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LIBRARY  ^ 

UNIVtWWTY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 
SAN  DIEGO 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA.  SAN  DIEGO 

llllllllllli  mil  III  III  III  I  mil  iiiiiii  II  nil  mil 


3  1822  00809  4898 


Caroline  was  giving  the  roots  of  the  honeysuckle 
a  glass  of  water. 

(  The  Second  Home,  pa«e  322 ) 


WihvJetvg    Wt^ititxri 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT 
MODESTE  MIGNON 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 


BY 

HONORE   De BALZAC 

With  Introductions  by 

GEORGE  SAINTSBURY 


THE  THOMPSON  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

SAINT   LOUIS   AND    PHILADELPHIA 


COPYRIGHTED   1901 

3obn  2).  Bvil 

.4//  Rights  Reserved 


CONTENTS 


PART  1 


INTRODUCTION 


PAGE 

ix 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT 

{Le  Contrat  de  Mariage.) 

A  START  IN  LIFE 

(  Uu  Dibnt  dans  la  Vie.) 


143 


A  SECOND  HOME 

( Une  Double  Famille.) 
(Translator,  Clara  Bell.) 


3" 


PART  II 


INTRODUCTION 


IX 


MODESTE  MIGNON       -  -  .  . 

{Mode!.le  isris^noii  ;  Translator,  Clara  Bell.) 
THE  HATED  SON : 

{L' Enfavl  Maiidit  ;  Translator,  James  WARING  ) 


I.    HOW   THE    MOTHER    I,IVED      - 
II.    HOW   THE   SON   DIED  - 


273 
329 


THE  ATHEIST'S  MASS 

(La  Messe  de  V Athee ;  Translator,  Clara  Bell.' 
Vol.  6—1 


379 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


PART  I 

CAROLINE    WAS    GIVING   THE   ROOTS    OF   THE     HONEYSUCKLE 

A  GLASS   OF    WATER    (p.  322)      .  -  -  Frontispiece 

PAGE 
PAUL   AND   NATALIE  SAT    BY  THE   FIRE    ON  A   LITTLE 

SOFA        -  -  -  -  -  "  11 

PIERROTIN     SAT    DOWN    ON    ONE   OF  THE    ENORMOUS 

CURBSTONES       ------  153 

•'you're  the  man   FOR   ME,"    CRIED  THE   COUNT       -  380 

PART   II 

MODESTE  MIGNON  ------  14 

THESE  DREAMS  IN  BROAD  DAYLIGHT  MADE  HIM 
EVER  FONDER  OF  HIS  GENTLE  FLOWERS,  HIS 
CLOUDS,   HIS  SUN,    HIS   NOBLE  GRANITE  CLIFFS    -  32S 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT 
AND  OTHER  STORIES 


INTRODUCTION 

If  Balzac  had  been  acquainted  with  the  works  of  Chaucer 
(which  would  have  been  extremely  surprising)  he  might  have 
called  Le  Gontrat  de  Manage  "A  Legend  of  Bad  Women." 
He  has  not  been  exactly  sparing  of  studies  in  that  particular 
kind;  but  he  has  surpassed  himself  here.  Mme.  de  Mau- 
frigneuse  redeems  herself  by  her  character,  however  imper- 
fectly supported,  of  grande  dame,  Beatrix  de  Rochefide  by  a 
certain  naturalness  and  weakness,  Flore  Brazier  by  circum- 
stances and  education,  others  by  other  things.  But  Madame 
Evangelista  and  her  daughter  Natalie  may  be  said  to  be  bad 
all  through — thoroughly  poisonous  persons  who,  much  more 
than  the  actual  Milady  of  Les  Trots  Mousquetaires  (there 
was  some  charm  in  her),  deserved  to  be  taken  and  "justified" 
by  lynch  law.  If  the  "Thirteen"  (who  were  rather  interested 
in  the  matter)  had  descended  upon  both  in  the  fashion  of 
d'Artagnan  and  his  friends,  I  do  not  know  that  any  one 
would  have  had  much  right  to  complain.  How  far  the  pict- 
ure is  exaggerated  must  be  a  question  to  be  decided  partly 
by  individual  experience,  partly  by  other  arguments.  Al- 
though I  am  not  always  disposed  to  defend  Balzac  from  the 
charge  of  exaggeration,  I  think  he  is  fairly  free  from  it 
here.  j 

Madame  Evangelista,  besides  the  usual  womanly  desire  to' 
make  a  figure  in  the  capital,  has  (not  to  excuse,  but  to  ex- 
plain her)  the  equally  natural  tendency  to  regard  everybody 
outside  her  own  family  as  an  at  least  possible  enemy  to  be 

(ix) 


T  INTKODFCTION 

"oxploited"  pitilessly,  together  with  had  blood  which,  tliough 
luckily  not  common,  is  by  no  means  impossible  nor  even  ex- 
tremely rare.  Her  daughter,  as  Balzac  has  acutely  sug- 
gested, both  here  and  elsewhere,  is,  like  not  a  few  women, 
destitute  of  that  sense  of  abiding  gratitude  for  pleasure  mu- 
tually enjoyed  which  tempers  the  evil  tendencies  of  the  male 
'sex  to  no  considerable  extent.  She  has  never  cared  for  her 
husband;  she  has  no  morals;  and  (as  in  another  book  and 
subject,  her  letter  to  Felix  de  Vandenesse,  well  deserved  as 
it  is  in  the  particular  instance,  shows)  she  has  the  for- 
tunately not  universal  but  excessively  dangerous  combination 
of  utter  selfishness  with  very  clear-sighted  common-sense. 

The  men  are  equally  true,  and  much  more  agreeable.  It 
is  noteworthy  that  here  only  does  Balzac's  pattern  Byronic 
dandy  Marsay  cut  a  distinctly  agreeable  figure.  He  is  still 
something  of  a  coxcomb,  but  he  is,  as  he  is  not  very  often,  a 
gentleman;  he  is,  as  he  is  scarcely  ever,  a  good  fellow;  and 
he  deserves  his  character  as  un  honwie  tres  fort,  to  say  the 
least,  better  than  he  does  in  some  places.  The  two  family 
lawyers  are  excellent.  As  for  Paul  de  Manerville,  the  un- 
fortunate jieur  des  pois  (the  title  for  some  time  of  the  book) 
himself,  he  is  one  of  the  profoundest  of  Balzac's  studies,  and 
it  was  perhaps  rather  unkind  of  his  creator  to  call  him  a 
niais.  At  any  rate,  he  was  not  more  so  than  that  very  creator 
when  he  committed  slow  suicide  by  waiting  and  v\^orking  till 
a  woman,  who  cannot  have  been  worth  the  trouble,  at  last 
made  up  her  mind  to  "derogate"  a  little,  and,  without  any 
pecuniary  sacrifice,  to  exchange  the  position  of  widow  of  a 
member  of  a  second-rate  aristocracy  for  that  of  wife  of  one 
of  the  foremost  living  men  of  letters  in  Europe,  who  was 
himself  technically  a  gentleman.  Marsay's  letters  to  Paul 
only  put  pointedly  what  the  whole  story  puts  suggestively,  the 


INTRODUCTION  xl 

great  truth  that  you  may  "see  life"  without  knowing  it,  and 
that  for  a  certain  kind  of  respectable  person  the  sowing  of 
wild  oats  is  a  far  more  dangerous  kind  of  husbandry  than 
for  the  wildest  profligate.  It  is  true  that  Paul  has  exceed- 
ingly bad  luck,  and  that  in  countries  other  than  France  he 
might  have  subsided  into  a  most  respectable  and  comfortable 
country  gentleman.  But  as  a  great  authority,  whom  he  prob- 
ably knew,  Paul  de  Florae,  his  namesake  and  contemporary, 
remarked,  "Do  not  adopt  our  institutions  a  demi,"  so  it 
would  seem  to  be  a  maxim  that  the  two  kinds  of  life  cannot 
be  combined — at  least,  that  seems  to  be  Balzac's  moral. 

The  second  story  in  the  volume,  a  very  slight  touch  of  un- 
necessary cruelty  excepted,  is  one  of  the  truest  and  most 
amusing  of  all  Balzac's  repertoire;  and  it  is  conducted  ac- 
cording to  the  orthodox  methods  of  poetical  justice.  It  is 
impossible  not  to  recognize  the  justice  of  the  portraiture  of 
the  luckless  Oscar  Husson,  and  the  exact  verisimilitude  of  the 
way  in  which  he  succumbs  to  the  temptations  and  practical 
jokes  (the  first  title  of  the  story  was  Le  Danger  des  Mystifi- 
cations) of  his  companions.  I  am  not  a  good  authority  on 
matters  dramatic;  but  it  seems  to  me  that  the  story  would 
lend  itself  to  the  stage  in  the  right  hands  better  than  almost 
anything  that  Balzac  has  done.  Half  an  enfant  terrible  and 
half  a  Sir  Martin  Mar-all,  the  luckless  Oscar  "puts  his  foot 
into  it,"  and  emerges  in  deplorable  .condition,  with  a  sus- 
tained success  which  would  do  credit  to  all  but  the  very  best 
writers  of  farcical  comedy,  and  would  not  disgrace  the  very 
best. 

In  such  pieces  the  characters  other  than  the  hero  have  but 
to  play  contributory  parts,  and  here  they  do  not  fail  to  do 
so.  M.  de  Serizy,  whom  it  pleased  Balzac  to  keep  in  a  dozen 
books  as  his  stock  example  of  the  unfortunate  husband,  plays 


xll  INTRODUCTION 

his  part  with  at  least  as  much  tlignity  as  is  easily  possible 
to  such  a  personage.  Madame  Clapart  is  not  too  absurd  as 
the  fond  motiier  of  the  cub;  and  Moreau,  her  ancient  lover, 
is  equally  commendable  in  the  not  very  easy  part  of  a  "pro- 
tector." The  easy-going  ladies  who  figure  in  Oscar's  second 
collapse  display  well  enough  that  rather  facile  generosity  and 
good-nature  which  Balzac  is  fond  of  attributing  to  them. 
As  for  the  "Mystificators,"  Balzac,  as  usual,  is  decidedly 
more  lenient  to  the  artist  folk  than  he  is  elsewhere  to  men  of 
letters.  Mistlgris,  or  Leon  de  Lora,  is  always  a  pleasant  per- 
son, and  Joseph  Bridau  always  a  respectable  one.  Georges 
Marest  is  no  doubt  a  bad  fellow,  but  he  gets  punished. 

Nor  ought  we  to  omit  notice  of  the  careful  study  of  the 
apprenticeship  of  a  lawyer's  clerk,  wherein,  as  elsewhere  no 
doubt,  Balzac  profited  by  his  own  novitiate.  Altogether  the 
story  is  a  pleasant  one,  and  we  acquiesce  in  the  tempering 
of  the  wind  to  Oscar  when  that  ordinary  person  is  consoled 
fcr  his  sufferings  with  the  paradise  of  the  French  bourgeois 
---a  respectable  place,  a  wife  with  no  dangerous  brilliancy, 
and  a  good  dot. 

Une  Double  Famille,  which  had  an  almost  unusually  com- 
plicated history  and  several  titles,  appears  here  (for  reasons 
of  practical  convenience)  out  of  its  old  place  in  conjunction 
with  the  Ckat  qui  Pelote.  It  is  a  good  specimen  of  Balzac's 
average  work,  neither  mucii  above  nor  much  below  the  run 
of  its  fellows. 

The  first  titles  of  the  two  main  stories  have  been  given 
(above.  La  Fleur  des  pois,  as  such,  appeared  in  no  newspaper, 
but  in  the  Scenes  de  la  Vie  Privee  of  1834-35.  It  had  three 
divisions,  which  disappeared  in  the  first  edition  of  the  Come- 
die,  when  also  the  title  was  changed.  Its  companion  was 
printed  under  its  first  title,  and  with  fourteen  chapter  divi- 


INTRODUCTION  xiii 

sions,  in  a  paper  called  La  Legislature,  between  July  and  Sep- 
tember 1842.  Balzac  at  first  meant  to  call  it  Les  Jeunes 
Gens,  but  changed  this  to  Le  Danger  des  Mystifications,  and 
that  again  to  the  present  form,  when  it  appeared  (with  La 
fausse  Maitresse)  as  a  book  in  1844.  Next  year  it  was  classed 
in  the  Comedie,  undergoing  the  usual  process  of  deletion  of 
the  chapter  divisions  and  headings.  G.  S. 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT 

To  G.  Rossini 

Monsieur  de  Manerville  the  elder  was  a  worthy  gentleman 
of  Normandy,  well  known  to  the  Mareehal  de  Richelieu,  who 
arranged  his  marriage  with  one  of  the  richest  heiresses  of 
Bordeaux  at  the  time  when  the  old  Duke  held  court  in  that 
city  as  Governor  of  Guienne.  The  Norman  gentleman  sold 
the  lands  he  owned  in  Bessin,  and  established  himself  as  a 
Gascon,  tempted  to  this  step  by  the  beauty  of  the  estate  c*f 
Lanstrac,  a  delightful  residence  belonging  to  his  wife. 
Towards  the  end  of  Louis  XV.'s  reign,  he  purchased  the  post 
of  Major  of  the  King's  bodyguard,  and  lived  till  1813,  having 
happily  survived  the  Eevolution. 

This  was  how.  In  the  winter  of  1790  he  made  a  voyage 
to  Martinique,  where  his  wife  had  property,  leaving  the  man- 
agement of  his  estates  in  Gascony  to  a  worthy  notary's  clerk 
named  Mathias,  who  had  some  taint  of  the  new  ideas.  On 
his  return,  the  Comte  de  Manerville  found  his  possessions 
safe  and  profitably  managed.  This  shrewdness  was  the  fruit 
of  a  graft  of  the  Gascon  on  the  Norman. 

Madame  de  Manerville  died  in  1810.  Her  husband,  hav- 
ing learned  by  the  dissipations  of  his  youth  the  importance  of 
money,  and,  like  many  old  men,  ascribing  to  it  a  greater  power 
in  life  than  it  possesses.  Monsieur  de  Manerville  became 
progressively  thrifty,  avaricious,  and  mean.  Forgetting  that 
stingy  fathers  make  spendthrift  sons,  he  allowed  scarcely  any- 
thing to  his  son,  though  he  was  an  only  child. 

Paul  de  Manerville  came  home  from  college  at  Vendome 
towards  the  end  of  1810,  and  for  three  years  lived  under  his 
father's  rule.     The  tyranny  exercised  by  the  old  man  of  sixty- 


2  A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT 

nine  over  his  sole  lioir  could  not  fail  to  afTect  a  heart  and 
character  as  yet  unformed.  Though  he  did  not  lack  the 
physical  courage  which  would  seem  to  be  -in  the  air  of 
Gascony,  Paul  dared  not  contend  with  his  father,  and  lost 
the  elasticity  of  resistance  that  gives  rise  to  moral  courage. 
His  suppressed  feelings  were  pent  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart, 
where  he  kept  them  long  in  reserve  without  daring  to  express 
them ;  thus,  at  a  later  time,  when  he  felt  that  they  were  not  in 
accordance  with  the  maxims  of  the  world,  though  he  could 
think  rightly,  he  could  act  wrongly.  He  would  have  fought 
at  a  word,  while  he  quaked  at  the  thought  of  sending  away 
a  servant;  for  his  shyness  found  a  field  in  any  struggle  which 
demanded  persistent  determination.  Though  capable  of 
much  to  escape  persecution,  he  would  never  have  taken  steps 
to  hinder  it  by  systematic  antagonism,  nor  have  met  it  by  a 
steady  display  of  strength.  A  coward  in  mind,  though  bold 
in  action,  he  preserved  till  late  that  unconfessed  innocence 
which  makes  a  man  the  victim,  the  voluntary  dupe,  of  things 
against  which  such  natures  hesitate  to  rebel,  preferring  to 
suffer  rather  than  complain. 

He  was  a  prisoner  in  his  father's  old  house,  for  he  had  not 
money  enough  to  disport  himself  with  the  young  men  of  the 
town ;  he  envied  them  their  amusements,  but  could  not  share 
them.  The  old  gentleman  took  him  out  every  evening  in  an 
antique  vehicle,  drawn  by  a  pair  of  shabbily-harnessed  horses, 
attended  to  by  two  antique  and  shabbily-dressed  men-servants, 
into  the  society  of  a  royalist  clique,  consisting  of  the  waifs  of 
the  nobility  of  the  old  Parlement  and  of  the  sword.  These  two 
bodies  of  magnates,  uniting  after  the  Eevolution  to  resist 
Imperial  influence,  had  by  degrees  become  an  aristocracy  of 
landowners.  Overpowered  by  the  wealth  and  the  shifting 
fortunes  of  a  great  seaport,  this  Faubourg  Saint-Germain 
of  Bordeaux  responded  with  scorn  to  the  magnificence  of 
commerce  and  of  the  civil  and  military  authorities. 

Too  young  to  understand  social  distinctions  and  the  poverty 
hidden  under  the  conspicuous  vanity  to  which  they  give  rise, 
Paul  was  bored  to  death  among  these  antiques,  not  knowing 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  3 

that  these  associations  of  his  youth  would  secure  to  him  the 
aristocratic  pre-eminence  for  which  France  will  always  have 
a  weakness. 

He  found  some  little  compensation  for  the  dreariness  of 
these  evenings  in  certain  exercises  such  as  young  men  love,  for 
■his  father  insisted  on  them.  In  the  old  aristocrat's  eyes,  to 
'be  a  master  of  all  weapons,  to  ride  well,  to  play  tennis,  and 
have  fine  manners — in  short,  the  superficial  training  of  the 
gentleman  of  the  past — constituted  the  accomplished  man. 
So,  every  morning  Paul  fenced,  rode,  and  practised  with 
pistols.  The  rest  of  his  time  he  spent  in  novel-reading,  for 
his  father  would  not  hear  of  the  transcendental  studies  which 
put  a  finishing  touch  to  education  in  these  days. 

So  monotonous  an  existence  might  have  killed  the  young 
man,  but  that  his  father's  death  delivered  him  from  this 
tyranny  at  the  time  when  it  was  becoming  unendurable.  Paul 
found  that  his  father's  avarice  had  accumulated  a  considerable 
fortune,  and  left  him  an  estate  in  the  most  splendid  order 
possible;  but  he  had  a  horror  of  Bordeaux,  and  no  love  for 
Lanstrac,  where  his  father  had  always  spent  the  summer  and 
kept  him  out  shooting  from  morning  till  night. 

As  soon  as  the  legal  business  was  got  through,  the  young 
heir,  eager  for  pleasure,  invested  his  capital  in  securities,  left 
the  management  of  the  land  to  old  Mathias,  his  father's 
agent,  and  spent  six  years  away  from  Bordeaux.  Attache  at 
first  to  the  Embassy  at  Naples,  he  subsequently  went  as  secre- 
tary to  Madrid  and  London,  thus  making  the  tour  of  Europe. 
After  gaining  knowledge  of  the  world,  and  dissipating  a  great 
many  illusions,  after  spending  all  the  money  his  father  had 
saved,  a  moment  came  when  Paul,  to  continue  this  dashing 
existence,  had  to  draw  on  the  revenues  from  his  estate  which 
the  notary  had  saved  for  him.  So,  at  this  critical  moment, 
struck  by  one  of  those  impulses  which  are  regarded  as  wis- 
dom, he  resolved  to  leave  Paris,  to  return  to  Bordeaux,  to 
manage  his  own  affairs,  to  lead  the  life  of  a  country  gentle- 
man, settling  at  Lanstrac  and  improving  his  estate — to  marry, 
and  one  day  to  be  elected  Deputy. 


4  A  MARUIAOE  SETTLEMENT 

Paul  was  a  Count ;  titles  were  recovering'-  tiieir  value  in  the 
matrimonial  niartcet;  he  could,  and  ought  to  marry  well. 
Though  many  women  wish  to  marry  for  a  title,  a  great  many 
more  look  for  a  husband  who  has  an  intimate  acquaintance 
with  life.  And  Paul — at  a  cost  of  seven  hundred  tliousand 
-francs,  consumed  in  six  years — had  acquired  this  official 
knowledge,  a  qualification  which  cannot  be  sold,  and  which  is 
worth  more  than  a  stockbroker's  license;  which,  indeed,  de- 
mands long  studies,  an  apprenticeship,  examinations,  ac- 
quaintances, friends,  and  enemies,  a  certain  elegance  of  ap- 
pearance, good  manners,  and  a  handsome,  tripping  name; 
which  brings  with  it  success  with  women,  duels,  betting  at 
races,  many  disappointments,  dull  hours,  tiresome  tasks,  and 
indigestible  pleasures. 

In  spite  of  lavish  outlay,  he  had  never  been  the  fashion.  In 
the  burlesque  army  of  the  gay  world,  the  man  who  is  the 
fashion  is  the  Field  ]\Iarshal  of  the  forces,  the  merely  elegant 
man  is  the  Lieutenant-General.  Still,  Paul  enjoyed  his  little 
reputation  for  elegance,  and  lived  up  to  it.  His  servants  were 
well  drilled,  his  carriages  were  approved,  his  suppers  had 
some  success,  and  his  bachelor's  den  was  one  of  the  seven  or 
eight  which  were  a  match  in  luxury  for  the  finest  houses  in 
Paris.  But  he  had  not  broken  a  woman's  heart;  he  played 
without  losing,  nor  had  he  extraordinarily  brilliant  luck ;  he 
was  too  honest  to  be  false  to  any  one,  not  even  a  girl  of  the 
streets ;  he  did  not  leave  his  love-letters  about,  nor  keep  a  box- 
ful for  his  friends  to  dip  into  while  he  was  shaving  or  putting 
a  collar  on ;  but,  not  wishing  to  damage  his  estates  in  Guienne, 
he  had  not  the  audacity  that  prompts  a  young  man  into 
startling  speculations,  and  attracts  all  eyes  to  watch  him ;  he 
borrowed  of  no  one,  and  was  so  wrongheaded  as  to  lend  to 
friends,  who  cut  him  and  never  mentioned  him  again,  either 
'for  good  or  evil.  He  seemed  to  have  worked  out  the  sum  of 
his  extravagance.  The  secret  of  his  character  lay  in  hib 
father's  tyranny,  which  had  made  him  a  sort  of  socia' 
hybrid. 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  5 

One  morning  Panl  de  Manerville  said  to  a  friend  of  his 
named  de  Marsay,  wlio  has  since  become  famous : 

"My  dear  fellow,  life  has  a  meaning." 

"You  must  be  seven-and-twenty  before  you  understand 
it/''  said  de  Marsay,  laughing  at  him. 

"Yes,  I  am  seven-and-twenty,  and  for  that  very  reason  I 
mean  to  go  to  live  at  Lanstrac  as  a  country  gentleman.  At 
Bordeaux  I  shall  have  my  father's  old  house,  whither  I  shall 
send  my  Paris  furniture,  and  I  shall  spend  three  months 
of  every  winter  here  in  my  rooms,  which  I  shall  not  give 
up." 

"And  you  will  marry  ?" 

"I  shall  marry." 

"I  am  your  friend,  my  worthy  Paul,  as  you  know,"  gaid  de 
Marsay,  after  a  moment's  silence;  "well,  be  a  good  father 
and  a  good  husband — and  ridiculous  for  the  rest  of  your 
days.  If  you  could  be  happy  being  ridiculous,  the  matter 
would  deserve  consideration;  but  you  would  not  be  happy. 
You  have  not  a  strong  enough  hand  to  rule  a  household.  I 
do  you  every  justice :  you  are  a  perfect  horseman ;  no  one  holds 
the  ribbons  better,  makes  a  horse  plunge,  or  keeps  his  seat 
more  immovably.  But,  my  dear  boy,  the  paces  of  matrimony 
are  quite  another  thing.  Why,  I  can  see  you  led  at  a  round 
pace  by  Madame  la  Comtesse  de  Manerville,  galloping,  more 
often  than  not  much  against  your  will,  and  presently  thrown 
— thrown  into  the  ditch,  and  left  there  with  both  legs 
broken. 

•"Tjisten  to  me.  You  have  still  forty  odd  thousand  francs 
a  year  in  land  in  the  Department  of  the  Gironde.  Take  your 
horses  and  your  servants,  and  furnish  your  house  in 
Bordeaux ;  you  will  be  King  in  Bordeaux,  you  will  promulgate 
there  the  decrees  we  pronounce  in  Paris,  you  will  be  the  cor- 
responding agent  of  our  follies.  Well  and  good.  Commit 
follies  in  your  provincial  capital — nay,  even  absurdities.  So 
much  the  better;  they  may  make  you  famous.  But — do  not 
marry. 

"Who  are  the  men  who  marry  nowadays?     Tradesmen,  to 


e  A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT 

increase  their  capital  or  to  have  a  second  hand  at  the  plough; 
peasants,  who,  by  having  large  families,  manufacture  their 
own  laborers ;  stockbrokers  or  notaries,  to  get  money  to  pay  for 
their  licenses;  the  miserable  kings,  to  perpetuate  their  misera- 
ble dynasties.  We  alone  are  free  from  the  pack-saddle ;  why 
insist  on  loading  yourself  ?  In  short,  what  do  you  marry  for? 
You  must  account  for  such  a  step  to  your  best  friend. 

"In  the  first  place,  if  you  should  find  an  heiress  as  rich  as 
yourself,  eighty  thousand  francs  a  year  for  two  are  not  the 
same  thing  as  forty  thousand  for  one,  because  you  very  soon 
are  three — and  four  if  you  have  a  child.  Do  you  really  feel  any 
affection  for  the  foolish  propagation  of  Manervilles,  who  will 
never  give  anything  but  trouble  ?  Do  you  not  know  what  the 
duties  are  of  a  father  and  mother  ?  Marriage,  my  deal  Paul, 
is  the  most  foolish  of  social  sacrifices;  our  children  alone 
profit  by  it,  and  even  they  do  not  know  its  cost  till  their  horses 
are  cropping  the  weeds  that  grow  over  our  graves. 

"Do  you,  for  instance,  regret  your  father,  the  tyrant  who 
wrecked  your  young  life  ?  How  do  you  propose  to  make  your 
children  love  you  ?  Your  plans  for  their  education,  your  care 
for  their  advantage,  your  severity,  however  necessary,  will 
alienate  their  affection.  Children  love  a  lavish  or  weak 
father,  but  later  they  will  despise  him.  You  are  stranded  be- 
tween aversion  and  contempt.  You  cannot  be  a  good  father 
for  the  wishing. 

"Look  round  on  our  friends,  and  name  one  you  would  like 
for  a  son.  We  have  known  some  who  were  a  disgrace  to  their 
name.  Children,  my  dear  boy,  are  a  commodity  very  difficult 
to  keep  sweet. — Yours  will  be  angels  !     ISTo  doubt ! 

"But  have  you  ever  measured  the  gulf  that  parts  the  life  of 
a  single  man  from  that  of  a  married  one?  Listen. — As  you 
are,  you  can  say :  'I  will  never  be  ridiculous  beyond  a  certain 
point ;  the  public  shall  never  think  of  me  excepting  as  I  choose 
that  it  should  think.'  Married,  you  will  fall  into  depths  of 
the  ridiculous  ! — Unmarried,  you  make  your  own  happiness ; 
you  want  it  to-day,  you  do  ■without  to-morrow:  married,  you 
take  it  as  it  comes,  and  the  day  you  seek  it  you  have  to  do 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  1 

without  it.  Married,  you  are  an  ass;  you  calculate  marriage 
portions,  you  talk  about  public  and  religious  morality,  you 
look  upon  young  men  as  immoral  and  dangerous;  in  short, 
you  are  social!}^  Academical.  I  have  nothing  but  pity  for 
you!  An  old  bachelor,  whose  relations  are  waiting  for  his 
money,  and  who  struggles  with  his  latest  breath  to  make  an 
old  nurse  give  him  something  to  drink,  is  in  paradise  com- 
pared with  a  married  man.  I  say  nothing  of  all  the  annoy- 
ing, irritating,  provoking,  aggravating,  stultifying,  worrying 
things  that  may  come  to  hypnotize  and  paralyze  your  mind, 
and  tyrannize  over  your  life,  in  the  course  of  the  petty  warfare 
of  two  human  beings  always  together,  united  for  ever,  who 
have  bound  themselves,  vainly  believing  that  they  will  agree ; 
no,  that  would  be  to  repeat  Boileau's  satire,  and  we  know  it 
by  heart. 

"I  would  forgive  you  the  absurd  notion  if  you  would 
promise  to  marry  like  a  grandee,  to  settle  your  fortune  on 
your  eldest  son,  to  take  advantage  of  the  honeymoon  stage  to 
have  two  legitimate  children,  to  give  your  wife  a  completely 
separate  establishment,  to  meet  her  only  in  society,  -and  never 
come  home  from  a  journey  without  announcing  your  return. 
Two  hundred  thousand  francs  a  year  are  enough  to  do  it  on, 
and  your  antecedents  allow  of  your  achieving  this  by  finding 
some  rich  English  woman  hungering  for  a  title.  That  aristo- 
cratic way  of  life  is  the  only  one  that  seems  to  me  truly 
French ;  the  only  handsome  one,  commanding  a  wife's  respect 
and  regard;  the  only  life  that  distinguishes  us  from  the  com- 
mon herd ;  in  short,  the  only  one  for  which  a  young  man 
should  ever  give  up  his  single  blessedness.  In  such  an  atti- 
tude the  Comte  de  Manerville  is  an  example  to  his  age,  he  is 
superior  to  the  general,  and  must  be  nothing  less  than  a 
Minister  or  an  Ambassador.  He  can  never  be  ridiculous ;  he 
conquers  the  social  advantages  of  a  married  man,  and  pre- 
serves the  privileges  of  a  bachelor." 

"But,  my  good  friend,  I  am  not  a  de  Marsay;  I  am,  as 
you  yourself  do  me  the  honor  to  express  it,  Paul  de  Maner- 
ville, neither  more  nor  less,  a  good  husband  and.  father, 


8  A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT 

Deputy  of  the  Centre,  and  perhaps  some  day  a  peer  of  the 
Upper  House — altogetlicr  a  very  humble  destiny.  But  I  am 
dilTident — and  resifincd." 

"And  your  wife?"  said  the  merciless  de  Marsay,  "will  she 
be  resigned  ?" 

"My  wife,  my  dear  fellow,  will  do  what  I  wish." 

"Oh  !  my  poor  friend,  have  you  not  got  beyond  that  point*' 
— Good-bye,  Paul.  Henceforth  you  have  forfeited  my  esteem. 
jStill,  one  word  more,  for  1  cannot  subscribe  to  your  abdica- 
tion in  cold  blood.  Consider  what  is  the  strength  of 
our  position.  If  a  single  man  had  no  more  than  six 
thousand  francs  a  year,  if  his  whole  fortune  lay  in 
his  reputation  for  elegance  and  the  memory  of  his 
successes,  well,  even  this  fantastic  ghost  has  considerable 
value.  Life  still  affords  some  chances  for  the  bachelor  'off 
color.'  Yes,  he  may  still  aspire  to  anything.  But  marriage! 
Paul,  it  is  the  'Thus  far  and  no  further'  of  social  existen(;e. 
Once  married,  you  can  never  more  be  anything  but  what  you 
are — unless  your  wife  condescends  to  take  you  in  hand." 

"But  you  are  always  crushing  me  under  your  exceptional 
theories !"  cried  Paul.  "I  am  tired  of  living  for  the  benefit 
of  others — of  keeping  horses  for  display,  of  doing  everything 
with  a  view  to  'what  people  will  say,'  of  ruining  myself  for 
fear  that  idiots  should  remark :  'Why,  Paul  has  the  same  old 
carriage! — What  has  he  done  with  his  money?  Does  he 
squander  it  ?  Gamble  on  the  Bourse  ? — Not  at  all ;  he  is  a 
millionaire.  Madame  So-and-So  is  madly  in  love  with  him. 
— He  has  Just  had  a  team  of  horses  from  England,  the  hand- 
somest in  Paris. — At  Longchamps,  every  one  remarked  the 
four-horse  chaises  of  Monsieur  de  Marsay  and  Monsieur  de 
Manervillj ;  the  cattle  were  magnificent.' — In  short,  the  thou- 
sand idiotic  remarks  by  which  the  mob  of  fools  drives  us. 

"I  am  beginning  to  see  that  this  life,  in  which  we  are  simply 
rolled  along  by  others  instead  of  walking  on  our  feet,  wears 
us  out  and  makes  us  old.  Believe  me,  my  dear  Henri,  I 
admire  your  powers,  but  I  do  not  envy  you.  You  are  capable 
of  judging  everything ;  you  can  act  and  think  as  a  statesman. 


A  MARRIAOE  SETTLEMENT  9 

you  stand  above  general  laws,  received  ideas,  recognized 
prejudices,  accepted  conventionalities ;  in  fact,  you  get  all  the 
benefits  of  a  position  in  which  I,  for  my  part,  should  find 
nothing  but  disaster.  Your  cold  and  systematic  deductions, 
which  are  perhaps  quite  true,  are,  in  the  eyes  of  the  vulgar, 
appallingly  immoral.     I  belong  to  the  vulgar. 

"I  must  play  the  game  by  the  rules  of  the  society  in  which 
I  am  compelled  to  live.  You  can  stand  on  the  summit  ^f 
human  things,  on  ice  peaks,  and  still  have  feelings ;  I  should 
freeze  there.  The  life  of  the  greatest  number,  of  which  I  am 
very  frankly  one,  is  made  up  of  emotions  such  as  I  feel  at 
present  in  need  of.  The  most  popular  lady's  man  often  flirts 
with  ten  women  at  once,  and  wins  the  favor  of  none ;  and 
then,  whatever  his  gifts,  his  practice,  his  knowledge  of  the 
world,  a  crisis  may  arise  when  he  finds  himself,  as  it  were, 
jammed  between  two  doors.  For  my  part,  I  like  the  quiet 
and  faithful  intercourse  of  home ;  I  want  the  life  where  a  man 
always  finds  a  woman  at  his  side." 

"Marriage  is  a  little  free  and  easy !"  cried  de  Marsay. 

Paul  was  not  to  be  dashed,  and  went  on : 

"Laugh  if  you  please;  I  shall  be  the  happiest  man  in  the 
world  when  my  servant  comes  to  say,  'Madame  is  waiting 
breakfast' — when,  on  coming  home  in  the  afternoon,  I  may 
find  a  heart " 

"You  are  still  too  frivolous,  Paul !  You  are  not  moral 
enough  yet  for  married  life !" 

"A  heart  to  which  I  may  eonfido  my  business  and  tell  my 
secrets.  I  want  to  live  with  some  being  on  terms  of  such 
intimacy  that  our  affection  may  not  depend  on  a  Yes  or  No, 
or  on  situations  where  the  most  engaging  man  may  disap- 
point passion.  In  short,  I  am  bold  enough  to  be- 
come, as  you  say,  a  good  husband  and  a  good  father! 
I  am  suited  to  domestic  happiness,  and  prepared  to  submit  to 
the  conditions  insisted  on  by  society  to  set  up  a  wife,  a 
family " 

"You  suggest  the  idea  of  a  beehive. — Go  ahead,  then. 
You  will  be  a  dupe  all  your  days.     You  mean  to  marry,  to 


10  A  MARinAGK  SETTLEMENT 

have  a  wife  to  yourself?  In  other  words,  you  want  to  solve, 
to  your  own  advantage,  the  most  ditlicult  social  problem  pre- 
sented in  our  day  by  town  life  as  tlie  French  Revolution  has 
left  it,  so  you  begin  by  isolation !  And  do  you  suppose  that 
your  wife  will  be  content  to  forego  the  life  you  contemn  ?  Will 
she,  like  you,  be  disgusted  with  it?  If  you  do  not  want  to 
endure  the  conjugal  joys  described  by  your  sincere  friend 
de  Marsay,  listen  to  my  last  advice.  Remain  unmarried  for 
^thirteen  years  longer,  and  enjoy  yourself  to  the  top  of  your 
bent ;  then,  at  forty,  with  your  first  fit  of  the  gout,  marry  a 
widow  of  six-and-thirty ;  thus  you  may  be  happy.  If  you 
take  a  maid  to  wife,  3'ou  Avill  die  a  madman !" 

"Indeed !  And  tell  me  why  ?"  cried  Paul,  somewhat 
nettled. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  replied  de  Marsay,  "Boileau's  Satire  on 
Women  is  no  more  than  a  series  of  commonplace  observations 
in  verse.  Why  should  women  be  faultless  ?  Why  deny  them 
the  heritage  of  the  most  obvious  possession  of  human  nature  ? 
In  my  opinion,  the  problem  of  marriage  no  longer  lies  in  the 
form  in  which  that  critic  discerned  it.  Do  you  really  suppose 
that,  to  command  affection  in  marriage,  as  in  love,  it  is 
mough  for  a  husband  to  be  a  man?  You  who  haunt 
boudoirs,  have  you  none  but  fortunate  experiences  ? 

"Everything  in  our  bachelor  existence  prepares  a  disastrous 
mistake  for  the  man  who  marries  without  having  deeply 
studied  the  human  heart.  In  the  golden  days  of  youth,  by 
a  singular  fact  in  our  manners,  a  man  always  bestows  pleasure, 
he  triumphs  over  fascinated  woman,  and  she  submits  to  his 
wishes.  The  obstacles  set  up  by  law  and  feeling,  and  the 
natural  coyness  of  woman,  give  rise  to  a  common  impulse  on 
both  sides,  which  deludes  superficial  men  as  to  their  future 
position  in  the  married  state  where  there  are  no  obstacles  to 
■be  overcome,  where  women  endure  rather  than  allow  a  man's 
advances,  and  repel  them  rather  than  invite  them.  The  whole 
aspect  of  life  is  altered  for  us.  The  unmarried  man,  free 
from  care,  and  always  the  leader,  has  nothing  to  fear  from  a 
defeat.     In  married  life  a  repulse  is  irreparable.     Though  a 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  11 

lover  may  make  a  mistress  change  her  mind  in  his  favor,  such 
a  rout,  my  dear  boy,  is  Waterloo  to  a  husband.  A  husband, 
like  Napoleon,  is  bound  to  gain  the  victory ;  however  often  he 
may  have  won,  the  first  defeat  is  his  overthrow.  The  woman 
who  is  flattered  by  a  lover's  persistency,  and  proud  of  his 
wrath,  calls  them  brutal  in  a  husband.  The  lover  may  choose 
his  ground  and  do  what  he  will,  the  master  has  no  such 
.license,  and  his  battlefield  is  always  the  same. 

"Again,  the  struggle  is  the  other  way  about.  A  wife  is 
naturally  inclined  to  refuse  what  she  ought;  a  mistress  is 
ready  to  give  what  she  ought  not. 

"You  who  wish  to  marry  (and  who  will  do  it),  have  you 
ever  duly  meditated  on  the  Civil  Code  ?  I  have  never  soiled 
my  feet  in  that  cave  of  commentary,  that  cockloft  of  gabble 
called  the  Law  Schools ;  I  never  looked  into  the  Code,  but  I 
see  how  it  works  in  the  living  organism  of  the  world.  I  am 
a  lawj'er,  as  a  clinical  professor  is  a  doctor.  The  malady  is 
not  in  books,  it  is  in  the  patient. — The  Code,  my  friend,  pro- 
vides women  with  guardians,  treats  them  as  minors,  as 
children.  And  how  do  we  manage  children?  By  fear.  In 
that  word,  my  dear  Paul,  you  have  the  bit  for  the  steed. — 
Feel  your  pulse,  and  say:  Can  you  disguise  yourself  as  a 
tyrant;  you  who  are  so  gentle,  so  friendly,  so  trusting;  you 
whom  at  first  I  used  to  laugh  at,  and  whom  I  now  love  well 
enough  to  initiate  you  into  my  science.  Yes,  this  is  part  of 
a  science  to  which  the  Germans  have  already  given  the  name 
of  Anthropology. 

"Oh !  if  I  had  not  solved  life  by  means  of  pleasure,  if  I 
had  not  an  excessive  antipathy  for  men  who  think  instead  of 
acting,  if  I  did  not  despise  the  idiots  who  are  so  stupid  as  to 
believe  that  a  book  may  live,  when  the  sands  of  African  deserts 
are  composed  of  the  ashes  of  I  know  not  how  many  unknown 
Londons,  Venices,  Parises,  and  Romes  now  in  dust,  I  would 
write  a  book  on  modern  marriages  and  the  influence  of  the 
Christian  system  ;  I  would  erect  a  beacon  on  the  heap  of  sharp 
stones  on  which  the  votaries  lie  who  devote  themselves  to  the 
social  multipUcamini.      And  yet — is  the  human  race  worth  a 


12  A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT 

quarter  of  an  hour  of  my  time?  Is  not  the  sole  rational 
use  of  pen  and  ink  to  ensnare  hearts  by  writing  love 
letters  ? 

"So  you  will  introduce  us  to  the  Comtesse  de  Maner- 
ville?" 

"Perhaps,"  said  Paul. 

"We  shall  still  be  friends?"  said  de  Marsay. 

"Sure !"  replied  Paul. 

"Be  quite  easy;  we  will  be  very  polite  to  3^ou,  as  the  Maison 
Rouge  were  to  the  English  at  Fontenoy." 

Though  this  conversation  shook  him,  the  Comte  de  Maner- 
ville  set  to  work  to  carry  out  his  plans,  and  returned  to 
Bordeaux  for  the  winter  of  1821 .  The  cost  at  which  he  restored 
and  furnished  his  house  did  credit  to  the  reputation  for  ele- 
gance that  had  preceded  him.  His  old  connections  secured  him 
an  introduction  to  the  Eoyalist  circle  of  Bordeaux,  to  which, 
indeed,  he  belonged,  alike  by  opinion,  name,  and  fortune,  and 
he  soon  became  the  leader  of  its  fashion.  His  knowledge  of 
life,  good  manners,  and  Parisian  training  enchanted  the 
Faubourg  Saint-Germain  of  Bordeaux.  An  old  marquise  ap- 
plied to  him  an  expression  formerly  current  at  Court  to 
designate  the  flower  of  handsome  youth,  of  the  dandies  of  a 
past  day,  whose  speech  and  style  were  law;  she  called  him 
Ja  fleur  des  pois — as  who  should  say  Pease-blossom.  The 
Liberal  faction  took  up  the  nickname,  which  they  used  in 
irony,  and  the  Royalists  as  a  compliment. 

Paul  de  Manerville  fulfilled  with  glory  the  requirements 
of  the  name.  He  was  in  the  position  of  many  a  second  actor; 
as  soon  as  the  public  vouchsafes  some  approval,  they  become 
almost  good.  Paul,  quite  at  his  ease,  displayed  the  qualities 
of  his  defects.  His  banter  was  neither  harsh  nor  bitter,  his 
.  manners  were  not  haughty ;  in  his  conversation  with  women, 
he  expressed  the  respect  they  value  without  too  much  defer- 
ence or  too  much  familiarity.  His  dandyism  was  no  more 
than  an  engaging  care  for  his  person;  he  was  considerate  of 
rank ;  he  allowed  a  freedom  to  younger  men  which  his  Paris 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  13 

experience  kept  within  due  limits;  though  a  master  with 
the  sword  and  pistol,  he  was  liked  for  his  feminine  gen- 
tleness. 

Then  his  medium  height,  and  a  figure  not  lean  but  not 
yet  rotund — two  obstacles  to  personal  elegance — did  not  hinder 
his  playing  the  part  of  a  Bordelais  Brummel.  A  fair  skin, 
with  a  healthy  color,  fine  hands,  neat  feet,  blue '  eyes  with 
good  eyelashes,  black  hair,  an  easy  grace,  and  a  chest-voice 
always  pleasantly  modulated  and  full  of  feeling, — all  com- 
bined to  justify  his  nickname.  Paul  was  in  all  things  the 
delicate  flower  which  needs  careful  culture,  its  best  qualities 
unfolding  only  in  a  moist  and  propitious  soil,  which  cannot 
thrive  under  rough  treatment,  while  a  fierce  sun  burns  it  and 
a  frost  kills  it.  He  was  one  of  those  men*  who  are  made  to 
accept  rather  than  give  happiness,  to  whom  woman  is  a  great 
factor  in  life,  who  need  understanding  and  encourag- 
ing, and  to  whom  a  wife's  love  should  play  the  part  of 
Providence. 

Though  such  a  character  as  this  gives  rise  to  trouble  in 
domestic  life,  it  is  charming  and  attractive  in  society.  Paul 
was  a  success  in  the  narrow  provincial  circle,  where  his 
character,  in  no  respect  strongly  marked,  was  better  ap- 
preciated than  in  Paris. 

The  decoration  of  his  town-house,  and  the  necessary  res- 
toration of  the  chateau  of  Lanstrac,  which  he  fitted  up  with 
English  comfort  and  luxury,  absorbed  the  capital  his  agent 
had  saved  during  the  past  six  years.  Eeduced,  therefore,  to 
Ms  exact  income  of  forty  odd  thousand  francs  in  stocks,  he 
thought  it  wise  to  arrange  his  housekeeping  so  as  to  spend 
no  more  than  this.  By  the  time  he  had  duly  displayed  his 
carriages  and  horses,  and  entertained  the  young  men  of  posi- 
tion in  the  town,  he  perceived  that  provincial  life  necessitated 
marriage.  Still  too  young  to  devote  himself  to  the  avaricious 
cares  or  speculative  improvements  in  which  provincial  folk 
ultimately  find  employment,  as  required  by  the  need  for  pro- 
viding  for   their   children,   he   ere  long   felt   the   want   of 


14  A  MAKKIAGE  SETTLEMENT 

the  various  amiisoinonts  which  become  the  vita!  habit  of  a 
Tarisiau. 

At  the  same  time,  it  was  not  a  name  to  l)e  perpetuated,  an 
heir  to  whom  to  transmit  his  possessions,  the  position  to  be 
gained  by  having  a  house  where  the  principal  families  of 
the  neighborhood  might  meet,  nor  weariness  of  illicit  con- 
nections, that  proved  to  be  the  determining  cause.  He  had 
on  arriving  fallen  in  love  with  the  queen  of  Bordeaux  society, 
the  much-talked-of  Mademoiselle  Evangelista. 

Early  in  the  century  a  rich  Spaniard  named  Evangelista 
had  settled  at  Bordeaux,  where  good  introductions,  added  to 
a  fine  fortune,  had  won  him  a  footing  in  the  drawing-rooms 
of  the  nobility.  His  wife  had  done  much  to  preserve  him  in 
good  odor  amid  this  aristocracy,  which  would  not,  perhaps, 
have  been  so  ready  to  receive  him  but  that  it  could  thus  annoy 
the  society  next  below  it.  Madame  Evangelista,  descended 
from  the  illustrious  house  of  Casa-Keal,  connected  with  the 
Spanish  monarchs,  was  a  Creole,  and,  like  all  women  ac- 
customed to  be  served  by  slaves,  she  was  a  very  fine  lady, 
knew  nothing  of  the  value  of  money,  and  indulged  even  her 
most  extravagant  fancies,  finding  them  always  supplied  by  a 
husband  who  was  in  love  with  her,  and  who  was  so  generous 
as  to  conceal  from  her  all  the  machinery  of  money-making. 
The  Spaniard,  delighted  to  find  that  she  could  be  happy  at 
Bordeaux,  where  his  business  required  him  to  reside,  bought 
a  fine  house,  kept  it  in  good  style,  entertained  splendidly, 
and  showed  excellent  taste  in  every  respect.  So,  from  1800 
till  1812,  no  one  was  talked  of  in  Bordeaux  but  Monsieur  and 
Madame  Evangelista. 

The  Spaniard  died  in  1813,  leaving  a  widow  of  two-and- 
thirty  with  an  enormous  fortune  and  the  prettiest  little 
daughter  in  the  world,  at  that  time  eleven  years  old,  promis- 
ing to  become,  as  indeed  she  became,  a  very  accomplished  per- 
son. Clever  as  Madame  p]vangelista  might  be,  the  Restora- 
tion altered  her  position ;  the  Royalist  party  sifted  itself,  and 
several  families  left  Bordeaux.  Still,  though  her  husband's 
head   and  hand  were  lacking  to    the   management   of  the 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  16 

business,  for  which  she  showed  the  inaptitude  of  a  woman  of 
fashion  and  the  indifference  of  the  Creole,  she  made  no  change 
in  her  mode  of  living. 

By  the  time  when  Paul  de  Manerville  had  made  up  his 
mind  to  return  to  his  native  place,  Mademoiselle  Natalie 
Evangelista  was  a  remarkably  beautiful  girl,  and  apparently 
the  richest  match  in  Bordeaux^,  where  no  one  knew  of  the 
gradual  diminution  of  her  mother's  wealth;  for,  to  prolong 
her  reign,  Madame  Evangelista  had  spent  vast  sums  of 
money.  Splendid  entertainments  and  almost  royal  dis- 
play had  kept  up  the  public  belief  in  the  wealth  of 
the  house. 

Natalie  was  nearly  nineteen,  no  offer  of  marriage  had  as 
yet  come  to  her  mother's  ear.  Accustomed  to  indulge  all  her 
girlish  fancies,  Mademoiselle  Evangelista  had  Indian  shawls 
and  jewels,  and  lived  amid  such  luxury  as  frightened  the 
speculative,  in  a  land  and  at  a  time  when  the  young  are  as 
calculating  as  their  parents.  The  fatal  verdict,  "Only  a 
prince  could  afford  to  marry  Mademoiselle  Evangelista,"  was 
a  watchword  in  every  drawing-room  and  boudoir.  Mothers 
of  families,  dowagers  with  granddaughters  to  marry,  and 
damsels  jealous  of  the  fair  Natalie,  whose  unfailing  elegance 
and  tyrannous  beauty  were  an  annoyance  to  them,  took  care 
to  add  venom  to  this  opinion  by  perfidious  insinuations. 
When  an  eligible  youth  was  heard  to  exclaim  with  rapturous 
admiration  on  Natalie's  arrival  at  a  ball — "Good  Heavens, 
what  a  beautiful  creature!" — "Yes,"  the  mammas  would 
reply,  *'T)ut  very  expensive !"  If  some  newcomer  spoke  of 
Mademoiselle  Evangelista  as  charming,  and  opined  that  a 
man  wanting  a  wife  could  not  make  a  better  choice — "Whc 
would  be  bold  enough,"  some  one  would  ask,  "to  marry  a 
girl  to  whom  her  mother  allows  a  thousand  francs  a  month 
for  dress,  who  keeps  horses  and  a  lady's  maid,  and  wears 
lace?  She  has  Mechlin  lace  on  her  dressing-gowns.  What 
she  pays  for  washing  would  keep  a  clerk  in  comfort.  She 
has  morning  capes  that  cost  six  francs  apiece  to  clean !" 

Such  speeches  as  these,   constantly  repeated   by  way   of 


10  A  MARRIAGE  8RTTLEMENT 

eulogium,  extinguished  the  keenest  desire  a  youth  might  feel 
to  wed  Mademoiselle  Evangelista.  The  queen  of  every  ball, 
surfeited  with  flattery,  sure  of  smiles  and  admiration  wher- 
ever she  went,  Natalie  knew  nothing  of  life.  She 
lived  as  birds  fly,  as  flowers  bloom^  finding  every  one  about 
her  ready  to  fulfil  her  least  wish.  She  knew  nothing  of  the 
price  of  things,  nor  of  how  money  is  acquired  or  kept.  She 
very  likely  'supposed  that  every  house  was  furnished  with 
cooks  and  coachmen,  maids  and  men-servants,  just  as  a  field 
produces  fodder  and  trees  yield  fruit.  To  her  the  beggar, 
the  pauper,  the  fallen  tree,  and  the  barren  field  were  all  the 
same  thing.  Cherished  like  a  hope  by  her  mother,  fatigue 
never  marred  her  pleasure;  she  pranced  through  the  world 
like  a  courser  on  the  Steppe,  a  courser  without  either  bridle 
or  shoes. 

Six  months  after  Paul's  arrival  the  upper  circles  of  the 
town  had  brought  about  a  meeting  between  "Pease-blossom" 
and  the  queen  of  the  ballroom.  The  two  flowers  looked  at 
each  other  with  apparent  coldness,  and  thought  each  other 
charming.  Madame  Evangelista,  as  being  interested  in  this 
not  unforeseen  meeting,  read  Paul's  sentiments  in  his  eyes, 
and  said  to  herself^  "He  will  be  my  son-in-law";  while  Paul 
said  to  himself,  as  he  looked  at  Natalie^  "She  will  be  my 
wife !"  The  ^vealth  of  the  Evangelistas,  proverbial  in 
Bordeaux,  remained  in  Paul's  memor}'  as  a  tradition  of  his 
boyhood,  the  most  indelible  of  all  such  impressions.  And  so 
pecuniary  suitability  was  a  foregone  conclusion,  without  all 
the  discussion  and  inquiry,  which  are  as  horrible  to  shy  as 
to  proud  natures. 

When  some  persons  tried  to  express  to  Paul  the  praise 
which  it  was  impossible  to  refuse  to  Natalie's  manner  and 
beauty  and  wit,  always  ending  with  some  of  the  bitterly 
mercenary  reflections  as  to  the  future  to  which  the  expensive 
style  of  the  household  naturally  gave  rise,  Pease-blossom  re- 
plied with  the  disdain  that  such  provincialism  deserves.  And 
this  way  of  treating  the  matter,  which  soon  became  known, 
bilenced  these  remarks;  for  it  was  Paul  who  set  the  ton  in 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  17 

ideas  and  speech  as  much  as  in  manners  and  appearance. 
He  had  imported  the  French  development  of  the  British 
stamp  and  its  ice-bound  barriers,  its  Byronic  irony,  discon- 
tent with  life,  contempt  for  sacred  bonds,  English  plate  and 
English  wit,  the  scorn  of  old  provincial  customs  and  old 
property;  cigars,  patent  leather,  the  pony,  lemon-colored 
gloves,  and  the  canter.  So  that  befell  Paul  which  had  hap- 
pened to  no  one  before — no  old  dowager  or  young  maid  tried 
to  discourage  him. 

Madame  Evangelista  began  by  inviting  him  to  several 
grand  dinners.  Could  Pease-blossom  remain  absent  from  the 
entertainments  to  which  the  most  fashionable  young  men  of 
the  town  were  bidden?  In  spite  of  Paul's  affected  cold- 
ness, which  did  not  deceive  either  the  mother  or  the  daughter, 
he  found  himself  taking  the  first  steps  on  the  road  to  mar- 
riage. When  Manerville  passed  in  his  tilbury,  or  riding  a 
good  horse,  other  young  men  would  stop  to  watch  him,  and 
he  could  hear  their  comments :  "There  is  a  lucky  fellow ;  he 
is  rich,  he  is  handsome,  and  they  say  he  is  to  marry  Mademoi- 
selle Evangelista.  There  are  some  people  for  whom  the 
world  seems  to  have  been  made !"  If  he  happened  to  meet 
Madame  Evangelista's  carriage,  he  was  proud  of  the  peculiar 
graciousness  with  which  the  mother  and  daughter  bowed  to 
him. 

Even  if  Paul  had  not  been  in  love  with  Mademoiselle 
Natalie,  the  world  Avould  have  married  them  whether  or 
no.  The  world,  which  is  the  cause  of  no  good  thing,  is 
implicated  in  many  disasters;  then,  when  it  sees  the  evil 
hatching  out  that  it  has  so  maternally  brooded,  it  denies  it 
and  avenges  it.  The  upper  society  of  Bordeaux,  supposing 
Mademoiselle  Evangelista  to  have  a  fortune  of  a  million 
francs,  handed  her  over  to  Paul  without  awaiting  the  con- 
sent of  the  parties  concerned — as  it  often  does.  Their 
fortunes,  like  themselves,  were  admirably  matched.  Paul 
was  accustomed  to  the  luxury  and  elegance  in  which  Natalie 
lived.  He  had  arranged  and  decorated  his  house  as  no  one 
else  could  have  arranged  a  home  for  Natalie.     None  but  a 


18  A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT 

limn  aceustoniod  to  the  expenses  of  Paris  life  and  the  caprices 
of  Paris  women  could  escape  the  pecuniary  dilliculties  which 
might  result  from  marrying  a  girl  who  was  already  quite 
as  much  a  Creole  and  a  fine  lady  as  her  mother.  Where  a 
Bordelais  in  love  with  Mademoiselle  Evangelista  would  be 
ruined,  the  Comte  de  Manerville,  said  the  world,  would  steer 
clear  of  disaster. 

So  the  affair  was  settled;  the  magnates  of  the  tiptop 
royalist  circle,  when  the  marriage  was  mentioned  in  their 
presence,  made  such  civil  speeches  to  Paul  as  Hattered  his 
vanity. 

"Every  one  says  you  are  to  marry  Mademoiselle 
Evangelista.  You  will  do  well  to  marry  her;  you  will  not 
find  so  handsome  a  wife  anywhere,  not  even  in  Paris ;  she  is 
elegant,  pleasing,  and  allied  through  her  mother  with  the 
Casa-Reals.  You  will  be  the  most  charming  couple ;  you  have 
the  same  tastes,  the  same  views  of  life,  and  will  keep  the  most 
agreeable  house  in  Bordeaux.  Your  wife  will  only  have  to 
pack  up  her  clothes  and  move  in.  In  a  case  like  yours  a  house 
ready  to  live  in  is  as  good  as  a  settlement.  And  you  are 
lucky  to  meet  with  a  mother-in-law  like  Madame  Evangelista. 
She  is  a  clever  woman,  very  attractive,  and  will  be  an  impor- 
tant aid  to  you  in  the  political  career  you  ought  now  to 
aspire  to.  And  she  has  sacrificed  everything  for  her 
daughter,  whom  she  worships,  and  Natalie  will  no  doubt  be 
a  good  wife,  for  she  is  loving  to  her  mother. — And  then, 
everything  must  have  an  end." 

"That  is  all  very  fine,"  was  Paul's  reply;  for,  in  love 
though  he  was,  he  wished  to  be  free  to  choose,  "but  it  must 
have  a  happy  end." 

Paul  soon  became  a  frequent  visitor  to  Madame 
Evangelista,  led  there  by  the  need  to  find  employment  for  his 
idle  hours,  which  he,  more  tlian  other  men,  found  it  difficult 
to  fill.  There  only  in  the  town  did  he  find  the  magnificence 
and  luxury  to  which  he  had  accustomed  himself. 

Madame  Evangelista,  at  the  age  of  forty,  was  handsome 
still,  with  the  beauty  of  a  grand  sunset,  which  in  summer 


A  mahriage  settlement  is 

crowns  the  close  of  a  cloudless  day.  Her  blameless  reputa- 
tion was  an  endless  subject  of  discussion  in  the  ''sets"  of 
Bordeaux  society,  and  the  curiosity  of  women  was  all  the 
more  alert,  because  the  widow's  appearance  suggested  the  sort 
of  temperament  ■  which  makes  Spanish  and  Creole  women 
notorious.  She  had  black  eyes  and  hair,  the  foot  and  figure 
of  a  Spaniard — the  slender  serpentine  figure  for  which  the 
Spaniards  have  a  name.  Her  face,  still  beautiful,  had  the 
fascinating  Creole  complexion,  which  can  only  be  described 
by  comparing  it  with  white  muslin  over  warm  blood-color, 
so  equably  tinted  is  its  fairness.  Her  form  was  round,  and 
attractive  for  the  grace  which  combines  the  ease  of  indolence 
with  vivacity,  strength  with  extreme  freedom.  She  was  at- 
tractive, but  imposing ;  she  fascinated,  but  made  no  promises. 
Being  tall,  she  could  at  will  assume  the  port  and  dignity  of 
a  queen. 

Men  were  ensnared  by  her  conversation,  as  birds  are  by 
bird-lime,  for  she  had  by  nature  the  spirit  which  necessity 
bestows  on  intriguers;  she  would  go  on  from  concession  to 
concession,  arming  herself  with  what  she  gained  to  ask  for 
something  more,  but  always  able  to  withdraw  a  thousand 
yards  at  a  bound  if  she  were  asked  for  anything  in  return. 
She  was  ignorant  of  facts,  but  she  had  known  the  Courts  of 
Spain  and  of  Naples,  the  most  famous  persons  of  the  two 
Americas,  and  various  illustrious  families  of  England  and  of 
the  Continent,  which  gave  her  an  amount  of  information 
superficially  so  wide  that  it  seemed  immense.  She  enter- 
tained with  the  taste  and  dignity  that  cannot  be  learned, 
though  to  certain  refined  minds  they  become  a  second  nature, 
assimilating  the  best  of  everything  wherever  they  find  it. 
(Though  her  reputation  for  virtue  remained  unexplained,  it 
served  the  purpose  of  giving  weight  to  her  actions,  speech, 
and  character. 

The  mother  and  daughter  were  truly  friends,  apart  from 
filial  and  maternal  feeling.  They  suited  each  other,  and 
their  perpetual  contact  had  never  resulted  in  a  jar.  Thus 
many   persons    accounted   for   Madame    Evangelista's    self- 


20  A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT 

sacrifice  by  her  love  for  her  daughter.  However,  thouj^h 
Natalie  may  have  consoled  her  mother  for  her  unalleviated 
widowhood,  she  was  not  perhaps  its  only  motive.  Madame 
Evangelista  was  said  to  have  fallen  in  love  with  a  man  whom 
the  second  Restoration  had  reinstated  in  his  title  and  peerage. 
This  man,  who  would  willingly  have  married  her  in  1814, 
had  very  decently  thrown  her  over  in  1816. 

Now  Madame  Evangelista,  apparently  the  best-hearted 
creature  living,  had  in  her  nature  one  terrible  ((uality  wliich 
can  be  best  expressed  in  Catherine  de'  Medici's  motto,  Odiate 
e  aspettate — Hate  and  wait.  Used  always  to  be  first,  always 
to  be  obeyed,  she  resembled  royal  personages  in  being  amiable, 
gentle,  perfectly  sweet  and  easy-going  in  daily  life;  but 
terrible,  implacable,  when  offended  in  her  pride  as  a  woman, 
a  Spaniard,  and  a  Casa-Real.  She  never  forgave.  This  wo- 
man believed  in  the  power  of  her  own  hatred;  she  regarded 
it  as  an  evil  spell  which  hung  over  her  enemies.  This  fate- 
ful influence  she  had  cast  over  the  man  who  had  been  false 
to  her.  Events  which  seemed  to  prove  the  efficacy  of  her 
jettatura  confirmed  her  in  her  superstitious  belief  in  it. 
Though  he  was  a  minister  and  a  member  of  the  Upper 
Chamber,  ruin  stole  upon  him,  and  he  was  utterly  undone. 
His  estate,  his  political  and  personal  position — all  was  lost. 
One  day  Madame  Evangelista  was  able  to  drive  past  him  in 
her  handsome  carriage  while  he  stood  in  the  Champs-Elysees, 
and  to  blight  him  with  a  look  sparkling  with  the  fires  of 
triumph. 

This  misadventure,  occupying  her  mind  for  two  years,  had 
hindered  her  marrying  again;  and  afterwards  her  pride  con- 
stantly suggested  comparisons  between  those  who  offered 
themselves  and  the  husband  who  had  loved  her  so  truly  and 
generously.  And  thus,  from  disappointment  to  hesitancy, 
from  hope  to  disenchantment,  she  had  come  to  an  age  when 
women  have  no  part  to  fill  in  life  but  that  of  a  mother,  de- 
voting themselves  to  their  daughters,  and  transferring  all  their 
interests  from  themselves  to  the  members  of  another  house- 
hold, the  last  investment  of  human  affection. 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  Si 

Madame  Evangelista  quickly  read  Paul's  character  and 
concealed  her  own.  He  was  the  very  man  she  hoped  for  as 
a  son-in-law,  as  the  responsible  editor  of  her  influence  and 
authority.  He  was  related  through  his  mother  to  the 
Mauiineours ;  and  the  old  Baronne  de  Maulincour,  the  friend 
of  the  Vidame  de  Pamiers,  lived  in  the  heart  of  the  Fau-' 
bourg  Saint-Germain.  The  grandson  of  the  Baronne, 
Auguste  de  Maulincour,  had  a  brilliant  position  in  society. 
Thus  Paul  would  advantageously  introduce  the  Evangelistas 
to  the  World  of  Paris.  The  widow  had  at  rare  intervals 
visited  Paris  under  the  Empire ;  she  longed  to  shine  in  Paris 
under  the  Restoration.  There  only  were  the  elements  to  be 
found  of  political  success,  the  only  form  of  fortune- 
making  in  which  a  woman  of  fashion  can  allow  herself  to 
co-operate. 

Madame  Evangelista,  obliged  by  her  husband's  business 
to  live  in  Bordeaux,  had  never  liked  it ;  she  had  a  house  there, 
and  every  one  knows  how  many  obligations  fetter  a  woman's 
life  under  such  circumstances ;  but  she  was  tired  of  Bordeaux, 
she  had  exhausted  its  resources.  She  wished  for  a  wider 
stage,  as  gamblers  go  where  the  play  is  highest.  Soj  for 
her  own  benefit,  she  dreamed  of  high  destinies  for  Paul. 
She  intended  to  use  her  own  cleverness  and  knowledge  of  life 
for  her  son-in-law's  advancement,  so  as  to  enjoy  the  pleasures 
of  power  in  his  name.  Many  men  are  thus  the  screen  of 
covert  feminine  ambitions.  And,  indeed,  Madame  Evan- 
gelista had  more  than  one  motive  for  wishing  to  govern  her 
daughter's  husband. 

Paul  was,  of  course,  captivated  by  the  lady,  all  the  more 
certainly  because  she  seemed  not  to  wish  to  inliuence  him 
in  any  way.  She  used  her  ascendency  to  magnify  herself, 
to  magnify  her  daughter,  and  to  give  enhanced  value  to  every- 
thing about  her,  so  as  to  have  the  upper  hand  from  the  first 
with  the  man  in  whom  she  saw  the  means  of  continuing  her 
aristocratic  connection. 

And  Paul  valued  himself  the  more  highly  for  this  ap- 
preciation of  the  mother  and  daughter.     He  fancied  himself 


22  A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT 

wittier  than  he  was,  wlien  lie  found  that  his  remarks  and 
his  slightest  jests  were  responded  to  hy  ]\Iadenioiselle  Evan- 
gelista,  who  smiled  or  looked  up  intelligently,  and  hy  her 
mother,  whose  llattery  always  seemed  to  be  involuntary.  The 
two  women  were  so  frankly  kind,  he  felt  so  sure  of  pleasing 
them,  they  drove  him  so  cleverly  hy  the  guiding  thread  of  his 
conceit,  that,  before  long,  he  spent  most  of  his  time  at  their 
house. 

Within  a  year  of  his  arrival  Count  Paul,  without  having 
declared  his  intentions,  was  so  attentive  to  Natalie,  that  he 
was  universally  understood  to  be  courting  her.  Neither 
mother  nor  daughter  seemed  to  think  of  marriage.  Made- 
moiselle Evangelista  did  not  depart  from  the  reserve  of  a  fine 
lady  who  knows  how  to  be  charming  and  converse  agreeably 
without  allowing  the  slightest  advance  towards  intimacy. 
This  self-respect,  rare  among  provincial  folks,  attracted  Paul 
greatly.  Shy  men  are  often  touchy,  unexpected  suggestions 
alarm  them.  They  flee  even  from  happiness  if  it  comes  with 
much  display,  and  are  ready  to  accept  unhappiness  if  it  comes 
in  a  modest  form,  surrounded  by  gentle  shades.  Hence 
Paul,  seeing  that  Madame  Evangelista  made  no  effort  to  en- 
trap him,  ensnared  himself.  The  Spanish  lady  captivated 
him  finally  one  evening  by  saying  that  at  a  certain  age  a 
superior  woman,  like  a  man,  found  that  ambition  took  the 
place  of  the  feelings  of  earlier  years. 

"That  woman,"  thought  Paul,  as  he  went  away,  "would 
be  capable  of  getting  me  some  good  embassy  before  I  could 
even  be  elected  deputy." 

The  man  who,  under  any  circumstances,  fails  to  look  at 
everything  or  at  every  idea  from  all  sides,  to  examine  them 
under  all  aspects,  is  inefficient  and  weak,  and  consequently  in 
danger.  Paul  at  this  moment  was  an  optimist;  he  saw  ad- 
vantages in  ever}'  contingency,  and  never  remembered  that 
an  ambitious  mother-in-law  may  become  a  tyrant.  So  every 
evening-  as  he  went  home  he  pictured  himself  as  married, 
he  bewitched  himself,  and  unconsciously  shod  himself  with 
the  slippers  of  matrimony.     He  had  enjoyed  his  liberty  too 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  23 

long  to  regret  it;  he  was  tired  of  single  life,  which  could 
show  him  nothing  new,  and  of  which  he  now  saw  only  the 
discomforts;  whereas,  though  the  difficulties  of  marriage 
sometimes  occurred  to  him,  he  far  more  often  contemplated 
its  pleasures;  the  prospect  was  new  to  him. 

"Married  life,''  said  he  to  himself,  "is  hard  only  on  the 
poorer  classes.     Half  its  troubles  vanish  before  wealth." 

So  every  day  some  hopeful  suggestion  added  to  the  list  ol 
advantages  which  he  saw  in  this  union. 

"However  high  I  may  rise  in  life,  jSTatalie  will  always  be 
equal  to  her  position,"  he  would  say  to  himself,  "and  that  is 
no  small  merit  in  a  wife.  How  many  men  of  the  Empire 
have  I  seen  suffering  torment  from  their  wives !  Is  it  not 
an  important  element  of  happiness  never  to  feel  one's  pride 
or  vanity  rubbed  the  wrong  way  by  the  companion  one  has 
chosen?  A  man  can  never  be  utterly  wretched  with  a  well- 
bred  woman;  she  never  makes  him  contemptible,  and  she 
may  be  of  use.  JSTatalie  will  be  a  perfect  mistress  of  a  draw- 
ing-room." 

Then  he  fell  back  on  his  recollections  of  the  most  dis- 
tinguished women  of  the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain,  to  con- 
vince himself  that  Natalie  could  at  least  meet  them  on  a 
footing  of  perfect  equality,  if  not  eclipse  them.  Every  com- 
parison was  to  Natalie's  advantage.  The  terms  of  the  com- 
parisons indeed,  derived  from  his  imagination,  yielded  to 
his  wishes.  In  Paris  some  new  figure  would  each  day  have 
crossed  his  path,  girls  of  different  styles  of  beauty,  and  the 
variety  of  such  impressions  would  have  given  balance  to 
his  mind ;  but  at  Bordeaux  Natalie  had  no  rival,  she  was  the 
single  flower,  and  had  blossomed  very  cleverly  at  the  juncture 
when  Paul  was  under  the  tyranny  of  an  idea  to  which  most 
men  fall  victims.  These  conditions  of  propinquity,  added 
to  the  reasoning  of  his  vanity  and  a  genuine  affection,  which 
could  find  no  issue  but  in  marriage,  led  Paul  on  to  an  in- 
creasing passion,  of  which  he  was  wise  enough  to  keep 
the  secret  to  himself,  construing  it  as  a  wish  simply  to  get 
married. 


?i  A  MAHRIAGE  SETTLEMENT 

He  even  endeavored  to  study  Mademoiselle  Evan<jelista  in 
a  way  that  would  not  conii)romise  his  ultimate  decision  in 
his  own  eyes,  for  his  friend  de  Marsay's  terrible  speech  rang 
in  his  ears  now  and  again.  But,  in  the  first  place,  those 
who  are  accustomed  to  luxury  lia\e  a  tone  of  simplicity  that 
is  very  deceptive.  They  scorn  it,  they  use  it  habitually,  it  isl 
the  means  and  not  the  object  of  their  lives.  Paul,  as  he 
saw  that  these  ladies'  lives  were  so  similar  to  his  own,  never 
for  an  instant  imagined  that  they  concealed  any  conceivable 
source  of  ruin.  And  then,  though  there  are  a  few  general 
rules  for  mitigating  the  worries  of  married  life,  there  are 
none  to  enable  us  to  guess  or  foresee  them. 

When  troubles  arise  between  two  beings  who  have  under- 
taken to  make  life  happy  and  easy  each  for  the  other,  they 
are  based  on  the  friction  produced  by  an  incessant  intimacy 
which  does  not  arise  between  two  persons  before  marriage, 
and  never  can  arise  till  the  laws  and  habits  of  French  life 
are  changed.  Two  beings  on  the  eve  of  joining  their  lives 
always  deceive  each  other;  but  the  deception  is  innocent  and 
involuntary.  Each,  of  course,  stands  in  the  best  ^Ight;  they 
are  rivals  as  to  which  makes  the  most  promising  show,  and 
at  that  time  form  a  favorable  idea  of  themselves  which  they 
cannot  afterwards  come  up  to.  Eeal  life,  like  a  changeable 
day,  consists  more  often  of  the  gray,  dull  hours  when  i^ature 
is  overcast  than  of  the  brilliant  intervals  when  the  cun  gives 
glory  and  joy  to  the  fields.  Young  people  look  only  at 
the  fine  days.  Subsequently  they  ascribe  the  inevitable 
troubles  of  life  to  matrimony,  for  there  is  in  man  a  tendency 
to  seek  the  cause  of  his  griefs  in  things  or  persons  immediately 
at  hand. 

To  discover  in  Mademoiselle  Evangelista's  demeanor  or 
countenance,  in  her  Avords  or  her  gestures,  any  indication 
that  might  reveal  the  quota  of  imperfection  inherent  in  her 
character,  Paul  would  have  needed  not  merely  the  science  of 
Lavater  and  of  Gall,  but  another  kind  of  knowledge  for 
which  no  code  of  formulas  exists,  the  personal  intuition  of 
the   observer,   which   requires   almost   universal   knowledge. 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  25 

Like  all  girls,  Natalie's  eounteiiance  was  impenetrable.  The 
deep,  serene  peace  given  by  sculptors  to  the  virgin  heads  in- 
tended to  personify  Justice,  Innocence,  all  the  divinities  who 
dwell  above  earthly  agitations — this  perfect  calm  is  the  great- 
est charm  of  a  girlish  face,  it  is  the  sign-manual  of  her 
purity;  nothing  has  stirred  her,  no  repressed  passion,  no  be- 
trayed affection  has  cast  a  shade  on  the  placidity  of  her 
features;  and  if  it  is  assumed,  the  girl  has  ceased  to  exist. 
Living  always  inseparable  from  her  mother,  Natalie,  like 
every  Spanish  woman,  had  had  none  but  religious  teaching. 
and  some  few  lessons  of  a  mother  to  her  daughter  which 
might  be  useful  for  her  part  in  life.  Hence  her  calm  expres- 
sion was  natural ;  but  it  was  a  veil,  in  which  the  woman  was 
shrouded  as  a  butterfly  is  in  the  chrysalis. 

At  the  same  time,  a  man  skilled  in  the  use  of  the  scalpel 
of  analysis  might  have  discerned  in  Natalie  some  revelation 
of  the  difficulties  her  character  might  present  in  the  con- 
flict of  married  or  social  life.  Her  really  wonderful  beauty 
was  marked  by  excessive  regularity  of  features,  in  perfect 
harmony  with  the  proportions  of  her  head  and  figure.  Such 
perfection  does  not  promise  well  for  the  intellect,  and  there 
are  few  exceptions  to  this  rule.  Superior  qualities  show  in 
some  slight  imperfections  of  form  which  become  exquisitely 
attractive,  points  of  light  where  antagonistic  feelings  sparkle 
and  rivet  the  eye.  Perfect  harmony  indicates  the  coldness 
of  a  compound  nature. 

Natalie  had  a  round  figure,  a  sign  of  strength,  but  also  an 
infallible  evidence  of  self-will  often  reaching  the  pitch  of 
obstinacy  in  women  whose  mind  is  neither  keen  nor  broad. 
Her  hands,  like  those  of  a  Greek  statue,  confirmed  the  fore- 
cast of  her  face  and  form  by  showing  a  love  of  unreasoning 
dominion — Will  for  will's  sake.  Her  brows  met  in  the 
middle,  which,  according  to  observers,  indicates  a  disposition 
to  jealousy.  The  jealousy  of  noble  souls  becomes  emulation 
and  leads  to  great  things ;  that  of  mean  minds  turns  to  hatred. 
Her  mother's  motto,  Odiate  e  aspettate,  was  hers  in  all  its 
strength.     Her  eyes  looked  black,  but  were  in  fact  dark  hazel- 


■/6  A  MARRIAGE  SETT^^EMENT 

brown,  and  conHnstcd  with  her  hair  of  that  russet  hue.  so 
highly  prized  b>  tho  Romans,  and  known  in  English  as 
auburn,  the  usual  color  of  the  hair  in  the  children  of  two 
black-haired  parents  like  Monsieur  and  Madame  Evangelista. 
Her  delicately  white  skin  added  infinitely  to  the  charm  of  this 
contrast  of  colors  in  her  hair  and  eyes,  but  this  refinement 
was  purely  superficial ;  for  whenever  the  lines  of  a  face  have 
not  a  peculiar  soft  roundness,  whatever  the  refinement  and 
delicacy  of  the  details,  do  not  look  for  any  especial  charms 
of  mind.  These  flowers  of  delusive  youth  presently  fade, 
and  you  are  surprised  after  the  lapse  of  a  few  years  to  detect 
hardness,  sternness,  where  you  once  admired  the  elegance 
of  lofty  qualities. 

There  was  something  august  in  Natalie's  features ;  still, 
her  chin  was  rather  heavy — a  painter  would  have  said  thick 
in  impasto,  an  expression  descriptive  of  a  type  that  shows 
pre-existing  sentiments  of  which  the  violence  does  not  declare 
itself  till  middle  life.  Her  mouth,  a  little  sunk  in  her  face, 
showed  the  arrogance  no  less  expressed  in  her  hand,  her 
chin,  her  eyebrows,  and  her  stately  shape.  Finally,  a  last 
sign  which  alone  might  have  warned  the  judgment  of  a  con- 
noisseur, Natalie's  pure  and  fascinating  voice  had  a  metallic 
ring.  However  gently  the  brazen  instrument  was  handled, 
however  tenderly  the  vibrations  were  sent  through  the  curves 
of  the  horn,  that  voice  proclaimed  a  nature  like  that  of  the 
Duke  of  Alva,  from  whom  the  Casa-Reals  were  collaterally 
descended.  All  these  indications  pointed  to  passions,  violent 
but  not  tender,  to  sudden  infatuations,  irreconcilable  hatred, 
a  certain  wit  without  intellect,  and  the  craving  to  rule, 
inherent  in  persons  who  feel  themselves  below  their  pre- 
tensions. 

These  faults,  the  outcome  of  race  and  constitution,  some- 
times- compensated  for  by  the  impulsions  of  generous  blood, 
were  hidden  in  Natalie  as  ore  is  hidden  in  the  mine, 
and  would  only  be  brought  to  the  surface  by  the  rough 
treatment  and  shocks  to  which  character  is  subjected  in  the 
world.     At  present  the  sweetness  and  freshness  of  youth,  the 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  27 

elegance  of  her  manners,  her  saintly  ignorance,  and  the 
grace  of  girlhood,  tinged  her  features  with  the  delicate  veneer 
that  always  must  deceive  superficial  observers.  Then  her 
mother  had  given  her  the  habit  of  agreeable  talk  which  lends 
a  tone  of  superiority,  replies  to  argument  by  banter,  and  has 
a  fascinating  flow  under  which  a  woman  hides  the  tufa  of  a 
shallow  mind,  as  nature  hides  a  barren  soil  under  a  luxuriant 
growth  of  ephemeral  plants.  And  Natalie  had  the  charm  of 
spoilt  children  who  have  known  no  griefs;  her  frankness  was 
seductive,  she  had  not  the  prim  manners  which  mothers  im- 
press on  their  daughters  by  laying  down  a  code  of  absurd 
reserve  and  speech  when  they  wish  to  get  them  married. 
She  was  sincere  and  gay,  as  a  girl  is,  who,  knowing  nothing 
of  marriage,  expects  happiness  only,  foresees  no  disaster, 
and  believes  that  as  a  wife  she  will  acquire  the  right  of  al- 
ways having  her  own  way. 

How  should  Paul,  who  loved  as  a  man  does  when  love  is 
seconded  by  desire,  foresee  in  a  girl  of  this  temper,  whose 
beauty  dazzled  him,  the  woman  as  she  would  be  at  thirty, 
when  shrewder  observers  might  have  been  deceived  by  ap- 
pearances? If  happiness  were  difficult  to  find  in  married 
life,  with  this  girl  it  would  not  be  impossible.  Some  fine 
qualities  shone  through  her  defects.  In  the  hand  of  a  skilful 
master  any  good  quality  may  be  made  to  stifle  faults, 
especially  in  a  girl  who  can  love. 

But  to  make  so  stern  a  metal  ductile,  the  iron  fist  of  which 
de  Marsay  had  spoken  was  needed.  The  Paris  dandy  was 
right.  Fear,  inspired  by  love,  is  an  infallible  tool  for  dealing 
with  a  woman's  spirit.  Those  who  fear,  love;  and  fear  is 
more  nearly  akin  to  love  than  to  hatred. — Would  Paul  have 
the  coolness,  the  judgment,  the  firmness  needed  in  the  con- 
test of  which  no  wife  should  be  allowed  to  have  a  suspicion? 
And  again,  did  Natalie  love  Paul  ?  i 

Natalie,  like  most  girls,  mistook  for  love  the  first  im- 
pulses of  instinct  and  liking  that  Paul's  appearance  stirred 
in  her,  knowing  nothing  of  the  meaning  of  marriage  or  of 
housewifery.     To  her  the  Comte  de  Manerville,  who  had  seen 


28  A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT 

diplomatic  service  at  every  court  in  Europe,  one  of  the  most 
fashionable  men  of  Paris,  could  not  be  an  ordinary  man 
devoid  of  moral  strcngtli,  with  a  mixture  of  bravery  and  shy- 
ness, energetic  perhaps  in  adversity,  but  defenceless  against 
the  foes  that  poison  happiness.  Would  she  develop  tact 
enough  to  discern  Paul's  good  qualities  among  his  superficial 
defects?  Would  she  not  magnify  these  and  forget  those, 
after  the  manner  of  young  wives  who  know  nothing  of 
life? 

At  a  certain  age  a  woman  will  overlook  vice  in  the  man 
who  spares  her  petty  annoyances,  while  she  regards  such 
annoyances  as  misfortunes.  What  conciliatory  influence  and 
what  experience  would  cement  and  enlighten  this  young 
couple?  Would  not  Paul  and  his  wife  imagine  that  love 
was  all  in  all,  when  they  were  only  at  the  stage  of  affectionate 
grimacing  in  which  young  wives  indulge  at  the  beginning 
of  their  life,  and  of  the  compliments  a  husband  pays  on 
their  return  from  a  ball  while  he  still  has  the  courtesy  of 
admiration  ? 

In  such  a  situation  would  not  Paul  succumb  to  his  wife's 
tyranny  instead  of  asserting  his  authority?  Would  he  be 
able  to  say  "Xo"?  All  was  danger  for  a  weak  man  in 
circumstances  where  a  strong  one  might  perhaps  have  run 
some  risk. 

The  subject  of  this  study  is  not  the  transition  of  an  un- 
married to  a  married  man — a  picture  which,  broadly  treated, 
would  not  lack  the  interest  which  the  inmost  storm  of  our 
feelings  must  lend  to  the  commonest  facts  of  life.  The 
events  and  ideas  which  culminated  in  Paul's  marriage  to 
Mademoiselle  Evangelista  are  an  introduction  to  the  work, 
and  only  intended  as  a  study  to  the  great  comedy  which  is  the 
prologue  to  every  married  life.  Hitherto  this  passage  has 
been  neglected  by  dramatic  writers,  though  it  offers  fresh 
resources  to  their  wit. 

This  prologue,  which  decided  Paul's  future  life,  and  to 
which  Madame  Evangelista  looked  forward  with  terror,  was 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  29 

the  discussion  to  which  the  marriage  settlements  give  rise  in 
every  family,  whether  of  the  nobility  or  of  the  middle  class ; 
for  human  passions  are  quite  as  strongly  agitated  by  small  in- 
terests as  by  great  ones.  These  dramas,  played  out  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  notary,  are  all  more  or  less  like  this  one,  and  its 
real  interest  will  be  less  in  these  pages  than  in  the  memory  of 
most  married  people. 

Early  in  the  winter  of  1822  Paul  de  Manerville,  through 
the  intervention  of  his  grand-aunt,  Madame  la  Baronne  de 
Maulincour,  asked  the  hand  of  Mademoiselle  Evangelista. 
Though  the  Baroness  usually  spent  no  more  than  two  months 
in  Medoc,  she  remained  on  this  occasion  till  the  end  of 
October  to  be  of  use  to  her  grand-nephew  in  this  matter,  and 
play  the  part  of  a  mother.  After  laying  the  overtures  before 
Madame  Evangelista,  the  experienced  old  lady  came  to  report 
to  Paul  on  the  results  of  this  step. 

"My  boy,"  said  she,  "I  have  settled  the  matter.  In  dis- 
cussing money  matters  I  discovered  that  Madame  Evan- 
gelista gives  her  daughter  nothing.  Mademoiselle  Natalie 
marries  with  but  her  barest  right. — Marry,  my  dear;  men 
who  have  a  name  and  estates  to  transmit  must  sooner  or  later 
end  by  marriage.  I  should  like  to  see  my  dear  Auguste  do 
the  same. 

"You  can  get  married  without  me,  I  have  nothing  to  be- 
stow on  you  but  my  blessing,  and  old  women  of  my  age  have 
no  business  at  weddings.  I  shall  return  to  Paris  to-morrow. 
When  you  introduce  your  wife  to  society,  I  shall  see  her 
much  more  comfortably  than  I  can  here. — If  you  had  not 
your  house  in  Paris,  you  would  have  found  a  home  with  me. 
I  should  have  been  delighted  to  arrange  my  second-floor  rooms 
to  suit  you." 

"Dear  aunt,"  said  Paul,  "thank  you  very  warmly.  ,  .  . 
But  what  do  you  mean  by  saying  her  mother  gives  her 
nothing,  and  that  she  marries  only  with  her  bare  rights  ?" 

"Her  mother,  my  dear  boy,  is  a  very  knowing  hand,  who 
is  taking  advantage  of  the  girl's  beauty  to  make  terms  and 
give  you  no  more  than  what  she   cannot   keep  back — the 


30  A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT 

father's  fortune.  We  old  folks,  you  know,  think  a  great 
ileal  of  'How  much  has  he?  How  much  has  she?'  I  advise 
you  to  give  strict  instructions  to  your  notary.  The  marriage 
contract,  my  child,  is  a  sacred  duty.  If  your  father  and 
mother  had  not  made  their  bed  well,  you  might  now  be  with- 
out sheets. — You  will  have  children — they  are  the  usual  result 
of  marriage — so  you  are  bound  to  think  of  this.  Call  in 
ilaitre  Mathias,  our  old  notary."  I 

Madame  de  Maulincour  left  Paul  plunged  in  perplexity. 
— His  mother-in-law  was  a  knowing  hand  !  He  must  discuss 
and  defend  his  interests  in  the  marriage  contract ! — Who, 
then,  proposed  to  attack  them?  So  he  took  his  aunt's 
advice  and  entrusted  the  matter  of  settlements  to  Maitre 
Mathias. 

Still,  he  could  not  help  thinking  of  the  anticipated  dis- 
cussion. And  it  was  not  without  much  trepidation  that  he 
went  to  see  Madame  Evangelista  with  a  view  to  announcing 
his  intentions.  Like  all  timid  people,  he  was  afraid  lest  he 
should  betray  the  distrust  suggested  by  his  aunt,  which  he 
thought  nothing  less  than  insulting.  To  avoid  the  slightest 
friction  with  so  imposing  a  personage  as  his  future  step- 
mother seemed  to  him,  ho  fell  back  on  the  circumlocutions 
natural  to  those  who  dare  not  face  a  difficulty. 

"Madame,  you  know  what  an  old  family  notary  is  like," 
said  he,  when  Natalie  was  absent  for  a  minute.  "^line  is  a 
worthy  old  man,  who  would  be  deeply  aggrieved  if  I  did  not 
place  my  marriage  contract  in  his  hands " 

"But,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  Madame  Evangelista,  inter- 
rupting him,  "are  not  marriage  contracts  always  settled 
through  the  notaries  on  each  side?" 

During  the  interval  while  Paul  sat  pondering,  not  daring 
to  open  the  matter,  Madame  Evangelista  had  been  wonder- 
ing, "What  is  he  thinking  about?"  for  women  have  a  great 
power  of  reading  thought  from  the  play  of  feature.  And  she 
could  guess  at  the  great-aunt's  hints  from  the  embarrassed 
gaze  and  agitated  tone  which  betrayed  Paul's  mental  dis- 
turbance. 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  Si 

"At  last,"  thought  she,  "the  decisive  moment  has  come; 
the  crisis  is  at  hand ;  what  will  be  the  end  of  it  ? — My  notary," 
she  went  on,  after  a  pause,  "is  Maitre  Solonet,  and  yours  is 
Maitre  Mathias;  I  will  ask  them  both  to  dinner  to-morrow, 
and  they  can  settle  the  matter  between  them.  Is  it  not  their 
business  to  conciliate  our  interests  without  our  meddling,  as 
it  is  that  of  the  cook  to  feed  us  well  ?" 

"Why,  of  course,"  said  he,  with  a  little  sigh  of  relief. 

By  a  strange  inversion  of  parts,  Paul,  who  was  blame- 
less, quaked,  while  Madame  Evangelista,  though  dreadfully 
anxious,  appeared  calm.  The  widow  owed  her  daughter  the 
third  of  the  fortune  left  by  Monsieur  Evangelista,  twelve 
hundred  thousand  francs,  and  was  quite  unable  to  pay  it,  even 
if  she  stripped  herself  of  all  her  possessions.  She  would  be 
at  her  son-in-law's  mercy.  Though  she  might  override  Paul 
alone,  would  Paul,  enlightened  by  his  lawyer,  agree  to 
any  compromise  as  to  the  account  of  her  stewardship?  If 
he  withdrew,  all  Bordeaux  would  know  the  reason,  and  it 
would  be  impossible  for  Natalie  to  marry.  The  mother  who 
wished  to  secure  her  daughter's  happiness,  the  woman  who 
from  the  hour  of  her  birth  had  lived  in  honor,  foresaw  the 
day  when  she  must  be  dishonest. 

Like  those  great  generals  who  would  fain  wipe  out  of 
their  lives  the  moment  when  they  were  cowards  at  heart,  she 
wished  she  could  score  out  that  day  from  the  days  of  her 
life.  And  certainly  some  of  her  hairs  turned  white  in  the 
course  of  the  night  when,  face  to  face  with  this  difficulty,  she 
bitterly  blamed  herself  for  her  want  of  care. 

In  the  first  place,  she  was  obliged  to  confide  in  her  lawyer, 
whom  she  sent  for  to  attend  her  as  soon  as  she  was  up.  She 
had  to  confess  a  secret  vexation  which  she  had  never  ad- 
mitted even  to  herself,  for  she  had  walked  on  to  the  verge  of 
the  precipice,  trusting  to  one  of  those  chances  that  never 
happen.  And  a  feeling  was  born  in  her  soul,  a  little  animus 
against  Paul  that  was  not  yet  hatred,  nor  aversion,  nor  in 
any  way  evil — but,  was  not  he  the  antagonistic  party  in  this 
family  suit?     Was  he  not4  unwittingly;  an  innocent  enemy 


32  A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT 

who  must  be  defeated?  And  who  could  ever  love  an)'  one 
he  had  duped  ? 

Compelled  to  deceive,  the  Spanish  woman  resolved,  like 
any  woman,  to  show  her  superiority  in  a  contest  of  which  the 
entire  success  could  alone  wipe  out  the  discredit.  In  the 
silence  of  the  night  she  excused  herself  by  a  line  of  argu- 
ment, in  which  her  pride  had  the  upper  hand.  Had  not 
Natalie  benefited  by  her  lavishness?  Had  her  conduct  ever 
been  actuated  by  one  of  the  base  and  ignoble  motives  that 
degrade  the  soul?  She  could  not  keep  accounts — well,  was 
that  a  sin,  a  crime?  Was  not  a  man  only  too  lucky  to  win 
such  a  wife  as  Natalie?  Was  not  the  treasure  she  had  pre- 
served for  him  worth  a  discharge  in  full?  Did  not  many  a 
man  pay  for  the  woman  he  loved  by  making  great  sacrifices  ? 
And  why  should  he  do  more  for  a  courtesan  than  for  a 
wife? — Besides,  Paul  was  a  commonplace,  incapable  being; 
she  would  support  him  by  the  resources  of  her  own  clever- 
ness; she  would  help  him  to  make  his  way  in  the  world;  he 
would  owe  his  position  to  her ;  would  not  this  amply  pay  the 
debt  ?  He  would  be  a  fool  to  hesitate  !  And  for  a  few  thou- 
sand francs  more  or  less  ?     It  would  be  disgraceful ! 

"If  I  am  not  at  once  successful,"  said  she  to  herself,  "1  leave 
Bordeaux.  I  can  still  secure  a  good  match  for  Natalie  by 
realizing  all  that  is  left — the  house,  my  diamonds,  and  the 
furniture,  giving  her  all  but  an  annuity  for  myself." 

When  a  strongly  tempered  spirit  plans  a  retreat,  as 
Eichelieu  did  at  Brouage,  and  schemes  for  a  splendid  finale, 
this  alternative  becomes  a  fulcrum  which  helps  the  schemer 
to  triumph.  This  escape,  in  case  of  failure,  reassured 
Madame  Evangelista,  who  went  to  sleep  indeed,  full  of  con- 
fidence in  her  second  in  this  duel.  She  trusted  greatly  to 
the  aid  of  the  cleverest  notary  in  Bordeaux,  Maitre  Solonet, 
a  young  man  of  seven-and-twenty,  a  member  of  the  Legion 
of  Honor  as  the  reward  of  having  contributed  actively  to  the 
restoration  of  the  Bourbons.  Proud  and  delighted  to  be  ad- 
mitted to  an  acquaintance  with  ]\ladame  Evangelista,  less  as 
a  lawyer  than  as  belonging  to  the  Royalist  party  in  Bordeaux, 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  33 

Solonet  cherished  for  her  sunset  beauty  one  of  those  passions 
which  such  women  as  Madame  Evangelista  ignore  while  they 
are  flattered  by  them,  and  which  even  the  prudish  allow  to 
float  in  their  wake.  Solonet  lived  in  an  attitude  of  vanity 
full  of  respect  and  seemly  attentions.  This  young  man  ar- 
rived next  morning  with  the  zeal  of  a  slave,  and  was  admitted 
to  the  widow's  bedroom,  where  he  found  her  coquettishly 
dressed  in  a  becoming  wrapper. 

"Now,"  said  she,  '^'can  I  trust  to  your  reticence  and  entire 
devotion  in  the  discussion  which  is  to  take  place  this  even- 
ing? Of  course,  you  can  guess  that  my  daughter's  marriage 
contract  is  in  question." 

The  young  lawyer  was  profuse  in  protestations. 

"For  the  facts,  then,"  said  she. 

"I  am  all  attention,"  he  replied,  with  a  look  of  concen- 
tration. 

Madame  Evangelista  stated  the  case  without  any  finessing. 

"My  dear  madame,  all  this  matters  not,"  said  Maitre 
Solonet,  assuming  an  important  air  when  his  client  had  laid 
the  exact  figures  before  him.  "How  have  you  dealt  with 
Monsieur  de  Manerville?  The  moral  attitude  is  of  greater 
consequence  than  any  questions  of  law  or  finance." 

Madame  Evangelista  robed  herself  in  dignity;  the  young 
notary  was  delighted  to  learn  that  to  this  day  his  client, 
in  her  treatment  of  Paul,  had  preserved  the  strictest  dis- 
tance ;  half  out  of  real  pride,  and  half  out  of  unconscious  self- 
interest,  she  had  always  behaved  to  the  Comte  de  Manerville 
as  though  he  were  her  inferior,  and  it  would  be  an  honor 
for  him  to  marry  Mademoiselle  Evangelista.  Neither  she 
nor  her  daughter  could  be  suspected  of  interested  motives; 
their  feelings  were  evidently  free  from  meanness;  if  Paul 
should  raise  the  least  difficulty  on  the  money  question,  they 
had  every  right  to  withdraw  to  an  immeasurable  distance — in 
fact,  she  had  a  complete  ascendency  over  her  would-be  son- 
in-law. 

"This  being  the  case,"  said  Solonet,  "what  is  the  utmost 
concession  you  are  inclined  to  make?" 


34  A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT 

"The  least  possible,"  said  she,  laughing. 

"A  woman's  answer !"  replied  Solonet.  "Madame,  do  you 
really  wish  to  sec  Mademoiselle  Natalie  married?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you  want  a  discharge  for  the  eleven  hundred  and 
fifty-six  thousnnd  francs  you  will  owe  her  in  accordance  with 
the  account  rendered  of  your  guardianship?" 

"Exactly!" 

"How  much  do  you  wish  to  reserve?" 

"At  least  thirty  thousand  francs  a  year/' 

"So  we  must  conquer  or  perish  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  I  will  consider  the  ways  and  means  of  achieving 
thai  end,  for  we  must  be  very  dexterous,  and  husband  our 
resources.  I  will  give  you  a  few  hints  on  arriving;  act 
on  them  exactly,  and  I  can  confidently  predict  complete  suc- 
cess.— Is  Count  Paul  in  love  with  Mademoiselle  Natalie?" 
he  asked  as  he  rose. 

"He  worships  her." 

"That  is  not  enough.  Is  he  so  anxious  to  have  her  as 
his  wife  that  he  v/ill  pass  over  any  little  pecuniary  diffi- 
culties V 

"Y^es." 

"That  is  what  I  call  having  personal  property  in  a 
daughter!"  exclaimed  the  notary.  "Make  her  look  her  best 
this  evening,"  he  added,  with  a  cunning  twinkle. 

"We  have  a  perfect  dress  for  her." 

"The  dress  for  the  Contract,  in  my  opinion,  is  half  the 
settlements,"  said  Solonet. 

This  last  argument  struck  Madame  Evangelista  as  so  cogent 
that  she  insisted  on  helping  her  daughter  to  dress,  partly  to 
superintend  the  toilet,  but  also  to  secure  her  as  an  innocent 
accomplice  in  her  financial  plot.  And  her  daughter,  with 
her  coiffure  a  la  Sevigne,  and  a  white  cashmere  dress  with 
rose-colored  bows,  seemed  to  her  handsome  enough  to  assure 
the  victory. 

WheD  the  maid  had  left  them,  and  Madame  Evangelista 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  35 

was  sure  that  nobody  was  within  hearing,  she  arranged  her 
daughter's  curls  as  a  preliminary. 

"My  dear  child,  are  you  sincerely  attached  to  Monsieur 
de  Manerville  ?"  said  she  in  a  steady  voice. 

The  mother  and  daughter  exchanged  a  strangely  meaning 
glance. 

}  "Why,  my  little  mother,  should  you  ask  to-day  rather 
than  yesterday?  Why  have  you  allowed  nie  to  imagine 
a  doubt  ?" 

"If  it  were  to  part  you  from  me  for  ever,  would  you  marry 
him  all  the  same?" 

"I  could  give  him  up  without  dying  of  grief." 

"Then  you  do  not  love  him,  my  dear,"  said  the  mother, 
kissing  her  daughter's  forehead. 

"But  why,  my  dear  mamma,  are  you  playing  the  grand 
inquisitor  ?" 

"I  wanted  to  see  if  you  cared  to  be  married  without  being 
madly  in  love  with  your  husband." 

"I  like  him." 

"You  are  right;  he  is  a  Count,  and,  between  us,  he  shall 
be  made  peer  of  France.     But  there  will  be  difficulties." 

"Difficulties  between  people  who  care  for  each  other? — 
No !  Pease-blossom.,  my  dear  mother,  is  too  well  planted 
there,"  and  she  pointed  to  her  heart  with  a  pretty  gesture,  "to 
make  the  smallest  objection;  I  am  sure  of  that." 

"But  if  it  were  not  so?" 

"I  should  utterly  forget  him." 

"Well  said !  You  are  a  Casa-Real. — But  though  he  is 
madly  in  love  with  you,  if  certain  matters  were  discussed 
which  do  not  immediately  concern  him,  but  which  he  would 
have  to  make  the  best  of  for  your  sake  and  mine,  Natalie, 
heh?  If,  without  proceeding  in  the  least  too  far,  a  little 
graciousness  of  manner  might  turn  the  scale  ? — A  mere  noth- 
ing, you  know,  a  word?  Men  are  like  that — they  can  resist 
sound  argument  and  yield  to  a  glance." 

"I  understand!      A  little  touch  just  to  make  Favorite  leap 


36  A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT 

the  gate,"  said  Natalie,  witli  a  flourish  as  if  she  were  whipping 
a  horse. 

"My  darling,  I  do  not  wish  you  to  do  anything  approach- 
ing to  invitation.  We  have  traditions  of  old  Castilian  pride 
which  will  never  allow  us  to  go  too  far.  The  Count  will  be 
informed  of  my  situation." 

'^Vhat  situation  ?" 

"You  would  not  understand  if  I  told  you. — Well,  if  after 
seeing  you  in  all  your  beauty  his  eyes  should  betray  the 
slightest  hesitancy — and  T  shall  watch  him — at  that  instant 
I  should  break  the  whole  thing  off;  I  should  turn  everything 
into  money,  leave  Bordeaux,  and  go  to  Douai,  to  the  Claes, 
who,  after  all,  are  related  to  us  through  the  Temnincks. 
Then  I  would  find  a  French  peer  for  your  husband,  even  if  I 
had  to  take  refuge  in  a  convent  and  give  you  my  whole 
fortune." 

"My  dear  mother,  what  can  I  do  to  hinder  such  mis- 
fortunes?" said  Natalie. 

"I  never  saw  you  lovelier,  my  child  !  Be  a  little  purposely 
attractive,  and  all  will  be  well." 

Madame  Evangelista  left  Natalie  pensive,  and  v/ent  to 
achieve  a  toilet  which  allowed  her  to  stand  a  comparison  with 
her  daughter.  If  Natalie  was  to  fascinate  Paul,  must  not 
she  herself  fire  the  enthusiasm  of  her  champion.  Solonet  ? 

The  mother  and  daughter  were  armed  for  conquest  when 
Paul  arrived  with  the  bouquet  which  for  some  months  past 
had  been  his  daily  offering  to  Natalie.  Then  they  sat 
chatting  while  awaiting  the  lawyers. 

This  day  was  to  Paul  the  first  skirmish  in  the  long  and 
weary  warfare  of  married  life.  It  is  necessary,  therefore, 
to  review  the  forces  on  either  side,  to  place  the  belligerents, 
and  to  define  the  field  on  which  they  are  to  do  battle. 

To  second  him  in  a  struggle  of  which  he  did  not  in  the 
least  appreciate  the  consequences,  Paul  had  nobody  but  his 
old  lawyer  IVIathias.  They  were  each  to  be  surj^rised  unarmed 
by  an  unexpected  manoeuvre,  driven  by  an  enemy  whose 
plans  were  laid,  and  compelled  to  act  without  having  time  for 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  3? 

reflection.  What  man  but  would  have  failed  even  with  Cujas 
and  Barthole  to  back  him?  How  should  he  fear-perfidy  when 
everything  seemed  so  simple  and  natural  ? 

What  could  Mathias  do  single-handed  against  Madame 
Evangelista,  Solonet,  and  Natalie,  especially  when  his  client 
was  a  lover  who  would  go  over  to  the  enemy  as  soon  as  his 
happiness  should  seem  to  be  imperiled?  Paul  was  already 
?ntangling  himself  by  making  the  pretty  speeches  customary 
with  lovers,  to  which  his  passion  gave  an  emphasis  of  im- 
mense value  in  the  eyes  of  Madame  Evangelista,  who  was 
leading  him  on  to  commit  himself. 

The  matrimonial  condottieri,  who  were  about  to  do  battle 
for  their  clients,  and  whose  personal  prowess  would  prove 
decisive  in  this  solemn  contest — the  two  notaries — repre- 
sented the  old  and  the  new  schools,  the  old  and  the  new  style 
of  notary. 

Maitre  Mathias  was  a  worthy  old  man  of  sixty-nine,  proud 
of  twenty  years'  practice  in  his  office.  His  broad,  gouty  feet 
were  shod  in  shoes  with  silver  buckles,  and  were  an  absurd 
finish  to  legs  so  thin,  with  such  prominent  knee-bones,  that 
when  he  crossed  his  feet  they  looked  like  the  cross-bones  on 
a  tombstone.  His  lean  thighs,  lost  in  baggy  black  knee- 
breeches  with  silver  buckles,  seemed  to  bend  under  the  weight 
of  a  burly  stomach  and  the  round  shoulders  characteristic  of 
men  who  live  in  an  office !  a  huge  ball,  always  clothed  in  a 
green  coat  with  square-cut  skirts,  which  no  one  remembered 
ever  to  have  seen  new.  His  hair,  tightly  combed  back  and 
powdered,  was  tied  in  a  rat's  tail  that  always  tucked  itself 
away  between  the  collar  of  his  coat  and  that  of  his  flowered 
white  waistcoat.  With  his  bullet  head,  his  face  as  red  as  a 
vine-leaf,  his  blue  eyes,  trumpet-nose,  thick  lips,  and  double 
chin,  the  dear  little  man,  wherever  he  went,  aroused  the 
laughter  so  liberally  bestowed  by  the  French  on  the  grotesque 
creations  which  Nature  sometimes  allows  herself  and  Art 
thinks  it  funny  to  exaggerate,  calling  them  caricatures. 

But  in  Maitre  Mathias  the  mind  had  triumphed  over  the 
body,  the  qualities  of  the  soul  had  vanquished  the  eccentricity 


38  A  TnA'RRlA~(}E  SETTLEMENT 

of  his  appearance.  Most  of  the  townsfolk  treated  him  with 
friendly  respect  and  deference  full  of  esteem.  The  notary's 
voice  won  all  hearts  by  the  eloquent  ring  of  honesty.  His  only 
cunning  consisted  in  going  straigiit  to  the  point,  oversetting 
every  evil  thought  by  the  directness  of  his  questions.  His 
sharply  observant  eye,  and  his  long  experience  of  business, 
gave  him  that  spirit  of  divination  wiiich  allowed  him  to  read 
consciences  and  discern  the  most  secret  thoughts.  Though 
grave  and  quiet  in  business,  this  patriarch  had  the  cheerfulness 
of  our  ancestors.  He  might,  one  felt,  risk  a  song  at  table,  ac- 
cept and  keep  up  family  customs,  celebrate  anniversaries  and 
birthdays,  whether  of  grandparents  or  children,  and  bury  the 
Christmas  log  with  due  ceremony;  he  loved  to  give  New 
Year's  gifts,  to  invent  surprises,  and  bring  out  Easter  eggs; 
he  believed,  no  doubt,  in  the  duties  of  a  godfather,  and  would 
never  neglect  any  old-time  custom  that  gave  color  to  life  of 
yore. 

Maitre  Mathias  "iras  a  noble  and  respectable  survival  of  the 
notaries,  obscure  men  of  honor,  of  whom  no  receipt  was 
asked  for  millions,  and  who  returned  them  in  the  same  bags, 
tied  with  the  same  string;  who  fulfilled  every  trust  to  the 
letter,  drew  up  inventories  for  probate  with  decent  feeling, 
took  a  paternal  interest  in  their  client's  affairs,  put  a  bar  some- 
times in  the  way  of  a  spendthrift,  and  were  the  depositaries  of 
family  secrets ;  in  short,  one  of  those  notaries  who  considered 
themselves  responsible  for  blunders  in  their  deeds,  and  who 
gave  time  and  thought  to  them.  Never,  in  the  whole  of  his 
career  as  a  notary,  had  one  of  his  clients  to  complain  of  a 
bad  investment,  of  a  mortgage  ill  chosen  or  carelessly  man- 
aged. His  wealth,  slowly  but  honestly  acquired,  had 
been  accumulated  through  thirty  years  of  industry  and 
economy.  He  had  found  places  for  fourteen  clerks. 
Religious  and  generous  in  secret,  Mathias  was  always 
to  be  found  where  good  was  to  be  done  without  reward.  He 
was  an  acting  member  of  the  Board  of  Asylums  and  the 
Charitable  Committee,  and  the  largest  subscriber  to  the  vol- 
untary rates  for  the  relief  of  unexpected  disaster,  or  the 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  39 

establishment  of  some  useful  institution.  Thus,  neither  he 
nor  his  wife  had  a  carriage;  his  word  was  sacred;  he  had  as 
much  mone}^  deposited  in  his  cellar  as  lay  at  the  bank :  he 
was  known  as  "Good  Monsieur  Mathias" ;  and  when  he  died, 
three  thousand  persons  followed  him  to  the  grave. 

Solonet  was  the  youthful  notary  who  comes  in  humming 
a  tune,  who  affects  an  airy  manner,  and  declares  that  business 
may  be  done  quite  as  efficiently  with  a  laugh  as  with  a  serious 
countenance;  the  notary  who  is  a  captain  in  the  National 
Guard,  who  does  not  like  to  be  known  for  a  lawyer,  and  aims 
at  the  Cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honor,  who  keeps  his  carriage 
and  leaves  the  correcting  of  his  deeds  to  his  clerks;  the 
notary  who  goes  to  balls  and  to  the  play,  who  buys  pictures 
and  plays  ecarte,  who  has  a  cash  drawer  into  which  he  pours 
deposit-money,  repaying  in  notes  what  he  receives  in  gold ;  the 
notary  who  keeps  pace  with  the  times  and  risks  his  capital 
in  doubtful  investments,  who  speculates,  hoping  to  retire  with 
an  income  of  thirty  thousand  francs  after  ten  years  in  his 
office;  the  notary  whose  acumen  is  the  outcome  of  duplicity, 
and  who  is  feared  by  many  as  an  accomplice  in  possession  of 
their  secrets ;  the  notary  who  regards  his  official  position  as  a 
means  of  marrjdng  some  blue-stocking  heiress. 

When  the  fair  and  elegant  Solonet — all  curled  and  scented, 
booted  like  a  lover  of  the  Vaudeville,  and  dressed  like  a  dandy 
whose  most  important  business  is  a  duel — entered  the  room 
before  his  older  colleague,  who  walked  slowly  from  a  touch 
of  the  gout,  the  two  were  the  living  representatives  of  one  of 
the  caricatures  entitled  "Then  and  Now,"  which  had  great 
success  under  the  Empire. 

Though  Madame  and  Mademoiselle  Evangelista,  to  whom 
"Good  Monsieur  Mathias"  was  a  stranger,  at  first  felt  a  slight 
inclination  to  laugh,  they  were  at  once  touched  by  the  perfect 
grace  of  his  greeting.  The  worthy  man's  speech  was  full  of 
the  amenity  that  an  amiable  old  man  can  infuse  both  into 
what  he  says  and  the  manner  of  saying  it. 

The  younger  man,  with  his  frothy  sparkle,  was  at  once 
thrown  into  the  shade.  Mathias  showed  his  superior  breed- 
ing by  the  measured  respect  of  his  address  to  Paul.     With- 


40  A  MARRIACE  SETTLEMENT 

out  humiliatino;  his  white  hairs,  he  recognized  the  young 
man's  rank,  while  appreciating  the  fact  that  certain  honors 
are  due  to  old  age,  and  that  all  such  social  rights  are  in- 
terdepenflent.  Solonet's  how  and  "How  d'  do?"  were,  on 
the  contrary,  the  utterance  of  perfect  equality,  which  could 
not  fail  to  oflFend  the  susceptibilities  of  a  man  of  the 
world,  and  to  make  himself  ridiculous  in  the  eyes  of  a  man 
of  rank. 

The  young  notary,  by  a  somewhat  familiar  gesture,  invited 
Madame  Evangelista  to  speak  with  him  in  a  window-recess. 
For  some  few  moments  they  spoke  in  whispers,  laughing  now 
and  then,  no  doubt  to  mislead  the  others  as  to  the  importance 
of  the  conversation,  in  which  Maitre  Solonet  communicated 
the  plan  of  battle  to  the  lady  in  command. 

"x\nd  could  you  really,"  said  he,  in  conclusion,  "make  up 
your  mind  to  sell  your  house?" 

'TTndoubtedly !"  said  she. 

Madame  Evangelista  did  not  choose  to  tell  her  lawyer 
her  reasons  for  such  heroism,  as  he  thought  it,  for  Solonet's 
zeal  might  have  cooled  if  he  had  known  that  his  client  meant 
to  leave  Bordeaux.  She  had  not  even  said  so  to  Paul,  not 
wishing  to  alarm  him  prematurely  by  the  extent  of  the 
circumvallations  needed  for  the  first  outworks  of  a  political 
position. 

After  dinner  the  plenipotentiaries  left  the  lovers  with 
Madame  Evangelista,  and  went  into  an  adjoining  room  to 
discuss  business.  Thus  two  dramas  were  being  enacted: 
by  the  chimney  corner  in  the  drawing-room  a  love  scene  in 
which  life  smiled  bright  and  happy;  in  the  study  a  serious 
duologue,  in  which  interest  was  laid  bare,  and  already 
played  the  part  it  always  fills  under  the  most  flowery  aspects 
of  life. 

"My  dear  sir,  the  deed  will  be  in  your  hands ;  T  know 
what  I  owe  to  my  senior."  Mathias  bowed  gravely.  "But," 
Solonet  went  on,  unfolding  a  rough  draft,  of  no  use  what- 
ever, that  a  clerk  had  written  out,  "as  we  are  the  weaker 
party,  as  we  are  the  spinster,  I  have  drafted  the  articles  to 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  41 

save  you  the  trouble.  We  propose  to  marry  with  all  our 
rights  on  a  footing  of  possession  in  common,  an  unqualified 
settlement  of  all  estate,  real  and  personal,  each  on  the  other 
in  case  of  decease  without  issue;  or,  if  issue  survive  them,  a 
settlement  of  one-quarter  on  the  surviving  parent,  and  a 
life-interest  in  one  quarter  more.  The  sum  thrown  into  com- 
mon stock  to  be  one-quarter  of  the  estate  of  each  contracting 
party,  the  survivor  to  have  all  furniture  and  movables  without 
exception  and  duty  free.    It  is  all  as  plain  as  day." 

"Ta,  ta,  ta,  ta,"  said  Mathias,  "I  do  not  do  business  as 
you  would  sing  a  ballad.     What  have  you  to  show  ?" 

"What  on  your  side  ?"  asked  Solonet. 

"We  have  to  settle,"  said  Mathias,  "the  estate  of  Lanstrac, 
producing  twenty-three  thousand  francs  a  year  in  rents,  to 
say  nothing  of  produce  in  kind :  Item  the  farms  of  le  Grassol 
and  le  Guadet,  each  let  for  three  thousand  six  hundred  francs. 
Item  the  vineyards  of  Bellerose,  yielding  on  an  average  six- 
teen thousand — together  forty-six  thousand  two  hundred 
francs  a  year.  Item  a  family  mansion  at  Bordeaux,  rated  at 
nine  hundred.  Item  a  fine  house  in  Paris,  with  a  forecourt 
and  garden,  Eue  de  la  Pepiniere,  rated  at  fifteen  hundred. 
These  properties,  of  which  I  hold  the  title-deeds,  we  inherit 
from  our  parents,  excepting  the  house  in  Paris  acquired  by 
purchase.  We  have  also  to  include  the  furniture  of  the  two 
houses  and  of  the  chateau  of  Lanstrac,  valued  at  four 
hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs.  There  you  have  the 
table,  the  cloth,  and  the  first  course.  Kow  what  have  you  for 
the  second  course  and  the  dessert  ?" 

"Our  rights  and  expectations,"  said  Solonet. 

"Specify,  my  dear  sir,"  replied  Mathias.  "What  have  you 
to  show?  Where  is  the  valuation  made  at  Monsieur  Evan- 
gelista's  death?  Show  me  your  valuations,  and  the  invest- 
ments you  hold.  Where  is  your  capital — if  you  have  any? 
Where  is  your  land — if  you  have  land !  Show  me  your 
guardian's  accounts,  and  tell  us  what  your  mother  gives  or 
promises  to  give  you." 


42  A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT 

"Is  Monsieur  le  Comte  de  Manerville  in  love  with  Made- 
moiselle Evangclista?" 

"He  means  to  marry  her  if  everything  proves  suitable," 
said  the  old  notary.  "I  am  not  a  child;  this  is  a  matter  of 
business  and  not  of  sentiment." 

"The  business  will  fall  through  if  you  have  no  sentiment 
— and  generous  sentiment;  and  this  is  why/'  said  Solonet. 
"We  had  no  valuation  made  after  our  husband's  death. 
Spanish,  and  a  Creole,  we  know  nothing  of  French  law.  And 
we  were  too  deeply  grieved,  to  think  of  the  petty  formalities 
which  absorb  colder  hearts.  It  is  a  matter  of  public  notoriety 
that  the  deceased  gentleman  adored  his  wife,  and  that  we  were 
plunged  in  woe.  Though  we  had  a  probate  and  a  kind  of 
valuation  on  a  general  estimate,  you  may  thank  the  surrogate 
guardian  for  that,  who  called  upon  us  to  make  a  statement 
and  settle  a  sum  on  our  daughter  .as  best  we  might  just  at  a 
time  when  we  were  obliged  to  sell  out  of  the  English  funds 
to  an  enormous  amount  which  we  wished  to  reinvest  in  Paris 
at  double  the  interest." 

"Come,  do  not  talk  nonsense  to  me.  There  are  means  of 
checking  these  amounts.  How  much  did  you  pay  in  succes- 
sion duties?  The  figure  will  be  enough  to  verify  the 
amounts.  .Go  to  the  facts.  Tell  us  phiinly  how  much  you 
had,  and  what  is  left.  And  then,  if  we  are  too  desperately  in 
love,  we  shall  see." 

"Well,  if  you  are  marrying  for  money,  you  may  make  your 
bow  at  once.  We  may  lay  claim  to  more  than  a  million 
francs ;  but  our  mother  has  nothing  of  it  left  but'  this  house 
and  furniture  and  four  hundred  odd  thousand  francs,  in- 
vested in  1817  in  five  per  cents,  and  bringing  in  forty  thou- 
sand francs  a  year." 

"How  then  do  you  keep  up  a  style  costing  a  hundred  thou- 
sand?" cried  Mathias  in  dismay. 

"Our  daughter  has  cost  us  vast  sums.  Besides,  we  like 
display.  And,  finally,  all  your  jeremiads  will  not  bring 
back  two  sous  of  it." 

'TMademoiselle  Natalie  might  have  been  very  handsomely 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  43 

brought  up  on  the  fifty  thousand  francs  a  year  that  belonged 
to  her  without  rushing  into  ruin.  And  if  you  ate  with  such 
an  appetite  as  a  girl,  what  will  you  not  devour  as  a  wife  ?" 

"Let  us  go  then/'  said  Solonet.  "The  handsomest  girl 
alive  is  bound  to  spend  more  than  she  has." 

"I  will  go  and  speak  two  words  to  my  client,"  said  the  older 
lawyer. 

"Go,  go,"  thought  Maitre  Solonet,  "go,  old  Father  Cas- 
sandra, and  tell  your  client  we  have  not  a  farthing."  For 
in  the  silence  of  his  private  office  he  had  strategically  dis- 
posed of  his  masses,  formed  his  arguments  in  columns,  fixed 
the  turning-points  of  the  discussion,  and  prepared  the  critical 
moment  when  the  antagonistic  parties,  thinking  all  was  lost, 
would  jump  at  a  compromise  which  would  be  the  triumph  of 
his  client. 

The  flowing  dress  with  pink  ribbons,  the  ringlets  a  la 
Sevigne,  Natalie's  small  foot,  her  insinuating  looks,  her 
slender  hand,  constantly  engaged  in  rearranging  the  curls 
which  did  not  need  it — all  the  tricks  of  a  girl  showing  off,  as 
a  peacock  spreads  its  tail  in  the  sun — had  brought  Paul  to 
the  point  at  which  her  mother  wished  to  see  him.  He  was 
crazy  with  admiration,  as  crazy  as  a  schoolboy  for  a 
courtesan ;  his  looks,  an  unfailing  thermometer  of  the  mind, 
marked  the  frenzy  of  passion  which  leads  a  man  to  commit  a 
thousand  follies. 

"Natalie  is  so  beautiful,"  he  whispered  to  Madame  Evan- 
gelista,  "that  I  can  understand  the  madness  which  drives  us 
to  pay  for  pleasure  by  death." 

The  lady  tossed  her  head. 

"A  lover's  words !"  she  replied.     "My  husband  never  made 
me  such  fine  speeches;  but  he  married  me  penniless,  and 
never  in  thirteen  years  gave  me  an  instant's  pain." 
,     "Is  that  a  hint  for  me?"  said  Paul,  smiling. 

"You  know  how  truly  I  care  for  you,  dear  boy,"  said  she, 
pressing  his  hand.  "Besides,  do  you  not  think  I  must  love 
you  well  to  be  willing  to  give  you  my  Natalie  ?" 

"To  give  me !     To  give  me !"  cried  the  girl,  laughing  and 


44  A  MATIKIA(JK  SETTLEMENT 

waving  a  fan  of  Indian  feathers.     '^Vhat  are  you  whispering 
about  ?" 

"I,"  said  Paul,  "was  saying  liow  well  I  love  you — since  the 
proprieties  forbid  my  expressing  my  hopes  to  you." 
.      "Why  ?" 

"I  am  afraid  of  myself." 

"Oh !  you  are  too  clever  not  to  know  how  to  set  the  gems 
of  flattery.  Would  you  like  me  to  tell  you  what  I  think  of 
you  ? — Well,  you  seem  to  me  to  have  more  wit  than  a  man  in 
love  should  show.  To  be  Pease-blossom  and  at  the  same  time 
very  clever,"  said  she,  looking  down,  "seems  to  me  an  unfair 
advantage.  A  man  ought  to  choose  between  the  two.  I,  too, 
am  afraid." 

"Of  what  ?" 

'^e  will  not  talk  like  this. — Do  not  you  think,  mother, 
that  there  is  danger  in  such  a  conversation  when  the  con- 
tract is  not  yet  signed?" 

"But  it  will  be,"  said  Paul. 

"I  should  very  much  like  to  know  what  Achilles  and  Nestor 
are  saying  to  each  other,"  said  Xatalie,  with  a  glance  of 
childlike  curiosity  at  the  door  of  the  adjoining  room. 

"They  are  discussing  our  children,  our  death,  and  I  know 
not  what  trifles  besides,"  said  Paul.  "They  are  counting 
out  our  crown-pieces,  to  tell  us  whether  we  may  have  five 
horses  in  the  stable.  And  they  are  considering  certain  deeds 
of  gift,  but  I  have  forestalled  them  there." 

"How?"  said  Natalie. 

"Have  I  not  given  you  myself  wholly  and  all  I  have?"  said 
he,  looking  at  the  girl,  who  was  handsomer  than  ever  as  the 
blush  brought  up  by  her  pleasure  at  this  reply  mounted  to  her 
cheeks. 

"Mother,  how  am  I  to  repay  such  generosity?" 

"My  dear  child,  is  not  your  life  before  you?     If  you  make 
'him  happy  every  day,  is  not  that  a  gift  of  inexhaustible 
treasures?     I  had  no  other  furniture." 

"Do  you  like  Lanstrac?"  asked  Paul. 

"How  cnn  I  fail  to  like  anything  that  is  yours?"  said  she. 
'^And  I  should  like  to  see  your  house." 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  45 

"Our  house,"  said  Paul.  "You  want  to  see  whether  I  have 
anticipated  your  tastes,  if  you  can  be  happy  there?  Your 
mother  has  made  your  husband's  task  a  hard  one;  you  have 
always  been  so  happy;  but  when  love  is  infinite,  nothing  is 
impossible." 

"Dear  children,"  said  Madame  Evangelista,  "do  you  think 
you  can  remain  in  Bordeaux  during  the  early  days  of  your 
marriage?  If  you  feel  bold  enough  to  face  the  world  that 
knows  you,  watches  you,  criticises  you — well  and  good !  But 
if  you  both  have  that  coyness  which  dwells  in  the  soul  and 
finds  no  utterance,  we  will  go  to  Paris,  where  the  life  of  a 
young  couple  is  lost  in  the  torrent.  There  only  can  you  live 
like  lovers  without  fear  of  ridicule." 

"You  are  right,  mother;  I  had  not  thought  of  it.  But  I 
shall  hardly  have  time  to  get  the  house  ready.  I  will  write 
this  evening  to  de  Marsay,  a  friend  on  whom  I  can  rely,  to 
hurry  on  the  workmen." 

At  the  very  moment  when,  like  all  young  men  who  are 
accustomed  to  gratify  their  wishes  without  any  preliminary 
reflection,  Paul  was  recklessly  pledging  himself  to  the  ex- 
penses of  a  residence  in  Paris,  Maitre  Mathias  came  into 
the  room  and  signed  to  his  client  to  come  to  speak  with 
him. 

"What  is  it,  my  good  friend  ?"  said  Paul,  allowing  himself 
to  be  led  aside. 

"Monsieur  le  Comte,"  said  the  worthy  man,  "the  lady  has 
not  a  sou.  My  advice  is  to  put  oif  this  discussion  till 
another  day  to  give  you  the  opportunity  of  acting  with 
propriety." 

"Monsieur  Paul,"  said  Natalie,  "I  also  should  like  a  private 
word  with  you." 

Though  Madame  Evangelista's  face  was  calm,  no  Jew  in 
the  Dark  Ages  ever  suffered  greater  martyrdom  in  his 
cauldron  of  boiling  oil  than  she  is  her  violet  velvet  dress. 
Solonet  had  pledged  himself  to  the  marriage,  but  she  knew 
not  by  what  means  and  conditions  he  meant  to  succeed,  and 


46  A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT 

she  endured  the  most  dreadful  anguish  of  alternative  courses. 
She  really  owed  iior  triumph  ])erliai)s  to  her  daughter's  dis- 
obedience. 

Natalie  had  put  her  own  interpretation  on  her  mother's 
words,  for  she  could  not  fail  to  see  her  uneasiness.  When 
she  perceived  the  efTcet  of  her  advances,  her  mind  was  torn 
by  a  thousand  contradictory  thoughts.  Without  criticising 
her  mother,  she  felt  half  ashamed  of  this  manoeuvring,  of 
which  the  result  was  obviously  to  be  some  definite  advantage. 
Then  she  was  seized  by  a  very  intelligible  sort  of  jealous 
curiosity.  She  wanted  to  ascertain  whether  Paul  loved  her 
well  enough  to  overlook  the  difficulties  her  mother  had  alluded 
to,  and  of  which  the  existence  was  proved  by  Maitre  Mathias' 
cloudy  brow.  These  feelings  prompted  her  to  an  impulse  of 
honesty  which,  in  fact,  became  her  well.  The  blackest 
perfidy  would  have  been  less  dangerous  than  her  inno- 
cence was. 

"Paul,"  said  she  in  an  undertone,  and  it  was  the  first  time 
she  had  addressed  him  by  his  name,  "if  some  difficulties  of 
money  matters  could  divide  us^  understand  that  I  release  you 
from  every  pledge,  and  give  you  leave  to  ascribe  to  me  all  the 
blame  that  could  arise  from  such  a  separation." 

She  spoke  with  such  perfect  dignity  in  the  expression  of 
her  generosity,  that  Paul  believed  in  her  disinterestedness 
and  her  ignorance  of  the  fact  which  the  notary  had  just  com- 
mimicated  to  him ;  he  pressed  the  girl's  hand,  kissing  it  like 
a  man  to  whom  love  is  far  dearer  than  money. 

Natalie  left  the  room. 

"Bless  me !  Monsieur  le  Comte,  you  are  committing  great 
follies,"  growled  the  old  notary,  rejoining  his  client. 

But  Paul  stood  pensive;  he  had  expected  to  have  an  in- 
some  of  about  a  hundred  thousand  francs  by  uniting  his 
fortune  and  Natalie's;  and  however  blindly  in  love  a  man 
may  be,  he  does  not  drop  without  a  pang  from  a  hundrea 
thousand  to  forty-six  thousand  francs  a  year  when  he  marries 
a  woman  accustomed  to  every  luxury. 

"My  daughter  is  gone,"  said  Madame  Evangelista,  ad- 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTIiEMENT  47 

vancing  with  royal  dignity  to  where  Paul  and  the  notary  were 
standing.     "Can  yon  not  tell  me  what  is  going  on !" 

"Madame,"  said  Mathias,  dismayed  by  Paul's  silence,  and 
forced  to  break  the  ice,  "an  impediment — a  delay " 

On  this,  Maitre  Solonet  came  out  of  the  inner  room  and 
interrupted  his  senior  with  a  speech  that  restored  Paul  to 
life.  Overwhelmed  by  the  recollection  of  his  own  devoted 
speeches  and  lover-like  attitude,  Paul  knew  not  how  to  with- 
draw or  to  modify  them ;  he  only  longed  to  fling  himself  into 
some  yawning  gulf. 

"There  is  a  way  of  releasing  Madame  Evangelista  from 
her  debt  to  her  daughter,"'  said  the  young  lawyer  with  airy 
ease.  "Madame  Evangelista  holds  securities  for  forty  thou- 
sand francs  yearly  in  five  per  cents;  the  capital  will  soon  be 
at  par,  if  not  higher;  we  may  call  it  eight  hundred  thou- 
sand francs.  This  house  and  garden  are  worth  certainly  two 
hundred  thousand.  Granting  this,  madame  may,  under  the 
marriage  contract,  transfer  the  securities  and  title-deeds  to 
her  daughter,  reserving  only  the  life-interest,  for  I  cannot 
suppose  that  the  Count  wishes  to  leave  his  mother-in-law 
penniless.  Though  madame  has  spent  her  own  fortune,  she 
will  thus  restore  her  daughter's,  all  but  a  trifling  sum." 

"Women  are  most  unfortunate  when  they  do  not  un- 
derstand business,"  said  Madame  Evangelista.  "I  have 
securities  and  title-deeds  ?     What  in  the  world  are  they  ?" 

Paul  was  enraptured  as  he  heard  this  proposal.  The  old 
lawyer,  seeing  the  snare  spread  and  his  client  with  one  foot 
already  caught  in  it,  stood  petrified,  saying  to  himself: 

"I  believe  we  are  being  tricked !" 

"If  madame  takes  my  advice,  she  will  at  least  secure 
peace,"  the  younger  man  went  on.  "If  she  sacrifices  her- 
self, at  least  she  will  not  be  worried  by  the  young  people. 
Who  can  foresee  who  will  live  or  die? — Monsieur  le  Comte 
will  then  sign  a  release  for  the  whole  sum  due  to  Mademoi- 
selle Evangelista  out  of  her  father's  fortune." 

Mathias  could  not  conceal  the  wrath  that  sparkled  in  hi? 
eyes  and  crimsoned  his  face. 


48  A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT 

"A  sum  of ?"  he  asked,  tremblinij  with  inrlifrnation. 

"Of  one  million  one  hundred  and  fifty-six  thousand  francs, 
according  to  the  deed " 

"Why  do  you  not  ask  Monsieur  le  Comte  hie  et  nunc  to  re- 
nounce all  claims  on  his  wife's  fortune?"  said  Mathias.  "II 
would  bo  more  straightforward. — Well,  Monsieur  le  Comtc 
de  Manerville's  ruin  shall  not  be  accomplished  under  my 
eyes.     I  beg  to  withdraw." 

He  went  a  step  towards  the  door,  to  show  his  client  that 
the  matter  was  really  serious.  But  he  turned  back,  and  ad- 
dressing Madame  Evangelista,  he  said : 

"Do  not  suppose,  madame,  that  I  imagine  you  to  be  in 
collusion  with  my  colleague  in  his  ideas.  I  believe  you  to 
be  an  honest  woman — a  fine  lady,  who  knows  nothing  oi 
business." 

"Thank  you,  my  dear  sir !"  retorted  Solonet. 

"You  know  that  there  is  no  question  of  offence  among 
lawyers,"  said  Mathias. — "But  at  least,  madame,  let  me  ex- 
plain to  you  the  upshot  of  this  bargain.  You  are  still  young 
enough  and  handsome  enough  to  marry  again.  Oh,  dear 
me!"  he  went  on,  in  reply  to  a  gesture  of  the  lady's,  "who 
can  answer  for  the  future?" 

"I  never  thought,  monsieur,"  said  she,  "that  after  seven 
years  of  widowhood  in  the  prime  of  life,  and  after  refusing 
some  splendid  offers  for  my  daughter's  sake,  I  should,  at 
nine-and-thirty,  be  thought  capable  of  such  madness. — If  we 
were  not  discussing  business,  I  should  regard  such  a  speech 
as  an  impertinence." 

'^ould  it  not  be  a  greater  impertinence  to  assume  that 
you  could  not  remarry?" 

"Can  and  will  are  very  different  words,"  said  Solonet,  with 
a  gallant  flourish. 

*^ell,"  said  Mathias,  "we  need  not  talk  about  your  marry- 
ing. You  may — and  we  all  hope  you  will — live  for  five-and- 
forty  years  yet.  Now,  since  you  are  to  retain  yo\vc  life-in- 
terest in  the  income  left  by  IMonsieur  Evangelista  as  long 
as  you  live,  must  your  children  dine  with  Duke  Humphrey  ?" 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  41? 

'^hat  is  the  meaning  of  it  all?"  said  the  widow.  "Who 
is  Duke  Humphrey,  and  what  is  life-interest?" 

Solonet,  a  speaker  of  elegance  and  taste,  began  to  laugh. 

"I  will  translate,"  said  the  old  man :  "If  3^our  children  wish 
to  be  prudent,  they  will  think  of  the  future.  To  think  of  the 
future  means  to  save  half  one's  income,  supposing  there  are 
no  more  than  two  children,  who  must  first  have  a  good  educa- 
tion, and  then  a  handsome  m_arriage  portion.  Thus,  your 
daughter  and  her  husband  will  be  reduced  to  living  on  twenty 
thousand  francs  a  year  when  they  have  each  been  accustomed 
to  spend  fifty  thousand  while  unmarried.  And  even  that  is 
nothing.  My  client  will  be  expected  to  hand  over  to  his 
children  in  due  course  eleven  hundred  thousand  francs  as 
their  share  of  their  mother's  fortune,  and  he  will  never  have 
received  any  of  it  if  his  wife  should  die  and  madame  survive 
her — which  is  quite  possible.  In  all  conscience,  is  not  this 
to  throw  himself  into  the  Gironde,  tied  hand  and  foot  ?  You 
wish  to  see  Mademoiselle  Natalie  made  happy?  If  she  loves 
her  husband — which  no  lawyer  allows  himself  to  doubt — she 
will  share  his  troubles.  Madame,  I  foresee  enough  to  make 
her  die  of  grief,  for  she  will  be  miserably  poor.  Yes, 
madame,  miserably  poor;  for  it  is  poverty  to  those  who  re- 
quire a  hundred  thousand  francs  a  year  to  be  reduced  to 
twenty  thousand.  If  love  should  lead  Monsieur  le  Comte 
into  extravagance,  his  wife  would  reduce  him  to  beggary  by 
claiming  her  share  in  the  event  of  any  disaster. 

"I  am  arguing  for  your  sake,  for  theirs,  for  that  of  their 
children — for  all  parties." 

"The  good  man  has  certainly  delivered  a  broadside," 
thought  Solonet,  with  a  glance  at  his  client,  as  much  as  to 
say,  "Come  on !" 

"There  is  a  way  of  reconciling  all  these  interests,"  replied 
Madame  Evangelista.  "I  may  reserve  only  such  a  small  al- 
lowance as  may  enable  me  to  go  into  a  convent,  and  you 
will  become  at  once  possessed  of  all  my  property.  I  will  re- 
nounce the  world  if  my  death  to  it  will  secure  my  daughter's 
happiness." 


r.0  A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT 

"MadaniG,"  said  the  old  man,  "let  us  take  time  for  mature 
consideration  of  the  steps  that  may  smooth  away  all  diffi- 
culties." 

"Bless  me,  my  dear  sir,"  cried  Madame  Evangelista,  who 
foresaw  that  by  delay  she  would  be  lost,  "all  has  been  con- 
sidered. I  did  not  know  what  marriage  meant  in  France;  I 
am  a  Spanish  Creole.  1  did  not  know  that  before  I  could 
see  my  daughter  married,  I  had  to  make  sure  how  many  days 
longer  God  would  grant  me  to  live,  that  my  child  would  be 
wronged  by  my  living,  that  I  have  no  business  to  be  alive, 
or  ever  to  have  lived. 

"When  my  husband  married  me  I  had  nothing  but  my 
name  and  myself.  My  name  alone  was  to  him  a  treasure  by 
which  his  wealth  paled.  What  fortune  can  compare  with  a 
great  name?  My  fortune  was  my  beauty,  virtue,  happy 
temper,  birth,  and  breeding.  Can  money  buy  these  gifts? 
If  Natalie's  father  could  hear  this  discussion,  his  magnani- 
mous spirit  would  be  grieved  for  ever,  and  his  happiness 
would  be  marred  in  Paradise.  I  spent  millions  of  francs., 
foolishly  I  daresay,  without  his  ever  frowning  even.  Since 
his  death  I  have  been  economical  and  thrifty  by  comparison 
with  the  life  he  liked  me  to  lead.  Let  this  end  it !  Monsieur 
de  Manerville  is  so  dejected  that  I " 

No  words  can  represent  the  confusion  and  excitement  pro- 
duced by  this  exclamation  "end  it !"  It  is  enough  to  say 
that  these  four  well-bred  persons  all  talked  at  once. 

"In  Spain  you  marry  Spanish  fashion,  as  you  will ;  but  in 
France,  you  marry  French  fashion — rationally,  and  as  you 
can,"  said  Mathias. 

"Ah,  madame,"  Paul  began,  rousing  himself  from  his 
stupor,  "you  are  mistaken  in  my  feelings " 

"This  is  not  a  question  of  feelings,"  said  the  old  man, 
anxious  to  stop  his  client;  "this  is  business  affecting  three 
generations.  Was  it  we  who  made  away  with  the  missing 
millions — we,  who  merely  ask  to  clear  up  the  difficulties  of 
which  we  are  innocent?" 

"Let  us  marry  without  further  haggling,"  said  Solonet. 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  51 

"Haggling!  Haggling!  Do  you  call  it  haggling  to  de- 
fend the  interests  of  the  children  and  of  their  father  and 
mother?"  cried  Mathias. 

"Yes,"  Paul  went  on,  addressing  his  mother-in-law,  *1 
deplore  the  recklessness  of  my  youth,  which  now.  hinders  my 
closing  this  discussion  with  a  word,  as  much  as  you  deplore 
your  ignorance  of  business-matters  and  involuntary  ex- 
travagance. God  be  my  witness  that  at  this  moment  I  am 
not  thinking  of  myself;  a  quiet  life  at  Lanstrac  has  no 
terrors  for  me;  but  Mademoiselle  Natalie  would  have  to 
give  up  her  tastes  and  habits.  That  would  alter  our  whole 
existence." 

"But  where  did  Evangelista  find  his  millions?"  said  the 
widow. 

"Monsieur  Evangelista  was  a  man  of  business,  he  played 
the  great  game  of  commerce,  he  loaded  ships  and  made  con- 
siderable sums;  we  are  a  landed  proprietor,  our  capital  is 
sunk,  and  our  income  more  or  less  fixed,"  the  old  lawyer 
replied. 

"Still,  there  is  a  way  out  of  the  difficulty,"  said  Solonet, 
speaking  in  a  high-pitched  key,  and  silencing  the  other  three 
by  attracting  their  attention  and  their  eyes. 

The  young  man  was  like  a  dexterous  coachman  who,  hold- 
ing the  reins  of  a  four-in-hand,  amuses  himself  by  lashing 
and,  at  the  same  time,  holding  in  the  team.  He  spurred 
their  passions  and  soothed  them  by  turns,  making  Paul  foam 
in  his  harness,  for  to  him  life  and  happiness  were  in  the 
balance;  and  his  client  as  well,  for  she  did  not  see  her  way 
through  the  intricacies  of  the  dispute. 

"Madame  Evangelista  may,  this  very  day,  hand  over  the 
securities  in  the  five  per  cents,  and  sell  this  house.  Sold  in 
lots,  it  will  fetch  three  hundred  thousand  francs.  Madame 
will  pay  you  one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs.  Thus, 
madame  will  pay  down  nine  hundred  and  fifty  thousand 
francs  at  once.  Though  this  is  not  all  she  owes  her  daughter, 
can  you  find  many  fortunes  to  match  it  in  France  ?" 

*^ell  and  good,"  said  Mathias;  "but  what  is  madame  to 
live  on?" 


52  A  MATtKlAGB  SETTLEMENT 

At  this  question,  which  implied  assent,  Solonet  said  within 
himself : 

"Oh,  ho !  old  fox,  so  you  are  caught/* 

"Madame?"  he  said  aloud.  "Madame  will  keep  the  fifty 
thousand  crowns  left  of  the  price  of  the  house.  That  sum, 
added  to  the  sale  of  her  furniture,  can  be  invested  in  an 
annuity,  and  will  give  her  twenty  thousand  francs  a  year. 
Monsieur  le  Comte  will  arrange  for  her  to  live  with  him. 
Lanstrac  is  a  large  place.  You  have  a  good  house  in  Paris," 
he  went  on,  addressing  Paul,  "so  madame  your  mother-in- 
law  can  live  with  you  wherever  you  are.  A  widow  who,  hav- 
ing no  house  to  keep  up,  has  twenty  thousand  francs  a  year, 
is  better  off  than  madame  was  when  she  was  mistress  of  all 
her  fortune.  Madame  Evangelista  has  no  one  to  care  for 
but  her  daughter ;  Monsieur  le  Comte  also  stands  alone ;  j-^our 
heirs  are  in  the  distant  future,  there  is  no  fear  of  conflicting 
interests. 

"A  son-in-law  and  a  mother-in-law  under  such  circum- 
stances always  join  to  form  one  household.  Madame  Evan- 
gelista will  make  up  for  the  deficit  of  capital  by  paying  a 
quota  out  of  her  annuity  which  will  help  towards  the  house- 
keeping. We  know  her  to  be  too  generous,  too  large-minded, 
to  live  as  a  charge  on  her  children. 

"Thus,  you  may  live  happy  and  united  with  a  hundred 
thousand  francs  a  year  to  spend — a  sufficient  income,  surely. 
Monsieur  le  Comte,  to  afford  you,  in  any  country,  all  the  com- 
forts of  life  and  the  indulgence  of  your  fancies? — And,  be- 
lieve me,  young  married  people  often  feel  the  need  of  a  third 
in  the  household.  .  ISTow,  I  ask  5'ou,  what  third  can  be  more 
suitable  than  an  affectionate,  good  mother?" 

Paul,  as  he  listened  to  Solonet,  thought  he  heard  the  voice 
of  an  angel.  He  looked  at  Mathias  to  see  if  he  did  not 
share  his  admiration  for  Solonet's  fervid  eloquence;  for  lie 
did  not  know  that,  under  the  assumed  enthusiasm  of  im- 
passioned words,  notaries,  like  attorneys,  hide  the  cold  and 
unremitting  alertness  of  the  diplomatist. 

"A  pettv  Paradise,'"  said  the  old  man. 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  8S 

Bewildered  by  his  client's  delight,  Mathias  sat  down  on 
an  ottoman,  resting  his  head  on  one  hand,  lost  in  evidently 
grieved  meditations.  He  knew  too  well  the  ponderous 
phrases  in  which  men  of  business  purposely  shroud  their 
tricks,  and  he  was  not  the  man  to  be  duped  by  them.  He  stole 
a  glance  at  his  fellow-notary  and  at  Madame  Evangelista, 
who  went  on  talking  to  Paul,  and  he  tried  to  detect  some  in- 
dications of  the  plot  of  which  the  elaborate  design  was  be- 
ginning to  be  perceptible. 

"Monsieur,"  said  Paul  to  Solonet,  "I  have  to  thank  you  for 
the  care  you  have  devoted  to  the  conciliation  of  our  interests. 
This  arrangement  solves  all  difficulties  more  happily  than 
I  had  dared  to  hope — that  is  to  say,  if  it  suits  you,  madame," 
he  added,  turning  to  Madame  Evangelista,  "for  I  will  have 
nothing  to  say  to  any  plan  that  is  not  equally  satisfactory  to 
you." 

"I  ?"  said  she.  "Whatever  will  make  my  children  happy 
will  delight  me.     Do  not  consider  me  at  all.'' 

"But  that  must  not  be,"  said  Paul  eagerly.  "If  your  com- 
fort and  dignity  were  not  secured,  Natalie  and  I  should  be 
more  distressed  about  it  than  you  yourself  would  be." 

"Do  not  be  uneasy  on  that  score,  Monsieur  le  Comte,"  said 
Solonet. 

"Ah !"  thought  Maitre  Mathias,  "they  mean  to  make  him 
kiss  the  rod  before  they  scourge  him." 

"Be  quite  easy,"  Solonet  went  on;  "there  is  such  a  spirit 
of  speculation  in  Bordeaux  jiist  now,  that  investments  for 
annuities  are  to  be  made  on  very  advantageous  terms.  After 
handing  over  to  you  the  fiftj'^  thousand  crowns  due  to  you  on 
the  sale  of  the  house  and  furniture,  I  believe  I  may  guarantee 
to  madame  a  residue  of  two  hundred  thousand  francs.  This 
I  undertake  to  invest  in  an  annuity  on  a  first  mortgage  on 
an  estate  worth  a  million,  and  to  get  ten  per  cent,  twenty-five 
thousand  francs  a  year.  Thus  we  should  unite  two  very 
nearly  equal  fortunes.  Mademoiselle  Natalie  will  bring 
forty  thousand  francs  a  year  in  five  per  cents,  and  a  hun- 
dred and  fifty  thousand  francs  in  money,  which  will  yield 


84  A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT 

Beven  thousand  francs  a  year;  total,  forty-seveE  as  against 
your  forty-six  thousand." 

"That  is  quite  plain,"  said  Paul. 

As  he  ended  his  speech,  Solonet  had  cast  a  sidelong  glance 
at  his  client,  not  unseen  by  Mathias,  and  which  was  as  much 
as  to  say,  "Bring  up  your  reserve." 

I  "Why  I"  cried  Madame  Evangelista,  in  a  tone  of  joy  that 
seemed  quite  genuine,  "I  can  give  Natalie  my  diamonds; 
they  must  be  worth  at  least  a  hundred  thousand  francs." 

"We  can  have  them  valued,"  said  Solonet,  "and  this  en- 
tirely alters  the  case.  Nothing,  then,  can  hinder  Monsieur 
le  Comte  from  giving  a  discharge  in  full  for  the  sums  due  to 
Mademoiselle  Natalie  as  her  share  of  her  father's  fortune,  or 
the  betrothed  couple  from  taking  the  guardian's  accounts  as 
passed,  at  the  reading  of  the  contract.  If  madame,  with 
truly  Spanish  magnificence,  despoils  herself  to  fulfill  her 
obligations  within  a  hundred  thousand  francs  of  the  sum- 
total,  it  is  but  fair  to  release  her.'' 

"Nothing  could  be  fairer,"  said  Paul.  "I  am  only  over- 
powered by  so  much  generosity." 

"Is  not  my  daughter  my  second  self  ?"  said  Madame  Evan- 
gelista. 

Maitre  Mathias  detected  an  expression  of  joy  on  Madame 
Evangelista's  face  when  she  saw  the  difficulties  so  nearly  set 
aside;  and  this,  and  the  sudden  recollection  of  the  diamonds, 
brought  out  like  fresh  troops,  confirmed  all  his  suspicions. 

"The  scene  was  planned  between  them,"  thought  he,  "as 
gamblers  pack  the  cards  when  some  pigeon  is  to  be  rooked. 
So  the  poor  boy  I  have  knovra  from  his  cradle  is  to  be  plucked 
alive  by  a  mother-in-law,  done  brown  by  love,  and  ruined  by 
jhis  wife?  After  taking  such  care  of  his  fine  estate,  am  I 
to  see  it  gobbled  up  in  a  single  evening  ?  Three  millions  and 
a-half  mortgaged,  in  fact,  to  guarantee  eleven  hundred  thou- 
sand francs  of  her  portion,  which  these  two  women  will  make 
him  throw  away " 

As  he  thus  discerned  in  Madame  Evangelista's  soul  a 
scheme  which  was  not  dishonest  or  criminal — which  was  not 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  53 

thieving,  or  cheating,  or  swindling — which  was  not  based  on 
any  evil  or  blamable  feeling,  but  yet  contained  the  germ  of 
every  crime,  Maitre  Mathias  was  neither  shocked  nor  gener- 
ously indignant.  He  was  not  a  misanthrope;  he  was  an  old 
lawyer,  inured  by  his  business  to  the  keen  self-interest  of  men 
of  the  world,  to  their  ingenious  treachery,  more  deadly  than  a 
bold  highway  murder  committed  by  some  poor  devil  who  is 
guillotined  with  due  solemnity.  In  the  higher  ranks  these 
passages  of  arms,  these  diplomatic  discussions,  are  like  the 
little  dark  corners  in  which  every  kind  of  iilth  is  shot. 

Maitre  Mathias,  very  sorry  for  his  client,  cast  a  long  look 
into  the  future,  and  saw  no  hope  of  good. 

'^ell,  we  must  take  the  field  with  the  same  weapons,"  said 
he  to  himself,  "and  beat  them  on  their  own  ground." 

At  this  juncture  Paul,  Solonet,  and  Madame  Evangelista, 
dismayed  by  the  old  man's  silence,  were  feeling  the  necessity 
of  this  stern  censor's  approbation  to  sanction  these  arrange- 
ments, and  all  three  looked  at  him. 

''Well,  my  dear  sir,  and  what  do  you  think  of  this  ?"  asked 
Paul. 

"This  is  what  I  think,"  replied  the  uncompromising  and 
conscientious  old  man,  "you  are  not  rich  enough  to  commit 
such  princely  follies.  The  estate  of  Lanstrac,  valued  at 
three  per  cent,  is  worth  one  million  of  francs,  including  the 
furniture;  the  farms  of  le  Grassol  and  le  Guadet,  with  the 
vineyards  of  Bellerose,  are  worth  another  million;  your  two 
residences  and  furniture  a  third  million.  To  meet  these 
three  millions,  yielding  an  income  of  forty-seven  thousand 
two  hundred  francs.  Mademoiselle  Natalie  shows  eight  hun- 
dred thousand  francs  in  the  funds,  and  let  us  say  one  hun- 
dred thousand  francs'  worth  of  diamonds — at  a  hypothetical 
valuation!  Also,  one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs  in 
cash — one  million  and  fifty  thousand  francs  in  all.  Then,  in 
,the  face  of  these  facts,  my  friend  here  triumphantly  asserts 
that  we  are  uniting  equal  fortunes !  He  requires  us  to  stand 
indebted  in  a  hundred  thousand  francs  to  our  children,  since 
we  are  to  gi<^e  the  lady  a  .discharge  in  full,  by  taking  the 


56  A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT 

guardian's  accounts  as  pa-ssed,  for  a  sum  of  eleven  hundred 
and  fifty-six  thousand  francs,  while  receiving  only  one  million 
and  fifty  thousand ! 

"You  can  listen  to  thi?  nonsense  with  a  lover's  rapturt , 
and  do  you  suppose  that  old  Mathias,  who  is  not  in  love,  will 
forget  his  arithmetic  and  fail  to  appreciate  the  difference  he-, 
tween  landed  estate  of  enormous  value  as  capital,  and  of  in- 
creasing value,  and  the  income  derivable  from  money  in 
securities  which  are  liable  to  variations  in  value  and  diminu- 
tion of  interest.  I  am  old  enough  to  have  seen  land  improve 
and  funds  fall. — You  called  me  in,  Monsieur  le  Comte,  to 
stipulate  for  your  interests;  allow  me  to  protect  them  or 
dismiss  me." 

"If  monsieur  looks  for  a  fortune  of  which  the  capital  is 
a  match  for  his  own,"  said  Solonet,  "we  have  nothing  like 
three  millions  and  a  half;  that  is  self-evident.  If  you  can 
show  these  overpowering  millions,  we  have  hut  our  one  poor 
little  million  to  offer — a  mere  trifle !  three  times  as  much  as 
the  dower  of  an  Archduchess  of  Austria.  Bonaparte  re- 
ceived two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs  when  he 
married  Marie  Louise." 

"Marie  Louise  ruined  Napoleon,"  said  Maitre  Mathias  in 
a  growl. 

Natalie's  mother  understood  the  bearing  of  this  speech. 

"If  my  sacrifices  are  in  vain,"  she  exclaimed,  "I  decline  to 
carry  such  a  discussion  any  further;  I  trust  to  the  Count's 
discretion,  and  renounce  the  honor  of  his  proposals  for  my 
daughter." 

After  the  manoeuvres  planned  by  the  young  notary  this 
battle  of  conflicting  interests  had  reached  the  point  where  the 
victory  ought  to  have  rested  with  Madame  Evangelista.  The 
mother-in-law  had  opene(J  her  heart,  abandoned  her  posses- 
sions, and  was  almost  released.  The  intending  husband  was 
bound  to  accept  the  conditions  laid  down  beforehand  by  the 
collusion  of  Maitre  Solonet  and  his  client,  or  sin  against 
every  law  of  generosity,  and  be  false  to  his  love. 

Like  the  hand  of  the  clock  moved  by  the  works,  Paul  came 
duly  to  the  point. 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  57 

"What,  ma  dame,"  cried  he,  "you  could  undo  in  one 
moment " 

"Wliy,  monsieur,  to  whom  do  I  owe  my  duty?  To  my 
daughter. — When  she  is  one-and-twenty  she  will  pass  my 
accounts  and  release  me.  She  will  have  a  million  francs, 
and  can,  if  she  pleases,  choose  among  the  sons  of  the  peers  of 
France.     Is  .she  not  the  daughter  of  a  Casa-Eeal?" 

"Madame  is  quite  justified.  Why  should  she  be  worse 
off  to-day  than  she  will  be  fourteen  months  hence?  Do  not 
rob  her  of  the  benefits  of  her  position,"  said  Solonet. 

"Mathias,"  said  Paul,  with  deep  grief,  "there  are  two 
«rays  of  being  ruined — and  at  this  moment  you  have  undone 
me !" 

He  went  towards  the  old  lawyer,  no  doubt  intending  to 
order  that  the  contract  should  be  at  once  drawn  up.  Mathias 
forefended  this  disaster  by  a  glance  which  seemed  to  say, 
"Wait !"  He  saw  tears  in  Paul's  eyes — tears  of  shame  at 
the  tenor  of  this  debate,  and  at  the  peremptory  tone  in  which 
Madame  Evangelista  had  thrown  him  over — and  he  checked 
them  by  a  start,  the  start  of  Archimedes  crying  Eureka! 

The  words  Peer  of  France  had  flashed  light  on  his  mind 
like  a  torch  in  a  cavern. 

At  this  instant  Natalie  reappeared,  as  lovely  as  the  dawn, 
and  said  with  an  innocent  air : 

"Am  I  in  the  way  ?" 

"Strangely  in  the  way,  my  child !"  replied  her  mother,  with 
cruel  bitterness. 

"Come,  dear  Natalie,"  said  Paul,  taking  her  hand  and 
leading  her  to  a  chair  by  the  fire,  "everything  is  settled !"  for 
he  could  not  endure  to  think  that  his  hopes  were  over- 
thrown. 

And  Mathias  eagerly  put  in : 

"Yes,  everything  can  yet  be  settled." 

Like  a  general  who  in  one  move  baffles  the  tactics  of  the 
enemy,  the  old  lawyer  had  had  a  vision  of  the  Genius  that 
watches  over  notaries,  unfolding  before  him  in  legal  script 


58  A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT 

a  conception  that  nii<:ht  save  the  future  prospects  of  Paul 
and  of  his  children,  ^laitre  Solonet  l<now  of  no  other  issue 
from  these  irreconcilable  difliculties  than  the  determination 
to  which  the  young  Count  liad  been  led  by  love,  and  by  this 
storm  of  contending  feelings  and  interests;  so  he  was  ex- 
cessively surprised  by  his  senior's  remark. 

Curious  to  know  what  remedy  Maitre  Mathias  had  to 
suggest  for  a  state  of  things  which  must  have  seemed  to  him 
past  all  hope,  he  asked  him : 

"What  have  you  to  propose !" 

"Natalie,  my  dear  child,  leave  us,"  said  Madame  Evan- 
gelista. 

"Mademoiselle  is  not  de  trop,"  replied  Maitre  Mathias, 
vrith  a  smile.  "I  speak  as  much  for  her  as  for  Monsieur  le 
Comte." 

There  was  a  solemn  silence,  each  one  in  great  excitement 
awaiting  the  old  man's  speech  with  the  utmost  curiosity. 

"In  our  day,"  Mathias  went  on  after  a  pause,  "the  notary's 
profession  has  changed  in  many  ways.  In  our  day  political 
revolutions  affect  the  future  prospects  of  families,  and  this 
used  not  to  be  the  case.  Formerly  life  ran  in  fixed  grooves, 
ranks  were  clearly  defined " 

"We  are  not  here  to  listen  to  a  lecture  on  political  economy, 
but  to  arrange  a  marriage  contract."  said  Solonet,  with  flip- 
pant impatience,  and  interrupting  the  old  man. 

"I  beg  you  to  allow  me  to  speak  in  my  turn,"  said 
Mathias. 

Solonet  took  his  seat  on  the  ottoman,  saying  to  Madame 
Evangelista  in  an  undertone: 

"Now  you  will  learn  what  we  lawyers  mean  by  rigma- 
role." 

"Notaries  are  consequently  obliged  to  watch  the  course  of 
politics,  since  they  now  are  intimately  concerned  with  private^ 
affairs.  To  give  you  an  instance :  Formerly  noble  families 
had  inalienable  fortunes,  but  the  Revolution  overthrew  them ; 
the  present  system  tends  to  reconstructing  such  fortunes," 
said  the  old  man,  indulging  somewhat  in  the  twaddle  of  the 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  69 

tahellionaris  hoa  constrictor.  "Now,  Monsieur  le  Comte,  in 
virtue  of  his  name,  his  talents,  and  his  wealth,  is  evidently 
destined  to  sit  some  day  in  the  lower  Chamber;  destiny  may 
perhaps  lead  him  to  the  upper  and  hereditary  Chamber ;  and 
as  we  know,  he  has  every  qualification  that  may  justify  our 
prognostics. — Are  you  not  of  my  opinion,  madame?"  said  he 
to  the  widow. 

"You  have  anticipated  my  dearest  hope,"  said  she.  "Man' 
erville  must  be  a  Peer  of  France,  or  I  shall  die  of  grief." 

"All  that  may  tend  to  that  end ?"  said  Maitre  Mathias, 

appealing  to  the  mother-in-iaw  with  a  look  of  frank  good 
humor. 

"Answers  to  my  dearest  wish,"  she  put  in. 

^^ell,  then,"  said  Mathias,  "is  not  this  marriage  a  fitting 
opportunity  for  creating  an  entail  ?  Such  a  foundation  will 
most  certainly  be  an  argument .  in  the  eyes  of  the  present 
government  for  the  nomination  of  my  client  when  a  batch 
of  peers  is  created.  Monsieur  le  Comte  will,  of  course, 
dedicate  to  this  purpose  the  estate  of  Lanstrac,  worth  about  a 
million.  I  do  not  ask  that  Mademoiselle  should  contribute 
an  equal  sum ;  that  would  not  be  fair ;  but  we  may  take  eight 
hundred  thousand  francs  of  her  money  for  the  purpose.  I 
know  of  two  estates  for  sale  at  this  moment,  bordering  on 
the  lands  of  Lanstrac,  in  which  those  eight  hundred  thousand 
francs,  to  be  sunk  in  real  estate,  may  be  invested  at  four  and 
a  half  per  cent.  The  Paris  house  ought  also  to  be  included  in 
the  entail.  The  surplus  of  the  two  fortunes,  wisely  managed, 
will  amply  suffice  to  provide  for  the  younger  children. — If 
the  contracting  parties  can  agree  as  to  these  details.  Monsieur 
de  Manerville  may  then  pass  yoi:r  guardian's  accounts  and  be 
chargeable  for  the  balance.     I  will  consent." 

"Questa  coda  non  e  di  quetso  gatto!"  (this  tail  does  not 
fit  that  cat)  exclaimed  Madame  Evangelista,  looking  at  her 
sponser  Solonet,  and  pointing  to  Maitre  Mathias. 

"There  is  something  behind  all  this,"  said  Solonet  in  an 
undertone. 

"And  what  is  all  this  muddle  for  ?"  Paul  asked  of  Mathias, 
going  with  him  into  the  adjoining  room. 


60  A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT 

"To  save  you  from  ruin,"  ?aicl  the  old  notary  in  a  whisper. 
"You  are  quite  bent  on  marrying  a  girl — and  her  mother — 
who  have  made  away  with  two  millions  of  francs  in  seven 
years ;  you  arc  accepting  a  debt  of  more  than  a  hundred  thou- 
sand francs  to  your  children,  to  whom  you  will  some  day  have 
to  hand  over  eleven  hundred  and  fifty-six  thousand  francs  on 
their  mother's  behalf,  when  you  are  receiving  hardly  a 
million.  You  run  the  risk  of  seeing  your  whole  fortune 
melt  away  in  five  years,  leaving  you  as  bare  as  St.  John  the 
Baptist,  while  you  will  remain  the  debtor  in  enormous  sums 
to  your  wife  and  her  representatives. — If  you  choose  to  em- 
bark in  that  boat,  go  on,  Monsieur  le  Comte;  but  at  least 
allow  your  old  friend  to  save  the  house  of  Manerville." 

"But  how  will  this  save  it?"  asked  Paul. 

"Listen,  Monsieur  le  Comte ;  you  are  very  much  in  love  ?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Paul. 

"A  man  in  love  is  about  as  secret  as  a  cannon  shot ;  I 
will  tell  you  nothing ! — If  you  were  to  repeat  things,  your 
marriage  might  come  to  nothing,  so  I  place  your  love  under 
the  protection  of  my  silence.     You  trust  to  my  fidelity?" 

"What  a  question !" 

"Well,  then,  let  me  tell  you  that  ]\Iadame  Evangelista, 
her  notar}^,  and  her  daughter  were  playing  a  trick  on  \is  all 
through,  and  are  more  than  clever.  By  Heaven,  what  sharp 
practice !" 

"Natalie  ?"  cried  Paul. 

"Well,  I  will  not  swear  to  that,"  said  the  old  man.  "You 
want  her — take  her !  But  I  wish  this  marriage  might  fall 
through  without  the  smallest  blame  to  you !" 

"Why?" 

"That  girl  would  beggar  Peru.  .  .  .  Besides,  she  rides 
like  a  circus-rider;  she  is  what  you  may  call  emancipated. 
Women  of  that  sort  make  bad  wives." 

Paul  pressed  his  old  friend's  hand  and  replied  with  a 
little  fatuous  smile. 

"Don't  be  alarmed. — And  for  the  moment,  what  must 
I  do?" 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  61 

"Stand  firm  to  these  conditions ;  they  will  consent,  for  the 
bargain  does  not  damage  their  interests.  And  besides,,  all 
Madame  Evangelista  wants  is  to  get  her  daughter  married ;  I 
have  seen  her  hand ;  do  not  trust  her." 

Paul  returned  to  the  drawing-room,  where  he  found  the 
widow  talking  in  low  tones  to  Solonet,  just  as  he  had  been 
talking  to  Mathias.  Natalie,  left  out  of  this  mysterious  con- 
ference, was  playing  with  a  screen.  Somewhat  out  of 
countenance,  she  was  wondering,  "What  absurdity  keeps  mo 
from  all  knowledge  of  my  own  concerns?" 

The  younger  lawyer  was  talking  in  the  general"  out- 
lines and  remote  effects  of  a  stipulation  based  on  the  personal 
pride  of  the  parties  concerned,  into  which  his  client  had 
■  blindly  rushed.  But  though  Mathias  was  now  nothing  else 
but  a  notary,  Solonet  was  still  to  some  degree  a  man,  and 
carried  some  juvenile  conceit  into  his  dealings.  It  often 
happens  that  personal  vanity  makes  a  young  lawyer  forgetful 
of  his  client's  interests.  Under  these  circumstances,  Maitre 
Solonet,  who  would  not  allow  the  widow  to  think  that  ISTestor 
was  beating  Achilles,  was  advising  her  to  conclude  the  matter 
at  once  on  these  lines.  Little  did  he  care  for  the  ultimate  ful- 
filment of  the  contract;  to  him  victory  meant  the  release  of 
Madame  Evangelista  with  an  assured  income,  and  the  mar- 
riage of  Natalie. 

"All  Bordeaux  will  know  that  you  have  settled  about  eleven 
hundred  thousand  francs  on  your  daughter,  and  that  you 
still  have  twenty-five  thousand  francs  a  3^ear,"  said  Solonet 
in  the  lady's  ear.  "I  had  not  hoped  for  such  a  brilliant 
result." 

"But,"  said  she,  "explain  to  me  why  the  creation  of  an 
entail  should  so  immediately  have  stilled  the  storm." 

"Distrust  of  you  and  your  daughter.  An  entailed  estate  is 
inalienable :  neither  husband  nor  wife  can  touch  it." 

"That  is  a  positive  insult." 

"Oh,  no.  We  call  that  foresight.  The  good  man  caught 
you  in  a  snare.  If  you  refuse  the  entail,  he  will  say, 
'Then  you  want  to  squander  my  client's  fortune' ;  whereas,  if 


62  A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT 

he  creates  an  entail,  it  is  out  of  all  risk,  just  as  if  the  couple 
were  married  under  the  provisions  of  the  trust." 

Solonet  silenced  his  own  scruples  by  retiecting: 

"These  stipulations  will  only  take  effect  in  the  remote 
future,  and  by  that  time  Madame  Evangelista  will  be  dead 
and  buried." 

She,  for  her  part,  was  satisfied  with  Solonet's  explanation ; 
she  had  entire  confidence  in  him.  She  was  perfectly 
ignorant  of  the  law;  she  saw  her  daughter  married,  and  that 
was  all  she  asked  for  the  nonce;  she  was  delighted  at  their 
success.  And  so,  as  Mathias  suspected,  neither  Solonet  nor 
Madame  Evangelista  as  yet  understood  the  full  extent 
of  his  plan,  which  had  incontrovertible  reasons  to  sup- 
port it. 

"Well,  then.  Monsieur  Mathias,"  said  the  widow,  "every- 
thing is  satisfactory." 

"Madame,  if  you  and  Monsieur  le  Comte  agree  to  these 
conditions,  you  should  exchange  pledges. — It  is  fully  un- 
derstood by  you  both,  it  is  not,"  he  went  on,  "that  the  mar- 
riage takes  place  only  on  condition  of  the  creation  of  an  en- 
tail, including  the  estate  of  Lanstrac  and  the  house  in  the 
Eue  de  la  Pepiniere,  both  belonging  to  the  intending  husband, 
item  eight  hundi'ed  thousand  francs  deducted  in  money  from 
the  portion  of  the  intending  wife  to  be  invested  in  land? 
Forgive  me,  madame,  for  repeating  this;  a  solemn  and  posi- 
tive pledge  is  necessary  in  such  a  case.  The  formation  of  an 
entail  requires  many  formalities — it  must  be  registered  in 
Chancery  and  receive  the  royal  signature;  and  Ave  ought  to 
proceed  at  once  to  the  purchase  of  the  lands,  so  as  to  include 
them  in  the  schedule  of  property  which  the  royal  patent 
renders  inalienable. — In  many  families  a  document  would  be 
required ;  but,  as  between  you,  verbal  consent  will  no  doubt, 
be  sufficient.     Do  you  both  consent  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Madame  Evangelista. 

"Yes,"  said  Paul. 

"And  how  about  me?"  asked  Natalie,  laughing. 

"You,  mademoiselle,  are  a  minor,"  replied  Solonet,  "and 
that  need  not  distress  you !" 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  63 

It  was  then  agreed  that  Maitre  Mathias  should  draw  up 
the  contract,  and  Maitre  Solonet  audit  the  guardian's  ac- 
counts, and  that  all  the  papers  should  be  signed,  in  agreement 
with  the  law,  a  day  or  two  before  the  wedding. 

After  a  few  civilities  the  lawyers  rose. 

"It  is  raining,  Mathias;  shall  I  take  you  home?  I  have 
my  cab  here,"  said  Solonet. 

"My  carriage  is  at  your  service,"  said  Paul,  preparing  to 
accompany  the  good  man. 

"I  will  not  rob  you  of  a  minute,"  said  the  old  man ;  "I  will 
accept  my  friend's  offer." 

"Well,"  said  Achilles  to  Nestor,  as  the  carriage  rolled  on 
its  way,  "you  have  been  truly  patriarchal.  Those  young  peo- 
ple would,  no  doubt,  have  ruined  themselves." 

"I  was  uneasy  about  the  future,"  said  Mathias,  not  be- 
traying the  real  motive  of  his  proposal. 

At  this  moment  the  two  lawyers  were  like  two  actors  who 
shake  hands  behind  the  scenes  after  playing  on  the  stage  a 
scene  of  hatred  and  provocation. 

"But  is  it  not  my  business,"  said  Solonet,  who  was  think- 
ing of  technicalities,  "to  purchase  the  lands  of  which  you 
speak  ?     Is  it  not  our  money  that  is  to  be  invested  ?" 

"How  can  you  include  Mademoiselle  Evangelista's  land 
in  an  entail  created  by  the  Comte  de  Manerville?"  asked 
Mathias. 

"That  difficulty  can  be  settled  in  Chancery,"  said  Solonet. 

"But  I  am  the  seller's  notary  as  well  as  the  buyer's,"  re- 
plied Mathias.  "Besides,  Monsieur  de  Manerville  can  pur- 
chase in  his  own  name.  When  it  comes  to  paying,  we  can 
state  the  use  of  the  wife's  portion." 

"You  have  an  answer  for  everything,  my  worthy  senior,'* 
said  Solonet,  laughing,  "You  have  been  grand  this  evening, 
and  you  have  beaten  us." 

"Well,  for  an  old  fellow  unprepared  for  your  batteries 
loaded  with  grape-shot,  it. was  not  so  bad,  heh?" 

"Ah,  ha !"  laughed  Solonet. 

The  tedious  contest  in  which  tbe  happiness  of  a  family  had 


64  A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT 

been  so  narrowly  risked  was  to  them  no  more  than  a  matter 
of  legal  polemics.  "We  have  not  gone  through  forty  years 
of  chicanery  for  nothing,"  said  Mathias.  "Solonet,"  he 
added,  "I  am  a  good-natured  fellow;  you  may  be  present 
at  the  sale  and  purchase  of  the  lands  to  be  added  to  the 
estate/' 

"Thank  you,  my  good  friend !  You  will  find  me  at  your 
service  in  case  of  need." 

While  the  two  notaries  were  thus  peaceably  going  on  their 
way,  with  no  emotion  beyond  a  little  dryness  of  the  throat, 
Paul  and  Madame  Evangelista  were  suffering  from  the  nerv- 
ous trepidation,  the  fluttering  about  the  heart,  the  spasm  of 
brain  and  spine,  to  which  persons  of  strong  passions  are  prone 
after  a  scene  when  their  interests  or  their  feelings  have  been 
severely  attacked.  In  Madame  Evangelista  these  mutterings 
of  the  dispersing  storm  were  aggravated  by  a  terrible  thought, 
a  lurid  gleam  that  needed  explanation. 

"Has  not  Maitre  'Mathias  overthrown  my  six  months' 
labors?"  she  wondered.  "Has  he  not  destroyed  my  influence 
over  Paul  by  filling  him  with  base  suspicions  during  their 
conference  in  the  inner  room  ?" 

She  stood  in  front  of  the  fireplace,  her  elbow  resting  on 
the  corner  of  the  mantelpiece,  lost  in  thought. 

When  the  outer  gate  closed  behind  the  notary's  carriage, 
she  turned  to  her  son-in-law,  eager  to  settle  her  doubts. 

"This  has  been  the  most  terrible  day  of  my  life,"  cried 
Panl,  really  glad  to  see  the  end  of  all  these  difficulties.  "I 
know  no  tougher  customer  than  old  Mathias.  God  grant  his 
wishes  and  make  mo  peer  of  France !  Dear  Xatalie,  I  desire 
it  more  for  your  sake  than  for  my  own.  You  are  my  sole  am- 
bition. I  live  in  and  for  you." 

On  hearing  these  words  spoken  from  the  heart,  and 
especially  as  she  looked  into  Paul's  clear  eyes,  whose  look 
was  as  free  from  any  concealment  as  his  open  brow,  Madame 
Evangelista's  joy  was  complete.  She  blamed  herself  for  the 
somewhat  sharp  terms  in  which  she  had  tried  to  spur  her 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  65 

son-in-law,  and  in  the  triumph  of  success  determined  to 
make  all  smooth  for  the  future.  Her  face  was  calm  again, 
and  her  eyes  expressed  the  sweet  friendliness  that  made  her 
so  attractive  as  she  replied: 

"I  may  truly  say  the  same.  And  perhaps,  my  dear  boy, 
my  Spanish  temper  carried  me  further  than  vaj.  heart  in- 
tended. Be  always  what  you  are — as  good  as  gold !  And 
owe  me  no  grudge  for  a  few  ill-considered  words.  Give  me 
your  hand " 

Paul  was  overwhelmed;  he  blamed  himself  in  a  thousand 
things,  and  embraced  Madame  Evangelista. 

"Dear  Paul,"  said  she  with  emotion,  "why  could  not  those 
two  scriveners  arrange  matters  without  us,  since  it  has  all 
come  right  in  the  end  ?" 

"But  then,"  said  Paul,  "I  should  not  have  known  how  noble 
and  generous  you  could  be." 

"Well  said,  Paul !"  cried  jSTatalie,  taking  his  hand. 

"We  have  several  little  matters  to  settle  yet,  my  dear  boy," 
said  Madame  Evangelista.  "My  daughter  and  I  are  superior 
to  the  follies  which  some  people  think  so  much  of.  For 
instance,  Natalie  will  need  no  diamonds — I  give  her  mina.f 

"Oh !  my  dear  mother,  do  you  suppose  I  should  ac^^t 
them ?"  cried  ISTatalie.  o)nBiK 

"Yes,  my  child,  they  are  a  condition  of  the  contrafitt-u  ol^;  2  ^  1  §!, 

"I  will  not  have  them  !  I  will  never  m.arry  !"  ijaM(J%tali@  S"  ^  », 
vehemently.  "Keep  what  my  father  gave  you  }^\th  #  ^1®=!^  "^  p--  ° 
pleasure.     How  can  Monsieur  Paul  -demand  hinnfrw'  '^^^'^  P  t?  S 

"Be  silent,  dear  child,"  said  her  mother,  he^  ^eS'i^i^gT*  ©.  pi  5 
with  tears;  "my  ignorance  of  business  i]Fe)(juifeggfE^.  ^(ffe§  ^  "^  ^ 
than  that."  .  1^,4  9^^^  I        ^  S-  §  g  g:  p-  ^* . 

"What?"  .h.i^^^n  -^t^t^ii 

"I  must  sell  this  house  to  pay  ;yc^)^ka^  1^"^  yo^''^  ^  »  S-  ^  2 

"What  can  you  owe  to  me,";,  m^  tme^i^-^"to  m\^  W^  2-  g"  f 

owe  my  life  to  you?     Can  I  fiMfrTreii|}'-vp^  ^-i^w  (fng-.a^}'^  p  8  § 

If  my  marriage  is  to  cos jj^<p|U  liHe  Kpi^l^t^ggjific^  I^§1&  E-  o    * 

never  marry !"  ,,,  ,„^^  g^^^^P^^         tlt^S^^S.- 

'^ou  are  but  a  childH,        ^'%ll^-    f^      ^1^^^^. 


so    cr* 


(P- 


a  s-^        ^         ^^  pr  P    pi    P^  p    g 


66  A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT 

"My  dear  Natalie,"  said  Paul,  "yon  must  understand  that 
it  is  neither  T,  nor  you,  nor  3^our  niotlicr  who  insists  on  these 
sacrifices,  but  the  children " 

"But  if  I  do  not  marry,"  she  interrupted. 

"Then  you  do  not  love  me?"  said  Paul. 

"Come,  silly  child,"  said  her  mother;  "do  you  suppose  that 
a  marriage  contract  is  a  house  of  cards  to  be  blown  down  at 
your  pleasure?  Poor  ignorant  darling,  you  do  not  know 
what  trouble  we  have  been  at  to  create  an  entailed  estate  for 
your  eldest  son.  Do  not  throw  us  back  into  the  troubles  we 
have  escaped  from." 

"But  why  ruin  my  mother?"  said  Natalie  to  Paul. 

"Why  are  you  so  rich?"  he  said,  with  a  smile. 

"Do  not  discuss  the  matter  too  far,  my  children;  you  are 

not  married  yet,"  said  Madame  Evangelista.       "Paul,"  she 

went  on,  "Natalie  needs  no  wedding  gifts,  no  jewels,  no 

-^'^  'las  everything  in  profusion.     Save  the  money 

--+-  +o  secure  to  yourselves 


d 

8- 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  67 

"That  is  precisely  what  it  is,"  said  Paul.  "But  it  is  mid- 
night— I  must  go." 

*^hy  so  early  this  evening?"  said  Madame  Evangelista, 
who  was  lavish  of  the  attentions  to  which  men  are  so  keenly 
alive. 

Though  the  whole  business  had  been  conducted  on  terms  of 
'the  most  refined  politeness,  the  effect  of  this  clashing  of 
interests  had  sown  a  germ  of  distrust  and  hostility  between 
the  lady  and  her  son-in-law,  ready  to  develop  at  the  first 
spark  of  anger,  or  under  the  heat  of  a  too  strong  display  of 
feeling. 

In  most  families  the  question  of  settlements  and  allowances 
under  the  marriage  contract  is  prone  to  give  rise  to  these 
primitive  conflicts,  stirred  up  by  wounded  pride  or  injured 
feelings,  by  some  reluctance  to  make  any  sacrifice,  or  the 
desire  to  minimize  it.  When  a  difficulty  arises,  must  there 
not  be  a  conqueror  and  a  conquered?  The  parents  of  the 
plighted  couple  try  to  bring  the  affair  to  a  happy  issue ;  in 
their  eyes  it  is  a  purely  commercial  transaction,  allowing  all 
the  tricks,  the  profits,  and  the  deceptions  of  trade.  As  a 
rule,  the  husband  only  is  initiated  into  the  secret  of  the  trans- 
action, and  the  young  wife  remains,  as  did  Natalie,  ignorant 
of  the  stipulations  which  make  her  rich  or  poor. 

Paul,  as  he  went  home,  reflected  that,  thanks  to  his  lawyer's 
ingenuity,  his  fortune  v/as  almost  certainly  secured  against 
ruin.  If  Madame  Evangelista  lived  with  her  daughter,  the 
household  would  have  more  than  a  hundred  thousand  francs 
a  year  for  ordinary  expenses.  Thus  his  hopes  of  a  happy 
life  would  be  realized. 

"My  mother-in-law  seems  to  me  a  very  good  sort  of  wo- 
man," he  reflected,  still  under  the  influence  of  the  wheedling 
ways  by  which  Madame  Evangelista  had  succeeded  in  dis- 
sipating the  clouds  raised  by  the  discussion.  "Mathias  is 
mistaken.  These  lawyers  are  strange  beings;  they  poison 
everything.  The  mischief  was  made  by  that  contentious  little 
Solonet,  who  wanted  to  be  clever." 

While  Paul,  as  he  went  to  bed,  was  recapitulating  the  ad- 


68  A  MARRIAOB  SETTLEMENT 

vantages  he  had  won  in  the  course  of  the  evening,  Madame 
Evangelista  was  no  less  confident  of  having  gained  the  vic- 
tory. 

"Well,  darling  mother,  are  you  satisfied?"  said  Natalie, 
following  her  mother  into  her  bedroom. 

'■'Yes,  my  love,  everything  has  succeeded  as  I  wished,  and 
I  feel  a  weight  taken  off  my  shoulders,  which  crushed  me  this 
morning.  Paul  is  really  an  excellent  fellow.  Dear  boy  I 
Yes,  we  can  certainly  give  him  a  delightful  life.  You  will 
make  him  happy,  and  I  will  take  care  of  his  political  pros- 
pects. The  Spanish  ambassador  is  an  old  friend  of  mine.  I 
will  renew  my  acquaintance  with  him  and  with  several  other 
persons.  We  shall  soon  be  in  the  heart  of  politics,  and  all 
will  be  well  with  us.  The  pleasure  for  you,  dear  children; 
for  me  the  later  occupations  of  life — the  game  of  ambition. 

"Do  not  be  alarmed  at  my  selling  this  house;  do  you  sup- 
pose we  should  ever  return  to  Bordeau.x?  To  Lanstrac — 
yes.  But  we  shall  spend  every  winter  in  Paris,  where  our 
true  interests  now  lie. — Well,  Natalie,  was  what  I  asked  you 
so  difficult  to  do  ?" 

"My  dear  mother,  I  was  ashamed  at  moments." 

"Solonet  advises  me  to  buy  an  annuity  wuth  the  price  of 
the  house,"  said  Madame  Evangelista,  "but  I  must  make 
some  other  arrangement.  I  will  not  deprive  you  of  one  sou 
of  my  capital." 

"You  were  all  very  angry,  I  saw,"  said  Natalie.  "How 
was  the  storm  appeased  ?" 

"By  the  offer  of  my  diamonds,"  replied  her  mother. 
"Solonet  was  in  the  right.  How  cleverly  he  managed  the 
businc^ss !  But  fetch  my  jewel-box,  Natalie.  I  never 
seriously  inquired  what  those  diamonds  were  worth.  When 
T  said  a  hundred  thousand  francs,  it  was  absurd.  Did  not 
Madame  de  Gyas  declare  that  the  necklace  and  earrings  youi 
father  gave  me  on  the  day  of  our  wedding  were  alone  worth 
as  much  ?  My  poor  husband  was  so  lavish ! — And  then  the 
family  diamond  given  by  Philip  TT.  to  the  Duke  of  Alva, 
and  left  to  me  by  my  aunt — the  Disrreto — was,  I  believe, 
valued  then  at  four  thousand  ouadniDlps." 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  6<J 

Natalie  brought  out  and  laid  on  her  mother's  dressing- 
table  pearl  necklaces,  sets  of  jewels,  gold  bracelets,  gems  of 
every  kind,  piling  them  up  with  the  inexpressible  satisfaction 
that  rejoices  the  heart  of  some  women  at  the  sight  of  these 
valuables,  with  which,  according  to  the  Talmud,  the  fallen 
angels  tempted  the  daughters  of  men,  bringing  up  from  the 
bowels  of  the  earth  these  blossoms  of  celestial  fires. 

"Certainly,"  said  Madame  Evangelista,  "although  I  know 
nothing  of  precious  stones  but  how  to  accept  them  and  weai 
them,  it  seems  to  me  that  these  must  be  worth  a  great  deal 
of  money.  And  then,  if  we  all  live  together,  I  can  sell  my 
plate,  which  is  worth  thirty  thousand  francs  at  the  mere  value 
of  the  silver.  I  remember  when  we  brought  it  from  Lima 
that  was  the  valuation  at  the  Custom  House  here. — Solonet  is 
right.  I  will  send  for  filie  Magus.  The  Jew  will  tell  me 
the  value  of  these  stones.  I  may  perhaps  escape  sinking  the 
rest  of  my  capital  in  an  annuity." 

"What  a  beautiful  string  of  pearls !"  said  Natalie. 

"I  hope  he  will  give  you  that  if  he  loves  you.  Indeed,  he 
ought  to  have  all  the  stones  reset  and  make  them  a  present 
to  you.  The  diamonds  are  yours  by  settlement. — Well,  good- 
night, my  darling.  After  such  a  fatiguing  day,  we  both  need 
sleep." 

The  woman  of  fashion,  the  Creole,  the  fine  lady,  incapable 
of  understanding  the  conditions  of  a  contract  that  was  not 
yet  drawn  up,  fell  asleep  in  full  content  at  seeing  her  daughter 
the  wife  of  a  man  she  could  so  easily  manage,  who  would 
leave  them  to  be  on  equal  terms  the  mistresses  of  his  house, 
and  whose  fortune,  combined  with  their  own,  w'ould  allow  of 
their  living  in  the  way  to  which  they  were  accustomed.  Even 
after  paying  up  her  daughter,  for  whose  whole  fortune  she 
was  to  receive  a  discharge,  Madame  Evangelista  would  still 
have  enough  to  live  upon. 

"How  absurd  I  was  to  be  so  worried !"  said  she  to  herself. 
"I  wish  the  marriage  was  over  and  done  with." 

So  Madame  Evangelista,  Paul,  Natalie,  and  the  two  lawyers 
uere  all  delighted  with  the  results  of  this  first  meeting.     The 


70  A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT 

Te  Dezitn  was  sung  in  both  camps — a  perilous  state  of  things ! 
The  moment  must  come  when  the  vanquished  would  no  longer 
be  deluded.  To  Madame  Evangelista  her  son-in-law  was 
conquered. 

Next  morning  filie  Magus  came  to  the  widow's  house,  sup- 
posing, from  the  rumors  current  as  to  Mademoiselle  Natalie's 
approaching  marriage  to  Count  Paul,  that  they  wanted  to 
purchase  diamonds.  What,  then,  Avas  his  surprise  on  learn- 
ing that  he  was  wanted  to  make  a  more  or  less  otlicial  valua- 
tion of  the  mother-in-law's  jewels.  The  Jewish  instinct, 
added  to  a  few  insidious  questions,  led  him  to  conclude  that 
the  value  was  to  be  included  in  the  property  under  the  mar- 
riage contract. 

As  the  stones  were  not  for  sale,  he  priced  them  as  a 
merchant  selling  to  a  private  purchaser.  Experts  alone  know 
Indian  diamonds  from  those  of  Brazil.  The  stones  from 
Golconda  and  Vizapur  are  distinguishable  by  a  whiteness 
and  clear  brilliancy  which  the  others  have  not,  their  hue  being 
yellower,  and  this  depreciates  their  selling  value.  Madame 
Evangelista's  necklace  and  earrings,  being  entirely  composed 
of  Asiatic  stones,  was  valued  by  filie  Magus  at  two  hundred 
and  fifty  thousand  francs.  As  to  the  Di^creto,,  it  was,  he  said, 
one  of  the  finest  diamonds  extant  in  private  hands,  and  was 
worth  a  hundred  thousand  francs. 

On  hearing  these  figures,  which  showed  her  how  liberal 
her  husband  had  been,  Madame  Evangelista  asked  whether 
she  could  have  that  sum  at  once. 

"If  you  wish  to  sell  them,  madame,"  said  the  Jew,  "I  can 
only  give  you  seventy  thousand  francs  for  the  single  stone,  and 
a  hundred  and  sixty  thousand  for  the  necklace  and  earrings." 

"And  why  such  a  reduction?"  asked  Madame  Evangelista 
in  surprise. 

"Madame,"  said  he,  "the  finer  the  jewels,  the  longer  we 
have  to  keep  them.  The  ojiportunities  for  sale  are  rare  in 
proportion  to  the  greater  value  of  the  diamonds.  As  the 
dealer  cannot  lose  the  interest  on  his  money,  the  recoupment 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  71 

for  that  interest,  added  to  the  risks  of  rise  and  fall  in  the 
market,  accounts  for  the  difference  between  the  selling  and 
purchasing  value. — For  twenty  years  you  have  been  losing 
the  interest  of  three  hundred  thousand  francs.  If  you  have 
worn  your  diamonds  ten  times  a  year,  it  has  cost  you  a  thou- 
sand crowns  each  time.  How  many  handsome  dresses  you 
might  have  had  for  a  thousand  crowns !  Persons  who  keep 
their  diamonds  are  fools;  however,  happily  for  us,  ladies  do 
not  understand  these  calculations." 

"I  am  much  obliged  to  you  for  having  explained  them  to 
toe;  I  will  profit  by  the  lesson." 

"Then  you  want  to  sell  ?"  cried  the  Jew  eagerly. 

"What  are  the  rest  worth  ?"  said  Madame  Evangelista. 

The  Jew  examined  the  gold  of  the  settings,  held  the  pearls 
to  the  light,  turned  over  the  rubies,  the  tiaras,  brooches, 
bracelets,  clasps,  and  chains,  and  mumbled  out : 

"There  are  several  Portuguese  diamonds  brought  from 
Brazil.  I  cannot  give  more  than  a  hundred  thousand  francs 
for  the  lot.  But  sold  to  a  customer,"  he  added,  "they  would 
fetch  more  than  fifty  thousand  crowns." 

"We  will  keep  them,"  said  the  lady. 

"You  are  wrong,"  replied  filie  Magus.  "With  the  income 
of  the  sum  now  sunk  in  them,  in  five  years  you  could  buy 
others  just  as  fine,  and  still  have  the  capital." 

This  rather  singular  interview  was  soon  known,  and  con- 
firmed the  rumors  to  which  the  discussion  of  the  contract  had 
given  rise.  In  a  provincial  town  everything  is  known.  The 
servants  of  the  house,  having  heard  loud  voices,  supposed  the 
dispute  to  have  been  warmer  than  it  was;  their  gossip  with 
other  folks'  servants  spread  far  and  wide,  and  from  the  lower 
depths  came  up  to  the  masters.  The  attention  of  the  upper 
and  citizen  circles  was  concentrated  on  the  marriage  of  two 
persons  of  equal  wealth.  Everybody,  great  and  small,  talked 
the  matter  over,  and  within  a  week  the  strangest  reports  were 
afloat  in  Bordeaux.- — Madame  Evangelista  was  selling  her 
house,  so  she  must  be  ruined. — She  had  ofi'ered  her  diamonds 
to  filie  Magus. — Nothing  was  yet  final  between  her  and  the 


12  A  MARRIAGE  SETTI>BMENT 

Comte  de  Manerville. — Would  the  marriage  ever  come  off; 
Some  said,  Yes ;  others  said,  No.  The  tv/o  lawyers,  on  being 
questioned,  denied  these  calumnies,  and  said  that  the  diffi- 
culties were  purely  technical,  arising  from  the  formalities  of 
creating  an  entail. 

But  when  public  opinion  has  rushed  down  an  incline,  it  is 
very  difficult  to  get  it  up  again.  Though  Paul  went  every 
day  to  Madame  Evangelista's,  and  in  spite  of  the  assertions 
of  the  two  notaries,  the  insinuated  slander  held  its  own. 
Several  young  ladies,  and  their  mothers  or  their  aunts,  ag- 
grieved by  a  match  of  which  they  or  their  families  had 
dreamed  for  themselves,  could  no  more  forgive  Madame  Evan- 
gelista  for  her  good  luck  than  an  author  forgives  his  friend 
for  a  success.  Some  were  only  too  glad  to  be  avenged  for  the 
twenty  years  of  luxury  and  splendor  by  which  the  Spaniards 
had  crushed  their  vanities.  A  bigwig  at  the  Prefecture  de- 
clared that  the  two  notaries  and  the  two  parties  concerned 
could  say  no  more,  nor  behave  otherwise,  if  the  rupture  were 
complete.  The  time  it  took  to  settle  the  entail  confirmed  the 
suspicions  of  the  citizens  of  Bordeaux. 

"They  will  sit  by  the  chimney-corner  all  the  winter;  then, 
in  the  spring,  they  will  go  to  some  watering-place;  and  in 
the  course  of  the  year  we  shall  hear  that  the  match  is  broken 
off." 

"You  will  see,"  said  one  set,  "in  order  to  save  the  credit 
of  both  parties,  the  obstacles  will  not  have  arisen  on  either 
side;  there  will  be  some  demur  in  Chancery,  some  hitch  dis- 
covered by  the  lawyers  to  hinder  the  entail." 

"Madame  Evangelista,"  said  the  others,  'Tias  been  living 
at  a  rate  that  would  have  exhausted  the  mines  of  Valenciana.' 
Then,  when  pay-day  came  round  there  was  nothing  to  be 
found." 

What  a  capital  opportunity  for  calculating  the  handsome 
widow's  expenditure,  so  as  to  prove  her  ruin  to  a  demonstra- 
tion !  Rumor  ran  so  high  that  bets  were  laid  for  and  against 
the  marriage.  And,  in  accordance  with  the  accepted  rules  of 
society,  this  tittle-tattle  remained  unknown  to  the  interested 


A  MARRIACxE  SETTLEMENT  73 

parties.     No  one  was  sufficiently  inimical  to  Paul  or  Madame 
Evangelista  to  attack  them  on  the  subject. 

Paul  had  some  business  at  Lanstrac  and  took  advantage 
of  it  to  make  up  a  shooting-party,  inviting  some  of  the  young 
men  of  the  town  as  a  sort  of  farewell  to  his  bachelor  life. 
This  shooting-party  was  regarded  by  society  as  a  flagrant  con 
firmation  of  its  suspicions. 

At  this  juncture  Madame  de  Gyas,  who  had  a  daughter 
to  marry,  thought  it  well  to  sound  her  way,  and  to  rejoice 
sadly  over  the  checkmate  offered  to  Madame  Evangelista. 
Natalie  and  her  mother  were  not  a  little  astonished  to  see 
the  Marquise's  badly-assumed  distress,  and  asked  her  if  any- 
thing had  annoyed  her. 

'^hy,"  said  she,  "can  you  be  ignorant  of  the  reports  cur- 
rent in  Bordeaux?  Though  I  feel  sure  that  they  are  false,  I 
have  come  to  ascertain  the  truth  and  put  a  stop  to  them, 
at  any  rate  in  my  own  circle  of  friends.  To  be  the  dupe  or 
the  accomplice  of  such  a  misapprehension  is  to  be  in  a  false 
position,  which  no  true  friend  can  endure  to  remain  in." 

"But  what  in  the  world  is  happening?"  asked  the  mother 
and  daughter. 

Madame  de  Gyas  then  had  the  pleasure  of  repeating  every- 
body's comments,  not  sparing  her  intimate  friends  a  single 
dagger-thrust.  Natalie  and  her  mother  looked  at  each  other 
and  laughed;  but  they  quite  understood  the  purpose  and 
motives  of  their  friend's  revelation.  The  Spanish  lady  re- 
venged herself  much  as  Celimene  did  on  Arsinoe. 

"My  dear — you  who  know  what  provincial  life  is — you 
must  know  of  what  a  mother  is  capable  when  she  has  a 
daughter  on  her  hands  who  does  not  marry,  for  lack  of  a 
fortune  and  a  lover,  of  beauty  and  talent — for  lack  of  every- 
thing sometimes ! — She  would  rob  a  diligence,  she  would  com- 
mit murder,  wa3day  a  man  at  a  street  corner,  and  give  her- 
self away  a  hundred  times,  if  she  were  worth  giving.  There 
are  plenty  such  in  Bordeaux,  who  are  ready,  no  doubt,  to 
attribute  to  us  their  thoughts  and  actions. — Naturalists  have 
described  the  manners  and  customs  of  many  fierce  animals. 


74  A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT 

but  they  have  overlooked  the  mother  and  daughter  in  quest 
of  a  husband.  They  are  hyaenas  who,  as  the  Psalmist  has  it, 
seek  whom  they  may  devour,  and  who  add  to  the  nature 
of  the  wild  beast  the  intelligence  of  man  and  the  genius  of 
woman. 

"That  such  little  Bordeaux  spiders  as  Mademoiselle  de 
Belor,  Mademoiselle  de  Trans,  and  their  like,  who  have  spread 
their  nets  for  so  long  without  seeing  a  fly,  or  hearing  the  least 
hum  of  wings  near  them — that  they  should  be  furious  I  un- 
derstand, and  I  forgive  them  their  venomous  tattle.  But  that 
you,  who  have  a  title  and  money,  who  are  not  in  the  least 
provincial,  who  have  a  clever  and  accomplished  daughter, 
pretty  and  free  to  pick  and  choose — that  you,  so  far  above 
everybody  here  by  your  Parisian  elegance,  should  have  taken 
such  a  tone,  is  really  a  matter  of  astonishment.  Am  I  ex- 
pected to  account  to  the  public  for  the  matrimonial  stipula- 
tions which  our  men  of  business  have  considered  necessary 
under  the  political  conditions  which  will  govetn  my  son-in- 
law's  existence?  Is  the  mania  for  public  discussion  to  in- 
vade the  privacy  of  family  life?  Ought  I  to  have  invited 
the  fathers  and  mothers  of  your  province,  under  sealed 
covers,  to  come  and  vote  on  the  articles  of  our  marriage 
contract  ?" 

A  torrent  of  epigrams  was  poured  out  on  Bordeaux. 

Madame  Evangelista  was  about  to  leave  the  town;  she 
could  afford  to  criticise  her  friends  and  enemies,  to  caricature 
them,  and  lash  them  at  will,  having  nothing  to  fear  from 
them.  So  she  gave  vent  to  all  the  remarks  she  had  stored 
up,  the  revenges  she  had  postponed,  and  her  surprise  that 
any  one  should  deny  the  existence  of  the  sun  at  noonday. 

"Really,  my  dear,"  said  the  Marquise  de  Gyas,  "Monsieur 
de  Manerville's  visit  to  Lanstrac,  these  parties  to  young  men 
— under  the  circumstances " 

"Really,  my  dear,"  retorted  the  fine  lady,  interrupting  her, 
"can  you  suppose  that  we  care  for  the  trumpery  proprieties 
of  a  middle-class  marriage?  Am  I  to  keep  Count  Paul  in 
leading-strings,  as  if  he  would  run  away  ?     Do  you  think  he 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  75 

needs  watching  by  the  police?  Need  we  fear  his  being 
spirited  away  by  some  Bordeaux  conspiracy?" 

"Believe  me,  my  dear  friend,  you  give  me  infinite 
pleasure " 

The  Marquise  was  cut  short  in  her  speech  by  the  man- 
servant announcing  Paul.  Like  all  lovers;  Paul  had  thought 
it  delightful  to  ride  eight  leagues  in  order  to  spend  an  hour 
with  Natalie.  He  had  left  his  friends  to  their  sport,  and 
came  in,  booted  and  spurred,  his  whip  in  his  hand. 

"Dear  Paul,"  said  Natalie,  "you  have  no  idea  how 
effectually  you  are  answering  madame  at  this  moment." 

When  Paul  heard  the  calumnies  that  were  rife  in  Bordeaux, 
he  laughed  instead  of  being  angry. 

"The  good  people  have  heard,  no  doubt,  that  there  will  be 
none  of  the  gay  and  uproarious  doings  usual  in  the  country, 
no  midday  ceremony  in  church,  and  they  are  furious. — Well, 
dear  mother,"  said  he,  kissing  Madame  Evangelista's  hand, 
"we  will  fling  a  ball  at  their  heads  on  the  day  when  the  con- 
tract is  signed,  as  a  fete  is  thrown  to  the  mob  in  the  square 
of  the  Champs-Elysees,  and  give  our  good  friends  the  pain- 
ful pleasure  of  such  a  signing  as  is  rarely  seen  in  a  provincial 
city !" 

This  incident  was  of  great  importance.  Madame  Evan- 
gelista  invited  all  Bordeaux  on  the  occasion,  and  expressed 
her  intention  of  displaying  in  this  final  entertainment  a 
magnificence  that  should  give  the  lie  unmistakably  to  silly  and 
false  reports.  She  was  thus  solemnly  pledged  to  the  world 
to  cairy  through  this  marriage. 

The  preparations  for  this  ball  went  on  for  forty  days,  and 
it  was  known  as  the  "evening  of  the  camellias,"  there  were 
such  immense  numbers  of  these  flowers  on  the  stairs,  in  the 
ante-room,  and  in  the  great  supper-room.  The  time  agreed 
with  the  necessary  delay  for  the  preliminary  formalities  of 
the  marriage,  and  the  steps  taken  in  Paris  for  the  settlement 
of  the  entail.  The  lands  adjoining  Lanstrac  were  purchased, 
the    banns    were    published,    and    doubts    were    dispelled. 


r6  A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT 

Friends  and  foes  had  nothing  left  to  think  about  but  the 
preparation  of  their  dresses  for  the  great  occasion. 

The  time  taken  up  by  these  details  overlaid  th<5  difficulties 
raised  at  the  first  meeting,  and  carried  away  into  oblivion  the 
words  and  retorts  of  the  stormy  altercation  that  had  arisen 
over  the  question  of  the  settlements.  Neither  Paul  nor  his 
mother-in-law  thought  any  more  of  the  matter.  Was  is  not, 
as  Madame  Evangelista  had  said,  the  lawyers'  business?  But 
who  is  there  that  has  not  known,  in  the  rush  of  a  busy  phase 
of  life,  what  it  is  to  be  suddenly  startled  by  the  voice  of 
memory,  speaking  too  late,  and  recalling  some  important  fact, 
some  imminent  danger  ? 

On  the  morning  of  the  day  when  the  contract  was  to  be 
signed,  one  of  these  will-o'-the-wisps  of  the  brain  flashed  upon 
Madame  Evangelista  between  sleeping  and  waking.  The 
phrase  spoken  by  herself  at  the  moment  when  Mathias  agreed 
to  Solonet's  proposal  was,  as  it  were,  shouted  in  her  ear: 
Questa  codg,  non  e  di  questo  gatto.  In  spite  of  her  ignorance 
of  business,  Madame  Evangelista  said  to  herself,  "If  that 
sharp  old  lawyer  is  satisfied,  it  is  at  the  expense  of  one  or 
other  of  the  parties.^'  And  the  damaged  interest  was  cer- 
tainly not  on  Paul's  side,  as  she  had  hoped.  Was  it  her 
daughter's  fortune,  then,  that  was  to  pay  the  costs  of  the 
war?  She  resolved  to  make  full  inquiries  as  to  the  tenor  of 
the  bargain,  though  she  did  not  consider  what  she  could  do  in 
the  event  of  finding  her  own  interests  too  seriously  com- 
promised. 

The  events  of  this  day  had  so  serious  an  influence  on 
Paul's  married  life,  that  it  is  necessary  to  give  some  ac- 
count of  the  external  details  which  have  their  effect  on  ever}' 
mind. 

As  the  house  was  forthwith  to  be  sold,  the  Comte  de  Maner- 
eille's  mother-in-law  had  hesitated  at  no  expense.  The 
forecourt  was  graveled,  covered  with  a  tent,  and  filled  with 
shrubs,  though  it  was  winter.  The  camellias,  which  «'ere 
talked  of  from  Dax  to  Angouleme,  decked  the  stairs,  and 
vestibules.     A  wall  had  been  removed  to  enlarge  the  supper- 


A  i.^.  c*.^..  .>.i..uic  but  by  tlic  lire  on  a  littiu  ?uiii 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  71 

room  and  ballroom.  Bordeaux,  splendid  with  the  luxurj'  of 
many  a  colonial  fortune,  eagerly  anticipated  a  fairy  scene. 
By  eight  o'clock^  when  the  business  was  drawing  to  a  close,  the 
populace,  curious  to  see  the  ladies'  dresses,  formed  a  hedge 
on  each  side  of  the  gateway.  Thus  the  heady  atmosphere  of 
a  great  festivit}'  excited  all  concerned  at  the  moment  of  sign- 
ing the  contract.  At  the  very  crisis  the  little  lamps  fixed  on 
yew-trees  were  already  lighted,  and  the  rumbling  of  the  first 
carriages  came  up  from  the  forecourt. 

The  two  lawyers  had  dined  with  the  bride  and  bride- 
groom and  the  mother-in-law.  Mathias'  head-clerk,  who  was 
to  see  the  contract  signed  by  certain  of  the  guests  in  the 
course  of  the  evening,  and  to  take  care  that  it  was  not  read, 
was  also  one  of  the  party. 

The  reader  will  rack  his  memory  in  vain — no  dress,  no 
woman  was  ever  to  compare  with  Natalie's  beauty  in  her  satin 
and  lace,  her  hair  beautifully  dressed  in  a  mass  of  curls  falling 
about  her  neck ;  she  was  like  a  flower  in  its  natural  setting 
of  foliage. 

Madame  Evangelista,  in  a  cherry-colored  velvet,  cleverly 
designed  to  set  off  the  brilliancy  of  her  eyes,  her  complexion, 
and  her  hair,  with  all  the  beauty  of  a  woman  of  forty,  wore 
her  pearl  necklace  clasped  with  the  famous  Discreto,  to  give 
the  lie  to  slander. 

Fully  to  understand  the  scene,  it  is  necessary  to  remark 
that  Paul  and  ISTatalie  sat  by  the  fire  on  a  little  sofa,  and  never 
listened  to  one  word  of  the  guardian's  accounts.  One  as 
much  a  child  as  the  other,  both  equally  happy,  he  in  his  hopes, 
she  in  her  expectant  curiosity,  seeing  life  one  calm  blue 
heaven,  rich,  young,  and  in  love,  they  never  ceased  whispering 
in  each  other's  ear.  Paul,  already  regarding  his  passion  as 
legalized,  amused  himself  with  kissing  the  tips  of  Natalie's 
fingers,  or  just  touching  her  snowy  shoulders  or  her  hair, 
hiding  the  raptures  of  these  illicit  joys  from  every  eye. 
Natalie  was  playing  with  a  screen  of  peacock  feathers,  a  gift 
from  Paul — a  luckless  omen  in  love,  if  we  may  accept  the 
superstitious  belief  of  some  countries,  as  fatal  as  that  of 


78  A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT 

scissors,  or  any  other  cutting  instrument,  which  is  based,  no 
doubt,  on  some  association  with  the  mythological  Fates. 

Madame  Evangel  ista,  sitting  by  the  notaries,  paid  the 
closest  attention  to  the  reading  of  the  two  documents.  After 
hearing  the  schedule  of  her  accounts,  very  learnedly  drawn 
out  by  Solonet,  which  showed  a  reduction  of  the  three  millions 
and  some  hundred  thousand  francs  left  by  Monsieur  Evan- 
gelista,  to  the  famous  eleven  hundred  and  fifty-six  thousand 
francs  constituting  Natalie's  portion,  she  called  out  to  the 
young  couple : 

"Come,  listen,  children ;  this  is  your  marriage  contract." 

The  clerk  drank  a  glass  of  sugared  water;  Solonet  and 
Mathias  blew  their  noses;  Paul  and  Natalie  looked  at  the 
four  personages,  listened  to  the  preamble,  and  then  began  to 
talk  together  again.  The  statements  of  revenues ;  the  settle- 
ment of  the  whole  estate  on  either  party  in  the  event  of  the 
other's  death  without  issue;  the  bequest,  according  to  law,  of 
one-quarter  of  the  whole  property  absolutely  to  the  wife, 
and  of  the  interest  of  one-quarter  more,  however  many 
children  should  survive ;  the  schedule  of  the  property  held  in 
common;  the  gift  of  the  diamonds  on  the  wife's  part,  and  of 
the  books  and  horses  on  the  husband's — all  passed  without 
remark.  Then  came  the  settlement  for  the  entail.  And 
when  everything  had  been  read,  and  there  was  nothing  to  be 
done  but  to.  sign,  Madame  Evangelista  asked  what  would  be 
the  effect  of  the  entail. 

"The  entailed  estate,  madame,  is  inalienable ;  it  is  property 
separated  from  the  general  estate  of  the  married  pair,  and 
reserved  for  the  eldest  son  of  the  house  from  generation  to 
generation,  without  his  being  thereby  deprived  of  his  share 
of  the  rest  of  the  property." 

"And  what  are  the  consequences  to  my  daughter?"  she 
asked.  Maitre  Mathias,  incapable  of  disguising  the  truth, 
made  reply: 

"Madame,  the  entail  being  an  inheritance  derived  from 
both  fortunes,  if  the  wife  should  be  the  first  to  die,  and  leaves 
one  or  several  children,  one  of  them  a  boy,  Monsieur  le 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  79 

Comte  de  Manerville  will  account  to  them  for  no  more  than 
three  hundred  and  fifty-six  thousand  francs,  from  which  he 
will  deduct  his  one  absolute  fourth,  and  the  fourth  part  of  the 
interest  of  the  residue.  Thus  their  claim  on  him  is  reduced 
to  about  a  hundred  and  sixty  thousand  francs  independently 
of  his  share  of  profits  on  the  common  stock,  the  sums  he 
could  claim,  etc.  In  the  contrary  case,  if  he  should  die  first, 
leaving  a  son  or  sons,  Madame  de  Manerville  would  be  en- 
titled to  no  more  than  three  hundred  and  fifty-six  thousand 
francs,  to  her  share  of  all  of  Monsieur  de  Manerville's  estate 
that  is  not  included  in  the  entail,  to  the  restitution  of  her 
diamonds,  and  her  portion  o-f  the  common  stock." 

The  results  of  Maitre  Mathias'  profound  policy  were  now 
amply  evident. 

"My  daughter  is  ruined,"  said  Madame  Evangelista  in  a 
low  voice. 

The  lawyers  both  heard  her  exclamation. 

"Is  it  ruin,"  said  Maitre  Mathias  in  an  undertone,  ^'to 
establish  an  indestructible  fortune  for  her  family  in  the 
future?" 

As  he  saw  the  expression  of  his  client's  face,  the  younger 
notary  thought  it  necessary  to  state  the  sum  of  the  disaster 
in  figures. 

"We  wanted  to  get  three  hundred  thousand  francs  out  of 
them,  and  they  have  evidently  succeeded  in  getting  eight 
hundred  thousand  out  of  us;  the  balance  to  their  advantage 
on  the  contract  is  a  loss  of  four  hundred  thousand  francs  to 
us  for  the  benefit  of  the  children. — We  must  break  it  off  or 
go  on,"  he  added  to  Madame  Evangelista. 

No  words  could  describe  the  silence,  though  brief,  that 
ensued.  Mathias  triumphantly  awaited  the  signature  of  the 
two  persons  who  had  hoped  to  plunder  his  client.  Natalie, 
incapable  of  understanding  that  she  was  bereft  of  half  of  her 
fortune,  and  Paul,  not  knowing  that  the  house  of  Manerville 
was  acquiring  it,  sat  laughing  and  talking  as  before.  Solonet 
and  Madame  Evangelista  looked  at  each  other,  he  conceal- 
ing his  indifference,  she  disguising  a  myriad  angry  feelings. 


80  A  MARRIAr.K  SETTLEMENT 

After  suflFerinp  from  Icrril^le  remorse,  and  rofjardinf];  Paul 
as  the  cause  of  her  dishonesty,  tlie  widow  had  made  uj)  lier 
mind  to  certain  discreditahle  manoeuvres  to  cast  the  blunders 
of  her  guardianship  on  his  shoulders,  making  him  her  victim. 
And  now,  in  an  instant,  she  had  discovered  that,  instead  of 
triumphing,  slie  was  overtlirown,  and  that  the  real  victim  was 
her  daughter.  Thus  guilty  to  no  purpose,  she  was  the  dupe 
of  an  honest  old  man,  whose  esteem  she  had  doubtless 
sacrificed.  Was  it  not  her  own  secret  conduct  that  had  in- 
spired the  stipulations  insisted  on  by  Mathias? 

Hideous  thought !     Mathias  had,  doubtless,  told  Paul. 

If  he  had  not  yet  spoken,  as  -soon  as  the  contract  Should 
be  signed  that  old  wolf  would  warn  his  client  of  the  dangers 
he  had  run  and  escaped,  if  it  were  only  to  gather  the  praises 
to  which  everybody  is  open.  Would  he  not  put  him  on  his 
guard  against  a  woman  so  astute  as  to  have  joined  such  an 
ignoble  conspiracy?  Would  he  not  undermine  the  influence 
«he  had  acquired  over  her  son-in-law?  And  weak  natures, 
once  warned,  turn  obstinate,  and  never  reconsider  the  cir- 
cumstances. 

So  all  was  lost ! 

On  the  day  when  the  discussion  was  opened,  she  had  trusted 
to  Paul's  feebleness  and  the  impossibility  of  his  retreating 
after  advancing  so  far.  And  now  it  was  she  who  had  tied 
her  own  hands.  Paul,  three  months  since,  would  not  have 
had  many  obstacles  to  surmount  to  break  off  the  marriage; 
now,  all  Bordeaux  knew  that  the  lawyers  had,  two  months 
ago,  smoothed  away  every  difficulty.  The  banns  were 
published;  the  wedding  was  fixed  for  the  next  day  but  one. 
The  friends  of  both  families,  all  the  town  were  arriving, 
dressed  for  the  ball — how  could  she  announce  a  postpone- 
ment? The  cause  of  the  rupture  would  become  known,  the 
unblemished  honesty  of  Maitre  Mathias  would  gain  credence, 
his  story  would  be  believed  in  preference  to  hers.  The  laugh 
would  be  against  the  Evangelistas,  of  whom  so  many  were 
envious.     She  must  yield  ! 

These  painfully  accurate  reflections  fell  on  Madame  Evan- 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  8t 

gelista  like  a  waterspout  and  crushed  her  brain.  Though  she 
maintained  a  diplomatic  impassibility,  her  chin  showed  the 
nervous  jerking  by  which  Catherine  II.  betrayed  her  fury  one 
day  when,  sitting  on  her  throne  and  surrounded  by  her  Court, 
she  was  defied  by  the  young  King  of  Sweden  under  almost 
similar  circumstances.  Solonet  noted  the  spasmodic  move- 
ment of  the  muscles  that  proclaimed  a  mortal  hatred,  a  storm 
without  a  sound  or  a  lightning-flash;  and,  in  fact,  at  that 
moment,  the  widow  had  sworn  such  hatred  of  her  son-in-law, 
such  an  implacable  feud  as  the  Arabs  have  left  the  germs  of 
in  the  atmosphere  of  tSpain. 

"Monsieur,"  said  she  to  her  notary,  "you  called  this  a 
rigmarole — it  seems  to  me  that  nothing  can  be  clearer." 

"Madame,  allow  me " 

"Monsieur,"  she  went  on,  without  listening  to  Solonet,  "if 
you  did  not  understand  the  upshot  of  this  bargain  at  the 
time  of  our  former  discussion,  it  is  at  least  extraordinary 
that  you  should  not  have  perceived  it  in  the  retirement  of  your 
study.     It  cannot  be  from  incapacity." 

The  young  man  led  her  into  the  adjoining  room,  saying 
to  himself : 

"More  than  a  thousand  crowns  are  due  to  me  for  the 
schedule  of  accounts,  and  a  thousand  more  for  the  contract; 
six  thousand  francs  I  can  make  over  the  sale  of  the  house — 
fifteen  thousand  francs  in  all. — We  must  keep  our  temper." 

He  shut  the  door,  gave  Madame  Evangelista  the  cold  look 
of  a  man  of  business,  guessing  the  feelings  that  agitated  her, 
and  said : 

"Madame,  how,  when  I  have  perhaps  overstepped  in  your 
behalf  the  due  limits  of  finesse  can  you  repay  my  devotion 
by  such  a  speech?" 

"But,  monsieur " 

"Madame,  I  did  not,  it  is  true,  fully  estimate  the  amount 
of  our  surrender ;  but  if  you  do  not  care  to  have  Count  Paul 
for  your  son-in-law,  are  you  obliged  to  agree?  The  contract 
is  not  signed. — Give  your  ball  and  postpone  the  signing.     It 


82  A  MARRIAGE  SETTr.EMEXT 

is  better  to  lake  in  all  Bordeaux  than  to  be  taken  in  your- 
8elf." 

"And  what  excuse  can  I  make  to  all  the  world — already 
prejudiced  against  us — to  account  for  this  delay?" 

"A  blunder  in  Paris,  a  document  missing,"  said  Solonet. 

"But  the  land  that  has  been  purchased?" 
.     "Monsieur  de  Manerville  will  find  plenty  of  matches  with 
money." 

"He!  Oh,  he  will  lose  nothing;  we  are  losing  everything 
on  our  side." 

"You,"  said  Solonet,  "may  have  a  Count,  a  better  bar- 
gain, if  the  title  is  the  great  point  of  this  match  in  your 
eyes." 

"No,  no;  we  cannot  throw  our  honor  overboard  in  that 
fashion !  I  am  caught  in  the  trap,  monsieur.  All  Bordeaux 
would  ring  with  it  to-morrow.  We  have  solemnly  pledged 
ourselves." 

"You  wish  Mademoiselle  Natalie  to  be  happy?"  dsked 
Solonet. 

"That  is  the  chief  thing." 

"In  France,"  said  the  lawyer  "does  not  being  happy  mean 
being  mistress  of  the  hearth?  She  will  lead  that  nincompoop 
Manerville  by  the  nose.  He  is  so  stupid  that  he  has  seen  noth- 
ing. Even  if  he  should  distrust  you,  he  will  still  believe  in 
his  wife.  And  are  not  you  and  his  wife  one?  Count  Paul's 
fate  still  lies  in  your  hands." 

"If  you  should  be  speaking  truly,  I  do  not  know  what  I 
could  refuse  you  !"  she  exclaimed,  with  delight  that  glowed 
in  her  eyes. 

"Come  in  again,  then,  madame,"  said  Solonet,  understand- 
ing his  client.  "But,  above  all,  listen  to  what  I  say;  you  may 
regard  me  as  incapable  afterwards  if  you  please." 

"My  dear  friend,"  said  the  young  lawyer  to  Mathias,  as 
he  re-entered  the  room,  "for  all  your  skill  you  have  failed  to 
foresee  the  contingency  of  ]\ronsieur  de  Manerville's  death 
without  issue,  or,  again,  that  of  his  leaving  none  but 
daughters.     In  either  of  those  cases  the  entail  would  give  rise 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  83 

to  lawsuits  with  other  Manervilles,  for  plenty  would  crop  up, 
do  not  doubt  it  for  a  moment.  It  strikes  me,  therefore,  as 
desirable  to  stipulate  that  in  the  former  case  the  entailed 
property  should  be  included  in  the  general  estate  settled  by 
each  on  either,  and  in  the  second  that  the  entail  should  be 
cancelled  as  null  and  void.  It  is  an  agreement  solely  affecting 
the  intending  wife." 

"The  clause  seems  to  me  perfectly  fair,"  said  Mathias,  "As 
to  its  ratification,  Monsieur  le  Comte  will  make  the  neces- 
sary arrangements  with  the  Court  of  Chancery,  no  doubt,  if 
requisite." 

The  younger  notary  took  a  pen  and  wrote  in  on  the  margin 
this  ominous  clause,  to  which  Paul  and  Natalie  paid  no  at- 
tention. Madame  Evangelista  sat  with  downcast  eyes  while 
it  was  read  by  Maitre  Mathias. 

"Now  to  sign,"  said  the  mother. 

The  strong  voice  which  she  controlled  betrayed  vehement 
excitement.     She  had  just  said  to  herself : 

"No,  my  daughter  shall  not  be  ruined — but  he  shall ! 
My  daughter  shall  have  his  name,  title,  and  fortune.  If 
Natalie  should  ever  discover  that  she  does  not  love  her  hus- 
band, if  some  day  she  should  love  another  man  more  passion- 
ately— Paul  will  be  exiled  from  France,  and  my  daughter 
will  be  free,  happy,  and  rich." 

Though  Maitre  Mathias  was  expert  in  the  analysis  of  in- 
terests, he  had  no  skill  in  analyzing  human  passions.  He 
accepted  the  lady's  speech  as  an  honorable  surrender,  instead 
of  seeing  that  it  was  a  declaration  of  war.  While  Solonet 
and  his  clerk  took  care  that  Natalie  signed  in  full  at  the  foot 
of  every  document — a  business  that  required  some  time — 1 
Mathias  took  Paul  aside  and  explained  to  him  the  bearing  of 
the  clauses  which  he  had  introduced  to  save  him  from  in- 
evitable ruin. 

"You  have  a  mortgage  on  this  house  for  a  hundred  and 
fifty  thousand  francs,"  he  said  in  conclusion,  "and  we  fore- 
close to-morrow.  I  have  at  my  office  the  securities  in  the 
funds,  which  I  have  taken  care  to  place  in  your  wife's  name. 


84  A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT 

Everything  is  quite  regular. — But  the  contract  includes  a  re- 
ceipt for  the  sum  represented  l)v  the  diamonds;  ask  for  them. 
Business  is  business.  Diamonds  are  just  now  going  up  in 
the  market ;  they  may  go  down  again.  Your  purchase  of  the 
lands  of  Auzac  and  Saint-Froult  justifies  you  in  turning 
everything  into  money  so  as  not  to  touch  your  wife's  income. 
So,  no  false  pride,  ^lonsieur  le  Comte.  The  first  payment  is 
to  be  made  after  the  formalities  are  concluded ;  use  the 
diamonds  for  that  purpose;  it  amounts  to  two  hundred  thou- 
sand francs.  You  will  have  the  mortgage  value  of  this  house 
for  the  second  call,  and  the  income  on  the  entailed  property 
will  help  you  to  pay  off  the  remainder.  If  only  you  are  firm 
enough  to  spend  no  more  than  fifty  thousand  francs  for  the 
first  three  years,  you  will  recoup  the  two  hundred  thousand 
francs  you  now  owe.  If  you  plant  vines  on  the  hill  slopes 
of  Saint-Froult,  you  may  raise  the  returns  to  twenty-six  thou- 
sand francs.  Thus  the  entailed  property,  without  including 
your  house  in  Paris,  will  some  day  be  worth  fifty  thousand 
francs  a  year — one  of  the  finest  estates  I  know  of. — And  so 
you  will  have  married  very  handsomely." 

Paul  pressed  his  old  friend's  hands  with  warm  affection. 
The  gesture  did  not  escape  Madame  Evangelista,  who  came  to 
hand  the  pen  to  Paul.  Her  suspicion  was  now  certainty ; 
she  was  convinced  that  Paul  and  Mathias  had  an  understand- 
ing. Surges  of  blood,  hot  with  rage  and  hatred,  choked  her 
heart.     Paul  was  warned  ! 

After  ascertaining  that  every  clause  was  duly  signed,  that, 
the  three  contracting  parties  had  initialed  the  bottom  of 
every  page  with  their  usual  sign-manual,  Maitre  Mathias 
looked  first  at  his  client  and  then  at  Madame  Evangelista, 
and  observing  that  Paul  did  not  ask  for  the  diamonds,  he 
said: 

"I  suppose  there  will  be  no  question  as  to  the  delivery  of 
the  diamonds  now  that  you  are  but  one  family?" 

"It  would,  no  doubt,  be  in  order  that  Madame  Evangelista 
should  surrender  them.  Monsieur  de  Manerville  has  given 
his  discharge  for  the  balance  of  the  trust  values,  and  no  one 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  85 

can  tell  who  may  die  or  live,"  said  Maitre  Solonet,  who 
thought  this  an  opportunity  for  inciting  his  client  against 
her  son-in-law. 

"Oh,  my  dear  mother,  it  would  be  an  affront  to  us  if  yon 
did  so !"  cried  Paul.  "Summum  jus,  summa  injuria,  mon- 
sieur," said  he  to  Solonet. 

"And  I,  on  my  part,"  said  she,  her  hostile  temper  regard- 
ing Mathias'  indirect  demand  as  an  insult,  "if  you  do  not  ac- 
cept the  jewels,  will  tear  up  the  contract." 

She  went  out  of  the  room  in  one  of  those  bloodthirsty  furies 
which  so  long  for  the  chance  of  wre(^king  everything,  and 
which,  when  that  is  impossible,  rise  to  the  pitch  of  frenzy. 

"In  Heaven's  name,  take  them,"  whispered  Natalie.  "My 
mother  is  angry ;  I  will  find  out  why  this  evening,  and  will 
tell  you ;  we  will  pacify  her." 

Madame  Evangelista,  quite  pleased  at  this  first  stroke  of 
policy,  kept  on  her  necklace  and  earrings.  She  brought  the 
rest  of  the  jewels,  valued  by  filie  Magus  at  a  hundred  and 
fifty  thousand  francs.  Maitre  Mathias  and  Solonet,  though 
accustomed  to  handling  family  diamonds,  exclaimed  at  the 
beauty  of  these  jewels  as  they  examined  the  contents  of  the 
cases. 

"You  will  lose  nothing  of  mademoiselle's  fortune.  Mon- 
sieur le  Comte,"  said  Solonet,  and  Paul  reddened. 

"Ay,"  said  Mathias,  "these  jewels  will  certainly  pay  the 
first  instalment  of  the  newly  purchased  land." 

"And  the  expenses  of  the  contract,"  said  Solonet. 

Hatred,  like  love,  is  fed  on  the  merest  trifles.  Everything 
adds  to  it.  Just  as  the  one  we  love  can  do  no  wrong,  the 
one  we  hate  can  do  nothing  right.  Madame  Evangelista 
scorned  the  hesitancy  to  which  a  natural  reluctance  gave  rise 
in  Paul  as  affected  airs;  while  he,  not  knowing  what  to  do 
with  the  jewel-cases,  would  have  been  glad  to  throw  them  out 
of  the  window.  Madame  Evangelista,  seeing  his  embarrass- 
ment, fixed  her  eyes  on  him  in  a  way  which  seemed  to  say, 
•'•'Take  them  out  of  my  sight !" 

"My  dear  Natalie,"  said  Paul  to  his  fiancee,   "put  the 


86  A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT 

jewels  away  yourself;  they  are  yourri;  1  make  them  a  present 
to  you." 

Natalie  put  them  into  the  drawers  of  a  cabinet.  At  this 
instant  the  clatter  of  carriages  and  the  voices  of  the  guests 
waiting  in  the  adjoining  rooms  required  Natalie  and  her 
mother  to  appear  among  them.  The  rooms  were  immediately 
filled,  and  the  ball  began. 

"Take  advantage  of  the  honeymoon  to  sell  your  diamonds," 
said  the  old  notary  to  Paul,  as  he  withdrew. 

While  waiting  for  the  dancing  to  begin,  everybody  was 
discussing  the  marriage  in  lowered  tones,  some  of  the  com- 
pany expressing  doubts  as  to  the  future  prospects  of  the  en- 
gaged couple. 

"Is  it  quite  settled?"  said  one  of  the  magnates  of  the  town 
to  Madame  Evangelista. 

"We  have  had  so  many  papers  to  read  and  hear  read,  that 
we  are  late;  but  we  may  be  excused,'"  replied  she. 

"For  my  part,  I  heard  nothing,"  said  Natalie,  taking  Paul's 
hand  to  open  the  ball. 

"Both  those  young  people  like  extravagance,  and  it  will  not 
be  the  mother  that  will  check  them,"  said  a  dowager. 

"But  they  have  created  an  entail,  I  hea.,  of  fifty  thousand 
francs  a  year." 

"Pooh !" 

"I  see  that  our  good  Maitre  Mathias  has  had  a  finger 
in  the  pie.  And  certainly,  if  that  is  the  case,  the  worthy 
man  will  have  done  his  best  to  save  the  future  fortunes  of 
the  family." 

"Natalie  is  too  handsome  not  to  be  a  desperate  flirt.  By 
the  time  that  she  has  been  married  two  years,  I  will  not 
I  answer  for  it  that  Manerville  will  not  be  miserable  in  his 
•home,"  remarked  a  young  wife. 

"What,  the  peas  will  be  stuck  you  think  ?"  replied  Maitre 
Solonet. 

"He  needed  no  more  than  that  tall  stick,"  said  a  young 
lady. 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  87 

"Does  it  not  strike  you  that  Madame  Evangelista  is  not 
best  pleased  ?" 

"Well,  my  dear,  I  have  just  been  told  that  she  has  hardly 
twenty-five  thousand  francs  a  year,  and  what  is  that  for 
her?" 

"Beggary,  my  dear." 
'     "Yes,  she  has  stripped  herself  for  her  daughter.     Monsieur 
has  been  exacting " 

"Beyond  conception !"  said  Solonet.  "But  he  is  to  be  a 
peer  of  France.  The  Maulincours  and  the  Vidame  de 
Pamiers  will  help  him  on ;  he  belongs  to  the  Faubourg  Saint- 
Germain." 

"Oh,  he  visits  there,  that  is  all,"  said  a  lady,  who  had 
wanted  him  for  her  son-in-law.  "Mademoiselle  Evangelista, 
a  merchant's  daughter,  will  certainly  not  open  the  doors  of 
the  Chapter  of  Cologne  to  him." 

"She  is  grand-niece  to  the  Due  de  Casa-Eeal." 

"On  the  female  side  !" 

All  this  tittle-tattle  was  soon  exhausted.  The  gamblers 
sat  down  to  cards,  the  young  people  danced,  supper  was 
served,  and  the  turmoil  of  festivity  was  not  silenced  till  morn- 
ing, when  the  first  streaks  of  dawn  shone  pale  through  the 
windows. 

After  taking  leave  of  Paul,  who  was  the  last  to  leave, 
Madame  Evangelista  went  up  to  her  daughter's  room,  for  her 
own  had  been  demolished  by  the  builder  to  enlarge  the  ball- 
room. Though  Natalie  and  her  mother  were  dying  for  sleep, 
they  spoke  a  few  words. 

"Tell  me,  darling  mother,  what  is  the  matter  ?" 

"My  dear,  I  discovered  this  evening  how  far  a  mother's 
love  may  carry  her.  You  know  nothing  of  affairs,  and  you 
have  no  idea  to  what  suspicions  my  honesty  lies  exposed. 
However,  I  have  trodden  my  pride  underfoot ;  your  happiness 
and  our  honor  was  at  stake." 

"As  concerned  the  diamonds,  you  mean? — He  wept  over 
it,  poor  boy !     He  would  not  take  them ;  I  have  them." 

"Well,  go  to  sleep,  dearest  child      We  will  talk  business 


88  A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT 

when  we  wake;  for  we  have  business — and  now  there  is  a 
third  to  come  between  us,"  and  she  si^died. 

"Indeed,  dear  mother,  Paul  will  never  stand  in  the  way 
of  our  happiness,"  said  Natalie,  and  she  went  to  sleep. 

"Poor  child,  she  does  not  know  that  the  man  has  ruined 
her !" 

Madame  Evangel ista  was  now  seized  in  the  grip  of  the  firsi 
promptings  of  that  avarice  to  which  old  folks  at  last  fall 
a  pre}'.  She  was  determined  to  replace,  for  her  daughter's 
benefit,  the  whole  of  the  fortune  left  by  her  husband.  She 
regarded  her  honor  as  Jjledged  to  this  restitution.  Her  affec- 
tion for  Xatalie  made  her  in  an  instant  as  close  a  calculator  in 
money  matters  as  she  had  hitherto  been  a  reckless  spendthrift. 
She  proposed  to  invest  her  capital  in  land  after  placing  part 
of  it  in  the  State  funds,  purchasable  at  that  time  for  about 
eighty  francs. 

A  p&ssion  not  unfrequently  produces  a  complete  change 
of  character;  the  tattler  turns  diplomatic,  the  coward  is  sud- 
denly brave.  Hatred  made  the  j^rodigal  ^Madame  Evangelista 
turn  parsimonious.  Money  might  help  her  in  the  schemes 
of  revenge,  as  yet  vague  and  ill-defined,  Avhich  she  proposed  to 
elaborate.     She  went  to  sleep,  saying  to  herself: 

"To-morrow !"  And  by  an  unexplained  phenomenon,  of 
which  the  effects  are  well  known  to  philosophers,  her  brain 
during  sleep  worked  out  her  idea,  threw  light  on  her  plans, 
organized  them,  and  hit  on  a  way  of  ruling  over  Paul's  life, 
devising  a  scheme  which  she  began  to  work  out  on  the  very 
next  day. 

Though  the  excitement  of  the  evening  had  driven  away 
certain  anxious  thoughts  Avhich  had  now  and  again  invaded 
Paul,  Avhen  he  was  alone  once  more  and  in  bed  they  returned 
to  torment  him. 

"It  would  seem,"  said  he  to  himself,  "that,  but  for  that 
worthy  Mathias,  my  mother-in-law  would  have  taken  me  in.  Is 
it  credible?  What  interest  could  she  have  had  in  cheating  me? 
Are  we  not  to  unite  our  incomes  and  live  together ! — After 
all,  what  is  there  to  be  anxious  about  ?     In  a  few  days  Natalie 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  89 

will  be  my  wife,  our  interests  are  clearly  defined,  nothing 
can  sever  us.  On  we  go ! — At  the  same  time,  I  will  be  on  my 
guard.  If  Mathias  should  jjrove  to  be  right — well,  I  am  not 
obliged  to  marry  my  mother-in-law." 

In  this  second  contest,  Paul's  future  prospects  had  been  en- 
tirely altered  without  his  being  aware  of  it.  Of  the  two 
women  he  was  marrying,  far  the  cleverer  had  become  his 
mortal  enemy,  and  was  bent  on  separating  her  own  interests 
from  his.  Being  incapable  of  appreciating  the  difference 
that  the  fact  of  her  Creole  birth  made  between  his  mother- 
in-law's  character  and  that  of  other  women,  he  was  still  less 
able  to  measure  her  immense  cleverness. 

The  Creole  woman  is  a  being  apart,  deriving  her  intellect 
from  Europe,  and  from  the  Tropics  her  vehemently  illogical 
passions,  while  she  is  Indian  in  the  apathetic  indifference  with 
which  she  accepts  good  or  evil  as  it  comes;  a  gracious  nature 
too,  but  dangerous,  as  a  child  is  when  it  is  not  kept  in 
order.  Like  a  child,  this  woman  must  have  everything  she 
wishes  for,  and  at  once ;  like  a  child,  she  would  set  a  house  on 
fire  to  boil  an  egg.  In  her  flaccid  everyday  mood  she  thinks 
of  nothing ;  when  she  is  in  a  passion  she  thinks  of  everything. 
There  is  in  her  nature  some  touch  of  the  perfidy  caught  from 
the  negroes  among  whom  she  has  lived  from  the  cradle,  but 
she  is  artless  too,  as  they  are.  Like  them,  and  like  children, 
she  can  wish  persistently  for  one  thing  with  ever-growing  in- 
tensity of  desire,  and  brood  over  an  idea  till  it  hatches  out. 
It  is  a  nature  strangely  compounded  of  good  and  evil 
qualities ;  and  in  Madame  Evangelista  it  was  strengthened  by 
the  Spanish  temper,  over  which  French  manners  had  laid  the 
polish  of  their  veneer. 

This  nature,  which  had  lain  dormant  in  happiness  for  six- 
teen years,  and  had  since  found  occupation  in  the  frivolities 
of  fashion,  had  discovered  its  own  force  under  tiie  first  im- 
pulse of  hatred,  and  flared  up  like  a  conflagration;  it  had 
broken  out  at  a  stage  in  her  life  when  a  woman,  bereft  of 
what  is  dearest  to  her,  craves  some  new  material  to  feed  the 
energies  that  are  consuming  her. 


90  A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT 

For  three  days  longer  Natalie  would  remain  under  her 
mother's  influence.  So  Madame  Evangclista,  though  van- 
quished, had  still  a  day  before  her,  the  last  her  child  would 
spend  with  her  mother.  By  a  single  word  the  Creole  might 
color  the  lives  of  these  two  beings  whose  fate  it  was  to  walk 
hand  in  hand  through  the  thickets  and  highways  of  Paris 
society — for  !N"atalie  had  a  ])lind  belief  in  her  mother.  What 
far-reaching  importance  would  a  hint  of  advice  have  on  a 
mind  thus  prepared !  The  whole  future  might  be  modified 
by  a  sentence.  No  code,  no  human  constitution  can  forefend 
the  moral  crime  of  killing  by  a  Avord.  That  is  the  weak  point 
of  social  forms  of  justice.  That  is  where  the  difference  lies 
between  the  world  of  fashion  and  the  people;  these  are  out- 
spoken, those  are  hypocrites;  these  snatch  the  knife,  those 
use  the  poison  of  words  and  suggestions;  these  are  punished 
with  death,  those  sin  with  impunity. 

At  about  noon  next  day,  Madame  Evangelista  was  half 
sitting,  half  reclining  on  Natalie's  bed.  At  this  waking  hour 
they  were  playing  and  petting  each  other  with  fond  caresses, 
recalling  the  happy  memories  of  their  life  together,  during 
which  no  discord  had  troubled  the  harmony  of  their  feelings, 
the  agreement  of  their  ideas,  or  the  perfect  union  of  their 
pleasures. 

"Poor  dear  child,"  said  the  mother,  shedding  genuine  tears, 
"I  cannot  bear  to  think  that,  after  having  had  your  own 
way  all  your  life,  to-morrow  evening  you  will  be  bound  to 
a  man  whom  you  must  obey !" 

"Oh,  my  dear  mother,  as  to  obeying  him !"  said  Natalie, 
with  a  little  wilful  nod  expressive  of  pretty  rebellion.  "You 
laugh !"  she  went  on,  'Tjut  my  father  always  indulged  your 
fancies.  And  why?  Because  he  loved  you.  Shall  not  I  be 
loved?" 

"Yes,  Paul  is  in  love  with  you.  But  if  a  married  woman 
is  not  careful,  nothing  evaporates  so  quickly  as  conjugal  affec- 
tion. The  influence  a  wife  may  preserve  over  her  husband 
depends  on  the  first  steps  in  married  life,  and  you  will  want 
good  advice." 


A  MARRIAGE  SE'fTLEMENT  91 

''But  you  will  be  with  us." 

.  "Perhaps,  my  dear  child. — Last  evening,  during  the  ball, 
I  very  seriously  considered  the  risks  of  our  being  together. 
If  my  presence  were  to  be  disadvantageous  to  you,  if  the  little 
details  by  which  you  must  gradually  confirm  your  authority 
as  a  wife  should  be  ascribed  to  my  influence,  your  home  would 
become  a  hell.  At  the  first  frown  on  your  husband's  brow, 
should  not  I,  so  proud  as  I  am,  instantly  quit  the  house  ?  If 
I  am  to  leave  it  sooner  or  later,  in  my  opinion,  I  had  better 
never  enter  it.  I  could  not  forgive  your  husband  if  he  dis- 
united us. 

"On  the  other  hand,  when  you  are  the  mistress,  when  your 
husband  is  to  you  what  your  father  was  to  me,  there  will  be 
less  fear  of  any  such  misfortune.  Although  such  a  policy 
must  be  painful  to  a  heart  so  young  and  tender  as  yours,  it 
is  indispensable  for  your  happiness  that  you  should  be  the 
absolute  sovereign  of  your  home." 

"Why,  then,  dear  mother,  did  you  say  T  was  to  obey 
him?" 

"Dear  little  girl,  to  enable  a  woman  to  command,  she  must 
seem  always  to  do  what  her  husband  wishes.  If  you  did 
not  know  that,  you  might  wreck  your  future  life  by  an  un- 
timely rebellion.  Paul  is  a  weak  man ;  he  might  come  under 
the  influence  of  a  friend,  nay,  he  might  fall  under  the  control 
of  a  woman,  and  you  would  feel  the  effects  of  their  influence. 
Forefend  such  misfortunes  by  being  mistress  yourself.  Will 
it  not  be  better  that  you  should  govern  him  than  that  any 
one  else  should?" 

"ISTo  doubt,"  said  Natalie.  "I  could  only  aim  at  his  happi- 
ness." 

"And  it  certainly  is  my  part,  dear  child,  to  think  only  of 
yours,  and  to  endeavor  that,  in  so  serious  a  matter,  you  should 
not  find  yourself  without  a  compass  in  the  midst  of  the  shoals 
you  must  navigate." 

"But,  my  darling  mother,  are  we  not  both  of  us  firm 
enough  to  remain  together  under  his  roof  without  provoking 
the  frowns  you  seem  so  much  to  dread?  Paul  is  fond 
of  you,  mamma." 


92  A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT 

"Oh,  he  fears  nic  more  than  he  loves  me.  Watch  him 
narrowly  to-day  when  I  tell  him  I  shall  leave  you  to  go  to 
Paris  without  me,  and,  however  carefully  he  may  try  to  con- 
ceal his  feelings,  you  will  see  his  secret  satisfaction  in  his 
face." 

"But  why  ?"  said  Natalie. 

*^hy,  my  child?  I  am  like  Saint  John  Chrysostom — I 
will  tell  him  why,  and  before  you." 

"But  since  I  am  marrying  him  on  the  express  condition 
that  you  and  I  are  not  to  part?"  said  Natalie. 

"Our  separation  has  become  necessary,"  Madame  Evan- 
gelista  replied.  "Several  considerations  affect  my  future 
prospects.  I  am  very  poor.  You  will  have  a  splendid  life  in 
Paris ;  I  could  not  live  with  you  suitably  without  exhausting 
the  little  possessions  that  remain  to  me;  whereas,  by  living 
at  Lanstrac,  I  can  take  care  of  your  interests  and  reconstitute 
my  own  fortune  by  economy." 

"You,  mother !  you  economize  ?"  cried  Natalie,  laughing. 
"Come,  do  not  be  a  grandmother  yet. — What,  would  3'ou  part 
from  me  for  such  a  reason  as  that  ? — Dear  mother,  Paul  may 
seem  to  you  just  a  little  stupid,  but  at  least  he  is  perfectly 
disinterested " 

"Well,"  replied  Madame  Evangelista,  in  a  tone  big  with 
comment,  \vhich  made  Natalie's  heart  beat,  "the  discussion  of 
the  contract  had  made  me  suspicious  and  suggested  some 
doubts  to  my  mind. — But  do  not  be  uneasy,  dearest  child," 
she  went  on,  putting  her  arm  round  the  girl's  neck  and  clasp- 
ing her  closely,  "I  will  not  leave  you  alone  for  long.  When 
my  return  to  you  can  give  him  no  umbrage,  when  Paul  has 
learned  to  judge  me  truly,  we  will  go  back  to  our  snug  little 
life  again,  our  evening  chats " 

"Why,  mother,  can  you  live  without  your  Ninie?" 

'TTes,  my  darling,  because  I  shall  be  living  for  you.  Will 
not  my  motherly  heart  be  constantly  rejoiced  by  the  idea  that 
T  am  contributing,  as  I  ought,  to  your  fortune  and  vour  hus- 
band's?" 

"But,  my  dear,  adorable  mother,  am  I  to  be  alone  there 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  ^ 

with  Paul?  At  once? — Quite  alone? — What  will  become 
of  me  ?  What  will  happen  ?  What  ought  I  to  do — or  not  to 
do?" 

"Poor  child,  do  you  think  I  mean  to  desert  you  forthwith 
at  the  first  battle?  We  will  write  to  each  other  three  times 
a  week,  like  two  lovers,  and  thus  we  shall  always  live  in  each 
other's  heart.  Nothing  can  happen  to  you  that  I  shall  not 
know,  and  I  will  protect  you  against  all  evil. — And  besides, 
it  would  be  too  ridiculous  that  I  should  not  go  to  visit  you ; 
that  would  cast  a  reflection  on  your  husband;  I  shall  always 
spend  a  month  or  two  with  you  in  Paris " 

"Alone — alone  with  him,  and  at  once !"  cried  Natalie  in 
terror,  interrupting  her  mother. 

"Are  you  not  to  be  his  wife?" 

"Yes,  and  I  am  quite  content;  but  tell  me  at  least  how 
to  behave. — You,  who  did  what  you  would  with  my  father, 
know  all  about  it,  and  I  will  obey  you  blindly." 

Madame  Evangelista  kissed  her  daughter's  forehead;  she 
had  been  hoping  and  waiting  for  this  request. 

'Tkiy  child,  my  advice  must  be  adapted  to  the  circumstances. 
Men  are  not  all  alike.  The  lion  and  the  frog  are  less  dis- 
similar than  one  man  as  compared  with  another,  morally 
speaking.  Do  I  know  what  will  happen  to  you  to-morrow? 
I  can  only  give  you  general  instructions  as  to  your  general 
plan  of  conduct." 

"Dearest  mother,  tell  me  at  once  all  you  know." 

"In  the  first  place,  my  dear  child,  the  cause  of  ruin  to 
married  women  who  would  gladly  retain  their  husband's  heart 
— and,"  she  added,  as  a  parenthesis,  "to  retain  their  affection 
and  to  rule  the  man  are  one  and  the  same  thing, — well,  the 
chief  cause  of  matrimonial  differences  lies  in  the  unbroken 
companionship,  which  did  not  subsist  in  former  days,  and 
which  was  introduced  into  this  country  with  the  mania  for 
family  life.  Ever  since  the  Eevolution  vulgar  notions  have 
invaded  aristocratic  households.  This  misfortune  is  attribu- 
table to  one  of  their  writers,  Rousseau,  a  base  heretic,  who  had 
none  but  reactionary  ideas,  and  who — how  I  know  not — 


94  A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT 

argned  out  the  most  irrational  conclusions.  He  asserted  that 
all  women  have  the  same  rights  and  the  same  faculties;  that 
under  the  conditions  of  social  life  the  laws  of  Nature  must 
be  obeyed — as  if  the  wife  of  a  Spanish  Grandee — as  if  you 
or  I — had  anything  in  common  with  a  woman  of  the  people. 
And  since  then  women  of  rank  have  nursed  their  own  children, 
have  brought  up  their  daughters,  and  lived  at  home. 

"Life  has  thus  been  made  so  complicated  that  happiness 
is  almost  impossible;  for  such  an  agreement  of  two  characters 
as  has  enabled  you  and  me  to  live  together  as  friends  is  a 
rare  exception.  And  perpetual  friction  is  not  less  to  be 
avoided  between  parents  and  children  than  between  hus- 
band and  wife.  There  are  few  natures  in  which  love  can  sur- 
vive in  spite  of  omnipresence;  that  miracle  is  the  prerogative 
of  God. 

"So,  place  the  barriers  of  society  between  you  and  Paul ; 
go  to  balls,  to  the  opera,  drive  out  in  the  morning,  dine  out 
in  the  evening,  pay  visits ;  do  not  give  Paul  more  than  a  few 
minutes  of  your  time.  By  this  system  you  will  never  lose 
your  value  in  his  eyes.  When  two  beings  have  nothing  but 
sentiment  to  go  through  life  on,  they  soon  exhaust  its  re- 
sources, and  ere  long  satiety  and  disgust  ensue.  Then,  when 
once  the  sentiment  is  blighted,  what  is  to  be  done  ?  Make  no 
mistake;  when  love  is  extinct,  only  indifference  or  contempt 
ever  fills  its  place.  So  be  always  fresh  and  new  to  him.  If 
he  bores  you — that  may  occur — at  any  rate,  never  bore  him. 
To  submit  to  boredom  on  occasion  is  one  of  the  conditions  of 
every  form  of  power.  You  will  have  no  occasion  to  vary  your 
happiness  either  by  thrift  in  money  matters  or  the  manage- 
ment of  a  household;  hence,  if  you  do  not  Icrid  your  husband 
to  share  your  outside  pleasures,  if  you  do  not  amuse  him,  in 
short,  you  will  sink  into  the  most  crushing  lethargy.  Then 
begins  the  spleen  of  love.  But  we  always  love  those  who 
amuse  us  or  make  us  happy.  To  give  and  to  receive  happiness 
are  two  systems  of  wifely  conduct  between  which  a  gulf  lies." 

"Dear  mother,  I  am  listening,  but  I  do  not  understand." 

"If  you  love  Paul  so  blindly  as  to  do  everything  he  desires, 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  95 

and  if  he  makes  you  really  happy,  there  is  an  end  of  it;  you 
will  never  be  the  mistress,  and  the  wisest  precepts  in  the 
world  will  be  of  no  use." 

"That  is  rather  clearer ;  but  I  learn  the  rule  without  know- 
ing how  to  apply  it,"  said  Natalie,  laughing.  "Well,  I  have 
the  theory,  and  practice  will  follow." 

"My  poor  Ninie,"  said  her  mother,  dropping  a  sincere  tear 
as  she  thought  of  her  daughter's  marriage  and  pressed  her 
to  her  heart,  "events  will  strengthen  your  memory. — In  short, 
my  Natalie,"  said  she  after  a  pause,  during  which  they  sat 
clasped  in  a  sympathetic  embrace,  "you  will  learn  that  each 
of  us,  as  a  v/oman,  has  her  destiny,  just  as  every  man  has 
his  vocation.  A  woman  is  born  to  be  a  woman  of  fashion, 
the  charming  mistress  of  her  house,  just  as  a  man  is  born 
to  be  a  General  or  a  poet.  Your  calling  in  life  is  to  at- 
tract. And  your  education  has  fitted  you  for  the  world.  In 
these  days  a  woman  ought  to  be  brought  up  to  grace  a  draw- 
ing-room, as  of  old  she  was  brought  up  for  the  Gynecsum. 
You,  child,  were  never  made  to  be  the  mother  of  a  family 
or  a  notable  housekeeper. 

"If  you  have  children,  I  hope  they  will  not  come  to  spoil 
your  figure  as  soon  as  you  are  married.  Nothing  can  be  more 
vulgar — and  besides,  it  casts  reflections  on  your  husband's 
lo'Ve  for  you.  Well,  if  you  have  children  two  or  three  years 
hence,  you  will  have  nurses  and  tutors  to  bring  them  up. 
You  must  always  be  the  great  lady,  representing  the  wealth 
and  pleasures  of  the  house ;  but  only  show  your  superiority  in 
such  things  as  flatter  men's  vanity,  and  hide  any  superiority 
you  may  acquire  in  serious  matters." 

"You  frighten  me,  mamma!"  cried  Natalie.  "How  am  I 
ever  to  remember  all  your  instructions?  How  am  I,  heed- 
less and  childish  as  I  know  I  am,  to  reckon  on  results  and 
always  reflect  before  acting?'^ 

"My  darling  child,  I  am  only  telling  you  now  what  you 
would  learn  for  yourself  later,  paying  for  experience  by 
wretched  mistakes,  by  misguided  conduct,  which  would  cause 
you  many  regrets  and  hamper  j^our  life." 


96  A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT 

''"But  how  am  I  to  begin?"  askod  TTatalio  artlessly. 

"Instinct  will  guide  you,"  said  "her  mother.  "What  Paul 
feels  for  you  at  this  moment  is  far  more  desire  than  love ;  for 
the  love  to  which  desire  gives  rise  is  hope,  and  that  which 
follows  its  gratification  is  realization.  There,  my  dear,  liee 
your  power,  there  is  the  heart  of  the  question.  What  woman 
is  not  loved  the  day  before  marriage  ?  Be  still  loved  the  day 
after,  and  you  will  be  loved  for  life.  Paul  is  weak;  he  will 
be  easily  formed  by  habit ;  if  he  yields  once,  he  will  yield  al- 
ways. A  woman  not  yet  won  may  insist  on  anything.  Do 
not  commit  the  folly  I  have  seen  in  so  many  wives,  who,  not 
knowing  the  importance  of  the  first  hours  of  their  sovereignty, 
waste  them  in  folly,  in  aimless  absurdities.  Make  use  of  the 
dominion  given  you  b}'^  your  husband's  first  passion  to  ac- 
custom him  to  obey  you.  And  to  break  him  in,  choose  the 
most  unreasonable  thing  possible,  so  as  to  gauge  the  extent 
of  your  power  by  the  extent  of  his  concession.  What  merit 
would  there  be  in  making  him  agree  to  what  is  reasonable? 
Would  that  be  obeying  you?  'Always  take  a  bull  by  the 
horns,'  says  a  Castilian  proverb.  When  once  he  sees  the 
uselessness  of  his  weapons  and  his  strength,  he  is  conquered. 
If  your  husband  commits  a  follv  for  your  sake,  you  will  master 
him." 

"Good  Heavens  !    But  why  ?" 

''Because,  my  child,  marriage  is  for  life,  and  a  husband  is 
not  like  any  other  man.  So  never  be  so  foolish  as  to  give 
way  in  anything  whatever.  Always  be  strictly  reserved  in 
your  speech  and  actions;  you  may  even  go  to  the  point  of 
coldness,  for  that  may  be  modified  at  pleasure,  while  there  is 
nothing  beyond  the  most  veliement  expressions  of  love.  A 
husband,  my  dear,  is  the  only  man  to  whom  a  woman  must 
igrant  no  license. 

\  "And,  after'  all,  nothing  is  easier  than  to  preserve  your 
dignity.  The  simple  words,  'Your  wife  must  not,  or  cannot 
do  this  thing  or  that,'  are  the  great  talisman.  A  woman's 
whole  life  is  wrapped  up  in  'T  will  not ! — T  cannot !' — 'I  can- 
not' is  the  irresistible  appeal  of  weakness  which  succumbs. 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  97 

weeps,  and  wins.  'I  will  not"  is  the  last  resort.  It  is  the 
crowning  effort  of  feminine  strength ;  it  should  never  be  used 
but  on  great  occasions.  Success  depends  entirely  on  the  way 
in  which  a  woman  uses  these  two  words,  works  on  them,  and 
varies  them. 

"But  there  is  a  better  method  of  rule  than  these,  which 
sometimes  involve  a  contest.  I,  my  child,  governed  by  faith. 
If  your  husband  believes  in  you,  you  may  do  anything.  To 
inspire  him  with  this  religion,  5^ou  must  convince  him  that 
you  understand  him.  And  do  not  'think  that  this  is  such  an 
easy  matter.  A  woman  can  always  prove  that  she  loves  a 
man,  but  it  is  more  difficult  to  get  him  to  confess  that  she  has 
understood  him.  I  must  tell  you  everything,  my  child;  for, 
to  you,  life  with  all  its  complications,  a  life  in  which  two 
wills  are  to  be  reconciled  and  harmonized,  will  begin  to-mor- 
row. Do  you  realize  the  difficulty?  The  best  way  to  bring 
two  wills  into  agreement  is  to  take  care  that  there  is  but  one 
in  the  house.  People  often  say  that  a  woman  makes  trouble 
for  herself  by  this  inversion  of  the  parts;  but,  my  dear,  the 
wife  is  thus  in  a  position  to  command  events  instead  of  sub- 
mitting to  them,  and  that  single  advantage  counterbalances, 
every  possible  disadvantage." 

Natalie  kissed  her  mother's  hands,  on  which  she  left  her 
tears  of  gratitude.  Like  all  women  in  whom  physical  passion 
does  not  fire  the  passion  of  the  soul,  she  suddenly  took  in  all 
the  bearings  of  this  lofty  feminine  policy.  Still,  like  spoilt 
children  who  will  never  admit  that  they  are  beaten  even  by 
the  soundest  reasoning,  but  who  reiterate  their  obstinate  de- 
mands, she  returned  to  the  charge  with  one  of  those  personal 
arguments  that  are  suggested  by  the  logical  rectitude  of 
children. 

"My  dear  mother,  a  few  days  ago  you  said  so  much  about 
the  necessary  arrangements  for  Paul's  fortune,  which  you 
alone  could  manage;  why  have  you  changed  your  views  in 
thus  leaving  us  to  ourselves?" 

"I  did  not  then  know  the  extent  of  my  indebtedness  to 
you,  nor  how  much  I  owed,"  replied  her  mother,  who  would 


©8  A  MARRIAGE  SETTI-EMENT 

not  confess  her  secret.  "Besides,  in  a  year  or  two  I  can  give 
you  my  answer. 

"Now,  Paul  will  be  here  directly.  We  must  dress.  Be  as 
coaxing  and  sweet,  you  know,  as  you  were  that  evening  when 
we  discussed  that  ill-starred  contract,  for  to-day  I  am  bent  on 
saving  a  relic  of  the  family,  and  on  giving  you  a  thing  to 
which  1  am  superstitiously  attached." 

"What  is  that  ?" 

"The  Discreto." 

Paul  appeared  at  about  four  o'clock.  Though,  when  ad- 
dressing his  mother,  he  did  his  utmost  to  seem  gracious, 
Madame  Evangelista  saw  on  his  brow  the  clouds  which  his 
cogitations  of  the  night  and  reflections  on  waking  had 
gathered  there. 

"Mathias  has  told  him,"  thought  she,  vowing  that  she  would 
undo  the  old  lawyer's  work. 

"My  dear  boy,"  she  said,  "you  have  left  your  diamonds  in 
the  cabinet  drawer,  and  I  honestly  confess  that  I  never  want 
to  see  the  things  again  which  so  nearly  raised  a  storm  be- 
tween us.  Besides,  as  Mathias  remarked,  they  must  be  sold  to 
provide  for  the  first  instalment  of  payment  on  the  lands  you 
have  purchased." 

"The  diamonds  are  not  mine,"  rejoined  Paul.  "I  gave 
them  to  Natalie,  so  that  when  you  see  her  wear  them  you 
may  never  more  remember  the  trouble  they  have  caused 
you." 

Madame  Evangelista  took  Paul's  hand  and  pressed  it 
cordially,  while  restraining  a  sentimental  tear. 

"Listen,  my  dear,  good  children,"  said  she,  looking  at 
Natalie  and  Paul.  "If  this  is  so,  I  will  propose  to  make  a 
bargain  with  3'ou.  I  am  obliged  to  sell  my  pearl  necklace 
and  earrings.  Yes,  Paul;  I  will  not  invest  a  farthing  in  an 
annuity;  I  do  not  forget  my  duties  to  you.  Well,  I  confess 
my  weakness,  but  to  sell  the  Discreto  seems  to  me  to  portend 
disaster.  To  part  with  a  diamond  known  to  have  belonged 
to  Philip  11.,  to  have  graced  his  royel  hand — a  historical  gem 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  99 

which  the  Duke  of  Alva  played  with  for  ten  years  on  the  hilt 
of  his  sword — no,  it  shall  never  be.  filie  Magus  valued  my 
necklace  and  earrings  at  a  hundred  odd  thousand  francs;  let 
us  exchange  them  for  the  jewels  I  have  handed  over  to  you  to 
cancel  my  debts  to  my  daughter;  you  will  gain  a  little,  but 
what  do  I  care;  I  am  not  grasping.  And  then,  Paul,  out  of 
•'your  savings  you  can  have  the  pleasure  of  procuring  a  diadem 
or  hairpins  for  Natalie,  a  diamond  at  a  time.  Instead  of 
having  one  of  those  fancy  sets,  trinkets  which  are  in  fashion 
only  among  second-rate  people,  your  wife  will  thus  have 
magnificent  stones  that  will  give  her  real  pleasure.  If  some- 
tliing  must  be  sold,  is  it  not  better  to  get  rid  of  these  old- 
fashioned  jewels,  and  keep  the  really  fine  things  in  the 
family?"    ■ 

"But  you,  my  dear  mother  ?"  said  Paul. 

"I,"  replied  Madame  Evangelista,  "I  want  nothing  now. 
No,  I  am  going  to  be  your  farm-bailiff  at  Lanstrac.  Would 
it  not  be  sheer  folly  to  go  to  Paris  just  when  I  have  to  wind  up 
my  affairs  here  ?  I  am  going  to  be  avaricious  for  my  grand- 
children." 

"Dear  mother,"  said  Paul,  much  touched,  "ought  I  to  ac- 
cept this  exchange  without  compensation?" 

"Dear  Heaven !  are  you  not  my  nearest  and  dearest  ?  Do 
you  think  that  I  shall  find  no  happiness  when  I  sit  by  my  fire 
and  say  to  myself,  'Natalie  is  gone  in  splendor  to-night  to 
the  Duchesse  de  Berri's  ball.  When  she  sees  herself  with  my 
diamond  at  her  throat,  my  earrings  in  her  ears,  she  will  have 
those  little  pleasures  of  self-satisfaction  which  add  so  much 
to  a  woman's  enjoyment,  and  make  her  gay  and  attractive.' — 
Nothing  crushes  a  woman  so  much  as  the  chafing  of  her 
vanity.  I  never  saw  a  badly-dressed  woman  look  amiable  and 
pleasant.  Be  honest,  Paul !  we  enjoy  much  more  through  the 
one  we  love  than  in  any  pleasure  of  our  own." 

"What  on  earth  was  Mathias  driving  at?"  thought  Paul. 
""Well,  mother,"  said  he,  in  a  low  voice,  "I  accept." 

"I  am  quite  overpowered,"  said  Natalie. 

Just  now  Solonet  came  in  with  good  news  for  his  client. 


100  A  MARRIAGE  SETTIJOMENT 

He  had  found  two  speculators  of  liis  acquaintance,  builders, 
who  were  much  tempted  by  the  house,  as  the  extent  of  the 
grounds  afforded  good  building  land. 

"They  are  prepared  to  i)ay  two  liundred  and  fifty  thou- 
sand francs,"  said  he;  "but  if  you  are  ready  to  sell,  I  could 
bring  them  up  to  three  hundred  thousand.  You  have  two 
acres  of  garden." 

"My  husband  paid  two  hundred  thousand  for  the  whole 
thing,"  said  she,  "so  I  agree;  but  you  will  not  include  the 
furniture  or  the  mirrors." 

"Ah,  ha !"  said  Solonet,  with  a  laugh,  "you  understand 
business." 

"Alas !  needs  must,"  said  she,  with  a  sigh. 

"T  hear  that  a  great  many  persons  are  coming  to  your  mid- 
night ceremony,"  said  Solonet,  who.  finding  himself  in  the 
way,  bowed  himself  out. 

Madame  Evangelista  went  with  him  as  far  as  the  door  of 
the  outer  drawing-room,  and  said  to  him  privately: 

"I  have  now  property  repi'csenting  two  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand  francs ;  if  I  get  two  hundred  thousand  francs  for 
myself  out  of  the  price  of  the  house,  I  can  command  a  capital 
of  four  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs.  I  want  to  invest 
it  to  the  best  advantage,  and  I  trust  to  you  to  do  it.  I  shall 
most  likely  remain  at  Lanstrac." 

The  young  lawyer  kissed  his  client's  hand  with  a  bow  of 
gratitude,  for  the  widow's  tone  led  him  to  believe  that 
this  alliance,  strengthened  by  interest,  might  even  go  a  little 
further. 

"You  may  depend  on  me,"  said  he.  "I  will  find  you  trade 
investments,  in  which  you  will  risk  nothing,  and  make  large 
profits." 

"Well — till  to-morrow,"  said  she;  "for  you  and  Monsieur 
lie  Marquis  de  Gyas  are  going  to  sign  for  us." 

"Why,  dear  mother,  do  you  refuse  to  come  with  ns  to 
Paris  ?"  asked  Paul.  "Natalie  is  as  much  vexed  with  me  as  if 
I  were  the  cause  of  your  determination." 

"I  have  thought  it  well  over,  my  children,  and  I  should 


A.  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  101 

be  in  your  way.  You  would  think  yourselves  obliged  to 
include  me  as  a  third  in  everything  you  might  do,  and 
young  people  have  notions  of  their  own  which  I  might  invol- 
untarily oppose.  Go  to  Paris  by  yourselves. — I  do  not  pro- 
pose to  exercise  over  the  Comtesse  de  Manerville  the  mild 
dominion  I  held  over  Natalie.  I  must  leave  her  entirely  to 
you.  There  are  habits  which  she  and  I  share,  you  see,  Paul, 
and  which  must  be  broken.  My  influence  must  give  way  to 
yours.  I  wish  you  to  be  attached  to  me ;  believe  me,  I  have 
your  interests  at  heart  more  than  you  think  perhaps.  Young 
husbands,  sooner  or  later,  are  jealous  of  a  wife's  affection  for 
her  mother.  Perhaps  they  are  right.  When  you  are  en- 
tirely united,  when  love  has  amalgamated  your  souls  into  one 
—then,  my  dear  boy,  you  will  have  no  fears  of  an  adverse  in- 
fluence when  you  see  me  under  your  roof. 

"I  know  the  world,  men  and  things;  I  have  seen  many  a 
household  rendered  unhappy  by  the  blind  affection  of  a  mother 
who  made  herself  intolerable,  as  much  to  her  daughter  as  to 
her  son-in-law.  The  affection  of  old  people  is  often  petty 
and  vexatious;  perhaps  I  should  not  succeed  in  effacing  my- 
self. I  am  weak  enough  to  think  myself  handsome  still ;  some 
flatterers  try  to  persuade  me  that  I  am  lovable,  and  I  might 
assume  an  inconvenient  prominence.  Let  me  make  one  more 
sacrifice  to  your  happiness. — I  have  given  you  my  fortune; 
well,  now  I  surrender  my  last  womanly  vanities. — Your  good 
father  Mathias  is  growing  old;  he  cannot  look  after  your 
estates.  I  will  constitute  myself  your  bailiff.  I  shall  make 
such  occupation  for  myself  as  old  folks  must  sooner  or  later 
fall  back  on ;  then,  when  you  need  me,  I  will  go  to  Paris  and 
help  in  your  plans  of  ambition.  i 

"Come,  Paul,  be  honest;  this  arrangement  is  to  your  mind? 
Answer." 

Paul  would  not  admit  it,  but  he  was  very  glad  to  be  free. 
The  suspicions  as  to  his  mother-in-law's  character,  implanted 
in  his  mind  by  the  old  notary,  were  dispelled  by  this  conversa- 
tion, which  Madame  Evangelista  continued  to  the  same  effect. 

"My  mother  was  right,"  thought  jSTatalie,  who  was  watch- 


102  A  MARRIAGK  SEl^PLEMENT 

ing  Paul's  expression.  "He  is  really  glad  to  see  me  parted 
from  her. — But  why  T' 

Was  not  this  \V]iyf  the  first  query  of  suspicion,  and  did  it 
not  add  considerable  weight  to  her  mother's  instructions  ? 

There  are  some  natures  who,  on  the  strength  of  a  single 
proof,  can  believe  in  friendship.  In  such  folks  as  these  the 
north  wind  blows  away  clouds  as  fast  as  the  west  wind  brings 
them  up;  they  are  content  with  effects,  and  do  not  look  for 
the  causes.  Paul's  was  one  of  these  essentially  confiding 
characters,  devoid  of  ill-feeling,  and  no  less  devoid  of  fore- 
sight. His  weakness  was  the  outcome  of  kindness  and  a  be- 
lief in  goodness  in  others,  far  more  than  of  want  of  strength 
of  mind. 

Natalie  was  pensive  and  sad ;  she  did  not  know  how  to  do 
without  her  mother.  Paul,  with  the  sort  of  fatuity  that  love 
can  produce,  laughed  at  his  bride's  melancholy  mood,  promis- 
ing himself  that  the  pleasures  of  married  life  and  the  excite- 
ment of  Paris  would  dissipate  it.  It  was  with  marked  satis- 
faction that  Madame  Evangelista  encouraged  Paul  in  his  con- 
fidence, for  the  first  condition  of  revenge  is  dissimulation. 
Overt  hatred  is  powerless. 

The  Creole  lady  had  made  two  long  strides  already.  Her 
daughter  had  possession  of  splendid  jewels  which  had  cost 
Paul  two  hundred  thousand  francs,  and  to  which  he  would, 
no  doubt,  add  more.  Then,  she  was  leaving  the  two  young 
people  to  themselves,  with  no  guidance  but  unregulated  love. 
Thus  she  had  laid  the  foundations  of  revenge  of  which  her 
daughter  knew  nothing,  though  sooner  or  later  she  would  be 
accessory  to  it. 

Now,  would  Natalie  love  Paul  ? — This  was  as  yet  an  un- 
answered question,  of  which  the  issue  would  modify  Madame 
Evangelista's  schemes;  for  she  was  too  sincerely  fond  of  her 
daughter  not  to  be  tender  of  her  happiness.  Thus  Paul's 
future  life  depended  on  himself.  If  he  could  make  his  wife 
love  him,  he  would  be  saved. 

Finally,  on  the  following  night,  after  an  evening  spent 
with  the  four  witnesses  whom  Madame  Evangelista  had  in- 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  lOS 

vited  to  the  lengthy  dinner  which  followed  the  legal  ceremonyj 
at  midnight  the  young  couple  and  their  friends  attended  mass 
by  the  light  of  hlazing  tapers  in  the  presence  of  ahove  a  hun- 
dred curious  spectators. 

A  wedding  celebrated  at  night  always  seems  of  ill- 
omen;  daylight  is  a  symbol  of  life  and  enjoyment,  and  its 
happy  augury  is  lacking.  i\sk  the  staunchest  spirit  the 
cause  of  this  chill,  why  the  dark  vault  depresses  the  nerves, 
why  the  sound  of  footsteps  is  so  startling,  why  the  cry  of 
owls  and  bats  is  so  strangely  audible.  Though  there  is  no  rea- 
son for  alarm,  every  one  quakes;  darkness,  the  forecast  of 
death,  is  crushing  to  the  spirit. 

Natalie,  torn  from  her  mother,  was  weeping.  The  girl 
was  tormented  by  all  the  doubts  which  clutch  the  heart  on 
the  threshold  of  a  new  life,  where,  in  spite  of  every  promise 
of  happiness,  there  are  a  thousand  pitfalls  for  a  woman's  feet. 
She  shivered  with  cold,  and  had  to  put  on  a  cloak. 

Madame  Evangel ista's  manner  and  that  of  the  young  couple 
gave  rise  to  comments  among  the  elegant  crowd  that  stood 
round  the  altar. 

"Solonet  tells  me  that  the  young  people  go  off  to  Paris 
to-morrow  morning  alone." 

"Madame  Evangelista  was  to  have  gone  to  live  with  them." 

"Count  Paul  has  got  rid  of  her !" 

"What  a  mistake !"  said  the  Marquise  de  Gyas.  "The  man 
who  shuts  his  door  on  his  mother-in-law  ojoens  it  to  a  lover. 
Does  he  not  know  all  that  a  mother  is?" 

"He  has  been  very  hard  on  Madame  Evangelista.  The 
poor  worhan  has  had  to  sell  her  house,  and  is  going  to  live 
at  Lanstrac." 

"Natalie  is  very  unhappy." 

"Well,  would  you  like  to  spend  the  day  after  your  wedding 
on  the  highroad  ?" 

"It  is  very  uncomfortable." 

"I  am  glad  I  came,"  said  another  lady,  "to  convince  myself 
of  the  necessity  of  surrounding  a  wedding  with  all  the  usual 
ceremonies  and  festivities,  for  this  seems  to  me  very  cold 


104  A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT 

and  dismal.  Indeed,  if  I  were  to  tell  the  whole  truth,"  she 
whispered,  leaning  over  to  her  neighbor,  "it  strikes  me  as 
altogether  unseemly." 

Madame  Evangelista  took  Natalie  in  her  own  carriage  to 
Count  Paul's  house. 

''Well,  mother,  it  is  all  over " 

"Remember  my  advice,  and  you  will  be  happy.  Always 
be  his  wife,  and  not  his  mistress." 

When  Natalie  had  gone  to  her  room,  Madame  Evangelista 
went  through  the  little  farce  of  throwing  herself  into  her 
son-in-law's  arms  and  weeping  on  his  shoulder.  It  was  the 
only  provincial  detail  Madame  Evangelista  had  allowed  her- 
self ;  but  she  had  her  reasons.  In  the  midst  of  her  apparently 
wild  and  desperate  tears  and  speeches,  she  extracted  from 
Paul  such  concessions  as  a  husband  Avill  always  make. 

The  next  day  she  saw  the  young  people  into  their  chaise, 
and  accompanied  them  across  the  ferry  over  the  Gironde. 
Natalie,  in  a  word,  had  made  her  mother  understand  that  if 
Paul  had  won  in  the  game  concerning  the  contract,  her  re- 
venge was  beginning.  Natalie  had  already  reduced  her  hus- 
band to  perfect  obedience. 


CONCLUSION 

Five  years  after  this,  one  afternoon  in  November,  the  Comte 
Paul  de  Manerville,  wrapped  in  a  cloak,  Avith  a  bowed  head, 
mysteriously  arrived  at  the  house  of  Monsieur  ]\[athias  at 
Bordeaux.  The  worthy  man,  too  old  now  to  attend  to  busi- 
ness, had  sold  his  connection,  and  was  peacefully  ending  his 
days  in  one  of  his  houses. 

Important  business  had  taken  him  out  at  the  time  when 
his  visitor  called;  but  his  old  housekeeper,  warned  of  Paul's 
advent,  showed  him  into  the  room  that  had  belonged  to 
Madame  ilathias,  who  had  died  a  year  since. 

Paul,  tired  out  by  a  hurried  journey,  slept  till  late.     The 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  105 

old  man,  on  his  return,  came  to  look  at  his  erewhile  client, 
and  was  satisfied  to  look  at  him  lying  asleep,  as  a  mother 
looks  at  her  child.  Josette,  the  housekeeper,  came  in  with  her 
master,  and  stood  by  the  bedside,  her  hands  on  her  hips. 

"This  day  twelvemonth,  Josette,  when  my  dear  wife 
breathed  her  last  in  this  bed,  I  little  thought  of  seeing  Mon- 
sieur le  Comte  here  looking  like  death." 

"Poor  gentleman !  he  groans  in  his  sleep,"  said  Josette. 

The  old  lawyer  made  no  reply  but  "Sac  a  papier!" — an 
innocent  oath,  which,  from  him,  always  represented  the 
despair  of  a  man  of  business  in  the  face  of  some  insuperable 
dilemma. 

"At  any  rate,"  thought  he,  "I  have  saved  the  freehold  of 
Lanstrac,  Auzac,  Saint-Froult,  and  his  town  house  here." 

Mathias  counted  on  his  fingers  and  exclaimed,  "Five  years ! 
— Yes,  it  is  five  years  this  very  month  since  his  old  aunt, 
now  deceased,  the  venerable  Madame  de  Maulincour,  asked  on 
his  behalf  for  the  hand  of  that  little  crocodile  in  woman's 
skirt's  who  has  managed  to  ruin  him — as  I  knew  she  would  P' 

After  looking  at  the  young  man  for  some  time,  the  good 
old  man,  now  very  gouty,  went  away,  leaning  on  his  stick,  to 
walk  slowly  up  and  down  his  little  garden.  At  nine  o'clock 
supper  was  served,  for  the  old  man  supped ;  and  he  was  not  a 
little  surprised  to  see  Paul  come  in  with  a  calm  brow  and 
an  unruffled  expression,  though  perceptibly  altered.  Though 
at  three-and-thirty  the  Comte  de  Manerville  looked  forty,  the 
change  was  due  solely  to  mental  shocks ;  physically  he  was  in 
good  health.  He  went  up  to  his  old  friend,  took  his  hands, 
and  pressed  them  affectionately,  saying: 

"Dear,  good  Maitre  Mathias !  And  you  have  had  your 
troubles !" 

"Mine  were  in  the  course  of  nature.  Monsieur  le  Comt^ 
but  yours " 

"We  will  talk  over  mine  presently  at  supper." 

"If  I  had  not  a  son  higli  up  in  the  law,  and  a  married 
daughter,"  said  the  worthy  man,  Relieve  me,  Monsieur  le 
Comte,  you  would  have  found  something  more  than  bare 


106  A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT 

hospitality  from  old  Mathias. — How  is  it  that  you  have  come 
to  Bordeaux  just  at  the  time  when  you  may  read  on  every 
wall  bills  announcing  the  seizure  and  sale  of  the  farms  of  le 
Grassol  and  le  Guadet,  of  the  vine  land  of  Bellerose  and 
your  house  here  ?  I  cannot  possibly  express  my  grief  on  seeing 
those  huge  posters — I,  who  for  forty  years  took  as  much  care 
of  your  estates  as  if  they  were  my  own;  I,  who,  when  I  wan 
third  clerk  under  Monsieur  Chesneau,  my  predecessor,  trans-, 
acted  the  purchase  for  your  mother,  and  in  my  young  clerk's' 
hand  engrossed  the  deed  of  sale  on  parchment;  I,  who  have 
the  title-deeds  safe  in  my  successor's  office;  I,  who  made  out 

all  the  accounts.     Why,  I  remember  you  so  high ''  and  the 

old  man  held  his  hand  two  feet  from  the  floor. 

"After  being  a  notary  for  more  than  forty  years,  to  see  my 
name  printed  as  large  as  life  in  the  face  of  Israel,  in  the  an- 
nouncement of  the  seizure  and  the  disposal  of  the  property 
— ^you  cannot  imagine  the  pain  it  gives  me.  As  I  go  along 
the  street  and  see  the  folks  all  reading  those  horrible  yellow 
bills,  I  am  as  much  ashamed  as  if  my  own  ruin  and  honor 
were  involved.  And  there  are  a  pack  of  idiots  who  spell  it  all 
out  at  the  top  of  their  voices  on  purpose  to  attract  idlers,  and 
they  add  the  most  ridiculous  comments. 

"Are  you  not  master  of  your  own?  Your  father  ran 
through  two  fortunes  before  making  the  one  he  left  you, 
and  you  would  not  be  a  Manerville  if  you  did  not  tread  in 
his  steps. 

"And  besides,  the  seizure  of  real  property  is  foreseen  in 
the  Code,  and  provided  for  under  a  special  capxtuliim;  you 
are  in  a  position  recognized  by  law.  If  I  were  not  a  white- 
headed  old  man,  only  waiting  for  a  nudge  to  push  me  into 
the  grave,  I  would  thrash  the  men  who  stand  staring  at  such 
abominations — 'At  the  suit  of  IMadame  Natalie  Evangelista, 
wife  of  Paul  Frangois  Joseph  Comte  de  Manerville,  of  sep- 
arate estate  by  the  ruling  of  the  lower  Court  of  the  Depart- 
ment of  the  Seine,^  and  so  forth." 

"Yes,"  said  Paul,  "and  now  separate  in  bed  and  board " 

"Indeed  !"  said  the  old  man. 


A  MARKIAGE  SETTLEMENT  107 

"Oh !  against  Natalie's  will,"  said  the  Count  quickly.  "1 
had  to  deceive  her.  She  does  not  know  that  I  am  going 
away." 

"Going  away  ?" 

"My  passage  is  taken;  I  sail  on  the  Belle-Amelie  for 
Calcutta." 

"In  two  days !"  said  Mathias.  "Then  we  meet  no  more, 
Monsieur  le  Comte." 

"You  are  but  seventy-three,  my  dear  Mathias,  and  you 
have  the  gout,  an  assurance  of  old  age.  When  I  come  back 
I  shall  find  you  just  where  you  are.  Your  sound  brain  and 
heart  will  be  as  good  as  ever;  you  will  help  me  to  rebuild 
the  ruined  home.  I  mean  to  make  a  fine  fortune  in  seven, 
years.  On  my  return  I  shall  only  be  fort}^  At  that  age 
everything  is  still  possible." 

"You,  Monsieur  le  Comte !"  exclaimed  Mathias,  with  a 
gesture  of  amazement.  "You  are  going  into  trade ! — What 
are  you  thinking  of?" 

"I  am  no  longer  Monsieur  le  Comte,  dear  Mathias.  I 
have  taken  my  passage  in  the  name  of  Camille,  a  Christian 
name  of  my  mother's.  And  I  have  some  connections  which 
may  enable  me  to  make  a  fortune  in  other  vrays.  Trade  will 
be  my  last  resource.  Also,  I  am  starting  with  a  large  enough 
sum  of  money  to  allow  of  my  tempting  fortune  on  a  grand 
scale." 

''Where  is  that  money?" 

"A  friend  will  send  it  to  me." 

The  old  man  dropped  his  fork  at  the  sound  of  the  word 
friend,  not  out  of  irony  or  surprise;  his  face  expressed  his 
grief  at  finding  Paul  under  the  influence  of  a  delusion, 
for  his  eye  saw  a  void  where  the  Count  perceived  a  solid 
plank. 

"I  have  been  in  a  notary's  office  more  than  fifty  years,"' 
said  he,  "and  I  never  knew  a  ruined  man  who  had  friends 
willing  to  lend  him  money." 

"You  do  not  know  de  Marsay.  At  this  minute,  while  I 
speak  to  you,  I  am  perfectly  certain  that  he  has  sold  out  of 


uMi  A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT* 

llu'  fiiiuls  if  it  was  ncccssar}',  and  to-morrow  you  will  receive 
a  bill  of  exchange  for  fifty  thousand  crowns." 

"I  only  hope  so. — But  then  could  not  this  friend  have 
set  your  afTairs  straight?  You  could  have  lived  quietly 
at  Lanstrac  for  five  or  six  years  on  Madame  la  ^omtesse's 
income." 

"And  would  an  assignment  have  paid  fifteen  hundred  thou- 
sand francs  of  debts,  of  which  my  wife's  share  was  five  hun- 
dred and  fifty  thousand?" 

"And  how,  in  four  years,  have  you  managed  to  owe  fourteen 
hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs  ?" 

"Nothing  can  be  plainer,  my  good  friend.  Did  I  not  make 
the  diamonds  a  present  to  my  wife?  Did  I  not  spend  the 
hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs  that  came  to  us  from  the 
sale  of  Madame  Evangelista's  house  in  redecorating  my  house 
in  Paris?  Had  I  not  to  pay  the  price  of  the  land  we  pur- 
chased, and  of  the  legal  business  of  my  marriage  contract? 
Finally,  had  I  not  to  sell  Xatalie's  forty  thousand  francs  a 
year  in  the  funds  to  pay  for  d'Auzac  and  Saint-Froult  ?  We 
sold  at  87,  so  I  was  in  debt  about  two  hundred  thousand  francs 
within  a  month  of  my  marriage. 

"An  income  was  left  of  sixty-seven  thousand  francs,  and 
we  have  regularly  spent  two  hundred  thousand  francs  a  year 
beyond  it.  To  these  nine  hundred  thousand  francs  add  certain 
money-lenders'  interest,  and  you  will  easily  find  it  a  million." 

"Brrrr,"  said  the  old  lawyer.    "And  then  ?" 

"Well,  I  wished  at  once  to  make  up  the  set  of  jewels  for  my 
wife,  of  which  she  already  had  the  pearl  necklace  and  the 
Discreto  clasp — a  family  jewel — and  her  mother's  earrings. 
I  paid  a  hundred  thousand  francs  for  a  diadem  of  wheat-ears. 
There  you  see  eleven  hundred  thousand  francs.  Then  I  owe 
my  wife  the  whole  of  her  fortune,  amounting  to  three  hundred 
.and  fifty-six  thousand  francs  settled  on  her." 

"But  then,"  said  Mathias,  "if  Madame  la  Comtesse  had 
pledged  her  diamonds,  and  you  your  securities,  you  would 
have,  by  my  calculations,  three  hundred  thousand  with  which 
to  pacify  your  creditors '" 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  109 

**When  a  man  is  down,  Mathias ;  when  his  estates  are  loaded 
with  mortgages;  when  his  wife  is  the  first  creditor  for  her 
settlement ;  when,  to  crown  all,  lie  is  exposed  to  having  writs 
against  him  for  notes  of  hand  to  the  tune  of  a  hundred 
thousand  francs — to  be  paid  otf,  I  hope,  by  good  prices  at  the 
sales — nothing  can  be  done.    And  the  cost  of  conveyancing !" 

"Frightful !"  said  the  lawyer. 

"The  distraint  has  happily  taken  the  form  of  a  voluntary- 
sale,  which  will  mitigate  the  flare." 

"And  you  are  selling  Bellerose  with  the  wines  of  1825  in 
the  cellars  ?" 

"I  cannot  help  myself." 

"Bellerose  is  worth  six  hundred  thousand  francs." 

"Natalie  will  buy  it  in  by  my  advice." 

"Sixteen  thousand  francs  in  ordinary  years — and  such  a 
season  as  1825 !  I  will  run  Bellerose  up  to  seven  hundred 
thousand  francs  myself,  and  each  of  the  farms  up  to  a  hundred 
and  twenty  thousand." 

"So  much  the  better;  then  I  can  clear  myself  if  my  house 
in  the  town  fetches  two  hundred  thousand." 

"Solonet  will  pay  a  little  more  for  it ;  he  has  a  fancy  for  it. 
He  is  retiring  on  a  hundred  odd  thousand  a  year,  which  he 
has  made  in  gambling  in  trois-six.  He  has  sold  his  business 
for  three  hundred  thousand  francs,  and  is  marrying  a  rich 
mulatto.  God  knows  where  she  got  her  money,  but  they  say 
she  has  millions.  A  notary  gambling  in  trois-six!  A  notary 
marrying  a  mulatto  !  What  times  these  are !  It  was  he,  they 
say,  who  looked  after  your  mother-in-law's  investments." 

"She  has  greatly  improved  Lanstrac,  and  taken  good  care 
of  the  land ;  she  has  regularly  paid  her  rent." 

"I  should  never  have  believed  her  capable  of  behaving  so." 

"She  is  so  kind  and  devoted. — She  always  paid  Natalie's 
debts  when  she  came  to  spend  three  months  in  Paris." 

"So  she  very  well  might,  she  lives  on  Lanstrac,"  said 
Mathias.  "She !  Turned  thrifty  !  What  a  miracle  !  She  has 
just  bought  the  estate  of  Grainrouge,  lying  between  Lanstrac 
and  Grassol,  so  that  if  she  prolongs  the  avenue  from  Lanstrac 


110  A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT 

down  to  the  highroad  you  can  drive  a  league  and  a  half 
through  your  own  grounds.  She  paid  a  hundred  thousand 
francs  down  for  Grainrouge,  which  is  worth  a  thousand  crowns 
a  year  in  cash  rents." 

"She  is  still  handsome,"  said  Paul.  "Country  life  keeps 
her  young.  I  will  not  go  to  take  leave  of  her;  she  would 
bleed  herself  for  me." 

"You  would  waste  your  time;  she  is  gone  to  Paris.  She 
probably  arrived  just  as  you  left."  t 

"She  has,  of  course,  heard  of  the  sale  of  the  land,  and  has 
rushed  to  my  assistance. — I  have  no  right  to  complain  of  life. 
I  am  loved  as  well  as  any  man  can  be  in  this  world,  loved  by 
two  women  who  vie  with  each  other  in  their  devotion  to  me. 
They  were  jealous  of  each  other;  the  daughter  reproached  her 
mother  for  being  too  fond  of  me,  and  the  mother  found  fault 
with  her  daughter  for  her  extravagance.  This  affection  has 
been  my  ruin.  How  can  a  man  help  gratifying  the  lightest 
wish  of  the  woman  he  loves?  How  can  he  protect  himself? 
And,  on  the  other  hand,  how  can  he  accept  self-sacrifice  ? — We 
could,  to  be  sure,  pay  up  with  my  fortune  and  come  to  live  at 
Lanstrac — but  I  would  rather  go  to  India  and  make  my  for- 
tune than  tear  Natalie  from  the  life  she  loves.  It  was  I  myself 
who  proposed  to  her  a  separation  of  goods.  Women  are  angels 
who  ought  never  to  be  mixed  up  with  the  business  of  life." 

Old  j\Iathias  listened  to  Paul  with  an  expression  of  surprise 
and  doubt. 

"You  have  no  children  ?"  said  he. 

"Happily !"  replied  Paul. 

"Well,  I  view  marriage  in  a  different  light,"  replied  the  old 
notary  quite  simply.  "In  my  opinion,  a  wife  ought  to  share 
her  husband's  lot  for  good  or  ill.  I  have  heard  that  young 
married  people  who  are  too  much  like  lovers  have  no  families. 
Is  pleasure  then  the  only  end  of  marriage?  Is  it  not  rather 
the  happiness  of  family  life?  Still,  you  were  but  eight-and- 
twenty,  and  the  Countess  no  more  than  twenty ;  it  was  excus- 
able that  you  should  think  only  of  love-making.  At  the  same 
time,  the  terms  of  your  marriage-contract,  and  your  name — 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  111 

you  will  think  mc  grossly  lawyer-like — required  you  to  begin 
by  having  a  fine  handsome  boy.  Yes,  Monsieur  le  Comte, 
and  if  you  had  daughters,  you  ought  not  to  have  stopped  till 
you  had  a  male  heir  to  succeed  you  in  the  entail. 

"Was  Mademoiselle  Evangelista  delicate?  Was  there  any- 
thing to  fear  for  her  in  motherhood? — You  will  say  that  is 
very  old-fashioned  and  antiquated ; ,  but  in  noble  families. 
Monsieur  le  Comte,  a  legitimate  wife  ought  to  have  children 
and  bring  them  up  well.  As  the  Duchesse  de  Sully  said — the 
wife  of  the  great  Sully — a  wife  is  not  a  means  of  pleasure, 
but  the  honor  and  virtue  of  the  household." 

"You  do  not  know  what  women  are,  my  dear  Mathias,''  said 
Paul.  "To  be  happy,  a  man  must  love  his  wife  as  she  chooses 
to  be  loved.  And  is  it  not  rather  brutal  to  deprive  a  woman 
so  early  of  her  charms  and  spoil  her  beauty  before  she  has 
really  enjoyed  it  ?" 

"If  you  had  had  a  family,  the  mother  would  have  checked 
the  wife's  dissipation ;  she  would  have  stayed  at  home " 

"If  you  were  in  the  right,  my  good  friend,"  said  Paul,  wiih 
a  frown,  "I  should  be  still  more  unhappy.  Do  not  aggravate 
my  misery  by  moralizing  over  my  ruin ;  let  me  depart  without 
any  after  bitterness." 

Next  day  Mathias  received  a  bill  payable  at  sight  for  a 
hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs,  signed  by  de  Marsay. 

"You  see,"  said  Paul,  "he  does  not  write  me  a  word. 
Henri's  is  the  most  perfectly  imperfect,  the  most  unconven- 
tionally noble  nature  I  have  ever  met  with.  If  you  could  but 
know  how  superior  this  man — who  is  still  young — rises  above 
feeling  and  interest,  and  what  a  great  politician  he  is,  you, 
like  me,  would  be  amazed  to  find  what  a  warm  heart  he  has." 

Mathias  tried  to  reason  Paul  out  of  his  purpose,  but  it  was 
irrevocable,  and  justified  by  so  many  practical  reasons,  that 
the  old  notary  made  no  further  attempt  to  detain  his  client. 

Earely  enough  does  a  vessel  in  cargo  sail  punctually  to  the 
day;  but  by  an  accident  disastrous  to  Paul,  the  wind  being 
favorable^  the  Belle- Amelie  was  to  sail  on  the  morrow.    At  the 


J 12  A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT 

moment  of  departure  the  landing-stage  is  always  crowded  with 
relations,  friends,  and  idlers.  Among  these,  as  it  happened, 
were  several  personally  acquainted  with  Manerville.  His  ruin 
had  made  him  as  famous  now  as  he  had  once  been  for  his 
fortune,  so  there  was  a  stir  of  curiosity.  Every  one  had  some 
remark  to  make. 

The  old  man  had  escorted  Paul  to  the  wharf,  and  he  must 
have  suffered  keenly  as  he  heard  some  of  the  comments. 

"Who  would  recognize  in  the  man  you  see  there  with  old 
Mathias  the  dandy  who  used  to  be  called  Pease-blossom,  and 
who  was  the  oracle  of  fashion  here  at  Bordeaux  five  years 
since  ?" 

"What,  can  that  fat  little  man  in  an  alpaca  overcoat,  looking 
like  a  coachman,  be  the  Comte  Paul  de  Manerville  ?" 

"Yes,  my  dear,  the  man  who  married  Mademoiselle  Evan- 
gelista.  There  he  is  ruined,  without  a  sou  to  his  name,  going 
to  the  Indies  to  look  for  the  roc's  egg." 

"But  how  was  he  ruined?    He  was  so  rich !" 

"Paris — women — the  Bourse — gambling — display " 

"And  besides,"  said  another,  '^Manerville  is  a  poor  creature; 
he  has  no  sense,  as  limp  as  papier-mache,  allowing  himself  to 
be  fleeced,  and  incapable  of  any  decisive  action.  He  was  born 
to  he  ruined." 

Paul  shook  his  old  friend's  hand  and  took  refuge  on  board. 
Mathias  stood  on  the  quay,  looking  at  his  old  client,  who 
leaned  over  the  netting,  defying  the  crowd  with  a  look  of 
scorn. 

Just  as  the  anchor  was  weighed,  Paul  saw  that  Mathias  was 
signaling  to  him  by  waving  his  handkerchief.  The  old  house- 
keeper had  come  in  hot  haste,  and  was  standing  by  her  master, 
who  seemed  greatly  excited  by  some  matter  of  importance. 
Paul  persuaded  the  captain  to  wait  a  few  minutes  and  send  a 
boat  to  land,  that  he  might  know  what  the  old  lawv'er  wanted ; 
he  was  signaling  vigorously,  evidently  desiring  him  to  dis- 
embark. ^Mathias,  too  infirm  to  go  to  the  ship,  gave  two  letters 
to  one  of  the  sailors  who  were  in  the  boat. 

"My  good  fellow,"  said  the  old  notary,  showing  one  of  the 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  ll?J 

letters  to  the  sailor,  "this  letter,  mark  it  well,  make  no  mis- 
take— this  packet  has  just  been  delivered  by  a  messenger  who 
has  ridden  from  Paris  in  thirty-five  hours.  Explain  this 
clearly  to  Monsieur  le  Comte,  do  not  forget.  It  might  make 
him  change  his  plans." 

"And  we  should  have  to  land  him  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  lawyer  rashly. 

The  sailor  in  most  parts  of  the  world  is  a  creature  apart, 
professing  the  deepest  contempt  for  all  land-lubbers.  As  to 
townsfolk,  he  cannot  understand  them;  he  knows  nothing 
about  them ;  he  laughs  them  to  scorn ;  he  cheats  them  if  he  can 
without  direct  dishonesty.  This  one,  as  it  happened,  was  a 
man  of  Lower  Brittany,  who  saw  worthy  old  Mathias'  instruc- 
tions in  only  one  light. 

"Just  so,"  he  muttered,  as  he  took  his  oar,  "land  him  again ! 
The  captain  is  to  lose  a  passenger !  If  we  listened  to  these 
land-lubbers,  we  should  spend  our  lives  in  pulling  them  be- 
tween the  ship  and  shore.  Is  he  afraid  his  son  will  take  cold  ?" 

So  the  sailor  gave  Paul  the  letters  without  any  message. 
On  recognizing  his  wife's  writing  and  de  Marsay's,  Paul 
imagined  all  that  either  of  them  could  have  to  say  to  him; 
and  being  determined  not  to  risk  being  influenced  by  the 
offers  that  might  be  inspired  by  their  regard,  he  put  the  let- 
ters in  his  pocket  with  apparent  indifl'erence. 

"And  that  is  the  rubbish  we  are  kept  waiting  for !  What 
nonsense !"  said  the  sailor  to  the  captain  in  his  broad  Breton. 
"If  the  matter  were  as  important  as  that  old  guy  declared, 
would  Monsieur  le  Comte  drop  the  papers  into  his  scuppers  ?" 

Paul,  lost  in  the  dismal  reflections  that  come  over  the 
strongest  man  in  such  circumstances,  gave  himself  up  to  mel- 
ancholy, while  he  waved  his  hand  to  his  old  friend,  and  bid 
farewell  to  France,  watching  the  fast  disappearing  buildings 
of  Bordeaux. 

He  presently  sat  down  on  a  coil  of  rope,  and  there  night 
found  him,  lost  in  meditation.  Doubt  came  upon  him  as 
twilight  fell ;  he  gazed  anxiously  into  the  future ;  he  could  see 
nothing  before  him  but  perils  and  uncertainty,  and  wondered 


114  A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT 

whether  liis  courage  might  not  fail  him.  lie  felt  'ome  vague 
alarm  as  he  thought  of  Natalie  left  to  herself;  he  repented  of 
his  decision,  regretting  Paris  and  his  past  life. 

Then  he  fell  a  victim  to  sea-sickness.  Every  one  knows 
the  miseries  of  this  condition,  and  one  of  the  worst  features 
of  its  sufferings  is  the  total  effacement  of  will  that  accom- 
^panies  it.  An  inexplicable  incapacity  loosens  all  the  bonds  of 
vitality  at  the  core ;  the  mind  refuses  to  act,  and  everything  is 
a  matter  of  total  indifference — a  mother  can  forget  her  child, 
a  lover  his  mistress ;  the  strongest  man  becomes  a  mere  inert 
mass.  Paul  was  carried  to  his  berth,  where  he  remained  for 
three  days,  alternately  violently  ill,  and  plied  with  grog  by 
the  sailors,  thinking  of  nothing  or  sleeping;  then  he  went 
through  a  sort  of  convalescence  and  recovered  his  ordinary 
health. 

On  the  morning  when,  finding  himself  better,  he  went 
for  a  walk  on  deck  to  breathe  the  sea-air  of  a  more  southern 
climate,  on  putting  his  hands  in  his  pockets  he  felt  his  letters. 
He  at  once  took  them  out  to  read  them,  and  began  by 
Natalie's.  In  order  that  the  Comtesse  de  Manerville's  letter 
may  be  fully  understood,  it  is  necessary  first  to  give  that 
written  by  Paul  to  his  wife  on  leaving  Paris. 

PAUL  DE  MANERVILLE  TO  HIS  WIFE. 

"My  best  Beloved, — When  you  read  this  letter  I  shall  be 
far  from  you,  probably  on  the  vessel  that  is  to  carry  me  to 
India,  where  I  am  going  to  repair  my  shattered  fortune.  I  did 
not  feel  that  I  had  the  courage  to  tell  you  of  my  departure. 
I  have  deceived  you;  but  was  it  not  necessary?  You  would 
have  pinched  yourself  to  no  purpose,  you  would  have  wished 
to  sacrifice  your  own  fortune.  Dear  Natalie,  feel  no  remorse ; 
I  shall  know  no  repentance.  When  T  return  with  millions, 
I  will  imitate  3'our  father;  I  will  lay  them  at  your  feet  as  he 
laid  his  at  your  mother's,  and  will  say,  'It  is  all  yours.' 

"T  love  you  to  distraction,  Natalie ;  and  T  can  say  so  without 
fearing  that  you  will  make  my  avowal  a  pretext  for  exerting  a 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  115 

power  which  only  weak  men  dread.  Yours  was  unlimited 
from  the  first  day  I  ever  saw  you.  My  love  alone  has  led  me 
to  disaster;  my  gradual  ruin  has  brought  me  the  delirious 
joys  of  the  gambler.  As  my  money  diminished  my  happiness 
grew  greater ;  each  fraction  of  my  wealth  converted  into  some 
•little  gratification  to  you  caused  me  heavenly  rapture.  I  could 
have  wished  you  to  have  more  caprices  than  you  ever  had. 

"I  knew  that  I  was  marching  on  an  abyss,  but  I  went,  my 
brow  wreathed  with  joys  and  feelings  unknown  to  vulgar  souls. 
I  acted  like  the  lovers  who  sliut  themselves  up  for  a  year  or  two 
in  a  cottage  by  a  lake,  vowing  to  kill  themselves  after  plunging 
into  the  ocean  of  happiness,  dying  in  all  the  glory  of  their 
illusions  and  their  passion.  I  have  always  thought  such  per- 
sons eminently  rational.  You  have  never  known  anything  of 
my  pleasures  or  of  my  sacrifices.  And  is  there  not  exquisite 
enjoyment  in  concealing  from  the  one  we  love  the  cost  of  the 
things  she  wishes  for  ? 

"I  may  tell  you  these  secrets  now.  I  shall  be  far  indeed 
away  when  you  hold  this  sheet  loaded  with  my  love.  Though 
I  forego  the  pleasure  of  your  gratitude,  I  do  not  feel  that 
clutch  at  my  heart  which  would  seize  me  if  I  tried  to  talk  of 
these  things.  Alas,  my  dearest,  there  is  deep  self-interest  in 
thus  revealing  the  past.  Is  it  not  to  add  to  the  volume  of  our 
love  in  the  future  ?  Could  it  indeed  ever  need  such  a  stimulus  ? 
Do  we  not  feel  that  pure  affection  to  which  proof  is  needless, 
which  scorns  time  and  distance,  and  lives  in  its  own  strength  ? 

"Ah !  Natalie,  I  just  now  left  the  table  where  I  am  writing 
by  the  fire,  and  looked  at  you  asleep,  calm  and  trustful,  in  the 
attitude  of  a  guileless  child,  your  hand  lying  where  I  could 
take  it.  I  left  a  tear  on  the  pillow  that  has  been  the  wit- 
ness of  our  happiness.  I  leave  you  without  a  fear  on  the 
promise  of  that  attitude;  I  leave  you  to  win  peace  by  winning 
a  fortune  so  large  that  no  anxiety  may  ever  disturb  our  joys, 
and  that  you  may  satisfy  your  every  wish.  Neither  you  nor 
I  could  ever  dispense  with  the  luxuries  of  the  life  we  lead.  T 
am  a  man,  and  I  have  courage;  mine  alone  be  the  task  of 
amassing  the  fortune  we  require. 


lie  A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMEJNT 

"You  miglit  perhaps  think  of  following  nie !  I  will  not  tell 
you  the  name  of  the  ship,  nor  the  port  I  sail  from,  nor  the 
day  I  leave.    A  friend  will  tell  you  when  it  is  too  late. 

"Natalie,  my  devotion  to  you  is  boundless;  I  love  you  as  a 
mother  loves  her  child,  as  a  lover  worships  his  mistress,*  with 
perfect  disinterestedness.  The  work  be  mine,  the  enjoyment 
yours ;  mine  the  sufferings,  yours  a  life  of  happiness.  Amuse 
yourself;  keep  up  all  your  habits  of  luxury ;  go  to  the  Italiens, 
to  the  French  opera,  into  society  and  to  balls;  I  absolve  you 
beforehand.  But,  dear  angel,  each  time  you  come  home  to 
the  nest  where  we  have  enjoyed  the  fruits  that  have  ripened 
during  our  five  years  of  love,  remember  your  lover,  think  of 
me  for  a  moment,  and  sleep  in  my  heart.    That  is  all  I  ask. 

"I — my  one,  dear,  constant  thought — when,  under  scorch- 
ing skies,  working  for  our  future,  I  find  some  obstacle  to 
overcome,  or  when,  tired  out,  I  rest  in  the  hope  of  my  return — 
I  shall  think  of  you  who  are  the  beauty  of  my  life.  Yes,  I  shall 
try  to  live  in  you,  telling  myself  that  you  have  neither  cares 
nor  uneasiness.  Just  as  life  is  divided  into  day  and  night, 
waking  and  sleeping,  so  I  shall  have  my  life  of  enchantment 
in  Paris,  my  life  of  labors  in  India — a  dream  of  anguish,  a 
reality  of  delight;  I  shall  live  so  completely  in  what  is  real 
to  you  that  my  days  will  be  the  dream.  I  have  my  memories; 
canto  by  canto  I  shall  recall  the  lovely  poem  of  five  years ;  I 
shall  remember  the  days  when  you  chose  to  be  dazzling,  wher 
by  some  perfection  of  evening-dress  or  morning-wrapper  you 
made  yourself  new  in  my  eyes.  I  shall  taste  on  my  lips  the 
flavor  of  our  little  feasts. 

"Yes,  dear  angel,  I  am  going  like  a  man  pledged  to  some 
high  emprise  when  by  success  he  is  to  win  his  mistress !  To 
me  the  past  will  be  like  the  dreams  of  desire  which  anticipate 
realization,  and  which  realization  often  disappoints.  But  you 
have  always  more  than  fulfilled  them.  And  I  shall  return  to 
find  a  new  wife,  for  will  not  absence  lend  you  fresh  charms? — • 
Oh,  my  dear  love,  my  Natalie,  let  me  be  a  religion  to  yon.  Be 
always  the  child  I  have  seen  sleeping !  If  you  were  to  betray 
my  blind  confidence — Natalie,  you  would  not  have  to  fear 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  In 

tiiy  anger,  of  that  you  may  be  sure;  I  should  die  without  a 
word.  But  a  woman  does  not  deceive  the  husband  who  leaves 
her  free,  for  women  are  never  mean.  She  may  cheat  a  tyrant ; 
but  she  does  not  care  for  the  easy  treason  which  would  deal  a 
deathblow.  No,  I  cannot  imagine  such  a  thing — forgive  me 
for  this  cry,  natural  to  a  man. 

"My  dearest,  yoii  will  see  de  Marsay;  he  is  now  the  tenant 
holding  our  house,  and  he  will  leave  you  in  it.  This  lease  to 
him  was  necessary  to  avoid  useless  loss.  My  creditors,  not 
understanding  that  payment  is  merely  a  question  of  time, 
might  have  seized  the  furniture  and  the  rent  of  letting  the 
house.  Be  good  to  de  Marsay ;  I  have  the  most  perfect  con- 
fidence in  his  abilities  and  in  his  honor.  Make  him  your  advo- 
cate and  your  adviser,  your  familiar.  Whatever  his  engage- 
ments may  be,  he  will  always  be  at  your  service.  I  have  in- 
structed him  to  keep  an  eye  on  the  liquidation  of  my  debts ; 
if  he  should  advance  a  sum  of  which  he  presently  needed  the 
use,  I  trust  to  you  to  pay  him.  Eemember  I  am  not  leaving 
you  to  de  Marsay's  guidance,  but  to  your  own;  when  I  men- 
tion him,  I  do  not  force  him  upon  you. 

"Alas,  I  cannot  begin  to  write  on  business  matters;  only 
an  hour  remains  to  me  under  the  same  roof  with  you.  I  count 
your  breathing ;  I  try  to  picture  your  thoughts  from  the  occa- 
sional changes  in  your  sleep,  your  breathing  revives  the  flow- 
ery hours  of  our  ^arly  love.  At  every  throb  of  your  heart  mine 
goes  forth  to  you  with  all  its  wealth,  and  I  scatter  over  you  the 
petals  of  the  roses  of  my  soul,  as  children  strew  them  in  front 
of  the  altars  on  Corpus  Christi  Day.  I  commend  you  to  the 
memories  I  am  pouring  out  on  you ;  1  would,  if  I  could,  pour 
my  life-blood  into  your  veins  that  you  might  indeed  be  mine, 
that  your  heart  might  be  my  heart,  your  thoughts  my 
thoughts,  that  I  might  be  wholly  in  you ! — And  you  utter  a 
little  murmur  as  if  in  reply ! 

"Be  ever  as  calm  and  lovely  as  you  are  at  this  moment.  I 
would  I  had  the  fabled  power  of  which  we  hear  in  fairy  tales, 
and  could  leave  you  thus  to  sleep  during  my  absence,  to  wake 
you  on  my  return  with  a  kiss.    What  energy,  what  love,  must 


118  A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT 

I  feel  to  leave  you  when  I  behold  you  thus. — You  are  Spanish 
and  religious;  you  will  observe  an  oath  taken  even  in  your 
sleep  when  your  unspoken  word  was  believed  in  beyond  doubt. 

"Farewell,  my  dearest.  Your  hapless  Pease-blossom  is 
Bwept  away  by  the  storm-wind ;  but  it  will  come  back  to  you 
for  ever  on  the  wings  of  Fortune.  Nay,  dear  Ninie,  I  will 
not  say  farewell,  for  you  will  always  be  with  me.  Will  you  no^" 
be  the  soul  of  my  actions?  Will  not  the  hope  of  bringing 
you  such  happiness  as  cannot  be  wrecked  give  spirit  to  my 
enterprise  and  guide  all  my  steps?  Will  you  not  always  be 
present  to  me?  No,  it  will  not  be  the  tropical  sun,  but  the 
fire  of  your  eyes,  that  will  light  me  on  my  way. 

"Be  as  happy  as  a  woman  can  be,  bereft  of  her  lover. — I 
should  have  been  glad  to  have  a  parting  kiss,  in  which  you 
were  not  merely  passive;  but,  my  Ninie,  my  adored  darling, 
I  would  not  wake  you.  When  you  wake,  you  will  find  a  tear 
on  your  brow;  let  it  be  a  talisman. — Think, oh!  think  of  him 
who  is  perhaps  to  die  for  you,  far  away  from  you ;  think  of 
him  less  as  your  husband  than  as  a  lover  who  worships  you 
and  leaves  you  in  God's  keeping." 

REPLY  FROM  THE  COMTESSE  DE  MANERVILLE  TO  HER  HUSBAND 

"My  Dearest, — What  grief  your  letter  has  brought  me! 
Had  you  any  right  to  form  a  decision  which  concerns  us 
equally  without  consulting  me?  Are  you  free?  Do  you  not 
belong  to  me  ?  And  am  I  not  half  a  Creole  ?  Why  should  I  not 
follow  you? — You  have  shown  me  that  I  am  no  longer  indis- 
pensable to  you.  What  have  I  done,  Paul,  that  you  should  rob 
me  of  my  rights  ?  What  is  to  become  of  me  alone  in  Paris  ? 
Poor  dear,  you  assume  the  blame  for  any  ill  I  may  have  done. 
But  am  I  not  partly  to  blame  for  this  ruin?  Has  not  my 
finery  weighed  heavily  in  the  wrong  scale?  You  are  making 
me  curse  the  happy,  heedless  life  we  have  led  these  four  years. 
To  think  of  you  as  exiled  for  six  years !  Is  it  not  enough  to 
kill  me?  How  can  you  make  a  fortune  in  six  years?  Will 
you  ever  come  back?     I  was  wiser  than  I  knew  when  T  so 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  lid 

strenuously  opposed  the  separate  maintenance  which  you  and 
my  mother  so  absolutely  insisted  on.  What  did  I  tell  you? 
That  it  M^ould  expose  you  to  discredit,  that  it  would  ruin  your 
credit !    You  had  to  be  quite  angry  before  I  would  give  in. 

"My  dear  Paul,  you  have  never  been  so  noble  in  my  eyes  as 
you  are  at  this  moment.  Without  a  hint  of  despair,  to  set  out 
to  make  a  fortune !  Only  such  a  character,  such  energy  as 
yours  could  take  such  a  step.  I  kneel  at  your  feet.  A  man 
who  confesses  to  weakness  in  such  perfect  good  faith,  who 
restores  his  fortune  from  the  same  motive  that  has  led  him  to 
waste  it — for  love,  for  an  irresistible  passion — oh,  Paul,  such  a 
man  is  sublime !  Go  without  fear,  trample  down  every  ob- 
stacle, and  never  doubt  your  Natalie,  for  it  would  be  doubting 
yourself.  My  poor  dear,  you  say  you  want  to  live  in  me? 
And  shall  not  I  always  live  in  you  ?  I  shall  not  be  here,  but 
with  you  wherever  you  may  be. 

"Though  your  letter  brought  me  cruel  anguish,  it  filled 
me  too  with  joy ;  in  one  minute  I  went  through  both  extremes ; 
for,  seeing  how  much  you  love  me,  I  was  proud  too  to  find 
that  my  love  was  appreciated.  Sometimes  I  have  fancied  that 
I  loved  you  more  than  you  loved  me ;  now  I  confess  myself  out- 
done; you  may  add  that  delightful  superiority  to  the  others 
you  possess ;  but  have  I  not  many  more  reasons  for  loving  ? — 
Your  letter,  the  precious  letter  in  which  your  whole  soul  is 
revealed,  and  which  so  plainly  tells  me  that  between  j'-ou  and 
me  nothing  is  lost,  will  dwell  on  my  heart  during  your  absence, 
for  your  whole  soul  is  in  it ;  that  letter  is  my  glory ! 

"I  am  going  to  live  with  my  mother  at  Lanstrac;  I  shall 
there  be  dead  to  the  world,  and  shall  save  out  of  my  income  to 
,pay  off  your  debts.  From  this  day  forth,  Paul,  I  am  another 
I  woman ;  I  take  leave  for  ever  of  the  world ;  I  Avill  not  have  a 
pleasure  that  you  do  not  share. 

"Besides,  Paul,  I  am  obliged  to  leave  Paris  and  live  in  soli- 
tude. Dear  boy,  you  have  a  twofold  reason  for  making  a  for- 
tune. If  your  courage  needed  a  spur,  you  may  now  find 
another  heart  dwelling  in  your  own.  My  dear,  cannot  you 
guess?    We  shall  have  a  child.     Your  dearest  hopes  will  be 


120  A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT 

crowned,  monsieur.  I  would  not  give  3'ou  the  deceptive  joys 
which  are  heart-breaking;  we  have  already  had  so  much  dis- 
appointment on  that  score,  and  I  was  afraid  of  having  to 
withdraw  the  glad  announcement.  But  now  I  am  sure  of 
what  I  am  saving,  and  happy  to  cast  a  gleam  of  joy  over  your 
sorrow.  This  morning,  suspecting  no  evil,  I  had  gone  to  the] 
Church  of  the  Assumption  to  return  thanks  to  God.  How 
could  I  foresee  disaster?  Everything  seemed  to  smile  on  me. 
As  I  came  out  of  church,  I  met  my  mother ;  she  had  heard  of 
your  distress,  and  had  come  by  post  with  all  her  savings, 
thirty  thousand  francs,  hoping  to  be  able  to  arrange  matters. 
What  a  heart,  Paul !  I  was  quite  happy ;  I  came  home  to  tell 
you  the  two  pieces  of  good  news  while  we  breakfasted  under 
the  awning  in  the  conservatory,  and  I  had  ordered  all  the 
dainties  you  like  best. 

"Augustine  gave  me  your  letter. — A  letter  from  you,  when 
we  had  slept  together !  It  was  a  tragedy  in  itself.  I  was  seized 
with  a  shivering  fit — then  I  read  it — I  read  it  in  tears,  and 
my  mother  too  melted  into  tears.  And  a  woman  must  love  a 
man  very  much  to  cry  over  him,  crying  makes  us  so  ugly. — I 
was  half  dead.  So  much  love  and  so  much  courage !  So  much 
happiness  and  such  great  grief !  To  be  unable  to  clasp  you 
to  my  heart,  my  beloved,  at  the  very  moment  when  my  admira- 
tion for  your  magnanimity  most  constrained  me !  What 
woman  could  withstand  such  a  whirlwind  of  emotions?  To 
think  that  you  were  far  away  when  your  hand  on  my  heart 
would  have  comforted  me;  that  you  were  not  there  to  give 
me  the  look  I  love  so  well,  to  rejoice  with  me  over  the  realiza- 
tion of  our  hopes; — and  I  was  not  with  you  to  soften  your 
sorrow  by  the  affection  which  made  your  Xatalie  so  dear  to 
you,  and  which  can  make  you  forget  every  grief ! 

"I  wanted  to  be  off  to  fly  at  your  feet;  but  my  mother 
pointed  out  that  the  Belle- AmeUe  is  to  sail  to-morrow,  that 
only  the  post  could  go  fast  enough  to  overtake  you,  and  that 
it  would  be  the  height  of  folly  to  risk  all  our  future  happiness 
on  a  jolt.  Though  a  mother  already,  I  ordered  horses,  and 
my  mother  cheated  me  into  the  belief  that  they  would  be 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  12j 

brought  round.  She  acted  wisely,  for  I  was  already  unfit  to 
move.  I  could  not  bear  such  a  combination  of  violent  agita- 
tions, and  I  fainted  away.  I  am  writing  in  bed,  for  I  am 
ordered  perfect  rest  for  some  months.  Hitherto  I  have  been 
a  frivolous  woman,  now  I  mean  to  be  the  mother  of  a  family. 
Providence  is  good  to  me,  for  a  child  to  nurse  and  bring  up 
can  alone  alleviate  the  sorrows  of  your  absence.  In  it  I  shall 
find  a  second  Paul  to  make  much  of.  I  shall  thus  publicly 
flaunt  the  love  we  have  so  carefully  kept  to  ourselves.  I  shall 
tell  the  truth. 

"My  mother  has  already  had  occasion  to  contradict  certain 
calumnies  which  are  current  as  to  your  conduct.  The  two 
Vandenesses,  Charles  and  Felix,  had  defended  you  stoutly, 
but  your  friend  de  Marsay  makes  game  of  everything;  he 
laughs  at  your  detractors  instead  of  answering  them.  I  do 
not  like  such  levity  in  response  to  serious  attacks.  Are  you 
not  mistaken  in  him  ?  However,  I  will  obey  and  make  a  friend 
of  him. 

"Be  quite  easy,  my  dearest,  with  regard  to  anything  that 
may  affect  your  honor.    Is  it  not  mine  ? 

"I  am  about  to  pledge  my  diamonds.  My  mother  and  I 
shall  strain  every  resource  to  pay  off  your  debts  and  try  to  buy 
in  the  vine  land  of  Bellerose.  My  mother,  who  is  as  good  a 
man  of  business  as  a  regular  accountant,  blames  j'ou  for  not 
having  been  open  with  her.  She  would  not  then  have  pur- 
chased— thinking  to  give  you  pleasure — the  estate  of  Grain- 
rouge,  which  cut  in  on  your  lands;  and  then  she  could  have 
lent  you  a  hundred  and  thirty  thousand  francs.  She  is  in  de- 
spair at  the  step  you  have  taken,  and  is  afraid  you  will  suffer 
from  the  life  in  India.  She  entreats  you  to  be  temperate,  and 
not  to  be  led  astray  by  the  women ! — I  laughed  in  her  face, 
I  am  as  sure  of  you  as  of  myself.  You  will  come  back  to  me 
wealthy  and  faithful.  I  alone  in  the  world  know  your  wo- 
manly refinement  and  those  secret  feelings  which  make  you 
an  exquisite  human  flower,  worthy  of  heaven.  The  Bordeaux 
folks  had  every  reason  to  give  vou  your  pretty  nicknames 
And  who  will  take  care  of  my  delicate  flower?    My  heart  iff 


122  A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT 

racked  by  dreadful  ideas.  I,  his  wife,  his  Natalie,  am  here, 
when  already  perhaps  he  is  suffering !  I,  so  entirely  one  with 
you,  may  not  share  your  troubles,  your  annoyances,  your 
dangers?  In  whom  can  you  confide?  How  can  you  live 
without  the  ear  into  which  you  whisper  everything?  Dear, 
sensitive  plant,  swept  away  by  the  gale,  why  should  you  be 
transplanted  from  the  only  soil  in  which  your  fragrance  could 
ever  be  developed!  1  feel  as  if  I  had  been  alone  for  two  cen- 
turies, and  I  am  cold  in  Paris  !    And  I  have  cried  so  long 

"The  cause  of  your  ruin !  What  a  text  for  the  meditations 
of  a  woman  full  of  love !  You  have  treated  me  like  a  child, 
to  whom  nothing  is  refused  that  it  asks  for;  like  a  courtesan, 
for  whom  a  spendthrift  throws  away  his  fortune.  Your  deli- 
cacy, as  you  style  it,  is  an  insult.  Do  you  suppose  that  I  can- 
not live  without  fine  clothes,  balls,  operas,  successes?  Am  I 
such  a  frivolous  woman?  Do  you  think  me  incapable  of  a 
serious  thought,  of  contributing  to  your  fortune  as  much  as  I 
ever  contributed  to  your  pleasures?  If  you  were  not  so  far 
away  and  ill  at  ease,  you  would  here  find  a  good  scolding  for 
your  impertinence.  Can  you  disparage  your  wife  to  such  an 
extent  ?  Bless  me  !  What  did  I  go  out  into  society  for  ?  To 
flatter  your  vanity ;  it  was  for  you  I  dressed,  and  you  know  it. 
If  I  had  been  wrong,  I  should  be  too  cruelly  punished;  your 
absence  is  a  bitter  expiation  for  our  domestic  happiness.  That 
happiness  was  too  complete;  it  could  not  fail  to  be  paid  for 
by  some  great  sorrow ;  and  here  it  is !  After  such  delights, 
so  carefully  screened  from  the  eyes  of  the  curious ;  after  these 
constant  festivities,  varied  only  by  the  secret  madness  of  our 
affection,  there  is  no  alternative  but  solitude.  Solitude,  my 
dear  one,  feeds  great  passions,  and  I  long  for  it.  What  can  I 
do  in  the  world  of  fashion;  to  whom  should  I  report  my  tri- 
umphs ?  ■ 

"Ah,  to  live  at  Lanstrac,  on  the  estate  laid  out  by  your 
father,  in  the  house  you  restored  so  luxuriously — to  live  there 
with  your  child,  waiting  for  you,  and  sending  forth  to  you 
night  and  morning  the  prayers  of  the  mother  and  child,  of  the 
woman  and  the  angel — will  not  that  be  half  happiness?    Can- 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  123 

not  you  see  the  little  hands  folded  in  mine?  Will  you  still 
remember,  as  I  shall  remember  every  evening,  the  happiness 
of  which  your  dear  letter  reminds  me?  Oh,  yes,  for  we  love 
each  other  equally.  I  no  more  doubt  you  than  you  doubt 
me. 

"What  consolations  can  I  offer  you  here,  I,  who  am  left 
desolate,  crushed;  I,  who  look  forward  to  the  next  six  years 
as  a  desert  to  be  crossed  ?  Well,  I  am  not  the  most  to  be  pitied 
for  will  not  that  desert  be  cheered  by  our  little  one  ?  Yes — a 
boy — I  must  give  you  a  boy,  must  I  not  ?  So  farewell,  dearly 
beloved  one,  our  thoughts  and  our  love  will  ever  follow  -you. 
The  tears  on  my  paper  will  tell  you  much  that  I  cannot  ex- 
press, and  take  the  kisses  you  will  find  left  here,  below  my 
name,  by  your  own  Natalie." 

This  letter  threw  Paul  into  a  day-dream,  caused  no  less 
by  the  rapture  into  which  he  was  thrown  by  these  expressions 
of  love  than  by  the  reminiscences  of  happiness  thus  inten- 
tionally called  up ;  and  he  went  over  them  all,  one  by  one,  to 
account  for  this  promise  of  a  child. 

The  happier  a  man  is,  the  greater  are  his  fears.  In  souls 
that  are  exclusively  tender — and  a  tender  nature  is  generally 
a  little  weak — jealousy  and  disquietude  are  usually  in  direct 
proportion  to  happiness  and  to  its  greatness.  Strong  souls  are 
neither  jealous  nor  easily  frightened:  jealousy  is  doubt,  and 
fear  is  small-minded.  Belief  without  limits  is  the  leading  at- 
tribute of  a  high-minded  man ;  if  he  is  deceived — and  strength 
as  well  as  weakness  may  make  him  a  dupe — his  scorn  serves 
him  as  a  hatchet,  and  he  cuts  through  everything.  Such 
greatness  is  exceptional.  Which  of  us  has  not  known  what  it 
is  to  be  deserted  by  the  spirit  that  upholds  this  frail  machine, 
and  to  hear  only  the  unknown  voice  that  denies  everything  ? 

Paul,  caught  as  it  were  in  the  toils  of  certain  undeniable' 
facts,  doubted  and  believed  both  at  once.  Lost  in  thought, 
a  prey  to  terrible  but  involuntary  questionings,  and  yet  strug- 
gling with  the  proofs  of  true  affection  and  his  belief  in 
Natalie,  he  read  tliis  discursive  epistle  through  twice,  unable 


124  A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT 

to  come  to  any  conclusion  for  or  against  liis  wife.  Love  may 
be  as  great  in  wordiness  as  in  brevity  of  expression. 

Thoroughly  to  understand  Paul's  frame  of  mind,  he  must 
be  seen  floating  on  the  ocean  as  on  the  wide  expanse  of  the 
past ;  looking  back  on  his  life  as  on  a  cloudless  sky,  and  com- 
ing back  at  last  after  whirlwinds  of  doubt  to  the  pure,  entire, 
and  untarnished  faith  of  a  believer,  of  a  Christian,  of  a  lover 
convinced  by  the  voice  of  his  heart. 

It  is  now  not  less  necessary  to  give  the  letter  to  which  Henri 
de  Marsay's  was  a  reply. 

LE  COMTE  PAUL  DE  MANERVILLE  TO  MONSIEUR  LE  MAEQUIS 
HEXRI  DE  MARSAY. 

"Henri, — I  am  going  to  tell  you  one  of  the  greatest  things 
a  man  can  tell  a  friend :  I  am  ruined,  \yhen  you  read  this 
I  shall  be  starting  from  Bordeaux  for  Calcutta  on  board  the 
good  ship  Belle-Amclie.  You  will  find  in  your  notary's  hands 
a  deed  which  only  needs  your  signature  to  ratify  it,  in  which 
I  let  my  house  to  you  for  six  years  on  a  hypothetical  lease; 
you  will  write  a  letter  counteracting  it  to  my  wife.  I  am 
obliged  to  take  this  precaution  in  order  that  Xatalie  may  re- 
main in  her  own  house  without  any  fear  of  being  turned  out 
of  it.  I  also  empower  you  to  draw  the  income  of  the  entailed 
property  for  four  years,  as  against  a  sum  of  a  hundred  and 
fifty  thousand  francs  that  I  will  beg  you  to  send  by  a  bill, 
drawn  on  some  house  in  Bordeaux,  to  the  order  of  Mathias. 
My  wife  will  give  you  her  guarantee  to  enable  you  to  draw 
the  income.  If  the  revenue  from  the  entail  should  repay  you 
sooner  than  I  imagine,  we  can  settle  accounts  on  my  return. 
The  sum  I  ask  of  you  is  indispensable  to  enable  me  to  set  out 
to  seek  my  fortune ;  and,  if  I  am  not  mistaken  in  you,  I  shall 
receive  it  without  delay  at  Bordeaux  the  day  before  I  sail.  I 
have  acted  exactly  as  you  would  have  acted  in  my  place.  I 
have  held  out  till  the  last  moment  without  allowing  any  one 
to  suspect  my  position.  Then,  when  the  news  of  the  seizure 
of  my  salable  estates  reached  Paris,  I  had  raised  money  by 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  126 

notes  of  hand  to  the  sum  of  a  himdied  thousand  francs,  to 
try  gambling.  Some  stroke  of  luck  might  reinstate  me. — 1 
lost. 

"How  did  I  ruin  myself?  Voluntarily,  my  dear  Henri, 
From  the  very  first  day  1  saw  that  I  could  not  go  on  in  the 
way  I  started  in;  I  knew  what  the  consequence  would  be;  I 
persisted  in  shutting  my  eyes,  for  I  could  not  bear  to  say  to 
my  wife,  'Let  us  leave  Paris  and  go  to  live  at  Lanstrac'  1 
have  ruined  myself  for  her,  as  a  man  ruins  himself  for  a  mis- 
tress, but  knowing  it. 

"Between  you  and  me,  I  am  neither  a  simpleton  nor  weak. 
A  simpleton  does  not  allow  himself  to  be  governed,  with  his 
eyes  open,  by  an  absorbing  passion;  and  a  man  who  sets  out 
to  reconstitute  his  fortune  in  the  Indies,  instead  of  blowing 
his  brains  out,  is  a  man  of  spirit.  And  so,  my  dear  friend, 
as  I  care  for  wealth  only  for  her  sake,  as  I  do  not  wish  to  be 
any  man's  dupe,  and  as  I  shall  be  absent  six  years,  I  place 
my  wife  in  your  keeping.  You  are  enough  the  favorite  of 
women  to  respect  Natalie,  and  to  give  me  the  benefit  of  the 
honest  friendship  that  binds  us.  I  know  of  no  better  pro- 
tector than  you  will  be.  I  am  leaving  my  wife  cliildless;  a 
lover  would  be  a  danger.  You  must  know,  my  dear  de 
Marsay,  I  love  Natalie  desperately,  cringingly,  and  am  not 
ashamed  of  it.  I  could,  I  believe,  forgive  her  if  she  were  un- 
faithful, not  because  I  am  certain  that  I  could  be  revenged, 
if  I  were  to  die  for  it !  but  because  I  would  kill  myself  to  leave 
her  happy  if  I  myself  could  not  make  her  happy. 

"But  what  have  I  to  fear?  Natalie  has  for  me  that  true 
regard,  independent  of  love,  which  preserves  love.  I  have 
treated  her  like  a  spoiled  child.  I  found  such  perfect  happi- 
ness in  my  sacrifices,  one  led  so  naturally  to  the  other,  that 
she  would  be  a  monster  to  betray  me.    Love  deserves  love. 

"Alas !  must  I  tell  you  the  whole  truth,  my  dear  Henri  ? 
I  have  just  written  her  a  letter  in  which  I  have  led  her  to  be- 
lieve that  I  am  setting  out  full  of  hope,  with  a  calm  face; 
that  I  have  not  a  doubt,  no  jealousy,  no  fears;  such  a  letter 
as  sons  write  to  deceive  a  mother  when  they  go  forth  to  die. 


126  A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT 

Good  God  !  de  Marsay,  I  had  hell  within  ine,  I  am  the  most 
miserable  man  on  earth.  You  must  hear  my  cries,  my  gnash- 
ing of  the  teeth.  To  you  I  confess  the  tears  of  a  despairing 
lover.  Sooner  would  I  sweep  the  gutter  under  her  window  for 
six  years,  if  it  were  possible,  than  return  with  millions  after 
six  years'  absence.  I  suITer  the  utmost  anguish;  I  shall  go 
on  from  sorrow  to  sorrow  till  you  shall  have  written  me  a  line 
to  say  that  you  accept  a  charge  which  you  alone  in  the  world 
can  fulfil  and  carry  out.  ' 

"My  dear  de  Marsay,  I  cannot  live  without  that  woman; 
she  is  air  and  sunshine  to  me.  Take  her  under  your  aegis,  keep 
her  faithful  to  me — even  against  her  will.  Yes,  I  can  still  be 
happy  with  such  half-happiness.  Be  her  protector;  I  have  no 
fear  of  you.  Show  her  how  vulgar  it  would  be  to  deceive  me ; 
that  it  would  make  her  like  every  other  woman ;  that  the  really 
brilliant  thing  will  be  to  remain  faithful. 

"She  must  still  have  money  enough  to  carry  on  her  easy 
'  and  undisturbed  life ;  but  if  she  should  want  anything,  if  she 
should  have  a  whim,  be  her  banker — do  not  be  afraid,  I  shall 
come  home  rich. 

"After  all,  my  alarms  are  vain,  no  doubt;  Natalie  is  an 
angel  of  virtue.  When  Felix  de  Vandenesse  fell  desperately 
in  love  with  her  and  allowed  himself  to  pay  her  some  atten- 
tions, I  only  had  to  point  out  the  danger  to  Natalie,  and  she 
thanked  me  so  affectionately  that  I  was  moved  to  tears.  She 
said  that  it  would  be  awkward  for  her  reputation  if  a  man 
suddenly  disappeared  from  her  house,  but  that  she  would 
find  means  to  dismiss  him ;  and  she  did,  in  fact,  receive  him 
very  coldly,  so  that  everything  ended  well.  In  four  years 
we  have  never  had  any  other  subject  of  discussion,  if  a  conver- 
sation as  between  friends  can  be  called  a  discussion. 

"Well,  my  dear  Henri,  I  must  say  good-bye  like  a  man. 
The  disaster  has  come.  From  whatever  cause,  there  it  is;  I 
can  but  bow  to  it.  Poverty  and  Natalie  are  two  irreconcilable 
terms.  And  the  balance  of  my  debts  and  assets  will  be  very 
nearly  exact ;  no  one  will  have  anything  to  complain  of.  Still, 
in  case  some  unforeseen  circumstance  should  threaten  my 
honor,  I  trust  in  you. 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  127 

'Tinally,  if  any  serious  event  should  occur,  you  can  write 
to  me  under  cover  to  the  Governor-General  at  Calcutta.  I 
have  friends  in  his  household,  and  some  one  will  take  charge 
of  any  letters  for  me  that  may  arrive  from  Europe.  My  dear 
friend,  I  hope  to  find  you  still  the  same  on  my  return — a  man 
who  can  make  fun  of  everything,  and  who  is  nevertheless  alive 
to  the  feelings  of  others  when  they  are  in  harmony  with  the 
nohle  nature  you  feel  in  yourself. 

"You  can  stay  in  Paris !  At  the  moment  when  you  read 
this  I  shall  be  crying,  'To  Carthage !' " 

THE  MARQUIS  HENRI  DE  MARSAY  IN  REPLY  TO  THE  COMTE  PAUL 
DE    MANERVILLE. 

"And  so.  Monsieur  le  Comte,  you  have  collapsed!  Mon- 
sieur the  Ambassador  has  turned  turtle !  Are  these  the  fine 
things  you  were  doing  ?  Why,  Paul,  did  you  keep  any  secret 
from  me  ?  If  you  had  said  but  one  word,  my  dear  old  fellow, 
I  could  have  thrown  light  on  the  matter. 

"Your  wife  refuses  her  guarantee.  That  should  be  enough 
to  unseal  your  eyes.  And  if  not,  I  would  have  you  to  know 
that  your  notes  of  hand  have  been  protested  at  the  suit  of  one 
Lecuyer,  formerly  head-clerk  to  one  Solonet,  a  notary  at  Bor- 
deaux. This  sucking  money-lender,  having  come  from  Gas- 
cony  to  try  his  hand  at  stock- jobbing,  lends  his  name  to  screen 
your  very  honorable  mother-in-law,  the  real  creditor  to  whom 
you  owe  the  hundred  thousand  francs,  for  which,  it  is  said, 
she  gave  you  seventy  thousand.  Compared  to  Madame  "Evan- 
gelista.  Daddy  Gobseck  is  soft  flannel,  velvet,  a  soothing 
draught,  a  meringue  a  la  vanille,  a  fifth-act  uncle.  Your 
vineyard  of  Bellerose  will  be  your  wife's  booty ;  her  mother  is 
to  pay  her  the  difl'erence  between  the  price  it  sells  for  and  the 
sum-total  of  her  claims.  Madame  Evangelista  is  to  acquire 
le  Guadet  and  le  Grassol,  and  the  mortgages  on  your  house 
at  Bordeaux  are  all  in  her  hands  under  the  names  of  men  of 
straw,  found  for  her  by  that  fellow  Solonet.  And  in  this  way 
these  two  worthy  women  will  secure  an  income  of  a  hundred 


128  A  MAKKIAGE  SETTLEMENT 

and  twent}'  thousand  francs,  the  amount  derivable  from  your 
estates,  added  to  thirty  odd  thousand  francs  a  year  in  the 
funds  which  the  dear  hussies  have  secured. 

"Your  wife's  guarantee  was  unnecessary.  The  aforenamed 
Lecuyer  came  this  morning  to  offer  me  repayment  of  the 
money  I  have  sent  you  in  exchange  for  a  formal  transfer  of 
my  claims.  The  vintage  of  1825,  which  your  mother-in-law 
has  safe  in  the  cellars  at  Lanstrac,  is  enough  to  pay  me  off. 
So  the  two  women  have  calculated  that  you  would  be  at  .sea  by 
this  time;  but  I  am.  writing  by  special  messenger  that  this 
may  reach  you  in  time  for  you  to  follow  the  advice  I  proceed 
to  give  you. 

"I  made  this  Lecu3'er  talk;  and  from  his  lies,  his  state- 
ments, and  his  concealments,  I  have  culled  the  clues  that  I 
needed  to  reconstruct  the  whole  web  of  domestic  conspiracy 
that  has  been  working  against  you.  This  evening  at  the 
Spanish  Embassy  I  shall  pay  my  admiring  compliments  to 
your  wife  and  her  mother.  I  shall  be  most  attentive  to 
Madame  Evangelista,  I  shall  throw  you  over. in  the  m.eanest 
way,  I  shall  abuse  you,  but  with  extreme  subtlety;  anything 
strong  would  at  once  put  this  Mascarille  in  petticoats  on  the 
scent.  What  did  you  do  that  set  her  against  you?  That  is 
what  I  mean  to  find  out.  If  only  you  had  had  wit  enough  to 
make  love  to  the  mother  before  marrying  the  daughter,  you 
would  at  this  moment  be  a  peer  of  France,  Due  de  Manerville, 
and  Ambassador  to  Madrid.  If  only  you  had  sent  for  me  at 
the  time  of  your  marriage  !  I  could  have  taught  you  to  know, 
to  analyze,  the  two  women  you  would  have  to  fight,  and  by 
comparing  our  observations  we  should  have  hit  on  some  good 
counsel.  Was  not  I  the  only  friend  you  had  who  would  cer- 
tainly honor  your  wife  ?  Was  I  a  man  to  be  afraid  of  ? — But 
after  these  women  had  learned  to  judge  me,  they  took  fright 
and  divided  us.  If  you  had  not  been  so  silly  as  to  sulk  with 
me,  they  could  not  have  eaten  you  out  of  house  and  home. 

"Your  wife  contributed  largely  to  our  coolness.  She  was 
talked  over  by  her  mother,  to  whom  she  wrote  twice  a  week, 
and  ynu  never  heeded  it.  I  recognized  my  friend  Paul  as  I 
heard  this  detail. 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  129 


"Within  a  month  I  will  be  on  such  terms  with  your  mother- 
in-law  that  she  herself  will  tell  me  the  reason  for  the  Hispano- 
Italian  vendetta  she  has  evidently  vowed  on  you — ^you,  the 
best  fellow  in  the  world.  Did  she  hate  jou  before  her  daugh- 
ter was  in  love  with  Felix  de  Vandenesse?  or  has  she  driven 
you  to  the  Indies  that  her  daughter  may  be  free,  as  a  woman 
is  in  France  when  completely  separated  from  her  husband? 
That  is  the  problem. 

"I  can  see  you  leaping  and  howling  when  you  read  that  your 
wife  is  madly  in  love  with  Felix  de  Vandenesse.  If  I  had  not 
.taken  it  into  my  head  to  make  a  tour  in  the  East  with  Mont- 
riveau,  Eonquerolles,  and  certain  other  jolly  fellows  of  your 
acquaintance,  I  could  have  told  you  more  about  this  intrigue, 
which  was  incipient  when  I  left.  I  could  then  see  the  first 
sprouting  seed  of  your  catastrophe.  What  gentleman  could 
be  scurvy  enough  to  open  such  a  subject  without  some  invita- 
tion, or  dare  to  blow  on  a  woman  ?  Who  could  bear  to  break 
the  witch's  mirror  in  which  a  friend  loves  to  contemplate  the 
fairy  scenes  of  a  happy  marriage?  Are  not  such  illusions 
the  wealth  of  the  heart? — And  was  not  your  wife,  my  dear 
boy,  in  the  widest  sense  of  the  word,  a  woman  of  the  world  ? 
She  thought  of  nothing  but  her  success,  her  dress;  she  fre- 
quented the  Bouffons,  the  Opera,  and  balls ;  rose  late,  drove 
in  the  Bois,  dined  out  or  gave  dinner-parties.  Such  a  life 
seems  to  me  to  women  what  war  is  to  men;  the  public  sees 
only  the  victorious,  and  forgets  the  dead.  Some  delicate 
women  die  of  this  exhausting  round ;  those  who  survive  must 
have  iron  constitutions,  and  consequently  very  little  heart 
and  very  strong  stomachs.  Herein  lies  the  reason  of  the  want 
of  feeling,  the  cold  atmosphere  of  drawing-room  society. 
Nobler  souls  dwell  in  solitude ;  the  tender  and  weak  succumb. 
What  are  left  are  the  boulders  which  keep  the  social  ocean 
within  bounds  by  enduring  to  be  beaten  and  rolled  by  the 
breakers  without  wearing  out.  Your  wife  was  made  to  with- 
stand this  life ;  she  seemed  inured  to  it ;  she  was  always  fresh 
and  beautiful.  To  me  the  inference  was  obvious — she  did  not 
love  you,  while  you  loved  her  to  distraction.     To  strike  the 


130  A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT 

spark  of  love  in  tliis  flinty  nature  a  man  of  iron  was  required. 

"After  being  caught  by  Lady  Diidiey,  wlio  could  not.  keep 
him  (she  is  the  wife  of  my  real  father),  Felix  was  obviously 
the  man  for  Natalie.  Nor  was  there  any  great  difficulty  in 
guessing  that  your  wife  did  not  care  for  you.  From  indiffer- 
ence to  aversion  is  but  a  step ;  and,  sooner  or  later,  a  discus- 
eion,  a  word,  an  act  of  authority  on  your  part,  a  mere  trifle; 
would  make  your  wife  overleap  it. 

"I  myself  could  have  rehearsed  the  scene  that  took  place 
between  you  every  night  in  her  room.  You  have  no  child, 
no  boy.  Does  not  that  fact  account  for  many  things  to  an 
observer?  You,  who  were  in  love,  could  hardly  discern  the 
coldness  natural  to  a  young  woman  whom  you  have  trained 
to  the  very  point  for  Felix  de  Vandenesse.  If  you  had  dis- 
covered that  your  wife  was  cold-hearted,  the  stupid  policy  of 
married  life  would  have  prompted  you  to  regard  it  as  the  re- 
serve of  innocence.  Like  all  husbands,  you  fancied  you  could 
preserve  her  virtue  in  a  world  where  women  whisper  to  each 
other  things  that  men  dare  not  say,  where  all  that  a  husband 
would  never  tell  his  wife  is  spoken  and  commented  on  behind  a 
fan,  with  laughter  and  banter,  a  propos  to  a  trial  or  an  adven- 
ture. Though  your  wife  liked  the  advantages  of  a  married 
life,  she  found  the  price  a  little  heavy ;  the  price,  the  tax,  was 
yourself ! 

'*You,  seeing  none  of  these  things,  went  on  digging  pits  and 
covering  them  with  flowers,  to  use  the  time-honored  rhetorical 
figure.  You  calmly  sulimittcd  to  the  rule  which  governs  the 
common  run  of  men,  and  from  which  I  had  wished  to  protect 
you. 

"My  dear  boy,  nothing  was  wanting  to  make  you  as  great 
an  ass  as  any  tradesman  who  is  surprised  when  his  -wife  de- 
ceives him;  nothing  but  this  outcry  to  me  about  your  sacrifices 
and  your  love  for  Natalie :  'How  ungrateful  she  would  be  to 
betray  me ;  I  have  done  this  and  that  and  the  other,  and  I  will 

do  more  yet,  I  will  go  to  India  for  her  sake '  etc.,  etc. — 

My  dear  Paul,  you  have  lived  in  Paris,  and  you  have  had  the 
honor  of  the  most  intimate  friendship  of  one  Henri  de  Mar- 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  131 

say,  and  you  do  not  know  the  commonest  things,  the  first  prin- 
ciples of  the  working  of  tlie  female  mechanism,  the  alphabet 
of  a  woman's  heart! — You  may  slave  yourself  to  death,  you 
may  go  to  Sainte-Pelagie,  you  may  kill  two-and-twenty  men, 
give  up  seven  mistresses,  serve  Laban,  cross  the  Desert,  nar- 
rowly escape  the  hulks,  cover  yourself  with  disgrace;  like 
N'elson,  refuse  to  give  battle  because  you  must  kiss  Lady  Ham- 
ilton's shoulder,  or,  like  Bonaparte,  fight  old  Wurmser,  get 
yourself  cut  up  on  the  Bridge  of  Arcole,  rave  like  Rolando, 
break  a  leg  in  splints  to  dance  with  a  woman  for  five  minutes ! 
■ — But,  my  dear  boy,  what  has  any  of  these  things  to  do  with 
her  loving  you?  If  love  were  taken  as  proven  by  such  evi- 
dence, men  would  be  too  happy ;  a  few  such  demonstrations  at 
the  moment  when  he  wanted  her  would  win  the  woman  of  his 
heart. 

"Love,  you  stupid  old  Paul,  is  a  belief  like  that  in  the  im- 
maculate conception  of  the  Virgin.  You  have  it,  or  you  have 
it  not.  Of  what  avail  are  rivers  of  blood,  or  the  mines  of 
Potosi,  or  the  greatest  glory,  to  produce  an  involuntary  and 
inexplicable  feeling  ?  Young  men  like  you,  who  look  for  love 
to  balance  their  outlay,  seem  to  me  base  usurers.  Our  legal 
wives  owe  us  children  and  virtue ;  but  they  do  not  owe  love. 
Love  is  the  consciousness  of  happiness  given  and  received,  and 
the  certainty  of  giving  and  getting  it ;  it  is  an  ever-living  at- 
traction, constantly  satisfied,  and  yet  insatiable.  On  the  day 
when  Vandenesse  stirred  in  your  wife's  heart  the  chord  you 
had  left  untouched  and  virginal,  your  amorous  flourishes, 
your  outpouring  of  soul,  and  of  money,  ceased  even  to  be  re- 
membered. Your  nights  of  happiness  strewn  with  roses — 
fudge  !  Your  devotion — an  offering  of  remorse.  Yourself — 
a  victim  to  be  slain  on  the  altar !  Your  previous  life — a 
blank !  One  impulse  of  love  annihilated  your  treasures  of 
passion,  which  were  now  but  old  iron.  He,  Felix,  has  had  her 
beauty,  her  devotion — for  no  return  perhaps;  but,  in  love, 
belief  is  as  good  as  reality. 

"Your  mother-in-law  was  naturally  on  the  side  of  the  lover 
against  the  husband ;  secretly  or  confessedly  she  shut  her  eyes 


132  A  MARRIAGE  SETTLP^MENT 

— or  she  opened  them ;  I  do  not  know  what  she  did,  but  she 
took  her  daughter's  part  against  you.  For  fifteen  years  I 
have  observed  society,  and  I  never  knew  a  mother  who,  under 
such  circumstances,  deserted  her  daughter.  Sucli  indulgence 
is  hereditary,  from  woman  to  woman.  And  what  man  can 
blame  them  ?  Some  lawyer,  perhaps,  responsible  for  the  Civil 
Code,  which  saw  only  formulas  where  feelings  were  at  stake. 
— The  extravagance  into  which  you  were  dragged  by  the 
career  of  a  fashionable  wife,  the  tendencies  of  an  easy  nature, 
and  your  vanity  too,  perhaps,  supplied  her  with  the  oppor- 
tunity of  getting  rid  of  you  by  an  ingenious  scheme  of  ruin. 

"From  all  this  you  will  conclude,  my  good  friend,  that  the 
charge  you  put  upon  me,  and  which  I  should  have  fulfilled  all 
the  more  gloriously  because  it  would  have  amused  me,  is,  so  to 
speak,  null  and  void.  The  evil  I  was  to  have  hindered  is  done 
— consummatum  est. — Forgive  me  for  writing  a  la  de  Marsay, 
as  you  say,  on  matters  which  to  you  arc  so  serious.  Far  be  it 
from  me  to  cut  capers  on  a  friend's  grave,  as  heirs  do  on  that 
of  an  uncle.  But  you  write  to  me  that  you  mean  henceforth 
to  be  a  man,  and  I  take  you  at  your  word;  I  treat  you  as  a 
politician,  and  not  as  a  lover. 

"Has  not  this  mishap  been  to  you  like  the  brand  on  his 
shoulder  that  determines  a  convict  on  a  systematic  antago- 
nism to  society,  and  a  revolt  against  it  ?  You  are  hereby  re- 
leased from  one  care — marriage  was  your  master,  noiv  it  is 
your  servant.  Paul,  I  am  your  friend  in  the  fullest  meaning 
of  the  word.  If  your  brain  had  been  bound  in  a  circlet  of 
brass,  if  you  had  earlier  had  the  energy  that  has  come  to  you 
too  late,  I  could  have  proved  my  friendship  by  telling  you 
things  that  would  have  enabled  you  to  walk  over  human  beings 
as  on  a  carpet.  But  whenever  we  talked  over  the  combina- 
tions to  which  I  owed  the  faculty  of  amusing  myself  with  a 
few^  friends  in  the  heart  of  Parisian  civilization,  like  a  bull 
in  a  china  shop;  whenever  I  told  you,  under  romantic  dis- 
guises, some  true  adventure  of  my  youth,  you  always  regarded 
them  as  romances,  and  did  not  see  their  bearing.  Hence,  I 
could  only  think  of  you  as  a  case  of  unrequited  passion.  Well, 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  133 

on  my  word  of  honor,  in  the  existing  circumstances,  you  have 
played  the  nobler  part,  and  you  have  lost  nothing,  as  you 
might  imagine,  in  my  opinion.  Though  I  admire  a  great 
scoundrel,  I  esteem  and  like  those  who  are  taken  in. 

"A  propos  to  the  doctor  who  came  to  such  a  bad  end, 
brought  to  the  scaffold  by  his  love  for  his  mistress,  I  remember 
telling  you  the  far  more  beautiful  story  of  the  unhappy  lawyer 
who  is  still  living  on  the  hulks,  I  know  not  where,  branded  as 
a  forger  because  he  wanted  to  give  his  wife — again,  an  adored 
wife — thirty  thousand  francs  a  year,  and  the  wife  gave  him 
up  to  justice  in  order  to  get  rid  of  him  and  live  with  another 
gentleman.  You  cried  shame,  you  and  some  others  too  who 
were  supping  with  us.  Well,  my  dear  fellow,  you  are  that 
lawyer — minus  the  hulks. 

"Your  friends  do  not  spare  you  the  discredit  which,  in  our 
sphere  of  life,  is  equivalent  to  a  sentence  pronounced  by  the 
Bench.  The  Marquise  de  Listomere,  the  sister  of  the  two 
Vandenesses,  and  all  her  following,  in  which  little  Eastignac 
is  now  enlisted — a  young  rascal  who  is  coming  to  the  front ; 
Madame  dWiglemont  and  all  her  set,  among  whom  Charles 
de  Vandenesse  is  regnant;  the  Lenoncourts,  the  Comtesse 
Feraud,  Madame  d'Espard,  the  Nucingens,  the  Spanish  Em- 
bassy ;  in  short,  a  whole  section  of  the  fashionable  world,  very 
cleverly  prompted,  heap  mud  upon  your  name.  '^You  are  a 
dissipated  wretch,  a.  gambler,  a  debauchee,  and  have  made 
away  with  your  money  in  the  stupidest  way.  Your  wife — 
an  angel  of  virtue! — after  paying  your  debts  several  times, 
has  just  paid  off  a  hundred  thousand  francs  to  redeem  bills 
you  had  drawn,  though  her  fortune  is  apart  from  yours.  Hap- 
pily, you  have  pronounced  sentence  on  yourself  by  getting  outt 
of  the  way.  If  you  had  gone  on  so,  you  would  have  reduced 
her  to  beggary,  and  she  would  have  been  a  martyr  to  conjugal 
devotion!'  When  a  man  rises  to  power,  he  has  as  many 
virtues  as  will  furnish  an  epitaph;  if  he  falls  into  poverty, 
he  has  more  vices  than  the  prodigal  son;  you  could  never 
imagine  how  many  vices  a  la  Don  Juan  are  attributed  to  you 
now.     You  gambled  on  the  Bourse,  you  had  licentious  tastes, 


134  A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT 

which  it  cost  you  vast  sums  to  indulge,  and  which  are  men- 
tioned with  comments  and  jests  that  mystify  the  women.  You 
paid  enormous  interest  to  the  money-lenders.  The  two  Van- 
denesses  laugh  as  they  tell  a  story  of  (Jigonnet's  selling  you  an 
ivory  man-of-war  for  six  thousand  francs,  and  buying  it  of 
ycur  man-servant  for  five  crowns  only  to  sell  it  to  you  again, 
till  you  solemnly  smavshed  it  on  discovering  that  you  might 
have  a  real  ship  for  the  money  it  was  costing  you.  The 
adventure  occurred  nine  years  ago,  and  Maxime  de  Trailles 
was  the  hero  of  it;  but  it  is  thought  to  fit  you  so  well,  that 
Maxime  has  lost  the  command  of  his  frigate  for  good.  In 
short,  I  cannot  tell  you  everything,  for  you  have  furnished 
forth  a  perfect  encyclopaedia  of  tittle-tattle,  which  every 
woman  tries  to  add  to.  In  this  state  of  affairs,  the  most  prud- 
ish are  ready  to  legitimatize  any  consolation  bestowed  by 
Comte  Felix  de  Yandenesse — for  their  father  is  dead  at  last, 
yesterday. 

"Your  wife  is  the  great  success  of  the  hour.  Yesterday 
Madame  de  Camps  was  repeating  all  these  stories  to  me  at  the 
Italian  Opera.  'Don't  talk  to  me,'  said  I,  'you  none  of  you 
know  half  the  facts.  Paul  had  robbed  the  Bank  and  swindled 
the  Treasury.  He  murdered  Ezzelino,  and  caused  the  death 
of  three  Medoras  of  the  Eue  Saint-Denis,  and,  between  you 
and  me,  I  believe  him  to  be  implicated  in  the  doings  of  the 
Ten  Thousand.  His  agent  is  the  notorious  Jacques  Collin, 
whom  the  police  have  never  been  able  to  find  since  his  last 
escape  from  the  hulks ;  Paul  harbored  him  in  his  house.  As 
you  see,  he  is  capable  of  any  crime  ;  he  is  deceiving  the  govern- 
ment. Now  they  have  gone  off  together  to  see  what  they  can 
do  in  India,  and  rob  the  Great  Mogul.' — Madame  de  Camps 
understood  that  a  woman  of  such  distinction  as  herself  ought 
not  to  use  her  pretty  lips  as  a  Venetian  lion's  maw. 

"Many  persons,  on  hearing  these  tragi-comedies,  refuse 
to  believe  them;  they  defend  human  nature  and  noble  senti- 
ments, and  insist  that  these  are  fictions.  My  dear  fellow, 
Talleyrand  made  this  clever  remark,  'Everything  happens.. 
Certainly  even  stranger  things  than  this  domestic  conspiracy 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  135 

happens  under  our  eyes ;  but  the  world  is  so  deeply  interested 
in  denying  them,  and  in  declaring  that  it  is  slandered,  and 
besides,  these  great  dramas  are  played  so  naturally,  with  a 
veneer  of  such  perfect  good  taste,  that  I  often  have  to  wipe 
my  eyeglass  before  I  can  see  to  the  bottom  of  things.  But 
I  say  once  more,  when  a  man  is  my  friend  with  whom  I  have 
received  the  baptism  of  Champagne,  and  communion  at  the 
altar  of  Venus  Commoda,  when  we  have  together  been  con- 
firmed by  the  clawing  fingers  of  the  croupier,  and  when  then 
my  friend  is  in  a  false  position,  I  would  uproot  twenty  families 
to  set  him  straight  again. 

"You  must  see  that  I  have  a  real  affection  for  you;  have  I 
ever  to  your  knowledge  written  so  long  a  letter  as  this  is  ?  So 
read  with  care  all  that  follows. 

"Alack !  Paul ;  I  must  take  to  writing,  I  must  get  into  the 
habit  of  jotting  down  the  minutes  for  dispatches ;  I  am  start- 
ing on  a  political  career.  Within  five  years  I  mean  to  have  a 
Minister's  portfolio,  or  find  myself  an  ambassador  where  I 
can  stir  public  affairs  round  in  my  own  way.  There  is  an  age 
when  a  man's  fairest  mistress  is  his  countr3^  I  am  joining 
the  ranks  of  those  who  mean  to  overthrow  not  merely  the 
existing  Ministry,  but  their  whole  system.  In  fact,  I  am 
swimming  in  the  wake  of  a  prince  who  halts  only  on  one  foot, 
and  whom  I  regard  as  a  man  of  political  genius,  whose  name 
is  growing  great  in  history;  as  complete  a  prince  as  a  great 
artist  may  be.  We  are  Eonquerolles,  Montriveau,  the  Grand- 
lieus,  the  Eoche-Hugons,  Serizy,  Feraud,  and  Granville, 
all  united  against  the  priestly  party,  as  the  silly  party  that  is 
represented  by  the  Constitutionnel  ingeniously  calls  it.  We 
mean  to  upset  the  two  Vandenesses,  the  Dues  de  Lenoncourt, 
de  Navarreins,  de  Langeais,  and  de  la  Grande-Aumonerie. 
'  To  gain  our  end,  we  may  go  so  far  as  to  form  a  coalition  with 
la  Fayette,  the  Orleanists,  the  Left — all  men  who  must  be  got 
rid  of  as  soon  as  we  have  won  the  day,  for  to  govern  on  their 
principles  is  impossible;  and  we  are  capable  of  anything  for 
the  good  of  the  country — and  our  own. 

"Personal  questions  as  to  the  King's  person  are  mere  sen- 


136  A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT 

timental  folly  in  these  days ;  they  must  be  cleared  away.  From 
that  point  of  view,  the  English,  with  their  sort  of  Doge,  are 
more  advanced  than  we  are.  Politics  have  nothing  to  do  with 
that,  my  dear  fellow.  Politics  consist  in  giving  the  nation 
an  impetus  by  creating  an  oligarchy  embodying  a  fixed  theory 
of  government,  and  able  to  direct  public  affairs  along  a 
straight  path,  instead  of  allowing  the  country  to  be  pulled 
in  a  thousand  different  directions,  which  is  what  has  been  hap- 
pening for  the  last  forty  years  in  our  beautiful  France — at 
once  so  intelligent  and  so  sottish,  so  wise  and  so  foolish;  it 
needs  a  system,  indeed,  much  more  than  men.  What  are  in- 
dividuals in  this  great  question?  If  the  end  is  a  great  one, 
if  the  country  may  live  happy  and  free  from  trouble,  what  do 
the  masses  care  for  the  profits  of  our  stewardsjiip,  our  fortune, 
privileges,  and  pleasures? 

"I  am  now  standing  firm  on  my  feet.  I  have  at  the  present 
moment  a  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs  a  year  in  the 
Three  per  Cents,  and  a  reserve  of  two  hundred  thousand 
francs  to  repair  damages.  Even  this  does  not  seem  to  me 
very  much  ballast  in  the  pocket  of  a  man  starting  left  foot 
foremost  to  scale  the  heights  of  power. 

"A  fortunate  accident  settled  the  question  of  my  setting 
out  on  this  career,  which  did  not  particularly  smile  on  me, 
for  you  know  my  predilection  for  the  life  of  the  East.  After 
thirty-five  years  of  slumber,  my  highly-respected  mother  woke 
up  to  the  recollection  that  she  had  a  son  who  might  do  her 
honor.  Often  when  a  vine-stock  is  eradicated,  some  years 
after  shoots  come  up  to  the  surface  of  the  ground ;  well,  my 
dear  boy,  my  mother  had  almost  torn  me  up  by  the  roots  from 
her  heart,  and  I  sprouted  again  in  her  head.  At  the  age  of 
fifty-eight,  she  thinks  herself  old  enough  to  think  no  more  of 
any  men  but  her  son.  At  this  juncture  she  has  met  in  some  hot- 
water  cauldron,  at  I  know  not  what  baths,  a  delightful  old 
maid — English,  with  two  hundred  and  forty  thousand  francs 
a  year;  and,  like  a  good  mother,  she  has  inspired  her  with  an 
audacious  ambition  to  become  my  wife.  A  maid  of  six-and- 
thirty,  my  word !     Brought  up  in  the  strictest  puritanical 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  1.^7 

principles,  ti  steady  sitting  hen,  who  maintains  that  unfaithful 
wives  should  be  publicly  burnt.  '^Where  will  you  find  wood 
enough  ?'  I  asked  her.  I  could  have  sent  her  to  the  devil,  for 
two  hundred  and  forty  thousand  francs  a  year  are  no  equiva- 
lent for  liberty,  nor  a  fair  price  for  my  physical  and  moral 
worth  and  my  prospects.  But  she  is  the  sole  heiress  of  a 
gouty  old  fellow,  some  London  brewer,  who  within  a  calcu- 
lable time  will  leave  her  a  fortune  equal  at  least  to  what  the 
sweet  creature  has  already.  Added  to  these  advantages,  she 
has  a  red  nose,  the  eyes  of  a  dead  goat,  a  waist  that  makes  one 
fear  lest  she  should  break  into  three  pieces  if  she  falls  down, 
and  the  coloring  of  a  badly  painted  doll.  But — she  is  delight- 
fully economical;  but — she  will  adore  her  husband,  do  what 
he  will ;  but — she  has  the  English  gift ;  she  will  manage  my 
house,  my  stables,  my  servants,  my  estates  better  than  any 
steward.  She  has  all  the  dignity  of  virtue ;  she  holds  herself 
as  erect  as  a  confidante  on  the  stage  of  the  Frangais ;  nothing 
will  persuade  me  that  she  has  not  been  impaled  and  the  shaft 
broken  off  in  her  body.  Miss  Stevens  is,  however,  fair 
enough  to  be  not  too  unpleasing  if  I  must  positively  marry 
her.  But — and  this  to  me  is  truly  pathetic — she  has  the 
hands  of  a  woman  as  immaculate  as  the  sacred  ark;  they  are 
so  red  that  I  have  not  yet  hit  on  any  way  to  whiten  them  that 
will  not  be  too  costly,  and  I  have  no  idea  how  to  fine  down  her 
fingers,  which  are  like  sausages.  Yes ;  she  evidently  belongs 
to  the  brew-house  by  her  hands,  and  to  the  aristocracy  by  her 
money ;  but  she  is  apt  to  affect  the  great  lady  a  little  too  much, 
as  rich  English  women  do  who  want  to  be  mistaken  for  them, 
and  she  displays  her  lobster's  claws  too  freely. 

"She  has,  however,  as  little  intelligence  as  I  could  wish  in 
a  woman.  If  there  were  a  stupider  one  to  be  found,  T  would 
set  out  to  seek  her.  This  girl,  whose  name  is  Dinah,  will 
never  criticise  me ;  she  will  never  contradict  me ;  I  shall  be 
her  Upper  Chamber,  her  Lords  and  Commons.  In  short, 
Paul,  she  is  indefeasible  evidence  of  the  English  genius;  she 
is  a  product  of  English  mechanics  brought  to  their  highest 
pitch  of  perfection ;  she  was  undoubtedly  made  at  Manchester, 


138  A  MAI{UIA<;i':  SI'iTTlJOMEN'i' 

between  the  inaini factory  of  Perry's  pens  and  the  workshops 
for  steam-engines.  It  cats,  it  drinks,  it  walks,  it  may  have 
children,  take  good  care  of  thoni,  and  bring  them  up  admir- 
ably, and  it  apes  a  woman  so  well  that  you  would  believe  it  real. 

"When  my  mother  introduced  us,  she  had  set  up  the  ma- 
chine so  cleverly,  had  so  carefully  fitted  the  pegs,  and  oiled 
the  wheels  so  thoroughly,  that  nothing  jarred ;  then,  when  she 
saw  I  did  not  make  a  very  wry  face,  she  set  the  springs  in 
motion,  and  the  woman  spoke.  Finally,  my  mother  uttered' 
the  decisive  words,  'Miss  Dinah  Stevens  spends  no  more  than 
thirty  thousand  francs  a  year,  and  has  been  traveling  for 
seven  years  in  order  to  economize.' — So  there  is  another 
image,  and  that  one  is  silver. 

"Matters  are  so  far  advanced  that  the  banns  are  to  be  pub- 
lished. We  have  got  as  far  as  'My  dear  love.'  Miss  makes 
^yes  at  me  that  might  floor  a  porter.  The  settlements  are 
prepared.  My  fortune  is  not  inquired  into;  Miss  Stevens 
devotes  a  portion  of  hers  to  creating  an  entail  in  landed 
estate,  bearing  an  income  of  two  hundred  and  forty  thousand 
francs,  and  to  the  purchase  of  a  house,  likewise  entailed.  The 
settlement  credited  to  me  is  of  a  million  francs.  She  has 
nothing  to  complain  of.     I  leave  her  uncle's  money  untouched. 

"The  worthy  brewer,  who  has  helped  to  found  the  entail^ 
was  near  bursting  with  joy  when  he  heard  that  his  niece  was  to 
be  a  marquise.  lie  would  be  capable  of  doing  something 
handsome  for  my  eldest  boy. 

"I  shall  sell  out  of  the  funds  as  soon  as  they  are  up  to 
eighty,  and  invest  in  land.  Thus,  in  two  years  I  may  look  to 
get  six  hundred  thousand  francs  a  year  out  of  real  estate. 
So,  you  see,  Paul,  I  do  not  give  my  friends  advice  that  I  am 
not  ready  to  act  upon. 

"If  you  had  but  listened  to  me,  you  would  have  an  English 
wife,  some  Nabob's  daughter,  who  would  leave  you  the  free- 
dom of  a  bachelor  and  the  independence  necessary  for  play- 
ing the  whist  of  ambition.  I  would  concede  my  future  wife 
to  you  if  you  were  not  married  already.  But  that  cannot  be 
helped,  and  I  am  not  the  man  to  bid  you  chew  the  cud  of  the 
past. 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  139 

"All  this  preamble  was  needful  to  explain  to  you  that  for 
the  future  my  position  in  life  will  be  such  as  a  man  needs  if  he 
wants  to  play  the  great  game  of  pitch-and-toss.  I  cannot  do 
without  you,  my  friend.  Instead  of  going  to  pickle  in  the 
Indies,  you  will  find  it  much  simpler  to  swim  in  my  convoy  in 
the  waters  of  the  Seine.  Believe  me,  Paris  is  still  the  spot 
where  fortune  crops  up  most  freely.  Potosi  is  situated  in  the 
Rue  Vivienne  or  the  Rue  de  la  Paix,  the  Place  Vendome, 
or  the  Rue  de  Rivoli.  In  every  other  country,  manual  labor, 
the  sweat  of  the  perspiring  agent,  marches  and  counter- 
marches, are  indispensable  to  the  accumulation  of  a  fortune; 
here  intelligence  is  sufficient.  Here  a  man,  even  of  moderate 
talent,  may  discover  a  gold-mine  as  he  puts  on  his  slippers, 
or  picks  his  teeth  after  dinner,  as  he  goes  to  bed  or  gets  up  in 
the  morning.  Find  me  a  spot  on  earth  where  a  good  common- 
place idea  brings  in  more  money,  or  is  more  immediately 
understood  than  it  is  here  ?  If  I  climb  to  the  top  of  the  tree, 
am  I  the  man  to  refuse  you  a  hand,  a  word,  a  signature  ?  Do 
not  we  young  scamps  need  a  friend  we  can  rely  on,  if  it  were 
only  to  compromise  him  in  our  place  and  stead,  to  send  liim 
forth  to  die  as  a  private,  so  as  to  save  the  General  ?  Politics 
are  impossible  v/ithout  a  man  of  honor  at  hand,  to  whom 
everything  may  be  said  and  done. 

"This,  then,  is  my  advice  to  you.  Let  the  Belle-Amelie  sail 
without  you;  return  here  like  a  lightning  flash,  and  I  will 
arrange  a  duel  for  you  with  Felix  de  Vandenesse,  in  which 
you  must  fire  first,  and  down  with  your  man  as  dead  as  a 
pigeon.  In  France  an  outraged  husband  who  kills  his  man 
is  at  once  respectable  and  respected.  No  one  ever  makes  game 
of  him !  Fear,  my  dear  boy,  is  an  element  of  social  life,  and 
a  means  of  success  for  those  whose  eyes  never  fall  before  the 
gaze  of  any  other  man.  I,  who  care  no  more  for  life  than  for 
a  cup  of  ass's  milk,  and  who  never  felt  a  qualm  of  fear,  have 
observed  the  strange  effects  of  that  form  of  emotion  on  modern 
manners.  Some  dread  the  idea  of  losing  the  enjoyments  to 
which  they  are  fettered,  others  that  of  parting  from  some 
woman.     The  adventurous  temper  of  past  times,  when  a  mart 


U(\  A  MARRLVnE  SETTLEMENT 

threw  away  his  life  like  a  slipper,  has  ceased  to  exist.  In 
many  men  courage  is  merely  a  clever  speculation  on  the  fear 
that  may  seize  their  adversary.  None  but  the  Poles  now,  in 
Europe,  ever  fight  for  the  pleasure  of  it;  they  still  cultivate 
the  art  for  art's  sake,  and  not  as  a  matter  of  calculation.  Kill 
Vandenesse,  and  your  wife  will  tremble;  your  mother-in-law 
will  tremble,  the  jjublic  will  tremble;  you  will  be  rehabilitated, 
you  will  proclaim  your  frantic  passion  for  your  wife,  every  one 
will  believe  you,  and  you  will  be  a  hero.     Such  is  France. 

"I  shall  not  stickle  over  a  hundred  thousand  francs  with 
you.  You  can  pay  your  principal  debts,  and  can  prevent  utter 
ruin  by  pledging  your  property  on  a  time  bargain  with  option 
of  repurchase,  for  you  will  soon  be  in  a  position  that  will 
allow  you  to  pay  off  the  mortgage  before  the  time  is  up.  Also, 
knowing  your  wife's  character,  you  can  henceforth  rule  her 
with  a  word.  While  you  loved  her  you  could  not  hold  your 
own;  now,  having  ceased  to  love  her,  your  power  will  be 
irresistible.  I  shall  have  made  your  mother-in-law  as  supple 
as  a  glove;  for  what  you  have  to  do  is  to  reinstate  yourself 
with  the  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs  those  women 
have  saved  for  themselves. 

"So  give  up  your  self-exile,  which  always  seems  to  me  the 
charcoal-brazier  of  men  of  brains.  If  you  run  away,  you 
leave  slander  mistress  of  the  field.  The  gambler  who  goes 
home  to  fetch  his  money  and  comes  back  to  the  tables  loses 
all.  You  must  have  your  funds  in  your  pocket.  You  appear 
to  me  to  be  seeking  fresh  reinforcements  in  the  Indies.  No 
good  at  all ! — We  are  two  gamblers  at  the  green  table  of  poli- 
tics; between  you  and  me  loans  are  a  matter  of  course.  So 
take  post-horses,  come  to  Paris,  and  begin  a  new  game;  with 
Henri  de  Marsay  for  a  partner  you  will  win,  for  Henri  de 
Marsay  knows  what  he  wants  and  when  to  strike. 

"This,  you  see,  is  where  we  stand.  ]\Iy  real  father  is  in 
the  English  Ministry.  We  shall  have  connections  with  Spain 
through  the  Evangelistas ;  for  as  soon  as  your  mother-in-law 
and  I  have  measured  claws,  we  shall  perceive  that  w'hen 
devil  meets  devil  there  is  nothing  to  be  gained  on  either  side. 


A  MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENT  141 

Montriveau  is  a  Lieutenant-General;  he  will  certainly  be  "War 
Minister  sooner  or  later,  for  his  eloquence  gives  him  much 
power  in  the  Chamber.  Ronquerolles  is  in  the  Ministry  and 
on  the  Privy  Council.  Martial  de  la  Roche-Hugon  is  ap- 
pointed Minister  to  Germany,  and  made  a  peer  of  France,  and 
he  has  brought  us  as  an  addition  Marshal  the  Due  de  Carigli- 
ano  and  all  round  'rump'  of  the  Empire,  which  so  stupidly 
held  on  to  the  rear  of  the  Eestoration.  Serizy  is  leader  of  the 
State  Council ;  he  is  indispensable  there.  Granville  is  master 
of  the  legal  party,  he  has  two  sons  on  the  Bench.  The  Graud- 
lieus  are  in  high  favor  at  Court.  Feraud  is  the  soul  of  the 
Gondreville  set,  low  intriguers  who,  I  know  not  why,  are  al- 
ways at  tfee  top. — Thus  supported,  what  have  we  to  fear  ?  We 
have  a  foot  in  every  capital,  an  eye  in  every  cabinet ;  we  hem 
in  the  whole  administration  witiiout  their  suspecting  it. 

"Is  not  the  money  question  a  mere  trifle,  nothing  at  all, 
when  all  this  machinery  is  ready?  And,  above  all,  what  is  a 
woman  ?  Will  you  nevei*  be  anything  but  a  schoolboy  ?  What 
is  life,  my  dear  fellow,  when  it  is  wrapped  up  in  a  woman  ?  A 
ship  over  which  we  have  no  command,  which  obeys  a  wild 
compass  though  it  has  indeed  a  lodestone ;  which  runs  before 
every  wind  that  blows,  and  in  which  the  man  really  is  a  galley- 
slave,  obedient  not  only  to  the  law,  but  to  every  rule  impro- 
vised by  his  driver,  without  the  possibility  of  retaliation. 
Phaugh ! 

"I  can  understand  that  from  passion,  or  the  pleasure  to  be 
found  in  placing  our  power  in  a  pair  of  white  hands,  a  man 
should  obey  his  wife — but  when  it  comes  to  obeying  Medor — 
then  away  with  Angelica  ! — The  great  secret  of  social  alchemy, 
my  dear  sir,  is  to  get  the  best  of  everything  out  of  each  stage 
of  our  life,  to  gather  all  its  leaves  in  spring,  all  its  flowers 
in  summer,  all  its  fruits  in  autumn.  Now  we — I  and  some 
boon  companions- — have  enjoyed  ourselves  for  twelve  years, 
like  musketeers,  black,  white,  and  red,  refusing  ourselves  noth- 
ing, not  even  a  filibustering  expedition  now  and  again ;  hence- 
forth we  mean  to  shake  down  ripe  plums,  at  an  age  when 


142  A  MARRIAGE  SETTT.EMKNT 

pxpcricnce  has  rijjoncd  the  harvest.     Come,  join  us;  you  shall 
liave  a  share  of  the  })U(lding  we  mean  to  stir. 

"Come,  and  you  will  find  a  friend  wholly  yours  in  the  skin 
of 

"Henri  de  M." 

At  the  moment  when  Paul  de  Manerville  finished  reading 
this  letter,  of  which  every  sentence  fell  like  a  sledge-hammer 
on  tlie  tower  of  his  hopes,  his  illusions,  and  his  love,  he  was; 
already  beyond  the  Azores.  In  the  midst  of  this  ruin,  rage 
surged  up  in  him,  cold  and  impotent  rage. 

"What  had  T  done  to  them?"  he  asked  himself. 

This  question  is  the  impulse  of  the  simjjleton,  of  the  weak 
natures,  which,  as  they  can  see  nothing,  can  foresee  nothing. 

"Henri,  Henri !"  he  cried  aloud.     "The  one  true  friend !" 

Many  men  would  have  gone  mad.  Paul  went  to  bed  and 
slept  the  deep  sleep  which  supervenes  on  immeasurable  dis- 
aster; as  Napoleon  slept  after  the  battle  of  Waterloo. 

Paris,  September- October  1835. 


A  START  IN  LIFE 

TO    LAURE 

To  wbose  bright  and  modest  wit  I  owe  the  idea  of  this  Scen^ , 
Hers  be  the  honor! 

Her  brother, 

De  Balzac. 

Railroads,  in  a  future  now  not  far  distant,  must  lead  to  the 
disappearance  of  certain  industries,  and  modify  others,  espe- 
cially such  as  are  concerned  in  the  various  modes  of  transport 
commonly  used  in  the  neighborhood  of  Paris.  In  fact,  the 
persons  and  the  things  which  form  the  accessories  of  this  little 
drama  will  ere  long  give  it  the  dignity  of  an  archaeological 
study.  Will  not  our  grandchildren  be  glad  to  know  some- 
thing of  a  time  which  they  will  speak  of  as  the  old  days  ? 

For  instance,  the  picturesque  vehicles  known  as  Coucous, 
which  used  to  stand  on  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  and  crowd 
the  Cours-la-Reine,  which  flourished  so  greatly  during  a  cen- 
tury, and  still  survived  in  1830,  exist  no  more.  Even  on  the 
occasion  of  the  most  attractive  rural  festivity,  hardly  one 
is  to  be  seen  on  the  road  in  this  year  1842. 

In  1820  not  all  the  places  famous  for  their  situation,  and 
designated  as  the  environs  of  Paris,  had  any  regular  service  of 
coaches.  The  Touchards,  father  and  son,  had  however  a 
monopoly  of  conveyances  to  and  from  the  largest  towns  with- 
in a  radius  of  fifteen  leagues,  and  their  establishment  occupied 
splendid  premises  in  the  Rue  du  Faubourg  Saint-Denis.  In 
spite  of  their  old  standing  and  their  strenuous  efforts,  in  spite 
of  their  large  capital  and  all  the  advantages  of  strong  centrali- 
zation, Touchards'  service  had  formidable  rivals  in  the  Cou- 
cous of  the  Faubourg  Saint-Denis  for  distances  of  seven  or 

(143) 


144  A  START  IN  LIFE 

eight  leagues  out  of  Paris.  The  Parisian  has  inrleod  such  a 
passion  for  the  country,  that  local  establishments  also  held 
their  own  in  many  cases  against  the  Petites  Messagerics,  a 
name  given  to  Touchards'  short-distance  coaches,  to  distin- 
guish them  from  the  Gnindes  Messagerics,  the  general  con- 
veyance company,  in  the  Hue  ]\Iontmartre. 

At  that  time  the  success  of  the  Touchards  stimulated  specu- 
lation; conveyances  were  put  on  the  road  to  and  from  the 
smallest  towns — handsome,  quick,  and  commodious  vehicles, 
starting  and  returning  at  fixed  hours;  and  these,  in  a  circuit 
of  ten  leagues  or  so,  gave  rise  to  vehement  competition. 
Beaten  on  the  longer  distances,  the  Coucou  fell  back  on  short 
nms,  and  survived  a  few  years  longer.  It  finally  succumbed 
when  the  omnibus  had  proved  the  possibility  of  packing 
eighteen  persons  into  a  vehicle  drawn  by  two  horses.  Now- 
adays the  Coucou,  if  a  bird  of  such  heavy  flight  is  by  chance 
still  to  be  found  in  the  recesses  of  some  store  for  dilapidated 
vehicles,  would,  from  its  structure  and  arrangement,  be  the 
subject  of  learned  investigations,  like  Cuvier's  researches  on 
the  animals  discovered  in  the  lime-quarries  of  Montmartre. 

These  smaller  companies,  being  threatened  by  larger  specu- 
lations competing,  after  1822,  with  the  Touchards.  had  never- 
theless a  fulcrum  of  support  in  the  sympathies  of  the  residents 
in  the  places  they  plied  to.  The  master  of  the  concern,  who 
was  both  owner  and  driver  of  the  vehicle,  was  usually  an 
innkeeper  of  the  district,  to  whom  its  inhabitants  were  as 
familiar  as  were  their  common  objects  and  interests.  He  was 
intelligent  in  fulfilling  commissions;  he  asked  less  for  his 
little  services,  and  therefore  obtained  more,  than  the  employes 
of  the  Touchards.  He  was  clever  at  evading  the  necessity 
for  an  excise  pass.  At  a  pinch  he  would  infringe  the  rules 
as  to  the  number  of  passengers  he  might  carry.  In  fact, 
he  was  master  of  the  afi'ections  of  the  people.  Hence,  when 
a  rival  appeared  in  the  field,  if  the  old-established  conveyance 
ran  on  alternate  days  of  the  week,  there  were  persons  who 
would  postpone  their  journey  to  take  it  in  the  company  of  the 
original  driver,  even  though  his  vehicle  and  horses  were  none 
of  the  safest  and  best. 


A  START  IN  LIFE  145 

One  of  the  lines  which  the  Touchards,  father  and  son,  tried 
hard  to  monopolize,  but  which  was  hotly  disputed — nay, 
which  is  still  a  subject  of  dispute  with  their  successors  the 
Toulouses — was  that  betv/een  Paris  and  Beaumont-sur-Oise, 
a  highly  profitable  district,  since  in  1823  three  lines  of  con- 
veyances worked  it  at  once.  The  Touchards  lowered  their 
prices,  but  in  vain,  and  in  vain  increased  the  number  of 
services ;  in  vain  they  put  superior  vehicles  on  the  road,  the 
competitors  held  their  own,  so  profitable  is  a  line  runmng 
through  little  towns  like  Saint-Denis  and  Saint-Brice.  and 
such  a  string  of  villages  as  Pierrefitte,  Groslay,  ficouen^  Pon- 
celles,  Moiselles,  Baillet,  Monsoult,  Maffliers,  Franronville, 
Presles,  Nointel,  Nerville,  and  others.  The  Touchards  at  last 
extended  their  line  of  service  as  far  as  to  Chambly ;  the  rivals 
ran  to  Chambly.  And  at  the  present  day  the  Toulouses  go  as 
far  as  Beauvais. 

On  this  road,  the  highroad  to  England,  there  is  a  place 
which  is  not  ill  named  la  Cave  [the  Cellar],  a  hollow  way 
leading  down  into  one  of  the  most  delightful  nooks  of  the 
Oise  valley,  and  to  the  little  town  of  ITsle-Adam,  doubly 
famous  as  the  native  place  of  the  now  extinct  family  de  I'lsle- 
Adam,  and  as  the  splendid  residence  of  the  Princes  of  Bour- 
bon-Conti.  LTsle-Adam  is  a  charming  little  town,  flanked 
by  two  large  hamlets,  that  of  >Togent  and  that  of  Parraain, 
both  remarkable  for  the  immense  quarries  which  have  fur- 
nished the  materials  for  the  finest  edifices  of  Paris,  and  indeed 
abroad  too,  for  the  base  and  capitals  of  the  theatre  at 
Brussels  are  of  N"ogent  stone. 

Though  remarkable  lov  its  beautiful  points  of  view,  and 
for  famous  chateaux  built  by  princes,  abbots,  or  famous  archi- 
tects, as  at  Cassan,  Stors,  le  Val,  Nointel,  Persan,  etc.,  this 
district,  in  1822;,  had  as  yet  escaped  competition,  and  was 
served  by  two  coach-owners,  who  agreed  to  work  it  between 
them.  This  exceptional  state  of  things  was  based  on  causes 
easily  explained.  From  la  Cave,  where,  on  the  highroad, 
begins  the  fine  paved  M-ay  due  to  the  magnificence  of  the 
Princes  of  Conti,  to  FIsIe-Adam,  is  a  distance  of  two  leagues ; 


146  A  START  IN  LIFE 

no  main  line  coach  could  diverge  so  far  from  the  highroad, 
especially  as  I'lsle-Adam  was  at  that  time  the  end  of  things 
in  that  direction.  The  road  led  thither,  and  ended  there. 
Of  late,  a  highroad  joins  the  valley  of  Montromency  to  that 
of  risle-Adam.  Leaving  Saint-Denis  it  passes  through  Saint- 
Leu-Taverny,  Meru,  I'lsle-Adam,  and  along  by  the  Oise  as  far 
as  Beaumont.  But  in  1S22  the  only  road  to  I'lsle-Adam  was 
that  made  by  the  Princes  de  Conti. 

Consequently  Pierrotin  and  his  colleague  reigned  supreme 
from  Paris  to  I'lsle-Adam,  beloved  of  all  the  district.  Pier- 
TOtin's  coach  and  his  friend's  ran  by  Stors,  le  Val,  Parmain, 
Champagne,  Mours,  Prerolles,  Nogent,  Nerville,  and  Maffliers. 
Pierrotin  was  so  well  known  that  the  residents  at  Monsouid, 
Moiselles,  Baillet,  and  Saint-Brice,  though  living  on  the  high- 
road, made  use  of  his  coach,  in  which  there  was  more  often  a 
chance  of  a  seat  than  in  the  Beaumont  diligence,  which  wa? 
always  full.  Pierrotin  and  his  friendly  rival  agreed  to  ad- 
miration. When  Pierrotin  started  from  I'lsle-Adam,  the  other 
set  out  from  Paris  and  vice-versa.  Of  the  opposing  driver, 
nothing  need  be  said.  Pierrotin  was  the  favorite  in  the  line. 
And  of  the  two,  he  alone  appears  on  the  scene  in  this  veracious 
history.  So  it  will  suffice  to  say  that  the  two  coach-drivers 
lived  on  excellent  terms,  competing  in  honest  warfare,  and 
contending  for  customers  without  sharp  practice.  In  Paris, 
out  of  economy,  they  put  up  at  the  same  inn,  using  the  same 
yard,  the  same  stable,  the  same  coach-shed,  the  same  office, 
the  same  booking  clerk.  And  this  fact  is  enough  to  show 
that  Pierrotin  and  his  opponents  were,  as  the  common  folks 
say,  of  a  very  good  sort. 

That  inn,  at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  d'Enghien,  exists  to  this 
day,  and  is  called  the  Silver  Lion.  The  proprietor  of  this  | 
hostlery — a  hostlery  from  time  immemorial  for  coach-drivers  • 
— himself  managed  a  line  of  vehicles  to  Daramartin  on  so 
sound  a  basis  that  his  neighbors  the  Touchards,  of  the 
Petites  Messagcries  opposite,  never  thought  of  starting  a  con- 
veyance on  that  road. 

Though  the  coaches  for  I'lsle-Adam  were  supposed  to  set 


A  START  IN  LIFE  141 

out  punctually,  Pierrotin  and  his  friend  displayed  a  degree 
of  indulgence  on  this  point  which,  while  it  won  them  the 
affections  of  the  natives,  brought  down  severe  remonstrances 
from  strangers  who  were  accustomed  to  the  exactitude  of  the 
larger  public  companies ;  but  the  two  drivers  of  these  vehicles, 
half  diligence,  half  coucou,  always  found  partisans  among 
their  regular  customers.  In  the  afternoon  the  start  fixed  for 
four  o'clock  always  dragged  on  till  half-past;  and  in  the 
morning,  though  eight  was  the  hour  named,  the  coach  never 
got  off  before  nine. 

This  system  was,  however,  very  elastic.  In  summer,  the 
golden  season  for  coaches,  the  time  of  departure,  rigorously 
punctual  as  concerned  strangers,  gave  way  for  natives  of 
the  district.  This  method  afforded  Pierrotin  the  chance  of 
pocketing  the  price  of  two  places  for  one  when  a  resident 
in  the  town  came  early  to  secure  a  place  already  booked  by  a 
bird  of  passage,  who,  by  ill-luck,  was  behind  time.  Such 
elastic  rules  would  certainly  not  be  approved  by  a  Puritan 
moralist;  but  Pierrotin  and  his  colleague  justified  it  by  the 
hard  times,  by  their  losses  during  the  winter  season,  by  the 
necessity  they  would  presently  be  under  of  purchasing  better 
carriages,  and  finally,  by  an  exact  application  of  the  rules 
printed  on  their  tickets,  copies  of  which  were  of  the  greatest 
rarity,  and  never  given  but  to  those  travelers  who  were  so  per- 
verse as  to  insist. 

Pierrotin,  a  man  of  forty,  was  already  the  father  of  a  family. 
He  had  left  the  cavalry  in  1815  when  the  army  was  disbanded, 
and  then  this  very  good  fellow  liad  succeeded  his  father,  who 
drove  a  coucou  between  I'lsle-Adam  and  Paris  on  somewhat 
■/erratic  principles.  After  marrying  the  daughter  of  a  small 
Jinnkeeper,  he  extended  and  regulated  the  business,  and  was 
noted  for  his  intelligence  and  military  punctuality.  Brisk  and 
decisive,  Pierrotin — a  nickname,  no  doubt — had  a  mobile 
countenance  which  gave  an  amusing  expression  and  a  sem- 
blance of  intelligence  to  a  face  reddened  by  exposure  to  the 
weather.  Nor  did  he  lack  the  "gift  of  the  gab"  which  is  cauglit 
by  intercourse  with  the  world,  and  by  seeing  different  parts  of 


148  A  START  IN  LIFE 

it.  His  voice,  by  dint  of  talking  to  his  horso>^,  and  shouting  to 
others  to  get  out  of  the  way,  was  somewhat  harsli,  but  lie  could 
soften  it  to  a  customer. 

His  costume,  that  of  coach-drivers  of  the  superior  class,  con- 
sisted of  stout,  strong  boots,  heavy  with  nails,  and  made  at 
I'Isle-Adam,  trousers  of  bottle-green  velveteen,  and  a  jacket  of 
the  same,  over  which,  in  the  exercise  of  his  functions,  he  wore 
a  blue  blouse,  embroidered  in  colors  on  the  collar,  shoulder- 
pieces,  and  wristbands.  On  his  head  was  a  cap  with  a  peak. 
His  experience  of  military  service  had  stamped  on  Pierrotin 
the  greatest  respect  for  social  superiority,  and  a  habit  of 
obedience  to  people  of  the  upper  ranks;  but  while  he  was 
ready  to  be  on  familiar  terms  with  the  modest  citizen,  he  was 
always  respectful  to  women,  of  whatever  class.  At  the  same 
time,  the  habit  of  "carting  folks  about,"  to  use  his  own  ex- 
pression, had  led  him  to  regard  his  travelers  as  parcels ; 
though,  being  on  feet,  they  demanded  less  care  than  the  other 
merchandise,  which  was  the  aim  and  end  of  the  service. 

Warned  by  the  general  advance,  which  since  the  peace 
begun  to  tell  on  his  business,  Pierrotin  was  determined  not  to 
be  beaten  by  the  progress  of  the  world.  Ever  since  the  last 
summer  season  he  had  talked  a  great  deal  of  a  certain  large 
conveyance  he  had  ordered  of  Farry,  Breilmann  and  Co.,  the 
best  diligence  builders,  as  being  needed  by  the  constant  in- 
crease of  travelers.  Pierrotin's  plant  at  that  time  consisted  of 
two  vehicles.  One,  which  did  duty  for  the  winter,  and  the  only 
one  he  ever  showed  to  the  tax-collector,  was  of  the  coucou 
species.  The  bulging  sides  of  this  vehicle  allowed  it  to  carry 
six  passengers  on  two  seats  as  hard  as  iron,  though  covered 
with  yellow  worsted  velvet.  These  seats  were  divided  by  a 
wooden  bar,  which  could  be  removed  at  pleasure  or  refixed  in 
two  grooves  in  the  sides,  at  the  height  of  a  man's  back.  This 
bar,  perfidiously  covered  by  Pierrotin  with  yellow  velvet,  and 
called  by  him  a  back  to  the  seat,  was  the  cause  of  much  despair 
to  the  travelers  from  the  difficulty  of  moving  and  readjusting 
it.  If  the  board  was  ])ainful  to  fix,  it  was  far  more  so  to  the 
shoidder-blades  when  it  was  fitted;  on  the  other  hand,  if  it 


A  START  IN  LIFE  149     * 

Was  not  unshipped,  it  made  entrance  and  egress  equally 
perilous,  especialh'  to  women. 

Though  each  seat  of  this  vehicle,  which  bulged  at  the  sides 
like  a  woman  before  childbirth,  was  licensed  to  hold  no  more 
than  three  passengers,  it  M^as  not  unusual  to  see  eight  packed 
in  it  like  herrings  in  a  barrel.  Pierrotin  declared  that  they 
were  all  the  more  comfortable,  since  they  formed  a  compact 
and  immovable  mass,  whereas  three  were  constantly  thrown 
against  each  other,  and  often  ran  the  risk  of  spoiling  their 
hats  against  the  roof  of  the  vehicle  by  reason  of  the  violent 
jolting  on  the  road.  In  front  of  the  body  of  this  carriage 
there  was  a  wooden  box-seat,  Pierrotin's  driving-seat,  which 
could  also  carry  three  passengers,  who  were  designated,  as  all 
the  world  knows,  as  lapins  (rabbits).  Occasionally,  Pierrotin 
would  accommodate  four  lapins,  and  then  sat  askew  on  a  sort 
of  box  below  the  front  seat  for  the  lapins  to  rest  their  feet  on ; 
this  was  filled  with  straw  or  such  parcels  as  oould  not  be 
injured. 

The  body  of  the  vehicle,  painted  yellow,  was  ornamented 
by  a  band  of  bright  blue,  on  which  might  be  read  in  white 
letters,  on  each  side,  L'Isle-Adam — Paris;  and  on  the  back, 
Service  de  I'Isle-Adam.  Our  descendants  will  be  under  a 
mistake  if  they  imagine  that  this  conveyance  could  carry  no 
more  than  thirteen  persons,  including  Pierrotin.  On  great 
occasions  three  more  could  be  seated  in  a  square  compartment 
covered  with  tarpaulin  in  which  trunks,  boxes,  and  parcels 
were  generally  piled ;  but  Pierrotin  was  too  prudent  to  let  any 
but  regular  customers  sit  there,  and  only  took  them  up  three 
or  four  hundred  yards  outside  the  barrier.  •  These  passengers 
in  the  poulailler,  or  hen-coop,  the  name  given  by  the  conduct- 
ors to  this  part  of  a  coach,  were  required  to  get  out  before 
reaching  any  village  on  the  road  where  there  was  a  station  of 
gendarmerie ;  for  the  overloading,  forbidden  by  the  regulations 
for  the  greater  safety  of  travelers,  was  in  these  cases  so  excess- 
ive, that  the  gendarme — always  Pierrotin's  very  good  friend — 
could  not  have  excused  himself  from  reporting  such  a  flagrant 
breach  of  rules.     But  thus  Pierrotin's  vehicle,  on  certain  Sat- 


150  A  START  IN  LIFE 

urday  evenings  and  Monday  mornings,  carted  out  fifteen 
passengers;  and  then  to  lielp  pull  it,  he  gave  his  large  but 
aged  horse,  named  Kougeot,  the  assistance  of  a  second  nag 
about  as  big  as  a  pony,  which  he  could  never  sufficiently  praise. 
This  little  steed  was  a  mare  called  Bichette ;  and  she  ate  little, 
she  was  full  of  spirit,  nothing  could  tire  her,  she  was  worth 
her  weight  in  gold  ! 

"My  wife  would  not  exchange  her  for  that  great  lazy  beast 
Eougeot !"  Pierrotin  would  exclaim,  when  a  traveler  laughed 
at  him  about  this  concentrated  extract  of  horse. 

The  difference  between  this  carriage  and  the  other  was, 
that  the  second  had  four  wheels.  This  vehicle,  a  remarkable 
structure,  always  spoken  of  as  "the  four-wheeled  coach/' 
could  hold  seventeen  passengers,  being  intended  to  carry 
fourteen.  It  rattled  so  preposterously  that  the  folks  in  ITsle- 
Adam  would  say,  "Here  comes  Pierrotin !"  when  he  had  but 
just  come  out  of  the  wood  that  hangs  on  the  slope  to  the  valley. 
It  was  divided  into  two  lobes,  one  of  which,  called  the  in- 
terieur,  the  body  of  the  coach,  carried  six  passengers  on  two 
seats,  and  the  other,  a  sort  of  cab  stuck  on  in  front,  was  styled 
the  coupe.  This  coupe  could  be  closed  by  an  inconvenient  and 
eccentric  arrangement  of  glass  windows,  which  would  take  too 
long  to  describe  in  this  place.  The  four-wheeled  coach  also 
had  at  top  a  sort  of  gig  with  a  hood,  into  which  Pierrotin 
packed  six  travelers;  it  closed  with  leather  curtains.  Pier- 
rotin himself  had  an  almost  invisible  perch  below  the  glass 
windows  of  the  coupe. 

The  coach  to  ITsle-Adam  only  paid  the  taxes  levied  on 
public  vehicles  for- the  coucou,  represented  to  carry  six  travel- 
ers, and  whenever  Pierrotin  turned  out  the  "four-wheeled 
'coach"  he  took  out  a  special  license.  This  may  seen  strange 
indeed  in  these  days ;  but  at  first  the  tax  on  vehicles,  imposed  ' 
somewhat  timidly,  allowed  the  owners  of  coaches  to  play  these 
little  tricks,  which  gave  them  the  pleasure  of  "putting  their 
thumbs  to  their  noses"  behind  the  collector's  back,  as  they 
phrased  it.  By  degrees,  however,  the  hungry  Exchequer  grew 
strict :  it  allowed  no  vehicle  to  take  the  road  without  displaying 


A  START  IN  LIFE  151 

the  two  plates  which  now  certify  that  their  capacity  is  regis- 
tered and  the  tax  paid.  Everything,  even  a  tax,  has  its  age  of 
innocence,  and  towards  the  end  of  1832  that  age  was  not  yet 
over.  Very  often,  in  summer,  the  four-wheeled  coach  and  the 
covered  chaise  made  the  journey  in  company,  carrying  in  all 
thirty  passengers,  while  Pierrotin  paid  only  for  six. 

On  these  golden  days  the  convoy  started  from  the  Faubourg 
Saint-Denis  at  half-past  four,  and  arrived  in  style  at  I'lsle- 
Adani  by  ten  o'clock  at  night.  And  then  Pierrotin,  proud  of 
his  run,  which  necessitated  the  hire  of  extra  horses,  would 
say,  "We  have  made  a  good  pace  to-day !"  To  enable  him  to 
do  nine  leagues  in  five  hours  with  his  machinery,  he  did  not 
stop,  as  the  coaches  usually  do  on  this  road,  at  Saint-Brice, 
Moisselles,  and  la  Cave. 

The  Silver  Lion  inn  occupied  a  plot  of  ground  running  very 
far  back.  Though  the  front  to  the  Eue  Saint-Denis  has  no 
more  than  three  or  four  windows,  there  was  at  that  time,  on 
one  side  of  the  long  yard,  with  the  stables  at  the  bottom,  a 
large  house  backing  on  the  wall  of  the  adjoining  property. 
The  entrance  was  through  an  arched  way  under  the  first  floor, 
and  there  was  standing-room  here  for  two  or  three  coaches. 
In  1822,  the  booking-office  for  all  the  lines  that  put  up  at  the 
Silver  Lion  was  kept  by  the  innkeeper's  wife,  who  had  a  book 
for  each  line ;  she  took  the  money,  wrote  down  the  names,  and 
good-naturedly  accommodated  passengers'  luggage  in  her  vast 
kitchen.  The  travelers  were  quite  satisfied  vsdth  this  patri- 
archally  free-and-easy  mode  of  business.  If  they  came  too 
early,  they  sat  down  by  the  fire  within  the  immense  chimney- 
place,  or  lounged  in  the  passage,  or  went  to  the  cafe  de  VEchi- 
quier,  at  the  corner  of  the  street  of  that  name,  parallel  to  the 
■Rue  d'Enghien,  from  which  it  is  divided  by  a  few  houses  only. 

Quite  early  in  the  autumn  of  that  year,  one  Saturday  morn- 
ing, Pierrotin,  his  hands  stuffed  through  holes  in  his  blouse 
and  into  his  pockets,  was  standing  at  the  front  gate  of  the 
Silver  Lion,  whence  he  had  a  perspective  view  of  the  inn 
kitchen,  and  beyond  it  of  the  long  yard  and  the  stables  at  the 


ts2  A  START  IN  LIFE 

end,  like  black  caverns.  The  Damniartin  diligence  had  just 
started,  and  was  lumbering  after  To;:cliard's  coaches.  It  was 
past  eight  o'clock.  Under  the  wide  archway,  over  which  was 
inscribed  on  a  long  board,  Hotel  du  Lion  d' Argent,  the 
stableman  and  coach-porters  were  watching  the  vehicles  S'tart 
at  the  brisk  jjaee  which  deludes  the  traveler  into  the  belief  that/ 
the  horses  will  continue  to  keep  it  up. 

"Shall  I  bring  out  the  horses,  master?"  said  Pierrotin's 
stable-boy,  when  there  was  nothing  more  to  be  seen. 

"A  quarter-past  eight,  and  I  see  no  passengers,"  said  Pier- 
rotin.  "What  the  deuce  has  become  of  them  ?  Put  the  horses 
to,  all  the  same. — No  parcels  neither.  Bless  us  and  save  us! 
This  afternoon,  now,  lie  won't  know  how  to  stow  his  pas- 
sengers, as  it  is  so  fine,  and  I  have  only  four  booked.  There's 
a  pretty  outlook  for  a  Saturday !  That's  always  the  way 
when  you're  wanting  the  ready  !  It's  dog's  work,  and  work  for 
a  dog !" 

"And  if  you  had  any,  where  would  you  stow  'em?  You 
have  nothing  but  your  two-wheel  cab,"  said  the  luggage- 
porter,  trying  to  smooth  down  Pierrotin. 

"And  what  about  my  new  coach  ?" 

"Then  there  is  such  a  thing  as  your  new  coach  ?"  asked  the 
sturdy  Auvergnat,  grinning  and  showing  his  front  teeth,  as 
white  and  as  broad  as  almonds. 

"You  old  good-for-nothing !  Why,  she  will  take  the  road 
to-morrow,  Sundav,  and  we  want  eighteen  passengers  to  fill 
her !" 

"Oh,  ho !  a  fine  turnout !  that'll  make  the  folk  stare !" 
said  the  Auvergnat. 

"A  coach  like  the  one  that  runs  to  Beaumont,  I  can  tell 
you !  Brand  new,  painted  in  red  and  gold,  enough  to  make 
the  Touchards  burst  with  envy !  It  will  take  three  horses.  I 
have  found  a  fellow  to  Rougeot,  and  Bichette  will  trot  unicorn 
like  a  good  'un. — Come,  harness  up,"  said  Pierrotin,  who  was 
looking  towards  the  Porte  Saint-Denis  while  cramming  his 
short  pipe  with  tobacco,  "I  see  a  lady  out  there,  and  a  little 
man  with  bundles  under  his  arm.     They  are  looking  for  the 


Pierrotiu  sat  down  on  one  of  the  enormous  curbstones 


164  A  START  IN  LIFE 

Hence  Pierrotin  was  in  need  of  a  thousand  francs!  Being 
in  debt  to  the  innkci'jxT  lor  stable-room,  lie  dared  not  borrow 
the  sum  of  him.  For  lack  of  this  thousand  francs,  he  risked 
losing  the  two  thousand  already  paid  in  advance,  to  say  noth- 
ing of  live  hundred,  the  cost  of  Kougeot  the  second,  and  three 
hundred  for  new  harness,  for  which,  however,  he  had  three 
niontlis'  credit.  And  yet,  urged  by  the  wrath  of  despair  and 
the  folly  of  vanity,  he  had  just  declared  that  his  coach  would 
start  on  the  morrow,  Sunday.  In  paying  the  fifteen  hundred 
francs  on  account  of  the  two  thousand  five  hundred,  he  had 
hoped  that  the  coachmakers'  feelings  might  be  touched  so  far 
that  they  would  let  him  have  the  vehicle;  but,  after  three 
minutes'  reflection,  he  exclaimed : 

"No,  no !  they  are  sharks,  perfect  skinflints. — Supposing 
I  were  to  apply  to  Monsieur  Moreau,  the  steward  at  Presles — 
he  is  such  a  good  fellow,  that  he  would,  perhaps,  take  my  note 
of  hand  at  six  months'  date,"  thought  he,  struck  by  a  new 
idea. 

At  this  instant,  a  servant  out  of  livery,  carrying  a  leather 
trunk,  on  coming  across  from  the  Touchards'  oflfice,  where  he 
had  failed  to  find  a  place  vacant  on  the  Chambly  coach  start- 
ing at  one  o'clock,  said  to  the  driver : 

"Pierrotin?— Is  that  you?" 

"What  then?"  said  Pierrotin. 

"If  you  can  wait  less  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  you  can 
carry  my  master;  if  not,  I  will  take  his  portmanteau  back 
again,  and  he  must  make  the  best  of  a  chaise  off  the  stand." 

"I  will  wait  two — three-quarters  of  an  hour,  and  five  min- 
utes more  to  that,  my  lad,"  said  Pierrotin,  with  a  glance  at 
the  smart  little  leather  trunk,  neatly  strapped,  and  fastened 
with  a  brass  lock  engraved  with  a  coat-of-arms. 

"Very  good,  then,  there  you  are,"  said  the  man,  relieving 
his  shoulder  of  the  trunk,  which  Pierrotin  lifted,  weighed 
in  his  hand,  and  scrutinized. 

"Here,"  said  he  to  his  stable-boy,  "pack  it  round  with  soft 
hay,  and  put  it  in  the  boot  at  the  back. — There  is  no  name  on 
it,"  said  he. 


A  START  IN  LIFE  155 

"There  are  monseigneur's  arms/'  replied  the  servant. 

"Monseigneur  ?  worth  his  weight  in  gold ! — Come  and  have 
a  short  drink,"  said  Pierrotin,  with  a  wink,  as  he  led  the  way 
to  the  cafe  of  the  Echiquiers. — "Two  of  absinthe,"  cried  he 
to  the  waiter  as  they  went  in. — "But  who  is  your  master,  and 
where  is  he  bound?  I  never  saw  you  before,"  said  Pierrotin 
to  the  servant  as  they  clinked  glasses. 

"And  for  very  good  reasons,"  replied  the  footman.  "My 
master  does  not  go  your  way  once  a  year,  and  always  in  his 
own  carriage.  He  prefers  the  road  by  the  Orge  valley,  where 
he  has  the  finest  park  near  Paris,  a  perfect  Versailles,  a  family 
estate,  from  which  he  takes  his  name. — Don't  you  know  Mon- 
sieur Moreau  ?" 

"The  steward  at  Presles  ?"  said  Pierrotin. 

'^ell.  Monsieur  le  Comte  is  going  to  spend  two  days  at 
Presles." 

•     "Oh,  ho,  then  my  passenger  is  the  Comte  de  Serizy !"  cried 
Pierrotin. 

"Yes,  my  man,  no  less.  But,  mind,  he  sends  strict  orders. 
If  you  have  any  of  the  people  belonging  to  your  parts  in  your 
chaise,  do  not  mention  the  Count's  name ;  he  wants  to  travel 
incognito,  and  desired  me  to  tell  you  so,  and  promise  you  a 
handsome  tip." 

"Hah !  and  has  this  hide-and-seek  journey  anything  to  do, 
by  any  chance,  \vith  the  bargain  that  old  Leger,  the  farmer  at 
les  Moulineaux,  wants  to  make  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  the  man ;  "but  the  fat  is  in  the  fire. 
Last  evening  I  was  sent  to  the  stables  to  order  the  chaise 
a  la  Daumont,  by  seven  this  morning,  to  drive  to  Presles ;  but 
at  seven  my  master  countermanded  it.  iVugustin,  his  valet, 
ascribes  this  change  of  plan  to  the  visit  of  a  lady,  who  seemed 
to  have  come  from  the  country." 

"Can  any  one  have  had  anything  to  say  against  Monsieur'' 
Moreau  ?  The  best  of  men,  the  most  honest,  the  king  of  men,' 
I  say !  He  might  have  made  a  deal  more  money  than  he  has 
done  if  he  had  chosen,  take  my  word  for  it ! " 

"Then  he  was  very  foolish,"  said  the  servant  sententiously. 


166  A  START  IN  LIFE 

"Then  Monsieur  de  Scrizy  is  going  to  live  at  Presles  cat  last? 
The  chateau  has  heen  refurnished  and  done  up,"  said  Pierrotin 
after  a  pause.  "Is  it  true  tliat  two  hundred  thousand  francs 
have  been  spent  on  it  already  ?" 

"If  you  or  I  had  the  money  that  has  Ijeeu  spent  there,  we 
could  set  up  in  the  world. — If  Madame  la  Comtesse  goes  down 
there,  and  Moreaus'  fun  will  be  over,"  added  the  man,  with 
mysterious  significance. 

,  "A  good  man  is  Monsieur  Moreau,"  repeated  Pierrotin,  who 
was  still  thinking  of  borrowing  the  thousand  francs  from  the 
steward ;  "a  man  that  makes  his  men  work,  and  does  not 
spare  them;  Avho  gets  all  the  profit  out  of  the  land,  and  for 
his  master's  benefit  too.  A  good  man !  He  often  comes  to 
Paris,  and  always  by  my  coach ;  he  give^  me  something  hand- 
some for  myself,  and  always  has  a  lot  of  parcels  to  and  fro. 
Three  or  four  a  day,  sometimes  for  monsieur  and  sometimes 
for  madame ;  a  bill  of  fifty  francs  a  month  say,  only  on  the  car- 
rier's score.  Though  madame  holds  her  head  a  little  above 
her  place,  she  is  fond  of  her  children;  I  take  them  to  school 
for  her  and  bring  them  home  again.  And  she  always  gives 
me  five  francs,  and  3'our  biggest  pot  would  not  do  more.  And 
whenever  I  have  any  one  from  them  or  to  them,  I  always  drive 
right  up  to  the  gates  of  the  house — I  could  not  do  less,  now, 
could  I ?" 

"They  say  that  Monsieur  Moreau  had  no  more  than  a  thou- 
sand crowns  in  the  world  when  Monsieur  le  Comte  put  him 
in  as  land  steward  at  Presles  ?"  said  the  servant. 

"But  in  seventeen  years'  time — since  1806 — the  man  must 
have  made  something,"  replied  Pierrotin. 

"To  be  sure,"  said  the  servant,  shaking  his  head.  "And 
masters  are  queer  too.  I  hope,  for  Moreau's  sake,  that  he 
has  feathered  liis  nest." 

"I  often  deliver  hampers  at  your  house  in  the  Chauss^- 
d'Antin,"  said  Pierrotin,  "but  I  have  never  had  the  privilege 
of  seeing  either  the  master  or  his  lady." 

"^fonsicur  le  Comte  is  a  very  good  sort,"  said  the  man  confi- 
dentially ;  "but  if  he  wants  you  to  hold  your  tongue  about  his 


A  START  IN  LIFE  15? 

togniio,  there  is  a  screw  loose  you  may  depend. — At  least,  that 
is  what  we  think  at  home.  For  why  else  should  he  counter- 
order  the  traveling  carriage?  Why  ride  in  a  public  chaise? 
A  peer  of  France  might  take  a  hired  chaise,  you  would  think." 

"A  hired  chaise  might  cost  him  as  mucli  as  forty  francs  for 
the  double  journey;  for,  I  can  tell,  if  you  don't  know  our  road, 
it  is  fit  for  squirrels  to  climb.  Everlastingly  up  and  down !" 
said  Pierrotin.  'Teer  of  France  or  tradesman,  everybody 
looks  at  both  sides  of  a  five-franc  piece. — If  this  trip  means 
mischief  to  Monsieur  Moreau — dear,  dear,  I  should  be  vexed 
indeed  if  any  harm  came  to  him.  By  the  Mass !  Can  no  way 
be  found  of  warning  him  ?  For  he  is  a  real  good  'un,  an  hon- 
est sort,  the  king  of  men,  I  say " 

"Pooh !  Monsieur  le  Comte  is  much  attached  to  Monsieur 
Moreau,"  said  the  other.  "But  if  you  will  take  a  bit  of  good 
advice  from  me,  mind  your  own  business,  and  let  him  mind 
his.  We  all  have  quite  enough  to  do  to  take  care  of  ourselves. 
You  just  do  what  you  are  asked  to  do ;  all  the  more  because  it 
does  not  pay  to  play  fast  and  loose  with  monseigneur.  Add 
to  that,  the  Count  is  generous.  If  you  oblige  him  that  much," 
said  the  man,  measuring  off  the  nail  of  one  finger,  "he  will 
reward  you  that  much,"  and  he  stretched  out  his  arm. 

This  judicious  hint,  and  yet  more  the  illustrative  figure, 
coming  from  a  man  so  high  in  office  as  the  Comte  de  Serizy's 
second  footman,  had  the  effect  of  cooling  Pierrotin's  zeal  for 
the  steward  of  Presles. 

'*Well,  good-day.  Monsieur  Pierrotin,"  said  the  man. 

A  short  sketch  of  the  previous  history  of  the  Comte  de 
Serizy  and  his  steward  is  here  necessary  to  explain  the  little 
drama  about  to  be  played  in  Pierrotin's  coach. 

Monsieur  Hugret  de  Serizy  is  descended  in  a  direct  line 
from  the  famous  President  Hugret,  ennobled  by  Francis  the 
First.  They  bear  as  arms  party  per  pale  or  and  sable,  an  orle 
and  two  lozenges  counter cJianged.  Motto,  I  Semper  Melius 
eris,  which,  like  the  two  winders  assumed  as  supporters,  shows 
the  modest  pretence  of  the  citizen  class  at  a  time  when  each 


ir,8  A  START  IN  LIFE 

rank  of  society  had  its  own  place  in  the  State,  and  also  the 
artlos^noss  of  the  age  in  the  punning  motto,  where  eris  with 
the  /  at  the  beginning,  and  the  final  S  of  Melius,  represeni 
the  name  Serisi  of  the  estate,  M'hence  the  title. 

The  present  Count's  father  was  a  President  of  Parlement 
before  the  Revolution,  lie  himself,  a  member  of  the  High 
Council  of  State  in  1787,  at  the  early  age  of  two-and-twenty, 
was  favorably  known  for  certain  reports  on  some  delicate 
matters.  He  did  not  emigrate  during  the  Revolution,  but 
remained  on  his  lands  of  Serizy,  near  Arpajon,  where  the 
respect  felt  for  his  father  protected  him  from  molestation. 

After  spending. a  few  years  in  nursing  the  old  President, 
whom  he  lost  in  1794,  he  was  elected  to  the  Council  of  Five 
Hundred,  and  took  up  his  legislative  functions  as  a  distraction 
from  his  grief. 

After  the  eighteenth  Brumaire,  Slonsieur  de  Serizy  became 
the  object — as  did  all  the  families  connected  with  the  old 
Parlements — of  the  First  Consul's  attentions,  and  by  him 
he  was  appointed  a  Councillor  of  State  to  reorganize  one  of 
the  most  disorganized  branches  of  the  Administration.  Thus 
this  scion  of  a  great  historical  family  became  one  of  the  most 
important  wheels  in  the  vast  and  admirable  machinery  due  to 
Napoleon.  The  State  Councillor  ere  long  left  his  department 
t(t  be  made  a  Minister.  The  Emperor  created  him  Count  and 
Senator,  and  he  was  pro-consul  to  two  different  kingdoms  in 
succession. 

In  1806,  at  the  age  of  forty,  he  married  the  sister  of  the 
ci-devant  Marquis  de  Ronquerolles,  and  widow,  at  the  age 
of  twenty,  of  Gaubert,  one  of  the  most  distinguished  of  the 
Republican  Generals,  who  left  her  all  his  wealth.  This  match, 
suitable  in  point  of  rank,  doubled  the  Comte  de  Serizy's  al- 
ready considerable  fortune;  he  was  now  the  brother-in-law  of 
the  ci-dcvani  ilarquis  du  Rouvre,  whom  Napoleon  created 
Count  and  appointed  to  be  his  chamberlain. 

In  1814,  worn  out  with  incessant  work,  Monsieur  de  Serizy, 
whose  broken  health  needed  rest,  gave  up  all  his  appointments, 
left  the  district  of  which  Napoleon  had  made  him  Governor, 


A  START  IN  LIFE  15d 

and  came  to  Paris,  where  the  Emperor  was  compelled  by 
ocular  evidence  to  concede  his  claims.  This  indefatigable 
master,  who  could  not  believe  in  fatigue  in  other  people,  had 
at  first  supposed  tlie  necessity  that  prompted  the  Comte  de 
Serizy  to  be  simple  defection.  Though  the  Senator  was  not 
in  disgrace,  it  was  said  that  he  had  cause  for  complaint  of  Na- 
poleon. Consequently,  when  the  Bourbons  came  back,  Louis 
XVIII. ,  whom  Monsieur  do  Serizy  acknowledged  as  his  legiti- 
'mate  sovereign,  granted  to  the  Senator,  now  a  peer  of  France, 
the  highly  confidential  post  of  Steward  of  his  Privy  Purse 
and  made  him  a  Minister  of  State. 

On  the  20th  March,  Monsieur  de  Serizy  did  not  follow  the 
King  to  Ghent;  he  made  it  known  to  Napoleon  that  he  re- 
mained faithful  to  the  House  of  Bourbon,  and  accepted  no 
peerage  during  the  hundred  days,  but  spent  that  brief  reign 
on  his  estate  of  Serizy.  After  the  Emperor's  second  fall,  the 
Count  naturally  resumed  his  seat  in  the  Privy  Council,  was 
one  of  the  Council  of  State,  and  Liquidator  on  behalf  of 
France  in  the  settlement  of  the  indemnities  demanded  by 
foreign  powers. 

He  had  no  love  of  personal  magnificence,  no  ambition  even, 
but  exerted  great  influence  in  public  affairs.  No  important 
political  step  was  ever  taken  without  his  being  consulted,  but 
he  never  went  to  Court,  and  was  seldom  seen  in  his  own 
drawing-room.  His  noble  life,  devoted  to  work  from  the  first, 
ended  by  being  perpetual  work  and  nothing  else.  The  Count 
rose  at  four  in  the  morning  in  all  seasons,  worked  till  mid- 
day, then  took  up  his  duties  as  a  Peer,  or  as  Vice-President  of 
the  Council,  and  went  to  bed  at  nine. 

Monsieur  de  Serizy  had  long  worn  the  Grand  Cross  of  the 
Legion  of  Honor ;  he  also  had  the  orders  of  the  Golden  Fleece, 
of  Saint  Andrew  of  Russia,  of  the  Prussian  Eagle ;  in  short, 
almost  every  order  of  the  European  Courts.  No  one  was  less 
conspicuous  or  more  valuable  than  he  in  the  world  of  politics. 
As  may  be  supposed,  to  a  man  of  his  temper  the  flourish  of 
Court  favor  and  worldly  success  were  a  matter  of  indifference. 

But  no  man,  unless  he  is  a  jiriest^  can  live  such  a  life  with- 


160  A  START  IN  LIFE 

out  some  strong  motive;  and  his  mysterious  conduct  had  its 
key — a  cruel  one.  Tlie  Count  had  loved  his  wife  hefore  he 
married  her,  and  in  him  this  passion  had  withstood  all  the 
domestic  discomforts  of  matrimony  with  a  widow  who  re- 
mained mistress  of  herself,  after  as  well  as  before  her  second 
marriage,  and  who  took  all  the  more  advantage  of  her  liberty 
because  Monsieur  de  Serizy  indulged  her  as  a  mother  indulges 
a,  spoilt  child.  Incessant  work  served  him  as  a  shield  against 
his  heartfelt  woes,  buried  with  the  care  that  a  man  engaged  in 
politics  takes  to  hide  such  secrets.  And  he  fully  understood 
how  ridiculous  jealousy  would  be  in  the  eyes  of  the  world, 
which  would  certainly  never  have  admitted  the  possibility  of 
conjugal  passion  in  a  time-worn  official. 

How  was  it  that  his  wife  had  thus  bewitched  him  from  the 
first  days  of  marriage?  Why  had  he  suifered  in  those  early 
days  without  taking  his  revenge?  Why  did  he  no  longer  dare 
to  be  revenged?  And  why,  deluded  by  hope,  had  he  allowed 
time  to  slip  away?  By  what  means  had  his  young,  pretty, 
clever  wife  reduced  him  to  subjection?  The  answer  to  these 
questions  would  require  a  long  story,  out  of  place  in  this 
"Scene,"  and  women,  if  not  men,  may  be  able  to  guess  it. 
At  the  same  time,  it  may  be  observed  that  the  Count's  inces- 
sant work  and  many  sorrows  had  unfortunately  done  much  to 
deprive  him  of  the  advantages  indispensable  to  a  man  who 
has  to  compete  with  unfavorable  comparisons.  The  saddest 
perhaps  of  all  the  Count's  secrets  was  the  fact  that  his  wife's 
repulsion  was  partly  justified  by  ailments  which  he  owed  en- 
tirely to  overwork.  Kind,  nay,  more  than  kind,  to  his  wife, 
he  made  her  mistress  in  her  own  house ;  she  received  all  Paris, 
she  went  into  the  country,  or  she  came  back  again,  precisely 
as  though  she  were  still  a  widow;  he  took  care  of  her  money, 
and  supplied  her  luxuries  as  if  he  had  been  her  agent. 

The  Countess  held  her  husband  in  the  highest  esteem,  in- 
deed, she  liked  his  turn  of  wit.  Her  approbation  could  give 
him  pleasure,  and  thus  she  could  do  what  she  liked  with  the 
poor  man  by  sitting  and  chatting  with  him  for  an  hour.  Like 
the  great  nobles  of  former  days,  the  Count  so  effectually  pro- 


A  START  IN  LIFE  161 

tected  his  wife  that  he  would  have  regarded  any  slur  cast  on 
her  reputation  as  an  unpardonable  insult  to  himself.  The 
world  greatly  admired  his  character,  and  Madame  de  Serizy 
owed  much  to  her  husband.  Any  other  woman,  even  though 
she  belonged  to  so  distinguished  a  family  as  that  of  Ronque- 
rolles,  might  have  found  herself  disgraced  for  ever. .  The  Coun- 
tess was  very  ungrateful — but  charming  in  her  ingratitude. 
And  from  time  to  time  she  would  pour  balm  on  the  Count's 
wounds. 

We  must  now  explain  the  cause  of  the  Minister's  hurried 
journey  and  wish  to  remain  unknown. 

A  rich  farmer  of  Beaumont-sur-Oise,  named  Leger,  held  a 
farm  of  which  the  various  portions  were  all  fractions  of  the 
estate  owned  by  the  Count,  thus  impairing  the  splendid  prop- 
erty of  Presles.  The  farm-lands  belonged  to  a  townsman  of 
Beaumont-sur-Oise,  one  Margueron.  The  lease  he  had  granted 
to  Leger  in  1799,  at  a  time  when  the  advance  since  made  in 
agriculture  could  not  be  foreseen,  was  nearly  run  out,  and 
the  owner  had  refused  Leger's  terms  for  renewing  it.  Long 
since.  Monsieur  de  Serizy,  wanting  to  be  quit  of  the  woriy 
and  squabbling  that  come  of  such  enclosed  plots,  had  hoped 
to  be  able  to  buy  the  farm,  having  heard  that  Monsieur 
Margueron's  sole  ambition  was  to  see  his  only  son,  a  modest 
official,  promoted  to  be  collector  of  the  revenue  at  Senlis. 

Moreau  had  hinted  to  his  master  that  he  had  a  dangerous 
rival  in  the  person  of  old  Leger.  The  farmer,  knowing  that 
he  could  run  up  the  land  to  a  high  price  by  selling  it  piece- 
meal to  the  Count,  was  capable  of  paying  a  sum  so  high  as  to 
outbid  the  profit  derivable  from  the  collectorship  to  be  be- 
stowed on  the  younger  Margueron.  Two  days  since,  the  Count, 
who  wanted  to  have  done  with  the  matter,  had  sent  for  his 
notary  Alexandre  Orottat,  and  Derville  his  solicitor,  to  inquire 
into  the  state  of  the  affair.  Though  Crottat  and  Derville  cast 
doubts  on  the  Steward's  zeal — and,  indeed,  it  was  a  puzzling 
letter  from. him  that  gave  rise  to  this  consultation — the  Count 
defended  Moreau,  who  had,  he  said;  served  him  faithfully 
for  seventeen  years. 


162  A  START  IN  LIFE 

"Well,''  Dcrvillc  replied,  "1  cau  only  advise  your  lordship 
to  go  in  person  to  Preslos  and  ask  this  Margueron  to  dinner. 
Crottat  will  send  down  his  head-clerk  with  a  form  of  sale 
ready  drawn  out,  leaving  blank  pages  or  lines  for  the  inser- 
tion of  deserii)tions  of  the  plots  and  the  necessary  titles.  Your 
Excellency  will  do  well  to  go  provided  with  a  cheque  for  part 
jof  the  purchase-money  in  case  of  need,  and  not  to  forget  the 
letter  appointing  the  son  to  the  eollectorship  at  Senlis.  If  you 
do  not  strike  on  the  nail,  the  farm  will  slip  through  your 
fingers.  You  have  no  idea.  Monsieur  le  Comte,  of  peasant 
cunning.  Given  a  peasant  on  one  side  and  a  diplomate  on  the 
other,  the  peasant  will  win  the  day." 

Crottat  confirmed  this  advice,  which,  from  the  footman's 
report  to  Pierrotin,  the  Count  had  evidently  adopted.  On  the 
da}'  before,  the  Count  had  sent  a  note  to  Moreau  by  the  Beau- 
mont diligence,  desiring  him  to  invite  Margueron  to  dinner, 
as  he  meant  to  come  to  some  conclusion  concerning  the 
Moulineaux  farm-lands. 

Before  all  this,  the  Count  had  given  orders  for  the  restora- 
tion of  the  living-rooms  at  Presles,  and  Monsieur  Grindot,  a 
fashionable  architect,  went  down  there  once  a  week.  So, 
while  treating  for  his  acquisition.  Monsieur  de  Serizy  pro- 
posed inspecting  the  works  at  the  same  time  and  the  effect  of 
the  new  decorations.  He  intended  to  give  his  wife  a  surprise 
by  taking  her  to  Presles,  and  the  restoration  of  the  chateau 
was  a  matter  of  pride  to  him.  What  event,  then,  could  have 
happened,  that  the  Count,  who,  only  the  day  before,  was  in- 
tending to  go  overtly  to  Presles,  should  now  wish  to  travel 
thither  incognito,  in  Pierrotin's  chaise  ? 

Here  a  few  words  are  necessary  as  to  the  antecedent  history 
of  the  steward  at  Presles. 

This  man,  Moreau,  was  the  son  of  a  proctor  in  a  provincial 
town,  who  at  the  time  of  the  Eevolution  had  been  made  a 
magistrate  (procureur-syndic)  at  Versailles.  In  this  position 
the  elder  ]\roreau  had  been  largely  instrumental  in  saving  the 
property  and  life  of  the  Serizys,  father  and  son.  Citizen 
Moreau  had  belonged  to  the  party  of  Danton;  Robespierre, 


A  START  IN  LIFE  163 

implacable  in  revenge,  hunted  him  down,  caught  him,  and 
had  him  executed  at  Versailles.  The  younger  Moreau,  inher- 
iting his  father's  doctrines  and  attachments,  got  mixed  up 
in  one  of  the  conspiracies  plotted  against  the  First  Consul  on 
his  accession  to  power.  Then  Monsieur  de  Serizy,  anxious  to 
pay  a  debt  of  gratitude,  succeeded  in  effecting  Moreau's  escape 
after  he  was  condemned  to  death;  in  1804  he  asked  and 
obtained  his  pardon ;  he  at  first  found  him  a  place  in  his  office, 
and  afterwards  made  him  his  secretary  and  manager  of  his 
private  affairs. 

Some  time  after  his  patron's  marriage,  Moreau  fell  in  love 
with  the  Countess'  maid  and  married  her.  To  avoid  the  un- 
pleasantly false  position  in  which  he  was  placed  by  this  union 
— and  there  were  many  such  at  the  Imperial  Court — he  asked 
to  be  appointed  land  steward  at  Presles,  where  his  wife  could 
play  the  lady,  and  where,  in  a  neighborhood  of  small  folks, 
they  would  neither  of  them  be  hurt  in  their  own  conceits.  The 
Count  needed  a  faithful  agent  at  Presles,  because  his  wife 
preferred  to  reside  at  Serizy,  which  is  no  more  than  five 
leagues  from  Paris.  Moreau  was  familiar  with  all  his  affairs, 
and  he  was  intelligent ;  before  the  Eevolution  he  had  studied 
law  under  his  father.    So  Monsieur  de  Serizy  said  to  him  : 

"You  will  not  make  a  fortune,  for  you  have  tied  a  millstone 
round  your  neck;  but  you  will  be  well  off,  for  I  will  provide 
for  that." 

And,  in  fact,  the  Count  gave  Moreau  a  fixed  salary  of  a 
thousand  crowns,  and  a  pretty  little  lodge  to  live  in  beyond 
the  outbuildings ;  he  also  allowed  him  so  many  cords  of  wood 
a  year  out  of  the  plantations  for  fuel,  so  much  straw,  oats, 
and  hay  for  two  horses,  and  a  certain  proportion  of  the  pay- 
ments in  kind.    A  sous-prefet  is  less  well  off. 

During  the  first  eight  years  of  his  stewardship,  Moreau 
managed  the  estate  conscientiously,  and  took  an  interest  in 
his  work.  The  Count,  when  he  came  down  to  inspect  the 
domain,  to  decide  on  purchases  or  sanction  improvements, 
was  struck  by  "Moreau's  faithful  service,  and  showed  his  ap- 
probation by  handsome  presents.     But  when  Moreau  found 


164  A  START  TN  T.IFE5 

himself  the  father  of  a  girl — his  third  child — he  was  so  com- 
pletely establishcfl  ;it  his  case  at  Presles,  that  he  forgot  how 
greatly  ho  was  indebted  to  Monsieur  de  Serizy  for  such  un- 
usually liberal  advantages.  Thus  in  1810,  the  steward,  who 
had  hitherto  done  no  more  than  help  himself  freely,  accepted 
from  a  wood-merchant  a  bonus  of  twenty-five  thousand  f rancs,t 
with  the  promise  of  a  rise,  for  signing  an  agreement  for 
twelve  years  allowing  the  contractor  to  cut  fire-logs  in  the 
woods  of  Presles.  Moreau  argued  thus :  He  had  no  promise 
of  a  pension;  he  was  the  father  of  a  family;  the  Count  cer- 
tainly owed  him  so  much  by  way  of  premium  on  nearly  ten 
years'  service.  He  was  already  lawfully  possessed  of  sixty 
thousand  francs  in  savings;  with  this  sum  added  to  it  he 
could  purchase  for  a  hundred  and  twenty  thousand  a  farm  in 
the  vicinity  of  Champagne,  a  hamlet  on  the  right  bank  of  the 
Oise  a  little  way  above  I'lslc-Adam. 

The  stir  of  politics  hindered  the  Count  and  the  country- 
folks from  taking  cognizance  of  this  investment;  the  business 
was  indeed  transacted  in  the  name  of  Madame  Moreau,  who 
was  supposed  to  have  come  into  some  money  from  an  old 
great-aunt  in  her  own  part  of  the  country,  at  Saint-L6. 

When  once  the  steward  had  tasted  the  delicious  fruits  of 
ownership,  though  his  conduct  was  still  apparently  honesty 
itself,  he  never  missed  an  opportunity  of  adding  to  his  clan- 
destine wealth;  the  interests  of  his  three  children  served  as 
an  emollient  to  quench  the  ardors  of  his  honesty,  and  we 
must  do  him  the  justice  to  say  that  while  he  was  open  to  a 
bribe,  took  care  of  himself  in  concluding  a  bargain,  and 
strained  his  rights  to  the  last  point,  he  was  still  honest  in  the 
eye  of  the  law;  no  proof  could  have  been  brought  in  support, 
of  any  accusation.  According  to  the  jurisprudence  of  the 
least  dishonest  of  Paris  cooks,  he  shared  with  his  master  the 
profits  due  to  his  sharp  practice.  This  way  of  making  a  for- 
tune was  a  matter  of  conscience — nothing  more.  Energetic, 
and  fully  alive  to  the  Count's  interests,  Morean  looked  out 
all  the  more  keenly  for  good  opportunities  of  driving  a  bar- 
gain, .<inco  ho  was  sure  of  a  handsome  douceur.  Presles  was 
worth  sixty-two  thousand  francs  in  cash  rents;  and  through- 


A  START  IN  LIFE  16b 

out  the  district,  for  ten  leagues  round,  the  saying  was,  "Mon- 
sieur de  Serizy  has  a  second  self  in  Moreau  !" 

Moreau,  like  a  prudent  man,  had,  since  1817,  invested  his 
salary  and  his  profits  year  by  j^ear  in  the  funds,  feathering  his 
nest  in  absolute  secrecy.  He  had  refused  various  business 
speculations  on  the  plea  of  want  of  money,  and  affected  pov- 
erty so  well  to  the  Count  that  he  had  obtained  two  scholar- 
ships for  his  boys  at  the  College  Henri  IV.  And,  at  this 
moment,  Moreau  owned  a  hundred  and  twenty  thousand 
francs  in  reduced  consuls,  then  paying  five  per  cent,  and 
quoted  at  eighty.  These  unacknowledged  hundred  and 
twenty  thousand  francs,  and  his  farm  at  Champagne,  to 
which  he  had  made  additions,  amounted  to  a  fortune  of  about 
two  hundred  and  eighty  thousand  francs,  yielding  an  income 
of  sixteen  thousand  francs  a  year. 

This,  then,  was  the  steward's  position  at  the  time  when  the 
Count  wished  to  purchase  the  farm  of  les  Moulineaux,  of 
which  the  possession  had  become  indispensable  to  his  comfort. 
This  farm  comprehended  ninety-six  plots  of  land,  adjoining, 
bordering,  and  marching  with  the  estate  of  Presles,  in  many 
cases  indeed  completely  surrounded  by  the  Count's  property, 
like  a  square  in  the  middle  of  a  chess-board,  to  say  nothing  of 
the  dividing  hedges  and  ditches,  which  gave  rise  to  constant 
disputes  when  a  tree  was  to  be  cut  down  if  it  stood  on  de- 
batable ground.  Any  other  Minister  of  State  would  have 
fought  twenty  lawsuits  a  year  over  the  lands  of  les  Mouli- 
neaux. 

Old  Leger  wanted  to  buy  them  only  to  sell  to  the  Count; 
and  to  make  the  thirty  or  forty  thousand  francs  of  profit  he 
hoped  for,  he  had  long  been  endeavoring  to  come  to  terms  with) 
Moreau.  Only  three  days  before  this  critical  Saturday, 
farmer  Leger,  driven  by  press  of  circumstances,  had,  standing 
out  in  the  fields,  clearly  demonstrated  to  the  steward  how  he 
could  invest  the  Comte  de  Serizy's  money  at  two  and  a  half 
per  cent  in  purchasing  other  plots,  that  is  to  say,  could,  as 
usual,  seem  to  be  serving  the  Count's  interest?  while  pocketing 
the  bonus  of  forty  thousand  francs  offered  him  on  the  trans- 
action. 


166  A  STAKT  IN  LIFE 

"And  on  my  honor,"  said  tlie  steward  lo  his  wife  as  they 
went  to  bed  that  evening,  "if  1  can  make  fifty  thousand  francs 
on  the  purchase  of  les  Moulineaux — for  the  Count  will  give 
me  ten  thousand  at  least — we  will  retire  to  I'lsle-Adam  to  the 
Pavilion  de  Nogent."' 

This  pavilion  is  a  charming  little  house  built  for  a  lady 
by  the  Prince  de  Conti  in  a  style  of  prodigal  elegance. 

"I  should  like  that,"  said  his  wife.  "The  Dutchman  who 
has  been  living  there  has  done  it  up  very  handsomely,  and  he 
will  let  us  have  it  for  thirty  thousand  francs,  since  he  is 
obliged  to  go  back  to  the  Indies." 

"It  is  but  a  stone's  throw  from  Champagne,"  Moreau  went 
on.  "I  have  hopes  of  being  able  to  buy  the  farm  and  mill  at 
Mours  for  a  hundred  thousand  francs.  We  should  thus  have 
ten  thousand  francs  a  year  out  of  land,  one  of  the  prettiest 
places  in  all  the  valley,  close  to  our  farm  lands,  and  six  thou- 
sand francs  a  year  still  in  the  funds." 

"And  why  should  you  not  apply  to  be  appointed  Justice  of 
the  Peace  at  I'Isle-Adam?  It  would  give  us  importance  and 
fifteen  hundred  francs  a  year  more." 

"Yes,  I  have  thought  of  that." 

In  this  frame  of  mind,  on  learning  that  his  patron  was 
coming  to  Presles,  and  w'ished  him  to  invite  Margueron  to 
dinner  on  Saturday,  Moreau  at  once  sent  off  a  messenger,  who 
delivered  a  note  to  the  Count's  valet  too  late  in  the  evening 
for  it  to  be  delivered  to  Monsieur  de  Serizy;  but  Augustin 
laid  it,  as  was  usual,  on  his  master's  desk.  In  this  letter 
Moreau  begged  the  Count  not  to  take  so  much  trouble;  to 
leave  the  matter  to  his  management.  By  his  account  Mar- 
gueron no  longer  wished  to  sell  the  lands  in  one  lot,  but 
talked  of  dividing  the  farm  into  ninety-six  plots.  This,  at 
any  rate,  he  must  be  persuaded  to  give  up ;  and  perhaps,  said 
the  steward,  it  might  be  necessary  to  find  some  one  to  lend  his 
name  as  a  screen. 

Now,  everybody  has  enemies.  The  steward  of  Presles  and 
his  wife  had  given  oft'ence  to  a  retired  officer  named  de  Eey- 
bert  and  his  wife.    From  stinging  words  and  pin-pricks  they 


A  START  IN  lAFEi  167 

had  come  to  daggers  drawn.  Monsieur  de  Reybert  breathed 
nothing  but  vengeance;  he  aimed  at  getting  Moreau  deposed 
from  his  place  and  filling  it  himself.  These  two  ideas  are 
twins.  Hence  the  agent's  conduct,  narrowl}^  watched  for  two 
years  past,  had  no  secrets  from  the  Reyberts.  At  the  very 
time  when  Moreau  was  desj)atching  his  letter  to  Monsieur 
de  Seriz}^,  Eeybert  had  sent  his  wife  to  Paris.  Madame  de 
Reybert  so  strongly  insisted  on  seeing  the  Count,  that,  being 
refused  at  nine  in  the  evening,  when  he  was  going  to  bed,  she 
was  shown  into  his  study  by  seven  o'clock  next  morning.  ' 

"Monseigneur,"  said  she  to  the  Minister,  ''my  husband  and 
I  are  incapable  of  writing  an  anonymous  letter.  I  am  Madame 
de  Reybert,  nee  de  Corroy.  My  husband  has  a  pension  of  no 
more  than  six  hundred  francs  a  year,  and  we  live  at  Presles, 
where  your  land-steward  exposes  us  to  insult  upon  insult 
though  we  are  gentlefolks. — Monsieur  de  Reybert,  who  has 
no  love  of  intrigue — far  from  it ! — retired  as  a  Captain  of 
Artillery  in  1816  after  twenty  years'  service,  but  he  never 
came  under  the  Emperor's  eye,  Monsieur  le  Comte;  and  you 
must  know  how  slowly  promotion  came  to  those  who  did  not 
serve  under  the  Master  himself;  and  besides,  my  husband's 
honesty  and  plain  speaking, did  not  please  his  superiors. 

"For  three  years  my  husband  has  been  watching  your  stew- 
ard for  the  purpose  of  depriving  him  of  his  place. — We  are 
outspoken,  you  see.  Moreau  has  made  us  his  enemies,  and  we 
have  kept  our  eyes  open.  I  have  come  therefore  to  tell  you 
that  you  are  being  tricked  in  this  business  of  the  Moulineaux 
farm  lands.  You  are  to  be  cheated  of  a  hundred  thousand 
francs,  which  will  be  shared  between  the  notary,  Leger,  and 
Moreau.  You  have  given  orders  that  Margueron  is  to  be 
.'asked  to  dinner,  and  you  intend  to  go  to  Presles  to-morrow; 
but  Margueron  will  be  ill,  and  Leger  is  so  confident  of  getting 
the  farm  that  he  is  in  Paris  realizing  enough  capital.  As  we 
have  enlightened  you,  if  you  want  an  honest  agent,  engage 
my  husband.  Though  of  noble  birth,  lie  will  serve  you  as  he 
served  his  country.  Your  steward  lias  made  and  saved  two 
hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs,  so  he  is  not  to  be  pitied." 


168  A  START  IN  LIFE 

The  Count  thankod  Madame  de  Reybcrt  very  coldly  and 
answered  her  with  em[)ty  gpeechep,  for  he  detested  an  in- 
former; still,  as  he  remembered  Derville's  ^suspicions,  he  was 
shaken  in  his  mind,  and  then  his  eye  fell  on  Moreau's  letter; 
he  read  it,  and  in  those  assurances  of  devotion,  and  the  re- 
spectful renionstrancos  as  to  the  want  of  confidence  implied  by 
his  intention  of  conducting  this  business  himself,  he  saw  the 
truth  about  Moreau. 

"Corruption  has  come  with  wealth,  as  usual,"  said  he  to 
himself. 

He  had  questioned  Madame  de  Re3'bert  less  to  ascertain 
the  details  than  to  give  himself  time  to  study  her,  and  he 
had  then  written  a  line  to  his  notary  to  desire  him  not  to  send 
his  clerk  to  Presles,  but  to  go  there  himself  and  meet  him  at 
dinner. 

"If  you  should  have  formed  a  bad  opinion  of  me,  ^lonsieur 
le  Comte,  for  the  step  I  have  taken  unknown  to  my  husband," 
said  Madame  Reybert  in  conclusion,  "you  must  at  least  be 
convinced  that  we  have  obtained  our  knowledge  as  concerning 
your  steward  by  perfectly  natural  means ;  the  most  sensitive 
conscience  can  tind  nothing  to  blame  us  for." 

Madame  de  Reybert  nee  de  Corroy  held  herself  as  straight 
as  a  pikestaff. 

The  Count's  rapid  survey  took  in  a  face  pitted  by  the  small- 
pox till  it  looked  like  a  colander,  a  lean,  flat  figure,  a  pair  of 
eager,  light-colored  eyes,  fair  curls  flattened  on  an  anxious 
brow,  a  faded  green  silk  bonnet  lined  with  pink,  a  white  stuff 
dress  with  lilac  spots,  and  kid  shoes.  Monsieur  de  Serizy  dis- 
cerned in  her  the  wife  of  the  poor  gentleman;  some  Puri- 
tanical soul  subscribing  to  the  Courrier  Frangais,  glowing 
with  virtue,  but  very  well  aware  of  the  advantages  of  a  fixed 
place,  and  coveting  it. 

"A  pension  of  six  hundred  francs,  you  said?"  replied  the 
Count,  answering  himself  rather  than  Madame  de  Reybert's 
communication. 

"Yes,  Monsieur  le  Comte." 

'TTou  were  a  de  Corroy?" 


A  START  IN  LIFE  16d 

"Yes,  monsieur,  of  a  noble  family  of  the  Messin  country, 
my  husband's  country." 

"And  in  what  regiment  was  Monsieur  de  Eeybert  ?" 

"In  the  7th  Artillery." 

"Good !"  said  the  Count,  writing  down  the  number. 

He  thought  he  might  very  well  place  the  management  of 
the  estate  in  the  hands  of  a  retired  officer,  concerning  whom 
he  could  get  the  fullest  information  at  the  War  Office. 

"Madame,"  he  went  on,  ringing  for  his  valet,  "return  to 
Presles  with  my  notary,  who  is  to  arrange  to  dine  there  to- 
night, and  to  whom  I  have  written  a  line  of  introduction; 
this  is  his  address.  I  am  going  to  Presles  myself,  but  secretly, 
and  will  let  Monsieur  de  Eeybert  know  where  to  call  on  me." 

So  it  was  not  a  false  alarm  that  had  startled  Pierrotin  with 
the  news  of  Monsieur  de  Serizy's  journey  in  a  public  chaise, 
and  the  warning  to  keep  his  name  a  secret ;  he  foresaw  immi- 
nent danger  about  to  fall  on  one  of  his  best  customers. 

On  coming  out  of  the  cafe,  Pierrotin  perceived,  at  the  gate 
of  the  Silver  Lion,  the  woman  and  youth  whom  his  acumen 
had  recognized  as  travelers;  for  the  lady,  with  outstretched 
neck  and  an  anxious  face,  was  evidently  looking  for  him. 
This  lady,  in  a  re-dyed  black  silk,  a  gray  bonnet,  and  an  old 
French  cashmere  shawl,  shod  in  open-work  silk  stockings  and 
kid  shoes,  held  a  flat  straw  basket  and  a  bright  blue  umbrella. 
She  had  once  been  handsome,  and  now  looked  about  forty; 
and  her  blue  eyes,  bereft  of  the  sparkle  that  happiness  might 
have  given  them,-  showed  that  she  had  long  since  renounced 
the  world.  Her  dress  no  less  than  her  person  betrayed  a 
mother  entirely  given  up  to  her  housekeeping  and  her  son.  If 
the  bonnet-strings  were  shabby,  the  shape  of  it  dated  from 
three  years  back.  Her  shawl  was  fastened  with  a  large  broken 
needle,  converted  into  a  pin  by  means  of  a  head  of  sealing- 
wax. 

This  person  was  impatiently  awaiting  Pierrotin  to  com- 
mend her  son  to  his  care ;  the  lad  was  probably  traveling  alone 
for  the  first  time,  and  she  had  accompanied  him  as  far  as  the 


170  A  START  IN  LIFE 

coach  office,  as  much  out  of  mistrust  as  out  of  motherly  devO' 
tion.  The  son  was  in  a  way  supplementary  to  his  mother; 
and  without  the  mother  the  son  would  have  seemed  less  com- 
prehensil)lo.  While  the  mother  was  content  to  display 
darned  ^'loves,  the  son  wore  an  olive-green  overcoat,  with 
sleeves  rather  short  at  the  wrists,  showing  that  he  was  still 
growing,  as  lads  do  between  eighteen  and  nineteen.  And  his 
blue  trousers,  mended  by  the  mother,  showed  that  they  had 
been  new-seated  whenever  the  tails  of  his  coat  parted  mali- 
ciously behind. 

"Do  not  twist  your  gloves  up  in  that  way,"  she  was  saying 
when  Pierrotin  appeared,  "3'ou  wear  them  shabby. — Are  you 
the  driver? — Ah!  it  is  you,  Pierrotin!"  she  went  on,  leaving 
her  son  for  a  moment  and  taking  the  coachman  aside. 

"All  well,  Madame  Clapart  ?"  said  Pierrotin,  with  an  ex- 
pression on  his  face  of  mingled  respect  and  familiarity. 

"Yes,  Pierrotin.  Take  good  care  of  my  Oscar;  he  is  travel- 
ing alone  for  the  first  time." 

"Oh  !  if  he  is  going  alone  to  Monsieur  Moreau's ?"  said 

Pierrotin,  to  discover  whether  it  were  really  there  that  the 
fellow  was  being  sent. 

"Yes,"  said  the  mother. 

"Has  Madame  Moreau  a  liking  for  him,  then?"  said  the 
man,  with  a  knomng  look. 

"Oh !  it  will  not  be  all  roses  for  the  poor  boy ;  but  his 
future  prospects  make  it  absolutely  necessary  that  he  should 

go." 

Pierrotin  was  struck  by  tliis  remark,  and  he  did  not  like 
to  confide  his  doubts  concerning  the  steward  to  Madame  Cla- 
part ;  while  she,  on  her  part,  dared  not  ofl'ond  her  son  by  giving 
Pierrotin  such  instructions  as  would  put  the  coachman  in  the 
position  of  a  mentor. 

During  this  brief  hesitation  on  both  sides,  under  cover  of  a 
few  remarks  on  the  weather,  the  roads,  the  stopping  places 
on  the  way,  it  will  not  be  superfluous  to  explain  the  circum- 
stances which  had  thrown  Pierrotin  and  Madame  Clapart  to- 
gether and  given  rise  to  their  few  words  of  confidential  talk. 


A  START  IN  LIFE  171 

Frequently — that  is  to  say,  three  or  four  times  a  month — 
Pierrotin,  on  his  way  to  Paris,  found  the  steward  waiting  at 
la  Cave,  and  as  the  coach  came  up  he  beckoned  to  a  gardener, 
who  then  helped  Pierrotin  to  place  on  the  coach  one  or  two 
baskets  full  of  such  fruit  and  vegetables  as  were  in  season, 
with  fowls,  eggs,  butter,  or  game.  Moreau  always  paid  the 
carriage  himself,  and  gave  him  money  enough  to  pay  the  excise 
duties  at  the  barrier,  if  the  baskets  contained  anything  subject 
to  the  octroi.  These  hampers  and  baskets  never  bore  any 
label.  The  first  time,  and  once  for  all,  the  steward  had  given 
the  shrewd  driver  Madame  Clapart's  address  by  word  of 
mouth,  desiring  him  never  to  trust  anybody  else  with  these 
precious  parcels.  Pierrotin,  dreaming  of  an  intrigue  between 
some  pretty  girl  and  the  agent,  had  gone  as  directed  to  No.  7 
Eue  de  la  Cerisaie,  near  the  Arsenal,  where  he  had  seen  the 
Madame  Clapart  above  described,  instead  of  the  fair  young 
creature  he  had  expected  to  find. 

Carriers,  in  the  course  of  their  day's  work,  are  initiated  into 
many  homes  and  trusted  with  many  secrets;  but  the  chances 
of  the  social  system — a  sort  of  deputy  providence — having 
ordained  that  they  should  have  no  education  or  be  unen- 
dowed with  the  gift  of  observation,  it  follows  that  they  are 
not  dangerous.  Nevertheless,  after  many  months  Pierrotin 
could  not  account  to  himself  for  the  friendship  between 
Madame  Clapart  and  Monsieur  Moreau,  from  what  little  he 
saw  of  the  household  in  the  Eue  de  la  Cerisaie.  Though 
rents  were  not  at  that  time  high  in  the  neighborhood  of  the 
Arsenal,  Madame  Clapart  lived  on  the  third  floor  on  the 
inner  side  of  a  courtyard,  in  a  house  which  had  been  in  its  day 
the  residence  of  some  magnate,  at  a  period  when  the  highest 
nobility  in  the  kingdom  lived  on  what  had  been  the  site  of  the 
Palais  des  Tournelles  and  the  Hotel  Saint-Paul.  Towards 
the  close  of  the  sixteenth  century  the  great  families  spread 
themselves  over  vast  plots  previously  occupied  by  the  King's 
Palace  Gardens,  of  which  the  record  survives  in  the  names  of 
the  streets,  Eue  de  la  Cerisaie,  Eue  Beautreillis,  Eue  des 
Lions,  and  so  on.     This  apartment,  of  which  every  room  was 


(72  A  START  IN  LIFEJ 

[jimt'lod  with  old  wainscot,  consisted  of  three  rooms  in  a  roW 
— ii  dining-room,  a  drawing-room,  and  a  bedroom.  Above 
were  the  kitchen  and  Oscar's  room.  Fronting  the  door  that 
opened  on  to  the  landing  was  the  door  of  another  room  at  an 
angle  to  these,  in  a  sort  of  square  tower  of  massive  stone 
built  out  all  the  way  up,  and  containing  besides  a  wooden 
staircase.  This  tower  room  was  wiiere  Moreau  slept  when- 
ever he  spent  a  night  in  Paris. 

i  Pierrotin  deposited  the  baskets  in  the  first  room,  where  he 
could  see  six  straw-bottomed,  walnut-wood  chairs,  a  table, 
and  a  sideboard ;  narrow  russet-brown  curtains  screened  the 
windows.  Afterwards,  -when  he  was  admitted  to  the  drawing- 
room,  he  found  it  fitted  w'ith  old  furniture  of  the  time  of  the 
Em])irc,  much  worn  ;  and  there  was  no  more  of  it  at  all  than 
the  landlord  would  insist  upon  as  a  guarantee  for  the  rent. 
The  carved  panels,  painted  coarsely  in  distemper  of  a  dull 
pinkish  white,  and  in  such  a  way  as  to  fill  up  the  mouldings 
and  thicken  the  scrolls  and  figures,  far  from  being  ornamental, 
were  positively  depressing.  The  floor,  which  was  never 
wajced,  was  as  dingy  as  the  boards  of  a  schoolroom.  If  the 
carrier  by  chance  disturbed  Monsieur  and  Madame  Clapart 
at  a  meal,  the  plates,  the  glasses,  the  most  trifling  tilings  re- 
vealed miserable  poverty ;  they  had  silver  plate,  it  is  true,  but 
the  dishes  and  tureen,  chipped  and  riveted  like  those  of  the 
very  poor,  were  truly  pitiable.  Monsieur  Clapart,  in  a  dirty 
short  coat,  with  squalid  slippers  on  his  feet,  and  always  green 
spectacles  to  protect  his  eyes,  as  he  took  off  a  horrible  peaked 
cap,  five  years  old  at  least,  showed  a  high-pointed  skull,  with 
a  few  dirty  locks  hanging  about  it,  which  a  poet  would  have 
declined  to  call  hair.  TWs  colorless  creature  looked  a  coward, 
and  was  probably  a  tyrant. 

I  In  this  dismal  apartment,  facing  north,  with  no  outlook 
(but  on  a  vine  nailed  out  on  the  opposite  wall,  and  a  well  in 
the  corner  of  the  yard,  Madame  Clapart  gave  herself  the  airs 
of  a  queen,  and  trod  like  a  woman  who  could  not  go  out  on 
foot.  Often,  as  she  thanked  Pierrotin,  she  would  give  him  a 
look  that  might  have  touched  the  heart  of  a  looker-on;  now 


A  START  IN  LIFE  173 

and  again  she  would  slip  a  twelve-sou  piece  into  his  hand. 
Her  voice  in  speech  was  very  sweet.  Oscar  was  unknown  to 
Pierrotin,  for  the  boy  had  but  just  left  school,  and  he  had 
never  seen  him  at  home. 

This  was  the  sad  story  which  Pierrotin  never  could  have 
guessed,  not  even  after  questioning  the  gate-keeper's  wife, 
as  he  sometimes  did — for  the  woman  knew  nothing  beyond 
the  fact  that  the  Claparts'  rent  was  but  two  hundred  and 
fifty  francs ;  that  they  only  had  a  woman  in  to  help  for  a  few 
hours  in  the  morning ;  that  Madame  would  sometimes  do  her 
own  little  bit  of  washing,  and  paid  for  every  letter  as  it 
came  as  if  she  were  afraid  to  let  the  account  stand. 

There  is  no  such  thing — or  rather,  there  is  Yerj  rarely  such 
a  thing — as  a  criminal  who  is  bad  all  through.  How  much 
more  rare  it  must  be  to  find  a  man  who  is  dishonest  all 
through !  He  may  make  up  his  accounts  to  his  own  advantage 
rather  than  his  master's,  or  pull  as  much  hay  as  possible  to 
his  end  of  the  manger ;  but  even  while  making  a  little  fortune 
by  illicit  means,  few  men  deny  themselves  the  luxury  of  some 
good  action.  If  only  out  of  curiosity,  as  a  contrast,  or  per- 
haps by  chance,  every  man  has  known  his  hour  of  generosity ; 
he  may  speak  of  it  as  a  mistake,  and  never  repeat  it;  still, 
once  or  twice  in  his  life,  he  will  have  sacrificed  to  well-doing, 
as  the  veriest  lout  will  sacrifice  to  the  Graces.  If  Moreau's 
sins  can  be  forgiven  him,  will  it  not  be  for  the  sake  of  his  con- 
stancy in  helping  a  poor  woman  of  whose  favors  he  had  once 
been  proud,  and  under  whose  roof  he  had  found  refuge  in 
danger  ? 

This  woman,  famous  at  the  time  of  the  Directoire  for  her 
connection  with  one  of  the  five  kings  of  the  day,  married, 
under  his  powerful  patronage,  a  contractor,  who  made 
millions,  and  then  was  ruined  by  Napoleon  in  1802.  This 
man,  named  Husson,  was  driven  mad  by  his  sudden  fall  from 
opulence  to  poverty ;  he  threw  himself  into  the  Seine,  leaving 
his  handsome  wife  expecting  a  child.  Moreau,  who  was  on 
very  intimate  terms  with  Madame  Husson,  was  at  the  time 
under  sentence  of  death,  so  he  could  not  marry  the  widow,  and 


174  A  START  IN  LIFE 

was  in  fact  oblifyod  to  leave  France  for  a  time.  Madame 
Husson,  only  two-and-twenty,  in  her  utter  poverty,  married 
an  official  named  Clapart,  a  young  man  of  twenty-seven — a 
man  of  promise,  it  was  said.  Heaven  preserve  women  from 
handsome  men  of  promise !  In  those  days  officials  rose  rapidly 
from  luimble  beginnings,  for  the  Emperor  had  an  eye  for 
capable  men.  But  Clapart,  vulgarly  handsome  indeed,  had  no 
brains.  Believing  Madame  Husson  to  be  very  rich,  he  had 
affected  a  great  passion;  he  was  simply  a  burden  to  her, 
never  able,  either  then  or  later,  to  satisfy  the  habits  she  had 
acquired  in  her  days  of  opulence.  Clapart  filled — badly 
enough — a  small  place  in  the  Exchequer  Office  at  a  salary  of 
not  more  than  eighteen  hundred  francs  a  year. 

When  Moreau  came  back  to  be  with  the  Comte  de  Serizy 
and  heard  of  Madame  Husson's  desperate  plight,  he  succeeded, 
before  his  own  marriage,  in  getting  her  a  place  as  woman  of 
the  bedchamber  in  attendance  on  Madame,  the  Emperor's 
mother.  But  in  spite  of  such  powerful  patronage,  Clapart 
could  never  get  on;  his  incapacity  was  too  immediately  ob- 
vious. 

in  1815  the  brilliant  Aspasia  of  the  Directory,  ruined 
by  the  Emperor's  overthrow,  was  left  with  nothing  to  live  on 
but  the  salary  of  twelve  hundred  francs  attached  to  a  clerk- 
ship in  the  Municipal  Offices,  which  the  Comte  de  Serizy's 
influence  secured  for  Clapart.  Moreau,  now  the  only  friend 
of  a  woman  whom  he  had  known  as  the  possessor  of  millions, 
obtained  for  Oscar  Husson  a  half-scholarship  held  by  the 
Municipality  of  Paris  in  the  College  Henri  I"V.,  and  he  sent 
to  the  Eue  de  la  Cerisaie,  by  Pierrotin,  all  he  could  decently 
offer  to  the  impoverished  lady. 

Oscar  was  his  mother's  one  hope,  her  very  life.  The  only 
fault  to  be  found  with  the  poor  woman  was  her  excessive 
fondness  for  this  boy — his  stepfathers  utter  aversion.  Oscar 
was,  unluckily,  gifted  with  a  depth  of  silliness  which  his 
mother  could  never  suspect,  in  spite  of  Clapart's  ironical 
remarks.  This  silliness — or,  to  be  accurate,  this  bumptious^ 
ness — disturbed  Monsieur  Moreau   so  greatly   that  he   had 


A  START  IN  LIFE  175 

begged  Madame  Clapart  to  send  the  lad  to  him  for  a  month 
that  he  might  judge  for  himself  what  line  of  life  he  would 
prove  fit  for.  The  steward  had  some  thought  of  introducing 
Oscar  one  day  to  the  Count  as  his  successor. 

But,  to  give  God  and  the  Devil  their  due,  it  may  here  be 
observed  as  an  excuse  for  Oscar's  preposterous  conceit,  that  he 
had  been  born  iinder  the  roof  of  the  Emperor's  mother;  in 
his  earliest  years  his  eyes  had  been  dazzled  by  Imperial  splen- 
dor. His  impressible  imagination  had  no  doubt  retained  the 
memory  of  those  magnificent  spectacles,  and  an  image  of  that 
golden  time  of  festivities,  with  a  dream  of  seeing  them  again. 
The  boastfulness  common  to  schoolboys,  all  possessed  by  de- 
sire to  shine  at  the  expense  of  their  fellows,  had  in  him  been 
exaggerated  by  those  memories  of  his  childhood ;  and  at  home 
perhaps  his  mother  was  rather  too  apt  to  recall  with  com- 
placency the  days  when  she  had  been  a  queen  of  Paris  und'fir 
the  Directory.  Oscar,  who  had  just  finished  his  studies, 
had,  no  doubt,  often  been  obliged  to  assert  himself  as  superior 
to  the  humiliations  which  the  pupils  who  pay  are  always 
ready  to  inflict  on  the  "charity  boys"  when  the  scholars  are 
not  physically  strong  enough  to  impress  them  with  their  supe- 
riority. 

This  mixture  of  departed  splendor  and  faded  beauty,  of 
affection  resigned  to  poverty,  of  hope  founded  on  this  son,  and 
maternal  blindness,  with  the  heroic  endurance  of  suffering, 
made  this  mother  one  of  the  sublime  figures  which  in  Paris 
deserve  the  notice  of  the  observer. 

Pierrotin,  who,  of  course,  could  not  know  how  truly  Moreau 
was  attached  to  this  woman,  and  she,  on  her  part,  to  the  man 
who  had  protected  her  in  1797,  and  was  now  her  only  friend, 
would  not  mention  to  her  the  suspicion  that  had  dawned  in  his 
brain  as  to  the  danger  which  threatened  Moreau.  The  man- 
servant's ominous  speech,  "We  have  all  enough  to  do  to  take 
care  of  ourselves,"  recurred  to  his  mind  with  the  instinct 
of  obedience  to  those  whom  he  designated  as  "first  in  the 
ranks."     Also,  at  this  moment  Pierrotin  felt  as  many  darts 


176  A  START  TN  LIFE 

stinging  his  brain  as  there  are  five-franc  pieces  in  a  thousand 
francs.  A  journey  of  seven  leagues  seemed,  no  doubt,  quite 
an  undertaking  to  this  poor  mother,  who  in  all  her  fine  lady 
existence  bad  hardly  ever  been  beyond  the  barrier;  for  Pier- 

rotin's  replies,  "Yes,  madanie;  no,  madame "  again  and 

again,  plainly  showed  that  the  man  was  only  anxious  to 
escape  from  her  too  numerous  and  useless  instructions. 

"You  will  put  the  luggage  where  it  cannot  get  wet  if  the 
weather  should  change?" 

"I  have  a  tarpaulin,"  said  Picrrotin;  "and  you  see,  mad- 
ame, it  is  carefully  packed  away." 

"Oscar,  do  not  stay  more  than  a  fortnight,  even  if  you 
are  pressed,"  Madame  Clapart  went  on,  coming  back  to  her 
son.  "Do  what  you  will,  Madame  Moreau  will  never  take  to 
you;  besides,  you  must  get  home  by  the  end  of  September. 
We  are  going  to  Belleville,  you  know,  to  your  uncle  Cardot's." 

"Yes,  mamma." 

"Above  all,"  she  added  in  a  low  tone,  "never  talk  about 
servants.  Always  remember  that  Madame  Moreau  was  a 
lady's  maid " 


"Yes,  mamma." 

Oscar,  like  all  young  people  whose  conceit  is  touchy, 
seemed  much  put  out  by  these  admonitions  delivered  in  the 
gateway  of  the  Silver  Lion. 

"Well,  good-bye,  mamma ;  we  shall  soon  be  off,  the  horse  is 
put  in." 

The  mother,  forgetting  that  she  was  in  the  open  street, 
hugged  her  Oscar,  and  taking  a  nice  little  roll  out  of  her  bag — 

"Here,"  said  she,  "you  were  forgetting  your  bread  and 
chocolate.  Once  more,  my  dear  boy,  do  not  eat  anything  at 
the  inns ;  you  have  to  pay  ten  times  the  value  for  the  smallest 
morsel." 

Oscar  wished  his  mother  further  as  she  stuffed  the  roll 
and  the  chocolate  into  his  pocket. 

There  were  two  witnesses  to  the  scene,  two  young  men  a 
few  years  older  than  the  newly  fledged  school-boy,  better 
dressed   than   he,   ajid  come   without   their   mothers,   their 


A  START  IN  Ltt^fi  171 

demeanof,  dress,  and  manner  proclaiming  the  entire  independ- 
ence which  is  the  end  of  every  lad's  desire  while  still  under 
direct  maternal  government.  To  Oscar,  at  this  moment,  these 
two  young  fellows  epitomized  the  World. 

"Mamma!  says  he,"  cried  one  of  the  strangers,  with  a 
laugh. 

The  words  reached  Oscar's  ears,  and  in  an  impulse  of  in- 
tense irritation  he  shouted  out: 

"Good-bye,  mother !" 

It  must  be  owned  that  Madame  Clapart  spoke  rather  too 
loud,  and  seemed  to  admit  the  passers-by  to  bear  witness  to 
her  affectionate  care. 

'^hat  on  earth  ails  you,  Oscar?"  said  the  poor  woman, 
much  hurt.  "I  do  not  understand  you,"  she  added  severely, 
fancying  che  could  thus  inspire  him  with  respect — a  common 
mistake  with  women  who  spoil  their  children.  "Listen,  dear 
Oscar,"  she  went  on,  resuming  her  coaxing  gentleness,  "you 
have  a  propensity  for  talking  to  everybody,  telling  everything 
you  know  and  everything  you  don't  know — out  of  brag  and  a 
young  man's  foolish  self-conceit.  I  beg  you  once  more  to 
bridle  your  tongue.  You  have  not  seen  enough  of  life,  my 
dearest  treasure,  to  gauge  the  people  you  may  meet,  and  there 
is  nothing  more  dangerous  than  talking  at  random  in  a  public 
conveyance.     In  a  diligence  well-bred  persons  keep  silence." 

The  two  young  men,  who  had,  no  doubt,  walked  to  the  end 
of  the  yard  and  back,  now  made  the  sound  of  their  boots  heard 
once  more  under  the  gateway ;  they  might  have  heard  this 
little  lecture;  and  so,  to  be  quit  of  his  mother,  Oscar  took 
heroic  measures,  showing  how  much  self-esteem  can  stimulate 
the  inventive  powers. 

"Mamma,"  said  he,  "you  are  standing  in  a  thorough 
draught,  you  will  catch  cold.     Besides,  T  must  take  my  place." 

The  lad  had  touched  some  tender  chord,  for  his  mother 
clasped  him  in  her  arms  as  if  he  were  starting  on  some  long 
voyage,  and  saw  him  into  the  chaise  with  tears  in  her  eyes. 

*T)o  not  forget  to  give  five  francs  to  the  servants,"  said 
she.     **^nd  \\Tite  to  me  at  least  three  times  in  the  course  of 


179  A  START  IN  LIFE 

till'  fortnight.  Behave  discreetly,  and  remember  all  my  in- 
structions. You  have  enough  linen  to  need  none  washed. 
And,  above  all,  remember  all  Monsieur  Moreau's  kindness; 
listen  to  him  as  to  a  father,  and  follow  his  advice." 

As  he  got  into  the  chaise  Oscar  displayed  a  pair  of  blue 
stockings  as  his  trousers  slipped  up,  and  tlie  new  seat  to  his 
trousers  as  his  coat-tails  parted.  And  the  smile  op  the  faces 
of  the  two  young  men,  who  did  not  fail  to  see  these  evidences 
of  iionorable  poverty,  was  a  frcsli  blow  to  Oscar's  self-esteem. 

"Oscar's  place  is  No.  1,"  said  ^ladamo  Clapart  to  Pierrotm. 
"Settle  yourself  into  a  corner,"  she  went  on,  still  gazing  at 
her  son  with  tender  affection. 

Oh!  how  much  Oscar  regretted  his  mother's  beauty,  spoilt 
by  misfortune  and  sorrow,  and  the  poverty  and  self-sacrifice 
that  hindered  her  from  being  nicely  dressed.  One  of  the 
youngsters — the  one  who  wore  boots  and  spurs — nudged  the 
other  with  his  elbow  to  point  out  Oscar's  mother,  and  the 
other  twirled  his  moustache  with  an  air,  as  much  as  to  say, 
"A  neat  figure !" 

"How  am  I  to  get  rid  of  my  mother  ?"  thought  Oscar,  look- 
ing quite  anxious. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  said  Madame  Clapart. 

Oscar  pretended  not  to  hear,  the  wretch !  And  perhaps, 
under  the  circumstances,  Madame  Clapart  showed  want  of 
tact ;  but  an  absorbing  passion  is  so  selfish ! 

"Georges,  do  you  like  traveling  with  children?"  asked  one 
of  the  young  men  of  his  friend. 

"Yes,  if  they  are  weaned,  and  are  called  Oscar,  and  have 
chocolate  to  eat,  my  dear  Amaury." 

Those  remarks  were  exchanged  in  an  undertone,  leaving 
Oscar  free  to  hear  or  not  to  hear  them.  His  manner  would 
show  the  young  man  what  he  might  venture  on  with  the  lad  to 
amuse  himself  in  the  course  of  the  journey.  Oscar  would  not 
hear.  He  looked  round  to  see  whether  his  mother,  who 
weighed  on  him  like  a  nightmare,  was  still  waiting;  but,  in- 
deed, he  knew  she  wiis  too  fond  of  him  to  have  deserted  him 
yet.     He  not  only  involuntarily  compared  his  traveling  com- 


A  START  IN  LIFE  179 

panion's  dress  with  his  own,  but  he  also  felt  that  his  mother's 
costume  counted  for  sonietiiing  as  provoking  the  young  men's 
mocking  smile. 

"If  only  they  would  go  !"  thought  he. 

Alas !  Aniaury  had  just  said  to  Georges,  as  he  struck  the 
wheel  of  the  chaise  with  his  cane : 

^  "And  you  are  prepared  to  trust  your  future  career  on  board 
this  frail  vessel  ?" 

"Needs  must !"  replied  Georges  in  a  fateful  tone. 

Oscar  heaved  a  sigh  as  he  noted  the  youth's  hat,  cocked 
cavalierly  over  one  ear  to  show  a  fine  head  of  fair  hair  elabo- 
rately curled,  while  he,  by  his  stepfather's  orders,  wore  his 
black  hair  in  a  brush  above  his  forehead,  cut  quite  short  like  a 
soldier's.  The  vain  boy's  face  was  round  and  chubby,  bright 
with  the  color  of  vigorous  health;  that  of  "Georges"  was 
long,  delicate,  and  pale.  This  young  man  had  a  broad  brow, 
and  his  chest  filled  out  a  shawl-pattern  v/aistcoat.  As  Oscar 
admired  his  tightly-fitting  iron-gray  trousers,  and  his  over- 
coat, sitting  closely  to  the  figure,  with  Brandenburg  braiding 
and  oval  buttons,  he  felt  as  if  the  romantic  stranger,  blessed 
with  so  many  advantages,  were  making  an  unfair  display  of 
his  superiority,  just  as  an  ugly  woman  is  offended  by  the  mere 
sight  of  a  beauty.  The  ring  of  his  spurred  boot-heels,  which 
the  young  man  accentuated  rather  too  much  for  Oscar's  liking, 
went  to  the  boy's  heart.  In  short,  Oscar  was  as  uncomfort- 
able in  his  clothes,  home-made  perhaps  out  of  his  stepfather's 
old  ones,  as  the  other  enviable  youth  was  satisfied  in  his. 

"That  fellow  must  have  ten  francs  at  least  in  his  pocket," 
thought  Oscar. 

The  stranger  happening  to  turn  round,  what  were  Oscar's 
feelings  when  he  discerned  a  gold  chain  about  his  neck — with 
a  gold  watch,  no  doubt,  at  the  end  of  it. 

Living  in  the  Eue  de  la  Cerisaie  since  1815,  taken  to  and 
from  school  on  his  holidays  by  his  stepfather  Clapart,  Oscai 
had  never  had  any  standard  of  comparison  but  his  mothcr't 
poverty-stricken  household.  Kept  very  strictly,  by  Moreau'? 
advice,  he  rarely  went  to  the  play,  and  then  aspired  no  highei 


ISO  A  START  IN  LIFE 

than  to  the  Amhigu  Comlque,  where  little  elegance  met  his 
gaze,  even  if  the  absorhed  attention  a  boy  devotes  to  the  stage 
had  allowed  him  to  study  the  house.  His  stepfather  still 
wore  his  watch  in  a  fob  in  the  fashion  of  the  Empire,  with  a 
heavy  gold  chain  lianging  over  his  stomach,  and  ending  in  a 
bunch  of  miscellaneous  objects — seals,  and  a  watch-key  with 
a  flat  round  top,  in  which  was  set  a  landscape  in  mosaic. 
Oscar,  who  looked  on  this  out-of-date  splendor  as  the  ne  plus 
ultra  of  luxury,  was  quite  bewildered  by  this  revelation  of 
superior  and  less  ponderous  elegance.  The  young  man  also 
made  an  insolent  display  of  a  pair  of  good  gloves,  and  seemed 
bent  on  blinding  Oscar  by  his  graceful  handling  of  a  smart 
cane  with  a  gold  knob. 

Ofecar  had  just  reached  the  final  stage  of  boyhood  in  which 
trifles  are  the  cause  of  great  joys  and  great  anguish,  when  a 
real  misfortune  seems  preferable  to  a  ridiculous  costume ;  and 
vanity,  having  no  great  interests  in  life  to  absorb  it,  centres 
in  frivolities,  and  dress,  and  the  anxiety  to  be  thought  a  man. 
The  youth  magnifies  himself,  and  his  self-assertion  is  all  the 
more  marked  because  it  turns  on  trifles ;  still,  though  he  envies 
a  well-dressed  noodle,  he  can  be  also  fired  wdth  enthusiasm  for 
talent,  and  admire  a  man  of  genius.  His  faults,  when  they 
are  not  rooted  in  his  heart,  only  show  the  exuberance  of  vital- 
ity and  a  lavish  imagination.  When  a  bo}'  of  nineteen,  an 
only  son,  austerely  brought  up  at  home  as  a  result  of  the  pov- 
erty that  weighs  so  cruelly  on  a  clerk  with  twelve  hundred 
francs'  salary,  but  worshiped  by  a  mother,  who  for  his  sake 
endures  the  bitterest  privations — when  such  a  boy  is  dazzled 
by  a  youth  of  two-and-twenty,  envies  him  his  frogged  coat 
lined  with  silk,  his  sham  cashmere  waistcoat,  and  a  tie  slipped 
through  a  vulgar  ring,  is  not  this  a  mere  peccadillo  such  as 
may  be  seen  in  every  class  of  life  in  the  inferior  who  envies 
his  betters  ? 

Even  a  man  of  genius  yields  to  this  primitive  passion.  Did 
not  Rousseau  of  Geneva  envy  Venture  and  Bade? 

But  Oscar  went  on  from  the  peccadillo  to  the  real  fault ;  he 
felt  humiliated;  he  owed  his  traveling  companion  a  grudge; 


A  START  IN  LIFE  ISl 

and  a  secret  desire  surged  up  in  his  heart  to  show  him  that 
he  was  as  good  a  man  as  lie. 

The  two  young  bucks  walked  to  and  fro,  from  the  gateway 
to  the  stables  and  back,  going  out  to  the  street;  and  as  they 
turned  on  their  heel,  they  each  time  looked  at  Oscar  ensconced 
in  his  corner.  Oscar,  convinced  that  whenever  they  laughed 
it  was  at  him,  affected  profound  indifference.  He  began  to  hum 
the  tune  of  a  song  then  in  fashion  among  the  Liberals,  "C'est 
la  faute  a  Voltaire,  c'est  la  faute  a  Rousseau."  (It  is  all  the 
fault  of  Voltaire  and  Eousseau.)  This  assumption,  no  doubt, 
made  them  take  him  for  some  underling  lawyer's  clerk. 

"Why,  perhaps  he  sings  in  the  chorus  at  the  Opera !"  said 
Amaury. 

Exasperated  this  time,  Oscar  bounded  in  his  seat;  raising 
the  back  curtain,  he  said  to  Pierrotin : 

"When  are  we  to  be  off  ?" 

"Directly,"  said  the  man,  who  had  his  whip  in  his  hand, 
but  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  Eue  d'Enghien. 

The  scene  was  now  enlivened  by  the  arrival  of  a  young  man 
escorted  by  a  perfect  pickle  of  a  boy,  who  appeared  with  a 
porter  at  their  heels  hauling  a  barrow  by  a  strap.  The 
young  man  spoke  confidentially  to  Pierrotin,  who  wagged 
his  head  and  hailed  his  stableman.  The  man  hurried  up  to 
help  unload  the  barrow,  which  contained,  besides  two  trunks, 
pails,  brushes,  and  boxes  of  strange  shape,  a  mass  of  packets 
and  utensils,  which  the  younger  of  the  two  newcomers  who 
had  climbed  to  the  box-seat  stowed  and  packed  away  with  such 
expedition  that  Oscar,  smiling  at  his  mother,  who  was  now 
watching  him  from  the  other  side  of  the  street,  failed  to  see 
any  of  the  paraphernalia  which  might  have  explained  to  him 
in  what  profession  his  traveling  companions  were  employed. 
This  boy,  about  sixteen  years  of  age,  wore  a  holland  blouse 
with  a  patent  leather  belt;  his  cap,  knowingly  stuck  on  one 
side,  proclaimed  him  a  merry  youth,  as  did  the  picturesque 
disorder  of  his  curly  brown  hair  tumbling  about  his  shoulders. 
A  black  silk  tie  marked  a  black  line  on  a  very  white  neck,  and 
seemed  to  heighten  the  brightness  of  his  gray  eyes.     The  rest- 


182  A  START  IN  LIFE 

less  vivacity  of  a  sunburnt,  rosy  face,  the  shape  of  his  full 
lips,  his  proniiiK'ut  ears,  and  his  turn-up  nose — every  feature 
of  his  face  showed  the  bantering  wit  of  a  Figaro  and  the  reck- 
lessness of  youth,  while  the  quickness  of  his  gestures  and 
saucy  glances  revealed  a  keen  intelligence,  early  developed  by 
the  practice  of  a  profession  taken  up  in  boyhood.  This  boy, 
whom  art  or  nature  had  already  made  a  man,  seemed  indiffer- 
ent to  the  question  of  dress,  as  though  he  were  conscious  of 
some  intrinsic  moral  worth;  for  he  looked  at  his  unpolished 
boots  as  if  he  thought  them  rather  a  joke,  and  at  his  plain 
drill  trousers  to  note  the  stains  on  them,  but  rather  to  study 
the  effect  than  to  hide  them. 

"I  have  acquired  a  fine  tone !"  said  he,  giving  himself  a 
shake,  and  addressing  his  companion. 

The  expression  of  the  senior  showed  some  authority  over 
this  youngster,  in  whom  experienced,  eyes  would  at  once 
have  discerned  the  jolly  art  student,  known  in  French  studio 
slang  as  a  rapin. 

"Behave,  Mistigris !"  replied  the  master,  calling  him  no 
doubt  by  a  nickname  bestowed  on  him  in  the  studio. 

The  elder  traveler  was  a  slight  and  pallid  young  fellow, 
with  immensely  thick  black  hair  in  quite  fantastic  disorder; 
but  this  abundant  hair  seemed  naturally  necessary  to  a  very 
large  head  with  a  powerful  forehead  that  spoke  of  precocious 
intelligence.  His  curiously  puckered  face,  too  peculiar  to 
be  called  ugly,  was  as  hollow  as  though  this  singular  young 
man  were  suffering  either  from  some  chronic  malady  or  from 
the  privations  of  extreme  poverty — which  is  indeed  a  terrible 
chronic  malady — or  from  sorrows  too  recent  to  have  been  for- 
gotten. 

/  His  clothes,  almost  in  keeping  with  those  of  Mistigris  in 
proportion  to  his  age  and  dignity,  consisted  of  a  much  worn  ' 
coat  of  a  dull  green  color,  shabby,  but  quite  clean  and  well 
brushed,  a  black  waistcoat  buttoned  to  the  neck,  as  the  coat 
was  too,  only  just  showing  a  red  handkerchief  round  his 
throat.  Black  trousers,  as  shabby  as  the  coat,  hung  loosely 
round  his  lean  legs.     His  boots  were  muddy,  showing  that 


A  START  IN  LIFE  183 

he  had  come  far,  and  on  foot.  With  one  swift  glance  the 
artist  took  in  the  depths  of  the  hostelr}^  of  the  Silver  Lion, 
the  stables,  the  tones  of  color,  and  every  detail,  and  he  looked 
at  Mistigris,  who  had  imitated  him,  with  an  ironical  twinkle. 

"Eather  nice  !"  said  Mistigris. 

"Yes,  very  nice,"  replied  the  other. 

"We  are  still  too  early,"  said  Mistigris.  "Couldn't  we 
snatch  a  toothful?  My  stomach,  like  nature,  abhors  a 
vacuum !" 

"Have  we  time  to  get  a  cup  of  coffee?"  said  the  artist,  in 
a  pleasant  voice,  to  Pierrotin. 

"Well,  don't  be  long,"  said  Pierrotin. 

"We  have  a  quarter  of  an  hour,"  added  Mistigris,  thus  re- 
vealing the  genius  for  inference,  which  is  characteristic  of  the 
Paris  art  student. 

The  couple  disappeared.  Just  then  nine  o'clock  struck  in 
the  inn  kitchen.  •  Georges  thought  it  only  fair  and  reasonable 
to  appeal  to  Pierrotin. 

"I  say,  my  good  friend,  when  you  are  the  proud  possessor 
of  such  a  shandrydan  as  this,"  and  he  rapped  the  wheel  with 
his  cane,  "you  should  at  least  make  a  merit  of  punctuality. 
The  deuce  is  in  it!  we  do  not  ride  in  that  machine  for  our 
pleasure,  and  business  must  be  devilish  pressing  before  we 
trust  our  precious  selves  in  it !  And  that  old  hack  you  call 
Eougeot  will  certainly  not  pick  up  lost  time !" 

"We  will  harness  on  Bichette  while  those  two  gentlemen 
are  drinking  their  coffee,"  replied  Pierrotin.  "Go  on,  you," 
he  added  to  the  stableman,  "and  see  if  old  Leger  means  to 
come  with  us " 

"Where  is  your  old  Leger?"  asked  Georges. 

"Just  opposite  at  Number  50 ;  he  couldn't  find  room  in  the 
Beaumont  coach,"  said  Pierrotin  to  his  man,  paying  no  heed 
to  Georges,  and  going  off  liimself  in  search  of  Bichette. 

Georges  shook  hands  with  his  friend  and  got  into  the  chaise, 
after  tossing  in  a  large  portfolio,  with  an  air  of  much  im- 
portance; this  he  placed  under  the  cushion.  He  took  the 
opposite  corner  to  Oscar. 


184  A  START  IN  LIFE 

"This  'old  Leger*  bothers  me/  said  he. 

"They  cannot  deprive  us  of  our  places,"  said  Oscar.  "Mine 
is  No.  1." 

"And  mine  No.  2,"  replied  Georges. 

Just  as  Pierrotin  reappeared,  leading  Bichette,  the  stable- 
man returned,  having  in  tow  a  huge  man  weighing  nearly 
seventeen  stone  at  least. 

Old  Leger  was  of  the  class  of  farmer  who,  with  an  enormous 
stomach  and  broad  shoulders,  wears  a  powdered  queue  and  a 
light  coat  of  blue  linen.  His  white  gaiters  were  tightly 
strapped  above  the  knee  over  cordiiroy  breeches,  and  finished 
off  MTth  silver  buckles.  His  hobnailed  shoes  weighed  each  a 
couple  of  pounds.  In  his  hand  he  carried  a  little  knotted  red 
switch,  very  shiny,  and  "with  a  heavy  knob,  secured  round  his 
wrist  by  a  leather  cord. 

"And  is  it  you  who  are  known  as  old  Leger?"  (Farmer 
Light),  said  Georges  gravely  as  the  farmer  tried  to  lift  his  foot 
to  the  step  of  the  chaise. 

"At  your  service,"  said  the  farmer,  showing  him  a  face 
rather  like  that  of  Louis  XVIIL,  with  a  fat,  red  jowl,  while 
above  it  rose  a  nose  which  in  any  other  face  would  have  seemed 
enormous.     His  twinkling  eyes  were  deep  set  in  rolls  of  fat. 

"Come,  lend  a  hand,  my  boy,"  said  he  to  Pierrotin. 

The  farmer  was  hoisted  in  by  the  driver  and  the  stableman 
to  a  shout  of  "Yo,  heave  ho  !"  from  Georges. 

"Oh !  I  am  not  going  far ;  I  am  only  going  to  la  Cave !" 
said  Farmer  Light,  answering  a  jest  with  good  humor.  In 
France  everybody  understands  a  joke. 

"Get  into  the  corner,"  said  Pierrotin.  "There  will  be  six 
of  you." 

"And  your  other  horse  ?"  asked  Georges.  "Is  it  as  fabulous 
as  the  third  horse  of  a  post-chaise?" 

"There  it  is,  master,"  said  Pierrotin,  pointing  to  the  little 
mare  that  had  come  up  without  calling. 

"He  calls  that  insect  a  horse !"  said  Georges,  astonished. 

"Oh,  she  is  a  good  one  to  go,  is  that  little  mare,"  said  the 
farmer,  who  had  taken  his  scat. — '*"Morning,  gentlemen. — Are 
we  going  to  weigh  anchor,  Pierrotin?" 


A  START  IN  LIFE  185 

"Two  of  my  travelers  are  getting  a  cup  of  coffee,"  said  the 
driver. 

The  young  man  with  the  hollow  cheeks  and  his  follower  now 
reappeared. 

"Come,  let  us  get  off,"  was  now  the  universal  cry. 

"We  are  off — we  are  off !"  replied  Pierrotin.  "Let  her  go," 
he  added  to  his  man,  who  kicked  away  the  stones  that  scotched 
the  wheels. 

Pierrotin  took  hold  of  Rougeot's  bridle  with  an  encouraging 
"Tclk,  tclkf  to  warn  the  two  steeds  to  pull  themselves  to- 
gether ;  and,  torpid  as  they  evidently  were,  they  started  the  ve- 
hicle, which  Pierrotin  brought  to  a  standstill  in  front  of  the 
gate  of  the  Silver  Lion.  After  this  purely  preliminary  ma- 
noeuvre, he  again  looked  down  the  Rue  d'Enghien,  and  vanish- 
ed, leaving  the  conveyance  in  the  care  of  the  stableman. 

"Well !  Is  your  governor  subject  to  these  attacks  ?"  Misti- 
gris  asked  of  the  man. 

"He  is  gone  to  fetch  his  oats  away  from  the  stable,"  replied 
the  Auvergnat,  who  was  up  to  all  the  arts  in  use  to  pacify  the 
impatience  to  travelers. 

"After  all,"  said  Mistigris,  "time  is  a  great  plaster.'^ 

At  that  time  there  was  in  the  Paris  studios  a  mania  for  dis- 
torting proverbs.  It  was  considered  a  triumph  to  hit  on  some 
change  of  letters  or  some  rhyming  word  which  should  suggest 
an  absurd  meaning,  or  even  make  it  absolute  nonsense.* 

"And  Paris  was  not  gilt  in  a  play,"  replied  his  comrade. 

Pierrotin  now  returned,  accompanied  by  the  Comte  de 
Serizy,  round  the  corner  of  the  Eue  de  I'Echiquier;  they  had 
no  doubt  had  a  short  conversation. 

"Pere  Leger,  would  you  mind  giving  your  place  up  to  Mon- 
sieur le  Comte?     It  will  trim  the  chaise  better." 

"And  we  shall  not  be  off  for  an  hour  yet  if  you  go  on  like 
this,"  said  Georges.  "You  will  have  to  take  out  that  infernal 
bar  we  have  had  such  plaguey  trouble  to  fit  in,  and  everybody 
will  have  to  get  out  for  the  last  comer.     Each  of  us  has  a  right 

*To  translate  these  not  always  fnnny  jests  is  impossible.    I  have  generally  tried 
for  no  more  than  an  equivalent  Tendcuug.—  Ti-anslcUcn: 


(SO  A  START  IN   LIFE 

to  the  place  ho  booked.  What  number  is  this  gentleman's? — 
Come,  call  them  over.  Have  you  a  way-bill?  Do  you  keep  a 
book?  Which  is  Monsieur  le  Comte's  place? — Count  of 
what?" 

"Monsieur  le  Comle,"  said  Pierrotin,  visibly  disturbed,  "you 
will  not  be  comrortable." 

"Can't  you  count,  man?"  said  Mistigris.  "Short  counts 
make  tall  friends." 

"Mistigris,  behave !"  said  his  master  quite  seriously. 

Monsieur  de  Serizy  was  supposed  by  his  fellow-travelers  to 
be  some  respectaljle  citizen  called  Lecomte. 

"Do  not  disturb  anybody,"  said  the  Count  to  Pierrotin;  "I 
will  sit  in  front  by  you." 

"Now,  Mistigris,"  said  the  young  artist,  "remember  the  re- 
spect due  to  age.  You  don't  know  how  dreadfully  old  you 
may  live  to  be.  Manners  take  the  van.  Give  your  place  up 
to  the  gentleman." 

Mistigris  opened  the  apron  of  the  chaise,  and  jumped  out 
as  nimbly  as  a  frog  into  the  water. 

"You  cannot  sit  as  rabbit,  august  old  man !"  said  he  to  Mon- 
sieur de  Serizy. 

"Mistigris,  Tarts  are  the  end  of  man"  said  his  master. 

"Thank  you,  monsieur,"  said  the  Count  to  the  artist,  by 
whose  side  he  now  took  his  seat.  And  the  statesman  looked 
with  a  sagacious  eye  at  the  possessors  of  the  back  seat,  in  a  way 
that  deeply  aggrieved  Oscar  and  Georges. 

^'We  are  an  hour  and  a  quarter  behind  time,"  remarked 
Oscar. 

"People  who  want  a  chaise  to  themselves  should  book  all  the 
places,"  added  Georges. 

The  Comte  de  Serizy,  quite  sure  now  that  he  was  not  recog- 
nized, made  no  reply,  but  sat  with  the  expression  of  a  good- 
natured  tradesman. 

"And  if  you  had  been  late,  you  would  have  liked  us  to  wait 
for  you,  I  suppose  ?"  said  the  farmer  to  the  two  young  fellows. 

Pierrotin  was  looking  out  towards  the  Porte  Saint-Denis, 


A  START  IN  LIFE  187 

and  paused  for  a  moment  before  mounting  to  the  hard  box- 
seat,  where  Mistigris  was  kicking  his  heels. 

"If  you  are  still  waiting  for  somebody,  I  am  not  the  last," 
remarked  the  Count. 

"That  is  sound  reasoning,"  said  Mistigris. 

Georges  and  Oscar  laughed  very  rudely. 

"The  old  gentleman  is  not  strikingly  original,"  said  Georges 
to  Oscar,  who  was  enchanted  with  this  apparent  alliance. 

When  Pierrotin  had  settled  himself  in  his  place,  he  again 
looked  back,  but  failed  to  discern  in  the  crowd  the  two  travel- 
ers who  were  wanting  to  fill  up  his  cargo. 

"By  the  Mass,  but  a  couple  more  passengers  would  not  come 
amiss,"  said  he. 

"Look  here,  I  have  not  paid ;  I  shall  get  out,"  said  Georges 
in  alarm. 

"Why,  whom  do  you  expect,  Pierrotin  ?"  said  Leger. 

Pierrotin  cried  "Gee !"  in  a  particular  tone,  which  Rougeot 
and  Bichette  knew  to  mean  business  at  last,  and  they  trotted 
off  towards  the  hill  at  a  brisk  pace,  which,  however,  soon  grew 
slack. 

The  Count  had  a  very  red  face,  quite  scarlet  indeed,  with  an 
inflamed  spot  here  and  there,  and  set  off  all  the  more  by  his 
perfectly  white  hair.  By  any  but  quite  young  men  this  com- 
plexion would  have  been  understood  as  the  inflammatory 
effect  on  the  blood  of  incessant  work.  And,  indeed,  these 
angry  pimples  so  much  disfigured  his  really  noble  face,  that 
only  close  inspection  could  discern  in  his  greenish  eyes  all  the 
acumen  of  the  judge,  the  subtlety  of  the  statesman,  and  the 
learning  of  the  legislator.  His  face  was  somewhat  flat;  the 
nose  especially  looked  as  if  it  had  been  flattened.  His  hat  hid 
the  breadth  and  beauty  of  his  brow;  and,  in  fact,  there  was 
some  justification  for  the  laughter  of  these  heedless  lads,  in 
the  strange  contrast  between  hair  as  white  as  silver  and  thick, 
bushy  eyebrows  still  quite  black.  The  Count,  who  wore  a 
long,  blue  overcoat,  buttoned  to  the  chin  in  military  fashion, 
had  a  white  handkerchief  round  his  neck,  cotton-wool  in  his 


188  A   START  IN   LIFE 

cars,  and  a  higli  sliirt  collar,  showing  a  square  white  cornei" 
on  eacli  check.  IT  is  black  trousers  covered  his  boots,  of  which 
the  tip  scarcely  showed;  he  had  no  ribbon  at  his  buttonhole, 
and  his  hands  were  hidden  by  his  doeskin  gloves.  Certainly 
there  was  nothing  in  tliis  man  which  could  betray  to  the  lads 
that  he  was  a  peer  of  France,  and  one  of  the  most  useful  men 
living  to  his  country. 

Old  Pcre  Leger  had  never  seen  the  Count,  who,  on  the  other 
hand,  knew  him  only  by  name.  Though  the  Count,  as  he  got 
into  the  chaise,  cast  about  him  the  inquiring  glance  which 
had  so  much  annoyed  Oscar  and  Georges,  it  was  because  ho 
was  looking  for  his  notary's  clerk,  intending  to  impress  on  him 
the  need  for  the  greatest  secrecy  in  case  he  should  have  been 
compelled  to  travel,  like  himself,  by  Pierrotin's  conveyance. 
But  he  was  reassured  by  Oscar's  appearance  and  by  that  of  the 
old  farmer,  and,  above  all,  by  the  air  of  aping  the  militar\% 
with  his  moustache  and  his  style  generally,  which  stamped 
Georges  an  adventurer;  and  he  concluded  that  his  note  had 
reached  Maitre  Alexandre  Crottat  in  good  time. 

"Pere  Leger,"  said  Pierrotin  as  they  came  to  the  steep 
hill  in  the  Faubourg  Saint-Denis,  at  the  Eue  de  la  Fidelite, 
"suppose  we  were  to  walk  a  bit,  heh  ?"  On  hearing  the  name, 
the  Count  observed : 

"I  will  go  out  too ;  we  must  ease  the  horses." 

"Oh !  If  you  go  on  at  this  rate,  we  shall  do  fourteen 
leagues  in  a  fortnight !"  exclaimed  Georges. 

"Well,  is  it  any  fault  of  mine,"  said  Pierrotin,  "if  a  pas- 
senger wishes  to  get  out  ?" 

"I  will  give  you  ten  louis  if  you  keep  my  secret  as  I  l)id 
you,"  said  the  Count,  taking  Pierrotin  by  the  arm. 

"Oh,  ho !  My  thousand  francs !"  thought  Pierrotin,  after 
giving  Monsieur  de  Serizy  a  wink,  conveying,  "Trust  me !" 

Oscar  and  Georges  remained  in  the  chaise. 

"Look  here,  Pierrotin — since  Pierrotin  you  are,"  cried 
Georges,  when  the  travelers  had  got  into  the. chaise  again  at 
the  top  of  the  hill,  "if  you  are  going  no  faster  than  this,  say 
80.    I  will  pay  my  fare  to  Saint-Denis,  and  hire  a  nag  there, 


A  START  IN  LIFE  189 

for  I  have  important  business  on  hand,  which  will  suffer  from 
delay." 

"Oh  !  he  will  get  on,  never  fear/'  replied  the  farmer.  "And 
the  road  is  not  a  wide  one." 

"I  am  never  more  than  half  an  hour  late/'  answered  Pier- 
rotin. 

"Well,  well,  you  are  not  carting  the  Pope,  I  suppose,"  said 
Georges,  "so  hurry  up  a  little." 

"You  ought  not  to  show  any  favor,"  said  Mistigris;  "and 
if  you  are  afraid  of  jolting  this  gentleman" — and  he  indicated 
the  Count — "that  is  not  fair." 

"All  men  are  equal  in  the  eye  of  the  Coucou"  said  Georges, 
"as  all  Frenchmen  are  in  the  eye  of  the  Charter." 

"Be  quite  easy,"  said  old  Leger,  "we  shall  be  at  la  Chapelle 
yet  before  noon."  La  Chapelle  is  a  village  close  to  the  Bar- 
riere  Saint-Denis. 

Those  who  have  traveled  know  that  persons  thrown  to- 
gether in  a  public  conveyance  do  not  immediately  amal- 
gamate; unless  under  exceptional  circumstances,  they  do  not 
converse  till  they  are  well  on  their  way.  This  silent  interval 
is  spent  partly  in  reciprocal  examination,  and  partly  in  find- 
ing each  his  own  place  and  taking  possession  of  it.  The  soul, 
as  much  as  the  body,  needs  to  find  its  balance.  When  each 
severally  supposes  that  he  has  made  an  accurate  guess  at  his 
companion's  age,  profession,  and  temper,  the  most  talkative 
first  opens  a  conversation,  which  is  taken  up  all  the  more 
eagerly,  because  all  feel  the  need  for  cheering  the  way  and 
dispelling  the  dulness. 

This  at  least,  is  what  happens  in  a  French  coach.  In  other 
countries  manners  are  different.  The  English  pride  them- 
selves on  never  opening  their  lips;  a  German  is  dull  in  a 
coach;  Italians  are  too  cautious  to  chat;  the  Spaniards  have 
almost  ceased  to  have  any  coaches ;  and  the  Eussians  have  no 
roads.  So  it  is  only  in  the  ponderous  French  diligence  that 
the  passengers  amuse  each  other,  in  the  gay  and  gossiping 
nation  where  each  one  is  eager  to  laugh  and  display  his 
humor,  where  everything  is  enlivened  by  raillery,  from  the 


190  A  START  IN  LIFE 

misery  of  the  poorest  to  the  solid  interests  of  the  upper  middle- 
class.  The  police  do  little  to  check  the  license  of  speech,  and 
the  gallery  of  the  Chambers  has  made  discussion  fashionable. 

When  a  youngster  of  two-and-twenty,  like  the  young  gentle- 
man who  was  known  so  far  by  the  name  of  Georges,  has  a 
ready  wit,  he  is  strongly  tempted,  especially  in  such  circum- 
stances as  these,  to  be  reckless  in  the  use  of  it.  In  the  first 
place,  Georges  was  not  slow  to  come  to  the  conclusion  that  he 
uas  the  superior  man  of  the  party.  He  decided  that  the  Count 
was  a  manufacturer  of  the  second  claSs,  setting  him  down  as 
a  cutler;  the  shabby  looking  youth  attended  by  Mistigris  he 
thought  but  a  greenhorn,  Oscar  a  perfect  simpleton,  and 
the  farmer  a  capital  butt  for  a  practical  joke.  Having  thus 
taken  the  measure  of  all  his  traveling  companions,  he  deter- 
mined to  amuse  himself  at  their  expense. 

"Now,"  thought  he,  as  the  coucou  rolled  down  the  hill  from 
la  Chapelle  towards  the  plain  of  Saint-Denis,  "shall  I  pass 
myself  off  as  fitienne,  or  as  Beranger? — Xo,  these  bumpkins 
have  never  heard  of  either. — A  Carbonaro  ?  The  Devil !  I 
might  be  nabbed. — One  of  Marshal  Xey's  sons?  Pooh,  what 
could  I  make  of  that?  Tell  them  the  story  of  my  father's 
death?  That  would  hardly  be  funny. — Suppose  I  were  to 
have  come  back  from  the  Government  colony  in  America? 
They  might  take  nie  for  a  spy,  and  regard  me  with  suspicion. 
— I  will  be  a  Russian  Prince  in  disguise;  I  will  cram  them 
with  fine  stories  about  the  Emperor  Alexander ! — Or  if  I  pre- 
tended to  be  Cousin,  the  Professor  of  Philosophy  ?  How  I  could 
mystify  them !  No,  that  limp  creature  with  the  towzled 
hair  looks  as  if  he  might  have  kicked  his  heels  at  lecture  at 
the  Sorbonne. — Oh,  why  didn't  I  think  sooner  of  trotting 
them  out?  I  can  imitate  an  Englishman  so  well,  I  might 
have  been  Lord  Byron  traveling  incog. — Hang  it !  I  have 
missed  my  chance. — The  executioner's  son?  Not  a  bad  way 
of  clearing  a  space  at  breakfast. — Oh !  I  know !  I  ^nll  have 
been  in  command  of  the  troops  under  Ali,  the  Pasha  of 
Janina." 

While  he  was  lost  in  these  meditations,  the  chaise  was 


A  START  IN  LIFE  191 

making  its  way  through  the  clouds  of  dust  which  constantly 
blow  up  from  the  side  paths  of  this  much-trodden  road. 

"What  a  dust !"  said  Mistigris. 

"King  Henri  is  dead,"  retorted  his  comrade.  "If  you  said 
it  smelt  of  vanilla  now,  you  would  hit  on  a  new  idea  !" 

"You  think  that  funny,"  said  Mistigris.  "Well,  but  it 
does  now  and  then  remind  me  of  vanilla." 

"In  the  East "  Georges  began,  meaning  to  concoct  a 

story. 

"In    the    least "    said    Mistigris'    master,    taking    up 

Georges. 

"In  the  East,  I  said,  from  whence  I  have  just  returned," 
Georges  repeated,  "the  dust  smells  very  sweet.  But  here  it 
smells  of  nothing  unless  it  is  wafted  up  from  such  a  manure- 
heap  as  this." 

"You  have  just  returned  from  the  East?"  said  Mistigris, 
with  a  sly  twinkle. 

"And,  you  see,  Mistigwis,  the  gentleman  is  so  tired  that 
what  he  now  wequires  is  west,"  drawled  his  master. 

"You  are  not  much  sunburnt,"  said  Mistigris. 

"Oh !  I  am  but  just  out  of  bed  after  three  months'  illness, 
caused,  the  doctors  say,  by  an  attack  of  suppressed  plague." 

"You  have  had  the  plague?"  cried  the  Count,  with  a  look 
of  horror. — "Pierrotin,  put  me  out." 

"Get  on,  Pierrotin,"  said  Mistigris. — "You  hear  that  the 
plague  was  suppressed,"  he  went  on,  addressing  Monsieur  de 
Serizy.  "It  was  the  sort  of  plague  that  goes  down  in  the 
course  of  conversation." 

"The  plague  of  which  one  merely  says,  Tlague  take  it !' " 
cried  the  artist. 

"Or  plague  take  the  man !"  added  Mistigris. 

"Mistigris,"  said  his  master,  "I  shall  put  you  out  to  walk 
if  you  get  into  mischief. — So  you  have  been  in  the  East,  mon- 
sieur ?"  he  went  on,  turning  to  Georges. 

"Yes,  monsieur.  First  in  Egypt  and  then  in  Greece,  where 
I  served  under  Ali  Pasha  of  Janina,  with  whom  I  had  a  des- 
perate row. — The  climate  is  too  much  for  most  men ;  and  the 


192  A  START  IN  LIFE 

excitements  of  all  kinds  that  are  part  of  an  Oriental  life 
vvreekod  my  liver." 

"Oh,  ho!  a  soldier?"  said  the  burly  farmer.  "Why,  how 
old  are  you  ?" 

"I  am  nine-and-twenty,"  said  Georges,  and  all  his  fellow- 
travolers  looked  at  him.  "At  eighteen  I  served  as  a  private 
in  the  famous  campaign  of  1813;  but  I  only  was  present  at 
the  battle  of  Hanau,  where  I  won  the  rank  of  sergeant-major. 
In  France,  at  Montercau,  I  was  made  sub-lieutenant,  and  I 
was  decorated  b}^ — no  spies  here? — by  the  Emperor." 

"And  you  do  not  wear  the  Cross  of  your  Order?"  said 
Oscar. 

"A  Cross  given  by  the  present  set?  Thank  you  for  noth- 
ing. Besides,  who  that  is  anybody  wears  his  decorations  when 
traveling?  Look  at  monsieur,"  he  went  on,  indicating  the 
Comte  de  Serizy,  "I  w^ill  bet  you  anything  you  please " 

"Betting  anything  you  please  is  the  same  thing  in  France 
as  not  betting  at  all,"  said  Mistigris'  master. 

"I  will  bet  you  anything  you  please,"  Georges  repeated 
pompously,  "that  he  is  covered  with  stars." 

"I  have,  in  fact,"  said  Monsieur  de  Serizy,  with  a  laugh, 
'^the  Grand  Cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honor,  the  Grand  Cross  of 
Saint-Andrew  of  Russia,  of  the  Eagle  of  Prussia,  of  the  Order 
of  the  Annunciada  of  Sardinia,  and  of  the  Golden  Fleece." 

"Is  that  all  ?"  said  Mistigris.  "And  it  all  rides  in  a  public 
chaise  ?" 

"He  is  going  it,  is  the  brick-red  man !"  said  Georges  in  a 
whisper  to  Oscar.  "What  did  I  tell  you  ?"  he  remarked  aloud. 
•—"I  make  no  secret  of  it,  I  am  devoted  to  the  Emperor !" 

"I  served  under  him,"  said  the  Count. 

"And  what  a  man !    Wasn't  he  ?"  cried  Georges. 

"A  man  to  whom  I  am  under  great  obligations,"  replied 
the  Count,  with  a  well-affected  air  of  stupidity. 

"For  your  crosses?"  said  Mistigris. 

"And  what  quantities  of  snuff  he  took !"  replied  Monsieur 
de  Serizy. 

**Yes,  he  took  it  loose  in  his  waistcoat  pockets." 


A  START  IN  LIFE  193 

"So  I  have  been  told/'  said  the  farmer,  with  a  look  of  incre- 
dulity. 

"And  not  only  that,  but  he  chewed  and  smoked,"  Georges 
went  on.  "I  saw  him  smoking  in  the  oddest  way  at  Waterloo 
when  Marshal  Soult  lifted  him  up  bodily  and  flung  him  into 
his  traveling  carriage,  just  as  he  had  seized  a  musket  and 
wanted  to  charge  the  English  !" 

"So  you  were  at  Waterloo?"  said  Oscar,  opening  his  eyes 
very  wide. 

"Yes,  young  man,  I  went  through  the  campaign  of  1815. 
At  Mont  Saint-Jean  I  was  made  captain,  and  I  retired  on  the 
Loire  when  we  were  disbanded.  But,  on  my  honor,  I  was 
sick  of  France,  and  I  could  not  stay.  No,  I  should  have  got 
myself  into  some  scrape.  So  I  went  off  with  two  or  three 
others  of  the  same  sort.  Selves,  Besson,  and  some  more,  who 
are  in  Egypt  to  this  day  in  the  service  of  Mohammed  Pasha, 
and  a  queer  fellow  he  is,  I  can  tell  you  !  He  was  a  tobacconist 
at  la  Cavaile,  and  is  on  the  high  way  to  be  a  reigning  prince. 
You  have  seen  him  in  Horace  Vernet's  picture  of  the  Massacre 
of  the  Mamelukes.  Such  a  handsome  man ! — I  never  would 
abjure  the  faith  of  my  fathers  and  adopt  Islam ;  all  the  more 
because  the  ceremony  involves  a  surgical  operation  for  which 
I  had  no  liking.  Besides,  no  one  respects  a  renegade.  If  they 
had  offered  me  a  hundred  thousand  francs  a  year,  then,  indeed 
— and  yet,  no. — The  Pasha  made  me  a  present  of  a  thousand 
talari." 

"How  much  is  that  ?"  asked  Oscar,  who  was  all  ears. 

"Oh,  no  great  matter.  The  talaro  is  much  the  same  as  a 
five-franc  piece.  And,  on  my  honor,  I  did  not  earn  enough 
to  pay  for  the  vices  I  learned  in  that  thundering  vile' 
country — if  you  can  call  it  a  country.  I  cannot  live  now  v/ith- 
out  smoking  my  narghileh  twice  a  day,  and  it  is  very  expen- 
sive  " 

"And  what  is  Egypt  like  ?"  asked  Monsieur  de  Serizy. 

"Egypt  is  all  sand,"  replied  Georges,  quite  undaunted. 
"There  is  nothing  green  but  the  Nile  valley.  Draw  a  green 
strip  on  a  sheet  of  yellow  paper,  and  there  you  have  Egypt.— 


194  A  START  IN  LIFE 

The  Egyptians,  the  fcllaheeu,  have,  1  may  remark,  one  greai 
advantage  over  us;  there  are  no  gendarmes.  You  may  go 
from  one  end  of  Kgypt  to  the  other,  and  you  will  not  find  one." 

"I  suppo."ie  there  are  a  good  many  Egyptians  there,"  said 
Mistigris. 

"Not  so  many  as  you  would  think,''  answered  Georges. 
"There  are  more  Abyssinians,  Giaours,  Yechabites,  Bedouins, 
and  Copts. — However,  all  these  creatures  are  so  very  far  from 
amusing  that  I  was  only  too  glad  to  embark  on  a  Genoese 
polacra,  bound  for  the  Ionian  Islands  to  take  up  powder  and 
ammunition  for  Ali  of  Tebelen.  As  you  know,  the  English 
sell  powder  and  ammunition  to  all  nations,  to  the  Turks  and 
the  Greeks;  they  would  sell  them  to  the  Devil  if  the  Devil 
had  money.  So  from  Zante  we  were  to  luff  up  to  the  coast  of 
Greece. 

"And,  I  tell  you,  take  me  as  you  see  me,  the  name  of 
Georges  is  famous  in  those  parts.  I  am  the  grandson  of  that 
famous  Czerni-Georges  who  made  war  on  the  Porte;  but  in- 
stead of  breaking  it  down,  he  was  unluckily  smashed  up.  His 
son  took  refuge  in  the  house  of  the  French  Consul  at  Smyrna, 
and  came  to  Paris  in  1792,  where  he  died  before  I,  his  seventh 
child,  was  born.  Our  treasure  was  stolen  from  us  by  a  friend 
of  my  grandfather's,  so  we  were  ruined.  My  mother  lived  by 
selling  her  diamonds  one  by  one,  till  in  1799  she  married 
Monsieur  Yung,  a  contractor,  and  my  stepfather.  But  my 
mother  died;  I  quarreled  with  my  stepfather,  who,  between 
ourselves,  is  a  rascal;  he  is  still  living,  but  we  never  meet. 
The  wretch  left  us  all  seven  to  our  fate  without  a  word,  nor 
bit  nor  sup.  And  that  is  how,  in  1813,  in  sheer  despair,  I 
went  off  as  a  conscript. — You  cannot  imagine  with  what  joy 
Ali  of  Tebelen  hailed  the  grandson  of  Czerni-Georges.  Here 
I  call  myself  simply  Georges. — The  Pasha  gave  me  a 
seraglio " 

"You  had  a  seraglio?"  said  Oscar. 

"Were  you  a  Pasha  with  many  tails  ?"  asked  Mistigris. 

"How  is  it  that  you  don't  know  that  there  is  but  one  Sultan 
who   can   create   pashas?"    said    Georges,    "and    my    friend 


A  START  IN  LIFE  195 

Tebelen — for  we  were  friends,  like  two  Bourbons — was  a 
rebel  against  the  Padisehah. — You  know — or  you  don't  know 
— that  the  Grand  Signer's  correct  title  is  Padisehah,  and  not 
the  Grand  Turk  or  the  Sultan. 

"Do  not  suppose  that  a  seraglio  is  any  great  matter.  You 
might  just  as  well  have  a  flock  of  goats.  Their  women  are 
great  fools,  and  I  like  the  grisettes  of  the  Chaumiere  at  Mont 
Parnasse  a  thousand  times  better." 

"And  they  are  much  nearer,"  said  the  Comte  de  Serizy. 

"These  women  of  the  seraglio  never  know  a  word  of  French, 
and  language  is  indispensable  to  an  understanding.  Ali  gave 
me  five  lawful  wives  and  ten  slave  girls.  At  Janina  that  was 
a  mere  nothing.  In  the  East,  you  see,  it  is  very  bad  style  to 
have  wives ;  you  have  them,  but  as  we  here  have  our  Voltaire 
and  our  Eousseau;  who  ever  looks  into  his  Voltaire  or  his 
Eousseau  ?  Nobody. — And  yet  it  is  quite  the  right  thing  to  be 
jealous.  You  may  tie  a  woman  up  in  a  sack  and  throw  her 
into  the  water  on  a  mere  suspicion  by  an  article  of  their  Code." 

"Did  you  throw  any  in  ?" 

"I  ?    What !  a  Frenchman  !    I  was  devoted  to  them." 

Whereupon  Georges  twirled  up  his  moustache,  and  assumed 
a  pensive  air. 

By  this  time  they  were  at  Saint-Denis,  and  Pierrotin  drew 
up  at  the  door  of  the  inn  where  the  famous  cheese-cakes  are 
sold,  and  where  all  travelers  call.  The  Count,  really  puzzled 
by  the  mixture  of  truth  and  nonsense  in  Georges'  rhodomon- 
tade,  jumped  into  the  carriage  again,  looked  under  the  cushion 
for  the  portfolio  which  Pierrotin  had  told  him  that  this  mys- 
terious youth  had  bestowed  there,  and  saw  on  it  in  gilt  letters 
the  words,  "Maitre  Crottat,  Notaire."  The  Count  at  once 
took  the  liberty  of  opening  the  case,  fearing,  with  good 
reason,  that  if  ha  <Jid  not,  farmer  Leger  might  be  possessed 
with  similar  curiosity;  and  taking  out  the  deed  relating  to 
the  Moulineaux  farm,  he  folded  it  up,  put  it  in  the  side 
pocket  of  his  coat,  and  came  back  to  join  his  fellow-travelers. 

"This  Georges  is  neither  more  nor  less  than  Crottat's  junior 
clerk.  I  will  congratulate  his  master,  who  ought  to  have  sent 
his  head-clerk." 


196  A  START  IN  LIFE 

From  the  respectful  attention  of  the  farmer  and  Oscar, 
Georges  perceived  that  in  them  at  least  he  had  two  ardent 
admirers.  Of  course,  he  put  on  lordly  airs;  he  treated  them 
to  cheese-cakes  and  a  glass  of  Alicante,  and  then  did  the  same 
to  Mistigris  and  his  master,  asking  them  their  names  on  the 
strength  of  this  munificence. 

"Oh,  monsieur,"  said  the  elder,  "I  am  not  the  proud  owner 
of  so  illustrious  a  name  as  yours,  and  I  have  not  come  home 
from  Asia."  The  Count,  who  had  made  haste  to  get  back  to 
the  vast  inn  kitchen,  so  as  to  excite  no  suspicions,  came  in 
time  to  hear  the  end  of  the  reply. — "I  am  simply  a  poor 
painter  just  returned  from  Eome,  where  I  went  at  the  expense 
of  the  Government  after  winning  the  Grand  Prix  five  years 
ago.    My  name  is  Sehinner." 

"Hallo,  master,  may  I  offer  you  a  glass  of  Alicante  and 
some  cheese-cakes?"  cried  Georges  to  the  Count. 

"Thank  you,  no,"  said  the  Count.  "I  never  come  out  till 
I  have  had  my  cup  of  coffee." 

"And  you  never  eat  anything  between  meals  ?  How  Marais, 
Place  Royale,  and  He  Saint-Louis!"  exclaimed  Georges. 
"When  he  crammed  us  just  now  about  his  Orders,  I  fancied 
him  better  fun  than  he  is,"  he  went  on  in  a  low  voice  to  the 
painter;  '^ut  we  will  get  him  on  to  that  subject  again — the 
little  tallow-chandler. — Come,  boy,"  said  he  to  Oscar,  "drink 
the  glass  that  was  poured  out  for  the  grocer,  it  will  make  your 
moustache  grow." 

Oscar,  anxious  to  play  the  man,  drank  the  second  glass  of 
wine,  and  ate  three  more  cheese-cakes. 

"Very  good  wine  it  is !"  said  old  Leger,  smacking  his 
tongue. 

"And  all  the  better,"  remarked  Georges,  "because  it  comes 
from  Bercy.  I  have  been  to  Alicante,  and,  I  tell  you,  this  is 
no  more  like  the  wine  of  that  country  than  my  arm  is  like  a 
windmill.  Our  manufactured  wines  are  far  better  than  the 
natural  products. — Come,  Pierrotin,  have  a  glass.  What  a 
pity  it  is  that  your  horses  cannot  each  drink  one;  we  should 
get  on  faster !" 


A  START  IN  LIFE  197 

"Oh,  that  is  unnecessaiy,  as  I  have  a  gray  horse  already," 
said  Pierrotin  {gris^  which  means  gray,  meaning  also 
screwed) . 

Oscar,  as  he  heard  the  vulgar  pun,  thought  Pierrotin  a 
marvel  of  wit. 

"Off!"  cried  Pierrotin,  cracking  his  whip  as  soon  as  the 
passengers  had  once  more  packed  themselves  into  the  vehicle. 

It  was  by  this  time  eleven  o'clock.  The  weather,  which  had 
been  rather  dull,  now  cleared ;  the  wind  swept  away  the  clouds ; 
the  blue  sky  shone  out  here  and  there ;  and  by  the  time  Pier- 
rotin's  chaise  was  fairly  started  on  the  ribbon  of  road  be- 
tween Saint-Denis  and  Pierrefitte,  the  sun  had  finally  drunk 
up  the  last  filmy  haze  that  hung  like  a  diaphanous  veil  over 
the  views  from  this  famous  suburb. 

"Well,  and  why  did  you  throw  over  your  friend  the  Pasha  ?" 
Eiaid  the  farmer  to  Georges. 

"He  was  a  very  queer  customer,"  replied  Georges,  with  an 
air  of  hiding  many  mysteries.  "Only  think,  he  put  me  in 
command  of  his  cavalry  !    Very  well " 

"That,"  thought  poor  Oscar,  "is  why  he  wears  spurs." 

"At  that  time,  Ali  of  Tebelen  wanted  to  rid  himself  of 
Chosrew  Pasha,  another  queer  fish. — Chaureff  you  call  him 
here,  but  in  Turkey  they  call  him  Cosserev.  You  must  have 
read  in  the  papers  at  the  time  that  old  Ali  had  beaten  Chosrew, 
and  pretty  soundly  too.  Well,  but  for  me,  Ali  would  have  been 
done  for  some  days  sooner.  I  led  the  right  wing,  and  I  saw 
Chosrew,  the  old  sneak,  just  charging  the  centre — oh,  yes,  I 
can  tell  you,  as  straight  and  steady  a  move  as  if  he  had  been 
Murat. — Good !  I  took  my  time,  and  I  charged  at  full  speed,| 
cutting  Chosrew's  column  in  two  parts,  for  he  had  pushed 
through  our  centre,  and  had  no  cover.    You  understand 

"After  it  was  all  over  Ali  fairly  hugged  me." 

"Is  that  the  custom  in  the  East  ?"  said  the  Comte  de  Serizy, 
with  a  touch  of  irony. 

"Yes,  monsieur,  as  it  is  everywhere,"  answered  the  painter. 

"We  drove  Chosrew  back  over  thirty  leagues  of  country — • 


198  A  START  IN  LIFE 

like  a  hunt,  I  tell  you,"  Georges  went  on.  "Splendid  horse- 
men are  the  Turks.  All  gave  me  yataghans,  guns,  and 
Bwords. — 'Take  as  Jiumy  as  you  like.' — When  we  got  back  to 
the  capital,  that  incredible  creature  made  proposals  to  me 
that  did  not  suit  my  views  at  all.  He  wanted  to  adopt  me  as 
his  favorite,  his  heir.  But  I  had  had  enough  of  the  life;  for, 
after  all,  Ali  of  Tebelen  was  a  rebel  against  the  Porte,  and  I 
thought  it  wiser  to  clear  out.  But  I  must  do  Monsieur  de 
Tebelen  justice,  he  loaded  me  with  presents;  diamonds,  ten 
thousand  talari,  a  thousand  pieces  of  gold,  a  fair  Greek  girl 
for  a  page,  a  little  Aruaute  maid  for  company,  and  an  Arab 
horse.  Well,  there !  x\li,  the  Pasha  of  Janina,  is  an  unappre- 
ciated man;  he  lacks  a  historian. — Nowhere  but  in  the  East 
do  you  meet  with  these  iron  souls  who,  for  twenty  years, 
strain  every  nerve,  only  to  be  able  to  take  a  revenge  one  fine 
morning. 

"In  the  first  place,  he  had  the  grandest  white  beard  you 
ever  saw,  and  a  hard,  stern  face " 

"But  what  became  of  your  treasure  ?"  asked  the  farmer. 

"Ah !  there  you  are !  Those  people  have  no  State  funds 
nor  Bank  of  France;  so  I  packed  my  money-bags  on  board  a 
Greek  tartane,  which  was  captured  by  the  Capitan-Pasha  him- 
self. Then  I  myself,  as  you  see  me,  was  within  an  ace  of 
being  impaled  at  Smyrna.  Yes,  on  my  honor,  but  for  Mon- 
sieur de  Riviere,  the  Ambassador,  who  happened  to  be  on  the 
spot,  I  should  have  been  executed  as  an  ally  of  Ali  Pasha's. 
I  saved  my  head,  or  I  could  not  speak  so  plainly;  but  as  for 
the  ten  thousand  talari,  the  thousand  pieces  of  gold,  and  the 
weapons,  oh  !  that  was  all  swallowed  down  by  that  greedy-guts 
the  Capitan-Pasha.  My  position  was  all  the  more  ticklish 
because  the  Capitan-Pasha  was  Chosrew  himself.  After  the 
dressing  he  had  had,  the  scamp  had  got  this  post,  which  is 
that  of  High  Admiral  in  France." 

"But  he  had  been  in  the  cavalry,  as  I  understood?"  said 
old  liCger,  who  had  been  listening  attentively  to  this  long 
story. 

"That  shows  how  little  the  East  is  understood  in  the  De- 


A  START  IN  LIFE  199 

partment  of  Seine-et-Oise !"  exclaimed  Georges.  "Monsieur, 
the  Turks  are  like  that. — You  are  a  farmer,  the  Padischah 
makes  you  a  Field-Marshal ;  if  you  do  not  fulfil  your  duties 
to  his  satisfaction,  so  much  the  worse  for  you.  Off  with  your 
head  !  That  is  his  way  of  dismissing  you.  A  gardener  is  made 
prefet,  and  a  prime  minister  is  a  private  once  more.  The 
Ottomans  know  no  laws  of  promotion  or  hierarchy. — 'Chosrew, 
who  had  been  a  horseman,  was  now  a  sailor.  The  Padischah 
Mohammed  had  instructed  him  to  fall  on  Ali  by  sea;  and  he 
had,  in  fact,  mastered  him,  but  only  by  the  help  of  the  Eng- 
lish, who  got  the  best  of  the  booty,  the  thieves !  They  laid 
hands  on  the  treasure. 

"This  Chosrew,  who  had  not  forgotten  the  riding-lesson  I 
had  given  him,  recognized  me  at  once.  As  you  may  suppose, 
I  was  settled — oh !  done  for ! — if  it  had  not  occurred  to  me 
to  appeal,  as  a  Frenchman  and  a  Troubadour,  to  Monsieur  de 
Eiviere.  The  Ambassador,  delighted  to  assert  himself,  de- 
manded my  release.  The  Turks  have  this  great  merit,  they 
are  as  ready  to  let  you  go  as  to  cut  otf  your  head;  they  are 
indifferent  to  everything.  The  French  consul,  a  charming 
man,  and  a  friend  of  Chosrew's,  got  him  to  restore  two  thou- 
sand talari,  and  his  name,  I  may  say,  is  graven  on  my 
heart " 

"And  his  name ?"  asked  Monsieur  de  Serizy. 

He  could  not  forbear  a  look  of  surprise  when  Georges,  in 
fact,  mentioned  the  name  of  one  of  our  most  distinguished 
Consuls-General,  who  was  at  Smyrna  at  the  time. 

"I  was  present,  as  it  fell  out,  at  the  execution  of  the  Com- 
mandant of  Smyrna,  the  Padischah  having  ordered  Chosrew 
to  put  him  to  death — one  of  the  most  curious  things  I  ever 
saw,  though  I  have  seen  many.  I  will  tell  you  all  about  it  by 
and  by  at  breakfast. 

"From  Smyrna  I  went  to  Spain,  on  hearing  there  was  a 
revolution  there.  I  went  straight  to  Mina,  who  took  me  for 
an  aide-de-camp,  and  gave  me  the  rank  of  Colonel.  So  I 
fought  for  the  Constitutional  party,  which  is  going  to  the 
dogs,  for  we  shall  walk  into  Spain  one  of  these  days." 


200  A  START  IN  LIFE 

"And  3'ou  a  Froncli  officer !"  said  the  Comte  dc  Serizy  se- 
verely. "You  arc  trustiDg  very  rashly  to  the  discretion  of 
your  hearers." 

"There  are  no  spies  among  them,"  said  Georges. 

"And  does  it  not  occur  to  you,  Colonel  Georges/'  said  the 
Count,  "that  at  this  very  time  a  conspiracy  is  being  inquired 
into  by  tlie  Chamber  of  Peers,  wliicli  makes  the  Government 
very  strict  in  its  dealings  with  soldiers  who  bear  arms  against 
France,  or  who  aid  in  intrigues  abroad  tending  to  the  over- 
throw of  any  legitimate  sovereign  ?" 

At  this  ominous  remark,  the  painter  reddened  up  to  his  ears, 
and  glanced  at  Mistigris,  who  was  speechless. 

"Well,  and  what  then  ?"  asked  old  Leger. 

"Why,  if  I  by  chance  were  a  magistrate,  would  it  not  be  my 
duty  to  call  on  the  gendanncs  of  the  Brigade  at  Pierrefitte 
to  arrest  Mina's  aide-de-camp,"  said  the  Count,  "and  to  sum- 
mons all  who  are  in  this  chaise  as  witnesses  ?" 

This  speech  silenced  Georges  all  the  more  effectually  because 
the  vehicle  was  just  passing  the  Gendarmerie  Station,  where 
the  white  flag  was,  to  use  a  classical  phrase,  floating  on  the 
breeze. 

"You  have  too  many  Orders  to  be  guilty  of  such  mean  con- 
duct," said  Oscar. 

"We  will  play  him  a  trick  yet,"  whispered  Georges  to  Oscar. 

"Colonel,"  said  Leger,  very  much  discomfited  by  the  Count's 
outburst,  and  anxious  to  change  the  subject,  "in  the  countries 
where  you  have  traveled,  what  is  the  farming  like  ?  What  are 
their  crops  in  rotation?" 

"In  the  first  place,  my  good  friend,  you  must  understand 
that  the  people  are  too  busy  smoking  weeds  to  burn  them  on 
the  land " 

The  Count  could  not  help  smiling,  and  his  smile  reassured 
the  narrator. 

"And  they  have  a  way  of  cultivating  the  land  which  you 
will  think  strange.  They  do  not  cultivate  it  all ;  that  is  their 
system.  The  Turks  and  Greeks  eat  onions  or  rice;  they  col- 
lect opium  from  their  poppies,  which  yields  a  large  revenue, 


A  START  IN  LIFE  SOl 

and  tobacco  grows  almost  wild — their  famous  Latakia.  Then 
there  are  dates,  bunches  of  sugar-j)lums,  that  grow  without 
any  trouble.  It  is  a  country  of  endless  resources  and  trade.' 
Quantities  of  carpets  are  made  at  Smyrna,  and  not  dear." 

"Ay/'  said  the  farmer,  "but  if  the  carpets  are  made  of 
wool,  wool  comes  from  sheep ;  and  to  have  sheep  they  must 
have  fields,  farms,  and  farming " 

"There  must,  no  doubt,  be  something  of  the  kind,"  replied 
Georges.  "But  rice,  in  the  first  place,  groM^s  in  water;  and 
then  I  have  always  been  near  the  coast,  and  have  only  seen 
the  country  devastated  by  war.  Besides,  I  have  a  perfect 
horror  of  statistics." 

"And  the  taxes  ?"  said  the  farmer. 

"Ah !  the  taxes  are  heavy.  The  people  are  robbed  of  every- 
thing, and  allowed  to  keep  the  rest.  The  Pasha  of  Egypt, 
struck  by  the  merits  of  this  system,  was  organizing  the  Ad- 
ministration on  that  basis  when  I  left." 

"But  how  ?"  said  old  Leger,  who  was  utterly  puzzled. 

"How?"  echoed  Georges.  "There  are  collectors  who  seize 
the  crops,  leaving  the  peasants  just  enough  to  live  on.  And 
by  that  system  there  is  no  trouble  with  papers  and  red  tape, 
the  plague  of  France. — There  you  are !" 

"But  what  right  have  they  to  do  it  ?"  asked  the  farmer. 

"It  is  the  land  of  despotism,  that's  all.  Did  you  never  hear 
Montesquieu's  fine  definition  of  Despotism — 'Like  the  savage, 
it  cuts  the  tree  down  to  gather  the  fruit.'  " 

"And  that  is  what  they  want  to  bring  us  back  to!"  cried 
Mistigris.    "But  a  burnt  rat  dreads  the  mire." 

"And  it  is  what  we  shall  come  to,"  exclaimed  the  Comte  de 
Serizy.  "Those  who  hold  land  will  be  wise  to  sell  it.  Mon- 
sieur Schinner  must  have  seen  how  such  things  are  done  in 
Italy." 

"Corpo  di  Bacco!  The  Pope  is  not  behind  his  times.  But 
they  are  used  to  it  there.  The  Italians  are  such  good  people ! 
So  long  as  they  are  allowed  to  do  a  little  highway  murdering 
of  travelers,  they  are  quite  content." 

"But  you,  too,  do  not  wear  the  ribbon  of  the  Legion  of 


202  A  START  IN  LIFE 

Honor  that  was  given  you  in  1819,"  remarked  the  Count.  "Is 
the  fashion  universal?" 

Mistigris  and  the  false  Schinner  reddened  up  to  their  hair. 

"Oh,  with  me  it  is  different,"  replied  Schinner.  "I  do  not 
wish  to  be  recognized.  Do  not  betray  me,  monsieur.  I  mean 
to  pass  for  a  quite  unimportant  painter ;  in  fact,  a  mere  deco- 
rator. I  am  going  to  a  gentleman's  house  where  I  am  anxious 
to  excite  no  suspicion." 

"Oh,  ho!"  said  the  Count,  "a  lady!  a  love  affair!— Howl 
happy  you  are  to  be  young !" 

Oscar,  who  was  bursting  in  his  skin  with  envy  at  being  no- 
body and  having  nothing  to  say,  looked  from  Colonel  Czerni- 
Georges  to  Schinner  the  great  artist,  wondering  whether  he 
could  not  make  something  of  himself.  But  what  could  he  be, 
a  boy  of  nineteen,  packed  off  to  spend  a  fortnigiit  or  three 
weeks  in  the  country  with  the  steward  of  Presles?  The  Ali- 
cante had  gone  to  his  head,  and  his  conceit  was  making  the 
blood  boil  in  his  veins.  Thus,  when  the  sham  Schinner  seemed 
to  hint  at  some  romantic  adventure  of  which  the  joys  must  be 
equal  to  the  danger,  he  gazed  at  him  with  eyes  flashing  with 
rage  and  envy. 

"Ah !"  said  the  Count,  with  a  look  half  of  envy  and  half  of 
incredulity,  "you  must  love  a  woman  very  much  to  make  such 
sacrifices  for  her  sake." 

"What  sacrifices  ?"  asked  Mistigris. 

"Don't  you  know,  my  little  friend,  that  a  ceiling  painted 
by  so  great  a  master  is  covered  with  gold  in  payment?"  replied 
the  Count.  "Why,  if  the  Civil  List  pays  you  tliirty  thousand 
francs  for  those  of  the  two  rooms  in  the  Louvre,"  he  went  on, 
turning  to  Schinner,  "you  would  certainly  charge  a  humble 
individual,  a  bourgeois,  as  you  call  us  in  your  studios,  twenty 
thousand  for  a  ceiling,  while  an  unknown  decorator  would 
hardly  get  two  thousand  francs." 

"The  money  loss  is  not  the  worst  of  it,"  replied  Mistigris. 
"You  must  consider  that  it  will  l)e  a  masterpiece,  and  that  he 
must  not  sign  it  for  fear  of  compromising  her." 

"Ah  I  I  would  gladly  restore  all  my  orders  to  the  sovereigns 


A  START  IN  LIFE  203 

of  Europe  to  be  loved  as  a  young  man  must  be,  to  be  moved 
to  such  devotion !"  cried  Monsieur  de  Serizy. 

"Ay,  there  you  are,"  said  Mistigris.  "A  man  who  is  young 
is  beloved  of  many  women ;  and,  as  the  saying  goes,  there  is 
safety  in  grumblers." 

"And  what  does  Madame  Schinner  say  to  it?",  asked  the 
Count,  "for  you  married  for  love  the  charming  Adelaide  de 
Rouville,  the  niece  of  old  Admiral  Korgarouet,  who  got  you 
the  work  at  the  Louvre,  I  believe,  through  the  interest  of  his 
nephew  the  Comte  de  Fontaine." 

"Is  a  painter  ever  a  married  man  when  he  is  traveling?" 
asked  Mistigris. 

"That,  then,  is  Studio  morality?"  exclaimed  the  Count  in 
an  idiotic  way. 

"Is  the  morality  of  the  Courts  where  you  got  your  Orders 
any  better  ?"  said  Schinner,  who  had  recovered  his  presence  of 
mind,  which  had  deserted  him  for  a  moment  when  he  heard 
that  the  Count  was  so  well  informed  as  to  the  commission 
given  to  the  real  Schinner. 

"I  never  asked  for  one,"  replied  the  Count.  "I  flatter  my- 
self that  they  were  all  honestly  earned." 

"And  it  becomes  you  like  a  pig  in  dress-boots,"  said  Mis- 
tigris. 

Monsieur  de  Serizy  would  not  betray  himself ;  he  put  on  an 
air  of  stupid  good-nature  as  he  looked  out  over  the  valley  of 
Groslay,  into  which  they  diverged  where  the  roads  fork,  taking 
the  road  to  Saint-Briee,  and  leaving  that  to  Chantilly  on  their 
right. 

"Ay,  take  that !"  said  Oscar  between  his  teeth. 

"And  is  Eome  as  fine  as  it  is  said  to  be  ?"  Georges  asked  of 
the  painter. 

"Rome  is  fine  only  to  those  who  love  it ;  you  must  have  a 
passion  for  it  to  be  happy  there ;  but,  as  a  town,  I  prefer 
Venice,  though  I  was  near  being  assassinated  there." 

"My  word  !  But  for  me,"  said  Mistigris,  "your  goose  would 
have  been  cooked !    It  was  that  rascal  Lord  Byron  who  played 


'IM  A  START  IN  LIFE 

you  that  trick.  Tliat  devil  of  an  Englishman  was  a?  mad  as  a 
liatter !" 

"Hold  your  tongue,"  said  Schinner.  "I  won't  have  any- 
thing known  of  my  affair  with  Lord  Byron." 

"But  you  must  confess,"  said  Mistigris,  "that  you  were  very 
glad  that  T  had  learned  to  'box'  in  our  French  fashion?" 

Xow  and  again  Pierrotin  and  the  Count  exchanged  signifi- 
cant glances,  which  would  have  disturbed  men  a  little  more 
worldly-wise  than  these  five  fellow-travelers. 

"Lords  and  pashas,  and  ceilings  worth  thirty  thousand 
francs !  Bless  me !"  cried  the  I'lsle-Adam  carrier,  "I  have 
crowned  heads  on  board  to-day.  What  handsome  tips  I  shall 
get!" 

"To  say  nothing  of  the  places  being  paid  for,"  said  Mistigris 
slily. 

"It  comes  in  the  nick  of  time,"  Pierrotin  went  on.  "For, 
you  know,  my  fine  new  coach,  Pere  Leger,  for  which  I  paid 
two  thousand  francs  on  account — well,  those  swindling  coach- 
builders,  to  whom  I  am  to  pay  two  thousand  five  hundred 
francs  to-morrow,  would  not  take  fifteen  hundred  francs  dowTi 
and  a  bill  for  a  thousand  at  two  months. — The  vultures  insist 
on  it  all  in  ready  money.  Fancy  being  as  hard  as  that  on  a 
man  who  has  traveled  this  road  for  eight  years,  the  father  of  a 
family,  and  putting  him  in  danger  of  losing  everything, 
money  and  coach  both,  for  lack  of  a  wretched  sum  of  a  thou- 
sand francs ! — Gee  up,  Bichette. — They  would  not  dare  do 
it  to  one  of  the  big  companies,  I  lay  a  wager." 

"Bless  me !    No  thong,  no  crupper !"  said  the  student. 

"You  have  only  eight  hundred  francs  to  seek,"  replied  thy 
Count,  understanding  that  this  speech  addressed  to  the  fanner 
was  a  sort  of  bill  drawn  on  himself. 

"That's  true,"  said  Pierrotin.    "Come  up,  Rougeot !" 

"You  must  have  seen  some  fine-painted  ceilings  at  Venice," 
'said  the  Count,  speaking  to  Schinner. 

"I  was  too  desperately  in  love  to  pay  any  attention  to 
what  at  the  time  seemed  to  me  mere  trifles,"  replied  Schinner. 
"And  yet  I  might  have  been  cured  of  love-affairs;  for  in  the 


A  START  IN  LIFE  205 

Venetian  States  themselves,  in  Dalmatia,  I  had  just  had  a 
sharp  lesson." 

"Can  you  tell  the  tale?"  asked  Georges.  "I  know  Dal- 
matia." 

"Well,  then,  if  you  have  been  there,  you  know,  of  course, 
that  up  in  that  corner  of  the  Adriatic  they  are  all  old  pirates, 
outlaws,  and  corsairs  retired  from  business,  when  they  have 
escaped  hanging,  all " 

"Uscoques,  in  short,"  said  Georges. 

On  hearing  this,  the  right  name,  the  Count,  whom  Napoleon 
had  sent  into  the  provinces  of  Illyria,  looked  sharply  round, 
so  much  was  he  astonished. 

"It  was  in  the  town  where  the  Maraschino  is  made,"  said 
Schinner,  seeming  to  try  to  remember  a  name. 

"Zara,"  said  Georges.  "Yes,  I  have  been  there ;  it  is  on  the 
coast." 

"You  have  hit  it,"  said  the  painter.  "I  went  there  to  see 
the  country,  for  I  have  a  passion  for  landscajje.  Twenty  times 
have  I  made  up  my  mind  to  try  landscape  painting,  which  no 
one  understands,  in  my  opinion,  but  Mistigris,  who  will  one 
of  these  days  be  a  Hobbema,  Euysdael,  Claude  Lorraine, 
Poussin,  and  all  the  tribe  in  one." 

^'Well,"  exclaimed  the  Count,  "if  he  is  but  one  of  them,  he 
will  do." 

"If  you  interrupt  so  often,  we  shall  never  know  where  we 
are." 

"Besides,  our  friend  here  is  not  speaking  to  you,"  added 
Georges  to  the  Count. 

"It  is  not  good  manners  to  interrupt,"  said  Mistigris  sen- 
tentiously.  "However,  we  did  the  same ;  and  we  should  all  be 
the  losers  if  we  didn't  diversify  the  conversation  by  an  ex- 
change of  reflections.  All  Frenchmen  are  equal  in  a  public 
chaise,  as  the  grandson  of  Czerni-Georges  told  us. — So  pray 
go  on,  delightful  old  man,  more  of  your  bunkum.  It  is  quite 
the  correct  thing  in  the  best  society;  and  you  know  the  sajing, 
Do  in  Turkey  as  the  Turkeys  do." 


2(m  A  START  IN  LIFE 

"1  had  heard  wonders  of  Dalniatia,"  Schiniier  went  on. 
•'So  off  I  went,  leaving  Mistigris  at  the  inn  at  Venice." 

"At  the  locanda,"  said  Mistigris;  "put  in  the  local  color." 

"Zara  is,  as  1  have  been  told,  a  vile  hole " 

"Yes,"  said  Georges;  "but  it  is  fortified." 

"I  should  say  so !"  replied  Schinner,  "and  the  fortifications 
are  an  important  feature  in  my  story.  At  Zara  there  are  a 
great  many  apothecaries,  and  I  lodged  with  one  of  them.  In 
foreign  countries  the  principal  business  of  every  native  is  to 
let  lodgings,  his  trade  is  purely  accessory. 

"In  the  evening,  when  I  had  changed  my  shirt,  I  went  out 
on  my  balcon3\  Xow  on  the  opposite  balcony  I  perceived  a 
woman — oh  !  But  a  woman  !  A  Greek ;  that  says  everything, 
the  loveliest  creature  in  all  the  town.  Almond  eyes,  eyelids 
that  came  down  over  them  like  blinds,  and  lashes  like  paint- 
brushes ;  an  oval  face  that  might  have  turned  Raphael's  brain, 
a  complexion  of  exquisite  hue,  melting  tones,  a  skin  of  velvet, 
— hands — ph !" 

"And  not  moulded  in  butter  like  those  of  David's  school," 
said  Mistigris. 

"You  insist  on  talking  like  a  painter !"  cried  Georges. 

"There,  you  see !  drive  nature  out  with  a  pitchfork  and  it 
comes  back  in  a  paint-box,"  replied  Mistigris. 

"And  her  costume — a  genuine  Greek  costume,"  Schinner 
went  on.  "As  you  may  suppose,  I  was  in  flames.  I  questioned 
my  Diafoirus,  and  he  informed  me  that  my  fair  neighbor's 
name  was  Zena.  I  changed  my  shirt.  To  marry  Zena,  her 
husband,  an  old  villain,  had  paid  her  parents  three  hundred 
tbousand  francs,  the  girl's  beauty  was  so  famous ;  and  she 
really  was  the  loveliest  creature  in  all  Dalmatia,  Illyria,  and 
the  Adriatic. — In  that  part  of  the  world  you  buy  your  wife, 
and  without  having  seen  her " 

"I  will  not  go  there,"  said  old  Leger. 

"My  sleep,  some  nights,  is  illuminated  by  Zena's  eyes,"  said 
Schinner.  "Her  adoring  young  husband  was  sixty-seven. 
Good !  But  he  was  as  jealous — not  as  a  tiger,  for  they  say  a 
tiger  is  as  jealous  as  a  Dalmatian,  and  my  man  was  worse 


A  START  IN  LIFE  207 

than  a  Dalmatian;  he  was  equal  to  three  Dalmatians  and  a 
half.  He  was  an  Uscoque,  a  turkey-cock,  a  high  cockalorum 
game-cock !" 

"In  short,  the  worthy  hero  of  a  cock-and-bull  story/'  said 
Mistigris. 

"Good  for  you  !"  replied  Georges,  laughing. 

"After  being  a  corsair,  and  perhaps  a  pirate,  my  man 
thought  no  more  of  spitting  a  Christian  than  I  do  of  spitting 
out  of  window,"  Schinner  went  on.  "A  pretty  lookout  for 
me.  And  rich — rolling  in  millions,  the  old  villain !  And  as 
ugly  as  a  pirate  may  be,  for  some  Pasha  had  wanted  his  ears, 
and  he  had  dropped  an  eye  somewhere  on  his  travels.  But  my 
Uscoque  made  good  use  of  the  one  he  had,  and  you  may  take 
my  word  for  it  when  I  tell  you  he  had  eyes  all  round  his  head. 
^Never  does  he  let  his  wife  out  of  his  sight/  said  my  little 
Diafoirus. — 'If  she  should  require  your  services,  I  would  take 
your  place  in  disguise/  said  I.  'It  is  a  trick  that  is  very  suc- 
cessful in  our  stage-plays.' — It  would  take  too  long  to  describe 
the  most  delightful  period  of  my  life,  three  days,  to  wit,  that 
I  spent  at  my  window  ogling  Zena,  and  putting  on  a  clean 
shirt  every  morning.  The  situation  was  all  the  more  ticklish 
and  exciting  because  the  least  gesture  bore  some  dangerous 
meaning.  Finally,  Zena,  no  doubt,  came  to  the  conclusion 
that  in  all  the  world  none  but  a  foreigner,  a  Frenchman,  and 
an  artist  would  be  capable  of  making  eyes  at  her  in  the  midst 
of  the  perils  that  surrounded  him;  so,  as  she  execrated  her 
hideous  pirate,  she  responded  to  my  gaze  with  glances  that 
were  enough  to  lift  a  man  into  the  vault  of  Paradise  without 
any  need  of  pulleys.  I  was  screwed  up  higher  and  higher !  I 
was  tuned  to  the  pitch  of  Don  Quixote.  At  last  I  exclaimed, 
'Well,  the  old  wretch  may  kill  me,  but  here  goes !' — Not  a 
landscape  did  I  study;  I  was  studying  my  corsair's  lair.  At 
night,  having  put  on  my  most  highly  scented  clean  shirt,  I 
crossed  the  street  and  I  went  in " 

"Into  the  house  ?"  said  Oscar. 

"Into  the  house  ?"  said  Georges. 

"Into  the  house,"  repeated  Schinner. 


208  A  START  IN  LIFE 

"Well!  yon  are  as  bold  as  brass!"  cried  the  farmer.  'T 
wouldn't  bave  <i:one,  tbat's  all  I  can  say " 

"\Yith  all  tlio  more  reason  that  you  would  bave  stuck  in 
the  door,"  replied  Scbinner.  "Well,  T  went  in,"  be  continued, 
"and  I  felt  two  hands  wbicb  took  hold  of  mine.  I  said  noth- 
ing; for  those  hands,  as  smooth  as  the  skin  of  an  onion,  im- 
pressed silence  on  me.  A  whisper  in  my  ear  said  in  Venetian, 
*He  is  asleep.'  Then,  being  sure  that  no  one  would  meet  us, 
Zena  and  I  went  out  on  the  ramparts  for  an  airing,  but  es- 
corted, if  you  please,  by  an  old  duenna  as  ugly  as  sin,  who 
stuck  to  us  like  a  shadow:  and  T  could  not  induce  Madame  la 
Pirate  to  dismiss  this  ridiculous  attendant. 

"Next  evening  we  did  the  same;  I  wanted  to  send  the  old 
woman  home;  Zena  refused.  As  my  fair  one  spoke  Greek, 
and  I  spoke  Venetian,  we  could  come  to  no  understanding — 
we  parted  in  anger.  Said  I  to  myself,  as  I  changed  my  shirt, 
*Xext  time  surely  there  will  be  no  old  woman,  and  we  can  make 
friends  again,  each  in  our  mother  tongue.' — Well,  and  it  was 
the  old  woman  that  saved  me,  as  you  shall  hear. — It  was  so 
fine  that,  to  divert  suspicion,  I  went  out  to  look  about  me, 
after  we  had  made  it  up,  of  course.  After  walking  round  the 
ramparts,  I  was  coming  quietly  home  with  my  hands  in  my 
pockets  when  I  saw  the  street  packed  full  of  people.  Such  a 
crowd ! — as  if  there  was  an  execution.  This  crowd  rushed  at 
me.  I  was  arrested,  handcuffed,  and  led  off  in  charge  of  the 
police.  No,  you  cannot  imagine,  and  I  hope  you  may  never 
know,  what  it  is  to  be  supposed  to  be  a  murderer  by  a  frenzied 
mob,  throwing  stones  at  you,  yelling  after  you  from  top  to 
bottom  of  the  high  street  of  a  country'  town,  and  pursuing  you 
with  threats  of  death  !  Every  eye  is  a  flame  of  fire,  abuse  is  on 
every  lip,  these  firebrands  of  loathing  flare  np  above  a  hideou& 
cry  of  'Kill  him !  down  with  the  murderer !' — a  sort  of  bast 
in  the  background." 

"So  your  Dalmatians  yelled  in  French?"  said  the  Count, 
"You  describe  the  scene  as  if  it  had  happened  yesterday." 

Scbinner  was  for  the  moment  dumfounded. 

"The  mob  speaks  the  same  language  everywhere,"  said  Mis- 
tigris  the  politician. 


A  START  IN  LIFE  20& 

''Finally/'  Schinner  went  on  again,  "when  I  was  in  the  local 
Court  of  Justice  and  in  the  presence  of  the  judges  of  that 
country,  I  was  informed  that  the  diabolical  corsair  was  dead, 
poisoned  by  Zena. — How  I  wished  I  could  put  on  a  clean 
;5hirt ! 

"On  my  soul,  I  knew  nothing  about  this  melodrama.  It 
would  seem  that  the  fair  Greek  was  wont  to  add  a  little 
opium — poppies  are  so  plentiful  there,  as  monsieur  has  told 
you — to  her  pirate's  grog  to  secure  a  few  minutes'  liberty  to 
take  a  walk,  and  the  night  before  the  poor  woman  had  made 
a  mistake  in  the  dose.  It  was  the  damned  corsair's  money 
that  made  the  trouble  for  my  Zena ;  but  she  accounted  for 
everything  so  simply,  that  I  was  released  at  once  on  the 
strength  of  the  old  woman's  affidavit,  with  an  order  from  the 
Mayor  of  the  town  and  the  Austrian  Commissioner  of  Police 
to  remove  myself  to  Eome.  Zena,  who  allowed  the  heirs  and 
the  officers  of  the  law  to  help  themselves  liberally  to  the 
Uscoque's  wealth,  was  let  off,  I  was  told,  with  two  years'  se- 
clusion in  a  convent,  where  she  still  is. — I  will  go  back  and 
paint  her  portrait,  for  in  a  few  years  everything  will  be  for- 
gotten.— And  these  are  the  follies  of  eighteen  !" 

"Yes,  and  you  left  me  without  a  sou  in  the  locanda  at 
Venice,"  said  Mistigris.  "I  made  my  way  from  Venice  to 
Rome,  to  see  if  I  could  find  you,  by  daubing  portraits  at  five 
francs  a  head,  and  never  got  paid ;  but  it  was  a  jolly  time ! 
Happiness,  they  say,  does  not  dwell  under  gilt  hoofs." 

"You  may  imagine  the  reflections  that  choked  me  with  bile 
in  a  Dalmatian  prison,  thrown  there  without  a  protector,  hav- 
ing to  answer  to  the  Dalmatian  Austriaus,  and  threatened 
with  the  loss  of  my  head  for  having  twice  taken  a  walk  with  a 
woman  who  insisted  on  being  follo\^ed  by  her  housekeeper. 
That  is  what  I  call  bad  luck !"  cried  Schinner. 

"What,"  said  Oscar  guilelessly,  "did  that  happen  to  you  ?" 

"Why  not  to  this  gentleman,  since  it  had  already  happened 
during  the  French  occupation  of  Illyria  to  one  of  our  most 
distinguished  artillery  officers  ?"  said  the  Count  with  meaning. 


210  A  START  IN  LIFE 

"And  did  you  believe  the  artillery  man?"  asked  Mistigris 
slily. 

"And  is  that  all  ?"  asked  Oscar. 

*^Vell,"  said  Mistigris,  "he  cannot  tell  you  that  he  had  his 
head  cut  off.     Those  who  live  last  live  longest." 

"And  are  there  any  farms  out  there?"  asked  old  Leger. 
,"What  do  they  grow  there  ?" 

"There  is  the  ]\raraschino  crop,"  said  Mistigris.  "A  plant 
that  grows  just  as  high  as  your  lips  and  yields  the  liqueur  of 
that  name." 

"Ah !"  said  Leger. 

"I  was  only  three  days  in  the  town  and  a  fortnight  in 
prison,"  replied  Schinner.  "I  saw  nothing,  not  even  the  fields 
where  they  grow  the  Maraschino." 

"They  are  making  game  of  you/'  said  Georges  to  the  farmer. 
"Maraschino  grows  in  cases." 

Pierrotin's  chaise  was  now  on  the  way  down  one  of  the 
steep  sides  of  the  valley  of  Saint-Brice,  towards  the  inn  in  the 
middle  of  that  large  village,  where  he  was  to  wait  an  hour  to 
let  the  horses  take  breath,  eat  their  oats,  and  get  a  drink.  It 
was  now  about  half-past  one. 

"Hallo !  It  is  farmer  Leger !"  cried  the  innkeeper,  as  the 
vehicle  drew  up  at  his  door.     "Do  you  take  breakfast  ?" 

"Once  every  day,"  replied  the  burly  customer.  "We  can 
eat  a  snack." 

"Order  breakfast  for  us,"  said  Georges,  carrying  his  cane 
as  if  he  were  shouldering  a  musket,  in  a  cavalier  style  that 
bewitched  Oscar. 

Oscar  felt  a  pang  of  frenzy  when  he  saw  this  reckless  adven- 
turer take  a  fancy  straw  cigar-case  out  of  his  side  pocket,  and 
from  it  a  beautiful  tan-colored  cigar,  which  he  smoked  in  the 
doorway  while  waiting  for  the  meal. 

"Do  you  smoke?"  said  Georges  to  Oscar. 

"Sometimes,"  said  the  schoolboy,  puffing  out  his  little  chest 
and  assuming  a  dashing  style. 

Georges  held  out  the  open  cigar-case  to  Oscar  and  to 
Schinner. 


A  START  IN  LIFE  211 

"The  devil !"  said  the  great  painter.     "Ten-sous  cigars  !'' 

"The  remains  of  what  I  brought  from  Spain/'  said  the  ad- 
venturer.    "Are  you  going  to  have  breakfast  ?" 

"No,"  said  the  artist.  "They  will  Mait  for  me  at  the 
chateau.     Besides,  I  had  some  food  before  starting." 

"And  you,"  said  Georges  to  Oscar. 
•     "I  have  had  breakfast,"  said  Oscar. 

Oscar  would  have  given  ten  years  of  his  life  to  have  boots 
and  trouser-straps.  He  stood  sneezing,  and  choking,  and  spit- 
ting, and  sucking  up  the  smoke  with  ill-disguised  grimaces. 

"You  don't  know  how  to  smoke,"  said  Schinner.  "Look 
here,"  and  Schinner,  without  moving  a  muscle,  drew  in  the 
smoke  of  his  cigar  and  blew  it  out  through  his  nose  without 
the  slightest  effort.  Then  again  ho  kept  the  smoke  in  his 
throat,  took  the  cigar  out  of  his  mouth,  and  exhaled  it  grace- 
fully. 

"There,  young  man,"  said  the  painter. 

"And  this,  young  man,  is  another  way,"  said  Georges,  im- 
itating Schinner,  but  swallowing  the  smoke  so  that  none  re- 
turned. 

"And  my  parents  fancy  that  I  am  educated,"  thought  poor 
Oscar,  trying  to  smoke  with  a  grace.  But  he  felt  so  mortally 
sick  that  he  allowed  Mistigris  to  bone  his  cigar  and  to  say,  as 
he  puffed  at  it  with  conspicuous  satisfaction : 

"I  suppose  you  have  nothing  catching." 

But  Oscar  wished  he  were  only  strong  enough  to  hit  Misti- 
gris. 

'^hy,"  said  he,  pointing  to  Colonel  Georges,  "eight  francs 
for  Alicante  and  cheese-cakes,  forty  sous  in  cigars,  and  his 

breakfast,  which  will  cost " 

;l     "Ten  francs  at  least,"  said  Mistigris.     "But  so  it  is,  little 
dishes  make  long  bills." 

"Well,  Pere  Leger,  we  can  crack  a  bottle  of  Bordeaux 
apiece  ?"  said  Georges  to  the  farmer. 

"His  breakfast  will  cost  him  twenty  francs,"  cried  Oscar. 
"Why,  that  comes  to  more  than  thirty  francs !" 

Crushed  by  the  sense  of  his  inferiority,  Oscar  sat  down  on 


212  A  START  IN  LIFE 

the  corner-stone  lost  in  a  reverie,  which  hindered  his  observing 
that  his  trousers,  hitclied  up  as  he  sat,  showed  the  line  of 
union  between  an  old  stocking-leg  and  a  new  foot  to  it,  a 
masterpiece  of  his  mother's  skill. 

"Our  understandings  are  twins,  if  not  our  souls,"  said  Mis- 
tigris,  pulling  one  leg  of  his  trousers  a  little  way  up  to  show 
a  similrr  effect.  "But  a  baker's  children  are  always  worst 
bread." 

The  jest  made  Monsieur  de  Serizy  smile  as  he  stood  with 
folded  arms  under  the  gateway  beliind  the  two  lads.  Heedless 
as  they  were,  the  solemn  statesman  envied  them  their  faults; 
he  liked  their  bounce,  and  admired  the  quickness  of  their  fun. 

'^ell,  can  you  get  les  Moulineaux  ?  for  you  went  to  Paris  to 
fetch  the  money,"  said  the  innkeeper  to  old  Leger,  having 
just  shown  him  a  nag  for  sale  in  his  stables.  "It  will  be  a  fine 
joke  to  screw  a  bit  out  of  the  Comte  de  Serizy,  a  peer  of  France 
and  a  State  Minister." 

The  wdly  old  courtier  betrayed  nothing  in  his  face,  but  he 
looked  round  to  watch  the  farmer. 

"His  goose  is  cooked !"  replied  Leger  in  a  low  voice. 

"So  much  the  better ;  I  love  to  see  your  bigwigs  done. — And 
if  you  want  a  score  or  so  thousand  francs,  I  will  lend  you  the 
money.  But  Frangois,  the  driver  of  Touchards'  six  o'clock 
coach,  told  me  as  he  went  through  that  Monsieur  Margueron 
is  invited  to  dine  with  the  Comte  de  Serizy  himself  to-day  at 
Presles." 

"That  is  His  Excellency's  plan,  but  we  have  our  little 
notions  too,"  replied  the  farmer. 

"Ah,  but  the  Count  will  find  a  place  for  Monsieur  Margue- 
j-on's  son,  and  you  have  no  places  to  give  away,"  said  the  inn- 
keeper. 

"No,  but  if  the  Count  has  the  Ministers  on  his  side,  I  have 
King  Louis  XVIII.  on  mine,"  said  Leger  in  the  innkeeper's 
ear,  "and  forty  thousand  of  his  effigies  handed  over  to  Master 
Moreau  will  enable  me  to  buy  les  Moulineaux  for  two  hundred 
and  sixty  thousand  francs  before  Monsieur  de  Serizy  can  step 


A  START  IN  LIFE  21^ 

in,  and  he  will  be  glad  enough  to  take  it  off  my  hands  for 
three  hundred  and  sixty  thousand  rather  than  have  the  lands 
valued  lot  by  lot." 

"Not  a  bad  turn,  master,"  said  his  friend. 

"How  is  that  for  a  stroke  of  business  ?"  said  the  farmer. 

"And,  after  all,  the  farm  lands  are  worth  it  to  him,"  said 
the  innkeeper. 

"Les  Moulineaux  pays  six  thousand  francs  a  year  in  kind, 
and  I  mean  to  renew  the  lease  at  seven  thousand  five  hundred 
for  eighteen  years.  So  as  he  invests  at  more  than  two  and  a 
half  per  cent.  Monsieur  le  Comte  won't  be  robbed. 

"Not  to  commit  Monsieur  Moreau,  I  am  to  be  proposed  to 
the  Count  by  him  as  a  tenant ;  he  will  seem  to  be  taking  care 
of  his  master's  interests  by  finding  him  nearly  three  per  cent 
for  his  money  and  a  farmer  who  will  pay  regularly " 

"And  what  will  Moreau  get  out  of  the  job  altogether?" 

"Well,  if  the  Count  makes  him  a  present  of  ten  thousand 
francs,  he  will  clear  fifty  thousand  on  the  transaction ;  but  he 
will  have  earned  them  fairly." 

"And,  after  all,  what  does  the  Count  care  for  Presles  ?  He 
is  so  rich,"  said  the  innkeeper.  "I  have  never  set  eyes  on  him 
myself." 

"Nor  I  neither,'^  said  the  farmer.  "But  he  is  coming  at 
last  to  live  there;  he  would  not  otherwise  be  laying  out  two 
hundred  thousand  francs  on  redecorating  the  rooms.  It  is 
as  fine  as  the  King's  palace." 

"Well,  then,"  replied  the  other,  "it  is  high  time  that  Moreau 
should  feather  his  nest." 

"Yes,  yes ;  for  when  once  the  Master  and  Mis'ess  are  on  the 
spot,  they  will  not  keep  their  eyes  in  their  pockets." 

Though  the  conversation  was  carried  on  in  a  low  tone,  the 
Count  had  kept  his  ears  open. 

"Here  I  have  all  the  evidence  I  was  going  in  search  of," 
thought  he,  looking  at  the  burly  farmer  as  he  went  back  into 
the  kitchen.     "But  perhaps  it  is  no  more  than  a  scheme  as  yet. 

Perhaps  Moreau  has  not  closed  with  the  offer !"     So 

averse  was  he  to  believe  that  tbe  land-steward  was  capable  of 
mixinsT  himself  up  in  such  a,  plot. 


214  A  START  IN  LIFE 

Pierrotin  now  came  out  to  give  his  horses  water.  The 
Count  supj)osed  tliat  the  driver  would  breakfast  with  the  inn- 
keeper and  Leger,  and  wliat  he  had  overlieard  made  him  fear 
the  least  betrayal. 

"The  whole  posse  are  in  league,"  thought  he;  "it  serves 
them  right  to  thwart  their  scheming. — Pierrotin,"  said  he  in 
a  low  voice  as  he  went  up  to  the  driver,  "I  promised  you  ten 
louis  to  keep  my  secret ;  but  if  you  will  take  care  not  to  let  out 
my  name — and  I  shall  know  whether  you  have  mentioned  it,  or 
given  the  least  clue  to  it,  to  any  living  soul,  even  at  I'lsle- 
Adam — to-morrow  morning,  as  you  pass  the  chateau,  I  will 
give  you  the  thousand  francs  to  pay  for  your  new  coach. — And 
for  greater  safety,"  added  he,  slapping  Pierrotin's  back,  "do 
without  your  breakfast ;  stay  outside  with  your  horses." 

Pierrotin  had  turned  pale  with  joy. 

"I  understand.  Monsieur  le  Comte,  trust  me.  It  is  old 
Pere  Leger " 

"It  concerns  every  living  soul,"  replied  the  Count. 

"Be  easy. — Come,  hurry  up,"  said  Pierrotin,  half  opening 
the  kitchen  door,  "we  are  late  already.  Listen,  Pere  Leger, 
there  is  the  hill  before  us,  you  know;  I  am  not  hungry;  I 
will  go  on  slowly,  and  you  will  easily  catch  me  up. — A  walk 
will  do  you  good." 

"The  man  is  in  a  devil  of  a  hurry!"  said  the  innkeeper. 
"Won't  you  come  and  join  us  ?  The  Colonel  is  standing  wine 
at  fifty  sous,  and  a  bottle  of  champagne." 

"No,  I  can't.  I  have  a  fish  on  board  to  be  delivered  at 
Stors  by  three  o'clock  for  a  big  dinner,  and  such  customers 
don't  see  a  joke  any  more  than  the  fish." 

"All  right,"  said  Leger  to  the  innkeeper;  "put  the  horse 
lyou  want  me  to  buy  in  the  shafts  of  your  gig,  and  you  can 
drive  us  on  to  pick  up  Pierrotin.     Then  wo  can  breakfast  in  . 
peace,  and  I  shall  see  what  the  nag  can  do.     Three  of  us  car  < 
very  weU  ride  in  your  trap." 

To  the  Count's  great  satisfaction,  Pierrotin  himself  brought 
out  his  horses.     Schinner  and  ]\ristigris  had  walked  forward. 

Pierrotin  picked  up  the  two  artists  half-way  between  Saint- 


A  START  IN  LIFE  2l5 

Brice  and  Poncelles  ;  and  just  as  he  reached  the  top  of  the  hill, 
whence  they  had  a  view  of  Scoiicn,  the  belfry  of  le  Mesnil,  and 
the  woods  which  encircle  that  beautiful  landscape,  the  sound 
of  a  galloping  horse  drawing  a  gig  that  rattled  and  jingled 
announced  the  pursuit  of  Pere  Leger  and  ]\rina's  Colonel,  who 
settled  themselves  into  the  chaise  again. 
'  As  Pierrotin  zigzagged  down  the  hill  into  Moisselles, 
Georges,  who  had  never  ceased  expatiating  to  old  Leger  on 
the  beaut)'  of  the  innkeeper's  wife  at  Saint-Brice,  exclaimed : 

"I  say,  this  is  not  amiss  by  way  of  landscape.  Great 
Painter?" 

"It  ought  not  to  astonish  you,  who  have  seen  Spain  and  the 
East." 

"And  I  have  two  of  the  Spanish  cigars  left.  If  nobody 
objects,  will  you  finish  them  off,  Schinner?  The  little  man 
had  enough  with  a  mouthful  or  two." 

Old  Leger  and  the  Count  kept  silence,  which  was  taken  for 
consent. 

Oscar,  annoyed  at  being  spoken  of  as  "a  little  man,"  retorted 
while  the  others  were  lighting  their  cigars : 

"Though  I  have  not  been  Mina's  aide-de-camp,  monsieur, 
and  have  not  been  in  the  East,  I  may  go  there  yet.  The 
career  for  which  my  parents  intend  me  will,  I  hope,  relieve 
me  of  the  necessity  of  riding  in  a  public  chaise  .when  I  am  as 
old  as  you  are.  When  once  I  am  a  person  of  importance, 
and  get  a  place,  I  will  stay  in  it " 

^'Et  cetera  punctum!"  said  Mistigris,  imitating  the  sort  of 
hoarse  crow  which  made  Oscar's  speech  even  more  ridiculous ; 
for  the  poor  boy  was  at  the  age  when  the  beard  begins  to  grow 
and  the  voice  to  break.  "After  all,"  added  Mistigris,  "ex- 
't'l'emes  bleat." 

"My  word !"  said  Schinner,  "the  horses  can  scarcely  drag 
such  a  weight  of  dignity." 

"So  your  parents  intend  to  start  you  in  a  career,"  said 
Georges  very  seriously.     "And  what  may  it  be  ?" 

"In  diplomacy,"  said  Oscar. 

Three  shouts  of  laughter  went  forth  like  three  rockets  from 


-2m  A  START  IN  LIFE 

Mistigris,  Schinnor,  and  the  old  farmer.  Even  the  Count 
couhl  not  help  smiling.     Georges  kept  his  countenance. 

"By  Allah !  But  there  is  nothing  to  laugh  at,"  said  the 
Colonel.  "Only,  young  man,"  he  went  on,  addressing  Oscar, 
"it  struck  me  that  your  respectable  mother  is  not  for  the  mo- 
ment in  a  social  position  wholly  beseeming  an  ambassadress 
— She  had  a  most  venerable  straw  bag,  and  a  patch  on  het 
shoe." 

"My  mother,  monsieur!"  said  O-scar,  fuming  with  indig- 
nation.    "It  was  our  housekeeper." 

"  'Ow'  is  most  aristocratic !"  cried  the  Count,  interrupting 
Oscar. 

"The  King  says  our/'  replied  Oscar  haughtily. 

A  look  from  Georges  checked  a  general  burst  of  laughter; 
it  conveyed  to  the  painter  and  to  Mistigris  the  desirability 
of  dealing  judiciously  with  Oscar,  so  as  to  make  the 
most  of  this  mine  of  amusement. 

"The  gentleman  is  right,"  said  the  painter  to  the  Count, 
designating  Oscar.  "Gentlefolks  talk  of  our  house;  only 
second-rate  people  talk  of  my  house.  Everybody  has  a  mania 
for  seeming  to  have  what  he  has  not.  For  a  man  loaded 
with  decorations " 

"Then  monsieur  also  is  a  decorator?"  asked  Mistigris. 

"You  know  nothing  of  Court  language. — I  beg  the  favor 
of  your  protection,  your  Excellency,"  added  Schinner,  turn- 
to  Oscar. 

"I  must  congratulate  myself,"  said  the  Count,  "on  having 
traveled  with  three  men  who  are  or  will  be  famous — a  painter 
who  is  already  illustrious,  a  future  general,  and  a  young  diplo- 
matist who  will  some  day  reunite  Belgium  to  France." 

But  Oscar,  having  so  basely  denied  his  mother,  and  furious 
at  perceiving  that  his  companions  were  making  game  of  him, 
determined  to  convince  their  incredulity  at  any  cost. 

"All  is  not  gold  that  glitters !"  said  he,  flashing  lightnings 
from  his  eyes. 

"You've  got  it  wrong,"  cried  Mistigris.  "All  is  not  told 
that  titters.  You  will  not  go  far  in  diplomacy  if  you  do  not 
know  your  proverbs  better  than  that." 


A  STARr  IK  LIFE  217 

"If  I  do  not  know  my  proverbs,  I  know  my  way." 

"It  must  be  leading  you  a  long  way/'  said  Georges,  "for 
your  family  housekeeper  gave  you  provisions  enough  for  a 
sea  voyage — biscuits,  chocolate " 

"A  particular  roll  and  some  chocolate,  yes,  monsieur,"  re- 
turned Oscar.  "My  stomach  is  much  too  delicate  to  digest 
the  cagmag  you  get  at  an  inn." 

"  'Cagmag'  is  as  delicate  as  your  digestion,"  retorted 
Georges. 

"  'Cagmag'  is  good  !"  said  the  great  painter. 

"The  word  is  in  use  in  the  best  circles,"  said  Mistigris;  "I 
use  it  myself  at  the  coffee-house  of  the  Poule  Noire." 

"Your  tutor  was,  no  doubt,  some  famous  |)rofessor — Mon- 
sieur Andrieux  of  the  Academy,  or  Monsieur  Koyer-Collard  ?" 
asked  Schinner. 

"My  tutor  was  the  Abbe  Loraux,  now  the  Vicar  of  St.  Sul- 
pice,"  replied  Oscar,  remembering  the  name  of  the  confessor 
of  the  school. 

"You  did  very  wisely  to  have  a  private  tutor,"  said  Misti- 
gris, "for  the  fountain — of  learning — brought  forth  a  mouse ; 
and  you  will  do  something  for  your  Abbe,  of  course  ?" 

"Certainly ;  he  will  be  a  bishop  some  day." 

"Through  your  family  interest?"  asked  Georges  quite 
gravely. 

"We  may  perhaps  contribute  to  his  due  promotion,  for  the 
Abbe  Frayssinous  often  comes  to  our  house." 

"Oh,  do  you  know  the  Abbe  Frayssinous  ?"  asked  the  Count. 

"He  is  under  obligations  to  my  father,"  replied  Oscar. 

"And  you  are  on  your  way  to  your  estates  no  doubt  ?"  said 
Georges. 

"No,  monsieur;  but  I  have  no  objection  to  saying  where  I 
am  going.  I  am  on  my  way  to  the  chateau  of  Presles,  the 
Comte  de  Serizy's." 

"The  devil  you  are !  To  Presles  ?"  cried  Shinner,  turning 
crimson. 

"Then  you  know  Monseigneur  the  Comte  de  Serizy  ?"  asked 
Georges. 


218  A  START  IN  LIFE 

Farmer  Legcr  turned  so  as  to  look  at  Oscar  with  a  be- 
wildered gaice,  exclaiming: 

"And  Monsieur  Ic  Conite  is  at  Presles?" 

"So  it  would  seem,  as  I  am  going  there,"  replied  Oscar. 

"Then  you  have  ollen  seen  the  Count  ?"  asked  Monsieur  de 
S6rizy. 

"As  plainly  as  I  see  you.  I  am  great  friends  with  his  son, 
who  is  about  my  age,  nineteen;  and  we  ride  together  almost 
every  day."  ' 

"Kings  have  been  known  to  harry  beggar-maids,"  said  Mis- 
tigris  sapiently. 

A  wink  from  Pierrotin  had  relieved  the  farmer's  alarm. 

"On  my  honor,"  said  the  Count  to  Oscar,  "I  am  delighted 
to  find  myself  in  the  company  of  a  young  gentleman  who  can 
speak  with  authority  of  that  nobleman.  I  am  anxious  to 
secure  his  favor  in  a  somewhat  important  business  in  which 
his  help  will  cost  him  nothing.  It  is  a  little  claim  against  the 
American  Government.  I  should  be  glad  to  learn  sometliing 
as  to  the  sort  of  man  he  is." 

"Oh,  if  you  hope  to  succeed,"  replied  Oscar,  with  an  as- 
sumption of  competence,  "do  not  apply  to  him,  but  to  liis  wife ; 
he  is  madly  in  love  with  her,  no  one  knows  that  better  than  I, 
and  his  wife  cannot  endure  him." 

*^Vhy,"  asked  Georges. 

"The  Count  has  some  skin  disease  that  makes  him  hideous, 
and  Doctor  Alibert  has  tried  in  vain  to  cure  it.  Monsieur  de 
Serizy  would  give  half  of  his  immense  fortune  to  have  a  chest 
like  mine,"  said  Oscar,  opening  his  shirt  and  showing  a  clean 
pink  skin  like  a  child's.  "He  lives  alone,  secluded  in  his 
house.  You  need  a  good  introduction  to  see  him  at  all.  In 
the  first  place,  he  gets  up  very  early  in  the  morning,  and 
works  from  three  till  eight,  after  eight  he  follows  various, 
treatments,  sulphur  baths  or  vapor  baths.  They  stew  him 
in  a  sort  of  iron  tank,  for  he  is  always  hoping  to  be  cured." 

"If  he  is  so  intimate  with  the  King,  why  is  he  not  'touched' 
by  him  ?"  asked  Georges. 

"Then  the  lady  keeps  her  husband  in  hot  water,"  said 
Mistigris. 


A  START  IN  LIFE  219 

"The  Count  has  promised  thirty  thousand  france  to  a  fa- 
mous Scotch  physician  who  is  prescribing  for  liim  now,"  Oscar 
went  on. 

"Then  his  wife  can  hardly  be  blamed  for  giving  herself 
the  best "  Schinner  began,  but  he  did  not  finish  his  sen- 
tence. 

"To  be  sure,"  said  Oscar.  "The  poor  man  is  so  shriveled 
up,  so  decrepit,  you  would  think  he  was  eighty.  He  is  as  dry 
as  parchment,  and  to  add  to  his  misfortune,  he  feels  his 
position " 

"And  feels  it  hot,  I  should  thinly,"  remarked  the  farmer 
facetiously. 

"Monsieur,  he  worships  his  wife,  and  dares  not  blame  her," 
replied  Oscar.  "He  performs  the  most  ridiculous  scenes  with 
her,  you  would  die  of  laughing — exactly  like  Arnolphe  in  Mo- 
liere's  play." 

The  Count,  in  blank  dismay,  looked  at  Pierrotin,  who 
seeing  him  apparently  unmoved,  concluded  that  Madame  Cla- 
part's  son  was  inventing  a  pack  of  slander. 

"So,  monsieur,  if  you  wish  to  succeed,"  said  Oscar  to  the 
Count,  "apply  to  the  Marquis  d'Aiglemont.  If  you  have 
madame's  venerable  adorer  on  your  side,  you  will  at  one  stroke 
secure  both  the  lady  and  her  husband." 

"That  is  what  we  call  killing  two-thirds  with  one  bone,"  said 
Mistigris. 

"Dear  me  !"  said  the  painter,  "have  you  seen  the  Count  un- 
dressed ?     Are  you  his  .valet  ?" 

"His  valet !"  cried  Oscar. 

"By  the  Mass !  A  man  does  not  say  such  things  about  his 
friends  in  a  public  conveyance,"  added  Mistigris.  "Dis- 
cretion, my  young  friend,  is  the  mother  of  inattention.  I 
simply  don't  hear  you." 

"It  is  certainly  a  case  of  tell  me  whom  you  know,  and  I  will 
tell  you  whom  you  hate,"  exclaimed  Schinner. 

"But  you  must  learn,  Great  Painter,"  said  Georges  pom- 
pously, "that  no  man  can  speak  ill  of  those  he  does  not  know. 
The  boy  has  proved  at  any  rate  that  he  knows  his  Serizy  by 


220  A  START  IN  LIFE 

heart.     Now,  if  ho  had  only  talked  of  Madame,  it  mighi  have 
been  supposed  that  he  was  on  terms " 

"Not  another  word  about  the  Comtesse  de  Serizy,  young 
men !"  cried  the  Count.  "Her  brother,  the  Marquis  de  Ron- 
querolles,  is  a  friend  of  mine,  and  the  man  who  is  so  rash  as 
to  cast  a  doubt  on  the  Countess'  honor  will  answer  to  me  for 
his  speech." 

"Monsieur  is  right,"  said  the  artist,  "there  should  be  no 
humbug  about  women." 

"God,  Honor,  and  the  Ladies!  I  saw  a  melodrama  of  that 
name,"  said  Mistigris. 

"Though  I  do  not  know  Mina,  I  know  the  Keeper  of  the 
Seals,"  said  the  Count,  looking  at  Georges.  "And  though  I 
do  not  display  my  Orders,"  he  added,  turning  to  the  painter, 
"I  can  hinder  their  being  given  to  those  who  do  not  deserve 
them.  In  short,  I  know  so  many  people,  that  I  know  Mon- 
sieur Grindot,  the  architect  of  Presles. — Stop,  Pierrotin ;  I 
am  going  to  get  out." 

Pierrotin  drove  on  to  the  village  of  Moisselles,  and  there, 
at  a  little  country  inn,  the  travelers  alighted.  This  bit  of  road 
was  passed  in  utter  silence. 

'^here  on  earth  is  that  little  rascal  going?"  asked  the 
Count,  leading  Pierrotin  into  the  inn-yard. 

"To  stay  with  your  steward.  He  is  the  son  of  a  poor  lady 
who  lives  in  the  Rue  de  la  Cerisaie,  and  to  whom  I  often  carry 
fruit  and  game  and  poultry — a  certain  Madame  Husson." 

"Who  is  that  gentleman?"  old  Leger  asked  Pierrotin  when 
the  Count  had  turned  away. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Pierrotin.  "He  never  rode  with  me 
before;  but  he  may  be  the  Prince  who  owns  the  chateau  of 
Maffliers.  He  has  just  told  me  where  to  set  him  down  on  the 
road ;  he  is  not  going  so  far  as  I'lsle-Adam." 
'  "Pierrotin  fancies  he  is  the  owner  of  Maffliers,"  said  the 
farmer  to  Georges,  getting  back  into  the  chaise. 

At  this  stage  the  three  young  fellows,  looking  as  silly  as  pil- 
ferers caught  in  the  act,  did  not  dare  meet  each  other's  eye, 
and  seemed  lost  in  reflections  on  the  upshot  of  their  fictions. 


A  START  IN  LIFE  221 

"That  is  what  I  call  a  great  lie  and  little  wool/'  observed 
Mistigris. 

"You  see,  I  know  the  Count,"  said  Oscar. 

"Possibly,  but  you  will  never  be  an  ambassador/'  replied 
Georges.  "If  you  must  talk  in  a  public  carriage,  learn  to 
talk  like  me  and  tell  nothing." 

"The  mother  of  mischief  is  no  more  than  a  midge's  sting/" 
said  Mistigris,  conclusively. 

'i     The  Count  now  got  into  the  chaise,  and  Pierrotin  drove  on ; 
perfect  silence  reigned. 

"Well,  my  good  friends,"  said  the  Count,  as  they  reached 
the  wood  of  Carreau,  "we  are  all  as  mute  as  if  we  were  going 
to  execution." 

"A  man  should  know  that  silence  is  a  bold  'un/'  said  Mis- 
tigris with  an  air. 

"It  is  a  fine  day/'  remarked  Georges. 

"What  place  is  that  ?"  asked  Oscar,  pointing  to  the  chateau 
of  Franconville,  which  shows  so  finely  on  the  slope  of  the 
great  forest  of  Saint-Martin. 

"What !"  said  the  Count,  "you  who  have  been  so  often  to 
Presles,  do  not  know  Franconville  when  you  see  it?" 

"Monsieur  knows  more  of  men  than  of  houses/'  said  Mis- 
tigris. 

"A  sucking  diplomatist  may  sometimes  be  oblivious,"  ex- 
claimed Georges. 

"Eemember  my  name !"  cried  Oscar  in  a  fury,  "it  is  Oscar 
Husson,  and  in  ten  years'  time  I  shall  be  famous." 

After  this  speech,  pronounced  with  great  bravado,  Oscar 
huddled  himself  into  his  corner. 

"Husson  de — what  ?"  asked  Mistigris. 

"A  great  family,"  replied  the  Count.  "The  Hussons  de  la 
Cerisaie.  The  gentleman  was  born  at  the  foot  of  the  Imperial 
throne." 

Oscar  blushed  to  the  roots  of  his  hair  in  an  agony  of  alarm. 
They  were  about  to  descend  the  steep  hill  by  la  Cave,  at  the 
bottom  of  which,  in  a  narrow  valley,  on  the  skirt  of  the  forest 
i)f  Saint-Martin,  stands  the  splendid  chateau  of  Presles. 


222  A  STAUT  IN  LIFE 

"Gentlemen,"  said  Monsieur  de  S^riz}',  "I  wish  you  well 
in  your  several  careers.  You,  Monsieur  le  Colonel,  make 
your  peace  with  the  King  of  France;  the  Czcrni-Georges  must 
be  on  good  terms  with  tlie  Bourbons. — I  have  no  forecast  for 
you,  my  dear  Monsieur  Schinner;  your  fame  is  already  made, 
and  you  have  won  it  nobly  by  splendid  work.  But  you  are 
such  a  dangerous  man  that  I,  who  have  a  wife,  should  not  dare 
to  offer  you  a  commission  under  my  roof. — As  to  Monsieur 
Husson,  he  needs  no  interest ;  he  is  the  master  of  statesmen's 
secrets,  and  can  make  them  tremble. — Monsieur  Leger  is  going 
to  steal  a  march  on  the  Comte  de  Serizy ;  I  only  hope  that  he 
may  hold  his  own. — Put  me  down  here,  Pierrotin,  and  you 
can  take  me  up  at  the  same  spot  to-morrow !"  added  the 
Count,  who  got  out,  leaving  his  fellow-travelers  quite  con- 
founded. 

"When  you  take  to  your  heels  you  can't  take  too  much," 
remarked  Mistigris,  seeing  how  nimbly  the  traveler  vanished 
in  a  sunken  path. 

"Oh,  he  must  be  the  Count  who  has  taken  Franconville ;  he 
is  going  that  way,"  said  Pere  Leger. 

"If  ever  again  I  try  to  humbug  in  a  public  carriage  I  will 
call  myself  out,"  said  the  false  Schinner.  "It  is  partly  your 
fault  too,  Mistigris,"  said  he,  giving  his  boy  a  rap  on  his  cap. 

"Oh,  ho !  I — who  only  followed  you  to  Venice,"  replied 
Mistigris.     "But  play  a  dog  a  bad  game  and  slang  him." 

"Do  you  know,"  said  Georges  to  Oscar,  "that  if  by  any 
chance  that  was  the  Comte  de  Serizy,  I  should  be  sorry  to  find 
myself  in  your  skin,  although  it  is  so  free  from  disease." 

Oscar,  reminded  by  these  words  of  his  mother's  advice, 
turned  pale,  and  was  quite  sobered. 

"Here  you  are,  gentlemen,"  said  Pierrotin,  pulling  up  at 
a  handsome  gate. 

"What,  already?"  exclaimed  the  painter,  Georges,  and 
Oscar  all  in  a  breath. 

"That's  a  stiff  one !"  cried  Pierrotin.  *^Do  ynu  mean  to 
say,  gentlemen,  that  neither  of  you  has  ever  been  here  before? 
— There  stands  the  chateau  of  Presles !" 


A  START  IN  LIFE  22& 

"All  right,"  said  Georges,  recovering  himself.  "I  am  going 
on  to  the  farm  of  les  Moulineaux/'  he  added,  not  choosing  to 
tell  his  fellow-travelers  that  he  was  bound  for  the  house. 

"Then  you  are  coming  with  me,"  said  Leger. 

"How  is  that  ?" 

"I  am  the  farmer  at  les  Moulineaux.  And  what  do  you 
want  of  me,  Colonel  ?" 

"A  taste  of  your  butter,"  said  Georges,  pulling  out  his  port- 
folio. 

"Pierrotin,  drop  my  things  at  the  steward's,"  said  Oscar; 
"I  am  going  straight  to  the  house."  And  he  plunged  into  a 
cross-path  without  knowing  whither  it  led. 

"Hallo !  Mr.  Ambassador,"  cried  Pierrotin,  "you  are  going 
into  the  forest.  If  you  want  to  get  to  the  chateau,  go  in  by  the 
side  gate." 

Thus  compelled  to  go  in,  Oscar  made  his  way  into  the  spa- 
cious courtyard  with  a  huge  stone-edged  flower-bed  in  the 
middle,  and  stone  posts  all  round  with  chains  between. 
While  Pere  Leger  stood  watching  Oscar,  Georges,  thunder- 
struck at  hearing  the  burly  farmer  describe  himself  as  the 
owner  of  les  Moulineaux,  vanished  so  nimbly  that  when  the  fat 
man  looked  round  for  his  Colonel,  he  could  not  find  him. 

At  Pierrotin's  request  the  gate  was  opened,  and  he  went  in 
with  much  dignity  to  deposit  the  Great  Schinner's  multifa- 
rious properties  at  the  lodge.  Oscar  was  in  dismay  at  seeing 
Mistigris  and  the  artist,  the  witnesses  of  his  brag,  really  ad- 
mitted to  the  chateau. 

In  ten  minutes  Pierrotin  had  unloaded  the  chaise  of  the 
painter's  paraphernalia,  Oscar  Husson's  luggage,  and  the  neat 
leather  portmanteau,  which  he  mysteriously  confided  to  the 
lodge-keeper.  Then  he  turned  his  machine,  cracking  his  whip 
energetically,  and  went  on  his  way  to  the  woods  of  I'lsle- 
Adam,  his  face  still  wearing  the  artful  expression  of  a  peasant 
summing  up  liis  profits. 

Nothing  was  wanting  to  his  satisfaction.  On  the  morrow 
he  would  have  his  thousand  francs. 

Oscar,  with  his  tail  between  his  legs,  so  to  speak,  wandered 


224  A  SIAlCi^  IN   LIFE 

round  the  great  court,  waiting  to  sec  what  would  become  of 
his  traveling  companions,  when  he  presently  saw  Monsieur 
Moreau  come  out  of  the  large  entrance-hall,  known  as  the 
guardroom,  on  to  the  front  steps.  The  land-steward,  who 
wore  a  long  blue  riding-coat  dow^n  to  his  heels,  had  on  nankin- 
colored  breeches  and  hunting-boots,  and  carried  a  crop  in  his 
hand. 

"Well,  my  boy,  so  here  you  are?  And  how  is  the  dear 
mother?"  said  he,  shaking  hands  with  Oscar.  "Good-morn- 
ing, gentlemen;  you,  no  doubt,  are  the  painters  promised  us 
by  Monsieur  Grindot  the  architect?"  said  he  to  the  artists. 

He  whistled  twice,  using  the  end  of  his  riding-whip,  and  the 
lodge-keeper  came  forward. 

"Take  these  gentlemen  to  their  rooms — Nos.  14  and  15; 
Madame  Moreau  will  give  you  the  keys.  Light  fires  this 
evening  if  necessary,  and  carry  up  their  things. — I  am  in- 
structed by  Monsieur  le  Comte  to  ask  you  to  dine  with  me," 
he  added,  addressing  the  artists.  "At  five,  as  in  Paris.  If 
you  are  sportsmen,  you  can  be  well  amused.  I  have  permission 
to  shoot  and  fish,  and  we  have  twelve  thousand  acres  of  shoot- 
ing outside  our  own  grounds." 

Oscar,  the  painter,  and  Mistigris,  one.  as  much  disconcerted 
as  the  other,  exchanged  glances.  Still,  Mistigris,  faithful  to 
his  instincts,  exclaimed  : 

"Pooh,  never  thro^v  the  candle  after  the  shade !  On  we 
go!" 

Little  Husson  followed  the  steward,  who  led  the  way,  walk- 
ing quickly  across  the  park. 

"Jacques,"  said  he  to  one  of  his  sons,  "go  and  tell  your 
mother  that  young  Husson  has  arrived,  and  say  that  I  am 
obliged  to  go  over  to  les  Moulineaux  for  a  few  minutes." 

Moreau,  now  about  fifty  years  of  age,  a  dark  man  of  medium 
height,  had  a  stern  expression.  His  bilious  complexion, 
highly  colored  nevertheless  by  a  country  life,  suggested,  at 
first  sight,  a  character  very  unlike  what  his  really  was.  Every- 
thing contributed  to  the  illusion.  His  hair  was  turning  gray, 
his  blue  eyes  and  a  large  aquiline  nose  gave  him  a  sinister 


A  START  IN  LIFE  225 

expression,  all  the  more  so  because  his  eyes  were  too  close  to- 
gether ;  still,  his  full  lips,  tlio  shape  of  his  face,  and  the  good-- 
liumor  of  his  address,  would,  to  a  keen  observer,  have  been 
indication  of  kindliness.  His  very  decided  manner  and 
abrupt  way  of  speech  impressed  Oscar  immensely  with  a  sense 
of  his  penetration,  arising  from  his  real  affection  for  the  boy. 
Brought  up  by  his  mother  to  look  up  to  the  steward  as  a  great 
man,  Oscar  always  felt  small  in  Moreau's  presence ;  and  now, 
finding  himself  at  Presles,  he  felt  an  oppressive  uneasiness, 
as  if  he  had  some  ill  to  fear  from  this  fatherly  friend,  w^ho 
was  his  only  protector. 

"Why,  my  dear  Oscar,  you  do  not  look  glad  to  be  here,'' 
said  the  steward.  "But  you  will  have  plenty  to  amuse  you; 
you  can  learn  to  ride,  to  shoot,  and  hunt." 

"I  know  nothing  of  such  things,"  said  Oscar  dully. 

"But  I  have  asked  you  here  on  purpose  to  teach  you." 

"Mamma  told  me  not  to  stay  more  than  a  fortnight,  because 
Madame  Moreau " 

"Oh,  well,  we  shall  see,"  replied  Moreau,  almost  offended  by 
Oscar's  doubts  of  his  conjugal  influence. 

Moreau's  youngest  son,  a  lad  of  fifteen,  active  and  brisk, 
now  came  running  up. 

"Here,"  said  his  father,  "take  your  new  companion  to  your 
mother." 

And  the  steward  himself  went  off  by  the  shortest  path  to 
a  keeper's  hut  between  the  park  and  the  wood. 

The  handsome  lodge,,  given  by  the  Count  as  his  land-stew- 
ard's residence,  had  been  built  some  years  before  the  Revo- 
lution by  the  owner  of  the  famous  estate  of  Cassan  or  Bergeret, 
a  farmer-general  of  enormous  wealth,  who  made  himself  as 
notorious  for  extravagance  as  Bodard,  Paris,  and  Bouret,  lay- 
ing out  gardens,  diverting  rivers,  building  hermitages, 
Chinese  temples,  and  other  costly  magnificence. 

This  house,  in  the  middle  of  a  large  garden,  of  which  one 
wall  divided  it  from  the  outbuildings  of  Presles,  had  formerly 
had  its  entrance  on  the  village  High  Street.  Monsieur  de 
Serizy's  father,  when  he  purchased  the  property,  had  only  to 


226  A  START  IN  LIFE 

pull  down  the  dividing  wall  and  build  up  the  front  gate  to 
make  this  plot  and  house  part  of  the  outbuildings.  Then,  by 
pulling  down  another  wall,  he  added  to  his  park  all  the  garden 
land  that  the  former  owner  had  purchased  to  complete  his 
ring  fence. 

The  lodge,  built  of  freestone,  was  in  the  Louis  XV.  style, 
with  linen-pattern  panels  under  the  windows,  like  those  on  the 
colonnades  of  the  Place  Louis  XY.,  in  stiff,  angular  folds ; 
it  consisted,  on  the  ground  floor,  of  a  fine  drawing-room  open- 
ing into  a  bedroom,  and  of  a  dining-room,  with  a  billiard-room 
adjoining.  These  two  suites,  parallel  to  each  other,  were 
divided  by  a  sort  of  ante-room  or  hall,  and  the  stairs.  The 
hall  was  decorated  by  the  doors  of  the  drawing-room  and  din- 
ing-room, both  handsomely  ornamental.  The  kitchen  was 
under  the  dining-room,  for  there  was  a  flight  of  ten  out- 
side  steps. 

Madame  i\roreau  had  taken  the  first  floor  for  her  own,  and 
had  transformed  what  had  been  the  best  bedroom  into  a 
boudoir;  this  boudoir,  and  the  drawing-room  below,  hand- 
somely fitted  up  with  the  best  pickings  of  the  old  fur- 
niture from  the  chateau,  would  certainly  have  done  no  dis- 
credit to  the  mansion  of  a  lady  of  fashion.  The  drawing 
room,  hung  with  blue-and-white  damask,  the  spoils  of  a 
state  bed,  and  with  old  gilt-wood  furniture  upholstered  with 
the  same  silk,  displayed  amjile  curtains  to  the  doors  and  win- 
dows. Some  pictures  that  had  formerly  been  panels,  with 
flower-stands,  a  few  modern  tables,  and  handsome  lamps,  be- 
sides an  antique  hanging  chandelier  of  cut  glass,  gave  the 
room  a  very  dignified  effect.     The  carpet  was  old  Persian. 

The  boudoir  was  altogether  modern  and  fitted  to  ^NFadame 
Moreau's  taste,  in  imitation  of  a  tent,  with  blue  silk  ropes  on 
a  light  gray  ground.  There  was  the  usual  divan  with  pillows 
and  cushions  for  the  feet,  and  the  flower-stands,  carefully 
cherished  by  the  head-gardener,  were  a  joy  to  the  eye  with  their 
pyramids  of  flowers. 

The  dining-room  and  billiard-room  were  fitted  with  ma- 
hogany.    All  round  the  house  the  steward's  lady  had  planned 


A  START  IN  LIFE  227 

a  flower-garden,  beautifully  kept,  and  beyond  it  lay  the  park. 
Clumps  of  foreign  shrubs  shut  out  the  stables,  and.  to  give 
admission  from  the  road  to  her  visitors  she  had  opened  a  gate 
where  the  old  entrance  had  been  built  up. 

Thus,  the  dependent  position  filled  by  the  Moreaus  was 
cleverly  glossed  over;  and  they  were  the  better  able  to  figure 
,as  rich  folks  managing  a  friend's  estate  for  their  pleasure, 
because  neither  the  Count  nor  the  Countess  ever  came  to 
quash  their  pretensions;  and  the  liberality  of  Monsieur  de 
Serizy's  concessions  allowed  of  their  living  in  abundance,  the 
luxury  of  country  homes.  Dairy  produce,  eggs,  poultry,  game, 
fruit,  forage,  flowers,  wood,  and  vegetables — the  steward  and 
his  wife  had  all  of  these  in  profusion,  and  bought  literally 
nothing  but  butcher's  meat  and  the  wine  and  foreign  prod- 
uce necessary  to  their  lordly  extravagance.  The  poultry-wife 
made  the  bread ;  and,  in  fact,  for  the  last  few  years,  Moreau 
had  paid  his  butcher's  bill  with  the  pigs  of  the  farm,  keep- 
ing only  as  much  pork  as  he  needed. 

One  day  the  Countess,  always  very  generous  to  her  former 
lady's  maid,  made  Madame  Moreau  a  present,  as  a  souvenir 
perhaps,  of  a  little  traveling  chaise  of  a  past  fashion,  which 
Moreau  had  furbished  up,  and  in  which  his  wife  drove  out 
behind  a  pair  of  good  horses,  useful  at  other  times  in  the 
grounds.  Besides  this  pair,  the  steward  had  his  saddle-horse. 
He  ploughed  part  of  the  park  land,  and  raised  grain  enough 
to  feed  the  beasts  and  servants;  he  cut  three  hundred  tons 
more  or  less  of  good  hay,  accounting  for  no  more  than  one 
hundred,  encroaching  on  the  license  vaguely  granted  by  the 
Count;  and  instead  of  using  his  share  of  the  produce  on  the 
premises,  he  sold  it.  He  kept  his  poultry-farm,  his  pigeons, 
and  his  cows  on  the  crops  from  the  park-land ;  but  then  the 
manure  from  his  stables  was  used  in  the  Count's  garden. 
Each  of  these  pilfering  acts  had  an  excuse  ready. 

Madame  Moreau's  house-servant  was  the  daughter  of  one 
of  the  gardeners,  and  waited  on  her  and  cooked;  she  was 
helped  in  the  housework  by  a  girl,  who  also  attended  to  the 
poultry  and  dairy.    Moreau  had  engaged  an  invalided  soldier 


228  A  START  IN  LIFE 

named  Brochon  to  look  after  the  liorses  and  do  the  dirty  work. 

At  Nerville,  at  Chauvry,  at  Beaumont,  at  Maflliers,  at 
Preroles,  at  Nointel,  the  steward's  pretty  wife  was  every- 
where received  by  persons  who  did  not,  or  affected  not  to 
know  her  original  position  in  life.  And  Moreau  could  confer 
obligations.  He  could  use  his  master's  interest  in  matters 
which  are  of  immense  importance  in  the  depths  of  the  country 
though  trivial  in  Paris.  After  securing  for  friends  the  ap- 
pointments of  Justice  of  the  Peace  at  Beaumont  and  at 
risle-Adam,  he  had,  in  the  course  of  the  same  year,  saved  an 
Inspector  of  Forest-lands  from  dismissal,  and  obtained  the 
Cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honor  for  the  quartermaster  at  Beau- 
mont. So  there  was  never  a  festivity  among  the  more  re- 
spectable neighbors  without  Monsieur  and  Madame  Moreau 
being  invited.  The  Cure  and  the  Mayor  of  Presles  were  to 
be  seen  every  evening  at  their  house.  A  man  can  hardly  help 
being  a  good  fellow  when  he  has  made  himself  so  comfortable. 

So  Madame  la  Eegisseuse — a  pretty  woman,  and  full  of 
airs,  like  every  grand  lady's  servant  who,  when  she  marries, 
apes  her  mistress — introduced  the  latest  fashions,  wore  the 
most  expensive  shoes,  and  never  walked  out  but  in  fine 
weather.  Though  her  husband  gave  her  no  more  than  five 
hundred  francs  a  year  for  dress,  this  in  the  country  is  a  very 
large  sum,  especially  when  judiciously  spent;  and  his  "lady," 
fair,  bright,  and  fresh-looking,  at  the  age  of  thirty-six,  and 
still  slight,  neat,  and  attractive  in  spite  of  her  three  children, 
still  played  the  girl,  and  gave  herself  the  airs  of  a  princess. 
If,  as  she  drove  past  in  her  open  chaise  on  her  way  to  Beau- 
mont, some  stranger  happened  to  inquire,  ''Who  is  that?" 
Madame  Moreau  was  furious  if  a  native  of  the  place  re- 
plied, "She  is  the  steward's  wife  at  Presles."  She  aimed  at 
heing  taken  for  the  mistress  of  the  chateau. 

She  amused  herself  vnih  patronizing  the  villagers,  as  a 
great  lady  might  have  done.  Her  husband's  power  with  the 
Count,  proved  in  so  many  ways,  hindered  the  townsfolk  from 
laughing  at  ]\radame  Moreau,  who  was  a  person  of  importance 
in  the  eyes  of  the  peasantry. 


A  START  IN  LIFE  229 

Estelle,  however — her  name  was  Estelle — did  not  interfere 
in  the  management,  any  more  than  a  stockbroker's  wife  inter- 
feres in  dealings  on  the  Bourse;  she  even  relied  on  her  hus- 
band for  the  administration  of  the  house  and  of  their  income. 
Quite  confident  of  her  own  powers  of  pleasing,  she  was  miles 
away  from  imagining  that  this  delightful  life,  which  had  gone 
on  for  seventeen  years,  could  ever  be  in  danger;  however,  on 
hearing  that  the  Count  had  resolved  en  restoring  the  splendid 
chateau  of  Presles,  she  understood  that  all  her  enjoyments 
were  imperiled,  and  she  had  persuaded  her  husband  to  come 
to  terms  with  Leger,  so  as  to  have  a  retreat  at  I'lsle-Adam. 
She  could  not  have  borne  to  find  herself  in  an  almost  servile 
position  in  the  presence  of  her  former  mistress,  who  would 
undoubtedly  laugh  at  her  on  finding  her  established  at  the 
lodge  in  a  style  that  aped  the  lady  of  fashion. 

The  origin  of  the  deep-seated  enmity  between  the  Eeyberts 
and  the  Moreaus  lay  in  a  stab  inflicted  on  Madame  Moreau 
by  Madame  de  Eeybert  in  revenge  for  a  pin-prick  that  the 
steward's  wife  had  dared  to  give  on  the  first  arrival  of  the 
Eeyberts,  lest  her  supremacy  should  be  infringed  on  by  the 
lady  nee  de  Corroy.  Madame  de  Eeybert  had  mentioned,  and 
perhaps  for  the  first  time  informed  the  neighborhood,  of 
Madame  Moreau's  original  calling.  The  words  lady's  maid 
flew  from  lip  to  lip.  All  those  who  envied  the  Moreaus — 
and  they  must  have  been  many — at  Beaumont,  at  I'Tsle-Adam, 
at  Malfliers,  at  Champagne,  at  Nerville,  at  Chauvry,  at  Baillet. 
at  Moisselles,  made  such  pregnant  comments  that  more  than 
one  spark  from  this  conflagration  fell  into  the  Moreaus' 
home.  For  four  years,  now,  the  Eeyberts,  excommunicated 
by  their  pretty  rival,  had  become  the  object  of  so  much  hostile 
animadversion  from  her  partisans,  that  their  position  would 
have  been  untenable  but  for  the  thought  of  vengeance  which 
had  sustained  them  to  this  day. 

The  Moreaus,  who  were  very  good  friends  with  Grindot 
the  architect,  had  been  told  by  him  of  the  arrival  ere  long  of 
a  painter  commissioned  to  finish  the  decorative  panels  at  the 


230  A  START  IN  LIFE 

chateau,  Schinner  having  executed  the  more  important  pieces. 
This  great  paiiiti-r  recommended  the  artist  we  liave  seen  trav- 
eling with  Mistigris,  to  paint  the  horders,  arabesques,  and 
other  accessory  decorations.  Hence,  for  two  days  past,  Mad- 
ame Moreau  had  been  preparing  her  war-paint  and  sitting 
expectant.  An  artist  who  was  to  board  with  her  for  some 
weeks  was  worthy  of  some  outlay.  Schinner  and  his  wife 
had  been  quartered  in  the  chateau,  where,  by  the  Count's 
orders,  they  had  been  entertained  like  my  lord  himself. 
Grindot,  who  boarded  with  the  ]\Ioreaus,  had  treated  the  great 
artist  with  so  much  respect,  that  neither  the  steward  nor  his 
wife  had  ventured  on  any  familiarity.  And,  indeed,  the 
richest  and  most  noble  landowners  in  the  district  had  vied 
with  each  other  in  entertaining  Schinner  and  his  wife.  So 
now  Madame  Moreau,  much  i)]eased  at  the  prospect  of  turning 
the  tables,  promised  herself  that  she  would  sound  the  trumpet 
before  the  artist  who  was  to  be  her  guest,  and  make  him  out 
a  match  in  talent  for  Schinner. 

Although  on  the  two  previous  days  she  had  achieved  very 
coquettish  toilets,  the  steward's  pretty  wife  had  husbanded  her 
resources  too  well  not  to  have  reserved  the  most  bewitching 
till  the  Saturday,  never  doubting  that  on  that  day  at  any  rate 
the  artist  would  arrive  to  dinner.  She  had  shod  herself  in 
bronze  kid  with  fine  thread  stockings.  A  dress  of  finely  striped 
pink-and-white  mi;slin,  a  pink  belt  with  a  chased  gold  buckle, 
a  cross  and  heart  round  her  neck,  and  wristlets  of  black  velvet 
on  her  bare  arms — Madame  de  Serizy  had  fine  arms,  and  was 
fond  of  displaying  them — gave  Madame  Moreau  the  style  of  a 
fashionable  Parisian.  She  put  on  a  very  handsome  Leghorn 
hat,  graced  with  a  buncli  of  moss  roses  made  by  Nattier,  and 
under  its  broad  shade  her  fair  hair  flowed  in  glossy  curls. 

Having  ordered  a  first-rate  dinner  and  carefully  inspected 
the  rooms,  she  went  out  at  an  hour  which  brought  her  to  the 
large  flower-bed  in  the  court  of  the  chateau,  like  the  lady  of 
the  house,  just  when  the  coach  would  pass.  Over  her  head 
she  held  an  elegant  pink  silk  parasol  lined  with  white  and 
trimmed  with  fringe.     On  seeing  Pierrotin  hand  over  to  the 


A  START  IN  LIFE  231 

Jodge-keeper  the  artist's  extraordinary-looking  luggage,  and 
perceiving  no  owner,  Estelle  had  --eturned  home  lamenting  tlic 
waste  of  another  carefully  arranged  dress.  And,  like  most 
people  who  have  dressed  for  an  occasion,  she  felt  quite  in- 
capable of  any  occupation  but  that  of  doing  nothing  in  her 
drawing-room  while  waiting  for  the  passing  of  the  Beaumont 
coach  which  should  come  through  an  hour  after  Pierrotin's, 
though  it  did  not  start  from  Paris  till  one  o'clock;  thus  she 
was  waiting  at  home  while  the  two  young  artists  were  dress- 
ing for  dinner.  In  fact,  the  young  painter  and  Mistigris  were 
so  overcome  by  the  description  of  lovely  Madame  Moreau 
given  them  by  the  gardener  whom  they  had  questioned,  that 
it  was  obvious  to  them  both  that  they  must  get  themselves  into 
their  best  "toggery."  So  they  donned  their  very  best  before 
presenting  themselves  at  the  steward's  house,  whither  they 
were  conducted  by  Jacques  Moreau,  the  eldest  of  the  children, 
a  stalwart  youth,  dressed  in  the  English  fashion,  in  a  round 
jacket  with  a  turned-down  collar,  and  as  happy  during  the 
holidays  as  a  fish  in  water,  here  on  the  estate  where  his  mother 
reigned  supreme. 

"Mamma,"  said  he,  "here  are  the  two  artists  come  from 
Monsieur  Schinner." 

Madame  Moreau,  very  agreeably  surprised,  rose,  bid  her 
son  set  chairs,  and  displayed  all  her  graces. 

"Mamma,  little  Husson  is  with  father ;  I  am  to  go  to  fetch 
him,"  whispered  the  boy  in  her  ear. 

"There  is  no  hurry,  you  can  stop  and  amuse  him,"  said  the 
mother. 

The  mere  words  "there  is  no  hurry"  showed  the  two  artists 
how  entirely  unimportant  was  their  traveling  companion,  but 
the  tone  also  betrayed  the  indifference  of  a  stepmother  for  her 
stepchild.  In  fact,  Madame  Moreau,  who,  for  seventeen 
years  of  married  life,  could  not  fail  to  be  aware  of  her  hus- 
band's attachment  to  Madame  Clapart  and  young  Husson, 
hated  the  mother  and  son  in  so  overt  a  manner  that  it  is  easy 
to  understand  why  Moreau  had  never  till  now  ventured  to 
invite  Oscar  to  Presles. 


232  A  START  IN  LIFE 

"We  are  cnjoiiiod,  my  hnsbimd  and  T,"  said  she  to  the  two 
artists,  "to  do  the  honors  of  the  chateau.  We  are  fond  of  art, 
and  more  especially  of  artists,"  said  she,  with  a  simper,  "and 
I  beg  you  to  consider  yourselves  quite  at  home  there.  In 
the  country,  you  see,  there  is  no  ceremony ;  liberty  is  indis- 
pensable, otherwise  life  is  too  insipid.  We  have  had  Monsieur 
Schinner  here  already " 

Mistigris  gave  his  companion  a  mischievous  wink. 

"You  know  him,  of  course,"  said  Estelle,  after  a  pause. 

'^Vho  does  not  know  him,  madame?"  reiDlicd  the  painter. 

"He  is  as  well  known  as  the  parish  birch,"  added  Mistigris. 

"Monsieur  Grindot  mentioned  your  name,"  said  Madame 
Moreau,  '^ut  really  I " 

"Joseph  Bridau,  nuidame,"  replied  the  artist,  extremely 
puzzled  as  to  what  this  woman  could  be. 

Mistigris  was  beginning  to  fume  inwardly  at  this  fair  lady't* 
patronizing  tone;  still,  he  waited,  as  Bridau  did  too,  for  some 
movement,  some  chance  word  to  enlighten  them,  one  of  those 
expressions  of  assumed  fine-ladyism,  which  painters,  those 
born  and  cruel  observers  of  folly — the  perennial  food  of  their 
pencil — seize  on  in  an  instant.  In  the  first  place,  Estelle's 
large  hands  and  feet,  those  of  a  peasant  from  the  district  of 
Saint-Lo,  struck  them  at  once;  and  before  long  one  or  two 
lady's-maid's  phrases,  modes  of  speech  that  gave  the  lie  to  the 
elegance  of  her  dress,  betra3'ed  their  prey  into  the  hands  of  the 
artist  and  his  apprentice.  They  exchanged  a  look  which 
pledged  them  both  to  take  Estelle  quite  seriously  as  a  pastime 
during  their  stay. 

"You  are  so  fond  of  art,  perhaps  you  cultivate  it  with  suc- 
cess, madame?"  said  Joseph  Bridau. 

"Xo.  Though  my  education  was  not  neglected,  it  was 
purely  commercial.  But  I  have  such  a  marked  and  delicate 
Reeling  for  art,  that  Monsieur  Schinner  always  begged  me, 
when  he  had  finished  a  piece,  to  give  him  my  opinion." 

"Just  as  Moliere  consulted  Laforet,"  said  ]\Iistigris. 

Not  knowing  that  Laforet  was  a  servant-girl,  Madame 
Moreau  responded  with  a  graceful  droop,  showing  that  in  her 
ignorance  she  regarded  this  sneech  as  a  compliment. 


A  START  IN  LIFE  233 

"How  is  it  that  he  did  not  propose  just  to  knock  off  your 
head?"  said  Bridaii.  "Painters  are  generally  on  the  look- 
out for  handsome  women." 

"What  is  your  meaning,  pray?"  said  Madame  Moreau,  on 
whose  face  dawned  the  wrath  of  an  offended  queen. 

"In  studio  slang,  to  knock  a  thing  off  is  to  sketch  it,"  said 
Mistigris,  in  an  ingratiating  tone,  "and  all  we  ask  is  to  have 
handsome  heads  to  sketch.  And  we  sometimes  say  in  admira- 
tion that  a  woman's  beauty  has  knocked  us  over." 

"Ah,  I  did  not  know  the  origin  of  the  phrase !"  replied  she, 
with  a  look  of  languishing  sweetness  at  Mistigris. 

"My  pupil,  Monsieur  Leon  de  Lora,"  said  Bridau,  "has  a 
great  talent  for  likeness.  He  would  be  only  too  happy,  fair 
being,  to  leave  you  a  souvenir  of  his  skill  by  painting  your 
charming  face." 

And  Bridau  signaled  to  Mistigris,  as  much  as  to  say, 
"Come,  drive  it  home,  she  really  is  not  amiss !" 

Taking  this  hint,  Leon  de  Lora  moved  to  the  sofa  by  Es- 
telle's  side,  and  took  her  hand,  which  she  left  in  his. 

"Oh!  if  only  as  a  surprise  to  your  husband,  madame,  you 
could  give  me  a  few  sittings  in  secret,  I  would  try  to  excel 
myself.  You  are  so  lovely,  so  young,  so  charming !  A  man. 
devoid  of  talent  might  become  a  genius  with  you  for  his 
model !    In  your  eyes  he  would  find " 

"And  we  would  represent  your  sweet  children  in  our  ara- 
besques," said  Joseph,  interrupting  Mistigris. 

"I  would  rather  have  them  in  my  own  drawing-room;  but 
that  would  be  asking  too  much,"  said  she,  looking  coquettishly 
at  Bridau. 

"Beauty,  madame,  is  a  queen  whom  painters  worship,  and 
who  has  every  right  to  command  them." 

"They  are  quite  charming,"  thought  Madame  Moreau. — 
"Do  you  like  driving  out  in  the  evening,  after  dinner,  in  an 
open  carriage,  in  the  woods?" 

"Oh !  oh  !  oh !  oh  !"  cried  Mistigris,  in  ecstatic  tones  at  each 
added  detail.    "Why,  Preslcs  will  be  an  earthly  paradise," 

"With  a  fair-haired  Eve,  a  }'oung  and  bewitching  woman/' 
added  Bridau. 


234  A  START  IN  LIFE 

Just  as  Madame  Moreau  was  preening  herself,  and  soaring 
into  the  seventh  heaven,  she  was  brought  down  again  like  a 
kite  by  a  tug  at  the  cord. 

"Madame  I"  exclaimed  the  maid,  l)Ouncing  in  like  a  cannon 
ball. 

"Bless  me,  Rosalie,  what  can  justify  you  in  coming  in  like 
this  without  being  called  ?" 

Rosalie  did  not  trouble  her  head  about  this  apostrophe,  but) 
said  in  her  mistress'  ear : 

"Monsieur  le  Comte  is  here." 

"Did  he  ask  for  me?"  said  the  steward's  wife. 

"No,  madame — but — he  wants  his  portmanteau  and  the  key 
of  his  room." 

"Let  him  have  them  then,"  said  she,  with  a  cross  shrug  to 
disguise  her  uneasiness. 

"Mamma,  here  is  Oscar  Husson !"  cried  her  youngest  son, 
bringing  in  Oscar,  who,  as  red  as  a  poppy,  dared  not  come 
forward  as  he  saw  the  two  painters  in  different  dress. 

"So  here  you  are  at  last,  boy,"  said  Estelle  coldly.  "You  are 
going  to  dress,  I  hope?"  she  went  on,  after  looking  at  him 
from  head  to  foot  with  great  contempt.  "I  suppose  your 
mother  has  not  brought  you  up  to  dine  in  company  in  such 
clothes  as  those." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  the  ruthless  Mistigris,  "a  coming  diplomatist 
must  surely  have  a  seat — to  his  trousers  !  A  coat  to  dine  saves 
wine." 

"A  coming  diplomatist?"  cried  Madame  Moreau. 

The  tears  rose  to  poor  Oscar's  eyes  as  he  looked  from  Joseph 
to  Leon. 

"Only  a  jest  by  the  way,"  replied  Joseph,  who  Avished  to 
help  Oscar  in  his  straits. 

"The  boy  wanted  to  make  fun  as  we  did,  and  he  tried  to 
.humbug,"  said  the  merciless  Mistigris.  "And  now  he  finds 
.himself  the  a.ss  Avith  a  lion's  grin." 

"Madame,"  said  Rosalie,  coming  back  to  the  drawing-room 
door,  "his  Excellency  has  ordered  dinner  for  eight  persons  at 
six  o'clock ;  what  is  to  be  done  ?" 


A  START  IN  LIFE  235 

While  Estelle  and  her  maid  were  holding  counsel,  the  artists 
and  Oscar  gazed  at  each  other,  their  eyes  big  with  terrible 
apprehensions. 

"His  Excellency — Who?"  said  Joseph  Bridau. 

*^hy.  Monsieur  le  Comte  de  Serizy,"  replied  little  Moreau. 

*^as  it  he,  by  chance,  in  the  coucou  ?"  said  Leon  de  Lora. 

"Oh !"  exclaimed  Oscar,  "the  Comte  de  Serizy  would  surely 
never  travel  but  in  a  coach  and  four." 

'  "How  did  he  come,  madame — the  Comte  de  Serizy?"  the 
painter  asked  of  Madame  Moreau  when  she  came  back  very 
much  upset. 

"I  have  no  idea,"  said  she.  "I  cannot  account  for  his  com- 
ing, nor  guess  what  he  has  come  for. — And  Moreau  is  out !" 

"His  Excellency  begs  you  will  go  over  to  the  chateau.  Mon- 
sieur Schinner,"  said  a  gardener  coming  to  the  door,  "and  he 
begs  you  will  give  him  the  pleasure  of  your  company  at  din- 
ner, as  well  as  Monsieur  Mistigris." 

"Our  goose  is  cooked !"  said  the  lad  with  a  laugh.  "The 
man  we  took  for  a  country  worthy  in  Pierrotin's  chaise  was 
the  Count.    So  true  is  it  that  what  you  seek  you  never  bind." 

Oscar  was  almost  turning  to  a  pillar  of  salt ;  for  on  hearing 
this,  his  throat  felt  as  salt  as  the  sea. 

"And  you !  Who  told  him  all  about  his  wife's  adorers  and 
his  skin  disease?"  said  Mistigris  to  Oscar. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  cried  the  steward's  wife,  looking  at 
the  two  artists,  who  went  off  laughing  at  Oscar's  face. 

Oscar  stood  speechless,  thunderstruck;  hearing  nothing, 
though  Madame .  Moreau  was  questioning  him  and  shaking 
him  violently  by  one  of  his  arms,  which  she  had  seized  and 
clutched  tightly;  but  she  was  obliged  to  leave  him  where  he 
was  without  having  extracted  a  reply,  for  Eosalie  called  her 
again  to  give  out  linen  and  silver-plate,  and  to  request  her  to 
attend  in  person  to  the  numerous  orders  given  by  the  Count. 
The  house-servants,  the  gardeners,  everybody  on  the  place, 
were  rushing  to  and  fro  in  such  confusion  as  may  be  imagined. 

The  master  had  in  fact  dropped  on  the  household  like  a 
shell  from  a  mortar.    From  a'>ove  la  Cave  the  Count  had  made 


23ft  A  START  IN  LIFE 

his  way  by  a  path  laiiiiliar  to  him  to  the  gamekeeper's  hut, 
and  reached  it  before  Moreau.  The  gamekeeper  was  amazed 
to  see  his  real  master. 

"Is  Moreau  here,  1  see  his  horse  waiting?"  asked  Monsieur 
de  Serizy. 

"No,  moiiseigneur;  but  as  lie  is  going  over  to  les  Mouli- 
neaux  before  dinner,  he  left  his  horse  here  while  he  ran  across 
to  give  some  orders  at  the  house." 

The  gamekeeper  had  no  idea  of  the  effect  of  this  reply, 
which,  under  existing  circumstances,  was,  in  the  eyes  of  a 
clear-sighted  man,  tantamount  to  assurance. 

"If  you  value  your  place,"  said  the  Count  to  the  keeper, 
"ride  as  fast  as  you  can  pelt  to  Beaumont  on  tliis  horse,  and 
deliver  to  Monsieur  Margueron  a  note  I  will  give  you." 

The  Count  went  into  the  man's  lodge,  wrote  a  line,  folded  it 
in  such  a  manner  that  it  could  not  be  opened  without  detec- 
tion, and  gave  it  to  the  man  as  soon  as  he  was  in  the  saddle. 

"Not  a  word  to  any  living  soul,"  said  he.  "And  you, 
madame,"  he  added  to  the  keeper's  wife,  "if  Moreau  is  sur- 
prised at  not  finding  his  horse,  tell  him  that  I  took  it." 

And  the  Count  went  off  across  the  park,  through  the  gate 
which  w^as  opened  for  him  at  his  nod. 

Inured  though  a  man  may  be  to  the  turmoil  of  political 
life,  with  its  excitement  and  vicissitudes,  the  soul  of  a  man 
who,  at  the  Count's  age,  is  still  firm  enough  to  love,  is  also 
young  enough  to  feel  a  betrayal.  It  was  so  hard  to  believe 
that  Moreau  was  deceiving  him,  that  at  Saint-Brice  Monsieur 
de  Serizy  had  supposed  him  to  be  not  so  much  in  league  with 
Leger  and  the  notary  as,  in  fact,  led  away  by  them.  And  so, 
standing  in  the  inn  gateway,  as  he  heard  Pere  Leger  talking 
to  the  innkeeper,  he  intended  to  forgive  his  land-steward  after 
a  severe  reproof. 

'  And  then,  strange  to  say,  the  dishonesty  of  his  trusted  agent 
'  had  seemed  no  more  than  an  episode  when  Oscar  had  blurted 
out  the  noble  infirmities  of  the  intrepid  traveler,  the  Minister 
of  Napoleon.  Secrets  so  strictly  kept  could  only  have  been 
revealed  by  Moreau,  wOio  had  no  doubt  spoken  contemptuously 


A  START  IN  LIFE  237 

of  his  benefactor  to  Madame  de  Serizy's  maid,  or  to  the  ere- 
while  Aspasia  of  the  Directoire. 

As  he  made  his  way  down  the  cross-road  to  the  chateau, 
the  peer  of  France,  the  great  minister,  had  shed  bitter  tears, 
weeping  as  a  boy  weeps.  Tliey  were  his  last  tears  that  he 
shed!  Every  human  feeling  at  once  was  so  cruelly,  so  merci- 
lessly attacked,  that  this  self-controlled  man  rushed  on  across 
his  park  like  a  hunted  animal. 

When  Moreau  asked  for  his  horse,  and  the  keeper's  wife 
replied : 

"Monsieur  le  Comte  has  Just  taken  it." 

"Who — Monsieur  le  Comte  ?"  cried  he. 

"Monsieur  le  Comte  de  Serizy,  the  master,"  said  she.  "Per- 
haps he  is  at  the  chateau,"  added  she,  to  get  rid  of  the  steward, 
who,  quite  bewildered  by  this  occurrence,  went  off  towards  the 
house. 

But  he  presently  returned  to  question  the  keeper's  wife,  for 
it  had  struck  him  that  there  was  some  serious  motive  for  his 
master's  secret  arrival  and  unwonted  conduct.  The  woman, 
terrified  at  finding  herself  in  a  vise,  as  it  were,  between  the 
Count  and  the  steward,  had  shut  herself  into  her  lodge,  quite 
determined  only  to  open  the  door  to  her  husband.  Moreau, 
more  and  more  uneasy,  hurried  across  to  the  gatekeeper's 
lodge,  where  he  was  told  that  the  Count  was  dressing.  Eosa- 
lie,  whom  he  met,  announced:  "Seven  people  to  dine  at  the 
Count's  table." 

Moreau  next  went  home,  where  he  found  the  poultry-girl 
in  hot  discussion  with  an  odd-looking  young  man. 

"Monsieur  le  Comte  told  us,  'Mina's  aide-de-camp  and  a 
colonel,'  "  the  girl  insisted. 

"I  am  not  a  colonel,"  replied  Georges. 

"Well,  but  is  your  name  Georges  ?" 

"What  is  the  matter?"  asked  the  steward,  intervening. 

"Monsieur,  my  name  is  Georges  Marest ;  I  am  the  son  of 
a  rich  hardware  dealer,  wholesale,  in  the  Rue  Saint-Martin, 
and  I  have  come  on  business  to  Monsieur  le  Comte  de  Serizy 
from  Maitre  Crottat,  his  notary — I  am  his  second  clerk." 


238  A  START  IN  LIFE 

"And  I  can  only  repeat,  sir,  what  monsieur  said  to  me — 
'A  gentleman  will  come,'  says  he,  'a  Colonel  Czerni-Georges, 
aide-de-camp  to  I^lina,  who  traveled  down  in  Pierrotin's 
chaise.    If  he  asks  for  me,  show  him  into  the  drawing-room.'  " 

"There  is  no  joking  with  his  Excellency,"  said  the  steward. 
"You  had  better  go  in,  monsieur. — But  how  is  it  that  his 
Excellency  came  down  without  announcing  his  purpose?  And 
how  does  he  know  that  you  traveled  by  Pierrotin's  chaise  ?" 

"It  is  perfectly  clear,"  said  the  clerk,  "that  the  Count  is  the 
gentleman  who,  but  for  the  civility  of  a  young  man,  would 
have  had  to  ride  on  the  front  seat  of  Pierrotin's  coucou." 

"On  the  front  seat  of  Pierrotin's  coucou  ?"  cried  the  steward 
and  the  farm-girl. 

"I  am  quite  sure  of  it  from  what  this  girl  tells  me,"  said 
Georges  Marest. 

"But  how ?"  the  steward  began. 

"Ah,  there  you  are  !"  cried  Georges.  "To  humbug  the  other 
travelers,  I  told  them  a  heap  of  cock-and-bull  stories  about 
Egypt,  Greece,  and  Spain.  I  had  spurs  on,  and  I  gave  myself 
out  as  a  colonel  in  the  cavalry — a  mere  joke." 

"And  what  was  the  gentleman  like,  whom  you  believe  to  be 
the  Count?"  asked  Moreau. 

"Why,  he  has  a  face  the  color  of  brick,"  said  Georges,  "with 
perfectly  white  hair  and  black  eyebrows." 

"That  is  the  man !" 

"I  am  done  for !"  said  Georges  Marest. 

'^hy?" 

"I  made  fun  of  his  Orders." 

"Pooh,  he  is  a  thorough  good  fellow^ ;  you  will  have  amused 
him.  Come  to  the  chateau  forthwith,"  said  Moreau.  "I  am 
going  up  to  the  Count. — Where  did  he  leave  you  ?" 

"At  the  top  of  the  hill." 

"I  can  make  neither  head  nor  tail  of  it!"  cried  Moreau. 

"After  all,  I  poked  fun  at  him,  but  I  did  not  insult  him,'"' 
said  the  clerk  to  himself. 

"And  what  are  you  here  for?"  asked  the  steward. 

"I  have  brought  th^  deed  of  sak  of  the  farm-lands  of  les 
Moulineaux,  ready  made  out. 


A  START  IN  LIFE  239 

"Good  heavens!"  exclaimed  Moreau.  "I  don't  under- 
stand !" 

Moreau  felt  his  heart  beat  painfully  when,  after  knocking 
two  raps  on  his  master's  door,  he  heard  in  reply : 

"Is  that  you,  Monsieur  Moreau  ?" 

"Yes,  monseigneur." 

"Come  in." 

The  Count  was  dressed  in  white  trousers  and  thin  boots,  a 
white  waistcoat,  and  a  black  coat  on  which  glittered,  on  the,' 
right-hand  side,  the  star  of  the  Grand  Cross  of  the  Legion  of 
Honor,  and  on  the  left,  from  a  button-hole,  hung  that  of  the 
Golden  Fleece  from  a  gold  chain;  the  blue  ribbon  was  con- 
spicuous across  his  waistcoat.  He  had  dressed  his  hair  him- 
self, and  had  no  doubt  got  himself'up  to  do  the  honors  of 
Presles  to  Marg-ueron,  and,  perhaps,  to  impress  that  worthy 
with  the  atmosphere  of  grandeur. 

"Well,  monsieur,"  said  the  Count,  who  remained  sitting, 
but  allowed  Moreau  to  stand,  "so  we  cannot  come  to  terms 
with  Margueron?" 

"At  the  present  moment  he  wants  too  much  for  his  farm." 

"But  why  should  he  not  come  over  here  to  talk  about  it  ?" 
said  the  Count  in  an  absent-minded  way. 

"He  is  ill,  monseigneur " 

"Are  you  sure  ?" 

"I  went  over  there " 

"Monsieur,"  said  the  Count,  assuming  a  stern  expression 
that  was  terrible,  "what  would  you  do  to  a  man  whom  you  had 
allowed  to  see  you  dress  a  wound  you  wished  to  keep  secret, 
and  who  went  off  to  make  game  of  it  with  a  street  trollop  ?" 

"I  should  give  him  a  sound  thrashing." 

"And  if,  in  addition  to  this,  you  discovered  that  he  was 
cheating  your  confidence  and  robbing  you  ?" 

"I  should  try  to  catch  him  out  and  send  him  to  the  hulks." 

"Listen,  Monsieur  Moreau.  You  have,  I  suppose,  discussed 
my  health  with  Madame  Clapart  and  made  fun  at  her  house 
of  my  devotion  to  my  wife,  for  little  Husson  was  giving  to 
the  passengers  in  a  pul:)lic  conveyance  a  vast  deal  of  informa- 


240  A   START  IN  T-TFE 

tion  with  roforonoo  to  my  cures,  in  my  presence,  tliis  verj' 
morning,  and  in  what  words !  God  knows !  He  dared  to 
slander  my  wife. 

"Again,  I  heard  from  Farmer  Legcr's  own  lips,  as  he  re- 
turned from  Paris  in  Piorrotin's  chaise,  of  the  plan  concocted 
by  the  notary  of  Beaumont  with  him,  and  with  you,  with 
reference  to  les  Moulineaux.  If  you  have  been  at  all  to  see 
Margueron,  it  was  to  instruct  him  to  sham  illness;  he  is  so 
little  ill  that  I  expect  him  to  dinner,  and  he  is  coming. — 
Well,  monsieur,  as  to  your  having  made  a  fortune  of  two 
hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs  in  seventeen  years — I  for- 
give you.  I  understand  it.  If  you  had  but  asked  me  for  what 
you  took  from  me,  or  what  others  offered  you,  I  w^ould  have 
given  it  to  you ;  you  have  a  family  to  provide  for.  Even  with 
your  want  of  delicacy  you  have  treated  me  better  than  another 
might  have  done,  that  I  believe 

"But  that  you,  who  know  all  that  I  have  done  for  my 
country,  for  France,  you  who  have  seen  me  sit  up  a  hundred 
nights  and  more  to  work  for  the  Emperor,  or  toiling  eighteen 
hours  a  day  for  three  months  on  end ;  that  you,  who  know  my 
worship  of  Madame  de  Serizy,  should  have  gossiped  about  it 
before  a  boy,  have  betrayed  my  secrets  to  the  mockery  of  a 
Madame  Husson " 

"Monseigneur !" 

"It  is  unpardonable.  To  damage  a  man's  interest  is  noth- 
ing, but  to  strike  at  his  heart ! — Ah !  you  do  not  know  what 
you  have  done !" 

The  Count  covered  his  face  with  his  hands  and  was  silent 
for  a  moment. 

"I  leave  you  in  possession  of  what  you  have,"  he  went  on, 
"and  I  will  forget  you. — As  a  point  of  dignity,  of  honor,  we 
will  part  without  quarreling,  for,  at  this  moment,  I  can  re- 
member what  your  father  did  for  mine. 

j  "You  must  come  to  terms — good  terms — with  Monsieur  de 
Reybert,  your  successor.  Bo  calm,  as  I  am.  Do  not  make 
yourself  a  spectacle  for  fools.  Above  all,  no  bluster  and  no 
haggling.    Though  you  have  forfeited  my  confidence,  try  to 


A  START  IN  LIFE;  241 

pieserve  the  decorum  of  wealth. — As  to  the  little  wretch  who 
has  half  killed  me,  he  is  not  to  sleep  at  Presles.  Send  him  to 
the  inn;  I  cannot  answer  for  what  I  might  do  if  he  crossed 
my  path." 

"I  do  not  deserve  such  leniency,  monseigneur,"  said  Mo- 
reau,  with  tears  in  his  eyes.  "If  I  had  heen  utterly  dishonest 
I  should  have  five  hundred  thousand  francs;  and  indeed  I 
will  gladly  account  for  every  franc  in  detail ! — But  permit  me 
to  assure  you,  monseigneur,  that  when  I  spoke  of  you  to 
Madame  Clapart  it  was  never  in  derision.  On  the  contrary, 
it  was  to  deplore  your  condition  and  to  ask  her  whether  she 
did  not  know  of  some  remedy,  unfamiliar  to  the  medical  pro- 
fession, which  the  common  people  use. — I  have  spoken  of  you 
in  the  boy's  presence  when  he  was  asleep — but  he  heard  me,  it 
would  seem ! — and  always  in  terms  of  the  deepest  affection 
and  respect.  Unfortunately,  a  blunder  is  sometimes  punished 
as  a  crime.  Still,  while  I  bow  to  the  decisions  of  your  just 
anger,  I  would  have  you  to  know  what  really  happened.  Yes, 
it  was  heart  to  heart  that  I  spoke  of  you  to  Madame  Clapart. 
And  only  ask  my  wife ;  never  have  I  mentioned  these  matters 
to  her " 

"That  will  do,"  said  the  Count,  whose  conviction  was  com- 
plete. "We  are  not  children ;  the  past  is  irrevocable.  .  .  . 
Go  and  set  your  affairs  and  mine  in  order.  You  may  remain 
in  the  lodge  till  the  month  of  October.  Monsieur  and  Madame 
de  Keybert  will  live  in  the  chateau.  Above  all,  try  to  live  with 
them  as  gentlemen  should — hating  each  other,  but  keeping 
up  appearances." 

The  Count  and  Moreau  went  downstairs,  Moreau  as  white 
as  the  Count's  hair.  Monsieur  de  Serizy  calm  and  dignified. 

While  this  scene  was  going  forward,  the  Beaumont  coach, 
leaving  Paris  at  one  o'clock,  had  stopped  at  the  gate  of  Presles 
to  set  down  Maitre  Crottat,  who,  in  obedience  to  the  Count's 
orders,  was  shown  into  the  drawing-room  to  wait  for  him; 
there  he  found  his  clerk  excessively  crestfallen,  in  company 
with  the  two  painters,  all  three  conspicuously  uncomfortable. 


242  A  START  IN  LIFE 

Monsieur  de  Rcybcrt,  a  iiiiin  of  fifty,  with  a  very  surly  exprer- 
sion,  had  brought  with  him  old  Margueron  and  the  notary 
from  Beaumont,  who  held  a  bundle  of  leases  and  title-deeds. 

When  this  assembled  party  saw  the  Count  appear  in  full 
court  costume,  Georges  Marest  had  a  spasm  in  the  stomach, 
and  Joseph  Bridau  felt  a  qualm;  but  Mistigris,  who  was  him- 
self in  his  Sunday  clothes,  and  who  indeed  had  no  crime  on 
his  conscience,  said  loud  enough  to  be  heard: 

"Well,  he  looks  much  nicer  now." 

"You  little  rascal,"  said  the  Count,  drawing  him  towards 
him  by  one  ear,  "so  we  both  deal  in  decorations ! — Do  you 
recognize  your  w'ork,  my  dear  Schinner  ?"  he  went  on,  point- 
ing to  the  ceiling. 

"Monseigneur,"  said  the  artist,  "I  was  so  foolish  as  to  as- 
sume so  famous  a  name  out  of  bravado;  but  to-day's  experi- 
ence makes  it  incumbent  on  me  to  do  something  good  and 
win  glory  for  that  of  Joseph  Bridau." 

"You  took  my  part,"  said  the  Count  eagerly,  "and  I  hope 
you  will  do  me  the  pleasure  of  dining  with  me — ^you  and  your 
witty  Mistigris." 

"You  do  not  know  what  you  are  exposing  yourself  to,"  said 
the  audacious  youngster;  "an  empty  stomach  knows  no  peers." 

"Bridau,"  said  the  Count,  struck  by  a  sudden  reminiscence, 
"are  you  related  to  one  of  the  greatest  workers  under  the  Em- 
pire, a  brigadier  in  command  who  died  a  victim  to  his  zeal  ?" 

"I  am  his  son,  monseigneur,"  said  Joseph,  bowing. 

"Then  you  are  welcome  here,"  replied  the  Count,  taking 
the  artist's  hand  in  both  his  own;  "I  knew  your  father,  and 
you  may  depend  on  me  as  on — an  American  uncle,"  said  Mon- 
sieur de  Serizy,  smiling.  "But  you  are  too  young  to  have  a 
pupil — to  whom  docs  Mistigris  belong?" 

"To  my  friend  Schinner,  who  has  lent  him  to  me,"  replied 
Joseph.  "Mistigris'  name  is  Leon  de  Lora.  Monseigneur,  if 
you  remember  my  father,  will  you  condescend  to  bear  in  mind 
his  other  son,  who  stands  accused  of  conspiring  against  the 
State,  and  is  on  his  trial  before  the  Supreme  Court " 

"To  be  sure,"  said  the  Count.    "I  M-ill  bear  it  in  mind,  be- 


A  START  IN  LIFE  24^ 

lieve  me. — As  to  Prince  Czerni-Georges,  Ali  Pasha's  ally,  and 
Mina's  aide-de-camp "  said  the  Count,  turning  to  Georges. 

"He  ? — my  second  clerk  ?"  cried  Crottat. 

"You  are  under  a  mistake,  Maitre  Crottat,"  said  Monsieur 
de  Serizy,  very  severely.  "A  clerk  who  hopes  ever  to  become  a 
notary  does  not  leave  important  documents  in  a  diligence  at 
the  mercy  of  his  fellovt^-travelers !  A  clerk  who  hopes  to  become 
a  notary  does  not  spend  twenty  francs  between  Paris  and 
'Moisselles !  A  clerk  who  hopes  to  become  a  notary  does  not 
expose  himself  to  arrest  as  a  deserter " 

"Monseigneur,"  said  Georges  Marest,  "I  may  have  amused 
myself  by  playing  a  practical  joke  on  a  party  of  travelers, 
but " 

"Do  not  interrupt  his  Excellency,"  said  his  master,  giving 
him  a  violent  nudge  in  the  ribs. 

"A  notary  ought  to  develop  early  the  gifts  of  discretion, 
prudence,  and  discernment,  and  not  mistake  a  Minister  of 
State  for  a  candlemaker." 

"I  accept  sentence  for  my  errors,"  said  Georges,  "but  I  did 
not  leave  my  papers  at  the  mercy " 

"You  are  at  this  moment  committing  the  error  of  giving 
the  lie  to  a  Minister  of  State,  a  peer  of  France,  a  gentleman, 
an  old  man — and  a  client. — Look  for  your  deed  of  sale." 

The  clerk  turned  over  the  papers  in  his  portfolio. 

"Do  not  make  a  mess  of  your  papers,"  said  the  Count,  tak- 
ing the  document  out  of  his  pocket.  "Here  is  the  deed  you 
are  seeking." 

Crottat  turned  it  over  three  times,  so  much  was  he  amazed 
at  receiving  it  from  the  hands  of  his  noble  client. 

"What,  sir !" — he  at  last  began,  addressing  Georges. 

"If  I  had  not  taken  it,"  the  Count  went  on,  "Pere  Leger — 
>who  is  not  such  a  fool  as  you  fancy  him  from  his  questions  as 
to  agriculture,  since  they  might  have  taught  you  that  a  man 
should  always  be  thinking  of  his  business — Pere  Leger  might 
have  got  hold  of  it  and  discovered  my  plans. — You  also  will 
give  me  the  pleasure  of  your  company  at  dinner,  but  on  con- 
dition of  telling  us  the  history  of  the  Moslem's  execution  at 


1>44  A  START  IN  LIFE 

Smyrna,  and  of  linishing  the  memoirs  of  some  client  which 
you  read,  no  doubt,  before  publication." 

"A  trouncing  for  bouncing,"  said  Leon  de  Lora,  in  a  low 
voice  to  Joseph  Bridau. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  the  Count  to  the  notary  from  Beaumont, 
to  Crottat,  Margueron,  and  Reybert,  "come  into  the  other 
room.  We  will  not  sit  down  to  dinner  till  we  have  concluded 
our  bargain;  for,  as  my  friend  Mistigris  says,  we  must  know 
when  to  creep  silent." 

"Well,  he  is  a  thoroughly  good  fellow/'  said  Leon  de  Lora 
to  Georges  Marest. 

"Yes;  but  if  he  is  a  good  fellow,  my  governor  is  not,  and 
he  will  request  me  to  play  my  tricks  elsewhere." 

'^Vell,  you  like  traveling,"  said  Bridau. 

"What  a  dressing  that  boy  will  get  from  Monsieur  and 
Madame  Moreau !"  cried  Leon  de  Lora. 

"The  little  idiot!"  said  Georges.  "But  for  him  the  Count 
would  have  thought  it  all  very  good  fun.  Well,  well,  it  is  a 
useful  lesson,  and  if  I  am  caught  chattering  in  a  coach 
again " 

"Oh,  it  is  a  stupid  thing  to  do,"  said  Joseph  Bridau. 

"And  vulgar  too,"  said  Mistigris.  "Keep  your  tongue  to 
clean  your  teeth." 

While  the  business  of  the  farm  was  being  discussed  between 
Monsieur  Margueron  and  the  Comte  de  Serizy,  with  the  assist- 
ance of  three  notaries,  and  in  the  presence  of  Monsieur  de 
Reybert,  Moreau  was  slowly  making  his  way  home.  He  went 
in  without  looking  about  him,  and  sat  down  on  a  sofa  in  the 
drawing-room,  while  Oscar  Husson  crept  into  a  corner  out  of 
sight,  so  terrified  was  he  by  the  steward's  white  face. 

"Well,  my  dear,"  said  Estelle,  coming  in,  fairly  tired  out 
by  all  she  had  had  to  do,  "what  is  the  matter  ?" 

"My  dear,  we  are  ruined,  lost  beyond  redemption.  I  am  no 
longer  land-steward  of  Prcsles !  The  Count  has  withdrawn 
his  confidence." 

"And  what  has  caused ?" 

^"^Old  Leger,  who  was  in  Pierrotin's  chaise,  let  out  all  about 


A  START  IN  LIPE3  245 

the  farm  of  les  Moulineaiix ;  but  it  is  not  that  which  has  cut 
me  off  for  ever  from  his  favor " 

'^hat,  then?" 

"Oscar  spoke  ill  of  the  Countess,  and  talked  of  mon- 
seigneur's  ailments " 

"Oscar?"  cried  Madame  Moreau.  "You  are  punished  by 
your  own  act !  A  pretty  viper  you  have  nursed  in  your  bosom ! 
How  often  have  I  told  you " 

"That  will  do/'  said  Moreau  hoarsely. 

At  this  instant  Estelle  and  her  husband  detected  Oscar 
huddled  in  a  corner.  Moreau  pounced  on  the  luckless  boy 
like  a  kite  on  its  prey,  seized  him  by  the  collar  of  his  olive- 
green  coat,  and  dragged  him  into  the  daylight  of  a  window. 

"Speak !  What  did  you  say  to  monseigneur  in  the  coach  ? 
What  devil  loosened  your  tongue,  when  3'ou  always  stand 
moonstruck  if  I  ask  you  a  question  ?  What  did  you  do  it  for  ?" 
said  the  steward  with  terrific  violence. 

Oscar,  too  much  scared  for  tears,  kept  silence,  as  motionless 
as  a  statue. 

"Come  and  ask  his  Excellency's  pardon !"  said  Moreau. 

"As  if  his  Excellency  cared  about  a  vermin  like  him!" 
shrieked  Estelle  in  a  fury. 

"Come — come  to  the  chateau  !"  Moreau  repeated. 

Oscar  collapsed,  a  lifeless  heap  on  the  floor. 

*^ill  you  come,  I  say?"  said  Moreau,  his  rage  increasing 
every  moment. 

"No,  no ;  have  pity !"  cried  Oscar,  who  could  not  face  a 
punishment  worse  than  death. 

Moreau  took  the  boy  by  the  collar  and  dragged  him  like  a 
corpse  across  the  courtyard,  which  rang  with  the  boy's  cries 
and  sobs;  he  hauled  him  up  the  steps  and  flung  him  howling, 
and  as  rigid  as  a  post,  in  the  drawing-room  at  the  feet  of  the 
Count,  who,  having  settled  for  the  purchase  of  les  i\[oidineaux, 
was  just  passing  into  the  dining-room  with  his  friends. 

"On  your  knees,  on  your  knees,  wretched  boy.  Ask  pardon 
of  the  man  who  has  fed  your  mind  by  getting  you  a  scholarship 
at  college,"  cried  Moreau. 


^46  A  START  IN  IJFE 

Oscar  lay  wnth  his  face  on  the  ground,  foaming  with  rage. 
Everybody  was  startled.  Morcau,  quite  beside  himself,  was 
purple  in  the  face  from  the  rush  of  blood  to  his  head. 

"This  boy  is  mere  vanity,"  said  the  Count,  after  waiting  in 
vain  for  Oscar's  apology.  "Pride  can  humble  itself,  for  there 
is  dignity  in  some  self-humiliation. — 1  am  afraid  you  will 
never  make  anything  of  this  fellow." 

And  the  Minister  passed  on. 

Moreau  led  Oscar  away  and  back  to  his  own  house. 

While  the  horses  were  being  harnessed  to  the  traveling 
chaise,  he  wrote  the  following  letter  to  Madame  Clapart : — 

"Oscar,  my  dear,  has  brought  me  to  ruin.  In  the  course  of 
his  journey  in  Pierrotin's  chaise  this  morning  he  spoke  of 
the  flirtations  of  Madame  la  Comtesse  to  his  Excellency  hijjn- 
self,  who  was  traveling  incognito,  and  told  the  Count  his 
own  secrets  as  to  the  skin  disease  brought  on  by  long  nights 
of  hard  work  in  his  various  high  offices. — After  dismissing  me 
from  my  place,  the  Count  desired  me  not  to  allow  Oscar  to 
sleep  at  Presles,  but  to  send  him  home.  In  obedience  to  his 
orders,  I  am  having  my  horses  put  to  my  wife's  carriage,  and 
Bh-ochon,  my  groom,  will  take  the  little  wretch  home. 

"My  wife  and  I  are  in  a  state  of  despair,  •which  you  may 
iciagine,  but  which  I  cannot  attempt  to  describe.,  I  will  go  to 
see  you  in  a  few  days,  for  I  must  make  my  plans.  I  have  three 
children;  I  must  think  of  the  future,  and  I  do  not  yet  know 
what  to  decide  on,  for  I  am  determined  to  show  the  Count  the 
value  of  seventeen  years  of  the  life  of  such  a  man  as  I.  I  have 
two  lumdred  and  sixty  thousand  francs,  and  I  mean  to  acquire 
such  a  fortune  as  will  allow  me  to  be,  some  day,  not  much  less 
jthan  his  Excellency's  equal.  At  this  instant  I  feel  that  I 
could  remove  mountains  and  conquer  insurmountable  difficul- 
ties.   What  a  lever  is  such  a  humiliating  scene ! 

"Whose  blood  can  Oscar  have  in  his  veins  ?  I  cannot  com* 
pliment  you  on  your  son;  his  behavior  is  that  of  an  owl.  At 
this  moment  of  writing  he  has  not  yet  uttered  a  word  in  reply 
to  mj  questions  and  my  wife's.    Is  he  becoming  idiotic,  or  i? 


A  START  IN  LIFE  S41 

he  idiotic  already  ?  My  dear  friend,  did  you  not  give  him  due 
injunctions  before  he  started?  How  much  misfortune  you 
would  have  spared  me  by  coming  with  him,  as  I  begged  you. 
If  you  were  afraid  of  Estelle,  you  could  have  stayed  at  Mois- 
selles.  However,  it  is  all  over  now.  Farewell  till  we  meet, 
soon. — Your  faithful  friend  and  servant, 

"MOREAU." 

At  eight  o'clock  that  evening  Madame  Clapart  had  come  in 
from  a  little  walk  with  her  husband,  and  sat  knitting  stock- 
ings for  Oscar  by  the  light  of  a  single  dip.  Monsieur  Clapart 
was  expecting  a  friend  named  Poiret,  who  sometimes  came  in 
for  a  game  of  dominoes,  for  he  never  trusted  himself  to  spend 
an  evening  in  a  cafe.  In  spite  of  temperance,  enforced  on 
him  by  his  narrow  means,  Clapart  could  not  have  answered 
for  his  abstinence  when  in  the  midst  of  food  and  drink,  and 
surrounded  by  other  men,  whose  laughter  might  have  nettled 
him. 

"I  am  afraid  Poiret  may  have  been  and  gone,"  said  he  to  his 
wtfe. 

"The  lodge-keeper  would  have  told  us,  my  dear,"  replied 
h/B  wife. 

"She  may  have  forgotten." 

"Why  should  she  forget  ?" 

"It  would  not  be  the  first  time  she  has  forgotten  things 
tliat  concern  us;  God  knows,  anything  is  good  enough  for 
people  who  have  no  servants  !" 

"Well,  well,"  said  the  poor  woman,  to  change  the  subject 
and  escape  her  husband's  pin-stabs.  "Oscar  is  at  Presles  by 
this  time;  he  will  be  very  happy  in  that  beautiful  place,  that 
fine  park " 

"Oh  yes,  expect  great  things !"  retorted  Clapart.  "He  will 
make  hay  there  with  a  vengeance  !" 

"Will  you  never  cease  to  be  spiteful  to  that  poor  boy  ?  What 
harm  has  he  done  you  ?  Dear  Heaven  !  if  ever  we  are  in  easy 
circumstances  we  shall  owe  it  to  him  perhaps^,  for  he  has  a 
good  heart." 


548  A  STAtlT  IN  LIFE 

"Our  bones  will  be  gelatine  long  before  that  boy  succeeds 
in  the  world!"  said  Clapart.  "And  he  will  have  altered  very 
considerably! — Why,  you  don't  know  your  own  boy;  he  is  a 
braggart,  a  liar,  lazy,  incapable " 

"Supposing  you  were  to  go  to  fetch  Poiret,"  said  the  hapless 
mother,  struck  to  the  heart  by  the  diatribe  she  had  brought 
down  on  her  own  head.  ; 

"A  boy  who  never  took  a  prize  at  school !"  added  Clapart. 

In  the  eyes  of  the  commoner  sort,  bringing  home  prizes 
from  school  is  positive  proof  of  future  success  in  life. 

"Did  you  ever  take  a  prize  ?"  retorted  his  wife.  "And  Oscar 
got  the  fourth  accessil  in  philosophy  ?" 

This  speech  reduced  Clapart  to  silence  for  a  moment. 

"And  besides,"  he  presently  went  on,  "Madame  Moreau 
must  love  him  as  she  loves  a  nail — you  know  where;  she  will 
try  to  set  her4msband  against  him. — Oscar  steward  at  Presles ! 
Why,  he  must  understand  land-surveying  and  agricul- 
ture  " 

"He  can  learn." 

"He !  Never !  I  bet  you  that  if  he  got  a  place  there  he 
would  not  be  in.  it  a  week  before  he  had  done  something 
clumsy,  and  was  packed  off  by  the  Comte  de  Serizy " 

"Good  heavens !  How  can  you  be  so  vicious  about  the  fu- 
ture prospects  of  a  poor  boy,  full  of  good  points,  as  sweet  as 
an  angel,  and  incapable  of  doing  an  ill  turn  to  any  living 
soul?" 

At  this  moment  the  cracking  of  a  post-boy's  whip  and  the 
clatter  of  a  chaise  at  top  speed,  Avith  the  hoofs  of  horses  pulled 
up  sharply  at  the  outer  gate,  had  roused  the  whole  street. 
Clapart,  hearing  every  window  flung  open,  went  out  on  the 
landing. 

"Oscar,  sent  back  by  post !"  cried  he  in  a  tone  in  which  his 
satisfaction  gave  way  to  genuine  alarm. 

"Good  God!  what  can  have  happened?"  said  the  poor 
mother,  trembling  as  a  leaf  is  shaken  by  an  autumn  wind. 

Brochon  came  upstairs,  followed  by  Oscar  and  Poiret. 

"Good  heavens,  what  has  happened?"  repeated  she,  appeal- 
ing to  the  groom. 


A  START  IN  LIFE  249 

"I  don't  know,  but  Monsieur  Moreau  is  no  longer  steward 
of  Presles,  and  they  say  it  is  your  son's  doing,  and  monsei- 
gneur  has  ordered  him  home  again. — However,  here  is  a  letter 
from  poor  Monsieur  Moreau,  who  is  so  altered,  madame,  it  is 
dreadful  to  see." 

"Clapart,  a  glass  of  wine  for  the  post-boy,  and  one  for 
monsieur,"  said  his  wife,  who  dropped  into  an  armchair  and 
read  the  terrible  letter.  "Oscar,"  she  went  on,  dragging  her- 
self to  her  bed,  "you  want  to  kill  your  mother ! — After  all  I 

said  to  you  this  morning "     But  Madame  Clapart  did 

not  finish  her  sentence ;  she  fainted  with  misery. 

Oscar  remained  standing,  speechless.  ]\radame  Clapart,  as 
she  recovered  her  senses,  heard  her  husband  saying  to  the  boy 
as  he  shook  him  by  the  arm : 

'^ill  you  speak  ?" 

"Go  to  bed  at  once,  sir,"  said  she  to  her  son.  "And  leave 
him  in  peace.  Monsieur  Clapart ;  do  not  drive  him  out  of  his 
wits,  for  he  is  dreadfully  altered !" 

Oscar  did  not  hear  his  mother's  remark ;  he  had  made  for 
be'd  the  instant  he  was  told. 

Those  who  have  any  recollection  of  their  own  boyhood  ^\dll 
not  be  surprised  to  hear  that,  after  a  day  so  full  of  events  and 
agitations,  Oscar  slept  the  sleep  of  the  just  in  spite  of  the 
enormity  of  his  sins.  Nay,  next  day  he  did  not  find  the  whole 
face  of  nature  so  much  changed  as  he  expected,  and  ^vas  aston- 
ished to  find  that  he  was  hungry,  after  regarding  himself  the 
day  before  as  unworthy  to  live.  He  had  suffered  only  in  mind, 
and  at  that  age  mental  impressions  succeed  each  other  so 
rapidly  that  each  wipes  out  the  last,  however  deep  it  may  have 
seemed. 

Hence  corporal  punishment,  though  philanthropists  have 
made  a  strong  stand  against  it  of  late  years,  is  in  some  cases 
necessary  for  children ;  also,  it  is  perfectly  natural,  for  Nature 
herself  has  no  other  means  but  the  infliction  of  pain  to  pro- 
duce a  lasting  impression  of  her  lessons.  If  to  give  weight  to 
the  shame,  unhappily  too  transient,  which  had  overwhelmed 
Oscar,  the  steward  had  given  him  a  sound  thrashing,  the  les- 


250  A  START  IN  TJFB 

son  might  have  been  efFcctual.  The  discernment  needed  for 
the  proper  inlliclion  of  such  corrections  is  tlie  chief  argument 
against  their  use;  for  Nature  never  makes  a  mistake,  while 
the  teacher  must  often  blunder. 

^Madame  Clapart  took  care  to  send  her  husband  out  next 
morning  to  have  her  son  to  herself.  She  was  in  a  pitiable 
condition.  Her  eyes  red  with  weeping,  lier  face  worn  by  a 
sleepless  night,  her  voice  broken;  everything  in  her  seemed  to 
sue  for  mercy  by  the  signs  of  such  grief  as  she  could  not  have 
endured  a  second  time.  When  Oscar  entered  the  room,  she 
beckoned  to  liim  to  sit  down  by  her,  and  in  a  mild  but  feeling 
voice  reminded  him  of  all  the  kindness  done  them  by  the 
steward  of  Presles.  She  explained  to  Oscar  that  for  the  last 
six  years  especially  she  had  lived  on  Moreau's  ingenious 
charity.  Monsieur  Clapart's  appointment,  which  they  owed, 
no  less  than  Oscar's  scholarship,  to  the  Comte  de  Serizy,  he 
would  some  day  cease  to  hold.  Clapart  could  not  claim  a  pen- 
sion, not  having  served  long  enough  either  in  the  Treasury  or 
the  city  to  ask  for  one.  And  when  Monsieur  Clapart  should 
be  shelved,  what  was  to  become  of  them  ? 

"I,"  she  said,  "hj  becoming  a  sick-nurse  or  taking  a  place 
as  housekeeper,  in  some  gentleman's  house,  could  make  my 
living  and  keep  Monsieur  Clapart ;  but  what  would  become  of 
you  ?  You  have  no  fortune,  and  you  must  work  for  your  liv- 
ing. There  are  but  four  openings  for  lads  like  you — trade, 
the  civil  service,  the  liberal  professions,  and  military  service. 
A  3'oung  man  who  has  no  capital  must  contribute  faithful 
service  and  brains;  but  great  discretion  is  needed  in  business, 
and  your  behavior  yesterday  makes  your  success  very  doubt- 
ful. For  an  official  career  you  have  to  begin,  for  years  per- 
haps, as  a  supernumerary,  and  need  interest  to  back  you ;  and 
you  have  alienated  the  only  protector  we  ever  had — a  man  high 
in  power.  And  besides,  even  if  you  were  blest  with  the  excep- 
tional gifts  which  enable  a  young  man  to  rise  rapidly,  either 
in  business  or  in  an  official  position,  where  are  wo  to  find  the 
money  for  food  and  clothing  while  you  are  learning  your 
work?" 


A  START  IN  LIFE  251 

And  here  his  mother,  like  all  women,  went  off  into  wordy 
lamentations.  What  could  she  do  now  that  she  was  deprived 
of  the  gifts  of  produce  which  Moreau  was  able  to  send  her 
while  managing  Presles?  Oscar  had  overthrown  his  best 
friend. 

Kext  to  trade  and  office  work,  of  which  her  son  need  not 
even  think,  came  the  legal  profession  as  a  notary,  a  pleader, 
an  attorney,  or  an  usher.  But  then  he  must  study  law  for 
three  years  at  least,  and  pay  heavy  fees  for  his  admission,  his 
examinations,  his  theses,  and  diploma;  the  number  of  com- 
petitors was  so  great,  that  superior  talent  was  indispensable, 
and  how  was  he  to  live?  That  was  the  constantly  recurring 
question. 

"Oscar,"  she  said  in  conclusion,  "all  my  pride,  all  my  life 
were  centered  in  you.  I  could  bear  to  look  forward  to  an  old 
age  of  poverty,  for  I  kept  my  eyes  on  you ;  I  saw  you  entering 
on  a  prosperous  career,  and  succeeding  in  it.  That  hope  has 
given  me  courage  to  endure  the  privations  I  have  gone  through 
during  the  last  six  years  to  keep  you  at  school,  for  it  has  cost 
seven  or  eight  hundred  francs  a  year  besides  the  half-scholar- 
ship. Now  that  my  hopes  are  crushed,  I  dread  to  think  of  your 
future  fate.  I  must  not  spend  a  sou  of  Monsieur  Clapart's 
salary  on  my  own  son. 

'^hat  do  you  propose  to  do.  You  are  not  a  good  enough 
mathematician  to  pass  into  a  specialist  college;  and,  besides, 
where  could  I  find  the  three  thousand  francs  a  year  for  your 
training? — This  is  life,  my  dear  child!  Well,  you  are  eigh- 
teen, and  a  strong  lad — enlist  as  a  soldier;  it  is  the  only  way 
you  can  make  a  living." 

Oscar  as  yet  knew  nothing  of  life.  Like  all  boys  who  have 
been  brought  up  in  ignorance  of  the  poverty  at  home,  he  had 
no  idea  of  the  need  to  work  for  his  living;  the  word  trade 
conveyed  no  idea  to  his  mind;  and  the  words  Government 
office  did  not  mean  much,  for  he  knew  nothing  of  the  work. 
He  listened  with  a  look  of  submission,  which  he  tried  to  make 
penitential,  but  his  motlicr's  remonstrances  were  lost  in  air. 
However,  at  the  idea  of  being  a  soldier,  and  on  seeing  the 


252  A  STAUT  IN  T.IFE 

tears  in  his  mother's  eyes,  the  boy  too  was  ready  to  weep.  As 
Boon  as  Madame  Clapart  saw  the  drops  on  her  boy's  cheeks, 
she  was  quite  disarmed ;  and,  like  all  mothers  in  a  similar  posi- 
tion, she  fell  back  on  the  generalities  wliich  wind  up  this  sort 
of  attack,  in  which  they  suffer  all  their  own  sorrows  and  their 
children's  at  the  same  time. 

"Come,  Oscar,  promise  me  to  be  more  cautious  for  the  fu- 
ture, not  to  blurt  out  whatever  comes  uppermost,  to  moderate 
your  absurd  conceit "  and  so  on. 

Oscar  was  ready  to  promise  all  his  mother  asked,  and  press- 
ing him  gently  to  her  heart,  Madame  Clapart  ended  by  em- 
bracing him  to  comfort  him  for  the  scolding  he  had  had. 

"Now,"  said  she,  "you  will  listen  to  your  mother  and  follow 
her  advice,  for  a  mother  can  give  her  son  none  but  good  ad- 
vice.— We  will  go  and  see  your  uncle  Cardot.  He  is  our  last 
hope.  Cardot  owed  a  great  deal  to  your  father,  who,  by  al- 
lowing him  to  marry  his  sister,  with  what  was  then  an  im- 
mense marriage  portion,  enabled  him  to  make  a  large  fortune 
in  silk.  I  fancy  he  would  place  you  with  Monsieur  Camusot, 
his  son-in-law  and  successor  in  the  Rue  des  Bourdonnais. 

"Still,  your  uncle  Cardot  has  four  children  of  his  own.  He 
made  over  his  shop,  the  Cocon  d'Or,  to  his  eldest  daughter, 
Madame  Camusot.  Though  Cardot  has  millions,  there  are 
the  four  children,  by  two  wives,  and  he  hardly  knows  of  our 
existence.  Marianne,  his  second  girl,  married  Monsieur  Protez, 
of  Protez  and  Chiffreville.  He  paid  four  hundred  thousand 
francs  to  put  his  eldest  son  in  business  as  a  notary ;  and  he  has 
just  invested  for  his  second  son  Joseph  as  a  partner  in  the  bus- 
iness of  Matif  at,  drug-importers.  Thus  your  uncle  Cardot  may 
very  well  not  choose  to  be  troubled  about  you,  whom  he  sees 
but  four  times  a  year.  He  has  never  been  to  call  on  me  here ; 
but  he  could  come  to  see  me  when  I  was  in  Madame  Mere's 
household,  to  be  allowed  to  supply  silks  to  their  Imperial 
Highnesses,  and  the  Emperor,  and  the  Grandees  at  Court. — 
And  now  the  Camusots  are  Ultras!  Camusot's  eldest  son,  by 
his  first  wife,  married  the  daughter  of  a  gentleman  usher  to 
the  King!     Well,  when  the  world  stoops  it  grows  hunch 


A  START  IN  LIFE  253 

backed.  And,  after  all,  it  is  a  good  business;  the  Cocon  d'Or 
has  the  custom  of  the  Court  under  the  Bourbons  as  it  had 
under  the  Emperor. 

"To-morrow  we  will  go  to  see  your  uncle  Cardot,  and  I 
hope  you  will  contrive  to  behave ;  for,  as  I  tell  you,  in  him  is 
our  last  hope." 

Monsieur  Jean  Jerome  Severin  Cardot  had  lost  hie  second 
wife  six  years  since — Mademoiselle  Husson,  on  whom,  in  the 
days  of  his  glory,  the  contractor  had  bestowed  a  marriage 
portion  of  a  hundred  thousand  francs  in  hard  cash.  Cardot, 
the  head-clerk  of  the  Cocon  d'Or,  one  of  the  old-established 
Paris  houses,  had  bought  the  business  in  1793  when  its  owners 
were  ruined  by  the  maximum,  and  Mademoiselle  Husson's 
money  to  back  him  had  enabled  him  to  make  an  almost  colos- 
sal fortune  in  ten  years.  To  provide  handsomely  for  his 
children,  he  had  very  ingeniously  invested  three  hundred 
thousand  francs  in  annuities  for  himself  and  his  wife,  which 
brought  him  in  thirty  thousand  francs  a  year.  The  rest  of 
his  capital  he  divided  into  three  portions  of  four  hundred 
thousand  francs  for  his  younger  children,  and  the  shop  was 
taken  as  representing  that  sum  by  Camusot  when  he  married 
the  eldest  girl.  Thus  the  old  fellow,  now  nearly  seventy, 
could  dispose  of  his  thirty  thousand  francs  a  year  without 
damaging  his  children's  interests ;  they  were  all  well  married, 
and  no  avaricious  hopes  could  interfere  with  their  filial  affec- 
tion. 

Uncle  Cardot  lived  at  Belleville  in  one  of  the  first  houses 
just  above  la  Courtille.  He  rented  a  first  floor,  whence  there 
was  a  fine  view  over  the  Seine  valley,  an  apartment  for  which 
he  paid  a  thousand  francs  a  year,  facing  south,  with  the  ex- 
clusive enjoyment  of  a  large  garden;  thus  he  never  troubled 
himself  about  the  three  or  four  other  families  inhabiting  the 
spacious  country  house.  Secure,  by  a  long  lease,  of  ending 
his  days  there,  he  lived  rather  shabbily,  waited  on  by  his  old 
cook  and  by  a  maid  Avho  had  been  attached  to  his  late  wife, 
both  of  whom  looked  forward  to  an  annuity  of  some  six  hun- 


254  A  START  IN  LIFE 

(Ired  francs  at  his  death,  and  consequently  did  not  roh  him. 
These  two  women  took  incredible  care  of  their  master,  and 
with  all  the  more  devotion  since  no  one  could  be  less  fractious 
or  fidgety  than  he. 

The  rooms,  furnished  by  the  late  Madame  Cardot,  had  re- 
mained unaltered  for  six  years,  and  the  old  man  was  quite 
content ;  he  did  not  spend  a  thousand  crowns  a  year  there,  for 
he  dined  out  in  Paris  five  days  a  week,  and  came  home  at  mid- 
night in  a  private  fly  that  ho  took  at  the  Barriere  de  la  Cour- 
tille.  They  had  hardly  anything  to  do  beyond  providing  him 
with  breakfast.  The  old  man  breakfasted  at  eleven  o'clock, 
then  he  dressed  and  scented  himself  and  went  to  Paris.  A 
man  usually  gives  notice  when  he  means  to  dine  out;  Mon- 
sieur Cardot  gave  notice  when  he  was  to  dine  at  home. 

This  little  old  gentleman,  plump,  rosy,  square,  and  hearty, 
was  always  as  neat  as  a  pin,  as  the  saying  goes,  that  is  to  say, 
always  in  black  silk  stockings,  corded  silk  knee-breeches,  a 
white  marcella  waistcoat,  dazzlingly  white  linen,  and  a  dark 
blue  coat ;  he  wore  violet  silk  gloves,  gold  buckles  to  his  shoes, 
and  breeches,  a  touch  of  powder  on  his  hair,  and  a  small  queue 
tied  with  black  ribbon.  His  face  was  noticeable  for  the  thick, 
bushy  eyebrows,  beneath  which  sparkled  his  gray  eyes,  and  a 
large  squarely-cut  nose  that  made  him  look  like  some  vener- 
able prebendary.  This  countenance  did  not  belie  the  man. 
Old  Cardot  was,  in  fact,  one  of  the  race  of  frisky  Gerontes 
who  are  disappearing  day  by  day,  and  who  played  the  part  of 
Turcaret  in  all  the  romances  and  comedies  of  the  eighteenth 
century.  Uncle  Cardot  would  speak  to  a  woman  as  "Lady 
fair";  he  would  take  home  any  woman  in  a  coach  who  had 
no  other  protector;  he  was  "theirs  to  command,"  to  use  his 
own  expression,  with,  a  chivalrous  flourish.  His  calm  face 
and  snowy  hair  were  the  adjuncts  of  an  old  age  wholly  de- 
voted to  pleasure.  Among  men  he  boldly  professed  Epicu- 
reanism, and  allowed  himself  rather  a  broad  style  of  jokes 
He  had  made  no  objection  when  his  son-in-law  Camusot  at- 
tached himself  to  Coral ie,  the  fascinating  actress,  for  he  was, 
in  secret,  the  l^Ta^cenas  of  ^fademoiselle  Florentine,  premiere 
danseuse  at  the  Gaite  theatre. 


A  START  IN  LIFE  255 

Still,  nothing  appeared  on  the  surface,  or  in  his  evident 
conduct,  to  tell  tales  of  these  opinions  and  tliis  mode  of  life. 
Uncle  Cardot,  grave  and  polite,  was  supposed  to  be  almost 
cold,  such  a  display  did  he  make  of  the  proprieties,  and  even 
a  bigot  would  have  called  him  a  hypocrite.  This  worthy  gen- 
tleman particularly  detested  the  priesthood,  he  was  One  of  the 
large  body  of  silly  people  who  subscribe  to  the  Constitutionnel, 
and  was  much  exercised  about  the  refusal  of  rights  of  burial. 
He  adored  Voltaire,  though  his  preference  as  a  matter  of 
taste  was  for  Piron,  Verde,  and  Colle.  Of  course,  he  admired 
Beranger,  of  whom  he  spoke  ingeniously  as  the  high  priest  of 
the  religion  of  Lisette.  His  daughters,  Madame  Camusot  and 
Madame  Protez,  and  his  two  sons  would  indeed  have  been 
knocked  flat,  to  use  a  vulgar  phrase,  if  any  one  had  told  them 
what  their  father  meant  by  singing  "La  Mere  Godichon." 

This  shrewd  old  man  had  never  told  his  children  of  his 
annuity ;  and  they,  seeing  him  live  so  poorly,  all  believed  that 
he  had  stripped  himself  of  his  fortune  for  them,  and  over- 
whelmed him  with  care  and  affection.  And  he  would  some- 
times say  to  his  sons,  "Do  not  lose  your  money,  for  I  have  none 
to  leave  you."  Camusot,  who  was  a  man  after  his  own  heart, 
and  whom  he  liked  well  enough  to  allow  him  to  join  his  little 
parties,  was  the  only  one  who  knew  of  his  annuity  of  thirty 
thousand  francs.  Camusot  highly  applauded  the  old  fellow's 
philosophy,  thinking  that  after  providing  so  liberally  for  his 
children  and  doing  his  duty  so  thoroughly,  he  had  a  right  to 
end  his  days  jovially. 

"You  see,  my  dear  fellow,"  the  old  master  of  the  Cocon  d'Or 
would  say  to  his  son-in-law,  "I  might  have  married  again,  no 
doubt,  and  a  young  wife  would  have  had  children. — Oh,  yes, 
I  should  have  had  children,  I  was  at  an  age  when  men  always 
have  children. — Well,  Florentine  does  not  cost  me  so  much, 
as  a  wife,  she  never  bores  me,  she  will  not  plague  me  with 
children,  and  will  not  make  a  hole  in  your  fortune."  And 
Camusot  discovered  in  old  Cardot  an  admirable  feeling  for  the 
Family,  regarding  him  as  a  perfect  father-in-law.  "He  suc- 
ceeds," he  would  say,  "in  reconciling  the  interests  of  his  chil- 


256  A  START  IN  LIFE 

dren  with  the  pleasures  it  is  natural  to  indulge  in  in  old  age 
after  having  gone  through  all  anxieties  of  business." 

Xeither  the  Cardots,  nor  the  Camusols,  nor  the  Protez  sus- 
pected what  the  existence  was  of  their  old  aunt  Madame  Cla- 
part.  Their  communications  had  always  been  restricted  to 
sending  formal  letters  on  the  occasions  of  a  death  or  a  mar- 
riage, and  visiting  cards  on  New  Year's  Day.  Madame  Cla- 
part  was  too  proud  to  sacrifice  her  feelings  for  anything  but 
her  Oscar's  interests,  and  acted  under  the  influence  of  her 
regard  for  Moreau,  the  only  person  who  had  remained  faithful 
to  her  in  misfortune.  She  had  never  wearied  old  Cardot  by 
her  presence  or  her  importunities,  but  she  had  clung  to  him 
as  to  a  hope.  She  called  on  him  once  a  quarter,  and  talked  to 
him  of  Oscar  Husson,  the  nephew  of  the  late  respected 
Madame  Cardot,  taking  the  lad  to  see  Uncle  Cardot  three 
times  a  year,  in  the  holidays.  On  each  occasion  the  old  man 
took  Oscar  to  dine  at  the  Cadran  bleu  (the  Blue  Dial),  and  to 
the  Gaite  in  the  evening,  taking  him  home  afterwards  to  the 
Eue  de  la  Cerisaie.  On  one  occasion,  after  giving  liim  a  new 
suit  of  clothes,  he  had  made  him  a  present  of  the  silver  mug 
and  spoon  and  fork  required  as  part  of  every  schoolboy's  equip- 
ment. 

Oscar's  mother  had  tried  to  convince  the  old  man  that  Oscar 
was  very  fond  of  him,  and  she  was  always  talking  of  the 
silver  mug  and  spoon  and  the  beautiful  suit,  of  which  nothing 
now  survived  but  the  waistcoat.  But  these  little  insinuating 
attentions  did  Oscar  more  harm  than  good  with  so  cunning 
an  old  fox  as  Uncle  Cardot.  Old  Cardot  had  not  been  de- 
voted to  his  late  lamented,  a  bony  red-haired  woman;  also 
he  knew  the  circumstances  of  the  deceased  Husson's  marriage 
to  Oscar's  mother;  and  without  looking  down  on  her  in  any 
way,  he  knew  that  Oscar  had  been  born  after  his  father's 
death,  so  his  poor  nephew  seemed  an  absolute  alien  to  the 
Cardot  family.  Unable  to  foresee  disaster,  Oscar's  mother 
had  not  made  up  for  this  lack  of  natural  ties  between  the  boy 
and  his  uncle,  and  had  not  :^;ucceeded  in  implanting  in  the  old 
merchant  any  liking  for  her  boy  in  his  earliest  youth.    Like 


A  START  IN  LIFE  257 

all  women  who  are  absorbed  in  the  one  idea  of  motherhood, 
Madame  Chipart  could  not  put  herself  in  Uncle  Cardot's 
place;  she  thought  he  ought  to  be  deeply  interested  in  such 
a  charming  boy,  whose  name,  too,  was  that  of  the  late  Madame 
Cardot. 

"Monsieur,  here  is  the  mother  of  your  nephew  Oscar,"  said 
the  maid  to  Monsieur  Cardot,  who  was  airing  himself  in  the 
garden  before  breakfast,  after  being  shaved  and  having  his 
head  dressed  by  the  barber. 

"Good-morning,  lady  fair,"  said  the  old  silk-merchant,  bow- 
ing to  Madame  Clapart,  while  he  wrapped  his  white  quilted 
dressing-gown  across  him.  "Ah,  ha  !  your  youngster  is  grow- 
ing apace,"  he  added,  pulling  Oscar  by  the  ear. 

"He  has  finished  his  schooling,  and  he  was  very  sorry  that 
his  dear  uncle  was  not  present  at  the  distribution  of  prizes 
at  the  College  Henri  IV.,  for  he  was  named.  The  name  of 
Husson,  of  which,  let  us  hope,  he  may  prove  worthy,  was 
honorably  mentioned." 

"The  deuce  it  was !"  said  the  little  man,  stopping  short. 
He  was  walking  with  Madame  Clapart  and  Oscar  on  a  terrace 
where  there  were  orange-trees,  myrtles,  and  pomegranate 
shrubs.     "And  what  did  he  get?" 

"The  fourth  accessit  in  philosophy,"  said  the  mother  tri- 
umphantly. 

"Oh,  ho.  He  has  some  way  to  go  yet  to  make  up  for  lost 
time,"  cried  Uncle  Cardot.  "To  end  with  an  accessit — is  not 
the  treasure  of  Peru. — You  will  breakfast  with  me?"  said 
he. 

*^e  are  at  your  commands,"  replied  Madame  Clapart. 
"Oh,  my  dear  Monsieur  Cardot,  what  a  comfort  it  is  to  a 
father  and  mother  when  their  children  make  a  good  start  in 
life.  From  that  point  of  view,  as  indeed  from  every  other," 
she  put  in,  correcting  herself,  "you  are  one  of  the  happiest 
fathers  I  know.  In  the  hands  of  your  admirable  son-in-l^w 
and  your  amiable  daughter,  the  Cocon  d'Or  is  still  the  best 
shop  of  the  kind  in  Paris.  Your  eldest  son  has  been  for  years 
as  a  notary  at  the  head  of  the  best  known  business  in  Paris, 


258  A  START  IN  LIFE 

and  he  married  a  ridi  woinaii.  Your  yoiinpjcst  is  a  partner  in 
a  first-rate  drn^-^ist's  business.  And  you  have  the  sweetest 
grandchildren!  You  are  the  head  of  four  flourishino;  fam- 
ilies.— Oscar,  leave  us ;  go  and  walk  round  the  garden,  and  do 
not  touch  the  flowers." 

"Why,  he  is  eighteen  !"  exclaimed  Uncle  Cardot,  smiling 
at  this  injunction,  "as  though  Oscar  was  a  child!" 

"Alas !  indeed  he  is,  my  dear  Monsieur  Cardot ;  and  after 
bringing  him  up  to  that  age  neither  crooked  nor  band}^,  sound 
in  mind  and  body,  after  sacrificing  everything  to  give  him 
an  education,  it  -would  be  hard  indeed  not  to  see  him  start  in 
the  way  to  fortune." 

"Well,  Monsieur  Moreau,  who  got  you  his  half-scholarship 
at  the  College  Henri  IV.,  will  start  him  in  the  right  road," 
said  Uncle  Cardot,  hiding  his  hypocrisy  under  an  affectation 
of  bluntness. 

"Monsieur  Moreau  may  die,"  said  she.  "Besides,  he  has 
quarreled  beyond  remed}^  with  Monsieur  le  Comte  de  Serizy, 
his  patron." 

"The  decue  he  has !  Listen,  madame,  I  see  what  you  are 
coming  to " 

"Jvo,  monsieur,"  said  Oscar's  mother,  cutting  the  old  man 
short ;  while  he,  out  of  respect  for  a  "lady  fair,"  controlled  the 
impulse  of  annoyance  at  being  inteniipted.  "Alas !  you  can 
know  nothing  of  the  anguish  of  a  mother  who  for  seven  years 
has  been  obliged  to  take  six  hundred  francs  a  year  out  of  her 
husband's  salary  of  eighteen  hundred.  Y'es,  monsieur,  that  is 
our  Avhole  income.  So  what  can  I  do  for  my  Oscar !  Mon- 
sieur Clapart  so  intensely  hates  the  poor  boy,  that  I  really 
cannot  keep  him  at  home.  What  can  a  poor  woman  do  under 
such  circumstances  but  come  to  consult  the  only  relative  her 
boy  has  under  heaven?" 

"You  did  quite  right,"  replied  Monsieur  Cardot,  "you  never 
said  anything  of  all  this  before " 

"Indeed,  monsieur,"  replied  Madame  Clapart  with  pride, 
"you  are  the  last  person  to  whom  T  would  confess  the  depth 
©f  my  p/^verty.     It  is  all  my  ^wn  fault;  I  married  a  man 


A  STAliT  IN  LIFE  259 

whose  incapacity  is  beyond  belief.  Oh !  I  am  a  most  miserable 
woman." 

"Listen,  madame/'  said  the  little  old  man  gravely.  "Do 
not  cry.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  much  it  pains  me  to  see  a  fair 
lady  in  tears.  After  all,  your  boy's  name  is  Husson-  and  if 
the  dear  departed  were  alive,  she  would  do  something  for  the 
sake  of  her  father's  and  brother's  name " 

"She  truly  loved  her  brother  !"  cried  Oscar's  mother. 

'^ut  all  my  fortune  is  divided  among  my  children,  who 
have  nothing  further  to  expect  from  me,"  the  old  man  went  on. 
"I  divided  the  two  million  francs  I  had  among  them ;  I  wished 
to  see  them  happy  in  my  lifetime.  I  kept  nothing  for  myself 
but  an  annuity,  and  at  my  time  of  life  a  man  clings  to  his 
habits. — Do  you  know  what  you  must  do  with  this  young- 
ster ?"  said  he,  calling  back  Oscar,  and  taking  him  by  the  arm. 
"Put  him  to  study  law,  I  will  pay  for  his  matriculation  and 
preliminary  fees.  Place  him  with  an  attorney ;  let  him  learn 
all  the  tricks  of  the  trade;  if  he  does  well,  and  gets  on  and 
likes  the  work,  and  if  I  am  still  alive,  each  of  my  children  will, 
when  the  time  comes,  lend  him  a  quarter  of  the  sum  necessary 
to  purchase  a  connection ;  I  will  stand  surety  for  him.  From 
now  till  then  you  have  only  to  feed  and  clothe  him;  he  will 
know  some  hard  times,  no  doubt,  but  he  will  learn  what  life 
is.  .  Why,  why !  I  set  out  from  Lyons  with  two  double  louis 
given  me  by  my  grandmother ;  I  came  to  Paris  on  foot — and 
here  I  am !  Short  commons  are  good  for  the  health. — Young 
man,  with  discretion,  honesty,  and  hard  work  success  is  cer- 
tain. It  is  a  great  pleasure  to  make  your  own  fortune;  and 
when  a  man  has  kept  his  teeth,  he  eats  what  he  likes  in  his  old 
age,  singing  La  Mere  Godichon  every  now  and  then,  as  I  do. 
— Mark  my  words :  Honesty,  hard  work,  and  discretion." 

"You  hear,  Oscar,"  said  his  mother.  "Your  uncle  has  put 
in  four  words  the  sum-total  of  all  my  teaching,  and  you  ought 
to  stamp  the  last  on  your  mind  in  letters  of  fire." 

"Oh,  it  is  there !"  replied  Oscar. 

"Well,  then,  thank  your  uncle ;  do  you  not  understand  that 
he  is  providing:  for  you  in  the  future?  You  may  be  an  at- 
torney in  Paris." 


260  A   START  IN  LIFE 

"He  does  not  appreciate  the  splenrlor  of  his  destiny,"  said 
the  old  man,  seeing  Oscar's  bewildered  lace.  "He  has  but  just 
left  school. — Listen  to  me :  I  am  not  given  to  wasting  words," 
his  uncle  went  on.  "TJoniember  that  at  your  age  honesty  is 
only  secured  by  resisting  temptations,  and  in  a  great  city  like 
Paris  you  meet  them  at  every  turn.  Live  in  a  garret  under 
your  mother's  roof;  go  straight  to  your  lecture,  and  from  that 
to  your  office ;  work  away  morning,  noon,  and  night,  and  study 
at  home;  be  a  second  clerk  by  the  time  you  are  two-and-twenty, 
and  a  head-clerk  at  four-and-twenty.  Get  learning,  and  you 
are  a  made  man.  And  then  if  you  should  not  like  that  line  of 
work,  you  might  go  into  my  son's  office  as  a  notar}^  and  succeed 
him. — So  work,  patience,  honesty,  and  discretion — these  are 
your  watchwords." 

"And  God  grant  you  may  live  another  thirty  years  to  see 
your  fifth  child  realize  all  our  expectations !"  cried  Madame 
Clapart,  taking  the  old  man's  hand  and  pressing  it  with  a 
dignity  worthy  of  her  young  days. 

"Come,  breakfast,"  said  the  kind  old  man,  leading  Oscar 
in  by  the  ear. 

During  the  meal  Uncle  Cardot  watched  his  nephew  on  the 
sly,  and  soon  discovered  that  he  knew  nothing  of  life. 

"Send  him  to  see  me  now  and  then,"  said  he,  as  he  took 
leave  of  her,  with  a  nod  to  indicate  Oscar.  "I  will  lick  him 
into  shape." 

This  visit  soothed  the  poor  woman's  worst  grief,  for  she 
had  not  looked  for  such  a  happy  result.  For  a  fortnight  she 
took  Oscar  out  walking,  watched  over  him  almost  tyran- 
nically, and  thus  time  went  on  till  the  end  of  October. 

One  morning  Oscar  saw  the  terrible  steward  walk  in  to  find 
the  wretched  party  in  the  Rue  de  la  Cerisaie  breakfasting  off 
a  salad  of  herring  and  lettuce,  with  a  cup  of  milk  to  wash  it 
down. 

"We  have  settled  in  Paris,  but  we  do  not  live  as  wc  did  at 
Presles,"  said  Moreau,  who  intended  thus  to  make  Madame 
Clapart  aware  of  the  change  in  their  circumstances,  brought 


A  START  IN  LIFE  261 

about  by  Oscar's  misdemeanor.  "But  I  shall  not  often  be  in 
town.  I  have  gone  into  partnership  with  old  Leger  and  old 
Margueron  of  Beaumont.  We  are  land  agents,  and  we  began 
by  buying  the  estate  of  Persan.  I  am  the  head  of  the  firm, 
which  has  got  together  a  million  of  francs,  for  I  have  bor- 
rowed on  my  property.  When  I  find  an  opening,  Pere  Leger 
and  I  go  into  the  matter,  and  my  partners  each  take  a  quar- 
ter and  I  half  of  the  profits,  for  I  have  all  the  trouble ;  I  shall 
always  be  on  the  road. 

"My  wife  lives  in  Paris  very  quietly,  in  the  Faubourg  du 
Eoule.  When  we  have  fairly  started  in  business,  and  shall 
only  be  risking  the  interest  on  our  money,  if  we  are  satisfied 
with  Oscar,  we  may  perhaps  give  him  work." 

"Well,  after  all,  my  friend,  my  unlucky  boy's  blunder  will 
no  doubt  turn  out  to  be  the  cause  of  your  making  a  fine  for- 
tune, for  you  really  were  wasting  your  talents  and  energy  at 
Presles."  Madame  Clapart  then  told  the  story  of  her  visit 
to  Uncle  Cardot,  to  show  Moreau  that  she  and  her  son  might 
be  no  further  expense  to  them. 

"The  old  man  is  quite  right,"  said  the  ex-steward.  "Oscar 
must  be  kept  to  his  work  with  a  hand  of  iron,  and  he  will  no 
doubt  make  a  notary  or  an  attorney.  But  we  must  not 
wander  from  the  line  traced  out  for  him. — Ah!  I  know  the 
man  you  want.  The  custom  of  an  estate  agent  is  valuable.  I 
have  been  told  of  an  attorney  who  has  bought  a  practice  with- 
out any  connection.  He  is  a  young  man;  but  as  stiff  as  an 
iron  bar,  a  tremendous  worker,  a  perfect  horse  for  energy  and 
go;  his  name  is  Desroches.  I  will  offer  him  all  our  business 
on  condition  of  his  taking  Oscar  in  hand.  I  will  offer  him  a 
premium  of  nine  hundred  francs,  of  which  I  will  pay  three 
hundred ;  thus  your  son  will  cost  you  only  six  hundred,  and  I 
will  recommend  him  strongly  to  his  master.  If  the  boy  is 
ever  to  become  a  man,  it  will  be  under  that  iron  rule,  for  he 
will  come  out  a  notary,  a  pleader,  or  an  attorney." 

"Come,  Oscar,  thank  Monsieur  Moreau  for  his  kindness; 
you  stand  there  like  a  mummy.  It  is  not  every  youth  who 
blunders  that  is  lucky  enough  to  find  friends  to  take  an  in- 
terest in  him  af  ler  being  injured  by  him — — " 


262  A  START  IN  I.IFE 

"The  best  way  to  make  matters  up  witb  ino,"  said  Moreau, 
taking  Oscar's  hand,  "is  to  work  steadily  and  behave  welL" 

Ten  days  after  this  Oscar  was  introduced  by  Monsieur 
Moreau  to  Maitre  Desrochcs,  attorney,  hitely  established  in  the 
Eue  de  Bethisy,  in  spacious  rooms  at  the  end  of  a  narrow 
court,  at  a  relatively  low  rent.  Desroches,  a  young  man  of 
six-and-twenty,  the  son  of  poor  parents,  austerely  brought  up 
by  an  excessively  severe  father,  had  himself  known  what  it  was 
to  be  in  Oscar's  position ;  he  therefore  took  an  interest  in  him, 
but  only  in  the  way  of  which  he  was  himself  capable,  with  all 
the  hardness  of  his  character.  The  manner  of  this  tall,  lean 
young  lawyer,  with  a  dull  complexion,  and  his  hair  cut  short 
all  over  his  head,  sharp  in  his  speech,  keen-eyed,  and  gloomy 
though  hasty,  terrified  poor  Oscar. 

"We  work  day  and  night  here,"  said  the  lawyer  from  the 
depths  of  his  chair,  and  from  behind  a  long  table,  on  which 
papers  were  piled  in  alps.  "Monsieur  iloreau,  we  will  not  kill 
him,  but  he  will  have  to  go  our  pace. — Monsieur  Godeschal !" 
he  called  out. 

Although  it  was  Sunday,  the  head-clerk  appeared  with  a  pen 
in  his  hand. 

"Monsieur  Godeschal,  this  is  the  articled  pupil  of  whom  I 
spoke,  and  in  whom  Monsieur  Moreau  takes  the  greatest  in- 
terest ;  he  will  dine  with  us,  and  sleep  in  the  little  attic  next 
to  your  room.  You  must  allow  him  exactly  time  enough  to 
get  to  the  law-schools  and  back,  so  that  he  has  not  five  minutes 
to  lose;  see  that  he  learns  the  Code,  and  docs  well  at  lecture; 
that  is  to  say,  give  him  law  books  to  read  up  when  he  has  done 
his  school  work.  In  short,  he  is  to  be  under  your  immediate 
direction,  and  I  will  keep  an  eye  on  him.  "We  want  to  turn 
him  out  what  you  are  yourself — a  capital  head-clerk  by  the 
time  he  is  ready  to  be  sworn  in  as  an  attorney. — Gq  with 
Godeschal,  my  little  friend ;  he  will  show  you  your  room,  and 
you  can  move  into  it." 

'TTou  see  Godeschal  ?"  Desroches  went  on,  addressing 
Moreau.  "He  is  a  youngster  without  a  sou,  like  myself;  he 
is  Mariette's  brother,  and  she  is  saving  for  him,  so  that  he  may 


A  START  IN  LIFE  268 

buy  a  connection  ten  years  hence. — All  my  clerks  are  young- 
sters, who  have  nothing  to  dej)end  on  but  their  ten  fingers  to 
make  their  fortune.  And  my  five  clerks  and  I  work  like  any 
dozen  of  other  men.  In  ten  years  I  shall  have  the  finest  prac- 
tice in  Paris.  We  take  a  passionate  interest  here  in  our  bus- 
iness and  our  clients,  and  that  is  beginning  to  be  known.  I 
got  Godeschal  from  my  greater  brother  in  law,  Derville ;  with 
him  he  was  second  clerk,  and  only  for  a  fortnight ;  but  we  had 
made  friends  in  that  huge  office. 

"I  give  Godeschal  a  thousand  francs  a  year,  with  board 
and  lodging.  The  fellow  is  worth  it  to  me;  he  is  indefati- 
gable !  I  like  that  boy !  He  managed  to  live  on  six  hundred 
francs  a  year,  as  I  did  when  I  was  a  cleric  What  I  absolutely 
insist  on  is  stainless  honesty,  and  the  man  who  can  practice 
it  in  poverty  is  a  man.  The  slightest  failing  on  that  score, 
and  a  clerk  of  mine  goes !" 

"Come,  the  boy  is  in  a  good  school,"  said  Moreau. 

For  two  whole  years  Oscar  lived  in  the  Eue  de  Bethisy,  in 
a  den  of  the  law ;  for  if  ever  this  old-fashioned  term  could  be 
applied  to  a  lawyer's  office,  it  was  to  this  of  Desroches.  Under 
this  minute  and  strict  supervision,  he  was  kept  so  rigidly  to 
hours  and  to  work,  that  his  life  in  the  heart  of  Paris  was 
like  that  of  a  monk. 

At  five  in  the  morning,  in  all  weathers,  Godeschal  woke. 
He  went  down  to  the  office  with  Oscar,  to  save  a  fire,  and  they 
always  found  the  "chief"  up  and  at  work.  Oscar  did  the 
errands  and  prepared  liis  school-work — studies  on  an  enor- 
mous scale.  Godeschal,  and  often  the  chief  himself,  showed 
their  pupil  what  authors  to  compare,  and  the  difficulties  to  be 
met.  Oscar  never  was  allowed  to  pass  from  one  chapter  of 
the  Code  to  the  next  till  he  had  thoroughly  mastered  it,  and 
had  satisfied  both  Desroches  and  Godeschal,  who  put  him 
through  preliminary  examinations,  far  longer  and  harden 
than  those  of  the  law  schools. 

On  his  return  from  the  schools,  where  he  did  not  spend 
much  time,  he  resumed  his  seat  in  the  office  and  worked  again ; 
sometimes  he  went  into  the  Courts,  and  he  was  at  the  bidding 


204  A  START  IN  LIFE 

of  the  merciless  Oodesclial  till  dinner-time.  Dinner,  which 
he  shared  witli  his  masters,  consisted  of  a  large  dish  oi  meat, 
a  dish  of  vcgetahlcs,  and  a  salad ;  for  dessert  there  was  a  bit 
of  Gruyere  cheese.  After  dinner,  Godeschal  and  Oscar  went 
back  to  the  office,  and  worked  there  till  the  evening. 

Once  a  month  Oscar  went  to  breakfast  with  his  Uncle 
Cardot,  and  he  spent  the  Sundays  with  his  mother.  Moreau 
from  time  to  time,  if  he  came  to  the  office  on  business,  would 
take  the  boy  to  dine  at  the  Palais-Royal,  and  treat  him  to  the 
play.  Oscar  had  been  so  thoroughly  snubbed  by  Godeschal 
and  Desroches  on  the  subject  of  his  craving  after  fashion,  that 
he  had.  ceased  to  think  about  dress. 

"A  good  clerk,"  -said  Godeschal,  "should,  have  two  black 
coats — one  old  and  one  new — black  trousers,  black  stockings 
and  shoes.  Boots  cost  too  much.  You  may  have  boots  when 
you  are  an  attorney.  A  clerk  ought  not  to  spend  more  than 
seven  hundred  francs  in  all.  He  should  wear  good,  strong 
shirts  of  stout  linen. — Oh,  when  you  start  from  zero  to  make 
a  fortune,  you  must  know  how  to  limit  yourself  to  what  is 
strictly  needful.  Look  at  Monsieur  Desroches !  lie  did 
as  we  are  doing,  and  you  see  he  has  succeeded." 

Godeschal  practised  what  he  preached.  Professing  the 
strictest  principles  of  honor,  reticence,  and  honesty,  he  acted 
on  them  without  any  display,  as  simply  as  he  walked  and 
breathed.  It  was  the  natural  working  of  his  soul,  as  walking 
and  breathing  are  the  working  of  certain  organs. 

Eighteen  months  after  Oscar's  arrival,  the  second  clerk 
had  made,  for  the  second  time,  a  small  mistake  in  the  ac- 
counts of  his  little  cash-box.  Godeschal  addressed  him  in  the 
presence  of  all  the  clerks: 

"My  dear  Gaudet,  leave  on  3'our  own  account,  tluit  it  may 
not  be  said  that  the  chief  turned  you  out.  You  are  either 
inaccurate  or  careless,  and  neither  of  those  faults  is  of  any 
use  here.  The  chief  shall  not  know,  and  that  is  the  best  I  can 
do  for  an  old  fellow-clerk." 

Thus,  at  the  age  of  twenty,  Oscar  was  third  clerk  in 
Maitre  Desroches'  office.     Though  he  earned  no  salary  yet, 


A  START  IN  LIFE  265 

he  was  fed  and  lodged,  for  he  did  the  work  of  a  second  clerk. 
Desroches  employed  two  managing  clerks,  and  the  second 
clerk  was  overdone  with  work.  By  the  time  he  had  got 
through  his  second  year  at  the  schools,  Oscar,  who  knew  more 
than  many  a  man  who  has  taken  out  his  license,  did  the  work 
of  the  Courts  very  intelligently,  and  occasionally  pleaded  in 
chambers.     In  fact,  Desroches  and  Godeschal  were  satisfied. 

Still,  though  he  had  become  almost  sensible,  he  betrayed 
a  love  of  pleasure  and  a  desire  to  shine,  which  were  only  sub- 
dued by  the  stern  discipline  and  incessant  toil  of  the  life  he 
led.  The  estate  agent,  satisfied  with  the  boy's  progress,  then 
relaxed  his  strictness;  and  when,  in  the  month  of  July  1825, 
Oscar  passed  his  final  examination,  Moreau  gave  him  enough 
money  to  buy  some  good  clothes.  Madame  Clapart,  very 
happy  and  proud  of  her  son,  prepared  a  magnificent  outfit  for 
the  qualified  attorney,  the  second  clerk,  as  he  was  soon  to  be. 
In  poor  families  a  gift  always  takes  the  form  of  something 
useful. 

When  the  Courts  re-opened  in  the  month  of  jSTovember, 
Oscar  took  the  second  clerk's  room  and  his  place,  with  a  salary 
of  eight  hundred  francs,  board  and  lodging.  And  Uncle 
Cardot,  who  came  privately  to  make  inquiries  about  his 
nephew  of  Desroches,  promised  Madame  Clapart  that  he 
would  put  Oscar  in  a  position  to  buy  a  connection  if  he  went 
on  as  he  had  begun. 

In  spite  of  such  seeming  wisdom,  Oscar  Husson  was  torn 
by  many  yearnings  in  the  bottom  of  his  soul.  Sometimes  he 
felt  as  if  he  must  fly  from  a  life  so  entirely  opposed  to  his 
taste  and  character;  a  galley  slave,  he  thought,  was  happier 
than  he.  Galled  by  his  iron  collar,  he  was  sometimes  tempted 
to  run  away  when  he  compared  himself  with  some  well- 
dressed  youth  he  met  in  the  street.  Now  and  then  an  impulse 
of  folly  with  regard  to  women  would  surge  up  in  him ;  and  his 
resignation  was  only  a  part  of  his  disgust  of  life.  Kept  steady 
by  Godeschal's  example,  he  was  dragged  rather  than  led  by 
his  will  to  follow  so  thorny  a  path. 

Godeschal,  who  watched  Oscar,  made  it  his  rule  not  to  put 
his  ward  in  the  way  of  temptation.     The  boy  had  usuallv  no 


26«  A  START  IN  LIFE 

money,  or  so  little  thnt  lie  could  not  run  into  excesses.  During 
the  last  year  the  worthy  Godeschal  had  live  or  six  times  taken 
Oscar  out  for  some  "lark,"  paying  the  cost,  for  he  perceived 
that  the  cord  round  this  tethered  kid's  neck  must  be  loosened ; 
and  these  excesses,  as  the  austere  head-clerk  termed  them, 
helped  Oscar  to  endure  life.  lie  found  little  to  amuse  him 
at  his  uncle's  house,  and  still  less  at  his  mother's,  for  she  lived 
even  more  frugally  than  Desroches. 

Moreau  could  not,  like  Oodeschal,  make  himself  familiar 
with  Oscar,  and  it  is  probable  that  this  true  protector  made 
Grodeschal  his  deputy  in  initiating  the  poor  boy  into  the  many 
mysteries  of  life.  Oscar,  thus  learning  discretion,  could  at 
last  appreciate  the  enormity  of  the  blunder  he  had  committed 
during  his  ill-starred  journey  in  the  coiicou;  still,  as  the 
greater  part  of  his  fancies  were  so  far  suppressed,  the  follies 
of  youth  might  yet  lead  him  astray.  However,  as  by  degrees 
he  acquired  knowledge  of  the  world  and  its  ways,  his  reason 
developed;  and  so  long  as  Godeschal  did  not  lose  sight  of  him, 
Moreau  hoped  to  train  Madame  Clapart's  son  to  a  good  end. 

"How  is  he  going  on  ?"  the  estate  agent  asked  on  his  return 
from  a  journey  which  had  kept  him  away  from  Paris  for  some 
months. 

"Still  much  too  vain,"  replied  Godeschal.  "You  give  him 
good  clothes  and  fine  linen,  he  wears  shirt-frills  like  a  stock- 
broker, and  my  gentleman  goes  walking  in  the  Tuileries  on 
Sundays  in  search  of  adventures.  What  can  I  say?  He  is 
young. — He  teases  me  to  introduce  him  to  my  sister,  in  whose 
house  he  would  meet  a  famous  crew ! — actresses,  dancers, 
dandies,  men  who  are  eating  themselves  out  of  house  and 
home. — He  is  not  cut  out  for  an  attorney,  I  fear.  Still,  he 
does  not  speak  badly ;  he  might  become  a  pleader.  He  could 
argue  a  case  from  a  well-prepared  brief." 

In  November  1825,  when  Oscar  Husson  was  made  second 
clerk,  and  was  preparing  his  thesis  for  taking  out  his  license, 
a  new  fourth  clerk  came  to  Desroches'  office  to  fill  up  the  gap 
made  by  Oscar's  promotion. 

This  fourth  clerk,  whose  name  was  Frederic  Marest,  was 


A  START  IN  LIFE  267 

intended  for  the  higher  walks  of  the  law,  and  was,  now  ending 
his  third  year  at  the  schools.  From  information  received  by 
the  inquiring  minds  of  the  office,  he  was  a  handsome  fellow  of 
three-and-twenty,  who  had  inherited  about  twelve  thousand 
francs  a  year  at  the  death  of  a  bachelor  uncle,  and  the  son  of 
a  Madame  Marest,  the  widow  of  a  rich  timber  merchant.  The 
future  judge,  filled  with  the  laudable  desire  to  know  his  busi- 
ness in  its  minutest  details,  placed  himself  under  Desroches, 
intending  to  study  procedure,  so  as  to  be  fit  to  take  the  place 
of  a  managing  clerk  in  two  years'  time.  His  purpose  was 
to  go  through  his  first  stages  as  a  pleader  in  Paris,  so  as  to  be 
fully  prepared  for  an  appointment,  which,  as  a  young  man. 
of  wealth,  he  would  certainly  get.  To  see  himself  a  23ublic 
prosecutor,  at  the  age  of  thirty,  was  the  height  of  his  am- 
bition. 

Though  Frederic  Marest  was  the  first  cousin  of  Georges 
Marest,  the  practical  joker  of  the  journey  to  Presles,  as 
young  Husson  knew  this  youth  only  by  his  first  name,  as 
Georges,  the  name  of  Frederic  Marest  had  no  suggestions  for 
him. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  Godeschal  at  breakfast,  addressing  all 
his  underlings,  "I  have  to  announce  the  advent  of  a  new 
student  in  law ;  and  as  he  is  very  rich,  we  shall,  I  hope,  make 
him  pay  his  footing  handsomely." 

"Bring  out  the  Book,"  cried  Oscar  to  the  youngest  clerk, 
"and  let  us  be  serious,  pray." 

The  boy  clambered  like  a  squirrel  along  the  pigeon-holes 
to  reach  a  volume  lying  on  the  top  shelf,  so  as  to  collect  all 
the  dust. 

"It  is  finely  colored !"  said  the  lad,  holding  it  up. 

We  must  now  explain  the  perennial  pleasantry  which  at 
that  time  gave  rise  to  the  existence  of  such  a  book  in  almost 
every  lawyer's  office.  An  old  saying  of  the  eighteenth  century 
— "Clerks  only  breakfast,  farmers  generally  dine,  and  lords 
sup" — is  still  true,  as  regards  the  faculty  of  law,  of  every  man 
who  has  spent  two  or  three  years  studying  procedure  under  an 
attorney,  or  the  technicalities  of  a  notary's  business 
under  some  master  of  that  branch.     In  the  life  of  a  lawver's 


208  A  START  IN  LIFE 

clerk  work  is  so  unremitting,  that  pleasure  is  enjoyed  all  the 
more  keenly  for  its  rarity,  and  a  practical  joke  especially 
is  relished  with  rapture.  This,  indeed,  is  what  explains  up 
to  a  certain  point  Georges  Marest's  behavior  in  Picrrotin's 
chaise.  The  gloomiest  of  law-clerks  is  always  a  prey  to  the 
craving  for  farcical  buffoonery.  The  instinct  with  which  a 
practical  joke  or  an  occasion  for  fooling  is  jumped  at  and 
utilized  among  law-clerks  is  marvelous  to  behold,  and  is 
.found  in  no  other  class  but  among  artists.  The  studio  and 
the  lawyer's  office  are,  in  this  respect,  better  than  the  stage. 

Desroches,  having  started  in  an  office  without  a  connection, 
had,  as  it  were,  founded  a  new  dynasty.  This  "Restoration'' 
had  interrupted  the  traditions  of  the  office  with  regard  to 
the  footing  of  the  newcomer.  Desroches,  indeed,  settling  in 
quarters  where  stamped  paper  had  never  yet  been  seen,  had 
put  in  new  tables,  and  clean  new  file-boxes  of  white  mill-board 
edged  with  blue.  His  staff  consisted  of  clerks  who  had  come 
from  other  offices  with  no  connection  between  them,  and 
thrown  together  by  surprise  as  it  were. 

But  Godeschal,  who  had  learned  his  fence  under  Derville, 
was  not  the  man  to  allow  the  precious  tradition  of  the  Bien- 
venue  to  be  lost.  The  Bienvenue,  or  welcome,  is  the  breakfast 
which  every  new  pupil  must  give  to  the  "old  boys"  of  the 
office  to  which  he  is  articled.  Now,  just  at  the  time  when 
Oscar  joined  the  office,  in  the  first  six  months  of  Desroches' 
career,  one  winter  afternoon  when  work  was  got  through 
earlier  than  usual,  and  the  clerks  were  warming  themselves 
before  going  home,  Godeschal  hit  upon  the  notion  of  con- 
cocting a  sham  register  of  the  fasti  and  High  Festivals  of  the 
Minions  of  the  Law,  a  relic  of  great  antiquity,  saved  from  the 
storms  of  the  Revolution,  and  handed  down  from  the  office  of 
the  great  Bordin,  Attorney  to  the  Chatelet,  and  the  immediate 
predecessor  of  Sauvagnest,  the  attorne}'  from  whom  Desroches 
had  taken  the  office.  The  first  thing  was  to  find  in  some  station- 
er's old  stock  a  ledger  with  paper  bearing  an  eighteenth  cen- 
tury watermark,  and  properly  bound  in  parchment,  in  which 
to  enter  the  decrees  of  the  Council.  Having  discovered  such 
a  volume,  it  was  tossed  in  the  dust,  in  the  ash-pan,  in  the 


A  START  IN  LIFE  269 

fireplace,  in  the  kitchen;  it  was  even  left  in  what  the  clerks 
called  the  consulting-room;  and  it  had  acquired  a  tint  of 
mildew  that  would  have  enchanted  a  book-worm,  the  cracks 
of  primeval  antiquity,  and  corners  so  worn  that  the  mice 
might  have  nibbled  them  off.  The  edges  were  rubbed  with 
infinite  skill.  The  book  being  thus  perfected,  here  are  a  few 
passages  which  will  explain  to  the  dullest  the  uses  to  which 
Desroches'  clerks  devoted  it,  the  first  sixty  pages  being  filled 
with  sham  reports  of  cases. 

"In  the  name  of  the  Father  and  of  the  Son  and  of  the  Holy 
Ghost.     So  be  it. 

"Whereas,  on  this  day  the  Festival  of  our  Lady  Saint 
Genevieve,  patron  saint  of  this  good  city  of  Paris,  under 
whose  protection  the  scribes  and  scriveners  of  this  office 
have  dwelt  since  the  year  of  our  Lord  1525,  we,  the  under- 
signed clerks  and  scriveners  of  this  office  of  Master  Jerosme- 
Sebastien  Bordin,  successor  here  to  the  deceased  Guerbet,  who 
in  his  lifetime  served  as  attorney  to  the  Chatelet,  have 
recognized  the  need  for  us  to  replace  the  register  and  archives 
of  installations  of  clerks  in  this  glorious  office,  being  our- 
selves distinguished  members  of  the  Faculty  of  the  Law, 
which  former  register  is  now  filled  with  the  roll  and  record 
of  our  well-beloved  predecessors,  and  we  have  besought  the 
keeper  of  the  Palace  archives  to  bestow  it  with  those  of  other 
offices,  and  we  have  all  attended  High  Mass  in  the  parish 
church  of  Saint-Severin  to  solemnize  the  opening  of  this  our 
new  register. 

"In  token  whereof,  we  here  sign  and  affix  our  names. 
"Malin,  Head-Clerk. 
"Grevin,  Second  Clerk. 
"Athanase  Feret,  Clerk. 
"Jacques  Huet,  Clerk. 
"Reginald  de  Saint-Jean-d'Angely,  Clerk, 
"Bedeau,  Office  Boy  and  Gutter-Jumper. 
"In  the  year  of  our  Lord  1787.  " 
"Having  attended  Mass,  we  went  in  a  body  to  la  Courtille, 


270  A  START  IN  LIFE 

and  had  a  great  breakfast,  which  lasted  until  seven  in  the 
morning." 

This  was  a  miracle  of  caligraphy.  An  expert  could  have 
sworn  that  the  writing  dated  from  the  eighteenth  century. 
Then  follow  twenty-seven  reports  in  full  of  "Welcome" 
breakfasts,  the  last  dating  from  the  fatal  year  1792. 

After  a  gap  of  fourteen  years,  the  register  re-opened  in 
1806  with  the  appointment  of  Bordin  to  be  attorney  to  the 
lower  Court  of  the  Seine.  And  this  was  the  record  of  the 
re-constitution  of  the  Kingdom  of  Basoche  (the  legal  pro- 
fession generally)  : — 

"God  in  His  clemency  has  granted  that  in  the  midst  of  the 
storms  which  have  devastated  France,  now  a  great  Empire, 
the  precious  archives  of  the  most  illustrious  office  of  Master 
Bordin  should  be  preserved.  And  we,  the  undersigned  clerfis 
of  the  most  honorable  and  most  worshipful  Master  Bordin, 
do  not  hesitate  to  ascribe  this  their  marvelous  escape,  when 
so  many  other  title-deeds,  charters,  and  letters  patent  have 
vanished,  to  the  protection  of  Saint  Genevieve,  the  patron 
saint  of  this  office,  as  likewise  to  the  reverence  paid  by  the 
last  of  the  attorneys  of  the  old  block  to  all  ancient  use  and 
custom.  And  whereas  we  know  not  what  share  to  ascribe  to 
the  Lady  Saint  Genevieve  and  what  to  Master  Bordin  in 
the  working  of  this  miracle,  we  have  resolved  to  go  to  the 
Church  of  Saint  fitienne-du-Mont,  there  to  attend  a  mass  to 
be  said  at  the  altar  of  that  saintly  shepherdess  who  sendeth 
us  so  many  lambs  to  fleece,  and  to  invite  our  chief  and 
master  to  breakfast,  in  the  hope  that  he  may  bear  the  charge 
thereof.     And  to  this  we  set  our  hand. 

"OiGNARD,  Head-Clerk. 

"PoiDEVix,  Second  Clerk. 

"Proust,  Clerk. 

"Brigxolet,  Clerk. 

"Derville,  Clerk. 

"ArciUSTEx  CoRET,  Office  Boy. 
"At  the  office,  this  10th  day  of  November  1806." 


A  START  IN  LIFE  271 

"At  three  o'clock  of  the  afternoon  of  the  next  day,  the  un- 
dersigned, heing  the  clerks  of  this  office,  record  their  gratitude 
to  their  very  worshipful  chief,  who  hath  feasted  them  at  the 
shop  of  one  Eolland,  a  cook  in  the  Eue  du  Hasard,  on  good 
wines  of  three  districts,  Bordeaux,  Champagne,  and  Burgundy, 
and  on  meats  of  good  savor,  from  four  o'clock  of  the  after- 
noon until  half-past  seven,  with  coffee,  liqueurs,  and  ices  ga- 
lore. Yet  hath  the  presence  of  the  worshipful  master  hindered 
us  from  the  singing  of  laudes  in  clerkly  modes,  nor  hath  anyi 
clerk  overstepped  the  limits  of  pleasing  levity,  inasmuch  as 
our  worthy,  worshipful,  and  generous  master  had  promised 
to  take  up  his  clerks  to  see  Talma  in  Britannicus  at  the 
Theatre  Frangais.  I^ong  may  he  flourish !  May  heaven 
shed  blessings  on  our  worshipful  master !  May  he  get  a  good 
price  for  this  his  glorious  office !  May  rich  clients  come  to 
his  heart's  desire !  May  his  bills  of  cost  be  paid  in  gold  on 
the  nail !  May  all  our  future  masters  be  like  him  !  May  i',ie 
be  ever  beloved  of  his  clerks,  even  when  he  is  no  more !" 

Next  came  thirty-three  reports  in  due  form  of  the  recep- 
tions of  clerks  who  had  joined  the  office,  distinguished  by  vari- 
ous handwritings  in  different  shades  of  ink,  distinct  phrase- 
ology, and  different  signatures,  and  containing  such  laudatory 
accounts  of  the  good  cheer  and  wines  as  seemed  to  prove  that 
the  reports  were  drawn  up  on  the  spot  and  inier  pocula. 

Finally,  in  the  month  of  June,  1822,  at  the  time  when 
Desroches  himself  had  taken  the  oaths,  there  was  this  page  of 
business-like  prose: — 

"I,  the  undersigned  Frangois  Claude  Marie  Godeschal, 
being  called  by  Maitre  Desroches  to  fulfil  the  difficult  duties 
of  head-clerk  in  an  office  where  there  are  as  yet  no  clients, 
having  heard  from  Maitre  Derville,  whose  chambers  I  have 
quitted,  of  the  existence  of  certain  famous  archives  of 
Basochian  banquets  and  Festivals  famous  in  the  Courts,  I 
besought  our  worshipful  master  to  require  them  of  his 
predecessor;  for  it  was  important  to  recover  that  document, 


272  A  START  IN  LIFE 

which  bore  the  date  A.  D.  1786,  and  was  the  sequel  to  the 
archives,  deposited  with  tliose  of  the  Courts  of  Law,  of  which 
the  existence  was  certified  by  MM.  Terrasse  and  Duclos, 
keepers  of  the  said  archives,  going  back  to  the  year  1525, 
and  giving  historical  details  of  the  highest  value  as  to  the 
manners  and  cookery  of  the  law-clerks  in  those  days. 

"This  having  been  granted,  the  office  was  put  in  possession 
as  at  this  time  of  these  evidences  of  the  worship  constantly 
paid  by  our  predecessors  to  the  Dive  Bouteille  and  to  good 
cheer. 

'^hereupon,  for  the  edification  of  those  that  come  after 
us,  and  to  continue  the  sequence  of  time  and  cup,  I  have 
invited  MM.  Doublet,  second  clerk;  Vassal,  third  clerk; 
Herisson  and  Grandeniain,  assistant  clerks;  Dumets,  office 
boy,  to  breakfast  on  Sunday  next  at  the  Chcval  Rouge  on  the 
Quai  Saint-Bernard,  where  we  will  celebrate  the  recovery  of 
this  volume  containing  the  charter  of  our  guzzlings. 

"On  this  day,  Sunday,  June  27th,  one  dozen  bottles  of 
various  wines  were  drunk  and  found  excellent.  Noteworthy, 
likewise,  were  two  melons,  pies  au  jus  romanum,  a  fillet  of 
beef,  and  a  toast  Agaricihus.  Mademoiselle  Mariette,  the 
illustrious  sister  of  the  head-clerk,  and  leading  lady  at  the 
Eoyal  Academy  of  Music  and  Dancing,  having  given  to  the 
clerks  of  this  office  stalls  for  that  evening's  performance,  she 
is  hereby  to  be  remembered  for  her  act  of  generosity.  And 
it  is  furthermore  resolved  that  the  said  clerks  shall  proceed  in 
a  body  to  return  thanks  to  that  noble  damsel,  and  to  assure 
her  that  on  the  occasion  of  her  first  lawsuit,  if  the  Devil  in- 
volves her  in  one,  she  shall  pay  no  more  than  the  bare  costs; 
to  which  all  set  their  hand. 

"Godeschal  was  proclaimed  the  pride  of  his  profession, 
and  the  best  of  good  fellows.  May  the  man  who  treats  others 
so  handsomely  soon  be  treating  for  a  business  of  his  own !" 

The  document  was  spattered  with  wine-spots  and  with  blots 
and  flourishes  like  fireworks. 

To  give  a  complete  idea  of  the  stamp  of  truth  impressed  on 


A  START  IN  LIFE  275$ 

ihis  great  work,  it  will  suflicc  to  extract  the  report  of  the 
reception  supposed  to  have  been  provided  by  Oscar : — 

"To-day,  Monday,  the  35th  day  of  November  1823,  after  a 
meeting  held  yesterday  in  the  Eue  de  la  Cerisaie,  hard  by  the 
Arsenal,  at  the  house  of  Madame  Clapart,  the  mother  of  the 
new  pupil,  by  name  Oscar  Husson,  we,  the  undersigned,  de- 
clare that  the  breakfast  far  surpassed  our  expectations.  It 
included  radishes  (red  and  black),  gherkins,  anchovies,  butter, 
and  olives  as  introductory  hors-d'  oeuvres;  of  a  noble  rich  broth 
that  bore  witness  to  a  mother's  care,  inasmuch  as  we  recog- 
nized in  it  a  delicious  flavor  of  fowl;  and  by  the  courtesy  of 
the  founder' of  the  feast  we  were,  in  fact,  informed  that  the 
trimmings  of  a  handsome  cold  dish  prepared  by  Madame 
Clapart  had  been  judiciously  added  to  the  stock  concocted 
at  home  with  such  care  as  is  known  only  in  private  kitchens. 

"Item,  the  aforementioned  cold  fowl,  surrounded  by  a  sea 
of  jelly,  the  work  of  the  aforenamed  mother. 

"Item,  an  ox-tongue,  aux  tomates,  on  which  we  proved  our- 
selves by  no  means  au-tomata. 

"Item,  a  stew  of  pigeons  of  such  flavor  as  led  us  to  believe 
that  angels  had  watched  over  the  pot. 

"Item,  a  dish  of  macaroni  flanked  by  cups  of  chocolate 
custard. 

"Item,  dessert,  consisting  of  eleven  dishes,  among  which, 
in  spite  of  the  intoxication  resulting  from  sixteen  bottles  of 
excellent  wine,  we  discerned  the  flavor  of  an  exquisitely  and 
superlatively  delicious  preserve  of  peaches. 

"The  wines  of  Eoussillon  and  of  the  Cote  du  Ehone  quite 
outdid  those  of  Champagne  and  Burgundy.  A  bottle  of 
Maraschino,  and  one  of  Kirsch,  finally,  and  in  spite  of  deli-' 
cious  coffee,  brought  us  to  such  a  pitch  of  oenological  rapture, 
that  one  of  us — namely.  Master  Herisson — found  himself  in 
the  Bois  de  Boulogne  when  he  believed  he  was  still  on  the 
Boulevard  du  Temple;  and  that  Jacquinaut,  the  gutter- 
jumper,  aged  fourteen,  spoke  to  citizens'  wives  of  fifty-seven, 


274  A  START  IN  LIFE 

taking  them  for  women  on  tlie  street;  to  which  all  set  their 
hand. 

"Now,  in  the  statutes  of  our  Order  there  is  a  law  strictly 
observed,  which  is,  that  those  who  aspire  to  the  benefits  and 
honors  of  the  profession  of  the  law  shall  restrict  the  mag- 
nificence of  their  'welcome'  to  the  due  proportion  with  their 
fortune,  inasmuch  as  it  is  a  matter  of  public  notoriety  that  no 
man  with  a  private  income  serves  Themis,  and  that  all  clerks 
'are  kept  short  of  cash  by  their  fond  parents;  wherefore,  it  is 
with  great  admiration  that  we  here  record  the  munificence  of 
Madame  Cla})art,  widow  after  her  first  marriage  of  Monsieur 
Husson,  the  new  licentiate's  father,  and  declare  that  it  was 
worthy  of  the  cheers  we  gave  her  at  the  dessert ;  to  which  all 
set  their  hand." 

Tliis  rigmarole  had  already  taken  in  three  newcomers,  and 
three  real  breakfasts  were  duly  recorded  in  this  imposing 
volume. 

On  the  day  when  a  neophyte  first  made  his  appearance  in 
the  office,  the  boy  always  laid  the  archives  on  the  desk  in  front 
of  his  seat,  and  the  clerks  chuckled  as  they  watched  the  face  of 
the  new  student  while  he  read  these  grotesque  passages. 
Each  in  turn,  inter  pocula,  had  been  initiated  into  the  secret 
of  this  practical  joke,  and  the  revelation,  as  may  be  supposed, 
filled  them  with  the  hope  of  mystifying  other  clerks  in  the 
future. 

So,  now,  my  readers  can  imagine  the  countenances  of  the 
four  clerks  and  the  boy.  when  Oscar,  now  in  his  turn  the  prac- 
tical joker,  uttered  the  words,  "Bring  out  the  Book." 

Ten  minutes  later,  a  handsome  young  man  came  in,  well 
grown  and  pleasant  looking,  asked  for  Monsieur  Desroches^ 
and  gave  his  name  at  once  to  Godeschal. 

"I  am  Frederic  Marest,"  said  he,  "and  have  come  to  fill  the 
place  of  third  clerk  here." 

"Monsieur  Husson,"  said  Godeschal,  "show  the  gentleman 
his  seat,  and  induct  him  into  our  ways  of  work." 


A  START  IN  LIFE  275 

Next  morning  the  new  clerk  found  the  Book  lying  on  hisi 
writing-pad ;  but  after  reading  the  first  pages,  he  only  laugh- 
ed, gave  no  invitation,  and  put  the  book  aside  on  his  desk. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  he,  as  he  was  leaving  at  five  o'clock,  "I 
have  a  cousin  who  is  managing-clerk  to  Maitre  Leopold  Han- 
nequin,  the  notary,  and  I  will  consult  him  as  to  what  I  should 
do  to  pay  my  footing." 

"This  looks  badly,"  cried  Godeschal.  "Our  sucking  magis- 
trate is  no  greenhorn." 

"Oh !  we  will  lead  him  a  life !"  said  Oscar. 

Next  afternoon,  at  about  two  o'clock,  Oscar  saw  a  visitor 
come  in,  and  recognized  in  Hannequin's  head-clerk  Georges 
Marest. 

"Why,  here  is  Ali  Pasha's  friend !"  said  he,  in  an  airy  tone. 

"What?  you  here,  my  lord,  the  Ambassador?"  retorted 
Georges,  remembering  Oscar. 

"Oh,  ho !  then  you  are  old  acquaintances  ?"  said  Godeschal 
to  Georges. 

"I  believe  you!  We  played  the  fool  in  company,"  said 
Georges,  "above  two  years  ago. — Yes,  I  left  Crottat  to  go  to 
Hannequin  in  consequence  of  that  very  affair." 

"What  affair?"  asked  Godeschal. 

"Oh,  a  mere  nothing,"  replied  Georges,  with  a  wink  at 
Oiscar.  "We  tried  to  make  game  of  a  Peer  of  France,  and  it 
v'as  he  who  made  us  look  foolish. — And  now,  I  hear  you  want 
ti)  draw  my  cousin." 

'^e  do  not  draw  anything,"  said  Oscar  with  dignity. 
"Here  is  our  charter."  And  he  held  out  the  famous  volume 
at  a  page  where  sentence  of  excommunication  was  recorded 
against  a  refractory  student,  who  had  been  fairly  driven  out 
of  the  oflfice  for  stinginess  in  1788. 

"Still,  I  seem  to  smell  game,"  said  Georges,  "for  here  is  the 
trail,"  and  he  pointed  to  the  farcical  archives.  "However, 
my  cousin  and  I  can  afford  it,  and  we  will  give  you  a  feast 
such  as  you  never  had,  and  which  will  stimulate  your  imagina- 
tion when  recording  it  here. — To-morrow,  Sunday,  at  the 
Rocher  de  Cancale,  two  o'clock.    And  I  will  take  you  after- 


tlta  A  START  IN  LIFI<J 

wards  to  spend  the  evening  with  ]\Iadanie  la  Marquise  de  las 
Florentinas  y  Cabirolos,  where  we  will  gamble,  and  you  will 
meet  the  elite  of  fashion.  And  so,  gentlemen  of  the  lower 
Court,"  he  went  on,  with  the  arrogance  of  a  notary,  "let  us 
have  your  best  behavior,  and  cari'j  your  wine  like  gentle- 
men of  the  Regency." 

"Hurrah!"  cried  the  clerks  like  one  man.  "Bravo! — Very 
well! — Vivat! — Long  live  the  Marests! " 

"Pontins,"  added  the  boy  (Les  Marais  Pontins — the  Pon- 
tine Marshes). 

"What  is  up  ?"  asked  Desroches,  coming  out  of  his  private 
room.  "Ah !  you  are  here,  Georges,"  said  he  to  the  visitor. 
"I  know  you,  you  are  leading  my  clerks  into  mischief."  And 
he  went  back  into  his  own  room,  calling  Oscar. 

"Here,"  said  he,  opening  his  cash-box,  "are  five  hundred 
francs;  go  to  the  Palace  of  Justice  and  get  the  judgment  in 
the  case  of  Vandenesse  vs.  Vandenesse  out  of  the  copying- 
clerk's  office;  it  must  be  sent  in  this  evening  if  possible.  I 
promised  Simon  a  refresher  of  twenty  francs;  wait  for  the 
copy  if  it  is  not  ready,  and  do  not  let  yourself  be  put  off. 
Derville  is  quite  capable  of  putting  a  drag  on  our  wheels  if 
it  will  serve  his  client. — Count  Felix  de  Vandenesse  is  more 
influential  than  his  brother  the  Ambassador,  our  client.  So 
keep  your  eyes  open,  and  if  the  least  difficulty  arises,  come  to 
me  at  once." 

Oscar  set  out,  determined  to  distinguish  himself  in  this 
little  skirmish,  the  first  job  that  had  come  to  him  since  his 
promotion. 

When  Georges  and  Oscar  were  both  gone,  Godeschal  tried 
to  pump  the  new  clerk  as  to  what  jest  might  lie,  as  he  felt 
sure,  under  the  name  of  the  Marquise  de  las  Florentinas  y 
Cabirolos;  but  Frederic  cari-ied  on  his  cousin's  joke  with  the 
coolness  and  gravity  of  a  judge,  and  by  his  replies  and  his 
manner  contrived  to  convey  to  all  the  clerks  that  the  Mar- 
quise de  las  Florentinas  was  the  widow  of  a  Spanish  grandee, 
whom  his  cousin  was  cour^.ing.  Born  in  Mexico,  and  the 
daughter  of  a  Creole,  this  wealthy  young  widow  was  remark- 


A  START  IN  LIFE  277 

able  for  the  free-and-easy  demeanor  characteristic  of  the 
women  of  the  Tropics. 

"  'She  likes  to  laugh,  She  likes  to  drink,  She  likes  to  sing 
as  we  do,' "  said  he,  quoting  a  famous  song  by  Beranger. 
"And  Georges,"  he  went  on,  "is  very  rich;  he  inherited  a  for- 
tune from  his  father,  who  was  a  widower,  and  who  left  him 
eighteen  thousand  francs  a  year,  which,  with  twelve  thousand 
left  to  each  of  us  by  an  uncle,  make  an  income  of  thirty  thou- 
sand francs.  And  he  hopes  to  be  Marquis  de  las  Florentinas, 
for  the  young  widow  bears  her  title  in  her  own  right,  and  can 
confer  it  on  her  husband." 

Though  the  clerks  remained  very  doubtful  as  to  the  Mar- 
quise, the  prospect  of  a  breakfast  at  the  Rocher  de  Cancale, 
and  of  a  fashionable  soiree,  filled  them  with  joy.  They  re- 
served their  opinion  as  to  the  Spanish  lady,  to  judge  her  with- 
out appeal  after  having  seen  her. 

The  Marquise  de  las  Florentinas  was,  in  fact,  neither  more 
nor  less  than  Mademoiselle  Agathe  Florentine  Cabirolle,  lead- 
ing danseuse  at  the  Gaite  Theatre,  at  whose  house  Uncle 
Cardot  "sang  La  Mere  Godiclion."  Within  a  year  of  the  very 
reparable  loss  of  the  late  Madame  Cardot,  the  fortunate 
merchant  met  Florentine  one  evening  coming  out  of  Coulon's 
dancing  school.  Dazzled  by  the  beauty  of  this  flower  of  the 
ballet — Florentine  was  then  but  thirteen — the  retired  shop- 
keeper followed  her  to  the  Rue  Pastourelle,  where  he  had  the 
satisfaction  of  learning  that  the  future  divinity  of  the  dance 
owed  her  existence  to  a  humble  doorkeeper.  The  mother  and 
daughter,  transplanted  within  a  fortnight  to  the  Rue  de 
Crussol,  there  found  themselves  in  modest  but  easy  circum- 
stances. So  it  was  to  tliis  "Patron  of  the  Arts,"  to  use  a 
time-honored  phrase,  that  the  stage  was  indebted  for  the 
budding  artist. 

The  generous  Maecenas  almost  turned  their  simple  brains 
by  giving  them  mahogany  furniture,  curtains,  carpets,  and  a 
well-fitted  kitchen;  he  enabled  them  to  keep  a  servant,  and 
allowed  them  two  hundred  and  fifty  francs  a  month.  Old 
Cardot,  with  his  ailes  de  pigeon,  to  them  seemed  an  angel. 


278  A  START  IN  LIFE 

and  was  treated  as  a  benefactor  should  be.  Tliis  was  the 
golden  age  of  the  old  man's  passion. 

For  three  years  the  singer  of  La  Mi-rc  Godichon  was  so  ju- 
dicious as  to  keep  Mademoiselle  Cabirolle  and  her  mother  in 
this  unpretentious  house,  close  to  the  theatre;  then,  for  love 
of  the  Terpsichorean  art,  he  placed  his  protegee  under  Vestris. 
And,  in  1820,  he  was  so  happy  as  to  see  Florentine  dance  her 
first  steps  in  the  ballet,  of  a  spectacular  melodrama  called 
"The  Euins  of  Babylon."    Florentine  was  now  sixteen. 

Soon  after  this  first  appearance  Uncle  Cardot  was  "an  old 
hunks,"  in  the  young  lady's  estimation;  however,  as  he  had 
tact  enough  to  understand  that  a  dancer  at  the  Gaite  Theatre 
must  keep  up  a  position,  and  raised  her  monthly  allowance 
to  five  hundred  francs  a  month,  if  he  was  no  longer  an  angel, 
he  was  at  least  a  friend  for  life,  a  second  father.  This  was 
the  age  of  silver. 

Between  1830  and  1823  Florentine  went  through  the  ex- 
perience which  must  come  to  every  ballet-dancer  of  nineteen 
or  twenty.  Her  friends  were  the  famous  opera-singers  Mari- 
ette  and  Tullia;  Florine,  and  poor  Coralie,  so  early  snatched 
from  Art,  Love,  and  Camusot.  And  as  little  uncle  Cardot 
himself  was  now  five  years  older,  he  had  drifted  into  the  in- 
dulgence of  that  half -fatherly  affection  which  old  men  feel 
for  the  young  talents  they  have  trained,  and  Avhose  successes 
are  theirs.  Besides,  how  and  where  should  a  man  of  sixty- 
eight  have  formed  such  another  attachment  as  this  with  Flor- 
entine, who  knew  his  ways,  and  at  whose  house  he  could  sing 
La  Mere  Godichon  with  his  friends?  So  the  little  man  found 
himself  under  a  half  matrimonial  yoke  of  irresistible  weight. 
This  was  the  age  of  brass. 

J  In  the  course  of  the  five  years  of  the  ages  of  gold  and  of 
silver,  Cardot  had  saved  ninety  thousand  francs.  The  old 
man  had  had  much  experience;  he  foresaw  that  by  the  time  he 
was  seventy  Florentine  would  be  of  age ;  she  would  probably 
come  out  on  the  Opera  stage,  and,  of  course,  expect  the 
luxury  and  splendor  of  a  leading  lady.  Only  a  few  days 
before  the  evening  now  to  be  described,  Cardot  had  spent 


A  START  IN  LIFE  ^9 

forty-five  thousand  francs  in  establishing  his  Florentine  in  a 
suitable  style,  and  had  taken  for  her  the  apartment  where  the 
now  dead  Coralie  had  been  the  joy  of  Camusot.  In  Paris, 
apartments  and  houses,  like  streets,  have  a  destiny. 

Glorying  in  magnificent  plate,  the  leading  lady  of  the  Gaite 
gave  handsome  dinners,  spent  three  hundred  francs  a  month 
on  dress,  never  went  out  but  in  a  private  fly,  and  kept  a  maid, 
a  cook,  apd  a  page.  What  she  aimed  at  indeed  was  a  command 
to  dance  at  the  opera.  The  Cocon  d'Or  laid  its  handsomest 
products  at  the  feet  of  its  former  master  to  please  Mademoi- 
selle Cabirolle,  known  as  Florentine,  just  as,  three  years  since, 
it  had  gratified  every  wish  of  Coralie's;  but  still  without  the 
knowledge  of  uncle  Cardot's  daughter,  for  the  father  and  his 
son-in-law  had  always  agreed  that  decorum  must  be  respected 
at  home.  Madame  Camusot  knew  nothing  of  her  husband's 
extravagance  or  her  father's  habits. 

Now,  after  being  the  master  for  seven  years,  Cardot  felt 
himself  in  tow  of  a  pilot  whose  power  of  caprice  was  unlim- 
ited. But  the  unhajjp}"  old  fellow  was  in  love.  Florentine 
alone  must  close  his  eyes,  and  he  meant  to  leave  her  a  hundred 
thousand  francs.    The  age  of  iron  had  begun. 

Georges  Marest,  handsome,  young,  and  rich,  with  thirty 
thousand  francs  a  year,  was  paying  court  to  Florentine.  Every 
dancer  is  by  way  of  loving  somebody  as  her  protector  loves  her, 
and  having  a  young  man  to  escort  her  out  walking  or  driving, 
and  arrange  excursions  into  the  country.  And,  however  dis- 
interested, the  affections  of  a  leading  lady  are  always  a  luxury, 
costing  the  happy  object  of  her  choice  some  xittle  trifle.  Din- 
ners at  the  best  restaurants,  boxes  at  the  play,  carriages  for 
driving  in  the  environs  of  Paris,  and  choice  wines  lavishly 
consumed — for  ballet-dancers  live  now  like  the  athletes  of 
antiquity. 

Georges,  in  short,  amused  himself  as  young  men  do  who 
suddenly  find  themselves  independent  of  paternal  discipline; 
and  his  uncle's  death,  almost  doubling  his  income,  enlarged 
his  ideas.  So  long  as  he  had  but  the  eighteen  thousand  francs 
a  year  left  him  by  his  parents  he  intended  to  be  a  notary ;  but. 


280  A  STAUT  IN  T.IFE 

as  his  cousin  remarked  to  Desrochcs'  clerks,  a  man  would  be  a 
noodle  to  start  in  a  ])rofession  with  as  much  money  as  others 
have  when  they  give  it  up.  So  the  retiring  law-clerk  was 
celebrating  his  first  day  of  freedom  by  this  breakfast,  which 
was  also  to  pay  his  cousin's  footing. 

Frederic,  more  prudent  than  Georges,  persisted  in  liis  legal 
career. 

As  a  fine  young  fellow  like  Georges  might  very  well  marry 
a  rich  Creole,  and  the  Marquis  de  las  Florentinas  y  Cabirolos 
might  very  well  in  the  decline  of  life — as  Frederic  hinted  to 
his  new  companions — have  preferred  to  marry  for  beauty 
rather  than  for  noble  birth,  the  clerks  of  Desroches'  office — all 
belonging  to  impecunious  families,  and  having  no  acquaint- 
ance with  the  fashionable  world — got  themselves  up  in  theii 
Sunday  clothes,  all  impatience  to  see  the  Mexican  Marquesa 
de  las  Florentinas  y  Cabirolos. 

'^Vhat  good  luck,"  said  Oscar  to  Godeschal  as  he  dressed 
in  the  morning,  "that  I  should  have  just  ordered  a  new  coat, 
waistcoat,  and  trousers,  and  a  pair  of  boots,  and  that  my 
precious  mother  should  have  given  me  a  new  outfit  on  my 
promotion  to  be  second  clerk.  I  have  six  fine  shirts  with  frills 
out  of  the  dozen  she  gave  me.  We  will  make  a  good  show ! 
Oh !  if  only  one  of  us  could  carry  off  the  Marquise  from  that 
Georges  Marest !" 

"A  pretty  thing  for  a  clerk  in  Maitre  Desroches'  office !" 
cried  Godeschal.  "Will  you  never  be  cured  of  your  vanity — 
brat !" 

"Oh,  monsieur,"  said  Madame  Clapart,  who  had  just  come 
in  to  bring  her  son  some  ties,  and  heard  the  managing  clerk's 
remarks,  "would  to  God  that  Oscar  would  follow  your  good 
advice !  It  is  what  I  am  always  saying  to  him,  'Imitate  Mon- 
sieur Godeschal,  take  his  advice,'  is  what  I  say." 

"He  is  getting  on,  madame,"  said  Godeschal,  *%ut  he  must 
not  often  be  so  clumsy  as  he  was  yesterday,  or  he  will  lose  his 
place  in  the  master's  good  graces.  ]\raitre  Desroches  cannot 
stand  a  man  who  is  beaten.  He  sent  your  son  on  his  first  er- 
rand yesterday,  to  fetch  away  the  copy  of  the  judgment  deliv- 


A  START  IN  LIFE  281 

ered  in  a  will  case,  which  two  hrothers,  men  of  high  rank,  are 
fighting  against  each  other,  and  Oscar  allowed  himself  to  be 
circumvented.  The  master  was  furious.  It  was  all  I  could 
do  to  set  things  straight  by  going  at  six  this  morning  to  find 
the  copying-clerk,  and  I  made  him  promise  to  let  me  have 
the  judgment  in  black  and  white  by  seven  to-morrow  morn- 
ing." 

"Oh,  Godeschal,"  cried  Oscar,  going  up  to  his  superior  and 
grasping  his  hand,  "you  are  a  true  friend !" 

"Yes,  monsieur,"  said  Madame  Clapart,  "it  is  a  happy  thing 
for  a  mother  to  feel  that  her  son  has  such  a  friend  as  you, 
and  you  may  believe  that  my  gratitude  will  end  only  with  my 
life.  Oscar,  beware  of  this  Georges  Marest;  he  has  already 
been  the  cause  of  your  first  misfortune  in  life." 

"How  was  that  ?"  asked  Godeschal. 

The  too-confiding  mother  briefly  told  the  head-clerk  the 
story  of  poor  Oscar's  adventure  in  Pierrotin's  chaise. 

"And  I  am  certain,"  added  Godeschal,  "that  the  humbug 
has  planned  some  trick  on  us  this  evening.  I  shall  not  go  to 
the  Marquise  de  las  Florentinas.  My  sister  needs  my  help  in 
drawing  up  a  fresh  engagement,  so  I  shall  leave  you  at  dessert. 
But  be  on  your  guard,  Oscar.  Perhaps  they  will  make  you 
gamble,  and  Desroches'  office  must  not  make  a  poor  mouth. 
Here,  you  can  stake  for  us  both ;  here  are  a  hundred  francs," 
said  the  kind  fellow,  giving  the  money  to  Oscar,  whose  purse 
had  been  drained  by  the  tailor  and  bootmaker.  "Be  careful ; 
do  not  dream  of  playing  beyond  the  hundred  francs;  do  not 
let  play  or  wine  go  to  your  head.  By  the  Mass  !  even  a  second 
clerk  has  a  position  to  respect;  he  must  not  play  on  promis- 
sory paper,  nor  overstep  a  due  limit  in  anything.  When  a 
man  is  second  clerk  he  must  remember  that  he  will  presently 
be  an  attorney.  So  not  to  drink,  not  to  play  high,  and  to  be 
moderate  in  all  things,  must  be  your  rule  of  conduct  Above 
all,  be  in  by  midnight,  for  you  must  be  at  the  Courts  by  seven 
to  fetch  away  the  copy  of  that  judgment.  There  is  no  law 
against  some  fun,  but  business  holds  tlie  first  place." 

"Do  you  hear,  Oscar?"  said  Madame  Clapart.     "And  see 


282  A  START  IN  LIFE 

how  indulgent  ]\ronsicur  Godeselial  is,  and  how  he  combines 
the  enjoynifuts  ol'  youth  with  the  demands  of  duty." 

Madame  Chipart,  seeing  the  tailor  and  bootmaker  waiting 
for  Oscar,  ronainod  behind  a  moment  witli  Godeschal  to  re- 
turn the  liundrt'd  francs  he  liad  just  lent  the  boy. 

"A  mother's  blessing  be  on  you,  monsieur,  and  on  all  you 
do,"  said  she. 

The  mother  liad  the  suj)reine  delight  of  seeing  her  boy  well 
dressed;  she  had  bought  him  a  gold  watch,  purchased  out  of 
her  savings,  as  a  reward  for  his  good  conduct. 

"You  are  on  the  list  for  the  conscription  next  week/'  said 
she,  "and  as  it  was  necessary  to  be  prepared  in  case  your 
number  should  be  drawn,  I  went  to  see  your  uncle  Cardot; 
he  is  delighted  at  3'our  being  so  high  up  at  the  age  of  twenty, 
and  at  your  success  in  the  examinations  at  the  law  schools, 
so  he  has  promised  to  find  the  money  for  a  substitute.  Do  you 
not  yourself  feel  some  satisfaction  in  finding  good  conduct  so 
well  rewarded?  If  you  still  have  to  put  up  with  some  priva- 
tions, think  of  the  joy  of  being  able  to  purchase  a  connection 
in  only  five  years !  And  remember  too,  dear  boy,  how  happy 
you  make  3^our  mother." 

Oscar's  face,  thinned  down  a  little  by  hard  study,  had  devel- 
oped into  a  countenance  to  which  habits  of  business  had  given 
a  look  of  gravity.  He  had  done  growing,  and  had  a  beard ; 
in  short,  from  a  boy  he  had  become  a  man.  His  mother  could 
not  but  admire  him,  and  she  kissed  him  fondly,  saying: 

"Yes,  enjoy  yourself,  but  remember  Monsieur  Godeschal's 
advice. — By  the  way,  I  was  forgetting :  here  is  a  present  from 
our  friend  Moreau — a  pocketbook." 

"The  very  thing  I  want,  for  the  chief  gave  me  five  hundred 
francs  to  pay  for  that  confounded  judgment  in  Vandenesse, 
and  I  did  not  want  to  leave  them  in  my  room." 

"Are  you  carrying  the  money  about  with  you?"  said  his 
mother  in  alarm.  "Supposing  you  were  to  lose  such  a  sum  of 
money !  Would  vou  not  do  better  to  leave  it  with  Monsieur 
Godeschal  ?" 

"Godeschal !"  cried  Oscar,  thinking  his  mother's  idea  ad- 
mirable. 


A  START  IN  LIFE  383 

But  Godeschal-,  like  all  clerks  on  Sunday,  had  his  day  to 
himself  from  ten  o'clock,  and  was  already'  gone. 

When  his  mother  had  left,  Oscar  went  out  to  lounge  on  the 
Boulevards  till  it  was  time  for  the  breakfast.  How  could  he 
help  airing  those  resplendent  clothes,  that  he  wore  with  such 
pride,  and  the  satisfaction  that  every  man  will  understand 
who  began  life  in  narrow  circumstances?  A  neat  double- 
breasted  blue  cashmere  waistcoat,  black  kerseymere  trousers 
made  with  pleats,  a  well-fitting  black  coat,  and  a  cane  with  a 
silver-gilt  knob,  bought  out  of  his  little  savings,  were  the  occa- 
sion of  very  natural  pleasure  to  the  poor  boy,  who  remembered 
the  clothes  he  had  worn  on  the  occasion  of  that  journey  to 
Presles,  and  the  effect  produced  on  his  mind  by  Georges. 

Oscar  looked  forward  to  a  day  of  perfect  bliss;  he  was  to 
see  the  world  of  fashion  for  the  first  time  that  evening !  And 
it  must  be  admitted  that  to  a  lawyer's  clerk  starved  of 
pleasure,  who  had  for  long  been  craving  for  a  debauch,  the 
sudden  play  of  the  senses  was  enough  to  obliterate  the  wise 
counsels  of  Godeschal  and  his  mother.  To  the  shame  of  the 
young  be  it  said,  good  advice  and  warnings  are  never  to  seek. 
Apart  from  the  morning's  lecture,  Oscar  felt  an  instinctive 
dislike  of  Georges;  he  was  humiliated  in  the  presence  of  a 
man  who  had  witnessed  the  scene  in  the  drawing-room  at 
Presles,  when  Moreau  had  dragged  him  to  the  Count's  feet. 

The  moral  sphere  has  its  laws ;  and  we  are  always  punished 
if  we  ignore  them.  One,  especially,  the  very  beasts  obey  in- 
variably and  without  delay.  It  is  that  which  bids  us  fly  from 
any  one  who  has  once  injured  us,  voluntarily  or  involuntarily, 
intentionally  or  no.  The  being  who  has  brought  woe  or  dis- 
comfort on  us  is  always  odious.  AVhatever  his  rank,  however 
near  be  the  ties  of  affection,  we  must  part.  He  is  the  emissary 
of  our  evil  genius.  Though  Christian  theory  is  opposed  to 
such  conduct,  obedience  to  this  inexorable  law  is  essentially 
social  and  preservative.  James  II.'s  daughter,  v;ho  sat  on  her 
father's  throne,  must  have  inflicted  more  than  one  wound  on 
him  before  her  usurpation-    Judas  must  certainly  have  given 


284  A  START  IN  LIFE 

Jesus  some  mortal  thrust  or  ever  he  hetrayod  Him,.  There  is 
within  us  a  second  sight,  a  mind's  eye,  which  foresees  dis- 
asters; and  the  repugnance  we  feel  to  the  fateful  heing  is  the 
consequence  of  this  proplietic  sense.  Though  religion  may 
command  us  to  resist  it,  distrust  remains  and  its  voice  should 
be  listened  to. 

Could  Oscar,  at  the  age  of  twenty,  be  so  prudent  ?  Alas ! 
When,  at  two  o'clock,  Oscar  went  into  the  room  of  the  Rocher 
de  Cancale,  where  he  found  three  guests  besides  his  fellow- 
clerks — to  wit,  an  old  dragoon  captain  named  Giroudeau; 
Finot,  a  journalist  who  might  enable  Florentine  to  get  an  en- 
gagement at  the  opera;  and  du  Bruel,  an  author  and  friend 
of  Tullia's,  one  of  Marictte's  rivals  at  the  opera, — the  junior 
felt  his  hostility  melt  away  under  the  first  hand-shaking,  the 
first  flow  of  talk  among  young  men,  as  the}''  sat  at  a  table 
handsomely  laid  for  twelve.  And  indeed  Georges  was  charm- 
ing to  Oscar. 

"You  are,"  said  he,  "following  a  diplomatic  career,  but  in 
private  concerns;  for  M^hat  is  the  difference  between  an  am- 
bassador and  an  attorney  ?  Merely  that  which  divides  a  nation 
from  an  individual.  Ambassadors  are  the  attorneys  of  a 
people. — If  I  can  ever  be  of  any  use  to  you,  depend  on  me." 

"My  word !  I  may  tell  you  now,"  said  Oscar,  "you  were  the 
cause  of  a  terrible  catastrophe  for  me." 

"Pooh !"  said  Georges,  after  listening  to  the  history  of  the 
lad's  tribulations.  "It  was  Monsieur  de  Serizy  who  behaved 
badly.  His  wife? — I  would  not  have  her  at  a  gift.  And  al- 
though the  Count  is  Minister  of  State  and  Peer  of  France, 
I  would  not  be  in  his  red  skin !  He  is  a  small-minded  man, 
and  I  can  afford  to  despise  him  now." 

Oscar  listened  with  pleasure  to  Georges'  ironies  on  the 
Comte  de  Serizy,  for  they  seemed  to  diminish  the  gravity  of 
his  own  fault,  and  he  threw  himself  into  the  young  man's 
spirit  as  he  predicted  that  overthrow  of  the  nobility  of  which 
the  citizen  cla.ss  then  had  visions,  to  be  realized  in  1830. 

They  sat  down  at  half-past  three;  dessert  was  not  on  the 
table  before  eight.     Each  course  of  dishes  lasted  two  hours. 


A  START  IN  LIFE  285 

None  but  law-clerks  can  eat  so  steadily !  Digestions  of  eigh- 
teen and  twenty  are  inexplicable  to  the  medical  faculty.  The 
wine  was  worthy  of  Borrel,  who  had  at  that  time  succeeded 
the  illustrious  Balaine,  the  creator  of  the  very  best  restaurant 
in  Paris — and  that  is  to  say  in  the  world — for  refined  and 
perfect  cookery. 

A  full  report  of  this  Belshazzar's  feast  was  drawn  up  at 
dessert,  beginning  with — Inter  pocula  aurea  restauranti,  qui 
vulgo  dicitur  Rupes  Cancali:  and  from  this  introduction  the 
rapturous  record  may  be  imagined  which  was  added  to  this 
Golden  Book  of  the  High  Festivals  of  the  Law. 

Godeschal  disappeared  after  signing  his  name,  leaving  the 
eleven  feasters,  prompted  by  the  old  captain  of  the  Imperial 
Dragoons,  to  devote  themselves  to  the  wine,  the  liqueurs,  and 
the  toasts,  over  a  dessert  of  pyramids  of  sweets  and  fruits  like 
the  pyramids  of  Thebes.  By  half-past  ten  the  'Taoy"  of  the 
office  was  in  a  state  which  necessitated  his  removal;  Georges 
packed  him  into  a  cab,  gave  the  driver  his  mother's  address, 
and  paid  his  fare.  Then  the  ten  remaining  guests,  as  drunk 
as  Pitt  and  Dundas,  talked  of  going  on  foot  by  the  Boulevards, 
the  night  being  very  tine,  as  far  as  the  residence  of  the  Mar- 
quise, where,  at  a  little  before  midnight,  they  would  find  a 
brilliant  company.  The  whole  party  longed  to  fill  their  lungs 
with  fresh  air;  but  excepting  Georges,  Giroudeau,  Finot,  and 
du  Bruel,  all  accustomed  to  Parisian  orgies,  no  one  could  walk. 
So  Georges  sent  for  three  open  carriages  from  a  job-master's 
stables,  and  took  the  whole  party  for  an  airing  on  the  outer 
Boulevards  for  an  hour,  from  Montmartre  to  the  Barriere  du 
Trone,  and  back  by  Bercy,  the  quays,  and  the  Boulevards  to 
the  Eue  de  Vendome. 

The  youngsters  i\'ere  still  floating  in  the  paradise  of  fancy 
to  which  intoxication  transports  boys,  when  their  entertainer 
led  them  into  Florentine's  rooms.  Here  sat  a  dazzling  as- 
sembly of  the  queens  of  the  stage,  who,  at  a  hint,  no  doubt, 
from  Frederic,  amused  themselves  by  aping  the  manners  of 
fine  ladies.  Ices  were  handed  round,  the  chandeliers  blazed 
with  wax  lights.     Tullia's  footman,  with  those  of  Madame 


286  A  START  IN  LIFE 

du  Val-Noble  and  Florino,  all  in  gaudy  livery,  carried  round 
sweetmeats  on  silver  trays.  The  hangings,  choice  products  of 
the  looms  of  Lyons,  and  looped  with  gold  cord,  dazzled  the 
eye.  The  flowers  on  the  carpet  suggested  a  garden-bed.  Costly 
toys  and  curiosities  glittered  on  all  sides.  At  first,  and  in  the 
obfuscated  state  to  which  Georges  had  brought  them,  the 
clerks,  and  Oscar  in  particular,  believed  in  the  genuineness  of 
the  Marquesa  de  las  Florentinas  y  Cabirolos. 

On  four  tables  set  out  for  play,  gold  pieces  lay  in  glittering 
heaps.  In  the  drawing-room  the  women  were  playing  at 
Vingt-et-un,  Nathan,  the  famous  author,  holding  the  deal. 
Thus,  after  being  carried  tipsy  and  half-asleep  along  the 
dimly-lighted  Boulevards,  the  clerks  woke  to  find  themselves 
in  Armida's  Palace.  Oscar,  on  being  introduced  by  Georges 
to  the  sham  Marquise,  stood  dumfounded,  not  recognizing  the 
ballet-dancer  from  the  Gaite  in  an  elegant  dress  cut  aristo- 
cratically low  at  the  neck  and  richly  trimmed  with  lace — a 
woman  looking  like  a  vignette  in  a  keepsake,  who  received 
them  with  an  air  and  manners  that  had  no  joarallel  in  the 
experience  or  the  imagination  of  a  youth  so  strictly  bred  as 
he  had  been.  After  he  had  admired  all  the  splendor  of  the 
rooms,  the  beautiful  women  who  displayed  themselves  and  who 
had  vied  with  each  other  in  dress  for  this  occasion — the  in- 
auguration of  all  this  magnificence, — Florentine  took  Oscar 
by  the  hand  and  led  him  to  the  table  where  Vingt-et-un  was 
going  on. 

"Come,  let  me  introduce  you  to  the  handsome  Marquise 
d'Anglade,  one  of  my  friends " 

And  she  took  the  hapless  Oscar  up  to  pretty  Fanny  Beaupre, 
who,  for  the  last  two  years,  had  filled  poor  Coralie's  place  in 
Camusot's  affections.  The  young  actress  had  just  achieved  a 
reputation  in  the  part  of  a  Marquise  in  a  melodrama  at  the 
Porte-Saint-Martin,  called  la  Famille  d'Anglade,  one  of  the 
successes  of  the  day. 

"Here,  my  dear,'"  said  Florentine,  "allow  me  to  introduce 
to  you  a  charming  youth  who  can  be  your  partner  in  the 
game." 


A  START  IN  LIFE  287 

^'Oh !  that  will  be  very  nice !"  replied  the  actress,  with  a 
fascinating  smile,  as  she  looked  Oscar  down  from  head  to  foot. 
"I  am  losing.    "We  will  go  shares,  if  you  like." 

"I  am  at  your  orders,  Madame  la  Marquise,"  said  Oscar, 
taking  a  seat  by  her  side. 

"You  shall  stake,"  said  she,  "and  I  will  play.  .  You  will 

bring  me  luck.     There,  that  is  my  last  hundred  francs " 

And  the  sham  Marquise  took  out  a  purse  of  which  the  rings 
were  studded  with  diamonds,  and  produced  five  gold  pieces. 
Oscar  brought  out  his  hundred  francs  in  five-franc  pieces, 
already  shamefaced  at  mingling  the  ignoble  silver  cart-wheels 
with  the  gold  coin.  In  ten  rounds  the  actress  had  lost  the 
two  hundred  francs. 

"Come !  this  is  stupid !"  she  exclaimed.  "I  will  take  the 
deal.    We  will  still  be  partners  ?"  she  asked  of  Oscar. 

Fanny  Beaupre  rose,  and  the  lad,  who,  like  her,  was  now 
the  centre  of  attention  to  the  whole  table,  dared  not  withdraw, 
saying  that  the  devil  alone  was  lodged  in  his  purse.  He  was 
speechless,  his  tongue  felt  heavy  and  stuck  to  his  palate. 

"Lend  me  five  hundred  francs,"  said  the  actress  to  the 
dancer. 

Florentine  brought  her  five  hundred  francs,  which  she  bor- 
rowed of  Georges,  who  had  just  won  at  eearte  eight  times  run- 
ning. 

"Nathan  has  won  twelve  hundred  francs,"  said  the  actress 
to  the  clerk.  "The  dealer  always  wins ;  do  not  let  us  be  made 
fools  of,"  she  whispered  in  his  ear. 

Every  man  of  feeling,  of  imagination,  of  spirit  will  under- 
stand that  poor  Oscar  could  not  help  opening  his  pocketbook 
and  taking  out  the  five  hundred  franc  note.  He  looked  at 
Nathan,  the  famous  writer,  who,  in  partnership  with  Florine, 
staked  high  against  the  dealer. 

"Now  then,  boy,  sweep  it  in !'"  cried  Fanny  Beaupre,  sign- 
ing to  Oscar  to  take  up  two  hundred  francs  that  Florine  and 
Nathan  had  lost. 

The  actress  did  not  spare  the  losers  her  banter  and  jests. 
She  enlivened  the  game  by  remarks  of  a  character  which  Oscar 


288  A  STAIIT  IN  LIFE 

thought  strango ;  hut  deliglit  stifled  these  reflections,  for  the 
first  two  deals  brought  in  winnings  of  two  thousand  francs. 
Oscar  longed  to  be  suddenly  taken  ill  and  to  fly,  leaving  his 
partner  to  her  fate,  but  honor  forbade  it.  Three  more  deals 
had  carried  away  the  profits.  Oscar  felt  the  cold  sweat  down 
his  spine;  he  was  quite  sobered  now.  The  last  two  rounds 
absorbed  a  thousand  francs  staked  by  the  partners ;  Oscar  felt 
thirsty,  and  drank  off  three  glasses  of  iced  punch. 

The  actress  led  him  into  an  adjoining  room,  talking  non- 
sense to  divert  him;  but  the  sense  of  his  error  so  comjiletely 
overwhelmed  Oscar,  to  whom  Desroches'  face  appeared  like  a 
vision  in  a  dream,  that  he  sank  on  to  a  splendid  ottoman  in  a 
dark  corner  and  hid  his  face  in  his  handkerchief.  He  was 
fairly  crying.  Florentine  detected  him  in  this  attitude;  too 
sincere  not  to  strike  an  actress;  she  hurried  up  to  Oscar, 
pulled  away  the  handkerchief,  and  seeing  his  tears  led  him 
into  a  boudoir. 

"What  is  the  matter,  m}^  boy  ?"  said  she. 

To  this  voice,  these  words,  this  tone,  Oscar,  recognizing  the 
motherliness  of  a  courtesan's  kindness,. replied: 

"I  have  lost  five  hundred  francs  that  my  master  gave  me  to 
pay  to-morrow  morning  for  a  judgment;  there  is  nothing  for 
it  but  to  throw  myself  into  the  river;  I  am  disgraced." 

"How  can  you  be  so  silly  ?"  cried  Florentine.  "Stay  where 
^tDU  are,  I  will  bring  you  a  thousand  francs.  Try  to  recover 
it  all,  but  only  risk  five  hundred  francs,  so  as  to  keep  your 
chief's  money.  Georges  plays  a  first-rate  game  at  ecarte;  bet 
on  him." 

Oscar,  in  his  dreadful  position,  accepted  the  offer  of  the 
mistress  of  the  house. 

"Ah !"  thought  he,  "none  but  a  Marquise  would  he  capable 
of  such  an  action.  Beautiful,  noble,  and  immensely  rich ! 
Georges  is  a  lucky  dog !" 

He  received  a  thousand  francs  in  gold  from  the  hands  of 
Florentine,  and  went  to  bet  on  the  man  who  had  played  him 
this  trick.  The  punters  were  pleased  at  the  arrival  of  a  new 
man,  for  they  all,  with  the  instinct  of  gamblers,  went  over  to 
the  side  of  Giroudeau,  the  old  Imperial  officer. 


A  START  IN  LIFE  289 

"Gentlemen,"  said  Georges,  "you  will  be  punished  for  your 
defection,  for  I  am  in  luck. — Come,  Oscar;  we  will  do  for 
them." 

But  Georges  and  his  backer  lost  five  games  running.  Hav- 
ing thrown  away  his  thousand  francs,  Oscar,  carried  away  by 
the  gambling  fever,  insisted  on  holding  the  cards.  As  a  result 
of  the  luck  that  often  favors  a  beginner,  he  won ;  but  Georges 
puzzled  him  with  advice;  he  told  him  how  to  discard,  and 
frequently  snatched  his  hand  from  him,  so  that  the  conflict 
of  two  wills,  two  minds,  spoiled  the  run  of  luck.  In  short, 
by  three  in  the  morning,  after  many  turns  of  fortune  and 
unhoped-for  recoveries,  still  drinking  punch,  Oscar  found 
himself  possessed  of  no  more  than  a  hundred  francs.  He  rose 
from  the  table,  his  brain  heavy  and  dizzy,  walked  a  few  steps, 
and  dropped  on  to  a  sofa  in  the  boudoir,  his  eyes  sealed  in 
leaden  slumbers. 

"Mariette,"  said  Fanny  Beaupre  to  Godeschal's  sister,  who 
had  come  in  at  about  two  in  the  morning,  "will  you  dine  here 
to-morrow?  My  Camusot  will  be  here  and  Pere  Cardot;  we 
will  make  them  mad." 

"How?"  cried  Florentine.  "My  old  man  has  not  sent  me 
word." 

"He  will  be  here  this  morning  to  tell  you  that  he  proposes 
to  sing  la  Mere  Godichon,"  replied  Fanny  Beaupre.  "He  must 
give  a  house-warming  too,  poor  man." 

"The  devil  take  him  and  his  orgies !"  exclaimed  Florentine. 
"He  and  his  son-in-law  are  worse  than  magistrates  or  man- 
agers.— After  all,  Mariette,  you  dine  well  here,"  she  went  on. 
"Cardot  orders  everything  from  Chevet.  Bring  your  Due  de 
Mauf rigneuse ;  we  will  have  fun,  and  make  them  dance." 

Oscar,  who  caught  the  names  of  Cardot  and  Camusot,  made 
an  effort  to  rouse  himself;  but  he  could  only  mutter  a  word 
or  two  which  were  not  heard,  and  fell  back  on  the  silk  cushion. 

"You  are  provided,  I  see,"  said  Fanny  Beaupre  to  Floren- 
tine, with  a  laugh. 

"Ah !  poor  boy,  he  is  drunk  with  punch  and  despair.    He 


290  A  STAKT  IN  LIFE 

has  lost  some  money  his  master  had  intrasted  to  him  for  some 
office  business.  lie  was  going  to  kill  himself,  so  I  lent  him  a 
thousand  fruucs,  of  which  those  rohbcrs  Finot  and  Giroudeau 
have  fleeced  him.    Poor  innocent !" 

"But  we  must  wake  him,"  said  Marietta.    "My  brother  will 
stand  no  nonsense,  nor  his  master  either." 
I     '^Vell,  wake  him  if  you  can,  and  get  him  away,"  said  Flor- 
entine, going  back  into  the  drawing-room  to  take  leave  of 
those  who  were  not  gone. 

The  party  then  took  to  dancing — character  dances,  as  they 
were  called;  and  at  daybreak  Florentine  went  to  bed  very 
tired,  having  forgotten  Oscar,  whom  nobody,  in  fact,  remem- 
bered, and  who  was  still  sleeping  soundly. 

At  about  eleven  o'clock  a  terrible  sound  awoke  the  lad,  who 
recognized  his  uncle  Cardot's  voice,  and  thought  he  might 
get  out  of  the  scrape  by  pretending  still  to  be  asleep,  so  he  hid 
his  face  in  the  handsome  yellow  velvet  cushions  in  which  he 
had  passed  the  night. 

"Really,  ray  little  Florentine,"  the  old  man  was  saying,  "it 
is  neither  good  nor  nice  of  you.  You  were  dancing  last  night 
in  the  Ruines,  and  then  spent  the  night  in  an  orgy.  Why,  it 
is  simply  destruction  to  your  freshness,  not  to  say  that  it  is 
really  ungrateful  of  you  to  inaugurate  this  splendid  apartment 
without  me,  with  strangers,  without  my  knowing  it — who 
knows  what  may  have  happened  !" 

^Tou  old  monster !"  cried  Florentine.  "Have  you  hot  a 
key  to  come  in  whenever  you  like?  We  danced  till  half-past 
five,  and  you  are  so  cruel  as  to  wake  me  at  eleven." 

"Half -past  eleven,  Titine,"  said  the  old  man  humbly.  "I 
got  up  early  to  order  a  dinner  from  Chevet  worthy  of  an  Arch- 
bishop.— How  they  have  spoilt  the  carpets!  Whom  had  you 
here?" 

"You  ought  to  make  no  complaints,  for  Fanny  Beaupre  told 
me  that  you  and  Camusot  were  coming,  so  I  have  asked  the 
others  to  meet  you — Tullia,  du  Bruel,  Mariette,  the  Due  de 
Maufrigneuse,  Florine,  and  Nathan.     And  you  will  have  the 


A  START  IN  LIFE 


201 


five  loveliest  women  who  ever  stood  behind  the  footlights,  and 
we  will  dance  you  a  pas  de  Zepkire." 

"It  is  killing  work  to  lead  such  a  life  V  cried  old  Cardot. 
"What  a  heap  of  broken  glasses,  what  destruction !  The  ante- 
room is  a  scene  of  horror  \" 

At  this  moment  the  amiable  old  man  stood  speechless  and 
jifascinated,  like  a  bird  under  the  gaze  of  a  reptile.  He  caught 
sight  of  the  outline  of  a  young  figure  clothed  in  black  cloth. 

"Heyday !  Mademoiselle  Cabirolle !"  said  he  at  last. 

^'^^ell,  what  now  ?"  said  she. 

The  girl's  eyes  followed  the  direction  of  Pere  Cardot's  gaze, 
and  when  she  saw  the  youth  still  there,  she  burst  into  a  fit  of 
crazy  laughter,  which  not  only  struck  the  old  man  dumb,  but 
compelled  Oscar  to  look  round.  Florentine  pulled  him  up  by 
the  arm,  and  half  choked  with  laughing  as  she  saw  the  hang- 
dog look  of  the  uncle  and  nephew. 

"You  here,  nephew?" 

"Oh  ho  !  He  is  your  nephew  ?"  cried  Florentine,  laughing 
more  than  ever.  "You  never  mentioned  this  nephew  of  yours. 
— Then  Mariette  did  not  take  you  home  ?"  said  she  to  Oscar, 
who  sat  petrified.    "What  is  to  become  of  the  poor  boy  ?" 

"Whatever  he  pleases !"  replied  old  Cardot  drily,  and  turn- 
ing to  the  door  to  go  away. 

"One  minute,  Papa  Cardot;  you  will  have  to  help  your 
nephew  out  of  the  mess  he  has  got  into  by  my  fault,  for  he  has 
gambled  away  his  master's  money,  five  hundred  francs,  besides 
a  thousand  francs  of  mine  which  I  lent  him  to  get  it  back 
again." 

"Wretched  boy,  have  you  lost  fifteen  hundred  francs  at  play 
— at  your  age  ?" 

"Oh !  uncle,  uncle !"  cried  the  unhappy  Oscar,  cast  by  these 
words  into  the  depths  of  horror  at  his  position.  He  fell  on 
his  knees  at  his  uncle's  feet  with  clasped  hands.  "It  is  twelve 
o'clock ;  I  am  lost,  disgraced.  Monsieur  Desroches  will  show  no 
mercy — there  was  an  important  business,  a  matter  on  which 
he  prides  himself — I  was  to  have  gone  this  morning  to  fetch 
away  the  copy  of  the  judgment  in  Vandenesse  vs.  Vandenesse ! 


292  A  START  IN  LIFE 

What" has  happened? — What  has  become  of  me? — Save  me  for 
my  father's  sake — for  my  aunt's. — Come  with  me  to  Maitre 
Desroches  and  explain ;  find  some  excuse " 

The  words  came  out  in  gasps,  Ijetween  sobs  and  tears  that 
might  have  softened  the  S})hinx  in  the  desert  of  Tjuxor. 

"Now,  old  skinflint,''  cried  the  dancer  in  tears,  "can  you 
leave  your  own  nephew  to  disgrace,  the  son  of  the  man  to 
whom  you  owe  your  fortune,  since  he  is  Oscar  Husson  ?  Save 
him,  I  say,  or  Titine  refuses  to  own  you  as  her  milord !" 

"But  how  came  he  here  ?"  asked  the  old  man. 

"What !  so  as  to  forget  the  hour  when  he  should  have  gone 
the  errand  he  speaks  of?  Don't  you  see,  he  got  drunk  and 
dropped  there,  dead-tired  and  sleepy?  Georges  and  his  cousin 
Frederic  treated  Desroches'  clerks  yesterday  at  the  Rocher  de 
Cancale." 

Cardot  looked  at  her,  still  doubtful. 

"Come,  now,  old  baboon,  if  it  were  anything  more  should  I 
not  have  hidden  him  more  effectually  ?"  cried  she. 

"Here,  then,  take  the  five  hundred  francs,  3'ou  scamp  !"  said 
Cardot  to  his  nephew.  "That  is  all  you  will  ever  have  of  me. 
Go  and  make  matters  up  with  your  master  if  you  can. — I  will 
repay  the  thousand  francs  mademoiselle  lent  you,  but  never 
let  me  hear  your  name  again." 

Oscar  fled,  not  wishing  to  hear  more;  but  when  he  was  in 
the  street  he  did  not  know  where  to  go. 

The  chance  which  ruins  men,  and  the  chance  that  serves 
them,  seemed  to  be  playing  against  each  other  on  equal  terms 
for  Oscar  that  dreadful  morning ;  but  he  was  destined  to  fail 
with  a  master  who,  when  he  made  up  his  mind,  never  changed 
it. 

Mariette,  on  returning  home,  horrified  at  what  might  befall 
her  brother's  charge,  wrote  a  line  to  Godeschal.  enclosing  a 
five-hundred-franc  note,  and  tolling  her  brother  of  Oscar's 
drunken  bout  and  disasters.  The  good  woman,  ere  she  went 
to  sleep,  instructed  her  maid  to  take  this  letter  to  Desroches' 
chambers  before  seven.    Godeschal,  on  his  part,  Avaking  at  six^ 


A  START  IN  LIFE  293 

found  no  Oscar.  He  at  once  guessed  what  had  happened.  He 
took  five  hundred  francs  out  of  his  savings  and  hurried  off  to 
the  copying-clerk  to  fetch  the  judgment,  so  as  to  lay  it  before 
Desroches  for  signature  in  his  office  at  eight.  Desroches,  who 
always  rose  at  four,  came  to  his  room  at  seven  o'clock.  Mari- 
ette's  maid,  not  finding  her  mistress'  brother  in  his  attic,  went 
down  to  the  office  and  was  there  met  by  Desroches,  to  whom 
she  very  naturally  gave  the  note. 

"Is  it  a  matter  of  business?"  asked  the  lawyer.  "I  am 
Maitre  Desroches." 

"You  can  see,  monsieur,"  said  the  woman. 

Desroches  opened  the  letter  and  read  it.  On  finding  the 
five-hundred-franc  note  he  went  back  into  his  own  room, 
furious  with  his  second  clerk.  Then  at  half-past  seven  he 
heard  Godeschal  dictating  a  report  on  the  judgment  to  another 
clerk,  and  a  few  minutes  later  Godeschal  came  into  the  room 
in  triumph. 

"Was  it  Oscar  Husson  who  went  to  Simon  tliis  morning?" 
asked  Desroches. 

"Yes,  monsieur,"  replied  Godeschal. 

"Who  gave  him  the  money?"  said  the  lawyer. 

"You,"  said  Godeschal,  "on  Saturday." 

"It  rains  five-hundred-franc  notes,  it  would  seem !"  cried 
Desroches.  "Look  here,  Godeschal,  you  are  a  good  fellow,  but 
that  little  wretch  Husson  does  not  deserve  your  generosity. 
I  hate  a  fool,  but  yet  more  I  hate  people  who  will  go  wrong  in 
spite  of  the  care  of  those  who  are  kind  to  them."  He  gave 
Godeschal  Mariette's  note  and  the  five  hundred  francs  she  had 
sent.  "Forgive  me  for  opening  it,  but  the  maid  said  it  was  a 
matter  of  business. — You  must  get  rid  of  Oscar." 

"What  trouble  I  have  had  with  that  poor  little  ne'er-do-' 
well !"  said  Godeschal.  "That  scoundrel  Georges  Marest  is  his 
evil  genius;  he  must  avoid  him  like  the  plague,  for  I  do  not 
know  what  might  happen  if  they  met  a  third  time." 

"How  is  that?"  asked  Desroches,  and  Godeschal  sketched 
the  story  of  the  practical  joking  on  the  journey  to  Presles. 

"To  be  sure,"  said  thf^  Ip.wyer,    "I  remember  Joseph  Bridau 


294  A   START  IN  LIFE 

told  nio  somethinjf  al)oiit  tliat  at  the  time.  It  was  to  that  meet- 
ing that  we  owi'd  the  Cointe  de  Serizy's  interest  in  Bridau's 
brother." 

At  this  moment  j\loreau  came  in,  for  this  suit  over  the 
Vandenesse  j)ro{)crty  was  an  important  affair  to  him.  The 
Marquis  wanted  to  sell  the  Vandenesse  estate  in  lots,  and  his 
brother  opposed  such  a  proceeding. 

Thus  the  land-agent  was  the  recipient  of  the  justifiable  com- 
plaints and  sinister  prophecies  fulminated  by  Desroches  as 
against  his  second  clerk  ;  and  the  unhappy  boy's  most  friendly 
protector  was  forced  to  the  conclusion  that  Oscar's  vanity  was 
incorrigible. 

"Make  a  pleader  of  him,"  said  Desroches;  "he  only  has  to 
pass  his  final ;  in  that  branch  of  the  law  his  faults  may  prove 
to  be  useful  qualities,  for  conceit  spurs  the  tongue  of  half  of 
our  advocates." 

As  it  happened,  Clapart  was  at  this  time  out  of  health,  and 
nursed  by  his  wife,  a  painful  and  thankless  task.  The  man 
worried  the  poor  soul,  who  had  hitherto  never  known  how 
odious  the  nagging  and  spiteful  taunts  can  be  in  which  a  half- 
imbecile  creature  gives  vent  to  his  irritation  when  poverty 
drives  him  into  a  sort  of  cunning  rage.  Delighted  to  have  a 
sharp  dagger  that  he  could  drive  home  to  her  motherly  heart, 
he  had  suspected  the  fears  for  the  future  which  were  sug- 
gested to  the  hapless  woman  by  Oscar's  conduct  and  faults. 
In  fact,  when  a  mother  has  received  such  a  blow  as  she  had  felt 
from  the  adventure  at  Presles  she  lives  in  perpetual  alarms; 
and  by  the  way  in  which  Madame  Clapart  cried  up  Oscar 
whenever  he  achieved  a  success,  Clapart  understood  all  her 
secret  fears  and  would  stir  them  up  on  the  slightest  pretext. 

"Well,  well,  Oscar  is  getting  on  better  than  I  expected  of 
him.  I  always  said  his  journey  to  Presles  was  only  a  blunder 
due  to  inexperience.  Where  is  the  young  man  who  never  made 
a  mistake  ?  Poor  boy,  he  is  heroic  in  his  endurance  of  the  pri- 
vations he  would  never  have  known  if  his  father  had  lived. 
God  grant  he  may  control  his  passions !"  and  so  on. 

So,  while  so  many  disasters  were  crowding  on  each  other  in 


A  START  IN  LIFE  295 

the  Rue  de  Vendome  and  the  Hue  de  Bcthisy,  Clapart,  sitting 
by  the  fire  wrapped  in  a  shabby  dressing-gown,  was  watching 
his  wife,  who  was  busy  cooking  over  the  bedroom  fire  some 
broth,  Clapart's  herb  tea,  and  her  own  breakfast. 

"Good  heavens !  I  wish  I  knew  how  things  fell  out  yester- 
day. Oscar  was  to  breakfast  at  the  Eocher  de  Cancale,  and 
spend  the  evening  with  some  Marquise " 

"Oh !  don't  be  in  a  hurry ;  sooner  or  later  murder  will  out," 
retorted  her  husband.  "Do  you  believe  in  the  Marquise  ?  Go 
on  ;  a  boy  who  has  his  five  senses  and  a  love  of  extravagances — 
as  Oscar  has,  after  all — can  find  Marquises  in  Spain  costing 
their  weight  in  gold !  He  will  come  home  some  day  loaded 
with  debt " 

"You  don't  know  how  to  be  cruel  enough,  and  to  drive  me 
to  despair!"  exclaimed  Madame  Clapart.  "You  complained 
that  my  son  ate  up  all  your  salary,  and  he  never  cost  you  a 
sou.  For  two  years  you  have  not  had  a  fault  to  find  with 
Oscar,  and  now  he  is  second  clerk,  his  uncle  and  Monsieur 
Moreau  provide  him  with  everything,  and  he  has  eight  hun- 
dred francs  a  year  of  his  own  earning.  If  we  have  bread  in 
our  old  age,  we  shall  owe  it  to  that  dear  boy.  You  really  are 
too  unjust." 

"You  consider  my  foresight  an  injustice?"  said  the  sick 
man  sourly. 

There  came  at  this  moment  a  sharp  ring  at  the  bell. 
Madame  Clapart  ran  to  open  the  door,  and  then  remained  in 
the  outer  room,  talking  to  Moreau,  who  had  come  himself  to 
soften  the  blow  that  the  news  of  Oscar's  levity  must  be  to  his 
poor  mother. 

"What !  He  lost  his  master's  money  ?"  cried  Madame  Cla- 
part in  tears. 

"Aha!  what  did  I  tell  you?"  said  Clapart,  who  appeared 
like  a  spectre  in  the  doorway  of  the  drawing-room,  to  which 
he  had  shuffled  across  under  the  prompting  of  curiosity. 

"But  what  is  to  be  done  with  him?"  said  his  wife,  whose 
distress  left  her  insensible  to  this  stab. 

'^ell,  if  he  bore  my  name,"  said  Moreau,  "I  should  calmly 


296  A  START  IN  LIFE 

allow  him  to  bp  drawn  for  the  conscription,  and  if  he  should 
bo  called  to  serve,  I  would  not  pay  for  a  substitute.  This  is 
the  second  time  that  sheer  vanity  has  brought  him  into  mis- 
chief. Well,  vanity  may  lead  him.  to  some  brilliant  action, 
which  will  win  him  promotion  as  a  soldier.  Six  years'  service 
will  at  any  rate  add  a  little  weight  to  his  feather-brain,  and  as 
he  has  only  his  final  examination  to  pass,  he  will  not  do  so 
badly  if  he  finds  himself  a  pleader  at  six-and-twenty,  if  he 
chooses  to  go  to  the  bar  after  paying  the  blood-tax,  as  they  say. 
This  time,  at  any  rate,  he  will  have  had  his  punishment,  he  will 
gain  experience  and  acquire  habits  of  subordination.  He  will 
have  served  his  apprenticeship  to  life  before  serving  it  in  the 
Law  Courts." 

"If  that  is  the  sentence  you  would  pronounce  on  a  son," 
said  Madame  Clapart,  "I  see  that  a  father's  heart  is  very  un- 
like a  mother's. — My  poor  Oscar — a  soldier ?" 

"Would  you  rather  see  him  jump  head  foremost  into  the 
Seine  after  doing  something  to  disgrace  himself?  He  can 
never  now  be  an  attorney;  do  you  think  he  is  fitted  yet  to  be 
an  advocate?  While  waiting  till  he  reaches  years  of  discre- 
tion, what  will  he  become  ?  A  thorough  scamp ;  military  dis- 
cipline will  at  any  rate  preserve  him  from  that." 

"Could  he  not  go  into  another  office?  His  uncle  Cardot 
would  certainly  pay  for  a  substitute — and  Oscar  will  dedi- 
cate his  thesis  to  him " 

The  clatter  of  a  cab,  in  which  was  piled  all  Oscar's  personal 
property,  announced  the  wretched  lad's  return,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  he  made  his  appearance. 

"So  here  you  are,  ]\Iaster  Joli-Cceur !"  cried  Clapart. 

Oscar  kissed  his  mother,  and  held  out  a  hand  to  Monsieur, 
Moreau,  which  that  gentleman  would  not  take.  Oscar 
answered  this  contempt  with  a  look  to  which  indignation  lent 
a  firmnese  new  to  the  bystanders. 

'Tiisten,  Monsieur  Clapart,"  said  the  boy,  so  suddenly 
grown  to  be  a  man ;  "you  worry  my  poor  mother  beyond  en- 
durance, and  you  have  a  right  to  do  so ;  she  is  your  wife — for 
her  sins.     But  it  is  different  with  me.     In  a  few  months  I 


A  START  IN  LIFE  291 

shall  be  of  age.  and  3^011  have  no  power  over  me  even  while  1 
am.  a  minor.  I  have  never  asked  you  for  anything.  Thanks 
to  this  gentleman,  I  have  never  cost  you  one  sou,  and  I  owe 
you  no  sort  of  gratitude;  so,  have  the  goodness  to  leave  me 
in  peace.'^ 

Clapart,  startled  by  this  apostrophe,  went  back  to  his  arm- 
chair by  the  fire.  The  reasoning  of  the  lawyer's  clerk  and  the 
suppressed  fury  of  a  young  man  of  twenty,  who  had  just  had 
a  sharp  lecture  from  his  friend  Godeschal,  had  reduced  the 
sick  man's  imbecility  to  silence,  once  and  for  all. 

"An  error  into  which  you  would  have  been  led  quite  as 
easily  as  I,  at  my  age,"  said  Oscar  to  Moreau,  "made  me  com- 
mit a  fault  which  Desroches  thinks  serious,  but  which  is  really 
trivial  enough;  I  am  far  more  vexed  with  myself  for  having 
taken  Florentine,  of  the  Gaite  theatre,  for  a  Marquise,  and 
actresses  for  women  of  rank,  than  for  having  lost  fifteen  hun- 
dred francs  at  a  little  orgy  where  everybody,  even  Godeschal, 
was  somewhat  screwed.  This  time,  at  any  rate,  I  have  hurt 
no  one  but  myself.  I  am  thoroughly  cured. — If  you  will  help 
me.  Monsieur  Moreau,  I  swear  to  you  that  in  the  course  of  the 
six  years  during  which  I  must  remain  a  clerk  before  I  can 
practice " 

"Stop  a  bit !"  said  Moreau.  "I  have  three  children ;  I  can 
make  no  promises." 

"Well,  well,"  said  Madame  Clapart,  with  a  reproachful  look 
at  Moreau,  "your  uncle  Cardot " 

"No  more  uncle  Cardot  for  me,"  replied  Oscar,  and  he  re- 
lated the  adventure  of  the  Eue  de  Vendome. 

Madame  Clapart,  feeling  her  knees  give  way  under  the 
weight  of  her  body,  dropped  on  one  of  the  dining-room  chairs 
as  if  a  thunderbolt  had  fallen. 

"Every  possible  misfortune  at  once !"  said  she,  and  fainted 
away. 

Moreau  lifted  the  poor  woman  in  his  arms,  and  carried  her 
to  her  bed.     Oscar  stood  motionless  and  speechless. 

"There  is  nothing  for  you  but  to  serve  as  a  soldier,"  said 
the  estate-agent,  coming  back  again.    "That  idiot  Clapart  wil? 


298  A  S^rART  IN  LIFE 

not  last  three  months  longer,  it  seems  to  me ;  yo\ir  mother  will 
not  have  a  sou  in  the  world;  ought  I  not  rather  to  kce]i  for  her 
the  little  money  I  can  spare?  This  was  what  I  could  not  say 
to  you  in  her  presence.  As  a  soldier,  you  will  earn  your  bread, 
and  you  may  meditate  on  what  life  is  to  the  penniless." 

"I  might  draw  a  lucky  number,"  said  Oscar. 

"And  if  you  do? — Your  mother  has  been  a  very  good 
mother  to  you.  She  gave  you  an  cdiication,  she  started  you  in 
a  good  way;  you  have  lost  it ;  what  could  you  do  now?  With- 
out money,  a  man  is  lielpless,  as  you  now  know,  and  you  are 
not  the  man  to  begin  all  over  again  by  pulling  off  your  coat 
and  putting  on  a  Avorkman's  or  artisan's  blouse.  And  then 
your  mother  worships  you. — Do  you  want  to  kill  her?  For 
she  would  die  of  seeing  you  fallen  so  low." 

Oscar  sat  down,  and  could  no  longer  control  his  tears,  which 
flowed  freely.  He  understood  now  a  form  of  appeal  Avhich 
had  been  perfectly  incomprehensible  at  the  time  of  his  first 
error. 

"Penniless  folks  ought  to  be  perfect !"  said  Moreau  to  him- 
self, not  appreciating  how  decpl}^  true  this  cruel  verdict  was. 

"My  fate  will  soon  be  decided,"  said  Oscar;  "the  numbers 
are  drawn  the  day  after  to-morrow.  Between  this  and  then 
I  will  come  to  some  decision." 

Moreau,  deeply  grieved  in  spite  of  his  austerity,  left  the 
family  in  the  Rue  de  la  Cerisaie  to  their  despair. 

Three  days  after  Oscar  drew  Number  27.  To  help  the  poor 
lad,  the  ex-steward  of  Presles  found  courage  enough  to  go  to 
the  Comte  de  Serizy  and  beg  his  interest  to  get  Oscar  into  the 
cavalry.  As  it  happened,  the  Count's  son,  having  come  out 
well  at  his  last  examination  on  leaving  the  ificole  Polytech- 
nique,  had  been  passed  by  favor,  with  the  rank  of  sub-lieu- 
tenant, into  the  cavalry  regiment  commanded  by  the  Due  de 
Maufrigneuse.  And  so,  in  the  midst  of  his  fall,  Oscar  had 
the  small  piece  of  luck  of  being  enlisted  in  this  fine  regiment 
at  the  Comte  de  Serizy's  recommendation,  with  the  promise 
of  promotion  to  be  quartermaster  in  a  year's  time. 


A  START  IN  LIFE  299 

Thus  chance  placed  the  lawyer's  clerk  under  the  command 
of  Monsieur  de  Serizy's  son. 

After  some  days  of  pining,  Madame  Clapart,  who  was 
deeply  stricken  by  all  these  misfortunes,  gave  herself  up  to 
the  remorse  which  is  apt  to  come  over  mothers  whose  conduct 
has  not  been  blameless,  and  who,  as  they  grow  old,  are  led  to 
repent.  She  thought  of  herself  as  one  accursed.  She  ascribed 
the  miseries  of  her  second  marriage  and  all  her  son's  ill-for- 
tune to  the  vengeance  of  God,  who  was  punishing  her  in  ex- 
piation of  the  sins  and  pleasures  of  her  youth.  This  idea 
soon  became  a  conviction.  The  poor  soul  went  to  confession, 
for  the  first  time  in  forty  years,  to  the  Vicar  of  the  Church  of 
Saint-Paul,  the  Abbe  Gaudron,  who  plunged  her  into  the  prac- 
tices of  religion. 

But  a  spirit  so  crushed  and  so  loving  as  Madame  Clapart's 
could  not  fail  to  become  simply  pious.  The  Aspasia  of  the 
Directory  yearned  to  atone  for  her  sins  that  she  might  bring 
the  blessing  of  God  down  on  the  head  of  her  beloved  Oscar, 
and  before  long  she  had  given  herself  up  to  the  most  earnest 
practices  of  devotion  and  works  of  piety.  She  believed  that 
she  had  earned  the  favor  of  Heaven  when  she  had  succeeded 
in  saving  Monsieur  Clapart,  who,  thanks  to  her  care,  lived  to 
torment  her ;  but  she  persisted  in  seeing  in  the  tyrann)^  of  this 
half-witted  old  man  the  trials  inflicted  by  Him  who  loves  while 
He  chastens  us. 

Oscar's  conduct  meanwhile  was  so  satisfactory  that  in  1830 
he  was  first  quartermaster  of  the  company  under  the  Vicomte 
de  Serizy,  equivalent  in  rank  to  a  sub-lieutenant  of  the  line, 
as  the  Due  de  Maufrigneuse's  regiment  was  attached  to  the 
King's  guards.  Oscar  Husson  was  now  five-and-twenty.  As 
the  regiments  of  Guards  were  always  quartered  in  Paris,  or 
within  thirty  leagues  of  the  capital,  he  could  see  his  mother 
from  time  to  time  and  confide  his  sorrows  to  her,  for  he  was 
clear-sighted  enough  to  perceive  that  he  could  never  rise  to 
be  an  officer.  At  that  time  cavalry  officers  were  almost  al- 
ways chosen  from  among  the  younger  sons  of  the  nobility, 


100  A  START  IN  LIFE 

and  men  without  the  disthiguisliing  de  got  on  but  slowly. 
Oscar's  whole  ambition  was  to  get  out  of  the  guards  and  enter 
some  cavalry  regiment  of  the  line  as  a  sub-lieutenant;  and  in 
the  month  of  February  1830  iladame  Clapart,  through  the 
interest  of  the  Abbe  Gaudron,  now  at  the  head  of  his  parish, 
gained  the  favor  of  the  Dauphiness,  which  secured  Oscar's 
promotion. 

Although  the  ambitious  young  soldier  professed  ardent 
'devotion  to  the  Bourbons,  he  was  at  heart  a  liberal.  In  the 
struggle,  in  1830,  he  took  the  side  of  the  people.  This  defec- 
tion, which  proved  to  be  important  by  reason  of  the  way  in 
which  it  acted,  drew  public  attention  to  Oscar  Husson.  In  the 
moment  of  triumph,  in  the  month  of  August,  Oscar,  promoted 
to  be  lieutenant,  received  the  Cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honor, 
and  succeeded  in  obtaining  the  post  of  aide-de-camp  to  la 
Fayette,  who  made  him  captain  in  1832.  Wlien  this  devotee 
to  "the  best  of  all  Eepublics"  was  deprived  of  his  command 
of  the  National  Guard,  Oscar  Husson,  whose  devotion  to  the 
new  royal  family  was  almost  fanaticism,  was  sent  as  major 
with  a  regiment  to  Africa  on  the  occasion  of  the  first  expedi- 
tion undertalvcn  by  the  Prince.  The  Yicomte  de  Serizy  was 
now  lieutenant-colonel  of  that  regiment.  At  the  fight  at  the 
Macta,  where  the  Arabs  remained  masters  of  the  field.  Mon- 
sieur de  Serizy  was  left  wounded  under  his  dead  horse.  Oscar 
addressed  his  company. 

"It  is  riding  to  our  death,"  said  he,  'T)ut  we  cannot  desert 
our  Colonel." 

He  was  the  first  to  charge  the  enemy,  and  his  men,  quite 
electrified,  followed.  The  Arabs,  in  the  shock  of  surprise  at 
this  furious  and  unexpected  attack,  allowed  Oscar  to  pick  up 
his  Colonel,  whom  he  took  on  his  horse  and  rode  off  at  a  pelt- 
ing gallop,  though  in  this  act,  carried  out  in  the  midst  of 
furious  fighting,  he  had  two  cuts  from  a  yataghan  on  the  left 
arm. 

Oscar's  raliant  conduct  was  rewarded  by  the  Cross  of  an 
Officer  of  the  Legion  of  Honor,  and  promotion  to  the  rank  of 
lieutenant-colonel.     He  nursed  the  Vicorate  de  .Serizy  with 


A  START  IN  LIFE  SOI 

devoted  affection;  the  Comtessc  de  Serizy  joined  her  son  and 
carried  him  to  Toulon,  where,  as  all  Ihe  world  knows,  he  died 
of  his  wounds.  Madame  de  Serizy  did  not  part  her  son  from 
the  man  who,  after  rescuing  him  from  the  Arabs,  had  cared 
for  him  with  such  unfailing  devotion. 

Oscar  himself  was  so  severely  wounded  that  the  surgeons 
called  in  by  the  Countess  to  attend  her  son  pronounced  ampu- 
tation necessary.  The  Count  forgave  Oscar  his  follies  on  the 
occasion  of  the  journey  to  Presles,  and  even  regarded  himself 
as  the  young  man's  debtor  when  he  had  buried  his  only  sur- 
viving son  in  the  chapel  of  the  Chateau  de  Serizy. 

A  long  time  after  the  battle  of  the  Macta,  an  old  lady 
dressed  in  black,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  a  man  of  thirty-four, 
at  once  recognizable  as  a  retired  othcer  by  the  loss  of  one  arm 
and  the  rosette  of  the  Legion  of  Honor  at  his  button-hole, 
was  to  be  seen  at  eight  o'clock  one  morning,  waiting  under  the 
gateway  of  the  Silver  Lion,  Rue  du  Faubourg  Saint-Denis, 
till  the  diligence  should  be  ready  to  start. 

Pierrotin,  the  manager  of  the  coach  services  of  the  Valley 
of  the  Oise,  passing  by  Saint-Leu-Taverny  and  I'Isle-Adam, 
as  far  as  Beaumont,  would  hardly  have  recognized  in  this 
bronzed  officer  that  little  Oscar  Husson  whom  he  had  once 
driven  to  Presles.  Madame  Clapart,  a  widow  at  last,  was  quite 
as  unrecognizable  as  her  son.  Clapart,  one  of  the  victims  of 
Fieschi's  machine,  had  done  his  wife  a  better  turn  by  the  man- 
ner of  his  death  than  he  had  ever  done  her  in  his  life.  Of 
course,  Clapart,  the  idler,  the  lounger,  had  taken  up  a  place 
on  his  Boulevard  to  see  his  legion  reviewed.  Thus  the  poor 
bigot  had  found  her  name  down  for  a  pension  of  fifteen  hun- 
dred francs  a  year  by  the  decree  which  indemnified  the  vic- 
tims of  this  infernal  machine. 

The  vehicle,  to  which  four  dappled  gray  horses  were  now 
being  harnessed — steeds  worthy  of  the  Messagcries  royales, — ■ 
was  in  four  divisions,  the  coupe,  the  interienr,  the  rotonde 
behind,  and  the  impen'ale  at  top.  It  was  identically  the  same 
as  the  diligeneesi called  GondoUs,  which,  in  our  day,  still  main- 


302  A  START  IN  LIFE 

tain  a  rivalry  on  tlio  Vorpaillcs  road  v/itli  two  lines  of  railway. 
Strong  and  light,  well  painted  and  clean,  lined  with  good  blue 
cloth,  furnished  with  blinds  of  arabesque  design  and  red 
morocco  cushions,  the  IJirondelle  de  I'Oise  could  carry  nine- 
teen travelers.  Pierrotin,  though  he  was  by  this  time  fifty- 
six,  was  little  changed.  He  still  wore  a  blouse  over  his 
black  coat,  and  still  smoked  his  short  pipe,  as  he  watched  two 
porters  in  stable-livery  piling  numerous  packages  on  the  roof 
of  his  coach. 

"Have  you  taken  seats?"  he  asked  of  Madame  Clapart  and 
Oscar,  looking  at  them  as  if  he  were  searching  his  memory 
for  some  association  of  ideas. 

"Yes,  two  inside  places,  name  of  Bellejambe,  my  servant," 
said  Oscar.  "He  was  to  take  them  when  he  left  the  house  last 
evening." 

"Oh,  then  monsieur  is  the  new  collector  at  Beaumont,"  said 
Pierrotin.  "You  are  going  down  to  take  the  place  of  Mon- 
sieur Margueron's  nephew  ?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Oscar,  pressing  his  mother's  arm  as  a  hint 
to  her  to  say  nathing.  For  now  he  in  his  turn  wished  to  re- 
main unknown  for  a  time. 

At  this  instant  Oscar  was  startled  by  recognizing  Georges* 
voice  calling  from  the  street : 

"Have  you  a  seat  left,  Pierrotin  ?" 

"It  strikes  me  that  you  might  say  ]\Ionsieur  Pierrotin  with- 
out breaking  your  jaw,"  said  the  coach-owner  angrily. 

But  for  the  tone  of  his  voice  Oscar  could  never  have  recog- 
nized the  practical  joker  who  had  twice  brought  him  such  ill- 
luck.  Georges,  almost  bald,  had  but  three  or  four  locks  of 
hair  left  above  his  ears,  and  carefully  combed  up  to  disguise 
his  bald  crown  as  far  as  possible.  A  development  of  fat  in  the 
wrong  place,  a  bulbous  stomach,  had  spoiled  the  elegant  figure 
of  the  once  handsome  young  man.  Almost  vulgar  in  shape 
and  mien,  Georges  showed  the  traces  of  disaster  in  love,  and  of 
a  life  of  constant  debauchery,  in  a  spotty  red  complexion,  and 
thickened,  vinous  features.  His  eyes  had  lost  the  sparkle  and 
eagerness  of  youth,  which  can  only  be  preserved  by  decorous 
and  studious  habits. 


A  START  IN  LIFE  303 

Georges^,  dressed  with  evident  indifference  to  his  appear- 
ance, wore  a  pair  of  trousers  with  straps,  but  shabby,  and  of  a 
style  that  demanded  patent  leather  boots;  the  boots  he  wore, 
thick  and  badly  polished,  were  at  least  three-quarters  of  a 
year  old,  which  is  in  Paris  as  much  as  three  years  anywhere 
else.  A  sha])by  waistcoat,  a  tie  elaborately  knotted,  though  it 
was  but  an  old  bandanna,  betrayed  the  covert  penury  to  which 
a  decayed  dandy  may  be  reduced.  To  crown  all,  at  this  early 
hour  of  the  day  Georges  wore  a  dress-coat  instead  of  a  morn- 
ing-coat, the  symptom  of  positive  poverty.  This  coat,  which 
must  have  danced  at  many  a  ball,  had  fallen,  like  its 
owner,  from  the  opulence  it  once  represented,  to  the  duties 
of  daily  scrub.  The  seams  of  the  black  cloth  showed  white 
ridges,  the  collar  was  greasy,  and  wear  had  pinked  out  the 
cuffs  into  a  dog's  tooth  edge.  Still,  Georges  was  bold  enough 
to  invite  attention  by  wearing  lemon-colored  gloves — rather 
dirty,  to  be  sure,  and  on  one  finger  the  outline  of  a  large  ring 
was  visible  in  black. 

Eound  his  tie,  of  which  the  ends  were  slipped  through  a 
pretentious  gold  ring,  twined  a  brown  silk  chain  in  imitation 
of  hair,  ending  no  doubt  in  a  watch.  His  hat,  though  stuck 
on  with  an  air,  showed  more  evidently  than  all  these  other 
symptoms  the  poverty  of  a  man  who  never  has  sixteen  francs 
to  spend  at  the  hatter's  when  he  lives  from  hand  to  mouth. 
Florentine's  ci-devant  lover  flourished  a  cane  with  a  chased 
handle,  silver-gilt,  but  horribly  dinted.  His  blue  trousers, 
tartan  waistcoat,  sky-blue  tie,  and  red-striped  cotton  shirt, 
bore  witness,  in  spite  of  so  much  squalor,  to  such  a  passion 
for  show  that  the  contrast  was  not  merely  laughable,  but  a 
lesson. 

"And  this  is  Georges?"  said  Oscar  to  himself.  "A  man  I 
left  in  possession  of  thirty  thousand  francs  a  year !" 

"Has  Monsieur  de  Pierrotin  still  a  vacant  seat  in  his 
coupe?"  asked  Georges  ironically. 

"No,  my  coupe  is  taken  by  a  peer  of  France,  Monsieur 
Moreau's  son-in-law.  Monsieur  le  Baron  de  Canalis,  with  his 
wife  and  his  mother-in-law.  I  have  only  a  seat  in  the  body 
of  the  coach." 


304  A  START  IN  T-IKE 

"Tho  deuce!  Tt  would  seem  that  under  every  form  of 
government  peers  of  France  travel  in  Picrrotin's  conveyances! 
I  will  take  the  seat  in  the  inU'ricur,"  said  Georges,  with  a 
reminiscence  of  the  journey  with  Monsieur  de  Serizy. 

He  turned  to  stare  at  Oscar  and  the  widow,  but  recognized 
neither  mother  nor  son.  Oscar  was  deeply  tanned  by  the 
African  sun;  he  had  a  very  thick  moustache  and  whiskers; 
his  hollow  cheeks  and  marked  features  were  in  harmony  with 
his  military  deportment.  The  officer's  rosette,  the  loss  of  an 
arm,  the  plain  dark  dress,  would  all  have  been  enough  to  mis- 
lead Georges'  memory,  if  indeed  he  remembered  his  former 
i/ictim.  As  to  Madame  Clapart,  whom  he  had  scarcely  seen 
on  the  former  occasion,  ten  years  spent  in  pious  exercises  of 
the  severest  kind  had  absolutely  transformed  her.  No  one 
could  have  imagined  that  this  sort  of  Gray  Sister  hid  one  of 
the  Aspasias  of  1797. 

A  huge  old  man,  plainly  but  very  comfortably  dressed,  in 
whom  Oscar  recognized  old  Leger,  came  up  slowly  and  heav- 
ily; he  nodded  familiarly  to  Pierrotin,  who  seemed  to  regard 
him  with  the  respect  due  in  all  countries  to  millionaires. 

"Heh !  why,  it  is  Pere  Leger !  more  ponderous  than  ever !" 
cried  Georges. 

'^Vhom  have  I  the  honor  of  addressing?"  asked  the  farmer 
very  drily. 

"What !  Don't  you  remember  Colonel  Georges,  Ali 
Pasha's  friend?  We  traveled  this  road  together,  once  upon 
a  time,  with  the  Comte  de  Serizy,  who  preserved  his  incog- 
nito." 

One  of  the  commonest  follies  of  persons  who  have  come 
down  in  the  world  is  insisting  on  recognizing  people,  and  on 
being  recognized. 

"You  are  very  much  changed,"  said  the  old  land-agent,  now 
worth  two  millions  of  francs. 

"Everything  changes,"  said  Georges.  'T^ook  at  the  Silver 
Lion  inn,  and  at  Picrrotin's  coach,  and  see  if  they  are  the  same 
as  they  were  fourteen  years  since." 

"Pierrotin  is  now  owner  of  all  the  coaches  that  serve  the 


A  START  IN  LIP^  805 

Oise  Valley,  and  has  very  good  vehicles/'  said  Monsieur  Leger. 
"He  is  a  citizen  now  of  Beaumont,  and  keeps  an  inn  there 
where  his  coaches  put  up;  he  has  a  wife  and  daughter  who 
know  their  business " 

An  old  man  of  about  seventy  came  out  of  the  inn  and  joined 
the  group  of  travelers  who  were  waiting  to  be  told  to  get  in. 

"Come  along,  Fapa  Reybert !"  said  Leger.  "We  have  no 
one  to  wait  for  now  but  your  great  man." 

"Here  he  is,"  said  the  land-steward  of  Presles,  turning  to 
Joseph  Bridau. 

Neither  Oscar  nor  Georges  would  have  recognized  the  fa- 
mous painter,  for  his  face  was  the  strangely  worn  countenance 
now  so  well  known,  and  his  manner  was  marked  by  the  con- 
fidence born  of  success.  His  black  overcoat  displayed  the 
ribbon  of  the  Legion  of  Honor.  His  dress,  which  was  careful 
in  all  points,  showed  that  he  was  on  his  way  to  some  country 
fete. 

At  this  moment  a  clerk  with  a  paper  in  his  hand  bustled  ouf 
of  an  office  constructed  at  one  end  of  the  old  kitchen  of  the 
Silver  Lion,  and  stood  in  front  of  the  still  unoccupied  coupe. 

"Monsieur  and  Madame  de  Canalis,  three  places  V  he  called 
out,  then  coming  to  the  inUrieur,  he  said,  "Monsieur  Belle- 
jambe,  two  places ;  Monsieur  Reybert,  three ;  monsieur — your 
name  ?"  added  he  to  Georges. 

"Georges  Marest,"  replied  the  fallen  hero  in  an  undertone. 

The  clerk  then  went  to  the  rotonde  (the  omnibus  at  the 
back  of  the  old  French  diligence),  round  which  stood  a  little 
crowds  of  nurses,  country  folks,  and  small  shopkeepers,  taking 
leave  of  each  other.  After  packing  the  six  travelers,  the  clerk 
called  the  names  of  four  youths  who  clambered  up  on  to  the 
seat  on  the  imperiale,  and  then  said,  "Right  behind !"  as  the 
signal  for  starting 

Pierrotin  took  his  place  by  the  driver,  a  young  man  in  a 
blouse,  who  in  his  turn  said,  "Get'  up,"  to  his  horses. 

The  coach,  set  in  motion  by  four  horses  purchased  at  Rove, 
was  pulled  up  the  hill  of  the  Faubourg  Saint-Denis  at  a  gentle 
trot,  but  having  once  gained  the  level  above  Saint-Laurent, 


306  A  START  IN  LIFE 

it  spun  along  like  a  mail-coach  as  far  as  Saint-Denis  in  forty 
minutes.  They  did  not  stop  at  the  inn  famous  for  cheese-cakes, 
but  turned  oil'  to  the  left  of  Saint -Denis,  down  the  valley  of 
Montmorency. 

It  was  here,  as  they  turned,  that  Georges  broke  the  silence 
which  had  been  kept  so  far  by  the  travelers  who  were  studying 
each  other. 

"Wo  keep  rather  better  time  than  we  did  fifteen  years  ago," 
said  he,  taking  out  a  ^^ilver  watch,     ''lleh  !  Pere  Leger?" 

"People  are  so  condescending  as  to  address  me  as  Monsieur 
Leger,"  retorted  the  millionaire. 

"Why,  this  is  our  blusterer  of  my  first  journey  to  Presles," 
exclaimed  Joseph  Bridau.  "Well,  and  have  you  been  fighting 
new  campaigns  in  Asia,  Africa,  and  America?"  asked  the 
great  painter. 

"By  Jupiter!  I  helped  in  the  Revolution  of  July,  and  that 
was  enough,  for  it  ruined  me." 

"Oho  !  you  helped  in  the  Kevolution  of  July,  did  you?"  said 
Bridau.  "I  am  not  surprised,  for  I  never  could  believe  what 
I  was  told,  that  it  made  itself." 

"How  strangely  meetings  come  about,"  said  Monsieur 
Leger,  turning  to  Reybert.  "Here,  Papa  Reybert,  you  see 
the  notary's  clerk  to  whom  you  owe  indirectly  your  place  as 
steward  of  the  estates  of  Serizy." 

"But  we  miss  Mistigris,  now  so  famous  as  Leon  de  Lora," 
said  Joseph  Bridau,  "and  the  little  fellow  who  was  such  a  fool 
as  to  tell  the  Count  all  about  his  skin  complaints — which  he 
has  cured  at  last — and  his  wife,  from  whom  he  has  parted  to 
die  in  peace." 

"Monsieur  le  Comte  is  missing  too,"  said  Reybert. 

"Oh !"  said  Bridau  sadly,  "I  am  afraid  that  the  last  ex- 
pedition he  will  ever  make  will  be  to  I'lsle-Adam,  to  be  pres- 
ent at  my  wedding." 

"He  still  drives  out  in  the  park,"  remarked  old  Reybert. 

"Does  his  wife  come  often  to  see  him  ?"  asked  Leger. 

"Once  a  month,"  replied  Reybert.  "She  still  prefers  Paris; 
she  arranged  the  marriage  of  her  favorite  niece,  Mademoiselle 


A  START  IN  LIFE  307 

du  Rouvre,  to  a  very  rich  young  Pole,  Count  Laginski,  in 
September  last " 

"And  who  will  inherit  Monsieur  de  Serizy's  property?" 
asked  Madame  Clapart. 

"His  wife. — She  will  bury  him,"  replied  Georges.  "The 
Countess  is  still  handsome  for  a  woman  of  fifty-four,  still  very 
elegant,  and  at  a  distance  quite  illusory " 

"Elusive,  you  mean?  She  will  always  elude  you,"  L6ger 
put  in,  wishing,  perhaps,  to  turn  the  tables  on  the  man  who 
had  mystified  him. 

"I  respect  her,"  said  Georges  in  reply. — "But,  by  the  way, 
what  became  of  that  steward  who  was  so  abruptly  dismissed 
in  those  days  ?" 

"Moreau?"  said  Leger.  "He  is  deputy  now  for  Seine-et- 
Oise." 

"Oh,  the  famous  centre  Moreau  (of  I'Oise)  ?"  said  Georges. 

"Yes,"  replied  Leger.  '^'Monsieur,  Moreau  (of  I'Oise).  He 
helped  rather  more  than  jow  in  the  Revolution  of  July,  and 
he  has  lately  bought  the  splendid  estate  of  Pointel,  between 
Presles  and  Beaumont." 

"What,  close  to  the  place  he  managed,  and  so  near  his  old 
master !    That  is  in  very  bad  taste,"  cried  Georges. 

"Do  not  talk  so  loud,"  said  Monsieur  de  Reybert,  "for 
Madame  Moreau  and  her  daughter,  the  Baronne  de  Canalis, 
and  her  son-in-law,  the  late  minister,  are  in  the  coupe." 

'^Vhat  fortune  did  he  give  her  that  the  great  orator  would 
marry  his  daughter?" 

'^ell,  somewhere  about  two  millions,"  said  Leger. 

"He  had  a  pretty  taste  in  millions,"  said  Georges,  smiling, 
and  in  an  undertone,  "He  began  feathering  his  nest  at  Presles 


"Say  no  more  about  Monsieur  Moreau,"  exclaimed  Oscar. 
'It  seems  to  me  that  you  might  have  learned  to  hold  your 
tongue  in  a  public  conveyance !" 

Joseph  Bridau  looked  for  a  few  seconds  at  the  one-armed 
officer,  and  then  said : 

"Monsieur  is  not  an  ambassador,  but  his  rosette  shows  that 


308  A  STAirr  IN  LIFE 

he  has  risen  in  the  world ;  and  nobly  loo,  for  my  brother  and 
General  Giroudeau  have  often  mentioned  you  in  their  de- 
spatches  " 

"Oscar  Husson !"  exclaimed  Georges.  "On  my  honor,  but 
for  your  voice,  I  should  never  have  recognized  you." 

"Ah !  is  this  the  gentleman  who  so  bravely  carried  off  the 
Vicomte  Jules  de  Serizy  from  the  Arabs?"  asked  Reybert, 
"and  to  whom  Monsieur  le  Comte  has  given  the  collectorship 
at  Beaumont  pending  his  appointment  to  Pontoise?" 

"Yes,  monsieur,"  said  Oscar. 

"Well,  then,"  said  the  painter,  "I  hope,  monsieur,  that  you 
will  do  me  the  pleasure  of  being  present  at  my  marriage,  at 
I'Isle-Adam." 

"Whom  are  you  marrying?"  asked  Oscar. 

"Mademoiselle  Leger,  Monsieur  de  Reybert's  grand- 
daughter. Monsieur  le  Comte  de  Serizy  was  good  enough  to 
arrange  the  matter  for  me.  I  owe  him  much  as  an  artist,  and 
he  was  anxious  to  establish  my  fortune  before  his  death — I 
had  scarcely  thought  of  it " 

"Then  Pere  Leger  married  ?"  said  Georges. 

"My  daughter,"  said  Monsieur  de  Reybert,  "and  without 
any  money." 

"And  he  has  children  ?" 

"One  daughter.  Quite  enough  for  a  widower  who  had  no 
other  children,"  said  Pere  Leger.  "And,  like  my  partner 
Moreau,  I  shall  have  a  famous  man  for  my  son-in-law." 

"So  you  still  live  at  I'Isle-Adam  ?"  said  Georges  to  Monsieur 
L6ger,  almost  respectfully. 

"Yes  ;  I  purchased  Cassan." 

*^Vell,  I  am  happy  in  having  chosen  this  particular  day  for 
doing  the  Oise  Valley,"  said  Georges,  "for  you  may  do  me  a 
service,  gentlemen." 

"In  what  way?"  asked  Leger. 

"Well,  thus,"  said  Georges.  "I  am  employed  by  the  Society 
of  I'Esperance,  which  has  just  been  incorporated,  and  its  by- 
laws approved  by  letters  patent  from  the  King.  This  institu- 
tion is,  in  ten  years,  to  give  mi.rriage  portions  to  girls,  and 


A  START  IN  LIFE  S09 

annuities  to  old  people ;  it  will  pay  for  the  education  of  chil- 
dren ;  in  short,  it  takes  care  of  ever3^body " 

"So  I  should  think !"  said  old  Leger,  laughing.  "In  short, 
you  are  an  insurance  agent." 

"No,  monsieur,  I  am  Inspector-General,  instructed  to  estab- 
lish agencies  and  correspondents  with  the  Company  through- 
out France ;  I  am  acting  only  till  the  agents  are  appointed ; 
for  it  is  a  delicate  and  difficult  matter  to  find  honest  men -" 

"But  how  did  you  lose  your  thirty  thousand  francs  a  year?" 
asked  Oscar. 

"As  you  lost  your  arm !"  the  ex-notary's  clerk  replied 
sharply  to  the  ex-attorney's  clerk. 

"Then  you  invested  your  fortune  in  some  brilliant  deed?" 
said  Oscar,  with  somewhat  bitter  irony. 

"By  Jupiter !  my  investments  are  a  sore  subject.  I  have 
more  deeds  than  enough." 

They  had  reached  Saint-Leu-Taverny,  where  the  travelers 
got  out  while  they  changed  horses.  Oscar  admired  the  brisk- 
ness with  which  Pierrotin  unbuckled  the  straps  of  the  swing- 
bar,  while  his  driver  took  out  the  leaders. 

"Poor  Pierrotin !"  thought  he.  "Like  me,  he  has  not  risen 
much  in  life.  Georges  has  sunk  into  poverty.  All  the  others, 
by  speculation  and  skill,  have  made  fortunes.  Do  we  break- 
fast here,  Pierrotin?"  he  asked,  clapping  the  man  on  the 
shoulder. 

"I  am  not  the  driver,"  said  Pierrotin. 

"What  are  you,  then  ?"  asked  Colonel  Hussoa. . 

"I  am  the  owner,"  replied  Pierrotin. 

*^ell,  well,  do  not  quarrel  with  an  old  friend,"  said  Oscar, 
pointing  to  his  mother,  but  still  with  a  patronizing  air;  "do 
you  not  remember  Madame  Clapart  ?" 

It  was  the  more  graceful  of  Oscar  to  name  his  mother  to 
Pierrotin,  because  at  this  moment  Madame  Moreau  (de  I'Oise) 
had  got  out  of  the  coupe  and  looked  scornfully  at  Oscar  and 
his  mother  as  she  heard  the  name. 

"On  my  honor,  madame,  I  should  never  have  known  you; 
nor  you  either,  monsieur.  You  get  it  hot  in  Africa,  it  would 
Beem  ?" 


ft  10  A  START  IS'  LIFE 

The  disdainful  pity  Oscar  had  felt  for  Pierrotin  was  the 
last  blunder  into  which  vanity  betrayed  the  hero  of  this  Scene; 
and  for  that  he  was  punished,  though  not  too  severely.  On 
this  wise :  Two  months  after  he  had  settled  at  Beaumont-sur- 
Oise,  Oscar  paid  his  court  to  Mademoiselle  Georgette  Pier- 
rotin, whose  fortune  amounted  to  a  hundred  and  fifty  thou- 
sand francs,  and  by  the  end  of  the  winter  of  1838  he  married 
the  daughter  of  the  owner  of  the  Oise  Valley  coach  service. 

The  results  of  the  journey  to  Presles  had  given  Oscar  dis- 
cretion, the  evening  at  Florentine's  had  disciplined  his  hon- 
esty, the  hardships  of  a  military  life  had  taught  him  the  value 
of  social  distinctions  and  submission  to  fate.  He  was  prudent, 
capable,  and  consequently  happy.  The  Comte  de  Serizy,  be- 
fore his  death,  obtained  for  Oscar  the  place  of  Revenue  Col- 
lector at  Pontoise.  The  influence  of  Monsieur  Moreau  (de 
rOise),  of  the  Comtesse  de  Serizy,  and  of  Monsieur  le  Baron 
de  Canalis,  who,  sooner  or  later,  will  again  have  a  seat  in  the 
Ministr}',  will  secure  Monsieur  Husson's  promotion  to  the 
post  of  Receiver-General,  and  the  Camusots  now  recognize 
him  as  a  relation. 

Oscar  is  a  commonplace  man,  gentle,  unpretentious,  and 
modest;  faithful — like  the  Government  he  serves — to  the 
happy  medium  in  all  things.  He  invites  neither  envy  nor 
scorn.     In  short,  he  is  the  modem  French  citizen. 

Pabis,  POyruary  1842. 


A  SECOND  HOME 

To  Madame  la  Comtesse  Louise  de  Turheim  as  a  token  of 
remembrance  and  affectionate  respect. 

The  Rue  du  Tourniquet-Saint- Jean,  formerly  one  of  the  dark- 
est and  most  tortuous  of  the  streets  about  the  Hotel  de  Ville, 
zigzagged  round  the  little  gardens  of  the  Paris  Prefecture, 
and  ended  at  the  Rue  Martroi,  exactly  at  the  angle  of  an  old 
wall  now  pulled  down.  Here  stood  the  turnstile  to  which 
the  street  owed  its  name;  it  was  not  removed  till  1823,  when 
the  Municipality  built  a  ballroom  on  the  garden  plot  adjoin- 
ing the  Hotel  de  Ville,,  for  the  fete  given  in  honor  of  the 
Due  d'Angouleme  on  his  return  from  Spain. 

The  widest  part  of  the  Rue  du  Tourniquet  was  the  end 
opening  into  the  Rue  de  la  Tixeranderie,  and  even  there  it 
was  less  than  six  feet  across.  Hence  in  rainy  weather  the 
gutter  water  was  soon  deep  at  the  foot  of  the  old  houses, 
sweeping  down  with  it  the  dust  and  refuse  deposited  at  the 
corner-stones  by  the  residents.  As  the  dust-carts  could  not 
pass  through,  the  inhabitants  trusted  to  storms  to  wash  their 
always  miry  alley;  for  how  could  it  be  clean?  When  the 
summer  sun  shed  its  perpendicular  rays  on  Paris  like  a  sheet 
of  gold,  but  as  piercing  as  the  point  of  a  sword,  it  lighted  up 
the  blackness  of  this  street  for  a  few  minutes  without  drying 
the  permanent  damp  that  rose  from  the  ground-floor  to  the 
■first  story  of  these  dark  and  silent  tenements. 

The  residents,  who  lighted  their  lamps  at  five  o'clock  in 
the  month  of  June,  in  winter  never  put  them  out.  To  this  day 
the  enterprising  wayfarer  who  should  approach  the  Marais 
along  the  quays,  past  the  end  of  the  Rue  du  Chaume,  the  Rues 
de  I'Homme  Arrae,  des  Billettes,  and  des  Deux-Portes,  all 

(311) 


f^l2  A  SECOND  HOME 

leading  to  the  Ruo  dii  Tourniquet,  might  think  he  had  passed- 
through  eelhirs  ail  the  way. 

Almost  all  the  streets  of  old  Paris,  of  which  ancient  chroni- 
cles laud  the  magnificence,  were  like  this  damp  and  gloomy 
labyrinth,  where  antiquaries  still  find  historical  curiosities  to 
admire.  For  instance,  on  the  house  then  forming  the  corner 
where  the  Rue  du  Tourniquet  joined  the  Rue  de  la  Tiycran- 
derie,  the  clamps  might  still  be  seen  of  two  strong  iron  rings 
fixed  to  the  wall,  the  relics  of  the  chains  put  up  every  night 
by  the  watch  to  secure  public  safety. 

This  house,  remarkable  for  its  antiquity,  had  been  con- 
structed in  a  way  that  bore  witness  to  the  unhealthiness  of 
these  old  dwellings;  for,  to  preserve  the  ground-floor  from 
damp,  the  arches  of  the  cellars  rose  about  two  feet  abov/,  the 
soil,  and  the  house  was  entered  up  three  outside  steps.  The 
door  was  cro\^Tied  by  a  closed  arch,  of  which  the  keystone  bore 
a  female  head  and  some  time-eaten  arabesques.  Three  win- 
dows, their  sills  about  five  feet  from  the  ground,  belonged  to 
a  small  set  of  rooms  looking  out  on  the  Rue  du  Tourniquet, 
whence  they  derived  their  light.  These  windows  were  pro- 
tected by  strong  iron  bars,  very  wide  apart,  and  ending  below 
in  an  outward  curve  like  the  bars  of  a  baker's  window. 

If  any  passer-by  during  the  day  were  curious  enough  to 
peep  into  the  two  rooms  forming  this  little  dwelling,  he  could 
see  nothing;  for  only  under  the  sun  of  July  could  he  discern, 
in  the  second  room,  two  beds  hung  with  green  serge,  placed 
side  by  side  under  the  paneling  of  an  old-fashioned  alcove; 
but  in  the  afternoon,  by  about  three  o'clock,  when  the  candles 
were  lighted,  through  the  pane  of  the  first  room  an  old  woman 
might  be  seen  sitting  on  a  stool  by  the  fireplace,  where  she 
nursed  the  fire  in  a  brazier,  to  simmer  a  stew,  such  as  porters' 
wives  are  expert  in.  A  few  kitchen  utensils,  hung  up  against' 
the  wall,  were  visible  in  the  twilight. 

At  that  hour  an  old  table  on  trestles,  but  bare  of  linen,  was 
laid  with  pewter-spoons,  and  the  dish  concocted  by  the  old 
woman.  Three  wretched  chairs  were  all  the  furniture  of  this 
room,  which  was  at  once  the  kitchen  and  the  dining-room. 


A  SECOND  HOME  813 

Over  the  chimney-shelf  were  a  piece  of  looking-glass,  a  tinder- 
box,  three  glasses,  some  matches,  and  a  large,  cracked  white 
jug.  Still,  the  floor,  the  utensils,  the  fireplace,  all  gave  a 
pleasant  sense  of  the  perfect  cleanliness  and  thrift  that  per- 
vaded the  dull  and  gloomy  home. 

The  old  woman's  pale,  withered  face  was  quite  in  harmony 
with  the  darkness  of  the  street  and  the  mustiness  of  the  place. 
As  she  sat  there,  motionless,  in  her  chair,  it  might  have  been 
thought  that  she  was  as  inseparable  from  the  house  as  a  snail 
from  its  brown  shell ;  her  face,  alert  with  a  vague  expression 
of  mischief,  was  framed  in  a  flat  cap  made  of  net,  which  barely 
covered  her  white  hair;  her  fine,  gray  eyes  were  as  quiet  as 
the  street,  and  the  many  wrinkles  in  her  face  might  be  com- 
pared to  the  cracks  in  the  walls.  Whether  she  had  been  born 
to  poverty,  or  had  fallen  from  some  past  splendor,  she  now 
seemed  to  have  been  long  resigned  to  her  melancholy  exist- 
ence. 

From  sunrise  till  dark,  excepting  when  she  was  getting  a 
meal  ready,  or,  with  a  basket  on  her  arm,  was  out  purchasing 
provisions,  the  old  woman  sat  in  the  adjoining  room  by  the 
further  window,  opposite  a  young  girl.  At  any  hour  of  the 
day  the  passer-by  could  see  the  needlewoman  seated  in  an  old, 
red  velvet  chair,  bending  over  an  embroidery  frame,  and 
stitching  indefatigably. 

Her  mother  had  a  green  pillow  on  her  knee,  and  busied  her- 
self with  hand-made  net ;  but  her  fingers  could  move  the  bob- 
bins but  slowly;  her  sight  was  feeble,  for  on  her  nose  there 
rested  a  pair  of  those  antiquated  spectacles  which  keep  their 
place  on  the  nostrils  by  the  grip  of  a  spring.  By  night  these 
two  hardworking  women  set  a  lamp  between  them;  and  the 
light,  concentrated  by  two  globe-shaped  bottles  of  water, 
showed  the  elder  the  fine  network  made  by  the  threads  on  her 
pillow,  and  the  younger  the  most  delicate  details  of  the  pat- 
tern she  was  embroidering.  The  outward  bend  of  the  window 
bars  had  allowed  the  girl  to  rest  a  box  of  earth  on  the  window- 
sill,  in  which  grew  some  sweet  peas,  nasturtiums,  a  sickly  little 
honeysuckle,  and  some  convolvulus  that  twined  its  frail  stems 


3H  A  SECOND  HOME 

up  Ihe  iron  bars.  Tlio^e  etiolatetl  plants  produced  a  few  pale 
ilowers,  and  added  a  touch  of  indescribable  sadness  and  sweet- 
ness to  the  picture  oU'ered  by  this  window,  in  which  the  two 
figures  were  approjjriately  framed. 

The  most  selfish  soul  who  chanced  to  see  this  domestic  scene 
would  carry  away  with  him  a  perfect  image  of  the  life  led  in 
Paris  by  the  working  class  of  women,  for  the  embroideress 
evidently  lived  by  her  needle.  jMany,  as  they  passed  through 
the  turnstile,  found  theuiselves  wondering  how  a  girl  could 
preserve  her  color,  living  in  such  a  cellar.  A  student  of  lively 
iuiagination,  going  tiuit  way  to  cross  to  the  Quartier-LatiUj 
would  compare  this  obscure  and  vegetative  life  to  that  of  the 
ivy  that  clung  to  these  chill  walls,  to  that  of  the  peasants  born 
to  labor,  who  are  born,  toil,  and  die  unknown  to  the  world  they 
have  helped  to  feed.  A  house-owner,  after  studying  the  house 
with  the  eye  of  a  valuer,  would  have  said,  "What  will  become 
of  those  two  women  if  embroidery  should  go  out  of  fashion?" 
Among  the  men  who,  having  some  appointment  at  the  Hotel 
de  Ville  or  the  Palais  de  Justice,  were  obliged  to  go  through 
this  street  at  fixed  hours,  either  on  their  way  to  business  or  on 
their  return  home,  there  may  have  been  some  charitable  soul. 
Some  widower  or  Adonis  of  forty,  brought  so  often  into  the 
secrets  of  these  sad  lives,  may  perhaps  have  reckoned  on  the 
poverty  of  this  mother  and  daughter,  and  have  hoped  to  be- 
come the  master  at  no  great  cost  of  the  innocent  work-woman, 
whose  nimble  and  dimpled  fingers,  youthful  figure,  and  white 
skin — a  charm  due,  no  doubt,  to  living  in  this  sunless  street — 
had  excited  his  admiration.  Perhaps,  ag^in,  some  honest 
clerk,  with  twelve  hundred  francs  a  year,  seeing  every  day  the 
diligence  the  girl  gave  to  her  needle,  and  appreciating  the 
purity  of  her  life,  was  only  waiting  for  improved  prospects 
to  unite  one  humble  life  with  another,  one  form  of  toil  to 
another,  and  to  bring  at  any  rate  a  man's  arm  and  a  calm 
affection,  pale-hued  like  the  flowers  in  the  window,  to  uphold 
this  home. 

Vague  hope  certainly  gave  life  to  the  mother's  dim,  gray 
eyes.     Every  morning,  after  the  most  frugal  breakfast,  she 


A  SECOND  HOME  315 

took  up  her  pillow,  though  chiefly  for  the  look  of  the  thing, 
for  she  would  laj'^  her  spectacles  on  a  little  mahogany  work- 
table  as  old  as  herself,  and  look  out  of  window  from  about 
half-past  eight  till  ten  at  the  regular  passers  in  the  street; 
she  caught  their  glances,  remarked  on  their  gait,  their  dress, 
their  countenance,  and  almost  seemed  to  be  offering  her 
daughter,  her  gossiping  eyes  so  evidently  tried  to  attract  some 
magnetic  sympathy  by  manoeuvres  worthy  of  the  stage.  It^ 
was  evident  that  this  little  review  was  as  good  as  a  play  to  her,' 
and  perhaps  her  single  amusement. 

The  daughter  rarely  looked  up.  Modesty,  or  a  painful  con- 
sciousness of  poverty,  seemed  to  keep  her  eyes  riveted  to  the 
work-frame ;  and  only  some  exclamation  of  surprise  from  her 
mother  moved  her  to  show  her  small  features.  Then  a  clerk 
in  a  new  coat,  or  who  unexpectedly  appeared  with  a  woman 
on  his  arm,  might  catch  sight  of  the  girl's  slightly  upturned 
nose,  her  rosy  mouth,  and  gray  eyes,  always  bright  and  lively 
in  spite  of  her  fatiguing  toil.  Her  late  hours  had  left  a  trace 
on  her  face  by  a  pale  circle  marked  under  each  eye  on  the  fresh 
rosiness  of  her  cheeks.  The  poor  child  looked  as  if  she  were 
made  for  love  and  cheerfulness — for  love,  which  had  drawn 
tM'o  perfect  arches  above  her  eyelids,  and  had  given  her  such 
a  mass  of  chestnut  hair,  that  she  might  have  hidden  under  it 
as  under  a  tent,  impenetrable  to  the  lover's  eye — for  cheerful- 
ness, which  gave  quivering  animation  to  her  nostrils,  which 
carved  two  dimples  in  her  rosy  cheeks,  and  made  her  quick  to 
forget  her  troubles ;  cheerfulness,  the  blossom  of  hope,  which 
gave  her  strength  to  look  out  without  shuddering  on  the  bar- 
ren path  of  life. 

The  girl's  hair  was  always  carefully  dressed.  After  the 
manner  of  Paris  needlewomen,  her  toilet  seemed  to  her  quite 
complete  when  she  had  brushed  her  hair  smooth  and  tucked 
up  the  little  short  curls  that  played  on  each  temple  in  con- 
trast with  the  whiteness  of  her  skin.  The  growth  of  it  on  the 
back  of  her  neck  was  so  pretty,  and  the  brown  line,  so  clearly 
traced,  gave  such  a  pleasing  idea  of  her  youth  and  charm, 
that  the  observer,  seeinff  her  bent  over  her  work,  and  un- 


81«  A  SRCOXD  HOME 

moved  by  any  pound,  was  inclined  to  tliink  of  her  as  a  coquette. 
Such  inviting  promise  had  excited  the  interest  of  more  than 
one  yolinfr  man.  who  turned  round  in  ilie  vain  hope  of  seeing 
that  modest  co\intenance. 

"Caroline,  there  is  a  new  face  that  passes  regularly  by,  and 
not  one  of  the  old  ones  is  to  compare  with  it." 

These  words,  spoken  in  a  low  voice  by  her  mother  one 
Aufjust  morning  in  1815,  had  vanrjuished  the  young  needle- 
woman's indifference,  and  she  looked  out  on  the  street;  but  in 
vain,  the  stranger  was  gone. 

"Where  has  he  flown  to  ?"  said  she. 

"He  will  come  back  no  doubt  at  four ;  I  shall  see  him  com- 
ing, and  will  touch  your  foot  with  mine.  I  am  sure 
he  will  come  back;  he  has  been  through  the  street 
regularly  for  the  last  three  days;  but  his  hours  vary. 
The  first  day  he  camo  by  at  six  o'clock,  the  day  before  yester- 
day it  was  four,  yesterday  as  early  as  three.  I  remember  see- 
ing him  occasionally  some  time  ago.  He  is  some  clerk  in 
the  Prefet's  office  who  has  moved  to  the  Marais. — Why !"  she 
exclaimed,  after  glancing  down  the  street,  "our  gentleman  of 
the  brown  coat  has  taken  to  wearing  a  wig ;  how  much  it  alters 
him !" 

The  gentleman  of  the  brown  coat  was,  it  would  seem,  the 
individual  who  commonly  closed  the  daily  procession,  for  the 
old  woman  put  on  her  spectacles  and  took  up  her  work  with 
a  sigh,  glancing  at  her  daughter  with  so  strange  a  look  that 
Lavater  himself  would  have  found  it  difficult  to  interpret. 
Admiration,  gratitude,  a  sort  of  hope  for  better  days,  were 
mingled  with  pride  at  having  such  a  pretty  daughter. 

At  about  four  in  the  afternoon  the  old  lady  pushed  her  foot 
against  Caroline's,  and  the  girl  looked  up  quickly  enough  to 
see  the  new  actor,  whose  regular  advent  would  thenceforth 
lend  variety  to  the  scene.  He  w^as  tall  and  thin,  and  wore 
black,  a  man  of  about  forty,  wdth  a  certain  solemnity  of  de- 
meanor; as  his  piercing  hazel  eye  met  the  old  woman's  dull 
gaze,  he  made  her  quake,  for  she  felt  as  though  he  had  the  gift 
of  reading  hearts,  or  much  practice  in  it,  and  his  presence 


A  SECOND  HOME  317 

must  surely  be  as  icy  as  the  air  of  this  dank  street.  Was  the 
dull,  sallow  complexion  of  that  ominous  face  due  to  excess  of 
work,  or  the  result  of  delicate  health  ? 

The  old  woman  supplied  twenty  dijfferent  answers  to  this 
question;  but  Caroline,  next  day,  discerned  the  lines  of  long 
mental  sufEering  on  that  brow  that  \^as  so  prompt  to  frown. 
The  rather  hollow  cheeks  of  the  Unknown  bore  the  stamp  of 
the  seal  which  sorrow  sets  on  its  victims  as  if  to  grant  them 
the  consolation  of  common  recognition  and  brotherly  union 
for  resistance.  Though  the  girl's  expression  was  at  first  one 
of  lively  but  innocent  curiosity,  it  assumed  a  look  of  gentle 
sympathy  as  the  stranger  receded  from  view,  like  the  last  re- 
lation following  in  a  funeral  train. 

The  heat  of  the  weather  was  so  great,  and  the  gentleman 
was  so  absent-minded,  that  he  had  taken  off  his  hat  and 
forgotten  to  put  it  on  again  as  he  went  down  the  squalid 
street.  Caroline  could  see  the  stern  look  given  to  his  counte- 
nance by  the  way  the  hair  was  brushed  from  his  forehead. 
The  strong  impression,  devoid  of  charm,  made  on  the  girl  by 
this  man's  appearance  was  totally  unlike  any  sensation  pro- 
duced by  the  other  passengers  who  used  the  street ;  for  the  first 
time  in  her  life  she  was  moved  to  pity  for  some  one  else  than 
herself  and  her  mother ;  she  made  no  reply  to  the  absurd  con- 
jectures that  supplied  material  for  the  old  woman's  provoking 
volubility,  and  drew  her  long  needle  in  silence  through  the 
web  of  stretched  net;  she  only  regretted  not  having  seen  the 
stranger  more  closely,  and  looked  forward  to  the  morrow  to 
form  a  definite  opinion  of  him. 

It  was  the  first  time,  indeed,  that  a  man  passing  down  the 
street  had  ever  given  rise  to  much  thought  in  her  mind.  She 
generally  had  nothing  but  a  smile  in  response  to  her  mother's 
hypotheses,  for  the  old  woman  looked  on  every  passer-by  as 
a  possible  protector  for  her  daughter.  And  if  such  sug- 
gestions, so  crudely  presented,  gave  rise  to  no  evil  thoughts  in 
Caroline's  mind,  her  indifference  must  be  ascribed  to  the  per- 
sistent and  unfortunately  inevitable  toil  in  which  the  energies 
of  her  sweet  youth  were  being  spent,  and  which  would  infal- 


318  A  SECOND  HOME 

libly  mar  the  elonnicss  of  her  eyes  or  steal  from  her  fresh 
clieeks  tlie  bloom  that  still  colored  them. 

For  two  months  or  more  the  "Black  Gentleman" — the 
name  they  had  given  him — was  erratic  in  his  movements ;  he 
did  not  always  come  down  the  Eue  du  Tourniquet;  the  old 
woman  sometimes  saw  him  in  the  evening  when  he  had  not 
passed  in  the  morning,  and  he  did  not  come  by  at  such  regular 
hours  as  the  clerks  who  served  Madame  Crochard  instead  of 
a  clock;  moreover,  excepting  on  the  first  occasion,  when  his 
look  had  given  the  old  mother  a  sense  of  alarm,  his  eyes  had 
never  once  dwelt  on  the  weird  picture  of  these  two  female 
gnomes.  With  the  exception  of  two  carriage-gates  and  a  dark 
ironmonger's  shop,  there  were  in  the  Eue  du  Tourniquet  only 
barred  windows,  giving  light  to  the  staircases  of  the  neigh- 
boring houses;  thus  the  stranger's  lack  of  curiosity  was  not 
to  be  accounted  for  by  the  presence  of  dangerous  rivals;  and 
Madame  Crochard  was  greatly  piqued  to  see  her  "Black  Gen- 
tleman" always  lost  in  thought,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground, 
or  straight  before  him,  as  though  he  hoped  to  read  the  future 
in  the  fog  of  the  Rue  du  Tourniquet.  However,  one  morn- 
ing, about  the  middle  of  September,  Caroline  Crochard's 
roguish  face  stood  out  so  brightly  against  the  dark  back- 
ground of  the  room,  looking  so  fresh  among  the  belated 
flowers  and  faded  leaves  that  twined  round  the  window-bars, 
the  daily  scene  was  gay  with  such  contrasts  of  light  and 
shade,  of  pink  and  white  blending  with  the  light  material  on 
which  the  pretty  needlewoman  was  working,  and  with  the  red 
and  browm  hues  of  the  chairs,  that  the  stranger  gazed  very 
attentively  at  the  effects  of  this  living  picture.  In  point  of 
fact,  the  old  woman,  provoked  by  her  "Black  Gentleman's" 
indifference,  had  made  such  a  clatter  with  her  bobbins  that 
the  gloomy  and  pensive  passer-by  was  perhaps  prompted  to 
look  up  by  the  unusual  noise. 

The  stranger  merely  exchanged  glances  with  Caroline, 
swift  indeed,  but  enough  to  effect  a  certain  contact  between 
their  souls,  and  both  were  aware  that  they  would  think  of  each 
other.     When  the  stranger  came  b7  again,  at  four  in  the 


A  SECOND  HOME  819 

afternoon,  Caroline  recognized  the  sound  of  his  step  on  the 
echoing  pavement;  they  looked  steadily  at  each  other,  and 
with  evident  purpose ;  his  eyes  had  an  expression  of  kindliness 
which  made  him  smile,  and  Caroline  colored;  the  old  mother 
noted  them  both  with  satisfaction.  Ever  after  that  memo- 
rable afternoon,  the  Gentleman  in  Black  went  by  twice  a  day, 
with  rare  exceptions,  which  both  the  women  observed.  They 
'concluded  from  the  irregularity  of  the  hours  of  his  home- 
coming that  he  was  not  released  so  early,  nor  so  precisely 
punctual  as  a  subordinate  official. 

All  through  the  first  three  winter  months,  twice  a  day,  Caro- 
line and  the  stranger  thus  saw  each  other  for  so  long  as  it  took 
him  to  traverse  the  piece  of  road  that  lay  along  the  length 
of  the  door  and  three  windows  of  the  house.  Day  after  day 
this  brief  interview  had  a  hue  of  friendly  sympathy  which 
at  last  had  acquired  a  sort  of  fraternal  kindness.  Caroline 
and  the  stranger  seemed  to  understand  each  other  from  the 
first;  and  then,  by  dint  of  scrutinizing  each  other's  faces, 
they  learned  to  know  them  well.  Ere  long  it  came  to  be,  as 
it  were,  a  visit  that  the  Unknown  owed  to  Caroline ;  if  by  any 
chance  her  Gentleman  in  Black  went  by  without  bestowing 
on  her  the  half-smile  of  his  expressive  lips,  or  the  cordial 
glance  of  his  brown  eyes,  something  was  missing  to  her  all 
day.  She  felt  as  an  old  man  does  to  whom  the  daily  study 
of  a  newspaper  is  such  an  indispensable  pleasure  that  on  the 
day  after  any  great  holiday  he  wanders  about  quite  lost,  and 
seeking,  as  much  out  of  vagueness  as  for  want  of  patience, 
the  sheet  by  which  he  cheats  an  hour  of  life. 

But  these  brief  meetings  had  the  charm  of  intimate  friend- 
liness, quite  as  much  for  the  stranger  as  for  Caroline.  The 
girl  could  no  more  hide  a  vexation,  a  grief,  or  some  slight 
ailment  from  the  keen  eye  of  her  appreciative  friend  than 
he  could  conceal  anxiety  from  hers. 

"He  must  have  had  some  trouble  yesterday,"  was  the 
thought  that  constantly  arose  in  the  embroideress'  mind  as  she 
saw  some  change  in  the  features  of  the  '^lack  Gentleman." 

"0?i,  he  has  been  working  too  hard !"  was  a  reflection  due 
to  another  shade  of  expression  which  Caroline  could  discern. 


320  A  SECOND  HOME 

The  stranger,  on  his  part,  could  guess  wlicn  the  girl  had 
spent  Sunday  in  finishing  a  dress,  and  he  felt  an  interest  in 
the  j)attern.  As  quarter-day  came  near  he  could  see  that  her 
pretty  face  was  clouded  hy  anxiety,  and  he  could  guess  when 
Caroline  had  sat  up  late  at  work;  hut  ahove  all,  he  noted  how 
the  gloomy  thoughts  that  dimmed  the  cheerful  and  delicate 
features  of  her  young  face  gradually  vanished  hy  degrees  as 
their  acquaintance  ripened.  When  winter  had  killed  the 
climbers  and  plants  of  her  window  garden,  and  the  window 
was  kept  closed,  it  was  not  without  a  smile  of  gentle  amuse- 
ment that  the  stranger  observed  the  concentration  of  the  light 
within,  just  at  the  level  of  Caroline's  head.  The  very  small 
fire  and  the  frosty  red  of  the  tM'o  women's  faces  betrayed  the 
poverty  of  their  home;  but  if  ever  liis  own  countenance  ex- 
pressed regretful  compassion,  the  girl  proudly  met  it  with 
assumed  cheerfulness. 

Meanwhile  the  feelings  that  had  arisen  in  their  hearts  re- 
mained buried  there,  no  incident  occurring  to  reveal  to  either 
of  them  how  deep  and  strong  they  were  in  the  other;  they  had 
never  even  heard  the  sound  of  each  other's  voice.  These  mute 
friends  were  even  on  their  guard  against  any  nearer  acquaint- 
mce,  as  though  it  meant  di.saster.  Each  seemed  to  fear  lest 
it  should  bring  on  the  other  some  grief  more  serious  than 
those  they  felt  tempted  to  share.  Was  it  shyness  or  friend- 
ship that  checked  them?  Was  it  a  dread  of  meeting  with 
selfishness,  or  the  odious  distrust  which  sunders  all  the  resi- 
dents wathin  the  walls  of  a  populous  city?  Did  the  voice  of 
conscience  warn  them  of  approaching  danger?  It  w^ould  be 
impossible  to  explain  the  instinct  which  made  them  as  much 
enemies  as  friends,  at  once  indifferent  and  attached, 
drawn  to  each,  other  by  impulse,  and  severed  by  circumstance. 
Each  perhaps  hoped  to  preserve  a  cherished  illusion.  It 
might  almost  have  been  thought  that  the  stranger  feared  lest 
he  should  hear  some  vulgar  word  from  those  lips  as  fresh  and 
pure  as  a  flower,  and  that  Caroline  felt  herself  unworthy  of 
the  mysterious  personage.who  wasevidently  possessed  of  power 
and  wealth. 


A  SECOND  HOME  321 

As  to  Madame  Crochard,  that  tender  mother,  almost  angrj"^ 
at  her  daughter's  persistent  lack  of  decisiveness,  now  showed 
a  sulky  face  to  the  "Black  Gentleman,"  on  whom  she  had 
hitherto  smiled  with  a  sort  of  benevolent  servility.  Never 
before  had  she  complained  so  bitterly  of  being  compelled,  at 
her  age,  to  do  the  cooking;  never  had  her  catarrh  and  her 
rheumatism  wrung  so  many  groans  from  her;  finally,  she 
could  not,  this  winter,  promise  so  many  ells  of  net  as  Caro- 
line had  hitherto  been  able  to  count  on. 

Under  these  circumstances,  and  towards  the  end  of  Decem- 
ber, at  the  time  when  bread  was  dearest,  and  that  dearth  of 
corn  was  beginning  to  be  felt  which  made  the  year  1816  so 
hard  on  the  poor,  the  stranger  observed  on  the  features  of  the 
girl  whose  name  was  still  unknown  to  him,  the  painful  traces 
of  a  secret  sorrow  which  his  kindest  smiles  could  not  dispel. 
Before  long  he  saw  in  Caroline's  eyes  the  dimness  attribu- 
table to  long  hours  at  night.  One  night,  towards  the  end  of 
the  month,  the  Gentleman  in  Black  passed  down  the  Rue  du 
Tourniquet  at  the  quite  unwonted  hour  of  one  in  the  morning. 
The  perfect  silence  allowed  of  his  hearing  before  passing  the 
house  the  lachrymose  voice  of  the  old  mother,  and  Caroline's 
even  sadder  tones,  mingling  with  the  swish  of  a  shower  of 
sleet.  He  crept  along  as  slowly  as  he  could ;  and  then,  at  the 
risk  of  being  taken  up  by  the  police,  he  stood  still  below  the 
window  to  hear  the  mother  and  daughter,  while  watching 
them  through  the  largest  of  the  holes  in  the  yellow  muslin  cur- 
tains, which  were  eaten  away  by  wear  as  a  cabbage  leaf  is 
riddled  by  caterpillars.  The  inquisitive  stranger  saw  a  sheet 
of  paper  on  the  table  that  stood  between  the  two  work-frames, 
and  on  which  stood  the  lamp  and  the  globes  filled  with  water. ' 
Tie  at  once  identified  it  as  a  writ.  Madame  Crochard  was 
weeping,  and  Caroline's  voice  was  thick,  and  had  lost  its 
sweet,  caressing  tone. 

"Why  be  so  heartbroken,  mother?  Monsieur  Molineux 
will  not  sell  us  up  or  turn  us  out  before  I  have  finished  this 
dress;  only  two  nights  more  and  I  shall  take  it  home  to 
Madame  Roguin.^' 


322  A  SECOND  HOME 

*'And  supposing  she  keeps  you  waiting  as  usual? — And  will 
the  money  for  the  gown  pay  the  baker  loo?'' 

The  spectator  of  this  scene  had  long  practice  in  reading 
faces;  he  fancied  he  could  discern  that  the  mother's  grief 
■was  as  false  as  the  daughter's  was  genuine;  he  turned  away, 
and  presently  came  beck.  Wlien  he  next  peeped  through  the 
hole  in  the  curtain,  Madame  Crochard  was  in  bedv  The 
young  needlewoman,  bending  over  her  frame,  was  embroider- 
ing with  indefatigable  diligence;  on  the  table,  with  the  writ, 
lay  a  triangular  hunch  of  bread,  placed  there,  no  doubt,  to 
sustain  her  in  the  night  and  to  remind  her  of  the  reward  of 
her  industry.  The  stranger  was  tremulous  with  pity  and 
sympathy ;  he  threw  his  purse  in  through  a  cracked  pane,  so 
that  it  should  fall  at  the  girl's  feet ;  and  then,  without  waiting 
to  enjoy  her  suri^rise,  he  escaped,  his  cheeks  tingling. 

Next  morning  the  shy  and  melancholy  stranger  went  past 
with  a  look  of  deep  preoccupation,  but  he  could  not  escape 
Caroline's  gratitude ;  she  had  opened  her  window  and  affected 
to  be  digging  in  the  square  window-box  buried  in  snow,  a  pre- 
text of  which  the  clumsy  ingenuity  plainly  told  her  benefactor 
that  she  had  been  resolved  not  to  see  him  only  through  the 
pane.  Her  eyes  were  full  of  tears  as  she  bowed  her  head,  as 
much  as  to  say  to  her  benefactor,  "1  can  only  repay  you  from 
my  heart." 

But  the  Gentleman  in  Black  affected  not  to  understand  the 
meaning  of  this  sincei'e  gratitude.  In  the  evening,  as  he  came 
by,  Caroline  was  busy  mending  the  window  with  a  sheet  of 
paper,  and  she  smiled  at  him,  showing  her  row  of  pearly 
teeth  like  a  promise.  Thenceforth  the  Stranger  went  another 
way,  and  was  no  more  seen  in  the  Rue  du  Tourniquet. 

It  was  one  day  early  in  the  following  May  that,  as  Caroline 
was  giving  the  roots  of  the  honeysuckle  a  glass  of  water,  one 
Saturday  morning,  she  caught  sight  of  a  narrow  strip  of 
cloudless  blue  between  the  black  lines  of  houses,  and  said  to 
her  mother: 

"Mamma,  w^e  must  go  to-morrow  for  a  trip  to  Montmo- 
rency I" 


A  SECOND  HOME  323 

She  had  scarcely  uttered  the  words,  in  a  toue  of  glee,  when 
the  Gentleman  in  Black  came  by,  sadder  and  more  dejected 
than  ever.  Caroline's  innocent  and  ingratiating  glance  might 
have  been  taken  for  an  invitation.  And,  in  fact,  on  the  fol- 
lowing day,  when  Madame  Crochard,  dressed  in  a  pelisse  of 
claret-colored  merinos,  a  silk  bonnet,  and  striped  shawl  of 
an  imitation  Indian  pattern,  came  out  to  choose  seats  in  a 
chaise  at  the  corner  of  the  Eiie  du  Faubourg  Saint- 
Denis  and  the  Eue  d'Enghien,  there  she  found  her  Unknown 
standing  like  a  man  waiting  for  his  wife.  A  smile  of  pleasure 
lighted  up  the  Stranger's  face  when  his  eye  fell  on  Caroline, 
her  neat  feet  shod  in  plum-colored  prunella  gaiters,  and  her 
white  dress  tossed  by  a  breeze  that  would  have  been  fatal  to 
an  ill-made  woman,  but  which  displayed  her  graceful  form. 
Her  face,  shaded  by  a  rice-straw  bonnet  lined  with  pink  silk, 
seemed  to  beam  with  a  reflection  from  heaven;  her  broad, 
plum-colored  belt  set  off  a  waist  he  could  have  spanned;  her 
hair,  parted  in  two  brown  bands  over  a  forehead  as  white  as 
snow,  gave  her  an  expression  of  innocence  which  no  other 
feature  contradicted.  Enjoyment  seemed  to  have  made  Caro- 
line as  light  as  the  straw  of  her  hat;  but  when  she  saw  the 
Gentleman  in  Black,  radiant  hope  suddenly  eclipsed  her 
bright  dress  and  her  beauty.  The  Stranger,  who  appeared 
to  be  in  doubt,  had  not  perhaps  made  up  his  mind  to  be  the 
girl's  escort  for  the  day  till  this  revelation  of  the  delight  she 
felt  on  seeing  him.  He  at  once  hired  a  vehicle  with  a  fairly 
good  horse,  to  drive  to  Saint-Leu-Taverny,  and  he  offered 
Madame  Crochard  and  her  daughter  seats  by  his  side.  The 
mother  accepted  without  ado ;  but  presently,  when  they  were 
already  on  the  way  to  Saint-Denis,  slie  was  by  way  of  having 
scruples,  and  made  a  few  civil  speeches  as  to  the  possible  in- 
convenience two  women  might  cause  their  companion. 

"Perhaps,  monsieur,  you  wished  to  drive  alone  to  Saint- 
Leu-Taverny,"  said  she,  with  affected  simplicity. 

Before  long  she  complained  of  the  heat,  and  especially  of  her 
cough,  which,  she  said,  had  hindered  her  from  closing  her  eyes 
all  night;  and  by  the  time  the  carriage  had  reached  Saint- 


324  A  SECOND  HOME 

Denis,  Madame  C'rocliard  seemed  to  be  fast  asleep.  Her 
snores,  indeed,  poomed,  to  the  Gentleman  in  Black,  rather 
doubtfully  genuine,  and  he  frowned  as  he  looked  at  the  old 
womaJi  with  a  very  suspicious  eye. 

"Oh,  she  is  fast  asleep,"  said  Caroline  guilelessly;  "she 
never  ceased  coughing  all  night.     She  must  be  very  tired." 

Her  companion  made  no  reply,  but  he  looked  at  the  girl 
with  a  smile  that  seemed  to  say : 

"Poor  child,  you  little  know  your  mother!" 

However,  in  spite  of  his  distrust,  as  the  chaise  made  its  way 
down  the  long  avenue  of  poplars  leading  to  Eaubonne,  the 
Stranger  thought  that  Madame  Crochard  was  really  asleep; 
perhaps  he  did  not  care  to  inquire  how  far  her  slumbers 
were  genuine  or  feigned.  Whether  it  were  that  the  brilliant 
sky,  the  pure  country  air,  and  the  heady  fragrance  of  the  first 
green  shoots  of  the  poplars,  the  catkins  of  willow,  and  the 
flowers  of  the  blackthorn  had  inclined  his  heart  to  open  like  all 
the  nature  around  him ;  or  that  any  longer  restraint  was  too 
oppressive  while  Caroline's  sparkling  eyes  responded  to  his 
own,  the  Gentleman  in  Black  entered  on  a  conversation  with 
his  young  companion,  as  aimless  as  the  swaying  of  the 
branches  in  the  wind,  as  devious  as  the  flitting  of  the  butter- 
flies in  the  azure  air,  as  illogical  as  the  melodious  murmur 
of  the  fields,  and,  like  it,  full  of  mysterious  love.  At  that 
season  is  not  the  rural  country  as  tremulous  as  a  bride  that  has 
donned  her  marriage  robe;  does  it  not  invite  the  coldest  soul 
to  be  happy?  What  heart  could  remain  unthawed.  and  what 
lips  could  keep  its  secret,  on  leaving  the  gloomy  streets  of  the 
Marais  for  the  first  time  since  the  previous  autumn,  and  en- 
tering the  smiling  and  picturesque  valley  of  Montmorency ; 
on  seeing  it  in  the  morning  light,  its  endless  horizons  receding 
from  view;  and  then  lifting  a  charmed  gaze  to  eyes  which  ex- 
pressed no  less  infinitude  mingled  with  love? 

The  Stranger  discovered  that  Caroline  was  sprightly  rather 
than  witty,  afl'ectionate,  but  ill  educated ;  but  while  her  laugh 
wa?  giddy,  her  words  promised  areniiine  feeling.  When,  in 
respon-se  to  hex  nompanion''^  shrewd  questioning,   the  girl 


A  SECOND  HOME  325 

spoke  with  the  heartfelt  effusiveness  of  which  the  lower 
classes  are  lavish,  not  guarding  it  with  reticence  like  people 
of  the  world,  the  Black  Gentleman's  face  brightened,  and 
seemed  to  renew  its  youth.  His  countenance  by  degrees  lost 
the  sadness  that  lent  sternness  to  his  features,  and  little  by 
little  they  gained  a  look  of  handsome  youthfulness  which 
made  Caroline  proud  and  happy.  The  pretty  needlewoman 
guessed  that  her  new  friend  had  been  long  weaned  from 
tenderness  and  love,  and  no  longer  believed  in  the  devotion  of 
woman.  Finally,  some  unexpected  sally  in  Caroline's  light 
prattle  lifted  the  last  veil  that  concealed  the  real  youth  and 
genuine  character  of  the  Stranger's  physiognomy ;  he  seemed 
to  bid  farewell  forever  to  the  ideas  that  haunted  him,  and 
showed  the  natural  liveliness  that  lay  beneath  the  solemnity 
of  his  expression. 

Their  conversation  had  insensibly  become  so  intimate, 
that  by  the  time  when  the  carriage  stopped  at  the  first  houses 
of  the  straggling  village  of  Saint-Leu,  Caroline  was  calling 
the  gentleman  Monsieur  Eoger.  Then  for  the  first  time  the 
old  mother  awoke. 

"Caroline,  she  has  heard  everything!"  said  Eoger  suspi- 
ciously in  the  girl's  ear. 

Caroline's  reply  was  an  exquisite  smile  of  disbelief,  which 
dissipated  the  dark  cloud  that  his  fear  of  some  plot  on  the  old 
woman's  part  had  brought  to  this  suspicious  mortal's  brow. 
Madame  Crochard  was  amazed  at  nothing,  approved  of  every- 
thing, followed  her  daughter  and  Monsieur  Eoger  into  the 
park,  where  the  two  young  people  had  agreed  to  wander 
through  the  smiling  meadows  and  fragrant  copses  made  fa- 
mous by  the  taste  of  Queen  Hortense. 

"Good  heavens !  how  lovely !"  exclaimed  Caroline  when '. 
standing  on  the  green  ridge  where  the  forest  of  Montmorenc} 
begins,  she  saw  lying  at  her  feet  the  wide  valley  with  its  combes 
sheltering  scattered  villages,  its  horizon  of  blue  hills,  its  church 
towers,  its  meadows  and  fields,  whence  a  murmur  came  up,  to 
die  on  her  ear  like  the  swell  of  the  ocean.  The  three  wander- 
ers made  their  way  by  the  bank  of  an  artificial  stream  and 


326  A  SECOND  HOME 

came  to  the  Swiss  valley,  where  stands  a  chalet  that  had  more 
than  once  jriven  shelter  to  llortense  and  Napoleon.  When 
Caroline  had  seated  herself  with  pious  reverence  on  the  mossy 
wooden  bench  where  kings  and  princesses  and  the  Emperoi 
had  rested,  i\Iadame  Crochard  expressed  a  wish  to  have  a 
nearer  view  of  a  bridge  that  hung  across  between  two  rocks  at 
some  little  distance,  and  bent  her  steps  towards  that  rural  cu- 
riosity, leaving  her  daughter  in  Monsieur  Roger's  care,  though 
telling  them  that  she  would  not  go  out  of  sight. 

"What,  poor  child !"  cried  Roger,  "have  you  never  longed 
for  wealth  and  the  pleasures  of  luxury?  Have  you  never 
wished  that  you  might  wear  the  beautiful  dresses  you  em- 
broider ?" 

"It  would  not  be  the  truth,  Monsieur  Roger,  if  I  were  to 
tell  you  that  I  never  think  how  happy  people  must  be  who  are 
rich.  Oh  yes !  I  often  fancy,  especially  when  I  am  going  to 
sleep,  how  glad  I  should  be  to  see  my  poor  mother  no  longer 
compelled  to  go  out,  whatever  the  weather,  to  buy  our  little 
provisions,  at  her  age.  I  should  like  her  to  have  a  servant 
who,  every  morning  before  she  was  up,  would  bring  her  up  her 
coffee,  nicely  sweetened  with  white  sugar.  And  she  loves  read- 
ing novels,  poor  dear  soul !  Well,  and  I  would  rather  see  her 
wearing  out  her  eyes  over  her  favorite  books  than  over  twisting 
her  bobbins  from  morning  till  night.  And  again,  she  ought 
to  have  a  little  good  wine.  In  short,  I  should  like  to  see  her 
comfortable — she  is  so  good." 

"Then  she  has  shown  you  great  kindness  ?" 

"Oh  yes,"  said  the  girl,  in  a  tone  of  conviction.  Then,  after 
a  short  pause,  during  which  the  two  young  people  stood  watch- 
ing Madame  Crochard,  who  had  got  to  the  middle  of  the  rustic 
bridge,  and  was  shaking  her  finger  at  them,  Caroline  went  on : 

"Oh  yes,  she  has  been  so  good  to  me.  What  care  she  took 
of  me  when  I  was  little !  She  sold  her  last  silver  forks  to  ap- 
prentice me  to  the  old  maid  who  taught  me  to  embroider. — 
And  my  poor  father !  What  did  she  not  go  through  to  make 
him  end  his  days  in  happiness !"  The  girl  shivered  at  the 
remembrance,  and  hid  her  fare  in  her  hands. — "Well !  come! 
let  us  forget  past  sorrows  !"'  she  added,  trying  to  rally  her  high 


A  SECOND  HOME  327 

spirits.  She  blushed  as  she  saw  that  Roger  too  was  moved, 
but  she  dared  not  look  at  him. 

"What  was  your  father  ?"  he  asked. 

"He  was  an  opera-dancer  before  the  Eevolution/'  said  she, 
with  an  air  of  perfect  simplicity,  "and  my  mother  sang  in  the 
chorus.  My  father,  who  was  leader  of  the  figures  on  the  stage, 
happened  to  be  present  at  the  siege  of  the  Bastille.  He  was  rec- 
ognized by  some  of  the  assailants,  who  asked  him  whether  he 
could  not  lead  a  real  attack,  since  he  was  used  to  leading  such 
enterprises  on  the  boards.  My  father  was  brave ;  he  accepted 
the  post,  led  the  insurgents,  and  was  rewarded  by  the  nomina- 
tion to  the  rank  of  captain  in  the  army  of  Sambre-et-Meuse, 
where  he  distinguished  himself  so  far  as  to  rise  rapidly  to  be 
a  colonel.  But  at  Tjutzen  he  was  so  badly  wounded  that,  after 
a  year's  sufferings,  he  died  in  Paris. — The  Bourbons  returned ; 
my  mother  could  obtain  no  pension,  and  we  fell  into  such 
abject  miserjr  that  we  were  compelled  to  work  for  our  living. 
For  some  time  past  she  has  been  ailing,  poor  dear,  and  I  have 
never  known  her  so  little  resigned ;  she  complains  a  good  deal, 
and,  indeed,  I  cannot  wonder,  for  she  has  known  the  pleasures 
of  an  easy  life.  For  my  part,  I  cannot  pine  for  delights  I 
have  never  known,  I  have  but  one  thing  to  wish  for.^' 

"And  that  is  ?"  said  Roger  eagerly,  as  if  roused  from  a 
dream. 

"That  women  may  long  continue  to  wear  embroidered  net 
dresses,  so  that  I  may  never  lack  work." 

The  frankness  of  this  confession  interested  the  young  man, 
who  looked  with  less  hostile  eyes  on  Madame  Crochard  as  she 
slowly  made  her  way  back  to  them. 

"Well,  children,  have  you  had  a  long  talk?"  said  she,  with 
a  half-laughing,  half-indulgent  air.  "When  I  think.  Mon- 
sieur Roger,  that  the  'little  Corporal'  has  sat  where  you  are 
sitting,"  she  went  on  after  a  pause.  "Poor  man  !  how  my  hus- 
band worshiped  him !  Ah !  Crochard  did  well  to  die,  for  he 
could  not  have  borne  to  think  of  him  where  thetj  have  sent 
him !" 

Roger  put  his  finger  to  his  lips,  and  the  good  woman  went  on 
very  gravely,  with  a  shake  of  her  head: 


328  A  SECOND  HOME 

"All  right,  mouth  shut  and  tongue  still !  But,"  added  she, 
unliooking  a  l)it  of  her  bodice,  and  showing  a  ribbon  and  cross 
tied  round  hor  r.cck  by  a  piece  of  black  ribbon,  "they  shall 
never  hinder  me  from  wearing  what  he  gave  to  my  poor  Cro- 
chard,  and  I  will  have  it  buried  with  me." 

On  hearing  this  speech,  which  at  that  time  was  regarded 
as  seditious,  Roger  interrupted  the  old  lady  by  rising  suddenly, 
and  they  returned  to  the  village  through  the  park  walks.  The 
young  man  left  them  for  a  few  minutes  while  he  went  to 
order  a  meal  at  the  best  eating-house  in  Taverny;  then,  re- 
turning to  fetch  them,  he  led  the  way  through  the  alleys  cut 
in  the  forest. 

The  dinner  was  cheerful.  Roger  was  no  longer  the  melan- 
choly shade  that  was  wont  to  pass  along  the  Rue  du  Tourni- 
quet; he  was  not  the  "Black  Gentleman,"  but  rather  a  confid- 
ing young  man  ready  to  take  life  as  it  came,  like  the  two  hard- 
working women  who,  on  the  morrow,  might  lack  bread;  he 
seemed  alive  to  all  the  joys  of  youth,  his  smile  was  quite 
affectionate  and  childlike. 

When,  at  five  o'clock,  this  happy  meal  was  ended  with  a 
few  glasses  of  champagne,  Roger  was  the  first  to  propose  that 
they  should  join  the  village  ball  under  the  chestnuts,  where  he 
and  Caroline  danced  together.  Their  hands  met  with  sym- 
pathetic pressure,  their  hearts  beat  with  the  same  hopes;  and 
under  the  blue  sky  and  the  slanting,  rosy  beams  of  sunset,  their 
eyes  sparkled  with  fires  which,  to  them,  made  the  glory  of  the 
heavens  pale.  How  strange  is  the  power  of  an  idea,  of  a  de- 
sire! To  these  two  nothing  seemed  impossible.  In  such 
magic  moments,  when  enjoyment  sheds  its  reflections  on  the 
future,  the  soul  foresees  nothing  but  happiness.  This  sweet 
day  had  created  memories  for  these  two  to  which  nothing  could 
be  compared  in  all  their  past  existence.  Would  the  source 
prove  to  be  more  beautiful  than  the  river,  the  desire  more  en- 
chanting than  its  gratification,  the  thing  hoped  for  more  de- 
lightful than  the  thing  possessed? 

"So  the  day  is  already  at  an  end!"  On  hearing  this  ex- 
clamation from  her  unknown  friend  when  the  dance  was  over, 


A  SECOND  HOME  329 

Caroline  looked  at  him  compassionately,  as  his  face  assumed 
once  more  a  faint  shade  of  sadness. 

"Why  should  you  not  be  as  liappy  in  Paris  as  you  are  here  ?" 
she  asked.  "Is  happiness  to  be  found  only  at  Saint-Leu  ?  It 
seems  to  me  that  I  can  henceforth  never  be  unhappy  any- 
where." 

Eoger  was  struck  by  these  words,  spoken  with  the  glad  un- 
restraint that  always  carries  a  woman  further  than  she  in- 
tended, just  as  prudery  often  lends  her  greater  cruelty  than 
she  feels.  For  the  first  time  since  that  glance,  which  had,  in 
a  way,  been  the  beginning  of  their  friendship,  Caroline  and 
Roger  had  the  same  idea;  though  they  did  not  express  it, 
they  felt  it  at  the  same  instant,  as  a  result  of  a  common  im- 
pression like  that  of  a  comforting  fire  cheering  both  under  the 
frost  of  winter ;  then,  as  if  frightened  by  each  other's  silence, 
they  made  their  way  to  the  spot  where  the  carriage  was  wait- 
ing. But  before  getting  into  it,  they  playfully  took  hands  and 
ran  together  down  the  dark  avenue  in  front  of  Madame 
Crochard.  When  they  could  no  longer  see  the  white  net  cap, 
which  showed  as  a  speck  through  the  leaves  where  the  old 
woman  was — "Caroline  !"  said  Roger  in  a  tremulous  voice,  and 
with  a  beating  heart. 

The  girl  was  startled,  and  drew  back  a  few  steps,  under- 
standing the  invitation  this  question  conveyed;  however,  she 
held  out  her  hand,  which  was  passionately  kissed,  but  which 
she  hastily  withdrew,  for  by  standing  on  tiptoe  she  could  see 
her  mother. 

Madame  Crochard  affected  blindness,  as  if,  with  a  reminis- 
cence of  her  old  parts,  she  was  only  required  to  figure  as  a 
supernumerary. 

The  adventures  of  these  two  young  people  were  not  con- 
tinued in  the  Rue  du  Tourniquet.  To  see  Roger  and  Caroline 
once  more,  we  must  leap  into  the  heart  of  modern  Paris, 
where,  in  some  of  the  newly-built  houses,  there  are  apartments 
that  seem  made  on  purpose  for  newly-married  couples  to  spend 
their  honeymoon  in.     There  the  paper  and  paint  are  as  fresh 


330  A  SECOND  HOME 

as  the  bride  and  bridegroom,  and  the  decorations  are  in 
blossom  like  their  love;  everything  is  in  harmony  with  youth- 
ful notions  and  ardent  wishes. 

Half-way  down  the  Rue  Taitbout,  in  a  house  whose  stone 
walls  were  still  white,  where  the  columns  of  the  hall  and  the 
doorway  were  as  yet  spotless,  and  the  inner  walls  shone  with 
the  neat  painting  which  our  recent  intimacy  with  English 
ways  had  brought  into  fashion,  there  was,  on  the  second  lloor, 
a  small  set  of  rooms  fitted  by  the  architect  as  though  he  had 
known  what  tlieir  use  would  be.  A  simple  airy  ante-room, 
with  a  stucco  dado,  formed  an  entrance  into  a  drawing-room 
and  dining-room.  Out  of  the  drawing-room  opened  a  pretty 
bedroom,  with  a  bathroom  beyond.  Every  chimney-shelf 
had  over  it  a  fine  mirror  elegantly  framed.  The  doors  were 
crowded  with  arabesques  in  good  taste,  and  the  cornices  were 
in  the  best  style.  Any  amateur  would  have  discerned  there 
the  sense  of  distinction  and  decorative  fitness  which  mark  the 
work  of  modern  French  architects. 

For  above  a  month  Caroline  had  been  at  home  in  this 
apartment,  furnished  by  an  upholsterer  who  submitted  to  an 
artist's  guidance.  A  short  description  of  the  principal  room 
will  suffice  to  give  an  idea  of  the  wonders  it  otfered  to  Caro- 
line's delighted  eyes  when  Roger  installed  her  there.  Hang- 
ings of  gray  stuff  trimmed  with  green  silk  adorned  the  walls 
of  her  bedroom;  the  seats,  covered  with  light-colored  woolen 
sateen,  were  of  easy  and  comfortable  shapes,  and  in  the  latest 
fashion;  a  chest  of  draw'ers  of  some  simple  wood,  inlaid  with 
lines  of  a  darker  hue,  contained  the  treasures  of  the  toilet; 
a  writing-tatle  to  match  served  for  inditing  love-letters  on 
scented  paper;  the  bed,  with  antique  draperies,  could  not  fail 
to  suggest  thoughts  of  love  by  its  soft  hangings  of  elegant 
(muslin;  the  window-curtains,  of  drab  silk  with  green  fringe, 
were  always  half  drawn  to  subdue  the  light;  a  bronze  clock 
represented  Love  crowning  Psyche;  and  a  carpet  of  Gothic 
design  on  a  red  ground  set  off  the  other  accessories  of  this 
delightful  retreat.  There  was  a  small  dressing-table  in  front 
of  a  long  glass,  and  here  the  ex-needlewoman  sat,  out  of 
patience  with  Plaisir,  the  famous  hairdresser. 


A  SECOND  HOME  331 

"Do  you  think  you  will  have  done  to-day  ?"  said  she. 

"Your  hair  is  so  long  and  so  thick,  madame,"  replied 
Plaisir. 

Caroline  could  not  help  smiling.  The  man's  flattery  had 
no  doubt  revived  in  her  mind  the  memory  of  the  passionate 
praises  lavished  by  her  lover  on  the  beauty  of  her  hair,  which 
he  delighted  in. 

The  hairdresser  having  done,  a  waiting-maid  came  and  held 
counsel  with  her  as  to  the  dress  in  which  Roger  would  like  best 
to  see  her.  It  was  in  the  beginning  of  September  1816,  and 
the  weather  was  cold;  she  chose  a  green  grenadine  trimmed 
with  chinchilla.  As  soon  as  she  was  dressed,  Caroline  flew 
into  the  drawing-room  and  opened  a  window,  out  of  which 
she  stepped  on  to  the  elegant  balcony,  that  adorned  the  front 
of  the  house;  there  she  stood,  with  her  arms  crossed,  in  a 
charming  attitude,  not  to  show  herself  to  the  admiration  of 
the  passers-by  and  see  them  turn  to  gaze  at  her,  but  to  be  able 
to  look  out  on  the  Boulevard  at  the  bottom  of  the  Eue  Tait- 
bout.  This  side  view,  really  very  comparable  to  the  peep- 
hole made  by  actors  in  the  drop-scene  of  a  theatre,  enabled 
her  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  numbers  of  elegant  carriages, 
and  a  crowd  of  persons,  swept  past  with  the  rapidity  of 
Omhres  Chinoises.  Not  knowing  whether  Eoger  Avould  ar- 
rive in  a  carriage  or  on  foot,  the  needlewoman  from  the  Eue 
du  Tourniquet  looked  by  turns  at  the  foot-passengers,  and  at 
the  tilburies — light  cabs  introduced  into  Paris  by  the  English. 

Expressions  of  refractoriness  and  of  love  passed  by  turns 
over  her  youthful  face  when,  after  waiting  for  a  quarter  of  an 
hour,  neither  her  keen  eye  nor  her  heart  had  announced  the 
arrival  of  him  whom  she  knew  to  be  due.  What  disdain, 
what  indifference  were  shown  in  her  beautiful  features  for 
all  the  other  creatures  who  were  bustling  like  ants  below  her 
feet.  Her  gray  eyes,  sparkling  with  fun,  now  positively 
flamed.  Given  over  to  her  passion,  she  avoided  admiration 
with  as  much  care  as  the  proudest  devote  to  encouraging  it 
when  they  drive  about  Paris,  certainly  feeling  no  care  as  to 
whether  her  fair  countenance  leaning  over  the  balcony,  or  her 


382  A  SECOND  HOME 

little  foot  between  the  bars,  and  the  picture  of  her  bright  eyes 
and  delicious  turncd-up  nose  would  be  effaced  or  no  from  the 
minds  of  the  passers-by  who  admired  them;  she  saw  but  one 
face,  and  had  but  one  idea.  When  the  spotted  head  of  a  cer- 
tain bay  horse  happened  to  cross  the  narrow  strip  between 
the  two  rows  of  houses,  Caroline  gave  a  little  shiver  and  stood 
on  tiptoe  in  hope  of  recognizing  the  white  traces  and  the  color 
of  the  tilbury.     It  was  he ! 

Roger  turned  the  corner  of  the  street,  saw  the  balcony, 
whipped  the  horse,  which  came  up  at  a  gallop,  and  stopped 
at  the  bronze-green  door  that  he  knew  as  well  as  his  master 
did.  The  door  of  the  apartment  was  opened  at  once  by  the 
maid,  who  had  heard  her  mistress'  exclamation  of  delight. 
Eoger  rushed  up  to  the  drawing-room,  clasped  Caroline  in 
his  arms,  and  embraced  her  with  the  effusive  feeling  natural 
when  two  beings  who  love  each  other  rarely  meet.  He  led 
her,  or  rather  they  went  by  a  common  impulse,  their  arms 
about  each  other,  into  the  quiet  and  fragrant  bedroom;  a 
settee  stood  ready  for  them  to  sit  by  the  fire,  and  for  a  mo- 
ment they  looked  at  each  other  in  silence,  expressing  their 
happiness  only  by  their  clasped  hands,  and  communicating 
their  thoughts  in  a  fond  gaze. 

"Yes,  it  is  he  V  she  said  at  last.  "Yes,  it  is  you.  Do  you 
know,  I  have  not  seen  ^-^ou  for  three  long  days,  an  age ! — But 
what  is  the  matter?     You  are  unhappy." 

"My  poor  Caroline " 

"There,  you  see !  'poor  Caroline' " 


"No,  no,  do  not  laugh,  my  darling;  we  cannot  go  to  the 
Feydeau  Theatre  together  this  evening." 

Caroline  put  on  a  little  pout,  but  it  vanished  immediately. 

"How  absurd  I  am !  How  can  I  think  of  going  to  the  plav 
■when  I  see  you?  Is  not  the  sight  of  ^'•ou  the  only  spectacle 
I.  care  for?"  she  cried,  pushing  her  fingers  through  Roger's 
hair. 

"I  am  obliged  to  go  to  the  Attorney-General's.  We  have  a 
knotty  ease  in  hand.  He  met  me  in  the  great  hall  at  the 
Palais ;  and  as  I  am  to  plead,  he  asked  me  to  dine  with  him. 


A  SECOND  HOME  333 

But,  my  dearest,  you  can  go  to  the  theatre  with  your  mother, 
and  I  will  join  you  if  the  meeting  breaks  up  early." 

"To  the  theatre  without  you  !"  cried  she  in  a  tone  of  amaze- 
ment ;  "enjoy  any  pleasure  you  do  not  share  !  0  my  Roger ! 
you  do  not  deserve  a  kiss,"  she  added,  throwing  her  arms 
round  his  neck  with  an  artless  and  impassioned  impulse. 

"Caroline,  I  must  go  home  and  dress.     The  Marais  is  some 
way  off,  and  I  still  have  some  business  to  finish." 
i     "Take  care  what  you  are  saying,  monsieur,"  said  she,  in- 
terrupting him.     "My  mother  says  that  when  a  man  begins 
to  talk  about  his  busines,  he  is  ceasing  to  love." 

"Caroline !  Am  I  not  here  ?  Have  I  not  stolen  this  hour 
from  my  pitiless " 

"Hush !"  said  she,  laying  a  finger  on  his  mouth.  "Don't 
you  see  that  I  am  in  jest." 

They  had  now  come  back  to  the  drawing-room,  and  Eoger's 
eye  fell  on  an  object  brought  home  that  morning  by  the 
cabinetmaker.  Caroline's  old  rosewood  embroidery-frame,  by 
which  she  and  her  mother  had  earned  their  bread  when  they 
lived  in  the  Rue  du  Tourniquet-Saint-Jean,  had  been  refitted 
and  polished,  and  a  net  dress,  of  elaborate  design,  was  already 
stretched  upon  it. 

"Well,  then,  my  dear,  I  shall  do  some  work  this  evening. 
As  I  stitch,  I  shall  fancy  myself  gone  back  to  those  early  days 
when  you  used  to  pass  by  me  without  a  word,  but  not  with- 
out a  glance;  the  days  when  the  remembrance  of  your  look 
kept  me  awake  all  night.  0  my  dear  old  frame — ^the  best 
piece  of  furniture  in  my  room,  though  you  did  not  give  it 
me ! — You  cannot  think,"  said  she,  seating  herself  on  Roger's 
knees;  for  he,  overcome  by  irresistible  feelings,  had  dropped 
into  a  chair.  "Listen. — All  I  can  earn  by  my  work  I  mean 
to  give  to  the  poor.  You  have  made  me  rich.  How  I  love 
that  pretty  home  at  Bellefeuille,  less  because  of  what  it  is 
than  because  you  gave  it  me !  But  tell  me,  Roger,  I  should 
like  to  call  myself  Caroline  de  Bellefeuille — ean  I?  You 
must  know:  is  it  legal  or  permissible? 

As  she  saw  a  little  affirmative  grimace — for  Roger  hated 


334  A  SECOND  HOME 

tho  name  of  Crocliard — Caroline  jumped  for  glee,  and 
clapped  her  hands. 

"I  feel,''  said  she,  "as  if  I  should  more  especially  belong  to 
you.     Usually  a  woman  gives  up  her  own  name  and  takes 

her  husband's "     An  idea  forced  itself  upon  her  and 

made  her  blush.  She  took  Roger's  hand  and  led  him  to  the 
open  piano. — "Listen,"  said  she,  "I  can  play  my  sonata  now 
like  an  angel !''  and  her  fingers  were  already  running  over  the 
ivory  keys,  when  she  felt  herself  seized  round  the  waist.  \ 

"Caroline,  I  ought  to  be  far  from  hence !" 

"You  insist  on  going?  Well,  go,"  said  she,  with  a  pretty 
pout,  but  she  smiled  as  she  looked  at  the  clock  and  exclaimed 
joyfully,  "At  any  rate,  I  have  detained  you  a  quarter  of  an 
hour !" 

"Good-bj'e,  Mademoiselle  de  Bellefeuille,"  said  he,  with  the 
gentle  irony  of  love. 

She  kissed  him  and  saw  her  lover  to  the  door;  when  the 
sound  of  his  steps  had  died  away  on  the  stairs  she  ran  out  on  to 
the  balcony  to  see  him  get  into  the  tilbury,  to  see  him  gather 
up  the  reins,  to  catch  a  parting  look,  hear  the  crack  of  his  whip 
and  the  sound  of  liis  wheels  on  the  stones,  watch  the  hand- 
some horse,  the  master's  hat,  the  tiger's  gold  lace,  and  at  last 
to  stand  gazing  long  after  the  dark  corner  of  the  street  had 
eclipsed  this  vision. 

Five  years  after  Mademoiselle  Caroline  de  Bellefeuille  had 
taken  up  her  abode  in  the  pretty  house  in  the  Rue  Taitbout, 
we  again  look  in  on  one  of  those  home-scenes  which  tighten 
the  bonds  of  affection  between  two  persons  who  truly  love. 
In  the  middle  of  the  blue  drawing-room,  in  front  of  the  win- 
dow opening  to  the  balcony,  a  little  boy  of  four  was  making 
a  tremendous  noise  as  he  whipped  the  rocking-horse,  whose 
two  curved  supports  for  the  legs  did  not  move  fast  enough  to 
please  him ;  his  pretty  face,  framed  in  fair  curls  that  fell 
over  his  white  collar,  smiled  up  like  a  cherub's  at  his  mother 
when  she  said  to  him  from  the  depths  of  an  easy-chair,  "Not 
60  much  noise,  Charles ;  you  will  wake  your  little  sister." 


A  SECOND  HOME  335 

The  inquisitive  boy  suddenly  got  off  his  horse,  and  treading 
on  tiptoe  as  if  he  were  afraid  of  the  sound  of  his  feet  on  the 
carpet,  came  up  with  one  finger  between  his  little  teeth,  and 
standing  in  one  of  those  childish  attitudes  that  are  so  graceful 
because  they  are  so  perfectly  natural,  raised  the  muslin  veil 
that  hid  the  rosy  face  of  a  little  girl  sleeping  on  her  mother's 
knee. 

"Is  Eugenie  asleep,  then  ?"  said  he,  quite  astonished.    "Why 
is  she  asleep  when  we  are  awake  ?"  he  added,  looking  up  with 
large,  liquid  black  eyes. 
•     "That  only  God  can  know,"  replied  Caroline  with  a  smile. 

The  mother  and  boy  gazed  at  the  infant,  only  that  morning 
baptized. 

Caroline,  now  about  four-and-twenty,  showed  the  ripe 
beauty  which  had  expanded  under  the  influence  of  cloudless 
happiness  and  constant  enjoyment.  In  her  the  Woman  was 
complete. 

Delighted  to  obey  her  dear  Eoger's  every  wish,  she  had 
acquired  the  accomplishments  she  had  lacked;  she  played  the 
piano  fairly  well,  and  sang  sweetly.  Ignorant  of  the  customs 
of  a  world  that  would  have  treated  her  as  an  outcast,  and 
which  she  would  not  have  cared  for  even  if  it  had  welcomed 
her — for  a  happy  woman  does  not  care  for  the  world — she 
had  not  caught  the  elegance  of  manner  or  learned  the  art  of 
conversation,  abounding  in  words  and  devoid  of  ideas,  which 
is  current  in  fashionable  drawing-rooms;  on  the  other  hand, 
she  worked  hard  to  gain  the  knowledge  indispensable  to  a 
mother  whose  chief  ambition  is  to  bring  up  her  children  well. 
Never  to  lose  sight  of  her  boy,  to  give  him  from  the  cradle 
that  training  of  every  minute  which  impresses  on  the  young 
a  love  of  all  that  is  good  and  beautiful,  to  shelter  him  from 
every  evil  influence  and  fulfil  both  the  painful  duties  of  a 
nurse  and  the  tender  offices  of  a  mother, — these  were  her 
chief  pleasures. 

The  coy  and  gentle  being  had  from  the  first  day  so  fully 
resigned  herself  never  to  step  beyond  the  enchanted  sphere 
where  she  found  all  her  happiness,  that,  after  six  years  of 


336  A  SECOND  HOME 

the  tendorcpt  intimacy,  she  still  knew  her  lover  only  by  the 
name  of  Ro^er.  A  print  of  the  picture  of  Psyche  lighting 
her  lamp  to  gaze  on  Love  in  spite  of  his  prohibition,  hiing 
in  her  room,  and  constantly  reminded  her  of  the  conditions 
of  her  happiness.  Tlirough  all  these  six  years  her  humble 
pleasures  had  never  importuned  Eoger  by  a  single  indiscreet 
ambition,  and  his  heart  was  a  treasure-house  of  kindness. 
Never  had  she  longed  for  diamonds  or  fine  clothes,  and  had 
again  and  again  refused  the  luxur}'  of  a  carriage  which  he 
had  offered  her.  To  look  out  from  her  balcony  for  Roger's 
cab,  to  go  with  him.  to  the  play  or  make  excursions  with  him', 
on  fine  days  in  the  environs  of  Paris,  to  long  for  him, 
to  see  him,  and  then  to  long  again, — these  made  up  the  his- 
tory of  her  life,  poor  in  incidents  but  rich  in  happiness. 

As  she  rocked  the  infant,  now  a  few  months  old,  on  her 
knee,  singing  the  while,  she  allowed  herself  to  recall  the  memo- 
ries of  the  past.  She  lingered  more  especially  on  the 
months  of  September,  when  Roger  was  accustomed  to  take  her 
to  BellefeuiHe  and  spend  the  delightful  days  which  seem  to 
combine  the  charms  of  everj'  season.  Nature  is  equally  prod- 
igal of  flowers  and  fruit,  the  evenings  arc  mild,  the  mornings 
bright,  and  a  blaze  of  summer  often  returns  after  a  spell  of 
autumn  gloom.  During  the  early  days  of  their  love,  Caro- 
line had  ascribed  the  even  mind  and  gentle  temper,  of  which 
Roger  gave  her  so  many  proofs,  to  the  rarity  of  their  always 
longed-for  meetings,  and  to  their  mode  of  life,  which  did  not 
compel  them  to  be  constantly  together,  as  a  husband  and  wife 
must  be.  But  now  she  could  remember  with  rapture  that, 
tortured  by  foolish  fears,  she  had  watched  him  with  trembling 
during  their  first  stay  on  this  little  estate  in  the  Gatinais. 
Vain  suspiciousness  of  love !  Each  of  these  months  of  happi- 
ness had  passed  like  a  dream  in  the  midst  of  joys  which  never 
rang  false.  She  had  always  seen  that  kind  creature  with  a 
tender  smile  on  his  lips,  a  smile  that  seemed  to  mirror  her 
own. 

As  she  called  up  these  vivid  pictures,  her  eyes  filled  with 
tears;  she  thought  she  could  not  love  him  enough,  and  was 


A  SECOND  HOME  33? 

tempted  to  regard  her  ambiguous  position  as  a  sort  of  tax 
levied  by  Fate  on  her  love.  Finally,  invincible  curiosity  led 
her  to  wonder  for  the  thousandth  time  what  events  they 
could  be  that  led  so  tender  a  heart  as  Roger's  to  find  his 
pleasure  in  clandestine  and  illicit  happiness.  She  invented 
a  thousand  romances  on  purpose  really  to  avoid  recognizing 
the  true  reason,  which  she  had  long  suspected  but  tried  not 
to  believe  in.  She  rose,  and  carrying  the  baby  in  her  arms, 
went  into  the  dining-room  to  superintend  the  preparations 
for  dinner. 

It  was  the  6th  of  May  1822,  the  anniversary  of  the  ex- 
cursion to  the  Park  of  Saint-Leu,  which  had  been  the  turn- 
ing-point of  her  life ;  each  year  it  had  been  marked  by  heart- 
felt rejoicing.  Caroline  chose  the  linen  to  be  used,  and 
arranged  the  dessert.  Having  attended  with  joy  to  these  de- 
tails, which  touched  Roger,  she  placed  the  infant  in  her  pretty 
cot  and  went  out  on  to  the  balcony,  whence  she  presently  saw 
the  carriage  which  her  friend,  as  he  grew  to  riper  years,  now 
used  instead  of  the  smart  tilbury  of  his  youth.  After  sub- 
mitting to  the  first  fire  of  Caroline's  embraces  and  the  kisses 
of  the  little  rogue  who  addressed  him  as  papa,  Roger  went 
to  the  cradle,  looked  at  his  little  sleeping  daughter,  kissed  her 
forehead,  and  then  took  out  of  his  pocket  a  document  covered 
with  black  writing. 

"Caroline,"  said  he,  "here  is  the  marriage  portion  of  Made- 
moiselle Eugenie  de  Bellefeuille." 

The  mother  gratefully  took  the  paper,  a  deed  of  gift  of 
securities  in  the  State  funds. 

"But  why,"  said  she,  "have  you  given  Eugenie  three  thou- 
sand francs  a  year,  and  Charles  no  more  than  fifteen  hun- 
dred?" 

"Charles,  my  love,  will  be  a  man,"  replied  he.  "Fifteen 
hundred  francs  are  enough  for  him.  With  so  much  for  cer- 
tain, a  man  of  courage  is  above  poverty.  And  if  by  chance 
your  son  should  turn  out  a  nonentity,  I  do  not  wish  him  to 
be  able  to  play  the  fool.     If  he  is  ambitious,  this  small  in- 


338  A  SECOND  HOME 

come  will  give  him  a  taste  for  work. — Eugenie  is  a  girl ;  she 
must  have  a  little  fortune." 

The  father  then  turned  to  play  with  his  boy,  whose  effusive 
affection  showed  the  independence  and  freedom  in  which  he 
was  brought  up.  No  sort  of  shyness  between  the  father  and 
child  interfered  with  the  charm  which  rewards  a  parent  for  his 
devotion ;  and  the  cheerfulness  of  the  little  family  was  as 
sweet  as  it  was  genuine.  In  the  evening  a  magic-lantern 
displayed  its  illusions  and  mysterious  pictures  on  a  white 
sheet  to  Charles'  great  surprise,  and  more  than  once  the  inno- 
cent child's  heavenly  rapture  made  Caroline  and  Roger  laugh 
heartily. 

Later,  when  the  little  boy  was  in  bed,  the  baby  woke  and 
craved  its  limpid  nourishment.  By  the  light  of  a  lamp, 
in  tlie  chimney  corner,  Roger  enjoyed  the  scene  of  peace 
and  comfort,  and  gave  himself  up  to  the  happiness  of  con- 
templating the  sweet  picture  of  the  child  clinging  to  Caro- 
line's white  bosom  as  she  sat,  as  fresh  as  a  newly  opened  lily, 
while  her  hair  fell  in  long  broAvn  curls  that  almost  hid  her 
neck.  The  lamplight  enhanced  the  grace  of  the  young 
mother,  shedding  over  her,  her  dress,  and  the  infant,  the  pict- 
uresque effects  of  strong  light  and  shadow. 

The  calm  and  silent  woman's  face  struck  Roger  as  a  thou- 
sand times  sweeter  than  ever,  and  he  gazed  tenderly  at  the 
rosy,  pouting  lips  from  which  no  harsh  word  had  ever  been 
heard.  The  very  same  thought  was  legible  in  Caroline's  eyes 
as  she  gave  a  sidelong  look  at  Roger,  either  to  enjoy  the 
effect  she  was  producing  on  him,  or  to  see  what  the  end  of  the 
evening  was  to  be.  He,  understanding  the  meaning  of  this 
cunning  glance,  said  with  assumed  regret,  "I  must  be  going. 
I  have  a  serious  case  to  be  finished,  and  I  am  expected  at 
home.  Duty  before  all  things — don't  you  think  so,  my  dar- 
ling?" 

Caroline  looked  him  in  the  face  with  an  expression  at  once 
sad  and  sweet,  with  the  resignation  which  does  not,  however, 
disguise  the  pangs  of  a  sacrifice. 

"Cood-bye,  then,"  said  she.  "Go,  for  if  you  stay  an  hour 
longer  I  cannot  so  lightly  bear  to  set  you  free." 


A  SECOND  HOME  S38 

"My  dearest,"  said  he  with  a  smile,  "I  have  three  days' 
holiday,  and  am  supposed  to  be  twenty  leagues  away  from 
Paris." 

A  few  days  after  this  anniversary  of  the  6th  of  May,  Made- 
moiselle de  Bellefeuille  hurried  off  one  morning  to  the  Eue 
Saint-Louis,  in  the  Marais,  only  hoping  she  might  not  arrive 
too  late  at  a  house  where  she  commonly  went  once  a  week. 
An  express  messenger  had  just  come  to  inform  her  that  her 
mother,  Madame  Crochard,  was  sinking  under  a  complication 
of  disorders  produced  by  constant  catarrh  and  rheumatism. 

While  the  hackney  coach-driver  was  flogging  up  his  horses  at 
Caroline's  urgent  request,  supported  by  the  promise  of  a  hand- 
some present,  the  timid  old  women,  who  had  been  Madame 
Crochard's  friends  during  her  later  years,  had  brought  a  priest 
into  the  neat  and  comfortable  second-floor  rooms  occupied 
by  the  old  widow.  Madame  Crochard's  maid  did  not  know 
that  the  pretty  lady  at  whose  house  her  mistress  so  often  dined 
was  her  daughter,  and  she  was  one  of  the  first  to  suggest  the 
services  of  a  confessor,  in  the  hope  that  this  priest  might  be 
at  least  as  useful  to  herself  as  to  the  sick  woman.  Between 
two  games  of  boston,  or  out  walking  in  the  Jardin  Turc,  the 
old  beldames  with  whom  the  widow  gossiped  all  day  had  suc- 
ceeded in  rousing  in  their  friend's  stony  heart  some  scruples 
as  to  her  former  life,  some  visions  of  the  future,  some  fears 
of  hell,  and  some  hopes  of  forgiveness  if  she  should  return 
in  sincerity  to  a  religious  life.  So  on  this  solemn  morning 
three  ancient  females  had  settled  themselves  in  the  drawing- 
room  where  Madame  Crochard  was  "at  home"  every  Tuesday. 
Each  in  turn  left  her  armchair  to  go  to  the  poor  old  woman's 
bedside  and  to  sit  Avith  her,  giving  her  the  false  hopes  with 
'which  people  delude  the  dying. 

At  tbe  same  time,  when  the  end  was  drawing  near,  when  the 
physician  called  in  the  day  before  would  no  longer  answer  for 
her  life,  the  three  dames  took  counsel  together  as  to  whether 
it  would  not  be  well  to  send  word  to  Mademoiselle  de  Belle- 
feuille.    FranQoise  having  been  duly  informed,  it  was  de- 


340  A  SECOND  HOME 

cided  that  a  commissionaire  should  go  to  the  Rue  Taitboul 
to  inform  the  young  relation  whose  influence  was  so  disquiet- 
ing to  the  four  women;  still,  they  hoped  that  the  Auvergnat 
would  be  too  late  in  bringing  back  the  person  who  so  certainly 
held  tbe  first  place  in  the  widow  Crochard's  affiections.  The 
widow,  evidently  in  the  enjoyment  of  a  thousand  crowns  a 
year,  would  not  have  been  so  fondly  cherished  by  this  femi- 
nine trio,  but  that  neither  of  them,  nor  Frangoise  herself, 
knew  of  her  having  any  heir.  The  wealth  enjoyed  by  Made- 
moiselle de  Bellefeuille,  whom  Madame  Crochard,  in  obedience 
to  the  traditions  of  the  older  opera,  never  allowed  herself  to 
speak  of  by  the  affectionate  name  of  daughter,  almost  justified 
the  four  women  in  their  scheme  of  dividing  among  them- 
selves the  old  woman's  "pickings." 

Presently  the  one  of  these  three  sibyls  who  kept  guard  over 
the  sick  woman  came  shaking  her  head  at  the  other  anxious 
two,  and  said : 

"It  is  time  we  should  be  sending  for  the  Abbe  Fontanon. 
In  another  two  hours  she  will  neither  have  the  wit  nor  the 
strength  to  write  a  line." 

Thereupon  the  toothless  old  cook  went  off,  and  returned 
with  a  man  wearing  a  black  gown.  A  low  forehead  showed 
a  small  mind  in  this  priest,  whose  features  were  mean;  his 
flabby,  fat  cheeks  and  double  chin  betrayed  the  easy-going 
egotist:  his  powdered  hair  gave  him  a  pleasant  look,  till  he 
raised  his  small,  brown  eyes,  prominent  under  a  flat  forehead, 
and  not  unworthy  to  glitter  under  the  brows  of  a  Tartar. 

"Monsieur  I'Abbe,"  said  Frangoise,  "I  thank  you  for  all 
yt)ur  advice;  but  believe  me,  I  have  taken  the  greatest  care  of 
the  dear  soul." 

But  the  servant,  with  her  dragging  step  and  woe-begone 
look,  was  silent  when  she  saw  that  the  door  of  the  apartment 
was  open,  and  that  the  most  insinuating  of  the  three  dowagers 
was  standing  on  the  landing  to  be  the  first  to  speak  with  the 
confessor.  When  the  priest  had  politely  faced  the  honeyed  and 
bigoted  broadside  of  words  fired  off  from  the  widow's  three 
friends,  he  went  into  the  sickroom  to  sit  by  Madame  Crochard. 


A  SECOND  HOME  341 

Decency,  and  some  sense  of  reserve,  compelled  the  three 
women  and  old  Frangoise  to  remain  in  the  sitting-room,  and 
to  make  such  grimaces  of  grief  as  are  possible  in  perfection 
only  to  such  wrinkled  faces. 

"Oh,  is  it  not  ill-luck !"  cried  Frangoise,  heaving  a  sigh. 
"This  is  the  fourth  mistress  I  have  buried.  The  first  left  me 
a  hundred  francs  a  year,  the  second  a  sum  of  fifty  crowns, 
and  the  third  a  thousand  crowns  down.  x\fter  thirty  years' 
service,  that  is  all  I  have  to  call  my  own." 

The  woman  took  advantage  of  her  freedom  to  come  and  go, 
to  slip  into  a  cupboard,  whence  she  could  hear  the  priest. 

"I  see  with  pleasure,  daughter,"  said  Fontanon,  "that  you 
have  pious  sentiments;  you  have  a  sacred  relic  round  your 
neck." 

Madame  Crochard,  with  a  feeble  vagueness  which  seemed 
to  show  that  she  had  not  all  her  wits  about  her,  pulled 
out  the  Imperial  Cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honor.  The  priest 
started  back  at  seeing  the  Emperor's  head;  he  went  up  to  the 
penitent  again,  and  she  spoke  to  him,  but  in  such  a  low  tone 
that  for  some  minutes  Frangoise  could  hear  nothing. 

"Woe  upon  me !"  cried  the  old  woman  suddenly.  "Do  not 
desert  me.  What,  Monsieur  FAbbe,  do  you  think  I  shall  be 
called  to  account  for  my  daughter's  soul?" 

The  Abbe  spoke  too  low,  and  the  partition  was  too  thick 
for  Frangoise  to  hear  the  reply. 

"Alas !"  sobbed  the  woman,  "the  wretch  has  left  me 
nothing  that  I  can  bequeath.  When  he  robbed  me  of  my  dear 
Caroline,  he  parted  us,  and  only  allowed  me  three  thousand 
francs  a  year,  of  which  the  capital  belongs  to  my  daughter." 

"Madame  has  a  daughter,  and  nothing  to  live  on  but  an 
annuity,"'  shrieked  Frangoise,  bursting  into  the  drawing- 
room. 

The  three  old  crones  looked  at  each  other  in  dismay.  One 
of  them,  whose  nose  and  chin  nearly  met  with  an  expresion 
that  betrayed  a  superior  type  of  hypocrisy  and  cunning, 
winked  her  eyes;  and  as  soon  as  Frangoise's  back  was  turned, 
she  gave  her  friends  a  nod,  as  much  as  to  say,  "That  slut  is 


342  A  SECOND  HOME 

too  knowing  by  half;  her  name  has  figured  in  three  wills 
already." 

So  the  three  old  dames  sat  on. 

However,  the  Abbe  presently  came  out,  and  at  a  word  from, 
him  the  witches  scuttercd  down  the  stairs  at  his  heels,  leaving 
Frangoise  alone  with  her  mistress.  Madame  Crochard,  whose 
;  sufferings  increased  in  severity,  rang,  but  in  vain,  for  this 
w^oman,  who  only  called  out,  "Coming,  coming — in  a  minute !" 
The  doors  of  cupboards  and  wardrobes  were  slamming  as 
though  Frangoise  were  hunting  high  and  low  for  a  lost  lottery 
ticket. 

Just  as  this  crisis  was  at  a  climax.  Mademoiselle  de  Belle- 
feuille  came  to  stand  by  her  mother's  bed,  lavishing  tender 
words  on  her. 

"0  my  dear  mother,  how  criminal  I  have  been !  You  are 
ill,  and  I  did  not  know  it ;  my  heart  did  not  warn  me.  How- 
ever, here  I  am " 

"Caroline •" 

"What  is  it?" 

"They  fetched  a  priest " 


"But  send  for  a  doctor,  bless  me!"  cried  Mademoiselle  de 
Bellefeuille.  "Frangoise,  a  doctor !  How  is  it  that  those 
ladies  never  sent  for  a  doctor?" 

"They  sent  for  a  priest "  repeated  the  old  woman  with 

a  gasp. 

"She  is  so  ill — and  no  soothing  draught,  nothing  on  her 
table !" 

The  mother  made  a  vague  sign,  which  Caroline's  watchful 
eye  understood,  for  she  was  silent  to  let  her  mother  speak. 

"They  brought  a  priest — to  hear  my  confession,  as  they  said. 
— Beware,  Caroline  !"  cried  the  old  woman  with  an  effort,  "thej 
priest  made  me  tell  him  your  benefactor's  name." 

"But  who  can  have  told  5^ou,  poor  mother  ?" 

The  old  woman  died,  trying  to  look  knowingly  cunning. 
If  Mademoiselle  de  Bellefeuille  had  noted  her  mother's  face, 
she  might  have  seen  what  no  one  ever  will  see — Death  laugh- 
ing. 


A  SECOND  HOME  343 

To  enter  into  the  interests  that  lay  beneath  this  introduction 
to  my  tale,  we  must  for  a  moment  forget  the  actors  in  it,  and 
look  back  at  certain  previous  incidents,  of  which  the  last 
was  closely  concerned  with  the  death  of  Madame  Crochard. 
The  two  parts  will  then  form  a  whole — a  story  which,  by  a 
law  peculiar  to  life  in  Paris,  was  made  up  of  two  distinct 
sets  of  actions. 

Toward  the  close  of  the  month  of  November  1805,  a  young 
barrister,  aged  about  six-and-twenty,  was  going  down  the 
stairs  of  the  hotel  where  the  High  Chancellor  of  the  Empire 
resided,  at  about  three  o'clock  one  morning.  Having  reached 
the  courtyard  in  full  evening  dress,  under  a  keen  frost,  he 
could  not  help  giving  vent  to  an  exclamation  of  dismay — 
qualified,  however,  by  the  spirit  which  rarely  deserts  a  French- 
man— at  seeing  no  hackney  coach  waiting  outside  the  gates, 
and  hearing  no  noises  such  as  arise  from  the  wooden  shoes 
or  harsh  voices  of  the  hackney-coachmen  of  Paris.  The  occa- 
sional pawing  of  the  horses  of  the  Chief  Justice's  carriage — 
the  young  man  having  left  him  still  playing  bouillote  with 
Cambaceres — alone  rang  out  in  the  paved  court,  which  was 
scarcely  lighted  by  the  carriage  lamps.  Suddenly  the  young 
lawyer  felt  a  friendly  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  turning 
round,  found  himself  face  to  face  with  the  Judge,  to  whom  he 
bowed.  As  the  footman  let  down  the  steps  of  his  carriage, 
the  old  gentleman,  who  had  served  the  Convention,  suspected 
the  junior's  dilemma. 

"All  cats  are  gray  in  the  dark,"  said  he  good-humoredly. 
"The  Chief  Justice  cannot  compromise  himself  by  putting  a 
pleader  in  the  right  way !  Especially,"  he  went  on,  "when  the 
pleader  is  the  nephew  of  an  old  colleague,  one  of  the  lights  of 
jthe  grand  Council  of  State  which  gave  to  France  the  Napo= 
leonic  Code." 

At  a  gesture  from  the  chief  magistrate  of  France  under 
the  Empire,  the  foot-passenger  got  into  the  carriage. 

'^here  do  you  live  ?"  asked  the  great  man,  before  the  foot 
man  who  awaited  his  orders  had  closed  the  door. 

"Quai  des  Augustins,  monseigneur." 


344  A  SECOND  HOME 

The  horses  started,  and  the  young  man  found  himself  alone 
with  the  MinislcT,  to  whom  he  had  vainly  tried  to  speak  be- 
fore and  after  the  sumptuous  dinner  given  by  Caml)a('eres ; 
in  fact,  the  great  man  had  evidently  avoided  him  through- 
out the  evening. 

'^''ell,  Monsieur  de  Granville,  you  are  on  the  high  road  I" 

"So  long  as  I  sit  by  your  Excellency's  side "  ' 

"Nay,  I  am  not  jesting,"  said  the  Minister.  "You  were 
called  two  years  since,  and  your  defence  in  the  case  of  Simeuse 
and  Ilauteserre  has  raised  you  high  in  your  profession." 

"I  had  sujjposed  that  my  interest  in  those  unfortunate 
emigres  had  done  me  no  good." 

"You  are  still  very  young,"  said  the  great  man  gravely, 
'^ut  the  High  Chancellor,"  he  went  on,  after  a  pause,  "was 
greatly  pleased  with  you  this  evening.  Get  a  judgeship  in 
the  lower  courts;  we  want  men.  The  nephew  of  a  man  in 
whom  Cambaceres  and  I  take  great  interest  must  not  remain 
in  the  background  for  lack  of  encouragement.  Your  uncle 
helped  us  to  tide  over  a  very  stormy  season,  and  services  of 
that  kind  are  not  to  be  forgotten."  The  Minister  sat  silent 
for  a  few  minutes.  "Before  long,"  he  went  on,  "I  shall  have 
tb  ree  vacancies  open  in  the  Lower  Courts  and  in  the  Imperial 
Cuurt  in  Paris.  Come  to  see  me,  and  take  the  place  you 
pjefer.  Till  then  work  hard,  but  do  not  be  seen  at  my  re- 
cf.ptions.  In  the  first  place,  I  am  overwhelmed  with  work; 
and  besides  that,  your  rivals  may  suspect  your  purpose  and  do 
you  harm  with  the  patron.  Cambaceres  and  I,  by  not  speak- 
ing a  word  to  you  this  evening,  have  averted  the  accusation  of 
favoritism." 

As  the  great  man  ceased  speaking,  the  carriage  drew  up  on 
the  Quai  des  Augustins ;  the  young  lawyer  thanked  his  gener- 
ous patron  for  the  two  lifts  he  had  conferred  on  him,  and 
then  knocked  at  his  door  pretty  loudly,  for  the  bitter  wind 
blew  cold  about  his  calves.  At  last  the  old  lodgekeeper  pulled 
up  the  latch ;  and  as  the  young  man  passed  his  window,  called 
out  in  a  hoarse  voice,  "Monsieur  Granville,  here  is  a  lettei*  for 

you." 


A  SECOND  HOME  345 

The  young  man  took  the  letter,  and  in  spite  of  the  cold, 
tried  to  identify  the  writing  by  the  gleam  of  a  dull  lamp  fast 
dying  out.  ''From  my  father !"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  took  his 
bedroom  candle,  which  the  porter  at  last  had  lighted.  And 
he  ran  up  to  his  room  to  read  the  following  epistle : — 

''Set  off  by  the  next  mail ;  and  if  you  can  get  here  soon 
enough,  your  fortune  is  made.  Mademoiselle  Angelique 
Bontems  has  lost  her  sister ;  she  is  now  an  only  child ;  and,  as 
we  know,  she  does  not  hate  you.  Madame  Bontems  can  now 
leave  her  about  forty  thousand  francs  a  year,  besides  what- 
ever she  may  give  her  when  she  marries.  I  have  prepared 
the  way. 

"Our  friends  will  wonder  to  see  a  family  of  old  nobility 
allying  itself  to  the  Bontems;  old  Bontems  was  a  red  repub- 
lican of  the  deepest  dye,  owning  large  quantities  of  the 
nationalized  land,  that  he  bought  for  a  mere  song.  But  he 
held  nothing  but  convent  lands,  and  the  monks  will  not  come 
back;  and  then,  as  you  have  already  so  far  derogated  as  to 
become  a  lawyer,  I  cannot  see  why  we  should  shrink  from  a 
further  concession  to  the  prevalent  ideas.  The  girl  will  have 
three  hundred  thousand  francs ;  I  can  give  you  a  hundred 
thousand;  your  mother's  property  must  be  worth  fifty  thou- 
sand crowns,  more  or  less ;  so  if  you  choose  to  take  a  judgeship, 
my  dear  son,  you  are  quite  in  a  position  to  become  a  senator 
as  much  as  any  other  man.  My  brother-in-law  the  Coun- 
cillor of  State  will  not  indeed  lend  you  a  helping-hand ;  still, 
as  he  is  not  married,  his  property  will  some  da}'  l)e  yours,  and 
if  you  are  not  senator  by  your  own  efforts,  you  will  get  it 
through  him.  Then  you  will  be  perched  high  enough  to  look 
on  at  events.     Farewell.     Yours  affectionately." 

So  young  Granville  went  to  bed  full  of  schemes,  each  fairer 
than  the  last.  Under  the  powerful  protection  of  the  High 
Chancellor,  the  Chief  Justice,  and  his  mother's  brother — one 
of  the  originators  of  the  Code — he  was  about  to  make  a  start 
in  a  coveted  position  before  the  highest  court  of  the  Empire, 


846  A  SECOND  HOME 

and  he  already  saw  liiinsi'lf  a  member  of  the  bench  whence 
Napoleon  selected  the  chief  functionaries  of  the  realm.  He 
could  also  promise  himself  a  fortune  handsome  enough  to 
keep  up  his  rank,  for  which  the  slender  income  of  five  thou- 
sand francs  from  an  estate  left  him  ])y  his  mother  would  be 
quite  insufficient. 

To  crown  his  ambitious  dreams  with  a  vision  of  happiness, 
he  called  up  the  guileless  face  of  ^Mademoiselle  Angelique 
Bontcms,  the  companion  of  his  childhood.  Until  he  came 
to  boyhood  his  father  and  mother  had  made  no  objection  to 
his  intimacy  with  their  neighbor's  pretty  little  daughter;  but 
when,  during  his  brief  holiday  visits  to  Bayeux,  his  parents, 
who  prided  themselves  on  their  good  birth,  saw  what  friends 
the  young  people  were,  they  forbade  his  ever  thinking  of 
her.  Thus  for  ten  years  past  Granville  had  only  had  oc- 
casional glimpses  of  the  girl,  whom  he  still  sometimes  thought 
of  as  ^Tiis  little  wife."  And  in  those  brief  moments  when  they 
met  free  from  the  active  watchfulness  of  their  families,  they 
had  scarcely  exchanged  a  few  vague  civilities  at  the  church 
door  or  in  the  street.  Their  happiest  days  had  been  those 
when,  brought  together  by  one  of  those  country  festivities 
known  in  Normandy  as  Assemhlces,  they  could  steal  a  glance 
at  each  other  from  afar. 

In  the  course  of  the  last  vacation  Granville  had  twice  seen 
Angelique,  and  her  downcast  eyes  and  drooping  attitude  had 
led  him  to  suppose  that  she  was  crushed  by  some  unknown 
tyrann3^ 

He  was  off  by  seven  next  morning  to  the  coach  office  in  the 
Eue  Notre-Dame-dos-Victoires,  and  was  so  lucky  as  to  find 
a  vacant  seat  in  the  diligence  then  starting  for  Caen. 

It  was  not  without  deep  emotion  that  the  young  lawyer  saw 
once  more  the  spires  of  the  cathedral  at  Bayeux.  As  yet  no 
hope  of  his  life  had  been  cheated,  and  his  heart  swelled  with 
the  generous  feelings  that  expand  in  the  youthful  soul. 

After  the  too  lengthy  feast  of  welcome  prepared  by  his 
father,  who  awaited  him  with  some  friends,  the  impatient 
youth  was  conducted  to  a  house,  long  familiar  to  him,  stand- 


A  SECOND  HOME  347 

ing  in  the  Eue  Teinture.  His  heart  beat  high  when  his 
father — still  known  in  the  town  of  Bajeux  as  the  Comte  de 
Granville — knocked  loudly  at  a  carriage  gate  off  which  the 
green  paint  was  dropping  in  scales.  It  was  about  four  in  the 
afternoon.  A  young  maid-servant,  in  a  cotton  cap,  dropped 
a  short  courtesy  to  the  two  gentlemen,  and  said  that  the  ladies 
would  soon  be  home  from  vespers. 

The  Count  and  his  son  were  shown  into  a  low  room  used 
as  a  drawing-room,  but  more  like  a  convent  parlor.  Polished' 
panels  of  dark  walnut  made  it  gloomy  enough,  and  around 
it  some  old-fashioned  chairs  covered  with  worsted  work  and 
stiff  armchairs  were  symmetrically  arranged.  The  stone 
chimney-shelf  had  no  ornament  but  a  discolored  mirror,  and 
on  each  side  of  it  were  the  twisted  branches  of  a  pair  of 
candle-brackets,  such  as  were  made  at  the  time  of  the  Peace  of 
Utrecht.  Against  a  panel  opposite,  young  Granville  saw  an 
enormous  crucifix  of  ebony  and  ivory  surrounded  by  a  wreath 
of  box  that  had  been  blessed.  Though  there  were  three  windows 
to  the  room,  looking  out  on  a  country-town  garden,  laid  out 
in  formal  square  beds  edged  with  box,  the  room  was  so  dark 
that  it  was  difficult  to  discern,  on  the  wall  opposite  the  win- 
dows, three  pictures  of  sacred  subjects  painted  by  a  skilled 
hand,  and  purchased,  no  doubt,  during  the  Eevolution  by  old 
Bontems,  who,  as  governor  of  the  district,  had  never  neglected 
his  opportunities.  From  the  carefully  polished  floor  to  the 
green  checked  holland  curtains  everything  shone  with  con- 
ventual cleanliness. 

The  young  man's  heart  felt  an  involuntary  chill  in  this 
silent  retreat  where  Angelique  dwelt.  The  habit  of  frequent- 
ing the  glittering  Paris  drawing-rooms,  and  the  constant  whirl 
of  society,  had  effaced  from  his  memory  the  dull  and  peaceful 
surroundings  of  a  country  life,  and  the. contrast  was  so  star- 
tling as  to  give  him  a  sort  of  internal  shiver.  To  have  just 
left  a  party  at  the  house  of  Cambaceres,  where  life  was  so 
large,  where  minds  could  expand,  where  the  splendor  of  the 
Imperial  Court  was  so  vividly  reflected,  and  to  be  dropped 
suddenly  into  a  sphere  of  squalidly  narrow  ideas — was  it  not 


348  A  SECOND  HOME 

like  a  leap  from  Italy  into  Greenland? — "Living  hero  is  not 
life !"  said  he  to  himself,  as  he  looked  round  the  Methodistical 
room.  The  old  Count,  seeing  his  son's  dismay,  went  up  to 
him,  and  taking  his  hand,  led  him  to  a  window,  where  there 
was  still  a  gleam  of  daylight,  and  while  the  maid  was  lighting 
the  yellow  tapers  in  the  candle  branches  he  tried  to  clear  away 
the  clouds  that  the  dreary  place  had  brought  to  his  brow. 

"Listen,  my  boy,"  said  he.     "Old  Bontems'  widow  is  a 

frenzied  bigot.     *When  the  devil  is  old '  you  know !     I 

see  that  the  place  goes  against  the  grain.  Well,  this  is  the 
whole  truth;  the  old  woman  is  priest-ridden;  they  have  per- 
suaded her  that  it  was  high  time  to  make  sure  of  heaven,  and 
the  better  to  secure  Saint  Peter  and  his  keys  she  pays  before- 
hand. She  goes  to  ]\rass  every  day,  attends  every  service, 
takes  the  Communion  every  Sunday  God  has  made,  and 
amuses  herself  by  restoring  chapels.  She  has  given  so  many 
ornaments,  and  albs,  and  chasubles,  she  has  crowned  the 
canopy  with  so  many  feathers,  that  on  the  occasion  of  the 
last  Corpus  Christi  procession  as  great  a  crowd  came  together 
as  to  see  a  man  hanged,  just  to  stare  at  the  priests  in  their 
splendid  dresses  and  all  the  vessels  regilt.  This  house  too 
is  a  sort  of  Holy  Land.  It  was  I  who  hindered  her  from  giv- 
ing those  three  pictures  to  the  Church — a  Domenichino,  a 
Correggio,  and  an  Andrea  del  Sarto — worth  a  good  deal  of 
money." 

"But  Angel  ique?"  asked  the  young  man. 

'T^f  you  do  not  marry  her,  Angelique  is  done  for,"  said  the 
Count.  "Our  holy  apostles  counsel  her  to  live  a  virgin  mar- 
tyr. I  have  had  the  utmost  difficulty  in  stirring  up  her 
little  heart,  since  she  has  been  the  only  child,  by  talking  to  her 
of  you;  but,  as  you  will  easily  understand,  as  soon  as  she  is 
married  you  will  carry  her  off  to  Paris.  There,  festivities, 
married  life,  the  theatres,  and  the  rush  of  Parisian  society, 
will  soon  make  her  forget  confessionals,  and  fasting,  and 
hair  shirts,  and  Masses,  which  are  the  exclusive  nourishment 
of  such  creatures." 

"But  the  fifty  thousnnd  fr;inr<;  ;i  year  derived  from  Church 
property  ?     Will  not  all  that  return " 


A  SECOND  HOME  34d 

"That  is  the  point  f '  exelaiincd  the  Count,  with  a  cunning 
glance.  "In  consideration  of  this  marriage — for  Madame 
Bontems'  vanit}'  is  not  a  little  flattered  by  the  notion  of 
grafting  the  Bontems  on  to  the  genealogical  tree  of  the  Gran- 
villes— the  aforenamed  mother  agrees  to  settle  her  fortune 
absolutely  on  the  girl,  reserving  only  a  life-interest.  The 
priesthood,  therefore,  are  set  against  the  marriage;  but  I 
have  had  the  banns  published,  everything  is  ready,  and  in  a 
week  you  will  be  out  of  the  clutches  of  the  mother  and  her 
Abbes.  You  will  have  the  prettiest  girl  in  Bayeux,  a  good 
little  soul  who  will  give  you  no  trouble,  because  she  has 
sound  principles.     She  has  been  mortified,  as  they  say  in 

their  jargon,  by  fasting  and  prayer and,"  he  added  in 

a  low  voice,  "by  her  mother." 

A  modest  tap  at  the  door  silenced  the  Count,  who  expected 
to  see  the  two  ladies  appear.  A  little  page  came  in,  evidently 
in  a  great  hurry;  but,  abashed  by  the  j^resence  of  the  two 
gentlemen,  he  beckoned  to  a  housekeeper,  who  followed  him. 
Dressed  in  a  blue  cloth  jacket  with  short  tails,  and  blue-and- 
white  striped  trousers,  his  hair  cut  short  all  round,  the  boy's 
expression  was  that  of  a  chorister,  so  strongly  was  it  stamped 
with  the  compulsory  propriety  that  marks  every  member  of 
a  bigoted  household. 

"Mademoiselle  Gatienne,"  said  he,  "do  you  know  where  the 
books  are  for  the  offices  of  the  Virgin?  The  ladies  of  the 
Congregation  of  the  Sacred  Heart  are  going  in  procession 
this  evening  round  the  church." 

Gatienne  went  in  search  of  the  books. 

"Will  they  go  on  much  longer,  my  little  man?"  asked  the 
Count. 

"Oh,  half  an  hour  at  most." 

"Let  VIS  go  to  look  on,"  said  the  father  to  his  son.  "There 
will  be  some  pretty  women  there,  and  a  visit  to  the  Cathedral 
can  do  us  no  harm." 

The  young  lawyer  followed  him  with  a  doubtful  expression- 

'*What  is  the  matter?"  said  the  Count. 

"The  matter,  father,  is  that  T  am  sure  I  am  risfht." 


350  A  SECOND  HOME 

"But  you  have  said  nothing." 

"No;  but  1  liave  been  thinking  that  you  have  still  ten 
thousand  francs  a  year  left  of  your  original  fortune.  You 
will  leave  them  to  me — as  long  a  time  hence  as  possible,  I  hope. 
But  if  you  are  ready  to  give  me  a  hundred  thousand  francs 
to  make  a  foolish  match,  you  will  surely  allow  me  to  ask 
you  for  only  fifty  tliousand  to  save  me  from,  such  a  misfortune, 
and  enjoy  as  a  bachelor  a  fortune  equal  to  what  your  Made- 
moiselle Bontems  would  bring  me." 

"Are  you  crazy  ?" 

"No,  father.  These  are  the  facts.  The  Chief  Justice 
promised  me  yesterday  that  I  should  have  a  seat  on  the 
Bench.  Fifty  thousand  francs  added  to  what  I  have,  and 
to  the  pay  of  my  appointment,  will  give  me  an  income  of 
twelve  thousand  francs  a  year.  And  I  then  shall  most  cer- 
tainly have  a  chance  of  marrying  a  fortune,  better  than 
this  alliance,  which  will  be  poor  in  happiness  if  rich  in  goods." 

'T[t  is  very  clear,"  said  his  father,  "that  you  were  not 
brought  up  under  the  old  regime.  Does  a  man  of  our  rank 
ever  allow  his  wife  to  be  in  his  way?" 

"But,  my  dear  father,  in  these  days  marriage  is " 

"Bless  me!"  cried  the  Count,  interrupting  his  son,  "then 
what  my  old  emigre  friends  tell  me  is  true,  I  suppose. 
The  Eevolution  has  left  us  habits  devoid  of  pleasure,  and  has 
infected  all  the  young  men  with  vulgar  principles.  You, 
like  my  Jacobin  brother-in-law,  will  harangue  me,  I  suppose, 
on  the  Nation,  Public  Morals,  and  Disinterestedness ! — Good 
Heavens !  But  for  the  Emperor's  sisters,  where  should  we 
be?" 

The  still  hale  old  man,  whom  the  peasants  on  the  estate 
persisted  in  calling  the  Signeur  de  Granville,  ended  his 
speech  as  they  entered  the  Cathedral  porch.  In  spite  of  the 
sanctity  of  the  place,  and  even  as  he  dipped  his  fingers  in  the 
holy  water,  he  hummed  an  air  from  the  opera  of  Rose  et  Colas, 
and  then  led  the  way  down  the  side  aisles,  stopping  by  each 
pillar  to  survey  the  rows  of  heads,  all  in  lines  like  ranks  of 
soldiers  on  parade. 


A  SECOND  HOME  351 

The  special  service  of  the  Sacred  Heart  was  about  to  hegin. 
The  ladies  affiliated  to  that  congregation  were  in  front  near 
the  choir,  so  the  Count  and  liis  son  made  their  way  to  that 
part  of  the  nave,  and  stood  leaning  against  one  of  the  columns 
where  there  was  least  light,  whence  they  could  command  a 
view  of  this  mass  of  faces,  looking  like  a  meadow  full  of 
flowers.  Suddenly,  close  to  young  Granville,  a  voice, 
sweeter  than  it  seemed  possible  to  ascribe  to  a  human  being, 
broke  into  song,  like  the  first  nightingale  when  winter  is  past. 
Though  it  mingled  with  the  voices  of  a  thousand  other  women 
and  the  notes  of  the  organ-  that  voice  stirred  his  nerves  as 
though  they  vibrated  to  the  too  full  and  too  piercing  sounds 
of  a  harmonium.  The  Parisian  turned  round,  and,  seeing 
a  young  figure,  though,  the  head  being  bent,  her  face  was  en- 
tirely concealed  by  a  large  white  bonnet,  concluded  that  the 
voice  was  hers.  He  fancied  that  he  recognized  Angelique  in 
spite  of  a  brown  merino  pelisse  that  wrapped  her,  and  he 
nudged  his  father's  elbow. 

"Yes,  there  she  is,"  said  the  Count,  after  looking  where 
his  son  pointed,  and  then,  by  an  expressive  glance,  he 
directed  his  attention  to  the  pale  face  of  an  elderly  woman  who 
had  already  detected  the  strangers,  though  her  false  eyes,  deep 
set  in  dark  circles,  did  not  seem  to  have  strayed  from  the 
ptayer-book  she  held. 

Angelique  raised  her  face,  gazing  at  the  altar  as  if  to 
inhale  the  heavy  scent  of  the  incense  that  came  wafted  in 
clouds  over  the  two  women.  And  then,  in  the  doubtful  light 
that  the  tapers  shed  down  the  nave,  with  that  of  a  central 
lamp  and  of  some  lights  round  the  pillars,  the  young  man 
beheld  a  face  which  shook  his  determination.  A  white 
watered-silk  bonnet  closely  framed  features  of  perfect  regular- 
ity, the  oval  being  completed  by  the  satin  ribbon  tie  that 
fastened  it  under  her  dimpled  chin.  Over  her  forehead,  very 
sweet  though  low,  hair  of  a  pale  gold  color  parted  in  two 
bands  and  fell  over  her  cheeks,  like  the  shadow  of  leaves  on  a 
flower.  The  arches  of  her  eyebrows  were  drawn  with  the 
accuracy  we  admire  in  the  best  Chinese  paintings.     Her  nose, 


352  A  SECOND  HOME 

almost  aquiline  in  ijrofile,  was  exceptionally  firmly  cut,  and 
her  lips  were  like  two  rosy  lines  lovingly  traced  with  a  delicate 
brush.  Her  eyes,  of  a  light  blue,  were  expressive  of  inno- 
cence. 

Though  Granville  discerned  a  sort  of  rigid  reserve  in  this 
girlish  face,  he  could  ascribe  it  to  the  devotion  in  which 
Angelique  was  rapt.  The  solemn  words  of  prayer,  visible 
in  the  cold,  came  from  between  rows  of  pearls,  like  a 
fragrant  mist,  as  it  were.  The  young  man  involuntarily 
bent  over  her  a  little  to  breathe  this  diviner  air.  This  move- 
ment attracted  the  girl's  notice;  her  gaze,  raised  to  the  altar, 
was  diverted  to  Granville,  whom  she  could  see  but  dimly  in 
the  gloom;  but  she  recognized  him  as  the  companion  of  her 
youth,  and  a  memory  more  vivid  than  prayer  brought  a 
supernatural  glow  to  her  face ;  she  blushed.  The  young 
law3'er  was  thrilled  with  joy  at  seeing  the  hopes  of  another 
life  overpowered  by  those  of  love,  and  the  glory  of  the  sanc- 
tuary eclipsed  by  earthly  reminiscences ;  but  his  triumph  was 
brief.  Angelique  dropped  her  veil,  assumed  a  calm  demeanor, 
and  went  on  singing  without  letting  her  voice  betray  the 
least  emotion. 

Granville  was  a  prey  to  one  single  wish,  and  every  thought 
of  prudence  vanished.  By  the  time  the  service  was  ended, 
his  impatience  was  so  great  that  he  could  not  leave  the  ladies 
to  go  home  alone,  but  came  at  once  to  make  his  bow  to  "his 
little  wife."  They  bashfully  greeted  each  other  in  the  Cathe- 
dral porch  in  the  presence  of  the  congregation.  Madame 
Bontems  was  tremulous  with  pride  as  she  took  the  Comte  de 
Granville's  arm,  though  he,  forced  to  offer  it  in  the  presence 
of  all  the  world,  was  vexed  enough  with  his  son  for  his  ill- 
advised  impatience. 

For  about  a  fortnight,  between  the  official  announcement 
of  the  intended  marriage  of  the  Yicomte  de  Granville  to 
Mademoiselle  Bontems  and  the  solemn  day  of  the  wedding, 
he  came  assiduously  to  visit  his  lady-love  in  the  dismal 
drawing-room,  to  which  he  became  accustomed.  His  long 
calls  were  devoted  to  watcliing  Angelique's  character;  for 


A  SECOND  HOME  853 

his  prudence,  happily,  had  made  itself  heard  again  the  day 
after  their  first  meeting.  He  always  found  her  seated  at  a 
little  table  of  some  West  Indian  wood,  and  engaged  in  marking 
the  linen  of  her  trousseau.  Angelique  never  spoke  first  on 
the  subject  of  religion.  If  the  young  lawyer  amused  himself 
with  fingering  the  handsome  rosary  that  she  kept  in  a  little 
green  velvet  bag,  if  he  laughed  as  he  looked  at  a  relic  such  as 
usually  is  attached  to  this  means  of  grace,  iVngelique  would 
gently  take  the  rosary  out  of  his  hands  and  replace  it  in  the 
bag  without  a  word,  putting  it  away  at  once.  When,  now 
and  then,  Granville  was  so  bold  as  to  make  mischievous  re- 
marks as  to  certain  religious  practices,  the  pretty  girl  listened 
to  him  with  the  obstinate  smile  of  assurance. 

"You  must  either  believe  nothing,  or  believe  everything  the 
Church  teaches,"  she  would  say.  "Would  you  wish  to  have  a 
woman  without  a  religion  as  the -mother  of  your  children?  — 
No. — What  man  may  dare  judge  as  between  disbelievers  and 
God  ?    And  how  can  I  then  blame  what  the  Church  allows  ?" 

Angelique  appeared  to  be  animated  by  such  fervent  charity, 
the  young  man  saw  her  look  at  him  with  such  perfect  con- 
viction, that  he  sometimes  felt  tempted  to  embrace  her  relig- 
ious views ;  her  firm  belief  that  she  was  in  the  only  right  road 
aroused  doubts  in  his  mind,  which  she  tried  to  turn  to  account. 

But  then  Granville  committed  the  fatal  blunder  of  mis- 
taking the  enchantment  of  desire  for  that  of  love.  Angelique 
was  so  happy  in  reconciling  the  voice  of  her  heart  with  that  of 
duty,  by  giving  way  to  a  liking  that  had  grown  up  with  her 
from  childhood,  that  the  deluded  man  could  not  discern  which 
of  the  two  spoke  the  louder.  Are  not  all  young  men  ready  to 
trust  the  promise  of  a  pretty  face  and  to  infer  beauty  of  soul 
fromi  beauty  of  feature?  An  indefinable  impulse  leads  them 
to  believe  that  moral  perfection  must  co-exist  with  physical 
perfection.  If  Angelique  had  not  been  at  liberty  to  give  vent 
to  her  sentiments,  they  would  soon  have  dried  up  in  her  heart 
like  a  plant  watered  with  some  deadly  acid.  How  should  a 
lover  be  aware  of  bigotry  so  well  hidden  ? 

This  was  the  course  of  young  Granville's  feelings  during 


354  A   SECOND  HOME 

that  fortniglif,  dcvoiirc'd  by  him  like  a  book  of  which  the  end 
is  absorbing.  Angelique,  carefully  watched  by  him,  seemed 
the  gentlest  of  creatures,  and  he  even  caught  himself  feeling 
grateful  to  ]\Ia(hinie  Bontenis,  who,  by  implanting  so  deeply 
the  principles  of  religion,  had  in  some  degree  inured  her  to 
meet  the  troubles  of  life. 

On  the  day  named  for  signing  the  inevitable  contract,  Mad- 
ame Bontems  made  her  son-in-law  pledge  himself  solemnly 
to  respect  her  daughter's  religious  practices,  to  allow  her  en- 
tire liberty  of  conscience,  to  permit  her  to  go  to  communion, 
to  church,  to  confession  as  often  as  she  pleased,  and  never  to 
control  her  choice  of  priestly  advisers.  At  this  critical  mo- 
ment Angelique  looked  at  her  future  husband  with  such  pure 
and  innocent  e3^es,  that  Granville  did  not  hesitate  to  give  his 
word.  A  smile  puckered  the  lips  of  the  Abbe  Fontanon,  a 
pale  man,  who  directed  the  consciences  of  this  household. 
Mademoiselle  Bontems,  by  a  slight  nod,  seemed  to  promise 
that  she  would  never  take  an  unfair  advantage  of  this  free- 
dom. As  to  the  old  Count,  he  gently  whistled  the  tune  of  an 
old  song,  Va-t-en  voir  s'ils  viennent  ("Go  and  see  if  they  are 
coming  on !") 

A  few  days  after  the  wedding  festivities,  of  which  so  much 
is  thought  in  the  provinces,  Granville  and  his  wife  went  to 
Paris,  whither  the  young  man  was  recalled  by  his  appointment 
as  public  prosecutor  to  the  Supreme  Court  of  the  Seine  cir- 
cuit. 

When  the  young  couple  set  out  to  find  a  residence,  An- 
gelique used  the  influence  that  the  honeymoon  gives  to  every 
wife  in  persuading  her  husband  to  take  a  large  apartment  in 
the  ground-floor  of  a  house  at  the  corner  of  the  Vieille  Kue 
du  Temple  and  the  Rue  ISreuve  Saint-Frangois.  Her  chief 
reason  for  this  choice  was  that  the  house  w^as  close  to  the 
Rue  d'Orleans,  where  there  was  a  church,  and  not  far  from  a 
small  chapel  in  the  Rue  Saint-Louis. 

"A  good  housewife  provides  for  everything,"  said  her  hus- 
band, laughing. 


A  SECOND  HOME  355 

Augelique  pointed  out  to  him  that  this  part  of  Paris,  known 
as  the  Marais,  was  within  easy  reach  of  the  Palais  de  Justice, 
and  that  the  lawyers  they  knew  lived  in  the  neighborhood. 
A  fairly  large  garden  made  the  apartment  particularly  advan- 
tageous to  a  young  couple;  the  children — if  Heaven  should 
send  them  any — could  play  in  the  open  air;  the  courtyard 
was  spacious,  and  there  were  good  stables. 

The  lawyer  wished  to  live  in  the  Chaussee  d'Antin,  where 
everything  is  fresh  and  bright,  where  the  fashions  may  be 
seen  while  still  new,  where  a  well-dressed  crowd  throngs  the 
Boulevards,  and  the  distance  is  less  to  the  theatres  or  places 
of  amusement;  but  he  was  obliged  to  give  way  to  the  coaxing 
ways  of  a  young  wife,  who  asked  this  as  his  first  favor;  so, 
to  please  her,  he  settled  in  the  Marais.  Granville's  duties  re- 
quired him  to  work  hard — all  the  more,  because  they  were  new 
to  him — so  he  devoted  himself  in  the  first  place  to  furnishing 
his  private  study  and  arranging  his  books..  He  was  soon 
established  in  a  room  crammed  with  papers,  and  left  the 
decoration  of  the  house  to  his  wife.  He  was  all  the  better 
pleased  to  plunge  Angelique  into  the  bustle  of  buying  furni- 
ture and  fittings,  the  source  of  so  much  pleasure  and  of  so 
many  associations  to  most  young  women,  because  he  was  rather 
ashamed  of  depriving  her  of  his  company  more  often  than 
the  usages  of  early  married  life  require.  As  soon  as  his  work 
was  fairly  under  way,  he  gladly  allowed  his  wife  to  tempt  him 
out  of  his  study  to  consider  the  effect  of  furniture  or  hang- 
ings, which  he  had  before  only  seen  piecemeal  or  unfinished. 

If  the  old  adage  is  true  that  says  a  woman  may  be  judged 
of  from  her  front  door,  her  rooms  must  express  her  mind  with 
even  greater  fidelity.  Madame  de  Granville  had  perhaps 
stamped  the  various  things  she  had  ordered  with  the  seal  of 
her  own  character;  the  young  lawyer  was  certainly  startled 
by  the  cold,  arid  solemnity  that  reigned  in  these  rooms ;  he 
found  nothing  to  charm  his  taste ;  everything  was  discordant, 
nothing  gratified  the  eye.  The  rigid  mannerism  that  pre- 
vailed in  the  sitting-room  at  Bayeux  had  invaded  his  home; 
the  broad  panels  were  hollowed  in  circles,  and  decorated  with 


356  A  SECOND  HOME 

those  arabesques  of  which  the  long,  monotonous  mouldings 
are  in  such  bad  taste.  Anxious  to  find  excuses  for  his  wife, 
the  young  husband  began  again,  looking  first  at  the  long  and 
lofty  ante-room  through  which  the  apartment  was  entered. 
The  color  of  the  panels,  as  ordered  by  his  wife,  was  too  heavy, 
and  the  very  dark  green  velvet  used  to  cover  the  benches  added 
to  the  gloom  of  this  entrance — not,  to  be  sure,  an  important 
room,  but  giving  a  first  impression — just  as  we  measure  a 
man's  intelligence  by  his  first  address.  An  ante-room  is  a  kind 
of  preface  which  announces  what  is  to  follow,  but  promises 
nothing. 

The  young  husband  wondered  whether  his  wife  could  really 
have  chosen  the  lamp  of  an  antique  pattern,  which  hung  in 
the  centre  of  this  bare  hall,  the  pavement  of  black  and  white 
marble,  and  the  paper  in  imitation  of  blocks  of  stone,  with 
green  moss  on  them  in  places.  A  handsome,  but  not  new, 
barometer  hung  on  the  middle  of  one  of  the  walls,  as  if  to 
accentuate  the  void.  At  the  sight  of  it  all,  he  looked  round  at 
his  wife ;  he  saw  her  so  much  pleased  by  the  red  braid  binding 
to  the  cotton  curtains,  so  satisfied  with  the  barometer  and  the 
strictly  decent  statue  that  ornamented  a  large  Gothic  stove, 
that  he  had  not  the  barbarous  courage  to  overthrow  such  deep 
convictions.  Instead  of  blaming  his  wife,  Granville  blamed 
himself,  accusing  himself  of  having  failed  in  his  duty  of  guid- 
ing the  first  steps  in  Paris  of  a  girl  brought  up  at  Bayeux. 

From  this  specimen,  what  might  not  be  expected  of  the 
other  rooms  ?  What  was  to  be  looked  for  from  a  woman  who 
took  fright  at  the  bare  legs  of  a  Caryatid,  and  who  v/ould  not 
look  at  a  chandelier  or  a  candle-stick  if  she  saw  on  it  the  nude 
outlines  of  an  Egyptian  bust?  x4t  this  date  the  school  of 
David  was  at  the  height  of  its  glory;  all  the  art  of  France 
bore  the  stamp  of  his  correct  design  and  his  love  of  antique 
types,  which  indeed  gave  his  pictures  the  character  of  colored 
sculpture.  But  none  of  these  devices  of  Imperial  luxury  found 
civic  rights  under  Madame  do  Granville's  roof.  The  spacious, 
square  drawing-room  remained  as  it  had  been  left  from  the 
time  of  Louis  XV.,  in  white  and  tarnished  gold,  lavishly 


A  SECONP  HOME  857 

adorned  by  the  architect  with  checkered  lattice-work  and  the 
hideous  garlands  dne  to  the  uninventive  designers  of  the  time. 
Still,  if  harmony  at  least  had  prevailed,  if  the  furniture  of 
modern  mahogany  had  but  assumed  the  twisted  forms  of 
which  Boucher's  corrupt  taste  first  set  the  fashion,  Angelique's 
room  would  only  have  suggested  the  fantastic  contrast  of  a 
young  couple  in  the  nineteenth  century  living  as  though  they 
were  in  the  eighteenth ;  but  a  number  of  details  Avere  in  ridicu- 
lous discord.  The  consoles,  the  clocks,  the  candelabra,  were 
decorated  with  the  military  trophies  which  the  wars  of  the 
Empire  commended  to  the  affections  of  the  Parisians;  and 
the  Greek  helmets,  the  Eoman  crossed  daggers,  and  the  shields 
so  dear  to  military  enthusiasm  that  they  were  introduced  on 
furniture  of  the  most  peaceful  uses,  had  no  iitness  side  by  side 
with  the  delicate  and  profuse  arabesques  that  delighted 
Madame  de  Pompadour. 

Bigotry  tends  to  an  indescribably  tiresome  kind  of  humility 
which  does  not  exclude  pride.  Whether  from  modesty  or  by 
choice,  Madame  de  Granville  seemed  to  have  a  horror  of  light 
and  cheerful  colors;  perhaps,  too,  she  imagined  that  brown 
and  purple  beseemed  the  dignity  of  a  magistrate.  How  could 
a  girl  accustomed  to  an  austere  life  have  admitted  the  luxuri- 
ous divans  that  may  suggest  evil  thoughts,  the  elegant  and 
tempting  boudoirs  where  naughtiness  may  be  imagined  ? 

The  poor  husband  was  in  desj)air.  From  the  tone  in  which 
he  approved,  only  seconding  the  praises  she  bestowed  on  her- 
self, Angelique  understood  that  nothing  really  pleased  him; 
and  she  expressed  so  much  regret  at  her  want  of  success,  that 
Granville,  who  was  very  much  in  love,  regarded  her  disap- 
pointment as  a  proof  of  her  aifection  instead  of  resentment 
for  an  offence  to  her  self-conceit.  After  all,  could  he  expect 
a  girl  just  snatched  from  the  humdrum  of  country  notions, 
with  no  experience  of  the  niceties  and  grace  of  Paris  life,  to 
know  or  do  any  better?  Rather  would  he  believe  that  his 
wife's  choice  had  been  overruled  by  the  tradesmen  than  allow 
himself  to  own  the  truth.  If  he  had  been  less  in  love,  he  would 
have  understood  that  the  dealers,  always  quick  to  discern  their 


;{58  A  SECOND  HOME 

customers'  ideas,  had  blessed  Heaven  for  sending  them  a 
tasteless  little  biyot,  who  would  take  their  old-fashioned  goods 
off  their  hands.    So  he  comforted  the  pretty  provincial. 

■'Happiness,  dear  Angelitiue,  does  not  depend  on  a  more  or 
less  elegant  piece  of  furniture;  it  depends  on  the  wife's  sweet- 
ness, gentleness,  and  love.'' 

"Why,  it  is  my  duty  to  love  you,"  said  Angelique  mildly, 
"and  I  can  have  no  more  delightful  duty  to  carry  out." 

Nature  has  implanted  in  the  heart  of  woman  so  great  a 
desire  to  please,  so  deep  a  craving  for  love,  that,  even  in  a 
youthful  bigot,  the  ideas  of  salvation  and  a  future  existence 
must  give  way  to  the  happiness  of  early  married  life.  And, 
in  fact,  from  the  month  of  April,  when  they  were  married,  till 
the  beginning  of  winter,  the  husband  and  wife  lived  in  perfect 
union.  Love  and  hard  work  have  the  grace  of  making  a  man 
tolerably  indifficrcnt  to  external  matters.  Being  obliged  to 
spend  half  the  day  in  court  fighting  for  the  gravest  interests 
of  men's  lives  or  fortunes,  Granville  was  less  alive  than  another 
might  have  been  to  certain  facts  in  his  household. 

If,  on  a  Friday,  he  found  none  but  Lenten  fare,  and  by 
chance  asked  for  a  dish  of  meat  without  getting  it,  his  wife, 
forbidden  by  the  Gospel  to  tell  a  lie,  could  still,  by  such  sub- 
terfuges as  are  permissible  in  the  interests  of  religion,  cloak 
what  was  premeditated  purpose  under  some  pretext  of  her 
own  carelessness  or  the  scarcity  in  the  market.  She  would 
often  exculpate  herself  at  the  expense  of  the  cook,  and  even 
go  so  far  as  to  scold  him.  At  that  time  young  lawyers  did  not, 
bjs  they  do  now,  keep  the  fasts  of  the  Church,  the  four  rogation 
seasons,  and  the  vigils  of  festivals;  so  Granville  was  not  at 
first  aware  of  the  regular  recurrence  of  these  Lenten  meals, 
which  his  wife  took  care  should  be  made  dainty  by  the  addi- 
tion of  teal,  moor-hen,  and  fish-pies,  that  their  amphibious 
meat  or  high  seasoning  might  cheat  his  palate.  Thus  the 
young  man  unconsciously  lived  in  strict  orthodoxy,  and 
tvorked  out  his  salvation  without  knowing  it. 

On  week-days  he  did  not  know  whether  his  wife  went  to 
Mass  or  no.     On  Sundays,  with  very  natural  amiability,  he 


A  SECOND  HOME  359 

accompanied  her  to  church  to  make  up  to  her,  as  it  were,  for 
sometimes  giving  up  vespers  in  favor  of  his  company ;  he  could 
not  at  first  fully  enter  into  the  strictness  of  his  wife's  religious 
views.  The  theatres  being  impossible  in  summer  by  reason  of 
the  heat,  Granville  had  not  even  the  opportunity  of  the  great 
success  of  a  piece  to  give  rise  to  the  serious  question  of  play- 
going.  And,  in  short,  at  the  early  stage  of  an  union  to  which 
a  man  has  been  led  by  a  young  girl's  beauty,  he  can  hardly  be 
exacting  as  to  his  amusements.  Youth  is  greedy  rather  than 
dainty,  and  possession  has  a  charm  in  itself.  How  should  he 
be  keen  to  note  coldness,  dignity,  and  reserve  in  the  woman 
to  whom  he  ascribes  the  excitement  he  himself  feels,  and  lends 
the  glow  of  the  fire  that  burns  within  him  ?  He  must  have  at- 
tained a  certain  conjugal  calm  before  he  discovers  that  a  bigot 
sits  waiting  for  love  with  her  arms  folded. 

Granville,  therefore,  believed  himself  happy  till  a  fatal 
event  brought  its  influence  to  bear  on  his  married  life.  In  the 
month  of  November  1808  the  Canon  of  Bayeux  Cathedral, 
who  had  been  the  keeper  of  Madame  Bontems'  conscience  and 
her  daughter's,  came  to  Paris,  spurred  by  the  ambition  to  be 
at  the  head  of  a  church  in  the  capital — a  position  which  he 
regarded  perhaps  as  the  stepping-stone  to  a  bishopric.  On  re- 
suming his  former  control  of  this  wandering  lamb,  he  was 
horrified  to  find  her  already  so  much  deteriorated  by  the  air 
of  Paris,  and  strove  to  reclaim  her  to  his  chilly  fold.  Fright- 
ened by  the  exhortations  of  this  priest,  a  man  of  about  eight- 
and-thirty,  who  brought  with  him,  into  the  circle  of  the  en- 
lightened and  tolerant  Paris  clergy,  the. bitter  provincial  Ca- 
tholicism and  the  inflexible  bigotry  which  fetter  timid  souls 
with  endless  exactions,  Madame  de  Granville  did  penance  and 
returned  from  her  Jansenist  errors. 

It  would  be  tiresome  to  describe  minutely  all  the  circum- 
stances which  insensibly  brought  disaster  on  this  household; 
it  will  be  enough  to  relate  the  simple  facts  without  giving 
them  in  strict  order  of  time. 

The  first  misunderstanding  between  the  young  couple  was, 
however,  a  serious  one. 


rJ60  A  SECOND  HOME 

When  Granville  took  his  wife  into  society  she  never  de- 
clined solemn  functions,  such  as  dinners,  concerts,  or  parties 
given  hy  the  Judges  superior  to  her  husband  in  the  legal  pro- 
fession;  but  for  a  long  time  she  constnntly  excused  herself  on 
ihe  plea  of  a  sick  headache  when  they  were  invited  to  a  ball. 
One  day  Granville,  out  of  patience  with  these  assumed  indis- 
positions, destroyed  a  note  of  invitation  to  a  ball  at  the  house 
of  a  Councillor  of  State,  and  gave  his  wife  only  a  verbal  in- 
vitation. Then,  on  the  eveniug,  her  health  being  quite  above 
suspicion,  he  took  her  to  a  magnificent  entertainment. 

"My  dear,"  said  he,  on  their  return  home,  seeing  her  wear 
an  offensive  air  of  depression,  "your  position  as  a  wife,  the 
rank  you  hold  in  society,  and  the  fortune  you  enjoy,  impose  on 
you  certain  duties  of  which  no  divine  law  can  relieve  you.  Are 
you  not  your  husband's  pride?  You  are  required  to  go  to 
balls  when  I  go,  and  to  appear  in  a  becoming  manner." 

"And  what  is  there,  my  dear,  so  disastrous  in  my  dress?" 

"It  is  your  manner,  my  dear.  When  a  young  man  comes 
up  to  speak  to  you,  you  look  so  serious  that  a  spiteful  person 
might  believe  you  doubtful  of  3'^our  own  virtue.  You  seem 
to  fear  lest  a  smile  should  undo  you.  You  really  look  as  if 
you  were  asking  forgiveness  of  God  for  the  sins  that  may  be 
committed  around  you.  The  world,  my  dearest,  is  not  a  con- 
vent.— But,  as  you  have  mentioned  your  dress,  I  may  confess 
to  you  that  it  is  no  less  a  duty  to  conform  to  the  customs  and 
fashions  of  Society." 

"Do  you  wish  that  I  should  display  my  shape  like  those  in- 
decent women  who  wear  gowns  so  low  that  impudent  eyes  can 
stare  at  their  bare  shoulders  and  their " 

"There  is  a  difference,  my  dear,"  said  her  husband,  inter- 
rupting her,  "between  uncovering  your  whole  bust  and  giving 
some  grace  to  your  dress.  You  wear  three  rows  of  net  frills 
that  cover  your  throat  up  to  your  chin.  You  look  as  if  you 
had  desired  your  dressmaker  to  destroy  the  graceful  line  of 
your  shoulders  and  bosom  with  as  much  care  as  a  coquette 
would  devote  to  obtaining  from  hers  a  bodice  that  might  em- 
phasize  her  covered   form.     Your   bust   is   wrapped   in   so 


A  SECOND  HOME  361 

many  folds,  that  every  one  was  laughing  at  your  affectation  of 
prudery.  You  would  be  really  grieved  if  I  were  to  repeat  the 
ill-natured  remarks  made  on  your  appearance/' 

"Those  who  admire  such  obscenity  will  not  have  to  bear  the 
burthen  if  we  sin,"  said  the  lady  tartly. 

"And  you  did  not  dance  ?"  asked  Granville. 

"I  shall  never  dance,"  she  replied. 

"If  I  tell  you  that  you  ought  to  dance !"  said  her  husband 
sharply.  "Yes,  you  ought  to  follow  the  fashions,  to  wear 
flowers  in  your  hair,  and  diamonds.  Eemember,  my  dear, 
that  rich  people — and  we  are  rich — are  obliged  to  keep  up 
luxury  in  the  State.  Is  it  not  far  better  to  encourage  manu- 
facturers than  to  distribute  money  in  the  form  of  alms  through 
the  medium  of  the  clergy  ?" 

"You  talk  as  a  statesman !"  said  Angelique. 

"And  you  as  a  priest,"  he  retorted. 

The  discussion  was  bitter.  Madame  de  Granville's  answers, 
though  spoken  very  sweetly  and  in  a  voice  as  clear  as  a  church 
bell,  showed  an  obstinacy  that  betrayed  priestly  influence. 
When  she  appealed  to  the  rights  secured  to  her  by  Granville's 
promise,  she  added  that  her  director  specially  forbade  her 
going  to  balls;  then  her  husband  pointed  out  to  her  that  the 
priest  was  overstepping  the  regulations  of  the  Church. 

This  odious  theological  dispute  was  renewed  with  great  vio- 
lence and  acerbity  on  both  sides  when  Granville  proposed  to 
take  his  wife  to  the  play'.  Finally,  the  lawyer,  whose  sole  aim 
was  to  defeat  the  pernicious  influence  exerted  over  his  wife  by 
her  old  confessor,  placed  the  question  on  such  a  footing  that 
Madame  de  Granville,  in  a  spirit  of  defiance,  referred  it  by 
writing  to  the  Court  of  Eome,  asking  in  so  many  words 
whether  a  woman  could  wear  low^  gowns  and  go  to  the  play 
and  to  balls  without  compromising  her  salvation. 

The  reply  of  the  venerable  Pope  Pius  VII.  cajne  at  once, 
strongly  condemning  the  wife's  recalcitrancy  and  blaming  the 
priest.  This  letter,  a  chapter  on  conjugal  duties,  might  have 
been  dictated  by  the  spirit  of  Feneion,  whose  grace  and  ten- 
derness pervaded  every  line. 


362  A  SECOND  HOME 

"A  wife  is  right  to  go  wherever  her  husband  may  take  her. 
Even  if  she  sins  by  his  command,  she  will  not  be  ultimately 
held  answerable."  These  two  sentences  of  the  Pope's  homily 
only  made  Madame  de  Granville  and  her  director  accuse  him 
of  irreligion. 

But  before  this  letter  had  arrived,  Granville  had  discovered 
the  strict  observance  of  fast  days  that  his  wife  forced  upon 
him,  and  gave  his  servants  orders  to  serve  him  with  meat  every 
day  in  the  year.  However  much  annoyed  his  wife  might  be 
by  these  comnumds,  Granville,  who  cared  not  a  straw  for  such 
indulgence  or  abstinence,  persisted  with  manly  determination. 

Is  it  not  an  oifence  to  the  weakest  creature  that  can  think 
at  all  to  be  compelled  to  do,  by  the  will  of  another,  anything 
that  he  would  otherwise  have  done  simply  of  his  own  accord? 
Of  all  forms  of  tyranny,  the  most  odious  is  that  which  con- 
stantly robs  the  soul  of  the  merit  of  its  thoughts  and  deeds. 
It  has  to  abdicate  without  having  reigned.  The  word  we  are 
readiest  to  speak,  the  feelings  we  most  love  to  express,  die 
when  we  are  commanded  to  utter  them. 

Ere  long  the  young  man  ceased  to  invite  his  friends,  to  give 
parties  or  dinners;  the  house  might  have  been  shrouded  in 
crape.  A  house  where  the  mistress  is  a  bigot  has  an  atmos- 
phere of  its  own.  The  servants,  who  are,  of  course,  under  her 
immediate  control,  are  chosen  among  a  class  who  call  them- 
selves pious,  and  who  have  an  unmistakable  physiognomy. 
Just  as  the  jolliest  fellow  alive,  when  he  joins  the  gendarme- 
rie, has  the  countenance  of  a  gendarme,  so  those  who  give 
themselves  over  to  the  practices  of  devotion  acquire  a  uniform 
expression;  the  habit  of  lowering  their  eyes  and  preserving 
a  sanctimonious  mien  clothes  them  in  a  livery  of  hypocrisy 
which  rogues  can  affect  to  perfection. 

And  besides,  bigots  constitute  a  sort  of  republic;  they  all 
know  each  other;  the  servants  they  recommend  and  hand  on 
from  one  to  another  are  a  race  apart,  and  preserved  by  them, 
as  horse-breeders  will  admit  no  animal  into  their  stables  that 
has  not  a  pedigree.  The  more  the  impious — as  they  are 
thought — come  to  understand  a  household  of  bigots,  the  more 


A  SECOND  HOME  36? 

they  perceive  that  everything  is  stamped  with  an  indescribabl':' 
squalor;  they  find  there,  at  the  same  time,  an  appearance  of 
avarice  and  mystery,  as  in  a  miser's  home,  and  the  dank  scent 
of  cold  incense  which  gives  a  chill  to  the  stale  atmosphere  of 
a  chapel.  This  methodical  meanness,  this  narrowness  of 
thought,  which  is  visible  in  every  detail,  can  only  be  expressed 
by  one  word — Bigotry.  In  these  sinister  and  pitiless  houses 
Bigotry  is  written  on  the  furniture,  the  prints,  the  pictures ; 
speech  is  bigoted,  the  silence  is  bigoted,  the  faces  are  those  of 
bigots.  The  transformation  of  men  and  things  into  bigotry 
is  an  inexplicable  mystery,  but  the  fact  is  evident.  Every- 
body can  see  that  bigots  do  not  walk,  do  not  sit,  do  not  speak, 
as  men  of  the  world  walk,  sit,  and  speak.  Under  their  roof 
every  one  is  ill  at  ease,  no  one  laughs,  stiffness  and  formality 
infect  everything,  from  the  mistress'  cap  down  to  her  pin- 
cushion; eyes  are  not  honest,  the  folks  move  like  shadows, 
and  the  lady  of  the  house  seems  perched  on  a  throne  of  ice. 

One  morning  poor  Granville  discerned  with  grief  and  pain 
that  all  the  symptoms  of  bigotr}^  had  invaded  his  home. 
There  are  in  the  world  different  spberes  in  which  the  same 
effects  are  seen  though  produced  by  dissimilar  causes,  Dul- 
ness  hedges  such  miserable  homes  round  with  walls  of  brass, 
enclosing  the  horrors  of  the  desert  and  the  infinite  void.  The 
home  is  not  so  much  a  tomb  as  that  far  worse  thing — a  con- 
vent. In  the  centre  of  this  icy  sphere  the  lawyer  could  study 
his  wife  dispassionately.  He  observed,  not  without  keen  re- 
gret, the  narrow-mindedness  that  stood  confessed  in  the  very 
way  that  her  hair  grew,  low  on  the  forehead,  which  was 
slightly  depressed;  he  discovered  in  the  perfect  regularity  of 
her  features  a  certain  set  rigidity  which  before  long  made  him 
hate  the  assumed  sweetness  that  had  bewitched  him.  Intui- 
tion told  him  that  one  day  of  disaster  those  thin  lips  might 
say,  "My  dear,  it  is  for  your  good !" 

Madame  de  Granville's  complexion  was  acquiring  a  dull 
pallor  and  an  austere  expression  that  were  a  kill-joy  to  all 
who  came  near  her.  Was  this  change  wrought  by  the  ascetic 
habits  of  a  pharisaism  which  is  not  piety  any  more  than 


'^n4  A  SECOND  HOME 

avarice  is  economy?  It  would  be  hard  to  say.  Beauty  without 
e.\i»rcs.sion  is  jjcrhaps  an  imposture.  This  imperturbable  set 
smile  that  the  young  wife  always  wore  when  she  looked  at 
Granville  seemed  to  be  a  sort  of  Jesuitical  formula  of  happi- 
ness, by  which  she  thought  to  satisfy  all  the  requirements  of 
married  life.  Her  charity  was  an  offence,  her  soulless  beauty 
svas  monstrous  to  those  who  knew  her;  the  mildness  of  her 
speech  was  an  irritation :  she  acted,  not  on  feeling,  but  on 
duty. 

There  are  faults  which  may  yield  in  a  wife  to  the  3tern 
lessons  of  experience,  or  to  a  husband's  warnings ;  but  nothing 
can  counteract  false  ideas  of  religion.  An  eternity  of  happi- 
ness to  be  won,  set  in  the  scale  against  worldly  enjoyment, 
triumphs  over  everything  and  makes  every  pang  endurable. 
Is  it  not  the  apotheosis  of  egotism,  of  Self  beyond  the  grave? 
Thus  even  the  Pope  was  censured  at  the  tribunal  of  the  priest 
and  the  young  devotee.  To  be  always  in  the  right  is  a  feeling 
which  absorbs  every  other  in  these  tyrannous  souls. 

For  some  time  past  a  secret  struggle  had  been  going  on 
between  the  ideas  of  the  husband  and  wife,  and  the  3'oung  man 
was  soon  weary  of  a  battle  to  which  there  could  be  no  end. 
What  man,  what  temper,  can  endure  the  sight  of  a  hypocriti- 
cally affectionate  face  and  categorical  resistance  to  his  slightest 
wishes  ?  What  is  to  be  done  with  a  wife  who  takes  advantage 
of  his  passion  to  protect  her  coldness,  who  seems  determined 
on  being  blandly  inexorable,  prepares  herself  ecstatically  to 
play  the  martyr,  and  looks  on  her  husband  as  a  scourge  from 
God,  a  means  of  flagellation  that  may  spare  her  the  fires  of 
purgatory?  What  picture  can  give  an  idea  of  these  women 
who  make  virtue  hateful  by  defying  the  gentle  precepts  of 
that  faith  which  Saint  John  epitomized  in  the  words,  "Love 
one  another"? 

If  there  was  a  bonnet  to  be  found  in  a  milliner's  shop  that 
was  condemned  to  remain  in  the  window,  or  to  be  packed  off 
to  the  colonies,  Granville  was  certain  to  see  it  on  his  wife's 
head  :  if  a  material  of  bad  color  or  hideous  design  were  to  be 
found,  she  would  select  it.     These  hapless  bigots  are  heart- 


A  SECOND  HOME  365 

breaking  in  their  notions  of  dress.  Want  of  taste  is  a  defect 
inseparable  from  false  pietism. 

And  so,  in  the  home-life  that  needs  the  fullest  sympathy, 
Granville  had  no  true  companionship.  He  went  out  alone  to 
parties  and  the  theatres.  Nothing  in  his  house  appealed  to 
him.  A  huge  Crucifix  that  hung  between  his  bed  and  An- 
gelique's  seemed  figurative  of  his  destiny.  Does  it  not  repre- 
sent a  murdered  Divinity,  a  Man-God,  done  to  death  in  all  the 
prime  of  life  and  beauty  ?  The  ivory  of  that  cross  was  less 
cold  than  Angelique  crucifying  her  husband  under  the  plea 
of  virtue.  This  it  was  that  lay  at  the  root  of  their  woes ;  the 
young  wife  saw  nothing  but  duty  where  she  should  have  given 
love.  Here,  one  Ash  "Wednesday,  rose  the  pale  and  spectral 
form  of  Fasting  in  Lent,  of  Total  Abstinence,  commanded  in 
a  severe  tone — and  Granville  did  not  deem  it  advisable  to  write 
in  his  turn  to  the  Pope  and  take  the  opinion  of  the  Consistory 
on  the  proper  way  of  observing  Lent,  the  Ember  days,  and 
the  eve  of  great  festivals. 

His  misfortune  was  too  great !  He  could  not  even  com- 
plain, for  what  could  he  say?  He  had  a  pretty  young  wife 
attached  to  her  duties,  virtuous — nay.  a  model  of  all  the  vir- 
tues. She  had  a  child  every  year,  nursed  them  herself,  and 
brought  them  up  in  the  highest  principles.  Being  charitable, 
Angelique  was  promoted  to  rank  as  an  angel.  The  old  women 
who  constituted  the  circle  in  which  she  moved — for  at  that 
time  it  was  not  yet  "the  thing"  for  young  women  to  be  re- 
ligious as  a  matter  of  fashion — all  admired  Madame  de  Gran- 
ville's piety,  and  regarded  her,  not  indeed  as  a  virgin,  but  as  a 
martyr.  They  blamed  not  the  wife's  scruples,  but  the  bar- 
barous philoprogenitiveness  of  the  husband. 

Granville,  by  insensible  degrees,  overdone  with  work,  bereft 
of  conjugal  consolations,  and  weary  of  a  world  in  which  he 
wandered  alone,  by  the  time  he  was  two-and-thirty  had  sunk 
into  the  Slough  of  Despond.  He  hated  life.  Having  too  lofty 
a  notion  of  the  responsibilities  imposed  on  him  by  his  posi- 
tion to  set  the  example  of  a  dissipated  life,  he  tried  to  deaden 
feeling  by  hard  study,  and  began  a  great  book  on  Law. 


366  A  SECOND  HOME 

But  he  was  not  allowed  to  enjoy  the  monastic  peace  he  had 
hoped  for.  When  tlie  celestial  Angelique  saw  him  desert 
worldly  society  to  work  at  home  with  such  regularity,  she  tried 
to  convert  hini.  It  had  been  a  real  sorrow  to  her  to  know  that 
her  husband's  opinions  were  not  strictly  Cliristian;  and  she 
sometimes  wei)t  as  she  reflected  that  if  her  husband  should  die 
it  would  be  in  a  state  of  final  impenitence,  so  that  she  could 
not  hope  to  snatch  him  from  the  eternal  fires  of  Hell.  Thus 
Granville  was  the  mark  for  the  mean  ideas,  the  vacuous  argu- 
ments, the  narrow  views  by  which  his  wife — fancying  she  had 
achieved  the  first  victory — tried  to  gain  a  second  by  bringing 
him  back  within  the  pale  of  the  Church. 

This  was  the  last  straw.  What  can  be  more  intolerable  than 
the  blind  struggle  in  which  the  obstinacy  of  a  bigot  tries  to 
meet  the  acumen  of  a  lawyer?  What  more  terrible  to  endure 
than  the  acrimonious  pin-pricks  to  which  a  passionate  soul 
prefers  a  dagger-thrust?  Granville  neglected  his  home. 
Everything  there  was  unendurable.  His  children,  broken  by 
their  mother's  frigid  despotism,  dared  not  go  with  him  to  the 
play;  indeed,  Granville  could  never  give  them  any  pleasure 
without  bringing  down  punishment  from  their  terrible  mother. 
His  loving  nature  was  weaned  to  indifference,  to  a  selfishness 
worse  than  death.  His  boys,  indeed,  he  saved  from  this  hell  by 
sending  them  to  school  at  an  early  age,  and  insisting  on  his 
right  to  train  them.  He  rarely  interfered  between  his  wife 
and  her  daughters ;  but  he  was  resolved  that  they  should  marry 
as  soon  as  they  were  old  enough. 

Even  if  he  had  wished  to  take  violent  measures,  he  could 
have  found  no  justification ;  his  wife,  backed  by  a  formidable 
army  of  dowagers,  would  have  had  him  condemned  by  the 
whole  world.  Thus  Granville  had  no  choice  but  to  live  in 
complete  isolation ;  but,  crushed  under  the  tyranny  of  misery, 
he  could  not  himself  bear  to  see  how  altered  he  was  by  grief 
and  toil.  And  ho  dreaded  any  connection  or  intimacy  with 
women  of  the  world,  having  no  hope  of  finding  any  consola- 
tion. 


A  SECOND  HOME  367 

The  improving  history  of  this  melancholy  household  gave 
rise  to  no  events  worthy  of  record  during  the  fifteen  years  be- 
tvreen  1806  and  1825.  Madame  de  Granville  was  exactly  the 
same  after  losing  her  husband's  affection  as  she  had  been  dur- 
ing the  time  when  she  called  herself  happy.  She  paid  for 
Masses,  beseeching  God  and  the  Saints  to  enlighten  her  as  to 
what  the  faults  were  which  displeased  her  husband,  and  to 
show  her  the  way  to  restore  the  erring  sheep;  but  the  more: 
fervent  her  prayers,  the  less  was  Granville  to  be  seen  at  home., 

For  about  five  years  now,  having  achieved  a  high  position 
as  a  judge,  Granville  had  .occupied  the  entresol  of  the  house 
to  avoid  living  with  the  Comtesse  de  Granville.  Every  morn- 
ing a  little  scene  took  place,  which,  if  evil  tongues  are  to  be 
believed,  is  repeated  in  many  households  as  the  result  of  in- 
compatibility of  temper,  of  moral  or  physical  malady,  or  of 
antagonisms  leading  to  such  disaster  as  is  recorded  in  this 
history.  At  about  eight  in  the  morning  a  housekeeper,  bear- 
ing no  small  resemblance  to  a  nun,  rang  at  the  Comte  de 
Granville's  door.  Admitted  to  the  room  next  to  the  Judge's 
study,  she  always  repeated  the  same  message  to  the  footman, 
and  always  in  the  same  tone : 

"Madame  would  be  glad  to  know  whether  Monsieur  le 
Comte  has  had  a  good  night,  and  if  she  is  to  have  the  pleasure 
of  his  company  at  breakfast." 

"Monsieur  presents  his  compliments  to  Madame  la  Comt- 
esse," the  valet  would  say,  after  speaking  with  his  master, 
"and  begs  her  to  hold  him  excused;  important  business  com- 
pels him  to  be  in  court  this  morning." 

A  minute  later  the  woman  reappeared  and  asked  on  mad- 
ame's  behalf  whether  she  would  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
Monsieur  le  Comte  before  he  went  out. 

"He  is  gone,"  was  always  the  reply,  though  often  his  car- 
riage was  still  waiting. 

This  little  dialogue  by  proxy  became  a  daily  ceremonial. 
Granville's  servant,  a  favorite  with  his  master,  and  the  cause 
of  more  than  one  quarrel  over  his  irreligious  and  dissipated 
conduct,  would  even  go  into  his  master's  room,  as  a  matter  of 


368  A  SECOND  HOME 

form,  when  the  Count  was  not  there,  and  come  bacTc  \vi\h  the 
same  formula  in  reply. 

The  afj^rieved  wife  was  always  on  the  watch  for  her  hus- 
band's return,  and  standing  on  the  steps  so  as  to  meet  him  like 
an  embodiment  of  remorse.  The  potty  agfjressiveness  which 
lies  at  the  root  of  the  monastic  temper  was  the  foundation  of 
Madame  de  Granville's;  she  was  now  five-and-thirty,  and 
looked  forty.  When  the  Count  was  compelled  by  decency  to 
^speak  (o  his  wife  or  to  dine  at  home,  she  was  only  too  well 
pleased  to  inflict  her  company  upon  him,  with  her  acid-sweet 
remarks  and  the  intolerable  dulness  of  her  narrow-minded 
circle,  and  she  tried  to  put  him  in  the  wrong  before  the  ser- 
vants and  her  charitable  friends. 

When,  at  this  time,  the  post  of  President  in  a  provincial 
court  was  offered  to  the  Comte  de  Granville,  who  was  in  high 
favor,  he  begged  to  be  allowed  to  remain  in  Paris.  This  re- 
fusal, of  w^hieh  the  Keeper  of  the  Seals  alone  knew  the  reasons, 
gave  rise  to  extraordinary  conjectures  on  the  part  of  the 
Countess'  intimate  friends  and  of  her  director.  Granville,  a 
rich- man  with  a  hundred  thousand  francs  a  year,  belonged  to 
one  of  the  first  families  of  Normandy.  His  appointment  to  be 
Presiding  Judge  would  have  been  the  stepping-stone  to  a 
peer's  seat ;  whence  this  strange  lack  of  ambition  ?  Why  had 
he  given  up  his  great  book  on  Law?  What  was  the  meaning 
of  the  dissipation  which  for  nearly  si.x  years  had  made  him 
a  stranger  to  his  home,  his  family,  his  study,  to  all  he  ought 
to  hold  dear?  The  Countess'  confessor,  who  based  his  hopes 
of  a  bishopric  quite  as  much  on  the  families  he  governed  as 
on  the  services  he  rendered  to  an  association  of  which  he  was 
an  ardent  propagator,  was  much  disappointed  by  Granville's 
refusal,  and  tried  to  insinuate  calumnious  explanations :  "If 
Monsieur  le  Comte  had  such  an  objection  to  provincial  life, 
it  was  perhaps  because  he  dreaded  finding  himself  under  the 
necessity  of  leading  a  regular  life,  compelled  to  set  an  example 
of  moral  conduct,  and  to  live  with  the  Countess,  from  whom 
nothing  could  have  alienated  him  but  some  illicit  connection; 
fr>r  how  could  a  woman  so  pure  as  Madame  de  Granville  ever 


A  SECOND  HOME  369 

tolerate  the  disorderly  life  into  which  her  husband  had 
drifted?"  The  sanctimonious  women  accepted  as  facts  these 
hints,  which  unluckily  were  not  merely  hypothetical,  and 
Madame  de  Granville  was  stricken  as  by  a  thunderbolt. 

Angelique,  knowing  nothing  of  the  world,  of  love  and  its 
follies,  was  so  far  from  conceiving  of  any  conditions  of  mar- 
ried life  unlike  those  that  had  alienated  her  husband  as  pos 
sible,  that  she  believed  him  to  be  incapable  of  the  errors  which 
are  crimes  in  the  eyes  of  any  wife.  When  the  Count  ceased  to 
demand  anything  of  her,  she  imagined  that  the  tranquillity  he 
now  seemed  to  enjoy  was  in  the  course  of  nature;  and,  as  she 
had  really  given  to  him  all  the  love  which  her  heart  was 
capable  of  feeling  for  a  man,  while  the  priest's  conjectures 
were  the  utter  destruction  of  the  illusions  she  had  hitherto 
cherished,  she  defended  her  husband;  at  the  same  time,  she 
could  not  eradicate  the  suspicion  that  had  been  so  ingeniously 
sown  in  her  soul. 

These  alarms  wrought  such  havoc  in  her  feeble  brain  that 
they  made  her  ill ;  she  was  worn  by  low  fever.  These  incidents 
took  place  during  Lent  1822;  she  would  not  pretermit  her 
austerities,  and  fell  into  a  decline  that  put  her  life  in  danger. 
Granville's  indifference  was  added  torture;  his  care  and  at- 
tention were  such  as  a  nephew  feels  himself  bound  to  give  to 
some  old  uncle. 

Though  the  Countess  had  given  up  her  persistent  nagging 
and  remonstrances,  and  tried  to  receive  her  husband  with 
affectionate  words,  the  sharpness  of  the  bigot  showed  through, 
and  one  speech  would  often  undo  the  work  of  a  week. 

Towards  the  end  of  May,  the  warm  breath  of  spring,  and 
more  nourishing  diet  than  her  Lenten  fare,  restored  Madame 
de  Granville  to  a  little  strength.  One  morning,  on  coming 
home  from  Mass,  ?he  sat  down  on  a  stone  bench  in  the  little 
garden,  where  the  sun's  kisses  reminded  her  of  the  early  days 
of  her  married  life,  and  she  looked  back  across  the  years  to 
see  wherein  she  might  have  failed  in  her  duty  as  a  wife  and 
mother.  She  was  broken  in  upon  by  the  Abbe  Fontanon  in 
an  almost  indescribable  state  of  excitement. 


8T0  A  SECOND  HOME 

"Has  any  misfortune  befallen  you,  Father  ?"  she  asked  with 
filial  solicitude. 

•'Ah  !  I  only  wish,"  cried  the  Normandy  priest,  "that  all  the 
woes  inflicted  on  you  by  the  hand  of  God  were  dealt  out  to  me ; 
but,  my  admirable  friend,  there  are  trials  to  which  you  can 
but  bow." 

^  "Can  any  worse  punishments  await  me  than  those  with 
which  Providence  crushers  me  by  making  my  husband  the  in- 
strument of  His  wrath?" 

"You  must  prepare  yourself,  daughter,  to  yet  worse  mis- 
chief than  we  and  your  pious  friends  had  ever  conceived  of." 

"Then  I  may  thank  God,"  said  the  Countess,  "for  vouch- 
safing to  use  you  as  the  messenger  of  His  v.-ill,  and  thus,  as 
ever,  setting  the  treasures  of  mercy  by  the  side  of  the  scourges 
of  His  wrath,  just  as  in  bygone  days  He  showed  a  spring  to 
Hagar  when  He  had  driven  her  into  the  desert." 

"He  measures  your  sufl'erings  by  the  strength  of  your  resig- 
nation and  the  weight  of  your  sins." 

"Speak ;  I  am  ready  to  hear !"  As  she  said  it  she  cast  her 
eyes  up  to  heaven.    "Speak,  Monseiur  Fontanon." 

"For  seven  years  Monsieur  Granville  has  lived  in  sin  with 
a  concubine,  by  whom  he  has  two  children;  and  on  this  adul- 
terous connection  he  has  spent  more  than  five  hundred  thou- 
sand francs,  which  ought  to  have  been  the  property  of  his 
legitimate  family." 

"I  must  see  it  to  believe  it !"  cried  the  Countess. 

"Far  be  it  from  you  !"  exclaimed  the  Abbe.  "You  must  for- 
give, my  daughter,  and  wait  in  patience  and  prayer  till  God 
enlightens  your  husband ;  unless,  indeed,  you  choose  to  adopt 
against  him  the  means  offered  you  by  human  laws." 

The  long  conversation  that  ensued  between  the  priest  and 
his  penitent  resulted  in  an  extraordinary  change  in  the 
Countess;  she  abruptly  dismissed  him,  called  her  servants, 
who  were  alarmed  at  her  flushed  face  and  crazy  energy.  She 
ordered  her  carriage — countermanded  it — changed  her  mind 
twenty  times  in  the  hour;  but  at  last,  at  aboui  three  o'clock, 
as  if  she  had  come  to  some  great  determination,  she  went  out, 


A  SECOND  HOME  8tl 

leaving  the  whole  household  in  amazement  at  such  a  sudden 
transformation. 

"Is  the  Count  coming  home  to  dinner?"  she  asked  of  his 
servant,  to  whom  she  never  would  speak. 

"No,  madame." 
I     "Did  you  go  with  him  to  the  Courts  this  morning  ?'' 

"Yes,  madame." 

"And  to-day  is  Monday?" 

"Yes,  madame." 

"Then  do  the  Courts  sit  on  Mondays  nowadays  ?" 

"Devil  take  you !"  cried  the  man,  as  his  mistress  drove  off 
after  saying  to  the  coachman : 

''Rue  Taitbout/' 

Mademoiselle  de  Bellefeuille  was  weeping:  Roger,  sitting 
by  her  side,  held  one  of  her  hands  between  his  own.  He  was 
silent,  looking  by  turns  at  little  Charles — who,  not  under- 
standing his  mother's  grief,  stood  speechless  at  the  sight  of 
her  tears — at  the  cot  where  Eugenie  lay  sleeping,  and  Caro- 
line's face,  on  which  grief  had  the  effect  of  rain  falling  across 
the  beams  of  cheerful  sunshine. 

"Yes,  my  darling,"  said  Roger,  after  a  long  silence,  "that  is 
the  great  secret :  I  am  married.  But  some  day  I  hope  we  may 
form  but  one  family.  My  wife  has  been  given  over  ever  since 
last  March.  I  do  not  wish  her  dead ;  still,  if  it  should  please 
God  to  take  her  to  Himself,  I  believe  she  will  be  happier  in 
Paradise  than  in  a  world  to  whose  griefs  and  pleasures  she  is 
equally  indifferent." 

"How  I  hate  that  woman !     How  could  she  bear  to  make 
you  unhappy?     And  yet  it  is  to  that  unhappiness  that  I  owe 
my  happiness !" 
.     Her  tears  suddenly  ceased. 

"Caroline,  let  us  hope,"  cried  Roger.  "Do  not  be  frightened 
by  anything  that  priest  may  have  said  to  you.  Though  my 
wife's  confessor  is  a  man  to  be  feared  for  his  power  in  the 
congregation,  if  he  should  try  to  blight  our  happiness  I  would 
find  means '* 


»t*>.  A  SECOND  HOME 

"What  could  you  do?" 

"We  would  go  to  Italy ;  I  would  fly- 


A  shriek  that  rang  out  froui  the  adjoining  room  made  Roger 
start  and  Mademoiselle  de  BeliefcuilJe  quake;  but  she  rushed 
into  the  drawing-room,  and  there  found  ^ladame  de  Gran- 
ville in  a  dead  faint.  When  liie  Countess  recovered  her  senses, 
she  sighed  deeply  on  finding  herself  supported  by  the  Count 
and  her  rival,  whom  she  instinctively  pushed  away  with  a 
gesture  of  contempt.  Mademoiselle  de  Bellefeuille  rose  to 
withdraw. 

"You  are  at  home,  madame,"  said  Granville,  taking  Caro- 
line by  the  arm.    "Stay." 

The  Judge  took  up  his  wife  in  his  arms,  carried  her  to  the 
carriage,  and  got  into  it  with  her. 

'^^ho  is  it  that  has  brought  you  to  the  point  of  wishing 
me  dead,  of  resolving  to  fly?"  asked  the  Countess,  looking  at 
her  husband  with  grief  mingled  with  indignation.  "Was  I  not 
young?  you  thought  me  pretty — what  fault  have  you  to  find 
with  me  ?  Have  I  been  false  to  you  ?  Have  not  I  been  a  vir- 
tuous and  well-conducted  wife?  My  heart  has  cherished 
no  image  but  yours,  my  ears  have  listened  to  no  other 
voice.    What  duty  have  I  failed  in  ?    What  have  I  ever  denied 

you?" 

"Happiness,  madame,"  said  the  Count  severely.  "You 
know,  madame,  that  there  are  two  ways  of  serving  God.  Some 
Christians  imagine  that  by  going  to  church  at  fixed  hours  to 
say  a  Paternoster,  by  attending  Mass  regularly  and  avoiding 
sin,  they  may  win  heaven — ^but  they,  madame,  will  go  to  hell ; 
they  have  not  loved  God  for  Himself,  they  have  not  wor- 
shiped Him  as  He  chooses  to  be  w^orshiped,  they  have  made 
no  sacrifice.  Though  mild  in  seeming,  they  are  hard  on  their 
neighbors;  they  see  the  law,  the  letter,  not  the  spirit. — This 
is  how  you  have  treated  me,  your  earthly  husband ;  you  have 
sacrificed  my  happiness  to  your  salvation ;  3^011  were  always 
absorbed  in  prayer  when  I  came  to  you  in  gladness  of  heart ; 
you  wept  when  you  should  have  cheered  my  toil;  you  have 
never  tried  to  satisfy  any  demands  I  have  made  on  you." 


A  SECOND  HOME  S7S 

"And  if  they  were  wicked/'  cried  the  Countess  hotly,  "was 
I  to  lose  my  soul  to  please  you  ?" 

"It  is  a  sacrifice  which  another,  a  more  loving  woman,  has 
dared  to  make,"  said  Granville  coldly. 

"Dear  God !"  she  cried,  bursting  into  tears,  "Thou  hearest ! 
Has  he  been  worthy  of  the  prayers  and  penance  I  have  lived  in, 
wearing  myself  out  to  atone  for  his  sins  and  my  own? — Of 
what  avail  is  virtue  ?" 

"To  win  Heaven,  my  dear.  A  woman  cannot  be  at  the  same 
time  the  wife  of  a  man  and  the  spouse  of  Christ.  That  would 
be  bigamy ;  she  must  choose  between  a  husband  and  a  nunnery. 
For  the  sake  of  future  advantage  you  have  stripped  your  soul 
of  all  the  love,  all  the  devotion,  which  God  commands  that  you 
should  have  for  me,  you  have  cherished  no  feeling  but 
hatred " 

"Have  I  not  loved  you  T'  she  put  in. 

"No,  madame." 

"Then  what  is  love?"  the  Countess  involuntarily  inquired. 

"Love,  my  dear,"  replied  Granville,  with  a  sort  of  ironical 
surprise,  "you  are  incapable  of  understanding  it.  The  cold 
sky  of  Normandy  is  not  that  of  Spain.  This  difference  of  cli- 
mate is  no  doubt  the  secret  of  our  disaster. — To  yield  to  our 
caprices,  to  guess  them,  to  find  pleasure  in  pain,  to  sacrifice 
the  world's  opinion,  your  pride,  your  religion  even,  and  still 
regard  these  offerings  as  mere  grains  of  incense  burnt  in  honor 
of  the  idol — that  is  love " 

"The  love  of  ballet-girls !"  cried  the  Countess  in  horror. 
"Such  flames  cannot  last,  and  must  soon  leave  nothing  but 
ashes  and  cinders,  regret  or  despair.  A  wife  ought,  in  my 
opinion,  to  bring  you  true  friendship,  equable  warmth -" 

"You  speak  of  warmth  as  negroes  speak  oi  ice,"  retorted  the 
Count,  with  a  sardonic  smile.  "Consider  that  the  humblest 
daisy  has  more  charms  than  the  proudest  and  most  gorgeous 
of  the  red  hawthorns  that  attract  us  in  spring  by  their  strong 
scent  and  brilliant  color. — At  the  same  time,"  he  went  on,  "I 
will  do  you  Justice.  You  have  kept  so  precisely  in  the  straight 
path  of  imaginary  duty  prescribed  by  law,  thai  only  to  make 


ST4  A  SECOND  HOME 

you  unclcrstand  wherein  you  have  failed  towards  me,  I  should 
be  obliged  to  enter  into  details  which  would  oil'end  your  dig- 
nity, and  instruct  you  in  matters  which  would  seem  to  you 
to  undermine  all  morality." 

"And  you  dare  to  speak  of  morality  when  you  have  but  just 
left  the  house  where  you  have  dissipated  your  children's  for- 
tune in  debaucheries?''  cried  the  Countess,  maddened  by  her 
husband's  reticence. 

"There,  madame,  I  must  correct  you,"  said  the  Count,  coolly 
interrupting  liis  wife.  "Though  Mademoiselle  do  Bellefeuille 
is  rich,  it  is  at  nobody's  expense.  My  uncle  was  master  of  his 
fortune,  and  had  several  heirs.  In  his  lifetime,  and  out  of 
pure  friendship,  regarding  her  as  his  niece,  he  gave  her  the 
little  estate  of  Bellefeuille.  As  for  anything  else,  I  owe  it  to 
his  liberality " 

"Such  conduct  is  only  worthy  of  a  Jacobin !"  said  the  sanc- 
timonious Angelique. 

"Madame,  you  are  forgetting  that  your  own  father  was  one 
of  the  Jacobins  whom  you  scorn  so  uncharitably,"  said  the 
Count  severely.  "Citizen  Bontems  was  signing  death-warrants 
at  a  time  when  my  uncle  was  doing  France  good  service." 

Madame  de  Granville  was  silenced.  But  after  a  short  pause, 
the  remembrance  of  what  she  had  just  seen  reawakened  in  her 
soul  the  jealousy  which  nothing  can  kill  in  a  woman's  heart, 
and  she  murmured,  as  if  to  herself — "How  can  a  woman  thus 
destroy  her  own  soul  and  that  of  others?" 

"Bless  me,  madame,"  replied  the  Count,  tired  of  this  dia- 
logue, "you  yourself  may  some  day  have  to  answer  that  ques- 
tion." The  Countess  was  scared.  "You  perhaps  will  be  held 
excused  by  the  merciful  Judge,  who  will  weigh  our  sins,"  he 
went  on,  "in  consideration  of  the  conviction  with  which  you 
have  worked  out  my  misery.  I  do  not  hate  you — I  hate  those 
who  have  perverted  your  heart  and  your  reason.  You  have 
prayed  for  me,  just  as  Mademoiselle  de  Bellefeuille  has  given 
me  her  heart  and  crowned  my  life  with  love.  You  should  have 
been  my  mistress  and  the  prayerful  saint  by  turns. — Do  me 
the  justice  to  confess  that  I  am  no  reprobate,  no  debauchee. 


A  SECOND  HOMfi  ^75 

My  life  was  cleanly.  Alas !  after  seven  years  of  wretchedness, 
the  craving  for  happiness  led  me  by  an  imperceptible  descent 
to  love  another  woman  and  make  a  second  home.  And  do  not 
imagine  that  I  am  singular;  there  are  in  this  city  thousands 
of  husbands,  all  led  by  various  causes  to  live  this  twofold  life." 

"Great  God !"  cried  the  Countess.  "How  heavy  is  the  cross 
Thou  hast  laid  on  me  to  bear!  If  the  husband  Thou  hast 
given  me  here  below  in  Thy  wrath  can  only  l)e  made  happy 
through  my  death,  take  me  to  Thyself !" 

"If  you  had  always  breathed  such  admirable  sentiments 
and  such  devotion,  we  should  be  happy  yet/'  said  the  Count 
coldly. 

"Indeed,"  cried  Angelique,  melting  into  a  flood  of  tears, 
"forgive  me  if  I  have  done  any  wrong.  Yes,  monsieur,  I  am 
ready  to  obey  you  in  all  things,  feeling  sure  that  you  will  de- 
sire nothing  but  what  is  just  and  natural;  henceforth  I  will 
be  all  you  can  wish  your  wife  to  be." 

"If  your  purpose,  madame,  is  to  compel  me  to  say  that  I  no 
longer  love  you,  I  shall  find  the  cruel  courage  to  tell  you  so 
Can  I  command  my  heart  ?  Can  I  wipe  out  in  an  instant  the 
traces  of  fifteen  years  of  suffering  ? — I  have  ceased  to  love. — 
These  words  contain  a  mystery  as  deep  as  lies  the  words  I  love 
Esteem,  respect,  friendship  may  be  won,  lost,  regained ;  but  as 
to  love — I  might  school  myself  for  a  thousand  years,  and  it 
would  not  blossom  again,  especially  for  a  woman  too  old  to 
respond  to  it." 

"I  hope.  Monsieur  le  Comte,  I  sincerely  hope,  that  such 
words  may  not  be  spoken  to  you  some  day  by  the  woman  you 
love,  and  in  such  a  tone  and  accent " 

'^ill  you  put  on  a  dress  a  la  Grecque  this  evening,  and 
come  to  the  Opera  ?" 

The  shudder  with  which  the  Countess  received  the  sugges- 
tion was  a  mute  reply. 


S7e  A  SECOND  HOME 

Early  in  December  1833,  a  man,  whose  perfectly  white  hair 
and  worn  features  seemed  to  show  that  he  was  aged  by  grief 
rather  than  by  years,  was  walking  at  midnight  along  the  Rue 
Gaillon.  Having  reached  a  house  of  modest  appearance,  and 
only  two  stories  high,  he  paused  to  look  up  at  one  of  the  attic 
windows  that  pierced  the  roof  at  regular  intervals.  A  dim 
light  scarcely  showed  through  the  humble  panes,  some  of 
which  had  been  repaired  with  paper.  The  man  below  was 
watcliing  the  wavering  glimmer  with  the  vague  curiosity  of  a 
Paris  idler,  when  a  young  man  came  out  of  the  house.  As  the 
light  of  the  street  lamp  fell  full  on  the  face  of  the  first  comer, 
it  will  not  seem  surprising  that,  in  spite  of  the  darkness,  this 
young  man  went  towards  the  passer-by,  though  with  the  hesi- 
tancy that  is  usual  when  we  have  any  fear  of  making  a  mis- 
take in  recognizing  an  acquaintance. 

"What,  is  it  you,"  cried  he,  "]\Ionsicur  le  President :  Alone 
at  this  hour,  and  so  far  from  the  Hue  Saint-Lazare.  Allow  me 
to  have  the  honor  of  giving  you  my  arm. — The  pavement  is  so 
greasy  this  morning,  that  if  we  do  not  hold  each  other  up,"  he 
added,  to  soothe  the  elder  man's  susceptibilities,  "we  shall  find 
it  hard  to  escape  a  tumble." 

"But,  my  dear  sir,  I  am  no  more  than  fifty-five,  unfortu- 
nately for  me,"  replied  the  Comte  de  Granville.  "A  physician 
of  your  celebrity  must  know  that  at  that  age  a  man  is  still  hale 
and  strong." 

"Then  you  are  in  waiting  on  a  lady,  I  suppose,"  replied 
Horace  Bianchon.  "You  are  not,  I  imagine,  in  the  habit  of 
going  about  Paris  on  foot.  When  a  man  keeps  such  fine 
horses " 

"Still,  when  I  am  not  visiting  in  the  evening,  I  commonly 
return  from  the  Courts  or  the  club  on  foot,"  replied  the  Count. 

"And  with  large  sums  of  money  about  you,  perhaps !"  cried 
the  doctor.    "It  is  a  positive  invitation  to  the  assassin's  knife." 

"I  am  not  afraid  of  that,"  said  Granville,  with  melancholy 
indifTerence. 

"But,  at  least,  do  not  stand  about,"  said  the  doctor,  leading 
the  Count  towards  the  boulevard.    "A  little  more  and  I  shall 


A  SECOND  HOME  877 

believe  that  you  are  bent  on  robbing  me  of  your  last  illness, 
and  dying  by  some  other  hand  than  mine." 

"You  caught  me  playing  the  spy/'  said  the  Count. 
"Whether  on  foot  or  in  a  carriage,  and  at  whatever  hour  of 
the  night  I  may  come  by,  I  have  for  some  time  past  observed 
at  a  window  on  the  third  floor  of  your  house  the  shadow  of  a 
person  who  seems  to  work  with  heroic  constancy." 

The  Count  paused  as  if  he  felt  some  sudden  pain.  "And  I 
take  as  great  an  interest  in  that  garret/''  he  went  on,  "as  a  cit- 
izen of  Paris  must  feel  in  the  finishing  of  the  Palais  Eoyal." 

"Well,"  said  Horace  Bianchon  eagerly,  "I  can  tell  you 


"Tell  me  nothing,"  replied  Granville,  cutting  the  doctor 
short.  "I  would  not  give  a  centime  to  know  whether  the 
shadow  that  moves  across  that  shabby  blind  is  that  of  a  man  or 
a  woman,  nor  whether  the  inhabitant  of  that  attic  is  happy 
or  miserable.  Though  I  was, surprised  to  see  no  one  at  work 
there  this  evening,  and  though  I  stopped  to  look,  it  was  solely 
for  the  pleasure  of  indulging  in  conjectures  as  numerous  and 
as  idiotic  as  those  of  idlers  who  see  a  building  left  half 

finished.    For  nine  years,  my  young "  the  Count  hesitated 

to  use  a  word;  then  he  waved  his  hand,  exclaiming — "No,  I 
will  not  say  friend — I  hate  everything  that  savors  of  senti- 
ment.— Well,  for  nine  years  past  I  have  ceased  to  wonder  that 
old  men  amuse  themselves  with  growing  flowers  and  planting 
trees;  the  events  of  life  have  taught  them  disbelief  in  all 
human  affection;  and  I  grew  old  within  a  few  days.  I  will 
no  longer  attach  myself  to  any  creature  but  to  unreasoning 
animals,  or  plants,  or  superficial  things.  I  think  more  of 
Taglioni's  grace  than  of  all  human  feeling.  I  abhor  life  and 
the  world  in  which  I  live  alone.  ISTothing,  nothing,"  he  went 
on,  in  a  tone  that  startled  the  younger  man,  "no,  nothing  can 
move  or  interest  me." 

"But  you  have  children  ?" 

"My  children!"  he  repeated  bitterly.  ''Yes— well,  is  not 
my  eldest  daughter  the  Comtesse  de  Vandenesse?  The  other 
will,  through  her  sister's  connections,  make  some  good  match. 


378  A  SECOND  HOME 

As  to  my  sons,  have  tlic}-  not  succeeded?  The  Viscount  was 
public  prosecutor  at  Limoges,  and  is  now  President  of  the 
Court  at  Orleans ;  the  younger  is  public  prosecutor  in  Paris,— 
My  children  have  their  own*  cares,  their  own  anxieties  and 
business  to  attend  to.  If  of  all  those  hearts  one  had  been  de- 
voted to  me,  if  one  had  tried  by  entire  affection  to  fill  up  the 
void  I  have  here,"  and  he  struck  his  breast,  "well,  that  one 
would  have  failed  in  life,  have  sacrificed  it  to  me.  And  why 
should  he?  Why?  To  bring  sunshine  into  my  few  remaining 
years — and  would  he  have  succeeded?  Might  I  not  have  ac- 
cepted such  generosity  as  a  debt  ?  But,  doctor,"  and  the  Count 
smiled  with  deep  irony,  "it  is  not  for  nothing  that  we  teach 
them  arithmetic  and  how  to  count.  At  this  moment  perhaps 
they  are  waiting  for  my  money." 

"0  Monsieur  le  Comte,  how  could  such  an  idea  enter  your 
head — you  who  are  kind,  friendly,  and  humane !  Indeed,  if  I 
were  not  myself  a  living  proof  of  the  benevolence  you  exercise 
60  liberally  and  so  nobly " 

"To  please  myself,"  replied  the  Count.  "I  pay  for  a  sen- 
sation, as  I  would  to-morrow  pay  a  pile  of  gold  to  recover  the 
most  childish  illusion  that  would  but  make  my  heart  glow. — 
I  help  my  fellow-creatures  for  my  own  sake,  just  as  I  gamble; 
and  I  look  for  gratitude  from  none.  I  should  see  you  die 
without  blinlving ;  and  I  beg  of  you  to  feel  the  same  with  re- 
gard to  me.  I  tell  you,  young  man,  the  events  of  life  have 
swept  over  my  heart  like  the  lavas  of  Vesuvius  over  Hercu- 
lancum.    The  town  is  there — dead." 

"Those  who  have  brought  a  soul  as  warm  and  as  living  as 
yours  was  to  such  a  pitch  of  indifference  are  indeed  guilty !" 

"Say  no  more,"  said  the  Count,  with  a  shudder  of  aversion. 

"You  have  a  malady  which  you  ought  to  allow  me  to  treat," 
said  Bianchon  in  a  tone  of  deep  emotion. 

"What,  do  you  know  of  a  cure  for  death  ?"  cried  the  Count 
irritably. 

"I  undertake,  Monsieur  le  Comte,  to  revive  the  heart  you 
believe  to  be  frozen." 

"Are  you  a  match  for  Talma,  then?"  asked  the  Count 
eatirically. 


A  SECOND  HOME  379 

"No,  Monsieur  ie  Comte.  But  Nature  is  as  far  above  Talma 
as  Talma  is  superior  to  me. — Listen :  the  garret  you  are  inter- 
ested in  is  inhabited  by  a  "woman  of  about  thirty,  and  in  her 
love  is  carried  to  fanaticism.  The  object  of  her  adoration  is 
a  young  man  of  pleasing  appearance,  but  endowed  by  some 
malignant  fairy  with  every  conceivable  vice.  This  fellow  is  a 
gambler,  and  it  is  hard  to  say  which  he  is  most  addicted  to — 
wine  or  women ;  he  has,  to  my  knowledge,  committed  acts  de 
serving  punishment  by  law.  Well,  and  to  him  this  unhappy 
woman  sacrificed  a  life  of  ease,  a  man  who  worshiped  her, 
and  the  father  of  her  cliildren. — But  what  is  wrong,  MonBieux 
le  Comte?" 

"Nothing.    Goon.'' 

"She  has  allowed  him  to  squander  a  perfect  fortune;  she 
would,  I  believe,  give  him  the  world  if  she  had  it;  she  works 
night  and  day ;  and  many  a  time  she  has,  without  a  murmur, 
seen  the  wretch  she  adores  rob  her  even  of  the  money  saved 
to  buy  the  clothes  the  children  need,  and  their  food  for  the 
morrow.  Only  three  days  ago  she  sold  her  hair,  the  finest  hair 
I  ever  saw;  he  came  in,  she  could  not  hide  the  gold  piece 
quickly  enough,  and  he  asked  her  for  it.  For  a  smile,  for  a 
kiss,  she  gave  up  the  price  of  a  fortnight's  life  and  peace.  Is 
it  not  dreadful,  and  yet  sublime? — But  work  is  wearing  her 
cheeks  hollow.  Her  children's  cr}dng  has  broken  her  heart; 
she  is  ill,  and  at  this  moment  moaning  on  her  wretched  bed. 
This  evening  they  had  nothing  to  eat ;  the  children  have  not 
strength  to  cry,  they  were  silent  when  I  went  up." 

Horace  Bianchon  stood  still.  Just  then  the  Comte  de  Gran- 
ville, in  spite  of  himself,  as  it  were,  had  put  his  hand  into  his 
waistcoat  pocket. 

"I  can  guess,  my  young  friend,  how  it  is  that  she  is  yet  alive 
if  you  attend  her/'  said  the  elder  man. 

"0  poor  soul !"  cried  the  doctor,  "who  could  refuse  to  help 
her  ?  I  only  wish  I  were  richer,  for  I  hope  to  cure  her  of  her 
passion." 

"But  how  can  you  expect  me  to  pity  a  form  of  misery  of 
which  the  joys  to  me  would  seem  cheaply  purchased  with  my 


880  A  SECOND  HO:\IE 

whole  fortune!"  exclaimccl  the  Count,  taking  his  hand  out  of 
his  pocket  empty  of  the  notes  whicli  Birinchon  had  supposed 
his  patron  to  bo  feeling  for.  'That  woman  feels,  she  is  alive ! 
Would  not  Louis  XV,  have  given  his  kingdom  to  rise  from  the 
grave  and  have  three  days  of  youth  and  life !  And  is  not  that 
the  history  of  thousands  of  dead  mcn^  thousands  of  sick  men, 
thousands  of  old  men  ?" 

"Poor  Caroline  !"  cried  Bianchon. 

As  he  heard  the  name  the  Count  shuddered,  and  grasped 
the  doctor's  arm  with  the  grip  of  an  iron  vise,  as  it  seemed  to 
Bianchon. 

"Her  name  is  Caroline  Crochard?"  asked  the  President,  in 
a  voice  that  was  evidently  broken. 

"Then  you  know  her?"  said  the  doctor,  astonished. 

"And  the  wretch's  name  is  Solvet. — Ay,  you  have  kept  your 
word!"  CTclaimed  Granville;  "you  have  roused  my  heart  to 
the  most  terrible  pain  it  can  sufTer  till  it  is  dust.  That  emo- 
tion, too,  is  a  gift  from  hell,  and  I  always  know  how  to  pay 
those  debts." 

By  this  time  the  Count  and  the  doctor  had  reached  the 
corner  of  the  Rue  de  la  Chaussee  d'Antin.  One  of  those  night- 
birds  who  wander  round  with  a  basket  on  their  back  and  crook 
in  hand,  and  were,  during  the  Revolution,  facetiously  called 
the  Committee  of  Research,  was  standing  by  the  curbstone 
where  the  two  men  now  stopped.  This  scavenger  had  a  shriv- 
eled face  worthy  of  those  immortalized  by  Charlet  in  his  cari- 
catures of  the  sweepers  of  Paris. 

"Do  you  ever  pick  up  a  thousand-franc  note  ?" 

"Now  and  then,  master." 

"And  you  restore  them  ?" 

"It  depends  on  the  reward  offered!" 

"You're  the  man  for  me,"  cried  the  Count,  giving  the  man 
a  thousand-franc  note.  "Take  this,  but,  remember,  I  give  it 
you  on  condition  of  your  spending  it  at  the  wineshop,  of  your 
getting  drunk,  fighting,  beating  your  wife,  blacking  your 
friends'  eyes.  That  will  give  work  to  the  watch,  the  surgeon. 
the  druggist — perhaps  to  the  police,  the  public  prosecutor,  the 


A  SECOND  HOME  381 

judge,  and  the  prison  v.arders.  Do  not  try  to  do  anything  else, 
or  the  devil  will  be  revenged  on  you  sooner  or  later/^ 

A  draughtsman  would  need  at  once  tlie  pencil  of  Cliarlet 
and  of  Callot,  the  brush'  of  Tenicrs  and  of  Eembrandt,  to  give 
a  true  notion  of  tliis  night-scene. 

"Now  I  have  squared  accounts  v.itli  hell,  and  had  some 
pleasure  for  my  money,"  said  the  Count  in  a  deep  voice,  point- 
ing out  the  indescribable  jihysiognomy  of  the  gaping  scavenger 
to  the  doctor,  who  stood  stupefied.  "As  for  Caroline  Cro- 
chard ! — she  may  die  of  hunger  and  thirst,  hearing  the  heart- 
rending shrieks  of  her  starving  children,  and  convinced  of  the 
baseness  of  the  man  she  loves.  I  vrill  not  give  a  sou  to  rescue 
her ;  and  because  you  Inive  helped  her,  I  will  see  you  no  more 


The  Count  left  Bianchcn  star.ding  like  a  statue,  and  walked 
as  briskly  as  a  young  man  to  the  Eue  Saint-Lazare,  soon 
reaching  the  little  house  where  lie  resided,  and  where,  to  his 
surprise,  he  found  a  carriage  waiting  at  the  door. 

"Monsieur,  your  son,  the  attorne3'--general,  came  about  an 
hour  since,"  said  the  man-servant,  "and  is  waiting  for  you  in 
your  bedroom." 

Granville  signed  to  the  man  to  leave  him. 

'^^hat  motive  can  be  strong  enough  to  require  you  to  in- 
fringe the  order  I  have  given  my  children  never  to  come  to 
me  unless  I  send  for  them  ?"  asked  the  Count  of  his  son  as  he 
went  into  the  room. 

"Father,"  replied  the  younger  man  in  a  tremulous  voice, 
and  with  great  respect,  "I  venture  to  hope  that  you  will  for- 
give me  when  you  have  heard  me." 

"Your  reply  is  proper,"  said  the  Count.  "Sit  down,"  and 
he  pointed  to  a  chair.  "But  whether  I  walk  up  and  down,  or 
take  a  scat,  speak  without  heeding  me." 

"Father,"  the  son  Avent  on,  "this  afternoon,  at  four  o'clock, 
a  very  young  man  who  was  arrested  in  the  house  of  a  friend  of 
mine,  whom  he  had  robbed  to  a  considerable  extent,  appealed 
to  you. — He  says  he  is  your  son." 

"His  name  ?"  asked  the  Count  hoarsely. 


382  A  SECOND  HOME 

"Charles  Crochard." 

"That  will  do,"  said  the  father,  with  an  imperious  wave  of 
the  hand. 

Granville  paced  the  room  in  solemn  silence,  and  his  son  took 
care  not  to  break  it. 

"My  son,"  he  began,  and  the  words  were  pronounced  in  a 
voice  so  mild  and  fatherly,  that  the  young  lawyer  started, 
"Charles  Crochard  spoke  the  truth. — I  am  glad  you  came  to 
me  to-night,  my  good  Eugene,"  he  added.  "Here  is  a  consid- 
erable sum  of  money" — and  he  gave  him  a  bundle  of  bank- 
notes— "you  can  nuike  any  use  of  them  you  think  proper  in 
this  matter.  I  trust  you  implicitly,  and  approve  beforehand 
whatever  arrangements  you  may  make,  either  in  the  present 
or  for  the  future. — Eugene,  my  dear  son,  kiss  me.  We  part 
perhaps  for  the  last  time.  I  shall  to-morrow  crave  my  dis- 
missal from  the  King,  and  I  am  going  to  Italy. 

"Though  a  father  owes  no  account  of  his  life  to  his  children, 
he  is  bound  to  bequeath  to  them  the  experience  Fate  sells  him 
so  dearly — is  it  not  a  part  of  their  inheritance? — When  you 
marry,"  the  Count  went  on,  with  a  little  involuntary  shudder, 
"do  not  undertake  it  lightly;  that  act  is  the  most  important 
of  all  those  which  society  requires  of  us.  Eeraember  to  study 
at  your  leisure  the  character  of  the  woman  who  is  to  be  your 
partner;  but  consult  me  too,  I  will  judge  of  her  myself.  A 
lack  of  union  between  husband  and  wife,  from  whatever  cause, 
leads  to  terrible  m.isfortune ;  sooner  or  later  we  are  always 
punished  for  contravening  the  social  law. — But  I  will  write  to 
you  on  this  subject  from  Florence.  A  father  who  has  the 
honor  of  presiding  over  a  supreme  court  of  justice  must  not 
have  to  blush  in  the  presence  of  his  son.    Good-bye." 

Paris,  Fe^rumry  1830~-January  1842. 


MODESTE   MIGNON 
AND  OTHER  STORIES 


INTRODUCTION 

Modesto  Mignon  occupies  a  very  peculiar  place  in  BalzacV.' 
works — a  place,  indeed;,  which,  though  for  the  form's  sake 
more  than  anything  else  the  author  has  connected  it  with 
the  rest  of  the  Comedie  by  some  repetition  of  personages,  is 
almost  entirely  isolated.  I  think  it  has  puzzled  some  de- 
voted Balzacians — so  much  so,  that  I  have  seen  it  omitted 
even  from  lists  of  his  works  suitable  to  "the  young  person," 
in  which  it  surely  should  have  had  an  eminent  place.  As  it 
is  distinctly  late — it  was  written  in  1844,  an^l^  nothing  of 
combined  magnitude  and  first-class  importance  succeeded  it 
except  Les  Parents  Pauvres — it  may  not  impossibly  serve  as 
a  basis  for  the  exjoectation  that  if  Balzac,  after  his  re-cstab- 
lishment  in  Paris  as  a  wealthy  personage,  had  re<ieived  a  new 
lease  of  life  and  vigor  instead  of  a  sentence  of  death,  we  might 
have  had  from  him  a  series  of  works  as  differer*.  from  any- 
thing that  he  had  composed  before  as  Modeste  Mignon  is 
from  her  sisters. 

In  saying  this,  I  do  not  mean  to  put  the  book  itself  in  the 
very  first  class  of  its  author's  work.  It  is  too  much  of  an 
experiment  for  that — of  an  experiment  as  far  as  the  heroine 
is  concerned,  the  boldness  and  novelty  of  which  ia  likely  to 
be  underestimated  by  almost  any  reader,  unless  he  be  a  i 
literary  Student  who  pays  strict  attention  to  times  and  sea- 
sons. Even  in  England  (though  Charlotte  Bronte  was  plan- 
ning her  at  this  very  time)  the  wilful  unconventional  heroine 
was  something  of  a  novelty;  and  when  i^  is  remembered  how 

(ix) 


X  INTRODUCTION 

infinitely  stricter  was  the  standard  of  the  French  ingenue. 
until  quite  recently,  than  it  ever,  even  in  the  depths  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  was  in  England,  the  audacity  of  the  con- 
ception of  Modesto  may  be  at  least  generally  appreciated. 
And  it  is  specially  important  to  observe  that  though  the 
author  puts  in  Charles  Mignon's  mouth  a  vindication  of  the 
French  process  of  tying  a  girl  hand  and  foot  and  handing 
her  over  to  the  best  bidder  as  a  husband,  instead  of  allowing 
her  to  choose  for  herself,  Modeste's  audacity  in  pursuing  the 
opposite  method  is  crowned  with  complete  success,  if  not  with 
success  of  exactly  the  kind  that  she  anticipated.  Ex- 
cept the  case  of  Savinien  de  Portenduere  and  Ursule  Mirouet, 
hers  is,  so  far  as  I  can  remember,  the  only  example  in  the 
whole  Comedie  of  a  love-marriage  which,  as  we  are  told,  was 
wholly  successful,  without  even  vacillations  on  the  wife's  part 
or  relapses  on  the  husband's.  It  is  true  that,  with  a  slight 
toucli  of  cowardice  or  concession,  Balzac  has  made  Modeste 
half  a  German;  but  this  is  a  very  venial  bowing  in  the 
porch,  not  the  chancel,  of  the  House  of  Kimmon. 

Whether  the  youug  lady  is  as  entirely  successful  and  as 
entirely  charming  as  she  is  undeniably  audacious  in  con- 
ception, is  not  a  point  for  equally  positive  pronouncement. 
Just  as  it  was  probably  necessary  for  Balzac,  in  order  not 
to  outrage  the  feelings  of  his  readers  too  much,  to  put  that 
Teutonic  strain  in  Modeste,  so  he  had,  in  all  probability,  to 
exhibit  her  as  capricious,  and  almost  unamiable,  in  order  to 
attain  the  fitness  of  things  in  connection  with  so  terrible  a 
young  person.  It  is  certain  that  even  those  who  by  no  means 
rejoice  in  pattern  heroines,  even  those  who  "like  tliem  rather 
wicked,"  may  sometimes  think  Modeste  nasty  in  her  behavior 
to  her  family,  to  Butscha,  and,  perhaps,  to  her  future  hus- 
band.    She  is,  for  instance,  quite  wrong  about  the  whip, 


INTRODUCTION  xi 

which  she  might  have  refused  altogether,  but  could  not  with 
decency  accept  from  one  person  and  refuse  from  another. 
But  what  has  just  been  said  will  cover  this  and  other  petu- 
lances and  outbursts.  So  "shoking"  a  young  person  (it  is 
very  cheerful  and  interesting  to  think  how  much  more  ex- 
actly that  favorite  vox  nihili  of  French  speech  expresses 
French  than  English  sentiment)  could  not  but  behave 
"shokingly." 

Most  of  the  minor  characters  are  good :  Butscha,  a  diffi- 
cult and,  in  any  case,  slightly  improbable  personage,  is,  in 
his  own  wa}^  very  good  indeed.  It  was  probably  necessary 
for  Balzac,  in  turning  the  usual  scheme  of  the  French  novel 
upside  down,  to  provide  a  rather  timid  hero  for  such  a  mas- 
terful heroine;  and  it  must  be  admitted  that  Ernest  de  la 
Briere  is  a  rather  preternaturally  good  young  man.  Still,  he 
is  not  mawkish;  and  except  that  he  should  not  have  given 
Modesto  quite  such  a  valuable  present,  he  behaves  more  like 
a  gentleman  in  the  full  English  sense  than  any  other  of  Bal- 
zac's heroes. 

The  very  full,  very  elaborate,  and  very  unfavorable  por- 
trait of  Canalis  offers  again  much  scope  for  difference  of 
mere  taste  and  opinion,  without  the  possibility  of  laying  down 
a  conclusion  very  positively.  Even  if  tradition  were  not 
unanimous  on  the  subject,  it  would  be  quite  certain  that 
Canalis  is  a  direct  presentment  of  Lamartine,  from  whom  he 
is  so  ostentatiously  dissociated.  And  there  can,  of  course, 
be  no  two  opinions  as  to  the  presentment  being  very  distinctly 
unfavorable — much  more  so  than  the  earlier  introductions  of 
this  same  Canalis,  which  are  either  complimentary  or  color- 
less for  the  most  part,  though  his  vanity  is  sometimes  hinted 
at.  I  do  not  know  whether  Balzac  had  any  private  quarrel 
with  the  poet,  or  whether  Lamartine's  increasing  leanings  to- 


Xll  INTRODUCTION 

wards  Republicanism  exasperated  the  always  monarchical 
novelist.  But  it  is  certain  that  Canalis  cuts  rather  a  bad 
figure  here — that  Lamartine  was.  actually  supposed  to  have 
married  for  money — and  that  the  whole  thing  has  more  of 
the  nature  of  a  personal  attack  than  anything  else  in  Balzac, 
except  the  outbreak  against  Sainte-Beuve  in  Un  Prince  de  la 
Boheme, 

Perhaps  it  should  be  added  that  the  practice  of  corre- 
spondence between  incognitas  and  men  of  letters,  not  un- 
known in  any  country,  has  been  rather  frequent  and  famous 
in  France.  The  chief  example  is,  of  course,  that  interchange 
of  communications  between  Merimee  and  Mile.  Jenny  Dac- 
quin,  which  had  such  important  results  for  literature,  and 
such  not  unimportant  ones  for  tlie  parties  concerned.  Balzac 
himself  rejoiced  in  a  Modeste  called  Louise,  whom,  however, 
he  seems  never  to  have  seen;  and  there  is  little  doubt  that 
Lamartine  the  actual  was  attacked,  as  the  fictitious  Canalis 
boasts  that  he  was,  by  scores  of  such  persons.  The  chief  in- 
stance I  can  think  of  in  which  such  a  correspondence  led  to 
matrimony  was  that  of  Soutliey  and  his  second  wife  Caroline 
Bowles. 

The  history  of  Modeste  Mignon  is  short  and  simple.  It  was 
first  given  to  the  public  in  the  spring  and  summer  of  1844  by 
the  Journal  des  Dehats,  and  before  the  end  of  the  year  it  ap- 
peared in  four  volumes,  published  by  Roux  and  Cassanet.  It 
had  here  seventy-five  chapter  divisions,  with  headings.  In 
18-15,  scarcely  a  twelve-month  after  its  first  appearance,  it 
took  its  place  in  the  Comedie. 


INTRODUCTIOI\  xill 

Lc  Messe  de  I'Athee,  by  the  common  consent  cf  ccnipcteut 
judges,  takes  rank  with  the  novelist's  very  best  work.  Its  ex- 
treme brevity  makes  it  almost  impossible  for  the  author  to  in- 
dulge in  those  digressions  from  which  he  never  could  entirely 
free  himself  when  he  allowed,  himself  much  room.  We  do  not 
liear  mere  of  the  inward  character  of  Desplein  than  is  neces- 
sary to  make  us  appreciate  the  touching  history  which  is  the 
centre  of  the  anecdote;  the  thing  in  general  could  not  bo  pre- 
sented at  greater  advantage  than  it  is.  Nor  in  itself  could 
it  be  much,  if  at  all,  better.  As  usual,  it  is  more  or  less  of  a 
personal  confession.  Balzac,  it  must  always  be  remembered, 
was  himself  pretty  definitely  "'on  the  side  of  the  angels."  As 
a  Frenchman,  as  a  man  with  a  strong  eighteenth-century 
tincture  in  him,  as  a  student  cf  Rabelais,  as  one  not  too  much 
given  to  regard  nature  and  fate  through  rose-colored  spec- 
tacles, as  a  product  of  more  or  less  godless  education  (for  his 
school-days  came  before  the  neo-catholic  revival),  and  in 
many  other  ways,  he  was  not  exactly  an  orthodox  person. 
But  he  had  no  ideas  foreign  to  orthodoxy ;  and  neither  in  his 
novels,  nor  in  his  letters,  nor  elsewhere,  would  it  be  possible 
to  find  a  private  expression  of  unbelief.  And  such  a  story  as 
this  is  worth  a  bookseller's  warehouse  full  of  tracts,  coming 
as  it  does  from  Honore  de  Balzac. 

Le  Messe  de  I'Athee  appeared  first  in  the  Chronique  de 
Paris  for  January  4,  1836;  next  year  joined  the  other  Etudes 
Pliilosopliiques;  and  in  1844  the  Vie  Privee  and  the  Comedie. 

G.  S. 


No  special  connection  is  apparent  betAveen  UEnfanf 
Maudit  and  any  of  the  other  stories  going  to  make  up  the 
Comedie.  Incidents  as  well  as  personages  are  isolated,  while 
even  the  style  belongs  to  another  period — the  earlier  or  transi- 

VOL.  6 — 26 


Xlv  INTRODUCTION 

tional,  when  Balzac  was  good,  apparently,  for  nothing  better 
than  the  (Euvres  de  Jeuiiesse.  One  of  two  theories  must  ex- 
plain its  position :  Either  it  was  written  earlier  than  the  first 
date  it  bears,  1831 ;  or  it  marks  a  temporary  retrogression — 
rare  as  such  instances  are — to  the  unfinished  and  amateurish 
style  of  the  apprentice.  While  the  story  is  not  good  in  work- 
manship, no  fault  can  be  found  with  it  on  the  score  of  morals. 
A  frankness  almost  brutal  characterizes  the  overture;  pro- 
prieties are  thrown  to  the  winds — a  trait  Balzac  held  in  com- 
mon with  other  French  authors — ^yet,  when  we  remember  the 
novelist's  manifest  intention  to  portray  life  as  it  is,  none 
but  the  prude  can  disapprove.  The  principal  fault  of  the 
story,  aside  from  its  nightmarishness,  lies  in  the  tremendous 
overbalancing  of  its  characters.  Against  the  fragile  figures 
of  the  Countess  and  :£tienne  and  Gabrielle — all  seemingly  cast 
in  the  same  delicate  mould — the  terrible  Count  looms  too 
vividly.  In  one  place  only  does  this  too  great  and  too  con- 
stant menace  heighten  the  effect  of  the  story :  the  simple 
scenes  of  love-making  stand  forth  sharply  like  a  gleam  of  sun- 
light athwart  an  ominous  sky. 

L'Enfant  Maudit  carries  two  dates,  1831-1836.  This  may 
be  explained  by  the  complicated  manner  of  its  appearance 
The  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes  for  January  1831  contained  the 
first  part  only,  not  bearing  its  present  caption,  and  in  three 
chapters.  The  second  part,  originally  called  La  Perle  Brisee, 
was  first  published  in  the  Chronique  de  Paris,  October  1836. 
In  1837  it  was  made  an  Etude  Philosophique;  ten  years  there- 
after it  was  included  in  a  volume  with  Madame  de  la  Chan- 
terie,  without,  however,  disturbing  its  present  and  previously 
established  headings  to  the  two  parts. 


MODESTE  MIGNON 

To  a  Polish  Lady 

Daughter  of  nn  enslaved  land,  an  angel  in  your  lore,  a  demon 
in  your  imagipation,  a  child  in  faith,  an  old  man  in  ex- 
perience, a  man  in  brain,  a  woman  in  heart,  a  giant  in  hope,  a 
mother  in  suffering,  a  poet  in  your  dreams,  and  Beauty  itself 
withal— this  worli,  in  which  your  love  and  your  fancy,  your 
faith,  your  experience,  your  suffering,  your  hopes,  and  your 
dreams,  are  lilie  chains  by  which  hangs  a  web  less  lovely  than 
the  poetry  cherished  in  your  soul— the  poetry  whose  expression 
when  it  lights  up  your  countenance  is,  to  those  who  admire 
you,  what  the  characters  of  a  lost  language  are  to  the  learned— 
this  work  is  yours.  De  Balzac. 

In  the  beginning  of  October  1829,  Monsieur  Simon-Babylas 
Latournelle,  a  notary,  was  walking  up  the  hill  from  le  Havre 
to  Ingoiiville  arm  in  arm  with  his  son,  and  accompanied  by  his 
wife.  By  her,  like  a  page,  came  the  notary's  head-clerk,  a 
little  hunchback  named  Jean  Butscha.  When  these  four  per- 
sons— of  whom  two  at  least  mounted  by  the  same  way  every 
evening — reached  the  turn  in  the  zigzag  road  (like  what  the 
Italians  call  a  Cornice),  the  notary  looked  about  him  to  see 
whether  any  one  might  overhear  him  from  some  garden 
terrace  above  or  below,  and  as  an  additional  precaution  he 
spoke  low. 

"Exupere,"  said  he  to  his  son,  "try  to  carry  out  in  an  intel- 
ligent manner,  without  guessing  at  the  meaning,  a  little  ma- 
noeuvre I  will  explain  to  you ;  and  even  if  you  have  a 
suspicion,  I  desire  you  will  fling  it  into  the  Styx  which  every 

(1) 


8  MODESTE  MIGNON 

notary  or  law-student  ought  to  keep  handy  for  other  people's 
secrets.  After  paying  your  respects,  homage,  and  devoir  to 
Madame  and  Mademoiselle  Mignnn,  to  ]\Ionsieur  and  Madame 
Dumay,  and  to  ^Icnsicur  Gobcnhcini,  if  he  is  at  the  Chalet, 
■when  silence  Is  lestored,  Monsieur  Dumay  will  take  you  aside; 
look  attentively — I  allow  you — at  Mademoiselle  Modcste  all 
the  time  he  is  talking  to  you.  ]\Iy  worthy  friend  will  ask  you 
to  go  out  for  a  walk  and  return  in  about  an  hour,  at  about 
nine  o'clock,  with  a  hurried  air;  try  to  seem  quite  out  of 
breath,  then  whisper  in  his  ear,  but  loud  enough  for  Made- 
moiselle ]\Icdeste  to  hear:  'The  young  man  is  coming!'" 

Exupere  was  to  start  for  Paris  on  the  following  day  to  begin 
his  law  studies.  It  was  this  prospect  of  departure  which  had 
led  l.atournelle  to  propose  to  his  friend  Dumay  that  his  son 
should  play  the  assistant  in  the  important  conspiracy  which 
may  be  suspected  from  his  instructions. 

"Is  Mademoiselle  ]\Iodcstc  suspected  of  carrj'ing  on  an 
intri.'/ue?'^  asked  Butscha  timidly  of  his  mistress. 

"H'  h — Butscha  I"  replied  Madame  Latournclle,  taking  her 
husba  id's  arm. 

Madame  Latoumelle,  the  daughter  of  the  Registrar  of  the 
lower  Court,  considers  herself  justified  by  her  birth  in. 
describing  her  family  as  'parliamcntarij.  These  pretensions 
account  for  the  efforts  made  by  the  lady,  whose  face  is  rather 
too  red  and  rough,  to  assume  the  majesty  of  the  tribunal  whose 
verdicts  are  recorded  by  her  father.  She  takes  snuff,  holds 
herself  as  stiff  as  a  post,  gives  herself  airs  of  importance,  and 
looks  exactly  like  a  mummy  that  has  been  galvanized  into  life 
for  a  moment.  She  tries  to  give  h.cr  sharp  voice  an  aristo- 
cratic tone,  but  she  no  more  succeeds  in  that  than  in  conceal- 
ing her  defective  education.  Her  social  value  is  indisputablo 
when  you  look  at  the  caps  she  wears,  bristling  with  flowers, 
the  fa]se  fronts  plastered  on  her  temples,  and  the  gowns  she 
chooses.  How  could  the  shops  get  rid  of  such  goods  if  it  wer* 
not  for  such  as  Madame  Latournelle  ? 

This  worthy  woman's  absurdities  might  have  passed  almost 
unremarked,  for  she  was  es^sentiaily  charitable  and  pious,  but 


MODEST|:  MIGNON  3 

that  Nature,  which  sometimes  has  its  little  jest  hj  turning 
these  grotesque  creations,  gave  her  the  figure  of  a  drum-major 
so  as  to  display  the  devices  of  her  provincial  mind.  She  has 
never  been  out  of  le  Havre,  she  believes  in  the  infallibility  of 
le  Havre,  she  buys  everything  at  le  Havre,  and  gets  her  dresses 
there ;  she  speaks  of  herself  as  Norman  to  the  finger  tips,  she 
leverences  her  father,  and  adores  her  husband.  Little  La- 
tournelle  was  bold  enough  to  marry  this  woman  when  she  had 
attained  the  post-matrimonial  age  of  thirty-three,  and  they 
contrived  to  have  a  son.  As  he  might  anywhere  have  won 
the  sixty  thousand  francs  which  the  Registrar  had  to  settle, 
his  unusual  courage  was  set  down  to  a  wish  to  avoid 
the  irruption  of  the  Minotaur,  against  which  his  per- 
sonal attractions  would  hardly  have  guaranteed  him 
if  he  had  been  so  rash  as  to  set  his  house  on 
fire  by  bringing  home  a  pretty  young  wife.  The  notary  had. 
Id  fact,  simply  discerned  the  good  qualities  of  Mademoiselle 
Agnes — her  name  was  Agnes — and  remarked  how  soon  a 
wife's  beauty  is  a  thing  of  the  past  to  her  husband.  As  to 
the  insignificant  youth  to  whom  the  Registrar  gave  his  Nor- 
man name  at  the  font,  Madame  Latournelle  was  so  much 
astonished  to  find  herself  a  mother  at  the  age  of  thirty-five 
years  and  seven  months,  that  she  would  even  now  find  milk 
to  suckle  him  withal  if  he  needed  it — the  only  hyperbole 
which  can  give  a  notion  of  her  maternal  mania. 

"How  handsome  my  boy  is!"  she  would  say  to  her  little 
friend  Modeste  Mignon,  without  any  ulterior  motive,  as  she 
looked  at  him  on  their  way  to  church,  her  beautiful  Exupere 
leading  the  way. 

"He  is  like  you,"  Modeste  Mignon  would  reply,  as  she  might 
have  said,  "What  bad  weather !" 

This  sketch  of  the  woman,  a  mere  accessory  figure,  seems 
necessary  when  it  is  said  that  Madame  Latournelle  had  for 
three  years  past  been  the  chaperon  of  the  young  girl  for  whom 
the  notary  and  his  friend  Dumay  were  laying  one  of  those 
snares  which,  in  the  PJujsiologie  du  Managej  I  have  called 
mouse-traps. 


4  MODESTE  MIGNON 

As  for  Latournellc,  imagine  a  good  little  man,  an  wily  as 
the  purest  lioncsty  will  allow,  but  whom  every  stranger  would 
take  for  a  rogue  at  first  sight  of  the  singular  face,  to  which 
every  one  at  le  Havre  is  accustomed.  Weak  eyes,  always  red, 
compel  the  worthy  lawyer  to  wear  green  spectacles  to  protect 
them.  Each  eyebrow,  thinly  marked  with  down,  projects! 
about  a  line  beyond  the  brown  tortoise-shell  rim  of  the  glasses, 
thus  making  a  sort  of  double  arch.  If  you  never  happen  to 
have  noticed  in  some  passer-by  the  effect  of  these  two  semi- 
circles, one  above  the  other,  and  divided  by  a  hollow,  you  can- 
not conceive  how  puzzling  such  a  face  may  be ;  especially  when 
this  face  is  pale  and  haggard,  and  ends  in  a  point  like  that 
of  Mephistopheles,  which  painters  have  taken  from  the  cat, 
and  this  is  what  Babylas  Latournelle  is  like.  Above  those 
vile  green  spectacles  rises  a  bald  skull,  with  a  wig  all  the  m.ore 
obviously  artificial  because  it  seems  endowed  with  motion, 
and  is  so  indiscreet  as  to  show  a  few  white  hairs  straggling 
below  it  all  round,  while  it  never  sits  straight  on  the  forehead. 
As  we  look  at  this  estimable  N'orman,  dressed  in  black  like  a 
beetle,  on  two  legs  like  pins,  and  know  him  to  be  the  most 
honest  soul  living,  we  wonder,  but  cannot  discover,  what  is 
the  reason  of  such  contradictory  physiognomies. 

Jean  Butscha,  a  poor,  abandoned  foundling,  of  whom  the 
Registrar  Labrosse  and  his  daughter  had  taken  charge,  had 
risen  to  be  head-clerk  by  sheer  hard  work,  and  was  lodged  and 
fed  by  his  master,  who  gave  him  nine  hundred  francs  a  year. 
With  no  appearance  of  youth,  and  almost  a  dwarf,  he  had 
made  Modesto  his  idol ;  he  would  have  given  his  life  for  her. 
This  poor  creature,  his  eyes,  like  two  slow  matches  under 
thickened  eyelids,  marked  by  the  smallpox,  crushed  by  a  mass 
of  wooly  hair,  encumbered  by  his  huge  hands,  had  lived  under 
the  gaze  of  pity  from  the  age  of  seven.  Is  not  this  enough 
to  account  for  him  in  every  way  ?  Silent,  reserved,  exemplary 
in  his  conduct,  and  religious,  he  wandered  through  the  vast 
expanse  marked  on  the  map  of  the  realm  of  Love,  as  Love 
without  Hope,  the  barren  and  sublime  wilderness  of  Longing. 
Modeste  had  nicknamed  this  grotesque  clerk  "The  Mysterious 


MODESTE  MIGNON  5 

Dwarf/'  This  led  Butscha  to  read  Walter  Scott's  romance, 
and  he  said  to  Modeste : 

"Would  you  like  to  have  a  rose  from  your  Mysterious  Dwarf 
in  case  of  danger?" 

Modeste  hurled  the  soul  of  her  adorer  down  into  its  mud 
hovel  again  by  one  of  the  terrible  looks  which  young  women 
fling  at  men  whom  they  do  not  like.  Butscha  had  called  him- 
self le  clerc  obscure  (the  obscure  clerk),  not  knowing  that  the 
pun  dated  back  to  the  origin  of  coats-of-arms ;  but  he,  like 
his  masters  wife,  had  never  been  away  from  le  Havre. 

It  is  perhaps  necessary,  for  the  benefit  of  those  who  do  not 
know  that  town,  to  give  a  word  of  explanation  as  to  whither 
the  Latournelle  family  were  bound,  the  head-clerk  evidently 
being  included.  Ingouville  is  to  le  Havre  what  Montmartre 
is  to  Paris,  a  high  hill  with  the  town  spread  at  its  foot ;  with 
this  difference,  however — rthat  the  sea  and  the  Seine  surround 
the  town  and  the  hill;  that  le  Havre  is  permanently  limited 
by  enclosing  fortifications ;  and  finally,  that  the  mouth  of  the 
river,  the  port  and  the  docks,  form  a  scene  quite  unlike  that 
offered  by  the  fifty  thousand  houses  of  Paris. 

At  the  foot  of  Montmartre  an  ocean  of  slates  displays  its 
rigid  blue  waves ;  at  Ingouville  you  look  down  on  what  might 
be  moving  roofs  stirred  by  the  wind.  This  high  ground, 
which,  from  Eouen  to  the  sea,  follows  the  course  of  the  river, 
leaving  a  wider  or  narrower  margin  between  itself  and  the 
water,  contains  treasures  of  picturesque  beauty  with  its  towns, 
its  ravines,  its  valleys,  and  its  meadows,  and  rose  to  immense 
value  at  Ingouville  after  1818,  from  which  year  dates  "the 
prosperity  of  le  Havre.  This  hamlet  became  the  Auteuil,  the 
Ville-d'Avray,  the  Montmorency  of  the  merchants,  who  built 
themselves  terraced  villas  on  this  ampliitheatre,  to  breathe 
the  sea  air  sweetened  by  the  flowers  of  their  magnificent 
gardens.  These  bold  speculators  rest  there  from  the  fatigues 
of  the  counting-house,  and  the  atmosphere  of  the  closely 
packed  houses,  with  no  space  between  them — often  not  even 
a  courtyard,  the  inevitable  result  of  the  growth  of  the  popula- 
tion, the  unyielding  belt  of  the  ramparts  and  the  expansion 
of  the  docks. 


H  MODESTE  MIGNON 

And,  indeed,  how  dreary  is  the  heart  of  tlic  town,  hew  glad 
is  ln<j;ouvillL'!  The  law  of  social  devclopiiicnt  has  made  the 
suburb  of  (Jraville  sprout  into  life  like  a  mushroom;  it  is 
larger  now  than  le  Havre  itself,  clinging  to  the  foot  of  the 
slope  like  a  serpent.  Ingouville,  on  the  ridge,  lias  but  one 
street;  and,  as  in  all  such  places,  the  houses  looking  over  the 
Seine  have  an  immense  advantage  over  those  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  road,  from  which  the  view  is  shut  out,  though  they 
stand  like  spectators,  on  tiptoe,  to  peep  over  tlio  roofs.  Here, 
however,  as  everywhere  else,  compromises  have  been  exacted. 
Some  of  the  houses  perched  on  the  top  occupy  a  superior  po- 
sition, or  enjoy  a  right  of  view  which  compels  their  neighbor 
to  keep  his  buildings  below  a  certain  height.  Then  the 
broken  rocky  soil  has  cuttings  here  and  there  for  roads  leading 
up  the  amphitheatre,  and  througii  these  dips,  some  of  the  plots 
get  a  glimpse  of  the  town,  the  river,  or  the  sea.  Though  it  is 
not  precipitous,  the  high  ground  ends  rather  suddenly  in  a 
cliff;  from  the  top  of  the  street,  which  zigzags  up  the  steep 
slope,  coombes  are  visible  where  villages  are  planted:  Saint- 
Adresse,  two  or  three  Saints-who-knows-who,  and  coves  where 
the  sea  roars.  This  side  of  Ingouville,  almost  deserted,  is  in 
striking  contrast  to  the  handsome  villas  that  overlook  the 
Seine  valley.  Are  the  gales  a  foe  to  vegetation?  Do  the 
merchants  shrink  from  the  expense  of  gardening  on  so  steep 
a  slope?  Be  this  as  it  may,  the  traveler  by  steamboat  is 
startled  at  finding  the  coast  so  bare  and  rugged  to  the  west- 
of  Ingouville — a  beggar  in  rags  next  to  a  rich  man  sump- 
tuously clothed  and  perfumed. 

In  1829,  one  of  the  last  houses  towards  the  sea — now,  no 
doubt,  in  the  middle  of  Ingouville — was  called,  perhaps  is 
still  called,  the  Chalet.  It  had  been  originally  a  gatekeeper's 
lodge,  with  a  plot  of  garden  in  front.  The  owner  of  the 
villa  to  which  it  belonged — a  house  with  a  paddock,  gardens, 
an  aviary,  hothouses,  and  meadows — had  a  fancy  to  bring  this 
lodge  into  harmony  with  the  splendor  of  his  residence,  and 
had  it  rebuilt  in  the  style  of  an  English  cottage.  He  divided 
it  by  a  low  wall  from  his  l^^wn,  graced  with  flowers,  borders, 


MODESTE  SIIGXON  7 

and  the  terrace  of  the  villa,  and  planted  a  hedge  close  to  the 
wall  to  screen  it.  Behind  this  cottage,  called  the  Chalet  in 
spite  of  all  he  could  do,  lie  the  kitchen  garden  and  orchards. 
This  Chalet — a  chalet  without  cows  or  dairy — has  no  fence 
from  the  road  but  a  paling,  of  which  the  wood  has  become  in- 
visible under  a  luxuriant  hedge. 

Now,  on  the  other  side  of  the  road,  the  opposite  house  has 
a  similar  paling  and  hedge.  Being  built  under  special  con- 
ditions, it  allows  the  town  to  be  seen  from  the  Chalet. 

This  little  house  was  the  despair  of  Monsieur  Vilquin,  the 
owner  of  the  villa.  And  this  is  wh3^  The  creator  of  this  resi- 
dence, where  every  detail  loudly  proclaimed,  "Here  millions 
are  displayed  I"  had  extended  his  grounds  into  the  country 
solely,  as  he  said,  not  to  have  his  gardeners  in  his  pocket.  As 
soon  as  it  was  finished,  the  Chalet  could  only  be  inhabited  by 
a  friend. 

Monsieur  Mignon,  the  first  owner,  was  greatly  attached 
to  his  cashier,  and  this  story  will  prove  that  Dumay  fully 
returned  the  feeling ;  he  therefore  offered  him  this  little  home. 
Dumay,  a  stickler  for  formalities,  made  his  master  sign  a 
lease  for  twelve  years  at  three  hundred  francs  a  year;  and 
Monsieur  Mignon  signed  it  willingly,  saying,  "Consider,  my 
dear  Dumay,  3'ou  are  binding  yourself  to  live  with  me  for 
twelve  years." 

In  consequence  of  events  to  be  here  related,  the  estates  of 
Monsieur  Mignon,  formerly  the  richest  merchant  in  le  Havre, 
were  sold  to  Vilquin,  one  of  his  opponents  on  'Change.  In 
his  delight  at  taking  possession  of  the  famous  Villa  Mignon, 
the  purchaser  forgot  to  ask  for  this  lease  to  be  cancelled. 
Dumay,  not  to  hinder  the  sale,  would  at  that  time  have  signed 
anything  Vilquin  might  have  required;  but  when  once  the 
sale  was  completed,  he  stuck  to  his  lease  as  to  a  revenge.  He 
stayed  in  Vilquin's  pocket,  in  the  heart  of  the  Vi'quin  famil}', 
watching  Vilquin,  annoying  Vilquin,  in  short,  Vilquin's  gad- 
fly. Every  morning,  at  his  window,  Vilquin  felt  a  surge  of 
violent  vexation  as  he  saw  this  gem  of  domestic  architecture, 


8  MODESTE  MIGNON 

this  Chalet  which  h:i«l  cost  sixty  thousand  francs,  and  which 
blazed  like  a  ruby  in  the  sunshine. 

An  almost  exact  comparison !  The  architect  had  built  the 
cottage  of  the  finest  red  bricks,  pointed  with  white.  The 
window  frames  are  painted  bright  green,  and  the  timl)ers  a 
yellow-brown.  The  roof  projects  several  feet.  A  pretty  fret- 
work balcony  adorns  the  first  floor,  and  a  veranda  stands  out 
like  a  glass  cage  from  the  middle  of  the  front.  The  ground- 
floor  consists  of  a  pretty  drawing-room  and  a  dining-room, 
divided  by  the  bottom  landing  of  the  stairs,  which  are  of 
wood  designed  and  decorated  with  elegant  simplicity.  The 
kitchen  is  at  the  back  of  the  dining-room,  and  behind  the 
drawing-room  is  a  small  room  which,  at  this  time,  was  used 
by  Monsieur  and  Madame  Dumay  as  their  bedroom.  On  the 
first  floor  the  architect  has  planned  two  large  bedrooms,  each 
with  a  dressing-room,  the  veranda  served  as  a  sitting-room; 
and  above  these,  in  the  roof,  which  looks  like  two  cards  lean- 
ing against  each  other,  are  two  servants'  rooms,  each  with  a 
dormer  window,  attics,  but  fairly  spacious. 

Vilquin  had  the  meanness  to  build  a  wall  on  the  side  next 
the  kitchen  garden  and  orchard.  Since  this  act  of  vengeance, 
the  few  square  yards  secured  to  the  Chalet  by  the  lease  are  like 
a  Paris  garden.  The  outbuildings,  constructed  and  painted 
to  match  the  Chalet,  back  against  the  neighboring  grounds. 

The  interior  of  this  pleasant  residence  harmonizes  with  the 
exterior.  The  drawing-room,  floored  with  polished  iron-wood, 
is  decorated  with  a  marvelous  imitation  of  Chinese  lacquer. 
Myriad-colored  birds,  and  impossibly  green  foliage,  in  fan- 
tastic Chinese  drawing,  stand  out  against  a  black  background, 
in  panels  with  gilt  frames.  The  dining-room  is  completely 
fitted  with  pine-wood  carved  and  fretted,  as  in  the  high-class 
peasants'  houses  in  Russia.  The  little  ante-room,  formed 
by  the  landing,  and  the  staircase  are  painted  like  old  oak,  to 
represent  Gothic  decoration.  The  bedrooms,  hung  with'  chintz, 
are  attractive  by  their  costly  simplicity.  That  in  which  the 
cashier  and  his  wife  slept  is  wainscoted,  like  the  cabin  of  a 
steamship.     These  shipowners'  vagaries  account  for  Vilquin's 


MODESTE  MIGNON  ^ 

fury.  This  ill-starred  purchaser  wanted  to  lodge  his  son-in- 
law  and  his  daughter  in  the  Cottage.  This  plan,  being  known 
to  Dumay,  may  subsequently  explain  his  Breton  obstinacy. 

The  entrance  to  the  Chalet  is  through  a  trellised  iron  gate, 
with  lance-heads,  standing  some  inches  above  the  paling  and 
the  hedge.  The  little  garden,  of  the  same  width  as  the 
pompous  lawn  beyond,  was  just  now  full  of  flowers — roses, 
dahlias,  and  the  choicest  and  rarest  products  of  the  hot- 
house flora;  for  another  subject  of  grievance  to  Vilquin  was 
that  the  pretty  little  hothouse,  Madame's  hothouse  as  it  was 
called,  belongs  to  the  Chalet,  and  divides  the  Chalet  from  the 
Villa — or  connects  them,  if  you  like  to  say  so.  Dumay  in- 
demnified himself  for  the  cares  of  his  place  by  caring  for  the 
conservatory,  and  its  exotic  blossoms  were  one  of  Modeste's 
chief  pleasures.  The  billiard-room  of  Vilquin's  villa,  a  sort 
of  passage  room,  v/as  formerly  connected  with  this  conserva- 
tory by  a  large  turret-shaped  aviary,  but  after  the  wall  was 
built  which  blocked  out  the  view  of  the  orchard,  Dumay 
bricked  up  the  door. 

"Wall  for  wall !"  said  he. 

"You  and  Dumay  have  both  gone  to  the  wall !"  Vilquin's 
acquaintance  on  'Change  threw  in  his  teeth;  and  every  day 
the  envied  speculator  was  hailed  with  some  new  jest. 

In  1827  Vilquin  offered  Dumay  six  thousand  francs  a  year 
and  ten  thousand  francs  in  compensation  if  he  would  cancel 
the  lease;, the  cashier  refused,  though  he  had  but  a  thousand 
crowns  laid  by  with  Gobenheim,  a  former  clerk  of  his  master's. 
Dumay  is  indeed  a  Breton  whom  fate  has  planted  out  in  Nor- 
mandy. Imagine  the  hatred  for  his  tenants  worked  up  in 
Vilquin,  a  Norman  witli  a  fortune  of  three  million  francs. 
What  high  treason  to  wealth  to  dare  prove  to  the  rich  tlie  im- 
potence of  gold !  Vilquin,  whose  desperation  made  him  the 
talk  of  le  Havre,  had  first  offered  Dumay  the  absolute  free- 
hold of  another  pretty  house,  but  Dumay  again  refused.  The 
town  was  beginning  to  wonder  at  this  obstinacy,  though  many 
found  a  reason  for  it  in  the  statement,  "Dumay  is  a  Breton." 

In  fact,  the  cashier  thought  that  Madame  and  Mademoiselle 


10  MODESTE  MIGNON 

Mignon  would  be  too  uncomfortable  anywhere  else.  His  two 
idols  dwelt  hero  in  a  temple  worthy  of  them,  and  at  least  had 
the  benefit  of  this  sumptuous  cottage,  where  a  dethroned  king 
miglit  hav(>  kept  up  the  majesty  of  his  surroundings,  a  kind 
of  decorum  which  is  often  lacking  to  those  who  have  fallen. 
The  reader  will  not  be  sorry  perbaps  to  have  made  acquaint- 
ance with  Modeste's  home  and  habitual  companions;  for,  at 
her  age,  persons  and  things  influence  the  future  as  much  as 
character  does,  if  indeed  the  character  does  not  derive  from! 
them  certain  ineffaceable  impressions. 

By  the  T^atournelles'  manner  as  they  went  into  the  Chalet, 
a  stranger  might  have  guessed  that  they  came  there  every 
evening. 

"Already  here,  sir?"  said  the  notary,  on  finding  in  the 
drawing-room  a  young  banker  of  the  town,  Gol)cnheim,  a  re- 
lation of  Gobenhcim-Keller,  the  head  of  the  great  Paris  house. 
This  young  fellow,  who  was  lividly  pale — one  of  those  fair 
men  with  black  eyes,  in  whose  fixed  gaze  there  is  something 
fascinating — who  was  as  sober  in  speech  as  in  habits,  dressed 
in  black,  strongly  built,  though  as  thin  as  a  consumptive 
patient,  was  a  constant  visitor  to  his  former  master's  family 
and  the  cashier's  house,  far  less  from  affection  than  from 
interest ;  whist  v.as  played  there  at  two  sous  a  point,  and  even- 
ing dress  was  not  insisted  on;  he  took  nothing  but  a  few 
glasses  of  eau  sucrcc,  and  need  offer  no  civilities  in  return. 
By  his  apparent  devotion  to  the  Mignons  he  got  credit  for  a 
good  heart;  and  it  excused  him  from  going  into  society  in  ie 
Havre,  from  useless  expenditure,  and  disturbing  the  arrange- 
ments of  his  domestic  life.  Tliis  youthful  devotee  of  the 
Golden  Calf  vrcnt  to  bed  every  evening  at  half-past  ten,  and 
rose  at  five  in  the  morning.  Also,  being  certain  of  secrecy 
in  Latournclle  and  Butscha,  Gcbcnheim  could  analyze  in  their 
presence  various  knotty  questions,  benefit  by  the  notary's; 
gratuitous  advice,  and  reduce  the  gossip  on  'Change  to  its  true 
value.  This  sucking  gold-eater  (Gobc-or,  a  witticism  of 
BvJscha's)  was  of  tlic  nature  of  tbo  substances  known  to  chem- 
istry as  absorbents.     Ever  since  disaster  had  overwhelmed 


MODESTiB  MIGNON  11 

the  houe  of  Mignon,  to  which  he  had  been  apprenticed  by  the 
Kellers  to  learn  the  higher  branches  of  maritime  trade,  no 
one  at  the  Chalet  had  ever  asked  him  to  do  a  single  thing,  not 
even  a  simple  commission;  his  answer  was  kno\vn  before- 
hand. This  youth  looked  at  Modeste  as  he  might  have  ex- 
amined a  penny  lithograph. 

"He  is  one  of  the  pistons  of  the  huge  machine  called  Trade," 
said  poor  Butscha,  whose  wit  betrayed  itself  by  little 
ironies,  timidly  uttered. 

The  four  Latournelles  greeted,  with  the  utmost  deference, 
an  old  lady  dressed  in  black,  who  did  not  rise  from  the  arm- 
chair in  which  she  sat,  for  both  her  eyes  were  covered  with 
the  yellow  film  produced  by  cataract.  Madame  Mignon  may 
be  painted  in  a  sentence.  She  attracted  attention  at  once  by 
the  august  expression  of  those  mothers  whose  blameless  life  is 
a  challenge  to  the  strokes  of  fate,  though  fate  has  taken  them 
as  a  mark  for  its  shafts,  who  form  the  large  class  of  Niobes. 
Her  white  wig,  well  curled  and  well  put  on,  became  her  cold 
white  face,  like  those  of  the  burgomasters'  wives  painted  by 
Mirevelt.  The  extreme  neatness  of  her  dress — velvet  boots, 
a  lace  collar,  a  shawl  put  on  straight — bore  witness  to  Mo- 
deste's  tender  care  for  her  mother. 

When  a  minute's  silence — as  predicted  by  the  notary — 
reigned  in  the  pretty  room,  Modeste,  seated  by  her  mother, 
for  whom  she  was  embroidering  a  kerchief,  was  for  a  mo- 
ment the  centre  of  all  eyes.  This  inquisitiveness,  concealed 
under  the  commonplace  questions  always  asked  by  callers, 
even  those  who  meet  every  day,  might  have  betrayed  the  little 
domestic  plot  against  the  girl,  even  to  an  indifferent  person; 
but  Gobenheim,  more  than  indifferent,  noticed  nothing;  he 
lighted  the  candles  on  the  card-table.  Dumay's  attitude  made 
the  situation  a  terrible  one  for  Butscha,  for  the  Latournelles, 
and,  above  all,  for  Madame  Dumay,  who  knew  that  her  hus- 
band was  capable  of  shooting  Modeste's  lover  as  if  ho  vrere  a 
mad  dog.  After  dinner,  the  cashier  had  gone  out  for  a  walk, 
taking  with  liim  two  magnificent  Pyrencan  dogs,  whom  he 
suspected  of  treason,  and  had,  therefore,  left  with  a  farmer. 


12  MODESTE  MIGNON 

formerly  a  tenant  of  Monsieur  Mignon's;  then,  a  few  mmutefl 
before  the  Latournolles  had  come  in,  he  had  hroupht  his 
pistols  from  tiicir  place  by  his  bed,  and  had  laid  them  on  the 
chimney-shelf,  without  letting  Modeste  see  it.  The  young 
girl  paid  no  attention  to  all  these  arrangements — strange,  to 
say  tiie  least  of  it. 

Though  short,  thick-set,  and  battered,  with  a  low  voice,  and 
an  air  of  listening  to  his  own  words,  this  Breton,  formerly 
■  a  lieutenant  in  the  Guard,  has  determination  and  presence  of 
mind  so  plainly  stamped  on  his  features,  that,  in  twenty  years, 
no  man  in  the  army  had  ever  tried  to  make  game  of  him. 
His  eyes,  small  and  calmly  blue,  are  like  two  specks  of  steel. 
His  manners,  the  expression  of  his  face,  his  mode  of  speech, 
his  gait,  all  suit  his  short  name  of  Dumay.  His  strength, 
which  is  well  known,  secures  him  against  any  offence.  He 
can  kill  a  man  with  a  blow  of  his  fist;  and,  in  fact,  achieved 
this  doughty  deed  at  Botzen,  where  he  found  himself  in  the 
rear  of  his  company,  without  any  weapon,  and  face  to  face 
with  a  Saxon. 

At  this  moment,  the  man's  set  but  gentle  countenance  was 
sublimely  tragical ;  his  lips,  as  pale  as  his  face,  betrayed  con- 
vulsive fury  subdued  by  Breton  determination ;  his  brow  was 
damp  with  slight  perspiration,  visible  to  all,  and  understood 
to  be  a  cold  moisture.  The  notary  knew  that  the  upshot  of  all 
this  might  be  a  scene  in  an  assize  court.  In  fact,  the  cashier 
was  playing  a  game  for  Modeste's  sake,  where  honor,  fidelity, 
and  feelings  of  far  more  importance  than  any  social  ties,  were 
at  stake ;  and  it  was  the  outcome  of  one  of  those  compacts 
of  which,  in  the  event  of  fatal  issues,  none  but  God  can  be  the 
judge.  Most  dramas  lie  in  the  ideas  we  form  of  things.  The 
events  which  seem  to  us  dramatic  are  only  such  as  our  soul 
turns  to  tragedy  or  comedy,  as  our  own  nature  tends. 

Madame  Latournelle  and  Madame  Dumay,  charged  with 
'keeping  watch  over  Modeste,  both  had  an  indescribable  arti- 
ficial manner,  a  quaver  in  their  voice,  which  the  object  of  their 
suspicions  did  not  notice,  she  seemed  so  much  absorbed  by  her 
work.     Modeste  laid  each  strand  of  cotton  with  an  accuracy 


MODESTE  MIGNON  1*3 

that  might  be  the  envy  of  any  embroiderer.  Her  face  showed 
the  pleasure  she  derived  from  the  satin  stitch  petal  that  put 
the  finish  to  a  flower.  The  hunchback,  sitting  between  Ma- 
dame Latournelle  and  Gobenheim,  was  swallowing  tears  and 
wondering  how  he  could  get  round  to  Modeste,  and  whisper 
two  words  of  warning  in  her  ear.  Madame  Latournelle,  by 
placing  herself  in  front  of  Madame  Mignon,  had  cut  off 
Modeste,  with  the  diabolical  ingenuity  of  a  pious  prude.  Ma- 
dame Mignon,  silent,  blind,  and  whiter  than  her  usual  pallor, 
plainly  betrayed  her  knowledge  of  the  ordeal  to  which  the 
girl  was  to  be  subjected.  Now,  at  the  last  moment,  perhaps 
she  disapproved  of  the  stratagem,  though  deeming  it  necessary. 
Hence  her  silence.  She  was  weeping  in  her  heart.  Exupere,the 
trigger  of  the  trap,  knew  nothing  whatever  of  thepieceinwhich 
chance  had  cast  him  for  a  part.  Gobenheim  was  as  indiffer- 
ent as  Modeste  herself  seemed  to  be — a  consequence  of  his 
nature. 

To  a  spectator  in  the  secret,  the  contrast  between  the  utter 
ignorance  of  one-half  of  the  party,  and  the  tremulous  tension 
of  the  others,  would  have  been  thrilling.  In  these  days,  more 
than  ever,  novel-writers  deal  largely  in  such  effects ;  p.nd  they 
are  in  their  rights,  for  nature  has  at  all  times  outdone  their 
skill.  In  this  case,  as  you  will  see,  social  nature — which  is 
nature  wdtliin  nature — was  allowing  itself  the  pleasure  of 
making  fact  more  interesting  than  romance,  just  as  torrents 
produce  effects  forbidden  to  painters,  and  achieve  marvels  by 
arranging  or  polishing  stones  so  that  architects  and  sculptors 
are  amazed. 

It  was  eight  o'clock.  At  this  season  of  the  year  it  is  the 
hour  of  the  last  gleam  of  twilight.  That  evening  the  sky  was 
cloudless,  the  mild  air  caressed  the  earth,  flowers  breathed 
their  fragrance,  the  grinding  gravel  could  be  heard  under  the 
feet  of  persons  returning  from  their  walk.  The  sea  shone 
like  a  mirror. 

There  was  so  little  vdnd  that  the  candles  on  the  table 
burned  with  a  steady  flame  though  the  windows  were  half 
open.     The  room,  the  evening,  the  house — what  a  setting  for 


14  MODESTE!  MIGNON 

the  portrait  of  this  young  creature,  who  at  the  moment  was 
being  studied  In'  her  friends  with  the  deep  attention  of  an 
artist  gazing  ;it  Marghcrita  Doni,  one  of  the  glories  of  the 
Pitti  palace.  Was  Modeste,  a  flower  enshrined  like  that  of 
Catullus,  worthy  of  all  these  precautions? — You  have  seen  the 
cage:  this  is  the  bird. 

At  the  age  of  twenty,  slender  and  delicately  made,  like  one 
of  the  Sirens  invented  by  English  painters  to  grace  a  Book 
of  Beauty,  Jlodeste,  like  her  mother  before  her,  bears  the' 
engaging  expression  of  a  grace  little  appreciated  in  France, 
where  it  is  called  sentimentality,  though  among  the  Germans 
it  is  the  poetry  of  the  heart  suffusing  the  surface,  and  dis- 
played in  affectation  by  simpletons,  in  exquisite  manners  by 
sensible  girls.  Her  most  conspicuous  feature  was  her 
pale  gold  hair,  which  classed  her  with  the  women  called,  no 
doubt  in  memory  of  Eve,  hlondes  celestes,  heavenly  fair,  whose 
sheeny  skin  looks  like  silk  paper  laid  over  the  flesh,  shivering 
in  the  winter  or  reveling  in  the  sunshine  of  a  look,  and  making 
the  hand  envious  of  the  eye.  Under  this  hair,  as  light  as 
marabout  feathers,  and  worn  in  ringlets,  the  brow,  so  purely 
formed  that  it  might  have  been  drawn  by  compasses,  is  re- 
served and  calm  to  placidity,  though  bright  with  thought ;  but 
when  or  where  could  a  smoother  one  be  found,  or  more  trans- 
parently frank?  It  seems  to  have  a  lustre  like  pearl.  Her 
eyes,  of  grayish  blue,  as  clear  as  those  of  a  child,  have  all  a 
child's  mischief  and  innocence,  in  harmony  with  the  arch  of 
eyebrows  scarcely  outlined,  as  lightly  touched  in  as  those 
painted  in  Chinese  faces.  This  playful  innocence  is  accentu- 
ated by  nacreous  tones,  with  blue  veins  round  the  eyes  and  on 
the  temples,  a  peculiarity  of  those  delicate  complexions.  Her 
face,  of  the  oval  so  often  seen  in  Eaphael's  Madonnas,  is 
distinguished  by  the  cool,  maidenly  flush  of  her  cheeks,  as 
tender  as  a  China  rose,  on  which  the  long  lashes  of  her  trans- 
parent eyelids  cast  a  play  of  light  and  shade.  Her  throat, 
bent  over  her  work,  and  slender  to  fragility,  suggests  the 
sv.'ceping  lines  dear  to  Leonardo.  A  few  freckles,  like  the 
patches  of  the  past  century,  siiow  that  Modeste  is  a  daughter 


MODESTE  MIGNON  ift 

of  earth,  and  not  one  of  the  creations  seen  in  dreams  by  the 
Italian  School  of  Angelico.  Lips,  full  but  finely  curved,  and 
somewhat  satirical  in  expression,  betray  a  love  of  pleasure. 
Her  shape,  pliant  without  being  frail,  would  not  scare  away 
motherhood,  like  that  of  girls  who  seek  to  triumph  through 
the  unhealthy  pressure  of  stays.  Buckram,  steel,  and  stay- 
lace  never  improved  or  formed  such  serpentine  lines  of 
elegance,  resembling  those  of  a  young  poplar  swayed  by  they 
wind.  A  pearl-gray  dress,  long  in  the  waist,  and  trimmedi 
with  cherry-colored  gimp,  accentuated  the  pure  bust  and 
covered  the  shoulders,  still  somewhat  thin,  over  a  deep  muslin 
tucker,  which  betrayed  only  the  outline  of  the  curves  wherethe 
bosom  joins  the  shoulders.  At  the  sight  of  this  countenance, 
at  once  vague  and  intelligent,  with  a  singular  touch  of  de- 
termination given  to  it  by  a  straight  nose  with  rosy  nostrils 
and  firmly-cut  outlines — a  countenance  where  the  poetry  of  an 
almost  mystical  brow  was  belied  by  the  voluptuous  curve  of  the 
mouth — where,  in  the  changing  depths  of  the  eyes,  candor 
seemed  to  fight  for  the  mastery  with  the  most  accomplished 
irony — an  observer  might  have  thought  that  this  young  girl, 
whose  quick  ear  caught  every  sound,  whose  nose  was  open  to 
the  fragrance  of  the  blue  flower  of  the  ideal,  must  be  the 
arena  of  a  struggle  between  the  poetry  that  plays  round  the 
daily  rising  of  the  sun  and  the  labors  oi  the  day,  between 
fancy  and  reality.  Modesto  was  both  curious  and  modest, 
knowing  her  fate,  and  purely  chaste,  the  virgin  of  Spain 
rather  than  of  Raphael. 

She  raised  her  head  on  hearing  Dumay  say  to  Exupere, 
"Come  here,  young  man,"  and  seeing  them  talk  together  in  a 
corner  of  the  room,  she  fancied  it  was  about  some  commission 
for  Paris.  She  looked  at  the  friends  who  surrounded  her  as 
if  astonished  at  their  silence,  and  exclaimed  with  a  perfectly 
uatural  air: 

"Well,  are  you  not  going  to  play?"  pointing  to  the  green 
table  that  Madame  Latournelle  called  the  altar. 

"Let  us  begin,"  said  Dumay,  after  dismissing  Exupere. 

"Sit  there,  Butscha  I"  said  Madame  Latournelle,  placing 
fOL.  6—27 


le  MODESTE  MIGNON 

the  table  between  the  clerk  and  the  group  formed  by  Madame 
Mignon  and  her  daughter. 

"And  you — come  here,"  said  Dumay  to  his  wife,  desiring 
her  to  stay  near  him. 

Madame  Dumay,  a  little  American  of  six-and-thirty, 
secretly  wiped  away  her  tears;  she  was  devoted  to  Modeste, 
and  dreaded  a  catastrophe. 

"Vou  are  not  lively  this  evening,"  said  Modeste. 

"We  are  playing,"  said  Gobenheim,  sorting  his  hand. 

However  interesting  the  situation  may  seem,  it  will  be  far 
more  so  when  Dumay's  position  with  regard  to  Modeste  is 
explained.  If  the  brevity  of  the  style  makes  the  narrative 
dry,  this  will  bo  forgiven  for  the  sake  of  hastening  to  the 
end  of  this  scene,  and  of  the  need,  which  rules  all  dramas,  for 
setting  forth  the  argument. 

Dumay — Aime-Frangois-Bemard — born  at  Vannes,  went 
as  a  soldier  in  1799,  joining  the  army  of  Italy.  His  father, 
a  president  of  the  Hevolutionary  Tribunal,  had  distinguished 
himself  by  so  much  vigor  that  the  country  was  too  hot  to  hold 
the  son  when  his  father,  a  second-rate  lawyer,  perished  on  the 
scaffold  after  the  9th  of  Thermidor.  His  mother  died  of 
grief;  and  Anne,  having  sold  everything  he  possessed,  went 
off  to  Italy  at  the  age  of  twenty-two,  just  as  our  armies  were 
defeated.  In  the  department  of  the  Var  he  met  a  young  man 
who,  for  similar  reasons,  was  also  in  search  of  glory,  thinking 
the  battlefield  less  dangerous  than  Provence. 

Charles  Mignon,  the  last  survivor  of  the  family  to  whom 
Paris  owes  the  street  and  the  hotel  built  by  Cardinal  Mignon, 
had  for  his  father  a  crafty  man,  who  wished  to  save  his  estate 
of  la  Bastie,  a  nice  little  fief  under  the  Counts  of  Provence, 
from  the  clutches  of  the  Revolution.  Like  all  nervous  people 
in  those  days,  the  Comte  de  la  Bastie,  now  Citizen  Mignon, 
thought  it  healthier  to  cut  off  other  heads  than  to  lose  his 
own.  This  supposed  terrorist  vanished  on  the  9th  of  Ther- 
midor, and  was  thenceforth  placed  on  the  list  of  emigres.  The 
fief  of  la  Bastie  was  sold.     The  pepper-caster  tower?  of  the 


MODESTE  MIGNON  IV 

dishonored  eliateau  were  razed  to  the.  ground.  Finally, 
Citizen  Mignon  himself,  discovered  at  Orange,  was  killed  with 
his  wife  and  children,  with  the  exception  of  Charles  Mignon, 
whom  he  had  sent  in  search  of  a  refuge  in  the  department  of 
the  Hautes-Alpes.  Charles,  stopped  by  these  shocking  tidings, 
awaited  quieter  times  in  a  valley  of  Mont  Genevre.  There  he 
lived  till  1799  on  a  few  louis  his  father  had  put  into  his  hand 
at  parting.  At  last,  when  he  was  three-and-twenty,  with  no 
fortune  but  his  handsome  person — the  southern  beauty  which, 
in  its  perfection,  is  a  glorious  thing,  the  type  of  Antinoiis, 
Hadrian's  famous  favorite — he  resolved  to  stake  his  Provengal 
daring  on  the  red  field  of  war,  regarding  his  courage  as  a 
vocation,  as  did  many  another.  On  his  way  to  headquarters 
at  Nice  he  met  the  Breton. 

The  two  infantrymen,  thrown  together  by  the  similarity 
of  their  destiny  and  the  contrast  of  their  nature,  drank  of 
the  torrent  from  the  same  cup,  divided  their  allowance  of 
biscuit,  and  were  sergeants  by  the  time  peace  was  signed  after 
the  battle  of  Marengo. 

When  war  broke  out  again,  Charles  Mignon  got  leave  to  be 
transferred  to  the  cavalry,  and  then  lost  sight  of  his  comrade. 
The  last  of  the  Mignons  of  la  Bastie  was,  in  1812,  an  officer 
of  the  Legion  of  Honor,  and  Major  of  a  cavalry  regiment, 
hoping  to  be  reinstated  as  Comte  de  la  Bastie  and  made 
Colonel  by  the  Emperor.  Then,  taken  prisoner  by  the  Eus- 
sians,  he  was  sent  with  many  more  to  Siberia.  His  traveling 
companion  was  a  poor  lieutenant,  in  whom  he  recognized 
Anne  Dumay,  with  no  decoration,  brave  indeed,  but  hapless, 
like  the  millions  of  rank-and-file  with  worsted  epaulettes,  the 
web  of  men  on  wliich  Napoleon  painted  the  picture  of  his 
Empire.  In  Siberia,  to  pass  the  time,  the  lieutenant-colonel 
taught  his  comrade  arithmetic  and  writing,  for  education  had 
seemed  unimportant  to  his  Scsevola  parent.  Charles  found  in 
his  first  traveling  companion  one  of  those  rare  hearts  to  whom 
he  could  pour  out  all  his  griefs  while  confiding  all  his  joys. 

The  Provengal  had,  ere  this,  met  the  fate  which  awaits  every 
handsome  young  fellow.     In  1804,  at  Frankfort-on-the-Main, 


18  MODESTE  MlGKON 

he  was  adored  by  Bettina  Wallonrod,  the  only  daughter  of  d 
banker,  and  married  her  with  all  the  more  enthusiasm  because 
she  was  rich,  one  of  the  beauties  of  the  town,  and  he  was  still 
only  a  lieutenant  witli  no  fortune  but  the  most  uncertain  pros- 
pects of  a  soldier  of  that  time.  Old  Wallenrod,  a  decayed 
German  baron — bankers  are  always  barons — was  enchanted 
to  thiak  that  the  handsome  lieutenant  was  the  sole  representa- 
tive of  the  Mignons  of  la  Bastie,  and  approved  the  affections 
of  the  fair  Bettina,  whom  a  painter — for  there  was  a  painter 
then  at  Frankfort — had  taken  for  his  model  of  an  ideal  figure 
of  Germany.  Wallenrod,  who  already  thought  of  his  grand- 
sons as  Comtes  de  la  Bastie-Wallenrod,  invested  in  the  French 
funds  a  sufficient  sum  to  secure  to  his  daughter  thirty  thou- 
sand francs  a  year.  This  dower  made  a  very  small  hole  in 
his  coffers,  seeing  how  small  a  capital  was  required.  The  Em- 
pire, following  a  practice  not  uncommon  among  debtors,  rarely 
paid  the  half-yearly  dividends.  Charles,  indeed,  was  some- 
what alarmed  at  this  investment,  for  he  had  not  so  much  faith 
in  the  Imperial  Eagle  as  the  German  baron  had.  The  phe- 
nomenon of  belief,  or  of  admiration,  which  is  only  a  transient 
form  of  belief,  can  hardly  exist  in  illicit  companionship  with 
the  idol.  An  engineer  dreads  the  machine  which  the  traveler 
admires,  and  Napoleon's  officers  were  the  stokers  of  his  loco- 
motive when  they  were  not  the  fuel.  Baron  von  Wallenrod- 
Tustall-Bartenstild  then  promised  to  help  the  young  people. 
Charles  loved  Bettina  Wallenrod  as  much  as  she  loved  him, 
and  that  is  saying  a  great  deal ;  but  when  a  Provengal  is  fired, 
anything  seems  natural  to  him  in  the  matter  of  feeling.  How 
could  he  help  worshiping  a  golden-haired  woman  who  had 
stepped  out  of  a  picture  by  Albert  Diirer,  an  angel  of  good 
temper,  with  a  fortune  famous  in  Frankfort  ? 

So  Charles  had  four  children,  of  whom  only  two  daughters 
were  alive  at  the  time  when  he  poured  out  his  sorrows  on  the 
Breton's  heart.  Without  knowing  them,  Dumay  was  fond 
of  these  two  little  girls,  the  effect  of  the  sympathy  so  well 
understood  by  Charlet,  who  shows  us  the  soldier  as  fatherly 
to  every  child.     The  elder,  named  Bettina  Caroline,  was  born 


MODESTE  MIGNON  19 

in  1805 ;  the  second,  Marie  Modeste,  in  1808.  The  unhappy 
lieutenant-colonel,  having  had  no  news  of  those  he  loved,  came 
back  on  foot  in  1814,  with  the  lieutenant  for  his  companion, 
all  across  Kussia  and  Prussia.  The  two  friends,  for  whom 
any  difference  of  rank  had  ceased  to  exist,  arrived  at  Frank- 
fort just  as  Napoleon  landed  at  Cannes.  Charles  found  his 
)Wife  at  Frankfort,  but  in  mourning;  she  had  had  the  grief 
of  losing  the  father  who  adored  her,  and  who  longed  always 
to  see  her  smiling,  even  by  his  deathbed.  Old  Wallenrod  did 
not  survive  the  overthrow  of  the  Empire.  At  the  age  or 
seventy-two  he  had  speculated  largely  in  cotton,  believing  still 
in  Napoleon's  genius,  and  not  knowing  that  genius  is  as  often, 
the  slave  of  events  as  their  master. 

The  last  of  the  Wallenrods,  the  true  Wallenrod-Tustall- 
Bartenstild,  had  bought  almost  as  many  bales  of  cotton  as  the 
Emperor  had  sacrificed  men  during  his  tremendous  campaign 
in  France. 

"I  am  tying  in  cotton"  (I  am  dying  in  clover),  said  this 
father  to  his  daughter,  for  he  was  of  the  Goriot  species,  trying 
to  beguile  her  of  her  grief,  which  terrified  him,  "and  I  tie 
owing  noting  to  noboty," — and  the  Franco-German  died 
struggling  with  the  French  language  his  daughter  loved. 

Charles  Mignon,  happy  to  have  saved  his  wife  and  daughters 
from  this  double  shii^wreck,  now  returned  to  Paris,  where  the 
Emperor  made  him  Lieutenant-Colonel  of  the  Cuirassiers  of 
the  Guard,  and  Commander  of  the  Legion  of  Honor.  The 
Colonel  at  last  was  General  and  Count,  after  Napoleon's  first 
success;  but  his  dream  was  drowned  in  torrents  of  blood  at 
Waterloo.  He  was  slightly  wounded,  and  retired  to  the  Loire, 
leaving  Tours  before  the  troops  were  disbanded. 
/  In  the  spring  of  1816  Charles  realized  the  capital  of  his 
thirty  thousand  francs  a  year,  which  gave  him  about  four 
hundred  thousand  francs,  and  decided  on  going  to  make  his 
fortune  in  America,  leaving  a  country  where  persecution 
already  pressed  hardly  on  Napoleon's  soldiers.  He  went  from 
Paris  to  le  Havre,  accompanied  by  Dumay,  whose  life  he  had 
saved  in  one  of  the  frequent  chances  of  war,  by  taking  him 


20  MODESTE  MIGNON 

behind  him  on  his  liorsc  in  the  confusion  that  ended  the  day 
of  Waterloo.  Duniay  siiared  the  Colonel's  opinions  and 
despondency.  Charles,  to  whom  the  Breton  clung  like  a  dog, 
for  the  poor  infantrvman  worshiped  the  two  little  girls, 
thoiifi^ht  that  Duniay's  hal)its  of  obedience  and  discipline,  his 
honesty  and  his  attachment,  would  make  him  a  servant  not  less 
faithful  than  useful.  He  therefore  proposed  to  him  to  take 
service  under  him  in  private  life.  Dumay  was  very  happy 
to  find  himself  adopted  into  a  family  with  whom  he  hoped  to 
live  like  mistletoe  on  an  oak. 

While  waiting  an  opportunity  of  sailing,  choosing  among 
the  ships,  and  meditating  on  the  chances  offered  in  the  various 
ports  of  their  destination,  the  Colonel  heard  rumors  of  the 
splendid  fortunes  that  the  peace  held  in  store  for  le  Havre. 
While  listening  to  a  discussion  between  two  of  the  natives,  he 
saw  a  means  of  making  his  fortune,  and  set  up  forthwith  as  a 
shipowner,  a  banker,  and  a  country  gentleman.  He  invested 
two  hundred  thousand  francs  in  land  and  houses,  and 
freighted  a  ship  for  New  York  with  a  cargo  of  French  silks 
bought  at  Lyons  at  a  low  figure.  Dumay  sailed  on  the  vessel 
as  his  agent.  While  the  Colonel  was  settling  himself  with 
his  family  in  the  handsomest  house  in  the  Rue  Royale,  and. 
studying  the  science  of  banking  with  all  the  energy  and 
prodigious  acumen  of  a  Provencal,  Dumay  made  two  fortunes, 
for  he  returned  with  a  cargo  of  cotton  bought  for  a  mere 
song.  This  transaction  produced  an  enormous  capital  for 
Mignon's  business.  He  then  purchased  the  villa  at  Ingou- 
ville,  and  rewarded  Dumay  by  giving  him  a  small  house  in  the 
Kue  Royale. 

The  worthy  Breton  had  brought  back  with  him  from  New 
York  with  his  bales  a  pretty  little  wife,  who  had  been  chiefly 
attracted  by  his  nationality  as  a  Frenchman.  Miss  Grummer 
owned  about  four  thousand  dollars,  twenty  thousand  francs, 
which  Dumay  invested  in  his  Colonel's  business.  Dumay, 
now  the  alter  ego  of  the  shipowner,  very  soon  learned  book- 
keeping, the  science  which,  to  use  his  phrase,  distinguished 
the  sergeant-majors  of  trade.     Tliis  guileless  soldier,  whom 


MODESTE  MIGNON  21 

fortune  had  neglected  for  twenty  years,  thought  himself  the 
happiest  man  in  the  world  when  he  saw  liimself  master  of  a 
house — which  his  employer's  munificence  furnished  very 
prettily — of  twelve  hundred  francs  a  year  of  interest  on  his 
capital,  and  of  three  thousand  six  hundred  francs  in  salary. 
Never  in  his  dreams  had  Lieutenant  Dumay  hoped  for  such 
prosperity;  but  he  was  even  happier  in  feeling  himself  the 
hub  of  the  richest  merchant's  house  in  le  Havre. 

Madame  Dumay  had  the  sorrow  of  losing  all  her  children 
at  their  birth,  and  the  disasters  of  her  last  confinement  left 
her  no  hope  of  having  any;  she  therefore  attached  herself  to 
the  two  Mignon  girls  as  affectionately  as  Dumay,  who  would 
not  have  loved  his  own  children  so  well.  Madame  Dumay, 
the  child  of  agriculturists,  accustomed  to  a  thrifty  life,  found 
two  thousand  four  hundred  francs  enough  for  herself  and  her 
housekeeping.  Thus,  year  by  year,  Dumay  put  two  thousand 
and  some  hundred  francs  into  the  Mignon  concern.  When 
the  master  made  up  the  annual  balance,  he  added  to  the 
cashier's  credit  a  bonus  in  proportion  to  the  business  done. 
In  1824  the  sum  to  the  cashier's  account  amounted  to  fifty- 
eight  thousand  francs.  Then  it  was  that  Charles  Mignon, 
Comte  de  la  Bastie,  a  title  that  was  never  mentioned,  crowned 
his  cashier's  joy  by  giving  him  a  lease  of  the  Chalet,  where  we 
now  find  Modesto  and  her  mother. 

Madame  Mignon's  deplorable  condition  had  its  cause  in 
the  catastrophe  to  which  Charles'  absence  was  due,  for  her 
husband  had  left  her  a  still  handsome  woman.  It  had  taken 
three  years  of  sorrow  to  destroy  the  gentle  German  lady,  but 
it  was  one  of  those  sorrow^s  which  are  like  a  worm  lying  at  the 
heart  of  a  fine  fruit.  The  sum-total  of  her  woes  is  easily 
stated :  Two  children  who  died  young  had  stamped  a  double 
ci-git  on  a  soul  which  could  never  forget.  Charles'  captivity 
in  Siberia  had  been  to  this  loving  heart  a  daily  death.  The 
disasters  of  the  great  Wallenrod  house,  and  the  unhappy 
banker's  death  on  his  empty  money-bags,  coming  in  the  midst 
of  Bettina's  suspense  about  her  husband,  was  a  final  blow. 
The  joy  of  seeing  him  again  almost   killed  this   German 


22  MODESTE  MIGNON 

floweret.  Then  eame  the  second  overthrow  of  the  Empire, 
and  their  phms  for  emigration  had  been  like  relapses  of  the 
same  fit  of  fever. 

At  last  ten  years  of  constant  prosperity,  the  amusements  of 
her  home-life,  tiie  handsoniesi  liousc  in  le  Havre,  the  dinners, 
balls,  and  entertainments  given  by  tlie  successful  merchant, 
the  magnificence  of  the  Villa  Mignon,  the  immense  respect 
and  high  esteem  enjoyed  by  her  luisband,  with  the  undivided 
afl'ection  of  this  man,  who  responded  to  perfect  love  by  love 
equally  perfect, — all  these  had  reconciled  the  poor  woman  to 
life. 

Then,  at  the  moment  when  all  her  doubts  w^ere  at  rest,  and 
she  looked  forward  to  a  calm  evening  after  lier  stormy  day, 
a  mysterious  disaster,  buried  in  the  heart  of  the  double  house- 
hold, and  presently  to  be  related,  came  like  a  summons  from 
misfortune.  In  1836,  in  the  midst  of  a  party,  when  all  the 
town  was  ready  to  return  Charles  Mignon  as  its  deputy,  three 
letters,  from  New  York,  London,  and  Paris,  came  like  three 
hammer-strokes  on  the  glass  house  of  Prosperity.  In  ten 
minutes  ruin  swooped  down  with  vulture's  wings  on  this  un- 
heard-of good  fortune  like  the  frost  on  the  Grande  Armee 
in  1813.  In  one  night  which  he  spent  with  Dumay  over  the 
books,  Charles  Mignon  was  prepared  for  the  worst.  J-Cvery- 
thing  he  possessed,  not  excepting  the  furniture,  woidd  avail 
to  pay  everybody. 

"Le  Havre,"  said  the  Colonel  to  the  Lieutenant,  "shall 
never  see  me  in  the  mud.  Dumay,  I  will  take  your  sixty  thou- 
sand francs  at  six  per  cent " 

"At  three.  Colonel." 

"At  nothing,  then,"  said  Charles  peremptorily.  "I  make 
you  ray  partner  in  my  new  enterprise.  The  Modeste,  which 
is  no  longer  mine,  sails  to-morrow;  the  captain  takes  me  with 
him.  You — I  place  you  in  charge  of  my  wife  and  daughter. 
I  shall  never  write.     No  news  is  good  news." 

Dumay,  still  but  a  lieutenant,  had  not  asked  his  Colonel 
by  a  word  what  his  purpose  was. 

"I  suspect."  said  he  to  Latournelle  with  a  knowing  air, "that 
ihe  Colonel  hns  laid  his  plans." 


MODESTE  MIGNON  23 

On  the  following  morning,  at  break  of  day,  he  saw  his 
master  safe  on  board  the  good  ship  Modeste,  bound  for  Con- 
stantinople. Standing  on  the  vessel's  poop,  the  Breton  said 
to  the  Pro\  en^-al : 

"What  are  your  last  orders,  Colonel  ?" 

"That  no  man  ever  goes  near  the  Chalet !"  cried  the  father, 
with  difficulty  restraining  a  tear.  "Dumay,  guard  my  last 
child  as  a  bull-dog  might.  Death  to  any  one  who  may  try  to 
tempt  my  second  daughter!  Fear  nothing,  not  even  the 
scaffold.     I  would  meet  you  there !" 

"Colonel,  do  your  business  in  peace.  I  understand.  You 
will  find  Mademoiselle  Modeste  as  you  leave  her,  or  I  shall 
be  dead !  You  know  me,  and  you  know  our  two  Pyrenean 
dogs.  No  one  shall  get  at  your  daughter.  Forgive  me  for 
using  so  many  words." 

The  two  soldiers  embraced  as  men  who  had  learned  to  ap- 
preciate each  other  in  the  heart  of  Siberia. 

The  same  day  the  Courrier  du  Havre  published  this  terrible, 
simple,  vigorous,  and  honest  leading  paragraph : — 

"The  house  of  Charles  Mignon  has  suspended  payment, 
but  the  undersigned  liquidators  pledge  themselves  to  pay  all  the 
outstanding  debts.  Bearers  of  bills  at  date  can  at  once  dis- 
count them.  The  value  of  the  landed  estate  will  completely 
cover  current  accounts. 

"This  notice  is  issued  for  the  honor  of  the  house,  and  to 
prevent  any  shock  to  general  credit  on  the  Havre  Exchange. 

"Monsieur  Charles  Mignon  sailed  this  morning  in  the 
Modeste  for  Asia  Minor,  having  left  a  power  of  attorney  to 
enable  us  to  realize  every  form  of  property,  even  landed 
estate. 

"DuMAY,  liquidator  for  the  l)anking  account. 
"Latournelle,    notary,    liquidator    for    the 

houses  and  land  in  town  and  country. 
"GoBENHEiM,     liquidator     for    commercial 
bills/' 


24  MODESTE  MIGNON 

Latournellc  owed  liis  prosperity  to  Monsieur  Mio^non's  kind- 
ness; he  liad,  in  1817,  lent  the  notary  a  lumdred  thousand 
francs  to  buy  the  best  business  in  le  Havre.  The  poor  lawyer, 
without  any  pecuniary  resources,  was  by  that  time  forty  years 
old ;  he  had  been  a  head-clerk  for  ten  years,  and  looked  for- 
ward to  being  a  clerk  for  the  rest  of  his  days.  Pie  was  the 
only  man  in  le  Havre  whose  devotion  could  compare  with 
Du may's,  for  Gobenheim  took  advantage  of  this  bankruptcy 
to  carr}'  on  Mignon's  connection  and  business,  which  enabled 
him  to  start  his  little  banking  concern.  While  universal  re- 
gret was  expressed  on  'Change,  on  the  Quays,  and  in  every 
home;  while  praises  of  a  blameless,  honorable,  and  beneficent 
man  were  on  every  lip,  Latournelle  and  Dumay,  as  silent  and 
as  busy  as  emmets,  were  selling,  realizing,  paying,  and  settling 
up.  Yilquin  gave  himself  airs  of  generosit}-,  and  bought  the 
villa,  the  town-house,  and  a  farm,  and  Latournelle  took  ad- 
vantage of  this  first  impulse  to  extract  a  good  price  from 
Vilquin. 

Every  one  wanted  to  call  on  Madame  and  Mademoiselle 
Mignon,  but  they  had  obeyed  Charles  and  taken  refuge  at  the 
Chalet  the  very  morning  of  his  departure,  of  which  at  the 
first  moment  they  knew  nothing.  Not  to  be  shaken  in  his 
purpose  by  their  grief,  the  courageous  banker  had  kissed  his 
wife  and  daughter  in  their  sleep.  Three  hundred  cards  were 
left  at  the  door.  A  fortnight  later  the  most  complete  oblivion, 
as  Charles  had  prophesied,  showed  the  two  women  the  wisdom 
and  dignity  of  the  step  enjoined  on  them. 

Dumay  appointed  representatives  of  his  master  at  New 
York,  London,  and  Paris.  He  followed  up  the  liquidation  of 
the  three  banking  houses  to  which  Mignon's  ruin  was  due,  and 
between  1826  and  1828  recovered  five  hundred  thousand 
francs,  the  eighth  part  of  Charles'  fortune.  In  obedience 
to  the  orders  drawn  up  the  night  before  his  departure,  Dumay 
forwarded  this  sum  at  the  beginning  of  1828,  through  the 
house  of  Mongenod  at  New  York,  to  be  placed  to  Monsieur 
Mignon's  credit.  All  this  was  done  with  military  punctuality, 
excepting  with  regard  to  the  i-etention  of  thirty  thousand 


MOi)ESTE  MIGNON  ^5 

francs  for  the  personal  needs  of  Madame  and  Mademoiselle 
Mignon.  This,  which  Charles  had  ordered,  Dumay  did  not 
carry  out.  The  Breton  sold  his  house  in  the  town  for  twenty 
thousand  francs,  and  gave  this  to  Madame  Mignon,  reflecting 
that  the  more  money  his  Colonel  could  command,  the  sooner 
he  would  return. 

"For  lack  of  thirty  thousand  francs  a  man  sometimes  is 
lost,"  said  he  to  Latournelle,  who  bought  the  house  at  his 
friend's  price;  and  there  the  inhabitants  of  the  Chalet  could 
always  find  rooms. 

This,  to  the  famous  house  of  Mignon,  le  Havre,  was  the 
outcome  of  the  crisis  which,  in  1825-26,  upset  the  principal 
centres  of  commerce,  and  caused — if  you  remember  that  hur- 
ricane— the  ruin  of  several  Paris  bankers,  one  of  them  the 
President  of  the  Chamber  of  Commerce.  It  is  intelligible  that 
this  tremendous  overthrow,  closing  a  civic  reign  of  ten  years, 
might  have  been  a  deathblow  to  Bettina  Wallenrod,  who  once 
more  found  herself  parted  from  her  husband,  knowing  nothing 
of  his  fate,  apparently  as  full  of  peril  and  adventure  as 
Siberian  exile;  but  the  trouble  that  was  really  bringing  her 
to  the  grave  was  to  these  visible  griefs  what  an  ill-starred  child 
is  to  the  commonplace  troubles  of  a  family — a  child  that 
gnaws  and  devours  its  home.  The  fatal  stone  that  had  struck 
this  mother's  heart  was  a  tombstone  in  the  little  cemetery  of 
Ingouville,  on  which  may  be  read: 

BETTINA  CAKOLINE  MIGNON 

AGED   TWO-AND-TW^ENTY 

PRAY    FOR    her! 

1827. 

TIhs  inscription  is  for  the  girl  who  lies  there  what  many  aa 
,epitaph  is  for  the  dead — a  table  of  contents  to  an  unknown 
book.  Here  is  the  book  in  its  terrible  epitome,  and  it  may 
explain  the  pledge  demanded  and  given  in  the  parting  words 
of  the  colonel  and  subaltern. 


26  MODWSTE  MIGNON 

A  young  man,  extremely  handsome,  named  Georges  d'Es- 
toiirny,  came  to  le  Havre  on  the  common  pretext  of  seeing  the 
sea,  and  he  saw  Caroline  Mignon.  A  man  of  some  pretence 
to  fashion,  and  from  Paris,  never  lacks  some  introductions; 
he  was  therefore  invited  by  the  intervention  of  a  friend  of  the 
Mignons  to  an  entertainment  at  Tngouville.  He  fell  v.ery 
much  in  love  with  Caroline  and  her  fortune,  and  schemed  for 
a  hap})y  issue.  At  the  end  of  three  months  he  had  played 
every  trick  of  the  seducer,  and  run  away  with  Caroline.  The 
father  of  a  family  who  has  two  daughters  ought  no  more  to 
admit  a  young  man  to  his  house  without  knowing  him  than 
he  should  allow  books  or  newspapers  to  lie  about  without  hav- 
ing read  them.  The  innocence  of  a  girl  is  like  milk  which  is 
turned  by  a  thunder-clap,  by  an  evil  smell,  by  a  hot  day,  or 
even  by  a  breath. 

When  he  read  his  eldest  daughter's  farewell  letter,  Charles 
Mignon  made  ]\ladame  Dumay  set  out  instantly  for  Paris. 
The  family  alleged  the  need  for  a  change  of  air  suddenly  pre- 
scribed by  the  family  doctor,  who  lent  himself  to  this  necessary 
pretext;  but  this  could  not  keep  the  town  from  gossiping  about 
her  absence. 

"What,  such  a  strong  girl,  with  the  complexion  of  a 
Spaniard,  and  hair  like  jet ! — She,  consumptive  !" 

"Yes — so  they  say.    She  did  something  imprudent " 

"Ah,  ha !"  cried  some  Vilquin. 

"She  came  in  from  a  ride  bathed  in  perspiration  and  drank 
ictMi  water,  at  least  so  Dr.  Troussenard  says." 

By  the  time  Madame  Dumay  returned,  the  troubles  of  the 
Mignons  were  an  exhausted  subject ;  no  one  thought  anything 
more  of  Caroline's  absence  or  the  reappearance  of  the  cashier's 
wife. 

At  the  beginning  of  1827  the  newspapers  were  full  of  the 
trial  of  Georges  d"Estourny,who  was  proved  guilty  of  constant 
cheating  at  play.  This  young  pirate  vanished  abroad  without 
thinking  any  more  about  Mademoiselle  Mignon,  whose  money 
value  was  destroyed  by  the  bankruptcy  at  le  Havre.  Before 
long  Caroline  knew  that  she  was  deserted,  and  her  father  a 


MODESTE  MIGNON  27 

ruined  man.  She  came  home  in  a  fearful  state  of  mortal  ill- 
ness, and  died  a  few  days  afterwards  at  the  Chalet.  Her  death, 
at  any  rate,  saved  her  reputation.  The  malady  spoken  of  by 
Monsieur  Mignon  at  the  time  of  his  daughter's  elopement  was 
very  generally  believed  in,  and  the  medical  orders  which  had 
sent  her  off,  it  was  said,  to  Nice. 

To  the  very  last  the  mother  hoped  to  save  her  child.  Bettina 
was  her  darling,  as  Modeste  was  her  father's.  There  was  some- 
thing touching  in  this  preference :  Bettina  was  the  image  of 
Charles,  as  Modeste  was  of  her  mother.  They  perpetuated 
their  love  in  their  children.  Caroline,  a  Provencal,  inherited 
from  her  father  the  beautiful  blue-black  hair,  like  a  raven's 
wing,  which  we  admire  in  the  daughters  of  the  south,  the 
hazel,  almond-shaped  eye  as  bright  as  a  star,  the  olive  com- 
plexion with  the  golden  glow  of  a  velvety  fruit,  the  arched 
foot,  the  Spanish  bust  that  swells  beneath  the  bodice.  And  the 
fatjier  and  mother  were  alike  proud  of  the  charming  contrast 
of  the  two  sisters. 

"A  demon  and  an  angel !"  people  used  to  say,  without  ill 
meaning,  though  it  was  prophetic. 

After  spending  a  month  in  tears  in  her  room,  where  she 
insisted  on  staying  and  seeing  no  one,  the  poor  German  lady 
came  forth  with  her  eyes  seriously  injured.  Before  she  lost 
her  sight  she  went,  in  spite  of  all  her  friends,  to  look  at  Caro- 
line's tomb.  This  last  image  remained  bright  in  her  darkness, 
as  the  red  spectre  of  the  last  object  we  have  seen  remains  when 
we  shut  our  eyes  in  bright  daylight.  After  this  terrible  and 
twofold  disaster,  Dumay,  though  he  could  not  be  more  devoted, 
was  more  anxious  than  ever  about  Modeste,  now  an  only  child, 
though  her  father  knew  it  not.  Madame  Dumay,  who  was 
crazy  about  Modeste,  like  all  women  who  have  no  children, 
overpowered  her  with  her  deputy  motherhood,  but  without  dis- 
obeying her  husband's  orders.  Dumay  was  distrustful  of  fe- 
male friendships.     His  injunctions  were  absolute. 

"If  ever  any  man,  of  whatever  age  or  rank,  speaks  to  Mo- 
deste," said  Dumay,  "if  he  looks  at  her,  casts  sheep's  eyes  at 


28  MODESTB  MIGNON 

her,  he  is  a  dead  iiiari.     T  will  blow  his  brains  out  and  sur 
render  myself  to  the  rublic  Prosecutor.     ^ly  death  may  save 
her.    If  you  do  not  wish  to  see  me  cut  my  throat,  fill  my  place 
unfailingly  when  I  am  in  town." 

For  three  years  Dumay  had  examined  his  pistols  every 
night.  lie  scpniod  to  have  included  in  his  oath  the  two  Pyre- 
nean  dogs,  remarkably  intelligent  beasts;  one  slept  in  the 
house,  the  other  was  sentinel  in  a  kennel  that  he  never  came 
out  of,  and  he  never  barked ;  but  the  minute  when  those  dogs 
should  set  their  teeth  in  an  intruder  would  be  a  terrible  one 
for  him. 

The  life  may  now  be  imagined  which  the  mother  and 
daughter  led  at  the  Chalet.  Monsieur  and  Madame  Latour- 
nelle,  frequently  accompanied  by  Gobenheim,  came  almost 
every  evening  to  visit  their  friends  and  play  a  rubber.  Con- 
versation would  turn  on  business  at  le  Havre,  on  the  trivial 
events  of  country  town  life.  They  left  between  nine  and  ten. 
Modesto  went  to  put  her  mother  to  bed;  they  said  their  prayers 
together,  they  talked  over  their  hopes,  they  spoke  of  the  dearly 
loved  traveler.  After  kissing  her  mother,  Modeste  went  to 
her  own  room  at  about  ten  o'clock.  Next  morning  Modeste 
dressed  her  mother  with  the  same  care,  the  same  prayers,  the 
same  little  chat.  To  Modeste's  honor,  from  the  day  when  her 
mother's  terrible  infirmity  deprived  her  of  one  of  her  senses, 
she  made  herself  her  waiting-maid,  and  always  with  the  same 
solicitude  at  every  hour,  without  wearying  of  it,  or  finding  it 
monotonous.  Her  affection  was  supreme,  and  always  ready, 
with  a  sweetness  rare  in  young  girls,  and  that  was  highly  ap- 
preciated by  those  who  saw  her  tenderness.  And  so,  Modeste 
was,  in  the  eyes  of  the  Latournelles  and  of  Monsieur  and 
Madame  Dumay,  the  jewel  I  have  described.  Between  break- 
fast and  dinner,  on  sunny  days,  Madame  Mignon  and  Madame 
Dumay  took  a  little  walk  as  far  as  the  shore,  j\Iodeste  assist- 
ing, for  the  blind  woman  needed  the  support  of  two  arms. 

A  month  before  the  scene  in  which  this  digression  falls  as 
a  parenthesis,  Madame  .Mignon  had  held  council  with  her 
only  friends,  Madame  Latournelle,  the  notary,  and  Dumay, 


MODESTE  MIGNON  29 

while  Madame  Dumay  was  giving  Modeste  the  little  diversion 
of  a  long  walk. 

"Listen,  my  friends,"  said  the  blind  woman,  "my  daughter 
is  in  love.  I  feel  it;  I  see  it.  A  strange  change  has  come 
over  her,  and  I  cannot  think  how  you  have  failed  to  observe 
it     .     .     ." 

"Bless  my  stars  !"  the  Lieutenant  exclaimed. 

"Do  not  interrupt  me,  Dumay.  For  the  last  two  months 
Modeste  has  dressed  herself  with  care  as  if  she  were  going 
to  meet  some  one.  She  has  become  excessively  particular 
about  her  shoes;  she  wants  her  foot  to  look  nice,  and  scolds 
Madame  Gobain  the  shoemaker.  Some  days  the  poor  child 
sits  gloomy  and  watchful,  as  if  she  expected  somebody;  her 
voice  is  short  and  sharp,  as  though  by  questioning  her  I  broke 
in  on  her  expectancy,  her  secret  hopes;  and  then,  if  that 
somebody  has  been " 

"Bless  my  stars!" 

"Sit  down,  Dumay,"  said  the  lady.  "Well,  then  Mo- 
deste is  gay.  Oh !  you  do  not  see  that  she  is  gay ;  you  can- 
not discern  these  shades,  too  subtle  for  eyes  to  see  that  have 
all  nature  to  look  at.  Her  cheerfulness  betrays  itself  in  the 
tones  of  her  voice,  accents  which  I  can  detect  and  account 
for.  Modeste,  instead  of  sitting  still  and  dreaming,  expends 
her  light  activity  in  flighty  movement.  In  short,  she  is 
happy!  There  is  a  tone  of  thanksgiving  even  in  the  ideas 
she  utters.  Oh,  my  friends,  I  have  learned  to  know  happiness 
as  well  as  grief.  By  the  kiss  my  poor  Modeste  gives  me  I  can 
guess  what  is  going  on  in  her  mind;  whether  she  has  had 
what  she  was  expecting,  or  is  uneasy.  There  are  many  shades 
in  kisses,  even  in  those  of  a  young  girl — for  Modeste  is  in- 
nocence itself,  but  it  is  not  ignorant  innocence.  Though  I 
am  blind,  my  affection  is  clairvoyant,  and  I  implore  you — 
watch  my  daughter." 

On  this,  Dumay,  quite  ferocious,  the  notary  as  a  man  who 
is  bent  on  solving  a  riddle,  Madame  Latournelle  as  a  duenna 
who  has  been  cheated,  and  Madame  Dumay,  who  shared  her 
husband's  fears, — all  constituted  themselves  spies  over  Mo- 


30  MODESTE  MIGNON 

deste.  Modeste  was  never  alono  for  a  moment.  Dumay  spent 
whole  nights  under  the  windows,  wrapped  in  a  cloak  like  a 
jealous  Spaniard;  still,  armed  as  he  was  with  military  sa- 
gacity, he  could  find  no  accusing  chic.  Unless  she  were  in 
love  with  the  nightingales  in  Vilquin's  Park,  or  some  goblin 
prince,  Modeste  could  have  seen  no  one,  could  neither  have 
received  nor  given  a  signal.  Madame  Dumay,  who  never 
went  to  bed  till  she  had  seen  Modeste  asleep,  hovered  about 
the  roads  on  the  high  ground  near  the  Chalet  with  a  vigilance 
equal  to  her  husband's.  Under  the  eyes  of  these  four  Argus, 
the  blameless  child,  whose  smallest  actions  were  reported 
and  analyzed,  was  so  absolutely  acquitted  of  any  criminal 
proceedings,  that  the  friends  suspected  Madame  Mignon  of  a 
craze,  a  monomania.  It  devolved  on  Madame  Latournelle, 
who  herself  took  Modeste  to  church  and  home  again,  to 
tell  the  mother  that  she  was  under  a  mistake. 

"Modeste,"  said  she',  "is  a  very  enthusiastic  young  person; 
she  has  passions  for  this  one's  poetry  and  that  one's  prose. 
You  could  not  see  what  an  impression  was  made  on  her  by 
that  executioner's  piece  (a  phrase  of  Butscha's,  who  lent  wit 
without  any  return  to  his  benefactress),  called  le  Dernier 
Jour  d'un  condatnne;  but  she  seemed  to  me  beside  herself 
with  her  admiration  of  that  Monsieur  Hugo.  I  cannot  think 
where  that  sort  of  people  (Victor  Hugo,  Lamartine,  and 
Byron  were  what  Madame  Latournelle  meant  by  that  sort) 
go  to  find  their  ideas.  The  little  thing,  talked  to  me  about 
Childe  Harold;  I  did  not  choose  to  have  the  worst  of  it;  I  was 
fool  enough  to  set  to  work  to  read  it  that  I  might  be  able  to 
argue  with  her.  I  don't  know  whether  it  is  to  be  set  down 
to  the  translation,  but  my  heart  heaved,  my  eyes  were  dizzy. 
I  could  not  get  on  with  it.  It  is  full  of  howling  comparisons, 
of  rocks  that  faint  away,  of  the  lavas  of  war ! 

"Of  course,  as  it  is  an  Englishman  on  his  travels,  one  must 
expect  something  queer,  but  this  is  really  too  much !  You 
fancy  you  are  in  Spain,  and  he  carries  you  up  into  the  clouds 
above  the  Alps;  he  makes  the  torrents  and  the  stars  speak; 
and  then  there  are  too  many  virgins !     You  get  sick  of  them. 


MODESTE  MIGNON  31 

In  short,  after  Napoleon's  campaigns  we  have  had  enough 
(if  flaming  shot  and  sounding  brass  which  roll  on  from  page 
to  page.  Modeste  tells  me  that  all  this  pathos  comes 
from  the  translator,  and  I  ought  to  read  the  English.  But 
I  am  not  going  to  learn  English  for  Lord  Byron  when  I 
would  not  learn  it  for  Exupere  !  I  much  prefer  the  romances 
of  Ducra3--Dumenil  to  these  English  romances !  I  am  too 
thoroughly  Norman  to  fall  in  love  with  everything  that  comes 
from  abroad,  and  especially  from  England " 

Madame  Mignon,  notwithstanding  her  perpetual  mourning, 
could  not  help  smiling  at  the  idea  of  Madame  Latournelle 
reading  Childe  Harold.  The  stern  lady  accepted  this  smile 
as  approbation  of  her  doctrines. 

"And  so,  my  dear  Madame  Mignon,  you  mistake  Modeste's 
imaginings,  the  result  of  her  reading,  for  love  affairs.  She  is 
twenty.  At  that  age  a  girl  loves  herself.  She  dresses  to  see 
herself  dressed.  Why,  I  used  to  make  my  little  sister,  who  is 
dead  now,  put  on  a  man's  hat,  and  we  played  at  gentleman 
and  lady.  .  .  .  You,  at  Frankfort,  had  a  happy  girlhood, 
but  let  us  be  just:  Modeste  here  has  no  amusements.  In 
spite  of  our  readiness  to  meet  her  lightest  wishes,  she  knows 
that  she  is  guarded,  and  the  life  she  leads  has  little  pleasure 
to  offer  a  girl  who  could  not,  as  she  can,  find  something  to 
divert  her  in  books.  Take  my  word  for  it,  she  loves  no  one 
but  you.  Think  yourself  lucky  that  she  falls  in  love  with 
nobody  but  Lord  Byron's  corsairs,  Walter  Scott's  romantic 
heroes,  or  your  Germans,  Count  Egmont,  Werther,  Schiller, 
and  all  the  other  ers." 

"Well,  madame?"  said  Dumay  respectfully,  alarmed  by 
Madame  Mignon's  silence. 

"Modeste  is  not  merely  ready  for  love ;  she  loves  somebody," 
said  the  mother  obstinately. 

"Madame,  my  life  is  at  stake,  and  you  will  no  doubt  allow 
me — not  for  my  own  sal<e,  but  for  my  poor  wife's  and  for  the 
Colonel's,  and  all  our  sakes — to  try  to  find  out  which  is  mis- 
taken— the  watch-dog  or  the  mother." 

"It  is  you,  Dumay !  Oh,  if  I  could  but  look  my  daughter 
in  the  face  !"  said  the  poor  blind  woman. 

VOL.  6— 2S 


82  MODESTB  MIGNON 

"But  who  is  there  that  she  can  love?"  replied  Madame  La- 
tournelle.     "As  for  us — I  can  answer  for  my  Exupere." 

"It  cannot  be  Gohenheim,  whom  we  hardly  see  for  nine 
hours  out  of  the  week  since  the  Colonel  went  away.  Besides, 
he  is  not  thinking  of  Modeste — that  crown-piece  made  man ! 
His  uncle,  Gobenlicim-Keller,  told  him,  'Get  rich  enough  to 
marry  a  Keller !'  With  that  for  a  programme,  there  is  no 
fear  that  he  will  even  know  of  wliat  sex  Modeste  is.  Those 
are  all  the  men  we  see  here.  I  do  not  count  Butscha,  poor 
little  hunchback.  I  love  him;  he  is  your  Dumay,  madame," 
he  said  to  the  notary's  wife.  "Butscha  knows  very  well  that 
if  he  glanced  at  Modeste  it  would  cost  him  a  combing  a  la 
mode  de  Vannes. — Xot  a  soul  ever  comes  near  us.  Ma- 
dame Latournclle,  who  since — since  your  misfortune,  comes 
to  take  Modeste  to  cluirch  and  bring  her  home  again,  has 
watched  her  carefully  these  last  days  during  the  Mass,  and  has 
seen  nothing  suspicious  about  her.  And  then,  if  I  must  tell 
you  everything,  I  myself  have  raked  the  paths  round  the  house 
for  the  last  month,  and  I  have  always  found  them  in  the 
morning  with  no  footmarks." 

"Rakes  are  not  costly  nor  dithcult  to  use,"  said  the  German 
lady. 

"And  the  dogs  ?"  asked  Dumay. 

"Lovers  can  iind  sops  for  them,"  replied  Madame  Mi- 
gnon. 

"I  could  blow  out  my  own  brains  if  you  are  right,  for  I 
should  be  done  for,"  cried  Dumay. 

"And  why,  Dumay  ?" 

"Madame,  1  could  not  meet  the  Colonel's  eye  if  he  were 
not  to  find  his  daughter,  especially  now  that  she  is  his  only 
child ;  and  as  pure,  as  virtuous  as  she  was  when  he  said  to  me 
on  board  the  ship,  'Do  not  let  the  fear  of  the  scalfold  stop 
you,  Dumay,  when  Modeste's  honor  is  at  stake.'  " 

"I  know  you  both — how  like  you !"  said  Madame  Mignon, 
much  moved. 

"I  will  wager  my  eternal  salvation  that  Modeste  is  as  in- 
nocent as  she  was  in  her  cradle,"  said  Madame  Dumay. 


MODESTE  MIGNON  33 

"Oh,  I  will  know  all  about  it,"  replied  Dumay,  "if  Madame 
la  Comtesse  will  allow  me  to  try  a  plan,  for  old  soldiers  are 
knowing  in  stratagems." 

"I  allow  you  to  do  anything  that  may  clear  up  the  matter 
rt'ithout  injuring  our  last  surviving  child." 

"And  what  will  you  do,  Anne,"  said  his  wife,  "to  find  out  a 
young  girl's  secret  when  it  is  so  closely  kept  ?" 

"All  of  you  obey  me  exactly,"  said  the  Lieutenant,  "for  you 
must  all  help." 

This  brief  account,  which,  if  elaborately  worked  up,  would 
have  furnished  forth  a  complete  picture  of  domestic  life — 
how  many  families  will  recognize  in  it  the  events  of  their 
own  home ! — is  enough  to  give  a  clue  to  the  importance  of 
the  little  details  previously  given  of  the  persons  and  circum- 
stances of  this  evening,  when  the  Lieutenant  had  undertaken 
to  cope  with  a  young  girl,  and  to  drag  from  the  recesses  of 
her  heart  a  passion  detected  by  her  blind  mother. 

An  hour  went  by  in  ominous  calm,  broken  only  by  the 
hieroglyphical  phrases  of  the  whist  players :  "Spade ! — 
Trump  ! — Cut ! — Have  we  the  honors  ? — Two  trebles ! — Eight 
all ! — Who  deals  ?" — phrases  representing  in  these  days  the 
great  emotions  of  the  aristocracy  of  Europe.  Modeste 
stitched,  without  any  surprise  at  her  mother's  taciturnity. 
Madame  Mignon's  pocket-handkerchief  slipped  off  her  lap 
on  to  the  floor;  Butscha  flew  to  pick  it  up.  He  was  close  to 
Modeste,  and  as  he  rose  said  in  her  ear,  "Be  on  your  guard !" 

Modeste  raised  astonished  eyes,  and  their  light,  pointed 
darts  as  it  seemed,  filled  the  hunchback  with  ineffable  joy. 

"She  loves  no  one,"  said  the  poor  fellow  to  himself,  and  he 
rubbed  his  hands  hard  enough  to  flay  them. 

At  this  moment  Exupere  flew  through  the  garden  and  into 
the  house,  rushing  into  the  drawing-room  like  a  whirlwind, 
and  said  in  Dumay's  ear,  "Here  is  the  young  man !" 

Dumay  rose,  seized  his  pistols,  and  went  out. 


84  MODESTE  MIGNON 

"Good  God!  Supposing  he  kills  him!"  cried  Madame 
Dumay,  who  burst  into  tears. 

"But  what  is  going  on?"  asked  Modeste,  looking  at  her 
friends  with  an  air  of  perfect  candor,  and  without  any 
alarm. 

"Something  about  a  young  man  who  prowls  round  the 
Chalet  I"  cried   Madame  Latournello. 

"What  then?"  said  Modeste.  "Why  should  Dumay  kill 
•him?" 

"Sancta  simplicitas!"  said  Butscha,  looking  at  his  master 
as  proudly  as  Alexander  gazes  at  Babylon  in  Lebrun's  picture. 

"Where  are  you  going,  Modeste?"  asked  her  mother,  as 
her  daughter  was  leaving  the  room. 

"To  get  everything  ready  for  you  to  go  to  bed,  mamma,"  re- 
plied Modeste,  in  a  voice  as  clear  as  tlie  notes  of  a  harmonica. 

"You  have  had  all  your  trouble  for  nothing,"  said  Butscha 
to  Dumay  when  he  came  in. 

"Modeste  is  as  saintly  as  the  Virgin  on  our  altar !"  cried 
Madame  Latournelle. 

"Ah,  good  Heavens !  Such  agitation  is  too  much  for  me," 
said  the  cashier.     "And  yet  I  am  a  strong  man." 

"I  would  give  twenty-five  sous  to  understand  one  word  of 
what  you  are  at  this  evening,"  said  Gobenheim;  "you  all  seem 
to  me  to  have  gone  mad." 

"And  yet  a  treasure  is  at  stake,"  said  Butscha,  standing  on 
tiptoe  to  speak  into  Gobenheim's  ear. 

"Unfortunately,  1  am  almost  positive  of  the  truth  of  what 
I  say,""  repeated  the  mother. 

"Then  it  now  lies  with  you,  madame,"  said  Dumay  quietly, 
"to  prove  that  we  are  wrong." 

When  he  found  that  nothing  was  involved  but  Modeste's 
reputation,  Gobenheim  took  his  hat,  bowed,  and  went  away, 
'carrying  off  ten  sous,  and  regarding  a  fresh  rubber  as  hope- 
less. 

"Exupere,  and  you,  Butscha,  leave  us,"  said  Madame  La- 
tournelle. "Go  down  to  the  town.  You  will  be  in  time  to 
see  one  piece;  1  will  treat  you  to  the  play." 


MODESTE  MIGNON  35 

As  soon  as  Madame  Mignon  was  left  with  her  four  friends, 
Madame  Latournelle  glanced  at  Dumay,  who,  being  a  Breton, 
understood  the  mother's  persistency,  and  then  at  her  husband 
fidgeting  with  the  cards,  and  thought  herself  justified  in 
speaking. 

"Come,  Madame  Mignon,  tell  us  what  decisive  evidence 
has  struck  your  ear  ?" 

"Oh,  my  dear  friend,  if  you  were  a  musician,  you,  like  me, 
would  have  heard  Modeste's  tone  when  she  sings  of  love." 

The  piano  belonging  to  the  two  sisters  was  one  of  the  few 
feminine  luxuries  among  the  furniture  brought  from  the 
town-house  to  the  Chalet.  Modeste  had  mitigated  some 
tedium  by  studying  without  a  master.  She  was  a  born  musi- 
cian, and  played  to  cheer  her  mother.  She  sang  with  natural 
grace  the  German  airs  her  mother  taught  her.  From  this 
instruction  and  this  endeavor  had  resulted  the  phenomenon, 
not  uncommon  in  natures  prompted  by  a  vocation,  that 
Modeste  unconsciously  composed  purely  melodic  strains,  as 
such  composition  is  possible  without  a  knowledge  of  harmony. 
Melody  is  to  music  what  imagery  and  feeling  are  to  poetry, 
a  flower  that  may  blossom  spontaneously.  All  nations  have 
had  popular  melodies  before  the  introduction  of  harmony. 
Botany  came  after  flowers.  Thus  Modeste,  without  having 
learned  anything  of  the  technique  of  painting  beyond  what 
she  had  gathered  from  seeing  her  sister  work  in  water- 
colors,  could  stand  enchanted  before  a  picture  by  Kaphael, 
Titian,  Eubens,  Murillo,  Rembrandt,  Albert  Diirer,  or  Hol- 
bein, that  is  to  say,  the  highest  ideal  of  each  nation.  Now, 
for  about  a  month,  Modeste  had  more  especially  burst  into 
nightingale  songs,  into  new  strains  so  poetical  as  to  arouse 
her  mother's  attention,  surprised  as  she  was  to  find  Modeste 
bent  on  composition  and  trying  airs  to  unfamiliar  words.     ( 

"If  your  suspicions  have  no  other  foundation,"  said  La- 
tournelle to  Madame  Mignon,  "I  pity  your  sensitiveness." 

"When  a  young  girl  sings  in  Brittany,"  said  Dumay,  now 
grave  again,  "the  lover  is  very  near." 


36  MODESTE  MIGNON 

"I  will  let  you  overhear  Modesto  improvising,"  said  the 
mother,  "and  you  will  see ! " 

"Poor  child!"  said  Madame  Dumay.  "If  she  could  but 
know  of  our  anxiety,  she  would  be  in  despair;  and  vshe  would 
tell  us  the  truth,  especially  if  she  knew  all  it  meant  to 
Dumay." 

"To-morrow,  my  friends,  I  will  question  Modeste,"  said 
Madame  Mignon;  "and  perhaps  I  shall  achieve  more  by 
affection  than  you  have  gained  by  ruse." 

Was  the  comedy  of  the  "Ill-guarded  Daughter"  being  en- 
acted here,  as  it  is  everywhere  and  at  all  times,  while  these 
worthy  Bartolos,  these  spies,  these  vigilant  watch-dogs 
failed  to  scent,  to  guess,  to  detect  the  lover,  the  conspiracy, 
the  smoke  of  the  fire  ? 

This  was  not  the  consequence  of  any  defiance  between  a 
prisoner  and  her  jailers,  between  the  tyranny  of  tlie  dungeon 
and  the  liberty  of  the  captive,  but  merely  the  eternal  repetition 
of  the  first  drama  played  as  the  curtain  rose  on  the  new  Cre- 
ation :  Eve  in  Paradise.  Which,  in  this  case,  was  right — the 
mother  or  the  watch-dog  ? 

l^one  of  the  persons  about  Modeste  understood  the  girl's 
heart — for,  be  assured,  the  soul  and  the  face  were  in  unison. 
Modeste  had  transplanted  her  life  into  a  world  of  which  the 
existence  is  as  completely  denied  in  our  days  as  the  New 
World  of  Christopher  Columbus  was  denied  in  the  sixteenth 
century.  Fortunately,  she  could  be  silent,  or  she  would  have 
been  thought  mad. 

We  must  first  explain  the  influence  that  past  events  had  had 
on  the  girl.  Two  especially  had  formed  her  character,  as 
they  had  awakened  her  intelligence.  Monsieur  and  ^ladame 
Mignon,  startled  by  the  disaster  that  had  come  upon  Bettina, 
had,  before  their  bankruptcy,  resolved  on  seeing  Modeste 
married,  and  their  choice  fell  on  the  son  of  a  wealthy  banker, 
a  native  of  Hamburg,  who  had  settled  at  le  Havre  in  1815, 
and  who  was  under  some  obligations  to  them.  This  young 
man — P>ancisque  Althor — the  dandy  of  le  Havre,  handsome 
in  the  style  which  captivates  the  philistine,  what  the  English 


MODESTE  MIGNON  37 

call  a  heavy-weight — florid  healthy  coloring,  firm  flesh,  and 
square  shoulders — threw  over  his  bride  elect,  at  the  news  of 
their  disaster,  so  completely  that  he  had  never  since  set  eyef* 
on  Modeste,  or  on  Madame  Mignon,  or  on  the  Dumays.  La- 
tournelle  having  made  so  bold  as  to  speak  to  the  father, 
Jacob  Althor,  on  the  subject,  the  old  German  had  shrugged 
his  shoulders,  and  replied,  "I  do  not  know  what  you  mean." 

This  reply,  repeated  to  Modeste  to  give  her  experience,  was 
a  lesson  she  understood  all  the  better  because  Latournelle  and 
Dumay  made  voluminous  comments  on  this  base  desertion. 
Charles  Mignon's  two  daughters,  spoiled  children  as  they 
were,  rode,  had  their  own  horses  and  servants,  and  enjoyed 
fatal  liberty.  Modeste,  finding  herself  in  command  of  a 
recognized  lover,  had  allowed  Francisque  to  kiss  her  hand, 
and  put  his  arm  round  her  to  help  her  to  mount;  she  had 
accepted  flowers,  and  the  trifling  gifts  of  affection  which  are 
the  burden  of  paying  court  to  a  young  lady ;  she  worked  him  a 
purse,  believing  in  bonds  of  that  kind,  so  strong  to  noble 
souls,  but  mere  cobwebs  to  the  Gobenheims,  Vilquins,  and 
Althors. 

In  the  course  of  the  spring,  after  Madame  Mignon  and  her 
daughter  had  moved  into  the  Chalet,  Francisque  Althor  went 
to  dine  with  the  Vilquins.  On  catching  sight  of  ]\fodeste 
beyond  the  wall  of  the  lawn,  he  looked  away.  Sijf  weeks 
after  he  married  Mademoiselle  Vilquin — the  eldest.  Then 
Modeste  learned  that  she,  handsome,  young,  and  well  born, 
had  for  three  months  been  simply  Mademoiselle  Million.  So 
Modeste's  poverty,  which  was  of  course  known,  was  a  sentinel 
which  guarded  the  ways  to  the  Chalet  quite  as  well  as  the 
Dumays'  prudence  and  the  Latournelles^  vigilance.  Made- 
moiselle Mignon  was  never  mentioned  bu.t  with  insulting  pity : 
"Poor  girl!  what  will  become  of  her?  She  will  die  an  old 
maid  " — "What  a  hard  lot !  After  seeing  all  the  world  at  her 
feet,  and  having  a  chance  of  marrying  Althor,  to  find  that  no 
one  will  have  anything  to  say  to  her?" — "Such  a  life  of 
luxury,  my  dear !  and  to  have  sunk  to  penury !" 

Nor  were  these  insults  spoken  in  private  and  only  guessed 


S8  MODESTE  MIGNON 

by  Modeste;  more  Ihan  once  she  heard  them  uttered  by  the 
young  men  and  girls  of  the  town  when  walking  at  Ingouville, 
who,  knowing  that  JMadarne  and  Mademoiselle  Mignon  lived 
at  the  Chalet,  discussed  them  audibly  as  they  went  past  the 
pretty  little  house.  Some  of  the  Vilquins'  friends  wondered 
that  these  ladies  could  bear  to  live  so  near  the  home  of  their 
former  splendor.  Modeste,  sitting  behind  closed  shutters, 
often  heard  such  impertinence  as  this :  "I  cannot  think  how 
they  can  live  there !"  one  would  say  to  another,  walking  round 
the  garden,  perhaps  to  help  the  Vilquins  to  be  rid  of  their 
tenants.  "What  do  they  live  on? — What  can  they  do  there? 
— The  old  woman  is  gone  blind ! — Is  Mademoiselle  Mignon 
still  pretty? — Ah,  she  has  no  horses  now.  How  dashing  she 
used  to  be !" 

As  she  heard  this  savage  nonsense  spoken  by  envy,  foul- 
mouthed  and  surly,  and  tilting  at  the  past,  many  girls  would 
have  felt  the  blood  rise  to  their  very  brow ;  others  would  have 
wept,  some  would  have  felt  a  surge  of  rage;  but  Modeste 
smiled  as  we  smile  at  a  theatre,  hearing  actors  speak.  Her 
pride  could  not  descend  to  the  level  which  such  words,  rising 
from  below,  could  reach. 

The  other  event  was  even  more  serious  than  this  mercenary 
desertion.  Bettina-Caroline  had  died  in  her  sister's  arms; 
Modeste  had  nursed  her  with  the  devotion  of  a  woman,  with 
the  inquisitiveness  of  a  maiden  imagination.  The  two  girls, 
in  the  watches  of  the  night,  had  exchanged  many  a  confidence. 
What  dramatic  interest  hung  round  Bettina  in  the  eyes  of  her 
innocent  sister !  Bettina  knew  passion  only  as  misfortune ; 
she  was  dying  because  she  had  loved.  Between  two  girls 
every  man,  wretch  though  he  be,  is  a  lover.  Passion  is  the 
one  thing  really  absolute  in  human  life;  it  will  always  have 
its  own.  Georges  d'Estourny,  a  gambler,  dissipated  and 
guilty,  always  dwelt  in  the  memory  of  these  two  young  things 
as  the  Parisian  dandy  of  the  Havre  parties,  the  cynosure  of 
every  woman — Bettina  believed  that  she  had  snatched  him 
from  ^ladame  Vilquin's  flirtations — and,  to  crown  all,  Bet- 
tina's  successful  lover.  In  a  young  girl  her  a\  orship  is  stronger 


MODEvSTE  MIGNON  39 

than  social  reprobation.  In  Bettina's  mind,  justice  had  erred ; 
how  should  she  have  condemned  a  young  man  by  whom  she 
had  been  loved  for  six  months,  loved  with  passion  in  the 
mysterious  retreat  where  Georges  hid  her  in  Paris,  that  he 
might  preserve  his  liberty  ?  Thus,  Bettina,  in  her  death,  had 
inoculated  her  sister  with  love. 

The  sisters  had  often  discussed  the  great  drama  of  passion. 
to  which  imagination  lends  added  importance;  and  the  dead 
girl  had  taken  Modeste's  purity  with  her  to  her  grave,  leaving 
her  not  perhaps  all-knowing,  but,  at  any  rate,  all-curious.  At 
the  same  time,  remorse  had  often  set  sharp  pangs  in  Bettina's 
heart,  and  she  lavished  warnings  on  her  sister.  In  the  midst 
of  her  revelations,  she  never  failed  to  preach  obedience  in 
Modeste,  absolute  obedience  to  her  family.  On  the  eve  of  her 
death,  she  implored  her  sister  to  remember  the  pillow  she  had 
soaked  with  her  tears,  and  never  to  imitate  the  conduct  her 
sufferings  could  scarcely  expiate.  Bettina  accused  herself 
of  having  brought  the  lightning  down  on  those  dear  to  her;'jhe 
died  in  despair  at  not  receiving  her  father's  forgiveness.  In 
spite  of  the  consolations  of  religion,  which  was  softened  by 
such  deep  repentance,  Bettina's  last  words,  in  a  heartrending 
cry,  were,  "Father!  Father!" 

"Never  give  your  heart  but  with  your  hand,"  said  she  to 
Modeste,  an  hour  before  her  death;  "and,  above  all,  accept 
no  attentions  without  my  mother's  consent  or  papa's." 

These  words,  toucliing  in  their  simple  truth,  and  spoken 
in  the  hour  of  death,  found  an  echo  in  Modeste's  mind,  all 
the  more  because  Bettina  made  her  take  a  solemn  vow. 
The  poor  girl,  with  prophetic  insight,  drew  from  under  her 
pillow  a  ring  on  which  she  had  had  engraved  Pense  a  Bettina, 
1827 — "Eeraember  Bettina" — instead  of  a  motto,  sending  it  by 
the  hand  of  her  faithful  servant  Frangoise  Cochet,  to  be  done 
in  the  town.  A  few  minutes  before  she  breathed  her  last 
sigh,  she  placed  this  ring  on  her  sister's  finger,  begging  her  to 
wear  it  till  she  should  be  married.  Thus,  between  these  two 
girls  there  had  been  a  strange  succession  of  acute  remorse  and 
artless  descriptions  of  that  brief  summer  which  had  been  so 


40  MODESTE  MIGNON 

soon  followofl  by  tho  auiumn  winds  of  desertion,  while  tears, 
regrets,  anrl  memories  were  constantly  overruled  by  a  dread 
of  evil. 

And  yet  this  drama  of  the  young  creature  seduced,  and  re- 
turning to  die  of  a  dreadful  disorder  under  the  roof  of  elegant 
poverty,  the  meanness  of  the  Vilquins'  son-in-law,  and  her 
mothers  blindness,  resulting  from  her  griefs,  only  account 
for  the  surface  of  Modeste's  character,  with  which  the  Dumays 
and  the  Latournelles  had  to  be  content,  for  no  devotion  can  fill 
the  mother's  place.  This  monotonous  life  in  the  pretty 
Chalet,  among  the  beautiful  ilowers  grown  by  Dumay ;  these 
habits,  as  regular  as  the  working  of  a  clock;  this  provincial 
propriety;  these  rubbers  at  cards  by  which  she  sat  knitting; 
this  silence,  only  broken  by  the  moaning  of  the  sea  at  the 
equinoxes;  this  monastic  peace  covered  the  stormiest  kind  of 
life — the  life  of  ideas,  the  life  of  the  spiritual  world. 

We  sometimes  wonder  at  the  lapses  of  young  girls,  but  that 
is  when  they  have  no  blind  mother  to  sound  with  her  stick 
the  depths  of  the  maiden  heart  undermined  by  the  caverns 
of  fancy. 

The  Dumays  were  asleep  when  Modeste  opened  her  window, 
imagining  that  a  man  might  pass  by —  the  man  of  her  dreams, 
the  knight  who  would  take  her  on  a  pillion,  defying  Dumay's 
pistols.  In  her  dejection  after  her  sister's  death,  Modeste 
had  plunged  into  such  constant  reading  as  was  enough  to  make 
her  idiotic.  Plaving  been  brought  up  to  speak  two  languages, 
she  was  mistress  of  German  as  well  as  of  French ;  then  she  and 
Caroline  had  learned  English  of  Madame  Dumay.  Modeste, 
who,  in  such  matters,  found  little  supervision  from  her  un- 
cultivated companions,  fed  her  soul  on  the  masterpieces  of 
modern  English,  German,  and  French  literature — Lord 
Byron,  Goethe,  Schiller,  Walter  Scott,  Hugo,  Lamartine, 
Crabbe,  Moore,  the  great  works  of  the  seventeenth  and 
eighteenth  centuries,  history  and  the  theatre,  romance  from 
Rabelais  to  Manon  Lescaut,  from  Montaigne's  Essays  to  Di- 
derot, from  the  Fabliaux  to  la  Nouvelle  Helo'isc,  the  thoughts 
of  three  countries  furnished  her  brain  with  a  medley  of  im- 


MODESTE  MIGNON  41 

ages.  And  her  mind  was  beautiful  in  its  cold  guilelessness, 
its  repressed  virginal  instincts,  from  which  sprang  forth, 
flashing,  armed,  sincere,  and  powerful,  an  intense  admiration 
for  genius.  To  Modeste,  a  new  book  was  a  great  event;  she 
was  so  happy  over  a  great  work  as  to  alarm  Madame  Latour- 
nelle,  as  we  have  seen,  and  saddened  when  it  failed  to  take 
her  heart  by  storm. 

But  no  gleam  of  this  lurid  flame  ever  appeared  on  the  sur- 
face; it  escaped  the  eye  of  Lieutenant  Dumay  and  his  wife 
as  well  as  of  the  Latournelles ;  but  the  ear  of  the  blind  mother 
could  not  fail  to  hear  its  crackling.  The  deep  contempt  which 
Modeste  thenceforth  conceived  for  all  ordinary  men  soon  gave 
her  countenance  an  indescribably  proud  and  shy  expression 
which  qualified  its  German  simplicity,  but  which  agrees  with 
one  detail  of  her  face;  her  hair,  growing  in  a  point  in  the 
middle  of  her  forehead,  seems  to  continue  the  slight  furrow 
made  by  thought  between  her  brows,  and  makes  this  shy  look 
perhaps  a  little  too  wild. 

This  sweet  girl's  voice — before  his  departure  Charles  Mi- 
gnon  used  to  call  her  his  little  "Solomon's  slipper,"  she  was 
so  clever — had  acquired  delightful  flexibility  of  accent  from 
her  study  of  three  languages.  This  advantage  is  yet  further 
enhanced  by  a  suave  fresh  quality  which  goes  to  the  heart 
as  well  as  to  the  ear.  Though  her  mother  could  not  see  the 
hope  of  high  destiny  stamped  on  her  daughter's  brow,  she 
could  study  the  changes  of  her  soul's  development  in  the  tones 
of  that  amorous  voice. 

After  this  period  of  ravenous  reading,  there  came  to  Mo- 
deste a  phase  of  the  singular  faculty  possessed  by  a  lively  im- 
agination ;  of  living  as  an  actor  in  an  existence  pictured  as  in 
a  dream;  of  representing  things  wished  for  with  a  vividness 
so  keen,  that  it  verges  on  reality;  of  enjoying  them  in  fancy, 
of  devouring  time  even,  seeing  herself  married,  grown  old, 
attending  her  own  funeral,  like  Charles  V. — in  short,  of  play- 
ing out  the  drama  of  life,  and  at  need  that  of  death  too. 

As  for  Modeste,  she  played  the  drama  of  love.  She 
imagined  herself  adored  to  the  height  of  her  wishes,  and  pass- 


42  MODESTE  MIGNON 

mg  through  every  social  phase.  As  tlie  heroine  of  some  dark 
romance,  she  loved  either  the  executioner  or  some  villain  who 
died  on  the  scaffold,  or  else,  like  her  sister,  some  penniless 
fo{).  whoso  misdemeanors  were  the  affair  of  the  police  court. 
She  pictured  herself  as  a  courtesan,  and  laughed  men  to  scorn 
in  the  midst  of  perpetual  festivities,  like  Ninon.  By  turns, 
:she  led  the  life  of  an  adventuress  or  of  a  popular  actress,  going 
through  the  vicissitudes  of  a  Gil  Bias,  or  the  triumphs  of 
Pasta,  Malibran,  Florine.  Satiated  with  horrors,  she  would 
come  back  to  real  life.  She  married  a  notary,  she  ate  the  dry 
bread  of  respectability,  she  saw  herself  in  Madame  Latour- 
nelle.  She  accepted  a  laborious  life,  facing  the  worries  of  ac- 
cumulating a  fortune;  then  she  began  to  romance  again;  she 
was  loved  for  her  beauty ;  the  son  of  a  peer  of  France,  artistic 
and  eccentric,  read  her  heart,  and  discerned  the  star  which 
the  genius  of  a  Stael  had  set  on  her  brow.  At  last  her  father 
returned  a  millionaire.  Justified  by  experience,  she  subjected 
her  lovers  to  tests,  preserving  iier  own  freedom;  she  owned  a 
splendid  chateau,  servants,  carriages,  everything  that  luxury 
has  most  curious  to  bestow;  and  she  mystified  her  lovers  till 
she  was  forty,  when  she  accepted  an  offer. 

'liiis  edition  of  the  Arabian  Nights,  of  which  there  was 
but  one  copy,  lasted  nearly  a  year,  and  brought  Modeste  to 
satiety  of  invention.  She  too  often  held  life  in  the  hollow  of 
her  hand;  she  could  say  to  herself  very  philosophically,  and 
too  seriously,  too  bitterly,  too  often,  "Well;  and  then?"  not 
to  sink  now  to  her  waist  in  those  depths  of  disgust,  into  which 
men  of  genius  fall  who  are  too  eager  to  escape  by  the  vast 
labor  of  the  task  to  which  they  have  devoted  themselves. 
But  for  her  rich  nature  and  her  youth,  Modeste  would  have 
retired  to  a  cloister.  Tliis  satiety  flung  the  girl,  still  soaked 
in  Catholic  feeling,  into  a  love  of  goodness,  and  of  the  infini- 
tude of  heaven.  She  conceived  of  charity  as  the  occupation 
of  her  life;  still  she  groped  in  forlorn  gloom  as  she  found 
there  no  aliment  for  the  fancy  that  gnawed  at  her  heart  like 
a  malignant  insect  in  the  cup  of  a  flower.  She  calmly  stitched 
at  baby  clothes  for  poor  women ;  and  she  listened  absently  to 


MODESTE  MIGNON  4^ 

Monsieur  Latournelle  grumbling  at  Monsieur  Dumay  for 
trumping  a  thirteentli,  of  forcing  him  to  play  his  last  trump. 
Faith  led  Modeste  into  a  strange  path.  She  fancied  that  by 
becoming  irreproachable  in  the  Catholic  sense,  she  might 
achieve  such  a  pitch  of  sanctity  that  God  would  hear  her  and 
grant  her  desires. 

"Faith,  as  Jesus  Christ  says,  can  remove  mountains;  the 
Saviour  made  His  apostle  walk  on  the  Lake  of  Tiberias;  while 
I  only  ask  of  God  to  send  me  a  husband,"  thought  she.  "That 
is  much  easier  than  going  for  a  walk  on  the  sea.'' 

She  fasted  all  through  Lent,  and  did  not  commit  the  small- 
est sin;  then  she  promised  herself  that  on  coming  out  of 
church  on  a  certain  day  she  would  meet  a  handsome  young 
man,  worthy  of  her,  whom  her  mother  would  approve,  and 
who  would  follow  her,  madly  in  love.  On  the  day  she  had 
fixed  for  God  to  send  her  this  angel  without  fail,  she  was  per- 
sistently followed  by  a  horrible  beggar;  it  poured  with  rain, 
and  there  was  not  one  young  man  out  of  doors.  She  went 
down  to  the  quay  to  see  the  English  come  on  shore,  but  every 
Englishman  had  an  English  damsel  almost  as  handsome  as 
herself,  and  Modeste  could  not  see  anything  like  a  Childe 
Harold  who  had  lost  his  way.  At  that  stage  tears  rose  to  her 
eyes  as  she  sat,  like  Marius,  on  the  ruins  of  her  imaginings. 
One  day  when  she  made  an  appointment  with  God  for  the 
third  time,  she  believed  that  the  elect  of  her  dreams  had  come 
into  the  church,  and  she  dragged  Madame  Latournelle  to  look 
behind  every  pillar,  imagining  that  he  was  hiding  out  of 
delicacy.  Thenceforth  she  concluded  that  God  had  no  power. 
She  often  made  conversations  with  this  imaginary  lover,  in- 
venting question  and  answer,  and  giving  him  a  very  pretty 
wit. 

Thus  it  was  her  heart's  excessive  ambition,  buried  in  romance, 
which  gave  Modeste  the  discretion  so  much  admired  by  the 
good  people  who  watched  over  her;  they  might  have  brought 
her  many  a  Francisque  Althor  or  Vilquin  fils,  she  would  not 
have  stooped  to  such  boors.  She  required  simply  and  purely 
a  man  of  genius;  talent  she  thought  little  of,  as  a  barrister 


44  MODESTE  MIGNON 

is  nothing  to  a  girl  wlio  is  set  on  an  ambassador.  She  wished 
for  riches  only  to  cast  them  at  her  idol's  feet.  The  golden 
background  against  which  the  figures  of  her  dreams  stood  out 
was  less  precious  than  her  heart  overflowing  with  a  woman's 
delicacy;  for  her  ruling  idea  was  to  give  wealth  and  happiness 
to  a  Tasso,  a  Milton,  a  Jean-Jac(|U('s  Rousseau,  a  Murat,  a 
Christopher  Columbus.  Vulgar  sorrows  appealed  but  little 
to  this  soul,  which  longed  to  extinguish  the  stake  of  such  mar- 
tyrs unrecognized  during  their  lifetime.  Modeste  thirsted  for 
unconfessed  sufl'ering,  the  great  anguish  of  the  mind. 

Sometimes  she  imagined  the  balm,  she  elaborated  the 
tenderness,  the  music,  the  thousand  devices  by  which  she 
would  have  soothed  the  fierce  misanthropy  of  Jean-Jacques. 
Again  she  fancied  herself  the  wife  of  Lord  Byron,  and  almost 
entered  into  his  scorn  of  realities,  while  making  lierself  as 
fantastic  as  the  poetry  of  Manfred,  and  into  his  doubts  while 
making  him  a  Catholic.  Modeste  accused  all  the  women  of 
the  seventeenth  century  as  guilty  of  Moliere's  melancholy. 

"How  is  it,"  she  wondered,  "that  some  living,  wealthy,  and 
beautiful  woman  does  not  rush  forth  to  meet  every  man  of 
genius,  to  make  herself  his  slave  like  Lara,  the  mysterious 
page  r 

As  you  see,  she  had  quite  understood  the  English  poet's 
wail,  as  sung  by  Gulnare.  She  greatly  admired  the  conduct 
of  the  young  English  girl  who  came  to  propose  to  the  younger 
Crebillon,  who  married  her.  The  story  of  Sterne  and  Eliza 
Draper  was  a  joy  to  her  for  some  months ;  as  the  imaginary 
heroine  of  a  similar  romance,  she  studied  the  sublime  part  of 
Eliza  again  and  again.  The  exquisite  feeling  so  gracefully 
expressed  in  those  letters  filled  her  eyes  with  the  tears  which, 
it  is  said,  never  rose  to  those  of  the  wittiest  of  English  writers. 

Modeste  thus  lived  for  some  time  by  her  sympathy,  not 
merely  with  the  works,  but  with  the  personal  character  of  her 
favorite  authors.  Goldsmith,  the  author  of  Obermann, 
Charles  Nodier,  i\Iaturin — the  poorest,  the  most  unhappy 
were  her  gods;  she  understood  their  sufferings,  she  entered 
into  their  squalor,  blending  with  heaven-sent   visions;  she 


MODESTE  MIGNON  45 

poured  on  them  the  treasures  of  her  heart;  she  pictured  her- 
self clearly  as  supplying  the  comforts  of  life  to  these  artists, 
martyrs  to  their  gifts.  This  noble  compassion,  this  intuitive 
knowledge  of  the  difficulties  of  work,  this  worship  for  talent, 
is  one  of  the  rarest  vagaries  that  ever  beat  its  wings  in  a 
woman's  soul.  At  first  it  is  like  a  secret  between  her  and 
God,  for  there  is  nothing  dazzling  in  it,  nothing  to  flatter 
her  vanity — that  potent  auxiliary  of  all  actions  in  France. 

From  this  third  phase  of  her  ideas  there  was  bom  in  Mo- 
deste  a  violent  desire  to  study  one  of  these  anomalous  lives 
to  the  very  heart  of  it,  to  know  the  springs  of  thought,  the 
secret  sorrows  of  genius,  and  what  it  craves,  and  what  it  is. 
And  so,  in  her,  the  rashness  of  phantasy,  the  wanderings  of 
her  soul  in  a  void,  her  excursions  into  the  darkness  of  the 
future,  the  impatience  of  her  undeveloped  love  to  centre  in 
an  object,  the  nobleness  of  her  notions  of  life,  her  determina- 
tion to  sufi:er  in  some  lofty  sphere  rather  than  to  paddle  in  the 
slough  of  provincial  life  as  her  mother  had  done,  the  vow  she 
had  made  to  herself  never  to  go  wrong,  to  respect  her  parents' 
home  and  never  bring  to  it  anything  but  joy, — all  this  world 
of  feeling  at  last  took  shape :  Modeste  purposed  to  be  the  wife 
of  a  poet,  an  artist,  a  man,  in  short,  superior  to  the  crowd; 
but  she  meant  to  choose  him,  and  to  subject  him  to  a  thorough 
study,  before  giving  him  her  heart,  her  life,  her  immense 
tenderness  freed  from  the  trammels  of  passion. 

She  began  by  reveling  in  this  pretty  romance.  Perfect 
tranquillity  possessed  her  soul.  Her  countenance  was  grad- 
ually colored  by  it.  She  became  the  lovely  and  sublime  image 
of  Germany  that  you  have  seen,  the  glory  of  the  Chalet,  the 
pride  of  Madame  Latournelle  and  the  Dumays.  Then  Mo- 
deste lived  a  double  life.  She  humbly  and  lovingly  fulfilled 
all  the  trivial  tasks  of  daily  life  at  the  Chalet,  using  them  as 
a  check  to  hold  in  the  poem  of  her  ideal  existence,  like  the 
Carthusians,  who  order  their  material  life  by  rule  and  oc- 
cupy their  time  to  allow  the  soul  to  develop  itself  in  prayer. 

All  great  intellects  subject  themselves  to  some  mechanical 
employment  to  obtain  control  of  thought.     Spinoza  ground 


46  MODESTE  MIGNON 

k'nscs,  Bayle  counted  the  tiles  in  a  roof,  Montesquieu  worked 
in  his  garden.  The  body  being  thus  under  control,  the  spirit 
s{)roiids  its  wings  in  perfect  security.  So  Madame  Mignon, 
wlu)  read  iier  daughter's  soul,  was  right.  Modeste  was  in 
love;  she  loved  with  that  Platonic  sentiment  which  is  so 
rare,  so  little  understood — the  first  illusion  of  girlhood,  the 
subtlest  of  feelings,  the  heart's  daintiest  morsel.  She  drank 
deep  draughts  from  the  cup  of  tlie  unknown,  the  impossible. 
the  visionary.  She  delighted  in  the  Blue  Bird  of  the 
Maiden's  Paradise,  which  sings  far  away,  on  which  none 
may  lay  hands,  which  lets  itself  be  seen,  while  the  shot  of  no 
gun  can  ever  touch  it;  its  magical  colors,  like  the  sparkling 
of  gems,  dazzle  the  eye,  but  it  is  never  more  seen  when  once 
reality  appears — the  hideous  Harpy  bringing  witnesses  and 
the  Maire  in  her  train.  To  have  all  the  poetry  of  love  with- 
out the  presence  of  the  lover !  How  exquisite  an  orgy ! 
What  a  fair  chimera  of  all  colors  and  every  plumage ! 

This  was  the  trifling  foolish  accident  which  sealed  the  girl's 
fate. 

Modeste  saw  on  a  bookseller's  counter  a  lithographed  por- 
trait of  de  Canalis,  one  of  her  favorites.  You  know  what 
libels  these  sketches  are,  the  outcome  of  an  odious  kind  of 
speculation  wliich  falls  upon  the  persons  of  celebrated  men, 
as  if  their  face  were  public  property.  So  Canalis,  caught 
in  a  Byronic  attitude,  offered  to  public  admiration  his  dis- 
ordered hair,  his  bare  throat,  and  the  excessively  high  fore- 
head proper  to  every  bard.  Victor  Hugo's  brow  will  lead  to 
as  many  heads  being  shaved  as  there  were  sucking  field-mar- 
shals who  rushed  to  die  on  the  strength  of  Napoleon's  glory. 

Modeste  was  struck  by  this  head,  made  sublime  by  com- 
mercial requirements ;  and  on  the  day  when  she  bought  the 
portrait,  one  of  the  finest  books  by  Arthes  had  just  come  out. 
Though  it  may  sound  to  her  discredit,  it  must  be  confessed 
that  she  long  hesitated  between  the  illustrious  poet  and  the 
illustrious  prose  writer.  But  were  these  two  great  men  un- 
married.-^    Modeste  began   bj^  securing  the  co-operation  of 


MODESTE  MIGNON  47 

Frangoise  Cocliet,  the  girl  whom  poor  Bettina-Caroline  had 
taken  with  her  from  le  Havre  and  brought  back  again.  She 
lived  in  the  town,  and  Madame  Mignon  and  Madame  Dumay 
would  employ  her  for  a  day's  work  in  preference  to  any  other. 
Modeste  h  .d  this  somewhat  homely  creature  up  into  her  room; 
she  swore  that  she  would  never  cause  her  parents  the  smallest 
grief,  nor  exceed  the  limits  imposed  on  a  young  lady;  she 
promised  Frangoise  that  in  the  future,  on  her  father's  re- 
turn, the  poor  girl  should  have  an  easy  life,  on  condition  of 
her  keeping  absolute  secrecy  as  to  the  service  required  of  her. 
What  was  it  ? — A  mere  trifle,  a  perfectly  innocent  thing.  All 
that  Modeste  asked  of  her  accomplice  was  that  she  should  post 
certain  letters  and  fetch  the  replies,  addressed  to  Frangoise 
Cochet. 

The  bargain  concluded,  Modeste.  wrote  a  polite  note  to 
Dauriat,  the  publisher  of  Canalis'  poems,  in  which  she  asked 
him,  in  the  interests  of  the  great  poet,  whether  Canalis  were 
married,  begging  him  to  address  the  answer  to  Mademoiselle 
Frangoise,  post  restante,  au  Havre.  Dauriat,  who,  of  course, 
could  not  take  such  a  letter  seriously,  sent  a  reply  concocted  in 
his  private  room  by  five  or  six  journalists,  each  in  turn  adding 
his  jest. 

"Mademoiselle, — Canalis  (Baron  de),  Constant-Cyr-Mel- 
chior,  member  of  the  French  Academy,  born  in  1800  at 
Canalis,  Correze;  stands  five  feet  four,  is  in  good  condition, 
vaccinated,  thoroughbred,  has  served  his  term  under  the  con- 
scription, enjoys  perfect  health,  has  a  small  landed  estate  in 
Correze,  and  wishes  to  marry,  but  looks  for  great  wealth. 

"His  arms  are,  party  per  pale  gules  a  broad  axe  or,  and 
sable  a  shell  argent;  surmounted  by  a  baron's  coronet;  sup- 
porters, two  larches  proper.  The  motto  Or  et  fer  (gold  and 
iron)  has  never  proved  auriferous. 

"The  first  Canalis,  who  went  to  the  Holy  Land  in  the  first 
crusade,  is  mentioned  in  the  Chronicles  of  Auvergne  as  carry- 
ing no  weapon  but  an  axe,  by  reason  of  the  complete  indigence 
in  which  he  lived,  and  which  has  ever  since  weighed  on  his 
VOL.  6 — -9 


48  MODESTE  MIGNON 

posterity.  TTcnce^  no  doubt,  tlie  l)lazon.  The  axe  brought 
him  nothing  but  an  empty  shell.  This  noble  baron  became 
famous,  having  discomfited  many  infidels,  and  he  died  at 
Jerusalem,  without  either  gold  or  iron,  as  bare  as  a  worm, 
on  the  road  to  Ascalon,  the  ambulance  service  having  not 
yet  been  called  into  existence. 

"The  castle  of  Canalis — the  land  yields  a  few  cheslnuts — 
consists  of  two  dismantled  towers  joined  by  a  wall,  remark- 
able for  its  superior  growth  of  ivy,  and  it  pays  twenty-two 
francs  to  the  revenue. 

"The  publisher,  undersigned,  begs  to  remark  that  he  pays 
Monsieur  de  Canalis  ten  thousand  francs  per  volume  for  his 
poetry.     He  does  not  give  his  empty  shells  for  nothing. 

"The  Bard  of  the  Correze  lives  at  Rue  de  Paradis-Pois- 
sonniere.  No.  29,  which  is  a  suitable  situation  for  a  poet  of  the 
Seraphic  School.  Worms  (les  vers)  are  a  bait  for  gudgeon. 
Letters  must  be  prepaid. 

"Certain  noble  dames  of  the  Faubourg  Saint-Germainoften, 
it  is  said,  make  their  way  to  Paradise  and  patronize  the 
divinity.  King  Charles  X.  thinks  so  highly  of  this  great 
poet  as  to  believe  him  capable  of  becoming  a  statesman.  He 
has  recently  made  him  an  officer  of  the  Legion  of  Honor,  and, 
which  is  more  to  the  purpose.  Master  of  Appeals,  attached 
to  the  Ministry  for  Foreign  Affairs.  These  functions  in  no 
way  keep  the  great  man  from  drawing  a  pension  of  three 
thousand  francs  from  the  fund  devoted  to  the  encouragement 
of  art  and  letters.  This  pecuniary  success  causes,  in  the  pub- 
lishing world,  an  eighth  plague  which  Egypt  was  spared — a 
plague  of  worms  {les  vers)  ! 

"The  last  edition  of  the  works  of  Canalis,  printed  on  hand- 
made paper,  large  8vo,  with  vignettes  by  Bixiou,  Joseph 
Bridau,  Schinner,  Sommervieux,  and  others,  printed  by  Didot, 
is  in  five  volumes,  price  nine  francs,  post  paid." 

This  letter  fell  like  a  paving-stone  on  a  tulip.  A  poet  as 
Master  of  Appeals,  in  the  immediate  circle  of  a  Minister, 
drawing  a  pension,  aiming  at  the  red  rosette,  adored  of  the 


MODESTE  MIGNON  40 

ladies  of  the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain !  Was  this  at  all  like 
the  threadbare  poet  wandering  on  the  quays,  melancholy  and 
dreamy,  overwrought  by  work,  and  climbing  up  to  his  garret 
again  loaded  with  poetic  inspiration?  At  the  same  time, 
Modesto  saw  through  the  jest  of  the  envious  publisher,  which 
conveyed,  "I  made  Canalis !  I  made  Nathan !"  Then  she 
re-read  Canalis'  verses,  very  catching  verses,  full  of  hypocrisy, 
and  which  require  a  few  words  of  analysis  if  only  to  explain 
lier  infatuation. 

Canalis  is  distinguished  from  Laniartino,  the  chief  of  the 
Seraphic  School,  by  a  sort  of  sick-nurse  blarney,  a  perfidious 
sweetness,  'and  exquisite  correctness.  If  the  chief,  with  his 
sublime  outcry,  may  be  called  an  eagle,  Canalis,  all  rose  and 
white,  is  a  flamingo.  In  him  women  discern  the  friend  they 
yearn  for,  a  discreet  confidant,  their  interpreter,  the  being 
who  understands  them,  and  who  explains  them  to  them- 
selves. 

The  broad  margins  with  which  Dauriat'  had  graced  his  last 
edition  were  covered  with  confessions  scribbled  in  pencil  by 
Modeste,  who  sympathized  with  this  dreamy  and  tender  soul. 
Canalis  has  not  life  in  his  gift;  he  does  not  breathe  it  into 
his  creations;  but  he  knows  how  to  soothe  vague  sufferings 
such  as  Modeste  was  a  victim  to.  He  speaks  to  girls  in  their 
own  language,  lulling  the  pain  of  the  most  recent  wounds, 
and  silencing  groans,  and  even  sobs.  His  talent  does  not 
consist  in  preaching  loftily  to  the  sufferer,  in  giving  her  the 
medicine  of  strong  emotions ;  he  is  content  to  say  in  a  musical 
voice  which  commands  belief:  "I  am  unhappy,  as  you  are; 
I  understand  you  fully ;  come  with  me,  we  will  weep  together 
on  the  bank  of  this  stream,  under  the  willows !"  And  they 
go !  and  listen  to  his  verse,  as  vacuous  and  as  sonorous  as  the 
song  of  a  nurse  putting  a  baby  to  sleep !  Canalis — like 
Nodier  in  this — bewitches  you  by  an  artlessness,  which  in  the 
prose  writer  is  natural  but  in  the  poet  elaborately  studied,  by 
his  archness,  his  smile,  his  fallen  flowers,  his  childlike  phil- 
osophy. He  mimics  the  language  of  early  days  well  enough 
to  carry  you  back  to  the  fair  field  of  illusion. 


50  MODESTE  MIGNON 

To  an  eagle  we  are  pitiless;  we  insist  on  the  quality  of  the 
diamond,  flawless  perfection;  but  from  Canalis  we  are  satis- 
fied with  the  orphan's  mite;  everything  may  be  forgiven  him. 
He  seems  such  a  good  fellow,  hunian  above  everything. 
These  seraphic  airs  succeed  with  him,  as  those  of  a  woman 
will  always  succeed  if  she  acts  simplicity  well — the  startled, 
youthful,  martyred,  suffering  angel. 

Modct^te,  summing  up  her  impressions,  felt  that  she 
trusted  that  soul,  that  countenance,  as  attractive  as  Bernardin 
de  Saint-Pierre's.  She  paid  no  heed  to  the  publisher.  And 
so,  at  the  beginning  of  the  month  of  August,  she  wrote  the  fol- 
lowing letter  to  this  Dorat  of  the  sacristy,  who  even  now  is 
regarded  as  one  of  the  stars  of  the  modern  Pleiades. 


I. 

To  Monsieur  de  Canalis. 

'TMany  times  ere  now,  monsieur,  I  have  intended  to  write 
to  you — and  why  ?  You  can  guess :  to  tell  you  how  much  I 
delight  in  your  talent.  Yes,  I  feel  a  longing  to  express  to 
you  the  admiration  of  a  poor  country-bred  girl,  very  solitary 
in  her  nook,  whose  sole  joy  is  in  reading  your  poetry.  From 
Rene  I  came  to  you.  Melancholy  tends  to  reverie.  How 
many  other  women  must  have  paid  you  the  homage  of  their 
secret  thoughts !  What  chance  have  I  of  being  of  the  elect 
in  such  a  crowd?  What  interest  can  this  paper  have,  though 
full  of  my  soul,  above  all  the  perfumed  letters  which  beset 
you?  I  introduce  myself  with  more  to  perplex  you  than  any 
other  woman.  I  intend  to  remain  unknown,  and  j'et  ask 
your  entire  confidence,  as  if  you  had  known  me  a  long  time. 

"Answer  me,  be  kind  to  me.  I  do  not  pledge  myself  to  tell 
my  name  some  day,  still  I  do  not  positively  say  no.  .  .  . 
What  more  can  I  add  to  this  letter?  Eegard  it,  monsieur, 
as  a  great  effort,  and  allow  me  to  offer  you  my  hand — oh,  a 
very  friendly  hand — that  of  your  servant, 

"O    -'ESTE-M. 


MODESTE  MIGNON  51 

"If  you  do  me  the  favor  of  replying,  address  your  letter, 
I  beg,  to  Mademoiselle  F.  Cochet,  Poste  Restante,  le  Havre." 

Now  every  damsel,  whether  romantic  or  no,  can  imagine 
Modeste's  impatience  during  the  next  few  days!  The  air 
was  full  of  tongues  of  flame;  the  trees  looked  like  plumage; 
she  did  not  feel  her  body ;  she  floated  above  nature !  The 
earth  vanished  under  her  tread.  Wondering  at  the  powers 
of  the  post  office,  she  followed  her  little  sheet  of  paper  through 
space ;  she  was  glad,  as  we  are  glad  at  twenty  at  the  first  exer- 
cise of  our  will.  She  was  bewitched,  possessed,  as  people 
were  in  the  Middle  Ages.  She  pictured  to  herself  the  poet's 
lodgings,  his  room;  she  saw  him  opening  the  letter,  and  she 
made  a  million  guesses. 

Having  sketched  his  poetry,  it  is  necessary  here  to  give  a,n 
outline  of  the  man.  Canalis  is  small  and  thin,  with  .m 
aristocratic  figure;  dark,  gifted  with  a  foolish  face  and  a 
rather  insignificant  head,  that  of  a  man  who  has  more  vanity 
than  pride.  He  loves  luxury,  display,  and  splendor.  For- 
tune is  a  necessity  to  him  more  than  to  other  men.  No  hjss 
proud  of  his  birth  than  of  his  talent,  he  has  swamped  his 
ancestors  by  too  great  personal  pretensions.  After  all,  the 
Canalis  arc  neither  Navarreins,norCadignans,norGrandlieus, 
nor  Negrepelisses ;  however,  nature  has  done  much  to  support 
his  pretensions.  He  has  the  eyes  of  Oriental  lustre  that  we 
look  for  in  a  poet,  a  very  pretty  refinement  of  manner,  a 
thrilling  voice;  but  a  mannerism  that  is  natural  to  him 
almost  nullifies  these  advantages.  He  is  an  actor  in  perfect 
good  faith.  He  displays  a  very  elegant  foot — it  is  an  acquired 
habit.  He  has  a  declamatory  style  of  talk,  but  it  is  his  own. 
His  affectation  is  theatrical,  but  it  has  become  a  second  nature. 
These  faults,  as  we  must  call  them,  are  in  harmony  with  an 
unfailing  generosity  which  may  be  termed  carpet-knightli- 
ness  in  contrast  to  chivalry.  Canalis  has  not  faith  enough 
to  be  a  Don  Quixote,  but  he  is  too  high-minded  not  to  take 
invariably  the  nobler  side  in  any  question.  His  poetry,  which 
comes  out  in  a  military  eruption  on  every  possible  occasion, 


52  MODESTE  MIONON 

is  a  great  disadvantage  to  the  poet,  who  is  not  indeed  lacking 
in  wit,  but  whose  talent  hinders  his  wit  from  developing. 
He  is  the  slave  of  his  reputation ;  he  aims  at  seeming  superior 
to  it. 

Hence,  as  frequently  happens,  the  man  is  completely  out 
of  tune  with  the  products  of  his  mind.  The  author  of  these 
insinuating,  artless  poems,  full  of  tender  sentiment,  of  these 
calm  verses  as  clear  as  lake  ice,  of  this  caressing  womanish 
poetry,  is  an  ambitious  little  man,  buttoned  tightly  into  his 
coat,  with  the  air  of  a  diplomate,  dreaming  of  political  in- 
fluence, stinking  of  the  aristocrat,  scented  and  conceited, 
thirsting  for  a  fortune  that  he  may  have  an  income  equal 
to  his  ambitions,  and  already  spoiled  by  success  under  two 
aspects — the  crown  of  bays  and  the  crown  of  myrtle.  A 
salary  of  eight  thousand  francs,  a  pension  of  three  thousand, 
two  thousand  from  the  Academic,  a  thousand  crowns  of  ia- 
herited  income — a  good  deal  reduced  by  the  agricultural  re- 
quirements of  the  Canalis  estate,  and  the  ten  thousand  francs 
he  gets  from  his  poems  one  year  with  another — twenty-five 
thousand  francs  a  year  in  all. 

To  ^lodeste's  hero  this  income  was  all  the  more  precarious 
because  he  spent,  on  an  average,  five  or  six  thousand  francs 
a  year  more  than  he  received,  but  hitherto  the  King's  privy 
purse  and  the  secret  funds  of  the  Ministry  had  made  up  the 
deficit.  He  had  composed  a  hymn  for  the  coronation,  for 
which  he  had  been  rewarded  with  a  service  of  plate;  he 
refused  a  sum  of  money,  saying  that  the  Canalis  owed  their 
homage  to  the  King  of  France.  The  Roi  Chevalier  smiled, 
and  ordered  from  Odiot  a  costly  version  of  the  lines  from 
Zaire. 

What!  Rhymester,  did  you  ever  hope  to  vie 
With  Charles  the  Tenth  in  generosity? 

Canalis  had  drained  himself  dry,  to  use  a  picturesque  vul- 
garism;  he  knew  that  he  was  incapable  of  inventing  a  fresh 
form  of  poetry ;  his  lyre  has  not  seven  strings,  it  has  but  one ; 


MODESTE  MIGNON  53 

and  so  long  had  he  played  on  it,  that  the  public  left  him  now 
no  choice  but  to  use  it  to  hang  himself,  or  to  be  silent.  De 
Marsay,  who  could  not  endure  Canalis,  had  uttered  a  sarcasm 
of  which  the  poisoned  dart  had  pierced  the  poet's  conceit 
to  the  quick. 

"Canalis,"  he  had  said,  "strikes  me  as  being  just  like  the 
man  of  whom  Frederic  the  Great  spoke  after  a  battle,  as  the 
trumpeter  who  had  never  ceased  blowing  the  same  note 
through  his  penny  pipe !" 

Canalis  was  anxious  to  become  a  political  personage,  and 
as  a  beginning  made  capital  of  a  journey  he  had  taken  to 
Madrid  when  the  Due  de  Chaulieu  was  ambassador,  accompany- 
ing him  as  attache — but  to  the  Duchess,  as  the  jest  went  in 
fashionable  drawing-rooms.  How  often  has  a  jest  sealed  a 
man's  fate !  Colla,  the  erewhile  President  of  the  Cisalpine 
Eepublic,  and  the  greatest  advocate  in  Piemont,  is  told  by  a 
friend,  at  the  age  of  forty,  that  he  knows  nothing  of  botany ; 
he  is  nettled,  he  becomes  a  Jussieu,  cultivates  flowers,  invents 
new  ones,  and  publishes,  in  Latin,  the  Flora  of  Piemont,  the 
work  of  ten  years  ! 

"Well,  after  all.  Canning  and  Chateaubriand  were  states- 
men," said  the  extinguished  poet,  "and  in  me  de  Marsay  shall 
find  his  master!" 

Canalis  would  have  liked  to  write  an  important  political 
work;  but  he  was  afraid  of  getting  into  trouble  with  French 
prose,  a  cruelly  exacting  medium  to  those  who  have  acquired 
the  habit  of  taking  four  Alexandrine  lines  to  express  one 
idea.  Of  all  the  poets  of  the  day,  only  three — Victor  Hugo, 
Theophile  Gautier,  and  de  Vigny — have  been  able  to  conquer 
the  double  glory  of  a  poet  and  a  prose-writer,  which  was  also 
achieved  by  Voltaire,  Moliere,  and  Rabelais.  It  is  one  of 
the  rarest  triumphs  in  French  literature,  and  distinguishes 
a  poet  far  above  his  fellows.  Our  poet  of  the  Faubourg  Saint- 
Germain  was  therefore  very  wise  to  try  to  find  shelter  for 
his  chariot  under  the  guardian  roof  of  a  Government  office. 

When  he  was  made  Master  of  Appeals,  he  felt  the  need  of 
a  secretary,  a  friend  who  might  fill  his  place  on  many  oc- 


64  MODESTE  MIGNON 

casionp.  cook  his  iifTairs  with  puhlishers,  see  to  his  famo  in  the 
newspapers,  and,  at  a  pinch,  support  him  in  politics — in 
short,  would  ho  his  satellite.  Several  men,  famous  in  art, 
science,  or  letters,  have  one  or  two  such  followers  in  Paris, 
a  captain  in  the  Guards,  or  a  Court  Chamberlain,  who  live  in 
the  beams  of  their  sunshine,  a  sort  of  aides-de-camp  in- 
trusted with  delicate  tasks,  allowing  themselves  to  be  com- 
promised at  need,  working  round  the  idol's  pedestal,  not  quite 
his  equals  and  not  quite  his  superiors,  men  bold  in  puffery,  the 
first  in  every  breach,  covering  his  retreats,  looking  after  his 
business,  and  devoted  to  him  so  long  as  their  illusions  last, 
or  till  their  claims  are  satisfied.  Some  at  last  perceive  that  their 
Great  Man  is  ungrateful ;  others  feel  that  they  are  being  made  use 
of ;  many  weary  of  the  work ;  and  few  indeed  are  satisfied  by  the 
mild  interchange  of  sentiment,  the  only  reward  to  be  looked  for 
from  an  intimacy  with  a  superior  man,  and  which  satisfied 
Ali,  raised  by  Mahomet  to  his  own  level.  Many,  deluded 
by  their  self-conceit,  think  themselves  as  clever  as  their  Great 
Man.  Devotion  is  rare,  especially  without  reward  and  with- 
out hope,  as  Modeste  conceived  of  it. 

Nevertheless,  a  Menneval  is  occasionally  to  be  met  with; 
and,  in  Paris  more  than  anywhere,  men  love  to  live  in  the 
shade  and  to  work  in  silence,  Benedictines  who  have  lost  their 
•way  in  a  world  which  has  no  monastery  for  them.  These 
valiant  lambs  bear  in  their  deeds  and  in  their  private  lives 
the  poetry  wliich  writers  put  into  words.  They  are  poets 
at  heart,  in  their  secluded  meditations,  in  their  tenderness, 
as  others  are  poets  on  paper,  in  the  fields  of  intellect,  and  at 
so  nmch  a  verse,  like  Lord  Byron — like  all  those  who  live, 
alas !  by  ink,  which  in  these  days  is  the  water  of  Hippocrene, 
for  which  the  Government  is  to  blame. 

It  was  a  young  consulting  referendary  of  the  Court  of 
Exchequer  who  constituted  himself  the  poet's  secretary ;  he 
was  attracted  by  the  poet's  fame,  and  the  future  prospects 
of  this  vaunted  political  genius,  and  led  by  the  advice  of  Ma- 
dame d'Espard,  who  thus  played  the  Duchesse  de  Chaulieu's 
cards  for  her ;  and  Canalis  made  much  of  him,  as  a  speculator 


MODESTE  MIGNON  65 

does  of  his  first  shareholder.  The  beginnings  of  this  alliance 
had  quite  an  air  of  friendship.  The  younger  man  had  already 
gone  through  a  course  of  the  same  kind  with  one  of  the 
Ministers  who  fell  in  1827;  but  the  Minister  had  taken  care 
to  find  him  a  place  in  the  Exchequer. 

Ernest  de  la  Briere,  at  that  time  seven-and-twenty,  deco- 
rated with  the  Legion  of  Honor,  with  nothing  in  the  world  but 
the  emoluments  of  his  office,  had  the  habit  of  business,  and 
after  hanging  about  the  private  room  of  the  Prime  Minister 
for  four  years,  he  knew  a  good  deal.  He  was  gentle,  amiable, 
with  an  almost  maidenly  soul,  full  of  good  feeling,  and  he 
hated  to  be  seen  in  the  foreground.  He  loved  his  country, 
he  yearned  to  be  of  use,  but  brilliancy  dazzled  him.  If  he  had 
had  his  choice,  the  place  of  secretary  to  a  Napoleon  would 
have  been  more  to  his  mind  than  that  of  Prime  Minister. 

Ernest,  having  become  the  friend  of  Canalis,  did  great 
things  for  him,  but  in  eighteen  months  he  became  aware  of  the 
shallowness  of  a  nature  which  was  poetical  merely  in  its 
literary  expression.  The  truth  of  the  homely  proverb,  "The 
cowl  does  not  make  the  monk,"  is  especially  applicable  in 
literature.  It  is  most  rare  to  find  a  talent  and  character  in 
harmony.  A  man's  faculties  are  not  the  sum-total  of  the 
man.  This  discord,  of  which  the  manifestations  are  star- 
tling, is  the  outcome  of  an  unexplored — a  perhaps  unexplorable 
— mystery.  The  brain  and  its  products  of  every  kind — since 
in  the  arts  the  hand  of  man  carries  out  his  brain — form  a 
world  apart  that  flourishes  under  the  skull,  perfectl}^  inde- 
pendent of  the  feelings,  of  what  are  called  the  virtues  of  a 
citizen,  of  the  head  of  a  famil}",  of  a  private  householder. 
And  yet  this  is  not  final ;  nothing  in  man  is  final.  It  is  cer- 
tain that  a  debauchee  will  exhaust  his  talents  in  orgies,  and 
a  drunkard  dro^vn  it  in  his  libations,  while  a  good  man  can 
never  acquire  talent  by  wholesome  decency;  but  it  is  also 
almost  proved  that  Virgil,  the  poet  of  love^  never  loved  a  Dido; 
and  that  Rousseau,  the  pattern  citizen,  had  pride  enough  to 
furnish  forth  a  whole  aristocracy.  Xevertheless,  Michael 
Angelo  and  Raphael  showed  the  happy  concord  of  talent  and 


66  MODESTE  MIGNON 

character.  Hence  talent  is  in  men,  as  far  as  the  individual  is 
concerned,  what  l)eauty  is  in  women — a  promise.  Let  us  give 
twofold  admiration  to  the  man  whose  heart  and  character 
are  equally  perfect  with  his  talent. 

Ernest,  when  he  detected  under  the  poet  an  ambitious 
egoist — the  worst  species  of  egoist,  for  some  are  amiable — felt 
a  singular  ditTidcnce  about  leaving  him.  Honest  souls  do  not 
easily  break  their  bonds,  especially  those  they  have  voluntarily 
accepted.  The  secretary,  then,  was  on  very  good  terms  with 
the  poet  when  Modeste's  letter  was  flying  through  the  mail, 
but  on  the  good  terms  of  constant  self-eifacement.  La 
Briere  felt  he  owed  Canal  is  something  for  the  frankness  with 
which  he  had  revealed  himself.  And  indeed,  in  this  man, 
who  will  be  accounted  great  so  long  as  he  lives,  and  made 
much  of,  like  Marmontel,  his  defects  are  the  seamy  side  of 
brilliant  qualities.  But  for  his  vanity,  his  pretentious  con- 
ceit, he  might  not  have  been  gifted  with  that  sonorous  verbiage 
which  is  a  necessary  instrument  in  the  political  life  of  the 
day.  His  shallowness  is  part  of  his  rectitude  and  loyalty; 
his  ostentation  is  paired  with  liberality.  Society  profits  by 
the  results ;  the  motives  may  be  left  to  God. 

Still,  when  Modeste's  letter  arrived,  Ernest  had  no  illusions 
]&\t  as  to  Canalis.  The  two  friends  had  just  breakfasted, 
and  were  chatting  in  the  poet's  study;  he  was  at  that  time 
living  in  ground-tloor  rooms  looking  out  on  a  garden,  beyond 
a  courtyard. 

"Ah !"  cried  Canalis,  "I  was  saying  the  other  day  to  Ma- 
dame de  Chaulieu  that  1  must  cast  forth  some  new  poem; 
admiration  is  running  low,  for  it  is  some  time  since  I  have 
had  any  anonymous  letters " 

"An  unknown  lady?" 

"Unknown !  A  d'Este,  and  from  le  Havre !  It  is  evidently 
an  assumed  name !" 

And  Canalis  handed  the  letter  to  la  Briere.  This  poem, 
this  veiled  enthusiasm,  in  short,  Modeste's  very  heart,  was 
recklessly  exposed  by  the  gesture  of  a  coxcomb. 

"It  is  u  grand  thing,"  said  the  young  accountant,  "thus  to 


MODESTE  MIGNON  St 

attract  the  chastest  feelings,  to  compel  a  helpless  woman 
to  shake  ofT  the  habits  forced  upon  her  by  education,  by 
nature,  by  society,  to  break  through  conventionalities.  .  .  . 
What  privileges  genius  commands !  A  letter  like  this  in  my 
hand,  written  by  a  girl,  a  genuine  girl,  without  reservation, 
with  enthusiasm     .     .     ." 

"Well  ?"  said  Canalis. 

^'Well,  if  you  had  suffered  as  much  as  Tasso,  you  ought  to 
find  it  reward  enough !"  exclaimed  la  Briere. 

"So  we  tell  ourselves  at  the  first  or  at  the  second  letter," 
said  Canalis.  "But  at  the  thirtieth  !  .  .  .  but  when  we 
have  discovered  that  the  young  enthusiast  is  an  old  hand ! 
.  .  .  but  when  at  the  end  of  the  radiant  path  traveled 
over  by  the  poet's  imagination  we  have  seen  some  English 
old  maid  sitting  on  a  milestone  and  holding  out  her  hand ! 
.  .  .  but  when  the  angel — by  post — turns  into  a  poor 
creature,  moderately  good-looking,  in  search  of  a  husband ! 
.     .     .     Well,  then,  the  effervescence  subsides." 

"I  am  beginning  to  think,"  said  la  Briere,  smiling,  "that 
glory  has  something  poisonous  in  it,  like  certain  gorgeous 
flowers." 

"Besides,  my  dear  fellow,"  Canalis  went  on,  "all  these 
women,  even  when  they  are  sincere,  have  an  ideal  to  which 
we  rarely  correspond.  They  never  tell  themselves  that  a  poet 
i'i  a  man,  and  a  tolerably  vaiia  one,  as  I  am  accused  of  being; 
it  never  occurs  to  them  that  he  is  rough-ridden  by  a  sort  of 
feverish  excitement  which  makes  him  disagreeable  and  un- 
certain. They  want  him  to  be  always  great,  always  splendid ; 
they  never  dream  that  talent  is  a  disease ;  that  Nathan  lives  on 
Florine;  that  d'Arthez  is  too  fat;  that  Joseph  Bridau  is  too 
thin ;  that  Beranger  can  go  on  foot ;  that  the  divinity  may 
foam  at  the  mouth.  A  Lucien  de  Eubempre,  a  verse-writer, 
and  a  pretty  fellow,  is  a  Phenix.  So  why  go  out  of  your 
way  to  receive  bad  compliments  and  sit  under  the  cold  shower- 
bath  of  a  disillusioned  woman's  helpless  stare  ?" 

"Then  the  true  poet,"  said  la  Briere,  "ought  to  remain 
hidden,  like  God,  in  the  centre  of  his  universe;,  and  be  visible 
only  in  his  creations  I" 


58  MODESTE  MIGNON 

"Then  glory  would  be  too  clearly  paid  for,"  replied  Canalis. 
"There  is  some  good  in  life,  T  tell  you,"  said  he,  taking  a  cup 
of  tea.  ^^Vhcn  a  womaTi  of  birth  and  beauty  loves  a  poet, 
she  does  not  hide  herself  in  the  gallery  or  the  stage-box  of  a 
theatre,  like  a  duchess  smitten  by  an  actor;  she  feels  strong 
enough  and  sufficiently  protected  by  her  beauty,  by  her  for- 
tune, by  her  name,  to  say,  as  in  every  epic  poem,  'I  am  the 
nymph  Calypso,  and  I  love  Telemachus.'  Mystification  is 
the  resource  of  small  minds.  For  some  time  now  I  have 
never  answered   such   niasqueraders " 

"Oh !  how  I  could  love  a  woman  who  had  come  to  me  V 
cried  la  Briere,  restraining  a  tear.     "It  may  be  said  in  reply,  " 
my  dear  Canalis,  that  it  is  never  a  poor  creature  that  rises 
to  the  level  of  a  celebrated  man ;  she  is  too  suspicious,  too  vain, 
too  much  afraid.     It  is  always  a  star,  a " 

"A  Princess,"  said  Canalis,  with  a  shout  of  laughter,  "who 
condescends  to  him,  I  suppose? — My  dear  fellow,  such  a 
thing  happens  once  in  a  century.  kSuch  a  passion  is  like  the 
plant  that  flowers  once  in  a  hundred  years. — Princesses  who 
are  young,  rich,  and  handsome  have  too  much  else  to  do ;  they 
are  enclosed,  like  all  rare  plants,  within  a  hedge  of  silly  men, 
well  born  and  well  bred,  and  as  empty  as  an  elder-stem.  My 
dream,  alas !  the  crystal  of  my  dream  hung  with  garlands 
of  flowers  all  the  way  hither  from  la  Correze,  and  with  what 
fervor ! — But  no  more  of  that ! — it  is  in  fragments,  at  my 
feet,  long  since. — No,  no,  every  anonymous  letter  is  a  beggar ! 
And  what  demands  they  make.  Write  to  this  young  person, 
assuming  her  to  be  young  and  pretty,  and  you  will  see !  You 
will  have  your  hands  full.  One  cannot  in  reason  love  every 
woman.  Apollo,  or  at  any  rate,  the  Apollo  Belvedere,  is  a  con- 
sumptive dandy  who  must  save  his  strength." 

"But  when  a  woman  comes  to  you  like  this,"  argued 
Ernest,  "her  excuse  must  lie  in  her  certainty  that  she  can 
eclipse  the  most  adored  mistress  in  tenderness,  in  beauty — and 
then  a  little  curiosity " 

"Ah!"  said  Canalis,  "my  too  youthful  Ernest,  you  must 
allow  me  to  be  faithful  to  the  fair  Duchess,  who  is  all  my 
joy!" 


MODESTE  MIGNON  59 

''You  are  right — too  right,"  replied  Ernest. 

Nevertheless,  the  young  secretary  read  and  re-read  Mo- 
deste's  letter,  trying  to  guess  the  mind  behind  it. 

"But  there  is  nothing  extravagant  in  it,  no  appeal  to  your 
genius,  only  to  your  heart/'  he  said  to  Canalis.  "This  per- 
fume of  modesty  and  the  exchange  proposed  would  tempt 
me 

"Sign  it  yourself;  answer  her,  and  follow  up  the  adventure 
to  the  end;  it  is  a  poor  bargain  that  I  offer  you,"  exclaimed 
Canalis,  with  a  smile.  "Go  on;  you  will  have  something 
to  tell  me  in  three  months'  time^  if  it  lasts  three 
months     .     .     ." 

Four  days  after  Modesto  received  the  following  letter,  writ- 
ten on  handsome  paper,  under  a  double  cover,  and  sealed  wijii 
the  arms  of  Canalis. 


11. 

To  Mademoiselle  0.  d'Este-M. 

"Mademoiselle, — Admiration  for  great  works — admitting 
that  mine  may  be  great — implies  a  certain  holy  simplicity 
which  is  a  defence  against  irony  and  a  justification,  in  the 
eyes  of  every  tribunal,  of  the  step  you  have  taken  in  writing 
to  me.  Above  all,  I  must  thank  you  for  the  pleasure  which 
such  a  testimonial  never  fails  to  give,  even  when  undeserved, 
for  the  writer  of  verse  and  the  poet  alike  secretly  believe  them- 
selves worthy  of  them,  self-love  is  a  form  of  matter  so  far  from 
repellent  of  praise.  The  best  proof  of  friendship  that  I  can 
give  to  an  unknown  lady  in  return  for  this  balm,  which  heals 
the  stings  of  criticism,  is  surely  to  share  with  her  the  harvest 
of  my  experience,  at  the  risk  of  scaring  away  her  living 
illusions. 

"Mademoiselle,  the  noblest  palm  a  young  girl  can  bear  is 
that  of  a  saintly,  pure,  and  blameless  life.     Are  you  alone  in 


60  MODESTB  MIGNON 

the  world?  Tliat  is  a  sufficient  answer.  But  if  you  have 
a  family,  a  father  or  a  mother,  consider  all  the  sorrows  that 
a  letter  like  yours  may  entail — written  to  a  poet  whom  you 
do  not  know.  Not  every  writer  is  an  angel ;  they  have  their 
faults.  Some  are  fickle,  reckless,  conceited,  ambitious,  dis- 
sipated; and  imposing  as  innocence  must  be,  chivalrous  as  a 
French  poet  may  be,  you  might  find  more  than  one  degenerate 
bard  willing  to  encourage  your  affection  only  to  betray  it. 
Then  your  letter  would  not  be  interpreted  as  I  read  it.  He 
would  find  a  meaning  in  it  which  you  have  not  put  there,  and 
which  in  your  innocence  you  do  not  even  suspect.  Many 
authors,  many  natures ! 

"1  am  extremely  flattered  by  your  having  thought  me 
worthy  to  understand  you;  but  if  you  had  addressed  yourself 
to  an  insincere  talent,  to  a  cynic  whose  writings  were  melan- 
choly while  his  life  was  a  continual  carnival,  you  might  have 
found  at  the  end  of  your  suhlime  imprudence  some  bad  man, 
a  dangler  behind  the  scenes,  or  wine-shop  hero !  You,  under 
the  arbor  of  clematis  where  you  dream  over  poetry,  cannot 
smell  the  stale  cigar  smoke  which  depoetizes  the  manu- 
script; just  as  when  you  go  to  a  ball,  dressed  in  the  dazzling 
products  of  the  jeweler's  skill,  you  never  think  of  the  sinewy 
arms,  the  toilers  in  their  shirt-sleeves,  the  wretched  workshops 
whence  spring  these  radiant  flowers  of  handicraft. 

"Go  further.  What  is  there  in  the  solitary  life  of  reverie 
that  you  lead — by  the  seashore,  no  doubt — to  interest  a  poet 
whose  task  it  is  to  divine  everything,  since  he  must  describe 
everything?  Our  young  girls  here  are  so  highly  accomplished, 
that  no  daughter  of  Eve  can  vie  with  them !  What  reality 
was  ever  so  good  as  a  dream?  And  you  now,  you,  a  young 
girl  brought  up  to  be  the  duteous  mother  of  a  family,  what 
would  you  gain  by  an  initiation  into  the  terrible  excitement 
of  a  poet's  life  in  this  appalling  capital,  to  be  defined  only  as 
a  hell  we  love. 

"If  you  took  up  your  pen,  prompted  by  the  wish  to  enliven 
your  monotonous  existence  as  an  inquisitive  girl,  has  not  this 
a  semblance  of  depravity  ?     What  meaning  am  I  to  attribute 


MODESTE  MIGNON  61 

to  your  letter  ?  Are  you  one  of  a  caste  of  reprobates,  seeking 
a  friend  at  a  distance  ?  Are  you  cursed  with  ugliness,  and  do 
you  feel  you  have  a  noble  soul  with  none  to  trust  ?  Alas  ! — 
a  sad  conclusion — you  have  either  gone  too  far,  or  not  far 
enough.  Either  let  it  end  here,  or,  if  you  persist,  tell  me  more 
than  in  the  letter  you  have  already  written. 

"But,  mademoiselle,  if  you  are  young,  if  you  have  a 
family,  if  you  feel  that  you  bear  in  your  heart  a  heavenly 
spikenard,  to  be  shed,  as  the  Magdalen  shed  hers  on  Christ's 
feet,  suffer  yourself  to  be  appreciated  by  some  man  who  is 
worthy  of  you,  and  become  what  every  good  girl  should  be — 
an  admirable  wife,  the  virtuous  mother  of  children.  A  poet 
is  the  poorest  conquest  any  young  woman  can  aspire  to ;  he  has 
too  much  vanity,  too  many  salient  angles  which  must  run 
counter  to  the  legitimate  vanity  of  a  wife,  and  bruise  the 
tenderness  which  has  no  experience  of  life.  The  poet's  wife 
should  love  him  for  long  before  marrying  him;  she  must 
resign  herself  to  be  as  charitable  and  as  indulgent  as  the 
angels,  to  all  the  virtues  of  motherhood.  These  qualities, 
mademoiselle,  exist  only  as  a  germ  in  a  young  girl. 

"Listen  to  the  whole  truth;  do  I  not  owe  it  you  in  return 
for  your  intoxicating  flattery?  Though  it  may  be  glorious 
to  marry  a  great  celebrity,  a  woman  soon  discovers  that  a 
man,  however  superior,  is  but  a  man  like  all  others.  He  then 
the  less  fulfils  her  hopes,  because  miracles  are  expected  of  him. 
A  famous  poet  is  then  in  the  predicament  of  a  woman  whose 
overpraised  beauty  makes  us  say,  'I  had  pictured  her  as  hand- 
somer'; she  does  not  answer  to  the  requirements  of  the  por- 
trait sketched  by  the  same  fairy  to  whom  I  owe  your  letter — 
Imagination ! 

"Again,  great  qualities  of  mind  develop  and  flourish  only 
in  an  invisible  sphere;  the  poet's  wife  sees  only  the  un- 
pleasant side  of  it ;  she  sees  the  jewels  made  instead  of  wear- 
ing them.  If  the  brilliancy  of  an  exceptional  position  is  what 
fascinates  you,  I  warn  you,  its  pleasures  are  soon  exhausted. 
You  would  be  provoked  to  find  so  much  that  is  rough  in  a 
situation  which  from  afar  looks  so  smooth^  so  much  ice  on 


fi2  MODESTE  MIGNON 

a  glittering  height !  And  then,  as  uomen  never  have  set 
foot  in  the  world  of  dilTiculty,  they  presently  cease  to  value 
what  they  once  admired,  when  they  fancy  that  they  have 
understood  tlic  workmanship  at  a  glance. 

"I  will  conclude  with  a  last  reflection,  which  you  will  do 
wrong  to  mis-read  as  an  entreaty  in  disguise;  it  is  the  advice 
of  a  friend.  A  communion  of  souls  cannot  be  complete 
excepting  between  two  persons  who  are  prepared  to  conceal 
notliing.  Could  you  show  yourself  as  you  really  are  to  a 
stranger?  I  pause  before  the  consequences  of  such  a 
notion. 

"'Accept,  mademoiselle,  all  the  respect  we  owe  to  every 
woman,  even  to  those  who  are  unknown,  and  who  wear  a 
mask." 

To  think  that  she  had  carried  this  letter  between  her  skin 
and  her  stays,  under  the  scorching  busk,  for  a  whole  day ! 
.  .  .  that  she  had  postponed  reading  it  till  an  hour  when 
everybody  was  asleep,  till  midnight,  after  waiting  for  the 
solemn  hour  in  the  pangs  of  a  fiery  imagination!  .  .  . 
that  she  had  blessed  the  poet,  had  read  in  fancy  a  thousand 
letters,  had  conceived  of  everything  excepting  this  drop  of 
cold  water  shed  on  the  most  diaphanous  visions  of  fancy,  and 
destroying  them  as  prussic  acid  destroys  life !  ...  It 
was  enough  to  make  her  hide  her  face — as  Modeste  did — under 
her  sheets  though  she  was  alone,  and  put  out  the  candle,  and 
weep. 

All  this  happened  in  the  early  days  of  July.  Modeste 
presently  got  up,  paced  her  room,  and  then  opened  the 
window.  She  wanted  air.  The  scent  of  flowers  came  up  to 
her  with  the  peculiar  freshness  of  night-perfumes.  The  sea, 
lighted  up  by  the  moon,  twinkled  like  a  mirror.  A  night- 
ingale was  singing  in  the  Vilquins'  park. 

"Ah !  there  is  the  poet !"  said  Modeste  to  herself,  her  anger 
dying  out. 

The  bitterest  reflections  crowded  on  her  mind.  She  was 
stung  to  the  quick ;  she  wanted  to  read  the  letter  again.     She 


MODESTE  MIGNON  63 

relighted  the  candle,  and  studied  this  careful  production,  till 
at  last  she  heard  the  early  voices  of  real  life. 

"He  is  in  the  right,  and  I  am  in  the  wrong,"  thought  she. 
"But  how  could  I  expect  to  find  one  of  Moliere's  old  men 
under  the  star-spangled  robe  of  a  poet  ?" 

When  a  woman  or  a  girl  is  caught  red-handed,  she  feels 
intense  hatred  of  the  witness,  the  first  cause,  or  the  object 
of  her  folly.  And  so  Modeste,  genuine,  natural,  and  coy,  felt 
her  heart  swell  with  a  dreadful  longing  to  trample  on  this 
essence  of  rectitude,  and  throw  him  over  into  some  abyss 
of  contradiction,  to  pay  him  back  this  stunning  blow. 

The  pure-hearted  child,  whose  head  alone  had  been  cor- 
rupted by  her  reading,  by  her  sister's  long  agony,  and  by  the 
perilous  meditations  of  her  solitude,  was  roused  by  a  sunbeam 
falling  on  her  face.  She  had  lain  for  three  hours  tacking 
about  on  the  immense  ocean  of  doubt.  Such  nights  are  never 
forgotten. 

Modeste  went  at  once  to  her  little  lacquer  table,  her  father's 
gift,  and  wrote  a  letter  dictated  by  the  infernal  spirit  of  re- 
venge which  disports  itself  at  the  bottom  of  a  young  girl's 
heart. 


III. 

To  Monsieur  de  Canalis. 

"Monsieur, — You  are  certainly  a  great  poet,  but  you  are 
something  better — an  honest  man.  After  showing  so  much 
frank  loyalty  to  a  young  girl  on  the  verge  of  an  abyss,  have 
you  enough  to  reply  without  the  least  hypocrisy  or  evasion  to 
this  question: 

"Would  you  have  written  the  letter  I  have  received  in 
answer  to  mine — would  your  ideas,  your  language,  have  been 
the  same  if  some  one  had  whispered  in  your  ear,  what  may  be 
true:  'Mademoiselle  0.  d'Este-M.  has  six  millions  of  francs, 
and  does  not  want  to  have  a  simpleton  for  her  master'  ? 
vol.  6 — ^o 


64  MODESTK   MIGNON 

*'For  one  moment  admit  this  liypothcsis  for  a  fact.  Be  as 
honest  with  me  as  with  yourself;  fear  nothing,  I  am  superior 
to  my  twenty  years,  nothing  that  is  genuine  can  injure  you  in 
my  estimation.  When  I  shall  liave  read  that  confession,  if 
indeed  you  vouchsafe  to  make  it  to  me,  you  shall  have  an 
answer  to  your  first  letter. 

"After  admiring  your  talent,  which  is  often  sublime,  allow 
me  to  do  homage  to  your  delicacy  and  rectitude,  which  compel 
me  to  sign  myself 

"Your  humble  servant, 

"0.  d'Este-M." 

When  this  note  was  placed  in  la  Briere's  hands,  he  went 
out  to  walk  on  the  Boulevards,  tossed  in  his  soul  like  a  light 
bark  in  a  tempest  when  the  wind  blows  every  minute  from  a 
different  point  of  the  compass.  One  of  the  young  men  of 
whom  we  meet  so  many — a  true  Parisian,  would  have  summed 
up  the  case  in  these  words,  "An  old  hand !"  But  to  a  young 
fellow  whose  soul  is  lofty  and  refined,  this  sort  of  implied  oath, 
this  appeal  to  veracity,  had  the  power  to  arouse  the  three 
judges  that  lurk  at  the  bottom  of  every  conscience.  And 
Honor,  Truth,  and  Justice,  rising  erect,  cried  aloud. 

"Ah!  my  dear  Ernest,"  said  Truth,  "you  certainly  would 
not  have  written  a  lecture  to  a  rich  heiress.  No,  no,  my  boy, 
you  would  have  set  off,  nose  on  for  le  Havre,  to  find  out 
whether  the  young  lady  were  handsome,  and  you  would  have 
been  much  aggrieved  by  the  preference  given  to  genius.  And 
if  you  could,  only  have  tripped  your  friend  up,  and  have  made 
yourself  acceptable  in  his  place.  Mademoiselle  d'Este  would 
have  been  divine !" — "What,"  said  Justice,  "you  pity  your- 
selves, you  men  of  brains  or  wit,  and  without  cash,  when  you 
see  rich  girls  married  to  men  whom  you  would  not  employ  as 
porters;  you  run  amuck  against  the  sordidness  of  the  age, 
which  is  eager  to  wed  money  with  money,  and  never  to  unite 
some  young  fellow  full  of  talent  to  a  rich  and  highborn 
beauty;  now  here  is  one  who  rebels  against  the  spirit  of  the 
time,  and  the  poet  retorts  with  a  blow  on  her  heart !" — "Rich 


MODESTE  MIGNON  65 

or  poor,  young  or  old,  handsome  or  plain,  this  girl  is  in  the 
right,  she  has  brains,  she  casts  the  poet  into  the  mire  of  self- 
interest,"  cried  Honor.  "She  deserves  a  sincere,  noble,  and 
honest  reply,  and,  above  all,  the  true  expression  of  your 
thought !  Examine  yourself.  Sound  your  heart,  and  purge 
it  of  its  meannesses  !  What  would  Moliere's  Alceste  say  ?" — 
And  la  Briere,  starting  from  the  Boulevard  Poissonniere,  lost 
in  meditation,  walked  so  slowly,  that  at  the  end  of  an  hour  he 
had  but  just  reached  the  Boulevard  des  Capucines.  He  re- 
turned by  the  quays  to  the  Exchequer,  at  that  time  situated 
near  the  Sainte-Chapelle.  Instead  of  verifying  accounts,  he 
sat  under  the  spell  of  his  perplexities. 

"She  has  not  six  millions,  that  is  clear,"  said  he  to  himself; 
"but  that  is  not  the  question     .     .     ." 

Six  days  later  Modesto  received  the  following  letter : 


IV. 

To  Mademoiselle  0.  d'Este-M. 

"Mademoiselle, — You  are  not  a  d'Este.  That  is  an 
assumed  name  to  conceal  your  own.  Are  such  revelations  as 
you  request  due  to  a  person  who  is  false  as  to  her  identity? 
Attend;  I  will  answer  your  question  by  asking  another,  Are 
you  of  illustrious  parentage?  of  noble  birth?  of  a  family  of 
townsfolk  ? 

"Morality  indeed  cannot  change;  it  is  one;  but  its  obliga- 
tions vary  in  different  spheres.  As  the  sun  sheds  a  different 
light  on  different  aspects,  producing  the  variety  we  admire, 
morality  makes  social  duty  conform  to  rank  and  position. 
What  is  a  peccadillo  in  the  soldier,  is  a  crime  in  the  general, 
and  vice  versa.  The  proprieties  are  not  the  same  for  a 
peasant  girl  who  reaps  the  field,  for  a  workwoman  at  fifteen 
sous  a  day,  for  the  daughter  of  a  small  shopkeeper,  for  a  young 


66  MODESTE  MIGNON 

irirl  of  the  middle  cUiss,  for  the  child  of  a  rich  commercial 
hout;e,  for  the  heiress  of  a  lioblo  family,  for  a  daughter  of  the 
race  of  p]ste.  A  king  must  not  stoop  to  pick  up  a  gold  coin, 
and  a  workman  must  turn  back  to  look  for  a  piece  of  ten 
sous  he  has  dropped,  though  both  alike  ought  to  observe  the 
laws  of  economy.  A  d'Este  owning  six  millions  of  francs 
may  wear  a  broad-brimmed  hat  and  feathers,  flourish  a  riding 
whip,  mount  an  Arab  horse,  and  come  as  an  Amazon  in  gold 
lace,  followed  by  a  groom,  to  say  to  a  poet,  'I  love  poetry,  and 
desire  to  expiate  the  wrongs  done  by  Leonora  to  Tasso,'  while 
the  daughter  of  a  merchant  would  be  simply  ridiculous  in 
imitating  her. 

"To  w^hat  social  class  do  you  belong  ?  Answer  truly,  and  I 
will  as  truly  reply  to  the  question  you  ask  me. 

"Not  being  so  happy  as  to  know  you,  though  already  bound 
to  you  by  a  sort  of  poetical  communication,  I  do  not  like  to 
offer  you  any  vulgar  homage.  It  is  already  a  triumph  of 
mischief  for  you  perhaps  to  have  perplexed  a  man  whose 
books  are  published." 

The  young  accountant  was  not  lacking  in  skill  of  fence 
Avhich  a  man  of  honor  may  allow  himself.  By  return  of  post 
he  received  this  reply ; 


V. 

To  Monsieur  de  Canalis. 

'TTou  are  more  and  more  cautious,  my  dear  poet.  My 
father  is  a  count.  The  most  distinguished  member  of  our 
'family  was  a  cardinal,  in  the  days  when  cardinals  were  the 
equals  of  kings.  At  the  present  day  our  race,  almost  extinct, 
ends  in  me ;  but  I  have  the  necessary  quarterings  to  admit  me 
to  any  Court  or  any  Chapter.  In  short,  we  are  a  match  for 
the  Canalis.     Excuse  my  not  forwarding  our  coat-of-arms. 


MODESTE  MIGNON  6T 

"Try  to  write  as  sincerely  as  I  do.  I  await  your  reply  to 
kncsr  whether  I  may  still  subscribe  myself,  as  now, 

"Your  servant, 
"0.  d'Este-M." 

"What  advantage  the  young  person  takes  of  her  position !" 
exclaimed  la  Briere.     "But  is  she  truthful  ?" 

It  is  not  for  nothing  that  a  man  has  been  for  four  years 
a  Minister's  private  secretary ;  that  he  has  lived  in  Paris  and 
watched  its  intrigues;  and  the  purest  soul  is  always  more  or 
less  intoxicated  by  the  heady  atmosphere  of  the  Empress  city. 
La  Briere,  rejoicing  that  he  was  not  Canalis,  secured  a  place 
in  the  mail-coach  for  le  Havre,  after  writing  a  letter  in  which 
he  promised  a  reply  by  a  certain  day,  excusing  the  delay  by  the 
importance  of  the  confession  required  of  him,  and  the  business 
of  his  office.  He  took  the  precaution  of  obtaining  from  the 
Director-General  of  the  Mails  a  line  enjoining  silence  and 
compliance  on  the  head  of  the  office  at  le  Havre.  He  could 
thus  wait  to  see  Frangoise  Cochet  arrive  at  the  office,  and 
quietly  follow  her  home.  Guided  by  her,  he  mounted  the 
hill  of  Ingouville,  and  saw  Modeste  Mignon  at  the  window  of 
the  Chalet. 

"Well,  Frangoise  ?"  asked  the  girl. 

"Yes,  mademoiselle,  I  have  got  one." 

Ernest,  struck  by  this  celestially  fair  type  of  beauty,  turned 
on  his  heel,  and  inquired  of  a  passer-by  the  name  of  the 
owner  of  that  splendid  residence. 

"That  ?"  asked  the  native,  pointing  to  the  great  house. 

"Yes,  my  good  fellow." 

"Oh,  that  belongs  to  Monsieur  Vilquin,  the  richest  ship- 
owner of  the  place,  a  man  who  does  not  know  how  much  he 
has." 

"I  know  of  no  Cardinal  Vilquin  in  history,"  said  the  account' 
ant  to  himself,  as  he  went  down  the  town  again,  to  return 
to  Paris. 

Of  course,  he  questioned  the  postmaster  as  to  the  Vilquin 
family.     He  learned  that  the  Vilquins  owned  an  immense 


08  MODESTK  MIGNON 

fortune;  that  IMonsicur  Vilquin  liad  a  son  and  two  daughters, 
one  of  thorn  married  to  young  Monsieur  Althor.  Prudence 
saved  la  Brirn-  from  showing  any  adverse  interest  in  the 
Vilquins;  the  postmaster  was  already  looking  at  him  with 
suspicion. 

"Is  there  no  one  at  the  house  just  now  besides  the  family  ?" 
he  asked. 

"Just  at  present  the  TTerouville  family  are  there.  There 
is  some  talk  of  a  marriage  between  the  young  Duke  and  the 
second  Mademoiselle  Vilquin." 

"There  was  a  famous  Cardinal  d'Herouville,"  thought  la 
Briere,  "in  the  time  of  the  Valois;  and,  under  Henri  IV.,  the 
terrible  Marshal,  who  was  created  Duke." 

Ernest  returned,  having  seen  enough  of  Modeste  to  dream 
of  her;  to  believe  that,  rich  or  poor,  if  she  had  a  noble  soul,  he 
would  gladly  make  her  ^ladame  la  Briere,  and  he  determined 
to  carry  on  the  correspondence. 

Do  your  utmost,  hapless  Frenchwoman,  to  remain  un- 
known, to  weave  the  very  least  little  romance  in  the  midst 
of  a  civilization  which  takes  note  on  public  squares  of  the 
hour  when  every  hackney  cab  comes  and  goes,  which  counts 
every  letter  and  stamps  them  twice  at  the  exact  hours  when 
they  are  posted  and  when  they  are  delivered,  w^hich  numbers 
the  houses,  which  registers  each  floor  on  the  schedule  of  taxes, 
after  making  a  list  of  the  window^s  and  doors,  which  ere  long 
will  have  every  acre  of  land,  down  to  the  smallest  holdings 
and  its  most  trifling  details,  laid  down  on  the  broad  sheets  of 
a  survey — a  giant's  task,  by  command  of  a  giant !  Try,  rash 
maidens,  to  evade — not,  indeed,  the  eye  of  the  police,  but 
the  ceaseless  gossip  which,  in  the  poorest  hamlet,  scrutinizes 
your  most  trivial  acts,  counts  the  dishes  at  tlie  Prefet's 
dessert,  and  sees  the  melon  rind  outside  the  door  of  the 
small  annuitant,  which  tries  to  hear  the  chink  of  gold  when 
Economy  adds  it  to  her  treasury,  and  every  evening,  over  the 
fire,  sums  up  the  incomes  of  the  village,  of  the  town,  of  the 
department. 


MODESTE  MIGNON  69 

Modeste,  by  a  commonplace  mistake,  had  escaped  the  most 
innocent  espionage,  for  which  Ernest  already  blamed  him- 
self. But  what  Parisian  could  endure  to  be  the  dupe  of  a 
little  country  girl  ?  Never  be  duped  !  This  odious  maxim  is 
a  solvent  for  all  man's  noble  sentiments.  From  the  letter 
he  wrote,  where  every  lash  of  the  scourge  of  conscience  has  left 
its  mark,  the  reader  may  easily  imagine  the  conflict  of  feelings 
to  which  the  honest  youth  was  a  prey. 

:     A  few  days  later,  Modeste,  sitting  at  her  window  on  a  fine 
summer  day,  read  the  following  pages : 


VI. 

To  Mademoiselle  0.  d'Este-M. 

"Mademoiselle, — Without  hypocrisy,  yes,  if  I  had  been 
sure  that  you  had  an  immense  fortune,  I  should  have  acted 
quite  differently.  Why?  I  have  sought  the  reason,  and  it  is 
this.  There  is  in  us  an  inborn  feeling,  developed,  too,  to  an 
extreme  by  society,  which  urges  us  to  seek  and  to  seize  hap- 
piness. Most  men  confound  happiness  with  the  means  to 
happiness,  and  in  their  eyes  fortune  is  its  chief  element.  I 
should  therefore  have  endeavored  to  please  you,  spurred  by  the 
social  instinct  that  has  in  all  ages  made  wealth  a  religion. 
At  least,  I  think  so.  The  wisdom  which  substitutes  good  sense 
for  impulse  is  not  to  be  looked  for  in  a  man  who  is  still  young ; 
and  when  the  prey  is  in  sight,  the  animal  instinct  lurking  in 
the  heart  of  man  urges  him  on.  Thus,  instead  of  a  lecture, 
I  should  have  sent  you  compliments  and  flattery. 

"Should  I  have  respected  myself?  I  doubt  it.  Made- 
moiselle, in  such  a  case,  success  brings  absolution;  but  as  to 
happiness,  that  is  another  matter.  Should  I  not  distrust 
my  wife  if  I  won  her  thus?  Most  certainly.  Your  action 
would,  sooner  or  later,  have  resumed  its  true  character;  your 
husband,  however  great  you  might  deem  him,  would  at  last 


70  MODESTK  MIGNON 

liave  reproached  you  for  liaving  huniilialed  him;  and  you, 
sooner  or  later,  might  have  learned  to  despise  him.  An 
ordinary  man  cuts  the  Gordian  knot  of  a  marriage  for  money 
with  the  sword  of  tyranny.  A  strong  man  forgives.  The 
poet  bewails  himself.  This,  mademoiselle,  is  the  answer 
given  by  my  honesty. 

"Now,  attend  to  me  well.  Yours  is  the  triumph  of  having 
made  me  reflect  deeply,  both  on  you,  whom  I  know  not  enough, 
and  on  myself,  whom  I  know  but  little.  You  have  had  the 
skill  to  stir  up  the  evil  thoughts  that  grovel  at  the  bottom  of 
every  heart;  but  in  me  the  outcome  has  been  a  generous  some- 
thing, and  I  hail  you  with  my  most  grateful  blessings,  as,  at 
sea,  we  hail  a  lighthouse  warning  us  of  rocks  where.we  might 
have  been  wrecked. 

"And  now  for  my  confession,  for  I  would  not  lose  your 
esteem  nor  my  own  for  the  price  of  all  the  treasures  on 
earth.  I  was  bent  on  knowing  who  you  were.  I  have  just 
come  back  from  le  Havre,  where  I  saw  Frangoise  Cochet,  fol- 
lowed her  to  Ingouville,  and  saw  you  in  your  magnificent  villa. 
You  are  as  lovely  as  a  poet's  dream  of  woman ;  but  I  know  not 
whether  you  are  Mademoiselle  Vilquin  hidden  under  Made- 
moiselle d'Herouville,  or  Mademoiselle  d'Herouville  hidden 
under  Mademoiselle  Vilquin.  Though  all  is  fair  in  war,  I 
blushed  at  playing  the  spy,  and  I  paused  in  my  investiga- 
tions. You  piqued  my  curiosity ;  owe  me  no  grudge  for  having 
been  so  womanly,  is  it  not  a  poet's  privilege?  Now  I  have 
opened  my  heart  to  you;  I  have  let  you  read  it;  you  may  be- 
lieve in  the  sincerity  of  what  I  am  about  to  add.  Brief  as  was 
the  glimpse  I  had  of  you,  it  was  enough  to  modify  my 
opinion.  You  are  a  poet  and  a  poem  even  before  being  a 
woman.  Yes,  there  is  in  you  something  more  precious  than 
beauty;  you  are  the  ideal  of  art,  of  fancy. 

"The  step  you  took,  blamable  in  a  young  girl  fated  to  a 
commonplace  existence,  is  different  in  one  gifted  with  such 
a  character  as  I  suppose  you  to  have.  Among  the  vast  number 
of  beings  flung  by  chance  into  social  life  to  make  up  a  genera- 
tion, there  are  exceptions,     li  your  letter  is  the  outcome  of 


MODESTE  MIGNON  71 

long  poetical  musing  on  the  lot  which  the  law  reserves  for 
women;  if,  carried  away  by  the  vocation  of  a  superior  and 
cultivated  mind,  you  have  wished  to  know  something  of  the 
intimate  life  of  a  man  to  whom  you  concede  the  chance  en- 
dowment of  genius,  in  order  to  create  a  friendship  with  a  soul 
akin  to  your  own,  exempt  from  vulgar  conditions,  and  evading 
all  the  limitations  of  your  sex — ^you  are  indeed  an  .exception ! 
The  law  which  is  good  to  measure  the  actions  of  the  crowd 
is  then  very  narrow  to  qualify  your  determination.  But  then 
the  words  of  my  first  letter  recur  in  all  their  meaning,  'You 
have  done  toe  -juch  or  not  enough.' 

"Once  more  accept  my  thanks  for  the  service  you  have  done 
me  in  compelling  me  to  probe  my  heart ;  for  you  have  cured 
me  of  the  error,  common  enough  in  France,  of  regarding 
marriage  as  a  means  to  fortune.  In  the  midst  of  the  dis- 
turbance of  my  conscience  a  sacred  voice  has  spoken.  I  have 
solemnly  sworn  to  myself  to  make  my  own  fortune,  that  my 
choice  of  a  wife  may  never  be  determined  by  mercenary 
motives.  Finally,  I  have  blamed  and  repressed  the  unbecom- 
ing curiosity  you  aroused  in  me.  You  have  not  six  millions. 
It  would  be  impossible  at  le  Havre  that  a  young  lady 
possessed  of  such  a  fortune  should  remain  unknown,  and 
you  would  have  been  betrayed  by  the  joack  of  tliose  aristocratic 
families  which  I  see  in  pursuit  of  heiresses  here  in  Paris,  and 
which  has  sent  the  King's  chief  equerry  on  a  visit  to  your 
Vilquins.  So  the  sentiments  I  express  are  put  forward  as  a 
positive  rule,  apart  from  all  romance  or  statement  of  fact. 

"Now,  prove  to  me  that  you  have  one  of  those  souls  which 
we  allow  to  disobey  the  common  law,  and  you  will  grant  in 
your  mind  that  this  second  letter  is  in  the  right  as  well  as 
the  first.  You  are  destined  to  a  middle-class  life;  obey  the 
iron  law  that  holds  society  together.  Ycu  are  a  superior 
woman,  and  I  admire  you;  but  if  you  are  bent  on  yielding 
to  the  instinct  you  ought  to  repress,  I  pity  you ;  these  are  the 
conditions  of  the  social  state.  The  admirable  moral  of  the 
domestic  epic  Clarissa  Harlowe  is  that  the  victim's  love, 
though  legitimate  and  sincere,  leads  to  her  ruin,  because  it  has 


12  M()1>KSTP]   Mir.XON 

its  rise  and  progress  in  defiance  of  hor  family.  The  family, 
silly  and  cM-ncl  as  it  is,  is  in  its  rights  as  against  Lovelace. 
The  family  is  society. 

"Believe  me,  for  a  girl,  as  for  a  wife,  her  glory  will  always 
consist  in  restraining  her  ardent  whims  within  the  strictest 
limits  of  propriety.  If  T  had  a  daughter  who  might  become 
a  Madame  de  Stael,  I  would  wish  that  she  might  die  at 
fifteen.  Can  you  think,  without  the  acutest  regret,  of  your 
own  child  exhibited  on  the  stage  of  celebrity  and  parading 
to  win  the  applause  of  the  mob  ?  However  high  a  woman  may 
have  raised  herself  in  the  secret  poetry  of  her  dreams,  she 
must  sacrifice  her  superiority  on  the  altar  of  family  life.  Her 
soaring  moods,  her  genius,  her  aspirations  towards  the  lofty 
and  the  sublime,  all  the  poem  of  a  girl's  soul  belongs  to  the 
man  she  accepts,  the  children  she  may  bear.  I  discern  in  you 
a  secret  ambition  to  enlarge  the  narrow  circle  of  life  to  whi(th 
every  woman  is  condemned,  and  to  bring  passion  and  love 
into  your  marriage.  Ah !  it  is  a  beautiful  dream ;  it  is  not 
impossible;  it  is  difficult;  but  it  has  been  realized  to  bring 
incompatible  souls — forgive  me  a  word  which  has  become 
ridiculous — to  desperation. 

"If  you  look  for  a  sort  of  Platonic  regard,  it  can  only  lead 
you  to  despair  in  the  future.  If  your  letter  was  a  sport,  play 
no  more.  And  so  this  little  romance  ends,  does  it  not?  It 
will  not  have  been  altogether  barren  of  fruit;  my  honesty 
has  taken  up  arms ;  and  you,  on  your  part,  have  learned  some- 
thing certain  about  social  life.  Turn  your  gaze  on  real  life, 
and  throw  the  transient  enthusiasm  to  which  literature  has 
given  birth  into  the  virtues  of  your  sex.  Farewell,  made- 
moiselle ;  do  me  the  honor  of  granting  me  your  esteem.  Since 
seeing  you — or  her  whom  I  believe  to  be  you — your  letter  has 
seemed  to  me  quite  natural ;  so  fair  a  flower  would  instinctively 
turn  towards  the  sun  of  poetry.  So  love  poetry  still,  as  you 
doubtless  love  flowers  and  music,  the  sumptuous  grandeur  of 
the  sea,  the  beauties  of  A'aturt> — all  as  ornaments  of  the  soul; 
but  remember  all  I  have  had  the  honor  of  telling  you  about 
poets.     Be  sure  you  do  not  marry  an  ass;  seek  with  care  for 


MODESTE  MIGNON  73 

the  mate  God  has  created  for  you.  There  are,  take  my  word 
for  it,  many  clever  men  capable  of  appreciating  you  and 
ef  making  you  happy.  If  I  were  rich,  and  you  were  poor, 
I  would  some  day  lay  my  fortune  and  my  heart  at  your  feet, 
for  I  believe  you  have  a  soul  full  of  riches  and  of  loyalty ;  and 
I  would  intrust  you  with  my  life  and  honor  in  the  fullest 

confidence.     Once  more  farewell,  fair  daughter  of  fair  Eve." 

1 

On  reading  this  letter — at  one  gulp,  like  a  drink  of  cold 
water  in  a  desert — the  mountain  weighing  on  Modeste's  heart 
was  lifted;  then,  perceiving  the  mistakes  she  had  made  in 
carrying  out  her  scheme,  she  corrected  them  at  once  by  making 
some  wrappers  for  Frangoise,  on  which  she  wrote  her  own 
address  at  Ingouville,  desiring  her  to  come  no  more  to  the 
Chalet.  Thenceforth  Frangoise  was  to  go  home,  place  eacA 
letter  as  it  came  from  Paris  in  one  of  these  wrappers,  and 
privily  repost  it  in  the  town.  Modeste  promised  herself 
always  to  meet  the  postman,  standing  at  the  front  door  at  the 
hour  when  he  should  pass. 

As  to  the  feelings  excited  in  Modeste  by  this  reply,  in  which 
poor  la  Briere's  noble  heart  throbbed  under  the  brilliant  mask 
of  Canalis,  they  were  as  infinite  as  the  waves  which  rolled  up 
to  die  one  after  another  on  the  shore,  while,  with  her  eyes 
fixed  on  the  ocean,  she  gave  herself  up  to  the  joy  of  having 
harpooned  an  angel's  soul,  so  to  speak,  in  the  sea  of  Paris,  of 
having  discerned  that  in  a  really  superior  man  the  heart  may 
sometimes  be  on  a  par  with  genius,  and  of  having  been  well 
advised  by  the  voice  of  presentiment.  A  mastering  interest 
would  henceforth  inspire  her  life.  The  enclosure  of  her  pretty 
home,  the  wires  of  her  cage  were  broken.  Thought  could  soar 
on  widespread  wings. 

"Oh,  dear  father,"  she  cried,  looking  across  to  the  horizon, 
"make  us  very  rich !" 

Her  answer,  .which  Ernest  de  la  Briere  read  five  days  later, 
will  tell  more  than  any  comments  can. 


74  MODESTE  MIGNON 

VII. 

To  Monsieur  de  Canalis. 

"My  Friend, — Let  mc  call  you  so — you  have  enchanted  me, 
and  I  would  not  have  you  other  than  you  are  in  this  letter — 
the  first ;  oh,  let  it  not  he  the  last !  Who  but  a  poet  could  ever 
have  so  perfectly  excused  and  understood  a  girl  ? 

"I  wish  to  speak  to  you  with  the  same  sincerity  as  that 
which  dictated  the  opening  lines  of  your  letter. 

"In  the  first  place,  happily,  you  do  not  know  me.  I  can 
tell  you,  gladly,  that  I  am  neither  that  frightful  ^lademoiselle 
Vilquin,  nor  that  most  noble  and  most  faded  Mademoiselle 
d'Herouville,  who  hovers  between  thirty  and  fifty,  and  cannot 
make  up  her  mind  to  a  creditable  age.  Cardinal  d'Herouville 
flourished  in  Church  history  before  the  cardinal  who  is  our 
only  pride,  for  I  do  not  count  lieutenant-generals,  or  abbes 
vv^ho  write  small  volumes  of  too  big  verse,  as  celebrities. 

"Also,  I  do  not  live  in  the  Vilquins'  gorgeous  villa ;  thank 
God,  not  the  millionth  part  of  a  drop  of  their  blood,  chilled 
in  many  a  counting-house,  flows  in  my  veins.  I  am  by  birth 
partly  German,  partly  a  child  of  Southern  France;  in  my 
brain  lurks  Teutonic  sentiment,  and  in  my  blood  the  energy 
of  the  Provencal.  I  am  of  noble  birth  both  on  my  fathers 
and  my  mother's  side ;  through  my  mother  I  have  connections 
on  every  page  of  the  Almanack  de  Gotka.  But  I  have  taken 
every  precaution ;  it  is  not  in  the  power  of  any  man,  not  even 
of  the  police,  to  lift  my  disguise.  I  shall  remain  shrouded, 
unknown.  As  to  myself  and  my  belongings,  mes  propres,  as 
they  say  in  Normandy,  be  quite  easy;  I  am  at  least  as  good- 
looking  as  the  little  person — happy,  though  she  knows  it  not — 
on  whom  your  eyes  fell :  and  I  do  not  think  myself  a  pauper, 
though  I  am  not  attended  in  my  walks  by  ten  sons  of  peers ! 
I  have  even  seen  the  contemptible  farce  played  in  my  behoof 
of  the  heiress  adored  for  her  millions. 


MODESTE  MIGNON  fS 

'"'Finally,  make  no  attempt  to  find  me,  not  even  to  win  a  bet. 
Alas  !  though  free,  I  am  guarded ;  in  the  first  place,  by  myself, 
and  then  by  very  brave  folks,  who  Avould  not  hesitate  to  stick 
a  knife  in  your  heart  if  you  tried  to  penetrate  this  retreat. 
I  say  this,  not  to  incite  your  courage  or  your  curiosity;  I 
believe  no  such  sentiments  are  needed  to  arouse  your  inj;erest 
m  me,  or  to  secure  your  attachment. 

"I  now  proceed  to  reply  to  the  second  and  greatly  enlarged 
edition  of  your  sermon. 

"Shall  I  make  a  confession?  When  I  found  you  so 
suspicious,  taking  me  for  a  Corinne — how  her  improvisations 
have  bored  me  ! — I  said  to  myself  that  many  a  tenth  Muse  had, 
ere  now,  led  you  by  the  tow-line  of  curiosity  into  her  inmost 
vales,  and  proposed  to  you  to  taste  the  fruits  of  her  school- 
girl Parnassus.  ...  Be  quite  easy,  my  friend;  though  I 
love  poetry,  I  have  no  copies  of  verses  in  my  blotting-book ; 
my  stockings  are,  and  will  remain,  perfectly  white.  You  will 
not  be  bored  by  any  'trifles'  in  one  or  two  volumes.  In  short, 
if  I  should  ever  say  to  you  'Come,'  you  know  now  that  you  will 
not  find  an  old  maid,  ugly  and  penniless.     .     .     . 

"Oh !  my  friend,  if  you  could  only  know  how  much  I  regret 
that  3^ou  should  have  come  to  le  Havre !  You  have  altered 
the  aspect  of  what  you  call  my  romance.  God  alone  can  weigh 
in  His  Almighty  hands  the  treasure  I  had  in  store  for  a  man 
great  enough,  confiding  and  clear-sighted  enough,  to  set  out 
on  the  strength  of  my  letters,  after  having  made  his  way  step 
by  step  through  all  the  recesses  of  my  heart,  and  to  come  to 
our  first  meeting  with  the  guilelessness  of  a  child !  I  dreamed 
of  such  innocence  in  a  genius ;  you  have  marred  that  treasure. 
I  forgive  you ;  you  live  in  Paris ;  and,  as  you  sa}^,  a  poet  is  a 
man. 

"Will  you,  therefore,  take  me  to  be  a  silly  schoolgirl, 
cherishing  the  enchanted  garden  of  illusions?  Nay,  do  not 
amuse  yourself  with  throwing  stones  at  the  broken  windows 
of  a  long  ruined  castle.  You,  a  man  of  wit,  how  is  it  that  you 
never  guessed  that  Mademoiselle  d'Este  had  already  read  her- 
self the  lecture  contained  in  jour  first  letter  ?     No,  my  dear 


76  MODRSTE  MIGNON 

poet,  my  first  note  was  a  peljble  flung  by  a  boy  loitering  along 
tlie  bighway,  wbo  thinks  it  fun  to  startle  a  landowner  reading 
his  tax-paper  under  shelter  of  his  fruit-trees ;  or,  rather,  wa& 
the  line  carefully  fixed  by  a  fisherman  from  the  top  of  a  rock 
by  the  seashore,  in  hope  of  a  miraculous  draught. 

"All  you  say  so  beautifully  about  family  ties  has  my  ap- 
probation.  The  man  I  shall  love,  and  of  whom  I  shall  think 
myself  worthy,  shall  have  my  heart  and  my  life  with  my 
parents'  consent.  I  would  neither  distress  nor  startle  them; 
I  am  certain  of  overruling  them,  and  they  have  no  prejudices. 
Again,  I  am  strong  enough  to  defy  the  illusions  of  my  fancy. 
I  have  built  a  stronghold  with  my  own  hands,  and  have 
allowed  it  to  be  fortified  by  the  unbounded  devotion  of  those 
who  watch  over  me  as  a  treasure — not  that  I  am  not  strong 
enough  to  defend  myself  in  ojjen  fight;  for, may  I  tell  you,  fate 
has  clothed  me  in  well-tempered  armor  on  which  is  stamped 
the  word  disdain.  I  have  the  deepest  horror  of  everything 
which  suggests  self-interest,  of  all  that  is  not  entirely  noble, 
pure,  and  disinterested.  Without  being  romantic,  I  worship 
the  beautiful  and  the  ideal ;  though  I  have  been  romantic,  all 
to  myself,  in  my  dreams.  And  so  I  could  recognize  the  truth 
— true  even  to  platitude — of  what  you  wrote  me  as  to  social 
life. 

"For  the  present,  we  are  only,  and  can  only  be,  friends. — 
Why  seek  a  friend  among  the  unknown  ?  you  will  ask.  Your 
person  is  unknown  to  me ;  but  your  mind  and  heart  are  known 
to  me;  1  like  them,  and  1  am  conscious  of  infinite  feelings  in 
my  soul,  which  demand  a  man  of  genius  as  their  only  confi- 
dant. I  do  not  want  the  poem  of  my  heart  to  be  wasted;  it 
shall  be  as  beautiful  for  you  as  it  would  have  been  for  God 
alone.  What  a  precious  thing  is  a  trusty  comrade  to  whom 
we  may  say  what  we  will !  Can  you  reject  the  unspoiled 
blossoms  of  a  genuine  girl  ?  They  will  fly  to  you  as  gnats  fly 
to  the  sunbeams.  1  am  sure  that  your  intellect  has  never 
before  won  you  such  a  success — the  confidences  of  a  young 
girl.  Listen  to  her  prattle,  accept  the  songs  she  has  hitherto 
sung  only  for  herself. 


MODESTE  MIGNON  77 

"By  and  by,  if  our  souls  are  really  akin,  if  on  trial  our 
characters  agree,  some  day  an  old  white-haired  retainer  will 
await  you,  standing  by  the  roadside,  and  conduct  you  to  a 
chalet,  a  villa,  a  castle,  a  palace — I  do  not  yet  know  of  what 
type  that  temple  of  Hymen  may  be — brown  and  gold,  the 
colors  of  Austria,  which  marriage  has  made  so  powerful — nor 
whether  such  a  conclusion  may  be  possible;  but  confess  that 
it  is  poetical,  and  that  Mademoiselle  d'Este  has  good  ideas. 
Does  she  not  leave  you  free?  Does  she  come  on  jealous  tip- 
toe to  glance  round  Paris  drawing-rooms?  Does  she  lay  on 
you  the  task  of  some  high  emprise,  the  chains  which  paladins 
of  old  voluntarily  hung  on  their  arm  ?  What  she  asks  of  you 
is  a  really  spiritual  and  mystical  alliance. 

"Come,  come  to  my  heart  whenever  you  are  unhappy, 
wounded,  weary.  Tell  me  everything,  conceal  nothing;  I 
shall  have  balm  for  all  your  sorrows.  I,  my  friend,  am  but 
twenty;  but  my  mind  is  tifty,  and  I  have  unhappily  known 
through  another,  my  second  self,  the  horrors  and  ecstasies 
of  passion.  I  know  all  that  the  human  heart  can  possibly 
contain  of  meanness  and  infamy,  and  yet  I  am  the  most  honest 
girl  living.  No;  I  have  no  illusions  left;  but  I  have  some- 
thing better — faith  and  religion.  There,  I  have  played  first 
in  our  game  of  confidences. 

"Whoever  my  husband  may  be,  if  he  is  my  own  choice,  he 
n/ay  sleep  in  peace ;  he  might  sail  for  the  Indies,  and  on  his 
return  he  would  find  me  finishing  the  tapestry  begun  at  his 
departure;  no  eyes  would  have  looked  into  mine,  no  man^s 
voice  would  have  tainted  the  air  in  my  ear;  in  every  stitch 
he  might  find  a  line  of  the  poem  of  which  he  was  the  hero. 
Even  if  I  should  have  been  taken  in  by  a  fair  and  false 
exterior,  that  man  would  have  every  flower  of  my  thought, 
every  refinement  of  my  tenderness,  all  the  wordless  sacrifices 
of  proud  and  never  suppliant  resignation.  Yes,  I  have  vowed 
to  myself  never  even  to  go  out  with  my  husband  when  he  does 
not  want  me ;  I  will  be  the  divinity  of  liis  hearth.  This  is  my 
human  religion. — But  why  should  I  not  test  and  choose  the 
man  to  whom  I  shall  be  what  life  is  to' the  body?    Does  a 


■78  MODESTE  MIHNON 

man  ever  find  life  an  inconvenience?  What  is  a  wife  who 
annoys  her  husband?  Not  life,  hut  a  sickness.  By  life,  I 
mean  the  perfect  health  which  makes  every  hour  an  enjoy- 
ment. 

"To  return  to  your  letter,  wliicli  will  always  be  dear  to  me. 
Yes,  jesting  apart,  it  really  contains  what  J  had  hoped  for — 
the  expression  of  prosaic  sentiments,  which  are  as  necessary 
to  family  life  as  air  is  to  the  lungs,  and  without  which  happi- 
ness is  out  of  the  question.  What  I  hoped  for  in  my  friend  vvas, 
that  he  should  act  as  an  honest  man,  think  as  a  poet,  love  as 
women  love;  and  this  is  now,  beyond  a  doubt,  no  longer  a 
chimera. 

"Farewell,  my  friend.  At  present  I  am  poor.  That  is  one 
of  the  reasons  which  make  me  cling  to  my  mask,  ray  incognito, 
my  impenetrable  fortress. 

"I  read  your  last  poem  in  the  Revue,  and  with  what  delight, 
after  having  mastered  the  austere  and  secret  loftiness  of  your 
soul ! 

"Will  it  aggrieve  you  greatly  to  be  told  that  a  girl  beseeches 
God  fervently  in  your  behalf,  that  she  makes  you  her  one 
thought,  and  that  you  have  no  rival  in  her  heart  but  her  father 
and  mother  ?  Can  there  be  any  reason  why  you  should  reject 
these  pages  that  are  full  of  you,  that  are  written  for  you,  that 
none  but  you  will  read  ?  Repay  me  in  kind.  I  am  as  yet  so 
little  a  woman,  that  your  effusions,  so  long  as  they  are  genuine 
and  full,  will  suffice  for  the  happiness  of  your 

"0.  d'Este-M." 

"Great  Heavens !  am  I  in  love  with  her  already !"  ex- 
claimed the  young  referendary,  when  he  discovered  that  he 
had  been  sitting  for  an  hour  with  this  letter  in  his  hand  after 
having  read  it.  "What  must  I  do  next  ?  She  believes  she  is 
writing  to  our  great  poet.  Ought  I  to  carry  on  the  deception? 
Is  she  a  woman  of  forty,  or  a  girl  of  twenty  ?"' 

Ernest  was  fascinated  by  the  abyss  of  the  unknown.  The 
unknown  is  dark  infinitude,  and  nothing  is  more  enthralling. 
From  that  murky  vastness  flash  fires  wliich  rend  it  from  time 


MODESTE  MIGNON  tft 

to  time,  and  light  up  visions  like  those  of  Martin.  In  a  life 
as  full  as  that  of  Canalis,  an  adventure  of  this  kind  is  swept 
away  like  a  cornflower  among  the  boulders  of  a  torrent;  in 
that  of  a  young  referendary  awaiting  the  reinstatement  in 
power  of  the  party  of  which  his  patron  was  the  representative, 
and  who,  as  a  precaution,  was  dry-nursing  Canalis  for  parlia- 
ment, this  pretty  girl — his  imagination  persistently  believed 
her  to  be  the  fair-haired  damsel  he  had  seen — was  bound  tn 
And  a  place  in  his  heart,  and  commit  all  the  ravages  caused 
by  a  romance  when  it  breaks  into  a  humdrum  existence,  like 
a  v/olf  into  a  farmyard.  So  Ernest  thought  a  great  deal  about 
his  unknown  correspondent,  and  he  replied  by  the  following 
letter — an  elaborate  and  pretentious  letter,  but  already  betray- 
ing some  passion  by  its  tone  of  annoyance. 


VIII. 

To  Mademoiselle  0.  d'Este-M. 

"Mademoiselle, — Is  it  quite  fair  in  you  to  come  and 
establish  yourself  in  a  poor  poet's  heart  with  the  admitted  pur- 
pose of  leaving  him  to  his  fate  if  he  should  not  be  to  your 
mind,  and  bequeathing  to  him  perennial  regrets  after  showing 
him,  for  a  few  minutes,  an  image  of  perfection  were  it  but 
assumed,  or,  at  least,  a  first  promise  of  happiness  ? 

"I  was  wanting  in  foresight  when  I  requested  the  letter  in 
which  you  have  begun  the  display  of  your  elegant  assortment 
of  ideas.  A  man  may  well  fall  in  love  with  a  stranger  who  can 
unite  so  much  daring  with  so  much  originality,  such  fancy 
with  such  feeling.  Who  but  would  long  to  know  you  after 
reading  these  first  confidences?  It  is  only  by  a  really  great 
effort  that  I  preserve  my  balance  when  I  think  of  you,  for  in 
you  are  combined  all  things  that  can  disturb  a  man's  heart 
and  brain.  So  I  take  advantage  of  the  remains  of  coolness 
I  am  able  to  preserve  to  put  the  case  humbly  before  you. 

VOL.  6 — 31 


80  MODESTB  MIGNON 

"Do  you  bcliovo,  iiiiidemoiselle,  that  letters  which  are  more 
or  less  truthful  in  relation  to  life  as  it  really  is,  and  more  or 
less  insincere,  since  the  letters  we  may  write  to  each  other 
must  be  the  expression  of  the  moment  when  we  send  them 
forth,  and  not  the  general  outcome  of  our  characters — do  you 
believe,  I  ask,  that  however  fine  they  may  be,  these  letters  can 
evor  take  the  place  of  the  expression  of  ourselves  we  should  i 
give  through  the  practical  evidence  of  daily  life?  Each  man 
is  twofold:  There  is  the  invisible  life  of  the  spirit,  which 
letters  may  satisfy,  and  the  mechanical  life,  to  which  we 
attach,  alas!  more  importance  than  you,  at  your  age,  can 
imagine.  These  two  existences  ought  both  to  agree  with  the 
ideal  you  cherish,  and  this,  it  may  be  said,  very  rarely  happens. 

"The  pure,  spontaneous,  disinterested  homage  of  a  solitary 
soul,  at  once  well-informed  and  chaste,  is  one  of  those  heavenly 
flowers  whose  color  and  fragrance  are  a  consolation  for  every 
grief,  every  wound,  every  mortification  entailed  by  a  literary 
life  in  Paris;  and  I  thank  you  with  a  fervor  equal  to  your 
own;  but  after  this  poetical  exchange  of  my  woes  in  return 
for  the  pearls  of  your  charity,  what  can  you  expect?  I  have 
neither  the  genius  nor  the  splendid  position  of  Lord  Byron; 
above  all,  I  have  not  the  halo  of  liis  artificial  damnation  and 
his  imaginary  social  grievances;  but  what  would  you  have 
hoped  for  from  him  in  similar  circumstances?  His  friend- 
ship, no  doubt.  Well,  he,  who  ought  only  to  have  been  proud, 
was  eaten  up  by  an  offensive  and  sickly  vanity  which  dis- 
couraged friendship.  I,  who  am  a  thousand  times  less  great 
than  he — may  not  I  too  have  such  discords  of  nature,  as  make 
life  unpleasing,  and  turn  friendship  into  the  most  difficult 
burden  ?  What  will  you  get  in  return  for  your  dreams  ?  The 
vexations  of  a  life  which  will  not  be  wholly  yours. 

"The  bargain  is  a  mad  one,  for  this  reason :  The  poetry 
of  your  dreams  is  but  a  plagiarism.  A  young  German  girl, 
not  half-German  like  you,  but  wholly  German,  in  the  intoxica- 
tion of  her  twenty  years,  adored  Goethe;  she  made  him  her 
friend,  her  religion,  her  god,  knowing  that  he  was  married. 
Frau  Goethe,  a  good  German  soul,  a  poet's  wife,  lent  herself 


MODESTE  MIGNON  ^ 

to  this  worship  with  very  shrewd  complacency — which  failed 
to  cure  Bettina !  But  what  was  the  end  ?  The  ecstatic 
married  some  substantial  worthy  German.  Between  ourselves, 
let  us  confess  that  a  girl  who  should  have  made  herself  the 
handmaid  of  a  genius,  who  should  have  raised  herself  to  his 
level  by  understanding  him,  and  have  adored  him  piously  till 
her  death — as  one  of  those  divine  figures  might  have  done 
that  painters  have  represented  on  the  doors  of  their  mystical 
shrines — and  who,  when  Germany  should  lose  Goethe,  would 
have  retired  to  some  wilderness  never  more  to  see  mankind — as 
Lord  Bolingbroke's  lady  did — let  us  confess  that  this  girl 
would  have  lived  for  ever  in  the  poet's  glory  as  Mary  Magdalen 
does  in  the  blood-stained  triumph  of  the  Saviour. 

"If  this  is  sublime,  what  do  you  say  to  the  converse  of  it  ? 

"Being  neither  Lord  Byron  nor  Goethe,  but  merely  the 
writer  of  a  few  approved  poems,  I  cannot  claim  the  honors  of 
worship.  I  have  little  in  me  of  the  martyr.  I  have  a  heart, 
but  I  am  also  ambitious,  for  I  have  to  make  my  fortune,  and 
I  am  yet  young.  See  me  as  I  am.  The  King's  favor  and  the 
patronage  of  his  Ministers  afford  me  a  decent  maintenance ; 
.1  have  all  the  habits  of  a  very  commonplace  man.  I  go  to 
evening  parties  exactly  like  the  first  fool  you  meet;  but  my 
carriage-wheels  do  not  run,  as  the  present  times  require,  on 
ground  made  solid  under  me  by  securities  in  the  State  funds. 

"Though  I  am  not  rich,  I  have  not,  on  the  other  hand,  the 
distinction  conferred  by  a  garret,  by  neglected  work,  by  glory 
in  penury,  on  certain  men  of  greater  merit  than  mine ;  for  in- 
stance, on  d'Arthez. 

"What  prosaic  fifth  act  will  you  not  find  for  the  enchanted 
fancy  of  your  young  enthusiasm  ?  Let  it  rest  here.  If  I  have 
been  so  happy  as  to  seem  to  you  an  earthly  wonder,  you  will 
have  been  to  me  something  radiant  and  supernal,  like  a  star 
that  blazes  and  vanishes.  Let  nothing  tarnish  this  episode 
in  our  lives.  By  remaining  as  we  are,  I  may  love  you,  going 
through  one  of  those  mad  passions  which  break  down  every 
obstacle  and  light  fires  in  the  heart,  which  are  alarming  by 
their  violence  out  of  all  proportion  to  their  duration;  and, 


82  MODESTE  MiGNON 

supposing  that  I  should  succeed  in  pleasing  you,  we  must  end 
in  the  vul^farest  way — marriage,  housekeeping,  and  children! 
Oh,  Belise  and  Henriette  Chrysale  in  one,  can  that  be?  So, 
farewell." 

IX. 

To  Monsieur  de  Canalis. 

"My  Friend, — Your  letter  gave  me  as  much  pain  as 
pleasure.  Perhaps  we  may  soon  find  it  all  pleasure  to  read 
each  other's  letters.  Understand  me.  We  speak  to  God,  we 
ask  of  Him  many  things ;  He  remains  speechless.  Now  I  want 
to  have  from  you  the  answers  God  never  gives  us.  Cannot 
such  a  friendship  as  that  of  j\[adcinoiselle  de  Gournay  and 
Montaigne  be  repeated?  Have  you  not  known  the  household 
of  Sismonde  de  Sismondi,  at  Geneva,  the  most  touching  home- 
life  ever  seen,  and  of  which  I  have  been  told — something  like 
that  of  the  Marehese  and  Marchesa  di  Pescara,  happy  even  in 
their  old  age  ?  Good  heavens !  is  it  impossible  that  there 
should  be  two  harps,  which,  though  at  a  distance,  respond  to 
each  other  as  in  a  symphony,  and  vibrate  so  as  to  produce 
delicious  harmony  ?  Man  alone,  in  all  creation,  is  at  once  the 
harp,  the  musician,  and  the  hearer. 

"Do  you  see  me  fretting  after  the  manner  of  ordinary 
women  ?  Do  not  I  know  that  you  go  into  society  and  see  the 
handsomest  and  cleverest  women  in  Paris?  Can  I  not 
imagine  that  one  of  those  sirens  might  embrace  you  in  her  cold 
scales,  and  that  it  is  she  who  has  sent  the  answer  that  grieves 
me  by  its  prosaic  reflections  ?  There  is,  my  friend,  something 
more  beautiful  than  these  flowers  of  Parisian  ])landishment; 
there  is  a  flower  that  grows  at  the  height  of  those  Alpine  peaks 
called  men  of  genius;  the  pride  of  humanity,  which  they 
fructify  by  shedding  on  it  the  clouds  they  collect  with  their 
heads  in  the  skies;  that  flower  I  intend  to  cultivate  and  to 
make  it  open,  for  its  wild,  sweet  perfumes  will  never  fail 
us ;  they  are  perennial. 


MODESTE  MIGNON  83 

*'Do  me  the  honor  to  believe  that  in  me  there  is  nothing 
common.  If  1  had  been  Bettina — for  I  know  to  whom  you 
allude — I  would  never  have  been  Frau  von  Arnim;  and  if  I 
had  been  one  of  Lord  B3a'on's  loves,  I  should  at  this  moment 
be  in  a  convent.     You  have  touched  me  in  a  sensitive  spot. 

"You  do  not  know  me ;  you  will  know  me.  I  feel  in  myself 
a  sublime  something  which  may  be  spoken  of  without  vanity. 
God  has  implanted  in  my  soul  the  root  of  that  hybrid  plant 
I  have  mentioned  as  native  to  Alpine  heights,  and  I  will  not 
stick  it  in  a  flower-pot  at  my  window  to  see  it  perish.  No, 
that  gorgeous  and  unique  blossom,  full  of  intoxicating  fra- 
grance, shall  not  be  dragged  through  the  vulgarities  of  life; 
it  is  yours — yours  without  a  glance  having  blighted  it,  yours 
for  ever !  Yes,  dear  one,  yours  are  all  my  thoughts,  even  the 
most  secret,  the  most  mad ;  yours  is  the  heart  of  a  girl  without 
reserve;  yours  an  infinite  affection.  If  I  do  not  like  you 
personally,  I  shall  not  marry. 

"I  can  live  the  life  of  the  heart,  the  life  of  your  mind,  of 
your  feelings ;  they  please  me,  and  I  shall  always  be,  as  I  am 
now,  your  friend.  There  is  beauty  of  nature  in  you,  and  that 
is  enough  for  me.  There  lies  my  life.  Do  not  disdain  a 
pretty  young  handmaiden  who,  for  her  part,  does  not  shrink 
from  the  idea  of  being  some  day  the  poet's  old  housekeeper, 
in  some  sort  his  housewife,  in  some  sort  his  common-sense,  in 
some  sort  his  wealth.  This  devoted  maid,  so  precious  in  your 
lives,  is  pure,  disinterested  Friendship,  to  whom  everything  is 
revealed ;  who  listens  sometimes  with  a  shake  of  the  head,  and 
who  sits  late,  spinning  by  the  light  of  the  lamp,  to  be  at  hand 
when  the  poet  comes  home,  soaked  by  the  rain  or  out  of  sorts. 
This  is  my  destiny  if  I  am  never  to  be  a  happy  and  faithfully 
attached  wife :  I  can  smile  on  one  as  on  the  other. 
.'  "And  do  not  suppose  that  France  will  be  deeply  aggrieved 
if  Mademoiselle  d'Este  does  not  give  her  two  or  three  children, 
or  refuses  even  to  be  a  Madame  Vilquin,  or  the  like  ?  I,  for 
my  part,  shall  never  be  an  old  maid.  I  shall  make  myself 
a  motherhood  by  beneficence,  and  by  secretly  sharing  the 
existence  of  a  great  man,  to  whom  I  shall  dedicate  all  my 


84  MODESTE  MIONON 

thouirhts  and  all  my  earthly  ofTorts.  T  have  the  utmost  horror 
of  the  commoiiphicc.  If  1  should  be  free  and  rich — and  I 
know  I  am  young  and  handsome — I  will  never  become  the 
property  of  some  simpleton  under  the  excuse  of  his  being  the 
son  of  a  peer  of  Franco ;  nor  of  some  good-looking  man,  who 
would  be  the  woman  of  the  two;  nor  of  any  man  who  would 
make  me  blush  twenty  times  a  day  at  the  thought  that  I  was 
his.     Be  quite  easy  on  that  score. 

"My  father  adores  my  wishes  too  much  ever  to  contravene 
them.  If  my  poet  likes  me,  if  I  like  him,  the  glorious  palace 
of  our  love  will  be  built  so  high  that  it  will  be  absolutely  in- 
accessible to  misfortune.  I  am  an  eaglet;  you  will  see  it  in 
my  eye.  I  will  not  repeat  what  I  have  already  told  you,  but  I 
put  it  into  fewer  words  when  I  assure  you  that  I  shall  be  of  all 
women  the  most  glad  to  be  as  completely  the  captive  of  love, 
as  I  am  at  this  moment  of  my  father's  will. 

"Come,  my  friend,  let  us  reduce  to  the  truth  of  romance 
what  has  come  upon  us  by  ray  free-will. 

"A  girl  of  lively  imagination  shut  up  in  a  turret  is  dying 
to  run  about  in  a  park  which  only  her  eyes  can  explore;  she 
invents  a  way  of  opening  her  bars,  she  springs  out  of  window, 
climbs  the  park  wall,  and  goes  off  to  sport  at  her  neighbor's. 
It  is  the  eternal  comedy !  .  .  .  Well,  that  girl  is  my  soul, 
the  neighboring  park  is  your  genius.  Is  it  not  most  natural  ? 
Was  a  neighbor  ever  heard  of  who  complained  of  his  trellis 
being  damaged  by  pretty  feet? 

"So  much  for  the  poet ;  but  must  the  ultra-reasonable  hero 
of  Moliere's  comedies  have  reasons?  Here  are  plenty.  My 
dear  Geronte,  marriages  are  commonly  made  in  direct  op- 
position to  common-sense.  A  family  makes  inquiries  as  to  a 
young  man.  If  this  Leandre,  provided  by  a  friendly  gossip, 
or  picked  up  in  a  ballroom,  has  robbed  no  one,  if  he  has  no 
visible  stain,  if  he  has  as  much  money  as  is  expected,  if  he  has 
come  from  college  or  has  had  a  legal  training,  thus  satisfying 
the  usual  ideas  of  education,  he  is  allowed  to  call  on  a  young 
lady,  dressed  to  receive  him  from  the  moment  when  she  gets 
up,  instructed  by  her  mother  to  be  careful  of  what  she  says, 


MODESTE  MIGNON  85 

and  enjoined  to  keep  anything  of  her  soul  or  heart  from  being 
road  in  her  coimtenanee  by  assuming  a  set  smile,  like  a  dancer 
finisliing  a  pirouette;  she  is  armed  with  the  most  positive  in- 
structions as  to  the  perils  of  showing  her  true  character,  and 
advised  not  to  appear  too  distressingly  knowing.  The  parents, 
when  all  the  points  of  interest  are  satisfactorily  settled  be- 
tween them,  are  simple-minded  enough  to  recommend  the 
young  people  to  know  all  they  can  of  each  other  during  the  few 
moments  when  they  are  alone,  when  they  talk  together,  when 
they  walk  out — without  any  kind  of  freedom,  for  they  know 
that  they  are  tied  already.  Under  such  conditions  a  man 
dresses  his  mind  as  carefully  as  his  person,  and  the  girl  on 
her  side  does  the  same.  This  miserable  farce,  carried  on  with 
gifts  of  flowers  and  jewels  and  places  at  the  play,  is  what  is 
called  courting  a  girl. 

"This  is  what  I  rebel  against,  and  I  mean  to  make  legal 
marriage  the  outcome  of  a  long  marriage  of  souls.  In  all 
a  girl's  life  this  is  the  only  moment  when  she  needs  reflection, 
insight,  and  experience.  Her  liberty  and  happiness  are  at 
stake,  and  you  place  neither  the  dice  nor  the  box  in  her 
hands ;  she  bets  on  the  game ;  she  is  but  a  looker-on.  I  have 
the  right,  the  will,  and  the  power  to  work  out  my  own  woe, 
and  I  will  use  them — as  my  mother  did  when,  guided  by 
instinct,  she  married  the  most  generous,  devoted,  and  loving 
of  men,  who  bewitched  her  one  evening  by  his  beauty.  I  know 
you  to  be  single,  a  poet,  and  handsome.  You  may  be  sure 
that  I  never  should  have  chosen  for  my  confidant  one  of  your 
brethren  in  Apollo  who  was  married.  If  my  mother  was  at- 
tracted by  a  handsome  face,  which  is  perhaps  the  genius  of 
form,  why  should  not  I  be  attracted  by  mind  and  form  com- 
bined? Shall  I  know  you  better  after  studying  you  by  cor- 
respondence than  after  beginning  by  the  vulgar  method  of  so 
many  months  of  courting?  'That  is  the  question,'  saith. 
Hamlet. 

"My  plan,  my  dear  Chrysale,  has  at  least  the  advantage  of 
not  compromising  our  persons.  I  know  that  love  has  its 
illusions,  and  every  illusion  has  its  morrow.     Therein  lies 


86  MODESTE  MIGNON 

tho  reason  why  ?o  many  lover?  i)art  wlio  believed  themsolvGa 
bound  for  life.  The  true  test  lies  in  suffering  and  in  hap- 
piness. When,  after  standing  this  double  test  of  life,  two  beings 
have  sliown  all  their  faults  and  good  qualities,  and  have 
learned  each  other's  characters,  they  may  go  to  the  tomb  hand 
in  hand;  but,  my  dear  Argante,  who  tells  you  that  our  little 
drama  has  no  future  before  it?  .  .  .  And,  at  any  rate, 
shall  we  not  have  had  the  pleasure  of  our  correspondence? 

"I  await  your  commands,  monseigneur,  and  remain,  with 
all  my  heart,  yours  obediently, 

"0.  D'ESTE-M." 


X.  * 

To  Mademoiselle  0.  d'Este-M. 

'^ou  are  a  demon !  I  love  you.  Is  that  what  you  want, 
extraordinary  girl?  Perhaps  you  only  wish  to  divert  your 
leisure  in  the  country  by  looking  on  at  the  follies  of  which  a 
poet  is  capable?  That  would  be  a  very  wicked  thing.  Your 
two  letters  betray  just  enough  of  mischief  to  suggest  the  doubt 
to  a  Parisian.  But  I  am  no  longer  master  of  myself ;  my  life 
and  future  hang  on  the  answer  you  may  send  me.  Tell  me 
whether  the  certain  possession  of  an  unbounded  affection 
given  to  you,  in  defiance  of  social  conventionalities,  can  touch 
you;  if  you  will  allow  me  to  visit  you.  There  will  still  be 
ample  room  for  doubt  and  agony  of  mind  in  the  question 
whether  I  shall  be  personally  agreeable  to  you.  If  your 
answer  is  favorable,  I  alter  my  life,  and  bid  adieu  to  many 
vexations  which  Ave  are  so  foolish  as  to  call  happiness. 

"Happiness,  my  dear,  beautiful,  unknown  one,  is  what  you 
have  dreamed  it;  a  perfect  fusion  of  feelings,  an  absolute- 
harmony  of  souls,  a  keen  sense  of  ideal  beauty — so  far  as 
God  vouchsafes  it  to  us  here  below — stamped  on  the  common 
actions  of  a  life  whose  round  we  are  bound  to  follow ;  above  all 
constancy  of  heart,  far  more  precious  than  what  we  call 


MODESTFJ  MIGNON  87 

:ftclelity-  Can  anything  bo  called  a  sacrifice  when  the  end 
is  the  supremest  good,  the  dream  of  poets  and  of  maidens,  the 
poem  to  which  on  entering  life — as  soon  as  the  spirit  tries  its 
wings — every  lofty  mind  looks  up  with  longing,  brooding  eyes, 
only  to  see  it  dashed  to  pieces  against  a  stumbling-stone  as 
hard  as  it  is  vulgar;  for  almost  every  man  sees  the  foot  of 
reality  set  down  at  once  on  that  mysterious  egg  which  hardly 
ever  hatches  out? 

"I  will  not  as  yet  tell  you  of  myself,  of  my  past,  of  my 
character,  nor  of  an  affection — almost  motherly  on  one  side, 
and  on  mine  almost  filial — in  which  you  have  already  wrought 
a  change  with  results  in  my  life  that  may  explain  the  word 
sacrifice.  You  have  made  me  forgetful,  not  to  say  ungrateful. 
Is  that  enough  to  satisfy  you  ?  Oh !  speak  !  Say  one  word, 
and  I  shall  love  you  till  my  eyes  are  closed  in  death,  as  Pescara 
loved  his  wife,  as  Romeo  loved  his  Juliet,  and  faithfully.  Our 
life — mine,  at  any  rate — will  be  that  untroubled  happiness  of 
which  Dante  speaks  as  being  the  atmosphere  of  his  Taradiso' 
— a  poem  infinitely  superior  to  his  'Inferno.' 

"Strange  to  say,  it  is  not  myself,  but  you,  whom  I  doubt 
in  the  long  meditations  in  which  I  have  allowed  myself — like 
you,  perhaps — to  follow  the  chimerical  course  of  a  dream-life. 
Yes,  dear  one,  I  feel  in  me  the  strength  to  love  thus,  to  go  on 
my  way  to  the  tomb  gently,  slowly,  always  smiling,  arm  in 
arm  with  the  woman  I  love,  without  a  cloud  on  the  fair 
weather  of  my  soul.  Yes,  I  have  courage  enough  to  look  for- 
ward to  our  old  age  together,  to  see  us  both  with  white  hair, 
like  the  venerable  historian  of  Italy,  still  inspired  by  the  same 
affection,  but  changed  by  the  spirit  of  each  season. 

"You  see,  I  can  no  longer  be  no  more  than  your  friend. 
Though  Chrysale,  Oronte,  and  Argante,  you  say,  have  come 
to  life  again  in  me,  I  am  not  yet  so  senile  as  to  drink  of  a  cup 
held  by  the  fair  hands  of  a  veiled  woman  without  feeling  a 
fierce  desire  to  tear  away  the  domino,  the  mask,  and  to  see 
her  face.  Either  write  no  more,  or  give  me  hope.  I  must 
have  a  glimpse  of  you,  or  throw  up  the  game.  Must  I  say 
farewell  ?     Will  you  allow  me  to  sign  myself, 

"Your  Friend?" 


88  MODESTE  MIGNON 

XI. 

To  Monsieur  de  Canalis. 

''What  flattery!  How  quickly  has  grave  Anseline  turned 
into  a  dashing  Leandre!  To  what  am  I  to  ascribe  such  a 
change?  Is  it  to  the  bhick  I  have  scribbled  on  white,  to  the 
ideas  which  are  to  the  flowers  of  my  soul  what  a  rose  drawn  in 
black-lead  pencil  is  to  the  roses  of  the  garden?  Or  to  the  re- 
membrance of  the  girl  you  took  for  me,  who  is  to  my  real 
self  what  a  waiting-maid  is  to  her  mistress?  Have  we  ex- 
changed parts  ?     Am  I  reason,  and  are  you  folly  ? 

"A  truce  to  this  nonsense.  Your  letter  made,  me  acquainted 
with  intoxicating  joys  of  soul,  the  first  I  have  not  owed  to 
family  feelings.  What,  a  poet  has  asked,  are  the  ties  of 
blood  which  weigh  so  heavily  on  ordinary  souls  in  comparison 
with  those  which  Heaven  forges  for  us  of  mysterious  sym- 
pathies ?  Let  me  thaiLk  you — no,  there  are  no  thanks  for  such 
things.  Blessings  on  you  for  the  happiness  you  have  given 
me ;  may  you  be  happy  with  the  gladness  you  poured  into  my 
soul. 

"You  have  explained  to  me  some  apparent  injustice  in 
social  life.  There  is  something  brilliant  in  glory,  something 
masculine  which  becomes  men  alone,  and  God  has  prohibited 
women  from  wearing  this  halo,  while  giving  us  love  and 
tenderness  with  which  to  refresh  the  brows  on  which  its  awful 
light  rests.  I  feel  my  mission,  or  rather,  you  have  con- 
firmed me  in  it. 

"Sometimes,  my  friend,  I  have  risen  in  the  morning  in  a 
frame  of  inconceivable  sweetness.  A  sort  of  peace,  tender 
and  divine,  gave  me  a  sense  as  of  Heaven.  My  first  thought 
was  like  a  blessing.  1  used  to  call  these  mornings  my  Ger- 
man levers,  to  distinguish  them  from  my  southern  sunsets, 
full  of  heroic  deeds  of  battles,  of  Eoman  festivals,  and  of 
ardent  verse.  Well,  after  having  read  the  letter  into  which 
you  breathed  a  fever  of  impatience,  I  felt  in  my  heart  the 
lightness  of  one  of  those  heavenly  awakenings,  when  I  loved 


MODESTE  MIGNON  SB 

air  and  nature,  and  felt  myself  destined  to  die  for  some  one 
I  loved.  One  of  your  poems,  'Le  Chant  d'une  jeune  fille,' 
describes  these  delicious  hours  when  gladness  is  sweet,  when 
prayer  is  a  necessity,  and  it  is  my  favorite  piece.  Shall  I 
put  all  my  flattery  into  one  line :  I  think  you  worthy  to  be 
me! 

"Your  letter,  though  short,  allowed  me  to  read  your  heart. 
Yes,  I  could  guess  your  tumultuous  impulses,  your  excited 
curiosity,  your  plans,  all  the  faggots  carried  (by  whom)  for 
the  pyre  of  your  heart.  But  I  do  not  yet  know  enough  of  you 
to  comply  ,with  your  request.  Understand,  dear  one,  it  is 
mystery  which  allows  me  the  freedom  that  betrays  the  depths 
of  my  soul.  When  once  we  have  met,  farewell  to  our  knowl- 
edge of  each  other. 

"Shall  we  make  a  bargain  ?  Was  the  first  we  made  a  bad 
one  for  you  ?  You  gained  my  esteem  by  it.  And  admiration 
supported  by  esteem  is  a  great  tiling,  my  friend.  First  write 
me  a  sketch  of  your  life  in  a  few  words;  then  tell  me  about 
your  life  in  Paris,  day  by  day,  without  any  disguise,  as  if  you 
were  chatting  to  an  old  friend:  well,  then,  after  that  I  will 
carry  our  friendship  a  step  further.  I  will  see  you,  my  friend, 
that  I  promise  you ;  and  it  is  a  great  deal. 

"All  this,  dear,  I  warn  you,  is  neither  an  intrigue  nor  an 
adventure ;  it  cannot  result  in  any  kind  of  'affair'  of  gallantry, 
as  you  men  say  among  yourselves.  My  life  is  involved  in  it, 
and  moreover — a  thing  which  sometimes  causes  me  terrible 
remorse  as  to  the  thoughts  I  send  flying  to  you  in  flocks — not 
less  involved  is  the  life  of  a  father  and  mother  I  adore,  whom 
I  must  satisfy  in  my  choice,  and  who  in  my  friend  must  find 
a  son. 

'  "How  far  can  you  lordly  souls,  to  whom  God  has  given  the 
wings  of  angels,  but  not  always  their  perfections,  yield  to  the 
Family  and  its  petty  needs?  A  text  I  have  pondered  over 
already !  Although  before  going  forth  to  you  I  said  in  my 
heart,  'Be  bold !'  it  has  not  quaked  the  less  on  the  road,  and 
I  have  never  deceived  myself  either  as  to  the  roughness  of  the 
way  or  the  difficulties  of  the  mountain  I  had  to  climb.  I  have 
followed  it  all  ov^t  in  long  meditations.     Do  I  not  know  that- 


90  MODESTE  MIGNON 

men  as  eminent  as  you  arc  have  known  the  love  they  have 
inspired  quite  as  well  as  tliat  they  have  felt;  that  they  have 
had  more  than  one  romance;  and  that  you,  above  all,  while 
cherisliin<;  those  thoroughl)red  cliinieras  which  a  woman  will 
buy  at  any  cost,  have  gone  through  more  final  than  first 
chapters  ?  And  yet  I  could  say  to  myself,  'Be  bold  !'  because 
I  have  studied  the  geography  of  the  high  peaks  of  Humanity 
that  you  accuse  of  coldness — studied  them  more  than  you 
think.  Did  you  not  say  of  Byron  and  Goethe  that  they  were' 
two  colossal  masses  of  egoism  and  poetry?  Ah,  my  friend, 
you  there  fall  into  the  error  of  superficial  minds ;  but  it  was 
perhaps  generosity  on  your  part,  false  modesty,  or  the  hope  of 
evading  me. 

"The  vulgar  may  be  allowed,  but  you  may  not,  to  regard 
the  results  of  hard  work  as  a  development  of  the  individual. 
Neither  Lord  Byron,  nor  Goethe,  nor  Walter  Scott,  nor  Cuvier, 
nor  any  inventor  belongs  to  himself;  they  are  all  the  slaves  of 
an  idea;  and  this  mysterious  power  is  more  jealous  than  a 
woman,  it  absorbs  them,  it  makes  them  or  kills  them  for  its 
own  advantage.  The  visible  outcome  of  this  concealed  life 
resembles  egoism  in  its  effects ;  but  how  dare  we  say  that  a 
man  who  has  sold  himself  for  the  delight,  the  instruction,  or  the 
greatness  of  his  age,  is  an  egoist?  Is  a  mother  accused  of 
selfishness  when  she  sacrifices  everything  for  her  child  ?  Well, 
the  detractors  of  genius  do  not  discern  its  teeming  ma- 
ternity, that  is  all. 

"The  poet's  life  is  so  perpetual  a  sacrifice  that  he  needs  a 
gigantic  organization  to  enable  him  to  enjoy  the  pleasures  of 
an  ordinary  life.  Hence,  if,  like  Moliere,  he  insists  on  living 
the  life  of  feelings  while  giving  them  expression  in  their  most 
acute  crises,  what  disasters  come  upon  him !  for  to  me  the 
comic  side  of  Moliere,  as  overlaying  his  private  life,  is  really 
horrible.  The  nuignanimity  of  genius  seems  to  nie  almost 
divine,  and  I  have  classed  you  with  that  noble  family  of 
egoists  so  called.  Oh!  if  I  had  found  shallowness,  self- 
interest,  and  ambition  where,  as  it  is,  I  admire  all  the  flowers 
of  the  soul  that  I  love  best,  you  cannot  know  what  slow  suffer- 
ing would  have  consumed  me.     I  found  disappointment  sit- 


MODESTE  MIGNON  91 

Ung  at  the  portal  of  my  sixteenth  year;  what  should  I  have 
done  if  at  twenty  I  had  found  fame  a  liar,  and  the  man,  who 
in  his  writings  had  expressed  so  many  of  the  sentiments  buried 
in  my  heart,  incapable  of  understanding  that  heart  when  dis- 
closed to  him  alone  ? 

"Do  you  know,  my  friend,  what  would  have  become  of  me? 
I  am  going  to  admit  you  to  the  very  depths  of  my  soul.  Well, 
^I  should  have  said  to  my  father,  'Bring  me  any  son-in-law  to 
your  mind;  I  give  up  all  free-will;  get  me  married  to  please 
yourself !' — and  the  man  might  have  been  a  notary,  a  banker, 
avaricious,  stupid,  provincial,  as  tiresome  as  a  rainy  day,  as 
vulgar  as  a  parish  voter ;  he  might  have  been  a  manufacturer 
or  some  brave  but  brainless  soldier — he  would  have  found  in 
me  his  most  resigned  and  attentive  slave.  But  then — dread- 
ful suicide  at  every  instant ! — my  soul  would  never  have  un- 
folded in  the  life-giving  beams  of  the  sun  it  worships.  N"ot  a 
murmur  should  ever  have  revealed  to  my  father,  my  mother, 
or  my  children  the  suicide  of  the  being  who  is  at  this  moment 
shaking  its  prison-bars,  flashing  lightnings  from  my  eyes, 
flying  to  you  on  outspread  pinions,  perching  like  a  Pol}^- 
hymnia  in  the  corner  of  your  study,  breathing  its  atmosphere, 
and  gazing  at  everything  with  a  mildly  inquisitive  eye. 
Sometimes  in  the  fields,  where  my  husband  might  have  taken 
me,  I  should  have  escaped  a  little  way  from  my  babes,  and, 
seeing  a  lovely  morning,  would  secretly  have  shed  a  few  very 
bitter  tears.  Finally,  in  my  heart,  and  in  the  corner  of  a 
drawer,  1  should  have  stored  a  little  comfort  for  every 
girl  betrayed  by  love,  poor  poetical  souls  dragged  into  torments 
by  a  smiling  face ! 

"But  I  believe  in  you,  my  friend.  This  faith  purifies  the 
most  fantastic  notions  of  my  secret  ambition,  and  sometimes 
— see  how  frank  I  can  be — I  long  to  be  in  the  middle  of  the 
story  we  have  just  begun,  so  assured  am  I  of  my  feelings,  such 
strength  for  love  do  1  feel  in  my  heart,  such  constancy  founded 
on  reason,  such  heroism  to  fulfil  the  duty  I  am  creating  for 
myself  in  case  love  should  ever  turn  to  duty. 

"If  it  were  given  to  you  to  follow  me  to  the  splendid 
seclusion  where  I  picture  our  happiness,  if  you  could  know  my 


02  MODESTE  MIGNON 

pchomes,  you  might,  utter  some  tcrrihk'  sentence  about  mad' 
ness,  and  I  should  perhaps  be  cruelly  punished  for  sending 
so  much  poetry  to  a  poet.  Yes,  I  want  to  be  a  living  spring, 
to  be  as  inexhaustible  as  a  beautiful  country  during  the  twenty 
years  which  nature  allows  us  to  shine  in.  I  will  keep  satiety 
at  a  distance  by  refinements  and  variety.  I  will  be  brave 
for  my  love  as  other  wonuni  are  for  the  world.  I  will  vary 
happiness,  lend  wit  to  tenderness,  and  piquancy  to  faithful- 
ness. I  am  ambitious;  I  will  kill  ray  past  rivals,  dispel 
superficial  troubles  by  the  sweetness,  the  proud  self-devotion 
of  a  wife,  and,  for  a  whole  lifetime,  give  such  care  to  the  nest 
as  a  bird  gives  for  only  a  few  days.  This  immense  dower 
ought,  and  could,  only  be  offered  to  a  great  man  before  being 
dropped  into  the  mire  of  vulgar  conventionality. 

"Now,  do  you  still  think  ray  first  letter  a  mistake?  A 
gust  of  some  raysterious  will  flung  me  towards  you,  as  a 
tempest  may  carry  a  rose-bush  to  the  heart  of  a  stately  willow. 
And  in  the  letter  I  keep  here — next  my  heart — you  have  ex- 
claimed like  your  ancestor  Avhen  he  sot  out  for  the  crusades, 
'It  is  God's  will !' 

"You  will  be  saying,  'How  she  chatters !'  All  those  about 
me  say,  'Mademoiselle  is  very  silent!' 

"0.    D  ESTE-M." 

These  letters  seeraed  very  original  to  those  persons  to  whose 
kindness  the  author  of  the  Comklic  Iluniaine  is_ beholden  for 
them ;  but  their  admiration  for  this  duel  between  two  minds 
crossing  their  pens,  while  their  faces  were  hidden  by  the 
strictest  incognito,  may  not  be  generally  shared.  Of  a  hundred 
spectators,  eighty  perhaps  will  be  tired  of  this  assault  of  arms. 
So  the  respect  due  to  the  majority — even  to  a  possible  ma- 
jority— in  every  country  enjoying  a  constitutional  govern- 
ment, advises  the  suppression  of  eleven  more  letters  ex- 
changed by  Ernest  and  Modesto  during  the  month  of  Sep- 
tember; if  a  flattering  majority  should  clamor  for  them,  let 
us  hope  that  it  may  one  day  afford  me  the  means  of  restoring 
thera  here. 

Tempted  on  by  a  wit  as  audacious  as  the  heart  beneath 


MODESTB  MIGNON  93 

seemed  to  be  adorable,  the  poor  private  secretary's  really  heroic 
feelings  gave  themselves  the  rein  iu  those  letters,  which  each 
reader's  imagination  may  conceive  of  as  finer  than  they  really 
are,  when  picturing  this  harmony  of twounfetteredsouls.  Ern- 
est, indeed,  lived  only  on  these  dear  scraps  of  paper,  as  a  miser 
lives  on  those  sent  forth  by  the  bank;  while  in  Modeste  a  deep 
attachment  had  grown  up  in  the  place  of  the  pleasure  of 
bringing  excitement  into  a  life  of  celebrity,  and  being,  in  spite 
of  distance,  its  chief  element.  Ernest's  affection  completed 
Canalis'  glory.  Alas  !  it  often  takes  two  men  to  make  one  per- 
fect lover,  just  as  in  literature  a  type  can  only  be  produced 
by  a  compound  of  the  peculiarities  of  several  different  char- 
acters. How  often  has  a  woman  said  in  a  drawing-room  after 
some  intimate  talk :  "That  man  would  be  my  ideal  as  to  hi? 
soul,  but  I  feel  that  I  love  that  other  who  is  no  more  than  a 
fancy  of  my  senses  !" 

The  last  letter  written  by  Modeste,  which  here  follows, 
gives  us  a  glimpse  of  the  Isle  of  Pheasants,  whither  the 
divagations  of  this  correspondence  was  conducting  our  lovers. 

XII. 

To  Monsieur  de  Canalis. 

*^e  at  le  Havre  on  Sunday ;  go  into  the  church  after  the  one 
o'clock  service,  walk  round  it  two  or  three  times,  go  out  with- 
out speaking  to  auA'one,  without  asking  anybody  a  question; 
wear  a  white  rose  in  your  button-hole.  Then  return  to  Paris, 
you  will  there  find  an  answer.  This  answer  will  not  be  such 
as  you  expect,  for  I  must  tell  you,  the  future  is  not  yet  in  my 
hands.  But  should  I  not  be  really  mad  to  say  yes  without 
having  seen  you  ?  When  I  have  seen  you,  I  can  say  no  witii- 
out  offence.     I  am  sure  to  remain  unrecognized." 

This  was  the  letter  Modeste  had  sent  off  the  very  day  before 
that  on  which  the  futile  struggle  between  herself  and  Dumay 
had  taken  place.  So  she  was  happy  in  looking  forward  with 
yearning  impatience  to  Sunday,  when  her  eyes  would  prove 
her  intuitions,  her  heart,  to  be  right  or  wrong — one  of  the 


04  MODESTE  MIGNON 

most  solemn  moments  in  a  woman's  life,  made,  too,  afl 
romantic  as  the  most  enthusiastic  girl  could  desire  by  three 
months  of  communion  soul  to  soul. 

Everybody,  excepting  her  mother,  had  taken  this  torpor 
of  expectancy  for  the  placidity  of  innocence.  However 
stringent  the  laws  of  family  life  and  religious  bonds,  there 
are  still  Julies  d'fitanges  and  Clarissas — souls  which,  like 
a  brimming  cup,  overflow  under  the  divine  touch.  Was  not 
Modeste  splendid-  in  the  fierce  energy  she  brought  to  bear  on 
repressing  her  exuberant  youth,  and  remaining  concealed? 
Let  us  confess  that  the  memory  of  her  sister  was  more  potent 
than  any  social  limitations ;  she  had  sheathed  her  will  in  iron 
that  she  might  not  fail  her  father  or  her  family.  But  what 
a  turbulent  upheaval !  and  how  could  a  mother  fail  to  per- 
ceive it? 

On  the  following  day  Modeste  and  Madame  Dumay  led 
Madame  Mignon  out  into  the  noonday  sun  to  her  bench 
among  the  flowers.  The  blind  woman  turned  her  pale  withered 
face  towards  the  ocean,  inhaled  the  scent  of  the  sea,  and  took 
Modeste's  hand  in  her  own,  for  the  girl  was  sitting  by  her 
mother.  Even  as  she  was  about  to  question  her  child,  the 
mother  hesitated  between  forgiveness  and  remonstrance,  for 
she  knew  that  this  was  love,  and  to  her,  as  to  the  false  Canalis, 
Modeste  seemed  exceptional. 

"If  only  your  father  may  be  here  in  time !  If  he  delays 
much  longer,  he  will  find  you  alone  of  those  he  loved! 
Promise  me  once  more,  Modeste,  never  to  leave  him,"  she  said, 
with  motherly  persuasiveness. 

Modeste  raised  her  mother's  hands  to  her  lips,  and  kissed 
them  softly,  as  she  replied : 

"Need  I  tell  you  so  again?" 

"Ah,  my  child;  you  see,  I  myself  left  my  father  to  go  to 
my  husband !  And  my  father  was  alone  too ;  I  was  his  only 
child.  ...  Is  that  what  God  is  punishing  me  for,  I 
wonder? — All  I  ask  you  is  to  marry  in  agreement  with  your 
father's  choice,  to  keep  a  place  for  him  in  your  heart,  not  to 
sacrifice  him  to  your  hap))ini^ss :  to  keep  him  in  the  bosom 
of  your  family.     Before  I  lost  my  sight  I  made  a  note  of 


MODESTE  MIGNON  95 

my  wishes ;  he  will  carry  them  out ;  T  have  enjoined  on  him 
to  keep  the  whole  of  his  fortune,  not  that  T  have  a  thought  of 
distrusting  you,  but  can  one  ever  be  sure  about  a  son-in-law? 
I,  my  child,  was  I  prudent?  A  flash  of  an  eye  settled  my 
ft^hole  life.  Beauty,  the  most  deceitful  of  shows,  spoke  the 
truth  to  me;  but  if  it  should  ever  be  the  same  with  you,  poor 
child,  swear  to  me  that  if  appearances  should  carry  you 
away,  as  they  did  your  mother,  you  would  leave  it  to  your 
father  to  make  inquiries  as  to  the  character,  the  heart,  and  the 
previous  life  of  the  man  of  your  choice,  if  you  make  a 
choice." 

"I  will  never  marry  without  my  father's  consent,"  replied 
Modeste. 

On  hearing  this  answer,  her  mother  sat  in  complete 
silence,  and  her  half-dead  countenance  showed  that  she  was 
pondering  on  it,  as  blind  people  ponder,  meditating  on  her 
daughter's  tone  in  speaking  of  it. 

"You  see,  my  child,"  said  Madame  Mignon,  after  a  long 
silence,  "the  thing  is  this :  If  Caroline's  wrong-doing  is 
killing  me  by  inches,  your  father  would  never  survive  yours ; 
I  know  him;  he  would  blow  his  brains  out;  there  would  bo 
neither  life  nor  happiness  on  earth  for  him     .     .     ." 

Modeste  walked  away  a  few  steps,  and  returned  in  a 
minute. 

"Why  did  you  leave  me  ?"  asked  Madame  Mignon. 

"You  made  me  cry,  mamma,'"  said  Modeste. 

"Well,  my  angel,  kiss  me  then.  You  love  no  one  here? 
You  have  no  one  paying  attentions  to  you  ?" 

"No,  mamma,"  said  the  little  Jesuit. 

"Can  you  swear  to  that  ?" 

"Really,  truly!"  cried  Modeste. 

Madame  Mignon  said  no  more ;  she  still  doubted. 

"In  short,  if  you  should  choose  a  husband,  your  father 
would  know  all  about  it  ?" 

"I  promised  that  to  my  sister  and  to  you,  mother.  What 
sin  do  you  suppose  I  could  commit  when  every  minute  I  read 
on  my  finger,  Rememher  Bettina! — Poor  little  sister!" 

At  the  moment  when  the  words,  "Poor  little  sister !"  were 

VOL.  6 — 32 


96  MODESTE  MIGNON 

followed  by  an  interval  of  silence  between  Modeste  and  her 
mother,  from  whoso  darkened  eyes  fell  tears  which  Modeste 
could  not  check  even  by  falling:  at  Madame  Mignon's  knees 
and  crying,  "Forgive  me ;  forgive  me,  mamma !" — at  that 
Very  moment  the  worthy  Dumay  was  mounting  the  hill  of 
Ingouville  at  a  rapid  pace,  an  abnormal  incident  in  the 
t^ashier's  life. 

Three  letters  had  once  brought  them  ruin ;  one  had  brought 
fortune  back  to  them.     That  morning  Dumay  had  received,' 
by  the  hand  of  a  captain  just  returned  from  the  China  seas, 
the  first  news  he  had  had  of  his  patron  and  only  friend. 

To  Monsieur  Dumay,  formerly  cashier  to  the 
firm  of  Mignon. 

"My  dear  Dumay, — Barring  misadventure  by  sea,  I  shall 
follow  closely  on  the  vessel  by  which  I  am  forwarding  this 
letter ;  I  would  not  leave  the  ship  to  which  I  am  accustomed. 
I  told  you,  No  news  was  to  be  good  news ;  but  the  first  words 
of  this  letter  will  rejoice  you,  for  those  words  are,  I  have  at 
least  seven  millions  of  francs !  I  am  bringing  a  large  part 
of  it  in  indigo,  a  third  in  good  bills  on  London  and  Paris, 
another  third  in  bright  gold.  The  money  you  sent  me  en- 
abled me  to  make  the  sum  I  had  determined  on — two  millions 
for  each  of  the  girls,  and  comfort  for  myself. 

"I  have  been  dealing  wholesale  in  opium  for  the  Canton 
houses,  all  ten  times  as  rich  as  I  am.  You  have  no  notion  in 
Europe  of  what  the  rich  China  merchants  are.  I  traveled 
from  Asia  Minor,  where  I  could  buy  opium  cheap,  to  Canton, 
where  I  sold  it  in  bulk  to  the  firms  that  deal  in  it. 

"My  last  voyage  was  to  the  Malay  Archipelago,  where  I 
could  buy  indigo  of  the  first  quality  with  the  proceeds  of  the 
opium  trade.  Perhaps  I  may  find  that  I  have  five  or  sLx 
hundred  thousand  francs  more,  as  I  am  valuing  my  indigo 
only  at  cost  price. 

"I  have  been  quite  well  all  the  time;  never  an  ailment. 
That  is  the  reward  of  traveling  for  one's  children!  At  the 
beginning  of  the  second  year  T  was  able  to  purchase  the 
Mignon,  a  nice  brig  of  seven  hundred  tons  burden,  built  of 


MODESTE  MIGNON  97 

teak,  and  lined  with  the  same,  and  copper-bottomed;  fitted 
throughout  to  suit  my  convenience.  This,  too,  is  worth  some- 
thing. The  seafaring  life,  the  constant  change  needed  in  my 
trading,  and  hard  work,  as  being  in  a  way  my  own  captain 
on  the  high  seas,  have  all  kept  me  in  excellent  health. 

"To  speak  of  all  this  is  to  speak  of  my  two  girls  and  my 
dear  v/ife !  I  hope  that  on  hearing  of  my  ruin  the  wretch 
who  robbed  me  of  my  Bettina  may  have  deserted  her,  and  the 
wandering  lamb  have  returned  to  the  cottage.  She,  no  doubt, 
will  need  a  larger  dowei;. 

"My  three  women  and  my  good  Dumay — you  have  all  four 
been  constantly  in  my  thoughts  during  these  three  years. 
Dumay,  you  are  a  rich  man.  Your  share,  besides  my  own  for- 
tune, amounts  to  five  hundred  and  sixty  thousand  francs, 
which  I  am  forwarding  to  you  by  a  draft,  payable  to  your- 
self only,  by  the  firm  of  Mongenod,  who  are  advised  from 
New  York.  A  few  months  more  and  I  shall  see  you  all  again 
— well,  I  hope. 

"Now,  my  dear  Dumay,  I  write  to  you  only,  because  I  wish 
you  to  keep  the  secret  of  my  fortune,  and  I  leave  it  to  you  to 
prepare  my  dear  ones  for  the  Joy  of  my  return.  I  have  had 
enough  of  trade,  and  I  mean  to  leave  le  Havre. 

"The  choice  of  my  sons-in-law  is  a  very  serious  matter.  It 
is  my  intention  to  repurchase  the  estate  and  chateau  of  la 
Bastie,  to  endow  it  with  an  entailed  settlement  of  a  hundred 
thousand  francs  a  year  at  least,  and  to  petition  the  King  to 
confer  my  name  and  titles  on  one  of  my  sons-in-law\  You, 
my  dear  Dumav,  know  the  misfortune  that  befell  us  in  con- 
sequence of  the  fatal  splendor  given  by  wealth.  By  that  I 
wrecked  the  honor  of  one  of  my  daughters.  I  carried  back 
to  Java  the  most  wretched  of  fathers — an  unhappy  Dutch 
merchant  with  nine  millions  of  francs,  whose  two 
daughters  had  been  both  carried  off  by  villains !  We  wept  to- 
gether like  two  children.  So  I  will  not  have  the  amount  of 
my  fortune  known. 

"I  shall  not  land  at  le  Havre,  but  at  Marseilles.  My  mate 
is  a  Proven(;al,  an  old  retainer  of  my  family,  whom  1  have 


98  MODESTE  MIGNON 

ennblod  to  niakr-  a  IKtlo  fortune.  Castairnoulf!  will  have  my 
instruftioiis  In  iT'])iirc'liasc  la  Rastie,  and  I  sliall  dispose  of  my 
indigo  throu<:^h  the  firm  of  Mongcnod.  T  shall  place  my 
money  in  th(>  Rank  of  France,  and  come  home  to  you,  profess- 
ing to  have  made  no  more  than  about  a  million  of  francs  in 
merchandise.  My  daughters  will  I)e  reputed  to  have  two  hun- 
dred thousand  francs  apiece.  Then  my  great  business  will 
be  to  decide  which  of  my  sons-in-law  may  be  worthy  to 
succeed  to  my  name,  my  arms,  and  my  titles,  and  to  live  with 
ns ;  but  they  must  both  be,  as  you  and  I  are,  absolutely  steady, 
firm,  loyal,  and  honest  men. 

"I  have  never  doubted  you,  old  boy,  for  a  single  instant. 
I  have  felt  sure  that  my  dear  and  admirable  wife,  with  yours 
and  yourself,  will  have  drawn  an  impassable  fence  round  my 
daughter,  and  that  I  may  press  a  kiss  full  of  hope  on  the  pure 
brow  of  the  angel  that  remains  to  me.  Rettina-Caroline,  if 
3'oii  have  been  able  to  screen  her  fault,  will  have  a  fortune. 
After  trying  war  and  trade,  we  will  now  go  in  for  agricul- 
ture, and  you  must  be  our  steward.     Will  that  suit  you  ? 

"And  so,  old  friend,  you  are  master  of  your  line  of  con- 
duct to  the  family,  to  tell  them,  or  to  say  nothing  of  my 
success.  I  trust  to  your  judgment;  you  are  to  say  just  what 
you  think  right.  In  four  years  there  may  have  been  many 
changes  of  character.  I  make  you  the  judge;  I  so  greatly 
fear  my  wife's  tender  weakness  with  her  daughters. 

"Farewell,  my  dear  old  Dumay.  Tell  my  wife  and  daughters 
that  I  have  never  failed  to  embrace  them  in  my  heart  every 
day,  morning  and  evening.  The  second  draft,  for  forty  thou- 
sand francs,  payable,  like  the  other,  to  you  alone,  is  for  my 
wife  and  daughters  to  go  on  with. 

"Your  master  and  friend, 

"Charles  Miqnon." 

'Tour  father  is  coming  home,''  said  Madame  Mignon  to  her 
daughter. 

"What  makes  3'ou  think  that,  mamma  ?"  asked  Modeste. 

"Nothing  could  make  Dumay  run  but  having  that  news  to 
bring  us/' 


MODESTR  MICNON  99 

Modeste,  lost  in  her  own  thoughts,  had  not  seen  nor  heard 
Duma3^ 

"Victory !"  shonteJ  the  Licntonant  from  the  gate.  "Ma- 
dame, the  Colonel  has  never  been  ill,  and  ho  is  coming  home. 
.  .  .  He  is  coming  on  the  Mignon,  a  good  ship  of  his  own, 
which,  with  the  cargo  he  describes  to  me,  must  be  worth  eight 
or  nine  hundred  thousand  francs.  But  he  urgently  begs  you 
will  say  nothing  about  it;  the  disaster  to  our  poor  lost  child 
has  eaten  deeply  into  his  heart."  I 

"He  has  made  room  in  it  for  a  grave  then,"  said  Madame 
Mignon. 

"And  he  ascribes  this  disaster — as  seems  to  me  most  prob- 
able— to  the  greed  which  a  large  fortune  excites  in  young 
men.  My  poor  Colonel  hopes  to  find  the  lost  lamb  among 
us  here. — Let  us  rejoice  among  ourselves,  and  say  nothing  to 
anybody,  not  even  to  Latournelle  if  possible. — Mademoiselle," 
he  added  to  Modeste  apart,  "write  a  letter  to  your  father  to  tell 
him  of  the  loss  in  the  family  and  its  terrible  consequences, 
so  as  to  prepare  him  for  the  dreadful  sight  that  awaits  him ; 
I  will  undertake  that  he  shall  get  the  letter  before  arriving  at 
le  Havre,  for  he  will  be  obliged  to  come  through  Paris ;  write 
fully,  you  have  plenty  of  time ;  I  will  take  the  letter  on  Mon- 
day; on  Monday,  no  doubt,  I  shall  have  to  go  to  Paris " 

Modeste  was  now  afraid  lest  Dumay  and  Canalis  should 
meet;  she  was  eager  to  go  up  to  her  room  and  write  to  put  off 
the  assignation. 

"Tell  me,  mademoiselle,"  Dumay  went  on  in  the  humblest 
tone,  but  standing  in  her  path,  "that  your  father  will  find  his 
daughter  without  a  feeling  in  her  heart  but  that  which  was  in 
it  when  he  left — of  love  for  her  mother." 

"I  have  sworn  to  my  sister  and  my  mother — I  have  sworn 
to  myself  to  be  my  father's  comfort,  his  joy,  and  his  pride, 
and — I — will  be,"  replied  Modeste,  with  a  haughty  and  pcorn- 
ful  glance  at  Dumay.  "Do  not  mar  my  joy  at  knowing  that 
my  father  will  soon  be  amongst  us  again  by  any  offensive 
suspicions.  A  young  girl's  heart  cannot  be  hindered  from 
beating;  you  do  not  wish  me  to  be  a  mununy  ?     1  belong  to  my 


100  MODESTR  MlGNON' 

family ;  but  my  lioart  is  my  own.  If  I  love  any  one,  my  father 
and  motlicr  sliall  be  told  of  it.     Are  you  satisfied,  monsieur?" 

"Thank  you,  nuidemoiselle,"  replied  Dumay.  "You  have 
restored  me  to  life.  But  you  might  at  least  have  called  me 
Dumay,  even  when  giving  me  a  slap  in  the  face !" 

"Swear  to  me,"  said  her  mother,  "that  you  have  never 
sxchangcd  a  word  or  a  glance  with  any  young  man." 

"I  can  swear  it,"  said  Modeste,  smiling,  and  looking  at 
Dumay,  who  was  studying  her,  with  a  mischievous  smile 
like  a  girl's  playing  off  some  joke. 

"Can  she  really  be  so  false !"  exclaimed  Dumay,  when  Mo- 
deste had  gone  into  the  house. 

"My  daughter  Modeste  may  have  her  faults,"  said  the 
mother,  "but  she  is  incapable  of  a  lie." 

"Well,  then,  let  us  make  ourselves  easy,"  replied  the  lieu- 
tenant, "and  be  satisfied  that  misfortune  has  closed  its  ac- 
count with  us." 

"God  grant  it !"  said  Madame  Mignon.  "You  will  see  him, 
Dumay;  I  can  only  hear  him.  .  .  ,  There  is  much  sad- 
ness in  my  joy." 

Modeste,  meanwhile,  though  happy  in  the  thought  of  her 
father's  return,  was,  like  Pierrette,  distressed  to  see  all  her 
eggs  broken.  She  had  hoped  for  a  larger  fortune  than  Du- 
may had  spoken  of.  She  was  ambitious  for  her  poet,  and 
wished  for  at  least  half  of  the  six  millions  of  which  she  had 
written  in  her  second  letter.  Thus  absorbed  by  her  double 
happiness,  and  annoyed  by  the  grievance  of  her  comparative 
poverty,  she  sat  down  to  her  piano,  the  confidant  of  so  many 
girls,  who  tell  it  their  anger,  and  their  wishes,  expressing 
them  in  their  way  of  playing. 

Dumay  was  talking  to  his  wife,  walking  to  and  fro  below 
her  window,  confiding  to  her  the  secret  of  their  good  fortune, 
and  questioning  her  as  to  her  hopes,  wishes,  and  intentions. 
Madame  Dumay,  like  her  husband,  had  no  family  but  the 
Mignon  family.  The  husband  and  wife  decided  on  living  in 
Provence,  if  the  Count  should  go  to  Provence,  and  to  leave 
their  money  to  any  child  of  Modeste's  that  might  need  it. 


MODESTE  MIGNON 


101 


'Tjisten  to  Modeste,"  said  Madame  Mignon  to  them ;  ^''oiily 
a  girl  in  love  could  compose  such  a  melody  without  any 
knowledge  of  music." 

Homes  may  burn,  fortunes  may  collapse,  fathers  may  come 
back  from  their  travels,  Empires  may  fall,  cholera  may  ravage 
the  town — a  girl's  love  pursues  its  flight  as  nature  keeps  her 
course,  or  that  horrible  acid  discovered  by  chemii?try  which 
might  pierce  through  the  earth  if  it  were  not  absorbed  in  the 
centre. 

This  is  the  ballad  Modeste  had  improvised  to  some  verses 
which  must  be  quoted  here,  though  they  are  to  be  found  in  the 
second  volume  of  poems  published  by  Dauriat;  for,  to  adapt 
them  to  the  air,  the  young  composer  had  broken  the  rhythm 
by  some  changes  which  might  puzzle  the  admirers  of  a  poet 
who  is  sometimes  too  precise. 

And  here,  too,  since  modern  typography  allows  of  it,  is  Mo- 
deste's  music,  to  which  her  exquisite  expression  lent  the  charm 
we  admire  in  the  greatest  singers — a  charm  that  no  printing, 
were  it  phonetic  or  hieroglyphic,  could  ever  represent. 


Piano. 


A  MAIDEN'S  SONG. 

Allegretto.  "f^   "ftl 


■S — t 


ffe 


-I — I 


i^jz^SJc 


B 


*1 


I 1 Li LJ — 


'STz^ 


:p 


t:: 


Sz- 


MODESTE  MIGNON 


•^i? — 


:tt- 


Come      a 


:i=t*=i1: 


4==|: 


^- 


P 


*-^ 


i_j_g^ 


*^* 


*"* 


^rb-d^-Jn 


■^=F=fl*" 


i^ 


3tz^: 


t=te 


wake,  my  heart, 


for     the     Boar-iug      lark Wiugs    her 


m 


g— !— -|=E^= 


i^ 


H-^ ! !- 


■J-  -j|-         -Jr   -Jr 


s^^:^^^:^ 


fr-|-|— -^jzzj: 


^: 


s— *-=!— ^— ^ 


I 


=^=f 


-^— ^ 


i 


1!5=q: 


=1=1^— 


=^^1=^ 


:*=^: 


:^=jt:=* 


~-^'- 


i*=^-=t=: 


up-  ward  flight 


as      she  chants  her    lay. 


Sleep      no 


-*- 


k 


bfc=^ 


-"1 


W^ 


IS3 


n   rf 


-^ — SM- 


X     y 


^i^J? 5^ 


j^-^t 


^ 


-|     Pt^— ^-^ — -- F— 


'-^'=F- 


tzz 


more,  my  heart. 


for       the       vi   -    o   -   let 


Breathes  her 


^-=^ff^i^^^^"-^ 


tfe: 


:=|: 


MODESTE  MIGNON 


103 


l^: 


-^-jt-j:^- 


'^^^^^^ 


in  -  ceiise    to     God         -at    break    of     day, 


Ev  -  'ry 


^="-"-"llf= 


:^=H: 


( 


I 
t 


chal  -  ice         a        gem, 


dew     -     drop     re    -    pos 


1==^ 


::1=* 


=a=a!~tz=^=st=t--:i^-aj: 


*rj 


-I H 


ia 


«p — « — I 


"r^-t 


1(V1 


MODESTE  MIGNON 


^  til 


?Ef*r^ 


g 


^=§. 


±1 


^^=§^=? 


tz:^ 


Mir    -    nirx     Wn      huoe        Ere       it        dies 


in     the      air.         We 


► Jf 


^-i:=- 


*=3-3 


'=^ 


1 


i^=3^3^ 


3r:i«: 


i^^l 


iailii 


=J 


ri-r- 


'^-^ 


'^ 


^ 


-t-- 


-I — '- 


feel        in        the  bieeze    that      the       an    -  gel        of        flow  -  era      Has 


(^ 


:=l=t=: 


^^^^g^t-tj4^i=ii 


r^— H= 


4= 


=1= 


:i 


i=q=F 


i^=feiii^=:: 


•-bc^=: 


=|: 


I 


kisfl'd     ev  -    'ry        rose       as        he      passM      in       the      night,  Has 


i^^^=iEi=i^=^ 


-=^^-^H2^' 


1^. 


f  ff 


::dt 


:t: 


3^ 


=^ 


m 


=1: 


:4 


:t=: 


l^fe 


guard  -  ed     their    beau    -  ty  through   all       the     dark        hours,         Their 


^ 


±Z 


=|: 


^^mm^§m 


iii 


:=^: 


r^- 


MODESTE  MIGNON 


105 


-^-- 


^- 


:i1=e: 


-Jt=-±z 


first        smile        is  his  in         the        sweet    moiu  -  ing        light. 


1 


# 


:1-h-1: 


jr^ 


te 


w^ 


ir^' 


^s 


-=?*- 

:^-i^ 


3^=^ 


:««: 


itziitz:^^ 


Then       a  -  wake,   my  heart, 


for       the      soar  -  ing     lark 


:± 


r=S: 


-^=^ 


-i^i 


1 


-s- 


:dZ: 


Fr=r 


^1 — ^1 — 


-^—5^- 


Wings  her    ear  -  ly   flight,    and      chants 


lay. 


^rfe=Z= 


3==S=3= 


l=t=g. 


1- 


* 


:» 


f 


?^— -^— ^— s= 


:^= 


-^- 


--4 


itn 


-X      0f^[ 


t?=^- 


-(S>- 


:=1: 


5=^tt: 


Night  and  sleep  be  -  gone  !        my       heart,    the      vi  -    o    -    let 


^ 


:±— 


Z^-t 


=^=4*=i-^-}*-^ 


*"* 


wm 


iiiPl 


-— I— «; 


! 


H 1 — 1 1 h 


106 


MODESTE  MIGNON 


:St_St 


f-w 


:fc=ts[=i^ziti 


1- 

To     God      ber        iu    -     teuse  breathes     at   break  of    day. 


:^^=«i: 


■^ 


*Tr 


1^^ 


n 


-« — I— 


I     I 


^= 


:J: 


S 


:^=^: 


3t=r: 


y-p^: 


4i^=^ 


-*^; 


:=|V^ 


fsiiz.^ 


r-itt 


g — g- 


Niglit  and  Bleep    be -gone!        my     heart,      the    vi  -  o    -    let  To 


l?E3^! 


:i^^ 


m 


Ij- li- -t:-ir   — '-^ ^ ~~lt-^ 


-«— ^ j^ 


'^ 


-M^m- 


^-  K     h-t 


-^ 


^^zzEz^t 


Kiiac 


i^-t?: 


-*-* 


God  her         iu 


ceuse    breathes     at  break    of    day. 


dtzn 


5J ! \? 


i=i=^3^='3 


-«-*- 


at 


,=J=J 


^=f^ 


j=^fe 


^ 


dt 


^-^ 


Sip: 


— [ — , — «^ 


ttt 


.*_jF_t 


ttp-=-. 


f 


:t=:t=: 


^=qc 


£^: 


-   t_|L 


*= 


MODESTE  MIGNON  167 


■^r* 


H^ii 


"It  is  pretty,"  said  Madrime  Dumay.  "Modeste  is  very 
musical;  that  is  all." 

"She  has  the  very  devil  in  her !"  exclaimed  the  cashier,  for 
the  mother's  dread  had  entered  into  his  soul  and  made  his 
blood  run  cold. 

"She  is  in  love,"  said  Madame  Mignon. 

By  her  success  in  communicating  her  conviction  as  to  Mo- 
deste's  secret  passion,  on  the  irrefragable  evidence  of  that 
melody,  Madame  Mignon  chilled  the  cashier's  joy  over  his 
patron's  return  and  success.  The  worthy  Breton  went  off  to 
the  town  to  do  his  day's  business  at  Gobenheim's ;  then,  before 
going  home  to  dinner,  he  called  on  the  Latournelles  to  men- 
tion his  fears,  and  once  more  to  request  their  help  and  co- 
operation. 

"Yes,  my  good  friend,"  said  Dumay  on  the  threshold,  as  he 
took  leave  of  the  notary,  "I  am  of  madame's  opinion.  She  is 
in  love,  sure  enough ;  beyond  that  the  devil  only  knows  !  .  . 
1  am  disgraced !" 

"Do  not  worry  yourself,  Dumay,"  said  the  little  notary. 
"We  certainly,  among  us  all,  must  be  a  match  for  that  little 
hidy.  Sooner  or  later  every  girl  who  is  in  love  does  something 
rash  which  betrays  her  secret;  we  will  talk  it  over  this  even- 
ing." 

So  all  these  persons,  devoted  to  the  Mignon  family,  were 
still  a  prey  to  the  same  anxiety  as  had  tormented  them  before 
the  experiment  that  the  old  soldier  had  expected  to  be  de- 
cisive. The  futility  of  all  these  struggles  so  spurred  Dumay'a 
conscience  that  he  would  not  20  to  Paris  to  fetch  his  fortune 


108  MOr>ESTE  xMir.NON 

before  he  had  discovered  the  clue  to  this  enigma.  All  these 
hearts,  caring  far  more  for  sentiment  than  for  self-interest, 
understood  that  unless  he  found  this  daughter  innocently 
pure,  the  Colonel  might  die  of  grief  on  finding  Bettina  dead 
and  his  wife  blind.  The  unhappy  Dumay's  despair  made  so 
deep  an  impression  on  the  Tjatournelles,  that  they  forgot  their 
loss  of  Exupere,  whom  they  had  sent  off  to  Paris  that  morning. 
During  the  dinner  hour,  when  the  three  were  alone,  Monsieur 
and  Madame  Latournelle  and  Butscha  turned  the  matter 
over  under  every  aspect,  and  considered  every  conceivable 
hypothesis. 

"If  Modeste  were  in  love  with  any  one  at  le  Havre,  she 
would  have  quaked  last  night,"  said  Madame  Latournelle, 
"so  her  lover  must  be  elsewhere." 

"She  swore  this  morning  to  her  mother,  in  Dumay's  pres- 
ence, that  she  had  not  exchanged  a  glance  or  a  word  with  a 
living  soul,"  said  the  notary. 

"Then  she  loves  as  I  do !"  said  Butscha. 

"And  how  do  you  love,  my  poor  boy  ?"  asked  Madame  La- 
tournelle. 

"Madame,"  replied  the  little  hunchback,  "I  love  all  to  my- 
self, from  afar,  almost  as  far  as  from  hence  to  the  stars." 

"And  how  do  you  get  there,  you  great  goose?"  said  Madame 
Latournelle,  smiling  at  him. 

"Ah,  madame,  what  you  take  to  be  a  hump  is  the  sheath  for 
my  wings." 

"Then  this  explains  your  seal !"  exclaimed  the  lawyer. 

The  clerk's  seal  was  a  star,  with  the  motto,  Fulgens,  sequar 
— Shine,  and  I  will  follow  3'ou — the  device  of  the  house  of 
Chastillonest. 

"A  beautiful  creature  may  be  as  diffident  as  the  most 
hideous,"  said  Butscha,  as  if  talking  to  himself.  "Modeste 
is  quite  clever  enough  to  have  feared  lest  she  should  be  loved 
only  for  her  beauty." 

Hunchbacks  are  wonderful  creatures,  and  due  entirely  to 
civilization;  for,  in  the  scheme  of  nature,  weak  or  deformed 
beings  ought  to  perish.     A  curvature  or  twist  of  the  spinal 


MODRSTE  MIGNON  im 

column  gives  to  these  men,  who  seem  to  be  Nature's  outcasts, 
a  flashing  look,  in  which  is  concentrated  a  greater  quantity 
of  nervous  fluids  than  other  men  can  command,  in  the 
very  centre  where  they  are  elaborated  and  act,  and  whence 
they  are  sent  forth  like  a  light  to  vivify  their  inmost  being. 
Certain  forces  are  the  result,  detected  occasionally  by  mag- 
netism, but  most  frequently  lost  in  the  waste  places  of  the 
spiritual  world.  Try  to  find  a  hunchback  who  is  not  gifted 
in  some  remarkable  way,  either  with  a  cheerful  wit,  superla- 
tive malignity,  or  sublime  kindliness.  These  beings,  privi- 
leged beings  though  they  know  it  not,  live  within  themselves 
as  Butscha  did,  when  they  have  not  exhausted  their  splendidly 
concentrated  powers  in  the  battle  they  have  fought  to  conquer 
obstacles  and  remain  alive. 

In  this  way  we  may  explain  the  superstitious  and  popular 
traditions,  which  we  owe  to  the  belief  in  gnomes,  in  frightful 
dwarfs,  in  misshapen  fairies — the  whole  race  of  bottles,  as 
Rabelais  has  it,  that  contain  rare  balsams  and  elixirs. 

Thus  Butscha  almost  read  Modeste ;  and  with  the  eagerness 
of  a  hopeless  lover,  of  a  slave  ever  ready  to  die  like  the  soldiers 
who,  deserted  and  alone  amid  Eussian  snows,  still  shouted 
"Vive  I'Empereur!"  he  dreamed  of  discovering  her  secret 
for  himself  alone. 

As  his  chief  and  Madame  Latournelle  walked  up  to  the 
Chalet,  he  followed  them  with  a  very  anxious  mien,  for  it  was 
imperative  that  he  should  conceal  from  every  watchful  eye, 
from  every  listening  ear,  the  snare  in  which  he  meant  to 
entrap  the  girl.  There  should  be  a  flashing  glance,  a  start 
detected,  as  when  a  surgeon  lays  his  finger  on  a  hidden  injury. 

That  evening  Gobenheim  did  not  join  them ;  Butsclia  was 
Monsieur  Dumay's  partner  against  Monsieur  and  Madame 
Latournelle.  At  about  nine  o'clock,  while  Modeste  was  absent 
preparing  her  mother's  room,  Madame  Mignon  and  her 
friends  could  talk  openly ;  but  the  poor  clerk,  stricken  by  the 
conviction  which  had  come  on  him  too,  seemed  as  far  away 
from  the  discussion  as  Gobenheim  had  been  the  night  before. 

"Why,  Butscha,  what  ails  you?"  exclaimed  Madame  La- 


tlO  MODKSTE  MIGNON 

umrnello,  astonislied  at  hiiii.  "One  might  think  you  had 
lost  all  your  relations!" 

A  tear  started  to  the  poor  fellow's  eye — a  foundling,  de- 
serted by  a  Swedish  sailor,  and  his  mother  dead  of  grief  in 
the  workhouse ! 

"I  have  no  one  in  the  world  but  you,"  he  replied  in  husky 
tones ;  "and  your  compassion  is  too  pious  ever  to  be  withdrawn 
from  me,  for  I  will  never  cease  to  deserve  your  kindness." 

The  answer  struck  an  equally  sensitive  chord  in  those 
present,  that  of  delicacy. 

"We  all  love  you,  Monsieur  Butscha,"  said  Madame  Mi- 
gnon  with  emotion. 

"I  have  six  hundred  thousand  francs  of  my  own !"  cried 
the  worthy  Dumay.  "You  shall  be  a  notary  at  le  Havre,  and 
Latournelle's  successor." 

The  American,  for  her  part,  had  taken  the  poor  hunch- 
back's hand  and  pressed  it. 

"You  have  six  hundred  thousand  francs !"  cried  Latour- 
nelle,  pricking  up  his  ears  at  this  speech,  "and  you  let  these 
ladies  stay  here !  And  Modesto  has  no  horse !  And  she  no 
longer  has  lessons  in  music,  in  painting,  in " 

"Oh,  he  has  only  had  the  money  a  few  hours,"  exclaimed 
the  American  wife. 

"Hush !"  said  Madame  Mignon.  While  this  was  going  on, 
the  dignified  Madame  Latournelle  had  recovered  herself. 
She  turned  to  Butscha.  • 

"My  dear  boy,"  said  she,  "you  have  so  much  affection 
around  you,  that  I  never  considered  the  particular  bear- 
ing of  a  common  phrase  as  applied  to  you  ;  but  you  may  thank 
me  for  my  blunder,  since  it  has  shown  you  what  friends  you 
have  earned  by  your  beautiful  nature." 

"Then  you  have  some  news  of  Monsieur  Mignon?"  asked 
the  notary. 

"He  is  coming  home,"  said  Madame  Mignon ;  "but  we  must 
keep  it  secret. — When  my  husband  hears  how  Butscha  has 
clung  to  us,  and  that  he  has  shown  us  the  warmest  and  most  dis- 
interested friendship  when  the  world  turned  its  back  on  us. 


MODESTE  MIGNON  111 

he  will  not  leave  you  to  provide  for  him  entirely,  Dumay. 
And  so,  my  friend,"  she  added,  trying  to  turn  towards 
Butseha,  "you  may  proceed  at  once  to  deal  with  Latour- 
nelle " 

"He  is  of  full  age,  five-and-twenty,"  said  Latournelle. 
"And.  on  my  part,  it  is  paying  off  a  debt,  my  dear  fellow, 
if  I  give  you  the  refusal  of  my  practice." 

Butseha  kissed  Madame  Mignon's  hand,  wetting  it  with  his 
tears,  and  showed  a  tearful  face  when  Modeste  opened  the 
drawing-room  door. 

"Who  has  been  distressing  my  mysterious  dwarf?"  she 
asked. 

"Oh,  mademoiselle,  do  we  children  nursed  in  sorrow  ever 
shed  tears  of  grief?  I  have  just  received  such  marks  of 
attachment,  that  I  was  moved  with  tenderness  for  all  those 
in  whom  I  liked  to  believe  I  had  found  relations.  I  am  to 
be  a  notary ;  I  may  grow  rich.  Ah,  ha !  Poor  Butseha  may 
some  day  be  rich  Butseha.  You  do  not  know  what  audacity 
exists  in  this  abortion !"  he  exclaimed. 

The  hunchback  struck  himself  hard  on  his  cavernous 
breast,  and  placed  himself  in  front  of  the  fireplace  after  giving 
Modeste  a  look  that  stole  like  a  gleam  from  under  his  heavy, 
drooping  eyelids;  for  in  this  unforeseen  conjuncture  he  had 
found  his  chance  of  sounding  his  sovereign  lady's  heart. 

For  an  instant  Dumay  fancied  that  the  clerk  had  dared 
aspire  to  Modeste;  he  exchanged  looks  with  his  friends  which 
were  understood  by  all,  and  which  made  them  gaze  at  the 
little  hunchback  w-ith  a  sort  of  dread  mingled  with  curiosity. 

"I — I  too — have  my  dreams/'  Butseha  went  on,  not  taking 
his  eyes  off  Modeste. 

The  girl  looked  down  instinctively,  in  a  way  which  was  a 
revelation  to  the  clerk.  "You  love  romances;  allow  me, 
in  the  midst  of  my  joy,  to  confide  my  secret  to  you,  and  you 
will  tell  me  if  the  end  of  the  romance  I  have  dreamed  of  for 
my  life  is  possible.  ...  If  not,  of  what  use  is  fortune. 
To  me,  more  than  any  one  else,  money  is  happiness,  since 
to  me  happiness  means  the  enriching  of  the  one  I  love !  You 
VOL.  6—33 


112  MODESTE  MlGNON 

who  know  so  many  things,  niademoisulle,  tell  nie  whether  a 
man  can  be  loved  independently  of  his  person — handsome 
or  ugly,  and  for  his  soul  alone." 

Modesle  looked  up  at  Butscha.  It  was  a  terrible,  question- 
ing look,  for  at  this  moment  Modeste  shared  Dumay's  sus- 
picions. "When  I  am  rich,  I  shall  look  out  for  some  poor 
but  beautiful  girl,  a  foundling  like  myself,  who  has  sulfered 
much,  and  is  very  unhappy ;  I  will  write  to  her,  comfort  her, 
be  her  good  genius;  she  shall  read  my  heart,  my  soul;  she 
shall  have  all  my  wealth,  in  both  kinds — my  gold,  offered  with 
great  delicacy,  and  my  mind,  beautified  by  all  the  graces 
which  the  misfortune  of  birth  has  denied  to  my  grotesque 
form !  And  I  will  remain  hidden,  like  a  cause  which  science 
seeks.  God  perhaps  is  not  beautiful. — The  girl  will  naturally 
be  curious  and  want  to  see  me;  but  I  shall  tell  her  that  I  am 
a  monster  of  ugliness,  I  will  describe  myself  as  hideous " 

At  this,  Modeste  looked  hard  in  his  face.  If  she  had  said, 
"What  do  you  know  of  my  love  affairs  ?"  it  could  not  have  been 
more  explicit. 

"If  I  am  so  happy  as  to  be  loved  for  the  poetry  of  my  soul ! 
— if,  some  day,  I  might  seem  to  that  woman  to  be  only 
slightly  deformed,  confess  that  I  shall  be  happier  than  the 
handsomest  of  men,  than  even  a  man  of  genius  beloved  by 
such  a  heavenly  creature  as  you  are " 

The  blush  that  mounted  to  Modeste's  face  betrayed  almost 
the  whole  of  the  girl's  secret  to  the  hunchback. 

"Well,  now,  if  a  man  can  enrich  the  girl  he  loves,  and 
charm  her  heart  irrespective  of  his  person,  is  that  the  way  to 
be  loved? — This  has  been  the  poor  hunchback's  dream — 
yesterday's  dream ;  for  to-day  your  adorable  mother  has  given 
me  the  clue  to  my  future  treasure  by  promising  to  facilitate 
my  acquiring  an  office  and  connection.  Still,  before  becoming 
a  Gobenheim,  I  must  know  whether  such  a  horrible  trans- 
formation will  achieve  its  end.  What  do  you  think,  made- 
moiselle, on  your  part  ?" 

Modeste  was  so  taken  by  surprise,  that  she  did  not  observe 
Sutseha's  appeal  to  her  judgment.     The  lover's  snare  was 


MODESTE  xMIGNON  118 

better  contrived  than  the  soldier's;  for  the  poor  girl,  quite  be- 
wildered, stood  speechless. 

"Poor  Butscha !"  said  Madame  Latoiirnelle  to  her  hus- 
band, "is  he  going  mad  ?" 

"You  want  to  play  the  fairy  tale  of  Beauty  and  the  Beast," 
said  Modeste  at  last,  "and  you  forget  that  the  Beast  is  turned 
into  Prince  Charming." 

"Do  you  think  so?"  said  the  dwarf.  "Now  I  have  always 
imagined  that  transformation  to  symbolize  the  phenomenon 
of  the  soul  becoming  visible  and  eclipsing  the  body  by  its 
radiant  glory.  If  I  should  never  be  loved,  I  shall  remain 
invisible,  that  is  all! — You  and  yours,  madame,"  said  he  to 
his  mistress,  "instead  of  having  a  dwarf  at  your  command, 
will  have  a  life  and  fortune." 

Butscha  returned  to  his  seat,  and  said  to  the  three  players, 
affecting  perfect  calmness : 

"Who  deals?" 

But  to  himself  he  was  saying  with  grief,  "She  wants  to  be 
loved  for  her  own  sake ;  she  is  corresponding  with  some  sham 
great  man,  and  how  far  has  she  gone  ?" 

"My  dear  riiamma,  it  has  struck  a  quarter  to  ten,"  said  Mo- 
deste to  her  mother. 

Madame  Mignon  bid  her  friends  good-night,  and  went  to 
bed. 

Those  who  insist  6n  loving  in  secret  may  be  watched  over 
by  Pyrenean  dogs,  mothers,  Dumays,  Latournelles — they  are 
in  no  danger  from  these;  but  a  lover!  It  is  diamond  cut 
diamond,  fire  against  fire,  wit  against  wit,  a  perfect  equation, 
of  which  the  terms  are  equal  and  interchangeable. 

On  Sunday  morning  Butscha  was  beforehand  with  Ma- 
dame Latournelle,  who  always  went  to  escort  Modeste  to 
mass,  and  stayed  cruising  about  outside  the  Chalet,  waiting 
for  the  postman. 

"Have  you  a  letter  for  Mademoiselle  Modeste  this  morn- 
ing?" he  asked  of  that  humble  functionary  as  he  approached. 

"No,  monsieur,  no -" 


114  Mor)ESTE  MIGNON 

"We  have  boon  ^^oad  oiistoniprs  of  the  Government  for  idm^ 
time  past !"  oxclainiod  the  clerk. 

"I  believe  you  !"'  replied  the  postman. 

Modeste  from  her  room  saw  and  heard  this  little  inter- 
view; she  posted  herself  at  her  window  at  this  hour,  behind 
the  Venetian  shutter,  to  watch  for  the  postman. 

She  went  down  and  out  into  the  little  garden,  where,  in  a 
husky  voice,  she  called  out,  "Monsieur  Butscha." 

"Here  am  I,  mademoiselle,"  said  the  hunchback,  coming  to 
the  little  gate,  which  Modeste  herself  opened. 

"Will  you  tell  me  whether  you  include  among  your  titles 
to  the  affection  of  a  woman  the  disgraceful  espionage  you 
choose  to  exercise?"  asked  the  girl,  trying  to  overwhelm  her 
slave  by  her  gaze  and  queenly  attitude. 

"Yes,  mademoiselle,"  he  proudly  replied.  "I  had  never 
imagined,"  he  added  in  a  low  voice,  "that  a  worm  could  do 
good  service  to  a  star !  But  so  it  is.  Would  you  rather  have 
your  heart  read  by  your  mother.  Monsieur  Dumay,  and  Ma- 
dame Latournelle,  than  by  a  poor  creature,  almost  an  outcast 
from  life,  who  is  yours  as  much  as  one  of  the  flowers  you  cut  to 
gratify  you  for  a  moment?  They  all  know  that  you  love; 
I  alone  know  how.  Take  me  as  you  would  take  a  watch-dog ; 
I  will  obey  you,  I  will  protect  you,  I  will  never  bark,  and  I 
will  have  no  opinions  about  you.  All  I  ask  is  that  you  will 
let  me  be  of  some  use  to  you.  Your  fa'ther  placed  a  Dumay 
in  your  menagerie;  try  a  Butscha,  and  you  will  find  it  quite 
another  story !  A  poor  Butscha,  who  asks  for  nothing,  not 
even  for  a  bone." 

"Well,  I  will  take  you  on  trial,"  said  Modeste,  who  only 
wished  to  be  rid  of  so  sharp  a  guardian.  "Go  at  once  to  all 
the  hotels  at  Graville  and  le  Havre,  and  ask  if  a  M.  Arthur 
has  arrived  from  England " 

"Listen,  mademoiselle,"  said  Butscha  respectfully,  but  in- 
terrupting Modeste,  "I  will  just  go  for  a  walk  on  the  beach, 
and  that  will  be  all  that  is  necessary,  for  you  do  not  wish  me 
to  go  to  church,  that  is  all." 

Modeste  looked  at  the  hunchback  in  blank  astonishment. 


MODESTE  MIGNON  115 

"Yes,  mademoiselle,  though  you  have  wrapped  your  face  in 
waddinp:  and  a  handkerchief,  you  have  no  cold;  though  3'ou 
have  a  double  veil  to  your  hat,  it  is  only  to  see  without  being 
seen/' 

"What  endows  you  with  so  much  penetration?"  cried  Mo- 
desto, reddening. 

i  "Why,  mademoiselle,  you  have  no  stays  on !  A  cold  would 
not  require  you  to  disguise  your  figure  by  putting  on  several 
petticoats,  to  hide  your  hands  in  old  gloves,  and  your  pretty 
feet  in  hideous  boots,  to  dress  yourself  anyhow,  to " 

"That  will  do,"  said  she.  "But,  now,  how  am  I  sure  that 
you  will  obey  me?" 

"My  master  wanted  to  go  to  Sainte-Adresse,  and  was 
rather  put  out ;  but  as  he  is  really  ver}-  kind,  he  would  not  de- 
prive me  of  my  Sunday.  Well,  I  will  propose  to  him  that  we 
should  go " 


"Go  then,  and  I  shall  trust  to  you " 

"Are  you  sure  you  will  not  want  me  at  le  Havre  ?" 

"Quite. — Listen,  mysterious  dwarf,  and  look  up,"  she  said, 
pointing  to  a  cloudless  sky.  "Can  you  see  the  track  left  by 
the  bird  that  flew  across  just  now  ?  Well,  my  actions,  as  pure 
as  that  pure  air,  leave  no  more  trace  than  that.  Reassure 
Dumay  and  the  Latournellcs,  reassure  my  mother;  and  be 
sure  that  this  hand"  (and  she  held  out  to  him  a  slender  little 
hand  with  upturned  finger-tips,  transparent  to  the  light) 
"will  never  be  given  away,  never  even  warmed  by  th*  kiss  of 
what  is  called  a  lover,  before  my  father's  return." 

"And  why  do  you  want  me  to  keep  away  from  church  to- 
day ?" 

"Do  you  cross-question  me,  after  all  I  have  done  you  the 
honor  to  tell  you  and  require  of  you  ?" 

Butscha  bowed  without  replying,  and  hastened  home,  en- 
raptured at  thus  entering  the  service  of  his  anonymous  mis- 
tress. 

An  hour  later  Monsieur  and  Madame  Latournelle  came  to 
fetch  Modesto,  who  complained  of  a  dreadful  toothache. 

"I  really  had  not  strength  to  dress,"  said  she. 


116  MODESTE  MIGNON 

"Well,  then,  stay  at  home,"  said  the  notary's  wife. 

"No,  no.  1  will  go  and  j)ray  for  my  father's  safe  return," 
replied  Modcste;  "and  I  thought  that  if  I  wrapped  up  well,  it 
would  do  me  more  good  than  harm  to  go  out." 

So  Mademoiselle  Mignon  set  out  alone  with  Latournelle. 
She  would  not  take  his  arm  for  fear  of  being  questioned  as  to 
the  internal  tremor  that  agitated  her  at  the  idea  of  so  soon 
seeing  her  great  poet.  One  look,  the  first,  w^as  about  to  decide 
her  future  existence. 

Ts  there  in  the  life  of  man  a  more  exquisite  moment  than 
that  of  the  first  promised  meeting?  Can  the  feelings  that  lie 
buried  in  his  heart,  and  that  then  burst  into  life,  ever  be 
known  again?  Can  he  ever  again  feel  the  pleasure  that  he 
finds,  as  did  Ernest  de  la  Brierc,  in  choosing  his  best  razors, 
his  finest  shirts,  spotless  collars,  and  impeccable  clothes?  We 
deify  everything  that  is  associated  with  that  supreme  hour 
We  imagine  poems  in  our  hearts,  secret  poems  as  beautiful 
as  the  woman's,  and  on  the  day  when  each  reads  the  other's 
soul  all  is  over !  Is  it  not  the  same  with  these  things  as  with 
the  blossom  of  those  wild  fruits,  at  once  sharp  and  sweet,  lost 
in  forest  depths,  the  delight  of  the  sun,  no  doubt;  or,  as 
Canalis  says  in  "The  Maiden's  Song,"  the  gladness  of  the 
plant  itself  which  the  Angel  of  Flowers  has  allowed  to  see 
its  own  beauty  ? 

This  leads  to  the  reflection  that  la  Briere,  a  modest  soul, 
like  many  another  penurious  being  for  whom  life  begins  with 
toil  and  money  difficulties,  had  never  yet  been  loved.  He 
had  arrived  at  le  Havre  the  night  before,  and  had  at  once 
gone  to  bed,  like  a  coquette,  to  efface  every  trace  of  his  journey ; 
and  he  had  now,  after  taking  a  bath,  just  completed  a  care- 
fully advantageous  toilet.  This,  perhaps,  is  the  place  for 
giving  a  full-length  portrait  of  him,  if  only  to  justify  the  last 
letter  Modeste  was  ever  to  write  to  him. 

Born  of  a  good  family  at  Toulouse,  distantly  connected  with 
that  Minister  who  took  him  under  his  patronage,  Ernest  has 
the  well-bred  air  which  comes  of  an  education  beffun  from 


MODESTE  MIGNON  117 

the  cradle;  the  habit  of  business  has  given  it  solidity  with- 
out effort,  for  pedantry  is  the  rock  on  which  precocious 
gravity  is  commonly  wrecked.  Of  medium  height,  his  face 
is  attractively  refined  and  gentle;  his  complexion  warm, 
though  colorless,  was  at  that  time  set  off  by  a  slender  mous- 
tache and  a  small  imperial,  a  virgule  a  la  Mazarin.  But  for 
these  manly  witnesses,  he  would, perhaps, have  looked  too  much 
like  a  girl  dressed  up,  so  delicate  is  the  cut  of  his  face  and  lips, 
so  natural  is  it  to  attribute  to  a  woman  teeth  of  transparent 
enamel  and  almost  artificial  evenness.  Add  to  these  femi- 
nine characteristics  a  voice  as  sweet  as  his  looks,  as  gentle  as 
his  turquoise  blue  eyes,  with  Oriental  lids,  and  you  will  per- 
fectly understand  how  it  was  that  the  Minister  had  nick- 
named his  young  private  secretary  Mademoiselle  de  la 
Briere.  His  broad,  smooth  forehead,  framed  under  thick 
black  hair,  has  a  dreamy  look  that  does  not  contradict  the 
expression  of  his  countenance,  which  is  wholly  melancholy. 
The  prominence  of  the  eyebrows,  though  delicately  arched, 
overshadows  the  eyes,  and  adds  to  this  look  of  melancholy  by 
the  sadness — a  physical  sadness,  so  to  speak — that  the  eye- 
lids give  when  they  half  close  the  eyes.  This  secret  bashful- 
ness,  to  which  we  give  the  name  of  modesty,  characterizes 
his  features  and  person.  The  whole  result  will,  perhaps, 
be  better  understood  if  we  add  that  the  theory  of  perfect  draw- 
ing demands  greater  length  in  the  shape  of  the  head,  more 
space  between  the  chin,  which  ends  abruptly,  and  the  forehead, 
on  which  the  hair  grows  too  low.  Thus  the  face  looks 
flattened.  Work  had  already  graven  a  furrow  between  the 
eyebrows,  which  were  thick,  and  too  nearly  met,  like  those  of 
all  jealous  natures.  Though  la  Briere  was  as  yet  slight,  his 
figure  was  one  of  those  which,  developing  late,  are  unexpect- 
edly stout  at  the  age  of  thirty. 

The  young  man  might  very  well  have  typified,  to  those  who 
are  familiar  with  French  history,  the  royal  and  mysterious 
personality  of  Louis  XIII.,  with  his  melancholy  diffidence 
for  no  known  reason,  pallid  under  his  crown,  loving  the 
fatigue  of  hunting,   and  hating  work;   so   timid  with  his 


118  MODESTE  MIGNON 

mistreBS  as  to  respect  her  virtue,  so  indifl'erent  to  his  friend 
as  to  leave  him  to  be  beheaded;  explicable  only  by  his  re- 
morse at  having  avenged  his  father  on  his  mother — either  a 
Catholic  Ilanilet  or  the  victim  of  some  incurable  malady. 
But  the  canker-worm  which  paled  the  King's  cheek  and  un- 
nerved his  strength,  was  as  yet,  in  Ernest,  no  more  than 
simple  distrust  of  himself,  the  shyness  of  a  man  to  whom  no 
woman  liad  ever  said,  "How  I  love  you!"  and,  above  all. 
wasted  self-sacrifice.  After  hearing  the  knell  of  a  monarchy 
in  the  fall  of  a  minister,  the  poor  boy  had  found  in  Canalis 
a  rock  hidden  under  tempting  mosses;  he  was  seeking  a 
despotism  to  worship;  and  this  uneasiness,  that  of  a  dog  in 
search  of  a  master,  gave  him  the  expression  of  the  king  who 
found  his.  These  clouds  and  feelings,  this  "pale  cast"  over 
his  whole  person,  made  his  face  far  more  attractive  than  the 
young  secretary  himself  imagined,  anno3'ed  as  he  was  some- 
times to  find  himself  classed  by  women  as  a  beau  tenehreux — 
gloomily  handsome;  a  style  gone  quite  out  of  fashion  at  a 
time  when  every  man  would  gladly  keep  the  clarions  of  ad- 
vertisement for  his  own  exclusive  use. 

So  Ernest  the  diffident  had  sought  the  adornment  of  the 
most  fashionable  clothes.  For  this  interview,  when  every- 
thing would  depend  on  first  sight,  he  donned  black  trousers 
and  carefully  polished  boots,  a  sulphur-colored  waistcoat,  re- 
vealing an  excessively  fine  shirt  fastened  with  opal  studs, 
a  black  necktie,  and  a  short  blue  coat,  which  looked  as  if  it 
had  been  glued  to  his  back  and  waist  by  some  new  process; 
his  rosette  graced  the  button-hole.  He  wore  smart  kid 
gloves  of  the  color  of  Florentine  bronze,  a^d  held  in  his  left 
hand  a  light  cane  and  his  hat,  with  a  certain  Louis-quatorze 
air;  thus  showing,  as  the  sacred  place  demanded,  his  carefully 
combed  hair,  on  which  the  light  shed  satin-like  reflections. 
Standing  sentry  under  the  porch  from  the  very  beginning 
of  the  service,  he  studied  the  church  while  watching  all  the 
Christians,  more  especially  those  in  petticoats,  who  came 
to  dip  their  fingers  in  the  holy  water. 

As  Modeste  came  in,  an  inner  voice  cried  out,  "  'Ti*  he  \" 


MODESTE  MIGNON  119 

That  coat  and  figure,  so  essentially  Parisian,  the  rosette,  the 
gloves,  the  walking-stick,  the  scented  hair — npne  of  these 
things  were  native  to  le  Havre.  And  when  la  Briere 
turned  to  look  at  the  notary's  tall  and  showy  wife,  the  little 
notary  himself  and  the  bundle — a  word  dedicated  to  this 
sense  by  women — ^under  which  Modeste  had  concealed  her- 
self, though  she  was  fully  prepared,  the  poor  child  was 
stricken  to  the  heart  by  the  aspect  of  this  romantic  counte- 
nance, in  the  bright  daylight  from  the  open  door.  She  could 
not  be  mistaken;  a  small  white  rose  almost  hid  the  rosette. 
Would  Ernest  recognize  his  unknown  fair  hidden  under  an 
old  hat  and  a  double  veil?  Modeste  was  so  fearful  of  the 
clairvoyance  of  love  that  she  walked  with  an  elderly  shuffle. 

"Wife,"  said  Latournelle,  as  he  went  to  his  place,  "that  man 
does  not  belong  to  le  Havre." 

"So  many  strangers  come  through,"  replied  the  lady. 

"But  do  strangers  ever  think  of  coming  to  see  our  church, 
which  is  not  more  than  two  centuries  old?" 

Ernest  remained  in  the  porch  all  through  the  service  with- 
out seeing  any  woman  who  realized  his  hopes.  Modeste,  on 
her  part,  could  not  control  her  trembling  till  near  the  end. 
She  was  agitated  by  Joys  which  she  alone  could  have  described. 
At  last  she  heard  on  the  pavement  the  step  of  a  gentleman, 
for.  Mass  being  over,  Ernest  was  Avalking  round  the  church, 
where  no  one  remained  but  the  dilettanti  of  prayer,  who  be- 
came to  him  the  object  of  anxious  and  piercing  scrutiny.  He 
remarked  the  excessive  trembling  of  the  prayer-book  held  by 
the  veiled  lady  as  he  passed  her ;  and  as  she  was  the  only  one 
who  hid  her  face,  he  conceived  some  suspicions,  confirmed  by 
Modeste's  dress,  which  he  studied  with  the  care  of  an  in- 
quisitive lover. 

When  Madame  Latournelle  left  the  church,  he  followed  her 
at  a  decent  distance,  and  saw  her,  with  Modeste,  go  into  the 
house  in  the  Eue  Royale,  where  Mademoiselle  Mignon  usually 
waited  till  the  hour  of  vespers.  Ernest  studied  the  house, 
decorated  with  escutcheons,  and  asked  of  a  passer-by  the 
name  of  the  owner,  who  was  niontioned  almost  with  pride  as 
Monsieur  Latournelle,  the  first  notarv  of  le  Havre. 


120  MODESTE  MIGNON 

As  he  lounged  clo^m  the  Rue  Royale,  trying  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  the  interior  of  the  house,  Modeste  could  see  her 
lover;  she  then  declared  herself  to  he  too  ill  to  attend 
vespers,  and  Madame  Latournelle  kept  her  company.  So 
poor  Ernest  had  his  cruise  for  his  pains.  He  dared  not  go  to 
loiter  about  Ingouville ;  he  made  it  a  point  of  honor  to  obey, 
and  returned  to  Paris  after  writing  a  letter  while  waiting 
for  the  coach,  and  posting  it  for  Frangoise  Cochet  to  receive 
next  morning  with  the  postmark  of  le  Havre, 

Monsieur  and  Madame  Latournelle  dined  at  the  Chalet 
every  Sunday,  taking  Modeste  home  after  vespers.  As  soon 
as  the  young  lady  felt  better,  they  all  went  up  to  Ingouville, 
followed  by  Butscha.  Modeste,  quite  happy,  now  dressed 
herself  beautifully.  As  she  went  down  to  dinner  she  forgot 
all  about  her  disguise  of  the  morning  and  her  cold,  and  sang : 

Night  and  sleep  begone!    My  heart,  the  violet 
To  God  hier  incense  breathes  at  break  of  day! 

Butscha  felt  a  thrill  as  he  beheld  Modeste,  she  seemed  to 
him  so  completely  changed;  for  the  wings  of  love  fluttered, 
as  it  were,  on  her  shoulders,  she  looked  like  a  sylph,  and  her 
cheeks  glowed  with  the  divine  hue  of  happiness. 

"Whose  words  are  those  which  you  have  set  to  such  a  pretty 
air?"  Madame  Mignon  asked  her  daughter. 

"They  are  by  Canalis,  mamma,"  she  replied,  turning  in 
an  "instant  to  the  finest  crimson,  from  her  neck  to  the  roots  of 
her  hair. 

"Canalis !"  exclaimed  the  dwarf,  who  learned  from  Mo- 
deste's  tone  and  blush  all  of  her  secret  that  he  as  yet  knew  not. 
"He,  the  great  poet,  does  he  write  ballads  ?" 

"They  are  some  simple  lines,"  replied  she,  "to  which  I  have 
ventured  to  adapt  some  reminiscences  of  German  airs." 

"N"o,  no,  my  child,"  said  Madame  Mignon;  "that  music 
is  your  own,  my  dear !" 

Modeste,  feeling  herself  grow  hotter  and  hotter,  went  out 
into  the  garden,  taking  Butscha  with  her. 


MODESTE  MIGNON  121 

"You  can  do  me  a  groat  service,"  said  she,  in  an  under- 
tone. "Dumay  is  affecting  discretion  to  my  mother  and  me 
as  to  the  amount  of  the  fortune  my  father  is  bringing  home, 
and  I  want  to  know  the  truth.  Has  not  Dumay,  at  different 
times,  sent  papa  five  hundred  and  something  thousand  francs  ? 
My  father  is  not  the  man  to  stay  abroad  four  years  simply  to 
ilouble  his  capital.  Now  a  ship  is  coming  in  that  is  all  his 
own,  and  the  share  he  offers  Dumay  amounts  to  nearly  six 
hundred  thousand  francs." 

"We  need  not  question  Dumay,"  said  Butscha.  "Your 
father  had  lost,  as  you  know,  four  millions  of  francs  before 
his  departure,  these  he  has  no  doubt  recovered ;  he  would  cer- 
tainly have  given  Dumay  ten  per  cent  of  his  profits ;  so,  from 
the  fortune  the  worthy  Breton  confesses  to,  my  chief  and  I 
calculate  that  the  Colonel's  must  amount  to  six  or  seven 
millions " 

"Oh,  father !"  cried  Modeste,  crossing  her  arms,  and  raising 
her  eyes  to  heaven,  "you  have  given  me  a  second  life  !" 

"Oh,  mademoiselle,  you  love  a  poet !  A  man  of  that  stamp 
is  more  or  less  of  a  Narcissus.  Will  he  love  you  as  he  ought  ? 
A  craftsman  in  words,  always  absorbed  in  fitting  sentences 
together,  is  very  fatiguing.  A  poet,  mademoiselle,  is  not 
poetry — no  more  than  the  seed  is  the  flower." 

"Butscha,  I  never  saw  such  a  handsome  man!" . 

"Beauty,  mademoiselle,  is  a  veil  which  often  serves  to  hide 
many  imperfections." 

"He  has  the  most  angelic  heart  that  heaven " 

"God  grant  you  may  be  right,"  said  the  dwarf,  clasping  his 
hands.  "May  you  be  happy !  That  man,  like  yourself,  will 
have  a  slave  in  Jean  Butscha.  I  shall  then  no  longer  be  a 
notary ;  I  shall  give  myself  up  to  study — to  science " 

"And  why  ?" 

"Well,  mademoiselle,  to  bring  up  your  children,  if  you  will 
condescend  to  allow  me  to  be  their  tutor.  .  .  .  Oh !  if  you 
would  accept  a  piece  of  advice !  Look  here,  let  me  go  to  work 
jny  own  way.  I  could  ferret  out  this  man's  life  and  habits, 
could  discover  if  he  is  kind,  if  he  is  violent  or  gentle,  if  he  will 


122  MODESTE  MIGNON 

sliow  you  the  rospoct  you  deserve,  if  he  is  capable  of  loving  you 
perfectly,  preferring  you  to  all  else,  even  to  his  own  tal' 
ent " 

"What  can  it  matter  if  I  love  him?"  said  she  simply. 

"To  be  sure,  that  is  true,"  cried  the  hunchback. 

At  this  moment  Madame  i\Iignon  was  saying  to  her 
friends :  • 

"My  daughter  has  this  day  seen  the  man  she  loves." 

"Can  it  be  that  sulphur-colored  waistcoat  that  plizzled  youl 
so  much,  Latournelle?"  cried  the  notary's  wife.  "That  young 
man  had  a  pretty  white  rosebud  in  his  button-hole " 

"Ah !"  said  the  mother,  "a  token  to  be  known  by  !" 

"He  wore  the  rosette  of  the  Legion  of  Honor,"  Madame  La- 
tournelle went  on.  "He  is  a  charming  youth !  But  we  are  all 
wrong;  ]\Iodeste  never  raised  her  veil,  she  was  huddled  up  like 
a  pauper,  and " 

"And  she  said  she  was  ill,"  added  the  notary.  "But  she 
has  thrown  off  her  mufflers,  and  is  perfectly  well  now !" 

"It  is  incomprehensible !"  said  Dumay. 

"Alas !  it  is  as  clear  as  day,"  said  the  notary. 

"My  child,"  said  Madame  Mignon  to  Modeste,  who  came  in, 
followed  by  Butscha,  "did  you  happen  to  see  in  church  this 
morning  a  well-dressed  little  man  with  a  white  rose  in  his  but- 
ton-hole, and  the  rosette " 

"I  saw  him,"  Butscha  hastily  put  in,  seeing  by  the  attention 
of  the  whole  party  what  a  trap  Modeste  might  fall  into.  "It 
w'as  Grindot,  the  famous  architect,  with  whom  the  town  is 
treating  for  the  restoration  of  the  church.  He  came  from 
Paris,  and  I  found  him  this  morning  examining  the  outside 
as  I  set  out  for  Sainte-Adresse." 

"Oh !  he  is  an  architect !  He  puzzled  me  greatly,"  said 
Modeste,  to  whom  Butscha  had  secured  time  to  recover  her- 
self. 

Dumay  looked  askance  at  Butscha.  ^lodeste,  put  on  her 
guard,  assumed  an  impenetrable  demeanor.  Dumay's  sus- 
picions were  excited  to  the  highest  pitch,  and  ho  resolved  to  go 
Bext  day  to  the  Mairie  and  ascertain  whether  the  expected 


MODESTE  MIGNON  123 

architect  had  in  fact  been  at  le  Havre.  Butscha,  on  his  part, 
very  uneasy  as  to  Modeste's  ultimate  fate,  decided  on  starting 
for  Paris  to  set  a  watch  over  Canalis. 

Gobenheim  arrived  in  time  to  phiy  a  rubber,  and  his  pres- 
ence repressed  the  ferment  of  feeling.  Modeste  awaited  her 
mother's  bedtime  almost  with  impatience ;  she  wanted  to  write, 
and  this  is  the  letter  her  love  dictated  to  her  when  she 
thought  that  every  one  was  asleep. 


XIII. 

To  Monsieur  de  Canalis. 

"Oh,  my  best-beloved  friend,  what  vile  libels  are  your  por- 
traits displayed  in  the  print-sellers'  windows !  And  I  who 
was  happy  with  that  detestable  lithograph !  I  am  quite  shy 
of  loving  such  a  handsome  man.  No,  I  cannot  conceive  that 
Paris  women  can  be  so  stupid  as  not  to  see,  one  and  all,  that 
you  are  the  fulfilment  of  their  dreams.  You  neglected  !  You 
loveless ! — I  do  not  believe  a  word  you  have  said'  about  your 
obscure  and  laborious  life,  your  devotion  to  an  idol  till  now 
vainly  sought  for.  You  have  been  too  well  loved,  monsieur; 
your  brow,  as  pale  and  smooth  as  a  magnolia  petal,  plainly 
shows  it,  and  I  shall  be  wretched. 

"What  am  I  now  ? — Ah !  why  have  you  called  me  forth  to 
life?  In  one  instant  I  felt  that  I  had  shed  my  ponderous 
chrysalis !  My  soul  burst  the  crystal  which  held  it  captive ; 
it  rushed  through  my  veins.  In  short,  the  cold  silence  of 
things  suddenly  ceased  to  me ;  everything  in  nature  spoke  to 
me.  The  old  church 'to  me  was  luminous;  its  vault,  glitter- 
ing with  gold  and  azure,  like  that  of  an  Italian  church, 
sparkled  above  my  head.  The  melodious  strains,  sung  by 
angels  to  martyrs  to  make  them  forget  their  a^iguish,  sounded 
through  the  organ !  The  hideous  pavement  of  le  Havre 
seemed  like  a  flowery  path.     I  recognized  the  sea  as  an  old 


124  MODESTE  MIGNON 

friend,  whoso  language,  full  of  sympalliy,  I  liad  never  known 
M'ell  enough.  T  saw  how  the  roses  in  my  garden  and  green- 
house had  long  worshiped  me,  and  whispered  to  me  to  love ! 
They  all  smiled  on  me  on  my  return  from  church;  and,  to 
crown  all,  I  heard  your  name  of  Melchior  murmured  hy  the 
flower-bells ;  I  saw  it  written  on  the  clouds  !  Yes,  I  am  indeed 
alive,  thanks  to  you — poet  more  beautiful  than  that  cold  and 
prim  Lord  Byron,  whose  face  is  as  dull  as  "the  English  climate. 
Wedded  to  you  by  one  only  of  your  Oriental  glances  which 
pierced  my  black  veil,  3'ou  transfused  your  blood  into  my 
veins,  and  it  fired  me  from  head  to  foot.  Ah,  we  do  not  feel 
life  like  that  when  our  mothers  bring  us  into  the  world?  A 
blow  dealt  to  yo\i  would  fall  on  nic  at  the  same  instant,  and  my 
existence  henceforth  can  only  be  accounted  for  by  your  mind. 
I  know  now  the  purpose  of  the  divine  harmony  of  music;  it 
was  invented  by  the  angels  to  express  love. 

"To  be  a  genius  and  handsome  too,  my  Melchior,  is  too 
much.  A  man  should  have  a  choice  at  his  birth.  But  when  I 
think  of  the  treasures  of  tenderness  and  affection  you  have 
lavished  on  me,  especially  during  this  last  month,  I  wonder 
w^hether  I  am  dreaming!  iSTayj  you  must  be  hiding  some 
mystery.  What  woman  could  give  you  up  without  dying  of 
it?  Yes,  jealousy  has  entered  my  heart  with  such  love  as 
I  could  not  believe  in !     Could  I  imagine  such  a  conflagration? 

"A  new  and  inconceivable  vagary !  I  now  wish  you  were 
ugly!  What  follies  I  committed  when  I  got  home!  Every 
yellow  dahlia  reminded  me  of  your  pretty  waistcoat,  every 
white  rose  was  a  friend,  and  I  greeted  them  with  a  look 
which  was  yours,  as  I  am  wholly !  The  color  of  the  gentle- 
man's well-fitting  gloves — everything,  to  the  sound  of  his  step 
on  the  flagstones — everything  is  so  exactly  represented  by  my 
memory  that,  sixty  years  hence,  I  shall  still  see  the  smallest 
details  of  this  high  day,  the  particular  color  of  the  atmosphere, 
and  the  gleam  of  the  sunbeam  reflected  from  a  pillar;  I  shall 
hear  the  prayer  which  your  advent  broke  into ;  I  shall  breathe 
the  incense  from  the  altar;  and  I  shall  fancy  that  I  feel 
above  our  heads  the  hands  of  the  priest  who  was  giving  us 


MODESTE  MIGNON  125 

the  final  benediction  just  as  you  went  past.  That  good 
Abbe  Marcellin  has  married  us  already.  The  superhuman 
joy  of  experiencing  this  world  of  new  and  unexpected 
emotions  can  only  be  equaled  by  the  joy  I  feel  in  telling  you 
of  them,  in  rendering  up  all  my  happiness  to  him  who  pours 
it  into  my  soul  with  the  unstinting  bounty  of  the  sun.  So  no 
more  veils,  my  beloved !  Come,  oh,  come  back  soon !  I 
will  unmask  with  joy. 

"You  have,  no  doubt,  heard  of  the  firm  of  Mignon  of  le 
Havre?  Well, in  consequence  of  anirreparableloss,Iamthesole 
heiress  of  the  family.  Do  not  scorn  us,  you  who  are  descended 
from  one  of  the  heroes  of  Auvergne.  The  arms  of  Mignon  de 
la  Bastie  will  not  dishonor  those  of  Canalis.  They  are  gules, 
a  bend  sable  charged  with  three  besants,  in  each  quarter  a 
patriarchal  cross  or,  surmount-ed  by  a  cardinal's  hat,  and  the 
cord  and  tassels  as  mantling.  My  dear,  I  will  be  faithful  to 
our  motto,  U?ia  fides,  unus  Doniinus!  The  true  faith,  and 
one  Lord. 

"Perhaps,  my  friend,  you  will  think  there  is  some  irony 
in  my  name  after  all  I  have  here  confessed.  It  is  Modesto. 
Thus,  I  did  not  altogether  cheat  you  in  signing  '0.  d'Este- 
M.'  Nor  did  I  deceive  you  in  speaking  of  my  fortune;  it 
will,  I  believe,  amount  to  the  sum  which  has  made  jou  so 
virtuous.  And  I  know  so  surely  that  to  you  money  is  so  un- 
important a  consideration,  that  I  can  write  of  it  unaffectedly. 
At  the  same  time,  you  must  let  me  tell  you  how  glad  I  am  to 
be  able  to  endow  our  happiness  with  the  freedom  of  action 
and  movement  that  wealth  gives,  the  power  of  saying,  'Let  us 

go '  when  the  fancy  takes  us  to  see  a  foreign  land,  of 

flying  off  in  a  comfortable  carriage,  seated  side  by  side,  with- 
out a  care  about  money ;  and  happy,  too,  to  give  you  the  right 
of  saying  to  the  King,  'I  have  such  a  fortune  as  you  require 
in  your  peers !' 

"In  this,  Modesto  Mignon  can  be  of  some  service  to  you, 
and  her  money  will  find  noble  uses.  As  to  your  humble 
servant,  you  have  seen  her  once,  at  her  window  in  a  wrapper. 
— Yes,  the  fair-haired  daughter  of  Eve  was  your  unknown 


126  MODESTE  MIGNON 

correspondent ;  but  how  little  does  {lie  Modeste  of  to-day 
resemble  her  wboin  you  then  saw !  She  was  wrapped  in  a 
shroud,  and  this  other — have  I  not  told  you  so? — has  derived 
from  you  the  life  of  life.  Pure  and  permitted  love,  a  love 
that  my  father,  now  at  last  returnin^^  from  his  travels  and 
with  riches,  will  sanction,  has  uplifted  nie  with  its  childlike 
but  powerful  hand  from  the  depths  of  the  tomb  where  I  was 
sleeping.  You  awoke  me  as  the  sun  awakes  the  flowers.  The 
.irlance  of  her  you  love  is  not  now  that  of  the  bold-faced  little 
Modeste  !  Oh,  no  :  it  is  bashful,  it  has  glimpses  of  happiness, 
and  veils  itself  under  chaste  eyelids.  My  fear  now  is  that  I 
cannot  deserve  my  lot.  The  King  has  appeared  in  his  glory; 
my  liege  has  now  a  mere  vassal,  who  implores  his  forgiveness 
for  taking  such  liberties,  as  the  thimble-rigger  with  loaded 
dice  did  after  cheating  the  Chevalier  de  Grammont. 

"Yes,  beloved  poet,  I  will  be  your  'Mignon,'  but  a  happier 
Mignon  than  Goethe's,  for  you  will  leave  me  to  dwell  in  my 
native  land,  won't  you  ? — in  your  heart. 

"As  I  write  this  bridal  wish,  a  nightingale  in  the  Vilquins' 
park  has  just  answered  for  you.  Oh !  let  me  quickly  hear  that 
the  nightingale,  with  his  long-drawn  note,  so  pure,  so  clear,  so 
full,  inundating  my  heart  with  love  and  gladness,  like  an 
Annunciation,  has  not  lied. 

"My  father  will  pass  through  Paris  on  his  way  from  Mar- 
seilles. The  house  of  Mongenod,  his  correspondents,  will 
know  his  address ;  go  to  see  him,  my  dearest  Melchior,  tell 
him  that  you  love  me,  and  do  not  try  to  tell  him  how  much 
I  love  you ;  let  that  be  a  secret  always  between  us  and  God ! 
I,  dear  adored  one,  will  tell  my  mother  everything.  She, 
a  daughter  of  Wallenrod  Tustall-Bartenstild,  will  justify  me 
by  her  ca revises ;  she  will  be  made  happy  by  our  secret  and 
romantic  poem,  at  once  human  and  divine !  You  have  the 
daughter's  pledge ;  now  obtain  the  consent  of  the  Comte  de  la 
Bastie,  the  father  of  your  own 

"Modeste. 

"P.  S. — Above  all,  do  not  come  to  le  Havre  without  having 


MODESTE  MIGNON  127 

obtained  my  father's  permission ;  and,  if  you  love  me,  you  will 
be  able  to  discover  him  on  his  way  through  Paris." 

"What  are  you  doing  at  this  time  of  night.  Mademoiselle 
Modeste?"  asked  Dumay. 

"I  am  writing  to  my  father,"  she  replied  to  the  old  soldier. 
"Did  3^ou  not  tell  me  that  you  were  starting  to-morrow  ?" 

Dumay  had  no  answer  to  this,  and  went  to  bed,  while  Mo- 
deste  wrote  a  long  letter  to  her  father. 

i^^Text  day  Franc^-oise  Cochet,  alarmed  at  seeing  the  Havre 
postmark,  came  up  to  the  Chalet  to  deliver  to  her  young 
mistress  the  following  letter,  and  carry  away  that  which  Mo- 
deste  had  written. 

To  Mademoiselle  0.  d'Este-M. 

"My  heart  warns  me  that  you  were  the  woman,  so  carefuliy 
veiled  and  disguised,  placed  between  Monsieur  and  Madame 
Latournelle,  who  have  but  one  child,  a  son.  Ah,  dearly  loved 
one !  if  you  are  of  humble  rank,  devoid  of  position,  dis- 
tinction, or  even  fortune,  you  cannot  imagine  what  my  Joy 
would  be.  You  must  know  me  by  this  time;  wh}^  not  tell 
me  the  whole  truth?  I  am  no  poet  excepting  through  love, 
in  my  heart,  and  for  you.  Oh,  what  immense  affection  I  must 
have  to  stay  here,  in  this  Hotel  de  NormandiCjand  not  walk  up 
to  Ingouville,  that  I  can  see  from  my  windows?  Will  you 
love  me  as  I  love  you  ?  To  have  to  leave  le  Havre  for  Paris 
in  such  uncertainty !  Is  not  that  being  punished  for  loving 
as  if  I  had  committed  a  crime  ? — I  have  obeyed  you  blindly. 

"Ah. !  let  me  soon  have  a  letter ;  for,  if  you  are  mysterious, 
I  have  returned  mystery  for  mystery,  and  I  must  at  last  throw 
off  the  mask  of  my  in-cognito,  and  tell  you  how  little  I  am  a 
poet,  abdicating  the  glory  you  have  lent  me." 

This  letter  greatly  disturbed  Modeste ;  she  could  not  with- 
draw her  ov/n,  which  Frangoise  had  already  posted  by  the 
time  she  read  the  last  lines  once  more,  puzzled  as  to  their 
VOL.  6—34 


128  MODESTE  MIGNON 

meaning;  but  she  went  up  to  her  room,  and  wrote  an  answer, 
asking  for  explanations. 

During  these  little  incidents,  others,  equally  small,  were 
happening  in  the  town,  and  were  destined  to  make  Modeste 
forget  her  uneasiness.  Dumay,  having  gone  early  to  le 
Havre,  at  once  knew  that  no  architect  had  arrived  there  the 
night  before  last.  Furious  at  the  lie  told  him  by  Butscha, 
which  revealed  a  complicity  which  he  would  know  the  mean- 
ing of,  he  hurried  from  the  Mairie  to  the  Latournelles. 

"Where  is  your  Master  Butscha?"  asked  he  of  his  friend 
the  notary,  on  not  finding  the  clerk  in  the  office. 

"Butscha,  my  dear  fellow?  He  is  on  the  road,  to  Paris, 
whisked  away  by  the  steamboat.  Early  this  morning,  on 
the  quay,  he  met  a  sailor,  who  told  him  that  his  father,  the 
Swedish  sailor,  has  come  into  some  money.  Butscha's  father 
went  to  India.,  it  would  seem,  and  served  some  prince,  a 
Mahratta,  and  he  is  now  in  Paris " 

"A  pack  of  lies  !  Shameful !  Monstrous  !  Oh,  I  will  find 
that  damned  hunchback ;  I  am  going  to  Paris,  and  on  purpose 
for  that !"  cried  Dumay.  "Butscha  is  deceiving  us !  He 
knows  something  about  Modeste,  and  has  never  told  us.     If 

he  dares  meddle  in  the  matter He  shall  never  be  a 

notar}-;  I  will  cast  him  back  on  his  mother,  in  the  mire,  in 
the " 

"Come,  my  friend,  never  hang  a  man  without  trj'ing  him," 
replied  Latournelle,  terrified  at  Dumay 's  exasperation. 

After  explaining  on  what  his  suspicions  were  founded,  Du- 
may begged  Madame  Latournelle  to  stay  at  the  Chalet  with 
Modeste  during  his  absence. 

"You  will  find  the  Colonel  in  Paris,"  said  the  notary.  "In 
the  shipping  news  this  morning,  in  the  Commerce  newspaper, 
under  the  heading  of  Marseilles. — Here,  look  !"  he  said,  hand- 
ing him  the  sheet,  'The  Bettina-Mignon,  Captain  Mignon, 
arrived  October  16th,'  and  to-day  is  the  17th.  At  this  mo- 
ment all  le  Havre  knows  of  the  master's  return." 

Dumay  requested  Gobenheim  to  dispense  henceforth  with 
his  services;  he  then  returned  at  once  to  the  Chalet,  soins: 


MODESTE  MIGNON  129 

in  at  the  moment  when  Modeste  had  just  closed  her  letters 
to  her  father  and  to  C-analis.  The  two  letters  were  exactly 
alike  in  shape  and  thickness,  differing  only  in  the  address. 
Modeste  thought  she  had  laid  that  to  her  father  over  that 
to  her  Melchior,  and  had  done  just  the  reverse.  This  mistake, 
so  common  in  the  trifles  of  life,  led  to  the  discovery  of 
her  secret  by  her  mother  and  Dumay. 

The  lieutenant  was  talking  eagerly  to  Madame  Mignon 
in  the  drawing-room,  confiding  to  her  the  fresh  fears  to  which 
Modeste's  duplicity  and  Butscha's  connivance  had  given  rise. 

"I  tell  you,  madame,"  he  exclaimed,  '^'^lie  is  a  viper  we  have 
warmed  on  our  hearth ;  there  is  not  room  for  a  soul  in  these 
fag-ends  of  humanity." 

Modeste  had  slipped  the  letter  to  her  father  into  her  pocket, 
fancying  that  it  was  the  letter  to  her  lover,  and  went  down 
with  that  addressed  to  Canalis  in  her  hand,  hearing  Dumay 
speak  of  starting  immediately  for  Paris. 

"What  is  wrong  with  my  poor  Mysterious  Dwarf,  and  why 
are  you  talking  so  loud  ?"  said  she  at  the  door  of  the  drawing- 
room. 

"Butscha,  mademoiselle,  set  out  for  Paris  this  morning,  and 
you,  no  doubt,  can  say  why ! — It  must  be  to  carry  on  some 
intrigue  with  the  so-called  little  architect  in  a  sulphur-colored 
waistcoat,  who,  unluckily  for  the  hunchback's  falsehood,  has 
not  yet  been  to  le  Havre." 

Modeste  was  startled ;  she  guessed  that  the  dwarf  had  gone 
off  to  make  his  own  inquiries  as  to  the  poet's  manners  and 
customs;  she  turned  pale,  and  sat  down. 

"I  will  be  after  him ;  I  will  find  him !"  said  Dumay.  "That, 
no  doubt,  is  the  letter  for  your  father  ?"  he  added,  holding  out 
his  hand.  "I  will  send  it  to  Mongenod's — if  only  my 
Colonel  and  I  do  not  cross  on  the  way." 

Modeste  gave  him  the  letter.  Little  Dumay,  who  could 
read  without  spectacles,  mechanically  read  the  address : 

"Monsieur  le  Baron  de  Canalis,  Hue  de  Paradis-Poisson- 
niere.  No.  291*  he  exclaimed.  "What  is  the  meaning  of 
this  ?" 


130  MODESTE  MIGNON 

"Ah!  m}-  child,  then  he  is  the  man  you  love!"  cried  Ma- 
dame Mi^j^non.     ''Tlie  verses  you  set  to  music  are  by  him " 

"And  it  is  his  portrait  that  you  have  upstairs  in  a  frame !" 
added  Dumay. 

"Give  me  back  that  letter,  Monsieur  Dumay,"  said  Modeste, 
drawing  herself  up,  like  a  lioness  defending  her  cubs. 

"Here  it  is,  mademoiselle,"  he  replied.  Modeste  slipped 
the  letter  into  her  bosom,  and  held  out  to  Dumay  that  ad- 
dressed to  her  father. 

"I  know  you  to  be  capable  of  anything,  Dumay,"  said  she ; 
"but  if  you  move  a  single  step  towards  Monsieur  de  Canalis, 
I  will  take  one  out  of  this  house,  and  never  come  back !" 

"You  will  kill  your  mother !"  replied  Dumay,  who  went  to 
call  his  wife. 

The  poor  mother  had  fainted  away,  stricken  to  the  heart 
by  Modeste's  threatening  speech. 

"Good-bye,  wife,"  said  the  Breton,  embracing  the  little 
American.  "Save  the  mother;  I  am  going  to  save  the  daugh- 
ter." 

He  left  Modeste  and  Madame  Dumay  with  Madame  Mi- 
gnon,  made  liis  preparations  in  a  few  minutes,  and  went  down 
to  le  Havre.  An  hour  later  he  set  off  by  post  with  the  swift- 
ness which  passion  or  interest  alone  can  give  to  the  wheels. 

Madame  Mignon  soon  revived  under  her  daughter's  care, 
and  went  up  to  her  room,  leaning  on  Modeste's  arm ;  the  only 
reproach  she  uttered  when  they  were  alone  was  to  say,  "Un- 
happy child !  what  have  you  done?  Why  hide  anything  from 
me  ?     Am  I  so  stern  ?" 

"Why,  of  course,  I  was  going  to  tell  you  everything,"  re- 
plied the  girl  in  tears. 

She  told  her  mother  the  whole  story ;  she  read  her  all  the 
letters  and  replies;  she  plucked  the  rose  of  her  poem  to 
pieces,  petal  by  petal,  to  lay  in  the  heart  of  the  kind  German 
lady ;  this  took  up  half  the  day.  When  her  confession  was 
ended,  and  she  saw  something  like  a  smile  on  the  lips  of  the 
too  indulgent  blind  woman,  she  threw  herself  into  her  arms 
with  tears. 


MODESTE  MIGNON  131 

"Oh,  mother!"  cried  she,  in  the  midst  of  her  sobs,  "you 
whose  heart  is  of  gold,  and  all  poetry,  and  like  some  choice 
vessel  moulded  by  Cod  to  contain  the  one  pure  and  heavenly 
love  that  can  fill  a  whole  life ! — you  whom  I  long  to  imitate 
by  loving  nothing  on  earth  but  my  husband — you  must  know 
how  bitter  are  these  tears  which  I  shed  at  this  moment,  which 
fall  wet  on  your  hands. — The  butterfly  with  iridescent  wings, 
that  beautiful  second  soul  which  your  daughter  has  cherished 
with  maternal  care — my  love,  my  sacred  love,  that  inspired 
and  living  mystery,  has  fallen  into  vulgar  hands  that  will 
tear  its  wings  and  its  veil  under  the  cruel  pretext  of  en- 
lightening me,  of  inquiring  whether  genius  is  as  correct  as  a 
banker,  if  my  Melchior  is  capable  of  amassing  dividends,  if  he 
has  some  love  affair  to  be  unearthed,  if  he  is  not  guilty  in 
vulgar  eyes  of  some  youthful  episode,  which  to  our  love  is 
what  a  cloud  is  to  the  sun.  What  are  they  going  to  do? — 
Here,  feel  my  hand;  I  am  in  a  fever !     They  will  kill  him  !" 

Modesto,  seized  by  a  deadly  shivering  fit,  was  obliged  to  go 
to  bed,  alarming  her  mother,  Madame  Latournelle,  and  Ma- 
dame Dumay,  who  nursed  her  while  the  Lieutenant  was 
traveling  to  Paris,  whither  the  logic  of  events  transfers  our 
tale  for  the  moment. 

Men  who  are  truly  modest,  like  Ernest  de  la  Briere,  and 
especially  those  who,  though  knowing  their  own  value,  are 
neither  loved  nor  appreciated,  will  understand  the  infinite 
rapture  in  which  the  young  secretary  reveled  as  he  read  Mo- 
deste's  letter.  After  discovering  the  wit  and  greatness  of  his 
mind,  his  young  and  guileless  but  wily  mistress  thought  him 
handsome.  This  is  the  supremest  flattery.  Why?  Because 
Beauty  is  no  doubt  the  Master's  signature  on  the  work  into 
which  He  has  infused  His  soul ;  it  is  the  divinity  made  mani- 
fest ;  and  to  see  it  where  it  does  not  exist,  to  create  it  by  the 
power  of  an  enchanted  eye,  is — is  it  not  ? — the  crowning  magic 
of  love. 

And  the  poor  5'oung  fellow  could  exclaim  to  himself  with 
the  ecstasy  of  an  applauded  author: 

"At  last  I  am  loved  r 


132  MODESTE  MIONON 

When  once  a  woman,  a  courtesan,  or  an  innocent  girl  has 
M't  the  words  escape  her,  "How  handsome  you  are!"  even  if 
it  1)(*  untrue,  if  the  man  allows  the  subtle  poison  of  the  words 
to  enter  his  brain,  he  is  thenceforth  tied  by  eternal  bonds  to 
the  bewitching  liar,  to  the  truthful  or  deluded  woman;  she  is 
his  world ;  he  thirsts  for  this  testimony ;  he  would  never  weary 
of  it,  not  even  if  he  were  a  prince. 

Ernest  proudly  paced  his  room  ;  he  stood  in  front  of  the 
mirror — three-quarter  face,  in  })rofile;  he  tried  to  criticise 
his  own  features,  but  a  diabolical,  insinuating  voice  said  to 
him,  "Modeste  is  right !"  and  he  came  back  to  the  letter  and 
read  it  again.  He  saw  the  heavenly  fair  one,  he  talked  to 
her!  Then,  in  the  midst  of  his  rapture,  came  the  overwhelm- 
ing thought,  "She  believes  me  to  be  Canalis,  and  she  is  a 
millionaire !" 

All  his  happiness  fell  with  a  crash,  as  a  man  falls  when, 
walking  in  his  sleep,  he  has  reached  the  ridge  of  a  roof,  and 
hearing  a  voice,  steps  forward,  and  is  dashed  to  pieces  on  the 
stones. 

"But  for  the  halo  of  glory,  I  should  be  ugly !"  cried  he. 
"What  a  horrible  predicament  I  have  got  myself  into!" 

La  Briere  was  too  thoroughly  the  man  of  his  letters,  too 
entirely  the  pure  and  noble  soul  he  had  shown  in  them,  to 
hesitate  at  the  voice  of  honor.  He  at  once  resolved  to  go  and 
confess  everything  to  JModeste's  father  if  he  were  in  Paris, 
and  to  inform  Canalis  fully  of  the  outcome  of  their  very 
Parisian  practical  joke.  To  this  sensitive  young  fellow  the 
vastness  of  JModeste's  fortune  was  a  casting  reason.  Above 
all,  he  would  not  be  suspected  of  having  used  the  stimulation 
of  this  correspondence,  though  on  his  side  so  j)erfectly  sincere, 
for  filching  a  fortune.  Tears  stood  in  his  eyes  as  he  walked 
from  his  rooms  in  the  Rue  Chantereine  to  Mongenod  the 
banker's,  whose  prosperity,  connections,  and  prospects  were 
partly  the  work  of  the  Minister  to  whom  he  himself  was  in- 
debted. 

At  the  time  when  la  Briere  was  closeted  with  the  head  of 
the  house  of  Mongenod,  and  acquiring  all  the  information  he 


MODESTE  MIGNON  133 

needed  in  his  strange  position,  such  a  scene  was  taking  place 
in  Canalis'  house  as  Dumay's  hasty  departure  might  have  led 
us  to  expect. 

Dunia}^  like  a  true  soldier  of  the  Imperial  School,  whose 
blood  had  been  boiling  all  through  his  journey,  conceived  of 
a  poet  as  an  irresponsible  fellow,  a  man  who  fooled  in  rhyme, 
living  in  a  garret,  dressed  in  black  cloth  white  at  all  the  seams, 
whose  boots  sometimes  had  soles,  whose  linen  was  anonymous, 
who  always  looked  as  if  he  had  just  dropped  from  the  clouds, 
when  he  was  not  scribbling  as  intently  as  Butscha.  But  the 
ferment  that  muttered  in  his  brain  and  heart  received  a  sort 
of  cold  shower-bath  when  he  reached  the  poet's  handsome 
residence,  saw  a  man  cleaning  a  carriage  in  the  courtyard, 
found  himself  in  a  splendid  dining-room  with  another  servant 
dressed  like  a  banker,  to  whom  the  groom  had  referred  him, 
and  who  looked  him  from  head  to  foot  as  he  said  that  Mon- 
sieur le  Baron  could  not  see  any  one. 

"Monsieur  le  Baron  has  a  meeting  to-day,"  he  added,  "at 
the  Council  of  State." 

"I  am  right  ?"  asked  Dumay ;  "this  is  the  house  of  Monsieur 
de  Canalis,  who  writes  poetry?" 

"Monsieur  le  Baron  de  Canalis,"  said  the  footman,  "is  no 
doubt  the  great  poet  you  mean ;  but  is  also  Master  of  Appeals 
to  the  State  Council,  and  attached  to  the  Foreign  Office." 

Dumay,  who  had  come  to  box  a  rhymester's  ears,  to  use  his 
own  contemptuous  expression,  had  found  a  State  functionary. 
The  drawing-room  where  he  was  kept  waiting,  remarkable  for 
its  magnificence,  presented  to  his  contemplation  the  row  of 
crosses  that  glittered  on  Canalis'  evening  coat,  left  by  the  ser- 
vant over  the  back  of  a  chair.  Presently  he  was  attracted  by 
the  sheen  and  workmanship  of  a  silver  gilt  cup,  and  the  words, 
"The  gift  of  Madame,"  struck  his  eye.  Opposite  this,  on  a 
bracket,  was  a  Sevres  vase,  over  which  was  engraved,  "Given 
by  Madame  la  Dauphine."  These  silent  warnings  restored 
Dumay  to  his  common  sense,  while  the  man-servant  was  asking 
his  master  whether  he  could  receive  a  stranger,  who  had  come 
from  le  Havre  on  purpose  to  see  him — his  name  Dumay. 


134  MODESTE  MIGNON 

"What  is  he  like?"  asked  Canalis. 

"Has  a  good  hat,  and  the  red  ribhon." 

At  a  nod  of  assent,  tho  man  went  out,  and  returned  an. 
nouncing: 

"Monsieur  Dumay." 

When  lie  heard  his  own  name,  when  he  stood  before  Canalis 
in  a  stud}'  as  costly  as  it  was  elegant,  his  feet  on  a  carpet  quite 
as  good  as  the  best  in  the  ilignons'  old  house,  when  he  met 
the  glance  prepared  by  the  poet,  who  was  playing  with  the 
tassels  of  a  sumptuous  dressing-gown,  Dumay  was  so  abso- 
lutely dumfounded  that  he  left  the  great  num  to  speak  first. 

"To  what,  monsieur,  do  I  owe  the  honor  of  this  visit?" 

"Monsieur,"  Dumay  began,  still  standing. 

"If  you  have  much  to  say,  pray  be  seated,"  said  Canalis, 
interrupting  him;  and  the  poet  sank  back  into  his  large 
easy-chair,  and  crossed  his  legs,  raising  the  upper  one  to 
rock  his  foot  on  a  level  with  his  eye,  while  staring  hard  at 
Duma}^  who,  to  use  his  own  soldier's  phrase,  felt  like  a 
dummy. 

"I  am  listening,  monsieur,"  said  the  poet.  "My  time  is 
precious;  I  am  due  at  the  office " 

"Monsieur,"  said  Dumay,  "I  will  be  brief.  You  have  be- 
witched— how  I  know  not — a  young  lady  at  le  Havre — hand- 
some, rich,  the  last  and  only  hope  of  two  noble  families,  and 
I  have  come  to  ask  you  your  intentions." 

Canalis,  who  for  the  last  three  months  had  been  absorbed  by 
serious  matters,  who  aimed  at  promotion  to  the  grade  of 
Commander  of  the  Legion  of  Honor,  and  to  be  Minister  to  a 
German  Court,  had  totally  forgotten  the  letter  from  le  Havre. 

"I  r  cried  he. 

"You,"  replied  Dumay. 

"Monsieur,"  said  Canalis,  smiling,  "I  know  no  more  what 
you  mean  than  if  you  were  talking  Hebrew.     1  bewitch  a 

young  girl  ? — I,  who ?"     A  lordly  smile  curled  the  poet's 

(ip.  "Come,  monsieur.  I  am  not  a  boy  that  I  should  amuse 
myself  by  stealing  poor  wild  fruit  when  I  have  ample  orchards 
open  to  me,  where  the  finest  peaches  in  the  world  ripen.     All 


MODESTE  MIGNON  135 

Paris  knows  where  ray  aitections  are  placed.  That  there 
should  be  at  le  Havre  a  young  lady  suffering  from  some  ad- 
miration, of  which  I  am  wholly  unworthy,  for  the  verses  I 
have  written,  my  dear  sir,  would  not  astonish  me !  Nothing 
is  commoner.  Look  there !  You  see  that  handsome  ebony- 
box  inlaid  with  mother-of-pearl,  and  fitted  with  iron  wrought 
as  fine  as  lace.  That  coffer  belonged  to  Pope  Leo  X. ;  it  was 
given  to  me  by  the  Duchesse  de  Chaulieu,  who  had  it  from 
the  King  of  Spain. — I  have  devoted  it  to  the  preservation  of 
all  the  letters  I  receive  from  every  part  of  Europe,  written 
by  unknown  women  and  girls.  Oh !  I  have  the  greatest  respect 
for  those  posies  of  flowers  culled  from  the  very  soul,  and  sent 
to  me  in  a  moment  of  enthusiasm  that  is  indeed  worthy  of  all 
respect.  Yes,  to  me  the  impulse  of  a  heart  is  a  noble  and 
beautiful  thing ! — Others,  mocking  spirits,  screw  up  such  notes 
to  light  their  cigars,  or  give  them  to  their  wives  for  curl-papers ; 
I — who  am  a  bachelor,  monsieur — have  too  much  delicate 
feeling  not  to  treasure  these  artless  and  disinterested  offerings 
in  a  kind  of  tabernacle;  indeed,  I  hoard  them  with  no  little 
reverence,  and  when  I  am  dying  I  will  see  them  burnt  under 
my  eyes.  So  much  the  worse  for  those  who  think  me 
ridiculous !  What  is  to  be  said  ?  I  am  grateful  by  nature, 
and  these  testimonials  help  me  to  endure  the  criticisms  and 
annoyances  of  a  literary  life.  When  I  receive  in  my  spine  the 
broadside  of  an  enemy  in  ambush  behind  a  newspaper,  I  look 
at  that  chest  and  say  to  myself,  'There  are,  here  and  there,  a 
few  souls  whose  wounds  have  been  healed,  or  beguiled  or 
staunched  by  me '  " 

The  rhodomontade,  pronounced  with  the  cleverness  of  a 
great  actor,  petrified  the  little  cashier,  whose  eyes  dilated 
while  his  astonishment  amused  the  great  poet. 

"To  you,"  the  peacock  went  on,  still  spreading  his  tail,  "out 
of  respect  for  a  position  I  can  sympathize  with,  I  can  but 
propose  that  you  should  open  that  treasury,  and  look  there 
for  your  young  lady  ;  but  I  never  forget  names.  I  know  what 
I  am  saying,  and  you  are  mistaken     .     .     ." 

"And  this  is  what  happens  to  a  poor  girl  in  this  guM  called 


136  MODESTE  MIGNON 

Paris!"  cried  Dumay.  "The  idol  of  hor  parents,  the  delight 
of  her  frieiHls,  the  hope,  the  darling  of  thera  all;  the  pride 
of  her  family,  for  whom  six  persons  have  made  a  rampart 
against  disaster  of  their  hearts  and  their  fortunes." 

Dumay  paused,  and  then  went  on  : 

"Well,  monsieur,  you  are  a  great  poet,  and  I  am  but  a  poor 
soldier.  For  fifteen  years,  while  I  served  my  country  in  the 
ranks,  I  felt  the  wind  of  many  a  bullet  in  my  face,  1  crossed 
Siberia,  where  I  was  kept  a  prisoner,  the  Russians  flung 
me  on  a  truck  like  a  bale  of  goods,  I  have  endured  every- 
thing ;  I  have  seen  no  end  of  my  comrades  die And  you, 

monsieur,  have  sent  such  a  chill  through  mv  bones  as  I  never 
felt  before !" 

Dumay  believed  that  he  had  touched  the  poet;  he  had 
flattered  him — an  almost  impossible  achievement,  for  the 
ambitious  man  had  by  this  time  forgotten  the  first  phial  of 
precious  balm  that  Praise  had  broken  on  his  head. 

"You  see,  my  brave  friend,"  said  the  poet  solenmly,  as  he 
laid  his  hand  on  Dumay's  shoulder,  feeling  it  a  strange  thing 
that  he  should  be  able  to  make  a  soldier  of  the  Empire  shiver, 

"this  girl  is  everything  to  you But  to  society,  what  is 

she?  Nothing.  If  at  this  moment  the  most  important  man- 
darin in  China  is  closing  his  eyes  and  putting  the  Empire  into 
mourning,  does  that  grieve  you  deeply  ?  In  India  the  English 
are  killing  thousands  of  men  as  good  as  we  are;  and  at  this 
moment,  as  I  speak,  the  most  charming  woman  is  there  being 
burnt — but  you  have  had  coffee  for  breakfast  all  the  same? 
Indeed,  at  this  minute,  here  in  Paris,  you  may  find  several 
mothers  of  families  lying  on  straw  and  bringing  a  child  into 
the  world  without  a  rag  to  wrap  it  in ! — And  here  is  some 
delicious  tea  in  a  cup  that  cost  five  louis,  and  I  am  writing 
verses  to  make  the  ladies  of  Paris  exclaim,  'Charming,  charm- 
ing !  divine,  exquisite!  it  goes  to  the  heart!' 

"Social  nature,  like  Mother  Nature  herself,  is  great  at  for- 
getting. Ten  years  hence  you  will  be  amazed  at  the  step  you 
have  taken.  You  are  in  a  city  where  we  die,  and  marry,  and 
worship  each  other  at  an  assignation;  where  a  girl  suffocates 


MODESTB  MIGNON  137 

herself,  while  a  man  of  genius  and  his  cargo  of  ideas  full  of 
humanitarian  benefits  go  to  the  bottom,  side  by  side,  often 
under  the  same  roof,  and  knowing  nothing  of  each  other. — 
And  you  come  and  expect  us  to  swoon  with  anguish  at  this 
commonplace  question,  'Is  a  certain  young  person  at  le  Havre 
this  or  that,  or  is  she  not  ?' — Oh,  you  really  are -" 

"And  you  call  yourself  a  poet !"  cried  Dumay.  "But  do 
you  really  feel  nothing  of  what  you  depict  ?" 

"If  we  felt  all  the  misery  or  joy  that  we  describe,  we  should 
be  worn  out  in  a  few  months,  like  old  shoes,"  said  the  poet, 
smiling.  "Listen,  you  shall  not  have  come  from  le  Havre  to 
Paris,  and  to  me,  Canalis,  without  having  anything  to  take 
back  with  you.  Soldier !" — and  Canalis  had  the  figure  and 
gesture  of  an  Homeric  hero— "learn  this  from  the  poet,  'Every 
noble  feeling  in  each  of  us  is  a  poem  so  essentially  individual 
that  our  best  friend,  our  self,  takes  no  interest  in  it.  It  is  a 
treasure  belonging  to  each  alone '  " 

"Forgive  me  for  interrupting  you,"  said  Dumay,  who  gazed 
at  Canalis  with  horror,  "but  you  have  been  to  le  Havre  ?" 

"I  spent  a  night  and  day  there  in  the  spring  of  1884  on 
my  way  to  London." 

"You  are  a  man  of  honor,"  Dumay  went  on.  "Can  you 
give  me  your  word  of  honor  that  you  do  not  know  Made- 
moiselle Modesto  Mignon?" 

"This  is  the  first  time  I  ever  heard  her  name,"  replied 
Canalis. 

"Oh,  monsieur,"  cried  Dumay,  "into  what  dark  intrigue 
am  I  about  to  plunge  ?  May  I  count  on  you  to  help  me  in  my 
inquiries  ?  For  some  one,  I  am  certain,  has  been  making  use 
of  your  name.  You  ought  to  have  received  a  letter  yesterday 
from  le  Havre." 

"I  have  received  nothing!  You  may  be  sure,  monsieur, 
that  I  will  do  all  that  lies  in  my  power  to  be  of  service 'to 
you." 

Dumay  took  leave,  his  heart  full  of  anxiety,  believing  that 
hideous  little  Butscha  had  hidden  himself  in  the  semblance  of 
the  great  poet  to  captivate  Modesto;  while  Butscha,  on  the 


138  MODESTE  MIONON 

contrary,  as  keen  and  clever  as  a  prince  who  avenges  himself, 
sliarper  than  a  spy,  was  making  inquisition  into  the  poet's 
life  and  actions,  escaping  detection  by  his  insignificance  like 
an  insect  working  its  way  into  the  young  wood  of  a  tree. 

The  Breton  had  but  just  left  when  la  Briere  came  into  his 
friend's  room.  Canalis  naturally  mentioned  the  visit  of  this 
man  from  le  Havre. 

"Hah !"  said  Ernest,  "Modeste  Mignon !  I  have  come 
on  purpose  to  speak  about  that  affair." 

"Bless  me !"  cried  Canalis,  "do  you  mean  to  say  I  have  made 
a  conquest  by  proxy  ?" 

"Why,  yes,  that  is  the  turning-point  of  the  drama.  My 
friend,  I  am  loved  by  the  sweetest  girl  in  the  world,  beautiful 
enough  to  shine  among  the  beauties  of  Paris,  with  a  heart 
and  education  worthy  of  Clarissa  Harlowe;  she  has  seen  me, 
she  likes  my  looks — and  she  believes  me  to  be  the  great  poet 
Canalis. 

"Nor  is  tliis  all :  Modeste  Mignon  is  of  good  birth,  and 
Mongenod  has  just  told  me  that  her  father,  the  Comte  de  la 
Bastie,  must  have  a  fortune  of  something  like  six  millions  of 
francs.  This  father  has  come  home  within  three  days,  and  I 
have  just  begged  him  to  arrange  an  interview  with  me,  at 
two  o'clock — through  Mongenod,  who  in  his  note  mentioned 
that  it  concerned  his  daughter's  happiness. — You  will 
understand  that  before  meeting  the  father  I  was  bound  to 
tell  you  everything.'' 

"Among  all  the  blossoms  that  open  to  the  sunshine  of 
fame,"  said  Canalis  with  emphasis,  "there  is  one  glorious 
])lant  which,  like  the  orange,  bears  its  golden  fruit  amid  the 
thousand  united  perfumes  of  wit  and  beauty !  one  elegant 
shrub,  one  true  passion,  one  perfect  happiness — and  it  has 
evaded  me !"  Canalis  kept  his  eyes  on  the  carpet  that  Ernest 
might  not  read  them.  "How,"'  he  went  on  after  a  pause,  to 
recover  his  presence  of  mind,  "how  is  it  possible,  among  the  in- 
toxicating scents  of  these  fancy-paper  notes,  and  these  phrases 
that  mount  to  the  brain,  to  detect  the  genuine  heart — the 
girl,  the  woman,  in  whom  true  love  is  hidden  under  the  livery 


MODESTE  MIGNON  f^ 

Di  flattery,  who  loves  us  for  ourselves,  and  who  offers  us  hap- 
piness ?  No  one  could  do  it  but  an  angel  or  a  demon,  and  I 
am  only  an  ambitious  Master  of  Appeals ! 

"Ah,  my  dear  fellow,  fame  transforms  us  into  a  butt,  a 
target  for  a  thousand  arrows.  One  of  us  owed  his  marriage 
to  a  copy  of  hydraulic  verses ;  and  I,  even  more  ingratiating, 
more  the  ladies'  man  than  he,  shall  have  missed  my  chance— 
for  you  love  this  poor  girl  ?"  said  he,  looking  at  la  Briere. 

"Oh  !"  cried  la  Briere. 

"Well,  then,  be  happy,  Ernest,"  said  the  poet,  taking  his 
friend's  arm  and  leaning  on  it.  "As  it  turns  out,  I  shall  not 
have  been  ungrateful  t©  you !  You  are  handsomely  rewarded 
for  your  devotion,  for  I  will  be  generously  helpful  to  your 
happiness." 

Canalis  was  furious,  but  he  could  not  behave  otherwise, 
so  he  took  the  benefit  of  his  ill-luck  by  using  it  as  a  pedestal. 
A  tear  rose  to  the  young  secretary's  eye;  he  threw  his  arms 
round  Canalis  and  embraced  him. 

"Oh,  Canalis,  I  did  not  half  know  you !" 

"What  did  you  expect?  It  takes  time  to  travel  round  the 
world,"  replied  the  poet  with  emphatic  irony. 

"Consider,"  said  la  Briere,  "that  immense  fortune " 

"Well,  my  friend,  will  it  not  be  in  good  hands?"  cried 
Canalis,  pointing  his  effusiveness  by  a  charming  gesture. 

"Melchior,"  said  la  Briere,  "I  am  yours  in  life  and  death." 

He  wrung  the  poet's  hands,  and  went  away  hastily ;  he  was 
eager  to  see  Monsieur  Mignon. 

At  this  hour  the  Comte  de  la  Bastie  was  suffering  all  the 
sorrows  that  had  been  lurking  for  him  as  their  prey.  He  had 
learned  from  his  daughter's  letter  the  facts  of  Bettina-Caro- 
line's  death  and  her  mothers  blindness ;  and  Dumay  had  just 
told  liim  the  story  of  the  terrible  imbroglio  of  Modeste's  love 
affair. 

"Leave  me  to  myself,"  he  said  to  his  faithful  friend. 

When  the  Lieutenant  had  closed  the  door,  the  unhappy 
father  threw  himself  ou  a  couch  and  lay  there,  his  head  in 


140  MODESTE  MIGNON 

his  hands,  shedding  the  few  thin  tears  that  lie  under  the  eye- 
lids of  a  man  of  fifty-six  udthout  falling,  wetting  them,  but 
drying  quickly  and  rising  again,  the  last  dews  of  the  autumn 
of  human  life. 

"To  have  children  you  love  and  a  wife  you  adore,  is  to  have 
many  hearts  and  offer  them  all  to  the  dagger!"  cried  he, 
starting  to  his  feet  with  a  furious  bound,  and  pacing  the 
room.  "To  be  a  father  is  to  give  oneself  over  to  misfortune, 
bound  hand  and  foot.  If  I  meet  that  fellow  d'Estourny  I  will 
kill  him.  Daughters!  Who  would  have  daugliters?  One 
gets  hold  of  a  scoundrel ;  and  the  other,  my  Modcste,  of  what  ? 
A  coward,  who  deludes  her  under  the  gilt-paper  armor  of  a 
poet.  If  only  it  were  Canalis !  There  would  be  no  great 
harm  done.  But  this  Scapin  of  a  lover! — I  will  throttle 
him  with  my  own.  hands !"  said  he  to  himself,  with  an  in- 
voluntary' gesture  of  energetic  atrocity.  "And  what  then," 
he  thought,  "if  my  child  should  die  of  grief." 

Mechanically  he  looked  out  of  the  window  of  the  Hotel  des 
Princes,  and  came  back  to  sit  down  on  the  divan,  where  he  re- 
mained motionless.  The  fatigue  of  six  voyages  to  the  Indies, 
the  anxieties  of  investments,  the  dangers  he  had  met  and 
escaped,  care  and  sorrow  had  silvered  Charles  Mignon's  hair. 
His  fine  military  face,  clean  in  outline,  was  bronzed  by  the  sun 
of  Malaysia,  China,  and  Asia  Minor,  and  had  assumed  an  im- 
posing expression,  which  grief  at  this  moment  made  sublime. 

"And  Mongenod  tells  me  I  can  perfectly  trust  the  young 
man  who  is  to  come  to  speak  to  me  about  my  daughter ! " 

Ernest  de  la  Briere  was  just  then  announced  by  one  of  the 
servants  whom  the  Comte  de  la  Bastie  had  attached  to  him  in 
the  course  of  these  four  years,  and  had  picked  out  from  the 
crowd  of  men  under  him. 

"You  come,  monsieur,  with  an  introduction  from  my 
friend  Mongenod  ?"  said  he. 

"Yes,"  replied  Ernest,  gazing  timidly  at  a  face  as  gloomy 
as  Othello's.  "My  name  is  Ernest  de  la  Briere,  connected, 
monsieur,  with  the  family  of  the  late  Prime  Minister;  I  was 
his  private  secretary  when  he  was  in  office.     At  his  fall.  His 


MODESTE  MIGNON  141 

Excellency  was  good  enough  to  place  me  in  the  Court  of  Ex- 
chequer, where  I  am  now  first-class  Keferendary,  and  where 
I  may  rise  to  be  a  Master '* 

"And  what  has  all  this  to  do  with  Mademoiselle  de  la 
Bastie?"  asked  Charles  Mignon. 

"Monsieur,  I  love  her,  and  it  is  my  unhoped-for  happiness 
to  be  loved  by  her.  .  .  .  Listen,  monsieur,"  said  Ernest, 
interrupting  a  terrible  movement  on  the  part  of  the  angry 
father,  "1  have  the  strangest  confession  to  make  to  you,  the 
most  ignominious  for  a  man  of  honor.  And  the  worst  punish- 
ment of  my  conduct,  which  perhaps  was  natural,  is  not  this 
revelation  to  you — I  dread  the  daughter  even  more  than  the 
father." 

Ernest  then  told  the  prologue  of  this  domestic  drama,  quite 
simply,  and  with  the  dignity  of  sincerity;  he  did  not  omit 
the  twenty  and  odd  letters  they  had  exchanged — he  had 
brought  them  with  him — nor  the  interview  he  had  just  had 
with  Canalis.  When  the  father  had  read  all  these  letters,  the 
poor  lover,  pale  and  suppliant,  quaked  before  the  fiery  looks 
of  the  Provengal. 

"Well,  monsieur,"  said  Mignon,  "in  all  this  there  is  only 
one  mistake,  but  it  is  all-important.  My  daughter  has  not  six 
millions  of  francs;  her  fortune  at  most  is  two  hundred  thou- 
sand francs  in  settlement,  and  very  doubtful  expectations." 

"Oh,  monsieur !"  cried  Ernest,  throwing  his  arms  round 
Charles  Mignon,  and  hugging  him,  "you  relieve  me  of  a  load 
that  oppressed  me.  Now,  perhaps,  nothing  will  come  in  the 
way  of  my  happiness  ! — I  have  interest ;  I  shall  soon  be  Master 
of  the  Exchequer.  If  she  had  but  ten  thousand  francs,  if  I' 
had  to  accept  nominal  settlements.  Mademoiselle  Mignon 
would  still  be  the  wife  of  my  choice;  and  to  make  her  happy, 
as  happy  as  you  have  made  yours,  to  be  a  true  son  to  you — yes, 
monsieur,  for  my  father  is  dead — this  is  the  deepest  wish  of 
my  heart." 

Charles  Mignon  drew  back  three  steps,  and  fixed  on  la 
Briere  a  look  that  sank  into  the  young  man's  eyes,  as  a 
poniard  goes  into  its  sheath;  then  he  stood  silent,  reading  in 


142  MODKSTE  MIONON 

those  fascinated  ejcs  and  on  that  eager  countenance  the  most 
perfect  candor  and  the  purest  truthfuhiess. 

"Is  fate  at  last  wearied  out?"  said  he  to  himself  in  an 
undertone.  "Can  I  have  found  a  paragon  son-in-law  in  this 
youth?"  He  walked  up  and  down  the  room  in  great  excite- 
ment. 

"Well,  monsieur,"  he  said  at  length,  "you  owe  implicit 
obedience  to  the  sentence  you  have  come  to  ask,  for  otherwise 
you  would  at  this  moment  be  acting  a  mere  farce." 

"Indeed,  monsieur " 

"Listen  to  me,"  said  the  father,  nailing  la  Brie  re  to  the 
spot  by  a  look.  "I  will  be  neither  severe,  nor  hard,  nor  un- 
just. You  must  take  the  disadvantages  with  the  advantages 
of  the  false  position  in  which  you  have  placed  yourself,  ily 
daughter  imagines  that  she  is  in  love  with  one  of  the  great 
poets  of  our  day,  whose  fame  chiefly  has  fascinated  her.  Well, 
then,  ought  not  I,  as  her  father,  to  enable  her  to  choose  be- 
tween the  celebrity  which  has  seemed  a  lighthouse  to  her,  and 
the  humble  reality  thrown  to  her  by  chance  in  the  irony  it  so 
often  allows  itself?  Must  she  not  be  free  to  choose  between 
you  and  Canalis?  I  trust  to  your  honor  to  be  silent  as  to 
•what  I  have  just  told  you  concerning  the  state  of  my  affairs. 
You  and  your  friend,  the  Baron  de  Canalis,  must  come  to 
spend  the  last  fortnight  of  this  month  of  October  at  le  Havre. 
My  house  will  be  open  to  you  both ;  my  daughter  will  have  the 
opportunity  of  knowing  you.  Remember,  you  yourself  are  to 
bring  your  rival,  and  to  allow  him  to  believe  all  the  fables  that 
may  be  current  as  to  the  Comte  de  la  Bastie's  millions.  I 
shall  be  at  le  Havre  by  to-morrow,  and  shall  expect  you  three 
days  later.     Good-morning,  monsieur." 

Poor  la  Briero  very  slowly  made  his  way  back  to  Canalis. 
At  that  moment  the  poet,  face  to  face  with  himself,  could  give 
himself  up  to  the  torrent  of  reflections  that  tlow  from  that 
"second  thought"  which  Talleyrand  so  highly  praised.  The 
first  thought  is  the  impulse  of  nature,  the  second  that  of 
society. 

"A  girl  with  six  millions  of  francs  !     And  my  eyes  failed  to 


MODESTE  MIGNON  143 

discern  the  glitter  of  that  gold  through  the  darkness !  With 
such  a  fortune  as  that,  I  can  be  a  peer  of  France,  count,  am- 
bassador ! — I  have  answered  the  most  ordinary  women,  simple- 
tons, intriguing  girls  who  only  wanted  an  autograph !  And  I 
rebelled  against  these  bal  masque  wiles  on  the  very  day  when 
heaven  sent  me  a  chosen  soul,  an  angel  with  wings  of  gold ! — 
Pooh !  I  will  write  a  sublime  poem,  and  the  chance  will 
come  again !  What  luck  for  that  little  la  Briere,  who  spread 
his  tail  in  my  sunbeams! — And  what  plagiary.  I  am  the 
model,  and  he  is  to  be  the  statue !  This  is  playing  the  fable 
of  'Bertrand  and  Baton.' — Six  millions,  and  an  angel,  a  Mi- 
gnon  de  la  Bastie ! — An  aristocratic  angel,  who  loves  poetry 
and  the  poet ! — And  I  meanwhile  display  my  muscles  as  a 
strong  man,  perform  athletics,  like  Alcides,  to  astonish  this 
champion  of  physical  strength  by  moral  force — this  brave 
soldier  full  of  fine  feeling,  this  young  girl's  friend,  who  will 
tell  her  I  have  a  soul  of  iron.  I  am  playing  ISTapoleon,  when 
1  ought  to  show  myself  as  a  seraph ! — I  shall  have  won  a 
friend  perhaps,  and  have  paid  dear  for  him ;  but  friendship  is 
a  fine  thing.  Six  millions — that  is  the  price  of  a  friend;  a 
man  cannot  have  many  at  that  figure !" 

At  this  last  point  of  exclamation  la  Briere  came  into  his 
friend's  room ;  he  was  depressed. 

"Well,  what  is  the  matter?"  said  Canalis. 

"The  father  insists  that  his  daughter  shall  be  enabled  to 
choose  between  the  two  Canalis " 

"Poor  boy  !"  said  the  poet,  laughing.  "A  clever  man  is  tliat 
father !" 

"I  have  pledged  my  honor  to  take  you  to  le  Havre,"  said  la 
Briere,  dolefully. 

"My  dear  boy,"  said  Canalis,  "if  your  honor  is  at  stake, 
you  may  depend  upon  me.  I  will  ask  for  a  month's  leave  of 
absence." 

"Oh,  Modeste  is  lovely !"  cried  la  Briere  in  despair,  "and 

you  will  easily  extinguish  me !     Still,  I  was  amazed  to  find 

good  fortune  coming  my  way ;  I  said  to  myself,  it  is  all  a  mis- 

take!" 

VOL.  6-35 


144  MODESTE  MKJNON 

"Pooh!  We  shall  see,"  said  Canalis  with  ruthless  cheer- 
fulness. 

That  evening,  after  dinner,  Charles  Mignon  and  his  cashier 
were  flying,  at  the  cost  of  three  francs  a  stage  to  the  postilion, 
from  Paris  to  le  Havre.  The  father  had  completely  allayed 
his  watch-dog's  alarms  as  to  Modeste's  love  affairs,  had  re- 
leased him  from  his  responsibilities,  and  reassured  him  as  to 
Butscha's  proceedings. 

"Everything  is  for  the  best,  my  good  old  friend,"  said 
Charles,  who  had  made  inquiries  of  Mongenod  as  to  Canalis 
and  la  Briere.  "We  have  two  players  for  one  part,"  he  added, 
laughing. 

At  the  same  time,  he  enjoined  absolute  silence  on  his  old 
comrade  as  to  the  comedy  about  to  be  played  at  the  Chalet, 
and  his  gentle  revenge,  or,  if  you  will,  the  lesson  to  be  given 
by  a  father  to  his  child.  From  Paris  to  le  Havre  was  one 
long  dialogue  between  the  friends,  by  which  the  Colonel 
learned  the  smallest  events  that  had  happened  in  his  family 
during  the  past  four  years;  and  Charles  told  Dumay  that 
Desplein,  the  great  surgeon,  was  to  come  before  the  end  of 
the  month  to  examine  the  Countess'  eyes,  and  decide  whether 
it  would  be  possible  to  remove  the  cataract  and  restore  her 
sight. 

A  few  minutes  before  the  breakfast  hour  at  the  Chalet,  the 
cracking  of  a  whip,  by  a  postilion  counting  on  a  large  gratuity, 
announced  the  return  of  the  two  soldiers.  Only  the  joy  of  a 
father  coming  home  to  his  family  after  a  long  absence  would 
give  rise  to  such  a  detonation,  and  all  the  women  were  stand- 
ing at  the  little  gate. 

There  are  so  many  fathers,  and  so  many  children — more 
fathers  perhaps  than  children — who  can  enter  into  the  excite-* 
ment  of  such  a  meeting,  that  literature  is  never  required  to 
depict  it ;  happily !  for  the  finest  words,  and  poetry  itself, 
are  inadequate  to  such  emotions.  Perhaps,  indeed,  the 
sweeter  emotions  have  no  literary  side. 

Not  a  word  was  spoken  that  day  that  could  disturb  the 
happiness  of  the  Mignon  family.     There  was  a  truce  between 


MODESTE  MIGNON  l45 

the  father,  the  mother,  and  the  daughter  as  to  the  mysterious 
love  affair  which  had  paled  Modeste's  cheek.  She  was  up  to- 
day for  the  first  time.  The  Colonel,  with  the  delicate  tender- 
ness that  characterizes  a  true  soldier,  sat  all  the  time  by  his 
wife's  side,  her  hand  constantly  held  in  his,  and  he  watched 
Modeste,  never  tired  of  admiring  her  refined,  elegant,  and 
poetic  beauty.  Is  it  not  by  such  small  things  that  we  know 
a  man  of  true  feeling  ? 

Modeste,  fearful  of  troubling  the  melancholy  happiness  of 
her  father  and  mother,  came  from  time  to  time  to  kiss  the 
traveler's  brow,  and  by  kissing  him  so  often,  seemed  to  wish 
to  kiss  him  for  two. 

"Ah,  darling  child!  I  understand  you,"  said  her  father, 
pressing  Modeste's  hand  at  a  moment  when  she  was  smother- 
ing him  with  affection. 

"Hush !"  said  Modeste  in  his  ear,  pointing  to  her  mother. 

Dumay's  rather  perfidious  silence  left  Modeste  very  un- 
easy as  to  the  results  of  his  journey  to  Paris;  she  now  and 
then  stole  a  look  at  the  Lieutenant,  but  could  not  penetrate 
that  tough  skin.  The  Colonel,  as  a  prudent  father,  wished 
to  study  his  only,  daughter's  nature,  and,  above  all,  to  consult 
his  wife,  before  proceeding  to  a  discussion  on  which  the  hap- 
piness of  the  whole  family  would  depend. 

"To-morrow,  my  dearest  child,  rise  early,"  said  he  at  night, 
"and  if  it  is  fine,  we  will  go  for  a  walk  together  on  the  sea- 
shore. We  have  to  talk  over  your  poems.  Mademoiselle  de  la 
Bastie." 

These  words,  spoken  with  a  smile  that  was  reflected  on 
Dimiay's  lips,  were  all  Modeste  could  know;  still,  this  was 
enough  to  allay  her  anxiety  and  to  make  her  too  curious  to 
get  to  sleep  till  late,  so  busy  was  her  fancy. 

Next  morning  Modeste  was  dressed  and  ready  before  the 
Colonel. 

"You  know  everything,  my  dear  father,"  said  she,  as  soon 
as  they  had  started  on  their  wa^  to  the  sea. 


146  MODESTE  MIGS'ON 

"I  know  everything — and  a  good  many  things  that  you  do 
not  know,"  replied  he. 

Thereupon  the  father  and  daughter  walked  some  few  steps 
in  silence. 

"Now  tell  mc,  my  child,  how  a  daughter  so  worshiped 
by  her  mother  could  take  so  decisive  a  step  as  to  write  to  a 
man  unknown  to  her  without  asking  that  mother's  advice?" 

"Well,  papa,  because  mamma  would  not  have  allowed  it." 

"And  do  you  think,  my  child,  that  it  was  right?  Though 
you  have  inevitably  been  left  to  bring  yourself  up,  how  is  it 
that  your  reason  or  your  insight — if  modesty  failed  you — did 
not  tell  you  that  to  act  in  such  a  way  was  lo  throw  yourself 
at  a  man's  head  ?  Can  it  be  that  my  daughter,  my  only  child, 
lacks  pride  and  delicacy  ?  Oh  !  Modeste,  you  gave  your  father 
two  hours  of  hell's  torments  in  Paris;  for,  in  point  of  fact, 
your  conduct,  morally,  has  been  the  same  as  Bettina's,  with- 
out having  the  excuse  of  seduction;  you  have  been  a  coquette 
in  cold  blood,  and  that  is  love  without  heart,  the  worst  vice  of 
the  French  woman." 

"I — without  pride?"  said  Modeste  in  tears.  "But  he  has 
never  seen  me !" 

"He  knows  your  name." 

"I  never  let  him  know  it  till  the  moment  when  our  eyes  had 
set  the  seal  to  three  months  of  correspondence,  during  which 
our  souls  had  spoken  to  each  other !"' 

"Yes,  my  dear  mistaken  angel,  you  have  brought  a  kind  of 
reason  to  bear  on  this  madness  which  has  compromised  your 
happiness  and  your  family." 

"Well,  after  all,  papa,  happiness  is  the  justification  of  such 
boldness,"  said  she,  with  a  touch  of  temper. 

"Ah!     Then  it  is  merely  boldness?"  cried  her  father. 

"Such  boldness  as  my  mother  allowed  herself,"  she  answered 
hastily. 

"Refractory  child!  Your  mother,  after  meeting  me  at  a 
ball,  told  her  father, who  adored  her,  that  same  evening  that 
she  believed  she  could  be  happy  with  me. — Xow,  be  candid, 
Modeste ;  is  there  any  reaemblauce  between  love,  at  first  sight 


MODESTE  MIGNON  147 

it  is  true,  but  under  a  father's  eye,  and  the  mad  act  of 
writing  to  an  unknown  man  ?" 

•  "An  unknown  man?  Nay,  papa,  one  of  our  greatest  poets, 
whose  character  and  life  are  under  the  light  of  day,  exposed 
to  gossip  and  calumny ;  a  man  clothed  in  glory,  to  whom,  my 
dear  father,  I  was  but  a  dramatic,  literary  personage — a  girl 
of  Shakespeare's — till  the  moment  when  I  felt  I  must  know 
whether  the  man  were  as  attractive  as  his  soul  is  beautiful." 

"Bless  me,  my  poor  child,  you  are  dreaming  of  poetry  in 
connection  with  marriage.  But  if,  in  all  ages,  girls  have  been 
cloistered  in  the  family;  if  God  and  social  law  have  placed 
them  under  the  stern  yoke  of  paternal  sanction,  it  is  pre- 
cisely and  on  purpose  to  spare  them  the  misfortunes  to  which 
the  poetry  that  fascinates  you  must  lead  while  it  dazzles  you, 
and  which  you  therefore  cannot  estimate  at  its  true  worth. 
Poetry  is  one  of  the  graces  of  life ;  it  is  not  the  whole  of  life." 

"Papa,  it  is  an  action  for  ever  undecided  before  the  tribunal 
of  facts,  for  there  is  a  constant  struggle  between  our  hearts 
and  the  family  authority." 

"Woe  to  the  girl  who  should  find  happiness  by  means  of 
such  resistance!"  said  the  Colonel  gravely.  "In  1813  one  of 
my  fellow-officers,  the  Marquis  d'Aiglemont,  married  his 
cousin  against  her  father's  warnings,  and  the  household  paid 
dearly  for  the  obstinacy  that  a  girl  could  mistake  for  love. 
— In  these  matters  the  family  is  supreme." 

"My  fiance  has  told  me  all  that,"  said  she.  "He  assumed 
the  part  of  Orgon  for  some  time,  and  had  the  courage  to  run 
down  the  personal  character  of  poets." 

"I  have  read  the  correspondence,"  said  her  father,  with  a 
meaning  smile  that  made  Modeste  uneasy.  "And  I  may,  on 
that  point,  remark  that  your  last  letter  would  hardly  be  allow- 
able in  a  girl  who  had  been  seduced — in  a  Julie  d'fitanges. 
Good  God !  what  mischief  comes  of  romances !" 

"If  they  were  never  written,  my  dear  father,  we  should  still 
enact  them.  It  is  better  to  read  them.  There  are  fewer 
romantic  adventures  now  than  in  the  time  of  Louis  XIV. 
and  Louis  XV.,  when  fewer  novels  were  published. — Besides, 


148  MODESTE  MIGNON 

if  you  have  road  our  letters,  you  must  have  perceived  that  I 
have  found  you  for  a  son-in-law  the  most  respectful  son,  the 
most  angelic  nature,  the  strictest  honesty,  and  that  we  love 
each  other  at  least  as  mucli  as  you  and  mamma  did.  .  .  . 
Well,  I  will  admit  that  the  affair  has  not  been  conducted 
exactly  as  etiquette  requires.  I  made  a  mistake,  if  you 
like—" 

"I  have  read  your  letters,"  repeated  her  father,  interrupting 
her,  "so  I  know  how  he  justified  you  in  your  own  eyes  for  a 
step  which  might  perhaps  be  excusable  in  a  woman  who  knows 
life,  who  is  carried  away  by  passion,  but  which  in  a  girl  of 
twenty  is  a  monstrous  fault " 

"A  fault  in  common  people's  eyes,  in  those  of  narrow- 
minded  Gobenheims,  who  measure  out  life  with  a  T  square ! 
But  do  not  let  us  go  beyond  the  artistic  and  poetic  world,  papi . 
— We  young  girls  live  between  two  alternatives :  we  may  shoAV 
a  man  that  we  love  him  by  mincing  graces,  or  we  may  go  to 
meet  him  frankly.  And  is  not  this  last  method  really  great 
and  noble?  We  French  girls  are  disposed  of  by  our  family 
like  merchandise,  at  three  months'  date,  sometimes  much 
sooner,  like  Mademoiselle  Vilquin;  but  in  England,  Switzer- 
land, and  Germany  they  are  married  more  nearly  on  the 
system  I  have  adopted.  What  can  you  say  to  that?  Am  I 
not  half  German?" 

"Child,"  exclaimed  the  Colonel,  looking  at  his  daughter, 
"the  superiority  of  France  lies  precisely  in  the  common  sense, 
the  strict  logic  to  which  our  splendid  language  compels  the 
mind.  France  is  the  Reason  of  the  world !  England  and 
Germany  are  romantic  in  this  point ;  but  even  there  the  great 
families  follow  their  customs. — You  girls  would  rather  not 
believe,  then,  that  your  parents,  who  know  life,  have  the 
charge  of  your  souls  and  your  happiness,  and  that  it  is  their 
duty  to  steer  you  clear  of  the  rocks  !  .  .  .  Good  God  !"  he 
went  on,  "is  this  their  fault  or  ours  ?  Ought  we  to  bend  our 
children  under  a  yoke  of  iron  ?  Must  we  always  be  punished 
for  the  tenderness  which  prompts  us  to  make  them  happy, 
which,  unfortunately,  makes  them  heart  of  our  heart !" 


MODESTE  MIGNON  149 

As  she  heard  this  ejaculation,  spoken  almost  with  tears, 
Modeste  cast  a  side  glance  at  her  father. 

"Is  it  wrong  in  a  girl  whose  heart  is  free,"  said  she,  "to 
choose  for  her  husband  a  man  who  is  not  only  charming  in 
himself,  but  who  is  also  a  man  of  genius,  of  good  birth,  and  in 
a  fine  position — a  gentleman  as  gentle  as  myself?" 

"Then  you  love  him?"  said  the  Colonel. 

"I  tell  you,  father,"  said  she,  laying  her  head  on  his  breast, 
"if  you  do  not  want  to  see  me  die " 

"That  is  enough,"  said  the  Colonel ;  "your  passion  is,  I  see, 
unchangeable." 

"Unchangeable." 

"Nothing  could  move  you  ?" 

"Nothing  in  the  world." 

"You  can  conceive  of  no  alteration,  no  betrayal,"  her  father 
went  on.  "You  love  him  for  better,  for  worse,  for  the  sake 
of  his  personal  charm ;  and  if  he  should  be  a  d'Estourny,  you 
still  would  love  him  ?" 

"Oh,  papa,  you  do  not  know  your  child !  Could  I  love  a 
coward,  a  man  devoid  of  truth  and  honor — a  gallows-bird !" 

"Then  supposing  you  have  been  deceived  ?" 

"By  that  charming  young  fellow,  so  candid — almost  melan- 
choly ? — You  are  laughing  at  me,  or  you  have  not  seen  him." 

"I  see ;  happily  your  love  is  not  so  imperative  as  you  say.  I 
have  suggested  conditions  which  might  modify  your  poem. — 
Well,  then,  you  will  admit  that  fathers  are  of  some  use  ?" 

"You  wanted  to  give  me  a  lesson,  papa — a  sort  of  object- 
lesson,  it  would  seem." 

"Poor  misled  girl !"  said  her  father  severely ;  "the  lesson 
is  not  of  my  giving ;  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  it  beyond  try- 
ing to  soften  the  blow." 

"Say  no  more,  papa ;  do  not  trifle  with  my  very  life,"  said 
Modeste,  turning  pale. 

"Nay,  my  child,  summon  up  your  courage.  It  is  you  who 
have  trifled  with  life,  and  life  now  laughs  you  to  scorn." 

Modeste  looked  at  her  father  in  bewilderment. 

"Listen;  if  the  young  man  you  love,  whom  you  saw  in 


150  MODESTE  MIGNON 

church  at  le  Havre  four  days  ago,  were  a  contemptible  wretch 


"It  is  not  true !"  said  she.  "That  pale,  dark  face,  so  noble 
and  full  of  poetry " 

"Is  a  lie!"  said  the  Colonel,  intcTi-upting  her.  "He  is  no 
more  Monsieur  de  Canalis  than  I  am  that  fisherman  hauling 
up  his  sail  to  go  out " 

"Do  you  know  what  you  are  killing  in  me?"  said  Modeste. 

"Be  comforted,  my  child ;  though  fate  has  made  your  fault 
its  own  punishment,  the  mischief  is  not  irreparable.  The 
youth  you  saw,  with  whom  you  have  exchanged  hearts  by 
correspondence,  is  an  honest  fellow ;  he  came  to  me  to  confess 
his  dilemma.  He  loves  you,  and  I  should  not  object  to  him 
as  a  son-in-law." 

"And  if  he  is  not  Canalis,  who  is  he  ?"  asked  Modeste,  in  a 
broken  voice. 

"His  secretary.  His  name  is  Ernest  de  la  Briere.  He  is 
not  of  superior  birth,  but  he  is  one  of  those  average  men,  with 
solid  virtues  and  sound  morals,  whom  parents  like.  And 
what  does  it  matter  to  us,  after  all?  You  have  seen  him; 
nothing  can  change  your  feelings;  you  have  chosen  him,  you 
know  his  soul — it  is  as  noble  as  he  is  good-looking." 

The  Comte  de  la  Bastie  was  checked  by  a  sigh  from  Modeste. 
The  poor  child,  perfectly  white,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  sea, 
and  as  rigid  as  the  dead,  had  been  struck  as  by  a  pistol-shot 
by  the  words,  "One  of  those  average  men,  with  solid  virtues 
and  sound  morals,  whom  parents  like." 

"Deceived!"  she  said  at  last. 

"As  your  poor  sister  was,  but  less  seriously." 

"Let  us  go  home,  papa,"  she  said,  rising  from  the  knoll 
on  which  they  had  been  sitting.  "Listen,  father;  I  swear 
before  God  to  obey  your  wishes,  whatever  they  may  be,  in  the 
business  of  marriage." 

"Then  you  have  already  ceased  to  love?"  asked  her  father 
sarcastically. 

"1  loved  a  true  man  without  a  falsehood  on  his  face,  as 
honest  as  you  yourself,  incapable  of  disguising  liimself  like 
an  actor,  of  dressing  himself  up  in  another  man's  glory." 


MODESTE  MIGNON  151 

'*You  said  that  nothing  could  move  yon  !"  said  the  Colonel 
ironically. 

"Oh,  do  not  make  game  of  me !"  cried  she,  clasping  her 
hands,  and  looking  at  her  father  in  an  agony  of  entreaty. 
"You  do  not  know  how  you  are  torturing  my  heart  and  my 
dearest  beliefs  by  your  satire " 

"God  forbid  !     I  have  said  the  exact  truth." 

"You  are  very  good,  father,"  she  replied,  after  a  pause,  with 
a  certain  solemnity. 

"And  he  has  your  letters !  Heh  ?"  said  Charle?  Mignon. 
"If  those  crazy  effusions  of  your  soul  had  fallen  into  the 
hands  of  one  of  those  poets  who,  according  to  Duraay,  use 
them  for  pipe-lights '"' 

"Oh,  that  is  going  too  far." 

"So  Canalis  told  him." 

"He  saw  Canalis  ?" 

"Y'es,"  replied  the  Colonel. 

They  walked  on  a  little  way  in  silence. 

"That,  then,"  said  Modeste,  when  they  had  gone  a  few 
steps,  "was  why  that  gentleman  spoke  so  ill  of  poets  and 
poetry.  Why  did  that  little  secretary  talk  of- But,  how- 
ever," she  added,  interrupting  herself,  "were  not  his  virtues, 
his  qualities,  his  fine  sentiments,  a  mere  epistolary  make-up  ? 
I'he  man  who  steals  another's  fame  and  name  may  very 
well " 

"Pick  locks,  rob  the  Treasury,  murder  on  the  highway," 
said  Charles  Mignon,  smiling.  "That  is  just  like  you — you 
girls,  with  your  uncompromising  feelings  and  3'our  ignorance 
of  life.  A  man  who  can  deceive  a  woman  has  either  escaped 
the  scaffold  or  must  end  there." 

This  raillery  checked  Modeste's  effervescence,  and  again 
they  were  botli  silent. 

"My  child,"  the  Colonel  added,  "men  in  the  world — as  in 
nature,  for  that  matter — are  bound  to  try  to  win  your  hearts, 
and  you  defend  them.  You  have  reversed  the  position.  Is  that 
well?  In  a  false  position  everything  is  false.  Yours,  then, 
was  the  first  wrong  step. — No,  a  man  is  not  a  monster  because 


152  MODESTE  MIONON 

he  tries  to  attract  a  woman;  our  rights  allow  us  to  be  the 
aggressors,  with  all  the  consequences,  short  of  crime  and  base- 
ness. A  man  may  still  have  virtues  even  after  throwing  over 
a  woman,  for  this  simply  means  that  he  has  failed  to  find  the 
treasure  he  sought  in  her;  while  no  woman  but  a  queen,  an 
actress,  or  a  woman  so  far  above  the  man  in  rank  that  to  him 
she  is  like  a  queen,,  can  take  the  initiative  without  incurring 
much  blame. — But  a  girl !  She  is  false  to  everything  that 
God  has  given  her,  every  flower  of  saintliness,  dignity,  and 
sweetness,  whatever  grace,  poetry,  or  precaution  she  may  in- 
fuse into  the  act." 

"To  seek  the  master  and  find  the  servant !  To  play  the 
old  farce  of  Love  and  Chance  on  one  side  only !"  she  ex- 
claimed, with  bitter  feeling.  "Oh,  I  shall  never  hold  up  my 
head  again !" 

"Foolish  child!  Monsieur  Ernest  de  la  Briere  is,  in  my 
eyes,  at  least  the  equal  of  Monsieur  de  Canalis;  he  has  been 
private  secretary  to  a  Prime  Minister,  he  is  Referendary  to 
the  Court  of  Exchequer,  he  is  a  man  of  heart,  he  adores  you, 
— but  he  does  not  write  verses. — No,  I  confess  it,  he  is  not  a 
poet ;  but  he  may  have  a  heart  full  of  poetr}-.  However,  my 
poor  child,''  he  added,  in  reply  to  Modeste's  face  of  disgust, 
"you  will  see  them  both — the  false  and  the  real  Canalis ** 

"Oh,  papa !" 

"Did  you  not  swear  to  obey  me  in  everything  that  concerns 
the  husiness  of  your  marriage?  Well,  you  may  choose  be- 
tween them  the  man  you  prefer  for  your  husband.  You 
began  with  a  poem,  you  may  end  with  a  page  of  bucolics  by 
trying  to  detect  the  true  nature  of  these  gentlemen  in  some 
rustic  excursions,  a  shooting  or  a  fishing  party." 

Modesto  bent  her  head  and  returned  to  the  Chalet  with  her 
father,  listening  to  what  he  said,  and  answering  in  mono- 
syllables. She  had  fallen  humiliated  into  the  depths  of  a 
bog,  from  the  Alp  where  she  fancied  she  had  flown  up  to  an 
eagle's  nest.  To  adopt  the  poetical  phraseology  of  an  author 
of  that  period,  "After  feeling  the  sole^  of  her  feet  too  tender 
to  tread  on  the  glass  sherds  of  reality,  Fancy,  which  had 


MODESTE  MIGNON  153 

united  every  characteristic  of  woman  in  that  fragile  form, 
from  the  day-dreams  of  a  modest  girl,  all  strewn  with  violets, 
to  the  unbridled  desires  of  a  courtesan,  has  now  led  her  to  the 
midst  of  her  enchanted  gardens,  wliere,  hideous  surprise ! 
instead  of  an  exquisite  blossom,  she  found  growing  from  the 
soil  the  hairy  and  twisted  limbs  of  the  Mandragora." 

From  the  mystic  heights  of  her  love,  Modeste  had  dropped 
on  to  the  dull,  flat  road,  lying  between  ditches  and  ploughed 
lands — the  road,  in  short,  that  is  paved  with  vulgarity.  What 
girl  with  an  ardent  spirit  but  would  be  broken  by  such  a  fall? 
At  whose  feet  had  she  cast  her  promises  ? 

The  Modeste  who  returned  to  the  Chalet  bore  no  more 
resemblance  to  the  girl  who  had  gone  out  two  hours  before,  than 
the  actress  in  the  street  resembles  the  heroine  on  the  stage.  She 
sank  into  a  state  of  apathy  that  was  painful  to  behold.  Thesun 
was  darkened,  nature  was  under  a  shroud,  the  flowers  had  no 
message  for  her.  Like  every  girl  of  a  vehement  disposition, 
she  drank  a  little  too  deep  of  the  cup  of  disenchantment.  She 
rebelled  against  reality,  without  choosing  as  yet  to  bend  her 
neck  to  the  yoke  of  the  family  and  of  society;  she  thought 
it  too  heavy,  too  hard,  too  oppressive.  She  would  not  even 
listen  to  the  comfort  ofi^ered  by  her  father  and  mother,  and 
felt  an  indescribable  savage  delight  in  abandoning  herself  to 
her  mental  sufferings. 

"Then  poor  Butscha  was  right !"  she  exclaimed  one  evening. 

This  speech  shows  how  far  she  had  traveled  in  so  short 
a  time  on  the  barren  plains  of  Reality,  guided  by  her  deep 
dejection.  Grief,  when  it  comes  of  the  upheaval  of  all  our 
hopes,  is  an  illness ;  it  often  ends  in  death.  It  would  be  no 
mean  occupation  for  modern  physiology  to  investigate  the 
process  and  means  by  which  a  thought  can  produce  the  same 
deadly  effects  as  a  poison;  how  despair  can  destroy  the  ap- 
petite, injure  the  pylorus,  and  change  all  the  functions  of  the 
strongest  vitality.  This  was  the  case  with  Modeste.  In  three 
days  she  presented  an  image  of  morbid  melancholy ;  she  sang 
no  more,  it  was  impossible  to  make  her  smile;  her  parent* 


154  MODESTE  MIGNON 

and  friends  were  alarmed.  Charles  Mignon,  uneasy  at  seeing 
notliiu«,'  of  the  two  young  men,  was  thinking  of  going  to 
fetch  them ;  but  on  the  fourth  day  Monsieur  Latournelle  had 
news  of  thcin,  and  this  was  how. 

Canal  is,  immensely  tempted  by  such  a  rich  marriage, 
would  neglect  no  means  of  outdoing  la  Briere,  while  Ernest 
could  not  complain  of  his  having  violated  the  laws  of  friend- 
ship. The  poet  thought  that  nothing  put  a  lover  at  a  greater 
disadvantage  in  a  young  lady's  eyes  than  figuring  in  an  in- 
ferior position;  so  he  proposed,  in  the  most  innocent  manner 
possible,  that  he  and  la  Briere  should  keep  house  together, 
taking  a  little  country  place  at  Ingouville,  where  they  might 
iive  for  a  month  under  pretext  of  recruiting  their  health. 

As  soon  as  la  Briere  had  consented  to  this  proposal,  at  first 
regarding  it  as  very  natural,  Canalis  insisted  on  his  being  his 
guest,  and  made  all  the  arrangements  himself.  He  sent  his 
man-servant  to  le  Havre,  desiring  him  to  apply  to  ]\ronsieur 
Latournelle  for  the  choice  of  a  countr}-  cottage  at  Ingou- 
ville, thinking  that  the  notary  would  certainly  talk  over  the 
matter  with  the  Mignon  family.  Ernest  and  Canalis,  it  may 
be  supposed,  had  discussed  every  detail  of  their  adventure ;  and 
la  Briere,  always  prolix,  had  given  his  rival  a  thousand  valu- 
able hints. 

The  servant,  understanding  his  master's  intentions,  carried 
them  out  to  admiration  ;  he  trumpeted  the  advent  of  the  great 
poet,  to  whom  his  doctors  had  ordered  some  sea-baths  to 
recruit  him  after  the  double  fatigues  of  politics  and  litera- 
ture. This  grand  personage  required  a  house  of  at  least  so 
many  rooms;  for  he  was  bringing  his  secretary,  his  cook,  two 
men-servants,  and  a  coachman,  not  to  mention  Monsieur 
Germain  Bonnet,  his  body-servant.  The  traveling  carriage 
the  poet  selected  and  hired  for  a  month  was  very  neat,  and 
could  sen'e  for  making  some  excursions;  and  Germain  was  in 
search  of  two  saddle-horses  for  hire  in  the  neighborhood,  as 
Monsieur  le  Baron  and  his  secretary  were  fond  of  horse-exer- 
cise. In  the  presence  of  little  Latournelle,  Germain,  as  he 
went  over  various  houses,  spoke  much  of  the  secretary,  and 


MODESTE  MIGNON  155 

rejected  two  villas  on  the  ground  that  Monsieur  de  la  Bricre 
would  not  bo  well  accommodated. 

"Monsieur  le  Baron,"  said  he,  "regards  his  secretary  as  his 
best  friend.  Oh,  I  should  catch  it  handsomely  if  Monsieur 
de  la  Briere  were  not  as  well  served  as  IVIonsieur  le  Baron 
himself.  And,  after  all,  Monsieur  de  la  Briere  is  Eeferendary 
to  the  Court  of  Exchequer." 

Germain  was  never  seen  dressed  otherwise  than  in  a  suit  of 
black,  with  good  gloves  and  boots,  turned  out  like  a  gentleman. 
Imagine  the  effect  he  produced,  and  the  notion  that  was 
formed  of  the  great  poet  from  this  specimen.  A  clever  man's 
servant  becomes  clever  too;  the  master's  cleverness  presently 
"runs"  and  colors  the  man.  Germain  did  not  overact  his 
part ;  he  was  straightforward  and  genial,  as  Canalis  had  in- 
structed him  to  be.  Poor  la  Briere  had  no  suspicion  of  the 
injury  Germain  was  doing  him,  or  of  the  depreciation  to 
which  he  had  exposed  himself ;  for  some  echoes  of  public  report 
rose  from  the  lower  depths  to  Modeste's  ears.  Thus  Canalis 
was  bringing  his  friend  in  his  retinue,  in  his  carriage;  and 
Ernest's  simple  nature  did  not  allow  him  to  perceive  his  false 
position  soon  enough  to  remed}^  it. 

The  delay  which  so  provoked  Charles  Mignon  was  caused 
by  the  poet's  desire  to  have  his  arms  painted  on  the  doors  of 
the  chaise,  and  by  his  orders  to  the  tailor;  for  Canalis  took 
in  the  wide  world  of  such  trivialities,  of  which  the  least  may 
influence  a  girl. 

"Make  yourself  easy,"  said  Latournelle  to  the  Colonel  on 
the  fifth  day.  "Monsieur  de  Canalis'  man  came  to  a  deter- 
mination this  morning.  He  has  taken  Madame  Amaury's 
cottage  at  Sanvic,  furnished,  for  seven  hundred  francs,  and 
has  written  to  his  master  that  he  can  start,  and  will  find  every- 
thing ready  on  his  arrival.  So  the  gentlemen  will  be  here 
by  Sunday.  I  have  also  had  this  note  from  Butscha.  Here 
— it  is  not  long :  'My  dear  Master,  I  cannot  get  back  before 
Sunday.  Between  this  and  then  I  must  get  some  important 
information  which  nearly  concerns  some  one  in  whom  you  are 
interested.' " 


156  MODESTE  MTGNON 

The  aTinniinccirient  of  this  arrival  did  not  make  Modeste 
at  all  less  siid ;  (l)o  sense  of  a.  fall,  of  humiliiition,  still  held 
sway  over  her,  iind  she  was  not  such  a  horn  coquette  as  her 
father  thou^dit  her.  There  is  a  charming  and  permissible 
kind  of  flirtation,  the  coquetry  of  the  soul,  which  might  be 
called  the  good  breeding  of  love;  and  Charles  Mignon,  when 
.reproving  his  daughter,  had  failed  to  distinguish  between  the 
desire  to  please  and  the  factitious  love  of  the  mind,  between 
the  craving  to  love  and  self-interest.  Just  like  a  soldier  of 
the  Empire,  he  saw  in  the  letters  he  had  so  hastily  read  a  girl 
throwing  herself  at  a  poet's  head ;  but  in  many  letters — 
omitted  here  for  the  sake  of  brevity — a  connoisseur  would 
have  admired  the  maidenly  and  graceful  reserve  which  Mo- 
deste  had  immediately  substituted  for  the  aggressive  and 
frivolous  pertness  of  her  first  effusions — a  transition  very 
natural  in  a  woman. 

On  one  point  her  father  had  been  cruelly  right.  It  was  her 
last  letter — in  which  ]\Iodeste,  carried  away  by  threefold 
love,  had  spoken  as  though  their  marriage  were  a  decided  thing, 
which  really  brought  her  to  shame.  Still,  she  thought  her 
father  very  hard,  very  cruel,  to  compel  her  to  receive  a  man 
so  unworthy  of  her,  towards  whom  her  soul  had  flown  almost 
unveiled.  She  had  questioned  Dumay  as  to  his  interview 
with  the  poet;  she  had  ingeniously  extracted  from  him  every 
detail,  and  she  could  not  think  Canalis  such  a  barbarian  as  the 
lieutenant  thought  him.  She  could  smile  at  the  fine  papal 
chest  containing  the  letters  of  the  mille  et  trois  ladies  of  this 
literary  Don  Giovanni.  Again  and  again  she  was  on  the 
point  of  saying  to  her  father,  "I  am  not  the  only  girl  who 
writes  to  him ;  the  cream  of  womankind  send  leaves  for  the 
poet's  crown  of  bay." 

In  the  course  of  this  week  Modeste's  character  underwent 
a  transformation.  Tliis  catastrophe — and  it  was  a  great  one 
to  so  poetical  a  nature — aroused  her  lateit  acumen  and  spirit 
of  mischief,  and  her  suitors  were  to  find  her  a  formidable  ad- 
versary. For,  in  fact,  in  any  girl,  if  her  heart  is  chilled, 
her  head  grows  clear;  she  then  observes  everything  with  a 


MODESTB  MIGNON  157 

certain  swiftness  of  jiidginont  and  a  spirit  of  mockery,  such  as 
Shakespeare  has  admirably  painted  in  the  person  of  Beatrice 
in  Much  Ado  about  Nothing.  Modeste  was  seized  by  intense 
disgust  of  mankind,  since  the  most  distinguished  of  them  had 
deceived  her  hopes.  In  love,  what  a  woman  mistakes  for  dis- 
gust is  simply  seeing  clearly ;  but  in  matters  of  feeling  no 
woman,  especially  no  young  girl,  ever  sees  truly.  When  she 
ceases  to  admire,  she  contemns.  So  Modeste,  after  going 
through  fearful  tortures  of  mind,  inevitably  put  on  the  armor 
on  which,  as  she  declared,  she  had  stamped  the  word  Con- 
tempt; thenceforward  she  could  look  on  as  a  disinterested 
spectator  at  what  she  called  the  Farce  of  Suitore,  although 
she  filled  the  part  of  leading  lady.  More  especially  was  she 
bent  on  pertinaciously  humiliating  Monsieur  de  la  Briere. 

"Modeste  is  saved,"  said  Madame  Mignon  to  her  husband 
with  a  smile,  "She  means  to  be  revenged  on  the  false 
Canalis  by  trying  to  fall  in  love  with  the  true  one." 

This  was,  indeed,  Modeste's  plan.  It  was  so  obvious  that 
her  mother,  to  whom  she  confided  her  vexation,  advised 
her  to  treat  Monsieur  de  la  Briere  with  oppressive  civility. 

"These  two  young  fellows,"  said  Madame  Latournelle  on 
the  Saturday,  "have  no  suspicion  of  the  troop  of  spies  at  their 
heels,  for  here  are  eight  of  us  to  keep  an  eye  on  them." 

"What,  my  dear — two?"  cried  little  Latournelle;  "there 
are  three  of  them ! — Gobenheim  is  not  here  yet,  so  I  may 
speak." 

Modeste  had  looked  up,  and  all  the  others,  following  her 
example,  gazed  at  the  notary. 

"A  third  lover,  and  he  is  a  lover,  has  put  himself  on  the 
list " 

"Bless  me !"  said  Charles  Mignon. 

"But  he  is  no  less  a  person,"  the  notary  went  on  pompously, 
"than  His  Lordship  Monsieur  le  Due  d'Herouville,  Marquis 
de  Saint-Sever,  Due  de  Nivron,  Comte  de  Bayeux,  Vicomte 
d'Essigny,  High  Equerry  of  France,  and  Peer  of  the  Realm, 
Knight  of  the  Orders  of  the  Spur  and  of  the  Golden  Fleece, 
Grandee  of  Spain,  and  son  of  the  last  Governor  of  Normandy. 


158  MODESTE  MIGNON 

— He  saw  Mademoiselle  Modeste  when  lie  was  staying  with  the 
Vilquins,  and  he  then  only  regretted — as  his  notary  told  me,  who 
arrived  yesterday  from  Bayeux — that  she  was  not  rich  enough 
for  him,  since  his  father,  on  his  return  from  exile,  had  found 
nothing  left  but  his  Chateau  of  Herouville,  graced  by  his 
sister's  presence. — The  young  Duke  is  three-and-thirty.  I  am 
definitively  charged  to  make  overtures.  Monsieur  le  Corate," 
added  Latournelle,  turning  respectfully  to  the  Colonel. 

"Ask  Modeste,"  said  her  father,  "whether  she  wishes  to 
have  another  bird  in  her  aviary ;  for,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned, 
I  am  quite  willing  that  this  fine  gentleman  equerry  should 
pay  his  addresses  to  her." 

Notwithstanding  the  care  with  which  Charles  Mignon 
avoided  seeing  anybody,  stayed  in  the  Chalet,  and  never  went 
out  but  with  Modeste,  Gobenheim,  whom  they  could  hardly 
cease  to  receive  at  the  Chalet,  had  gossiped  about  Dumay's 
wealth;  for  Dumay,  a  second  father  to  Modeste,  had  said  to 
Gobenheim  when  he  left  his  service,  "I  shall  be  my  Colonel's 
steward,  and  all  my  money,  excepting  what  my  wife  may 
keep,  will  go  to  my  little  Modeste's  children." 

So  every  one  at  le  Havre  had  echoed  the  plain  question  that 
Latournelle  had  asked  himself: 

"Must  not  Monsieur  Charles  Mignon  have  made  an  enor- 
mous fortune  if  Dumay's  share  amounts  to  six  hundred  thou- 
sand francs,  and  if  Dumay  is  to  be  his  steward  ?" 

"Monsieur  Mignon  came  home  in  a  ship  of  his  own,"  said 
the  gossips  on  'Change,  "loaded  with  indigo.  The  freight 
alone,  not  to  mention  the  vessel,  is  worth  more  than  he  gives 
out  to  be  his  fortune." 

The  Colonel  would  not  discharge  the  servants  ho  had  so 
carefully  chosen  during  his  travels,  so  he  was  obliged  to  hire 
'a  house  for  six  months  in  the  lower  part  of  Ingouville;  he  had 
a  body-servant,  a  cook,  and  a  coachman — both  negroes — and 
a  mulatto  woman  and  two  mulatto  men  on  whose  faithful- 
ness he  could  rely.  The  coachman  was  inquiring  for  riding 
horses  for  mademoiselle  and  his  master,  and  for  carriage 


MODESTK  MIGNON  159 

horses  for  the  chaise  in  which  the  Colonel  and  the  Lieutenant 
had  come  home.  This  traveling  carriage,  purchased  in  Paris, 
was  in  the  latest  fashion,  and  bore  the  arms  of  la  Bastie  with 
a  Count's  coronet.  All  these  things,  mere  trifles  in  the  eyes 
of  a  man  who  had  been  living,  for  four  years,  in  the  midst 
of  the  unbounded  luxury  of  the  Indies,  of  the  Hong  mer- 
chants, and  the  English  at  Canton,  Mere  the  subject  of  com- 
ment to  the  traders  of  le  Havre  and  the  good  folks  of  Graville 
and  Ingouville.  Within  five  days  there  was  a  hubbub  of  talk 
which  flashed  across  Normandy  like  a  fired  train  of  gun- 
powder. 

"Monsieur  Mignon  has  come  home  from  China  with 
millions,"  was  said  at  Eouen,  "and  it  would  seem  that  he  has 
become  a  Count  in  the  course  of  his  travels." 

"But  he  was  Comte  de  la  Bastie  before  the  Revolution," 
somebody  remarked. 

"So  a  Liberal,  who  for  five-and-twenty  years  was  known 
as  Charles  Mignon,  is  now  called  Monsieur  le  Comte !  What 
are  we  coming  to  ?" 

Thus,  in  spite  of  the  reserve  of  her  parents  and  intimates, 
Modeste  was  regarded  as  the  richest  heiress  in  Xormandy, 
and  all  eyes  could  now  see  her  merits.  The  Due  d'Herouville's 
aunt  and  sister,  in  full  drawing-room  assembly  at  Bayeux, 
confirmed  Monsieur  Charles  J^lignon's  right  to  the  arms  and 
title  of  Count  conferred  on  Cardinal  Mignon,  whose  Cardinal's 
hat  and  cords  were,  out  of  gratitude,  assumed  in  place  of  a 
crest  and  supporters.  These  ladies  had  caught  sight  of  Made- 
moiselle de  la  Bastie  from  the  Vilquins',  and  their  solicitude 
for  the  impoverished  head  of  the  house  at  once  scented  an  op- 
portunity. 

"If  Mademoiselle  de  la  Bastie  is  as  rich  as  she  is  hand- 
some," said  the  young  Duke's  aunt,  "she  will  be  the  best  match 
m  the  province.     And  she,  at  any  rate,  is  of  noble  birth !" 

The  last  words  were  a  shot  at  the  Yilquins,  with  whom 
they  could  not  come  to  terms  after  enduring  the  humiliation 
of  paying  them  a  visit. 

Such  were  the  little  events  which  led  to  the  introduction  of 


160  MODESTE  MIGNON 

another  actor  in  this  domestic  drama,  contrary  to  all  the  laws 
of  Aristotle  and  Horace.  But  the  portrait  and  biography 
of  this  personage,  so  tardy  in  his  appearance,  will  not  detain 
us  long,  since  he  is  of  the  smallest  importance.  Monsieur 
le  Due  will  not  fill  more  space  here  than  he  will  in  histor}^ 

His  Lordsliip  Monsieur  le  Due  d'llerouville,  the  fruit  of  the 
matrimonial  autumn  of  the  last  Governor  of  Xormandy,  was 
born  at  Vienna  in  1796,  during  the  emigration.  The  old 
Marshal,  who  returned  with  the  King  in  1814,  died  in  1819 
without  seeing  his  son  married,  though  he  was  Due  de  Nivron ; 
he  had  nothing  to  leave  him  but  the  immense  Chateau  of 
Herouville,  with  the  park,  some  outlying  ground  and  a  farm, 
all  painfully  repurchased,  and  worth  about  fifteen  thousand 
francs  a  year.  Louis  XVIII.  gave  the  young  Duke  the  post 
of  Master  of  the  Horse;  and  under  Charles  X.  he  received  the 
allowance  of  twelve  thousand  francs  a  year  granted  to  im- 
pecunious peers. 

But  what  were  twenty-seven  thousand  francs  a  year  for 
such  a  family?  In  Paris,  indeed,  the  young  Duke  had  the 
use  of  the  Eoyal  carriages,  and  his  official  residence  at  the 
King's  stables  in  the  Eue  Saint-Thomas  du  Louvre ;  his  salary 
paid  the  expenses  of  the  winter,  and  the  twenty-seven  thou- 
sand francs  paid  those  of  the  summer  in  Xormandy. 

Though  this  great  man  was  still  a  bachelor,  the  fault  was 
less  his  own  than  that  of  his  aunt,  who  was  not  familiar  witk 
La  Fontaine's  fables.  Mademoiselle  d'Hcrouville's  pre- 
tensions were  stupendous,  quite  out  of  harmony  with  the 
spirit  ef  the  age ;  for  great  names  without  money  can  hardly 
meet  with  any  wealthy  heiresses  among  the  high  French  no- 
bility, \ihich  finds  it  difficult  enough  to  enrich  its  sons,  ruined 
by  the  equal  division  of  property.  To  find  an  advantageous 
match  for  the  young  Due  d'Herouville  she  should  have  culti- 
vated the  great  financial  houses,  and  this  haughty  daughter 
of  the  noble  house  offended  them  all  by  her  cutting  speeches. 
During  the  early  years  of  the  Restoration,  between  1817  and 
1825,  while  looking  out  for  millions,  ]\[ademoiselle  d'Herou- 
ville refused  JLidemoiselle  Mongenod,  the  banker's  daughter. 


MODESTE  MIGNON  161 

with  whom  Monsieur  de  Fontaine  was  content.  And  now, 
after  various  good  matches  had  been  marred  by  her  pride, 
she  had  just  decided  that  tlie  fortune  of  the  Nucingens  had 
been  amassed  by  too  vile  means  to  allow  of  her  lending  herself 
to  Madame  de  Nucingen's  ambitious  desire  to  see  her  daughter 
a  duchess.  The  King,  anxious  to  restore  the  splendor  of  the 
Herouvilles,  had  almost  made  the  match  himself,  and  he 
publicly  taxed  Mademoiselle  d'llerouville  with  folly.  Thus 
the  aunt  made  her  nephew  ridiculous,  and  the  Duke  laid  him- 
self open  to  ridicule. 

It  is  a  fact  that  when  the  great  things  of  humanity  vanish 
they  leave  some  fragments  {frusteaux,  Eabelais  would  call 
them)  ;  and  the  French  nobility  in  our  day  shows  too  many 
fag-ends.  In  this  long  study  of  manners  neither  the  clergy 
nor  the  nobility  have  anything  to  complain  of.  Those  two 
great  and  magnificent  social  necessaries  are  well  represented; 
but  would  it  not  be  false  to  the  proud  title  of  Historian  to  be 
other  than  impartial,  to  fail  to  show  here  the  degeneracy  of 
the  race — just  as  you  will  elsewhere  find  the  study  of  an 
emigre,  the  Comte  de  Mortsauf  (le  Lys  dans  la  ValUe),  and 
every  noblest  feature  of  the  noble,  in  the  Marquis  d'Espard 
(I'hiterdiction). 

How  was  it  that  a  race  of  brave  and  strong  men,  that  the 
house  of  d'Herouville,  which  gave  the  famous  Marshal  to  the 
Koyal  cause,  cardinals  to  the  Church,  captains  to  the  Valois, 
and  brave  men  to  Louis  XIV.,  ended  in  a  frail  creature 
smaller  than  Butscha  ?  It  is  a  question  we  may  ask  ourselves 
in  many  a  Paris  drawing-room,  as  we  hear  one  of  the  great 
names  of  France  announced,  and  see  a  little  slender  slip  of 
a  man  come  in  who  seems  only  to  breathe,  or  a  prematurely 
old  fellow,  or  some  eccentric  being,  in  whom  the  observer 
seeks,  but  scarcely  finds,  a  feature  in  which  imagination  can 
see  a  trace  of  original  greatness.  The  dissipations  of  the 
reign  of  Louis  XV.,  the  orgies  of  that  selfish  time,  have  pro- 
duced the  etiolated  generation  in  which  fine  manners  are  the 
sole  survivors  of  extinct  great  qualities.  Style  is  the  only 
inheritance  preserved  by  the  nobility.     Thus,  apart  from  cer- 


162  MODESTE  MIGNON 

tain  exceptions,  the  defection  which  left  Louis  XVI.  to  perish 
may  be  to  some  extent  explained  by  the  miserable  heritage  of 
the  reign  of  Madame  de  l*omi)adour. 

The  Master  of  the  Horse,  a  young  man  with  blue  eyes, 
fair,  pale,  and  slight,  had  a  certain  dignity  of  mind;  but  his 
small  size,  and  his  aunt's  mistake  in  having  led  him  to  be 
uselessly  civil  to  the  Vilquins,  made  him  excessively  shy.  The 
d'Herouvilles  had  had  a  narrow  escape  of  dying  out  in  the 
'person  of  a  cripple  {I'Enfant  maudit).  But  the  Grand 
Marshal — as  the  family  always  called  the  d'Herouville  whom 
Louis  XIII.  had  created  Duke — had  married  at  the  age  of 
eighty-iwo,  and,  of  course,  the  family  had  been  continued. 
The  young  Duke  liked  women ;  but  he  placed  them  too  high, 
he  respected  them  too  much,  he  adored  them,  and  was  not 
at  his  ease  but  with  those  whom  no  one  respects.  This  char- 
acter had  led  to  his  living  a  twofold  life.  He  avenged  hira- 
self  on  women  of  easy  life  for  the  worship  he  paid  in  the  draw- 
ing-rooms, or,  if  you  like,  the  boudoirs,  of  Saint-Germain.  His 
ways  and  his  tiny  figure,  his  weary  face,  his  blue  eyes,  with 
their  somewhat  ecstatic  expression,  had  added  to  the  ridicule 
poured  on  him,  most  unjustly,  for  he  was  full  of  apprehensive- 
ness  and  wit ;  but  his  wit  had  no  sparkle,  and  was  never  seen 
excepting  when  he  was  quite  at  his  ease.  Fanny  Beaupre, 
the  actress,  who  was  supposed  to  be  his  highly  paid  and  most 
intimate  friend,  used  to  say  of  him,  "It  is  good  wine,  but  so 
tightly  corked  up  that  you  break  your  corkscrews." 

The  handsome  Duchesse  de  Maufrigncuse,  whom  the  Master 
of  the  Horse  could  only  adore,  crushed  him  by  a  speech  which, 
unluckily,  was  repeated,  as  all  clever  but  ill-natured  speeches 
are. 

"He  reminds  me,"  said  she,  "of  a  trinket,  beautifully 
wrought,  but  which  we  show  more  than  we  use,  and  always 
keep  in  cotton  wool." 

Even  his  title  of  Master  of  the  Horse  would,  by  force  of  con- 
trast, make  good  King  Charles  X.  laugh,  though  the  Due 
d'Herouville  was  a  capital  horseman.  Men.  like  books,  are 
sometimes  valued  too  late.     Modeste  had  had  a  glimpse  of  the 


MODESTB  MIGNON  163 

Duke  during  his  fruitless  visit  to  the  Vilquins,  and  as  he 
went  by,  all  these  remarks  involuntarily  recurred  to  her  mind; 
but  in  the  position  in  which  she  now  stood,  she  perceived 
how  valuable  the  Due  d'Herouville's  suit  would  be  to  save 
her  from  being  at  the  mercy  of  a  Canalis. 

''I  do  not  see,"  said  she  to  Latournelle,  "why  the  Due 
d'lTe'rouville  should  not  be  allowed  to  call.  In  spite  of  our 
indigence,"  she  added,  with  a  mischievous  glance  at  her  father,^ 
"I  am  supposed  to  be  an  heiress.  I  shall  have  at  last  to 
publish  a  card  of  the  field. — Have  you  not  noticed  how 
Gobenheim's  looks  have  changed  in  thecourse  ofthisweek?  He 
is  in  despair  because  he  cannot  set  down  his  faithful  attend- 
ance for  whist  to  the  score  of  mute  admiration  of  me  !" 

"Hush,  my  darling !  here  he  is,"  said  Madame  Latournelle. 

"Old  Althor  is  in  despair,"  said  Gobenheim  to  Monsieur 
Mignon  as  he  came  in. 

"What  about  ?"  asked  the  Comte  de  la  Bastie. 

"Vilquin  is  going  to  fail,  they  say,  and  on  'Change  here  you 
are  said  to  have  several  millions " 

"N"o  one  knows,"  said  Charles  Mignon  very  drily,  "what 
my  obligations  in  India  ma}'  amount  to,  and  I  do  not  care  to 
admit  the  public  to  my  confidence  in  business  matters. — 
Dumay,"  he  added  in  his  friend's  ear,  "if  Vilquin  is  in 
difficulties,  we  may  be  able  to  get  the  place  back  for  what  he 
gave  for  it  in  ready  money." 

Such  was  the  state  of  affairs  brought  about  by  chance  when, 
on  Sunday  morning,  Canalis  and  la  Briere,  preceded  by  a 
courier,  arrived  at  Madame  Amaury's  villa.  They  were  told 
that  the  Due  d'Herouville  and  his  sister  had  arrived  on  the 
previous  Tuesday  at  a  hired  house  in  Graville,  for  the  benefit 
of  their  health.  This  competition  led  to  a  jest  in  the  town 
that  rents  would  rise  at  Ingouville. 

"She  will  make  the  place  a  perfect  hospital  if  this  goes 
on !"  remarked  Mademoiselle  Vilquin,  disgusted  at  not  be- 
coming a  duchess. 

The  perennial  comedy  of  Tlie  Heiress,  now  to  be  performed 
at  the  Chalet,  might  certainly,  from  the  frame  of  niiud  in 


l«4  MODESTE  MIGNUN 

which  ii  found  Modeste,  have  been,  as  she  had  said  in  jest,  a 
competition,  for  she  was  firmly  j-esolved,  after  the  overthrow 
of  her  illusions,  to  give  her  hand  only  to  the  man  whose  char- 
acter sliould  prove  perfectly  satisfactory. 

On  the  morrow  of  their  arrival,  the  rivals — still  bosom 
friends — prepared  to  make  their  first  visit  to  the  Chalet  that 
evening.  They  devoted  the  whole  of  Sunday  and  all  Monday 
morning  to  unpacking,  to  taking  possession  of  Madame 
Amaury's  house,  and  to  settling  themselves  in  it  for  a  month. 
Besides,  the  poet,  justified  by  his  position  as  Minister's  ap- 
prentice in  allowing  himself  some  craft,  had  thought  of  every- 
thing; he  wished  to  get  the  benefit  of  the  excitement  that 
might  be  caused  by  his  arrival,  "of  which  some  echoes  might 
reach  the  Chalet.  Canalis,  supposed  to  be  much  fatigued,  did 
not  go  out;  la  Briere  went  twice  to  walk  past  the  Chalet,  for  he 
loved  with  a  sort  of  desperation,  he  had  tlie  greatest  dread  of 
having  repelled  Modeste,  his  future  seemed  wrapped  in  thick 
clouds. 

The  two  friends  came  down  to  dinner  on  that  Monday  in 
array  for  their  first  visit,  the  most  imj^ortant  of  all.  La 
Briere  was  dressed  as  he  had  been  in  church  on  that  famous 
Sunday;  but  he  regarded  himself  as  the  satellite  to  a  planet, 
and  trusted  wholly  to  the  chance  of  circumstances.  Canalis, 
on  his  part,  had  not  forgotten  his  black  coat,  nor  his  orders, 
nor  the  drawing-room  grace  perfected  by  his  intimacy  with 
the  Duchesse  de  Chaulieu,  his  patroness,  and  with  the  finest 
company  of  the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain.  Canalis  had  at- 
tended to  every  detail  of  dandyism,  while  poor  Ernest  was 
prepared  to  appear  in  the  comparative  carelessness  of  a  hope- 
less man. 

As  he  waited  on  the  two  gentlemen  at  table,  Germain  could 
not  helj)  smiling  at  the  contrast.  At  the  second  course  he 
jcame  in  with  a  diplomatic,  or,  to  be  exact,  a  disturbed  air. 

"Monsieur  le  Baron,"  said  he  to  Canalis  in  a  low  voice,  "did 
you  know  that  Monsieur  the  Master  of  the  Horse  is  coming  to 
Graville  to  be  cured  of  the  same  complaint  as  you  and  Mon- 
sieur de  la  Briere?" 


MODESTE  MIGNON  165 

'The  little  Due  d'Herouville  ?"  cried  Canalis. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Can  he  have  come  for  Mademoiselle  de  la  Bastie  ?"  asked  la 
Briere,  coloring. 

"For  Mademoiselle  Mignon,"  replied  Germain. 

"We  are  done  I"  cried  Canalis,  looking  at  la  Briere. 

"Ah !"  Ernest  eagerly  replied,  "that  is  the  first  time  you 
have  said  we  since  we  left  Paris.  Till  this  moment  you  have 
said  I." 

"You  know  me !"  cried  Melchior  with  a  hurst  of  laughter. 
"Well,  we  are  not  in  a  position  to  hold  our  own  against  an 
officer  of  the  Household,  against  the  titles  of  Duke  and  Peer, 
nor  against  the  marsh-lands  which  the  Privy  Council  has  just 
conferred,  on  the  strength  of  my  report,  on  the  House  of 
Herouville." 

"His  Highness,"  said  la  Briere  with  mischievous  grav- 
ity, "offers  you  a  plum  of  consolation  in  the  person  of  his 
sister." 

Just  at  this  moment  the  Comte  de  la  Bastie  was  an- 
nounced. The  two  young  men  rose  to  receive  him,  and  la 
Briere  hastened  to  meet  him  and  introduce  Canalis. 

"I  had  to  return  the  visit  you  paid  me  in  Paris,"  said 
Charles  Mignon  to  the  young  Referendary,  "and  1  knew  that 
by  coming  here  I  should  have  the  added  pleasure  of  seeing 
one  of  our  great  living  poets." 

"Great  ? — monsieur,"  the  poet  replied  with  a  smile ;  "there 
can  be  nothing  great  henceforth  in  an  age  to  which  the  reign 
of  Napoleon  was  the  preface.  To  begin  with,  we  are  a  perfect 
tribe  of  so-called  great  poets.  And  besides,  second-rate  talent 
apes  genius  so  well  that  it  has  made  any  great  distinction 
impossible." 

"And  is  that  what  has  driven  you  into  politics  ?"  asked  the 
Comte  de  la  Bastie. 

"It  is  the  same  in  that  field  too,"  said  Canalis.  "There  will 
be  no  more  great  statesmen;  there  will  be  only  men  who  arc 
more  or  less  in  touch  with  events.  Under  the  system  pro- 
duced by  the  Charter,  monsieur,  which  regards  the  schedule 


toe  MODESTE  MIGNON 

of  (iio  rates  you  pay  as  a  patent  of  nobility,  there  is  nothing 
substantial  but  w  !iat  you  went  to  find  in  China — a  fortune." 

Melchior,  well  pleased  with  liimself,  and  satisfied  with  the 
impression  he  was  making  on  his  future  father-in-law,  now 
turned  to  (^ennain. 

"Give  us  coffee  in  the  drawing-rooni,"  said  he,  bowing  to 
the  merchant  to  leave  the  dining-room. 

"I  must  thank  you,  Monsieur  le  Comte,"  said  la  Briere, 
"for  having  spared  me  the  embarrassment  of  not  knowing 
how  I  might  introduce  my  friend  at  your  house.  To  your 
kind  heart  you  add  a  happy  wit " 

"Oh,  such  wit  as  is  common  to  the  natives  of  Provence,'* 
said  Mignon. 

"Ah,  you  come  from  Provence  ?"  cried  Canalis. 

"Forgive  my  friend/'  said  la  Briere;  "he  has  not  studied 
the  history  of  the  la  Basties  as  I  have." 

At  the  word  friend,  Canalis  shot  a  deep  look  at  Ernest. 

"If  your  health  permits,"  said  the  Provencal  to  the  great 
poet,  "I  claim  the  honor  of  receiving  you  this  evening  under 
my  roof.  It  will  be  a  day  to  mark,  as  the  ancients  have  it^ 
albo  notanda  lapillo.  Though  we  are  somewhat  shy  of  re- 
ceiving so  great  a  glory  in  so  small  a  house,  you  will  gratify 
my  daughter's  impatience,  for  her  admiration  has  led  her  even 
tiD  set  your  verses  to  music." 

"You  possess  what  is  better  than  glory,"  said  Canalis. 
"You  have  beauty  in  your  home,  if  I  may  believe  Ernest." 

"Oh,  she  is  a  good  girl,  whom  you  will  find  quite  provin- 
cial," said  the  father. 

"Provincial  as  she  is,  she  has  a  suitor  in  the  Due  d'Herou- 
ville,"  cried  Canalis  in  a  hard  tone. 

"Oh,"  said  ^Monsieur  ilignon,  with  the  deceptive  frankness 
of  a  southerner,  "I  leave  my  daughter  free  to  choose.  Dukes, 
princes,  private  gentlemen,  they  are  all  the  same  to  me,  even 
men  of  genius.  I  will  pledge  myself  to  nothing;  the  man 
my  Modeste  may  prefer  will  be  my  son-in-law,  or  rather  ray 
son,"  and  he  looked  at  la  Briere.  "Jladame  de  la  Bastie  is  a 
German;  she  cannot  tolerate  French  etiquette,  and  I  allow 


MODESTE  MIGNON  167 

myse]f  to  be  guided  by  my  two  women.  I  would  always  rather 
ride  inside  a  carriage  than  on  the  box.  We  can  discuss  such 
serious  matters  in  jest,  for  we  have  not  yet  seen  the  Due 
d'Herouvillc,  and  I  do  not  believe  in  marriages  arranged  by 
proxy  any  more  than  in  suitors  forced  on  girls  by  their 
parents." 

"That  is  a  declaration  equally  disheartening  and  encourag- 
ing to  two  young  men  who  seek  in  marriage  the  philosopher's 
stone  of  happiness/'  said  Canalis. 

"Do  not  you  think  it  desirable,  necessar}^  and  indeed  good 
policy,  to  stipulate  for  perfect  liberty  for  the  parents,  the 
daughter,  and  the  suitors?"  said  Charles  Mignon. 

Canalis,  at  a  glance  from  la  Briere,  made  no  reply,  and  the 
conversation  continued  on  indifferent  subjects.  After  walk- 
ing two  or  three  times  round  the  garden,  the  father  with- 
drew, begging  the  two  friends  to  pay  their  visit. 

"That  is  our  dismissal,"  cried  Canalis.  "You  understood  it 
as  I  did.  After  all,  in  his  place  I  should  not  hesitate  be- 
tween the  Master  of  the  Horse  and  either  of  us,  charming 
fellows  as  we  may  be." 

"I  do  not  think  so,"  said  la  Briere.  "I  believe  that  the 
worthy  officer  came  simply  to  gratify  his  own  impatience  to 
see  you,  and  to  declare  his  neutrality  while  opening  his 
house  to  us.  Modeste,  bewitched  by  your  fame,  and  misled 
as  to  my  identity,  finds  herself  between  Poetry  and  hard 
Fact.     It  is  my  misfortune  to  be  the  hard  Fact." 

"Germain,"  said  Canalis  to  the  servant  who  came  in  to  clear 
away  the  coffee,  "order  the  carriage  round.  We  will  go 
out  in  half  an  hour,  and  take  a  drive  before  going  to  the 
Chalet." 

The  two  young  men  were  equally  impatient  to  see  Mo- 
deste, but  la  Briere  dreaded  the  meeting,  while  Canalis  looked 
forward  to  it  with  a  confidence  inspired  by  conceit.  Ernest's 
impulsive  advances  to  her  father,  and  the  flattery  by  which 
he  had  soothed  the  merchant's  aristocratic  pride  while  showing 
up  the  poet's  awkwardness,  made  Canalis  determine  that  be 


168  MODESTE  MIGNON 

would  play  a  part.  He  resolved  lliat  lie  would  display  all  his 
powers  of  attraction,  but  at  the  same  time  alTect  inditrcrcnce, 
seem  to  disdain  ]\lode.stc,  and  so  goad  the  girl's  vanity.  A 
disciple  of  the  beautiful  Duchesse  de  Chaulieu,  he  here  showed 
himself  worthy  of  his  reputation  as  a  man  who  knew  women 
well ;  though  he  did  not  really  know  them,  since  no  man  does 
who  is  the  happy  victim  of  an  exclusive  passion.  While  the 
luckless  Ernest,  sunk  in  a  corner  of  the  carriage,  was  crushed 
by  the  terrors  of  true  love  and  the  anticipated  wrath,  scorn, 
contempt — all  the  lightnings  of  an  offended  and  disappointed 
girl — and  kept  gloomy  silence,  Canalis,  not  less  silent,  was 
preparing  himself,  like  an  actor  studying  an  important  part 
in  a  new  play. 

Neither  of  them  certainly  looked  like  a  happy  man. 

For  Canalis,  indeed,  the  matter  was  serious.  To  him  the 
mere  fancy  for  marrying  involved  the  breach  of  the  serious 
friendship  which  had  bound  him  for  nearly  ten  years  to  the 
Duchesse  de  Chaulieu.  Though  he  had  screened  his  journey 
under  the  common  excuse  of  overwork — in  which  no  woman 
ever  believes,  even  if  it  is  true — his  conscience  troubled  him 
somewhat;  but  to  la  Briere  the  word  Conscience  seemed  so 
Jesuitical  that  he  only  shrugged  his  shoulders  when  the  poet 
spoke  of  his  scruples. 

"Your  conscience,  my  boy,  seems  to  me  to  mean  simply 
your  fear  of  losing  the  gratifications  of  vanity,  some  solid  ad- 
vantages, and  a  pleasant  habit  in  sacrificing  Madame  de 
Chaulieu's  affection ;  for,  if  you  are  successful  with  Modeste, 
you  will  certainly  have  nothing  to  regret  in  the  aftermath  of 
a  passion  so  constantly  reaped  during  these  eight  years  past. 
If  you  tell  me  that  you  are  afraid  of  offending  your  pro- 
tectress, should  she  learn  the  real  reason  of  your  visit  here, 
I  can  easily  believe  you.  To  throw  over  the  Duchess  and  fail 
at  the  Chalet  is  staking  too  much!  And  you  mistake  the 
distress  of  this  alternative  for  remorse !" 

"You  know  nothing  about  sentiment!"  cried  Canalis, 
nettled,  as  a  man  always  is  when  he  asks  for  a  compliment 
and  hears  the  truth. 


MODESTE  MIGNON  169 

''That  is  just  what  a  bigamist  would  say  to  a  dozen  Jury- 
men/' said  la  Briere,  laughing. 

This  epigram  made  a  yet  more  disagreeable  impression  on 
Canalis;  he  thought  la  Briere  much  too  clever  and  too  free 
for  a  secretary. 

The  arrival  of  a  handsome  carriage,  with  a  coachman  in 
Canalis'  livery,  made  all  the  greater  sensation  at  the  Chalet, 
because  the  two  gentlemen  were  expected,  and  all  the  persons 
of  this  tale,  excepting  only  the  Duke  and  Butscha,  were  as- 
sembled there. 

"Which  is  the  poet  ?"  asked  Madame  Latournelle  of  Duraay, 
as  they  stood  in  the  window  bay,  where  she  had  posted  her- 
self on  hearing  the  carriage  wheels. 

"The  one  who  marches  like  a  drum-major,"  replied  the 
cashier. 

"Ah,  hah !"  said  the  lady,  studying  Melchior,  who  strutted 
like  a  man  on  whom  the  world  has  its  eye. 

Though  rather  severe,  Dumay's  judgment — a  simple  soul, 
if  ever  man  was — had  hit  the  mark.  Canalis  was,  morally 
speaking,  a  sort  of  Narcissus ;  this  was  the  fault  of  the  great 
lady  who  flattered  him  immensely,  and  spoilt  him  as  women 
older  than  their  adorers  always  will  flatter  and  spoil  men. 
A  woman  past  her  first  youth,  who  means  to  attach  a  man  per- 
manently, begins  by  glorifying  his  faults,  so  as  to  make  all 
rivalry  impossible;  for  her  rival  cannot  at  once  be  in  the 
secret  of  that  subtle  flattery  to  which  a  man  so  easily  becomes 
accustomed.  Coxcombs  are  the  product  of  this  feminine  in- 
dustry, when  they  are  not  coxcombs  by  nature. 

Hence  Canalis,  caught  young  by  the  beautiful  Duchess,  jus- 
tified himself  for  his  airs  and  graces  by  telling  himself  that 
they  pleased  a  woman  whose  taste  was  law.  Subtle  as  these 
shades  of  feeling  are,  it  is  not  impossible  to  render  them.  Thus 
Melchior  had  a  real  talent  for  reading  aloud,  which  had  been 
much  admired,  and  too  flattering  praise  had  led  him  into  an 
exaggerated  manner,  which  neither  poet  nor  actor  can  set 
bounds  to,  and  which  made  de  Marsay  say — always  de  Marsay 
—that  he  did  not  declaim,  but  brayed  out  his  verses,  so  fully 


170  MODESTE  MIGNON 

would  he  mouth  the  vowels  as  he  listened  to  himself.  To  usfc 
the  slang  of  the  stage,  he  pumped  himself  out,  and  made  too 
long  {)auses.  He  would  examine  his  audience  with  a  knowing 
look,  and  give  himself  self-satisfied  airs,  with  the  aids  to 
emphasis  of  "sawing  the  air"  and  "windmill  action" — pict- 
uresque phrases,  as  the  catchwords  of  Art  always  are.  Ca- 
inalis  indeed  had  imitators,  and  was  the  head  of  a  school  in  this 
style.  This  melodramatic  emphasis  had  slightly  infected  his 
conversation  and  given  it  a  declamatory  tone,  as  will  have 
been  seen  in  his  interview  with  Dumay.  When  once  the  mind 
has  become  foppish,  manners  show  the  influence.  Canalis 
had  come  at  last  to  a  sort  of  rhythmic  gait,  he  invented  at- 
titudes, stole  looks  at  himself  in  the  glass,  and  made  his 
language  harmonize  with  the  position  he  assumed.  He 
thought  so  much  of  the  effect  to  be  produced,  that  more  than 
once  Blondet,  a  mocking  spirit,  had  bet  he  would  pull  him 
up  short — and  had  done  it — merely  by  fixing  a  set  gaze  on  the 
poet's  hair,  or  boots,  or  the  tail  of  his  coat. 

xA.t  the  end  of  ten  years  these  antics,  which  at  first  had 
passed  under  favor  of  youthful  exuberance,  had  grown  stale^ 
and  all  the  more  so  as  Meichior  himself  seemed  somewhat 
worn.  Fashionable  life  is  as  fatiguing  for  men  as  for  women, 
and  perhaps  the  Duchess'  twenty  3'ears'  seniority  weighed  on 
Canalis  more  than  on  her;  for  the  world  saw  her  still  hand- 
some, without  a  wrinJcle,  without  rouge,  and  without  heart. 
Alas !  neither  men  nor  women  have  a  friend  to  warn  them 
at  the  moment  when  the  fragrance  of  modesty  turns  rancid, 
when  a  caressing  look  is  like  a  theatiical  trick,  when  the 
expressiveness  of  a  face  becomes  u  grimace,  when  the 
mechanism  of  their  liveliness  shows  its  rusty  skeleton. 
Genius  alone  can  renew  its  youth  like  the  serpent,  and  in 
grace,  as  in  all  else,  only  the  heart  never  grows  stale.  Persons 
of  genuine  feeling  are  single-hearted.  Now  in  Canalis,  as  we 
know,  the  heart  was  dry.  He  wasted  the  beauty  of  his  gaze 
by  assuming  at  inappropriate  moments  the  intensity  that  deep 
thought  gives  to  the  eyes. 

And,  then,  praise  to  him  was  an  article  of  exchange,  in 


MODESTE  MIGNON  ill 

which  he  v/antcd  to  have  all  the  advantage.  His  way  of  pay- 
ing compliments,  which  charmed  superficial  persons,  to  those 
of  more  refined  taste  might  seem  insultingly  commonplace, 
and  the  readiness  of  his  flattery  betrayed  a  set  purpose.  In 
fact,  Melchior  lied  like  "a  courtier.  To  the  Due  de  Chaulieu, 
who  had  proved  an  ineffective  speaker  when,  as  Minister  for 
Foreign  Affairs,  he  had  been  obliged  to  mount  the  Tribune, 
Canalis  had  unblushingly  said,  "Your  Excellency  was  sub- 
lime !" 

Many  men  like  Canalis  might  have  had  their  affectations 
eradicated  by  failure  administered  in  small  doses.  Trifling, 
indeed,  as  such  faults  are  in  the  gilded  drawing-rooms  of  the 
Faubourg  Saint-Germain — where  everyone  contributes  a 
quota  of  absurdities,  and  this  kind  of  audacity,  artificiality, 
inflation  if  you  Mall,  has  a  background  of  excessive  luxur}^ 
and  magnificent  dress  which  ii-;  perhaps  an  excuse  for  it — they 
are  monstrously  conspicuous  in  the  depths  of  the  country, 
where  what  is  thought  ridiculous  is  the  very  opposite  of  all 
this.  Canalis,  indeed,  at  once  pompous  and  mannered,  could 
not  now  metamorphose  himself ;  he  had  had  time  to  set  in  the 
mould  into  which  the  Duchess  had  cast  him,  and  he  was,  more- 
over, very  Parisian,  or,  if  you  prefer  it,  very  French.  The 
Parisian  is  amazed  that  everything,  everywhere,  is  not  what  it 
is  in  Paris,  and  the  Frenchman  that  it  is  not  what  it  is 
in  France.  Good  taste  consists  in  accommodating  oneself 
to  the  manners  of  other  places  without  losing  too  much  of 
one's  native  character,  as  Alcibiades  did — the  model  of  a  gen^ 
tleman.  True  grace  is  elastic.  It  yields  to  every  circum- 
stance, it  is  in  harmony  with  every  social  atmosphere, 
it  knows  how  to  walk  in  the  street  in  a  cheap  dress,  remarkable 
only  for  its  fitness,  instead  of  parading  the  feathers  and  gaudy 
hues  which  some  vulgar  people  flaunt. 

Now,  Canalis,  influenced  by  a  woman  who  loved  him  for  her 
own  sake  rather  than  for  his,  wanted  to  be  himself  a  law,  and 
to  remain  what  he  was  wherever  he  might  go.  He  believed 
that  he  carried  his  private  public  with  him — a  mistake  shared 
by  some  other  great  men  in  Paris. 


172  MODESTE  MIGNON 

While  the  poet  iruulo  a  studied  entrance  into  the  little  draw- 
in<T-rooin,  la  Briere  sneaked  in  like  a  dog  that  is  afraid  of 
being  beaten. 

"Ah,  liere  is  my  soldier!"  said  Canalis,  on  seeing  Dumay, 
after  paying  ^Madame  Mignon  his  respects,  and  bowing  to  the 
other  women.  "Your  anxieties  are  relieved,  I  hope?"  he  went 
on,  offering  him  his  hand  with  a  flourish.  "But  the  sight  of 
mademoiselle  sufheiently  explains  their  gravity.  I  spoke  only 
of  earthly  beings,  not  of  angels." 

The  hearers  by  their  expression  asked  for  a  clue  to  thrS 
riddle. 

"Yes,  I  shall  regard  it  as  a  triumph,"  the  poet  went  on, 
understanding  that  everybody  wanted  an  explanation,  "that 
I  succeeded  in  alarming  one  of  those  men  of  iron  whom  Xa- 
poleon  succeeded  in  finding  to  form  the  piles  on  which  he 
tried  to  found  an  empire  too  vast  to  be  permanent.  Only 
time  can  serve  to  cement  such  a  structure ! — But  have  I  any 
right  to  boast  of  my  triumph?  I  had  nothing  to  do  with 
it;  it  was  the  triumph  of  faiiry  over  fact.  Your  battles, 
dear  Monsieur  Dumay;  your  heroic  cavalry  charges,  Mon- 
sieur le  Comte;  in  short.  War,  was  the  form  assumed  by  Na- 
poleon's thoughts.  And  of  all  these  things  what  remains? 
The  grass  that  grows  over  them  knows  nothing  of  them,  nor 
will  harvests  mark  the  spot ;  but  for  history,  but  for  writing, 
the  future  might  know  nothing  of  this  heroic  age!  Thus 
your  fifteen  years  of  struggle  are  no  more  than  ideas,  and 
that  is  what  will  save  the  Empire;  poets  will  make  a 
poem  of  it.  A  land  that  can  win  such  battles  ought  to  be 
able  to  sing  them  !" 

Canalis  paused  to  collect,  by  a  sweeping  glance  at  their 
faces,  the  tribute  of  admiration  due  to  him  from  these  country 
folks. 

"You  cannot  doubt,  monsieur,"  said  Madame  Mignon, 
"how  much  I  regret  being  unable  to  see  you,  from  the  way  you 
indemnify  me  by  the  pleasure  I  feel  in  listening  to  you." 

Modeste,  dressed  as  she  had  been  on  the  day  when  this 
story  opens,   having  made   up   her  mind  to  think   Canalis 


MODESTE  MIGNON  17S 

sublime,  sat  speechless,  and  dropped  her  embroidery,  which 
hung  from  her  fingers  at  the  end  of  the  needleful  of  cotton. 

"Modesto,  this  is  Monsieur  de  la  Brierc. — Monsieur  Ernest 
— my  daughter,"  said  Charles  Miguou,  thinking  that  the 
secretary  was  thrown  rather  too  much  into  the  background. 

The  young  lady  bowed  coldly  to  Ernest,  giving  him  a  look 
intended  to  convey  to  the  whole  party  that  she  had  never 
seen  him  before. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  she,  without  a  blush,  "the  fer- 
vent admiration  I  profess  for  our  greatest  poet  is,  in  my 
friends'  eyes,  a  sufficient  excuse  for  my  having  seen  no  one 
else." 

The  clear  young  voice,  with  a  ring  in  it  like  the  famous 
tones  of  Mademoiselle  Mars,  enchanted  the  poor  Referendary, 
already  dazzled  by  Modeste's  beauty,  and  in  his  amazement 
he  spoke  a  few  words  which,  had  they  been  true,  would 
have  been  sublime : 

"But  he  is  my  friend,"  said  he. 

"Then  you  will  have  forgiven  me,"  she  replied. 

"He  is  more  than  a  friend,"  cried  Canalis,  taking  Ernest 
by  the  shoulder,  and  leaning  on  him  as  Alexander  leaned  on 
Hephaestion.     "We  love  each  other  like  two  brothers " 

Madame  Latournelle  cut  the  poet  short  in  the  middle  of  his 
speech  by  saying  to  her  husband: 

"Surely  monsieur  is  the  gentleman  we  saw  in  church  ?" 

"Why  not?"  said  Charles  Mignon,  seeing  Ernest  color, 

Modesto  gave  no  sign,  but  took  up  her  work  again. 

"You  may  be  right ;  I  have  been  twice  to  le  Havre,"  said  la 
Briere,  sitting  down  by  the  side  of  Dumay. 

Canalis,  bewildered  by  Modeste's  beauty,  misunderstood 
the  admiration  she  expressed,  and  flattered  himself  that  his 
efforts  had  been  perfectly  successful, 

"I  should  think  a  man  of  genius  devoid  of  heart  if  he  had 
not  about  liim  some  attached  friend,"  said  Modeste,  to  revive 
the  subject  interrupted  by  Madame  Latournelle's  awkward- 
ness. 

"Mademoiselle,  Ernest's  devotion  is  enough  to  make  me 


It4  MODESTE  MIGNON 

believe  that  I  am  good  for  something,"  said  Canalis.  "For 
my  dear  Py lades  is  full  of  talent;  he  was  quite  half  of  the 
greatest  Minister  \vc  have  had  since  the  Peace.  Though  he 
fills  a  distinguished  position,  he  consents  to  be  my  tutor  in 
politics.  He  teaches  me  business,  he  feeds  me  with  his 
experience,  while  he  might  aspire  to  the  highest  office.  Oh! 
he  is  much  superior  to  me " 

At  a  gesture  from  IModeste,  Melehior  added  gracefully: 

"The  poetry  I  write  he  bears  in  his  heart ;  and  if  I  dare 
speak  so  to  his  face,  it  is  because  he  is  as  diffident  as  a  nun." 

"Come,  come,  that  will  do,"  said  la  Briere,  who  did  not 
know  how  to  look.  "My  dear  fellow,  you  might  be  a  mother 
wanting  to  get  her  daughter  married." 

"How  can  you  think,  monsieur,  of  becoming  a  politician  ?" 
said  Charles  Mignon  to  Canalis. 

"For  a  poet  it  is  abdication !"  said  Modeste.  "Politics  are 
the  stand-by  of  men  without  imagination." 

"Nay,  mademoiselle,  in  these  days  the  Tribune  is  the  grand- 
est stage  in  the  world  ;  it  has  taken  the  place  of  the  lists  of 
chivalry ;  it  will  be  the  meeting-place  of  every  kind  of  intellect, 
as  of  old  the  army  Avas  of  every  form  of  courage." 

Canalis  had  mounted  his  war-horse;  for  ten  minutes  he 
declaimed  on  the  subject  of  political  life: — Poetiy  was  the 
preface  to  a  statesman.  In  these  days  the  orator's  province 
was  lofty  generalization ;  he  was  the  pastor  of  ideas.  If  a  poet 
could  show  his  countrymen  the  road  of  the  future,  did  he 
cease  to  be  himself?  He  quoted  Chateaubriand,  asserting 
that  he  would  some  day  be  more  important  on  liis  political 
than  on  his  literary  side.  The  French  Chambers  would  be 
the  guiding  light  of  humanit3%  Contests  by  words  henceforth 
had  taken  the  place  of  fighting  on  the  battlefield.  Such  or 
such  a  sitting  had  been  a  second  Austerlitz,  and  the  speakers 
had  risen  to  the  dignity  of  generals;  they  spent  as  much  of 
their  life,  courage,  and  strength,  they  wore  themselves  out 
as  much  as  generals  in  war.  Was  not  speech  almost  the 
most  exhausting  expenditure  of  vital  power  that  man  could, 
indulge  in,  etc.,  etc. 


MODESTE  MIGNON  175 

This  long  harangue,  made  up  of  modern  commonplace,  but 
clothed  in  high-sounding  phrases,  newly-coined  words,  and 
intended  to  prove  that  the  Baron  de  Canalis  must  some  day 
be  one  of  the  glories  of  the  Tribune,  made  a  deep  impression 
on  the  notary,  on  Gobenheim,  on  Madame  Latournelle,  and 
Madame  Mignon.  Modesto  felt  as  if  she  were  at  the  play 
and  fired  with  enthusiasm  for  the  actor,  exactly  as  Ernest 
was  in  her  presence;  for  though  the  secretary  knew  all  these 
ilne  phrases  by  heart,  he  was  listening  to  them  by  the  light 
of  the  girl's  eyes,  and  falling  in  love  to  the  verge  of  madness. 
To  this  genuine  lover  Modeste  had  eclipsed  all  the  different 
Modestes  he  had  pictured  to  himself  when  reading  or  answer- 
ing her  letters. 

This  visit,  of  which  Canalis  had  fixed  the  limits  beforehand, 
for  he  would  not  give  his  admirers  time  to  get  tired  of  him, 
ended  by  an  invitation  to  dinner  on  the  following  Monday. 

"We  shall  no  longer  be  at  the  Chalet,"  said  the  Comte  de  la 
Bastie ;  "it  is  Dumay's  home  once  more.  I  am  going  back  to 
my  old  house  by  an  agreement  for  six  months,  with  the  right 
of  redemption,  which  I  have  just  signed  with  Monsieur  Vil- 
quin  in  my  friend  Latournelle's  office." 

"I  only  hope,"  said  Dumay,  "that  Vilquin  may  not  be  in 
a  position  to  repay  the  sum  you  have  lent  him  on  it." 

"You  will  be  in  a  home  suitable  to  your  fortune,"  said 
Canalis. 

"To  the  fortune  I  am  supposed  to  have,"  Charles  Mignon 
put  in. 

"It  would  be  a  pity,"  said  the  poet,  with  a  charming  bow 
to  Modeste,  "that  this  Madonna  should  lack  a  frame  worthy 
of  her  divine  perfections." 

This  was  all  that  Canalis  said  about  Modeste,  for  he  had 
affected  not  to  look  at  her,  and  to  behave  like  a  man  who  is 
not  at  liberty  to  think  of  marriage. 

"Oh,  my  dear  Madame  Mignon,  he  is  immensely  clever !" 
exclaimed  the  notary's  wife,  when  the  gravel  was  heard 
crunching  under  the  Parisians'  feet. 

"Is  he  ricli  ?  that  is  the  question,"  said  Gobenheim- 
VOL.  6 — 37 


no  MODESTE  MIGNON 

]\Io(]oste  stood  at  the  window,  not  niissinf,'  a  single  gesture 
')f  the  groat  poet's,  and  never  casting  a  glance  on  J']rnest  de 
la  Briere.  When  Monsieur  Mignon  came  into  the  room  again, 
and  Modeste,  after  receiving  a  parting  bow  from  the  two 
young  men  as  the  carriage  turned,  had  resumed  her  seat,  a 
deep  discussion  ensued,  such  as  coiintrv  people  indulge  in  on 
Paris  visitors  after  a  first  meeting.  Gobenhcim  reiterated 
his  remark,  "Is  he  rich?"  in  reply  to  the  trio  of  praise  sung 
by  Madame  Latournelle,  Modeste,  and  her  mother. 

"Eich  ?"  retorted  Modeste.  "What  can  it  matter  ?  Cannot 
you  see  that  Monsieur  de  Canal  is  is  a  man  destined  to  fill 
the  highest  posts  in  the  Government?  He  has  more  than 
wealth ;  he  has  the  means  of  acquiring  wealth  !" 

"He  will  be  an  Ambassador  or  a  Minister,"  said  Monsieur 
Mignon. 

"The  taxpayers  may  have  to  pay  for  his  funeral  neverthe- 
less," said  little  Latournelle. 

'^hy  ?"  asked  Charles  Mignon. 

"He  strikes  me  as  being  a  man  to  squander  all  the  fortunes 
which  Mademoiselle  Modeste  so  liberally  credits  him  with  the 
power  of  earning." 

"How  can  Modeste  help  being  liberal  to  a  man  who  regards 
her  as  a  Madonna?"  said  Dumay,  faithful  to  the  aversion 
Canalis  had  roused  in  him. 

Gobenheim  was  preparing  the  whist-table,  with  all  the 
more  eagerness  because  since  Monsieur  Mignon's  return  La- 
tournelle and  Dumay  had  allowed  themselves  to  play  for  ten 
sous  a  point. 

"Now,  my  little  darling,"  said  the  father  to  his  daughter 
in  the  window  recess,  "you  must  own  that  papa  thinks  of 
everything.  In  a  week,  if  you  send  orders  this  evening  to 
the  dressmaker  you  used  to  employ  in  Paris  and  to  your  other 
tradesmen,  you  may  display  yourself  in  all  the  magnificence  of 
an  heiress,  while  I  take  time  to  settle  into  our  old  house.  You 
shall  have  a  nice  pony,  so  take  care  to  have  a  habit  made — the 
Master  of  the  Horse  deserves  that  little  attention." 

"All  the  more  so  as  we  must  show  our  friends  the  country," 


MODESTE  MIGNON  lit 

said  Modeste,  whose  cheeks  were  recovering  the  hues  of 
health. 

"The  secretary/'  said  Madame  Mignon,  "is  not  much  to 
speak  of." 

"He  is  a  little  simpleton/'  said  Madame  Latournelle.  "The 
poet  was  attentive  to  everybody.  He  remembered  to  thank 
Latournelle  for  finding  him  a  house,  by  saying  to  me  that  he 
seemed  to  have  consulted  a  lady's  taste.  And  tlie  other  stood 
there  as  gloomy  as  a  Spaniard,  staring  hard,  looking  as  if  he 
could  swallow  Modeste.  If  he  had  looked  at  me  so,  I  should 
have  been  frightened." 

"He  has  a  very  pleasant  voice,"  Madame  Mignon  observed. 

"He  must  have  come  to  le  Havre  to  make  inquiries  about 
the  house  of  Mignon  for  the  poet's  benefit,"  said  Modeste,  with 
a  sly  look  at  her  father.  "He  is  certainly  the  man  we  saw  in 
church." 

Madame  Dumay  and  the  Latournelles  accepted  this  ex- 
planation of  Ernest's  former  journey. 

"I  tell  you  what,  Ernest,"  said  Canalis  when  they  had  gone 
twenty  yards,  "I  see  no  one  in  the  Paris  world,  not  a  single 
girl  to  marry,  that  can  compare  with  this  adorable  creature  !" 

"Oh !  it  is  all  settled,"  replied  la  Briere,  with  concentrated 
bitterness;  "she  loves  you — or,  if  you  choose,  she  will  love 
you.  Your  fame  half  won  the  battle.  In  short,  you  have 
only  to  command.  You  can  go  there  alone  next  time;  Mo- 
deste has  the  deepest  contempt  for  me,  and  she  is  right;  but 
I  do  not  see  why  I  should  condemn  myself  to  the  torture  of 
going  to  admire,  desire,  and  adore  what  I  never  can  possess." 

After  a  few  condoling  speeches,  in  which  Canalis  be- 
trayed his  satisfaction  at  having  produced  a  new  edition  of 
Caesar's  famous  motto,  he  hinted  at  his  wish  to  be  "off"  with 
the  Duchesse  de  Chaulieu.  La  Briere,  who  could  not  endure 
the  conversation,  made  an  excuse  of  the  loveliness  of  a  rather 
doubtful  night  to  get  out  and  walk ;  he  flew  lilce  a  madman  to 
the  cliffs,  where  he  stayed  till  half-past  ten,  given  up  to  a 
sort  of  frenzy,  sometimes  walking  at  a  great  pace  and  spout< 


178  MODESTE  MIGNON 

ing  solilo(juics,  sometimes  standing  still  or  sitting  down,  with- 
out observing  the  uneasiness  he  was  giving  to  two  coastguards 
on  the  lookout.  After  falling  in  love  with  Modeste's  mental 
culture  and  aggressive  candor,  he  now  added  his  adoration 
of  her  beauty,  that  is  to  say,  an  unreasoning  and  inexplicable 
passion  to  all  the  other  causes  that  had  brought  him  ten 
days  ago  to  church  at  le  Havre. 

Then  he  wandered  back  to  the  Chalet,  where  the  Pyrenean 
dogs  barked  at  him  so  furiously  that  he  could  not  allow 
himself  the  happiness  of  gazing  at  Modeste's  windows.  In 
love,  all  these  thing  are  of  no  more  account  than  the  under- 
painting  covered  by  the  final  touches  is  to  the  painter;  but 
they  are  nevertheless  the  whole  of  love,  as  concealed  pains- 
taking is  the  whole  of  art ;  the  outcome  is  a  great  painter  and 
a  perfect  lover,  which  the  public  and  the  woman  worship  at 
last — often  too  late. 

"Well !"  cried  he  aloud,  "1  will  stay,  I  will  endure.  I  shall 
see  her  and  love  her  selfishly,  for  my  own  joy  !  Modeste  will 
be  my  sun,  my  life,  I  shall  breathe  by  her  breath,  I  shall 
rejoice  in  her  joys,  I  shall  pine  over  her  sorrows,  even  if  she 
should  be  the  wife  of  that  egoist  Canalis " 

"That  is  something  like  love,  monsieur !"  said  a  voice  pro- 
ceeding from  a  bush  by  the  wayside.  "Bless  me !  is  every- 
body in  love  with  Mademoiselle  de  la  Bastie  ?" 

Butscha  started  forth  and  gazed  at  la  Briere.  Ernest 
sheathed  his  wrath  as  he  looked  at  the  dwarf  in  the  moonlight, 
and  walked  on  a  few  steps  without  replying. 

"Two  soldiers  serving  in  the  same  company  should  be  on 
better  terms  than  that,"  said  Butscha.  "If  you  are  not  in 
love  with  Canalis,  I  am  not  very  sweet  on  him  myself." 

"He  is  my  friend,"  said  Ernest. 

"Oh!  then  you  are  the  little  secretary?"  replied  the  hunch- 
back. 

"I  would  have  you  to  know,  monsieur,"  said  la  Briere,  "that 
I  am  no  man's  secretar}-.  I  have  the  honor  to  call  myself 
councillor  to  one  of  the  High  Courts  of  Justice  of  this  realm." 

"I  have  the  honor,  then,  of  making  my  bow  to  Monsieur 


MODESTE  MIGNON  179 

de  la  Briere,"  said  Butscha.  "I  have  the  honor  to  call  my- 
self head  clerk  to  Maitre  Latournelle,  the  first  notary  in  le 
Havre,  and  I  certainly  am  better  off  than  you  are. — Yes — for 
I  have  had  the  happiness  of  seeing  Mademoiselle  Modeste  de 
la  Bastie  almost  every  afternoon  for  the  last  four  years,  and 
I  propose  to  live  within  her  ken  as  one  of  the  King's  household 
lives  at  the  Tuileries.  If  I  were  offered  the  throne  of  Russia, 
I  should  reply,  'I  like  the  sun  too  well !' — Is  not  that  as  much 
as  to  say,  monsieur,  that  I  care  for  her  more  than  for  myself 
— with  all  respect  and  honor  ?  And  do  you  suppose  that  the 
high  and  mighty  Duchesse  de  Chaulieu  will  look  with  a 
friendly  eye  on  the  happiness  of  Madame  de  Canalis,  when  her 
maid,  who  is  in  love  with  Monsieur  Germain,  and  is  already 
uneasy  at  that  fascinating  valet's  long  absence  at  le  Havre, 
as  she  dresses  her  mistress'  hair  complains     .     .     ." 

"How  do  you  know  all  this?"  said  la  Briere,  interrupting 
him. 

"In  the  first  place,  I  am  a  notary's  clerk,"  replied  Butscha. 
"And  have  you  not  observed  that  I  have  a  hump  ?  It  is  full 
of  ingenuity,  monsieur.  I  made  myself  cousin  to  Made- 
moiselle Philoxene  Jacmin,  of  Honfleur,  where  my  mother 
was  born,  also  a  Jacmin — there  are  eleven  branches  of  Jacmins 
at  Honfleur. — And  so  my  fair  cousin,  tempted  by  the  hope  of 
a  highly  improbable  legacy,  told  me  a  good  many  things." 

"And  the  Duchess  is  vindictive  ?"  said  la  Briere. 

"As  vengeful  as  a  queen,  said  Philoxene.  She  has  not  yet 
forgiven  the  Duke  for  being  only  her  husband,"  replied 
Butscha.  "She  hates  as  she  loves.  I  am  thoroughly  informed 
as  to  her  temper,  her  dress,  her  tastes,  her  religion,  and  her 
meannesses,  for  Philoxene  stripped  her  body  and  soul.  I  went 
to  the  Opera  to  see  Madame  de  Chaulieu,  and  I  do  not  regret 
my  ten  francs — I  am  not  thinking  of  the  piece.  If  my 
hypothetical  cousin  had  not  told  me  that  her  mistress  had 
seen  fifty  springs,  I  should  have  thought  it  lavish  to  give  her 
thirty ;  she  has  known  no  winter,  my  lady  the  Duchess !" 

"True,"  said  la  Briere,  "she  is  a  cameo  preserved  by  the 
onyx. — Canalis  would  be  in  great  difficulties  if  the  Duchess 


180'  MODESTE  MIGNON 

knew  of  his  plans;  and  I  hope,  monsieur,  that  you  will  go  no 
further  in  an  espionage  so  unworth}'  of  an  honest  man." 

"Monsieur,"  said  Butscha  proudly,  "to  me  Modeste  is  the 
State.  I  do  not  spy,  I  forestall !  The  Duchesse  do  Chauiieu 
will  come  here  if  necessary,  or  will  remain  quietly  where  she 
is  if  I  think  it  advisable." 

"You  ?" 

"And  by  what  means  ?"  asked  la  Briere. 

"Ah,  that  is  the  question,"  said  the  little  hunchback.  He 
plucked  a  blade  of  grass.  "This  little  plant  imagines  that 
man  builds  palaces  for  its  accommodation,  and  one  day  it 
dislodges  the  most  firmly  cemented  marble,  just  as  the  popu- 
lace, having  found  a  foothold  in  the  structure  of  the  feudal 
system,  overthrew  it.  The  power  of  the  weakest  that  can 
creep  in  everywhere  is  greater  than  that  of  the  strong  man 
who  relies  on  liis  cannon.  There  are  three  of  us,  a  Swiss 
league,  who  have  sworn  that  Modeste  shall  be  happy,  and  who 
would  sell  our  honor  for  her  sake. — Good-night,  monsieur.  If 
you  love  Mademoiselle  de  la  Bastie,  forget  this  conversation, 
and  give  me  your  hand  to  shake,  for  you  seem  to  me  to  have 
a  heart! — I  was  pining  to  see  the  Chalet;  I  got  here  just  as 
she  put  out  her  candle.  I  saw  you  when  the  dogs  gave 
tongue,  I  heard  you  raging;  and  so  I  took  the  liberty  of  telling 
ynu  that  we  serve  under  the  same  colors,  in  the  regiment 
of  loyal  devotion !" 

"Good,"  replied  la  Briere,  pressing  the  hunchback's  hand. 
"Then  be  kind  enough  to  tell  me  whether  Mademoiselle  Mo- 
deste ever  fell  in  love  with  a  man  before  her  secret  cor- 
respondence with  Canalis  ?" 

"Oh!"  cried  Butscha,  "the  mere  question  is  an  insult! — 
And  even  now  who  knows  whether  she  is  in  love?  Does  she 
herself  know  ?  She  has  rushed  into  enthusiasm  for  the  mind, 
the  genius,  the  spirit  of  this  verse-monger,  this  vendor  of 
literary  pinchbeck ;  but  she  will  study  him — we  shall  all  study 
him ;  I  will  find  some  means  of  making  his  true  character 
peep    out    from    beneath    the    carapace    of    the    well-man- 


MODESTE  MIGNON  181 

Hered  man,  and  we  shall  see  the  insignificant  head  of  his 
ambition  and  his  vanity/'  said  Butscha,  rubbing  his  hands. 
"Now,  unless  mademoiselle  is  mad  enough  to  die  of  it " 

"Oh,  she  sat  entranced  before  him  as  if  he  were  a  miracle !" 
cried  la  Briere,  revealing  the  secret  of  his  jealousy. 

"If  he  is  really  a  good  fellow,  and  loyal,  and  loves  her,  if 
he  is  worthy  of  her,"  Butscha  went  on,  "if  he  gives  up  his 
Duchess,  it  is  the  Duchess  I  will  spread  a  net  for ! — There, 
my  dear  sir,  follow  that  path,  and  you  will  be  at  home  in 
ten  minutes." 

But  Butscha  presently  turned  back  and  called  to  the  hapless 
Ernest,  who,  as  an  ardent  lover,  would  have  stayed  all  night 
to  talk  of  Modeste. 

"Monsieur,"  said  Butscha,  "I  have  not  yet  had  the  honor  of 
seeing  our  great  poet;  I  am  anxious  to  study  that  splendid 
phenomenon  in  the  exercise  of  his  functions ;  do  me  the  kind- 
ness to  come  and  spend  the  evening  at  the  Chalet  the  day 
after  to-morrow;  and  stay  some  time,  for  a  man  does  not 
completely  betray  himself  in  an  hour.  I  shall  know,  before 
any  one,  if  he  loves,  or  ever  will  love,  or  ever  could  love 
Mademoiselle  Modeste." 

"You  are  very  young  to " 

"To  be  a  professor !"  said  Butscha,  interrupting  la  Briere. 
"Ah,  monsieur,  the  deformed  come  into  the  world  a  hundred 
years  old.  Besides,  a  sick  man,  you  see,  when  he  has  been 
ill  a  long  time,  becomes  more  knowing  than  his  doctor;  he 
understands  the  ways  of  the  disease,  wliich  is  more  than  a 
conscientious  doctor  always  does.  Well,  in  the  same  way, 
a  man  who  loves  a  woman  while  the  woman  cannot  help 
scorning  him  for  his  ugliness  or  his  misshapen  person,  is  at 
last  so  qualified  in  love  that  he  could  pass  as  a  seducer,  as  the 
sick  man  at  last  recovers  his  health.  Folly  alone  is  incurable. 
— Since  the  age  of  six,  and  I  am  now  five-and-twenty,  I  have 
had  neither  father  nor  mother;  public  charity  has  been  my 
mother,  and  the  King's  commissioner  my  father. — Nay,  do  not 
be  distressed,"  he  said,  in  reply  to  Ernest's  expression,  "I  am 
less  miserable  than  my  position Well,  since  I  Was  six 


182  MODESTE  MIGNON 

years  old,  when  the  insolent  eyes  of  a  servant  of  Madame 
Latourncllc's  told  rae  I  had  no  right  to  wish  to  love,  1  have 
loved  and  have  studied  women.  I  hegan  with  ugly  ones — ■ 
it  is  well  to  take  a  hull  hy  the  horns.  So  I  took  for  the  first 
subject  of  ray  studies  Madame  Latournelle  herself,  who  has 
been  really  angelic  to  me.  I  was  perhaps  wrong;  however, 
so  it  was.  I  distilled  her  in  my  alembic,  and  I  at  last  dis- 
covered hidden  in  a  corner  of  her  soul  this  idea,  'I  am  not  as 
ugly  as  people  think !' — And  in  spite  of  her  deep  piety,  by 
"working  on  that  idea,  I  could  have  led  her  to  the  brink  of  the 
abyss — to  leave  her  there." 

"And  have  you  studied  Modeste?" 

"I  thought  I  had  told  you,"  replied  the  hunchback,  "that 
my  life  is  hers,  as  France  is  the  King's !  Now  do  you  under- 
stand my  playing  the  spy  in  Paris?  I  alone  know  all  the 
nobleness  and  pride,  the  unselfishness,  and  unexpected  sweet- 
ness that  lie  in  the  heart  and  soul  of  that  adorable  creature 
— the  indefatigable  kindness,  the  true  piety,  the  light-heart- 
edness,  information,  refinement,  affability " 

Butscha  drew  out  his  handkerchief  to  stop  two  tears  from 
falling,  and  la  Briere  held  his  hand  for  some  time. 

"I  shall  live  in  her  radiance !  It  comes  from  her,  and  it 
ends  in  me,  that  is  how  we  are  united,  somewhat  as  nature  is 
to  God  by  light  and  the  word. — Good-night,  monsieur,  I  never 
chattered  so  much  in  my  life;  but  seeing  you  below  her 
windows,  I  guessed  that  you  loved  her  in  my  way." 

Butscha,  without  w^aiting  for  an  answer,  left  the  unhappy 
lover,  on  whose  heart  this  conversation  had  shed  a  mysterious 
balm.  Ernest  determined  to  make  Butscha  his  friend,  never 
suspecting  that  the  clerk's  loquacity  was  chiefly  intended  to 
open  communications  with  Canalis'  house.  In  what  a  flow 
and  ebb  of  thoughts,  resolutions,  and  schemes  was  Ernest 
lapped  before  falling  asleep;  and  his  friend  Canalis  was  sleep- 
ing the  sleep  of  the  triumphant,  the  sweetest  slumber  there  is 
next  to  that  of  the  just. 

At  breakfast  the  friends  agreed  to  go  together  to  spend 
the  evening  of  the   following  day  at   the   Chalet,   and  be 


MODESTE  MIGNON  183 

initiated  into  the  mild  joys  of  provincial  whist.  To  get  rid 
of  this  day  they  ordered  the  horses,  both  warranted  to  ride 
and  drive,  and  ventured  forth  into  a  country  certainly  as 
unknown  to  them  as  China;  for  the  least  known  thing  in 
France  to  a  Frenchman,  is  France. 

As  he  reflected  on  his  position  as  a  lover  rejected  and 
scorned,  the  secretary  made  somewhat  such  a  study  of  him- 
self as  he  had  been  led  to  make  by  the  question Modeste had  put 
to  him  at  the  beginning  of  their  correspondence.  Though  mis- 
fortune is  supposed  to  develop  virtues,  it  only  does  so  in 
virtuous  people ;  for  this  sort  of  cleaning  up  of  the  conscience 
takes  place  only  in  naturally  cleanly  persons.  La  Briere  de- 
termined to  swallow  his  griefs  with  Spartan  philosophy,  to 
preserve  his  dignity,  and  never  allow  himself  to  be  betrayed 
into  a  mean  action;  while  Canalis,  fascinated  by  such  an 
enormous  fortune,  vowed  to  himself  that  he  would  neglect 
nothing  that  might  captivate  Modeste.  Egoism  and  unselfish- 
ness, the  watchwords  of  these  two  natures,  brought  them  by  a 
moral  law,  which  sometimes  has  whimsical  results,  to  behave 
in  opposition  to  their  characters.  The  selfish  man  meant  to 
act  self-sacrifice,  the  man  who  was  all  kindness  would  take 
refuge  on  the  Aventine  Hill  of  pride.  This  phenomenon 
may  also  be  seen  in  politics.  Men  often  turn  their  natures 
inside  out,  and  not  infrequently  the  public  do  not  know  the 
right  side  from  the  wrong. 

After  dinner  they  heard  from  Germain  that  the  Master  of 
the  Horse  had  arrived;  he  was  introduced  at  the  Chalet  that 
evening  by  Monsieur  Latournelle.  Mademoiselle  d'HerOu- 
ville  managed  to  offend  the  worthy  lawyer  at  once,  by  sending 
a  message  through  a  footman,  desiring  him  to  call  at  her 
house,  instead  of  simply  sending  her  nephew  to  take  up  the 
lawyer,  who  would  certainly  have  talked  till  his  dying  day 
of  the  visit  paid  by  the  Master  of  the  Horse.  So  when  his 
lordship  ofi^ered  to  take  him  to  Ingouville  in  his  carriage,  the 
little  notary  merely  said  that  he  must  return  home  to  ac- 
company his  wife.  Seeing  by  his  sullen  manner  that  there 
was  something  wrong,  the  Duke  graciously  replied,  "If  you 


184  MODESTE  MIGNON 

will  allow  me,  T  shall  have  the  honor  of  going  round  to  fetch 
Madame  LatourneUe." 

In  spite  of  an  emphatic  shrug  of  his  despotic  aunt's 
shoulders,  the  Duke  set  out  with  the  little  notary.  In- 
to.xifalcd  with  the  delight  of  seeing  a  magnificent  carriage  at 
her  door,  and  men  in  the  royal  livery  to  let  down  the  steps, 
the  lawyer's  wife  did  not  know  which  way  to  turn  for  her 
gloves,  her  parasol,  her  bag,  and  her  dignity,  when  it  was 
announced  to  her  that  the  Master  of  the  Horse  had  come  to 
fetch  her.  As  soon  as  she  was  in  the  carriage,  while  pour- 
ing out  civilities  to  the  little  Duke,  she  suddenly  exclaimed 
with  kindly  impulse: 

"Oh,andButscha?" 

"Bring  Butscha  too,"  said  the  Duke,  smiling. 

As  the  harbor-men,  who  had  collected  round  the  dazzling 
vehicle,  saw  these  three  little  men  with  that  tall  meagre 
woman,  they  looked  at  each  other  and  laughed. 

"If  you  stuck  them  together  end  to  end,  perhaps  you  might 
make  a  man  tall  enough  for  that  long  May-pole,"  said  a  sailor 
from  Bordeaux. 

"Have  you  anything  else  to  take  with  you,  madame,"  the 
Duke  asked  jestingly,  as  the  footman  stood  waiting  for  his 
orders. 

"No,  monseigneur,"  replied  she,  turning  scarlet,  and  look- 
ing at  her  husband  as  much  as  to  say,  "What  have  I  done 
wrong  ?" 

"His  Lordship,"  said  Butscha,  "does  me  too  much  honor  in 
speaking  of  me  as  a  thing ;  a  poor  clerk  like  me  is  a  nameless 
object." 

Though  he  spoke  lightly,  the  Duke  colored  and  made  no 
reply.  Grand  folks  are  always  in  the  wrong  to  bandy  jests 
with  those  below  them.  Banter  is  a  game,  and  a  game 
implies  equality.  And,  indeed,  it  is  to  obviate  the  unpleasant 
results  of  such  a  transient  familiarity  that,  when  the  game 
is  over,  the  players  have  a  right  not  to  recognize  each  other. 

The  Duke's  visit  to  le  Havre  was  ostensibly  for  the  settle- 
ment of  an  immense  undertaking,  namely,  the  reclaiming  of 


MODESTE  MIGNON  185 

a  vast  tract  of  land,  left  dry  by  the  sea  between  two  streams, 
of  which  the  ownership  had  just  been  confirmed  to  the  Herou- 
ville  family  by  the  High  Court  of  Appeal.  The  proposed 
scheme  was  no  less  a  matter  than  the  adjustment  of  sluice 
gates  to  two  bridges,  to  drain  a  tract  of  mud  flats  extend- 
ing for  about  a  kilometre,  with  a  breadth  of  three  or  four 
hundred  acres,  to  embank  roads  and  dig  dikes.  When  the 
Due  d'llerouville  had  explained  the  nature  and  position  of  the 
land,  Charles  Mignon  observed  that  he  would  have  to  wait 
till  nature  had  enabled  the  soil  to  settle  by  the  consolidation 
of  its  still  shifting  natural  constituents. 

"Time,  which  has  providentially  enriched  your  estate.  Mon- 
sieur le  Due,  must  be  left  to  complete  its  work,"  said  he,  in 
conclusion.  "You  will  do  well  to  wait  another  fifty  years 
before  setting  to  work." 

"Do  not  let  that  be  your  final  opinion.  Monsieur  le  Comte," 
said  the  Duke.  "Come  to  Herouville,  see,  and  judge  for 
yourself." 

Charles  Mignon  replied  that  some  capitalist  would  need 
to  look  into  the  matter  with  a  cool  head ;  and  this  remark  had 
given  Monsieur  d'Herouville  an  excuse  for  calling  at  the 
Chalet. 

Modeste  made  a  deep  impression  on  him;  he  begged  the 
favor  of  a  visit  from  her,  saying  that  his  aunt  and  sister  had 
heard  of  her,  and  would  be  happy  to  make  her  acquaintance. 
On  this,  Charles  Mignon  proposed  to  introduce  his  daughter 
to  the  two  ladies,  and  invited  them  to  dine  with  him  on  the 
day  when  he  should  be  re-established  in  his  former  home; 
this  the  Duke  accepted.  The  nobleman's  blue  ribbon,  his 
title,  and,  above  all,  his  rapturous  glances,  had  their  effect 
on  Modeste ;  still,  she  was  admirably  calm  in  speech,  manner, 
and  dignity.  The  Duke  when  he  left  seemed  loath  to  depart, 
but  he  had  received  an  invitation  to  go  to  the  Chalet  ever}' 
evening,  on  the  pretext  that,  of  course,  no  courtier  of  Charles 
X.  could  possibly  endure  an  evening  without  a  game  of  whist. 

So,  on  the  following  evening,  Modeste  was  to  see  her  three 
admirers  all  on  the  stage  at  once. 


188  MODESTE  MIGNON 

Say  what  she  will,  it  is  certainly  flattering  to  a  girl  to  see 
several  rivals  fluttering  around  her,  men  of  talent,  fame,  or 
high  birth,  all  trying  to  shine  and  please  her,  though  the 
logic  of  the  heart  will  lead  her  to  sacrilice  everything  to 
personal  predilection.  Even  if  Modesto  should  lose  credit 
by  the  admission,  she  owned,  at  a  later  day,  that  the  feelings 
expressed  in  her  letters  had  paled  before  the  pleasure  of  see- 
ing three  men,  so  different,  vying  with  each  other — three 
men,  each  of  whom  would  have  done  honor  to  the  most  exact- 
ing family  pride.  At  the  same  time,  this  luxury  of  vanity 
gave  way  before  the  misanthropical  spirit  of  mischief  en- 
gendered by  the  bitter  affront  which  she  already  thought  of 
merely  as  a  disappointment.  So  when  her  father  said  to 
her  with  a  smile : 

"Well,  Modeste,  would  you  like  to  be  a  duchess  ?" 

"Ill  fortune  has  made  me  philosophical,"  she  replied,  with  a 
mocking  courtesy. 

"You  are  content  to  be  Baroness  ?"  said  Butscha. 

"Or  Viscountess  ?"  replied  her  father. 

"How  could  that  be  ?"  said  Modeste  quickly. 

"Why,  if  you  were  to  accept  Monsieur  de  la  Briere,  he 
would  certainly  have  influence  enough  with  the  King  to  get 
leave  to  take  my  title  and  bear  my  arms." 

"Oh,  if  it  is  a  matter  of  borrowing  a  disguise;  he  will  make 
no  difficulties  !"  replied  Modeste  bitterly. 

Butscha  did  not  understand  this  sarcasm,  of  which  only 
Monsieur  and  Madame  Mignon  and  Dumay  knew  the  mean- 
ing. 

"As  soon  as  marriage  is  in  question,  every  man  assumes  a 
disguise,"  said  IMadame  Latournelle,  "the  women  set  them  the 
example.  Ever  since  I  can  remember  I  have  heard  it  said, 
'Monsieur  this  or  mademoiselle  that  is  making  a  very  good 
match' — so  the  other  party  must  be  making  a  bad  one,  I  sup- 
pose ?" 

"IVIarriage,"  said  Butscha,  "is  like  an  action  at  law ;  one  side 
is  always  left  dissatisfied ;  and  if  one  party  deceives  the  other, 
half  the  married  couples  one  sees  certainly  play  the  farce  at 
the  cost  of  the  other/' 


MODESTE  MIGNON  187 

"Whence  yoti  conclude,  Sire  Butscha?"  asked  Modeste. 

""That  we  must  always  keep  our  eyes  sternly  open  to  the 
enemy's  movements,"  replied  the  clerk. 

"What  did  I  tell  you,  my  pet  ?"  said  Charles  Mignon,  allud- 
ing to  his  conversation  with  his  daughter  on  the  seashore. 

"Men,  to  get  married,"  said  Latournelle,  "play  as  many 
parts  as  mothers  make  their  daughters  play  in  order  to  get 
them  ofE  their  hands." 

"Then  you  think  stratagem  allowable  ?"  said  Modeste. 

"On  both  sides,"  cried  Gobenheim.  "Then  the  game  is 
even." 

This  conversation  was  carried  on  in  a  fragmentary  manner, 
between  the  deals,  and  mixed  up  with  the  opinions  each  one 
allowed  himself  to  express  about  Monsieur  d'Herouville,  who 
was  thought  quite  good-looking  by  the  little  notary,  by  little 
Dumaj^^  and  by  little  Butscha. 

"I  see,"  said  Madame  Mignon,  with  a  smile,  "that  Ma- 
dame Latournelle  and  my  husband  are  quite  monsters  here  !" 

"Happily  for  him  the  Colonel  is  not  excessively  tall,"  re- 
plied Butscha,  while  the  lawyer  was  dealing,  "for  a  tall  man 
who  is  also  intelligent  is  always  a  rare  exception." 

But  for  this  little  discussion  on  the  legitimate  use  of  matri- 
monial wiles,  the  account  of  the  evening  so  anxiously  ex- 
pected by  Butscha  might  seem  lengthy ;  but  wealth,  for  which 
so  much  secret  meanness  was  committed,  may  perhaps  lend 
to  the  minutiffi  of  private  life  the  interest  which  is  always 
aroused  by  the  social  feeling  so  frankly  set  forth  by  Ernest  in 
his  reply  to  Modeste. 

In  the  course  of  the  next  morning  Desplein  arrived.  He 
stayed  only  so  long  as  was  needful  for  sending  to  le  Havre  for 
a  relay  of  post-horses,  which  were  at  once  put  in — about  an 
hour.  After  examining  Madame  Mignon,  he  said  she  would 
certainly  recover  her  sight,  and  fixed  the  date  for  the  opera- 
tion a  month  later.  This  important  consultation  was  held, 
of  course,  in  the  presence  of  the  family  party  at  the  Chalet, 
all  anxiously  eager  to  hear  the  decision  of  the  Prince  of 


188  MODESTE  MIGNON 

Sfionec.  The  illustrious  member  of  the  Academy  of  Science 
asked  the  blind  woman  ten  short  questions,  while  examining 
her  eyes  in  the  bright  light  by  the  window.  Modeste,  amazed 
at  the  value  of  time  to  this  famous  man,  noticed  that  his 
traveling  chaise  was  full  of  books,  which  he  intended  to  read 
on  the  way  back  to  Paris,  for  he  had  come  away  on  the  previous 
evening,  spending  the  night  in  sleeping  and  traveling. 

The  swiftness  and  clearness  of  Desplein's  decisions  on  every 
answer  of  Madame  Mignon's,  his  curt  speech,  his  manner,  all 
gave  Modesto,  for  the  first  time,  any  clear  idea  of  a  man  of 
genius.  She  felt  the  enormous  gulf  between  Canalis,  a  man 
of  second-rate  talents,  and  Desplein,  a  more  than  superior 
mind. 

A  man  of  genius  has  in  the  consciousness  of  his  talent,  and 
the  assurance  of  his  fame,  a  domain,  as  it  were,  where  his 
legitimate  pride  can  move  and  breathe  freely  without  in- 
commoding other  people.  Then  the  incessant  conflict  with 
men  and  things  gives  him  no  time  to  indulge  the  coquettish 
conceits  in  which  the  heroes  of  fashion  indulge,  as  they 
hastily  reap  the  harvest  of  a  passing  season,  while  their 
vanity  and  self-love  are  exacting  and  irritable,  like  a  sort  of 
custom-house  alert  to  seize  a  toll  on  everything  that  passes 
within  its  ken. 

Modeste  was  all  the  more  delighted  with  the  great  surgeon 
because  he  seemed  struck  by  her  extreme  beauty — he,  under 
whose  hands  so  many  women  had  passed,  and  who  for  years 
had  been  scrutinizing  them  with  the  lancet  and  microscope. 

"It  would  really  be  too  bad,"  said  he,  with  the  gallantry 
which  he  could  so  well  assume,  in  contrast  to  his  habitual 
abruptness,  "that  a  mother  should  be  deprived  of  seeing  such  a 
lovely  daughter." 

Modeste  herself  waited  on  the  great  surgeon  at  the  simple 
luncheon  he  would  accept.  She,  with  her  father  and  Dumay, 
escorted  the  learned  man,  for  whom  so  many  sick  were  long- 
ing, as  far  as  the  chaise  which  waited  for  him  at  the  side  gate, 
and  there,  her  eyes  beaming  with  hope,  she  said  once  more  to 
Desplein ; 


MODESTE  MIGNON  189 

"Then  dear  mamma  will  really  see  me  ?" 

"Yes,  my  pretty  Will-o'-the-Wisp,  I  promise  you  she  shall," 
he  replied,  with  a  smile ;  "and  I  am  incapable  of  deceiving  you, 
for  I  too  have  a  daughter." 

The  horses  whirled  him  oS  as  he  spoke  the  words,  which 
had  an  unexpected  touch  of  feeling.  Nothing  is  more  be- 
witching than  the  unforeseen  peculiar  to  very  clever  men. 

This  visit  was  the  event  of  the  day,  and  it  left  a  track  of 
light  in  Modeste's  soul.  The  enthusiastic  child  admired  with- 
out guile  this  man  whose  life  was  at  everybody's  command, 
and  in  whom  the  habit  of  contemplating  physical  suffering 
had  overcome   every  appearance  of  egoism. 

In  the  evening,  when  Gobenheim,  the  Latournelles,  Canalis, 
Ernest,  and  the  Due  d'Herouville  had  assembled,  they  con- 
gratulated the  Mignon  family  on  the  good  news  given  them  by 
Desplein.  Then,  of  course,  the  conversation,  led  by  Modeste, 
as  we  know  her  from  her  letters,  turned  on  this  man  whose 
genius,  unfortunately  for  his  glory,  could  only  be  appreciated 
by  the  most  learned  men  and  the  Medical  Faculty.  And 
Gobenheim  uttered  this  speech,  which  is  in  our  days  the 
sanctifying  anointing  of  genius  in  the  ears  of  economists  and 
bankers : 

"He  makes  enormous  sums." 

"He  is  said  to  be  very  greedy  !"  replied  Canalis. 

The  praise  lavished  on  Desplein  by  Modeste  annoyed  the 
poet.  Vanity  behaves  like  Woman.  They  both  believe  that 
they  lose  something  by  praise  or  affection  bestowed  on  another. 
Voltaire  was  jealous  of  the  wit  of  a  man  whom  Paris  admired 
for  two  days,  just  as  a  duchess  takes  offence  at  a  glance  be- 
stowed on  her  waiting  maid.  So  great  is  the  avarice  of  these 
two  feelings,  that  they  feel  robbed  of  a  pittance  bestowed  on 
the  poor. 

"And  do  you  think,  monsieur,"  asked  Modeste,  with  a  smile, 
"that  a  genius  should  be  measured,  by  the  ordinary  standard  ?" 

"It  would  first  be  necessary,  perhaps,"  said  Canalis,  "to 
define  a  man  of  genius.  One  of  his  prime  characteristics  is 
inventiveness — the  invention  of  a  type,  of  a  system,  of  a 


100  MODESTE  MIGNON 

power.  Napoloon  was  an  inventor,  ajjart  from  his  other  char- 
acteriptics  of  genius.  lie  invented  liis  method  of  warfare. 
Walter  Scott  is  an  inventor,  LinnuMis  was  an  inventor,  so  are 
Geoffroy  Saint-Hilairc  and  Cuvier.  .Such  men  are  geniuses 
above  all  else.  They  renew,  or  expand,  or  modify  science  or 
art.  But  Desplein  is  a  man  whose  immense  talent  consists 
in  applying  laws  that  were  previously  discovered;  in  de- 
tecting, by  natural  intuition,  the  final  tendency  of  every 
temperament,  and  the  hour  marked  out  by  nature  for  the 
performance  of  an  operation.  He  did  not,  like  Hippocrates, 
lay  the  foundations  of  Science  itself.  He  has  not  discovered  a 
system,  like  Galen,  Broussais,  or  Rasori.  His  is  the  genius 
of  the  executant,  like  Moscheles  on  the  piano,  Paganini  on  the 
violin,  or  Farinelli  on  his  own  larynx — men  who  display  im- 
mense powers,  but  who  do  not  create  music.  Between 
Beethoven  and  Madame  Catalani  you  will  allow  that  to  him 
should  be  awarded  the  crown  of  genius  and  suffering;  to  her  a 
vast  heap  of  five-franc  pieces.  We  can  pay  our  debt  to  one, 
while  the  world  must  for  ever  remain  in  debt  to  the  other! 
We  owe  more  and  more  to  Moliere  every  day,  and  we  have 
already  overpaid  Baron." 

"It  seems  to  me  that  you  are  giving  too  large  a  share  to 
ideas,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  la  Briere,  in  a  sweet  and  gentle 
voice  that  was  in  startling  contrast  to  the  poet's  peremptory 
style,  for  his  flexible  voice  had  lost  its  insinuating  tone  and 
assumed  the  dominant  ring  of  rhetoric.  "Genius  ought  to  be 
estimated  chiefly  for  its  utility.  Parmentier,  Jacquard,  and 
Papin,  to  whom  statues  will  one  day  be  erected,  were  also  men 
of  genius.  They  have  in  a  certain  direction  altered,  or  will 
alter,  the  face  of  nations.  From  this  point  of  view  Desplein 
will  always  appear  in  the  eyes  of  thinking  men  accompanied 
by  a  whole  generation  whose  tears  and  sufferings  have  been 
alleviated  by  his  mighty  hand." 

That  Ernest  should  have  expressed  this  opinion  was  enough 
to  prompt  Modeste  to  contest  it. 

"In  that  case,  monsieur,"  said  she,  "the  man  who  should 
find  means  to  reap  corn  without  spoiling  the  straw,  by  a  ma- 


MODESTE  MIGNON  lOi 

chine  that  should  do  the  work  of  ten  hiborers,  would  be  a  man 
of  genius  ?" 

"Oh  yes,  my  child,"  said  Madame  Mignon,  "he  would  be 
blessed  by  the  poor,  whose  bread  would  then  be  cheaper ;  and 
he  whom  the  poor  bless  is  blessed  by  God." 

"That  is  to  give  utility  the  preference  over  art,"  said  Mo- 
deste,  with  a  toss  of  her  head." 

"But  for  utility,"  said  her  father,  "on  what  would  art  be 
founded?  On  what  basis  would  it  rest,  on  what  would  the 
poet  live,  and  who  would  give  him  shelter,  who  would  pay 
him?" 

"Oh,  my  dear  father,  that  is  quite  the  view  of  a  merchant 
captain,  a  Philistine,  a  counter-jumper.  That  Gobenheim  or 
Monsieur  de  la  Briere  should  hold  it  I  can  imderstand;  they 
are  interested  in  the  solution  of  such  social  problems ;  but  you, 
whose  life  has  been  so  romantically  useless  to  your  age,  since 
your  blood  spilt  on  the  soil  of  Europe,  and  the  terrible  suffer- 
ings required  of  you  by  a  Colossus,  have  not  hindered  France 
from  losing  ten  departments  which  the  Republic  had  con- 
quered,— how  can  you  subscribe  to  a  view  so  excessively  out  of 
date,  as  the  Romantics  have  it  ?  It  is  easy  to  see  that  you  have 
dropped  from  China." 

The  disrespect  of  Modeste's  speech  was  aggravated  by  the 
scornful  and  contemptuous  flippancy  of  the  tone  in  which  she 
intentionally  spoke,  and  which  astonished  Madame  Latour- 
nelle,  Madame  Mignon,  and  Dumay.  Madame  Latournelle, 
though  she  opened  her  eyes  wide  enough,  could  not  see  what 
Modeste  was  driving  at;  Butscha,  who  was  as  alert  as  a  spy, 
looked  significantly  at  Monsieur  Mignon  on  seeing  his  face 
flush  with  deep  and  sudden  indignation. 

"A  little  more,  mademoiselle,  and  you  would  have  failed  in 
respect  to  your  father,"  said  the  Colonel  with  a  smile,  en- 
lightened by  Butscha's  glance.  "That  is  what  comes  of 
spoiling  a  child." 

"I  am  an  only  daughter!"  she  retorted  insolently. 

"Unique !"  said  the  notary,  with  emphasis. 

''Monsieur,"  said  Modeste  to  Latournelle,  "my  father  is 

VOL.  6— ;5 


182  MODESTE  MIGNON 

very  willing  thni  I  should  educate  him.  He  gave  me  life,  I 
give  him  wisdom — he  will  still  be  my  debtor." 

"But  there  is  a  way  of  doing  it — and,  above  all,  a  time  for 
it,"  said  Madame  Mignon. 

"But  mademoiselle  is  very  right,"  said  Canalis,  rising,  and 
placing  himself  by  the  chimney-piece  in  one  of  the  finest 
postures  of  his  collection  of  attitudes.  "God  in  His  foresight 
has  given  man  food  and  clothing,  and  has  not  directly  en- 
dowed him  with  Art !  He  has  said  to  man,  'To  eat,  you  must 
stoop  to  the  earth ;  to  think,  you  must  uplift  yourself  to  Me !' 
— We  need  the  life  of  the  soul  as  much  as  the  life  of  the  body. 
Hence  there  are  two  forms  of  utility — obviously  we  do  not 
wear  books  on  our  feet.  From  the  utilitarian  point  of  view, 
a  canto  of  an  epic  is  not  to  compare  with  a  bowl  of  cheap  soup 
from  a  charity  kitchen.  The  finest  idea  in  the  world  cannot 
take  the  place  of  the  sail  of  a  ship.  An  automatic  boiler,  no 
doubt,  by  lifting  itself  two  inches,  supplies  us  with  calico 
thirty  sous  a  yard  cheaper;  but  this  machine  and  the  in- 
ventions of  industry  do  not  breathe  the  life  of  the  people,  and 
will  never  tell  the  future  that  it  has  existed ;  whereas  Egyptian 
art,  Mexican  art,  Greek  or  Roman  art,  wdth  their  master- 
pieces, stigmatized  as  useless,  have  borne  witness  to  the  exist- 
ence of  these  nations  through  a  vast  space  of  time  in  places 
where  great  intermediate  nations  have  vanished  without  leav- 
ing even  a  name-card,  for  lack  of  men  of  genius !  Works  of 
genius  form  the  summum  of  a  civilization,  and  presuppose 
a  great  use.  You,  no  doubt,  would  not  think  a  pair  of  boots 
better  in  itself  than  a  drama,  nor  prefer  a  windmill  to  the 
Church  of  Saint-Ouen?  Well,  a  nation  is  moved  by  the  same 
spirit  as  an  individual,  and  man's  favorite  dream  is  to  survive 
himself  morally,  as  he  reproduces  himself  physically.  What 
survives  of  a  nation  is  the  work  of  its  men  of  genius. 

"At  this  moment  France  is  a  vigorous  proof  of  the  truth  of 
this  proposition.  She  is  assuredly  outdone  by  England  in 
industry,  commerce,  and  navigation;  nevertheless,  she  leads 
the  world,  I  believe,  by  her  artists,  her  gifted  men,  and  the 
taste  of  her  products.     There  is  not  an  artist,  not  a  man  of 


MODESTB  MIGNON  193 

mark  anywhere,  who  does  not  come  to  Paris  to  win  his  patent 
of  mastery.  There  is  at  this  day  no  school  of  painting  but  in 
France;  and  we  shall  rule  by  the  Book  more  surely  perhaps, 
and  for  longer,  than  by  the  Sword, 

"Under  Ernest's  system  the  flowers  of  luxury  would  be 
suppressed — the  beauty  of  woman,  music,  painting,  and 
poetry.  Society  would  not,  indeed,  be  overthrown;  but  who 
would  accept  life  on  such  terms  ?  All  that  is  useful  is  horrible 
and  ugly.  The  kitchen  is  indispensable  in  a  house,  but  you 
take  good  care  never  to  stay  in  it ;  you  live  in  a  drawing-room, 
ornamented,  as  this  is,  with  perfectly  superfluous  things.  Of 
what  use  are  those  beautiful  pictures  and  all  this  carved  wood- 
work? Nothing  is  beautiful  but  what  we  feel  to  be  useless. 
We  have  called  the  sixteenth  century  the  age  of  the 
Renaissance  with  admirable  accuracy  of  expression.  That 
century  was  the  dawn  of  a  new  world ;  men  will  still  talk  of  it 
when  some  preceding  ages  are  forgotten,  whose  sole  merit 
will  be  that  they  have  existed — like  the  millions  of  beings  that 
are  of  no  account  in  a  generation." 

"Guenille,  soiti  via  guenille  m'est  dure" — "A  poor  thing, 
but  mine  own,"  said  the  Due  d'llerouville  playfully,  during 
the  silence  that  followed  this  j^ompous  declamation  of  prose. 

"But,"  said  Butscha,  taking  up  the  cudgels  against  Canalis, 
"does  the  art  exist  which,  according  to  you,  is  the  sphere  in 
which  genius  should  disport  itself?  Is  it  not  rather  a  mag- 
nificent fiction  which  social  man  is  madly  bent  on  believing  ? 
What  need  have  I  for  a  landscape  in  Normandy  hanging  in 
my  room,  when  I  can  go  and  see  it  so  well  done  by  God  ?  We 
have  in  our  dreams  finer  poems  than  the  Iliad.  For  a  very 
moderate  sum  I  can  find  at  Valognes,  at  Carentan,  as  in 
Provence,  at  Aries,  Venuses  quite  as  lovely  as  Titian's.  The 
Police  News  publishes  romances,  different  indeed  from  Walter 
Scott's,  but  with  terrible  endings,  in  real  blood,  and  not  in 
ink.    Happiness  and  virtue  are  far  above  art  and  genius !" 

"Bravo,  Butscha  !"  cried  Madame  Latournelle. 

"What  did  he  say?"  asked  Canalis  of  la  Briere,  ceasing 


194  MODESTE  MIGNON 

to  watch  Modoste,  in  whose  eyps  and  attitude  he  read  the 
delightful  evidence  of  her  artless  admiration. 

The  scorn  with  which  he  had  been  treated,  and,  above  all, 
the  girl's  disrespectful  speech  to  her  father,  had  so  depressed 
.the  unhappy  la  Briere  that  he  made  no  reply;  his  gaze,  sadly 
fixed  on  Modeste,  betrayed  absorbed  meditation.  The  little 
clerk's  argument  was,  however,  repeated  with  some  wit  by  the 
Due  d'llcrouville,  who  ended  by  saying  that  the  raptures  of 
Saint  Theresa  were  far  superior  to  the  inventions  of  Lord 
Byron. 

"Oh,  Monsieur  le  Due,"  remarked  IModeste,  "that  is  wholly 
personal  poetry,  while  Lord  Byron's  or  Moliere's  is  for  the 
benefit  of  the  world " 

"Then  you  must  make  your  peace  with  the  Baron,"  inter- 
rupted her  father  quickly.  "Now  you  are  insisting  that  genius 
is  to  be  useful,  as  much  so  as  cotton ;  but  you  will,  perhaps, 
think  logic  as  stale  and  out  of  date  as  your  poor  old  father." 

Butscha,  la  Briere,  and  Madame  Latournelle  exchanged 
half-laughing  glances,  which  spurred  Modeste  on  in  her  career 
of  provocation,  all  the  more  because  for  a  moment  she  was 
checked. 

"Nay,  mademoiselle,"  said  Canalis  with  a  smile,  "we  have 
not  fought  nor  even  contradicted  each  other.  Every  work  of 
art,  whether  in  literature,  music,  painting,  sculpture,  or 
architecture,  carries  with  it  a  positive  social  utility,  like  that 
of  any  other  form  of  commercial  produce.  Art  is  the  truest 
form  of  commerce;  it  takes  it  for  granted.  A  book  in  these 
days  helps  its  writer  to  pocket  about  ten  thousand  francs,  and 
its  production  involves  printing,  paper-making,  type-found- 
ing, and  the  booksellers'  trade;  that  is  to  say,  the  occupation 
of  thousands  of  hands.  The  performance  of  a  symphony  by 
Beethoven  or  of  an  opera  by  Rossini  demands  quite  as  many 
hands,  machines,  and  forms  of  industry. 

"The  cost  of  a  building  is  a  still  more  tangible  answer  to 
the  objection.  It  may,  indeed,  be  said  that  works  of  genius 
rest  on  a  very  costly  basis,  and  are  necessarily  profitable  to 
« ne  working  man." 


MODESTE  MIGNON  195 

Fairly  started  on  this  text,  Canalis  talked  on  for  some  min- 
utes with  a  lavish  use  of  imagery,  and  reveling  in  his  own 
words ;  but  it  befell  him,  as  often  happens  with  great  talkers, 
to  find  himself  at  the  end  of  his  harangue  just  where  he 
started,  and  agreeing  with  la  Briere,  though  he  failed  to 
perceive  it. 

"I  discern  with  pleasure,  my  dear  Baron,"  said  the  little 
Duke  slily,  "that  you  will  make  a  great  constitutional  Min- 
ister." 

'"Oh,"  said  Canalis,  with  an  ostentatious  flourish,  "what  do 
we  prove  by  all  our  discussions?  The  eternal  truth  of  this 
axiom,  'Everything  is  true  and  everything  is  false.'  Moral 
truths,  like  living  beings,  may  be  placed  in  an  atmosphere 
where  they  change  their  appearance  to  the  point  of  being 
unrecognizable  ?" 

"Society  lives  by  condemned  things,"  said  the  Due  d'Herou- 
ville. 

"What  flippancy !"  said  Madame  Latournelle  in  a  low  voice 
to  her  husband. 

"He  is  a  poet,"  said  Gobenheim,  who  overheard  her. 

Canalis,  who  had  soared  ten  leagues  above  his  audience,  and 
who  was,  perhaps,  right  in  his  final  philosophical  dictum, 
took  the  sort  of  chill  he  read  on  every  face  for  a  symptom 
of  ignorance;  but  he  saw  that  Modeste  understood  him,  and 
was  content,  never  discerning  how  offensive  such  a  monologue 
is  to  country  folks,  whose  one  idea  is  to  prove  to  Parisians 
the  vitality,  intelligence,  and  good  judgment  of  the  provinces. 

"Is  it  long  since  you  last  saM^  the  Duchesse  de  Chaulieu?'' 
asked  the  Duke  of  Canalis,  to  change  the  subject. 

"I  saw  her  six  days  ago,"  replied  Canalis. 

"And  she  is  well?" 

"Perfectly  well." 

"Remember  me  to  her,  pray,  when  you  write." 

"I  hear  she  is  charming,"  Modeste  remarked  to  the  Duke. 

"Monsieur  le  Baron,"  said  he,  "knows  more  about  that  than 
I  do." 

"She  is  more  than  charming,"  said  Canalis,  accepting  the 


106  MODESTE  MIGNON 

Duke's  porfiflinus  challpniro.  "But  T  am  partial,  mademoi- 
selle; she  has  boon  my  friend  those  ten  years.  I  owe  to  her  all 
that  may  be  good  in  me;  she  has  sheltered  me  from  the  perils 
of  the  world.  Besides,  the  Due  de  Chaulieu  started  me  in  the 
way  I  am  going.  But  for  their  inlluence  the  King  and  Prin- 
cesses would  often  have  forgotten  a  poor  poet  as  I  am;  my 
aflFection,  therefore,  is  always  full  of  gratitude." 

And  he  spoke  with  tears  in  his  voice. 

"How  much  we  all  ought  to  love  the  woman  who  has 
inspired  you  with  such  sublime  song  and  such  a  noble  senti- 
ment," said  Modeste  with  feeling.  ''Can  one  conceive  of  a 
poet  without  a  IMuse?" 

"He  would  have  no  heart,"  said  Canalis;  "he  would  write 
verse  as  dry  as  Voltaire's — who  never  loved  any  one  but 
Voltaire." 

"When  I  was  in  Paris,"  said  Dumay,  "did  you  not  do  me 
the  honor  of  assuring  me  that  you  felt  none  of  the  feelings 
you  expressed  ?" 

"'A  straight  hit,  my  worthy  soldier,"  replied  the  poet  with  a 
smile;  "but  you  must  understand  that  at  the  same  time  it  is 
allowable  to  have  a  great  deal  of  heart  in  the  intellectual  life 
as  well  as  in  real  life.  A  man  may  express  very  line  senti- 
ments without  feeling  them,  or  feel  them  without  being  able 
to  express  them.  La  Brie  re,  my  friend  here,  loves  to  dis- 
traction," said  he  generously,  as  he  looked  at  Modeste.  "I, 
who  love  at  least  as  much  as  he  does,  believe — unless  I  am 
under  an  illusion — that  I  can  give  my  passion  a  literary  form 
worthy  of  its  depth. — Still,  I  will  not  answer  for  it,  mademoi- 
selle," said  he,  turning  to  Modeste  with  a  rather  over  elaborate 
grace,  "that  1  shall  not  be  bereft  of  wits  by  to-morrow " 

And  thus  the  poet  triumphed  over  every  obstacle,  burning 
in  honor  of  his  love  the  sticks  they  tried  to  trip  him  up  with^ 
while  Modeste  was  dazzled  by  this  Parisian  brilliancy,  which 
was  unfamiliar  to  her,  and  which  lent  a  glitter  to  the  orator's 
rhetoric. 

"What  a  mountebank !"  said  Butseha  in  a  whisper  to 
Ijatournelle,  after  listening  to  a  magniloquent  tirade  on  the 


MODESTE  MIGNON  tVt 

Catholic  religion,  and  the  happiness  of  having  a  pious  wife, 
poured  out  in  response  to  an  observation  from  Madame 
Mignou. 

Modeste  had  a  bandage  over  her  eyes;  the  effect  of  his 
delivery,  and  the  attention  she  intentionally  devoted  to 
Canalis,  prevented  her  perceiving  what  Butscha  saw  and 
noted — the  declamatory  tone,  the  lack  of  simplicity,  rant  tak- 
ing the  place  of  feeling,  and  all  the  incoherence  which 
prompted  the  clerk's  rather  too  severe  epithet. 

While  Monsieur  Mignon,  Dumay,  Butscha,  and  Latournelle 
wondered  at  the  poet's  want  of  sequence,  overlooking,  indeed, 
the  inevitable  digressions  of  conversation,  which  in  France 
is  always  very  devious,  Modeste  was  admiring  the  poet's  versa- 
tility, saying  to  herself  as  she  led  him  to  follow  the  tortuous 
windings  of  her  fancy,  "He  loves  me !" 

Butscha,  like  all  the  other  spectators  of  this  performance, 
as  we  must  call  it,  was  struck  by  the  chief  fault  of  all  egoists, 
which  Canalis  shows  a  little  too  much,  like  all  men  who  are 
accustomed  to  speechify  in  drawing-rooms.  Whether  he 
knew  beforehand  what  the  other  speaker  meant  to  say,  or 
merely  did  not  listen,  or  had  the  power  of  listening  while 
thinking  of  something  else,  Melchior  wore  the  look  of  inatten- 
tion which  is  as  disconcerting  to  another  man's  flow  of  words 
as  it  is  wounding  to  his  vanity. 

Not  to  attend  to  what  is  said  is  not  merely  a  lack  of  polite- 
ness; it  is  an  expression  of  contempt.  And  Canalis  carries 
this  habit  rather  too  far,  for  he  often  neglects  to  reply  to  a 
remark  that  requires  an  answer,  and  goes  off  to  the  subject  he 
is  absorbed  in  without  any  polite  transition.  Though  this 
form  of  impertinence  may  be  accepted  without  protest  from  a 
man  of  position,  it  nevertheless  creates  a  leaven  of  hatred  and 
vengeful  feeling  at  the  bottom  of  men's  hearts;  in  an  equal, 
it  may  even  break  up  a  friendship. 

When  by  any  chance  Melchior  compels  himself  to  listen, 
he  falls  into  another  failing — he  only  lends  himself,  he  does 
not  give  himself  up.  Nothing  in  social  intercourse  pays  better 
than  the  bestowal  of  attention,    "Blessed  are  they  that  hear !" 


198  MODESTE  MIGNON 

is  not  only  a  precept  of  the  Gospel,  it  is  also  an  excellent  spec- 
ulation; act  on  it,  and  you  will  be  forgiven  everything,  even 
vices.  Canalis  took  much  upon  him  in  the  intention  of  charm- 
ing ]\I()(leste ;  but  while  he  was  sacrificing  himself  to  her,  he 
was  himseir  all  the  while  with  the  others. 

Modeste,  pitiless  for  the  ten  persons  she  was  martyrizing, 
begged  Canalis  to  read  them  some  piece  of  his  verse;  she 
wanted  to  hear  a  specimen  of  that  much-praised  elocution. 

Canalis  took  the  volume  offered  him  by  Modeste  and  cooed 
— for  that  is  the  correct  word — the  poem  that  is  supposed  to 
be  his  finest,  an  imitation  of  Moore's  "Loves  of  the  Angels," 
entitled  "Vitalis,"  which  was  received  with  some  yawns  by 
Mesdames  Latournelle  and  Dumay,  by  Gobenheim,  and  the 
cashier. 

"If  you  play  whist  well,  monsieur,"  said  Gobenheim,  offer- 
ing him  five  cards  spread  out  in  a  fan,  "I  have  never  met  with 
so  accomplished  a  gentleman." 

The  question  made  every  one  laugh,  for  it  was  the  expres- 
sion of  the  common  wish. 

"I  play  it  well  enough  to  be  able  to  end  my  days  in  a 
country  town,''  replied  Canalis.  "There  has,  I  dare  say,  been 
more  of  literature  and  conversation  than  whist  players  care 
to  have,"  he  added  in  an  impertinent  tone,  flinging  the  book 
on  to  the  side  table. 

This  incident  shows  what  dangers  are  incurred  by  the  hero 
of  a  salon  when,  like  Canalis,  he  moves  outside  his  orbit ;  he  is 
then  in  the  case  of  an  actor  who  is  a  favorite  with  one  par- 
ticular public,  but  whose  talent  is  wasted  when  he  quits  his 
own  stage  and  ventures  on  to  that  of  a  superior  theatre. 

The  Baron  and  the  Duke  were  partners ;  Gobenheim  played 
with  Latournelle.  Modeste  sat  down  at  the  great  poet's  elbow, 
to  the  despair  of  Ernest,  who  marked  on  the  capricious  girl's 
countenance  the  progress  of  Canalis'  fascination.  La  Briere 
had  not  known  the  power  of  seduction  possessed  by  Melchior, 
and  often  denied  by  nature  to  genuine  souls,  who  are  gener- 
ally shy.  This  gift  demands  a  boldness  and  readiness  of 
spirit  which  might  be  called  the  acrobatic  agility  of  the  mind; 


MODESTE  MIGNON  199 

it  even  allows  of  a  little  part-playing;  but  is  there  not, 
morally  speaking,  always  something  of  the  actor  in  a  poet? 
There  is,  indeed,  a  wide  difference  between  expressing  feelings 
we  do  not  experience  though  we  can  imagine  them  in  all  their 
variety,  and  pretending  to  have  them  when  they  seem 
necessary  to  success  on  the  stage  of  private  life;  and  yet, 
if  the  hypocrisy  needful  to  a  man  of  the  world  has  cankered 
the  poet,  he  easily  transfuses  the  powers  of  his  talent  into  the 
expression  of  the  required  sentiment,  just  as  a  great  man  who 
has  buried  himself  in  solitude  at  last  finds  his  heart  overflow- 
ing into  his  brain. 

"He  is  playing  for  millions,"  thought  la  Briere  in  an- 
guish; "and  he  will  act  passion  so  well  that  Modeste  will  be- 
lieve in  it !" 

And  instead  of  showing  himself  more  delightful  and  wittier 
than  his  rival,  la  Briere,  like  the  Due  d'Herouville,  sat 
gloomy,  uneasy,  and  on  the  watch ;  but  while  the  courtier  was 
studying  the  heiress'  vagaries,  Ernest  was  a  prey  to  the  misery 
of  black  and  concentrated  jealousy,  and  had  not  yet  won  a 
single  glance  from  his  idol.  He  presently  went  into  the 
garden  for  a  few  minutes  Mdth  Butscha. 

"It  is  all  over,  she  is  crazy  about  him,"  said  he.  "I  am 
worse  than  disagreeable — and,  after  all,  she  is  right !  Canalis 
is  delightful,  he  is  witty  even  in  his  silence,  he  has  passion 
in  his  eyes,  poetry  in  his  harangues " 

"Is  he  an  honest  man  ?"  asked  Butscha. 

"Oh  yes,"  replied  la  Briere.  "He  is  loyal,  chivalrous,  and 
under  Modeste's  influence  he  is  quite  capable  of  getting  over 
the  little  faults  he  has  acquired  under  Madame  de  Chaulieu 


"You  are  a  good  fellow !"  exclaimed  the  little  hunchback. 
"''But  is  he  capable  of  loving — will  he  love  her?" 

"I  do  not  know "  replied  Ernest.    "Has  she  mentioned 

me  ?"  he  asked  after  a  short  silence. 

"Yes,"  said  Butscha,  and  he  repeated  what  Modeste  had 
said  about  borrowing  a  disguise. 

The  young  fellow  threw  himself  on  a  seat  and  hid  his  face 


200  MODESTE  MIGNON 

in  his  hands.  He  cmild  not  restrain  his  tears,  and  would  not 
let  Butschu  see  them;  but  the  dwarf  was  the  man  to  guess 
them. 

"What  is  wrong,  monsieur?"  said  he. 

"She  is  right!"  cried  hi  Briere,  suddenly  sitting  up.  "I 
am  a  wretch." 

He  told  the  story  of  the  trick  he  had  been  led  into  by 
Canalis,  explaining  to  Butscha  that  he  had  wished  to  unde- 
ceive Modeste  before  she  liad  unmasked;  and  he  overflowed  in 
rather  childish  lamentations  over  the  perversity  of  his  fate. 
Butscha's  sympathy  recognized  this  as  love  in  its  most  vigor- 
ous and  youthful  artlessness,  in  its  genuine  and  deep  anxiety. 

"But  why,"  said  he,  "do  you  not  make  the  best  of  yourself 
to  Mademoiselle  Modeste,  instead  of  leaving  your  rival  to 
prance  alone?" 

"Ah !  you  evidently  never  felt  your  throat  tighten  as  soon 
as  you  tried  to  speak  to  her,"  said  la  Briere.  "Do  you  not 
feel  a  sensation  at  the  roots  of  your  hair,  and  all  over  your 
skin,  when  she  looks  at  you,  even  without  seeing  you  ?" 

"Still  you  have  your  wits  about  you  sufficiently  to  be  deeply 
grieved  when  she  as  good  as  told  her  father  that  he  was  an 
old  woman." 

"Monsieur,  I  love  her  too  truly  not  to  have  felt  it  like  a 
dagger-thrust  when  I  heard  her  thus  belie  the  perfection  I 
ascribed  to  her !" 

"But  Canalis,  you  see,  justified  her,"  replied  Butscha. 

"If  she  has  more  vanity  than  good  feeling,  she  would  not  be 
worth  regretting  !"  said  Ernest. 

At  this  moment  Modeste  came  out  to  breathe  the  freshness 
of  the  starlit  night  with  Canalis,  who  had  been  losing  at 
cards,  her  father,  and  j\Iadame  Dumay.  While  his  daughter 
walked  on  with  Melcliior,  Charles  Mignon  left  her  and  came 
up  to  la  Briere. 

"Your  friend  ought  to  have  been  an  advocate,  monsieur," 
said  he  with  a  smile,  and  looking  narrowly  at  the  young  man. 

"Do  not  be  in  a  hurr}'  to  judge  a  poet  with  the  severity  you 
might  exercise  on  an  ordinary  man,  like  me,  for  instance. 
Monsieur  le  Comte,"  said  la  Briere.     "The  poet  has  his  mis- 


MODESTE  MIGNON  201 

sion.  He  is  destined  by  nature  to  see  the  poetical  side  of 
every  question,  just  as  he  expresses  the  poetry  of  everything; 
thus  when  you  fancy  that  he  is  arguing  against  himself,  he  is 
faithful  to  his  calling.  He  is  a  painter  ready  to  represent 
either  a  Madonna  or  a  courtesan.  Moliere  is  alike  right  in  his 
pictures  of  old  men  and  young  men,  and  Moliere  certainly  had 
a  sound  judgment.  These  sports  of  fancy  which  corrupt  sec- 
ond-rate minds  have  no  influence  over  the  character  of  really 
great  men." 

Charles  Mignon  pressed  the  young  fellow's  hand,  saying, 
"At  the  same  time,  this  versatility  might  be  used  by  a  man 
to  justify  himself  for  actions  diametrically  antagonistic,  es- 
pecially in  politics." 

At  this  moment  Canalis  was  saying  in  an  insinuating  voice, 
in  reply  to  some  saucy  remark  of  Modeste's :  "Ah,  mademoi- 
selle, never  believe  that  the  multiplicity  of  emotions  can  in 
any  degree  diminish  strength  of  feeling.  Poets,  more  than 
other  men,  must  love  with  constancy  and  truth.  In  the  first 
place,  do  not  be  jealous  of  what  is  called  'The  Muse.'  Happy 
is  the  wife  of  a  busy  man !  If  you  could  but  hear  the  lamen- 
tations of  the  wives  who  are  crushed  under  the  idleness  of 
husbands  without  employment,  or  to  whom  wealth  gives  much 
leisure,  you  would  know  that  the  chief  happiness  of  a  Parisian 
woman  is  liberty,  sovereignty  in  her  home.  And  we  poets 
allow  the  wife  to  hold  the  sceptre,  for  we  cannot  possibly  con- 
descend to  the  tyranny  exerted  by  small  minds.  We  have 
something  better  to  do. — If  ever  I  should  marry,  which  I 
vow  is  a  very  remote  disaster  in  my  life,  I  should  wish  my  wife 
to  enjoy  the  perfect  moral  liberty  which  a  mistress  always 
preserves,  and  which  is  perhaps  the  source  of  all  her  seductive- 
ness." 

Canalis  put  forth  all  his  spirit  and  grace  in  talking  of  love, 
marriage,  the  worship  of  woman,  and  arguing  with  Modeste, 
till  presently  Monsieur  Mignon,  who  came  to  join  them, 
seized  a  moment's  silence  to  take  his  daughter  by  the  arm 
and  lead  her  back  to  Ernest,  whom  the  worthy  Colonel  had  ad- 
vised to  attempt  some  explanation. 


202  MODESTE  MIGNON 

"Mademoiselle,"  said  Ernest  in  a  broken  voice,  "I  cannot 
possibly  endure  to  remain  here  the  object  of  your  scorn.  T  do 
not  defend  myself,  I  make  no  attempt  at  justification;  I  only 
beg  to  point  out  to  yoTi  that  before  receiving  your  flattering 
letter  addressed  to  the  man  and  not  to  the  poet — your  last 
letter — I  desired,  and  by  a  letter  written  at  le  Havre  I  in- 
tended, to  dispel  the  mistake  under  which  you  wrote.  All 
the  feelings  I  have  had  the  honor  of  expressing  to  you  are  sin- 
cere. A  hope  beamed  on  me  when,  in  Paris,  your  father  told 
me  that  he  was  poor; — but  now,  if  all  is  lost,  if  nothing  is  left 
to  me  but  eternal  regrets,  why  should  I  stay  where  there  is 
nothing  for  me  but  torture? — Let  me  only  take  away  with 
me  one  smile  from  you.    It  will  remain  graven  on  my  heart." 

"Monsieur,"  said  Modeste,  who  appeared  cold  and  absent- 
minded,  "I  am  not  the  mistress  here;  but  I  certainly  should 
deeply  regret  keeping  any  one  here  who  should  find  neither 
pleasure  nor  happiness  in  staying !" 

She  turned  awa)^,  and  took  Madame  Dumay's  arm  to  go 
back  into  the  house.  A  few  minutes  later  all  the  personages 
of  this  domestic  drama,  once  mol-e  united  in  the  drawing- 
room,  were  surprised  to  see  Modeste  sitting  by  the  Due 
d'Herouville,  and  flirting  with  him  in  the  best  style  of  the 
most  wily  Parisienne.  She  watched  his  play,  gave  him  advice 
when  he  asked  it,  and  took  opportunities  of  saying  flattering 
things  to  him,  placing  the  chance  advantage  of  noble  birth  on 
the  same  level  as  that  of  talent  or  of  beauty. 

Canalis  knew,  or  fancied  he  knew,  the  reason  for  this  ca- 
price :  he  had  tried  to  pique  ^lodeste  by  speaking  of  marriage 
as  a  disaster,  and  seeming  to  be  averse  to  it ;  but  like  all  who 
play  with  fire,  it  was  he  who  was  burnt.  Modeste's  pride 
and  disdain  alarmed  the  poet ;  he  came  up  to  her,  making  a 
display  of  jealousy  all  the  more  marked  because  it  was  as- 
sumed. Modeste,  as  implacable  as  the  angels,  relished  the 
pleasure  she  felt  in  the  exercise  of  her  power,  and  naturally 
carried  it  too  far.  The  Due  d'Herouville  had  never  been  so 
well  treated :  a  woman  smiled  on  him ! 

At  eleven  o'clock,  an  unheard-of  hour  at  the  Chalet,  the 


MODESTE  MIGNON  203 

three  rivals  left,  the  Duke  thinking  Modeste  charming, 
Canalis  regarding  her  as  a  coquette,  and  la  Briere  heart- 
broken by  her  relentlessness. 

For  a  week  the  heiress  still  remained  to  her  three  admirers 
just  what  she  had  been  on  that  evening,  so  that  the  poet 
seemed  to  have  triumphed,  in  spite  of  the  whims  and  freaks 
which  from  time  to  time  inspired  some  hopes  in  the  Due 
d'Herouville.  Modeste's  irreverence  to  her  father,  and  the 
liberties  she  took  with  him ;  her  irritability  towards  her  blind 
mother,  as  she  half-grudgingly  did  her  the  little  services  which 
formerly  had  been  the  delight  of  her  filial  affection,  seemed  to 
be  the  outcome  of  a  wayward  temper  and  liveliness  tolerated 
in  her  childhood.  When  Modeste  went  too  far  she  would 
assert  a  code  of  her  own,  and  ascribe  her  levity  and  f ractious- 
ness  to  her  spirit  of  independence.  She  owned  to  Canalis 
and  the  Duke  that  she  hated  obedience,  and  regarded  this  as 
an  obstacle  in  the  way  of  marriage,  thus  sounding  her  suitors' 
character  after  the  manner  of  those  who  pierce  the  soil  to 
bring  up  gold,  coal,  stone,  or  water. 

"I  will  never  find  a  husband/'  said  she,  the  day  before  that 
on  which  the  family  were  to  reinstate  themselves  in  the  Villa, 
"who  will  endure  my  caprices  with  such  kindness  as  my 
father's,  which  has  never  failed  for  an  instant,  or  the  in- 
dulgence of  my  adorable  mother." 

"They  know  that  you  love  them,  mademoiselle,"  said  la 
Briere. 

"Be  assured,  mademoiselle,  that  your  husband  will  know 
the  full  value  of  his  treasure,"  added  the  Duke. 

"You  have  more  wit  and  spirit  than  are  needed  to  break 
in  a  husband,"  said  Canalis,  laughing. 

Modeste  smiled,  as  Henri  IV.  may  have  smiled  when,  by 
extracting  three  answers  to  an  insidious  question,  he  had  re- 
vealed to  some  foreign  Ambassador  the  character  of  his  three 
leading  Ministers. 

On  the  day  of  the  dinner,  Modeste,  led  away  by  her  prefer- 
ence for  Canalis,  walked  alone  with  him  for  some  time  up  and 


204  MODESTE  MIONON 

down  the  frravolod  walk  loading  from  the  house  to  the  lawn 
with  its  flower-bc'ds.  It  was  easy  to  perceive,  from  the  poet's 
gestures  and  the  young  heiress'  demeanor,  that  she  was  lend- 
ing a  favorable  car  to  Canal  is,  and  the  two  Demoiselles 
d'Herouville  came  out  to  interrupt  a  tete-a-tete  that  scandal- 
ized them.  With  the  tact  natural  to  women  in  such  cases, 
they  turned  the  conversation  to  the  subject  of  the  Court,  of  the 
high  position  conferred  by  an  office  under  the  Crown,,  ex- 
plaining the  difference  subsisting  between  an  appointment 
to  the  Household  and  one  held  under  the  Crown;  they 
tried,  in  fact,  to  intoxicate  Modeste  by  appealing  to  her  pride, 
and  displaying  to  her  one  of  the  highest  positions  which  a 
woman  at  that  time  could  hope  to  attain. 

"To  have  a  Duke  in  your  son,"  cried  the  old  lady,  "is  a 
positive  distinction.  The  mere  title  is  a  fortune  out  of  reach 
of  reverses,  to  bequeath  to  your  children." 

"To  what  ill-fortune,"  said  Canalis,  very  ill-pleased  at  this 
interruption  to  his  conversation,  "must  we  attribute  the  small 
success  that  the  Master  of  the  Horse  has  hitherto  achieved 
in  the  matter  in  which  that  title  is  supposed  to  be  of  most 
service  as  supporting  a  man's  pretensions?" 

The  two  unmarried  ladies  shot  a  look  at  Canalis  as  full  of 
venom  as  a  viper's  fangs,  but  were  so  put  out  of  countenance 
by  Modeste's  sarcastic  smile  that  they  had  not  a  word  in 
reply. 

"The  Master  of  the  Horse,"  said  Modeste  to  Canalis,  "has 
never  blamed  you  for  the  diffidence  you  have  learned  from 
your  fame ;  wh}'  then  grudge  him  his  modesty  ?" 

"Also,"  said  the  Duke's  aunt,  "we  have  not  yet  met  with  a 
wife  worthy  of  my  nephew's  rank.  Some  we  have  seen  who 
had  merely  the  fortune  that  might  suit  the  position;  others 
who,  without  the  fortune,  had  indeed  the  right  spirit;  and  I 
must  confess  that  we  have  done  well  to  wait  till  God  should 
give  us  the  opportunity  of  making  acquaintance  with  a  young 
lady  in  whom  should  be  united  both  the  noble  soul  and  the 
handsome  fortune  of  a  Duchesse  d'Herouville !" 

"My  dear  Modeste,"  said   Helene  d'Herouville,   walking 


MODESTE  MIGNON  206 

away  a  few  steps  with  her  new  friend,  "there  are  a  thousand 
Barons  de  Canalis  in  the  kingdom,  and  a  hundred  poets  in 
Paris  who  are  as  good  as  he;  and  he  is  so  far  from  being  a 
great  man,  that  I,  a  poor  girl,  fated  to  take  the  veil  for  lack  of 
a  dower,  would  have  nothing  to  say  to  him  ! — And  you  do  not 
know,  I  dare  say,  that  he  is  a  man  who  has,  for  the  last  ten 
years,  been  at  the  beck  and  call  of  the  Duchesse  de  Chaulieu. 
Really,  none  but  an  old  woman  of  sixty  could  put  up  with  the 
endless  little  ailments  with  which,  it  is  said,  the  poet  is 
afflicted,  the  least  of  which  was  unendurable  in  Louis  XVI. 
Still,  the  Duchess,  of  course,  does  not  suffer  from  them  as  his 
wife  would;  he  is  not  so  constantly  with  her  as  a  husband 
would  be " 

And  so  by  one  of  the  manoeuvres  peculiar  to  woman  against 
woman,  Helene  d'Herouville  whispered  in  every  ear  the 
calumnies  which  women,  jealous  of  Madame  de  Chaulieu, 
propagated  concerning  the  poet.  This  trivial  detail,  not  rare 
in  the  gossip  of  young  girls,  shows  that  the  Comte  de  la 
Bastie's  fortune  was  already  made  the  object  of  ardent 
rivalry. 

Within  ten  days,  opinions  at  the  Chalet  had  varied  con- 
siderably about  the  three  men  who  aspired  to  Modeste's  hand. 
This  change,  wholly  to  the  disadvantage  of  Canalis,  was 
founded  on  considerations  calculated  to  make  the  hero  of  any 
form  of  fame  reflect  deeply.  When  we  see  the  passion  with 
which  an  autograph  is  craved,  it  is  impossible  to  doubt  that 
public  curiosity  is  strongly  excited  by  celebrity.  Most 
provincials,  it  is  evident,  have  no  very  exact  idea  of  the  man- 
ner in  which  illustrious  persons  fasten  their  cravat,  walk  on 
the  Boulevard,  gape  at  the  crows,  or  eat  a  cutlet ;  for,  as  soon 
as  they  see  a  man  wearing  the  halo  of  fashion,  or  resplendent 
with  popularity — more  or  less  transient,  no  doubt,  but  always 
the  object  of  envy — they  are  ready  to  exclaim,  "Ah !  so  that  is 
the  thing!"  or,  ^'Well,  that  is  odd!"  or  something  equally 
absurd.  In  a  word,  the  strange  charm  that  is  produced  by 
every  form  of  renown,  even  when  justly  acquired,  has  no  per- 
manence.    To  superficial  minds,  especially  to  the  sarcastic 


20e  MODESTE  MIGNON 

and  the  envious,  it  is  an  impression  as  swift  as  a  lightning 
flash,  and  never  repeated.  Glory,  it  would  seem,  like  the  sun, 
is  hot  and  luminous  from  afar,  but,  wlicn  we  get  near,  it  is 
as  cold  as  the  peak  of  an  Alp.  Perhaps  a  man  is  really  great 
only  to  his  peers;  perhaps  the  defects  inherent  in  the  con- 
ditions of  humanity  are  more  readily  lost  to  their  eyes  than  to 
those  of  vulgar  admirers.  Thus,  to  be  constantly  pleasing,  a 
poet  would  be  compelled  to  display  the  deceptive  graces  of 
those  persons  who  can  win  forgiveness  for  their  obscurity 
by  amiable  manners  and  agreeable  speeches,  since,  besides 
genius,  the  vapid  drawing-room  virtues  and  harmless  domestic 
twaddle  are  exacted  from  him. 

The  great  poet  of  the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain,  who  re- 
fused to  yield  to  this  law  of  society,  found  that  insulting  in- 
difference soon  took  the  place  of  the  fascination  at  first  caused 
by  his  conversation  at  evening  parties.  Cleverness  too 
prodigally  displayed  produces  the  same  effect  on  the  mind  as 
a  shop  full  of  cut  glass  has  on  the  eyes;  this  sufficiently  ex- 
plains that  Canalis'  glitter  soon  wearied  those  people  who,  to 
use  their  own  words,  like  something  solid.  Then,  under  the 
necessity  of  appearing  an  ordinary  man,  the  poet  found  many 
rocks  ahead  where  la  Briere  could  win  the  good  opinion  of 
those  who,  at  first,  had  thought  him  sullen.  They  felt  the 
desire  to  be  revenged  on  Canalis  for  his  reputation  by  making 
more  of  his  friend.  The  most  kindly  people  are  so  made. 
The  amiable  and  unpretentious  Referendary  shocked  nobody's 
vanity;  falling  back  on  him,  every  one  discerned  his  good 
heart,  his  great  modesty,  the  discretion  of  a  strong  box,  and 
delightful  manners.  On  political  questions  the  Due  d'Herou- 
ville  held  Ernest  far  above  Canalis.  The  poet,  as  erratic, 
ambitious,  and  mutable  as  Tasso,  loved  luxury  and  splendor, 
and  ran  into  debt;  while  the  young  lawyer,  even-minded, 
living  prudentl}',  and  useful  without  officiousness,  hoped  for 
promotion  without  asking  it,  and  was  saving  money  mean- 
while. 

Canalis  had  indeed  justified  the  good  people  who  were 
watching  him.     For  the  last  two  or  three  days  he  had  given 


MODESTE  MIGNON  207 

fray  to  fits  of  irritabilit}^,  of  depression,  of  melancholy,  with- 
out any  apparent  cause — the  caprices  of  temper  that  come 
of  the  nervous  poetical  temperament.  These  eccentricities 
— as  they  are  called  in  a  country  town — had  their  cause  in  the 
MTong,  which  each  day  made  worse,  that  he  was  doing  to  the 
Duchesse  de  Chaulieu,  to  whom  he  knew  he  ought  to  write, 
without  being  able  to  make  up  his  mind  to  do  it;  they  were 
anxiously  noted  by  the  gentle  American  and  worthy  Madame 
Latournelle,  and  more  than  once  came  under  discussion  be- 
tween them  and  Madame  Mignon.  Canalis,  knowing  nothing 
of  these  discussions,  felt  their  effect.  He  was  no  longer 
listened  to  with  the  same  attention,  the  faces  round  him  did 
not  express  the  rapture  of  the  first  days,  while  Ernest  was 
beginning  to  be  listened  to.  For  the  last  two  days  the  poet 
had,  therefore,  been  bent  on  captivating  Modeste,  and  seized 
every  moment  when  he  could  be  alone  with  her  to  cast  over 
her  the  tangles  of  the  most  impassioned  language.  Mo- 
deste's  heightened  color  plainly  showed  the  two  Demoiselles 
d'Herouville  with  what  pleasure  the  heiress  heard  insinuat- 
ing conceits  charmingly  spoken ;  and,  uneasy  at  the  poet's 
rapid  advances,  they  had  recourse  to  the  ultima  ratio  of  women 
in  such  predicaments — to  calumny,  which  rarely  misses  its 
aim  when  it  appeals  to  vehement  physical  repulsion. 

As  he  sat  down  to  dinner,  the  poet  saw  a  cloud  on  his  idol's 
brow,  and  read  in  it  Mademoiselle  d'Herouville's  perfidy;  so 
he  decided  that  he  must  offer  himself  as  a  husband  to  Modeste 
at  the  first  opportunity  he  should  have  of  speaking  to  her.  As 
he  and  the  two  noble  damsels  exchanged  some  subacid,  though 
polite  remiarks,  Gobenheim  nudged  Butscha,  who  sat  next  to 
him,  to  look  at  the  poet  and  the  Master  of  the  Horse. 

"They  will  demolish  each  other,''  said  he  in  a  whisper. 

"Canalis  has  genius  enough  to  demolish  himself  unaided," 
said  the  dwarf. 

In  the  course  of  the  dinner,  which  was  extremely  splendid, 

and  served  to  perfection,  the  Duke  achieved  a  great  triumph 

over  Canalis.     Modeste,  whose  riding-habit  had  arrived  the 

evening  before,  talked  of  the  various  rides  to  be  taken  in  the 
VOL.  6 — 39 


208  MODESTE  MIGNON 

neighborhood.  In  the  course  of  the  conversation  that  ensued 
she  was  led  to  express  a  strong  wish  to  see  a  hunt — a  pleasure 
she  had  never  known.  The  Duke  at  once  proposed  to  ar- 
range a  hunt  for  Mademoiselle  Miguon's  benefit  in  one 
of  the  Crown  forest-lands  a  few  leagues  from  le  Havre. 
Thanks  to  his  connection  with  the  Master  of  the  King's 
Hounds,  the  Prince  de  Cadignan,  he  had  it  in  his  power  to 
.^how  Modeste  a  scene  of  royal  magnificence,  to  chariu  her  by , 
showing  her  the  dazzling  world  of  a  Court,  and  making  her 
wish  to  enter  it  by  marriage.  The  glances  exchanged  by  the 
Duke  and  the  two  Demoiselles  d'Herouville,  which  Canalis 
happened  to  catch,  distinctly  said,  "The  heiress  is  ours !" — 
enough  to  urge  the  poet,  who  was  reduced  to  mere  personal 
glitter,  to  secure  some  pledge  of  her  affection  without  loss  of 
time. 

Modeste,  somewhat  scared  at  having  gone  further  than  she 
intended  with  the  d'Herouvilles,  after  dinner,  when  they  were 
walking  in  the  grounds,  went  forward  a  little  distance  in  a 
rather  marked  manner,  accompanied  by  Melchior.  With  a 
young  girl's  not  illegitimate  curiosity,  she  allowed  him  to 
guess  the  calumnies  repeated  by  Helene,  and  on  a  remon- 
strance from  Canalis  she  pledged  him  to  secrecy,  which  he 
promised. 

"These  lashes  of  the  tongue,"  said  he,  "are  fair  war  in  the 
world  of  fashion;  your  simplicity  is  scared  by  them;  for  my 
part,  I  can  laugh  at  them — nay,  I  enjoy  them.  Those  ladies 
must  think  his  lordship's  interests  seriously  imperiled,  or 
they  would  not  have  recourse  to  them." 

Then,  profiting  by  the  opportunity  given  by  such  a  piece 
of  information,  Canalis  justified  himself  with  so  much  mock- 
ing wit,  and  passion  so  ingeniously  expressed,  while  thanking 
Modeste  for  her  confidence,  in  which  he  insisted  in  seeing  a 
slight  strain  of  love,  that  she  found  herself  quite  as  deeply  , 
compromised  towards  the  poet  as  she  was  towards  the ' 
Duke.  Canalis  felt  that  daring  was  necessary;  he  declared 
himself  in  plain  terms.  He  paid  his  vows  to  Modeste  in  a 
style  through  which  his  poetic  fancy  shone  like  a  moon  in- 


MODESTE  MIGNON  209 

geniously  staged,  with  a  brilliant  picture  of  herself — beauti- 
fully fair,  and  arrayed  to  admiration  for  this  family  festival. 
The  inspiration  so  cleverly  called  up,  and  encouraged  by  the 
complicity  of  the  evening,  the  grove,  the  sky,  and  the  earth, 
led  the  grasping  lover  beyond  all  reason;  for  he  even  talked 
of  his  disinterestedness,  and  succeeded  by  the  flowers  of  his 
eloquence  in  giving  a  new  aspect  to  Diderot's  stale  theme  of 
"Five  hundred  francs  and  my  Sophie/'  or  the  "Give  me  a 
cottage  and  your  heart!"  of  every  lover  who  knows  that  his 
father-in-law  has  a  fortune. 

"Monsieur,"  said  Modeste,  after  enjoying  the  music  of  this 
concerto  so  admirably  composed  on  "a  familiar  theme,"  "my 
parents  leave  me  such  freedom  as  has  allowed  me  to  hear 
you;  but  you  must  address  yourself  to  them." 

"Well,  then,"  cried  Canalis,  "only  tell  me  that  if  I  get  their 
consent  you  will  be  quite  satisfied  to  obey  them." 

"I  know  beforehand."  said  she,  "that  my  father  has  some 
wishes  which  might  offend  the  legitimate  pride  of  a  family 
as  old  as  yours,  for  he  is  bent  on  transmitting  his  title  and  his 
name  to  his  grandsons." 

"Oh,  my  dear  Modeste,  what  sacrifice  would  I  not  make 
to  place  my  life  in  the  hands  of  such  a  guardian  angel  as  you 
are !" 

"You  must  allow  me  not  to  decide  my  fate  for  life  in  one 
moment,"  said  she,  going  to  join  the  Demoiselles  d'Herou- 
ville. 

These  two  ladies  were  at  that  minute  flattering  little  La- 
toumelle's  vanity  in  the  hope  of  securing  him  to  their  in- 
terests. Mademoiselle  d'Herouville,  to  whom  we  must  give 
the  family  name  to  distinguish  her  from  her  niece  Helene, 
was  conveying  to  the  notary  that  the  place  of  President  of  the 
Court  at  le  Havre,  which  Charles  X.  would  give  to  a  man 
recommended  by  them,  was  an  appointment  due  to  his  honesty 
and  talents  as  a  lawyer.  Butscha,  who  was  walking  with  la 
Briere,  in  great  alarm  at  Melchior's  audacity  and  rapid  prog- 
ress, found  means  to  speak  to  Modeste  for  a  few  minutes 
at  the  bottom  of  the  garden  steps  as  the  party  went  indoors 


210  MODEBTE  MKiNON 

to  give  themselves  up  to  the  vexations  of  the  inevitable 
rubber. 

"ATadeinoisolle,  T  liope  you  do  not  yet  address  him  as  Mel- 
chior/'  said  he  in  an  undertone. 

"^^ot  far  short  of  it,  my  Mysterious  Dwarf,"  she  replied, 
with  a  smile  that  might  have  seduced  an  angel. 

"Good  God !"  cried  the  clerk,  dropping  his  hands,  which 
almost  touched  the  steps. 

"Well,  and  is  not  he  as  good  as  that  odious  gloomy  Refer- 
endary in  whom  you  take  so  much  interest  ?"  cried  she,  putting 
on  for  Ernest  a  haughty  look  of  scorn,  such  as  young  girls 
alone  have  the  secret  of,  as  though  their  maidenhood  lent 
them  wings  to  soar  so  high.  "Would  your  little  Monsieur  de 
la  Briere  take  me  without  a  settlement?"  she  added  after  a 
pause. 

"Ask  your  father,"  replied  Butscha,  going  a  few  steps  on, 
so  as  to  lead  Modeste  to  a  little  distance  from  the  windows. 
"Listen  to  me,  mademoiselle.  You  know  that  I  who  speak  to 
you  am  ready  to  lay  down  not  my  life  only,  but  my  honor  for 
you,  at  any  time,  at  any  moment.  So  you  can  believe  in  me, 
you  can  trust  me  wath  things  3'ou  would  not  perhaps  tell  your 
father. — Well,  has  that  sublime  Canalis  ever  spoken  to  you  in 
the  disinterested  way  that  allows  you  to  cast  such  a  taunt  at 
poor  Ernest?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you  believe  him?" 

"That,  Malignant  Clerk,"  said  she,  giving  him  one  of  the  ten 
or  twelve  nicknames  she  had  devised  for  him,  "is,  as  it  seems 
to  me,  casting  a  doubt  on  the  strength  of  my  self-respect." 

"You  can  laugh,  dear  mademoiselle,  so  it  cannot  be  serious. 
I  can  only  hope  that  you  are  making  a  fool  of  him." 

"What  would  you  think  of  me,  Monsieur  Butscha,  if  I 
thought  I  had  any  right  to  mock  at  either  of  the  gentlemen 
who  do  me  the  honor  to  wish  for  me  as  a  wife  ?  I  can  tell  you, 
Maitre  Jean,  that  even  when  she  appears  to  scorn  the  most 
contemptible  admiration,  a  girl  is  always  flattered  at  having 
it  offered  to  her." 


MODESTE  MIGNON  211 

"Then  I  flatter  you ?"  said  the  clerk,  his  face  lighting 

up  as  a  tow  n  is  illuminated  on  some  great  occasion. 

''You ?"'  said  she.  "You  give  me  the  most  pre- 
cious kind  of  friendship,  a  feeling  as  disinterested  as 
that  of  a  mother  for  her  child !  Do  not  compare  yourself 
to  any  one  else,  for  even  my  father  is  obliged  to  yield  to  me." 
She  paused.  "I  cannot  tell  you  that  I  love  you,  in  the  sense 
men  give  to  the  word ;  but  what  I  feel  for  you  is  eternal,  and 
can  never  know  any  change." 

"Well,  then,"  said  Butscha,  stooping  to  pick  up  a  pebble 
that  he  might  leave  a  kiss  and  a  tear  on  the  tip  of  Modeste's 
shoe,  "let  me  watch  over  you  as  a  dragon  watches  over  a 
treasure. — The  poet,  spreads  before  you  just  now  all  the 
filagree  of  his  elaborate  phrases,  the  tinsel  of  his  promises. 
He  sang  of  love  to  the  sweetest  chord  of  his  lyre  no  doubt? 
If  when  this  noble  lover  is  fully  assured  of  your  having  but 
a  small  fortune,  you  should  see  his  demeanor  change ;  if  you 
then  find  him  cold  and  embarrassed,  will  you  still  make  him 
your  husband,  still  honor  him  with  your  esteem  ?" 

"Can  he  be  a  Francisque  Altlior?"  she  asked,  with  an  ex- 
pression of  the  deepest  disgust. 

"Let  me  have  the  pleasure  of  working  this  transformation 
scene,"  said  Butscha.  "ISTot  only  do  I  intend  that  it  shall  be 
sudden,  but  I  do  not  despair  of  restoring  .your  poet  to  you 
afterwards,  in  love  once  more,  of  making  him  blow  hot  and 
cold  on  your  heart  with  as  good  a  grace  as  when  he  argues  for 
and  against  the  same  thing  in  the  course  of  a  single  evening. 


sometimes  without  being  aware  of  it " 

"And  if  you  are  right,"  said  she,  "whom  can  I  trust  ?" 

"The  2nan  who  truly  loves  you." 

"The  little  Duke  ?" 

Butscha  looked  at  Modesto.  They  both  walked  on  a  few 
steps  in  silence.  The  girl  was  impenetrable;  she  did  not 
wince. 

"Mademoiselle,  will  you  allow  me  to  put  into  words  the 
thoughts  that  lurk  at  the  bottom  of  your  heart  like  water- 
mosses  in  a  pool,  and  that  you  refuse  to  explain  tt)  yourself 
even  ?" 


212  MODESTE  MIGNON 

''Why,  indood  !"  cried  Modeste,  "is  my  privy  councillor-in- 
waiting  a  mirror  too?" 

"Xo,  but  an  echo,"  he  replied,  with  a  little  bow  stamped 
with  the  utmost  modesty.  "The  Duke  loves  you,  but  he  loves 
you  too  well.  I,  a  dwarf,  have  fully  understood  the  ex- 
nuisite  delicacy  of  your  soul.  You  would  hate  to  be  adored 
like  the  holy  wafer  in  a  monstrance.  But  being  so  eminently 
a  woman,  you  could  no  more  bear  to  see  a  man  of  whom  you 
were  always  secure  perpetually  at  your  feet,  than  you  could 
endure  an  egoist  like  Canalis,  who  would  always  care  more 
for  himself  than  for  you.  .  .  .  Why?  I  know  not.  I 
would  I  could  be  a  woman,  and  a,n  old  woman,  to  learn  the 
reason  of  the  programme  I  can  read  in  your  eyes,  which  is 
perhaps  that  of  every  girl. 

"At  the  same  time,  your  lofty  soul  craves  for  adoration. 
When  a  man  is  at  your  feet  you  cannot  throw  yourself  at  his. 
'But  you  cannot  go  far  in  that  way,'  Voltaire  used  to  say.  So 
the  little  Duke  has,  morally  speaking,  too  many  genuflexions, 
and  Canalis  not  enough — not  to  say  none  at  all.  And  I  can 
read  the  mischief  hidden  in  your  smile  when  you  are  speaking 
to  the  Master  of  the  Horse,  when  he  speaks  to  you  and  you 
reply.  You  would  never  be  unhappy  with  the  Duke;  every- 
body would  be  pleased  if  you  chose  him  for  your  husband; 
but  you  would  not  love  him.  The  coldness  of  egoism  and  the 
excessive  fervor  of  perennial  raptures  no  doubt  have  a  negative 
effect  on  the  heart  of  every  woman. 

"Obviously  this  is  not  the  perpetual  triumph  that  you  would 
enjoy  in  the  infinite  delights  of  such  a  marriage  as  that  you 
dream  of,  in  which  you  would  find  a  submission  to  be  proud  of, 
great  little  sacrifices  that  are  gladly  unconfessod,  successes 
looked  forward  to  with  rapture,  and  unforeseen  magnanimity 
to  which  it  is  a  joy  to  yield;  in  which  a  woman  finds  herself 
understood  even  to  her  deepest  secrets,  while  her  love  is 
sometimes  a  protection  to  her  protector " 

"You  are  a  wizard !"  cried  ]\Iodeste. 

"Nor  will  you  meet  with  that  enchanting  equality  of  feel- 
ing, that  c'onstant  sharing  of  life,  and  that  certainty  of  giving 


MODESTE  MIGNON  213 

hapjiiness  which  makes  marriage  acceptable,  if  you  marry  a 
Canalis,  a  man  who  thinks  only  of  himself,  to  whom  /  is  the 
only  note  in  the  scale,  and  whose  attention  has  not  j'et  con- 
descended so  low  as  to  listen  to  your  father  or  the  Duke.  An 
ambitious  man,  not  of  the  first  class,  to  whom  your  dignity 
and  supremacy  matter  little,  who  will  treat  you  as  a  necessary' 
chattel  in  the  house,  who  insults  you  already  by  his  in- 
difference on  points  of  honor.  Yes,  if  you  allowed  yourself 
to  go  so  far  as  to  slap  your  mother,  Canalis  would  shut  his 
eyes  that  he  might  not  see  your  guilt,  so  hungry  is  he  for  your 
fortune ! 

"So,  mademoiselle,  I  was  not  thinking  of  the  great  poet, 
who  is  but  a  little  actor,  nor  of  my  lord  Duke,  who  would  be 
for  you  a  splendid  match,  but  not  a  husband " 

"Butscha,  my  heart  is  a  blank  page  on  wliich  you  yourself 
write  what  you  read,"  replied  Modes te.  "You  are  carried 
away  by  your  provincial  hatred  of  everything  that  compels 
you  to  look  above  your  head.  You  cannot  forgive  the  poet  for 
being  a  political  man,  for  having  an  eloquent  tongue,  and  a 
splendid  future;  you  calumniate  his  purpose " 

"His,  mademoiselle !  He  would  turn  his  back  on  you 
within  twenty-four  hours  with  the  meanness  of  a  Vilquin." 

"Well,  make  him  play  such  a  farcical  scene,  and " 

"Ay,  and  in  every  key;  in  three  days — on  Wednesday — do 
not  forget.  Until  then,  mademoiselle,  amuse  yourself  by 
making  the  musical  box  play  all  its  airs,  that  the  vile  discords 
of  the  antiphony  may  come  out  all  the  more  clearly." 

Modeste  gaily  returned  to  the  drawing-room,  where  of  all 
the  men  present,  la  Briere  alone,  seated  in  the  recess  of  a 
window — whence,  no  doubt,  he  had  been  looking  at  his  idol — 
rose  at  her  entrance,  as  if  an  usher  had  shouted,  "The  Queen  !'' 
It  was  a  respectful  impulse,  full  of  the  eloquence  peculiar  to 
action,  which  surpasses  that  of  the  finest  speech.  Spoken 
love  is  not  to  be  compared  with  love  in  action — every  girl  of 
twenty  is  fifty  as  concerns  this  axiom;  this  is  the  seducer's 
strongest  argument. 

Instead  of  looking  Modeste  in  the  face,  as  Canalis  did,  bow- 


214  MODESTE  MIGNON 

ing  to  her  as  an  act  of  public  homage,  the  disdained  lover 
walihed  her  with  a  slow  side  glance,  as  humble  as  Butscha's, 
almost  timid.  The  young  heiress  observed  this  demeanor  as 
she  went  to  place  herself  by  Canalis,  in  whose  game  she 
affected  an  interest.  In  the  course  of  the  conversation,  la 
Briere  learned,  from  a  remark  she  made  to  her  father,  that 
Modeste  intended  to  begin  riding  again  on  the  following 
Wednesday,  and  she  mentioned  that  she  had  no  riding-whiit 
suitable  to  match  with  her  handsome  new  habit.  Ernest 
flashed  a  glance  at  the  dwarf  like  a  spark  of  fire,  and  a  few 
minutes  later  they  were  walking  together  on  the  terrace. 

"It  is  now  nine  o'clock,"  said  la  Briere.  "I  am  off  to  Paris 
as  fast  as  my  horse  will  carry  me.  I  can  be  there  by  ten  to- 
morrow morning.  My  dear  Butscha,  from  you  she  will  accept 
a  gift  with  pleasure,  for  she  has  a  great  regard  for  you;  let 
me  give  her  a  riding- whip  in  your  name;  and,  believe  me, 
in  return  for  such  an  immense  favor  you  have  in  me  not 
indeed  a  friend,  but  a  slave  !" 

"Go ;  you  are  happy,"  said  the  clerk.     "You  have  money." 

"Tell  Canalis  from  me  that  I  shall  not  be  in  to-night,  and 
that  he  must  invent  some  excuse  for  my  absence  for  two  days." 

An  hour  later  Ernest  had  set  out  on  horseback  for  Paris, 
where  he  arrived  after  twelve  hours'  riding,  his  first  care 
being  to  secure  a  place  in  the  mail  coach  for  le  Havre  on  the 
following  day.  He  then  went  to  the  three  first  jewelers  in 
Paris,  comparing  handles  of  riding-whips,  and  seeking  what 
art  could  produce  of  the  most  royal  perfection.  He  found 
one  made  by  Stidmann  for  a  Russian  lady,  who,  after  order- 
ing it,  had  been  unable  to  pay  for  it — a  fox-hunt  wrought  in 
gold,  with  a  ruby  at  the  top,  and  exorbitantly  expensive  as 
compared  with  a  Referendary's  stipend;  all  his  savings  were 
swallowed  up,  amounting  to  seven  thousand  francs.  Ernest 
gave  a  sketch  of  the  arms  of  la  Bastie,  allowing  twenty  hours 
for  them  to  be  engraved  instead  of  those  that  were  on  it.  This 
handle,  a  masterpiece  of  workmanship,  was  fitted  to  an  india- 
rubl)er  whip,  and  placed  in  a  red  morocco  case,  lined  with 
\elvet,  with  a  monogram  of  two  M's  on  the  top. 


MODESTE  MIGNON  ^15 

Ey  Weclnesday  morning  la  Briere  had  returned  by  the  mail, 
in  time  to  breakfast  with  Canalis.  The  poet  had  explained 
his  secretary's  absence  by  saying  that  he  was  busy  with  some 
work  forwarded  from  Paris.  Butscha  who  had  gone  to  the 
coach  office  to  hold  out  a  welcoming  hand  to  Ernest  on  the 
arrival  of  the  mail,  flew  to  give  this  work  of  art  to  Frangoise 
Cochet,  desiring  her  to  place  it  on  Modeste's  dressing-table. 

"You  are  going  out  riding,  no  doubt,  with  Mademoiselle 
Modeste,"  said  Butscha,  on  returning  to  Canalis'  villa  to  in- 
form Ernest,  by  a  side  glance,  that  the  whip  had  safely 
reached  its  destination. 

"I !"  said  la  Briere.     "I  am  going  to  bed." 

"Well!"  exclaimed  Canalis,  looking  at  his  friend,  "I  do 
not  understand  you  at  all." 

Breakfast  was  ready,  and  the  poet  naturally  invited  the 
clerk  to  sit  down  with  them.  Butscha  had  stayed,  intending 
to  get  himself  invited  if  necessary  by  la  Briere,  seeing  on 
Germain's  countenance  the  success  of  a  hunchback's  trick,  of 
which  his  promise  to  Modeste  may  have  given  a  hint. 

"Monsieur  was  very  wise  to  keep  Monsieur  Latournelle's 
clerk,"  said  Germain  in  his  master's  ear.  Canalis  and  Ger- 
main, on  a  hint  from  the  latter,  passed  into  the  drawing-room. 
"This  morning  I  went  out  to  see  some  fishing,  an  expedition 
to  which  I  was  invited  the  day  before  yesterday  by  the  owner 
of  a  boat  I  have  made  acquaintance  with." 

Germain  did  not  confess  that  he  had  had  such  bad  taste 
as  to  play  billiards  in  a  cafe  in  le  Havre,  where  Butscha  had 
surrounded  him  with  a  number  of  his  friends  in  order  to  be 
able  to  work  upon  him. 

"What  then?"  said  Canalis.  "Come  to  the  point,  and  at 
once." 

"Monsieur  le  Baron,  I  heard  a  discussion  about  Monsieur 
Mignon,  which  I  did  my  best  to  keep  going — no  one  knew 
who  I  lived  with.  I  tell  you,  Monsieur  le  Baron,  everybody 
in  le  Havre  says  that  you  are  running  your  head  against  a 
wall.  Mademoiselle  de  la  Bastie's  fortune  is,  like  her  name, 
very  modest.     The  sliip  on  which  the  father  came  home  is  not 


216  MODESTE  MIGNON 

his  own ;  it  belongs  to  some  China  merchants,  with  whom  he 
has  to  settle,  and  things  are  said  about  it  that  are  far  from 
flattering  to  the  Colonel. — Having  heard  that  you  and  Mon- 
sieur le  Due  were  rivals  for  Mademoiselle  de  la  Bastie,  1  take 
the  liberty  of  mentioning  it;  for,  between  you  and  him,  it  is 
better  that  his  lordship  should  swallow  the  bait.  On  my  way 
.  baek  I  took  a  turn  on  the  quay,  past  the  theatre,  where  the 
merchants  walk  up  and  down,  and  I  pushed  my  way  boldly 
among  them.  These  worthy  folks,  seeing  a  well-dressed  man, 
began  to  talk  about  the  affairs  of  the  town ;  from  one  thing  to 
another  I  led  them  to  speak  of  Colonel  Mignon;  and  they 
were  so  much  of  the  same  mind  as  the  fishermen  that  I  felt 
it  my  duty  to  speak.  That  is  why  I  left  you,  sir,  to  get  up 
and  dress  alone     .     .     ." 

''What  is  to  be  done  ?"  cried  Canalis,  feeling  that  he  was  too 
deeply  pledged  to  withdraw  from  his  promises  to  Modeste. 

"You  know  my  attachment  to  you,  sir,"  said  Germain,  see- 
ing that  the  poet  was  thunderstruck,  "and  you  will  not  be 
surprised  if  I  offer  a  piece  of  advice.  If  you  can  make 
this  clerk  drunk,  he  will  let  the  cat  out  of  the  bag,  and  if  he 
won't  open  his  mouth  for  two  bottles  of  champagne,  he  cer- 
tainly will  for  the  third.  It  would  be  a  strange  thing,  too, 
if  monsieur,  who  will  certainly  be  an  ambassador  one  day,  for 
Philoxene  heard  IMadame  la  Duchesse  say  so, — if  you,  sir,  can- 
not get  round  a  country  lawyer's  clerk." 

At  this  moment  Butscha,  the  unknown  author  of  this  fishing 
expedition,  was  begging  the  Referendary  to  say  nothing  about 
his  journey  to  Paris,  and  not  to  interfere  with  his  manoeuvres 
at  breakfast.  Butscha  meant  to  take  advantage  of  a  reaction 
of  feeling  unfavorable  to  Charles  Mignon,  which  had  set  in  at 
le  Havre. 

This  was  the  cause  of  this  reaction.  Monsieur  le  Comte  de 
la  Bastie  had  entirely  ignored  those  of  his  former  friends 
who,  during  liis  absence,  had  neglected  his  wife  and  children. 
On  hearing  that  a  dinner  was  to  be  given  at  the  Villa  Mi- 
gnon, each  one  flattered  himself  he  would  be  among  the  guests, 
and  expected  an  invitation;  but  when  it  was  known  that  only 


MODESTE  MIGNON  217 

Gobenheim,  the  Latournelles,  the  Duke,  and  the  two  Parisians 
were  to  be  asked,  there  was  a  loud  outcry  at  the  merchant's 
arrogance;  his  marked  avoidance  of  seeing  anybody,  and  of 
ever  going  down  to  le  Havre,  was  commented  on,  and  at- 
tributed to  scorn,  on  whicli  the  whole  town  avenged  itself  by 
casting  doubts  on  Mignon's  sudden  wealth.  By  dint  of  gossip 
everybody  soon  ascertained  that  the  money  advanced  to  Vil- 
quin  on  the  Villa  had  been  found  by  Dumay.  This  fact  gave 
the  most  malignant  persons  grounds  for  the  libelous  supposi- 
tion that  Cliarles  had  confided  to  Dumay's  known  devotion  the 
funds  concerning  which  he  anticipated  litigation  on  the  part 
of  his  so-called  partners  in  Canton.  Charles'  reticence,  for 
his  constant  aim  was  to  conceal  his  wealth,  and  the  gossip 
of  his  servants,  who  had  been  put  on  their  guard,  lent  an  ap- 
pearance of  truth  to  these  monstrous  fables,  believed  by  all 
who  were  governed  by  the  spirit  of  detraction  that  animates 
rival  traders.  In  proportion  as  parochial  pride  had  formerly 
cried  up  his  immense  fortune  as  one  of  the  makere  of  le 
Havre,  so  now  provincial  jealousy  cast  doubt  on  it. 

Butscha,  to  whom  the  fishermen  of  the  port  owed  more  than 
one  good  turn,  desired  them  to  be  secret,  and  to  cram  their 
new  friend.  He  was  well  served.  The  owner  of  the  boat 
told  Germain  that  a  cousin  of  his,  a  sailor,  was  coming  from 
Marseilles,  having  just  been  paid  off  in  consequence  of  the  sale 
of  the  brig  in  which  the  Colonel  had  come  home.  The  vessel 
was  being  sold  by  order  of  one  Castagnould,  and  the  cargo — 
according  to  the  cousin — was  worth  only  three  or  four  hun- 
dred thousand  francs  at  most. 

"Germain,"  said  Canalis,  as  the  servant  was  leaving  the 
room,  "bring  us  up  some  Champagne  and  some  Bordeaux.  A 
member  of  the  legal  faculty  of  Normandy  must  carry  away 
some  memories  of  a  poet's  hospitality. — And  he  has  the  wit 
of  le  Figaro/'  added  Canalis,  laying  his  hand  on  tlie  dwarf's 
shoulder;  "that  petit- journal  brilliancy  must  be  made  to 
sparkle  and  foam  with  the  wine  of  Champagne;  we  will  not 
spare  ourselves  either,  I']rnest !  Why,  it  is  two  years  at  least 
since  I  last  got  tipsy,"  he  added^  turning  to  la  Briere. 


218  MODESTE  MIGNON 

''With  wine? — That  1  can  quite  understand,"  replied  the 
clerk.  "You  ^ci  tipsy  with  yourself  every  day  !  In  the  mat- 
ter of  praise,  you  drink  your  till.  You  are  handsome;  you  are 
famous  during  your  lifetime;  your  conversation  is  on  a  level 
with  your  genius;  and  you  fascinate  all  the  women,  even  ray 
master's  wife.  Loved  as  you  are  by  the  most  beautiful  Sultana 
Valideh  I  ever  saw — it  is  true,  1  have  never  seen  another — you 
can,  if  you  choose,  marry  Mademoiselle  de  la  Bastie. — Why, 
merely  with  making  this  inventory  of  your  present  advan- 
tages, to  say  nothing  of  the  future — a  fine  title,  a  peerage, 
an  embassy ! — I  am  quite  fuddled,  like  the  men  who  bottle 
wine  for  other  people  to  drink." 

"All  this  social  magnificence  is  nothing,"  replied  Canalis, 
"without  that  which  gives  them  value — a  fortune !  Here 
we  are  men  among  men;  fine  sentiments  are  delightful  in 
stanzas." 

"And  in  certain  ciTcumstanzas,"  said  Butscha,  with  a  sig- 
nificant smile. 

"Y^ou,  a  master  of  the  mystery  of  settlements,"  said  the 
poet,  smiling  at  the  pun,  "must  know  as  well  as  I  do  that 
cottage  rhymes  to  nothing  better  than  pottage." 

At  table  Butscha  played  with  signal  success  the  part  of  le 
Rigaudin  in  la  Maison  en  loterie,  alarming  Ernest,  to  whom 
the  jests  of  a  lawyer's  office  were  unfamiliar;  they  are  a 
match  for  those  of  the  studio.  The  clerk  repeated  all  the 
scandal  of  le  Havre,  the  history  of  every  fortune,  of  every 
boudoir,  and  of  all  the  crimes  committed  just  outside  of  the 
pale  of  the  law,  what  is  called  sailing  as  close  hauled  as  pos- 
sible (in  Normandy,  se  tirer  d' affaire  comme  on  pent).  He 
spared  no  one,  and  his  spirits  rose  with  the  stream  of  wine 
he  poured  down  his  throat  like  storm  water  through  a  gutter. 

"Do  you  know,  la  Briere,"  said  Canalis,  filling  up  Butscha's 
glass,  "that  this  brave  boy  would  be  a  first-rate  secretary  to  an 
Ambassador  ?" 

"And  cut  out  his  master !"  retorted  the  dwarf  with  a  look 
at  Canalis,  of  insolence  redeemed  by  the  sparkle  of  carbonic 
acid  gas.     "I  have  enough  spirit  of  intrigue  and  little  enough 


MODESTE  MIGNON  219 

gratitude  to  climb  on  to  your  shoulders.  A  poet  supporting 
an  abortion ! — Well,  it  has  been  seen,  and  pretty  frequently — 
in  libraries.  Why,  you  are  staring  at  me  as  if  I  were  swallow- 
ing swords.  Heh !  my  dear,  great  genius,  you  are  a  very  su- 
perior man;  you  know  full  well  that  gratitude  is  a  word  for 
idiots;  it  is  to  be  found  in  the  dictionary,  but  not  in  the 
human  heart.  I  0  U  is  a  formula  unhonored  on  the  green 
banks  of  Parnassus  or  Pindus.  Do  you  suppose  I  feel  the 
debt  to  my  master's  wife  for  having  brought  me  up?  Why, 
the  whole  town  has  paid  it  off  in  esteem,  praise,  and  admira- 
tion, the  most  precious  of  all  coin.  I  do  not  see  the  virtue 
that  is  merely  an  investment  for  the  benefit  of  one's  vanity. 
Men  make  a  trade  of  reciprocal  services;  the  word  gratitude 
represents  the  debit  side,  that  is  all. 

"As  to  intrigue,  I  adore  it ! — What !"  he  went  on,  in  reply 
to  a  gesture  from  Canalis,  "do  you  not  delight  in  the  faculty 
which  enables  a  crafty  man  to  get  the  upper  hand  of  a  man 
of  genius,  which  requires  constant  observation  of  the  vices  and 
weaknesses  of  our  betters,  and  a  sense  of  the  nick  of  time  for 
everything?  Ask  diplomacy  whether  the  triumph  of  cunning 
over  strength  is  not  the  most  delightful  success  there  is.  If  I 
were  your  secretary.  Monsieur  le  Baron,  you  would  soon  be 
Prime  Minister,  because  it  would  be  to  my  interest ! — Now, 
would  you  like  a  sample  of  my  little  talents  of  that  kind? 
Hearken !  You  love  Mademoiselle  Modeste  to  distraction, 
and  you  are  very  right.  In  my  opinion,  the  girl  is  a  genuine 
Parisienne,  for  here  and  there  a  Parisienne  sprouts  in  the 
country.  Our  Modeste  would  be  a  wife  to  push  a  man.  She 
has  that  sort  of  thing,"  said  he,  giving  his  hand  a  twirl  in  the 
air.  "You  have  a  formidable  rival  in  the  Duke.  Now,  what 
will  you  give  me  to  pack  him  off  within  three  days  ?" 

"Let  us  finish  this  bottle,"  said  the  poet,  refilling  Butscha's 
glass. 

"You  will  make  me  drunk !"  said  the  clerk,  swallowing 
down  his  ninth  glass  of  champagne.  "Is  there  a  bed  where  I 
may  sleep  for  an  hour?  My  master  is  as  sober  as  a  camel, 
the  old  fox,  and  Madame  Latournelle  too.     They  would  both 


220  MODESTE  MIGNON 

be  hard  upon  mc,  and  they  would  have  good  reason,  while  I 
should  have  lost  mine,  and  I  have  some  work  to  do." 

Then  going  back  to  a  former  subject  without  any  transition, 
after  the  manner  of  a  man  when  he  is  screwed,  he  exclaimed : 

"And  then,  what  a  memory  I  have  I  It  is  a  match  for  my 
gratitude." 

"Butscha!"  exclaimed  the  poet,  "just  now  you  said  that 
you  had  no  gratitude;  you  are  contradicting  yourself." 

"Not  at  all,"  said  the  clerk.  "Forgetting  almost  always 
means  remembering ! — Now,  then,  on  we  go  !  I  am  made  to 
be  a  secretary." 

"And  now  will  you  set  to  work  to  get  rid  of  the  Duke?" 
asked  Canalis,  charmed  to  find  the  conversation  tending 
naturally  to  the  subjects  he  aimed  at. 

"That — is  no  concern  of  yours,"  said  Butscha,  with  a 
tremendous  hiccup. 

Butscha  rolled  his  head  on  his  shoulders,  and  his  eyes  from 
Germain  to  la  Briere,  and  from  la  Briere  to  Canalis,  in  the 
manner  of  a  man  who  feels  intoxication  creeping  over  him, 
and  wants  to  know  in  what  esteem  he  is  held ;  for  in  the  wreck 
of  drunkenness  it  may  be  noted  that  self-esteem  is  the  last 
sentiment  to  float. 

"Look  here,  great  poet,  you  are  a  jolly  fellow,  you  are.  Do 
you  take  me  for  one  of  your  readers,  you  who  sent  your  friend 
to  Paris  to  procure  information  concerning  the  house  of  Mi- 
gnon.  I  humbug,  you  humbug,  we  humbug.  Well  and  good ; 
but  do  me  the  honor  to  believe  that  I  am  clear-headed  enough 
always  to  keep  as  much  conscience  as  I  need  in  my  sphere  of 
life.  As  head  clerk  to  Maitre  Latournelle  my  heart  is  a  pad- 
locked despatch-box,  my  lips  never  breathe  a  word  of  any 
paper  concerning  the  clients.  I  know  everything,  and  I  know 
nothing.  And  then,  passion  is  no  secret:  I  love  Modeste, 
she  is  a  pupil  of  mine,  she  must  marry  well ;  and  I  could  get 
round  the  Duke  if  necessary.  But  you  are  going  to 
marr}' " 

"Germain,  coffee  and  liqueurs,"  said  Canalis. 

"Liqueurs?"  repeated  Butscha,  holding  up  a  forbidding 


MODESTE  MIGNON  221 

hand  like  a  too  knowing  maiden  putting  aside  some  little 
temptation.  "Oh,  my  poor  work !  By  the  way,  there  is  a 
marriage  contract  to  be  drawn  up,  and  my  second  clerk  is  as 
stupid  as  a  matrimonial  bargain,  and  quite  capable  of  p-p-pok- 
ing  a  penknife  through  the  bride's  personal  property.  He 
thinks  himself  a  fine  fellow  because  he  measures  nearly  six  feet 
—the  idiot !" 

"Here,  this  is  Creme  de  The,  a  West  Indian  liqueur,"  said 
Canalis. — "You  who  are  Mademoiselle  Modeste's  adviser " 

"Her  adviser? " 

'^ell,  do  you  think  she  loves  me  ?" 

"Ye-e-es,  more  than  she  loves  the  Duke,"  drawled  the 
dwarf,  rousing  himself  from  a  sort  of  torpor,  which  he  acted 
to  admiration.  "She  loves  you  for  your  disinterestedness. 
She  told  me  that  for  you  she  felt  equal  to  the  greatest  sacri- 
fices, to  giving  up  dress,  spending  only  a  thousand  francs  a 
year,  devoting  her  life  to  prove  to  you  that  in  marrying  her 
you  would  have  done  a  stroke  of  business.  And  she  is  devil- 
ish honest  (hiccup),  I  can  tell  you,  and  well  informed;  there 
is  nothing  that  girl  does  not  know." 

"That  and  three  hundred  thousand  francs,"  said  Canalis. 

"Oh!  there  may  be  as  much  as  you  say,"  replied  the  clck 
with  enthusiasm.  "Mignon  Papa — and  you  see  he  is  really 
a  Mignon,  a  dear  papa,  that's  what  I  like  him  for — to  marr}^ 
his  only  daughter — well,  he  would  strip  himself  of  every- 
thing. The  Colonel  has  been  accustomed  under  your  Restora- 
tion to  live  on  half-pay  (hiccup),  and  he  will  be  quite 
happy  living  with  Dumay,  speculating  in  a  small  way  at  le 
Havre;  he  will  be  sure  to  give  the  child  his  three  hundred 
thousand  francs. — Then  we  must  not  forget  Dumay,  who 
means  to  leave  his  fortune  to  Modeste.  Dumay,  you  know, 
is  a  Breton;  his  birth  gives  security  to  the  bargain;  he  never 
changes  his  mind,  and  his  fortune  is  quite  equal  to  his 
master's.  At  the  same  time,  since  they  listen  to  me  at  least 
as  much  as  to  you,  though  I  do  not  talk  so  much  nor  so  well,  I 
said  to  them,  'You  are  putting  too  much  money  into  your 
house ;  if  Vilquin  leaves  it  on  your  hands,  there  are  two  hun- 


222  MODESTB  MIGNON 

dred  thousand  francs  that  will  bring  you  no  return.  There  will 
be  only  a  hundred  thousand  francs  left  to  turn  over,  and  that, 
in  my  opinion,  is  not  enough.' — At  this  moment  the  Colonel 
and  ]3umay  are  talking  it  over.  Take  my  word  for  it,  Mo- 
deste  is  rich.  The  people  of  the  town  talk  nonsense,  they  are 
envious.  Why,  who  in  the  department  has  such  a  portion?" 
snid  Butscha,  holding  up  his  fingers  to  count.  "Two  to  three 
hundred  thousand  francs  in  hard  cash  !"  said  he,  folding  down 
his  left  thumb  with  the  forefinger  of  his  right  hand.  "That 
is  for  one.  The  freehold  of  the  Villa  Mignon,"  and  he 
doubled  down  his  left  forefinger,  "for  two ;  Dumay's  fortune 
for  three,"  he  added,  ticking  it  ofP  on  the  middle  finger.  "Why, 
little  Mother  Modeste  is  a  lady  with  six  hundred  thousand 
francs  of  her  own  when  the  two  old  soldiers  shall  have  gone 
aloft  to  take  further  orders  from  God  A'mighty." 

This  blunt  and  artless  communication,  broken  by  sips  of 
liqueur,  sobered  Canalis  as  much  as  it  seemed  to  intoxicate 
Butscha.  To  the  lawyer's  clerk,  a  mere  provincial,  this  for- 
tune was  evidently  colossal.  He  let  his  head  drop  on  the 
palm  of  his  right  hand,  and  with  the  elbow  majestically  resting 
on  the  table,  he  sat  blinking  and  talking  to  himself:  "In 
twenty  years,  at  the  pace  the  Code  is  taking  us,  melting  down 
fortunes  by  the  process  of  subdivision,  an  heiress  with  six 
hundred  thousand  francs  will  be  as  rare  as  disinterestedness 
in  a  money-lender.  You  may  say  that  Modeste  will  spend 
at  least  twelve  thousand  francs  a  year,  the  interest  of  her  for- 
tune; but  she  is  a  very  nice  girl — very  nice — very  nice.  She 
is  as  you  may  say — a  poet  must  have  imagery — she  is  an 
ermine  as  knowing  as  a  monkey." 

"And  what  did  you  tell  me  ?"  cried  Canalis  in  an  undertone 
to  la  Briere.     "That  she  had  six  millions?" 

"My  dear  fellow,""  said  Ernest,  "allow  me  to  remark  that  I 
could  say  nothing.  I  am  bound  by  an  oath,  and  it  is  per- 
haps saying  more  than  I  ought  to  tell  3'ou " 

"An  oath  ?  and  to  whom  ?"' 

"To  Monsieur  Mignon."" 

"Why,  Ernest !  when  you  know  how  indispensable  fortune  is 


MODESTB  MIGNON  223 

to  me" — Butscha  was  snoring — "you  who  know  my  position, 
and  all  I  should  lose  in  the  Kue  de  Grenelle  by  marrying — 
you  would  have  coolly  allowed  me  to  plunge  in?"  said  Canalis, 
turning  pale.  "But  this  is  a  matter  between  friends  ;  and  our 
friendship,  my  boy,  is  a  compact  of  a  far  older  date  than  this 
that  the  wily  Provencal  has  required  of  you." 

"My  dear  fellow,"  said  Ernest,  "I  love  Modeste  too  well 
to " 

"Idiot,  take  her!"  cried  the  poet.  "So  break  your 
oath " 

"Do  you  solemnly  promise,  on  your  honor  as  a  man,  to  for- 
get what  I  tell  you,  and  to  be  just  the  same  to  me  as 
though  I  had  never  confided  to  you,  come  what  may  ?" 

"I  swear  it  by  the  sacred  memory  of  my  mother !" 

"Well,  when  I  was  in  Paris,  Monsieur  Mignon  told  me  that 
he  was  very  far  from  having  such  a  colossal  fortune  as  the 
Mongenods  had  spoken  of.  The  Colonel  intends  to  give  his 
daughter  two  hundred  thousand  francs.  But  then,  Melchior, 
was  the  father  suspicious?  or  was  he  sincere?  It  is  no  con- 
cern of  mine  to  solve  that  question.  If  she  should  con- 
descend to  choose  me,  Modeste,  with  nothing,  should  be  my 
wife." 

"A  blue-stocking,  appallingly  learned,  who  has  read  every- 
thing and  knows  everything — in  theory,"  cried  Canalis,  in 
reply  to  a  protesting  gesture  of  la  Briere's ;  "a  spoilt  child, 
brought  up  in  luxury  during  her  early  years,  and  weaned 
from  it  for  the  last  five !  Oh,  my  poor  friend,  pause,  con- 
sider  " 

"Ode  and  Code  !"  said  Butscha,  rousing  himself.     "You  go 

in  for  the  Ode,  and  I  for  the  Code ;  there  is  only  a  C  between. 

Code,  from  coda,  a  tail !     You  have  treated  me  handsomely, 

and  I  like  you — don't  have  anything  to  do  with  the  Code. — 

Listen;  a  piece  of  good  advice  is  not  a  bad  return  for  your 

wine  and  your  Creme  de  The.     Old  Mignon  is  cream  too,  the 

cream  of  good  fellows.     Well,  trot  out  your  horse,  he  is  riding 

out  with  his  daughter ;  you  can  speak  frankly  to  him ;  ask  him 

about  her  marriage  portion;  he  will  give  you  a  plain  answer, 
VOL   6 — 40 


224  MODESTE  MIGNON 

and  you  will  see  to  the  bottom  of  things  as  sure  as  I  am  tipsy, 
and  3-ou  are  a  great  man ;  but  then  there  must  be  no  mistake, 
we  leave  le  Havre  together,  I  suppose?  I  am  to  be  your  sec- 
retary, since  this  little  chap,  who  thinks  I  am  drunk,  and  is 
laughing  at  me,  is  going  to  leave  you. — Go  ahead.  March ! 
— and  leave  him  to  marry  the  girl.'' 

Canalis  went  to  dress. 

"Not  a  word;  he  is  rushing  on  suicide,"  said  Butscha,  as 
cool  as  Gobenheim,  to  la  Briere,  very  quietly;  and  he  tele- 
graphed behind  Canalis  a  signal  of  scorn  familiar  to  the  Paris 
street  boy.  "Good-bye,  Master,'"'  he  went  on  at  the  top  of  his 
voice,  "may  I  go  and  get  forty  winks  in  ]\Iadame  Amaury's 
summer-house  ?" 

"Make  yourself  at  home,"  replied  the  poet. 

The  clerk,  loudly  laughed  at  by  Canalis'  three  servants, 
made  his  way  to  the  summer-house,  plunging  into  flower-beds 
and  baskets  with  the  perverse  grace  of  an  insect  describing 
its  endless  zigzags  as  it  tries  to  escape  through  aclosed window. 
He  scrambled  up  into  the  gazebo,  and  when  the  servants  had 
got  indoors,  he  sat  down  on  a  wooden  bench  and  gave  himself 
up  to  the  joys  of  triumph.  He  had  fooled  the  superior  man ; 
not  only  had  he  snatched  oif  his  mask,  but  he  had  seen  him 
untie  the  strings,  and  he  laughed  as  an  author  laughs  at  his 
piece,  with  a  full  appreciation  of  the  value  of  this  vis  coniica. 

"Men  are  tops !"  cried  he ;  "you  have  only  to  find  the  end 
of  the  string  that  is  wound  round  them.  Why,  any  one  could 
make  me  faint  away  by  simply  saying,  'Mademoiselle  Modeste 
has  fallen  off  her  horse  and  broken  her  leg.' " 

A  few  minutes  later,  Modeste,  wearing  a  bewitching  habit 
of  dark-green  kerseymere,  a  little  hat  Avith  a  green  veil,  doe- 
skin gloves,  and  velvet  boots,  over  which  the  lace  frills  of  her 
drawers  fell  gracefully,  had  mounted  her  handsomely-saddled 
pony,  and  was  showing  to  her  father  and  the  Due  d'Herou- 
ville  the  pretty  gift  she  had  just  received;  she  was  delighted 
with  it,  seeing  in  it  one  of  those  attentions  which  most  flatter 
a  woman. 


MODESTE  MIGNON  225 

'^as  it  you,  Monsieur  le  Due?"  said  she,  hi)lding  out  the 
sparkling  end  of  her  whip.  "There  was  a  card  on  it  with  the 
words,  'Guess  if  you  can,'  and  a  row  of  dots.  Frangoise  and 
Madame  Duniay  ascribe  this  cliarming  surprise  to  Butscha; 
but  my  dear  Butscha  is  not  rich  enough  to  pay  for  such  fine 
rubies !  And  my  father,  on  my  saying  on  Sunday  evening 
that  I  had  no  whip,  sent  for  that  one  from  Kouen." 

Modeste  pointed  to  a  whip  in  her  father's  hand  with  a 
handle  set  closely  with  turquoises,  a  fashionable  novelty  then, 
but  now  rather  common. 

"I  only  wish,  mademoiselle — I  would  give  ten  years  of  my 
life  to  have  the  right  of  offering  such  a  magnificent  jewel," 
replied  the  Duke  politely. 

"Ah !  then  here  is  the  audacious  man,"  cried  Modeste,  see- 
ing Canalis  come  up  on  horseback.  "None  but  a  poet  can  find 
such  exquisite  things. — Monsieur,"  she  went  on  to  Melchior, 
"my  father  will  be  angry  with  you;  you  are  justifying  those 
who  blame  you  for  your  extravagance." 

"Hah !"  cried  Canalis  simply,  "then  that  is  what  took  la 
Briere  from  le  Havre  to  Paris  as  fast  as  he  could  ride." 

"Your  secretary  took  such  a  liberty !"  said  Modeste,  turn- 
ing pale,  and  flinging  the  whip  to  Frangoise  Cochet  with  a 
vehemence  expressive  of  the  deepest  contempt.  "Give  me 
back  that  whip,  father !" 

"The  poor  boy  is  lying  on  his  bed  broken  with  fatigue!" 
Melchior  went  on,  as  they  followed  the  girl,  who  had  gone  off 
at  a  gallop.  "You  are  hard,  mademoiselle.  'I  have  this 
chance  alone  of  reminding  her  of  my  existence,'  was  what  he 
said." 

"And  could  you  esteem  a  woman  who  was  capable  of  pre- 
serving keepsakes  from  every  comer?"  said  Modeste. 

Modeste,  who  was  surprised  at  receiving  no  reply  from 
Canalis,  ascribed  his  inattention  to  the  sound  of  the  horse's 
hoofs. 

"How  you  delight  in  tormenting  those  who  are  in  love  with 
you!"  said  the  Duke.  "Your  pride  and  dignity  so  entirely 
belie  your  vagaries  that  I  am  beginning  to  suspect  that  you  do 


226  MODESTE  MIGNON 

yourself  injustice  by  deliberately  planning  your  malicious 
tricks." 

"Wliat !  you  have  just  discovered  that.  Monsieur  le  Due?" 
said  she,  with  a  laugh.  "You  have  exactly  as  much  insight 
as  a  husband !'' 

For  about  a  kilometre  they  rode  on  in  silence.  Modeste 
was  sur])rised  at  being  no  longer  aware  of  the  flaming  glances 
of  Canalis,  whose  admiration  for  the  beauties  of  the  land- 
scape seemed  rather  more  than  was  natural.  On  the  preced- 
ing evening  Modeste  had  pointed  out  to  the  poet  a  beautiful 
effect  of  color  in  the  sunset  over  the  sea,  and,  finding  him  as 
speechless  as  a  mute,  had  said : 

"Well,  do  not  you  see  it  all  ?" 

"I  see  nothing  but  your  hand,"  he  had  replied. 

"Does  Monsieur  de  la  Briere  know  how^  to  ride?"  Modeste 
asked,  to  pique  him. 

"He  is  not  a  very  good  horseman,  but  he  goes,"  replied  the 
poet,  as  cold  as  Gobenheim  had  been  before  the  Colonel's 
return. 

As  they  went  along  a  cross-road,  down  which  Monsieur 
Mignon  turned  to  go  through  a  pretty  valley  to  a  hill  over- 
looking the  course  of  the  Seine,  Canalis  let  Modeste  and  the 
Duke  go  forward,  slackening  his  speed  so  as  to  bring  his  horse 
side  by  side  wnth  the  Colonel's. 

"Monsieur  le  Comte,"  said  he,  "you  are  a  frank  soldier,  so 
you  will  regard  my  openness  as  a  claim  to  your  esteem.  When 
an  offer  of  marriage,  with  all  the  too  barbarous,  or,  if  you 
will,  too  civilized  discussions  to  which  it  gives  rise,  is  made 
through  a  third  person,  everyone  suffers.  You  and  I  are 
both  men  of  perfect  discretion,  and  you,  like  me,  are  past  the 
age  for  surprises,  so  let  us  speak  as  man  to  man. — I  will  set 
the  example.  I  am  nine-and-twenty,  I  have  no  landed  estate, 
ll  am  an  ambitious  man.  That  I  ardently  admire  Mademoi- 
selle Modeste  you  must  have  seen.  Xow,  in  spite  of  the  faults 
your  charming  daughter  delights  in  affecting " 

"To  say  nothing  of  those  she  really  has,"  said  the  Colonel, 
smiling. 


MODESTE  MIGNON  227 

"I  should  be  glad  indeed  to  make  her  my  wife,  and  I  believe 
I  could  make  her  happy.  The  whole  question  of  my  future 
life  turns  on  the  point  of  fortune.  Every  girl  who  is  open  to 
marriage  must  be  loved  whatever  comes  of  it;  at  the  same 
time,  you  are  not  the  man  to  get  rid  of  your  dear  Modeste 
without  a  portion,  and  my  position  would  no  more  allow  of 
my  marrying  'for  love,'  as  the  phrase  is,  than  of  proposing  to 
a  girl  without  a  fortune  at  least  equal  to  my  own.  My  salary, 
and  some  sinecures,  with  what  I  get  from  the  Academy  and 
my  writings,  come  to  about  thirty  thousand  francs  a  year,  a 
fine  income  for  a  bachelor.  If  my  wife  and  I  between  us  have 
sixty  thousand  francs  a  year,  I  could  continue  to  live  on  much 
the  same  footing  as  at  present.  Have  you  a  million  francs 
to  give  Mademoiselle  Modeste  ?" 

"Oh !  monsieur,  we  are  very  far  from  any  agreement,"  said 
the  Colonel  jesuitically. 

"Well,  then,  we  have  said  nothing  about  the  matter — only 
whistled,"  said  Canalis  anxiously.  "You  will  be  quite  satisfied 
with  my  conduct.  Monsieur  le  Comte ;  I  shall  be  one  more  of 
the  unfortunate  men  crushed  by  that  charming  young  lady. 
Give  me  your  word  that  you  will  say  nothing  of  this  to  any- 
body, not  even  to  Mademoiselle  Modeste;  for,"  he  added,  by 
way  of  consolation,  "some  change  might  occur  in  my  position 
which  would  allow  of  my  asking  her  hand  without  a  settle- 
ment." 

"I  swear  it,"  said  the  Colonel.  "You  know,  monsieur,  with 
what  exaggerated  language  the  public,  in  the  provinces  as  in 
Paris,  talk  "of  fortunes  made  and  lost.  Success  and  failure 
are  alike  magnified,  and  we  are  never  so  lucky  or  so  unlucky 
as  report  says.  In  business  there  is  no  real  security  but  in- 
vestment in  land  when  cash  transactions  are  settled.  I  am 
awaiting  with  anxious  impatience  the  reports  of  my  various 
agents ;  nothing  is  as  yet  concluded — neither  the  sale  of  my 
merchandise  and  my  ship,  nor  my  account  with  China.  I 
shall  not  for  the  next  ten  months  know  the  amount  of  my 
capital.  However,  in  Paris,  when  talking  to  j\Ionsieur  de  la 
Briere,  I  guaranteed  a  settlement  on  my  daughter  of  two 


228  MODESTE  MTGXON 

hundred  tliousnnd  francs  in  money  down.  I  intend  to  pur- 
chase a  landed  estate  and  settle  it  in  tail  on  my  grandchildren, 
ohtaining  for  them  a  grant  of  my  titles  and  coat-of-arms." 

After  the  first  words  of  this  speech  Canalis  had  ceased  to 
listen. 

The  four  riders  now  came  out  on  a  wide  road  and  rode 
abreast  up  to  the  plateau,  which  commands  a  view  of  the  rich 
valley  of  the  Seine  towards  Rouen,  while  on  the  other  horizon 
they  could  still  see  the  line  of  the  sea. 

"Butscha  was  indeed  right,  God  is  a  great  landscape 
maker,"  said  Canalis,  as  he  looked  down  on  the  panorama, 
unique  among  those  for  which  the  hills  above  the  Seine  are 
justly  famous. 

"But  it  is  when  out  hunting,  my  dear  Baron,"  said  the 
Duke,  "when  nature  is  roused  by  a  voice,  by  a  stir  in  the 
silence,  that  the  scenery,  as  we  fly  past,  seems  most  really 
sublime  with  the  rapid  change  of  effect." 

"The  sun  has  an  inexhaustible  palette,"  said  Modeste,  gaz- 
ing at  the  poet  in  a  sort  of  bewilderment.  On  her  making 
a  remark  as  to  the  absence  of  mind  she  observed  in  Canalis, 
he  replied  that  he  was  reveling  in  his  own  thoughts,  an  excuse 
which  writers  can  make  in  addition  to  those  common  to  other 
men. 

"Are  we  really  blest  when  we  transfer  our  life  to  the  centre 
of  the  world,  and  add  to  it  a  thousand  factitious  needs  and 
over-wrought  vanities?"  said  Modeste,  as  she  contemplated 
the  calm  and  luxuriant  champaign  which  seemed  to  counsel 
philosophical  quietude. 

"Such  bucolics,  mademoiselle,  are  always  written  on  tables 
of  gold,"  said  the  poet. 

"And  imagined,  perhaps,  in  a  garret,"  replied  the  Colonel. 

Modeste  gave  Canalis  a  piercing  look,  and  saw  him  flinch; 
there  was  a  sound  of  bells  in  her  ears ;  for  a  moment  every- 
thing grew  dark  before  her;  then,  in  a  hard,  cold  tone,  she 
exclaimed ; 

"Ah  !  it  is  Wednesday  !" 

"It  is  not  with  the  idea  of  flattering  a  merely  transient 


MODBSTE  MIGNON  229 

fancy  of  yours,  mademoiselle,"  said  the  Due  d'Herouville 
solemnly — for  this  little  scene,  so  tragical  to  Modeste,  had 
given  him  time  for  thought — "but,  I  assure  you,  I  am  so 
utterly  disgusted  with  the  world,  the  Court,  and  Paris  life, 
that,  for  my,  part,  with  a  Duchesse  d'Herouville  so  full  of 
charms  and  wit  as  you  are,  I  could  pledge  myself  to  live  like 
a  philosopher  in  my  chateau,  doing  good  to  those  about  me, 
re<;laiming  my  alluvial  fiats,  bringing  up  my  children " 

"This  shall  be  set  down  to  your  credit,  Duke,"  said  Mo- 
deste, looking  steadily  at  the  noble  gentleman.  "You  flatter 
roe,"  she  added,  "for  you  do  not  think  me  frivolous,  and  you 
believe  that  I  have  enough  resources  in  myself  to  live  in  soli- 
tude.— And  that  perhaps  will  be  my  fate,"  she  added,  looking 
at  Canalis  with  a  compassionate  expression. 

"It  is  the  lot  of  all  small  fortunes,"  replied  the  poet. 
"Paris  requires  Babylonian  luxury.  I  sometimes  wonder  how 
I  have  managed  to  live  till  now." 

"The  King  is  Providence  to  you  and  me,"  said  the  Duke 
frankly,  "for  we  both  live  on  His  Majesty's  bounty.  If,  since 
the  death  of  Monsieur  le  Grand,  as  Cinq-Mars  was  called,  we 
had  not  always  held  his  office  in  our  family,  we  should  have 
had  to  sell  Herouville  to  be  demolished  by  the  Bands  Noire. 
Believe  me,  mademoiselle,  it  is  to  me  a  terrible  humiliation  to 
mix  up  financial  considerations  with  the  thought  of  mar- 
riage  " 

The  candor  of  this  avowal,  which  came  from  the  heart, 
and  the  sincerity  of  this  regret,  touched  Modeste. 

"In  these  days,"  said  the  poet,  "nobody  in  France,  Monsieur 
le  Due,  is  rich  enough  to  commit  the  folly  of  marrying  a 
woman  for  her  personal  merits,  her  charm,  her  character,  or 
her  beauty " 

The  Colonel  looked  at  Canalis  with  a  strange  expression, 
after  studying  his  daughter,  whose  face  no  longer  expressed 
any  astonishment. 

"Then  for  a  man  of  honor,"  he  said,  "it  is  a  noble  use  of 
riches  to  devote  them  to  repair  the  ravages  that  time  has 
wrought  on  our  old  historical  families." 


230  MODESTE  MIGNON 

"Yes,  papa,"  said  the  ^irl  j^ravely. 

The  Colonol  asked  the  Duke  and  Canalis  to  dine  at  the 
villa,  without  ceremony,  in  their  riding  dress,  and  set  them 
the  example  by  not  changing  his  for  dinner.  When,  on  their 
return,  !Modeste  went  to  change  her  dress,  she  looked  curiously 
at  the  trinket  that  had  come  from  Paris,  and  that  she  had  so 
cruelly  disdained. 

"How  exquisitely  such  work  is  done  nowadays,"  said  she 
to  Fran^oise  Cochet,  who  was  now  her  maid. 

"And  that  poor  young  gentleman,  mademoiselle,  ill  of  a 
fever " 

"Who  told  you  so  ?" 

"Monsieur  Butscha.  He  came  here  Just  now  to  bid  me  say 
you  had  no  doubt  found  out  that  he  had  kept  his  word  on  the 
day  he  named." 

Modeste  went  downstairs,  dressed  with  queenly  simplicity. 

"My  dear  father,"  said  she,  quite  audibly,  taking  the 
Colonel's  arm,  "will  you  go  and  ask  after  Monsieur  de  la 
Briere,  and  oblige  me  by  taking  back  his  present.  You  may 
put  it  to  him  that  my  small  fortune,  as  well  as  my  own  taste, 
prohibits  my  using  such  toys  as  are  fit  only  for  a  queen  or  a 
courtesan.  Besides,  I  can  only  accept  presents  from  the  man 
I  may  hope  to  marry.  Beg  our  excellent  young  friend  to  keep 
the  whip  till  you  find  yourself  rich  enough  to  buy  it  of  him." 

"Then  my  little  girl  is  full  of  good  sense !"  said  the  Colonel, 
kissing  her  on  the  forehead. 

•  Canalis  took  advantage  of  a  conversation  between  the  Due 
d'Herouville  and  Madame  ^lignon  to  go  out  on  the  terrace, 
where  Modeste  presently  joined  him,  urged  by  curiosity,  while 
he  believed  it  was  by  her  desire  to  become  Madame  Canalis. 
Somewhat  alarmed  at  his  own  audacity  in  thus  executing  what 
a  soldier  would  call  "right  about  face,"  though,  according  to 
the  jurisprudence  of  ambitious  souls,  every  man  in  his  place 
would  have  done  the  same,  and  just  as  suddenly,  he  tried  to 
find  some  plausible  reasons  as  he  saw  the  ill-starred  Modeste 
come  out  to  him. 

"Dear  Modeste,"  said  he,  in  insinuating  tones,  "as  we  are 


MODESTE  MIGNON  231 

on  such  terms  of  friendship,  will  you  be  offended  if  I  point 
out  to  you  hoAv  painful  your  replies  with  regard  to  Monsieur 
d'Herouville  must  be  to  a  man  who  loves  you,  and,  above  all, 
to  a  poet,  whose  soul  is  a  woman,  is  all  nerves,  and  suffering 
from  the  myriad  jealousies  of  a  genuine  passion.  I  should  be 
a  poor  diplomate  indeed  if  I  had  not  understood  that  your 
preliminary  flirtations,  your  elaborate  recklessness,  were  the 
outcome  of  a  plan  to  study  our  characters " 

Modeste  raised  her  head  with  a  quick,  intelligent,  and 
pretty  movement,  of  a  type  that  may  perhaps  be  traced  to 
certain  animals  to  which  instinct  gives  wonderful  grace. 

"And  so,  thrown  back  on  myself,  I  was  no  longer  deceived 
by  them.  I  marveled  at  your  subtle  wit,  in  harmony  with 
your  character  and  your  countenance.  Be  satisfied  that  I 
never  imagined  your  assumed  duplicity  to  be  anything  but  an 
outer  wrapper,  covering  the  most  adorable  candor,  '^o,  your 
intelligence,  your  learning,  have  left  untainted  the  exquisite 
innocence  we  look  for  in  a  wife.  You  are  the  very  wife  for  a 
poet,  a  diplomatist,  a  thinker,  a  man  fated  to  live  through 
hazardous  moments,  and  I  admire  you  as  much  as  I  feel  at- 
tached to  you.  I  entreat  you,  unless  you  were  merely  playing 
with  me  yesterday  when  you  accepted  the  pledges  of  a  man 
whose  vanity  will  turn  to  pride  if  he  is  chosen  by  you,  whose 
faults  will  turn  to  virtues  at  your  divine  touch — I  beseech 
you,  do  not  crush  the  feeling  he  has  indulged  till  it  is  a  vice ! 

"Jealousy  in  me  is  a  solvent,  and  you  have  shown  me  what 
its  violence  is ;  it  is  fearful ;  it  eats  into  everything !  Oh !  it 
is  not  the  jealousy  of  Othello !"  said  he,  in  reply  to  a  move- 
ment on  Modeste's  part.  "ISTo,  no  !  I  myself  am  in  question ; 
I  am  spoilt  in  this  regard.  You  know  of  the  one  affection  to 
which  I  owe  the  only  form  of  happiness  I  have  ever  known — 
and  that  very  incomplete  (he  shook  his  head). 

"Love  is  depicted  as  a  child  by  every  nation,  because  it  can- 
not be  conceived  of  but  as  having  all  life  before  it.  Well,  this 
love  of  mine  had  its  term  fixed  by  nature;  it  was  still-born. 
The  most  intuitive  motherliness  discerned  and  soothed  this 
aching  spot  in  my  heart,  for  a  woman  who  feels — who  sees — 


232  MODESTE  MIGNON 

tliat  she  is  dying  to  the  joys  of  love,  has  angelic  consideration; 
the  duchess  has  never  given  me  a  pang  of  that  kind.  In  ten 
years  not  a  word,  not  a  look,  has  failed  of  its  mark.  I  attach 
more  importance  than  ordinary  people  do  to  words,  thoughts, 
and  looks.  To  mc  a  glance  is  an  infinite  possession,  the  slight- 
est doubt  is  a  mortal  poison,  and  acts  instantaneously :  I  cease 
to  love.  In  my  opinion — which  is  opposed  to  that  of  the 
vulgar,  who  revel  in  trembling,  hoping,  waiting — love  ought 
to  dwell  in  absolute  assurance,  childlike,  infinite.  To  me  the 
enchanting  purgatory  which  women  delight  in  inflicting  on  us 
with  their  caprices  is  an  intolerable  form  of  happiness  which 
I  will  have  nothing  to  say  to;  to  me,  love  is  heaven  or  hell. 
Hell  I  will  not  have ;  I  feel  that  I  am  strong  enough  to  en- 
dure the  sempiternal  blue  of  Paradise.  I  give  myself  unre- 
servedl}^  I  will  have  no  secrets,  no  doubts,  no  delusions,  in 
my  future  life,  and  I  ask  for  reciprocity.  Perhaps  I  offend 
you  by  doubting  you !  But,  remember,  I  am  speaking  only 
of  myself " 

"And  a  great  deal,"  said  Modeste,  hurt  by  all  the  lancet 
points  of  this  harangue,  in  which  the  Duchesse  de  Chaulieu 
was  used  as  a  sledge-hammer,  "but  it  can  never  be  too  much; 
I  have  a  habit  of  admiring  you,  my  dear  poet." 

"Well,  then,  can  you  promise  me  the  dog-like  fidelity  I 
offer  you  ?    Is  it  not  fine  ?    Is  it  not  what  you  wish  for  ?" 

"But  why,  my  dear  poet,  do  you  not  look  for  a  wife  who 
is  dumb  and  blind  and  something  of  a  fool  ?  I  am  quite  pre- 
pared to  please  my  husband  in  all  things;  but  you  threaten 
to  deprive  a  girl  of  the  very  happiness  you  promise  her,  to 
snatch  it  from  her  at  the  slightest  movement,  the  slightest 
word,  the  slightest  look !  You  cut  the  bird's  wings  and  want 
to  see  it  fly  !  I  knew  that  poets  were  accused  of  inconsistency 
— Oh !  quite  unjustly,"  she  added,  as  Canalis  protested  by  a 
gesture,  "for  the  supposed  fault  is  merely  the  result  of  a 
vulgar  misapprehension  of  the  suddenness  of  their  impulses. 
Still,  I  had  not  thought  that  a  man  of  genius  would  devise 
the  contradictory  conditions  of  such  a  game,  and  then  call  it 
life !    You  insist  on  impossibilities  just  to  have  the  pleasure 


MODESTE  MIGNON  233 

of  putting  me  in  the  wrong,  like  those  enchanters  who  in 
fairy  tales  set  tasks  to  persecuted  damsels  whom  good  fairies 
rescue " 

"In  this  ease  true  love  will  be  the  fairy,"  said  Canalis, 
rather  drily,  seeing  that  his  motive  for  a  separation  had  been 
detected  by  the  acute  and  delicate  intelligence  which  Butscha 
had  put  on  the  scent. 

"You,  at  this  moment,  my  dear  poet,  are  like  those  parents 
who  inquire  as  to  a  girl's  fortune  before  mentioning  what 
their  son's  will  be.  You  make  difficulties  with  me,  not  know- 
ing whether  you  have  any  right  to  do  so.  Love  cannot  be 
based  on  agreements  discussed  in  cold  blood.  The  poor  Duke 
allows  himself  to  be  managed  with  all  the  submissiveness  of 
Uncle  Toby  in  Sterne's  novel,  with  this  difference,  that  I  am 
not  the  widow  Wadman,  though  bereaved  at  this  moment  of 
many  illusions  concerning  poetry. — Yes !  we  hate  to  believe 
anything,  we  girls,  that  can  overthrow  our  world  of  fancy ! — 
I  had  been  told  all  this  beforehand ! — Oh !  you  are  trying  to 
quarrel  with  me  in  a  way  unworthy  of  you !  I  cannot  recog- 
nize the  Melchior  of  yesterday," 

"Because  Melchior  has  detected  in  you  an  ambition  you 
still  cherish " 

Modesto  looked  at  Canalis  from  head  to  foot  with  an  im- 
perial glance. 

"But  I  shall  some  day  be  an  ambassador  and  a  peer  as  he 
is " 

'^ou  take  me  for  a  vulgar  schoolgirl !"  she  said,  as  she 
went  up  the  steps.  But  she  turned  hastily,  and  added  in  some 
confusion,  for  she  felt  suffocating : 

"That  is  less  insolent  than  taking  me  for  a  fool.  The 
change  in  your  demeanor  is  due  to  the  nonsense  current  in  le 
Havre,  which  Frangoise,  my  maid,  has  just  repeated  to  me.'' 

"Oh,  Modeste,  can  you  believe  that?"  cried  Canalis,  with 
theatrical  emphasis.  "Then  you  think  that  I  want  to  marry 
you  only  for  your  fortune !" 

"If  I  do  you  this  injustice  after  your  edifying  remarks  on 
the  hills  by  the  Seine,  it  lies  with  you  to  undeceive  me,  and 


284  MODESTR  MIGNON 

thenceforth  I  will  be  what  you  would  wish  me  to  be,"  said  she, 
blighting  him  with  her  scorn. 

"If  you  think  you  can  catch  me  in  that  trap,  my  lady,"  said 
the  poet  to  himself  as  he  followed  her,  "you  fancy  me  younger 
than  I  am.  What  an  ado,  to  be  sure,  for  a  little  slut  for 
whose  esteem  I  care  no  more  than  for  that  of  the  King  of 
Borneo.  However,  by  ascribing  to  me  an  ignoble  motive  she 
justifies  my  present  attitude.  Isn't  she  cunning? — La  Briere 
will  be  saddled,  like  the  little  fool  that  he  is;  and  five  years 
hence  we  shall  laugh  at  him  well,  she  and  I." 

The  coolness  produced  by  this  dispute  between  Modeste 
and  Canalis  was  obvious  to  all  eyes  that  evening.  Canalis 
withdrew  early,  on  the  pretext  of  la  Briere's  illness,  leaving 
the  field  free  to  the  Master  of  the  Horse.  At  about  eleven 
Butscha,  w^ho  had  come  to  escort  Madame  Latournelle  home, 
said  in  an  undertone  to  Modeste: 

"Was  I  right  ?" 

"Alas,  yes  !"  said  she. 

"But  have  you  done  as  we  agreed,  and  left  the  door  ajar 
so  that  he  may  return  ?" 

"My  anger  was  too  much  for  me,"  replied  Modeste.  "Such 
meanness  brought  the  blood  to  my  head,  and  I  told  him  my 
mind." 

"Well,  so  much  the  better !  When  you  have  quarreled  so 
that  you  cannot  speak  civilly  to  each  other,  even  then  I  under- 
take to  make  him  so  devoted  and  pressing  that  you  j'ourself 
are  taken  in  by  him." 

"Come,  come,  Butscha ;  he  is  a  great  poet,  a  gentleman, 
and  a  man  of  intellect." 

"Your  father's  eight  millions  will  be  more  than  all  that." 

"Eight  millions  I"  said  Modeste. 

"My  master,  who  is  selling  his  business,  is  setting  out  for 
Provence  to  look  into  Castagnould's  investments  as  your 
father's  agent.  The  sum-total  of  the  contracts  for  repurchas- 
ing the  lands  of  la  Bastie  amounts  to  four  millions  of  francs, 
and  3'our  father  has  consented  to  every  item.  Your  settlement 
is  to  be  two  millions,  and  the  Colonel  allow^s  one  for  establish- 
ing you  in  Paris  with  a  house  and  furniture.    Calculate." 


MODESTE  MIGNON  235 

"Ah,  then  I  may  be  Duehesse  d'Herouville,"  said  Modeste, 
looking  at  Butscha. 

"But  for  that  ridiculous  Canalis,  you  would  have  kept  his 
whip,  as  sent  by  me,"  said  Butscha,  putting  in  a  word  for  la 
Briere. 

"Monsieur  Butscha,  do  you  really  expect  me  to  marry  the 
man  you  may  choose  ?"  said  Modeste,  laughing. 

"That  worthy  young  fellow  loves  as  truly  as  I  do;  you 
loved  him  yourself  for  a  week,  and  he  is  a  man  of  genuine 
heart,"  replied  the  clerk. 

"And  can  he  compete  with  a  Crown  appointment,  do  you 
think?  There  are  but  six — the  High  Almoner,  the  Chan- 
cellor, the  Lord  Chamberlain,  the  Master  of  the  Horse,  the 
High  Constable,  the  High  Admiral. — But  there  are  no  more 
Lords  High  Constable." 

"But  in  six  months,  mademoiselle,  the  people,  composed  of 
an  infinite  number  of  malignant  Butschas,  may  blow  upon  all 
this  grandeur.  Besides,  what  does  nobility  matter  in  these 
days?  There  are  not  a  thousand  real  noblemen  in  France. 
The  d'Herouvilles  are  descended  from  an  Usher  of  the  Eod 
under  Robert  of  Normandy.  You  will  have  many  a  vexation 
from  those  two  knife-faced  old  maids. — If  you  are  bent  on 
being  a  Duchess — well,  you  belong  to  Franche  Comte,  the 
Pope  will  have  at  least  as  much  consideration  for  you  as  for 
the  tradespeople,  he  will  sell  you  a  duchy  ending  in  nia  or 
agno. — Do  not  trifle  with  your  happiness  for  the  sake  of  a 
Crown  appointment !" 

The  reflections  indulged  in  by  Canalis  during  the  night 
were  all  satisfactory.  He  could  imagine  nothing  in  the  world 
worse  than  the  situation  of  a  married  man  without  a  fortune. 
Still  tremulous  at  the  thought  of  the  danger  he  had  been  led 
into  by  his  vanity,  which  he  had  pledged,  as  it  were,  to 
Modeste  by  his  desire  to  triumph  over  the  Due  d'Herouville, 
and  by  his  belief  in  Monsieur  Mignon's  millions,  he  began  to 
wonder  what  the  Duehesse  de  Chaulieu  must  be  thinking  of 
bis  stay  at  le  Havre,  aggravated  by  five  days'  cessation  from 


236  MODESTE  MKINON 

k'tter-writiug,  whereas  in  Paris  they  wrote  each  other  four  or 
five  notes  a  week. 

"And  the  poor  woman  is  struggling  to  get  me  promoted 
to  be  Commander  of  the  Legion  of  Honor,  and  to  the  place 
of  Minister  to  the  Grand  Duchy  of  Baden !"  cried  he. 

Forthwith,  with  the  prompt  decisiveness  which  in  poets, 
as  in  speculators,  is  the  result  of  a  clear  intuition  of  the 
future,  he  sat  down  and  wrote  the  following  letter : — 

To  Madame  la  Duchesse  de  ChauUeu. 

"My  dear  fiLfoNORE^ — You  are  no  doubt  astonished  at 
having  had  no  news  of  me,  but  my  stay  here  is  not  merely  a 
matter  of  health;  I  also  have  had  to  do  my  duty  in  some 
degree  to  our  little  friend  la  Briere.  The  poor  boy  has  fallen 
desperately  in  love  with  a  certain  Demoiselle  Modeste  de  la 
Bastie,  a  little  pale-faced,  insignificant  thread-paper  of  a 
girl,  who,  by  the  way,  has  as  a  vice  a  mania  for  literature, 
and  calls  lierself  poetical  to  justify  the  whims,  the  tantrums, 
and  changes  of  a  pretty  bad  temper.  You  know  Ernest,  he  is 
so  easily  made  a  fool  of,  that  I  would  not  trust  him  alone. 
Mademoiselle  de  la  Bastie  set  up  a  strange  flirtation  with  your 
Melchior ;  she  was  very  well  inclined  to  be  your  rival,  though 
she  has  lean  arms  and  scraggy  shoulders,  like  most  young 
girls,  hair  more  colorless  than  Madame  de  Rochefide's,  and  a 
very  doubtful  expression  in  her  little  gray  eye.  I  pulled  up 
this  Imraodeste's  advances  pretty  short — perhaps  rather  too 
roughly;  but  that  is  the  way  of  an  absorbing  passion.  What 
do  I  care  for  all  the  women  on  earth,  who,  all  put  together, 
are  not  w^orth  you  ? 

"The  people  with  whom  we  spend  our  time,  who  surround 
this  heiress,  are  bourgeois  enough  to  make  one  sick.  Pity 
me;  I  spend  my  evenings  with  notaries'  clerks,  their  wives, 
their  cashiers,  and  a  provincial  money-lender;  wide  indeed 
is  the  gulf  between  this  and  the  evenings  in  the  Eue  de 
Grenelle.  The  father's  trumped-up  fortune — he  has  just 
come  home  from  China — has  secured  us  the  company  of  that 


MODESTE  MIGNON  237 

omnipresent  suitor  the  Master  of  the  Horse,  hungrier  for 
millions  than  ever,  since  it  will  cost  six  or  seven,  they  say, 
to  reclaim  and  work  the  much-talked-of  alluvion  of  Herou- 
ville.  The  King  has  no  idea  what  a  fatal  gift  he  has  made 
to  the  little  Duke.  His  Grace,  who  does  not  suspect  how  small 
a  fortune  his  hoped-for  father-in-law  possesses,  is  jealous  only 
of  me.  La  Briere  is  making  his  way  with  his  idol  under  cover 
of  his  friend,  who  serves  as  a  screen. 

"In  spite  of  Ernest's  raptures,  I,  the  poet,  think  of  the 
substantial;  and  the  information  I  have  gathered  as  to  the 
gentleman's  wealth  casts  a  gloomy  hue  over  our  secretary's 
prospects,  for  his  lady-love  has  sharp  enough  teeth  to  eat  a 
hole  in  any  fortune.  Now,  if  my  angel  would  redeem  some 
of  our  sins,  she  would  try  to  find  out  the  truth  about  this 
matter,  by  sending  for  her  banker,  Mongenod,  and  cross- 
questioning  him  with  the  skill  that  distinguishes  her.  Mon- 
sieur Charles  Mignon,  formerly  a  Colonel  in  the  Cavalry  of 
the  Imperial  Guard,  has  for  seven  years  been  in  constant  com- 
munication with  Mongenod's  house.  They  talk  here  of  two 
hundred  thousand  francs  in  settlement  at  most;  and  before 
making  an  offer  in  form  for  the  young  lady  on  Ernest's  be- 
half, I  should  be  glad  to  have  positive  data.  As  soon  as  the 
good  folks  are  agreed,  I  return  to  Paris.  I  know  a  way  of 
bringing  the  business  to  a  satisfactory  conclusion  for  our 
lover.  All  that  is  needed  is  to  secure  permission  for  Monsieur 
Mignon's  son-in-law  to  take  his  title  of  Count,  and  no  man  is 
more  likely  to  obtain  such  a  grant  than  Ernest,  in  view  of  his 
services,  especially  when  seconded  by  us  three — ^you,  the  Duke, 
and  myself.  With  his  tastes,  Ernest,  who  will  undoubtedly 
rise  to  be  a  Master  of  the  Exchequer,  will  be  perfectly  happy 
living  in  Paris  if  he  is  certain  of  twenty-five  thousand  francs 
a  year,  a  permanent  office,  and  a  wife — poor  wretch ! 

"Oh,  my  dear !  how  I  long  to  see  the  Kue  de  Grenelle  again  ! 
A  fortnight's  absence,  when  it  does  not  kill  love,  revives  the 
ardor  of  its  early  days,  and  you  know,  better  perhaps  than  I, 
all  the  reasons  that  make  my  love  eternal.  My  bones  in  the 
tomb  will  love  you  still !   Indeed,  I  cannot  hold  out !   If  I  am 


238  MODESTE  MICNON 

compelled  to  reniiiin  ten  days  longer,  I  must  go  to  Paris  for 
a  few  hours. 

"Has  the  Duke  got  nic  rope  to  hang  myself  ?  And  you,  dear 
life,  shall  you  have  to  take  the  Baden  waters  this  season  ?  The 
cooing  of  your  beau  tcnebreux,  as  compared  with  the  accents  of 
happy  love — always  the  same,  and  true  to  itself  for  nearly  ten 
years  past — has  given  me  a  deep  contempt  of  marriage ;  I  had 
never  seen  ail  this  so  close  to  my  eyes  hefore.  Ah !  my  dear, 
what  is  called  wrongdoing  is  a  far  closer  tie  between  two  souls 
than  the  law — is  it  not?" 

This  idea  served  as  the  text  for  two  pages  of  reminiscences 
and  of  aspirations  of  too  private  a  nature  for  publication. 

On  the  day  before  Canalis  posted  this  letter,  Butscha,  who 
wrote  under  the  name  of  Jean  Jacmin  to  his  imaginary  cousin 
Philoxene,  had  sent  off  his  answer  twelve  hours  in  advance 
of  the  poet's  letter.  The  Duchess,  for  the  last  fortnight  ex- 
tremely alarmed  and  offended  by  Melehior's  silence,  had  dic- 
tated Philoxene's  letter  to  her  cousin ;  and  now,  after  reading 
the  clerk's  reply — somewhat  too  decisive  for  the  vanity  of  a 
lady  of  fifty — had  made  minute  inquiries  as  to  Colonel 
Mignon's  fortune.  Finding  herself  betrayed,  deserted  for 
money,  fileonore  gave  herself  up  to  a  paroxysm  of  rage, 
hatred,  and  cold  malignancy.  Philoxene,  knocking  at  the 
door  of  her  mistress'  luxurious  room,  on  going  in,  found  her 
with  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  stood  amazed  at  this  unprece- 
dented phenomenon,  which  she  had  never  before  seen  during 
fifteen  years  of  service. 

*^Ve  expiate  the  happiness  of  ten  years  in  ten  minutes  \" 
exclaimed  the  Duchess. 

"A  letter  from  le  Havre,  madame." 

fileonore  read  Canalis'  effusion  of  prose  without  observing 
Philoxene's  presence,  and  the  maid's  surprise  was  heightened 
as  she  saw  the  Duchess'  face  recover  its  serenity  as  she  read 
the  letter.  If  3'ou  hold  out  to  a  drowning  man  a  pole  as  thick 
as  a  walking  stick,  he  will  regard  it  as  the  king's  highway  1x) 
safety ;  and  so  the  happy  ;fileonore  believed  in  the  poet's  good 
faith  as  she  perused  these  sheets  in  which  love  and  business, 
lies  and  truth,  elbowed  each  other. 


MODESTE  MIGNON  239 

Just  now,  when  the  banker  had  left  her,  she  had  sent  for 
her  husband  to  hinder  Melchior's  promotion  if  there  were 
time  yet ;  but  a  generous  regret  came  over  her  that  rose  to  a 
sublime  impulse. 

"Poor  boy !"  thought  she,  "he  has  not  the  smallest  thought 
of  ill.  He  loves  me  as  he  did  the  first  day ;  he  tells  me  every- 
thing.— Philoxene !"  said  she,  noticing  her  head  maid  loiter- 
ing about,  and  affecting  to  arrange  the  toilet-table. 

"Madame  la  Duchesse  ?" 

"My  hand-glass,  child." 

fileonore  looked  at  herself,  noted  the  razor-fine  lines  groov- 
ing her  forehead,  but  invisible  at  a  distance;  and  she  sighed, 
for  she  believed  that  in  that  sigh  she  was  taking  leave  of  love. 
Then  she  had  a  man's  thought,  above  the  pettiness  of  woman 
— a  thought  which  is  sometimes  intoxicating;  an  intoxication 
which  may  perhaps  account  for  the  clemency  of  the  Semiramis 
of  the  North  when  she  made  her  young  and  lovely  rival 
Momonoff's  wife. 

"Since  he  has  not  failed  me,  I  will  get  the  millions  and  the 
girl  for  him,"  thought  she,  "if  this  little  Mademoiselle  Mignon 
is  as  plain  as  he  says  she  is." 

Three  knocks,  delicately  rapped  out,  announced  the  Duke, 
for  whom  his  wife  herself  opened  the  door. 

"Ah !  you  are  better,  my  dear,"  cried  he,  with  the  assumed 
gladness  that  courtiers  so  well  know  how  to  put  on,  and  by 
whicli  simpletons  are  taken  in. 

"My  dear  Henri,"  said  she,  "it  is  really  inconceivable  that 
you  should  not  by  this  time  have  secured  Melchior's  appoint- 
ment, after  sacrificing  yourself  for  the  King  during  your 
year's  ministry,  knowing  that  it  would  scarcely  endure  so 
long !" 

The  Duke  glanced  at  Philoxene;  and  the  maid,  by  an  al- 
most imperceptible  jerk  of  the  head,  showed  him  the  letter 
from  le  Havre  on  the  dressing-table.  "You  would  be  bored 
to  death  in  Germany,  and  quarrel  with  Melchior  before  your 
return,"  said  the  Duke  artlessly. 

'Why?" 

VOL.  6 — 41 


240  MODESTE  MIGNON 

"Well,  would  you  not  always  be  together?"  replied  the 
erewhile  Ambassador  with  comical  candor. 

"Oh !  no,"  said  she ;  "I  mean  to  get  him  married." 

"If  d'Herouville  is  to  be  believed,  our  dear  Canalis  has  not 
waited  for  your  good  offices,"  replied  the  Duke,  smiling. 
"Grandlieu  yesterday  read  me  some  passages  of  a  letter  to 
him  from  the  Master  of  the  Horse,  which  was  no  doubt  edited 
by  his  aunt  to  come  to  your  ears;  for  Mademoiselle  d'Herou- 
ville, always  on  the  lookout  for  a  fortune,  knows  that  Grand- 
lieu  and  I  play  whist  together  almost  every  evening.  That 
good,  little  d'Herouville  invites  the  Prince  de  Cadignan  to  a 
Royal  Hunt  in  Normandy,  begging  him  to  persuade  the  Xing 
to  go,  so  as  to  turn  the  damsel's  head  when  she  finds  herself 
the  object  of  such  a  chivalrous  procession.  In  fact,  two  words 
from  Charles  X.  would  settle  everything.  D'Herouville  says 
the  girl  is  incomparably  lovely." 

"Henri,  let  us  go  to  le  Havre !"  cried  the  Duchess,  inter- 
rupting her  husband. 

"But  on  what  excuse  ?"  said  he  gravely — a  man  who  had 
been  in  the  intimate  confidence  of  Louis  XVIII. 

"I  never  saw  a  hunt." 

"That  would  be  all  very  well  if  the  King  should  be  there, 
but  to  go  so  far  for  a  hunt  would  be  ridiculous;  and  he  will 
not  go,  I  have  just  spoken  to  him  about  it." 

"Madame  perhaps  would  go " 

"That  is  a  better  plan,"  said  the  Duke ;  "and  the  Duchesse 
de  Maufrigneuse  may  help  you  to  get  her  away  from  Rosny. 
Then  the  King  would  make  no  objection  to  his  hounds  being 
taken  out. — But  do  not  go  to  le  Havre,  my  dear,"  said  the 
Duke,  in  a  paternal  tone;  "it  would  make  3^ou  conspicuous. 
Look  here;  this,  I  think,  will  be  a  better  plan.  Gaspard  has 
his  Chateau  of  Rosembray  on  the  further  side  of  the  forest 
of  Brotonne ;  why  not  give  him  a  hint  to  receive  all  the  party 
there?"  , 

"Through  whom  ?" 

*^hy,  his  wife  the  Duchess,  who  attends  the  Holy  Table 
with  Mademoiselle  d'Herouville,  might  ask  Gaspard  to  do  it 
if  the  old  maid  hinted  it  to  her.*' 


MODESTE  MIGNON  241 

"You  are  the  dearest  man !"  said  fileonore.  "I  will  write 
two  lines  to  the  old  lady,  and  to  Diane;  for  we  must  have 
hunting-suits  made.  The  little  hat,  now  I  think  of  it,  makes 
one  look  very  much  younger. — Did  you  win  yesterday  at  the 
English  Embassy?'^ 

"Yes,"  said  the  Duke ;  "I  wiped  out  my  score." 

"And,  above  all,  Henri,  set  everything  aside  till  Melchior's 
two  promotions  are  settled." 

x\fter  writing  a  few  lines  to  the  fair  Diane de  Maufrigneuse, 
and  a  note  to  Mademoiselle  d'Herouville,  fileonore  flung  this 
reply  like  the  smack  of  a  horse-whip  across  Canalis'  lies : — 

To  Mo7isieur  le  Baron  de  Canalis. 

"My  dear  Poet^ — Mademoiselle  de  la  Bastie  is  beautiful; 
Mongenod  assures  me  her  father  has  eight  millions  of  francs; 
I  had  thought  of  making  her  your  wife,  so  I  am  deeply  an- 
noyed by  your  want  of  confidence  in  me.  If  before  you 
started  for  le  Havre,  you  aimed  at  getting  la  Briere  married 
to  her,  I  cannot  imagine  your  not  telling  me  so  plainly  before 
you  went.  And  why  pass  a  fortnight  without  writing  a  line 
to  a  friend  so  easily  alarmed  as  I  am  ? 

"Your  letter  came  a  little  late;  I  had  already  seen  the 
banker.  You  are  a  child,  Melchior;  you  try  to  be  cunning 
with  us.  That  is  not  right.  Even  the  Duke  is  amazed  at  your 
behavior ;  he  thinks  you  not  quite  gentlemanly — which  casts  a 
doubt  on  the  virtue  of  your  lady  mother. 

"Now,  I  want  to  see  things  for  myself.  I  shall,  I  believe, 
have  the  honor  of  attending  Madame  to  the  hunt  arranged 
by  the  Due  d'Herouville  for  Mademoiselle  de  la  Bastie.  I 
will  contrive  that  you  shall  be  invited  to  stay  at  Rosembray, 
as  the  hunt  will  probably  take  place  at  the  Due  de  Verneuil's. 

"Believe  me,  none  the  less,  my  dear  poet,  your  friend  for 
life,  £l:^onore." 

"There,  Ernest,"  said  Canalis,  tossing  this  letter,  which 
arrived  at  breakfast  time,  across  the  table  in  la  Briere's  face. 


I 


242  MODESTE  MIGNON 

"That  is  the  two  thousandth  love-letter  I  have  received  from 
tliat  womau,  and  there  is  not  one  single  tu.  The  noble  fileo- 
norc  never  compromised  herself  further  than  what  you  find 
there. — Get  married,  and  make  haste  about  it!  The  worst 
marriage  in  the  world  is  more  tolerable  than  the  lightest  of 
these  halters. — Well,  I  am  the  veriest  Nicodemus  that  ever 
dropped  from  the  moon.  Modeste  has  millions;  she  is  lost 
to  me  for  ever;  for  no  one  ever  comes  back  from  the  poles, 
where  we  now  are,  to  the  tropics,  where  we  dwelt  three  days 
ago !  Besides,  I  have  all  the  more  reason  to  wish  for  your 
triumph  over  the  little  Duke,  because  I  told  the  Duchesse  de 
Chaulieu  that  I  came  here  only  for  your  sake ;  so  now  I  shall 
work  for  you." 

"Alas !  Melchior,  Modeste  must  need  have  so  superior,  so 
mature  a  character,  and  such  a  noble  mind,  to  resist  the  spec- 
tacle of  the  Court,  and  all  the  splendor  so  skilfully  displayed 
in  her  honor  and  glory  by  the  Duke,  that  I  cannot  believe  in 
the  existence  of  such  perfection;  and  yet — if  she  is  still  the 
Modeste  of  her  letters,  there  may  be  a  hope " 

"You  are  a  happy  fellow,  young  Boniface,  to  see  the  world 
and  your  lady-love  through  such  green  spectacles !"  exclaimed 
Canalis,  going  out  to  walk  in  the  garden. 

The  poet,  caught  between  two  falsehoods,  could  not  make 
up  his  mind  what  to  do  next. 

"Play  the  game  by  the  rules,  and  you  lose !"  cried  he,  as 
he  sat  in  the  summer-house.  "'Every  man  of  sense  would  un- 
doubtedly have  acted  as  I  did  four  days  ago,  and  have  crept 
out  of  the  trap  in  which  I  found  myself.  For  in  such  a  case 
you  don't  wait  to  untie  the  knots ;  you  break  through  every- 
thing ! — Come,  I  must  be  cold,  calm,  dignified,  hurt.  Honor 
will  not  allow  of  any  other  demeanor.  English  rigidity  is  the 
only  way  to  recover  Modeste's  respect.  After  all,  if  I  only  get 
out  of  the  scrape  by  falling  back  on  my  old  felicity,  my  ten 
years'  fidelity  will  be  rewarded,  fileonore  will  find  me  a 
suitable  match." 

The  hunt  was  destined  to  be  the  rallying  point  of  all  the 


MODESTE  MIGNON  243 

passions  brought  into  play  by  the  Colonel's  fortune  and  his 
daughter's  beauty.  There  was  a  sort  of  truce  among  the  con- 
tending parties  during  the  few  days  needed  to  prepare  this 
solemn  act  of  forestry ;  the  drawing-room  in  the  Villa  Mignon 
had  the  peaceful  appearance  of  a  very  united  family  party. 
Canalis,  intrenched  in  his  part  of  a  much-injured  man,  made 
a  display  of  courtesy;  he  put  aside  his  pretentiousness,  gave 
no  more  specimens  of  oratorical  talent,  and  was  charming,  as 
clever  men  are  when  they  shed  their  aif  ectations.  He  discussed 
the  money-market  with  Gobenheim,  war  with  the  Colonel, 
Germany  with  Madame  Mignon,  and  housekeeping  with  ]\ra- 
dame  Latournelle,  trying  to  win  them  over  to  la  Briere.  The 
Due  d'Herouville  frequently  left  the  field  free  to  the  two 
friends,  as  he  was  obliged  to  go  to  Kosembray  to  consult  the 
Due  de  Verneuil  and  superintend  the  execution  of  the  orders 
issued  by  the  Master  of  the  Hounds,  the  Prince  de  Cadignan. 
Meanwhile,  the  comic  element  was  not  lacking.  Modeste 
found  herself  between  the  disparagement  Canalis  tried  to  cast 
on  the  Duke's  gallant  attentions,  and  the  exaggerated  views  of 
the  two  demoiselles  d'Herouville,  who  came  every  evening. 
Canalis  pointed  out  to  Modeste  that,  far  from  being  the 
heroine  of  the  day,  she  would  be  scarcely  noticed.  Madame 
would  be  attended  by  the  Duchesse  de  Maufrigneuse,  the 
daughter-in-law  of  the  Master  of  the  Hounds,  by  the  Duchesse 
de  Chaulieu,  and  some  other  ladies  of  the  Court,  and  among 
them  a  mere  girl  would  produce  no  sensation.  Some 
officers  would,  no  doubt,  be  invited  from  the  garrison  at 
Eouen,  etc.  Helene  was  never  tired  of  repeating  to  the  girl, 
whom  she  looked  upon  as  her  sister-in-law,  that  she  would,  of 
course,  be  presented  to  Madame;  that  the  Due  de  Verneuil 
would  certainly  invite  her  and  her  father  to  stay  at  Eosem- 
bray ;  that  if  the  Colonel  had  any  favor  to  ask  of  the  King — 
such  as  a  peerage — this  would  be  an  unique  opportunity,  for 
they  did  not  despair  of  getting  the  King  there  on  the  third 
day;  that  she  would  be  surprised  at  the  charming  reception 
she  would  meet  with  from  the  handsomest  women  of  the 
Court,  the  Duchesses  de  Chaulieu,  de  Maufrigneuse,  de  Lenon- 


244  MODESTE  MIGNON 

court-Chaiilieu,  etc. ;  Modeste's  prejudices  against  the  Fau- 
bourg Saint-Germain  would  disappear — and  so  forth,  and 
so  forth.  It  was  a  most  amusing  little  warfare,  with  its 
marches  and  counter-marches  and  strategy,  which  the  Du- 
niays,  the  Latournellc.-;,  Gobcnlieim  and  Butscha  looked  on  at, 
and  enjoyed,  saying  among  themselves  all  manner  of  hard 
things  about  the  nobility,  as  they  watched  their  elaborate, 
cruel,  and  studied  meanness. 

The  assurances  of  the  d'Herouville  faction  were  justified 
by  an  invitation,  in  the  most  flattering  terms,  from  the  Due 
de  A^erneuil  and  the  Master  of  the  King's  Hounds  to  Monsieur 
le  Comte  de  la  Bastie  and  his  daughter  to  be  present  at  a 
Eoyal  Hunt  at  Eosembray  on  the  7th,  8th,  9th,  and  10th  of 
November. 

La  Briere,  oppressed  by  gloomy  presentiments,  reveled  in 
Modeste's  presence  in  that  spirit  of  concentrated  avidity  whose 
bitter  joys  arc  known  only  to  lovers  irrevocably  and  for  ever 
discarded.  The  flashes  of  happiness  in  his  inmost  self,  min- 
gled with  melancholy  reflections  on  the  same  theme,  "She 
is  lost  to  me !"  made  the  poor  youth  a  pathetic  spectacle,  all 
the  more  touching  because  his  countenance  and  person  were  in 
harmony  with  this  depth  of  feeling.  There  is  nothing  more 
poetical  than  such  a  living  elegy  that  has  eyes,  that  walks, 
and  sighs  without  rhyming. 

Finally,  the  Due  d'Herouville  came  to  arrange  for  Mo- 
deste's journey.  After  crossing  the  Seine,  she  was  to  proceed 
in  the  Duke's  traveling  carriage  with  his  aunt  and  sister.  The 
Duke  was  perfect  in  his  courtesy;  he  invited  Canalis  and  la 
Briere,  telling  them,  as  he  told  Monsieur  Mignon,  that  they 
would  find  hunters  at  their  service. 

The  Colonel  asked  his  daughter's  three  lovers  to  breakfast 
on  the  day  of  the  departure.  Then  Canalis  tried  to  execute  a 
scheme  that  had  ripened  in  his  mind  during  the  last  few 
days — namely,  to  reconquer  Modeste,  and  to  trick  the  Duchess, 
the  Master  of  the  Horse,  and  la  Briere.  A  graduate  in  di- 
plomacy could  not  remain  bogged  in  such  a  position  as  that 
in  which  he  found  himself.    La  Briere,  on  his  part,  had  made 


MODESTE  MIGNON  245 

up  his  mind  to  bid  Modeste  an  eternal  farewell.  Thus  each 
suitor,  as  he  foresaw  the  conclusion  of  a  struggle  that  had 
been  going  on  for  three  weeks,  proposed  to  put  in  a  last  word, 
like  a  pleader  to  the  judge  before  sentence  is  pronounced. 

After  dinner  the  day  before,  the  Colonel  took  his  daughter 
by  the  arm  and  impressed  on  her  the  necessity  for  coming  to 
a  decision. 

"Our  position  with  the  d'Herouville  family  would  be  in- 
tolerable at  Eosembray.  Do  you  want  to  be  a  duchess?"  he 
asked  Modeste. 

"No,  father/'  she  replied. 

"Then  do  you  really  love  Canalis ?" 

"Certainly  not,  papa ;  a  thousand  times,  no !"  said  she,  with 
childish  irritability. 

The  Colonel  looked  at  her  with  a  sort  of  glee. 

"Ah !  I  have  not  influenced  you,"  cried  the  kind  father. 
"But  I  may  tell  3fou  now  that  even  in  Paris  I  had  chosen  my 
son-in-law  when,  on  my  impressing  on  him  that  I  had  no  for- 
tune, he  threw  his  arms  round  me,  saying  that  I  had  lifted  a 
hundredweight  from  his  heart." 

"Of  whom  are  you  speaking?"  asked  Modeste,  coloring. 

"Of  the  man  of  solid  virtues  and  sound  morals,"  said  he, 
mockingly  repeating  the  phrase  which,  on  the  day  after  his 
return,  had  scattered  Modeste's  dreams. 

"Oh,  I  am  not  thinking  of  him,  papa !  Leave  me  free  to 
refuse  the  Duke  myself;  I  know  him,  I  know  how  to  soothe 
him " 

"Then  your  choice  is  not  made  ?" 

"Not  yet.  I  still  have  to  guess  a  few  syllables  in  the  riddle 
of  my  future;  but  after  having  had  a  glimpse  of  the  Court, 
I  will  tell  you  all  my  secret  at  Rosembray." 

"You  will  join  the  hunt,  will  you  not?"  said  the  Colonel 
to  Ernest,  whom  he  saw  coming  down  the  path  where  he  was 
walking  with  Modeste. 

"No,  Colonel,"  replied  Ernest.  "I  have  come  to  take  leave 
of  you  and  of  mademoiselle.    I  am  going  back  to  Paris." 

"You  have  no  curiosity?"  said  Modeste,  interrupting  him, 
and  looking  at  +hc  bashful  youth. 


246  MODESTE  MIGNON 

"Nothing  is  needed  to  keep  me,"  said  he,  "but  the  expres- 
sion of  a  wish  I  hardly  hope  for." 

"If  that  is  all,  it  will  give  me  pleasure,  at  any  rate,"  said 
the  Colonel,  as  he  went  forward  to  meet  Canalis,  leaving  his 
daughter  alone  for  a  moment  with  the  hapless  Ernest. 

"Mademoiselle,"  said  the  young  man,  looking  up  at  her  with 
the  courage  of  despair;  "I  have  a  petition  to  make." 

"To  me?" 

"Let  me  depart  forgiven!  My  life  can  never  be  happy; 
I  must  endure  the  remorse  of  having  lost  my  happiness,  by 
my  own  fault  no  doubt ;  but  at  least " 

"Before  we  part  for  ever,''  replied  Modcste,  interrupting 
him  a  la  Canalis,  "I  want  to  know  one  thing  only;  and  though 
you  once  assumed  a  disguise,  I  do  not  think  that  you  will  now 
be  such  a  coward  as  to  deceive  me " 

At  the  word  "coward"  Ernest  turned  pale. 

"You  are  merciless  !"  he  exclaimed. 

"Will  you  be  frank  with  me  ?" 

"You  have  the  right  to  ask  me  such  a  humiliating  question," 
said  he,  in  a  voice  made  husky  by  the  \iolent  beating  of  his 
heart. 

"Well,  then,  did  you  read  my  letters  out  to  Monsieur  de 
Canalis  ?" 

"No,  mademoiselle;  and  though  I  gave  them  to  the  Colonel 
to  read,  it  was  only  to  justify  my  love,  by  showing  him  how 
my  affection  had  had  birth,  and  how  genuine  my  efforts  had 
been  to  cure  you  of  your  fancy." 

"But  what  put  this  ignoble  masquerading  into  your  head  ?" 
she  asked,  with  a  kind  of  impatience. 

La  Briere  related,  in  all  its  details,  the  scene  to  which 
Modeste's  first  letter  had  given  rise,  and  the  challenge  which 
had  resulted  from  Ernest's  high  opinion  in  favor  of  a  young 
lady  yearning  for  glory,  as  a  plant  strives  for  its  share  of  the 
sunshine. 

"Enough,"  said  Modeste,  concealing  her  agitation.  "If 
you  have  not  my  heart,  monsieur,  you  have  my  highest  es- 
teem." 


MODESTE  MIGNON  247 

This  simple  speech  made  la  Briere  quite  dizzy.  He  felt 
himself  totter,  and  leaned  against  a  shrub,  like  a  man  whose 
senses  are  failing  him.  Modeste,  who  had  walked  away, 
turned  her  head  and  hastily  came  back. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  she  exclaimed,  taking  him  by  the 
hand  to  save  him  from  falling. 

Modeste  felt  his  hand  like  ice,  and  saw  a  face  as  white  as  a 
lily ;  all  the  blood  had  rushed  to  his  heart. 

"Forgive  me,  mademoiselle, — I  had  fancied  myself  so  de- 
spised  " 

"Well,"  said  she,  with  haughty  scorn,  "I  did  not  say  that  T 
loved  you." 

And  she  again  left  la  Briere,  who,  notwithstanding  this 
hard  speech,  thought  he  was  walking  on  the  upper  air.  The 
earth  felt  soft  beneath  his  feet,  the  trees  seemed  decked  with 
flowers,  the  sky  was  rosy,  and  the  air  blue,  as  in  the  temples  of 
Hymen  at  the  close  of  a  fairy  drama  that  ends  happily.  In 
such  circumstances,  women  are  Janus-like,  they  see  what  is 
going  on  behind  them  without  turning  round;  and  Modeste 
saw  in  her  lover's  expression  the  unmistakable  symptoms  of  a 
love  such  as  Butscha's,  which  is  beyond  a  doubt  the  ne  plus 
ultra  of  a  woman's  desire.  And  the  high  value  attached  by 
la  Briere  to  her  esteem  was  to  Modeste  an  infinitely  sweet 
experience. 

"Mademoiselle,"  said  Canalis,  leaving  the  Colonel,  and  com- 
ing to  meet  Modeste,  "in  spite  of  the  small  interest  you  take 
in  my  sentiments,  it  is  a  point  of  honor  with  me  to  wipe  out 
a  stain  from  which  I  have  too  long  suffered.  Here  is  what  the 
Duchess  wrote  to  me  five  days  after  my  arrival  here." 

He  made  Modeste  read  the  first  few  lines  of  the  letter,  in 
which  the  Duchess  said  that  she  had  seen  Mongenod,  and 
wished  that  Melchior  should  marry  Modeste;  then  having 
torn  off  the  rest,  he  placed  them  in  her  hand. 

"I  cannot  show  you  the  remainder,"  said  he,  putting  the 
paper  in  his  pocket;  "but  I  intrust  these  few  lines  to  your 
delicacy,  that  you  may  be  able  to  verify  the  handwriting. 
The  girl  who  could  ascribe  to  me  such  ignoble  sentiments  is 


248  MODESTE  MIGNON 

quite  capable  of  believing  in  some  collusion,  some  stratagem. 
Tbis  may  prove  to  you  bow  mucb  I  care  to  convince  you  tbat 
tbe  difference  between  us  was  not  based  on  tbe  vilest  interest 
on  my  part.  Ah !  Modeste/'  he  went  on,  with  tears  in  bis 
voice,  "your  poet — Madame  de  Cbaulieu's  poet — has  not  less 
poetry  in  bis  heart  than  in  bis  mind.  You  will  see  the 
Duchess;  suspend  your  judgment  of  me  till  then."  And 
he  left  Modeste  quite  disconcerted.  i 

"On  my  word !  They  are  all  angels,"  said  she  to  herself, 
"All  too  fine  for  nuirriage !  Only  the  Duke  is  a  human  be- 
ing." 

"Mademoiselle  Modeste,  this  hunt  makes  me  very  uneasy," 
said  Butscha,  appearing  on  tbe  scene  with  a  parcel  under  his 
arm.  "I  dreamed  that  your  horse  ran  away  with  you,  so  I 
have  been  to  Rouen  to  get  you  a  Spanish  snaffle ;  I  have  been 
told  that  a  horse  can  never  get  it  between  his  teeth.  I  implore 
you  to  use  it;  T  have  shown  it  to  the  Colonel,  who  has  thanked 
me  more  than  the  thing  is  worth." 

"Poor  dear  Butscha !"  cried  Modeste,  touched  to  tears  by 
this  motherly  care. 

Butscha  went  off  skipping  like  a  man  who  has  suddenly 
heard  of  the  death  of  an  old  uncle  leaving  a  fortune. 

"My  dear  father,"  said  Modeste,  on  returning  to  the  draw- 
ing-room, "I  should  like  very  much  to  have  that  handsome 
whip;  supposing  you  were  to  offer  to  exchange  with  Monsieur 
de  la  Brierc — that  whip  for  your  picture  by  Ostade?" 

Modeste  cast  a  side  glance  at  Ernest  while  the  Colonel 
made  this  proposal,  standing  in  front  of  the  picture — the  only 
thing  he  possessed  as  a  memorial  of  the  campaigns  he  had 
fought  in;  he  had  bought  it  of  a  citizen  of  Ratisbon.  And 
seeing  the  eagerness  with  which  Ernest  rushed  from  tbe 
room,  "He  will  attend  the  hunt,"  said  she  to  herself. 

Thus,  strange  to  say,  Modeste's  three  lovers  all  went  to 
Rosembray  with  hearts  full  of  hope,  and  enraptured  by  her 
adorable  charms. 

Kosembray,  an  estate  recently  purchased  by  the  Due  de 


MODESTE  MIGNON  249 

Verneuil  with  the  money  that  fell  to  his  share  of  the  thousand 
million  francs  voted  to  legitimize  the  sale  of  national  property, 
is  remarkable  for  a  chateau  comparable  for  magnificence  with 
those  of  Mesniere  and  Balleroy.  This  noble  and  imposing 
mansion  is  reached  by  an  immense  avenue  of  ancestral  elms 
four  rows  deep,  and  across  a  vast  courtyard  on  a  slope,  like 
that  of  Versailles,  with  a  splendid  iron  screen  and  two  gate 
lodges,  and  surrounded  by  large  orange  trees  in  tubs.  The 
fagade  to  this  cow  dlionneur  displays  two  stories  of  nineteen 
windows  in  each,  between  two  wings  at  right  angles — tall 
windows  with  small  panes,  set  in  carved  stone  arches,  and 
separated  by  reeded  pilasters.  A  cornice  and  balustrade 
screen  an  Italian  roof,  whence  rise  stone  chimneys  marked 
by  trophies  of  arms,  Kosembray  having  been  built  in  the  reign 
of  Louis  XIV.  by  a  farmer-general  named  Cottin.  The  front 
towards  the  park  differs  from  this,  having  a  centre  block  of 
five  windows  projecting  from  the  main  building,  with  columns 
and  a  noble  pediment.  The  Marigny  family,  to  whom  the 
possessions  of  this  Cottin  came  by  marriage  with  his  sole 
heiress,  iiad  a  group  representing  Dawn  executed  for  this 
pediment  by  Coysevox.  Below  it  two  genii  support  a  scroll, 
on  which  this  motto  is  inscribed  in  honor  of  the  King,  instead 
of  the  old  family  device:  Sol  nobis  henignus.  The  great 
Louis  had  made  a  Duke  of  the  Marquis  de  Marigny,  one  of  his 
most  insignificant  favorites. 

From  the  top  of  the  semicircular  double  flight  of  steps 
there  is  a  view  over  a  large  lake,  as  long  and  wide  as  the 
grand  canal  of  Versailles,  starting  from  the  bottom  of  a  slope 
of  turf  worthy  of  the  most  English  lawn,  its  banks  dotted 
with  clumps  displaying  the  brightest  autumn  flowers.  Beyond, 
on  each  side,  a  French  formal  parterre  spreads  its  squared 
beds  and  paths — pages  written  in  the  most  majestic  style  of  le 
Notre.  These  two  gardens  are  set  in  a  border  of  wood  and 
shrubbery,  extending  the  whole  length  to  the  extent  of  thirty 
acres,  and  cleared  in  places  in  the  English  fashion  under 
Louis  XV.  The  view  from  the  terrace  is  shut  in  beyond 
by  a  forest  belonging  to  Kosembray,  adjoining  two  demesnes. 


'>.-)0  MODESTE  MIGNON 

one  belonging  to  the  nation,  and  one  to  the  Crown.  It  would 
be  hard  to  find  a  more  beautiful  landscape. 

Modeste's  arrival  caused  some  sensation  in  the  avenue  when 
the  carriage  was  seen  with  the  royal  livery  of  France,  escorted 
by  the  Master  of  the  Horse,  the  Colonel,  Canalis,  and  la 
Briere,  all  riding,  and  preceded  by  an  outsider  in  the  Royal 
livery;  behind  them  came  ten  servants,  among  them  the 
Colonel's  negro  and  mulatto,  and  his  elegant  britska,  in  which 
were  the  two  ladies'  maids  and  the  luggage.  The  first  car- 
riage was  drawn  by  four  horses  mounted  by  tigers,  dressed 
with  the  spruce  perfection  insisted  on  by  the  Master  of  the 
Horse — often  better  served  in  such  matters  than  the  King 
himself. 

Modesto,  as  she  drove  up  and  saw  this  minor  Versailles, 
was  dazzled  by  the  magnificence  of  these  great  folks ;  she  was 
suddenly  conscious  of  having  to  meet  these  famous  Duchesses; 
she  dreaded  seeming  affected,  provincial,  or  parvenu,  lost  her 
head  completely,  and  repented  of  ever  having  wished  for  this 
hunting  party. 

When  the  carriage  stopped,  Modesto  happily  saw  before  her 
an  old  man  in  a  fair,  frizzy  wig,  with  small  curls,  whose  calm 
smooth,  full  face  wore  a  paternal  smile  and  an  expression 
of  monastic  jovialit}',  to  which  a  half  downcast  look  lent 
something  like  dignity.  The  Duchess,  a  woman  of  deep 
devotion,  the  only  daughter  of  a  very  wealthy  President  of 
the  Supreme  Court,  who  had  died  in  1800,  was  the  mother  of 
four  children ;  very  thin  and  erect,  she  bore  some  resemblance 
to  Madame  Latournelle,  if  imagination  could  be  persuaded  to 
embellish  the  lawyer's  wife  with  the  graces  of  a  noble  lady- 
Prioress. 

"Ah !  how  do  you  do,  dear  Hortense  ?"  said  Mademoiselle 
d'Herouville,  embracing  the  Duchess  with  all  the  sympathy 
that  was  a  tie  between  these  two  proud  spirits ;  "allow  me  to 
introduce  to  you  and  to  our  dear  Duke,  Mademoiselle  de  la 
Bastie,  who  is  a  little  angel." 

"We  have  heard  so  much  about  you.  mademoiselle,"  said  the 
Duchess,  "that  we  have  been  most  eager  to  have  you  here." 


MODESTE  MIGNON  251 

"We  can  but  regret  our  lost  time/'  added  the  Due  de 

Verneuil,  bowing  with  gallant  admiration. 

"Monsieur  Ic  Comte  de  la  Bastie,"  added  the  Master  of  the 
Horse,  taking  the  Colonel  by  the  arm,  and  leading  him  up  to 
the  Duke  and  Duchess  with  a  tinge  of  respect  in  his  tone  and 
manner. 

The  Colonel  bowed  to  the  Duchess,  the  Duke  gave  him  his 
hand. 

"You  are  very  welcome,  Monsieur  le  Comte,"  said  Monsieur 
de  Verneuil.  "You  are  the  owner  of  many  treasures,"  he 
added,  glancing  at  Modeste. 

The  Duchess  drew  Modeste's  hand  through  her  arm  and  led 
her  into  a  vast  drawing-room,  where  half  a  score  of  women 
were  sitting  in  groups  round  the  fire.  The  men,  led  by  the 
Duke,  went  to  walk  on  the  terrace,  excepting  only  Canalis, 
who  went  in  to  pay  his  respects  to  the  superb  Eleonore.  She, 
seated  before  a  tapestry  frame,  was  giving  Mademoiselle  de 
Verneuil  some  hints  as  to  shading. 

If  Modeste  had  thrust  her  finger  through  with  a  needle 
when  laying  her  hand  on  a  cushion,  she  could  not  have  felt 
a  keener  shock  than  she  received  from  the  icy  glance,  haughty 
and  contemptuous,  that  the  Duchesse  de  Chaulieu  bestowed  on 
her.  From  the  first  instant  she  saw  no  one  but  this  woman, 
and  guessed  who  she  was.  To  know  to  what  a  pitch  the 
cruelty  can  go  of  those  sw^eet  creatures  who  are  exalted  by 
our  passion,  women  must  be  seen  together.  Modeste  might 
have  disarmed  any  one  but  illeonore  by  her  amazed  and  in- 
voluntary admiration;  for  if  she  had  not  known  her  rival's 
age,  she  would  have  taien  her  to  be  a  woman  of  six-and- 
thirty;  but  there  were  greater  surprises  in  store  for  her! 

The  poet  found  himself  flung  against  the  wrath  of  a  great 
lady.  Such  anger  is  the  most  ruthless  Sphinx;  the  face  is 
beaming,  all  else  is  savage.  Even  kings  do  not  know  how  to 
reduce  the  stronghold  of  exquisitely  cold  politeness  which 
a  mistress  can  then  hide  under  steel  armor.  The  lovely 
woman's  countenance  smiles,  and  at  the  same  time  the  steel 
strikes  home:  the  hand  is  of  steel,  the  arm,  the  body,  all  is 


252  MODESTE  MIGNON 

steel.  Canalis  tried  to  clutch  this  steel,  but  his  fingers  slipped 
over  it  as  his  words  sli^jped  from  her  heart.  And  the 
gracious  face,  the  gracious  phrases,  the  gracious  manners  of 
the  Duchess,  concealed  from  every  eye  the  steel  of  her  cold 
fury — down  to  twenty-five  degrees  below  zero.  The  sight  of 
]\Iodeste's  supreme  beauty,  heightened  by  her  journey,  the 
appearance  of  the  girl,  as  well  dressed  as  Diane  de  Maufri- 
gneuse,  had  fired  the  powders  that  reflection  had  stored  up  in 
Eleonore's  brain. 

All  the  women  had  gone  to  the  window  to  see  the  wonder 
of  the  day  step  out  of  the  carriage,  followed  by  her  three 
lovers. 

"Do  not  let  us  show  that  we  are  so  curious,"  said  Madame 
de  Chaulieu,  struck  to  the  heart  by  Diane's  exclamation, 
"She  is  divine !  Where  can  such  a  creature  have  dropped 
from?" 

And  they  had  fled  back  to  the  drawing-room,  where  each 
one  had  composed  her  countenance,  while  the  Duchesse  de 
Chaulieu  felt  in  her  heart  a  thousand  vipers  all  crying  at 
once  to  be  satisfied. 

Mademoiselle  d'Herouville  remarked  in  an  undertone,  and 
with  marked  meaning,  to  the  Duchesse  de  Verneuil : 

"Eleonore  is  not  cordial  in  her  reception  of  her  great  Mel- 
chior." 

"The  Duchesse  de  Maufrigneuse  thinks  that  there  is  a 
coolness  between  them,"  replied  Laure  de  Verneuil  simply. 
This  phrase,  so  often  spoken  in  the  world  of  fashion,  is  full 
of  meaning.     We  feel  in  it  the  icy  polar  blast. 

"Why  ?"  asked  Modeste  of  the  charming  girl  who  had  left 
the  Convent  of  the  Sacred  Heart  not  more  than  two  months 
since. 

"The  great  man,"  replied  the  Duchess,  signing  to  her 
daughter  to  be  silent,  "left  her  for  a  fortnight  without  writing 
a  word  to  her,  after  setting  out  for  le  Havre,  and  saying  that 
he  had  gone  for  his  health." 

Modeste  gave  a  little  start  which  struck  Laure,  Helena 
and  Mademoiselle  d'Herouville. 


MODESTE  MIGNON  253 

"And  meanwhile/'  the  devout  Duchess  went  on,  "she  was 
getting  him  appointed  Commander  of  the  Legion  of  Honor 
and  Minister  to  Baden." 

"Oh,  it  is  very  wrong  of  Canalis,  for  he  owes  everything  to 
her,"  said  Mademoiselle  d'Herouvillc. 

"Why  did  not  Madame  de  Chaulieu  come  to  le  Havre?" 
asked  Modeste  guilelessly  of  Helene. 

"My  child,"  said  the  Duchesse  de  Verneuil,  "she  would  let 
herself  be  killed  without  speaking  a  word.  Look  at  her. 
What  a  queen !  With  her  head  on  the  block  she  would  still 
smile,  like  Mary  Stuart — indeed,  our  handsome  fileonore  has 
the  same  blood  in  her  veins." 

"And  she  did  not  write  to  him  ?"  said  Modeste. 

"Diane  told  me,"  replied  the  Duchess,  prompted  to  further 
confidences  by  an  elbow  nudge  from  Mademoiselle  d'Herou- 
villc, "that  she  had  sent  a  very  cutting  answer  to  the  first 
letter  Canalis  wrote  to  her  about  ten  days  ago." 

This  statement  made  Modeste  color  with  shame  for  Canalis ; 
she  longed  not  to  crush  him  under  her  feet,  but  to  revenge 
herself  by  a  piece  of  mischief  more  cruel  than  a  poniard 
thrust.  She  looked  proudly  at  Madame  de  Chaulieu.  That 
glance  was  gilded  with  eight  millions  of  francs. 

"Monsieur  Melehior !"  said  she. 

All  the  women  looked  up,  first  at  the  Duchess,  who  was 
talking  to  Canalis  over  the  work-frame,  then  at  this  young 
girl,  so  ill  bred  as  to  disturb  two  lovers  who  were  settling  their 
quarrel — a  thing  which  is  never  done  in  any  rank  of  life. 

Diane  de  Maufrigneuse  gave  her  head  a  little  toss,  as  much 
as  to  say,  "The  child  is  in  her  rights." 

Finally,  the  twelve  women  smiled  at  each  other,  for  they 
were  all  jealous  of  a  woman  of  fifty-six  who  was  still  hand- 
some enough  to  dip  her  hand  in  the  common  treasury  and 
steal  a  young  woman's  share.  Melehior  glanced  at  Modeste 
with  feverish  irritability,  the  hasty  look  of  a  master  to  a  ser- 
vant, while  the  Duchess  bent  her  head  with  the  air  of  a  lioness 
interrupted  at  her  meal ;  her  eyes,  fixed  on  the  canvas,  shot 
flames  of  fire,  almost  red-hot,  at  the  poet  while  she  sifted  his 


254  MODESTB  MIGNON 

very  soul  with  hor  epigrams,  for  each  sentence  was  a  vengeance 
for  a  triple  injury. 

"Monsieur  Melchior !"  repeated  Modeste,  in  a  voice  that 
asserted  its  right  to  be  heard. 

"What  is  it,  mademoiselle  ?"  asked  the  poet. 

He  was  obliged  to  rise,  but  he  stood  still  half-way  bctvreen 
the  work-frame,  which  was  near  the  window,  and  the  fire- 
place, by  which  Modeste  was  sitting  on  the  Duchesse  de  Ver- 
iieuil's  sofa.  What  cruel  reflections  were  forced  on  the  am- 
bitious man  when  he  met  Eleonore's  steady  eye.  If  he  should 
obey  Modeste,  all  was  over  for  ever  between  the  poet  and  his 
protectress.  If  he  paid  no  heed  to  the  girl,  it  would  be  an 
avowal  of  his  serfdom,  he  would  lose  the  advantages  gained 
by  five-and-twenty  days  of  meanness,  and  fail  in  the  simplest 
rules  of  gentlemanly  politeness.  The  greater  the  folly,  the 
more  imperatively  the  Duchess  insisted  on  it.  Modeste's 
beauty  and  fortune,  set  in  the  opposite  scale  to  ;6leonore's 
influence  and  established  rights,  made  this  hesitancy  between 
the  man  and  his  honor  as  terrible  to  watch  as  the  peril  of  a 
matador  in  the  ring.  A  man  never  knows  such  frightful 
palpitations  as  those  that  seemed  to  threaten  Canalis  with  an 
aneurism,  anywhere  but  in  front  of  the  gaming-table,  where 
his  fortune  or  his  ruin  is  settled  within  five  minutes. 

"Mademoiselle  d'Herouville  made  me  get  out  of  the  carriage 
in  such  a  hurry,"  said  Modeste  to  Canalis,  "that  I  dropped  my 
handkerchief " 

Canalis  gave  a  highly  significant  shrug. 

"And,"  she  went  on,  in  spite  of  this  impatient  gesture,  "I 
had,  tied  to  it,  the  key  of  a  blotting  case,  containing  an  im- 
portant fragment  of  a  letter;  will  you  be  good  enough,  Mel- 
chior, to  ask  for  it " 

Between  an  angel  and  a  tigress,  equally  irate,  Canalis,  who 
had  turned  pale,  hesitated  no  longer;  the  tigress  seemed 
the  less  dangerous.  He  was  on  the  point  of  committing  him- 
self when  la  Briere  appeared  in  the  doorway,  seeming  to 
Canalis  something  like  the  archangel  Michael  descended  from 
heaven. 


MODESTE  MIGNON  2S»5 

"Here,  Ernest,  Mademoiselle  de  la  Bastie  wants  you,"  said 
the  poet,  hastily  retreating  to  his  chair  by  the  work-frame. 

Ernest,  on  his  part,  went  at  once  to  Modeste  without  bow- 
ing to  any  one  else ;  he  saw  her  alone,  received  her  instructions 
with  visible  joy,  and  ran  ofE  with  the  uneonfessed  approbation 
of  every  woman  present. 

"What  a  position  for  a  poet !"  said  Modeste  to  Helene, 
pointing  to  the  worsted  work  at  which  the  Duchess  was 
stitching  furiously. 

"If  you  speak  to  her,  if  you  once  look  at  her,  all  is  ended," 
said  :fileonore  to  Melchior.  in  a  low  tone,  for  his  mezzo  ter- 
mine  had  not  satisfied  her.  "And,  mind,  when  I  am  absent  I 
shall  leave  other  eyes  to  watch  you." 

As  she  spoke,  Madame  de  Chaulieu,  a  woman  of  medium 
height,  but  rather  too  fat — as  all  women  are  who  are  still 
handsome  when  past  fifty — rose,  walked  towards  the  group 
with  which  Diane  de  Maufrigneuse  was  sitting,  stepping  out 
with  small  feet  as  firm  and  light  as  a  fawn's.  Under  her  full 
forms  the  exquisite  refinement  was  conspicuous  with  which 
women  of  that  type  are  gifted,  and  which  gives  them  that 
\igorous  nervous  system  that  controls  and  animates  the  de- 
velopment of  the  flesh.  It  was  impossible  otherwise  to  ac- 
count for  her  light  step,  which  was  amazingly  dignified.  Only 
those  women  whose  quarterings  of  nobility  date  back  to  Noah, 
like  fileonore's,  know  how  to  be  majestic  in  spite  of  being  as 
large  as  a  farmer's  wife.  A  philosopher  might,  perhaps,  have 
pitied  Philoxene,  while  admiring  the  happy  arrangement  of 
the  bodice  and  the  careful  details  of  a  morning  dress  worn 
with  the  elegance  of  a  queen  and  the  ease  of  a  girl.  Boldly 
wearing  her  own  abundant  and  undyed  hair,  plaited  on  the 
top  of  her  head  in  a  coronet  like  a  tower,  fileonore  proudly  dis- 
played her  white  neck,  her  finely  shaped  bust  and  shoulders, 
her  dazzling  bare  arms,  ending  in  hands  famous  for  their 
beauty.  Modeste,  like  all  the  Duchess'  rivals,  saw  in  her  one 
of  those  women  of  whom  the  others  say,  "She  is  past  mistress 
of  us  all !" 

In  fact,  every  one  recognized  her  as  one  of  those  few  greai 

vox,.  6 — 42 


2m  MODESTE  MIGNON 

ladies  who  arc  now  become  so  rare  in  France.  Any  attempt 
to  describe  liow  majestic  was  the  carriage  of  her  head,  how 
refined  and  delicate  this  or  that  curve  of  her  neck,  what 
harmony  there  was  in  her  movements,  what  dignity  in  her 
mien,  what  nobleness  in  the  perfect  agreement  of  every  detail 
with  the  whole  result  in  the  little  arts  that  are  a  second 
nature,  and  make  a  woman  holy  and  supreme, — this  would 
be  to  try  to  analyze  the  sublime.  We  delight  in  such,  poetry, 
as  in  that  of  Paganini,  without  seeking  the  means,  for  the 
cause  is  a  soul  making  itself  visible. 

The  Duchess  bowed,  saluting  Helene  and  her  aunt;  then 
she  said  to  Diane  in  a  clear,  bright  voice  without  a  trace  of 
emotion : 

"Is  it  not  time  to  dress.  Duchess  ?" 

And  she  swept  out  of  the  room,  accompanied  by  her 
daughter-in-law  and  Mademoiselle  d'Herouville,  each  giving 
her  an  arm.  She  was  speaking  in  a  low  voice  as  she  went 
away  with  the  old  maid,  who  pressed  her  to  her  heart,  saying, 
"You  are  quite  charming !"  which  was  as  much  as  to  say,  "I 
am  wholly  yours  in  return  for  the  service  you  have  just  done 
us." 

Mademoiselle  d'Herouville  returned  to  the  drawing-room 
to  play  her  part  as  spy,  and  her  first  glance  told  Canalis  that 
the  Duchess'  last  words  were  no  vain  threat.  The  apprentice 
to  diplomacy  felt  he  knew  too  little  of  the  minor  science  for 
so  severe  a  struggle,  and  his  wit  served  him  at  any  rate  so  far 
as  to  enable  him  to  assume  a  straightforward, if  not  a  dignified 
attitude.  When  Ernest  returned  with  Modeste's  handker- 
chief, he  took  him  by  the  arm  and  led  him  out  on  the  lawn. 

"My  dear  fellow,''  said  he,  "I  am,  of  all  men,  not  the  most 
unhappy,  but  the  most  ridiculous.  So  I  have  recourse  to  you 
to  help  me  out  of  the  wasps'  nest  I  have  got  into. — Modeste 
is  a  demon ;  she  saw  my  embarrassment,  she  mocks  at  it ;  she 
has  just  spoken  to  me  of  two  lines  of  a  letter  of  Madame  de 
Chaulieu's  that  I  was  fool  enough  to  trust  her  with.  If  she 
were  to  show  them,  I  could  never  make  it  up  again  with 
;fileonore.     So,  pray,  at  once  ask  Modeste  for  that  paper,  and 


MODESTE  MIGNON  257 

tell  her  from  me  that  I  have  no  views — no  pretensions  to  her 
hand;  1  rely  on  her  delicacy,  on  her  honesty  as  a  lady,  to 
behave  to  me  as  though  we  had  never  met ;  I  entreat  her  not  to 
speak  to  me;  I  beseech  her  to  vouchsafe  to  be  implacable, 
though  I  dare  not  hope  that  her  spite  will  move  her  to  a  sort 
of  jealous  wrath  that  would  serve  my  ends  to  a  miracle.  .  . 
Go,  I  will  wait  here." 

On  re-entering  the  room,  Ernest  de  la  Briere  saw  there  a 
young  officer  of  Havre's  company  of  the  Guards,  the  Yi- 
comte  de  Serizy,  who  had  just  arrived  from  Rosny  to  an- 
nounce that  Madame  was  obliged  to  be  present  at  the  opening 
of  the  session.  This  constitutional  solemnity  was,  as  is  well 
known,  a  very  important  function.  Charles  X.  pronounced 
a  speech  in  the  presence  of  his  whole  family,  the  Dauphiness 
and  Madame  being  present  in  their  seats.  The  choice  of  the 
envoy  charged  with  expressing  the  Princess'  regrets  was  a 
compliment  to  Diane.  She  was  supposed  to  be  the  immediate 
object  of  this  fascinating  youth's  adoration;  he  was  the  son 
of  a  Minister  of  State,  gentleman-in-waiting,  hopeful 
of  high  destinies,  as  being  an  only  son  and  heir  to  an  immense 
fortune.  The  Duchesse  de  Maufrigneuse,  however,  only  ac- 
cepted the  Viscount's  attentions  in  order  to  throw  light  on 
the  age  of  Madame  de  Serizy,  who,  according  to  the  chronicle 
repeated  behind  fans,  had  won  from  her  the  heart  of  handsome 
Lucien  de  Rubempre. 

"You,  I  hope,  will  do  us  the  pleasure  of  remaining  at 
Eosembray,"  said  the  severe  Duchess  to  the  young  man. 

While  keeping  her  ears  open  to  evil-speaking,  the  pious 
lady  shut  her  eyes  to  the  peccadilloes  of  her  guests,  who  were 
carefully  paired  by  the  Duke;  for  no  one  knows  what  such 
excellent  women  will  tolerate  on  the  plea  of  bringing  a  lost 
sheep  back  to  the  fold  by  treating  it  with  indulgence. 

"We  reckoned  without  the  Constitutional  Government," 
said  the  Due  d'Herouville,  "and  Eosembray  loses  a  great 
honor,  Madame  la  Duchesse " 

"We  shall  feel  all  the  more  at  our  ease,"  observed  a  tall, 


258  MODESTE  MIGNON 

ican  old  man  of  about  seventy-five,  dressed  in  blue  cloth,  and 
keeping  on  his  hunting  cap  by  leave  of  the  ladies. 

This  personage,  who  was  very  like  the  Due  de  Bourbon, 
was  no  less  a  man  than  the  Prince  de  Cadignan,  the  Master 
of  the  Hounds,  and  one  of  the  last  of  the  French  Orands 
Seigneurs. 

Just  as  la  Briere  was  about  to  slip  behind  the  sofa  to  beg 
a  minute's  speech  with  Modeste,  a  man  of  about  eight-and- 
thirty  came  in,  short,  fat,  and  common-looking. 

"My  son,  the  Prince  de  Loudon,"  said  the  Duchesse  de 
Verneuil  to  Modeste,  who  could  not  control  an  expression  of 
amazement  on  her  youthful  features  as  she  saw  the  man  who 
now  bore  the  name  which  the  General  of  the  Vendee  Cavalry 
had  made  so  famous  by  his  daring  and  by  his  execution. 

The  present  Due  de  Verneuil  was  the  third  son  taken  by 
his  father  into  exile,  and  the  only  survivor  of  four  children. 

"Gaspard,"  said  the  Duchess,  calling  her  son  to  her.  The 
Prince  obeyed  his  mother,  who  w^ent  on  as  she  introduced  Mo- 
deste : 

"Mademoiselle  de  la  Bastie,  my  dear." 

The  heir  presumptive,  whose  marriage  to  Desplein's  only 
daughter  was  a  settled  thing,  bowed  to  the  girl  without 
seeming  struck  by  her  beauty,  as  his  father  had  been.  Mo- 
deste thus  had  an  opportunity  of  comparing  the  young  men 
of  to-day  with  the  old  men  of  the  past ;  for  the  old  Prince  de 
Cadignan  had  already  made  her  two  or  three  very  pretty 
speeches,  proving  that  he  was  not  less  devoted  to  women  than 
to  Royalty.  The  Due  de  Rhetore,  Madame  de  Chaulieu's 
eldest  son,  noted  for  the  style  which  combines  impertinence 
with  easy  freedom,  had,  like  the  Prince  de  Loudon,  greeted 
Modeste  almost  cavalierly. 

The  reason  of  this  contrast  between  the  sons  and  the  fathers 
may,  perhaps,  lie  in  the  fact  that  the  heirs  no  longer  feel  them- 
selves to  be  objects  of  importance,  as  their  ancestors  were, 
and  excuse  themselves  from  the  duties  of  power,  since  they  no 
longer  have  anything  but  its  shadow.  The  fathers  still  have 
Xiie  fine  manners  inherent  in  their  vanished  grandeur,  like 


MODESTE  MIGNON  259 

mountains  gilded  by  the  sunshine,  when  all  round  them  is 
in  darkness. 

At  last  Ernest  succeeded  in  saying  two  words  to  Modeste, 
who  rose. 

"My  little  beauty !"  said  the  Duchess,  as  she  pulled  a  bell, 
thinking  that  Modeste  was  going  to  change  her  dress,  "you 
shall  be  taken  to  your  rooms." 

Ernest  went  with  Modeste  to  the  foot  of  the  great  staircase 
to  make  the  unhappy  Melchior's  request,  and  he  tried  to  touch 
her  by  describing  the  poet's  miseries. 

"He  loves  her,  you  see !  He  is  a  captive  who  thought 
he  could  break  his  chain." 

"Love !  In  a  man  who  calculates  everything  so  closely  ?" 
retorted  Modeste. 

"Mademoiselle,  j^ou  are  at  the  beginning  of  your  life;  you 
do  not  know  its  narrow  places.  Every  sort  of  inconsistency 
must  be  forgiven  to  a  man  who  places  himself  under  the 
dominion  of  a  woman  older  than  himself,  for  he  is  not  re- 
sponsible. Consider  how  many  sacrifices  Canalis  has  offered 
to  that  divinity !  how  he  has  sown  too  much  seed  to  scorn  the 
harvest ;  the  Duchess  represents  to  him  ten  years  of  devotion 
and  of  happiness.  You  had  made  the  poet  forget  everything, 
for,  unhappily,  he  has  more  vanity  than  pride;  he  knew  not 
what  he  was  losing  till  he  saw  Madame  de  Chaulieu  again. 
If  you  knew  Canalis,  you  would  help  him.  He  is  a  mere 
child,  and  is  spoiling  his  life  for  ever. — You  say  he  calculates 
eveiything,  but  he  calculates  very  badly,  like  all  poets  indeed 
— creatures  of  impulse,  full  of  childishness,  dazzled,  like 
children,  by  all  that  shines,  and  running  after  it !  He  has 
been  fond  of  horses,  of  pictures;  he  has  j^earned  for  glory; 
he  sells  his  pictures  to  get  armor  and  furniture  of  the  style 
of  the  Eenaissance  and  of  Louis  XV. ;  he  now  has  a  grudge 
against  the  Government.  Admit  that  his  whims  are  on  a 
grand  scale?" 

"That  will  do,"  said  Modeste.  "Come,"  she  added,  as  she 
saw  her  father,  and  beckoned  to  him  to  ask  him  to  accompany 
her,  "I  will  give  you  that  scrap  of  paper ;  you  can  take  it  to  the 


2G0  MODESTE  MIGNON 

groat  man,  and  assure  him  of  my  entire  consent  to  all  he 
wishes,  but  on  one  condition.  1  beg  you  to  give  him  my  b^st 
tiianks  for  the  pleasure  I  have  enjoyed  in  seeing  him  perform 
for  my  sole  benefit  one  of  the  finest  pieces  of  the  German 
theatre.  I  know  now  that  Goethe's  chef-d'oeuvre  is  neither 
Faust  nor  Egmont" — and,  as  Ernest  looked  at  the  sprightly 
girl  with  a  puzzled  expression — "it  is  Torquato  Tasso,"  she 
added.  "Desire  Monsieur  Canalis  to  read  it  once  more,"  she 
went  on,  smiling.  "I  particularly  desire  that  you  will  repeat 
this  to  your  friend  word  for  word,  for  it  is  not  an  epigram; 
it  is  the  justification  of  his  conduct — with  this  difference,  that 
I  hope  he  will  become  quite  sane,  thanks  to  liis  fileonore's 
folly." 

The  Duchess'  head  waiting-maid  led  Modeste  and  her  father 
to  their  rooms,  where  Frangoise  Cochet  had  already  arranged 
everything.  Their  choice  elegance  surprised  the  Colonel,  and 
Frangoise  told  him  that  there  were  thirty  guest-chambers  in 
the  same  style  in  the  Chateau. 

"That  is  my  idea  of  a  country-house,"  said  Modeste. 

"The  Comte  de  la  Bastie  will  have  such  another  built  for 
you,"  replied  the  Colonel. 

"Here,  monsieur,"  said  Modeste,  handing  the  scrap  of  paper 
to  Ernest,  "go  and  reassure  our  friend." 

The  words  "our  friend"  struck  the  young  man.  He  looked 
at  Modeste  to  see  if  there  were  seriously  some  community 
of  sentiment  such  as  she  seemed  to  acknowledge ;  and  the  girl, 
understanding  the  implied  question,  added: 

"Well,  go ;  your  friend  is  waiting." 

La  Briere  colored  violently,  and  went,  in  a  state  of  doubt, 
anxiety,  and  disturbance  more  terrible  than  despair.  The  ap- 
proach to  happiness  is  to  true  lovers  very  like  wiiat  the  poetry 
of  Catholicism  has  called  the  Straits  of  Paradise,  to  express 
a  dark,  difficult,  and  narrow  way,  echoing  with  the  last  cries  of 
supreme  anguish. 

An  hour  later  the  distinguished  party  had  all  met  again  in 
the  drawing-room,  some  playing  at  whist,  others  chatting, 
the  women  busy  with  fancy-work,  while  awaiting  the  dinner- 


MODESTE  MIGNON  261 

hour.  The  Master  of  the  Hounds  led  Monsieur  Mignon  to 
talk  of  China,  of  his  campaigns,  of  the  great  Provengal 
families  of  Portenduere,  I'Estorade,  and  Maucombe;  and  he 
remonstrated  with  him  on  not  asking  for  employment,  assur- 
ing him  that  nothing  would  be  easier  than  to  obtain  a  post 
in  the  Guards  with  his  full  rank  as  Colonel. 

"A  man  of  your  birth  and  fortune  can  never  class  himself 
with  the  present  Opposition/'  said  the  Prince  with  a  smile. 

This  aristocratic  society  pleased  Modeste ;  and  not  only  that, 
during  her  visit  she  gained  a  perfection  of  manner  wliich, 
but  for  this  revelation,  she  would  never  in  her  life  have 
acquired.  If  you  show  a  clock  to  a  natural  mechanic,  it  is 
always  enough  to  reveal  to  him  what  mechanism  means;  the 
germs  within  him  are  at  once  developed.  In  the  same  way, 
Modeste  intuitively  assimilated  everything  that  gave  distinc- 
tion to  the  Duchesses  de  Maufrigneuse  and  de  Chaulieu.  To 
her  each  detail  was  a  lesson,  where  a  commonplace  woman 
would  have  fallen  into  absurdity  by  imitating  mere  manners. 
A  girl  of  good  birth,  well  informed,  with  the  instincts  of 
Modeste,  fell  naturally  into  the  right  key,  and  discerned  the 
differences  which  divide  the  aristocratic  from  the  middle  class, 
and  provincial  life  from  that  of  the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain; 
she  caught  the  almost  imperceptible  shades ;  in  short,  she 
recognized  the  grace  of  a  really  fine  lady,  and  did  not  despair 
of  acquiring  it. 

In  the  midst  of  this  Olympus  she  saw  that  her  father  and 
la  Briere  were  infinitely  superior  to  Canalis.  The  great  poet, 
abdicating  his  real  and  indisputable  power,  that  of  the  in- 
tellect, was  nothing  but  a  Master  of  Appeals,  eager  to  become 
a  Minister,  anxious  for  the  collar  of  the  Legion  of  Honor,  and 
obliged  to  subserve  every  constellation.  Ernest  de  la  Briere, 
devoid  of  ambition,  was  simply  himself;  while  Melchior,  eat- 
ing humble  pie,  to  use  a  vulgar  phrase,  paid  court  to  the 
Prince  de  Loudon,  the  Due  de  Rhetore,  the  Vicomte  de  Serizy, 
the  Due  de  Maufrigneuse,  as  though  he  had  no  liberty  of 
speech  like  Colonel  Mignon,  Comte  de  la  Bastie,  proud  of  his 
services  and  of  the  Emperor  Napoleon's  esteem.     Modeste 


262  MODESTE  MIGNON 

saw  the  continiiod  pre-occiipation  of  a  wit  seeking  a  point 
to  raise  a  laugh,  a  brilliant  remark  to  surprise,  or  a  compli- 
ment to  flatter  the  high  and  mighty  personages,  on  whose 
level  he  aimed  at  keeping  himself.  Tn  short,  here  the  peacock 
'shed  his  plumes. 

In  the  course  of  the  evening  Modeste  went  to  sit  with  the 
!Master  of  the  Horse  in  a  recess  of  the  drawing-room ;  she  took 
him  there  to  put  an  end  to  a  struggle  she  could  no  longer  en- 
courage without  lowering  herself  in  her  own  eyes. 

"Monsieur  le  Due,"  she  began,  "if  you  knew  me  well,  you 
would  know  how  deeply  I  am  touched  by  your  attentions.  It 
is  precisely  the  high  esteem  I  have  for  your  character,  the 
friendship  inspired  by  such  a  nature  as  yours,  which  makes 
me  anxious  not  to  inflict  the  smallest  wound  on  your  self- 
respect.  Before  you  came  to  le  Havre  I  loved  sincerely, 
deeply,  and  for  ever  a  man  who  is  worthy  to  be  loved,  and 
from  whom  my  affection  is  still  a  secret ;  but  I  may  tell  you, 
and  in  this  I  am  more  sincere  than  mo.-^t  girls,  that  if  I  had 
not  been  bound  by  this  voluntary  engagement,  you  would 
have  been  my  choice,  so  many  and  so  great  are  the  good 
qualities  I  have  found  in  you.  A  few  words  dropped  by  your 
sister  and  aunt  compel  me  to  say  this.  If  you  think  it 
necessary,  by  to-morrow,  before  the  hunt,  my  mother  shall 
recall  me  home  under  the  excuse  of  serious  indisposition.  I 
will  not  be  present  without  your  consent  at  an  entertainment 
arranged  by  your  kind  care,  where,  if  my  secret  should  escape 
me,  I  might  aggrieve  you  by  an  insult  to  your  legitimate  pre- 
tensions. 

"  'Why  did  I  come  ?'  you  may  ask.  I  might  have  declined. 
Be  so  generous  as  not  to  make  a  crime  of  an  inevitable 
curiosity.  This  is  not  the  most  delicate  part  of  what  I  have 
to  communicate.  You  have  firmer  friends  than  you  know 
of  in  my  father  and  me;  and  as  my  fortune  was  the  prime 
motor  in  your  mind  when  you  came  to  seek  me,  without 
wishing  to  treat  it  as  a  solace  to  the  grief  your  gallantry 
requires  of  you,  I  may  tell  you  that  my  father  is  giving  his 
mind  to  the  matter  of  the  Herouville  lands.     His  friend 


MODESTE  MIGNON  263 

Dumay  thinks  the  scheme  feasible,  and  has  been  feeling  his 
way  to  the  formation  of  a  company.  Gobenheim,  Dumay, 
and  my  father  are  each  ready  with  fifteen  hundred  thousand 
francs,  and  undertake  to  collect  the  remainder  by  the  confi- 
dence they  will  inspire  in  the  minds  of  capitalists  by  taking 
substantial  interest  in  the  business. 

"Though  I  may  not  have  the  honor  of  being  the  Duchesse 
d'Herouville,  I  am  almost  certain  of  putting  you  in  the 
position  to  choose  her  one  day  with  perfect  freedom  in  the 
exalted  sphere  to  which  she  belongs. — Oh,  let  me  finish,"  said 
she,  at  a  gesture  of  the  Duke's. 

"It  is  easy  to  see  from  my  brother's  agitation,"  said  Made- 
moiselle d'Herouville  to  her  niece,  "that  you  have  gained  a 
sister." 

"Monsieur  le  Due,  I  decided  on  this  on  the  day  of  our  first 
ride  together,  when  I  heard  you  lamenting  your  position. 
This  is  what  I  wanted  to  tell  you ;  on  that  day  my  fate  was 
sealed.  If  you  have  not  won  a  wife,  you  have,  at  any 
rate,  found  friends  at  Ingouville,  if,  indeed,  you  will  accept 
us  as  friends." 

This  little  speech  which  Modeste  had  prepared  was  uttered 
with  such  soul-felt  charm  that  tears  rose  to  the  Duke's  eyes. 
He  seized  Modeste's  hand  and  kissed  it. 

"Remain  here  for  the  hunt,"  said  he.  "My  small  merit 
has  accustomed  me  to  such  refusals.  But  while  I  accept 
your  friendship  and  the  Colonel's,  allow  me  to  assure  myself, 
by  inquiring  of  the  most  competent  experts,  that  the  reclaim- 
ing of  the  marsh  lands  of  Herouville  will  involve  the  Company 
of  which  you  speak  in  no  risks,  but  may  bring  in  some 
profits,  before  I  accept  the  liberality  of  your  friends. 

"You  are  a  noble  girl,  and  though  it  breaks  my  heart  to  be 
no  more  than  your  friend,  I  shall  glory  in  the  title,  and  prove 
it  to  you  whenever  and  wherever  I  find  occasion." 

"At  any  rate.  Monsieur  le  Due,  let  us  keep  the  secret 
to  ourselves.  My  choice  will  not  be  announced,  unless  I  am 
greatly  mistaken,  till  my  mother  is  completely  cured;  for 
it  is  my  desire  that  my  plighted  husband  and  I  should  be 
blessed  with  her  first  glances/' 


264  MODESTE  MIGNON 

'Tjadies,"  said  the  Prince  de  Cadignan  at  the  moment  when 
all  were  .caning  to  bed,  "I  remember  that  several  of  you  pro- 
posed to  follow  the  hunt  with  us  to-morrow ;  now  I  think  it  my 
duty  to  inform  you,  that  if  you  are  bent  on  being  Dianas,  you 
must  rise  with  the  dawn.  The  meet  is  fixed  for  half-past 
eight.  I  have  often  in  the  course  of  my  life  seen  women 
display  greater  courage  than  men,  but  only  for  a  few  minutes, 
and  you  will  all  need  a  certain  modicum  of  determination  to 
remain  on  horseback  for  a  whole  day  excepting  during  the  halt 
called  for  luncheon — a  mere  snack,  as  beseems  sportsmen  and 
sportswomen. — Are  you  still  all  resolved  to  prove  yourselves 
gallant  horsewomen?" 

"I,  Prince,  cannot  help  myself,"  said  Modeste  slily. 

"I  can  answer  for  myself,"  said  the  Duchesse  de  Chaulieu. 

"I  know  my  daughter  Diane;  she  is  worthy  of  her  name," 
replied  the  Prince.  "Well,  then,  you  are  all  primed  for 
the  sport.  However,  for  the  sake  of  Madame  and  Made- 
moiselle de  Yerneuil,  who  remain  at  home,  I  shall  do  my  best 
to  turn  the  stag  to  the  further  end  of  the  pool." 

"Do  not  be  uneasy,  ladies,  the  hunters'  snack  will  be  served 
under  a  splendid  marquee,"  said  the  Prince  de  Loudon  when 
the  Master  of  the  Hounds  had  left  the  room. 

Next  morning  at  daybreak  everything  promised  fine 
weather.  The  sky,  lightly  veiled  with  gray  mist,  showed 
through  it  here  and  there  in  patches  of  pure  blue,  and  it 
would  be  entirely  cleared  before  noon  by  a  northwest  breeze, 
which  was  alread}'  sweeping  up  some  little  fleecy  clouds.  As 
they  left  the  Chateau,  the  Master  of  the  Hounds,  the  Prince 
de  Loudon,  and  the  Due  de  Ehetore,  who,  having  no  ladies 
under  their  care,  started  lirst  for  the  meet,  saw  the  chimneys 
of  the  house  piercing  through  the  veil-mist  in  white  masses 
against  the  russet  foliage,  which  the  trees  in  Normandy  never 
lose  till  quite  the  end  of  a  fine  autumn. 

"The  ladies  are  in  luck,"  said  the  Prince  to  the  Due  de 
Rhetore. 

"Oh,  in  spite  of  their  bravado  last  night,  I  fancy  they  will 
leave  us  to  hunt  without  them,"  replied  the  Due  de  Verneuil. 


MODESTE  MIGNON  265 

'TTes,  if  they  had  not  each  a  gentleman-in-waiting,"  re- 
torted the  Duke. 

At  this  moment  these  determined  sportsmen — for  the 
Prince  de  Loudon  and  the  Due  de  Rhetore  are  of  the  race  of 
Nimrod,  and  supposed  to  he  the  finest  shots  of  the  Faubourg 
Saint-Germain — heard  the  noise  of  an  altercation,  and  rode 
forward  at  a  gallop  to  the  clearing  appointed  for  the  meet, 
at  one  of  the  openings  into  the  Forest  of  Rosembray,  and 
remarkable  for  a  mossy  knoll.  This  was  the  subject  of  the 
quarrel.  The  Prince  de  Loudon,  bitten  by  Anglomania,  had 
placed  at  the  Duke  de  Verneuil's  orders  the  whole  of  his  stable 
and  kennel,  in  the  English  style  throughout.  On  one  side  of 
the  clearing  stood  a  young  Englishman,  short,  fair,  insolent- 
looking,  and  cool,  speaking  French  after  a  fashion,  and 
dressed  with  the  neatness  that  characterizes  Englishmen  even 
of  the  lowest  class.  John  Barry  had  a  tunic-coat  of  scarlet 
cloth  belted  round  the  waist,  silver  buttons  with  the  arms 
of  Verneuil,  white  doeskin  breeches,  topboots,  a  striped 
waistcoat,  and  a  black  velvet  collar  and  cap.  In  his  right 
hand  he  held  a  hunting-crop,  and  in  his  left,  hanging  by  a 
silk  cord,  was  a  brass  horn.  This  chief  huntsman  had  with 
him  two  large  thoroughbred  hounds,  pure  fox-hounds  with 
white  coats  spotted  with  tan,  high  on  their  legs,  with  keen 
noses,  small  heads,  and  short  ears,  high  up.  This  man,  one  of 
the  most  famous  huntsmen  of  the  county  whence  the  Prince 
had  sent  for  him  at  great  expense,  ruled  over  fifteen  hunters 
and  sixty  English-bred  dogs,  which  cost  the  Due  de  Verneuil 
enormous  sums;  though  he  cared  little  for  sport,  he  indulged 
his  son  in  this  truly  royal  taste.  The  subordinates,  men  and 
horses,  stood  some  little  way  off,  and  kept  perfect  silence. 

Now  on  arriving  on  the  ground,  John  found  there  three 
huntsmen  with  three  packs  of  the  King's  hounds  that  had 
arrived  before  him  in  carts;  the  Prince  de  Cadignan's  three 
best  men,  whose  figures,  both  in  character  and  costume,  were 
a  perfect  contrast  with  the  representative  of  insolent  Albion. 
These,  the  Prince's  favorites,  all  wearing  three-cornered  cocked 
hats,   very   low   and    flat,    beneath    which   grinned   tanned. 


206  MODESTE  MIONON 

wrinkled,  weather-beaten  faces,  lighted  up  as  it  were  by  their 
twinkling  eyes,  were  curiously  dry,  lean, and  sinewy  men,  burnt 
up  with  the  passion  for  sport.  Each  was  provided  with  a 
large  bugle  hung  about  with  green  worsted  cords  that  left 
nothing  visible  but  the  bell  of  the  trumpet;  they  kept  their 
dogs  in  order  by  the  eye  and  voice.  The  noble  brutes,  all 
splashed  with  liver-color  and  black,  each  with  his  individual 
expression,  as  distinct  as  i^apoleon's  soldiers,  formed  a  posse 
of  subjects  more  faithful  than  those  whom  the  King  was  at 
that  moment  addressing — their  eyes  lighting  up  at  the  slight- 
est sound  with  a  spark  that  glittered  like  a  diamond — this  one 
from  Poitou,  short  in  the  loins,  broad-shouldered,  low  on  the 
ground,  long-eared,  that  one  an  English  dog,  white,  slim  in 
the  belly,  with  short  ears,  and  made  for  coursing:  all  the 
young  hounds  eager  to  give  tongue,  while  their  elders,  seamed 
with  scars,  lay  quiet,  at  full  length,  their  heads  resting  on 
their  fore-paws,  and  listening  on  the  ground  like  wild  men  of 
the  woods. 

On  seeing  the  English  contingent,  the  dogs  and  the  King's 
men  looked  at  each  other,  asking  without  saying  a  word : 

"Are  we  not  to  hunt  by  ourselves  ?  Is  not  this  a  slur  on  His 
Majesty's  Koyal  Hunt?" 

After  beginning  with  some  banter,  the  squabble  had  grown 
warm  between  Monsieur  Jacquin  la  Roulie,  the  old  Chief 
Huntsman  of  the  French  force,  and  John  Barry,  the  young 
Briton. 

While  still  at  some  distance  the  princes  guessed  what  had 
given  rise  to  the  quarrel,  and  the  Master  of  the  Hounds,  put- 
ting spurs  to  his  horse,  ended  the  matter  by  asking  in  a  com- 
manding tone : 

"Who  beat  the  wood?" 

"I,  monseigneur,"  said  the  Englishman. 

"Very  good,"  said  the  Prince  de  Cadignan,  listening  to 
John  Barry's  report. 

Men  and  dogs,  all  alike,  were  respectful  in  the  presence 
of  the  Master  of  the  Hounds,  as  though  all  alike  recognized 
his  supreme  authority.     The  Prince  planned  the  order  of  the 


MODESTE  MIGNON  2G7 

day;  for  a  hunt  is  like  a  battle,  and  Charles  X.'s  Master  of 
the  Hounds  was  a  Napoleon  of  the  forest.  Thanks  to  the 
admirable  discipline  carried  out  by  his  orders  in  stable  and 
kennol,  be  could  give  his  whole  mind  to  strategy  and  the 
science  of  the  chase.  He  assigned  a  place  in  the  proceedings 
of  the  day  to  the  Prince  de  Loudon's  hounds  and  men,  re- 
serving them,  like  a  cavalry  corps,  to  turn  the  stag  back  on  the 
pool,  in  the  event  of  the  King's  packs  succeeding,  as  he  hoped, 
in  forcing  the  game  into  the  Royal  demesne  lying  in  the 
distance  in  front  of  the  Chateau.  He  gratified  the  self-re- 
spect of  his  own  old  retainers  by  giving  them  the  hardest  work, 
and  that  of  the  Englishman,  whom  he  employed  in  his  own 
special  line,  by  giving  him  an  opportunity  of  displaying 
the  strength  of  limb  of  his  dogs  and  horses.  Thus  the  two 
methods  would  work  against  each  other,  and  do  wonders  to 
excite  reciprocal  emulation. 

"Are  we  to  wait  any  longer,  monseigneur  ?"  asked  la  Roulie 
respectfully. 

"I  understand  you,  old  friend,"  replied  the  Prince.  "It  is 
late,  but " 

"Here  come  the  ladies,  for  Jupiter  scents  the  fetish  odors," 
said  the  second  huntsman,  observing  the  nose  of  his  favorite 
hound. 

"Fetish?"  repeated  the  Prince  de  Loudon  with  a  smile. 

"He  probably  means  fetid,"  said  the  Due  de  Rhetore. 

"That  is  it,  no  doubt,  for  everything  that  does  not  smell 
of  the  kennel  is  poisonous,  according  to  Monsieur  Laravine," 
replied  the  Prince. 

In  point  of  fact,  the  three  gentlemen  could  see  in  the 
distance  a  party  of  sixteen  riders,  and  fluttering  at  their  head 
the  green  veils  of  four  ladies.  Modeste  with  her  father,  the 
Due  d'Herouville,  and  little  la  Briere,  was  in  front,  with  the 
Duchesse  de  Maufrigneuse  attended  by  the  Vicomte  de  Serizy. 
Then  came  the  Duchesse  de  Chaulieu  with  Canalis  at  her  side, 
she  smiling  at  him  with  no  sign  of  rancor.  On  reaching  the 
clearing,  where  the  huntsmen,  dressed  in  red,  holding  their 
hunting  horns,  and  surrounded  l)y  dogs  and  beaters,  formed  a 
group  worthy  of  the  brush  af  Van  der  Meulen^  the  Ducliesse 


L'(i8  MODESTE  MIGNON 

de  Chaulieu,  an  admirable  figure  on  horseback,  though  some- 
what too  stout,  drew  up  close  to  Modestc,  feeling  it  beneath 
her  dignity  to  sulk  with  the  young  person  to  whom,  the  day 
before,  she  had  not  spoken  a  word. 

Just  at  the  moment  when  the  Master  of  the  Hounds  had 
ended  his  compliments  on  such  fabulous  punctuality, 
filecnore  condescended  to  remark  the  splendid  whip  handle 
that  sparkled  in  Modeste's  little  hand,  and  graciously  begged 
to  examine  it. 

"It  is  the  finest  thing  in  its  way  that  I  have  ever  seen,"  said 
she,  show-ing  the  gem  to  Diane  de  Mauf  rigneuse ;  "but,  indeed, 
it  is  in  harmony  with  the  owner's  whole  person,"  she  added, 
as  she  returned  it  to  Modesto. 

"You  will  confess,  madame"  replied  Mademoiselle  de  la 
Bastie,  with  a  mischievoiis  but  tender  glance  at  la  Briere,  in 
which  he  could  read  an  avowal,  "that  it  is  a  very  strange  gift 
as  coming  from  a  future  husband " 

"Indeed,"  exclaimed  Madame  de  Maufrigneuse,  "I  should 
regard  it  as  a  recognition  of  my  rights,  remembering  Louis 
XIV." 

There  were  tears  in  la  Briere's  eyes;  he  dropped  his  bridle, 
and  was  ready  to  fall ;  but  another  look  from  Modeste  re- 
called him  to  himself,  by  warning  him  not  to  betray  his 
happiness. 

The  cavalcade  set  out. 

The  Due  d'llerouville  said  in  a  low  voice  to  la  Briere:  "I 
hope,  monsieur,  that  you  will  make  your  wife  happy,  and  if 
I  can  in  any  way  serve  you,  command  me:  for  I  should  be 
delighted  to  contribute  to  the  happiness  of  two  such  charm- 
ing people." 

This  great  day,  when  such  important  interests  of  hearts 
and  fortunes  were  definitely  settled,  to  the  Master  of  the 
Hounds  offered  no  other  problerii  but  that  as  to  whether  the 
stag  would  cross  the  pool,  and  be  killed  on  the  grass  slope 
within  sight  of  the  Chateau ;  for  huntsmen  of  such  experience 
are  like  chess  players,  who  can  foresee  a  checkmate  many 
moves  ahead.  The  fortunate  old  gentleman  succeeded  to  the 
height  of  his  wishes;  the  run  was  splendid,  and  the  ladies 


MODESTE  MIGNON  269 

relieved  him  of  their  presence  on  the  next  day  but  one,  which 
proved  to  be  rainy. 

The  Due  de  Vemeuil's  guests  remained  three  days  at 
Rosembray.  On  the  last  morning  the  Gazette  de  France  con- 
tained the  announcement  that  M.  le  Baron  de  Canalis  was 
appointed  to  tlie  rank  of  Commander  of  the  Legion  of  Honor 
and  the  post  of  Minister  at  Carlsruhe. 

When,  early  in  the  month  of  December,  the  Comtesse  de  la 
Bastie  was  oj^erated  on  by  Desplein,  and  could  at  last  see 
Ernest  de  la  Briere,  she  pressed  Modeste's  hand,  and  said  in 
her  ear : 

"I  should  have  chosen  him." 

Towards  the  end  of  February  all  the  documents  relating 
to  the  acquisition,  of  the  estates  were  signed  by  the  worthy 
and  excellent  Latournelle,  Monsieur  Mignon's  attorney  in 
Provence.  At  this  time  the  family  of  la  Bastie  obtained  from 
His  Majesty  the  distinguished  honor  of  his  signature  to  the 
marriage  contract,  and  the  transmission  of  the  title  and  the 
arms  of  la  Bastie  to  Ernest  de  la  Briere,  who  was  authorized 
to  call  himself  the  Vicomte  de  la  Bastie-la  Briere.  The  estate 
of  la  Bastie,  reconstituted  to  yield  more  than  a  hundred  thou- 
sand francs  a  year,  was  entailed  by  letters  patent  registered 
by  the  Court  in  the  month  of  April. 

La  Briere's  witnesses  were  Canalis  and  the  Minister  whose 
private  secretary  he  had  been  for  five  years.  Those  who  signed 
for  the  bride  were  the  Due  d'Herouville  and  Desplein,  for 
whom  the  Mignons  cherished  enduring  gratitude,  after  giving 
him  magnificent  proofs  of  it. 

By  and  by,  perhaps,  in  this  long  record  of  our  manners,  we 
may  meet  again  with  Monsieur  and  Madame  de  la  Briere-la 
Bastie,  and  connoisseurs  will  then  perceive  how  easy  and  sweet 
a  tie  is  marriage  when  the  wife  is  well  informed  and  clever; 
for  Modeste,  who  kept  her  promise  of  avoiding  all  the  ab- 
surdities of  pedantry,  is  still  the  pride  and  delight  of  her 
husband,  of  her  family,  and  of  her  circle  of  friends. 

PABia,  March-July  1844. 


THE  HATED  SON 


Copyright.  1898, 
By  J.  M.  DENT  &  COMPANY 


THE  HATED   SON 

To  tint  Baroness  James  de  Rothschild. 
I. 

HOW  THE  MOTHER  LIVED 

One  winter's  night,  at  about  two  in  the  morning,  the 
Comtesse  Jeanne  d'Herouville  was  in  such  pain  that,  not- 
withstanding her  inexperience,  she  understood  that  these 
were  the  pangs  of  childbirth;  and  the  instinct  which  leads 
us  to  hope  for  relief  from  a  change  of  position,  prompted 
her  to  sit  up  in  bed,  either  to  consider  the  character  of  a 
new  form  of  suffering,  or  to  reflect  on  her  situation. 

She  was  in  mortal  terror,  less  of  the  risk  attending  the 
birth  of  her  first  child, — a  terror  to  most  women, — than 
of  the  perils  that  awaited  the  babe.  To  avoid  waking  her 
husband,  who  lay  by  her  side,  the  poor  creature  took  pre- 
cautions which  her  excess  of  fear  made  as  elaborate  as  those 
of  an  escaping  prisoner.  Though  the  pain  became  more 
intolerable  every  minute,  she  almost  ceased  to  feel  it,  so  in- 
tensely did  she  concentrate  her  whole  strength  in  the  effort 
to  prop  herself  by  resting  her  clammy  hands  on  the  pillow, 
to  relieve  her  tortured  frame  from  a  position  which  left  her 
powerless. 

At  the  slightest  nistle  of  the  immense  green  silk  counter- 
pane under  which  she  had  known  but  little  sleep  since  her 
marriage,  she  paused  as  though  she  had  rung  a  bell.  Com- 
pelled to  watch  the  Count,  she  divided  her  attention 
between  the  creaking  folds  of  the  stuff,  and  a  broad 
weather-browned    face   whose   moustache  was   close   to   her 

(273) 


274  TUE    HATED    SON 

shoulder.  If  a  louder  breath  than  usual  came  through  her 
husband's  lips,  it  filled  her  with  sudden  fears  that  increased 
the  crimson  flush  brought  to  her  cheeks  by  her  twofold 
suffering.  A  criminal  who  under  cover  of  the  night  has 
reached  the  door  of  his  prison  and  tries  to  turn  the  key  he 
has  found  in  some  unyielding  lock,  without  making  a 
sound,  is  not  more  timid  or  more  daring. 

When  the  Countess  found  herself  sitting  up  without 
having  roused  her  keeper,  she  gave  a  little  joyful  jump  that 
revealed  the  pathetic  guilelessncss  of  her  nature;  but  the 
smile  died  half-formed  on  her  burning  lips,  a  reflection 
clouded  the  innocent  brow,  and  her  long  blue  eyes  resumed 
their  sad  expression.  She  sighed  deeply,  and  with  the 
utmost  caution  replaced  her  hands  on  the  conjugal  bolster. 
Then,  as  though  it  were  the  first  time  in  her  married  life 
that  she  was  free  to  act  or  think,  she  looked  at  everything 
about  her,  stretching  her  neck  with  eager  movements,  like 
those  of  a  bird  in  a  cage.  To  see  her,  it  was  easy  to  dis- 
cern how  full  of  joy  and  frolic  she  once  had  been,  and  that 
fate  had  cut  off  her  early  linpos  and  transformed  her  in- 
genuous liveliness  into  melancholy. 

The  room  was  such  as  those  which,  even  in  our  day, 
some  octogenarian  housekeepers  exhibit  to  travelers  who 
visit  old  baronial  homes,  with  the  statement,  "This  is  the 
state  bedroom  Avhere  Louis  XIIT.  once  slept."  Fine  tapes- 
try of  a  generally  brown  tone  was  framed  in  deep  borders 
of  walnut  wood,  elegantly  carved  ])iit  blackened  by  time. 
The  beams  formed  a  coffered  ceiling  ornamented  with 
arabesques  of  the  previous  century,  and  still  showing  the 
mottled  grain  of  chestnut.  These  decorations,  gloomy  in 
their  coloring,  reflected  so  little  light  that  it  was  difficult 
to  make  out  the  designs,  even  when  the  sun  shone  straight 
into  the  room,  which  was  lofty,  broad,  and  long.  And  a 
silver  lamp  standing  on  the  shelf  over  the  enormous  fire- 
place gave  so  feeble  a  light  that  the  quavering  gleam  might 
be  compared  to  the  misty  stars  that  twinkle  for  a  moment 
through  the  gray  haze  of  an  autumn  night. 


THE    HATED    SON  275 

The  little  monsters  crouching  in  the  marble  carvings  of 
this  lirci)hiec,  which  was  opposite  the  Countess'  bed,  made 
such  grotesquely  hideous  faces  that  she  dared  not  gaze  at 
them.  She  was  afraid  of  seeing  them  move,  or  of  hear- 
ing a  cackle  of  laughter  from  their  gajjing  and  distorted 
mouths. 

At  this  moment  a  terrific  storm  was  growling  in  the 
chimney,  which  echoed  every  gust,  lending  it  doleful  sig- 
nificance; and  the  vast  opening  communicated  so  freely 
with  the  sky  that  the  brands  on  the  hearth  seemed  to 
breathe,  glowing  and  becoming  dark  by  turns  as  the  wind 
rose  and  fell.  The  escutcheon,  with  the  arms  of  the 
Herouvilles  carved  in  white  marble,  with  all  its  mantling 
and  the  figures  of  its  supporters,  gave  a  monumental  effect 
to  the  erection  which  faced  the  bed,  itself  a  monument  to 
the  honor  and  glory  of  Hymen. 

A  modern  architect  would  have  been  greatl}^  puzzled  to 
decide  whether  the  room  had  been  made  for  the  bed,  or 
the  bed  for  the  room.  Two  Cupids  sporting  on  a  walnut- 
wood  tester  garlanded  with  flowers  might  have  passed 
muster  as  angels;  and  the  columns  of  the  same  wood 
which  supported  the  canopy  were  carved  with  mythological 
allegories,  of  which  the  interpretation  might  be  found 
either  in  the  Bible  or  in  Ovid's  Metamor piloses.  Remove 
the  bed,  and  this  baldachin  would  have  been  equally  appro- 
priate in  a  church  over  the  pulpit  or  the  officials'  seats. 
The  couple  mounted  to  this  sumptuous  couch  by  three 
steps.  It  had  a  platform  all  round  it,  and  was  hung  with 
two  curtains  of  green  watered  silk,  embroidered  in  a  large 
and  gaudy  design  of  branches,  the  kind  of  pattern  known 
as  ramages,  perhaps  because  the  birds  introduced  were  sup- 
posed to  sing.  The  folds  of  these  ample  curtains  were  so 
rigid  that  at  night  the  silken  tissue  might  have  been  taken 
for  metal.  On  the  green  velvet  hanging  with  gold  fringes, 
at  the  head  of  this  lordly  couch,  the  superstition  of  the 
House  of  Herouville  had  attached  a  large  crucifix,  over 
which  the  chaplain  fixed  a  branch  of  box  that  had  been 


276  THE    HATED    SON 

blessed,  when,  on  Palm  Sunday,  he  renewed  the  holy  water 

in  the  vessel  at  the  foot  of  the  Cross. 

On  one  side  of  the  fireplace  stood  a  wardrobe  of  richly 
carved  and  costly  wood,  such  as  brides  still  had  given  them 
in  the  country  on  their  wedding  day.  These  old  pieces  of 
furniture,  now  so  sought  after  by  collectors,  were  the 
treasure-store  whence  ladies  brought  out  their  rich  and 
elegant  splendor.  They  contained  lace,  bodices,  high 
ruffs,  costly  gowns,  and  the  satchels,  masks,  gloves,  and 
veils  which  were  dear  to  the  coquettes  of  the  sixteenth 
century.  On  the  other  side,  for  symmetry,  was  a  similar 
piece  of  furniture,  in  which  the  Countess  kept  her  books, 
papers,  and  jewels.  Antique  chairs  covered  with  damask, 
a  large  greenish  mirror  of  A'enetian  manufacture  and  hand- 
somely framed  over  a  movable  toilet  table,  completed  the 
fittings  of  the  room.  The  floor  was  covered  by  a  Persian 
rug,  and  its  price  did  honor  to  the  Count's  gallantry.  On 
the  uppermost  broad  step  of  the  bed  stood  a  small  table, 
on  which  the  waiting-woman  placed  every  evening  a  cup 
of  silver  or  of  gold  containing  a  draught  prepared  with 
spices. 

When  we  have  gone  on  a  few  steps  in  life  we  know 
the  secret  influence  exerted  over  the  moods  of  the  mind  by 
place  and  surroundings;  Who  is  there  that  has  not  known 
bad  moments  when  the  things  about  him  have  seemed  to 
give  some  mysterious  promise  of  hope?  Happy  or  miser- 
able, man  lends  an  expression  to  the  most  trifling  objects 
that  he  lives  with;  he  listens  to  them  and  consults  them, 
so  superstitious  is  he  by  nature. 

The  Countess  at  this  moment  let  her  eyes  wander  over 
all  the  furniture  as  if  each  thing  had  life.  She  seemed  to 
be  appealing  to  them  for  help  or  protection;  but  their 
gloomy  magnificence  struck  her  as  inexorable. 

Suddenly  the  storm  increased  in  violence.  The  young 
wife  dared  hope  for  no  favor  as  she  listened  to  the  threat- 
ening heavens,  for  such  changes  of  weather  were,  in  those 
credulous  times,  interpreted  in  accordance  with  the  mood  or 


THE    HATED    SON  277 

the  habits  of  individual  minds.  She  hastily  looked  round  at 
the  two  Gothic  windows  at  the  end  of  the  room;  but  the 
small  size  of  the  panes  and  the  close  network  of  lead  did  not 
allow  her  to  see  the  sky  and  make  sure  whether  the  end  of 
the  world  was  at  hand,  as  certain  monks  declared,  greedy 
of  donations.  And,  indeed,  she  might  well  believe  in  their 
predictions,  for  the  sound  of  the  angr}^  sea  whose  waves 
beat  on  the  castle  walls  mingled  with  the  war  of  the  tem- 
pest, and  the  rocks  seemed  to  quake. 

Though  the  fits  of  pain  were  now  more  frequent  and 
more  severe,  the  Countess  dared  not  rouse  her  husband; 
but  she  studied  his  features  as  if  despair  had  warned  her 
to  seek  in  them  some  comfort  against  so  many  sinister 
prognostics. 

Ominous  as  everything  seemed  around  the  young  wife, 
that  face,  in  spite  of  the  tranquil  influence  of  sleep,  looked 
more  ominous  still.  The  glimmer  of  the  lamp,  flickering 
in  the  gusts,  died  away  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  and  only 
occasionally  lighted  up  the  Count's  face,  so  that  the  danc- 
ing gleam  gave  the  sleeping  face  the  agitation  of  stormy 
thoughts.  The  Countess  was  hardly  reassured  when  she 
had  traced  the  cause  of  this  effect.  Each  time  that  a  blast 
of  the  gale  flung  the  light  across  the  large  face,  accentuating 
the  shadows  of  the  many  rugosities  that  characterized  it, 
she  fancied  that  her  husband  would  stare  up  at  her  with 
eyes  of  unendurable  sternness.  The  Count's  brow,  as  im- 
placable as  the  war  then  going  on  between  the  Church  and 
the  Calvinists,  was  ominous  even  in  sleep;  many  wrinkles, 
graven  there  by  the  agitations  of  a  soldier's  life,  had  given 
it  a  certain  resemblance  to  the  time-eaten  heads  that  we  see 
on  monuments  of  that  date;  and  hair,  like  the  white  mossy 
beards  on  old  oaks,  prematurely  gray,  framed  the  face  un- 
graciously, while  religious  intolerance  stamped  it  with  brutal 
passion. 

The  shape  of  the  aquiline  nose,  resembling  the  beak  of 
a  bird  of  prey,  the  dark  puckered  ring  round  a  tawny  eye, 
the  prominent  bones  of  hollow  cheeks,  the  deep,  unbending 


278  THE    HATED    SON 

linos  of  the  face,  and  the  contemptuous  pout  of  the  under- 
lip,  all  revealed  ambition  and  despotism  and  force,  all  the 
more  to  be  dreaded  because  a  narrow  skull  betrayed  a  total 
lack  of  wit,  and  courage  devoid  of  generosity.  This  face 
was  horribly  disfigured,  too,  by  a  long  scar  across  the  right 
cheek,  looking  almost  like  a  second  mouth.  The  Count, 
at  the  age  of  two  and  twenty,  eager  to  distinguish  himself 
in  the  unhappy  religious  struggle  for  which  the  massacre 
of  Saint  Bartholomew's  gave  the  signal,  had  been  terribly 
wounded  at  the  siege  of  La  Rochelle.  The  disfigurement 
of  this  wound  increased  his  hatred  for  the  heretical  party, 
and  by  a  very  natural  instinct  he  included  in  his  antipathy 
every  man  with  a  handsome  face.  Even  before  this  dis- 
aster he  had  been  so  ill-favored  that  no  lady  would  accept 
his  homage.  The  only  passion  of  his  youth  had  been  for  a 
famous  beauty  known  as  the  Fair  Roman.  The  suscepti- 
bility that  came  of  this  fresh  disfigurement  made  him  diffi- 
dent to  the  point  of  believing  it  impossible  that  he  could 
ever  inspire  a  genuine  passion,  and  his  temper  became  so 
savage  that  if  he  ever  had  a  successful  love  adventure  he 
must  have  owed  it  to  the  terror  inspired  by  his  cruelty. 

This  terrible  Catholic's  left  hand,  which  lay  outside  the 
bed,  spread  out  so  as  to  guard  the  Countess  as  a  miser  guards 
his  treasure,  completed  the  picture  of  the  man ;  that 
enormous  hand  was  covered  with  hair  so  long,  it  showed 
such  a  network  of  veins  and  such  strongly  marked  muscles, 
that  it  looked  like  a  branch  of  beech  in  the  clasp  of  cling- 
ing, yellow  ivy  shoots.  A  child  studying  the  Count's  face 
would  have  recognized  in  him  one  of  the  ogres  of  which 
dreadful  tales  are  told  by  old  nurses. 

Only  to  note  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  place  filled 
by  the  Count  was  enough  to  show  how  huge  a  man  he  was. 
His  bushy,  grizzled  eyebrows  shaded  his  eyelids  in  such 
a  way  as  to  add  to  the  light  in  his  eyes,  which  sparkled 
with  the  ferocious  glare  of  a  wolf's  at  bay  in  the 
thicket.  Below  his  leonine  nose,  a  large  unkempt  mous- 
tache— for    he    scorned    the    cares    of    the    toilet — hid    his 


THE    HATED    SON  279 

Upper  lip.  Happily  for  the  Countess,  her  husband's  large 
mouth  was  at  this  moment  speechless;  for  the  softest  ac- 
cents of  that  hoarse  voice  made  her  shudder.  Though  the 
Comte  d'Herouville  was  hardly  fifty  years  old,  at  first  sight 
he  might  have  passed  for  sixty,  so  strangely  had  the  fatigues 
of  war  marred  his  face,  though  they  had  not  injured  his 
strong  constitution;  but  he  cared  little  enough  to  be  taken 
for  a  popinjay. 

The  Countess,  who  was  nearly  eighteen,  was  indeed  a 
contrast  to  his  huge  figure,  pitiable  to  behold.  She  was  fair 
and  slender;  her  chestnut  hair,  with  gleams  of  gold  in 
it,  fell  on  her  neck  like  a  russet  cloud,  and  formed  the  set- 
ting for  a  delicate  face  such  as  Carlo  Dolce  loved  for  his 
ivory-pale  Madonnas,  who  look  as  if  they  were  sinking 
under  the  burden  of  physical  suffering,  you  might  have 
deemed  her  an  angel  sent  to  mitigate  the  violent  will  of  the 
Comte  d'Herouville, 

"No,  he  will  not  kill  us,"  said  she  to  herself,  after  gazing 
for  some  time  at  her  husband.  "Is  he  not  frank,  noble, 
brave,  and  true  to  his  word?  True  to  his  word!"  As  she 
thought  over  this  a  second  time  she  shuddered  violently  and 
seemed  stupefied. 

To  understand  the  horror  of  the  Countess'  immediate 
position,  it  is  necessary  to  explain  that  this  nocturnal  scene 
took  place  in  1591 ;  a  period  when  civil  war  was  raging  in 
France,  and  the  laws  were  inefl^ective.  The  excesses  of  the 
Ligue,  averse  to  Henri  IV.'s  succession  to  the  throne,  sur- 
passed all  the  calamities  of  the  wars  of  religion.  License 
had  indeed  reached  such  a  pitch  that  no  one  was  surprised 
to  see  a  powerful  lord  effecting  the  murder  of  his  enemy, 
even  in  broad  daylight.  When  a  military  manoeuvre,  under- 
taken for  private  ends,  was  conducted  in  the  name  of  the 
King  or  of  the  Ligue,  it  was  always  cried  up  by  one  side  or 
the  other.  It  was  thus,  indeed,  that  Balagny,  a  common 
soldier,  was  within  an  ace  of  being  a  sovereign  prince  at  the 
very  gates  of  France. 

As  to  murders  committed  in  the  family  circle,  if  I  jnay 


280  THE    HATED    SON 

use  such  a  phrase,  "no  more  were  they  heeded,"  says  a  con- 
temporary writer,  "than  the  cutting  of  a  sheaf  of  straw," 
unless  they  were  marked  by  aggravated  cruelty.  Some  time 
before  the  King's  death,  a  lady  of  the  Court  assassinated 
a  gentleman  who  had  spoken  of  her  in  unseemly  terms.  One 
of  Henri  III.'s  favorites  had  said  to  him : 

"And  by  the  Lord,  sir,  she  stabbed  him  handsomely." 

The  Comte  d'JIerouvillc,  one  of  the  most  rabid  royalists 
in  I^sormandy,  maintained  obedience  to  the  rule  of  Henri 
IV.  by  the  severity  of  his  executions  in  all  that  part  of  the 
province -that  lay  adjacent  to  Brittany.  As  head  of  one  of 
the  richest  houses  in  France,  he  had  added  considerably  to 
his  income  from  broad  lands  by  marrying,  seven  months 
before  the  night  on  which  this  tale  opens,  Jeanne  de  Saint- 
Savin,  a  young  lady  who,  by  a  sort  of  luck  that  was  com- 
mon enough  those  days,  when  men  died  off  like  flies,  had 
unexpectedly  combined  in  her  own  person  the  wealth  of  both 
branches  of  the  Saint-Savin  family.  Necessity  and  terror 
•were  the  only  witnesses  to  this  union. 

At  a  banquet  given  two  months  later,  by  the  town  of 
Bayeaux  to  the  Comte  and  Comtesse  d'Herouville  in  honor 
of  their  marriage,  a  discussion  arose,  which  in  those  igno- 
rant times  was  thought  preposterous  enough;  it  related  to 
the  legitimacy  of  children  born  ten  months  after  a  woman's 
widowhood  or  seven  months  after  the  wedding. 

"Madame,"  said  the  Count,  turning  brutally  on  his  wife, 
"as  to  your  giving  me  a  child  ten  months  after  my  death, 
I  cannot  help  myself.  But  I  advise  you  not  to  begin  with 
a  seven-months'  babe !" 

"Why,  what  would  you  do,  you  old  bear  ?"  asked  the  young 
Marquis  de  Verneuil,  fancying  that  the  Count  was  in  jest. 

"I  would  wring  both  their  necks  at  once,  mother  and  child." 

So  peremptory  a  reply  closed  the  discussion  imprudently 
opened  by  a  gentleman  of  Lower  Normandy.  The  guests 
sat  silent,  gazing  at  the  pretty  young  Countess  with  a  sort 
of  terror.  They  were  all  fully  persuaded  that  in  such  an 
Qvent  this  ferocious  noble  would  carrv  out  his  threat. 


THE    HATED    SON  281 

The  Count's  speech  had  sunk  into  the  soul  of  the  unhappy 
young  wife,  and  at  that  instant  one  of  those  flashes  of  fore- 
sight that  sear  the  victim  like  a  lightning  gleam  in  the  fu- 
ture, warned  her  that  her  child  would  be  born  at  seven 
months.  An  inward  flame  glowed  through  her  from  head 
to  foot,  concentrating  all  vitality  about  her  heart  so  intensely, 
that  she  felt  as  if  her  body  were  in  a  bath  of  ice.  And  since 
then  not  a  day  had  passed  without  this  chill  of  secret  terror 
.coming  to  check  the  most  innocent  impulses  of  her  soul. 
The  memory  of  the  Count's  look  and  tone  of  voice  as  he 
spoke  that  sentence  of  death,  could  still  freeze  the  Countess' 
blood  and  quell  her  pain  while,  leaning  over  that  sleeping 
face,  she  tried  to  read  in  it  some  signs  of  the  pity  she  vainly 
sought  when  it  was  waking. 

The  child,  doomed  to  die  before  it  was  born,  was  strug- 
gling now,  with  increased  energy,  to  come  to  the  light  of 
day,  and  she  moaned,  in  a  voice  like  a  sigh : 

"Poor  little  one " 

But  she  got  no  further;  there  are  ideas  which  no  mother 
can  endure.  Incapable  of  reason  at  such  a  moment,  the 
Countess  felt  herself  suffocating  under  an  unknown  anguish. 
Two  tears  overflowed  and  trickled  down  her  cheeks,  leaving 
two  glistening  streaks,  and  hanging  from  the  lower  part  of 
her  white  face  like  dewdrops  from  a  lily.  Who  would  dare 
to  assert  that  the  infant  lives  in  a  neutral  sphere  which  the 
mother's  emotions  cannot  reach,  during  those  times  when 
the  soul  enwraps  the  body  and  communicates  its  impressions, 
when  thought  stirs  the  blood,  infusing  healing  balm  or 
liquid  poison.  Did  not  the  terror  that  rocked  the  tree  in- 
jure the  fruit?  Were  not  the  words,  "Poor  little  one!"  a 
doom  inspired  by  a  vision  of  the  future?  The  mother  shud- 
dered with  vehement  dread,  and  her  foresight  was  piercing. 

The  Count's  stinging  retort  was  a  link  mysteriously 
binding  his  wife's  past  life  to  this  premature  childbirth. 
Those  odious  suspicions,  so  publicly  proclaimed,  had  cast 
on  the  Countess'  memories  a  light  of  terror  which  was  re- 
flected on  the  future.     Ever  since  that  disastrous  banquet. 


2H2  THE    HATED    SON 

slie  had  been  perpetually  slriviug  to  chase  away  a  thousand 
scattered  images  which  she  feared  as  iiuieh  as  any  other 
woman  would  have  delighted  in  recalling  tliem,  and  which 
haunted  her  in  spite  of  her  efforts.  Slic  would  not  allow 
herself  to  look  back  on  the  happy  days  when  her  heart  had 
been  free  to  love.  Like  some  native  melody  which  brings 
tears  to  the  exile,  these  reminiscences  brought  her  such  de- 
lightful feelings  that  her  youthful  conscience  regarded  them 
as  so  many  crimes,  and  used  them  to  make  the  Count's  threat' 
seem  all  the  more  dreadful :  this  was  the  secret  horror  that 
tortured  the  Countess. 

Sleeping  faces  have  a  certain  mildness  that  is  due  to  the 
perfect  repose  of  body  and  brain ;  but  though  this  truce  made 
little  alteration  in  the  hard  expression  of  the  Count's  fea- 
tures, illusion  displays  such  an  attractive  mirage  to  the  un- 
happ}--,  that  the  girl  wife  at  last  took  some  hope  from  this 
apparent  peace.  The  storm,  now  spending  itself  in  torrents 
of  rain,  was  audible  only  as  a  melancholy  moan;  fear  and 
pain  both  gave  her  a  brief  respite.  As  she  gazed  on  the 
man  to  whom  fate  had  linked  her,  the  Countess  allowed  her- 
self to  indulge  in  a  day-dream  of  such  intoxicating  sweet- 
ness that  she  had  not  the  strength  of  mind  to  break  the  spell. 

In  a  moment,  by  one  of  those  visions  which  seem  to  have 
some  touch  of  divine  power,  she  saw  in  a  flash  the  picture 
of  happiness  now  lost  beyond  recall. 

First,  as  in  a  distant  dawn  of  day,  Jeanne  saw  the  unpre- 
tending home  M'here  she  had  spent  her  careless  childhood, — 
the  green  grass-plot,  the  purling  stream,  and  the  little 
room,  the  scene  of  her  baby-games.  She  saw  herself  pluck- 
ing flowers,  to  plant  them  again,  wondering  why  they  always 
faded  without  growing,  in  spite  of  constant  watering. 
Presently,  but  at  first  in  dim  confusion,  the  huge  town  ap- 
peared, and  the  great  house  blackened  by  time,  wlrither  her 
mother  had  taken  her  at  the  age  of  seven.  Tier  mocking 
memory  showed  her  the  elderly  faces  of  the  masters  who  had 
teased  her;  and.  amid  a  flood  of  Italian  and  Spanish  words, 
repeating  songs  in  her  brain  to  the  music  of  a  pietty  rebec, 


THE    HATED    SON  283 

she  saw  her  father's  figure.  She  went  out  to  meet  the  Presi- 
dent  on  his  return  from  the  court  of  justice,  she  saw  hiui 
dismount  from  his  mule,  by  the  step,  tooli  his  hand  to  mount 
the  stairs,  while  her  prattle  chased  the  anxieties  he  could 
not  always  put  off  with  his  black  or  red  gown,  trimmed  with 
the  black  and  white  fur  which  in  sheer  mischief  she  had 
clipped  with  her  scissors. 

She  merely  glanced  at  her  aunt's  confessor,  the  Prior  of 
the  Convent  of  Poor  Clares,  a  stern  and  fanatical  priest  who 
was  to  initiate  her  into  the  mysteries  of  religion.  Hardened 
by  the  intolerance  induced  b}^  heresy,  this  old  man  was  per- 
petually rattling  the  chains  of  Hell;  he  would  talk  of  noth- 
ing but  the  vengeance  of  Heaven,  and  terrified  her  by  im- 
pressing on  her  that  she  was  perpetually  in  the  sight  of  God. 
Thus  intimidated  she  dared  not  lift  her  eyes,  and  thence- 
forth felt  nothing  but  respect  for  her  mother  Mdiom  she  had 
till  then  made  the  partner  of  all  her  fun.  Religious  awe 
took  possession  of  her  youthful  soul  whenever  she  saw  that 
well-beloved  mother's  blue  eyes  turned  on  her  with  an  angry 
look. 

Then  suddenly  she  was  in  her  later  childhood,  while  as 
yet  she  understood  nothing  of  life.  She  half  laughed  at  her- 
self as  she  looked  back  on  the  days  when  her  whole  joy  Avas 
to  sit  at  work  with  her  mother  in  the  small  tapestried  room, 
to  pray  in  a  vast  church,  to  sing  a  ballad  accompanying  her- 
self on  the  rebec,  to  read  a  tale  of  knight-errantry  in  secret, 
to  pull  a  flower  to  pieces  out  of  curiosity,  to  find  out  what 
present  her  father  had  in  store  for  the  high  festival  of  St. 
John, — her  patron  saint, — and  to  guess  at  the  meaning  of 
speeches  left  unfinished  in  her  presence.  And  then  with  a 
thought  she  wiped  out  these  childish  joys  as  we  efface  a  word 
written  in  pencil  in  an  album,  dismissing  the  scenes  her  im- 
agination had  seized  upon  from  among  those  the  first  sixteen 
years  of  her  life  could  offer,  to  beguile  a  moment  when  she  was 
free  from  pain. 

The  charm  of  that  limpid  ocean  was  then  eclipsed  by  the 
glories  of  a  more  recent  though  less  tranquil  memory.     The 


284  THE    HATED    SON 

glad  peace  of  her  childhood  was  far  less  sweet  than  any  one 
ui  the  agitations  that  had  come  into  the  last  two  years  of  her 
life, — years  rich  iu  delights  forever  buried  in  her  heart.  The 
Countess  suddenly  found  herself  in  the  middle  of  an  en- 
chanting morning  when,  quite  at  the  end  of  the  large  carved 
oak  room  that  was  used  as  a  dining-room,  she  saw  her  hand- 
some cousin  for  the  first  time.  Her  mother's  family,  alarmed 
by  the  riots  in  Paris,  had  sent  this  young  courtier  to  Rouen, 
hoping  that  he  would  learn  his  duties  as  a  magistrate  under 
the  eye  of  his  grand-uncle  whose  post  he  might  one  day  hope 
to  fill.  The  Countess  involuntarily  smiled  as  she  recalled 
the  swiftness  with  which  she  made  her  escape  as  she  caught 
sight  of  this  unknown  relative.  In  spite  of  her  quickness 
in  opening  and  shutting  the  door,  that  one  glance  had  left 
so  strong  an  impression  on  her  mind  of  the  whole  scene,  that 
at  this  moment  she  seemed  to  see  him  exactly  as  he  had 
looked  w^ien  he  turned  round.  She  had  then  merely  stolen 
an  admiring  peep  at  the  taste  and  magnificence  of  his  Paris- 
made  dress;  but  now,  bolder  in  her  reminiscences,  her  eye 
more  deliberately  studied  his  cloak  of  violet  velvet  embroid- 
ered with  gold  and  lined  w^ith  satin,  the  spurs  that  ornamented 
his  boots,  the  pretty  lozenge-shaped  slashings  of  his  doublet 
and  trunk  hose,  and  the  falling  ruff  of  handsome  lace  that 
showed  a  neck  as  white  as  itself.  She  stroked  a  face  adorned 
w^ith  a  small  moustache  parted  and  curled  up  at  each  end, 
and  with  a  royale  of  beard  like  one  of  the  ermine  tails  in 
her  father's  robe. 

In  the  silence  and  the  darkness,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  silk 
curtains  which  she  had  ceased  to  see,  forgetful  of  the  storm 
and  of  her  husband,  the  Countess  dared  to  remember  how, 
after  many  days  which  seemed  like  years  so  full  were  they, 
the  garden  shut  in  hy  old  dark  walls,  and  her  father's  gloomy 
house  seemed  to  her  luminous  and  golden.  She  loved  and 
was  loved !  How,  in  fear  of  her  mother's  stern  eye,  she  had 
stolen  one  morning  into  her  father's  study  to  tell  her  maiden 
secret,  after  perching  herself  on  his  knees  and  playing  such 
pretty  tricks  as  had  brought  a  smile  to  those  eloquent  lips, — 


THE    HATED    SON  285 

a  smile  for  which  she  waited  before  she  said:  "And  will  you 
be  very  angry  with  me  if  I  tell  you  something?"  He  had 
asked  her  many  questions,  and  she  for  the  first  time  told  her 
love;  and  she  could  hear  him  now  saying:  "Well,  my  child, 
we  will  see.  If  he  works  hard,  if  he  means  to  take  my  place, 
if  you  still  like  him,  I  will  enter  into  the  plot."  She  had 
listened  no  more ;  she  had  hugged  her  father  and  upset  every- 
thing, as  she  flew  off  to  the  great  lime-tree  where  every 
morning,  before  her  formidable  mother  was  up,  she  kept 
tryst  with  the  fascinating  Georges  de  Chaverny.  The  young 
courtier  promised  to  devour  Law  and  Custom,  and  he  aban- 
doned the  splendid  adornments  of  the  nobility  of  the  sword 
to  assume  the  severe  dress  of  a  magistrate. 

"I  like  you  so  much  better  in  black !"  she  had  told  him. 

It  was  not  true,  but  the  fib  had  mitigated  the  lover's  vexa- 
tion at  having  to  throw  away  his  weapons. 

The  memory  of  her  wiles  to  cheat  her  mother,  who  had 
seemed  sternly  severe,  revived  the  joys  of  her  innocent  love, 
authorized  and  reciprocated :  some  meeting  under  the  limes 
where  they  could  move  freely  and  alone;  some  furtive  em- 
braces, stolen  kisses, — all  the  artless  first-fruits  of  a  passion 
never  overstepping  the  limits  of  modesty.  Living  through 
those  rapturous  days  once  more,  as  in  a  dream  she  dared  to 
kiss,  in  empty  space,  the  young  face  with  glowing  eyes,  the 
rosy  lips  that  had  spoken  so  perfectly  of  love. 

She  had  loved  Chaverny,  poor  in  riches ;  but  what  treasures 
had  she  not  discovered  in  a  soul  as  gentle  as  it  was  strong? 

Then,  suddenly,  her  father  had  died;  Chaverny  was  not 
appointed  to  his  place;  civil  war  broke  out  in  flames.  By 
her  cousin's  help  she  and  her  mother  had  found  a  secret 
asylum  in  a  small  town  of  Lower  Normandy. 

And  presently  the  successive  deaths  of  various  relations 
had  left  her  one  of  the  richest  heiresses  in  France.  But  with 
comparative  poverty  all  joy  had  fled.  The  ferocious  and 
terrible  face  of  the  Comte  d'Herouville,  a  suitor  for  her 
hand,  rose  up  like  a  thunder-cloud  spreading  a  pall  over  the 
gladness  of  the  earth,  till  now  bathed  in  golden  sunshine. 


286  THE    HATED    SON 

The  hapless  Countess  tried  to  shake  off  her  memories  of 
the  scenes  of  tears  and  despair  brought  about  by  her  per- 
sistent refusal.  Vaguely  she  saw  the  burning  of  the  little 
town,  Chaverny  as  a  Huguenot  cast  into  prison,  threatened 
with  death,  awaiting  a  hideous  martyrdom.  And  then  came 
the  dreadful  night  when  her  mother,  pale  and  dying,  fell  at 
her  feet.  Jeanne  could  save  her  cousin — she  yielded.  It 
was  night;  the  Count,  blood-stained  from  the  fight,  was  at 
hand;  a  priest  seemed  to  spring  from  the  earth,  torches,  a 
church;  Jeanne  was  doomed  to  misery. 

Hardly  could  she  say  good-bye  to  the  handsome  cousin 
she  had  rescued. 

"Chaverny,  if  you  love  me,  never  see  me  more !" 

She  heard  her  noble  lover's  retreating  steps,  and  never  saw 
him  again.  But  she  cherished  his  last  look  in  the  depths 
of  her  heart,  the  look  she  so  often  saw  in  her  dreams  bring- 
ing light  into  them. 

Like  a  cat  shut  up  in  a  lion's  cage  the  young  wife  was 
in  perpetual  dread  of  her  master's  claws,  ever  raised  to  strike 
her.  The  Countess  felt  it  as  crime  when,  on  certain  days 
signalized  by  some  unexpected  pleasure,  she  put  on  the  dress 
that  the  girl  had  worn  the  first  time  she  had  seen  her  lover. 
If  she  meant  to  be  happy  now  it  could  only  be  by  forgetting 
the  past  and  thinking  only  of  the  future. 

"I  do  not  feel  that  I  am  guilty,"  said  she  to  herself ;  "but 
if  I  am  guilty  in  the  Count's  eyes,  is  it  not  the  same  thing? 
And  perhaps  I  am.  Did  not  the  Holy  Virgin  conceive  with- 
out  ?" 

She  checked  herself. 

At  this  instant,  when  her  ideas  were  so  hazy  and  her  spirit 
was  wandering  in  the  world  of  fancies,  her  guilelessness  made 
her  ascribe  to  her  lover's  last  look,  projecting  his  very  life, 
the  power  exerted  over  the  mother  of  the  Saviour  by  the 
angel's  visit.  But  this  idea,  worthy  of  the  age  of  innocence 
to  which  her  dreams  had  carried  her  back,  vanished  at  the 
recollection  of  a  conjugal  scene  more  horrible  than  death. 
The  poor  Countess  had  no  doubts  as  to  the  legitimacy  of 


THE    HATED    SON  287 

the  child  that  was  causing  her  such  anguish.  The  first  night 
of  her  married  life  rose  before  her  in  all  the  horror  of  mar- 
tyrdom, followed  by  many  worse,  and  by  more  cruel  days. 

''Ah,  poor  Chaverny !"'  cried  she  with  tears,  "you  who  were 
so  gentle,  so  gracious — you  always  were  good  to  me !" 

She  looked  round  at  her  husband,  as  to  persuade  herself 
yet  that  his  face  promised  her  the  mercy  she  had  paid  for 
so  dearly. 

The  Count  was  awake.  His  tawny  eyes,  as  bright  as  a 
tiger's,  gleamed  under  his  bushy  eyebrows,  and  their  gaze 
liad  never  been  more  piercing  than  at  this  moment.  The 
Countess,  terrified  by  their  glare,  shrank  under  the  counter- 
pane and  lay  perfectly  still. 

"What  are  these  tears  for?"  asked  the  Count,  sharply, 
pulling  aside  the  sheet  under  which  his  wife  was  hidden. 
This  voice,  which  always  terrified  her,  was  at  this  moment 
tempered  to  a  semblance  of  kindness  which  she  deemed  of 
good  augury. 

"I  am  in  great  pain,"  said  she. 

"Well,  sweetheart,  and  is  it  a  crime  to  be  in  pain?  Why 
do  you  tremble  when  I  look  at  you?  Alas,  what  must  I  do 
to  be  loved?" 

All  the  wrinkles  in  his  face  seemed  to  gather  between  his 
eyebrows. 

"I  am  always  a  terror  to  you,  I  can  see  it !"  he  added  with 
a  sigh. 

Prompted  by  the  instinct  of  feeble  creatures,  the  Countess 
interrupted  her  husband  with  moans  of  pain,  and  then  ex- 
claimed :  "I  fear  I  may  be  suffering  from  a  miscarriage.  I 
was  walking  on  the  rocks  all  the  afternoon  and  have  per- 
haps overtired  myself " 

As  he  heard  this  speech,  the  Sire  d'Herouville  gave  his 
wife  a  glance  so  full  of  suspicion  that  she  turned  red  and 
shuddered.  He  mistook  the  artless  girl's  fear  of  him  for  the 
pangs  of  remorse. 

"Perhaps  it  is  the  beginning  of  timely  labor?"  he  asked. 

"And  if  so?"  said  she. 
VOL.  6 — 44 


288  THE    HATED    SON 

"If  SO,  and  in  any  case,  we  must  have  tht  help  of  a  skilled 
leech,  and  J  will  go  to  find  one." 

The  gloom}-  air  with  which  he  spoke  froze  tiie  Countess: 
she  sank  Ijack  in  tlie  bed  with  a  sigh  wrung  from  her  more 
by  a  warning  of  her  doom  than  by  the  pangs  of  the  immi- 
nent ciisis.  This  groan  oidy  convinced  the  Count  of  the 
probability  of  the  suspiciims  aroused  in  his  mind.  While 
affecting  a  composure  to  which  his  tone  of  voice,  his  way  of 
moving,  and  his  looks  gave  the  lie,  he  hastily  got  up,  wrapped 
himself  in  his  bed-gown  that  lay  in  an  armchair,  and  began 
by  locking  a  door  near  the  fireplace,  leading  to  the  state 
rooms  and  the  grand  staircase.  On  seeing  her  Imsband  pocket 
the  key  a  forecast  of  misfortune  oppressed  the  young  wife; 
she  heard  him  open  a  door  opposite  to  that  he  had  locked, 
and  go  into  the  room  where  the  d'llerouvilles  slept  when 
they  did  not  honor  their  wives  with  their  noble  company. 
The  Countess  knew  nothing  of  this  but  from  hearsay; 
Jealousy  kept  her  husband  always  at  her  side.  If  military 
service  required  his  absence  from  the  state  bed,  the  Count 
left  more  than  one  Argus  at  the  castle,  whose  constant  watch- 
fulness proved  his  odious  doubts. 

In  spite  of  the  effort  made  by  the  Countess  to  catch  the 
slightest  sound,  she  heard  no  more.  The  Count  had  made 
his  way  into  a  long  corridor  adjoining  his  room,  occupying 
the  western  wing  of  the  building.  His  uncle.  Cardinal 
d'Herouville,  an  enthusiastic  amateur  of  printed  books,  had 
collected  there  a  library  of  some  interest  alike  from  the  num- 
ber and  the  beauty  of  the  volumes,  and  prudence  had  led  him 
to  adopt  in  the  walls  one  of  the  inventions  due  to  monastic 
solitude  or  timidity.  A  silver  chain  attached  to  concealed 
wires  acted  on  a  bell  hanging  by  the  bed  of  a  faithful  re- 
tainer. The  Count  pulled  the  chain,  a  squire  -of  his  guard 
ere  long  approached,  his  boots  and  spurs  clanging  on  the 
echoing  steps  of  a  newel  stair  in  the  high  turret  that  flanked 
the  western  angle  of  the  castle  on  the  side  towards  the  sea. 

As  he  heard  the  man  come  up,  the  Count  went  to  stir  the 
rust  on  the  iron  springs  and  bolts  which  clo.sed  the  secret 


THE    HATED    SON  289 

door  from  the  tower  into  the  gallery,  admitting  to  this  sanc- 
tuary of  learning  a  man-at-arms  whose  stalwart  build 
showed  him  to  be  worthy  oi  his  master.  This  retainer,  only 
half  awake,  seemed  to  have  made  his  way  by  instinct;  the 
horn  lantern  he  carried  threw  so  dim  a  light  down  the  long 
room  that  his  master  and  he  were  visible  in  the  gloom  like  a 
couple  of  ghosts. 

"Saddle  •  my  charger  this  minute ! — and  you  must  come 
with  me." 

The  order  was  given  with  an  emphatic  ring  that  startled 
the  man  into  comprehension;  he  looked  up  at  the  Count, 
and  met  so  piercing  a  look  that  it  was  like  an  electric  shock. 

"Bertrand,"  the  Connt  added,  laying  his  right  hand  on 
his  squire's  arm,  "take  off  your  armor  and  put  on  the  uni- 
form of  a  captain  of  the  Spanish  guard." 

"  'Sdeath,  monseigneur !  What,  disguise  myself  as  an 
adherent  of  the  Ligue  ?  Pardon  me,  I  will  obey ;  but  I  would 
as  lief  be  hanged." 

The  Count,  flattered  on  his  weak  side,  smiled ;  but  to  cover 
this  expression,  so  strongly  in  contrast  with  that  which  char- 
acterized his  features,  he  went  on  roughly: 

"Take  a  horse  out  of  the  stable  strong  enough  to  enable 
you  to  keep  up  with  me.  We  must  fly  like  bullets  shot  out 
of  an  arquebus.     Be  ready  by  the  time  I  am.     I  will  ring." 

Bertrand  bowed  in  silence  and  departed;  but  when  he  had 
gone  down  a  few  steps,  he  said  to  himself  as  he  heard  the 
howling  gale : 

"All  the  devils  are  loose,  by  the  Mass !  I  should  have 
been  astonished  if  this  one  had  remained  quiet.  It  was  on 
just  such  a  night  that  we  took  Saint-L6." 

The  Count  returned  to  his  room  and  found  the  dress  which 
often  did  him  service  in  carrying  out  a  stratagem.  After 
putting  on  a  shabby  doublet  that  looked  as  if  it  belonged  to 
one  of  the  poor  troopers  who  were  so  rarely  paid  by  Henri 
IV.,  he  returned  to  the  room  where  his  wife  lay  moaning. 

"Try  to  suffer  in  patience,"  he  said.  "I  will  kill  my  horse 
if  necessary  to  come  back  the  quicker  and  ease  your  pain  " 


290  THE    HATED    SON 

Thej-e  was  nothing  sinister  in  this  speech,  and  the  Countess, 
taking  heart,  was  on  the  point  of  asking  a  question,  when  the 
Count  sudik'iily  went  on: 

"Can  you  tell  me  where  your  masks  are  kept?" 

"My  masks  ?"  replied  she.  "Good  God !  What  do  you 
want  with  them?" 

"Where  are  they  ?"  he  repeated,  with  his  usual  violence. 

"In  the  cabinet,"  said  she. 

The  Countess  could  not  help  shuddering  when  she  saw 
her  husband  select  from  among  her  things  a  half-mask, 
which  the  ladies  of  that  time  were  as  much  accustomed  to 
use  as  ladies  of  the  present  day  are  to  wearing  gloves.  When 
the  Count  had  put  on  a  shabby  gray  felt  hat  with  a  broken 
cock's  feather,  he  was  quite  unrecognizable.  He  buckled  a 
broad  leather  belt  about  his  middle,  and  stuck  through  it  a 
dagger  which  he  did  not  usually  carry. 

These  squalid  garments  gave  him  so  terrible  an  aspect, 
and  he  approached  the  bed  with  so  strange  a  look,  that  the 
Countess  thought  her  last  hour  had  come. 

"Oh,  do  not  kill  us !"  she  cried.  "Leave  me  my  child  and 
I  will  love  you  well." 

"You  must  feel  guilty,  indeed,  to  offer  me  as  a  ransom 
for  your  sins,  the  love  you  lawfully  owe  me." 

The  Count's  voice  sounded  lugubrious  through  the  vel- 
vet, and  these  bitter  w'ords  were  emphasized  by  a  look  as 
heavy  as  lead,  crushing  the  Countess  as  it  fell  on  her. 

"Dear  God!"  she  cried  sadly.    "Then  is  innocence  fatal?" 

"It  is  not  your  death  that  is  in  question,"  replied  her  lord, 
rousing  himself  from  the  brown  study  into  which  he  had 
sunk;  "but  you  are  required  to  do  exactly,  and  for  love  of  me, 
what  at  this  moment  I  demand  of  you." 

He  tossed  one  of  the  masks  on  the  bed,  and  smiled  con- 
temptuously as  he  saw  the  start  of  involuntary  terror  that 
the  light  touch  of  the  black  velvet  caused  his  wife. 

"You  will  give  me  but  a  puny  babe !"  said  he.  "When  I 
return,  let  me  find  you  with  this  mask  over  your  face.     I 


THE    HATED    SON  291. 

will  not  suffer  any  base-born  churl  to  be  able  to  boast  of 
having  seen  the  Comtessc  d'Herouville." 

"Why  fetch  a  man  to  perform  this  office?"  she  asked,  in 
a  low  voice. 

"Heyday,  my  lady,  am  not  I  the  master  here?"  replied  the 
Count. 

"What  matters  a  mystery  more  or  less  ?"  said  the  Countess 
in  despair. 

Her  lord  had  disappeared,  so  the  exclamation  was  not  a 
danger  to  her;  though  the  oppressor's  measures  are  as  far- 
reaching  as  the  terrors  are  of  his  victim.  In  one  of  the  brief 
Dauses  that  divided  the  more  violent  outbursts  of  the  storm, 
the  Countess  heard  the  tramp  of  two  horses  that  seemed  to 
be  flying  across  the  dangerous  sand  hills  and  rocks,  above 
which  the  old  castle  was  perched.  This  sound  was  soon 
drowned  under  the  thunder  of  the  waves. 

She  presently  found  herself  a  prisoner  in  this  dismal 
room,  alone  in  the  dead  of  a  night  by  turns  ominously  calm 
or  threatening,  and  with  no  one  to  help  her  avert  a  disaster 
which  was  coming  on  her  with  rapid  strides.  The  Countess 
tried  to  think  of  some  plan  for  saving  this  infant  conceived 
in  tears,  and  already  her  only  comfort,  the  mainspring  of 
her  thoughts,  the  future  hope  of  her  affections,  her  sole  and 
f'rail  hope.  Emboldened  by  a  mother's  fears,  she  went  to 
take  the  little  horn  which  her  husband  used  for  summoning 
his  people,  opened  a  window,  and  made  the  brass  utter  its 
shrill  blast  which  was  lost  across  the  waste  of  waters,  like  a 
bubble  blown  into  the  air  by  a  child. 

She  saw  how  useless  was  this  call  unheeded  by  man,  and 
walked  through  the  rooms  hoping  that  she  might  not  find 
every  escape  closed.  Having  reached  the  library  she  sought, 
but  in  vain,  for  some  secret  exit,  she  felt  all  along  the  wall 
of  books,  opened  the  window  nearest  to  the  fore  court  of  the 
chateau,  and  again  roused  the  echoes  with  the  horn,  strug- 
gling in  vain  with  the  uproar  of  the  storm.  In  her  despair 
she  resolved  to  trust  one  of  her  women,  though  they  were  all 
her  husband's  creatures  •  but  on  going  into  the  little  oratory 


282  THE    HATED    SON 

she  saw  tliat  the  door  leading  from  this  suite  of  rooms  was 
locked. 

This  was  a  terrible  discovery.  Such  elaborate  precautions 
taken  to  isolate  her,  implied  a  purpose  of  proceeding  to 
some  terrible  deed. 

As  the  Countess  lost  all  hope,  her  sufferings  became  more 
severe,  and  more  racking.  The  horror  of  a  possible  murder, 
added  to  the  exhaustion  of  labor,  robbed  her  of  her  remain- 
iug  strength.  She  was  like  a  shipwrecked  wretch  who  is 
done  for  at  last  by  a  wave  less  violent  tliaii  many  he  has  buf- 
feted through. 

The  agonizing  bewilderment  of  pain  now  made  her  lose  all 
count  of  time.  At  the  moment  when  she  believed  that  the 
child  would  be  born,  and  she  alone  and  unholpen,  when  to 
her  other  terrors  was  added  the  fear  of  such  disaster  as  her 
inexperience  exposed  her  to,  the  Count  unexpectedly  arrived 
without  her  having  heard  him  come.  The  man  appeared 
like  a  fiend  at  the  expiration  of  a  compact,  claiming  the  soul 
that  ho  had  bargained  for;  he  growled  in  a  deep  voice  as  he 
saw  his  wife's  face  uncovered,  but  he  adjusted  the  mask  not 
too  clumsily,  and,  taking  her  up  in  his  arms,  laid  her  on 
the  bed  in  her  room. 

The  dread  of  this  apparition  and  of  being  thus  lifted  up 
made  her  forget  pain  for  a  moment ;  she  could  give  a  furtive 
glance  at  the  actors  in  the  mysterious  scene,  and  did  not 
recognize  Bertrand,  who  was  masked  like  his  master.  After 
hastily  lighting  some  candles,  of  which  the  glimmer  mingled 
Avith  the  first  sunbeams  that  peered  in  through  the  panes, 
the  man  went  to  stand  in  the  corner  of  a  window-bay. 
There,  with  his  face  to  the  wall,  he  seemed  to  be  measuring 
its  thickness;  and  he  stood  so  absolutely  still  that  he  might 
have  been  taken  for  a  statue. 

The  Countess  then  saw  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room 
a  fat  little  man,  quite  out  of  breath,  with  a  bandage  over  his 
eyes,  and  features  so  distorted  by  fear  that  it  was  impossible 
to  guess  what  tlieir  habitual  expression  might  be. 

"By  the  Rood,  master  leech."  said  the  Count,  restoring  the 


THE    HATED    SON  293 

stranger  to  the  use  of  his  eyes  by  twitching  the  bandage 
roughly  down  on  to  his  neck,  "beware  of  looking  at  any- 
thing but  the  miserable  creature  on  whom  you  are  to  exercise 
your  skill ;  or,  if  you  do,  I  fling  you  into  the  river  that  flows 
beneath  these  windows,  with  a  diamond  necklace  on  that  will 
Aveigh  a  hundred  pounds  and  more !"  And  he  gave  a  slight 
twist  to  the  handkerchief  that  had  served  to  bandage  his 
bewildered  hearer's  eyes. 

"First  see  if  this  is  a  miscarriage ;  in  that  case  you  answer 
for  her  life  with  your  own.  If  the  child  is  born  alive,  bring 
it  to  me." 

Having  made  this  speech,  the  Count  seized  the  unhappy 
leech  by  the  middle,  lifted  him  up  like  a  feather,  and  set 
him  down  by  the  side  of  the  Countess.  He  then  went  also 
to  the  "window,  where  he  stood  drumming  on  the  glass  with 
his  fingers,  looking  by  turns  at  his  man-at-arms,  at  the  bed, 
and  at  the  sea,  as  if  promising  the  expected  infant  that  the 
waves  should  be  its  cradle. 

The  man  whom  the  Count  and  Bertrand  had  with  brutal 
inhumanity  snatched  from  the  sweetest  slumbers  that  ever 
closed  mortal  eyes,  to  tie  him  on  to  the  crupper  of  a  horse 
which,  he  might  have  fancied,  had  all  hell  at  its  heels,  was 
a  personage  whose  physiognomy  was  characteristic  of  the 
period,  and  whose  influence  was  to  be  felt  on  the  House  of 
Herouville. 

At  no  period  were  the  noble  classes  less  informed  as  to 
natural  science,  and  never  was  astrology  in  greater  request 
than  at  this  time,  for  never  was  there  a  more  general  desire 
to  read  the  future.  This  common  ignorance  and  curiosity 
had  led  to  the  greatest  confusion  in  human  acquirements; 
everything  was  empirical  and  personal,  for  as  yet  theory  had 
lachieved  no  nomenclature;  printing  was  extremely  costly 
and  scientific  communication  was  slow.  The  Church  still 
persecuted  the  sciences  of  investigation  based  on  the  analysis 
of  natural  phenomena ;  and  persecution  engendered  secrecy. 
Hence  to  the  people  as  to  the  nobility,  physicist,  alchemist. 


294  THE    HATED    SON 

mathematician  and  astronomer,  astrologer  and  necromancei 
— all  were  embodied  in  the  leech  or  medical  practitioner. 
At  that  time  the  most  scientific  leech  was  suspected  of 
magic;  while  curing  llio  sick  he  was  expected  to  cast  horo- 
scopes. 

Princes  patronized  the  geniuses  to  whom  the  future  was 
revealed;  they  afforded  them  shelter  and  paid  them  pen- 
sions. The  famous  Cornelius  Agrippa,  who  came  to  France 
as  ph3^sician  to  ITenri  II.,  refused  to  foretell  events  as  Nos- 
tradamus did,  and  Catherine  de'  Medici  dismissed  him  in 
favor  of  Cosimo  Ruggieri.  Thus  those  m.en  who  were  in 
advance  of  their  age  and  really  worked  at  science  were 
rarely  appreciated;  they  all  inspired  the  terror  that  was 
felt  for  occult  studies  and  their  results. 

Without  being  quite  one  of  those  famous  mathematicians, 
the  man  snatched  up  by  the  Count  enjoyed  in  Normandy  the 
equivocal  reputation  of  a  leech  who  undertook  mysterious 
dealings.  This  man  was  the  sort  of  wizard  who  is  to  this 
day  known  to  the  peasants  in  various  parts  of  France  as  a 
bone-setter  (iin  rebouteur).  The  name  is  given  to  men  of 
uncultured  genius,  who,  without  any  professional  study  but 
hereditary  tradition,  and  often  by  the  long  practice  of  which 
observation  is  accumulated  in  a  family,  can  set  bones ;  that  is 
to  say,  remedy  fractured  and  dislocated  limbs,  besides  curing 
certain  maladies  in  man  and  beast,  and  possessing  secrets 
reputed  magical  for  the  treatment  of  more  serious  diseases, 

Maitre  Antoine  Beauvouloir — this  was  the  bone-setter's 
name — had  not  only  inherited  important  lore  from  his 
grandfather  and  father,  both  famous  practitioners,  but  he 
was  also  learned  in  medicine,  and  studied  natural  science. 
The  country  folks  saw  his  room  full  of  books  and  of  strange 
things,  which  gave  his  success  a  tinge  of  magic.  Without 
regarding  him  quite  as  a  sorcerer,  the  people  for  thirty 
leagues  about  treated  Antoine  Beauvouloir  with  a  respect 
verging  on  terror;  and.  which  was  far  more  dangerous  for 
him,  he  was  in  possession  of  secrets  of  life  and  death  con- 
cerning all  the  noble  families  of  the  province. 


THE    HATED    SON  295 

Like  his  grandfather  and  his  father,  he  was  famous  for 
his  skill  in  attending  childbirths,  abortions,  and  miscarriage. 

Now  in  these  troubled  times,  lapses  were  common  enough 
and  passion  violent  enough  to  require  the  highest  nobilit}' 
sometimes  to  initiate  Maitre  Beauvouloir  into  shameful  or 
terrible  decrets.  His  discretion,  which  was  necessary  to  his 
safety,  was  above  suspicion,  and  his  patients  paid  him  gen- 
erously, so  that  the  fortune  he  had  inherited  augmented  con- 
spicuously. 

Always  on  the  road, — sometimes  taken  by  surprise,  as  we 
have  just  seen,  sometimes  obliged  to  spend  several  days  in 
attendance  on  some  great  lady, — he  was  still  unmarried; 
besides,  his  ill  name  had  hindered  some  damsels  from  marry- 
ing him.  Not  so  base  as  to  find  consolations  in  the  chances 
of  a  profession  which  gave  him  so  much  power  over  feminine 
weakness,  the  hapless  bone-setter  felt  himself  fitted  for  such 
family  joys  as  he  might  not  allow  himself.  The  good  man 
hid  a  warm  heart  under  the  deceptive  surface  of  a  cheerful 
temper  that  matched  his  chubby  face,  his  rotund  person,  the 
nimbleness  of  his  fat  little  body,  and  the  bluutness  of  his 
speech. 

He  wished  to  marry,  to  have  a  daughter  who  might  confer 
his  wealth  on  some  man  of  family;  for  he  did  not  love  his 
calling  as  a  bone-setter,  and  longed  to  raise  his  family  from 
the  discredit  it  was  held  in  by  the  prejudices  of  the  time. 

However,  he  derived  no  small  satisfaction  from  the 
rejoicing  and  feasting  which  commonly  succeeded  his  prin- 
cipal achievements.  The  habit  of  finding  himself  the  most 
important  person  present  on  such  occasions  had  weighted  his 
liveliness  with  a  certain  grave  conceit.  His  ill-timed  jests 
even  were  generally  well  taken  in  critical  moments  when  he 
affected  a  certain  masterly  deliberateness.  Then  he  was  as 
inquisitive  as  a  pick-lock,  as  greedy  as  a  greyhound,  and  as 
gossiping  as  a  diplomatist  who  can  talk  without  ever  betray- 
ing a  secret.'  Barring  these  faults,  developed  by  the  various 
adventures  into  which  he  was  brought  by  his  profession, 
Antoine  Beauvouloir  passed  for  being  the  best  soul  in  Nor- 


296  Till-:    HATED    SON 

mandy.  Although  ho  was  one  of  the  few  men  superior  to  the 
spirit  of  the  age,  the  sound  sense  of  a  Normandy  countryman 
had  warned  liim  to  keep  his  acquired  ideas  and  discovered 
truths  to  liiniself. 

Finding  himself  by  the  bed  of  a  woman  in  labor,  the 
worthy  bone-setter  recovered  his  presence  of  mind.  He  pro- 
ceeded to  feel  the  masked  lady's  pulse,  without  thinking  about 
her,  however;  but,  under  cover  of  this  medical  pretence,  he 
could,  and  did,  reflect  on  his  own  position.  Never,  in  any  of 
the  disgraceful  and  criminal  intrigues  where  he  had  been  com- 
pelled by  force  to  act  as  a  blind  instrument,  had  precautions 
been  taken  with  so  much  care  as  in  the  present  instance. 
Although  his  death  had  often  been  a  matter  of  deliberation, 
as  a  way  of  securing  the  success  of  enterprises  in  which  he  had 
found  himself  engaged  in  spite  of  himself,  his  life  had  never 
seemed  more  uncertain  than  at  this  moment.  Before  any- 
thing he  was  determined  to  find  out  whom  he  was  serving, 
and  thus  ascertain  the  extent  of  his  danger,  so  as  to  be  able 
to  save  his  precious  skin. 

"What  is  the  trouble?"  he  asked  the  Countess  in  an 
undertone,  while  arranging  her  so  as  to  be  able  to  give  her 
the  benefit  of  his  experience. 

"Do  not  suffer  him  to  have  the  child." 

"Speak  out !"'  cried  the  Count  in  a  voice  of  thunder, 
which  hindered  the  leech  from  hearing  the  victim's  last 
word.  "Or  else,"  added  the  husband,  disguising  his  voice, 
"say  your  In  manus." 

"Ctj  aloud,"  said  Beauvouloir  to  the  lady.  "Cry  out,  by 
the  Mass !  This  man's  jewels  will  suit  your  neck  no  better 
than  mine.     Courage,  little  lady." 

"Go  gently!"  cried  the  Count. 

"My  lord  is  jealous,"  muttered  the  operator  in  a  low, 
sharp  tone  that  was  happily  drowTied  in.  the  Countess'  cries. 

Happily  for  Maitre  Beauvouloir,  nature  was  lenient.  It 
was  more  like  abortion  than  childbirth,  so  tiny  was  the 
infant  that  presently  appeared,  and  the  mother's  sufferings 
were  not  severe. 


THE    HATED   SON  297 

"By  the  Blessed  Virgin,"  exclaimed  the  bone-setter,  "this 
is  no  miscarriage." 

The  Count  stamped  the  floor  till  the  boards  quaked,  and 
the  Countess  pinched  the  leech. 

"Aha !  Now  I  understand,"  thought  he.  "Then  it  ought 
to  have  been  a  miscarriage?"  he  asked  in  a  whisper,  and  the 
Countess  answered  by  an  affirmative  nod,  as  if  she  dared 
not  in  any  other  way  express  herself.  "All  this  is  not  very 
clear,"  thought  the  good  man. 

Like  all  men  skilled  in  this  branch  of  the  medical  art, 
Beauvouloir  at  once  perceived  that  he  had  to  deal  with  a 
woman  in  her  first  trouble,  as  he  phrased  it  to  himself. 
Though  the  modest  inexperience  of  the  movements  plainly 
showed  the  Countess'  innocence,  the  leech,  meaning  to  be 
smart,  exclaimed: 

"The  lady  is  as  clever  at  it  as  if  she  had  never  done  any- 
thing else !" 

The  Count  then  said  with  a  coldness  that  was  even  more 
terrible  than  his  fury:   - 

"Give  me  the  child !" 

"Do  not  give  it  him,  for  God's  sake!"  said  the  mother, 
whose  almost  savage  cry  roused  a  generous  courage  in  the 
little  man,  attaching  him  much  more  than  he  would  have 
thought  possible  to  this  child  of  noble  birth  whom  its  father 
had  cast  off. 

"The  child  is  not  born  yet;  you  are  clamoring  for  noth- 
ing," he  said  coldly  to  the  Count,  covering  up  the  unhappy 
infant. 

Surprised  to  hear  no  cry,  the  leech  examined  the  child, 
believing  it  to  be  dead;  the  Count  discovered  the  deception 
and  sprang  on  him  with  a  single  bound. 

"By  God  and  all  His  saints !"  the  Count  yelled,  "will  you 
give  it  to  me?"  and  he  snatched  up  the  innocent  victim 
which  feebly  wailed. 

"Take  care !  It  is  deformed  and  scarcely  alive,"  said 
Maitre  Beauvouloir,  clutching  the  Count's  arm.  "A  seven- 
months'  child,  no  doubt." 


298  THE    HATED    SON 

And  with  a  superior  stren^lv  given  him  by  his  passion- 
ate excitcnicnl,  he  held  ihe  father's  hand,  whispering,  gasp- 
ing into  his  ear: 

"Spare  yourself  the  crime;  it  will  not  live " 

"Wretch !"  said  the  Count  in  a  fury,  as  the  bone-setter 
rescued  the  babe  from  his  hold,  "who  says  I  wish  the  child 
to  die?    Do  you  not  see  that  I  am  caressing  it?" 

"Wait  till  he  is  eighteen  years  old  before  you  caress  him 
in  that  fashion,"  replied  Beauvouloir,  reasserting  himself. 
"But,"  he  added,  thinking  of  his  own  safety,  for  he  had  now 
recognized  the  Comte  d'llerouville,  who  in  his  rage  had  for- 
gotten to  disguise  his  voice,  "have  him  baptized  at  onco  and 
say  nothing  of  mv  opinion  to  the  mother,  or  you  will  kill 
her." 

The  heartfelt  joy  betrayed  by  the  Count's  shrug  when  he 
was  told  that  the  infant  must  die,  had  suggested  this  speech 
to  the  old  leech  and  had  saved  the  child's  life.  Beauvouloir 
carried  it  back  forthwith  to  the  mother,  who  had  fainted 
away,  and  he  pointed  to  her  with  an  ironical  gesture  to 
frighten  the  Count  by  the  state  to  which  their  discussion  had 
reduced  her.  The  Countess,  indeed,  had  heard  all,  for  it  is 
a  not  uncommon  thing  for  the  senses  to  develop  extreme 
sensitiveness  in  such  critical  situations.  The  cries  of  her 
infant  lying  by  her  side  now  brought  her  back  to  conscious- 
ness as  if  by  magic,  and  she  could  have  believed  that  she 
heard  the  voice  of  angels  v\-hen,  under  cover  of  the  infant's 
wailing,  the  leech  said  in  her  ear : 

"Take  great  care  of  him  and  he  will  live  to  be  a  hundred. 
Beauvouloir  knows  what  he  is  saying." 

A  heavenly  sigh,  a  covert  pressure  of  the  old  man's  hand 
were  his  reward,  and  before  placing  the  tiny  creature  in  its 
impatient  mother's  arms,  he  carefully  examined  to  see 
whether  the  father's  "caress,"  of  which  the  print  still  re- 
mained on  its  skin,  had  done  no  injury  to  its  frail  frame. 

The  almost  insane  gesture  with  which  the  mother  hid  her 
babe,  and  the  threatening  look  she  flashed  at  the  Count 
through  the  eye-holes  of  her  mask  made  Beauvouloir  shudder. 


THE    HATED    SON  20& 

"She  will  die  if  she  loses  her  child  too  suddenly,"  he  said 
to  the  Count. 

During  the  latter  part  of  this  scene  the  Count  d'Herou- 
ville  seemed  to  have  seen  and  heard  nothing.  Motionless, 
absorbed  as  it  seemed  in  deep  meditation,  he  was  again 
drumming  with  his  fingers  on  the  window-panes.  But  at 
these  last  words  of  the  leech's  he  turned  upon  him  with  an 
impulse  of  frenzied  rage,  and  drew  his  dagger. 

"Contemptible  lout!"  cried  he  {manant,  a  nickname  used 
by  the  Eoyalists  to  insult  the  Leaguers),  "impudent  rascal! 
Science,  which  has  earned  you  the  honor  of  becoming  the 
helpmate  of  gentlemen  when  they  are  fain  to  prolong  or  cut 
short  a  hereditary  race,  hardly  avails  to  hinder  me  from 
freeing  Normandy  of  a  wizard." 

Still,  to  Beauvouloir's  great  relief,  the  Count  violently 
thrust  the  dagger  home  into  its  sheath. 

"Are  you  incapable  of  finding  yourself  for  once  in  the 
noble  presence  of  a  lord  and  his  lady,  without  suspecting 
them  of  those  base  calculations  which  you  allow  among  the 
common  herd,  forgetting  that  they,  unlike  the  gently  born, 
have  no  plausible  motive  for  them?  Am  I  likely  to  have 
state  reasons  for  the  action  you  choose  to  attribute  to  me? 
Kill  my  son !  Take  him  from  his  mother !  What  put  such 
nonsense  into  your  head  ?  Am  I  a  madman  ? — Why  alarm  us 
as  to  the  life  of  such  a  strong  infant  ?  Villain !  I  would 
have  you  know  that  I  distrusted  your  braggart  vanity.  If 
you  could  have  known  the  name  of  the  lady  you  have  brought 
to  bed,  you  would  have  boasted  of  having  seen  her !  Pasques 
Dieu !  And  you  might  by  excess  of  precaution  have  killed 
perhaps  the  mother  or  the  child.  But  remember  now,  your 
life  shall  answer  for  your  discretion  and  for  their  doing 
well !" 

The  leech  was  dismayed  by  this  sudden  change  in  the 
Count's  views.  This  extraordinary  fit  of  affection  for  the 
deformed  infant  frightened  him  more  than  the  fractious 
cruelty  and  gloomy  indiiference  of  the  Count's  previous 
demeanor.     In  fact,  his  tone,  as  he  spoke  the  last  words, 


300  THE    HATED    SON 

betrayed  a  more  elaborate  plot  to  achieve  a  purpose  which 
was  certainly  unchanged. 

Maitre  Beauvouloir  accounted  for  this  unforeseen  revul- 
sion by  the  promises  he  had  made  to  the  father  and  the 
mother. 

"I  have  it !"  thought  he.  "The  noble  gentleman  does  not 
wish  to  make  his  wife  hate  him;  he  will  trust  to  Providence 
in  the  person  of  an  ajjothecary.  I  must  try  to  warn  the  lady 
that  she  may  watch  over  her  noble  babe." 

He  was  approaching  the  bed,  when  the  Count,  who  had 
gone  to  a  closet,  stopped  him  by  an  imperative  word.  On 
seeing  the  Count  hold  out  a  purse  to  him,  Beauvouloir 
hastened,  not  without  an  uneasy  satisfaction,  to  pick  up 
the  red  net  purse,  full  of  gleaming  gold,  which  was  scorn- 
fully thrown  to  liim. 

"Though  you  ascribed  to  me  the  ideas  of  a  villain,  I  do 
not  think  myself  exonerated  from  paying  you  as  a  lord 
should.  I  say  nothing  about  secrecy.  This  man,"  and  he 
pointed  to  Bertraud,  "has  no  doubt  made  it  plain  to  you  that 
wherever  oak-trees  or  rivers  are  to  be  found,  my  diamonds 
and  my  necklaces  are  ready  for  such  caitiffs  as  dare  speak 
of  me." 

And  with  these  magnanimous  words  the  colossus  went 
slowly  up  to  the  speechless  leech,  noisily  drew  forward  a 
chair  and  seemed  to  bid  him  be  seated,  like  himself,  by 
the  lady's  bedside. 

"Well,  honey,"  said  he,  "at  last  we  have  a  son.  It  is  great 
joy  for  us.    Are  you  suffering?" 

"Xo,"  murmured  the  Countess. 

The  mother's  astonishment  and  timidity,  and  the  tardy 
expressions  of  the  father's  spurious  satisfaction,  all  convinced 
jMaitre  Beauvouloir  that  some  important  factor  here  escaped 
his  usual  acumen.  His  suspicions  were  not  allayed,  and  he 
laid  his  hand  on  the  lady's,  less  to  feel  her  pulse  than  to 
give  her  a  warning. 

"The  skin  is  moist,"  said  he.     "There  is  no  fear  of  any 


THE    HATED    SON  301 

untoward  symptoms.  There  will  be  a  little  milk-fever,  no 
doubt;  but  do  not  be  alarmed;  it  will  be  nothing." 

The  wily  leech  paused,  and  pressed  the  Countess'  hand  to 
attract  her  attention. 

"If  you  wish  to  have  no  fears  for  your  child,  madame," 
said  he,  "keep  it  always  under  your  own  eye.  Let  it  feed 
for  a  long  time  on  the  milk  its  little  lips  are  already  seeking. 
Nurse  it  yourself,  and  never  give  it  any  apothecaries'  drugs. 
The  breast  is  the  cure  of  all  infantile  complaints.  I  have 
seen  many  a  birth  at  seven  months,  but  never  one  accom- 
panied by  less  pain.  It  is  not  surprising,  the  child  is  so 
thin.  I  could  put  it  in  a  shoe !  I  do  not  believe  it  weighs 
fifteen  ounces.  Milk,  milk!  If  he  is  always  lying  on  your 
breast  you  will  save  him." 

These  words  were  emphasized  by  another  pressure  of  her 
fingers.  In  spite  of  two  shafts  of  flame  shot  by  the  Count 
through  the  eye-holes  of  his  mask,  the  good  man  spoke  with 
the  imperturbable  gravity  of  a  leech  determined  to  earn 
his  fee. 

"How  now,  bone-setter,  you  are  leaving  your  old  black 
hat  behind  you !"  said  Bertrand,  as  he  escorted  the  apothe- 
cary out  of  the  room. 

The  motive  of  the  Count's  clemency  towards  his  son  was 
based  on  a  legal  et  cetera.  At  the  moment  when  Beauvouloir 
rescued  him  from  his  clutches,  avarice  and  the  usage  of  Nor- 
mandy rose  before  his  mind.  Each,  by  a  sign  as  it  were, 
numbed  his  fingers  and  silenced  his  vengeful  passions.  One 
suggested  to  him,  "Your  wife's  property  will  not  come  to 
the  family  of  Herouville  unless  through  an  heir  male."  The 
other  pictured  the  Countess  as  dead  and  her  estates  claimed 
by  a  collateral  branch  of  the  Saint-Savins.  Both  counseled 
him  to  leave  the  removal  of  the  changeling  to  the  act  of 
nature  and  await  the  birth  of  a  second  born,  strong  and 
healthy,  when  he  might  snap  his  fingers  at  his  wife's  chances 
of  living  and  at  his  first-born. 

He  did  not  see  the  child,  he  saw  an  estate,  and  suddenly 
his  afi'ection  was  as  large  as  his  ambition.     In  his  anxiety 


dOfl  THE    HATED    SON 

to  comply  with  the  rctiuirenients  of  custom,  he  only  wished 
that  this  ha  If -dead  babe  should  acquire  the  appearance  of 
strength. 

The  mother,  who  knew  the  Count's  temper,  was  even  more 
astonished  than  the  leech;  she  still  had  some  instinctive 
fears,  which  she  sometimes  boldly  expressed,  for  the  courage 
of  a  mother  had  in  an  instant  given  her  strength. 

For  some  days  the  Count  was  assiduous  in  his  care  of  his 
wife,  showing  her  such  attentions  as  interest  dictated,  giving 
them  even  a  show  of  tenderness.  The  Countess  was  quick 
to  perceive  that  they  were  for  her  alone.  The  father's  hatred 
of  his  child  was  visible  in  the  smallest  details ;  he  would  never 
look  at  it  or  touch  it;  he  would  start  up  suddenly  and  go 
away  to  give  orders  the  instant  it  was  heard  to  cry;  in 
short,  he  seemed  to  forgive  it  for  living  only  in  the  hope  of 
its  dying. 

Even  this  much  of  self-restraint  was  too  great  an  effort  for 
the  Count.  On  the  day  when  he  discovered  that  the  mother's 
keen  e3'e  saw,  without  understanding,  the  danger  that  threat- 
ened her  child,  he  announced  that,  on  the  morrow  of  the 
Countess'  thanksgiving  service,  he  would  leave  home,  on  the 
pretext  of  leading  his  men-at-arms  to  the  assistance  of  the 
King. 

Such  were  the  circumstances  which  preceded  and  sur- 
rounded the  birth  of  fitienne  d'Herouville.  Even  if  the 
Count  had  not  had,  as  an  all-sufficient  reason  for  constantly 
desiring  the  death  of  this  disowned  son,  the  fact  that  he  had 
wished  it  from  the  first,  even  if  he  would  have  smothered  the 
odious  human  instinct  of  persecuting  the  victim  who  has 
already  suffered,  and  if  he  had  not  been  under  the  intol- 
erable necessity  of  feigning  affection  for  a  hapless  changeling 
of  whom  he  believed  Chaverny  to  be  the  father,  poor  little 
Etienne  would  none  the  less  have  been  the  object  of  his 
aversion.  The  misfortune  of  his  rickety  and  sickly  consti- 
tution, aggravated,  perliaps,  by  the  paternal  caress,  was  a 
standing  offence  to  his  pride  as  a  father. 


THE    HATED    SON  303 

Though  he  execrated  handsome  men,  he  no  less  detested 
weakly  men  in  whom  intelligence  supplied  the  place  of 
strength  of  body.  To  please  him  a  man  must  be  ugly,  tall, 
stalwart,  and  ignorant,  fitienne,  whose  delicate  frame  com- 
pelled him  in  some  sort  to  devote  himself  to  sedentary 
studies,  was  certain  to  find  in  his  father  a  relentless  foe.  His 
struggle  with  the  giant  had  begun  in  his  cradle,  and  his  only 
ally  against  so  formidable  an  antagonist  was  his  mother's 
heart ;  a  love  which,  by  a  touching  law  of  nature,  was  in- 
creased by  the  dangers  that  threatened  it. 

Left  in  sudden  and  utter  solitude  by  her  husband's  abrupt 
departure,  Jeanne  de  Saint-Savin  owed  the  only  semblance 
of  happiness  that  could  cheer  her  life  to  her  infant.  This 
child,  for  whose  existence  she  had  suffered  on  the  score  of 
Chaverny,  was  as  dear  to  her  as  if  he  had  indeed  been  the 
offspring  of  illicit  passion ;  she  nursed  him  herself  and  felt 
no  weariness.  She  would  never  accept  any  help  from  her 
women ;  she  dressed  and  undressed  the  child,  taking  a  fresh 
pleasure  in  every  little  care.  This  incessant  occupation  and 
hourly  attention,  the  punctuality  with  which  she  w^ould 
wake  in  the  night  to  suckle  the  child,  were  unbounded  hap- 
piness. Joy  lighted  up  her  face  as  she  attended  to  the  little 
creature's  needs. 

As  :Stienne's  birth  had  been  premature,  many  little  gar- 
ments were  lacking;  these  she  would  make  herself,  and  she 
did  it  with  such  perfection  as  you  mistrusted  mothers  may 
imagine,  who  have  stitched  in  gloom  and  silence  for  your 
adored  little  ones.  Each  needleful  of  thread  brought  with 
it  a  memory,  a  hope,  a  wish,  a  thousand  thoughts  sewn  into 
the  stuff  with  the  dainty  patterns  she  embroidered.  A]\  these 
extravagances  were  repeated  to  the  Comte  d'Herouville  and 
added  to  the  gathering  storm.  The  hours  of  the  day  were 
too  few  for  the  myriad  interests  and  elaborate  precautions 
of  the  devoted  mother;  they  flew,  filled  with  secret  happi- 
ness. 

The  leech's  warnings  were  ever  present  to  the  Countess. 
She  dreaded  everything  for  the  child,  the  services  of  the 
VOL.  6 — 45 


804  THE    HATED    SON 

women  and  the  touch  of  the  men-servants;  gladly  would  she 
never  have  slept,  to  be  sure  that  nobody  came  near  fitienne 
while  she  was  slumbering;  he  slept  by  her  side.  In  short, 
suspicion  kept  watch  over  his  cradle. 

During  the  Count's  absence  she  even  dared  to  send  for  the 
leech,  whose  name  she  had  not  forgotten.  Beauvouloir  was 
to  her  a  man  to  whom  she  owed  an  immense  debt  of  grati- 
tude ;  but  above  all  she  wanted  to  question  him  as  to  a  thou- 
sand matters  concerning  her  son.  If  fitienue  was  to  be  poi- 
soned how  should  she  forefend  any  such  attempt?  How 
should  she  strengthen  his  feeble  constitution?  When  should 
she  fitly  wean  him?  If  she  should  die,  would  Beauvouloir 
undertake  to  watch  over  the  poor  little  one's  health? 

In  reply  to  the  Countess'  inquiries  Beauvouloir,  truly 
touched,  replied  that  he  too  feared  some  scheme  to  poison 
Etieune.  On  this  point  Madame  la  Comtesse  had  nothing 
to  fear  so  long  as  she  nursed  him ;  and  afterwards  he  ad- 
vised her  always  to  taste  the  child's  food. 

"If,  Madame  la  Comtesse,  you  should  at  any  time  notice 
any  flavor  that  strikes  you  as  strange,  pungent,  bitter, 
strong,  briny — anything  that  startles  your  taste,  reject  the 
food.  Let  all  the  child's  clothes  be  washed  in  your  presence, 
and  keep  the  key  of  the  closet  where  they  lie.  And  if  any- 
thing should  happen  send  for  me;  I  will  come." 

The  old  bone-setter's  advice  was  stamped  on  Jeanne's 
heart,  and  she  begged  him  to  depend  on  her  as  one  who 
would  do  all  in  her  power  to  serve  him.  Beauvouloir  then 
confided  to  her  that  she  had  his  happiness  in  her  hands. 

He  briefly  told  the  Countess  how  that  the  Comte  d'Herou- 
ville,  for  lack  of  fair  and  noble  dames  to  regard  him  with 
•favor  at  Court,  had  in  his  youth  loved  a  courtesan  known 
as  La  Belle  Romaine,  who  had  previously  been  mistress  to 
the  Cardinal  de  Lorraine.  This  woman,  whom  he  had  soon 
deserted,  had  followed  him  to  Rouen  to  beseech  him  in  favor 
of  a  daughter  to  whom  he  Mould  have  nothing  to  say, 
making  her  beauty  an  excuse  for  refusing  to  acknowledge 
her.     At  the  death  of  this  woman  in  extreme  poverty,  the 


THE    HATED    SON  305 

poor  girl,  whose  name  was  Gertrude,  and  who  was  even 
handsomer  than  her  mother,  was  taken  under  the  protection 
of  a  convent  of  Poor  Chires,  whose  Mother  Superior  was 
Mademoiselle  de  Saint-Savin,  the  Countess'  aunt. 

Beauvouloir,  having  been  sent  for  to  attend  Gertrude,  had 
fallen  madly  in  love  with  her. 

"If  you,  Madame  la  Conitesse,"  he  said  in  conclusion, 
"would  interfere  in  this  matter,  it  would  not  only  amply 
repay  anything  you  may  say  that  you  owe  me,  but  make  me 
eternally  your  debtor." 

It  would  also  justify  him  in  coming  to  the  chateau,  which 
was  not  without  danger  in  the  Count's  presence,  and  sooner 
or  later  the  Count  would  no  doubt  take  an  interest  in  such 
a  beautiful  girl,  and  might  some  day  perhaps  promote  her 
interests  by  making  him  his  physician. 

The  Countess,  soft-hearted  to  all  true  lovers,  promised  to 
help  the  poor  leech.  And  she  did  so  warmly  espouse  his 
cause,  that  on  the  occasion  of  the  birth  of  her  second  child, 
when,  as  was  then  the  custom,  she  was  authorized  in  asking. 
a  favor  of  her  husband,  she  obtained  a  marriage  portion  for 
Gertrude,  and  the  fair  bastard,  instead  of  taking  the  veil, 
married  Beauvouloir.  This  little  fortune  and  the  bone-set- 
ter's savings  enabled  him  to  purchase  Forcalier,  a  pretty 
little  place  adjoining  the  lands  of  Herouville,  which  was 
sold  by  its  owners. 

Thus  comforted  by  the  worthy  leech,  the  Countess  felt 
her  life  filled  by  joys  unknown  to  other  women.  Every 
woman  indeed  is  lovely  when  she  presses  her  babe  to  her 
breast  to  still  its  cries  and  soothe  its  little  pains;  but  even 
in  an  Italian  picture  it  would  be  hard  to  find  a  more  touch- 
ing sight  than  the  young  Countess  as  she  saw  Bltienne  thriv- 
ing on  her  milk,  and  her  own  blood,  as  it  were,  infusing  life 
into  the  little  creature  whose  life  hung  on  a  thread. 

Her  face  beamed  with  love  as  she  looked  at  the  adored 
infant,  dreading  lest  she  should  indeed  discern  in  him  a 
feature  resembling  Chavorny,  of  whom  she  had  too  often 
thought.     These  reflections,  mingling  on  her  brow  with  the 


30e  THE   HATED   SON 

expression   of  her  joy,   the  brooding  eye   with   which   she 

watched  her  bou,  her  longing  to  infuse  into  him  the  vitality 
t-he  felt  at  her  heart,  her  high  hoi)es,  the  prcttiness  of  her 
movements,  all  composed  a  i^iclure  that  won  the  women 
about  her;  the  Countess  triumphed  over  spies. 

Very  soon  these  two  weak  creatures  were  united  by  com- 
mon ideas,  and  understood  each  other  before  language  could 
help  them  to  explain  themselves.  When  l^ltienne  began  to 
use  his  eyes  with  the  wondering  eagerness  of  an  infant,  they 
fell  on  the  gloomy  panels  of  the  state  bedroom.  When  his 
youthful  ears  first  appreciated  sound,  and  discerned  their 
indifference,  he  heard  the  monotonous  dash  of  the  sea  as  the 
waves  broke  against  the  rocks  with  a  repetition  as  regular  as 
the  pendulum  of  a  clock.  Thus  place  and  sound  and  scenery, 
all  that  can  strike  the  senses,  prepare  the  intellect,  and 
form  the  character,  predisposed  him  to  melancholy. 

Was  not  his  mother  fated  to  live  and  die  amid  clouds  of 
sadness?  From  the  day  of  his  birth  he  might  easily  have 
supposed  that  she  was  the  only  being  existing  upon  earth, 
have  regarded  the  whole  world  as  a  desert,  and  have  been 
used  to  the  feeling  of  self-reliance  which  leads  us  to  live  in 
solitude,  and  seek  for  happiness  in  ourselves  by  developing 
the  resources  of  our  own  mind.  Was  not  the  Countess  con- 
demned to  pass  her  life  alone,  and  find  her  all  in  her  boy, 
who,  like  her  lover,  was  a  victim  to  persecution? 

Like  all  children  who  suffer  much,  Stienne  almost  always 
showed  the  passive  temper  which  was  so  sweetly  like  his 
mother's.  The  delicacy  of  his  nerves  was  so  great  that  a 
sudden  sound  or  the  presence  of  a  restless  and  noisy  person 
gave  him  a  sort  of  fever.  You  might  have  fancied  him  one 
of  those  frail  insects  for  which  God  seems  to  temper  the 
wind  and  the  heat  of  the  sun;  incapable,  as  they  are,  of 
fighting  against  the  least  obstacle,  he,  like  them,  simply 
yielded,  unresisting  and  uncomplaining,  to  everything  that 
opposed  him.  This  angelic  patience  filled  the  Countess  with 
a  deep  emotion  which  overruled  all  the  fatigue  of  the  con- 
stant attentions  his  frail  health  demanded  of  her. 


THE    HATED    SON  307 

She  could  thank  God  who  had  placed  ]&tienne  in  an  at- 
mosphere of  peace  and  silence,  the  only  surroundings  in 
which  he  could  grow  up  happy.  His  mother's  hands,  so 
strong  and  to  him  so  gentle,  would  often  lift  him  high  up 
to  look  out  of  the  pointed  windows.  From  them  his  eyes, 
as  blue  as  his  mother's,  seemed  to  be  taking  in  the  grandeur 
of  the  ocean.  The  pair  would  sit  for  hours  contemplating 
the  infinite  expanse  of  waters,  by  turns  gloomy  or  bright, 
silent  or  full  of  sound. 

These  long  meditations  were  to  fitienne  an  apprenticeship 
to  grief.  Almost  always  his  mother's  eyes  would  fill  with 
tears,  and  during  these  sad  day-dreams  Etienne's  little  face 
would  look  like  a  fine  net  puckered  by  too  heavy  a  load. 
Before  long  his  precocious  apprehension  of  sorrow  taught 
him  how  much  his  little  play  could  affect  the  Countess,  and 
he  would  try  to  divert  her  by  such  caresses  as  she  bestowed 
on  him  to  soothe  his  pain.  And  his  little  elfin  hands,  his 
babbled  words,  never  failed  to  dissipate  her  sadness.  If  he 
was  weary,  liis  instinctive  care  for  her  kept  him  from  com- 
plaining. 

"Poor,  sensitive  darling !"  cried  the  Countess,  seeing  him 
drop  asleep  from  fatigue  after  a  game  which  had  driven 
away  one  of  her  fits  of  brooding.  "Where  are  you  to  live? 
Who  will  ever  understand  you — ^}^ou,  whose  tender  soul  will 
be  wounded  by  a  stern  look?  You  who,  like  your  unhappy 
mother,  will  value  a  kindl}'^  smile  as  something  more  pre- 
cious than  all  else  this  world  can  bestow?  Angel,  your 
mother  loves  you !  But  who  will  love  you  in  the  world  ? 
Who  will  ever  suspect  the  jewel  hidden  in  that  frail  frame? 
No  one.  Like  me,  you  will  be  alone  on  earth.  God  preserve 
you  from  ever  knowing,  as  I  have  done,  a  love  approved  by 
God  but  thwarted  by  man." 

She  sighed  and  she  wept.  The  easy  attitude  of  her  child, 
as  he  slept  on  her  knees,  brought  a  melancholy  smile  to  her 
lips.  She  gazed  at  him  for  long,  enjoying  one  of  those  rap- 
tures which  are  a  secret  between  a  mother  and  God. 

Finding  how  greatly  her  voice,  with  the  accompaniment 


308  THE    HATED    SON 

nf  a  mandolin,  could  charm  her  hoy,  she  would  sing  the 
jirctty  hallads  of  tiie  time,  and  could  fancy  she  saw  ou  his 
lips,  smeared  with  milk,  the  smile  with  which  Georges  de 
Chaverny  had  heen  wont  to  thank  her  when  she  laid  down 
her  rebec.  She  blamed  herself  for  thus  recalling  the  past, 
but  she  returned  to  it  again  and  again.  And  the  child,  an 
unconscious  accomplice,  would  smile  at  the  very  airs  that 
Chaverny  had  loved. 

When  he  was  eighteen  months  old  the  child's  delicate 
health  had  never  yet  allowed  of  his  being  taken  out  of  the 
house,  but  the  faint  pink  that  tinged  the  pallid  hue  of  his 
cheek,  as  if  the  palest  petal  of  a  wild  rose  had  been  wafted 
there  by  the  wind,  promised  life  and  health.  Just  as  she 
was  beginning  to  believe  in  the  leech's  prognostics,  and  was 
rejoicing  in  having  been  able,  during  the  Count's  absence, 
to  surround  her  son  with  the  strictest  care  so  as  to  hedge  him 
in  from  all  danger,  letters,  written  by  her  husband's  secre- 
tary, announced  his  early  return. 

One  morning  when  the  Countess,  given  up  to  the  wild 
delight  of  a  mother  when  she  sees  her  first-born  attempt  his 
first  steps,  was  playing  with  fitienne  at  games  as  inde- 
scribable as  are  the  joys  of  memory,  she  suddenly  heard  the 
floor  creak  under  a  heavy  foot.  She  had  scarcely  started  to 
her  feet  with  an  involuntary  impulse  of  surprise  than  she 
found  herself  face  to  face  with  the  Count.  She  gave  a  cry; 
but  she  tried  to  remedy  this  rash  error  by  advancing  to  meet 
him,  her  brow  submissively  raised  for  a  kiss. 

"Why  did  you  not  give  me  warning  of  your  coming?"  said 
she. 

"The  reception,"  interrupted  the  Count,  "would  have  been 
more  cordial,  but  less  genuine." 

Then  he  caught  sight  of  the  child.  Its  frail  appearance 
at  first  provoked  him  to  a  gesture  of  astonishment  and  fury; 
but  he  controlled  his  rage  and  put  on  a  smile. 

"I  have  brought  you  good  news,"  he  went  on.  "1  am 
made  governor  of  Champagne,  and  the  King  promises  to 
create  me  a  duke  and  a  peer  of  the  realm.     Besides,  we  have 


THE    HATED    SON  309 

come  into  a  fortune;  that  damned  Huguenot  de  Chaverny 
is  dead." 

The  Countess  turned  pale,  and  sank  into  a  chair.  She 
could  guess  the  secret  of  the  sinister  glee  expressed  in  her 
husband's  face,  and  the  sight  of  Etienue  seemed  to  aggra- 
vate it. 

"Monsieur,"  said  she,  in  a  broken  voice,  "you  are  well 
aware  that  I  had  long  been  attached  to  my  cousin  de  Cha- 
verny.  You  will  account  to  God  for  the  pain  you  are  in- 
flicting on  me." 

At  these  words  the  Count's  eyes  flashed  fire;  his  lips  trem- 
bled so  that  he  could  not  speak,  so  mad  was  he  with  rage; 
he  flung  his  dagger  on  to  the  table  with  such  violence  that 
the  metal  rattled  like  a  thunder-clap. 

"Listen  to  me,"  said  he  in  his  deep  voice,  "and  mark  what 
I  say.  I  will  never  see  nor  hear  the  little  monster  you  have 
in  your  arms,  for  he  is  your  child  and  none  of  mine.  Has 
he  the  least  resemblance  to  me?  By  God  and  all  his  saints! 
Hide  him,  I  tell  you,  or  else " 

"Merciful  Heaven,"  cried  the  Countess,  "preserve  us." 

"Silence !"  said  the  big  man.  "If  you  do  not  want  me  to 
touch  him,  never  let  him  come  across  my  path." 

"Well,  then,"  said  the  Countess,  finding  courage  to  with- 
stand her  tyrant,  "swear  to  me  that  you  will  not  try  to 
kill  him  if  you  never  see  him  anywhere.  Can  I  trust  to  your 
honor  as  a  gentleman?" 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  this?"  exclaimed  the  Count. 

"Well,  kill  us  both,  then,"  cried  she,  falling  on  her  knees 
and  clasping  the  child  in  her  arms. 

"Rise,  madame;  I  pledge  you  my  word  as  a  gentleman 
to  do  nothing  against  the  life  of  that  misbegotten  abortion, 
so  long  as  he  lives  on  the  rocks  that  fringe  the  sea  below  the 
castle.  I  will  give  him  the  fisherman's  house  for  a  residence 
and  the  strand  for  his  domain.  But  woe  to  him  if  I  ever 
find  him  outside  those  limits." 

The  Countess  burst  into  bitter  weeping. 

"But  look  at  him  !"  said  she.    "He  is  your  son." 


310  THE    HATED    SON 

"Madame !" 

At  this  word  the  terrified  mother  carried  away  the  child, 
whose  hciut  was  beating  like  that  of  a  linnet  taken  from  its 
nest  by  a  country  lad. 

Whether  innocence  has  a  charm  which  even  the  most 
hardened  men  cannot  resist,  or  whether  the  Count  blamed 
himself  for  his  violence  and  feared  to  crush  a  woman  who 
was  equally  necessary  for  his  pleasure  and  plans,  by  the  time 
his  wife  returned  his  voice  was  softened  as  far  as  lay  in  his 
power. 

"Jeanne,  my  sweetheart,"  said  he,  "bear  me  no  ill-feeling, 
give  me  your  hand.  It  is  impossible  to  know  how  to  take  you 
women.  I  bring  you  honors  and  wealth,  pardie !  and  you 
receive  me  like  a  miscreant  falling  among  caitiffs.  My 
government  will  necessitate  long  absences  until  I  can  ex- 
change it  for  that  of  Xormandy ;  so  at  least  give  me  cordial 
looks  so  long  as  I  sojourn  here." 

The  Countess  understood  the  purport  of  these  words  and 
their  affected  sweetness  could  not  delude  her. 

"I  know  my  duty,"  said  she,  with  a  tone  of  melancholy 
which  her  husband  took  for  tenderness. 

The  timid  creature  was  too  pure-minded,  too  lofty,  to  at- 
tempt, as  some  cleverer  woman  would  have  done,  to  govern 
the  Count  by  carefully  regulated  conduct,  a  sort  of  prostitu- 
tion which  to  a  noble  soul  seems  despicable.  She  went 
slowly  away  to  comfort  her  despair  by  walking  with  fitienne. 

"By  God  and  His  saints !  Shall  I  never  be  loved  ?"  ex- 
claimed the  Count,  discerning  a  tear  in  his  wife's  eye  as  she 
left  him. 

Motherly  feeling,  under  these  constant  threats  of  danger, 
acquired  in  Jeanne  a  strength  of  passion  such  as  women 
throw  into  a  guilty  attachment.  By  a  sort  of  magic,  of 
which  every  mother's  heart  has  the  secret,  and  which  was 
especially  real  between  the  Countess  and  her  boy,  she  was 
able  to  make  him  understand  the  peril  in  which  he  lived, 
and  taught  him  to  dread  his  father's  presence.  The  miser- 
able scene  he  had  witnessed  remained  stamped  on  his  men?- 


THE    HATED    SON  311 

ory  and  produced  a  sort  of  malady.  At  last  he  could  fore- 
cast the  Count's  appearance  with  such  certainty,  that  if  one 
of  those  smiles,  of  which  the  dim  promise  is  visible  to  a 
mother's  eyes,  had  lighted  up  his  features  at  the  moment 
when  his  half-developed  senses,  sharpened  by  fear,  became 
aware  of  his  father's  tread  at  some  distance,  his  face  would 
pucker;  and  the  mother's  ear  was  not  so  quick  as  her  infant's 
instinct.  As  he  grew  older,  this  faculty,  created  by  dread, 
increased  so  much  that,  like  the  red  savages  of  America, 
:6tienne  could  distinguish  his  father's  step  and  hear  his 
voice  at  a  great  distance,  and  announce  his  approach.  This 
sympathy,  in  her  terror  of  her  husband,  at  such  an  early 
age,  made  the  child  doubly  dear  to  the  Countess;  and  they 
were  so  closely  united  that,  like  two  flowers  growing  on  one 
stem,  they  bent  to  the  same  gale  and  revived  under  the  same 
hopes.    They  lived  but  one  life. 

When  the  Count  departed  Jeanne  was  expecting  another 
child,  that  was  born  wat-h  much  sufl:ering  at  the  period  de- 
manded by  prejudice;  a  fine  boy,  which  in  a  few  months' 
time  was  so  exactly  like  his  father  that  the  Count's  aversion 
for  the  elder  was  still  further  increased. 

To  save  her  darling  the  Countess  consented  to  every  plan 
devised  by  her  husband  to  promote  the  happiness  and  for- 
tunes of  their  second  son,  fitienne,  promised  a  cardinal's 
hat,  was  driven  to  the  priesthood  that  Maximilien  might 
inherit  the  estates  and  titles  of  Herouville.  At  this  cost  the 
poor  mother  secured  peace  for  the  disowned  son. 

When  were  two  brothers  more  unlike  than  fitienne  and 
Maximilien?  The  younger  from  his  birth  loved  noise,  vio- 
lent exercise,  and  warfare;  and  the  Count  loved  him  as  pas- 
sionately as  his  wife  loved  fitienne.  By  a  natural  though 
tacit  understanding  each  of  them  took  chief  care  of  the  fa- 
vorite. 

The  Duke — for  by  this  time  Henry  IV.  had  rewarded  the 
great  services  of  the  Lord  of  Herouville — the  Duke  not  wish- 
ing, as  he  said,  t-  overtax  his  wife,  chose  for  Maximilien's 


:^12  THE    HATED    SON 

wet-nurse  a  sturdy  peasaiit-wifo  of  Beauvais,  found  by  Beau- 
vouloir. 

To  Jeanne's  great  joy,  he  distrusted  the  mother's  influence 
as  much  as  her  nursing,  and  determined  to  bring  up  his  boy 
after  his  own  mind.  Maximilien  imbibed  a  holy  horror  of 
books  and  letters;  he  learned  from  his  father  the  mechanical 
arts  of  military  life,  to  ride  on  horseback  from  the  earliest 
age,  to  fire  a  gun,  and  use  a  dagger.  As  he  grew  up  the 
Duke  took  the  boy  out  hunting  that  he  might  acquire  the 
brutal  freedom  of  speech,  rough  manners,  physical  strength, 
and  manly  look  and  tone  which  in  his  opinion  made  the  ac- 
complished gentleman.  At  twelve  years  old  the  young  no- 
bleman was  a  very  ill-licked  lion's  cub,  at  least  as  much  to 
be  feared  as  his  father,  by  wdiose  permission  he  might  and 
did  tyrannize  over  all  who  came  near  him. 

fitienne  lived  in  the  house  on  the  seashore  given  to  him  by 
his  father,  and  arranged  by  the  Duchess  in  such  a  way  as 
to  provide  him  with  some  of  the  comforts  and  pleasures  to 
which  he  had  a  right.  His  mother  spent  the  greater  part  of 
the  day  there.  She  and  her  boy  wandered  together  over 
rocks  and  beaches;  she  showed  fitienne  the  delimitation  of 
his  little  estate  of  sand,  shells,  seaweed,  and  pebbles,  and  her 
vehement  alarm  if  he  ever  crossed  the  border  line  of  the 
conceded  territory,  made  him  fully  understand  that  death 
lay  outside  it.  Eltienne  knew  fear  for  his  mother  before 
he  trembled  for  himself;  and  then  w^hile  still  young  he  felt  a 
panic  at  the  mere  name  of  the  Due  d'Herouville,  which  bereft 
him  of  all  energy,  and  filled  him  with  the  helpless  alarm  of  a 
girl  who  falls  on  her  knees  to  beseech  a  sign.  If  he  but  saw 
the  ominous  giant  in  the  distance,  or  only  heard  the  voice,  the 
dreadful  impression  that  remained  to  him  of  the  time  when 
his  father  had  cursed  him  froze  his  blood.  And  like  a  Lap- 
lander who  pines  to  death  when  removed  from  his  native 
snows,  he  made  a  happy  home  of  his  hut  and  the  rocks ;  if  he 
crossed  the  boundary  he  was  uneasy. 

The  Duchess,  perceiving  that  the  poor  child  could  find 
happiness  nowhere  but  in  a  restricted  and  silent  sphere,  re- 


THE    HATED    SON  318 

gretted  less  the  doom  imposed  upon  him;  she  took  advari' 
tage  of  his  compulsory  vocation  to  prepare  him  for  a  noble 
life  by  occupying  his  loneliness  in  the  pursuit  of  learning, 
and  she  sent  for  Pierre  do  Sebonde  to  dwell  at  the  castle  as 
preceptor  to  the  future  Cardinal  d'Herouville.  Notwith- 
standing his  being  destined  to  the  tonsure,  Jeanne  de  Saint- 
Savin  would  not  have  his  education  to  be  exclusively  priestly; 
by  her  active  interference  it  was  largely  secular.  Beauvouloir 
was  desired  to  instruct  fitienne  in  the  mysteries  of  natural 
science;  and  the  Duchess,  who  superintended  his  studies  to 
regulate  them  by  the  child's  strength,  amused  him  by  teach- 
ing him  Italian,  and  revealing  to  him  the  poetic  beauties  of 
the  language. 

While  the  Duke  was  leading  Maximilien  to  attack  the  wild 
boar  at  the  risk  of  being  badly  hurt,  Jeanne  was  guiding 
Eltienne  through  the  Milky  Way  of  Pctrarca's  sonnets,  or  the 
stupendous  labyrinth  of  the  Divina  Coin  media. 

In  compensation  for  many  infirmities,  nature  had  gifted 
Etienne  with  so  sweet  a  voice  that  the  pleasure  of  hearing  it 
was  almost  irresistible;  his  mother  taught  him  music.  Songs, 
tender  and  melancholy,  to  the  accompaniment  of  the  man- 
dolin, were  a  favorite  recreation  promised  by  his  mother  as 
the  reward  of  some  task  set  by  the  Abbe  de  Sebonde.  Etienne 
would  listen  to  his  mother  with  such  passionate  admiration 
as  she  had  never  before  seen  but  in  the  eyes  of  Chaverny. 

The  first  time  the  poor  soul  thus  revived  her  girlhood's 
memories,  she  covered  her  boy's  face  with  frenzied  kisses. 
She  blushed  when  Etienne  asked  her  why  she  seemed  to  love 
him  so  much  more  than  usual,  and  then  she  replied  that  she 
loved  him  more  and  more  every  hour.  Thus,  ere  long,  she 
found  in  the  care  needed  for  his  soul's  discipline  and  his 
mental  culture,  the  same  joys  as  she  had  known  in  nursing 
and  strengthening  her  boy's  frame. 

Though  mothers  do  not  always  grow  up  with  their  sons, 
the  Duchess  was  one  of  those  who  bring  into  their  mother- 
hood the  humble  devotion  of  love;  she  could  be  both  fond 
and  critical.     She  made  it  her  pride  to  help  Etienne  to  be- 


314  THE    HATED    SON 

come  in  every  respect  superior  to  herself,  and  not  to  govern 
him ;  perhaps  she  felt  herself  so  strong  in  her  unfathomable 
affection  that  she  had  no  fear  of  seeming  small.  Only  hearts 
devoid  of  tenderness  crave  to  domineer;  true  feeling  loves 
abnegation,  which  is  the  virtue  of  the  strong. 

If  fitienne  did  not  at  first  understand  some  demonstration, 
some  abstruse  text,  or  theorem,  the  poor  mother,  who  would 
sit  by  him  at  his  lessons,  seemed  to  long  to  infuse  into  him 
an  apprehension  of  all  knowledge,  as  of  old  at  his  faintest 
cry  she  had  fed  him  from  her  breast.  And  then  what  a  flush 
of  joy  crimsoned  her  cheeks  when  fitienne  saw  and  took  in 
the  meaning  of  things.  She  proved,  as  Pierre  de  Sebonde 
said,  that  a  mother  lives  a  double  life  and  that  her  feelings 
include  two  existences. 

The  Duchess  thus  enhanced  the  natural  feelings  that  bind 
a  son  to  his  mother  by  the  added  tenderness  of  a  resuscitated 
passion.  Etienne's  delicate  health  led  her  to  continue  for 
some  years  the  care  she  had  devoted  to  his  infancy.  She 
would  dress  him  and  put  him  to  bed;  none  but  she  ever 
combed  and  smoothed,  curled  and  scented  her  boy's  hair. 
This  toilet  was  one  long  caress;  she  kissed  the  beloved  head 
as  often  as  she  touched  it  lightly  with  the  comb. 

Just  as  a  woman  delights  in  being  almost  a  mother  to  her 
lover,  by  rendering  some  homely  service,  so  this  mother  in  a 
way  treated  the  child  as  a  lover;  she  saw  some  faint  like- 
ness in  him  to  the  cousin  she  still  loved  beyond  the  tomb. 
Etienne  was  like  the  ghost  of  Georges  seen  in  the  remote 
heart  of  a  magic  mirror,  and  she  would  tell  herself  that  there 
was  more  of  the  gentleman  than  of  the  priest  in  the  boy. 

"If  only  some  woinan  as  loving  as  I  am,  would  infuse  into 
him  the  life  of  love,  he  might  yet  be  very  happy,"  she  often 
reflected. 

But  the  all-powerful  interests  which  depended  on  :fitienne's 
becoming  a  priest"  would  come  to  her  mind,  and  she  would 
kiss  and  leave  her  tears  on  the  hair  which  the  shears  of  the 
Church  would  presently  cut  away. 

In  spite  of  the  unjust  conditions  imposed  by  the  Duke^ 


THE    HATED    SON  315 

in  the  perspective  her  eye  could  piclure,  piercing  the  thick 
darknes^s  of  the  future,  she  never  saw  Etienue  as  a  priest  or 
a  cardinal.  His  father's  utter  negleetfulness  allowed  her  to 
preserve  her  poor  boy  as  yet  from  taking  orders. 

"There  will  always  be  time  enough !"  she  would  say. 

And  without  confessing  the  thought  that  lay  buried  in 
her  heart,  she  trained  fitienne  in  the  fine  manners  of  the 
Court;  she  would  have  him  as  tender  and  gentle  as  Georges 
de  Chaverny.  Reduced  to  a  small  allowance  by  the  Duke's 
ambitions,  for  he  himself  managed  the  family  estates,  spend- 
ing all  his  revenues  in  ostentation,  or  on  his  retainers,  she 
had  adopted  the  plainest  attire  for  her  own  wear,  spending 
nothing  on  herself,  that  she  might  give  her  son  velvet  cloaks, 
high  boots  trimmed  with  lace,  and  doublets  of  rich  mate- 
rials, handsomely  slashed. 

These  personal  privations  gave  her  the  delight  of  the  secret 
sacrifices  we  hide  from  those  we  love.  It  was  a  joy  to  her, 
as  she  embroidered  a  ruff,  to  think  of  the  day  when  she  should 
see  it  on  her  boy's  neck.  She  alone  took  charge  of  fitienne's 
clothes,  linen,  perfumes,  and  dress;  and  she  dressed  herself 
only  for  him,  for  she  loved  to  be  thought  charming  by  him. 

So  much  care,  prompted  by  an  ardor  of  affection  which 
seemed  to  penetrate  and  vitalize  her  son's  frame,  had  its 
reward.  One  day  Beauvouloir,  the  good  man  who  had  made 
himself  dear  to  this  outcast  heir  by  his  teaching,  and  whose 
services  were  indeed  known  to  the  lad,  the  leech,  whose  anx- 
ious eye  made  the  Duchess  quake  every  time  it  rested  on  her 
fragile  idol,  pronounced  that  Etienne  might  enjoy  a  long  life 
if  no  too  violent  emotions  should  overtax  the  delicate  con- 
stitution. 

fitienne  was  now  sixteen. 

At  this  age  Etienne  was  not  tall  and  he  never  became  so; 
but  Georges  de  Chaverny  had  been  of  middle  height.  His 
skin,  as  clear  and  fine  as  a  little  girl's,  showed  the  delicate 
network  of  blue  veins  beneath.  His  pallor  was  of  the  texture 
of  porcelain.  His  light  blue  eyes  were  full  of  ineffable  sweet- 
ness and  seemed  to  crave  protection  of  man  and  woman  alike ; 


316  THE    HATED    SON 

the  ingratiating  softness  of  a  supplicant  beamed  in  his  look^ 
and  began  the  eliaini  which  the  melody  of  his  voice  achieved. 

Perfect  modesty  was  stamped  on  every  feature.  Long 
chestnut  hair,  smooth  and  glossy,  was  parted  over  his  brow 
and  fell  curling  at  the  ends.  But  his  cheeks  were  pale  and 
worn,  and  his  innocent  brow,  furrowed  with  the  lines  of 
congenital  suifering,  was  sad  to  sec;  while  his  mouth,  though 
pleasing  and  furnished  with  very  white  teeth,  had  the  sort 
of  fixed  smile  we  see  on  the  lips  of  the  dying.  His  hands,  as 
white  as  a  woman's,  were  remarkably  well-shaped. 

Much  thought  had  given  him  the  habit  of  holding  his 
head  down,  like  an  etiolated  plant,  and  this  stoop  suited  his 
general  appearance ;  it  was  like  the  last  touch  of  grace  which 
a  great  artist  gives  to  a  portrait  to  enhance  its  meaning. 
You  might  have  fancied  that  a  girFs  head  had  been  placed 
on  the  frail  body  of  a  deformed  man. 

The  studious  and  poetical  moods,  rich  in  meditation,  in 
which,  like  botanists,  we  scour  the  fields  of  the  mind,  the 
fruitful  comparison  of  various  human  ideas,  the  high 
thoughts  that  are  born  of  a  perfect  apprehension  of  works 
of  genius,  had  become  the  inexhaustible  and  placid  joys  of 
this  lonely  and  dreamy  existence. 

Flowers,  those  exquisite  creations  whose  fate  so  much 
resembled  his  own,  were  the  objects  of  his  love.  The  Duch- 
ess, happy  in  seeing  that  her  son's  innocent  pastimes  were 
such  as  would  preserve  him  from  the  rough  contact  of  social 
life,  which  he  could  no  more  have  endured  than  some  pretty 
ocean  fish  could  have  sursdved  the  touch  of  the  sun  on  the 
sands,  had  encouraged  fitienne's  tastes  by  giving  him  Span- 
ish romanceros,  Italian  motetti,  books,  sonnets,  and  poetry. 
The  Cardinal  d'Herouville's  library  had  heen  handed  over 
to  fitienne;  reading  was  to  be  the  occupation  of  his  life. 

Every  morning  the  boy  found  his  wilderness  bright  with 
pretty  flowers  of  lovely  hues  and  sweet  scent;  thus  his 
studies,  which  his  delicate  health  would  not  allow  him  to 
continue  for  long  at  a  time,  and  his  play  among  the  rocks. 


THE    HATED    SON  317 

were  relieved  by  endless  meditations  which  would  keep  him 
sitting  for  hours  as  he  looked  at  his  innocent  companions, 
the  flowers,  or  crouching  in  the  shade  of  a  boulder,  as  he 
pondered  on  the  mysteries  of  a  seaweed,  a  moss,  or  a  lichen. 
He  would  seek  a  poem  in  the  cup  of  a  fragrant  flower  as  a  bee 
might  rifle  it  for  honey. 

Often,  indeed,  he  would  simply  admire,  without  arguing 
over  his  enjoyment  of  the  delicate  tracery  of  a  richly  col- 
ored petal,  the  subtle  texture  of  these  cups  of  gold  or  azure, 
green  or  purple,  the  exquisite  and  varied  beauty  of  calyx 
and  leaf,  their  smooth  or  ^^elvety  surface,  that  were  rent — 
as  his  soul  would  be  rent — with  the  slightest  touch. 

At  a  later  time,  a  thinker  as  well  as  a  poet,  he  discerned 
the  reason  of  these  infinite  manifestations  of  nature  that 
was  still  the  same ;  for,  day  by  day,  he  advanced  in  the 
interpretation  of  the  sacred  Word  that  is  WTittcn  in  every 
form  of  creation.  These  persistent  and  secret  studies  car- 
ried on  in  the  occult  world  gave  his  life  the  half-torpid  ap- 
pearance of  meditative  genius. 

For  long  hours  fitienne  "would  bask  on  the  sands,  a  poet 
unawares.  And  the  sudden  advent  of  a  gilded  insect,  the 
reflection  of  the  sunbeams  from  the  sea,  the  twinkling  play 
of. the  vast  and  liquid  mirror  of  waters,  a  shell,  a  sea-spider — 
everything  was  an  event  and  a  delight  to  his  guileless  soul. 
To  see  his  mother  coming,  to  hear  the  soft  rustle  of  her 
gown,  to  watch  for  her,  kiss  her,  speak  to  her,  listen  to  her, 
all  caused  him  such  acute  excitement  that  some  little  delay 
or  the  least  alarm  would  throw  him  into  a  high  fever. 

All  his  life  was  in  his  soul;  and  to  save  the  still  frail  and 
weakly  body  from  being  destroyed  by  the  large  emotions  of 
that  soul,  ifitienne  needed  silence  and  kindness,  peace  in  the 
world  about  him,  and  a  woman's  love.  For  the  present  his 
mother  could  enwrap  him  in  love  and  kindness ;  the  rocks  were 
silent;  flowers  and  books  beguiled  his  solitude;  and  finally 
his  little  realm  of  sand  and  shells,  of  grass  and  seaweed, 
were  to  him  a  world  perennially  bright  and  new. 

:6tienne  got  all  the  benefit  of  this  absolutely  innocuous 


318  THE    HATED    SON 

physical  existence  and  this  poetically  noble,  moral  atmos- 
phere. A  boy  still  in  clcvelopnicnt,  a  man  in  mind,  he  was 
equally  angelic  from  both  points  of  view.  By  his  mother's 
guidance,  his  studies  had  lifted  his  emotions  to  the  sphere 
of  intellect.  Thus  the  activity  of  his  mind  worked  itself 
out  in  the  abstract  world,  far  from  the  social  life  whicii,  if 
it  had  not  killed  him,  would  have  brought  him  suffering. 
He  lived  in  the  soul  and  in  the  mind.  After  apprehending 
human  thought  through  reading,  he  rose  to  the  great  first 
principles  that  vitalize  matter,  he  felt  them  in  the  air  and 
read  thoughts  written  in  the  sky.  In  short,  he  had  at  an 
early  age  climbed  to  the  ethereal  heights  where  he  could  find 
fit  nourishment  for  his  soul, — a  nourishment  rare  but  intox- 
icating, which  inevitably  predestined  him  to  woe  on  the  day 
•when  this  accumulated  treasure  should  clash  with  the  other 
treasure  which  a  sudden  passion  brings  to  the  spirit. 

Though  Jeanne  de  Saint-Savin  sometimes  trembled  at  the 
thought  of  that  storm,  she  would  comfort  herself  by  a 
thought  suggested  by  her  son's  gloomy  vocation;  for  the 
poor  mother  knew  of  no  remedy  for  any  evil  but  the  accept- 
ance of  a  lesser  one.     Her  very  303^5  were  full  of  bitterness. 

"He  will  be  a  cardinal,"  she  would  reflect,  "he  will  live  for 
the  arts  and  be  their  patron.  He  will  love  Art  instead  of 
loving  a  woman,  and  Art  will  never  betray  him." 

Thus  the  happiness  of  this  devoted  mother  was  con- 
stantly qualified  by  the  painful  thoughts  to  which  fitienne's 
strange  position  in  his  family  gave  rise.  The  two  brothers 
had  grown  up  without  knowing  each  other;  they  had  never 
met :  each  knew  not  of  his  rival's  existence.  The  Duchess 
had  long  hoped  for  some  opportunity  during  her  husband's 
absence  when  she  might  bring  the  two  boys  together  and 
infuse  her  soul  into  them  both.  She  flattered  herself  that 
she  might  engage  Maximilien's  interest  in  fitienne  by  ex- 
plaining to  the  younger  brother  how  much  care  and  affection 
he  owed  to  the  elder,  in  return  for  the  renunciation  that  had 
been  imposed  upon  him,  and  to  which,  though  compulsory, 
fitienne  would  be  faithful.  But  this  hope,  long  fondly  cher- 
ished, had  vanished. 


THE    HATED    SON  319 

Far,  now,  from  wishing  to  make  the  brothers  acquainted, 
she  dreaded  a  meeting  between  fitienue  and  Maximilien 
even  more  than  between  her  boy  and  his  father.  Maximilien, 
who  could  believe  in  nothing  good,  would  have  feared  lest 
Etienne  should  one  day  assert  liis  forfeited  rights,  and  would 
have  thrown  him  into  the  sea  witli  a  stone  tied  to  his  neck. 

Never  had  a  son  so  little  respect  for  his  mother.  As  soon 
as  he  could  reason  at  all  he  perceived  how  small  was  the 
Duke's  regard  for  his  wife.  If  the  old  Governor  still  pre- 
served some  form  of  politeness  in  his  conduct  to  the  Duchess, 
Maximilien,  hardly  ever  restrained  by  his  father,  caused  her 
a  thousand  griefs. 

Old  Bertrand,  too,  took  care  that  Maximilien  should  never 
see  fitienne,  whose  very  existence  was  carefully  concealed 
from  him.  All  the  dependents  on  the  chateau  cordially  hated 
the  Marquis  de  Saint-Sever,  the  name  borne  by  Maximilien: 
and  all  who  knew  of  the  existence  of  the  elder  son  regarded 
him  an  instrument  of  vengeance  held  in  reserve  by  God. 
Thus  fitienne's  future  prospects  were  indeed  doubtful;  he 
might  be  persecuted  by  his  brother. 

The  poor  Duchess  had  no  relations  to  whom  she  could 
confide  the  life  and  interests  of  this  beloved  son;  and  might 
not  Etienne  blame  her,  if,  in  the  purple  robe  of  Rome,  he 
longed  to  be  such  a  father  as  she  had  been  a  mother? 

These  thoughts,  and  her  saddened  life,  full  of  un confessed 
griefs,  were  like  a  long  sickness  mitigated  by  gentle  treat- 
ment. Her  spirit  craved  for  skilful  kindness,  and  those 
about  her  were  cruelly  unpractised  in  gentleness.  What 
mother's  heart  but  must  ache  continually  as  she  saw  her 
eldest  born,  a  man  of  heart  and  intellect,  with  the  promise 
of  true  genius,  despoiled  of  all  his  rights,  while  the  younger, 
a  nature  of  coarse  homespun,  devoid  even  of  military  talent, 
was  destined  to  wear  the  ducal  coronet  and  perpetuate  the 
race?  The  House  of  Herouville  was  sacrificing  its  true 
glory.  The  gentle  Jeanne,  incapable  of  curses,  could  only 
bless  and  weep ;  but  she  often  raised  her  eyes  to  Heaven 

to  wonder  at  the  reason  for  this  strange  doom.     Her  eyes 
VOL.  6 — 4& 


320  THE    HATED    SON 

would  fill  with  tears  as  she  rellected  that,  at  iier  death,  her 
son  would  in  I'act  be  an  orphan  aud  the  object  oi'  a  brother's 
brutality,  who  knew  neither  faith  nor  law. 

So  much  suppressed  feeling,  her  first  love  never  forgotten, 
her  many  sorrows  unrevealed, — for  she  concealed  her  worst 
griefs  from  iier  adored  son, — her  ever  insecure  joys  and  in- 
cessant anxieties,  had  told  on  her  constitution,  and  sown 
the  seeds  of  a  decline  which,  far  from  amending,  seemed 
aggravated  day  by  day.  At  last  a  final  blow  developed  con- 
sumption. The  Duchess  tried  to  point  out  to  her  husband 
the  results  of  Maximilien's  training,  and  was  roughly  re- 
pulsed; she  could  do  nothing  to  counteract  the  evil  seed  that 
was  germinating  in  her  son's  heart.  She  now  fell  into  a 
state  of  such  evident  debility  that  her  illness  required  the 
promotion  of  Beauvouloir  to  the  position  of  leech  in  the 
castle  of  Hcrouville  to  the  Governor  of  Normandy;  so  the 
old  bone-setter  took  up  his  residence  there. 

In  those  days  such  places  were  given  to  the  learned  who 
thus  found  leisure  to  carry  out  their  studies,  and  the  main- 
tenance needful  to  enable  them  to  pursue  them.  Beauvouloir 
had  for  some  time  longed  for  this  position,  for  his  learning 
and  his  wealth  had  made  him  many  and  malignant  enemies. 
Notwithstanding  the  protection  of  an  illustrious  family  to 
whom  he  had  done  some  service  in  a  doubtful  case,  he  had 
recently  been  dragged  into  a  criminal  trial;  and  only  the 
intervention  of  the  Governor,  at  the  Duchess'  entreaty,  had 
saved  him  from  prosecution.  The  Duke  had  no  cause  to  re- 
pent of  the  public  protection  he  afforded  to  the  leech;  Beau- 
vouloir saved  the  IMarquis  de  Saint-Sever  from  an  illness 
so  dangerous  that  any  other  doctor  must  have  failed.  But 
the  Duchess'  malady  dated  from  too  far  back  to  be  healed, 
especially  when  the  wound  was  reopened  daily  in  her  own 
home.  When  it  was  evident  that  the  end  was  approaching 
for  this  angel  who  had  been  prepared  by  so  much  suffering 
for  a  happier  life  eternal,  death  was  hastened  by  her  gloomy 
forecast  of  the  future. 


THE    HATED    SON  321 

"What  will  become  of  my  poor  boy  without  me  ?"'  was  the 
thought  that  constantly  recurred  like  a  bitter  draught. 

At  last,  when  she  was  obliged  to  remain  in  bed,  the  Duch- 
ess faded  rapidly  to  the  tomb,  for  she  was  then  parted  from 
her  boy,  who  was  exiled  from  her  pillow  by  the  agreement  to 
which  he  owed  his  life.  His  grief  was  as  great  as  his 
mother's.  Inspired  by  the  genius  born  of  suppressed  feeling, 
Etienne  devised  a  highly  mystical  language  by  which  to  com- 
municate with  his  mother.  He  studied  the  use  of  his  voice 
as  the  most  accomplished  singer  might  have  done,  and  came 
to  sing  in  mournful  accents  under  the  Duchess'  window 
whenever  Beauvouloir  signaled  to  him  that  she  was  alone. 
Formerly,  in  his  cradle,  he  had  comforted  his  mother  by 
his  intelligent  smiles;  and  now,  a  poet,  he  soothed  her  by 
the  sweetest  melody. 

"Those  strains  give  me  life !"  the  Duchess  would  exclaim 
to  Beauvouloir,  breathing  in  the  air  that  wafted  the  sounds 
of  fitienne's  voice. 

At  last  the  day  came  when  the  disowned  son  was  plunged 
into  enduring  regrets.  Many  a  time  already  had  he  dis- 
cerned a  mysterious  connection  between  his  feelings  and  the 
motions  of  the  surges.  The  spirit  of  divination  of  the  im- 
pulses of  matter  which  he  derived  from  his  studies  of  the 
occult  sciences,  made  this  phenomenon  more  cogent  to  him 
than  to  many  another.  During  this  evening,  when  he  was 
called  to  see  his  mother  for  the  last  time,  the  ocean  was 
stirred  by  movements  which  seemed  to  him  passing  strange. 
There  was  a  convulsion  of  the  waters  as  though  the  depths 
of  the  sea  were  in  travail;  it  swelled  into  mounting  waves 
which  died  on  the  strand  with  dismal  sounds  like  the  yelping 
of  dogs  in  torment. 

Etienne  even  said  to  himself,  "What  is  it  that  the  sea 
wants  of  me?  It  is  tossing  and  complaining  like  a  living 
thing.  My  mother  has  often  told  me  that  the  ocean  was 
fearfully  convulsed  on  the  night  when  I  was  born.  What  is 
going  to  befall  me?" 

This  idea  kept  him  standing  at  his  cottage  window,  his 


322  THE    HATED    SON 

eyes  alternately  lixod  on  the  panes  of  the  room  where  his 
luother  lay  and  where  a  low  light  flickered,  and  on  the 
waters  wliich  were  still  breaking. 

Suddenly  lieauvouloir  knocked  gently  at  the  door,  opened 
it,  and  showed  a  face  dark  with  apprehension. 

"Monseigneur,"  said  he,  "Madame  la  Duchesse  is  in  such 
a  sad  state  that  she  wishes  to  see  you.  Every  precaution  has 
been  taken  to  forefend  any  evil  that  may  await  you  in  the 
castle;  but  we  must  be  very  prudent;  and  we  shall  be  obliged 
to  go  through  the  Duke's  room,  the  room  you  were  born  in." 

At  these  words  fitienne's  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  he 
exclaimed : 

"The  ocean  was  warning  me." 

He  mechanically  allowed  himself  to  be  conducted  to  the 
door  of  the  turret,  up  which  Bertrand  had  come  on  the  night 
that  saw  the  birth  of  the  disinherited  child.  The  man  was 
waiting  there,  lantern  in  hand,  fitienne  went  up  to  the 
Cardinal  d'Herouville's  great  library,  where  he  was  obliged 
to  wait  with  Beauvouloir,  while  Bertrand  went  to  open  the 
doors  and  reconnoitre  as  to  whether  the  lad  could  go  through 
without  danger. 

The  Duke  did  not  wake.  As  they  went  forward  with 
stealthy  steps,  fitienne  and  the  leech  could  not  hear  a  sound 
in  all  the  castle  but  the  feeble  moans  of  the  dying  woman. 
Thus  the  same  circumstances  as  had  attended  the  boy's  birth 
recurred  at  his  mother's  death ;  the  same  storm,  the  same 
anguish,  the  same  dread  of  waking  the  ruthless  giant  who 
was  now  sleeping  soundly.  To  forefend  all  risk,  the  hench- 
man took  fitienne  up  in  his  arms  and  carried  him  through 
the  formidable  master's  room,  prepared  to  make  an  excuse 
of  the  Duchess'  dying  state,  if  he  should  be  detected. 

fitienne  was  keenly  alive  to  the  fears  confessed  by  these 
two  faithful  servants,  but  the  agitation  prepared  him  in  some 
degree  for  the  scone  that  met  his  eyes  in  this  lordly  room, 
where  he  now  found  himself  for  the  first  time  since  the  day 
when  his  father's  curse  had  banished  him.  On  the  huge  bed, 
which  happiness  had  never  visited,  he  looked  for  the  loved 


THE    HATED    SON  323 

mother,  and  could  hardly  find  her,  so  cruelly  was  she  ema- 
ciated. As  white  as  the  lace  she  wore,  and  with  scarce  a 
breath  left,  she  collected  her  strength  to  take  fitienne's  hands, 
trying  to  give  him  her  whole  soul  in  one  long  look,  as,  long 
since,  Chaverny  had  bequeathed  to  her  his  whole  life  in 
one  farewell.  Beauvouloir  and  Bertrand,  the  child  and  his 
mother,  and  the  sleeping  Duke  were  all  once  more  together. 
It  was  the  same  place,  the  same  scene,  the  same  actors;  but 
here  was  funereal  woe  instead  of  the  joys  of  motherhood,  the 
night  of  death  instead  of  the  morning  of  life. 

At  this  instant  the  hurricane,  foretold  by  the  loud  rollers 
of  the  sea  ever  since  sunset,  broke  loose. 

"Dear  flower  of  my  life,"  said  Jeanne  de  Saint-Savin,  kiss- 
ing her  son's  forehead,  "you  came  into  the  world  in  the 
midst  of  a  tempest,  and  in  a  tempest  I  am  going  out  of  it. 
Between  those  two  hurricanes  all  has  been  storm,  save  in  the 
hours  when  I  have  been  with  you.  And  now  my  last  joy  is 
•one  with  my  last  sorrow.  Farewell,  sweet  image  of  two 
souls  at  last  to  be  united !  Farewell,  my  only,  my  perfect 
joy,  my  best-beloved!" 

"Ah,  let  me  die  with  you !"  said  fitienne,  who  had  lain 
down  by  his  mother's  side. 

"It  would  be  the  happier  fate,"  said  she  as  the  tears  stole 
down  her  pale  cheeks,  for,  as  of  old,  she  read  the  future. 
"No  one  saw  him  come?"  she  anxiously  asked  the  two  at- 
tendants. 

At  this  moment  the  Duke  turned  in  his  bed.  They  all 
trembled. 

•  "There  is  a  taint  on  even  my  latest  joy,"  cried  the  Duch- 
ess.   "Take  him  away !  take  him  away !" 

"Mother,  I  would  rather  see  you  a  few  minutes  longer  and 
die  for  it,"  said  the  poor  boy  as  he  fainted  away. 

At  a  sign  from  the  Duchess,  Bertrand  took  fitienne  in 
his  arms,  and  showing  him  once  more  to  his  mother,  who 
embraced  him  with  a  last  look,  he  stood  ready  to  carry  him 
away  at  a  sign  from  the  dying  woman. 

"Love  him  well,"  she  said  to  the  squire  and  the  leech,  "for 
he  has  no  protectors  that  1  can  see,  save  you  and  God." 


324  THE    HATED    SON 

Guided  by  the  unerring  instinct  of  a  mother,  she  had 
discerned  the  deep  pit}^  felt  by  Bertrand  for  this  eldest  son 
of  the  powerful  race  for  which  he  felt  the  sort  of  venera- 
tion that  Jews  devote  to  the  Holy  City.  As  to  Beauvouloir, 
the  compact  between  him  and  the  Duchess  was  of  ancient 
date. 

The  two  true  men,  touched  at  seeing  their  mistress  com- 
pelled to  bequeath  the  noble  youth  to  their  care,  promised 
by  a  solemn  gesture  to  be  the  providence  of  their  young 
Jord,  and  the  mother  trusted  them  implicitly. 

The  Duchess  died  in  the  morning,  a  few  hours  later;  she 
was  mourned  by  her  remaining  servants,  wOio  pronounced  her 
only  funeral  panegyric,  saying  that  she  was  "a  gracious  dame 
come  down  from  Paradise." 

fitienne  sank  into  the  deepest,  the  most  unbroken  grief, — 
a  silent  grief.  He  no  longer  wandered  on  the  shore;  he  had 
no  heart  to  read  or  sing.  He  would  sit  the  whole  day  half* 
hidden  in  a  rocky  nook,  indifferent  to  the  severity  of  the 
weather,  motionless,  as  if  glued  to  the  granite  like  one  of  the 
lichens  that  grew  on  it.  He  rarely  wept,  but  was  absorbed 
in  a  single  thought,  as  deep,  as  infinite  as  the  ocean ;  and, 
like  the  ocean,  that  thought  would  assume  a  thousand  aspects, 
would  be  dreadful,  tempestuous,  or  calm.  This  was  some- 
thing more  than  sorrow ;  it  was  a  new  life,  an  inevitable  fate 
that  had  fallen  on  this  noble  being  who  would  never  smile 
again.  There  are  griefs  which,  like  blood  dropped  into  run- 
ning water,  tinge  the  stream  but  for  a  time;  the  flow  re- 
news it  and  restores  its  purity.  But  Avith  fitienne  the  spring 
was  tainted;  each  wave  of  time  brought  the  same  embittered 
draught. 

Bertrand,  in  his  advancing  years,  had  remained  steward 
of  the  stables  and  stud,  so  as  to  retain  a  post  of  some  author- 
ity in  the  household.  His  residence  was  not  far  from  the 
cottage  where  fitienne  lived  in  retirement,  so  he  was  enabled 
to  watch  over  him  with  the  unfailing  constancy  and  wily 
simplicity  of  affection  which  are  characteristic  of  old  sol- 


THE    HATED    SON  325 

diers.  To  talk  to  this  poor  boy  he  set  aside  all  his  rough- 
ness; he  would  go  gently  in  wet  weather  and  rouse  hini  from 
his  sorrowful  dreaming,  to  come  home  with  him.  He  made 
it  his  pride  to  fill  the  Duchess'  place,  at  any  rate  so  far  as 
that  her  son  should  be  equally  well  cared  for,  if  not  equally 
loved.  This  compassion  was  indeed  akin  to  tenderness, 
fitienne  accepted  his  retainer's  devotions  without  complaint 
or  resistance;  but  the  ties  between  the  outcast  child  and 
other  human  beings  were  too  much  broken  for  any  ardent 
affection  to  find  birth  in  his  heart.  He  allowed  himself  to  be 
protected,  mechanically,  as  it  were,  for  he  had  become  a  sort 
of  hybrid  creature  between  man  and  a  plant,  or  perhaps  be- 
tween man  and  God.  To  what  can  a  being  be  likened,  to 
whom  social  law  and  the  false  sentiments  of  the  world  were 
unknown,  who,  while  obeying  the  instincts  of  his  heart,  was 
yet  absolutely  innocent? 

Still,  in  spite  of  his  deep  melancholy,  he  presently  felt  the 
need  for  loving.  He  wanted  another  mother,  another  soul 
one  with  his;  but,  cut  off  as  he  was  from  all  civilization  by 
a  wall  of  brass,  it  was  unlikely  that  he  should  meet  any  other 
being  so  flower-like  as  himself.  By  dint  of  seeking  for  a 
second  self  to  whom  he  might  confide  his  thoughts,  whose 
life  he  might  make  his  own,  he  fell  into  sympathy  with  the 
ocean.  The  sea  became  to  him  a  living  and  thinking  being. 
Being  constantly  familiar  with  that  immense  creation,  whose 
occult  wonders  are  so  strangely  unlike  those  of  the  land,  he 
discovered  the  solution  of  many  mysteries.  Intimate  from 
his  infancy  vnth  the  measureless  waste  of  waters,  sea  and 
sky  told  him  wondrous  tales  of  poesy. 

To  him  variety  was  ceaseless  in  that  vast  expanse,  ap- 
parently so  monotonous.  Like  all  men  in  whom  the  soul 
overmasters  the  body,  he  had  a  keen  eye,  and  could  discern 
at  immense  distances  and  with  the  greatest  ease,  without 
fatigue,  the  most  fugitive  effects  of  light,  the  most  transient 
play  of  the  waves.  Even  in  a  perfect  calm  he  found  endless 
variety  of  hue  in  the  sea,  which,  like  a  woman's  countenance. 
had  its  expression,  smiles,  fancies,  whims:  here  green  and 


520  THE    HATED    SON 

gloom}',  there  radiantly  blue,  its  gleaming  streaks  merging 
in  the  doubtful  briglitness  of  the  horizon,  or,  again,  swelling 
with  soft  pulses  under  golden  clouds.  He  witnessed  magnifi- 
cent spectacles  of  glorious  display  at  sunset,  when  the  day- 
star  shed  its  crimson  glow  over  the  waves  like  a  mantle  of 
splendor. 

To  him  the  sea  at  midday  was  cheerful,  lively,  sparkling, 
when  its  ripples  reflected  the  sunshine  from  their  myriad 
dazzling  facets;  and  spoke  to  him  of  fathomless  melancholy, 
making  him  weep,  when  in  a  mood  of  calm  and  sorrowful 
resignation,  it  repeated  a  cloud-laden  sky.  He  had  mastered 
the  wordless  speech  of  this  stupendous  creation.  Its  ebb 
and  flow  were  like  musical  breathing;  each  sob  expressed  a 
feeling,  he  understood  its  deepest  meaning.  No  mariner,  no 
weather  prophet,  could  foretell  more  exactly  than  he  the  least 
of  Ocean's  rages,  the  faintest  change  of  its  surface.  By  the 
way  the  surf  died  on  the  beach  he  could  foresee  a  storm  or 
a  squall,  and  read  the  distant  swell  and  the  force  of  the  tide. 

When  night  spread  a  veil  over  the  sky,  he  still  saw  the  sea 
under  the  twilight  and  still  could  hold  converse  with  it;  he 
lived  in  its  teeming  life,  he  felt  the  tempest  in  his  soul  when 
it  was  wroth;  he  drank  in  its  anger  in  the  piping  of  the 
storm,  and  rushed  with  the  huge  breakers  that  dashed  in 
dripping  fringes  over  the  boulders;  he  then  felt  himself  as 
terrible  and  as  valiant  as  the  waves,  gathering  himself  up 
as  they  did  with  a  tremendous  backward  sweep ;  he  too  could 
be  darkly  silent,  and  imitate  its  sudden  fits  of  forbearance. 
In  short,  he  had  wedded  the  sea,  it  Avas  his  confidant  and 
his  love.  In  the  morning,  when  he  came  out  on  his  rocks, 
as  he  wandered  over  the  smooth,  glistening  sand,  he  could 
read  the  mood  of  the  ocean  at  a  glance;  he  saw  its  scenery, 
and  seemed  to  hover  over  the  broad  face  of  the  waters  like 
an  angel  flown  down  from  heaven.  If  it  lay  under  shifting, 
elfin  white  mists  as  delicate  as  the  veil  over  a  widow's  brow, 
he  would  watch  their  swaying  motion  with  lover-like  de- 
light, as  much  fascinated  by  finding  the  sea  Ihus  coquetting 
like  a  woman  aroused  but  still  half  asleep,  as  a  husband  can 
be  to  see  his  bride  beautiful  with  happiness. 


THE    HATED    SON  327 

His  mind,  thus  united  to  this  great  divine  mmd,  com- 
forted him  in  liis  loneliness,  and  the  thousand  fancies  of  his 
brain  had  peopled  his  strip  of  wilderness  with  sublime  images. 
He  had  at  last  read  in  the  motions  of  the  sea  all  its  close 
connection  with  the  mechanism  of  the  sky,  and  grasped  the 
harmonious  unity  of  nature,  from  the  blade  of  grass  to  the 
shooting  stars,  wliich,  like  seeds  driven  by  the  wind,  try  to 
hnd  a  resting  place  in  the  ether. 

Thus,  as  pure  as  an  angel,  untainted  by  the  thoughts  that 
debase  men,  and  as  guileless  as  a  child,  he  lived  like  a  sea- 
weed, like  a  flower,  expanding  only  with  the  treasures  of  a 
poetical  imagination,  of  a  divine  knowledge  which  he  alone 
gauged  in  its  full  extent.  It  was  indeed  a  singular  mixture 
of  two  orders  of  creation !  Sometimes  he  was  uplifted  to 
God  by  prayer;  and  sometimes  came  down  again,  humble 
and  resigned  to  the  tranquil  enjoyment  of  an  animal.  To 
him  the  stars  were  the  flowers  of  the  night,  the  sun  was  as 
a  father,  the  birds  were  his  comrades. 

He  saw  his  mother's  soul  in  all  things;  he  often  saw  her 
in  the  clouds;  he  spoke  to  her  and  held  communion  with  her 
in  celestial  visions;  on  certain  days  he  could  hear  her  voice, 
see  her  smile;  in  fact  there  were  times  when  he  had  not  lost 
her.  God  seemed  to  have  endowed  him  with  the  powers  of 
the  ancient  recluses,  to  have  given  him  exquisite  internal 
senses  which  could  pierce  to  the  heart  of  things.  Some 
amazing  mental  power  enabled  him  to  see  further  than  other 
men  into  the  secrets  of  the  immortals.  His  grief  and  suffer- 
ing were  as  bonds  that  linked  him  to  the  world  of  spirits,  and 
he  fared  forth  into  it,  aroused  by  his  love,  to  seek  his 
mother,  thus  by  a  sublime  similarity  of  ecstasy  repeating  the 
enterprise  of  Orpheus.  He  would  project  himself  into  the 
future,  or  into  the  heavens,  just  as  he  would  fly  from  his 
rock  from  one  margin  of  the  horizon  to  the  other. 

And  often  when  he  lay  crouching  in  some  deep  cave,  fan- 
tastically wrought  in  the  granite  cliff,  with  an  entrance  as 
small  as  a  burrow,  where  a  softened  light  prevailed  as  the 
warm  sunbeams  peered  in  through  some  cranny  hung  with 


3158  THE    llATED    SON 

daiuiy  seaside  mosses,  a  perfect  sea-bird's  nest, — often  he 
would  suddenly  fall  asleep.  The  sun,  ids  master,  would 
remind  liim  of  Ids  slumbers  by  marking  oil"  the  hours  during 
which  he  had  remained  oblivious  of  the  scene, — the  sea,  the 
golden  sands,  and  the  shelly  shore.  Then,  under  a  light  as 
glorious  as  that  of  heaven,  he  saw  the  mighty  cities  of  which 
his  books  had  told  him;  he  wandered  about  gazing  with  sur- 
prise, but  without  envy,  at  courts  and  kings,  battles,  men, 
and  buildings.  These  dreams  in  broad  daylight  made  him 
ever  fonder  of  his  gentle  flowers,  his  clouds,  his  sun,  his  noble 
granite  cliffs.  An  angel,  as  it  seemed,  to  attach  him  more 
closely  to  his  solitary  life,  revealed  to  him  the  gulfs  of  the 
world  of  sin,  and  the  dreadful  jars  of  civilized  life.  He  felt 
that  his  soul  would  be  rent  in  the  wild  ocean  of  mankind  and 
perish,  crushed  like  a  pearl  which,  in  the  royal  progress  of  a 
princess,  falls  from  her  coronet  into  the  nmddy  street. 


iiihii£ 


HTtUCtl 

e.  men, 

ii?  iniii 
uaotle 
Biffiore 


riowers,  hjs  c»«»«1i»   ■iw  sun,  his  noble  graiiiie  ciiii 


II. 

HOW  THE  SON  DIED 

In  1617,  twenty  years  or  more  after  the  terrible  night 
when  fitienne  was  brought  into  the  world,  the  Due  d'Herou- 
ville,  then  seventy-six  years  old,  broken  and  half  dead,  was 
sitting  at  sunset  in  a  vast  armchair  by  the  pointed  window 
of  his  bedroom,  in  the  very  spot  where  the  Countess,  by  the 
bugle  strain  wasted  in  the  air,  had  vainly  called  for  help  on 
man  and  God. 

He  might  have  been  a  man  disinterred  from  the  grave. 
His  powerful  face,  bereft  of  its  sinister  look  by  age  and 
suffering,  was  of  a  pallor  almost  matching  the  long  locks  of 
white  hair  that  fell  round  his  bald  head  with  its  parchment 
skull.  Warlike  fanaticism  still  gleamed  in  his  tawny  eyes, 
though  tempered  by  a  more  religious  feeling.  Devotion  had, 
indeed,  lent  a  monastic  cast  to  the  countenance  that  had  of 
yore  been  so  stern,  and  it  now  wore  a  tinge  which  softened 
its  expression.  The  glow  of  sunset  shed  a  tender  red  light  on 
the  still  vigorous  features ;  and  the  broken  frame  wrapped  in 
a  brown  gown,  by  its  heavy  attitude  and  the  absence  of  any 
movement,  gave  the  finishing  touch  to  the  picture  of  mo- 
notonous solitude  and  dreadful  repose  in  a  man  formerly  so 
full  of  life  and  hatred  and  activity. 

"Enough !"  said  he  to  his  chaplain. 

The  venerable  old  man  was  reading  the  Gospel,  standing 
in  a  respectful  attitude  before  his  master.  The  Duke,  like 
the  old  lions  in  a  beast-garden  who  are  majestic  even  in  their 
decrepitude,  turned  to  another  gray-haired  man,  holding  out 
a  lean  arm  sprinkled  with  hairs  and  sinewy  still,  though  no 
longer  strong. 

"Now  it  is  your  turn,  bone-setter,"  said  he.  "See  how  we 
stand  to-day." 

(329) 


330  THE    HATED    SON 

'^AU  is  well  with  you,  moiiseigneur;  the  fever  is  past. 
You  will  live  many  a  long  year  yet." 

"1  would  1  could  see  Alaxhnilien  here,"  replied  the  Duke, 
with  a  smile  of  satisfaction.  "My  fine  hoy !  He  is  in  com- 
mand now  of  a  company  of  arquebusiers  under  the  King. 
The  Marechal  d'Ancre  has  been  good  to  the  lad,  and  our 
gracious  Queen  Marie  is  trying  to  find  a  worthy  match  for 
him  now  that  he  has  been  created  Due  de  Nivron.  So  my 
name  will  be  worthily  perpetuated.  The  boy  achieved  won- 
ders of  valor  at  the  assault " 

At  this  moment  Bertrand  came  in,  holding  a  letter  in  his 
hand. 

"What  is  this?"  cried  the  old  lord,  hastily. 

"A  missive  brought  by  a  courier  from  the  King,"  replied 
the  squire. 

"The  King,  and  not  the  Queen  Mother?"  cried  the  Duke. 
"What  then  is  happening?  Are  the  Huguenots  in  arms 
again  ?  By  God  and  all  his  saints  !"  he  added,  drawing  him- 
self up  and  looking  round  at  the  three  old  men,  "I  will  have 
out  my  armed  men  again,  and  with  Maximilien  at  my  side, 
Normandy " 

"Sit  down  again,  dear  my  lord,"  said  the  leech,  uneasy  at 
seeing  the  Duke  give  way  to  an  outburst  so  dangerous  to  a 
sick  man. 

"Read  it,  Maitre  Corbineau,"  said  the  Duke,  giving  the 
letter  to  the  confessor. 

The  four  figures  made  a  picture  full  of  lessons  to  the  hu- 
man race.  The  squire,  the  priest,  and  the  leech,  white  with 
age,  all  three  standing  in  front  of  their  lord  as  he  sat  in  his 
chair,  and  stealing  timid  looks  at  each  other,  were  all  pos- 
sessed by  one  of  those  ideas  which  come  upon  a  man  within 
an  inch  of  the  grave.  In  the  strong  light  of  the  setting  sun, 
they  formed  a  group  of  the  highest  melancholy  and  strong 
in  contrasts.  And  the  gloomy,  solemn  room,  where  for  five 
and  twenty  years  nothing  had  been  altered,  was  a  fit  setting 
for  the  romantic  picture  full  of  bumt-out  passions,  shadowed 
by  death,  full  of  religion. 


THE    HATED    SON  331 

"  'The  Marechal  d'Ancre  has  been  executed  on  the  Pont  du 
Louvre  by  the  King's  orders ;  and  then '     0  God !" 

"Go  on/'  said  the  Duke. 

"  'Monseigneur  le  Due  de  Nivron ' 

"Well?" 

"  'Is  dead !'  " 

The  Duke's  head  fell  on  his  breast,  he  sighed  deeply  and 
spoke  not.  At  this  word  and  this  sigh  the  three  old  men 
looked  at  each  other.  It  was  as  though  the  noble  and  wealthy 
House  of  Herouville  were  disappearing  before  their  eyes  like 
a  foundering  vessel. 

"The  Master  above  us,"  the  Duke  added,  with  a  fierce 
glance  heavenwards,  "is  but  ungrateful  to  me.  He  forgets 
the  gallant  deeds  I  have  done  for  His  holy  cause." 

"God  is  avenged,"  said  the  priest,  solemnly. 

"Take  this  man  to  the  dungeon !"  exclaimed  the  master. 

"You  can  silence  me  more  easily  than  you  can  stifle  your 
conscience." 

The  Due  d'Herouville  was  thinking.. 

"My  house  is  extinct !  My  name  will  die ! — I  must  have  a 
son !"  he  exclaimed  after  a  long  pause. 

Frightful  as  was  his  expression  of  despair,  the  leech  could 
not  forbear  from  smiling. 

At  that  moment  a  song  as  clear  as  the  evening  air,  as  pure 
as  the  sky,  as  simple  as  the  hue  of  ocean,  rose  above  the 
murmur  of  the  waves  as  if  to  charm  nature.  The  sadness  of 
the  voice,  the  melody  of  the  strain,  fell  like  perfume  on  the 
spirit.  The  voice  came  up  in  gusts,  filled  the  air,  and  shed 
balm  on  every  sorrow,  or  rather  soothed  them  by  giving  them 
utterance.  The  song  mingled  so  perfectly  with  the  sound 
of  the  waves  that  it  seemed  to  rise  from  the  bosom  of  the 
waters. 

To  these  old  men  it  was  sweeter  than  the  tenderest  vows 
of  love  could  have  been  to  a  girl.  It  conveyed  so  much  re- 
ligious hope  that  it  echoed  in  the  heart  like  a  voice  coming 
from  heaven. 

"What  is  that?"  asked  the  Duke. 


332  THE    HATED    SON 

"The  nightingale  singing,"  replied  Bertrand.  "All  is  not 
lost  either  for  him  or  for  us." 

"What  is  it  that  you  call  a  nightingale  ?" 

"It  is  the  name  we  have  given  to  your  eldest  son,  mon- 
seigneur/'  replied  Bertrand. 

"My  son!"  cried  the  old  Duke.  "Then  I  have  still  a  son, 
something  to  bear  my  name  and  perpetuate  it?" 

He  rose  to  his  feet  and  began  to  pace  the  room,  now 
slowly,  now  in  haste;  then  by  a  commanding  gesture  he  dis- 
missed his  attendants,  retaining  the  priest. 

On  the  following  morning  the  Duke,  leaning  on  his  old 
squire,  made  his  way  along  the  strand  and  over  the  rocks  to 
find  the  son  he  once  had  cursed;  he  saw  him  from  afar, 
crouching  in  a  cleft  in  the  granite,  basking  idly  in  the  sun, 
his  head  resting  on  a  tuft  of  fine  grass,  his  feet  curled  up  in 
a  graceful  attitude;  fitienne  suggested  a  swallow  that  has 
alighted  to  rest. 

As  soon  as  the  stately  old  man  made  his  appearance  on 
the  shore,  and  the  sound  of  his  steps,  deadened  by  the  sand, 
was  audible,  mingling  with  the  dash  of  the  waves,  ifitienne 
looked  round,  and  with  the  cr}^  of  a  startled  bird  vanished 
into  the  rock  itself,  like  a  mouse  that  bolts  so  swiftly  into 
its  hole  that  we  doubt  whether  it  was  there. 

"Eh !  By  God  and  his  saints !  where  has  he  hidden  him- 
self ?"  exclaimed  the  Duke,  as  he  reached  the  projection  under 
which  his  son  had  been  crouching. 

"In  there,"  said  Bertrand,  pointing  to  a  narrow  rift  where 
the  stone  was  worn  and  polished  by  the  friction  of  high  tides. 

"fitienne,  my  beloved  son !"  the  old  man  cried. 

But  the  disowned  son  made  no  reply. 

During  a  great  part  of  the  morning,  the  old  Duke  besought 
and  threatened,  entreated  and  scolded  by  turns,  but  without 
obtaining  an  answer.  Now  and  again  he  was  silent,  applying 
his  ear  to  the  opening,  but  all  his  old  ears  could  hear  was 
the  deep  throbbing  of  "T^ticnne's  heart,  of  which  the  wild 
beating  was  echoed  by  the  cavern. 


THE    HATED    SON  833 

"He  at  any  rate  is  alive !"  said  the  old  father  in  a  heorii-^ 
rending  tone. 

By  noon,  in  sheer  despair,  he  was  a  suppliant. 

"fitienue,"  he  said,  "my  beloved  fitienne,  God  has  pun- 
ished me  for  misprizing  you !  He  has  snatched  your  brother 
from  me.  You  are  now  my  one  and  only  child.  I  love  you 
better  than  myself.  I  recognize  my  errors :  I  know  that  it 
is  my  blood  that  flows  in  your  veins  with  your  mother's,  and 
that  her  misery  was  of  my  making.  Come  to  me,  I  will  try 
to  make  you  forget  your  wrongs  by  loving  you  for  all  I  have 
lost,  liltienne,  yon  are  Due  de  Nivron,  and  after  me  you  will 
be  Due  d'Herouville,  Peer  of  France,  Knight  of  the  French 
orders  and  of  the  Golden  Fleece,  captain  of  a  hundred  men 
of  the  guard,  Grand  Bailli  of  Bessin,  Governor  and  Vice-re- 
gent of  Normandy,  lord  of  twenty-seven  estates  including 
sixty-nine  steeples,  and  Marquis  de  Saint-Sever.  You  may 
marry  a  prince's  daughter.  You  will  be  the  head  of  the 
House  of  Herouville.  Do  you  want  me  to  die  of  grief? 
Come  to  me,  come  or  I  stay  here  on  my  knees,  in  front  of 
your  hiding  place,  till  I  see  you.  Your  old  father  implores 
you,  and  humbles  himself  before  his  son  as  if  he  were  praying 
to  God  himself !" 

The  disowned  son  did  not  understand  this  speech  bris- 
tling with  ideas  and  vanities  of  which  he  knew  nothing,  he 
only  was  aware  of  a  revival  in  his  mind  of  impressions  of  in- 
vincible terror.    He  remained  speechless  in  agonies  of  dread. 

Towards  evening  the  old  man,  having  exhausted  every 
resource  of  language,  every  form  of  adjuration,  every  ex- 
pression of  repentance,  was  seized  by  a  sort  of  religious  con- 
trition.    He  knelt  down  on  the  sand  and  made  a  vow.  ^ 

"I  swear  to  build  a  chapel  to  Saint  John  and  Saint  Ste- 
phen, the  patron  saints  of  my  wife  and  son,  and  to  endow 
a  hundred  masses  to  the  Virgin,  if  God  and  the  saints  will 
give  me  the  love  of  Monsieur  le  Due  de  Nivron,  my  son  here 
present !" 

There  he  remained  on  his  knees,  in  deep  humiliation,  his 
hands  clasped  in  prayer-    But  his  child  not  yet  coming  forth 


334  THE    HATED    SON 

to  him,  the  hope  of  his  race,  tears  poured  from  his  long-dry 
eves  and  rolled  down  his  withered  cheeks. 

Just  then  fitienne,  hearing  all  silent,  crept  out  of  the  rift 
from  his  grotto  like  a  snake  longing  for  the  sunshine;  he 
saw  the  tears  of  the  broken-hearted  old  man,  recognized  a 
genuine  sorrow,  took  his  father's  hand  and  kissed  it,  saying 
in  angelic  accents: 

"0  Mother,  forgive!" 

In  the  fever  of  gladness  the  Governor  of  Normandy  took 
his  frail  heir  in  his  arms,  the  lad  trembling  like  a  girl  car- 
ried off  by  force;  and  feeling  him  quake  he  tried  to  reassure 
him,  kissing  him  Avith  as  much  gentleness  as  he  might  have 
used  in  handling  a  flower,  and  finding  for  him  such  sweet 
words  as  he  had  never  been  wont  to  speak. 

"  'Fore  God,  but  you  are  like  my  poor  Jeanne !  Dear 
child,^'  said  he,  "tell  me  all  you  wish.  I  will  give  you  your 
heart's  desire.  Be  strong,  be  well !  I  will  teach  you  to  ride 
on  a  jennet  as  mild  and  gentle  as  j'ourself.  No  one  shall 
contradict  you.  By  God  and  all  his  saints !  everything  shall 
bend  to  you  like  reeds  before  the  wind.  I  give  you  unlim- 
ited power  here.  I  m3^self  will  obey  you  as  the  head  of  the 
family." 

The  father  led  his  son  into  the  state  bedroom  where  his 
mother  had  ended  her  sad  life,  fitienne  w^ent  at  once  to  lean 
against  the  window  where  life  had  begun  for  him,  whence  his 
mother  had  been  in  the  habit  of  signaling  to  him  when  the 
persecutor  was  absent,  who  now,  he  knew  not  wherefore,  had 
become  his  slave,  and  seemed  as  one  of  those  gigantic  beings 
placed  at  the  command  of  a  young  prince  by  a  fairy.  That 
fairy  was  the  feudal  feeling. 

On  seeing  once  more  this  gloomy  room  where  his  eyes  had 
first  learned  to  contemplate  the  ocean,  tears  rose  to  the 
youth's  eyes;  the  memories  of  his  long  sorrows  mingling 
with  the  dear  remembrance  of  the  joys  he  had  known  in  the 
only  affection  that  had  ever  been  granted  to  him — his 
mother's  love — all  fell  on  his  heart  at  once,  and  seemed  to 
fill  it  with  a  poem  that  was  both  terrible  and  beautiful.    The 


THE    HATED    SON  335 

emotions  of  this  lad,  accustomed  to  dwell  absorbed  in  ec- 
stasy, as  others  are  accustomed  to  give  themselves  up  to 
worldly  excitement,  had  no  resemblance  to  the  feelings  of 
ordinary  humanity. 

"Will  he  live?"  asked  the  old  man,  amazed  at  his  son's 
fragility;  he  caught  himself  holding  his  breath  as  he  bent 
over  him. 

"I  can  live  nowhere  but  here,"  replied  Etienne,  simply, 
having  heard  him. 

"Then  this  room  is  yours,  my  child," 

"What  is  happening?"  asked  young  d'Herouville,  as  he 
heard  all  the  dwellers  in  the  castle  precincts  collecting  in  the 
guard-room,  whither  the  Duke  had  summoned  them  to  pre- 
sent his  son  to  them,  never  doubting  of  the  result. 

"Come,"  was  his  father's  reply,  taking  him  by  the  hand 
and  leading  him  into  the  great  hall. 

At  that  period  a  duke  and  peer  of  such  estate  as  the  Due 
d'Herouville,  having  charges  and  governments,  led  the  life 
of  a  sovereign  prince;  the  younger  members  of  the  family 
were  fain  to  serve  under  him;  he  had  a  household  with  its 
officers;  the  first  lieutenant  of  his  company  of  guards  was 
to  him  what  .the  aides-de-camp  now  are  to  a  field  marshal. 
Only  a  few  years  later  the  Cardinal  de  Richelieu  main- 
tained a  bod3^guard.  Several  of  the  princes  who  were  al- 
lied to  the  royal  family — the  Guises,  the  Condes,  the  JSTevers, 
the  Vendomes — were  attended  by  pages  of  the  best  fami- 
lies, a  survival  of  the  extinct  chivalry.  His  vast  fortune,  and 
the  antiquity  of  the  Norman  family  to  which  he  belonged,  as 
indicated  by  his  name  (herns  villa,  the  chiefs  house),  had 
enabled  the  Due  d'Herouville  to  display  no  less  magnificence 
than  others  who  were  his  inferiors,  such  as  the  ^pernons, 
the  Luynes,  the  Balagnys,  the  d'Os,  the  Zamets,  who  as  yet 
weie  but  parvenus  and  nevertheless  lived  like  princes. 

The  Duke  seated  himself  on  a  chair,  under  a  solium  or 

carved  wooden  canopy,  and  raised  on  a  few  steps,  a  sort  of 

throne  whence  in  some  provinces  certain  lords  of  the  soil 

still   pronounced   sentpree   in   their   jurisdiction,   a   relic   of 

VOL.  6 — 47 


336  THE    UATED    SON 

feudal  customs  which  finally  ceased  under  Kichelieu's  rule. 
This  sort  of  judge's  bench,  resembling  the  wardens'  seats  in 
a  church,  are  now  rare  objects  of  curiosity. 

When  l^ltienne  found  himself  seated  here  by  his  father's 
side,  he  shuddered  at  finding  him  the  centre  of  all  eyes. 

"Do  not  tremble,"  said  the  Duke,  bending  his  bald  head 
down  to  his  son's  ear,  "for  all  these  are  our  own  people." 

Through  the  gloom  partly  lighted  by  the  setting  sun,  whose 
beams  reddened  the  windows  of  the  hall,  fitienne  could  see 
the  bailie,  the  captains  and  lieutenants  at  arms,  followed  by 
some  of  their  men,  the  squires,  the  almoner,  the  secretaries, 
the  leech,  the  house-steward,  the  ushers,  the  land-steward, 
the  huntsmen  and  gamekeepers,  the  retainers,  and  the  foot- 
men. Although  this  crowd  stood  in  a  respectful  attitude, 
caused  by  the  terror  the  old  Duke  had  inspired  even  in  the 
most  important  personages  who  dwelt  under  his  command 
and  in  his  province,  there  was  a  dull  murmur  of  wondering 
curiosity.  This  whisper  weighed  on  fitienne's  heart;  this 
was  the  first  time  that  he  had  experienced  the  effect  of  the 
heavy  atmosphere  breathed  in  a  room  full  of  people,  and 
his  senses,  accustomed  to  the  pure  and  wholesome  sea  air, 
were  nauseated,  with  a  suddenness  that  showed  the  delicacy 
of  his  organization.  A  terrible  palpitation,  caused  by  some 
structural  defect  of  the  heart,  shook  him  with  its  vehement 
throbs,  when  his  father,  determined  to  appear  as  a  majestic 
old  lion,  spoke  the  following  words  in  solemn  tones: 

"My  good  friends,  this  is  my  son  fitienne,  my  eldest  born, 
my  heir  presumptive,  the  Due  de  Nivron,  on  whom  the  King 
will  doubtless  devolve  the  offices  of  his  brother  now  dead. 
I  have  brought  him  before  you  that  you  may  acknowledge  him 
and  obey  him  as  you  would  me.  And  I  warn  you  that  if 
any  one  among  you,  or  any  man  in  the  province  over  which 
I  rule,  shall  displease  the  young  Duke  or  cross  his  will  in 
anything,  it  were  better  for  that  man,  if  it  should  come  to 
my  ears,  that  he  had  never  been  born.  You  have  heard.  Go 
your  ways  to  your  business,  and  God  be  with  3'OU. 

"Maximilien   d'Herouville   will   be  buried   here,   as   soon 


THE    HATED    SON  337 

as  his  body  has  been  brought  hither.  In  eight  days  the  whole 
household  will  go  into  mourning.  Later  we  will  do  honor 
to  the  heir,  my  son  fitienue." 

"Long  live  Monseigneur !  Long  live  the  Herouville  !"  was 
shouted  in  voices  that  made  the  walls  ring. 

The  footmen  brought  torches  to  light  up  the  hall. 

These  acclamations,  the  glare  of  light,  the  emotions  caused 
by  his  father's  speech,  added  to  what  he  already  felt,  made 
fitienne  turn  faint.  He  fell  back  on  the  seat,  his  girlish  hand 
grasped  in  his  father^s  broad  palm. 

As  the  Duke,  who  had  signed  to  the  lieutenant  of  his  com- 
pany to  come  closer,  was  saying:  "I  am  glad,  Baron  d'Ar- 
tagnon,  to  be  able  to  repair  my  loss; — come  and  speak  to  my 
son,"  he  felt  an  ice-cold  hand  in  his  own,  looked  round  at 
the  Due  de  Nivron,  and,  thinking  him  dead,  gave  a  cry  of 
terror  that  startled  all  present. 

Beauvouloir  opened  the  barrier  in  front  of  the  dais,  took 
the  lad  up  in  his  arms,  and  carried  him  out,  saying  to  his 
master : 

"You  might  have  killed  him  by  not  preparing  him  for 
this  ceremonial." 

"Will  he  not  live  to  have  a  son,  then?"  cried  the  Duke, 
who  had  followed  Beauvouloir  into  the  state  bedroom  where 
the  leech  laid  the  young  heir  on  the  bed. 

"Well,  Maitre?"  asked  the  father,  anxiously. 

"It  will  be  nothing,"  replied  the  old  man,  pointing  to 
Etienne,  now  reviving  under  the  influence  of  a  cordial  ad- 
ministered on  a  lump  of  sugar,  at  that  time  a  new  and  pre- 
cious substance  sold  for  its  weight  in  gold. 

"Here,  you  old  rascal."  said  the  Duke,  offering  Beau- 
vouloir his  purse;  "care  for  him  as  for  a  king's  son.  If  he 
should  die  in  your  hands  I  would  cook  you  myself  on  a 
gridiron " 

"If  you  persist  in  being  so  violent  the  Due  de  Nivron  will 
die  by  your  act,"  said  the  leech,  bluntly.  "Leave  him  and  he 
will  sleep.'* 


338  THE    HATED    SON 

'''Good-night,  1113'  best  beloved/"  said  tiic  old  man,  kissing 
his  son's  forehead. 

"Good-night,  father,"  replied  the  youth,  and  his  voice  gave 
tlie  Duke  a  thrill  as  he  heard  him  address  him  for  the  first 
time  by  the  name  of  father. 

The  Duke  took  Beauvouloir  by  the  arm  and  led  him  into 
the  next  room,  where  he  cornered  him  in  a  window-bay, 
saying : 

"Now,  old  rascal,  we  will  have  it  out." 

This  speech,  the  Duke's  favorite  jest,  made  the  leech 
smile;  he  had  long  since  given  up  bone-setting. 

"That  I  owe  you  no  grudge  you  know  full  well.  Twice 
you  brought  my  poor  wife  through  her  troubles,  you  cured 
my  son  Maximilien  of  a  sickness;  in  short,  you  are  one  of 
.the  family. — Poor  boy !  I  will  avenge  him ;  I  will  answer 
for  the  man  who  killed  him ! — The  whole  future  of  the 
House  of  Herouville  is  in  your  hands.  Now  we  must  marry 
this  boy  without  delay.  You  alone  know  whether  there  is  in 
that  poor  changeling  the  stuff  of  which  more  HorouvLlles 
may  be  made.     Do  you  hear  me?    What  do  you  think?" 

"The  life  ho  has  led  on  the  seashore  has  been  so  chaste 
and  pure  that  nature  is  sturdier  in  him  than  it  would  have 
been  if  he  had  lived  in  your  world.  But  so  frail  a  body  is 
always  the  slave  of  the  soul.  ]\fonseigncur  fitienne  must 
select  his  own  wife,  for  in  him  all  will  be  the  work  of 
nature,  not  the  outcome  of  your  will.  He  will  love  guile- 
lessly, and  by  the  prompting  of  liis  own  heart  achieve  what 
you  want  him  to  do  for  your  name.  Marry  your  son  to  a 
lady  of  rank  who  is  like  a  mare  and  he  will  flee  to  hide  in  the 
rocks.  Nay,  more;  if  a  sudden  alarm  would  kill  him  to  a 
certainty,  I  believe  that  sudden  Joy  would  be  equally  fatal. 
To  avert  disaster  I  am  of  opinion  that  tttionne  must  be  left 
to  find  his  own  way,  at  his  leisure,  in  the  paths  of  love. 
Listen  to  me,  monseigneur:  though  you  arc  a  great  and 
puissant  prince,  you  know  nothing  about  these  matters. 
Grant  meyour  entire  and  unlimited  confidence  and  you  shall 
have  a  grandson." 


THE    HATED    SON  339 

"If  I  have  a  grandsou,  by  whatever  conjuring  trick  you 
please,  1  will  get  you  a  patent  of  nobility.  Yes,  hard  as  it 
may  be,  from  an  old  rascal  you  shall  be  turned  into  a  gen- 
tleman, you  shall  be  Beauvouloir  Baron  de  Forcalier.  Work 
it  by  green  or  dry,  by  black  magic  or  white,  by  masses  in 
church  or  a  meeting  at  a  witches'  Sabbath,  so  long  as  I  have  a 
jmale  descendant  all  will  be  well." 

"I  know  of  a  wizard's  meeting  that  might  spoil  every- 
thing, and  that,  monseigneur,  is  you  yourself.  I  know  you. 
To-day  you  wish  for  a  male  grandchild  at  any  cost;  to-mor- 
row you  will  insist  on  arranging  the  conditions  of  the  bar- 
gain ;  you  will  torment  your  son " 

"God  forbid !" 

"Well,  then,  set  out  for  the  Court  where  the  Marshal's 
death  and  the  King's  emancipation  must  have  turned  every- 
thing upside  down,  and  where  you  must  have  some  busi- 
ness to  attend  to,  were  it  only  to  get  the  Marshal's  baton 
which  was  promised  to  you.  Leave  Monseigneur  fitienne 
to  me.  But  pledge  me  your  honor  as  a  gentleman  to  ap- 
prove whatever  I  do." 

The  Duke  grasped  the  old  man's  hand  in  token  of  entire 
confidence  and  retired  to  his  room. 

When  the  days  of  a  high  and  puissant  noble  are  in  the 
balance,  the  leech  is  an  important  person  in  the  household, 
so  we  need  not  be  surprised  at  finding  an  old  bone-setter  on 
such  familiar  terms  with  the  Due  d'Herouville.  Irrespective 
of  the  illegitimate  relationship  which  lied  him  through  mar- 
riage to  this  lordly  house,  and  which  told  in  his  favor,  the 
learned  leech  had  so  often  shown  his  good  sense  to  the  Duke's 
advantage,  that  he  was  one  of  his  favorite  advisers.  Beau- 
vouloir was  the  Coyctier  of  this  Louis  XL 

Still,  valuable  as  was  his  scientific  knowledge,  the  physician 
had  not  so  nmch  influence  as  the  old  feudal  traditions  over 
the  Governor  of  Normandy,  still  fired  with  the  ferocious  pas- 
sions of  religious  war.  And  the  faithful  servant  had  under- 
stood that  the  prejudices  of  a  noble  would  interfere  with  tlie 


340  THE    UATED    SON 

father's  hopes.  Being,  in  truth,  a  very  learned  leech,  Beau- 
vouloir  lelL  that  iur  a  being  so  delicately  organised  as 
Ktienne,  marriage  ought  to  be  gentle  and  gradual  inspiration 
which  might  infuse  fresh  vigor  into  him  by  tiring  him  with 
liie  glow  of  love.  As  he  hud  said,  to  insist  on  any  particular 
woman  would  be  to  kill  the  youth.  Above  all  things  to  be 
avoided  was  frightening  the  young  recluse  by  the  idea  of 
marriage,  of  wiiich  he  knew  nothing,  or  by  letting  him  see 
the  end  his  father  had  in  view.  This  unconscious  poet  could 
know  none  but  such  a  noble  passion  as  Petrarch's  for  Laura, 
as  Dante's  for  Beatrice.  Like  his  mother  he  was  all  pure  love, 
all  soul ;  he  must  have  the  opportunity  of  loving  placed  in  his 
way,  and  then  all  must  be  left  to  the  event.  It  would  not  do 
to  command  him;  an  order  would  seal  the  springs  of  life. 

Master  Antoine  Beauvouloir  had  a  child,  a  daughter, 
brought  up  in  a  way  that  made  her  the  wife  for  fitienne. 
It  had  been  so  impossible  to  foresee  the  occurrences  by  which 
this  youth,  destined  by  his  father  to  be  a  cardinal,  had  be- 
come heir  presumptive  to  the  dukedom  of  Herouvilie,  that 
Beauvouloir  had  never  observed  the  similarity  of  circum- 
stances in  the  lives  of  £tienne  and  Gabrielle.  It  was  a  sud- 
den idea  suggested  rather  by  his  affection  for  the  two  chil- 
dren than  by  any  ambition. 

In  spite  of  his  skill  his  wife  had  died  in  giving  birth  to 
this  daughter,  who  was  so  delicate  that  he  feared  the  mother 
had  bequeathed  to  her  child  the  germs  of  early  death.  Beau- 
vouloir adored  his  Gabrielle  as  all  old  men  adore  an  only 
child.  His  skill  and  ceaseless  care  lent  the  fragile  creature 
an  artificial  life ;  for  he  cherished  her  as  a  gardener  nurses  an 
exotic  plant.  He  had  kept  her  from  all  eyes  on  his  little  es- 
tate of  Forcalier,  where  she  was  sheltered  from  the  trou- 
bles of  the  times  by  the  universal  good  will  felt  for  a  man 
to  whom  every  one  about  him  owed  some  debt  of  kindness, 
while  his  scientific  power  commanded  a  sort  of  awed  respect. 
By  attaching  himself  to  the  Herouvilie  household,  he  had 
increased  the  immunities  he  enjoyed  in  the  province,  and 
had  balked  the  hostilities  of  his  enemies  by  his  important 


THE    HATED    SON  341 

position  as  medical  attendant  to  the  Governor:  but  on  com- 
ing to  the  castle  he  had  taken  care  not  to  bring  with  him 
the  flower  he  kept  hidden  at  Forcalier, — an  estate  of  more 
value  from  the  lands  it  comprised  than  from  the  mansion 
that  stood  on  it,  and  on  which  he  founded  his  hopes  of  set- 
tling his  daughter  in  a  manner  suited  to  his  views  for  her. 

When  promising  the  Duke  a  grandson,  and  exacting  his 
promise  to  approve  of  any  measure,  he  suddenly  thought  of 
Gabrielle,  the  gentle  girl  whose  mother  had  been  as  com- 
pletely forgotten  by  the  Duke  as  his  son  fitienne  had  been. 
He  waited  till  his  master  had  left  to  put  his  plan  into  prac- 
tice, being  aware  that,  if  it  should  come  to  the  Duke's  knowl- 
edge, the  enormous  difficulties  which  a  favorable  issue  would 
nullify,  would  by  anticipation  prove  insuperable. 

Beauvouloir's  house  faced  the  south,  standing  on  the  slope 
of  one  of  the  pleasant  hills  that  enclose  the  vales  of  Nor- 
mandy; a  thick  wood  sheltered  it  on  the  north;  high  walls 
and  clipped  hedges  and  deep  ditches  enclosed  it  in  impenetra- 
ble seclusion.  The  garden  was  laid  out  in  terraces  down  to 
the  river  which  watered  the  meadows  at  the  bottom,  where 
a  high  bank  between  shrubs  made  a  natural  dyke.  These 
hedges  screened  a  covered  walk,  winding  with  the  ^vindings 
of  the  stream,  and  as  deeply  buried  as  a  forest  path  in  wil- 
lows, beeches,  and  oaks. 

From  the  house  to  this  embankment  stretched  the  rich 
verdure  native  to  the  district,  a  slope  shaded  by  a  grove  of 
foreign  trees  whose  mingled  hues  made  a  richly  varied  back- 
ground of  color:  here  the  silvery  tones  of  a  pine  stood  out 
against  the  darker  green  of  elms;  there  a  slim  poplar  lifted  its 
waving  spire  in  front  of  a  group  of  old  oaks;  farther  down 
weeping-willows  drooped  in  pale  tresses  between  burly  wal- 
nut trees.  This  copse  now  afforded  shade  at  all  times  on  the 
way  down  from  the  house  to  the  river  path. 

In  front  of  the  house  a  terrace  walk  spread  a  yellow  band 
of  gravel,  and  it  was  shadowed  by  a  wooden  veranda  over- 
grown with  creepers,  which,  by  the  month  of  May,  were  cov- 
ered with  blossoms  up  to  the  first-floor  windows. 


342  THE    HATED    SON 

The  garden,  though  not  extensive,  was  made  to  seem  so  by 
the  way  it  was  planned;  and  points  of  view,  cleverly  con- 
trived from  the  knolls,  overlooked  the  valley  where  the  eye 
might  wander  at  will.  Thus,  as  instinctive  fancy  led  her, 
Gabrielle  could  either  retire  into  the  solitude  of  a  sheltered 
spot  where  nothing  was  to  be  seen  but  the  close  grass,  and  the 
blue  sky  between  the  tree-tops,  or  gaze  far  into  the  distance, 
her  eye  following  the  shading  of  green  hills  from  the  vivid 
hue  of  the  foreground  to  the  pure  depths  of  the  horizon, 
where  they  faded  into  the  blue  ocean  of  air,  or  mingled  with 
the  mountain  clouds  that  floated  over  them. 

Tended  by  her  grandmother,  and  served  by  her  foster- 
mother,  Gabrielle  Beauvouloir  never  left  her  modest  home 
but  to  go  to  the  church  of  which  the  belfry  crowned  the  hill, 
and  whither  she  was  always  escorted  by  her  grandmother, 
her  nurse,  and  her  father's  man-servant.  Thus  she  had 
grown  up  to  the  age  of  seventeen  in  the  sweet  ignorance 
which  the  scarcity  of  books  made  possible,  without  its  seem- 
ing extraordinary  in  a  time  when  a  woman  of  learning  was 
a  rare  phenomenon.  Her  home  had  been  like  a  convent, 
with  added  liberty,  and  without  compulsory  prayer,  where 
she  had  dwelt  under  the  eye  of  a  pious  woman  and  the  pro- 
tection of  her  father,  the  only  man  of  her  acquaintance. 

This  utter  solitude,  required  in  her  infancy  by  her  fragile 
constitution,  had  been  carefully  maintained  by  Beauvouloir. 
As  Gabrielle  grew  up,  indeed,  her  frail  youth  was  strength- 
ened by  the  care  that  was  lavished  on  her  and  the  pure  air 
she  breathed.  Still,  the  experienced  leech  could  not  fail  to 
mark  how  the  pearly  hues  about  his  daughter's  eyes  would 
alter,  darken,  or  redden  with  every  emotion;  here  frailty  of 
body  and  activity  of  soul  were  indicated  by  signs  which  long 
experience  enabled  him  to  read ;  also  Gabrielle's  heavenly 
beauty  gave  him  cause  for  dreading  the  deeds  of  violence  that 
were  only  too  common  in  those  times  of  rebellion  and  warfare. 
Thus  many  reasons  had  concurred  to  induce  the  good  man 
to  thicken  the  shadows  and  insist  on  solitude  for  his  daugh- 
ter, whose  sensitive  nature  was  also  a  cause  for  alarm ;  a  pas- 


THE    HATED    SON  343 

sjion,  an  abduction,  an  attack  of  any  kind,  would  be  her 
death. 

Though  his  child  rarely  needed  reproof,  a  word  of  blame 
crushed  her;  she  brooded  over  it,  it  sank  into  her  heart  and 
gave  rise  to  pondering  melancholy;  she  would  retire  to  weep, 
and  weep  for  long.  Thus  her  moral  training  had  needed  as 
much  tender  care  as  her  physical  training.  The  old  leech 
dared  not  tell  her  the  tales  which  commonly  enchant  chil- 
dren; they  agitated  her  too  deeply.  So  the  father,  who  by 
long  practice  had  learned  so  many  things,  had  been  careful  to 
develop  his  daughter's  frame  that  the  body  might  dull  the 
shocks  inflicted  by  so  active  a  spirit.  Gabrielle  was  his  life, 
his  love,  his  sole  desire,  and  he  never  hesitated  to  procure 
everything  that  might  contribute  to  the  desired  end.  He 
kept  her  from  books,  pictures,  music,  every  creation  of  art 
that  could  excite  her  brain.  With  his  mother's  help  he  in- 
terested Gabrielle  in  manual  occupations.  Tapestry,  sew- 
ing, and  lace-making,  the  care  of  flowers,  the  duties  of  a 
housewife,  the  fruit  harvest, — in  short,  all  the  most  homely 
tasks  of  life  were  the  lovely  child's  daily  fare.  Beauvouloir 
bought  her  pretty  spinning-wheels,  handsomely  inlaid  chests, 
rich  carpets,  Bernard  Palissy's  pottery,  tables,  prie-dieus  and 
chairs  finely  carved  and  covered  with  costly  stuffs,  embroid- 
ered linen,  and  jewels.  With  the  subtle  instinct  of  a  father 
the  old  man  always  chose  his  gifts  from  such  things  as  were 
decorated  in  the  fanciful  taste  known  as  Arabesque,  which, 
as  it  appeals  i)either  to  the  emotions  nor  the  senses,  speaks 
only  to  the  mind  b}''  its  purely  imaginative  inventions. 

And  so,  strangely  enough,  the  life  to  which  a  father's 
hatred  had  condemned  Etienne  d'Herouville,  a  father's  love 
'.lad  provided  for  Gabrielle.  In  both  the  children  the  soul 
was  like  to  destroy  the  body ;  and,  but  for  the  complete  soli- 
tude that  fate  had  contrived  for  one,  and  science  had  created 
for  the  other,  both  might  have  succumbed — he  to  fears,  and 
she  to  the  tide  of  a  too  ardent  passion  of  love.  But,  unfor- 
tunately, Gabrielle  was  not  born  in  a  land  of  heath  and  moor, 
amid  the  sterner  aspp-cts  of  grudging  nature,  such  as  the 


;{44  THE    HATED    SON 

greatest  painters  always  depict  as  the  background  for  their 
Virgins;  siie  dwelt  in  a  rich  and  fertile  valley.  Beauvouloir 
could  not  frustrate  the  charms  of  the  natural  groves,  the 
happy  arrangement  of  the  flower-beds,  the  cool  depth  of  the 
grassy  carpet,  the  love  revealed  in  the  twining  and  climbing 
plants. 

These  living  poems  have  a  language  of  their  own,  felt 
rather  than  understood  by  Gabrielle,  who  would  abandon 
herself  to  vague  dreams  under  the  leafy  shade ;  and  through 
the  misty  ideas  which  came  to  her  in  her  admiration  of  a 
cloudless  sky,  her  long  study  of  a  landscape,  seen  under  every 
aspect  lent  it  by  the  changing  seasons  and  the  variations  of 
a  sea-born  atmosphere,  where  the  fogs  of  England  died  away 
into  the  bright  daylight  of  France,  a  distant  light  dawned  on 
her  mind,  the  aurora  of  a  day  that  pierced  the  darkness  in 
which  her  father  kept  her. 

Nor  had  Beauvouloir  been  able  to  exclude  Gabrielle  from 
the  influence  of  divine  love;  she  added  to  her  admiration  of 
nature  adoration  of  the  Creator;  she  had  indeed  rushed  into 
this  first  outlet  afforded  to  womanly  emotions;  she  truly 
loved  God,  she  loved  Jesus,  the  Virgin  and  the  saints;  she 
loved  the  Church  and  its  splendor;  she  was  a  Catholic  after 
the  pattern  of  Sainte  Theresa,  who  found  in  the  Saviour 
an  unfailing  spouse,  a  perpetual  marriage.  But  Gabrielle 
accepted  this  passion  of  lofty  souls  with  a  pathetic  simplicity 
that  might  have  disarmed  the  most  brutal  seducer  by  the 
innocence  of  its  utterance. 

Whither  would  this  blameless  ignorance  lead  her?  How 
was  enlightenment  to  be  brought  to  an  intelligence  as  pure 
as  the  calm  waters  of  a  lake  that  has  never  mirrored  aught 
but  the  blue  sky?  What  image  would  be  stamped  on  that 
fair  canvas?  Round  what  tree  would  the  snowy  bell-flowers 
of  that  convolvulus  open  ? 

The  father  never  asked  himself  these  questions  without 
an  inward  shudder. 

At  this  moment  the  good  old  man  was  making  his  way 
homeward  on  his  mule,  as  slowlv  as  though  he  would  fain 


THE    HATED    SON  345 

spin  out  to  all  eternity  the  road  leading  from  the  Castle  of 
Herouville  to  Ourseanip,  the  village  near  which  lay  his  estate 
of  Forcalier.  His  unbounded  love  for  his  daughter  had  led 
him  to  conceive  of  a  bold  scheme  indeed.  But  one  man  in 
the  world  could  make  her  happy,  and  that  was  fitienne. 
Certainly  the  angelic  son  of  Jeanne  de  Saint-Savin  and  the 
guileless  daughter  of  Gertrude  Marana  were  twin  souls.  Any 
other  wife  than  Gabrielle  would  terrify  and  kill  the  heir 
presumptive  to  the  dukedom,  just  as  it  seemed  to  Beauvouloir 
that  Gabrielle  must  die  in  the  arms  of  any  man  whose  feel- 
ings and  manners  had  not  the  virginal  gentleness  of  fitienne's. 

The  poor  leech  had  never  till  now  thought  of  such  a  thing ; 
fate  had  plotted  and  commanded  this  union.  But  yet,  in  the 
time  of  Louis  XIII.  who  would  dare  to  marry  the  son  of  the 
Due  d'Herouville  to  the  daughter  of  a  Normandy  bone-set- 
ter? Nevertheless  from  this  union  alone  could  the  posterity 
proceed  on  which  the  old  Duke  was  so  firmly  bent.  Nature 
had  destined  these  two  lovely  creatures  for  each  other,  God 
had  brought  them  half-way  by  an  extraordinary  chain  of 
events,  and  yet  human  notions  and  laws  set  between  them 
an  impassable  gulf.  x\lthough  the  old  man  believed  that  he 
herein  saw  the  hand  of  God,  in  spite,  too,  of  the  promise  he 
had  extracted  from  the  Duke,  he  was  in  the  grip  of  such  ex- 
treme alarm  as  he  thought  of  the  violence  of  that  ungov- 
erned  temper,  that  he  paused  as  he  came  to  the  top  of  the 
hill  opposite  to  that  of  Ourscamp,  whence  he  saw  the  smoke 
rising  from  his  own  roof  between  the  trees  of  his  orchard. 
What  decided  him  was  his  relationship,  though  illegitimate, 
a  circumstance  that  might  have  some  intluence  over  his  mas- 
ter's mind.  And  then,  having  made  up  his  mind,  Beauvou- 
loir put  his  trust  in  the  chances  of  life;  the  Duke  might  die 
l^efore  the  marriage;  and  besides  there  were  precedents: 
FranQoise  Mignot,  a  Dauphine  peasant  girl,  had  lately  mar- 
ried the  Marechal  de  I'Hopital ;  the  son  of  the  Constable  x4nne 
de  Montmorency  had  wedded  Diane,  the  daughter  of  Henri  II. 
nnd  a  Piemontese  lady  name  Philippa  Due. 

While  lie  was  tbu?  dcliberfitinof.  his  fatherly  affection  weigh- 
ing all  the  probabilities  and  calculations,  tlie  chances  for  good 


346  THE    FIATED    SON 

or  evil,  and  tryinf;'  to  read  the  future  by  studying  its  factors, 
Gabrielle  was  in  the  garden  choosing  flowers  wherewitli  to  fill 
a  vase  made  by  the  illustrious  potter  who  did  with  his  glazed 
clay  what  Benvenuto  Cellini  did  with  metals.  Gabrielle  had 
set  this  jar,  decorated  with  animals  in  relief,  on  a  table  in  the 
middle  of  the  sitting-room,  and  was  arranging  the  flowers 
partly  to  please  her  grandmother,  but  partly  perhaps  as  a 
means  of  expressing  her  thoughts. 

The  tall  earthenware  vase  of  Limoges  ware,  as  it  was 
called,  was  filled  and  standing  finished  on  the  handsome 
table-cover,  and  Gabrielle  had  exclaimed  to  her  grandmother, 
"There,  look "  when  Beauvouloir  came  in. 

The  girl  rushed  into  her  father's  arms.  After  the  first 
effusions  Gabrielle  wanted  the  old  man  to  admire  the  posy 
and  as  he  looked  at  it  the  leech  turned  a  searching  gaze  on 
his  daughter,  making  her  blush. 

"It  is  high  time,"  said  he  to  himself,  understanding  the 
eloquence  of  these  flowers,  each  of  which  had  certainly  been 
chosen  for  its  form  and  color,  so  perfectly  was  it  placed 
to  produce  a  magical  effect  in  the  nosegay. 

Gabrielle  remained  standing,  unheeding  the  spray  she  had 
begun  in  her  embroidery.  As  he  looked  at  his  daughter,  a 
tear  gathered  in  Beauvouloir's  eye,  and  gliding  down  his 
cheeks,  which  were  a  little  drawn  by  a  grave  expression,  fell 
on  to  his  shirt  pulled  out  in  front,  in  the  fashion  of  the 
time,  between  the  points  of  his  jerkin  above  his  trunk  hose. 
He  tossed  off  his  felt  hat  with  its  shabby  red  feather,  to  pass 
his  hand  over  his  polished  crown. 

As  he  glanced  once  more  at  the  girl  who  here — under  the 
dark  beams  of  this  room  hung  with  leather  and  furnished 
in  ebony,  with  heavy  silk  curtains,  a  lofty  chimney-place,  in 
a  pleasant  diffused  light — was  still  all  his  own,  the  poor 
father  felt  the  tears  rising  and  wiped  them  away.  A  father 
who  loves  his  child  always  longs  to  keep  it  young,  and  the 
man  who  can  see  his  daughter  pass  into  the  power  of  a  hus- 
band without  acute  grief  does  not  rise  superior  to  higher 
worlds,  but  sinks  to  th*^  meanest  depths. 


THE    HATED    SON  34Y 

"What  ails  you,  son  ?"  asked  his  okl  mother,  taking  off  her- 
spectacles,  and  seeking  in  tlie  good  man's  attitude  the  reason 
of  a  silence  that  puzzled  her  in  one  usually  so  cheerful. 

The  physician  pointed  to  his  daughter,  and  the  old  woman, 
following  the  direction  of  his  finger,  nodded,  as  much  as  to 
pay,  "She  is  a  sweet  creature/' 

Who  could  have  failed  to  enter  into  Beauvouloir's  feelings 
on  seeing  the  maiden  as  she  appeared  in  the  costume  of  that 
time  and  under  the  clear  sky  of  Normandy?  Gabrielle  wore 
the  bodice,  open  with  a  point  in  front  and  square  behind,  in 
which  the  Italian  painters  generally  dressed  their  saints  and 
madonnas.  This  elegant  bodice,  of  sky-blue  velvet,  as 
sheeny  as  that  of  a  dragon-fly,  fitted  her  closely,  clasping  her 
figure  so  as  to  show  off  the  finely  modeled  form  which  it 
seemed  to  compress;  it  showed  the  mould  of  her  shoulders, 
back,  and  waist,  as  exactly  as  if  designed  by  the  most  ac- 
complished artist,  and  was  finished  round  the  throat  with 
an  oval  slope  edged  with  light  embroidery  in  fawn-colored 
silk,  showing  enough  to  reveal  the  beauty  of  her  shape,  but 
not  enough  to  suggest  desire.  A  skirt  of  fawn-colored  stuff 
that  continued  the  flow  of  the  lines  presented  by  the  velvet 
bodice,  fell  to  her  feet  in  narrow,  flattened  pleats. 

Gabrielle  was  so  slender  that  she  looked  tall.  Her  thin 
arm  hung  by  her  side  with  the  inertia  that  deep  meditation 
imparts  to  the  limbs;  and  standing  thus  she  was  the  living 
model  of  those  artless-looking  masterpieces  of  sculpture  which 
were  then  appreciated,  and  which  commend  themselves  to 
our  admiration  by  the  grace  of  long  lines,  straight  without 
stiffness,  and  a  firmness  of  outline  that  is  never  lifeless. 

No  swallow  skimming  past  the  window  at  dusk  could  show 
a  more  delicately  marked  shape.  Her  features  were  small 
but  not  mean ;  her  brow  and  throat  were  marbled  with  fine 
blue  veins,  tinting  the  skin  like  agate  and  betraying  the  deli- 
cacy of  a  complexion  so  transparent  that  you  might  have 
fancied  you  saw  the  blood  flowing  within.  This  extreme 
fairness  was  faintly  tinged  with  pink  in  the  cheeks.  Her 
hair,  covered  with  a  little  blue  velvet  bonnet  embroidered 


848  THE    HATED    SON 

with  pearls,  lay  on  her  temples  like  two  streams  of  beaten 
gold,  and  played  iu  curls  above  her  shoulders,  but  did  not 
cover  them.  The  warm  tones  of  this  silken  hair  showed  off 
the  brilliant  whiteness  of  her  neck,  and  by  its  reflection  gave 
added  exquisitoness  to  the  pure  form  of  her  face.  The  eyes, 
rather  long  and  half-shut  between  somewhat  heavy  eyelids, 
were  in  harmony  with  the  daintiness  of  her  features  and 
figure;  their  pearly  gray  was  bright  but  not  vivid;  innocence 
veiled  passion. 

The  thin  nose  would  have  seemed  as  cold  as  a  steel  blade 
but  for  the  rosy,  velvety  nostrils,  so  expressive  as  to  be  out  of 
harmony  with  the  purity  of  a  dreamy  brow,  often  startled  and 
sometimes  mirthful,  always  serenely  lofty.  Finally,  a  pretty 
little  ear  attracted  the  eye,  by  showing  beneath  the  cap  be- 
tween two  locks  of  hair,  a  ruby  earring  in  bright  contrast  with 
her  milky  white  throat.  Hers  was  not  the  beauty  of  the  ISTor- 
mandy  woman,  buxom  and  stout,  nor  the  beauty  of  the  south, 
in  which  passion  lends  nobility  to  matter,  nor  the  essentially 
French  beauty  that  is  as  fugitive  as  its  expression,  nor  the  cold 
and  melancholy  beauty  of  the  north;  it  was  the  deep  seraphic 
beauty  of  the  Catholic  Church,  at  once  pliant  and  firm,  severe 
and  tender. 

"Where  could  you  see  a  prettier  duchess?"  said  Beau- 
vouloir  to  himself,  as  he  looked  with  delight  at  Gabrielle, 
who,  as  she  stood  leaning  forward  a  little,  her  neck  bent  to 
watch  the  flight  of  a  bird  outside,  could  only  be  compared  to 
a  gazelle  pausing  to  listen  to  the  murmur  of  the  stream  at 
which  it  is  about  to  slake  its  thirst. 

"Come  and  perch  here,"  said  Beauvouloir,  slapping  his 
leg,  and  giving  the  girl  a  look  that  promised  some  confiden- 
tial speech. 

Gabrielle  understood  and  obeyed.  She  lightly  seated  her- 
self on  her  father's  knee,  and  put  her  arms  round  his  neck, 
crumpling  his  ruff  a  good  deal. 

"Now,  of  whom  were  3^u  thinking  when  you  were  pluck- 
ing those  flowers?    You  never  made  a  finer  posy." 

"Oh,  of  many  things,"  said  she.     "xA.s  I  admired  those 


THE    HATED    SON  349 

flowers,  which  seem  to  be  made  for  us,  I  wondered  for  whom 
we  are  made, — we  human  creatures;  who  the  beings  are  that 
look  at  us.  You  are  my  father,  so  I  can  tell  you  all  I  think, 
and  you  are  so  wise  that  you  can  explain  everything.  I  feel 
within  me  a  force,  as  it  would  seem,  that  wants  to  exert  itself ; 
I  am  struggling  with  something.  When  the  sky  is  gray  I  am 
almost  happy ;  1  am  melancholy,  but  calm.  But  whe'n  the  day 
is  fine,  and  the  flowers  are  sweet,  and  I  am  sitting  out  there 
on  my  bench  under  the  honeysuckle  and  jasmine,  I  feel  as  if 
there  were  waves  inside  me  surging  up  against  my  stillness. 
Ideas  come  into  my  head  that  seem  to  hit  me  and  fly  away, 
as  the  birds  fly  in  the  evening;  I  cannot  catch  them.  Well, 
and  when  I  have  made  a  posy  in  which  the  colors  are  ar- 
ranged as  they  are  in  tapestry,  red  against  white,  and  brown 
mingling  with  green,  when  it  is  full  of  life  and  the  air  blows 
through  it,  and  the  flowers  nod,  and  there  is  a  medley  of 
scents  and  a  tangle  of  bloom,  I  fancy  I  see  what  is  going  on 
in  my  own  mind,  and  I  feel  happy.  And  in  church,  when 
the  organ  sounds  and  the  priest  responds,  and  two  distinct 
strains  answer  each  other,  the  human  voices  and  the  organ, 
then  again  I  am  happy;  the  harmony  rings  through  my 
heart;  I  pray  with  a  warmth  that  stirs  my  blood." 

As  he  listened  to  his  daughter,  Beauvouloir  studied  her 
with  a  sagacious  eye;  his  gaze  looked  dull  from  the  sheer 
force  of  thought,  as  the  smooth  curl  of  a  waterfall  seems  mo- 
tionless. He  lifted  the  veil  of  flesh  which  hid  the  secret 
springs  by  which  the  spirit  acts  on  the  body;  he  was  watch- 
ing the  various  symptoms,  which  long  experience  had  shown 
him  in  all  the  patients  committed  to  his  care,  and  comparing 
them  with  symptoms  discernible  in  that  frail  form,  was  half 
alarmed  by  the  delicate  structure  of  those  small  bones,  and 
the  insubstantiality  of  the  milk-white  skin;  he  tried  to  bring 
the  teaching  of  science  to  bear  on  the  future  of  this  seraphic 
creature,  and  he  felt  giddy  at  finding  himself,  as  it  were, 
on  the  edge  of  a  gulf.  Gabrielle's  too  thrilling  voice,  her  too 
graceful  form,  made  him  anxious;  and,  after  questioning 
her,  he  questioned  himself. 


850  THE    HATED    SON 

'^You  are  not  happy  here !"  he  exchiimcd  at  last,  prompted 
by  a  crowning  idea  in  conclusion  of  his  meditations. 

She  faintly  bowed  her  head. 

"Then  God  be  with  us!  I  will  take  you  to  the  Chateau 
d'Herouville,"  he  said  with  a  sigh.  "There  you  can  have  sea- 
baths,  which  will  strengthen  you." 

"Do  you  mean  it,  father?  You  are  not  laughing  at  your 
Gabrielle?  I  have  so  longed  for  the  castle  and  the  men-at- 
arms  and  the  captains  and  monseigneur." 

"Yes,  my  child;  your  nurse  and  Jean  can  accompany 
you." 

"And  very  soon?" 

"To-morrow,"  said  the  old  man,  rushing  out  into  the  gar- 
den to  hide  his  agitation  from  his  mother  and  his  daughter. 

"God  is  my  witness,"  cried  he,  "that  it  is  not  ambition  that 
prompts  this  step.  My  child  to  save,  poor  little  fitienne  to 
be  made  happy, — these  are  my  sole  motives." 

But  while  he  thus  questioned  himself,  he  felt  in  the  depths 
of  his  conscience  an  irrepressible  satisfaction  at  the  thought 
that  if  his  plan  should  succeed,  Gabrielle  would  one  day  be 
Duchesse  d'Herouville.  There  is  always  the  man  in  the 
father. 

He  walked  about  for  a  long  time,  went  in  to  supper,  and 
all  the  evening  rejoiced  in  contemplating  his  daughter  amid 
the  soft  and  sober  poetry  with  which  he  had  surrounded  her. 

When,  before  going  to  bed,  the  grandmother,  the  nurse, 
the  leech,  and  Gabrielle  knelt  do\vn  to  pray  together,  he  said: 
"Let  us  beseech  the  Lord  for  His  blessing  on  my  plans." 

His  old  mother,  who  knew  what  he  proposed  to  do,  felt 
her  eyes  fill  with  her  few  remaining  tears.  Gabrielle,  purely 
curious,  flushed  with  delight.  The  father  quaked;  he  feared 
some  disaster. 

"After  all,"  said  his  mother,  "do  not  be  so  alarmed,  An- 
toine.    The  Duke  will  not  kill  his  granddaughter." 

"No,"  replied  he,  '%\\t  he  may  compel  her  to  marry  some 
ruffianly  baron  who  will  destroy  her." 


THE    HATED    SON  351 

Next  day  Gabrielle,  mounted  on  an  ass,  followed  by  her 
nurse  on  foot  and  her  father  riding  a  mule,  and  the  man 
leading  the  two  horses  loaded  with  their  baggage,  set  out  for 
the  Castle  d'Herouville,  which  the  cavalcade  reached  only  at 
dusk.  To  keep  the  journey  a  secret  Beauvouloir  had  taken 
cross  roads,  starting  early  in  the  morning,  and  he  had  car- 
ried provisions  so  as  to  take  a  meal  on  the  way  without  being 
seen  at  the  inns.  Thus,  without  being  seen  by  any  of  the 
Duke's  people,  he  went  in  by  night  to  the  house  which  the 
disowned  son  had  so  long  inhabited,  and  where  Bertrand  was 
awaiting  him, — the  only  person  he  had  taken  into  his  con- 
fidence. 

The  old  squire  helped  the  leech,  the  nurse,  and  the  man 
to  unload  the  horses,  carry  in  the  baggage,  and  settle  Beau- 
vouloir's  daughter  in  fitienne's  dwelling.  When  Bertrand 
saw  Gabrielle  he  stood  quite  amazed. 

'"T  could  fancy  it  was  her  mother !"  cried  he.  "She  is  as 
Slight  and  fragile  as  she  was;  she  has  the  same  fair  skin  and 
golden  hair;  the  old  Duke  will  love  her." 

"God  grant  it !"  said  Beauvouloir.  "But  will  he  confess  to 
his  own  blood  mingled  with  mine  ?"' 

"He  cannot  disown  it,"  said  Bertrand.  "Many  a  time  have 
I  waited  for  him  at  the  door  of  the  Belle  Romaine,  who 
lived  in  the  Rue  Culture-Sainte  Catherine.  The  Cardinal 
de  Lorraine  was  obliged  to  leave  her  to  monseigneur  for 
shame  at  having  been  so  roughly  handled  as  he  came  out  of 
her  house. 

"Monseigneur,  who  at  that  time  was  not  much  past  twenty, 
must  remember  that  ambush  well.  He  was  a  bold  youth  al- 
ready, and  I  may  say  now  that  he  was  the  leader  of  the  as- 
sault." 

"He  has  forgotten  all  that,"  said  Beauvouloir.  "He  knows 
that  my  wife  is  dead,  but  he  scarcely  remembers  that  I  have 
a  daughter." 

"Oh!  two  old  shipmates,  as  we  are,  can  steer  the  boat 
into  port,"  said  Bertrand.  "And,  after  all  'f  he  is  angry  and 
is  revenged  on  our  carcasses,  they  have  served  their  time." 

VOL.  5— 48 


352  THE    HATED    SON 

Before  his  departure  the  Due  d'Herouvillc  had  forbidden 
*?verybody  attaclied  to  the  eastle,  under  heavy  penalties,  to  go 
down  to  the  .shore  where  Etieiine  had  hitlierto  pa^^^ed  liiti  life 
unless  the  Due  de  Nivron  himself  should  desire  their  com- 
pany. These  orders,  suggested  by  Beauvouloir,  who  had 
argued  that  it  was  necessary  to  leave  fitienne  free  to  indulge 
his  old  habits,  secured  to  Gabrielle  and  her  nurse  the  abso- 
lute privacy  of  the  precincts  whence  the  leech  forbade  them 
wander  without  his  permission. 

During  these  two  days  fitienne  had  kept  his  room,  the 
great  state  room,  lingering  over  the  charms  of  his  melancholy 
reminiscences. 

That  bed  had  been  his  mother's ;  close  to  where  he  stood  she 
had  gone  through  that  terrible  scene  attending  his  birth  when 
Beauvouloir  had  saved  two  lives.  She  had  breathed  her  woes 
to  this  furniture,  it  was  she  who  had  used  it,  her  eyes  had 
often  gazed  upon  those  panels;  and  how  often  had  she  come 
to  this  window  to  call  or  signal  to  her  poor  boy,  now  the  ab- 
solute master  of  the  castle. 

Alone  in  this  room,  whither  he  had  last  come  by  stealth, 
brought  by  Beauvouloir  to  kiss  his  dying  mother  for  the  last 
time,  he  now  brought  her  to  life  again,  spoke  to  her,  listened 
to  her;  he  would  drink  deep  of  the  spring  that  never  runs 
dry,  whence  so  many  songs  flow  that  echo  Super  flumina 
Bahylonis. 

On  the  day  after  his  return  Beauvouloir  waited  on  his 
young  master,  and  gently  reproved  him  for  having  stayed  in 
the  room  without  going  out  of  it,  pointing  out  to  him  that 
it  would  not  do  to  give  up  his  open-air  life  and  become  a 
prisoner. 

"This  room  is  spacious,"  said  the  youth;  "and  here  my 
mother's  soul  dwells." 

However,  the  leech,  by  the  kindly  influence  of  affection, 
persuaded  fitienne  to  promise  to  walk  out  every  day,  either  on 
the  seashore,  or  inland  through  the  country,  as  yet  quite  un- 
known to  him.  liltienne,  notwithstanding,  still  given  up  to 
his  remembrances,  stood  at  his  window  all  the  next  day  look- 


THE    HATED    SON  353 

ing  out  at  the  sea;  it  appeared  under  such  various  aspects 
that  he  fancied  he  had  never  seen  it  so  lovely.  He  varied  his 
contemplation  by  reading  Petrarch,  one  of  his  favorite  au- 
thors, whose  poetry  went  straight  to  his  heart  as  a  monu- 
ment of  constant  and  single-hearted  love.  jStienne  felt  that 
he  had  in  himself  no  power  for  many  passions ;  he  could  love 
but  once,  and  in  but  one  way.  Though  that  love  would  be 
deep,  like  all  that  is  unmingled,  it  would  also  be  calm  in  its 
expression,  as  suave  and  pure  as  the  Italian  poet's  sonnets. 

As  the  sun  set,  this  child  of  solitude  began  to  sing  in  that 
marvelous  voice  which  had  fallen  as  a  harbinger  of  hope  on 
ears  so  insensible  to  nnisic  as  those  of  his  father.  He  gave 
utterance  to  his  melancholy  by  variations  on  an  air  which  he 
repeated  again  and  again,  like  the  nightingale.  This  air, 
ascribed  to  the  late  King  Henri  IV.,  was  not  the  famous 
"Air  de  Gahrielle"  but  one  very  superior  to  that  in  construc- 
tion ;  and  as  a  melody  as  well  as  an  expression  of  feeling, 
admirers  of  Old  World  compositions  will  recognize  it  by 
the  words,  also  written  by  the  great  king.  The  tune  had 
probably  been  a  reminiscence  of  those  that  lulled  his  child- 
hood in  the  mountains  of  Beam. 

"  Viens,  Aurora, 

Je  t' implore, 
Je  suis  gai  quand  je  te  vois; 

La  Bergfere 

Qui  m'est  chfere 
Est  vermeille  comme  toi. 

De  ros6e 

Arros^e, 
La  rose  a  moins  de  fralcheur; 

Une  hermine 

Est  moins  fine ; 
Le  lys  a  moins  de  blancheur. " 

After  having  thus  artlessly  expressed  his  feelings  in  song, 
fitienne  looked  out  at  the  sea  and  said: 

"There  is  my  betrothed — my  one  and  only  love/* 


864  THE    HA'.i^D    boN 

And  again  he  sang  these  linos  of  the  ballad: 

•'Elle  est  blonde 
Sang  scconde! " 

And  repeated  it  as  uttering  the  poetical  urgency  which  rises 
up  in  a  timid  youth,  bold  only  when  he  is  alone.  This  surg- 
ing song,  with  its  breaks  and  its  fresh  outbursts,  interrupted 
and  begun  again,  till  at  length  it  died  in  a  last  falling  note 
'that  grew  fainter  like  the  vibrations  of  a  bell,  was  full  of 
dreams. 

At  that  instant  a  voice  he  felt  inclined  to  attribute  to  some 
siren  risen  from  the  waves,  a  woman's  voice,  repeated  the  air 
he  had  just  sung,  but  with  the  hesitancy  natural  to  a  person 
to  whom  the  power  of  music  is  revealed  for  the  first  time; 
he  discerned  it  in  the  uncertain  language  of  a  heart  just 
awakening  to  the  poetry  of  harmony,  [fitienne,  who  by  long 
exercise  of  his  own  voice  had  learned  the  language  of  song,  in 
which  the  soul  finds  as  many  means  of  utterance  for  its 
thoughts  as  it  does  in  speech,  could  divine  all  the  shy  surprise 
that  was  revealed  in  this  attempt. 

With  what  religious  and  mysterious  admiration  did  he 
listen!  The  stillness  of  the  evening  allowed  him  to  catch 
every  sound,  and  he  thrilled  as  he  heard  the  rustle  of  a  long 
trailing  dress ;  he  was  astonished  to  perceive  in  himself — ac- 
customed as  he  was  to  surprises  of  terror  that  brought  him 
within  an  inch  of  death — the  sense  of  balm  to  his  soul  which 
of  old  had  come  to  him  at  the  approach  of  his  mother. 

"Come,  Gabrielle,  my  child,"  said  Beauvouloir's  voice.  "I 
have  forbidden  you  to  stay  out  on  the  shore  after  sunset.  Go 
in,  my  girl." 

"Gabrielle  !"  thought  fitienne.    "What  a  pretty  name !" 

Beauvouloir  presently  appeared  on  the  scene,  and  roused 
jhis  master  from  one  of  those  meditations  which  are  as  deep 
as  a  dream. 

It  was  quite  dark,  but  the  moon  was  rising. 

"^lonseigneur,"  said  the  old  man,  "you  have  not  been  out 
to-day.    That  is  not  right." 


THE    HATED    SON  355 

"And  I — may  I  go  out  on  the  shore  after  sunset?"  asked 
Jfitienne. 

The  implication  conveyed  in  the  question,  a  first  semblance 
of  desire,  made  the  leech  smile. 

"You  have  a  daughter,  Beauvouloir  ?" 

"Yes,  my  lord,  the  child  of  my  old  age,  my  beloved  little 
girl.  Monseigneur  the  Duke,  your  noble  father,  gave  me 
such  strict  injunctions  to  watch  over  your  precious  life  that, 
as  I  could  no  longer  go  to  Forcalier  to  see  her,  I  have  brought 
her  away,  to  my  great  regret ;  and  to  conceal  her  from  all  eyes 
I  have  placed  her  in  the  house  where  your  lordship  used  to 
live.  She  is  so  fragile  that  I  fear  every  shock,  even  too  strong 
an  emotion;  and  I  have  not  allowed  her  to  learn  anything, 
she  would  have  killed  herself." 

"Then  she  knows  nothing  ?"  asked  fitienne,  surprised. 

"She  has  all  the  skill  of  a  good  housewife;  but  she  has 
grown  up  as  the  plants  grow.  Ignorance,  monseigneur,  is  a 
thing  as  sacred  as  science.  Knowledge  and  ignorance  are  two 
distinct  conditions  of  being;  each  enwraps  the  soul  as  in  a 
winding-sheet.  Learning  has  enabled  you  to  live;  ignorance 
has  saved  my  daughter.  The  best  hidden  pearls  escape  the 
diver's  eye  and  live  happy.  I  may  compare  my  Gabrielle  to  a 
pearl ;  her  complexion  has  its  sheen,  her  soul  is  as  pure,  and 
till  now,  my  home  at  Forcalier  has  been  her  shell." 

"Come  with  me,"  said  fitienne,  wrapping  a  cloak  about 
him.    "I  will  walk  by  the  sea ;  the  night  is  soft." 

Beauvouloir  and  his  young  master  walked  on  in  silence 
to  a  spot  where  a  beam  of  light  from  between  the  shutters  of 
the  fisherman's  house  shed  a  path  of  gold  across  the  sea. 

"I  cannot  express  the  feelings  produced  in  me  by  the  sight 
of  a  ray  cast  out  across  the  waters,"  said  the  bashful  youth 
to  the  leech.  "I  have  so  often  watched  the  window  of  that 
room,  till  the  light  was  extinguished;"  and  he  pointed  to 
the  room  that  had  been  his  mother's. 

"Though  Gabrielle  is  so  delicate,"  said  Beauvouloir,  cheer- 
fully, "it  will  not  hurt  her  to  walk  with  us;  the  night  is  hot 
and  there  is  no  mist  in  the  air.  I  will  go  to  fetch  her.  But 
be  careful,  monseigneur  " 


356  THE    HATKI,    SON 

fitienne  was  too  sli}'  to  oll'er  to  go  into  the  house  with  Beau- 
vouloir;  besides,  he  was  in  the  stunned  eondition  into  wiiich 
we  are  thrown  by  the  high  tide  of  ideas  and  feelings  produced 
by  the  dawn  of  passion. 

Feeling  more  free  when  he  found  himself  alone,  as  he 
looked  at  the  moonlit  sea  he  exclaimed : 

''The  ocean  must  have  passed  into  my  soul !" 

The  sight  of  the  graceful  living  statuette  that  now  came 
out  to  meet  him,  silvery  in  the  enveloping  moonbeams,  in- 
creased the  beating  of  fitienne's  heart,  but  yet  it  was  not  pain- 
ful. 

"My  child,"  said  Beuuvouloir,  "this  is  my  lord  the  Duke." 

At  this  instant  £tienne  longed  to  be  a  colossus  like  his 
father,  he  would  have  rejoiced  in  seeming  strong  instead  of 
frail.  Every  vanity  natural  to  a  mai'.  and  a  lover  pierced 
his  heart  like  arrows,  and  he  stood  in  distressed  silence,  con- 
scious for  the  first  time  of  his  imperfections. 

Embarrassed  by  her  courtesy,  he  bowed  awkwardly  in 
return,  and  remained  close  to  Beauvouloir,  with  whom  he 
conversed  as  they  walked  along  the  shore;  but  Gabrielle's 
respectful  and  timid  manner  gave  him  courage,  and  he  ven- 
tured to  address  her. 

The  incident  of  the  song  was  purely  accidi'utal :  the  leech 
had  prepared  nothing;  iie  had  believed  that  in  "two  beings 
whose  hearts  had  been  kept  pure  by  solitude,  love  would  arise 
with  perfect  simplicity.  Thus  Gabrielle's  repetition  of  the 
strain  was  a  ready-made  subject  of  conversation. 

During  this  walk  fitienne  was  aware  of  that  physical  light- 
ness which  every  man  has  experienced  at  the  moment  when 
first  love  transfers  the  very  element  of  his  life  into  another 
being.  He  offered  to  teach  Gabrielle  to  sing.  The  poor  boy 
was  so  happy  to  be  aljle  to  show  himself  superior  in  any  re- 
spect, in  the  eyes  of  this  young  girl,  that  he  trembled  with 
joy  when  she  accepted. 

At  that  moment  the  moonlight  fell  lull  on  Gabrielle,  and 
allowed  fitienne  to  see  certain  vague  points  of  resemblance 
between  her  and  his  dead  mother,     l^ike  Jeanne  de  Saint- 


THE    HATED    SON  357 

Savin,  Beaiivouloir's  daughter  was  slender  and  delicate;  in 
her,  as  in  the  Duchess,  suffering  and  disapppintmcnt  pro- 
duced a  mysterious  grace.  She  had  the  dignit}^  particular  to 
those  on  whom  the  customs  of  the  world  have  had  no  effect, 
in  whom  everything  is  pleasing  because  everything  is  natural. 
But  besides  this,  there  was  in  Gabrielle  the  blood  of  the 
beautiful  Italian  revived  in  the  third  generation,  and  giving 
the  child  the  vehement  passions  of  a  courtesan  in  a  pure  soul ; 
hence  an  inspired  look  that  fired  her  eyes,  that  sanctified  her 
brow,  that  made  her  radiate  light,  as  it  were,  and  gave  her 
movements  the  sparkle  of  living  flame. 

Beauvouloir  was  startled  as  he  noted  this,  which  nowadays 
might  be  called  the  phosphorescence  of  the  mind;  the  leech 
regarded  it  as  a  forecast  of  death. 

fitienne  happened  to  turn  as  the  girl  was  craning  her  neck, 
like  a  shy  bird  peeping  out  of  its  nest.  Screened  by  her 
father,  Gabrielle  was  able  to  study  Etienne  at  her  ease,  and 
her  expression  was  as  much  of  curiosity  as  of  pleasure,  of 
kindliness  as  of  artless  boldness,  fitienne  did  not  strike  her 
as  sickly,  only  as  delicate.  She  thought  him  so  like  herself 
that  there  was  nothing  to  frighten  her  in  this  lord  and  master, 
fitienne's  pallid  face,  his  fine  hands,  his  feeble  smile,  his  hair 
parted  into  two  flat  bands  ending  in  cnrls  that  fell  over  his 
lace  ruff,  the  noble  brow  lined  with  youthful  sorrow, — all 
this  contrast  of  luxury  and  sadness  and  power  and  weakness 
charmed  her ;  for  did  it  not  smile  on  the  instinct  of  motherly 
protection  which  lies  in  the  germ  in  love?  Did  it  not  stimu- 
late the  need  that  every  woman  feels  to  find  something  iinlike 
the  common  herd  in  the  man  she  means  to  love? 

In  both  of  them  new  thoughts  and  new  sensations  rose  up 
with  a  vigor  and  fulness  that  expanded  the  soul.  They  both 
stood  surprised  and  speechless,  for  the  utterance  of  a  feeling 
is  the  less  demonstrative  in  proportion  to  its  depth.  Every 
lasting  affection  begins  in  dreamy  meditation.  It  was  well, 
perhaps,  that  these  two  should  meet  for  the  first  time  under 
the  mild  light  of  the  moon  so  as  not  to  be  too  suddenly  daz- 
zled by  the  glories  of  love;  and  it  was  fitting  that  they  should 


3P8  THE    HATED    SON 

see  each  other  on  the  margin  of  the  sea,  which  vas  the  image 
of  the  immensity  of  their  feelings.  They  parted  full  of  each 
other,  each  fearing  that  the  other  had  not  heen  satisfied. 

From  his  high  window  fitienne  looked  down  on  the  light 
in  the  house  that  held  (Jabrielle.  During  that  hour  of  hope 
mingled  with  fear,  the  young  poet  found  new  meaning  in 
Petrarca's  sonnets.  lie  had  seen  a  Laura — an  exquisite  and 
delightful  creature,  as  pure  and  golden  as  a  sunbeam,  as 
intelligent  as  the  angels,  as  dependent  as  a  woman.  A  clue 
was  supplied  to  his  studies  for  twenty  years,  he  understood 
the  mystical  connection  of  every  kind  of  beauty ;  he  discerned 
how  much  of  woman  there  was  in  the  poetry  he  delighted 
in;  in  fact,  he  had  so  long  been  in  love  without  knowing  it, 
that  the  past  was  all  merged  in  the  agitations  of  that  lovely 
night.  Gabrielle's  likeness  to  his  mother  he  thought  a  divine 
dispensation.  His  love  was  no  treason  to  his  grief ;  this  love 
was  a  continuance  of  motherhood.  He  could  think  of  the  girl 
lying  under  the  cottage  roof  with  the  same  feelings  as  his 
mother  had  known  when  he  was  sleeping  there. 

Nay,  the  resemblance  was  a  fresh  link  between  the  present 
and  the  past.  The  mournful  countenance  of  Jeanne  de  Saint- 
Savin  rose  before  him  against  the  cloudy  background  of 
memory;  he  saw  her  faint  smile,  he  heard  her  gentle  voice, 
and  he  bowed  his  head  and  wept. 

The  light  in  the  house  below  was  extinguished,  fitienne 
sang  the  little  ballad  of  Henri  IV.  with  fresh  expression,  and 
from  afar  Gabrielle's  attempts  echoed  the  song.  The  girl, 
too,  was  making  her  first  excursion  into  the  enchanted  realm 
of  ecstatic  love.  This  answer  filled  fitienne's  heart  with  joy ; 
the  blood  that  flowed  through  his  veins  lent  him  such  strength 
as  he  had  never  before  known;  love  gave  him  vigor.  Onl} 
feeble  beings  can  conceive  of  the  joy  of  this  regeneration  in 
the  midst  of  life.  The  poor,  the  suffering,  the  ill-used,  have 
ineffable  moments;  so  little  makes  the  whole  world  to  them. 
And  ifitienne  was  related  by  a  thousand  traits  to  the  Folk  of 
the  Dolorous  City.  His  recent  aggrandizement  caused  him 
nothing  but  fear,  and  love  was  bestowing  the  invigorating 
balm  of  strength ;  h^^  was  in  io\ie  with  love. 


THE    HATED    SON  ;359 

fitienne  was  up  betimes  in  the  morning  to  fly  to  his  old 
home,  where  Gabrielle,  prompted  by  curiosity  and  an  eager- 
ness she  would  not  confess  to  herself,  had  already  dressed  her 
hair  and  put  on  her  pretty  costume.  Both  were  possessed 
by  the  wish  to  meet  again;  both  equally  dreaded  the  outcome 
of  the  interview.  He,  for  his  part,  you  may  be  sure,  had 
chosen  his  finest  lace,  his  richest  wrought  cloak,  his  violet 
velvet  trunks;  in  fact,  he  was  dressed  in  the  handsome 
fashion  which  appeals  to  our  memory  when  we  think  of 
Louis  XIII., — a  person  as  much  oppressed  in  the  midst  of 
splendor  as  ;d]tienne  had  hitherto  been.  Nor  was  their  attire 
the  sole  point  of  resemblance  between  the  sovereign  and  his 
subject.  In  ^itienne,  as  in  Louis  XIII. ,  many  sensitive  emo- 
tions met  in  contrast:  chastity,  melancholy,  vague  but  very 
real  suffering,  a  chivalrous  bashfulness,  a  fear  of  failing  to 
express  sentiments  in  their  purity,  a  dread  of  being  too  sud- 
denly hurried  into  the  joys  which  noble  souls  prefer  to  post- 
pone, the  burdensome  sense  of  power,  and  the  instinctive  bent 
towards  obedience  which  is  characteristic  of  those  who  are 
indifferent  to  mere  interest,  but  full  of  love  for  all  that  a 
great  genius  has  designated  as  Astral. 

Though  she  had  indeed  no  knowledge  of  the  world,  it  had 
occurred  to  Gabrielle  that  the  daughter  of  a  bone-setter,  the 
humble  owner  of  Forcalier,  was  too  far  beneath  Monseigneur 
fitienne.  Due  de  Mvron,  heir  to  the  House  of  Herouville,  for 
them  to  be  on  equal  terms ;  she  never  thought  of  the  elevating 
power  of  love.  The  girl  was  too  guileless  to  think  of  this  as 
an  opportunity  for  aiming  at  a  position  in  which  any  other 
damsel  would  have  been  eager  to  place  herself;  she  had  seen 
nothing  but  the  obstacles. 

Loving  already,  without  knowing  what  love  was,  she  saw  her 
happiness  far  away  and  wished  to  reach  it  only  as  a  child  longs 
for  the  golden  grapes  that  it  covets  but  that  hang  too  high. 
To  a  girl  that  could  be  moved  to  tears  at  the  sight  of  a  flower 
and  be  aware  of  love  in  the  chants  of  the  liturgy,  how  deep 
and  strong  were  the  emotions  of  the  past  day  at  the  sight  of 


360  THE    UATED    SOX 

lilt'  weakness  of  her  lord,  bringing  comfort  to  her  own.  But 
J'jlieiiue  had  grown  in  her  mind  during  tlie  night,  she  had 
made  him  her  hope,  lier  strength;  slie  had  set  him  so  high 
that  she  despaired  of  reaching  up  to  him. 

"Have  I  your  permission  to  call  on  you  sometimes,  to  in- 
trude on  your  domain  ?"'  asked  the  Duke,  looking  down. 

As  she  saw  Iiltienne  so  humble,  so  timid, — for  he,  on  his 
part,  had  deilied  Beauvouloir's  daughter, — Gabrielle  felt  the 
sceptre  he  had  given  her  an  embarrassment.  Still  she  was 
immensely  flattered  and  touched  by  this  homage.  Women 
alone  know  how  infinitely  bewitching  is  the  respect  shown  to 
them  by  a  master.  But  she  feared  to  deceive  herself  and, 
quite  as  curious  as  the  first  woman  of  them  all,  she  pined  to 
know. 

"Did  you  not  promise  yesterday  that  you  would  teach  me 
music  ?"  she  rej^lied,  hoping  that  music  might  afford  a  pretext 
for  their  being  together. 

If  the  poor  child  had  but  known  how  fitienue  lived,  she 
would  have  been  careful  to  suggest  no  doubt.  To  him  speech 
was  the  direct  expression  of  the  mind,  and  these  words  pained 
him  deeply.  He  had  come  with  a  full  heart,  fearing  even 
a  dimness  in  the  light,  and  he  was  met  with  a  doubtful  reply. 
His  happiness  was  darkened,  he  was  cast  back  on  his  solitude, 
and  the  flowers  had  vanished  with  which  he  had  beautified  it. 

Gabrielle,  enlightened  by  the  presentiment  of  sorrow  that  is 
peculiar  to  the  angels  whose  task  it  is  to  soothe  it,  and  which 
is  no  doubt  a  heavenly  charity,  at  once  perceived  the  pain  she 
had  given.  She  was  so  shocked  at  her  own  blunder  that  she 
longed  for  God-like  power  to  be  able  to  unveil  her  heart  to 
fitienne,  for  she  had  understood  the  cruel  agitation  that  can 
be  caused  by  a  reproach  or  a  stem  look.  She  artlessly  showed 
him  the  clouds  that  had  risen  in  her  soul,  forming,  as  it  were, 
a  golden  wrapping  for  the  dawn  of  her  affection.  One  tear 
from  Gabrielle  turned  fitienne's  grief  to  joy,  and  then  he  ac- 
cused himself  of  tyranny. 

It  was  a  happy  thing  for  them  that  they  thus  from  the  first 
gauged  the  measure  of  each  other's  heart;  they  could  thus 


THE    HATED    SON  361 

avoid  a  thousand  collisions  that  would  have  bruised  them. 
Suddenly,  :fitienne,  feeling  that  he  must  entrench  himself 
behind  some  occupation,  led  Gabrielle  to  a  table  in  front  of 
the  little  window  where  he  had  known  so  much  sorrow,  and 
where  henceforth  he  was  to  gaze  on  a  flower  fairer  than  any 
he  had  yet  studied.  There  he  opened  a  book  over  which  they 
both  bent  their  heads,  their  curls  mingling. 

These  two,  so  strong  in  heart,  so  feeble  in  frame,  and 
made  beautiful  by  the  grace  of  suffering,  were  a-  touching 
picture.  Gabrielle  knew  none  of  woman's  arts;  she  looked 
at  him  when  he  bade  her,  and  the  soft  beams  of  their  eyes 
only  ceased  to  regard  each  other  by  an  impulse  of  modesty. 
She  had  the  joy  of  telling  fitienne  how  much  pleasure  it  gave 
her  to  hear  his  voice ;  she  paid  no  heed  to  the  meaning  of  his 
words  when  he  explained  the  intervals  and  value  of  the  notes ; 
she  listened,  but  forgot  the  melody  in  the  instrument,  the  idea 
in  the  form, — an  ingenuous  flattery,  the  first  that  comes  to 
true  love. 

Gabrielle  thought  fitienne  handsome;  she  must  feel  the 
velvet  of  his  cloak,  touch  the  lace  of  his  collar.  As  to 
fitienne,  he  was  transfigured  under  the  creative  light  of 
those  bright  eyes ;  they  stirred  in  him  a  life-giving  sap  which 
sparkled  in  his  eyes,  shone  on  his  brow,  revived,  renewed 
his  spirit ;  and  he  did  not  suffer  from  this  fresh  play  of  his 
faculties,  on  the  contrary,  it  strengthened  him.  Happiness 
was  as  nourishing  milk  to  this  new  vitality. 

As  nothing  could  divert  them  from  themselves,  they  re- 
mained together  not  only  that  day,  but  every  other;  for  they 
were  all  in  all  to  each  other  from  the  first,  passing  the  sceptre 
from  hand  to  hand,  playing  as  a  child  plays  with  life.  Sitting 
quite  happy  on  the  golden  sands,  each  told  the  other  the  story 
of  the  past — to  him  so  painful  though  full  of  dreams,  to  her 
a  dream  but  full  of  painful  joys. 

"I  never  had  a  mother,"  said  Gabrielle,  "but  my  father 
was  as  good  as  God  to  me." 

"I  never  had  a  father,"  replied  the  disowned  son,  ^Taut  my 
mother  was  all  Heaven  to  me." 


362  THE    HATED    SON 

fitienne  spoke  of  his  youth,  his  love  for  his  mother,  his 
fondness  of  llowers.  At  this  Gabriclle  exclaimed;  on  being 
questioned  she  blushed  and  could  not  explain ;  then,  when  a 
cloud  passed  over  the  brow,  which  death  seemed  ever  to  fan 
with  his  wing,  on  which  tlie  soul  made  visible  betrayed 
^tienne's  least  emotions,  she  answered : 

"I,  too,  used  to  love  flowers." 

Was  nat  this  such  a  confession  as  maidens  make,  believing 
that  lovers  have  been  bound  even  in  the  past  by  a  common 
taste?  Love  always  tries  to  seem  old;  that  is  the  vanity  of 
children. 

Next  day  fitienne  brought  her  flowers,  ordering  the  rarest, 
such  as  of  yore  his  mother  would  have  procured  for  him.. 
Can  any  one  guess  ho'iv  deeply  rooted  the  fibres  may  be  of  a 
feeling  thus  reverting  to  the  traditions  of  maternity,  and 
lavishing  on  a  woman  the  caressing  care  by  which  his  mother 
had  beautified  his  life?  To  him  what  dignity  there  seemed  in 
these  trifles  which  united  those  two  afTections! 

Flowers  and  music  became  the  language  of  their  love.  Ga- 
brielle  replied  with  posies  to  those  fitienne  sent  her,  such 
posies  as  at  once  showed  the  old  leech  that  his  daughter  knew 
more  than  he  could  teach  her.  The  practical  ignorance  of 
both  the  lovers  thus  formed  a  dark  background  against  which 
the  slightest  incidents  of  their  intimacy,  so  purely  spiritual, 
stood  out  in  exquisite  grace,  like  the  elegant  red  outline  of 
the  figures  on  a  fine  Etruscan  vase.  Each  trifling  word  bore  a 
full  tide  of  meaning,  for  it  was  the  outcome  of  their  thoughts. 
Incapable,  both,  of  any  boldness,  every  beginning  to  them 
seemed  an  end.  Though  absolutely  free,  they  were  prisoners 
to  a  guilelessness  wliich  would  have  been  heartbreaking  to 
either  if  they  had  understood  the  meaning  of  their  vague 
emotions.  They  were  at  once  the  poets  and  the  poem.  Music, 
the  most  sensuous  of  the  arts  to  loving  souls,  was  the  inter- 
preter of  their  ideas,  and  it  was  joy  to  them  to  repeat  the 
same  strain,  pouring  out  their  passion  in  the  wide  flood  of 
sound  in  which  their  spirits  spoke  unhindered. 

Love  often  thrives  in  antagonism,  in  quarreling  and  peace- 


THE    HATED    SON  363 

making,  in  the  vulgar  struggle  between  mind  and  matter. 
But  the  very  first  wing-stroke  of  true  love  carries  it  far  above 
these  struggles.  Two  natures  cease  to  be  discernible  when 
both  are  of  one  essence.  Like  Genius  in  its  highest  expres- 
sion, Love  can  dwell  in  the  fiercest  light,  can  endure  it  and 
grow  in  it,  and  needs  no  shadow  to  enhance  its  beauty. 

Gabrielle,  in  that  she  was  a  woman,  fitienne,  because  he 
had  suffered  and  thought  much,  soon  soared  beyond  the 
sphere  of  vulgar  passions  and  dwelt  above  it.  Like  all  feeble 
natures,  they  were  at  once  soaked  in  faith,  in  that  heavenly 
purple  which  doubles  their  strength  by  doubling  the  soul.  To 
them  the  sun  was  always  at  noon.  They  soon  had  that  perfect 
trust  in  each  other  which  can  admit  no  jealousy,  no  torturing 
doubts;  their  self-sacrifice  was  always  prompt,  their  admira- 
tion unfailing.  Under  these  conditions  love  brought  no  pang. 
Equally  feeble,  but  strong  by  their  union,  though  the  young 
nobleman  had  a  certain  superiority  of  learning,  a  certain 
conventional  pre-eminence,  the  leech's  daughter  was  more 
than  his  match  in  beauty,  in  loftiness  of  sentiment,  in  the 
refinement  she  shed  on  every  pleasure. 

And  so  on  a  sudden  the  two  v/hite  doves  flew  with  equal 
wing  under  a  cloudless  sky.  fitienne  loved  and  was  loved; 
the  present  was  serene,  the  future  clear;  he  was  master, 
the  castle  was  his,  the  sea  was  there  for  them  both.  No 
anxiety  disturbed  the  harmony  of  their  two-part  hymn;  the 
virgin  innocence  of  their  senses  and  their  mind  made  the 
world  seem  noble,  their  thoughts  flow^ed  on  without  an  effort. 
Desire,  whose  satisfaction  blights  so  many  buds,  the  blot  on 
earthly  love,  had  not  yet  touched  them.  Like  two  Zephyrs 
seated  on  one  branch  of  a  willow-tree,  they  still  were  content 
with  contemplating  each  other's  image  in  the  limpid  mirror 
below.  Infinitude  satisfied  them.  They  could  look  at  that 
ocean  without  craving  to  sail  over  it  in  the  white-sailed  boat 
with  flower-wreatheu  ropes,  of  which  Hope  is  the  pilot. 

There  is  a  momeni"  in  love  when  it  is  sufficient  to  itself, 
happy  in  mere  living.  During  that  springtime  when  every- 
thing is  in  bud,  the  lover  will  often  hide  from  the  woman 


364  THE    HATED    SON 

he  loves,  to  see  her  better  and  delight  in  her  mon;.  But 
fitienne  and  Gabrielle  rushed  together  into  the  joys  of  that 
shildlike  time;  sometimes  as  two  sisters  in  their  artless  con- 
fidence, sometimes  as  two  brothers  in  bold  inquiry.  Love 
generally  presupposes  a  slave  and  a  divinity;  but  these  two 
realized  I'lato's  noble  dream ;  they  were  but  one  divinity. 
They  cared  for  each  other  in  turns. 

By  and  by,  slowly,  kisses  came;  but  as  pure  as  the  lively, 
happy,  harmless  sports  of  young  animals  making  acquaintance 
with  life.  The  feeling  which  led  them  to  utter  their  souls  in 
impassioned  song  invited  them  to  love  through  the  endless 
aspects  of  the  same  happiness.  Their  delights  gave  them  no 
delirium,  no  wakeful  nights.  This  was  the  infancy  of  pleas- 
ure, growdng  up  unaware  of  the  fine  red  llowers  that  will 
presently  crown  its  stem.  They  were  familiar,  never  dream- 
ing of  danger,  breathing  their  souls  out  in  a  word  or  in  a 
look,  in  a  kiss  or  in  the  long  pressure  of  clasping  hands. 
They  innocently  boasted  of  their  beauty,  and  in  these  idylls 
invented  treasures  of  language,  devising  the  sweetest  exagger- 
ations, the  most  vehement  diminutives  imagined  by  the  an- 
tique Muse  of  TibuUus  and  echoed  by  Italian  poets.  On 
their  lips  and  in  their  hearts  they  found  the  constant  play 
of  the  foaming  wavelets  of  the  sea  on  the  fine  sandy  shore, 
all  so  alike,  all  so  different.    Happy,  unending  fidelity ! 

Counting  by  days  this  time  lasted  five  months;  counting 
by  the  infinite  variety  of  experience,  of  thoughts,  dreams,  and 
looks,  of  flowers  that  blossomed,  of  hopes  fulfilled,  of  pure 
delights, — her  hair  unpinned,  elaborately  combed  out,  and 
then  refastened  with  flowers,  conversations  interrupted,  be- 
gun again,  and  dropped,  giddy  laughter,  feet  wetted  in  the 
waves,  childish  hunts  for  shells  hidden  among  the  stones, — 
by  kisses,  surprises,  embraces, — call  it  a  lifetime  and  death 
will  justify  the  word. 

Some  lives  are  always  dark,  worked  out  under  gray  skies; 
but  a  glorious  day  when  the  sun  fires  a  clear  atmosphere 
was  the  image  of  the  Maytime  of  their  love,  during  which 
fitienne  hung  all  the  roses  of  his  past  life  round  Gabrielle's 


THE    HATED    SON  865 

neck,  and  the  girl  bound  up  all  her  future  joys  with  those 
of  her  lord. 

fitienne  had  had  but  one  sorrow  in  his  life,  his  mother's 
death ;  he  was  destined  to  know  but  one  love,  Gabrielle. 

The  coarse  rivality  of  an  ambitious  man  hurried  this  hon- 
eyed existence  to  its  end. 

The  Due  d'Herouville,  an  old  warrior  alive  to  the  wiles 
of  others,  roughly  but  skilfully  cunning,  heard  the  whisper- 
ing voice  of  suspicion  after  giving  the  promise  demanded 
of  him  by  Beauvouloir.  The  Baron  d'Artagnon,  lieutenant 
of  his  company  of  ordnance,  enjoyed  his  full  confidence  on 
all  matters  of  policy.  He  was  a  man  after  the  Duke's  heart; 
a  sort  of  butcher,  hugely  built,  tall,  of  a  manly  countenance, 
harsh  and  stern,  a  bandit  in  the  service  of  the  King,  roughly 
trained,  of  an  iron  will  in  action  but  easy  to  command; 
a  nobleman  and  ambitious,  with  the  blunt  honesty  of  a  soldier 
and  the  cunning  of  a  politician.  His  hand  matched  his  face, 
the  broad,  hairy  hand  of  the  condottiere.  His  manners  were 
rude,  his  speech  abrupt  and  short. 

Now  the  Governor  had  entrusted  his  lieutenant  to  keep 
an  eye  on  the  leech's  demeanor  with  the  newly  proclaimed 
heir.  In  spite  of  the  secrecy  maintained  with  regard  to  Ga- 
brielle, it  was  difficult  to  deceive  the  commander  of  a  com- 
pany of  ordnance;  he  heard  two  voices  singing,  he  saw  a 
light  in  the  evening  from  the  house  by  the  sea.  He  suspected 
that  fitienne's  care  of  his  person,  the  flowers  he  sent  for, 
the  orders  he  gave,  must  concern  a  woman ;  and  then  he  met 
Gabrielle's  nurse  in  the  road,  fetching  some  articles  of  dress 
from  Forcalier,  carrying  linen  or  an  embroidery  frame  or 
some  girlish  implement. 

The  soldier  determined  to  see  the  leech's  daughter,  and 
he  saw  her;  he  fell  in  love.  Beauvouloir  was  rich.  The 
Duke  would  be  furious  at  the  good  man's  audacity.  On  these 
facts  the  Baron  d'Artagnon  based  the  edifice  of  his  hopes. 
The  Duke,  if  he  should  hear  that  his  son  was  in  love,  would 
certainly  want  him  to  marry  into  some  great  house,  an  heiress 


86B  THE    HATED    SON 

of  landed  estate ;  and  to  cure  fitienne  of  his  passion,  all  that 
would  be  needful  was  to  make  Gabrielle  faithless  by  giving 
her  in  marriage  to  a  nobleman  whose  lands  were  pledged  to 
a  money-lender.     The  Baron  himself  had  no  land. 

This  speculation  would  have  been  a  grand  one  with  regard 
to  most  persons  as  we  find  them  in  the  world,  but  it  was  des- 
tined to  fail  with  fitienne  and  Gabrielle.  Chance,  however, 
had  already  served  the  Baron  d'Artagnon  a  good  turn. 

During  his  residence  in  Paris,  the  Duke  had  avenged 
Maximilien's  death  by  killing  his  son's  adversary,  and  he 
had  heard  of  an  unexpectedly  good  alliance  for  fitienne  with 
the  heiress  to  the  estates  of  a  branch  of  the  Grandlieu  family, 
a  tall  and  scornful  damsel  who  was,  nevertheless,  tempted  by 
the  hope  of  one  day  bearing  the  name  of  Duchesse  d'He^'ou- 
ville.  The  Duke  hoped  to  get  his  son  to  marry  Mademoiselle 
de  Grandlieu.  On  hearing  that  fitienne  loved  the  daughter 
of  a  contemptible  leech,  his  hope  became  a  determination. 
To  him  this  left  no  question  on  the  matter.  The  Duke  or- 
dered out  his  coaches  and  attendants,  and  made  his  way  from 
Paris  to  Eouen,  bringing  to  his  chateau  the  Comtesse  de 
Grandlieu,  her  sister,  the  Marquise  de  Noirmoutier,  and 
Mademoiselle  de  Grandlieu,  under  pretence  of  showing  them 
the  province  of  Normandy. 

For  some  days  before  his  arrival,  though  no  one  knew  how 
the  rumor  had  been  spread,  everybody,  from  Herouville  to 
Rouen,  was  talking  of  the  young  Due  de  Nivron's  attach- 
ment to  Gabrielle  Beauvouloir,  the  famous  bone-setter's 
daughter.  The  good  folks  of  Rouen  mentioned  it  to  the  old 
Duke  just  at  the  height  of  a  banquet  which  they  were  giving 
him,  for  the  guests  were  delighted  by  the  notion  of  annoying 
the  despot  of  the  province.  This  news  excited  the  Governor's 
anger  to  frenzy.  He  sent  orders  to  the  Baron  to  keep  his 
advent  at  Herouville  a  profound  secret,  enjoining  on  him 
to  forefend  what  he  regarded  as  a  disaster. 

Meanwhile  fitienne  and  Gabrielle  had  unwound  all  the 
thread  of  their  ball  in  the  vast  labjrrinth  of  love,  and,  equally 
willing  to  remain  in  it,  they  dreamed  of  living  there.     One 


THE    HATED    SON  367 

day  they  were  sittiug  by  the  window  where  so  many  things 
had  happened.  The  hourg,  filled  up  at  first  with  sweet  talk, 
had  led  to  some  thoughtful  pauses.  They  were  indeed  begin- 
ning to  feel  a  vague  craving  for  certain  possessions,  and  had 
confided  to  each  other  their  confused  notions,  reflected  from 
the  beautiful  imaginings  of  two  pure  sovds. 

During  these  still,  peaceful  hours,  ;dltienne  had  felt  his 
eyes  fill  with  tears  more  than  once  as  he  held  Gabrielle's 
hand  pressed  to  his  lips.  Like  his  mother,  but  happier 
Just  now  in  his  love  than  she  had  been,  the  disowned  son 
was  gazing  at  the  sea,  gold-color  on  the  strand,  black  in  the 
distance,  and  swept  here  and  there  into  long,  white  breakers 
foretelling  a  tempest.  Gabriellc,  following  the  instinct  of 
her  lover,  also  looked  at  the  sea  and  was  silent.  A  mere 
look,  one  of  those  glances  in  which  two  souls  express  their 
mutual  reliance,  was  enough  to  communicate  their  thoughts. 

The  utmost  devotion  would  have  been  no  sacrifice  to  Gabri- 
elle  nor  a  demand  on  Etienne's  part.  They  loved  with  the 
sentiment  which  is  so  divinely  one  and  unchangeable  in  every 
instant  of  its  eternity  that  sacrifice  is  unknown  to  it,  and  it 
fears  no  disappointment  nor  delay.  But  [Eltienne  and  Gabri- 
elle  were  absolutely  ignorant  of  what  might  satisfy  the  crav- 
ing which  agitated  their  souls. 

When  the  faint  hues  of  twilight  had  dropped  a  veil  over 
the  sea,  and  the  silence  was  unbroken,  save  by  the  throbbing 
of  the  waves  on  the  strand,  fitienne  stood  up,  and  Gabri- 
elle  did  the  same  in  vague  alarm,  for  he  had  dropped  her 
hand,  fitienne  put  his  arms  round  the  girl,  clasping  her 
to  him  with  firm  and  tender  pressure,  and  she,  sympathiz- 
ing with  his  impulse,  leaned  on  him  with  weight  enough  to 
let  him  feel  that  she  was  indeed  his,  but  not  enough  to 
fatigue  him.  He  rested  his  too-heavy  head  on  her  shoul- 
der, his  lips  touched  her  throbbing  bosom,  his  long  hair  fell 
on  her  white  shoulders  and  played  on  her  throat.  Gabri- 
elle,  in  her  ingenuous  passion,  bent  her  head  so  as  to  give 
his  more  room,  and  put  her  arm  round  his  neck  to  support 
herself.  And  thus  they  stood,  without  speaking  a  word,  un- 
til night  had  fallen. 
VOL.  6 — 49 


868  THE    HATED    SON 

The  crickets  chirped  in  their  holes,  and  the  lovers  listened 
to  their  song  as  if  to  concentrate  all  their  senses  in  one. 

They  could  onl}^  he  likened  to  an  angel  with  feet  resting 
on  earth,  awaiting  the  hour  in  which  he  might  fly  back  to 
heaven.  They  had  realized  the  beautiful  dream  of  Plato's 
mystical  genius — of  all  who  seek  a  meaning  in  human  life: 
they  were  but  one  soul;  they  had  become  the  mysterious 
pearl  that  should  grace  the  brow  of  some  unknown  star,  the 
hope  of  us  all. 

"Will  you  take  me  home  ?"  said  Gabrielle,  the  first  to  break 
this  exquisite  stillness. 

"Why  should  you  go?"  replied  fitienne. 

"We  ought  always  to  be  together,"  said  she. 

"Then  stay." 

"Yes." 

Old  Beauvouloir's  heavy  footfall  was  heard  in  the  ad- 
joining room.  The  doctor  found  the  two  young  people  stand- 
ing apart;  through  the  window  he  had  seen  them  embrac- 
ing.    Even  the  purest  love  craves  for  mystery. 

"This  is  not  right,  my  child,"  said  he  to  Gabrielle.  "Here 
still,  so  late,  when  it  is  dark." 

"Why  not?"  said  she.  "You  know  that  we  love  each 
other,  and  he  is  master  here." 

"My  children,"  said  the  old  man,  "if  you  love  each  other, 
it  is  necessary  to  your  happiness  that  you  should  be  married 
and  spend  your  lives  together.  But  your  union  must  be 
subject  to  the  will  of  my  lord  the  Duke " 

"My  father  pTomised  to  do  all  I  could  wish,"  cried  fitienne, 
eagerly,  interrupting  Beauvouloir. 

"Then  write  to  him,  monseigneur,"  replied  the  leech. 
"Tell  him  your  wishes,  and  give  me  your  letter  to  send 
with  one  v.hich  I  have  just  written  to  him.  Bertrand  will 
set  out  at  once  and  deliver  the  missives  to  Monseigneur  him- 
self. I  have  just  heard  that  he  is  at  Rouen,  and  is  bring- 
ing with  him  the  heiress  of  the  House  of  Grandlieu,  not  for 
himself,  I  imagine.  If  I  obeyed  my  presentiments  I  should 
carry  off  Gabrielle,  this  very  night." 


THE    HATED    SON  &6& 

"What !  divide  us?"  cried  Etienne,  half  fainting  with  grief 
and  leaning  on  the  girl. 

"Father!"  was  all  she  said. 

"Gabrielle,"  said  the  old  man,  giving  her  a  phial  which 
he  fetched  from  a  table,  and  which  she  held  under  fitienne's 
nostrils,  "my  conscience  tells  me  that  nature  intended  you 
for  each  other.  But  I  meant  to  prepare  my  lord  for  this 
union  which  must  contravene  all  his  ideas,  and  the  devil  has 
stolen  a  march  on  us !  This  is  Monseigneur  le  Due  de 
Nivron,"  he  added  to  Gabrielle,  "and  you  are  the  daughter 
of  a  humble  leech." 

"My  father  swore  never  to  oppose  me  in  anything,"  said 
fitienne,  calmly. 

"Aye,  and  he  swore  to  me,  too,  to  consent  to  whatever  I 
might  do  to  provide  you  with  a  wife,"  replied  Beauvouloir. 
"But  if  he  should  not  keep  his  M^ord?" 

fitienne  sat  down  like  one  stunned. 

"The  sea  was  dark  this  evening,"  he  said  after  a  short 
silence. 

"If  you  could  ride,  monseigneur,"  said  the  leech,  "I  would 
bid  you  fly  with  Gabrielle  this  very  evening.  I  know  you 
both;  any  other  marriage  will  be  fatal  to  either.  The  Duke 
would  of  course  cast  me  into  his  dungeon  and  leave  me  to 
end  my  days  there,  on  hearing  of  your  flight,  but  I  should 
die  joyful  if  my  death  would  secure  your  happiness.  But 
alas !  a  flight  on  horseback  would  risk  your  life  and  Gabri- 
elle's  too.     We  must  face  the  Duke's  wrath  here." 

"Here !"  echoed  poor  fitienne. 

"We  have  been  betrayed  by  somebody  in  the  castle  who  has 
stirred  up  your  father's  choler,"  said  Beauvouloir. 

"Come,  let  us  throw  ourselves  into  the  sea  together,"  said 
fitienne,  leaning  over  to  speak  in  Gabrielle's  ear,  for  she  was 
kneeling  by  her  lover's  side. 

She  bowed  her  head,  smiling. 

Beauvouloir  guessed  their  purpose. 

"Monseigneur,"  said  he,  "learning  as  well  as  native  wit 
has  given  you  eloquence;  love  must  make  you  irresistible. 


m  I'ttE  Hated  son 

Confess  your  love  to  my  lord  your  father,  you  will  confirm 
my  letter,  in  itself  conclusive.  All  is  not  lost,  I  believe. 
I  love  my  daughter  as  well  as  you  love  her,  and  I  mean  to 
protect  her.'' 

ifitienne  shook  his  head. 

"The  sea  was  very  dark  this  evening,"  said  he. 

"It  was  like  a  sheet  of  gold  at  our  feet,"  replied  Gabrielle 
in  a  musical  voice. 

fitienne  called  for  lights,  and  sat  down  at  his  table  to 
write  to  his  father.  On  one  side  of  his  chair  Gabrielle  knelt 
in  silence,  watching  him  write  but  not  reading  the  words: 
she  read  everything  on  fitienne's  brow.  On  the  other  side 
stood  old  Beauvouloir,  his  jovial  features  unwontedly  sad, 
as  sad  as  this  room  where  Etiennc's  mother  had  died,  A  voice 
within  him  cried  to  the  old  man : 

"He  will  share  his  mother's  fate !" 

The  letter  finished,  fitienne  held  it  out  to  Beauvouloir, 
who  hurried  away  to  give  it  to  Bertrand. 

The  old  squire's  horse  stood  ready  saddled  and  the  man 
himself  was  ready:  he  started  and  met  the  Due  d'Herouville 
only  four  leagues  away. 

"Take  me  as  far  as  the  door  of  the  tower,"  said  Gabrielle 
to  her  lover  when  they  were  alone. 

They  went  out  through  the  Cardinal's  library  and  down  the 
turret  stair,  to  the  door  of  which  fitienne  had  given  Gabri- 
elle the  key.  Bewildered  by  his  sense  of  impending  evil, 
the  poor  boy  left  in  the  tower  the  torch  he  had  brought  to 
light  his  lady's  steps,  and  went  part  of  the  way  home  with 
her.  But  at  a  short  distance  from  the  little  garden  that 
bordered  this  humble  dwelling  with  flowers,  the  lovers  stood 
still.  Emboldened  by  the  vague  terror  they  both  felt,  in  the 
darkness  and  stillness  they  kissed, — the  first  kiss  in  which 
soul  and  sense  combined  to  communicate  a  prophetic  thrill 
of  pleasure. 

fitienne  understood  the  two  aspects  of  love,  and  Gabri- 
elle fled  for  fear  of  being  betrayed  into  something  more — 
what  ?     She  knew  not. 


THE    HATED    SON  371 

Just  a?  the  Due  dc  Nivron  was  going  up  the  tower  stair 
after  shutting  the  door,  a  shriek  of  terror  from  Gabrielie 
reached  his  ear,  as  vivid  as  a  lightning  flash  that  scorches 
the  sight.  Etienne  Hew  through  the  rooms  and  down  the 
grand  staircase,  reached  the  snore  and  ran  towards  the  house 
where  he  saw  a  light. 

On  entering  the  little  garden,  by  the  gleam  of  the  candle 
standing  by  her  nurse's  spinning-wheel,  Gabrielie  saw  a 
man  in  the  chair  instead  of  the  good  old  woman.  At  the 
sound  of  her  steps  this  man  had  come  to  meet  her  and  had 
startled  her. 

Indeed,  the  Baron  d'Artagnon's  appearance  was  calculated 
to  justify  the  terror  he  had  caused  the  girl. 

"You  are  Beauvouloir's  daughter — the  Duke's  leech?''  said 
the  soldier,  when  Gabrielie  had  a  little  recovered  from  the 
fright. 

"Yes,  monseigneur." 

"I  have  matters  of  the  highest  importance  to  impart  to 
you.  I  am  the  Baron  d'Artagnon,  lieutenant  of  the  com- 
pany of  ordnance  commanded  by  Monseigneur  le  Due 
d'Herouville." 

Under  the  circumstances  in  which  the  lovers  were  placed, 
Gabrielie  was  struck  by  this  address  and  the  boldness  with 
which  is  was  spoken. 

"Your  nurse  is  in  there;  she  may  hear  us.  Come  with 
me,"  said  the  Baron. 

He  went  out;  Gabrielie  followed  him.  They  walked  out 
on  to  the  strand  behind  the  house. 

"Fear  nothing,"  said  the  Baron. 

The  words  would  have  terrified  any  one  less  ignorant; 
but  a  simple  child  who  is  in  love  never  fears  any  ill. 

"Dear  child,"  said  the  Baron,  trying  to  infuse  some  honey 
into  his  accents,  "you  and  your  father  stand  on  the  edge  of 
a  gulf  into  which  you  will  fall  to-morrow.  I  cannot  see 
it  without  giving  you  warning.  Monseigneur  is  furious 
with  your  father  and  with  you.  You  he  imagines  have 
bewitched  his  son,  and  he  will  see  him  dead  rather  than 


37&  THE    HATED    SON 

your  husband.  So  much  for  his  son !  As  to  your  father, 
this  is  the  dt'teruiinalion  my  lord  has  come  to:  Nine  years 
ago  your  father  was  accused  of  a  criminal  action,  the  con- 
cealment of  a  child  of  noble  race  at  the  moment  of  its  birth, 
at  which  he  assisted.  Monseigneur,  knowing  your  father 
to  be  innocent,  sheltered  him  from  prosecution  by  law;  but 
he  will  now  have  him  seized  and  give  him  up  to  justice,  apply- 
ing indeed  for  a  prosecution.  Your  father  will  be  broken 
on  the  wheel;  still,  in  consideration  of  the  services  he  has 
done  the  Duke,  he  may  be  let  off  with  hanging.  What  mon- 
seigneur proposes  to  do  with  you  I  know  not;  but  I  know 
this:  that  you  can  save  Monseigneur  de  Nivron  from  his 
father's  rage,  save  Beauvouloir  from  the  dreadful  end  that 
awaits  him,  and  save  yourself.'* 

"What  must  I  do?"  asked  Gabrielle. 

"Go  and  throw  yourself  at  the  Duke's  feet,  declare  to  him 
that  though  his  son  loves  you  it  is  against  your  will,  and 
tell  him  that  you  do  not  love  the  young  Duke.  In  proof 
thereof,  offer  to  marry  any  man  he  may  select  to  be  your 
husband.  He  is  generous;  he  will  give  you  a  handsome 
portion." 

"I  will  do  anything  but  deny  my  love,"  said  Gabrielle. 

"But  if  it  is  to  save  your  father,  yourself,  and  Mon- 
seigneur de  Nivron  ?" 

"fitienne,"  said  she,  "will  die  of  it — and  so  shall  I !" 

"Monseigneur  de  Nivron  will  be  sorry  to  lose  you,  but 
he  will  live — for  the  honor  of  his  family.  You  may  resign 
yourself  to  be  only  a  baron's  wife  instead  of  a  duchess;  and 
your  father  will  not  be  killed,"  said  the  practical  Baron. 

At  this  moment  fitienne  had  reached  the  house ;  not  seeing 
Gabrielle,  he  uttered  a  piercing  cry. 

"There  he  is !"  exclaimed  the  girl.  "Let  me  go  to  re- 
assure him." 

"I  will  come  to-morrow  for  your  answer,"  said  the  Baron. 

"I  will  consult  my  father,"  she  replied. 

"You  will  see  him  no  more.  I  have  just  received  orders  to 
arrest  him  and  send  him  to  Eouen,  chained  and  under  an 


THE    HATED    SON  373 

armed  escort,"  said  Artagnon,  and  he  left  Gabrielle  stricken 
with  terror. 

She  rushed  into  the  house  and  found  idltienne  horrified  by 
the  silence  which  was  the  old  nurse's  only  reply  to  his  first 
question : 

"Where  is  she?" 

"Here  I  am,"  cried  the  girl;  but  her  voice  was  tonelesSj 
she  was  deadly  pale,  and  could  scarcely  stand. 

"Where  have  you  been  ?"  said  he.     "You  screamed !" 

"Yes,  I  hit  myself  against " 

"No,  my  beloved,"  replied  iltienne,  interrupting  her,  "I 
heard  a  man's  step." 

"£ltienne,  we  have  certainly  in  some  way  offended  God. 
Kneel  down ;  let  us  pray.     I  will  tell  you  all  afterwards." 

!fitienne  and  Gabrielle  knelt  on  a  prie-dieu;  the  old  nurse 
told  her  beads. 

"0  God !"  said  the  girl,  with  a  flight  of  soul  that  bore  her 
far  above  terrestrial  space,  "if  we  have  not  sinned  against 
Thy  holy  laws,  if  we  have  not  offended  the  Church  or  the 
King, — we  who  together  are  but  one,  and  in  whom  love 
shines  like  the  light  Thou  hast  set  in  a  pearl  of  the  sea, — 
have  this  mercy  on  us  that  we  be  not  divided  either  in  this 
world  or  in  the  next.'' 

"And  thou,  dear  mother,  who  art  in  bliss,  beseech  the 
Virgin  that  if  Gabrielle  and  I  may  not  be  happy  together,  we 
may  at  least  die  together,  and  without  suffering.  Call  us, 
and  we  will  go  to  thee." 

Then,  after  their  usual  evening  prayers,  Gabrielle  told  him 
of  her  interview  with  the  Baron  d' Artagnon. 

"Gabrielle !"  said  the  youth,  finding  courage  in  the  despair 
of  love,  "I  will  stand  out  against  my  father." 

He  kissed  her  forehead  and  not  her  lips,  then  he  returned 
to  the  castle,  determined  to  face  the  terrible  man  who 
crushed  his  whole  life.  He  did  not  know  that  Gabrielle's 
dwelling  was  surrounded  by  men-at-arms  as  soon  as  he  had 
left  it. 

When,  on  the  following  day  fitienne  went  to  see  Gabri- 


*J4  THE    HATED    SON 

clle,  his  gripf  was  great  at  finding  her  a  prisoner.  But  the 
old  nurse  came  out  to  him  with  a  message  to  say  that  Ga- 
brielle  would  die  rather  than  deny  him,  and  that  ohe  knew 
of  a  way  to  evade  the  vigilance  of  the  guards,  and  would  take 
refuge  in  the  Cardinal's  library  where  no  one  would  sus- 
pect her  presence ;  only  she  did  not  know  when  she  might 
achieve  her  purpose.  So  fitienne  remained  in  his  room  where 
his  heart  wore  itself  out  in  agonized  expectancy. 

At  three  o'clock  the  Duke  and  his  suite  reached  the  castle, 
where  he  expected  his  guests  to  supper.  And,  in  fact,  at 
dusk,  Madame  la  Comtesse  de  Grandlicu,  leaning  on  her 
daughter's  arm,  and  the  Duke  with  the  Marquise  de  Noir- 
moutier  came  up  the  great  staircase  in  solemn  silence,  for 
their  master's  stern  looks  had  terrified  all  his  retainers. 

Though  the  Baron  d'Artagnon  had  been  informed  of  Ga- 
brielle's  escape,  he  had  reported  that  she  was  guarded;  he 
feared  lest  he  should  have  spoiled  the  success  of  his  own 
particular  scheme,  if  the  Duke  should  find  his  plans  upset  by 
the  girl's  flight. 

The  two  terrible  men  bore  on  their  faces  an  expression 
of  ferocity  but  ill-disguised  under  the  affectation  of  amiabil- 
ity imposed  on  them  by  gallantry.  The  Duke  had  com- 
manded his  son  to  be  in  attendance  in  the  hall.  Wlion  the 
company  came  in,  the  Baron  d'Artagnon  read  in  I^]tienne'p 
dejected  looks  that  he  was  not  yet  aware  of  Gabrielle's 
escape. 

"This  is  my  son,"  said  the  old  Duke,  taking  fitienne  by  the 
hand  and  presenting  him  to  the  ladies. 

fitienne  bowed  without  speaking  a  word.  The  Countess 
and  Mademoiselle  de  Grandlieu  exchanged  glances  which  the 
old  man  did  not  fail  to  note. 

"Your  daughter  will  be  but  ill-matched,"  said  he  in  an  un- 
dertone ;  "was  not  that  your  thought  ?" 

"I  thought  just  the  contrary,  my  dear  Duke,"  replied  the 
mother  with  a  smile. 

The  Marquise  de  Noirmoutier,  who  had  come  with  her 
sister,  laughed  significantly.     The  laugh  wont  to  fitienne's 


THE    HATED    SON  ft75 

heart,  terrified  as  he  was  already  by  the  sight  of  the  tall 
damsel. 

"Well,  Monsieur  le  Due,"  said  his  father  in  a  low  voice, 
with  a  jovial  chuckle,  "I  have  found  you  a  handsome 
mate,  I  hope!  What  do  you  think  of  that  little  girl,  my 
cherub  ?" 

The  old  Duke  had  never  doubted  of  his  son's  submis- 
sion. To  him  fitienue  was  his  mother's  son,  made  of  the 
same  yielding  material. 

.  "If  he  only  has  a  son  he  may  depart  in  peace,"  thought 
the  old  man.     "Little  I  care !" 

"Father,"  said  the  lad  in  a  mild  voice,  "I  do  not  under- 
stand you." 

"Come  into  your  room,  I  have  two  words  to  say  to  you," 
replied  the  Duke,  going  into  the  great  bedroom. 

fitienne  followed  his  father.  The  three  ladies,  moved  by 
an  impulse  of  curiosity,  shared  by  the  Baron  d'Artagnon, 
walked  across  the  vast  hall  and  paused  in  a  group  at  the 
door  of  the  state  bedchamber,  which  the  Duke  had  left  half 
open. 

"My  pretty  Benjamin,"  said  the  old  man,  beginning  in 
mild  tones,  "I  have  chosen  that  tall  and  beautiful  damsel  to 
be  your  wife.  She  is  heiress  of  the  lands  belonging  to  a 
younger  branch  of  the  House  of  Grandlieu,  an  old  and  honest 
family  of  the  nobility  of  Brittany.  So  now,  be  a  gallant 
youth,  and  recall  the  best  speeches  you  have  read  in  your 
books  to  make  yourself  agreeable,  and  speak  gallantly  as  a 
preface  to  acting  gallantly." 

"Father,  is  it  not  a  gentleman's  first  duty  to  keep  his 
word?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  then !  When  I  forgave  you  for  my  mother's  death, 
dying  here,  as  she  did,  because  she  had  married  you,  did 
not  you  promise  m^  never  to  thwart  my  wishes?  'I  myself 
will  obey  you  as  the  god  of  the  family !'  you  said.  Now  I 
do  not  dictate  to  you,  I  only  claim  freedom  to  act  in  a  matter 
which  concerns  only  myself:  my  marriage." 


378  THE    HATED    SON 

"But  as  I  understood,"  said  the  old  man,  the  blood  mount- 
ing to  his  face,  "you  pledged  yourself  not  to  hinder  the  prop- 
.Hgation  of  our  noble  race.'' 

"You  made  no  conditions/'  said  fitienne.  "What  love 
has  to  do  with  the  propagation  of  the  race  I  know  not.  But 
what  I  do  know  is  that  I  love  the  daughter  of  your  old  friend 
Beauvouloir,  the  granddaughter  of  La  Belle  Romaine." 

"But  she  is  dead !"  replied  the  old  giant,  with  an  expres- 
sion of  mingled  mockery  and  solemnity  that  plainly  showed 
his  intention  of  making  away  with  her. 

There  was  a  moment  of  utter  silence. 

The  old  Duke  then  caught  sight  of  the  three  ladies  and 
the  Baron. 

At  this  supreme  moment,  fitienne,  who  had  so  keen  a 
sense  of  hearing,  caught  the  sound  from  the  library  of  Ga- 
brielle's  voice.  She,  wishing  to  let  her  lover  know  that  she 
was  there,  was  singing  the  old  ballad : 

"  Une  hermine 
Est  rnoins  fine; 
Le  lys  a  moins  de  blancheur. " 

On  the  wings  of  this  verse  the  diso\ATied  son,  who  had 
been  cast  into  a  gulf  of  death  by  his  father's  words,  soared  up 
to  life  again. 

Though  that  one  spasm  of  anguish,  so  suddenly  relieved, 
had  struck  him  to  the  heart,  he  collected  all  his  forces, 
raised  his  head,  and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  looked  his 
father  in  the  face,  answering  scorn  with  scorn,  as  he  said 
with  deep  hatred : 

"A  gentleman  should  not  lie !" 

With  one  spring  he  reached  the  door  opposite  to  that  lead- 
ing into  the  hall,  and  called  out: 

"Gabrielle !" 

Then,  at  once,  the  gentle  creature  appeared  in  the  dusk 
like  a  lily  amid  its  leaves,  trembling  in  the  presence  of  this 
trio  of  mocking  women  who  had  overheard  fitienne's  pro- 
fession  of  love. 


T&K    HATED    SON  m 

The  old  Duke,  like  a  gatheriug  thunder-cloud,  had  reached 
a  climax  of  fury  that  no  words  can  describe;  his  dark  fig- 
ure stood  out  against  the  brilliant  dresses  of  the  three  court 
ladies.  Most  men  would  have  hesitated,  at  least,  between 
a  mesalliance  and  the  extinction  of  the  race;  but  in  this 
indomitable  old  man  there  was  the  ferocious  vein  which 
had  hitherto  proved  a  match  for  every  earthly  difficulty. 
He  drew  the  sword  on  every  occasion  as  the  only  way  he 
knew  of  cutting  the  Gordian  knots  of  life.  In  the  present 
case,  when  all  his  ideas  were  so  utterly  upset,  his  nature  was 
bound  to  triumph. 

Twice  detected  in  a  lie  by  the  creature  he  abhorred,  the 
child  he  had  cursed  a  thousand  times,  and  now  more  vehe- 
mently than  ever  at  the  moment  when  his  despicable  weak- 
ness— to  his  father  the  most  despicable  kind  of  weakness 
— ^had  triumphed  over  a  force  he  had  hitherto  deemed 
omnipotent,  the  Duke  was  no  longer  a  father,  nor  even  a 
man;  the  tiger  rushed  out  of  the  den  where  it  lurked.  The 
old  man,  made  young  by  revengefulness,  blasted  the  sweetest 
pair  of  angels  that  ever  vouchsafed  to  alight  on  earth,  with 
a  look  weighted  with  hatred  that  dealt  death. 

"Then  die,  both  of  you ! — ^you,  vile  abortion,  the  evidence 
of  my  dishonor !  And  you,"  he  said  to  Gabrielle,  "slut  with 
the  viper's  tongue,  who  have  poisoned  my  race." 

The  words  carried  to  the  two  children's  hearts  the  fell 
terror  of  their  purpose. 

As  fitienne  saw  his  father  raise  his  hand  and  blade  over 
Gabrielle  he  dropped  dead;  and  Gabrielle,  trying  to  support 
him,  fell  dead  by  his  side. 

The  old  man  slammed  the  door  on  them  in  a  rage,  and 
said  to  Mademoiselle  de  Grandlieu : 

"I  will  marry  you  myself !" 

"And  are  hale  enough  to  have  a  fine  family !"  said  the 
Countess  in  the  ear  of  the  old  Duke,  who  had  served  undei 
seven  kings  of  France. 

;   Pabis.  1831-183& 


THE  ATHEIST'S  MASS 

This  is  dedicated  to  Augusts  Borget  by  his  friend 
De  Balzac. 

BiANCHOi^,  a  physician  to  whom  science  owes  a  fine  system 
of  theoretical  physiolog}',  and  who,  while  still  young,  made 
himself  a  celebrity  in  the  medical  school  of  Paris,  that  central 
luminary  to  which  European  doctors  do  homage,  practised 
surgery  for  a  long  time  before  he  took  up  medicine.  His 
earliest  studies  were  guided  by  one  of  the  greatest  of  French 
surgeons,  the  illustrious  Desplein,  who  flashed  across  science 
like  a  meteor.  By  the  consensus  even  of  his  enemies,  he  took 
with  him  to  the  tomb  an  incommunicable  method.  Like  all 
men  of  genius,  he  had  no  heirs ;  he  carried  everything  in  him, 
and  carried  it  away  with  him.  The  glory  of  a  surgeon  is  like 
that  of  an  actor:  they  live  only  so  long  as  they  are  alive,  and 
their  talent  leaves  no  trace  when  they  are  gone.  Actors  and 
surgeons,  like  great  singers  too,  like  the  executants  who  by 
their  performance  increase  the  power  of  music  tenfold,  are  all 
the  heroes  of  a  moment. 

Desplein  is  a  case  in  proof  of  this  resemblance  in  the 
destinies  of  such  transient  genius.  His  name,  yesterday  so 
famous,  to-day  almost  forgotten,  will  survive  in  his  special 
department  without  crossing  its  limits.  For  must  there  not 
b6  some  extraordinary  circumstances  to  exalt  the  name  of  a 
professor  from  the  history  of  Science  to  the  general  history  of 
the  human  race?  Had  Desplein  that  universal  command  of 
knowledge  which  makes  a  man  the  living  word,  the  great 
figure  of  his  age?  Desplein  had  a  godlike  eye;  he  saw 
into  the  sufferer  and  his  malady  by  an  intuition,  natural  or 
acquired,  which  enabled  him  to  grasp  the  diagnostics  peculiar 
to  the  individual,  to  determine  the  very  time,  the  hour,  the 

(37U) 


380  THE  ATHEIST'S  MASS 

minute  when  an  oi)cration  should  be  performed,  making  due 
allowance  for  atmospheric  conditions  and  peculiarities  of  in- 
dividual temperament.  To  proceed  thus,  hand  in  hand  with 
nature,  had  lie  then  studied  the  constant  assimilation  by  living 
beings,  of  the  elements  contained  in  the  atmosi^hcre,  or  yielded 
by  the  earth  to  man  who  absorbs  them,  deriving  from  them  a 
particular  expression  of  life?  Did  he  work  it  all  out  by  the 
power  of  deduction  and  analogy,  to  which  we  owe  the  genius 
of  Cuvier  ?  Be  this  as  it  may,  this  man  was  in  all  the  secrets 
of  the  human  frame ;  he  knew  it  in  the  past  and  in  the  future, 
emphasizing  the  present. 

But  did  he  epitomize  all  science  in  his  own  person  as  Hip- 
pocrates did  and  Galen  and  Aristotle?  Did  he  guide  a  whole 
school  towards  new  worlds?  No.  Though  it  is  impossible 
to  deny  that  this  persistent  observer  of  human  chemistry 
possessed  the  antique  science  of  the  Mages,  that  is  to  say, 
knowledge  of  the  elements  in  fusion,  the  causes  of  life,  life 
antecedent  to  life,  and  what  it  must  be  in  its  incubation  or  ever 
it  is,  it  must  be  confessed  that,  unfortunately,  everything  in 
him  was  purely  personal.  Isolated  during  his  life  by  his 
egoism,  that  egoism  is  now  suicidal  of  his  glory.  On  his  tomb 
there  is  no  proclaiming  statue  to  repeat  to  posterity  the 
mysteries  which  genius  seeks  out  at  its  own  cost. 

But  perhaps  Desplein's  genius  was  answerable  for  his  be- 
liefs, and  for  that  reason  mortal.  To  him  the  terrestrial 
atmosphere  was  a  generative  envelope ;  he  saw  the  earth  as  an 
egg  within  its  shell ;  and  not  being  able  to  determine  whether 
the  egg  or  the  hen  first  was,  he  would  not  recognize  either  the 
cock  or  the  egg.  He  believed  neither  in  the  antecedent 
animal  nor  the  surviving  spirit  of  man.  Desplein  had  no 
doubts ;  he  was  positive.  His  bold  and  unqualified  atheism  was 
like  that  of  many  scientific  men,  the  best  men  in  the  world,  but 
invincible  atheists — atheists  such  as  religious  people  declare  to 
be  impossible.  This  opinion  could  scarcely  exist  otherwise 
in  a  man  who  was  accustomed  from  his  youth  to  dissect  the 
creature  above  all  others — before,  during,  and  after  life;  to 


THE  ATHEIST'S  MASS  381 

hunt  through  all  his  organs  without  ever  finding  the  indi- 
vidual soul,  which  is  indispensable  to  religious  theory.  When 
he  detected  a  cerebral  centre,  a  nervous  centre,  and  a  centre 
for  aerating  the  blood — the  first  two  so  perfectly  coniple- 
mentar}^  that  in  the  latter  years  of  his  life  he  came  to  a  con- 
viction that  the  sense  of  hearing  is  not  absolutely  necessary 
for  hearing,  nor  the  sense  of  sight  for  seeing,  and  that  the 
solar  plexus  could  supply  their  place  without  any  possibility  of 
doubt — Desplein,  thus  finding  two  souls  in  man,  confirmed  his 
atheism  by  this  fact,  though  it  is  no  evidence  against  God. 
This  man  died,  it  is  said,  in  final  impenitence,  as  do,  unfortu- 
nately, many  noble  geniuses,  whom  God  may  forgive. 

The  life  of  this  man,  great  as  he  was,  was  marred  by  many 
meannesses,  to  use  the  expression  employed  by  his  enemies, 
who  were  anxious  to  diminish  his  glory,  but  which  it  would 
be  more  proper  to  call  apparent  contradictions.  Envious 
people  and  fools,  having  no  knowledge  of  the  determinations 
by  which  superior  spirits  are  moved,  seize  at  once  on  super- 
ficial inconsistencies,  to  formulate  an  accusation  and  so  to 
pass  sentence  on  them.  If,  subsequentl}',  the  proceedings  thus 
attacked  are  crowned  Avith  success,  showing  the  correlation 
of  the  preliminaries  and  the  results,  a  few  of  the  vanguard 
of  calumnies  always  survive.  In  our  own  day,  for  instance. 
Napoleon  was  condemned  by  our  contemporaries  when  he 
spread  his  eagle's  wings  to  alight  in  England :  only  1822  could 
explain  1804  and  the  flatboats  at  Boulogne. 

As,  in  Desplein,  his  glory  and  science  were  invulnerable, 
his  enemies  attacked  his  odd  moods  and  his  temper,  whereas, 
in  fact,  he  was  simply  characterized  by  what  the  English  call 
eccentricity.  Sometimes  very  handsomely  dressed,  like 
Crebillon  the  tragical,  he  would  suddenly  afi'ect  extreme  in- 
difference as  to  what  he  wore;  he  was  sometimes  seen  in  a" 
carriage,  and  sometimes  on  foot.  By  turns  rough  and  kind, 
harsh  and  covetous  on  the  surface,  but  capable  of  offering  his 
whole  fortune  to  his  exiled  masters — who  did  him  the  honor 
of  accepting  it  for  a  few  days — no  man  ever  gave  rise  to  such 
contradictory  judgments.     Although  to  obtain  a  black  ribbon. 


882  THE  ATHEIST'S  MASS 

which  physicians  ought  not  to  intrigue  for,  he  was  capable 
of  dropping  a  prayer-book  out  of  his  pocket  at  Court,  in  his 
heart  he  mocked  at  everything;  he  had  a  deep  contempt  for 
men,  after  studying  them  from  above  and  below,  after  de- 
tecting their  genuine  expression  when  performing  the  most 
solemn  and  the  meanest  acts  of  their  lives. 

The  qualities  of  a  great  man  are  often  federative.  If 
among  these  colossal  spirits  one  has  more  talent  than  wit, 
his  wit  is  still  superior  to  that  of  a  man  of  whom  it  is  simply 
stated  that  "he  is  witty."  Genius  always  presupposes  moral 
insight.  This  insight  may  be  applied  to  a  special  subject ; 
but  he  who  can  see  a  flower  must  be  able  to  see  the  sun.  The 
man  who  on  hearing  a  diplomate  be  had  saved  ask,  "How  is 
the  Emperor  ?"  could  say,  "The  courtier  is  alive ;  the  man  will 
follow !" — that  man  in  not  merely  a  ^rgeon  or  a  physician, 
he  is  prodigiously  witty  also.  Hence  a  patient  and  diligent 
student  of  human  nature  will  admit  Desplein's  exorbitant  pre- 
tensions, and  believe — as  he  himself  believed — that  he  might 
have  been  no  less  great  as  a  minister  than  he  was  as  a  surgeon. 

Among  the  riddles  which  Desplein's  life  presents  to  many 
of  his  contemporaries,  we  have  chosen  one  of  the  most  interest- 
ing, because  the  answer  is  to  be  found  at  the  end  of  the  narra- 
tive, and  will  avenge  him  for  some  foolish  charges. 

Of  all  the  students  in  Desplein's  hospital,  Horace  Bianchon 
was  one  of  those  to  whom  he  most  warmly  attached  himself. 
Before  being  a  house  surgeon  at  the  Hotel-Dieu,  Horace 
Bianchon  had  been  a  medical  student  lodging  in  a  squalid 
boarding-house  in  the  Quartier  Latin,  known  as  the  Maison 
Yauquer.  This  poor  young  man  had  felt  there  the  gnawing 
of  that  burning  poverty  which  is  a  sort  of  crucible  from  which 
great  talents  are  to  emerge  as  pure  and  incorruptible  as  dia- 
monds, which  may  be  subjected  to  any  shock  without  being 
crushed.  In  the  tierce  fire  of  their  unbridled  passions  they 
acquire  the  most  impeccable  honesty,  and  get  into  the  habit 
of  fighting  the  battles  which  await  genius  with  the  constant 
work  by  which  they  coerce  I  heir  (boated  appetites. 

Horace  was  an  upright  young  fellow,  incapable  of  tergiver- 


THE  ATFIEISTS  MASS  383 

sation  on  a  matter  of  honor,  going  to  the  point  without  waste 
of  words,  and  as  ready  to  pledge  his  cloak  for  a  friend  as  to 
give  him  his  time  and  his  night  hours.  Horace,  in  short,  was 
one  of  those  friends  who  are  never  anxious  as  to  what  they  may 
get  in  return  for  what  they  give,  feeling  sure  that  they  will 
in  their  turn  get  more  than  they  give.  Most  of  his  friends 
felt  for  him  that  deeply-seated  respect  which  is  inspired  by 
unostentatious  virtue,  and  many  of  them  dreaded  his  censure. 
But  Horace  made  no  pedantic  display  of  his  qualities.  He 
was  neither  a  puritan  nor  a  preacher;  he  could  swear  with  a 
grace  as  he  gave  his  advice,  and  was  always  ready  for  a  jollifi- 
cation when  occasion  offered.  A  jolly  companion,  not  more 
prudish  than  a  trooper,  as  frank  and  outspoken — not  as  a 
sailor,  for  nowadays  sailors  are  wily  diplomates — l)ut  as  an 
honest  man  who  has  nothing  in  his  life  to  hide,  he  walked 
with  his  head  erect,  and  a  mind  content.  In  short,  to  put 
the  facts  into  a  word,  Horace  was  the  Pylades  of  more  than 
one  Orestes — creditors  being  regarded  as  the  nearest  modern 
equivalent  to  the  Furies  of  the  ancients. 

He  carried  his  poverty  with  the  cheerfulness  which  is  per- 
haps one  of  the  chief  elements  of  courage,  and,  like  all  people 
who  have  nothing,  he  made  very  fev.^  debts.  As  sober  as  a 
camel  and  active  as  a  stag,  he  was  steadfast  in  his  ideas  and 
his  conduct. 

The  happy  phase  of  Bianchon's  life  began  on  the  day  when 
the  famous  surgeon  had  j^roof  of  the  qualities  and  the  defects 
which,  these  no  less  than  those,  make  Doctor  Horace  Bianchon 
doubly  dear  to  his  friends.  When  a  leading  clinical  practi- 
tioner takes  a  young  man  to  his  bosom,  that  young  man  has, 
as  they  say,  his  foot  in  the  stirrup.  Desplein  did  not  fail 
to  take  Bianchon  as  his  assistant  to  wealthy  houses,  where 
some  complimentary  fee  almost  alwa3^s  found  its  way  into  the 
student's  pocket,  and  where  the  mysteries  of  Paris  life  were 
insensibly  revealed  to  the  young  provincial ;  he  kept  him  at  his 
side  when  a  consultation  was  to  be  held,  and  gave  him  oc- 
cupation; sometimes  he  would  send  him  to  a  watering-place 
with  a  rich  patient;  in  fact,  hf  was  making  a  practice  for 

vol,   6 — o 


384  THE  ATHEIST'S  MASS 

him.  The  consiMjiicncc  was  that  in  the  course  of  time  the 
Tyrant  of  surgery  had  a  devoted  ally.  These  two  men — one 
at  the  summit  of  honor  and  of  his  science,  enjoying  an  im- 
mense fortune  and  an  immense  reputation  ;  the  other  a  humble 
Omega,  having  neither  fortune  nor  fame — became  intimate 
friends. 

The  great  Desplein  told  his  house  surgeon  everything;  the 
disciple  knew  whether  such  or  such  a  woman  had  sat  on  a 
chair  near  the  master,  or  on  the  famous  couch  in  Desplein's 
surgery,  on  which  he  slept;  Bianciion  knew  the  mysteries  of 
that  temperament,  a  compound  of  the  lion  and  the  bull,  which 
at  last  expanded  and  enlarged  beyond  measure  the  great  man's 
torso,  and  caused  his  death  by  degeneration  of  the  heart.  He 
studied  the  eccentricities  of  that  busy  life,  the  schemes  of  that 
sordid  avarice,  the  hopes  of  the  politician  who  lurked  behind 
the  man  of  science;  he  was  able  to  foresee  the  mortifications 
that  awaited  the  only  sentiment  that  lay  hid  in  a  heart  that 
was  steeled,  but  not  of  steel. 

One  day  Bianchon  spoke  to  Desplein  of  a  poor  water-carrier 
of  the  Saint- Jacques  district,  who  had  a  horrible  disease  caused 
by  fatigue  and  want ;  this  wretched  Auvergnat  had  had  noth- 
ing but  potatoes  to  eat  during  the  dreadful  winter  of  1821. 
Desplein  left  all  his  visits,  and  at  the  risk  of  killing  his  horse, 
he  rushed  off,  followed  by  Bianchon,  to  the  poor  man's 
dwelling,  and  saw,  himself,  to  his  being  removed  to  a  sick 
house,  founded  by  the  famous  Dubois  in  the  Faubourg  Saint- 
Denis.  Then  he  went  to  attend  the  man,  and  when  he  had 
cured  him  he  gave  him  the  necessary  sum  to  buy  a  horse  and  a 
water-barrel.  This  Auvergnat  distinguished  himself  by  an 
amusing  action.  One  of  his  friends  fell  ill,  and  he  took  him 
at  once  to  Desplein,  saying  to  his  benefactor,  ''I  could  not 
have  borne  to  let  him  go  to  any  one  else !" 

Rough  customer  as  he  was,  Desplein  grasped  the  water- 
carrier's  hand,  and  said,  "Bring  them  all  to  me." 

He  got  the  native  of  Cautal  into  the  Hotel-Dieu,  where 
he  took  the  greatest  care  of  him.  Bianchon  had  already 
observed  in  his  chief  a  predilection  for  Auvergnats,  and  es- 


THF:  ATHEIST'S  MASS  385 

pecially  for  water-carriers  ;  but  as  Desplein  took  a  sort  of  pride 
in  his  cures  at  the  IIotel-Dieu,  the  pupil  saw  nothing  very 
strange  in  that. 

One  day,  as  he  crossed  the  Place  Saint-Sulpice,  Bianchon 
caught  sight  of  his  master  going  into  the  church  at  about 
nine  in  the  morning.  Desplein,  who  at  that  time  never  went 
a  step  without  his  cab,  was  on  foot,  and  slipped  in  by  the  door 
in  the  Kue  du  Petit-Lion,  as  if  he  were  stealing  into  some 
house  of  ill  fame.  The  house  surgeon,  naturally  possessed  by 
curiosity,  knowing  his  master's  opinions,  and  being  himself  a 
rabid  follower  of  Cabanis  (Cahaniste  en  dyable,  with  the  y, 
which  in  Rabelais  seems  to  convey  an  intensity  of  devilry)  — 
Bianchon  stole  into  the  church,  and  was  not  a  little  astonished 
to  see  the  great  Desplein,  the  atheist,  who  had  no  mercy  on  the 
angels — who  give  no  work  to  the  lancet,  and  cannot  suffer 
from  fistula  or  gastritis — in  short,  this  audacious  scoffer  kneel- 
ing humbly,  and  where?  In  the  Lady  Chapel,  where  he  re- 
mained through  the  mass,  giving  alms  for  the  expenses  of  the 
service,  alms  for  the  poor,  and  looking  as  serious  as  though 
he  were  superintending  an  operation. 

"He  has  certainly  not  come  here  to  clear  up  the  question  of 
the  Virgin's  delivery,"  said  Bianchon  to  himself,  astonished 
beyond  measure.  "If  I  had  caught  him  holding  one  of  the 
ropes  of  the  canopy  on  Corpus  Christi  day,  it  would  be  a 
thing  to  laugh  at ;  but  at  this  hour,  alone,  with  no  one  to  see — 
it  is  surely  a  thing  to  marvel  at !" 

Bianchon  did  not  wish  to  seem  as  though  he  were  spying 
the  head  surgeon  of  the  Hotel-Dieu;  he  went  away.  As  it 
happened,  Desplein  asked  him  to  dine  with  him  that  day,  not 
at  his  own  house,  but  at  a  restaurant.  At  dessert  Bianchon 
skilfully  contrived  to  talk  of  the  mass,  speaking  of  it  as 
mummery  and  a  farce. 

"A  farce,"  said  Desplein,  "which  has  cost  Christendom 
more  blood  than  all  Napoleon's  battles  and  all  Broussais' 
leeches.  The  mass  is  a  papal  invention,  not  older  than  the 
sixth  century,  and  based  on  the  Hoc  est  corpus.  What  floods 
of  blood  were  shed  to  establish  the  Fete-Dieu,  the  Festival  of 


386  THE  ATHEIST'S  MASS 

Corpus  Christi — the  instil ul inn  by  which  Kome  established 
her  triunij)h  in  tlie  question  of  the  Keal  Presence,  a  schism 
which  rent  the  Church  during  three  centuries !  The  wars 
of  the  Count  of  Toulouse  against  the  Albigenses  were  the  tail 
end  of  that  dispute.  The  Vaudois  and  the  Albigenses  refused 
to  recognize  this  innovation." 

In  short,  Desplein  was  delighted  to  disport  himself  in  his 
most  atheistical  vein;  a  flow  of  Voltairean  satire,  or,  to  be 
accurate,  a  vile  imitation  of  the  Citateur. 

"Hallo!  where  is  my  worshiper  of  this  morning?"  said 
Bianchon  to  himself. 

He  said  nothing;  he  began  to  doubt  whether  he  had  really 
seen  his  chief  at  Saint-Sulpice.  Desplein  would  not  have 
troubled  himself  to  tell  Bianchon  a  lie,  they  knew  each  other 
too  well ;  they  had  already  exchanged  thoughts  on  quite  equally 
serious  subjects,  and  discussed  systems  de  natura  rerum,  prob- 
ing or  dissecting  them  with  the  knife  and  scalpel  of  in- 
credulity. 

Three  months  went  by.  Bianchon  did  not  attempt  to  follow 
the  matter  up,  though  it  remained  stamped  on  his  memory. 
One  day  that  year,  one  of  the  physicians  of  the  Hotel-Dieu 
took  Desplein  by  the  arm,  as  if  to  question  him,  in  Bianchon's 
presence. 

"What  were  you  doing  at  Saint-Sulpice,  my  dear  master  ?" 
said  he. 

"I  went  to  see  a  priest  who  has  a  diseased  knee-bone,  and 
to  whom  the  Ducliesse  d'Angoulcme  did  me  the  honor  to 
recommend  me,"  said  Desplein. 

The  questioner  took  this  defeat  for  an  answer;  not  so 
Bianchon. 

"Oh,  he  goes  to  see  damaged  knees  in  church ! — He  went 
to  mass,"  said  the  young  man  to  himself. 

Bianchon  resolved  to  watch  Desplein.  He  remembered  the 
day  and  hour  when  he  had  detected  him  going  into  Saint-Sul- 
pice, and  resolved  to  be  there  again  next  year  on  the  same  day 
and  at  the  same  hour,  to  see  if  he  should  find  him  there  again. 
In  that  case  the  periodicity  of  his  devotions  would  justify  a 


THE  ATHEIST'S  MASS  387 

scientific  investigation  ;  for  in  such  a  man  there  ought  to  be  no 
direct  antagonism  of  thought  and  action. 

Next  year,  on  the  said  day  and  hour,  Bianchon,  who  had 
already  ceased  to  be  Desplein's  house  surgeon,  saw  the  great 
man's  cab  standing  at  the  corner  of  the  Eue  de  Tournon  and 
the  Rue  du  Petit-Lion,  whence  his  friend  jesuitically  crept 
along  by  the  wall  of  Saint-Sulpice,  and  once  more  attended 
mass  in  front  of  the  Virgin's  altar.  It  was  Desplein,  sure 
enough !  The  master-surgeon,  the  atheist  at  heart,  the  wor- 
shiper by  chance.  The  mystery  was  greater  than  ever;  the 
regularity  of  the  phenomenon  complicated  it.  When  Desplein 
had  left,  Bianchon  went  to  the  sacristan,  who  took  charge  of 
the  chapel,  and  asked  him  whether  the  gentleman  were  a 
constant  worshiper. 

"For  twenty  years  that  I  have  been  here,"  replied  the  man, 
"M.  Desplein  has  come  four  times  a  year  to  attend  this  mass. 
He  founded  it." 

"A  mass  founded  by  him  !"  said  Bianchon,  as  he  went  away. 
"This  is  as  great  a  mystery  as  the  Immaculate  Conception — 
an  article  which  alone  is  enough  to  make  a  physician  an  un- 
believer." 

Some  time  elapsed  before  Doctor  Bianchon,  though  so  much 
his  friend,  found  an  opportunity  of  speaking  to  Desplein  of 
this  incident  of  his  life.  Though  they  met  in  consultation, 
or  in  society,  it  was  difficult  to  find  an  hour  of  confidential 
solitude  when,  sitting  with  their  feet  c^i  the  fire-dogs  and  their 
head  resting  on  the  back  of  an  armchair,  two  men  tell 
each  other  their  secrets.  At  last,  seven  years  later,  after  the 
Eevolution  of  1830,  when  the  mob  invaded  the  Archbishop's 
residence,  when  Eepublican  agitators  spurred  them  on  to  de- 
stroy the  gilt  crosses  which  flashed  like  streaks  of  lightning 
in  the  immensity  of  the  ocean  of  houses;  when  Incredulity 
flaunted  itself  in  the  streets,  side  by  side  with  Rebellion, 
Bianchon  once  more  detected  Desplein  going  into  Saint-Sul- 
pice. The  doctor  followed  him,  and  knelt  down  by  him 
without  the  slightest  notice  or  demonstration  of  surprise  from 
his  friend.     They  both  attended  ^h[s  mass  of  his  founding. 


388  THE  ATHEIST'S  MASS 

"Will  you  tell  me,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  Bianchon,  as  they 
left  the  church,  "'the  reason  for  your  fit  of  moukishuess?     I 

have  caught  you  three  times  going  to  mass You !     You 

must  account  to  me  for  this  mystery,  explain  such  a  flagrant 
disagreement  between  your  opinions  and  your  conduct.  You 
do  not  believe  in  God,  and  yet  you  attend  mass?  My  dear 
master,  you  are  bound  to  give  me  an  answer." 

"1  am  like  a  great  many  devout  people,  men  who  on  the 
surface  are  deeply  religious,  but  quite  as  much  atheists  as  you 
or  1  can  be." 

And  he  poured  out  a  torrent  of  epigrams  on  certain  politi- 
cal personages,  of  whom  the  best  known  gives  us,  in  this  cen- 
tury, a  new  edition  of  Moliere's  Tartufe. 

"All  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  my  question,"  retorted 
Bianchon.  "I  want  to  know  the  reason  for  what  you  have 
just  been  doing,  and  why  you  founded  this  mass." 

"Faith !  my  dear  boy,"  said  Desplein,  "I  am  on  the  verge 
of  the  tomb ;  I  may  safely  tell  you  about  the  beginning  of  my 
life." 

At  this  moment  Bianchon  and  the  great  man  were  in  the 
Rue  des  Quatre- Vents,  one  of  the  worst  streets  in  Paris. 
Desplein  pointed  to  the  sixth  floor  of  one  of  the  houses  look- 
ing like  obelisks,  of  which  the  narrow  door  opens  into  a  pas- 
sage with  a  winding  staircase  at  the  end,  with  windows  ap- 
propriately termed  "borrowed  lights" — or,  in  French,  jours 
de  souffrance.  It  w"?  a  greenish  structure;  the  ground  floor 
occupied  by  a  furniture-dealer,  while  each  floor  seemed 
to  shelter  a  different  and  independent  form  of  misery. 
Throwing  up  his  arm  with  a  vehement  gesture,  Desplein  ex- 
claimed : 
,    "I  lived  up  there  for  two  years." 

"I  know;  Artliez  lived  there;  I  went  up  there  almost  every 
day  during  my  first  youth ;  we  used  to  call  it  then  the  pickle- 
jar  of  great  men  !     What  then  ?" 

"The  mass  I  have  just  attended  is  connected  with  some 
events  which  took  place  at  the  time  when  I  lived  in  the  garret 
where  you  say  Arthez  lived;  the  one  with  the  window  where 


THE  ATHEIST'S  MASS  389 

the  clothes  line  is  hanging  with  linen  over  a  pot  of  flowers. 
My  early  life  was  so  hard,  my  dear  Bianchon,  that  1  may 
dispute  the  palm  of  Paris  suffering  with  any  man  living.  I 
have  endured  everything :  hunger  and  thirst,  want  of  money, 
want  of  clothes,  of  shoes,  of  linen,  every  cruelty  that  penury  can 
inflict.  I  have  blown  on  my  frozen  fingers  in  that  picMe-jar 
of  great  men,  which  I  should  like  to  see  again,  noW;<  with  you. 
\L  worked  through  a  whole  winter,  seeing  my  head  steam, 
and  perceiving  the  atmosphere  of  my  own  moisture  as  we 
see  that  of  horses  on  a  frosty  day.  I  do  not  know  where  a 
man  finds  the  fulcrum  that  enables  him  to  hold  out  against 
Buch  a  life. 

"I  was  alone,  with  no  one  to  help  me,  no  money  to  buy 
books  or  to  pay  the  expenses  of  my  medical  training;  I  had 
not  a  friend ;  my  irascible,  touchy,  restless  temper  was  against 
me.  No  one  understood  that  this  irritability  was  the  distress 
and  toil  of  a  man  who,  at  the  bottom  of  the  social  scale,  is 
struggling  to  reach  the  surface.  Still,  I  had,  as  I  may  say  to 
you,  before  whom  I  need  wear  no  draperies,  I  had  that  ground- 
bed  of  good  feeling  and  keen  sensitiveness  which  must  always 
be  the  birthright  of  any  man  who  is  strong  enough  to  climb 
to  any  height  whatever,  after  having  long  trampled  in  the 
bogs  of  poverty.  I  could  obtain  nothing  from  my  family,  nor 
from  my  home,  beyond  my  inadequate  allowance.  In  short, 
at  that  time,  I  breakfasted  off  a  roll  which  the  baker  in  the 
Rue  du  Petit-Lion  sold  me  cheap  because  it  was  left  from 
yesterday  or  the  day  before,  and  I  crumbled  it  into  milk ;  thus 
my  morning  meal  cost  me  but  two  sous.  I  dined  only  every 
other  day  in  a  boarding-house  where  the  meal  cost  me  sixteen 
sous.  You  know  as  well  as  I  what  care  I  must  have  taken  of 
my  clothes  and  shoes.  I  hardly  know  whether  in  later  life 
we  feel  grief  so  deep  when  a  colleague  plays  us  false,  as  we 
have  known,  you  and  I,  on  detecting  the  mocking  smile  of  a 
gaping  seam  in  a  shoe,  or  hearing  the  armhole  of  a  coat  split. 
I  drank  nothing  but  water;  I  regarded  a  cafe  with  distant 
respect.  Zoppi's  seemed  to  me  a  promised  land  where  none 
but  the  Lucullus  of  the  pays  Latin  had  a  right  of  entry. 


390  THE  ATHEIST'S  MASS 

'Shall  I  ever  take  a  cup  of  coffee  tliere  with  milk  in  it?'  said  1 
to  myself,  'or  phi}-  a  game  of  dominoes?' 

"I  threw  into  my  work  the  fury  I  felt  at  my  misery.  I  tried 
to  master  positive  knowledge  so  as  to  acquire  the  greatest  per- 
sonal value,  and  merit  the  position  I  should  hold  as  soon  as  I 
could  escape  from  nothingness.  I  consumed  more  oil  than 
hread;  tlie  light  I  burned  during  these  endless  nights  cost  me 
more  than  food.  It  was  a  long  duel,  obstinate,  with  no  sort 
of  consolation.  I  found  no  sympathy  anywhere.  To  have 
friends,  must  we  not  form  connections  with  young  men,  have 
a  few  sous  so  as  to  be  able  to  go  tippling  with  them,  and 
meet  them  where  students  congregate?  And  I  had  nothing! 
And  no  one  in  Paris  can  understand  that  nothing  means 
nothing.  When  I  even  thought  of  revealing  my  beggary,  I 
had  that  nervous  contraction  of  the  throat  which  makes  a  sick 
man  believe  that  a  ball  rises  up  from  the  oesophagus  into  the 
larynx. 

"In  later  life  I  have  met  people  born  to  wealth  who,  never 
having  wanted  for  anything,  had  never  even  heard  this 
problem  in  the  rule  of  three:  A  3^oung  man  is  to  crime  as  a 
five-franc  piece  is  to  a:. — These  gilded  idiots  say  to  me,  'Why 
did  you  get  into  debt  ?  Why  did  you  involve  yourself  in  such 
onerous  obligations?'  They  remind  me  of  the  princess  who, 
on  hearing  that  the  people  lacked  bread,  said,  'Why  do  not 
they  buy  cakes  ?'  I  should  like  to  see  one  of  these  rich  men, 
who  complain  that  I  charge  too  much  for  an  operation, — yes, 
I  should  like  to  see  him  alone  in  Paris  without  a  sou,  without  a 
friend,  without  credit,  and  forced  to  work  with  his  five  fingers 
to  live  at  all !  What  would  he  do  ?  Where  would  he  go  to 
satisfy  his  hunger  ? 

"Bianchon,  if  you  have  sometimes  seen  me  hard  and  bitter, 
it  was  because  I  was  adding  my  early  sufferings  on  to  the 
insensibility,  the  selfishness  of  which  I  have  seen  thousands 
of  instances  in  the  highest  circles ;  or,  perhaps,  I  was  thinking 
of  the  obstacles  which  hatred,  envy,  jealousy,  and  calumny 
raised  up  between  me  and  success.  In  Paris,  when  certain  peo- 
ple see  you  ready  to  set  your  foot  in  the  stirrup,  some  pull  your 


THE  ATHEIST'S  MASS  391 

coat-tails,  others  loosen  the  huckle  of  the  strap  that  you  may 
fall  and  crack  your  skull ;  one  wrenches  off  your  horse's  shoes, 
another  steals  your  whip,  and  the  least  treacherous  of  them  all 
is  the  man  whom  j^ou  see  coming  to  fire  his  pistol  at  you  point 
blank. 

"You  yourself,  my  dear  boy,  are  clever  enough  to  make 
acquaintance  before  long  with  the  odious  and  incessant  war- 
fare waged  by  mediocrity  against  the  superior  man.  If  you 
should  drop  five-and-twenty  louis  one  day,  you  will  be  accused 
of  gambling  on  the  next,  and  your  best  friends  will  report  that 
you  have  lost  twenty-five  thousand.  If  you  have  a  headache, 
you  will  be  considered  mad.  If  you  are  a  little  hasty,  no  one 
can  live  with  you.  If,  to  make  a  stand  against  this  arma- 
ment of  pigmies,  you  collect  your  best  powers,  your  best 
friends  will  cry  out  that  you  want  to  have  everything,  that  you 
aim  at  domineering,  at  tyranny.  In  short,  your  good  points 
will  become  your  faults,  your  faults  will  be  vices,  and  your 
virtues  crime. 

"If  you  save  a  man,  you  will  be  said  to  have  killed  him; 
if  he  reappears  on  the  scene,  it  will  be  positive  that  you  have 
secured  the  present  at  the  cost  of  the  future.  If  he  is  not 
dead,  he  will  die.  Stumble,  and  you  fall !  Invent  anything 
of  any  kind  and  claim  your  rights,  you  will  be  crotchety,  cun- 
ning, ill-disposed  to  rising  younger  men. 

"So,  you  see,  my  dear  fellow,  if  I  do  not  believe  in  God,  I  be- 
lieve still  less  in  man.  But  do  not  you  know  in  me  another 
Desplein,  altogether  different  from  the  Desplein  whom  every 
one  abuses  ? — However,  we  will  not  stir  that  mud-heap. 

"Well,  I  was  living  in  that  house,  I  was  working  hard  to 
pass  my  first  examination,  and  I  had  no  money  at  all.  You 
know.  I  had  come  to  one  of  those  moments  of  extremit}^  when 
a  man  says,  'I  will  enlist.'  I  had  one  hope.  I  expected  from 
my  home  a  box  full  of  linen,  a  present  from  one  of  those  old 
aunts  who,  knowing  nothing  of  Paris,  think  of  your  shirts, 
while  they  imagine  that  their  nephew  with  thirty  francs  a 
month  is  eating  ortolans.  The  box  arrived  while  I  was  at 
the  schools ;  it  had  cost  forty  francs  for  carriage.     The  porter, 


392  THE  ATHEIST'S  MASS 

a  dcrman  shoemaker  living  in  a  loft,  had  pair!  the  money 
and  kept  the  box.  I  walked  np  and  down  tlie  Rue  des  Fosses- 
Saint-Gormain-des-Pres  and  the  Eiic  de  I'lilcole  de  Medeeine 
without  hitting  on  any  scheme  which  would  release  my  trunk 
without  the  payment  of  the  forty  francs,  which  of  course  1 
could  pay  as  soon  as  I  should  have  sold  the  linen.  My  stu- 
pidity proved  to  me  that  surgery  was  my  only  vocation. 
My  good  fellow,  refined  souls,  whose  powers  move  in  a 
lofty  atmosphere,  have  none  of  that  spirit  of  intrigue  that 
is  fertile  in  resource  and  device ;  their  good  genius  is  chance ; 
they  do  not  invent,  things  come  to  them. 

"At  night  I  went  home,  at  the  very  moment  when  my  fellow 
lodger  also  came  in — a  water-carrier  named  Bourgeat,  a  native 
of  Saint-Flour.  We  knew  each  other  as  two  lodgers  do  who 
have  rooms  off  the  same  landing,  and  who  hear  each  other 
sleeping,  coughing,  dressing,  and  so  at  last  become  used  to 
one  another.  My  neighbor  informed  me  that  the  landlord, 
to  whom  I  owed  three  quarters'  rent,  had  turned  me  out;  I 
must  clear  out  next  morning.  He  himself  was  also  turned 
out  on  account  of  his  occupation.  I  spent  the  most  miserable 
night  of  mA'^  life.  Where  was  I  to  get  a  messenger  who  could 
carry  my  few  chattels  and  my  books  ?  How  could  I  pay  him 
and  the  porter?  Where  was  I  to  go?  I  repeated  these  un- 
answerable questions  again  and  again,  in  tears,  as  madmen 
repeat  their  tunes.  1  fell  asleep ;  poverty  has  for  its  friends 
heavenly  slumbers  full  of  beautiful  dreams. 

"Next  morning,  just  as  I  was  swallowing  my  little  bowl 
of  bread  soaked  in  milk,  Bourgeat  came  in  and  said  to  me  in 
his  vile  Auvergne  accent : 

"  'Mouchieur  I'^tudiant,  I  am  a  poor  man,  a  foundling  from 
the  hospital  at  Saint-Flour,  without  either  father  or  mother, 
and  not  rich  enough  to  marr}^  You  are  not  fertile  in  relations 
either,  nor  well  supplied  with  the  ready?  Listen,  I  have  a 
hand-cart  downstairs  which  I  have  hired  for  two  sous  an  hour ; 
it  will  hold  all  our  goods;  if  you  like,  we  will  try  to  find  lodg- 
ings together,  since  wo  are  both  turned  out  of  this.  It  is  not 
the  earthly  paradise,  when  all  is  said  and  done.' 


THE  ATHEIST'S  MASS  393 


tc  n 


T  know  that,  my  good  Bourgeat/  said  I.  ^But  I  am  in 
J^  great  fix.  I  have  a  trunk  downstairs  with  a  hundred 
francs'  worth  of  linen  in  it,  out  of  which  I  could  pa}'  the  land- 
lord and  all  I  owe  to  the  porter,  and  I  have  not  a  hundred 
sous." 

"  'Pooh !  I  have  a  few  dibs,"  replied  Bourgeat  joyfullj',  and 
he  pulled  out  a  greasy  old  leather  purse.     'Keep  your  linen.' 

"Bourgeat  paid  up  my  arrears  and  his  own,  and  settled  with 
the  porter.  Then  he  put  our  furniture  and  my  box  of  linen 
in  his  cart,  and  pulled  it  along  the  street,  stopping  in  front  of 
every  house  where  there  was  a  notice  board.  I  went  up  to 
see  whether  the  rooms  to  let  would  suit  us.  At  midday  we 
were  still  wandering  about  the  neighborhood  without  having 
found  anything.  The  price  was  the  great  difficulty.  Bour- 
geat proposed  that  we  should  eat  at  a  wine  shop,  leaving  the 
cart  at  the  door.  Towards  evening  I  discovered,  in  the  Cour 
de  Eohan,  Passage  du  Commerce,  at  the  very  top  of  a  house 
next  the  roof,  two  rooms  with  a  staircase  between  them.  Each 
of  us  was  to  pay  sixty  francs  a  year.  So  there  we  were  housed, 
my  humble  friend  and  I.  We  dined  together.  Bourgeat, 
who  earned  about  fifty  sous  a  day,  had  saved  a  hundred  crowns 
or  so ;  he  would  soon  be  able  to  gratify  his  ambition  by  buying 
a  barrel  and  a  horse.  On  learning  my  situation — for  he  ex- 
tracted my  secrets  with  a  quiet  craftiness  and  good  nature,  of 
which  the  remembrance  touches  my  heart  to  this  day,  he  gave 
up  for  a  time  the  ambition  of  his  whole  life;  for  twenty-two 
years  he  had  been  carrying  water  in  the  street,  and  he  now 
devoted  his  hundred  crowns  to  my  future  prospects." 

Desplein  at  these  words  clutched  Bianchon's  arm  tightly. 
"He  gave  me  the  money  for  my  examination  fees  !  That  man^, 
my  friend,  understood  that  I  had  a  mission,  that  the  needs 
of  my  intellect  were  greater  than  his.  He  looked  after  me, 
he  called  me  his  boy,  he  lent  me  money  to  buy  books,  he  would 
come  in  softly  sometimes  to  watch  me  at  work,  and  took  a 
mother's  care  in  seeing  that  I  had  wholesome  and  abundant 
food,  instead  of  the  bad  and  insufficient  nourishment  I  had 
been  condemned  to      Bourgeat,  a  man  of  about  forty,  had  a 


304  THE  ATHEISTS  MASS 

homely,  mediaeval  type  of  face,  a  prominent  forehead,  a  head 
that  a  painter  might  have  chosen  as  a  model  for  that  of  Jjycur- 
gus.  The  poor  man's  heart  was  big  with  alfections  seeking 
an  object;  he  had  never  been  loved  but  by  a  poodle  that  had 
died  some  time  since,  of  which  he  would  talk  to  me,  asking 
whether  I  thought  the  Church  would  allow  masses  to  be  said 
for  the  repose  of  its  soul.  Ilis  dog,  said  he,  had  been  a  good 
Christian,  who  for  twelve  years  had  accompanied  him  to 
church,  never  barking,  listening  to  the  organ  without  opening 
his  mouth,  and  crouching  beside  him  in  a  way  that  made  it 
seem  as  though  he  were  praying  too. 

"This  man  centered  all  his  affections  in  me;  he  looked  upon 
me  as  a  forlorn  and  suffering  creature,  and  he  became,  to  me, 
the  most  thoughtful  mother,  the  most  considerate  benefactor, 
the  ideal  of  the  virtue  which  rejoices  in  its  own  work.  When 
I  met  him  in  the  street,  he  would  throw  me  a  glance  of  in- 
telligence full  of  unutterable  dignity;  he  would  affect  to  walk  as 
though  he  carried  no  weight,  and  seemed  happy  in  seeing  me 
in  good  health  and  well  dressed.  It  was,  in  fact,  the  devoted 
affection  of  the  lower  classes,  the  love  of  a  girl  of  the  people 
transferred  to  a  loftier  level.  Bourgeat  did  all  my  errands, 
woke  me  at  night  at  any  fixed  hour,  trimmed  my  lamp,  cleaned 
our  landing;  as  good  as  a  servant  as  he  was  as  a  father,  and  as 
clean  as  an  English  girl.  He  did  all  the  housework.  Like 
Philopoemen,  he  sawed  our  wood,  and  gave  to  all  he  did  the 
grace  of  simplicity  while  preserving  his  dignity,  for  he  seemed 
to  understand  that  the  end  ennobles  every  act. 

"When  I  left  this  good  fellow,  to  be  house  surgeon  at  the 
Hotel-Dieu,  I  felt  an  indescribable,  dull  pain,  knowing  that 
he  could  no  longer  live  with  me;  but  he  comforted  himself 
with  the  prospect  of  saving  up  money  enough  for  me  to  take 
my  degree,  and  he  made  me  promise  to  go  to  see  him  when- 
ever I  had  a  day  out :  Bourgeat  was  proud  of  me.  He  loved 
me  for  my  own  sake,  and  for  his  own.  If  you  look  up  my 
thesis,  you  will  see  that  I  dedicated  it  to  him. 

"During  the  last  year  of  my  residence  as  house  surgeon  1 
earned  enough  to  repay  all  I  owed  to  this  worthy  Auvergnat 


tHBi  ATHEIST'S  MASS  39^ 

by  buying  him  a  barrel  and  a  horse.  He  was  furious  with  rage 
at  learning  that  I  had  been  depriving  myself  of  spending  my 
money,  and  yet  he  was  delighted  to  see  his  wishes  fulfilled ;  he 
laughed  and  scolded,  he  looked  at  his  barrel,  at  his  horse,  and 
wiped  away  a  tear,  as  he  said,  'It  is  too  bad.  What  a  splendid 
barrel !  You  really  ought  not.  Why,  that  horse  is  as  strong 
as  an  Auvergnat !' 

"I  never  saw  a  more  touching  scene.  Bourgeat  insisted 
on  buying  for  me  the  case  of  instruments  mounted  in  silver 
which  you  have  seen  in  my  room,  and  which  is  to  me  the  most 
precious  thing  there.  Though  enchanted  with  my  first  success, 
never  did  the  least  sign,  the  least  word,  escape  him  which 
might  imply,  'This  man  owes  all  to  me !'  And  yet,  but  for 
him,  I  should  have  died  of  want;  he  had  eaten  bread  rubbed 
with  garlic  that  I  might  have  coffee  to  enable  me  to  sit  up  at 
night. 

"He  fell  ill.  As  you  may  suppose,  I  passed  my  nights  by 
his  bedside,  and  the  first  time  I  pulled  him  through ;  but  two 
years  after  he  had  a  relapse;  in  spite  of  the  utmost  care,  in 
spite  of  the  greatest  exertions  of  science,  he  succumbed.  No 
king  was  ever  nursed  as  he  was.  Yes,  Bianchon,  to  snatch 
that  man  from  death  I  tried  unheard-of  things.  I  wanted 
him  to  live  long  enough  to  show  him  his  work  accomplished, 
to  realize  all  his  hopes,  to  give  expression  to  the  only  need  for 
gratitude  that  ever  filled  my  heart,  to  quench  a  fire  that  burns 
in  me  to  this  day. 

"Bourgeat,  my  second  father,  died  in  my  arms,"  Desplein 
went  on,  after  a  pause,  visibly  moved.  "He  left  me  every- 
thing he  possessed  by  a  will  he  had  had  made  by  a  public 
scrivener,  dating  from  the  year  when  we  had  gone  to  live  in 
the  Cour  de  Rohan. 

"This  man's  faith  was  perfect;  he  loved  the  Holy  Virgin 
as  he  might  have  loved  his  wife.  He  was  an  ardent  Catholic, 
but  never  said  a  word  to  me  about  my  want  of  religion.  When 
he  was  dying  he  entreated  me  to  spare  no  expense  that  he 
might  have  every  possible  benefit  of  clergy.  I  had  a  mass 
said  for  him  every  day.  Often-  i-n  l^he  night,  he  would  tell  me  of 


39d  THE  ATHEIST'S  MaSS 

his  fears  as  to  his  future  fate;  he  feared  his  life  liad  not  beoii 
saintly  enough.  Poor  man !  he  was  at  work  from  morning  till 
night.  For  whom,  then,  is  Paradise — if  there  be  a  Paradise  ? 
He  received  the  last  sacrament  like  the  saint  that  he  was,  and 
his  death  was  worthy  of  his  life. 

"I  alone  followed  him  to  the  grave.  When  I  had  laid  my 
only  benefactor  to  rest,  I  looked  about  to  see  how  I  could  pay 
my  debt  to  him;  I  found  he  had  neither  family  nor  friends, 
neither  wife  nor  child.  But  he  believed.  lie  had  a  religious 
conviction;  had  I  any  right  to  dispute  it?  He  had  spoken 
to  me  timidly  of  masses  said  for  the  repose  of  the  dead;  he 
would  not  impress  it  on  me  as  a  duty,  thinking  that  it  would 
be  a  form  of  repayment  for  his  services.  As  soon  as  I  had 
money  enough  I  paid  to  Saint-Sulpice  the  requisite  sum  for 
four  masses  every  year.  As  the  only  thing  I  can  do  for  Bour- 
geat  is  thus  to  satisfy  his  pious  wishes,  on  the  days  when  that 
mass  is  said,  at  the  beginning  of  each  season  of  the  year,  I  go 
for  his  sake  and  say  the  required  prayers ;  and  1  say  with  the 
good  faith  of  a  sceptic — 'Great  God,  if  there  is  a  sphere  which 
Thou  hast  appointed  after  death  for  those  who  have  been 
perfect,  remember  good  Bourgeat;  and  if  he  should  have  any- 
thing to  suffer,  let  me  suffer  it  for  him,  that  he  may  enter 
all  the  sooner  into  what  is  called  Paradise.' 

"That,  my  dear  fellow,  is  as  much  as  a  man  who  holds  my 
opinions  can  allow  himself.  But  God  must  be  a  good  fellow; 
He  cannot  owe  me  any  grudge.  I  swear  to  you,  I  would  give 
my  whole  fortune  if  faith  such  as  Bourgeat's  could  enter  my 
brain." 

Bianchon,  who  was  with  Desplein  all  through  his  last  ill- 
ness, dares  not  affirm  to  this  day  that  the  great  surgeon  died  an 
atheist.  Will  not  those  who  believe  like  to  fancy  that  the 
humble  Auvergnat  came  to  open  the  gate  of  heaven  to  his 
friend,  as  he  did  that  of  the  earthly  temple  on  whose  pedi- 
ment we  read  the  words — "A  grateful  country  to  its  great 
men." 

Pabis,  January  1836. 


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