of the wood which grew on that side of the
chateau, this youth, with the ambitions and maturity of man-
hood, climbed by the vines which clung to the western tower
and reached a window where a dim light was burning. At a
given signal, the window was opened and Marie de Gonzaga
appeared. Although his superior in rank, she discerned his
precocious talents and loved him with all the fervor of her Italian
blood. There the lovers conferred and plighted their love with
eternal vows, which, in his case, at least, were doomed to aid in
shaping his destiny. Under the guise of marblelike apathy or
self-control, he carried a passion, a tumult of emotions and
ambitions unchangeable, resolute until death, while suspected
by few. And then they parted, she to hope and despair, he to
plan, plot, and meet with unsurpassed heroism what destiny
had in store for him.

Proceeding south toward Perpignan, then besieged by the
King and the Cardinal Duke, Cinq-Mars arrived in five days
at Loudun, where he met the Abbe* Quillet, his faithful pre-
ceptor, who was very suspicious as to the designs of the Car-
dinal on Cinq-Mars, and gave him some really sincere counsel
as to how he should conduct himself in the new and difficult
circumstances into which he was about to enter. Cinq-Mars
was thus placed on his guard. But his eyes were still further
opened by a dreadful tragedy that occurred at Loudun. At the
instigation of Richelieu, a monk named Urbain Grandier, of
high character but somewhat independent spirit, was under
accusation of witchcraft, and various other equally unfounded
charges. Grandier was at any rate obnoxious to the Cardinal,
who, by his fierce, unscrupulous instrument, Laubardemont,
and especially by the artful methods of the notorious Capuchin
monk, Father Joseph, the right-hand assistant of his master,
and for that reason often called his Gray Eminence, caused the
death of Grandier at the stake. The execution occurred at
night, in the midst of a dreadful thunder-storm. An immense
throng surrounded the scene of horror, expressing its indigna-
tion in various ways that alarmed the authorities; for, notwith-

ALFRED VICTOR DE VIGNY 395

standing the credulous and superstitious nature of the people in
those days, this tragedy was generally regarded as purely a
question of politics undoubtedly selfish and personal. The
niece of the presiding Judge, Laubardemont, one of the nuns
accused of complicity with the slaughtered victim, became from
that day a raving maniac, who lived to bring much tribulation
on her diabolical uncle.

Now Cinq-Mars, by being at Loudun at that very time, was
driven by the rush of the crowd through the dark, narrow streets
to the square where this bloody scene was to be enacted. He
saw it all with rising indignation, and unable longer to control
his rage, led the mob to fall on the tribunal and the troops,
drove them in terror to fly, and attempted, when it was too late,
to rescue the innocent being roasting at the stake. It is from
such events, altogether unforeseen and unexpected, that one's
destiny is often irrevocably shaped. Up to that day Cinq-Mars
had apparently been indifferent to the policy and character of
the Cardinal Duke, who, however, had his eye on him with a
view to using his talents for his own purposes, because nothing
had yet occurred to suggest other than liking and respect on the
part of the young Marquis of Cinq-Mars. But from that hour
the young noble, who had learned enough to know who was
behind this tragedy, was the bitter enemy of the terrible Car-
dinal; while, on the other hand, some of the Cardinal's minions,
who had recognized Cinq-Mars, secretly reported the facts to
their master. Richelieu saw that instead of an ally he had
brought to the court one who needed close watching; and the
man who was closely watched by the Cardinal Duke and his
chief lieutenant, Father Joseph, walked thenceforth in the
shadow of the scaffold.

The court happened at that time to be in camp with the
army besieging Perpignan, on the Spanish border. The siege
had lasted long; it would be terminated only as might suit the
plans of the Cardinal. In the mean time fighting was going on
and men were killed and wounded to keep up the show for the
diplomats, to whom soldiers were pawns. In one of these actions
Cinq-Mars displayed notable courage and skill and received a
ball in his leg that he made light of, but which aroused the
friendly concern of King Louis XIII himself, who early took a

396 CINQ-MARS

great liking to the singularly mature young Marquis from Tou-
raine, and soon after gave him the honorary position of Grand
Ecuyer, or head squire of the realm. Henceforth Cinq-Mars
was usually called Monsieur le Grand. Richelieu submitted to
this action of Louis without displaying open opposition, but
still kept a jealous watch on the ambitious protg of the King.

At Perpignan Cinq-Mars also met his friend, De Thou, the
son of the great jurist of that name. The youths had studied
together, and a very warm friendship had sprung up between
them which lasted to the close of life. This would appear
singular if we did not know that friendship is usually between
opposites rather than between those who resemble each other.
The one was precocious, ambitious, mysterious, reserved, and
inspired by overwhelming passion. De Thou, somewhat the
elder, was primarily a student, happier among his books than
in camp, although, like all gentlemen of the time, not without
knowledge and practise of arms. The most remarkable trait
of De Thou, unsurpassed either in romance or history, was his
high sense of real, not conventional, honor, joined to his
amazing capacity for friendship. For leadership in this field
of ethical activity the name of Francois Auguste de Thou
ranks with the immortals whom Destiny has crowned with
unfading laurel. The less known of the two friends, he was
still the greater of the two.

In one respect, De Thou perhaps gave to his friend counsel
which, good in itself, was untimely or at least injurious to the
interests of Cinq-Mars at that particular juncture of events.
He urged him to employ every effort to influence the King, who
had made him a confidential favorite, to banish the Cardinal
Duke and liberate France from the tyranny that was deluging
the country with the blood of those who had built up the power
and splendor of the kingdom. In a general way the advice may
have been just, but it was imprudent, as such a course was sure
to be discovered and followed with the destruction of Cinq-
Mars, owing to the weakness of the King. This advice was
also needless; for Cinq-Mars finally admitted to his friend that
he had already formed such a purpose. But he refrained on
this occasion from revealing even to De Thou the nature of the
methods he proposed for carrying out his plans.

ALFRED VICTOR DE VIGNV 397

Cinq-Mars returned to Paris with the court. Months went
by, but the friends rarely met. Each was occupied with his own
pursuits. De Thou was so deeply immersed in his professional
studies that he knew next to nothing of what kept Cinq-Mars
absent for such long intervals. Nor did he suspect that he
himself had a mortal enemy in the Cardinal Duke, who was
simply abiding his time. If he had but known, the good De
Thou might perhaps have avoided the stern decree of Fate.
He forgot that in his book the elder De Thou, his father, had
published words not agreeable to the cruel Cardinal.

"Do you see that man?" said Richelieu one day to Father
Joseph, pointing to the young counselor De Thou. "Well, his
father put my name in his book, and I will write the name of the
son in my book."

Marie de Gonzaga, Duchess of Mantua, had left the cha-
teau of Chaumont, and was now the guest of Anne of Austria,
Queen of France. Months, nearly two years in fact, had passed
since the Duchess and her young lover had plighted their love
in the tower window of Chaumont. He, in the mean time,
had been busy with affairs of tremendous character besides the
duty of being the favorite of the King.

About this time a violent riot occurred near the Louvre,
in the middle of the night, incited by whom it was difficult to
tell. But many shots were fired, although few were hurt, and
it ended with an irruption of the rabble from all quarters, and
cries for the success of Cinq-Mars, called Monsieur Ic Grand.

The Queen and her ladies were greatly alarmed, while many
gentlemen of high rank, more or less mixed up with the tumult,
gathered in the palace, some for refuge and others apparently
to talk about the causes of the cmeute.

In their confusion and fear the Queen and the Duchess en-
tered into confidential conversation, and, as happens sometimes
on such occasions, made mutual confessions and divulged im-
portant secrets that not only compromised them in a trust that
either might betray, but actually contributed to hasten plans
hardly yet ripe for action. The Queen out of a secret casket
produced letters from the recently assassinated Duke of Buck-
ingham, and avowed her affection for him, while the Duchess,
when the question of her proposed marriage to the King of

398 CINQ-MARS

Poland was broached, disclosed for the first time the fact that
she was formally affianced to Cinq-Mars, the ceremony having
been performed before the Abb6 Quillot, then considered as
binding as marriage.

Later Cinq-Mars himself appeared with other gentlemen.
Monsieur the Due d'Orleans, brother to the King, was in an
adjoining apartment. All present were known to each other as
sworn enemies to Richelieu the Cardinal Duke, and anxious
for his fall. But not all present knew that a conspiracy had
actually been formed to produce such a result. The Queen
listened with qualified approval; but when the point was reached
where it was divulged that a secret treaty with Spain was being
negotiated, whereby seventeen thousand Spanish troops would
aid the conspirators, the Queen stepped proudly back. Al-
though born in Spain, she was Queen of France; and no Spanish
troops should step foot with her consent on the soil of her adopted
land. But she added that, while no longer of their number,
she would not betray the conspirators.

De Thou, who had come in with the other gentleman, now
heard of the conspiracy for the first time, and was deeply moved
that Ins friend Cinq-Mars should take such advantage as to
make him a confidant in a scheme that might cost him his life.
But he, too, promised, in the name of friendship, to stand by
Cinq-Mars, whatever might be the cost, although he clearly
saw the ultimate doom. As a patriot he was bound to disclose
the whole affair to the Government, while as a friend he could
hold his peace and probably die. He chose the latter, purely
out of friendship, although resolute in avoiding any further
participation with the conspirators.

The result was inevitable. Father Joseph traced every step
of the conspiracy. Laubardemont, another of the instruments
of Richelieu already mentioned, traced to the passes of the
Pyrenees the messenger who was carrying the signed treaty
in a hollow stick shaped like a smuggler's staff. The bearer of
the treaty was the son of Laubardemont, in the service of Cinq-
Mars; and to get that treaty the father killed the son in a terrific
night storm on the mountains. That dreadful tragedy sealed
the doom of Cinq-Mars and De Thou! The treaty was essen-
tial to justify the Cardinal Duke with the King in demanding

ALFRED VICTOR DE VIGNY 399

the death of Cinq-Mars, De Thou, and Gaston, the very brother
of the King, and to force the latter, as it were, to grant the de-
mand. That consent was wrenched from Louis by the tremen-
dous will of the Cardinal Duke, who actually resigned his ex-
alted post, and only resumed it when the weak King, unable
to conduct his dominion alone, agreed to give Richelieu the
heads of his victims. But, ere the tribunal had closed its
bloody session, Monsieur, the King's brother, dishonorably
saved his life and accepted banishment by promising to turn
state's evidence.

Arrested at Narbonne, Cinq-Mars and De Thou were drawn
down the Loire in a barge behind the one which contained the
consumptive Cardinal Duke and his miserable puppet King.
At Lyons the victims were brought up for their perfunctory
trial, and proceeded thence to the scaffold. Cinq-Mars suf-
fered first; and the heroic martyr to friendship, De Thou, kissed
the blood of his friend as he laid his own head on the block.

After this grim tragedy Marie de Gonzaga, to marry whom
her lover confessed he had undertaken such a desperate under-
taking, became Queen of Poland.

CHARLES JOHN HUFFHAM DICKENS

(England, 1812-1870)

POSTHUMOUS PAPERS OF THE PICKWICK CLUB

(183?)

Dickens was twenty-five years old when he wrote the Pickwick Papers.
It was his second work of large dimensions, and it established him at once as
the foremost humorist of the time. The work has a much deeper significance,
however, than is to be found in its humor, for it marks the beginning of an era
in English literature. It was the first of a long series of works of fiction ex-
pressing the life and manners of the middle and lower classes. Dickens wrote
this work to order, and it is evident that he did not himself perceive its possi-
bilities in the beginning. It consisted of twenty self-dependent and fairly
complete instalments, each written just in time to meet the demands of the press,
but all unified by the presence of Mr. Pickwick as hero or deus ex machina of
the separate adventures. Another unifying figure is Mr. Alfred Jingle, the
pursuit and regeneration of whom make the only complete long story in the
book. Sir Ilciiry Irving used to play "Alfred Jingle " in a comedy of that name,
and in the United States an American actor organized a company that played
a comic opera called Mr. Pickwick. The Adventures begin in May, 1827, and
cover a period of about two years. The scenes are in London and various
English towns within easy coaching distance of the metropolis.

SAMUEL PICKWICK, ESQUIRE, had attained

one of the dizziest pinnacles of fame by the wri-
ting of a profound paper on " The Source of the
Hampstead Ponds, with some Observations on the
Theory of Tittlebats/' when his gigantic intellect
conceived and gave birth to an idea that justified,
nay, rendered inevitable, his elevation to the ranks
of the Immortals. This stupendous project was
no less than an extension of his researches, and
thus of his contributions to human knowledge, by a series of
journeys to regions remote from London and little within the
ken of civilization. He proposed to the club of which he was
the founder and perpetual president that he and three other
Pickwickians should make these journeys at such peril to them-

400

CHARLES DICKENS 401

selves as might be, and at their own expense both for travel and
the postage on their reports to the organization. The club at
a general meeting passed a formal vote acknowledging the cor-
rectness of the economic principles involved in the president's
proposal, in accordance with which, a day or two later, Mr.
Pickwick, accompanied by Mr. Tracy Tupman, Mr. Nathaniel
Winkle, and Mr. Augustus Snodgrass, took coach from the
Golden Cross for Rochester.

Unhappily, Mr. Pickwick's insatiate thirst for knowledge
and his stern adherence to scientific methods for the attainment
of accuracy plunged him into a perilous adventure before the
journey was begun; for he conscientiously took notes of some
observations on horses uttered by his cabman on the way to the
Golden Cross, and the cabman misinterpreted this action as the
vile tactics of an informer. So, when Mr. Pickwick emerged
from the cab and joined his friends, the cabman pitched into
them. He knocked Mr. Pickwick's spectacles off and punched
his nose, landed on Mr. Snodgrass's eye, butted heavily into Mr.
Tupman's capacious abdomen, and batted the whole temporary
supply of breath out of Mr. Winkle's body. Naturally enough
a mob gathered, each precious member eager to have a share
in the mix-up; and the Pickwickians, taken by surprise and
vastly outnumbered, might have been then and there deterred
from contributing to the cause of science but for the timely in-
terposition of a gentleman in a shabby green coat, who emerged
from the coffee-room, elbowed through the crowd, convinced
the cabman and his satellites that there had been a mistake, and
hustled the bewildered Pickwickians into the shelter of the inn.
There he promptly ordered brandy and water for all, at Mr.
Pickwick's expense, and lightly brushed aside that great man's
expressions of gratitude for his timely interference. This was
Mr. Alfred Jingle. As he also was going to Rochester, the
Pickwickians arranged to sit with him on the coach, and for
many days they saw much of him.

Indeed, the versatile and loquacious Mr. Jingle was the main
cause of some of their most exciting adventures. For example,
there was a ball at Rochester which Mr. Jingle and Mr. Tup-
man wished to attend; but Mr. Jingle's luggage had gone mys-
teriously astray, and he had no clothes suitable for the occasion.

A.D., VOL. vi. 26

402 PICKWICK PAPERS

This difficulty was resolved by the fact that Mr. Winkle was
very drunk at the moment, and it was an easy matter, therefore,
to borrow Mr. Winkle's evening-clothes. Clad in these, Mr.
Jingle was a festive figure at the ball and succeeded in offending
a military officer to such extent that a challenge to a duel was
forthcoming on the following morning. At that time Mr.
Jingle had gone on his way ; and the offender was identified by
his clothes as Mr. Winkle, whereby that young gentleman found
himself in a plight of the gravest character. Of course, after
no end of negotiations and misunderstandings, Mr. Winkle was
exonerated, and nobody's blood was shed.

It was doubtless the happy ending of this episode that
prevented the Pickwickians from perceiving the rascally char-
acter of their traveling-companion; but on the very next occa-
sion when they came across him he displayed his true colors
unmistakably. Mr. Pickwick and his friends were the guests
of Mr. Wardle, a fine country gentleman. Mr. Tupman was
paying decorous court to Miss Wardle, the elderly sister of his
host, when Jingle, a much more dashing fellow, persuaded her
to elope with him. Mr. Pickwick felt in duty bound to join in
the pursuit. Jingle reached London first, but Mr. Wardle and
Mr. Pickwick, accompanied by a lawyer, patiently made the
rounds of several popular inns, coming eventually to the White
Hart, where they asked questions of a sharp-featured young man
who was cleaning boots in the yard. He identified their quarry
by the boots, and for a sovereign conducted them to a room,
which they entered just as Jingle was displaying his recently
acquired license to marry. There was a painful scene; but Jin-
gle proved amenable to argument in the shape of money, and
relinquished his claims to the lady for one hundred and twenty
pounds.

This episode satisfactorily terminated, Mr. Pickwick retired
to his rooms in Goswell Street for a short time. He had been
favorably impressed by the "Boots" at the White Hart, and
contemplated engaging him as his servant. Such was his
kindly nature that he could not venture to bring an extra person
into the house without consulting the convenience of his land-
lady, Mrs. Bardell, a widow with one small son. He intro-
duced the subject to her with his characteristic delicacy, ani-

CHARLES DICKENS 403

madverting on the presumably slight extra work it would be to
care for two persons instead of one, dwelling pleasantly on the
companionship that would be afforded to her son, and so forth,
all of which was perfectly clear to the benevolent Pickwick, but
to Mrs. Bardell was nothing short of preliminary to a proposal
of marriage. Taking it thus, and being already greatly pre-
disposed to her lodger, she was so overwhelmed by joy that she
could not wait for the definite announcement of Mr. Pickwick's
intentions, but precipitated herself into his astonished arms,
where she promptly fainted. In this embarrassing, mortifying,
and dreadfully compromising situation his friends found him;
for Messrs. Tupman, Snodgrass, and Winkle had the misfortune
to enter before he could so much as lay his lovely burden on a
chair.

Sam Weller, the " Boots" of the White Hart, was also in the
house, come to see what it was that Mr. Pickwick wanted of him.
That gentleman explained; and Sam gladly accepted the prof-
fered place; but Mrs. Bardell could not be persuaded that this
had been the sole purpose of her lodger's misleading words;
and when at last she did understand that Mr. Pickwick had no
thought of marrying her, she astounded him by entering suit
for breach of promise. Investigation showed that she was in
earnest, or rather that her lawyers were; for they had under-
taken to prosecute for a contingent fee, believing that the
worthy Pickwick would settle rather than face the ordeal of a
trial. Mr. Pickwick would not be bled, and, pending the call-
ing of the case, such was his admirably philosophical nature, he
resumed his travels with undisturbed serenity.

The Pickwickians, attended now by Sam Weller, went to
Eatanswill for the purpose of observing an election at short
range. The distinguished visitors were seized upon by Mrs.
Leo Hunter, who invited them to attend a fancy-dress party.
Mr. Pickwick accepted on condition that he be not required to
put on anything except those dignified habiliments with which
he graced all assemblages of a public or formal nature. Mr.
Tupman announced that he should go to the party as a bandit.

"You don't mean to say," said Mr. Pickwick, gazing with
solemn sternness at his friend, " that it is your intention to put
yourself into a green velvet jacket with a two-inch tail?"

404 PICKWICK PAPERS

"Such is my intention, sir," replied Mr. Tupman warmly.
"And why not, sir?"

"Because, sir," said Mr. Pickwick, considerably excited,
"you are too old, sir."

"Too old!" exclaimed Mr. Tupman.

"And if any further ground of objection be wanting, you are
too fat, sir."

"Sir," said Mr. Tupman, his face suffused with a crimson
glow, "this is an insult."

"Sir," replied Mr. Pickwick, "it is not half the insult to you
that your appearance in my presence in a green velvet jacket
with a two-inch tail would be to me."

"Sir," said Mr. Tupman, "you're a fellow."

"Sir," said Mr. Pickwick, "you're another."

Mr. Tupman advanced a step or two, and glared at Mr.
Pickwick. Mr. Pickwick returned the glare, concentrated into
a focus by means of his spectacles, and breathed a bold defiance.
There was a fearful pause.

"My attachment to your person, sir," said Mr. Tupman, in
a voice tremulous with emotion, and tucking up his wristbands
meanwhile, "is great, very great; but upon that person I must
take summary vengeance."

"Come on, sir," replied Mr. Pickwick. Stimulated by the
exciting nature of the dialogue, the heroic man actually threw
himself into a paralytic attitude, confidently supposed by Messrs.
Snodgrass and Winkle to have been intended as a posture of
defense.

"What!" exclaimed Mr. Snodgrass, rushing between the two
at the imminent hazard of receiving an application on the tem-
ple from each. "What! Mr. Pickwick, with the eyes of the
world upon you! Mr. Tupman! who, in common with us all,
derives a luster from his undying fame! For shame, gentle-
men, for shame!"

The unwonted lines which momentary passion had ruled on
Mr. Pickwick's clear and open brow gradually melted away, as
his young friend spoke, like the marks of a black lead-pencil
beneath the softening influence of india-rubber.

"I have been hasty," said Mr. Pickwick, "very hasty.
Tupman, your hand."

CHARLES DICKENS 405

The dark shadow passed from Mr. Tupman's face as he
warmly grasped the hand of his friend. "I have been hasty,
too," said he.

"No," interrupted Mr. Pickwick, "the fault was mine.
You will wear the green velvet jacket ?"

"No, no," replied Mr. Tupman.

"To oblige me, you will," said Mr. Pickwick.

"Well, well, I will," said Mr. Tupman.

So Messrs. Tupman, Snodgrass, and Winkle went to the
party in fancy dress, which was much against Mr. Pickwick's
judgment, but a credit to the amiability of his character. They
were enjoying themselves there when a familiar voice caused
Mr. Pickwick to start violently. A person introduced as Cap-
tain FitzMarshall was entering the crowded rooms; and, al-
though he was now fashionably dressed, all the Pickwickians
recognized him as Alfred Jingle. He fled the house as soon as
he saw Mr. Pickwick's indignant countenance; and nothing
would do but Mr. Pickwick must pursue him to apprise his
intended victims of his reprehensible conduct. So, having
learned that " FitzMarshall " was staying at the Angel, Bury St.
Edmunds, Mr. Pickwick posted off to that establishment to
circumvent such rascality as might be under way.

It seemed that Jingle had risen to the lofty height of travel-
ing with a servant, Job Trotter, with whom Sam Weller quickly
got on good terms. Job pretended to be ashamed of his mas-
ter, and confessed that he was actually about to elope with a
young lady student at a seminary on the outskirts of the town.
This was too horrible to contemplate. Encouraged by Mr.
Pickwick's money, Job indicated how the elopement might be
frustrated. In accordance with his instructions, Mr. Pickwick
repaired at night to the school, and Sam Weller helped him over
the garden-wall. At half-past eleven he knocked at a rear
door. According to arrangements, Job should then have ap-
peared; but a female servant opened it, and there followed a
hysterical outcry that spread from one end of the establishment
to the other. A man on the premises! and a man who insisted
on remaining to explain himself; who bawled at the top of his
lungs over the feminine clamor, that he must see the lady of the
house. After much excitement, the lady abbess consented to

406 PICKWICK PAPERS

hold converse with him if he would consent to be incarcerated.
Mr. Pickwick felt in honor bound to submit to the terms im-
posed, and stepped into a closet, the door of which was then
securely bolted. The conversation that followed developed the
annoying fact that the distinguished gentleman and his shrewd
servant had been hoaxed by Job Trotter. Neither " Captain
FitzMarshall" nor Alfred Jingle had ever been heard of by any-
body in the establishment, and Mr. Pickwick had to stay in the
closet till two servants brought Sam Weller from the hotel to
identify and vouch for him.

While Mr. Pickwick was thus engaged, Jingle slipped out of
town; but his indomitable adversary was not defeated. He
was merely repulsed momentarily, and he continued to pursue
the malefactor with undiminished ardor. Some time passed,
however, before he again found the trail; and meanwhile there
were other adventures. Among them was a shooting party at
Mr. Wardle's. The younger Pickwickians took eagerly to the
guns and banged away at the birds to the imminent peril of
themselves; but Mr. Pickwick contented himself with the
pleasure of being in the open air, which gave him a robust appe-
tite, so that, when luncheon was spread from a barrow on which
it had been brought to the field, he ate most heartily. Likewise
he drank freely of some excellent cold punch, so freely that, at
the end of the luncheon, having tried vainly to remember the
words of a song that he felt compelled to sing, he fell into the
barrow and fast asleep immediately. As it was impossible to
arouse him, the party left him there for one more hour of
shooting.

It happened that the sportsmen in their enthusiasm had
wandered from Mr. Wardle's ground to the estate of an irascible
neighbor; and this neighbor, as ill luck would have it, came
that way and found Mr. Pickwick asleep in the barrow.
"Poachers!" cried the irascible man. "Who are you, fellow?"
and he prodded Mr. Pickwick's rotund abdomen with a cudgel.

" Cold punch," murmured Mr. Pickwick, and went to sleep
again.

That was all they could get from him; and, in great wrath,
the owner of the ground ordered his servants to wheel the bar-
row, with Mr. Pickwick in it, to the pound. There, at evening,

CHARLES DICKENS 407

Sam Weller found him, just awakened, a prey to bewilderment
and the jeers of small boys and loafers of a larger growth. Sam
cuffed the boys, smote such men as he could reach, and carried
his master off without process of law, thus bringing to a trium-
phant conclusion what otherwise might have been a very morti-
fying adventure.

A clue to Jingle's whereabouts was supplied eventually by
Sam Weller's father, a venerable coachman, whom Mr. Pick-
wick and Sam encountered in a public house where they had
paused for refreshment.

"How's mother-in-law?" asked Sam, alluding to his father's
second wife.

" Vy, I'll tell you what, Sammy," said the elder Weller sol-
emnly, "there never was a nicer woman as a widder than that
'ere second wentur' o' mine, and all I can say is that she was
such an uncommon pleasant widder it's a great pity she ever
changed her condition. I've done it once too often, Sammy.
Take example by your father, Sammy, my boy, and be werry
careful o' widders all your life."

Mr. Pickwick, interested by these observations, joined in
the conversation, which, as conversations will, presently swung
clear away from its original course and brought up with an
account of how Sam had been fooled by Job Trotter. Old
Weller was much concerned on account of his son's discom-
fiture, but he was sure, from the description, that he had carried
Jingle and Job on his coach a few days previously to Ipswich.
That was quite enough, and off to Ipswich went Mr. Pickwick
as fast as coach-horses could drag him.

The clue was a good one. It was discovered speedily that
Jingle had won the confidence of Mr. Lupkin, the local magis-
trate; but as this information came late at night, Mr. Pickwick
postponed seeing Mr. Lupkin until the next day. When he was
about to go to bed he found that he had left his watch below
stairs, and went down to get it. Returning, he lost his way in
the maze of passages, but at last thought he recognized his
chamber, entered, ard began to disrobe. His night-cap was
already settled on his head when a middle-aged lady came calmly
in and began to take down her hair preparatory to retiring.
Horrified and alarmed, Mr. Pickwick coughed. The lady,

4 o8 PICKWICK PAPERS

though infinitely startled, was good enough not to scream or
faint; and presently, with many profuse apologies, Mr. Pickwick
gathered up his raiment and shambled awkwardly from the
room. To his great joy, Sam was passing.

"Sam," said Mr. Pickwick, "where's my room?"

Silently, though his face almost cracked with unuttered
questions, Sam piloted his master to the long-sought apartment.

" Sam," said Mr. Pickwick, as he got into bed, " I have made
a most extraordinary mistake. If I were to stay in this house
for six months I never again would trust myself about it alone."

"That's the wery prudentest resolution you could come to,
sir," said Sam. "You rayther want somebody to look artcr
you, sir, ven your judgment goes out a-wisitin'."

"What do you mean, Sam?" Mr. Pickwick asked; but Sam
somewhat unceremoniously said "Good night," and left the
room, shaking his head and thinking profound thoughts.

Next morning, a chance acquaintance of his journey begged
Mr. Pickwick's permission to introduce his fiancte, and led
him forthwith into the presence of the lady of the midnight ad-
venture. Both were sadly embarrassed, and delicacy forbade
either to explain; whereupon the lady's intended became sus-
picious to such a degree that he insulted Mr. Pickwick, and there
were high words ending in a demand for satisfaction on one
side, and a retort that it might be had and welcome on the other.
The lady in the case, dreadfully alarmed for her intended, ppsted
off to the authorities and gave warning that a duel was in pros-
pect. In consequence of this action, Mr. Pickwick was ar-
rested and haled before the magistrate. Mr. Lupkin purposed
to deal most severely with him; but Mr. Pickwick's gigantic
intellect perceived how to wrest advantage from misfortune, and,
by exposing the rascality of Jingle he brought about not only
that impostor's speedy departure from Ipswich, but his own
discharge from court.

This was highly satisfactory, but not so the court proceed-
ings in London which followed soon thereafter. His friends
had to give evidence against him, for all had seen Mrs. Bardell
in their leader's arms; and the jurors were so impressed that
they brought in a verdict for the plaintiff, with costs. Mr.
Pickwick thereupon arose in the might of his character and

CHARLES DICKENS 409

vowed he would never pay. Never! The whole proceeding
was an outrage on justice, a conspiracy on the part of petti-
fogging lawyers, and they should never benefit from it. Never!
For some months he continued to travel, and his own lawyer
thought that enjoyment of freedom would make him yield, but
when the time finally came, and he had to choose between pay-
ing damages and costs or going to prison, he chose prison and
was locked up in the Fleet.

Many weeks were passed there, during which Mr. Pickwick
bore his own burden with philosophical tranquillity, and light-
ened the burdens of such a number of his fellow -prisoners by
buying food for them, and by other acts of benevolence, so that
he became beloved by all. He had not been long in durance
before he found that Jingle was also a prisoner. Jingle was
broken in health and spirits. His swindling had run its normal
course, and now he was on the actual verge of starvation. In
this instance Mr. Pickwick's magnanimity shone most bril-
liantly. He provided his former adversary with food and cloth-
ing, encouraged him to hope for new opportunities to live hon-
estly, and when he was certain that Jingle was truly repentant,
he actually paid the fellow's debts and obtained him employ-
ment in one of the West Indian colonies.

This matter reached its head just about the time when Mrs.
Bardell's lawyers, despairing of getting their costs, had her also
locked up in the Fleet. That broke Mr. Pickwick's obstinate
will. He could not bear the thought of a woman condemned
to such a fate; and for the sake of humanity generally, not so
much for Mrs. Bardell in particular, and not at all for himself,
he finally paid the costs and was released.

After that he devoted some time to straightening out sundry
entanglements of his fellow-Pickwickians, who had been plung-
ing into matrimony while bereft of his daily guidance; and when
all these things were satisfactorily accomplished, he retired to
a pretty villa in Dulwich to pass the rest of his days in quiet.

OLIVER TWIST (1838)

The greater part of this story was published in 1837-1838, in Bentley's Maga-
zine, then edited by Dickens, with illustrations by George Cruikshank; and it
was afterward brought out by Bentley in three volumes. Cruikshank is re-
ported to have said that before it was written he had made drawings illustrating
the life of London thieves, with portraits of Fagin, Bill Sikes, the Artful Dodger,
and perhaps others; that Dickens, seeing these, had asked permission to use the
idea in a story he was then writing, which he changed accordingly. Perhaps
he had originally intended only to expose the abuses in the poor-laws and the
workhouse system, as now in the first part. He says he believed it would be
a service to society to show the life of criminals as it really is their skulking
path through dirt and squalor with "the great, black, ghastly gallows closing
the prospect." The original of Fang was one A. S. Laing, senior magistrate of
Hatton Garden Police Court, noted for his arrogant and brutal manner toward
witnesses and others that came before his court. The likeness was so unmis-
takable that Laing was removed from his office by the Home Secretary.

<{HEN a puny, nameless baby was born, not an
hour before its young mother died, in the work-
house of a certain town where Mr. Bumble filled
the responsible office of beadle, it was named
according to the original alphabetical system de-
vised by that gentleman, a system which called
out from an admiring subordinate the remark
that he was "quite a literary character." The
workhouse baby last preceding had beenSwubble,
and it was now the turn of a T; and so little Oliver became Twist.
A reward of ten pounds, afterward increased to twenty,
failing to discover anything of his parentage, he was "farmed"
at a branch workhouse, where he underwent a course of starva-
tion and ill usage with a score or more other young offenders
against the poor-laws until he was nine years old, when he was
returned to his birthplace. His career there was cut short by
an outrageous offense on his part. The boys in the workhouse,
made desperate by the meager allowance of one porringer of
thin gruel at a meal, cast lots to determine who should ask for
more, and the lot fell upon Oliver.

410

CHARLES DICKENS 411

His bold demand for more was reported by the scan-
dalized officials to the Board, which, scandalized no less,
ordered the boy into confinement and caused a notice to be
posted offering five pounds to anyone that would take him off
the parish.

As a result he was given into the keeping of an undertaker,
whose professional genius soon saw possibilities in the boy's
beautiful face and sad expression. To have for children's
funerals a mute "in proportion" was Mr. Sowerberry's original
inspiration; and as an unusually virulent epidemic of measles
was about at the time, little Oliver headed many a mournful
procession in a hatband reaching to his knees, arousing the in-
tense admiration and emotion of onlooking mothers.

Sowerberry was not unkind to his young apprentice, but he
had an older one, a coarse and brutal charity boy, Noah Clay-
pole, who bullied Oliver from the first and became more cruel
from jealousy when Oliver was promoted to the beautiful gar-
ments of the mourner.

Oliver bore his ill treatment with meekness until one occa-
sion when Noah threw out insulting taunts about his mother.
This roused the boy's spirit, and he promptly knocked the
bully down. Noah's cowardly cries summoned the servant,
Charlotte, his sweetheart, and Mrs. Sowerberry; and Oliver was
beaten and scratched by the three and then thrown into the
dust-cellar.

Early the next morning he crept out before dawn and set
out for London. At the little town of Barnet he was accosted
by a strange-looking and strangely dressed, swaggering and
slangy boy of about his own age, who, finding that he had no
place to go, offered to take him to a benevolent old gentleman, a
friend of his own, who would give him lodgings "for nothink,
and never ask for the change." He gave his name as Jack
Dawkins, but said he was known among his intimate friends as
the Artful Dodger.

Accepting the offer, Oliver was taken to London that night
and through filthy slums to a house near Field Lane, where he
was introduced to his future benefactor, Mr. Fagin.

The old gentleman, his young friend Jack, and another
boy, Charley Bates, were quite a puzzle to Oliver. The boys

4 i2 OLIVER TWIST

seemed to be very skilful workmen, sometimes bringing in pocket-
books they had made and lined and sometimes silk handker-
chiefs they had made and marked; but the old gentleman was
not pleased with the marking, and taught Oliver to take out the
marks. Then their games were so funny; the merry old gen-
tleman would put a watch in his waistcoat pocket, a pin in his
shirt-bosom, and other things in his coat and trousers-pockets,
and then pretend to go staring into shop-windows like an old
countryman; the two boys would follow him, and while one
was distracting his attention the other would relieve him of
these various articles.

An understanding of the puzzle came suddenly to Oliver
one day when he had permission to go out with the boys. They
came across an old gentleman quite absorbed in a book he had
picked up at a book-stall; and Oliver to his horror saw the
Dodger draw a handkerchief from the old man's pocket, which
he handed to Charley; and then both disappeared around the
corner. In an instant Oliver understood; and in his fright and
confusion he ran away as fast as he could.

Just then the gentleman missed his handkerchief and nat-
urally inferred that the running boy was the thief. Shouting
"Stop thief !" he made after Oliver; the two boys, who had hid-
den around the corner, seeing how matters stood, joined in the
cry and pursuit, and soon a mob was in full chase.

Felled at last by a blow, Oliver lay on the pavement, whence
a police officer took him before a magistrate, Mr. Fang. Noth-
ing was found upon him, and the gentleman, Mr. Brownlow,
said he was not at all sure of the boy's guilt; but Fang, after
bullying Mr. Brownlow, had just committed the boy to hard
labor for three months when the bookseller appeared and
cleared him. He had seen the robbery committed by another
boy, but could not get to court sooner, as he had had no one to
leave in charge of the stall.

Finding that Oliver was ill from excitement and fright, Mr.
Brownlow took him in a coach to his own home at Pentonville,
where he was tenderly cared for by the housekeeper, Mrs. Bed-
win, during the fever which held him for many days. While
he was recovering he noticed the portrait of a young lady that
had great attraction for him; and Mr. Brownlow called the

CHARLES DICKENS

housekeeper's attention to a strong resemblance between it and
Oliver himself.

When he was well enough, Mr. Brownlow asked him for
the story of his life and promised to befriend him. Oliver was
about to comply when they were interrupted by a visitor, Mr.
Grimwig; and before he had gone, Mr. Brownlow sent Oliver
to the bookseller with some books to return and five pounds
to pay for some he had kept.

Meantime Fagin had been much disturbed and very angry
at the loss of Oliver; and it had been agreed that Nancy, a clever
girl who lived with a brutal burglar, Bill Sikes, a confederate in
villainy with Fagin, should try to get the boy back. She had
traced him to Pentonville, and meeting him now as he was on
his way with the books and money, claimed him as her runaway
brother. With the help of Sikes she held him fast, the by-
standers believing her story, and advising them to punish the
young rascal well advice which Sikes had anticipated by many
heavy blows. Threatening the child that at the least cry Sikes's
dog Bull's-eye would be at his throat, they dragged h;m back to
Fagin, where he was quickly relieved of the books and money
and the clothes Mr. Brownlow had given him.

An attempt of Oliver to run away was quickly foiled; but
Fagin's intention to beat him for it was interfered with by
Nancy, the owner of the only conscience among them, which
conscience was already accusing her for the part she had played.
And thereafter, at much risk to herself, she did what she could
to befriend Oliver.

Mr. Brownlow's advertisement of five guineas reward for
the discovery of Oliver Twist, or anything that would throw light
on his past, was seen by Mr. Bumble, who answered in person.
Inferring from a remark of Mr. Grimwig that an unfavorable
report would be most acceptable, he told them that Oliver
was the treacherous and ungrateful son of low and vicious
parents; that he had run away from his employer after a bloody
and cowardly attack upon an unoffending lad. When Mr.
Brownlow paid the reward with the remark that he would gladly
have given twice as much for a good account of the boy, Mr.
Bumble saw his mistake.

After keeping Oliver a close prisoner for some time and

4 i4 OLIVER TWIST

trying to get him committed to some act that would give a tight
hold upon him by working upon his fears and his ignorance,
Fagin delivered him to Sikes and one Toby Crackit to help in a
burglary they were planning, where a boy was needed who
could be put through a small window, the only one left unlocked
in the house to be robbed.

This was clone. Sikes put Oliver into the window with
orders to go to the street-door and unbolt it for them, warning
him that he would be covered all the way by the pistol in the
burglar's hand.

Oliver was resolved that even if he died in the attempt he
would try to dart up the stairs and alarm the family. But as
he advanced Sikes called: " Back! " There was a noise, a cry,
two men appeared at the head of the stairs a flash, a report;
Oliver staggered back, was caught by Sikes and pulled through
the window.

" They've hit him! Damnation, how the boy bleeds! " said
Sikes.

Oliver heard the ringing of a bell and the noise of shouting
and felt himself carried away rapidly, then knew no more what
was happening. The burglars found themselves hard pressed,
dropped him in a ditch and fled. The pursuers Giles, the
butler, Brittles, the boy of all work, and a traveling tinker
called back the dogs and returned to the house.

In the course of the forenoon Oliver came to himself, rose
feebly, and staggering to the road reached the house; recognizing
it, his first impulse was to fly; but he was too weak to go farther;
so he climbed the steps, knocked faintly and sank on the porch,
where he was found by the servants and was carried into the
hall.

Hearing the excited talk below, a young lady came to the top
of the stairs to inquire the cause. Giles told her they had one
of the thieves, wounded; and added with great complacency:
"I shot him, Miss, and Brittles held the light."

The young lady, who was the adopted daughter of Mrs.
Maylie, the owner of the house, ordered them to carry the bur-
glar to the butler's room and send for a constable and a doctor.

Mr. Losberne, the doctor, having bound up the wounded
arm, took Mrs. Maylie and Rose to look at the desperate house-

CHARLES DICKENS 415

breaker. Surprised and touched at sight of the delicate boy,
Rose begged that he might not be sent to a prison, which would
be the grave of all chances of amendment charitably surmising
that he might have been driven by want and ill treatment to
herd with criminals; and the doctor, though not so sure of his
innocence, promised to do his best to save the boy if upon ex-
amination he proved not to be "a thorough bad one"; if other-
wise, he was to be left to his fate.

When Oliver regained consciousness he told his miserable
story so simply as to convince them of its truth. The doctor
then talked to Giles and Brittles till they were bewildered and
scared into acknowledging that they could not swear that Oliver
was the boy they had seen in the house; and the Bow Street
officers whom they had summoned in their excitement were
led to believe that he was a child who had been injured by a
spring-gun in some boyish trespass on a neighbor's grounds;
this was corroborated by the fact that the fellow-pistol to the
one Giles had fired was found to have no loading but gun-
powder and paper, the doctor having secretly drawn the ball.

So Oliver was left with the Maylies, the doctor and Mrs.
Maylie giving bail for his appearance at court if he should be
wanted.

His great anxiety was to set himself right with Mr. Brown-
low; and as soon as he was well enough the doctor took him to
Pentonville, only to find that Mr. Brownlow had gone to the
West Indies six weeks before with the housekeeper and Mr.
Grimwig.

Sitting one warm evening over his books for Rose was
teaching him Oliver fell into a light slumber, and while half
conscious heard voices, first the familiar one of Fagin, who said :
"It is he, sure enough."

"He!" another voice answered. "Could I mistake him?
If a crowd of devils were to put themselves into his exact shape,
and he stood amongst them, there is something that would tell
me how to point him out. If you buried him fifty feet deep and
took me across his grave I should know it if there wasn't a mark
above it, I should! "

He spoke with such venom that Oliver awoke and saw at
the window the face of Fagin and that of another man whom

416 OLIVER TWIST

he had seen once before glaring at him in the inn-yard at "The
Three Cripples." He called for help, but the men could not
be found.

Meantime, Mr. Bumble had married the matron of the
workhouse and become the nominal head of that institution
only nominal, to his mortification and sorrow. There he was
visited by Monks, the man Oliver had seen, who asked for the
old woman that had been nurse to Oliver's mother. She was
dead; but Bumble remembered that his wife had had an inter-
view with her on her death-bed, at her request. He therefore
told Monks that he thought he could bring someone that could
give him intelligence of her, and made an appointment to meet
him the next evening at an obscure address by the waterside.

Mrs. Bumble's information, which she gave to Monks only
after bargaining for a payment of twenty-five pounds, was that
the old woman had told her that Oliver's mother had given into
her care for the boy a little gold locket containing two locks
of hair and a wedding-ring with the name "Agnes" inside and
a date within a year before her death. These the old woman
had pawned; but she had kept the ticket and with this Mrs.
Bumble had redeemed the trinkets, which she now gave to
Monks.

He opened a trap in the floor beneath which the water,
swollen from recent rains, was rushing turbidly, and dropped
the little packet into it.

Although Fagin and Sikes cherished a deadly hatred for
each other, they were held together by a bond of crime. About
this time Bill was recovering from an illness in which he had been
faithfully tended by his brutally ill-treated slave, Nancy. When
Fagin came to see him he demanded some money, which Fagin
promised and Bill sent Nancy home with him to get it. Sus-
pecting that some plot against Oliver was on foot, she concealed
herself whera she could overhear Monks's confidence to Fagin,
and learned what had been done with Oliver's property.

The next night, having given Bill a dose of laudanum, she
went to Rose Mpylie, confessed her part in entrapping Oliver
and told what she knew; how Monks had expressed bitter hatred
for the boy, declaring that if he could take Oliver's life without
endangering his own neck he would; but, as he :oukbrt, he

CHARLES DICKENS 4*7

would be on the watch for every opportunity to lay a snare for
his young brother.

"His brother!" said Rose.

"Those were his words. And he said you would give thou-
sands of pounds, if you had them, to know who your two-legged
spaniel was."

Protesting that it was too late for her to follow Rose's advice
to leave Sikes and lead a better life, and exacting a promise that
he should not be betrayed, Nance made an appointment to be
on London Bridge every Sunday evening from eleven to twelve,
where Oliver's friends might find her if necessary.

Noah Claypole, having taken secret leave of Mr. Sower-
berry, went to London with his wife, Charlotte, and some of
Mr. Sowerberry's money, and drifted to "The Three Cripples,"
a low inn frequented by Fagin and his intimates. There he met
Fagin; they soon understood each other, and Noah put himself
under Fagin's direction, only stipulating that his work should
be light and not dangerous. It was decided that he should take
the "kinchin lay," that is, look out for children going on errands
with sixpences or shillings, take their money, knock them down,
and walk off as if nothing more was the matter than a child
fallen down.

The next Sunday night Nancy was prevented from keeping
her promise to be at the bridge by the obstinacy of Bill, who
locked her up on suspicion when he saw her preparing to go.

Fagin, who was present, conceived the idea that she had
wearied of the burglar's abuse and had formed an attachment
to someone else. When she went to the door to let him out, he
hinted to her that he could show her a safe and easy way to rid
herself of Sikes, hoping thus to satisfy his hatred and be free
of a dangerous confederate. But she received the hint coldly;
and his next plan was to have her watched and by threatening
to reveal her infidelity to Sikes secure her compliance.

He therefore employed Claypole to shadow her, the result
being that the spy heard and reported an interview the next
Sunday night between Nancy and Rose and Mr. Brownlow,
who had now returned to London, and was trying with the
Maylies and Mr. Losberne to discover the facts about Oliver.
In this interview, having received a promise that nothing should
A.D., VOL. vi. 27

4 i8 OLIVER TWIST

be done against Sikes or Fagin, Nance told them where Monks
could be found and by what marks they might recognize him
marks that caused Mr. Brownlow to start and acknowledge that
he believed he knew him.

Fagin, maddened at the setback to his schemes, for he had
a heavy stake on Monks's success in ruining Oliver, and dis-
trustful of the pledges not to give him up to the law, formed a
plan to revenge himself on both Sikes and Nancy.

He told Sikes that Nance had given him laudanum two
weeks before, and that she had met people with whom she was
plotting to give him up. As he had foreseen, Sikes rushed
home in a rage, murdered the girl most brutally and then took
flight. After wandering about in the country, he went back to
his old haunt, London, to find that Fagin had been taken, and
that his own crime had been too atrocious for even his old com-
panions to tolerate him. Charley Bates himself gave the alarm
that brought not only the police but a furious mob in pursuit.
Sikes took refuge upon the roof with a rope, by which he hoped
to let himself down into a ditch at the back of the house. But
as he was slipping the noose over his head, intending to draw
it beneath his armpits, the dead eyes of his victim, which had
pursued him all the way, came up before him in a vision. He
screamed, staggered, lost his balance, and fell over the para-
pet. The noose ran up with his weight, tightened about
his neck, and left him hanging, strangled, five-and-thirty feet
below.

The information Nance had given, together with Mr. Brown-
low's previous knowledge, sufficed to clear up the mystery of
Oliver's origin and the cause of the pursuit of him by Monks.

Many years before, Mr. Brownlow's betrothed had died on
the eve of their marriage. His intimate friend, her brother,
named Leeford, had been driven by ambitious relatives, while
he was a mere boy, into a distasteful marriage with a woman
ten years his senior. Monks, or Edward Leeford, was the
child of this marriage; he had shared his mother's gay life in
Paris after she had separated from her husband.

Some years later, Leeford had met Agnes Fleming and they
had become passionately attached to each other, the girl not
knowing that he could not be free to redeem his promise of

CHARLES DICKENS 419

marriage, as he told her some secret mystery prevented his doing
at once. Leeford was called to Rome, where a rich kinsman
had died, leaving him his property; there he was seized with
mortal illness and died the day after the arrival of his wife, who
hastened from Paris when she heard of his inheritance. His
will, which she destroyed, left annuities to her and Edward, and
the bulk of the estate to Agnes and her expected child.

On his way to Rome, Leeford had visited Brownlow and
told him of his troubles and his intention to leave the country
with Agnes; and had left with him a picture of her, the one whose
resemblance to Oliver had given Mr. Brownlow his first suspicion
of the truth. When he had gone to find her after Leeford's
death, he had found that the whole family had disappeared.

Mr. Brownlow had a hold on Monks through the knowledge
of his crimes and forced him to reveal the facts that made the
story complete. His mother had written to the father of Agnes,
giving him the truth with every aggravation her hatred could
add. Mr. Fleming had taken up his residence in Wales under
an assumed name. Agnes had left her home, and after a fruit-
less search for her, her father had died believing she had de-
stroyed herself. He left a little daughter, who was rescued from
a wretched existence and adopted by Mrs. Maylie. This was
no other than Rose.

Monks had promised his dying mother to hunt down the
child of Agnes, to do all he could to plunge it into crime, drag-
ging it, if possible, to the very foot of the gallows. This he had
sought to do with the help of Fagin.

The Artful Dodger had been caught, convicted, and trans-
ported some time before. Fagin was brought to trial and
executed. Charley Bates took warning and reformed. The
Leeford property had been so reduced by the dissipations of
Edward and his mother that only six thousand pounds re-
mained. Mr. Brownlow divided it between the sons, hoping
that Edward might make good use of it and begin a better life;
but he fell into his old courses, and finally died in prison.

Rose was married to Harry Maylie, whom she had stead-
fastly refused, lest the cloud upon her origin should bring a
blight upon his career; and Oliver became the adopted son
of Mr. Brownlow.

NICHOLAS NICKLEBY (1839)

Issued originally in monthly shilling numbers, with illustrations by "Phiz"
(Hablot Knight Browne), this novel was brought out on its completion in volume
form, with a portrait of the author after a painting by Maclise, and a dedication
to William C. Macready, the English actor. Its purpose was to expose the
abuses in the cheap private board-schools the mercenary character of their
management, the coarseness and ignorance of many of the teachers, and the
neglect of real education. It had the effect of drawing public attention to these
abuses and doing away with some of the worst of them. The character of Mrs.
Nickleby is said to have been drawn from that of the author's mother, and the
originals of the Cheeryble Brothers to have been the Brothers Grant, cotton-
spinners and calico printers near Manchester.

j(ALPH NICKLEBY, money-lender, was right in
lamenting the fatal tendency for getting poor,
the most distinguishing characteristic of his
brother Nicholas. Nicholas died after losing the
family estate in Devonshire by speculation, and
his simple-minded widow, with her children,
Nicholas, about nineteen, and Kate, about six-
teen, went to London. " There, I knew it!"
said Ralph, when he received the news.
"Knew what?" asked Newman Noggs, from the little closet
where he kept the books that showed the results of old Ralph's
villainies.

Newman had been a gentleman once; now he was a shabby
person with a red nose and an overwhelming thirst. He had
begun by borrowing money from Ralph Nickleby, and had bor-
rowed many thousands of pounds at usurious interest; at length
even his request for one pound was refused ; but Ralph happened
to want a clerk who would work cheap so Newman Noggs re-
ceived that office instead of the pound.

When Newman asked, "Knew what?" old Ralph replied
that that brother of his down in Devonshire being dead, he,
Ralph, would be expected to "feed a great, hearty woman and
two growing children." Then in high ill-humor the money-

CHARLES DICKENS 421

lender sought the modest apartments over Miss La Creevy's
miniature shop, where his brother's wife had taken refuge.

" Mine was no common loss," said the widow, after the first
words of greeting had passed.

" It was no uncommon one, ma'am," replied Ralph. " Hus-
bands die every day."

"And brothers, too, it would seem," said young Nicholas.

"Yes, sir, and puppies likewise," growled the uncle.

As he looked at Nicholas and the boy looked at him, it was
evident that two antipathetic natures gazed at each other.
Still, when Ralph proposed that Nicholas take a place he thought
he could procure for him as teacher in Mr. Wackford Squeers's
academy, Dotheboys Hall, in Yorkshire, "where young gentle-
men and young noblemen were educated and generally done
for," and when he further offered Kate a place in Mrs. Man-
talini's dressmaking establishment, the young man thought he
might have judged his uncle harshly, and wrung the old money-
lender's hand in an excess of joy and gratitude.

Nicholas found Squeers not prepossessing. He had but one
eye, which was greenish, and resembled in shape a fanlight over
a door. The blank side of his face was much wrinkled and
puckered up. His hair was flat and shiny, except where it was
brushed straight up from a low, protruding forehead. He was
short of stature, rough of voice and coarse of manner, as well as
dirty in dress.

Old Ralph and Squeers greeted each other in a way that
showed they had done business together before and that, some-
how, either by his knowledge of Squeers's methods of education or
of his past, the money-lender had power over the schoolmaster.

As the coach was about to start, Newman Noggs handed
Nicholas a letter, intimating that Ralph, who was saying a few
earnest words to Squeers, was not to know of it. " I know the
world," said Noggs in his epistle. "Your father did not, or he
would not have done me a kindness when there was no hope of
return. If you should ever want shelter in London, I live at the
sign of the Crown in Silver Street, Golden Square."

It was a winter's night, with the snow lying white over a wild
country, when Nicholas was ushered into the cheerless house
of Dotheboys Hall. A large, bony woman, half a head taller

4*2 NICHOLAS NICKLEBY

than Squeers, seized the schoolmaster by the throat and gave
him two loud kisses. This was Mrs. Squeers. "How is my
Squeery?" she inquired playfully, in a deep, hoarse voice. The
rest of the Squeers family was made up of Master Wackford
Squeers, Jr., a boy of ten, who bullied the other boys and took
their clothes away from them for his own use when they hap-
pened to have any worth taking, and Miss Fanny Squeers, about
sixteen. Miss Fanny at once began to make eyes at Nicholas,
for he dined with the family that night. But Nicholas was more
interested in the appearance of a youth called Smike, who waited
on the table and appeared to be a common drudge.

Smike, though approaching twenty, and tall for his age,
wore a skeleton suit, such as is usually put on little boys, which,
though absurdly short for his frame, was abundantly wide
enough for his attenuated form. Around his neck was a tat-
tered child's frill, half concealed by a man's neck-cloth.

"Well, Smike, what is it?" asked Squeers, seeing that the
strange creature showed a desire to speak to him.

"Is there has there," hesitatingly began Smike, "any-
thing been heard about me?"

u No!" roared Squeers. "Nor ain't likely to be either.
Pretty thing, ain't it, that you should have been here all these
years and no money paid for you after the first six? Get out!"

The next morning Nicholas found that the schoolroom was
squalid, dirty, miserable to the last degree; but the pupils the
young noblemen! Pale, haggard faces, lank and bony figures,
children with the countenances of old men, deformities with irons
on their limbs, boys of stunted growth, and others whose long,
meager legs would scarcely bear their stooping bodies, all were
crowded together the harelip, the blear eye, deformity, neg-
lect, cruelty, and horrible endurance. Little faces were there
that should have been handsome and instead were those of
sullen and vicious-faced boys brooding like malefactors in a
jail! And yet this dreadful scene had its ludicrous features, for
Mrs. Squeers was stationed at one end of the room, where she
was feeding out brimstone and treacle to each boy in turn.
"Medicates 'em," said Squeers. "Rot!" said Mrs. Squeers.
"It takes away their appetites, and that's good for us. It
purifies their blood, and I hope that's good for them."

CHARLES DICKENS 423

Every day Nicholas grew more desperate at the scenes of
oppression. At last Smike, whom he had taken under his
special protection, so far as he could, ran away and was brought
back to be treated with such exaggeration of cruelty that Nicholas
could bear it no longer. In the presence of the whole school he
cast off all self-control, thrashed Squeers savagely, and departed
with Smike.

After he had trudged some miles with the poor, half-witted
boy through the wintry country lanes, resolved to walk to Lon-
don, he began to realize that he had done a hasty thing. He
had but two shillings in his pocket, and the way was long.
But relief appeared in the shape of John Browdie, a hale young
Yorkshire farmer, with whom Nicholas had become acquainted
during his stay at Dotheboys Hall, and who had recently mar-
ried "'Tildy Price, a friendly enemy of Fanny Squeers."

"Ho, ho, ho!" laughed the big fellow. "Giv' us thy bond,
yoongster. Beaten the schoolmaster, hast thee? Dang it, I
love thee for it," and then honest John insisted on lending
Nicholas sufficient money for his trip to London.

Arrived there, Nicholas sought Newman Noggs, and in his
quarters found a refuge for himself and his charge. Newman
told him that Ralph Nickleby had given Kate and her mother
quarters in a half-ruinous, deserted house of his, and that Kate
was still working for Madame Mantalini.

The next morning, after Nicholas arrived at the new home
of his mother and sister, he found there Ralph, who had re-
ceived a letter from Miss Squeers, her "pa" being still too ill to
write, in which Nicholas was accused not only of having beaten
the schoolmaster within an inch of his life, but also of having
abducted Smike and stolen a ruby ring from Mrs. Squeers.

Ralph had just read this letter, and Kate and her mother
were in tears when Nicholas entered. "It is a lie!" he shouted.
"I did thrash Squeers, and he deserved it. I have rescued from
his cruelty a poor, half-witted boy. But there has been no
theft, as you well know."

"Oh, dear!" sobbed poor, simple-minded Mrs. Nickleby,
"I don't know what to think. Nicholas is so violent and his
uncle has so much composure. But I suppose we can go to the
workhouse or the refuge for the destitute, or Magdalen Hospital."

4 2 4 "NICHOLAS NICKLEBY

Kate indignantly disclaimed belief in the accusations, but
Ralph sternly said that if Nicholas would go away he would see
that his mother and sister did not want. If he stayed, all his help
would be withdrawn at once.

Nicholas departed. At first he tried giving French lessons
to the Miss Kenwigses, the four daughters of Newman Noggs's
landlord, but that was hardly remunerative enough to support
himself and Smike. He tried other things and at last resolved
to go down into the country, where competition was less keen.
There he fell in with a strolling company, and became an actor,
under the tuition of the Crummies family. Smike was drilled
into playing a walking part, and for a time Nicholas pros-
pered.

But Newman Noggs had promised to let Nicholas know
should his presence in London be required.

The storm broke suddenly. A letter from Newman warned
him that there was wrong in Ralph's treatment of Kate, and
Nicholas hastened to London at once.

He left Smike at Newman's lodgings and went out for a
walk, planning to be back there by the time Noggs should arrive
home. But he was hungry. He saw a restaurant, "a rather
expensive place," he thought but went in and called for re-
freshments.

It was a highly decorated place, and highly decorated men,
evidently of the ornate and sporting class, were sitting about,
talking loudly. Suddenly, in a box behind him, a man shouted :
" Here's to the little Nickleby pretty little Kate. We'll give the
first glass of the fresh magnum to her."

"She's a true Nickleby," said another. "She's a true niece
of her Uncle Ralph's. She hangs back, the jade, to be more
sought after!"

" Yes, infernal cunning," simpered two other voices. " Right
you are, Sir Mulberry."

Nicholas sprang from his seat and approached the group.
"I would have a word with you, sir," he said to the man ad-
dressed as Sir Mulberry.

"Upon my word, I don't know you," said the Baronet, eye-
ing Nicholas insolently. Nicholas threw his card on the table,
saying: "That is my name. My business you can guess."

CHARLES DICKENS 425

"Here, you, sir!" cried Sir Mulberry to a waiter. "Throw
this card in the fire."

"Give me your name," shouted Nicholas. "You cannot
escape me."

For reply the stranger coolly adjusted his neck-cloth, walked
out of the place and entered a waiting cabriolet. "Let go her
head," said he to the groom.

Nicholas sprang on the step and seized the reins. The mare
was high-spirited and plunged violently, and the groom re-
leased his hold of the frightened animal's head. Sir Mulberry
brought his whip down violently on Nicholas. It was broken
in the struggle, and Nicholas, gaining possession of the heavy
end, laid open the Baronet's face from the eye to the lip.

It was all done in a second, and then Nicholas lay stunned
on the pavement, while the runaway mare went wildly careering
up the sidewalk, dragging the cabriolet from side to side, until
there came a loud cry, the smashing of a heavy body, and Sir
Mulberry Hawk was picked out of the ruins, nearly dead, and
disfigured for life.

As soon as Nicholas recovered he returned to Noggs's quar-
ters, told hastily what had happened, and learned the name of
the man whom he had assaulted and why Newman had recalled
him to London.

Ralph Nickleby, for his own purposes, had introduced to
Kate young Lord Verisopht and Sir Mulberry Hawk, two rakes
to whom he loaned money at fat rates. The young lord was a
simple fellow, and Ralph and Sir Mulberry were plucking him,
the money-lender incidentally winding his toils around Sir Mul-
berry.

The old rascal was using the innocent charms of Kate to
bind the two men closer to him. He had said, when their at-
tentions to his niece had been particularly outrageous: "Phoo!
What of it? The girl can take care of herself. No real harm
will come to her."

Kate had tried in vain to escape from the persecutions of
her uncle's clients, and had become terrified at the toils in which
she felt herself becoming enmeshed, when Newman had sum-
moned Nicholas to London.

The Mantalini establishment having failed when Ralph

426 NICHOLAS NICKLEBY

stopped lending it money, the girl was now companion to a
certain lady of fashion, Mrs. Wititterly. Nicholas went there
early the next morning. "I have been so unhappy, dear
brother," sobbed Kate, when she saw him. "Oh, take me
away."

He took her away immediately, and, getting his mother,
told her that none of them could any longer inhabit Ralph
Nickleby's house, and bestowed them in the lodgings over little
Miss La Creevy's miniature shop.

And now behold Nicholas with his mother and sister and
Smike to support, only a few pounds left, no employment, and
no friends able to help him.

Again he began the search for employment. One day, as he
stood looking at the cards in the window of an employment
agency, he noticed an old gentleman also regarding them. He
was such an open-hearted, kind-appearing old gentleman that
Nicholas ventured to ask whether he knew of any employment
for a young man. Something about him so inspired confidence
that the first thing Nicholas knew he had revealed his entire story.

The old gentleman was Charles Cheeryble, and before the
interview ended Nicholas had obtained a place as clerk to the
brothers Charles and Ned, whose old clerk, Tim Linkinwater,
was getting along in years, and, as Brother Charles said, they
did need assistance, though they would not have him think so
for the world, Tim was such a terrible fellow if he took a notion.

There was a little house at Bow belonging to the Cheeryble
brothers, which they let to Nicholas for a nominal rent. There
Smike tended the garden and worshiped Kate, as a devotee
might worship a saint.

Frank Cheeryble, nephew of the brothers, came out to see
the family at Bow, and it was not difficult to perceive what an
impression Kate made on him.

There was content and comfort in the little cottage now.
The poor Nicklebys were happy. The rich Nickleby was lonely
and unhappy and planning revenge on his kind.

And now Nicholas awoke to the fact that he had a heart. It
fluttered in the presence of a certain young woman Madeline
Bray, who lived with her selfish invalid father, a debtor in the
"Rule of the King's Bench Prison."

CHARLES DICKENS 427

The Cheeryble brothers were assisting the gentle Madeline
by buying little sketches that she made, pretending in their
delicate way that they were bought for a firm of print-sellers of
which Nicholas was the agent. Nicholas went on this business
often to the home of Madeline, and when he saw the patient,
high-bred girl he somehow always forgot that he was in the
confines of a debtor's "limits." It seemed to him as if the
scene were Italy, the hour sunset, and the place a stately terrace.

One day in the street Smike was brought up with a sudden
jerk, felt his leg grasped, and heard a boy's voice shout: "Hoo-
ray! Here he is, father!"

Smike was a prisoner; but John Browdie, who was in Lon-
don with Squeers, let him out of the room the schoolmaster
had locked him in, and he returned to the Bow cottage.

An attempt was made by Squeers, aided by Ralph Nickleby,
to regain possession of Smike by the use of forged documents
to prove that he was the son of one Snawley; but they were
promptly turned out by Nicholas.

A few days later, Nicholas learned from Newman that his
uncle had arranged a marriage between old Arthur Gride, a
money-lender, and Madeline Bray, by working on her love for
her father and on his selfishness.

Nicholas sought Madeline and remonstrated.

"You say you have a duty to perform," said Madeline, "and
so have I. And with the help of heaven I will perform mine."

"Say rather with the help of devils," cried Nicholas.

"I must not hear this," said Madeline. "My father's
health, perhaps his life, depends upon my obedience. He was
talking as you came in, with his old smile, of the freedom which
would soon be his. Oh, pity me and leave me."

Her tears fell fast. After more fruitless expostulation Nicho-
las departed. Promptly at the appointed hour next day old
Arthur Gride, chattering and grinning, came in a coach with
Ralph Nickleby to claim his victim. Bray himself met them
as they came into the house.

"She was very ill last night," said he, "but she is calmer
now. She will be down presently." Then, drawing Ralph
aside, he whispered: "This seems a cruel thing, after all,
doesn't it?"

NICHOLAS NICKLEBY

<'No," said Ralph.

"Look at that man," repeated Bray, "that soulless old ras-
cal. It is cruel, by all that's bad and treacherous."

Leaving the two aged rascals alone, Bray went to fetch his
daughter. Soon they heard the rustling of a woman's dress in
the hall and the step of a man. Springing up to receive the
bride and her father, vast was their astonishment to see Nicholas
and Kate confronting them.

The altercation that followed was interrupted by the sound
of a fall in the room above. Mr. Bray was dead of heart disease.
That night Madeline became an inmate of the cottage at Bow,
under Kate's care, by direction of Cheeryble brothers.

Smike's health was failing rapidly, and by a physician's ad-
vice Nicholas took him to Devonshire for a change of climate.
One day, when Nicholas had left Smike alone in the garden, he
returned to find him in a state of agitation, believing he had
seen the man that took him to Squeers.

Ralph Nickleby, having learned that some papers of value
had been stolen from Arthur Gride by his former housekeeper,
Peg Sliderskew, engaged Squeers to recover them for him, hop-
ing to get a hold on Gride by means of them. But Noggs and
Frank Cheeryble discovered the scheme and caused the arrest
of Squeers just as he was receiving the papers from Peg.

When Squeers was searched, one of the papers was found
to be a will leaving a large fortune to Madeline Bray. It had
been concealed by Gride, who had once been an agent of her
uncle.

When Ralph heard of the arrest of Squeers, he hurried to
see him, and told him all would be well if he would hold his
tongue. But Squeers had decided that Ralph was on the losing
side, and refused to have anything more to do with his schemes;
and Ralph found himself deserted by Snawley and Gride as
well. In this extremity he sought the Cheerybles and found
with them Newman Noggs, who confronted him with the evi-
dence of his misdeeds.

Ralph's angry reply was interrupted by one of the brothers,
who said:

"And we have some awful news for you personal news,
Mr. Nickleby; your son is dead."

CHARLES DICKENS 439

"I have no son," said Ralph.

The door opened, and a man appeared who gazed at Ralph
with a fixed eye.

" You know me, Ralph Nickleby," said the stranger.

Ralph could not speak.

"This man/' continued the stranger, "was secretly married
and had one son. When his wife died he employed me to
bring the son to London, where he was kept for a time in a gar-
ret of his father's house. Then I was told to place him in a
school in Yorkshire. Out of revenge for this man had ruined
me I reported to him that the boy had died on the way, and
forged a death-certificate. But, in reality, I did place him in a
Yorkshire school, under the name of Smike. A while ago I
thought that I might exact money from this man by revealing to
him that his son still lived. I found, however, that the boy
had been taken from the school. I traced him out, but he died
a few days after I had found him, and the young man who res-
cued him from the school is on his way back to London. He
will be here to-morrow."

Ralph arose from his chair, still outwardly calm. "A lie,"
he said; "a blackmailing scheme."

"But," said one of the brothers, "the other charges? If
you would leave the country now? "

"Come and see me to-morrow and it shall be arranged,"
said Ralph, and he named the hour at which they were to wait
upon him. "I will leave the country," said the money-lender;
"yes, I will leave it."

When they kept the appointment with the money-lender the
next day they found him hanging to a beam in the attic of his
house.

When Frank Cheeryble married Kate Nickleby there was a
double wedding, for Nicholas married Madeline Bray on the
same day. The Nicklebys refused to make any claim for the
estate left by Ralph, and so the money for which the money-
lender had toiled all his days was swept into the coffers of the
state.

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