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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SAN  DIEGO 


II     III    I    illll      I  III   I  II    11! 

3  1822  00809  4849 


^^ 


LIBRARY  ^ 


UNIVBWS1TY  OF 
CALIPORNIA 
SAN  DIEeO 


UNIVFRSITY  OF  f.AI  If-OflNIA    SAN  DIEGO 


3  1822  00809  4849 


S3 


V-l 


Oe. 


Jja^^ 


Wibivavxj    ?I]riI>iticrn 


THE  MAGIC  SKIN 
THE  QUEST   OF    THE   ABSOLUTE 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 


BY 

HONORE    De BALZAC 

With  Introductions  by 

GEORGE  SAINTSBURY 


THE  THOMPSON  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

SAINT   LOUIS   AND    PHILADELPHIA 


COPYRIGHTED   1901 

BY 

Jobn  2).  Bvil 

All  Rirjhts  Reserved 


CONTENTS 


PART  1 

PAGE 

THE  AUTHOR  AND  HIS  WORKS    -  -  -     vii 


AUTHOR'S  INTRODUCTION  -  -  .           -  liii 

INTRODUCTION  -                      -  .  .          .  Ixxi 

THE  MAGIC  SKIN  : 

(La  Pean  de  Chagrin) 

I.   THE  TALISMAN          -               -  =.  .  1 

//.  A   IVOMAN  IVITHOUT  A  HEART  -  -              -  69 

///.   THE  AGONY                 -              •  -  -              -  175 

CHRIST  IN  ELANDERS           -  -  -           -  273 

{Jisus-Christ  en  Flandre) 


MELMOTH  RECONCILED       -  -  -  .293 

{Melmoth  riconciliS) 
Translator,  Bllen  Marriage 


PART  II 

INTRODUCTION  -  -  . 

THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  • 

{La  Recherche  de  VAbsolu) 

vol..  I 1 


-     vu 


JPAOB 

THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE    •  -  211 

(Le  Chef-d'oeuvre  inconnu) 


THE  MAR  AN  AS  -  -  -  -  •  -    241 

(Les  Marana) 
EL  VERDUGO  •  -  -  -    309 

(El  Verdtigo) 


FAREWELL 321 

{Adieu) 


THE  CONSCRIPT -  369 

(Le  Requisitionnaire) 
Translator.  Ellen  Marriage 

for  General  Index  see  pa^e  391,  Volume  16 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


PART  1 

PORTRAIT  OF  BALZAC       -  -  -  -  -  -        Frontispiece 

(Redrawn  by  J.  Allen  St.  John,  from  Boulanger's  sepia 
drawing  in  the  Mus^e  de  Tours) 

PAGE 

A   LITTLE   OLD   MAN  WHO  TURNED  THE   LIGHT  OF  THE 

LAMP   UPON   HIM  -  -  -  .  -  -  -  23 

WE   SPENT   ABOUT   AN   HOUR   IN   FAMILIAR   TALK      -  -         I44 


PART  II 

SHE    SAW    HER    FATHER    POINTING    A    PISTOL    AT   HIS 

HEAD  ..._ 162 

THE  OLDER  MAN   ,   .   .   KNOCKED  THRICE  AT  THE 

DCOR 213 


I 


THE  MAGIC  SKIN 


HONORE  DE  BALZAC. 

"Sans  genie,  je  suis  flamhe!" 

Volumes,*  almost  libraries,  have  been  written  about  Balzac ; 
and  perhaps  of  very  few  writers,  putting  aside  the  three  or 
four  greatest  of  all,  is  it  so  difficult  to  select  one  or  a  few  short 
phrases  which  will  in  any  way  denote  them,  much  more  sum 
them  up.  Yet  the  five  words  quoted  above,  which  come  from 
an  early  letter  to  his  sister  when  as  yet  he  had  not  "found 
his  way,"  characterize  him,  I  think,  better  than  at  least  some 
of  the  volumes  I  have  read  about  him,  and  supply,  when  they 
are  properly  understood,  the  most  valuable  of  all  keys  and 
companions  for  his  comprehension. 

"If  I  have  not  genius,  it  is  all  up  with  me !"  A  very 
matter-cf-fact  person  may  say :  "Why !  there  is  nothing  won- 
derful in  this.  Everybody  knows  that  genius  is  wanted  to 
make  a  name  in  literature,  and  most  people  think  they  have 
it."  But  this  would  be  a  little  short-sighted,  and  only  ex- 
cusable because  of  the  way  in  which  the  word  "genius"  is  too 
commonly  bandied  about.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  there  is  not 
so  very  much  genius  in  the  world;  and  a  great  deal  of  more 

♦This  general  introduction  attempts  to  deal  chiefly,  if  not  solely,  with  Balzac's 
life,  and  with  the  general  characteristics  of  his  work  and  genius.  Particular  lx)oks 
and  special  exemplifications  of  that  genius  will  be  only  incidentally  referred  to  in 
it ;  more  detailed  criticism  as  well  as  a  summary  of  the  bibliographical  information, 
which  is  often  so  interesting  and  sometimes  so  important  in  Balzac's  case,  being 
reserved  for  the  sliort  prefaces  to  the  various  volumes  of  the  series.  I  have,  liow- 
ever,  attempted,  while  making  these  short  prefaces  or  introductions  independently 
intelligible  and  sufficient,  to  link  them  to  each  other  and  to  this  general  essay,  so 
that  the  whole  may  present  a  sufficient  study  of  Balzac  and  a  sufficient  cotnmentary 
on  his  work. 

(vu) 


vill  HONORE  DE  BALZAC 

than  fair  performance  is  attainable  and  attained  by  more  or 
less  decent  allowances  or  exhibitions  of  talent.     In  prose, 
more  especially,  it  is  possible  to  gain  a  very  high  place,  and 
to  deserve  it,  without  any  genius  at  all :  though  it  is  difficult, 
if  not  impossible,  to  do  so  in  verse.     But  what  Balzac  felt 
(whether  he  was  conscious  in  detail  of  the  feeling  or  not) 
when  he  used  these  words  to  his  sister  Laure,  what  his  crit- 
ical readers  must  feel  when  they  have   read  only  a  very 
little  of  his  work,  what  they  must  feel  still  more  strongly 
when  they  have  read  that  work  as  a  whole — is  that  for  him 
there  is  no  such  door  of  escape  and  no  such  compromise. 
He  had  the  choice,  by  his  nature,  his  aims,  his  capacities, 
of  being  a  genius  or  nothing.     He  had  no  little  gifts,  and 
he  was  even  destitute  of  some  of  the  separate  and  divisible 
great  ones.    In  mere  writing,  mere  style,  he  was  not  supreme ; 
one  seldom  or  never  derives  from  anything  of  his  the  merely 
artistic  satisfaction  given  by  perfect  prose.     His  humor,  ex- 
cept of  the  grim  and  gigantic  kind,  was  not  remarkable ;  his 
wit,  for  a  Frenchman,  curiously  thin  and  small.    The  minor 
felicities  of  the  literature  generally  were  denied  to  him.    Sans 
genie,  il  etait  flanihe;  flamhe  as  he  seemed  to  be,  and  very 
reasonably  seemed,  to  his  friends  when  as  yet  the  genius  had 
not  come  to  him,  and  when  he  was  desperately  striving  to 
discover  where  his  genius  lay  in  those  wondrous  works  which 
"Lord  R'Hoone,"  and  "Horace  de  Saint  Aubin,"  and  others 
obligingly  fathered  for  him. 

It  must  be  the  business  of  these  introductions  to  give  what 
assistance  they  may  to  discover  where  it  did  lie;  it  is  only 
necessary,  before  taking  up  the  task  in  the  regular  biograph- 
ical and  critical  way  of  the  introductory  cicerone,  to  make 
two  negative  observations.     It  did  not  lie,  as  some  have  ap- 


HONDRE  DE  BALZAC  IX 

parently  thought,  in  the  conception,  or  the  outlining,  or  the 
filling  up  of  such  a  scheme  as  the  Coinedie  llumaine.  In  the 
first  place,  the  work  of  every  great  writer,  of  the  creative  kind, 
including  that  of  Dante  himself,  is  a  comedie  humaine.  All 
humanity  is  latent  in  every  human  being;  and  the  great 
writers  are  merely  those  who  call  most  of  it  out  of  latency 
and  put  it  actually  on  the  stage.  And,  as  students  bi  Balzac 
know,  the  scheme  and  adjustment  of  his  comedy  varied  so 
temarkably  as  time  went  on  that  it  can  hardly  be  said  to  have 
even  in  its  latest  form  (which  would  pretty  certainly  have 
been  altered  again)  a  distinct  and  definite  character.  Its  so- 
called  scenes  (cheap  criticism  may  add,  and  may  add  truly, 
though  not  to  much  purpose)  are  even  in  the  mass  by  no 
means  an  exhaustive,  and  are,  as  they  stand,  a  very  "cross," 
division  of  life:  nor  are  they  peopled  by  anything  like  an 
exhaustive  selection  of  personages.  Nor  again  is  Balzac's 
genius  by  any  means  a  mere  vindication  of  the  famous  defi- 
nition of  that  quality  as  an  infinite  capacity  of  taking  pains. 
That  Balzac  had  that  capacity — had  it  in  a  degree  probably 
unequaled  even  by  the  dullest  plodders  on  record — is  very 
well  known,  is  one  of  the  best  known  things  about  him.  But 
he  showed  it  for  nearly  ten  years  before  the  genius  came, 
and  though  no  doubt  it  helped  him  when  genius  had  cOme, 
the  two  things  are  in  his  case,  as  in  most,  pretty  sufficiently 
distinct.  What  the  genius  itself  was  I  must  do  my  best  to 
indicate  hereafter,  always  beseeching  the  reader  to  remeniber 
that  all  genius  is  in  its  essence  and  quiddity  indefinable.  You 
can  no  more  get  close  to  it  than  you  can  get  close  to  the 
rainbow,-  and  your  most  scientific  explanation  of  it  will  always 
leave  as  much  of  the  heart  of  the  fact  unexplained  as  the 
scientific  explanation  of  the  rainbow  leaves  of  that. 


3t  HOKORE  DE  BALZAC 

Honore  de  Balzac  was  born  at  Tours  on  the  16th  of  May 
1799,  in  the  same  year  which  saw  the  birth  of  Heine,  and 
which  therefore  had  the  honor  of  producing  perhaps  the  most 
characteristic  (I  do  not  say  the  greatest)  writers  of  the  nine- 
'teenth  century  in  prose  and  verse  respectively.  The  family 
was  a  respectable  one,  though  its  right  to  the  particle  whicii 
Balzac  always  carefully  assumed,  subscribing  himself  (with 
dubious  correctness,  though  the  point  is  an  argued  one) 
"de  Balzac,"  was  contested.  And  there  appears  to  be  no 
proof  of  their  connection  with  Jean  Guez  de  Balzac,  the 
founder,  as  some  will  have  him,  of  modern  French  prose, 
and  the  contemporary  and  fellow-reformer  of  Malherbe.* 
Balzac's  father,  who,  as  the  zac  pretty  surely  indicates,  was 
a  southerner  and  a  native  of  Langiiedoc,  was  fifty-three  years 
old  at  the  birth  of  his  son,  whose  Christian  name  was  selected 
on  the  ordinary  principle  of  accepting  that  of  the  saint  on 
whose  day  he  was  born.  Balzac  the  elder  had  been  a  barrister 
before  the  Revolution,  but  under  it  he  obtained  a  post  in 
the  commissariat,  and  rose  to  be  head  of  that  department 
for  a  military  division.  His  wife,  who  was  much  younger 
than  himself  and  who  survived  her  son,  is  said  to  have  pos- 
sessed both  beauty  and  fortune,  and  was  evidently  endowed 
with  the  business  faculties  so  common  among  Frenchwomen. 
When  Honore  was  bom,  the  family  had  not  long  been  es- 
tablished at  Tours,  where  Balzac  the  elder  (besides  his  duties) 
had  a  house  and  some  land;  and  this  town  continued  to  be 
their  headquarters  till  the  novelist,  who  was  the  eldest  of  the 
family,  was  about  sixteen.  He  had  two  sisters  (of  whom  the 
elder,  Laure,  afterwards  Madame  Surville,  was  his  first  eonfi- 

♦  Indeed,  a.s  the  novelist  i)olnted  out  \\  itli  sufficient  pertinence,  his  earlier  name- 
Rake  had  no  hereditary  right  to  the  uame  at  all,  and  merely  took  it  from  some 
proixTly 


HONORE  DE  BALZAC  Xl 

dante  and  his  only  authoritative  biographer)  and  a  younger 
brother,  who  seems  to  have  been,  if  not  a  scapegrace,  rather 
a  burden  to  his  friends,  and  who  later  went  abroad. 

The  eldest  boy  was,  in  spite  of  Eousseau,  put  out  to  nurse, 
and  at  seven  years  old  was  sent  to  the  Oratorian  grammar- 
school  at  Vendome,  where  he  stayed  another  seven  years, 
going  through,  according  to  his  own  account,  the  future 
experiences  and  performances  of  Louis  Lambert,  but  making 
no  reputation  for  himself  in  the  ordinary  school  course.  If, 
however,  he  would  not  work  in  his  teacher's  way,  he  over- 
worked himself  in  his  own  by  devouring  books;  and  was  sent 
home  at  fourteen  in  such  a  state  of  health  that  his  grand- 
mother (who,  after  the  French  fashion,  was  living  with 
her  daughter  and  son-in-law),  ejaculated :  "Voild  done  cor.ime 
le  college  nous  reiivoie  les  jolis  enfants  que  nous  lui  en- 
voyons!"  It  would  seem  indeed  that,  after  making  all  due 
allowance  for  grandmotherly  and  sisterly  partiality,  Balzac 
was  actually  a  very  good-looking  boy  and  young  man,  though 
the  portraits  of  him  in  later  life  may  not  satisfy  the  more 
romantic  expectations  of  his  admirers.  He  must  have  had  at 
all  times  e3^es  full  of  character,  perhaps  the  only  feature  that 
never  fails  in  men  of  intellectual  eminence;  but  he  certainly 
does  not  seem  to  have  been  in  his  manhood  either  exactly 
handsome  or  exactly  (to  use  a  foolish-sounding  term  which 
yet  has  no  exact  equivalent  of  better  sound)  "distinguished- 
looking."  But  the  portraits  of  the  middle  of  the  century 
are,  as  a  rule,  rather  wanting  in  this  characteristic  when  com- 
pared with  those  of  its  first  and  last  periods;  and  I  cannot 
think  of  many  that  quite  come  up  to  one's  expectations. 

For  a  short  time  he  was  left  pretty  much  to  himself,  and  re- 
covered rapidly-    But  late  in  1814  a  change  of  oflfieial  duties 


xW  HONORE  DE  BALZAO 

removed  the  Balzacs  to  Paris,  and  when  they  had  established 
themselves  in  the  famous  old  bourgeois  quarter  of  the  Marais. 
Honore  was  sent  to  divers  private  tutors  or  private  school- 
till  he  had  "finished  his  classes"  in  181G  at  the  age  of  seven- 
teen and  a  half.  Then  he  attended  lectures  at  the  Sorbonne 
where  Villemain,  Guizot,  and  Cousin  were  lecturing,  and 
heard  them,  as  his  sister  tells  us,  enthusiastically,  though 
there  are  probably  no  three  writers  of  any  considerable  repute 
in  the  history  of  French  literature  who  stand  further  apart 
from  Balzac.  For  all  three  made  and  kept  their  fame  by 
spirited  and  agreeable  generalizations  and  expatiations,  as 
different  as  possible  from  the  savage  labor  of  observation 
on  the  one  hand  and  the  gigantic  developments  of  imagination 
on  the  other,  which  were  to  compose  Balzac's  appeal.  His 
father  destined  him  for  the  law;  and  for  three  years  more 
he  dutifully  attended  the  offices  of  an  attorney  and  a  notary, 
besides  going  through  the  necessary  lectures  and  examina- 
tions. All  these  trials  he  seems  to  have  passed,  if  not  brill- 
iantly, yet  sufficiently. 

And  then  came  the  inevitable  crisis,  which  was  of  an  un- 
usually severe  nature.  A  notary,  who  was  a  friend  of  the 
elder  Balzac's  and  owed  him  some  gratitude,  offered  not 
merely  to  take  Honore  into  his  office,  but  to  allow  him  to 
succeed  to  his  business,  which  was  a  very  good  one,  in  a 
few  years  on  very  favorable  terms.  Most  fathers,  and  nearly 
all  French  fathers,  would  have  jumped  at  this ;  and  it  so  hap- 
pened that  about  the  same  time  M.  de  Balzac  was  undergoing 
that  unpleasant  process  of  compulsory  retirement  which  his 
son  has  described  in  one  of  the  best  passages  of  the  CEuvres 
de  Jeunesse,  the  opening  scene  of  Argow  le  Pirate.  It  does 
not  appear  that  Honore  had  revolted  during  his  probation — 


HONORE  DE  BALZAC  xlll 

indeed  he  is  said,  and  we  can  easily  believe  it  from  his  books, 
to  have  acquired  a  very  solid  knowledge  of  law,  especially 
in  bankruptcy  matters,  of  which  he  was  himself  to  have  a 
very  close  shave  in  future.  A  solicitor,  indeed,  told  Laure 
de  Balzac  that  he  found  Cesar  Birotteau  a  kind  of  Balzac 
on  Banhrnptcy ;  but  this  may  have  been  only  the  solicitor's 
fun. 

It  was  no  part  of  Honore's  intentions  to  use  this  knowl- 
edge— however  content  he  had  been  to  acquire  it — in  the 
least  interesting,  if  nearly  the  most  profitable,  of  the  branches 
of  the  legal  profession;  and  he  protested  eloquently,  and  not 
jnsuccessfully,  that  he  would  be  a  man  of  letters  and  nothing 
else.  Not  unsuccessfully;  but  at  the  same  time  with  dis- 
tinctly qualified  success.  He  was  not  turned  out  of  doors; 
nor  were  the  supplies,  as  in  Quinet's  case  only  a  few  months 
later,  absolutely  withheld  even  for  a  short  time.  But  his 
mother  (who  seems  to  have  been  less  placable  than  her  hus- 
band) thought  that  cutting  them  down  to  the  lowest  point 
might  have  some  effect.  So,  as  the  family  at  this  time 
(April  1819)  left  Paris  for  a  house  some  twenty  miles  out  of 
it,  she  established  her  eldest  son  in  a  garret  furnished  in  the 
most  Spartan  fashion,  with  a  starvation  allowance  and  an  old 
woman  to  look  after  him.  He  did  not  literally  stay  in  this 
garret  for  the  ten  years  of  his  astonishing  and  unparalleled 
probation;  but  without  too  much  metaphor  it  may  be  said 
to  have  been  his  Wilderness,  and  his  Wanderings  in  it  to 
have  lasted  for  that  very  considerable  time. 

We  know,  in  detail,  very  little  of  him  during  the  period. 
For  the  first  years,  between  1819  and  1822,  we  have  a  good 
number  of  letters  to  Laure;  between  1822  and  1829,  when  he 
drst  made  his  mark,  very  few.     He  began,  of  course,  with 


x\v  HOXORE  DE  BALZAC 

verse,  for  which  he  never  had  the  slightest  vocation,  and, 
almost  equally  of  course,  with  a  tragedy.  But  by  degrees, 
and  apparently  pretty  soon,  he  slipped  into  v/hat  was 
his  vocation,  and  like  some,  though  not  very  many,  great 
writers,  at  first  did  little  better  in  it  than  if  it  had  not  been 
his  vocation  at  all.  The  singular  tentatives  which,  after  being 
allowed  for  a  time  a  sort  of  outhouse  in  the  structure  of  the 
Comedie  Humaine,  were  excluded  from  the  octavo  Edition 
Definitive  five-and-twenty  A^ears  ago,  have  never  been  the 
object  of  that  exhaustive  bibliographical  and  critical  attention 
which  has  been  bestowed  on  those  which  follow  them.  They 
were  not  absolutely  unproductive — we  hear  of  sixty,  eighty,  a 
hundred  pounds  being  paid  for  them,  though  whether  this 
was  the  amount  of  Balzac's  always  sanguine  expectations, 
or  hard  cash  actually  handed  over,  we  cannot  say.  They  were 
very  numerous,  though  the  reprints  spoken  of  above  never 
extended  to  more  than  ten.  Even  these  have  never  been 
widely  read.  The  only  person  I  ever  knew  till  I  began  this 
present  task  who  had  read  them  through  was  the  friend  whom 
all  his  friends  are  now  lamenting  and  are  not  likely  soon  to 
cease  to  lament,  Mr.  Louis  Stevenson ;  and  when  I  once  asked 
him  whether,  on  his  honor  and  conscience,  he  could  recom- 
mend me  to  brace  myself  to  the  same  effort,  he  said  that  on 
his  honor  and  conscience  he  must  most  earnestly  dissuade  me. 
I  gather,  though  I  am  not  sure,  that  Mr.  Wedmore,  the  latest 
writer  in  English  on  Balzac  at  any  length,  had  not  read  them 
through  when  he  wrote. 

Now  I  have,  and  a  most  curious  study  they  are.  Indeed 
I  am  not  sorry,  as  Mr.  Wedmore  thinks  one  would  be,  to 
have  been  for  my  sins  compelled  to  read  them.  Nay,  more, 
X  should  have  been  really  sorry  if  this  or  some  other  occasion 


HONORE  DE  BALZAC  xv 

had  not  imposed  upon  me  this  particular  punishment  of  the 
sinner.  They  are  curiously,  interestingly,  almost  enthrall- 
ingly  bad.  Couched  for  the  most  part  in  a  kind  of  Radcliffian 
or  Monk-Lewisian  vein — perhaps  studied  more  directly  from 
Maturin  (of  whom  Balzac  was  a  great  admirer)  than  from 
either — they  often  begin  with  and  sometimes  contain  at  in- 
tervals passages  not  unlike  the  Balzac  that  we  know.  The 
attractive  title  of  Jane  la  Pale  (it  was  originally  called,  with 
a  still  more  Early  Eomantic  avidity  for  baroque  titles,  Wann- 
Clilore)  has  caused  it,  I  believe,  to  be  more  commonly  read 
than  any  other.  I  know  at  least  three  if  not  four  people  in 
England  who  claim  acquaintance  with  it.  It  deals  with  a 
disguised  duke,  a  villainous  Italian,  bigamy,  a  surprising 
offer  (which  I  wish  Balzac  had  had  the  courage  to  represent 
as  accepted  and  carried  out)  of  the  angelic  first  wife  to  sub- 
mit to  a  sort  of  double  arrangement,  the  death  of  the  second 
wife  and  first  love,  and  a  great  many  other  things.  Argow 
le  Pirate  opens  quite  decently  and  in  order  with  that  story  of 
the  employe  which  Balzac  was  to  rehandle  so  often,  but  drops 
suddenly  into  brigands  stopping  diligences,  the  marriage  of 
the  heroine  Annette  with  a  retired  pirate  marquis  of  vast 
wealth,  the  trial  of  the  latter  for  murdering  another  marquis 
with  a  poisoned  fish-bone  scarf-pin,  his  execution,  the  san- 
guinary reprisals  by  his  redoubtable  lieutenant,  and  a  finale 
of  blunderbusses,  fire,  devoted  peasant  girl  with  retrousse 
;aose,  and  almost  every  possible  tremblement. 

In  strictness  mention  of  this  should  have  been  preceded  by 
mention  of  Le  Vicaire  des  Ardennes,  which  is  a  sort  of  first 
part  of  Argow  le  Pirate,  and  not  only  gives  an  account  of 
his  crimes,  early  history,  and  manners  (which  seem  to  have 
been  a  little  robustious  for  such  a  mild-mannered  man  as 


'jr!  HONORE  DE  BALZAC 

Annette's  husband),  but  tells  a  thrilling  tale  of  the  loves  of 
the  yicaire  himself  and  a  young  woman,  which  loves  aye 
crossed,  first  by  the  belief  that  they  are  brother  and  sister, 
and  secondly  by  the  vicaire  having  taken  orders  under  this 
delusion.  La  Dernicre  Fee  is  the  queerest  possible  cross  be- 
tween an  actual  fairy  story  a  la  Nodier  and  a  history  of  the 
fantastic  and  inconstant  loves  of  a  great  English  lady,  the 
Duchess  of  "Sommerset"  (a  piece  of  actual  scandalum  mag- 
natum  nearly  as  bad  as  Balzac's  cool  use  in  his  acknowledged 
vrork  of  the  title  "Lord  Dudley").  This  book  begins  so  well 
that  one  expects  it  to  go  on  better;  but  the  inevitable  defects 
in  craftsmanship  show  themselves  before  long.  Le  Centenaire 
connects  itself  with  Balzac's  almost  lifelong  hankering  after 
the  recherche  de  Vahsolu  in  one  form  or  another,  for  the  hero 
is  a  wicked  old  person  who  every  now  and  then  refreshes  his 
hold  on  life  by  immolating  a  virgin  under  a  copper  bell.  It 
is  one  of  the  most  extravagant  and  "Monk-Lewisy"  of  the 
whole.  L'Excommunie,  L'Israeliie,  and  L'Heritiere  de  Bi- 
rague  are  medigeval  or  fifteenth  century  tales  of  the  most  luxu- 
riant kind,  L'Excommunie  being  the  best,  L'Israclite  the  most 
preposterous,  and  UHeritiere  de  Birague  the  dullest.  But 
it  is  not  nearly  so  dull  as  Dom  Gigadus  and  Jea7i  Louis,  the 
former  of  which  deals  with  the  end  of  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury and  the  latter  with  the  end  of  the  eighteenth.  These 
are  both  as  nearly  unreadable  as  anything  can  be.  One  in- 
teresting thing,  however,  should  be  noted  in  much  of  this 
early  work:  the  affectionate  clinging  of  the  author  to  the 
scenery  of  Touraine,  which  sometimes  inspires  him  with  his 
least  bad  passages. 

It  is  generally  agreed  that  these  singular  (Euvres  de  Jeu- 
nesse  were  of  service  to  Balzac  as  exercises,  and  no  doubt  they 


HONORS  DE  BALZAC  xvil 

were  so;  but  I  think  something  may  be  said  on  the  other  side. 
They  must  have  done  a  little,  if  not  much,  to  lead  him  into 
and  confirm  him  in  those  defects  of  style  and  form  which 
distinguish  him  so  remarkably  from  most  writers  of  his  rank. 
It  very  seldom  happens  when  a  very  young  man  writes 
very  much,  be  it  book-writing  or  journalism,  without  censure 
and  without  "editing,"  that  he  does  not  at  the  same  time  get 
into  loose  and  slipshod  habits.  And  I  think  we  may  set  down 
to  this  peculiar  form  of  apprenticeship  of  Balzac's  not 
merely  his  failure  ever  to  attain,  except  in  passages  and 
patches,  a  thoroughly  great  style,  but  also  that  extraordinary 
method  of  composition  which  in  after  days  cost  him  and  his 
publishers  so  much  money. 

However,  if  these  ten  years  of  probation  taught  him  his 
trade,  they  taught  him  also  a  most  unfortunate  avocation 
or  by-trade,  which  he  never  ceased  to  practise,  or  to  try  to 
practise,  which  never  did  him  the  very  least  good,  and  which 
not  unfrequently  lost  him  much  of  the  not  too  abundant  gains 
which  he  earned  with  such  enormous  labor.  This  was  the 
"game  of  speculation."  His  sister  puts  the  tempter's  part 
on  an  unknown  "neighbor,"  who  advised  him  to  try  to  procure 
independence  by  une  bonne  speculation.  Those  who  have  read 
Balzac's  books  and  his  letters  will  hardly  think  that  he  re- 
quired much  tempting.  He  began  by  trying  to  publish — 
an  attempt  which  has  never  yet  succeeded  with  a  single  man 
of  letters,  so  far  as  I  can  remember.  His  scheme  was  not 
a  bad  one,  indeed  it  was  one  which  has  brought  much  money 
to  other  pockets  since,  being  neither  more  nor  less  than  the 
issuing  of  cheap  one-volume  editions  of  French  classics.. 
But  he  had  hardly  any  capital ;  he  was  naturally  quite  ig- 
norant of  his  trade,  and  as  naturally  the  established  pub- 


svU!  HONOR E  DE  BALZAC 

Ushers  and  booksellers  boycotted  him  as  an  intruder.  So  hif 
Moliere  and  his  La  Fontoine  are  said  to  have  been  sold  as 
waste  paper,  though  if  any  copies  escaped  they  would  probably 
fetch  a  very  comfortable  price  now.  Then,  such  capital  aa 
he  had  having  been  borrowed,  the  lender,  either  out  of  good 
nature  or  avarice,  determined  to  throw  the  helve  after  the 
hatchet.  He  partly  advance  .  himself  and  partly  induced 
Balzac's  parents  to  advance  more,  in  order  to  start  the  young 
man  as  a  printer,  to  which  business  Honore  himself  added 
that  of  typefounder.  The  story  was  just  the  same :  knowledge 
and  capital  were  again  wanting,  and  though  actual  bank- 
ruptcy was  avoided,  Balzac  got  out  of  the  matter  at  the  cost 
not  merely  of  giving  the  two  businesses  to  a  friend  (in  whose 
hands  they  proved  profitable),  but  of  a  margin  of  debt  from 
which  he  may  be  said  never  to  have  fully  cleared  himself. 

He  had  more  than  twenty  years  to  live,  but  he  never  cured 
himself  of  this  hankering  after  une  honne  speculation. 
Sometimes  it  was  ordinary  stock-exchange  gambling;  but  his 
special  weakness  was,  to  do  him  justice,  for  schemes  that  had 
something  more  grandiose  in  them.  Thus,  to  finish  here 
with  the  subject,  though  the  chapter  of  it  never  actually 
finished  till  his  death,  he  made  years  afterwards,  when  he 
was  a  successful  and  a  desperately  busy  author,  a  long,  trouble- 
some, and  costly  journey  to  Sardinia  to  carry  out  a  plan  of 
resmelting  the  slag  from  Roman  and  other  mines  there.  Thus 
in  his  very  latest  days,  when  he  was  living  at  Vierzschovnia 
with  the  Hanska  and  Mniszech  household,  he  conceived  the 
magnificently  absurd  notion  of  cutting  down  twenty  thou- 
sand acres  of  oak  wood  in  the  Ukraine,  and  sending  it  hi; 
railway  right  across  Europe  to  be  sold  in  France.  And  he 
was  rather  reluctantly  convinced  that  by  the  time  a  single 


HONORE  I)E   HAI-ZAC  xix 

log  reached  its  market  the  freight  would  have  eaten  up  the 
value  of  a  whole  plantation. 

It  was  perhaps  not  entirely  chance  that  the  collapse  of 
the  printing  scheme,  which  took  place  in  1827,  the  ninth 
year  of  the  Wanderings  in  the  Wilderness,  coincided  with 
or  immediately  preceded  the  conception;  of  the  book  which 
was  to  give  Balzac  passage  into  the  Promised  Land.  This 
was  Les  Chouans,  called  at  its  first  issue,  which  differed  con- 
siderably from  the  present  form,  Le  Dernier  Chouan  ou  la 
Bretagne  en  1800  (later  1799).  It  was  published  in  1839 
without  any  of  the  previous  anagrammatic  pseudonyms ;  and 
whatever  were  the  reasons  which  had  induced  him  to  make 
his  bow  in  person  to  the  public,  they  were  well  justified,  for 
the  book  was  a  distinct  success,  if  not  a  great  one.  It  occupies 
a  kind  of  middle  position  between  the  melodramatic  romance 
of  his  nonage  and  the  strictly  analytic  romance-novel  of  his 
later  time;  and,  though  dealing  with  war  and  love  chiefly, 
inclines  in  conception  distinctly  to  the  latter.  Corentin, 
Hulot,  and  other  personages  of  the  actual  Comedy  (then  by 
no  means  planned, or  at  least  avowed)  appear;  and  though  the 
influence  of  Scott  is  in  a  way  paramount*  on  the  surface,  the 
underwork  is  quite  different,  and  the  whole  scheme  of  the 
loves  of  Montauran  and  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  is  pure 
Balzac. 

It  would  seem  as  if  nothing  but  this  sun  of  popular  ap- 

*  Balzac  was  throughout  his  life  a  ferTCiit  admirer  of  Sir  Walter,  anri  I  think  Mr. 
Wedmore,  in  his  passage  on  the  subject,  distinctly  undervalues  both  the  character 
and  the  duration  of  this  esteem.  Balzac  was  far  too  acute  to  commit  the  common 
mistake  of  thinking  Scott  superflcial— men  who  know  mankind  arc  not  often  blind 
to  each  other's  knowledge.  And  while  Mr.  Wedmore  seems  not  to  know  any  testi- 
mony later  than  Balzac's  thirty-eighth  year,  it  is  in  his  forty-sixth,  when  all  his  ow; 
best  work  was  done,  except  the  Parents  Pauvres,  that  he  contrasts  Dunias  witn  Scoti, 
saying  that  nn  relit  Walter  f^cott,  and  he  does  not  think  any  one  will  re-read  Dumas. 
This  may  be  unjust  to  the  one  writer,  but  it  is  conclusive  as  to  any  sense  of  "  wasted 
time  "  (his  own  phrase)  having  ever  existed  in  Balzac's  mind  about  the  other 


XX  HONORE  DE  BALZAC 

proval  had  been  wanting  to  make  Balzac's  genius  burst  out 
in  full  bloom.  Although  we  have  a  fair  number  of  letters  for 
the  ensuing  3'ears,  it  is  not  very  easy  to  make  out  the  exact 
sequence  of  production  of  the  marvelous  harvest  which  his 
genius  gave.  It  is  sufficient  to  say  that  in  the  three  years 
following  1829  there  were  actually  published  the  Physiologie 
du  Mariage  (of  which,  as  it  is  not  a  novel,  and  for  that  and 
other  reasons  will  not  appear  in  this  series,  not  much  more 
will  have  to  be  said),  the  charming  story  of  La  Maison  du 
Chat-qui-Pelote,  the  Peau  de  Chagrin,  the  most  original  and 
splendid,  if  not  the  most  finished  and  refined, of  all  Balzac's 
books,  most  of  the  short  Contes  Philosopliiques,  of  which 
some  are  among  their  author's  greatest  triumphs,  many  other 
stories  (chiefly  included  in  the  Scenes  de  la  Vie  Privee)  and 
the  beginning  of  the  Contes  Drolatiques* 

But  without  a  careful  examination  of  his  miscellaneous 
work,  which  is  very  abundant  and  includes  journalism  as 
well  as  books,  it  is  almost  as  impossible  to  come  to  a  just 
appreciation  of  Balzac  as  it  is  without  reading  the  early 
works  and  the  letters.  This  miscellaneous  work  is  all  the  more 
important  because  a  great  deal  of  it  represents  the  artist 
at  quite  advanced  stages  of  his  career,  and  because  all  its 

*  No  regular  attempt  will  after  this  be  made  to  indicate  the  date  of  production  of 
successive  works,  unless  the}- connect  themselves  very  distinctly  with  incidents  in 
the  life  or  with  general  critical  observations.  At  the  end  of  this  introduction  will 
be  found  a  full  table  of  the  Comedie  Hnmaine  and  the  other  works ;  while,  as 
explained  in  the  first  note,  additional  bibliographical  information,  as  to  dates  anci 
otherwise,  will  be  found  in  the  short  introductions  to  each  volume.  It  may  perhaps 
DC  worth  while  to  add  here,  that  while  the  labors  of  M.  de  Lovenjoul  (to  whom 
every  writer  on  Balzac  must  acknowledge  the  deepest  obligation)  have  cleared  this 
mutter  up  almost  to  the  verge  of  possibility  as  regards  the  published  works,  there  is 
little  light  to  be  thrown  on  the  constant  references  in  the  letters  to  Ixwks  which 
rever  appeared.  Sometimes  they  are  known,  and  they  may  often  be  suspected,  to 
..ave  been  absorbed  into  or  incorporated  with  others  ;  the  rest  must  have  been  lost 
ir  destroyed,  or,  which  is  not  quite  impossible,  have  existed  chiefly  in  the  form  of 
project    Nearly  a  hundred  titles  of  such  things  are  preserved. 


HONORE  DE  BALZAC  Sx\ 

examples,  the  earlier  as  well  as  the  later,  give  us  abundant 
insight  on  him  as  he  was  "making  himself  "  The  comparison 
with  the  early  work  of  Thackeray  (in  Punch,  Fraser,  and  else- 
where) is  so  striking  that  it  can  escape  no  one  who  knows  the 
two.  Every  now  and  then  Balzac  transferred  bodily,  or  with 
slight  alterations,  passages  from  these  experiments  to  his  fin- 
ished canvases.  It  appears  that  he  had  a  scheme  for  codify- 
ing his  "Physiologies"  (of  wliich  the  notorious  one  above 
mentioned  is  only  a  catchpenny  exemplar  and  very  far  from 
the  best)  into  a  seriously  organized  work.  Chance  -^as  kind 
or  intention  was  wise  in  not  allowing  him  to  do  so ;  but  the 
value  of  the  things  for  the  critical  reader  is  not  less.  Here 
are  tales — extensions  of  the  scheme  and  manner  of  the 
CEuvres  de  Jeunesse,  or  attempts  (not  often  happy)  at  the 
goguenard  story  of  1830 — a  thing  for  which  Balzac's  hand 
was  hardly  light  enough.  Here  are  interesting  evidences 
of  striving  to  be  cosmopolitan  and  polyglot — the  most  inter- 
esting of  all  of  which,  I  think,  is  the  mention  of  certain 
British  products  as  "mufflings."  "Muffling"  used  to  be  a 
domestic  joke  for  "muffin ;"  but  whether  some  wicked  Briton 
deluded  Balzac  into  the  idea  that  it  was  the  proper  form  or 
not  it  is  impossible  to  say.  Here  is  a  Traite  de  la  Vie  Ele- 
gante, inestimable  for  certain  critical  purposes.  So  early 
as  1825  we  find  a  Code  des  Gens  Honnetes,  which  exhibits 
at  once  the  author's  legal  studies  and  his  constant  attraction 
for  the  shady  side  of  business,  and  which  contains  a  scheme 
for  defrauding  by  means  of  lead  pencils,  actually  carried  out 
(if  we  may  believe  his  exulting  note)  by  some  literary  swin- 
dlers with  unhappy  results.  A  year  later  he  wrote  a  Diction- 
naire  des  Enseirjnes  de  Paris,  which  we  are  glad  enough  to 
have  from  the  author  of  the  Chat-qui-Pelote;  but  the  persist- 


xxil  HONORE  DE  BALZAC 

ence  with  which  this  kind  of  miscellaneous  writing  occupied 
him  could  not  be  better  exemplified  than  by  the  fact  that, 
of  two  important  works  which  closely  follow  this  in  the  col- 
lected edition,  the  Physiologie  de  V Employe  dates  from  1841 
and  the  Monographie  de  la  Presse  Parislenne  from  1843. 

It  is  well  known  that  from  the  time  almost  of  his  success 
as  a  novelist  he  was  given,  like  too  many  successful  novelists 
{not  like  Scott),  to  rather  undignified  and  foolish  attacks 
on  critics.  The  explanation  may  or  may  not  be  found  in 
the  fact  that  we  have  abundant  critical  work  of  his,  and 
that  it  is  nearly  all  bad.  Now  and  then  we  have  an  acute 
remark  in  his  own  special  sphere;  but  as  a  rule  he  cannot 
be  complimented  on  these  performances,  and  when  he  was 
half-way  through  his  career  this  critical  tendency  of  his  cul- 
minated in  the  unlucky  Revue  Parisiennc,  which  he  wrote 
almost  entirely  himself,  with  slight  assistance  from  his 
friends,  MM.  de  Belloy  and  de  Grammont.  It  covers  a  wide 
range,  but  the  literary  part  of  it  is  consid*^rable,  and  this 
part  contains  that  memorable  and  disastrous  attack  on  Sainte- 
Beuve,  for  which  the  critic  afterwards  took  a  magnanimous 
revenge  in  his  obituary  causeric.  Although  the  thing  is  not 
quite  unexampled  it  is  not  easily  to  be  surpassed  in  the 
blind  fury  of  its  abuse.  Sainte-Beuve  was  by  no  means  invul- 
nerable, and  an  anti-critic  who  kept  his  head  might  have 
found,  as  M.  de  Pontmartin  and  others  did  find,  the  joints 
in  his  armor.  But  when,  a  pro  pas  of  the  Port  Royal  more 
especially,  and  of  the  other  works  in  general,  Balzac  informs 
us  that  Sainte-Beuve's  great  characteristic  as  a  writer  is 
I'ennui,  Vennui  houeux  jusqua  mi-jambe,  that  his  style  is 
intolerable,  that  his  historical  handling  is  like  that  of  Gib- 
bon, ITume,  and  other  dull  people ;  when  ho  jeers  at  him  for 


HONORE  DE  BALZAC  xxiii 

-^xhummg  "La  mere  Angelique/'  and  scolds  him  for  presum- 
ing to  obscure  the  glory  of  the  Roi  Soldi,  the  thing  is  partly- 
ludicrous,  partly  melancholy.  One  remembers  that  agreeable 
Bohemian,  who  at  a  symposium  once  interrupted  his  host  by 
crying,  "Man  o'  the  hoose,  gie  us  less  o'  yer  clack  and  mair 
o'  yer  Jairman  wine !"  Only,  in  human  respect  and  other, 
we  phrase  it :  "Oh,  dear  M.  de  Balzac !  give  us  more  Eugenie 
Grandets,  more  Pere  Goriots,  more  Peaux  de  Cliagrin,  and 
don't  talk  about  what  you  do  not  understand  !" 

Balzac  was  a  great  politician  also,  and  here,  though  he  may 
not  have  been  very  much  more  successful,  he  talked  with  more 
knowledge  and  competence.  He  must  have  given  himself  im- 
mense trouble  in  reading  the  papers,  foreign  as  well  as  French : 
he  had  really  mastered  a  good  deal  of  the  political  religion  of  a 
French  publicist.  It  is  curious  to  read,  sixty  years  after  date, 
his  grave  assertion  that  "La  France  a  la  conquete  de  Mada- 
gascar a  faire,"  and  with  certain  very  pardonable  defects 
(such  as  his  Anglophobia),  his  politics  may  be  pronounced 
not  unintelligent  and  not  ungenerous,  though  somewhat  in- 
consistent and  not  very  distinctly  traceable  to  any  coherent 
theory.  As  for  the  Anglophobia,  the  Englishman  who  thinks 
the  less  of  him  for  that  must  have  very  poor  and  unhappy 
brains.  A  Frenchman  who  does  not  more  or  less  hate  and 
fear  England,  an  Englishman  who  does  not  regard  France 
with  a  more  or  less  good-humored  impatience,  is  usually 
"either  a  god  or  a  beast,"  as  Aristotle  saith.  Balzac  began 
with  an  odd  but  not  unintelligible  compound,  something  like 
Hugo's,  of  Napoleonisra  and  Eoyalism.  In  1824,  when  he 
was  still  in  the  shades  of  anonymity,  he  wrote  and  published 
two  by  no  means  despicable  pamphlets  in  favor  of  Primo- 
geniture and  the  Jesuits^,  the  latter  of  which  was  reprinted 


xxlv  HONORE  DE  BALZAC 

in  1880  at  the  last  J esultenhetze  in  France.  His  Lettres  sur 
Paris  in  1830-31,  and  his  La  France  et  VEtranger  in  1836, 
are  two  considerable  series  of  letters  from  "Our  Own  Cor- 
respondent," handling  the  affairs  of  the  world  with  boldness 
and  industry  if  not  invariably  with  wisdom.  They  rather 
suggest  (as  does  the  later  Revue  Parisienne  still  more)  the 
[political  writing  of  the  age  of  Anne  in  England,  and  perhaps 
a  little  later,  when  "the  wits"  handled  politics  and  society, 
literature  and  things  in  general  with  unquestioned  compe- 
tence and  an  easy  universality. 

The  rest  of  his  work  which  will  not  appear  in  this  edition 
may  be  conveniently  despatched  here.  The  Physiologie  du 
Mariage  and  the  Scenes  de  la  Vie  Conjugale  suffer  not  merely 
from  the  most  obvious  of  their  faults  but  from  defect  of 
knowledge.  It  may  or  may  not  be  that  marriage,  in  the  hack- 
neyed phrase,  is  a  net  or  other  receptacle  where  all  the  out- 
siders would  be  in,  and  all  the  insiders  out.  But  it  is  quite 
clear  that  Coelebs  cannot  talk  of  it  with  much  authority. 
His  state  may  or  may  not  be  the  more  gracious :  his  judgmfeiit 
cannot  but  lack  experience.  The  "Theatre,"  which  brought 
its  author  little  if  any  profit,  great  annoyance,  and  a  vast 
amount  of  trouble,  has  been  generally  condemned  by  criti- 
cism. But  the  Contes  Drolatiqucs  are  not  so  to  be  given  up. 
The  famous  and  splendid  Succuhe  is  only  the  best  of  them, 
and  though  all  are  more  or  less  tarred  with  the  brush  which 
tars  so  much  of  French  literature,  though  the  attempt  to 
write  in  an  archaic  stylo  is  at  best  a  very  successful  tour  de 
force,  and  represents  an  expenditure  of  brain  power  by  no 
means  justifiable  on  ibc  part  of  a  man  who  could  have  made 
so  much  botler  use  of  it,  tliey  are  never  to  be  spoken  of  dis- 
reflpectfully.     'J'hose  who  sneer  at  their  "Wardour  Street" 


HONORE  DP]  BALZAC  xxv 

Old  French  are  not  usually  those  best  qualified  to  do  so ;  and 
it  is  not  to  be  forgotten  that  Balzac  was  a  real  countryman 
of  Rabelais  and  a  legitimate  inheritor  of  Uauloiserie.  Un- 
luckily no  man  can  "throw  back"  in  this  way,  except  now 
and  then  as  a  mere  pastime.  And  it  is  fair  to  recollect  that 
as  a  matter  of  fact  Balzac,  after  a  year  or  two,  did  not  waste 
much  more  time  on  these  things,  and  that  the  intended  ten 
dizains  never,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  went  beyond  three. 

Besides  this  work  in  books,  pamphlets,  etc.,  Balzac,  as  has 
been  said,  did  a  certain  amount  of  journalism,  especially  in 
the  Caricature,  his  performances  including,  I  regret  to  say, 
more  than  one  puff  of  his  own  work;  and  in  this,  as  well  as 
by  the  success  of  the  Cliouans,  he  became  known  about  1830 
to  a  much  wider  circle,  both  of  literary  and  of  private  ac- 
quaintance. It  cannot  indeed  be  said  that  he  ever  mixed 
much  in  society;  it  was  impossible  that  he  should  do  so,  con- 
sidering the  vast  amount  of  work  he  did  and  the  manner  in 
which  he  did  it.  This  subject,  like  that  of  his  speculations, 
may  be  better  finished  off  in  a  single  passage  than  dealt  with 
by  scattered  indications  here  and  there.  He  was  not  one  of 
those  men  who  can  do  work  by  fits  and  starts  in  the  intervals 
of  business  or  of  amusement ;  nor  was  he  one  who,  like  Scott, 
could  work  very  rapidly.  It  is  true  that  he  often  achieved  im- 
mense quantities  of  work  (subject  to  a  caution  to  be  given 
presently)  in  a  very  few  days,  but  then  his  working  day 
was  of  the  most  peculiar  character.  He  could  not  bear  dis- 
turbance; he  wrote  (as  probably  most  people  do)  best  at 
night,  and  he  could  not  work  at  all  after  heavy  meals.  His 
favorite  plan  (varied  sometimes  in  detail)  was  therefore  to 
dine  lightly  about  five  or  six,  then  to  go  to  bed  and  sleep  till 
eleven,  twelve,  or  one,  and  then  to  get  up,  and  with  the  help 


xxTi  HONORE  DE  BALZAC 

only  of  coffee  (which  he  drank  very  strong  and  in  enormous 
quantities)  to  work  for  indefinite  stretches  of  time  into  the 
morning  or  afternoon  of  the  next  day.  He  speaks  of  a  sixteen 
hours'  day  as  a  not  uncommon  shift  or  spell  of  work,  and 
almost  a  regular  one  with  him ;  and  on  one  occasion  he  avers 
that  in  the  course  of  forty-eight  hours  he  took  but  three  of 
rest,  working  for  twenty-two  hours  and  a  half  continuously 
on  each  side  thereof.  In  such  spells,  supposing  reasonable 
facility  of  composition  and  mechanical  power  in  the  hand 
to  keep  going  all  the  time,  an  enormous  amount  can  of 
course  be  accomplished.  A  thousand  words  an  hour  is  any- 
thing but  an  extraordinary  rate  of  writing,  and  fifteen  hun- 
dred by  no  means  unheard  of  with  persons  who  do  not  write 
rubbish. 

The  references  to  this  subject  in  Balzac's  letters  are  vei-y 
numerous ;  but  it  is  not  easy  to  extract  very  definite  informa- 
tion from  them.  It  would  be  not  only  impolite  but  incorrect 
to  charge  him  with  unveracity.  But  the  very  heat  of  imagi- 
nation which  enabled  him  to  produce  his  work  created  a 
sort  of  mirage,  through  which  he  seems  always  to  have  re- 
garded it;  and  in  writing  to  publishers,  editors,  creditors, 
and  even  his  own  family,  it  was  too  obviously  his  interest 
to  make  the  most  of  his  labor,  his  projects,  and  his  perform- 
ance. Even  his  contemporary,  though  elder,  Southey,  the 
hardest- working  and  the  most  scrupulously  honest  man  of 
letters  in  England  who  could  pretend  to  genius,  seems  con- 
stantly to  have  exaggerated  the  idea  of  what  he  could  per- 
form, if  not  of  what  he  had  performed  in  a  given  time.  The 
most  definite  statement  of  Balzac's  that  I  remember  is  one 
which  claims  the  second  number  of  Sur  Catherine  de  Medicis, 
"La  Confidence  des  Ruggieri/'  as  the  production  of  a  singK> 


HONORE  DE  BALZAC  xxvll 

night,  and  not  one  of  the  most  extravagant  of  his  nights. 
Now  "La  Confidence  des  Ruggieri"  fills,  in  the  small  edition, 
eighty  pages  of  nearer  four  hundred  than  three  hundred 
words  each,  or  some  thirty  thousand  words  in  all.  Nobody  in 
the  longest  of  nights  could  manage  that,  except  by  dictating 
it  to  shorthand  clerks.  But  in  the  very  context  of  this  as- 
sertion Balzac  assigns  a  much  longer  period  to  the  correction 
than  to  the  composition,  and  this  brings  us  to  one  of  the 
most  curious  and  one  of  the  most  famous  points  of  his  literary 
history. 

Some  doubts  have,  I  believe,  been  thrown  on  the  most 
minute  account  of  his  ways  of  composition  which  we  have, 
that  of  the  publisher  Werdet.  But  there  is  too  great  a  con- 
sensus of  evidence  as  to  his  general  system  to  make  the 
received  description  of  it  doubtful.  According  to  this,  the 
first  draft  of  Balzac's  work  never  presented  it  in  anything 
like  fulness,  and  sometimes  did  not  amount  to  a  quarter  of 
the  bulk  finally  published.  This  being  returned  to  him  from 
the  printer  in  "slip"  on  sheets  with  very  large  margins,  he 
would  set  to  work  on  the  correction ;  that  is  to  say,  on  the 
practical  rewriting  of  the  thing,  with  excisions,  alterations, 
and  above  all,  additions.  A  "revise"  being  executed,  he  would 
attack  this  revise  in  the  same  manner,  and  not  unfrequently 
more  than  once,  so  that  the  expenses  of  mere  composition 
and  correction  of  the  press  were  enormously  heavy  (so  heary 
as  to  eat  into  not  merely  his  publisher's  but  his  own  profits), 
and  that  the  last  state  of  the  book,  when  published,  was  some- 
thing utterly  different  from  its  first  state  in  manuscript. 
And  it  will  be  obvious  that  if  anything  like  this  was  usual 
with  him,  it  is  quite  impossible  to  judge  his  actual  rapidity 
of  composition  by  the  extent  of  the  published  result. 


xxviil  HONORE  DE  BALZAC 

However  this  may  be  (and  it  is  at  least  certain  that  in  the 
years  above  referred  to  he  must  have  worked  his  very  hardest, 
even  if  some  of  the  work  then  published  had  been  more  or 
less  excogitated  and  begun  during  the  Wilderness  period), 
he  certainly  so  far  left  his  eremitical  habits  as  to  become 
acquainted  with  most  of  the  great  men  of  letters  of  the  early 
thirties,  and  also  with  certain  ladies  of  more  or  less  high 
rank,  who  were  to  supply,  if  not  exactly  the  full  models,  the 
texts  and  starting-points  for  some  of  the  most  interesting 
figures  of  the  Comedie.  He  knew  Victor  Hugo,  but  certainly 
not  at  this  time  intimately;  for  as  late  as  1839  the  letter 
in  which  he  writes  to  Hugo  to  come  and  breakfast  with  him 
at  Les  Jardies  (with  interesting  and  minute  directions  how 
to  find  that  frail  abode  of  genius)  is  couched  in  anything 
but  the  tone  of  a  familiar  friendship.  The  letters  to  Beyle 
of  about  the  same  date  are  also  incompatible  with  intimate 
knowledge.  ISTodier  (after  some  contrary  expressions)  he 
seems  to  have  regarded  as  most  good  people  did  regard  that 
true  man  of  letters  and  charming  tale-teller;  while  among 
the  younger  generation  Theophile  Gautier  and  Charles  de 
Bernard,  as  well  as  Goslan  and  others,  were  his  real  and  con- 
stant friends.  But  he  does  not  figure  frequently  or  emi- 
nently in  any  of  the  genuine  gossip  of  the  time  as  a  haunter 
of  literary  circles,  and  it  is  very  nearly  certain  that  the  as- 
siduity with  which  some  of  his  heroes  attend  salons  and  clubs 
had  no  counterpart  in  his  own  life.  In  the  first  place  he 
was  too  busy;  in  the  second  he  would  not  have  been  at  home 
there.  Like  the  young  gentleman  in  Punch,  who  "did  not 
read  books  but  wrote  them,"  though  in  no  satiric  sense,  he 
felt  it  his  business  not  to  frequent  society  but  to  create  it. 

He  was,  however,  aided  in  the  task  of  creation  by  the 


HONORE  HE  BALZAC  xxix 

Jadies  already  spoken  of,  who  were  fairly  numerous  and  ot 
divers  degrees.  The  most  constant,  after  his  sister  Laure, 
was  that  sister's  schoolfellow,  Madame  Ziilma  Carraiid,  the 
wife  of  a  military  official  at  Angoulemc  and  the  possessor 
of  a  small  country  estate  at  Frapesle,  near  Tours.  At  both 
of  these  places  Balzac,  till  he  was  a  very  great  man,  was  a 
constant  visitor,  and  with  Madame  Carraud  he  kept  up  for 
years  a  correspondence  which  has  been  held  to  be  merely 
friendly,  and  which  was  certainly  in  the  vulgar  sense  inno- 
cent, but  which  seems  to  me  to  be  tinged  with  something  of 
that  feeling,  midway  between  love  and  friendship,  which  ap- 
pears in  Scott's  letters  to  Lady  Abercorn,  and  which  is  proba- 
bly not  so  rare  as  some  think.  Madame  de  Berny,  another 
family  friend  of  higher  rank,  was  the  prototype  of  most  of 
his  "angelic"  characters,  but  she  died  in  1836.  He  knew 
the  Duchesse  d'Abrantes,  otherwise  Madame  Junot,  and 
Madame  de  Girardin,  otherwise  Delphine  Gay;  but  neither 
seems  to  have  exercised  much  influence  over  him.  It  was 
different  with  another  and  more  authentic  duchess,  Madame 
de  Castries,  after  whom  he  dangled  for  a  considerable  time, 
who  certainly  first  encouraged  him  and  probably  then  snubbed 
him,  and  who  is  thought  to  have  been  the  model  of  his  wick- 
eder great  ladies.  And  it  was  comparatively  early  in  the 
thirties  that  he  met  the  woman  whom,  after  nearly  twenty 
years,  he  was  at  last  to  marry,  getting  his  death  in  so  doing, 
the  Polish  Madame  Hanska.  These,  with  some  relations 
of  the  last  named,  especially  her  daughter,  and  with  a  certain 
*T.ouise" — an  Inconnue  who  never  ceased  to  be  so — were 
Balzac's  chief  correspondents  of  the  other  sex,  and,  as  far 
as  is  known,  his  chief  friends  in  it. 

About  his  life,  without  extravagant  "padding"  of  guess- 


XXX  HONORE  DE  BALZAC 

worK  or  of  mere  quotation  and  abstract  of  his  letters,  it  would 
be  not  so  much  difficult  as  impossible  to  say  much;  and  ac- 
cordingly it  is  a  matter  of  fact  that  most  lives  of  Balzac, 
including  all  good  ones,  are  rather  critical  than  narrative. 
From  his  real  debut  with  Le  Dernier  Chouan  to  his  departure 
for  Poland  on  the  long  visit,  or  brace  of  visits,  from  which  he 
returned  finally  to  die,  this  life  consisted  solely  of  work.  One 
of  his  earliest  utterances,  ''II  faut  piocher  ferme"  was  his 
motto  to  the  very  last,  varied  only  by  a  certain  amount  of  trav- 
eling. Balzac  was  always  a  considerable  traveler;  indeed  if  he 
had  not  been  so  his  constitution  would  probably  have  broken 
down  long  before  it  actually  did;  and  the  expense  of  these 
voyagings  (though  by  his  own  account  he  generally  conducted 
his  affairs  with  the  most  rigid  economy),  together  with  the  in- 
terruption to  his  work  which  they  occasioned,  entered  no 
doubt  for  something  into  his  money  difficulties.  He  would  go 
to  Baden  or  Vienna  for  a  day's  sight  of  Madame  Hanska ;  his 
Sardinian  visit  has  been  already  noted ;  and  as  a  specimen  of 
others  it  may  be  mentioned  that  he  once  journeyed  from  Paris 
to  Besangon,  then  from  Besancon  right  across  France  to  An- 
gouleme,  and  then  back  to  Paris  on  some  business  of  selecting 
paper  for  one  of  the  editions  of  his  books,  which  his  pub- 
lishers would  probably  have  done  much  better  and  at  much 
less  expense. 

Still  his  actual  receipts  were  surprisingly  small,  partly, 
it  may  be,  owing  to  his  expensive  habits  of  composition,  but 
far  more,  according  to  his  own  account,  because  of  the  Bel- 
gian piracies,  from  which  all  popular  French  authors  suffered 
till  (I  think)  the  government  of  Napoleon  the  Third  man- 
aged to  put  a  stop  to  them.  He  also  lived  in  such  a  thick 
atmosnhere  of  bills  and  advances  and  cross-claims  on  and 


HONORE  DE  BALZAC  xxx\ 

by  his  publishers,  that  even  if  there  were  more  documents 
than  there  are  it  would  be  exceedingly  difficult  to  get  at  facts 
which  are,  after  all,  not  very  important.  He  never  seems 
to  have  been  paid  much  more  than  £500  for  the  newspaper 
publication  (the  most  valuable  by  far  because  the  pirates 
could  not  interfere  with  its  profits)  of  any  one  of  his  novels. 
And  to  expensive  fashions  of  composition  and  complicated 
accounts,  a  steady  back-drag  of  debt  and  the  rest,  must  be 
added  the  very  delightful,  and  to  a  novelist  not  useless,  but 
very  expensive  mania  of  the  collector.  Balzac  had  a  genuine 
taste  for,  and  thought  himself  a  genuine  connoisseur  in, 
pictures,  sculpture,  and  objects  of  art  of  all  kinds,  old  and 
new;  and  though  prices  in  his  day  were  not  what  they  are 
in  these,  a  great  deal  of  money  must  have  run  through  his 
hands  in  this  way.  He  calculated  the  value  of  the  contents 
of  the  house,  which  in  his  last  days  he  furnished  with  such 
loving  care  for  his  wife,  and  which  turned  out  to  be  a  chamber 
rather  of  death  than  of  marriage,  at  some  £16,000.  But  part 
of  this  was  of  Madame  Hanska's  own  purchasing,  and  there 
were  offsets  of  indebtedness  against  it  almost  to  the  last. 
In  short,  though  during  the  last  twenty  years  of  his  life  such 
actual  "want  of  pence"  as  vexed  him  was  not  due,  as  it  had 
been  earlier,  to  the  fact  that  the  pence  refused  to  come  in, 
but  only  to  imprudent  management  of  them,  it  certainly 
cannot  be  said  that  Honore  de  Balzac,  the  most  desperately 
hard  worker  in  all  literature  for  such  time  as  was  allotted 
him,  and  perhaps  the  man  of  greatest  genius  who  was  ever 
a  desperately  hard  worker,  falsified  that  most  uncomfortable 
but  truest  of  proverbs — "Hard  work  never  made  money." 

If,  however,  he  was  but  scantily  rewarded  with  the  money 
for  which  he  had  a  craving  (not  absolutely,  I  think,  devoid 


xxxli  HONORE  DE  BALZAC 

of  a  touch  of  genuine  avarice,  but  consisting  chiefly  of  the 
artist's  desire  for  pleasant  and  beautiful  things,  and  partly 
presenting  a  variety  or  phase  of  the  grandiose  imagination, 
which  was  his  ruling  characteristic),  Balzac  had  plenty  of  the. 
fame,  for  which  he  cared  quite  as  much  as  he  cared  for  money. 
Perhaps  no  writer  except  Voltaire  and  Goethe  earlier  made 
such  a  really  European  reputation;  and  his  books  were  of 
a  kind  to  be  more  widely  read  by  the  general  public  than 
either  Goethe's  or  Voltaire's.  In  England  (Balzac  liked  the 
literature  but  not  the  country,  and  never  visited  England, 
though  I  believe  he  planned  a  visit)  this  popularity  was,  for 
obvious  reasons,  rather  less  than  elsewhere.  The  respectful 
vogue  which  French  literature  had  had  with  the  English  in 
the  eighteenth  century  had  ceased,  owing  partly  to  the  national 
enmity  revived  and  fostered  by  the  great  war,  and  partly  to  thef* 
growth  of  a  fresh  and  magnificent  literature  at  home  during 
the  first  thirty  years  of  the  nineteenth  in  England.  But  Balzac 
could  not  fail  to  be  read  almost  at  once  by  the  lettered; 
and  he  was  translated  pretty  early,  though  not  perhaps  to 
any  great  extent.  It  was  in  England,  moreover,  that  by  far 
his  greatest  follower  appeared,  and  appeared  very  shortly. 
For  it  would  be  absurd  in  the  most  bigoted  admirer  of  Thack- 
eray to  deny  that  the  author  of  Vanity  Fair,  who  was  in  Paris 
and  narrowly  watching  French  literature  and  French  life  at 
the  very  time  of  Balzac's  most  exuberant  flourishing  and  edu- 
cation, owed  something  to  the  author  of  Le  Pere  Goriot. 
There  was  no  copying  or  imitation;  the  lessons  taught  by 
Balzac  were  too  much  blended  with  those  of  native  masters, 
such  as  Fielding,  and  too  much  informed  and  transformed 
by  individual  genius.  Some  may  think — it  is  a  point  at  issue 
not  merely  between  Frenchmen  and  Englishmen,  but  be- 


HONORE  DE  BALZAC  xxxlll 

tween  good  judges  of  both  nations  on  each  side — that  in 
absolute  veracity  and  likeness  to  life,  in  limiting  the  opera- 
tion of  the  inner  consciousness  on  the  outward  observation 
to  strictly  artistic  scale,  Thackeray  excelled  Balzac  as  far  as 
he  fell  short  of  him  in  the  powers  of  the  seer  and  in  the 
gigantic  imagination  of  the  prophet.  But  the  relations  of 
pupil  and  master  in  at  least  some  degree  are  not,  I  think, 
deniable. 

So  things  went  on  in  light  and  in  shade,  in  homekeeping 
and  in  travel,  in  debts  and  in  earnings,  but  always  in  work  of 
some  kind  or  another,  for  eighteen  years  from  the  turning 
point  of  1829.  By  degrees,  as  he  gained  fame  and  ceased  to 
be  in  the  most  pressing  want  of  money,  Balzac  left  off  to  somp 
extent,  though  never  entirely,  those  miscellaneous  writings — • 
reviews  (including  puffs),  comic  or  general  sketches,  political 
diatribes,  "physiologies"  and  the  like — ^which,  with  his  dis- 
carded prefaces  and  much  more  interesting  matter,  were  at 
last,  not  many  years  ago,  included  in  four  stout  volumes 
of  the  Edition  Definitive.  With  the  exception  of  the  Physi- 
ologies (a  sort  of  short  satiric  analysis  of  this  or  that  class, 
character,  or  personage),  which  were  very  popular  in  the  reign 
of  Louis  Philippe  in  France,  and  which  Albert  Smith  and 
others  introduced  into  England,  Balzac  did  not  do  any  of  this 
miscellaneous  work  extremely  well.  Very  shrewd  observa- 
tions are  to  be  found  in  his  reviews,  for  instance  his  indica- 
tion, in  reviewing  La  Touche's  Fragoleita,  of  that  common 
fault  of  ambitious  novels,  a  sort  of  woolly  and  "ungraspable" 
looseness  of  construction  and  story,  which  constantly  be- 
wilders the  reader  as  to  what  is  going  on.  But,  as  a  rule,  he 
was  thinking  too  much  of  his  own  work  and  his  own  princi- 
ples of  working  to  enter  ver)'  thoroughly  into  the  work  of 
vol..  >  —-, 


xxxiv  HONORS  DE  BALZAC 

others.  His  politics,  those  of  a  moderate  but  decided  Royalist 
and  Conservative,  were,  as  has  been  said,  intelligent  in 
theory,  but  in  practice  a  little  distinguished  by  that  neglect 
of  actual  business  detail  which  has  been  noticed  in  his  specu- 
lations. 

At  last,  in  the  summer  of  1847,  it  seemed  as  if  the  E?,chel 
for  whom  he  had  served  nearly  if  not  quite  the  full  fourteen 
years  alread}^,  and  whose  husband  had  long  been  out  of  the 
way,  would  at  last  grant  herself  to  him.  He  was  invited  to 
Vierzschovnia  in  the  Ukraine,  the  seat  of  Madame  Hanska, 
or  in  strictness  of  her  son-in-law.  Count  Georges  Mniszech; 
and  as  the  visit  was  apparently  for  no  restricted  period,  and 
Balzac's  pretensions  to  the  lady's  hand  were  notorious,  it 
might  have  seemed  that  he  was  as  good  as  accepted.  But  to 
assume  this  would  have  been  to  mistake  what  perhaps  the 
greatest  creation  of  Balzac's  great  English  contemporary  and 
counterpart  on  the  one  side,  as  Thackeray  was  his  contem- 
porary and  counterpart  on  the  other,  considered  to  be  the 
malignity  of  widows.  What  the  reasons  were  which  made 
Madame  Hanska  delay  so  long  in  doing  what  she  did  at  last, 
and  might  Just  as  well,  it  would  seem,  have  done  years  before, 
is  not  certainly  known,  and  it  would  be  quite  unprofitable 
to  discuss  them.  But  it  was  on  the  8th  of  October  184:7  that 
Balzac  first  wrote  to  his  sister  fromYierzschovnia,  and  it  was 
not  till  the  14th  of  March  1850  that,  "in  the  parish  church 
of  Saint  Barbara  at  Berditchef,  by  the  Count  Abbe  Czarski> 
representing  the  Bishop  of  Jitomir  [this  is  as  characteristic 
of  Balzac  in  one  way  as  what  follows  is  in  another]  a  Madame 
Eve  de  Balzac,  bom  Countess  Rzevuska,  or  a  Madame 
Honore  de  Balzac  or  a  Madame  do  Balzac  the  elder"  camp 
into  existence. 


HONORE  DE  BALZAC  XXXt 

It  does  not  appear  that  Balzac  was  exactly  unhappy  during 
this  huge  probation,  which  was  broken  by  one  short  visit 
to  Paris.  The  interest  of  uncertainty  was  probably  much 
for  his  ardent  and  unquiet  spirit,  and  though  he  did  very 
little  literary  work  for  him,  one  may  suspect  that  he  would 
not  have  done  very  much  if  he  had  stayed  at  Paris,  for 
signs  of  exhaustion,,  not  of  genius  but  of  physical  power,  had 
shown  themselves  before  he  left  home.  But  it  is  not  unjust 
or  cruel  to  say  that  by  the  delay  "Madame  Eve  do  Balzac" 
(her  actual  baptismal  name  was  Evehna)  practically  killed 
her  husband.  These  winters  in  the  severe  climate  of  Russian 
Poland  were  absolutely  fatal  to  a  constitution,  and  especially 
to  lungs,  already  deeply  affected.  At  Yierzschovnia  itself 
he  had  illnesses,  from  which  he  narrowly  escaped  with  life, 
before  the  marriage;  his  heart  broke  down  after  it;  and 
he  and  his  wife  did  not  reach  Paris  till  the  end  of  May. 
Less  than  three  months  afterwards,  on  the  18th  of  August, 
he  died,  having  been  visited  on  the  very  day  of  his  death  in 
the  Paradise  of  bric-a-brac  which  he  had  created  for  his 
Eve  in  the  Rue  Fortunee — a  name  too  provocative  of  Nemesis 
— by  Victor  Hugo,  the  chief  maker  in  verse  as  he  himself 
was  the  chief  maker  in  prose  of  France.  He  was  buried  at 
Pere  la  Chaise.  The  after-fortunes  of  his  house  and  its  oc- 
cupants were  not  happy :  but  they  do  not  concern  us. 

In  person  Balzac  was  a  typical  Frenchman,  as  indeed  he 
was  in  most  ways.  From  his  portraits  there  would  seem  to 
have  been  more  force  and  address  than  distinction  or  refine- 
ment in  his  appearance,  but,  as  has  been  already  observed, 
his  period  was  one  ungrateful  to  the  iconographer.  His  char- 
acter, not  as  a  writer  but  as  a  man,  must  occupy  us  a  little 
longer.  For  some  considerable  time — indeed  it  may  be  sai(3 
until  the  publication  of  his  letters — it  was  not  very  favorably 


xxxvi  HONORE  DE  BALZAC 

judged  on  the  whole.  We  may,  of  course,  dismiss  the  childish 
scandals  (arising,  as  usual,  from  clumsy  or  malevolent  mis- 
interpretation of  such  books  as  the  Physiologie  de  Mariage, 
the  Peau  de  Chagrm,  and  a  few  others),  which  gave  rise  to 
caricatures  of  him  such  as  that  of  which  we  read,  repre- 
senting him  in  a  monk's  dress  at  a  table  covered  with  bottles 
and  supporting  a  young  person  on  his  knee,  the  whole  gar- 
nished vnth  the  epigraph:  Scenes  de  la  Vie  Cachee.  They 
seem  to  have  given  him,  personally,  a  very  unnecessary  an- 
noyance, and  indeed  he  was  always  rather  sensitive  to  criti- 
cism. This  kind  of  stupid  libel  will  never  cease  to  be  devised 
by  the  envious,  swallowed  by  the  vulgar,  and  simply  neglected 
by  the  wise.  But  Balzac's  peculiarities,  both  of  life  and  of 
work,  lent  themselves  rather  fatally  to  a  subtler  miscon- 
struction which  he  also  anticipated  and  tried  to  remove, 
but  which  took  a  far  stronger  hold.  He  was  represented — 
and  in  the  absence  of  any  intimate  male  friends  to  contra- 
dict the  representation,  it  was  certain  to  obtain  some  cur- 
rency— as  in  his  artistic  person  a  sardonic  libeler  of  man- 
kind, who  cared  only  to  take  foibles  and  vices  for  his  sub- 
jects, and  who  either  left  goodness  and  virtue  out  of  sight 
altogether,  or  represented  them  as  the  qualities  of  fools.  In 
private  life  he  was  held  up  as  at  the  best  a  self-centered 
egotist  who  cared  for  nothing  but  himself  and  his  own  work, 
capable  of  interrupting  one  friend  who  told  him  of  the  death 
of  a  sister  by  a  suggestion  that  they  should  change  the  sub- 
ject and  talk  of  "something  real,  of  Eugenie  Grandet,"  and 
of  levying  a  fifty  per  cent  commission  on  another  who  had 
written  a  critical  notice  of  his,  Balzac's,  life  and  works.* 

*Sandeau  and  Gautier,  the  victims  in  these  two  stories,  were  neither  spitefnl,  noi 
mendacious,  nor  irrational,  so  they  arc  probably  true.  The  second  was  possibly  due 
to  Balzac's  odd  notions  of  "  liusincss  being  business."  The  first,  I  have  quite 
recenlly  seen  reason  to  think,  may  have  been  a  sort  of  reminiscence  of  one  of  the 
traits  in  Diderot's  extravagant  encomium  on  Richardson. 


HONORE  DE  BALZAC  xxxvl! 

With  the  first  of  these  charges  he  himself,  on  different  oc- 
casions, rather  vainly  endeavored  to  grapple,  once  drawing 
up  an  elaborate  list  of  his  virtuous  and  vicious  women,  and 
showing  that  the  former  outnumbered  the  latter;  and,  again, 
laboring  (with  that  curious  lack  of  sense  of  humor  which 
distinguishes  all  Frenchmen  but  a  very  few,  and  distin- 
guished him  eminently)  to  show  that  though  no  doubt  it  is 
very  difficult  to  make  a  virtuous  person  interesting,  he, 
Honore  de  Balzac,  had  attempted  it,  and  succeeded  in  it,  on 
a  quite  surprising  number  of  occasions. 

The  fact  is  that  if  he  had  handled  this  last  matter  rather 
more  lightly  his  answer  would  have  been  a  sufficient  one,  and 
that  in  any  case  the  charge  is  not  worth  answering.  It 
does  not  lie  against  the  whole  of  his  work; -and  if  it  lay  as 
conclusively  as  it  does  against  Swift's,  it  would  not  neces- 
sarily matter.  To  the  artist  in  analysis  as  opposed  to  the 
romance-writer,  folly  always,  and  villainy  sometimes,  does 
supply  a  much  better  subject  than  virtuous  success,  and 
if  he  makes  his  fools  and  his  villains  lifelike  and  supplies 
them  with  a  fair  contrast  of  better  things,  there  is  nothing 
more  to  be  said.  He  will  not,  indeed,  be  a  Shakespeare,  or 
a  Dante,  or  even  a  Scott;  but  we  may  be  very  well  satisfied 
with  him  as  a  Fielding,  a  Thackeray,  or  a  Balzac.  As  to  the 
more  purely  personal  matter  I  own  that  it  was  some  time 
before  I  could  persuade  myself  that  Balzac,  to  speak  famil- 
iarly, was  a  much  better  fellow  than  others,  and  I  myself, 
had  been  accustomed  to  think  him.  But  it  is  also  some  time 
since  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  he  was  so,  and  my  con- 
version is  not  to  be  attributed  to  any  editorial  retainer.  His 
education  in  a  lawyer's  office,  the  accursed  advice  about  the 
honne  speculation,  and  his  constant  straitenings  for  money, 


XXXVlll  HONORE  DE  BALZAC 

will  account  for  his  sometimes  looking  after  the  main  chance 
rather  too  narrowly;  and  as  for  the  Eugenie  Grandet  story 
(even  if  the  supposition  referred  to  in  a  note  above  be  fanci- 
ful) it  requires  no  great  stretch  of  charity  or  comprehen- 
sion to  see  in  it  nothing  more  than  the  awkward,  very  easily 
misconstrued,  but  not  necessarily  in  the  least  heartless  or 
brutal  attempt  of  a  rather  absent  and  very  much  self-centered 
recluse  absorbed  in  one  subject,  to  get  his  interlocutor  as  well 
as  himself  out  of  painful  and  useless  dwelling  on  sorrowful 
matters.  Self-centered  and  self-absorbed  Balzac  no  doubt 
was;  he  could  not  have  lived  his  life  or  produced  his  work 
if  he  had  been  anything  else.  And  it  must  be  remembered 
that  he  owed  extremely  little  to  others;  that  he  had  the  in- 
dependence as  well  as  the  isolation  of  the  self-centered;  that 
he  never  sponged  or  fawned  on  a  great  man,  or  wronged 
others  of  what  was  due  to  them.  The  only  really  unpleasant 
thing  about  him  that  I  know,  and  even  this  is  perhaps  due 
to  ignorance  of  all  sides  of  the  matter,  is  a  slight  touch  of 
snobbishness  now  and  then,  especially  in  those  late  letters 
from  Vierzschovnia  to  Madame  de  Balzac  and  Madame  Sur- 
ville,  in  which,  while  inundating  his  mother  and  sister  with 
commissions  and  requests  for  service,  he  points  out  to  them 
what  great  people  the  Hanskas  and  Mniszechs  are,  what 
infinite  honor  and  profit  it  will  be  to  be  connected  with  them, 
and  how  desirable  it  is  to  keep  struggling  engineer  brothers"- 
in-law  and  ne'er-do-well  brothers  in  the  colonies  out  of  sight 
lest  they  should  disgust  the  magnates. 

But  these  are  ^'sma'  sums,  sma'  sums,"  as  Bailie  Jarvie 
says ;  and  smallness  of  any  kind  has,  whatever  it  may  have  to 
do  with  Balzac  the  man,  nothing  to  do  vnth  Balzac  the  writer. 
With  him  as  with  some  others,  but  not  as  with  the  larger 


HONORE  DE  BALZAC  xxxlx 

number,  the  sense  of  greatness  increases  the  longer  and  the 
more  fully  he  is  studied.  He  resembles,  I  think,  Goethe 
more  than  any  other  man  of  letters — certainly  more  than 
any  other  of  the  present  century — in  having  done  work  which 
is  very  frequently,  if  not  even  commonly,  faulty,  and  in  yet 
requiring  that  his  work  shall  be  known  as  a  whole.  His  ap- 
peal is  cumulative;  it  repeats  itself  on  each  occasion  with  a 
slight  diiference,  and  though  there  may  now  and  then  be  the 
same  faults  to  be  noticed,  they  are  almost  invariably  accom- 
panied, not  mereh^  by  the  same,  but  by  fresh  merits. 

As  has  been  said  at  the  beginning  of  this  essay,  no  attempt 
will  be  made  in  it  to  give  that  running  survey  of  Balzac's 
work  which  is  always  useful  and  sometimes  indispensable 
in  treatment  of  the  kind.  That  will  be  administered  in  brief 
introductions  to  the  separate  novels  or  collections  of  tales 
of  which  each,  it  is  hoped,  will  itself  be  cumulative  and  help 
to  furnish  forth  the  full  presentment  of  the  subject.  But 
something  like  a  summing  up  of  that  subject  will  here  be 
attempted,  first,  because  of  the  manifest  inconvenience  of 
postponing  it,  and  secondly,  because  it  is  really  desirable 
that  in  embarking  on  so  vast  a  voyage  the  reader  should  have 
some  general  chart — some  notes  of  the  soundings  and  log 
generally  of  those  who  have  gone  before  him. 

There  are  two  things,  then,  which  it  is  more  especially 
desirable  to  keep  constantly  before  one  in  reading  Balzac — 
two  things  which,  taken  together,  constitute  his  almost  unique 
Talue,  and  two  things  (I  think  it  may  be  added)  which  not 
a  few  critics  have  failed  to  take  together  in  him,  being  under 
the  impression  that  the  one  excludes  the  other,  and  that  to 
admit  the  other  is  tantamount  to  a  denial  of  the  one.  These 
two  things  are,  first,  an  immense  attention  to  detail,  some- 


si  HONORE  DE  BALZAC 

times  observed,  sometimes  invented  or  imagined;  and  sec- 
ondly, a  faculty  of  regarding  these  details  through  a  mental 
lens  or  arrangement  of  lenses  almost  peculiar  to  himself, 
which  at  once  combines,  enlarges,  and  invests  them  with  a 
peculiar  magical  halo  or  mirage.  The  two  thousand  per- 
sonages of  the  Comedie  Humaine  are,  for  the  most  part, 
'^signaled,"  as  the  French  official  word  has  it,  marked  and 
denoted  by  the  minutest  traits  of  character,  gesture,  gait, 
clothing,  abode,  what  not ;  the  transactions  recorded  are  very 
often  (more  often  indeed  than  not)  given  with  a  scrupulous 
and  microscopic  accuracy  of  reporting  which  no  detective 
could  outdo.  Defoe  is  not  more  circumstantial  in  detail  of 
fact  than  Balzac ;  Eichardson  is  hardly  more  prodigal  of  char- 
acter-stroke. Yet  a  very  large  proportion  of  these  charac- 
ters, of  these  circumstances,  are  evidently  things  invented 
or  imagined,  not  observed.  And  in  addition  to  this  the 
artist's  magic  glass,  his  Balzacian  speculum,  if  we  may  so 
say  (for  none  else  has  ever  had  it),  transforms  even  the  most 
rigid  observation  into  something  flickering  and  fanciful,  the 
outline  as  of  shadows  on  the  wall,  not  the  precise  contour  of 
etching  or  of  the  camera. 

It  is  curious,  but  not  unexampled,  that  both  Balzac  himself 
when  he  struggled  in  argument  with  his  critics  and  those 
of  his  partisans  who  have  been  most  zealously  devoted  to  him, 
have  usually  tried  to  exalt  the  first  and  less  remarkable  of 
these  gifts  over  the  second  and  infinitely  more  remarkable. 
Balzac  protested  strenuously  against  the  use  of  the  word 
"gigantesque"  in  reference  to  his  work;  and  of  course  it  is 
susceptible  of  an  unhandsome  innuendo.  But  if  we  leave 
that  innuendo  aside,  if  we  adopt  the  sane  reflection  that 
"gigantesque"  does  not  exclude  "gigantic,"  or  assert  a  con- 


HONORE  DE  BALZAO  xll 

stant  failure  of  greatness,  but  only  indicates  that  the  mag- 
nifying process  is  carried  on  with  a  certain  indiscriminate- 
ness,  we  shall  find  none,  I  think,  which  so  thoroughly  well 
describes  him. 

The  effect  of  this  singular  combination  of  qualities,  appar- 
ently the  most  opposite,  may  be  partly  anticipated,  but  not 
quite.  It  results  occasionally  in  a  certain  shortcoming  as 
regards  verite  vraie,  absolute  artistic  truth  to  nature.  Those 
who  would  range  Balzac  in  point  of  such  artistic  veracity  on 
a  level  with  poetical  and  universal  realists  like  Shakespeare 
and  Dante,  or  prosaic  and  particular  realists  like  Thackeray 
and  Fielding,  seem  not  only  to  be  utterly  wrong  but  to  pay 
their  idol  the  worst  of  all  compliments,  that  of  ignoring  his 
own  special  qualifications.  The  province  of  Balzac  may  not 
be — I  do  not  think  it  is — identical,  much  less  co-extensive, 
with  that  of  nature.  But  it  is  his  own — a  partly  real,  partly 
fantastic  region,  where  the  lights,  the  shades,  the  dimensions, 
and  the  physical  laws  are  slightly  different  from  those  of  this 
world  of  ours,  but  with  which,  owing  to  the  things  it  has 
in  common  with  that  world,  we  are  able  to  sympathize,  which 
we  can  traverse  and  comprehend.  Every  now  and  then  the 
artist  uses  his  observing  faculty  more,  and  his  magnifying 
and  (since  there  is  no  better  word)  distorting  lens  less; 
every  now  and  then  he  reverses  the  proportion.  Some  tastes 
will  like  him  best  in  the  one  stage;  some  in  the  other;  the 
happier  constituted  will  like  him  best  in  both.  These  latter 
will  decline  to  put  Eugenie  Grandet  above  the  Peau  de 
Chagrin,  or  Le  Pere  Goriot  above  the  wonderful  handful  of 
tales  which  includes  La  Recherche  de  I'Ahsolu  and  Le  Chef- 
d'ceuvre  Inconnu,  though  they  will  no  doubt  recognize  that 
even  in  the  two  first  named  members  of  these  pairs  the  Bal- 


xUi  HONORE  DE  BALZAC 

zacian  quality,  that  of  magnifying  and  rendering  grandiose, 
is  present,  and  that  the  martyrdom  of  Eugenie,  the  avarice 
of  her  father,  the  blind  self-devotion  of  Goriot  to  his  thank- 
less and  worthless  children,  would  not  be  what  they  are  if 
they  were  seen  through  a  perfectly  achromatic  and  normal 
medium. 

This  specially  Balzacian  quality  is,  I  think,  unique.  It  is 
like — it  may  almost  be  said  to  he — the  poetic  imagination, 
present  in  magnificent  volume  and  degree,  but  in  some  mi- 
raculous way  deprived  and  sterilized  of  the  specially  poetical 
quality.  By  this  I  do  not  of  course  mean  that  Balzac  did  not 
write  in  verse:  we  have  a  few  verses  of  his,  and  they  are 
pretty  bad,  but  that  is  neither  here  nor  there.  The  difference 
between  Balzac  and  a  great  poet  lies  not  in  the  fact  that  the 
one  fills  the  whole  page  with  printed  words,  and  the  other 
only  a  part  of  it — but  in  something  else.  If  I  could  put  that 
something  else  into  distinct  words  I  should  therein  attain 
the  philosopher's  stone,  the  elixir  of  life,  the  primum  mobile, 
the  grand  arcanum,  not  merely  of  criticism  but  of  all  things. 
It  might  be  possible  to  coast  about  it,  to  hint  at  it,  by 
adumbrations  and  in  consequences.  But  it  is  better  and 
really  more  helpful  to  face  the  difficulty  boldly,  and  to  say 
that  Balzac,  approaching  a  great  poet  nearer  perhaps  than 
any  other  prose  writer  in  any  language,  is  distinguished 
from  one  by  the  absence  of  the  very  last  touch,  the  finally 
constituting  quiddity,  which  makes  a  great  poet  different  from 
Balzac. 

Now,  when  we  make  this  comparison,  it  is  of  the  first  in- 
terest to  remember — and  it  is  one  of  the  uses  of  the  com- 
parison, that  it  suggests  the  remembrance  of  the  fact — that 
the  great  poets  have  usually  been  themselves  extremely  ei- 


HONORE  DE  BALZAC  xllll 

act  observers  of  detail.  It  has  not  made  them  great  poets; 
but  they  would  not  be  great  poets  without  it.  And  when 
Eugenie  Grandet  starts  from  le  petit  banc  de  hois  at  the 
reference  to  it  in  her  scoundrelly  cousin's  letter  (to  take  only 
one  instance  out  of  a  thousand),  we  see  in  Balzac  the  same 
observation,  subject  to  the  limitation  just  mentioned,  that 
we  see  in  Dante  and  Shakespeare,  in  Chaucer  and  Tennyson. 
But  the  great  poets  do  not  as  a  rule  accumulate  detail.  Bal- 
zac does,  and  from  this  very  accumulation  he  manages  to 
derive  that  singular  gigantesque  vagueness — differing  from 
the  poetic  vague,  but  ranking  next  to  it — which  I  have  here 
ventured  to  note  as  his  distinguishing  quality.  He  bewilders 
us  a  very  little  by  it,  and  he  gives  us  the  impression  that  he 
has  slightly  bewildered  himself.  But  the  compensations  of 
the  bewilderment  are  large. 

For  in  this  labyrinth  and  whirl  of  things,  in  this  heat 
and  hurry  of  observation  and  imagination,  the  special  in- 
toxication of  Balzac  consists.  Every  great  artist  has  his  own 
means  of  producing  this  intoxication,  and  it  differs  in.  result 
like  the  stimulus  of  beauty  or  of  wine.  Those  persons  who  are 
unfortunate  enough  to  see  in  Balzac  little  or  nothing  but  an 
ingenious  piler-up  of  careful  strokes — a  man  of  science  tak- 
ing his  human  documents  and  classing  them  after  an  orderly 
fashion  in  portfolio  and  deed-box — must  miss  this  intoxica- 
tion altogether.  It  is  much  more  agreeable  as  well  as  much 
more  accurate  to  see  in  the  manufacture  of  the  Comedie 
the  process  of  a  Cyclopean  workshop — the  bustle,  the  hurry, 
the  glare  and  shadow,  the  steam  and  sparks  of  Vulcanian 
forging.  The  results,  it  is  true,  are  by  no  means  confused 
or  disorderly — neither  were  those  of  the  forges  that  worked 
under  Lipari — but  there  certainly  went  much  m.ore  to  them 


xliv  HONORE  DE  BALZAC 

than  the  dainty  fingering  of  a  literary  fretwork-maker  or  the 
dull  rummagings  of  a  realist  a  la  Zola. 

In  part  no  doubt,  and  in  great  part,  the  work  of  Balzac 
is  dream-stuff  rather  than  life-stuff,  and  it  is  all  the  better 
for  that.  What  is  better  than  dreams?  But  the  coherence 
of  his  visions,  their  bulk,  their  solidity,  the  way  in  which 
they  return  to  us  and  we  return  to  them,  make  them  such 
dream-stuff  as  there  is  all  too  little  of  in  this  world.  If  it  is 
true  that  evil  on  the  whole  predominates  over  good  in  the 
vision  of  this  "Voyant,"  as  Philarete  Chasles  so  justly 
called  him  (and  I  think  it  does,  though  not  to  the  same  ex- 
tent as  I  once  thought),  two  very  respectable,  and  in  one  case 
very  large,  though  somewhat  opposed  divisions  of  mankind, 
the  philosophic  pessimist  and  the  convinced  and  consistent 
Christian  believer,  will  tell  us  that  this  is  at  least  not  one  of 
the  points  in  which  it  is  unfaithful  to  life.  If  the  author 
is  closer  and  more  faithful  in  his  study  of  meanness  and  vice 
than  in  his  studies  of  nobility  and  virtue,  the  blame  is  due 
at  least  as  much  to  his  models  as  to  himself.  If,  as  I  fear 
must  be  confessed,  he  has  seldom  succeeded  in  combining 
a  really  passionate  with  a  really  noble  conception  of  love, 
very  few  of  his  countrymen  have  been  more  fortunate  in  that 
respect.  If  in  some  of  his  types— rhis  journalists,  his  mar- 
ried women,  and  others — he  seems  to  have  sacrificed  to  con- 
ventions, let  us  remember  that  those  who  know  attribute  to 
his  conventions  such  a  powerful  if  not  altogether  such  a 
holy  influence  that  two  generations  of  the  people  he  painted 
have  actually  lived  more  and  more  up  to  his  painting  of 
them. 

And  last  of  all,  but  also  greatest,  has  to  be  considered 
the  immensity  of  his  imaginative  achievement,  the  huge  space 


HONORE  DE  BALZAC  xlv 

that  he  has  filled  for  us  with  vivid  creation,  the  range  of 
amusement,  of  instruction,  of  (after  a  fashion)  edification 
which  he  has  thrown  open  for  us  all  to  walk  in.  It  is  pos- 
sible that  he  himself  and  others  more  or  less  well-meaningly, 
though  more  or  less  maladroitly,  following  his  lead,  may 
have  exaggerated  the  coherence  and  the  architectural  design 
of  the  Comedie.  But  it  has  coherence  and  it  has  design ;  nor 
shall  we  find  anything  exactly  to  parallel  it.  In  mere  bulk 
the  Comedie  probably,  if  not  certainly,  exceeds  the  produc- 
tion of  any  novelist  of  the  first  class  in  any  kind  of  fiction 
except  Dumas,  and  with  Dumas,  for  various  and  well-known 
reasons,  there  is  no  possibility  of  comparing  it.  All  others 
yield  in  bulk;  all  in  a  certain  concentration  and  intensity; 
none  even  aims  at  anything  like  the  same  system  and  com- 
pleteness. It  must  be  remembered  that  owing  to  shortness 
of  life,  lateness  of  beginning,  and  the  diversion  of  the  author 
to  other  work,  the  Comedie  is  the  production,  and  not  the 
sole  production,  of  some  seventeen  or  eighteen  years  at 
most.  Not  a  volume  of  it,  for  all  that  failure  to  reach  the 
completest  perfection  in  form  and  style  which  has  been  ac- 
knowledged, can  be  accused  of  thinness,  of  scamped  work, 
of  mere  repetition,  of  mere  cobbling  up.  Every  one  bears  the 
marks  of  steady  and  ferocious  labor,  as  well  as  of  the 
genius  which  had  at  last  come  where  it  had  been  so  earnestly 
called  and  had  never  gone  away  again.  It  is  possible  to  over- 
praise Balzac  in  parts  or  to  mispraise  him  as  a  whole.  But 
so  long  as  inappropriate  and  superfluous  comparisons  are 
avoided  and  as  his  own  excellence  is  recognized  and  appre- 
ciated, it  is  scarcely  possible  to  overestimate  that  excellence 
m  itself  and  for  itself.  He  stands  alone ;  even  with  Dickens, 
who  is  his  nearest  analogue,  he  shows  far  more  points  of  dif- 


xlvl  HONORE  DE  BALZAC 

ference  than  of  likeness.  His  vastness  of  bulk  is  not  more 
remarkable  than  his  peculiarity  of  quality;  and  when  these 
two  things  coincide  in  literature  or  elsewhere,  then  that  in 
which  they  coincide  may  be  called,  and  must  be  called,  Great, 
without  hesitation  and  without  reserve. 

George  Saintsbury. 


APPENDIX 

The  form  in  which  Balzac's  works  were  known  to  the  public 
for  something  like  a  generation  after  his  death  was  classified 
in  the  following  manner,  the  division  having  been,  after  many 
others,  made  by  himself,  and  being  that  in  which  the  work 
stood  at  the  time  of  his  death,  except  that  the  Depute  d'Arcis 
was  not  then  fully  published : — 

COMEDIE  HUMAINE. 

SCENES  DE  LA  VIE  PRIVEE. 

Tome  1.  La  Maison  du  Chat-qui-pelote,  Le  Bal  de 
Sceaux.  La  Bourse.  La  Vendetta.  Mme.  Firmiani.  TJne 
Double  Famille. 

Tome  2.  La  Paix  du  Menage.  La  Fausse  Maitresse. 
;fitude  de  femme.  Autre  etude  de  femme.  La  Grande 
Breteche.     Albert  Savarus. 

Tome  3.  Memoires  de  deux  Jeunes  Mariees.  line  Fille 
d':five. 

Tome  4.  La  Femme  de  Trente  Ans.  La  Femme  aban- 
donnee.     La  Grenadiere.     Le  Message.     Gobseck. 

Tome  5.  Le  Contrat  de  Mariage.    Un  Debut  dans  la  vie. 

Tome  6.  Modeste  Mignon. 

Tome  7.  Beatrix. 

Tome  8.  Honorine.  Le  Colonel  Chabert.  La  Messe  de 
I'Athee.     L'Interdiction.     Pierre  Grassou. 

(xlvii) 


xrYiii  APPENDIX 

SCENES  DE  LA  VIE  DE  PROVINCE. 

Tome    9.  Ursule  Mirouet. 

Tome  10.  Eugenie  Grandet, 

Tome  11.  Les  C^libataires — I.  Pierrette.  Le  Cure  de 
Tours. 

Tome  12.  Les  Celibataires — II.  Un  Menage  de  gargon. 

Tome  13.  Les  Parisiens  en  Province.  L'illustre  Gau- 
dissart.    La  Muse  du  departement. 

Tome  14.  Les  Eivalites.  La  Vieille  Fille.  Le  Cabinet 
des  antiques. 

Tome  15.  Le  Lys  dans  la  Vallee. 

Tome  16.  Illusions  Perdues — I.  Les  Deux  Poetes  Un 
grand  Homme  de  province  a  Paris,  Ire  partie. 

Tome  17.  Illusions  Perdues — II.  Un  grand  Homme  de 
province,  2e  p.    Eve  et  David. 

SCilNES  DE  la  vie  PARISIENNE. 

Tome  18.  Splendeurs  et  Mis^res  des  Courtisanes. 
Esther  heureuse.  A  eombien  I'amour  revient  aux  vieillards. 
Ou  menent  les  mauvais  chemins. 

Tome  19.  La  Derni^re  Incarnation  de  Vautrin.  Un 
Prince  de  la  Boheme.  Un  Homme  d'affaires.  Gaudissart  II. 
Les  Comediens  sans  le  savoir. 

Tome  20.  Histoire  des  Treize.  Ferragus.  La  Duchesse 
de  Langeais.    La  Fille  aux  yeux  d'or. 

Tome  21.  Le  PSre  Goriot. 

Tome  22.  C^sar  Birotteau. 

Tome  23.  La  Maison  Nucingen.  Les  Secrets  de  la  prin^ 
cosse  de  Cadignan.  Les  Employes.  Sarrasine.  Facino 
Cane. 


APPENDIX  xWx 

Tome  24.  Les  Parents  Pauvres — I.  La  Coiisine  Bette, 
Tome  25.  Les  Parents  Pauvres — 11.    Le  Cousin  Pons. 

SCENES  DE  la  vie  POLITIQUE. 

Tome  26.  Une  T^n:^breuse  Affaire.  Un  Episode  sous 
la  Terreur. 

Tome  ^7.  L'Envers  de  l'Histoire  Contemporaine. 
Madame  de  la  Chanterie.     L'Initie.     Z.  Mareas. 

Tome  28.  Le  Depute  d'Arcis. 

SCJlNES  DE  LA  VIE  MILITAIRE. 

Tome  29.  Les  Chouans.    Une  Passion  dans  le  desert. 

SCENES   DE  LA   VIE   DE   CAMPAGNE. 

Tome  30.  Le  Medecin  de  Campagne. 
Tome  31.  Le  Cure  de  Village. 
Tome  32.  Les  Paysans. 

:^tudes  philosophiques. 

Tome  33.  La  Peau  de  Chagrin. 

Tome  34.  La  Recherche  de  l^Absolu.  Jesus-Christ  en 
Flandre.    Melmoth  reconcilie.    Le  Chef-d'oeuvre  inconnu. 

Tome  35.  L'Enfant  Maudit.  Gambara.  Massimilla 
Doni. 

Tome  36.  Les  Marana.  Adieu.  Le  Requisitionnaire. 
El  Verdugo.  Un  Drame  au  bord  de  la  mer.  L'Auberge 
rouge.    L'Elixir  de  longue  vie.    Maitre  Cornelius. 

Tome  37.  Sur  Catherine  de  M^dicis.  Le  Martyr  cal- 
viniste.    Le  Confidence  des  Ruggieri.    Les  deux  Reves. 

Tome  38.  Louis  Lambert.    Les  Proscrits.    Seraphita. 

VOL.  I. — 4 


APPENDIX 

ETUDES  ANALYTIQUES. 

Tome  39.  Physiologie  du  Mariage. 

Tome  40.  Petites  MisSres  de  la  vie  Conjdgale. 

CONTES  DROLATIQUES. 

Tome  41.     Tome  43.     Tome  43. 


THEATRE. 

Tome  44.  Vautrin,  drame.  Les  Kessourees  de  Quinola, 
comedie. 

Tome  45.  La  Maratre,  drame.  Le  Faiseur  (Mercadet), 
comedie. 

(EUVRES  DE   JEUNESSE. 

Tome  46.  Jean-Louis. 

Tome  47.  L'Israelite. 

Tome  48.  L'H:^ritiere  de  Birague. 

Tome  49.  Le  Centenaire. 

Tome  50.  La  Derniere  Fee. 

Tome  51.  Le  Vicaire  des  Ardennes. 

Tome  52.  Argow  le  Pirate. 

Tome  53.  Jane  la  Pale. 

Tome  54.  Dom  Gigadas. 

Tome  55.  L'Excommunie. 

It  seems,  however,  that  Balzac  left,  on  a  copy  of  the  works, 
certain  indications  of  change;  and  when,  many  years  later, 
an  Edition  Definitive  was  published,  this  order,  with  a  few 
small  changes  for  convenience  sake,  was  accepted.  This 
edition  added  to  the  Comedie  one  considerable  novel.  Les 


APPENDIX  H 

PetUs  Bourgeois  (a  novel,  however,  which,  like  Le  Depute 
d'Arcis,  is  said  to  have  been  finished  by  another  hand), 
altered  the  order  and  titles  of  the  tales  in  some  cases,  and 
sometimes  varied  the  text  a  little.  On  the  whole,  however, 
Inasmuch  as  Balzac  never  did  actually  issue  the  Works  in  this 
form,  and  as,  with  his  restless  spirit  of  change,  he  would  have 
pretty  certainly  made  further  alterations,  the  old  classifica- 
tion seems  preferable  to  the  new.  It  is  rather  more  closely 
adhered  to  in  the  following  translation,  but  not  absolutely, 
the  great  variation  of  size  in  the  volumes  having  necessitated 
some  redistribution  of  the  smaller  tales.  Nor  has  it  been 
thought  necessary  to  observe  in  publication  the  order  of  the 
works,  the  place  of  each  of  which  in  the  general  scheme  will 
be  immediately  recognized  by  looking  at  this  table. 

It  should,  however,  be  noted  that  the  Edition  Definitive 
contains,  besides  the  Petits  Bourgeois  (but  exclusive  of  the 
(Euvres  de  Jeunesse,  which  do  not  there  appear),  an  exceed- 
ingly interesting  volume  of  letters,  four  more  of  Miscel- 
laneous Works,  not  perhaps  of  the  first  attraction  to  the  gen- 
eral reader,  but  invaluable  to  the  student ;  and  a  masterly  His- 
toire  des  CEuvres  de  Balzac,  by  M.  le  Vicomte  de  Spoelberch 
de  Lovenjoul,  in  which  all  the  services  that  the  bibliographer 
can  do  to  a  voluminous  and  intricate  author  are  bestowed 
with  a  modesty,  industry,  erudition,  and  clearness  not  else- 
where surpassed  in  literature.  jSTot  much  less  useful  is  the 
companion  volume  to  the  library  edition  entitled  Repertoire 
de  la  Comedie  Humaine,  by  MM.  Cerfberr  and  Christophe,  in 
which  the  various  appearances  of  the  personages  in  the  novels 
are  reduced  to  a  sort  of  biographical  dictionary. 


AUTHOR'S  INTRODUCTION 

In  giving  the  general  title  of  "The  Human  Comedy"  to  a 
work  begun  nearly  thirteen  years  since,  it  is  necessary  to 
explain  its  motive,  to  relate  its  origin,  and  briefly  sketch  its 
plan,  while  endeavoring  to  speak  of  these  matters  as  though 
I  had  no  personal  interest  in  them.  This  is  not  so  difficult 
as  the  public  might  imagine.  Few  works  conduce  to  much 
vanity;  much  labor  conduces  to  great  diffidence.  This  ob- 
servation accounts  for  the  study  of  their  own  works  made  by 
Corneille,  Moliere,  and  other  great  writers;  if  it  is  im- 
possible to  equal  them  in  their  fine  conceptions,  we  may  try 
to  imitate  them  in  this  feeling. 

The  idea  of  The  Human  Comedy  was  at  first  as  a  dream 
to  me,  one  of  those  impossible  projects  which  we  caress  and 
then  let  fly;  a  chimera  that  gives  us  a  glimpse  of  its  smiling 
woman's  face,  and  forthwith  spreads  its  wings  and  returns 
to  a  heavenly  realm  of  phantasy.  But  this  chimera,  like 
many  another,  has  become  a  reality;  has  its  behests,  its 
tyranny,  M^hich  must  be  obeyed. 

The  idea  originated  in  a  comparison  between  Humanity 
and  Animality. 

It  is  a  mistake  to  suppose  that  the  great  dispute  which  has 
lately  made  a  stir,  between  Cuvier  and  Geoffroi  Saint- 
Hilaire,  arose  from  a  scientific  innovation.  Unity  of 
structure,  under  other  names,  had  occupied  the  greatest 
minds  during  the  two  previous  centuries.  As  we  read  the 
extraordinary    writings    of    the    mystics    who    studied    the 


Uv  AUTHOR'S  INTRODUCTION 

sciences  in  their  relation  to  infinity,  such  as  Swedenborgj 
Saint-Martin,  and  others,  and  the  works  of  the  greatest  au- 
thors on  Natural  History — Leibnitz,  Buffon,  Charles  Bon< 
net,  etc.,  we  detect  in  the  monads  of  Leibnitz,  in  the  organic 
molecules  of  Buffon,  in  the  vegetative  force  of  Needham,  in 
the  correlation  of  similar  organs  of  Charles  Bonnet — who 
in  1760  was  so  bold  as  to  write,  "Animals  vegetate  as  plants 
do" — we  detect,  I  say,  the  rudiments  of  the  great  law  of  Self 
for  Self,  which  lies  at  the  root  of  Unity  of  Plan.  There  is 
but  one  Animal.  The  Creator  works  on  a  single  model  for 
every  organized  being.  "The  Animal"  is  elementary,  and 
takes  its  external  form,  or,  to  be  accurate,  the  differences  in 
its  form,  from  the  environment  in  which  it  is  obliged  to  de- 
velop. Zoological  species  are  the  result  of  these  differences. 
The  announcement  and  defence  of  this  system,  which  is  in- 
deed in  harmony  with  our  preconceived  ideas  of  Divine 
Power,  will  be  the  eternal  glory  of  Geoffroi  Saint-Hilaire, 
Cuvier's  victorious  opponent  on  this  point  of  higher  science, 
whose  triumph  was  hailed  by  Goethe  in  the  last  article  he 
wrote. 

I,  for  my  part,  convinced  of  this  scheme  of  nature  long  be- 
fore the  discussion  to  which  it  has  given  rise,  perceived  that 
in  this  respect  society  resembled  nature.  For  does  not  so- 
ciety modify  Man,  according  to  the  conditions  in  which  he 
lives  and  acts,  into  men  as  manifold  as  the  species  in  Zoology? 
The  differences  between  a  soldier,  an  artisan,  a  man  of  busi- 
ness, a  lawyer,  an  idler,  a  student,  a  statesman,  a  merchant^ 
a  sailor,  a  poet,  a  beggar,  a  priest,  are  as  great,  though  not 
so  easy  to  define,  as  those  between  the  wolf,  the  lion,  the  ass, 
the  crow,  the  shark,  the  seal,  the  sheep,  etc.  Thus  social 
species  have  always  existed,  and  will  always  exist,  just  as 


AUTHOR'S  INTRODUCTION  Iv 

tbnre  are  zoological  species.  If  Buff  on  conld  produce  a 
magnificent  work  by  attempting  to  represent  in  a  book  the 
whole  realm  of  zoology,  was  there  not  room  for  a  work  of  the 
same  kind  on  society  ?  But  the  limits  set  by  nature  to  the 
variations  of  animals  have  no  existence  in  society.  When 
Buffon  describes  the  lion,  he  dismisses  the  lioness  with  a  few 
phrases ;  but  in  society  a  wife  is  not  always  the  female  of  the 
male.  There  may  be  two  perfectly  dissimilar  beings  in  one 
household.  The  wife  of  a  shopkeeper  is  sometimes  worthy  of 
a  prince,  and  the  wife  of  a  prince  is  often  worthless  com- 
pared with  the  wife  of  an  artisan.  The  social  state  has  freaks 
which  Nature  does  not  allow  herself ;  it  is  nature  plus  society. 
The  description  of  social  species  would  thus  be  at  least 
double  that  of  animal  species,  merely  in  view  of  the  two 
sexes.  Then,  among  animals  the  drama  is  limited;  there 
is  scarcely  any  confusion;  they  turn  and  rend  each  other — 
that  is  all.  Men,  too,  rend  each  other;  but  their  greater  or 
less  intelligence  makes  the  struggle  far 'more  complicated. 
Though  some  savants  do  not  yet  admit  that  the  animal  na- 
ture flows  into  human  nature  through  an  immense  tide  of 
life,  the  grocer  certainly  becomes  a  peer,  and  the  noble  some- 
times sinks  to  the  lowest  social  grade.  Again,  Buffon  found 
that  life  was  extremely  simple  among  animals.  Animals 
have  little  property,  and  neither  arts  nor  sciences;  while 
man,  by  a  law  that  has  yet  to  be  sought,  has  a  tendency  to 
express  his  culture,  his  thoughts,  and  his  life  in  everything 
he  appropriates  to  his  use.  Though  Leuwenhoek,  Swammer- 
dam,  Spallanzani,  Eeaumur,  Charles  Bonnet,  Miiller,  Haller 
and  other  patient  investigators  have  shown  us  how  interest- 
ing are  the  habits  of  animals,  those  of  each  kind  arc,  at  least 
to  our  eyes,  always  and  in  every  age  alike ;  whereas  the  dress. 


ivi  AUTHOR'S  INTRODUCTION 

the  manners,  the  speech,  the  dwelling  of  a  prince,  a  banker, 
an  artist,  a  citizen,  a  priest,  and  a  pauper  are  absolutely  un- 
like, and  change  with  every  phase  of  civilization. 

Hence  the  work  to  be  written  needed  a  threefold  form — 
men,  women,  and  things;  that  is  to  say,  persons  and  the 
material  expression  of  their  minds;  man,  in  short,  and  life. 

As  we  read  the  dry  and  discouraging  list  of  events  called 
History,  who  can  have  failed  to  note  that  the  writers  of  all 
periods,  in  Egypt,  Persia,  Greece,  and  Rome,  have  forgotten 
to  give  us  the  history  of  manners?  The  fragment  of  Petro- 
nius  on  the  private  life  of  the  Romans  excites  rather  than 
satisfies  our  curiosity.  It  was  from  observing  this  great  void 
in  the  field  of  history  that  the  Abbe  Barthelemy  devoted  his 
life  to  a  reconstruction  of  Greek  manners  in  Le  Jeune  An- 
acharsis. 

But  how  could  such  a  drama,  with  the  four  or  five  thou- 
sand persons  which  a  society  offers,  be  made  interesting? 
How,  at  the  same  time,  please  the  poet,  the  philosopher,  and 
the  masses  who  want  both  poetry  and  philosophy  under  strik- 
ing imagery?  Though  I  could  conceive  of  the  importance 
and  of  the  poetry  of  such  a  history  of  the  human  heart,  I 
saw  no  way  of  writing  it;  for  hitherto  the  most  famous 
story-tellers  had  spent  their  talent  in  creating  two  or  three 
typical  actors,  in  depicting  one  aspect  of  life.  It  was  with 
this  idea  that  I  read  the  works  of  Walter  Scott.  Walter  Scott, 
the  modern  troubadour,  or  finder  {tronvere=trouveur) ,  had 
just  then  given  an  aspect  of  grandeur  to  a  class  of  composi- 
tion unjustly  regarded  as  of  the  second  rank.  Is  it  not  really 
more  difficult  to  compete  with  personal  and  parochial  inter- 
ests by  writing  of  Daphnis  and  Chloe,  Roland,  Amadis, 
Panurge,  Don  Quixote,  Manon  Lescaut,  Clarissa,  Lovelace, 


AUTHOR'S  INTRODUCTION  Ivil 

Robinson  Crusoe,  Gil  Bias,  Ossian,  Julie  d'Etanges,  My 
Uncle  Toby,  Werther,  Corinne,  Adolphe,  Paul  and  Virginia, 
Jeanie  Deans,  Claverhouse,  Ivanhoe,  Manfred,  Mignon,  than 
to  set  forth  in  order  facts  more  or  less  similar  in  every  coun- 
try, to  investigate  the  spirit  of  laws  that  have  fallen  into 
desuetude,  to  review  the  theories  which  mislead  nations,  or, 
like  some  metaphysicians,  to  explain  what  Is'?  In  the  first 
place,  these  actors,  whose  existence  becomes  more  prolonged 
and  more  authentic  than  that  of  the  generations  which  saw 
their  birth,  almost  always  live  solely  on  condition  of  their 
being  a  vast  reflection  of  the  present.  Conceived  in  the  womb 
of  their  own  period,  the  whole  heart  of  humanity  stirs  within 
their  frame,  which  often  covers  a  complete  system  of  philoso- 
phy. Thus  Walter  Scott  raised  to  the  dignity  of  the  philoso- 
phy of  History  the  literature  which,  from  age  to  age,  sets 
perennial  gems  in  the  poetic  crown  of  every  nation  where 
letters  are  cultivated.  He  vivified  it  with  the  spirit  of  the 
past;  he  combined  drama,  dialogue,  portrait,  scenery,  and 
description;  he  fused  the  marvelous  with  truth — the  two  ele- 
ments of  the  times;  and  he  brought  poetry  into  close  con- 
tact with  the  familiarity  of  the  humblest  speech.  But  as  he 
had  not  so  much  devised  a  system  as  hit  upon  a  manner  in 
the  ardor  of  his  work,  or  as  its  logical  outcome,  he  never 
thought  of  connecting  his  compositions  in  such  a  way  as  to 
form  a  complete  history  of  which  each  chapter  was  a  novel, 
and  each  novel  the  picture  of  a  period. 

It  was  by  discerning  this  lack  of  unity,  which  in  no  way 
detracts  from  the  Scottish  writer's  greatness,  that  I  perceived 
at  once  the  scheme  which  would  favor  the  execution  of  my 
purpose,  and  the  possibility  of  executing  it.  Though  dazzled, 
so  to  speak,  by  Walter  Scott's  amazing  fertility,  always  him- 


iviii  AUTHOR'S  INTRODUCTION 

self  and  always  original,  I  did  not  despair,  for  I  found  the 
source  of  his  genius  in  the  infinite  variety  of  human  nature. 
Chance  is  the  greatest  romancer  in  the  world;  we  have  only 
to  study  it.  French  society  would  be  the  real  author;  I 
should  only  be  the  secretary.  By  drawing  up  an  inventory 
of  vices  and  virtues,  by  collecting  the  chief  facts  of  the  pas- 
sions, by  depicting  characters,  by  choosing  the  principal  in- 
cidents of  social  life,  by  composing  types  out  of  a  combina- 
tion of  homogeneous  characteristics,  I  might  perhaps  suc- 
ceed in  writing  the  history  which  so  many  historians  have 
neglected:  that  of  Manners.  By  patience  and  perseverance 
I  might  produce  for  France  in  the  nineteenth  century  the 
book  which  we  must  all  regret  that  Eome,  Athens,  Tyre, 
Memphis,  Persia,  and  India  have  not  bequeathed  to  us ;  that 
history  of  their  social  life  which,  prompted  by  the  Abbe  Bar- 
thelemy,  Monteil  patiently  and  steadily  tried  to  write  for 
the  Middle  Ages,  but  in  an  unattractive  form. 

The  work,  so  far,  was  nothing.  By  adhering  to  the  strict 
lines  of  a  reproduction  a  writer  might  be  a  more  or  less 
faithful,  and  more  or  less  successful,  painter  of  types  of 
humanity,  a  narrator  of  the  dramas  of  private  life,  an 
archffiologist  of  social  furniture,  a  cataloguer  of  professions, 
a  registrar  of  good  and  evil;  but  to- deserve  the  praise  of 
which  every  artist  must  be  ambitious,  must  I  not  also  in- 
vestigate the  reasons  or  the  cause  of  these  social  effects, 
detect  the  hidden  sense  of  this  vast  assembly  of  figures,  pas- 
sions, and  incidents  ?J  And  finall}'',  having  sought — I  will 
not  say  having  found — this  reason,  this  motive  power,  must 
I  not  reflect  on  first  principles,  and  discover  in  what  particu- 
lars societies  approach  or  deviate  from  the  eternal  law  of 
truth  and  beauty?     In  spite  of  the  wide  scope  of  the  pre- 


AUTHOR'S  INTRODUCTION  lix 

liminaries,  which  might  of  themselves  constitute  a  book,  the 
work,  to  be  complete,  would  need  a  conclusion.  Thus  de- 
picted, society  ought  to  bear  in  itself  the  reason  of  its  work- 
ing. 

The  law  of  the  writer,  in  virtue  of  which  he  is  a  writer, 
and  which  I  do  not  hesitate  to  say  makes  him  the  equal, 
or  perhaps  the  superior,  of  the  statesman,  is  his  judgment, 
whatever  it  may  be,  on  human  affairs,  and  his  absolute  de- 
votion to  certain  principles.  Maehiavelli,  Hobbes,  Bossuet, 
Leibnitz,  Kant,  Montesquieu,  are  the  science  which  statesmen 
apply.  "A  writer  ought  to  "have  settled  opinions  on  morals ' 
and  politics;  he  should  regard  himself  as  a  tutor  of  men;  for 
men  need  no  masters  to  teach  them  to  doubt,"  says  Bonald.  '^ 
I  took  these  noble  words  as  my  guide  long  ago;  they  are 
the  written  law  of  the  monarchical  writer.  And  those  who 
would  confute  me  by  my  own  words  will  find  that  they  have 
misinterpreted  some  ironical  phrase,  or  that  they  have  turned 
against  me  a  speech  given  to  one  of  my  actors — a  trick  pe- 
culiar to  calumniators. 

As  to  the  intimate  purpose,  the  soul  of  this  work,  these  are 
the  principles  on  which  it  is  based. 

Man  is  neither  good  nor  bad;  he  is  born  with  instincts 
and  capabilities;  society,  far  from  depraving  him,  as  Eous- 
seau  asserts,  improves  him,  makes  him  better;  but  self-in- 
terest also  develops  his  evil  tendencies.  Christianity,  above 
all,  Catholicism,  being — as  I  have  pointed  out  in  the  Country 
Doctor  (le  Medecin  de  Campagne) — a  complete  system  for 
the  repression  of  the  depraved  tendencies  of  man,  is  the 
most  powerful  element  of  social  order. 

In  reading  attentively  the  presentment  of  society  cast, 
as  it  were,  from  the  life,  with  all  that  is  crood  and  all  that 


Ix  AUTHOR'?  INTRODUCTION 

is  bad  in  it,  we  learn  this  lesson — if  thought,  or  if  passion, 
which  combines  thought  and  feeling,  is  the  vital  social  ele- 
ment, it  is  also  its  destructive  element.  In  this  respect  social 
life  is  like  the  life  of  man.  Nations  live  long  only  by 
moderating  their  vital  energy.  Teaching,  or  rather  educa- 
tion, by  religious  bodies  is  the  grand  principle  of  life  for 
nations,  the  only  means  of  diminishing  the  sum  of  evil 
and  increasing  the  sum  of  good  in  all  society.  Thought,  the 
iiving  principle  of  good  and  ill,  can  only  be  trained,  quelled, 
and  guided  by  religion.  The  only  possible  religion  is  Chris- 
tianity (see  the  letter  from  Paris  in  "Louis  Lambert,"  in 
which  the  young  mystic  explains,  a  propos  to  Swedenborg's 
doctrines,  how  there  has  never  been  but  one  religion  since 
the  world  began).  Christianity  created  modern  nationalities, 
and  it  will  preserve  them.  Hence,,  no  doubt,  the  necessity 
for  the  monarchical  principle.  Catholicism  and  Royalty  are 
twin  principles. 

As  to  the  limits  within  which  these  two  principles  should 
be  confined  by  various  institutions,  so  that  they  may  not  be- 
come absolute,  every  one  will  feel  that  a  brief  preface  ought 
not  to  be  a  political  treatise.  I  cannot,  therefore,  enter  on 
religious  discussions,  nor  on  the  political  discussions  of  the 
day.  I  write  under  the  light  of  two  eternal  truths — Eeligion 
and  Monarchy;  two  necessities,  as  they  are  shown  to  be  by 
contemporary  events,  towards  which  every  writer  of  sound 
sense  ought  to  tr}'  to  guide  the  country  back.  Without 
being  an  enemy  to  election,  which  is  an  excellent  principle 
as  a  basis  of  legislation,  I  reject  election  regarded  as  the  only 
social  instrument,  especially  so  badly  organized  as  it  now  is 
(1842)  ;  for  it  fails  to  represent  imposing  minorities,  whose 
ideas  and  interests  would  occupy  the  attention  of  a  men- 


AUTHOR'S  INTRODUCTION  Ixi 

archical  government.  Elective  power  extended  to  all  gives 
us  government  by  the  masses,  the  only  irresponsible  form  of 
government,  under  which  tyranny  is  unlimited,  for  it  calls 
itself  law.  Besides,  I  regard  the  family  and  not  the  indi- 
vidual as  the  true  social  unit.  In  this  respect,  at  the  risk  of 
being  thought  retrograde,  I  side  with  Bossuet  and  Bonald  in- 
stead of  going  with  modern  innovators.  Since  election  has 
become  the  only  social  instrument,  if  I  myself  were  to  exer- 
cise it  no  contradiction  between  my  acts  and  my  words  should 
be  inferred.  An  engineer  points  out  that  a  bridge  is  about  to 
fall,  that  it  is  dangerous  for  any  one  to  cross  it;  but  he 
crosses  it  himself  when  it  is  the  only  road  to  the  town. 
Napoleon  adapted  election  to  the  spirit  of  the  French  nation 
with  wonderful  skill.  The  least  important  members  of  his 
Legislative  Body  became  the  most  famous  orators  of  the 
Chamber  after  the  Eestoration.  No  Chamber  has  ever  been 
the  equal  of  the  Corps  Legislatif,  comparing  them  man  for 
man.  The  elective  system  of  the  Empire  was,  then,  indis- 
putably the  best. 

Some  persons  may,  perhaps,  think  that  this  declaration 
is  somewhat  autocratic  and  self-assertive.  They  will  quarrel 
with  the  novelist  for  wanting  to  be  an  historian,  and  will 
call  him  to  account  for  writing  politics.  I  am  simply  fu/fill- 
ing  an  obligation — that  is  my  reply.  The  work  I  have  under- 
taken will  be  as  long  as  a  history;  I  was  compelled  to  ex- 
plain the  logic  of  it,  hitherto  unrevealed,  and  its  principles 
^and  moral  purpose. 

^  Having  been  obliged  to  withdraw  the  prefaces  formerly 
published,  in  response  to  essentially  ephemeral  criticisms,  I 
will  retain  only  one  remark. 

Writers  who  have  a  purpose  in  view,  were  it  only  a  re- 


bsil  AUTHOR'S  INTRODUCTION 

version  to  principles  familiar  in  the  past  because  they  are 
eternal,  should  always  clear  the  ground.  Now  every  one  who,, 
in  the  domain  of  ideas,  brings  his  stone  by  pointing  out  an 
abuse,  or  setting  a  mark  on  some  evil  that  it  may  be  re- 
m.oved — every  such  man  is  stigmatized  as  immoral.  The 
accusation  of  immorality,  which  has  never  failed  to  be  cast 
at  the  courageous  writer,  is,  after  all,  the  last  that  can  be 
brought  when  nothing  else  remains  to  be  said  to  a  romancer. 
If  you  are  truthful  in  your  pictures ;  if  by  dint  of  daily  and 
nightly  toil  you  succeed  in  writing  the  most  difficult  language 
in  the  world,  the  word  immoral  is  flung  in  your  teeth. 
Socrates  was  immoral ;  Jesus  Christ  was  immoral ;  they  both 
were  persecuted  in  the  name  of  the  society  they  overset  or 
reformed.  When  a  man  is  to  be  killed  he  is  taxed  with  im- 
morality. These  tactics,  familiar  in  party  warfare,  are  a 
disgrace  to  those  who  use  them.  Luther  and  Calvin  knew 
well  what  they  were  about  when  they  shielded  themselves  be- 
hind damaged  worldly  interests !  And  they  lived  all  the 
days  of  their  life. 

When  depicting  all  society,  sketching  it  in  the  immensity 
of  its  turmoil,  it  happened — it  could  not  but  happen — that 
the  picture  displayed  more  of  evil  than  of  good;  that  some 
part  of.  the  fresco  represented  a  guilty  couple ;  and  the  critics 
at  once  raised  the  cry  of  immorality,  without  pointing  out 
the  morality  of  another  portion  intended  to  be  a  perfect  con- 
trast. As  the  critic  knew  nothing  of  the  general  plan  I 
could  forgive  him,  all  the  more  because  one  can  no  more 
hinder  criticism  than  the  use  of  eyes,  tongues,  and  judgments 
Also  the  time  for  an  impartial  verdict  is  not  yet  come  for 
me.  And,  after  all,  the  author  who  cannot  make  up  his 
mind  to  face  the  fire  of  criticism  should  no  more  think  of 


AUTHOR'S  INTRODUCTION  Ixiii 

writing  than  a  traveler  should  start  on  his  journey  counting 
on  a  perpetually  clear  sky.  On  this  point  it  remains  to  be 
said  that  the  most  conscientious  moralists  doubt  greatly 
whether  society  can  show  as  many  good  actions  as  bad  ones ; 
and  in  the  picture  I  have  painted  of  it  there  are  more  virtu- 
ous figures  than  reprehensible  ones.  Blameworthy  actions, 
faults  and  crimes,  from  the  lightest  to  the  most  atrocious, 
Mways  meet  with  punishment,  human  or  divine,  signal  or 
secret.  I  have  done  better  than  the  historian,  for  I  am  free. 
Cromwell  here  on  earth  escajaed  all  punishment  but  that 
inflicted  by  thoughtful  men.  And  on  this  point  there  have 
been  divided  schools.  Bossuet  even  showed  some  considera- 
tion for  the  great  regicide.  William  of  Orange,  the  usurper, 
Hugues  Capet,  anotlier  usurper,  lived  to  old  age  with  no 
more  qualms  or  fears  than  Henri  IV.  or  Charles  I.  The 
lives  of  Catherine  11.  and  of  Frederick  of  Prussia  would  be 
conclusive  against  any  kind  of  moral  law,  if  they  were 
judged  by  the  twofold  aspect  of  the  morality  which  guides 
ordinary  mortals,  and  that  which  is  in  use  by  crowned  heads ; 
for,  as  Napoleon  said,  for  kings  and  statesmen  there  are  the 
lesser  and  the  higher  morality.  My  scenes  of  political  life 
are  founded  on  this  profound  observation.  It  is  not  a  law  ~] 
to  history,  as  it  is  to  romance,  to  make  for  a  beautiful  ideal,  i 
History  is,  or  ought  to  be,  what  it  was ;  while  romance  ought 
to  be  "the  better  world,"  as  was  said  by  Mme.  Keeker,  one  of  | 
the  most  distinguished  thinkers  of  the  last  centur)-.  1 

Still,  with  this  noble  falsity,  romance  would  be  nothing 
if  it  were  not  true  in  detail.     Walter  Scott,  obliged  as  he 
was  to  conform  to  the  ideas  of  an  essentially  hypocritical  na-    j 
tion,  was  false  to  humanity  in  his  picture  of  woman,  be- 
cause his  models  were  schismatics.     The  Protestant  woman 


bciv  AUTHOR'S  INTRODUCTION 

has  no  ideal.  She  may  be  chaste,  pure,  virtuous;  but  her 
unexpansive  love  will  always  be  as  calm  and  methodical  as 
the  fulfilment  o^  a  duty.  It  might  seem  as  though  the 
Virgin  Mary  had  chilled  the  hearts  of  those  sophists  who 
have  banished  her  from  heaven  with  her  treasures  of  loving- 
kindness.  In  Protestantism  there  is  no  possible  future  foi' 
the  woman  who  has  sinned;  while,  in  the  Catholic  Church, 
the  hope  of  forgiveness  makes  her  sublime.  Hence,  for  the 
Protestant  writer  there  is  but  one  Woman,  while  the  Catholic 
writer  finds  a  new  woman  in  each  new  situation.  If  Walter 
Scott  had  been  a  Catholic,  if  he  had  set  himself  the  task  of 
describing  truly  the  various  phases  of  society  which  have 
successively  existed  in  Scotland,  perhaps  the  painter  of  Effie 
and  Alice — the  two  figures  for  which  he  blamed  himself  in 
his  later  years — might  have  admitted  passion  with  its  sins 
and  punishments,  and  the  virtues  revealed  by  repentance. 
Passion  is  the  sum-total  of  humanity.  Without  passion,  re- 
ligion, history,  romance,  art,  would  all  be  useless. 

Some  persons,  seeing  me  collect  such  a  mass  of  facts  and 
paint  them  as  they  are,  with  passion  for  their  motive  power, 
have  supposed,  but  wrongly,  that  I  must  belong  to  the  school 
of  Sensualism  and  Materialism — two  aspects  of  the  same 
thing — Pantheism.  But  their  misapprehension  was  perhaps 
justified — or  inevitable.  I  do  not  share  the  belief  in  in- 
definite progress  for  society  as  a  whole;  I  believe  in  man's 
improvement  in  himself.  Those  who  insist  on  reading  in 
me  the  intention  to  consider  man  as  a  finished  creation  are 
strangely  mistaken.  Seraphita,  the  doctrine  in  action  of  the 
Christian  Buddha,  seems  to  me  an  ample  answer  to  this 
rather  heedless  accusation. 

In  certain  fragments  of  this  lon<]r  work  I  have  tried  to 


AUTHOR'S  INTRODUCTION  Ixv 

popularize  the  amazing  facts,  I  may  say  the  marvels, of  elec- 
tricity, which  in  man  is  metamorphosed  into  an  incalculable 
force;  but  in  what  ^ray  do  the  phenomena  of  brain  and 
nerves,  which  prove  the  existence  of  an  undiscovered  world  of 
psychology,  modify  the  necessary  and  undoubted  relations 
of  the  worlds  to  God?  In  what  way  can  they  shake  the 
Catholic  dogma?  Though  irrefutable  facts  should  some  day 
place  thought  in  the  class  of  fluids  which  are  discerned  only 
by  their  effects  while  their  substance  evades  our  senses,  even 
when  aided  by  so  many  mechanical  means,  the  result  will 
be  the  same  as  when  Christopher  Columbus  detected  that  the 
earth  is  a  sphere,  and  Galileo  demonstrated  its  rotation.  Our 
future  will  be  unchanged.  The  wonders  of  animal  mag- 
netism, with  which  I  have  been  familiar  since  1820;  the 
beautiful  experiments  of  Gall,  Lavater's  successor;  all  the 
men  who  have  studied  mind  as  opticians  have  studied  light — 
two  not  dissimilar  things — point  to  a  conclusion  in  favor 
of  the  mystics,  the  disciples  of  St.  John,  and  of  those  great 
thinkers  who  have  established  the  spiritual  world — the  sphere 
in  which  are  revealed  the  relations  of  God  and  man. 

A  sure  grasp  of  the  purport  of  this  work  will  make  it  clear 
that  I  attach  to  common,  daily  facts,  hidden  or  patent  to 
the  eye,  to  the  acts  of  individual  lives,  and  to  their  causes 
and  principles,  the  importance  which  historians  have  hitherto 
ascribed  to  the  events  of  public  national  life.  The  un- 
known struggle  which  goes  on  in  a  valley  of  the  Indre 
between  Mme.  de  Mortsauf  and  her  passion  is  perhaps  as 
great  as  the  most  famous  of  battles  {Le  Lys  dans  la  ValUe). 
In  one  the  glory  of  the  victor  is  at  stake ;  in  the  other  it  is 
heaven.  The  misfortunes  of  the  two  Birotteaus,  the  priest 
and  the  perfumer,  to  me  are  those  of  mankind.    La  Fosseuse 

Vnu    T. —  5 


Ixvl  AUTHOR'S  INTRODUCTION 

(Medecin  de  Campagne)  and  Mme.  Graslin  (Cure  de  Vil- 
lage) are  almost  the  sum-total  of  woman.  We  all  suffer  thus 
every  day.  I  have  had  to  do  a  hundred  times  what  Hichard- 
son  did  but  once.  Lovelace  has  a  thousand  forms,  for  social 
corruption  takes  the  hues  of  the  medium  in  which  it  lives. 
Clarissa,  on  the  contrary,  the  lovely  image  of  impassioned 
virtue,  is  drawn  in  lines  of  distracting  purity.  To  create  £ 
variety  of  Virgins  it  needs  a  Eaphael.  In  this  respect,  per- 
haps literature  must  yield  to  painting. 

Still,  I  may  be  allowed  to  point  out  how  many  irreproach- 
able figures — as  regards  their  virtue — are  to  be  found  in 
the  portions  of  this  work  already  published :  Pierrette  'Lor- 
rain,  Ursule  Mirouet,  Constance  Birotteau,  La  Fosseuse, 
Eugenie  Grandet,  Marguerite  Claes,  Pauline  de  Villenoix, 
Madame  Jules,  Madame  de  la  Chanterie,  Eve  Chardon, 
Mademoiselle  d'Esgrignon,  Madame  Firmiani,  Agathe 
Eouget,  Renee  de  Maucombe;  besides  several  figures  in  the 
middle-distance,  who,  though  less  conspicuous  than  these, 
nevertheless,  offer  the  reader  an  example  of  domestic  virtue ; 
Joseph  Lebas,  Genestas,  Benassis,  Bonnet  the  cure,  Minoret 
the  doctor,  Pillerault,  David  Sechard,  the  two  Birotteaus, 
Chaperon  the  priest.  Judge  Popinot,  Bourgeat,  the  Sauviats, 
the  Tascherons,  and  many  more.  Do  not  all  these  solve  the 
difficult  literary  problem  which  consists  in  making  a  virtuous 
person  interesting? 

It  was  no  small  task  to  depict  the  two  or  three  thousand 
conspicuous  types  of  a  period ;  for  this  is,  in  fact,  the  number 
presented  to  us  by  each  generation,  and  which  the  Human 
Comedy  will  require.  This  crowd  of  actors,  of  characters, 
this  multitude  of  lives,  needed  a  setting — if  I  may  be  par- 
doned the  expression,  a  gallery.    Hence  tlie  very  naturar  divi- 


AUTHOR'S  INTRODUCTION  lxvi\ 

sion,  as  already  known,  into  Scenes  of  Private  Life,  of  Pro- 
vincial Life,  of  Parisian,  Political,  Military,  and  Country 
Life.  Under  these  six  heads  are  classified  all  the  studies  of 
manners  which  form  the  history  of  society  at  large,  of  all  its 
faits  et  gestes,  as  our  ancestors  would  have  s^id.  These  six 
classes  correspond,  indeed,  to  familiar  conceptions.  Each 
has  its  own  sense  and  meaning,  and  answers  to  an  epoch  in 
the  life  of  man.  I  may  repeat  here,  but  very  briefly,  what  was 
written  by  Felix  Davin — a  young  genius  snatched  from  litera- 
ture by  an  early  death.  After  being  informed  of  my  plan, 
he  said  that  the  Scenes  of  Private  Life  represented  child- 
hood and  youth  and  their  errors,  as  the  Scenes  of  Provincial 
Life  represented  the  age  of  passion,  scheming,  self-interest, 
and  ambition.  Then  the  Scenes  of  Parisian  Life  give  a 
picture  of  the  tastes  and  vice  and  unbridled  powers  which 
conduce  to  the  habits  peculiar  to  great  cities,  where  the  ex- 
tremes of  good  and  evil  meet.  Each  of  these  divisions  has 
its  local  color — Paris  and  the  Provinces — a  great  social  an- 
tithesis which  held  for  me  immense  resources. 

And  not  man  alone,  but  the  principal  events  of  life,  fall 
into  classes  by  types.  There  are  situations  which  occur  in 
every  life,  typical  phases,  and  this  is  one  of  the  details  I  most 
sought  after.  I  have  tried  to  give  an  idea  of  the  different 
districts  of  our  fine  country.  My  work  has  its  geography, 
as  it  has  its  genealogy  and  its  families,  its  places  and  things, 
Its  persons  and  their  deeds;  as  it  has  its  heraldry,  its  nobles 
and  commonalty,  its  artisans  and  peasants,  its  politicians  and 
dandies,  its  army — in  short,  a  whole  world  of  its  own. 

After  describing  social  life  in  these  three  portions,  I  had 
to  delineate  certain  exceptional  lives,  which  comprehend 
the  interests  of  many  people,  or  of  everybody,  and  are  in 


Ixvili  AUTHOR'S  INTRODUCTION 

a  degree  outside  the  general  law.  Hence  we  have  Scenes 
of  Political  Life.  This  vast  picture  of  society  being  finished 
and  complete,  was  it  not  needful  to  display  it  in  its  most 
violent  phase,  beside  itself,  as  it  were,  either  in  self-defence 
or  for  the  sake  of  conquest?  Hence  the  Scenes  of  Military 
Life,  as  yet  the  most  incomplete  portion  of  my  work,  but 
for  which  room  will  be  allowed  in  this  edition,  that  it  may 
form  part  of  it  when  done.  Finall}^,  the  Scenes  of  Country 
Life  are,  in  a  way,  the  evening  of  this  long  day,  if  I  may 
so  call  the  social  drama.  In  that  part  are  to  be  found  the 
purest  natures,  and  the  application  of  the  great  principles  of 
order,  politics,  and  morality. 

Such  is  the  foundation,  full  of  actors,  full  of  comedies 
and  tragedies,  on  which  are  raised  the  Philosophical  Studies 
— the  second  part  of  my  work,  in  which  the  social  instru- 
ment of  all  these  effects  is  displayed,  and  the  ravages  of  the 
mind  are  painted,  feeling  after  feeling;  the  first  of  this 
series.  The  Magic  Sbin,  to  some  extent  forms  a  link  between 
the  Philosophical  Studies  and  Studies  of  Manners,  by  a 
work  of  almost  Oriental  fancy,  in  which  life  itself  is  shown 
in  a  mortal  struggle  with  the  very  element  of  all  passion. 

Besides  these,  there  will  be  a  series  of  Analytical  Studies, 
of  which  I  will  say  nothing,  for  one  only  is  published  as  yet 
— The  Physiology  of  Marriage. 

In  the  course  of  time  I  purpose  writing  two  more  works 
of  this  class.  First,  the  Pathology  of  Social  Life,  then  an 
Anatomy  of  Educational  Bodies,  and  a  IMonograph  on  A^irtue. 

In  looking  forward  to  what  remains  to  be  done,  my  readers 
will  perhaps  echo  what  my  publishers  say,  "Please  God  to 
spare  you !"  I  only  ask  to  be  less  tormented  by  men  and 
things  than  I  have  hitherto  been  since  I  began  this  terrific 


AUTHOR'S  INTRODUCTION  Ixlx 

labor.  I  have  had  this  in  my  favor,  and  I  thank  God  for  it, 
that  the  talents  of  the  time,  the  finest  characters  and  the 
truest  friends,  as  noble  in  their  private  lives  as  the  former 
are  in  public  life,  have  wrung  my  hand  and  said.  Courage ! 

And  why  should  I  not  confess  that  this  friendship,  and 
the  testimony  here  and  there  of  persons  unknown  to  me, 
have  upheld  me  in  my  career,  both  against  myself  and 
against  unjust  attacks;  against  the  calumny  which  has  often 
persecuted  me,  against  discouragement,  and  against  the  too 
eager  hopefulness  whose  utterances  are  misinterpreted  as 
those  of  overweening  conceit?  I  had  resolved  to  display 
stolid  stoicism  in  the  face  of  abuse  and  insults;  but  on  two 
occasions  base  slanders  have  necessitated  a  reply.  Though 
the  advocates  of  forgiveness  of  injuries  may  regret  that  I 
should  have  displayed  my  skill  in  literary  fence,  there  are 
many  Christians  who  are  of  opinion  that  we  live  in  times 
when  it  is  as  well  to  show  sometimes  that  silence  springs 
from  generosity. 

The  vastness  of  a  plan  which  includes  both  a  history  and  a 
criticism  of  society,  an  analysis  of  its  evils,  and  a  discussion 
of  its  principles,  authorizes  me,  I  think,  in  giving  to  my 
work  the  title  under  which  it  now  appears — The  Human 
Comedy.  Is  this  too  ambitious?  Is  it  not  exact?  That, 
when  it  is  complete,  the  public  must  pronounce. 

Pabis,  Jvly  1842. 


INTRODUCTION 

The  Peau  de  Chagrin  is  the  one  book  of  Balzac's  which  it 
is  difficult  for  those  who  know  it  to  approach  without  a 
somewhat  uncritical  enthusiasm.  It  is  not  faultless;  no 
book  of  his  is,  and  this  cannot  challenge  the  epithet,  even 
to  the  extent  to  which  not  a  few  others  can  challenge  it.  It 
is  earlier  than  almost  any  of  the  mature  novels,  except  the 
Chouans;  and  it  bears  in  some  respects  the  marks  of  its 
earliness  as  well  as,  in  others,  those  of  that  rather  artificial 
scheme  of  representing  life,  which  was  so  strongly  charac- 
teristic of  the  author,  and  which,  while  it  helped  him  in  con- 
ceiving the  Comeclie  Humaine,  imposed  a  certain  restraint 
and  hamper  on  the  Comedie  itself..  We  could  spare  a  good 
deal  of  the  journalist  and  other  talk  at  the  orgy;  and  more 
persons  than  Emile  have  gone  to  sleep  over,  or  have  escaped 
sleep  only  by  skipping,  the  unconscionable  length  of 
Eaphael's  story. 

But  these  are  the  merest  and  most  miserable  of  details. 
In  the  first  place,  the  conception  is  of  the  very  finest.  You 
may  call  it  an  etude  philosophique,  or  you  may  not;  you 
may  class  it  as  an  "allegory"  on  the  banks  of  the  Nile  or 
the  Seine,  or  any  other  river,  if  you  like.  Neither  title  will 
do  it  any  harm,  and  neither  can  explain  it  or  exalt  it  higher. 
The  Law  of  Nemesis — the  law  that  every  extraordinary  ex- 
pansion or  satisfaction  of  heart  or  brain  or  will  is  paid  for — 
paid  for  inevitably,  incom mutably,  without  the  possibility 

(Ixxi) 


IxxU  INTRODUCTION 

of  putting  off  or  transferring  the  payment — is  one  of  the 
truths  about  which  no  human  being  with  a  soul  a  little  above 
the  brute  has  the  slightest  doubt.  It  may  be  put  religiously 
as,  "Know  that  for  all  these  things  God  will  bring  thee  into 
judgment;"  or  philosophically,  as  in  the  same  book,  "All 
things  are  double,  one  against  the  other;"  or  in  any  other 
fashion  or  language.  But  it  is  an  eternal  and  immutable 
verity,  and  the  soul  of  man  bears  witness  to  it. 

It  is  Balzac's  way  to  provide  abundant,  and  not  always 
economically  arranged  backgrounds  and  contrasts  for  his 
central  pictures;  and  the  gaming-house  (the  model  of  how 
many  gaming-houses  since?),  the  gorgeous  capharnaum  of 
the  curiosity  shop,  and  the  "orgy"  provide  these  in  the  pres- 
ent case  lavishly  enough.  The  orgy  is  undoubtedly  the 
weakest.  It  is  only  touched  with  others  by  the  pleasant 
and  good-humored  skit  of  Gautier  in  Les  Jeune-France;  but 
the  note  there  struck  is,  as  usual  with  "Theo,"  the  right  one. 
You  cannot  "organize"  an  orgy;  the  thing  comes  naturally 
or  not  at  all ;  and  in  the  splendors  of  Taillef er,  as  in  those  of 
Trimalchio,  there  is  a  certain  coldness. 

But  this  is  soon  forgotten  in  the  absorbing  interest  of  the 
Skin  and  its  master.  The  only  adverse  comment  which  has 
ever  occurred  to  me  is,  that  one  might  perhaps  have  expected 
a  longer  period  of  insouciance,  of  more  or  less  reckless  en- 
joyment of  the  privileges,  to  elapse  before  a  vivid  conscious- 
ness of  the  curse  and  of  the  penalty.  I  know  no  answer, 
unless  it  be  that  Balzac  took  the  orgy  itself  to  be,  as  it  were, 
the  wild  oats  of  Raphael's  period — in  which  case  he  had  not 
much  to  show  for  it.  But  wlien  the  actual  consciousness 
wakes,  when  the  Skin  has  been  measured  on  the  napkin,  and 
its  shrinking  noted,  nothing  is  questionable  any  longer.    The 


INTRODUCTION  IxxiU 

frenzied  anxiety  of  the  victim  is  not  overdone;  the  way  in 
which  his  very  frenzy  leads  him  to  malve  greater  and  even 
greater  drafts  on  his  capital  of  power  without  any  corre- 
sponding satisfaction  is  masterly.  And  the  close  is  more 
masterly  still.  To  some  tastes  the  actual  conclusion  may  be  a 
thought  too  allegorical,  but  in  mil-huit-cent-trente  your  alle- 
gory was  your  only  wear;  and  Gautier,  in  the  pleasant  book 
above  cited,  was  thoroughly  in  the  fashion  when  he  auda- 
ciously put  a  hidden  literary  meaning  on  the  merry  tale  of 
"Celle-ci  et  celle-la."  Here,  too,  if  anywhere,  the  opposition 
of  Pauline  and  Foedora  in  this  way  is  justified.  It  softens 
off  the  too  high-strung  tragedy  of  the  catastrophe  at  the 
same  time  that  it  points  the  moral,  and  it  rounds  as  much 
as  it  adorns  the  tale. 

It  has  been  observed,  in  no  carping  or  hypercritical  spirit, 
that  passages  of  the  book  are  somewhat  high-flown  in  style. 
The  fact  is  that  Balzac  had  rather  a  tendency  to  this  style, 
and  only  outgrew  it,  if  he  ever  did  outgrow  it,  by  dint  of  its 
greater  and  greater  unfitness  for  his  chosen  subjects.  Here, 
if  anywhere,  it  was  excusable,  just  as  here,  if  anywhere,  the 
gigantic  element  in  his  genius  found  scope  and  play.  There 
had  been  some  "inventories"  in  literature  before,  and  there 
have  been  many  more  since  the  description  of  the  curiosity 
shop;  but  none,  if  we  except  the  brief  Shakespearian  perfec- 
tion of  that  in  Clarence's  dream,  and  none  at  all  in  a  heaped 
and  minute  style,  can  approach  this.  The  thing  is  night- 
marish— you  see  the  magots  and  the  armor,  the  pictures  and 
the  statues,  and  amongst  them  all  the  sinister  "piece  of 
shagreen,"  with  the  ineffaceable  letters  stamped  on  it. 

And  so  over  all  the  book  there  is  the  note  of  the  voyant, 
of  the  seer  who  sees  and  who  makes  others  see.     This  note 


Ixxiv  INTRODUCTION 

is  seldom  an  idyllic  or  merely  pleasant  one;  the  writer  who 
has  it  must  have,  even  in  such  a  book  as  the  Medecin  de  Cam- 
pagne,  a  black  thread  in  his  twist,  a  sombre  background  to 
his  haj^py  valley.  Here  the  subject  not  only  excuses,  but 
demands  a  constant  sombreness,  a  tone  of  thunder  in  the 
air,  of  eclipse  and  earthquake.  And  the  tone  is  given.  A 
very  miserable  person  would  he  be  who  endeavored  to  pick 
out  burlesque  points  in  the  Peau  de  Chagrin,  the  most  apoca- 
lyptic of  the  novels  of  the  nineteenth  century,  and  yet  one  of 
the  most  soberly  true  in  general  theme  and  theory.  When 
one  thinks  of  the  tireless  efforts  which  have  been  made,  es- 
pecially of  late  years,  to  "pejorate"  pessimism  and  blacken 
gloom,  and  of  the  too  general  conclusion  of  yawn  or  laugh 
to  which  they  bring  us,  it  is  doubly  curious  to  come  back  to 
this  sermon  by  a  ver}^  unpriestly  preacher  on  the  simple  text, 
"Whom  the  gods  curse,  to  hiin  they  grant  the  desires  of  his 
heart." 

Two  other  tales  are  here  included.  Jesus-Christ  en  Flandre 
is  good,  and  Melmoth  reconcilie,  inferior  in  itself,  has  a  spe- 
cial and  adventitious  interest.  Maturin,  whose  most  famous 
book  (quite  recently  reprinted  after  long  forgetfulness,  but 
one  of  European  interest  in  its  time,  and  of  special  influence 
on  Balzac)  can  hardly  be  said  to  receive  here  a  eontinuatior/ 
which  is  exactly  en  suite,  and  the  odd  thing  is  that  nothing 
was  further  from  Balzac's  mind  than  to  parody  his  original. 
The  thing,  therefore,  is  a  curious  example  of  the  difference 
of  point  of  view,  of  the  way  in  which  an  English  conception 
travesties  itself  when  it  gets  into  French  hands.  Maturin 
was  an  infinitely  smaller  man  than  Shakespeare,  and  Balzac 
was  an  infinitely  greater  man  tban  Ducis;  but  "equals  aquals" 
as  they  say,  or  used  to  say,  in  Maturin's  country.    I  do  not 


INTRODUCTION  Ixxv 

know  that  Maturin  fared  much  better  at  the  hands  of  Balzae 
than  Shakespeare  has  fared  at  the  hands  of  Duels  and  a  long 
succession  of  adapters  down  to  the  present  day  in  France. 


La  Peau  de  Chagrin  appeared  first  in  August  1831,  pub- 
lished in  two  volumes,  by  Gosselin  and  Canel,  with  a  Preface 
and  a  "MoraliU,"  which  the  author  afterwards  cut  out.  Of 
its  four  chapters  or  divisions  the  first  originally  bore  the  title 
of  the  whole  book,  and  the  last  that  of  "Conclusion,"  not 
"Epilogue,"  which  was  afterwards  affixed  to  it.  One  or  two 
fragments,  not  incorporated  in  the  finished  book,  exist,  having 
been  previously  published.  Balzac  reviewed  it  himself,  more 
than  once,  in  the  Caricature  and  elsewhere,  both  at  its  first 
appearance  and  afterwards,  when  it  reappeared  in  the  same 
year  with  other  stories  and  a  new  Preface  by  Philarete 
Chasles  as  Romans  et  Contes  Philosophiques.  This  was  re- 
published more  than  once  till,  in  1835,  it  took  rank  anew 
in  the  Etudes  Pliilosopliiques,  while  ten  years  later,  under  the 
same  sub-title,  it  was  finally  classed  in  the  first  complete  ar- 
rangement of  the  Comedie  Humaine. 

Of  those  here  added,  Jesus-Christ  en  Flandre  was  one  of 
the  Romans  et  Contes  Philosophiques,  which  Gosselin  pub- 
lished in  1831,  and  remained  as  such  till  the  constitution  of 
the  Comedie.  It  is  a  sort  of  Aaron's  rod  among  Balzac's 
stories,  and  swallowed  up  a  minor  one  called  L'Eglise. 
Mehnoth  reconcilie,  dating  from  1835,  first  appeared  in  a 
miscellany,  Le  Livre  des  Contes;  then  it  was  an  Etude  Philo- 
sophique;  and  in  1845  it  received  its  class  in  the  Comedie. 

G.  S. 


THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

To  Monsieur  Savary,  Member  of  Le  Acadcmie  des  Sciences. 


Sterne— Tristram  Shandy,  ch.  cccxxii. 


THE   TALISMAN 

Towards  the  end  of  the  month  of  October  1829  a  young 
man  entered  the  Palais-Eoyal  just  as  che  gaming-houses 
opened,  agreeably  to  the  law  which  protects  a  passion  by  its 
V017  nature  easily  excisable.  He  mounted  the  staircase  of 
one  of  the  gambling  hells  distinguished  by  the  number  36^ 
without  too  much  deliberation. 

(1) 


2  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

"Your  hat,  sir,  if  you  please?"  a  thin,  querulous  voice  called 
out.  A  little  old  man,  crouching  in  the  darkness  behind  a 
railing,  suddenly  rose  and  exhibited  his  features,  carved  after 
a  mean  design. 

As  you  enter  a  gaming-house  the  law  despoils  you  of  your 
hat  at  the  outset.  Is  it  by  way  of  a  parable,  a  divine  revela- 
tion ?  Or  by  exacting  some  pledge  or  other,  is  not  an  infernal 
compact  implied?  Is  it  done  to  compel  you  to  preserve  a 
respectful  demeanor  towards  those  who  are  about  to  gain 
money  of  you?  Or  must  the  detective,  who  squats  in  our 
social  sewers,  know  the  name  of  your  hatter,  or  your  own, 
if  you  happen  to  have  written  it  on  the  lining  inside?  Or, 
after  all,  is  the  measurement  of  your  skull  required  for  the 
compilation  of  statistics  as  to  the  cerebral  capacity  of 
gamblers?  The  executive  is  absolutely  silent  on  this  point. 
But  be  sure  of  this,  that  though  you  have  scarcely  taken  a 
step  towards  the  tables,  your  hat  no  more  belongs  to  you 
now  than  j^ou  belong  to  yourself.  Play  possesses  you,  your 
fortune,  your  cap,  your  cane,  your  cloak. 

As  you  go  out,  it  will  be  made  clear  to  you,  by  a  savage 
irony,  that  Play  has  yet  spared  you  something,  since  your 
property  is  returned.  For  all  that,  if  you  bring  a  new  hat 
with  you,  you  will  have  to  pay  for  the  knowledge  that  a  special 
costume  is  needed  for  a  gambler. 

The  evident  astonishment  with  which  the  young  man  took 
a  numbered  tally  in  exchange  for  his  hat,  which  was 
fortunately  somewhat  rubbed  at  the  brim,  showed  clearly 
enough  that  his  mind  was  yet  untainted;  and  the  little  old 
man,  who  had  wallowed  from  his  youth  up  in  the  furious 
pleasures  of  a  gambler's  life,  cast  a  dull,  indifferent  glance 
over  him,  in  which  a  philosopher  might  have  seen  wretched- 
ness lying  in  the  hospital,  the  vagrant  lives  of  ruined  folk, 
inquests  on  numberless  suicides,  life-long  penal  servitude  and 
transportations  to  Guazacoalco. 

His  pallid,  lengthy  visage  appeared  like  a  haggard  em- 
bodiment of  the  passion  reduced  to  its  simplest  terms.  There 
were  traces  of  past  anguish  in  its  wrinkles.     He  supported 


THE  TALISMAN  3 

iife  on  the  glutinous  soups  at  Darcet's,  and  gambled  away  hk 
meagre  earnings  day  by  day.  Like  some  old  hackney  which 
takes  no  heed  of  the  strokes  of  the  whip,  nothing  could  move 
him  now.  The  stifled  groans  of  ruined  players,  as  they 
passed  out,  their  mute  imprecations,  their  stupefied  faces, 
found  him  impassive.  He  was  tlie  spirit  of  Play  incarnate. 
If  the  young  man  had  noticed  this  sorry  Cerberus,  perhaps 
he  would  have  said,  "There  is  only  a  pack  of  cards  in  that 
heart  of  his." 

The  stranger  did  not  heed  this  warning  writ  in  flesh  and 
blood,  put  there,  no  doubt,  by  Providence,  who  has  set  loath- 
ing on  the  threshold  of  all  evil  haunts.  He  walked  boldly 
into  the  saloon,  where  the  rattle  of  coin  brought  his  senses 
under  the  dazzling  spell  of  an  agony  of  greed.  Most  likely 
he  had  been  drawn  thither  by  that  most  convincing  of  Jean 
Jacques'  eloquent  periods,  which  expresses,  I  think,  this 
melancholy  thought,  "Yes,  I  can  imagine  that  a  man  may 
take  to  gambling  when  he  sees  only  his  last  shilling  between 
him  and  death." 

There  is  an  illusion  about  a  gambling  saloon  at  night  as 
vulgar  as  that  of  a  bloodthirsty  drama,,  and  just  as  effective. 
The  rooms  are  filled  with  players  and  onlookers,  with  poverty- 
stricken  age,  which  drags  itself  thither  in  search  of  stimula- 
tion, with  excited  faces,  and  revels  that  began  in  wine,  to  end 
shortly  in  the  Seine.  The  passion  is  there  in  full  measure, 
but  the  great  number  of  the  actors  prevents  you  from  seeing 
the  gambling-demon  face  to  face.  The  evening  is  a  harmony 
or  chorus  in  which  all  take  part,  to  which  each  instrument 
in  the  orchestra  contributes  his  share.  You  would  see  there 
plenty  of  respectable  people  Avho  have  come  in  search  of  diver- 
sion, for  which  they  pay  as  they  pay  for  the  pleasures  of  the 
theatre,  or  of  gluttony,  or  they  come  hither  as  to  some  garret 
where  they  cheapen  poignant  regrets  for  three  months  to 
come. 

Do  you  understand  all  the  force  and  frenzy  in  a  soul  which 
impatiently  waits  for  the  opening  of  a  gambling  hell?  Be- 
tween the  daylight  gambler  and  the  player  at  night  there  is 


4  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

the  same  difference  that  lies  between  a  careless  husband  and 
the  lover  swooning  under  his  lady's  window.  Only  with 
morning  comes  the  real  throb  of  the  passion  and  the  craving 
in  its  stark  horror.  Then  you  can  admire  the  real  gambler, 
who  has  neither  eaten,  slept,  thought,  nor  lived,  he  has  so 
smarted  under  the  scourge  of  his  martingale,  so  suffered  on 
the  rack  of  his  desire  for  a  coup  of  trente-et-quarante.  At 
that  accursed  hour  you  encounter  e3^es  w^hose  calmness  terrifies 
you,  faces  that  fascinate,  glances  that  seem  as  if  they  had 
power  to  turn  the  cards  over  and  consume  them.  The  grand- 
est hours  of  a  gambling  saloon  are  not  the  opening  ones.  If 
Spain  has  bull-fights,  and  Eome  once  had  her  gladiators,  Paris 
waxes  proud  of  her  Palais-Eoyal,  where  the  inevitable 
roulettes  cause  blood  to  flow  in  streams,  and  the  public  can 
have  the  pleasure  of  watching  without  fear  of  their  feet 
slipping  in  it. 

Take  a  quiet  peep  at  the  arena.  How  bare  it  looks !  The 
paper  on  the  walls  is  greasy  to  the  height  of  your  head,  there 
is  nothing  to  bring  one  reviving  thought.  There  is  not  so 
much  as  a  nail  for  the  convenience  of  suicides.  The  floor  is 
worn  and  dirty.  An  oblong  table  stands  in  the  middle  of 
the  room,  the  tablecloth  is  worn  by  the  friction  of  gold,  but 
the  straw-bottomed  chairs  about  it  indicate  an  odd  indiffer- 
ence to  luxury  in  the  men  who  will  lose  their  lives  here  in  the 
quest  of  the  fortune  that  is  to  put  luxury  within  their 
reach. 

This  contradiction  in  humanity  is  seen  wherever  the  soul 
reacts  powerfully  upon  itself.  The  gallant  would  clothe  his 
mistress  in  silks,  would  deck  her  out  in  soft  Eastern  fabrics, 
though  he  and  she  must  lie  on  a  truckle-bed.  The  ambitious 
dreamer  sees  himself  at  the  summit  of  power,  while  he 
slavishly  prostrates  himself  in  the  mire.  The  tradesman 
stagnates  in  his  damp,  unhealthy  shop,  while  he  builds  a 
great  mansion  for  his  son  to  inherit  prematurely,  only  to  be 
ejected  from  it  by  law  proceedings  at  his  own  brother's 
instance. 

After  all,  is  there  a  less  pleasing  thing  in  the  world  than 


THE  TALISMAN  6 

a  house  of  pleasure  ?  Singular  question  !  Man  is  always  at 
strife  with  himself.  His  present  woes  give  the  lie  to  his 
hopes ;  yet  he  looks  to  a  future  which  is  not  his,  to  indemnify 
him  for  these  present  sufferings ;  setting  upon  all  his  actions 
the  seal  of  inconsequence  and  of  the  weakness  of  his  nature. 
We  have  nothing  here  below  in  full  measure  but  mis- 
fortune. 

There  were  several  gamblers  in  the  room  already  when  the 
young  man  entered.  Three  bald-headed  seniors  were  loung- 
ing round  the  green  table.  Imperturbable  as  diplomatists,  those 
plaster-cast  faces  of  theirs  betokened  blunted  sensibilities, 
and  hearts  which  had  long  forgotten  how  to  throb,  even  when 
a  woman's  dowry  was  the  stake.  A  young  Italian,  olive-hued 
and  dark-haired,  sat  at  one  end,  with  his  elbows  on  the  table, 
seeming  to  listen  to  the  presentiments  of  luck  that  dictate  a 
gambler's  "Yes"  or  "No."  The  glow  of  fire  and  gold  was  on 
that  southern  face.  Some  seven  or  eight  onlookers  stood, 
by  way  of  an  audience,  awaiting  a  drama  composed  of  the 
strokes  of  chance,  the  faces  of  the  actors,  the  circulation  of 
coin,  and  the  motion  of.  the  croupier's  rake,  much  as  a  silent, 
motionless  crowd  watches  the  headsman  in  the  Place  de  Greve. 
A  tall,  thin  man,  in  a  threadbare  coat,  held  a  card  in  one  hand, 
and  a  pin  in  the  other,  to  mark  the  numbers  of  Eed  or  Black. 
He  seemed  a  modern  Tantalus,  with  all  the  pleasures  of  his 
epoch  at  his  lips,  a  beardless  miser  drawing  in  imaginary 
gains,  a  sane  species  of  lunatic  who  consoles  himself  in  his 
misery  by  chimerical  dreams,  a  man  who  touches  peril  and 
vice  as  a  young  priest  handles  the  unconsecrated  wafer  in 
the  white  mass. 

One  or  two  experts  at  the  game,  shrewd  speculators,  had 
placed  themselves  opposite  the  bank,  like  old  convicts  who 
have  lost  all  fear  of  the  hulks ;  they  meant  to  try  two  or  three 
coups,  and  then  to  depart  at  once  with  the  expected  gains,  on 
which  they  lived.  Two  elderly  waiters  dawdled  about  with 
their  arms  folded,  looking  from  time  to  time  into  the  garden 
from  the  windows,  as  if  to  show  their  insignificant  faces  as 
a  sign  to  passers-by. 

VOL.  1, — 6 


6  TFIE   .M.\r,!0  SKIN 

The  croupier  and  banker  threw  a  ghastly  and  withering 
glance  at  the  punters,  and  cried,  in  a  sharp  voice,  "Make 
your  game !"  as  the  young  man  came  in.  The  silence  seemed 
to  grow  deeper  as  all  heads  turned  curiously  towards  the  new 
arrival.  Who  would  have  thought  it?  The  jaded  elders^ 
the  fossilized  waiters,  the  onlookers,  the  fanatical  Italian 
himself,  felt  an  indefinable  dread  at  sight  of  the  stranger. 
Is  he  not  wretched  indeed  who  can  excite  pity  here?  Must 
he  not  be  very  helpless  to  receive  sympathy,  ghastly  in  ap- 
pearance to  raise  a  shudder  in  these  places,  where  pain  utters 
no  cry,  where  wretchedness  looks  gay,  and  despair  is  decorous  ? 
Such  thoughts  as  these  produced  a  new  emotion  in  these  torpid 
hearts  as  the  young  man  entered.  Were  not  executioners 
known  to  shed  tears  over  the  fair-haired,  girlish  heads  that 
had  to  fall  at  the  bidding  of  the  Eevolution  ? 

The  gamblers  saw  at  a  glance  a  dreadful  mystery  in  the 
novice's  face.  His  young  features  were  stamped  with  a 
melancholy  grace,  his  looks  told  of  unsuccess  and  many 
blighted  hoj^es.  The  dull  apathy  of  the  suicide  had  made  his 
forehead  so  deadly  pale,  a  bitter  smile  .carved  faint  lines  about 
the  corners  of  his  mouth,  and  there  was  an  abandonment  about 
him  that  was  painful  to  see.  Some  sort  of  demon  sparkled 
in  the  depths  of  his  eye,  which  drooj^ed,  wearied  perhaps 
with  pleasure.  Could  it  have  been  dissipation  that  had  set 
its  foul  mark  on  the  proud  face,  once  pure  and  bright,  and 
now  brought  low  ?  Any  doctor  seeing  the  yellow  circles  about 
his  eyelids,  and  the  color  in  his  cheeks,  would  have  set 
them  down  to  some  affection  of  the  heart  or  lungs,  while 
poets  would  have  attributed  them  to  the  havoc  brought  by 
the  search  for  knowledge  and  to  night-vigils  by  the  student's 
lamp. 

But  a  complaint  more  fatal  than  any  disease,  a  disease  more 
merciless  than  genius  or  study,  had  drawn  this  young  face, 
and  had  wrung  a  heart  which  dissipation,  study,  and  sickness 
had  scarcely  disturbed.  When  a  notorious  criminal  is  token 
to  the  convict's  prison,  the  prisoners^  welcome  him  respectfully. 
and  these  evil  spirits  in  human  shapfe,  experienced  in  torraentf , 


THE  TALISMAN  7 

bowed  before  an  unheard-of  anguish.  By  the  depth  of  the 
wound  which  met  their  eyes,  they  recognized  a  prince  among 
them,  by  the  majesty  of  his  unspoken  irony,  by  the  refined 
wretchedness  of  his  garb.  The  frock-coat  that  he  wore  was 
well  cut,  but  his  cravat  was  on  terms  so  intimate  with  his 
waistcoat  that  no  one  could  suspect  him  of  underlinen.  His 
hands,  shapely  as  a  woman's,  were  not  perfectly  clean;  for 
two  days  past  indeed  he  had  ceased  to  wear  gloves.  If  the  very 
croupier  and  the  waiters  shuddered,  it  was  because  some 
traces  of  the  spell  of  innocence  yet  hung  about  his  meagre, 
delicately-shaped  form,  and  his  scanty  fair  hair  in  its  natural 
curls. 

He  looked  only  about  twenty-five  years  of  age,  and  any 
trace  of  vice  in  his  face  seemed  to.be  there  by  accident.  A 
young  constitution  still  resisted  the  inroads  of  lubricity. 
Darkness  and  light,  annihilation  and  existence,  seemed  to 
struggle  in  him,  with  elfects  of  mingled  beauty  and  terror. 
There  he  stood  like  some  erring  angel  that  has  lost  his  radi- 
ance; and  these  emeritus-professors  of  vice  and  shame  were 
ready  to  bid  the  novice  depart,  even  as  some  toothless  crone 
might  be  seized  with  pity  for  a  beautiful  girl  who  offers  her- 
self up  to  infamy. 

The  young  man  went  straight  up  to  the  table,  and,  as  he 
stood  there,  flung  down  a  piece  of  gold  which  he  held  in  his 
hand,  without  deliberation.  It  rolled  on  to  the  Black ;  then, 
as  strong  natures  can,  he  looked  calmly,  if  anxiously,  at  the 
croupier,  as  if  he  held  useless  subterfuges  in  scorn. 

The  interest  this  coup  awakened  was  so  great  that  the  old 
gamesters  laid  nothing  upon  it ;  only  the  Italian,  inspired  by 
a  gambler's  enthusiasm,  smiled  suddenly  at  some  thought, 
and  punted  his  heap  of  coin  against  the  stranger's  stake. 

The  banker  forgot  to  pronounce  the  phrases  that  use  and 
wont  have  reduced  to  an  inarticulate  cry — "Make  youi 
game.  ,  .  .  The  game  is  made.  .  .  .  Bets  are  closed." 
The  croupier  spread  out  the  cards,  and  seemed  to  wish  luck 
to  the  newcomer,  indifferent  as  he  was  to  the  losses  or  gains 
of  those  who  took  part  in  these  sombre  pleasures.     Every  by- 


8  THE  MAGIC  SKJtN 

stander  thought  he  saw  a  drama,  the  closing  scene  of  a  noble 
life,  in  the  fortunes  of  that  bit  of  gold ;  and  eagerly  fixed  his 
eyes  on  the  prophetic  cards ;  but  however  closely  they  watched 
the  young  man,  they  could  discover  not  the  least  sign  of  feel- 
ing on  his  cool  but  restless  face. 

"Even!  red  wins/'  said  the  croupier  officially.  A  dumb 
sort  of  rattle  came  from  the  Italian's  throat  when  he  saw 
the  folded  notes  that  the  banker  showered  upon  him,  one 
after  another.  The  young  man  only  understood  his  calamity 
when  the  croupier's  rake  was  extended  to  sweep  away  his  last 
napoleon.  The  ivory  touched  the  coin  with  a  little  click, 
as  it  swept  it  with  the  speed  of  an  arrow  into  the  heap  of  gold 
before  the  bank.  The  stranger  turned  pale  at  the  lips,  and 
softly  shut  his  eyes,  but  he  unclosed  them  again  at  once,  and 
the  red  color  returned  as  he  affected  the  airs  of  an  English- 
man, to  whom  life  can  offer  no  new  sensation,  and  disappeared 
without  the  glance  full  of  entreaty  for  compassion  that  a 
desperate  gamester  will  often  give  the  bystanders.  How 
much  can  happen  in  a  second's  space;  how  many  things 
depend  on  a  throw  of  the  die ! 

"That  was  his  last  cartridge,  of  course,"  said  the  croupier, 
smiling  after  a  moment's  silence,  during  which  he  picked 
up  the  coin  between  his  finger  and  thumb  and  held  it  up. 

"He  is  a  cracked  brain  that  will  go  and  drown  himself," 
said  a  frequenter  of  the  place.  He  looked  round  about  at  the 
other  players,  who  all  knew  each  other. 

"Bah !"  said  a  waiter,  as  he  took  a  pinch  of  snuff, 

"If  we  had  but  followed  Ms  example,"  said  an  old  gamester 
to  the  others,  as  he  pointed  out  the  Italian. 

Everybody  looked  at  the  lucky  player,  whose  hands  shook 
as  he  counted  his  bank-notes. 

"A  voice  seemed  to  whisper  to  me,"  he  said.  "The  -luck 
is  sure  to  go  against  that  young  man's  despair." 

"He  is  a  new  hand,"  said  the  banker,  "or  he  would  have 
divided  his  money  into  three  parts  to  give  himself  more 
chance." 

The  young  man  went  out  without  asking  for  his  hat;  but 


THE  TALISMAN  9 

the  old  watch-dog,  who  had  noted  its  shabhy  condition,  re- 
turned it  to  him  without  a  word.  The  gambler  mechanically 
gave  up  the  tally,  and  went  downstairs  whistling  Di  tanti 
Palpiti  so  feebly,  that  he  himself  scarcely  heard  the  delicious 
notes. 

He  found  himself  immediately  under  the  arcades  of  the 
Palais-Eoyal,  reached  the  Eue  Saint  Honore,  took  the  direc- 
tion of  the  Tuileries,  and  crossed  the  gardens  with  an  un- 
decided step.  He  walked  as  if  he  were  in  some  desert,  elbowed 
by  men  whom  he  did  not  see,  hearing  through  all  the  voices 
of  the  crowd  one  voice  alone — the  voice  of  Death.  He  was 
lost  in  the  thoughts  that  benumbed  him  at  last,  like  the 
criminals  who  used  to  be  taken  in  carts  from  the  Palais  de 
Justice  to  the  Place  de  Greve,  where  the  scaffold  awaited 
them  reddened  with  all  the  blood  spilt  there  since  1793. 

There  is  something  great  and  terrible  about  suicide.  Most 
people's  downfalls  are  not  dangerous;  they  are  like  children 
who  have  not  far  to  fall,  and  cannot  injure  themselves;  but 
when  a  great  nature  is  dashed  down,  he  is  bound  to  fall  from 
a  height.  He  must  have  been  raised  almost  to  tlie  skies ;  he 
has  caught  glimpses  of  some  heaven  Wyond  his  reach. 
Vehement  must  the  storms  be  which  compel  a  soul  to  seek 
for  peace  from  the  trigger  of  a  pistol. 

How  much  young  power  starves  and  pines  away  in  a  garret 
for  want  of  a  friend,  for  lack  of  a  woman's  consolation,  in 
the  midst  of  millions  of  fellow-creatures,  in  the  presence  of 
a  listless  crowd  that  is  burdened  by  its  wealth !  When  one 
remembers  all  this,  suicide  looms  large.  Between  a  self- 
sought  death  and  the  abundant  hopes  whose  voices  call  a 
young  man  to  Paris,  God  only  knows  what  may  intervene; 
what  contending  ideas  have  striven  within  the  soul;  what 
poems  have  been  set  aside;  what  moans  and  what  despair 
have  been  repressed ;  what  abortive  masterpieces  and  vain  en- 
deavors !  Every  suicide  is  an  awful  poem  of  sorrow.  Where 
will  you  find  a  work  of  genius  floating  above  the  seas  of 
Uterature  that  can  compare  with  this  paragraph : 


10  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

"Yesterday,  at  foiir  o'clock,  a  young  woman  threw  herself 
into  the  Seine  from  the  Pont  des  Arts." 

Dramas  and  romances  pale  before  this  concise  Parisian 
phrase;  so  must  even  that  old  frontispiece,  The  Lamentations 
of  the  glorious  hing  of  Kaernavan,  put  in  prison  by  his 
children,  the  sole  remaining  fragment  of  a  lost  work  that  drew 
tears  from  Sterne  at  the  bare  perusal — the  same  Sterne  who 
deserted  his  own  wife  and  family. 

The  stranger  was  beset  with  such  thoughts  as  these,  which 
passed  in  fragments  through  his  mind,  like  tattered  flags 
fluttering  above  the  combat.  If  he  set  aside  for  a  moment 
the  burdens  of  consciousness  and  of  memory,  to  watch  the 
flower  heads  gently  swayed  by  the  breeze  among  the  green 
thickets,  a  revulsion  came  over  him,  life  struggled  against  the 
oppressive  thought  of  suicide,  and  his  eyes  rose  to  the  sky : 
gray  clouds,  melancholy  gusts  of  the  wind,  the  storm} 
atmosphere,  all  decreed  that  he  should  die. 

He  bent  his  way  toward  the  Pont  Eoyal,  musing  over  the 
last  fancies  of  others  who  had  gone  before  him.  He  smiled  to 
himself  as  he  remembered  that  Lord  Castlereagh  had  satisfied 
the  humblest  of  #iir  needs  before  he  cut  his  throat,  and  that 
the  academician  Auger  had  sought  for  his  snuff-box  as  he 
went  to  his  death.  He  analyzed  these  extravagances,  and  even 
examined  himself;  for  as  he  stood  aside  against  the  parapet 
to  allow  a  porter  to  pass,  his  coat  had  been  whitened  somewhat 
by  the  contact,  and  he  carefully  brushed  the  dust  from  his 
sleeve,  to  his  own  surprise.  He  reached  the  middle  of  the 
arch,  and  looked  forebodingly  at  the  water. 

"Wretched  weather  for  drowning  yourself,"  said  a  ragged 
old  woman,  who  grinned  at  him;  "isn't  the  Seine  cold  and 
dirty?" 

His  answ(T  was  a  ready  smile,  which  showed  tlie  frenzied 
nature  of  his  courage;  then  he  shivered  all  at  once  as  he  saw 
at  a  distance,  by  the  door  of  the  Tuileries,  a  shed  with  an  in- 
scription above  it  in  letters  twelve  inches  high:  The  Royal 
Humane  Society's  Apparatus. 

A  vision  of  M.  Dacheux  rose  before  him,  equipped  by  his 


THE  TALISMAN  11 

philanthropy,  calling  out  and  setting  in  motion  the  too 
cincacious  oars  which  break  the  heads  of  drowning  men,  if 
unluckily  they  should  rise  to  the  surface;  he  saw  a  curious 
crowd  collecting,  running  for  a  doctor,  preparing  fumiga- 
tions; he  read  the  maundering  paragraph  in  the  papers,  put 
between  notes  on  a  festivity  and  on  the  smiles  of  a  ballet- 
dancer;  he  heard  the  francs  counted  down  by  the  prefect  of 
police  to  the  watermen.  As  a  corpse,  he  was  worth  fifteen 
francs;  but  now  while  he  lived  he  was  only  a  man  of  talent 
without  patrons,  without  friends,  without  a  mattress  to  lie 
on,  or  any  one  to  speak  a  word  for  him — a  perfect  social 
cipher,  useless  to  a  State  which  gave  itself  no  trouble  about 
him. 

A  death  in  broad  daylight  seemed  degrading  to  him;  he 
made  up  his  mind  to  die  at  night  so  as  to  bequeath  an  un- 
recognizable corpse  to  a  Avorld  which  had  disregarded  the 
greatness  of  life.  He  began  his  wanderings  again,  turning 
towards  the  Quai  Voltaire,  imitating  the  lagging  gait  of  an 
idler  seeking  to  kill  time.  As  he  came  down  the  steps  at 
the  end  of  the  bridge,  his  notice  was  attracted  by  the  second- 
haad  books  displayed  on  the  parapet,  and  life  w^as  on  the  point 
of  bargaining  for  some.  He  smiled,  thrust  his  hands 
philosophically  into  his  pockets,  and  fell  to  strolling  on 
again  with  a  proud  disdain  in  his  manner,  when  he 
heard  to  his  surprise  some  coin  rattling  fantastically  in  his 
pocket. 

A  smile  of  hope  lit  his  face,  and  slid  from  his  lips  over  his 
features,  over  his  brow,  and  brought  a  joyful  light  to  his  eyes 
and  his  dark  cheeks.  It  was  a  spark  of  happiness  like  one 
of  the  red  dots  that  flit  over  the  remains  of  a  burnt  scrap  of 
paper;  but  as  it  is  v/ith  the  black  ashes,  so  it  was  with  his 
face,  it  became  dull  again  when  the  stranger  quickly  drew 
out  his  hand  and  perceived  three  pennies.  "Ah,  kind  gentle- 
man !  carita,  carita :  for  the  love  of  St.  Catherine !  only  a 
halfpenny  to  buy  some  bread !" 

A  little  chimney  sweeper,  with  puffed  cheeks,  all  black  with 


15  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

soot,  and  clad  in  tatters,  held  out  his  hand  to  beg  for  the 
man's  last  pence. 

Two  paces  from  the  little  Savoyard  stood  an  old  pauvre 
lionteux,  sickly  and  feeble,  in  wretched  garments  of  ragged 
druggeting,  who  asked  in  a  thick,  muffled  voice  : 

"Anything  you  like  to  give,  monsieur;  I  will  pray  to  God 
for  you     .     .     ." 

But  the  young  man  turned  his  eyes  on  him,  and  the  old 
beggar  stopped  without  another  word,  discerning  in  that 
mournful  face  an  abandonment  of  wretchedness  more  bitter 
than  his  own. 

"La  carita!  la  carita!" 

The  stranger  threw  the  coins  to  the  old  man  and  the  child, 
left  the  footway,  and  turned  towards  the  houses ;  the  harrow- 
ing sight  of  the  Seine  fretted  him  beyond  endurance. 

"May  God  lengthen  your  days !"  cried  the  two  beggars. 

As  he  reached  the  shop  window  of  a  print-seller,  tliis  man 
on  the  brink  of  death  met  a  young  woman  alighting  from  a 
showy  carriage.  He  looked  in  delight  at  her  prettiness,  at 
the  pale  face  appropriately  framed  by  the  satin  of  her  fash- 
ionable bonnet.  Her  slender  form  and  graceful  movements 
entranced  him.  Her  skirt  had  been  slightly  raised  as  she 
stepped  to  the  pavement,  disclosing  a  daintily  fitting  white 
stocking  over  the  delicate  outlines  beneath.  The  young  lady 
went  into  the  shop,  purchased  albums  and  sets  of  lithographs ; 
giving  several  gold  coins  for  them,  which  glittered  and  rang 
upon  the  counter.  The  young  man,  seemingly  occupied  with 
the  prints  in  the  window,  fixed  upon  the  fair  stranger  a  gaze 
as  eager  as  man  can  give,  to  receive  in  exchange  an  indiffer- 
ent glance,  such  as  lights  by  accident  on  a  passer-by.  For 
him  it  was  a  leave-taking  of  love  and  of  woman ;  but  his  final 
and  strenuous  questioning  glance  was  neither  understood  nor 
felt  by  the  slight-natured  woman  there;  her  color  did  not 
rise,  her  eyes  did  not  droop.  What  was  it  to  her?  one 
more  piece  of  adulation,  yet  another  sigh  only  prompted 
the  deliglitful  thought  at  night,  "I  looked  rather  well  to- 
day." 


THE  TALISMAN  13 

The  young  man  quickly  turned  to  another  picture,  and  only 
left  it  when  she  returned  to  her  carriage.  The  horses  started 
off,  the  final  vision  of  luxury  and  refinement  went  under  an 
eclipse,  just  as  that  life  of  his  would  soon  do  also.  Slowly 
and  sadly  he  followed  the  line  of  the  shops,  listlessly  ex- 
amining the  specimens  on  view.  When  the  shops  came  to 
an  end,  he  reviewed  the  Louvre,  the  Institute,  the  towers  of 
Notre  Dame,  of  the  Palais,  the  Pont  des  Arts ;  all  these  public 
monuments  seemed  to  have  taken  their  tone  from  the  heavy 
gray  sky. 

Fitful  gleams  of  light  gave  a  foreboding  look  to  Paris ;  like 
a  pretty  woman,  the  city  has  mysterious  fits  of  ugliness  or 
beauty.  So  the  outer  world  seemed  to  be  in  a  plot  to  steep  this 
man  about  to  die  in  a  j^ainful  trance.  A  prey  to  the  maleficent 
power  which  acts  relaxingly  upon  us  by  the  fluid  circulating 
through  our  nerves,  his  whole  frame  seemed  gradually  to  ex- 
perience a  dissolving  process.  He  felt  the  anguish  of  these 
throes  passing  through  him  in  waves,  and  the  houses  and 
the  crowd  seemed  to  surge  to  and  fro  in  a  mist  before  his 
eyes.  He  tried  to  escape  the  agitation  wrought  in  his  mind 
by  the  revulsions  of  his  physical  nature,  and  went  toward  the 
shop  of  a  dealer  in  antiquities,  thinking  to  give  a  treat  to  his 
senses,  and  to  spend  the  interval  till  nightfall  in  bargaining 
.over  curiosities. 

He  sought,  one  might  say,  to  regain  courage  and  to  find 
a  stimulant,  like  a  criminal  who  doubts  his  power  to  reach  the 
scaffold.  The  consciousness  of  approaching  death  gave  him, 
for  the  time  being,  the  intrepidity  of  a  duchess  with  a  couple 
of  lovers,  so  that  he  entered  the  place  with  an  abstracted  look, 
while  his  lips  displayed  a  set  smile  like  a  drunkard's.  Had 
not  life,  or  rather  had  not  death,  intoxicated  him?  Dizzi- 
ness soon  overcame  him  again.  Things  appeared  to  him  in 
strange  colors,  or  as  making  slight  movements ;  his  irregular 
pulse  was  no  doubt  the  cause  ;  the  blood  that  sometimes  rushed 
like  a  burning  torrent  through  his  veins,  and  sometimes  lay 
torpid  and  stagnant  as  tepid  water.  He  merely  asked  leave  to 
see  if  the  shop  contained  any  curiosities  which  he  required. 


14  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

A  plump-faced  young  shopman  with  red  hair,  in  an  otter- 
skin  cap,  left  an  old  peasant  woman  in  charge  of  the  shop — 
a  sort  of  feminine  Caliban,  employed  in  cleaning  a  stove  made 
marvelous  by  Bernard  Palissy's  work.  This  youth  remarked 
carelessly : 

"Look  round,  monsieur!  We  have  nothing  very  remark- 
able here  downstairs ;  but  if  I  ma}^  trouble  3^ou  to  go  up  to  the 
first  floor,  I  will  show  you  some  very  fine  mummies  from 
Cairo,  some  inlaid  pottery,  and  some  carved  ebony — genuine 
Renaissance  work,  just  come  in,  and  of  perfect  beauty." 

In  the  stranger's  fearful  position  this  cicerone's  prattle  and 
shopman's  empty  talk  seemed  like  the  petty  vexations  by 
which  narrow  minds  destroy  a  man  of  genius.  But  as  he 
must  even  go  through  with  it,  he  appeared  to  listen  to  his 
guide,  answering  him  by  gestures  or  monosyllables;  but  im- 
perceptibly he  arrogated  the  privilege  of  saying  nothing,  and 
gave  himself  up  without  hindrance  to  his  closing  meditations, 
which  were  appalling.  He  had  a  poet's  temperament,  his  mind 
had  entered  by  chance  on  a  vast  field;  and  he  must  see  per- 
force the  dry  bones  of  twenty  future  worlds. 

At  a  first  glance  the  place  presented  a  confused  picture  in 
which  every  achievement,  human  and  divine,  was  mingled. 
Crocodiles,  monkeys,  and  serpents  stufEed  with  straw  grinned 
at  glass  from  church  windows,  seemed  to  wish  to  bite, 
sculptured  heads,  to  chase  lacquered  work,  or  to  scramble  up 
chandeliers.  A  Sevres  vase,  bearing  ISTapoleon's  portrait  by 
Mme.  Jacotot,  stood  beside  a  sphinx  dedicated  to  Sesostris. 
The  beginnings  of  the  world  and  the  events  of  yesterday  were 
mingled  with  grotesque  cheerfulness.  A  kitchen  jack  leaned 
against  a  pyx,  a  republican  sabre  on  a  mediaeval  hackbut. 
Mme.  du  Barry,  with  a  star  above  her  head,  naked,  and  sur- 
rounded by  a  cloud,  seemed  to  look  longingly  out  of  Latour's 
pastel  at  an  Indian  chibook,  while  she  tried  to  guess  the  pur- 
pose of  the  spiral  curves  that  wound  towards  her.  Instru- 
ments of  death,  poniards,  curious  pistols,  and  disguised 
weapons  had  been  flung  down  pell-mell  among  the  parapher- 
nalia of  daily  life;  porcelain  tureens,  Dresden  plates,  trans 


THE  TALISMAN  15 

lucent  cups  from  China,  old  salt-cellars,  comfit-boxos  belong- 
ing to  feudal  times.  A  carved  ivory  ship  sped  full  sail  on  the 
back  of  a  motionless  tortoise. 

The  Emperor  Augustus  remained  unmoved  and  imperial 
with  an  air-pump  thrust  into  one  eye.  Portraits  of  French 
sheriffs  and  Dutch  burgomasters,  phlegmatic  now  as  when  in 
life,  looked  down  pallid  and  unconcerned  on  the  chaos  of  past 
ages  below  them. 

Every  land  of  earth  seemed  to  have  contributed  some  stray 
fragment  of  its  learning,  some  example  of  its  art.  Nothing 
seemed  lacking  to  this  philosophical  kitchen-midden,  from  a 
redskin's  calumet,  a  green  and  golden  slipper  from  the 
seraglio,  a  Moorish  yataghan,  a  Tartar  idol,  to  the  soldier's 
tobacco  pouch,  to  the  priest's  ciborium,  and  the  plumes  that 
once  adorned  a  throne.  This  extraordinary  combination  was 
rendered  yet  more  bizarre  by  the  accidents  of  lighting,  by  a 
multitude  of  confused  reflections  of  various  hues,  by  the 
sharp  contrast  of  blacks  and  whites.  Broken  cries  seemed  to 
reach  the  ear,  unfinished  dramas  seized  upon  the  imagina- 
tion, smothered  lights  caught  the  eye.  A  thin  coating  of  in- 
evitable dust  covered  all  the  multitudinous  corners  and  con- 
volutions of  these  objects  of  various  shapes  which  gave  highly 
picturesque  effects. 

First  of  all,  the  stranger  compared  the  three  galleries 
which  civilization,  cults,  divinities,  masterpieces,  dominions, 
carousals,  sanity,  and  madness  had  filled  to  repletion,  to  a 
mirror  with  numerous  facets,  each  depicting  a  world.  After 
this  first  hazy  idea  he  would  fain  have  selected  his  pleasures ; 
but  by  dint  of  using  his  eyes,  thinking  and  musing,  a  fever 
began  to  possess  him,  caused  perhaps  by  the  gnawing  pain  of 
hunger.  The  spectacle  of  so  much  existence,  individual  or 
national,  to  which  these  pledges  bore  witness,  ended  by 
numbing  his  senses — the  purpose  with  which  he  entered  the 
shop  was  fulfilled.  He  had  left  the  real  behind,  and  had 
climbed  gradually  up  to  an  ideal  world ;  he  had  attained  to 
the  enchanted  palace  of  ecstasy,  whence  the  universe  appeared 


16  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

to  him  by  fragments  and  in  shapes  of  flame,  as  once  the  future 
blazed  out  before  the  eyes  of  St.  John  in  Patmos. 

A  crowd  of  sorrowing  faces,  beneficent  and  appalling,  dark 
and  luminous,  far  and  near,  gathered  in  numbers,  in  myriads, 
in  whole  generations.  Egypt,  rigid  and  mysterious,  arose 
from  her  sands  in  the  form  of  a  mummy  swathed  in  black 
bandages ;  then  the  Pharaohs  swallowed  up  nations,  that  they 
might  build  themselves  a  tomb ;  and  he  beheld  Moses  and  the 
Hebrews  and  the  desert,  and  a  solemn  antique  w^orld.  Fresh 
and  joyous,  a  marble  statue  spoke  to  him  from  a  twisted 
column  of  the  pleasure-loving  myths  of  Greece  and  Ionia. 
Ah !  who  would  not  have  smiled  with  him  to  see,  against  the 
earthen  red  background,  the  brown-faced  maiden  dancing  with 
gleeful  reverence  before  the  god  Priapus,  wrought  in  the  fine 
clay  of  an  Etruscan  vase?  The  Latin  queen  caressed  her 
chimera. 

The  whims  of  Imperial  Eome  were  there  in  life,  the  bath 
was  disclosed,  the  toilette  of  a  languid  Julia,  dreaming,  wait- 
ing for  her  TibuUus.  Strong  with  the  might  of  Arabic  spells, 
the  head  of  Cicero  evoked  memories  of  a  free  Eome,  and  un- 
rolled before  him  the  scrolls  of  Titus  Livius.  The  young  man 
beheld  Senatus  Populusque  Rom,anus;  consuls,  lictors,  togas 
with  purple  fringes ;  the  fighting  in  the  Forum,  the  angry  peo- 
ple, passed  in  review  before  him  like  the  cloudy  faces  of  a 
dream. 

Then  Christian  Eome  predominated  in  his  vision.  A 
painter  had  laid  heaven  open;  he  beheld  the  Virgin 
Mary  wrapped  in  a  golden  cloud  among  the  angels,  shining 
more  brightly  than  the  sun,  receiving  the  prayers  of  sufferers, 
on  whom  this  second  Eve  Eegenerate  smiles  pityingly.  At 
the  touch  of  a  mosaic,  made  of  various  lavas  from  Vesuvius 
and  Etna,  his  fancy  fled  to  the  hot  tawny  south  of  Italy.  He 
was  present  at  Borgia's  orgies,  he  roved  among  the  Abruzzi, 
sought  for  Italian  love  intrigues,  grew  ardent  over  pale  faces 
and  dark,  almond-sbaped  eyes.  He  shivered  over  midnight 
adventures,  cut  short  by  the  cool  thrust  of  a  jealous  blade,  as 


\ 


THE  TALISMAN  17 

he  gaw  a  medijieval  dagger  with  a  hilt  wrought  like  lace,  and 

spots  of  rust  like  splashes  of  blood  upon  it. 

India  and  its  religions  took  the  shape  of  the  idol  with  his 
peaked  cap  of  fantastic  form,  with  little  bells,  clad  in  silk 
and  gold.  Close  by,  a  mat,  as  pretty  as  the  bayadere  who  once 
lay  upon  it,  still  gave  out  a  faint  scent  of  sandal  wood.  His 
fancy  was  stirred  by  a  goggle-eyed  Chinese  monster,  with 
mouth  awry  and  twisted  limbs,  the  invention  of  a  people  who, 
grown  weary  of  the  monotony  of  beauty,  found  an  indescrib- 
able pleasure  in  an  infinite  variety  of  ugliness.  A  salt-cellar 
from  Benvenuto  Cellini's  workshop  carried  him  back  to  the 
Renaissance  at  its  height,  to  the  time  when  there  was  no  re- 
straint on  art  or  morals,  when  torture  was  the  sport  of 
sovereigns;  and  from  their  councils,  churchmen  with 
courtesans'  arms  about  them  issued  decrees  of  chastity  for 
simple  priests. 

On  a  cameo  he  saw  the  conquests  of  Alexander,  the  mas- 
sacres of  Pizarro  in  a  matchbox,  and  religious  wars  disorderly, 
fanatical,  and  cruel,  in  the  shadows  of  a  helmet.  Joyous 
pictures  of  chivalry  were  called  up  by  a  suit  of  Milanese 
armor,  brightly  polished  and  richly  wrought ;  a  paladin's  eyes 
seemed  to  sparkle  yet  under  the  visor. 

This  sea  of  inventions,  fashions,  furniture,  works  of  art 
and  fiascos,  made  for  him  a  poem  without  end.  Shapes 
and  colors  and  projects  all  lived  again  for  him,  but  his  mind 
received  no  clear  and  perfect  conception.  It  was  the  poet's 
task  to  complete  the  sketches  of  the  great  master,  who  had 
scornfully  mingled  on  his  palette  the  hues  of  the  numberless 
vicissitudes  of  human  life.  When  the  world  at  large  at  last 
released  him,  when  he  had  pondered  over  many  lands,  many 
epochs,  and  various  empires,  the  young  man  came  back  to  the 
life  of  the  individual.  He  impersonated  fresh  characters, 
and  turned  his  mind  to  details,  rejecting  the  life  of  nations 
as  a  burden  too  overwhelming  for  a  single  soul. 

Yonder  was  a  sleeping  child  modeled  in  wax,  a  relic  of 
Ruysch's  collection,  an  enchanting  creation  which  brought 
back  the  happiness  of  his  own  childhood.     The  cotton  gar- 


18  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

ment  of  a  Tahitian  maid  next  fascinated  him;  he  beheld  the 
primitive  life  of  nature,  the  real  modesty  of  naked  chastity, 
the  joys  of  an  idleness  natural  to  mankind,  a  peaceful  fate  by 
a  slow  river  of  sweet  water  under  a  plantain  tree  that  bears  its 
pleasant  manna  without  the  toil  of  man.  Then  all  at  once  he 
became  a  corsair,  investing  himself  with  the  terrible  poetry 
that  Lara  has  given  to  the  part :  the  thought  came  at  the  sight 
of  the  mother-of-pearl  tints  of  a  myriad  sea-shells,  and  grew 
as  he  saw  madrepores  redolent  of  the  sea-weeds  and  the 
storms  of  the  Atlantic. 

The  sea  was  forgotten  again  at  a  distant  view  of  exquisite 
miniatures;  he  admired  a  precious  missal  in  manuscript, 
adorned  with  arabesques  in  gold  and  blue.  Thoughts  of 
peaceful  life  swayed  him ;  he  devoted  himself  afresh  to  study 
and  research,  longing  for  the  easy  life  of  the  monk,  devoid 
alike  of  cares  and  pleasures ;  and  from  the  depths  of  his  cell 
he  looked  out  upon  the  meadows,  woods,  and  vineyards  of  his 
convent.  Pausing  before  some  work  of  Teniers,  he  took  for 
his  own  the  helmet  of  the  soldier  or  the  poverty  of  the  artisan ; 
he  wished  to  wear  a  smoke-begrimed  cap  with  these  Flemings, 
to  drink  their  beer  and  join  their  game  at  cards,  and  smiled 
upon  the  comely  plumpness  of  a  peasant  woman.  He  shivered 
at  a  snowstorm  by  Mieris ;  he  seemed  to  take  part  in  Salvator 
Rosa's  battle-piece ;  he  ran  his  fingers  over  a  tomahawk  from 
Illinois,  and  felt  his  own  hair  rise  as  he  touched  a  Cherokee 
scalping-knife.  He  marveled  over  the  rebec  that  he  set  in  the 
hands  of  some  lady  of  the  land,  drank  in  the  musical  notes  of 
her  ballad,  and  in  the  twilight  by  the  gothic  arch  above  the 
hearth  he  told  his  love  in  a  gloom  so  deep  that  he  could  not 
read  liis  answer  in  her  eyes. 

He  caught  at  all  delights,  at  all  sorrows;  grasped  at  ex- 
istence in  every  form ;  and  endowed  the  phantoms  conjured  up 
from  that  inert  and  plastic  material  so  liberally  with  his  own 
life  and  feelings,  that  the  sound  of  his  own  footsteps  reached 
him  as  if  from  another  world,  or  as  the  hum  of  Paris  reaches 
the  towers  of  TsTotre  Dame. 

He  ascended  the  inner  staircase  which  led  to  the  first  floor. 


THE  TALISMAN  19 

with  its  votive  shields,  panoplies,  carved  shrines,  and  figures 
on  the  wall  at  every  step.  Haunted  by  the  strangest  shapes, 
by  marvelous  creations  belonging  to  the  borderland  betwixt 
life  and  death,  he  walked  as  if  under  the  spell  of  a  dream. 
His  own  existence  became  a  matter  of  doubt  to  him ;  he  was 
neither  wholly  alive  nor  dead,  like  the  curious  objects  about 
liim.  The  light  began  to  fade  as  he  reached  the  show-rooms , 
but  the  treasures  of  gold  and  silver  heaped  up  there  scarcely 
seemed  to  need  illumination  from  without.  The  most  ex- 
travagant whims  of  prodigals,  who  have  run  through  millions 
to  perish  in  garrets,  had  left  their  traces  here  in  this  vast  bazar 
of  human  follies.  Here,  beside  a  writing  desk,  made  at  the 
cost  of  100,000  francs,  and  sold  for  a  hundred  pence,  lay  a 
lock  Tvith  a  secret  worth  a  king's  ransom.  The  human  race 
was  revealed  in  all  the  grandeur  of  its  wretchedness;  in  all 
the  splendor  of  its  infinite  littleness.  An  ebony 
table  that  an  drtist  might  worship,  carved  after  Jean 
Goujon's  designs,  in  years  of  toil,  had  been  purchased  perhaps 
at  the  price  of  firewood.  Precious  caskets,  and  things  that 
fairy  hands  might  have  fashioned,  lay  there  in  heaps  like 
rubbish. 

"You  must  have  the  worth  of  millions  here!''  cried  the 
young  man  as  he  entered  the  last  of  an  injinenye  suite  of 
rooms,  all  decorated  and  gilt  by  eighteenth  century  artists. 

"Thousands  of  millions,  you  might  sayf  said  the  florid 
shopman ;  "but  you  have  seen  nothing  as  yet.  Go  up  to  the 
third  floor,  and  3^011  shall  see !" 

The  stranger  followed  his  guide  to  a  foarth  gallery,  where 
one  by  one  there  passed  before  his  v/ea,ried  eyes  several 
pictures  by  Poussin,  a  magnificent  stat':te  by  Michael  Angelo, 
enchanting  landscapes  by  Claude  Lori-aine,  a  Gerard  Dow 
(like  a  stray  page  from  Sterne),  Eembrandts,  Mfirillos,  and 
pictures  by  Velasquez,  as  dark  and  full  of  coloi  as  a  poem 
of  Byron's;  then  came  classic  bas-reliefs,  finoly-cui  agates, 
wonderful  cameos !  Works  of  art  upon  works  of  art,  till  the 
craftsman's  skill  palled  on  the  mind, masterpiece  after  master- 
piece till  art  itself  became  hateful  at  last  and  enthusiasm  died. 


20  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

He  came  upon  a  Madonna  by  Eaphael,  but  he  was  tired  of 
Raphael;  a  figure  by  Correggio  never  received  the  glance  it 
demanded  of  him.  A  priceless  vase  of  antique  porphyry 
oarved  round  about  with  pictures  of  the  most  grotesquely 
jvanton  of  Roman  divinities,  the  pride  of  some  Corinna, 
scarcely  drew  a  smile  from  him. 

The  ruins  of  fifteen  hundred  vanished  years  oppressed  him ; 
he  sickened  under  all  this  human  thought;  felt  bored  by  all 
this  luxury  and  art.  He  struggled  in  vain  against  the  con- 
stantly renewed  fantastic  shapes  that  sprang  up  from  under 
his  feet,  like  children  of  some  sportive  demon. 

Are  not  fearful  poisons  set  up  in  the  soul  by  a  swift  concen- 
tration of  all  her  energies,  her  enjoyments,  or  ideas;  as 
modern  chemistry,  in  its  caprice,  repeats  the  action  of  creation 
by  some  gas  or  other?  Do  not  many  men  perish  under  the 
shock  of  the  sudden  expansion  of  some  moral  acid  within 
them? 

''What  is  there  in  that  box  ?"  he  inquired,  as  he  reached  a 
large  closet — final  triumph  of  human  skill,  originality, 
wealth,  and  splendor,  in  which  there  hung  a  large,  square 
mahogany  eoHer,  suspended  from  a  nail  by  a  silver  chain. 

"Ah,  monsieur  keeps  the  key  of  it,"  said  the  stout  assist- 
ant mysteriously.  "If  you  wish  to  see  the  portrait,  T  will 
gladly  venture  to  tell  him." 

"Venture !"  said  the  young  man ;  "then  is  your  master  a 
prince  ?" 

"I  don't  know  what  he  is,"  the  other  answered.  Equally 
astonished,  each  looked  for  a  moment  at  the  other.  Then 
construing  the  stranger's  silence  as  an  order,  the  apprentice 
left  him  alone  in  the  closet. 

Have  you  never  launched  into  the  immensity  of  time  and 
space  as  you  read  the  geological  writings  of  Cuvier  ?  Carried 
by  his  fancy,  have  you  hung  as  if  suspended  by  a  magician's 
wand  over  the  illimitable  abyss  of  the  past?  When  the  fossil 
bones  of  animals  belonging  to  civilizations  before  the  Flood 
are  turned  up  in  l)cd  after  bed  and  layer  upon  layer  of  the 
quarries  oJE  Montlnartre  or  among  the  schists  of  the  Ural 


THE  TALISMAN  21 

range,  the  soul  receives  with  dismay  a  glimpse  of  millions 
of  peoples  forgotten  by  feeble  human  memory  and  un- 
recognized by  permanent  divine  tradition,  peoples  whose  ashes 
cover  our  globe  with  two  feet  of  earth  that  yields  bread  to  us 
and  flowers. 

Is  not  Cuvier  the  great  poet  of  our  era  ?  Byron  has  given 
admirable  expression  to  certain  moral  conflicts,  but  our  im- 
mortal naturalist  has  reconstructed  past  worlds  from  a  few 
bleached  bones; has  rebuilt  cities,  like  Cadmus,  with  monsters' 
teeth;  has  animated  forests  with  all  the  secrets  of  zoology 
gleaned  from  a  piece  of  coal;  has  discovered  a  giant  popula- 
tion from  the  footprints  of  a  mammoth.  These  forms  stand 
erect,  grow  large,  and  fill  regions  commensurate  with  their 
giant  size.  He  treats  figures  like  a  poet ;  a  naught  set  beside 
a  seven  by  him  produces  awe. 

He  can  call  up  nothingness  before  you  without  the  phrases 
of  a  charlatan.  He  searches  a  lump  of  gypsum,  finds  an  im- 
pression in  it,  says  to  you,  "Behold  I"  All  at  once  marble 
takes  an  animal  shape,  the  dead  come  to  life,  the  history  of 
the  world  is  laid  open  before  you.  After  countless  dynasties  of 
giant  creatures,  races  of  fish  and  clans  of  mollusks,  the  race 
of  man  appears  at  last  as  the  degenerate  copy  of  a  splendid 
model,  which  the  Creator  has  perchance  destroyed.  Em- 
boldened by  his  gaze  into  the  past,  this  petty  race,  children 
of  yesterday,  can  overstep  chaos,  can  raise  a  psalm  without 
end,  and  outline  for  themselves  the  story  of  the  Universe  in 
an  Apocalypse  that  reveals  the  past.  After  the  tremendous 
resurrection  that  took  place  at  the  voice  of  this  man,  the  little 
drop  in  the  nameless  Infinite,  common  to  all  the  spheres,  that 
is  ours  to  use,  and  that  we  call  Time,  seems  to  us  a  pitiable 
moment  of  life.  We  ask  ourselves  the  purpose  of  our 
triumphs,  our  hatreds,  our  loves,  overwhelmed  as  we  are  by 
the  destruction  of  so  many  past  universes,  and  whether  it  is 
worth  while  to  accept  the  pain  of  life  in  order  that  hereafter 
we  may  become  an  intangible  speck.  Then  we  remain  as  if 
dead,  completely  torn  away  from  the  present  till  the  valet  de 

VOL.    I — 7 


22  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

chamhre  comes  in  and  says,  "Madame  la  comtesse  answers 
that  she  is  expecting  monsieur." 

All  the  wonders  which  had  brought  the  known  world  before 
the  3'oung  man's  mind  wrought  in  his  soul  much  the  same 
feeling  of  dejection  that  besets  the  philosoi^her  investigating 
unknown  creatures.  He  longed  more  than  ever  for  death  as 
he  flung  himself  back  in  a  curule  chair  and  let  his  eyes  wander 
across  the  illusions  composing  a  panorama  of  the  past.  The 
pictures  seemed  to  light  up,  the  Virgin's  heads  smiled  on  him, 
the  statues  seemed  alive.  Everything  danced  and  swayed 
around  him,  with  a  motion  due  to  the  gloom  and  the  tor- 
menting fever  that  racked  his  brain;  each  monstrosity 
grimaced  at  him,  while  the  portraits  on  the  canvas  closed  their 
eyes  for  a  little  relief.  Every  shape  seemed  to  tremble  and 
start,  and  to  leave  its  place  gravely  or  flippantly,  gracefully 
or  awkwardly,  according  to  its  fashion,  character,  and  sur- 
roundings. 

A  mysterious  Sabbath  began,  rivaling  the  fantastic  scenes 
witnessed  by  Faust  upon  the  Brocken.  But  these  optical  illu- 
sions, produced  by  weariness,  overstrained  eyesight,  or  the  ac- 
cidents of  twilight,  could  not  alarm  the  stranger.  The  terrors 
of  life  had  no  power  over  a  soul  grown  familiar  with  the 
terrors  of  death.  He  even  gave  himself  up,  half  amused  by . 
its  bizarre  eccentricities,  to  the  influence  of  this  moral 
galvanism;  its  phenomena,  closely  connected  with  his  last 
thoughts,  assured  him  that  he  was  still  alive.  The  silence 
about  him  was  so  deep  that  he  embarked  once  more  in  dreams 
that  grew  gradually  darker  and  darker  as  if  by  magic,  as 
the  light  slowly  faded.  A  last  struggling  ray  from  the 
sun  lit  up  rosy  answering  lights.  He  raised  his  head  and 
saw  a  skeleton  dimly  visible,  with  its  skull  bent  doubtfully 
to  one  side,  as  if  to  say,  "The  dead  will  none  of  thee  as 
yet." 

He  passed  his  hand  over  his  forehead  to  shake  ofP  the 
drowsiness,  and  felt  a  cold  breath  of  air  as  an  unknown  furry 
something  swept  past  his  cheeks.  He  shivered.  A  muffled 
clutter  of  the  windows  followed;  it  was  a  bat,  he  fancied,  that 


A  little  old  man  wlio  turiit-d  the  light  of  the  lamp  upon  him 


THE  TALISMAN  23 

had  given  hiiu  this  chilly  sepulchral  caress.  He  could  j'^et 
dimly  see  for  a  moment  the  shapes  that  surrounded  him,  by 
the  vague  light  in  the  west ;  then  all  these  inanimate  objects 
were  blotted  out  in  uniform  darkness.  Night  and  the  hour 
of  death  had  suddenly  come.  Thenceforward,  for  a  while,  he 
lost  consciousness  of  the  things  about  him ;  he  was  either 
buried  in  deep  meditation  or  sleep  overcame  him,  brought  on 
by  weariness  or  by  the  stress  of  those  many  thoughts  that 
lacerated  his  heart. 

Suddenly  he  thought  that  an  awful  voice  called  him  by 
name ;  it  was  like  some  feverish  nightmare,  when  at  a  step  the 
dreamer  falls  headlong  over  into  an  abyss,  and  he  trembled, 
He  closed  his  eyes,  dazzled  by  bright  rays  from  a  red  circle  ot 
light  that  shone  out  from  the  shadows.  In  the  midst  of  the 
circle  stood  a  little  old  man  who  turned  the  light  of  the  lamp 
upon  him,  yet  he  had  not  heard  him  enter,  nor  move,  nor 
speak.  There  was  something  magical  about  the  apparition. 
The  boldest  man,  awakened  in  such  a  sort,  would  have  felt 
alarmed  at  the  siglit  of  this  figure,  which  might  have  issued 
from  some  sarcophagus  hard  by. 

A  curiously  youthful  look  in  the  unmoving  eyes  of  the 
spectre  forbade  the  idea  of  anything  supernatural ;  but  for  all 
that,  in  the  brief  space  between  his  dreaming  and  waking 
life,  the  young  man's  judgment  remained  philosophically  sus- 
pended, as  Descartes  advises.  He  was,  in  spite  of  himself, 
under  the  influence  of  an  unaccountable  hallucination,  a 
mystery  that  our  pride  rejects,  and  that  our  imperfect  science 
vainly  tries  to  resolve. 

Imagine  a  short  old  man,  thin  and  spare,  in  a  long  black 
velvet  gown  girded  round  him  by  a  thick  silk  cord.  His 
long  white  hair  escaped  on  either  side  of  his  face  from  under  a 
black  velvet  cap  which  closely  fitted  his  head  and  made  a 
■  formal  setting  for  his  countenance.  His  gown  enveloped  his 
body  like  a  winding  sheet,  so  that  all  that  was  left  visible  was  a 
narrow  bleached  human  face.  But  for  the  wasted  arm,  thin  as 
a  draper's  wand,  which  held  aloft  the  lamp  that  cast  all  its 
light  upon  him,  the  face  would  have  seemed  to  hang  in  mid 


24  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

air.  A  gray  pointed  beard  concealed  the  chin  of  this  fan- 
tastical appearance,  and  gave  him  the  look  of  one  of  those 
Jewish  types  which  serve  artists  as  models  for  Moses.  His 
lips  were  so  thin  and  colorless  that  it  needed  a  close  inspection 
to  find  the  lines  of  his  mouth  at  all  in  the  pallid  face.  His 
great  wrinkled  brow  and  hollow  bloodless  cheeks,  the  in-* 
exorably  stern  expression  of  his  small  green  eyes  that  n:. 
longer  possessed  eyebrows  or  lashes,  might  have  convinced  the 
stranger  that  Gerard  Dow's  "Money  Changer"  had  come  down 
from  his  frame.  The  craftiness  of  an  inquisitor,  revealed  in 
those  curving  wrinkles  and  creases  that  wound  about  his 
temples,  indicated  a  profound  knowledge  of  life.  There  was 
no  deceiving  this  man,  who  seemed  to  possess  a  power  of  de- 
tecting the  secrets  of  the  wariest  heart. 

The  wisdom  and  the  moral  codes  of  every  people  seemed 
gathered  up  in  his  passive  face,  just  as  all  the  productions  of 
the  globe  had  been  heaped  up  in  his  dusty  showrooms.  He 
seemed  to  possess  the  tranquil  luminous  vision  of  some  god 
before  whom  all  things  are  ojjen,  or  the  haughty  power  of  a 
man  who  knows  all  things. 

With  two  strokes  of  the  brush  a  painter  could  have  so 
altered  the  expression  of  this  face,  that  what  had  been  a  serene 
representation  of  the  Eternal  Father  should  change  to  the 
sneering  mask  of  a  Mephistopheles ;  for  though  sovereign 
power  was  revealed  by  the  forehead,  mocking  folds  lurked 
about  the  mouth.  He  must  have  sacrificed  all  the  joys  of 
earth,  as  he  had  crushed  all  human  sorrows  beneath  his 
potent  will.  The  man  at  the  brink  of  death  shivered  at  the 
thought  of  the  life  led  by  this  spirit,  so  solitary  and  remote 
from  our  world ;  joyless,  since  he  had  no  one  illusion  left ; 
painless,  because  pleasure  had  ceased  to  exist  for  him.  There 
he  stood,  motionless  and  serene  as  a  star  in  a  bright  mist. 
His  lamp  lit  up  the  obscure  closet,  just  as  his  green  eyes' 
with  their  quiet  malevolence,  seemed  to  shed  a  light  on  the 
moral  world. 

This  was  the  strange  spectacle  that  startled  the  young  man's 
returning  siglit,  as   he  shook  off   the   dreamy  fancies   and 


THE  TALISMAN  25 

thoii2:hts  of  death  that  had  lulled  him.  An  instant  of  dismay, 
a  luonientary  return  to  belief  in  nursery  tales,  may  be  for- 
given him,  seeing  that  his  senses  were  obscured.  Much  thought 
had  wearied  his  mind,  and  his  nerves  were  exhausted  with 
the  strain  of  the  tremendous  drama  within  him,  and  by  the 
scenes  that  had  heaped  on  him  all  the  horrid' pleasures  that  a 
piece  of  oj^iura  can  produce. 

But  tliis  apparition  had  appeared  in  Paris,  on  the  Quai 
Voltaire,  and  in  the  nineteenth  century ;  the  time  and  place 
made  sorcery  impossible.  The  idol  of  French  scepticism  had 
died  in  the  house  just  opposite,  the  disciple  of  Gay-Lussac  and 
Arago,  who  had  held  the  charlatanism  of  intellect  in  con- 
tempt. And  yet  the  stranger  submitted  himseli  to  the  in- 
fluence of  an  imaginative  spell,  as  all  of  us  do  at  times,  when 
we  wish  to  escape  from  an  inevitable  certainty,  or  to  tempt 
the  power  of  Providence.  So  some  mysterious  apprehension 
of  a  strange  force  made  him  tremble  before  the  old  man  with 
the  lamp.  All  of  us  have  been  stirred  in  the  same  way  by  the 
sight  of  Napoleon,  or  of  some  other  great  man,  made  illustrious 
by  his  genius  or  by  fame. 

"You  wish  to  see  Raphael's  portrait  of  Jesus  Christ,  mon- 
sieur?" the  old  man  asked  politely.  There  was  something 
metallic  in  the  clear,  sharp  ring  of  his  voice. 

He  set  the  lamp  upon  a  broken  column,  so  that  all  its  light 
might  fall  on  the  brown  case. 

At  the  sacred  names  of  Christ  and  Eaphael  the  young  man 
showed  some  curiosity.  The  merchant,  who  no  doubt  looked 
for  this,  pressed  a  spring,  and  suddenly  the  mahogany  panel 
slid  noiselessly  back  in  its  groove,  and  discovered  the  can- 
vas to  the  stranger's  admiring  gaze.  At  sight  of  this  death- 
less creation,  he  forgot  his  fancies  in  the  show-rooms  and  the 
freaks  of  his  dreams,  and  became  himself  again.  The  old 
man  became  a  being  of  flesh  and  blood,  very  much  alive, 
with  nothing  chimerical  about  him,  and  took  up  his  existence 
at  once  upon  solid  earth. 

The  sympathy  and  love,  and  the  gentle  serenity  in  the 
divine    face,    exerted    an    instant    sway    over    the    younger 


26  THE  MAGIC  BKIN 

spectator.  Some  influence  falling  from  heaven  bade  ceasfe 
the  burning  torment  that  consumed  the  marrow  of  his  bones. 
The  head  of  the  Saviour  of  mankind  seemed  to  issue  from 
among  the  shadows  represented  by  a  dark  background ;  an 
aureole  of  light  shone  out  brightly  from  his  hair;  an  im- 
passioned belief  seemed  to  glow  through  him,  and  to  thrill 
every  feature.  The  word  of  life  had  just  been  uttered  by 
those  red  lips,  the  sacred  sounds  seemed  to  linger  still  in  the 
air;  the  spectator  besought  the  silence  for  those  captivating 
parables,  hearkened  for  them  in  the  future,  and  had  to  turn 
to  the  teachings  of  the  past.  The  untroubled  peace  of  the 
divine  eyes,  the  comfort  of  sorrowing  souls,  seemed  an  in- 
terpretation of  the  Evangel.  The  sweet  triumphant  smile 
revealed  the  secret  of  the  Catholic  religion,  which  sums  up 
all  things  in  the  precept,  "Love  one  another."  This  picture 
breathed  the  spirit  of  prayer,  enjoined  forgiveness,  overcame 
self,  caused  sleeping  powers  of  good  to  waken.  For  this 
work  of.Eaphael's  had  the  imperious  charm  of  music;  you 
were  brought  under  the  spell  of  memories  of  the  past;  his 
triumph  was  so  absolute  that  the  artist  was  forgotten.  The 
witchery  of  the  lamplight  heightened  the  wonder;  the  head 
seemed  at  times  to  flicker  in  the  distance,  enveloped  in 
cloud. 

"I  covered  the  surface  of  that  picture  with  gold  pieces," 
said  the  merchant  carelessly. 

"And  new  for  death !"  cried  the  young  man,  awakened 
from  his  musings.  His  last  thought  had  recalled  his 
fate  to  him,  as  it  led  him  imperceptibly  back  from  the  for- 
lorn hopes  to  which  he  had  clung. 

"Ah,  ha !  then  my  suspicions  were  well  founded !"  said  the 
other,  and  his  hands  held  the  young  man's  wrists  in  a  grip 
like  that  of  a  vice. 

The  younger  man  smiled  wearily  at  his  mistake,  and  said 
gently : 

"You,  sir,  have  nothing  to  fear;  it  is  not  your  life,  but 
my  own  that  is  in  question.  .  .  .  But  why  should  I  hide 
a  harmless  fraud  ?"  he  went  on,  after  a  look  at  the  anxious 


THE  TALISMAN  .  27 

old  man.  "I  came  to  see  your  treasures  to  while  away  the 
time  till  night  should  come  and  I  could  drown  myself  de- 
cently. Who  would  grudge  this  last  pleasure  to  a  poet  and 
a  man  of  science  ?" 

While  he  spoke,  the  jealous  merchant  watched  the  haggard 
face  of  his  pretended  customer  with  keen  eyes.  Perhaps 
the  mournful  tones  of  his  voice  reassured  him,  or  he  also 
read  the  dark  signs  of  fate  in  the  faded  features  that  had 
made  the  gamblers  shudder ;  he  released  his  hands,  but,  with 
a  touch  of  caution,  due  to  the  experience  of  some  hundred 
years  at  least,  he  stretched  his  arm  out  to  a  sideboard  as  if 
to  steady  himself,  took  up  a  little  dagger,  and  said: 

"Have  you  been  a  supernumerary  clerk  of  the  Treasury  for 
three  years  without  receiving  any  perquisites  ?" 

The  stranger  could  scarcely  suppress  a  smile  as  he  shook 
his  head. 

"Perhaps  your  father  has  expressed  his  regret  for  your 
birth  a  little  too  sharply  ?     Or  have  you  disgraced  yourself  ?" 

"If  I  meant  to  be  disgraced,  I  should  live.^'" 

"You  have  been  hissed  perhaps  at  the  Funambules?  Or 
you  have  had  to  compose  couplets  to  pay  for  your  mistress' 
funeral?  Do  you  want  to  be  cured  of  the  gold  fever?  Or 
to  be  quit  of  the  spleen?  For  what  blunder  is  your  life  a 
forfeit?" 

"You  must  not  look  among  the  common  motives  that  impel 
suicides  for  the  reason  of  my  death.  To  spare  myself  the 
task  of  disclosing  my  unheard-of  sufferings,  for  which 
language  has  no  name,  I  will  tell  you  this — that  I  am  in  the 
deepest,  most  humiliating,  and  most  cruel  trouble,  and,"  he 
went  on  in  proud  tones  that  harmonized  ill  with  the  words 
just  uttered,  "I  have  no  wish  to  beg  for  either  help 
or  sympathy." 

"Eh !  eh !" 

The  two  syllables  which  the  old  man  pronounced  resembled' 
the  sound  of  a  rattle.     Then  he  went  on  thus : 

"Without  compelling  you  to  entreat  me,  without  making 
you  blush  for  it,   and  without  giving  you  so  much  as   a 


28  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

French  centime,  a  para  from  the  Levant,  a  German  heller,  a 
Russian  kopeck,  a  Scottish  farthing,  a  single  obelus  or 
sestertius  from  the  ancient  world,  or  one  piastre  from  the 
new,  without  offering  you  an3'thing  whatever  in  gold,  silver, 
or  copper,  notes  or  drafts,  I  will  make  you  richer,  more  power- 
ful, and  of  more  consequence  than  a  constitutional  king." 

The  younger  man  thought  that  the  older  was  in  his  dotage, 
and  waited  in  bewilderment  without  venturing  to  reply. 

"Turn  round,"  said  the  merchant,  suddenly  catching  up 
the  lamp  in  order  to  light  up  the  opposite  wall ;  "look  at  that 
leathern  skin,"  he  went  on. 

The  young  man  rose  abruptly,  and  showed  some  surprise 
at  the  sight  of  a  piece  of  shagreen  which  hung  on  the  wall 
behind  his  chair.  It  was  only  about  the  size  of  a  fox's  skin, 
but  it  seemed  to  fill  the  deep  shadows  of  the  place  with  such 
brilliant  rays  that  it  looked  like  a  small  comet,  an  appear- 
ance at  first  sight  inexplicable.  The  young  sceptic  went  up 
to  this  so-called  talisman,  which  was  to  rescue  him  from  his 
woes,  with  a  scoffing  phrase  in  liis  thoughts.  Still  a  harmless 
curiosity  led  him  to  bend  over  it  and  look  at  it  from  all 
points  of  view,  and  he  soon  found  out  the  cause  of  its 
singular  brilliancy.  The  dark  grain  of  the  leather  had  been 
so  carefully  burnished  and  polished,  the  striped  mark- 
ings of  the  graining  were  so  sharp  and  clear,  that  every  par- 
ticle of  the  surface  of  the  bit  of  Oriental  leather  was  in  it- 
self a  focus  which  concentrated  the  light,  and  reflected  it 
vividly. 

He  accounted  for  this  phenomenon  categorically  to  the  old 
man,  who  only  smiled  meaningly  by  way  of  answer.  His 
superior  smile  led  the  young  scientific  man  to  fancy  that  he 
himself  had  been  deceived  by  some  imposture.  He  had  no 
wish  to  carry  one  more  puzzle  to  his  grave,  and  hastily  turned 
the  skin  over,  like  some  child  eager  to  find  out  the  mysteries 
of  a  new  toy. 

"Ah,"  he  cried,  "here  is  the  mark  of  the  seal  which  they 
call  in  the  East  the  Signet  of  Solomon." 

"So  you  know  that,  then?"  asked   the  merchant.      His 


THE  TALISMAN  2JJ 

peculiar  method  of  laughter,  two  or  three  quick  breathings 
through  the  nostrils,  said  more  than  any  words  however 
eloquent. 

"Is  there  anybody  in  the  world  simple  enough  to  believe 
in  that  idle  fancy?"  said  the  young  man,  nettled  by  the 
spitefulness  of  the  silent  chuckle.  "Don't  you  know,"  he 
continued,  "that  the  superstitions  of  the  East  have  per- 
petuated the  mystical  form  and  the  counterfeit  characters  of 
the  symbol,  which  represents  a  mythical  dominion?  I  have 
no  more  laid  myself  open  to  a  charge  of  credulity  in  this 
case,  than  if  I  had  mentioned  sphinxes  or  gritHns,  whose  ex- 
istence mythology  in  a  manner  admits." 

"As  you  are  an  Orientalist,"  replied  the  other,  "perhaps 
you  can  read  that  sentence." 

He  held  the  lamp  close  to  the  talisman,  which  the  young 
man  held  towards  him,  and  pointed  out  some  characters  inlaid 
in  the  surface  of  the  wonderful  skin,  as  if  they  had  grown 
on  the  animal  to  which  it  once  belonged. 

"I  must  admit,"  said  the  stranger,  "that  I  have  no  idea 
how  the  letters  could  be  engraved  so  deeply  on  the  skin  of  a 
wild  ass."  And  he  turned  quickly  to  the  tables  strewn  with 
curiosities  and  seemed  to  look  for  something. 

"What  is  it  that  you  want  ?"  asked  the  old  man. 

"Something  that  will  cut  the  leather,  so  that  I  can  see 
whether  the  letters  are  printed  or  inlaid." 

The  old  man  held  out  his  stiletto.  The  stranger  took  it 
and  tried  to  cut  the  skin  above  the  lettering ;  but  when  he  had 
removed  a  thin  shaving  of  leather  from  them,  the  characters 
still  appeared  below,  so  clear  and  so  exactly  like  the  surface 
impression,  that  for  a  moment  he  was  not  sure  that  he  had 
cut  anything  away  after  all. 

"The  craftsmen  of  the  Levant  have  secrets  known  only  to 
themselves,"  he  said,  half  in  vexation,  as  he  ey6d  the  charac- 
ters of  this  Oriental  sentence. 

"Yes,"  said  the  old  man,  "it  is  better  to  attribute  it  to 
man's  agency  than  to  God's/' 


30  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

The  mysterious  words  were  thus  arranged: 

Or,  as  it  runs  in  English: 

POSSESSING    ME   THOU    SHALT    POSSESS   ALL    THINGS. 

BUT  THY  LIFE  IS  JStlNE,  EOE  GOD  HAS  SO  WILLED  IT. 

WISH^    AND    THY    WISHES    SHALL    BE    FULFILLED; 

BUT   MEASUEE   THY   DESIRES,   ACCORDING 

TO    THE   LIFE   THAT   IS   IN    THEE. 

THIS   IS   THY    LIFE, 

WITH    EACH    WISH    I    MUST    SHRINK 

EVEN  AS.  THY  OWN  DAYS. 

WILT  THOU  HAVE  ME  ?        TAKE  ME. 

GOD   WILL   HEARKEN   UNTO   THEE. 

SO  BE  IT  ! 

"So  you  read  Sanskrit  fluently,"  said  the  old  man.  'Tov^ 
have  been  in  Persia  perhaps,  or  in  Bengal?" 

"No,  sir,"  said  the  stranger,  as  he  felt  the  emblematical 
skin  curiously.     It  was  almost  as  rigid  as  a  sheet  of  metal. 


THE  TALISMAN  31 

The  old  merchant  set  the  lamp  back  again  upon  the 
column,  giving  the  other  a  look  as  he  did  so.  "He  has  given 
up  the  notion  of  dying  already/'  the  glance  said  with 
phlegmatic  irony. 

"Is  it  a  jest,  or  is  it  an  enigma  ?"  asked  the  younger  man. 

The  other  shook  his  head  and  said  soberly : 

"I  don't  know  how  to  answer  you.  I  have  offered  this 
talisman  with  its  terrible  powers  to  m.en  with  more  energy  in 
them  than  you  seem  to  me  to  have;  but  though  they  laughed 
at  the  questionable  power  it  might  exert  over  their  futures, 
not  one  of  them  was  ready  to  venture  to  conclude  the  fateful 
contract  proposed  by  an  unknown  force.  I  am  of  their 
opinion,  I  have  doubted  and  refrained,  and " 

"Have  you  never  even  tried  its  power?"  interrupted  the 
young  stranger. 

"Tried  it !"  exclaimed  the  old  man.  "Suppose  that  you 
were  on  the  column  in  the  Place  Vendome,  would  you  try 
flinging  yourself  into  space?  Is  it  possible  to  stay  the  course 
of  life  ?  Has  a  man  ever  been  known  to  die  by  halves  ?  Be- 
fore you  came  here,  you  had  made  up  your  mind  to  kill  your- 
self, but  all  at  once  a  mystery  fills  your  mind,  and  you  ,think 
no  more  about  death.  You  child !  Does  not  any  one  day 
of  your  life  afford  mysteries  more  absorbing  ?  Listen  to  me. 
I  saw  the  licentious  days  of  Eegency.  I  was  like  you,  then, 
in  poverty;  I  have  begged  my  bread;  but  for  all  that,  I  am 
now  a  centenarian  with  a  couj}le  of  years  to  spare,  and  a  mill- 
ionaire to  boot.  Misery  was  the  making  of  me,  ignorance 
has  made  me  learned.  I  will  tell  you  in  a  few  words  the 
great  secret  of  human  life.  By  two  instinctive  processes  man 
exhausts  the  springs  of  life  within  him.  Two  verbs  cover 
all  the  forms  which  these  two  causes  of  death  may  take — 
To  Will  and  To  have  your  Will.  Between  these  two  limits 
of  human  activity  the  wise  have  discovered  an  intermediate 
formula,  to  which  I  owe  my  good  fortune  and  long  life.  To 
Will  consumes  us,  and  To  have  our  Will  destroys  us,  but  To 
Know  steeps  our  feeble  organisms  in  perpetual  calm.  In 
me  Thought  has  destroyed  Will,  so  that  Power  is  relegated  to 


32  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

the  ordinary  functions  of  my  economy.  In  a  word,  it  is  not 
in  the  heart  which  can  be  broken,  nor  in  the  senses  that  be- 
come deadened,  but  it  is  in  the  brain  that  cannot  waste 
away  and  survives  everything  else,  that  I  have  set  my  life. 
Moderation  has  kept  mind  and  body  unruffled.  Yet,  I  hav:: 
seen  the  whole  world.  I  have  learned  all  languages,  lived 
after  every  manner.  I  have  lent  a  Chinaman  money,  takin;>: 
his  father's  corpse  as  a  pledge,  slept  in  an  Arab's  tent  on 
the  security  of  his  bare  word,  signed  contracts  in  every 
capital  of  Europe,  and  left  my  gold  without  hesitation  in 
savage  wigwams.  I  have  attained  everything,  because  I  have 
known  how  to  despise  all  things. 

"My  one  ambition  has  been  to  see.  Is  not  Sight  in  a  man- 
ner Insight?  And  to  have  knowledge  or  insight,  is  not  that 
to  have  instinctive  possession?  To  be  able  to  discover  the 
very  substance  of  fact  and  to  unite  its  essence  to  our  essence  ? 
Of  material  possession  what  abides  with  you  but  an  idea? 
Think,  then,  how  glorious  must  be  the  life  of  a  man  who  can 
stamp  all  realities  upon  his  thought,  place  the  springs 
of  happiness  within  himself,  and  draw  thence  uncounted 
pleasures  in  idea,  unsoiled  by  earthly  stains.  Thought  is  a 
key  to  all  treasures;  the  miser's  gains  are  ours  without  his 
cares.  Thus  I  have  soared  above  this  world,  where  my  enjoy- 
ments have  been  intellectual  joys.  I  have  reveled  in  the 
contemplation  of  seas,  peoples,  forests,  and  mountains !  I 
have  seen  all  things,  calmly,  and  without  weariness;  I  have 
set  my  desires  on  nothing ;  I  have  waited  in  expectation  of 
everything.  I  have  walked  to  and  fro  in  the  world  as  in 
a  garden  round  about  my  own  dwelling.  Troubles,  loves, 
ambitions,  losses,  and  sorrows,  as  men  call  them,  are  for  me 
ideas,  which  I  transmute  into  waking  dreams;  I  express  and 
transpose  instead  of  feeling  them ;  instead  of  permitting  them 
to  prey  upon  my  life,  I  dramatize  and  expand  them ;  I  divert 
myself  with  them  as  if  they  Avere  romances  which  I  could  read 
by  the  power  of  vision  within  me.  As  I  have  never  overtaxed 
my  constitution,  I  still  enjoy  rol)ust  health ;  and  as  my  mind 
is  endowed  with  all  the  force  that  I  have  not  wasted,  this 


THE  TALISMAN  33 

head  of  mine  is  even  better  furnished  than  my  galleries. 
The  true  millions  lie  here/'  he  said,  striking  his  forehead. 
"I  spend  delicious  days  in  communings  with  the  past ;  I  sum- 
mon before  me  whole  countries,  places,  extents  of  sea,  the 
fair  faces  of  history.  In  my  imaginary  seraglio  I  have  all 
the  women  that  I  have  never  possessed.  Your  wars  and  revo- 
lutions come  up  before  me  for  judgment.  What  is  a  feverish 
fugitive  admiration  for  some  more  or  less  brightly  colored 
piece  of  flesh  and  blood;  some  more  or  less  rounded  human 
form;  what  are  all  the  disasters  that  wait  on  your  erratic 
whims,  compared  with  the  magnificent  power  of  conjuring 
up  the  whole  world  withih  your  soul,  compared  with  the  im- 
m^easurable  joys  of  movement,  unstraugled  by  the  cords  of 
time,  unclogged  by  the  fetters  of  space;  the  joys  of  behold- 
ing all  things,  of  comprehending  all  things,  of  leaning  over 
the  parapet  of  the  world  to  question  the  other  spheres,  to 
hearken  to  the  voice  of  God?  There,"  he  burst  out, 
vehemently,  "there  are  To  Will  and  To  have  your  Will,  both 
together,"  he  pointed  to  the  bit  of  shagreen  ;^  "there  are  your 
social  ideas,  your  immoderate  desires,  your  excesses,  your 
pleasures  that  end  in  death,  your  sorrows  that  quicken  the  pace 
of  life,  for  pain  is  perhaps  but  a  violent  pleasure.  Who  could 
determine  the  point  where  pleasure  becomes  pain,  where  pain 
is  still  a  pleasure  ?  Is  not  the  utmost  brightness  of  the  ideal 
world  soothing  to  us,  while  the  lightest  shadows  of  the 
physical  world  annoy?  Is  not  knowledge  the  secret  of  wis- 
dom ?  And  what  is  folly  but  a  riotous  expenditure  of  Will 
or  Power?" 

"Very  good  then,  a  life  of  riotous  excess  for  me !"  said  the 
stranger,  pouncing  upon  the  piece  of  shagreen. 

"Young  man,  beware !"  cried  the  other  with  incredible 
vehemence. 

"I  had  resolved  my  existence  into  thought  and  study,"  the 
stranger  replied;  "and  yet  they  have  not  even  supported 
me.  I  am  not  to  be  gulled  hj  a  sermon  worthy  of  Sweden- 
borg,  nor  by  3'our  Oriental  amulet,  nor  yet  by  your  charitable 
endeavors  to  keep  me  in  a  world  wherein  existence  is  no 


34  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

longer  possible  for  me.  .  .  .  Let  me  see  now,"  he  added^ 
clutching  the  talisman  convnlsivel}^  as  he  looked  at  the  old 
man,  "I  wish  for  a  royal  banquet,  a  carouse  worthy  of  this 
century,  which,  it  is  said,  has  brought  everything  to  perfec- 
tion! Let  me  have  young  boon  companions,  witty,  iin- 
warped  by  prejudice,  merry  to  the  verge  of  madness !  Let 
one  wine  succeed  another,  each  more  biting  and  perfumed 
than  the  last,  and  strong  enough  to  bring  about  three  days 
of  delirium !  Passionate  women's  forms  should  grace  that 
night !  I  would  be  borne  away  to  unlcnown  regions  beyond 
the  confines  of  this  world,  by  the  car  and  four-winged  steed 
of  a  frantic  and  uproarious  orgy.  Let  us  ascend  to  the  skies, 
or  plunge  ourselves  in  the  mire.  I  do  not  know  if  one  soars 
or  sinks  at  such  moments,  and  I  do  not  care !  Next,  I  bid 
this  enigmatical  power  to  concentrate  all  delights  for  me  in 
one  single  joy.  Yes,  I  must  comprehend  every  pleasure  of 
earth  and  heaven  in  the  final  embrace  that  is  to  kill  me. 
Therefore,  after  the  wine,  I  wish  to  hold  high  festival  to 
Priapus,  with  songs  that  might  rouse  the  dead,  and  kisses 
without  end ;  the  sound  of  them  should  pass  like  the  crackling 
of  flame  through  Paris,  should  revive  the  heat  of  youth 
and  passion  in  husband  and  wife,  even  in  hearts  of  seventy 
years." 

A  laugh  burst  from  the  little  old  man.  It  rang  in  the 
young  man's  ears  like  an  echo  from  hell,  and  tyrannously  cut 
him  short.     He  said  no  more. 

"Do  you  imagine  that  my  floors  are  going  to  open  suddenly, 
so  that  luxuriously-appointed  tables  may  rise  through  them, 
and  guests  from  another  world?  No,  no,  young  madcap. 
You  have  entered  into  the  compact  now,  and  there  is  an  end 
of  it.  Henceforward,  your  wishes  will  be  accurately  fulfilled, 
but  at  the  expense  of  your  life.  The  compass  of  your  days, 
visible  in  that  skin,  will  contract  according  to  the  strength 
and  number  of  your  desires,  from  the  least  to  the  most  ex- 
travagant. The  Brahmin  from  whom  I  had  this  skin  once 
explained  to  me  that  it  would  bring  about  a  mysterious  con- 
nection between  the  fortunes  and  wishes  of  its  possessor. 


THE  TALISMAN  85 

Your  first  wish  is  a  vulgar  one,  which  I  could  fulfil,  but  1 
\ea\e  that  to  the  issues  of  your  new  existence.  After  all,  you 
were  wishing  to  die;  very  well^  your  suicide  is  only  put  off 
for  a  time." 

The  stranger  was  surprised  and  irritated  that  this  peculiar 
old  man  persisted  in  not  taking  him  seriously.  A  half 
philanthropic  intention  peeped  so  clearly  forth  from  his  last 
jesting  observation,  that  he  exclaimed : 

"I  shall  soon  see,  sir,  if  any  change  comes  over  my  fortunes 
in  the  time  it  will  take  to  cross  the  width  of  the  quay.  But 
I  should  like  us  to  be  quits  for  such  a  momentous  service; 
that  is,  if  you  are  not  laughing  at  an  unlucky  wretch,  so  I 
wish  that  you  may  fall  in  love  with  an  opera-dancer.  You 
would  understand  the  pleasures  of  intemperance  then,  and 
might  perhaps  grow  lavish  of  the  wealth  that  you  have  hus- 
banded so  philosophically." 

He  went  out  without  heeding  the  old  man's  heavy  sigh, 
went  back  through  the  galleries  and  down  the  staircase,  fol- 
lowed by  the  stout  assistant  who  vainly  tried  to  light  his  pas- 
sage; he  fled  with  the  haste  of  a  robber  caught  in  the  act. 
Blinded  by  a  kind  of  delirium,  he  did  not  even  notice  the 
unexpected  flexibility  of  the  piece  of  shagreen,  which  coiled 
itself  up,  pliant  as  a  glove  in  his  excited  fingers,  till  it  would 
go  into  the  pocket  of  his  coat,  where  he  mechanically  thrust 
it.  As  he  rushed  out  of  the  door  into  the  street,  he  ran 
up  against  three  young  men  who  were  passing  arm-in- 
arm. 

"Brute !" 

"Idiot  r 

Such  were  the  gratifying  expressions  exchanged  between 
tbem. 

"Why,  it  is  Eaphael!" 

"Good !  we  were  looking  for  you." 

"What!  it  is  you,  then?" 

These  three  friendly  exclamations  quickly  followed  the  in- 
sults, as  the  light  of  a  street  lamp,  flickering  in  the  wind, 
fell  upon  the  astonished  faces  of  the  group. 


36  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

"My  dear  fellow,  j^ou  must  come  with  us !"  said  the  young 
man  that  Eaphael  had  all  but  knocked  down. 

"What  is  all  this  about  ?" 

"Come  along,  and  I  will  tell  you  the  history  of  it  as  we 
go." 

By  fair  means  or  foul,  Eaphael  must  go  along  with  his 
friends  towards  the  Pont  des  Arts ;  they  surrounded  him,  and. 
linked  him  by  the  arm  among  their  merry  band. 

"We  have  been  after  you  for  about  a  week,^'  the  speaker 
went  on.  "At  your  respectable  hotel  de  Saint  Quentin, 
where,  by  the  way,  the  sign  with  the  alternate  black  and  red 
letters  cannot  be  removed,  and  hangs  out  just  as  it  did  in 
the  time  of  Jean  Jacques,  that  Leonarda  of  yours  told  us 
that  you  were  off  into  the  country.  For  all  that,  we  cer- 
tainly did  not  look  like  duns,  creditors,  sheriff's  officers,  or 
the  like.  But  no  matter !  Eastignac  had  seen  you  the  even- 
ing before  at  the  Bouffons ;  we  took  courage  again,  and  made 
it  a  point  of  honor  to  find  out  whether  you  were  roosting  in  a 
tree  in  the  Champs-Elysees,  or  in  one  of  those  philanthropic 
abodes  where  the  beggars  sleep  on  a  twopenny  rope,  or  if. 
more  luckily,  you  were  bivouacking  in  some  boudoir  or  other. 
We  could  not  find  3'OU  anywhere.  Your  name  was  not  in  the 
jailers'  registers  at  the  St.  Pelagic  nor  at  La  Force  !  Govern- 
ment departments,  cafes,  libraries,  lists  of  prefects'  names, 
newspaper  offices,  restaurants,  greenrooms — to  cut  it  short, 
every  lurking  place  in  Paris,  good  or  bad,  has  been  explored 
in  the  most  expert  manner.  We  bewailed  the  loss  of  a  man 
endowed  with  such  genius,  that  one  might  look  to  find  him 
either  at  Court  or  in  the  common  jails.  We  talked  of  canoniz- 
ing you  as  a  hero  of  July,  and,  upon  my  word,  we  regretted 
you!" 

As  he  spoke,  the  friends  were  crossing  the  Pont  des  Arts. 
Without  listening  to  them,  Eaphael  looked  at  the  Seine,  at 
<^he  clamoring  waves  that  reflected  the  lights  of  Paris.  Above 
that  river,  in  which  but  now  he  had  thought  to  fling  himself, 
the  old  man's  prediction  had  been  fulfilled,  the  hour  of  his 
death  had  been  already  put  back  by  fate. 


THE  TALISMAN  37 

"We  really  regretted  you,"  said  his  friend,  still  pursuing 
his  theme.  "It  was  a  question  of  a  plan  in  which  we  included 
you  as  a  superior  person,  that  is  to  say,  somebody  wlio  can 
put  himself  above  other  people.  The  constitutional  thimble- 
rig  is  carried  on  to-day,  dear  boy,  more  seriously  than  ever. 
The  infamous  monarchy,  displaced  by  the  heroism  of  the  peo- 
ple, was  a  sort  of  drab,  you  could  laugh  and  revel  with  her; 
but  La  Patrie  is  a  shrewish  and  virtuous  wife,  and  willy- 
nilly  you  must  take  her  prescribed  endearments.  Then  be- 
sides, as  you  know,  authority  passed  over  from  the  Tuileries 
to  the  journalists,  at  the  time  when  the  Budget  changed  its 
quarters  and  went  from  the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain  to  the 
Chaussee  d'Antin.  But  this  you  may  not  know  perhaps. 
The  Government,  that  is,  the  aristocracy  of  lawyers  and  bank- 
ers who  represent  the  country  to-day,  just  as  the  priests 
used  to  do  in  the  time  of  the  monarchy,  has  felt  the  necessity 
of  mystifying  the  worthy  people  of  France  with  a  few  new 
words  and  old  ideas,  like  philosophers  of  every  school,  and  all 
strong  intellects  ever  since  time  began.  So  now  Royalist- 
national  ideas  must  be  inculcated,  by  proving  to  us  that  it  is 
far  better  to  pay  twelve  million  francs,  thirty-three  centimes 
to  La  Patrie,  represented  by  Messieurs  Such-and-Such,  than  to 
pay  eleven  hundred  million  francs,  nine  centimes  to  a 
king  who  used  to  say  I  instead  of  we.  In  a  word,  a  journal, 
with  two  or  three  hundred  thousand  francs,  good,  at  the  back 
of  it,  has  just  been  started,  with  a  view  to  making  an  opposition 
paper  to  content  the  discontented,  without  prejudice  to  the 
national  government  of  the  citizen-king.  We  scoff  at  liberty 
as  at  despotism  now,  and  at  religion  or  incredulity  quite  im- 
partially. And  since,  for  us,  'our  country'  means  a  capital 
where  ideas  circulate  and  are  sold  at  so  much  a  line,  a 
succulent  dinner  every  day,  and  the  play  at  frequent  intervals, 
where  profligate  women  swarm,  where  suppers  last  on  into 
the  next  day,  and  light  loves  are  hired  by  the  hour  like  cabs ; 
nnd  since  Paris  will  always  be  the  most  adorable  of  all 
countries,  the  country  of  joy,  liberty,  wit,  pretty  women, 
mauvais  sujets,   and  good  wine;   where  the   truncheon   of 


38  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

authorit}^  never  makes  itself  disagreeably  felt,  because  one  is 
so  close  to  those  who  wield  it, — we,  therefore,  sectaries  of  the 
god  Mephistopheles,  have  engaged  to  whitewash  the  public 
mind,  to  give  fresh  costumes  to  the  actors,  to  put  a  new 
plank  or  two  in  the  government  booth,  to  doctor  doctrinaires, 
and  warm  up  old  Republicans,  to  touch  up  the  Bonapart- 
ists  a  bit,  and  revietual  the  Centre;  provided  that  we  are  al- 
lowed to  laugh  in  petto  at  both  kings  and  peoples,  to  think 
one  thing  in  the  morning  and  another  at  night,  and  to  lead 
a  merry  life  a  la  Panurge,  or  to  recline  upon  soft  cushions, 
more  orientali. 

"The  sceptre  of  this  burlesque  and  macaronic  kingdom," 
he  went  on,  "we  have  reserved  for  you ;  so  we  are  taking  you 
straightway  to  a  dinner  given  by  the  founder  of  the  said 
newspaper,  a  retired  banker,  who,  at  a  loss  to  know  what  to 
do  with  his  money,  is  going  to  buy  some  brains  with  it.  You 
will  be  welcomed  as  a  brother,  we  shall  hail  you  as  king  of 
these  free  lances  who  will  undertake  anything;  whose  per- 
spicacity discovers  the  intentions  of  Austria,  England,  or 
Eussia  before  either  Eussia,  Austria,  or  England  have  formed 
any.  Yes,  we  will  invest  you  with  the  sovereignty  of  those 
puissant  intellects  which  give  to  the  world  its  Mirabeaus, 
Talleyrands,  Pitts,  and  Mettornichs — all  the  clever  Crispins 
who  treat  the  destinies  of  a  kingdom  as  gamblers'  stakes, 
just  as  ordinary  men  play  dominoes  for  hirschenwasser.  We 
have  given  you  out  to  be  the  most  undaunted  champion  who 
ever  wrestled  in  a  drinking-bout  at  close  quarters  with  the 
monster  called  Carousal,  whom  all  bold  spirits  wish  to  try  a 
fall  with;  we  have  gone  so  far  as  to  say  that  you  have  never 
yet  been  worsted.  I  hope  you  will  not  make  liars  of  us. 
Taillefer,  our  amphitryon,  has  undertaken  to  surpass  the  cir- 
cumscribed saturnalias  of  the  petty  modern  Lucullus.  He 
is  rich  enough  to  infuse  pomp  into  trifles,  and  style  and 
charm  into  dissipation.  .  .  Are  you  listening,  Eaphael?" 
asked  the  orator,  interrupting  himself. 

"Yes,"  answered  the  young  man,  less  surprised  by  the  ac- 
complishment of  his  wishes  than  by  the  natural  manner  in 
which  the  events  had  come  about. 


THE  TAIJSMAN  Sb 

He  could  not  bring  himself  to  believe  in  magic,  but  ho 
marveled  at  the  accidents  of  human  fate. 

"Yes,  you  say,  just  as  if  you  were  thinking  of  your  grand- 
father's demise,"  remarked  one  of  his  neighbors. 

"Ah !"  cried  Raphael,  "I  was  thinking,  my  friends,  that  we 
are  in  a  fair  way  to  become  very  great  scoundrels,"  and  there 
was  an  ingenuousness  in  his  tones  that  set  these  writers,  the 
hope  of  young  France,  in  a  roar.  "So  far  our  blasphemies 
have  been  uttered  over  our  cups;  we  have  passed  our  judg- 
ments on  life  while  drunk,  and  taken  men  and  affairs  in  an 
after-dinner  frame  of  mind.  We  were  innocent  of  action ;  we 
were  bold  in  words.  But  now  we  are  to  be  branded  with  the 
hot  iron  of  politics;  we  are  going  to  enter  the  convict's  prison 
and  to  drop  our  illusions.  Although  one  has  no  belief  left,  ex- 
cept in  the  devil,  one  may  regret  the  paradise  of  one's  youth 
and  the  age  of  innocence,  when  we  devoutly  offered  the  tip  of 
our  tongue  to  some  good  priest  for  the  consecrated  wafer  of  the 
sacrament.  Ah,  my  good  friends,  our  first  peccadilloes  gave 
us  so  much  pleasure  because  the  consequent  remorse  set  them 
off  and  lent  a  keen  relish  to  them ;  but  nowadays " 

"Oh !  now,"  said  the  first  speaker,  "there  is  still 
left " 

"What?"  asked  another. 

"Crime " 

"There  is  a  word  as  high  as  the  gallows  and  deeper  than 
the  Seine,"  said  Eaphael. 

"Oh,  you  don't  understand  me;  I  mean  political  crime. 
Since  this  morning,  a  conspirator's  life  is  the  only  one  I 
covet.  I  don't  know  that  the  fancy  will  last  over  to-morrow, 
but  to-night  at  least  my  gorge  rises  at  the  anaemic  life  of  our 
civilization  and  its  railroad  evenness.  I  am  seized  with  a 
passion  for  the  miseries  of  the  retreat  from  Moscow,  for  the 
excitements  of  the  Red  Corsair,  or  for  a  smuggler's  life.  I 
should  like  to  go  to  Botany  Bay,  as  we  have  no  Chartreux 
left  us  here  in  France;  it  is  a  sort  of  infirmary  reserved  foi 
little  Lord  Byrons  who,  having  crumpled  up  their  lives  like 
a  serviette  after  dinner,  have  nothing  left  to  do  but  to  set  their 


40  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

country  ablaze,  blow  their  own  brains  out,  plot  for  a  republic, 
or  clamor  for  a  war " 

"ifimile,^'  Raphael's  neighbor  called  eagerly  to  the  speaker, 
"on  my  honor,  but  for  the  revolution  of  July  I  would  have 
taken  orders,  and  gone  off  down  into  the  country  somewhere 
to  lead  the  life  of  an  animal,  and " 

"And  you  would  have  read  your  breviary  through  ever 
day." 

"Yes." 

"You  are  a  coxcomb  !" 

"Why,  we  read  the  newspapers  as  it  is  V 

"i^ot  bad  that,  for  a  journalist !  But  hold  your  tongue^ 
we  are  going  through  a  crowd  of  subscribers.  Journalism, 
look  you,  is  the  religion  of  modern  society,  and  has  even  gone 
a  little  further." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Its  pontiffs  are  not  obliged  to  believe  in  it  any  more  than 
the  people  are." 

(Lhatting  thus,  like  good  fellows  who  have  known  their  De 
Viris  iUustribus  for  years  past,  they  reached  a  mansion  in  the 
Eue  Joubert. 

;6mile  was  a  journalist  who  had  acquired  more  reputation 
by  dint  of  doing  nothing  than  others  had  derived  from  their 
achievements.  A  bold,  caustic,  and  powerful  critic,  he  pos- 
sessed all  the  qualities  that  his  defects  permitted.  An  out- 
spoken giber,  he  made  numberless  epigrams  on  a  friend  to 
his  face;  but  would  defend  him,  if  absent,  with  courage  and 
loyalty.  He  laughed  at  everything,  even  at  his  own  career. 
Always  impecunious,  he  yet  lived,  like  all  men  of  his  calibre, 
plunged  in  unspeakable  indolence.  He  would  fling  some 
word  containing  whole  volumes  in  the  teeth  of  folk  who  could; 
not  put  a  syllable  of  sense  into  their  books.  He  lavished 
promises  that  he  never  fulfilled ;  he  made  a  pillow  of  his  luck 
a,nd  reputation,  on  which  he  slept,  and  ran  the  risk  of  waking 
up  to  old  age  in  a  workhouse.  A  steadfast  friend  to  the  gal- 
lows foot,  a  cynical  swaggerer  with  a  child's  simplicity,  a 
".vorker  only  from  necessity  or  caprice. 


THE  TAIJSMAN  41 

"In  the  language  of  Maitre  Alcofribas,  we  are  about  to 
make  a  famous  tronqon  de  chiere  lie"  he  remarked  to  Kaphael 
as  he  pointed  out  the  flower-stands  that  made  a  perfumed 
forest  of  the  staircase. 

"I  like  a  vestibule  to  be  well  warmed  and  richly  carpeted," 
Raphael  said.  "Luxury  in  the  peristyle  is  not  common  in 
France.     I  feel  as  if  life  had  begun  anew  here." 

"And  up  above  we  are  going  to  drink  and  make  merry  once 
more,  my  dear  Raphael.  Ah !  yes,"  he  went  on,  "and  I  hope 
we  are  going  to  come  off  conquerors,  too,  and  walk  over 
everybody  else's  head." 

As  he  spoke,  he  jestingly  pointed  to  the  guests.  They  were 
entering  a  large  room  which  shone  with  gilding  and  lights, 
and  there  all  the  younger  men  of  note  in  Paris  welcomed 
them.  Here  was  one  who  had  just  revealed  fresh  powers ;  his 
first  picture  vied  with  the  glories  of  Imperial  art.  There, 
another,  who  but  yesterday  had  launched  forth  a  volume,  an 
acrid  book  filled  with  a  sort  of  literary  arrogance,  which 
opened  up  new  ways  to  the  modern  school.  A  sculptor,  not 
far  away,  with  vigorous  power  visible  in  his  rough  features, 
was  chatting  with  one  of  those  unenthusiastic  scoffers  who  can 
either  see  excellence  anywhere  or  nowhere,  as  it  happens. 
Here,  the  cleverest  of  our  caricaturists,  with  mischievous  eyes 
and  bitter  tongue,  lay  in  wait  for  epigrams  to  translate  into 
pencil  strokes;  there,  stood  the  young  and  audacious  writer, 
who  distilled  the  quintessence  of  political  ideas  better  than  any 
other  man,  or  compressed  the  work  of  some  prolific  writer  as 
he  held  him  up  to  ridicule;  he  was  talking  with  the  poet 
whose  works  would  have  eclipsed  all  the  writings  of  the  time 
:<f  his  ability  had  been  as  strenuous  as  his  hatreds.  Both 
were  trying  not  to  say  the  truth  while  they  kept  clear  of  lies, 
as  they  exchanged  flattering  speeches.  A  famous  musician 
administered  soothing  consolation  in  a  rallying  fashion,  to  a 
young  politician  who  had  just  fallen  quite  unhurt,  from  his 
rostrum.  Young  writers  who  lacked  ''tyle  stood  beside  other 
^'oung  writers  who  lacked  ideas,  and  authors  of  poetical  prose 
by  prosaic  poets. 


4^  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

At  the  sight  of  all  these  incomplete  beings,  a  simple  Saint 
iSimonian,  ingenuous  enough  to  believe  in  his  own  doctrine, 
charitably  paired  them  off,  designing,  no  doubt,  to  convert 
them  into  monks  of  his  order.  A  few  men  of  science  mingled 
in  the  conversation,  like  nitrogen  in  the  atmosphere,  and 
several  vaudevillistes  shed  rays  like  the  sparkling  diamonds 
that  give  neither  light  nor  heat.  A  few  paradox-mongers, 
laughing  up  their  sleeves  at  any  folk  who  embraced  their  likes 
or  dislikes  in  men  or  affairs,  had  already  begun  a  two-edged 
policy,  conspiring  against  all  systems,  without  committing 
themselves  to  any  side.  Then  there  was  the  self-appointed 
critic  who  admires  nothing,  and  will  blow  his  nose  in  the 
middle  of  a  cavatina  at  the  Bouffons,  who  applauds  before  any 
one  else  begins,  and  contradicts  every  one  who  says  what  he 
himself  was  about  to  say ;  he  was  there  giving  out  the  sayings 
of  wittier  men  for  his.  own.  Of  all  the  assembled  guests,  u 
future  lay  before  some  five ;  ten  or  so  should  acquire  a  fleeting 
renown ;  as  for  the  rest,  like  all  mediocrities,  they  might  apply 
to  themselves  the  famous  falsehood  of  Louis  XVIII.,  Union 
and  oblivion. 

The  anxious  jocularity  of  a  man  who  is  expending  two  thou- 
sand crowns  sat  on  their  host.  His  eyes  turned  impatiently 
tovrards  the  door  from  time  to  time,  seeking  one  of  his  guests 
who  kept  him  waiting.  Very  soon  a  stout  little  person  ap- 
peared, who  was  greeted  by  a  complimentary  murmur ;  it  was 
the  notary  who  had  invented  the  newspaper  that  very  morn- 
ing. A  valet-de-chambre  in  black  opened  the  doors  of  a  vast 
dining-room,  whither  every  one  w^ent  without  ceremony,  and 
took  Ms  place  at  an  enormous  table. 

Raphael  took  a  last  look  round  the  room  before  he  left  it. 
His  wish  had  been  realized  to  the  full.  The  rooms  were 
adorned  with  silk  and  gold.  Countless  wax  tapers  set  in 
handsome  candelabra  lit  up  the  slightest  details  of  gilded 
friezes,  the  delicate  bronze  sculpture,  and  the  splendid  colors 
of  the  furniture.  The  sweet  scent  of  rare  flowers,  set  in 
stands  tastefully  made  of  bamboo,  filled  the  air.  Everything, 
even  the  curtains,  was  pervaded  by  elegance  without  preten- 


THE  TALISMAN  43 

sion,  and  there  was  a  certain  imaginative  charm  about  it  all 
which  acted  like  a  spell  on  the  mind  of  a  needy  man. 

^'An  income  of  a  hundred  thousand  livres  a  year  is  a  very 
nice  beginning  of  the  catechism,  and  a  wonderful  assistance 
to  jiutting  morality  into  our  actions/'  he  said,  sighing. 
"Ti-uly  my  sort  of  virtue  can  scarcely  go  afoot,  and  vice 
means,  to  my  thinking,  a  garret,  a  threadbare  coat,  a  gray 
hat  in  winter  time,  and  sums  owing  to  the  porter.  ...  I 
should  like  to  live  in  the  lap  of  luxury  a  year,  or  six  months, 
no  matter !  And  then  afterwards,  die.  I  should  have  known, 
exhausted,  and  consumed  a  thousand  lives,  at  any  rate." 

"Why,  you  are  taking  the  tone  of  a  stockbroker  in  good 
luck,"  said  Emile,  who  overheard  him.  "Pooh!  your  riches 
would  be  a  burden  to  you  as  soon  as  you  found  that  they  would 
spoil  your  chances  of  coming  out  above  the  rest  of  us.  Hasn't 
the  artist  always  kept  the  balance  true  between  the  poverty 
of  riches  and  the  riches  of  poverty?  And  isn't  struggle  a 
necessity  to  some  of  us?  Look  out  for  your  digestion,  and 
only  look,"  he  added,  with  a  mock-heroic  gesture,  "at  the 
majestic,  thrice  holy,  and  edifying  appearance  of  this  amiable 
capitalist's  dining-room.  That  man  has  in  reality  only  made 
his  money  for  our  benefit.  Isn't  he  a  kind  of  sponge  of  the 
polyp  order,  overlooked  by  naturalists,  which-  should  be  care- 
fully squeezed  before  he  is  left  for  his  heirs  to  feed  upon? 
There  is  style,  isn't  there,  about  those  bas-reliefs  that  adorn 
the  walls?  And  the  lustres,  and  the  pictures,  what  luxury 
well  carried  out !  If  one  may  believe  those  who  envy  him, 
or  who  know,  or  think  they  know,  the  origins  of  his  life,  then 
this  man  got  rid  of  a  German  and  some  others — his  best 
friend  for  one,  and  the  mother  of  that  friend,  during  the 
Eevolution.  Could  you  house  crimes  under  the  venerable 
Taillefer's  silvering  locks?  He  looks  to  me  a  very  worthy 
man.  Only  see  how  the  silver  sparkles,  and  is  every  glitter- 
ing ray  like  the  stab  of  a  dagger  to  him?  .  .  ,  Let  us 
go  in,  one  might  as  w^ell  believe  in  Mahomet.  If  common  re- 
port speak  truth,  here  are  thirty  men  of  talent,  and  good  fel- 
lows too,  prepared  to  dine  off  the  flesh  and  blood  of  a  whole 


44  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

family ;  .  .  .  and  here  are  we  ourselves,  a  pair  of  young- 
sters full  of  open-hearted  enthusiasm,  and  we  shall  be  par- 
takers in  his  guilt.  I  have  a  mind  to  ask  our  capitalist 
whether  he  is  a  respectable  character.     .     .     ." 

"No,  not  now,"  cried  Raphael,  "but  when  he  is  dead  drunk, 
we  shall  have  had  our  dinner  then." 

The  two  friends  sat  down  laughing.  First  of  all,  by  a 
glance  more  rapid  than  a  word,  each  paid  his  tribute  of  ad- 
miration to  the  splendid  general  effect  of  the  long  table,  white 
as  a  bank  of  freshly-fallen  snow,  with  its  symmetrical  line  of 
covers,  crowned  with  their  pale  golden  rolls  of  bread.  Rain- 
bow colors  gleamed  in  the  starry  rays  of  light  reflected  by  the 
glass ;  the  lights  of  the  tapers  crossed  and  recrossed  each  other 
indefinitely;  the  dishes  covered  with  their  silver  domes 
whetted  both  appetite  and  curiosity. 

Few  words  were  spoken.  Neighbors  exchanged  glances  as 
the  Maderia  circulated.  Then  the  first  course  appeared  in 
all  its  glory ;  it  would  have  done  honor  to  the  late  Cambaceres, 
Brillat-Savarin  would  have  celebrated  it.  The  wines  of 
Bordeaux  and  Burgundy,  white  and  red,  were  royally  lavished. 
This  first  part  of  the  banquet  might  have  been  compared  in 
every  way  to  a  rendering  of  some  classical  tragedy.  The 
second  act  grew  a  trifle  noisier.  Every  guest  had  had  a  fair 
amount  to  drink,  and  had  tried  various  crus  at  his  pleasure, 
so  that  as  the  remains  of  the  magnificent  first  course  were 
removed,  tumultuous  discussions  began ;  a  pale  brow  here  and 
there  began  to  flush,  sundry  noses  took  a  purpler  hue,  faces 
lit  up,  and  e3'es  sparkled. 

While  intoxication  was  only  dawning,  the  conversation  did 
not  overstep  the  bounds  of  civility;  but  banter  and  hon  mots 
slipped  by  degrees  from  every  tongue;  and  then  sland(;r  began 
to  rear  its  little  snake's  head,  and  spoke  in  dulcet  tones ;  a  few 
shrewd  ones  here  and  there  gave  heed  to  it,  hoping  to  keep 
their  heads.  So  the  second  course  found  their  minds  some- 
what heated.  Every  one  ate  as  he  spoke,  spoke  while  he  ate, 
and  drank  without  heeding  the  quantity  of  the  liquor,  the 
wine  was  so  ])iting,  the  bouquet  so  fragrant,  the  example 


THE  TALISMAN  45 

around  so  infectious.  Taillcfer  made  a  point  of  stimulating 
his  guests,  and  plied  tliem  with  the  formidable  wines  of  the 
Ehone,  with  fierce  Tokay,  and  heady  old  Roussillon. 

The  champagne,  impatiently  expected  and  lavishly  poured 
out,  was  a  scourge  of  fiery  sparks  to  these  men,  released  like 
post-horses  from  some  mail-coach  by  a  relay;  they  let  their 
spirits  gallop  away  into  the  wilds  of  argument  to  which  no  one 
listened,  began  to  tell  stories  which  had  no  auditors,  and  re- 
peatedly asked  questions  to  which  no  answer  was  made.  Only 
the  loud  voice  of  wassail  could  be  heard,  a  voice  made  up  of 
a  hundred  confused  clamors,  which  rose  and  grew  like  a 
crescendo  of  Eossini's.  Insidious  toasts,  swagger,  and  chal- 
lenges followed. 

Each  renounced  any  pride  in  his  own  intellectual  capacity, 
in  order  to  vindicate  that  of  hogsheads,  casks,  and  vats ;  and 
each  made  noise  enough  for  two.  A  time  came  when  the 
footmen  smiled,  while  their  masters  all  talked  at  once.  A 
philosopher  would  have  been  interested,  doubtless,  by  the 
singularity  of  the  thoughts  expressed,  a  politician  would  have 
been  amazed  by  the  incongruity  of  the  methods  discussed  in 
the  melee  of  words  or  doubtfully  luminous  paradoxes,  where 
truths,  grotesquely  caparisoned,  met  in  conflict  across  the  up- 
roar of  brawling  judgments,  of  arbitrary  decisions  and  folly, 
much  as  bullets,  shells,  and  grapeshot  are  hurled  across  a 
battlefield. 

It  was  at  once  a  volume  and  a  picture.  Every  philosophy, 
religion,  and  moral  code  differing  so  greatly  in  every  latitude, 
every  government,  every  great  achievement  of  the  human  in- 
tellect, fell  before  a  scythe  as  long  as  Time's  own;  and  you 
might  have  found  it  hard  to  decide  whether  it  was  wielded 
by  Gravity  intoxicated,  or  by  Inebriation  grown  sober  and 
clear-sighted.  -Borne  away  by  a  kind  of  tempest,  their  minds, 
like  the  sea  raging  against  the  cliffs,  seemed  ready  to  shake  the 
laws  which  confine  the  ebb  and  flow  of  civilization;  uncon- 
sciously fulfilling  the  will  of  God,  who  has  suffered  evil  and 
good  to  abide  in  nature,  and  reserved  the  secret  of  their  con- 
tinual strife  to  Himself.   A  frantic  travesty  of  debate  ensued. 


4e  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

a  Walpurgis-revel  of  intellects.  Between  the  dreary  jests  of 
these  children  of  the  Eevolution  over  the  inauguration  of  a 
newspaper,  and  the  talk  of  the  joyous  gossips  at  Gargantua's 
birth,  stretched  the  gulf  that  divides  the  nineteenth  century 
from  the  sixteenth.  Laughingly  they  had  begun  the  work  of 
destruction,  and  our  journalists  laughed  amid  the  ruins. 

"What  is  the  name  of  that  young  man  over  there?"  »alC, 
the  notary,  indicating  Baphael.  "I  thought  I  heard  some  or.c 
call  him  Valentin." 

"Vvliat  stuff'  is  this?"  said  fimile,  laughing;  "plaif^ 
Valentin,  say  you  ?  Eaphael  de  Valentin,  if  you  please.  We 
bear  an  eagle  or,  on  a  field  sable,  with  a  silver  crown,  beak,  and 
claws  gules,  and  a  fine  motto:  Non  cecidit  animus.  We 
are  no  foundling  child,  but  a  descendant  of  the  Emperor 
Valens,  of  the  stock  of  the  Valentinois,  founders  of  the  cities 
of  Valence  in  France,  and  Valencia  in  Spain,  rightful  heirs 
to  the  Empire  of  the  East.  If  we  suffer  Mahmoud  on  the 
throne  of  Byzantium,  it  is  out  of  pure  condescension,  and  for 
lack  of  funds  and  soldiers." 

With  a  fork  flourished  above  Eaphael's  head,  fimile  out- 
lined a  crown  upon  it.  The  notary  bethought  himself  a 
moment,  but  soon  fell  to  drinl<:ing  again,  with  a  gesture 
peculiar  to  himself ;  it  was  quite  impossible,  it  seemed  to  say. 
to  secure  in  his  clientele  the  cities  of  Valence  and  Byzantium, 
the  Emperor  Valens,  Mahmoud,  and  the  house  of  Valentinois. 

"Should  not  the  destruction  of  those  ant-hills,  Babylon, 
Tyre,  Carthage,  and  Venice,  each  crushed  beneath  the  foot  of 
apassing  giant, serve  as  a  warning  to  man,  vouchsafed  by  some 
mocking  power?"  said  Claude  Vignon,  who  must  play  the 
Bossuet,  as  a  sort  of  purchased  slave,  at  the  rate  of  fivepence 
a  line. 

"Perhaps  Moses,  Sylla,  Louis  XL,  Eichelieu,  Eobespierre, 
and  Napoleon  were  but  the  same  man  who  crosses  our  civiliza- 
tions now  and  again,  like  a  comet  across  the  sky,"  said  a  dis- 
ciple of  Ballanche. 

'^hy  try  to  fathoui   the  designs  of  Providence?"  said 
Canalis,  maker  of  ballads. 


THE  TALISMAN  47 

"Come,  now,"  said  the  man  who  set  up  for  a  critic,  "there 
is  nothing  more  elastic  in  the  world  than  your  Provi- 
dence/' 

"Well,  sir,  Louis  XIY.  sacrificed  more  lives  over  digging 
the  foundations  of  the  Maintenon's  aqueducts,  than  the  Con- 
vention expended  in  order  to  assess  the  taxes  justly,  to  make 
one  law  for  everybody,  and  one  nation  of  France,  and  to 
establish  the  rule  of  equal  inheritance,"  said  Massol,  whom 
the  lack  of  a  syllable  before  his  name  had  made  a  Eepiihli- 
can. 

"Are  you  going  to  leave  our  heads  on  our  shoulders  ?"  asked 
Moreau  (of  the  Oise),  a  substantial  farmer.  "You,  sir,  who 
took  blood  for  wine  just  now  ?" 

"Where  is  the  use?  Aren't  the  principles  of  social  order 
worth  some  sacrifices,  sir?" 

"Hi !  Bixiou !  W^hat's-his-name,  the  Republican,  con- 
siders a  landowner's  head  a  sacrifice!"  said  a  young  man  to 
his  neighbor. 

"Men  and  events  count  for  nothing,"  said  the  Republican, 
following  out  his  theory  in  spite  of  hiccoughs ;  "in  politics,  as 
in  philosophy,  there  are  only  principles  and  ideas." 

"What  an  abomination !  Then  you  would  ruthlessly  put 
your  friends  to  death  for  a  shibboleth  ?" 

"Eh,  sir !  the  man  who  feels  compunction  is  your  thorough 
scoundrel,  for  he  has  some  notion  of  virtue;  while  Peter  the 
Great  and  the  Duke  of  Alva  were  embodied  systems,  and  the 
pirate  Monbard  an  organization." 

"But  can't  society  rid  itself  of  your  systems  and  organiza- 
tions?" said  Canalis. 

"Oh,  granted  !"  cried  the  Republican. 

"That  stupid  Republic  of  yours  makes  me  feel  queasy.  We 
sha'n't  be  able  to  carve  a  capon  in  peace,  because  we  shall  find 
the  agrarian  lav/  inside  it." 

"Ah,  my  little  Brutus,  stuffed  with  truffles,  your  principles 
are  all  right  enough.  But  you  are  like  my  valet,  the  rogue  is 
so  frightfully  possessed  with  a  mania  for  property  that  if  I 


48  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

left  him  to  clean  my  clothes  after  his  fashion,  he  would  soon 
clean  me  out." 

"Crass  idiots  !"  replied  the  Eepublican,  "you  era  for  setting 
a  nation  straight  with  toothpicks.  To  your  way  of  thinking, 
justice  is  more  dangerous  than  thieves." 

"Oh,  dear !"  cried  the  attorney  Desroches. 

"Aren't  they  a  bore  with  their  politics !"  said  the  notary 
Cardot.  "Shut  up.  That's  enough  of  it.  There  is  no 
knowledge  nor  virtue  worth  shedding  a  drop  of  blood  for.  If 
Truth  were  brought  into  liquidation,  we  might  find  her  in- 
solvent." 

"It  would  be  much  less  trouble,  no  doubt,  to  amuse  our- 
selves with  evil,  rather  than  dispute  about  good.  Moreover, 
I  would  give  all  the  speeches  made  for  forty  years  past  at  the 
Tribune  for  a  trout,  for  one  of  Perrault's  tales  or  Charlet's 
sketches." 

"Quite  right !  .  .  .  Hand  me  the  asparagus.  Because, 
after  all,  liberty  begets  anarchy,  anarchy  leads  to  despotism, 
and  despotism  back  again  to  liberty.  Millions  have  died  with- 
out securing  a  triumph  for  any  one  system.  Is  not  that  the 
vicious  circle  in  which  the  whole  moral  vv^orld  revolves  ?  Man 
believes  that  he  has  reached  perfection,  when  in  fact  he  has  but 
rearranged  matters." 

"Oh !  oh  !"  cried  Cursy,  the  vaudevilliste ;  "in  that  case,  gen- 
tlemen, here's  to  Charles  X.,  the  father  of  liberty." 

"Why  not?"  asked  fimile.  "When  law  becomes  despotic, 
_norals  are  relaxed,  and  vice  versa." 

"Let  us  drink  to  the  imbecility  of  authority,  which  gives 
•is  such  an  authority  over  imbeciles !"  said  the  banker. 

"Napoleon  left  us  glory,  at  any  rate,  my  good  friend !"  ex- 
claimed a  naval  officer  who  had  never  left  Brest. 

"Glory  is  a  poor  bargain ;  you  buy  it  dear,  and  it  will  not 
keep.  Does  not  the  egotism  of  the  great  take  the  form  of 
glory,  just  as  for  nobodies  it  is  their  own  well-being?" 

"You  are  very  fortunate,  sir " 

"The  first  inventor  of  ditches  must  have  been  a  weakling, 
for  society  is  only  useful  to  the  puny.     The  savage  and  the 


THE  TALISMAN  49 

philosopher,  at  either  extreme  of  the  moral  scale,  hold  prop- 
erty in  equal  horror." 

"All  very  fine  !"  said  Cardot;  "but  if  there  were  no  property, 
there  would  be  no  documents  to  draw  up." 

"These  green  peas  are  excessively  delicious !" 

"And  the  cure  was  found  dead  in  his  bed  in  the  morn- 
ing.     .     .     ." 

"Who  is  talking  about  death?  Pray  don't  trifle,  I  have 
an  uncle." 

"Could  you  bear  his  loss  with  resignation?" 

"Xo  question." 

"Gentlemen,  listen  to  me !  How  to  kill  an  uncle. 
Silence!  (Cries  of  "Hush!  hush!")  In  the  first  place,  take 
an  uncle,  large  and  stout,  seventy  years  old  at  least,  they  are 
the  best  uncles.  (Sensation.)  Get  him  to  eat  a  pate  de  foie 
gras,  any  pretext  will  do." 

"Ah,  but  my  uncle  is  a  thin,  tall  man,  and  very  niggardly 
and  abstemious." 

"That  sort  of  uncle  is  a  monster;  he  misappropriates 
existence." 

"Then,"  the  speaker  on  uncles  went  on,  "tell  him,  while 
he  is  digesting  it,  that  his  banker  has  failed." 

"How  if  he  bears  up  ?" 

"Let  loose  a  pretty  girl  on  him." 

"And  if ?"  asked  the  other,  with  a  shake  of  the  head. 

"Then  he  wouldn't  be  an  uncle— an  uncle  is  a  gay  dog  by 
nature." 

"Malibran  has  lost  two  notes  in  her  voice." 

"No,  sir,  she  has  not." 

"Yes,  sir,  she  has." 

"Oh,  ho!  ,No  and  yes,  is  not  that  the  sum-up  of  all 
religious,  political,  or  literary  dissertations  ?  Man  is  a  clown 
dancing  on  the  edge  of  an  abyss." 

"You  would  make  out  that  I  am  a  fool." 

"On  the  contrary,  you  cannot  make  me  out." 

"Education,  there's  a  pretty  piece  of  tomfoolery.  M. 
Heineffettermach  estimates  the  number  of  printed  volumes 


50  I'HE  MAGIC  SKIN 

at  more  than  a  thousand  millions;  and  a  man  cannot  read 
more  than  a  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  in  his  lifetime.  So, 
just  tell  me  what  that  word  education  means.  For  some  it 
consists  in  knowing  the  names  of  Alexander's  horse,  of  the 
dog  Berecillo,  of  the  Seigneur  d' Accords,  and  in  ignorance  of 
the  man  to  whom  we  owe  the  discovery  of  rafting  and  the 
manufacture  of  porcelain.  For  others  it  is  the  knowledge 
how  to  burn  a  will  and  live  respected,  be  looked  up  to  and 
popular,  instead  of  stealing  a  watch  with  half-a-dozen  aggra- 
vating circumstances,  after  a  previous  conviction,  and  so 
perishing,  hated  and  dishonored,  in  the  Place  de  Greve." 

"Will  Nathan's  work  live?" 

"He  has  very  clever  collaborators,  sir.'* 

"Or  Canalis  ?" 

"He  is  a  great  man ;  let  us  say  no  more  about  him." 

"You  are  all  drunk !" 

"The  consequence  of  a  Constitution  is  the  immediate 
stultification  of  intellects.  Art,  science,  public  works,  every- 
thing, is  consumed  by  a  horribly  egoistic  feeling,  the  leprosy 
of  the  time.  Three  hundred  of  your  bourgeoisie,  set  down 
on  benches,  will  only  think  of  planting  poplars.  Tyranny 
does  great  things  lawlessly,  while  Liberty  will  scarcely  trouble 
herself  to  do  petty  ones  lawfully." 

"Your  reciprocal  instruction  will  turn  out  counters  in 
human  flesh,"  broke  in  an  Absolutist.  "All  individuality  will 
disappear  in  a  people  brought  to  a  dead  level  by  education." 

"For  all  that,  is  not  the  aim  of  society  to  secure  happiness 
to  each  member  of  it  ?"  asked  the  Saint-Simonian. 

"If  you  had  an  income  of  fifty  thousand  livres,  you  would 
not  think  much  about  the  people.  If  you  are  smitten  with 
a  tender  passion  for  the  race,  go  to  Madagascar;  there  you 
will  find  a  nice  little  nation  all  ready  to  Saint-Simonize, 
classify,  and  cork  up  in  your  phials,  but  here  every  one  fits 
into  his  niche  like  a  peg  in  a  hole.  A  porter  is  a  porter,  and 
a  l)lockhead  is  a  fool,  without  a  college  of  fathers  to  promote 
tlu'iii  to  those  positions." 

"You  are  a  Carlist." 


THE  TALISMAN  bl 

"And  why  not  ?  Despotism  pleases  me ;  it  implies  a  certain 
contempt  for  the  human  race.  I  have  no  animosity  against 
kings,  they  are  so  amusing.  Is  it  nothing  to  sit  enthroned 
in  a  room,  at  a  distance  of  thirty  million  leagues  from  the 
sun?" 

"Let  us  once  more  take  a  broad  view  of  civilization/'  said 
the  man  of  learning  who,  for  the  benefit  of  the  inattentive 
si'ulptor,  had  opened  a  discussion  on  primitive  society  and 
autochthonous  races.  "The  vigor  of  a  nation  in  its  origin 
was  in  a  way  physical,  unitary,  and  crude;  then  as  aggrega- 
tions increased,  government  advanced  by  a  decomposition  of 
the  primitive  rule,  more  or  less  skilfully  managed.  For  ex- 
ample, in  remote  ages  national  strength  lay  in  theocracy,  the 
priest  held  both  sword  and  censer ;  a  little  later  there  were  two 
priests,  the  pontiff  and  the  king.  To-day  our  society,  the 
latest  word  of  civilization,  has  distributed  power  according  to 
the  number  of  combinations,  and  we  come  to  the  forces  called 
business,  thought,  money,  and  eloquence.  Authority  thus 
divided  is  steadily  approaching  a  social  dissolution,  with  inter- 
est as  its  one  opposing  barrier.  We  depend  no  longer  on  either 
religion  or  physical  force,  but  upon  intellect.  Can  a  book 
replace  the  sword  ?  Can  discussion  be  a  substitute  for  action  ? 
That  is  the  question." 

"Intellect  has  made  an  end  of  everything,"  cried  the 
Carlist.  "Come,  now !  Absolute  freedom  has  brought  about 
national  suicides:  their  triumph  left  them  as  listless  as  an 
English  millionaire." 

"Won't  you  tell  us  something  new?  You  have  made  fun 
of  authority  of  all  sorts  to-day,  which  is  every  bit  as  vulgar 
as  denying  the  existence  of  God.  So  you  have  no  belief  left, 
and  the  century  is  like  an  old  Sultan  worn  out  by  debauchery  ! 
Your  Byron,  in  short,  sings  of  crime  and  its  emotions  in  a 
final  despair  of  poetry." 

"Don't  you  know,"  replied  Bianchon,  quite  drunk  by  this 
time,  "that  a  dose  of  phosphorus  more  or  less  makes  the  man 
of  genius  or  the  scoundrel,  a  cle\?er  man  or  an  idiot,  a  virtuous 
person  or  a  criminal  ?" 


52  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

"Can  any  one  treat  of  virtue  thus  ?"  cried  Cursy.  "Virtue, 
the  subject  of  every  drama  at  the  theatre,  the  denou- 
ment  of  every  play,  the  foundation  of  every  court  of 
law."     .     .     . 

"Be  quiet,  you  ass.  You  are  an  Achilles  for  virtue,  without 
his  heel,"  said  Bixiou. 

"Some  drink !" 

"What  will  you  bet  that  I  will  drink  a  bottle  of  champagne 
like  a  flash,  at  one  pull?" 

"What  a  flash  of  wit!" 

"Drunk  as  lords,"  muttered  a  young  man  gravely,  trying  to 
give  some  wine  to  his  waistcoat. 

"Yes,  sir;  real  government  is  the  art  of  ruling  by  public 
opinion." 

"Opinion?  That  is  the  most  vicious  jade  of  all.  Accord- 
ing to  you  moralists  and  politicians,  the  laws  you  set  up  are 
always  to  go  before  those  of  nature,  and  opinion  before  con- 
science- You  are  right  and  wrong  both.  Suppose  society 
bestows  down  pillows  on  us,  that  benefit  is  made  up  for  by 
the  gout;  and  justice  is  likewise  tempered  by  red-tape,  and 
colds  accompany  cashmere  shawls." 

"Wretch  !"  Emile  broke  in  upon  the  misanthrope,  "how  can 
you  slander  civilization  here  at  table,  up  to  the  eyes  in  wines 
and  exquisite  dishes?  Eat  away  at  that  roebuck  with  the 
gilded  horns  and  feet,  and  do  not  carp  at  your  mother.     .     ." 

"Is  it  any  fault  of  mine  if  Catholicism  puts  a  million  deities 
in  a  sack  of  flour,  that  Republics  will  end  in  a  Napoleon,  that 
monarchy  dwells  between  the  assassination  of  Henry  IV.  and 
the  trial  of  Louis  XVI.,  and  Liberalism  produces  La- 
f  ayettes  ?" 

"Didn't  you  embrace  him  in  July  ?" 

"No." 

"Then  hold  your  tongue,  you  sceptic." 

"Sceptics  are  the  most  conscientious  of  men." 

"They  have  no  conscience." 

"What  are  you  saying?     They  have  two  apiece  at  least !" 

"So  you  want  to  discount  heaven,  a  thoroughly  commercial 


THE  TALISMAN  53 

notion.  Ancient  religious  were  but  tlie  unchecked  develop- 
ment of  physical  pleasure,  but  we  have  developed  a  soul  and 
expectations ;  some  advance  has  been  made." 

"What  can  you  expect,  my  friends,  of  a  century  filled  with 
politics  to  repletion?"  asked  Nathan.  "What  befell  The  His- 
tory of  the  King  of  Bohemia  and  his  Seven  Castles,  a  most  en- 
trancing conception?     .     .     ." 

"I  say,"  the  would-be  critic  cried  down  the  whole  length 
of  the  table.  "The  phrases  might  have  been  drawn  at  hap- 
hazard from  a  hat,  'twas  a  work  written  'down  to  Charen- 
ton.' " 

"You  are  a  fool !" 

"And  you  are  a  rogue  I" 

"Oh !  oh !" 

"Ah !  ah !" 

"They  are  going  to  fight." 

"No,  they  aren't." 

"You  will  find  me  to-morrow,  sir." 

"This  very  moment,"  Nathan  answered. 

"Come,  come,  you  pair  of  fire-eaters !" 

"You  are  another !"  said  the  prime  mover  in  the  quarrel. 

"They  can  hardly  stand  on  their  legs." 

"Ah,  I  can't  stand  upright,  perhaps  ?"  asked  the  pugnacious 
Nathan,  straightening  himself  up  like  a  stag-beetle  about  to 

%• 

He  stared  stupidly  round  the  table,  then,  completely  ex- 
hausted by  the  effort,  sank  back  into  his  chair,  and  mutely 
hung  his  head. 

"Would  it  not  have  been  nice,"  the  critic  said  to  his  neigh- 
bor, "to  fight  about  a  book  I  have  neither  read  nor  seen  ?" 

"fimile,  look  out  for  your  coat;  your  neighbor  is  growing 
pale,"  said  Bixiou. 

"Kant  ?  Yet  another  ball  fiung  out  for  fools  to  sport  with, 
sir !  Materialism  and  spiritualism  are  a  fine  pair  of  battle- 
dores with  which  charlatans  in  long  gowns  keep  a  shuttlecock 
a-going.  Suppose  tbat  God  is  everywhere,  as  Spinoza  says, 
or  flint  all  things  proceed  from  God,  as  says  St.  Paul     .     .    . 

V.JL.   1 9 


<i4  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

the  nincompoops,  the  door  shuts  or  opens,  but  isn't  the  move- 
ment the  same?  Does  the  fowl  come  from  tlie  egg,  or  the 
egg  from  the  fowl  ?  .  .  .  Just  hand  me  some  duck  .  .  . 
and  there,  you  have  all  science." 

"Simpleton!"  cried  the  man  of  science,  "your  problem  is 
settled  by  fact  1" 

"What  fact?" 

"Professors'  chairs  were  not  made  for  philosophy,  but 
philosophy  for  the  professors'  chairs.  Put  on  a  pair  of 
spectacles  and  read  the  budget." 

"Thieves !" 

"Nincompoops !" 

"Knaves !" 

"Gulls !" 

*^here  but  in  Paris  will  you  find  such  a  ready  and  rapid 
exchange  of  thought  ?"  cried  Bixiou  in  a  deep,  bass  voice. 

"Bixiou !     Act  a  classical  farce  for  us  !     Come,  now." 

"Would  vou  like  me  to  depict  the  nineteenth  century?" 

"Silence." 

"Pay  attention." 

"Clap  a  muffle  on  your  trumpets." 

"Shut  up,  you  Turk !" 

"Give  him  some  wine,  and  let  that  fellow  keep  quiet." 

"Now,  then,  Bixiou !" 

The  artist  buttoned  his  hlack  coat  to  the  collar,  put  on 
yellow  gloves,  and  began  to  burlesque  the  Revue  des  Deux 
Mondes  by  acting  a  squinting  old  lady;  but  the  uproar 
drowned  his  voice,  and  no  one  heard  a  word  of  the  satire. 
Still,  if  he  did  not  catch  the  spirit  of  the  century,  he  repre- 
sented the  Revue  at  any  rate,  for  his  own  intentions  were  not 
very  clear  to  him. 

Dessert  was  served  as  if  by  magic.  A  huge  epergne  of 
gilded  bronze  from  Thomire's  studio  overshadowed  the  table. 
Tall  statuettes,  which  a  celebrated  artist  had  endued  with 
ideal  beauty  according  to  conventional  European  notions,  sus- 
tained and  carried  pyramids  of  strawberries,  pines,  fresh 
dates,  golden  grapes,  clear-skinned  peaches,  oranges  brought 


THE  TALISMAN  55 

from  Setubal  by  steamer,  pomegranates,  Chinese  fruit;  in 
short,  all  the  surprises  of  luxury,  miracles  of  confectionery, 
the  most  tempting  dainties,  and  choicest  delicacies.  The 
coloring  of  this  epicurean  work  of  art  Avas  enhanced  by  the 
splendors  of  porcelain,  by  sparkling  outlines  of  gold,  by  the 
chasing  of  the  vases.  Poussin's  landscapes,  copied  on  Sevres 
ware,  were  crowned  with  graceful  fringes  of  moss,  green, 
translucent,  and  fragile  as  ocean  weeds. 

The  revenue  of  a  German  prince  would  not  have  defrayed 
the  cost  of  this  arrogant  display.  Silver  and  mother-of-pearl, 
gold  and  crystal,  were  lavished  afresh  in  new  forms;  but 
scarcely  a  vague  idea  of  this  almost  Oriental  fairyland  pene- 
trated eyes  now  heavy  with  wine,  or  crossed  the  delirium  of 
intoxication.  The  fire  and  fragrance  of  the  wines  acted  like 
potent  philters  and  magical  fumes,  producing  a  kind  of  mirage 
in  the  brain,  binding  feet,  and  weighing  down  hands.  The 
pyramids  of  fruit  were  ransacked,  voices  grew  thicker,  the 
clamor  increased.  Words  were  no  longer  distinct,  glasses 
flew  in  pieces,  senseless  peals  of  laughter  broke  out.  Cursy 
snatched  up  a  horn  and  struck  up  a  flourish  on  it.  It  acted 
like  a  signal  given  by  the  devil.  Yells,  hisses,  songs,  cries^ 
and  groans  went  up  from  the  maddened  crew.  You  might 
have  smiled  to  see  men,  light-hearted  by  nature,  grow  tragical 
as  Crebillon's  dramas,  and  pensive  as  a  sailor  in  a  coach. 
Hard-headed  men  blabbed  secrets  to  the  inquisitive,  who  were 
long  past  heeding  them.  Saturnine  faces  were  wreathed  in 
smiles  worthy  of  a  pirouetting  dancer.  Claude  Vignon  shuf- 
fled about  like  a  bear  in  a  cage.  Intimate  friends  began  to 
fight. 

Animal  likenesses,  so  curiously  traced  by  physiologists  in 
human  faces,  came  out  in  gestures  and  behavior.  A  book 
lay  open  for  a  Bichat  if  he  had  repaired  thither  fasting  and 
collected.  The  master  of  the  house,  knowing  his  condition, 
did  not  dare  to  stir,  but  encouraged  his  guests'  extravagances 
with  a  fixed  grimacing  smile,  meant  to  be  hospitable  and  ap- 
propriate.    His  large  face,  turning  from  blue  and  red  to  a 


56  THE  MA.G1C  SKIN 

purple  shade  terrible  to  see,  partook  of  the  general  commotion 
by  movements  like  the  heaving  and  pitcliing  of  a  brig. 

"iSTow,  did  you  murder  them  ?"  Emile  asked  him. 

"Capital  punishment  is  going  to  be  abolished,  they  say,  in 
favor  of  the  Eevolution  of  July,"  answered  Taillefer,  raising 
his  eyebrows  with  drunken  sagacity. 

"Don't  they  rise  up  before  you  in  dreams  at  times?'' 
Raphael  j)ersisted. 

"There's  a  statute  of  limitations,"  said  the  murderer- 
Croesus. 

"And  on  his  tombstone,"  Emile  began,  with  a  sardonic 
laugh,  "the  stonemason  will  carve  'Passer-by,  accord  a  tear, 
in  memory  of  one  that's  here !'  Oh,"  he  continued,  "I  would 
cheerfully  pay  a  hundred  sous  to  any  mathematician  who 
would  prove  the  existence  of  hell  to  me  by  an  algebraical 
equation." 

He  flung  up  a  coin  and  cried : 

"Heads  for  the  existence  of  God !" 

"Don't  look!"  Eaphael  cried,  pouncing  upon  it.  "Who 
knows  ?     Suspense  is  so  pleasant." 

"Unluckily,"  Emile  said,  with  burlesque  melancholy,  "I  can 
see  no  halting-place  between  the  unbeliever's  aritlunetic  and 
the  papal  Pater  noster.  Pshaw !  let  us  drink.  Trinq  was, 
I  believe,  the  oracular  answer  of  the  dive  houteille  and  the 
final  conclusion  of  Pantagruel." 

"We  owe  our  arts  and  monuments  to  the  Pater  noster,  and 
our  knowledge,  too,  perhaps;  and  a  still  greater  benefit — 
modern  government — whereby  a  vast  and  teeming  society  is 
w^ondrously  represented  by  some  five  hundred  intellects.  It 
neutralizes  opposing  forces  and  gives  free  play  to  civiliza- 
tion, that  Titan  queen  who  has  succeeded  the  ancient  terrible 
figure  of  the  king,  that  sham  Providence,  reared  by  man  be- 
tween himself  and  heaven.  In  the  face  of  such  achievements, 
atheism  seems  like  a  barren  skeleton.     What  do  you  say?" 

"I  am  thinking  of  the  seas  of  blood  shed  by  Catholicism/' 
Tilmile  replied,  quite  unimpressed.  "It  has  drained  our  hearts 
and  veins  dry  to  make  a  mimic  deluge.     No  matter !     Every 


THE  TALISMAN  5T 

man  who  thinks  must  range  himself  heneath  the  banner  of 
Christ,  for  He  alone  has  consummated  the  triumph  of  spirit 
over  matter;  He  alone  has  revealed  to  us,  like  a  poet,  an  in- 
termediate world  that  sej^arates  us  from  the  Deity." 

"Believest  thou?"  asked  Kaphael  with  an  unaccountable 
drunken  smile.  "Very  good ;  we  must  not  commit  ourselves ; 
so  we  will  drink  the  celebrated  toast,  Diis  ignotis!" 

And  they  drained  the  chalice  filled  up  with  science, 
carbonic  acid  gas,  perfumes,  poetry,  and  incredulity. 

"If  the  gentlemen  will  go  to  the  drawing-room,  coffee  is 
ready  for  them,"  said  the  major-domo. 

There  was  scarcely  one  of  those  present  whose  mind  was 
not  floundering  by  this  time  in  the  delights  of  chaos,  where 
every  spark  of  intelligence  is  quenched,  and  the  body,  set  free 
from  its  tyranny,  gives  itself  up  to  the  frenetic  joys  of  liberty. 
Some  who  had  arrived  at  the  apogee  of  intoxication  were 
dejected,  as  they  painfully  tried  to  arrest  a  single  thought 
which  might  assure  them  of  their  own  existence ;  others,  deep 
in  the  heav}^  morasses  of  indigestion,  denied  the  possibility  of 
movement.  The  noisy  and  the  silent  were  oddly  as- 
sorted. 

For  all  that,  when  new  joys  were  announced  to  them  by 
the  stentorian  tones  of  the  servant,  who  spoke  on  his  master's 
behalf,  they  all  rose,  leaning  upon,  dragging  or  carrying  one 
another.  But  on  the  threshold  of  the  room  the  entire  crew 
paused  for  a  moment,  motionless,  as  if  fascinated.  The  in- 
temperate pleasures  of  the  banquet  seemed  to  fade  away  at 
this  titillating  spectacle,  prepared  by  their  amphitryon  to  ap- 
peal to  the  most  sensual  of  their  instincts. 

Beneath  the  shining  wax-lights  in  a  golden  chandelier, 
round  about  a  table  inlaid  with  gilded  metal,  a  group  of  wo- 
men, whose  eyes  shone  like  diamonds,  suddenly  met  the 
stupefied  stare  of  the  revelers.  Their  toilettes  were  splendid, 
but  less  magnificent  than  their  beauty,  which  eclipsed  the 
other  marvels  of  this  palace.  A  light  shone  from  their  eyes, 
bewitching  as  those  of  sirens,  more  brilliant  and  ardent  than 
the  blaze  that  streamed  down  upon  the  snowy  marble,  the 


58  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

delicately  carved  surfaces  of  bronze,  and  lit  -up  the  satin  sheen 
of  the  tapestry.  The  contrasts  of  their  attitudes  and  the 
slight  movements  of  their  heads,  each  differing  in  character 
and  nature  of  attraction,  set  the  heart  afire.  It  was  like  a 
thicket,  where  blossoms  mingled  with  rubies,  sapphires,  and 
coral;  a  combination  of  gossamer  scarves  that  flickered  like 
beacon-lights;  of  black  ribbons  about  snowy  throats;  of 
gorgeous  turbans  and  demurely  enticing  apparel.  It  was  a 
seraglio  that  appealed  to  every  eye,  and  fulfilled  every  fancy. 
Each  form  posed  to  admiration  was  scarcely  concealed  by  the 
folds  of  cashmere,  and  half  hidden,  half  revealed  by  trans- 
parent gauze  and  diaphanous  silk.  The  little  slender  feet 
were  eloquent,  though  the  fresh  red  lips  uttered  no  sound. 

Demure  and  fragile-looking  girls,  pictures  of  maidenly  in- 
nocence, with  a  semblance  of  conventional  unction  about  their 
heads,  were  there  like  apparitions  that  a  breath  might  dissi- 
pate. Aristocratic  beauties  with  haughty  glances;  languid, 
flexible,  slender,  and  complaisant,  bent  their  heads  as  though 
there  were  royal  protectors  still  in  the  market.  An  English- 
woman seemed  like  a  spirit  of  melancholy — some  coy,  pale, 
shadowy  form  among  Ossian's  mists,  or  a  type  of  remorse 
flying  from  crime.  The  Parisienne  was  not  wanting  in  all 
her  beauty  that  consists  in  an  indescribable  charm;  armed 
with  her  irresistible  weakness,  vain  of  her  costume  and  her 
wit,  pliant  and  hard,  a  heartless,  passionless  siren  that  yet 
can  create  factitious  treasures  of  passion  and  counterfeit  emo- 
tion. 

Italians  shone  in  the  throng,  serene  and  self-possessed  in 
their  bliss ;  handsome  jSTormans,  with  splendid  figures ;  women 
of  the  south,  with  black  hair  and  well-shaped  eyes.  Lebel 
might  have  summoned  together  all  the  fair  women  of  Ver- 
sailles, who  since  morning  had  perfected  all  their  wiles,  and 
now  came  like  a  troupe  of  Oriental  women,  bidden  by  the 
slave  merchant  to  be  ready  to  set  out  at  dawn.  They  stood 
disconcerted  and  confused  about  the  table,  huddled  togethei 
in  a  murmuring  group  like  bees  in  a  hive.  The  combination 
of  timid  embarrassment  with  coquettishness  and  a  sort  of 


THE  TALISMAN  59 

expostulation  was  the  result  either  of  calculated  effect  or  a 
spontaneous  modesty.  Perhaps  a  sentiment  of  which  women 
are  never  utterly  divested  proscribed  to  them  the  cloak  of 
modesty  to  hoi<ahtcn  and  enliance  the  charms  of  wantonness. 
So  the  venerable  Taiilefer's  designs  seemed  on  the  point  of 
collapse,  for  these  unbridled  natures  were  subdued  from  the 
very  first  by  the  majesty  with  which  woman  is  invested. 
There  was  a  miirmur  of  admiration,  which  vibrated  like  a  soft 
musical  note.  Wine  had  not  taken  love  for  traveling  com- 
panion; instead  of  a  violent  tumult  of  passions,  the  guests 
thus  taken  by  surprise,  in  a  moment  of  weakness,  gave  them- 
selves up  to  luxurious  raptures  of  delight. 

Artists  obeyed  the  voice  of  poetry  which  constrains  them, 
and  studied  with  pleasure  the  different  delicate  tints  of  these 
chosen  examples  of  beauty.  Sobered  by  a  thought  perhaps 
due  to  some  emanation  from  a  bubble  of  carbonic  acid  in  the 
champagne,  a  philosopher  shuddered  at  the  misfortunes  which 
had  brought  these  women,  once  perhaps  worthy  of  the  truest 
devotion,  to  this.  Each  one  doubtless  could  have  unfolded  a 
cruel  tragedy.  Infernal  tortures  followed  in  the  train  of 
most  of  them,  and  they  drew  after  them  faithless  men,  broken 
vows,  and  pleasures  atoned  for  in  wretchedness.  Polite  ad- 
vances were  made  by  the  guests,  and  conversations  began,  as 
varied  in  character  as  the  speakers.  They  broke  up  into 
groups.  It  might  have  been  a  fashionable  drawing-room 
where  ladies  and  young  girls  offer  after  dinner  the  assist- 
ance that  coffee,  liqueurs,  and  sugar  afford  to  diners  who  are 
struggling  in  the  toils  of  a  perverse  digestion.  But  in  a  little 
while  laughter  broke  out,  the  murmur  grew,  and  voices  were 
raised.  The  saturnalia,  subdued  for  a  moment,  threatened  at 
times  to  renew  itself.  The  alternations  of  sound  and  silence 
bore  a  distant  resemblance  to  a  symphony  of  Beethoven's. 

The  two  friends,  seated  on  a  silken  divan,  were  first  ap- 
proached by  a  tall,  well-proportioned  girl  of  stately  bearing : 
her  features  were  irregular,  but  her  face  was  striking  and 
vehement  in  expression,  jiud  impressed  the  mind  by  the  vigor 
of  its  contrasts.     Her  dark  hair  fell  in  luxuriant  curls,  wii.b 


m  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

which  some  hand  seemed  to  have  played  havoc  alr€:ady,  for 
the  locks  fell  lightly  over  the  splendid  shoulders  that  thus 
attracted  attention.  The  long  brown  curls  half  hid  her 
queenly  throat,  though  where  the  light  fell  upon  it,  the  deli- 
cacy of  its  fine  outlines  was  revealed.  Her  warm  and  vivid 
coloring  was  set  off  by  the  dead  white  of  her  complexion. 
Bold  and  ardent  glances  came  from  under  the  long  eyelashes ; 
the  damp,  red,  half-open  lij)s  challenged  a  kiss.  Her  frame 
was  strong  but  compliant;  with  a  bust  and  arms  strongly 
developed,  as  in  figures  drawn  by  the  Caracci,  she  yet  seemed 
active  and  elastic,  with  a  panther's  strength  and  suppleness, 
and  in  the  same  way  the  energetic  grace  of  her  figure  sug- 
gested fierce  pleasures. 

But  though  she  might  romp  perhaps  and  laugh,  there  was 
something  terrible  in  her  eyes  and  her  smile.  Like  a 
pythoness  possessed  by  the  demon,  she  inspired  awe  rather 
than  pleasure.  All  changes,  one  after  another,  flashed  like 
lightning  over  every  mobile  feature  of  her  face.  She  might 
captivate  a  jaded  fancy,  but  a  young  man  would  have  feared 
her.  She  was  like  some  colossal  statue  fallen  from  the  height 
of  a  Greek  temple,  so  grand  when  seen  afar,  too  roughly  hewn 
to  be  seen  anear.  And  yet,  in  spite  of  all,  her  terrible  beauty 
could  have  stimulated  exhaustion;  her  voice  might  charm 
the  deaf;  her  glances  might  put  life  into  the  bones  of  the 
dead;  and  therefore  Emile  was  vaguely  reminded  of  one  of 
Shakespeare's  tragedies — a  wonderful  maze,  in  which  joy 
groans,  and  there  is  something  wild  even  about  love,  and  the 
magic  of  forgiveness  and  the  warmth  of  happiness  succeed  to 
cruel  storms  of  rage.  She  was  a  siren  that  can  both  kiss  and 
devour-  laugh  like  a  devil,  or  weep  as  angels  can.  She  could 
concentrate  in  one  instant  all  a  woman's  powers  of  attraction 
in  a  single  effort  (the  sighs  of  melancholy  and  the  charms  of 
maiden's  shyness  alone  excepted),  then  in  a  moment  rise  in 
fury  like  a  nation  in  revolt,  and  tear  herself,  hei  ])assion,  and 
her  lover,  in  pieces. 

Dressed  in  red  velvet,  she  trampled  under  her  reckless  feet 
the  stray  flowers  fallen  from  other  heads,  and  held  out  St 


THE  TALISMAN  61 

salver  to  the  two  friends,  with  careless  hands.  The  white 
arms  stood  out  in  bold  relief  against  the  velvet.  Proud  of 
her  beauty;  proud  (who  knows?)  of  her  corruption,  she 
stood  like  a  queen  of  pleasure,  like  an  incarnation  of  enjoy- 
ment; the  enjoyment  that  comes  of  squandering  the  accumu- 
lations of  three  generations ;  that  scoffs  at  its  progenitors,  and 
makes  merry  over  a  corpse ;  that  will  dissolve  pearls  and  wreck 
thrones,  turn  old  men  into  boys,  and  make  young  men  prema- 
turely old;  enjoyment  only  possible  to  giants  weary  of  their 
power,  tormented  by  reflection,  or  for  whom  strife  has  be- 
come a  plaything. 

"What  is  your  name  ?"  asked  Eaphael. 

"Aquilina." 

"Out  of  Venice  Preserved!"  exclaimed  ;fimile. 

"Yes,"  she  answered.  "Just  as  a  pope  takes  a  new  name 
when  he  is  exalted  above  all  other  men,  I,  too,  took  another 
name  when  I  raised  myself  above  women's  level." 

"Then  have  you,  like  your  patron  saint,  a  terrible  and  noble 
lover,  a  conspirator,  who  would  die  for  you?"  cried  fimile 
eagerly — this  gleam  of  poetry  had  aroused  his  interest. 

"Once  I  had,"  she  answered.  "But  I  had  a  rival  too  in 
La  Guillotine.  I  have  worn  something  red  about  me  ever 
since,  lest  any  happiness  should  carry  me  away." 

"Oh,  if  you  are  going  to  get  her  on  to  the  story  of  those 
four  lads  of  La  Eochelle,  she  will  never  get  to  the  end  of  it. 
That's  enough,  Aquilina.  As  if  every  woman  could  not  be- 
wail some  lover  or  other,  though  not  every  one  has  the  luck 
to  lose  him  on  the  scaffold,  as  you  have  done.  I  would  a  great 
deal  sooner  see  a  lover  of  mine  in  a  trench  at  the  back  of 
Clamart  than  in  a  rival's  arms." 

All  this  in  the  gentlest  and  most  melodious  accents,  and 
pronounced  by  the  prettiest,  gentlest,  and  most  innocent-look- 
ing little  person  that  a  fairy  wand  ever  drew  from  an  en- 
chanted eggshell.  She  had  come  up  noiselessly,  and  they  be- 
came aware  of  a  slender,  dainty  figure,  charmingly  timid  blue 
eyes,  and  white  transparent  brows.  No  ingenue  among  the 
naiads,  a  truant  from  her  river  spring,  could  have  been 


62  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

shyer,  whiter,  more  ingenuous  than  this  young  girl,  seetA- 
ingly  about  sixteen  years  old,  ignorant  of  evil  and  of  the 
storms  of  life,  and  fresh  from  some  church  in  which  she  must 
have  prayed  the  angels  to  call  her  to  heaven  before  the  time. 
Only  in  Paris  are  such  natures  as  this  to  be  found,  concealing 
depths  of  depravity  behind  a  fair  mask,  and  the  most  artificial 
vices  beneath  a  brow  as  young  and  fair  as  an  opening 
flower. 

At  first  the  angelic  promise  of  those  soft  lineaments  mis- 
led the  friends.  Ea|)hael  and  ^fimile  took  the  cofl:ee  which 
she  poured  into  the  cups  brought  by  Aquilina,  and  began  to 
talk  with  her.  In  the  eyes  of  the  two  poets  she  soon  became 
transformed  into  some  sombre  allegory,  of  I  know  not  what 
aspect  of  human  life.  She  opposed  to  the  vigorous  and 
ardent  expression  of  her  commanding  acquaintance  a  revela- 
tion of  heartless  corruption  and  voluptuous  cruelty.  Heed- 
less enough  to  perpetrate  a  crime,  hard}^  enough  to  feel  no 
misgivings;  a  pitiless  demon  that  wrings  larger  and  kinder 
natures  with  torments  that  it  is  incapable  of  knowing,  that 
simpers  over  a  traffic  in  love,  sheds  tears  over  a  victim's 
funeral,  and  beams  with  joy  over  the  reading  of  the  will. 
A  poet  might  have  admired  the  magnificent  Aquilina ;  but  the 
winning  Euphrasia  must  be  repulsive  to  every  one — the 
first  was  the  soul  of  sin ;  the  second,  sin  without  a  soul  in  it. 

"I  should  dearly  like  to  know,"  Emile  remarked  to  this 
pleasing  being,  "if  you  ever  reflect  upon  your  future  ?" 

"My  future !"  she  answered  with  a  laugh.  "What  do  you 
mean  by  my  future?  Why  should  I  think  about  something 
that  does  not  exist  as  yet?  I  never  look  before  or  behind. 
Isn't  one  day  at  a  time  more  than  I  can  concern  myself  with 
as  it  is?  And  besides,  the  future,  as  we  know,  means  the 
hospital." 

"How  can  you  foresee  a  future  in  the  hospital,  and  make 
no  effort  to  avert  it  ?" 

'^hat  is  there  so  alarming  about  the  hospital?"  asked  the 
terrific  Aquilina.  "When  we  are  neither  wives  nor  mothers, 
when  old  age  draws  black  stockings  over  our  limbs,  sets 


THE  TALISMAN  63 

•sprinkles  on  our  brows,  withers  up  the  Avoman  in  ns,  and 
darkens  the  light  in  our  lover's  eyes,  what  could  we  need 
when  that  comes  to  pass?  You  would  look  on  us  then  as 
mere  human  cla}^;  we  with  our  habiliments  shall  be  for  you 
like  so  much  mud — worthless,  lifeless,  crumbling  to  pieces, 
going  about  with  the  rustle  of  dead  leaves.  Eags  or  the 
daintiest  finery  will  be  as  one  to  us  then;  the  ambergris  of 
the  boudoir  will  breathe  an  odor  of  death  and  dry  bones ;  and 
suppose  there  is  a  heart  there  in  that  mud,  not  one  of  you 
but  would  make  mock  of  it,  not  so  much  as  a  memory  will  you 
spare  to  us.  Is  not  our  existence  precisely  the  same  whether 
we  live  in  a  fine  mansion  with  lap-dogs  to  tend,  or  sort  rags 
in  a  workhouse?  Does  it  make  much  difference  whether  we 
shall  hide  our  gray  heads  beneath  lace  or  a  handkerchief 
striped  with  blue  and  red ;  whether  we  sweep  a  crossing  with 
a  birch  broom,  or  the  steps  of  the  Tuileries  with  satins; 
whether  we  sit  beside  a  gilded  hearth,  or  cower  over  the  ashes 
in  a  red  earthen  pot ;  whether  we  go  to  the  Opera  or  look  on 
in  the  Place  de  Greve  ?" 

"Aquilina  mia,  you  have  never  shown  more  sense  than  in 
this  depressing  fit  of  yours,"  Euphrasia  remarked.  "Yes, 
cashmere,  point  d'Alengon,  perfumes,  gold,  silks,  luxury, 
everything  that  sparkles,  everything  pleasant,  belongs  to 
youth  alone.  Time  alone  may  show  us  our  folly,  but  good 
fortune  will  acquit  us.  You  are  laughing  at  me,"  she  went 
on,  with  a  malicious  glance  at  the  friends;  '^but  am  I  not 
right?  I  would  sooner  die  of  pleasure  than  of  illness.  I 
am  not  afflicted  with  a  mania  for  perpetuity,  nor  have  I  a 
great  veneration  for  human  nature,  such  as  God  has  made  it. 
Give  me  millions,  and  I  would  squander  them ;  I  should  not 
keep  one  centime  for  the  year  to  come.  Live  to  be  charming 
and  have  power,  that  is  the  decree  of  my  every  heartbeat. 
Society  sanctions  my  life;  does  it  not  pay  for  my  ex- 
travagances? Why  does  Providence  pay  me  every  morning 
my  income,  which  I  spend  every  evening  ?  Why  are  hospitals 
built  for  us?  And  Providence  did  not  put  good  and  evil  on 
either  hand  for  us  to  select  what  tires  and  pains  us.  I  should 
be  very  foolish  if  I  did  not  amuse  myself." 


64  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

"And  how  about  others  ?"  asked  Emile. 

"Others?  Oh,  well,  they  must  manage  for  themselves.  I 
prefer  laughing  at  their  woes  to  weeping  over  my  own.  I 
defy  any  man  to  give  me  the  slightest  uneasiness.'^ 

"What  have  you  suffered  to  make  you  think  like  this?" 
asked  Raphael. 

"I  myself  have  been  forsaken  for  an  inheritance,"  she  said, 
striking  an  attitude  that  displayed  all  her  charms ;  "and  yet 
I  had  worked  night  and  day  to  keep  my  lover !  I  am  not  to 
be  gulled  by  any  smile  or  vow,  and  I  have  set  myself  to  make 
one  long  entertainment  of  my  life." 

"But  does  not  happiness  come  from  the  soul  within  ?"  cried 
Eaphael. 

"It  may  be  so,"  Aquilina  answered;  "but  is  it  nothing  to 
be  conscious  of  admiration  and  flattery;  to  triumph  over 
other  women,  even  over  the  most  virtuous,  humiliating  them 
before  our  beauty  and  our  splendor?  Not  only  so;  one 
day  of  our  life  is  worth  ten  5'ears  of  a  hourgeoise  existence, 
and  so  it  is  all  summed  up." 

"Is  not  a  woman  hateful  without  virtue?"  lEmile  said  to 
Eaphael. 

Euphrasia's  glance  was  like  a  viper's,  as  she  said,  with  an 
irony  in  her  voice  that  cannot  be  rendered : 

"Virtue !  we  leave  that  to  deformity  and  to  ugly  women. 
What  would  the  poor  things  be  without  it?" 

"Hush,  be  quiet,"  fimile  broke  in.  "Don't  talk  about 
something  you  have  never  known." 

"That  I  have  never  known !"  Euphrasia  answered.  "You 
give  yourself  for  life  to  some  person  you  abominate;  you 
must  bring  up  children  who  will  neglect  you,  who  wound 
your  very  heart,  and  you  must  say,  'Thank  you !'  for 
it;  and  these  are  the  virtues  you  prescribe  to  woman.  And 
that  is  not  enough.  By  way  of  requiting  her  self-denial,  you 
must  come  and  add  to  her  sorrows  by  trying  to  lead  her 
astray;  and  though  you  are  rebuffed,  she  is  compromised. 
A  nice  life!  How  far  better  to  keep  one's  freedom,  to  follow 
one's  inclinations  in  love,  and  die  young  i" 


THE  TALISMAN  65 

"Have  you  no  fear  of  the  price  to  be  paid  some  day  for 
all  this?"" 

"Even  then,"  she  said,  "instead  of  min^jling  pleasures  and 
troubles,  my  life  will  consist  of  two  separate  parts — a  youth  of 
happiness  is  secure,  and  there  may  come  a  hazy,  uncertain 
old  age,  during  which  I  can  suffer  at  my  leisure." 

"She  has  never  loved,"  came  in  the  deep  tones  of  Aquilina's 
voice.  "She  never  went  a  hundred  leagues  to  drink  in  one 
look  and  a  denial  with  untold  raptures.  She  has  not  hung 
her  own  life  on  a  thread,  nor  tried  to  stab  more  than  one  man 
to  save  her  sovereign  lord,  her  king,  her  divinity.  .  .  . 
Love,  for  her,  meant  a  fascinating  colonel." 

"Here  she  is  with  her  La  Eochelle,"  Euphrasia  made 
answer.  "Love  comes  like  the  wind,  no  one  knows  whence. 
And,  for  that  matter,  if  one  of  those  brutes  had  once  fallen 
in  love  with  you,  you  would  hold  sensible  men  in  horror." 

"Brutes  are  put  out  of  the  question  by  the  Code,"  said  the 
tall,  sarcastic  Aquilina. 

"I  thought  you  had  more  kindness  for  the  army,"  laughed 
Euphrasia. 

"How  happy  they  are  in  their  power  of  dethroning  their 
reason  in  this  way,"  Raphael  exclaimed. 

"Happy?"  asked  Aquilina,  with  a  dreadful  look,  and  a 
smile  full  of  pity  and  terror.  "Ah,  you  do  not  know  what 
it  is  to  be  condemned  to  a  life  of  pleasure,  with  your  dead 
hidden  in  your  heart.     .     .     ." 

A  moment's  consideration  of  the  rooms  was  like  a  foretaste 
of  Milton's  Pandemonium.  The  faces  of  those  still  capable 
of  drinking  wore  a  hideous  blue  tint,  from  burning  draughts 
of  punch.  Mad  dances  were  kept  up  with  wild  energy;  ex- 
cited laughter  and  outcries  broke  out  like  the  explosion  of 
fireworks.  The  boudoir  and  a  small  adjoining  room  were 
strewn  like  a  battlefield  with  the  insensible  and  incapable. 
Wine,  pleasure,  and  dispute  had  heated  the  atmosphere. 
Wine  and  love,  delirium  and  unconsciousness  possessed  them, 
and  were  written  upon  all  faces,  upon  the  furniture ;  were 
expressed  by  the  surrounding  disorder,  and  brought  light 


66  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

films  over  the  vision  of  those  assembled,  so  that  the  air  seemed 
full  of  intoxicating  vapor.  A  glittering  dust  arose,  as  in  the 
luminous  paths  made  by  a  ray  of  sunlight,  the  most  bizarre 
forms  flitted  through  it,  grotesque  struggles  were  seen 
athwart  it.  Groups  of  interlaced  figures  blended  with  the  white 
marbles,  the  noble  masterpieces  of  sculpture  that  adorned  the 
rooms. 

Though  the  two  friends  yet  preserved  a  sort  of  fallacious 
clearness  in  their  ideas  and  voices,  a  feeble  appearance  and 
faint  thrill  of  animation,  it  was  5'et  almost  impossible  to  dis- 
tinguish what  was  real  among  the  fantastic  absurdities  before 
them,  or  what  foundation  there  was  for  the  impossible 
pictures  that  passed  unceasingly  before  their  weary  eyes. 
The  strangest  phenomena  of  dreams  beset  them,  the  lowering 
heavens,  the  fervid  sweetness  caught  by  faces  in  our  visions, 
and  unheard-of  agility  under  a  load  of  chains, — all  these  so 
vividly,  that  they  took  the  pranks  of  the  orgy  about  them 
for  the  freaks  of  some  nightmare  in  which  all  movement  is 
silent,  and  cries  never  reach  the  ear.  The  valet  de  chamhre 
succeeded  just  then,  after  some  little  difficulty,  in  drawing 
his  master  into  the  ante-chamber  to  whisper  to  him : 

*^The  neighbors  are  all  at  their  windows,  complaining  of 
the  racket,  sir." 

"If  noise  alarms  them,  why  don't  they  lay  down  straw  be- 
fore their  doors?"  was  Taillefer's  rejoinder. 

Eaphael's  sudden  burst  of  laughter  was  so  unseasonable  and 
abrupt,  that  his  friend  demanded  the  reason  of  his  unseemly 
hilarity. 

"You  will  hardly  understand  me,"  he  replied.  "In  the  first 
place,  I  must  admit  that  you  stopped  me  on  the  Quai  Voltaire 
just  as  I  was  about  to  throw  myself  into  the  Seine,  and  you 
would  like  to  know,  no  doubt,  my  motives  for  djdng.  And 
when  I  proceed  to  tell  you  that  by  an  almost  miraculous 
chance  the  most  poetic  memorials  of  the  material  world  had 
but  just  then  been  summed  up  for  me  as  a  symbolical  in- 
terpretation of  human  wisdom ;  whilst  at  this  minute  the  re- 
mains of  all  the  intellectual  treasures  ravaged  by  us  at  table 


THE  TALISMAN  67 

are  comprised  in  these  two  women,  the  living  and  authentic 
typGs  of  folly,  would  you  be  any  the  wiser  ?  Our  profound 
apathy  towards  men  and  things  supplied  the  half-tones  in  a 
crudely  contrasted  picture  of  two  theories  of  life  so 
diametrically  opposed.  If  you  were  not  drunk,  you  might 
perhaps  catch  a  gleam  of  philosophy  in  this/' 

"And  if  you  had  not  both  feet  on  that  fascinating  Aquilina, 
whose  heavy  breathing  suggests  an  analogy  with  the  sounds 
of  a  storm  about  to  burst,"  replied  Emile,  absently  engaged 
in  the  harmless  amusement  of  winding  and  unwinding 
Euphrasia's  hair,  "you  would  be  ashamed  of  your  inebriated 
garrulity.  Both  your  systems  can  be  packed  in  a  phrase, 
and  reduced  to  a  single  idea.  The  mere  routine  of  living 
brings  a  stupid  kind  of  wisdom  with  it,  by  blunting  our  in- 
telligence with  work;  and  on  the  other  hand,  a  life  passed 
in  the  limbo  of  the  abstract  or  in  the  abysses  of  the  moral 
world,  produces  a  sort  of  wisdom  run  mad.  The  conditions 
may  be  summed  up  in  brief;  we  may  extinguish  emotion, 
and  so  live  to  old  age,  or  we  may  choose  to  die  young  as 
martyrs  to  contending  passions.  And  yet  this  decree  is  at 
variance  with  the  temperaments  with  which  we  were  endowed 
by  the  bitter  jester  who  modeled  all  creatures." 

"Idiot!"  Eaphael  burst  in.  "Go  on  epitomizing  yourself 
after  that  fashion,  and  you  will  fill  volumes.  If  I  attempted 
to  formulate  those  two  ideas  clearly,  I  might  as  well  say  that 
man  is  corrupted  by  the  exercise  of  his  wits,  and  purified  by 
ignorance.  You  are  calling  the  whole  fabric  of  society  to  ac- 
count. But  whether  we  live  with  the  wise  or  perish  with  the 
fool,  isn't  the  result  the  same  sooner  or  later?  And  have  not 
the  prime  constituents  of  the  quintessence  of  both  systems 
been  before  expressed  in  a  couple  of  words — Carymary,  Cary- 
mara." 

"You  make  me  doubt  the  existence  of  a  God,  for  your 
stupidity  is  greater  than  His  power,"  said  fimile.  "Our  be-' 
loved  Rabelais  summed  it  all  up  in  a  shorter  word  than  your 
'Carymary,  Carymara/  from  his  Peut-etre  Montaigne  de- 
rived his  own  Que  sais-je?  After  all,  this  last  word  of 
moral  science  is  scarcely  more  than  the  cry  of  Pyrrhus  set 


us  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

betwixt  good  and  evil,  or  Buridan's  ass  between  the  two 
measures  of  oats.  But  let  this  everlasting  question  alone,  re- 
solved to-day  by  a  'Yes'  and  a  'No.'  What  experience  did 
you  look  to  find  by  a  jump  into  the  Seine?  Were  you  jealous 
of  the  hydraulic  machine  on  the  Pont  Xotre  Dame?" 

"Ah,  if  you  but  knew  my  history !" 

"Pooh,"  said  Emile ;  "I  did  not  think  3'ou  could  be  so  com- 
monplace; that  remark  is  hackneyed.  Don't  you  know  that 
everv  one  of  us  claims  to  have  suifered  as  no  other  ever 
did  ?" 

"Ah !"  Raphael  sighed. 

""What  a  mountebank  art  thou  with  thy  'Ah' !  Look  here, 
now.  Does  some  disease  of  mind  or  body,  by  contracting 
your  muscles,  bring  back  of  a  morning  the  wild  horses  that 
tear  you  in  pieces  at  night,  as  with  Damiens  once  upon  a 
time  ?  Were  you  driven  to  sup  off  your  own  dog  in  a  garret, 
uncooked  and  without  salt?  Have  your  children  ever  cried, 
'I  am  hungry'  ?  Have  you  sold  3' our  mistress'  hair  to  hazard 
the  money  at  play  ?  Have  you  ever  drawn  a  sham  bill  of  ex- 
change on  a  fictitious  uncle  at  a  sham  address,  and  feared  lest 
you  should  not  be  in  time  to  take  it  up?  Come  now,  I  am 
attending !  If  you  were  going  to  drown  yourself  for  some 
woman,  or  by  way  of  a  protest,  or  out  of  sheer  dulness,  I  dis- 
own you.  Make  your  confession,  and  no  lies !  I  don't  at  all 
want  a  historical  memoir.  And,  above  all  things,  be  as 
concise  as  your  clouded  intellect  permits ;  I  am  as  critical  as 
a  professor,  and  as  sleepy  as  a  woman  at  her  vespers." 

"You  silly  fool !"  said  Raphael.  "When  has  not  suffering 
been  keener  for  a  more  susceptible  nature  ?  Some  day  when 
science  has  attained  to  a  pitch  that  enables  us  to  study  the 
natural  history  of  hearts,  when  they  are  named  and  classified 
in  genera,  sub-genera,  and  families;  into  crustacete^  fossils, 
saurians,  infusoria,  or  whatever  it  is, — then,  my  dear  fellow, 
it  will  be  ascertained  that  there  are  natures  as  tender  and 
fragile  as  flowers,  that  are  broken  by  the  slight  bruises  that 
some  stony  hearts  do  not  even  feel " 

"For  pity's  sake,  spare  me  thy  exordium,"  said  fimile, 
as,  half  plaintive,  half  ajnused.he  took  Raphael's  hand. 


A  WOMAN  WITHOUT  A  HEART  69 

II 

A  WOMAN  WITHOUT  A  HEART 

After  a  moment's  silence,  Eaphael  said  with  a  careless 
gesture : 

"Perhaps  it  is  an  effect  of  the  fumes  of  punch — I  really 
cannot  tell — this  clearness  of  mind  that  enables  me  to  com- 
prise my  whole  life  in  a  single  picture,  where  figures  and 
hues,  lights,  shades,  and  half-tones  are  faithfully  rendered. 
I  should  not  have  been  so  surprised  at  this  poetical  play  of 
imagination  if  it  were  not  accompanied  with  a  sort  of  scorn 
for  my  past  joys  and  sorrows.  Seen  from  afar,  my  life  ap- 
pears to  contract  by  some  mental  process.  That  long,  slow 
agony  of  ten  years'  duration  can  be  brought  to  memory  to- 
day in  some  few  phrases,  in  which  pain  is  resolved  into  a 
mere  idea,  and  pleasure  becomes  a  philosophical  reflection. 
Instead  of  feeling  things,  I  weigh  and  consider  them " 

"You  are  as  tiresome  as  the  explanation  of  an  amendment," 
cried  fimile. 

"Very  likely,"  said  Eaphael  submissively.  "I  spare  you 
the  first  seventeen  years  of  my  life  for  fear  of  abusing  a 
listener's  patience.  Till  that  time,  like  you  and  thousands 
of  others,  I  had  lived  my  life  at  school  or  the  lycee^  with  its 
imaginary  troubles  and  genuine  happinesses,  which  are  so 
pleasant  to  look  back  upon.  Our  jaded  palates  still  crave  for 
that  Lenten  fare,  so  long  as  we  have  not  tried  it  afresh.  It 
was  a  pleasant  life,  with  the  tasks  that  we  thought  so 
contemptible,  but  which  taught  us  application  for  all 
that.     .     .     ." 

"Let  the  drama  begin,"  said  ]6mile,  half-plaintively,  half- 
comically.  ' 

"When  I  left  school,"  Eaphael  went  on,  with  a  gesture  that 
claimed  the  right  of  speaking,  "my  father  submitted  me  to 
a  strict  discipline;  he  installed  me  in  a  room  near  his  owd 

VOL.  I — lO 


70  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

study,  and  I  had  to  rise  at  five  in  the  morning  and  he  in  bed 
by  nine  at  night.  He  meant  me  to  take  my  law  studies 
seriously.  I  attended  the  Schools,  and  read  with  an  advocate 
as  well,  but  my  lectures  and  work  were  so  narrowly  circum- 
scribed by  the  laws  of  time  and  space,  and  my  father  re- 
quired such  a  strict  account  of  my  doings,  at  dinner, 
that     ..." 

"What  is  this  to  me  ?*'  asked  Emile. 

"The  devil  take  you !"  said  Raphael.  "How  are  you  to 
enter  into  my  feelings  if  I  do  not  relate  the  facts  that 
insensibly  shaped  my  character,  made  me  timid,  and  pro- 
longed the  period  of  youthful  simplicity?  In  this  manner 
I  cowered  under  as  strict  a  despotism  as  a  monarch's  till  I 
came  of  age.  To  depict  the  tedium  of  my  life,  it  will  be 
perhaps  enough  to  portray  my  father  to  you.  He  was  tall, 
thin,  and  slight,  with  a  hatchet  face,  and  pale  complexion; 
a  man  of  few  words,  fidgety  as  an  old  maid,  exacting  as  a 
senior  clerk.  His  paternal  solicitude  hovered  over  my  merri- 
ment and  gleeful  thoughts,  and  seemed  to  cover  them  with  a 
leaden  pall.  Any  effusive  demonstration  on  my  part  was  re- 
ceived by  him  as  a  childish  absurdity.  I  was  far  more  afraid 
of  him  than  I  had  been  of  any  of  our  masters  at  school. 

"I  seem  to  see  him  before  me  at  this  moment.  In  his 
chestnut-brown  frock-coat  he  looked  like  a  red  herring 
wrapped  up  in  the  cover  of  a  pamphlet,  and  he  held  himself 
as  erect  as  an  Easter  candle.  But  I  was  fond  of  my  father, 
and  at  heart  he  was  right  enough.  Perhaps  we  never  hate 
severity  when  it  has  its  source  in  greatness  of  character  and 
pure  morals,  and  is  skilfully  tempered  with  kindness.  My 
father,  it  is  true,  never  left  me  a  moment  xo  myself,  and 
only  when  I  was  twenty  years  old  gave  me  so  much  as  ten 
francs  of  my  own,  ten  knavish  prodigals  of  francs,  such  a 
hoard  as  I  had  long  vainly  desired,  which  set  me  a-dreaming 
of  unutterable  felicity;  yet,  for  all  that,  he  sought  to  procure 
relaxations  for  me.  When  he  had  promised  me  a  treat  be- 
forehand, lie  would  take  me  to  I.es  Bouffons,  or  to  a  concert 
or    ball,    whore    T    hoped    to    find    a    mistress.     .     .     .     A 


A  WOMAN  WITHOUT  A  HEART  71 

mistress !  that  meant  independence.  But  bashful  and  timid 
as  I  was,  knowing  nobody,  and  ignorant  of  the  dialect  of 
drawing-rooms,  1  alwa^-s  came  back  as  awkward  as  ever,  and 
swelling  with  unsatisfied  desires,  to  be  put  in  harness  like  a 
troop  horse  next  day  by  my  father,  and  to  return  with  morn- 
ing to  my  advocate,  the  Palais  de  Justice,  and  the  law.  To 
have  swerved  from  the  straight  course  which  my  father  had 
mapped  out  for  me,  would  have  drawn  down  his  wrath  upon 
me;  at  my  first  delinquency,  he  threatened  to  ship  me  off  as 
a  cabin-boy  to  the  Antilles.  A  dreadful  shiver  ran  through 
me  if  I  had  ventured  to  spend  a  couple  of  hours  in  some 
pleasure  party. 

"Imagine  the  most  wandering  imagination  and  passionate 
temperament,  the  tenderest  soul  and  most  artistic  nature, 
dwelling  continually  in  the  presence  of  the  most  flint- 
hearted,  atrabilious,  and  frigid  man  on  earth;  think  of  me 
as  a  young  girl  married  to  a  skeleton,  and  you  will  under- 
stand the  life  whose  curious  scenes  can  only  be  a  hearsay  tale 
to  you ;  the  plans  for  running  away  that  perished  at  the  sight 
of  my  father,  the  despair  soothed  by  slumber,  the  dark  brood- 
ings  charmed  away  by  music.  I  breathed  my  sorrows  forth 
in  melodies.  Beethoven  or  Mozart  would  keep  my  confidences 
sacred.  N'owadays,  I  smile  at  recollections  of  the  scruples 
which  burdened  my  conscience  at  that  epoch  of  innocence 
and  virtue. 

"If  I  set  foot  in  a  restaurant,  I  gave  myself  up  for  lost ;  my 
fancy  led  me  to  look  on  a  cafe  as  a  disreputable  haunt,  where 
men  lost  their  characters  and  embarrassed  their  fortunes; 
as  for  engaging  in  play,  I  had  not  the  money  to  risk.  Oh, 
if  I  needed  to  send  you  to  sleep,  I  would  tell  you  about  one  of 
the  most  frightful  pleasures  of  my  life,  one  of  those  pleasures 
with  fangs  that  bury  themselves  in  the  heart  as  the  branding- 
iron  enters  the  convict's  shoulder.  I  was  at  a  ball  at  the 
house  of  the  Due  de  Navarreins,  my  father's  cousin.  But  to 
make  my  position  the  more  perfectly  clear,  you  must  know 
that  I  wore  a  threadbare  coat,  ill-fitting  shoes,  a  tie  fit  for  a 
stableman,  and  a  soiled  pair  of  gloves.     I  shrank  into  a 


72  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

corner  to  eat  ices  and  watch  the  pretty  faces  at  my  leisure. 
My  father  noticed  me.  Actuated  by  some  motive  that  I  did 
not  fathom,  so  dumfounded  was  I  by  this  act  of  confidence, 
he  handed  me  his  keys  and  purse  to  keep.  Ten  paces  away 
some  men  were  gambling.  I  heard  the  rattling  of  gold;  I 
was  twenty  years  old;  I  longed  to  be  steeped  for  one  whole 
day  in  the  follies  of  my  time  of  life.  It  was  a  license  of  the 
imagination  that  would  find  a  parallel  neither  in  the  freaks  ot 
courtesans,  nor  in  the  dreams  of  young  girls.  For  a  year 
past  I  had  beheld  myself  well  dressed,  in  a  carriage,  with  a 
pretty  woman  by  my  side,  playing  the  great  lord,  dining  at 
Very's,  deciding  not  to  go  back  home  till  the  morrow;  but 
was  prepared  for  my  father  with  a  plot  more  intricate  than 
the  Marriage  of  Figaro,  which  he  could  not  possibly  have  un- 
raveled. All  this  bliss  would  cost,  I  estimated,  fifty  crowns. 
Was  it  not  the  artless  idea  of  playing  truant  that  still  had 
charms  for  me? 

"I  went  into  a  small  adjoining  room,  and  when  alone 
counted  my  father's  money  with  smarting  eyes  and  trembling 
fingers — a  hundred  crowns !  The  joys  of  my  escapade  rose 
before  me  at  the  thought  of  the  amount;  joys  that  flitted 
about  me  like  Macbeth's  witches  round  their  caldron;  joys 
how  alluring !  how  thrilling !  how  delicious  !  I  became  a  de- 
liberate rascal.  I  heeded  neither  my  tingling  ears  nor  the 
violent  beating  of  my  heart,  but  took  out  two  twenty-franc 
pieces  that  I  seem  to  see  yet.  The  dates  had  been  erased,  and 
Bonaparte's  head  simpered  upon  them.  After  I  had  put  back 
the  purse  in  my  pocket,  I  returned  to  a  gaming-table  with 
the  two  pieces  of  gold  in  the  palms  of  my  damp  hands, 
prowling  about  the  players  like  a  sparrow-hawk  round  a  coop 
of  chickens.  Tormented  by  inexpressible  terror,  I  flung  a 
sudden  clairvoyant  glance  round  me,  and  feeling  quite  sure 
that  I  was  seen  by  none  of  my  acquaintance,  betted  on  a 
stout,  jovial  little  man,  heaping  upon  his  head  more  prayers 
and  vows  than  are  put  up  during  two  or  three  storms  at 
sea.  Then,  with  an  intuitive  scoundrelism,  or  Machiavelism, 
surprising  in  one  of  my  age,  I  went  and  stood  in  the  door, 


A  WOMAN  WITHOUT  A   HEART  75 

and  looked  about  me  in  the  rooms,  though  I  saw  nothing ;  for 
both  mind  and  eyes  hovered  about  that  fateful  green 
cloth. 

"That  evening  fixes  the  date  of  a  first  observation  of  a 
physiological  kind;  to  it  I  owe  a  kind  of  insight  into  certain 
mysteries  of  our  double  nature  that  I  have  since  been  enabled 
to  penetrate.  I  had  my  back  turned  on  the  table  where  my 
future  felicity  lay  at  stake,  a  felicity  but  so  much  the  more  in- 
tense that  it  was  criminal.  Between  me  and  the  players  stood 
a  wall  of  onlookers  some  five  feet  deep,  who  were  chatting ;  the 
murmur  of  voices  drowned  the  clinking  of  gold,  which 
mingled  in  the  sounds  sent  up  by  this  orchestra ;  yet,  despite 
all  obstacles,  I  distinctly  heard  the  words  of  the  two  players 
by  a  gift  accorded  to  the  passions,  which  enables  them  to 
annihilate  time  and  space.  I  saw  the  points  they  made;  I 
knew  which  of  the  two  turned  up  the  king  as  well  as  if  I  had 
actually  seen  the  cards;  at  a  distance  of  ten  paces,  in  short, 
the  fortunes  of  play  blanched  my  face. 

"My  father  suddenly  went  by,  and  then  I  knew  what  the 
Scripture  meant  by  'The  Spirit  of  God  passed  before  his 
face.'  I  had  won.  I  slipped  through  the  crowd  of  men 
who  had  gathered  about  the  players  with  the  quickness  of 
an  eel  escaping  through  a  broken  mesh  in  a  net.  My  nerves 
thrilled  with  joy  instead  of  anguish.  I  felt  like  some 
criminal  on  the  way  to  torture  released  by  a  chance  meeting 
with  the  king.  It  happened  that  a  man  with  a  decoration 
found  himself  short  by  forty  francs.  Uneasy  eyes  suspected 
me;  I  turned  pale,  and  drops  of  perspiration  stood  on  my 
forehead,  I  was  well  punished,  I  thought,  for  having  robbed 
my  father.  Then  the  kind  little  stout  man  said,  in  a  voice  like 
an  angel's  surely,  'All  these  gentlemen  have  paid  their  stakes,' 
and  put  down  the  forty  francs  himself.  I  raised  my  head  in 
triumph  upon  the  players.  After  I  had  returned  the  money 
I  had  taken  from  it  to  my  father's  purse,  I  left  my  winnings 
with  that  honest  and  worthy  gentleman,  who  continued  to 
win.  As  soon  as  I  found  myself  possessed  of  a  hundred  and 
sixty  francs,  I  wrapped  them  up  in  my  handkerchief,  so  that 


74  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

they  could  neither  move  nor  rattle  on  the  way  back;  and  1 
played  no  more. 

"  '^Vhat  were  you  doing  at  the  card-table  ?'  said  my  father 
as  we  stepped  into-  the  carriage. 

"  'I  was  looking  on,'  I  answered,  trembling. 

"  'But  it  would  have  been  nothing  out  of  the  common  if 
you  had  been  prompted  by  self-love  to  put  some  money  down 
on  the  table.  In  the  eyes  of  men  of  the  world  you  are  quite 
old  enough  to  assume  the  right  to  commit  such  follies.  So  I 
should  have  pardoned  you,  Eaphael,  if  you  had  made  use  of 
my  purse ' 

"I  did  not  answer.  When  we  reached  home,  I  returned 
the  keys  and  money  to  my  father.  As  he  entered  his  study, 
he  emptied  out  his  purse  on  the  mantelpiece,  counted  the 
money,  and  turned  to  me  with  a  kindly  look,  saying, 
with  more  or  less  long  and  significant  pauses  between  each 
phrase : 

"  *My  boy,  you  are  very  nearly  twenty  now.  I  am  satisfied 
with  you.  You  ought  to  have  an  allowance,  if  only  to  teach 
you  how  to  lay  it  out,  and  to  gain  some  acquaintance  with 
everyday  business.  Henceforward  I  shall  let  you  have  a 
hundred  francs  each  month.  Here  is  your  first  quarter's  in- 
come for  this  year,'  he  added,  fingering  a  pile  of  gold,  as 
if  to  make  sure  that  the  amount  was  correct.  'Do  what  you 
please  with  it.' 

"I  confess  that  I  was  ready  to  fling  myself  at  his  feet,  to 
tell  him  that  I  was  a  thief,  a  scoundrel,  and,  worse  than  all,  a 
liar !  But  a  feeling  of  shame  held  me  back.  I  went  up  to 
him  for  an  embrace,  but  he  gently  pushed  me  away. 

"  'You  are  a  man  now,  my  child,'  he  said.  'What  I  have 
just  done  was  a  very  proper  and  simple  thing,  for  which  there 
is  no  need  to  thank  me.  If  I  have  any  claim  to  your  grati- 
tude, Kaphael,'  he  went  on,  in  a  kind  but  dignified  way,  'it 
is  because  I  have  preserved  your  youth  from  the  evils  that 
destroy  young  men  in  Paris.  We  will  be  two  friends  hence- 
forth. In  a  year's  time  you  will  be  a  doctor  of  law.  Not 
without  some  hardship  and  privation  you  have  acquired  the 


A  WOMAN  WITHOUT  A  HEART  75 

sound  knowledge  and  the  love  of,  and  application  to,  work 
ihat  is  indispensable  to  public  men.  You  must  learn  to 
know  me,  Eapliael.  I  do  not  want  to  make  either  an  advocate 
or  a  notary  of  you,  but  a  statesman,  who  shall  be  the  pride  of 
our  poor  house.     .     .     .     Good-night,'  he  added. 

"From  that  day  my  father  took  me  fully  into  confidence. 
I  was  an  only  son;  and,  ten  years  before,  I  had  lost  my 
mother.  In  time  past  my  father,  the  head  of  a  historic 
family  remembered  even  now  in  Auvergne,  had  come  to  Paris 
to  fight  against  his  evil  star,  dissatisfied  at  the  prospect  of 
tilling  the  soil,  with  his  useless  sword  by  his  side.  He  was 
endowed  with  the  shrewdness  that  gives  the  men  of  the  south 
of  France  a  certain  ascendency  when  energy  goes  with  it. 
Almost  unaided,  he  made  a  position  for  himself  near  the 
fountain  of  power.  The  Eevolution  brought  a  reverse  of 
fortune,  but  he  had  managed  to  marry  an  heiress  of  good 
family,  and,  in  the  time  of  the  Empire,  appeared  to  be  on 
the  point  of  restoring  to  our  house  its  ancient  splendor. 

"The  Eestoration,  while  it  brought  back  considerable  prop- 
erty to  my  mother,  was  my  father's  ruin.  He  had  formerly 
purchased  several  estates  abroad,  conferred  by  the  Emperor 
on  his  generals;  and  now  for  ten  ^^ears  he  struggled  with 
liquidators,  diplomatists,  and  Prussian  and  Bavarian  courts 
of  law,  over  the  disputed  possession  of  these  unfortunate  en- 
dowments. My  father  plunged  me  into  the  intricate  laby- 
rinths of  law  proceedings  on  which  our  future  depended. 
We  might  be  compelled  to  return  the  rents,  as  well  as  the 
proceeds  arising  from  sales  of  timber  made  during  the  years 
1814  to  1817;  in  that  case  my  mother's  property  would  have 
barely  saved  our  credit.  So  it  fell  out  that  the  day  on 
which  my  father  in  a  fashion  emancipated  me,  brought  me 
under  a  most  galling  yoke.  I  entered  on  a  conflict  like  a 
battlefield;  I  must  work  day  and  night;  seek  interviews  with 
statesmen,  surprise  their  convictions,  try  to  interest  them  in 
our  affairs,  and  gain  them  over,  with  their  wives  and  servants, 
and  their  very  dogs;  and  all  this  abominable  business  had  to 
take  the  form  of  pretty  speeches  and  polite  attentions.    Then 


76  "THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

I  knew  the  mortifications  that  had  left  their  blighting  traces 
on  my  father's  face.  For  about  a  year  I  led  outwardly  the 
life  of  a  man  of  the  world,  but  enormous  labors  lay  beneath 
the  surface  of  gadding  about,  and  eager  efforts  to  attach  my- 
self to  influential  kinsmen,  or  to  people  likely  to  be  useful  to 
us.  My  relaxations  were  lawsuits,  and  memorials  still  fur- 
nished the  staple  of  my  conversation.  Hitherto  my  life  had 
been  blameless,  from  the  sheer  impossibility  of  indulging  the 
desires  of  youth;  but  now  I  became  my  own  master,  and  in 
dread  of  involving  us  both  in  ruin  by  some  piece  of 
negligence,  I  did  not  dare  to  allow  myself  any  pleasure 
or  expenditure. 

"While  we  are  young,  and  before  the  world  has  rubbed  off 
the  delicate  bloom  from  our  sentiments,  the  freshness  of  our 
impressions,  the  noble  purity  of  conscience  which  will  never 
allow  us  to  palter  with  evil,  the  sense  of  duty  is  very  strong 
within  us,  the  voice  of  honor  clamors  within  us,  and  we  are 
open  and  straightforward.  At  that  time  I  was  all  these  things. 
I  wished  to  justify  my  father's  confidence  in  me.  But  lately 
I  would  have  stolen  a  paltry  sum  from  him,  with  secret  de- 
light; but  now  that  I  shared  the  burden  of  his  affairs,  of  his 
name  and  of  his  house,  I  would  secretly  have  given  up  my 
fortune  and  my  hopes  for  him,  as  I  was  sacrificing  my 
pleasures,  and  even  have  been  glad  of  the  sacrifice !  So  when 
M.  de  Villele  exhumed,  for  our  special  benefit,  an  imperial 
decree  concerning  forfeitures,  and  had  ruined  us,  I  authorized 
the  sale  of  my  property,  only  retaining  an  island  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  Loire  where  my  mother  was  buried.  Perhaps 
arguments  and  evasions,  philosophical,  philanthropic,  and 
political  considerations  would  not  fail  me  now,  to  hinder  the 
perpetration  of  what  my  solicitor  termed  a  'folly ;'  but  at  one- 
and-twenty,  I  repeat,  we  are  all  aglow  with  generosity  and 
affection.  The  tears  that  stood  in  my  father's  eyes  were  to 
me  the  most  splendid  of  fortunes,  and  the  thought  of  those 
tears  has  often  soothed  my  sorrow.  Ten  months  after  he 
had  paid  his  creditors,  my  father  died  of  grief;  I  was  his 
idol,  and  he  liad  ruined  me!       The  thought  killed  him 


A  WOMAN  WITHOUT  A  HEART  77 

Towards  the  end  of  the  autumn  of  1826,  at  the  age  of  twenty- 
two,  I  was  the  sole  mourner  at  his  graveside — the  grave  of  my 
father  and  my  earliest  friend.  Not  many  young  men  have 
found  themselves  alone  with  their  thoughts  as  they  followed 
a  hearse,  or  have  seen  themselves  lost  in  crowded  Paris,  and 
without  money  or  prospects.  Orphans  rescued  by  public 
charity  have  at  any  rate  the  future  of  the  battlefield  before 
them,  and  find  a  shelter  in  some  institution  and  a  father  in 
the  government  or  in  the  procureur  du  roi.  I  had 
nothing. 

"Three  months  later,  an  agent  made  over  to  me  eleven 
hundred  and  twelve  francs,  the  net  proceeds  of  the  winding 
up  of  my  father's  affairs.  Our  creditors  had  driven  us  to  sell 
our  furniture.  From  my  childhood  I  had  been  used  to  set 
a  high  value  on  the  articles  of  luxury  about  us,  and  I  could 
not  help  showing  my  astonishment  at  the  sight  of  this  meagre 
balance. 

"  "^Oh,  rococo,  all  of  it !'  said  the  auctioneer.  A  terrible 
word  that  fell  like  a  blight  on  the  sacred  memories  of  my 
childhood,  and  dispelled  my  earliest  illusions,  the  dearest  of 
all.  My  entire  fortune  was  comprised  in  this  'account  ren- 
dered,' my  future  lay  in  a  linen  bag  with  eleven  hundred  and 
twelve  francs  in  it,  human  society  stood  before  me  in  the  per- 
son of  an  auctioneer's  clerk,  who  kept  his  hat  on  while  he 
spoke.  Jonathan,  an  old  servant  who  was  much  attached  to 
me,  and  whom  my  mother  had  formerly  pensioned  with  an 
annuity  of  four  hundred  francs,  spoke  to  me  as  I  was  leaving 
the  house  that  I  had  so  often  gaily  left  for  a  drive  in  my 
childhood. 

"  'Be  very  economical.  Monsieur  Eaphael !' 

"The  good  fellow  was  crying. 

"Such  were  the  events,  dear  fimile,that  ruled  my  destinies, 
moulded  my  character,  and  set  me,  while  still  young,  in  an 
utterly  false  social  position,"  said  Eaphael  after  a  pause. 
"Family  ties,  weak  ones;  it  is  true,  bound  me  to  a  few  wealthy 
houses,  but  my  own  pride  would  have  kept  me  aloof  from 
them  if  contempt  and  indifference  had  not  shut  their  doors 


78  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

on  me  in  the  first  place.  I  was  related  to  people  who  were 
very  influential,  and  who  lavished  their  patronage  on 
strangers ;  but  I  found  neither  relations  nor  patrons  in  them. 
Continually  circumscribed  in  my  affections,  they  recoiled 
upon  me.  Unreserved  and  simple  by  nature,  I  must  have 
appeared  frigid  and  sophisticated.  My  father's  discipline 
had  destroyed  all  confidence  in  myself.  I  was  shy  and  awk- 
ward; I  could  not  believe  that  my  opinion  carried  any  weight 
whatever;  I  took  no  pleasure  in  myself;  I  thought  myself 
ugly,  and  was  ashamed  to  meet  my  own  eyes.  In  spite  of  the 
inward  voice  that  must  be  the  stay  of  a  man  with  anything 
in  him,  in  all  his  struggles,  the  voice  that  cries,  ^Courage! 
Go  forward !'  in  spite  of  sudden  revelations  of  my  own 
strength  in  my  solitude;  in  spite  of  the  hopes  that  thrilled 
me  as  I  compared  new  works,  that  the  public  admired  so 
much,  with  the  schemes  that  hovered  in  my  brain, — in  spite 
of  all  this,  I  had  a  childish  mistrust  of  myself. 

"An  overweening  ambition  preyed  upon  me;  I  believed 
that  I  was  meant  for  great  things,  and  yet  I  felt  myself  to  be 
nothing.  I  had  need  of  other  men,  and  I  was  friendless.  T 
found  I  must  make  my  way  in  the  world,  where  I  was 
quite  alone,  and  bashful,  rather  than  afraid. 

"All  through  the  year  in  which,  by  my  father's  wish,  1 
threw  myself  into  the  whirlpool  of  fashionable  society,  I 
came  away  with  an  inexperienced  heart,  and  fresh  in  mind. 
Like  every  grown  child,  I  sighed  in  secret  for  a  love  affair. 
I  met,  among  young  men  of  my  own  age,  a  set  of  swaggerers 
who  held  their  heads  high,  and  talked  about  trifles  as  they 
seated  themselves  without  a  tremor  beside  women  who  in- 
spired awe  in  me.  They  chattered  nonsense,  sucked  the  heads 
of  their  canes,  gave  themselves  affected  airs,  appropriated  the 
fairest  women,  and  laid,  or  pretended  that  they  had  laid  their 
heads  on  every  pillow.  Pleasure,  seemingly,  was  at  their 
beck  and  call ;  they  looked  on  the  most  virtuous  and  prudish 
as  an  easy  prey,  ready  to  surrender  at  a  word,  at  the  slightest 
impudent  gesture  or  insolent  look.  T  declare,  on  my  soul 
and  conscience,  that  the  attainment  of  power,  or  of  a  great 


A  WOMAN  WITHOUT  A  HEART  79 

name  in  literature,  seemed  to  me  "an  easier  victory  than  a  suc- 
cess with  some  young,  witty,  and  gracious  lady  of  high  degree. 

"So  I  found  the  tumult  of  my  heart,  my  feelings,  and  my 
creeds  all  at  variance  with  the  axioms  of  society.  I  had 
plenty  of  audacity  in  my  character,  but  none  in  my  manner. 
Later,  I  found  out  that  women  did  not  like  to  be  implored. 
I  have  from  afar  adored  many  a  one  to  whom  I  devoted  a 
soul  proof  against  all  tests,  a  heart  to  break,  energy  that 
shrank  from  no  sacrifice  and  from  no  torture;  they  accepted 
fools  whom  I  would  not  have  engaged  as  hall  porters.  How 
often,  mute  and  motionless,  have  I  not  admired  the  lady  of 
my  dreams,  swaying  in  the  dance ;  given  up  my  life  in  thought 
to  one  eternal  caress,  expressed  all  my  hopes  in  a  look,  and 
laid  before  her,  in  my  rapture,  a  young  man's  love,  which 
should  outstrip  all  fables.  At  some  moments  I  was  ready  to 
barter  my  whole  life  for  one  single  night.  Well,  as  I  could 
never  find  a  listener  for  my  impassioned  proposals,  eyes  to 
rest  my  own  upon,  a  heart  made  for  my  heart,  I  lived  on  in 
all  the  sufferings  of  impotent  force  that  consumes  it,self ;  lack- 
ing either  opportunity  or  courage  or  experience.  I  despaired, 
maybe,  of  making  myself  understood,  or  I  feared  to  be  under- 
stood but  too  well ;  and  yet  the  storm  within  me  was  ready  to 
burst  at  every  chance  courteous  look.  In  spite  of  ray  readi- 
ness to  take  the  semblance  of  interest  in  look  or  word  for  a 
tenderer  solicitude,  I  dared  neither  to  speak  no'r  to  be  silent 
seasonably.  My  words  grew  insignificant,  and  my  silence 
stupid,  by  sheer  stress  of  emotion.  I  was  too  ingenuous,  no 
doubt,  for  that  artificial  life,  led  by  candle-light,  where  every 
thought  is  expressed  in  conventional  phrases,  or  by  words 
that  fashion  dictates;  and  not  only  so,  I  had  not  learned 
how  to  employ  speech  that  says  nothing,  and  silence  that  says 
a  great  deal.  In  short,  I  concealed  the  fires  that  consumed 
me,  and  with  such  a  soul  as  women  wish  to  find,  with  all  the 
elevation  of  soul  that  they  long  for,  and  a  mettle  that  fools 
plume  themselves  upon,  all  women  have  been  cruelly 
treacherous  to  me. 

"So  in  my  simplicity  T  admired  the  heroes  of  this  set  when 


80  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

they  bragged  about  their  conquests,  and  never  suspected  them 
of  lying.  No  doubt  it  was  a  mistake  to  wish  for  a  love  that 
springs  for  a  word's  sake;  to  expect  to  find  in  the  heart  of  a 
vain,  frivolous  woman,  greedy  for  luxury  and  intoxicated 
with  vanity,  the  great  sea  of  passion  that  surged 
tempestuously  in  my  own  breast.  Oh !  to  feel  that  you  were 
born  to  love,  to  make  some  woman's  happiness,  and  yet  to 
find  not  one,  not  even  a  noble  and  courageous  Marceline,  not 
so  much  as  an  old  Marquise  !  Oh  !  to  carry  a  treasure  in  your 
wallet,  and  not  find  even  some  child,  or  inquisitive  young  girl, 
to  admire  it !     In  my  despair  I  often  wished  to  kill  myself.'^ 

"Finely  tragical  to-night !"  cried  Emile. 
."Let  me  pass  sentence  on  my  life,"  Eaphael  answered.  "If 
your  friendship  is  not  strong  enough  to  bear  with  my  elegy, 
if  you  cannot  put  up  with  half  an  hour's  tedium  for  my  sake, 
go  to  sleep !  But,  then,  never  ask  again  for  the  reason  of 
the  suicide  that  hangs  over  me,  that  comes  nearer  and  calls 
to  me,  that  I  bow  myself  before.  If  you  are  to  judge  a  man, 
you  must  know  his  secret  thoughts,  sorrows,  and  feelings;  to 
know  merely  the  outward  events  of  a  man's  life  would  only 
serve  to  make  a  chronological  table — a  fool's  notion  of 
history." 

fimile  was  so  much  struck  with  the  bitter  tones  in  which 
these  words  were  spoken,  that  he  began  to  pay  close  attention 
to  Raphael,  whom  he  watched  with  a  bewildered  expression, 

"Now,"  continued  the  speaker,  "all  these  things  that  befell 
me  appear  in  a  new  light.  The  sequence  of  events  that  I 
once  thought  so  unfortunate  created  the  splendid  powers  of 
which,  later,  I  became  so  proud.  If  I  may  believe  you,  I 
possess  the  power  of  readily  expressing  my  thoughts,  and  I 
could  take  a  forward  place  in  the  great  field  of  knowledge; 
and  is  not  this  the  result  of  scientific  curiosity,  of  excessive 
application,  and  a  love  of  reading  which  possessed  me  from 
the  age  of  seven  till  my  entry  on  life?  The  very  neglect  in 
which  I  was  left,  and  the  consequent  habits  of  self -repression 
and  self-concentration  ;  did  not  these  things  teach  me  how  to 
consider  and  reflect?       Nothing  in  me  was  squandered   in 


A  WOMAN  WITHOUT  A  HEART  81 

obedience  to  the  exactions  of  the  world,  which  humble  the 
proudest  soul  and  reduce  it  to  a  mere  husk ;  and  was  it  not 
this  very  fact  that  refined  the  emotional  part  of  my  nature 
till  it  became  the  perfected  instrument  of  a  loftier  purpose 
than  passionate  desires?  I  remember  watching  the  women 
who  mistook  me  with  all  the  insight  of  contemned  love. 

"I  can  see  now  that  my  natural  sincerity  must  have  been 
displeasing  to  them;  women,  perhaps,  even  require  a  little 
viypocrisy.  And  I,  who  in  the  same  hour's  space  am  al- 
ternately a  man  and  a  child,  frivolous  and  thoughtful,  free 
from  bias  and  brimful  of  superstition,  and  oftentimes  myself 
as  much  a  woman  as  any  of  them ;  how  should  they  do  other- 
wise than  take  my  simplicity  for  cynicism,  my  innocent 
candor  for  impudence?  They  found  my  knowledge  tire- 
some ;  my  feminine  languor,  weakness.  I  was  held  to  be  list- 
less and  incapable  of  love  or  of  steady  purpose;  a  too  active 
imagination,  that  curse  of  poets,  was  no  doubt  the  cause.  My 
silence  was  idiotic;  and  as  I  daresay  I  alarmed  them  by  my 
efforts  to  please,  women  one  and  all  have  condemned  me. 
With  tears  and  mortification,  I  bowed  before  the  decision  of 
the  world;  but  my  distress  was  not  barren.  I  determined  to 
revenge  myself  on  society;  I  would  dominate  the  feminine 
intellect,  and  so  have  the  feminine  soul  at  my  mercy;  all 
eyes  should  be  fixed  upon  me,  when  the  servant  at  the  door 
announced  my  name.  I  had  determined  from  my  childhood 
that  I  would  be  a  great  man;  I  said  with  Andre  Chenier,  as 
I  struck  my  forehead,  'There  is  something  underneath  that !' 
I  felt,  I  believed,  the  thought  within  me  that  I  must  ex- 
press, the  system  I  must  establish,  the  knowledge  I  must  in- 
terpret. 

"Let  me  pour  out  my  follies,  dear  fimile;  to-day  I  am 
barely  twenty-six  years  old,  certain  of  dying  unrecognized, 
and  I  have  never  been  the  lover  of  the  woman  I  dreamed  of 
possessing.  Have  we  not  all  of  us,  more  or  less,  believed  in 
the  reality  of  a  thing  because  we  wished  it?  I  would  never 
have  a  young  man  for  my  friend  who  did  not  place  himself  in 
dreams  uj)on  a  pedestal,  weave  crowns  for  his  head,  and  have 


82  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

complaisant  mistresses.  I  myself  would  often  be  a  general, 
nay,  emperor ;  I  have  been  a  Byron,  and  then  a  nobody.  Af- 
ter this  sport  on  these  pinnacles  of  human  achievement,  I 
became  aware  that  all  the  difficulties  and  steeps  of  life  were 
yet  to  face.  My  exuberant  self-esteem  came  to  my  aid ;  I  had 
that  intense  belief  in  my  destiny,  which  perhaps  amounts 
to  genius  m  those  who  will  not  permit  themselves  to  be  dis- 
tracted by  contact  with  the  world,  as  sheep  that  leave  their 
wool  on  the  briars  of  every  thicket  they  pass  by.  I  meant 
to  cover  myself  with  glory,  and  to  work  in  silence  for  the 
mistress  I  hoped  to  have  one  day.  Women  for  me  were  re- 
sumed into  a  single  type,  and  this  woman  I  looked  to  meet  in 
the  first  that  met  my  eyes ;  but  in  each  and  all  I  saw  a  queen, 
and  as  queens  must  make  the  first  advances  to  their  lovers, 
they  must  draw  near  to  me — to  me,  so  sickly,  shy,  and  poor. 
For  her,  who  should  take  pity  on  me,  my  heart  held  in  store 
such  gratitude  over  and  beyond  love,  that  I  had  worshiped 
her  her  whole  life  long.  Later,  my  observations  have  taught 
me  bitter  truths. 

"In  this  way,  dear  fimile,  I  ran  the  risk  of  remaining 
companionless  for  good.  The  incomprehensible  bent  of 
women's  minds  appears  to  lead  them  to  see  nothing  but  the 
weak  points  in  a  clever  man,  and  the  strong  points  of  a  fool. 
They  feel  the  liveliest  sympathy  with  the  fool's  good  qualities, 
which  perpetually  flatter  their  own  defects ;  while  they  find 
the  man  of  talent  hardly  agreeable  enough  to  compensate  for 
his  shortcomings.  All  capacity  is  a  sort  of  intermittent 
fever,  and  no  woman  is  anxious  to  share  in  jts  discomforts 
only ;  they  look  to  find  in  their  lovers  the  wherewithal  to 
gratify  their  own  vanity.  It  is  themselves  that  they  love  in 
us !  But  the  artist,  poor  and  proud,  along  with  his  endow- 
ment of  creative  power,  is  furnished  with  an  aggressive 
egotism !  Everything  about  him  is  involved  in  I  know  not 
what  whirlpool  of  his  ideas,  and  even  his  mistress  must  gyrate 
along  with  thom.  How  is  a  woman,  spoilt  with  praise,  to 
believe  in  the  love  of  a  man  like  that?  Will  she  go  to  seek 
him  out  ?     That  sort  of  lover  lias  not  the  leisure  to  sit  beside 


A  WOMAN  WITHOUT  A  HEART  83 

a  sofa  and  give  liimself  up  to  the  sentimental  simperings  that 
women  are  so  fond  of,  and  on  which  the  false  and  unfeeling 
pride  themselves.  He  cannot  spare  the  time  from  his  work, 
and  how  can  he  afford  to  humble  himself  and  go  a-masquerad- 
ing!  I  was  ready  to  give  my  life  once  and  for  all,  but  I 
could  not  degrade  it  in  detail.  Besides,  there  is  something 
indescribably  paltry  in  a  stockbroker's  tactics,  who  runs  on 
errands  for  some  insipid  affected  woman ;  all  this  disgusts  an 
artist.  Love  in  the  abstract  is  not  enough  for  a  great  man  in 
poverty;  he  has  need  of  its  utmost  devotion.  The  frivolous 
creatures  who  spend  their  lives  in  trying  on  cashmeres,  or 
make  themselves  into  clothes-pegs  to  hang  the  fashions  from, 
exact  the  devotion  which  is  not  theirs  to  give;  for  them,  love 
means  the  pleasure  of  ruling  and  not  of  obeying.  She  who  is 
really  a  wife,  one  in  heart,  flesh,  and  bone,  must  follow 
wherever  he  leads,  in  whom  her  life,  her  strength,  her  pride, 
and  happiness  are  centered.  Ambitious  men  need  those 
Oriental  women  whose  whole  thought  is  given  to  the  study 
of  their  requirements;  for  unhappiness  means  for  them  the 
incompatibility  of  their  means  with  their  desires.  But  I, 
who  took  myself  for  a  man  of  genius,  must  needs  feel  at- 
tracted by  these  very  she-coxcombs.  So,  as  I  cherished  ideas 
so  different  from  those  generally  received;  as  I  wished  to 
scale  the  heavens  without  a  ladder,  w^as  possessed  of  wealth 
that  could  not  circulate,  and  of  knowledge  so  wide  and  so  im- 
perfectly arranged  and  digested  that  it  overtaxed  my 
memory;  as  I  had  neither  relations  nor  friends  in  the  midst 
of  this  lonely  and  ghastly  desert,  a  desert  of  paving  stones, 
full  of  animation,  life,  and  thought,  wherein  every  one  is 
worse  than  inimical,  indifferent  to  wit;  I  made  a  very  natural, 
if  foolish  resolve,  which  required  such  unknown  impossi- 
bilities, that  my  spirits  rose.  It  was  as  if  I  had  laid  a  wager 
v/ith  myself,  for  I  was  at  once  the  player  and  the 
cards. 

"This  was  my  plan.  The  eleven  hundred  francs  must  keep 
life  in  me  for  three  years — the  time  I  allowed  myself  in  which 
to  bring  to  light  a  work  which  should  draw  attention  to  me. 


84  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

and  make  me  either  a  name  or  a  fortune.  I  exulted  at  the 
thought  of  living  on  bread  and  milk,  like  a  hermit  in  the 
Thebaid,  while  I  phmged  into  the  world  of  books  and  ideas, 
and  so  reached  a  lofty  sphere  beyond  the  tumult  of  Paris, 
a  sphere  of  silent  labor  where  I  would  entomb  myself  like  a 
chrysalis  to  await  a  brilliant  and  splendid  new  birth.  I  im.- 
periled  my  life  in  order  to  live.  By  reducing  my  require- 
ments to  real  needs  and  the  barest  necessaries,  I  found  that 
three  hundred  and  sixty-five  francs  sufficed  for  a  year  of 
penury ;  and,  in  fact,  I  managed  to  exist  on  that  slender  sum, 
so  long  as  I  submitted  to  my  own  claustral  discipline." 

"Impossible !"  cried  ;fimile. 

"I  lived  for  nearly  three  years  in  that  way,"  Raphael 
answered,  with  a  kind  of  pride.  "Let  us  reckon  it  out. 
Three  sous  for  bread,  two  for  milk,  and  three  for  cold  meat, 
kept  me  from  dying  of  hunger,  and  my  mind  in  a  state  of 
peculiar  lucidity.  I  have  observed,  as  you  know,  the  wonder- 
ful effects  produced  by  diet  upon  the  imagination.  My 
lodgings  cost  me  three  sous  daily ;  I  burnt  three  sous  more 
in  oil  at  night;  I  did  my  own  housework,  and  wore  flannel 
shirts  so  as  to  reduce  the  laundress'  bill  to  two  sous  per  day. 
The  money  I  spent  yearly  in  coal,  if  divided  up,  never  cost 
more  than  two  sous  for  each  day.  I  had  three  years'  supply 
of  clothing,  and  I  only  dressed  when  going  out  to  some  library 
or  public  lecture.  These  expenses,  all  told,  only  amounted  to 
eighteen  sous,  so  two  were  left  over  for  emergencies.  I  can- 
not recollect,  during  that  long  period  of  toil,  either  crossing 
the  Pont  des  Arts,  or  paying  for  water ;  I  went  out  to  fetch  it 
every  morning  from  the  fountain  in  the  Place  Saint  Michel, 
at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  de  Gres.  Oh,  I  wore  my  poverty 
proudly.  A  man  urged  on  towards  a  fair  future  walks 
through  life  like  an  innocent  person  to  his  death;  he  feels  no 
shame  about  it. 

"I  would  not  think  of  illness.  Like  Aquilina,  I  faced  the 
hospital  without  terror.  I  had  not  a  moment's  doubt  of  my 
health,  and  besides,  the  poor  can  only  take  to  their  beds  to 
die.     I  cut  my  own  hair  till  the  day  when  an  angel  of  love  and 


A  WOMAN  WITHOUT  A  HEART  86 

kindness  .  .  .  But  I  do  not  want  to  anticipate  the  state 
of  things  that  I  shall  reach  later.  You  must  simply  know 
that  I  lived  with  one  grand  thought  for  a  mistress,  a  dream, 
an  illusion  which  deceives  us  all  more  or  less  at  first.  To-day 
I  laugh  at  myself,  at  that  self,  holy  perhaps  and  heroic,  which 
is  now  no  more.  I  have  since  had  a  closer  view  of  society  and 
the  world,  of  our  manners  and  customs,  and  seen  the  dangers 
of  my  innocent  credulity  and  the  superfluous  nature  of  my 
fervent  toil.  Stores  of  that  sort  are  quite  useless  to  aspirants 
for  fame.  Light  should  be  the  baggage  of  seekers  after 
fortune ! 

"Ambitious  men  spend  their  youth  in  rendering  themselves 
worthy  of  patronage;  it  is  their  great  mistake.  While  the 
foolish  creatures  are  laying  in  stores  of  knowledge  and  energy, 
so  that  they  shall  not  sink  under  the  weight  of  responsible 
posts  that  recede  from  them,  schemers  come  and  go  who  are 
wealthy  in  words  and  destitute  in  ideas,  astonish  the  ignorant, 
and  creep  into  the  confidence  of  those  who  have  a  little 
knowledge.  While  the  first  kind  study,  the  second  march 
ahead;  the  one  sort  is  modest,  and  the  other  impudent j  the 
man  of  genius  is  silent  about  his  own  merits,  but  these 
schemers  make  a  flourish  of  theirs,  and  they  are  bound  to 
get  on.  It  is  so  strongly  to  the  interest  of  men  in  office  to 
believe  in  ready-made  capacity,  and  in  brazen-faced  merit, 
that  it  is  downright  childish  of  the  learned  to  expect  material 
rewards.  I  do  not  seek  to  paraphrase  the  commonplace 
moral,  the  song  of  songs  that  obscure  genius  is  for  ever  sing- 
ing; I  want  to  come,  in  a  logical  manner,  by  the  reason  of 
the  frequent  successes  of  mediocrity.  Alas !  study  shows  us 
such  a  mother's  kindness  that  it  would  be  a  sin  perhaps  to 
ask  any  other  reward  of  her  than  the  pure  and  delightful 
pleasures  with  which  she  sustains  her  children. 

"Often  I  remember  soaking  my  break  in  milk,  as  I  sat  by 
the  window  to  take  the  fresh  air;  while  my  eyes  wandered 
over  a  view  of  roofs — brown,  gray,  or  red,  slated  or  tiled,  and 
covered  with  yellow  or  green  mosses.  At  first  the  prospect 
may  have  seemed  monotonous,  but  I  very  soon  found  peculiar 

VOL.  1-   II  -     ^ 


S6  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

beauties  in  it.  Sometimes  at  night,  streams  of  light  through 
half-closed  shutters  would  light  up  and  color  the  dark  abysses 
of  this  strange  landscape.  Sometimes  the  feeble  lights  of 
the  street  lamps  sent  up  yellow  gleams  through  the  fog,  and 
in  each  street  dimly  outlined  the  undulations  of  a  crowd  of 
roofs,  like  billows  in  a  motionless  sea.  Very  occasionally, 
too,  a  face  appeared  in  this  gloomy  waste ;  above  the  flowers 
in  some  skyey  garden  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  an  old  woman's 
crooked  angular  profile  as  she  watered  her  nasturtiums ;  or. 
in  a  crazy  attic  window,  a  young  girl,  fancying  herself  quite 
alone  as  she  dressed  herself — a  view  of  nothing  more  than  a 
fair  forehead  and  long  tresses  held  above  her  by  a  pretty  white 
arm. 

"I  liked  to  see  the  short-lived  plant-life  in  the  gutters — 
poor  weeds  that  a  storm  soon  washed  away.  I  studied  the 
mosses,  with  their  colors  revived  by  showers,  or  transformed 
by  the  sun  into  a  brown  velvet  that  fitfully  caught  the  light. 
Such  things  as  these  formed  my  recreations — the  passing 
poetic  moods  of  daylight,  the  melancholy  mists,  sudden 
gleams  of  sunlight,  the  silence  and  the  magic  of  night,  the 
mysteries  of  dawn,  the  smoke  wreaths  from  each  chimney; 
every  chance  event,  in  fact,  in  my  curious  world  became 
familiar  to  me.  I  came  to  love  this  prison  of  my  own 
choosing.  This  level  Parisian  prairie  of  roofs,  beneath  which 
lay  populous  abysses,  suited  my  humor,  and  harmonized  with 
my  thoughts. 

"Sudden  descents  into  the  world  from  the  divine  height  of 
scientific  meditation  are  very  exhausting;  and,  besides,  I  had 
apprehended  perfectly  the  bare  life  of  the  cloister.  When 
I  made  up  my  mind  to  carry  out  this  new  plan  of  life,  T 
looked  for  quarters  in  the  most  out-of-the-way  parts  of  Paris. 
One  evening,  as  I  returned  home  to  the  Rue  des  Cordiers 
from  the  Place  de  I'Estrapade,  I  saw  a  girl  of  fourteen  play- 
ing with  a  battledore  at  the  corner  of  the  Eue  de  Cluny ;  her 
winsome  ways  and  laughter  amused  the  neighbors. 
September  was  not  yet  over ;  it  was  warm  and  fine,  so  that 
<vomen  sat  chatting  before  their  doors  as  if  it  were  a  fete-day 


A  WOMAN  WITHOTTT  A   HEART  87 

•■'1  some  country  town.  At  first  I  watched  the  charming  ex- 
pression of  the  girl's  face  and  her  graceful  attitudes,  her  pose 
fit  for  a  painter.  It  was  a  pretty  sight.  I  looked  about  me, 
seeking  to  understand  this  blithe  simplicity  in  the  midst  of 
Paris,  and  saw  that  the  street  was  a  blind  alley  and  but  little 
frequented.  I  remembered  that  Jean  Jacques  had  once  lived 
here,  and  looked  up  the  Hotel  Saint-Quentin.  Its  dilapi- 
dated condition  awakened  hopes  of  a  cheap  lodging,  and  I 
determined  to  enter. 

"I  found  myself  in  a  room  with  a  low  ceiling ;  the  candles, 
in  classic-looking  copper  candle-sticks,  were  set  in  a  row 
under  each  key.  The  predominating  cleanliness  of  the  room 
made  a  striking  contrast  to  the  usual  state  of  such  places. 
This  one  was  as  neat  as  a  bit  of  genre;  there  was  a  charming 
trimness  about  the  blue  coverlet,  the  cooking  pots  and  furni- 
ture. The  mistress  of  the  house  rose  and  came  to  me.  She 
seemed  to  be  about  forty  years  of  age ;  sorrows  had  left  their 
traces  on  her  features,  and  weeping  had  dimmed  her  eyes. 
I  deferentially  mentioned  the  amount  I  could  pay ;  it  seemed 
to  cause  her  no  surprise ;  she  sought  out  a  key  from  the  row, 
went  up  to  the  attics  with  me,  and  showed  me  a  room  that 
looked  out  on  the  neighboring  roofs  and  courts;  long  poles 
with  linen  drying  on  them  hung  out  of  the  window. 

"Nothing  could  be  uglier  than  this  garret,  awaiting  its 
scholar,  with  its  dingy  yellow  walls  and  odor  of  poverty. 
The  roofing  fell  in  a  steep  slope,  and  the  sky  was  visible 
through  chinks  in  the  tiles.  There  was  room  for  a  bed,  a 
table,  and  a  few  chairs,  and  beneath  the  highest  point  of  the 
roof  my  piano  could  stand.  Not  being  rich  enough  to 
furnish  this  cage  (that  might  have  been  one  of  the  Pionihi 
of  Venice),  the  poor  woman  had  never  been  able  to  let  it; 
and  as  I  had  saved  from  the  recent  sale  the  furniture  that 
was  in  a  fashion  peculiarly  mine,  I  very  soon  came  to  terms 
with  my  landlady,  and  moved  in  on  the  following  day. 

"For  three  years  I  lived  in  this  airy  sepulchre,  and  worked 
unflaggingly  day  and  night;  and  so  great  was  the  pleasure 
that  study  seemed  to  me  the  fairest  theme  and  the  happiest 


88  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

solution  of  life.  The  tranquillity  and  peace  that  a  scholar 
needs  is  something  as  sweet  and  exhilarating  as  love.  Un- 
speakable joys  are  showered  on  us  by  the  exertion  of  our 
mental  faculties;  the  quest  of  ideas,  and  the  tranquil  con- 
templation of  knowledge;  delights  indescribable,  because 
purely  intellectual  and  impalpable  to  our  senses.  So  we  are 
obliged  to  use  material  terms  to  express  the  mysteries  of  the 
soul.  The  pleasure  of  striking  out  in  some  lonely  laKe  of 
clear  water,  with  forests,  rocks,  and  flowers  around,  and  the 
soft  stirring  of  the  warm  breeze, — all  this  would  give,  to  those 
who  knew  them  not,  a  very  faint  idea  of  the  exultation  with 
which  my  soul  bathed  itself  in  the  beams  of  an  unknown  light, 
hearkened  to  the  awful  and  uncertain  voice  of  inspiration,  as 
vision  upon  vision  poured  from  some  unknown  source  through 
my  throbbing  brain. 

"No  earthly  pleasure  can  compare  with  the  divine  delight 
of  watching  the  dawn  of  an  idea  in  the  space  of  abstractions 
as  it  rises  like  the  morning  sun ;  an  idea  that,  better  still,  at- 
tains gradually  like  a  child  to  puberty  and  man's  estate.  Study 
lends  a  kind  of  enchantment  to  all  our  surroundings.  The 
wretched  desk  covered  with  brown  leather  at  which  I  wrote, 
my  piano,  bed,  and  armchair,  the  odd  wall-paper  and  furniture 
seemed  to  have  for  me  a  kind  of  life  in  them,  and  to  be 
humble  friends  of  mine  and  mute  partakers  of  my  destiny. 
How  often  have  I  confided  my  soul  to  them  in  a  glance !  A 
warped  bit  of  beading  often  met  my  eyes,  and  suggested  new 
developments, — a  striking  proof  of  my  system,  or  a  felicitous 
word  by  which  to  render  my  all  but  inexpressible  thought. 
By  sheer  contemplation  of  the  things  about  me  I  discerned 
an  expression  and  a  character  in  each.  If  the  setting  sun 
happened  to  steal  in  through  my  narrow  window,  they  would 
take  new  colors,  fade  or  shine,  grow  dull  or  gay,  and  always 
amaze  me  with  some  new  effect.  These  trifling  incidents  of  a 
solitary  life,  which  escape  those  preoccupied  with  outward 
affairs,  make  the  solace  of  prisoners.  And  what  was  I  but 
the  captive  of  an  idea,  imprisoned  in  my  system,  but  sus- 
tained also  by  the  prospect  of  a  brilliant  future?     At  each 


A  WOMAN  WITHOUT  A  HEART  89 

obstacle  that  I  overcame,  I  seemed  to  kiss  the  soft  hands  of  a 
woman  with  a  fair  face,  a  wealthy,  well-dressed  woman,  who 
should  some  day  say  softly,  while  she  caressed  my  hair : 

"  'Poor  angel,  how  thon  hast  suffered  !' 

"I  had  undertaken  two  great  works — one  a  comedy  that 
in  a  very  short  time  must  bring  me  wealth  and  fame,  and  an 
entry  into  those  circles  w^hither  I  wished  to  return,  to  exercise 
the  royal  privileges  of  a  man  of  genius.  You  all  saw  nothing 
in  that  masterpiece  but  the  blunder  of  a  young  man  fresh 
from  college,  a  babyish  fiasco.  Your  jokes  clipped  the  wings  of 
a  throng  of  illusions,  which  have  never  stirred  since  within 
me.  You,  dear  fimile,  alone  brought  soothing  to  the  deep 
wounds  that  others  had  made  in  my  heart.  You  alone  will 
admire  my  'Theory  of  the  Will.'  I  devoted  most  of  my  time 
to  that  long  work,  for  which  I  studied  Oriental  languages, 
physiology  and  anatomy.  If  I  do  not  deceive  myself,  my 
labors  will  complete  the  task  begun  by  Mesmer,  Lavater,  Gall, 
and  Bichat,  and  open  up  new  paths  in  science. 

"There  ends  that  fair  life  of  mine,  the  daily  sacrifice,  the 
unrecognized  silkworm's  toil,  that  is,  perhaps,  its  own  sole 
recompense.  Since  attaining  years  of  discretion,  until  the 
day  when  I  finished  my  'Theory,'  I  observed,  learned,  wrote, 
and  read  unintermittingly ;  my  life  was  one  long  imposition, 
as  schoolboys  say.  Though  by  nature  effeminately  attached 
to  Oriental  indolence,  sensual  in  tastes,  and  a  wooer  of 
dreams,  I  worked  incessantly,  and  refused  to  taste  any  of  the 
enjoyments  of  Parisian  life.  Though  a  glutton,  I  became 
abstemious ;  and  loving  exercise  and  sea  voyages  as  I  did, 
and  haunted  by  the  wish  to  visit  many  countries,  still  child 
enough  to  play  at  ducks  and  drakes  with  pebbles  over  a  pond, 
I  led  a  sedentary  life  with  a  pen  in  my  fingers.  I  liked  talk- 
ing, but  I  went  to  sit  and  mutely  listen  to  professors  who 
gave  public  lectures  at  the  Bihliothcque  or  the  Museum.  I 
slept  upon  my  solitary  pallet  like  a  Benedictine  brother, 
though  woman  was  my  one  chimera,  a  chimera  that  fled  from 
me  as  I  Avooed  it !  Tn  phort.  my  life  has  been  a  cruel  contra- 
diction, a  perpetual  cheat.    After  that,  judge  a  man! 


90  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

"Sometifhes  my  natural  propensities  broke  out  like  a  fire 
long  smothered.  I  was  debarred  from  tho  women  whose  so- 
ciety I  desired,  stripped  of  everything  and  lodged  in  an 
artist's  garret,  and  by  a  sort  of  mirage  or  calenture  I  was  sur- 
rounded by  captivating  mistresses.  I  drove  through  the 
streets  of  Paris,  lolling  on  the  soft  cushions  of  a  fine  equipage. 
I  plunged  into  dissipation,  into  corroding  vice,  I  desired  and 
possessed  everything,  for  fasting  had  made  me  light-headed 
like  the  tempted  Saint  Anthony.  Slumber,  happily,  would  put 
an  end  at  last  to  these  devastating  trances ;  and  on  the  morrow 
science  would  beckon  me,  smiling,  and  I  was  faithful  to  her. 
I  imagine  that  women  reputed  virtuous,  must  often  fall  a 
prey  to  these  insane  tempests  of  desire  and  passion,  which 
rise  in  us  in  spite  of  ourselves.  Such  dreams  have  a  charm 
of  their  own ;  they  are  something  akin  to  evening  gossip  round 
the  winter  fire,  when  one  .sets  out  for  some  voyage  in  China. 
But  what  becomes  of  virtue  during  these  delicious  .excursions, 
when  fancy  overleaps  all  difficulties? 

"During  the  first  ten  months  of  seclusion  I  led  the  life  of 
poverty  and  solitude  that  I  have  described  to  you;  I  used  to 
steal  out  unobserved  every  morning  to  buy  my  own  provisions 
for  the  day;  I  tidied  my  room;  I  was  at  once  master  and 
servant,  and  played  the  Diogenes  with  incredible  spirit.  But 
afterwards,  while  my  hostess  and  her  daughter  watched  my 
wa3's  and  behavior,  scrutinized  my  appearance  and  divined  my 
poverty,  there  could  not  but  be  some  bonds  between  us;  per- 
haps because  they  were  themselves  so  very  poor.  Pauline, 
the  charming  child,  whose  latent  and  unconscious  grace  had, 
in  a  manner,  brought  me  there,  did  me  many  services  that  I 
could  not  well  refuse.  All  women  fallen  on  evil  days  are  sis- 
ters; they  speak  a  common  language;  they  have  the  same 
(generosity — the  generosity  that  possesses  nothing,  and  so  is 
lavish  of  its  aflFoction,  of  its  time,  and  of  its  very  self. 

"Imperceptibly  Pauline  took  me  under  her  protection,  and 
would  do  things  for  me.  No  kind  of  objection  was  made  bv 
her  mother,  whom  I  even  surprised  mending  my  linen ;  she 
blushed  for  the  charitable  occupation.  In  spite  of  m3^self; 
they  took  charge  of  me,  and  I  accepted  their  services. 


A  WOMAN  WITHOUT  A  HEART  91 

"In  order  to  understand  the  peculiar  condition  of  my  mind, 
my  preoccupation  with  work  must  be  remembered,  the 
tyranny  of  ideas,  and  the  instinctive  repugnance  that  a  man 
who  leads  an  intellectual  life  must  ever  feel  for  the  material 
details  of  existence.  Could  1  well  repulse  the  delicate  atten- 
tions of  Pauline,  who  would  noiselessly  bring  me  my  frugal 
repast,  w'hen  she  noticed  that  I  had  taken  nothing  for  seven 
or  eight  hours  ?  She  had  the  tact  of  a  woman  and  the  inven- 
tiveness of  a  child;  she  would  smile  as  she  made  sign  to  mt 
that  I  must  not  see  her.  Ariel  glided  under  my  roof  in  the 
form  of  a  sylph  who  foresaw  every  want  of  mine. 

"One  evening  Pauline  told  me  her  story  with  touching 
simplicity.  Her  father  had  been  a  major  in  the  horse  grena- 
diers of  the  Imperial  guard.  He  had  been  taken  prisoner  by 
the  Cossacks,  at  the  passage  of  the  Beresina;  and  when  Xa- 
poleon  later  on  proposed  an  exchange,  the  Russian  authorities 
made  search  for  him  in  Siberia  in  vain;  he  had  escaped  with 
a  view  of  reaching  India,  and  since  then  Mme.  Gaudin,  my 
landlady,  could  hear  no  news  of  her  husband.  Then  came 
the  disasters  of  1814  and  1815;  and,  left  alone  and  without 
resource,  she  had  decided  to  let  furnished  lodgings  in  order 
to  keep  herself  and  her  daughter. 

"She  always  hoped  to  see  her  husband  again.  Her  greatest 
trouble  was  about  her  daughter's  education;  the  Princess 
Borghese  was  her  Pauline's  godmother;  and  Pauline  must 
not  be  unworthy  of  the  fair  future  promised  by  her  imperial 
protectress.  When  Mme.  Gaudin  confided  to  me  this  heavy 
trouble  that  preyed  upon  her,  she  said,  with  sharp  pain  in  her 
voice,  'I  would  give  up  the  property  and  the  scrap  of  paper 
that  makes  Gaudin  a  baron  of  the  empire,  and  all  our  rights 
to  the  endowment  of  Wistchnau,  if  only  Pauline  could  be 
brought  up  at  Saint-Denis !'  Her  words  struck  me :  now  I 
could  show  my  gratitude  for  the  kindnesses  expended  on  me 
by  the  two  women ;  all  at  once  the  idea  of  offering  to  finish 
Pauline's  education  occurred  to  me;  and  the  offer  was  made 
and  accepted  in  the  most  perfect  simplicity.  In  this  wav  T 
came  to  have  some  hours  of  recreation.    Pauline  had  naturui 


82  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

aptitude;  she  learned  so  quickly,  that  she  soon  surpassed  me 
at  the  piano.  As  she  became  accustomed  to  think  aloud  in 
my  presence,  she  unfolded  all  the  sweet  refinements  of  a  heart 
that  was  opening  itself  out  to  life,  as  some  flower-cup  opens 
slowly  to  the  sun.  She  listened  to  me,  pleased  and  thoughtful, 
letting  her  dark  velvet  eyes  rest  upon  me  with  a  half  smile  in 
them;  she  repeated  her  lessons  in  soft  and  gentle  tones,  and 
showed  childish  glee  when  I  was  satisfied  with  her.  Her 
mother  grew  more  and  more  anxious  every  day  to  shield  the 
young  girl  from  every  danger  ( for  all  the  beauty  promised  in 
early  life  was  developing  in  the  crescent  moon),  and  was  glad 
to  see  her  spend  whole  days  indoors  in  study.  My  piano  was 
the  only  one  she  could  use,  and  while  I  was  out  she  practised 
on  it.  When  I  came  home,  Pauline  would  be  in  my  room,  in 
her  shabby  dress,  but  her  slightest  movement  revealed  her 
slender  figure  in  its  attractive  grace,  in  spite  of  the  coarse 
materials  that  she  wore.  As  with  the  heroine  of  the  fable  of 
'Peau-d'Ane/  a  dainty  foot  peeped  out  of  the  clumsy  shoes. 
But  all  her  wealth  of  girlish  beauty  was  as  lost  upon  me.  I 
had  laid  commands  upon  myself  to  see  a  sister  only  in" 
Pauline.  I  dreaded  lest  I  should  betray  her  mother's  faith  in 
me.  I  admired  the  lovely  girl  as  if  she  had  been  a  picture,  or 
as  the  portrait  of  a  dead  mistress ;  she  was  at  once  my  child 
and  my  statue.  For  me,  another  Pygmalion,  the  maiden  with 
the  hues  of  life  and  the  living  voice  was  to  become  a  form  of 
inanimate  marble.  I  was  very  strict  with  her,  but  the  more 
I  made  her  feel  my  pedagog/te's  severity,  the  more  gentle  and 
submissive  she  grew. 

"If  a  generous  feeling  strengthened  me  in  my  reserve  and 
self-restraint,  prudent  considerations  were  not  lacking  beside. 
Integrity  of  purpose  cannot,  I  think,  fail  to  accompany  in- 
tegrity in  money  matters.  To  my  mind,  to  become  insolvent 
or  to  betray  a  woman  is  the  same  sort  of  thing.  If  you  love 
a  young  girl,  or  allow  yourself  to  be  beloved  by  her,  a  con- 
tract is  implied,  and  its  conditions  should  be  thoroughly  un- 
derstood. We  are  free  to  break  with  the  woman  who  sells 
herself,  but  not  with  the  young  girl  who  has  given  herself  tc 


A  WOMAN  WITHOUT  A  HEART  9S 

us  and  does  not  know  the  extent  of  her  sacrifice.  I  must  have 
married  Pauline,  and  that  would  have  been  madness.  Would 
it  not  have  given  over  that  sweet  girlish  heart  to  terrible  mis- 
fortunes? My  poverty  made  its  selfish  voice  heard,  and  set 
an  iron  barrier  between  that  gentle  nature  and  minG.  Be- 
sides, I  am  ashamed  to  say,  that  I  cannot  imagine  love  in  the 
midst  of  poverty.  Perhaps-  this  is  a  vitiation  due  to  that 
malady  of  mankind  called  civilization;  but  a  woman  in 
squalid  poverty  would  exert  no  fascination  over  me,  were  she 
attractive  as  Homer's  Galatea,  the  fair  Helen. 

"Ah,  vive  V amour!  But  let  it  be  in  silk  and  cashmere,  sur- 
rounded with  the  luxury  which  so  marvelously  embellishes 
it;  for  is  it  not  perhaps  itself  a  luxury?  I  enjoy  making 
havoc  with  an  elaborate  erection  of  scented  hair;  I  like  to 
crush  flowers,  to  disarrange  and  crease  a  smart  toilette  at 
will.  A  bizarre  attraction  lies  for  me  in  burning  eyes  that 
blaze  through  a  lace  veil,  like  flame  through  cannon  smoke. 
My  way  of  love  would  be  to  mount  by  a  silken  ladder,  in  the 
silence  of  a  winter  night.  And  what  bliss  to  reach,  all  pow- 
dered with  snow,  a  perfumed  room,  with  hangings  of  painted 
silk,  to  find  a  woman  there,  who  likewise  shakes  away  the  snow 
from  her;  for  what  other  name  can  be  found  for  the  white 
muslin  ^Tappings  that  vaguely  define  her,  like  some  angel 
form  issuing  from  a  cloud!  And  then  I  wish  for  furtive 
joys,  for  the  security  of  audacity.  I  want  to  see  once  more 
that  woman  of  mystery,  but  let  it  be  in  the  throng,  dazzling, 
unapproachable,  adored  on  all  sides,  dressed  in  laces  and 
ablaze  with  diamonds,  laying  her  commands  upon  every  one ; 
so  exalted  above  us,  that  she  inspires  awe,  and  none  dares  to 
pay  his  homage  to  her. 

"She  gives  me  a  stolen  glance,  amid  her  court,  a  look  that 
exposes  the  unreality  of  all  this ;  that  resigns  for  me  the 
world  and  all  men  in  it !  Truly  I  have  scorned  myself  for  a 
passion  for  a  few  j^ards  of  lace,  velvet,  and  fine  lawn,  and  the 
hairdresser's  feats  of  skill ;  a  love  of  wax-lights,  a  carriage 
and  a  title,  a  heraldic  coronet  painted  on  window  panes,  or  en- 
graved by  a  jeweler;  in  short,  a  liking  for  all  that  is  adven- 


94  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

titious  and  least  woman  in  woman.     I  have  scorned  and 
reasoned  with  mj'self,  but  all  in  vain. 

"A  woman  of  rank  with  her  subtle  smile,  her  high-born 
air,  and  self-esteem  captivates  me.  The  barriers  she  erects 
between  herself  and  the  world  waken  my  vanity,  a  good  half 
of  love.  There  would  be  more  relish  for  me  in  bliss  that  all 
others  envied.  If  my  mistress  does  nothing  that  other  women 
do,  and  neither  lives  nor  conducts  herself  like  them,  wears  a 
cloak  that  they  cannot  attain,  breathes  a  perfume  of  her  own, 
then  she  seems  to  rise  far  above  me.  The  further  she  rises 
from  earth,  even  in  the  earthlier  aspects  of  love,  the  fairer 
she  becomes  for  me. 

"^'Luckily  for  me  we  have  had  no  queen  in  France  these 
twenty  years,  for  I  should  have  fallen  in  love  with  her.  A 
woman  must  be  wealthy  to  acquire  the  manners  of  a  princess. 
What  place  had  Pauline  among  these  far-fetched  imaginings  ? 
Could  she  bring  me  the  love  that  is  death,  that  brings  every 
faculty  into  play,  the  nights  that  are  paid  for  by  life?  We 
hardly  die,  I  think,  for  an  insignificant  girl  who  gives  herself 
to  us ;  and  I  could  never  extinguish  these  feelings  and  poet's 
dreams  within  me.  I  was  born  for  an  inaccessible  love,  and 
fortune  has  overtopped  my  desire. 

"How  often  have  I  set  satin  shoes  on  Pauline's' tiny  feet, 
confined  her  form,  slender  as  a  young  poplar,  in  a  robe  of 
gauze,  and  thrown  a  loose  scarf  about  her  as  I  saw  her  tread 
the  carpets  in  her  mansion  and  led  her  out  to  her  splendid 
carriage !  In  such  guise  I  should  have  adored  her.  I  en- 
dowed her  with  all  the  pride  she  lacked,  stripped  her  of  her 
virtues,  her  natural  simple  charm,  and  frank  smile,  in  order 
to  plunge  her  heart  in  our  Styx  of  depravity  that  makes  in- 
vulnerable, load  her  with  our  crimes,  make  of  her  the  fantas- 
tical doll  of  our  drawing-rooms,  the  frail  being  who  lies  abed 
in  the  morning  and  comes  to  life  again  at  night  with  the 
dawn  of  tapers.  Pauline  was  fresh-hearted  and  affectionate — 
I  would  have  had  her  cold  and  formal. 

"In  the  last  days  of  my  frantic  folly,  memory  brought 
Pauline  before  rae,  as  it  brings  the  scenes  of  our  childhood, 


A  WOMAX  WITHOUT  A  HEART  95 

and  made  me  pause  to  muse  over  past  delicious  moments  that 
softened  my  heart.  I  sometimes  saw  her,  the  adorable  girl 
who  sat  quietly  sewing  at  my  table,  wrapped  in  her  medita- 
tions; the  faint  light  from  my  window  fell  upon  her  and  was 
reflected  back  in  silvery  rays  from  her  thick  black  hair;  some- 
times I  heard  her  young  laughter,  or  the  rich  tones  of  her 
voice  singing  some  canzonet  that  she  composed  without  effort. 
And  often  my  Pauline  seemed  to  grow  greater,  as  music 
flowed  from  her.  and  her  face  bore  a  striking  resemblance  to 
the  noble  one  that  Carlo  Dolci  chose  for  the  type  of  Italy. 
My  cruel  memory  brought  her  back  athwart  the  dissipations 
of  my  existence,  like  a  remorse,  or  a  symbol  of  purity.  But 
let  us  leave  the  poor  child  to  her  own  fate.  Whatever  her 
troubles  may  have  been,  at  any  rate  I  protected  her  from  a 
menacing  tempest — I  did  not  drag  her  down  into  my  hell. 

"Until  last  winter  I  led  the  uneventful  studious  life  of 
which  I  have  given  you  some  faint  picture.  In  the  earliest 
days  of  December  1829,  I  came  across  Eastignac,  who,  in 
spite  of  the  shabby  condition  of  my  wardrobe,  linked  his  arm 
in  mine,  and  inquired  into  my  affairs  with  a  quite  brotherly 
interest.  Caught  by  his  engaging  manner,  I  gave  hiin  a 
brief  account  of  my  life  and  hopes ;  he  began  to  laugh,  and 
treated  me  as  a  mixture  of  a  man  of  genius  and  a  fool.  His 
Gascon  accent  and  knowledge  of  the  world,  the  easy  life  his 
clever  management  procured  for  him,  all  produced  an  irre- 
sistible effect  upon  me.  I  should  die  an  unrecognized  failure 
in  a  hospital,  Eastignac  said,  and  be  buried  in  a  pauper's 
grave.  He  talked  of  charlatanism.  Every  man  of  genius  was 
a  charlatan,  he  plainly  showed  me  in  that  pleasant  way  of 
his  that  makes  him  so  fascinating.  He  insisted  that  I  must 
be  out  of  my  senses,  and  would  be  my  own  death,  if  I  lived 
on  alone  in  the  Eue  des  Cordiers.  According  to  him,  I  ought 
to  go  into  society,  to  accustom  people  to  the  sound  of  my 
name,  and  to  rid  myself  of  the  simple  title  of  'monsieur' 
which  sits  but  ill  on  a  great  man  in  his  lifetime. 

"  'Those  who  know  no  better,'  he  cried,  'call  this  sort  of 
business  scheming,  and  moral  people  condemn  it  for  a  "dis- 


ye  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

sipated  life."  We  need  not  stop  to  look  at  what  people  think, 
but  see  the  results.  You  work,  5^ou  say?  Very  good,  but 
nothing  will  ever  come  of  that.  Now,  I  am  ready  for  any- 
thing and  fit  for  nothing.  As  lazy  as  a  lobster  ?  Very  likely, 
but  I  succeed  everywhere.  I  go  out  into  society,  I  push  my- 
self forward,  the  others  make  way  before  me;  I  brag  and  an: 
believed ;  I  incur  debts  which  somebody  else  pays !  Dissipa- 
tion, dear  boy,  is  a  methodical  policy.  The  life  of  a  man 
who  deliberately  runs  through  his  fortune  often  becomes  a 
business  speculation;  his  friends,  his  pleasures,  patrons,  and 
acquaintances  are  his  capital.  Suppose  a  merchant  runs  a 
risk  of  a  million,  for  twenty  years  he  can  neither  sleep,  eat, 
nor  amuse  himself ;  he  is  brooding  over  his  million ;  it  makes 
him  run  about  all  over  Europe;  he  worries  himself,  goes  to 
the  devil  in  every  way  that  man  has  invented.  Then  comes  a 
liquidation,  such  as  I  have  seen  myself,  which  very  often 
leaves  him  penniless  and  without  a  reputation  or  a  friend. 
The  spendthrift,  on  the  other  hand,  takes  life  as  a  serious 
game,  and  sees  his  horses  run.  He  loses  his  capital,  perhaps, 
but  he  stands  a  chance  of  being  nominated  Eeceiver-General, 
of  making  a  wealthy  marriage,  or  of  an  appointment  of  at- 
tache to  a  minister  or  ambassador;  and  he  has  his  friends 
left  and  his  name,  and  he  never  wants  money.  He  knows  the 
standing  of  everybody,  and  uses  every  one  for  his  own  benefit. 
Is  this  logical,  or  am  I  a  madman  after  all?  Haven't  you 
there  all  the  moral  of  the  comedy  that  goes  on  every  da}'  in 
this  world?  .  .  .  Your  work  is  completed/  he  went  on 
after  a  pause;  'you  are  immensely  clever!  Well,  3^ou  have 
only  arrived  at  my  starting-point.  Now,  you  had  better  look 
after  its  success  yourself ;  it  is  the  surest  way.  You  will  make 
allies  in  every  clique,  and  secure  applause  beforehand.  I  mean 
to  go  halves  in  your  glory  myself ;  I  shall  be  the  jeweler  who 
set  the  diamonds  in  your  crown.  Come  here  to-morrow  even- 
ing, by  way  of  a  beginning.  I  will  introduce  you  to  a  house 
where  all  Paris  goes,  all  ovr  Paris,  that  is — the  Paris  of  ex- 
quisites, millionaires,  celebrities,  all  the  folic  v^ho  talk  golr! 
like  Chrysostom.    When  they  have  taken  up  a  book,  that  bock 


A  WOMAN  WITHOUT  A  HEART  97 

becomes  the  fashion ;  and  if  it  is  sonietliing  really  good  for 
once,  they  will  have  declared  it  to  be  a  work  of  genius  without 
knowing  it.  If  you  have  any  sense,  my  dear  fellow,  you  will 
ensure  the  success  of  your  "Theory,"  by  a  better  understand- 
ing of  the  theoT-y  of  success.  To-morrow  evening  you  shall 
go  to  see  that  queen  of  the  moment — the  beautiful  Counters 
Foedora.     .     .     .' 

"  'I  have  never  heard  of  her.     .     .     .' 

"  'You  Hottentot !'  laughed  Eastignac ;  'you  do  not  know 
Foedora?  A  great  match  with  an  income  of  nearly  eighty 
thousand  livres,  who  has  taken  a  fancy  to  nobody,  or  else  no 
one  has  taken  a  fancy  to  her.  A  sort  of  feminine  enigma,  a 
half  Russian  Parisienne,  or  a  half  Parisian  Eussian.  All  the 
romantic  productions  that  never  get  published  are  brought 
out  at  her  house ;  she  is  the  handsomest  woman  in  Paris,  and 
the  most  gracious !  You  are  not  even  a  Hottentot ;  you  are 
something  between  the  Hottentot  and  the  beast.  .  .  . 
Good-bye  till  to-morrow.' 

"He  swung  round  on  his  heel  and  made  off  without  waiting 
for  my  answer.  It  never  occurred  to  him  that  a  reasoning 
being  could  refuse  an  introduction  to  Foedora.  How  can  the 
fascination  of  a  name  be  explained?  Fcedora  haunted  me 
like  some  evil  thought,  with  which  you  seek  to  come  to  terms. 
A  voice  said  in  me,  'You  are  going  to  see  Fcedora !'  In  vain 
I  reasoned  with  that  voice,  saying  that  it  lied  to  me;  all  my 
arguments  were  defeated  by  the  name  'Foedora,'  Was  not  the 
name,  and  even  the  woman  herself,  the  symbol  of  all  my  de- 
sires, and  the  object  of  my  life  ? 

"The  name  called  up  recollections  of  the  conventional  glit- 
ter of  the  world,  the  upper  world  of  Paris  with  its  brilliant 
fetes  and  the  tinsel  of  its  vanities.  The  woman  brought  be- 
fore me  all  the  problems  of  passion  on  which  my  mind  con- 
tinually ran.  Perhaps  it  was  neither  the  woman  nor  the  name, 
but  my  own  propensities,  that  sprang  up  within  me  and 
'ernpted  me  afresh.  Here  was  the  Countess  Foedora,  rich 
•uid  loveless,  proof  against  the  temptations  of  Paris;  was  not 
r.his  woman  the  very  incarnation  of  my  hopes  and  visions? 


98  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

I  fashioned  her  for  myself,  drew  her  in  fancy,  and  dreamed 
of  her.  I  could  not  sleep  that  night ;  I  became  her  lover ;  ] 
overbrimmed  a  few  hours  with  a  whole  lifetime — a  lover's 
lifetime;  the  experience  of  its  prolific  delights  burned  me 

"The  next  day  I  could  not  bear  the  tortures  of  delay;  1 
borrowed  a  novel,  and  spent  the  whole  day  over  it,  so  that  I 
could  not  possibly  think  nor  keep  account  of  the  time  till 
night.  Foedora's  name  echoed  through  me  even  as  I  read; 
but  only  as  a  distant  sound ;  though  it  could  be  heard,  it  wf.s 
not  troublesome.  Fortunately,  I  owned  a  fairly  creditable 
black  coat  and  a  white  waistcoat ;  of  all  my  fortune  there  now 
remained  about  thirty  francs,  which  I  had  distributed  about 
among  my  clothes  and  in  my  drawers,  so  as  to  erect  between 
my  whims  and  the  spending  of  a  five-franc  piece  a  thorny 
barrier  of  search,  and  an  adventurous  peregrination  round 
my  room.  While  I  was  dressing,  I  dived  about  for  my  money 
in  an  ocean  of  papers.  This  scarcity  of  specie  will  give  you 
some  idea  of  the  value  of  that  squandered  upon  gloves  and 
cab-hire;  a  month's  bread  disappeared  at  one  fell  swoop. 
Alas !  money  is  always  forthcoming  for  our  caprices ;  we  only 
grudge  the  cost  of  things  that  are  useful  or  necessary.  We 
recklessly  fling  gold  to  an  opera-dancer,  and  haggle  with  a 
tradesman  whose  hungry  family  must  wait  for  the  settlement 
of  our  bill.  How  many  men  are  there  that  wear  a  coat  that 
cost  a  hundred  francs,  and  carr}'  a  diamond  in  the  head  of 
their  cane,  and  dine  for  twenty-five  sous  for  all  that !  It 
seems  as  though  we  could  never  pay  enough  for  the  pleasures 
of  vanity. 

"Eastignac,  punctual  to  his  appointment,  smiled  at  the 
transformation,  and  joked  about  it.  On  the  way  he  gave  me 
benevolent  advice  as  to  my  conduct  with  the  countess ;  he  de- 
scribed her  as  mean,  vain,  and  suspicious ;  but  though  mean, 
she  was  ostontaiious,  her  vanity  was  transparent,  and  her  mis- 
trust good-humored. 

"'You  know  I  am  pledged/  he  said,  'and  what  I  should 
lose,  too,  if  I  tried  a  change  in  love.  So  my  observation  of 
Fcedora  has  been  quite  cool  and  disinterested,  and  my  remarks 


A  WOMAN  WITHOUT  A  HEART  99 

must  have  some  truth  in  them.  I  was  looking  to  your  futuro 
when  I  thought  of  introducing  you  to  her ;  so  mind  very  care- 
fully what  I  am  about  to  say.  She  has  a  terrible  memory. 
She  is  clever  enough  to  drive  a  diplomatist  v/ild;  she  would 
know  it  at  once  if  he  spoke  the  truth.  Between  ourselves,  I 
fancy  that  her  marriage  was  not  recognized  by  the  Emperor, 
'for  the  Russian  ambassador  began  to  smile  vdien  I  spoke  of 
her ;  he  does  not  receive  her  either,  and  only  bows  very  coolly 
if  he  meets  her  in  the  Bois.  For  all  that,  she  is  in  Madame 
de  Serizy's  set,  and  visits  Mesdames  de  Nucingen  and  de 
Restaud.  There  is  no  cloud  over  her  here  in  France;  the 
Duchesse  de  Carigliano,  the  most  strait-laced  marechale  in 
the  whole  Bonapartist  coterie,  often  goes  to  spend  the  sum- 
mer with  her  at  her  country  house.  Plenty  of  young  fops, 
sons  of  peers  of  France,  have  offered  her  a  title  in  exchange 
for  her  fortune,  and  she  has  politely  declined  them  all.  Her 
susceptibilities,  maybe,  are  not  to  be  touched  by  anything 
Jess  than  a  count.  Aren't  you  a  marquis  ?  Go  ahead  if  you 
fancy  her.  This  is  what  you  may  call  receiving  your  instruc- 
tions.' 

"His  raillery  made  me  think  that  Rastignae  wished  to 
joke  and  excite  my  curiosity,  so  that  I  was  in  a  paroxysm  of 
my  extemporized  passion  by  the  time  that  we  stopped  before 
a  peristyle  full  of  flowers.  My  heart  beat  and  my  color  rose 
as  we  went  up  the  great  carpeted  staircase,  and  I  noticed 
about  me  all  the  studied  refinements  of  English  comfort ;  I  was 
infatuatedly  bourgeois;  I  forgot  my  origin  and  all  my  per- 
sonal and  family  pride.  Alas !  I  had  but  just  left  a  garret, 
after  three  years  of  poverty,  and  I  could  not  just  then  set  the 
treasures  there  acquired  above  such  trifles  as  these.  Nor 
could  I  rightly  estimate  the  worth  of  the  vast  intellectual 
capital  which  turns  to  riches  at  the  moment  when  oppor- 
tunity comes  within  our  reach,  o{)portunity  that  does  not 
overwhelm,  because  study  has  prepared  us  for  the  struggles  of 
public  life. 

"I  found  a  woman  of  about  tvv'enty-two  3'-ears  of  age;  she 
way-  of  average  height,  was  dressed  in  white,  and  held  a  feathef 


100  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

fire-screen  in  her  hand;  a  group  of  men  stood  around  her. 
She  rose  at  the  sight  of  Rastignac,  and  came  towards  us  with 
a  gracious  smile  and  a  musically-uttered  compliment,  pre- 
pared no  doubt  beforehand,  for  me.  Our  friend  had  spoken 
of  me  as  a  rising  man,  and  his  clever  way  of  making  the  most 
of  me  had  procured  me  this  flattering  reception.  I  was  con- 
fused by  the  attention  that  every  one  paid  to  me;  but  Ras- 
tignac had  luckily  mentioned  my  modesty.  I  was  brought 
in  contact  with  scholars,  men  of  letters,  ex-ministers,  and 
peers  of  France.  The  conversation,  interrupted  a  while  by 
my  coming,  was  resumed.  I  took  courage,  feeling  that  I  had 
a  reputation  to  maintain,  and  without  abusing  my  privilege, 
1  spoke  when  it  fell  to  me  to  speak,  trying  to  state  the  ques- 
tions at  issue  in  words  more  or  less  profound,  witty  or  trench- 
ant, and  I  made  a  certain  sensation.  Rastignac  was  a  prophet 
for  the  thousandth  time  in  his  life.  As  soon  as  the  gather- 
ing was  large  enough  to  restore  freedom  to  individuals,  he 
took  my  arm,  and  we  went  round  the  rooms. 

"  'Don't  look  as  if  you  were  too  much  struck  by  the 
princess,'  he  said,  'or  she  will  guess  your  object  in  coming 
to  visit  her.' 

"The  rooms  were  furnished  in  excellent  taste.  Each  apart- 
ment had  a  character  of  its  own,  as  in  wealthy  English  houses ; 
and  the  silken  hangings,  the  style  of  the  furniture,  and  the 
ornaments,  even  the  most  trifling,  were  all  subordinated  to 
the  original  idea.  In  a  gothic  boudoir  the  doors  were  con- 
cealed by  tapestried  curtains,  and  the  paneling  by  hangings; 
the  clock  and  the  pattern  of  the  carpet  were  made  to  harmo- 
nize with  the  gothic  surroundings.  The  ceiling,  with  its 
carved  cross-beams  of  brown  wood,  was  full  of  charm  and 
originality;  the  panels  were  beautifully  wrought;  nothing 
disturbed  the  general  harmony  of  the  scheme  of  decoration, 
not  even  the  windows  with  their  rich  colored  glass.  I  was 
surprised  by  the  extensive  knowledge  of  decoration  that  some 
artist  had  brought  to  bear  on  a  little  uiodorn  room,  it  was  so 
pleasant  and  fresh,  and  not  heavy,  but  su])dued  with  its  dead 
gold  hues.     It  had  all  the  vague  sentiment  of  a  German  bal- 


A  WOMAN  WITHOUT  A  HEART  lOt 

lad;  it  "jras  a  retreat  fit  for  some  romance  of  1827,  perfumed 
by  the  exotic  flowers  set  in  their  stands.  Another  apartmenr 
in  the  suite  was  a  gilded  reproduction  of  the  Louis  Quatorze 
period,  with  modern  paintings  on  the  walls  in  odd  but  pleas- 
ant contrast. 

"  'You  would  not  be  s©  badly  lodged,'  was  Eastignac's 
slightly  sarcastic  comment.  'It  is  captivating,  isn't  it?'  he 
added,  smiling  as  he  sat  down.  Then  suddenly  he  rose,  and 
led  me  by  the  hand  into  a  bedroom,  where  the  softened  light 
fell  upon  the  bed  under  its  canopy  of  muslin  and  white 
watered  silk — a  couch  for  a  young  fairy  betrothed  to  one  of 
the  genii. 

"  'Isn't  it  wantonly  bad  taste,  insolent  and  unbounded 
coquetry,'  he  said,  lowering  his  voice,  'that  allows  us  to  see 
this  throne  of  love?  She  gives  herself  to  no  one,  and  any- 
body may  leave  his  card  here.  If  I  were  not  committed,  I 
should  like  to  see  her  at  my  feet  all  tears  and  submission.' 

"  'Are  you  so  certain  of  her  virtue  ?' 

"  'The  boldest  and  even  the  cleverest  adventurers  among  us, 
acknowledge  themselves  defeated,  and  continue  to  be  her 
lovers  and  devoted  friends.    Isn't  that  woman  a  puzzle  ?' 

"His  words  seemed  to  intoxicate  me;  I  had  jealous  fears 
already  of  the  past.  I  leapt  for  joy,  and  hurried  back  to  the 
countess,  whom  I  had  seen  in  the  gothic  boudoir.  She  stopped 
me  by  a  smile,  made  me  sit  beside  her,  and  talked  about  my 
work,  seeming  to  take  the  greatest  interest  in  it,  and  all  the 
more  when  I  set  forth  my  theories  amusingly,  instead  of 
adopting  the  formal  language  of  a  professor  for  their  explana- 
tion. It  seemed  to  divert  her  to  be  told  that  the  human  will 
was  a  material  force  like  steam;  that  in  the  moral  world 
nothing  could  resist  its  power  if  a  man  taught  himself  to 
concentrate  it,  to  economize  it,  and  to  project  continually 
its  fluid  mass  in  given  directions  upon  other  souls.  Such  a 
man,  I  said,  could  modify  all  things  relatively  to  man,  even 
the  peremptory  laws  of  nature.  The  questions  Foedora  raised 
showed  a  certain  keenness  of  intellect.  I  took  a  pleasure  in 
deciding  some  of  them  in  her  favor^  in  order  to  flatter  her; 


102  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

then  I  confuted  her  feminine  reasoning  with  a  word,  and 
roused  her  curiosity  by  drawing  her  attention  to  an  every- 
day matter — to  sleep,  a  thing  so  apparently  commonplace, 
that  in  reality  is  an  insoluble  problem  for  science.  The 
countess  sat  in  silence  for  a  moment  when  I  told  her  that  our 
ideas  were  complete  organic  beings,  existing  in  an  invisible 
world,  and  influencing  our  destinies;  and  for  witnesses  I  cited 
the  opinions  of  Descartes,  Diderot,  and  Napoleon,  who  had 
directed,  and  still  directed,  all  the  currents  of  the  age. 

"So  I  had  the  honor  of  amusing  this  woman;  she  asked 
me  to  come  to  see  her  when  she  left  me ;  giving  me  les  grande 
entrees,  in  the  language  of  the  court.  Whether  it  was  by 
dint  of  substituting  polite  formulas  for  genuine  expressions 
of  feeling,  a  commendable  habit  of  mine,  or  because  Foedora 
hailed  in  me  a  coming  celebrity,  an  addition  to  her  learned 
menagerie;  for  some  reason  I  thought  I  had  pleased  her.  I 
called  all  my  previous  physiological  studies  and  knowledge 
of  woman  to  my  aid,  and  minutely  scrutinized  this  singular 
person  and  her  ways  all  the  evening.  I  concealed  myself  in 
the  embrasure  of  a  window,  and  sought  to  discover  her 
thoughts  from  her  bearing.  I  studied  the  tactics  of  the  mis- 
tress of  the  house,  as  she  came  and  went,  sat  and  chatted, 
beckoned  to  this  one  or  that,  asked  questions,  listened  to  the 
answers,  as  she  leaned  against  the  frame  of  the  door;  I  de- 
tected a  languid  charm  in  her  movements,  a  grace  in  the 
flutterings  of  her  dress,  remarked  the  nature  of  the  feelings 
she  so  powerfully  excited,  and  became  very  incredulous  as  to 
her  virtue.  If  Foedora  would  none  of  love  to-day,  she  had 
had  strong  passions  at  some  time;  past  experience  of  pleasure 
showed  itself  in  the  attitudes  she  chose  in  conversation,  in  her 
coquettish  way  of  leaning  against  the  panel  behind  her;  she 
seemed  scarcely  able  to  stand  alone,  and  yet  ready  for  flight 
from  too  bold  a  glance.  There  was  a  kind  of  eloquence  about 
her  lightly  folded  arms,  which,  even  for  benevolent  eyes. 
breathed  sentiment.  Her  fresh  red  lips  sharply  contrasted 
with  her  brilliantly  pale  complexion.  Her  brown  hair  brouglit 
out  all  the  golden  color  \n  her  eyes,  in  which  blue  streaki 


A  WOMAN  WITHOUT  A   HEART  lOB 

mingled  as  in  Florentine  marble;  their  expression  seemed 
to  increase  the  significance  of  her  words.  A  studied  grace 
lay  in  the  charms  of  her  bodice.  Perhaps  a  rival  might  have 
found  the  lines  of  the  thick  eyebrows,  which  almost  met,  a 
little  hard;  or  found  a  fault  in  the  almost  invisible  down  that 
covered  her  features.  I  saw  the  signs  of  passion  everywhere, 
written  on  those  Italian  eyelids,  on  the  splendid  shoulders 
worthy  of  the  Venus  of  Milo,  on  her  features,  in  the  darker 
shade  of  down  above  a  somewhat  thick  under-lip.  She  was 
not  merely  a  woman,  but  a  romance.  The  whole  blended 
harmony  of  lines,  the  feminine  luxuriance  of  her  frame,  and 
its  passionate  promise,  were  subdued  by  a  constant  inex- 
plicable reserve  and  modesty  at  variance  with  everything 
else  about  her.  It  needed  an  observation  as  keen  as  my  own 
to  detect  such  signs  as  these  in  her  character.  To  explain 
myself  more  clearly;  there  were  two  women  in  Foedora,  di- 
vided perhaps  by  the  line  between  head  and  body :  the  one, 
the  head  alone,  seemed  to  be  susceptible,  and  the  other  phleg- 
matic. She  prepared  her  glance  before  she  looked  at  you, 
something  unspeakably  mysterious,  some  inward  convulsion 
seemed  revealed  by  her  glittering  eyes. 

"So,  to  be  brief,  either  my  imperfect  moral  science  had 
left  me  a  good  deal  to  learn  in  the  moral  world,  or  a  lofty 
soul  dwelt  in  the  countess,  lent  to  her  face  those  charms  that 
fascinated  and  subdued  us,  and  gave  her  an  ascendencv  only 
the  more  complete  because  it  comprehended  a  sympathy  of 
desire. 

"I  went  away  completely  enraptured  with  this  woman,  daz- 
zled by  the  luxury  around  her,  gratified  in  everv  faculty  of 
my  soul — noble  and  base,  good  and  evil.  When  I  felt  mvself 
so  excited,  eager,  and  elated,  I  thought  I  understood  the  at- 
traction that  drew  thither  those  artists,  diplomatists,  men  in 
office,  those  stock-jobbers  encased  in  triple  brass.  They  came, 
no  doubt,  to  find  in  her  society  the  delirious  emotion  that  now 
thrilled  through  every  fibre  in  me,  throbbing  through  my 
brain,  setting  the  blood  a-tingle  in  every  vein,  fretting  even 
the  tiniest  nerve.    And  she  had  given  herself  to  none,  so  as  to 


104  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

keep  them  all.    A  woman  is  a  coquette  so  long  as  she  knows 
not  love. 

"  'Well,'  I  said  to  Eastignac,  'they  married  her,  or  sold 
her  perhaps,  to  some  old  man,  and  recollections  of  her  first 
marriage  have  caused  her  aversion  for  love.' 

"I  walked  home  from  the  Faubourg  St.  Honore,  where 
Fcedora  lived.  Almost  all  the  breadth  of  Paris  lies  between 
her  mansion  and  the  Eue  des  Cordiers,  but  the  distance 
seemed  short,  in  spite  of  the  cold.  And  I  was  to  lay  siege  to 
Foedora's  heart,  in  winter,  and  a  bitter  winter,  with  only 
thirty  francs  in  my  possession,  and  such  a  distance  as  that 
lay  between  us  !  Only  a  poor  man  knows  what  such  a  passion 
costs  in  cab-hire,  gloves,  linen,  tailor's  bills,  and  the  like.  If 
the  Platonic  stage  lasts  a  little  too  long,  the  affair  grows  ruin- 
ous. As  a  matter  of  fact,  there  is  many  a  Lauzun  among 
students  of  law,  who  finds  it  impossible  to  approach  a  lady- 
love living  on  a  first  floor.  And  I,  sickly,  thin,  poorly  dressed^ 
wan  and  pale  as  any  artist  convalescent  after  a  work,  how 
could  I  compete  with  other  young  men,  curled,  handsome^ 
smart,  outcravatting  Croatia ;  wealthy  men,  equipped  with  til- 
burys,  and  armed  with  assurance  ? 

"  'Bah,  death  or  Foedora !'  I  cried,  as  I  went  round  by  a 
bridge;  'my  fortune  lies  in  Foedora.' 

"That  gothic  boudoir  and  Louis  Quatorze  salon  came  before 
my  eyes.  I  saw  the  countess  again  in  her  white  dress  with  its 
large  graceful  sleeves,  and  all  the  fascinations  of  her  form  and 
movements.  These  pictures  of  Foedora  and  her  luxurious 
surroundings  haunted  me  even  in  my  bare,  cold  garret,  when 
at  last  I  reached  it,  as  disheveled  as  any  naturalist's  wig. 
The  contrast  suggested  evil  counsel ;  in  such  a  way  crimes  are 
conceived.  I  cursed  my  honest,  self-respecting  poverty,  my 
garret  where  such  teeming  fancies  had  stirred  within  me.  I 
trembled  with  fury,  I  reproached  God,  the  devil,  social  con- 
ditions, my  own  father,  the  whole  universe,  indeed,  with  my 
fate  and  my  misfortunes.  I  went  hungry  to  bed,  muttering 
ludicrous  imprecations,  but  fully  determined  to  win  Foedora. 
Her  heart  was  my  last  ticket  in  the  lottery,  my  fortune  de- 
pended upon  it. 


A  WOMAN  WITHOUT  A  HEART  105 

"I  spare  you  the  history  of  my  earlier  visits,  to  reach  the 
drama  the  sooner.  In  my  efforts  to  appeal  to  her,  I  essayed 
to  engage  her  intellect  and  her  vanity  on  my  side;  in  order 
to  secure  her  love,  I  gave  her  any  quantity  of  reasons  for  in- 
creasing her  self-esteem;  I  never  left  her  in  a  state  of  indif- 
ference; women  like  emotions  at  any  cost,  I  gave  them  to  her 
in  plenty ;  I  would  rather  have  had  her  angry  with  me  than 
indifferent. 

"At  first,  urged  by  a  strong  will  and  a  desire  for  her  love, 
I  assumed  a  little  authority,  but  my  own  feelings  grew 
stronger  and  mastered  me;  I  relapsed  into  truth,  I  lost  my 
head,  and  fell  desperately  in  love. 

"I  am  not  very  sure  what  we  mean  by  the  word  love  in 
our  poetry  and  our  talk ;  but  I  know  that  I  have  never  found 
in  all  the  read}^  rhetorical  phrases  of  Jean-Jacques  Kousseau, 
in  whose  room  perhaps  I  was  lodging;  nor  among  the  feeble 
inventions  of  two  centuries  of  our  literature,  nor  in  any  pic- 
ture that  Italy  has  produced,  a  representation  of  the  feelings 
that  expanded  all  at  once  in  my  double  nature.  The  view  of 
the  lake  of  Bienne,  some  music  of  Kossini's,  the  Madonna  of 
Murillo's  now  in  the  possession  of  General  Soult,  Lescombat's 
letters,  a  few  sayings  scattered  through  collections  of  anec- 
dotes; but  most  of  all  the  prayers  of  religious  eestatics,  and 
passages  in  our  fabliaux, — these  things  alone  have  power  to 
carry  me  back  to  the  divine  heights  of  my  first  love. 

"Nothing  expressed  in  human  language,  no  thought  repro- 
ducible in  color,  marble,  sound,  or  articulate  speech,  could 
ever  render  the  force,  the  truth,  the  completeness,  the  sud- 
denness with  which  love  awoke  in  me.  To  speak  of  art,  is  to 
speak  of  illusion.  Love  passes  through  endless  transforma- 
tions before  it  passes  for  ever  into  our  existence  and  makes  it 
glow  with  its  own  color  of  fl^ame.  The  process  is  impercep- 
tible, and  baffles  the  artist's  analysis.  Its  moans  and 
complaints  are  tedious  to  an  uninterested  spectator.  One 
would  need  to  be  very  much  in  love  to  share  the  furious  trans- 
ports of  Lovelace,  as  one  reads  Clarissa  Harlowe.  Love  is 
like  some  fresh  spring,  that  leaves  its  cresses,  its  gravel  bed 


lOe  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

and  flowers,  to  become  first  a  stream  and  then  a  river,  chang- 
ing its  aspect,  and  its  nature  as  it  flows  to  plunge  itself  in 
some  boundless  ocean,  where  restricted  natures  only  find  mo- 
notony, but  where  great  souls  are  engulfed  in  endless  con- 
templation. 

"How  can  I  dare  to  describe  the  hues  of  fleeting  emotions, 
the  nothings  beyond  all  price,  the  spoken  accents  that  beggar 
language,  the  looks  that  hold  more  than  all  the  wealth  of 
poetry?  Kot  one  of  the  mysterious  scenes  that  draw  us  in- 
sensibly nearer  and  nearer  to  a  woman,  but  has  depths  in  it 
which  can  swallow  up  all  the  poetry  that  ever  was  written. 
How  can  the  inner  life  and  mystery  that  stirs  in  our  souls 
penetrate  through  our  glozes,  when  we  have  not  even  words 
to  describe  the  visible  and  outward  mysteries  of  beauty?  What 
enchantment  steeped  me  for  how  many  hours  in  unspeakable 
rapture,  filled  with  the  sight  of  Her !  What  made  me  happy  ? 
I  know  not.  That  face  of  hers  overflowed  with  light  at  such 
times ;  it  seemed  in  some  way  to  glow  with  it ;  the  outlines  of 
her  face,  with  the  scarcely  perceptible  down  on  its  delicate 
surface,  shone  with  a  beauty  belonging  to  the  far  distant 
horizon  that  melts  into  the  sunlight.  The  light  of  day 
seemed  to  caress  her  as  she  mingled  in  it ;  rather  it  seemed 
that  the  light  of  her  eyes  was  brighter  than  the  daylight 
itself ;  or  some  shadow  passing  over  that  fair  face  made  a  kind 
of  change  there,  altering  its  hues  and  its  expression.  Some 
thought  would  often  seem  to  glow  on  her  white  brows;  her 
eyes  appeared  to  dilate,  and  her  eyelids  trembled;  a  smile 
rippled  over  her  features;  the  living  coral  of  her  lips  grew 
full  of  meaning  as  they  closed  and  unclosed :  an  indistin- 
guishable something  in  her  hair  made  brown  shadows  on  hei 
fair  temples:  in  each  new  phase  Foedora  spoke.  Every  slight 
variation  in  her  beauty  made  a  new  pleasure  for  my  eyes,  dis- 
closed charms  my  heart  had  never  known  before ;  I  tried  to 
read  a  separate  emotion  or  a  hope  in  every  change  that  passed 
over  her  face.  This  mute  converse  passed  between  soul  and 
soul,  like  sound  and  answering  echo ;  and  the  short-lived  de- 
liglits  then  showered  upon  me  have  left  indelible  impressions 


A  WOMAN  Wn  HOTTT  A  HEART  lO"! 

^»ehind.  Her  voice  would  cause  a  frenzy  in  me  that  I  could 
haidly  understand.  I  could  have  copied  the  example  of 
some  prince  of  Lorraine^,  and  held  a  live  coal  in  the  hollow  of 
my  hand,  if  her  fingers  passed  caressingly  through  my  hair 
the  while.  I  felt  no  longer  mere  admiration  and  desire:  I 
was  under  the  spell;  I  had  met  my  destiny.  When  back  again 
under  my  own  roof,  I  still  vaguely  saw  Fcedora  in  her  own 
home,  and  had  some  indefinable  share  in  her  life;  if  she  felt 
ill,  I  suffered  too.    The  next  day  I  used  to  say  to  her : 

"  'You  were  not  well  yesterday.' 

"How  often  has  she  not  stood  before  me,  called  by  the 
power  of  ecstasy,  in  the  silence  of  the  night !  Sometimes  she 
would  break  in  upon  me  like  a  ray  of  light,  make  me  drop  my 
pen,  and  put  science  and  study  to  flight  in  grief  and  alarm, 
as  she  compelled  my  admiration  by  the  alluring  pose  I  had 
seen  but  a  short  time  before.  Sometimes  I  went  to  seek  her 
in  the  spirit  world,  and  would  bow  down  to  her  as  to  a  hope, 
entreating  her  to  let  me  hear  the  silver  sounds  of  her  voice, 
and  I  would  wake  at  length  in  tears. 

"Once,  when  she  had  promised  to  go  to  the  theatre  with 
me,  she  took  it  suddenly  into  her  head  to  refuse  to  go  out, 
and  begged  me  to  leave  her  alone.  I  was  in  such  despair  over 
the  perversity  which  cost  me  a  day's  work,  and  (if  I  must  con- 
fess it)  my  last  shilling  as  well,  that  I  went  alone  where  she 
was  to  have  been,  desiring  to  see  the  play  she  had  wished  to 
see.  I  had  scarcely  seated  myself  when  an  electric  shock  went 
through  me.  A  voice  told  me,  'She  is  here !'  I  looked  round, 
and  saw  the  countess  hidden  in  the  shadow  at  the  back  of  her 
box  in  the  first  tier.  My  look  did  not  waver ;  my  eyes  saw  her 
at  once  with  incredible  clearness;  my  soul  hovered  about  her 
life  like  an  insect  above  its  flower.  How  had  my  senses  re- 
ceived this  warning?  There  is  something  in  these  inward 
tremors  that  shallow  people  find  astonishing,  but  the  phe- 
nomena of  our  inner  consciousness  are  produced  as  simply  as 
those  of  external  vision;  so  I  was  not  surprised,  but  much 
vexed.  My  siudies  of  our  mental  f acuities,  so  little  under- 
stood, helped  me  at  any  rate  to  find  in  my  own  excitement 


1^  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

some  living  proofs  of  my  theories.  There  was  something  ex- 
ceedingly odd  in  this  combination  of  lover  and  man  of  sci- 
ence, of  downright  idolatry  of  a  woman  with  the  love  of 
knowledge.  The  causes  of  the  lover's  despair  were  highly  in- 
teresting to  the  man  of  science ;  and  the  exultant  lover,  on  the 
other  hand,  put  science  far  away  from  him  in  his  joy. 
Foedora  saw  me,  and  grew  grave :  I  annoyed  her.  I  went  to 
her  box  during  the  first  interval,  and,  finding  her  alone,  I 
staj^ed  there.  Although  we  had  not  spoken  of  love,  I  foresaw 
an  explanation.  I  had  not  told  her  my  secret,  still  there  was 
a  kind  of  understanding  between  us.  She  used  to  tell  me 
her  plans  for  amusement,  and  on  the  previous  evening  had 
asked  with  friendly  eagerness  if  I  meant  to  call  next  day. 
After  any  witticism  of  hers,  she  would  give  me  an  inquiring 
glance,  as  if  she  had  souglit  to  please  me  alone  by  it.  She 
Would  soothe  me  if  I  was  vexed ;  and  if  she  pouted,  I  had  in 
some  sort  a  right  to  ask  an  explanation.  Before  she  would 
pardon  any  blunder,  she  would  keep  me  a  suppliant  for  long. 
All  these  things  that  we  so  relished,  were  so  many  lovers' 
quarrels.  What  arch  grace  she  threw  into  it  all!  and  what 
happiness  it  was  to  me ! 

"But  now  we  stood  before  each  other  as  strangers,  with  the 
close  relation  between  us  both  suspended.  The  countess  was 
glacial :  a  presentiment  of  trouble  filled  me. 

"  ^ill  you  come  home  with  me  ?'  she  said,  when  the  play 
was  over. 

"There  had  been  a  sudden  change  in  the  weather,  and  sleet 
was  falling  in  showers  as  we  went  out.  Fcedora's  carriage 
was  unable  to  reach  the  doorway  of  the  theatre.  At  the  sight 
of  a  well-dressed  woman  about  to  cross  the  street,  a  com- 
missionaire held  an  umbrella  above  us.  and  stood  waiting  at 
the  carriage-door  for  his  tip.  I  would  have  given  ten  years 
of  life  just  then  for  a  couple  of  halfpence,  but  I  had  not  a 
penny.  All  the  man  in  me  and  all  my  vainest  susceptibilities 
were  wrung  with  an  infernal  pain.  The  words,  'I  haven't  a 
penny  about  mo,  my  good  fellow !'  come  from  me  in  the  hard 
voice  of  thwarted  passion;  and  yet  I  was  that  man's  brother 


A  WOMAN  WITHOUT  A  HEART  109 

in  misfortune,  as  I  knew  too  well ;  and  once  I  had  so  lightly 
paid  away  seven  hundred  thousand  francs!  The  footman 
pushed  the  m&n  aside,  and  the  horses  sprang  forward.  As  we 
returned,  Foodora,  in  real  or  feigned  abstraction,  answered  all 
my  questions  curtly  and  by  monosyllables.  I  said  no  more; 
it  was  a  hateful  moment.  When  we  reached  her  house,  we 
seated  ourselves  by  the  hearth,  and  when  the  servant  had 
stirred  the  fire  and  left  us  alone,  the  countess  turned  to  me 
with  an  inexplicable  expression,  and  spoke.  Her  manner  was 
almost  solemn. 

"  'Since  my  return  to  France,  more  than  one  young  man, 
tempted  by  my  money,  has  made  proposals  to  me  which  would 
have  satisfied  my  pride.  I  have  come  across  men,  too,  whose 
attachment  was  so  deep  and  sincere  that  they  might  have 
married  me  even  if  they  had  found  me  the  penniless  girl  T 
used  to  be.  Besides  these.  Monsieur  de  Valentin,  you  must 
know  that  new  titles  and  newly-acquired  wealth  have  been  also 
offered  to  me,  and  that  I  have  never  received  again  any  of 
those  who  were  so  ill-advised  as  to  mention  love  to  me.  If  my 
regard  for  you  was  but  slight,  I  would  not  give  you  this  warn- 
ing,  which  is  dictated  by  friendship  rather  than  by  pride.  A 
woman  lays  herself  open  to  a  rebuff  of  some  kind,  if  she 
imagines  herself  to  be  loved,  and  declines,  before  it  is  uttered, 
to  listen  to  language  which  in  its  nature  implies  a  compli- 
ment. I  am  well  acquainted  with  the  parts  played  by  Arsinoe 
and  Araminta,  and  with  the  sort  of  answer  I  might  look  for 
under  such  circumstances ;  but  I  hope  to-day  that  I  shall  not 
find  myself  misconstrued  by  a  man  of  no  ordinary  character, 
because  I  have  frankly  spoken  my  mind.' 

"She  spoke  with  the  cool  self-possession  of  some  attorney 
or  solicitor  explaining  the  nature  of  a  contract  or  the  conduct 
of  a  lawsuit  to  a  client.  There  was  not  the  least  sign  of  feel- 
ing in  the  clear  soft  tones  of  her  voice.  Her  steady  face  and 
dignified  bearing  seemed  to  me  now  full  of  diplomatic  reserve 
and  coldness.  She  had  planned  this  scene,  no  doubt,  and  care- 
fully chosen  her  words  beforehand.  Oh,  my  friend,  there  are 
women  who  take  pleasure  in  piercing  hearts,  and  deliberately 


no  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

plunge  the  dagger  back  again  into  the  wound ;  such  women 
as  these  cannot  but  be  worshiped,  for  such  women  either 
love  or  would  fain  be  loved.  A  day  comes  when  they  make 
amends  for  all  the  pain  they  gave  us ;  they  repay  us  for  the 
pangs,  the  keenness  of  which  they  recognize,  in  joys  a  hun- 
dred-fold, even  as  God,  they  tell  us,  recompenses  our  good 
works.  Does  not  their  perversity  spring  from  the  strength 
of  their  feelings?  But  to  be  so  tortured  by  a  woman,  who 
slaughters  you  with  indifference !  was  not  the  suffering  hide- 
ous? 

"Fcedora  did  not  know  it,  but  in  that  minute  she  trampled 
all  my  hopes  beneath  her  feet;  she  maimed  my  life  and  she 
blighted  my  future  with  the  cool  indifference  and  unconscious 
barbarity  of  an  inquisitive  child  who  plucks  its  wings  from  a 
butterfly. 

"  'Later  on,'  resumed  Foedora,  'you  will  learn,  I  hope,  the 
stability  of  the  affection  that  I  keep  for  my  friends.  You  will 
always  find  that  I  have  devotion  and  kindness  for  them.  I 
would  give  my  life  to  serve  my  friends;  but  you  couhl  only 
despise  me,  if  I  allowed  them  to  make  love  to  me  without  re- 
turn. That  is  enough.  You  are  the  only  man  to  whom  I  have 
spoken  such  words  as  these  last.' 

"At  first  I  could  not  speak,  or  master  the  tempest  that  arose 
within  me ;  but  I  soon  repressed  my  emotions  in  the  depths 
of  my  soul,  and  began  to  smile. 

"  'If  I  own  that  I  love  you,'  I  said,  'you  will  banish  me  at 
once;  if  I  plead  guilty  to  indifference,  you  will  make  me  suffer 
for  it.  Women,  magistrates,  and  priests  never  quite  lay  the 
gown  aside.  Silence  is  non-committal;  be  pleased  then, 
madame,  to  approve  my  silence.  You  must  have  feared,  in 
some  degree,  to  lose  me,  or  I  should  not  have  received  this 
friendly  admonition ;  and  with  that  thought  my  pride  oiiijht 
to  be  satisfied.  Let  us  banish  all  personal  considerations. 
You  are  perhaps  the  only  woman  with  whom  I  could  discuss 
rationally  a  resolution  so  contrary  to  the  laws  of  nature.  Con- 
sidered with  regard  to  your  species,  you  are  a  prodigy.  Now 
let  tJS  investigate,  in  good  faith,  the  causes  of  this  psycho 


A  WOMAN  WITHOUT  A  HEART  HI 

logical  anomaly.  Does  there  exist  in  you,  as  in  many  women, 
a  certain  pride  in  self,  a  love  of  your  own  loveliness,  a  refine- 
ment of  egoism  which  makes  you  shudder  at  the  idea  of  be- 
longing to  another;  is  it  the  thought  of  resigning  your  own 
will  and  submitting  to  a  superiority,  though  only  of  conven- 
tion, which  displeases  you?  You  would  seem  to  me  a  thou- 
sand times  the  fairer  for  it.  Can  love  formerly  have  brought 
you  suffering?  You  probably  set  some  value  on  your  dainty 
figure  and  graceful  appearance,  and  may  perhaps  Avish  to 
avoid  the  disfigurements  of  maternity.  Is  not  this  one  of 
your  strongest  reasons  for  refusing  a  too  importunate  love? 
Some  natural  defect  perhaps  makes  you  insusceptible  in  spite 
of  yourself  ?  Do  not  be  angry ;  my  study,  my  inquiry  is  abso- 
lutely dispassionate.  Some  are  born  blind,  and  nature  may 
easily  have  formed  women  who  in  like  manner  are  blind,  deaf, 
and  dumb  to  love.  You  are  really  an  interesting  subject  for 
medical  investigation.  You  do  not  know  your  value.  You 
feel  perhaps  a  very  legitimate  distaste  for  mankind;  in  that 
I  quite  concur— rto  me  they  all  seem  ugly  and  detestable.  And 
you  are  right,'  I  added,  feeling  my  heart  swell  within  me; 
Tiow  can  you  do  otherwise  than  despise  us?  There  is  not  a 
man  living  who  is  worthy  of  you.' 

"I  will  not  repeat  all  the  biting  words  with  which  I  ridi- 
culed her.  In  vain;  my  bitterest  sarcasms  and  keenest  irony 
never  made  her  wince  nor  elicited  a  sign  of  vexation.  She 
heard  me,  with  the  customary  smile  upon  her  lips  and  in  her 
eyes,  the  smile  that  she  wore  as  a  part  of  her  clothing,  and 
that  never  varied  for  friends,  for  mere  acquaintances,  or  for 
strangers. 

"  'Isn't  it  very  nice  of  me  to  allow  you  to  dissect  me  like 
this?'  she  said  at  last,  as  I  came  to  a  temporary  standstill, 
and  looked  at  her  in  silence.  'You  see,'  she  went  on,  laughing, 
'that  I  have  no  foolish  over-sensitiveness  about  my  friendship. 
Many  a  woman  would  shut  her  door  on  you  by  way  of  pun- 
ishing you  for  your  impertinence.' 

"  'You  could  banish  me  without  needing  to  give  me  the 
reasons  for  your  harshness.'  As  I  spoke  I  felt  that  1  could 
kill  her  if  she  dismissed  me. 


112  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

"  'You  are  mad/  she  said,  smiling  still. 

"  'Did  you  never  think/  I  went  on,  'of  the  effects  of  pas- 
sionate love?  A  desperate  man  has  often  murdered  his  mis- 
tress.' 

"  'It  is  better  to  die  than  to  live  in  miser}-,'  she  said  coolly. 
'Such  a  man  as  that  would  run  through  his  wife's  money, 
desert  her,  and  leave  her  at  last  in  utter  wretchedness.' 

"This  calm  calculation  dumfounded  me.  The  gulf  be- 
tween us  was  made  plain;  we  could  never  understand  each 
other. 

"  'Good-bye/  I  said  proudly. 

*'  'Good-bye,  till  to-morrow/  she  answered,  with  a  little 
friendly  bow. 

"For  a  moment's  space  I  hurled  at  her  in  a  glance  all  the 
love  I  must  forego ;  she  stood  there  with  that  banal  smile  of 
hers,  the  detestable  chill  smile  of  a  marble  statue,  with  none 
of  the  warmth  in  it  that  it  seemed  to  express.  Can  you  form. 
'  any  idea,  my  friend,  of  the  pain  that  overcame  me  on  the  way 
home  through  rain  and  snow,  across  a  league  of  icy-sheeted 
quays,  without  a  hope  left?  Oh,  to  think  that  she  not  only 
had  not  guessed  my  poverty,  but  believed  me  to  be  as  wealthy 
as  she  was,  and  likewise  borne  as  softly  over  the  rough  ways 
of  life !  What  failure  and  deceit !  It  was  no  mere  question 
of  money  now,  but  of  the  fate  of  all  that  lay  within  me. 

"I  went  at  haphazard,  going  over  the  words  of  our  strange 
conversation  with  myself.  I  got  so  thoroughly  lost  in  my 
reflections  that  I  ended  by  doubts  as  to  the  actual  value  of 
words  and  ideas.  But  I  loved  her  all  the  same;  I  loved  this 
woman  with  the  untouched  heart  that  might  surrender  at  any 
moment — a  woman  who  daily  disappointed  the  expectations 
of  the  previous  evening,  by  appearing  as  a  new  mistress  on  the 
morrow. 

"As  I  passed  under  the  gateway  of  the  Institute,  a  fevered 
thrill  ran  through  me.  I  remembered  that  I  was  fasting,  and 
that  I  had  not  a  penny.  To  complete  the  measure  of  my 
misfortune,  my  hat  was  spoiled  by  the  rain.  How  was  I  to 
appear  in  the  drawing-room  of  a  woman  of  fashion  with  an 


A  WOMAN  WITHOUT  A  HEART  113 

unpresentable  hat  ?  I  had  always  cursed  the  inane  and  stupid 
custom  that  compels  us  to  exhibit  the  lining  of  our  hats,  and 
to  keep  them  always  in  our  hands,  but  with  anxious  care  1 
had  so  far  kept  mine  in  a  precarious  state  of  efficiency.  It  had 
been  neither  strikingly  new,  nor  utterly  shabby,  neither  nap- 
less nor  over-glossy,  and  might  have  passed  for  the  hat  of  a 
frugally  given  owner,  but  its  artificially  prolonged  existence 
had  now  reached  the  final  stage,  it  was  crumpled,  forlorn,  and 
completely  ruined,  a  downright  rag,  a  fitting  emblem  of  its 
master.  My  painfully  preserved  elegance  must  collapse  for 
want  of  thirty  sous. 

"What  unrecognized  sacrifices  I  had  made  in  the  past  three 
months  for  Foedora !  How  often  I  had  given  the  price  of  a 
week's  sustenance  to  see  her  for  a  moment !  To  leave  my 
work  and  go  without  food  was  the  least  of  it !  I  must  traverse 
the  streets  of  Paris  without  getting  splashed,  run  to  escape 
showers,  and  reach  her  rooms  at  last,  as  neat  and  spruce  as 
any  of  the  coxcombs  about  her.  For  a  poet  and  a  distracted 
wooer  the  difficulties  of  this  task  were  endless.  My  happiness, 
the  course  of  my  love,  might  be  affected  by  a  speck  of  mud 
upon  my  only  white  waistcoat !  Oh,  to  miss  the  sight  of  her 
because  I  wa^  wet  through  and  bedraggled,  and  had  not  so 
much  as  five  sous  to  give  to  a  shoeblack  for  removing  the  least 
little  spot  of  mud  from  my  boot !  The  petty  pangs  of  these 
nameless  torments,  which  an  irritable  man  finds  so  great,  only 
strengthened  my  passion. 

"The  unfortunate  must  make  sacrifices  which  they  may 
not  mention  to  women  who  lead  refined  and  luxurious  lives. 
Such  women  see  things  through  a  prism  that  gilds  all  men 
and  their  surroundings.  Egoism  leads  them  to  take  cheerful 
views,  and  fashion  makes  them  cruel ;  they  do  not  wish  to  re- 
flect, lest  they  lose  their  happiness,  and  the  absorbing  nature 
of  their  pleasures  absolves  their  indifference  to  the  misfor- 
tunes of  others.  A  penny  never  means  millions  to  them ; 
millions,  on  the  contrary,  seem  a  mere  trifle.  Perhaps  love 
must  plead  his  cause  by  great  sacrifices,  but  a  veil  must  be 
lightly  drawn  across  them,  they  must  go  down  into  silence. 


114  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

So  when  wealthy  men  pour  out  their  devotion,  their  fortunes, 
and  their  lives,  they  gain  somewhat  by  these  commonly  enter- 
tained opinions,  an  additional  lustre  hangs  about  their  lovers' 
follies;  their  silence  is  eloquent;  there  is  a  grace  about  the 
drawn  veil ;  but  my  terrible  distress  bound  me  over  to  suffer 
fearfully  or  ever  I  might  speak  of  my  love  or  of  dying  for  her 
sake. 

"Was  it  a  sacrifice  after  all?  Was  I  not  richly  rewarded 
by  the  joy  I  took  in  sacrificing  everything  to  her?  There  was 
no  commonest  event  of  my  daily  life  to  which  the  countess 
had  not  given  importance,  had  not  overfilled  with  happiness. 
I  had  been  hitherto  careless  of  my  clothes,  now  I  respected  my 
coat  as  if  it  had  been  a  second  self.  I  should  not  have  hesi- 
tated between  bodily  harm  and  a  tear  in  that  garment.  You 
must  enter  wholly  into  my  circumstances  to  understand  the 
stormy  thoughts,  the  gathering  frenzy,  that  shook  me  as  I 
went,  and  which,  perhaps,  were  increased  by  my  walk.  I 
gloated  in  an  infernal  fashion  which  I  cannot  describe  over 
the  absolute  completeness  of  my  wretchedness.  I  would  have 
drawn  from  it  an  augury  of  my  future,  but  there  is  no  limit 
to  the  possibilities  of  misfortune.  The  door  of  my  lodging- 
house  stood  ajar.  A  light  streamed  from  the  heart-shaped 
opening  cut  in  the  shutters.  Pauline  and  her  mother  were 
sitting  up  for  me  and  talking.  I  heard  my  name  spoken,  and 
listened. 

"  'Eaphael  is  much  nicer-looking  than  the  student  in 
number  seven,'  said  Pauline;  Tiis  fair  hair  is  such  a  pretty 
color.  Don't  you  think  there  is  something  in  his  voice,  too, 
I  don't  know  what  it  is,  that  gives  you  a  sort  of  thrill  ?  And, 
then,  though  he  may  be  a  little  proud,  he  is  very  kind,  and  he 
has  such  fine  manners;  I  am  sure  that  all  the  ladies  must  be 
quite  wild  about  him.' 

"'You  might  be  fond  of  him  yourself,  to  hear  you  talk/ 
was  Madame  Gaudin's  comment. 

"  'Tie  is  just  as  dear  to  me  as  a  brother,'  she  laughed.  'I 
sbonld  bo  finely  ungrateful  if  T  felt  no  friondshin  for  him. 
Didn't  he  teach  me  music  and  drawing  and  grammar,  and 


A  WOMAN  WITHOUT  A  HEART  115 

everything  I  know  in  fact?  You  don't  much  notice  how  I 
get  on,  dear  mother ;  but  I  shall  know  enough,  in  a  while,  to 
give  lessons  myself,  and  then  we  can  keep  a  servant/ 

"I  stole  away  softly,  made  some  noise  outside,  and  went 
into  their  room  to  take  the  lamp,  that  Pauline  tried  to  light 
for  me.  The  dear  child  had  just  poured  soothing  balm  into 
my  wounds.  Her  outspoken  admiration  had  given  me  fresh 
courage.  I  so  needed  to  believe  in  myself  and  to  come  by  a 
just  estimate  of  my  advantages.  This  revival  of  hope  in  me 
perhaps  colored  my  surroundings.  Perhaps  also  I  had  never 
before  really  looked  at  the  picture  that  so  often  met  my  eyes, 
of  the  two  women  in  their  room;  it  was  a  scene  such  as 
Flemish  painters  have  reproduced  so  faithfully  for  us,  that 
I  admired  in  its  delightful  reality.  The  mother,  with  the 
kind  smile  upon  her  lips,  sat  knitting  stockings  by  the  dying 
fire;  Pauline  was  painting  hand-screens,  her  brushes  and 
paints,  strewn  over  the  tiny  table,  made  bright  spots  of  color 
for  the  eye  to  dwell  on.  When  she  had  left  her  seat  and 
stood  lighting  my  lamp,  one  must  have  been  under  the  yoke 
of  a  terrible  passion  indeed,  not  to  admire  her  faintly  flushed 
transparent  hands,  the  girlish  charm  of  her  attitude,  the 
ideal  grace  of  her  head,  as  the  lamplight  fell  full  on  her  pale 
face.  Night  and  .silence  added  to  the  charms  of  this  in- 
dustrious vigil  and  peaceful  interior.  The  light-heartedness 
that  sustained  such  continuous  toil  could  only  spring  from 
devout  submission  and  the  lofty  feelings  that  it  brings. 

"There  was  an  indescribable  harmony  between  them  and 
their  possessions.  The  splendor  of  Fcedora's  home  did  not 
satisfy;  it  called  out  all  my  worst  instincts;  something  in 
this  lowly  poverty  and  unfeigned  goodness  revived  me.  It 
may  have  been  that  luxury  abased  me  in  my  own  eyes,  while 
here  my  self-respect  was  restored  to  me,  as  I  sought  to  ex- 
tend the  protection  that  a  man  is  so  eager  to  make  felt,  over 
these  two  women,  who  in  the  bare  simplicity  of  the  existence 
in  their  brown  room  seemed  to  live  wholly  in  the  feelings  of 
their  hearts.  As  I  came  up  to  Pauline,  she  looked  at  me  in 
an  almost  motherly  way;  her  hands  shook  a  little  as  she  held 
the  lamp,  so  that  the  li^ht  fell  on  rr-  a.rd  cried; 


116  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

"  *Dieu  !  how  pale  you  are  !  and  you  are  wet  through !  My 
mother  will  try  to  wipe  you  dry.  Monsieur  Eaphael,'  she  went 
on,  after  a  little  pause,  'you  are  so  very  fond  of  milk,  and  to- 
night we  happen  to  have  some  cream.  Here,  will  you  not 
take  some  ?' 

"She  pounced  like  a  kitten,  on  a  china  bowl  full  of  milk. 
She  did  it  so  quickly,  and  put  it  before  me  so  prettily,  thai 
I  hesitated. 

"'You  are  going  to  refuse  me?'  she  said,  and  her  tones 
changed. 

"The  pride  in  each  felt  for  the  other's  pride.  It  was 
Pauline's  poverty  that  seemed  to  humiliate  her,  and  to  re- 
proachme  with  my  want  of  consideration,  and  I  melted  at  once 
and  accepted  the  cream  that  might  have  been  meant  for  her 
morning's  breakfast.  The  poor  child  tried  not  to  show  her 
joy,  but  her  eyes  sparkled. 

"'I  needed  it  badly,'  I  said  as  I  sat  down.  (An  anxious 
look  passed  over  her  face.)  *Do  you  remember  that  passage, 
Pauline,  where  Bossuet  tells  how  God  gave  more  abundant 
reward  for  a  cup  of  cold  water  than  for  a  victory?' 

"  'Yes/  she  said,  her  heart  beating  like  some  wild  bird's  in 
a  child's  hands. 

"  'Well,  as  we  shall  part  very  soon,  now,'  I  went  on  in  an 
unsteady  voice,  'you  must  let  me  show  my  gratitude  to 
you  and  to  your  mother  for  all  the  care  you  have  taken  of 
me.' 

"  'Oh,  don't  let  us  east  accounts,'  she  said,  laughing.  But 
her  laughter  covered  an  agitation  that  gave  me  pain.  I  went 
on  without  appearing  to  hear  her  words: 

"  'My  piano  is  one  of  Erard's  best  instruments ;  and  you 
must  take  it.  Pray  accept  it  without  hesitation;  I  really 
could  not  take  it  with  me  on  the  journey  I  am  about  to 
make.' 

"Perhaps  the  melancholy  tones  in  which  T  spoke  en- 
lightened the  two  women,  for  they  seemed  to  understand,  and 
eyed  me  with  curiosity  and  alarm.  Here  Avas  the  affection 
that  I  had  looked  for  in  the  fflaeial  regions  of  the  great 


A  WOMAN  WITHOUT  A  HEART         117 

world,  true  affection,  unostentatious  but  tender,  and  possibly 
lasting. 

"  'Don't  take  it  to  heart  so,'  the  mother  said ;  'stay  on  here. 
My  husband  is  on  his  way  towards  us  even  now,'  she  went  on. 
'I  looked  into  the  Gosjiel  of  St.  John  this  evening  while 
Pauline  hung  our  door-key  in  a  Bible  from  her  fingers.  The 
key  turned;  that  means  that  Gaudin  is  in  health  and  doing 
well.  Pauline  began  again  for  you  and  for  the  young  man  in 
number  seven — it  turned  for  you,  but  not  for  him.  We  are 
all  going  to  be  rich.  Gaudin  will  come  back  a  millionaire. 
I  dreamed  once  that  I  saw  him  in  a  ship  full  of  serpents; 
luckily  the  water  was  rough,  and  that  means  gold  or  precious 
stones  from  over-sea.' 

"The  silly,  friendly  words  were  like  the  crooning  lullaby 
with  which  a  mother  soothes  h(M*  sick  child ;  they  in  a  manner 
calmed  me.  There  was  a  pleasant  heartiness  in  the  worthy 
woman's  looks  and  tones,  which,  if  it  could  not  remove 
trouble,  at  any  rate  soothed  and  quieted  it,  and  deadened  the 
pain.  Pauline,  keener-sighted  than  her  mother,  studied  me 
uneasily;  her  quick  eyes  seemed  to  read  my  life  and  my 
future.  I  thanked  the  mother  and  daughter  by  an  inclina- 
tion of  the  head,  and  hurried  away;  I  was  afraid  I  should 
break  down. 

"I  found  myself  alone  under  my  roof,  and  laid  myself 
down  in  my  misery.  My  unhappy  imagination  suggested 
numberless  baseless  projects,  and  prescribed  impossible  reso- 
lutions. When  a  man  is  struggling  in  the  wreck  of  his 
fortunes,  he  is  not  quite  without  resources,  but  I  was  engulfed. 
Ah,  my  dear  fellow,  we  are  too  ready  to  blame  the  wretched. 
Let  us  be  less  harsh  on  the  results  of  the  most  powerful  of 
all  social  solvents.  Where  poverty  is  absolute  there  exist  no 
such  things  as  shame  or  crime,  or  virtue  or  intelligence.  I 
knew  not  what  to  do ;  I  was  as  defenceless  as  a  maiden  on  her 
knees  before  a  beast  of  prey.  A  penniless  man  who  has  no 
ties  to  bind  him  is  master  of  himself  at  any  rate,  but  a 
luckless  wretch  who  is  in  love  no  longer  belongs  to  himself, 
and  may  not  take  his  own  life.     Love  makes  us  almost  sacred 


118  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

in  our  own  eyes ;  it  is  the  life  of  another  that  we  revere  within 
us ;  then  and  so  begins  for  us  the  cruelest  trouble  of  all — 
the  misery  with  a  hope  in  it,  a  hope  for  which  we  must  even 
bear  our  torments.  I  thought  I  would  go  to  Rastignac  on 
the  morrow  to  confide  Fredora's  strange  resolution  to  him, 
and  with  that  I  slept. 

"  'Ah,  ha  !'  cried  Eastignae,  as  he  saw  me  enter  his  lodging 
at  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning.  'I  know  what  brings  you 
here.  Fcedora  has  dismissed  you.  Some  kind  souls,  who 
were  jealous  of  your  ascendency  over  the  countess,  gave  out 
that  you  were  going  to  be  married.  Heaven  only  knows 
what  follies  your  rivals  have  equipped  you  with,  and  what 
slanders  have  been  directed  at  you.' 

"  'That  explains  everything  !'  I  exclaimed.  I  remembered 
all  my  presumptuous  speeches,  and  gave  the  countess  credit 
for  no  little  magnanimity.  It  pleased  me  to  think  that  I 
was  a  miscreant  who  had  not  been  punished  nearly  enough, 
and  I  saw  nothing  in  her  indulgence  but  the  long-suffering 
charity  of  love. 

"  'N"ot  quite  so  fast,'  urged  the  prudent  Gascon ;  'Foedora 
has  all  the  sagacity  natural  to  a  profoundly  selfish  woman; 
perhaps  she  may  have  taken  your  measure  while  you  still 
coveted  only  her  money  and  her  splendor ;  in  spite  of  all  your 
care,  she  could  have  read  you  through  and  through.  She 
can  dissemble  far  too  well  to  let  any  dissimulation  pass  un- 
detected. I  fear,'  he  went  on,  'that  I  have  brought  you  into 
a  bad  way.  In  spite  of  her  cleverness  and  her  tact,  she  seems 
to  me  a  domineering  sort  of  person,  like  every  woman  who 
can  only  feel  pleasure  through  her  brain.  Happiness  for 
her  lies  entirely  in  a  comfortable  life  and  in  social  pleasures; 
her  sentiment  is  only  assumed;  she  will  make  you  miserable; 
you  will  be  her  head  footman.' 

"He  spoke  to  the  deaf.  I  broke  in  upon  him,  disclos- 
ing, with  an  affectation  of  light-heartedness,  the  state  of  my 
finances. 

"  'Yesterday  evening,'  he  rejoined,  'luck  ran  against  me, 
and  that  carried  off  all  my  available  cash.     But  for  that 


A  WOMAN  WITHOUT  A  HEART  119 

trivial  mishap,  I  would  gladly  have  shared  my  purse  with 
you.  But  let  us  go  and  breakfast  at  the  restaurant;  perhaps 
there  is  good  counsel  in  oysters.' 

"He  dressed,  and  had  his  tilbury  brought  round.  We 
went  to  the  Cafe  de  Paris  like  a  couple  of  millionaires,  armed 
with  all  the  audacious  impertinence  of  the  speculator  whose 
capital  is  imaginary.  That  devil  of  a  Gascon  quite  discon- 
certed me  by  the  coolness  of  his  manners  and  his  absolute 
self-possession.  While  we  were  taking  coffee  after  an  ex- 
cellent and  well-ordered  repast,  a  young  dandy  entered,  who 
did  not  escape  Rastignac.  He  had  been  nodding  here  and 
there  among  the  crowd  to  this  or  that  young  man,  dis- 
tinguished both  by  personal  attractions  and  elegant  attire, 
and  now  he  said  to  me : 

"  'Here's  your  man,'  as  he  beckoned  to  this  gentleman 
vnth  a  wonderful  cravat,  who  seemed  to  be  looking  for  a  table 
that  suited  his  ideas. 

"  'That  rogue  has  been  decorated  for  bringing  out  books 
that  he  doesn't  understand  a  word  of,'  whispered  Rastignac; 
*he  is  a  chemist,  a  historian,  a  novelist,  and  a  political  writer; 
he  has  gone  halves,  thirds,  or  quarters  in  the  authorship  of  I 
don't  know  how  many  plays,  and  he  is  as  ignorant  as  Dom 
Miguel's  mule.  He  is  not  a  man  so  much  as  a  name,  a  label  that 
the  public  is  familiar  with.  So  he  would  do  well  to  avoid 
shops  inscribed  with  the  motto,  "lei  Von  pent  ecrire  soi-meme." 
He  is  acute  enough  to  deceive  an  entire  congress  of  diplo- 
matists. In  a  couple  of  words,  he  is  a  moral  half-caste,  not 
quite  a  fraud,  nor  entirely  genuine.  But,  hush !  he  has  suc- 
ceeded already;  nobody  asks  anything  further,  and  every  one 
calls  him  an  illustrious  man.' 

"  'Well,  my  esteemed  and  excellent  friend,  and  how  may 
Your  Intelligence  be?'  So  Rastignac  addressed  the  stranger 
as  he  sat  down  at  a  neighboring  table. 

**  ^Neither  well  nor  ill ;  I  am  overwhelmed  with  work.  I 
have  all  the  necessary  materials  for  some  very  curious  his- 
torical memoirs  in  my  hands,  and  I  cannot  find  anv  one 


120  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

to  whom  I  can  ascribe  them.  It  worries  me,  for  I  shall  have 
to  be  quick  about  it.     Memoirs  are  falling  out  of  fashion.' 

"  'What  are  the  memoirs — contemporaneous,  ancient,  or 
memoirs  of  the  court,  or  what  ?' 

"  'They  relate  to  the  Necklace  affair/ 

"  'Now,  isn't  that  a  coincidence  ?'  said  Rastignac,  turning  to 
me  and  laughing.  He  looked  again  to  the  literary  specula- 
tion, and  said,  indicating  me : 

"  'This  is  M.  de  Valentin,  one  of  my  friends,  whom  I 
must  introduce  to  you  as  one  of  our  future  literary  celebrities. 
He  had  formerly  an  aunt,  a  marquise,  much  in  favor  once  at 
court,  and  for  about  two  years  he  has  been  writing  a  Royalist 
history  of  the  Revolution.' 

"Then,  bending  over  this  singular  man  of  business,  he 
went  on : 

"  *He  is  a  man  of  talent,  and  a  simpleton  that  will  do 
your  memoirs  for  you,  in  his  aunt's  name,  for  a  hundred 
crowns  a  volume.' 

"  'It's  a  bargain,'  said  the  other,  adjusting  his  cravat. 
Waiter,  my  oysters.' 

*'  'Yes,  but  you  must  give  me  t\\'enty-five  louis  as  com- 
mission, and  you  will  pay  him  in  advance  for  each  volume,' 
said  Rastignac. 

"'No,  no.  He  shall  only  have  fifty  crowns  on  account, 
and  then  I  shall  be  sure  of  having  my  manuscript  punc- 
tually.' 

"Rastignac  repeated  this  business  conversation  to  me  in 
low  tones;  and  then,  without  giving  me  any  voice  in  the 
matter,  he  replied: 

"  'We  agree  to  your  proposal.  When  can  we  call  upon  you 
to  arrange  the  affair?' 

"  'Oh,  well !  Come  and  dine  here  to-morrow  at  seven 
o'clock.' 

"We  rose.  Rastignac  flung  some  money  to  the  waiter, 
put  the  bill  in  his  pocket,  and  we  went  out.  I  was  quite 
stupefied  by  the  flippancy  and  ease  with  which  he  had  sold  my 
venerable  aunt,  la  Marquise  de  Montbauron, 


A  WOMAN  WITHOUT  A  HEART  125 


ce  n 


'T  would  sooner  take  ship  for  the  Brazils,  and  give  the 
Indians  lessons  in  algebra,  though  I  don't  know  a  word  of  it, 
than  tarnish  my  family  name.' 

"Rastignac  burst  out  laughing. 

"  'How  dense  you  are !  Take  the  fifty  crowns  in  the  first 
instance,  and  write  the  memoirs.  When  you  have  finished 
them,  you  will  decline  to  publish  them  in  your  aunt's  name, 
imbecile !  Madame  de  Montbauron,  with  her  hooped  petti- 
coat, her  rank  and  beauty,  rouge  and  slippers,  and  her  death 
upon  the  scaffold,  is  worth  a  great  deal  more  than  six  hundred 
francs.  And  then,  if  the  trade  will  not  give  your  aunt  her 
due,  some  old  adventurer,  or  some  shady  countess  or  other, 
will  be  found  to  put  her  name  to  the  memoirs.^ 

"'Oh,'  I  groaned; /why  did  I  quit  the  blameless  life  in 
ra}^  garret  ?  This  world  has  aspects  that  are  very  vilely  dis- 
honorable.' 

"  'Yes,'  said  Eastignac,  'that  is  all  very  poetical,  but  this 
is  a  matter  of  business.  What  a  child  you  are !  Now,  listen 
to  me.  x4s  to  your  work,  the  public  will  decide  upon  it ;  and 
as  for  my  literary  middle-man,  hasn't  he  devoted  eight  years 
of  his  life  to  obtaining  a  footing  in  the  book-trade,  and 
paid  heavily  for  his  experience  ?  You  divide  the  money  and 
the  labor  of  the  book  with  him  very  unequally,  but  isn't  yours 
the  better  part  ?  Twenty-five  louis  means  as  much  to  you  as 
a  thousand  francs  does  to  him.  Come,  you  can  write  historical 
memoirs,  a  work  of  art  such  as  never  was,  since  Diderot  once 
wrote  six  sermons  for  a  hundred  crowns!' 

"  'After  all,'  I  said,  in  agitation,  'I  cannot  choose  but  do  it. 
So,  my  dear  friend,  my  thanks  are  due  to  you.  I  shall  be 
quite  rich  with  twenty-five  louis.' 

"  'Eicher  than  you  think,'  he  laughed.  'If  I  have  my 
commission  from  Finot  in  this  matter,  it  goes  to  you,  can't 
3'ou  see?  Now  let  us  go  to  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,'  he  said; 
'we  shall  see  your  countess  there,  and  I  will  show  you  the 
pretty  little  widow  that  I  am  to  marry — a  charming  woman, 
an  Alsacienne,  rather  plump.  She  reads  Kant,  Schiller, 
Jean  Paul,  and  a  host  of  lachrymose  books.       She  has  a 


122  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

mania  for  continually  asking  my  opinion,  and  I  have  to  look 
as  if  1  entered  into  all  this  German  sensibility,  and  to  know 
a  pack  of  ballads — drugs,  all  of  them,  that  my  doctor  ab- 
solutely prohibits.  As  yet  I  have  not  been  able  to  Avean  her 
fr:)m  her  literary  enthusiasms;  she  sheds  torrents  of  tears  as 
she  reads  Goethe,  and  I  have  to  weep  a  little  myself  to  please 
her,  for  she  has  an  income  of  fifty  thousand  livres,  my  dear 
boy,  and  the  prettiest  little  hand  and  foot  in  the  world.  Oli, 
if  she  would  only  say  7non  ange  and  hrouiller  instead  of  man 
anclie  and  prouiller,  she  would  be  perfection !' 

"^^e  saw  the  countess,  radiant  amid  the  splendors  of  her 
equipage.  The  coquette  bowed  very  graciously  to  us  both, 
and  the  smile  she  gave  me  seemed  to  me  to  be  divine  and 
full  of  love.  I  was  very  happy ;  I  fancied  myself  beloved ; 
I  had  mone}',  a  Avealth  of  love  in  my  heart,  and  my  troubles 
were  over.  I  was  light-hearted,  blithe,  and  content.  I  found 
my  friend's  lady-love  charming.  Earth  and  air  and  heaven 
— all  nature — seemed  to  reflect  Foedora's  smile  for  me. 

"As  we  returned  through  the  Champs-filysees,  we  paid  a 
visit  to  Eastignac's  hatter  and  tailor.  Thanks  to  the  'iSTeck- 
lace,'  my  insignificant  peace-footing  was  to  end,  and  I  made 
formidable  preparations  for  a  campaign.  Henceforward  I 
need  not  shrink  from  a  contest  with  the  spruce  and  fashion- 
able voung  men  who  made  Fcedora's  circle.  I  went  home, 
locked  myself  in,  and  stood  by  my  dormer  window,  out- 
wardly calm  enough,  but  in  reality  I  bade  a  last  good-bye 
to  the  roofs  without.  I  began  to  live  in  the  future,  rehearsed 
my  life  drama,  and  discounted  love  and  its  happiness.  Ah, 
how  stormy  life  can  grow  to  be  within  the  four  walls  of  a 
garret  I  The  soul  within  us  is  like  a  fairy;  she  turns  straw 
into  diamonds  for  us;  and  for  us,  at  a  touch  of  her  wand, 
enchanted  palaces  arise,  as  flowers  in  the  meadows  spring  up 
towards  the  sun, 

"Towards  noon,  next  day,  Pauline  knocked  gently  at  my 
door,  and  brought  me — who  could  guess  it? — a  note  from 
Foedora.  The  countess  asked  me  to  take  her  to  the  Luxem- 
bourg, and  to  go  thence  to  see  with  her  the  Museum  and 
Jardin  des  Plantes. 


A  WOMAN  WITHOUT  A  HEART         123 

"  'The  man  is  waiting  for  an  answer/  said  Pauline,  after 
quietly  waiting  for  a  moment. 

"I  hastily  scrawled  my  acknowledgments,  and  Pauline  took 
the  note.  I  changed  my  dress.  When  my  toilette  was  ended, 
and  1  looked  at  myself  with  some  complaisance,  an  icy  shiver 
ran  through  me  as  I  thought : 

"•'  'Will  Fcedora  walk  or  drive  ?  Will  it  rain  or  shine  ? — i^o 
uiatter,  though,'  I  said  to  myself;  Svhichever  it  i.';,  can  one 
ever  reckon  with  feminine  caprice?  She  will  have  no  mone}' 
about  her,  and  will  want  to  give  a  dozen  francs  to  some  little 
Savoyard  because  his  rags  are  picturesque.' 

"I  had  not  a  brass  farthing,  and  should  have  no  money  till 
the  evening  came.  How  dearly  a  poet  pays  for  the  intel- 
lectual prowess  that  method  and  toil  have  brought  him,  at 
such  crises  of  our  youth !  Innumerable  painfully  vivid 
thoughts  pierced  me  like  barbs.  I  looked  out  of  my  window ; 
the  weather  was  very  unsettled.  If  things  fell  out  badly,  I 
might  easily  hire  a  cab  for  the  day;  but  would  not  the  fear 
lie  on  me  every  moment  that  I  might  not  meet  Finot  in  tlie 
evening?  I  felt  too  weak  to  endure  such  fears  in  the  midst 
of  my  felicity.  Though  I  felt  sure  that  I  should  find  nothing, 
I  began  a  grand  search  through  my  room ;  I  looked  for  imag- 
inary coins  in  the  recesses  of  my  mattress;  I  hunted  about 
everywhere — I  even  shook  out  my  old  boots.  A  nervous  fever 
seized  me;  I  looked  with  wild  eyes  at  the  furniture  when  I 
had  ransacked  it  all.  Will  you  understand,  I  wonder,  the 
excitement  that  possessed  me  when,  plunged  deep  in  the  lirit- 
lessness  of  despair,  I  opened  my  writing-table  drawer,  and 
found  a  fair  and  splendid  ten-franc  piece  that  shone  like  a 
rising  star,  new  and  sparkling,  and  slily  hiding  in  a  cranny 
between  two  boards?  I  did  not  try  to  account  for  its  previous 
reserve  and  the  cruelty  of  whicli  it  had  been  guilty  in  thus 
lying  hidden;  I  kissed  it  for  a  friend  faithful  in  adversity. 
and  hailed  it  with  a  cry  that  found  an  echo,  and  made  me 
turn  sharply,  to  find  Pauline  with  a  face  grown  white. 

"'I  thought,'  she  faltcird,  'that  you  had  hurt  yourself : 
The  man  who  brought  tlic  letter '   (she  broke  off  as  if 


124  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

something  smothered  her  voice).  'But  mother  has  paid 
him/  she  added,  and  flitted  away  like  a  wayward,  capricious 
child.  Poor  little  one  !  I  wanted  her  to  share  my  happiness. 
I  seemed  to  have  all  the  happiness  in  the  world  within  me  just 
then ;  and  I  would  fain  have  returned  to  the  unhappy,  all  that 
I  felt  as  if  I  had  stolen  from  them. 

"The  intuitive  perception  of  adversity  is  sound  for  the 
most  part;  the  countess  had  sent  away  her  carriage.  One  of 
those  freaks  that  pretty  women  can  scarcely  explain  to  them- 
selves had  determined  her  to  go  on  foot,  by  way  of  the  boule- 
vards, to  the  Jardin  des  Plantes. 

"  *It  will  rain,'  I  told  her,  and  it  pleased  her  to  contradict 
me. 

"As  it  fell  out,  the  weather  was  fine  while  we  went  through 
the  Luxembourg;  when  we  came  out,  some  droj)s  fell  from 
a  great  cloud,  whose  progress  I  had  watched  uneasily,  and  we 
took  a  cab.  At  the  Museum  I  was  about  to  dismiss  the 
vehicle,  and  Foedora  (what  agonies!)  asked  me  not  to  do  so. 
But  it  was  like  a  dream  in  broad  daylight  for  me,  to  chat  with 
her,  to  wander  in  the  Jardin  des  Plantes,  to  stray  down  the 
shady  alleys,  to  feel  her  hand  upon  my  arm ;  the  secret  trans- 
ports repressed  in  me  were  reduced,  no  doubt,  to  a  fixed  and 
foolish  smile  upon  my  lips ;  there  was  something  unreal  about 
it  all.  Yet  in  all  her  movements,  however  alluring,  whether 
we  stood  or  whether  we  walked,  there  was  nothing  either 
tender  or  lover-like.  When  I  tried  to  share  in  a  measure  the 
action  of  movement  prompted  by  her  life,  I  became  aware  of 
a  check,  or  of  something  strange  in  her  that  I  cannot  explain, 
of  an  inner  activity  concealed  in  her  nature.  There  is  no 
suavity  about  the  movements  of  women  who  have  no  soul  in 
them.  Our  wills  were  opposed,  and  we  did  not  keep  step 
together.  Words  are  wanting  to  describe  this  outward  dis- 
sonance between  two  beings;  we  are  not  accustomed  to  read 
a  thought  in  a  movement.  We  instinctively  feel  this 
phenomenon  of  our  nature,  but  it  cannot  be  expressed. 

"I  did  not  dissect  my  sensations  during  those  violent 
seizures  of  passion,"  Kaphael  went  on,  after  a  moment  of 


A  WOMAN  WITHOUT  A  HEART        125 

silence,  as  if  he  were  replying  to  an  objection  raised  by  him- 
self. "I  did  not  analyze  my  pleasures  nor  count  my  heart- 
beats then,  as  a  miser  scrutinizes  and  weighs  his  gold  pieces. 
Ko;  experience  sheds  its  melancholy  light  over  the  events  of 
the  past  to-day,  and  memory  brings  these  pictures  back,  as 
the  sea-waves  in  fair  weather  cast  up  fragment  after  fragment 
of  the  debris  of  a  wrecked  vessel  upon  the  strand. 

"  'It  is  in  your  power  to  render  me  a  rather  important 
service,'  said  the  countess,  looking  at  me  in  an  embarrassed 
way.  'After  confiding  to  you  my  aversion  for  lovers,  I  feel 
myself  more  at  liberty  to  entreat  your  good  offices  in  the  name 
of  friendship.  Will  there  not  be  very  much  more  merit  in 
obliging  me  to-day?'  she  asked,  laughing. 

"I  looked  at  her  in  anguish.  Her  manner  was  coaxing, 
but  in  no  wise  affectionate;  she  felt  nothing  for  me;  she 
seemed  to  be  playing  a  part,  and  I  thought  her  a  consum- 
mate actress.  Then  all  at  once  my  hopes  awoke  once  more, 
at  a  single  look  and  word.  Yet  if  reviving  love  expressed 
itself  in  my  eyes,  she  bore  its  light  without  any  change  in 
the  clearness  of  her  own;  they  seemed,  like  a  tiger's  eyes, 
to  have  a  sheet  of  metal  behind  them.  I  used  to  hate  her  in 
such  moments. 

"  'The  influence  of  the  Due  de  Navarreins  would  be  very 
useful  to  me,  with  an  all-powerful  person  in  Eussia,'  she  went 
on,  persuasion  in  every  modulation  of  her  voice,  'whose  in- 
tervention I  need  in  order  to  have  justice  done  me  in  a  matter 
the  concerns  both  my  fortune  and  my  position  in  the  world, 
that  is  to  say,  the  recognition  of  my  marriage  by  the  Emperor. 
Is  not  the  Due  de  Navarreins  a  cousin  of  yours?  A  letter 
from  him  would  settle  everything.' 

"  'I  am  yours,'  I  answered ;  'command  me.' 

"  'You  are  very  nice,'  she  said,  pressing  my  hand.  'Come 
•  and  have  dinner  with  me,  and  I  will  tell  you  everything,  as 
if  you  were  my  confessor.' 

"So  this  discreet,  suspicious  woman,  who  had  never  been 
heard  to  speak  a  word  about  her  affairs  to  any  one,  was  going 
to  consult  me. 


126  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

**^  'Oh,  how  dear  to  me  is  this  silence  that  you  have  im- 
posed on  me !'  I  cried ;  'but  I  would  rather  have  had  some 
sharper  ordeal  still.'  And  she  smiled  upon  the  intoxication 
in  my  eyes;  she  did  not  reject  my  admiration  in  any  way; 
surely  she  loved  me ! 

"Fortunateh',  my  purse  held  just  enough  to  satisfy  her  cab- 
man. The  day  spent  in  her  house,  alone  with  her,  was 
delicious;  it  was  the  first  time  that  I  had  seen  her  in  this- 
way.  Hitherto  we  had  always  been  kept  apart  by  the  pres- 
ence of  others,  and  by  her  formal  politeness  and  reserved 
manners,  even  during  her  magnificent  dinners;  but  now  it 
was  as  if  I  lived  beneath  her  own  roof — I  had  her  all  to  my- 
self, so  to  speak.  ]\Iy  wandering  fancy  broke  down  barriers, 
arranged  the  events  of  life  to  my  liking,  and  steeped  me  in 
happiness  and  love.  I  seemed  to  myself  her  husband,  I  liked 
to  watch  her  busied  with  little  details;  it  was  a  pleasure  to 
me  even  to  see  her  take  off  her  bonnet  and  shawl.  She  left 
me  alone  for  a  little,  and  came  back,  charming,  with  her  hair 
newly  arranged;  and  this  dainty  change  of  toilette  had  been 
made  for  me ! 

"During  the  dinner  she  lavished  attention  upon  me,  and 
put  charm  without  end  into  those  numberless  trifles  to  all 
seeming,  that  make  up  half  of  our  existence  nevertheless.  As 
Ave  sat  together  before  a  crackling  fire,  on  silken  cushions 
surrounded  by  the  most  desirable  creations  of  Oriental 
luxury;  as  I  saw  this  woman  whose  famous  beauty  made 
every  heart  beat,  so  close  to  me;  an  unapproachable  woman 
who  was  talking  and  bringing  all  her  powers  of  coquetry  to 
bear  upon  me;  then  my  blissful  pleasure  rose  almost  to  the 
point  of  suffering.  To  my  vexation,  I  recollected  the  important 
business  to  be  concluded;  I  determined  to  go  to  keep  the 
appointment  made  for  me  for  this  evening. 

"  'So*  soon  ?'  she  said,  seeing  me  take  my  hat. 

■'She  loved  me,  then !  or  I  thought  so  at  least,  from  the 
bland  tones  in  which  those  two  words  were  uttered.  I  would 
then  have  bartered  a  couple  of  years  of  life  for  every  hoxir 
she  chose  to  grant  to  me,  and  so  prolong  my  ecstasy.       My 


A  WOMAN  WITHOUT  A  HEART         127 

happiness  was  increased  by  the  extent  of  the  money  I 
sacrificed.  It  was  niidnight  before  .she  dismissed  me.  But 
on  the  morrow,  for  all  that,  my  heroism  cost  me  a  good  many 
remorseful  pangs;  1  was  afraid  the  affair  of  the  Memoirs, 
now  of  such  importance  for  me,  might  have  fallen  through, 
and  rushed  off  to  Rastignac.  We  found  the  nominal  author 
of  my  future  labors,  just  getting  up. 

"Finot  read  over  a  brief  agreement  to  me,  in  which  nothing 
whatever  was  said  about  my  aunt,  and  when  it  had  been 
signed  he  paid  me  down  fifty  crowns,  and  the  three  of  us 
breakfasted  together.  I  had  only  thirty  francs  left  over, 
when  I  had  paid  for  my  new  hat,  for  sixty  tickets  at  thirty 
sous  each,  and  settled  my  debts;  but  for  some  days  to  come 
the  difficulties  of  living  were  removed.  If  I  had  but  listened 
to  Rastignac,  I  might  have  had  abundance  by  frankly  adopt- 
ing the  'English  system.'  He  really  wanted  to  establish  my 
credit  by  setting  me  to  raise  loans,  on  the  theory  that  bor- 
rowing is  the  basis  of  credit.  To  hear  him  talk,  the  future 
was  the  largest  and  most  secure  kind  of  capital  in  the  world. 
My  future  luck  was  hypothecated  for  the  benefit  of  my 
creditors,  and  he  gave  my  custom  to  his  tailor,  an  artist,  and 
a  young  man's  tailor,  who  was  to  leave  me  in  peace  until  I 
married. 

"The  monastic  life  of  study  that  I  had  led  for  three  years 
past  ended  on  this  day.  I  frequented  Foedora's  house  very 
diligently,  and  tried  to  outshine  the  heroes  or  the  swaggerers  to 
be  found  in  her  circle.  When  I  believed  that  I  had  left 
poverty  for  ever  behind  me,  I  regained  my  freedom  of  mind, 
humiliated  my  rivals,  and  was  looked  upon  as  a  very  attractive, 
dazzling,  and  irresistible  sort  of  man.  But  acute  folk  used  to 
say  with  regard  to  me,  'A  fellow  as  clever  as  that  will  keep 
all  his  enthusiasms  in  his  brain,'  and  charitably  extolled  my  • 
faculties  at  the  expense  of  my  feelings.  'Isn't  he  lucky,  not 
to  be  in  love !'  they  exclaimed.  'If  he  were,  could  he  be  so 
light-hearted  and  animated?'  Yet  in  Foedora's  presence  I 
was  as  dull  as  love  could  make  me.  When  I  was  alone  with 
her,  I  had  not  a  word  to  say,  or  if  I  did  speak,  I  renounced 


128  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

love;  and  T  affected  gaiety  but  ill,  like  a  courtier  who  has  a 
bitter  mortification  to  hide.  I  tried  in  every  way  to  make  my- 
self indispensable  in  her  life,  and  necessary  to  her  vanity 
and  to  her  comfort ;  I  was  a  plaything  at  her  pleasure,  a  slave 
always  at  her  side.  And  w^hen  I  had  frittered  away  the  day 
in  this  way,  I  went  back  to  my  work  at  night,  securing  merelv 
two  or  three  hours'  sleep  in  the  earl}^  morning. 

"But  I  had  not,  like  Eastignac,  the  'English  system^  at  my 
finger-ends,  and  I  very  soon  saw  mj^self  without  a  penny, 
I  fell  at  once  into  that  precarious  way  of  life  which  in- 
dustriously hides  cold  and  miserable  depths  beneath  an 
elusive  surface  of  luxury ;  I  was  a  coxcomb  without  conquests, 
a  penniless  fop,  a  nameless  gallant.  The  old  sufferings  were 
renewed,  but  less  sharply ;  no  doubt  I  was  growing  used  to  the 
painful  crisis.  Very  often  my  sole  diet  consisted  of  the 
scanty  provision  of  cakes  and  tea  that  is  offered  in  drawing- 
rooms,  or  one  of  the  countess'  great  dinners  must  sustain  me 
for  two  whole  days.  I  used  all  my  time,  and  exerted  every 
effort  and  all  my  powers  of  observation,  to  penetrate  the 
impenetrable  character  of  Foedora.  Alternate  hope  and 
despair  had  swayed  my  opinions;  for  me  she  was  sometimes, 
the  tenderest,  sometimes  the  most  unfeeling  of  women.  But 
these  transitions  from  joy  to  sadness  became  unendurable;  I 
sought  to  end  the  horrible  conflict  within  me  by  extinguish- 
ing love.  By  the  light  of  warning  gleams  my  soul  sometimes 
recognized  the  gulfs  that  lay  between  us.  The  countess  con- 
firmed all  my  fears ;  I  had  never  yet  detected  any  tear  in  her 
eyes;  an  affecting  scene  in  a  play  left  her  smiling  and  un- 
moved. All  her  instincts  were  selfish;  she  could  not  divine 
another's  joy  or  sorrow.  She  had  made  a  fool  of  me,  in 
fact! 

J  "I  had  rejoiced  over  a  sacrifice  to  make  for  her,  and  al- 
most humiliated  myself  in  seeking  out  my  kinsman,  the  Due 
de  Navarreins,  a  selfish  man  who  was  ashamed  oi  my  poverty, 
and  had  injured  me  too  deeply  not  to  hate  me.  He  received 
me  with  the  polite  coldness  that  makes  every  word  and 
gesture  seem  an  insult;  he  looked  ao  ill  at  ease  that  I  piti^^J 


A  WOMAN  WITHOUT  A  HEART  129 

him.  T  blushed  for  this  pettiness  amid  grandeur,  and 
ponuriousness  surrounded  by  luxury.  He  began  to  talk  to 
me  of  his  heavy  losses  in  the  three  per  cents,  and  then  I  told 
him  the  object  of  my  visit.  The  change  in  his  manners, 
hitherto  glacial,  which  now  gradually  became  affectionate, 
disgusted  me. 

"Well,  he  called  upon  the  countess,  and  completely  eclipsed 
me  with  her. 

"On  him  Fcedora  exercised  spells  and  witcheries  unheard 
of;  she  drew  him  into  her  power,  and  arranged  her  whole 
mysterious  business  with  him;  I  was  left  out,  I  heard  not 
a  word  of  it ;  she  had  made  a  tool  of  me !  She  did  not  seem 
to  be  aware  of  my  existence  while  my  cousin  was  present ;  she 
received  me  less  cordially  perhaps  than  when  I  was  first  pre- 
sented to  her.  One  evening  she  chose  to  mortify  me  before 
the  duke  by  a  look,  a  gesture,  that  it  is  useless  to  try  to  ex- 
press in  words.  I  went  away  with  tears  in  my  eyes,  planning 
terrible  and  outrageous  schemes  of  vengeance  without  end. 

*'I  often  used  to  go  with  her  to  the  theatre.  Love  utterly 
absorbed  me  as  I  sat  beside  her;  as  I  looked  at  her  I  used 
to  give  myself  up  to  the  pleasure  of  listening  to  the  music, 
putting  all  m}^  soul  into  the  double  joy  of  love  and  of  hear- 
ing every  emotion  of  my  heart  translated  into  musical 
cadences.  It  was  my  passion  that  filled  the  air  and  the 
stage,  that  was  triumphant  everywhere  but  with  my  mistress. 
Then  I  would  take  Foedora's  hand.  I  used  to  scan  her 
features  and  her  eyes,  imploring  of  them  some  indication 
that  one  blended  feeling  possessed  us  both,  seeking  for  the 
sudden  harmony  awakened  by  the  power  of  music,  which 
makes  our  souls  vibrate  in  unison ;  but  her  hand  was  passive, 
her  eyes  said  nothing. 

"When  the  fire  that  burned  in  me  glowed  too  fiercely  froiu 
the  face  I  turned  upon  her,  she  met  it  with  that  studied  smile 
of  hers,  the  conventional  expression  that  sits  on  the  lips  of 
pvery  portrait  in  every  exhibition.  She  was  not  listening  to 
the  music.        The  divine  pages   of   Rossini,    Cimarosa,   oi 


130  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

Zingarelli  called  up  no  emotion,  gave  no  voice  to  any  poetry 
in  her  life;  her  soul  was  a  desert. 

"Foedora  presented  herself  as  a  drama  before  a  drama. 
Her  lorgnette  traveled  restlessly  over  the  boxes ;  she  was  rest- 
less too  beneath  the  apparent  calm;  fashion  tyrannized  over 
her;  her  box,  her  bonnet,  her  carriage,  her  own  personality 
absorbed  her  entirely.  My  merciless  knowledge  thoroughlv 
tore  away  all  my  illusions.  If  good  breeding  consists  in 
self-forgetfulness  and  consideration  for  others,  in  constantly 
showing  gentleness  in  voice  and  bearing,  in  pleasing  others, 
and  in  making  them  content  in  themselves,  all  traces  of  her 
plebeian  origin  were  not  yet  obliterated  in  Foedora,  in  spite 
of  her  cleverness.  Her  self-forgetfulness  was  a  sham,  her 
manners  were  not  innate  but  painfully  acquired,  her  polite- 
ness was  rather  subservient.  And  yet  for  those  she  singled 
out,  her  honeyed  Avords  expressed  natural  kindness,  her  pre- 
tentious exaggeration  was  exalted  enthusiasm.  I  alone  had 
scrutinized  her  grimacings,  and  stripped  away  the  thin  rind 
that  sufficed  to  conceal  her  real  nature  from  the  world;  her 
trickery  no  longer  deceived  me ;  I  had  sounded  the  depths  of 
that  feline  nature.  I  blushed  for  her  when  some  donkey  or 
other  flattered  and  complimented  her.  And  yet  I  loved  her 
through  it  all !  I  hoped  that  her  snows  would  melt  with  the 
warmth  of  a  poet's  love.  If  I  could  only  have  made  her 
heart  capable  of  a  woman's  tenderness,  if  I  could  have  made 
her  feel  all  the  greatness  that  lies  in  devotion,  then  I  should 
have  seen  her  perfected,  she  would  have  been  an  angel.  I 
loved  her  as  a  man,  a  lover,  and  an  artist;  if  it  had  been 
necessary  not  to  love  her  so  that  I  might  win  her,  some  cool- 
headed  coxcomb,  some  self-possessed  calculator  would  perhaps 
have  had  the  advantage  over  me.  She  was  so  vain  and 
sophisticated,  that  the  language  of  vanity  would  appeal  to 
her;  she  would  have  allowed  herself  to  be  taken  in  the  toils 
of  an  intrigue;  a  hard,  cold  nature  would  have  gained  a  com- 
plete ascendency  over  her.  Keen  gi'ief  liad  j)ierccd  me  to 
my  very  soul,  as  she  unconsciously  revealed  her  absolute  love 
of  self.     I  seemed  to  see  her  as  she  one  day  would  be,  alone 


A  WOMAN  WITHOUT  A  HEART         ISl 

in  the  world,  with  no  one  to  whom  she  could  stretch  her  Hand, 
witli  no  friendly  eyes  for  her  own  to  meet  and  rest  upon.  I 
was  bold  enough  to  set  this  before  her  one  evening ;  I  painted 
in  vivid  colors  her  lonely,  sad,  deserted  old  age.  Her  com- 
ment on  this  prospect  of  so  terrible  a  revenge  of  thwarted 
nature  was  horrible. 

'*'[  shall  always  have  money,'  she  said;  'and  with  money 
we  can  always  inspire  such  sentiments  as  are  necessary  for 
our  comfort  in  those  about  us.' 

"I  went  away  confounded  by  the  r-rguments  of  luxury,  by 
the  reasoning  of  this  woman  of  the  world  in  which  she 
lived;  and  blamed  myself  for  my  infatuated  idolatry.  I  my- 
self had  not  loved  Pauline  because  she  was  poor;  and  had 
not  the  wealthy  Foedora  a  right  to  repulse  Eaphael?  Con- 
science is  our  unerring  judge  until  we  finally  stifle  it.  A 
specious  voice  said  within  me,  'Foedora  is  neither  attracted 
to  nor  repulses  any  one ;  she  has  her  libert}',  but  once  upon  a 
time  she  sold  herself  to  the  Russian  count,  her  husband  or 
her  lover,  for  gold.  But  temptation  is  certain  to  enter  into 
her  life.  Wait  till  that  moment  comes !'  She  lived  remote 
from  humanity,  in  a  sphere  apart,  in  a  hell  or  a  heaven 
of  her  own;  she  was  neither  frail  nor  virtuous.  This 
feminine  enigma  in  embroideries  and  cashmeres  had  brought 
into  play  every  emotion  of  the  human  heart  in  me — pride, 
ambition,  love,  curiosity. 

"There  was  a  craze  just  then  for  praising  a  play  at  a  little 
Boulevard  theatre,  prompted  perhaps  by  a  wish  to  appear 
original  that  besets  us  all,  or  due  to  some  freak  of  fashion. 
The  countess  showed  some  signs  of  a  wish  to  see  the  floured 
face  of  the  actor  who  had  so  delighted  several  people  of 
taste,  and  I  obtained  the  honor  of  taking  her  to  a  first 
representation  of  some  wretched  farce  or  other.  A  bos 
scarcely  cost  five  francs,  but  I  had  not  a  brass  farthing.  I 
was  but  half-way  through  the  volume  of  Memoirs;  I  dared 
not  beg  for  assistance  of  Finot,  and  Rastignac,  my  providence, 
was  away.  These  constant  perplexities  were  the  bane  of  m\ 
life. 


132  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

'^e  had  once  come  out  of  the  theatre  when  it  was  raining 
heavily;  Fcedora  had  called  a  cab  for  me  before  1  could 
escape  from  her  show  of  concern ;  she  would  not  admit  any  of 
my  excuses — my  liking  for  Avet  weather,  and  my  wish  to  go 
to  the  gaming-table.  She  did  not  read  my  poverty  in  my 
embarrassed  attitude,  nor  in  my  forced  jests.  My  eyes  would 
redden,  but  she  did  not  understand  a  look.  A  young  man's 
life  is  at  the  mercy  of  the  strangest  whims !  At  every  revolu- 
tion of  the  wheels  during  the  journey,  thoughts  that  burned 
stirred  in  my  heart.  I  tried  to  pull  up  a  plank  from  the 
bottom  of  the  vehicle,  hoping  to  slip  through  the  hole  into 
the  street ;  but  finding  insuperable  obstacles,  I  burst  into  a 
fit  of  laughter,  and  then  sat  stupefied  in  calm  dejection,  like 
a  man  in  the  pillory.  When  I  reached  my  lodging,  Pauline 
broke  in  through  my  first  stammering  words  with: 

"  'If  you  haven't  any  money ?' 

"Ah,  the  music  of  Rossini  was  as  nothing  compared  with 
those  words.  But  to  return  to  the  performance  at  the 
Funambules. 

"I  thought  of  pawning  the  circlet  of  gold  round  my 
mother's  portrait  in  order  to  escort  the  countess.  Although 
the  pawnbroker  loomed  in  my  thoughts  as  one  of  the  doors 
of  a  convict's  prison,  I  would  rather  myself  have  carried  my 
bed  thither  than  have  begged  for  alms.  There  is  something 
so  painful  in  the  expression  of  a  man  who  asks  money,  of 
you !  There  are  loans  that  mulct  us  of  our  self-respect,  just 
as  some  rebuffs  from  a  friend's  lips  sweep  away  our  last 
illusion. 

"Pauline  was  working;  her  mother  had  gone  to  bed.  I 
flung  a  stealthy  glance  over  the  bed;  the  curtains  were  drawn 
back  a  little;  Madame  Gaudin  was  in  a  deep  sleep,  I  thought, 
when  I  saw  her  quiet,  sallow  profile  outlined  against  the 
pillow. 

"  'You  are  in  trouble?'  Pauline  said,  dipping  her  brush  into 
the  coloring. 

"  'It  is  in  your  power  to  do  me  a  great  service,  my  dear 
child/  I  answered. 


A  WOMAN  WITHOUT  A  HEART  133 

"The  gladness  in  her  eyes  frightened  me. 

"  'Is  it  possible  that  she  loves  me  ?'  I  thought.  'Pauline/ 
I  began.  I  went  and  sat  near  to  her,  so  as  to  study  her.  "^Hy 
tones  had  been  so  >;earching  that  she  read  my  thought;  her 
eyes  fell,  and  I  scrutinized  her  face.  It  was  so  pure  and 
frank  that  I  fancied  I  could  see  as  clearly  into  her  heart  as 
into  my  own. 

"  'Do  you  love  me  ?'  I  asked. 
•    "  'A  little, — passionately — not  a  bit !'  she  cried. 

"Then  she  did  not  love  me.  Her  jesting  tones,  and  a  little 
gleeful  movement  that  escaped  her,  expressed  nothing  beyond 
a  girlish,  blithe  goodwill.  I  told  her  about  my  distress  and 
the  j)redicament  in  which  I  found  myself,  and  asked  her  to 
help  me. 

"  '.You  do  not  wish  to  go  to  the  pawnbroker's  yourself,  M. 
Raphael,'  she  answered,  'and  yet  you  would  send  me !' 

"I  blushed  in  confusion  at  the  child's  reasoning.  She  took 
my  hand  in  hers  as  if  she  wanted  to  compensate  for  this 
home-truth  by  her  light  touch  upon  it. 

"  'Oh,  I  would  willingly  go,'  she  said,  'but  it  is  not  neces- 
sary. I  found  two  five-franc  pieces  at  the  back  of  the  piano, 
that  had  slipped  without  3''our  knowledge  between  the  frame 
and  the  keyboard,  and  I  laid  them  on  your  table.' 

"  'You  will  soon  be  coming  into  some  money,  M.  Raphael,' 
said  the  kind  mother,  showing  her  face  between  the  curtains, 
*and  I  can  easily  lend  you  a  few  crowns  meanwhile.' 

"  'Oh,  Pauline  !'  I  cried,  as  I  pressed  her  hand,  'how  I  wish 
that  I  were  rich  !' 

"  'Bah !  why  should  you  ?'  she  said  petulantly.  Her  hand 
shook  in  mine  with  the  throbbing  of  her  pulse ;  she  snatched^ 
it  away,  and  looked  at  both  of  mine. 

"  'You  will  marry  a  rich  wife,'  she  said,  'but  she  will  give 
you  a  great  deal  of  trouble.  Ah,  Dieu !  she  will  be  your 
death, — I  am  sure  of  it.* 

"In  her  exclamation  there  was  something  like  belief  in  her 
mother's  absurd  superstitions. 

"  'You  are  very  credulous,  Pauline  1' 

VOL.  I — 14 


134  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

"'The  woman  whom  you  will  love  is  going  to  kill  yon 
— there  is  no  doubt  of  it/  she  said,  looking  at  me  with 
Bterm. 

"She  took  up  her  brush  again  and  dipped  it  in  the  color ; 
her  great  agitation  was  evident ;  she  looked  at  me  no  longer. 
I  was  ready  to  give  credence  just  then  to  superstitious 
fancies;  no  man  is  utterly  wretched  so  long  as  he  is  super- 
stitious ;  a  belief  of  that  kind  is  often  in  reality  a  hope. 

"I  found  that  those  two  magnificent  five-franc  pieces  were 
lying,  in  fact,  upon  my  table  when  I  reached  my  room.  Dur- 
ing the  first  confused  thoughts  of  early  slumber,  I  tried  to 
audit  my  accounts  so  as  to  explain  this  unhoped-for  windfall ; 
but  I  lost  myself  in  useless  calculations,  and  slept.  Just  as 
I  was  leaving  my  room  to  engage  a  box  the  next  morning, 
Pauline  came  to  see  me. 

"  'Perhaps  your  ten  francs  is  not  enough/  said  the  amiable, 
kind-hearted  girl;  'my  mother  told  me  to  offer  you  this 
money.     Take  it,  please,  take  it !' 

"She  laid  three  crowns  upon  the  table,  and  tried  to  escape, 
but  I  would  not  let  her  go.  Admiration  dried  the  tears 
that  sprang  to  my  eyes. 

"  'You  are  an  angel,  Pauline,*  I  said.  'It  is  not  the  loan 
that  touches  me  so  much  as  the  delicacy  with  which  it  is 
offered.  I  used  to  wish  for  a  rich  wife,  a  fashionable  woman 
of  rank ;  and  now,  alas !  I  would  rather  possess  millions,  and 
find  some  girl,  as  poor  as  you  are,  with  a  generous  nature  like 
your  own;  and  I  would  renounce  a  fatal  passion  which  will 
kill  me.     Perhaps  what  you  told  me  will  come  true.'' 

"  'That  is  enough/  she  said,  and  fled  away;  the  fresh  trills 
of  her  birdlike  voice  rang  up  the  staircase. 

"  'She  is  very  happy  in  not  yet  knowing  love/  I  said  to  my- 
self, thinking  of  the  torments  I  had  endured  for  many  months 
past. 

"Paulino's  fifteen  francs  were  invaluable  to  me.  Fcedora, 
thinking  of  the  stifling  odor  of  the  crowded  place  where  we 
woro  to  spend  several  hours,  was  sorry  that  she  had  voi 
brought  a  bouquet;  I  went  in  search  of  flowers  for  her,  a- 


A  WOMAN  WITHOUT  A  HEART  1 35 

I  had  kifl  alrearly  my  life  and  my  fate  at  her  feet.  With  a 
pleasure  in  which  compunction  mingled,  I  gave  her  a  bouquet. 
1  learned  from  its  price  the  extravagance  of  superficial 
gallantry  in  the  world.  But  very  soon  she  complained  of 
the  heavy  scent  of  a  Mexican  jessamine.  The  interior  of  the 
theatre,  the  bare  bench  on  which  she  was  to  sit,  filled  her 
with  intolerable  disgust;  she  upbraided  me  for  bringing  her 
there.  Although  she  sat  beside  me,  she  wished  to  go,  and 
she  went.  I  had  spent  sleepless  nights,  and  squandered  two 
months  of  my  life  for  her,  and  I  could  not  please  her.  Never 
had  that  tormenting  spirit  been  more  unfeeling  or  more 
fascinating. 

*'I  sat  beside  her  in  the  cramped  back  seat  of  the  vehicle; 
all  the  way  I  could  feel  her  breath  on  me  and  the  contact 
of  her  perfumed  glove;  I  saw  distinctly  all  her  exceeding 
beauty;  T  inhaled  a  vague  scent  of  orris-root;  so  wholly  a 
woman  she  was,  with  no  touch  of  womanhood.  Just  then 
a  sudden  gleam  of  light  lit  up  the  depths  of  this  mysterious 
life  for  me.  I  thought  all  at  once  of  a  book  just  published 
by  a  poet,  a  genuine  conception  of  the  artist,  in  the  shape  of 
the  statue  of  Polycletus. 

"I  seemed  to  see  that  monstrous  creation,  at  one  time  an 
officer,  breaking  in  a  spirited  horse;  at  another,  a  girl,  who 
gives  herself  up  to  her  toilette  and  breaks  her  lovers'  hearts ; 
or  again,  a  false  lover  driving  a  timid  and  gentle  maid  to 
despair.  Unable  to  analyze  Fa^dora  by  any  other  process,  I 
told  her  this  fanciful  story;  but  no  hint  of  her  resemblance 
to  this  poetry  of  the  impossible  crossed  her — it  simply 
diverted  her;  she  was  like  a  child  over  a  story  from  the 
Arabian  Nights. 

"  'Foodora  must  be  shielded  by  some  talisman,'  I  thought 
to  myself  as  I  went  back,  'or  she  could  not  resist  the  love 
of  a  man  of  my  age,  the  infectious  fever  of  that  splendid 
malady  of  the  soul.  Is  Foedora,  like  Lady  Delacour,  a  prey 
to  a  cancer?     Her  life  is  certainly  an  nnnatural  one.' 

"I  shuddered  at  the  thought.  Then  I  decided  on  a  plan, 
at  once  the  wildest  and  the  most  rational  that  lover  ever 


136  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

dreamed  of.  I  would  study  this  woman  from  a  physical  point 
of  view,  as  I  had  already  studied  her  intellectually,  and  to 
this  end  I  made  up  my  mind  to  spend  a  night  in  her  room 
without  her  knowledge.  This  project  preyed  upon  me  as  a 
thirst  for  revenge  gnaws  at  the  heart  of  a  Corsican  monk. 
This  is  how  I  carried  it  out.  On  the  days  when  Fcedora 
received,  her  rooms  were  far  too  crowded  for  the  hall-portei 
to  keep  the  balance  even  between  goers  and  comers;  I  could 
remain  in  the  house,  I  felt  sure,  without  causing  a  scandal 
in  it,  and  I  waited  the  countess'  coming  soiree  with  im- 
patience. As  I  dressed  I  put  a  little  English  penknife  into 
my  waistcoat  pocket,  instead  of  a  poniard.  That  literary 
implement,  if  found  upon  me^  could  awaken  no  suspicion, 
but  I  knew  not  whither  my  romantic  resolution  might  lead, 
and  I  wished  to  be  prepared. 

"As  soon  as  the  rooms  began  to  fill,  I  entered  the  bedroom 
and  examined  the  arrangements.  The  inner  and  outer 
shutters  were  closed;  this  was  a  good  beginning;  and  as  the 
waiting-maid  might  come  to  draw  back  the  curtains  that 
hung  over  the  windows,  I  pulled  them  together.  I  was 
running  great  risks  in  venturing  to  manoeuvre  beforehand  in 
this  way,  but  I  had  accepted  the  situation,  and  had 
deliberately  reckoned  with  its  dangers. 

"About  midnight  I  hid  myself  in  the  embrasure  of  the 
window.  I  tried  to  scramble  on  to  a  ledge  of  the  wains- 
coting, hanging  on  by  the  fastening  of  the  shutters  with  my 
back  against  the  wall,  in  such  a  position  that  my  feet  could 
not  be  visible.  When  I  had  carefully  considered  my  points 
of  support,  and  the  space  between  me  and  the  curtains,  I 
had  become  sufficiently  acquainted  with  all  the  difficulties  of 
my  position  to  stay  in  it  without  fear  of  detection  if  undis- 
turbed by  cramp,  coughs,  or  sneezings.  To  avoid  useless 
fatigue,  I  remained  standing  until  the  critical  moment,  when 
I  must  hang  suspended  like  a  spider  in  its  web.  The  white- 
watered  silk  and  muslin  of  the  curtains  spread  before  me  in 
great  pleats  like  organ-pipes.  With  my  penknife  I  cut  loop- 
holes in  them,  through  which  I  could  sea 


A  WOMAN  WITHOUT  A  HEART         137 

"I  heard  vague  murmurs  from  the  salons,  the  laughter  and 
the  louder  tones  of  the  speakers.  The  smothered  commotion 
and  vague  uproar  lessened  by  slow  degrees.  One  man  and 
another  came  for  his  hat  from  the  countess'  chest  of 
drawers,  close  to  where  I  stood.  I  shivered,  if  the  curtains 
were  disturbed,  at  the  thought  of  the  mischances  consequent 
on  the  confused  and  hasty  investigations  made  by  the  men 
in  a  hurry  to  depart,  who  were  rummaging  everywhere. 
When  I  experienced  no  misfortunes  of  this  kind,  I  augured 
well  of  my  enterprise.  An  old  wooer  of  Foedora's  came  for 
the  last  hat;  he  thought  himself  quite  alone,  looked  at  the 
bed,  and  heaved  a  great  sigh,  accompanied  by  some  inaudible 
exclamation,  into  which  he  threw  sufficient  energy.  In  the 
boudoir  close  by,  the  countess,  finding  only  some  five  or  six 
intimate  acquaintances  about  her,  proposed  tea.  The 
scandals  for  which  existing  society  has  reserved  the  little 
faculty  of  belief  that  it  retains,  mingled  with  epigrams  and 
trenchant  witticisms,  and  the  clatter  of  cups  and  spoons. 
Eastignac  drew  roars  of  laughter  by  merciless  sarcasms  at  the 
expense  of  my  rivals. 

"  'M.  de  Eastignac  is  a  man  with  whom  it  is  better  not  to 
quarrel,'  said  the  countess,  laughing. 

"  'I  am  quite  of  that  opinion,'  was  his  candid  reply.  'I 
have  always  been  right  about  my  aversions — and  my  friend- 
ships as  well,'  he  added.  'Perhaps  my  enemies  are  quite  as 
useful  to  me  as  my  friends.  I  have  made  a  particular  study 
of  modern  phraseology,  and  of  the  natural  craft  that  is  used 
in  all  attack  or  defence.  Official  eloquence  is  one  of  our  per- 
fect social  products. 

"  '^One  of  your  friends  is  not  clever,  so  you  speak  of  his 
integrity  and  his  candor.  Another's  work  is  heavy;  you  in- 
troduce it  as  a  piece  of  conscientious  labor;  and  if  the  book 
is  ill  written,  you  extol  the  ideas  it  contains.  Such  an  one 
is  treacherous  and  fickle,  slips  through  your  fingers  every 
moment ;  bah !  he  is  attractive,  bewitching,  he  is  delightful ! 
Suppose  they  are  enemies,  you  fling  every  one,  dead  or  alive, 
in  their  teeth.     You  reverse  your  phraseology  for  their  bene- 


138  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

fit,  and  you  are  as  keen  in  detecting  their  faults  as  you  were 
before  adroit  in  bringing  out  the  virtues  of  your  friends. 
This  way  of  using  the  mental  lorgnette  is  the  secret  of  con- 
versation nowadays,  and  the  whole  art  of  the  complete 
courtier.  If  you  neglect  it,  you  might  as  well  go  out  as  an 
unarmed  knight-banneret  to  fight  against  men  in  armor. 
And  I  make  use  of  it,  and  even  abuse  it  at  times.  So  we  are 
respected — I  and  my  friends ;  and,  moreover,  my  sword  is  quite 
as  sharp  as  my  tongue.' 

"One  of  Foedora's  most  fervid  worshipers,  whose  presump- 
tion was  notorious,  and  who  even  made  it  contribute  to  his 
success,  took  up  the  glove  thrown  down  so  scornfully  by  Ras- 
tignac.  He  began  an  unmeasured  eulogy  of  me,  my  per- 
formances, and  my  character.  Rastignac  had  overlooked  this 
method  of  detraction.  His  sarcastic  encomiums  misled  the 
countess,  who  sacrificed  without  mercy;  she  betrayed  my 
secrets,  and  derided  my  pretensions  and  my  hopes,  to  divert 
her  friends. 

"  'There  is  a  future  before  him,'  said  Rastignac.  'Some 
day  he  may  be  in  a  position  to  take  a  cruel  revenge ;  his  talents 
are  at  least  equal  to  his  courage;  and  I  should  consider  those 
who  attack  him  very  rash,  for  he  has  a  good  memory ' 

"  'And  writes  Memoirs,'  put  in  the  countess,  who  seemed 
to  object  to  the  deep  silence  that  prevailed. 

"  'Memoirs  of  a  sham  countess,  madame,'  replied  Ras- 
tignac. 'Another  sort  of  courage  is  needed  to  write  that  sort 
of  thing.' 

"  'I  give  him  credit  for  plenty  of  courage,'  she  answered ; 
'he  is  faithful  to  me.' 

"I  was  greatly  tempted  to  show  myself  suddenly  among  the 
railers,  like  the  shade  of  Banquo  in  Macbeth.  I  should  have 
lost  a  mistress,  but  I  had  a  friend !  But  love  inspired  me 
all  at  once,  witli  one  of  those  treacherous  and  fallacious  sub- 
tleties that  it  can  use  to  soothe  all  our  pangs. 

"If  Fcedora  loved  me,  I  tliought,  she  would  be  sure  to  dis- 
guise her  feelings  by  some  mocking  jest.  How  often  the 
heart  protests  against  a  lie  on  the  lips ! 


A  WOMAN  WITHOUT  A  HEART  l3S 

"Well,  very  soon  my  audacious  rival,  left  alone  with  the 
countess,  rose  to  go. 

'"What!  already?'  asked  she  jn  a  coaxing  voice  that  set 
my  heart  beating.  'Will  you  not  give  me  a  few  more 
minutes?  Have  you  nothing  more  to  say  to  me?  will  you 
never  sacrifice  any  of  your  pleasures  for  me?' 

"He  went  away. 

"'Ah!'  she  yawned;  'how  very  tiresome  they  all  are!' 

"She  pulled  a  cord  energetically  till  the  sound  of  a  bell 
rang  through  the  place;  then,  humming  a  few  notes  of  Pria 
che  spunti,  the  countess  entered  her  room.  No  one  had 
ever  heard,  her  sing ;  her  muteness  had  called  forth  the  wild- 
est explanations.  She  had  promised  her  first  lover,  so  it  was 
said,  who  had  been  held  captive  by  her  talent,  and  whose 
jealousy  over  her  stretched  beyond  his  grave,  that  she  would 
never  allow  others  to  experience  a  happiness  that  he  wished 
to  be  his  and  his  alone. 

"I  exerted  every  power  of  my  soul  to  catch  the  sounds. 
Higher  and  higher  rose  the  notes;  Fcedora's  life  seemed  to 
dilate  within  her;  her  throat  poured  forth  all  its  richest 
tones;  something  well-nigh  divine  entered  into  the  melody. 
There  was  a  bright  purity  and  clearness  of  tone  in  the 
countess'  voice,  a  thrilling  harmony  which  reached  the  heart 
and  stirred  its  pulses.  Musicians  are  seldom  unemotional ; 
a  woman  who  could  sing  like  that  must  know  how  to  love 
indeed.  Her  beautiful  voice  made  one  more  puzzle  in  a  wo- 
man mysterious  enough  before.  I  beheld  her  then,  as  plainly 
as  I  see  you  at  this  moment.  She  seemed  to  listen  to  herself, 
to  experience  a  secret  rapture  of  her  own ;  she  felt,  as  it  were, 
an  ecstasy  like  that  of  love. 

"She  stood  before  the  hearth  during  the  execution  of  the 
principal  theme  of  the  rondo;  and  when  she  ceased  her  face 
changed.  She  looked  tired;  her  features  seemed  to  alter. 
She  had  laid  the  mask  aside ;  her  part  as  an  actress  was  over. 
Yet  the  faded  look  that  came  over  her  beautiful  face,  a 
result  either  of  this  performance  or  of  the  evening's  fatigues, 
had  its  charms,  too. 


140  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

"  'This  is  her  real  self/  I  thought. 

"She  set  her  foot  on  a  bronze  bar  of  the  fender  as  if  to 
warm  it,  took  off  her  gloves,  and  drew  over  her  head  the  gold 
chain  from  which  her  bejeweled  scent-bottle  hung.  It  gave 
me  a  quite  indescribable  pleasure  to  watch  the  feline  grace 
of  every  movement;  the  supple  grace  a  cat  displays  as  it 
adjusts  its  toilette  in  the  sun.  She  looked  at  herself  in  the 
mirror  and  said  aloud  ill-humoredly — 'I  did  not  look  well 
this  evening,  my  complexion  is  going  with  alarming  rapidity ; 
perhaps  I  ought  to  keep  earlier  hours,  and  give  up  this  life  of 
dissipation.  Does  Justine  mean  to  trifle  with  me?'  She 
ransr  again ;  her  maid  hurried  in.  Where  "^he  had  been  I 
cannot  tell ;  she  came  in  by  a  secret  staircase.  I  was  anxiou? 
to  make  a  study  of  her.  I  had  lodged  accusations,  in  my 
romantic  imaginings,  against  this  invisible  waiting-woman, 
a  tall,  well-made  brunette. 

"'Did  madame  ring?' 

"  'Yes,  twice,'  answered  Foedora ;  'are  you  really  growing 
deaf  nowadays?' 

"  'I  was  preparing  madame's  milk  of  almonds.' 

"Justine  knelt  down  before  her,  unlaced  her  sandals  and 
drew  them  off,  while  her  mistress  lay  carelessly  back  on  her 
cushioned  armchair  beside  the  fire,  yawned,  and  scratched 
her  head.  Every  movement  was  perfectly  natural ;  there  was 
nothing  whatever  to  indicate  the  secret  sufferings  or  emotions 
with  which  I  had  credited  her. 

"  'George  must  be  in  love  !'  she  remarked.  'I  shall  dismiss 
him.  He  has  drawn  the  curtains  again  to-night.  What 
does  he  mean  by  it  ?' 

"All  the  blood  in  my  veins  rushed  to  my  heart  at  this 
observation,  but  no  more  was  said  about  curtains. 
,  "  'Life  is  very  empty,'  the  countess  went  on.  'Ah !  be 
.careful  not  to  scratch  me  as  you  did  yesterday.  Just  look 
here,  I  still  have  the  marks  of  your  nails  about  me,'  and 
she  held  out  a  little  silken  knee.  She  thrust  her  bare  feet 
into  velvet  slippers  bound  with  swan's-down,  and  unfastened 
her  dress,  while  Justine  prepared  to  comb  her  hair. 


A  WOMAN  WITHOUT  A  HEART  141 

**'You  ought  to  marry,  madanie,  and  liave  children.' 

"  'Children !'  she  cried ;  'it  wants  no  more  than  that  to 
finish  me  at  once;  and  a  husband!  What  man  is  there  to 
whom  I  could ?     Was  my  hair  well  arranged  to-night?' 

"  'Not  particularly/ 

"  'You  are  a  fool !' 

"  'That  way  of  crimping  your  hair  too  much  is  the  least 
becoming  way  possible  for  you.  Large,  smooth  curls  suit 
you  a  great  deal  better.' 

"'Really?' 

"  'Yes,  really,  madame ;  that  wavy  style  only  looks  nice  in 
fair  hair.' 

"  'Marriage  ?  never,  never  !  Marriage  is  a  commercial  ar- 
rangement, for  which  I  was  never  made.' 

"What  a  disheartening  scene  for  a  lover !  Here  was  a 
lonely  woman,  without  friends  or  kin,  without  the  religion  of 
love,  without  faith  in  any  affection.  Yet  however  slightly  she 
might  feel  the  need  to  pour  out  her  heart,  a  craving  that 
every  human  being  feels,  it  could  only  be  satisfied  by  gossip- 
ing with  her  maid,  by  trivial  and  indifferent  talk.  ...  I 
grieved  for  her. 

"Justine  unlaced  her.  I  watched  her  carefully  when  she 
was  at  last  unveiled.  Her  maidenly  form,  in  its  rose-tinged 
whiteness,  was  visible  through  her  shift  in  the  taper  light,  as 
dazzling  as  some  silver  statue  behind  its  gauze  covering.  No, 
there  was  no  defect  that  need  shrink  from  the  stolen  glances 
of  love.  Alas,  a  fair  form  will  overcome  the  stoutest  resolu- 
tions ! 

"The  maid  lighted  the  taper  in  the  alabaster  sconce  that 
hung  before  the  bed,  while  her  mistress  sat  thoughtful  and 
silent  before  the  fire.  Justine  went  for  a  warming-pan, 
turned  down  the  bed,  and  helped  to  lay  her  mistress  in  it; 
I  then,  after  some  further  time  spent  in  punctiliously  render- 
ing various  services  that  showed  how  seriously  Foedora  re- 
spected herself,  her  maid  left  her.  The  countess  turned  to 
and  fro  several  times,  and  sighed;  she  was  ill  at  ease;  faint, 
just  perceptible  sounds,  like  sighs  of  impatience,  escaped 


142  THE  MA(;iC  SKIN 

from  her  lips.  She  reached  out  a  hand  to  the  table,  and  took  a 
flask  from  it,  from  which  she  shook  four  or  five  drops  of  some 
brown  liquid  into  some  milk  before  taking  it;  again  there 
followed  some  painful  sighs,  and  the  exclamation,  'Mon 
Dieu!' 

"The  cr}^  and  the  tone  in  which  it  was  uttered,  wrung  my 
heart.  By  degrees  she  lay  motionless.  This  frightened  me ; 
but  very  soon  I  heard  a  sleeper's  heavy,  regular  breathing.  \ 
drew  the  rustling  silk  curtains  apart, -left  my  post,  went  tc 
the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  gazed  at  her  with  feelings  that  I 
cannot  define.  She  was  so  enchanting  as  she  lay  like  a  child, 
with  her  arm  above  her  head ;  but  tlie  sweetness  of  the  fair, 
quiet  visage,  surrounded  by  the  lace,  only  irritated  me.  I 
had  not  been  prepared  for  the  torture  to  which  I  was  com- 
pelled to  submit. 

"'Mon  Dieu!'  that  scrap  of  a  thought  which  I  understood 
not,  but  must  even  take  as  my  sole  light,  had  suddenly 
modified  my  opinion  of  Foedora.  Trite  or  profoundly 
significant,  frivolous  or  of  deep  import,  the  words  might  be 
construed  as  expressive  of  either  pleasure  or  pain,  of  physical 
or  of  mental  suffering.  Was  it  a  praj^er  or  a  malediction, 
a  forecast  or  a  memor}'^,  a  fear  or  a  regret?  A  whole  life  lay 
in  that  utterance,  a  life  of  wealth  or  of  penury;  perhaps  it 
contained  a  crime ! 

"The  mystery  that  lurked  beneath  this  fair  semblance  of 
womanhood  grew  afresh;  there  were  so  many  ways  of  ex- 
plaining Foedora,  that  she  became  inexplicable.  A  sort  of 
language  seemed  to  flow  from  between  her  lips.  I  put 
thoughts  and  feelings  into  the  accidents  of  her  breathing, 
whether  weak  or  regular,  gentle  or  labored.  I  shared  her 
dreams;  I  would  fain  have  divined  her  secrets  by  reading: 
them  through  her  slumber.  I  hesitated  among  contradictor;, 
opinions  and  decisions  without  number.  T  could  not  deuv 
my  heart  to  the  woman  I  saw  before  me,  witli  the  calm,  pure 
beauty  in  her  face.  I  resolved  to  make  one  more  effort.  Tf 
I  told  her  the  story  of  my  life,  my  love,  my  sacrifices,  mifrht 
I  not  awaken  pity  in  her  or  draw  a  tear  from  her  who  never 
wept? 


A  WOMAN  WITHOUT  A  HEART         143 

"As  I  set  all  my  hopes  on  this  last  experiment,  the  sounds 
in  the  streets  showed  that  day  was  at  hand.  For  a  moment's 
space  I  pictured  Fcedora  waking  to  find  herself  in  my  arms. 
I  could  have  stolen  softly  to  her  side  and  slipped  them  about 
her  in  a  close  embrace.  Resolved  to  resist  the  cruel  tyranny 
of  this  thought,  I  hurried  into  the  salon,  heedless  of  any 
sounds  I  might  make;  but,  luckily,  I  came  upon  a  secret 
door  leading  to  a  little  staircase.  As  I  had  expected,  the  key 
was  in  the  lock;  I  slammed  the  door,  went  boldly  out  into 
the  court,  and  gained  the  street  in  three  bounds,  without  look- 
ing round  to  see  whether  I  was  observed. 

"A  dramatist  was  to  read  a  comedy  at  the  countess'  house 
in  two  days'  time;  I  went  thither,  intending  to  outstay  the 
others,  so  as  to  make  a  rather  singular  request  to  her;  I 
meant  to  ask  her  to  keep  the  following  evening  for  me  alone, 
and  to  deny  herself  to  other  comers;  but  when  I  found  my- 
self alone  with  her,  my  courage  failed.  Every  tick  of  the 
clock  alarmed  me.  It  wanted  only  a  quarter  of  an  hour  of 
midnight. 

"  'If  I  do  not  speak,'  I  thought  to  myself,  'I  must  smash 
my  head  against  the  corner  of  the  mantelpiece.' 

"I  gave  myself  three  minutes'  grace ;  the  three  minutes  went 
by,  and  I  did  not  smash  my  head  upon  the  marble;  my  heart 
grew  heavy,  like  a  sponge  with  water. 

"  'You  are  exceedingly  amusing,'  said  she. 

"  'Ah,  madame,  if  you  could  but  understand  me !'  I 
answered. 

"  'What  is  the  matter  with  you  ?'  she  asked.  'You  are 
turning  pale.' 

"  'I  am  hesitating  to  ask  a  favor  of  you.' 

"Her  gesture  revived  my  courage.  I  asked  her  to  make  the 
appointment  with  me. 

"  'Willingly,'  she  answered ;  'but  why  will  you  not  speak 
to  me  now?' 

"'To  be  candid  with  you,  I  ought  to  explain  the  full 
scope  of  your  promise :  I  want  to  spend  this  evening  by  your 
side,  as  if  we  were  brother  and  sister.     Have  no  fear ;  I  am 


144  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

aware  of  your  antipathies;  you  must  have  divined  me 
sufficiently  to  feel  sure  that  I  should  wish  you  to  do  nothing 
that  could  be  displeasing  to  you;  presumption,  moreover, 
would  not  thus  approach  you.  You  have  been  a  friend  to  me, 
you  have  shown  me  kindness  and  great  indulgence;  know, 
therefore,  that  to-morrow  I  must  bid  you  farewell. — Do  not 
take  back  your  word,'  I  exclaimed,  seeing  her  about  to  speak, 
and  I  went  away. 

"At  eight  o'clock  one  evening  towards  the  end  of  May, 
Foedora  and  I  were  alone  together  in  her  gothic  boudoir.  I 
feared  no  longer;  I  was  see^ire  of  happiness.  My  mistress 
should  be  mine,  or  I  would  seek  a  refuge  in  death.  I  had 
condemned  my  faint-hearted  love,  and  a  man  who  acknowl- 
edges his  weakness  is  strong  indeed. 

"The  countess,  in  her  blue  cashmere  gown,  was  reclining 
on  a  sofa,  with  her  feet  on  a  cushion.  She  wore  an  Oriental 
turban  such  as  painters  assign  to  early  Hebrews ;  its  strange- 
ness added  an  indescribable  coquettish  grace  to  her  attrac- 
tions. A  transitory  charm  seemed  to  have  laid  its  spell  on 
her  face ;  it  might  have  furnished  the  argument  that  at  every 
instant  we  become  new  and  unparalleled  beings,  without  any 
resemblance  to  the  us  of  the  future  or  of  the  past.  I  had 
never  yet  seen  her  so  radiant. 

"  'Do  you  know  that  you  have  piqued  my  curiosity  ?  she 
said,  laughing. 

"  'I  will  not  disappoint  it,'  I  said  quietly,  as  I  seated  my- 
self near  to  her  and  took  the  hand  that  she  surrendered  to 
me.     *You  have  a  very  beautiful  voice !' 

"  *You  have  never  heard  me  sing !'  she  exclaimed,  starting 
involuntarily  with  surprise. 

"  'I  will  prove  that  it  is  quite  otherwise,  whenever  it  is 
necessary.  Is  your  delightful  singing  still  to  remain  a 
mystery  ?     Have  no  fear,  I  do  not  wish  to  penetrate  it.' 

"We  spent  about  an  hour  in  familiar  talk.  While  I 
adopted  the  attitude  and  manner  of  a  man  to  whom  Foedora 
must  refuse  nothing,  I  showed  her  all  a  lover's  deference. 
Acting  in  this  way,  1  received  a  favor — T  was  allowed  to  kiss 


We  speut  auout  au  Uoux  in  laanUiar  talii 


A  WOMAN  WITHOUT  A  HEART  145 

her  hand.  She  daintily  drew  off  the  glove,  and  my  whole  som 
was  dissolved  and  poured  forth  in  that  kiss.  I  was  steeped  in 
the  bliss  of  an  illusion  in  which  I  tried  to  believe. 

"Foedora  lent  herself  most  unexpectedly  to  my  caress  and 
my  flatteries.  Do  not  accuse  me  of  faint-heartedness ;  if  I 
had  gone  a  step  beyond  these  fraternal  compliments,  the 
claws  would  have  been  out  of  the  sheath  and  into  me.  We  re- 
mained perfectly  silent  for  nearly  ten  minutes.  I  was  admiring 
her,  investing  her  with  the  charms  she  had  not.  She  was  mine 
just  then,  and  mine  only, — this  enchanting  being  was  mine, 
as  was  permissible,  in  my  imagination;  my  longing  wrapped 
her  round  and  held  her  close ;  in  my  soul  I  wedded  her.  The 
countess  was  subdued  and  fascinated  by  my  magnetic  in- 
fluence. Ever  since  I  have  regretted  that  this  subjugation 
was  not  absolute;  but  just  then  I  yearned  for  her  soul,  her 
heart  alone,  and  for  nothing  else.  I  longed  for  an  ideal  and 
perfect  happiness,  a  fair  illusion  that  cannot  last  for  very 
long.  At  last  I  spoke,  feeling  that  the  last  hours  of  my 
frenzy  Avere  at  hand. 

"  'Hear  me,  madame.  I  love  you,  and  you  know  it ;  I 
have  said  so  a  hundred  times ;  you  must  have  understood  me. 
I  would  not  take  upon  me  the  airs  of  a  coxcomb,  nor  would 
I  flatter  you,  nor  urge  myself  upon  you  like  a  fool ;  I  would 
not  owe  your  love  to  such  arts  as  these !  so  I  have  been  mis- 
understood. What  sufferings  have  I  not  endured  for  your 
sake !  For  these,  however,  you  were  not  to  blame ;  but  in.  a 
few  minutes  yon  shall  decide  for  yourself.  There  are  two 
kinds  of  poverty,  madame.  One  kind  openly  walks  the 
street  in  rags,  an  unconscious  imitator  of  Diogenes,  on  a 
scanty  diet,  reducing  life  to  its  simplest  terms ;  he  is  happier, 
maybe,  than  the  rich ;  he  has  fewer  cares  at  any  rate,  and  ac- 
cepts such  portions  of  the  world  as  stronger  spirits  refuse. 
Then  there  is  poverty  in  splendor,  a  Spanish  pauper,  con- 
cealing the  life  of  a  beggar  by  his  title,  his  bravery,  and  his 
pride;  poverty  that  wears  a  white  waistcoat  and  yellow  kid 
gloves,  a  beggar  with  a  carriage,  whose  whole  career  will  be 
wrecked  for  lack  of  a  halfpenny      Poverty  of  the  first  Kind 


146  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

belongs  to  the  populace;  the  second  kind  is  that  of  blacklegs, 
of  kings,  and  of  men  of  talent.  I  am  neither  a  man  of  the 
people,  nor  a  king,  nor  a  swindler ;  possibly  I  have  no  talent 
either ;  I  am  an  exception.  With  the  name  I  bear  I  must  die 
sooner  than  beg.  Set  your  mind  at  rest,  madame,'  I  said; 
'to-day  I  have  abundance,  I  possess  sufficient  of  the  clay  for 
my  needs;'  for  the  hard  look  passed  over  her  face  which  we 
wear  whenever  a  well-dressed  beggar  takes  us  by  surprise. 
'Do  you  remember  the  day  when  you  wished  to  go  to  the 
Gymnase  without  me,  never  believing  that  I  should  be  there  ?' 
I  went  on. 

"She  nodded. 

"  'I  had  laid  out  my  last  five-franc  piece  that  I  might  see 
you  there. — Do  you  recollect  our  walk  in  the  Jardin  des 
Plantes?     The  hire  of  your  cab  took  everything  I  had.' 

"I  told  her  about  my  sacrifices,  and  described  the  life  I  led ; 
heated  not  with  wine,  as  I  am  to-day,  but  by  the  generous 
enthusiasm  of  my  heart,  my  passion  overflowed  in  burning 
words;  I  have  forgotten  how  the  feelings  within  me  blazed 
forth;  neither  memory  nor  skill  of  mine  could  possibly  re- 
produce it.  It  was  no  colorless  chronicle  of  blighted  affec- 
tions; my  love  was  strengthened  by  fair  hopes;  and  such 
words  came  to  me,  by  love's  inspiration,  that  each  had  power 
to  set  forth  a  whole  life — ^like  echoes  of  the  cries  of  a  soul  in 
torment.  In  such  tones  the  last  prayers  ascend  from  dying 
men  on  the  battlefield.  I  stopped,  for  she  was  weeping. 
Grand  Dieu!  I  had  reaped  an  actor's  reward,  the  success 
of  a  counterfeit  passion  displayed  at  the  cost  of  five  francs 
paid  at  the  theatre  door.     I  had  drawn  tears  from  her. 

"  'If  I  had  known '  she  said. 

"  'Do  not  finish  the  sentence,'  I  broke  in.  'Even  now  I 
love  you  well  enough  to  murder  you ' 

"She  reached  for  the  bell-pull.  I  burst  into  a  roar  of 
laughter. 

"  'Do  not  call  any  one,'  I  said.  *I  shall  leave  you  to  finish 
voiir  life  in  peace.  It  would  be  a  blundering  kind  of  hatred 
thai  would  murder  you !     You  need  not  fear  violence  of  any 


A  WOMAN  WITHOUT  A  HEART         147 

kind ;  T  have  spent  a  whole  night  at  the  foot  of  your  bed 
without ' 

"  'Monsieur '  she  said,  blushing ;  but  after  that  first 

impulse   of   modesty   that   even   the   most   hardened   women 
must  surely  own,  she  flung  a  scornful  glance  at  me,  and  said: 

"  'You  must  have  been  very  cold.' 

"  'Do  you  think  that  I  set  such  value  on  your  beauty, 
madame,'  I  answered,  guessing  the  thoughts  that  moved  her. 
'Your  beautiful  face  is  for  me  a  promise  of  a  soul  yet  more 
beautiful.  Madame,  those  to  whom  a  woman  is  merely  a 
woman  can  always  purchase  odalisques  fit  for  the  seraglio, 
and  achieve  their  happiness  at  a  small  cost.  But  I  aspired  to 
something  higher;  I  wanted  the  life  of  close  communion  of 
heart  and  heart  with  you  that  have  no  heart.  I  know  that 
now.  If  you  were  to  belong  to  another,  I  could  kill  him. 
And  yet,  no;  for  you  would  love  him,  and  his  death  might 
hurt  you  perhaps.     What  agony  this  is  !'  I  cried. 

"  'If  it  is  any  comfort  to  you,'  she  retorted  cheer- 
fully, 'I  can  assure  you  that  I  shall  never  belong  to  any 
one ' 

"  'So  you  offer  an  affront  to  God  Himself,'  I  interrupted ; 
'and  you  will  be  punished  for  it.  Some  day  you  will  lie 
upon  your  sofa  suffering  unheard-of  ills,  unable  to  endure 
the  light  or  the  slightest  sound,  condemned  to  live  as  it  were 
in  the  tomb.  Then,  when  you  seek  the  causes  of  those  linger- 
ing and  avenging  torments,  you  will  remember  the  woes  that 
you  distributed  so  lavishly  upon  your  way.  You  have  sown 
curses,  and  hatred  will  be  your  reward.  We  are  the  real 
judges,  the  executioners  of  a  justice  that  reigns  here  below, 
which  overrules  the  justice  of  man  and  the  laws  of  God.' 
i  "  'No  doubt  it  is  very  culpable  in  me  not  to  love  you,'  she 
said,  laughing.  'Am  I  to  blame?  No.  I  do  not  love  you; 
you  are  a  man,  that  is  sufficient.  I  am  happy  by  myself; 
why  should  I  give  up  my  way  of  living,  a  selfish  way,  if  you 
will,  for  the  caprices  of  a  master?  Marriage  is  a  sacrament 
by  virtue  of  which  each  imparts  nothing  but  vexations  to  the 
other.       Children,  moreover,  worry  me.-     Did  I  not  faith- 


148  THE  MA(;iC  SKIN 

fully  warn  you  about  my  nature?  Why  are  you  not  satisfied 
to  have  my  friendship  ?  I  wish  I  could  make  you  amends  for 
all  the  troubles  I  have  caused  you,  through  not  guessing  the 
value  of  your  poor  five-franc  pieces.  I  appreciate  the  extent 
of  your  sacrifices ;  but  your  devotion  and  delicate  tact  can  be 
repaid  by  love  alone,  and  I  care  so  little  for  you,  that  this 
scene  has  a  disagreeable  effect  upon  me.' 

"  'I  am  fully  aware  of  my  absurdity,'  I  said,  unable  to 
restrain  my  tears.  'Pardon  me,'  I  went  on,  'it  was  a  de- 
light to  hear  those  cruel  words  you  have  just  uttered,  so  well 
I  love  you.  0,  if  I  could  testify  my  love  with  every  drop  of 
blood  in  me !' 

"  'Men  always  repeat  these  classic  formulas  to  us,  more  or 
less  effectively,'  she  answered,  still  smiling.  'But  it  appears 
very  difficult  to  die  at  our  feet,  for  I  see  corpses  of  that  kind 
about  everywhere.  It  is  twelve  o'clock.  Allow  me  to  go  to  bed.' 

"  'And  in  two  hours'  time  you  will  cry  to  yourself.  Ah, 
mon  Dieii!' 

"  'Like  the  day  before  yesterday !  Yes,'  she  said,  'I  was 
thinking  of  my  stockbroker;  1  had  forgotten  to  tell  him  to 
convert  my  five  per  cent  stock  into  the  threes,  and  the  three 
per  cents  had  fallen  during  the  day.' 

"I  looked  at  her,  and  my  eyes  glittered  with  anger.  Some- 
times a  crime  may  be  a  whole  romance;  I  understood  that 
just  then.  She  was  so  accustomed,  no  doubt,  to  the  most  im- 
passioned declarations  of  this  kind,  that  my  words  and  my 
tears  were  forgotten  already. 

"  'Would  you  marry  a  peer  of  France  ?'  I  demanded 
abruptly. 

"  'If  he  were  a  duke,  I  might.' 

"I  seized  my  hat  and  made  her  a  bow. 

"  'Permit  me  to  accompany  you  to  the  door,'  she  said, 
cutting  irony  in  her  tones,  in  the  poise  of  her  head,  and  in  her 
gesture. 

"  'Madame ' 

"'Monsieur?' 

"  'I  shall  never  see  you  again.' 


A  WOMAN  WITHOUT  A  HEART  149 

"  *I  hope  not,'  and  she  insolently  inclined  her  head. 

"  'You  wish  to  be  a  duchess  ?'  I  cried,  excited  by  a  sort  of 
madness  that  her  insolence  roused  in  me.  'You  are  wild 
for  honors  and  titles  ?  Well,  only  let  me  love  you ;  bid  my 
pen  write  and  my  voice  speak  for  you  alone;  be  the  inmost 
soul  of  my  life,  my  guiding  star !  Then,  only  accept  me  for 
your  husband  as  a  minister,  a  peer  of  France,  a  duke.  I 
will  make  of  myself  whatever  you  would  have  me  be  !' 

"  'You  made  good  use  of  the  time  you  spent  with  the  ad- 
vocate,' she  said,  smiling.  There  is  a  fervency  about  your 
pleadings.' 

"  'The  present  is  yours,'  1  cried,  'but  the  future  is  mine ! 
I  only  lose  a  woman;  you  are  losing  a  name  and  a  family. 
Time  is  big  with  my  revenge;  time  will  spoil  your  beauty, 
and  vours  will  be  a  solitary  death;  and  glory  waits  for 
me!'"^ 

"  'Thanks  for  your  peroration  !'  she  said,  repressing  a  yawn ; 
the  wish  that  she  might  never  see  me  again  was  expressed 
in  her  whole  bearing. 

"That  remark  silenced  me.  I  flung  at  her  a  glance  full  of 
hatred,  and  hurried  away. 

"Foedora  must  be  forgotten ;  I  must  cure  myself  of  my  in- 
fatuation, and  betake  myself  once  more  to  my  lonely  studies, 
or  die.  So  I  set  myself  tremendous  tasks;  I  determined  to 
complete  my  labors.  For  fifteen  days  I  never  left  my  garret, 
spending  whole  nights  in  pallid  thought.  I  worked  with 
difficulty,  and  by  fits  and  starts,  despite  my  courage  and 
the  stimulation  of  despair.  The  muse  had  fled.  I  could  not 
exorcise  the  brilliant  mocking  image  of  Foedora.  Something 
morbid  brooded  over  every  thought,  a  vague  longing  as  dread- 
ful as  remorse.  I  imitated  the  anchorites  of  the  Thebaid. 
If  I  did  not  pray  as  they  did,  I  lived  a  life  in  the  desert 
like  theirs,  hewing  out  my  ideas  as  they  were  wont  to  hew 
their  rocks.  I  could  at  need  have  girdled  my  waist  with 
spikes,  that  physical  suffering  might  quell  mental  anguish. 

"One  evening  Pauline  found,  her  way  into  my  room. 

VOL.  I — 15 


150  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

"  'You  are  killing  yourself/  she  said,  imploringly ;  "^you 
should  go  out  and  see  3'our  friends ' 

"  Tauline,  you  were  a  true  prophet ;  Fredora  is  killing  me. 
I  want  to  die.     My  life  is  intolerable.' 

"  'Is  there  only  one  woman  in  the  world?'  she  asked,  smil- 
ing.    'Why  make  yourself  so  miserable  in  so  short  a  life  ?' 

"I  looked  at  Pauline  in  bewilderment.  She  left  me  before 
I  noticed  her  departure;  the  sound  of  her  words  had  reached 
me,  but  not  their  sense.  Very  soon  I  had  to  take  my 
Memoirs  in  manuscript  to  my  literary-contractor.  I  was 
so  absorbed  by  my  passion,  that  I  could  not  remember  how 
I  had  managed  to  live  without  money;  I  only  knew  that  the 
four  hundred  and  fifty  francs  due  to  me  would  pay  my  debts. 
So  I  went  to  receive  my  salary,  and  met  Rastignac,  who 
thought  me  changed  and  thinner. 

"  'What  hospital  have  you  been  discharged  from  ?'  he 
asked. 

"  'That  woman  is  killing  me/  I  answered ;  'I  can  neither 
despise  her  nor  forget  her.' 

"  'You  had  much  better  kill  her,  then  perhaps  you  would 
think  no  more  of  her,'  he  said,  laughing. 

"  'I  have  often  thought  of  it,'  I  replied ;  'but  though  some- 
times the  thought  of  a  crime  revives  my  spirits,  of  violence 
and  murder,  either  or  both,  I  am  really  incapable  of  carrying 
out  the  design.  The  countess  is  an  admirable  monster  who 
would  crave  for  pardon,  and  not  every  man  is  an  Othello.' 

"  'She  is  like  every  woman  who  is  beyond  our  reach,'  Eas- 
tignac  interrupted. 

"  *I  am  mad/  I  cried;  'I  can  feel  the  madness  raging  at 
times  in  my  brain.  My  ideas  are  like  shadows;  they  flit  be- 
fore me,  and  T  cannot  grasp  them.  Death  woiild  be  pref- 
erable to  this  life,  and  I  have  carefully  considered  the  best 
way  of  putting  an  end  to  the  struggle.  I  am  not  thinking 
of  the  living  Foedora  in  the  Faubourg  Saint  Honore,  but 
of  my  Foedora  here,'  and  I  tap})ed  my  forehead.  'What  dc> 
you  say  to  opium  ?' 

"'Pshaw!  horrid  an^onies/  said  Rastignac. 


A  WOMAN  WITHOUT  A  HEART         151 

"  *0r  charcoal  fumes  ?' 

"  'A  low  dodge.' 

"  'Or  the  Seine  ?' 

"'The' drag-nets,  and  the  Morgue  too,  are  filthy/ 

"'A  pistol-shot?' 

"  *And  if  you  miscalculate,  you  disfigure  yourself  for  life. 
Listen  to  me/  he  went  on,  'like  all  young  men,  I  have  pon- 
dered over  suicide.  Which  of  us  hasn't  killed  himself  two  or 
three  times  before  he  is  thirty?  I  find  there  is  no  better 
course  than  to  use  existence  as  a  means  of  pleasure.  Go  in 
for  thorough  dissipation,  and  your  passion  or  you  will  perish 
in  it.  Intemperance,  my  dear  fellow,  commands  all  forms 
of  death.  Does  she  not  wield  the  thunderbolt  of  apoplexy? 
Apoplexy  is  a  pistol-shot  that  does  not  miscalculate.  Orgies 
are  lavish  in  all  physical  pleasures;  is  not  that  the  small 
change  for  opium?  And  the  riot  that  makes  us  drink  to 
excess  bears  a  challenge  to  mortal  combat  with  Mnne.  That 
butt  of  Malmsey  of  the  Duke  of  Clarence's  must  have  had  a 
pleasanter  flavor  than  Seine  mud.  When  we  sink  gloriously 
under  the  table,  is  not  that  a  periodical  death  by  drowning 
on  a  small  scale?  If  we  are  picked  up  by  the  police  and 
stretched  out  on  those  chilly  benches  of  theirs  at  the  police- 
station,  do  we  not  enjoy  all  the  pleasures  of  the  Morgue  ?  For 
though  we  are  not  blue  and  green,  muddy  and  swollen  corpses, 
on  the  other  hand  we  have  the  consciousness  of  the  climax. 

"  'Ah,'  he  went  on,  'this  protracted  suicide  has  nothing 
in  common  with  a  bankrupt  grocer's  demise.  Tradespeople 
have  brought  the  river  into  disrepute ;  they  fling  themselves  in 
to  soften  their  creditors'  hearts.  In  your  place  I  should  en- 
deavor to  die  gracefully;  and  if  you  wish  to  invent  a  novel 
way  of  doing  it,  by  struggling  with  life  after  this  manner,  I 
will  be  your  second.  I  am  disappointed  and  sick  of  every- 
thing. The  Alsacienne,  whom  it  was  proposed  that  I  should 
marry, had  six  toes  on  her  left  foot ;  I  cannot  possibly  live  with 
a  woman  who  has  six  toes !  It  would  get  about  to  a  certainty, 
and  then  I  should  be  ridiculous.  Her  income  was  only 
eighteen  thousand  francs ;  her  fortune  diminished  in  quantity 


152  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

as  her  toes  increased.  The  devil  take  it;  if  we  begin 
an  outrageous  sort  of  life,  we  may  come  on  some  bit  of  luck, 
perhaps !' 

"Rastignae's  eloquence  carried  me  away.  The  attractions 
of  the  plan  shone  too  temptingly,  hopes  were  kindled,  the 
poetical  aspects  of  the  matter  appealed  to  a  poet. 

"  'How  about  money  ?'  I  said. 

"  'Haven't  you  four  hundred  and  fifty  francs  ?' 

"  'Yes,  but  debts  to  my  landlady  and  the  tailor ' 

"  'You  would  pay  your  tailor  ?  You  will  never  be  any- 
thing whatever,  not  so  much  as  a  minister.' 

"'But  what  can  one  do  with  twenty  louis?' 

"  'Go  to  the  gaming-table.' 

"I  shuddered. 

"  'You  are  going  to  launch  out  into  what  I  call  S3^stematic 
dissipation/  said  he,  noticing  my  scruples,  'and  yet  you  are 
afraid  of  a  green  table-cloth.' 

"  'Listen  to  me,'  I  answered.  'I  promised  my  father  never 
to  set  foot  in  a  gaming-house.  Not  only  is  that  a  sacred 
promise,  but  I  still  feel  an  unconquerable  disgust  whenever 
I  pass  a  gambling-hell:  take  the  money  and  go  without  me. 
While  our  fortune  is  at  stake,  I  will  set  my  own  affairs 
straight,  and  then  I  will  go  to  your  lodgings  and  wait  for 
you.' 

"That  was  the  way  I  went  to  perdition.  A  young  man  has 
only  to  come  across  a  woman  who  will  not  love  him,  or  a 
woman  who  loves  him  too  well,  and  his  whole  life  becomes  a 
chaos.  Prosperity  swallows  up  our  energy  just  as  adversity 
obscures  our  virtues.  Back  once  more  in  my  Hotel  de  Saint- 
Quentin,  I  gazed  about  me  a  long  while  in  the  garret  where 
I  had  led  m}^  scholar's  temperate  life,  a  life  which  would  per- 
haps have  been  a  long  and  honorable  one,  and  that  T  ought 
not  to  have  quitted  for  the  fevered  existence  which  had  urged 
me  to  the  brink  of  a  precipice.  Pauline  surprised  me  in  this 
dejected  attitude. 

"  'Why,  what  is  tlie  matter  with  you  ?'  she  asked. 

"I  rose  and  quietly  counted  out  the  money  owing  to  her 


A  WOMAN  WITHOUT  A  HEART  153 

molher,  and  added  to  it  sufficient  to  pay  for  six  months'  rent 
in  advance.     She  watched  me  in  some  ahirm. 

"  'I  am  going  to  leave  you,  dear  Pauline.' 

"  *I  knew  it !'  she  exclaimed. 

"  'Listen,  my  child.  I  have  not  given  up  the  idea  of  com- 
ing back.  Keep  my  room  for  me  for  six  months.  If  I  do  not 
return  by  the  fifteenth  of  November,  you  will  come  into 
possession  of  my  things.  This  sealed  packet  of  manuscript  is 
the  fair  copy  of  my  great  work  on  "The  Will," '  I  went  on, 
pointing  to  a  package.  'Will  you  deposit  it  in  the  King's 
Library  ?  And  you  may  do  as  you  wish  with  everything  that 
is  left  here.' 

"Her  look  weighed  heavily  on  my  heart;  Pauline  was  an 
embodiment  of  conscience  there  before  me. 

"  'I  shall  have  no  more  lessons/  she  said,  pointing  to  the 
piano. 

"I  did  not  answer  that. 

"  'Will  you  write  to  me?' 

"  'Good-bye,  Pauline.' 

"I  gently  drew  her  towards  me,  and  set  a  kiss  on  that  in- 
nocent fair  brow  of  hers,  like  snow  that  has  not  yet  touched 
the  earth — a  father's  or  a  brother's  kiss.  She  tied.  I  would 
not  see  Madame  Gaudin,  hung  m_y  key  in  its  wonted  place, 
and  departed.  I  was  almost  at  the  end  of  the  Rue  de  Cluny 
when  I  heard  a  woman's  light  footstep  behind  me. 

"'I  have  embroidered  this  purse  for  you,'  Pauline  said; 
'will  you  refuse  even  that?' 

"By  the  light  of  the  street  lamp  1  thought  I  saw  tears  in 
Pauline's  eyes,  and  I  groaned.  Moved  perhaps  by  a  com- 
mon impulse,  we  parted  in  haste  like  people  who  fear  the  con- 
tagion of  the  plague. 

"As  I  waited  M'lth  dignified  calmness  for  Rastignac's  return, 
his  room  seemed  a  grotesque  interpretation  of  the  sort  of 
life  I  was  about  to  enter  upon.  The  clock  on  the  chimney- 
piece  was  surmounted  by  a  Venus  resting  on  her  tortoise;  a 
half-smoked  cigar  lay  in  lier  arms.  Costly  furniture  of 
various  kinds — love  tokens,  very  likely — was  scattered  about. 


154  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

Old  shoes  lay  on  a  luxurious  sofa.  The  comfortable  arm- 
chair into  which  I  had  thrown  myself  bore  as  many  scars  as  a 
veteran;  the  arms  were  gashed,  the  back  was  overlaid  with  a 
thick,  stale  deposit  of  pomade  and  hair-oil  from  the  heads 
of  all  his  visitors.  Splendor  and  squalor  were  oddly  mingled, 
on  the  walls,  the  bed,  and  everywhere.  You  might  have 
thought  of  a  Neapolitan  palace  and  the  groups  of  lazzaroni 
about  it.  It  was  the  room  of  a  gambler  or  a  mauvais  sujet, 
where  the  luxury  exists  merely  for  one  individual,  who  leads 
the  life  of  the  senses  and  does  not  trouble  himself  over  in- 
consistencies. 

"There  was  a  certain  imaginative  element  about  the  picture 
it  presented.  Life  was  suddenly  revealed  there  in  its  rags  and 
spangles  as  the  incomplete  thing  it  really  is,  of  course,  but  so 
vividly  and  picturesquely;  it  was  like  a  den  where  a  brigand 
has  heaped  up  all  the  plunder  in  which  he  delights.  Some 
pages  were  missing  from  a  copy  of  Byron's  poems :  they  had 
gone  to  light  a  fire  of  a  few  sticks  for  this  young  person,  who 
played  for  stakes  of  a  thousand  francs,  and  had  not  a  faggot ; 
who  kept  a  tilbury,  and  had  not  a  whole  shirt  to  his  back. 
Any  day  a  countess  or  an  actress  or  a  run  of  luck  at  ecarte 
might  set  him  up  with  an  outfit  worthy  of  a  king.  A  candle 
had  been  stuck  into  the  green  bronze  sheath  of  a  vesta- 
holder  ;  a  woman's  portrait  lay  yonder,  torn  out  of  its  carved 
gold  setting.  How  was  it  possible  that  a  young  man,  whose 
nature  craved  excitement,  could  renounce  a  life  so  attractive 
by  reason  of  its  contradictions;  a  life  that  afforded  all  the 
delights  of  war  in  the  midst  of  peace?  I  was  growing 
drowsy  when  Rastignac  kicked  the  door  open  and  shouted : 

"  'Victory  !     Now  we  can  take  our  time  about  dying.' 

"He  held  out  his  hat  filled  with  gold  to  me,  and  put  it 
down  on  the  table;  then  we  pranced  round'it  like  a  pair  of 
cannibals  about  to  eat  a  victim;  we  stamped,  and  danced, 
and  yelled,  and  sang;  we  gave  each  other  blows  fit  to  kill 
an  elephant,  at  sight  of  all  the  pleasures  of  the  world  contained 
in  that  hat. 

"  'Twenty-seven  thousand  francs,'  said  Rastignac,  adding  a 


A  WOMAN  WITHOUT  A  HEART  155 

few  bank-notes  to  the  pile  of  gold.  'That  would  be  enough 
for  other  folk  to  live  upon;  will  it  be  sufficient  for  us  to  die 
on?  Yes!  we  will  breathe  our  last  in  a  bath  of  gold — 
hurrah  !'  and  we  capered  afresh. 

"We  divided  the  windfall.  We  began  with  double- 
napoleons,  and  came  down  to  the  smaller  coins,  one  by  one. 
'This  for  you,  this  for  me/  we  kept  on  saying,  distilling  our 
joy  drop  by  drop. 

"  'We  won't  go  to  sleep,'  cried  Rastignac.  'Joseph !  somt 
punch !' 

"He  threw  gold  to  his  faithful  attendant. 

"  'There  is  your  share,'  he  said ;  'go  and  bury  yourself  if 
you  can.' 

"iSText  day  I  went  to  Lesage  and  chose  my  furniture,  took 
the  rooms  that  you  know  in  the  Euo  Taitbout,  and  left  the 
decoration  to  one  of  the  best  upholsterers.  I  bought  horses. 
1  plunged  into  a  vortex  of  pleasures,  at  once  hollow  and 
real.  I  went  in  for  play,  gaining  and  losing  enormous  sums, 
but  only  at  friends'  houses  and  in  ballrooms ;  never  in  gaming- 
houses, for  which  I  still  retained  the  holy  horror  of  my  early 
days.  Without  meaning  it,  I  made  some  friends,  either 
through  quarrels  or  owing  to  the  easy  confidence  established 
among  those  who  are  going  to  the  bad  together;  nothing, 
possibly,  makes  us  cling  to  one  another  so  tightly  as  our  evil 
propensities. 

"I  made  several  ventures  in  literature,  which  were  flatter- 
ingly received.  Great  men  who  followed  the  profession  of 
letters,  having  nothing  to  fear  from  me,  belauded  me,  not  so 
much  on  account  of  my  merits  as  to  cast  a  slur  on  those  of 
their  rivals. 

"I  became  a  'free-liver,'  to  make  use  of  the  picturesque 
expression  appropriated  by  the  langunge  of  excess.  I  made 
it  a  point  of  honor  not  to  be  long  about  dying,  and  that  my 
zeal  and  prowess  should  eclipse  those  displayed  by  all  others  in 
the  jolliest  company.  T  was  alwnvs  spruce  and  carefully 
dressed.  I  had  some  ro])iiia(ion  for  cleverness.  There  w;is 
no  sign  about  me  of  that  fearful  way  of  living  which  mnkes 


198  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

a  man  into  a  mere  digesting  apparatus,  a  funnel,  a  pampered 
beast. 

'^ery  soon  Debauch  rose  before  me  in  all  the  majesty  of 
its  horror,  and  I  grasped  all  that  it  meant.  Those  prudent, 
steady-going  characters  who  are  laying  down  wine  in  bottles 
for  their  heirs,  can  barely  conceive,  it  is  true,  of  so  wide  a 
theory  of  life,  nor  appreciate  its  normal  condition ;  but  when 
Vv'ill  you  instill  poetry  into  the  provincial  intellect?  Opium 
and  tea,  with  all  their  delights,  are  merely  drugs  to  folk  of 
that  calibre. 

"Is  not  the  imperfect  sybarite  to  be  met  with  even  in  Paris 
itself,  that  intellectual  metropolis?  Unfit  to  endure  the 
fatigues  of  pleasure,  this  sort  of  person,  after  a  drinking 
bout,  is  very  much  like  those  worthy  bourgeois  who  fall  foul 
of  music  after  hearing  a  new  opera  b}^  Eossini.  Does  he  not 
renounce  these  courses  in  the  same  frame  of  mind  that  leads 
an  abstemious  man  to  forswear  Euffec  pates,  because  the 
first  one,  forsooth,  gave  him  the  indigestion? 

"Debauch  is  as  surely  an  art  as  poetry,  and  is  not  for  craven 
spirits.  To  penetrate  its  mysteries  and  appreciate  its  charms, 
conscientious  application  is  required;  and  as  with  every  path 
of  knowledge,  the  way  is  thorny  and  forbidding  at  the  outset. 
The  great  pleasures  of  humanity  are  hedged  about  with 
formidable  obstacles;  not  its  single  enjoyments,  but  enjoy- 
ment as  a  system,  a  system  which  establishes  seldom  ex- 
perienced sensations  and  makes  them  habitual,  which  concen- 
■  trates  and  multiplies  them  for  us,  creating  a  dramatic  life 
within  our  life,  and  imperatively  demanding  a  prompt  and 
enormous  expenditure  of  vitality.  War,  Power,  Art,  like 
Debauch, are  all  forms  of  demoralization,  equally  remote  from 
the  faculties  of  humanity,  equally  profound,  and  all  are 
alike  difficult  of  access.  But  when  man  has  once  stormed  the 
heights  of  these  grand  mysteries,  does  he  not  walk  in  another 
world  ?  Are  not  generals,  ministers,  and  artists  carried,  more 
or  less,  towards  destruction  by  the  need  of  violent  distractions 
in  an  existence  so  remote  from  ordinary  life  as  theirs? 

"War,  after  all,  is  the  Excess  of  bloodshed,  as  the  Excess 


A  WOMAN  WITHOUT  A  HEART  157 

of  self-interest  produces  Politics.  Excesses  of  every  sort  are 
brothers.  These  social  enormities  possess  the  attraction  of 
the  abyss;  they  draw  us  towards  themselves  as  St.  Helena 
beckoned  Napoleon;  we  are  fascinated,  our  heads  swim,  we 
wish  to  sound  their  depths  though  we  cannot  account  for 
the  wish.  Perhaps  the  thought  of  Infinity  dwells  in  these 
precipices,  perhaps  they  contain  some  colossal  flattery  for 
the  soul  of  man;  for  is  he  not,  then,  wholly  absorbed  in 
himself? 

"The  wearied  artist  needs  a  complete  contrast  to  his 
paradise  of  imaginings  and  of  studious  hours;  he  either 
craves,  like  God,  the  seventh  day  of  rest,  or  with  Satan,  the 
pleasures  of  hell;  so  that  his  senses  may  have  free  play  in 
opposition  to  the  employment  of  his  faculties.  Byron  could 
never  have  taken  for  his  relaxation  to  the  independent  gen- 
tleman's delights  of  boston  and  gossip,  for  he  was  a  poet,  and 
so  must  needs  pit  Greece  against  Mahmoud. 

"In  war,  is  not  man  an  angel  of  extirpation,  a  sort  of  ex- 
ecutioner on  a  gigantic  scale?  Must  not  the  spell  be  strong 
indeed  that  makes  us  undergo  such  horrid  sufferings  so 
hostile  to  our  weak  frames,  sufferings  that  encircle  every 
strong  passion  with  a  hedge  of  thorns  ?  The  tobacco  smoker 
is  seized  with  convulsions,  and  goes  through  a  kind  of  agony 
consequent  upon  his  excesses;  but  has  he  not  borne  a  part  in 
delightful  festivals  in  realms  unknown?  Has  Europe  ever 
ceased  from  wars  ?  She  has  never  given  herself  time  to  wipe 
the  stains  from  her  feet  that  are  steeped  in  blood  to  the  ankle. 
Mankind  at  large  is  carried  away  by  fits  of  intoxication,  ae 
nature  has  its  accessions  of  love. 

"For  men  in  private  life,  for  a  vegetating  Mirabeau  dream- 
ing of  storms  in  a  time  of  calm.  Excess  comprises  all  things; 
it  perpetually  embraces  the  whole  sum  of  life ;  it  is  something 
better  still — it  is  a  duel  with  an  antagonist  of  unknown  power, 
a  monster,  terrible  at  first  sight,  that  must  be  seized  by  the 
horns,  a  labor  that  cannot  be  imagined. 

"Suppose  that  nature  has  endowed  you  with  a  feeble 
stomach  or  one  of  limited  capacity;  you  acquire-  a  mastery 


1 


153  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

over  it  and  improve  it;  you  learn  to  carry  your  liquor;  you 
grow  accustomed  to  being  drunk;  you  pass  whole  nights 
without  sleep;  at  last  you  acquire  the  constitution  of  a 
colonel  of  cuirassiers;  and  in  this  way  you  create  yourself 
afresh,  as  if  to  fly  in  the  face  of  Providence. 

"A  man  transformed  after  this  sort  is  like  a  neophyte  who 
has  at  last  become  a  veteran,  has  accustomed  his  mind  to 
shot  and  shell  and  his  legs  to  lengthy  marches.  When  the 
monster's  hold  on  him  is  still  uncertain,  and  it  is  not  yet 
known  which  will  have  the  better  of  it,  they  roll  over  and  over, 
alternately  victor  and  vanquished,  in  a  world  where  everything 
is  wonderful,  where  every  ache  of  the  soul  is  laid  to  sleep, 
where  only  the  shadows  of  ideas  are  revived. 

''This  furious  struggle  has  already  become  a  necessity  for 
US.  The  prodigal  has  struck  a  bargain  for  all  the  enjoy- 
ments with  which  life  teems  abundantly,  at  the  price  of  his 
own  death,  like  the  mythical  persons  in  legends  who  sold  them- 
selves to  the  devil  for  the  power  of  doing  evil.  For  them, 
instead  of  flowing  quietly  on  in  its  monotonous  course  in  the 
depths  of  some  counting-house  or  study,  life  is  poured  out  in 
a  boiling  torrent. 

"Excess  is,  in  short,  for  the  body  ^^hat  the  mystic's  ecstasy 
is  for  the  soul.  Intoxication  steeps  you  in  fantastic  imag- 
inings every  whit  as  strange  as  those  of  ecstatics.  You  know 
hours  as  full  of  rapture  as  a  young  girl's  dreams;  you 
travel  without  fatigue;  you  chat  pleasantly  with  your  friends ; 
words  come  to  you  with  a  whole  life  in  each,  and  fresh 
pleasures  without  regrets;  poems  are  set  forth  for  you  in  a 
few  brief  phrases.  The  coarse  animal  satisfaction,  in  which 
science  has  tried  to  find  a  soul,  is  followed  by  the  enchanted 
drowsiness  that  men  sigh  for  under  the  burden  of  consciqus- 
ness.  Is  it  not  because  they  all  feel  the  need  of  absolute  re- 
pose? Because  Excess  is  a  sort  of  toll  that  genius  pays  to 
pain? 

"Look  at  all  great  men ;  nature  made  them  pleasure- 
loving  or  base,  every  one.  Some  mocking  or  jealous  power 
corrnptod  thorn  in  oithor  sonl  or  ])ody.  so  as  to  make  all  their 
powers  futile,  and  their  efl'orts  of  no  avail. 


A  WOMAN  WITHOUT  A  HEART  159 

''All  men  and  all  things  appear  before  you  in  the  guise 
you  choose,  in  those  hours  when  wine  has  sway.  You  are 
lord  of  all  creation;  you  transform  it  at  your  pleasure.  And 
throughout  this  unceasing  delirium,  Play  may  pour,  at  your 
will,  its  molten  lead  into  your  veins. 

"Some  day  you  will  fall  into  the  monster's  power.  Then 
you  will  have,  as  I  had,  a  frenzied  awakening,  with  impotence 
sitting  by  your  pillow.  Are  you  an  old  soldier?  Phthisis 
attacks  you.  A  diplomatist?  An  aneurism  hangs  death  in 
your  heart  by  a  thread.  It  will  perhaps  be  consumption  that 
will  cry  to  me,  'Let  us  be  going !'  as  to  Eaphael  of  Urbino,  in 
old  time,  killed  by  an  excess  of  love. 

"In  this  way  I  have  existed.  I  was  launched  into  the  world 
too  early  or  too  late.  My  energy  would  have  been  dangerous 
there,  no  doubt,  if  I  had  not  squandered  it  in  such  ways  as 
these.  Was  not  the  world  rid  of  an  Alexander,  by  the  cup  of 
Hercules,  at  the  close  of  a  drinking  bout  ? 

"There  are  some,  the  sport  of  Destiny,  who  must  either  have 
heaven  or  hell,  the  hospice  of  St.  Bernard  or  riotous  excess. 
Only  just  now  I  lacked  the  heart  to  moralize  about  those 
two,"  and  he  pointed  to  Euphrasia  and  Aquilina.  "They  are 
types  of  my  own  personal  history,  images  of  my  life !  I 
could  scarcely  reproach  them;  they  stood  before  me  like 
Judges. 

"In  the  midst  of  this  drama  that  I  was  enacting,  and  while 
my  distracting  disorder  was  at  its  height,  two  crises  super- 
vened; each  brought  me  keen  and  abundant  pangs.  The 
first  came  a  few  days  after  I  had  flung  myself,  like 
Sardanapalus,  on  ray  pyre.  I  met  Foedora  under  the  peristyle 
of  the  Bouffons.     We  both  were  waiting  for  our  carriages. 

"  'Ah !  so  you  are  living  yet  ?' 

"That  was  the  meaning  of  her  smile,  and  probably  of  the 
spiteful  words  she  murmured  in  the  ear  of  her  cicisbeo,  telling 
him  my  history  no  doubt,  rating  mine  as  a  common  love  affair. 
She  was  deceived,  yet  she  was  applauding  her  perspicacity. 
Oh,  that  I  should  be  dying  for  her,  must  still  adore  her,  al- 
ways see  her  through  my  potations,  see  her  still  when  I  was 


160  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

overcome  with  wine,  or  in  the  arms  of  courtesans ;  and  know 
that  I  was  a  target  for  her  scornful  jests !  Oh,  that  I  should 
be  unable  to  tear  the  love  of  her  out  of  my  breast  and  to  flmg 
it  at  her  feet ! 

"Well,  I  quickly  exhausted  my  funds,  but  owing  to  those 
three  years  of  discipline,  I  enjoyed  the  most  robust  healtii, 
and  on  the  day  that  1  found  myself  without  a  penny  I  felt 
remarkabl}'  well.  In  order  to  carry  on  the  process  of  dying, 
I  signed  bills  at  short  dates,  and  the  day  came  when  they  must 
be  met.  Painful  excitements !  but  how  they  quicken  the 
pulses  of  youth !  I  was  not  prematurely  aged ;  I  was  young 
yet,  and  full  of  vigor  and  life. 

"At  my  first  debt  all  my  virtues  came  to  life;  slowly  and 
despairingly  they  seemed  to  pace  towards  me;  but  I  could 
compound  with  them — they  were  like  aged  aunts  that  be- 
gin with  a  scolding  and  end  by  bestowing  tears  and  money 
upon  you. 

"Imagination  was  less  yielding;  I  saw  my  name  bandied 
about  through  every  city  in  Europe.  'One's  name  is  one- 
self,' says  Eusebe  Salverte.  After  these  excursions  I  re- 
turned to  the  room  I  had  never  quitted,  like  a  doppel- 
ganger  in  a  German  tale,  and  came  to  myself  with  a  start. 

"I  used  to  see  with  indifference  a  banker's  messenger  going 
on  his  errands  through  the  streets  of  Paris,  like  a  commercial 
Nemesis,  wearing  his  master's  livery — a  gray  coat  and  a  silver 
badge;  but  now  I  hated  the  species  in  advance.  One  of 
them  came  one  morning  to  ask  me  to  meet  some  eleven  bills 
that  I  had  scrawled  my  name  upon.  My  signature  was 
worth  three  thousand  francs !  Taking  me  altogether,  I  my- 
self was  not  worth  that  amount.  Sheriff's  deputies  rose  up 
before  me,  turning  their  callous  faces  upon  my  despair,  as 
the  hangman  regards  the  criminal  to  whom  he  says,  'It  has 
just  struck  half -past  three.'  I  was  in  the  power  of  their 
clerks;  they  could  scribble  my  name,  drag  it  through  the 
mire,  and  jeer  at  it.  I  was  a  defaulter.  Has  a  debtor  any 
right  to  himself?  Could  not  other  men  call  me  to  account 
for  my  way  of  Jiving?     Why  had  I  eaten  puddings  a  la 


A  WOMAN  WITHOUT  A  HEART  161 

chipolata?  Why  had  I  iced  my  wine?  Why  had  I  slept, 
or  walked,  or  thought,  or  amused  myself  when  I  had  not  paid 
them  ? 

"At  any  moment,  in  the  middle  of  a  poem,  during  some 
train  of  thought,  or  while  I  was  gaily  breakfasting  in  the 
pleasant  company  of  my  friends,  1  might  look  to  :;ee  a  gentle- 
man enter  in  a  coat  of  chestnut-brown,  with  a  shabby  hat  in 
his  hand.  This  gentleman's  appearance  would  signify  my 
debt,  the  bill  I  had  drawn;  the  spectre  would  compel  me  to 
leave  the  table  to  speak  to  him,  blight  my  spirits,  despoil  me 
of  my  cheerfulness,  of  my  mistress,  of  all  I  possessed,  down 
to  my  very  bedstead. 

"Remorse  itself  is  more  easily  endured.  Remorse  does  not 
drive  us  into  the  street  nor  into  the  prison  of  Sainte-Pelagie ; 
it  does  not  force  us  into  the  detestable  sink  of  vice.  Re- 
morse only  brings  us  to  the  scaffold,  where  the  executioner  in- 
vests us  with  a  certain  dignity ;  as  we  pay  the  extreme  penalty, 
everybody  believes  in  our  innocence ;  but  people  will  not  credit 
a  penniless  prodigal  with  a  single  virtue. 

"My  debts  had  other  incarnations.  There  is  the  kind  that 
goes  about  on  two  feet,  in  a  green  cloth  coat,  and  blue 
spectacles,  carrying  umbrellas  of  various  hues ;  you  come  face 
to  face  with  him  at  the  corner  of  some  street,  in  the  midst 
of  your  mirth.  These  have  the  detestable  prerogative  of 
saying,  *M.  de  Valentin  owes  me  something,  and  does  not 
pay.  I  have  a  hold  on  him.  He  had  better  not  show  me  any 
offensive  airs !'  You  must  bow  to  3-our  creditors,  and  more- 
over bow  politely.  'When  are  you  going  to  pay  me  ?'  say  they. 
And  you  must  lie,  and  beg  money  of  another  man,  and  cringe 
to  a  fool  seated  on  his  strong-box,  and  receive  sour  looks  in 
return  from  these  horse-leeches ;  a  blow  would  be  less  hate- 
ful ;  you  must  put  up  with  their  crass  ignorance  and  calculat- 
ing morality.  A  debt  is  a  feat  of  the  imaginative  that  they 
cannot  appreciate.  A  borrower  is  often  carried  away  and  over- 
mastered by  generous  impulses;  nothing  great,  nothing 
magnanimous  can  move  or  dominate  those  who  live  for  money, 


162  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

and  recognize  nothing  but  money.  I  myself  held  money  in 
abhorrence. 

"Or  a  bill  niay  undergo  a  final  transformation  into  some 
meritorious  old  man  with  a  family  dependent  upon  him.  My 
creditor  might  be  a  living  picture  for  Greuze,  a  paralytic 
with  his  children  round  him,  a  soldier's  widow,  holding  out 
beseeching  hands  to  me.  Terrible  creditors  are  these  with 
whom  we  are  forced  to  sympathize,  and  when  their  claims 
are  satisfied  we  owe  them  a  further  debt  of  assistance. 

"The  night  before  the  bills  fell  due,  I  lay  down  with  the 
false  calm  of  those  who  sleep  before  their  approaching  execu- 
tion, or  with  a  duel  in  prospect,  rocked  as  they  are  by  delu- 
sive hopes.  But  when  I  woke,  when  I  was  cool  and  collected, 
when  I  found  myself  imprisoned  in  a  banker's  portfolio,  and 
floundering  in  statements  covered  with  red  inlc — then  my 
debts  sprang  up  everywhere,  like  grasshoppers,  before  my  eyes. 
There  were  my  debts,  my  clock,  my  armchairs;  my  debts  were 
inlaid  in  the  very  furniture  which  I  liked  best  to  use.  These 
gentle  inanimate  slaves  were  to  fall  a  prey  to  the  harpies  of 
the  Chatelet,  were  to  be  carried  off  by  the  broker's  men,  and 
brutally  thrown  on  the  market.  Ah,  my  property  was  a  part 
of  myself ! 

"The  sound  of  the  door-bell  rang  through  my  heart;  while 
it  seemed  to  strike  at  me,  where  kings  should  be  struck  at 
— in  the  head.  Mine  was  a  martyrdom,  without  heaven  for 
its  reward.  For  a  magnanimous  nature,  debt  is  a  hell,  and  a 
hell,  moreover,  with  sheriff's  oftlcers  and  brokers  in  it.  An 
undischarged  debt  is  something  mean  and  sordid;  it  is  a 
beginning  of  knavery  ;  it  is  something  worse,  it  is  a  lie ;  it  pre- 
pares the  way  for  crime,  and  brings  together  the  planks  for 
the  scaffold.  My  bills  were  protested.  Three  days  after- 
wards I  met  them,  and  this  is  how  it  happened. 

"A  speculator  came,  offering  to  buy  the  island  in  the  Loire 
belonging  to  me,  where  my  mother  lay  buried.  I  closed 
with  him.  When  T  went  to  his  solicitor  to  sign  the  deeds,  I 
felt  a  cavern-like  chill  in  the  dark  office  that  made  me 
shudder;  it  was  the  same  cold  dampness  that  bad  laid  hold 


A  WOMAN  WITHOUT  A  HEART  163 

upon  me  at  the  brink  of  my  father's  grave.  I  looked  upon 
this  as  an  evil  omen.  I  seemed  to  see  the  shade  of  my  mother, 
and  to  hear  her  voice.  What  power  was  it  that  made  my  own 
name  ring  vaguely  in  my  ears,  in  spite  of  the  clamor  of 
bells? 

"The  money  paid  down  for  my  island,  when  all  my  debts 
were  discharged,  left  me  in  possession  of  two  thousand  francs. 
I  could  now  have  returned  to  a  scholar's  tranciuil  life,  it  is 
true ;  I  could  have  gone  back  to  my  garret  after  having  gained 
an  experience  of  life,  with  my  head  filled  with  the  results  of 
extensive  observation,  and  with  a  certain  sort  of  reputation 
attaching  to  me.  But  Foedora's  hold  upon  her  victim  was 
not  relaxed.  We  often  met.  I  compelled  her  admirers  to 
sound  my  name  in  her  ears,  by  dint  of  astonishing  them  with 
my  cleverness  and  success,  with  my  horses  and  equipages.  It 
all  found  her  impassive  and  uninterested;  so  did  an  ugly 
phrase  of  Eastignac's,  'He  is  killing  himself  for  you.' 

"I  charged  the  world  at  large  with  my  revenge,  but  I  was 
not  happy.  While  I  was  fathoming  the  miry  depths  of  life, 
I  only  recognized  the  more  keenly  at  all  times  the  happiness 
of  reciprocal  affection;  it  -was  a  shadow  that  I  followed 
through  all  that  befell  me  in  my  extravagance,  and  in  my 
wildest  moments.  It  was  my  misfortune  to  be  deceived  in 
my  fairest  beliefs,  to  be  punished  by  ingratitude  for  benefiting 
others,  and  to  receive  uncounted  pleasures  as  the  reward 
of  my  errors — a  sinister  doctrine,  but  a  true  one  for  the 
prodigal ! 

"The  contagious  leprosy  of  Fcedora's  vanity  had  taken  hold 
of  me  at  last.  I  probed  my  soul,  and  found  it  cankered  and 
rotten.  I  bore  the  marks  of  the  devil's  claw  upon  my  fore- 
head. It  was  impossible  to  me  thenceforward  to  do  without 
the  incessant  agitation  of  a  life  fraught  with  danger  at  every 
moment,  or  to  dispense  with  the  execrable  refinements  of 
luxury.  If  I  had  possessed  millions,  I  should  still  have 
gambled,  reveled,  and  racketed  about.  I  wished  never  to  be 
alone  with  myself,  and  T  must  have  false  friends  and 
courtesans,  wine  and  good  cheer  to  distract  me.     The  tics  that 


164  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

attach  a  man  to  family  life  had  been  permanently  broken  for 
me.  I  had  become  a  galley-slave  of  pleasure,  and  must  ac- 
complish my  destiny  of  suicide.  During  the  last  days  of  ray 
prosperity,  I  spent  every  night  in  the  most  incredible  ex- 
cesses ;  but  every  morning  death  cast  me  back  upon  life  again. 
I  would  have  taken  a  conflagration  with  as  little  concern  as 
any  man  with  a  life  annuity.  However,  I  at  last  found  myself 
alone  with  a  twenty-franc  piece;  I  bethought  me  then  of 
Rastignac's  luck 

"Eh,  eh ! "  Raphael  exclaimed,  interrupting  himself, 

as  he  remembered  the  talisman  and  drew  it  from  his  pocket. 
Perhaps  he  was  wearied  by  the  long  day's  strain,  and  had  no 
more  strength  left  wherewith  to  pilot  his  head  through  the 
seas  of  wine  and  punch ;  or  perhaps,  exasperated  by  this  sym- 
bol of  his  own  existence,  the  torrent  of  his  own  eloquence 
gradually  overwhelmed  him.  Raphael  became  excited  and 
elated  and  like  one  completely  deprived  of  reason. 

"The  devil  take  death !"  he  shouted,  brandishing  the  skin ; 
"I  mean  to  live !  I  am  rich,  I  have  every  virtue ;  nothing 
will  withstand  me.  Who  would  not  be  generoUiS,  when  every- 
thing is  in  his  power?  Aha!  •  Aha!  I  wished  for  two 
hundred  thousand  livres  a  year,  and  I  shall  have  them.  Bow 
down  before  me,  all  of  you,  wallowing  on  the  carpets  like 
swine  in  the  mire !  You  all  belong  to  me — a  precious  prop- 
erty truly !  I  am  rich ;  I  could  buy  you  all,  even  the  deputy 
snoring  over  there.  Scum  of  society,  give  me  your  benedic- 
tion !     I  am  the  Pope." 

Raphael's  vociferations  had  been  hitherto  drowned  by  a 
thorough-bass  of  snores,  but  now  they  became  suddenly  audi- 
ble. Most  of  the  sleepers  started  up  with  a  cry,  saw  the 
cause  of  the  disturbance  on  his  feet,  tottering  uncertainly, 
and  cursed  him  in  concert  for  a  drunken  brawler. 

"Silence !"  shouted  Raphael.  "Back  to  your  kennels,  you 
dogs!  fimile,  I  havp  riches,  I  will  give  you  Havana 
cigars !" 

"I  am  listening,"  the  poet  replied.  "Death  or  Foedora ! 
On  with  you  !    That  silky  Foedora  deceived  you.    Women  are 


A  WOMAN  WITHOUT  A  HEART  16B 

all  daughters  of  Eve.  There  is  notliing  dramatic  about  that 
rigmarole  of  yours." 

"Ah,  but  you  were  sleeping,  slyboots." 

"No— 'Death  or  Fccdora  !'— I  have  it !" 

"Wake  up !"  Kaphael  shouted,  beating  fimile  with  the 
piece  of  shagreen  as  if  he  meant  to  draw  electric  fluid  out 
of  it. 

"Tonnerre!"  said  fimile,  springing  up  and  flinging  his 
arms  round  Eaphael;  "my  friend,  remember  the  sort  of  wo- 
men you  are  with." 

"I  am  a  millionaire !" 

"If  you  are  not  a  millionaire,  you  are  most  certainly 
drunk." 

"Drunk  with  power.  I  can  kill  you ! — Silence !  I  am 
Nero  !     I  am  Nebuchadnezzar !" 

"But,  Eaphael,  we  are  in  queer  company,  and  you  ought 
to  keep  quiet  for  the  sake  of  your  own  dignity." 

"My  life  has  been  silent  too  long.  I  mean  to  have  my 
revenge  now  on  the  world  at  large.  I  will  not  amuse  myself 
by  squandering  paltry  five-franc  pieces ;  I  will  reproduce  and 
sum  up  my  epoch  by  absorbing  human  lives,  human  minds, 
and  human  souls.  There  are  the  treasures  of  pestilence — 
that  is  no  paltry  kind  of  wealth,  is  it?  I  will  wrestle  with 
fevers — yellow,  blue,  or  green — with  whole  armies,  with 
gibbets.  I  can  possess  Foedora — Yet  no,  I  do  not  want 
Fcfidora;  she  is  a  disease;  I  am  dying  of  Foedora.  I  want 
to  forget  Foedora." 

"If  you  keep  on  calling  out  like  this,  I  shall  take  you  into 
the  dining-room." 

"Do  you  see  this  skin?  It  is  Solomon's  will.  Solomon 
belongs  to  me — a  little  varlet  of  a  king!  Arabia  is  mine, 
Arabia  Petra?a  to  boot;  and  the  universe,  and  you  too,  if  I 
choose.  If  I  choose — Ah!  be  careful.  I  can  buy  up  all 
your  journalist's  shop ;  you  shall  be  my  valet.  You  shall  be 
my  valet,  you  shall  manage  my  newspaper.  Valet !  valet, 
that  is  to  say,  free  from  aches  and  pains,  because  he  has  no 
brains." 

VOL.  I  — 16 


166  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

At  the  word,  fimile  carried  Raphael  off  into  the  dining- 
room. 

"All  right,"  he  remarked ;  "yes,  my  friend,  I  am  your  valet. 
But  you  are  about  to  be  editor-in-chief  of  a  newspaper;  so 
be  quiet,  and  behave  properly,  for  my  sake.  Have  you  no 
regard  for  me?" 

"Regard  for  you !  You  shall  have  Havana  cigars,  with 
this  bit  of  shagreen:  always  with  this  skin,  this  supreme  bit 
of  shagreen.  It  is  a  cure  for  corns,  an  efficacious  remedy. 
Do  you  suffer?     I  will  remove  them." 

"Never  have  I  known  you  so  senseless " 

"Senseless,  my  friend?  Not  at  all.  This  skin  contracts 
whenever  I  form  a  wish — 'tis  a  paradox.  There  is  a  Brahmin 
underneath  it !  The  Brahmin  must  be  a  droll  fellow,  for  our 
desires,  look  you,  are  bound  to  expand " 

"Yes,  yes " 

"I  tell  you " 


"Yes,  yes,  very  true,  I  am  quite  of  your  opinion — our  de- 
sires expand " 

"The  skin,  I  tell  you." 

*^es." 

'^ou  don't  believe  me.  I  know  you,  my  friend;  you  are 
as  full  of  lies  as  a  new-made  king." 

"How  can  you  expect  me  to  follow  your  drunken  maunder- 
ings?" 

"I  will  bet  you  I  can  prove  it.     Let  us  measure  it " 

"Goodness !  he  will  never  get  off  to  sleep,"  exclaimed 
ifimile,  as  he  watched  Raphael  rummaging  busily  in  the 
dining-room. 

Thanks  to  the  peculiar  clearness  with  which  external  ob- 
jects are  sometimes  projected  on  an  inebriated  brain,  in  sharp 
contrast  to  its  own  obscure  imaginings,  Valentin  found  an 
inkstand  and  a  table-napkin,  with  the  quickness  of  a  monkey, 
repeating  all  the  time: 

"Let  us  measure  it !     Let  us  measure  it !" 

"All  right,"  said  fimile ;  "let  us  measure  it !" 

The  two  friends  spread  out  the  table-napkin  and  laid  t;:c 


A  WOMAN  WITHOUT  A  HEART         167 

Magic  Skin  upon  it.  As  lilmile's  hand  appeared  to  bo 
steadier  than  Eaphael's,  he  drew  a  line  with  pen  and  ink 
round  the  talisman,  while  his  friend  said : 

"I  wished  for  an  income  of  two  hundred  thousand  livres, 
didn't  I  ?  Well,  when  that  comes,  you  will  observe  a  mighty 
diminution  of  my  chagrin." 

"Yes — now  go  to  sleep.  Shall  I  make  you  comfortable  on 
that  sofa?     Now  then,  are  you  all  right?" 

"Yes,  my  nursling  of  the  press.  You  shall  amuse  me; 
you  shall  drive  the  flies  away  from  me.  The  friend  of 
adversity  should  be  the  friend  of  prosperity.  So  I  will  give 
you  some  Hava — ^na — cig " 

"Come,  now,  sleep.  Sleep  off  your  gold,  you  mill- 
ionaire !" 

"You  !  sleep  off  your  paragraphs  !  Good-night !  Say 
good-night  to  Nebuchadnezzar  ! — Love  !  Wine !  France ! — 
glory  and  tr — treas " 

Very  soon  the  snorings  of  the  two  friends  were  added  to 
the  music  with  which  the  rooms  resounded — an  ineffectual 
concert!  The  lights  went  out  one  by  one,  their  crystal 
sconces  cracking  in  the  final  flare.  Night  threw  dark 
shadows  over  this  prolonged  revelry,  in  which  Eaphael's  nar- 
rative had  been  a  second  orgy  of  speech,  of  words  without 
ideas,  of  ideas  for  which  words  had  often  been  lacking. 

Towards  noon,  next  day,  the  fair  Aquilina  bestirred  her- 
self. She  yawned  wearily.  She  had  slept  with  her  head 
upon  a  painted  velvet  footstool,  and  her  cheeks  were  mottled 
over  by  contact  with  the  surface.  Her  movement  awoke 
Euphrasia,  who  suddenly  sprang  up  with  a  hoarse  cry ;  her 
pretty  face,  that  had  been  so  fresh  and  fair  in  the  evening, 
was  sallow  now  and  pallid ;  she  looked  like  a  candidate  for 
the  hospital.  The  rest  awoke  also  by  degrees,  with  portentous 
groanings,  to  feel  themselves  over  in  every  stiffened  limb, 
and  to  experience  the  infinite  varieties  of  weariness  that 
weighed  upon  them. 

A  servant  came  in  to  throw  back  the  shutters  and  open  the 
windows.     There  they  all  stood,  brought  back  to  conscious 


168  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

ness  by  the  warm  rays  of  sunlight  that  shone  upon  the 
sleepers'  heads.  Their  movements  during  slumber  had  dis- 
ordered the  elaborately  arranged  hair  and  toilettes  of  the 
women.  They  presented  a  ghastly  spectacle  in  the  bright 
daylight.  Their  hair  fell  ungracefully  about  them;  their 
eyes,  lately  so  brilliant,  were  heavy  and  dim;  the  expression 
of  their  faces  was  entirely  changed.  The  sickly  hues,  which 
daylight  brings  out  so  strongly,  were  frightful.  An  olive 
tint  had  crept  over  the  lymphatic  faces,  so  fair  and  soft  when 
in  repose;  the  dainty  red  lips  were  grown  pale  and  dry,  and 
bore  tokens  of  the  degradation  of  excess.  Each  disowned  his 
mistress  of  the  night  before ;  the  women  looked  wan  and  dis- 
colored, like  flowers  trampled  under  foot  by  a  passing 
procession. 

The  men  who  scorned  them  looked  even  more  horrible. 
Those  human  faces  would  have  made  you  shudder.  The  hollow 
ej'es  with  the  dark  circles  round  them  seemed  to  see  nothing; 
they  were  dull  with  wine  and  stupefied  with  heavy  slumbers 
that  had  been  exhausting  rather  than  refreshing.  There  was 
an  indescribable  ferocious  and  stolid  bestiality  about  these 
haggard  faces,  where  bare  physical  appetite  appeared  shorn 
of  all  the  poetical  illusion  with  which  the  intellect  invests 
it.  Even  these  fearless  champions,  accustomed  to  measure 
themselves  with  excess,  were  struck  with  horror  at  this 
awakening  of  vice,  stripped  of  its  disguises,  at  being  con- 
fronted thus  with  sin,  the  skeleton  in  rags,  lifeless  and  hollow, 
bereft  of  the  sophistries  of  the  intellect  and  the  enchant- 
ments of  luxury.  Artists  and  courtesans  scrutinized  in 
silence  and  with  haggard  glances  the  surrounding  disorder, 
the  rooms  where  everything  had  been  laid  waste,  at  the  havoc 
wrought  by  heated  passions. 

Demoniac  laughter  broke  out  when  Taillcfer,  catching  the 
smothered  murmurs  of  his  guests,  tried  to  greet  them  with 
a  grin.  His  darkly  flushed,  perspiring  countenance  loomed 
upon  this  pandemonium,  like  the  image  of  a  crime  that 
knows  no  remorse  (see  L'Auherge  rouge).  The  picture  was 
complete.     A  picture  of  a  foul  life  in  the  midst  of  luxury, 


A  WOMAN  WITHOUT  A  HEART  169 

a  hideous  mixture  of  the  pomp  and  squalor  of  humanity; 
an  awakening  after  the  frenzy  of  Debauch  has  crushed  and 
squeezed  all  the  fruits  of  life  in  her  strong  hands,  till  nothing 
but  unsightly  refuse  is  left  to  her,  and  lies  in  which  she  be- 
lieves no  longer.  You  might  have  thought  of  Death  gloating 
over  a  family  stricken  with  the  plague. 

The  sweet  scents  and  dazzling  lights,  the  mirth  and  the 
excitement  were  all  no  more ;  disgust  with  its  nauseous  sensa- 
tions and  searching  philosophy  was  there  instead.  The  sun 
shone  in  like  truth,  the  pure  outer  air  was  like  virtue;  in 
contrast  with  the  heated  atmosphere,  heavy  with  the  fumes 
of  the  previous  night  of  revelry. 

Accustomed  as  they  were  to  their  life,  many  of  the  girls 
thought  of  other  days  and  other  wakings ;  pure  and  innocent 
days  when  they  looked  out  and  saw  the  roses  and  honey- 
suckle about  the  casement,  and  the  fresh  countryside  without 
enraptured  by  the  glad  music  of  the  skylark;  while  earth 
lay  in  mists,  lighted  by  the  dawn,  and  in  all  the  glittering 
radiance  of  dew.  Others  imagined  the  family  breakfast,  the 
father  and  children  round  the  table,  the  innocent  laughter, 
the  unspeakable  charm  that  pervaded  it  all,  the  simple  hearts 
and  their  meal  as  simple. 

An  artist  mused  upon  his  quiet  studio,  on  his  statue  in  its 
severe  beauty,  and  the  graceful  model  who  was  waiting  for 
him.  A  young  man  recollected  a  lawsuit  on  which  the 
fortunes  of  a  family  hung,  and  an  important  transaction  that 
needed  his  presence.  The  scholar  regretted  his  study  and 
that  noble  work  that  called  for  him.  Nearly  everybody  was 
sorry  for  himself,  fimile  appeared  just  then  as  smiling, 
blooming,  and  fresh  as  the  smartest  assistant  in  a  fashionable 
shop. 

"You  are  all  as  ugly  as  bailiffs.  You  won't  be  fit  for  any- 
thing to-day,  so  this  day  is  lost,  and  I  vote  for  breakfast." 

At  this  Taillefer  went  out  to  give  some  orders.  The  wo- 
men went  languidly  up  to  the  mirrors  to  set  their  toilettes  in 
order.  Each  one  shook  herself.  The  wilder  sort  lectured 
the  steadier  ones.     The  courtesans  made  fun  of  those  who 


170  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

looked  unable  to  continue  the  boisterous  festivity;  but  these 
wan  forms  revived  all  at  once,  stood  in  groups,  and  talked 
and  smiled.  Some  servants  quickl}'  and  adroitly  set  the 
furniture  and  everytliing  else  in  its  place,  and  a  magnificent 
breakfast  was  got  ready. 

The  guests  hurried  into  the  dining-room.  Everything 
there  bpre  indelible  marks  of  yesterday's  excess,  it  is  true, 
but  there  were  at  any  rate  some  traces  of  ordinary,  rational 
existence,  such  traces  as  may  be  found  in  a  sick  man's  dying 
struggles.  And  so  the  revelry  was  laid  away  and  buried,  like 
carnival  of  a  Shrove  Tuesday,  by  masks  wearied  out  with 
dancing,  drunk  with  drunkenness,  and  quite  ready  to  be  per- 
suaded of  the  pleasures  of  lassitude,  lest  they  should,  be 
forced  to  admit  their  own  exhaustion. 

As  soon  as  these  bold  spirits  surrounded  the  capitalist's 
breakfast-table,  Cardot  appeared.  He  had  left  the  rest  to 
make  a  night  of  it  after  the  dinner,  and  finished  the  evening 
after  his  own  fashion  in  the  retirement  of  domestic  life. 
Just  now  a  sweet  smile  wandered  over  his  features.  He 
seemed  to  have  a  presentiment  that  tbere  would  be  some  in- 
heritance to  sample  and  divide,  involving  inventories  and  en- 
grossing; an  inheritance  rich  in  fees  and  deeds  to  draw  up, 
and  something  as  juicy  as  the  trembling  fillet  of  beef  in  which 
their  host  had  just  plunged  his  knife. 

"Oh,  ho !  we  are  to  have  breakfast  in  the  presence  of  a 
notary,"  cried  Cursy. 

"You  have  come  here  just  at  the  right  time,"  said  the 
banker,  indicating  the  breakfast;  "3'ou  can  jot  do^vn  the 
numbers,  and  initial  off  all  the  dishes." 

"There  is  no  will  to  make  here,  but  contracts  of  marriage 
there  may  be,  perhaps,"  said  the  scholar,  who  had  made  a 
satisfactory  arrangement  for  the  first  time  in  twelve 
months. 

"Oh !   Oh  r 

"Ah !     Ah  !" 

"One  moment,"  cried  Cardot,  fairly  deafened  by  a  chorus 
of  wretched   jokes.     "I   came   here   on   serious  business.     I 


A  WOMAN  WITHOUT  A  HEART  171 

am  bringing  six  millions  for  one  of  you."  (Dead  silence.) 
"]\Ionsieur/'  he  went  on,  turning  to  Eaphael,  who  at  the 
inonient  was  unceremoniously  wiping  his  eyes  on  a  corner  of 
the  table-napkin,  "was  not  your  mother  a  Mile.  O'Flaharty  ?" 
"Yes,"  said  Eaphael  mechanically  enough;  "Barbara 
Marie." 

"Have  you  your  certificate  of  birth  about  you,"  Cardot  went 
on,  "and  Mme.  de  Valentin's  as  well?" 
"I  believe  so." 

"Very  well  then,  monsieur;  you  are  the  sole  heir  of  Major 
O'Flaharty,  who  died  in  August  1828  at  Calcutta." 
"An  incalcuUahle  fortune,"  said  the  critic. 
"The  Major  having  bequeathed  several  amounts  to  public 
institutions  in  his  will,  the  French  Government  sent  in  a 
claim  for  the  remainder  to  the  East  India  Company,"  the 
notary  continued.  "The  estate  is  clear  and  ready  to  be 
transferred  at  this  moment.  I  have  been  looking  in  vain  for 
the  heirs  and  assigns  of  Mile.  Barbara  Marie  O'Flaharty  foi 

a  fortnight  past,  when  yesterday  at  dinner " 

Just  then  Eaphael  suddenly  staggered  to  his  feet ;  he  looked 
like  a  man  who  has  just  received  a  blow.  Acclamation  took 
the  form  of  silence,  for  stifled  envy  had  been  the  first  feeling 
in  every  breast,  and  all  eyes  devoured  him  like  flames.  Then 
a  murmur  rose,  and  grew  like  the  voice  of  a  discontented 
audience,  or  the  first  mutterings  of  a  riot,  as  everybody  made 
some  comment  on  tliis  news  of  great  wealth  brought  by  the 
notary. 

This  abrupt  subservience  of  fate  brought  Eaphael 
thoroughly  to  his  senses.  He  immediately  spread  out  the 
table-napkin  with  which  he  had  lately  taken  the  measure  of 
the  piece  of  shagreen.  He  heeded  nothing  as  he  laid  the 
talisman  upon  it,  and  shuddered  involuntarily  at  the  sight  of 
a  slight  difference  between  the  present  size  of  the  skin  and 
the  outline  traced  u])on  the  linen. 

"Why,  what  is  the  matter  with  him?"  Taillefer  cried. 
"He  comes  by  his  fortune  very  cheaply." 

" 8outiens-le  Cliatillon!"  said  Bixiou  to  fimile.  "The  joy 
will  kill  him." 


172  THE  MAGIC  SRIN 

A  ghastly  white  hue  overspread  every  line  of  the  wan 
features  of  the  heir-at-law.  His  face  was  drawn,  every  out- 
line grew  haggard;  the  hollows  in  his  livid  countenance  grew 
deeper,  and  his  eyes  were  tixed  and  staring.  He  was  facing 
Death. 

The  opulent  banker,  surrounded  by  faded  women,  and 
faces  with  satiety  written  on  them,  the  enjoyment  that  had 
reached  the  pitch  of  agony,  was  a  living  illustration  of  his 
own  life. 

Eaphael  looked  thrice  at  the  talisman,  which  lay  passively 
within  the  merciless  outlines  on  the  table-napkin;  he  tried 
not  to  believe  it,  but  his  incredulity  vanished  utterly  before 
the  light  of  an  inner  presentiment.  The  whole  world  was 
his;  he  could  have  all  things,  but  the  will  to  possess  them 
was  utterly  extinct.  Like  a  traveler  in  the  midst  of  the 
desert,  with  but  a  little  water  left  to  quench  his  thirst,  he 
must  measure  his  life  by  the  draughts  he  took  of  it.  He  saw 
what  every  desire  of  his  must  cost  him  in  the  days  of  his 
life.  He  believed  in  the  powers  of  the  Magic  Skin  at 
last ;  he  listened  to  every  breath  he  drew ;  he  felt  ill  already ; 
he  asked  himself: 

"Am  I  not  consumptive?  Did  not  my  mother  die  of  a 
lung  complaint?" 

"Aha,  Raphael !  what  fun  you  will  have !  What  will  you 
give  me?"  asked  Aquilina. 

"Here's  to  the  death  of  his  uncle,  Major  O'Flaharty! 
There  is  a  man  for  you." 

"He  will  be  a  peer  of  France." 

"Pooh !  what  is  a  peer  of  France  since  July  ?"  said  the 
amateur  critic. 

"Are  you  going  to  take  a  box  at  the  BoufFons?" 

"You  are  going  to  treat  us  all,  I  hope?"  put  in  Bixiou. 

"A  man  of  his  sort  will  be  sure  to  do  things  in  style,"  said 
fimile. 

The  hurrah  set  up  by  tlie  jovial  assembly  rang  in  Valentin's 
ears,  but  he  could  not  gras])  the  sense  of  a  single  word. 
Vague  thoughts  crossed  him  of  the  Breton  peasant's  life  of 


A  WOMAN  WITHOUT  A  HEART  173 

mechanical  labor,  without  a  wish  of  any  kind;  he  pictured 
him  burdened  with  a  family,  tilling  the  soil,  living  on  buck- 
wheat meal,  drinking  cider  out  of  a  pitcher,  believing  in  the 
Virgin  and  the  King,  taking  the  sacrament  at  Piaster,  danc- 
ing of  a  Sunday  on  the  green  sward,  and  understanding  never 
a  word  of  the  rector's  sermon.  The  actual  scene  that  lay 
before  him,  the  gilded  furniture,  the  courtesans,  the  feast 
itself,  and  the  surrounding  splendors,  seemed  to  catch  him  by 
the  throat,  and  made  him  cough. 

"Do  you  wish  for  some  asparagus  ?"  the  banker  cried . 

''I  wish  for  nothing!"  thundered  Haphael. 

"Bravo !"  Taillefer  exclaimed ;  'you  understand  your  posi- 
tion; a  fortune  confers  the  privilege  of  being  impertinent. 
You  are  one  of  us.  Gentlemen,  let  us  drink  to  the  might  of 
gold  !  M.  Valentin  here,  six  times  a  millionaire,  has  become 
a  power.  He  is  a  king,  like  all  the  rich ;  everything  is  at  his 
disposal,  everything  lies  under  his  feet.  From  this  time  forth 
the  axiom  that  ^all  Frenchmen  are  alike  in  the  eyes  of  the 
law,'  is  for  him  a  fib  at  the  head  of  the  Constitutional 
Charter.  He  is  not  going  to  obey  the  law — the  law  is  going 
to  obey  him.  There  are  neither  scaffolds  nor  executioners 
for  millionaires." 

"Yes,  there  are,"  said  Eaphael;  "they  are  their  own  ex- 
ecutioners." 

"Here  is  another  victim  of  prejudices  !"  cried  the  banker. 

"Let  us  drink  !"  Raphael  said,  putting  the  talisman  into  his 
pocket. 

"What  are  you  doing  ?"  said  fimile,  checking  his  movement. 
"Gentlemen,"  he  added,  addressing  the  company,  who  were 
rather  taken  aback  by  Eaj^hael's  behavior,  "you  must  know 
that  our  friend  Valentin  here — what  am  I  saying? — I  mean 
my  Lord  Marquis  de  Valentin — is  in  the  possession  of  a  secret 
for  obtaining  wealth.  His  wishes  are  fulfilled  as  soon  as  he 
knows  them.  He  will  make  us  all  rich  together,  or  he  is  a 
flunkey,  and  devoid  of  all  decent  feeling." 

"Oh,  Raphael  dear,  T  should  like  a  set  of  pearl  orna- 
ments !"  Euphrasia  exclaimed. 


174  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

"If  he  has  any  gratitude  in  him,  he  will  give  me  a  couple 
of  carriages  with  fast  steppers,"  said  Aquilina. 

"Wish  for  a  hundred  thousand  a  year  for  me  V 

"Indian  shawls  !'* 

"Pay  my  debts !" 

"'Send  an  apoplexy  to  my  uncle,  the  old  stick !'' 

"Ten  thousand  a  year  in  the  funds,  and  I'll  cry  quits  w:!'."> 
you,  Raphael !" 

"Deeds  of  gift  and  no  mistake,"  Avas  the  notary's  com- 
ment. 

"He  ought,  at  least,  to  rid  me  of  the  gout !" 

"Lower  the  funds !"  shouted  the  banker. 

These  phrases  flew  about  like  the  last  discharge  of  rockets 
at  the  end  of  a  display  of  fireworks;  and  were  uttered,  per- 
haps, more  in  earnest  than  in  jest. 

"My  good  friend,"  £mile  said  solemnly,  "I  shall  be  quite 
satisfied  with  an  income  of  two  hundred  thousand  livres. 
Please  to  set  about  it  at  once." 

"Do  you  not  know  the  cost,  fimile?"  asked  Eaphacl. 

"A  nice  excuse !"  the  poet  cried ;  "ought  we  not  to  sacrifice 
ourselves  for  our  friends?" 

"I  have  almost  a  mind  to  wish  that  you  all  were  dead." 
Valentin  made  answer,  with  a  dark,  inscrutable  look  at  his 
boon  companions. 

"Dying  people  are  frightfully  cruel,"  said  fimile,  laughing. 
"You  are  rich  now,"  he  went  on  gravely;  "very  well,  I  wiU 
give  you  two  months  at  most  before  you  grow  vilely  selfish. 
You  are  so  dense  already  that  you  cannot  understand  a  jok(\ 
You  have  only  to  go  a  little  further  to  believe  in  your  Magic 
Skin." 

Raphael  kept  silent,  fearing  the  banter  of  the  company ; 
but  he  drank  immoderately,  trying  to  drown  in  intoxication 
the  recollection  of  his  fatal  power. 


THE  AGONY  175 

III 

THE  AGONY 

In  the  early  days  of  December  an  old  man  of  some  seventy 
years  of  age  pursued  his  way  along  the  Eue  de  Varenne, 
in  spite  of  the  falling  raiji.  He  peered  up  at  the  door  of 
each  house,  trying  to  discover  the  address  of  the  Marquis 
Eaphael  de  Valentin,  in  a  simple,  childlike  fashion,  and  with 
the  abstracted  look  peculiar  to  philosophers.  His  face 
plainly  sliowed  traces  of  a  struggle  between  a  heavy  mortifica- 
tion and  an  authoritative  nature;  his  long,  gray  hair  hung 
in  disorder  about  a  face  like  a  piece  of  parchment  shriveling 
in  the  fire.  If  a  painter  had  come  upon  this  curious  charac- 
ter, he  would,  no  doubt,  have  transferred  him  to  his  sketch- 
book on  his  return,  a  thin,  bony  figure,  clad  in  black,  and  have 
inscribed  beneath  it :  "Classical  poet  in  search  of  a  rhyme." 
When  he  had  identified  the  number  that  had  been  given  to 
him,  this  reincarnation  of  Eollin  knocked  meekly  at  the  door 
of  a  splendid  mansion. 

''Is  Monsieur  Eaphael  in?"  the  worthy  man  inquired  of 
the  Swiss  in  livery. 

"My  Lord  the  Marquis  sees  nobody,"  said  the  servant, 
swallowing  a  huge  morsel  that  he  had  just  dipped  in  a  large 
bowl  of  coffee. 

"There  is  his  carriage,"  said  the  elderly  stranger,  pointing 
to  a  fine  equipage  that  stood  under  the  wooden  canopy  that 
sheltered  the  steps  before  the  house,  in  place  of  a  striped 
linen  awning.      "He  is  going  out ;  I  will  wait  for  him." 

"Then  you  might  wait  here  till  to-morrow  morning,  old 
boy,"  said  the  Swiss.  "A  carriage  is  alv/ays  waiting  for  mon- 
sieur. Please  to  go  away.  If  I  were  to  let  any  stranger 
come  into  the  house  without  orders,  I  should  lose  an  income 
of  six  hundred  francs." 

A  tall  old  man,  in  a  cost^jme  not  unlike  that  of  a 
subordinate  in  the  Civil  Service,  came  out  of  the  vestibule  and 


176  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

hurried  part  of  the  way  down  the  steps,  while  he  made  a 
survey  of  the  astonished  elderly  applicant  for  admission. 

"What  is  more,  here  is  M.  Jonathan,"  the  Swiss  remarked; 
"speak  to  him." 

Fellow-feeling  of  some  kind,  or  curiosity,  brought  the  two 
old  men  together  in  a  central  space  in  the  great  entrance- 
court.  A  few  blades  of  grass  were  growing  in  the  crevices  of 
the  pavement;  a  terrible  silence  reigned  in  that  great  house. 
Thesight  of  Jonathan's  face  would  have  made  you  long  to  un- 
derstand the  mystery  that  brooded  over  it,  and  that  was  an- 
nounced by  the  smallest  trifles  about  the  melancholy  place. 

When  Raphael  inherited  his  uncle's  vast  estate,  his  first 
care  had  been  to  seek  out  the  old  and  devoted  servitor  of 
whose  affection  he  knew  that  he  was  secure.  Jonathan  had 
wept  tears  of  joy  at  the  sight  of  his  young  master,  of  whom 
he  thought  he  had  taken  a  final  farewell ;  and  when  the  mar- 
quis exalted  him  to  the  high  office  of  steward,  his  happiness 
could  not  be  surpassed.  So  old  Jonathan  became  an  in- 
termediary power  between  Raphael  and  the  world  at  large. 
He  was  the  absolute  disposer  of  his  master's  fortune,  the  blind 
instrument  of  an  unknown  will,  and  a  sixth  sense,  as  it  were, 
by  which  the  emotions  of  life  were  communicated  to 
Raphael. 

"I  should  like  to  speak  with  M.  Raphael,  sir,"  said  the 
elderly  person  to  Jonathan,  as  he  climbed  up  the  steps  some 
way,  into  a  shelter  from  the  rain. 

"To  speak  with  my  Lord  the  Marquis  ?"  the  steward  cried. 
"He  scarcely  speaks  even  to  me,  his  foster-father!" 

"But  I  am  likewdse  his  foster-father,"  said  the  old  man. 
"If  your  wife  was  his  foster-mother,  I  fed  him  myself  with 
the  milk  of  the  Muses.  He  is  my  nursling,  my  child,  cants 
alumnus!  I  formed  his  mind,  cultivated  his  understanding, 
developed  his  genius,  and,  I  venture  to  say  it,  to  my  own 
honor  and  glory.  Is  he  not  one  of  the  most  remarkable 
men  of  our  epoch  ?  He  was  one  of  my  pupils  in  two  lower 
fornip,  and  in  rhetoric.     T  am  his  professor." 

"Ah,  sir,  then  you  are  M.  Porriquet?" 


THE  AGONY  177 

"Exactly,  sir,  but " 

"Hush !  hush  I"  Jonathan  called  to  two  underlings, 
whose  voices  broke  the  monastic  silence  that  shrouded  the 
house. 

"But  is  the  Marquis  ill,  sir  ?"  the  professor  continued. 

"My  dear  sir,"  Jonathan  replied,  "Heaven  only  knows  what 
is  the  matter  with  my  master.  You  see,  there  are  not  a 
couple  of  houses  like  ou^s  anywhere  in  Paris.  Do  you  under- 
stand ?  Not  two  houses.  Faith,  that  there  are  not.  My  Lord 
the  Marquis  had  this  hotel  purchased  for  him;  it  formerly 
belonged  to  a  duke  and  a  peer  of  France;  then  he  spent  three 
hundred  thousand  francs  over  furnishing  it.  That's  a  good 
deal,  you  know,  three  hundred  thousand  francs !  But  every 
room  in  the  house  is  a  perfect  wonder.  'Good,'  said  I  to 
myself  when  I  saw  this  magnificence;  'it  is  just  like  it  used  to 
be  in  the  time  of  my  lord,  his  late  grandfather;  and  the 
3^oung  marquis  is  going  to  entertain  all  Paris  and  the  Court !' 
Nothing  of  the  kind !  My  lord  refused  to  see  any  one  what- 
ever. 'Tis  a  funny  life  that  he  leads,  M.  Porriquet,  you  un- 
derstand. An  inconciliahle  life.  He  rises  every  day  at  the 
same  time.  I  am  the  only  person,  you  see,  that  may  enter 
his  room.  I  open  the  shutters  at  seven  o'clock,  summer 
or  winter.  It  is  all  arranged  very  oddly.  As  I  come  in  I 
say  to  him : 

"  'You  must  get  up  and  dress,  my  Lord  Marquis.' 

"Then  he  rises  and  dresses  himself.  I  have  to  give  him 
his  dressing-gown,  and  it  is  always  after  the  same  pattern, 
and  of  the  same  material.  I  am  obliged  to  replace  it  when  it 
can  be  used  no  longer,  simply  to  save  him  the  trouble  of  ask- 
ing for  a  new  one.  A  queer  fancy !  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he 
has  a  thousand  francs  to  spend  every  day,  and  he  does  as  he 
pleases,  the  dear  child.  And  besides,  I  am  so  fond  of  him 
that  if  he  gave  me  a  box  on  the  ear  on  one  side,  I  should  hold 
out  the  other  to  him !  The  most  difficult  things  he  will  tell 
me  to  do,  and  yet  I  do  them,  you  know !  He  gives  me  such 
a  lot  of  trifles  to  attend  to,  that  I  am  well  set  to  work !  He 
reads  the  newspapers,  doesn't  he  ?     Well,  my  instructions  are 


178  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

to  put  them  always  in  the  same  place,  on  the  same  table.  I 
always  go  at  the  same  hour  and  shave  him  myself ;  and  don't 
I  tremble !  The  cook  would  forfeit  the  annuity  of  a  thou- 
sand crowns  that  he  is  to  come  into  after  my  lord's  death,  if 
breakfast  is  not  served  inconciliahly  at  ten  o'clock  precisely. 
The  menus  are  drawn  up  for  the  whole  year  round,  day  after 
day.  My  Lord  the  Marquis  has  not  a  thing  to  wish  for.  He 
has  strawberries  whenever  there  are  any,  and  he  has  the  earli- 
est mackerel  to  be  had  in  Paris.  The  programme  is  printed 
every  morning.  He  knows  his  dinner  by  rote.  In  the  next 
place,  he  dresses  himself  at  the  same  hour,  in  the  same 
clothes,  the  same  linen,  that  I  always  put  on  the  same  chair, 
you  understand?  I  have  to  see  that  he  always  has  the  same 
cloth;  and  if  it  should  happen  that  his  coat  Came  to  grief 
(a  mere  supposition),  I  should  have  to  replace  it  by  another 
without  saying  a  word  about  it  to  him.  If  it  is  fine,  I  go  in 
and  say  to  my  master : 

"  'You  ought  to  go  out,  sir.' 

"He  says  Yes,  or  No.  If  he  has  a  notion  that  he  will  go 
out,  he  doesn't  wait  for  his  horses;  they  are  always  ready 
harnessed;  the  coachman  stops  there  inconciliahly,  whip  in 
hand,  just  as  you  see  him  out  there.  In  the  evening,  after 
dinner,  my  master  goes  one  day  to  the  Opera,  the  other  to 

the  Ital no,  he  hasn't  yet  gone  to  the  Italiens,  though, 

for  I  could  not  find  a  box  for  him  until  yesterday.  Then  he 
comes  in  at  eleven  o'clock  precisely,  to  go  to  bed.  At  any 
time  in  the  day  when  he  has  nothing  to  do,  he  reads — he  is 
always  reading,  you  see — it  is  a  notion  he  has.  My  instruc- 
tions are  to  read  the  Journal  de  la  Librairie  before  he  sees 
it,  and  to  buy  new  books,  so  that  he  finds  them  on  his  chim- 
ney-piece on  the  very  day  that  they  are  published.  I  have 
orders  to  go  into  his  room  every  hour  or  so,  to  look  after  the 
fire  and  everything  else,  and  to  see  that  he  wants  nothing. 
He  gave  me  a  little  book,  sir,  to  learn  off  by  heart,  with  all  my 
duties  written  in  it — a  regular  catechism!  In  summer  I 
hnvc  to  keep  a  cool  and  even  temperature  with  blocks  of  ice, 
and  at  all  seasons  to  put  fresh  flowers  all  about.     He  is  rich ! 


THE  AGONY  175^ 

He  has  a  thousand  francs  to  spend  every  da}- ;  he  can  indulge 
his  fancies !  And  he  hadn't  even  necessaries  for  so  long, 
poor  child !  He  doesn't  annoy  anybody ;  he  is  as  good  as 
gold;  he  never  opens  his  mouth,  for  instance;  the  house  and 
garde^  are  absolutely  silent.  In  short,  my  master  has  not  a 
single  wish  left ;  everything  comes  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye, 
if  he  raises  his  hand,  and  instanter.  Quite  right,  too.  If 
servants  are  not  looked  after,  everything  falls  into  confusion. 
You  would  never  believe  the  lengths  he  goes  about  things. 
His  rooms  are  all — what  do  you  call  it? — er — er — en  suite. 
Very  well ;  just  suppose,  now,  that  he  opens  his  room  door  or 
the  door  of  his  study ;  presto !  all  the  other  doors  fly  open  of 
themselves  by  a  patent  contrivance;  and  then  he  can  go  from 
one  end  of  the  house  to  the  other  and  not  find  a  single  door 
shut;  which  is  all  ver}^  nice  and  pleasant  and  convenient  for 
us  great  folk !  But,  on  my  word,  it  cost  us  a  lot  of  money ! 
And,  after  all,  M.  Porriquet,  he  said  to  me  at  last : 

"  'Jonathan,  you  will  look  after  me  as  if  I  were  a  baby  in 
long  clothes.'  Yes,  sir,  'long  clothes !'  those  were  his  very 
words.  'You  will  think  of  all  my  requirements  for  me.'  I 
am  the  master,  so  to  speak,  and  he  is  the  servant,  you  un- 
derstand? The  reason  of  it?  Ah,  my  word,  that  is  just 
what  nobody  on  earth  knows  but  he  himself  and  God 
Almighty.    It  is  quite  inconciliable !" 

"He  is  writing  a  poem !"  exclaimed  the  old  professor. 

"You  think  he  is  writing  a  poem,  sir  ?  It's  a  very  absorb- 
ing affair,  then!  But,  you  know,  T  don't  think  he  is.  He 
often  tells  me  that  he  wants  to  live  like  a  vergetation;  he 
wants  to  vergetate.  Only  yesterday  he  was  looking  at  a  tulip 
while  he  was  dressing,  and  he  said  to  me : 

"  'There  is  my  own  life — I  am  vergetating,  my  poor 
Jonathan.'  Now,  some  of  them  insist  that  that  is  mono- 
mania.    It  is  inconciliable !" 

"All  this  makes  is  very  clear  to  me,  Jonathan,"  the  pro- 
fessor answered,  with  a  magisterial  solemnity  that  greatly 
impressed  the  old  servant,  "that  your  master  is  absorbed  in  a 
great  work.  He  is  deep  in  vast  meditations,  and  has  no  wish  to 


180  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

be  distracted  by  the  petty  preoccupations  of  ordinary  life. 
A  man  of  genius  forgets  everything  among  his  intellectual 
labors.     One  day  the  famous  Xewton " 

"Newton? — oh,  ah!  I  don't  know  the  name,"  said 
Jonathan. 

"Newton,  a  great  geometrician,"  Porriquet  went  on,  "once 
sat  for  twent3^-four  hours  leaning  his  elbow  on  the  table ; 
when  he  emerged  from  his  musings,  he  was  a  day  out  in  his 
reckoning,  just  as  if  he  had  been  sleeping.  I  will  go  to  see 
him,  dear  lad;  I  may  perhaps  be  of  some  use  to  him." 

"Not  for  a  moment !"  Jonathan  cried.  "Not  though  you 
were  King  of  France — I  mean  the  real  old  one.  You  could 
not  go  in  unless  you  forced  the  doors  open  and  walked  over 
my  body.  But  I  will  go  and  tell  him  you  are  here, 
M.  Porriquet,  and  I  will  put  it  to  him  like  this,  'Ought  he  to 
come  up  ?'  And  he  will  say  Yes  or  No.  I  never  say,  'Do 
you  wish?'  or  'Will  you?'  or  'Do  you  want?'  Those  words 
are  scratched  out  of  the  dictionary.  He  let  out  at  me  once 
with  a  'Do  you  want  to  kill  me  ?'  he  was  so  very  angry." 

Jonathan  left  the  old  schoolmaster  in  the  vestibule,  sign- 
ing to  him  to  come  no  further,  and  soon  returned  with  a 
favorable  answer.  He  led  the  old  gentleman  through  one 
magnificent  room  after  another,  where  every  door  stood  open. 
At  last  Porriquet  beheld  his  pupil  at  some  distance  seated  be- 
side the  fire. 

Raphael  was  reading  the  paper.  He  sat  in  an  armchair, 
wrapped  in  a  dressing-gown  with  some  large  pattern  on  it. 
The  intense  melancholy  that  preyed  upon  him  could  be  dis- 
cerned in  his  languid  posture  and  feeble  frame;  it  was  de- 
picted on  his  brow  and  white  face ;  he  looked  like  some  plant 
bleached  by  darlcness.  There  was  a  kind  of  effeminate  grace 
about  him ;  the  fancies  peculiar  to  wealthy  invalids  were  also 
noticeable.  His  hands  were  soft  and  white,  like  a  pretty 
woman's;  he  wore  his  fair  hair,  now  grown  scanty,  curled 
about  his  temples  with  a  refinement  of  vanity. 

The  Greek  cap  that  he  wore  was  pulled  to  one  side  by  the 
weight  of  its  tassel;  too  heavy  for  the  light  material  of  which 


THE  AGONY  .  Igl 

it  was  made.  He  had  let  the  paper-knife  fall  at  his  feet,  a 
malachite  blade  with  gold  mounting,  which  he  had  used  to 
cut  the  leaves  of  a  book.  The  amber  mouthpiece  of  a 
magnificent  Indian  hookah  lay  on  his  knee;  the  enameled 
coils  lay  like  a  serpent  in  the  room,  but  he  had  forgotten  to 
draw  out  its  fresh  perfume.  And  yet  there  was  a  complete 
contradiction  between  the  general  feebleness  of  his  young 
frame  and  the  blue  eyes,  where  all  his  vitality  seemed  to 
dwell;  an  extraordinary  intelligence  seemed  to  look  out  from 
them  and  to  grasp  everything  at  once. 

That  expression  was  painful  to  see.  Some  would  have 
read  despair  in  it,  and  others  some  inner  conflict  terrible  as 
remorse.  It  was  the  inscrutable  glance  of  helplessness  that 
must  perforce  consign  its  desires  to  the  depths  of  its  own 
heart ;  or  of  a  miser  enjoying  in  imagination  all  the  pleasures 
that  his  money  could  procure  for  him,  while  he  declines  to 
lessen  his  hoard;  the  look  of  a  bound  Prometheus,  of  the 
fallen  Napoleon  of  1815,  when  he  learned  at  the  Elysee  the 
strategical  blunder  that  his  enemies  had  made,  and  asked  for 
twenty-four  hours  of  command  in  vain;  or  rather  it  was  the 
same  look  that  Raphael  had  turned  upon  the  Seine,  or  upon 
his  last  piece  of  gold  at  the  gaming-table  only  a  few  months 
ago. 

He  was  submitting  his  intelligence  and  his  will  to  the 
homely  common-sense  of  an  old  peasant  whom  fifty  years 
of  domestic  service  had  scarcely  civilized.  He  had  given  up 
all  the  rights  of  life  in  order  to  live;  he  had  despoiled  his 
soul  of  all  the  romance  that  lies  in  a  wish;  and  almost  re- 
joiced at  thus  becoming  a  sort  of  automaton.  The  better  to 
struggle  with  the  cruel  power  that  he  had  challenged,  he 
had  followed  Origen's  example,  and  had  maimed  and 
chastened  his  imagination. 

The  day  after  he  had  seen  the  diminution  of  the  Magic 
Skin,  at  his  sudden  accession  of  wealth,  he  happened  to  be 
at  his  notary's  house.  A  well-known  physician  had  told  them 
quite  seriously,  at  dessert,  how  a  Swiss  attacked  by  consump- 
tion had  cured  himself.     The  man  had  never  spoken  a  word 

VOL.   I  — 17 


182  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

for  ten  years,  and  had  compelled  himself  to  draw  six  breaths 
onlj^,  every  minute,  in  the  close  atmosphere  of  a  cow-house, 
adhering  all  the  time  to  a  regimen  of  exceedingly  light  diet. 
"I  will  be  like  that  man,"  thought  Raphael  to  himself.  He 
wanted  life  at  any  price,  and  so  he  led  the  life  of  a  machine 
in  the  midst  of  all  the  luxury  around  him. 

The  old  professor  confronted  this  youthful  corpse  and 
shuddered;  there  seemed  something  unnatural  about  the 
meagre,  enfeebled  frame.  In  the  Marquis,  with  his  eager 
eyes  and  careworn  forehead,  he  could  hardly  recognize  the 
fresh-cheeked  and  rosy  pupil  with  the  active  limbs,  whom 
he  remembered.  If  the  worthy  classicist,  sage  critic,  and 
general  preserver  of  the  traditions  of  correct  taste  had  read 
Byron,  he  would  have  thought  that  he  had  come  on  a  Man- 
fred when  he  looked  to  find  Childe  Harold. 

"Good  day,  pere  Porriquet,"  said  Eaphael,  pressing  the  old 
schoolmaster's  frozen  fingers  in  his  own  hot  damp  ones; 
*'how  are  you?" 

"I  am  very  well,"  replied  the  other,  alarmed  by  the  touch 
of  that  feverish  hand.     "But  how  about  you  ?" 
"Oh,  I  am  hoping  to  keep  myself  in  health." 
"You  are  engaged  in  some  great  work,  no  doubt  ?" 
"No,"   Raphael   answered.        "Exegi  monumentum,   pSre 
Porriquet;  I  have  contributed  an  important  page  to  science, 
and  have  now  bidden  her  farewell  for  ever.       I  scarcely 
know  where  my  manuscript  is." 

"The  style  is  no  doubt  correct  ?"  queried  the  schoolmaster, 
"You,  I  hope,  would  never  have  adopted  the  barbarous 
language  of  the  new  school,  which  fancies  it  has  worked 
such  wonders  by  discovering  Ronsard !" 

"My  work  treats  of  physiology  pure  and  simple." 
"Oh,  then,  there  is  no  more  to  be  said,"  the  schoolmaster 
answered.  "Grammar  must  yield  to  the  exigencies  of  dis- 
covery. Nevertheless,  young  man,  a  lucid  and  harmonious 
gtyle — the  diction  of  Massillon,  of  M.  de  Buff  on,  of  the 
great  Racine — a  classical  style,  in  short,  can  never  spoil  any- 
thing       But,  my  friend,"  the  schoolmaster  interrupted 


THE  AGONY  183 

himself,   "I  was   forgetting   the  object   of  my  visit,   which 
concerns  my  own  interests." 

Too  late  Raphael  recalled  to  mind  the  verbose  eloquence 
and  elegant  circumlocutions  which  in  a  long  professorial 
career  had  grown  habitual  to  his  old  tutor,  and  almost  re- 
gretted that  he  had  admitted  him ;  but  just  as  he  was  about  to 
wish  to  see  him  safely  outside,  he  promptly  suppressed  his 
secret  desire  with  a  stealthy  glance  at  the  Magic  Skin. 
It  hung  there  before  him,  fastened  down  upon  some  wliite 
material,  surrounded  by  a  red  line  accurately  traced  about 
its  prophetic  outlines.  Since  that  fatal  carouse,  Eaphael 
had  stifled  every  least  whim,  and  had  lived  so  as  not  to  cause 
the  slightest  movement  in  the  terrible  talisman.  The  Magic 
Skin  was  like  a  tiger  with  which  he  must  live  without 
exciting  its  ferocity.  He  bore  patiently,  therefore,  with  the 
old  schoolmaster's  prolixity. 

Porriquet  spent  an  hour  in  telling  him  about  the  persecu- 
tions directed  against  him  ever  since  the  Eevolution  of  July. 
Theworthy  man,  having  a  liking  for  strong  governments,  had 
expressed  the  patriotic  wish  that  grocers  should  be  left  to 
their  counters,  statesmen  to  the  management  of  public 
business,  advocates  to  the  Palais  de  Justice,  and  peers  of 
France  to  the  Luxembourg;  but  one  of  the  popularity-seek- 
ing ministers  of  the  Citizen  King  had  ousted  him  from  his 
chair,  on  an  accusation  of  Carlism,  and  the  old  man  now 
found  himself  without  pension  or  post,  and  with  no  bread 
to  eat.  As  he  played  the  part  of  guardian  angel  to  a  poor 
nephew,  for  whose  schooling  at  Saint  Sulpice  he  was  paving, 
he  came  less  on  his  own  account  than  for  his  adopted  child's 
sake,  to  entreat  his  former  pupil's  interest  with  the  new 
minister.  He  did  not  ask  to  be  reinstated,  but  only  for  a 
position  at  the  head  of  some  provincial  school. 

Raphael  had  fallen  a  victim  to  unconquerable  drowsiness 
by  the  time  that  the  worthy  man's  monotonous  voice  ceased 
to  sound  in  his  ears.  Civility  had  compelled  him  to  look 
at  the  pale  and  unmoving  eyes  of  the  deliberate  and  tedious 
old  narrator,  till  he  himself  had  reached  stupefaction, 
magnetized  in  an  inexplicable  wav  by  the  power  of  inertia. 


184  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

"Well,  my  dear  pere  Porriqiiet,"  he  said,  not  very  certain 
what  the  question  was  to  whicli  he  was  replying,  "but  I  can 
do  nothing  for  you,  nothing  at  all.  I  wish  very  heartily  tha<- 
you  may  succeed " 

All  at  once,  without  seeing  the  change  wrought  on  the 
old  man's  sallow  and  wrinkled  brow  by  these  conventional 
phrases,  full  of  indifference  and  selfishness,  Kaphael  sprang 
to  his  feet  like  a  startled  roebuck.  He  saw  a  thin  white  line 
between  the  black  piece  of  hide  and  the  red  tracing  about 
it,  and  gave  a  cry  so  fearful  that  the  poor  professor  was 
frightened  by  it. 

"Old  fool !  Go !"  he  cried.  "You  will  be  appointed  as 
headmaster !  Couldn't  you  have  asked  me  for  an  annuity 
of  a  thousand  crowns  rather  than  a  murderous  wish  ?  Your 
visit  would  have  cost  me  nothing.  There  are  a  hundred 
thousand  situations  to  be  had  in  France,  but  I  have  only 
one  life.  A  man's  life  is  worth  more  than  all  the  situations 
in  the  world. — Jonathan  !" 

Jonathan  appeared. 

"This  is  your  doing,  double-distilled  idiot !  What  made 
you  suggest  that  I  should  see  M.  Porriquet  ?"  and  he  pointed 
to  the  old  man,  who  was  petrified  with  fright.  "Did  I  put 
myself  in  your  hands  for  j^ou  to  tear  me  in  pieces?  You 
have  just  shortened  my  life  by  ten  years !  Another  blunder 
of  this  kind,  and  you  will  lay  me  where  I  have  laid  my  father. 
Would  I  not  far  rather  have  possessed  the  beautiful  Foedora  ? 
And  I  have  obliged  that  old  hulk  instead — that  rag  of 
humanity  !  I  had  money  enough  for*  him.  And,  moreover, 
if  all  the  Porriquets  in  the  world  were  dying  of  hunger,  what 
is  that  to  me  ?" 

Kaphael's  face  was  white  with  anger;  a  slight  froth  marked 
his  trembling  lips;  there  was  a  savage  gleam  in  his  eyes. 
The  two  elders  shook  with  terror  in  his  presence  like  two 
children  at  the  sight  of  a  snake.  The  young  man  fell  back 
in  his  armchair,  a  kind  of  reaction  took  place  in  him,  the  tears 
flowed  fast  from  his  angry  eyes. 

"Oh,  my  life !"  he  cried,  "that  fair  life  of  mine.     Never 


THE  AGONY  185 

to  know  a  kindly  thought  again,  to  love  no  more;  nothing  is 
left  to  me !" 

He  turned  to  the  professor  and  went  on  in  a  gentle  voice — 
"The  harm  is  done,  my  old  friend.  Your  services  have  been 
well  repaid;  and  my  misfortune  has  at  any  rate  contributed 
to  the  welfare  of  a  good  and  worthy  man." 

His  tones  betrayed  so  much  feeling  that  the  almost  unin- 
telligible words  drew  tears  from  the  two  old  men,  such  tears 
as  are  shed  over  some  pathetic  song  in  a  foreign  tongue. 

"He  is  epileptic/'  muttered  Porriquet. 

"I  understand  your  kind  intentions,  my  friend,"  Raphael 
answered  gently.  "You  would  make  excuses  for  me.  Ill- 
health  cannot  be  helped,  but  ingratitude  is  a  grievous  fault. 
Leave  me  now,"  he  added.  "To-morrow  or  the  next  day,  or 
possibly  to-night,  you  will  receive  your  appointment;  Re- 
sistance has  triumphed  over  Motion.     Farewell." 

The  old  schoolmaster  went  away,  full  of  keen  apprehension 
as  to  Valentin's  sanity  A  thrill  of  horror  ran  through  him ; 
there  had  been  something  supernatural,  he  thought,  in  the 
scene  he  had  passed  through.  He  could  hardly  believe  his 
own  impressions,  and  questioned  them  like  one  uwakened. 
from  a  painful  dream. 

"Now  attend  to  me,  Jonathan,"  said  the  youLj  man  to 
his  old  servant.  "Try  to  understand  the  charge  confided  to 
you." 

'TTes,  my  Lord  Marquis." 

"I  am  as  a  man  outlawed  from  humanity." 

"Yes,  my  Lord  Marquis." 

"All  the  pleasures  of  life  disport  themselves  rous  J  my  bed 
of  death,  and  dance  about  me  like  fair  women;  but  if  I 
beckon  to  them,  I  must  die.  Death  always  confronts  me. 
You  must  be  the  barrier  between  the  world  and  me.'' 

"Yes,  my  Lord  Marquis,"  said  the  old  servant,  wiping  the 
drops  of  perspiration  from  his  wrinkled  forehead.  "But  if 
you  don't  wish  to  see  pretty  Avomen,  how  will  you  manage  at 
the  Italiens  this  evening?  An  English  family  is  returning  to 
London,  and  I  have  taken  their  box  for  the  rest  of  the  sea- 


186  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

son,  and  it  is  in  a  splendid  position — superb;  in  the  first 
row." 

Eaphael,  deep  in  his  own  deep  musings,  paid  no  attention 
to  him. 

Do  you  see  that  splendid  equipage,  a  brougham  painted  a 
dark  brown  color,  but  with  the  arms  of  an  ancient  and  noble 
family  shining  from  the  panels?  As  it  rolls  past,  all  the 
shop-girls  admire  it,  and  look  longingly  at  the  yellow  satin 
lining,  the  rugs  from  la  Savonnerie,  the  daintiness  and  fresh- 
ness of  every  detail,  the  silken  cushions  and  tightly -fitting 
glass  windows.  Two  liveried  footmen  are  mounted  behind 
this  aristocratic  carriage ;  and  within,  a  head  lies  back  among 
the  silken  cushions,  the-  feverish  face  and  hollow  eyes  of 
Raphael,  melancholy  and  sad.  Emblem  of  the  doom  of 
wealth !  He  flies  across  Paris  like  a,  rocket,  and  reaches  the 
peristyle  of  the  Theatre  Favart.  The  passers-by  make  way 
for  him;  the  two  footmen  help  him  to  alight,  an  envious 
crowd  looking  on  the  while. 

"What  has  that  fellow  done  to  be  so  rich  ?"  asks  a  poor  law- 
student,  who  cannot  listen  to  the  magical  music  of  Rossini 
for  lack  of  a  five-franc  piece. 

Raphael  walked  slowly  along  the  gangway ;  he  expected  no 
enjoyment  from  these  pleasures  he  had  once  coveted  so 
eagerly.  In  the  interval  before  the  second  act  of  Semiramide 
he  walked  up  and  down  in  the  lobby,  and  along  the  corridors, 
leaving  his  box,  which  he  had  not  yet  entered,  to  look  after  it- 
self. The  instinct  of  property  was  dead  within  him  already. 
Like  all  invalids,  he  thought  of  nothing  but  his  own  suffer- 
ings. He  was  leaning  against  the  chimney-piece  in  the  green- 
room. A  group  had  gathered  about  it  of  dandies,  young  and 
old,  of  ministers  and  ex-ministers,  of  peers  without  peerages, 
and  peerages  without  peers,  for  so  the  Revolution  of  July  had 
ordered  matters.  Among  a  host  of  adventurers  and 
journalists,  in  fact,  Raphael  beheld  a  strange,  unearthly 
figure  a  few  paces  away  among  the  crowd.  He  went  towards 
this  grotesque  object  to  see  it  better,  half-closing  his  eyes  with 
exceeding  superciliousness. 


THE  AGONY  187 

'TVhat  a  wonderful  bit  of  painting!"  he  said  to  himself. 
The  stranger's  hair  and  eyebrows  and  a  Mazarin  tuft  on  the 
chin  had  been  dyed  black,  but  the  result  was  a  spurious, 
glossy,  purple  tint  that  varied  its  hues  according  to  the 
light;  the  hair  had  been  too  white,  no  doubt,  to  take  the 
preparation.  Anxiety  and  cunning  were  depicted  in  the  nar- 
row, insignificant  face,  with  its  wrinkles  incrustcd  by  thick 
layers  of  red  and  white  paint.  This  red  enamel,  lacking  on 
some  portions  of  his  face,  strongly  brought  out  his  natural 
feebleness  and  livid  hues.  It  Avas  impossible  not  to  smile 
at  this  visage  with  the  protuberant  forehead  and  pointed 
chin,  a  face  not  unlike  those  grotesque  wooden  figures  that 
German  herdsmen  carve  in  their  spare  moments. 

An  attentive  observer  looking  from  Eaphael  to  this  elderly 
Adonis  would  have  remarked  a  young  man's  eyes  set  in  a 
mask  of  age,  in  the  case  of  the  Marquis,  and  in  the  other  case 
the  dim  eyes  of  age  peering  forth  from  behind  a  mask  of 
youth.  Valentin  tried  to  recollect  when  and  where  he  had 
seen  this  little  old  man  before.  He  was  thin,  fastidiously 
cravatted,  booted  and  spurred  like  one-and-twenty ;  he  crossed 
his  arms  and  clinked  his  spurs  as  if  he  possessed  all  the 
wanton  energy  of  youth.  He  seemed  to  move  about  without 
constraint  or  difficulty.  He  had  carefully  buttoned  up  hig 
fashionable  coat,  which  disguised  his  powerful,  elderly  frame, 
and  gave  him  the  appearance  of  an  antiquated  coxcomb  who 
still  follows  the  fashions. 

For  Eaphael  this  animated  puppet  possessed  all  the  in- 
terest of  an  apparition.  He  gazed  at  it  as  if  it  had  been 
some  smoke-begrimed  Rembrandt,  recently  restored  and 
newly  framed.  This  idea  found  him  a  clue  to  the  truth 
among  his  confused  recollections ;  he  recognized  the  dealer  in 
antiquities,  the  man  to  whom  he  owed  his  calamities ! 

A  noiseless  laugh  broke  just  then  from  the  fantastical 
personage,  straightening  the  line  of  his  lips  that  stretched 
across  a  row  of  artificial  teeth.  That  laugh  brought  out,  for 
Eaphael's  heated  fancy,  a  strong  resemblance  between  the 
man  before  him  and  the  type  of  head  that  painters  have 


188  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

assigned  to  Goethe's  Mephistopheles.  A  crowd  of  super 
stitious  thoughts  entered  Kaphael's  sceptical  mind;  he  was 
convinced  of  the  powers  of  the  devil  and  of  all  the  sorcerer's 
enchantments  embodied  in  mediaeval  tradition,  and  since 
worked  up  by  poets.  Shrinking  in  horror  from  the  destiny 
of  Faust,  he  prayed  for  the  protection  of  Heaven  with  all 
the  ardent  faith  of  a  dying  man  in  God  and  the  Virgin.  A 
clear,  bright  radiance  seemed  to  give  him  a  glimpse  of  the 
heaven  of  Michael  Angelo  or  of  Raphael  of  Urbino:  a  vener- 
able white-bearded  man,  a  beautiful  woman  seated  in  an 
aureole  above  the  clouds  and  winged  cherub  heads.  Now  he 
had  grasped  and  received  the  meaning  of  those  imaginative, 
almost  human  creations;  they  seemed  to  explain  what  had 
happened  to  him,  to  leave  him  yet  one  hope. 

But  when  the  greenroom  of  the  Italiens  returned  upon 
his  sight  he  beheld,  not  the  Virgin,  but  a  very  handsome 
young  person  The  execrable  Euphrasia,  in  all  the  splendor 
of  her  toilette,  with  its  orient  pearls,  had  come  thither,  im- 
patient for  her  ardent,  elderly  admirer.  She  was  insolently 
exhibiting  herself  with  her  defiant  face  and  glittering  eyes 
to  an  envious  crowd  of  stockbrokers,  a  visible  testimony  to 
the  inexhaustible  wealth  that  the  old  dealer  permitted  her  to 
squander. 

Raphael  recollected  the  mocking  wish  with  which  he  had 
accepted  the  old  man's  luckless  gift,  and  tasted  all  the  sweets 
of  revenge  when  he  beheld  the  spectacle  of  sublime  wisdom 
fallen  to  such  a  depth  as  this,  wisdom  for  which  such  humilia- 
tion had  seemed  a  thing  impossible.  The  centenarian  greeted 
Euphrasia  with  a  ghastly  smile,  receiving  her  honeyed  words 
in  reply.  He  offered  her  his  emaciated  arm,  and  went  twice 
or  thrice  round  the  greenroom  with  her;  the  envious  glances 
and  compliments  with  which  the  crowd  received  his  mistress 
delighted  him ;  he  did  not  see  the  scornful  smiles,  nor  hear 
the  caustic  comments  to  which  he  gave  rise. 

"In  what  cemetery  did  this  young  ghoul  unearth  that 
corpse  of  hers  ?"  asked  the  dandy  of  the  Romantic  faction. 

Euphrasia  began  to  smile.     The  speaker  was  a  slender, 


THE  AGONY  189 

fair-haircfl  3'onth,  with  bright  blue  eyes,  and  a  moustache. 
His  short  dress  coat,  hat  tilted  over  one  ear,  and  sharp  tongue, 
all  denoted  the  species. 

"How  many  old  men,"  said  Raphael  to  himself,  "bring  an 
upright,  virtuous,  and  hard-working  life  to  a  close  in  folly ! 
His  feet  are  cold  already,  and  he  is  making  love." 

"Well,  sir,"  exclaimed  Valentin,  stopping  the  merchant's 
progress,  while  he  stared  hard  at  Euphrasia,  "have  you  quite 
forgotten  the  stringent  maxims  of  your  philosophy?" 

"Ah,  I  am  as  happy  now  as  a  young  man,"  said  the  other, 
in  a  cracked  voice.  "I  used  to  look  at  existence  from  a  wrong 
standpoint.     One  hour  of  love  has  a  whole  life  in  it." 

The  playgoers  heard  the  bell  ring,  and  left  the  greenroom 
to  take  their  places  again.  Eaphael  and  the  old  merchant 
separated.  As  he  entered  his  box,  the  Marquis  saw  Foedora 
sitting  exactly  opposite  to  him  on  the  other  side  of  the 
theatre.  The  Countess  had  probably  only  just  come,  for  she 
was  just  flinging  off  her  scarf  to  leave  her  throat  uncovered, 
and  was  occupied  with  going  through  all  the  indescribable 
manoeuvres  of  a  coquette  arranging  herself.  All  eyes  were 
turned  upon  her.  A  young  peer  of  France  had  come  with  her ; 
she  asked  him  for  the  lorgnette  she  had  given  him  to  carry. 
Raphael  knew  the  despotism  to  which  his  successor  had  re- 
signed himself,  in  her  gestures,  and  in  the  way  she  treated  her 
companion.  He  was  also  under  the  spell  no  doubt,  another 
dupe  beating  with  all  the  might  of  a  real  affection  against  the 
woman's  cold  calculations,  enduring  all  the  tortures  from 
which  Valentin  had  luckily  freed  himself. 

Foedora's  face  lighted  up  with  indescribable  joy.  After 
directing  her  lorgnette  upon  every  box  in  turn,  to  make  a 
rapid  survey  of  all  the  dresses,  she  was  conscious  that  by  her 
toilette  and  her  beauty  she  had  eclipsed  the  loveliest  and  best- 
dressed  women  in  Paris.  She  laughed  to  show  her  white 
teeth;  her  head  with  its  wreath  of  flowers  was  never  still,  in 
her  quest  of  admiration.  Her  glances  went  from  one  box  to 
another,  as  she  diverted  herself  with  the  awkward  way  in 
which  a  Russian  princess  wore  her  bonnet,  or  over  the  utter 


190  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

failure  of  a  bonnet  with  which  a  banker's  daughte"  had  dis- 
figured herself. 

All  at  once  she  met  Raphael's  steady  gaze  and  turned  pale, 
aghast  at  the  intolerable  contempt  in  her  rejected  lover's 
eyes.  Not  one  of  her  exiled  suitors  had  failed  to  own  her 
power  over  them;  Valentin  alone  was  proof  against  her  at- 
tractions. A  power  that  can  be  defied  with  impunity  is  draw- 
ing to  its  end.  This  axiom  is  as  deeply  engraved  on  the  heart 
of  woman  as  in  the  minds  of  kings.  In  Raphael,  therefore, 
Foedora  saw  the  deathblow  of  her  influence  and  her  ability 
to  please.  An  epigram  of  his,  made  at  the  Opera  the  day  be- 
fore, was  already  known  in  the  salons  of  Paris.  The  biting 
edge  of  that  terrible  speech  had  already  given  the  Countess 
an  incurable  wound.  We  know  how  to  cauterize  a  wound,  but 
we  know  of  no  treatment  as  yet  for  the  stab  of  a  phrase.  As 
every  other  woman  in  the  house  looked  by  turns  at  her  and 
at  the  Marquis,  Foedora  would  have  consigned  them  all  to  the 
oubliettes  of  some  Bastille;  for  in  spite  of  he.?-  capacity  for 
dissimulation,  her  discomfiture  was  discerned  by  her  rivals. 
Her  unfailing  consolation  had  slipped  from  her  at  last.  The 
delicious  thought,  "I  am  the  most  beautiful,"  the  thought  that 
at  all  times  had  soothed  every  mortification,  had  turned  into 
a  lie. 

At  the  opening  of  the  second  act  a  woman  took  up  her 
position  not  very  far  from  Raphael,  in  a  box  that  had  been 
empty  hitherto.  A  murmur  of  admiration  went  up  from  the 
whole  house.  In  that  sea  of  human  faces  there  was  a  move- 
ment of  every  living  wave;  all  eyes  were  turned  upon  the 
•  stranger  lady.  The  applause  of  young  and  old  was  so  pro- 
longed, that  when  the  orchestra  began,  the  musicians  turned 
to  the  audience  to  request  silence,  and  then  they  themselves 
joined  in  tbe  plaudits  and  swelled  the  confusion.  Excited 
talk  began  in  every  box,  every  woman  equipped  herself  with  an 
opera  glass,  elderly  men  grew  young  again,  and  polished  the 
glasses  of  their  lorgnettes  with  their  gloves.  The  enthusiasm 
subsided  by  degrees,  the  stage  echoed  with  the  voices  of  the 
singersj  and  order  reigned  as  before.    The  aristocratic  section, 


THE  AGONY  Idl 

ashamed  of  having  yielded  to  a  spontaneous  feeling,  again 
assumed  their  wonted  politely  frigid  manner.  The  well-to-do 
dislike  to  be  astonished  at  anything;  at  the  first  sight  of  a 
beautiful  thing  it  becomes  their  duty  to  discover  the  defect 
in  it  which  absolves  them  from  admiring  it, — the  feeling  of  all 
ordinary  minds.  Yet  a  few  still  remained  motionless  and 
heedless  of  the  music,  artlessly  absorbed  in  the  delight  of 
watching  Eaphael's  neighbor. 

Valentin  noticed  Taillefer's  mean,  obnoxious  countenance 
by  Aquilina's  side  in  a  lower  box,  and  received  an  approving 
smirk  from  him.  Then  he  saw  !fimile,  who  seemed  to  say 
from  where  he  stood  in  the  orchestra,  "Just  look  at  that  lovely 
creature  there,  close  beside  you !"  Lastly,  he  saw  Eastignac, 
with  Mme.  de  Nucingen  and  her  daughter,  twisting  his  gloves 
like  a  man  in  despair,  because  he  was  tethered  to  his  place, 
and  could  not  leave  it  to  go  any  nearer  to  the  unknown  fair 
divinity. 

Raphael's  life  depended  upon  a  covenant  that  he  had  made 
with  himself,  and  had  hitherto  kept  sacred.  He  would  give 
no  special  heed  to  any  woman  whatever;  and  the  better  to 
guard  against  temptation,  he  used  a  cunningly  contrived 
opera-glass  which  destroyed  the  harmony  of  the  fairest  fea- 
tures by  hideous  distortions.  He  had  not  recovered  from  the 
terror  that  had  seized  on  him  in  the  morning  when,  at  a  mere 
expression  of  civility,  the  Magic  Skin  had  contracted  so 
abruptly.  So  Eaphael  was  determined  not  to  turn  his  face  in 
the  direction  of  his  neighbor.  He  sat  imperturbable  as  a 
duchess  with  his  back  against  the  corner  of  the  box,  thereby 
shutting  out  half  of  his  neighbor's  view  of  the  stage,  appear- 
ing to  disregard  her,  and  even  to  be  unaware  that  a  pretty 
woman  sat  there  just  behind  him. 

His  neighbor  copied  Valentin's  position  exactly;  she  leaned 
her  elbow  on  the  edge  of  her  box  and  turned  her  face  in  three- 
f|uarter  profile  upon  the  singers  on  the  stage,  as  if  she  were 
sitting  to  a  painter.  These  two  people  looked  like  two  es- 
tranged lovers  still  sulking,  still  turning  their  backs  upon 
each  other,  who  will  go  into  each  other's  arms  at  the  first 
tender  word. 


192  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

Now  and  again  his  neighbor's  ostrich  feathers  or  her  haii 
came  in  contact  with  Raphael's  head,  giving  him  a  pleasurable 
thrill,  against  which  he  sternly  fought.  In  a  little  while  he 
felt  the  touch  of  the  soft  frill  of  lace  that  went  round  hei 
dress;  he  could  hear  the  gracious  sounds  of  the  folds  of  hci 
dress  itself,  light  rustling  noises  full  of  enchantment ;  he  coulc 
even  feel  her  movements  as  she  breathed; with  the  gentle  stir 
thus  imparted  to  her  form  and  to  her  draperies,  it  seemed  tc 
Eaphael  that  all  her  being  was  suddenly  communicated  U 
him  in  an  electric  spark.  The  lace  and  tulle  that  caressed  hin 
imparted  the  delicious  warmth  of  her  bare,  white  shoulders. 
By  a  freak  in  the  ordering  of  things,  these  two  creatures,  kept 
apart  by  social  conventions,  with  the  abysses  of  death  between 
them,  breathed  together  and  perhaps  thought  of  one  another. 
Finally,  the  subtle  perfume  of  aloes  completed  the  work  of 
Raphael's  intoxication.  Opposition  heated  his  imagination, 
and  his  fancy,  become  the  wilder  for  the  limits  imposed  upon 
it,  sketched  a  woman  for  him  in  outlines  of  fire.  He  turned 
abruptly,  the  stranger  made  a  similar  movement,  startled  no 
doubt  at  being  brought  in  contact  with  a  stranger;  and  they 
remained  face  to  face,  each  with  the  same  thought. 

"Pauline !" 

"M.  Eaphael !" 

Each  surveyed  the  other,  both  of  them  petrified  with  aston- 
ishment. Raphael  noticed  Pauline's  daintily  simple  costume. 
A  woman's  experienced  eyes  would  have  discerned  and  ad- 
mired the  outlines  beneath  the  modest  gauze  folds  of  her 
bodice  and  the  lil}''  whiteness  of  her  throat.  And  then  her 
more  than  mortal  clearness  of  soul,  her  maidenly  modesty, 
her  graceful  bearing,  all  were  unchanged.  Her  sleeve  was 
quivering  with  agitation,  for  the  beating  of  her  heart  was 
shaking  her  whole  frame. 

"Come  to  the  Hotel  de  Saint-Quentin  to-morrow  for  your 
papers,"  she  said.    "I  will  be  there  at  noon.    Be  punctual." 

She  rose  hastily,  and  disappeared.  Raphael  thought  of  fol- 
lowing Pauline,  feared  to  compromise  her,  and  stayed.  He 
looked  at  Fcedora;  she  seemed  to  him  positively  ugly.    Unable 


THE  AGONY  103 

to  understand  a  single  phrase  of  the  music,  and  feeling  stifled 
in  the  theatre,  he  went  out,  and  returned  home  with  a  full 
heart. 

"Jonathan,"  he  said  to  the  old  servant,  as  soon  as  he  lay  in 
bed,  "give  me  half  a  drop  of  laudanum  on  a  piece  of  sugar, 
and  don't  wake  me  to-morrow  till  twenty  minutes  to  twelve." 

"I  want  Pauline  to  love  me !"  he  cried  next  morning,  look- 
ing at  the  talisman  the  while  in  unspeakable  anguish. 

The  skin  did  not  move  in  the  least;  it  seemed  to  have  lost 
its  i^ower  to  shrink;  doubtless  it  could  not  fulfil  a  wish  ful- 
filled already. 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  Raphael,  feeling  as  if  a  mantle  of  lead 
had  fallen  away,  which  he  had  worn  ever  since  the  day  when 
the  talisman  had  been  given  to  him ;  "so  you  are  playing  me 
false,  you  are  not  obeying  me,  the  pact  is  broken !  I  am 
free ;  I  shall  live.  Then  was  it  all  a  wretched  joke  ?"  But  he 
did  not  dare  to  believe  in  his  own  thought  as  he  uttered  it. 

He  dressed  himself  as  simply  as  had  formerly  been  his 
wont,  and  set  out  on  foot  for  his  old  lodging,  trying  to  go 
back  in  fancy  to  the  happy  days  when  he  abandoned  himself 
without  peril  to  vehement  desires,  the  days  when  he  had  not 
3^et  condemned  all  human  enjoyment.  As  he  walked  he  be- 
held Pauline — not  the  Pauline  of  the  Hotel  Saint-Quentin, 
but  the  Pauline  of  last  evening.  Here  was  the  accomplished 
mistress  he  had  so  often  dreamed  of,  the  intelligent  young 
girl  with  the  loving  nature  and  artistic  temperament,  who 
understood  poets,  who  understood  poetry,  and  lived  in  lux- 
urious surroundings.  Here,  in  short,  was  Foedora,  gifted 
with  a  great  soul;  or  Pauline  become  a  coantess,  and  twice  a 
millionaire,  as  Fcedorti  had  been.  When  he  reached  the  worn 
threshold,  and  stood  upon  the  broken  step  at  the  door,  where 
in  old  days  he  had  had  so  many  desperate  thoughts,  an  old 
woman  came  out  of  the  room  within  and  spoke  to  him. 

"You  are  M.  Raphael  de  Valentin,  are  you  not?" 

"Yes,  good  mother,"  he  replied. 

"You  know  your  old  room  then,"  she  replied;  "you  are 
expected  up  there." 


194  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

"Does  Mme.  Gaiidin  still  own  the  house?"  Raphael  asked. 

"Oh  no,  sir.  Mme.  Gaudin  is  a  baroness  now.  She  lives  in 
a  fine  house  of  her  own  on  the  other  side  of  the  river.  Her 
husband  has  come  back.  My  goodness,  he  brought  back 
thousands  and  thousands.  They  say  she  could  buy  up  all  the 
Quartier  Saint-Jacques  if  she  liked.  She  gave  me  her  base- 
ment room  for  nothing,  and  the  remainder  of  her  lease.  Ah, 
she's  a  kind  woman  all  the  same ;  she  is  no  more  proud  to-day 
than  she  was  yesterday," 

Eaphael  hurried  up  the  staircase  to  his  garret ;  as  he  reached 
the  last  few  steps  he  heard  the  sounds  of  a  piano.  Pauline 
was  there,  simply  dressed  in  a  cotton  gown,  but  the  way  that 
it  was  made,  like  the  gloves,  hat,  and  shawl  that  she  had 
thrown  down  carelessly  upon  the  bed,  revealed  a  change  of 
fortune. 

"Ah,  there  you  are !"  cried  Pauline,  turning  her  head,  and 
rising  with  unconcealed  delight. 

Eaphael  went  to  sit  beside  her,  flushed,  confused,  and 
happy;  he  looked  at  her  in  silence. 

"Why  did  you  leave  us  then?"  she  asked,  dropping  her  eyes 
as  the  flush  deepened  on  his  face.    "What  became  of  you  ?" 

"Ah,  I  have  been  very  miserable,  Pauline;  I  am  very  mis- 
erable still." 

"Alas !"  she  said,  filled  with  pitying  tenderness.  "I  guessed 
your  fate  yesterday  when  I  saw  you  so  well  dressed,  and  ap- 
parently so  wealthy;  but  in  reality?  Eh,  M.  Eaphael,  is  it 
as  it  always  used  to  be  with  you?" 

Valentin  could  not  restrain  the  tears  that  sprang  to  his 
eyes. 

"Pauline,"  he  exclaimed,  "I " 

He  went  no  further,  love  sparkled  in  his  eyes,  and  his  emo- 
tion overflowed  his  face. 

"Oh,  he  loves  me  !  he  loves  me  !"  cried  Pauline. 

Eaphael  felt  himself  unable  to  say  one  word ;  he  bent  his 
head.  The  young  girl  took  his  hand  at  this;  she  pressed  it 
as  she  said,  half  sobbing  and  half  laughing: — 

"Eich,  rich,  happy  and  rich !    Your  Pauline  is  rich.     But 


THE  AGONY  195 

I?  Oh,  I  ought  to  be  very  pocr  to-day.  I  have  said,  times 
without  number,  that  I  would  give  all  the  wealth  upon  this 
earth  for  those  words,  'He  loves  me !'  0  my  Raphael !  I  have 
millions.  You  like  luxury,  you  will  be  glad;  but  you  must 
love  me  and  my  heart  besides,  for  there  is  so  much  love  for 
you  in  my  hexirt.  You  don't  know?  My  father  has  come 
back.  I  am  a  wealthy  heiress.  Both  he  and  my  mother  leave 
me  completely  free  to  decide  my  own  fate.  I  am  free — do 
you  understand?" 

Seized  with  a  kind  of  frenzy,  Raphael  grasped  Pauline's 
hands  and  kissed  them  eagerly  and  vehemently,  with  an  al- 
most convulsive  caress.  Pauline  drew  her  hands  awaj'',  laid 
them  on  Raphael's  shoulders,  and  drew  him  towards  her. 
They  understood  one  another — in  that  close  embrace,  in  the 
unalloyed  and  sacred  fervor  of  that  one  kiss  without  an  after- 
thought— the  first  kiss  by  which  two  souls  take  possession  of 
each  other. 

"Ah,  I  will  not  leave  3^ou  any  more,"  said  Pauline,  falling 
back  in  her  chair.  "I  do  not  know  how  I  come  to  be  so  bold. !" 
she  added,  blushing. 

"Bold,  my  Pauline?  Do  not  fear  it.  It  is  love,  love  true 
and  deep  and  everlasting  like  my  own,  is  it  not  ?" 

"Speak !"  she  cried,  "Go  on  speaking,  so  long  your  lips 
have  been  dumb  for  me." 

"Then  you  have  loved  me  all  along  ?" 

"Loved  you?  Mon  Dieu!  How  often  I  have  wept  here, 
setting  your  room  straight,  and  grieving  for  your  poverty 
and  my  own.  I  would  have  sold  myself  to  the  evil  one  to 
spare  you  one  vexation !  You  are  my  Raphael  to-day,  really 
my  own  Raphael,  with  that  handsome  head  of  yours,  and 
your  heart  is  mine  too ;  3'es,  that  above  all,  your  heart — 0 
wealth  inexhaustible  !  Well,  where  was  I  ?"  she  went  on  after 
a  pause.  "Oh  yes !  We  have  three,  four,  or  five  millions,  I 
believe.  If  I  were  poor,  I  should  perhaps  desire  to  bear  your 
name,  to  be  acknowledged  as  your  wife ;  but  as  it  is,  I  would 
give  up  the  whole  world  for  vou,  T  would  be  your  servant 
still,  now  and  always.    Why,  Raphael;  if  I  give  you  my  for- 


196  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

tune,  my  heart,  myself  to-day,  I  do  no  more  than  I  did  thai 
day  when  I  put  a  certain  five-franc  piece  in  the  drawer 
there,"  and  she  pointed  to  the  table.  "Oh,  how  your  exnlta- 
tion  hurt  me  then  !" 

"Oh,  why  are  you  rich  ?"  Raphael  cried ;  "why  is  there  no 
vanity  in  you  ?    I  can  do  nothing  for  you." 

He  wrung  his  hands  in  despair  and  happiness  and  love. 

"When  you  are  the  Marquise  de  Valentin,  I  know  that  the 
title  and  the  fortune  for  thee,  heavenly  soul,  will  not  be 
worth " 

"One  hair  of  your  head,"  she  cried. 

"I  have  millions  too.  But  what  is  wealth  to  either  of  us 
now  ?    There  is  my  life — ah,  that  I  can  offer,  take  it." 

"Your  love,  Raphael,  your  love  is  all  the  world  to  me.  Are 
your  thoughts  of  me  ?    I  am  the  happiest  of  the  happy  !" 

"Can  any  one  overhear  us  ?"  asked  Raphael. 

"Nobody,"  she  replied,  and  a  mischievous  gesture  escaped 
her. 

"Oome,  then !"  cried  Valentin,  holding  out  his  arms. 

She  sprang  upon  his  knees  and  clasped  her  arms  about  his 
neck. 

"Kiss  me !"  she  cried,  "after  all  the  pain  you  have  given 
me;  to  blot  out  the  memory  of  the  grief  that  your  joys  have 
caused  me;  and  for  the  sake  of  the  nights  that  I  spent  in 
painting  hand-screens " 

"Those  hand-screens  of  yours  ?" 

"Now  that  we  are  rich,  my  darling,  I  can  tell  you  all  about 
it.  Poor  boy !  how  easy  it  is  to  delude  a  clever  man !  Could 
you  have  had  white  waistcoats  and  clean  shirts  twice  a  week 
for  three  francs  every  month  to  the  laundress?  Why,  you 
used  to  drink  twice  as  much  milk  as  your  money  would  have 
paid  for.  1  deceived  you  all  round — over  firing,  oil,  and  eve)- 
money.  0  Raphael  mine,  don't  have  me  for  your  wife,  I  a^ii 
far  too  cunning !"  she  said  laughing. 

"But  how  did  you  manage  ?" 

"I  used  to  work  till  two  o'clock  in  the  morning ;  I  gave  m\ 


THE  AGONY  197 

mother  half  the  money  made  by  my  screens,  and  the  other 
half  went  to  you." 

They  looked  at  one  another  for  a  moment,  Loth  bewildered 
by  love  and  gladness. 

"Some  day  we  shall  have  to  pay  for  this  happiness  by  some 
terrible  sorrow,"  cried  Kaphael. 

"Perhaps  you  are  married?"  said  Pauline.  "Oh,  I  will 
not  give  you  up  to  any  other  woman." 

"I  am  free,  my  beloved." 

"Free  !"  she  repeated.    "Free,  and  mine  !" 

She  slipped  down  upon  her  knees,  clasped  her  hands,  and 
looked  at  Eaphael  in  an  enthusiasm  of  devotion. 

"I  am  afraid  I  shall  go  mad.  How  handsome  you  are !" 
she  went  on,  passing  her  fingers  through  her  lover's  fair  hair. 
"How  stupid  your  Countess  Foedora  is !  How  pleased  I  was 
yesterday  with  the  homage  they  all  paid  to  me !  She  has 
never  been  applauded.  Dear,  when  I  felt  your  arm  against 
my  back,  I  heard  a  vague  voice  within  me  that  cried,  'He  if: 
there !'  and  I  turned  round  and  saw  you.  I  fled,  for  I  longed 
so  to  throw  my  arms  about  you  before  them  all." 

"How  happy  you  are — you  can  speak !"  Eaphael  exclaimed. 
"My  heart  is  overwhelmed ;  I  would  weep,  but  I  cannot.  Do 
not  draw  your  hand  away.  I  could  stay  here  looking  at  you 
like  this  for  the  rest  of  my  life,  I  think ;  happy  and  content." 

"0  my  love,  say  that  once  more !" 

"Ah,  what  are  words?"  answered  Valentin,  letting  a  hot 
tear  fall  on  Pauline's  hands.  "Some  time  I  will  tr}'  to  tell 
you  of  my  love ;  just  now  I  can  only  feel  it." 

"You,"  she  said,  "with  your  lofty  soul  and  your  great 
genius,  with  that  heart  of  yours  that  I  know  so  well ;  are  you 
really  mine,  as  I  am  yours  ?" 

"For  ever  and  ever,  my  sweet  creature,"  said  Raphael  in  an 
uncertain  voice.  "You  shall  be  my  wife,  my  protecting  angel. 
My  griefs  have  always  been  dispelled  by  your  presence,  and 
my  courage  revived;  tbat  angelic  srnile  now  on  your  lips  has 
purified  me,  so  to  speak.  A  new  life  seems  about  to  begin  for 
me.    The  cruel  past  and  my  wretched  follies  are  hardly  more 

VOL.  I — 18 


198  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

to  me  tlian  evil  dreams.  At  your  side  I  breathe  an  at- 
mosphere of  happiness,  and  I  am  pure.  Be  with  me  always," 
he  added,  pressing  her  solemnly  to  his  beating  heart. 

"Death  may  come  when  it  will,"  said  Pauline  in  ecstasy; 
"I  have  lived !" 

Happy  he  who  shall  divine  their  joy,  for  he  must  have 
experienced  it. 

"I  wish  that  no  one  might  enter  this  dear  garret  again, 
my  Eaphael,"  said  Pauline,  after  two  hours  of  silence. 

'^e  must  have  the  door  walled  up,  put  bars  across  the 
window,  and  buy  the  house,"  the  Marquis  answered. 

"Yes,  we  will,"  she  said.  Then  a  moment  later  she  added : 
"Our  search  for  your  manuscripts  has  been  a  little  lost  sight 
of,"  and  they  both  laughed  like  children. 

"Pshaw !  I  don't  care  a  jot  for  the  whole  circle  of  the 
sciences,"  Raphael  answered. 

"Ah,  sir,  and  how  about  glory  ?" 

"I  glory  in  you  alone." 

"You  used  to  be  very  miserable  as  you  made  these  little 
scratches  and  scrawls,"  she  said,  turning  the  papers  over. 

"My  Pauline '" 

"Oh  yes,  I  am  your  Paulino — and  what  then?" 

'^Vhere  are  you  living  now  ?" 

"In  the  Eue  Saint  Lazare.    And  you  ?" 

"In  the  Rue  de  Varenne." 

"What   a  long  way  apart  we  shall  be  until "     She 

stopped,  and  looked  at  her  lover  with  a  mischievous  and  co- 
quettish expression. 

"But  at  the  most  we  need  only  be  separated  for  a  fort- 
night," Raphael  answered. 

"Really!  we  are  to  be  married  in  a  fortnight?"  and  she 
juniped  for  joy  like  a  child. 

"I  am  an  unnatural  daughter !"  she  went  on.  "I  give  no 
more  thought  to  my  father  or  my  mother,  or  to  anything  in 
the  world.  Poor  love,  you  don't  know  that  my  father  is  verv 
ill?  He  returned  from  the  Indies  in  very  bad  health.  He 
nearly  died  at  Haviv,  where  we  went  to  find  him.     Good 


THE  AGONY  199 

heavens!"  she  cried,  looking  at  her  watch;  "it  is  three  o  clock 
already !  I  ought  to  bo  back  again  when  he  wakes  at  four. 
I  am  mistress  of  the  house  at  home;  my  mother  does  every- 
thing that  I  wish,  and  my  father  worships  me ;  but  I  will  not 
abuse  their  kindness,  that  would  be  wrong.  My  poor  father ! 
He  would  have  me  go  to  the  Italiens  yesterday.  You  will 
come  to  see  him  to-morrow,  will  3'ou  not  ?" 

"Will  Madame  la  Marquise  de  Valentin  honor  me  by  tak- 
ing my  arm?" 

"I  am  going  to  take  the  key  of  this  room  away  with  me," 
she  said.    "Isn't  our  treasure-house  a  palace  ?" 

"One  more  kiss,  Pauline." 

"A  thousand,  mon  Dieu!"  she  said,  looking  at  Eaphael. 
"Will  it  always  be  like  this?    I  feel  as  if  I  were  dreaming." 

They  went  slowly  down  the  stairs  together,  step  for  step, 
with  arms  closely  linked,  trembling  both  of  them  beneath 
their  load  of  joy.  Each  pressing  close  to  the  other's  side, 
like  a  pair  of  doves,  they  reached  the  Place  de  la  Sorbonne, 
where  Pauline's  carriage  was  waiting. 

"I  want  to  go  home  with  you,"  she  said.  "I  want  to  see 
your  own  room  and  your  study,  and  to  sit  at  the  table  where 
you  work.    It  will  be  like  old  times,"  she  said,  blushing. 

She  spoke  to  the  servant.  "Joseph,  before  returning  home 
I  am  going  to  the  Eue  de  Varenne.  It  is  a  quarter-past  three 
now,  and  I  must  be  back  again  by  four  o'clock.  George  must 
hurry  the  horses."  And  so  in  a  few  moments  the  lovers  came 
to  Valentin's  abode. 

"How  glad  I  am  to  have  seen  all  this  for  myself !"  Pauline 
cried,  creasing  the  silken  bed-curtains  in  Eaphael's  room  be- 
tween her  fingers.  "As  I  go  to  sleep,  I  shall  be  here  in 
thought.  I  shall  imagine  j'our  dear  head  on  the  pillow  there. 
Raphael,  tell  me,  did  no  one  advise  you  about  the  furniture 
of  your  hotel  ?" 

"Fo  one  whatever." 

"Really  ?    It  was  not  a  woman  who " 

"Pauline !" 

"Oh,  I  know  I  am  fearfully  jealous.  You  have  good  taste. 
I  will  have  a  bed  like  yours  to-morrow." 


200  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

Qttite  beside  himself  with  happiness,  Eaphael  caught  Pau- 
line in  his  arms. 

"Oh,  my  father !"  she  said ;  "my  father " 

"I  will  take  you  back  to  him,"  cried  Valentin,  "for  I  want 
to  be  away  from  you  as  little  as  possible," 

"How  loving  vou  are !  I  did  not  venture  to  suggeffi 
it " 

"Are  you  not  my  life  ?" 

It  would  be  tedious  to  set  down  accurately  the  charming 
prattle  of  the  lovers,  for  tones  and  looks  and  gestures  that 
cannot  be  rendered  alone  gave  it  significance.  Valentin  went 
back  with  Pauline  to  her  own  door,  and  returned  mth  as 
much  happiness  in  his  heart  as  mortal  man  can  know. 

When  he  was  seated  in  his  armchair  beside  the  tire,  think- 
ing over  the  sudden  and  complete  way  in  which  his  wishes 
had  been  fulfilled,  a  cold  shiver  went  through  him,  as  if  the 
blade  of  a  dagger  had  been  plunged  into  his  breast — he 
thought  of  the  Magic  Skin,  and  saw  that  it  had  shrunk 
a  little.  He  uttered  the  most  tremendous  of  French  oaths, 
without  any  of  the  Jesuitical  reservations  made  by  the  Ab- 
bess of  Andouillettes,  leant  his  head  against  the  back  of  the 
chair,  and  sat  motionless,  fixing  his  unseeing  eyes  upon  the 
bracket  of  the  curtain  pole. 

"Good  God  !"  he  cried ;  "every  wish  !  Every  desire  of  mine  J 
Poor  Pauline  ! " 

He  took  a  pair  of  compasses  and  measured  the  extent  of 
existence  that  the  morning  had  cost  him. 

"I  have  scarcely  enough  for  two  months  !"  he  said. 

A  cold  sweat  broke  out  over  him ;  moved  by  an  ungovern- 
able spasm  of  rage,  he  seized  the  Magic  Skin,  exclaiming : 

"I  am  a  perfect  fool !" 

He  rushed  out  of  the  house  and  across  the  garden,  and 
flung  the  talisman  down  a  well. 

"Vogue  la  galere/'  cried  he.  "The  devil  take  all  this  non- 
sense." 

So  Paphael  gave  himself  up  to  the  happiness  of  being 
beloved,  and  led  with  Pauline  the  life  of  heart  and  heart. 


THE  AGONY  901 

Difficulties  which  it  would  be  somewhat  tedious  to  describe 
had  delayed  their  marriage,  which  was  to  take  place  early 
in  March.  Each  was  sure  of  the  other;  their  affection  had 
been  tried,  and  happiness  had  taught  them  how  strong  it 
was.  Never  has  love  made  two  souls,  two  natures,  so  ab- 
solutely one.  The  more  they  came  to  know  of  each  other 
the  more  they  loved.  On  either  side  there  was  the  same 
hesitating  delicacy,  the  same  transports  of  joy  such  as  angels 
know ;  there  were  no  clouds  in  their  heaven ;  the  will  of  either 
was  the  other's  law. 

Wealthy  as  they  both  were,  they  had  not  a  caprice  which 
they  could  not  gratify,  and  for  that  reason  had  no  caprices. 
A  refined  taste,  a  feeling  for  beauty  and  poetry,  was  instinct 
in  the  soul  of  the  bride ;  her  lover's  smile  was  more  to  her 
than  all  the  pearls  of  Ormuz.  She  disdained  feminine 
finery;  a  muslin  dress  and  flowers  formed  her  most  elaborate 
toilette. 

Pauline  and  Eaphael  shunned  every  one  else,  for  solitude 
was  abundantly  beautiful  to  them.  The  idlers  at  the  Opera, 
or  at  the  Italiens,  saw  this  charming  and  unconventional 
pair  evening  after  evening.  Some  gossip  went  the  round  of  the 
salons  at  first,  but  the  harmless  lovers  were  soon  forgotten  in 
the  course  of  events  which  took  place  in  Paris;  their 
marriage  was  announced  at  length  to  excuse  them  in  the 
eyes  of  the  prudish ;  and  as  it  happened,  their  servants  did 
not  babble;  so  their  bliss  did  not  draw  down  upon  them  any 
very  severe  punishment. 

One  morning  towards  the  end  of  February,  at  the  time 
when  the  brightening  days  bring  a  belief  in  the  nearness  of 
the  joys  of  spring,  Pauline  and  Raphael  were  breakfasting 
together  in  a  small  conservatory,  a  kind  of  drawing-room 
filled  with  flowers,  on  a  level  with  the  garden.  The  mild 
rays  of  the  pale  winter  sunlight,  breaking  through  the  thicket 
of  exotic  plants,  warmed  the  air  somewhat.  The  vivid  con- 
trast made  by  the  varieties  of  foliage,  the  colors  of  the 
masses  of  flowering  shrubs,  the  freaks  of  light  and  shadow, 
gladdened  the  eyes.     While  all  the  rest  of  Paris  still  sought 


202  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

warmth  from  its  melancholy  hearth,  these  two  were  laugh- 
ing in  a  bower  of  camellias,  lilacs,  and  blossoming  heath. 
Their  happy  faces  rose  above  lilies  of  the  valley,  narcissus 
blooms,  and  Bengal  roses.  A  mat  of  plaited  African  grass, 
variegated  like  a  carpet,  lay  beneath  their  feet  in  this 
hixurious  conservatory.  The  walls,  covered  with  a  green 
linen  material,  bore  no  traces  of  damp.  The  surfaces  of  the 
rustic  wooden  furniture  shone  with  cleanliness.  A  kitten, 
attracted  by  the  odor  of  milk,  had  established  itself  upon 
the  table ;  it  allowed  Pauline  to  bedabble  it  in  coffee ;  she  was 
playing  merrily  with  it,  taking  away  the  cream  that  she  had 
just  allowed  the  kitten  to  sniff  at,  so  as  to  exercise  its 
patience,  and  keep  up  the  contest.  She  burst  out  laughing 
at  every  antic,  and  by  the  comical  remarks  she  constantly 
made,  she  liindered  Eaphael  from  perusing  the  paper ;  he  had 
dropped  it  a  dozen  times  already.  This  morning  picture 
seemed  to  overflow  with  inexpressible  gladness,  like  every- 
thing that  is  natural  and  genuine. 

Eaphael,  still  pretending  to  read  his  paper,  furtively 
watched  Pauline  with  the  cat — his  Pauline,  in  the  dressing- 
gown  that  hung  carelessly  about  her;  his  Pauline,  with  her 
hair  loose  on  her  shoulders,  with  a  tiny,  white,  blue-veined 
foot  peeping  out  of  a  velvet  slipper.  It  was  pleasant  to 
see  her  in  this  negligent  dress;  she  was  delightful  as  some 
fanciful  picture  by  Westall;  half -girl,  half-woman,  as  she 
seemed  to  be,  or  perhaps  more  of  a  girl  than  a  woman,  there 
was  no  alloy  in  the  happiness  she  enjoyed,  and  of  love  she 
knew  as  yet  only  its  first  ecstasy.  When  Raphael,  absorbed 
in  happy  musing,  had  forgotten  the  existence  of  the  news- 
paper, Pauline  flew  upon  it,  crumpled  it  up  into  a  ball,  and 
throw  it  out  into  the  garden;  the  kitten  sprang  after  the 
rotating  object,  which  spun  round  and  round,  as  politics 
are  wont  to  do.  This  childish  scene  recalled  Raphael  to 
himself.  He  would  have  gone  on  reading,  and  felt  for  the  sheet 
that  ho  no  longer  possessod.  Joyous  laughter  rang  out  like 
the  song  of  a  bird,  one  peal  leading  to  another. 

"I  am  quite  jealous  of  the  paper,"  she  said,  as  she  wiped 


THE  AGONY  203 

rtvay  the  tears  that  her  childlike  merriment  had  brought 
into  her  eyes.  "Now,  is  it  not  a  heinous  offence,"  she  ^eiit 
on,  as  she  became  a  woman  all  at  once,  "to  read  Russian 
proclamations  in  my  presence,  and  to  attend  to  the  prosings 
of  the  Emperor  Nicholas  rather  than  to  looks  and  words  of 
love  V 

"I  was  not  reading,  my  dear  angel;  I  was  looking  at 
you." 

Just  then  the  gravel  walk  outside  the  conservatory  rang 
with  the  sound  of  the  gardener's  heavily  nailed  boots. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  my  Lord  Marquis — and  yours,  too, 
madame — if  I  am  intruding,  but  I  have  brought  you  a 
curiosity  the  like  of  which  I  never  set  eyes  on.  Drawing  a 
bucket  of  water  just  now,  with  due  respect,  I  got  out  this 
strange  salt-water  plant.  Here  it  is.  It  must  be  thoroughly 
used  to  water,  anyhow,  for  it  isn't  saturated  or  even  damp 
at  all.  It  is  as  dry  as  a  piece  of  wood,  and  has  not  swelled 
a  bit.  As  my  Lord  Marquis  certainly  knows  a  great  deal 
more  about  things  than  I  do,  I  thought  I  ought  to 
bring  it,  and  that  it  would  interest  him." 

Therewith  the  gardener  showed  Eaphael  the  inexorable 
piece  of  skin ;  there  were  barely  six  square  inches  of  it  left. 

"Thanks,  Vaniere,"  Eaphael  said.  "The  thing  is  very 
curious." 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you,  my  angel;  you  are  grow- 
ing quite  white !"  Pauline  cried. 

"You  can  go,  Vaniere." 

"Your  voice  frightens  me,"  the  girl  went  on;  "it  is  so 
strangely  altered.  What  is  it?  How  are  you  feeling? 
Where  is  the  pain?  You  are  in  pain! — Jonathan!  here! 
call  a  doctor !"  she  cried. 

"Hush,  my  Pauline,"  Eaphael  answered,  as  he  regained 
composure.  "Let  us  get  up  and  go.  Some  flower  here  has 
a  scent  that  is  too  much  for  me.  It  is  that  verbena,  per- 
haps." 

Pauline  flew  upon  the  innocent  plant,  seized  it  by  the 
stalk,  and  flung  it  out  into  the  garden;  then  with  all  the 


204  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

might  of  the  love  between  them,  she  clasped  Raphael  in  a 
close  embrace,  and  with  languishing  coquetry  raised  her  red 
lips  to  his  for  a  kiss. 

"Dear  angel,"  she  cried,  "when  I  saw  you  turn  so  white, 
I  understood  that  I  could  not  live  on  without  you ;  your 
life  is  my  life  too.  Lay  your  hand  on  my  back,  Raphael 
mine;  I  feel  a  chill  like  death.  The  feeling  of  cold  is  there 
yet.  Your  lips  are  burning.  Hdw  is  your  hand? — Cold  as 
ice,"  she  added. 

"Mad  girl !"  exclaimed  Raphael. 

"AVhy  that  tear?     Let  me  drink  it." 

"0  Pauline,  Pauline,  you  love  me  far  too  much !" 

"There  is  something  very  extraordinary  going  on  in  your 
mind,  Raphael !  Do  not  dissimulate.  I  shall  very  soon 
find  out  your  secret.  Give  that  to  me,"  she  went  on,  taking 
the  Magic  Skin. 

"You  are  my  executioner !"  the  young  man  exclaimed, 
glancing  in  horror  at  the  talisman. 

"How  changed  your  voice  is !"  cried  Pauline,  as  she 
dropped  the  fatal  symbol  of  destiny. 

"Do  you  love  me?"  he  asked. 

"Do  I  love  you  ?     Is  there  any  doubt  ?" 

"Then,  leave  me ;  go  away !" 

The  poor  child  went. 

"So !"  cried  Raphael,  when  he  was  alone.  "In  an  en- 
lightened age,  when  we  have  found  out  that  diamonds  are  a 
crystallized  form  of  charcoal,  at  a  time  when  everything  is 
made  clear,  when  the  police  would  hale  a  new  Messiah  before 
the  magistrates,  and  submit  his  miracles  to  the  Academic  des 
Sciences — in  an  epoch  when  we  no  longer  believe  in  any- 
thing but  a  notary's  signature — that  I,  forsooth,  should 
believe  in  a  sort  of  Mene,  Telcel,  Upharsin!  No,  by  Heaven, 
I  will  not  believe  that  the  Supreme  Being  would  take 
pleasure  in  torturing  a  harmless  creature. — Let  us  see  the 
learned  about  it." 

Between  the  Hallo  des  Vins,  with  its  extensive  assembly 
of  barrels,  and  the  Salpetriere,  that  extensive  seminary  of. 


THE  AdONY  205 

drunkenness,  lies  a  small  pond,  which  TJaphael  soon  reached. 
All  sorts  of  ducks  of  rare  varieties  were  there  disporting 
themselves ;  their  colored  markings  shone  in  the  sun  like  the 
glass  in  cathedral  windows.  Every  kind  of  duck  in  the 
world  was  represented,  quacking,  dahbling,  and  moving 
about — a  kind  of  parliament  of  ducks  assembled  against  its 
will,  but  luckily  without  either  charter  or  political  principles, 
living  in  complete  immunity  from  sportsmen,  under  the 
eyes  of  any  naturalist  that  chanced  to  see  them. 

"That  is  M.  Lavrille,"  said  one  of  the  keepers  to  Eaphael, 
who  had  asked  for  that  high  priest  of  zoology. 

The  Marquis  saw  a  short  man  buried  in  profound  re- 
flections, caused  by  the  appearance  of  a  pair  of  ducks.  The 
man  of  science  was  middle-aged;  he  had  a  pleasant  face, 
made  pleasanter  still  by  a  kindly  expression,  but  an  absorp- 
tion in  scientific  ideas  engrossed  his  whole  person.  His 
peruke  was  strangely  turned  up,  by  being  constantly  raised 
to  scratch  his  head;  so  that  a  line  of  white  hair  was  left 
plainly  visible,  a  witness  to  an  enthusiasm  for  investiga- 
tion, which,  like  every  other  strong  passion,  so  withdraws 
as  from  mundane  considerations,  that  we  lose  all  conscious- 
ness of  the  "I"  within  us.  Raphael,  the  student  and  man 
of  science,  looked  respectfully  at  the  naturalist,  who  devoted 
his  nights  to  enlarging  the  limits  of  human  knowledge,  and 
whose  very  errors  reflected  glory  upon  France;  but  a 
she-coxcomb  would  have  laughed,  no  doubt,  at  the  break 
in  continuity  between  the  breeches  and  striped  waistcoat 
worn  jy  the  man  of  learning;  the  interval,  moreover,  was 
modestly  filled  by  a  shirt  which  had  been  considerably 
creased,  for  he  stooped  and  raised  himself  by  turns,  as  his 
zoological  observations  required. 

After  the  first  interchange  of  civilities,  Raphael  thought  it 
necessary  to  pay  M.  Lavrille  a  banal  compliment  upon  his 
ducks. 

"Oh,  we  are  well  off  for  ducks,"  the  naturalist  replied. 
"The  genus,  moreover,  as  you  doubtless  know,  is  the  most 
prolific  in  the  order  of  palmipeds.       It   begins   with  the 


206  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

swan  and  ends  with  the  zin-zin  duck,  comprising  in  all  one 
hundred  and  thirty-seven  very  distinct  varieties,  each  hav- 
ing its  own  name,  habits,  country,  and  character,  and  every 
one  no  more  lil^e  another  than  a  white  man  is  like  a  negro. 
Eeally,  sir,  when  we  dine  off  a  duck,  we  have  no  notion  for 
the  most  part  of  the  vast  extent " 

He  interrupted  himself  as  he  saw  a  small  pretty   duck 
come  up  to  the  surface  of  the  pond. 

"There  you  see  the  cravatted  swan,  a  poor  native  of 
Canada ;  he  has  come  a  very  long  way  to  show  us  his  bro\yn 
and  gray  plumage  and  his  little  black  cravat !  Look,  he  is 
preening  himself.  That  one  is  the  famous  eider  duck  that 
provides  the  down,  the  eider-down  under  which  our  fine 
ladies  sleep;  isn't  it  pretty?  Who  would  not  admire  the 
little  pinkish  white  breast  and  the  green  beak?  I  have  just 
been  a  witness,  sir,"  he  went  on,  "to  a  marriage  that  I  had 
long  despaired  of  bringing  about;  they  have  paired  rather 
auspicioush%  and  I  shall  await  the  results  very  eagerly. 
This  will  be  a  hundred  and  thirty-eighth  species,  I  flatter  my- 
self, to  which,  perhaps,  my  name  will  be  given.  That  is  the 
newly  mated  pair,"  he  said,  pointing  out  two  of  the  ducks ; 
"one  of  them  is  a  laughing  goose  {anas  albifrons),  and  the 
other  the  great  whistling  duck,  Buffon's  anas  ruffina.  1 
have  hesitated  a  long  while  between  the  whistling  duck,  the 
duck  with  white  eyebrows,  and  the  shoveler  duck  {anas 
clypeata).  Stay,  that  is  the  shoveler — that  fat,  brownish 
black  rascal,  with  the  greenish  neck  and  that  coquettish 
iridescence  on  it.  But  the  whistling  duck  was  a  crested 
one,  sir,  and  you  will  understand  that  I  deliberated  no  longer. 
We  only  lack  the  variegated  black-capped  duck  now.  These 
gentlemen  here,  inianimously  claim  that  that  variety  of  duck 
is  only  a  repetition  of  the  curve-beaked  teal,  but  for  my  ovn 
part," — and  the  gesture  he  made  was  worth  seeing.  It  ex- 
pressed at  once  the  modesty  and  pride  of  a  man  of  science ; 
the  pride  full  of  obstinacy,  and  the  modesty  well  tempered 
with  assurance. 

"I  don't  think  it  is,"  he  added.     "You  see,  my  dear  ciV; 


THE  AGONY  201 

that  we  are  not  amusing  ourselves  here.  I  am  engaged  at 
this  moment  upon  a  monograph  on  the  genus  duck.  But  I 
am  at  your  disposal." 

While  they  went  towards  a  rather  pleasant  house  in  the 
Eue  de  Buffon,  Eaphael  submitted  the  skin  to  M.  Lavrille's 
inspection. 

"I  know  the  product,"  said  the  man  of  science,  when  he 
had  turned  his  magnifying  glass  upon  the  talisman.  "It 
used  to  be  used  for  covering  boxes.  The  shagreen  is  very 
old.  They  prefer  to  use  skate's  skin  nowadays  for  making 
sheaths.  This,  as  you  are  doubtless  aware,  is  the  hide  of  the 
raja  sephen,  a  Eed  Sea  fish." 

"But  this,  sir,  since  you  are  so  exceedingly  good " 

"This,"  the  man  of  science  interrupted,  as  he  resumed, 
"this  is  quite  another  thing;  between  these  two  shagreens, 
sir,  there  is  a  difference  just  as  wide  as  between  sea  and  land, 
or  fish  and  flesh.  The  fish's  skin  is  harder,  however,  than 
the  skin  of  the  land  animal.  This,"  he  said,  as  he  indicated 
the  talisman,  "is,  as  you  doubtless  know,  one  of  the  most 
curious  of  zoological  products." 

"But  to  proceed "  said  Eaphael. 

"This,"  replied  the  man  of  science,  as  he  flung  himself 
down  into  his  armchair,  "is  an  ass'  skin,  sir." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  the  young  man. 

"A  very  rare  variety  of  ass  is  found  in  Persia,"  the 
naturalist  continued,  "the  onager  of  the  ancients,  equus 
asinus,  the  Tcoulan  of  the  Tartars;  Pallas  went  out  there  to 
observe  it,  and  has  made  it  known  to  science,  for  as  a  matter 
of  fact  the  animal  for  a  long  time  was  believed  to  be 
mythical.  It  's  mentioned,  as  you  know,  in  Holy  Scripture; 
Moses  forbade  that  is  should  be  coupled  with  its  own  species, 
and  the  onager  is  yet  more  famous  for  the  prostitutions  of 
which  it  was  the  object,  and  which  are  often  mentioned  by 
the  prophets  of  the  Bible.  Pallas,  as  you  know  doubtless, 
states  in  his  Act.  Petrop.  tome  II.,  that  these  bizarre  excesses 
are  still  devoutly  believed  in  among  the  Persians  and  the 
Nogais  as  a  sovereign  remedy  for  lumbago  and  sciatic  gout 


208  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

We  poor  Parisians  scarcely  believe  that.     The  Museum  has 
no  example  of  the  onager. 

"What  a  magnificent  animal !"  he  continued.  "It  is  full 
of  mystery;  its  eyes  are  provided  with  a  sort  of  burnished 
covering,  to  which  the  Orientals  attribute  the  powers  of 
fascination;  it  has  a  glossier  and  finer  coat  than  our  hand- 
somest horses  possess,  striped  with  more  or  loss  tawny  bands, 
very  much  like  the  zebra's  hide.  There  is  something  pliant 
and  silky  about  its  hair,  which  is  sleek  to  the  touch.  Its 
powers  of  sight  vie  in  precision  and  accuracy  with  those  of 
man;  it  is  rather  larger  than  our  largest  domestic  donkeys, 
and  is  possessed  of  extraordinary  courage.  If  it  is  surprised 
by  any  chance,  it  defends  itself  against  the  most  dangerous 
wild  beasts  with  remarkable  success ;  the  rapidity  of  its  move- 
ments can  only  be  compared  with  the  flight  of  birds;  an 
onager,  sir,  would  run  the  best  Arab  or  Persian  horses  to 
death.  According  to  the  father  of  the  conscientious  Doctor 
Niebuhr,  whose  recent  loss  we  are  deploring,  as  you  doubtless 
know,  the  ordinary  average  pace  of  one  of  these  wonderful 
creatures  would  be  seven  thousand  geometric  feet  per  hour. 
Our  own  degenerate  race  of  donkeys  can  give  no  idea  of  the 
ass  in  his  pride  and  independence.  He  is  active  and  spirited 
in  his  demeanor;  he  is  cunning  and  sagacious;  there  is  grace 
about  the  outlines  of  his  head ;  every  movement  is  full  of  at- 
tractive charm.  In  the  East  he  is  the  king  of  beasts. 
Turkish  and  Persian  superstition  even  credits  him  with  a 
mysterious  origin ;  and  when  stories  of  the  prowess  attributed 
to  him  are  told  in  Thibet  or  in  Tartary,  the  speakers  mingle 
Solomon's  name  with  that  of  this  noble  animal.  A  tame 
onager,  in  short,  is  worth  an  enormous  amount ;  it  is  well- 
nigh  impossible  to  catch  them  among  the  mountains,  where 
they  leap  like  roebucks,  and  seem  as  if  they  could  fly  like 
birds.  Our  myth  of  the  winged  horse,  our  Pegasus,  had  its 
origin  doubtless  in  these  countries,  where  the  shepherds  could 
see  the  onager  springing  from  one  rock  to  another.  In 
Persia  they  breed  assos  for  the  saddle,  a  cross  between  a 
tamed  onager  and  a  she-ass,  and  they  paint  them  red,  follow- 


THE  AGONY  209 

ing  immemorial  tradition.  Perhaps  it  was  this  custom  that 
gave  rise  to  our  own  proverb,  'Surely  as  a  red  donkey.'  At 
some  period  when  natural  history  was  much  neglected  in 
France,  I  think  a  traveler  must  have  brought  over  one  of 
these  strange  beasts  that  endures  servitude  with  such  im- 
patience. Hence  the  adage.  The  skin  that  you  have  laid 
before  me  is  the  skin  of  an  onager.  Opinions  differ  as  to 
the  origin  of  the  name.  Some  claim  that  Chagri  is  a 
Turkish  word;  others  insist  that  Chagri  must  be  the  name 
of  the  place  where  this  animal  product  underwent  the 
chemical  process  of  preparation  so  clearly  described  by 
Pallas,  to  which  the  peculiar  graining  that  we  admire  is 
due;  Martellens  has  written  to  me  saying  that  Chdagri  is  a 
river " 

"I  thank  you,  sir,  for  the  information  that  you  have  given 
me;  it  would  furnish  an  admirable  footnote  for  some  Dom 
Calmet  or  other,  if  such  erudite  hermits  yet  exist ;  but  I  have 
had  the  honor  of  pointing  out  to  you  that  this  scrap  was  in 
the  first  instance  quite  as  large  as  that  map,"  said  Kaphael, 
indicating  an  open  atlas  to  Lavrille;  "but  it  has  shrunk 
visibly  in  three  months'  time " 

"Quite  so,"  said  the  man  of  science.  "I  understand. 
The  remains  of  any  substance  primarily  organic  are 
naturally  subject  to  a  process  of  decay.  It  is  quite  easy  to 
understand,  and  its  progress  depends  upon  atmospherical 
conditions.  Even  metals  contract  and  expand  appreciably, 
for  engineers  have  remarked  somewhat  considerable  inter- 
stices between  great  blocks  of  stone  originally  clamped  to- 
gether with  iron  bars.  The  field  of  science  is  boundless,  but 
human  life  is  very  short,  so  that  we  do  not  claim  to  be  ac-i 
quainted  with  all  the  phenomena  of  nature."  ' 

"Pardon  the  question  that  I  am  about  to  ask  you,  sir," 
Raphael  began,  half  embarrassed,  "but  are  you  quite  sure  that 
this  piece  of  skin  is  subject  to  the  ordinary  laws  of  zoology, 
and  that  is  can  be  stretched?" 

"Certainly oh,    bother ! "    muttered    M.    Lavrille, 

trying  to  stretch  the  talisman.     "But  if  you,  sir,  will  go  to 


210  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

see  Planchette,"  he  added,  "the  celebrated  professor  of 
mechanics,  he  will  certainly  discover  some  method  of  acting 
upon  this  skin,  of  softening  and  expanding  it." 

"Ah,  sir,  you  are  the  preserver  of  my  life,"  and  Raphael 
took  leave  of  the  learned  naturalist  and  hurried  off  to 
Planchette,  leaving  the  worthy  Lavrille  in  his  study,  all 
among  the  bottles  and  dried  plants  that  filled  it  up. 

Quite  unconsciously  Eaphael  brought  away  with  him  from 
this  visit,  all  of  science  that  man  can  grasp,  a  terminology 
to  wit.  Lavrille,  the  worthy  man,  was  very  much  like 
Sancho  Panza  giving  to  Don  Quixote  the  history  of  the 
goats;  he  was  entertaining  himself  by  making  out  a  list  of 
animals  and  ticking  them  off.  Even  now  that  his  life  was 
nearing  its  end,  he  was  scarcely  acquainted  with  a  mere  frac- 
tion of  the  countless  numbers  of  the  great  tribes  that  God  has 
scattered,  for  some  unknown  end,  throughout  the  ocean  of 
worlds. 

Eaphael  was  well  pleased.  "I  shall  keep  my  ass  well  in 
hand,"  cried  he.  Sterne  had  said  before  his  day,  "Let  us 
take  care  of  our  ass,  if  we  wish  to  live  to  old  age."  But  it 
is  such  a  fantastic  brute ! 

Planchette  was  a  tall,  thin  man,  a  poet  of  a  surety,  lost  in 
one  continual  thought,  and  always  employed  in  gazing  into 
the  bottomless  abyss  of  Motion.  Commonplace  minds  accuse 
these  lofty  intellects  of  madness ;  they  form  a  misinterpreted 
race  apart  that  lives  in  a  wonderful  carelessness  of  luxuries 
or  other  people's  notions.  They  will  spend  whole  days  at  a 
stretch,  smoking  a  cigar  that  has  gone  out,  and  enter  a 
drawing-room  with  the  buttons  on  their  garments  not  in 
every  case  formally  wedded  to  the  button-holes.  Some  day 
or  other,  after  a  long  time  spent  in  measuring  space,  or  in 
accumulating  Xs  under  Aa-Gg,  they  succeed  in  analyzing 
some  natural  law,  and  resolve  it  into  its  elemental  principles, 
md  all  on  a  sudden  the  crowd  gapes  at  a  new  machine;  or 
it  is  a  handcart  perhaps  that  overwhelms  us  with  astonish- 
ment by  the  apt  simplicity  of  its  construction.  The  modest 
man  of  science  smiles  at  his  admirers,  and  remarks,  "What 


THE  AGONY  211 

is  that  invention  of  mine?  Nothing  whatever.  Man  can- 
not create  a  force;  he  can  but  direct  it;  and  science  consists 
in  learning  from  nature." 

The  mechanician  was  standing  bolt  upright,  planted  on 
both  feet,  like  some  victim  dropped  straight  from  the  gibbet, 
when  Eaphael  broke  in  upon  him.  He  was  intently 
watching  an  agate  ball  that  rolled  over  a  sun-dial,  and 
awaited  its  final  settlement.  The  worthy  man  had  re- 
ceived neither  pension  nor  decoration ;  he  had  not  known 
how  to  make  the  right  use  of  his  ability  for  calculation.  He 
was  happy  in  his  life  spent  on  the  watch  for  a  discovery ;  he 
had  no  thought  either  of  reputation,  of  the  outer  world, 
nor  even  of  himself,  and  led  the  life  of  science  for  the  sake  of 
science. 

"It  is  inexplicable,"  he  exclaimed.  "Ah,  your  servant, 
sir,"  he  went  on,  becoming  aware  of  Raphael's  existence. 
"How  is  your  mother?     You  must  go  and  see  my  wife." 

"And  1  also  could  have  lived  thus,"  thought  Eaphael,  as  he 
recalled  the  learned  man  from  his  meditations  by  asking 
of  him  how  to  produce  any  effect  on  the  talisman,  which  he 
placed  before  him. 

"Although  my  credulity  must  amuse  you,  sir,"  so  the  Mar- 
quis ended,  "I  will  conceal  nothing  from  you.  That  skin 
seems  to  me  to  be  endowed  with  an  insuperable  power  of 
resistance." 

"People  of  fashion,  sir,  always  treat  science  rather 
superciliously,"  said  Planchette.  "They  all  talk  to  us  pretty 
much  as  the  incroyahh  did  when  he  brought  some  ladies  to 
see  Lalande  just  after  an  eclipse,  and  remarked,  'Be  so  good 
as  to  begin  it  over  again !'  What  effect  do  you  want  to  pro- 
duce? The  object  of  the  science  of  mechanics  is  either  the 
application  or  the  neutralization  of  the  laws  of  motion.  As 
for  motion  pure  and  simple,  I  tell  you  humbly,  that  we  can- 
not possibly  define  it.  That  disposed  of,  unvarying 
phenomena  have  been  observed  which  accompany  the  actions 
of  solids  and  fluids.  If  we  set  up  the  conditions  by  which 
these  phenomena  are  brought  to  pass,  we  can  transport  bodies 


212  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

or  communicate  locomotive  power  to  them  at  a  predeter- 
mined rate  of  speed.  We  can  ])roject  them,  divide  them 
up  in  a  few  or  an  infinite  number  of  pieces,  accordingly  as 
we  break  them  or  grind  them  to  powder ;  we  can  twist  bodies 
or  make  them  rotate,  modify,  compress,  expand,  or  extend 
them.     The  whole  science,  sir,  rests  upon  a  single  fact. 

"You  see  this  ball,"  he  went  on;  "here  it  lies  upon  this 
slab.  Now,  it  is  over  there.  What  name  shall  we  give  to 
what  has  taken  place,  so  natural  from  a  physical  point  of 
view,  SO' amazing  from  a  moral?  Movement,  locomotion, 
changing  of  place?  W^hat  prodigious  vanity  lurks  under- 
neath the  words.  Does  a  name  solve  the  difficulty?  Yet  it 
is  the  whole  of  our  science  for  all  that.  Our  machines  either 
make  direct  use  of  this  agency,  this  fact,  or  they  convert  it. 
This  trifling  phenomenon,  applied  to  large  masses,  would 
send  Paris  flying.  We  can  increase  speed  by  an  expenditure 
of  force,  and  augment  the  force  by  an  increase  of  speed. 
But  what  are  speed  and  force?  Our  science  is  as  powerless 
to  tell  us  that  as  to  create  motion.  Any  movement  what- 
ever is  an  immense  power,  and  man  does  not  create  power 
of  any  kind.  Everything  is  movement,  thought  itself  is  a 
movement,  upon  movement  nature  is  based.  Death  is  a 
movement  whose  limitations  are  little  known.  If  God  is 
eternal,  be  sure  that  He  moves  perpetually;  perhaps  God  is 
movement.  That  is  why  movement,  like  God,  is  inexplic- 
able, unfathomable,  unlimited,  incomprehensible,  intangible. 
Who  has  ever  touched,  comprehended,  or  measured  move^ 
ment?  We  feel  its  effects  without  seeing  it;  we  can  even 
deny  them  as  we  can  deny  the  existence  of  a  God. 
Where  is  it?  Where  is  it  not?  Whence  comes  it? 
What  is  its  source?  What  is  its  end?  It  surrounds 
us,  it  intrudes  upon  us,  and  yet  escapes  us.  It  is 
evident  as  a  fact,  obscure  as  an  abstraction;  it  is  at 
once  effect  and  cause.  It  requires  space,  even  as  we,  and 
what  is  space?  Movement  alone  recalls  it  to  us;  without 
movement,  space  is  but  an  empty  meaningless  word.  Like 
space,  like  creation,  like  the  infinite,  movement  is  an  in- 


THE  AGONY  213 

soluble  problem  which  confounds  human  reason;  man  will 
never  conceive  it,  whatever  else  he  may  be  permitted  to  con- 
ceive. 

"Between  each  point  in  space  occupied  in  succession  by 
that  ball,"  continued  the  man  of  science,  "there  is  an  abyss 
confronting  human  reason,  an  abyss  into  which  Pascal  fell. 
In  order  to  produce  any  effect  upon  an  unknown  substance, 
we  ought  first  of  all  to  study  that  substance;  to  know 
whether,  in  accordance  with  its  nature,  it  will  be  broken  by 
the  force  of  a  blow,  or  whether  it  will  withstand  it;  if  it 
breaks  in  pieces,  and  you  have  no  wish  to  split  it  up,  we  shall 
not  achieve  the  end  proposed.  If  you  want  to  compress  it,  a 
uniform  impulse  must  be  communicated  to  all  the  particles 
of  the  substance,  so  as  to  diminish  the  interval  that  separates 
them  in  an  equal  degree.  If  you  wish  to  expand  it,  we 
should  try  to  bring  a  uniform  eccentric  force  to  bear  on 
every  molecule;  for  unless  we  conform  accurately  to  this 
law,  we  shall  have  breaches  in  continuity.  The  modes  of 
motion,  sir,  are  infinite,  and  no  limit  exists  to  combinations 
of  movement.      Upon  what  effect  have  you  determined  ?" 

"I  want  any  kind  of  pressure  that  is  strong  enough  to 
expand  the  skin  indefinitely,"  began  Kaphael,  quite  out  of 
patience. 

"Substance  is  finite,"  the  mathematician  put  in,  "and 
therefore  will  not  admit  of  indefinite  expansion,  but 
pressure  will  necessarily  increase  the  extent  of  surface  at  the 
expense  of  the  thickness,  which  will  be  diminished  until  the 
point  is  reached  when  the  material  gives  out " 

"Bring  aboiit  that  result,  sir,"  Eaphael  cried,  "and  you 
will  have  earned  millions." 

"Then  I  sliould  rob  you  of  your  money,"  replied  the  other, 
phlegmatic  as  a  Dutchman.  "I  am  going  to  show  you,  in  a 
word  or  two,  that  a  machine  can  be  made  that  is  fit  to  crush 
Providence  itself  in  pieces  like  a  fly.  It  would  reduce  a 
man  to  the  conditions  of  a  piece  of  waste  paper;  a  man — 
boots  and  spurs,  hat  and  cravat,  trinkets  and  gold,  and 
all " 

VOL.  I — IQ  "       - 


214  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

'^^hat  a  fearful  machine!" 

"Instead  of  flinging  their  brats  into  the  water,  the  Chinese 
ought  to  make  them  useful  in  this  way,"  the  man  of  science 
went  on,  without  reflecting  on  the  regard  man  has  for  his 
progeny. 

Quite  absorbed  by  his  idea,  Planchette  took  an  empty 
flower-pot,  with  a  hole  in  the  bottom,  and  put  it  on  the  sur- 
face of  the  dial,  then  he  went  to  look  for  a  little  clay  in  a 
Wrner  of  the  garden.  Eaphael  stood  spellbound,  like  a  child 
'to  whom  his  nurse  is  telling  some  wonderful  story. 
Planchette  put  the  clay  down  upon  the  slab,  drew  a  pruning- 
knife  from  his  pocket,  cut  two  branches  from  an  elder  tree, 
and  began  to  clear  them  of  pith  by  blowing  through  them, 
as  if  Eaphael  had  not  been  present. 

"There  are  the  rudiments  of  the  apparatus,"  he  said. 
Then  he  connected  one  of  the  wooden  pipes  with  the  bottom 
of  the  flower-pot  by  a  clay  joint,  in  such  a  way  that  the 
mouth  of  the  elder  stem  was  just  under  the  hole  of  the 
flower-pot;  you  might  have  compared  it  to  a  big  tobacoj- 
pipe.  He  spread  a  bed  of  clay  over  the  surface  of  the  slab, 
in  a  shovel-shaped  mass,  set  down  the  flower-pot  at  the 
wider  end  of  it,  and  laid  the  pipe  of  the  elder  stem  along 
the  portion  which  represented  the  handle  of  the  shovel. 
Next  he  put  a  lump  of  clay  at  the  end  of  the  elder  stem 
and  therein  planted  the  other  pipe,  in  an  upright  position, 
forming  a  second  elbow  which  connected  it  with  the  first 
horizontal  pipe  in  such  a  manner  that  the  air,  or  any  given 
fluid  in  circulation,  could  flow  through  this  improvised  piece 
of  mechanism  from  the  mouth  of  the  vertical  tube,  along  the 
intermediate  passages,  and  so  into  the  large  empty  flower- 
pot. 

"This  apparatus,  sir,"  he  said  to  Eaphael,  with  all  the 
gravity  of  an  academician  pronouncing  his  initiatory  dis- 
course, "is  one  of  the  great  Pascal's  grandest  claims  upon 
our  admiration." 

"I  don't  understand." 

The  man  of  science  smiled.     He  went  up  to  a  fruit-tree 


THE  AGONY  215 

and  took  down  a  little  phial  in  which  the  druggist  had  sent 
him  some  liquid  for  catching  ants;  he  broke  off  the  bottom 
and  made  a  funnel  of  the  top,  carefully  fitting  it  to  the 
mouth  of  the  vertical  liollowed  stem  that  he  had  set  in  the 
clay,  and  at  the  opposite  end  to  the  great  reservoir,  repre- 
sented by  the  flower-pot.  Next,  by  means  of  a  watering- 
pot,  he  poured  in  sufficient  water  to  rise  to  the  same  level  in 
the  large  vessel  and  in  tho  tiny  circular  funnel  at  the  end 
of  the  elder  stem. 

Eaphael  was  thinking  of  his  piece  of  skin. 

"Water  is  considered  to-day,  sir,  to  be  an  incompressible 
body,"  said  the  mechanician;  "never  lose  sight  of  that 
fundamental  principle;  still  it  can  be  compressed,  though 
only  so  very  slightly  that  we  should  regard  its  faculty  for 
contracting  as  a  zero.  You  see  the  amount  of  surface  pre- 
sented by  the  water  at  the  brim  of  the  flower-pot?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Very  good;  now  suppose  that  that  surface  is  a  thousand 
times  larger  than  the  orifice  of  the  elder  stem  through 
which  I  poured  the  liquid.  Here,  1  am  taking  the  funnel 
away " 

"Granted." 

"Well,  then,  if  by  any  method  whatever  I  increase  the 
volume  of  that  quantity  of  water  by  pouring  in  yet  more 
through  the  mouth  of  the  little  tube;  the  water  thus  com- 
pelled to  flow  downwards  would  rise  in  the  reservoir,  repre- 
sented by  the  flower-pot,  until  it  reached  the  same  level  at 
either  end." 

"That  is  quite  clear,"  cried  Eaphael. 

"But  there  is  this  difference,"  the  other  went  on.  "Sup- 
pose that  the  thin  column  of  water  poured  into  the  little 
vertical  tube  there  exerts  a  force  equal,  say,  to  a  pound 
weight,  for  instance,  its  action  will  be  punctually  communi- 
cated to  the  great  body  of  the  liquid,  and  will  be  trans- 
mitted to  every  part  of  the  surface  represented  by  the  water 
in  the  flower-pot  so  that*  at  the  surface  there  will  be  a 
thousand  columns  of  water,  every  one  pressing  upwards  as 


21 6  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

if  they  were  impelled  by  a  force  equal  to  that  which  compels 
the  liquid  to  descend  in  the  vertical  tube;  and  of  necessity 
they  reproduce  here,"  said  Planchette,  indicating  to 
Raphael  the  top  of  the  flower-pot,  "the  force  introduced 
over  there,  a  thousand-fold,"  and  the  man  of  science 
pointed  out  to  the  marquis  the  upright  wooden  pipe  set  iui 
the  clay. 

"That  is  quite  simple,"  said  Eaphael. 

Planchette  smiled  again. 

"In  other  words,"  he  went  on,  with  the  mathematician's 
natural  stubborn  propensity  for  logic,  "in  order  to  resist  the 
force  of  the  incoming  water,  it  would  be  necessary  to  exert, 
upon  every  part  of  the  large  surface,  a  force  equal  to  that 
brought  into  action  in  the  vertical  column,  but  with  this 
difference — if  the  column  of  liquid  is  a  foot  in  height,  the 
thousand  little  columns  of  the  wide  surface  will  only  have  a 
ver}'-  slight  elevating  power. 

"Now,"  said  Planchette,  as  he  gave  a  fillip  to  his  bits  of 
stick,  *1et  us  replace  this  funny  little  apparatus  by  steel 
tubes  of  suitable  strength  and  dimensions;  and  if  you  cover 
the  liquid  surface  of  the  reservoir  with  a  strong  sliding  plate 
of  metal,  and  if  to  this  metal  plate  you  oppose  another,  solid 
enough  and  strong  enough  to  resist  any  test;  if,  further- 
more, you  give  me  the  power  of  continually  adding  water  to 
the  volume  of  liquid  contents  by  means  of  the  little  vertical 
tube,  the  object  fixed  between  the  two  solid  metal  plates 
must  of  necessity  yield  to  the  tremendous  crushing  force 
which  indefinitely  compresses  it.  The  method  of  continually 
pouring  in  water  through  a  little  tube,  like  the  manner  of 
communicating  force  through  the  volume  of  the  liquid  to 
a  small  metal  plate,  is  an  absurdly  primitive  mechanical 
device.  A  brace  of  pistons  and  a  few  valves  would  do  it  all. 
Do  you  perceive,  my  dear  sir,"  he  said,  taking  Valentin 
by  the  arm,  "there  is  scarcely  a  substance  in  existence  that 
would  not  be  compelled  to  dilate  when  fixed  in  between  these 
two  indefinitely  resisting  surfaces?" 

"^Vhat !  the  author  of  the  Lettres  provinciales  invented 
it?"  T{;iphacl  exclaimed. 


THE  AGONY  211 

•*He  and  no  other,  sir.  The  science  of  mechanics  knows 
no  simpler  nor  more  beautiful  contrivance.  The  opposite 
principle,  the  capacity  of  expansion  possessed  by  water,  has 
brought  the  steam-engine  into  being.  But  water  will  only 
expand  up  to  a  certain  point,  while  its  incompressibility, 
being  a  force  in  a  manner  negative,  is,  of  necessity, 
infinite." 

"If  this  skin  is  expanded,"  said  Eaphaeh  "I  promise  you 
to  erect  a  colossal  statue  to  Blaise  Pascal;  to  found  a  prize 
of  a  hundred  thousand  francs  to  be  offered  every  ten  years 
for  the  solution  of  the  grandest  problem  of  mechanical 
science  effected  during  the  interval;  to  find  dowries  for  all 
your  cousins  and  second  cousins,  and  finally  to  build  an 
asylum  on  purpose  for  impoverished  or  insane  mathe- 
maticians." 

"That  would  be  exceedingly  useful,"  Planchette  replied. 
"We  will  go  to  Spieghalter  to-morrow,  sir,"  he  continued, 
with  the  serenity  of  a  man  living  en  a  plane  wholly  intel- 
lectual. "That  distinguished  mechanic  has  just  completed, 
after  my  own  designs,  an  improved  mechanical  arrangement 
by  which  a  child  could  get  a  thousand  trusses  of  hay  inside 
his  cap." 

"Then  good-bye  till  to-morrow." 

"Till  to-morrow,  sir." 

"Talk  of  mechanics !"  cried  Raphael ;  "isn't  it  the  great- 
est of  the  sciences?  The  other  fellow  with  his  onagers, 
classifications,  ducks,  and  species,  and  his  phials  full  of 
bottled  monstrosities,  is  at  best  only  fit  for  a  billiard-marker 
in  a  saloon." 

The  next  morning  Raphael  went  off'  in  great  spirits  to  find 
Planchette,  and  together  they  set  out  for  the  Rue  de  la 
Sante — auspicious  appellation  !  Arrived  at  Spieghalter's, 
the  young  man  found  himself  in  a  vast  foundrv';  his  eyes 
lighted  upon  a  multitude  of  glowing  and  roaring  furnaces. 
There  was  a  storm  of  sparks,  a  deluge  of  nails,  an  ocean  of 
pistons,  vices,  levers,  valves,  girders,  files,  and  nuts;  a  sea 
of  melted  metal,  baulks  of  timber  and  bar-steel.    Iron  filings 


218  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

filled  your  throat.  There  was  iron  in  the  atmosphere;  the 
men  were  covered  with  it;  everything  reeked  of  iron.  The 
iron  seemed  to  be  a  living  organism;  it  became  a  fluid, 
moved,  and  seemed  to  shape  itself  intelligently  after  every 
fashion,  to  obey  the  worker's  every  caprice.  Through  the  up- 
roar made  by  the  bellows,  the  crescendo  of  the  falling  ham- 
mers, and  the  shrill  sounds  of  the  lathes  that  drew  groans  from 
the  steel,  Eaphael  passed  into  a  large,  clean,  and  airy  place 
where  he  was  able  to  inspect  at  his  leisure  the  great  press 
that  Planchette  had  told  him  about.  He  admired  the  cast- 
iron  beams,  as  one  might  call  them,  and  the  twin  bars  oi 
steel  coupled  together  with  indestructible  bolts. 

"If  you  were  to  give  seven  rapid  turns  to  that  crank,'' 
said  Spieghaltcr,  pointing  out  a  beam  of  polished  steel,  "you 
would  make  a  steel  bar  spurt  out  in  thousands  of  jets,  that 
would  get  into  your  legs  like  needles." 

"The  deuce !"  exclaimed  Eaphael. 

Planchette  himself  slipped  the  piece  of  skin  between  the 
metal  plates  of  the  all-powerful  press;  and,  brimful  of  the 
certainty  of  a  scientific  conviction,  he  worked  the  crank 
energetically. 

"Lie  flat,  all  of  you ;  we  are  dead  men  \"  thundered  Spieg- 
halter,  as  he  himself  fell  prone  on  the  floor. 

A  hideous  shrieking  sound  rang  through  the  workshops. 
The  water  in  the  machine  had  broken  the  chamber,  and  now 
spouted  out  in  a  jet  of  incalculable  force;  luckily  it  went 
in  the  direction  of  an  old  furnace,  which  was  overthrown, 
knocked  to  pieces,  and  twisted  like  a  house  that  has  been 
enveloped  and  carried  away  by  a  waterspout. 

"Ha!"  remarked  Planchette  serenely,  "the  piece  of  skin 
is  as  safe  and  sound  as  my  eye.  There  was  a  flaw  in  your 
reservoir  somewhere,  or  a  crevice  in  the  large  tube " 

"N"o,  no;  I  know  my  reservoir.  The  devil  is  in  your  con- 
trivance, sir;  you  can  take  it  away,"  and  the  German  pounced 
upon  a  smith's  hnmrner,  flung  the  skin  down  on  an  anvil, 
and,  with  all  the  strength  that  rage  gives,  dealt  the  talisman 
the  most  formidable  blow  that  had  ever  resounded  through 
his  workshops. 


THE  AGONY  219 

"There  is  not  so  much  as  a  mark  on  it  \"  said  Planchette, 
stroking  the  perverse  bit  of  skin. 

The  workmen  hurried  in.  The  foreman  took  the  skin  and 
buried  it  in  the  glowing  coal  of  a  forge,  while,  in  a  semi- 
circle round  the  fire,  they  all  awaited  the  action  of  a  huge 
pair  of  bellows.  Eaphael,  Spieghalter,  and  Professor 
Planchette  stood  in  the  midst  of  the  grimy  expectant  crowd, 
liaphael,  looking  round  on  faces  dusted  over  with  iroi? 
filings,  white  eyes,  greasy  blackened  clothing,  and  hairf 
chests,  could  have  fancied  himself  transported  into  the  wild 
nocturnal  world  of  German  ballad  poetry.  After  the  skin 
had  been  in  the  fire  for  ten  minutes,  the  foreman  pulled  it 
out  with  a  pair  of  pincers. 

"Hand  it  over  to  me,"  said  Raphael. 

The  foreman  held  it  out  by  way  of  a  joke.  The  Marquis 
readily  handled  it;  it  was  cool  and  flexible  between  his 
fingers.  An  exclamation  of  alarm  went  up;  the  workmen 
fled  in  terror.  Valentin  was  left  alone  with  Planchette  in 
the  empty  workshop. 

"There  is  certainly  something  infernal  in  the  thing !"  cried 
Raphael,  in  desperation.  "Is  no  human  power  able  to  give 
me  one  day  more  of  existence  ?" 

"I  made  a  mistake,  sir,"  said  the  mathematician,  with  a 
penitent  expression;  "we  ought  to  have  subjected  that  pe- 
culiar skin  to  the  action  of  a  rolling  machine.  Where  could 
my  eyes  have  been  when  I  suggested  compression !" 
"It  was  I  that  asked  for  it,"  Raphael  answered. 
The  mathematician  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief,  like  a  culprit 
acquitted  by  a  dozen  jurors.  Still,  the  strange  problem 
afforded  by  the  skin  interested  him ;  he  meditated  a  moment, 
and  then  remarked: 

"This  unknown  material  ought  to  be  treated  chemically  by 
re-agents.  Let  us  call  on  Japhet — perhaps  the  chemist  nia\ 
have  better  luck  than  the  miechanic." 

Valentin  urged  his  horse  into  a  rapid  trot,  hoping  to  find 
the  chemist,  the  celebratorl  Japhet,  in  his  laboratory. 

"Well,  old  friend,"  Planchette  began,  seeing  Japhet  in  his 
armchair,  examining  a  precipitate;  "how  goes  chemistry?" 


220  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

"Gone  to  sleep.    Nothing  new  at  all.    The  Aeademie,  how 
ever,  has  recognized  the  existence  of  salicine,  but  salicine. 
asparagine,  vauqueline,  and  digitaline  are  not  really  discov- 
eries  " 

"Since  you  cannot  invent  substances,"  said  Eaphael,  "you 
are  obliged  to  fall  back  on  inventing  names." 

*'Most  emphatically  true,  young  man." 

"Here,"  said  Planehette,  addressing  the  chemist,  "try  to 
analyze  this  composition;  if  you  can  extract  any  element 
whatever  from  it,  I  christen  it  diaboline  beforehand,  for  we 
have  just  smashed  a  hydraulic  press  in  trying  to  compress  it." 

"Let's  see !  let's  have  a  look  at  it !"  cried  the  delighted 
chemist ;  "it  may,  perhaps,  be  a  fresh  element." 

"It  is  simply  a  piece  of  the  skin  of  an  ass,  sir,"  said 
Raphael. 

"Sir !"  said  the  illustrious  chemist  sternly. 

"I  am  not  joking,"  the  Marquis  answered,  laying  the  piece 
of  skin  before  him. 

Baron  Japhet  applied  the  nervous  fibres  of  his  tongue  to 
the  skin;  he  had  skill  in  thus  detecting  salts,  acids,  alkalis, 
and  gases.    After  several  experiments,  he  remarked : 

"No  taste  whatever !  Come,  we  will  give  it  a  little  fluoric 
acid  to  drink." 

Subjected  to  the  influence  of  this  ready  solvent  of  animal 
tissue,  the  skin  underwent  no  change  whatsoever. 

"It  is  not  shagreen  at  all!"  the  chemist  cried.  "We  will 
treat  this  unknown  mystery  as  a  mineral,  and  try  its  mettle 
by  dropping  it  in  a  crucible  where  I  have  at  this  moment 
some  red  potash." 

Japhet  went  out,  and  returned  almost  immediately. 

"Allow  me  to  cut  away  a  bit  of  this  strange  substance,  sir," 
he  said  to  Eaphael;  "it  is  so  extraordinary " 

"A  bit !"  exclaimed  Raphael ;  "not  so  much  as  a  hair's- 
breadth.  You  may  try,  though,"  he  added,  half  banteringly, 
half  sadly. 

The  chemist  broke  a  razor  in  his  desire  to  cut  the  skin; 


THE  AGONY  221 

he  tried  to  break  it  by  a  powerful  electric  shock ;  next  he  sub- 
mitted it  to  the  influence  of  a  galvanic  battery;  but  all  the 
thunderbolts  his  science  wotted  of  fell  harmless  on  the  dread- 
ful talisman. 

It  was  seven  o'clock  in  the  evening.  Planchette,  Japhet, 
and  Eaphael,  unaware  of  the  flight  of  time,  were  awaiting  the 
outcome  of  a  final  experiment.  The  Magic  Skin  emerged 
triumphant  from  a  formidable  encounter  in  which  it  had 
been  engaged  with  a  considerable  quantity  of  chloride  of 
nitrogen. 

"It  is  all  over  with  me,"  Raphael  wailed.  "It  is  the  finger 
of  God !  I  shall  die ! "  and  he  left  the  two  amazed  sci- 
entific men. 

"We  must  be  very  careful  not  to  talk  about  this  affair  at 
the  Academic;  our  colleagnes  there  would  laugh  at  us," 
Planchette  remarked  to  the  chemist,  after  a  long  pause,  in 
which  they  looked  at  each  other  without  daring  to  communi- 
cate their  thoughts.  The  learned  pair  looked  like  two  Chris- 
tians who  had  issued  from  their  tombs  to  find  no  God  in  the 
heavens.  Science  had  been  powerless;  acids,  so  much  clear 
water;  red  potash  had  been  discredited;  the  galvanic  battery 
and  electric  shock  had  been  a  couple  of  playthings. 

"A  hydraulic  press  broken  like  a  biscuit !"  commented 
Planchette. 

"I  believe  in  the  devil,"  said  the  Baron  Japhet,  after  a  mo- 
ment's silence. 

"And  I  in  God,"  replied  Planchette. 

Each  spoke  in  character.  The  universe  for  a  mechanician 
is  a  machine  that  requires  an  operator;  for  chemistry — that 
fiendish  employment  of  decomposing  all  things — the  world 
is  a  gas  endowed  with  the  power  of  movement. 

"We  cannot  deny  the  fact,"  the  chemist  replied. 

"Pshaw !  those  gentlemen  the  doctrinaires  have  invented 
a  nebulous  aphorism  for  our  consolation — Stupid  as  a  fact." 

"Your  aphorism,"  said  the  chemist,  "seems  to  me  as  a  fact 
very  stupid." 


222  THE  MAGIC  g»lN 

They  began  to  laugh,  and  went  off  to  dine  like  folk  for 
whom  a  miracle  is  nothing  more  than  a  phenomenon. 

Valentin  reached  his  own  house  shivering  with  rage  and 
consumed  with  anger.  He  had  no  more  faith  in  anything. 
Conflicting  thoughts  shifted  and  surged  to  and  fro  in  his 
brain,  as  is  the  case  with  every  man  brought  face  to  face  with 
an  inconceivable  fact.  He  had  readily  believed  in  some  hid- 
den flaw  in  Spieghalter's  apparatus;  he  had  not  been  sur- 
prised by  the  incompetence  and  failure  of  science  and  of  fire ; 
but  the  flexibility  of  the  skin  as  he  handled  it,  taken  with  its 
stubbornness  when  all  the  means  of  destruction  that  man 
possesses  had  been  brought  to  bear  upon  it  in  vain — these 
things  terrified  him.  The  incontrovertible  fact  made  him 
dizzy. 

"I  am  mad,"  he  muttered.  "I  have  had  no  food  since  the 
morning,  and  yet  I  am  neither  hungry  nor  thirsty,  and  there 
is  a  fire  in  my  breast  that  burns  me." 

He  put  back  the  skin  in  the  frame  where  it  had  been  en- 
closed but  lately,  drew  a  line  in  red  ink  about  the  actual  con- 
figuration of  the  talisman,  and  seated  himself  in  his  arm- 
chair. 

"Eight  o'clock  already !"  he  exclaimed.  "To-day  has  gone 
like  a  dream." 

He  leaned  his  elbow  on  the  arm  of  the  chair,  propped  his 
head  with  his  left  hand,  and  so  remained,  lost  in  secret  dark 
reflections  and  consuming  thoughts  that  men  cond<?mned  to 
die  bear  away  with  them. 

"0  Pauline!"  he  cried.  "Poor  child!  there  are  gulfs  that 
love  can  never  traverse,  despite  the  strength  of  his.  wings." 

Just  then  he  very  distinctly  heard  a  smothered;  sigh,  and 
knew  by  one  of  the  most  tender  privileges  of  passionate  love 
that  it  was  Pauline's  breathing. 

"That  is  my  death  warrant,"  he  said  to  himself.  "If  she 
were  there,  I  should  wish  to  die  in  her  arms." 

A  burst  of  gleeful  and  hearty  laughter  made  him  turn  his 
face  towards  the  bed;  lie  saw  Pauline's  face  tlirough  the 
transparent  curtains,  smiling  like  a  child  for  gladness  over 


THE  AGONY  223 

a  successful  piece  of  mischief.  Tier  pretty  hair  fell  over  her 
shoulders  in  countless  curls;  she  looked  like  a  Bengal  rose 
upon  a  pile  of  white  roses. 

"I  cajoled  Jonathan/'  said  she.  "Doesn't  the  bed  belong 
to  me,  to  me  who  am  your  wife?  Don't  scold  me,  darling; 
I  only  wanted  to  surprise  you,  to  sleep  beside  you.  Forgive 
me  for  my  freak." 

She  sprang  out  of  bed  like  a  kitten,  showed  herself  gleam- 
ing in  her  lawn  raiment,  and  sat  down  on  Eaphael's  knee. 

"Love,  what  gulf  were  you  talking  about?"  she  said,  with 
an  anxious  expression  apparent  upon  her  face. 

"Death." 

"You  hurt  me,"  she  answered.  "There  are  some  thoughts 
upon  which  we,  poor  women  that  we  are,  cannot  dwell;  they 
are  death  to  us.  Is  it  strength  of  love  in  us,  or  lack  of  cour- 
age ?  I  cannot  tell.  Death  does  not  frighten  me,"  she  began 
again,  laughingly.  "To  die  with  you,  both  together,  to-mor- 
row morning,  in  one  last  embrace,  would  be  joy.  It  seems  to 
me  that  even  then  I  should  have  lived  more  than  a  hundred 
years.  What  does  the  number  of  days  matter  if  we  have 
spent  a  whole  lifetime  of  peace  and  love  in  one  night,  in  one 
hour?" 

"You  are  right;  Heaven  is  speaking  through  that  pretty 
mouth  of  yours.  Grant  that  I  may  kiss  you,  and  let  us  die," 
said  Eaphael. 

"Then  let  us  die,"  she  said,  laughing. 

Towards  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning  the  daylight  streamed 
through  the  chinks  of  the  window  shutters.  Obscured  some- 
what by  the  muslin  curtains,  it  yet  sufficed  to  show  clearly 
the  rich  colors  of  the  carpet,  the  silks  and  furniture  of  the 
room,  where  the  two  lovers  were  lying  asleep.  The  gilding 
sparkled  here"  and  there.  A  ray  of  sunlight  fell  and  faded 
upon  the  soft  down  quilt  that  the  freaks  of  love  had  thrown 
to  the  ground.  The  outlines  of  Pauline's  dress,  hanging  from 
a  cheval  glass,  appeared  like  a  shadowy  ghost.  Her  dainty 
shoes  had  been  left  at  a  distance  from  the  bed.  A  nightingale 
came  to  perch  upon  tlie  sill ;  its  trills  repeated  over  again,  and 


-224  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

the  sounds  of  its  wings  suddenly  shaken  out  for  flight,  awoke 
Eaphael. 

"For  me  to  die,"  he  said,  following  out  a  thought  begun  Ji, 
his  dream,  "my  organization,  the  mechanism  of  flesh  and  bono, 
that  is  quickened  by  the  will  in  me,  and  makes  of  me  an  indi- 
vidual man,  must  display  some  perceptible  disease.  Doctor- 
ought  to  understand  the  symptoms  of  any  attack  on  vitality, 
and  could  tell  me  whether  I  am  sick  or  sound." 

He  gazed  at  his  sleeping  wife.  She  had  stretched  her  head 
out  to  him,  expressing  in  this  way  even  while  she  slept  the 
anxious  tenderness  of  love.  Pauline  seemed  to  look  at  him 
as  she  lay  with  her  face  turned  towards  him  in  an  attitude  as 
full  of  grace  as  a  young  child's,  with  her  pretty,  half-opened 
mouth  held  out  towards  him,  as  she  drew  her  light,  even 
breath.  Her  little  pearly  teeth  seemed  to  heighten  the  redness 
of  the  fresh  lips  with  the  smile  hovering  over  them.  The  red 
glow  in  her  complexion  was  brighter,  and  its  whiteness  was, 
so  to  speak,  whiter  still  just  then  than  in  the  most  impassioned 
moments  of  the  waking  day.  In  her  unconstrained  grace,  as 
she  lay,  so  full  of  believing  trust,  the  adorable  attractions  of 
childhood  were  added  to  the  enchantments  of  love. 

Even  the  most  unaffected  women  still  obey  certain  social 
conventions,  which  restrain  the  free  expansion  of  the  soul 
within  them  during  their  waking  hours;  but  slumber  seems 
to  give  them  back  the  spontaneity  of  life  which  makes  infancy 
lovely.  Pauline  blushed  for  nothing;  she  was  like  one  of  those 
beloved  and  heavenly  beings,  in  whom  reason  has  not  yet  put 
motives  into  their  actions  and  mystery  into  their  glances.  Her 
profile  stood  out  in  sharp  relief  against  the  fine  cambric  of  the 
pillows ;  there  was  a  certain  sprightliness  about  her  loose  hair 
in  confusion,  mingled  with  the  deep  lace  ruffles;  but  she  was 
sleeping  in  happiness,  her  long  lashes  were  tightly  pressed 
against  her  cheeks,  as  if  to  secure  her  eyes  from  too  strong  a 
light,  or  to  aid  an  effort  of  her  soul  to  recollect  and  to  hold  fast 
a  bliss  that  had  been  perfect  but  fleeting.  Her  tiny  pink  and 
white  ear,  framed  by  a  lock  of  her  hair  and  outlined  by  a 
vt^rapping  of  Mechlin  lace,  would   have  made  an  artist,  a 


THE  AGONY  225 

painter,  an  old  man,  wildl}^  in  love,  and  would  perhaps  have 
restored  a  madman  to  his  senses. 

Is  it  not  an  ineffable  bliss  to  behold  the  woman  that  3'^ou 
love,  sleeping,  smiling  in  a  peaceful  dream  beneath  your  pro- 
tection, loving  you  even  in  dreams,  even  at  the  point  where 
the  individual  seems  to  cease  to  exist,  offering  to  you  yet  the 
mute  lips  that  speak  to  you  in  slumber  of  the  latest  kiss?  Is 
it  not  indescribable  happiness  to  see  a  trusting  woman,  half- 
clad,  but  wrapj^ed  round  in  her  love  as  by  a  cloak — modesty  in 
the  midst  of  dishevel  men t — to  see  admiringly  her  scattered 
clothing,  the  silken  stocking  hastily  put  off  to  please  you  last 
evening,  the  unclasped  girdle  that  implies  a  boundless  faith  in 
you.  A  whole  romance  lies  there  in  that  girdle;  the  woman 
that  it  used  to  protect  exists  no  longer;  she  is  yours,  she  has 
become  you;  henceforward  any  betrayal  of  her  is  a  blow  dealt 
at  yourself. 

In  this  softened  mood  Eaphael's  eyes  wandered  over  the 
room,  now  filled  with  memories  and  love,  and  where  the  very 
daylight  seemed  to  take  delightful  hues.  Then  he  turned  his 
gaze  at  last  upon  the  outlines  of  the  woman's  form,  upon 
youth  and  purity,  and  love  that  even  now  had  no  thought  that 
was  not  for  him  alone,  above  all  things,  and  longed  to  live  for 
ever.  As  his  eyes  fell  upon  Pauline,  her  own  opened  at  once 
as  if  a  ray  of  sunlight  had  lighted  on  them. 

"Good-morning,"  she  said,  smiling.  "How  handsome  you 
are,  bad  man  V 

The  grace  of  love  and  youth,  of  silence  and  dawn,  shone  in 
their  faces,  making  a  divine  picture,  with  the  fleeting  spell 
over  it  all  that  belongs  only  to  the  earliest  days  of  passion, 
just  as  simplicity  and  artlessness  are  the  peculiar  possession  of 
cliildhood.  Alas !  love's  springtide  joys,  like  our  own  youth- 
ful laughter,  must  even  take  flight,  and  live  for  us  no  longer 
save  in  memory;  either  for  our  despair,  or  to  shed  some  sooth- 
ing fragrance  over  us,  according  to  the  bent  of  our  inmost 
thoughts. 

"What  made  me  wake  you  ?"  said  Eaphael.    "It  was  so  great 


226  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

a  pleasure  to  watch  3^011  sleeping  that  it  brought  tears  to  my 
eyes." 

"And  to  mine,  too,"  she  answered.  "I  cried  in  the  night 
while  I  watched  you  sleeping,  but  not  with  happiness. 
Eaphael,  dear,  pray  listen  to  me.  Your  breathing  is  labored 
while  you  sleep,  and  something  rattles  in  your  chest  that 
jfrightens  me.  You  have  a  little  dry  cough  when  you  are 
asleep,  exactly  like  my  father's,  who  is  dying  of  phthisis.  In 
those  sounds  from  your  lungs  I  recognized  some  of  the  pe- 
culiar symptoms  of  that  complaint.     Then  you  are  feverish : 

I  know  you  are;  your  hand  was  moist  and  burning 

Darling,  you  are  young,"  she  added  with  a  shudder,  "and  you 

could  still  get  over  it  if  unfortunately But,  no,"  she  cried 

cheerfully,  "there  is  no  'unfortunately,'  the  disease  is  con- 
tagious, so  the  doctors  say." 

She  flung  both  arms  about  Eaphael,  drawing  in  his  breath 
through  one  of  those  kisses  in  which  the  soul  reaches  its  end. 

"I  do  not  wish  to  live  to  old  age,"  she  said.  "Let  us  both 
die  young,  and  go  to  heaven  while  flowers  fill  our  hands." 

"We  always  make  such  designs  as  those  when  we  are  well 
and  strong,"  Eaphael  replied,  burying  his  hands  in  Pauline's 
hair.  But  even  then  a  horrible  fit  of  coughing  came  on,  one 
of  those  deep  ominous  coughs  that  seem  to  come  from  the 
depths  of  the  tomb,  a  cough  that  leaves  the  sufferer  ghastly 
pale,  trembling,  and  perspiring ;  with  aching  sides  and  quiver- 
ing nerves,  with  a  feeling  of  weariness  pervading  the  very 
marrow  of  the  spine,  and  unspeakable  languor  in  every  vein. 
Eaphael  slowly  laid  himself  down,  pale,  exhausted,  and  over- 
come, like  a  man  who  has  spent  all  the  strength  in  him  over 
one  final  effort.  Pauline's  eyes,  grown  large  with  terror,  were 
fixed  upon  him;  she  lay  quite  motionless,  pale,  and  silent. 

"Let  us  commit  no  more  follies,  my  angel,"  she  said,  trying 
not  to  let  Eaphael  see  the  dreadful  forebodings  that  disturbed 
her.  She  covered  her  face  Avith  her  hands,  for  she  saw  Death 
before  her — the  hideous  skeleton.  Eaphael's  face  had  grown 
as  pale  and  livid  as  any  skull  unearthed  from  a  churchyard 
to  assist  the  studies  of  some  scientific  man.    Pauline  reraem- 


THE  AGONY  227 

bered  the  exclamation  that  had  escaped  from  Valentin  the 
previous  evening,  and  to  herself  she  said : 

"Yes,  there  are  gulfs  that  love  can  never  cross,  and  therein 
love  must  bury  itself." 

On  a  March  morning,  some  days  after  this  wretched  scene, 
Raphael  found  himself  seated  in  an  armchair,  placed  in  the 
window  in  the  full  light  of  day.  Four  doctors  stood  round 
him,  each  in  turn  trying  his  pulse,  feeling  him  over,  and  ques- 
tioning him  with  apparent  interest.  The  invalid  sought  to 
guess  their  thoughts,  putting  a  construction  on  every  move- 
ment they  made,  and  on  the  slightest  contractions  of  their 
brows.  His  last  hope  lay  in  this  consultation.  This  court  of 
appeal  was  about  to  pronounce  its  decision — life  or  death. 

Valentin  had  summoned  the  oracles  of  modern  medicine, 
so  that  he  might  have  the  last  word  of  science.  Thanks  to 
his  wealth  and  title,  there  stood  before  him  three  embodied 
theories ;  human  knowledge  fluctuated  round  the  three  points. 
Three  of  the  doctors  brought  among  them  the  complete  circle 
of  medical  philosophy ;  they  represented  the  points  of  conflict 
round  which  the  battle  ragod,  between  Spiritualism,  Analysis, 
and  goodness  knows  what  in  the  way  of  mocking  eclecticism. 

The  fourth  doctor  was  Horace  Bianchon,  a  man  of  science 
with  a  future  before  him,  the  most  distinguished  man  of  the 
new  school  in  medicine,  a  discreet  and  unassuming  representa- 
tive of  a  studious  generation  that  is  preparing  to  receive  the 
inheritance  of  fifty  years  of  experience  treasured  up  by  the 
ficole  de  Paris,  a  generation  that  perhaps  will  erect  the  monu- 
ment for  the  building  of  which  the  centuries  behind  us  have 
collected  the  difi'erent  materials.  As  a  personal  friend  of  the 
Marquis  and  of  Rastignac,  he  had  been  in  attendance  on  the 
former  for  some  days  past,  and  was  helping  him  to  answer 
the  inquiries  of  the  three  professors,  occasionally  insisting 
somewhat  upon  those  symptoms  which,  in  his  opinion,  pointed 
to  pulmonary  disease. 

"You  have  been  living  at  a  great  pace,  leading  a  dissipated 
life,  no  doubt,  and  you  have  devoted  yourself  largely  to  intel- 
lectual work  ?"  queried  one  of  the  three  celebrated  authorities, 


228  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

addressing  Eaphael.  He  was  a  square-headed  man,  with  n 
large  frame  and  energetic  organization,  which  seemed  to  mark 
him  out  as  superior  to  his  two  rivals. 

"I  made  up  my  mind  to  kill  myself  with  debauchery,  after 
spending  three  years  over  an  extensive  work,  with  which  per- 
haps you  may  some  da}'  occupy  yourselves,"  Raphael  replied. 

The  great  doctor  shook  his  head,  and  so  displayed  his  sat 
isfaction.  "I  was  sure  of  it,"  he  seemed  to  say  to  himself.  Ho 
was  the  illustrious  Brisset,  the  successor  of  Cabanis  and 
Bichat,  head  of  the  Organic  School,  a  doctor  popular  with 
believers  in  material  and  positive  science,  who  see  in  man  a 
complete  individual,  subject  solely  to  the  laws  of  his  own 
particular  organization;  and  who  consider  that  his  normal 
condition  and  abnormal  states  of  disease  can  both  be  traced  to 
obvious  causes. 

After  this  reply,  Brisset  looked,  without  speaking,  at  a 
middle-sized  person,  whose  darkly  flushed  countenance  and 
glowing  eyes  seemed  to  belong  to  some  antique  satyr ;  and  who, 
leaning  his  back  against  the  corner  of  the  embrasure,  was 
studying  Eaphael,  without  saying  a  word.  Doctor  Came- 
ristus,  a  man  of  creeds  and  enthusiasms,  the  head  of  the 
"Vitalists,"  a  romantic  champion  of  the  esoteric  doctrines  of 
Van  Helmont,  discerned  a  lofty  informing  principle  in  human 
life,  a  mysterious  and  inexplicable  phenomenon  which  mocks 
at  the  scalpel,  deceives  the  surgeon,  eludes  the  drugs  of 
the  pharmacopoeia,  the  formula  of  algebra,  the  demonstra- 
tions of  anatomy,. and  derides  all  our  efforts;  a  sort  of  in- 
visible, intangible  flame,  which,  obeying  some  divinely  ap- 
pointed law,  will  often  linger  on  in  a  body  in  our  opinion 
devoted  to  death,  while  it  takes  flight  from  an  organization 
well  fitted  for  prolonged  existence. 

A  bitter  smile  hovered  upon  the  lips  of  the  third  doctor 
Maugredie,  a  man  of  acknowledged  ability,  but  a  Pyrrhonist 
and  a  scoffer,  with  the  scalpel  for  his  one  article  of  faith. 
He  would  consider,  as  a  concession  to  Brisset,  that  a  man 
who,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  was  perfectly  well  was  dead,  and 
recognize  with  Cameristus  that  a  man  might  be  living  on 


THE  AGONY  22ft 

tifter  his  apparent  demise.  He  found  something  sensible  in 
every  theory,  and  embraced  none  of  them,  claiming  that  the 
best  of  all  systems  of  medicine  was  to  have  none  at  all,  and 
to  stick  to  facts.  This  Panurge  of  the  Clinical  Schools, 
the  king  of  observers,  the  great  investigator,  great  sceptic,  the 
man  of  desperate  expedients,  was  scrutinizing  the  Magic  Skin. 

"I  should  very  much  like  to  be  a  witness  of  the  coincidence 
of  its  retrenchment  with  your  wish,"  he  said  to  the  Marquis. 

"Where  is  the  use  ?"  cried  Brisset. 

"Where  is  the  use?"  echoed  Cameristus. 

"Ah,  you  are  both  of  the  same  mind,"  replied  Maugredie. 

"The  contraction  is  perfectly  simple,"  Brisset  went  on. 

"It  is  supernatural,"  remarked  Cameristus. 

"In  short,"  Maugredie  made  answer,  with  affected 
solemnity,  and  handing  the  piece  of  skin  to  Raphael  as  he 
spoke,  "the  shriveling  faculty  of  the  skin  is  a  fact  inexplica- 
ble, and  yet  quite  natural,  which,  ever  since  the  world  be- 
gan, has  been  the  despair  of  medicine  and  of  pretty  women." 

All  Valentin's  observation  could  discover  no  trace  of  a  feel- 
ing for  his  troubles  in  any  of  the  three  doctors.  The  three 
received  every  answer  in  silence,  scanned  him  unconcernedly, 
and  interrogated  him  unsympathetically.  Politeness  did 
not  conceal  their  indifference;  whether  deliberation  or  cer- 
tainty was  the  cause,  their  words  at  any  rate  came  so  seldom 
and  so  languidl}^,  that  at  times  Raphael  thought  that  their 
attention  was  wandering.  From  time  to  time  Brisset,  the 
sole  speaker,  remarked,  "Good !  just  so !"  as  Bianchon  pointed 
out  the  existence  of  each  desperate  symptom.  Cameristus 
seemed  to  be  deep  in  meditation;  Maugredie  looked  like  a 
comic  author,  studying  two  queer  characters  with  a  view  tO( 
reproducing  them  faithfully  upon  the  stage.  There  was  deep, 
unconcealed  distress,  and  grave  compassion  in  Horace 
Bianchon's  face.  He  had  been  a  doctor  for  too  short  a  time 
to  be  untouched  by  suffering  and  unmoved  by  a  deathbed; 
he  had  not  learned  to  keep  back  the  sympathetic  tears  that 
obscure  a  man's  clear  vision  and  prevent  him  from  seizing, 
like  the  general  of  an  army,  upon  the  auspicious  moment  for 
victory,  in  utter  disregard  of  the  groans  of  dying  men. 

VOL.  I — 20 


230  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

After  spending  about  half  an  hour  over  taking  in  some  sort 
the  measure  of  the  patient  and  the  complaint,  much  as  a 
tailor  measures  a  young  man  for  a  coat  when  he  orders  his 
redding  outfit,  the  authorities  uttered  several  commonplaces, 
and  even  talked  of  politics.  Then  they  decided  to  go 
into  Eaphael's  study  to  exchange  their  ideas  and  frame  their 
verdict, 

"May  I  not  be  present  during  the  discussion,  gentlemen?'^ 
Valentin  had  asked  them,  but  Brisset  and  Maugredie  pro- 
tested against  this,  and,  in  spite  of  their  patient's  entreaties, 
declined  altogether  to  deliberate  in  his  presence. 

Eaphael  gave  way  before  their  custom,  thinking  that  he 
could  slip  into  a  passage  adjoining,  whence  he  could  easily 
overhear  the  medical  conference  in  which  the  three  professors 
were  about  to  engage. 

"Permit  me,  gentlemen,"  said  Brisset,  as  they  entered,  "to 
give  you  my  own  opinion  at  once.  I  neither  wish  to  force 
it  upon  you  nor  to  have  it  discussed.  In  the  first  place,  it  is 
unbiased,  concise,  and  based  on  an  exact  similarity  that  exists 
between  one  of  my  own  patients  and  the  subject  that  we  have 
been  called  in  to  examine;  and,  moreover,  I  am  expected  at 
my  hospital.  The  importance  of  the  case  that  demands  my 
presence  there  will  excuse  me  for  speaking  the  first  word. 
The  subject  with  which  we  are  concerned  has  been  exhausted 
in  an  equal  degree  by  intellectual  labors — what  did  he  set 
about,  Horace  ?"  he  asked  of  the  young  doctor. 

"A  Theory  of  the  Will.'  " 

"The  devil !  but  that's  a  big  subject.  He  is  exhausted, 
I  say,  by  too  much  brain-work,  by  irregular  courses,  and  by 
the  repeated  use  of  too  powerful  stimulants.  Violent  ex- 
ertion of  body  and  mind  has  demoralized  the  whole  system. 
It  is  easy,  gentlemen,  to  recognize  in  the  symptoms  of  the 
face  and  body  generally  intense  irritation  of  the  stomach,  an 
affection  of  the  great  sympathetic  nerve,  acute  sensibility  of 
the  epigastric  region,  and  contraction  of  the  right  and  left 
hypochondriac.  You  have  noticed,  too,  the  large  size  and 
prominence  of  the  liver.     M.  Bianehon  has,  besides,  con- 


THE  AGONY  231 

istfintly  watched  the  patient,  and  he  tells  us  that  digestion  i? 
troublesome  and  difficult.  ■  Strictly  speaking,  there  is  no 
stomach  left,  and  so  the  man  has  disappeared.  The  brain  is 
atrophied  because  the  man  digests  no  longer.  The  pro- 
gressive deterioration  wrought  in  the  epigastric  region,  the 
seat  of  vitality,  has  vitiated  the  whole  system.  Thence,  by 
continuous  fevered  vibratipns,  the  disorder  has  reached  tlie 
brain  by  means  of  the  nervous  plexus,  hence  the  excessive 
irritation  in  that  organ.  There  is  monomania.  The  patient 
is  burdened  with  a  fixed  idea.  That  piece  of  skin  really  con- 
tracts, to  his  way  of  thinking;  very  likely  it  always  has 
been  as  we  have  seen  it;  but  whether  it  contracts  or  no,  that 
thing  is  for  him  just  like  the  fly  that  some  Grand  A^izier  or 
other  had  on  his  nose.  If  you  put  leeches  at  once  on  the 
epigastrium,  and  reduce  the  irritation  in  that  part,  which  is 
the  very  seat  of  man's  life,  and  if  you  diet  the  patient,  the 
monomania  will  leave  him.  I  will  say  no  more  to  Dr. 
Bianehon;  he  should  be  able  to  grasp  the  whole  treatment  as 
well  as  the  details.  There  may  be,  perhaps,  some  complica- 
tion of  the  disease — the  bronchial  tubes,  possibly,  may  be  also 
inflamed;  but  I  believe  that  treatment  for  the  intestinal 
organs  is  very  much  more  important  and  necessary,  and  more 
urgently  required  than  for  the  lungs.  Persistent  study  of 
abstract  matters,  and  certain  violent  passions,  have  induced 
serious  disorders  in  that  vital  mechanism.  However,  we  are 
in  time  to  set  these  conditions  .right.  Nothing  it  too  seriously 
affected.  You  will  easily  get  your  friend  round  again,"  he 
remarked  to  Bianehon. 

"Our  learned  colleague  is  taking  the  effect  for  the  cause," 
Cameristus  replied.  "Yes,  the  changes  that  he  has  observed 
so  keenly  certainly  exist  in  the  patient;  but  it  is  not  the 
stomach  that,  by  degrees,  has  set  up  nervous  action  in  the 
system,  and  so  affected  the  brain,  like  a  hole  in  a  window 
pane  spreading  cracks  round  about  it.  It  took  a  blow  of  some 
kind  to  make  a  hole  in  the  window;  who  gave  the  blow? 
Do  we  know  that?  Have  we  investigated  the  patient's  case 
sufficiently?  Are  we  acquainted  with  all  the  events  of  his 
life? 


232  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

"The  vital  principle,  gentlemen,"  he  continued,  "th« 
Archeus  of  Van  Helmont,  is  affected  in  his  case — the  very 
essence  and  centre  of  life  is  attacked.  The  divine  spark,  the 
transitory  intelligence  which  holds  the  organism  together^ 
which  is  the  source  of  the  will,  the  inspiration  of  life,  has 
ceased  to  regulate  the  daily  phenomena  of  the  mechanism 
and  the  functions  of  ever}'^  organ.;  thence  arise  all  the  com- 
plications which  my  learned  colleague  has  so  thoroughly  ap- 
preciated. The  epigastric  region  does  not  affect  the  brain 
but  the  brain  affects  the  epigastric  region.  No,"  he  went  on, 
vigorously  slapping  his  chest,  "no,  I  am  not  a  stomach  in  the 
form  of  a  man.  No,  everything  does  not  lie  there.  I  do 
not  feel  that  I  have  the  courage  to  say  that  if  the  epigastric 
region  is  in  good  order,  everything  else  is  in  a  like  con- 
dition  

"We  cannot  trace,"  he  went  on  more  mildly,  "to  one 
physical  cause  the  serious  disturbances  that  supervene  in 
this  or  that  subject  wliich  has  been  dangerously  attacked,  nor 
submit  them  to  a  uniform  treatment.  No  one  man  is  like 
another.  We  have  each  peculiar  organs,  differently  affected, 
diversely  nourished,  adajjted  to  perform  different  functions, 
and  to  induce  a  condition  necessary  to  the  accomplishment  of 
an  order  of  things  which  is  unknown  to  us.  The  sublime 
will  has  so  wrought  that  a  little  portion  of  the  great  All  is  set 
within  us  to  sustain  the  phenomena  of  living;  in  every  man 
it  formulates  itself  distinctly,  making  each,  to  all  appear- 
ance, a  separate  individual,  yet  in  one  point  co-existent  with 
the  infinite  cause.  So  we  ought  to  make  a  separate  study  of 
each  subject,  discover  all  about  it,  find  out  in  what  its  life  con- 
sists, and  wherein  its  power  lies.  From  the  softness  of  a  wet 
sponge  to  the  hardness  of  pumice-stone  there  are  infinite  fine 
degrees  of  difference.  Man  is  just  like  that.  Between  the 
sponge-like  organizations  of  the  lymphatic  and  the  vigorous 
iron  muscles  of  such  men  as  are  destined  for  a  long  life, 
what  a  margin  for  errors  for  the  single  inflexible  system  of  a 
lowering  treatment  to  commit ;  a  system  that  reduces  the 
capacities  of  the  human  fraaue,  which  you  always  conclude 


THE  AGONY  233 

have  been  over-excited.  Let  us  look  for  the  origin  of  the 
disease  in  the  mental  and  not  in  the  physical  viscera.  A 
doctor  is  an  inspired  being,  endowed  by  God  with  a  special 
gift — the  power  to  read  the  secrets  of  vitality;  just  as  the 
prophet  has  received  the  eyes  that  foresee  the  future,  the  poet 
his  faculty  of  evoking  nature,  and  the  musician  the  power 
of  arranging  sounds  in  an  harmonious  order  that  is  possibly 
a  copy  of  an  ideal  harmony  on  high." 

"There  is  his  everlasting  system  of  medicine,  arbitrary, 
monarchical,  and  pious,"  muttered  Brisset. 

"Gentlemen,"  Maugredie  broke  in  hastily,  to  distract  at- 
tention from  Brisset's  comment,  "don't  let  us  lose  sight  of 
the  patient." 

"What  is  the  good  of  science?"  Raphael  moaned.  "Here 
is  my  recovery  halting  between  a  string  of  beads  and  a  rosary 
of  leeches,  between  Dupuytren's  bistoury  and  Prince  Hohen- 
lohe's  prayer.  There  is  Maugredie  suspending  his  judgment 
on  the  line'that  divides  facts  from  words,  mind  from  matter. 
Man's  '^it  is,'  and  *it  is  not,'  is  always  on  my  track;  it  is  the 
Carymary  Carymara  of  Rabelais  for  evermore :  my  disorder 
is  spiritual,  Carymary,  or  material,  Carymara.  Shall  I  live  ? 
They  have  no  idea.  Planchette  was  more  straightforward 
with  me,  at  any  rate,  when  he  said,  'I  do  not  know.'  " 

Just  then  Valentin  heard  Maugredie's  voice. 

"The  patient  suffers  from  monomania;  very  good,  I  am 
quite  of  that  opinion,"  he  said,  ^'but  he  has  two  hundred  thou- 
sand a  year;  monomaniacs  of  thatjcind  are  very  uncommon. 
As  for  knowing  whether  his  epigastric  region  has  affected  his 
brain,  or  his  brain  his  epigastric  region,  we  shall  find  that 
out,  perhaps,  whenever  he  dies.  But  to  resume.  There  is  no 
disputing  the  fact  that  he  is  ill ;  some  sort  of  treatment  he 
must  have.  Let  us  leave  theories  alone,  and  put  leeches  on 
him,  to  counteract  the  nervous  and  intestinal  irritation,  as 
to  the  existence  of  which  we  all  agree ;  and  let  us  send  him  to 
drirk  the  waters,  in  that  way  we  shall  act  on  both  systems  at 
once.  If  there  really  is  tubercular  disease,  we  can  hardly  ex- 
pect to  save  his  life ;  so  that " 


234  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

Eaphael  abiiiptly  left  the  passage,  and  went  back  to  his 
armchair.  The  four  doctors  very  soon  came  out  of  the 
i;tudy;  Horace  was  the  spokesman. 

"These  gentlemen/'  he  told  him,  "have  unanimously 
agreed  that  leeches  must  be  applied  to  the  stomach  at  once, 
and  that  both  physical  and  moral  treatment  are  imperatively 
needed.  In  the  first  place,  a  carefully  prescribed  rule  of 
diet,  so  as  to  soothe  the  internal  irritation" — here  Brisset 
signified  his  approval ;  "and  in  the  second,  a  hygienic  regimen,. 
to  set  your  general  condition  right.  We  all,  therefore,  rec- 
ommend you  to  go  to  take  the  waters  at  Aix  in  Savoy;  or, 
if  you  like  it  better,,  at  Mont  Dore  in  Auvergne ;  the  air  and 
the  situation  are  both  pleasanter  in  Savoy  than  in  the  Cantal, 
but  you  will  consult  your  own  taste." 

Here  it  was  Cameristus  who  nodded  assent. 

"These  gentlemen,"  Bianchon  continued,  "having  rec- 
ognized a  slight  affection  of  the  respiratory  organs,  are  agreed 
as  to  the  utility  of  the  jjrevious  course  of  treatment  that  I 
have  prescribed.  They  think  that  there  will  be  no  difficulty 
about  restoring  you  to  health,  and  that  everything  depends 
upon  a  wise  and  alternate  employment  of  these  various 
means.     And " 

"And  that  is  the  cause  of  the  milk  in  the  cocoanut,"  said 
Eaphael,  with  a  smile,  as  he  led  Horace  into  his  study  to  pay 
the  fees  for  this  useless  consultation. 

"Their  conclusions  are  logical,"  the  young  doctor  replied. 
"Cameristus  feels,  Brisset  examines,  Maugredie  doubts.  Has 
not  man  a  soul,  a  body,  and  an  intelligence?  One  of  these 
three  elemental  constituents  always  influences  us  more  or  less 
strongly ;  there  will  always  be  the  personal  element  in  human 
science.  Believe  me,  Raphael,  we  effect  no  cures ;  we  only 
assist  them.  Another  system — the  use  of  mild  remedies  while 
Nature  exerts  her  powers — lies  between  the  extremes  of  theory 
of  Brisset  and  Cameristus,  but  one  ought  to  have  known  the 
patient  for  some  ten  years  or  so  to  obtain  a  good  result  on 
these  lines.  Negation  lies  at  the  back  of  all  medicine,  as  in 
every  other  science.     So  endeavor  to  live  wholesomely;  try  a 


THE  AGONy  235 

trip  to  Savoy ;  the  best  course  is,  and  always  will  be,  to  trust 
to  Nature/' 

It  was  a  month  later,  on  a  fine  summer-like  evening,  that 
several  people,  who  Avere  taking  the  waters  at  Aix,  returned 
from  the  promenade  and  met  together  in  the  salons  of  the 
Club.  Eaphael  remained  alone  by  a  window  for  a  long  time. 
His  back  was  turned  upon  the  gathering,  and  he  himself  Avas 
deep  in  those  involuntary  musings  in  which  thoughts  ariso  in 
succession  and  fade  away,  shaping  themselves  indistinctly, 
passing  over  us  like  thin,  almost  colorless  clouds.  Melancholy 
is  sweet  to  us  then,  and  delight  is  shadowy,  for  the  soul  is 
half  asleep.  Valentin  gave  himself  up  to  this  life  of  sensa- 
tions ;  he  was  steeping  himself  in  the  warm,  soft  twilight,  en- 
joying the  pure  air  with  the  scent  of  the  hills  in  it,  happy  in 
that  he  felt  no  pain,  and  had  tranquilized  his  threatening 
Magic  Skin  at  last.  It  grew  cooler  as  the  red  glow  of  the 
sunset  faded  on  the  mountain  peaks;  he  shut  the  window 
and  left  his  place. 

"Will  you  be  so  kind  as  not  to  close  the  windows,  sir  ?"  said 
an  old  lady ;  "we  are  being  stifled " 

The  peculiarly  sharp  and  jarring  tones  in  which  the  phrase 
was  uttered  grated  on  Eaphael's  ears;  it  fell  on  them  like 
an  indiscreet  remark  let  slip  by  some  man  in  whose  friendship 
we  would  fain  believe,  a  word  which  reveals  unsuspected 
depths  of  selfishness  and  destroys  some  pleasing  sentimental 
illusion  of  ours.  The  Marquis  glanced,  with  the  cool  in- 
scrutable expression  of  a  diplomatist,  at  the  old  lady,  called 
a  servant,  and,  when  he  came,  curtly  bade  him 

"Open  that  window." 

Great  surprise  was  clearly  expressed  on  all  faces  at  the 
words.  The  whole  roomful  began  to  whisper  to  each  other, 
and  turned  their  eyes  upon  the  invalid,  as  though  he  had 
given  some  serious  offence.  Raphael,  who  had  never  quite 
managed  to  rid  himself  of  the  bashfulness  of  his  early  youth, 
felt  a  momentary  confusion ;  then  he  shook  off  his  torpor,  ex- 
erted his  faculties,  and  asked  himself  *the  meaning  of  this 
strange  scene. 


236  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

A  sudden  and  rapid  impulse  quickened  his  brain ;  the  past 
weeks  appeared  before  him  in  a  clear  and  definite  vision ;  the 
reasons  for  the  feelings  he  inspired  in  others  stood  out  for 
him  in  relief,  like  the  veins  of  some  corpse  which  a  naturalist, 
by  some  cunningly  contrived  injection,  has  colored  so  as  to 
show  their  least  ramifications. 

He  discerned  himself  in  this  fleeting  picture;  he  followed 
out  his  own  life  in  it,  thought  by  thought,  day  after  day. 
He  saw  himself,  not  without  astonishment,  an  absent  gloomy 
figure  in  the  midst  of  these  lively  folk,  always  musing  over 
his  own  fate,  always  absorbed  by  his  own  sufferings,  seem- 
ingly impatient  of  the  most  harmless  chat.  He  saw  hov/  he 
had  shunned  the  ephemeral  intimacies  that  travelers  are  so 
ready  to  establish — no  doubt  because  they  feel  sure  of  never 
meeting  each  other  again — and  how  he  had  taken  little  heed 
of  those  about  him.  He  saw  himself  like  the  rocks  without, 
unmoved  by  the  caresses  or  the  stormy  surgings  of  the 
waves. 

Then,  by  a  gift  of  insight  seldom  accorded,  he  read  the 
thoughts  of  all  those  about  him.  The  light  of  a  candle 
revealed  the  sardonic  profile  and  yellow  cranium  of  an  old 
man;  he  remembered  now  that  he  had  won  from  him,  and 
had  never  proposed  that  the  other  should  have  his  revenge; 
a  little  further  on  he  saw  a  pretty  woman,  whose  lively 
advances  he  had  met  with  frigid  coolness;  there  was  not  a 
face  there  that  did  not  reproach  him  with  some  wrong  done, 
inexplicably  to  all  appearance,  but  the  real  offence  in  every 
case  lay  in  some  mortification,  some  invisible  hurt  dealt  to 
self-love.  He  had  unintentionally  jarred  on  all  the  small 
susceptibilities  of  the  circle  round  about  him. 

His  guests  on  various  occasions,  and  those  to  Avhom  he 
had  lent  his  horses,  had  taken  offence  at  his  luxurious  ways ; 
their  ungraciousness  had  been  a  surprise  to  him;  he  had 
spared  them  further  humiliations  of  that  kind,  and  they  had 
considered  that  he  looked  down  upon  them,  and  had  accused 
him  of  haughtiness  ever  since.  He  could  read  their  inmost 
thoughts  as  he  fatliomed  their  natures  in  this  way.     Society 


THE  A(50NY  237 

with  its  polish  and  varnish  grew  loathsome  to  him.  He  was 
envied  and  hated  for  his  wealth  and  superior  ability;  his  re- 
serve bafiled  the  inquisitive ;  his  humility  seemed  like  haughti- 
ness to  these  petty  superficial  natures.  He  guessed  the  secret 
unpardonable  crime  which  he  had  committed  against  them ; 
he  had  overstepped  the  limits  of  the  jurisdiction  of  their 
mediocrity.  He  had  resisted  their  inquisitorial  tyranny;  he 
could  dispense  with  their  society ;  and  all  of  them,  therefore, 
had  instinctively  combined  to  make  him  feel  their  power,  and 
to  take  revenge  upon  this  incipient  royalty  by  submitting  him 
to  a  kind  of  ostracism,  and  so  teaching  him  that  they  in  their 
turn  could  do  without  him. 

Pity  came  over  him,  first  of  all,  at  this  aspect  of  man- 
kind, but  very  soon  he  shuddered  at  the  thought  of  the  po^^er 
that  came  thus,  at  will,  and  flung  aside  for  him  the  veil  of 
flesh  under  which  the  moral  nature  is  hidden  away.  He 
closed  his  eyes,  so  as  to  see  no  more.  A  black  curtain  was 
drawn  all  at  once  over  this  unlucky  phantom  show  of  truth; 
but  still  he  found  himself  in  the  terrible  loneliness  that  sur- 
rounds every  power  and  dominion.  Just  then  a  violent  fit 
of  coughing  seized  him.  Far  from  receiving  one  single  word 
— indifferent,  and  meaningless,  it  is  true,  but  still  containing, 
among  well-bred  people  brought  together  by  chance,  at  least 
some  pretence  of  civil  commiseration — he  now  heard  hostile 
ejaculations  and  muttered  complaints.  Society  there  as- 
sembled disdained  any  pantomime  on  his  account,  perhaps 
because  he  had  gauged  its  real  nature  too  well. 

"His  complaint  is  contagious." 

"The  president  of  the  Club  ought  to  forbid  him  to  enter 
the  salon." 

"It  is  contrary  to  all  rules  and  regulations  to  cough  in 
that  way!" 

"When  a  man  is  as  ill  as  that,  he  ought  not  to  come  to 
take  the  waters " 

"He  will  drive  me  away  from  the  place.'' 

Eaphael  rose  and  walked  about  the  rooms  to  screen  him- 
self from  their  unanimous  execrations.     He  thought  to  find 


238  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

a  shelter,  and  went  up  to  a  young  lady  who  sat  doing  nothing, 
minded  to  address  some  pretty  speeches  to  her;  but  as  he 
came  towards  her,  she  turned  her  back  upon  him,  and  pre- 
tended to  be  watching  the  dancers.  Raphael  feared  lest  he 
might  have  made  use  of  the  talisman  already  that  evening; 
and  feeling  that  he  had  neither  the  wish  nor  the  courage  to 
break  into  the  conversation,  he  left  the  salon  and  cook  refuge 
in  the  billiard-room.  No  one  there  greeted  him,  nobody 
spoke  to  him,  no  one  sent  so  much  as  a  friendly  glance  in  his 
direction.  His  turn  of  mind,  naturally  meditative,  had  dis- 
covered instinctively  the  general  grounds  and  reasons  for  the 
aversion  he  insj^ired.  This  little  world  was  obeying,  uncon- 
sciously perhaps,  the  sovereign  law  which  rules  over  polite 
society;  its  inexorable  nature  was  becoming  apparent  in  its 
entirety  to  Eaphael's  eyes.  A  glance  into  the  past  showed  it 
to  him,  as  a  type  completely  realized  in  Foedora. 

He  would  no  more  meet  with  sympathy  here  for  his  bodily 
ills  than  he  had  received  it  at  her  hands  for  the  distress  in 
his  heart.  The  fashionable  world  expels  every  suffering 
creature  from  its  midst,  just  as  the  body  of  a  man  in  robust 
health  rejects  any  germ  of  disease.  The  world  holds  suffering 
and  misfortune  in  abhorrence;  it  dreads  them  like  the  plague ; 
it  never  hesitates  between  vice  and  trouble,  for  vice  is  a  luxury. 
Ill-fortune  may  possess  a  majesty  of  its  own,  but  society  can 
belittle  it  and  make  it  ridiculous  by  an  epigram.  Society 
draws  caricatures,  and  in  this  way  flings  in  the  teeth  of 
fallen  kings  the  affronts  which  it  fancies  it  has  received  from 
them;  society,  like  the  Roman  youth  at  the  circus,  never 
shows  mercy  to  the  fallen  gladiator ;  mockery  and  money  are 
its  vital  necessities.  "Death  to  the  weak!"  That  is  the 
oath  taken  by  this  kind  of  Equestrian  order,  instituted  in 
their  midst  by  all  the  nations  of  the  world;  evei*y where  it 
makes  for  the  elevation  of  the  rich,  and  its  motto  is  deeply 
graven  in  hearts  that  wealth  has  turned  to  stone,  or  that  have 
been  reared  in  aristocratic  prejudices. 

Assemble  a  collection  of  school-boys  together.  That  will 
give  you  a  society  in  miniature,  a  miniature  which  represents 


THE  AGONY  239 

life  mdre  truly,  because  it  is  so  frank  and  artless;  and  in  it 
you  will  always  find  poor  isolated  beings,  relegated  to  some 
place  in  the  general  estimation  between  pity  and  contempt, 
on  account  of  their  weakness  and  suffering.  To  these  the 
Evangel  promises  heaven  hereafter.  Go  lower  yet  in  the 
scale  of  organized  creation.  If  some  bird  among  its  fellows 
in  the  courtyard  sickens,  the  others  fall  upon  it  with  tlicir 
beaks,  pluck  out  its  feathers,  and  kill  it.  The  whole  worki 
in  accordance  with  its  charter  of  egotism,  brings  all  its 
severity  to  bear  upon  wretchedness  that  has  the  hardihood  to 
spoil  its  festivities,  and  to  trouble  its  joys. 

Any  sufferer  in  mind  or  body,  any  helpless  or  poor  man, 
is  a  pariah.  He  had  better  remain  in  his  solitude;  if  he 
crosses  the  boundary-line,  he  will  find  winter  everywhere ;  he 
will  find  freezing  cold  in  other  men's  looks,  manners,  words, 
and  hearts;  and  lucky  indeed  is  he  if  he  does  not  receive  an 
insult  where  he  expected  that  sympathy  would  be  expended 
upon  him.  Let  the  dying  keep  to  their  bed  of  neglect,  and  age 
sit  lonely  by  its  fireside.  Portionless  maids,  freeze  and  burn 
in  your  solitary  attics.  If  the  world  tolerates  misery  of  any 
kind,  it  is  to  turn  it  to  account  for  its  own  purposes,  to  make 
some  use  of  it,  saddle  and  bridle  it,  put  a  bit  in  its  mouth, 
ride  it  about,  and  get  some  fun  out  of  it. 

Crotchety  spinsters,  ladies'  companions,  put  a  cheerful  face 
upon  it,  endure  the  humors  of  your  so-called  benefactress, 
carry  her  lapdogs  for  her;  you  have  an  English  poodle  for 
your  rival,  and  you  must  seek  to  understand  the  moods  of 
your  patroness,  and  amuse  her,  and — keep  silence  about  your- 
selves. As  for  you,  unblushing  parasite,  uncrowned  king  of 
unliveried  servants,  leave  your  real  character  at  home,  let 
your  digestion  keep  pace  with  your  host's,  laugh  when  he 
laughs,  mingle  your  tears  with  his,  and  find  his  epigrams 
amusing;  if  you  want  to  relieve  your  mind  about  him,  wait 
till  he  is  ruined.  That  is  the  way  the  world  shows  its  respect 
for  the  unfortunate ;  it  persecutes  them,  or  slays  them ;  it  de- 
prives them  of  their  manhood,  or  humbles  them  in  the  dust. 

Such  thoughts  as  these  welled  up  in  Raphael's  heart  with 


240  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

the  suddenness  of  poetic  inspiration.  He  looked  around 
him,  and  felt  the  influence  of  the  forbidding  glooin  that 
society  breathes  out  in  order  to  rid  itself  of  the  unfortunate; 
it  nipped  his  soul  more  effectually  than  the  east  wind  grips 
the  body  in  Decemher.  He  locked  his  arms  over  his  chest,  set 
his  back  against  the  wall,  and  fell  into  a  deep  melancholy. 
He  mused  upon  the  meagre  happiness  that  this  depressing 
way  of  living  can  give.  What  did  it  amount  to?  Amuse- 
]:ient  with  no  pleasure  in  it,  gaiety  without  gladness,  joyless 
festivity,  fevered  dreams  empty  of  all  delight,  firewood  or 
ashes  on  the  hearth  without  a  spark  of  flame  in  them.  When 
he  raised  his  head,  he  found  himself  alone,  all  the  billiard 
players  had  gone. 

"I  have  only  to  let  them  know  my  power  to  make  them 
worship  my  coughing  fits,"  he  said  to  himself,  and  wrapped 
himself  against  the  world  in  the  cloak  of  his  contempt. 

Next  day  the  resident  doctor  came  to  call  upon  him,  and 
took  an  anxious  interest  in  his  health.  Eaphael  felt  a  thrill 
of  joy  at  the  friendly  words  addressed  to  him.  The  doctor's 
face,  to  his  thinking,  wore  an  expression  that  was  kind  and 
pleasant;  the  pale  curls  of  his  wig  seemed  redolent  of 
philanthropy ;  the  square  cut  of  his  coat,  the  loose  folds  of  his 
trousers,  his  big  Quaker-like  shoes,  everything  about  him  down 
to  the  powder  shaken  from  his  queue  and  dusted  in  a  circle 
upon  his  slightly  stooping  shoulders,  revealed  an  apostolic 
nature,  and  spoke  of  Christian  charity  and  of  the  self-sacrifice 
of  a  man,  who,  out  of  sheer  devotion  to  his  patients,  had  com- 
pelled himself  to  learn  to  play  whist  and  tric-trac  so  well  that 
he  never  lost  money  to  any  of  them. 

"My  Lord  Marquis,"  said  he,  after  a  long  talk  with  Eaphael, 
"I  can  dispel  your  uneasiness  beyond  all  doubt.  I  know  your 
constitution  well  enough  by  this  time  to  assure  you  that  the 
doctors  in  Paris,  whose  great  abilities  I  know,  are  mistaken  as 
to  the  nature  of  your  complaint.  You  can  live  as  long  as 
Methuselah,  my  Lord  Marquis,  accidents  only  excepted. 
Your  lungs  are  as  sound  as  a  blacksmith's  bellows,  your 
stomach  would  put  an  ostrich  to  the  blush ;  but  if  you  persist 


THE  AGONY  241 

in  living  at  a  higli  altitude,  3011  are  running  the  risk  of  a 
prompt  interment  in  consecrated  soil.  A  few  words,  my 
Lord  Marquis,  will  make  my  meaning  clear  to  you. 

"Chemistry,"  he  began,  "has  shown  us  that  man's  breath- 
ing is  a  real  process  of  combustion,  and  the  intensity  of  its 
action  varies  according  to  the  abundance  or  scarcity  of  the 
phlogistic  element  stored  up  by  the  organism  of  each  in- 
dividual. In  your  case,  the  phlogistic  or  inflammatory  element 
is  abundant ;  if  you  will  permit  me  to  put  it  so,  you  generate 
superfluous  oxygen,  possessing  as  you  do  the  inflammatory 
temperament  of  a  man  destined  to  experience  strong  emo- 
tions. While  you  breathe  the  keen,  pure  air  that  stimulates 
life  in  men  of  lymphatic  constitution,  you  are  accelerating 
an  expenditure  of  vitality  already  too  rapid.  One  of  the 
conditions  of  existence  for  you  is  the  heavier  atmosphere  of 
the  plains  and  valleys.  Yes,  the  vital  air  for  a  man  consumed 
by  his  genius  lies  in  the  fertile  pasture-lands  of  Germany,  at 
Toplitz  or  Baden-Baden.  If  England  is  not  obnoxious  to 
you,  its  misty  climate  would  reduce  your  fever ;  but  the  situa- 
tion of  our  baths,  a  thousand  feet  above  the  level  of  the 
Mediterranean,  is  dangerous  for  you.  That  is  my  opinion 
at  least,"  he  said,  with  a  deprecatory  gesture,  "and  I  give  it  in 
opposition  to  our  interests,  for,  if  you  act  upon  it,  we  shall 
unfortunately  lose  you." 

But  for  these  closing  words  of  his,  the  affable  doctor's 
seeming  good-nature  would  have  completely  won  Raphael 
over;  but  he  was  too  profoundly  observant  not  to  understand 
the  meaning  of  the  tone,  the  look  and  gesture  that  accom- 
panied that  mild  sarcasm,  not  to  see  that  the  little  man  had 
been  sent  on  this  errand,  no  doubt,  by  a  flock  of  his  rejoicing 
patients.  The  florid-looking  idlers,  tedious  old  women, 
nomad  English  people,  and  fine  ladies  who  had  given  their 
husbands  the  slip,  and  were  escorted  hither  by  their  lovers — 
one  and  all  were  in  a  plot  to  drive  away  a  wretched,  feeble  crea- 
ture about  to  die,  who  seemed  unable  to  hold  out  against  a 
daily  renewed  persecution  !  Raphael  accepted  the  challenge;  he 
foresaw  some  amusement  to  be  derived  from  their  manoeuvres. 


242  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

"As  you  would  be  grieved  at  losing  me,"  said  he  to  the 
doctor,  "I  will  endeavor  to  avail  mj'self  of  your  good  advice 
without  leaving  the  place.  I  will  set  about  having  a  house 
built  to-morrow,  and  the  atmosphere  within  it  shall  be 
regulated  by  your  instructions." 

The  doctor  understood  the  sarcastic  smile  that  lurked  about 
Raphael's  mouth,  and  took  his  leave  without  finding  another 
word  to  say. 

The  Lake  of  Bourget  lies  seven  hundred  feet  above  the 
Mediterranean,  in  a  great  hollow  among  the  jagged  peaks  of 
the  hills;  it  sparkles  there,  the  bluest  drop  of  water  in  the 
world.  From  the  summit  of  the  Cat's  Tooth  the  lake  below 
looks  like  a  stray  turquoise.  This  lovely  sheet  of  water  is 
about  twenty-seven  miles  round,  and  in  some  places  is  nearly 
five  hundred  feet  deep. 

Under  the  cloudless  sky,  in  your  boat  in  the  midst  of  the 
great  expanse  of  water,  with  only  the  sound  of  the  oars  in  your 
ears,  only  the  vague  outline  of  the  hills  on  the  horizon  before 
you;  you  admire  the  glittering  snows  of  the  French 
Maurienne;  you  pass,  now  by  masses  of  granite  clad  in  the 
velvet  of  green  turf  or  in  low-growing  shrubs,  now  by 
pleasant  sloping  meadows ;  there  is  always  a  wilderness  on  the 
one  hand  and  fertile  lands  on  the  other,  and  both  harmonies 
and  dissonances  compose  a  scene  for  you  where  everything 
is  at  once  small  and  vast,  and  you  feel  yourself  to  be  a  poor 
onlooker  at  a  great  banquet.  The  configuration  of  the 
mountains  brings  about  misleading  optical  conditions  and 
illusions  of  perspective ;  a  pine-tree  a  hundred  feet  in  height 
looks  to  be  a  mere  weed;  wide  valleys  look  as  narrow  as 
meadow  paths.  '  The  lake  is  the  only  one  where  the  con- 
fidences of  heart  and  heart  can  be  exchanged.  There  one  can 
love;  there  one  can  meditate.  Nowhere  on  earth  will  you 
find  a  closer  understanding  between  the  water,  the  sky,  the 
mountains,  and  the  fields.  There  is  a  balm  there  for  all  the 
ngitations  of  life.  The  place  keeps  the  secrets  of  sorrow  to 
itself,  the  sorrow  that  grows  less  beneath  its  soothing  in- 
fluence; and  to  love,  it  gives  a  grave  and  meditative  cast. 


THE  AGONY  243 

deepening  passion  and  purifying  it.  A  kiss  there  becomes 
something  great.  But  beyond  all  other  things  it  is  the 
Jake  for  memories;  it  aids  them  by  lending  to  them  the  hues 
of  its  own  waves;  it  is  a  mirror  in  which  everything  is  re- 
tiected.  Only  here,  with  this  lovely  landscape  all  around  him, 
could  Raphael  endure  the  burden  laid  upon  him;  here  he 
could  remain  as  a  languid  dreamer,  without  a  wish  of  his 
own. 

He  went  out  upon  the  lake  after  the  doctor's  visit,  and 
was  landed  at  a  lonely  point  on  the  pleasant  slope  where  the 
village  of  Saint-Innocent  is  situated.  The  view  from  this 
promontory,  as  one  may  call  it,  comprises  the  heights  of 
Bugey  with  the  Ehone  flowing  at  their  foot,  and  the  end  of 
the  lake ;  but  Eaphael  liked  to  look  at  the  opposite  shore  from 
thence,  at  the  melancholy  looking  Abbey  of  Haute-Combe,  the 
burying-place  of  the  Sardinian  kings,  who  lie  prostrate  there 
before  the  hills,  like  pilgrims  come  at  last  to  their  journey's 
end.  The  silence  of  the  landscape  was  broken  by  the  even 
rhythm  of  the  strokes  of  the  oar;  it  seemed  to  find  a  voice  for 
the  place,  in  monotonous  cadences  like  the  chanting  of  monks. 
The  Marquis  was  surprised  to  find  visitors  to  this  usually 
lonely  part  of  the  lake;  and  as  he  mused,  he  watched  the 
people  seated  in  the  boat,  and  recognized  in  the  stern  the 
elderly  lady  who  had  spoken  so  harshly  to  him  the  evening 
before. 

No  one  took  any  notice  of  Raphael  as  the  boat  passed, 
except  the  elderly  lady's  companion,  a  poor  old  maid  of  noble 
family,  who  bowed  to  him,  and  whom  it  seemed  to  him  that 
he  saw  for  the  first  time.  A  few  seconds  later  he  had  already 
forgotten  the  visitors,  who  had  rapidly  disappeared  behind  the 
promontory,  when  he  heard  the  fluttering  of  a  dress  and  the 
sound  of  light  footsteps  not  far  from  him.  He  turned  about 
and  saw  the  companion:  and,  guessing  from  her  embarrassed 
manner  that  she  wished  to  speak  with  him,  he  walked  towards 
her. 

She  was  somewhere  about  thirty-six  years  of  age,  thin 
and  tall,  reserved  and  prim,  and,  like  all  old  maids,  seemed 


244  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

puzzled  to  know  which  way  to  look,  an  expression  no  longer 
in  keeping  with  her  measured,  springless,  and  hesitating  steps. 
She  was  both  young  and  old  at  the  same  time,  and,  by  a  cer- 
tain, dignity  in  her  carriage,  showed  the  high  value  which 
she  set  upon  her  charms  and  perfections.  In  addition,  her 
movements  were  all  demure  and  discreet,  like  those  of  women 
who  are  accustomed  to  take  great  care  of  themselves,  no  doubt 
because  they  desire  not  to  be  cheated  of  love,  their  destined 
end. 

"Your  life  is  in  danger,  sir;  do  not  come  to  the  Club 
again !'"'  she  said,  stepping  back  a  pace  or  two  from  Eaphael, 
as  if  her  reputation  had  been  already  compromised. 

"But,  mademoiselle,"  said  Eaphael,  smiling,  ''please 
explain  yourself  more  clearly,  since  you  have  condescended 
so  far " 

"Ah,"  she  answered,  "unless  I  had  had  a  very  strong 
motive,  I  should  never  have  run  the  risk  of  offending  the 
countess,  for  if  she  ever  came  to  know  that  I  had  warned 
you " 

"And  who  would  tell  her,  mademoiselle  ?"  cried  Eaphael. 

"True,"  the  old  maid  answered.  She  looked  at  him, 
quaking  like  an  owl  out  in  the  sunlight.  "But  think  of 
yourself,"  she  went  on;  "several  young  men,  who  want  to 
drive  you  away  from  the  baths,  have  agreed  to  pick  a  quarrel 
with  you,  and  to  force  you  into  a  duel." 

The  elderly  lady's  voice  sounded  in  the  distance. 

"Mademoiselle,"  began  the  Marquis,  "my  gratitude " 

But  his  protectress  had  fled  already;  she  had  heard  the  voice 
of  her  mistress  squeaking  afresh  among  the  rocks. 

"Poor  girl !  unhappiness  always  understands  and  helps  the 
unhapp3%"  Eaphael  thought,  and  sat  himself  down  at  the  foot 
of  a  tree. 

The  key  of  every  science  is,  beyond  cavil,  the  mark  of  in- 
terrogation; we  owe  most  of  our  greatest  discoveries  to  a 
Why?  and  all  the  wisdom  in  the  world,  perhaps,  consists  in 
asking  Wherefore?  in  every  connection.  But,  on  the  other 
hand^  this  acquired  prescience  is  the  ruin  of  our  illusion^. 


THE  AGONY  245 

So  Valentin,  having  taken  the  old  maid's  kindly  action  for 
the  text  of  his  wandering  thoughts,  without  the  deliberate 
promptings  of  philosophy,  must  find  it  full  of  gall  and  worm- 
wood. 

"It  is  not  at  all  extraordinary  that  a  gentlewoman's  gen- 
tlewoman should  take  a  fancy  to  me,"  said  he  to  himself.  "I 
am  twenty-seven  years  old,  and  I  have  a  title  and  an  income 
of  two  hundred  thousand  a  year.  But  that  her  mistress,  who 
hates  water  like  a  rabid  cat — for  it  would  be  hard  to  give  the 
palm  to  either  in  that  matter — that  her  mistress  should  have 
brought  her  here  in  a  boat !  Is  not  that  very  strange  and 
wonderful  ?  Those  two  women  came  into  Savoy  to  sleep  like 
marmots;  they  ask  if  day  has  dawned  at  noon;  and  to  think 
that  they  could  get  up  this  morning  before  eight  o'clock,  to 
take  their  chance  in  running  after  me  \" 

Very  soon  the  old  maid  and  her  elderly  innocence  became, 
in  his  eyes,  a  fresh  manifestation  of  that  artificial,  malicious 
little  world.  It  was  a  paltry  device,  a  clumsy  artifice,  a  piece 
of  priest's  or  woman's  craft.  Was  the  duel  a  myth,  or  did 
they  merely  want  to  frighten  him  ?  But  these  petty  creatures, 
impudent  and  teasing  as  flies,  had  succeeded  in  wounding  his 
vanity,  in  rousing  his  pride,  and  exciting  his  curiosity.  Un- 
willing to  become  their  dupe,  or  to  be  taken  for  a  coward, 
and  even  diverted  perhaps  by  the  little  drama,  he  went  to  the 
Club  that  very  evening. 

He  stood  leaning  against  the  marble  chimney-piece,  and 
stayed  there  quietly  in  the  middle  of  the  principal  saloon, 
doing  his  best  to  give  no  one  any  advantage  over  him;  but 
he  scrutinized  the  faces  about  him,  and  gave  a  certain  vague 
offence  to  those  assembled,  by  his  inspection.  Like  a  dog 
aware  of  his  strength,  he  awaited  the  contest  on  his  own 
ground,  without  unnecessary  barking.  Towards  the  end  of 
the  evening  he  strolled  into  the  cardroom,  walking  between 
the  door  and  another  that  opened  into  the  billiard-room, 
throwing  a  glance  from  time  to  time  over  a  group  of  young 
men  that  had  gathered  there.  He  heard  his  name  mentioned 
after  a  turn  oy  •^wq.       Although  they  lowered  their  voices. 


246  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

Eaphael  easily  guessed  that  he  had  become  the  topic  of  their 
debate,  and  he  ended  by  catching  a  plirase  or  two  spoken 
aloud. 

"You?" 

"Yes,  I." 

"I  dare  you  to  do  it  I" 

"Let  us  make  a  bet  on  it !" 

"Oh,  he  will  do  it." 

Just  as  Valentin,  curious  to  learn  the  matter  of  the  wager, 
came  up  to  pay  closer  attention  to  what  they  were  saying, 
a  tall,  strong,  good-looking  young  fellow,  who,  however,  pos- 
sessed the  impertinent  stare  peculiar  to  people  who 
have  material  force  at  their  back,  came  out  of  the  billiard- 
room. 

"I  am  deputed,  sir,"  he  said  cooll}'^  addressing  the  Mar- 
quis, "to  make  you  aware  of  something  which  you  do  not 
seem  to  know ;  your  face  and  person  generally  are  a  source  of 
annoyance  to  every  one  here,  and  to  me  in  particular.  You 
have  too  much  politeness  not  to  sacrifice  yourself  to  the  public 
good,  and  I  beg  that  you  will  not  show  yourself  in  the  Club 
again." 

"This  sort  of  joke  has  been  perpetrated  before,  sir,  in  gar- 
rison towns  at  the  time  of  the  Empire;  but  nowadays  it  is 
exceedingly  bad  form,"  said  Eaphael  drily. 

"I  am  not  joking,"  the  young  man  answered;  "and  I  re- 
peat it :  your  health  will  be  considerably  the  worse  for  a  stay 
here;  the  heat  and  light,  the  air  of  the  saloon,  and  the 
company  are  all  bad  for  your  complaint." 

"Where  did  you  study  medicine  ?"  Raphael  inquired. 

"I  took  my  bachelor's  degree  on  Lepage's  shooting-ground 
in  Paris,  and  was  made  a  doctor  at  Cerizier's,  the  king  of 
foils." 

"There  is  one  last  degree  left  for  you  to  take,"  said 
Valentin;  "study  the  ordinary  rules  of  politeness,  and  you 
will  be  a  perfect  gentleman." 

The  young  men  all  came  out  of  the  billiard-room  just  then, 
some  disposed  to  laugh,  some  silent.     The  attention  of  other 


THE  AGONY  247 

players  was  drawn  to  the  matter;  they  left  their  cards  to 
watch  a  quarrel  that  rejoiced  their  instincts.  Raphael,  alone 
among  this  hostile  crowd,  did  his  best  to  keep  cool,  and  not 
to  put  himself  in  any  way  in  the  wrong;  but  his  adversary 
having  ventured  a  sarcasm  containing  an  insult  couched  in 
unusually  keen  language,  he  replied  gravely : 

"We  cannot  box  men's  ears,  sir,  in  these  days,  but  I  am  at  a 
loss  for  any  word  by  which  to  stigmatize  such  cowardly  be- 
havior as  yours." 

"That's  enough,  that's  enough.  You  can  come  to  an  ex- 
planation to-morrow/'  several  young  men  exclaimed,  interpos- 
ing between  the  two  champions. 

Eaphael  left  the  room  in  the  character  of  aggressor,  after 
he  had  accepted  a  proposal  to  meet  near  the  Chateau  de 
Bordeau,  in  a  little  sloping  meadow,  not  very  far  from  the 
newly  made  road,  by  Avhich  the  man  who  came  off  victorious 
could  reach  Lyons.  Eaphael  must  now  either  take  to  his  bed 
or  leave  the  baths.  The  visitors  had  gained  their  point.  At 
eight  o'clock  next  morning  his  antagonist,  followed  by  two 
seconds  and  a  surgeon,  arrived  first  on  the  ground. 

"We  shall  do  very  nicely  here ;  glorious  weather  for  a  duel !" 
he  cried  gaily,  looking  at  the  blue  vault  of  sky  above,  at  the 
waters  of  the  lake,  and  the  rocks,  without  a  single  melancholy 
presentiment  or  doubt  of  the  issue.  "If  I  wing  him,"  he 
went  on,  "I  shall  send  him  to  bed  for  a  month ;  eh,  doctor  ?" 

"At  the  very  least,"  the  surgeon  replied ;  "but  let  that  wil- 
low twig  alone,  or  you  will  weary  your  wrist,  and  then  you 
will  not  fire  steadily.  You  might  kill  your  man  then  instead  of 
wounding  him." 

The  noise  of  a  carriage  was  heard  approaching. 

"Here  he  is,"  said  the  seconds,  who  soon  descried  a  caleche 
coming  along  the  road;  it  was  drawn  by  four  horses,  and  there 
were  two  postilions. 

"What  a  queer  proceeding!"  said  Valentin's  antagonist; 
"here  he  comes  post-haste  to  be  shot." 

The  slightest  incident  about  a  duel,  as  about  a  stake  at 
cards,  makes  an  impression  on  the  minds  of  those  deeply 


248  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

concerned  in  the  results  of  the  affair;  so  the  young  man 
awaited  the  arrival  of  the  carriage  with  a  kind  of  uneasiness. 
It  stopped  in  the  road;  old  Jonathan  laboriously  descended 
from  it,  in  the  first  place,  to  assist  Raphael  to  alight ;  he  sup- 
ported him  with  his  feeble  arms,  and  showed  him  all  the 
minute  attentions  that  a  lover  lavishes  upon  his  mistress. 
Both  became  lost  to  sight  in  the  footpath  that  lay  between 
the  highroad  and  the  field  where  the  duel  was  to  take  place; 
they  were  walking  slowly,  and  did  not  appear  again  for  some 
time  after.  The  four  onlookers  at  this  strange  spectacle  felt 
deeply  moved  by  the  sight  of  Valentin  as  he  leaned  on  his 
servant's  arm;  he  was  wasted  and  pale;  he  limped  as  if  he 
had  the  gout,  went  with  his  head  bowed  down,  and  said  not  a 
word.  You  might  have  taken  them  for  a  couple  of  old  men, 
one  broken  with  years,  the  other  worn  out  with  thought ;  the 
elder  bore  his  age  visibly  written  in  his  white  hair,  the  younger 
was  of  no  age. 

"I  have  not  slept  all  night,  sir;"  so  Raphael  greeted  his 
antagonist. 

The  icy  tone  and  terrible  glance  that  went  with  the  words 
made  the  real  aggressor  shudder;  he  knew  that  he  was  in 
the  wrong,  and  felt  in  secret  ashamed  of  his  behavior.  There 
was  something  strange  in  Raphael's  bearing,  tone,  and  ges- 
ture; the  Marquis  stopped,  and  every  one  else  was  likewise 
silent.  The  uneasy  and  constrained  feeling  grew  to  a 
height. 

"There  is  yet  time,"  he  went  on,  "to  offer  me  some  slight 
apology ;  and  offer  it  you  must,  or  you  will  die,  sir !  You 
rely  even  now  on  your  dcxterit}^,  and  do  not  shrink  from  an 
encounter  in  which  you  believe  all  the  advantage  to  be  upon 
your  side.  Very  good,  sir;  I  am  generous,  I  am  letting  you 
know  my  superiority  beforehand.  I  possess  a  terrible  power. 
I  have  only  to  wish  to  do  so,  and  I  can  neutralize  your  skill, 
dim  your  eyesight,  make  your  hand  and  pulse  unsteady,  and 
even  kill  you  outright.  I  have  no  wish  to  be  compelled  to 
exercise  my  power;  the  use  of  it  costs  me  too  dear.  You 
would  not  be  the  only  one  to  die.       So  if  you  refuse  to 


THE  AGONY  249 

apologize  to  nie,  no  matter  what  your  experience  in  murder, 
your  ball  will  go  into  the  waterfall  there,  and  mine  will  speed 
straight  to  your  heart  though  I  do  not  aim  it  at  you." 

Confused  voices  interrupted  Kaphael  at  this  point.  All 
the  time  that  he  was  speaking,  the  Marquis  had  kept  his  in- 
tolerably keen  gaze  fixed  upon  his  antagonist;  now  he  drew 
himself  up  and  showed  an  impassive  face,  like  that  of  a 
dangerous  madman. 

"Make  him  hold  his  tongue,"  the  young  man  had  said  to 
one  of  his  seconds ;  "that  voice  of  his  is  tearing  the  heart  out 
of  me." 

"Say  no  more,  sir;  it  is  quite  useless,"  cried  the  seconds  and 
the  surgeon,  addressing  Eaphael. 

"Gentlemen,  I  am  fulfilling  a  duty.  Has  this  young  gen- 
tleman any  final  arrangements  to  make  ?" 

"That  is  enough;  that  will  do." 

The  Marquis  remained  standing  steadily,  never  for  a 
moment  losing  sight  of  his  antagonist ;  and  the  latter  seemed, 
like  a  bird  before  a  snake,  to  be  overwhelmed  by  a  well-nigh 
magical  power.  He  was  compelled  to  endure  that  homicidal 
gaze ;  he  met  and  shunned  it  incessantly. 

"I  am  thirsty;  give  me  some  water "  he  said  again  to 

the  second. 

"Are  you  nervous?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered.  "There  is  a  fascination  about  that 
man's  glowing  eyes." 

"Will  you  apologize?" 

"It  is  too  late  now." 

The  two  antagonists  were  placed  at  fifteen  paces'  distance 
from  each  other.  Each  of  them  had  a  brace  of  pistols  at  hand, 
and,  according  to  the  programme  prescribed  for  them,  each 
was  to  fire  twice  when  and  how  he  pleased,  but  after  the 
signal  had  been  given  by  the  seconds. 

"What  are  you  doing,  Charles  ?"  exclaimed  the  young  man 
who  acted  as  second  to  EaphaeFs  antagonist ;  "you  are  putting 
in  the  ball  before  the  powder !" 

"I  am  a  dead  man,"  he  muttered,  by  way  of  answer;  "you 
have  put  me  facing  the  gun " 


250  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

"The  sun  lies  behind  you,"  said  Valentin  sternly  and 
solemnly,  while  he  coolly  loaded  his  pistol  without  heeding 
the  fact  that  the  signal  had  been  given,  or  that  his  antagonist 
was  carefully  taking  aim. 

There  was  something  so  appalling  in  this  supernatural  un- 
concern, that  it  affected  even  the  two  postilions,  brought 
thither  by  a  cruel  curiosity.  Raphael  was  either  trying  his 
power  or  playing  with  it,  for  he  talked  to  Jonathan,  and 
looked  towards  him  as  he  received  his  adversary's  firo. 
Charles'  bullet  broke  a  branch  of  willow,  and  ricocheted  over 
the  surface  of  the  water;  Eaphael  fired  at  random,  and  shot 
his  antagonist  through  the  heart.  He  did  not  heed  the  young 
man  as  he  dropped;  he  hurriedly  sought  the  Magic  Skin 
to  see  what  another  man's  life  had  cost  him.  The  talisman 
was  no  larger  than  a  small  oak-leaf. 

"What  are  you  gaping  at,  you  postilions  over  there?  Let 
us  be  off,"  said  the  Marquis. 

That  same  evening  he  crossed  the  French  border,  im- 
mediately set  out  for  Auvergne,  and  reached  the  springs  of 
Mont  Dore.  As  he  traveled,  there  surged  uj)  in  his  heart,  all 
at  once,  one  of  those  thoughts  that  come  to  us  as  a  ray  of  sun- 
light pierces  through  the  thick  mists  in  some  dark  valley — a 
sad  enlightenment,  a  pitiless  sagacity  that  lights  up  the  ac- 
complished fact  for  us,  that  lays  our  errors  bare,  and  leaves 
us  without  excuse  in  our  own  e3'^es.  It  suddenly  struck  him 
that  the  possession  of  power,  no  matter  how  enormous,  did 
not  bring  with  it  the  knowledge  how  to  use  it.  The  sceptre  is  a 
plaything  for  a  child,  an.  axe  for  a  Richelieu,  and  for  a 
Napoleon  a  lever  by  which  to  move  the  world.  Power  leaves 
us  just  as  it  finds  us;  only  great  natures  grow  greater  by 
its  means.  Raphael  had  had  everything  in  his  power,  and 
he  had  done  nothing.  , 

At  the  springs  of  Mont  Dore  he  came  again  in  contact 
with  a  little  world  of  people,  who  invariably  shunned  him  with 
the  eager  haste  that  animals  display  when  they  scent  afar  off 
one  of  their  own  species  lying  dead,  and  flee  away.  The  dis- 
like was  mutual.     His  late  adventure  had  given  him  a  deep 


THE  AGONY  251 

distaste  for  society;  his  first  care,  consequently,  was  to  find  a 
lodging  at  some  distance  from  the  neighborhood  of  the 
springs.  Instinctively  he  felt  within  him  the  need  of  close 
contact  with  nature,  of  natural  emotions,  and  of  the  vegeta- 
tive life  into  which  we  sink  so  gladly  among  the  fields. 

The  day  after  he  arrived  he  climbed  the  Pic  de  Sancy,  not 
without  difficulty,  and  visited  the  higher  valleys,  the  skyey 
nooks,  undiscovered  lakes,  and  peasants'  huts  about  Mont, 
Dore,  a  country  whose  stern  and  wild  features  are  no^\'  be-| 
ginning  to  tempt  the  brushes  of  our  artists,  for  sometimes 
wonderfully  fresh  and  charming  views  are  to  be  found  there, 
affording  a  strong  contrast  to  the  frowning  brows  of  those 
lonely  hills. 

Barely  a  league  from  the  village  Raphael  discovered  a  nook 
where  nature  seemed  to  have  taken  a  pleasure  in  hiding  away 
all  her  treasures  like  some  glad  and  mischievous  child. 
At  the  first  sight  of  this  unspoiled  and  picturesque  retreat, 
he  determined  to  take  up  his  abode  in  it.  There,  life  must 
needs  be  peaceful,  natural,  and  fruitful,  like  the  life  of  a 
plant. 

Imagine  for  yourself  an  inverted  cone  of  granite  hollowed 
out  on  a  large  scale,  a  sort  of  basin  with  its  sides  divided  up 
by  queer  winding  paths.  On  one  side  lay  level  stretches  with  no 
groMi;h  upon  them,  a  bluish  uniform  surface,  over  which  the 
rays  of  the  sun  fell  as  upon  a  mirror ;  on  the  other  lay  cliffs 
split  open  by  fissures  and  frowning  ravines;  great  blocks  of 
lava  hung  suspended  from  them,  while  the  action  of  rain 
slowly  prepared  their  impending  fall;  a  few  stunted  trees, 
tormented  by  the  wind,  often  crowned  their  summits;  and 
here  and  there  in  some  sheltered  angle  of  their  ramparts  a 
clump  of  chestnut-trees  grew  tall  as  cedars,  or  some  cavern 
in  the  yellowish  rock  showed  the  dark  entrance  into  its  depths, 
set  about  by  flowers  and  brambles,  decked  by  a  little  strip 
of  green  turf. 

At  the  bottom  of  this  cup,  which  perhaps  had  been  the 
crater  of  an  old-world  vol  en  no,  lay  a  pool  of  water  as  pure 
and  bright  as  a  diamond.     Granite  boulders  lay  around  the 


252  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

deep  basiii;,  and  willows,  mountain-ash  trees,  yellow-flag  lilies, 
and  numberless  aromatic  plants  bloomed  about  it,  in  a  realm 
of  meadow  as  fresh  as  an  English  bowling-green.  The  fine 
soft  grass  was  watered  by  the  streams  that  trickled  through 
the  fissures  in  the  cliffs;  the  soil  was  contintially  enriched  by 
the  deposits  of  loam  which  storms  washed  down  from  the 
heights  above.  The  pool  might  be  some  three  acres  in  ex- 
tent; its  shape  was  irregular,  and  the  edges  were  scalloped 
like  the  hem  of  a  dress ;  the  meadow  might  be  an  acre  or  two 
acres  in  extent.  The  cliffs  and  the  water  approached  and  re- 
ceded from  each  other;  here  and  there,  there  was  scarcely 
width  enough  for  the  cows  to  pass  between  them. 

After  a  certain  height  the  plant  life  ceased.  Aloft  in  air 
the  granite  took  upon  itself  the  most  fantastic  shapes,  and  as- 
sumed those  misty  tints  that  give  to  high  mountains  a  dim 
resemblance  to  clouds  in  the  sky.  The  bare,  bleak  cliffs,  with 
the  fearful  rents  in  their  sides,  pictures  of  wild  and  barren 
desolation,  contrasted  strongly  with  the  pretty  view  of  the 
valley ;  and  so  strange  were  the  shapes  they  assumed,  that  one " 
of  the  cliffs  had  been  called  "The  Capuchin,"  because  it  was 
so  like  a  monk.  Sometimes  these  sharp-pointed  peaks,  these 
mighty  masses  of  rock,  and  airy  caverns  were  lighted  up  one 
by  one,  according  to  the  direction  of  the  sun  or  the  caprices 
of  the  atmosphere;  they  caught  gleams  of  gold,  dyed  them- 
selves in  purple ;  took  a  tint  of  glowing  rose-color,  or  turned 
dull  and  gray.  Upon  the  heights  a  drama  of  color  was  al- 
ways to  be  seen,  a  play  of  ever-shifting  iridescent  hues  like 
those  on  a  pigeon's  breast. 

Oftentimes  at  sunrise  or  at  sunset  a  ray  of  bright  sunlight 
would  penetrate  between  two  sheer  surfaces  of  lava,  that 
might  have  been  split  apart  by  a  hatchet,  to  the  very  depths  of 
that  pleasant  little  garden,  where  it  would  play  in  the  waters 
of  the  pool,  like  a  beam  of  golden  light  which  gleams  through 
the  chinks  of  a  shutter  into  a  room  in  Spain,  that  has  been 
carefully  darkened  for  a  siesta.  When  the  sun  rose  above  the 
old  crater  that  some  antediluvian  revolution  had  filled  with 
water,  its  rocky  sides  took  warmer  tones,  the  extinct  volcano 


THE  AGONY  253 

glowed  again,  and  its  sudden  heal  quickened  the  sprouting 
seeds  and  vegetation,  gave  color  to  the  flowers,  and  ripened 
the  fruits  of  this  forgotten  corner  of  the  earth. 

As  Eaphael  reached  it,  he  noticed  several  cows  grazing  in 
the  pasture-land ;  and  when  he  had  taken  a  few  steps  towards 
the  water,  he  saw  a  little  house  built  of  granite  and  roofed 
with  shingle  in  the  spot  where  the  meadowland  was  at  its 
widest.  The  roof  of  tliis  little  cottage  harmonized  with  every- 
thing about  it ;  for  it  had  long  been  overgrown  with  ivy,  moss, 
and  flowers  of  no  recent  date.  A  thin  smoke,  that  did  not 
scare  the  birds  away,  went  up  from  the  dilapidated  chimney. 
There  was  a  great  bench  at  the  door  between  two  huge  honey- 
suckle bushes,  that  were  pink  with  blossom  and  full  of  scent. 
The  walls  could  scarcely  be  seen  for  branches  of  vine  and 
sprays  of  rose*  and  jessamine  that  interlaced  and  grew  entirely 
as  chance  and  their  own  will  bade  them;  for  the  inmates 
of  the  cottage  seemed  to  pay  no  attention  to  the  growth  which 
adorned  their  house,  and  to  take  no  care  of  it,  leaving  to  it  the 
fresh  capricious  charm  of  nature. 

Some  clothes  spread  out  on  the  gooseberry  bushes  were  dry- 
ing in  the  sun.  A  cat  was  sitting  on  a  machine  for  stripping 
hemp;  beneath  it  lay  a  newly  scoured  brass  caldron,  among 
a  quantity  of  potato-parings.  On  the  other  side  of  the  house 
Eaphael  saw  a  sort  of  barricade  of  dead  thorn-bushes,  meant 
no  doubt  to  keep  the  poultry  from  scratching  up  the  vegetables 
and  pot-herbs.  It  seemed  like  the  end  of  the  earth.  The  dwell- 
ing was  like  some  bird's-nest  ingeniously  set  in  a  cranny  of 
the  rocks,  a  clever  and  at  the  same  time  a  careless  bit  of  work- 
manship. A  simple  and  kindly  nature  lay  round  about  it ;  its 
rusticity  was  genuine,  but  there  was  a  charm  like  that  of 
poetry  in  it ;  for  it  grew  and  throve  at  a  thousand  miles'  dis- 
tance from  our  elaborate  and  conventional  poetry.  It  was 
like  none  of  our  conceptions;  it  was  a  spontaneous  growth,  a 
masterpiece  due  to  chance. 

As  Eaphael  reached  the  place,  the  sunlight  fell  across  it 
from  right  to  left,  bringing  out  all  the  colors  of  its  plants  and 
trees ;  the  yellowish  or  gray  bases  of  the  crags,  the  different 


254  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

shades  of  the  green  leaves,  the  masses  of  flowers,  pink,  blue,  or 
VN'hite,  the  climbing  plants  with  their  bell-like  blossoms,  and 
the  shot  velvet  of  the  mosses,  the  purple-tinted  blooms  of  the 
heather, — ever3'^thing  was  either  brought  into  relief  or  made 
fairer  yet  by  the  enchantment  of  the  light  or  by  the  contrast- 
ing shadows ;  and  this  was  the  case  most  of  all  with  the  sheet 
of  water,  wherein  the  house,  the  trees,  the  granite  peaks,  and 
the  sky  were  all  faithfully  reflected.  Everything  had  a  radi- 
ance of  its  own  in  this  delightful  picture,  from  the  sparkling 
mica-stone  to  the  bleached  tuft  of  grass  hidden  away  in  the 
sofi  shadows ;  the  spotted  cow  with  its  gloss}'  hide,  the  delicate 
water-plants  that  hung  down  over  the  pool  like  fringes  in  a 
nook  where  blue  or  emerald  colored  insects  were  buzzing 
about,  the  roots  of  trees  like  a  sand-besprinkled  shock  of  hair 
above  grotesque  faces  in  the  flinty  rock  surfa'ce, — all  these 
things  made  a  harmony  for  the  eye. 

The  odor  of  the  tepid  water ;  the  scent  of  the  flowers,  and 
the  breath  of  the  caverns  which  fllled  the  lonely  place,  gave 
Eaphael  a  sensation  that  was  almost  enjoyment.  Silence 
reigned  in  majesty  over  these  woods,  which  possibly  are  un- 
known to  the  tax-collector;  but  the  barking  of  a  couple  of 
dogs  broke  the  stillness  all  at  once;  the  cows  turned  their 
heads  towards  the  entrance  of  the  valley,  showing  their  moist 
noses  to  Eaphael,  stared  stupidly  at  him,  and  then  fell  to 
browsing  again.  A  goat  and  her  kid,  that  seemed  to  hang  on 
the  side  of  the  crags  in  some  magical  fashion,  capered  and 
leapt  to  a  slab  of  granite  near  to  Eaphael,  and  stayed  there 
a  moment,  as  if  to  seek  to  know  who  he  was.  The  yapping  of 
the  dogs  brought  out  a  plump  child,  who  stood  agape,  and 
next  came  a  white-haired  old  man  of  middle  height.  Both  of 
these  two  beings  were  in  keeping  with  the  surroundings,  the 
air,  the  flowers,  and  the  dwelling.  Health  appeared  to  over- 
flow in  this  fertile  region ;  old  age  and  childhood  thrived  there. 
There  seemed  to  be,  about  all  these  types  of  existence,  the 
freedom  and  carelessness  of  the  life  of  primitive  times,  a  hap- 
piness of  use  and  wont  that  gave  the  lie  to  onr  philosophical 
platitudes,  and  wrought  a  cure  of  all  its  swelling  passions  in 
the  heart. 


THE  AGONY  255 

The  old  man  belonged  to  the  type  of  model  dear  to  the 
mascnlihe  brush  of  Schnctz.  The  countless  wrinkles  upon  his 
brown  face  looked  as  if  they  would  be  hard  to  the  touch ;  the 
straight  nose,  the  prominent  cheek-bones,  streaked  with  red 
veins  like  a  vine-leaf  in  autumn,  the  angular  features,  all 
were  characteristics  of  strength,  even  where  strength  existed 
no  longer.  The  hard  hands,  now  that  they  toiled  no  longer, 
had  preserved  their  scanty  white  hair ;  his  bearing  was  that  of 
an  absolutely  free  man ;  it  suggested  the  thought  that,  had  he 
been  an  Italian,  he  would  have  -perhaps  turned  brigand,  for 
the  love  of  the  liberty  so  dear  to  him.  The  child  was  a  regular 
mountaineer,  with  the  black  eyes  that  can  face  the  sun  with- 
out tlinching,  a  deeply  tanned  complexion,  and  rough  brown 
hair.  His  movements  were  like  a  bird's — swift,  decided,  and 
unconstrained;  his  clothing  was  ragged;  the  white,  fair  skin 
showed  through  the  rents  in  his  garments.  There  they  both 
stood  in  silence,  side  by  side,  both  obeying  the  same  impulse ; 
in  both  faces  were  clear  tokens  of  an  absolutely  identical 
and  idle  life.  The  old  man  had  adopted  the  child's  amuse- 
ments, and  the  child  had  fallen  in  with  the  old  man's  humor; 
there  was  a  sort  of  tacit  agreement  between  two  kinds  of  fee- 
bleness, between  failing  powers  well-nigh  spent  and  powers 
just  about  to  unfold  themselves. 

Very  soon  a  woman  who  seemed  to  be  about  thirty  years. 
old  appeared  on  the  threshold  of  the  door,  spinning  as  she 
came.  She  was  an  Aiivergnate,  a  high-colored,  comfortable- 
looking,  straightforward  sort  of  person,  with  white  teeth ;  her 
cap  and  dress,  the  face,  full  figure,  and  general  appearance, 
were  of  the  Auvergne  peasant  stamp.  So  was  her  dialect; 
she  was  a  thorough  embodiment  of  her  district;  its  hard- 
working ways,  its  thrift,  ignorance,  and  heartiness  all  met  in 
her. 

She  greeted  Eaphael,  and  they  began  to  talk.  The  dogs 
quieted  down ;  the  old  man  went  and  sat  on  a  bench  in  the 
sun;  the  child  followed  his  mother  about  wherever  she  went, 
listening  without  saying  a  word,  and  staring  at  the  stranger. 

"You  are  not  afraid  to  live  here,  good  woman  ?" 


256  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

"What  should  we  be  afraid  of,  sir?  When  we  bolt  thp 
door,  who  ever  could  get  inside?  Oh,  no,  we  aren't  afrai<i 
at  all.  And  besides,"  she  said,  as  she  brought  the  Marquis 
into  the  principal  room  in  the  house,  "what  should  thieves 
come  to  take  from  us  here?" 

She  designated  the  room  as  she  spoke;  the  smoke - 
blackened  walls,  with  some  brilliant  pictures  in  blue,  red,  ant! 
green,  an  "End  of  Credit,"  a  Crucifixion,  and  the  "Grenadiert, 
of  the  Imperial  Guard"  for  their  sole  ornament;  the  furni- 
ture here  and  there,  the  old  wooden  four-post  bedstead,  the 
table  with  crooked  legs,  a  few  stools,  the  chest  that  held 
the  bread,  the  flitch  that  hung  from  the  ceiling,  a  jar  of  salt, 
a  stove,  and  on  the  mantelshelf  a  few  discolored  yellow  plaster 
figures.  As  he  went  out  again  Raphael  noticed  a  man  half- 
way up  the  crags,  leaning  on  a  hoe,  and  watching  the  house 
with  interest. 

"That's  my  man,  sir,"  said  the  Auvergnate,  unconsciously 
smiling  in  peasant  fashion;  "he  is  at  work  up  there." 

"And  that  old  man  is  your  father?" 

"Asking  your  pardon,  sir,  he  is  my  man's  grandfather. 
Such  as  you  see  him,  he  is  a  hundred  and  two,  and  yet  quite 
lately  he  walked  over  to  Clermont  with  our  little  chap !  Oh, 
he  has  been  a  strong  man  in  his  time;  but  he  does  nothing 
,now  but  sleep  and  eat  and  drink.  He  amuses  himself  with 
the  little  fellow.  Sometimes  the  child  trails  him  up  the  hill- 
sides, and  he  will  just  go  up  there  along  with  him." 

Valentin  made  up  his  mind  immediately.  He  would  live 
between  this  child  and  old  man,  breathe  the  same  air;  eat 
their  bread,  drink  the  same  water,  sleep  with  them,  make  the 
blood  in  his  veins  like  theirs.  It  was  a  dying  man's  fancy. 
For  him  the  prime  model,  after  which  the  customary  existence 
of  the  individual  should  be  shaped,  the  real  formula  for  the 
.life  of  a  human  being,  the  only  true  and  possible  life,  the 
life-ideal,  was  to  become  one  of  the  oysters  adhering  to  this 
rock,  to  save  his  shell  a  day  or  two  longer  by  paralyzing  the 
power  of  death.  One  profoundly  selfish  thought  took  pos- 
session of  him,  and  the  whole  universe  was  swallowed  up  and 


THE  AGONY  257 

lost  in  it.  For  him  the  universe  existed  no  longer ;  the  whole 
world  had  come  to  be  within  himself.  For  the  sick,  the  world 
begins  at  their  pillow  and  ends  at  the  foot  of  the  bed;  and 
this  countryside  was  Kaphael's  sick-bed. 

Who  has  not,  at  some  time  or  other  in  his  life,  watched  the 
comings  and  goings  of  an  ant,  slipped  straws  into  a  yellow 
slug's  one  breathing-hole,  studied  the  vagaries  of  a  slender 
dragon-fl}'-,  pondered  admiringly  over  the  countless  veins  in 
an  oak-leaf,  that  bring  the  colors  of  a  rose  window  in  some 
Gothic  cathedral  into  contrast  with  the  reddish  background? 
Who  has  not  looked  long  in  delight  at  the  effects  of  sun  and 
rain  on  a  roof  of  brown  tiles,  at  the  dewdrops,  or  at  the 
variously  shaped  petals  of  the  flower-cups  ?  Who  has  not  sunk 
into  these  idle,  absorbing  meditations  on  things  without,  that 
have  no  conscious  end,  yet  lead  to  some  definite  thought  at 
last?  Who,  in  short,  has  not  led  a  lazy  life,  the  life  of 
childhood,  the  life  of  the  savage  without  his  labor?  This 
life  without  a  care  or  a  wish,  Eaphael  led  for  some  days' 
space.  He  felt  a  distinct  improvement  in  his  condition,  a 
wonderful  sense  of  ease,  that  quieted  his  apprehensions  and 
soothed  his  sufferings. 

He  would  climb  the  crags,  and  then  find  a  seat  high  up  on 
some  peak  whence  he  could  see  a  vast  expanse  'of  distant 
country  at  a  glance,  and  he  would  spend  whole  days  in  this 
way,  like  a  plant  in  the  sun,  or  a  hare  in  its  form.  And  at 
last,  growing  familiar  with  the  appearances  of  the  plant-life 
about  him,  and  of  the  changes  in  the  sk}^  he  minutely  noted 
the  progress  of  everything  working  around  him  in  the  water, 
on  the  earth,  or  in  the  air.  He  tried  to  share  the  secret 
impulses  of  nature,  sought  by  passive  obedience  to  become 
a  part  of  it,  and  to  lie  within  the  conservative  and  despotic 
jurisdiction  that  regulates  instinctive  existence.  He  no 
longer  wished  to  steer  his  own  course. 

Just  as  criminals  in  olden  times  were  safe  from  the  pursuit 
of  justice,  if  they  took  refuge  under  the  shadow  of  the  altar, 
so  Eaphael  made  an  effort  to  slip  into  the  sanctuary  of  life. 
He  succeeded  in  becoming  an  integral  part  of  the  great  and 


258  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

mighty  fruit-producing  organization  ;  he  had  adapted  himself 
to  the  inclemency  of  the  air,  and  had  dwelt  in  every  cave 
among  the  rocks.  He  had  learned  the  ways  and  habits  of 
growth  of  every  plant,  had  studied  the  laws  of  the  water- 
courses and  their  beds,  and  had  come  to  know  the  animals; 
he  was  at  last  so  perfectly  at  one  with  this  teeming  earth, 
jthat  he  had  in  some  sort  discerned  its  mysteries  and  caught 
the  sjiirit  of  it. 

The  infinitely  varied  forms  of  ever}''  natural  kingdom  were, 
to  his  thinking,  only  developments  of  one  and  the  same  sub- 
stance, different  combinations  brought  about  by  the  same  im- 
pulse, endless  emanations  from  a  measureless  Being  which 
was  acting,  thinking,  moving,  and  growing,  and  in  harmony 
with  which  he  longed  to  grow,  to  move,  to  think,  and  act. 
He  had  fancifully  blended  his  life  with  the  life  of  the  crags ; 
he  had  deliberately  planted  himself  there.  During  the 
earliest  days  of  his  sojourn  in  these  pleasant  surroundings, 
Valentin  tasted  all  the  pleasures  of  childhood  again,  thanks  to 
the  strange  hallucination  of  apparent  convalescence,  which 
is  not  unlike  the  pauses  of  delirium  that  nature  mercifully 
provides  for  those  in  pain.  He  went  about  making  trifling  dis- 
coveries, setting  to  work  on  endless  things,  and  finishing  none 
of  them  ;  the  evening's  plans  were  quite  forgotten  in  the  morn- 
ing; he  had  no  cares,  he  was  happy;  he  thought  himself 
saved. 

One  morning  he  had  lain  in  bed  till  noon,  deep  in  the 
dreams  between  sleep  and  waking,  which  give  to  realities  a 
fantastic  appearance,  and  make  the  wildest  fancies  seem  solid 
facts ;  while  he  was  still  uncertain  that  he  was  not  dreaming 
yet,  he  suddenly  heard  his  hostess  giving  a  report  of  his  health 
to  Jonathan,  for  the  first  time.  Jonathan  came  to  inquire 
after  him  daily,  and  the  Auvergnate,  thinking  no  doubt  that 
Valentin  was  still  asleep,  had  not  lowered  the  tones  of  a  voice 
developed  in  mountain  air. 

"No  better  and  no  worse,"  she  said.  "He  coughed  all  last 
night  again  fit  to  kill  himself.  Poor  gentleman,  he  coughs 
and  spits  till  it  is  piteous.     My  husband  and  I  often  wonder 


THE  AGONY  259 

to  each  other  where  he  gets  the  strength  from  to  cough  like 
that.  It  goes  to  your  heart.  What  a  cursed  complaint  it 
is !  He  has  no  strength  at  all.  I  am  always  afraid  I  shall 
find  him  dead  in  his  bed  some  morning.  He  is  every  bit  as 
pale  as  a  waxen  Christ.  Dame!  I  watch  him  while  he 
dresses;  his  poor  body  is  as  thin  as  a  nail.  And  he  does 
[not  feel  well  now;  but  no  matter.  It's  all  the  same;  he 
wears  himself  out  with  running  about  as  if  he  had  health  and 
to  spare.  All  the  same,  he  is  very  brave,  for  he  never  com- 
plains at  all.  But  really  he  would  be  better  under  the 
earth  than  on  it,  for  he  is  enduring  the  agonies  of  Christ. 
I  don't  wish  that  myself,  sir ;  it  is  quite  against  our  interests ; 
but  even  it  he  didn't  pay  us  what  he  does,  I  should  be 
just  as  fond  of  him;  it  is  not  our  own  interest  that  is  our 
motive." 

"Ah,  mon  Dieu !"  she  continued,  "Parisians  are  the 
people  for  these  dogs'  diseases.  Where  did  he  catch 
it,  now  ?  Poor  young  man !  And  he  is  so  sure  that  he 
is  going  to  get  well !  That  fever  just  gnaws  him,  you  know ; 
it  eats  him  away;  it  will  be  the  death  of  him.  He  has  no 
notion  whatever  of  that;  he  does  not  know  it,  sir;  he  sees 

nothing You  mustn't  cry  about  him,  M.  Jonathan;  you 

inust  remember  that  he  will  be  happy,  and  will  not  suffer 
any  more.  You  ought  to  make  a  neuvaine  for  him;  I  have 
seen  wonderful  cures  come  of  a  nine  days'  prayer,  and  I 
would  gladly  pay  for  a  wax  taper  to  save  such  a  gentle  crea- 
ture, so  good  he  is,  a  paschal  lamb " 

As  Eaphael's  voice  had  grown  too  weak  to  allow  him  to 
make  himself  heard,  he  was  compelled  to  listen  to  this  horrible 
loquacity.  His  irritation,  however,  drove  him  out  of  bed  at 
length,  and  he  appeared  upon  the  threshold. 

"Old  scoundrel !"  he  shouted  to  Jonathan ;  "do  you  mean 
to  put  me  to  death  ?" 

The  peasant  woman  took  him  for  a  ghost,  and  fled. 

"I  forbid  you  to  have  any  anxiety  whatever  about  my 
health,"  Eaphael  went  on. 

"Yes,  my  Lord  Marquis,"  said  the  old  servant,  wiping 
away  his  tears. 


260  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

"And  for  the  future  you  had  very  much  better  not  come 
here  without  my  orders." 

Jonathan  meant  to  be  obedient,  but  in  the  look  full  of  pity 
and  devotion  that  he  gave  the  Marquis  before  he  went. 
Raphael  read  his  own  death-warrant.  Utterly  disheartened, 
brought  all  at  once  to  a  sense  of  his  real  position,  Valentin 
sat  down  on  the  threshold,  locked  his  arms  across  his  chest, 
and  bowed  his  head.  Jonathan  turned  to  his  master  in  alarm., 
with  "My  Lord " 

"Go  away,  go  av/ay,"  cried  the  invalid. 

In  the  hours  of  the  next  morning,  Raphael  climbed  the 
cragSj  and  sat  down  in  a  mossy  cleft  in  the  rocks,  whence  he 
could  see  the  narrow  path  along  ^\hich  the  Avater  for  the 
dwelling  was  carried.  At  the  base  of  the  hill  he  saw 
Jonathan  in  conversation  with  the  Auvergnate.  Some 
malicious  power  interpreted  for  him  all  the  woman's  head- 
shakings,  melancholy  gestures,  and  garrulous  forebodings, 
and  filled  the  breeze  and  the  silence  with  her  ominous  words. 
Thrilled  vrith  horror,  he  took  refuge  among  the  highest  sum- 
mits of  the  mountains,  and  stayed  there  till  the  eyening ;  but 
yet  he  could  not  drive  away  the  gloomy  presentiments 
awakened  within  him  in  such  an  unfortunate  manner  by  a 
cruel  solicitude  on  his  account. 

The  Auvergne  peasant  herself  suddenly  appeared  before 
him  like  a  qhadow  in  the  dusk;  a  perverse  freak  of  the  poet 
within  him  found  a  vague  resemblance  between  her  black  and 
white  striped  petticoat  and  the-bony  frame  of  a  spectre. 

"The  damp  is  falling  now,  sir,"  said  she.  "If  you  stop  out 
there,  you  will  go  off  just  like  rotten  fruit.  You  must 
come  in.  It  isn't  healthy  to  breathe  the  damp,  and  you  have 
taken  nothing  since  the  morning,  besides." 

"Tonnerre  de  Dieu!  old  witch,"  he  cried;  "let  me  live  after 
my  own  fashion,  I  tell  j^ou,  or  I  shall  be  off  altogether.  It 
is  quite  bad  enough  to  dig  my  grave  every  morning;  you 
might  let  it  alone  in  the  evenings  at  least " 

"Your  grave,  sir!  I  dig  your  grave! — and  where  may 
yoiir  grave  be?    I  want  to  see  you  as  old  as  father  there,  and 


THE  AGONY  261 

not  in  your  grave  by  any  manner  of  means.       The  grave ! 
that  comes  soon  enough  for  us  all ;  in  the  grave " 

"That  is  enough/'  said  Raphael. 

"Take  my  arm,  sir." 

The  feeling  of  pity  in  others  is  very  difficult  for  a  man  to 
bear,  and  it  is  hardest  of  all  when  the  pity  is  deserved. 
Hatred  is  a  tonic — it  quickens  life  and  stimulates  revenge; 
but  pity  is  death  to  us — it  makes  our  weakness  weaker  still. 
It  is  as  if  distress  simpered  ingratiatingly  at  us;  contempt 
lurks  in  the  tenderness,  or  tenderness  in  an  affront.  In  the 
centenarian  Eaphael  saw  triumphant  pity,  a  wondering  pity 
in  the  child's  eyes,  an  officious  pity  in  the  woman,  and  in  her 
husband  a  pity  that  had  an  interested  motive ;  but  no  matter 
how  the  sentiment  declared  itself,  death  was  always  its  im- 
port. 

A  poet  makes  a  poem  of  everything ;  it  is  tragical  or  joyful, 
as  things  happen  to  strike  his  imagination;  his  lofty  soul 
rejects  all  half-tones;  he  always  prefers  vivid  and  decided 
colors.  In  Raphael's  soul  this  compassion  produced  a  terrible 
poem  of  mourning  and  melancholy.  When  he  had  wished 
to  live  in  close  contact  with  nature,  he  had  of  course  for- 
gotten how  freely  natural  emotions  are  expressed.  He  would 
think  himself  quite  alone  under  a  tree,  whilst  he  struggled 
with  an  obstinate  coughing  fit,  a  terrible  combat  from  which 
he  never  issued  victorious  without  utter  exhaustion  after- 
wards ;  and  then  he  would  meet  the  clear,  bright  eyes  of  the 
little  boy,  who  occupied  the  post  of  sentinel,  like  a  savage 
in  a  bent  of  grass;  the  eyes  scrutinized  him  with  a  childish 
wonder,  in  which  there  was  as  much  amusement  as  pleasure,* 
and  an  indescribable  mixture  of  indifference  and  interest.' 
The  awful  Brother,  you  must  die,  of  the  Trappists  seemed 
constantly  legible  in  the  eyes  of  the  peasants  with  whom 
Eaphael  was  living;  he  scarcely  knew  which  he  dreadec? 
most,  their  unfettered  talk  or  their  silence ;  their  presence  be- 
came torture. 

One  morning  he  saw  two  men  in  black  prowling  about  in 

VOL.  1 — ?a 


262  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

his  neighborhood,  who  furtively  studied  him  and  took  ob- 
servations. They  made  as  though  they  had  come  there  for 
a  stroll,  and  asked  him  a  few  indifferent  questions,  to  which 
he  returned  short  answers.  He  recognized  them,  both.  One 
was  the  cure  and  the  other  the  doctor  at  the  springs ;  Jonathan 
had  no  doubt  sent  them,  or  the  people  in  the  house  had  called 
them  in,  or  the  scent  of  an  approaching  death  had  drawn 
them  thither.  He  beheld  his  own  funeral,  heard  the  chanting 
of  the  priests,  and  counted  the  tall  wax  candles ;  and  all  that 
lovely  fertile  nature  around  him,  in  whose  lap  he  had  thought 
to  find  life  once  more,  he  saw  no  longer,  save  through  a  veil 
of  crape.  Eveiything  that  but  lately  had  spoken  of  length 
of  days  to  him,  now  prophesied  a  speedy  end.  He  set  out 
the  next  day  for  Paris,  not  before  he  had  been  inundated  with 
cordial  wishes,  which  the  people  of  the  house  uttered  in 
melancholy  and  ^vistful  tones  for  his  benefit. 

He  traveled  through  the  night,  and  awoke  as  they  passed 
through  one  of  the  pleasant  valleys  of  the  Bourbonnais. 
View  after  view  swam  before  his  gaze,  and  passed  rapidly 
away  like  the  vague  pictures  of  a  dream.  Cruel  nature  spread 
herself  out  before  his  eyes  with  tantalizing  grace.  Sometimes 
the  Allier,  a  liquid  shining  ribbon,  meandered  through  the 
distant  fertile  landscape;  then  followed  the  steeples  of  ham- 
lets, hiding  modestly  in  the  depths  of  a  ravine  with  its  yellow 
clilf s ;  sometimes,  after  the  monotony  of  vineyards,  the  water- 
mills  of  a  little  valley  would  be  suddenly  seen;  and  every- 
where there  w^ere  pleasant  chateaux,  hillside  villages,  roads 
with  their  fringes  of  queenly  poplars;  and  the  Loire  itself,  at 
last,  with  its  wide  sheets  of  water  sparkling  like  diamonds 
amid  its  golden  sands.  Attractions  everywhere,  without  end ! 
This  nature,  all  astir  with  a  life  and  gladness  like  that  of 
childhood,  scarcely  able  to  contain  the  impulses  and  sap  of 
•Tune,  possessed  a  fatal  attraction  for  the  darkened  gaze  of 
the  invalid.  He  drew  the  blinds  of  his  carriage  windows, 
and  betook  himself  again  to  slumber. 

Towards  evening,  after  they  bad  passed  Ccsne,  he  wns 
awakened  by  lively  music,  and  found  himself  confronted  with 


THE  AGONY  263 

a  Tillage  fair.  The  horses  were  changed  near  the  market- 
place. Whilst  the  postilions  were  engaged  in  making  the 
transfer,  he  saw  the  people  dancing  merrily,  pretty  and  at- 
tractive girls  with  flowers  about  them,  excited  youths,  and 
finally  the  jolly  wine-flushed  countenances  of  old  peasants. 
Children  prattled,  old  women  laughed  and  chatted;  every- 
thing spoke  in  one  voice,  and  there  was  a  holiday  gaiety 
about  everything,  down  to  their  clothing  and  the  tables  that 
were  set  out.  A  cheerful  expression  pervaded  the  square 
and  the  church,  the  roofs  and  windows;  even  the  very  door- 
ways of  the  village  seemed  likewise  to  be  in  holiday  trim. 

Eaphael  could  not  repress  an  angry  exclamation,  nor  yet 
a  wish  to  silence  the  fiddles,  annihilate  the  stir  and  bustle, 
stop  the  clamor,  and  disperse  the  ill-timed  festival;  like  a 
dying  man,  he  felt  unable  to  endure  the  slightest  sound,  and 
he  entered  his  carriage  much  annoyed.  When  he  looked  out 
upon  the  square  from  the  window,  he  saw  that  all  the  happi- 
ness was  scared  away ;  the  peasant  women  were  in  flight,  and 
the  benches  were  deserted.  Only  a  blind  musician,  on  the 
scaffolding  of  the  orchestra,  went  on  playing  a  shrill  tune  on 
his  clarionet.  That  piping  of  his,  without  dancers  to  it, 
and  the  solitary  old  man  himself,  in  the  shadow  of  the 
lime-tree,  with  his  curmudgeon's  face,  scanty  hair,  and  ragged 
clothing,  was  like  a  fantastic  picture  of  Eaphael's  wish.  The 
heavy  rain  was  pouring  in  torrents;  it  was  one  of  those 
thunderstorms  that  June  brings  about  so  rapidly,  to  cease 
as  suddenly.  The  thing  was  so  natural,  that,  when  Eaphael 
had  looked  out  and  seen  some  pale  clouds  driven  over  by  a 
gust  of  wind,  he  did  not  think  of  looking  at  the  piece  of  skin. 
He  lay  back  again  in  the  corner  of  his  carriage,  which  was 
very  soon  rolling  upon  its  way. 

The  next  day  found  him  back  in  his  home  again,  in  his 
own  room,  beside  his  own  fireside.  He  had  had  a  large  fire 
lighted;  he  felt  cold.  Jonathan  brought  him  some  letters; 
they  were  all  from  Pauline.  He  opened  the  first  one  without 
any  eagerness,  and  unfolded  it  as  if  it  had  been  the  gray- 


264  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

paper  form  of  application  for  taxes  made  by  the  revenue  col- 
lector.    He  read  the  first  sentence : 

"Gone !  This  really  is  a  flight,  my  Eaphael.  How  it  is  ? 
No  one  can  tell  me  where  you  are.  And  who  should  know  if 
not  I  ?" 

He  did  not  wish  to  learn  any  more.  He  calmly  took  up  the 
letters  and  threw  them  in  the  fire,  watching  with  dull  and 
lifeless  eyes  the  perfumed  paper  as  it  was  twisted,  shriveled, 
bent,  and  devoured  by  the  capricious  flames.  Fragments  that 
fell  among  the  ashes  allowed  him  to  see  the  beginning  of  a 
sentence,  or  a  half -burnt  thought  or  word ;  he  took  a  pleasure 
in  deciphering  them — a  sort  of  mechanical  amusement. 

"Sitting  at  your  door — expected — Caprice — I  obey — Eivals 
— I,  never ! — thy  Pauline — love — no  more  of  Pauline  ? — If 
you  had  wished  to  leave  me  for  ever,  you  would  not  have 
deserted  me — Love  eternal — To  die " 

The  words  caused  him  a  sort  of  remorse;  he  seized  the 
tongs,  and  rescued  a  last  fragment  of  the  letter  from 
the  flames. 

"I  have  murmured,"  so  Pauline  wrote,  "but  I  have  never 
complained,  my  Raphael !  If  you  have  left  me  so  far  behind 
you,  it  was  doubtless  because  you  wished  to  hide  some  heavy 
grief  from  me.  Perhaps  you  will  kill  me  one  of  these  days, 
but  you  are  too  good  to  torture  me.  So  do  not  go  away  from 
me  like  this.  There !  I  can  bear  the  worst  of  torment,  if 
only  I  am  at  your  side.  Any  grief  that  you  could  cause  me 
would  not  be  grief.  There  is  far  more  love  in  my  heart 
for  you  than  I  have  ever  yet  shown  you.  I  can  endure  any- 
thing, except  this  weeping  far  away  from  you,  this  ignorance 
of  your " 

Eaphael  laid  the  scorched  scrap  on  the  mantelpiece,  then 
all  at  once  he  flung  it  into  the  fire.  The  bit  of  paper  was 
too  clearly  a  symbol  of  his  own  love  and  luckless  existence. 

"Go  and  find  M.  Bianchon,"  he  told  Jonathan. 

Horace  came  and  found  Eaphael  in  bed. 

"Can  you  prescribe  a  draught  for  me — some  mild  opiate 
which    will    always    keep    me    in    a    somnolent    condition, 


THE  AGONY  265 

a  draught  that  will  not  be  injurious  although  taken  con- 
stantly." 

"Nothing  is  easier,"  the  young  doctor  replied;  "but  you 
will  have  to  keep  on  your  feet  for  a  few  hours  daily,  at  any 
rate,  so  as  to  take  your  food." 

"A  few  hours!"  Raphael  broke  in;  "no,  no!  I  only  wish 
to  be  out  of  bed  for  an  hour  at  most." 

"What  is  your  object  ?"  inquired  Bianchon. 

"To  sleep ;  for  so  one  keeps  alive,  at  any  rate,"  the  patient 
answered.  "Let  no  one  come  in,  not  even  Mile.  Pauline  de 
Wistchnau !"  he  added  to  Jonathan,  as  the  doctor  was  writing 
out  his  prescription. 

"Well,  M.  Horace,  is  there  any  hope?"  the  old  servant 
asked,  going  as  far  as  the  flight  of  steps  before  the  door, 
with  the  young  doctor. 

"He  may  live  for  some  time  yet,  or  he  may  die  to-night. 
The  chances  of  life  and  death  are  evenly  balanced  in  his 
case.  I  can't  understand  it  at  all,"  said  the  doctor,  with  a 
doubtful  gesture.     "His  mind  ought  to  be  diverted." 

"Diverted !  Ah,  sir,  you  don't  know  him !  He  killed  a 
man  the  other  day  without  a  word! — Nothing  can  divert 
him !" 

For  some  days  Eaphael  lay  plunged  in  the  torpor  of  this 
artificial  sleep.  Thanks  to  the  material  power  that  opium 
exerts  over  the  immaterial  part  of  us,  this  man  with  the 
powerful  and  active  imagination  reduced  himself  to  the  level 
of  those  sluggish  forms  of  animal  life  that  lurk  in  the  depths 
of  forests,  and  take  the  form  of  vegetable  refuse,  never 
stirring  from  their  place  to  catch  their  easy  prey.  He  had 
darkened  the  very  sun  in  heaven;  the  daylight  never  entered 
liis  room.  About  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening  he  would  leave 
liis  bed.  with  no  very  clear  consciousness  of  his  own  existence ; 
he  would  satisfy  the  claims  of  hunger  and  return  to  bed  im- 
mediately. One  dull  blighted  hour  after  another  only 
iirought  confused  pictures  and  appearances  before  him,  and 
lights  and  shadows  against  a  background  of  darkness. 
He  lay  buried  in  deep  silence;  movement  and  intelligence 


266  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

were  completely  annihilated  for  him.  He  woke  later  than 
usual  one  evening,  and  found  that  his  dinner  was  not  ready. 
He  rang  for  Jonathan. 

"You  can  go,"  he  said.  "I  have  made  you  rich ;  you  shall 
be  happy  in  your  old  age ;  but  I  will  not  let  you  muddle  away 
my  life  any  longer.  Miserable  wretch!  I  am  hungry — 
where  is  my  dinner  ?     How  is  it  ? — Answer  me !" 

A  satisfied  smile  stole  over  Jonathan's  face.  He  took  a 
candle  that  lit  up  the  great  dark  rooms  of  the  mansion  with 
its  flickering  light;  brought  his  master,  who  had  again  be- 
come an  automaton,  into  a  great  gallery,  and  flung  a  door 
suddenly  open.  Eaphael  was  all  at  once  dazzled  by  a  flood  of 
light  and  amazed  by  an  unheard-of  scene. 

His  chandeliers  had  been  filled  with  wax-lights ;  the  rarest 
flowers  from  his  conservatory  were  carefully  arranged  about 
the  room;  the  table  sparkled  with  silver,  gold,  crystal,  and 
porcelain;  a  royal  banquet  was  spread — ^the  odors  of  the 
tempting  dishes  tickled  the  nervous  fibres  of  the  palate. 
There  sat  his  friends;  he  saw  them  among  beautifr.l  women 
in  full  evening  dress,  with  bare  necks  and  shoulders,  with 
flowers  in  their  hair;  fair  women  of  every  type,  with 
sparkling  eyes,  attractively  and  fancifully  arrayed.  One  had 
adopted  an  Irish  jacket,  which  displayed  the  alluring  out- 
lines of  her  form;  one  wore  the  "basquina"  of  Andalusia, 
with  its  wanton  grace ;  here  was  a  half-clad  Dian  the  huntress, 
there  the  costume  of  Mile,  de  la  Valliere,  amorous  and  coy; 
and  all  of  them  alike  w^ere  given  up  to  the  intoxication  of 
the  moment. 

As  Eaphacl's  death-pale  face  shov^ed  itself  in  the  door- 
way, a  sudden  outcry  broke  out,  as  vehement  as  the  blaze  of 
this  improvised  banquet.  The  voices,  perfumes,  and  lights, 
the  exquisite  beauty  of  the  women,  produced  their  effect  upon 
his  senses,  and  awakened  his  desires.  Delightful  music,  from 
anseen  players  in  the  next  room,  drowned  the  excited  tumult 
in  a  torrent  of  harmony — the  whole  strange  vision  was  com- 
plete. 

Raphael  felt  a  caressing  pressure  of  his  own  hand,  a  wo- 


THE  AGONY  2^7 

man's  white,  youthful  arms  were  stretched  out  to  grasp  him, 
and  the  hand  was  Aquilina's.  He  knew  now  that  this  scene 
was  not  a  fantastic  illusion  like  the  fleeting  pictures  of  his 
disordered  dreams;  he  uttered  a  dreadful  cry,  slammed  the 
door,  and  dealt  his  heartbroken  old  servant  a  blow  in 
the  face. 

"Monster !"  he  cried,  "so  you  have  sworn  to  kill  me !"  and 
trembling  at  the  risks  he  had  Just  now  run,  he  summoned 
all  his  energies,  reached  his  room,  took  a  powerful  slee2)ing 
draught,  and  went  to  bed. 

"The  devil !"  cried  Jonathan,  recovering  himself.  "And 
M.  Bianchon  most  certainly  told  me  to  divert  Iris  mind." 

It  was  close  upon  midnight.  By  that  time,  owing  to  one  of 
those  physical  caprices  that  are  the  marvel  and  the  despair 
of  science,  Eaphael,  in  his  slumber,  became  radiant  with 
beauty.  A  bright  color  glowed  on  his  pale  cheeks.  There 
was  an  almost  girlish  grace  about  the  forehead  in  which  his 
genius  was  revealed.  Life  seemed  to  bloom  on  the  quiet  face 
that  lay  there  at  rest.  His  sleep  was  sound;  a  light,  even 
breath  was  drawn  in  between  the  red  lips ;  he  was  smiling— 
he  had  passed  no  doubt  through  the  gate  of  dreams  into  a 
noble  life.  Was  he  a  centenarian  now?  Did  his  grand- 
children come  to  wish  him  length  of  days  ?  Or,  on  a  rustic 
bench  set  in  the  sun  and  under  the  trees,  was  he  scanning, 
like  the  prophet  on  the  mountain  heights,  a  promised  land» 
a  far-off  time  of  blessing. 

"Here  you  are !" 

The  words,  uttered  in  silver  tones,  dispelled  the  shadowy 
faces  of  his  dreams.  He  saw  Pauline,  in  the  lamplight, 
sitting  upon  the  bed ;  Pauline  grown  fairer  yet  through  sorrow 
and  separation.  Raphael  remained  bewildered  by  the  sight 
of  her  face,  Avhite  as  the  petals  of  some  water  flower,  and  the 
shadow  of  her  long,  dark  hair  about  it  seemed  to  make  it 
whiter  still.  Her  tears  had  left  a  gleaming  trace  upon  her 
cheeks,  and  hung  there  yet,  ready  to  fall  at  the  least  move- 
ment. She  looked  like  an  angel  fallen  from  the  skies,  or  a 
jpirit  that  a  breath  might  waft  away,  as  she  sat  there  all  in 


268  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

white,  with  her  head  bowed,  scarcely  creasing  the  quilt  he- 
neath  her  weight. 

"Ah,  I  have  forgotten  everything!"  she  cried,  as  Eaphael 
opened  his  eyes.  "I  have  no  voice  left  except  to  tell  you, 
*I  am  yours.'  There  is  nothing  in  my  heart  but  love.  Angel 
of  my  life,  you  have  never  been  so  beautiful  before !     Your 

eyes  are  blazing But  come,  I  can  guess  it  all.     You 

have  been  in  search  of  health  without  me ;  you  were  afraid  of 
me well " 

"Go !  go !  leave  me,"  Eaphael  muttered  at  last.  "Why  do 
you  not  go?  If  you  stay,  I  shall  die.  Do  you  want  to  see 
me  die  ?" 

"Die?"  she  echoed.  "Can  you  die  without  me?  Die? 
But  you  are  3' oung ;  and  I  love  3'ou  !  Die  ?"  she  asked,  in  a 
deep,  hollow  voice.  She  seized  his  hands  with  a  frenzied 
movement.     "Cold  !"  she  wailed.     "Is  it  all  an  illusion  ?" 

Eaphael  drew  the  little  bit  of  skin  from  under  his  pillow; 
It  was  as  tiny  and  as  fragile  as  a  periwinkle-petal.  He  showed 
it  to  her. 

"Pauline !"  he  said,  "fair  image  of  my  fair  life,  let  us  say 
good-bye." 

"Good-bye?"  she  echoed,  looking  surprised, 

"Yes.  This  is  a  talisman  that  grants  all  my  wishes, 
and  that  represents  my  span  of  life.  See  here,  this  is 
all  that  remains  of  it.  If  you  look  at  me  any  longer,  I  shall 
die " 

The  young  girl  thought  that  A^alentin  had  grown  light- 
headed; she  took  the  talisman  and  went  to  fetch  the  lamp. 
By  its  tremulous  light  which  she  shed  over  Eaphael  and 
the  talisman,  she  scanned  her  lover's  face  and  the  last  morsel 
of  the  magic  skin.  As  Paulino  stood  there,  in  all  the  beauty 
of  love  and  terror,  Eaphael  was  no  longer  able  to  control 
his  thoughts:  memories  of  tender  scenes,  and  of  passionate 
and  fevered  joys,  overwhelnibd  the  soul  that  had  so  long  lair 
dormant  within  liim,  and  kindled  a  fire  not  quite  extinct. 

"Pauline  !  1  Aniline  !     Come  to  me " 

A  dreadful  cry  came  from  the  girl's  throat,  her  eyes  dilated 


\ 


THE  AGONY  269 

with  horror,  her  eyebrows  were  distorted  and  drawn  apart  by 
an  unspeakable  anguish;  she  read  in  Eaphael's  eyes  the 
vehement  desire  in  which  she  had  once  exulted,  but  as  it  grew ' 
she  felt  a  light  movement  in  her  hand,  and  the  skin  con- 
tracted. She  did  not  stop  to  think ;  she  fled  into  the  next 
room,  and  locked  the  door. 

"Pauline !  Pauline !"  cried  the  dying  man,  as  he  rushed 
after  her ;  "I  love  you,  I  adore  you,  I  want  you,  Pauline !  1 
must  curse  you  if  you  will  not  open  the  door  for  me.  I  wish 
to  die  in  your  arms !" 

With  unnatural  strength,  the  last  effort  of  ebbing  life. 
he  broke  down  the  door,  and  saw  his  mistress  writhing  upon 
a  sofa.  Pauline  had  vainly  tried  to  pierce  her  heart,  and 
now  thought  to  find  a  rapid  death  by  strangling  herself  with 
her  shawl. 

"If  I  die,  he  will  live,"  she  said,  trying  to  tighten  the  knot 
that  she  had  made. 

In  her  struggle  with  death  her  hair  hung  loose,  her 
shoulders  were  bare,  her  clothing  was  disordered,  her  eyes 
were  bathed  in  tears,  her  face  was  flushed  and  drawn  with  the 
horror  of  despair;  yet  as  her  exceeding  beauty  met  Eaphael's 
intoxicated  eyes,  his  delirium  grew.  He  sprang  towards  her 
like  a  bird  of  prey,  tore  away  the  shawl,  and  tried  to  take  her 
in  his  arms. 

The  dying  man  sought  for  words  to  express  the  wish  that 
was  consuming  his  strength ;  but  no  sounds  would  come  except 
the  choking  death-rattle  in  his  chest.  Each  breath  he  drew 
sounded  hollower  than  the  last,  and  seemed  to  come  from 
his  very  entrails.  At  the  last  moment,  no  longer  able  to 
utter  a  sound,  he  set  his  teeth  in  Pauline's  breast.  Jonathan 
appeared,  terrified  by  the  cries  he  had  heard,  and  tried  to  tear 
away  the  dead  body  from  the  grasp  of  the  girl  who  was 
crouching  with  it  in  a  corner. 

"What  do  you  want?"  she  asked.  "He  is  mine,  I  have 
killed  him.     Did  I  not  foresee  how  it  would  be?*' 


270  THE  MAGIC  SKIN 


EPILOGUE 


"And  what  became  of  Pauline  ?" 

"Pauline?  Ah!  Do  you  sometimes  spend  a  pleasant 
winter  evening  by  your  own  fireside,  and  give  yourself  up 
luxuriously  to  memories  of  love  or  youth,  while  you  watci; 
the  glow  of  the  fire  where  the  logs  of  oak  are  burning? 
Here,  the  fire  outlines  a.  sort  of  chessboard  in  red  square:, 
there  it  has  a  sheen  like  velvet ;  little  blue  flames'  start  up  and 
flicker  and  play  about  in  the  glowing  depths  of  the  brasier. 
A  mysterious  artist  comes  and  adapts  that  flame  to  his  own 
ends ;  by  a  secret  of  his  own  he  draws  a  visionary  face  in  the 
midst  of  those  flaming  violet  and  crimson  hues,  a  face  with 
unimaginable  delicate  outlines,  a  fleeting  apparition  which  no 
chance  will  ever  bring  back  again.  It  is  a  woman's  face,  her 
hair  is  blown  back  by  the  wind,  her  features  speak  of  a 
rapture  of  delight;  she  breathes  fire  in  the  midst  of  the 
fire.  She  smiles,  she  dies,  j'ou  will  never  see  her  any  more. 
Farewell,  flower  of  the  flame !  Farewell,  essence  incomplete 
and  unforeseen,  come  too  early  or  too  late  to  make  the  spark 
of  some  glorious  diamond/' 

"But,  Pauline?" 

"You  do  not  see,  then  ?  I  will  begin  again.  Make  way !  make 
way !  She  comes,  she  is  here,  the  queen  of  illusions,  a  woman 
fleeting  as  a  kiss,  a  woman  bright  as  lightning,  issuing  in  a 
blaze  like  lightning  from  the  sky,  a  being  uncreated,  of  spirit 
and  love  alone.  She  has  wrapped  her  shadowy  form  in  flame,  or 
perhaps  the  flame  betokens  that  she  exists  but  for  a  moment. 
The  pure  outlines  of  her  shape  tell  you  that  she  comes  from 
heaven.  Is  she  not  radiant  as  an  angel  ?  Can  you  not  hear 
the  beating  of  her  wings  in  space?  She  sinks  down  beside 
you  more  lightly  than  a  bird,  and  you  are  entranced  by  her 
awful  eyes;  tliere  is  a  magical  power  in  her  light  breathing 
that  draws  your  lips  to  hers;  she  flics  and  you  follow;  you  feel 
the  earth  beneath  you  no  longer.  If  you  could  but  once  touch 
that  form  of  snow  with  your  eager,  deluded  hands,  once  twine 


THE  AGONY  271 

the  golden  hair  round  your  fingers,  place  one  kiss  on  those 
shining  eyes  !  There  is  an  intoxicating  vapor  around,  and  the 
spell  of  a  siren  music  is  upon  you.  Every  nerve  in  you  is 
quivering;  you  are  filled  with  pain  and  longing.  0  joy  for 
which  there  is  no  name  !  You  have  touched  the  woman's  lips, 
and  you  are  wakened  at  once  by  a  horrible  pang.  Oh !  ah ! 
yes,  you  have  struck  your  head  against  the  corner  of  the  bed- 
post, you  have  been  clasping  its  brown  mahogany  sides,  and 
chilly  gilt  ornaments;  embracing  a  piece  of  metal,  a  brazen 
Cupid." 

"But  how  about  Pauline,  sir?" 

"What,  again?  Listen.  One  lovely  morning  at  Tours  a 
young  man,  who  held  the  hand  of  a  pretty  woman  in  his, 
went  on  board  the  Ville  d' Angers.  Thus  united  they  both 
looked  and  wondered  long  at  a  white  form  that  rose 
elusively  out  of  the  mists  above  the  broad  waters  of 
the  Loire,  like  some  child  of  the  sun  and  the  river, 
or  some  freak  of  air  and  cloud.  This  translucent 
form  was  a  sylph  or  a  naiad  by  turns;  she  hovered 
in  the  air  like  a  word  that  haunts  the  memory,  which 
seeks  in  vain  to  grasp  it;  she  glided  among  the  islands,  she 
nodded  her  head  here  and  there  among  the  tall  poplar  trees ; 
then  she  grew  to  a  giant's  height ;  she  shook  out  the  countless 
folds  of  her  drapery  to  the  .light ;  she  shot  light  from  the 
aureole  that  the  sun  had  litten  about  her  face;  she  hovered 
above  the  slopes  of  the  hills  and  their  little  hamlets,  and 
seemed  to  bar  the  passage  of  the  boat  before  the  Chateau 
d'Usse.  You  might  have  thought  that  La  dame  des  belles 
cousines  sought  to  protect  her  country  from  modern  in- 
trusion." 

"Well,  well,  I  understand.  So  it  went  with  Pauline.  But 
how  about  Fcedora  ?" 

"Oh!  Fcedora,  you  are  sure  to  meet  with  her!  She  was 
at  the  Bouffons  last  night,  and  she  will  go  to  the  Opera  this 
evening,  and  if  you  like  to  take  it  so,  she  is  Society/' 


I 


CHRIST  IN  FLANDERS 

To  Marcelline  Desbordes-Valmore,  a  daugliter  of  Flanders,  of 
whom  these  modern  days  may  well  be  proud,  1  dedicate  this 
quaint  legend  of  old  Flanders. 

De  Balzac. 

At  a  dimly  remote  period  in  the  history  of  Brabant,  com- 
munication between  the  Island  of  Cadzand  and  the  Flemish 
coast  was  kept  up  by  a  boat  which  carried  passengers  from 
one  shore  to  the  other.  Middelbarg,  the  chief  town  in  the 
island,  destined  to  become  so  famous  in  the  annals  of 
Protestantism,  at  that  time  only  numbered  some  two  or 
three  hundred  hearths;  and  the  prosperous  town  of  Ostend 
was  an  obscure  haven,  a  straggling  village  where  pirates  dwelt 
in  security  among  the  fishermen  and  the  few  poor  merchants 
who  lived  in  the  place. 

But  though  the  town  of  Ostend  consisted  altogether  of 
some  score  of  houses  and  three  hundred  cottages,  huts  or 
hovels  built  of  the  driftwood  of  wrecked  vessels,  it  never- 
theless rejoiced  in  the  possession  of  a  governor,  a  garrison, 
a  forked  gibbet,  a  convent,  and  a  burgomaster,  in  short,  in 
all  the  institutions  of  an  advanced  civilization. 

Who  reigned  over  Brabant  and  Flanders  in  those  days? 
On  this  point  tradition  is  mute.  Let  us  confess  at  once  that 
this  tale  savors  strongly  of  the  marvelous,  the  mysterious, 
and  the  vague;  elements  which  Flemish  narrators  have  in- 
fused into  a  story  retailed  so  often  to  gatherings  of  workers 
on  winter ,  evenings,  that  the  versions  vary  widely  in  poetic 
merit  and  incongruity  of  detail.  It  has  been  told  by  every 
generation,  handed  down  by  grandames  at  the  fireside, 
narrated  night  and  day,  and  the  chronicle  has  changed  its 
complexion  somewhat  in  every  age.  Like  some  great  build- 
ing that  has  suffered  manv  modifications  of  successive  genera- 

273 


274  CHRIST  IN  FLANDERS 

tions  of  architects,  some  sombre  weather-beaten  pile,  the  de- 
light of  a  poet,  the  story  would  drive  the  commentator  and 
the  industrious  winnower  of  words,  facts,  and  dates  to  despair. 
The  narrator  believes  in  it,  as  all  superstitious  minds  in 
Flanders  likewise  believe;  and  is  not  a  whit  wiser  nor  more 
credulous  than  his  audience.  But  as  it  would  be  impossible  to 
make  a  harmony  of  all  the  different  renderings,  here  are  the 
outlines  of  the  story;  stripped,  it  may  be,  of  its  picturesque 
quaintness,  but  with  all  its  bold  disregard  of  historical  truth, 
and  its  moral  teaching  approved  by  religion — a  myth,  the 
blossom  of  imaginative  fancy ;  an  allegory  that  the  wise  may 
interpret  to  suit  themselves.  To  each  his  own  pasturage,  and 
the  task  of  separating  the  tares  from  the  wheat. 

The  boat  that  served  to  carry  passengers  from  the  Island 
of  Cadzand  to  Ostend  was  upon  the  point  of  departure ;  but 
before  the  skipper  loosed  the  chain  that  secured  the  shallop 
to  the  little  jetty,  where  people  embarked,  he  blew  a  horn 
several  times,  to  warn  late  lingerers,  this  being  his  last 
journey  that  day.  Night  was  falling.  It  was  scarcely  possi- 
ble to  see  the  coast  of  Flanders  by  the  dying  fires  of  the 
sunset,  or  to  make  out  upon  the  hither  shore  any  forms  of 
belated  passengers  hurrying  along  the  wall  of  the  dykes  that 
surrounded  the  open  country,  or  among  the  tall  reeds  of  the 
marshes.     The  boat  was  full. 

"What  are  you  waiting  for  ?     Let  us  put  off !"  they  cried. 

Just  at  that  moment  a  man  appeared  a  few  paces  from  the 
jetty,  to  the  surprise  of  the  skipper,  who  had  heard  no  sound 
of  footsteps.  The  traveler  seemed  to  have  sprung  up  from 
the  earth,  like  a  peasant  who  had  laid  himself  down  on  the 
ground  to  wait  till  the  boat  should  start,  and  had  slept  till 
the  sound  of  the  horn  awakened  him.  Was  he  a  thief?  or 
some  one  belonging  to  the  custom-house  or  the  police? 

As  soon  as  the  man  appeared  on  the  jetty  to  which  the 
boat  was  moored,  seven  persons  who  were  standing  in  the 
stern  of  the  shallop  hastened  to  sit  down  on  the  benches,  so  as 
to  leave  no  room  for  the  newcomer.       It  was  the  swift  and 


CHRIST  IN  FLANDERS  2,75 

instinctive  working  of  tlie  aristocratic  spirit,  an  impulse  of 
exclusivencss  that  comes  from  the  rich  man's  heart.  Four 
of  the  seven  personages  belonged  to  the  most  aristocratic 
families  in  Flanders.  First  among  them  was  a  young  knight 
with  two  beautiful  greyhounds;  his  long  hair  flowed  from  be- 
neath a  jeweled  cap ;  he  clanked  his  gilded  spurs,  curled  the 
ends  of  his  moustache  from  time  to  time  with  a  swaggering 
grace,  and  looked  round  disdainfully  on  the  rest  of  the  crew. 
A  high-born  damsel,  with  a  falcon  on  her  wrist,  only  spoke 
with  her  mother  or  with  a  churchman  of  high  rank,  who  was 
evidently  a  relation.  All  these  persons  made  a  great  deal 
of  noise,  and  talked  among  themselves  as  though  there  were 
no  one  else  in  the  boat;  yet  close  beside  them  sat  a  man  of 
great  importance  in  the  district,  a  stout  burgher  of  Bruges, 
wrapped  about  with  a  vast  cloak.  His  servant,  armed  to  the 
teeth,  had  set  down  a  couple  of  bags  filled  with  gold  at  his 
side.  Next  to  the  burgher  came  a  man  of  learning,  a  doctor  of 
the  University  of  Louvain,  who  was  traveling  with  his  clerk. 
This  little  group  of  folk,  who  looked  contemptuously  at  each 
other,  was  separated  from  the  passengers  in  the  forward  part 
of  the  boat  by  the  bench  of  rowers. 

The  belated  traveler  glanced  about  him  as  he  stepped  on 
board,  saw  that  there  was  no  room  for  him  in  the  stern,  and 
went  to  the  bows  in  quest  of  a  seat.  They  were  all  poor  people 
there.  At  first  sight  of  the  bareheaded  man  in  the  brown 
camlet  coat  and  trunk-hose,  and  plain  stiff  linen  collar,  they 
noticed  that  he  wore  no  ornaments,  carried  no  cap  nor  bonnet 
in  his  hand,  and  had  neither  sword  nor  purse  at  his  girdle, 
and  one  and  all  took  him  for  a  burgomaster  sure  of  his  author- 
ity, a  worthy  and  kindly  burgomaster  like  so  many 
a  Fleming  of  old  times,  whose  homely  features  and  charac- 
ters have  been  immortalized  by  Flemish  painters.  The  poorer 
passengers,  therefore,  received  him  with  de:nonstrations  of 
respect  that  provoked  scornful  tittering  at  the  other  end  of 
the  boat.  An  old  soldier,  inured  to  toil  and  hardship,  gave 
up  his  place  on  the  bench  to  the  newcomer,  and  seated  him- 
self on  the  edge  of  the  vessel,  keeping  his  balance  by  plant- 


276  CHRIST  IN  B^LANDERS 

ing  his  feet  against  one  of  those  transverse  beams,  like  the 
backbone  of  a  fish,  that  hold  the  planks  of  a  boat  together. 
A  young  mother,  who  bore  her  baby  in  her  arms,  and  seemed 
to  belong  to  the  working  class  in  Ostend,  moved  aside  to  make 
room  for  the  stranger.  There  was  neither  servility  nor  scorn 
in  her  manner  of  doing  this;  it  was  a  simple  sign  of  the 
goodwill  by  which  the  poor,  who  know  by  long  experience 
the  value  of  a  service  and  the  warmth  that  fellowship  brings, 
give  expression  to  the  open-heartedness  and  the  natural  im- 
pulses of  their  souls;  so  artlessly  do  they  reveal  their  good 
qualities  and  their  defects.  The  stranger  thanked  her  by  a 
gesture  full  of  gracious  dignity,  and  took  his  place  between 
the  young  mother  and  the  old  soldier.  Immediately  behind 
him  sat  a  peasant  and  his  son,  a  boy  ten  years  of  age.  A 
beggar  woman,  old,  wrinkled,  and  clad  in  rags,  was  crouching, 
with  her  almost  emptA^  wallet,  on  a  great  coil  of  rope  that  lay 
in  the  prow.  One  of  the  rowers,  an  old  sailor,  who  had  knoA\Ti 
her  in  the  days  of  her  beauty  and  prosperity,  had  let  her  come 
in  "for  the  love  of  God,"  in  the  beautiful  phrase  that  the 
common  people  use. 

"Thank  you  kindly,  Thomas,"  the  old  woman  had  said. 
"I  will  say  two  Paters  and  two  Aves  for  you  in  my  prayers 
to-night." 

The  skipper  blew  his  horn  for  the  last  time,  looked  along 
the  silent  shore,  flung  off  the  chain,  ran  along  the  side  of  the 
boat,  and  took  up  his  position  at  the  helm.  He  looked  at  the 
sky,  and  as  soon  as  they  were  out  in  the  open  sea,  he  shouted 
to  the  men :  'Tull  away,  pull  vrith  all  your  might !  The  sea 
is  smiling  at  a  squall,  the  witch !  I  can  feel  the  swell  by  the 
way  the  rudder  works,  and  the  storm  in  my  wounds." 

The  nautical  phrases,  unintelligible  to  ears  unused  to  the 
sound  of  the  sea,  seemed  to  put  fresh  energy  into  the  oars; 
they  kept  time  together,  the  rhythm  of  the  movement 
was  still  even  and  steady,  but  quite  unlike  the  previous 
manner  of  rowing;  it  was  as  if  a  cantering  horse 
had  broken  into  a  gallop.  The  gay  company  seated 
in  the  stern  amused  themselves  by  watching  the  bravmy  arms. 


CHRIST  IN  FLANDERS  277 

the  tanned  faces,  and  sparkling  eyes  of  the  rowers,  the  play 
of  the  tense  muscles,  the  physical  and  mental  forces  that  were 
being  exerted  to  bring  them  for  a  trifling  toll  across  the 
channel.  So  far  from  pitying  the  rowers'  distress,  they 
pointed  out  the  men's  faces  to  each  other,  and  laughed  at 
the  grotesque  expressions  on  the  faces  of  the  crew  who  were 
straining  every  muscle;  but  in  the  fore  part  of  the  boat  the 
soldier,  the  peasant,  and  the  old  beggar  woman  watched  the 
sailors  with  the  sympathy  naturally  felt  by  toilers  who  live  by 
the  sweat  of  their  brow  and  know  the  rough  struggle,  the 
strenuous  excitement  of  effort.  These  folk,  moreover,  whose 
lives  were  spent  in  the  open  air,  had  all  seen  the  warnings 
of  danger  in  the  sky,  and  their  faces  were  grave.  The  young 
mother  rocked  her  child,  singing  an  old  hymn  of  the  Church 
for  a  lullaby. 

"If  we  ever  get  there  at  all,"  the  soldier  remarked  to  the 
peasant,  "it  will  be  because  the  Almighty  is  bent  on  keeping 
us  alive.'' 

"Ah !  He  is  the  Master,"  said  the  old  woman,  "but  I  think 
it  will  be  His  good  pleasure  to  take  us  to  Himself.  Just  look 
at  that  light  down  there  .  .  ."  and  she  nodded  her  head  as 
she  spoke  towards  the  sunset. 

Streaks  of  fiery  red  glared  from  behind  the  masses  of 
crimson-flushed  brown  cloud  that  seemed  about  to  unloose  a 
furious  gale.  There  was  a  smothered  m'armur  of  the  sea, 
a  moaning  sound  that  seemed  to  come  from  the  depths,  a  low 
warning  growl,  such  as  a  dog  gives  when  he  only  means  mis- 
chief as  yet.  After  all,  Ostend  was  not  far  away.  Perhaps 
painting,  like  poetry,  could  not  prolong  the  existence  of  the 
picture  presented  by  sea  and  sky  at  that  moment  beyond  the 
time  of  its  actual  duration.  Art  demands  vehement  contrasts, 
wherefore  artists  usually  seek  out  Nature's  most  striking 
effects,  doubtless  because  they  despair  of  rendering  the  great 
and  glorious  charm  of  her  daily  moods ;  yet  the  human  soul 
is  often  stirred  as  deeply  by  her  calm  as  by  her  emotion,  and 
by  silence  as  by  storm. 

For  a  moment  no  one  spoke  on  b-^"^'^  tbp.  boat.     Every  one 

VOL.   1 — 23 


278  CHRIST  IN  FLANDERS 

watched  that  sea  and  sky,  either  with  some  preseHtimetit  of 
danger,  or  because  they  felt  the  influence  of  the  religious 
melancholy  that  takes  possession  of  nearly  all  of  us  at  the 
close  of  the  day,  the  hour  of  prayer,  when  all  nature  is  hushed 
save  for  the  voices  of  the  bells.  The  sea  gleamed  pale  and 
wan,  but  its  hues  changed,  and  the  surface  took  all  the  colors 
of  steel.  The  sky  was  almost  overspread  with  livid  gray,  but 
down  in  the  west  there  were  long  narrow  bars  like  streaks 
of  blood ;  while  lines  of  bright  light  in  the  eastern  sky,  sharp 
and  clean  as  if  drawn  by  the  tip  of  a  brush,  were  separated  by 
folds  of  cloud,  like  the  wrinkles  on  an  old  man's  brow.  The 
whole  scene  made  a  background  of  ashen  grays  and  ha!f-tints, 
in  strong  contrast  to  the  bale-fires  of  the  sunset.  If  written 
language  might  borrow  of  spoken  language  some  of  the  bold 
figures  of  speech  invented  by  the  people,  it  might  be  said 
with  the  soldier  that  "the  weather  had  been  routed,"  or,  as 
the  peasant  would  say,  "the  sky  glowered  like  an  executioner." 
Suddenly  a  wind  arose  from  the  quarter  of  the  sunset,  and  the 
skipper,  who  never  took  his  eyes  off  the  sea,  saw  the  swell  on 
the  horizon  line,  and  cried : 

"Stop  rowing !" 

The  sailors  stopped  immediately,  and  let  their  oars  lie  on 
the  water. 

"The  skipper  is  right,"  said  Thomas  coolly.  A  great  wave 
caught  up  the  boat,  carried  it  high  on  its  crest,  only  to  plunge 
it,  as  it  were,  into  the  trough  of  the  sea  that  seemed  to  yawn 
for  them.  At  this  mighty  upheaval,  this  sudden  outbreak  of 
the  wrath  of  the  sea,  the  company  in  the  stern  turned  pale, 
and  sent  up  a  terrible  cry. 

"We  are  lost !" 

"Oh,  not  yet !"  said  the  skipper  calmly. 

As  he  spoke,  the  clouds  immediately  above  their  heads  were 
torn  asunder  by  the  vehemence  of  the  wind.  The  gray  mass 
was  rent  and  scattered  east  and  west  with  ominous  speed,  a 
dim  uncertain  light  from  the  rift  in  the  sky  fell  full  upon  the 
boat,  and  the  travelers  beheld  each  other's  faces.  All  of  them, 
the  noble  and  the  wealthy,  the  sailors  and  the  poor  passengers 


CHRIST  IN  FLANDERS  i579 

alike,  were  amazed  for  a  moment  by  the  appearance  of  the  last 
comer.  His  golden  hair,  parted  upon  his  calm,  serene  fore- 
head, fell  in  thick  curls  about  his  shoulders;  and  his  face, 
sublime  in  its  sweetness  and  radiant  with  divine  love,  stood 
out  against  the  surrounding  gloom.  He  had  no  contempt 
for  death ;  he  knew  that  he  should  not  die.  But  If  at  the  first 
the  company  in  the  stern  forgot  for  a  moment  the  implacable 
fury  of  the  storm  that  threatened  their  lives,  selfishnc'^s  and 
their  habits  of  life  soon  prevailed  again. 

"How  lucky  that  stupid  burgomaster  is,  not  to  see  the  risks 
we  are  all  running !  He  is  just  like  a  dog,  he  will  die  with- 
out a  struggle,"  said  the  doctor. 

He  had  scarcely  pronounced  this  highly  judicious  dictum 
when  the  storm  unloosed  all  its  legions.  The  wind  blew  from 
every  quarter  of  the  heavens,  the  boat  span  round  like  a  top, 
and  the  sea  broke  in. 

"Oh !  my  poor  child  !  My  poor  child  !  .  .  .  Who  will 
save  my  baby  ?"  the  mother  cried  in  a  heart-rending  voice. 

"You  yourself  will  save  it,"  the  stranger  said. 

The  thrilling  tones  of  that  voice  went  to  the  young  mother's 
heart  and  brought  hope  with  them ;  she  heard  the  gracious 
words  through  all  the  whistling  of  the  wind  and  the  shrieks 
of  the  passengers. 

"Holy  Virgin  of  Good  Help,  who  art  at  Antwerp,  I  promise 
thee  a  thousand  pounds  of  wax  and  a  statue,  if  thou  wilt  res- 
cue me  from  this !"  cried  the  burgher,  kneeling  upon  his  bags 
of  gold. 

"The  Virgin  is  no  more  at  Antwerp  than  she  is  here,"  was 
the  doctor's  comment  on  this  appeal. 

"She  is  in  heaven,"  said  a  voice  that  seemed  to  come  from 
the  sea. 

"Who  said  that?" 

"  'Tis  the  devil !"  exclaimed  the  servant.  "He  is  scoffing 
at  the  Virgin  of  Antwerp." 

"Let  us  have  no  more  of  your  Holy  Virgin  at  present,"  the 
pkipper  cried  to  the  passengers.  "Put  your  hands  to  the  scoops 
and  bail  the  water  out  of  the  '  oat. — And  the  rest  of  you," 


280  CHRIST  IN  FLANDERS 

he  went  on,  addressing  the  sailors,  "pull  with  all  your  might  ? 
Now  is  the  time;  in  the  name  of  the  devil  who  is  leaving  you 
in  this  world,  be  your  own  Providence !  Every  one  knows  that 
the  channel  is  fearfully  dangerous;  I  have  been  to  and  fro 
across  it  these  thirty  years.  xA.m  I  facing  a  storm  for  the  first 
time  to-night  ?"  ^ 

He  stood  at  the  helm,  and  looked,  as  before,  at  his  boat  and 
at  the  sea  and  sky  in  turn. 

"The  skipper  always  laughs  at  everything,"  muttered 
Thomas. 

"Will  God  leave  us  to  perish  along  with  those  wretched 
creatures  ?"  asked  the  haughty  damsel  of  the  handsome  cava- 
lier. 

"No,  no,  noble  maiden.  .  .  .  Listen !"  and  he  caught 
her  by  the  waist  and  said  in  her  ear,  "I  can  swim ;  say  nothing 
about  it !  I  will  hold  you  by  your  fair  hair  and  bring  you 
safely  to  the  shore ;  but  I  can  onl}^  save  you." 

The  girl  looked  at  her  aged  mother.  The  lady  was  on  her 
knees  entreating  absolution  of  the  Bishop,  who  did  not  heed 
her.  In  the  beautiful  eyes  the  knight  read  a  vague  feeling  of 
filial  piety,  and  spoke  in  a  smothered  voice. 

"Submit  yourself  to  the  will  of  God.  If  it  His  pleasure  to 
take  your  mother  to  Himself,  it  will  doubtless  be  for  her  hap- 
piness— in  the  other  world,"  he  added,  and  his  voice  dropped 
still  lower.  "And  for  ours  in  this,"  he  thought  within  him- 
self. 

The  Dame  of  Rupelmonde  was  lady  of  seven  fiefs  beside 
the  barony  of  Gavres. 

The  girl  felt  the  longing  for  life  in  her  heart,  and  for  love 
that  spoke  through  the  handsome  adventurer,  a  young  mis- 
creant who  haunted  churches  in  search  of  a  prize,  an  heiress 
to  marry,  or  ready  money.  The  Bishop  bestowed  his  benison 
on  the  waves,  and  bade  them  be  calm ;  it  was  all  that  he  could 
do.  He  thought  of  his  concubine,  and  of  the  delicate  feast 
with  which  she  would  welcome  him ;  perhaps  at  that  very 
moment  she  was  bathing,  perfuming  herself,  robing  herself 
in  velvet,  fastening  her  ncckh  ce  and  her  Jeweled  clasps;  and 


CHRIST  IN   FLANDERS  281 

the  perverse  Bishop,  so  far  from  thinking  of  the  power  of  Holy 
Church,  of  his  duty  to  comfort  Christians  and  exhort  them 
to  trust  in  God,  mingled  worldly  regrets  and  lover's  sighs 
with  the  holy  words  of  the  breviary.  By  the  dim  light  that 
shone  on  the  pale  faces  of  the  company,'  it  was  possible  to  see 
their  differing  expressions  as  the  boat  was  lifted  high  in  air 
by  a  wave,  to  be  cast  back  into  the  dark  depths;  the  shallop 
quivered  like  a  fragile  leaf,  the  plaything  of  the  north  wind 
in  the  autumn;  the  hull  creaked,  it  seemed  ready  to  go  to 
pieces.  Fearful  shrieks  went  up,  followed  by  an  awful 
silence. 

There  was  a  strange  difference  between  the  behavior  of  the 
folk  in  the  bows  and  that  of  the  rich  or  great  people  at  the 
other  end  of  the  boat.  The  young  mother  clasped  her  infant 
tightly  to  her  breast  every  time  that  a  great  wave  threatened 
to  engulf  the  fragile  vessel ;  but  she  clung  to  the  hope  that  the 
stranger's  words  had  set  in  her  heart.  Each  time  that  her 
eyes  turned  to  his  face  she  drew  fresh  faith  at  the  sight,  the 
strong  faith  of  a  helpless  woman,  a  mother's  faith.  She  lived 
by  that  divine  promise,  the  loving  words  from  his  lips;  the 
simple  creature  waited  trustingly  for  them  to  be  fulfilled,  and 
scarcely  feared  the  danger  any  longer. 

The  soldier,  holding  fast  to  the  vessel's  side,  never  took 
his  eyes  off  the  strange  visitor.  He  copied  on  his  own  rough 
and  swarthy  features  the  imperturbability  of  the  other's  face, 
applying  to  this  task  the  whole  strength  of  a  will  and  intel- 
ligence but  little  corrupted  in  the  course  of  a  life  of  mechan- 
ical and  passive  obedience.  So  emulous  was  he  of  a  calm  and 
tranquil  courage  greater  than  his  own,  that  at  last,  perhaps 
unconsciously,  something  of  that  mysterious  nature  passed 
into  his  own  soul.  His  admiration  became  an  instinctive  zeal 
for  this  man,  a  boundless  love  for  and  belief  in  him,  such  a 
love  as  soldiers  feel  for  their  leader  when  he  has  the  power 
of  swaying  other  men,  when  the  halo  of  victories  surrounds 
him,  and  the  magical"  fascination  of  genius  is  felt  in  all  that 
he  does.     The  poor  outcast  was  murmuring  to  herself : 

"Ahl  miserable  wretch  that  I  am!     Have  I  not  suffered 


282  CHRIST  IN  FLANDERS 

enough  to  expiate  the  sins  of  my  youth  ?  Ah !  wretched 
woman,  why  did  you  leave  the  gay  life  of  a  frivolous  French- 
woman? why  did  you  devour  the  goods  of  God  with  church- 
men, the  substance  of  the  poor  with  extortioners  and  fleecers 
of  the  poor?  Oh!  I  have  sinned  indeed! — Oh  my  God!  my 
God!  let  me  finish  my  time  in  hell  here  in  this  world  of 
misery." 

And  again  she  cried,  "Holy  Virgin,  Mother  of  God,  have 
pity  upon  me !" 

"Be  comforted,  mother.  God  is  not  a  Lombard  usurer.  I 
may  have  killed  people  good,  and  bad  at  random  in  my  time, 
but  I  am  not  afraid  of  the  resurrection." 

"Ah !  master  lancepesade,  how  happy  those  fair  ladies  are, 
to  be  so  near  to  a  bishop,  a  holy  man  I  They  will  get  absolution 
for  their  sins,"  said  the  old  woman.  "Oh!  if  I  could  only 
hear  a  priest  say  to  me,  'Thy  sins  are  forgiven !'  I  should 
believe  it  then." 

The  stranger  turned  towards  her,  and  the  goodness  in  his 
face  made  her  tremble. 

"Have  faith,"  he  said,  "and  you  will  be  saved." 

"May  God  reward  you,  good  sir,"  she  answered.  "If  what 
you  say  is  true,  I  will  go  on  pilgrimage  barefooted  to  Our 
Lady  of  Loretto  to  pray  to  her  for  you  and  for  me." 

The  two  peasants,  father  and  son,  were  silent,  patient,  and 
submissive  to  the  will  of  God,  like  folk  whose  wont  it  is  to  fall 
in  instinctively  with  the  ways  of  Nature  like  cattle.  At  the 
one  end  of  the  boat  stood  riches,  pride,  learning,  debauchery, 
and  crime — human  society,  such  as  art  and  thought  and  edu- 
cation and  worldly  interests  and  laws  have  made  it;  and  at 
this  end  there  was  terror  and  wailing,  innumerable  different 
impulses  all  repressed  by  hideous  doubts — at  this  end,  and  at 
this  only,  the  agony  of  fear. 

Above  all  these  human  lives  stood  a  strong  man,  the  skip- 
per; no  doubts  assailed  him,  the  chief,  the  king,  the  fatalist 
among  them.  He  was  trusting  in  himself  rather  than  in 
Providence,  crying,  "Bail  away!"  instead  of  "Holy  Virgin," 
defying  the  storm,  in  fact,  and  struggling  with  the  sea  like  a 
wrestler. 


CHRIST  IN  FLANDERS  283 

But  the  helpless  poor  at  the  other  end  of  the  wherry  I  The 
mother  rocking  on  her  bosom  the  little  one  who  smiled  at  the 
storm;  the  woman  once  so  frivolous  and  gay,  and  now  tor- 
mented with  bitter  remorse;  the  old  soldier  covered  with 
scars,  a  mutilated  life  the  sole  reward  of  his  unflagging  loy- 
alty and  faithfulness.  This  veteran  could  scarcely  count  on 
the  morsel  of  bread  soaked  in  tears  to  keep  the  life  in  him, 
yet  he  was  always  ready  to  laugh,  and  went  his  way  merrily, 
happy  when  he  could  drown  his  glory  in  the  depths  of  a  po'i 
of  beer,  or  could  tell  tales  of  the  wars  to  the  children  who 
admired  him,  leaving  his  future  with  a  light  heart  in  the 
hands  of  God.  Lastly,  there  were  the  two  peasants,  used  to 
hardships  and  toil,  labor  incarnate,  the  labor  by  which  the 
world  lives.  These  simple  folk  were  indifferent  to  thought 
and  its  treasures,  ready  to  sink  them  all  in  a  belief ;  and  their 
faith  was  but  so  much  the  more  vigorous  because  they  had 
never  disputed  about  it  nor  analyzed  it.  Such  a  nature  is  a 
virgin  soil,  conscience  has  not  been  tampered  with,  feeling  is 
deep  and  strong;  repentance,  trouble,  love,  and  work  have 
developed,  purified,  concentrated,  and  increased  their  force 
of  will  a  hundred  times,  the  will — the  one  thing  in  man  that 
resembles  what  learned  doctors  call  the  Soul. 

The  boat,  guided  by  the  well-nigh  miraculous  skill  of  the 
steersman,  came  almost  within  sight  of  Ostend,  when,  not 
fifty  paces  from  the  shore,  she  was  suddenly  struck  by  a 
heavy  sea  and  capsized.  The  stranger  with  the  light  about 
his  head  spoke  to  this  little  world  of  drowning  creatures : 

"Those  who  have  faith  shall  be  saved ;  let  them  follow  me  !" 

He  stood  upright,  and  walked  with  a  firm  step  upon  the 
waves.  The  young  mother  at  once  took  her  child  in  her  arms, 
and  followed  at  his  side  across  the  sea.  The  soldier  too 
sprang  up,  saying  in  his  homely  fashion,  "Ah  !  nom  d'un  pipe! 
I  would  follow  you  to  the  devil ;"  and  without  seeming  aston- 
ished by  it,  he  walked  on  the  water.  The  old  worn-out  sinner, 
believing  in  the  omnipotence  of  God,  also  followed  the 
stranger. 

The  two  peasants  said  to  each  other,  "If  they  are  walking 


284  CHRIST  IN  FLANDERS 

on  the  sea,  why  should  we  not  do  as  ihey  do  ?"  and  they  also 
arose  and  hastened  after  the  others.  Thomas  tried  to  follow, 
but  his  faith  tottered ;  he  sank  in  the  sea  more  than  once,  and 
rose  again,  but  the  third  time  he  also  walked  on  the  sea. 
The  bold  steersman  clung  like  a  remora  to  the  wreck  of  his 
boat.  The  miser  had  had  faith,  and  had  risen  to  go,  but  he 
tried  to  take  his  gold  with  him,  and  it  was  his  gold  that 
dragged  him  down  to  the  bottom.  The  learned  man  had 
scoffed  at  the  charlatan  and  at  the  fools  who  listened  to  him ; 
and  when  he  heard  the  mysterious  stranger  propose  to  the 
passengers  that  they  should  walk  on  the  waves,  he  began  to 
laugh,  and  the  ocean  swallowed  liim.  The  girl  was  dragged 
down  into  the  depths  by  her  lover.  The  Bishop  and  the  older 
lady  went  to  the  bottom,  heavily  laden  with  sins,  it  may  be, 
but  still  more  heavil}'  laden  with  incredulity  and  confidence 
in  idols,  weighted  down  by  devotion,  into  which  alms-deeds 
and  true  religion  entered  but  little. 

The  faithful  flock,  who  walked  with  a  firm  step  high  and 
dry  above  the  surge,  heard  all  about  them  the  dreadful  whis- 
tling of  the  blast ;  great  billows  broke  across  their  path,  but  an 
irresistible  force  cleft  a  way  for  them  through  the  sea.  These 
believing  ones  saw  through  the  spray  a  dim  speck  of  light 
flickering  in  the  window  of  a  fisherman's  hut  on  the  shore, 
and  each  one,  as  he  pushed  on  bravely  towards  the  light, 
seemed  to  hear  the  voice  of  his  fellow  cr3dng,  "Courage  \" 
through  all  the  roaring  of  the  surf;  yet  no  one  had  spoken  a 
word — so  absorbed  was  each  by  his  own  peril.  In  this  way 
they  reached  the  shore. 

When  they  were  all  seated  near  the  fisherman's  fire,  they 
looked  round  in  vain  for  their  guide  with  the  light  about  him. 
The  sea  washed  up  the  steersman  at  the  base  of  the  cliff  on 
which  the  cottage  stood ;  he  was  clinging  with  might  and  main 
to  the  plank  as  a  sailor  can  cling  when  death  stares  him  in 
the  face;  the  Man  went  down  and  rescued  the  almost  ex- 
hausted seaman;  tben  he  said,  as  he  held  out  a  rjuccoring 
hand  above  the  man's  head : 

"Good,  for  this  once;  but  do  not  try  it  again;  the  example 
would  be  too  bad." 


CHRIST  IN  FLANDERS  285 

He  took  the  skipper  on  his  shoulders,  and  carried  him  to 
the  fisherman's  door;  knocked  for  admittance  for  the  ex- 
hausted man;  then,  when  the  door  of  the  humble  refuge 
opened,  the  Saviour  disappeared. 

The  Convent  of  Mercy  was  built  for  sailors  on  this  spot, 
where  for  long  afterwards  (so  it  was  said)  the  footprints  of 
Jesus  Christ  could  be  seen  in  the  sand;  but  in  1793,  at  the 
time  of  the  French  invasion,  the  monks  carried  away  this 
precious  relic,  that  bore  witness  to  the  Saviour's  last  visit  to 
earth. 

There  at  the  convent  I  found  myself  shortly  after  the  Eevo- 
lution  of  1830.  I  was  weary  of  life.  If  you  had  asked  me  the 
reason  of  my  despair,  I  should  have  found  it  almost  impos- 
sible to  give  it,  so  languid  had  grown  the  soul  that  was  melted 
within  me.  The  west  wind  had  slackened  the  springs  of  my 
intelligence.  A  cold  gray  light  poured  down  from  the 
heavens,  and  the  murky  clouds  that  passed  overhead  gave  a 
boding  look  to  the  land;  all  these  things,  together  with  the 
immensity  of  the  sea,  said  to  me,  "Die  to-day  or  die  to-mor- 
row, still  must  we  not  die  ?"    And  then I  wandered  on, 

musing  on  the  doubtful  future,  on  my  blighted  hopes. 
Gnawed  by  these  gloomy  thoughts,  I  turned  mechanically  into 
the  convent  church,  with  the  gray  towers  that  loomed  like 
ghosts  through  the  sea  mists.  I  looked  round  with  no  kindling 
of  the  imagination  at  the  forest  of  columns,  at  the  slender 
arches  set  aloft  upon  the  leafy  capitals,  a  delicate  labyrinth 
of  sculpture.  I  walked  with  careless  eyes  along  the  side  aisles 
that  opened  out  before  me  like  vast  portals,  ever  turning  upon 
their  hinges.  It  was  scarcely  possible  to  see,  by  the  dim  light 
of  the  autumn  day,  the  sculptured  groinings  of  the  roof,  the 
delicate  and  clean-cut  lines  of  the  mouldings  of  the  graceful 
pointed  arches.  The  organ  pipes  were  mute.  There  was  no 
sound  save  the  noise  of  my  own  footsteps  to  awaken  the 
mournful  echoes  lurking  in  the  dark  chapels.  I  sat  down  at 
the  base  of  one  of  the  four  pillars  that  supported  the  tower, 
near  the  chgir.    Thence  I  could  see  the  whole  of  the  building. 


28ft  CHRIST  IN  FLANDERS 

I  gazed,  and  no  ideas  connected  with  it  arose  in  ray  mind.  I 
-aw  without  seeing  the  mighty  maze  of  pillars,  the  great  rose 
windows  that  hung  like  a  network  suspended  as  by  a  miracle 
n  air  above  the  vast  doorways.  I  saw  the  doors  at  the  end  of 
the  side  aisles,  the  aerial  galleries,  the  stained  glass  windows 
framed  in  archways,  divided  by  slender  columns,  fretted  into 
flower  forms  and  trefoil  by  iine  filigree  work  of  carved  stone. 
A  dome  of  glass  at  the  end  of  the  choir  sparkled  as  if  it  had 
been  built  of  precious  stones  set  cunningly.  In  contrast  to  the 
roof  with  its  alternating  spaces  of  v.'hiteness  and  color,  the 
two  aisles  lay  to  right  and  left  in  shadow  so  deep  that  the 
faint  gray  outlines  of  their  hundred  shafts  were  scarcely 
visible  in  the  gloom.  I  gazed  at  the  marvelous  arcades,  the 
scroll-work,  the  garlands,  the  curving  lines,  and  arabesques 
interwoven  and  interlaced,  and  strangely  lighted,  until  by 
^heer  dint  of  gazing  my  perceptions  became  confused,  and  I 
stood  upon  the  borderland  between  illusion  and  reality,  taken 
in  the  snare  set  for  the  eyes,  and  almost  light-headed  by 
reason  of  the  multitudinous  changes  of  the  shapes  about  me. 
Imperceptibly  a  mist  gathered  about  the  carven  stone- 
work, and  I  only  beheld  it  through  a  haze  of  fine  golden  dust, 
like  the  motes  that  hover  in  the  bars  of  sunlight  slanting 
through  the  air  of  a  chamber.  Suddenly  the  stone  lacework 
of  the  rose  windows  gteamed  through  this  vapor  that  had 
made  all  forms  so  shadowy.  Every  moulding,  the  edges  of 
every  carving,  the  least  detail  of  the  sculpture  was  dipped  in 
silver.  The  sunlight  kindled  fires  in  the  stained  windows, 
their  rich  colors  sent  out  glowing  sparks  of  light.  The  shafts 
began  to  tremble,  the  capitals  were  gently  shaken.  A  light 
shudder  as  of  delight  ran  through  the  building,  the  stones 
were  loosened  in  their  setting,  the  wall-spaces  swayed  with 
graceful  caution.  Here  and  there  a  ponderous  pier  moved  as 
solemnly  as  a  dowager  when  she  condescends  to  complete  a 
quadrille  at  the  close  of  a  ball.  A  few  slender  and  graceful 
columns,  their  heads  adorned  with  wreaths  of  trefoil,  began 
to  laugh  and  dance  here  and  there.  Some  of  the  pointed 
arches  dashed  at  the  tall  lancet  windows,  who,  like  ladies  of 


CHRIST  IN  FLANDERS  287 

the  Middle  Ages,  wore  the  armorial  bearings  of  their  houses 
emblazoned  on  their  golden  robes.  The  dance  of  the  mitred 
arcades  with  the  slender  windows  became  like  a  fray  at  a 
tourney. 

In  another  moment  every  stone  in  the  church  vibrated, 
without  leaving  its  place;  for  the  organ-pipes  spoke,  and  I 
heard  divine  music  mingling  with  the  songs  of  angels,  an 
unearthly  harmony,  accompanied  by  the  deep  lotes  of  the 
bells,  that  boomed  as  the  giant  towers  rocked  and  swayed- on 
their  square  bases.  This  strange  Sabbath  seemed  to  me  the 
most  natural  thing  in  the  world ;  and  I,  who  had  seen  Charles 
X.  hurled  from  his  throne,  was  no  longer  amazed  by  any- 
thing. Nay,  I  myself  was  gently  swaying  with  a  see-saw 
movement  that  influenced  my  nerves  pleasurably  in  a  manner 
of  which  it  is  impossible  to  give  any  idea.  Yet  in  the  midst 
of  this  heated  riot,  the  cathedral  choir  felt  cold  as  if  it  were 
a  winter  day,  and  I  became  aware  of  a  multitude  of  women, 
robed  in  white,  silent,  and  impassive,  sitting  there.  The 
sweet  incense  smoke  that  arose  from  the  censers  was  grateful 
to  my  soul.  The  tall  wax  candles  flickered.  The  lectern, 
gs;y  as  a  chanter  undone  by  the  treachery  of  wine,  was  skip- 
ping about  like  a  peal  of  Chinese  bells. 

Then  I  knew  that  the  whole  cathedral  was  whirling  round 
so  fast  that  everything  appeared  to  be  undisturbed.  The 
colossal  Figure  on  the  crucifix  above  the  altar  smiled  upon  me 
with  a  mingled  malice  and  benevolence  that  frightened  me ;  I 
turned  my  eyes  a-way,  and  marveled  at  the  bluish  vapor  that 
slid  across  the  pillars,  lending  to  them  an  indescribable 
charm.  Then  some  graceful  women's  forms  began  to  stir  on 
the  friezes.  The  cherubs  who  upheld  the  heavy  columns 
shook  out  their  wings.  I  felt  myself  uplifted  by  some  divine 
power  that  steeped  me  in  infinite  joy,  in  a  sweet  and  languid 
rapture.  I  would  have  given  my  life,  I  think,  to  have  pro- 
longed these  phantasmagoria  for  a  little,  but  suddenly  a 
shrill  voice  clamored  in  my  ears: 

"Awake  and  follow  me !" 

A  withered  woman  took  my  hand  in  hers :  its  icy  coldness 


288  CHKIST  IN  FLANDERS 

crept  through  every  nerve.  The  bones  of  her  face  showe(5 
plainly  through  the  sallow,  almost  olive-tinted  wrinkles  of 
the  skin.  The  shrunken,  ice-cold  old  woman  wore  a  black 
robe,  which  she  trailed  in  the  dust,  and  at  her  throat  there 
was  something  white,  which  I  dared  not  examine.  I  could 
scarcely  see  her  wan  and  colorless  eyes,  for  they  were  fixed 
in  a  stare  upon  the  heavens.  She  drew  me  after  her  alon.u' 
the  aisles,  leaving  a  trace  of  her  presence  in  the  ashes  that 
she  shook  from  her  dress.  Her  bones  rattled  as  she  walked, 
like  the  bones  of  a  skeleton ;  and  as  we  went  I  heard  behind 
me  the  tinkling  of  a  little  bell,  a  thin,  sharp  sound  that  rang 
through  my  head  like  the  notes  of  a  harmonica. 

"Suffer  !"  she  cried,  "suffer !     So  it  must  be  !" 

We  came  out  of  the  church;  we  went  through  the  dirtiest 
streets  of  the  to-wn,  till  we  came  at  last  to  a  dingy  dwelling, 
and  she  bade  me  enter  in.  She  dragged  me  with  her,  calling 
to  me  in  a  harsh,  tuneless  voice  like  a  cracked  bell : 

"Defend  me !  defend  me  !" 

Together  we  went  up  a  winding  staircase.  She  knocked 
at  a  door  in  the  darkness,  and  a  mute,  like  some  familiar  of 
the  Inquisition,  opened  to  her.  In  another  moment  we 
stood  in  a  room  hung  with  ancient,  ragged  tapestry,  amid 
piles  of  old  linen,  crumpled  muslin,  and  gilded  brass. 

"Behold  the  wealth  that  shall  endure  for  ever !"  said  she. 

I  shuddered  with  horror;  for  just  then,  by  the  light  of  a 
tall  torch  and  two  altar  candles,  I  saw  distinctly  that  this 
woman  was  fresh  from  the  graveyard.  She  had  no  hair.  I 
turned  to  fly.  She  raised  her  fieshless  arm  and  encircled 
me  with  a  band  of  iron  set  with  spikes,  and  as  she  raised  it 
a  cry  went  up  all  about  us,  the  cry  of  millions  of  voices — 
the  shouting  of  the  dead ! 

"It  is  my  purpose  to  make  thee  happy  for  ever,"  she  said. 
"Thou  art  my  son." 

We  were  sitting  before  the  hearth,  the  ashes  lay  cold  upmi 
it;  the  old  shrunken  woman  grasped  my  hand  so  tightly  in 
hers  that  T  could  not  choose  but  stay.  T  looked  fixedly  at 
her,  striving  to  read  the  story  of  her  life  from  the  things 


CHRIST  IN  FILANDERS  289 

among  which  she  was  crouching.  Had  she  indeed  any  life 
in  her?  It  was  a  mystery.  Yet  I  saw  plainly  that  once 
she  must  have  been  young  and  beautiful;  fair,  with  all  the 
charm  of  simplicity,  perfect  as  some  Greek  statue,  with  the 
brow  of  a  vestal. 

"Ah !  ah !"  I  cried,  "now  1  know  thee !'  Miserable  woman, 
why  hast  thou  pros! i luted  thyself?  In  the  age  of  thy 
passions,  in  the  time  of  thy  prosperity,  the  grace  and  purity 
of  thy  youth  were  forgotten.  Forgetful  of  thy  heroic  devo- 
tion, thy  pure  life,  thy  abundant  faith,  thou  didst  resign  thy 
primitive  power  and  thy  spiritual  supremacy  for  fleshly 
power.  Thy  linen  vestments,  thy  couch  of  moss,  the  cell 
in  the  rock,  bright  with  rays  of  the  Light  Divine,  was  for- 
saken; thou  hast  sparkled  with  diamonds,  and  shone  with 
the  glitter  of  luxury  and  pride.  Then,  grown  bold  and  in- 
solent, seizing  and  overturning  all  things  in  thy  course  like 
a  courtesan  eager  for  pleasure  in  her  days  of  splendor,  thou 
hast  steeped  thyself  in  blood  like  some  queen  stupefied  by 
empery.  Dost  thou  not  remember  to  have  been  dull  and 
heavy  at  times,  and  the  sudden  marvelous  lucidity  of  other 
moments ;  as  when  Art  emerges  from  an  orgy  ?  Oh !  poet, 
painter,  and  singer,  lover  of  splendid  ceremonies  and  pro- 
tector of  the  arts,  Avas  thy  friendship  for  art  perciiance  a 
caprice,  that  so  thou  shouldst  sleep  beneath  magnifieent 
canopies?  Was  there  not  a  day  when,  in  thy  fantastic 
pride,  though  chastity  and  humility  were  prescribed  to  thee, 
thou  hadst  brought  all  things  beneath  thy  feet,  and  set  thy 
foot  on  the  necks  of  princes;  when  earthly  dominion,  and 
wealth,  and  the  mind  of  man  bore  thy  yoke?  Exulting  in 
the  abasement  of  humanity,  joying  to  witness  the  uttermost 
lengths  to  which  man's  folly  would  go,  thou  hast  bidden  thy 
lovers  walk,  on  all  fours,  and  required  of  them  their  lands 
and  wealth,  nay,  even  their  v/ives  if  they  were  worth  aught 
to  thee.  Thou  hast  devoured  millions  of  men  without  a 
cause ;  thou  hast  flung  away  lives  like  sand  blown  by  the  wind 
from  West  to  East.     Thou  hast  come  down  from  the  heights 


i90  CHRIST  IN  FLANDERS 

of  thought  to  sit  among  the  kings  of  men.  Woman !  instead 
of  comforting  men,  thou  hast  tormented  and  afllicted  them ! 
Knowing  that  thou  couldst  ask  and  have,  thou  hast  demanded 
— blood !  A  little  flour  surely  should  have  contented  thee, 
accustomed  as  thou  hadst  been  to  live  on  bread  and  to 
mingle  water  with  thv  wine.  Unlike  all  others  in  all  things, 
formerly  thou  wouldst  bid  they  lovers  fast,  and  they  obeyed. 
Why  should  thy  fancies  have  led  thee  to  require  things  im- 
possible? Why,  like  a  courtesan  spoiled  by  her  lovers,  hast 
thou  doted  on  follies,  and  left  those  undeceived  who  sought 
to  explain  and  justify  all  thy  errors  ?  Then  came  the  days  of 
thy  later  passions,  terrible  like  the  love  of  a  woman  of  forty 
years,  with  a  fierce  cry  thou  hast  sought  to  clasp  the  whole 
universe  in  one  last  embrace — and  thy  universe  recoiled  from 
thee ! 

"Then  old  men  succeeded  to  thy  young  lovers ;  decrepitude 
came  to  thy  feet  and  made  thee  hideous.  Yet,  even  then, 
men  with  the  eagle  power  of  vision  said  to  thee  in  a  glance, 
'Thou  shalt  perish  ingloriousl}-,  because  thou  hast  fallen  away, 
because  thou  hast  broken  the  vows  of  thy  maidenhood.  The 
angel  with  peace  written  on  her  forehead,  who  should  have 
shod  light  and  joy  along  her  path,  has  been  a  Messalina,  de- 
lighting in  the  circus,  in  debauchery,  and  abuse  of  power. 
The  days  of  thy  virginity  cannot  return;  henceforward  thou 
shalt  be  subject  to  a  master.  Thy  hour  has  come ;  the  hand 
of  death  is  upon  thee.  Thy  heirs  believe  that  thou  art  rich; 
they  will  kill  thee  and  find  nothing.  Yet  try  at  least  to  fling 
away  this  raiment  no  longer  in  fashion;  be  once  more  as  in 
the  days  of  old  ! — Nay,  thou  art  dead,  and  by  thy  own  deed !' 

"Is  not  this  thy  story?"  so  I  ended.  "Decrepit,  tooth- 
less, sliivering  crone,  now  forgotten,  going  thy  ways  without 
so  much  as  a  glance  from  passers-by!  Why  art  thou  still 
alive?  What  doest  thou  in  that  beggar's  garb,  uncomely  and 
desired  of  none  ?  Where  are  thy  riches  ? — for  what  were  they 
spent?  Where  are  thy  treasures? — what  great  deeds  hast 
thou  done?" 


CHRIST  IN  FLANDERS  891 

At  this  demand,  the  shriveled  woman  raised  her  bony 
form,  flung  off  her  rags,  and  grew  tall  and  radiant,  smiling 
as  she  broke  forth  from  the  dark  chrysalid  sheath.  Then  like 
a  butterfly,  this  diaphanous  creature  emerged,  fair  and  youth- 
ful, clothed  in  white  linen,  an  Indian  from  creation  issuing 
her  palms.  Her  golden  hair  rippled  over  her  shoulders,  her 
|eyes  glowed,  a  bright  mist  clung  about  her,  a  ring  of 
'gold  hovered  above  her  head,  she  shook  the  flaming  blade  of 
a  sword  towards  the  spaces  of  heaven. 

"See  and  believe  !"  she  cried. 

And  suddenly  I  saw,  afar  off,  many  thousands  of  cathedrals 
like  the  one  that  I  had  just  quitted;  but  these  were  covered 
with  pictures  and  with  frescoes,  and  I  heard  them  echo  with 
entrancing  music.  Myriads  of  human  creatures  flocked  to 
these  great  buildings,  swarming  about  them  like  ants  on  an 
ant-heap.  Some  were  eager  to  rescue  books  from  oblivion 
or  to  copy  manuscripts,  other  were  helping  the  poor,  but 
nearly  all  were  studying.  Up  above  this  countless  multitude 
rose  giant  statues  that  they  had  erected  in  their  midst,  and 
by  the  gleams  of  a  strange  light  from  some  luminary  as 
powerful  as  the  sun,  I  read  the  inscriptions  on  the  bases  of 
the  statues — Science,  History,  Literature. 

The  light  died  out.  Again  I  faced  the  young  girl. 
Gradually  she  slipped  into  the  dreary  sheath,  into  the  ragged 
cere-cloths,  and  became  an  aged  woman  again.  Her  familiar 
brought  her  a  little  dust,  and  she  stirred  it  into  the  ashes 
of  her  chafing-dish,  for  the  weather  was  cold  and  stormy; 
and  then  he  lighted  for  her,  whose  palaces  had  been  lit  with 
thousands  of  wax-tapers,  a  little  cresset,  that  she  might  see 
to  read  her  prayers  through  the  hours  of  night. 

"There  is  no  faith  left  in  the  earth !     .     .     ."  she  said. 

In  such  a  perilous  plight  did  I  behold  the  fairest  and  the 
greatest,  the  truest  and  most  life-giving  of  all  Powers. 

'^ake  up,  sir,  the  doors  are  just  about  to  be  shut,"  said 
a  hoarse  voice.       I  turned  and  beheld  the  beadle's  ugly 


282  CHRIST  IN  FLANDERS 

countenance;  the  man  was  shaking  me  by  the  arm,  and  the 
cathedral  lay  wrapped  in  shadows  as  a  man  is  wrapped  in 
his  cloak. 

"Belief,"  I  said  to  myself,  "is  Life !  I  have  just 
witnessed  the  funeral  of  a  monarchy,  now  we  must  defend 
the  church/' 

Paris,  Febrvmry  1881. 


MELMOTH  RECONCILED 

To  Monsieur  le  Gi'neral  Baron  de  Pommereul,  a  token  of  the 
friendship  between  our  fathers,  which  survives  in  their  sons. 

De  Balzac. 

There  is  a  special  variety  of  human  nature  obtained  in  the 
Social  Kingdom  by  a  process  analogous  to  that  of  the 
gardener's  craft  in  the  Vegetable  Kingdom,  to  wit,  by  the 
forcing-house — a  species  of  hybrid  which  can  be  raised  neither 
from  seed  nor  from  slips.  This  product  is  known  as  the 
Cashier,  an  anthropomorphous  growth,  watered  by  religious 
doctrine,  trained  up  in  fear  of  the  guillotine,  pruned  by 
vice,  to  flourish  on  a  third  floor  with  an  estimable  wife  by 
his  side  and  an  uninteresting  family.  The  number  of 
cashiers  in  Paris  must  always  be  a  problem  for  the 
physiologist.  Has  any  one  as  yet  been  able  to  state  correctly 
the  terms  of  the  proportion  sum  wherein  the  cashier  figures 
as  the  unknown  a;?  Where  will  you  find  the  man  who  shall 
live  with  wealth,  like  a  cat  with  a  caged  mouse?  This  man, 
for  further  qualification,  shall  be  capable  of  sitting  boxed  in 
behind  an  iron  grating  for  seven  or  eight  hours  a  day  during 
seven-eighths  of  the  year,  perched  upon  a  cane-seated  chair 
in  a  space  as  narrow  as  a  lieutenant's  cabin  on  board  a  man- 
of-war.  Such  a  man  must  be  able  to  defy  anchylosis  of  the 
knee  and  thigh  joints ;  he  must  have  a  soul  above  meanness, 
in  order  to  live  meanly ;  must  lose  all  relish  for  money  by  dint 
of  handling  it.  Demand  this  peculiar  specimen  of  any  creed, 
educational  system,  school,  or  institution  you  please,  and 
select  Paris,  that  city  of  fiery  ordeals  and  branch  establish- 
ment of  hell,  as  the  soil  in  which  to  plant  the  said  cashier. 
So  be  it.  Creeds,  schools,  institutions,  and  moral  systems, 
all  human  rules  and  regulations,  great  and  small,  will,  one 
VOL.  1—24  (293) 


•^94  MELMOTII  RECONCILED 

after  another,  present  much  the  same  face  that  an  intimate 
friend  turns  upon  you  when  you  ask  him  to  lend  you  a  thou- 
sand francs.  "With  a  dolorous  dropping  of  the  jaw,  they  in- 
dicate the  guillotine,  much  as  your  friend  aforesaid  will 
furnish  you  with  the  address  of  the  money-lender,  pointing 
you  to  one  of  the  hundred  gates  by  which  a  man  comes  to 
the  last  refuge  of  the  destitute. 

Yet  nature  has  her  freaks  in  the  making  of  a  man's  mind ; 
she  indulges  herself  and  makes  a  few  honest  folk  now  and 
again,  and  now  and  then  a  cashier. 

Wherefore,  that  race  of  corsairs  whom  we  dignify  with 
the  title  of  bankers,  the  gentry  who  take  out  a  license  for 
which  they  pay  a  thousand  crowns,  as  the  privateer  takes 
out  his  letters  of  marque,  hold  these  rare  products  of  the 
incubations  of  virtue  in  such  esteem  that  they  confine  them 
in  cages  in.  their  counting-houses,  much  as  governments  pro- 
cure and  maintain  specimens  of  strange  beasts  at  their  own 
charges. 

If  the  cashier  is  possessed  of  an  imagination  or  of  a  fervid 
temperament;  if,  as  will  sometimes  happen  to  the  most  com- 
plete cashier,  he  loves  his  wife,  and  that  wife  grows  tired 
of  her  lot,  has  ambitions,  or  merely  some  vanity  in  her  com- 
position, the  cashier  is  undone.  Search  the  chronicles  of 
the  counting-house.  You  will  not  find  a  single  instance  of  a 
cashier  attaining  a  position,  as  it  is  called.  They  are  sent  to 
the  hulks ;  they  go  to  foreign  parts ;  they  vegetate  on  a  second 
floor  in  the  Rue  Saint-Louis  among  the  market  gardens  of 
the  Marais.  Some  day,  when  the  cashiers  of  Paris  come  to  a 
sense  of  their  real  value,  a  cashier  will  be  hardly  obtainable 
for  money.  Still,  certain  it  is  that  there  are  people  who  are 
fit  for  nothing  but  to  be  cashiers,  just  as  the  bent  of  a  certain 
order  of  mind  inevitably  makes  for  rascality.  But,  oh 
marvel  of  our  civilization !  Socict}''  rewards  virtue  with  an 
income  of  a  hundred  louis  in  old  age,  a  dwelling  on  a  second 
floor,  bread  sufficient,  occasional  new  bandana  handkerchiefs, 
an  elderly  wife  and  her  ofTspring. 

So  much  for  virtue.     But  for  the  opposite  course,  a  little 


MELMOTH  KECONCILED  5295 

boldness,  a  faculty  for  keopinff  on  the  windward  side  of  the 
'aw,  as  Turenne  outflanked  Montecuculi,  and  Society  will 
sanction  the  theft  of  millions,  shower  ribbons  upon  the  thief, 
cram  him  with  honors,  and  smother  him  with  consideration. 

Government,  moreover,  works  harmoniously  with  this  pro- 
foundly illogical  rcasoner — Society.  Government  levies  a 
conscription  on  the  3''oung  intelligence  of  the  kingdom  at  the 
age  of  seventeen  or  eighteen,  a  conscription  of  precocious 
power.  Great  ability  is  prematurely  exhausted  by  excessive 
brain-work  before  it  is  sent  up  to  be  submitted  to  a  process 
of  selection.  Nurserymen  sort  and  select  seeds  in  much  the 
same  way.  To  this  process  the  Government  brings  profes- 
sional appraisers  of  talent,  men  who  can  assay  brains  as 
experts  assay  gold  at  the  Mint.  Five  hundred  such  heads, 
set  afire  with  hope,  are  sent  up  annually  by  the  most  progres- 
sive portion  of  the  population ;  and  of  these  the  Government 
takes  one-third,  puts  them  in  sacks  called  the  flcoles,  and 
shakes  them  up  together  for  three  years.  Though  every  one 
of  these  young  plants  represents  vast  productive  power,  they 
are  made,  as  one  may  say,  into  cashiers.  They  receive  ap- 
pointments; the  rank  and  file  of  engineers  is  made  up  of 
them;  they  are  employed  as  captains  of  artillery;  there  is 
no  (subaltern)  grade  to  which  they  may  not  aspire.  Finally, 
when  these  men,  the  pick  of  the  youth  of  the  nation,  fattened 
on  mathematics  and  stuffed  with  knowledge,  have  attained 
the  age  of  fifty  years,  they  have  their  reward,  and  receive 
as  the  price  of  their  services  the  third-floor  lodging,  the  wife 
and  family,  and  all  the  comforts  that  sweeten  life  for 
mediocrity.  If  from  among  this  race  of  dupes  there  should 
escape  some  five  or  six  men  of  genius  who  climb  the  highest 
heights,  is  it  not  miraculous  ? 

This  is  an  exact  statement  of  the  relations  between  Talent 
and  Probity  on  the  one  hand,  and  Government  and  Society 
on  the  other,  in  an  age  that  considers  itself  to  be  progressive. 
Without  this  prefatory  explanation  a  recent  occurrence  in 
Paris  would  seem  improbable ;  but  preceded  by  this  summing 
up  of  the  situation,  it  will  perhaps  receive  some  thoughtful 


296  MELMOTH  RECONCILED 

attention  from  minds  capable  of  recognizing  the  real  plague- 
spots  of  our  civilization,  a  civilization  which  since  1815  has 
been  moved  by  the  spirit  of  gain  rather  than  by  principles  of 
honor. 

About  five  o'clock,  on  a  dull  autumn  afternoon,  the  cashier 
of  one  of  the  largest  banks  in  Paris  was  still  at  his  desk, 
working  by  the  light  of  a  lamp  that  had  been  lit  for  some 
time.  In  accordance  with  the  use  and  wont  of  commerce, 
the  counting-house  was  in  the  darkest  corner  of  the  low- 
ceiled  and  far  from  spacious  mezzanine  floor,  and  at  the 
very  end  of  a  passage  lighted  only  by  borrowed  lights.  The 
ofhce  doors  along  this  corridor,  each  with  its  label,  gave  the 
place  the  look  of  a  bath-house.  At  four  o'clock  the  stolid 
porter  had  proclaimed,  according  to  his  orders,  "The  bank  is 
closed."  And  by  this  time  the  departments  were  deserted, 
the  letters  despatched,  the  clerks  had  taken  their  leave.  The 
wives  of  the  partners  in  the  firm  Avere  expecting  their  lovers ; 
the  two  bankers  dining  with  their  mistresses.  Everything 
was  in  order. 

The  place  where  the  strong  boxes  had  been  bedded  in  sheet- 
iron  was  just  behind  the  little  sanctum,  where  the  cashier  was 
busy.  Doubtless  he  was  balancing  his  books.  The  open 
front  gave  a  glimpse  of  a  safe  of  hammered  iron,  so 
enormously  heavy  (thanks  to  the  science  of  the  modern  in- 
ventor) that  burglars  could  not  carry  it  away.  The  door  only 
opened  at  the  pleasure  of  those  who  knew  its  password. 
The  letter-lock  was  a  warden  who  kept  its  own  secret  and 
could  not  be  bribed ;  the  mysterious  word  was  an  ingenious 
realization  of  the  ''Open  sesame !"  in  the  Arahinn  Nights. 
But  even  this  was  as  nothing.  A  man  might  discover  the 
password;  but  unless  he  knew  the  lock's  final  secret,  the 
ultima  ratio  of  this  gold-guarding  dragon  of  mechanical 
science,  it  discharged  a  blunderbuss  at  his  head. 

The  door  of  the  room,  the  walls  of  the  room,  the  shutters 
of  the  windows  in  the  room,  the  whole  place,  in  fact,  was 
lined  with  sheet-iron  a  third  of  an  inch  in  thickness,  oon- 


MELMOTH  RECONCILED  297 

cealed  behind  the  thin  wooden  paneling.  The  shutters  had 
been  closed,  the  door  had  been  shut.  If  ever  man  could  feel 
confident  that  he  was  absolutely  alone,  and  that  there  was 
no  remote  possibility  of  being  watched  by  prying  eyes,  that 
man  was  the  cashier  of  the  house  of  Nucingen  and  Company, 
in  the  Rue  Saint-Lazare. 

Accordingly  the  deepest  silence  prevailed  in  that  iron  cave. 
The  fire  had  died  out  in  the  stove,  but  the  room  was  full  of 
that  tepid  warmth  which  produces  the  dull  heavy-headedness 
and  nauseous  queasiness  of  a  morning  after  an  orgy.  The 
stove  is  a  mesmerist  that  plays  no  small  part  in  the  reduction 
of  bank  clerks  and  porters  to  a  state  of  idiocy. 

A  room  with  a  stove  in  it  is  a  retort  in  which  the  power 
of  strong  men  is  evaparcted,  where  their  vitality  is  exhausted, 
and  their  wills  enfeebled.  Government  offices  are  part  of  a 
great  scheme  for  the  manufacture  of  the  mediocrity  necessary 
for  the  maintenance  of  a  Feudal  System  on  a  pecuniary  basis 
— and  money  is  the  foundation  of  the  Social  Contract.  (See 
Les  Employes.)  The  mephitie  vapors  in  the  atmosphere  of 
a  croAvded  room  contribute  in  no  small  degree  to  bring  about  a 
gradual  deterioration  of  intelligences,  the  brain  that  gives 
off  the  largest  quantity  of  nitrogen  asphyxiates  the  others,  in 
the  long  run. 

The  cashier  was  a  man  of  five-and-forty  or  there- 
abouts. As  he  sat  at  the  table,  the  light  from  a  moderator 
lamp  shining  full  on  his  bald  head  and  glistening  fringe  of 
iron-gray  hair  that  surrounded  it — this  baldness  and  the 
round  outlines  of  his  face  made  his  head  look  very  like  a 
ball.  His  complexion  was  brick-red,  a  few  wrinkles  had 
gathered  about  his  eyes,  but  he  had  the  smooth,  plump  hands 
of  a  stout  man.  His  blue  cloth  coat,  a  little  rubbed  and 
worn,  and  the  creases  and  shininess  of  his  trousers,  traces 
of  hard  wear  that  the  clothes-brush  fails  to  remove,  would 
impress  a  superficial  observer  with  the  idea  that  here  was  a 
thrifty  and  upright  human  being,  sufficient  of  the  philosopher 
or  of  the  aristocrat  to  wear  shabby  clothes.  But,  unluckily, 
it  is  easy  to  find  penny-wise  people  who  will  prove  weak> 
wasteful,  or  inccmpetent  in  .the  canital  things  of  life. 


298  MfiLMOTH  RECONCILED 

The  cashier  wore  the  ribbon  of  the  Legion  of  Honor  at  his 
button-hole,  for  he  liad  been  a  major  of  dragoons  in  the 
time  of  the  Emperor.  M.  de  Nucingen,  who  had  been  a  con- 
tractor before  lie  became  a  banker,  had  had  reason  in  those 
days  to  know  the  honorable  disposition  of  his  cashier,  who 
then  occupied  a  high  position.  Reverses  of  fortune  had  be- 
fallen the  major,  and  the  banker  out  of  regard  for  him  paid 
him  five  hundred  francs  a  month.  The  soldier  had  become  a 
cashier  in  the  year  1813,  after  his  recovery  from  a  wound  re- 
ceived at  litudzianka  during  the  Eetreat  from  Moscow,  fol- 
lowed by  six  months  of  enforced  idleness  at  Strasbourg, 
whither  several  officers  had  been  transported  by  order  of  the 
Emperor,  that  they  might  receive  skilled  attention.  This 
particular  officer,  Castanier  by  name,  retired  with  the 
Honorary  grade  of  colonel,  and  a  pension  of  two  thousand 
four  hundred  francs. 

In  ten  years'  time  the  cashier  had  completely  effaced  the 
soldier,  and  Castanier  inspired  the  banker  with  such  trust  in 
him,  that  he  was  associated  in  the  transactions  that  went 
on  in  the  private  office  behind  his  little  counting-house.  The 
baron  himself  had  access  to  it  b}''  means  of  a  secret  staircase. 
There,  matters  of  business  were  decided.  It  was  the  bolting- 
room  where  proposals  were  sifted;  the  pri\^^  council  chamber 
where  the  reports  of  the  money  market  were  analyzed;  cir- 
cular notes  issued  thence ;  and  finally,  the  private  ledger  and 
the  journal  which  summarized  the  work  of  all  the  depart- 
ments were  kept  there. 

Castanier  had  gone  himself  to  shut  the  door  which  opened 
on  to  a  staircase  that  led  to  the  parlor  occupied  by  the  two 
bankers  on  the  first  floor  of  their  hotel.  This  done,  he  had 
sat  down  at  his  desk  again,  and  for  a  moment  he  gazed  at  a 
little  coIlGetian  of  letters  of  credit  drawn  on  the  firm  of 
Watschildine  of  London.  Then  he  had  taken  up  the  pen  and 
imitated  the  banker's  signature  upon  each.  Nucingen  he 
wrote,  and  eyed  the  forged  signatures  critically  to  see  which 
seemed  the  most  perfect  copy. 

Suddenly  he  looked  up  as  if  a  needle  had  pricked  him. 


MELMOTH  RECONCILED  299 

''You  are  not  alone !"  a  boding  voice  seemed  to  cry  in  his 
'?oart ;  and  indeed  the  forger  saw  a  man  standing  at  the  little 
grated  window  of  the  counting-house,  a  man  whose  breathing 
vas  so  noiseless  that  he  did  not  seem  to  breathe  at  all. 
Castanier  looked,  and  saw  that  the  door  at  the  end  of  the 
passage  was  wide  open;  the  stranger  must  have  entered  by 
that  way. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  the  old  soldier  felt  a  sensa- 
tion of  dread  that  made  him  stare  open-mouthed  and  wide- 
eyed  at  the  man  before  him ;  and  for  that  matter,  the  appear- 
ance of  the  apparition  was  sufficiently  alarming  even  if  un- 
accompanied by  the  mysterious  circumstances  of  so  sudden 
an  entry.  The  rounded  forehead,  the  harsh  coloring  of  the 
long  oval  face,  indicated  quite  as  plainly  as  the  cut  of  his 
clothes  that  the  man  was  an  Englishman,  reeking  of  his 
native  isles.  You  had  only  to  look  at  the  collar  of  his  over- 
coat, at  the  voluminous  cravat  which  smothered  the  crushed 
frills  of  a  sliirt  front  so  white  that  it  brought  out  the  change- 
less leaden  hue  of  an  impassive  face,  and  the  thin  red  line 
of  the  lips  that  seemed  made  to  suck  the  blood  of  corpses; 
and  you  can  guess  at  once  at  the  black  gaiters  buttoned  up 
to  the  knee,  and  the  half-puritanical  costume  of  a  wealthy 
Englishman  dressed  for  a  walking  excursion.  The  intoler- 
able glitter  of  the  stranger's  eyes  produced  a  vivid  and  un- 
pleasant impression,  which  was  only  deepened  by  the  rigid 
outlines  of  his  features.  The  dried-up,  emaciated  creature 
seemed  to  carry  within  him  some  gnawing  thought  that  con- 
sumed him  and  could  not  be  appeased. 

He  must  have  digested  his  food  so  rapidly  that  he  could 
doubtless  eat  continually  without  bringing  any  trace  of  color 
into  his  face  or  features.  A  tun  of  Tokay  vin  de  succession 
would  not  have  caused  any  faltering  in  that  piercing  glance 
that  read  men's  inmost  thoughts,  nor  dethroned  the  merciless 
reasoning  faculty  that  always  seemed  to  go  to  the  bottom  of 
things.  There  was  something  of  the  fell  and  tranquil  majesty 
of  a  tiger  about  him. 

"I  have  come  to  cash  this  bill  of  exchange,  sir,"  he  said. 


300  MELMOTH  tlECONCILED 

Castanier  felt  the  tones  of  his  voice  thrill  through  every  nerve 
with  a  violent  shock  similar  to  that  given  by  a  discharge 
of  electricity. 

''The  safe  is  closed,"  said  Castanier. 

*'It  is  open,"  said  the  Englishman,  looking  round  the  count- 
ing-house. "To-morrow  is  Sunday,  and  I  cannot  wait.  The 
amount  is  for  five  hundred  thousand  francs.  You  have  the 
money  there,  and  I  must  have  it." 

"But  how  did  you  come  in,  sir?" 

The  Eno;lishman  smiled.  That  smile  frightened  Castanier. 
No  words  could  have  replied  more  fully  nor  more 
peremptorily  than  that  scornful  and  imperial  curl  of  the 
stranger's  lips.  Castanier  turned  away,  took  up  fifty  packets, 
each  containing  ten  thousand  francs  in  bank-notes,  and  held 
them  out  to  the  stranger,  receiving  in  exchange  for  them  a 
bill  accepted  by  the  Baron  de  Nucingen.  A  sort  of  convul- 
sive tremor  ran  through  him  as  he  saw  a  red  gleam  in  the 
stranger's  eyes  when  they  fell  on  the  forged  signature  on  the 
letter  of  credit. 

"It  ...  it  wants  your  signature  .  .  ."  stammered 
Castanier,  handing  back  the  bill. 

"Hand  me  your  pen,"  answered  the  Englishman. 

Castanier  handed  him  the  pen  with  which  he  had  just 
committed  forgery.  The  stranger  wrote  John  Melmoth, 
then  ho  returned  the  slip  of  paper  and  the  pen  to  the  cashier. 
Castanier  looked  at  the  handwriting,  noticing  that  it  sloped 
from  right  to  left  in  the  Eastern  fashion,  and  Melmoth  dis- 
appeared so  noiselessly  that  when  Castanier  looked  up  again 
an  exclamation  broke  from  him,  partly  because  the  man  was 
no  longer  there,  partly  because  he  felt  a  strange  painful  sen- 
sation such  as  our  imagination  might  take  for  an  effect  of 
poison. 

The  pen  that  Melmoth  had  handled  sent  the  same  sicken- 
ing heat  through  him  that  an  emetic  produces.  But  it 
seemed  impossible  to  Castanier  that  the  Englishman  should 
have  guessed  his  crime.  TTis  inwnrrl  qualms  he  attributed 
to  the  palpitation  of  the  heart  that,  according  to  received 


MELMOTH  KECONCILED  301 

ideas,  was  sure  to  follow  at  once  on  such  a  "turn"  as  the 
stranger  had  given  him. 

"The  devil  take  it;  I  am  very  stupid.       Providence  is' 
watching  over  me;  for  if  that  brute  had  come  round  to  see 
my  gentlemen  to-morrow,  my  goose  would  have  been  cooked  !" 
said  Castanier,  and  he  burned  the  unsuccessful  attempts  at 
forgery  in  the  stove. 

He  put  the  bill  that  he  meant  to  take  with  him  in  an 
enevlope,  and  helped  himself  to  five  hundred  thousand  francs 
in  French  and  English  bank-notes  from  the  safe,  which  he 
locked.  Then  he  put  ever3^thing  in  order,  lit  a  candle,  blew 
out  the  lamp,  took  up  his  hat  and  umbrella,  and  went  out 
sedately,  as  usual,  to  leave  one  of  the  two  keys  of  the  strong 
room  with  Madame  de  Nucingen,  in  the  absence  of  her  hus- 
band the  Baron. 

"You  are  in  luck,  M.  Castanier,"  said  the  backer's  wife 
as  he  entered  her  room ;  "we  have  a  holiday  on  Monday ;  you 
can  go  into  the  country,  or  to  Soizy." 

"Madame,  will  you  be  so  good  as  to  tell  your  husband  that 
the  bill  of  exchange  on  Watschildine,  which  was  behind  time, 
has  just  been  presented  ?  The  five  hundred  thousand  francs 
have  been  paid;  so  I  shall  not  come  back  till  noon  on 
Tuesday." 

"Good-bye,  monsieur;  I  hope  you  will  have  a  pleasant 
time." 

"The  same  to  you,  madame,"  replied  the  old  dragoon  as 
he  went  out.  He  glanced  as  he  spoke  at  a  young  man  well 
known  in  fashionable  society  at  that  time,  a  M.  de  Eastignac, 
who  was  regarded  as  Madame  de  Nucingen's  lover. 

"Madame,"  remarked  this  latter,  "the  old  boy  looks  to  rnc 
as  if  he  meant  to  play  you  some  ill  turn." 

"Pshaw !  impossible ;  he  is  too  stupid." 

"Piquoizeau,"  said  the  cashier,  walking  into  the  porter's 
room,  "what  made  you  let  anvbodv  come  up  after  four 
o'clock?" 

"I  have  been  smoking  a  pipe  here  in  the  doorway  ever  since 


302  MELMOTH  RECONCILED 

four  o'clock,"  said  the  man,  "and  nobodj-  has  gone 
into  the  bank.  Nobody  has  come  out  either  except  the  gen- 
tlemen  " 

"Are  you  quite  sure?" 

"Yes,  upon  my  word  and  honor.  Stay,  though,  at  four 
o'clock  M.  Werbrust's  friend  came,  a  young  fellow  from 
Messrs.  du  Tillet  &  Co.,  in  the  Rue  Joubert." 

"All  right,"  said  Castanier,  and  he  hurried  away. 

The  sickening  sensation  of  heat  that  he  had  felt  when  It 
took  back  the  pen  returned  in  greater  intensity.  "Milli'. 
diables!"  thought  he,  as  he  threaded  his  way  along  the  Boule- 
vard de  Gand,  "haven't  I  taken  proper  precautions?  Let 
me  think !  Two  clear  days,  Sunday  and  Monday,  then  a 
day  of  uncertainty  before  they  begin  to  look  for  me;  al- 
together, three  days  and  four  nights'  respite.  I  have  a  couple 
of  passports  and  two  different  disguises;  is  not  that  enough 
to  throw  tTie  cleverest  detective  off  the  scent?  On  Tuesday 
morning  I  shall  draw  a  million  francs  in  London  before  the 
slightest  suspicion  has  been  aroused.  My  debts  I  am  leaving 
behind  for  the  benefit  of  my  creditors,  who  will  put  a  T'* 
on  the  bills,  and  I  shall  live  comfortably  in  Italy  for  the 
rest  of  my  days  as  the  Conte  Ferraro.  I  was  alone  with  him 
when  he  died,  poor  fellow,  in  the  marsh  of  Zembin,  and  I 
shall  slip  into  his  skin.  .  .  .  Mille  diables!  the  woman 
who  is  to  follow  after  me  might  give  them  a  clue !  Think 
of  an  old  campaigner  like  me  infatuated  enough  to  tie  myself 
to  a  petticoat  tail !  .  .  .  Why  take  her  ?  I  must  leave 
her  behind.  Yes,  I  could  make  up  my  mind  to  it;  but — I 
know  myself — I  should  be  ass  enough  to  go  back  to  her.  Still, 
nobody  knows  Aquilina.     Shall  I  take  her  or  leave  her  ?" 

"You  will  not  take  her!"  cried  a  voice  that  filled  Castanier 
with  sickening  dread.  He  turned  sharply,  and  saw  the 
Englishman. 

"The  devil  is  in  it !"  cried  the  cashier  aloud. 

Melmoth  had  passed  his  victim  by  this  time;  and  if 
Caistanier's  first  impulse  had  been  to  fasten  a  quarrel  on  a 

♦Protested 


MELMOTH  RECONCILED  30S 

man  who  road  his  own  thoughts,  he  \\  as  so  much  torn  up  by 
opposing  feelings  that  the  immediate  result  was  a  temporary 
paralysis.  When  he  resumed  his  walk  he  fell  once  more 
into  that  fever  of  irresolution  which  besets  those  who  are 
so  carried  away  by  passion  that  they  are  ready  to  commit  a 
crime,  but  have  not  sufficient  strength  of  character  to  keep 
it  to  themselves  without  suffering  terribly  in  the  process. 
So,  although  Castanicr  had  made  up  his  mind  to  reap  the 
fruits  of  a  crime  which  was  already  half  executed,  he 
hesitated  to  carry  out  his  designs.  For  him,  as  for  many 
men  of  mixed  character  in  whom  weakness  and  strength  are 
equally  blended,  the  least  trifling  consideration  determinas 
whether  they  shall  continue  to  lead  blameless  lives  or  become 
actively  criminal.  In  the  vast  masses  of  men  enrolled  in 
Napoleon's  armies  there  were  many  who,  like  Castanier, 
possessed  the  purely  physical  courage  demanded  on  the  battle- 
field, yet  lacked  the  moral  courage  which  makes  a  man  as 
great  in  crime  as  he  could  have  been  in  virtue. 

The  letter  of  credit  was  drafted  in  such  terms  that  im- 
mediately on  his  arrival  he  might  draw  twenty-five  thousand 
pounds  on  the  firm  of  Watschildine,  the  London  cor- 
respondents of  the  house  of  Nucingen.  The  London  house 
had  been  already  advised  of  the  draft  about  to  be  made  upon 
them ;  he  had  written  to  them  himself.  He  had  instructed  an 
agent  (chosen  at  random)  to  take  his  passage  in  a  vessel 
which  was  to  leave  Portsmouth  with  a  wealthy  English  family 
on  board,  who  were  going  to  Italy,  and  the  passage-money 
had  been  paid  in  the  name  of  the  Conte  Ferraro.  The 
smallest  details  of  the  scheme  had  been  thought  out.  He  had 
arranged  matters  so  as  to  divert  the  search  that  would  be 
made  for  him  into  Belgium  and  Switzerland,  while  he  him- 
self was  at  sea  in  the  English  vessel.  Then,  by  the  time  that 
Nucingen  might  flatter  himself  that  he  was  on  the  track  of 
his  late  cashier,  the  said  cashier,  a.s  the  Conte  Ferraro, 
hoped  to  be  safe  in  Naples.  He  had  determined  to 
disfigure  his  face  in  order  to  disguise  himself  the  more 
completely,    aiid    by    means    of    an    acid    to    imitate     the 


304  MELMOTH  RECONCILED 

scars  of  smallpox.  Yet,  in  spite  of  all  these  pre- 
cautions, which  surely  seemed  as  if  they  must  secure  him 
complete  immunity,  his  conscience  tormented  him;  he  was 
afraid.  The  even  and  peaceful  life  that  he  had  led  for  so 
long  had  modified  the  morality  of  the  camp.  His  life  was 
stainless  as  yet ;  he  could  not  sully  it  without  a  pang.  So  for 
the  last  time  he  abandoned  himself  to  all  the  influences  of  the 
better  self  that  strenuously  resisted. 

"Pshaw !"  he  said  at  last,  at  the  corner  of  the  Boulevard 
and  the  Eue  Montmartre,  "I  will  take  a  cab  after  the  play 
this  evening  and  go  out  to  Versailles.  A  post-chaise  will  be 
ready  for  me  at  my  old  quartermaster's  place.  He  would 
keep  my  secret  even  if  a  dozen  men  were  standing  ready  to 
shoot  him  down.  The  chances  are  all  in  my  favor,  so  far  as 
I  see;  so  I  shall  take  my  little  Naqui  with  me,  and  I 
will  go." 

"You  will  not  go !"  exclaimed  the  Englishman,  and  the 
strange  tones  of  his  voice  drove  all  the  cashier's  blood  back  to 
his  heart. 

Melmoth  stepped  into  a  tilbury  which  was  waiting  for  him, 
and  was  whirled  away  so  quickly,  that  when  Castanier  looked 
up  he  saw  his  foe  some  hundred  paces  away  from  him,  and 
•before  it  even  crossed  his  mind  to  cut  oif  the  man's  retreat 
the  tilbury  was  far  on  its  way  up  the  Boulevard  Montmartre. 

"Well,  upon  my  word,  there  is  something  supernatural 
about  this !"  said  he  to  himself.  "If  I  were  fool  enough 
to  believe  in  God,  I  should  think  that  He  had  set  Saint 
Michael  on  my  tracks.  Suppose  that  the  devil  and  the  police 
should  let  me  go  on  as  I  please,  so  as  to  nab  me  in  the  nick 
of  time?  Did  any  one  ever  see  the  like!  But  there,  this 
is  folly     .     .     ." 

Castanier  went  along  the  Rue  du  Faubourg-Montmartre, 
slackening  his  pace  as  he  neared  the  Eue  Richer.  There  on 
the  second  floor  of  a  block  of  buildings  which  looked  out 
upon  some  gardens,  lived  the  unconscious  cause  of  Castanier's 
crime — a  young  woman  known  in  the  quarter  as  Mme.  de  la 
Garde.     A  concise  history  of  certain  events  in  the  cashier's 


MELMOTH  RECONCILED  305 

past  life  musJ,  he  given  in  order  to  explain  these  facts,  and 
to  give  a  complete  presentment  of  the  crisis  when 
he  yielded  to  temptation. 

Mme.  de  la  Garde  said  that  she  was  a  Piedmontese.  No 
one,  not  even  Castanier,  knew  her  real  name.  She  was  one  of 
those  young  girls,  who  are  driven  by  dire  misery,  by  inability 
to  earn  a  living,  or  by  fear  of  starvation,  to  have  recourse  to  a 
trade  which  most  of  them  loathe,  many  regard  with  indiffer- 
ence, and  some  few  follow  in  obedience  to  the  laws  of  their 
constitution.  But  on  the  brink  of  the  gulf  of  prostitution 
in  Paris,  the  young  girl  of  sixteen,  beautiful  and  pure  as  the 
Madonna,  had  met  with  Castanier.  The  old  dragoon  was  too 
rough  and  homely  to  make  his  way  in  society,  and  he  was 
tired  of  tramping  the  boulevard  at  night  and  of  the  kind  of 
conquests  made  there  by  gold.  For  some  time  past  he  had 
desired  to  bring  a  certain  regularity  into  an  irregular  life. 
He  was. struck  by  the  beauty  of  the  poor  child  who  had  drifted 
by  chance  into  his  arms,  and  his  determination  to  rescue  her 
from  the  life  of  the  streets  was  half  benevolent,  half  selfish, 
as  some  of  the  thoughts  of  the  best  of  men  are  apt  to  be. 
Social  conditions  mingle  elements  of  evil  witJh  the  promptings 
of  natural  goodness  of  heart,  and  the  mixture  of  motives  un- 
derlying a  man's  intentions  should  be  leniently  judged. 
Castanier  had  just  cleverness  enough  to  be  very  shrewd  where 
his  own  interests  were  concerned.  So  he  concluded  to  be  a 
philanthropist  on  either  count,  and  at  first  made  her  his 
mistress. 

"Hey !  Iisy !"  he  said  to  himself,  in  his  soldierly  fashion. 
"I  am  an  old  wolf,  and  a  sheep  shall  not  make  a  fool  of 
me.  Castanier,  old  man,  before  you  set  up  housekeeping, 
reconnoitre  the  girl's  character  for  a  bit,  and  see  if  she  is  a 
steady  sort." 

This  irregular  union  gave  the  Piedmontese  a  status  the 
most  nearly  approaching  respectability  among  those  which 
the  world  declines  to  recognize.  During  the  first  year  she 
took  the  nom  de  guerre  of  Aquilina,  one  of  the  characters  in 
Venice  Preserved  which  she  had  chanced  to  read.       Sh9 


306  MELMOTH  RECONCILED 

fancied  that  she  resembled  the  courtesan  in  face  and  general 
appearance,  and  in  a  certain  precocity  of  heart  and  brain 
of  which  she  was  conscious.  When  Castanier  found  that  her 
life  was  as  well  regulated  and  virtuous  as  was  possible  for  a 
social  outlaw,  he  manifested  a  desire  that  they  should  live 
as  husband  and  wife.  So  she  took  the  name  of  Mme.  de  la 
Garde,  in  order  to  approach,  as  closely  as  Parisian  usages 
permit,  the  conditions  of  a  real  marriage.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  many  of  these  unfortunate  girls  have  one  fixed  idea, 
to  be  looked  upon  as  respectable  middle-class  women,  who 
lead  humdrum  lives  of  faithfulness  to  their  husbands;  wo- 
men who  would  make  excellent  mothers,  keepers  of  household 
accounts,  and  menders  of  household  linen.  This  longing 
springs  from  a  sentiment  so  laudable,  that  society  should 
take  it  into  consideration.  But  society,  incorrigible  as  ever, 
will  assuredly  persist  in  regarding  the  married  woman  as  a 
corvette  duly  authorized  by  her  flag  and  papers  to  g©  on  her 
own  course,  while  the  woman  who  is  a  wife  in  all  but  name 
is  a  pirate  and  an  outlaw  for  lack  of  a  document.  A  day 
came  when  Mme.  de  la  Garde  would  fain  have  signed  herself 
"Mme.  Castanier."     The  cashier  was  put  out  by  this. 

"So  3'ou  do  not  love  me  well  enough  to  marry  me?"  she 
said. 

Castanier  did  not  answer ;  he  was  absorbed  by  his  thoughts. 
The  poor  girl  resigned  herself  to  her  fate.  The  ex-dragoon 
was  in  despair.  Naqui's  heart  softened  towards  him  at  the 
sight  of  his  trouble;  she  tried  to  soothe  him,  but  what  could 
she  do  when  she  did  not  know  what  ailed  him  ?  When  Naqui 
made  up  her  mind  to  know  the  secret,  although  she  never 
asked  him  a  question,  the  cashier  dolefully  confessed  to  the 
existence  of  a  Mme.  Castanier.  Tbis  lawful  wife,  a  thousand 
times  accursed,  was  living  in  a  humble  way  in  Strasbourg  on 
a  small  property  there ;  he  wrote  to  her  twice  a  year,  and  kept 
the  secret  of  her  existence  so  well,  that  no  one  suspected  that 
he  was  married.  The  reason  of  this  reticence?  If  it  is 
familiar  to  many  military  men  who  may  chance  to  be  in  a 
Itke  pi-edicainent,  it  is  perhaps  worth  while  to  give  the 
story. 


MELMOTH  RECONCILED  307 

Your  genuine  trooper  (if  it  is  allowable  here  to  employ 
the  word  which  in  the  army  signifies  a  man  who  is  destined 
to  die  as  a  captain)  is  a  sort  of  serf,  a  part  and  parcel  of 
his  regiment,  an  essentially  simple  creature,  and  Castanier 
was  marked  out  by  nature  as  a  victim  to  the  wiles  of  mothers 
with  grown-up  daughters  left  too  long  on  their  hands.  It 
was  at  Nancy,  during  one  of  those  brief  intervals  of  repose 
when  the  Imperial  armies  were  not  on  active  service  abroad, 
that  Castanier  was  so  unlucky  as  to  pay  some  attention  to 
a  young  lady  with  whom  he  danced  at  a  ridotto,  the  provincial 
name  for  the  entertainments  often  given  by  the  military  to 
the  townsfolk,  or  vice  versa,  in  garrison  towns.  A  scheme 
for  inveigling  the  gallant  captain  into  matrimony  was  im- 
mediately set  on  foot,  one  of  those  schemes  by  which  mothers 
secure  accomplices  in  a  human  heart  by  touching  all  its  motive 
springs,  while  they  convert  all  their  friends  into  fellow-con- 
spirators. Like  all  people  possessed  by  one  idea,  these  ladies 
press  everything  into  the  service  of  their  great  project,  slowly 
elaborating  their  toils,  much  as  the  ant-lion  excavates  its 
funnel  in  the  sand  and  lies  in  wait  at  the  bottom  for  its 
victim.  Suppose  that  no  one  strays,  after  all,  into  that  care- 
fully constructed  labyrinth?  Suppose  that  the  ant-lion  dies 
of  hunger  and  thirst  in  her  pit  ?  Such  things  may  be,  but  if 
any  heedless  creature  once  enters  in,  it  never  comes  out.  All 
the  wires  which  could  be  pulled  to  induce  action  on  the 
captain's  part  were  tried;  appeals  were  made  to  the  secret 
interested  motives  that  always  come  into  play  in  such  cases; 
they  worked  on  Castanier's  hopes  and  on  the  weaknesses  and 
vanity  of  human  nature.  Unluckily,  he  had  praised  the 
daughter  to  her  mother  when  he  brought  her  back  after  a 
waltz,  a  little  chat  followed,  and  then  an  invitation  in  the 
most  natural  way  in  the  world.  Once  introduced  into  the 
house,  the  dragoon  was  dazzled  by  the  hospitality  of  a  family 
who  appeared  to  conceal  their  real  wealth  beneath  a 
show  of  careful  economy.  He  was  skilfully  flattered  on  all 
sides,  and  every  one  extolled  for  his  benefit  the  various 
treasui^s  there  displayed.     A  neatly  timed  dinner,   served 


308  MELMOTH  r.ECONOlLED 

on  plate  lent  by  an  uncle,  the  attention  shown  to  him  b* 
the  onl}'  daughter  of  the  house,  the  gossip  of  the  town,  a  well- 
to-do  sub-lieutenant  who  seemed  likely  to  cut  the  ground  from 
under  his  feet — all  the  innumerable  snares,  in  short,  of  the 
provincial  ant-lion  were  set  for  him,  and  to  such  good 
purpose,  that  Castanier  said  five  years  later,  "To  this  day 
I  do  not  know  how  it  came  about !" 

The  dragoon  received  tifteen  thousand  francs  with  the  lady, 
who,  after  two  years  of  marriage,  became  the  ugliest  and  con- 
sequently the  most  peevish  woman  on  earth.  Luckily  they 
had  no  children.  The  fair  complexion  (maintained  by  a 
Spartan  regimen),  the  fresh,  bright  color  in  her  face,  which 
spoke  of  an  engaging  modesty,  became  overspread  with 
blotches  and  pimples;  her  figure,  which  had  seemed  so 
straight,  grew  crooked,  the  angel  became  a  suspicious  and 
shrewish  creature  who  drove  Castanier  frantic.  Then  the 
fortune  took  to  itself  wings.  At  length  the  dragoon,  no 
longer  recognizing  the  woman  whom  he  had  wedded,  left  her 
to  live  on  a  little  property  at  Strasbourg,  until  the  time  when 
it  should  please  God  to  remove  her  to  adorn  Paradise.  She 
was  one  of  those  virtuous  women  who,  for  want  of  other 
occupation,  would  weary  the  life  out  of  an  angel  with  com- 
plainings, who  pray  till  (if  their  prayers  are  heard  in  heaven) 
they  must  exhaust  the  patience  of  the  Almighty,  and  say 
everything  that  is  bad  of  their  husbands  in  dovelike  murmurs 
over  a  game  of  boston  with  their  neighbors.  When  Aquilina 
learned  all  these  troubles  she  clung  still  more  affectionately 
to  Castanier,  and  made  him  so  happy,  varying  with  woman's 
ingenuity  the  pleasures  with  which  she  filled  his  life,  that 
all  unwittingly  she  was  the  cause  of  the  cashier's  downfall. 

Like  many  women  who  seem  by  nature  destined  to  sound 
all  the  depths  of  love,  Mme.  de  la  Garde  was  disinterested. 
She  asked  neither  for  gold  nor  for  jewelry,  gave  no  thought 
to  the  future,  lived  entirely  for  the  present  and  for  the 
pleasures  of  the  present.  She  accepted  expensive  ornaments 
and  dresses,  the  carriage  so  eagerly  coveted  by  women  of  her 
class,  as  one  harmony  the  more  in  the  picture  of  life.     There 


MBLMOTH  RECONCILED  309 

was  absolutely  no  vanity  in  her  desire  not  to  appear  at  a  better 
advantage  but  to  look  the  fairer,  and,  moreover,  no  woman 
could  live  without  luxuries  more  cheerfully.  When  a  man  of 
generous  nature  (and  military  men  are  mostly  of  this  stamp) 
meets  with  such  a  woman,  he  feels  a  sort  of  exasperation  at 
finding  himself  her  debtor  in  generosity.  He  feels  that  he 
could  stop  a  mail  coach  to  obtain  money  for  her  if  he  has 
not  sufficient  for  her  whims.  He  will  commit  a  crime  if  so 
he  may  be  great  and  noble  in  the  eyes  of  some  woman  or  of 
his  special  public;  such  is  the  nature  of  the  man.  Such  a 
lover  is  like  a  gambler  who  would  be  dishonored  in  his  own 
eyes  if  he  did  not  repay  the  sum  he  borrowed  from  a  waiter  in 
a  gaming-house;  but  will  shrink  from  no  crime,  will  leave 
his  wife  and  children  without  a  penny,  and  rob  and  murder, 
if  so  he  may  come  to  the  gaming-table  with  a  full  purse,  and 
his  honor  remain  untarnished  among  the  frequenters  of  that 
fatal  abode.     So  it  was  with  Castanier. 

He  had  begun  by  installing  Aquilina  in  a  modest  fourth- 
floor  dwelling,  the  furniture  being  of  the  simplest  kind. 
But  when  he  saw  the  girl's  beauty  and  great  qualities, 
when  he  had  known  inexpressible  and  unlooked-for  happiness 
with  her,  he  began  to  dote  upon  her;  and  longed  to  adorn 
his  idol.  Then  Aquilina's  toilette  was  so  comically  out  of 
keeping  with  her  poor  abode,  that  for  both  their  sakes  it  was 
clearly  incumbent  on  him  to  move.  The  change  swallowed 
up  almost  all  Castanier's  savings,  for  he  furnished  his 
domestic  paradise  with  all  the  prodigality  that  is  lavished  on  a 
kept  mistress.  A  pretty  woman  must  have  everything  pretty 
about  her;  the  unity  of  charm  in  the  woman  and  her  sur- 
roundings isingles  her  out  from  among  her  sex.  This  senti- 
ment of  homogeneity  indeed,  though  it  has  frequently  escaped 
the  attention  of  observers,  is  instinctive  in  human  nature ; 
and  the  same  prompting  leads  elderly  spinsters  to  surround 
themselves  with  dreary  relics  of  the  past.  But  the  lovely 
Piedmontese  must  have  the  newest  and  latest  fashions,  and 
all  that  was  daintiest  and  prettiest  in  stuffs  for  hangings, 
in  silks  or  jewelry,  in  fine  china  and  other  brittle  and  fragile 

VOL.  1—25 


510  MELMOTH  RECONCILED 

wares.  She  asked  for  nothing ;  hut  when  she  was  called  upon 
to  make  a  choice,  when  Castanier  asked  her,  "Which  do  you 
like?"  she  would  answer,  "Why,  this  is  the  nicest!"  Love 
never  counts  the  cost,  and  Castanier  therefore  always  took 
the  "nicest." 

When  once  the  standard  had  been  set  up,  there  was  nothing 
for  it  but  everything  in  the  household  must  be  in  conformity, 
from  the  linen,  plate,  and  crystal  through  a  thousand  and  one 
items  of  expenditure  down  to  the  pots  and  pans  in  the  kitchen. 
Castanier  had  meant  to  "do  things  simply,"  as  the  saying 
goes,  but  he  gradually  found  himself  more  and  more  in 
debt.  One  expense  entailed  another.  The  clock  called  for 
candle  sconces.  Fires  must  be  lighted  in  the  ornamental 
grates,  but  the  curtains  and  hangings  were  too  fresh  and 
delicate  to  be  soiled  by  smuts,  so  they  must  be  replaced  by 
patent  and  elaborate  fireplaces,  warranted  to  give  out  no 
smoke,  recent  inventions  of  the  people  who  are  clever  at 
drawing  up  a  prospectus.  Then  Aquilina  found  it  so  nice  to 
run  about  barefooted  on  the  carpet  in  her  room,  that  Castanier 
must  have  soft  carpets  laid  everywhere  for  the  pleasure  of 
playing  with  Kaqui.  A  bathroom,  too,  was  built  for  her, 
everything  to  the  end  that  she  might  be  more  comfortable. 

Shopkeepers,  workmen,  and  manufacturers  in  Paris  have 
a  mysterious  knack  of  enlarging  a  hole  in  a  man's  purse. 
They  cannot  give  the  price  of  anything  upon  inquiry;  and 
as  the  paroxysm  of  longing  cannot  abide  delay,  orders  are 
given  by  the  feeble  light  of  an  approximate  estimate  of 
cost.  The  same  people  never  send  in  the  bills  at  once,  but 
ply  the  purchaser  with  furniture  till  his  head  spins.  Every- 
thing is  so  pretty,  so  charming ;  and  every  one  is  satisfied. 

A  few  months  later  the  obliging  furniture  dealers  are 
metamorpbosed,  and  reappear  in  the  shape  of  alarming  totals 
on  invoices  that  fill  the  soul  with  their  horrid  clamor;  they 
are  in  urgent  want  of  the  money;  they  are,  as  you  may  say, 
on  the  brink  of  bankruptcy,  their  tears  flow,  it  is  heart- 
rending to  hear  them!     And  then the  gulf  yawns,  and 

gives  up  serried  columns  of  figures  marching  four  deep, 


MELMOTH  RECONCILED  dll 

when  as  a  matter  of  fact  they  should  have  issued  innocently 
three  by  three. 

Before  Castanier  had  any  idea  of  how  much  he  had  spent, 
he  had  arranged  for  Aquilina  to  have  a  carriage  from  a  livery 
stable  when  she  went  out,  instead  of  a  cab.  Castanier  was  a 
gourmand;  he  engaged  an  excellent  cook;  and  Aquilina,  to 
please  him,  had  herself  made  the  purchases  of  early  fruit  and 
vegetables,  rare  delicacies,  and  exquisite  wines.  But,  as 
Aquilina  had  nothing  of  her  own,  these  gifts  of  hers,  so 
precious  by  reason  of  the  thought  and  tact  and  graciousness 
that  prompted  them,  were  no  less  a  drain  upon  Castanier's 
purse;  he  did  not  like  his  Naqui  to  be  without  money,  and 
Naqui  could  not  keep  money  in  her  pocket.  So  the  table 
was  a  heavy  item  of  expenditure  for  a  man  with  Castanier's  in- 
come. The  ex-dragoon  was  compelled  to  resort  to  various 
shifts  for  obtaining  money,  for  he  could  not  bring  himself 
to  renounce  this  delightful  life.  He  loved  the  woman  too 
well  to  cross  the  freaks  of  the  mistress.  He  was  one  of  those 
men  who,  through  self-love  or  through  weakness  of  character, 
can  refuse  nothing  to  a  woman ;  false  shame  overpowers  them, 
and  they  rather  face  ruin  than  make  the  admissions :  '^I  can- 
not  "      "My  means  will  not  permit "      "I   cannot 

afford '' 

When,  therefore,  Castanier  saw  that  if  he  meant  to  emerge 
from  the  abyss  of  debt  into  which  he  had  plunged,  he  must 
part  with  Aquilina  and  live  upon  bread  and  water,  he  was 
so  unable  to  do  without  her  or  to  change  his  habits  of  life, 
that  daily  he  put  off  his  plans  of  reform  until  the  morrow. 
The  debts  were  pressing,  and  he  began  by  borrowing  money. 
His  position  and  previous  character  inspired  confidence,  and 
of  this  he  took  advantage  to  devise  a  system  of  borrowing 
money  as  he  required  it.  Then,  as  the  total  amount  of 
debt  rapidly  increased,  he  had  recourse  to  those  commercial 
inventions  known  as  accommodation  hills.  This  form  of  bill 
does  not  represent  goods  or  other  value  received,  and  the  first 
endorser  pays  the  amount  named  for  the  obliging  person 
who  accepts  it.     This  species  of  ^^raud  is  tolerated  because  it 


S12  MELMOTH  RECONCILED 

it  impossible  to  detect  it,  and,  moreover,  it  is  an  imaginary 
fraud  which  only  becomes  real  if  payment  is  ultimately  re- 
fused. 

When  at  length  it  was  evidently  impossible  to  borrow  any 
longer,  whether  because  the  amount  of  the  debt  was  now 
so  greatly  increased,  or  because  Castanier  was  unable  to  pay 
the  large  amount  of  interest  on  the  aforesaid  sums  of  money, 
the  cashier  saw  bankruptcy  before  him.  On  making  this 
discovery,  he  decided  for  a  fraudulent  bankruptcy  rather  than 
an  ordinary  failure,  and  preferred  a  crime  to  a  misdemeanor. 
He  determined,  after  the  fashion  of  the  celebrated  cashier  of 
the  Eoyal  Treasury,  to  abuse  the  trust  deservedly  won,  and 
to  increase  the  number  of  his  creditors  by  making  a  final 
loan  of  the  sum  sufficient  to  keep  him  in  comfort  in  a  foreign 
country  for  the  rest  of  his  days.  All  this,  as  has  been  seen, 
he  had  prepared  to  do. 

Aquilina  knew  nothing  of  the  irksome  cares  of  this  life; 
she  enjoyed  her  existence,  as  many  a  woman  does,  making 
no  inquiry  as  to  where  the  money  came  from,  even  as  sundry 
other  folk  will  eat  their  buttered  rolls  untroubled  by  any  rest- 
less spirit  of  curiosity  as  to  the  culture  and  growth  of  wheat ; 
but  as  the  labor  and  miscalculations  of  agriculture  lie  on 
the  other  side  of  the  baker's  oven,  so  beneath  the  unap- 
preciated luxury  of  many  a  Parisian  household  lie  intolerable 
anxieties  and  exorbitant  toil. 

While  Castanier  was  enduring  the  torture  of  the  strain, 
and  his  thoughts  were  full  of  the  deed  that  should  change  his 
whole  life,  Aquilina  was  lying  luxuriously  back  in  a  great 
armchair  by  the  fireside,  beguiling  the  time  by  chatting  with 
her  waiting-maid.  As  frequently  happens  in  such  cases 
the  maid  had  become  the  mistress'  confidante,  Jenny 
having  first  assured  herself  that  her  mistress'  ascendency  over 
Castanier  was  complete. 

"What  are  we  to  do  this  evening?  Leon  seems  de- 
termined to  come,"  IMmo.  de  la  Garde  was  saying,  as  she  read 
a  passionate  epistle  indited  upon  a  faint  gray  notepaper. 

"Here  is  the  master !"  said  Jenny. 


MELMOTH  RECONCILED  313 

Castanier  came  in.  Aquilina,  nowise  disconcerted, 
crumpled  up  the  letter,  took  it  with  the  tongs,  and  held  it  in 
the  flames. 

"So  that  is  what  you  do  with  your  love-letters,  it  is  ?"  asked 
Castanier. 

"Oh  goodness,  yes,"  said  Aquilina;  "is  it  not  the  best  way 
of  keeping  them  safe?  Besides,  fire  should  go  to  the  fire, 
as  water  makes  for  the  river." 

"You  are  talking  as  if  it  were  a  real  love-letter, 
Naqui " 

"Well,  am  I  not  handsome  enough  to  receive  them?"  she 
said,  holding  up  her  forehead  for  a  kiss.  There  was  a  care- 
lessness in  her  manner  that  would  have  told  any  man  less 
blind  than  Castanier  that  it  was  only  a  piece  of  conjugal  duty, 
as  it  were,  to  give  this  joy  to  the  cashier;  but  use  and  wont 
had  brought  Castanier  to  the  point  where  clear-sightedness 
is  no  longer  possible  for  love. 

"I  have  taken  a  box  at  the  Gymnase  this  evening,"  he  said ; 
"let  us  have  dinner  early,  and  then  we  need  not  dine  in  a 
hurry." 

"Go  and  take  Jenny.  I  am  tired  of  plays.  I  do  not  know 
what  is  the  matter  with  me  this  evening ;  I  would  rather  stay 
here  by  the  fire." 

"Come,  all  the  same  though,  Naqui;  I  shall  not  be  here 
to  bore  you  much  longer.  Yes,  Quiqui,  I  am  going  to  start 
to-night,  and  it  will  be  some  time  before  I  come  back  again. 
I  am  leaving  everything  in  your  charge.  Will  you  keep  your 
heart  for  me  too  ?" 

"Neither  my  heart  nor  anything  else,"  she  said;  "but 
when  you  come  back  again,  Naqui  will  still  be  Naqui  for 
you." 

"Well,  this  is  frankness.     So  you  would  not  follow  me  ?" 

"No." 

"Why  not?" 

"Eh !  why,  how  can  I  leave  the  lover  who  writes  me  such 
sweet  little  notes?"  she  asked,  pointing  to  the  blackened  scrap 
of  paper  with  a  mocking  smile. 


314  MELMOTH  RECONCILED 

"Is  there  an}^  truth  in  it?"  asked  Castanier.  "Have  you 
really  a  lover?" 

"Eeally !"  cried  Aquilina ;  "and  have  you  never  given  it 
a  serious  thought,  dear  ?  To  begin  with,  you  are  fifty  years 
old.  Then  you  have  just  the  sort  of  face  to  put  on  a  fruit 
stall;  if  the  woman  tried  to  sell  you  for  a  pumpkin,  no  one 
would  contradict  her.  You  puff  and  blow  like  a  seal  when 
you  come  upstairs ;  your  paunch  rises  and  falls  like  a  diamond 
on  a  woman's  forehead!  It  is  pretty  plain  that  you  served 
in  the  dragoons;  you  are  a  very  ugly-looking  old  man. 
Fiddle-de-dee.  If  you  have  any  mind  to  keep  my  respect,  I 
recommend  you  not  to  add  imbecility  to  these  qualities  by 
imagining  that  such  a  girl  as  I  am  will  be  content  with  your 
asthmatic  love,  and  not  look  for  youth  and  good  looks  and 
pleasure  by  way  of  a  variety " 

"Aquilina !  you  are  laughing,  of  course  ?" 

"Oh,  very  well;  and  are  you  not  laughing  too?  Do  you 
take  me  for  a  fool,  telling  me  that  you  are  going  away?  *I 
am  going  to  start  to-night !' "  she  said,  mimicking  his  tones. 
"Stuff  and  nonsense!  Would  you  talk  like  that  if  you  were 
really  going  from  your  Naqui?  You  would  cry,  like  the 
booby  that  you  are !" 

"After  all,  if  I  go,  will  you  follow  ?"  he  asked. 

"Tell  me  first  whether  this  journey  of  yours  is  a  bad  joke 
on  not." 

"Yes,  seriously,  I  am  going." 

"Well,  then,  seriously,  I  shall  stay.  A  pleasant  journey  to 
you,  my  boy!  I  will  wait  till  you  come  back.  I  would 
sooner  take  leave  of  life  than  take  leave  of  my  dear,  cozv 
Paris " 

"Will  you  not  come  to  Italy,  to  ISTaples,  and  lead  a  pleasant 
life  there — a  delicious,  luxurious  life,  with  this  stout  old 
fogy  of  yours,  who  puffs  and  blows  like  a  seal  ?" 

"No." 

"Ungrateful  girl !" 

"Ungrateful?"  she  cried,  rising  to  her  feet.  'T  might 
leave  this  house  this  moment  and  take  nothing  out  of  it  but 


MELMOTH  RECONCILED  315 

myself.  I  shall  have  given  you  all  the  treasures  a  young 
girl  can  give,  and  something  that  not  every  drop  in  your  veins 
and  mine  can  ever  give  me  back.  If,  by  any  means  whatever, 
by  selling  my  hopes  of  eternity,  for  instance,  I  could  recover 
my  past  self,  body  as  soul  (for  I  have,  perhaps,  redeemed  my 
soul),  and  be  pure  as  a  lily  for  my  lover,  I  would  not  hesitate 
a  moment !  What  sort  of  devotion  has  rewarded  mine  ? 
You  have  housed  and  fed  me,  just  as  you  give  a  dog  food  and, 
a  kennel  because  he  is  a  protection  to  the  house,  and  he  may' 
take  kicks  when  we  are  out  of  humor,  and  lick  our  hands 
as  soon  as  we  are  pleased  to  call  to  him.  And  which  of  us  two 
will  have  been  the  more  generous  ?" 

"Oh !  dear  child,  do  you  not  see  that  I  am  joking  ?"  re- 
turned Castanier.  "I  am  going  on  a  short  journey;  I  shall 
not  be  away  for  very  long.  But  come  with  me  to  the 
Gymnase;  I  shall  start  just  before  midnight,  after  I  have 
had  time  to  say  good-bye  to  you." 

"Poor  pet !  so  you  are  really  going,  are  you  ?"  she  said. 
She  put  her  arms  round  his  neck,  and  drew  down  his  head 
against  her  bodice. 

"You  are  smothering  me !"  cried  Castanier,  with  his  face 
buried  in  Aquilina's  breast.  That  damsel  turned  to  say  in 
Jenny's  ear,  "Go  to  Leon,  and  tell  him  not  to  come  till  one 
o'clock.  If  you  do  not  find  him,  and  he  comes  here  during 
the  leave-taking,  keep  him  in  your  room. — Well,"  she  went 
on,  setting  free  Castanier,  and  giving  a  tweak  to  the  tip  of 
his  nose,  "never  mind,  handsomest  of  seals  that  you  are.  I 
will  go  to  the  theatre  with  you  this  evening!  But  all  in 
good  time ;  let  us  have  dinner !  There  is  a  nice  little  dinner 
for  you — ^just  what  you  like." 

*'It  is  very  hard  to  part  from  such  a  woman  as  you !"  ex- 
claimed Castanier. 

"Very  well  then,  why  do  3-ou  go?"  asked  she. 

"Ah  !  why  ?  why  ?  If  I  were  to  begin  to  explain  the  reasons 
why,  I  must  tell  you  things  that  would  prove  to  you  that  I 
love  3'^ou  almost  to  madness.  Ah !  if  you  have  sacrificed  your 
honor  for  me,  I  have  sold  mine  for  you;  we  are  quits.  Is 
that  We?" 


316  MELMOTH  RECONCILED 

''What  is  all  this  about  ?"  said  she.  "Come,  now,  promise 
me  that  if  I  had  a  lover  you  would  still  love  me  as  a  father ; 
that  would  be  love !  Come,  now,  promise  it  at  once,  and 
give  us  your  fist  upon  it." 

"I  should  kill  you,"  and  Castanier  smiled  as  he  spoke. 

They  sat  down  to  the  dinner  table,  and  went  thence  to  the 
Gymnase.  When  the  first  part  of  the  performance  was  over, 
it  occurred  to  Castanier  to  show  himself  to  some  of  his  ac- 
quaintances in  the  house,  so  as  to  turn  away  any  suspicion  of 
his  departure.  He  left  Mme.  de  la  Garde  in  the  corner  box 
where  she  was  seated,  according  to  her  modest  wont,  and  went 
to  walk  up  and  down  in  the  lobby.  He  had  not  gone  many 
paces  before  he  saw  the  Englishman,  and  with  a  sudden 
return  of  the  sickening  sensation  of  heat  that  once  before  had 
vibrated  through  him,  and  of  the  terror  that  he  had  felt  al- 
ready, he  stood  face  to  face  with  Melmoth. 

"Forger !" 

At  the  word,  Castanier  glanced  round  at  the  people  who' 
were  moving  about  them.  He  fancied  that  he  could  see 
astonishment  and  curiosity  in  their  eyes,  and  wishing  to  be 
rid  of  this  Englishman  at  once,  he  raised  his  hand  to  strike 
him — and  felt  his  arm  paralyzed  by  some  invisible  power 
that  sapped  his  strength  and  nailed  him  to  the  spot.  He 
allowed  the  stranger  to  take  him  by  the  arm,  and  they  walked 
together  to  the  green-room  like  two  friends. 

"Who  is  strong  enough  to  resist  me?"  said  the  English- 
man, addressing  him.  "Do  you  not  know  that  everything 
here  on  earth  must  obey  me,  that  it  is  in  my  power  to  do 
everything?  I  read  men's  thoughts,  I  see  the  future,  and  I 
know  the  past.  I  am  here,  and  I  can  be  elsewhere  also. 
Time  and  space  and  distance  are  notning  to  me.  The  whole 
world  is  at  my  beck  and  call.  I  have  the  power  of  continual 
enjoyment  and  of  giving  joy.  I  can  see  through  walls,  dis- 
cover hidden  treasures,  and  fill  my  hands  with  them.  Palaces 
arise  at  my  nod,  and  my  architect  makes  no  mistakes.  1  can 
make  all  lands  break  forth  into  blossom,  heap  up  their  gold 
and  precious  stones,  and  surround  myself  with  fair  wome» 


MELMOTH  RECONCILED  317 

and  ever  new  faces ;  everything  is  yielded  np  to  my  will.  I 
could  gamble  on  the  Stock  Exchange,  and  my  speculations 
would  be  infallible;  but  a  man  who  can  find  the  hoards  that 
misers  have  hidden  in  the  earth  need  not  trouble  himself 
about  stocks.  Feel  the  strength  of  the  hand  that  grasps  you ; 
poor  wretch,  doomed  to  shame !  Try  to  bend  the  arm  of 
iron !  try  to  soften  the  adamantine  heart !  Fly  from  me  if 
you  dare !  You  would  hear  my  voice  in  the  depths  of  the 
eaves  that  lie  under  the  Seine;  you  might  hide  in  the  Cata- 
combs, but  would  you  not  see  me  there?  My  voice  could  be 
heard  through  the  sound  of  the  thunder,  my  eyes  shine  as 
brightly  as  the  sun,  for  I  am  the  peer  of  Lucifer !" 

Castanier  heard  the  terrible  words,  and  felt  no  protest  nor 
contradiction  within  himself.  He  walked  side  by  side  with 
the  Englishman,  and  had  no  power  to  leave  him. 

"You  are  mine;  you  have  just  committed  a  crime.  I  have 
found  at  last  the  mate  whom  I  have  sought.  Have  you  a 
mind  to  learn  your  destiny  ?  Aha !  you  came  here  to  see  a  play, 
and  you  shall  see  a  play — ^nay,  two.  Come.  Present  me  to 
Mme.  de  la  Garde  as  one  of  your  best  friends.  Am  I  not 
your  last  hope  of  escape?" 

Castanier,  followed  by  the  stranger,  returned  to  his  box; 
and  in  accordance  with  the  order  he  had  just  received,  he 
hastened  to  introduce  Melmoth  to  Mme.  de  la  Garde. 
Aquilina  seemed  to  be  not  in  the  least  surprised.  The 
Englishman  declined  to  take  a  seat  in  front,  and  Castanier 
was  once  more  beside  his  mistress;  the  man's  slightest  wish 
must  be  obeyed.  The  last  piece  was  about  to  begin,  for,  at 
that  time,  small  theatres  only  gave  three  pieces.  One  of  the 
actors  had  made  the  Gymnase  the  fashion,  and  that  evening 
Perlet  (the  actor  in  question)  was  to  play  in  a  vaudeville 
called  the  Le  Comedien  d'Etampes,  in  which  he  filled  four 
different  parts. 

When  the  curtain  rose,  the  stranger  stretched  out  his  hand 
over  the  crowded  house.  Castanier's  cry  of  terror  died 
away,  for  the  walls  of  his  throat  seemed  glued  together  as 
Melmoth  pointed  to  the  stage,  and  the  cashier  knew  that  the 
play  had  been  changed  at  the  Englishman's  desire. 


318  MELMOTH  RECONCILED 

He  saw  the  strong-room  at  the  hank ;  he  saw  the  Baron  de 
Nueingen  in  conference  with  a  police-officer  from  the  Pre- 
fecture, who  was  informing  him  of  Castanier's  conduct,  ex- 
plaining that  the  cashier  had  absconded  with  money  taken 
from  the  safe,  giving  the  history  of  the  forged  signature. 
The  information  was  put  in  writing;  the  document  signed 
and  duly  despatched  to  the  Public  Prosecutor. 

"Are  we  in  time,  do  you  think?"  asked  Nueingen. 

"Yes,"  said  the  agent  of  police;  *'he  is  at  the  Gymnase, 
and  has  no  suspicion  of  anything." 

Castanier  fidgeted  on  his  chair,  and  made  as  if  he  would 
leave  the  theatre,  but  Melmoth's  hand  lay  on  his  shoulder, 
and  he  was  obliged  to  sit  and  watch;  the  hideous  power  of 
the  man  produced  an  effect  like  that  of  nightmare,  and  he 
could  not  move  a  ]imb.  Nay,  the  man  himself  was  the  night- 
mare; his  presence  weighed  heavily  on  his  victim  like  a 
poisoned  atmosphere.  When  the  wretched  cashier  turned  to 
implore  the  Englishman's  mercy,  he  met  those  blazing  eyes 
that  discharged  electric  currents,  which  pierced  through  him 
and  transfixed  him  like  darts  of  steel. 

^'What  have  I  done  to  you  ?"  he  said,  in  his  prostrate  help- 
lessness, and  he  breathed  hard  like  a  stag  at  the  water's  edge. 
"What  do  you  want  of  me?" 

"Look !"  cried  Melmoth. 

Castanier  looked  at  the  stage.  The  scene  had  been  changed. 
The  play  seemed  to  he  over,  and  Castanier  beheld  himself 
stepping  from  the  carriage  with  Aquilina;  but  as  he  entered 
the  courtyard  of  the  house  in  the  Eue  Richer,  the  scene  again 
was  suddenly  changed,  and  he  saw  his  own  house.  Jenny  was 
chatting  by  the  fire  in  her  mistress'  room  with  a  subaltern 
officer  of  a  line  regiment  then  stationed  at  Paris. 

"He  is  going,  is  he?"  said  the  sergeant,  who  seemed  to 
belong  to  a  family  in  easy  circumstances;  "I  can  be  happy 
at  my  ease !  I  love  Aquilina  too  well  to  allow  her  to  belong 
to  that  old  toad !  I,  myself,  am  going  to  marry  Mme.  de  la 
Garde !"  cried  the  sergeant. 

'•'Old  toad  !"  Castanier  murmured  piteously. 


MELMOTtI  RECONCILED  319 

'^Here  come  the  master  and  mistress ;  hide  yonrself !  Stay, 
get  in  here,  Monsieur  Leon,"  said  Jenny.  "The  master  won't 
stay  here  for  very  long." 

Castanier  watched  the  sergeant  hide  himself  among 
Aquilina's  gowns  in  her  dressing-room.  Almost  immediately 
he  himself  appeared  upon  the  scene,  and  took  leave  of  his 
mistress,  who  made  fun  of  him  in  "asides"  to  Jenny,  while 
she  uttered  the  sweetest  and  tenderest  words  in  his  ears.  She 
wept  with  one  side  of  her  face,  and  laughed  with  the  other. 
The  audience  called  for  an  encore. 

"Accursed  creature !"  cried  Castanier  from  his  box. 

Aquilina  was  laughing  till  the  tears  came  into  her  eyes. 

"Goodness  !"  she  cried,  "how  funny  Perlet  is  as  the  English- 
woman !  .  .  .  Why  don't  yoii  laugh?  Every  one  else  in 
the  house  is  laughing.  Laugh,  dear!"  she  said  to  Casta- 
nier. 

Melmoth  burst  out  laughing,  and  the  unhappy  cashier 
shuddered.  The  Englishman's  laughter  wrung  his  heart  and 
tortured  his  brain ;  it  was  as  if  a  surgeon  had  bored  his  skull 
with  a  red-hot  iron. 

"Laughing !  are  they  laughing !"  stammered  Castanier. 

He  did  not  see  the  prim  English  lady  whom  Perlet  was 
acting  with  such  ludicrous  effect,  nor  hear  the  English-French 
that  had  filled  the  house  with  roars  of  laughter;  instead  of  all 
this,  he  beheld  himself  hurrying  from  the  Eue  Richer,  hailing 
a  cab  on  the  Boulevard,  bargaining  with  the  man  to  take  him 
to  Versailles.  Then  once  more  the  scene  changed.  He 
recognized  the  sorry  inn  at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  de 
rOrangerie  and  the  Rue  des  Recollets,  which  was  kept  by  his 
old  quartermaster.  It  was  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  the 
most  perfect  stillness  prevailed,  no  one  was  there  to  watch  his 
movements.  The  post-horses  were  put  into  the  carriage  (it 
fame  from  a  house  in  the  Avenue  de  Paris  in  which  an 
Englishman  lived,  and  had  been  ordered  in  the  foreigner's 
name  to  avoid  raising  suspicion).  Castanier  saw  that  he 
had  his  bills  and  his  passports,  stepped  into  the  carriage, 
and  set  out.     But  at  the  barrier  he  saw  two  gendarmes  lying 


320  MELMOTH  RECONCILED 

in  wait  lor  the  carriage.  A  cry  of  horror  hurst  from  him 
but  Melmoth  gave  him  a  glance,  and  again  the  sound  died  in 
his  throat. 

"Keep  your  eyes  on  the  stage,  and  be  quiet !"  said  the  Eng- 
lishman. 

In  another  moment  Castanier  saw  himself  flung  into  prison 
at  the  Conciergerie ;  and  in  the  fifth  act  of  the  drama,  en- 
titled The  Cashier,  he  saw  himself,  in  three  months^  timC;. 
condemned  to  twenty  years  of  penal  servitude.  Again  a  cry 
broke  from  him.  He  was  exposed  upon  the  Place  du 
Palais-de-Justice,  and  the  executioner  branded  him  with  a  red- 
hot  iron.  Then  came  the  last  scene  of  all ;  among  some  sixty 
convicts  in  the  prison  yard  of  the  Bicetre,  he  was  awaiting  his 
turn  to  have  the  irons  riveted  on  his  limbs. 

"Dear  me !  I  cannot  laugh  any  more  \  .  .  ."  said 
Aquilina.  "You  are  very  solemn,  dear  boy ;  what  can  be  the 
matter?     The  gentleman  has  gone." 

"A  word  with  you,  Castanier,"  said  Melmoth  when  the 
piece  was  at  an  end,  and  the  attendant  was  fastening  Mme. 
(le  la  Garde's  cloak. 

The  corridor  was  crowded,  and  escape  impossible. 

"Very  well,  what  is  it?" 

"No  human  power  can  hinder  you  from  taking  Aquilina 
home,  and  going  next  to  Versailles,  there  to  be  arrested." 

"How  so  ?" 

"Because  you  are  in  a  hand  that  will  never  relax  its  grasp," 
returned  the  Englishman. 

Castanier  longed  for  the  power  to  ntt'er  some  word  that 
should  blot  him  out  from  among  living  men  and  hide  hira 
in  the  lowest  depths  of  hell. 

"Suppose  that  the  Devil  were  to  make  a  bid  for  your  soul, 
would  you  not  give  it  to  him  now  in  exchange  for  the  power 
of  God?  One  single  word,  and  those  five  hundred  thousand 
francs  shall  be  back  in  the  Baron  de  Nucingen's  safe;  then 
you  can  tear  up  your  letter  of  credit,  and  all  traces  of  your 
crime  will  be  obliterated.  Moreover,  you  would  have  gold 
in  torrents.     You  hardly  believe  in  anything  perhaps  ?     Well, 


MEIvMOTH  RECONCILED  321 

if  all  this  comes  to  pass,  you  will  believe  at  least  in  the 
Devil." 

"If  it  were  only  possible!"  said  Castanier  joyfully. 

"The  man  who  can  do  it  all  gives  you  his  word  that  it  is 
possible/'  answered  the  Englisliman. 

Melmonth,  Castanier,  and  Mme.  de  la  Garde  wore  standing 
out  in  the  Boulevard  when  Melmoth  raised  his  arm.  A 
drizzling  rain  was  falling,  the  streets  were  muddy,  the  air 
was  close,  there  was  thick  darkness  overhead;  but  in  a 
moment,  as  the  arm  was  outstretched,  Paris  was  filled  with 
sunlight;  it  was  high  noon  on  a  bright  July  day.  The  trees 
were  covered  with  leaves;  a  double  stream  of  joyous  holiday 
makers  strolled  beneath  them.  Sellers  of  liquorice  water 
shouted  their  cool  drinks.  Splendid  carriages  rolled  past 
along  the  streets.  A  cry  of  terror  broke  from  the  casliier, 
and  at  that  cry  rain  and  darkness  once  more  settled  down 
upon  the  Boulevard. 

Mme.  de  la  Garde  had  stepped  into  the  carriage.  "Do  be 
quick,  dear  \"  she  cried ;  "either  come  in  or  stay  out.  Really, 
you  are  as  dull  as  ditch-water  this  evening " 

*^hat  must  I  do  ?"  Castanier  asked  of  Melmoth. 

*^ould  you  like  to  take  my  place  ?"  inquired  the  English- 
man. 

"Yes." 

''Very  well,  then;  I  will  be  at  your  house  in  a  few 
moments." 

"By  the  by,  Castanier,  you  are  rather  off  your  balance," 
Aquilina  remarked.  "There  is  some  mischief  brewing:  you 
were  quite  melancholy  and  thoughtful  all  through  the  play. 
Do  you  want  anything  that  I  can  give  you,  dear?     Tell  me." 

"I  am  waiting  till  we  are  at  home  to  know  whether  you 
love  me." 

"You  need  not  wait  till  then,"  she  said,  throwing  her  arms 
round  his  neck.  *'There !"  she  said,  as  she  embraced  him, 
passionately  to  all  appearance,  and  plied  him  with  the  coax- 
ing caresses  that  are  part  of  the  business  of  such  a  life  as 
hers,  like  stage  action  for  an  actress. 


322  MBLMOTH  RECONCILED 

•'^Vhere  is  the  music  ?"  asked  Castanier. 

"What  next?     Only  think  of  your  hearing  music  nowl" 

"Heavenly  music!"  he  went  on.  "The  sounds  seem  to 
come  from  above/' 

"What?  You  have  always  refused  to  give  me  a  box  at 
the  Italiens  because  you  could  not  abide  music,  and  are  you 
turning  music-mad  at  this  time  of  day?  Mad — that  you 
are !  The  music  is  inside  your  own  noddle,  old  addle-pate  !'' 
she  went  on,  as  she  took  his  head  in  her  hands  and  rocked 
it  to  and  fro  on  her  shoulder.  "Tell  me  now,  old 
man;  isn't  it  the  creaking  of  the  wheels  that  sings  in  your 
ears  ?" 

"Just  listen,  Naqui !  If  the  angels  make  music  for  God 
Almighty,  it  must  be  such  music  as  this  that  I  am  drinking 
in  at  every  pore,  rather  than  hearing.  I  do  not  know  how 
to  tell  you  about  it ;  it  is  as  sweet  as  honey-water !" 

"Why,  of  course,  they  have  music  in  heaven,  for  the  angels 
in  all  the  pictures  have  harps  in  their  hands.  He  is  mad, 
upon  my  word!"  she  said  to  herself,  as  she  saw  Casta- 
nier's  attitude;  he  looked  like  an  opium-eater  in  a  bliss- 
ful trance. 

They  reached  the  house.  Castanier,  absorbed  by  the 
thought  of  all  that  he  had  just  heard  and  seen,  knew  not 
whether  to  believe  it  or  no ;  he  was  like  a  drunken  man,  and 
utterly  unable  to  thinlc  connectedly.  He  came  to  himself  in 
Aquilina's  room,  whither  he  had  been  supported  by  the  united 
efforts  of  his  mistress,  the  porter,  and  Jenny;  for  he  had 
fainted  as  he  stepped  from  the  carriage. 

"He  will  be  here  directly !  Oh,  my  friends,  my  friends," 
he  cried,  and  he  flung  himself  despairingly  into  the  depths 
of  a  low  chair  beside  the  fire. 

Jenny  heard  the  bell  as  he  spoke,  and  admitted  the  English- 
man. She  announced  that  "a  gentleman  had  come  who  had 
made  an  appointment  with  the  master,"  when  Melmoth  sud- 
denly appeared,  and  deep  silence  followed.  He  looked  at  the 
porter — the  porter  went;  he  looked  at  Jenny — and  Jenny 
went  likewise. 


MELMOTH  RECONCILED  823 

"Madame,"  said  Melmoth,  turning  to  Aquilina,  "with  your 
permission,  we  will  conclude  a  piece  of  urgent  business." 

He  took  Castanier's  hand,  and  Castanier  rose,  and  the  two 
men  went  into  the  drawing-room.  There  was  no  light  in 
the  room,  but  Melmoth's  eyes  lit  up  the  thickest  darkness. 
The  gaze  of  those  strange  eyes  had  left  Aquilina  like  one 
spellbound;  she  was  helpless,  unable  to  take  any  thought  for 
her  lover;  moreover,  she  believed  him  to  be  safe  in  Jenny's 
room,  whereas  their  early  return  had  taken  the  waiting- 
woman  by  surprise,  and  she  had  hidden  the  officer  in  the 
dressing-room.  It  had  all  happened  exactly  as  in  the  drama 
that  Melmoth  had  displayed  for  his  victim.  Presently  the 
house-door  was  slammed  violently,  and  Castanier  reappeared. 

'"What  ails  you  ?"  cried  the  horror-struck  Aquilina. 

There  was  a  change  in  the  cashier's  appearance.  A  strange 
pallor  overspread  his  once  rubicund  countenance ;  it  wore  the 
peculiarly  sinister  and  stony  look  of  the  mysterious  visitor. 
The  sullen  glare  of  his  eyes  was  intolerable,  the  fierce  light  in 
them  seemed  to  scorch.  The  man  who  had  looked  so  good- 
humored  and  good-natured  had  suddenly  grown  tyrannical 
and  proud.  The  courtesan  thought  that  Castanier  had 
grown  thinner;  there  was  a  terrible  majesty  in  his  brow;  it 
was  as  if  a  dragon  breathed  forth  a  malignant  influence  that 
weighed  upon  the  others  like  a  close,  heavy  atmosphere.  For 
a  moment  Aquilina  knew  not  what  to  do. 

''What  passed  between  you  and  that  diabolical-looking  man 
in  those  few  minutes?"  she  asked  at  length. 

"I  have  sold  my  soul  to  him.  I  feel  it;  I  am  no  longer 
the  same.  He  has  taken  my  self,  and  given  me  his  soul  in 
exchange." 

"What?" 

"You  would  not  understand  it  at  all.  .  .  .  Ah?  He  was 
right,"  Castanier  went  on,  "the  fiend  was  right!  I  see 
everything  and  know  all  things. — You  have  been  deceiving 
me!" 

Aquilina  turned  cold  with  terror.  Castanier  lighted  a 
candle  and  went  into  the  dressing-room.     The  unhappy  girl 


324  MELMOTH  RECONCILED 

followed  him  in  dazed  bewilderment,  and  great  was  her  aston 
ishment  when  Castanier  drew  the  dresses  that  hung  there 
aside  and  disclosed  the  sergeant. 

''Come  out,  my  boy,"  said  the  cashier;  and,  taking  Leon 
by  a  button  of  Ms  overcoat,  he  drew  the  officer  into  his 
room. 

The  Piedmontese,  haggard  and  desperate,  had  flung  herself 
into  her  easy-chair.  Castanier  seated  himself  on  a  sofa  by  the 
fire,  and  left  Aquilina's  lover  in  a  standing  position. 

"You  have  been  in  the  army,"  said  Leon;  "I  am  ready  to 
give  you  satisfaction." 

"You  are  a  fool,"  said  Castanier  drily.  "I  have  no  oc- 
casion to  fight.  I  could  kill  you  by  a  look  if  I  had  any  mind 
to  do  it,  I  will  tell  you  what  it  is,  youngster ;  why  should  I 
kill  you?  I  can  see  a  red  line  round  your  neck — ^the 
guillotine  is  waiting  for  you.  Yes,  you  will  end  in  the 
Place  de  Greve.  You  are  the  headsman's  property !  there 
is  no  escape  for  you.  You  belong  to  a  vendita  of  the 
Carbonari.     You  are  plotting  against  the  Government." 

"You  did  not  tell  me  that,"  cried  the  Piedmontese,  turn- 
ing to  Leon. 

"So  you  do  not  know  that  the  Minister  decided  this  morn- 
ing to  put  down  your  Society  ?"  the  cashier  continued.  "The 
Procureur-General  has  a  list  of  your  names.  You  have 
been  betrayed.  They  are  busy  drawing  up  the  indictment  at 
this  moment." 

"Then  was  it  you  who  betrayed  him  ?"  cried  Aquilina,  and 
with  a  hoarse  sound  in  her  throat  like  the  growl  of  a  tigress 
she  rose  to  her  feet ;  she  seemed  as  if  she  would  tear  Castanier 
in  pieces. 

"You  know  me  too  well  to  believe  it,'''  Castanier  retorted. 
Aquilina  was  benumbed  by  his  coolness. 

"Then  how  do  you  know  it?"  she  murmured. 

"I  did  not  know  it  until  I  went  into  the  drawing-room ; 
now  I  know  it — now  I  see  and  know  all  things,  and  can  do 
all  things." 

The  sergeant  was  overcome  with  amazement. 


MELMOTH  RECONCILED  325 

'^ery  well  then,  save  him,  save  him,  dear!"  cried  the  girl, 
flinging  herself  at  Castanier's  feet.  "If  nothing  is  impossi- 
ble to  you,  save  him !  I  will  love  you,  I  will  adore  you,  1 
will  be  your  slave  and  not  your  mistress.  I  will  obey  your 
wildest  whims;  you  shfill  do  as  you  will  with  me.  Yes,  yes, 
I  will  give  you  more  than  love;  you  shall  have  a  daughter's 
devotion  as  well  as  .  .  .  Rodolphe  !  why  will  you  not  un- 
derstand !  After  all,  however  violent  my  passions  may  be,  I 
shall  be  yours  for  ever !  What  should  I  say  to  persuade  you  ? 
I  will  invent  pleasures  .  .  .  I  .  .  .  Great  heavens ! 
one  moment !  whatever  you  shall  ask  of  me — to  fling  myself 
from  the  window,  for  instance— you  will  need  to  say  but  one 
word,  'Leon !'  and  I  will  plunge  down  into  hell.  I  would  bear 
any  torture,  any  pain  of  body  or  soul,  anything  you  might 
inflict  upon  me !" 

Castanier  heard  her  with  indifl^erence.  For  all  answer,  he 
indicated  Leon  to  her  with  a  fiendish  laugh. 

"The  guillotine  is  waiting  for  him,"  he  repeated. 

"No,  no,  no !  He  shall  not  leave  this  house.  I  will  save 
him !"  she  cried.  "Yes;  I  will  kill  any  one  who  lays  a  finger 
upon  him !  Why  will  you  not  save  him  ?"  she  shrieked  aloud ; 
her  eyes  were  blazing,  her  hair  unbound.  "Can  you  save 
him?" 

"I  can  do  everything." 

"Why  do  you  not  save  him?" 

"Why?"  shouted  Castanier,  and  his  voice  made  the  ceiling 
ring. — "Eh  !  it  is  my  revenge  !     Doing  evil  is  my  trade  !" 

"Die?"  said  Aquilina;  "must  he  die,  my  lover?  Is 
it  possible?" 

She  sprang  up  and  snatched  a  stiletto  from  a  basket  that 
stood  on  the  chest  of  drawers  and  went  to  Castanier,  who  be- 
gan to  laugh. 

"You  know  very  well  that  steel  cannot  hurt  me  now " 

Aquilina's  arm  suddenly  dropped  like  a  snapped  harp 
string. 

"Out  with  you,  my  good  friend,"  said  the  cashier,  turning 
to  the  sergeant,  "and  go  about  your  business."' 

VOL.  I — 26 


326  MELMOTH  RECONCILED 

He  held  out  his  hand;  the  other  felt  Castanier's  superior 
power,  and  could  not  choose  but  obey. 

"This  house  is  mine;  I  could  send  for  the  commissary  of 
police  if  I  chose,  and  give  you  up  as  a  man  who  has  hidden 
himself  on  my  premises,  but  I  would  rather  let  you  go ;  I  am 
a  fiend,  I  am  not  a  spy." 

"I  shall  follow  him  I"  said  Aquilina. 

"Then  follow  him,"  returned  Castanier. — ^"Here,  Jenny 

Jenny  appeared. 

"Tell  the  porter  to  hail  a  cab  for  them. — Here,  Naqui," 
said  Castanier,  drawing  a  bundle  of  bank-notes  from  his 
pocket;  "you  shall  not  go  away  like  a  pauper  from  a  man 
who  loves  you  still." 

He  held  out  three  hundred  thousand  francs.  Aquilina  took 
the  notes,  flung  them  on  the  floor,  spat  on  them,  and  trampled 
upon  them  in  a  frenzy  of  despair. 

"We  will  leave  this  house  on  foot,"  she  cried,  "without  a 
farthing  of  your  money. — Jenny,  stay  where  you  are." 

"Good-evening !"  answered  the  cashier,  as  he  gathered  up 
the  notes  again.  "I  have  come  back  from  my  journey. — 
Jenny,"  he  added,  looking  at  the  bewildered  waiting-maid, 
"you  seem  to  me  to  be  a  good  sort  of  girl.  You  have  no  mistress 
now.     Come  here.     This  evening  you  shall  have  a  master." 

Aquilina,  who  felt  safe  nowhere,  went  at  once  with  the 
sergeant  to  the  house  of  one  of  her  friends.  But  all  Leon's 
movements  were  suspiciously  watched  by  the  police,  and  after 
a  time  he  and  three  of  his  friends  were  arrested.  The  whole 
story  may  be  found  in  the  newspapers,  of  that  day. 

Castanier  felt  that  he  had  undergone  a  mental  as  well  as 
a  physical  transformation.  The  Castanier  of  old  no  longer 
existed — the  boy,  the  young  Lothario,  the  soldier  who  had 
proved  his  courage,  who  had  been  tricked  into  a  marriage  and 
disillusioned,  the  cashier,  the  passionate  lover  who  had  com- 
mitted a  crime  for  Aquilina's  sake.  His  inmost  nature  hnd 
suddenly  asserted  itself.     His  brain  had  expanded,  his  senses 


MELMOTH  RECONCILED  32? 

had  developed.  His  thoughts  comprehended  the  whole  world ; 
he  saw  all  the  things  of  earth  as  if  he  had  been  raised  to  some 
high  pinnacle  above  the  world. 

Until  that  evening  at  the  play  he  had  loved  Aquilina  to 
distraction.  Rather  than  give  her  up  he  would  have  shut 
his  eyes  to  her  infidelities;  and  now  all  that  blind  passion  had 
passed  away  as  a  cloud  vanishes  in  the  sunlight. 

Jenny  was  delighted  to  succeed  to  her  mistress'  position 
and  fortune,  and  did  the  cashier's  will  in  all  things;  but 
Castanier,  who  could  read  the  inmost  thoughts  of  the  soul, 
discovered  the  real  motive  underlying  this  purely  physical 
devotion.  He  amused  himself  with  her,  however,  like  a  mis- 
chievous child  who  greedily  sucks  the  juice  of  the  cherry  and 
flings  away  the  stone.  The  next  morning  at  breakfast  time, 
when  she  was  fully  convinced  that  she  was  a  lady  and  the 
mistress  of  the  house,  Castanier  uttered  one  by  one  the 
thoughts  that  filled  her  mind  as  she  drank  her  coffee. 

"Do  you  know  what  3^ou  are  thinking,  child?"  he  said, 
smiling.  "I  will  tell  you:  'So  all  that  lovely  rosewood  fur- 
niture that  I  coveted  so  much,  and  the  pretty  dresses  that 
I  used  to  try  on,  are  mine  now!  All  on  easy  terms  that 
Madame  refused,  I  do  not  know  why.  My  word !  if  I  might 
drive  about  in  a  carriage,  have  jewels  and  pretty  things,  a  box 
at  the  theatre,  and  put  something  by !  with  me  he  should  lead 
a  life  of  pleasure  fit  to  kill  him  if  he  were  not  as  strong  as 
a  Turk !  I  never  saw  such  a  man  !' — Was  not  that  just  what 
you  were  thinking,"  he  went  on,  and  something  in  his  t^oice 
made  Jenny  turn  pale.  "Well,  yes,  child;  you  could  not 
stand  it,  and  I  am  sending  you  away  for  your  own  good ;  you 
would  perish  in  the  attempt.  Come,  let  us  part  good  friends," 
and  he  coolly  dismissed  her  with  a  very  small  sum  of  money. 

The  first  use  that  Castanier  had  promised  himself  that  he 
would  make  of  the  terrible  power  bought  at  the  price  of  his 
'eternal  happiness,  was  the  full  and  complete  indulgence  of 
all  his  tastes. 

He  first  put  his  affairs  in  order,  readily  settled  his  ac- 
count with  M.  de  Nucingen,  who  found  a  worthy  German  to 


328  MELMOTH  RECONCILED 

succeed  him,  and  then  determined  on  a  carouse  worthy  of  the 
palmiest  days  of  the  Roman  Empire.  He  plunged  into  dissi- 
pation as  recklessly  as  Belshazzar  of  old  went  to  that  last  feast 
in  Babylon.  Like  Belshazzar,  he  saw  clearly  through  his 
revels  a  gleaming  hand  that  traced  his  doom  in  letters  of 
flame,  not  on  the  narrow  walls  of  the  banqueting-chamber, 
but  over  the  vast  spaces  of  heaven  that  the  rainbow  spans.' 
His  feast  was  not,  indeed,  an  orgy  confined  within  the  limits 
of  a  banquet,  for  he  squandered  all  the  powers  of  soul  and 
body  in  exhausting  all  the  pleasures  of  earth.  The  table 
was  in  some  sort  earth  itself,  the  earth  that  trembled  beneath 
his  feet.  His  was  the  last  festival  of  the  reckless  spendthrift 
who  has  thrown  all  prudence  to  the  winds.  The  devil  had 
given  him  the  key  of  the  storehouse  of  human  pleasures;  he 
had  filled  and  refilled  his  hands,  and  he  was  fast  nearing  the 
bottom.  In  a  moment  he  had  felt  all  that  that  enormous 
pov^-er  could  accomplish;  in  a  moment  he  had  exercised  it, 
proved  it,  wearied  of  it.  What  had  hitherto  been  the  sum  of 
human  desires  became  as  nothing.  So  often  it  happens  that 
with  possession  the  vast  poetry  of  desire  must  end,  and  the 
thing  possessed  is  seldom  the  thing  that  we  dreamed  of. 

Beneath  Melmoth's  omnipotence  lurked  this  tragical  anti- 
climax of  so  many  a  passion,  and  now  the  inanity  of  human 
nature  was  revealed  to  his  successor,  to  whom  infinite  power 
brought  Nothingness  as  a  dowry. 

To  come  to  a  clear  understanding  of  Castanier's  strange 
position,  it  must  be  borne  in  mind  how  suddenly  these  rev- 
olutions of  thought  and  feeling  had  been  wrought;  how 
quickly  they  had  succeeded  each  other;  and  of  these  things 
it  is  hard  to  give  any  idea  to  those  who  have  never  broken 
the  prison  bonds  of  time,  and  space,  and  distance.  His  rela- 
tion to  the  world  without  had  been  entirely  changed  with  the 
expansion  of  his  faculties. 

Like  Melmoth  himself,  Castanier  could  travel  in  a  few 
moments  over  the  fertile  plains  of  India,  could  soar  on  the 
vvmgs  of  demons  above  African  desert  spaces,  or  skim  the  sur- 
face of  the  seas.     The  same  insight  that  could  read  the  inmost 


MELMOTH  RECONCILED  329 

thoughts  of  others,  could  apprehend  at  a  glance  the  nature  of 
an}^  material  object,  just  as  he  caught  as  it  were  all  flavors 
at  once  upon  his  tongue.  He  took  his  pleasure  like  a  despot ; 
a  blow  of  the  axe  felled  the  tree  that  he  might  eat  its  fruits. 
The  transitions,  the  alternations  that  measure  joy  and  pain, 
and  diversify  human  happiness,  no  longer  existed  for  him 
He  had  so  completely  glutted  his  appetites  that  pleasure  must 
overpass  the  limits  of  pleasure  to  tickle  a  palate  cloyed  with 
satiety,  and  suddenly  grown  fastidious  beyond  all  measure,  so 
that  ordinary  pleasures  became  distasteful.  Conscious  that 
at  will  he  was  the  master  of  all  the  women  that  he  could 
desire,  knowing  that  his  power  was  irresistible,  he  did  not 
care  to  exercise  it ;  they  were  pliant  to  his  unexpressed  wishes, 
to  his  most  extravagant  caprices,  until  he  felt  a  horrible  thirst 
for  love,  and  would  have  love  beyond  their  pov/er  to  give. 

The  world  refused  him  nothing  save  faith  and  prayer,  the 
soothing  and  consoling  love  that  is  not  of  this  world.  He 
was  obeyed — it  was  a  horrible  .position. 

The  torrents  of  pain,  and  pleasure,  and  thought  that  shook 
his  soul  and  his  bodily  frame  would  have  overwhelmed  the 
strongest  human  being;  but  in  him  there  was  a  power  of 
vitality  proportioned  to  the  power  of  the  sensations  that  as- 
sailed him.  He  felt  within  him  a  vague  immensity  of  long- 
ing that  earth  could  not  satisfy.  He  spent  his  days  on  out- 
spread wings,  longing  to  traverse  the  luminous  fields  of  space 
to  other  spheres  that  he  knew  afar  by  intuitive  perception, 
a  clear  and  hopeless  knowledge.  His  soul  dried  up  within 
him,  for  he  hungered  and  thirsted  after  things  that  can 
neither  be  drunk  nor  eaten,  but  for  which  he  could  not  choose 
but  crave.  His  lips,  like  Melmoth's,  burned  with  desire;  he 
panted  for  the  unknown,  for  he  knew  all  things. 

The  mechanism  and  the  scheme  of  the  world  was  apparent 
to  him,  and  its  working  interested  him  no  longer;  he  did  not 
long  disguise  the  profound  scorn  that  makes  of  a  man  of  ex- 
traordinary powers  a  sphinx  who  knows  everything  and  says 
nothing,  and  sees  all  things  with  an  unmoved  countenance. 
He  felt  not  the  slightest  wish  to  communicate  his  knowledge 


330  MELMOTH  RECONCILED 

to  other  men.  He  was  rich  with  all  the  wealth  of  the  world, 
with  one  effort  he  could  make  the  circle  of  the  globe,  and 
riches  and  power  were  meaningless  for  him.  He  felt  the 
awful  melancholy  of  omnipotence,  a  melancholj^  which  Satan 
and  God  relieve  by  the  exercise  of  infinite  power  in  mysterious 
ways  known  to  them  alone.  Castanier  had  not,  like  his 
Master,  the  inextinguishable  energy  of  hate  and  malice; 
he  felt  that  he  was  a  devil,  but  a  devil  whose  time  was  not 
yet  come,  while  Satan  is  a  devil  through  all  eternity,  and 
being  damned  beyond  redemption,  delights  to  stir  up  the 
world,  like  a  dung  heap,  with  his  triple  fork  and  to  thwart 
therein  the  designs  of  God.  But  Castanier,  for  his  mis- 
fortune, had  one  hope  left. 

If  in  a  moment  he  could  move  from  one  pole  to  the  other 
as  a  bird  springs  restlessly  from  side  to  side  in  its  cage,  when, 
like  the  bird,  he  has  crossed  his  prison,  he  saw  the  vast  im- 
mensity of  space  beyond  it.  That  vision  of  the  Infinite  left 
him  for  ever  unable  to  see  humanity  and  its  affairs  as  other 
men  saw  them.  The  insensate  fools  who  long  for  the  power 
of  the  Devil  gauge  its  desirability  from  a  human  standpoint ; 
they  do  not  see  that  with  the  Devil's  power  they  will  likewise 
assume  his  thoughts,  and  that  they  will  be  doomed  to  remain 
as  men  among  creatures  who  will  no  longer  understand  them. 
The  ISTero  unknown  to  history  who  dreams  of  setting  Paris 
on  fire  for  his  private  entertainment,  like  an  exhibition  of  a 
burning  house  on  the  boards  of  a  theatre,  does  not  suspect  that 
if  he  had  that  power,  Paris  would  become  for  him  as  little 
interesting  as  an  ant-heap  by  the  roadside  to  a  hurrying 
passer-by.  The  circle  of  the  sciences  was  for  Castanier 
something  like  a  logogriph  for  a  man  who  does  not  know  the 
key  to  it.  Kings  and  Governments  were  despicable  in  his 
eyes.  His  great  debauch  had  be(>n  in  some  sort  a  deplorable 
farewell  to  his  life  as  a  man.  The  earth  had  grown  too  nar- 
row for  him,  for  the  infernal  gifts  laid  bare  for  him  the 
secrets  of  creation — he  saw  the  cause  and  foresaw  its  end. 
He  was  shut  out  from  all  that  men  call  "heaven"  in  all 
languages  under  the  sun;  he  could  no  longer  tliink  of  heaven. 


MELMO'TH  RECOMCILBD  Sftl 

Then  he  came  to  understand  the  look  on  his  predecessor's 
face  and  the  drying  up  of  the  life  within ;  then  he  knew  all 
that  was  meant  by  the  baffled  hope  that  gleamed  in  Melmoth's 
eyes;  he,  too,  knew  the  thirst  that  burned  those  red  lips,  and 
tlie  agony  of  a  continual  struggle  between  two  natures  grown 
to  giant  size.  Even  yet  he  might  be  an  angel,  and  he  knew 
himself  to  be  a  fiend.  His  was  the  fate  of  a  sweet  and  gentle 
creature  that  a  wizard's  malice  has  imprisoned  in  a  mis- 
shapen form,  entrapping  it  by  a  pact,  so  that  another's  will 
must  set  it  free  from  its  detested  envelope. 

As  a  deception  only  increases  the  ardor  with  which  a  man 
of  really  great  nature  explores  the  infinite  of  sentiment  in  a 
woman's  heart,  so  Castanier  awoke  to  find  that  one  idea  lay 
like  a  weight  upon  his  soul,  an  idea  which  was  perhaps  the 
key  to  loftier  spheres.  The  very  fact  that  he  had  bartered 
away  his  eternal  happiness  led  him  to  dwell  in  thought  upon 
the  future  of  those  who  pray  and  believe.  On  the  morrow  of 
his  debauch,  when  he  entered  into  the  sober  possession  of  his 
power,  this  idea  made  him  feel  himself  a  prisoner;  he  knew 
the  burden  of  the  woe  that  poets,  and  prophets,  and  great 
oracles  of  faith  have  set  forth  for  us  in  such  mighty  words ; 
he  felt  the  point  of  the  Flaming  Sword  plunged  into  his  side, 
and  hurried  in  search  of  Melmoth.  What  had  become  of  his 
predecessor  ? 

The  Englishman  was  living  in  a  mansion  in  the  Eue  Ferou, 
near  Saint-Sulpice — a  gloomy,  dark,  damp,  and  cold  abode. 
The  Rue  Ferou  itself  is  one  of  the  most  dismal  streets  in 
Paris;  it  has  a  north  aspect  like  all  the  streets  that  lie  at 
right  angles  to  the  left  bank  of  the  Seine,  and  the  houses  are 
in  keeping  with  the  site.  As  Castanier  stood  on  the  threshold 
he  found  that  the  door  itself,  like  the  vaulted  roof,  was  hung 
with  black;  rows  of  lighted  tapers  shone  brilliantly  as  though 
some  king  were  lying  in  state ;  and  a  priest  stood  on  either 
side  of  a  catafalque  that  had  been  raised  there. 

"There  is  no  need  to  ask  why  you  have  come,  sir,''  the  old 
hall  porter  said  to  Castanier;  "you  are  so  like  our  poor  dear 
master  that  is  gone.     But  if  you  are  his  brother,  you  have 


332  MELMOTH  RECONCILED 

come  too  late  to  bid  him  good-bye.  The  good  gentleman  died 
the  night  before  last." 

"How  did  he  die  ?"  Castanier  asked  of  one  of  the  priests. 

"Set  your  mind  at  rest,"  said  an  old  priest ;  he  partly  raised 
as  he  spoke  the  black  pall  that  covered  the  catafalque. 

Castanier,  looking  at  him,  saw  one  of  those  faces  that  faith 
has  made  sublime;  the  soul  seemed  to  shine  forth  from  every 
line  of  it,  bringing  light  and  warmth  for  other  men,  kindled 
by  the  unfailing  charity  within.  This  was  Sir  John  Mel- 
moth's  confessor. 

"Your  brother  made  an  end  that  men  may  envy,  and  that 
must  rejoice  the  angels.  Do  you  know  what  joy  there  is  in 
heaven  over  a  sinner  that  repents?  His  tears  of  penHence, 
excited  by  grace,  flowed  without  ceasing ;  death  alone  checked 
them.  The  Holy  Spirit  dwelt  in  him.  His  burning  words, 
full  of  lively  faith,  were  worthy  of  the  Prophet-King.  If, 
in  the  course  of  my  life,  I  have  never  heard  a  more  dreadful 
confession  than  from  the  lips  of  this  Irish  gentleman,  I  have 
likewise  never  heard  such  fervent  and  passionate  prayers. 
However  great  the  measures  of  his  sins  may  have  been,  his 
repentance  has  filled  the  abyss  to  overflowing.  The  hand  of 
God  was  visibly  stretched  out  above  him,  for  he  was  com- 
pletely changed,  there  was  such  heavenly  beauty  iu  his  face. 
The  hard  eyes  were  softened  by  tears ;  the  resonant  voice  that 
struck  terror  into  those  who  heard  it  took  the  tender  and  com- 
passionate tones  of  those  who  themselves  have  passed  through 
deep  humiliation.  He  so  edified  those  who  heard  his  words, 
that  some  who  had  felt  drawn  to  see  the  spectacle  of  a 
Christian's  death  fell  on  their  knees  as  he  spoke  of  heavenly 
things,  and  of  the  infinite  glory  of  God,  and  gave  thanks  and 
praise  to  Him.  If  he  is  leaving  no  worldly  wealth  to  his 
family,  no  family  can  possess  a  greater  blessing  than  this  that 
he  surely  gained  for  them,  a  soul  among  the  blessed,  who  will 
watch  over  you  all  and  direct  you  in  the  path  to  heaven." 

These  words  made  such  a  vivid  impression  upon  Castanier 
that  he  instantly  hurried  from  the  house  to  the  Church  of 
Saint-Sulpice,  obeying  what  might  be  called  a  decree  of  fate. 
Melmoth's  repent ance  had  stupefied  him. 


MELMOTH  RE(X)XCILED  333 

At  that  time,  on  certjiin  morninos  in  the  week,  a  preacher, 
famed  for  his  eloquence,  was  wont  to  liold  conferences,  in 
the  course  of  which  he  demonstrated  the  truths  of  the 
Catholic  faith  for  the  youth  of  a  generation  proclaimed  to 
be  indifferent  in  matters  of  belief  by  another  voice  no  less 
eloquent  than  his  own.  The  conference  had  been  put  off  to  a 
later  hour  on  account  of  Melmoth's  funeral,  so  Castanicr  ar- 
rived just  as  the  great  preacher  was  epitomizing  the  proofs 
of  a  future  existence  of  happiness  with  all  the  charm  of 
eloquence  and  force  of  expression  which  have  made  him 
famous.  The  seeds  of  divine  doctrine  fell  into  a  soil  pre- 
pared for  them  in  the  old  dragoon,  into  whom  the  Devil  had 
glided.  Indeed,  if  there  is  a  phenomenon  well  attested  by 
experience,  is  it  not  the  spiritual  phenomenon,  commonly 
called  "the  faith  of  the  peasant"?  The  strength  of  belief 
varies  inversely  with  the  amount  of  use  that  a  man  has  made 
of  his  reasoning  faculties.  Simple  people  and  soldiers  belong  - 
to  the  unreasoning  class.  Those  who  have  marched  through 
life  beneath  the  banner  of  instinct  are  far  more  ready  to  re- 
ceive the  light  than  minds  and  hearts  overwearied  with  the 
world's  sophistries. 

Castanier  had  the  southern  temperament;  he  had  joined 
the  army  as  a  lad  of  sixteen,  and  had  followed  the  French 
flag  till  he  was  nearly  forty  years  old.  As  a  common  trooper, 
he  had  fought  day  and  night,  and  day  after  day,  and,  as 
in  duty  bound,  had  thought  of  his  horse  first,  and  of  himself 
afterwards.  While  he  served  his  military  apprenticeship, 
therefore,  he  had  but  little  leisure  in  which  to  reflect  on  the 
destiny  of  man,  and  when  he  became  an  officer  he  had  his 
men  to  think  of.  He  had  been  swept  from  battlefield  to 
battlefield,  but  he  had  never  thought  of  what  comes 
after  death.  A  soldier's  life  does  not  demand  much  thinking. 
Those  who  cannot  understand  the  lofty  political  ends  in- 
volved and  the  interests  of  nation  and  nation;  who  cannot 
grasp  political  schemes  as  well  as  plans  of  campaign,  and 
combine  the  science  of  the  tactician  with  that  of  the  admin- 
istrator, are  bound  to  live  in  a  state  of  ignorance;  the  most 


334  MELMOTH  RECONCILED 

boorish  peasant  in  the  most  backward  district  in  Fra'nce  is 
scarcely  in  a  worse  case.  Such  men  as  these  bear  the  brunt 
of  w^ar,  yield  passive  obedience  to  the  brain  that  directs  them, 
and  strike  down  the  men  opposed  to  them  as  the  woodcutter 
fells  timber  in  the  forest.  Violent  physical  exertion  is  suc- 
ceeded by  times  of  inertia,  when  they  repair  the  waste.  They 
fight  and  drink,  fighi  and  eat,  fight  and  sleep,  that  they  may 
the  better  deal  hard  blows;  the  powers  of  the  mind  are  not 
greatly  exercised  in  this  turbulent  round  of  existence,  and  the 
character  is  as  simple  as  heretofore. 

When  the  men  -who  have  shown  such  energy  on  the  battlefield 
return  to  ordinary  civilization,  most  of  those  who  have  not 
risen  to  high  rank  seem  to  have  acquired  no  ideas,  and  to  have 
no  aptitude,  no  capacity,  for  grasping  new  ideas.  To  the  utter 
amazement  of  a  younger  generation,  those  who  made  our 
armies  so  glorious  and  so  terrible  are  as  simple  as  children, 
and  as  slow^-witted  as  a  clerk  at  his  worst,  and  the  captain  of 
a  thundering  squadron  is  scarcely  fit  to  keep  a  merchant's 
day-book.  Old  soldiers  of  this  stamp,  therefore,  being  in- 
nocent of  any  attempt  to  use  their  reasoning  faculties,  act 
upon  their  strongest  impulses.  Castanier's  crime  was  one  of 
those  matters  that  raise  so  many  questions,  that,  in  order  to 
debate  about  it,  a  moralist  might  call  for  its  "discussion  by 
clauses,"  to  make  use  of  a  parliamentary  expression. 

Passion  had  counseled  the  crime;  the  cruelly  irresistible 
power  of  feminine  witchery  had  driven  him  to  commit  it; 
no  man  can  say  of  himself,  "I  will  never  do  that,"  when  a 
siren  joins  in  the  combat  and  throws  her  spells  over  him. 

So  the  word  of  life  fell  upon  a  conscience  newly  awakened 
to  the  truths  of  religion  which  the  French  Eevolution  and  a 
soldier's  career  had  forced  Castanier  to  neglect.  The  solemn 
words,  "You  wdll  be  happy  or  miserable  for  all  eternity !" 
made  but  the  more  terrible  impression  upon  him,  because  ho 
had  exhausted  earth  and  shaken  it  like  a  barren  tree;  because 
his  desires  could  effect  all  things,  so  that  it  was  enough  that 
any  spot  in  earth  or  heaven  should  be  forbidden  him,  and  he 
forthwith  thought  of  nothing  else.     If  it  were  allowable  to 


MELMOTH  RECONCILED  335 

compare  snch  great  things  with  social  follies,  Castanier's  posi- 
tion was  not  unlike  that  of  a  banker  who,  finding  that  his  all- 
powerful  millions  cannot  obtain  for  him  an  entrance  into  the 
society  of  the  noblesse,  must  set  his  heart  upon  entering  that 
circle,  and  all  the  social  privileges  that  he  has  already  ac- 
quired are  as  nothing  in  his  eyes  from  the  moment  when  he 
discovers  that  a  single  one  is  lacking. 

Here  was  a  man  more  powerful  than  all  the  kings  on  earth 
put  together;  a  man  who,  like  Satan,  could  wrestle  with  God 
Himself;  leaning  against  one  of  the  pillars  in  the  Church 
of  Saint-Sulpice,  weighed  down  by  the  feelings  and  thoughts 
that  oppressed  him,  and  absorbed  in  the  thought  of  a  Future, 
the  same  thought  that  had  engulfed  Melmoth. 

"He  was  very  happy,  was  Melmoth !"  cried  Castanier. 
"He  died  in  the  certain  knowledge  that  he  would  go  to 
heaven." 

In  a  moment  the  greatest  possible  change  had  been  wrought 
in  the  cashier's  ideas.  For  several  days  he  had  been  a 
devil,  now  he  was  nothing  but  a  man ;  an  image  of  the  fallen 
Adarn^,  of  the  sacred  tradition  embodied  in  all  cosmogonies. 
But  while  he  had  thus  shrunk  he  retained  a  germ  of  great- 
ness, he  had  been  steeped  in  the  Infinite.  The  power  of 
hell  had  revealed  the  divine  power.  He  thirsted  for  heaven 
as  he  had  never  thirsted  after  the  pleasures  of  earth,  that  are 
so  soon  exhausted.  The  enjoyments  which  the  fiend  promises 
are  but  the  enjoyments  of  earth  on  a  larger  scale,  but  to  the 
joys  of  heaven  there  is  no  limit.  He  believed  in  God,  and 
the  spell  that  gave  him  the  treasures  of  the  world  was  as 
nothing  to  him  now ;  the  treasures  themselves  seemed  to  him 
as  contemptible  as  pebbles  to  an  admirer  of  diamonds;  they 
were  but  gewgaws  compared  with  the  eternal  glories  of  the 
other  life.  A  curse  lay,  he  thought,  on  all  things  that  came 
to  him  from  this  source.  He  sounded  dark  depths  of  pain- 
ful thought  as  he  listened  to  the  service  performed  for  ]\Iel- 
moth.  The  Dies  irm  filled  him  with  awe;  he  felt  all  the 
grandeur  of  that  cry  of  a  repentant  soul  trembling  before  the 
Throne  of  God.  The  Holy  Spirit,  like  a  devouring  flame, 
passed  through  him  as  fire  consumes  straw. 


336  MELMOTH  RECONCILED 

The  tears  were  falling  from  his  eyes  when — "Are  you  a  rela- 
tion of  the  dead  ?"  the  beadle  asked  him. 

"I  am  his  heir/'  Castanier  answered. 

"Give  something  for  the  expenses  of  the  services !"  cried 
the  man. 

"No,"  said  the  cashier.  (The  Devil's  money  should  not  go 
to  the  Church.) 

"For  the  poor !" 

"No." 

"For  repairing  the  Church  P 

"No." 

"The  Lady  Chapel !" 

"No." 

"For  the  schools  V* 

"No." 

Castanier  went,  not  caring  to  expose  himself  to  the  sour 
looks  that  the  irritated  functionaries  gave  him. 

Outside,  in  the  street,  he  looked  up  at  the  Church  of  Saint- 
Sulpice.  "What  made  people  build  the  giant  cathedrals  I 
have  seen  in  every  country  ?"  he  asked  himself.  "The  feeling 
shared  so  widely  throughout  all  time  must  surely  be  based 
upon  something." 

"Something !  Do  you  call  God  something  f"  cried  his  con- 
science.    "God!  God!  God!     .     .     ." 

The  word  was  echoed  and  re-echoed  by  an  inner  voice,  till 
it  overwhelmed  him;  but  his  feeling  of  terror  subsided  as  he 
heard  sweet  distant  sounds  of  music  that  he  had  caught  faintly 
before.  They  were  singing  in  the  church,  he  thought,  and  his 
eyes  scanned  the  great  doorway.  But  as  he  listened  more 
closely,  the  sounds  poured  upon  him  from  all  sides ;  he  looked 
round  the  square,  but  there  was  no  sign  of  any  musicians. 
The  melody  brought  visions  of  a  distant  heaven  and  far-off 
gleams  of  hope ;  but  it  also  quickened  the  remorse  that  had  set 
the  lost  soul  in  a  ferment.  He  went  on  his  way  through 
Paris,  walking  as  men  walk  who  are  crushed  beneath  the 
burden  of  their  sorrow,  seeing  everything  with  unseeing  eyes, 
loitering  like  an  idler,  stopping  without  cause,  muttering  to 


MELMOTH  RECONCILED  S^'i 

himself,  careless  of  tlie  traffic,  making  no  effort  to  avoid  a  bloTV 
from  a  plank  of  timber. 

Imperceptibly  repentance  brought  him  under  the  influence 
of  the  divine  grace  that  soothes  while  it  bruises  the  heart  so 
terribly.  His  face  came  to  wear  a  look  of  Melmoth,  some- 
thing great,  with  a  trace  of  madness  in  the  greatness — a 
look  of  dull  and  hopeless  distress,  mingled  with  the  excited 
eagerness  of  hope,  and,  beneath  it  all,  a  gnawing  sense  of 
loathing  for  all  that  the  world  can  give.  The  humblest  of 
prayers  lurked  in  the  eyes  that  saw  with  such  dreadful  clear- 
ness. His  power  was  the  measure  of  his  anguish.  His  body 
was  bowed  down  by  the  fearful  storm  that  shook  his  soul,  as 
the  tall  pines  bend  before  the  blast.  Like  his  predecessor,  he 
could  not  refuse  to  bear  the  burden  of  life ;  he  was  afraid  to  die 
while  he  bore  the  yoke  of  hell.  The  torment  grew  intoler- 
able. 

At  last,  one  morning,  he  bethought  himself  how  that  Mel- 
moth (now  among  the  blessed)  had  made  the  proposal  of  an 
exchange,  and  how  that  he  had  accepted  it ;  others,  doubtless, 
would  follow  his  example;  for  in  an  age  proclaimed,  by  the 
inheritors  of  the  eloquence  of  the  Fathers  of  the  Church,  to  be 
fatally  indifferent  to  religion,  it  should  be  easy  to  find  a  man 
who  would  accept  the  conditions  of  the  contract  in  order  to 
prove  its  advantages. 

"There  is  one  place  where  you  can  learn  what  kings  will 
fetch  in  the  market ;  where  nations  are  weighed  in  the  balance 
and  systems  appraised;  where  the  value  of  a  government  is 
stated  in  terms  of  the  five-franc  piece;  where  ideas  and 
beliefs  have  their  price,  and  everything  is  discounted;  where 
God  Himself,  in  a  manner,  borrows  on  the  security  of  His 
revenue  of  souls,  for  the  Pope  has  a  running  account  there. 
Is  it  not  there  that  I  should  go  to  traffic  in  souls  ?" 

Castanier  went  quite  joyously  on  'Change,  thinking  that  it 
would  be  as  easy  to  buy  a  soul  as  to  invest  money  in  the  Funds. 
Any  ordinary  person  would  have  feared  ridicule,  but  Castanier 
knew  by  experience  that  a  desperate  man  takes  everything 
seriously.      A  .prisoner  lying  under  sentence  of  death  would 


338  MELMOTH  RECONCILED 

listen  to  the  madman  who  should  tell  him  that  by  pro- 
nouncing some  gibberish  he  could  escape  through  the  key- 
hole ;  for  suffering  is  credulous,  and  clings  to  an  idea  until  it 
fails,  as  the  swimmer  borne  along  by  the  current  clings  to  the 
branch  that  snaps  in  his  hand. 

Towards  four  o'clock  that  afternoon  Castanier  appeared 
among  the  little  knots  of  men  who  were  transacting  private 
business  after  'Change.  He  was  personally  known  to  some  of 
the  brokers;  and  while  affecting  to  be  in  search  of  an  ac- 
quaintance, he  managed  to  pick  up  the  current  gossip  and 
rumors  of  failure. 

"Catch  me  negotiating  bills  for  Claparon  &  Co.,  my  boy. 
The  bank  collector  went  round  to  return  their  acceptances 
to  them  this  morning,"  said  a  fat  banker  in  his  outspoken 
way.     "If  you  have  any  of  their  paper,  look  out." 

Claparon  M^as  in  the  building,  in  deep  consultation  with  a 
man  well  known  for  the  ruinous  rate  at  which  he  lent  money. 
Castanier  went  forthwith  in  search  of  the  said  Claparon,  a 
merchant  who  had  a  reputation  for  taking  heavy  risks  that 
meant  wealth  or  utter  ruin.  The  money-lender  walked  away 
as  Castanier  came  up.  A  gesture  betrayed  the  speculator's 
despair. 

^'Well,  Claparon,  the  Bank  wants  a  hundred  thousand 
francs  of  you,  and  it  is  four  o'clock ;  the  thing  is  known,  and 
it  is  too  late  to  arrange  your  little  failure  comfortably,"  said 
Castanier. 

"Sir!" 

"Speak  lower,"  the  cashier  went  on.  "How  if  I  were  to 
propose  a  piece  of  business  that  would  bring  you  in  as  much 
money  as  you  require?" 

"It  would  not  discharge  my  liabilities ;  every  business  that 
I  ever  heard  of  wants  a  little  time  to  simmer  in." 

"I  know  of  something  that  will  set  you  straight  in  a 
moment,"  answered  Castanier;  "but  first  you  would  have 
to " 

"Do  what?" 

''Sell  your  sliare  of  paradise.     It  is  a  matter  of  business 


MELMOTH  RECONCILED  ^9 

tike  anything  else,  isn't  it?  We  all  hold  shares  in  the  great 
Speculation  of  Eternity." 

"I  tell  you  this,"  said  Claparon  angrily,  "that  I  am  just 
the  man  to  lend  you  a  slap  in  the  face.  When  a  man  is  in 
trouble,  it  is  no  time  to  play  silly  jokes  on  him." 

"I  am  talking  seriously,"  said  Castanier,  and  he  drew  a 
bundle  of  notes  from  his  pocket. 

"In  the  first  place,"  said  Claparon,  "I  am  not  going  to  sell 
my  soul  to  the  Devil  for  a  trifle.  I  want  five  hundred  thou- 
sand francs  before  I  strike " 

"Who  talks  of  stinting  you  ?"  asked  Castanier,  cutting  him 
short.  "You  shall  have  more  gold  than  you  could  stow  in 
the  cellars  of  the  Bank  of  France." 

He  held  out  a  handful  of  notes.     That  decided  Claparon. 

"Done,"  he  cried ;  "but  how  is  the  bargain  to  be  made  ?" 

"Let  us  go  over  yonder,  no  one  is  standing  there,"  said 
Castanier,  pointing  to  a  corner  of  the  court. 

Claparon  and  his  tempter  exchanged  a  few  v/ords,  with  their 
faces  turned  to  the  wall.  None  of  the  onlookers  guessed  the 
nature  of  this  by-play,  though  their  curiosity  was  keenly  ex- 
cited hj  the  strange  gestures  of  the  two  contracting  parties. 
When  Castanier  returned,  there  was  a  sudden  outburst  of 
amazed  exclamation.  As  in  the  Assembly  where  the  least 
event  immediately  attracts  attention,  all  faces  were  turned 
to  the  two  men  who  had  caused  the  sensation,  and  a  shiver 
passed  through  all  beholders  at  the  change  that  had  taken 
place  in  them. 

The  men  who  form  the  moving  crowd  that  fills  the  Stock 
Exchange  are  soon  known  to  each  other  by  sight.  They  watch 
each  other  like  players  round  a  card-table.  Some  shrewd 
observers  can  tell  how  a  man  will  play  and  the  condition  of 
his  exchequer  from  a  survey  of  his  face;  and  the  Stock  Ex- 
change is  simply  a  vast  card-table.  Every  one,  therefore,  had 
noticed  Claparon  and  Castanier.  The  latter  (like  the  Irish- 
man before  him)  had  been  muscular  and  powerful,  his  eyes 
were  full  of  light,  his  color  high.  The  dignity  and  power  in 
his  face  had  struck  awe  into  them  all ;  they  wondered  how  old 


340  MELMOTH   RECONCILED 

Castanier  had  come  by  it;  and  now  they  beheld  Castanier 
divested  of  his  power,  shrunken,  wrinkled,  aged,  and  feeble. 
He  had  drawn  Claparon  out  of  the  crowd  with  the  energy  of 
a  sick  man  in  a  fever  fit;  he  had  looked  like  an  opium-eater 
during  the  brief  period  of  excitement  that  the  drug  can  give ; 
DOW,  on  his  return,  he  seemed  to  be  in  the  condition  of  utter 
exhaustion  in  which  the  patient  dies  after  the  fever  departs, 
or  to  be  suffering  from  the  horrible  prostration  that  follows  on 
excessive  indulgence  in  the  delights  of  narcotics.  The  in- 
fernal power  that  had  upheld  him  through  his  debauches  had 
left  him,  and  the  body  was  left  unaided  and  alone  to  endure 
the  agony  of  remorse  and  the  heavy  burden  of  sincere  re- 
pentance. Claparon's  troubles  every  one  could  guess;  but 
Claparon  reappeared,  on  the  other  hand,  with  sparkling  e3^es, 
holding  his  head  high  with  the  pride  of  Lucifer.  The  crisis 
had  passed  from  the  one  man  to  the  other. 

"Now  you  can  drop  off  with  an  easy  mind,  old  man,"  said 
Claparon  to  Castanier. 

"For  pity's  sake,  send  for  a  cab  and  for  a  priest;  send  for 
the  curate  of  Saint-Sulpice !"  answered  the  old  dragoon,  sink- 
ing down  upon  the  curbstone. 

The  words  "a  priest"  reached  the  ears  of  several  people,  and 
produced  uproarious  jeering  among  the  stockbrokers,  for  faith 
with  these  gentlemen  means  a  belief  that  a  scrap  of  paper 
called  a  mortgage  represents  an  estate,  and  the  List  of  Fund- 
holders  is  their  Bible. 

"Shall  I  have  time  to  repent  ?"  said  Castanier  to  himself,  in 
a  piteous  voice,  that  impressed  Claparon. 

A  cab  carried  away  the  dying  man ;  the  speculator  went  to 
the  bank  at  once  to  meet  his  bills ;  and  the  momentary  sensa- 
tion produced  upon  the  throng  of  business  men  by  the  sudden 
change  on  the  two  faces,  vanished  like  the  furrow  cut  by  a 
ship's  keel  in  the  sea.  News  of  the  greatest  importance  kept  the 
attention  of  the  world  of  commerce  on  the  alert;  and  when 
commercial  interests  are  at  stake,  Moses  might  appear  with  his 
two  luminous  horns,  and  his  coming  would  scarcely  receive 
the  honors  of  a  pun,  the  gentlemen  whose  business  it  is  to 
write  the  Market  Reports  would  ignore  his  existence. 


MELMOTH  RECONCILED  341 

When  Claparon  had  made  his  payments,  fear  seized  upon 
him.  There  was  no  mistake  about  his  power.  He  went  on 
'Change  again,  and  ofl'ered  his  bargain  to  other  men  in  em- 
barrassed circumstances.  The  Devil's  bond,  "together  with 
the  rights,  easements,  and  privileges  appertaining  thereunto," 
— to  use  the  expression  of  the  notary  who  succeeded  Claparon, 
changed  hands  for  the  sum  of  seven  hundred  thousand  francs. 
The  notary  in  his  turn  parted  with  the  agreement  with  the 
Devil  for  five  hundred  thousand  francs  to  a  building  con- 
tractor in  difficulties,  who  likewise  was  rid  of  it  to  an  iron 
merchant  in  consideration  of  a  hundred  thousand  crowns. 
In  fact,  b}'  five  o'clock  people  had  ceased  to  believe  in  the 
strange  contract,  and  purchasers  were  lacking  for  want  of 
confidence. 

At  half-past  five  the  holder  of  the  bond  was  a  house- 
painter,  who  was  lounging  by  the  door  of  the  building  in  the 
Rue  Feydeau,  where  at  that  time  stockbrokers  temporarily 
congregated.  The  house-painter,  simj)le  fellow,  could  not 
think  what  was  the  matter  with  him.  He  "felt  all  anyhow" ; 
so  he  told  his  w4fe  when  he  went  home. 

The  Eue  Feydeau,  as  idlers  about  town  are  aware,  is  a 
place  of  pilgrimage  for  youths  who  for  lack  of  a  mistress  be- 
stow their  ardent  affection  upon  the  whole  sex.  On  the  first 
floor  of  the  most  rigidly  respectable  domicile  therein  dwelt  one 
of  those  exquisite  creatures  whom  it  has  pleased  heaven  to 
endow  with  the  rarest  and  most  surpassing  beauty.  As  it  is  im- 
possible that  they  should  all  be  duchesses  or  queens  (since 
there  are  many  more  pretty  women  in  the  world  than  titles 
and  thrones  for  them  to  adorn),  they  are  content  to  make 
a  stockbroker  or  a  banker  happy  at  a  fixed  price.  To  this 
good-natured  beauty,  Euphrasia  by  name,  an  unbounded 
ambition  had  led  a  notary's  clerk  to  aspire.  In  short,  the 
second  clerk  in  the  office  of  Maitre  Crottat,  notary,  had  fallen 
in  love  with  her,  as  youth  at  two-and-twenty  can  fall  in  love. 
The  scrivener  would  have  murdered  the  Pope  and  run  amuck 
through  the  whole  sacred  college  to  procure  the  miserable 
sum  of  a  liundred  louis  to  pay  for  a  shawl  which  had  turned 

VOL.  1 — 27 


34d  MfiLMOTH  RECONCILED 

Euphrasia's  head,  at  which  price  her  waiting-woman  had 
promised  that  Euphrasia  shoukl  be  his.  The  infatuated 
youth  walked  to  and  fro  under  Madame  Euphrasia's  windows, 
like  the  polar  bears  in  their  cage  at  the  Jardin  des  Plantes, 
with  his  right  hand  thrust  beneath  his  waistcoat  in  the  region 
of  the  heart,  which  he  was  fit  to  tear  from  his  bosom,  but  as 
yet  he  had  only  wrenched  at  the  elastic  of  his  braces. 

"What  can  one  do  to  raise  ten  thousand  francs  ?"  he  asked 
himself.  "Shall  I  make  off  with  the  money  that  I  must  pay 
on  the  registration  of  that  conveyance  ?  Good  heavens  !  my 
loan  would  not  ruin  the  purchaser,  a  man  with  seven  millions  ! 
And  then  next  day  I  would  fling  myself  at  his  feet  and  say, 
*I  have  taken  ten  thousand  francs  belonging  to  you,  sir;  1 
am  twenty-two  years  of  age,  and  I  am  in  love  with  Euphrasia 
— that  is  my  story.  My  father  is  rich,  he  will  pay  you  back ; 
do  not  ruin  me !  Have  not  you  yourself  been  twenty-two 
years  old  and  madly  in  love?'  But  these  beggarly  land- 
owners have  no  souls  !  He  would  be  quite  likely  to  give  me  up 
to  the  public  prosecutor,  instead  of  taking  pity  upon  me. 
Good  God !  if  it  were  only  possible  to  sell  your  soul  to  the 
Devil !  But  there  is  neither  a  God  nor  a  Devil ;  it  is 
all  nonsense  out  of  nursery  tales  and  old  wives'  talk.  What 
shall  I  do  ?" 

"If  you  have  a  mind  to  sell  your  soul  to  the  Devil,  sir," 
said  the  house-painter,  who  had  overheard  something  that  the 
clerk  let  fall,  "you  can  have  the  ten  thousand  francs." 

"And  Euphrasia !"  cried  the  clerk,  as  he  struck  a  bargain 
with  the  devil  that  inhabited  the  house-painter. 

The  pact  concluded,  the  frantic  clerk  went  to  find  the 
shawl,  and  mounted  Madame  Euphrasia's  staircase;  and  as 
(literally)  the  devil  was  in  him,  he  did  not  come  down  for 
twelve  days,  drowning  the  thought  of  hell  and  of  his  privileges 
in  twelve  days  of  love  and  riot  and  forgetful ness,  for 
which  he  had  bartered  away  all  his  bopcs  of  a  paradise  to 
come. 

And  in  this  way  the  secret  of  the  vast  power  discovered  and 
acquired  by  the  Irishman,  the  ofi'spriug  of    Maturin's  brain, 


MELMOTH  RECONCILBD  843 

was,  lost  to  mankind;  and  the  various  Orientalists,  Mystics, 
and  Archaeologists  who  take  an  interest  in  these  matters  were 
unable  to  hand  down  to  posterity  the  proper  method  of  in- 
voking the  Devil,  for  tlie  following  sufficient  reasons : 

On  the  thirteenth  day  after  these  frenzied  nuptials  the 
wretched  clerk  lay  on  a  pallet  bed  in  a  garret  in  his  master's 
house  in  the  Eue  Saint-Honore.  Shame,  the  stupid  goddess 
who  dares  not  behold  herself,  had  taken  possession  of  the 
young  man.  He  had  fallen  ill ;  he  would  nurse  himself ;  mis- 
judged the  quantity  of  a  remedy  devised  by  the  skill  of  a 
practitioner  well  known  on  the  walls  of  Paris,  and  succumbed 
to  the  effects  of  an  overdose  of  mercury.  His  corpse  was  as 
black  as  a  mole's  back.  A  devil  had  left  unmistakable  traces 
of  its  passage  there;  could  it  have  been  Ashtaroth? 

"The  estimable  youth  to  whom  you  refer  has  been  carried 
away  to  the  planet  Mercury,"  said  the  head  clerk  to  a  German 
demonologist  who  came  to  investigate  the  matter  at  first 
hand. 

"I  am  quite  prepared  to  believe  it,"  answered  the  Teuton. 

"Oh !" 

"Yes,  sir,"  returned  the  other.  "The  opinion  you  advance 
coincides  with  the  very  words  of  Jacob  Boehme.  In  the 
forty-eighth  proposition  of  The  Threefold  Life  of  Man  he  says 
that  'if  God  hath  brought  all  things  to  pass  with  a  let  there 
BE,  the  FIAT  is  the  secret  matrix  which  comprehends  and  ap- 
prehends the  nature  which  is  formed  by  the  spirit  born  of 
Mercury  and  of  God/  " 

"What  do  you  say,  sir  ?" 

The  German  delivered  his  quotation  afresh. 

"We  do  not  know  it,"  said  the  clerks. 

"Fiat?    ..."  said  a  clerk.     "Fiat  lux!" 

"You  can  verify  the  citation  for  yourselves,"  said  the 
German.  "You  will  find  the  passage  in  the  Treatise  of  the 
Threefold  Life  of  Man,  page  75 ;  the  edition  was  published 
by  M.  Migneret  in  1809.  It  was  translated  into  French  by 
a  philosopher  who  had  a  great  admiration  for  the  famous 
shoemaker." 


344  MELMOTH  RECONCILED 

"Oh  !  he  was  a  shoemaker,  was  he  ?"  said  the  head  clerk. 

"In  Prussia,"  said  the  German. 

"Did  he  work  for  the  King  of  Prussia  ?"  inquired  a  BcBotian 
of  a  second  clerk. 

"He  must  have  vamped  up  his  prose/'^  said  a  third. 

"That  man  is  colossal !"  cried  the  fourth,  pointing  to  the 
Teuton. 

That  gentleman,  though  a  demonologist  of  the  first  rank, 
did  not  know  the  amount  of  devilry  to  be  found  in  a  notary's 
clerk.  He  went  away  without  the  least  idea  that  they  were 
making  game  of  him,  and  fully  under  the  impression  that  the 
young  fellows  regarded  Boehme  as  a  colossal  genius. 

"Education  is  making  strides  in  France,"  said  he  to  him- 
self. 

Fasis,  May  6, 1SS& 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 
AND  OTHER  STORIES 


INTRODUCTION 

The  volume  of  the  old  edition  of  the  Comedie  Humaine, 
which  opened  with  La  Recherche  de  I'Absolu,  together  with 
that  generally  entitled  Les  Marana,  contains  the  cream  and 
flower  of  Balzac  as  a  story-teller;  and  the  first  excels  the 
second  in  showing  the  fiery  heat  and  glow  of  the  author's 
imagination.  The  chief  of  the  minor  elements,  Le  Chef- 
d'oeuvre  inconnu,  has  seemed  to  some  the  actual  masterpiece 
of  the  author. 

La  Recherche  de  VAhsoIu  is,  as  has  been  said,  a  novel  in 
itself.  Taking  minor  points  only,  it  is  a  masterpiece.  That 
there  is  a  certain  parallelism,  probably  unconscious,  between 
the  way  in  which  Balthazar  Claes  as  unconsciously  kills  his 
wife,  and  the  way  in  which  IMonsieur  Grandet  kills  his,  is  cer- 
tainly no  drawback  to  the  book;  for  the  repetition,  if  it  is  a 
repetition,  only  shows  how  genius  can  repeat.  Indeed,  there  is 
the  same  demonstration  contained  in  the  same  books  in  the 
representation  of  the  diverse  martyrdoms  of  Madame  Claes 
and  her  daughter  Marguerite,  fatal  in  the  former  case,  hap- 
pily changed  in  the  latter.  In  no  book  is  Balzac's  faculty  of 
Dutch  drawing,  as  far  as  scenes  and  details  go,  more  brill- 
iantly shown;  in  none  are  the  minor  characters — from  the 
famulus  Lemulquinier,  with  his  fatal  belief  in  his  master's 
madness,  downwards — better ;  while  Marguerite  Claes  and  her 
mother,  especially  Marguerite,  are  by  common  consent  to  be 
ranked  among  Balzac's  greatest  triumphs  in  portraying 
'Tionest  women." 

(vu) 


viM  INTRODUCTION 

But  these  .things,  though  they  illustrate  the  general  prin- 
ciple that  the  presence  of  a  great  central  interest  and  figure 
•will  radiate  greatness  and  interest  on  its  surroundings,  would 
contribute  comparatively  little  to  the  effect  of  the  book  if 
it  were  not  for  the  Seeker  after  the  Absolute  himself.  No- 
■where,  perhaps,  has  the  hopeless  tyranny  of  the  fij^ed  idea, 
the  ferocious  (not  exactly  selfish)  absorption  in  the  pursuit 
of  a  craze,  been  portrayed  with  quite  the  same  power  as  here. 
And  we  know  and  feel  that  the  energy,  the  fire,  the  perfec- 
tion of  the  handling  are  due  to  sympathy — that  Balzac  a  few 
generations  earlier  would  have  sought  the  Philosopher's 
Stone  with  the  same  desperate  energy  as  Balthazar.  Prob- 
ably nothing  but  his  prior  attachment  to  literary  work  pre- 
vented him  from  doing  something  similar;  while  actually, 
and  as  it  was,  he  kept  himself  in  lifelong  difficulties  by  no 
very  different  persistence  in  the  corresponding,  if  more  ig- 
noble. Game  of  Speculation. 

I  have  just  said  that  the  tyranny  of  the  ideal  has  nowhere 
been  more  successfully  portrayed  than  in  La  Recherche  de 
VAhsolu;  but  there  is  perhaps  one  exception,  and  it  is  Le 
Chef-d'oeuvre  inconnu,  which  should  be  carefully  compared 
with  the  larger  fiction.  The  attraction  of  this  wonderful  and 
terrible  piece  for  all  who  have  anything  to  do  with  the  things 
of  the  spirit,  whether  in  the  way  of  criticism  or  in  the  way  of 
creation,  can  hardly  be  exaggerated.  I  remember  many  years 
ago  spending  half  an  evening  in  discussing,  in  a  sort  of 
amoebean  strain,  its  merits  with  the  late  Mr.  Stevenson;  and 
everybody  knows  the  compliment  which  a  distinguished 
American  writer  has  paid  it  by  attempting  a  sort  of  para- 
phrase of  its  original.  The  same  interest  is  present  here 
and  in  La  Recherche,  but  it  is  a  little  complicated,  a  little 


INTRODUCTION  \x 

refined  upon.  Here,  too,  there  is  the  sorcery  of  the  ideal,  the 
frenzied  passion  for  attainment  and  perfection.  But  here 
there  is  a  special  nuance  almost  as  closely  connected  with 
Balzac's  individuality  as  the  general  scheme.  "We  know  that 
the  mania  of  constant  retouching,  of  adding  strokes,  was  a 
danger  of  his  own ;  that  he  did  actually  indulge  in  it  to  an 
extent  very  prejudicial  to  his  pecuniary  interest,  and  per- 
haps not  always  advantageous  to  the  effect  of  his  work, 
though  the  artist  in  words  is  hardly  exposed  to  any  such  ab- 
solutely hopeless  catastrophe  in  such  a  case  as  is  the  artist 
in  line  and  color. 

Yet,  wonderful  as  this  is,  it  cannot  in  its  limited  space, 
and  with  its  intensely  concentrated  interest,  vie  with  the 
amplitude,  the  variety,  the  dignity  of  the  Recherche.  Balzac 
might  have  made  this  too  long:  he  was  not  always  proof 
against  that  temptation.  But  in  it,  as  in  Eugenie  Grandet, 
with  which  it  has  been  already  compared,  he  has  hit  the  ex- 
act mean  between  a  short  tale  and  a  long  novel,  has  not 
sinned  by  digression  and  episode,  has  hardly  sinned  by  undue 
indulgence  in  detail.  The  interest  is  perhaps  remoter  from 
the  general  human  understanding  than  that  of  Eugenie  and 
one  or  two  others.  But  it  is  handled  with  equal  mastery, 
and  the  effect  is  at  least  equally  good. 

It  is  not,  of  course,  that  a  knowledge  of  Balzac's  own  pe- 
culiarities adds  anything  to  the  sense  of  the  artistic  eminence 
of  these  two  stories.  That  would  be  clear  if  we  knew  noth- 
ing whatever  about  the  other  part  of  the  matter.  But  it  can- 
not be  regarded  as  uninteresting  that  we  should  thus  know 
the  secret  of  the  furia,  the  "nobler  gust"  of  sympathy  and 
enjoyment  with  which  the  writer,  consciously  or  uncon- 
sciously, must  have  set  about  these  two  great,  and  in  his 
own  work,  almost  incomparable  things. 


Jt  INTRODUCTION 

The  group  of  short  stories  which,  in  the  first  complete 
odition  of  the  Comedie,  opens  with  Les  Marana,  contains, 
as  I  have  said,  with  that  in  which  La  Recherche  de  I'Absolu 
leads  off,  the  very  finest  productions  of  the  author  on  a  small 
^cale.  Almost  all  the  pieces  herein  contained  were  early 
work,  written  when  Balzac  was  under  the  combined  excite- 
ment of  his  emergence  from  the  valley  of  the  shadow  in 
which  he  had  toiled  so  long,  and  of  the  heat  and  stress  of 
the  political  and  literary  Eevolution  of  1830.  All  of  them 
show  his  very  freshest  matured  power,  not  as  yet  in  the  slight- 
est degree  sicklied  o'er  by  any  excessive  attempt  to  codify  or 
g^ystematize.  It  is  true  that  they  are  called  Etudes  Philoso- 
phiques,  and  that  it  puzzles  the  adroitest  advocate  to  make 
out  any  very  particular  claim  that  they  have  to  the  title. 
But  "philosophy,"  a  term  pretty  freely  abused  in  all  lan- 
guages, had  in  French  been  treated  during  the  eighteenth 
century  and  earlier  as  a  sort  of  "blessed  word,"  which  might 
mean  anything,  from  the  misbeliefs  and  disbeliefs  of  those 
who  did  not  believe  in  the  devil  to  the  pursuits  of  those  who 
meddled  with  test-tubes  and  retorts.  Balzac  seems  generally 
to  have  meant  by  it  something  that  was  not  mere  surface- 
literature — that  was  intended  to  make  the  reader  think  and 
feel.  In  this  sense  very  little  of  his  own  work  is  unworthy 
of  the  title,  and  we  certainly  need  not  refuse  it  to  Les  Marana 
and  its  companions. 

The  only  objection  that  I  can  think  of  to  the  title-tale  is 
a  kind  of  uncertainty  in  the  plan  of  the  character  of  Juana. 
It  is  perfectly  proper  that  she  should  fall  an  unsophisticated 
victim  to  the  inherited  tendencies  (let  it  be  remembered  that 
Balzac  worked  this  vein  with  discretion  long  before  it  was 
tediously  overworked  by  literarjr  Darwinians),  to  her  own 


INTRODUCTION  Xl 

genuine  affection,  and  to  the  wiles  of  Montefiore.  It  is  quite 
right,  as  well  as  satisfactory,  that  she  should  refuse  her  se- 
ducer when  she  discovers  the  baseness  of  his  motives.  It  is 
natural  enough,  especially  in  a  southern  damsel,  that  she 
should  submit  to  the  convenient  cloak  of  marriage  with 
Diard,  and  even  make  him  a  good  and  affectionate  wife  after- 
wards. But  Balzac  seems  to  me — perhaps  I  am  wrong — to 
have  left  us  in  undue  doubt  whether  she  killed  Diard  purel) 
out  of  Castilian  honor,  or  partly  as  a  sort  of  revenge  for  tho 
sufferings  she  had  undergone  in  enduring  his  love.  A  mix- 
ture of  the  two  would  be  the  finer  and  the  truer  touch,  and 
therefore  it  is  probable  that  Balzac  meant  it;  but  I  think 
he  should  have  indicated  it,  not  by  any  clumsy  labeling  or 
explanation,  but  by  something  "leading  up."  It  ma}',  how- 
ever, seem  that  this  is  a  hypercriticism,  and  certainly  the  tale 
is  fine  enough. 

The  fantastic  horror  of  Adieu  may  seem  even  finer  to  some, 
but  a  trifle  overwrought  to  others.  Balzac,  who  had  very 
little  literary  jealousy  in  his  own  way  and  school,  made  a 
confession  of  enthusiastic  regret  afterwards  that  he,  Balzac, 
could  not  attain  to  the  perfection  of  description  of  the 
Eussian  retreat  which  Beyle  had  achieved.  Both  were  ob- 
server-idealists, and  required  some  touch  of  actual  experience 
to  set  their  imaginations  working,  an  advantage  which,  in 
this  case,  Balzac  did  not  possess,  and  Beyle  did.  But  I  do 
not  think  that  any  one  can  reasonably  find  fault  with  the 
scenes  on  the  Beresina  here.  The  induction  (to  use  Sack- 
ville's  good  old  word)  of  the  story  is  excellent:  and  there  is 
no  part  of  a  short  story,  hardly  even  the  end,  which  is  so  im- 
portant as  the  beginning;  for  if  it  fails  to  lay  a  grip  on  the 
reader,  it  is  two  to  one  that  ho  will  not  go  on  with  it.  The 
character  of  Philip  de  Slicx  is^  finely  touched,  and  the  con- 


xii  INTRODUCTION 

trast  of  the  unconscious  selfishness  of  his  love  with  the  uncle's 
affection  is  excellent,  and  not  in  the  least  (as  it  might  be) 
obtrusive.  But  the  point  of  danger,  of  course,  is  in  the  repre- 
sentation of  the  pure  animalized  condition  of  the  unhappy 
Countess,  and  her  monkey-like  tricks.  It  is  never  quite  cer- 
tain that  a  thing  of  this  kind  will  not  strike  the  reader,  in 
some  variable  mood,  with  a  sense  of  the  disgusting,  of  the 
childish,  of  the  merely  fantastic,  and  any  such  sense  in  a 
tale  appealing  so  strongly  to  the  sense  of  "the  pity  of  it"  is 
fatal.  I  can  only  say  that  I  have  read  Adieu  at  long  intervals 
of  time  and  in  very  different  circumstances,  and  have  not  felt 
anything  of  the  kind,  or  anything  but  the  due  pity  and  terror. 
The  style,  perhaps,  is  not  entirely  Balzac's  own;  the  in- 
terest is  a  little  simple  and  elementary  for  him;  but  he 
shows  that  he  can  handle  it  as  well  as  things  more  compli- 
cated and  subtler. 

Le  Requisitionnaire,  El  Verdugo,  and  Un  Drame  au  hord 
de  la  Mer*  may  be  called,  assuredly  in  no  uncomplimentary 
or  slighting  sense,  anecdotes  rather  than  stories.  The  hinge, 
the  centre,  the  climax,  or  the  catastrophe  (as  from  different 
points  of  view  we  may  call  it),  is  in  all  cases  more  important 
than  the  details  and  the  thread  of  narrative.  They  are  all 
good,  but  El  Verdugo  is  far  the  best:  the  great  incident  of 
the  father  blessing  his  son  and  executioner  in  the  words 
"Marquis  [his  own  title]  frappe  sans  peur,  tu  es  sans  re- 
proche,"  being  worthy  of  Hugo  himself. 

La  Recherche  de  VAhsolu  appeared  in  1834,  with  seven 
chapter-divisions,  as  a  Scene  de  la  Vie  Privee;  was  publisliprl 
by  itself  in  1839  by  Charpcntier;  and  took  its  final  place  a^ 
a  part  of  the  Comedie  in  1815.  , 

•  Vn  Drame  au  lord  de  la  Mcr  Is  included  iu  a  later  volume. 


INTRODUCTION  Xlll 

All  the  Marana  group  of  stories  appeared  together  in  the 
fourth  edition  of  the  Etudes  Philosophiques,  1835-1837. 
Most  of  them,  however,  had  earlier  appearances  in  periodicals 
and  in  the  Romans  et  Contes  Philosophiques,  which  preceded 
the  Etudes.  And  in  these  various  appearances  they  were  sub- 
jected to  their  author's  usual  processes  of  division  and  unifica- 
tion, of  sub-titling  and  cancelling  sub-titles.  Les  Marana 
appeared  first  in  the  Revue  de  Paris  for  the  last  month  of 
1832  and  the  first  of  1833;  while  it  next  made  a  show,  oddly 
enough,  as  a  Scene  de  la  Vie  Parisienne.  Adieu  appeared  in 
t"he  Mode  during  June  1830,  and  was  afterwards  for  a  time 
a  Scene  de  la  Vie  Privee.  Le  Requisitionnaire  was  issued  by 
the  Revue  de  Paris  of  February  23,  1831;  El  Verdugo  by  the 
Mode  for  January  29,  1830;  L'Auberge  Rouge  in  the  Revue 
de  Paris,  August  1831 ;  L'Elixir  de  longue  Vie,  by  the  same 
periodical  for  October  1830;  Maitre  Cornelius,  again  by  the 
same  for  December  1831.  Un  Drame  au  lord  de  la  Mer  alone 
appeared  nowhere  except  in  book  form  with  its  companions; 
but  in  1843  it  left  them  for  a  time  (afterwards  to  return), 
and  as  La  Justice  Paternelle  accompanied  La  Muse  du  De- 
partement,  Albert  Savarus,  and  Facino  Cane  in  a  separate 
publication. 

Le  Chef-d'oeuvre  inconnu  appeared  in  the  Artiste  of  1831, 
before  its  present  date,  as  a  "Conte  fantastique,"  in  two  parts. 
It  almost  immediately  became  one  of  the  Romans  et  Contes 
Philosophiques,  passed  in  1837  to  the  Etudes  Philosophiques, 
was  most  unequally  yoked  for  a  time  with  Les  Comediens 
sans  le  savoir,  and  took  definite  rank  in  1845  as  usual. 

G.  S. 

Note. — VAvberge  Rouge,  U Elixir  de  longue  Vie,  Un  Drams  an  bord  de  la  Mer,  and 
''la'dre  Comilius  have  been  omitted,  and  postponed  to  a  future  volume,  owing  tc 
exigencies  of  space. 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

To  Madame  Josephine  Delannoy  nee  Doumerc. 

Madame,  may  God  grant  that  this,  my  book,  may  live  longer 
than  I,  for  then  the  gratitude  which  I  owe  to  you,  and  which  T 
hope  will  equal  your  almost  maternal  liindness  to  me,  would  last 
beyond  the  limits  prescribed  for  human  affection.  This  sublime 
privilege  of  prolonging  life  in  our  hearts  for  a  time  by  the  life 
of  the  worli  we  leave  behind  us  would  be  (if  we  could  only  be 
sure  of  gaining  it  at  last)  a  reward  indeed  for  all  the  labor  under- 
talien  by  those  who  aspire  to  suoh  an  immortality.  Yet  again  I 
say— May  God  grant  it! 

De  Balzac. 

There  is  in  Douai,  in  the  Rue  de  Paris,  a  house  that  may 
be  singled  out  from  all  others  in  the  city;  for  in  every  re- 
spect, in  its  outward  appearance,  in  its  interior  arrange- 
ments, and  in  every  detail,  it  is  a  perfect  example  of  an  old 
Flemish  building,  and  preserves  all  the  characteristics  of  a 
quaint  style  of  domestic  architecture  thoroughly  in  keeping 
with  the  patriarchal  manners  of  the  good  folk  in  the  Low 
Countries.  But  before  proceeding  to  describe  the  house, 
it  may  not  be  wholly  imnecessary  here  to  enter,  on  behalf 
of  authors,  a  protest  in  favor  of  those  didactic  prelimi- 
naries for  which  the  ignorant  and  impatient  reader  has  so 
strong  a  dislike.  There  are  persons  who  crave  sensations, 
yet  have  not  patience  to  submit  to  the  influences  which  pro- 
duce them ;  who  would  fain  have  flowers  without  the  seed,  the 
child  without  gestation.  Art,  it  would  seem,  is  to  accom- 
plish ivhat  nature  cannot. 


2  THE  QUEST  OP  THE  ABSOLUTE 

It  SO  happens  that  human  life  in  all  its  aspects,  wide  or 
narrow,  is  so  intimately  connected  with  architecture,  that  with 
a  certain  amount  of  observation  we  can  usually  reconstract 
a  bygone  society  from  the  remains  of  its  public  monuments. 
From  relics  of  household  stuff,  we  can  imagine  its  owners 
"in  their  habit  as  they  lived."  Archgeologj^  in  fact,  is  to  the 
body  social  somewhat  as  comparative  anatomy  is  to  animal 
organizations.  A  complete  social  system  is  made  clear  to  us 
by  a  bit  of  mosaic,  just  as  a  whole  pa^t  order  of  things  is 
implied  by  the  skeleton  of  an  ichthyowaiirus.  Beholding  the 
cause,  we  guess  the  effect,  even  as  we  proceed  from  the  effect 
to  the  cause,  one  deduction  folloving  another  until  a  chain 
of  evidence  is  complete,  until  tht"  man  of  science  raises  up  a 
whole  bygone  world  from  the  dead,  and  discovers  for  us  not 
only  the  features  of  the  Pastj  but  even  the  warts  upon  those 
features. 

Hence,  no  doubt,  the  prodigious  interest  which  people  take 
in  descriptions  of  architecture  so  long  as  the  writer  keeps 
hia  own  idiosyncrasies  out  of  the  text  and  does  not  obscure 
the  facts  with  theories  of  his  own;  for  every  one,  by  a 
simple  process  of  deduction,  can  call  up  the  past  for  himself 
as  he  reads.  Human  experience  varies  so  little,  that  the  past 
seems  strangely  like  the  presenr;  and  when  we  learn  what 
has  been,  it  not  seldom  happens  that  we  also  behold  plainly 
what  shall  be  again.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  we  can  seldom  see 
a  picture  or  a  description  of  any  place  wherein  the  current 
of  human  life  has  once  flowed,  without  being  put  in  mind  of 
our  own  personal  experience,  our  broken  resolutions,  or  our 
blossoming  hopes;  and  the  contrast  between  the  present,  in 
which  our  heart's  desire  is  never  given  to  us,  and  the  future, 
when  our  wishes  may  be  fulfilled,  is  an  inexhaustible  source 
of  melancholy  or  delightful  musings.  How  is  it  that  Flemish 
art,  with  its  pictures  of  Flemish  life,  makes  an  almost  ir- 
resistible appeal  to  our  feelings  whenever  the  little  details  are 
faithfully  rendered?  Perhaps  the  secret  of  the  charm  lies 
in  this — that  there  seems  less  uncertainty  and  perplexity  in 
this  matter-of-fact  life  than  in  any  otlier.     Such  art  could 


THE  QUEST  OP  THE  ABSOLUTE  t 

hardly  exist  without  the  opulent  comfort  which  comes  of 
a  prosperity  of  long  use  and  wont ;  it  depicts  an  existence  peace- 
ful to  the  verge  of  beatitude,  wiih  all  its  complicated  family 
ties  and  domestic  festivals;  but  it  i^  no  less  the  expression 
of  a  tranquillity  wcllnigh  monotonous,  of  a  prosperity  which 
frankly  finds  its  happiness  in  self-indulgence,  which  has  noth- 
ing left  to  wish  for,  because  its  every  desire  is  gratified  as  soon 
as  it  is  formed.  Even  passionate  temperaments,  that  measure 
the  force  of  life  by  the  tumult  of  the  soul,  cannot  see  these 
placid  pictures  and  feel  unmoved;  it  is  only  shallow  people 
who  think  that  because  the  pulse  beats  so  steadily  the  heart  is 
cold. 

The  energy  that  expends  itself  in  a  sudden  and  violent  out- 
break produces  a  far  greater  effect  on  the  popular  imagina- 
tion than  an  equal  force  exerted  slowly  and  persistently.  The 
crowd  have  neither  the  time  nor  the  patience  to  estimate  an 
enormous  power  which  is  uniformly  exerted;  they  do  not  re- 
flect on  appearances;  they  are  borne  too  swiftly  along  the 
current  of  life;  it  is  therefore  only  transcendent  passion  that 
makes  any  impression  upon  them,  and  the  great  artist  is 
most  extolled  when  he  exceeds  the  limits  of  perfection: 
Michael  Angelo,  Bianca  Cappello,  Mademoiselle  de  la 
Valliere,  Beethoven,  Paganini, — ^you  may  pass  their  names  in 
review.  It  is  only  a  rare  and  great  power  which  knows  that 
there  must  be  no  overstepping  of  the  limit  line,  that  sets  in 
the  first  place  that  quality  of  symmetry,  that  completeness 
which  stamps  a  perfect  work  of  art  with  the  profound  re- 
pose which  ha€  so  strong  a  charm  for  those  who  are  capable 
of  recognizing  it.  But  the  life  adopted  by  this  practical 
people  is  in  all  respects  the  ideal  life  of  the  citizen  as  con- 
ceived of  by  the  lower  classes;  it  is  a  bourgeois  paradise  in 
which  nothing  is  lacking  to  fill  the  measure  of  their  felicity. 

A  highly  refined  materialism  is  the  distinguishing  charac- 
teristic of  Flemish  life.  There  is  something  dull,  dreary, 
and  unimaginative  about  English  "comfort;"  but  a  Flemish 
interior,  with  its  glowing  colors,  is  a  delight  to  the  eyes,  and 
there  is  a  blithe  simplicity  about  the  homeliness  of  Flemish 


4  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

life;  evidently  the  burden  of  toil  is  not  too  heavily  felt,  and 
the  tobacco-pipe  shows  that  the  Flemings  have  grasped  and 
applied  the  Neapolitan  doctrine  of  far  niente,  while  a  tran- 
quil appreciation  of  art  and  beauty  in  their  surroundings 
is  no  less  evident.  In  the  temper  of  the  people,  indeed, 
there  are  two  of  the  most  essential  conditions  for  the  cultiva- 
tion of  art:  patience,  and  that  capacity  for  taking  pains 
which  is  necessary  if  the  work  of  the  artist  is  to  live;  these 
are  pre-eminently  the  characteristics  of  the  patient  and 
painstaking  Fleming.  The  magical  splendor,  the  subtle 
beauty  of  poetry,  are  attainments  impossible  for  patience 
and  conscientiousness,  you  think  ?  Their  life  in  Flanders  must 
be  as  monotonously  level  as  the  lowlands  of  Holland,  and 
as  dreary  as  their  clouded  skies !  But  it  is  nothing  of  the 
kind.  The  power  of  civilization  has  been  brought  to  bear  in 
every  direction — even  the  effects  of  the  climate  have  been 
modified. 

If  you  notice  the  differences  between  the  products  of  various 
parts  of  the  globe,  it  surprises  you  at  first  that  the  prevailing 
tints  of  the  temperate  zones  should  be  grays  and  tawny- 
browns,  while  the  brilliant  colors  are  confined  to  tropical  re- 
gions— a  natural  law  which  applies  no  less  to  habits  of  life. 
But  Flanders,  with  her  naturally  brown  and  sober  hues,  has 
learned  how  to  brighten  the  naturally  foggy  and  sullen 
atmosphere  in  the  course  of  many  a  political  revolution.  From 
her  old  lords,  the  Dukes  of  Burgundy,  she  passed  to  the 
Kings  of  Spain  and  France ;  she  has  been  forced  to  seek  allies 
in  Holland  and  in  Germany,  and  Flemish  life  bears  witness 
to  all  these  changes.  There  are  traces  of  Spanish  dominion 
in  their  lavish  use  of  scarlet,  of  lustrous  satins,  in  the  bold 
designs  of  their  tapestry,  in  their  drooping  feathers  and 
mandolins,  in  their  stately  and  ceremonious  customs.  From 
Venice,  in  exchange  for  their  linen  and  laces,  they  received 
the  glasses  of  fantastic  form  in  which  the  wine  seems  to  glow 
with  a  richer  color.  From  Austria  they  received  the  tradition 
of  the  grave  and  deliberate  diplomacy  which,  to  quote  the 
popular  adage,  "made  three  steps  in  a  bushel  basket." 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE   'iBSOLUTB  5 

Their  trade  with  the  Indies  has  brought  them  in  abun- 
dance the  grotesque  inventions  of  China  and  the  marvels  of 
Japan.  But  with  all  their  reeeptiveness,.  their  power  of 
absorbing  everything,  of  giving  out  nothing,  and  of  patiently 
enduring  any  yoke,  Flanders  could  hardly  be  regarded  as 
anything  but  a  European  curiosity  shop,  a  mere  confusion  of 
nationalities,  until  the  discovery  of  tobacco  inaugurated  a 
new  era.  Then  the  national  character  was  fused  and  formed 
out  of  all  these  scattered  elements,  and  the  features  of  the 
first  Fleming  looked  forth  at  last  upon  the  world  through 
a  cloud  of  tobacco-smoke.  Ever  since  that  time — no  matter 
for  their  frontiers  and  their  lands  divided  piecemeal — there 
is  no  question  of  the  solidarity  of  the  Flemings ;  they  are  one 
nation,  thanks  to  the  tankard  and  the  tobacco-pipe. 

So  Flanders,  with  its  practical  turn,  has  constantly  as- 
similated the  intellectual  and  material  wealth  of  its  masters 
and  neighbors,  until  the  country,  originally  so  dreary  and 
unromantic,  has  recast  its  life  on  a  model  of  its  own  choos- 
ing, acquiring  the  habits  and  manners  best  suited  to  the 
Flemish  temperament  without  apparently  losing  its  own  in- 
dividuality or  independence.  The  art  of  Flanders,  for  in- 
stance, did  not  strive  after  ideal  forms;  it  was  content  to 
reproduce  the  real  as  it  had  never  been  reproduced  before. 
It  is  useless  to  ask  this  country  of  monumental  poetry  for 
the  verve  of  comedy,  for  dramatic  action,  for  musical  genius, 
for  the  bolder  flights  of  the  epic  or  the  ode ;  its  bent  is  rather 
for  experimental  science,  for  lengthy  disputations,  for  work 
that  demands  time,  and  smells  somewhat  of  the  lamp.  All 
their  researches  are  of  a  practical  kind,  and  must  conduce  to 
physical  well-being.  They  look  at  facts  and  see  nothing  be- 
yond them;  thought  must  bear  the  yoke  and  be  subservient 
to  the  needs  of  life;  it  must  occupy  itself  with  realities,  and 
never  soar  above  or  beyond  them.  Their  sole  conception  of  a 
national  career  was  a  sort  of  political  thrift,  their  force  in 
insurrection  was  the  outcome  of  an  energetic  desire  to  have 
sufficient  elbow-room  at  table  and  to  take  their  ease  beneath 
the  eaves  of  their  steedes. 


0  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

It  was  this  love  of  comfort,  together  with  the  independent 
attitude  of  mind  which  is  a  result  of  prosperity,  that  led 
them  first  to  feel  that  desire  for  liberty  which,  later  on,  was 
to  set  all  Europe  in  a  ferment.  Moreover,  there  is  a  dogged 
tenacity  about  a  Fleming  and  a  fixity  of  idea  which  makes 
him  grow  dangerous  in  the  defence  of  his  rights.  They  are 
a  thorough  people ;  and  whether  it  is  a  question  of  architecture 
or  furniture,  of  dykes  or  agriculture  or  insurrection,  they 
never  do  things  by  halves.  No  one  can  approach  them  in 
anything  they  set  themselves  to  do.  The  manufacture  of 
lace,  involving  the  patient  cultivation  of  flax  and  the  still 
more  patient  labor  of  the  worker,  together  with  the  industry 
of  the  linen  weaver,  have  been  the  sources  of  their  wealth  from 
one  generation  to  another. 

If  you  wished  to  paint  Stability  incarnate,  perhaps  you 
could  not  do  better  than  take  some  good  burgomaster  of  the 
Low  Countries  for  model ;  a  man  not  lacking  in  heroism,  and, 
as  has  often  been  seen,  ready  to  die  in  his  citizen  fashion  an 
obscure  death  for  the  rights  of  his  Hansa. 

But  the  grace  and  poetry  of  this  patriarchal  existence  is 
naturally  revealed  in  a  description  of  one  of  the  last  remain- 
mg  houses,  which  at  the  time  when  this  story  begins  still  pre- 
served the  traditions  and  the  characteristics  of  that  life  in 
Douai. 

Of  all  places  in  the  department  of  the  Nord,  Douai  (alas !) 
is  the  town  which  is  being  modernized  most  rapidly ;  modern 
innovations  are  bringing  about  a  revolution  there.  Old 
buildings  are  disappearing  day  by  day,  old-world  ways  are 
almost  forgotten  in  the  widespread  zeal  for  social  progress. 
Douai  now  takes  its  tone,  its  ways  of  life,  and  its  fashions 
from  Paris;  in  Douai  there  will  soon  be  little  left  of  the  old 
Flemish  tradition  save  its  assiduous  and  cordial  hospitality, 
together  with  the  courtesy  of  Spain,  the  opulence  and 
cleanliness  of  Holland.  The  old  brick-built  houses  are  being 
replaced  by  hotels  with  white  stone  facings.  Substantial 
Batavian  comfort  is  disappearing  to  make  way  for  elegant 
frivolity  imported  from  France. 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  1 

The  house  in  which  the  events  took  place,  which  are  to 
be  described  in  the  course  of  this  story,  was  almost  half-way 
down  the  Eue  de  Paris,  and  has  borne  in  Douai,  for  more 
than  two  hundred  years,  the  name  of  the  Maison  Claes. 

The  Van  Claes  had  formerly  been  among  the  most  cele- 
brated of  the  families  of  craftsmen  who  fovmded  the  com- 
mercial prosperity  of  the  Netherlands.  For  many  genera- 
tions Claes  succeeded  Claes  as  the  Dean  of  the  great  and  pow- 
erful Guild  of  Weavers  in  Ghent.  When  Charles  V.  endeavored 
to  deprive  the  city  of  its  privileges  and  Ghent  rose  in  revolt, 
the  wealthiest  of  the  Claes  found  himself  so  deeply  compro- 
mised that,  foreseeing  the  inevitable  end  and  the  fate  re- 
served for  him  and  his  companions,  he  sent  away  his  wife 
and  children  and  valuables  under  a  French  escort,  before 
the  city  was  invested  by  the  Imperial  troops.  Events  proved 
that  the  fears  of  the  Dean  of  the  Guild  were  but  too  well 
founded.  When  the  city  capitulated,  he  and  some  few  fellow- 
citizens  were  excepted  by  name  from  the  general  amnesty,  and 
the  defender  of  the  rights  and  privileges  of  Ghent  was 
hanged  as  a  rebel  against  the  Empire.  The  death  of  Claes 
and  his  companions  bore-  its  fruits;  in  the  years  to  come 
these  useless  cruelties  were  to  cost  the  King  of  Spain  the 
best  part  of  the  Netherlands.  Of  all  seed  sown  on  earth, 
the  blood  of  the  martyrs  in  the  surest,  and  the  harvest  follows 
soonest  upon  the  sowing. 

While  Philip  II.  visited  the  sins  of  revolted  Ghent  upon 
its  children's  children,  and  ruled  Douai  with  a  rod  of  iron, 
the  Claes  (whose  vast  fortunes  were  unimpaired)  connected 
themselves  by  marriage  with  the  elder  branch  of  the  noble 
house  of  Molina,  an  alliance  which  repaired  the  fortunes  of 
that  illustrious  family,  and  enabled  them  to  purchase  back 
their  estates;  and  the  broad  lands  of  Nourho,  in  the  king- 
dom of  Leon,  came  to  support  an  empty  title.  After  this, 
the  course  of  the  family  fortunes  was  sufficiently  uneventful 
until  the  beginning  of  the  nineteenth  century,  when  the  fam- 
ily of  Claes,  or  rather  the  Douai  branch  of  it,  was  represented 
in  the  person  of  M.  Balthazar  Claes-Molina,  Count  of  Nourho, 


8  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

who  preferred  to  style  himself  simply  Balthazar  Claes.  Oi 
all  the  vast  wealth  accumulated  by  his  ancestors  who  had  kept 
so  many  looms  at  work,  and  set  in  motion  so  many  wheels  of 
commerce,  there  remained  to  Balthazar  an  income  of  about 
fifteen  thousand  livres,  derived  from  landed  property  in  and 
around  Douai,  the  house  in  the  Rue  de  Paris,  and  its  furni- 
ture, which  was  worth  a  little  fortune.  As  for  the  estates 
in  Leon,  they  had  caused  a  lawsuit  between  Molina  of  Flan- 
ders and  Molina  of  Spain.  The  Molinas  of  Leon  gained  the 
day,  and  assumed  the  title  of  Counts  of  j^ourho,  although 
in  truth  it  belonged  to  the  elder  branch,  the  Flemish  Claes; 
but  bourgeois  vanity  in  the  Belgian  house  rose  superior  to 
Castilian  pride. 

When,  therefore,  formal  designations  were  registered,  Bal- 
thazar Claes  put  off  the  rags  of  Spanish  nobility  to  shine 
with  all  the  lustre  of  his  descent  from  citizens  of  Ghent.  The 
instinct  of  patriotism  was  so  strong  in  the  exiled  families,  that 
until  the  very  end  of  the  eighteenth  century  the  Claes  re- 
mained faithful  to  family  traditions,  manners,  and  customs. 
They  only  married  into  the  most  strictly  bourgeois  families, 
requiring  a  certain  number  of  al.dermeu,  burgomasters,  or 
the  like  civic  dignitaries  among  the  ancestors  of  the  bride- 
elect  before  receiving  her  among  them.  Now  and  then  a  Claes 
would  seek  a  wife  in  Bruges  or  Ghent,  or  as  far  away  as  Liege, 
or  even  in  Holland,  that  so  the  domestic  traditions  might 
be  kept  up.  Their  circle  became  gradually  more  and  more 
restricted,  until  towards  the  end  of  the  last  century  it  was 
limited  to  some  seven  or  eight  families  of  municipal  nobility, 
wearers  of  heavy-hanging,  toga-like  cloaks,  who  combined  the 
dignified  gravity  of  the  magistrate  with  that  of  the  Spanish 
grandee,  and  whose  manner  of  life  and  habits  were  in  har- 
mony with  their  appearance.  The  family  of  Claes  was  looked 
on  by  the  rest  of  the  citizens  with  a  kind  of  awe  that  was  al- 
most superstitious.  The  unswerving  loyalty,  the  spotless  in- 
tegrity of  the  Claes,  together  with  their  staid,  impressive  de- 
meanor under  all  circumstances,  had  given  rise  to  a  sort 
of  legend  of  the  Claes,  and  the  "Maiaou  Claes"  was  as  much 


THE  QUEST  OP  THE  ABSOLUTE  9 

Pii  institution  in  the  city  as  the  Fete  de  Gayant.  The  spirit 
of  old  Flanders  seemed  to  fill  the  old  house  in  the  Eue  de 
Paris,  in  which  lovers  of  municipal  antiquity  would  find  a 
perfect  example  of  the  unpretending  houses  which  the  wealthy 
burghers  of  the  Middle  Ages  built  for  themselves  to  dwell  in. 

The  principal  adornment  of  the  house  front  was  the  great 
doorway  with  its  folding  leaves  of  oak,  studded  with  large 
nails,  arranged  in  groups  of  five;  in  the  centre  the  Claes  had 
proudly  carved  their  arms,  two  spindles  conjoined.  The 
pointed  archway  was  of  sandstone,  and  was  surmounted  by 
a  little  statuette  of  St.  Genevieve  with  her  spindle,  set  in  a 
sort  of  shrine  with  a  cross  above  it.  The  delicate  carving 
about  the  shrine  and  the  doorway  had  grown  somewhat  darker 
by  the  lapse  of  time ;  but  so  carefully  had  it  been  kept  by  the 
owners  of  the  house,  that  every  detail  was  visible  at  a  pass- 
ing glance.  The  clustered  shafts  in  the  jambs  on  either  side 
the  doorway  had  preserved  their  dark  gray  color,  and  shone 
as  if  their  surfaces  had  been  polished.  The  windows  were  all 
alike.  The  sill  was  supported  by  a  richly-carved  bracket,  the 
window  frame  was  of  white  stone  and  in  the  form  of  a  cross, 
so  that  the  window  itself  was  divided  into  four  unequal  parts, 
the  two  lower  lights  being  nearly  twice  the  size  of  the  upper. 
Each  of  the  upj^er  divisions  was  surmounted  by  an  arch, 
which  sprang  from  the  height  of  the  central  mullion.  These 
arches  consisted  of  a  triple  row  of  bricks,  each  row  jutting 
out  above  the  one* beneath  it  by  way  of  ornament;  the  bricks 
in  each  row,  moreover,  alternately  projected  and  receded 
about  an  inch,  so  as  to  form  a  sort  of  checkered  pattern.  The 
small  lozenge-shaped  panes  were  set  in  exceedingly  slender 
reticulating  bars,  which  were  painted  red. 

For  the  sake  of  added  strength  a  course  of  white  stone  was 
built  at  intervals  into  the  brick  walls,  which  were  jointed  with 
white  mortar,  and  the  corners  of  the  house  were  constructed 
of  white  stone  quoins. 

There  were  two  windows  on  the  ground  floor,  one  on  either 
side  of  the  door,  five  in  the  first  story,  and  but  three  in  the 
second,  while  the  third  immediately  beneath  the  roof  was 


10  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

lighted  by  a  single  circular  window,  divided  into  five  com- 
partments, and  faced  with  sandstone.  This  window  was  set 
in  the  centre  of  the  orable  like  a  rose  window  over  the  arched 
gateway  of  a  cathedral. 

The  weathercock  on  the  ridge  of  the  roof  was  a  spindle 
tilled  with  flax.  The  two  sides  of  the  great  gable  rose  step- 
wise from  the  height  of  the  first  story,  and  at  this  departing 
point  a  grotesque  gargoyle  on  either  side  discharged  the  rain- 
water from  the  gutters.  All  round  the  base  of  the  house 
there  ran  a  projecting  course  of  sandstone  like  a  step. 
Finally,  on  either  side,  between  the  window  and  the  door  lay 
a  trap-door,  heavily  bound  and  hinged  with  iron  scroll-work, 
a  relic  of  the  days  of  yore. 

Ever  since  the  house  had  been  built  the  front  had  been 
carefully  scoured  twice  a  year ;  not  a  particle  of  mortar  came 
loose  or  fell  out  but  was  immediately  replaced.  The  costliest 
marbles-  in  Paris  are  not  kept  so  clean  and  so  free  from 
dust  as  the  window-bars,  sills,  and  outside  stonework  of  this 
Flemish  dwelling.  The  whole  house  front  was  in  perfect 
preservation.  The  color  of  the  surface  of  the  brick  might  be 
somewhat  darkened  by  time,  but  it  was  as  carefully  kept  as 
an  old  picture  or  some  book-lover's  cherished  folio, — treasures 
that  would  never  grow  old  were  it  not  for  the  noxious  gases 
distilled  by  our  atmosphere,  which  no  less  threaten  the  lives 
of  their  owners.  The  clouded  skies  of  Flanders,  the  damp- 
ness of  the  climate,  the  absence  of  light  or  air  caused  by  the 
somewhat  narrow  street,  soon  dimmed  the  glories  of  this 
periodically  renewed  cleanliness,  and,  moreover,  gave  the 
house  a  dreary  and  depressing  look.  A  poet  would  have  wel- 
comed a  few  blades  of  grass  in  the  openwork  of  the  little 
shrine,  and  some  mosses  on  the  surface  of  the  sandstone ;  he 
might  have  wished  for  a  cleft  or  crack  here  and  there  in  those 
two  orderly  rows  of  bricks,  so  that  a  swallow  might  find  a 
place  in  which  to  build  her  nest  beneath  the  red  triple  arches 
of  the  windows.  There  was  an  excessive  neatness  and 
smoothness  about  the  house  front,  worn  with  repeated  scour- 
ings;  an  air  of  sedate  propriety  and  of  grim  respectability 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  11 

which  would  have  driven  a  Romantic  writer  out  of  the  oppo- 
site house  if  he  had  been  so  ill  advised  as  to  take  up  his  abode 
there. 

When  a  visitor  had  pulled  the  wrought-iron  bell-handle 
that  hung  by  the  side  of  the  door,  and  a  maid-servant  from 
some  inner  region  had  opened  the  heavy  folding-doors,  they 
fell  to  again  with  a  clang  that  echoed  up  into  the  lofty  roof 
of  a  great  paved  gallery,  and  died  away  in  remote  murmurs 
through  the  house.  You  would  have  thought  that  the  doors 
had  been  made  of  bronze.  From  the  gallery,  which  was  al- 
ways cool,  with  its  walls  painted  to  resemble  marble,  and 
its  paved  floor  strewn  with  fine  sand,  you  entered  a  large 
square  inner  court  paved  with  glazed  tiles  of  a  greenish  color. 
To  the  left  lay  the  kitchens,  laundry,  and  servants'  hall ;  to 
the  right  the  wood-house,  the  coal-cellars,  and  various  of- 
fices. Every  window  and  door  '/as  ornamented  with  carving, 
which  was  kept  exquisitely  spotless  and  free  from  dust.  The 
whole  place  was  shut  in  by  four  red  walls  striped  with  bars  of 
white  stone,  so  that  the  daylight  which  penetrated  into  it 
seemed  in  its  passage  to  take  a  faint  red  tint,  which  was  re- 
flected by  every  figure,  and  gave  a  mysterious  charm  and 
strange  unfamiliar  look  to  every  least  detail. 

On  the  further  side  of  this  courtyard  stood  that  portion  of 
the  house  in  which  the  family  lived,  the  quartier  de  derriere, 
as  they  call  it  in  Flanders,  a  building  exactly  similar  to 
the  one  facing  the  street.  The  first  room  on  the  ground 
floor  was  a  parlor  lighted  by  four  windows ;  two  looked  out 
upon  the  courtyard,  and  two  upon  a  garden,  a  space  of 
ground  about  as  large  as  that  on  which  the  house  was  built. 
Access  to  this  garden  and  to  the  courtyard  was  given  bv  two 
opposite  glass  doors,  which  occupied  the  same  relative  posi- 
tion as  the  street  door;  so  that  as  soon  as  a  stranger  entered, 
the  whole  house  lay  before  him,  as  well  as  a  distant  vista  of 
the  greenery  at  the  further  end  of  the  garden  beyond  it. 

Visitors  were  received  in  that  portion  of  the  house  which 
looked  out  upon  the  street,  and  strangers  were  lodged  in 
apartments  in  th-c  second  story;  but  though  these  rooms  con- 


12  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

tained  works  of  art  and  costly  furniture,  there  was  nothing 
which,  in  the  eyes  of  Claes  himself,  could  be  compared  with 
the  art  treasures  that  filled  the  rooms  which  had  been  the 
centre  of  family  life  for  centuries,  and  a  discerning  taste 
would  have  confirmed  his  judgment.  The  historian  should 
not  omit  to  record  of  the  Claes  who  died  for  the  cause  of 
freedom  in  Ghent,  that  he  had  accumulated  nearly  forty  thou- 
sand silver  marks,  gained  by  the  manufacture  of  sail-cloths 
for  the  all-powerful  navy  of  Venice.  The  Flemish  craftsman 
was  a  man  of  substance,  and  had  for  his  friend  the  celebrated 
wood-carver  Van  Huysium  of  Bruges.  Many  times  the  artist 
had  had  recourse  to  his  friend's  purse.  When  Ghent  rose 
in  revolt.  Van  Huysium,  then  himself  a  wealthy  man,  had 
secretly  carved  for  his  old  friend  a  piece  of  paneling  of 
massive  ebony,  on  which  he  had  wrought  the  story  of  Van 
Artevelde,  the  brewer  who  for  a  little  while  ruled  over  Flan- 
ders. This  piece  of  wood-work  consisted  of  sixty  panels,  and 
contained  about  fourteen  hundred  figures;  it  was  considered 
to  be  Van  Huysium's  masterpiece. 

When  Charles  V.  made  up  his  mind  to  celebrate  his  entry 
into  the  city  which  gave  him  birth  by  hanging  twenty-six 
of  its  burghers,  the  victims  were  consigned  to  the  custody 
of  a  captain,  who  (so  it  was  said)  had  offered  to  connive  at 
Claes'  escape  in  return  for  these  panels  of  Van  Huysium's, 
but  the  weaver  had  previously  sent  them  into  France. 

The  parlor  in  the  house  in  the  Eue  de  Paris  was  wainscoted 
entirely  Mnth  these  panels.  Van  Huysium,  out  of  respect 
for  the  memory  of  the  martyr,  had  come  himself  to  set  them 
in  their  wooden  framework,  painted  with  ultramarine,  and 
covered  with  a  gilded  network,  so  that  this  is  the  most  com- 
plete example  of  a  master  whose  least  fragments  are  now 
worth  their  weight  in  gold.  Titian's  portrait  of  Claes  in 
the  robes  that  he  wore  as  President  of  the  Tribunal  des 
Parchons  looked  down  from  the  chimney-piece;  he  still 
seemed  to  be  the  head  of  the  family  which  regarded  him  with 
veneration  as  its  great  man.  The  chimney-piece,  itself 
originally  plain  stone,  had  been  reconstructed  of  white  marble 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  13 

during  the  eighteenth  century.  A  venerable  timepiece  stood 
upon  the  ledge  between  two  five-branched  candle  sconces, 
tortuous,  elaborate,  and  in  the  worst  possible  taste,  but  all 
of  massive  silver.  The  four  windows  were  draped  with  crim- 
son brocaded  damask  curtains,  covered  with  a  dark  flowered 
pattern,  and  lined  with  white  silk;  the  furniture  had  been 
re-covered  with  the  same  material  in  the  time  of  Louis  XIV. 
The  polished  'floor  was  evidently  modern — large  squares  of 
white  wood,  with  slips  of  oak  inserted  between  them,  but  the 
ceiling  yet  preserved  the  peculiarly  deep  hues  of  Dutch  oak. 
Perhaps  it  had  been  respected  because  Van  Huysium  had 
carved  the  masks  on  the  medallions  bordered  with  scrolls 
which  adorned  it. 

In  each  of  the  four  corners  of  the  parlor  stood  a  short  col- 
umn, with  a  five-branched  silver  sconce  upon  it,  like  those 
upon  the  chimney-piece,  and  a  round  table  occupied  the 
centre  of  the  room.  Several  card-tables  were  ranged  along 
the  walls  with  much  precision ;  and  on  the  white  marble  slabs 
of  two  gilded  console  tables  stood,  at  the  time  when  this  story 
begins,  two  glass  globes  full  of  water,  in  which  gold  and  sil- 
ver fish  were  swimming  above  a  bed  of  sand  and  shells. 

The  room  was  sombre,  and  yet  aglow  with  color.  The  ceil- 
ing of  dark  oak  seemed  to  absorb  the  light,  and  to  give  none 
of  it  back  into  the  room.  If  the  sunlight  pouring  in  from 
the  windows  that  looked  out  into  the  garden  scintillated 
from  every  polished  ebony  figure  on  the  opposite  wall,  the 
light  admitted  from  the  courtyard  was  always  so  faint  that 
even  the  gold  network  on  the  other  side  looked  dim  in  the 
perpetual  twilight. 

A  bright  day  brought  out  all  the  glories  of  the  place ;  but, 
for  the  most  part,  its  hues  were  subdued  and  soft,  and  like 
the  sombre  browns  and  reds  of  autumn  forests,  they  took 
brighter  hues  only  in  the  sun.  It  is  unnecessary  to  describe 
the  "Maison  Claes"  at  further  length.  Many  of  the  scenes 
in  the  course  of  this  story  will,  of  course,  take  place  in  other 
parts  of  the  house,  but  it  will  be  sufficient  for  the  present 
to  have  some  idea  of  its  general  arrangement. 


14  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

On  a  Sunday  afternoon  towards  the  end  of  August,  in  the 
year  1812,  a  woman  was  sitting  in  a  large  easy-chair  by  one 
of  the  windows  that  looked  out  on  the  garden.  It  was  after 
the  time  of  vespers.  The  rays  of  sunlight  falling  en  the  side 
of  the  house  slanted  across  the  room  in  broad  beams,  played 
with  fantastic  effect  on  the  opposite  wall,  and  died  away 
among  the  sombre  ebony  figures  of  the  panels;  but  the 
woman  sat  in  the  purple  shadow  cast  by  the  damask  curtain. 
A  painter  of  mediocre  ability  could  not  have  failed  to  make 
a  striking  picture  if  he  had  faithfully  portra3'ed  a  face  with 
*so  sad  and  wistful  an  expression.  The  woman  was  sitting 
with  her  feet  stretched  out  before  her  in  a  listless  attitude; 
apparently  she  had  lost  all  consciousness  of  her  physical  ex- 
istence, and  one  all-absorbing  thought  had  complete  posses- 
sion of  her  mind,  a  thought  which  seemed  to  open  up  the 
paths  of  the  future  just  as  a  ray  of  sunlight  piercing  through 
the  clouds  lights  up  a  gleaming  path  on  the  horizon  of  the 
sea.  Her  hands  hung  over  the  arms  of  the  chair;  her  head,, 
as  though  it  bore  a  load  of  thought  too  heavy,  had  fallen 
back  against  the  cushions.  She  wore  a  loose  cambric  gown, 
very  simply  made;  the  scarf  about  her  shoulders  was  care- 
lessly knotted  on  her  breast,  so  that  the  lines  of  her  figure 
were  almost  concealed.  Apparently  she  preferred  to  call  at- 
tention to  her  face  rather  than  to  her  person ;  and  it  was  a 
face  which,  even  if  it  had  not  been  brought  into  strong  re- 
lief by  the  light,  would  have  arrested  and  fixed  the  attention 
of  any  beholder,  for  its  expression  of  dull,  hopeless  misery 
would  have  struck  the  most  heedless  child.  Nothing  is  more 
terrible  to  witness  than  such  anguish  as  this  in  one  who 
seldom  gives  way  to  it ;  the  burning  tears  that  fell  from  time 
to  time  seemed  like  the  fier}^  lava  flood  of  a  volcano.  So 
might  a  dying  mother  weep  who  is  compelled  to  leave  her 
children  in  the  lowest  depths  of  wretchedness  without  a  single 
human  protector. 

The  lady  seemed  to  be  about  forty  years  of  age.  She  was 
more  nearly  beautiful  now  than  she  had  ever  been  in  her  girl- 
hood.    Clearly  she  was  no  daughter  of  the  land.     Her  hair 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  15 

was  thick  and  black,  and  fell  in  curls  over  her  shoulders  and 
about  her  face;  her  forehead  was  very  prominent,  narrow 
at  the  temples,  sallow  in  hue,  but  the  black  eyes  flashed  fire 
from  beneath  her  brows,  and  she  had  the  dark  pallor  of  the 
typical  Spaniard.  The  perfect  oval  of  her  face  attracted  a 
second  glance;  the  ravages  of  smallpox  had  destroyed  the 
delicacy  of  its  outlines,  but  had  not  marred  its  graciousness 
and  dignity;  at  times  it  seemed  as  if  the  soul  had  power  to 
restore  to  it  all  its  pristine  purity  of  form.  If  pride  of  birth 
was  revealed  in  the  thick  tightly  folded  lips,  there  was  also* 
natural  kindliness  and  graciousness  in  their  expression;  but 
the  feature  which  gave  most  distinction  to  a  masculine  type 
of  face  was  an  aquiline  nose.  Its  curve  was  somewhat  too 
strongly  marked,  the  result,  apparently,  of  some  interior  de- 
fect; but  there  was  a  subtle  refinement  in  its  outlines,  in  the 
thin  septum  and  fine  transparent  nostrils  that  glowed  in  the 
light  with  a  bright  red.  She  was  a  woman  who  might,  or 
might  not,  be  considered  beautiful,  but  no  one  could  fail  to 
notice  the  vigorous  yet  feminine  head. 

She  was  short,  lame,  and  deformed;  she  had  married  later 
than  women  usually  do,  and  this  partly  because  it  was  in- 
sisted that  her  slow-wittedness  was  stupidity;  yet  more  than 
one  man  had  read  the  indications  of  ardent  passion  and  of  in- 
exhaustible tenderness  in  her  face,  and  had  fallen  completely 
under  the  spell  of  a  charm  that  was  difficult  to  reconcile  with 
so  many  defects.  She  bore  in  many  ways  a  strong  resemblance 
to  the  Spanish  grandee,  her  ancestor  the  Duke  of  Casa-Eeal. 
Perhaps  the  force  of  the  charm  which  romantic  natures  had 
erewhile  found  so  tyrannous,  the  power  of  a  fascination  that 
sways  men's  hearts,  but  is  powerless  to  rule  their  destinies, 
had  never  in  her  life  been  greater  than  now,  when  it  was 
wasted,  so  to  speak,  on  empty  space.  She  seemed  to  be  watch- 
ing the  gold  fish  in  the  glass  before  her,  but  in  truth  her  eyes 
saw  nothing,  and  she  raised  them  from  time  to  time,  as  if 
imploring  Heaven  in  despair ;  it  would  seem  that  such  trouble 
as  hers  could  be  confided  to  God  alone. 

The  room  was  perfectly  silent  save  for  the  chirping  of  the 


16  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

crickets  without;  the  shrill  notes  of  a  few  cicadas  came  in 
with  a  breath  of  hot  air  from  the  little  garden,  which  was 
like  a  furnace  in  the  afternoon  sun.  From  a  neighboring 
room  there  came  smothered  sounds;  silver  or  china  rattled, 
or  chairs  were  moved,  as  the  servants  laid  the  cloth  for  dinner. 

Suddenly  the  lady  started  and  seemed  to  listen;  she  took 
her  handkerchief,  dried  her  eyes,  and  endeavored  to  smile; 
so  successfully  did  she  efface  all  traces  of  sorrow,  that  from 
her  seeming  serenity  it  might  have  been  thought  that  she 
had  never  known  an  anxiety  or  a  care  in  her  life.  It  was 
the  sound  of  a  man's  footstep  that  had  wrought  the  change. 
It  echoed  in  the  long  gallery  built  over  the  kitchens  and  the 
servants'  quarters,  which  united  the  front  part  of  the  house 
with  the  back  portion  in  which  the  family  lived.  Whether 
it  was  because  weak  health  had  so  long  confined  her  to  the 
house  that  she  could  recognize  the  least  noise  in  it  at  once; 
or  because  a  highly-wrought  temperament  ever  on  the  watch 
can  detect  sounds  that  are  imperceptible  to  ordinary  ears ;  or 
because  nature,  in  compensation  for  so  many  physical  disad- 
vantages, had  bestowed  a  gift  of  sense-perception  seldom  ac- 
corded to  human  beings  apparently  more  happily  constituted ; 
this  sense  of  hearing  was  abnormally  acute  in  her.  The  sound 
of  the  footsteps  came  nearer  and  nearer.  And  soon,  not  only 
for  an  impassioned  soul  such  as  hers,  which  can  annihilate 
time  and  space  at  will  that  so  it  may  find  its  other  self,  but 
for  any  stranger,  a  man's  step  on  the  staircase  wliich  led  to 
the  parlor  was  audible  enough. 

There  was  something  in  the  sound  of  that  footstep  which 
would  have  struck  the  most  careless  mortal ;  it  was  impossible 
to  hear  it  with  indifference.  We  are  excited  by  the  mere 
sounds  of  hurry  or  flight;  when  a  man  springs  up  and  raises 
the  alarm  of  "Fire !"  his  feet  are  at  least  as  eloquent  as  his 
tongue,  and  the  impression  left  by  a  slow  measured  tread 
is  every  whit  as  powerful.  The  deliberate,  heavy,  lagging 
footfall  in  the  gallery  would  no  doubt  have  irritated  im- 
patient people ;  but  a  nervous  person,  or  an  observer  of  human 
nature,  could  scarcely  have  heard  it  without  feeling  a  thrill 


I'HE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  17 

of  something  very  like  dread.  Was  there  any  life  in  those 
feet  that  moved  so  mechanically  ?  It  was  a  dull,  heavy  sound, 
as  if  the  floor  boards  had  been  struck  by  an  iron  weight.  The 
slow,  uncertain  step  called  up  visions  of  a  man  bending  under 
a  load  of  years,  or  of  a  thinker  walking  majestically  beneath 
the  weight  of  worlds.  The  man  reached  the  lowest  stair,  and 
set  foot  upon  the  pavement  slowly  and  irresolutely.  In  the 
great  hall  he  paused  for  a  moment.  A  passage  led  thence  to 
the  servants'  quarters,  a  door  concealed  in  the  wainscot  gave 
admittance  to  the  parlor,  and  through  a  second  parallel  door 
you  entered  the  dining-room. 

A  light  tremor,  caused  by  a  sensation  like  an  electric  shock, 
ran  through  the  frame  of  the  woman  in  the  easy-chair;  but 
a  sweet  smile  trembled  on  her  lips,  her  face  lighted  up  with 
eager  expectation,  and  grew  fair  and  radiant  like  the  face  of 
an  Italian  Madonna.  She  summoned  all  her  strength,  and 
forced  back  her  terrors  into  some  inner  depth;  then  she 
turned  and  looked  towards  the  door  set  in  the  panels  in  the 
corner  of  the  parlor;  it  flew  open  so  suddenly  that  the  start- 
ling sound  was  quite  sufficient  to  account  for  and  to  cover  her 
agitation. 

Balthazar  Claes  appeared  and  made  several  paces  forward; 
he  either  .did  not  look  at  the  woman  in  the  low  chair,  or  if 
he  looked  at  her,  it  was  with  unseeing  eyes.  He  stood  up- 
right in  the  middle  of  the  parlor,  his  head  slightly  bent,  and 
supported  by  his  right  hand.  The  smile  faded  from  the 
woman's  face ;  her  heart  was  pierced  by  a  horrible  pang,  felt 
none  the  less  keenly  because  it  had  come  to  be  a  part  of  her 
daily  experience,  her  dark  brows  contracted  with  pain,  deep- 
ening lines  already  traced  there  by  the  frequent  expression 
of  strong  feeling,  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  which  she 
hastily  brushed  away,  as  she  looked  at  Balthazar. 

There  was  something  exceedingly  impressive  about  the 
head  of  the  house  oi  Claes.  In  his  younger  days  he  had 
borne  a  strong  resemblance  to  the  heroic  martyr  who  had 
threatened  to  play  the  part  of  Artevelde  and  defied  the 
Emperor,  Charles  V, ;  but  at  the  present  moment  the  man  of 


18  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

fifty  or  thereabouts  might  have  been  sixty  years  of  age  and 
more;  and  with  the  beginnings  of  a  premature  old  age,  the 
likeness  to  his  great-minded  ancestor  had  ceased.  His  tall 
figure  was  slightly  bent ;  perhaps  he  had  contracted  the  habit 
by  stooping  over  his  books,  or  perhaps  the  curvature  was  due 
to  the  weight  of  a  head  over-heavy  for  the  spine.  He  was 
broad-chested  and  square-shouldered;  his  lower  extremities, 
though  muscular,  were  thin;  j^ou  could  not  help  casting  about 
for  some  explanation  of  this  puzzling  singularity  in  a  frame 
which  evidently  had  once  been  perfectly  proportioned.  His 
thick,  fair  hair  fell  carelessly  over  his  shoulders  in  the  Ger- 
man fashion,  in  a  disorder  which  was  quite  in  keeping  with 
a  strange  air  of  slovenliness  and  general  neglect.  His  fore- 
head was  broad  and  high;  the  prominence  of  the  region  to 
which  Gall  has  assigned  Ideality  was  very  strongly  marked. 
The  clear,  dark-blue  eyes  seemed  to  have  a  power  of  keen  and 
quick  vision,  a  characteristic  often  noted  in  students  of  occult 
sciences.  The  shape  of  the  nose  had  doubtless  once  been  per- 
fect ;  it  was  very  long,  the  nostrils  had  apparently  grown  wider 
by  involuntary  tension  of  the  muscles  in  the  continual  ex- 
ercise of  the  sense  of  smell.  The  hollows  in  a  face  which  was 
beginning  to  age  seemed  all  the  deeper  by  force  of  contrast 
with  the  high  cheek-bones,  thickly  covered  with  short  hair. 
The  mouth  with  its  gracious  outlines  seemed,  as  it  were,  to  be 
imprisoned  between  the  nose  and  a  short,  sharply  tumed-up 
chin. 

Certain  theorists,  who  have  a  fancy  for  discerning  animal 
resemblances  in  human  countenances,  would  have  seen  in  the 
long,  rather  than  oval,  face  of  Balthazar  Claes  a  likeness  to 
the  head  of  a  horse.  There  was  no  softness  or  roundness 
about  its  outlines ;  the  skin  was  tightly  drawn  over  the  bones 
as  if  it  had  shrunk  under  the  scorching  influence  of  a  fire 
that  burned  within ;  there  were  moments  when  the  eyes  looked 
out  into  space  as  if  seeking  for  the  realization  of  his  hopes, 
and  at  such  times  this  fire  that  consumed  him  seemed  to 
escape  from  his  nostrils. 

There  are  deep  thoughts  which  seem  to  be  living  forces 


THE  QUEST  OP  THE  ABSOLUTE  19 

of  which  great  men  are  the  embodiment;  some  such  thought 
seemed  to  be  visibly  expressed  in  the  pale  face  with  its  deeply- 
carved  wrinkles,  to  have  scored  the  furrows  on  a  brow  like 
that  of  some  old  king  full  of  cares,  and  to  shine  forth 
most  clearly  from  the  brilliant  eyes ;  the  fire  in  them  seemed 
to  be  fed  by  the  temperate  life  which  is  the  result  of  the 
tyrannous  discipline  of  great  ideas,  and  by  the  fires  of  a 
mighty  intelligence.  They  were  deeply  set  and  surrounded 
by  dark  circles,  which  seemed  to  tell  of  long  vigils  and  of 
terrible  prostration  of  mind  consequent  on  reiterated  disap- 
pointments, of  hopes  that  sprang  up  anew  only  to  be  blighted, 
of  wear  and  tear  of  body  and  mind.  Art  and  Science  are 
jealous  divinities;  their  devotees  betray  themselves  by  un- 
mistakable signs.  There  was  a  dreamy  abstractedness  and 
aloofness  in  Balthazar  Claes'  manner  and  bearing  which  was 
quite  in  keeping  with  the  magnificent  head  so  lacking  in 
human  quality.  His  large  hands,  covered  with  hair,  were 
soiled ;  there  were  jet-black  lines  at  the  tips  of  the  long  finger 
nails.  There  was  an  air  of  slovenliness  about  the  master  of 
the  house  which  would  not  have  been  tolerated  in  any  of  its 
other  inmates. 

His  shoes  were  seldom  cleaned,  or  the  laces  were  broken 
or  missing.  His  black  cloth  breeches  were  covered  with  stains, 
buttons  were  lacking  on  his  waistcoat,  his  cravat  was  askew, 
his  coat  had  assumed  a  greenish  tint,  here  and  there  the  seams 
had  given  way;  everything  about  him,  down  to  the  smallest 
trifle,  combined  to  produce  an  uncouth  effect,  which  in  an- 
other would  have  indicated  the  lowest  depths  of  outcast 
misery,  but  in  Balthazar  Claes  it  was  the  neglect  of  genius. 

Vice  and  genius  bring  about  results  so  similar  that 
ordinary  people  are  often  misled  by  them.  What  is  genius 
but  a  form  of  excess  which  consumes  time  and  money  and 
health  and  strength?  It  is  an  even  shorter  road  to  the  hos- 
pital than  the  path  of  the  prodigal.  Men,  moreover,  appear 
to  pay  more  respect  to  vice  than  to  genius;  for  they  decline 
to  give  it  credit  or  credence.  It  would  seem  that  genius  con- 
!'erns  itself  with  aims  so  fax  remote,  that  society  is  shy  of  cast- 


20  THE  QUEST  OP  THE  ABSOLUT© 

ing  accounts  with  it  in  its  lifetime;  such  poverty  and 
wretchedness  are  clearly  unpardonable.  Society  prefers  to 
have  nothing  to  do  with  genius. 

Yet  there  were  moments  when  it  would  have  been  hard  to 
refuse  admiration  to  Balthazar  Claes — moments  when,  in 
spite  of  his  absent-mindedness  and  mysterious  preoccupa- 
tion, some  impulse  drew  him  to  his  fellows,  and  the  face  of 
the  thinker  was  lighted  up  by  a  kindly  thought  expressed 
in  the  eyes,  the  hard  light  in  them  disappeared,  and  he  looked 
round  him  and  returned  (so  to  speak)  to  life  and  its  realities ; 
at  such  times  there  was  an  attractive  beauty  in  his  face,  a 
gracious  spirit  looked  forth  from  it.  Any  one  who  saw  him 
then  would  regret  that  such  a  man  should  lead  the  life  of  a 
hermit,  and  add  that  "he  must  have  been  very  handsome  in 
his  youth."  A  vulgar  error.  Balthazar  Claes  had  never 
looked  more  interesting  than  at  this  moment.  Lavater  would 
certainly  have  studied  the  noble  head,  have  recognized  the 
unwearying  patience,  the  stainless  character,  the  steadfast 
loyalty  of  the  Fleming,  the  great  and  magnanimous  nature, 
the  power  of  passion  that  seemed  calm  because  it  was  strong. 
Such  a  man  would  have  been  a  constant  and  devoted  friend, 
his  morals  would  have  been  pure,  his  word  sacred;  all  these 
qualities  should  have  been  dedicated  to  the  service  of  his  coun- 
try, to  his  own  circle  of  friends,  and  to  his  family ;  it  was  the 
will  of  the  man  which  had  given  them  a  fatal  misdirection; 
and  the  citizen,  the  responsible  head  of  a  household  and  dis- 
poser of  a  large  fortune,  who  should  have  been  the  guide  of 
his  children  towards  a  fair  future,  lived  apart  in  a  world  of 
his  own  in  converse  with  a  familiar  spirit,  a  world  in  which 
his  duties  and  affections  counted  for  nothing.  A  priest 
would  have  seen  in  him  a  man  inspired  by  God,  an  artist 
would  have  hailed  him  as  a  great  master,  an  enthusiast 
might  have  taken  him  for  some  seer  after  the  pattern  of 
Swedenborg. 

As  he  stood  by  the  window,  his  ragged,  disordered,  and 
threadbare  costume  was  in  strange  contrast  with  the  graceful 
dainty  attire  of  the  womaai  "vho  watched  him  so  sadly.     A" 


THE  QUEST  OP  THE  ABSOLUTE  21 

nice  taste  in  dress  often  distinguishes  persons  of  mental 
ability  or  refinement  of  soul  who  suffer  from  bodily  deformity. 
They  are  conscious  that  their  beauty  is  the  beauty  of  mind 
and  soul,  and  are  content  to  dress  simply,  or  they  discover 
how  to  divert  attention  from  their  physical  defects  by  a 
studied  elegance  in  every  detail.  And  the  woman  in  the  low 
chair  had  not  only  a  generous  soul,  but  she  loved  Balthazar 
Claes  with  that  woman's  intuition  which  is  a  foretaste  of  the 
intelligence  of  angels.  She  had  been  brought  up  in  one  of 
the  noblest  families  of  Belgium,  so  that  even  if  her  taste  had 
not  been  instinctive  it  would  have  been  acquired ;  and,  tutored 
since  then  by  her  desire  to  please  the  eyes  of  the  man  she 
loved,  she  had  learned  to  dress  herself  admirably,  and  to 
adopt  a  style  which  subdued  the  effect  of  her  deformity. 
Moreover,  although  one  shoulder  was  certainly  larger  than 
the  other,  there  was  no  other  defect  in  her  figure.  She 
glanced  through  the  window  into  the  courtyard,  and  then  into 
the  garden,  as  if  to  make  sure  that  no  one  was  within  hear- 
ing, turned  meekly  to  Balthazar,  and  spoke  in  the  low  tones 
that  Flemish  women  use,  for  the  love  between  these  two  had 
long  since  conquered  Castilian  pride. 

"YovL  must  be  very  deep  in  your  work,  Balthazar?  This 
is  the  thirty-third  Sunday  since  you  have  been  to  mass  or 
vespers." 

Claes  made  no  reply.  His  wife  bowed  her  head,  clasped 
her  hands,  and  waited,  watching  him  the  while.  She  knew 
that  his  silence  was  due  neither  to  contempt  nor  to  indiffer- 
ence, but  to  the  tyranny  of  an  all-absorbing  thought.  In 
the  depths  of  some  natures  the  sensitive  delicacy  of  youth 
lingers  long  after  youth  has  departed,  and  Balthazar  Claes 
would  have  shrunk  from  uttering  any  thought  that  might 
vvound,  however  slightly,  a  woman  who  was  always  oppressed 
with  the  painful  consciousness  of  her  physical  deformity.  And 
this  dread  was  ever  present  with  him.  He  understood,  as  few 
men  do,  how  a  word  or  a  single  glance  has  power  to  efface  the 
happiness  of  whole  years;  nay,  that  such  words  have  a  more 
cruel  power,  because  they  are  utterly  at  variance  with  the 


22  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

constant  tenderness  of  the  past ;  for  we  are  so  made  that  out 
happiness  makes  us  more  keenly  sensitive  to  pain,  while  sor- 
row has  no  such  power  of  intensifying  a  transitory  gleam  of 
joy.  After  a  few  moments,  Balthazar  roused  himself,  gave 
a  quick  glance  round  him,  and  said,  "Vespers  ?  .  .  .  Ah ! 
the  children  have  gone  to  vespers." 

He  stepped  towards  the  window,  and  looked  out  into  the 
garden,  where  the  tulips  blazed  in  all  their  glory.  Then  he 
stopped  suddenly,  as  if  he  had  come  into  collision  with  a  wall, 
and  exclaimed,  "Why  should  they  not  combine  in  a  given 
time?" 

"Can  he  be  going  mad  ?"  his  terrified  wife  asked  herself. 

If  the  reader  is  to  understand  the  interest  of  this  scene, 
and  the  Situation  out  of  which  it  arose,  it  will  be  necessary 
to  glance  over  the  previous  history  of  Balthazar  Claes  and 
of  the  granddaughter  of  the  Duke  of  Casa-Eeal. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  year  1783,  M.  Balthazar  Claes- 
Molina  de  Nourho,  then  twenty-two  years  of  age,  might  have 
passed  for  a  "fine  gentleman,"  as  we  say  in  France.  He  had 
just  completed  his  education  in  Paris;  his  manners  had  been 
formed  in  the  society  of  Mme.  d'Egmont,  a  set  composed 
of  Frenchmen  who  came  originally  of  Belgian  families,  or  of 
Belgians  distinguished  either  by  birth  or  by  fortune.  Great 
nobles  and  persons  of  the  highest  fashion,  such  as  the  Count 
of  Horn,  the  Prince  of  Aremberg,  the  Spanish  Ambassador, 
and  Helvetius  were  among  the  Belgian  residents  in  Paris.  The 
young  Claes  had  relations  and  friends  there  who  introduced 
him  into  the  great  world,  just  as  the  great  world  was  about 
to  return  to  chaos;  but,  like  many  young  men,  he  was  at- 
tracted at  first  by  glory  and  by  knowledge  rather  than  by 
frivolity.  He  frequented  the  society  of  learned  men,  waxed 
enthusiastic  for  science,  and  became  an  ardent  disciple 
of  Lavoisier,  who  was  then  better  known  for  the  vast  fortune 
he  had  acquired  as  farmer-geiieral  of  taxes  than  for  the 
scientific  discoveries  wbich  were  to  make  the  name  of  the 
great  chemist  famous  long  after  the  farmer-general  was  for- 
gotten. 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  23 

But  Claes  was  yonng,  and  as  hanrlsoine  as  Helvetius,  and 
Lavoisier  was  not  his  on!}'-  instructor.  Under  the  tuition  of 
women  in  Paris  he  soon  learned  to  distil  the  more  volatile 
elixirs  of  wit  and  gallantry;  and  although  he  had  previously 
thrown  himself  into  his  studies  with  an  enthusiasm  that  had 
won  the  commendations  of  his  master,  he  deserted  Lavoisier's 
laboratory  to  take  final  lessons  in  savior-vivre  under  the 
guidance  of  the  arbitresses  of  good  manners  and  good  taste, 
the  queens  of  the  high  society  which  forms  a  sort  of  family 
all  over  Europe. 

These  intoxicating  dreams  of  success  did  not  last  long, 
however;  Balthazar  Claes  breathed  the  air  of  Paris  for  a 
while;  and  then,  in  no  long  time,  he  turned  his  back  on 
the  capital,  wearied  b}^  the  empty  life,  which  had  nothing 
in  it  to  satisfy  an  enthusiastic  and  affectionate  nature.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  the  quiet  happiness  of  family  life,  a  vision 
called  up  by  the  very  name  of  his  native  Flanders,  was  the 
life  best  suited  to  his  character  and  to  the  aspirations  of  his 
heart.  The  gilding  of  Parisian  salons  had  not  effaced  old 
memories  of  the  sombre  harmonies  of  the  parlor  in  the  old 
house  in  Douai,  of  the  little  garden,  and  the  happy  days  of 
his  childhood. 

Those  who  would  fain  dwell  in  Paris  should  have  no  ties 
of  home  or  of  fatherland.  Paris  is  the  chosen  city  of  the 
cosmopolitan,  or  of  those  who  are  wedded  to  social  ambition ; 
by  means  of  art,  science,  or  political  power,  they  gain  a  hold 
on  the  world  which  they  never  relax. 

The  child  of  Flanders  went  back  to  the  house  in  Douai  as 
La  Fontaine's  pigeon  flew  home  to  its  nest.  It  was  the  day 
of  the  Fete  Gayant,  and  tears  came  into  his  eyes  at  the  sight 
of  the  procession.  Gayant,  the  Luck  of  the  city,  the  embodi- 
ment of  the  spirit  of  old  Flemish  traditions,  had  been  intro- 
duced into  Douai  since  his  family  had  been  driven  to  take 
refuge  there.  The  Maison  Claes  was  empty  and  silent;  his 
father  and  mother  had  died  during  his  absence,  and  for  some 
time  family  affairs  required  his  presence  there. 

After  the  first  sorrow  for  his  loss  his  thoughts  turned  to 


24  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

marriage.  AH  the  sacred  ties  -which  boimd  him  to  his  home 
and  the  pieties  of  the  hearth  had  reawakened  a  strong  desire 
in  him  to  complete  the  happy  existence  of  which  he  had 
dreamed;  he  determined  to  do  as  his  forefathers  had  done, 
and  went  to  Ghent,  to  Bruges,  and  to  Antwerp  in  search  of  a 
bride.  He  probably  had  ideas  of  his  own  as  to  marriage, 
for  it  had  always  been  said  of  him  from  his  earliest  youth 
that  he  never  could  keep  to  the  beaten  track,  or  do  as  other 
people  did. 

It  so  fell  out  that  one  day  while  on  a  visit  to  one  of  his  rela- 
tions in  Ghent,  he  heard  of  a  young  lady  in  Brussels  concern- 
ing whom  opinions  differed  considerably.  Some  considered 
that  Mile.  Temninck's  beauty  was  quite  spoiled  by  her  de- 
formity, others  hotly  insisted  that  she  was  perfection.  Among 
these  last  was  Balthazar  Claes'  somewhat  elderly  cousin,  who 
told  his  guests  that,  beautiful  or  no.  Mile.  Temninck  had  a 
Boul  whicli  would  have  induced  him  to  marry  her  if  he  had 
been  choosing  a  wife.  And  with  that  he  told  how  she  had 
given  up  all  her  claims  on  the  family  estates  so  that  her 
younger  brother  might  make  a  marriage  befitting  his  rank 
and  name ;  thus  setting  his  happiness  before  her  own,  and  sac- 
rificing her  life  to  him,  for  it  was  scarcely  to  be  expected 
that  Mile.  Temninck  would  marry  now  that  she  had  no  for- 
tune and  the  bloom  of  youth  was  past,  when  no  suitor  had 
presented  himself  for  the  heiress  in  her  girlhood. 

A  few  days  later  Balthazar  Claes  had  obtained  an  intro- 
duction to  Mile.  Temninck,  now  a  woman  of  twenty-five  years 
of  age,  and  had  fallen  deeply  in  love  with  her.  Josephine 
de  Temninck  chose  to  regard  this  as  a  passing  fancy,  and  re- 
fused to  listen  to  M.  Claes;  but  the  influence  of  passion  is 
very  subtle,  and  in  this  love  for  her  in  a  man  who  had  youth 
and  good  looks,  and  a  straight,  well-knit  frame,  there  wns 
something  so  attractive  to  the  poor  lame  and  deformed  girl 
that  she  yielded  to  it. 

Could  a  whole  volume  suffice  to  tell  the  story  of  the  lov 
that  thus  dawned  in  the  girl's  heart?  The  world  had  pro- 
nounced her  to  be  plain,  and  she  had  meekly  acquiesced  in 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  25 

the  decision,  conscious  though  she  was  of  possessing  the  ir- 
resistible charm  which  calls  forth  true  and  lasting  love.  And 
now  at  the  prospect  of  happiness,  what  fierce  jealousy  awoke 
in  her,  what  wild  projects  of  vengeance  if  a  rival  stole  a 
glance,  what  agitations  and  fears  such  as  seldom  fall  to  the 
lot  of  women,  which  cannot  but  lose  by  being  passed  over  in 
a  few  brief  words  !  The  analysis  must  be  minute.  Doubt,  the 
dramatic  element  in  love,  would  be  the  keynote  of  a  story  in, 
which  certain  souls  would  find  once  more  the  poetry  of  those 
early  days  of  uncertainty,  long  since  lost  but  not  forgotten; 
the  ecstasy  in  the  depths  of  the  heart  which  the  face  never 
betrays,  the  fear  of  not  being  understood,  and  the  unspeak- 
able joy  of  a  swift  response;  the  misgivings  which  lead  the 
soul  to  shrink  within  itself;  the  moments  when,  as  if  drawn 
forth  by  some  magnetic  power,  the  soul  reveals  itself  in  the 
eyes  by  infinite  subtle  shades;  wild  thoughts  of  suicide  that 
arise  at  a  word,  only  to  be  laid  to  rest  by  a  tone  in  a  voice 
whose  vibrations  reveal  unsuspected  depths  of  feeling; 
tremulous  glances  full  of  terrible  audacity;  swift,  passionate 
longings  to  speak  or  act  rendered  powerless  by  their  very 
vehemence;  communings  of  soul  with  soul  in  commonplace 
phrases  which  owe  all  their  eloquence  to  the  faltering  of  the 
voice;  mysterious  workings  of  that  divine  discretion  and 
modesty  of  soul  which  is  generous  in  the  shade,  and  finds  ex- 
quisite delight  in  sacrifices  which  can  never  be  recognized; 
youthful  love,  in  short,  with  the  weaknesses  of  its  strength. 

Mile.  Josephine  de  Temninck  was  a  coquette  through  lofti- 
ness of  soul.  The  painful  consciousness  of  her  deformity 
made  her  as  unapproachable  and  hard  to  please  as  the  pret- 
tiest of  women.  She  dreaded  that  a  day  would  come  when 
her  lover  would  cease  to  care  for  her,  and  the  thought 
awakened  her  pride  and  destroyed  her  confidence  in  her- 
self. With  stoical  firmness,  she  locked  away  in  her  inmost 
heart  the  first  feelings  of  happiness  in  which  other  women 
love  to  deck  themselves  in  the  ej^es  of  the  world.  The  more 
love  drew  her  to  Balthazar  Claes,  the  less  she  dared  to  give 
expression  to  love.     A  glance,  a  gesture,  a  question,  or  -d 


26  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

response  from  a  pretty  woman  would  have  been  flattering  to 
a  man ;  but  for  her,  was  not  any  advance  a  humiliating  specu- 
lation ?  A  pretty  woman  can  be  herself,  people  look  leniently 
on  her  follies  or  mistakes;  but  a  single  glance  has  power  to 
stop  the  play  of  expression  on  a  plain  woman's  features,  to 
make  her  still  more  timid,  shy,  and  awkward.  Does  she 
not  know  that  she  of  all  women  can  afford  no  blunders ;  that 
no  indulgence  will  be  extended  to  her;  nay,  that  no  one  will 
give  her  any  opportunity  of  repairing  them?  She  must  al- 
ways be  faultless;  does  not  the  thought  chill  and  dishearten 
her  while  the  constant  strain  exhausts  her  powers?  Such  a 
woman  can  only  live  in  an  atmosphere  of  divine  indulgence, 
and  where  can  the  hearts  be  found  in  which  indulgence  is 
not  poisoned  by  a  lurking  taint  of  pity  ? 

There  is  a  sort  of  consideration  more  painful  to  sensitive 
souls  than  even  positive  unkindness,  for  it  aggravates  their 
misfortunes  by  continually  giving  them  prominence.  The 
cruel  politeness  of  society  was  intolerable  to  Mile,  de  Tem- 
ninck.  She  schooled  herself  into  self-possession,  forced  back 
into  some  inner  depth  the  most  beautiful  thoughts  that  arose 
in  her  soul,  and  took  refuge  in  an  icy  reserve  of  manner  and 
bearing.  She  only  dared  to  love  in  secret,  and  was  eloquent 
or  charming  only  in  solitude.  She  was  plain  and  insignifi- 
cant in  broad  daylight,  but  she  would  have  been  a  beautiful 
women  if  she  could  have  lived  by  candle-light.  Not  seldom 
she  had  made  perilous  trials  of  Balthazar's  love,  risking  her 
whole  happiness  to  be  the  surer  of  it,  disdaining  the  aid  of 
dress  and  ornaments,  by  which  the  effect  of  deformity  could  be 
softened  or  concealed,  and  the  Spaniard's  eyes  grew  full  of 
witchery  when  she  saw  that  even  thus  she  was  beautiful  for 
Balthazar  Claes. 

Yet  even  the  rare  moments  when  she  ventured  to  give  her- 
self up  to  the  joy  of  being  loved  were  embittered  by  distrust 
and  fears.  Before  long  she  began  to  ask  herself  whether  Claet? 
wished  to  marry  her  that  he  might  have  a  docile  slave, 
whether  he  had  not  some  defect  which  made  him  content  to 
wed  a  poor  deformed  girl.    The  doubts  and  anxieties  which 


THE  QUEST  OP  THE  ABSOLUTE  2T 

continually  harassed  licr  made  those  hours  unspeakably  pre- 
cious, in  which  she  felt  sure  that  this  was  a  true  and  lasting 
love  which  should  make  her  amends  for  all  the  slights  of  the 
world.  She  provoked  discussions  on  the  delicate  subject  of 
her  own  plainness,  dwelling  upon  it  and  exaggerating  it  that 
she  might  the  better  probe  her  lover's  nature,  and  came  in 
this  way  by  some  truths  but  little  flattering;  yet  she  loved 
him  for  the  perplexity  in  which  he  found  himself  when  she 
had  led  him  on  to  say  that  a  woman  is  most  beloved  for  a 
beautiful  soul  and  for  the  devotion  which  makes  the  days  of 
life  flow  on  in  quiet  happiness;  that  after  a  few  years  of 
marriage  a  wife  may  be  the  loveliest  woman  on  earth  or  the 
plainest,  it  makes  no  difl^erence  to  her  husband.  In  support 
of  this  theory  he  had  heaped  together  such  truth  as  lies  in 
various  paradoxical  assertions  that  beauty  is  of  very  little 
consequence,  till  he  suddenly  became  aware  of  the  ungracious- 
ness of  his  arguments.  All  the  goodness  of  his  heart  was  re- 
vealed by  the  tact  and  delicacy  with  which  he  gradually 
changed  his  ground  and  made  Mile.  Temninck  understand 
that  for  him  she  was  perfect. 

Perhaps,  in  a  woman,  devotion  is  the  highest  height  of 
love.  Devotion  was  not  wanting  in  this  girl  who  did  not  dare 
to  hope  that  love  would  not  fail.  She  felt  attracted  by  the 
prospect  of  a  struggle  in  which  sentiment  was  to  triumph 
over  beauty;  there  was  something  great,  she  thought,  in  giv- 
ing herself  to  love  with  no  blind  faith  that  love  would  last; 
and  finally,  this  happiness,  brief  as  it  might  prove,  must  cost 
her  so  dear  that  she  could  not  refuse  to  taste  it.  These  ques- 
tionings and  inward  struggles  gave  all  the  charm,  all  the 
varying  moods  of  passion  to  this  exalted  nature,  and  inspired 
in  Balthazar  a  love  that  was  almost  chivalrous. 

The  marriage  took  place  in  the  beginning  of  the  year  1795. 
They  went  back  to  Douai  to  spend  the  first  weeks  of  their 
married  life  in  the  ancestral  home  of  the  Claes.  The  household 
treasures  there  had  been  increased.  Mile,  de  Temninck 
brought  with  her  several  fine  paintings  by  Murillo  and  Velas- 
quez, her  mother's  diamonds,  and  the  splendid  wedding  pres- 


28  THE  QUEST  OP  THE  ABSOLUTE 

ents  sent  by  her  brother,  who  had  siieeeeded  to  the  title,  and 
was  now  Duke  of  Casa-Real.  Few  women  were  as  happy  as 
Mme.  Claes.  There  was  not  the  slightest  cloud  in  the  happi- 
ness that  lasted  for  fifteen  years,  a  happiness  that,  like  a 
bright  light,  transformed  even  the  most  trivial  details  of  daily 
life. 

In  most  men  there  are  inequalities  of  character  which 
cause  continual  dissonances,  small  weaknesses  that  lead  to 
bickerings,  till  the  harmony  of  domestic  life  is  spoiled,  and 
the  fair  ideals  perish.  One  man  may  be  conscientious  and 
hardworking,  but  he  is  hard  and  stern;  another  is  good- 
natured  but  obstinate;. a  third  will  love  his  wife  sincerely, 
but  he  never  knows  his  own  mind;  while  a  fourth  is  so  ab- 
sorbed in  his  ambitions  that  he  looks  on  affection  as  a  debt 
to  be  discharged,  and  if  he  gives  all  the  vanities  of  fortune 
he  takes  all  joy  out  of  the  day. 

Mediocrity,  in  short,  is  by  its  very  nature  incomplete, 
though  its  sins  of  omission  and  commission  are  not  heinous. 
Clever  folk  are  as  changeable  as  the  barometer,  genius  alone 
is  essentially  good.  Perfect  happiness  is  accordingly  only  to 
be  found  at  either  extreme  of  the  intellectual  scale;  there  is 
a  like  equability  of  temperament  in  the  good-natured  idiot 
and  in  the  man  of  genius,  arising  in  the  one  case  from  weak- 
ness, and  in  the  other  from  strength  of  character.  Both 
are  capable  of  a  constant  sweetness  of  temper,  which  softens 
the  roughnesses  of  life.  In  the  one  its  source  is  an  easy- 
natured  tolerance,  and  in  the  other  it  springs  from  in- 
dulgence; a  man  of  genius,  moreover,  is  the  interpreter  of  a 
sublime  thought,  which  cannot  fail  to  bring  his  whole  life 
into  conformity  with  itself.  Both  natures  are  simple  and 
transparent;  the  one  because  of  its  shallowness,  the  other 
by  reason  of  its  depth.  Clever  women,  therefore,  are  suffi- 
ciently ready  to  take  a  dunce  as  the  best  substitute  for  a 
man  of  genius. 

Balthazar's  greatness  of  character  showed  itself  from  the 
first  in  the  most  trivial  details  of  life.  Conjugal  love  was 
a  magnificent  thing  in  his  eyes;  he  determined  to  develop  all 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  29 

its  beauty;  and,  like  all  powerful  characters,  he  could  not 
bear  that  there  should  be  any  falling  short  in  attainment. 
His  ingenuity  continually  varied  the  calm  monotony  of  hap- 
piness, and  everything  that  he  did  bore  the  stamp  of  a  noble 
nature.  For  instance,  although  he  was  in  sympathy  with  the 
philosophical  movement  of  the  eighteenth  century,  he  in- 
stalled a  priest  in  his  household  until  the  year  1801  (a  step 
which  laid  him  open  to  the  severe  penalties  of  the  Revolu- 
tionary code),  humoring  the  bigoted  Catholicism  which  his 
Spanish  wife  had  imbibed  with  her  mother's  milk.  After  the 
Eoman  Catholic  worship  was  restored  in  France,  he  went 
with  her  every  Sunday  to  mass. 

His  attachment  never  quitted  the  forms  of  passion.  He 
never  asserted  the  protecting  power  that  women  love  so  well 
to  feel,  because  to  his  wife  it  would  have  seemed  like  pity. 
On  the  contrary,  by  a  most  ingenious  form  of  flattery  he 
treated  her  as  his  equal,  and  would  break  into  playful  re- 
bellion against  her  authority,  as  a  man  will  sometimes  permit 
himself  to  set  the  power  of  a  pretty  woman  at  defiance.  A 
smile  of  happiness  always  hovered  upon  his  lips,  and  his  tones 
were  unvaryingly  gentle. 

He  loved  his  Josephine  for  her  sake  and  for  his  own  with 
a  warmth  and  intensity  which  is  a  constant  tribute  to  the 
beauty  and  the  character  of  a  wife.  Fidelity,  often  the  re- 
sult of  social,  religious,  or  interested  considerations,  seemed 
in  his  case  to  be  involuntary,  and  was  always  accompanied 
by  the  sweet  flatteries  of  the  springtime  of  love.  Duty  was 
the  sole  obligation  of  marriage  which  was  unknown  to  these 
two  equally  loving  beings,  for  Balthazar  Claes  found  in  Jo- 
sephine de  Temninck  a  constant  and  complete  realization  of 
his  hopes.  His  heart  was  always  satisfied  to  the  full ;  he  was 
always  happy,  and  never  weary  of  his  happiness.  As  might 
have  been  expected,  the  granddaughter  of  the  house  of  Casa- 
Real,  with  her  Spanish  blood,  possessed  the  secret  of  an  "in- 
finite variety,"  but  she  had  no  less  a  capacity  for  a  limitless 
devotion,  and  a  woman's  genius  lies  in  devotion,  as  all  her 
beauty  consists  in  grace.-    Her  love  was  a  blind  fanaticism; 


60  THE  QUEST  OP  THE  ABSOLUTE 

at  a  sign  from  him  she  would  have  gone  joyfully  to  her  death 
Balthazar's  delicacy  had  brought  out  all  the  womanly  gen- 
erosity of  her  nature,  and  she  longed  to  give  more  than  she 
received.  This  mutual  exchange  of  a  happiness  which  each 
in  turn  lavished  upon  the  other,  visibly  centered  her  life  with- 
out her,  and  filled  her  words,  her  looks,  and  actions  with  a 
love  that  only  grew  stronger  with  time.  On  all  sides  grati- 
tude enriched  and  varied  the  life  of  the  heart,  just  as  the  cer- 
tainty that  each  lived  only  for  the  other  made  littleness  im- 
possible, and  the  least  accessories  of  such  a  life  ceased  to  be 
trivialities. 

But  in  the  whole  feminine  creation  are  there  any  happier 
woman  than  the  deformed  wife  who  is  not  crooked  for  the 
eyes  she  loves,  the  lame  woman  when  her  husband  would  not 
have  her  other  than  she  is,  and  the  wife  grown  old  and  gray 
who  is  still  young  for  him?  Human  passion  can  go  no  fur- 
ther than  this.  When  a  woman  is  adored  for  what  is  usually 
regarded  as  a  defect,  is  not  this  her  greatest  glory?  It  is 
easy  to  forget  in  a  moment's  fascination  that  a  woman  does 
not  walk  straight ;  but  when  she  is  loved  because  she  is  lame, 
it  is  the  apotheosis  of  her  infirmity.  In  the  evangel  of  women 
these  words  should  perhaps  be  written,  "Blessed  are  the  imper- 
fect, for  theirs  is  the  Jcingdom  of  love."  And  of  a  truth  beauty 
must  be  a  misfortune  for  a  woman,  for  the  flower  of  beauty 
that  withers  so  soon  counts  for  so  much  in  the  feeling  that  she 
inspires ;  is  she  not  loved  for  her  beauty  as  an  heiress  is  wedded 
for  her  gold?  But  a  woman  without  this  perishable  dower, 
after  which  the  children  of  Adam  seek  so  eagerly,  knows  the 
love  that  is  love  indeed,  the  inmost  mystery  of  passion,  the 
union  of  soul  with  soul.  The  day  of  disillusion  can  never 
come  for  her.  Her  charm  is  not  recognized  by  the  world, 
she  owes  it  no  allegiance,  and  is  fair  for  one  alone ;  and  when 
she  makes  it  her  glory  that  her  defects  should  be  forgotten^ 
she  cannot  but  succeed  in  her  aim. 

Accordingly,  the  best  loved  women  in  history  have  been 
by  no  means  perfectly  beautiful  for  ordinary  eyes ;  Cleopatra^ 
Joanna  of  Naples,  Diana  of  Poitiers,  Mile,  de  la  Valliere. 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  31 

Madame  de  Pompadour,  and  nearly  all  women  famous 
throughout  the  world  for  the  love  which  they  once  inspired, 
have  had  their  defects  and  shortcomings,  while  others  of 
whom  it  is  recorded  that  there  was  no  flaw  in  their  loveliness 
have  over  and  over  again  seen  love  end  in  piteous  tragedy. 
Do  mankind  live,  after  all,  rather  by  sentiment  than  by  pleas- 
ure? Perhaps  there  is  a  limit  to  the  charm  of  mere  physical 
beauty,  while  the  beauty  of  the  soul  is  infinite?  Is  not  thi>. 
the  moral  of  the  tale  which  forms  a  setting  to  the  Arabian 
Nights?  If  Henry  VIII.  had  found  a  hard-featured  wife, 
she  might  have  defied  the  axe,  and  retained  the  wandering 
fancy  of  her  royal  master. 

Mme.  Claes  was  ill-educated,  a  curious  circumstance,  but 
explainable  enough  in  the  daughter  of  a  Spanish  grandee. 
She  could  read  and  write,  but  until  her  parents  took  her  from 
the  convent  where  her  girlhood  was  spent  (that  is  to  say, 
until  she  was  twenty  years  old)  she  had  read  nothing  but  the 
works  of  religious  ascetics.  On  her  entrance  into  society, 
and  for  a  little  while  after,  she  had  been  too  eager  for  amuse- 
ment to  learn  anything  but  the  frivolous  arts  of  the  toilette; 
and  later,  she  had  been  so  deeply  mortified  by  her  ignorance, 
that  she  never  ventured  to  take  any  part  in  conversation,  and 
was  set  down  in  consequence  as  an  unintelligent  girl.  But 
one  result  of  her  neglected  and  mystical  education  had  been 
that  her  natural  capacities  for  thought  and  feeling  had  been 
unspoiled.  In  society  she  was  as  plain  and  uninteresting  as 
an  hekess;  but  for  her  husband  she  grew  beautiful  and 
thoughtful. 

Balthazar  made  some  attempt,  it  is  true,  in  the  early  years 
of  their  marriage  to  teach  his  wife,  so  that  she  might  not  feel 
at  a  disadvantage  in  this  wa}'-,  but  doubtless  he  was  too  late, 
for  Josephine  had  no  memory  save  that  of  the  heart.  She 
never  forgot  a  syllable  that  he  let  fall  concerning  themselves ; 
every  least  detail  of  their  happy  life  was  fresh  in  her  mind, 
w-hile  yesterday's  lesson  was  forgotten.  This  invincible  ig- 
norance might  have  brought  about  serious  discords  between 
many  a  husband  and  wife ;  but  Mme.  Claes'  love  for  her  hus- 


32  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

band  was  almost  a  religion,  and  the  intuition  of  passionate 
love  and  desire  to  preserve  her  happiness  had  made  her  quick- 
witted. She  so  contrived  matters  that  she  always  appeared 
to  understand,  and  her  ignorance  was  very  seldom  too  ap- 
parent. Not  only  so,  but  when  two  love  each  other  so  well 
that  every  day  seems  for  them  the  first  day  of  their  love,  such 
vital  happiness  has  a  marvelous  power  of  transforming  the 
whole  conditions  of  life.  Does  it  not  become  like  childhood, 
careless  of  everything  that  is  not  love  or  joy  and  laughter? 

While  the  life  stirs  in  us,  and  its  fires  burn  fiercely,  we  let 
it  burn  unthriftily,  nor  set  ourselves  to  measure  the  means 
or  the  end.  For  the  rest,  Mme.  Claes  understood  her  posi- 
tion as  a  wife  better  than  any  daughter  of  Eve.  Her  char- 
acter was  a  piquant  combination  of  Spanish  pride  with  the 
submissiveness  of  the  Flamande  which  makes  the  domestic 
hearth  so  attractive.  She  was  dignified;  she  could  command 
respect  by  a  glance  which  revealed  a  consciousness  of  her  own 
value  and  her  high  descent,  but  before  Claes  she  trembled. 
She  had  set  her  husband  so  on  high,  so  near  to  God,  that 
the  thought  of  what  he  would  say  or  think  controlled  her 
ever}''  thought  or  action,  and  her  love  had  come  to  have  a 
tinge  of  awe  which  heightened  it.  She  had  made  it  a  point 
of  honor  to  maintain  the  old  Flemish  bourgeois  traditions  of 
the  house;  she  had  prided  herself  on  the  plenty  and  comfort 
of  her  housekeeping,  on  the  classic  cleanliness  of  every  de- 
tail ;  everything  must  be  of  the  best,  every  dish  at  dinner  must 
be  exquisitely  cooked  and  served.  She  so  ruled  things-  in  her 
household  that  all  their  outer  life  was  in  harmony  with  the 
life  of  the  heart. 

They  had  two  boys  and  two  girls.  The  oldest  child,  a  girl 
named  Marguerite,  was  born  in  1796;  the  youngest,  a  three- 
year-old  boy,  they  had  called  Jean  Balthazar.  Motherly  love 
was  almost  as  strong  in  Mme.  Claes  as  her  affection  for 
her  husband.  Sometimes,  especially  in  the  last  years  of  her 
life,  there  was  a  cruel  struggle  between  love  for  her  husband 
and  love  for  her  children,  when  two  claims  upon  her  heart 
so  nearljr  equal  had  become  in  some  sort  antagonistic.    This 


THE  QUEST  OP  THE  ABSOLUTE  33 

was  the  domestic  drama  hidden  away  in  the  sleepy  old  house, 
and  in  the  scene  with  which  the  story  opens  her  tears  and 
the  anguish  on  her  face  were  caused  by  a  fear  that  she  had 
sacrificed  her  children  to  her  husband. 

In  1805  Mme.  Claes'  brother  had  died  leaving  no  children. 
His  sister,  according  to  Spanish  law,  could  not  inherit  the 
estates,  which  passed  with  the  title  to  the  heir-at-law;  but 
the  Duke  had  left  to  her  about  sixty  thousand  ducats,  and 
the  representative  of  the  younger  branch  of  the  house  did 
not  challenge  the  will.  No  thought  of  interest  had  ever' 
mingled  with  their  love;  yet  Josephine  found  a  certain  satis- 
faction in  the  thought  that  her  fortune  now  equaled  that  of 
her  husband,  and  was  glad  that  in  her  turn  she  brought  some- 
thing to  him  from  whom  she  had  been  generously  content 
to  receive  everything.  So  it  chanced  that  Balthazar's  mar- 
riage, which  prudent  people  had  condemned,  turned  out  to 
be  a  good  match  from  a  worldly  point  of  view. 

It  was  a  sufficiently  difficult  problem  to  know  what  to  do 
with  the  money.  The  Maison  Claes  was  so  rich  in  treasures 
of  art,  in  pictures  and  valuable  furniture,  that  it  was  scarcely 
possible  to  find  anything  worthy  of  being  added  to  such  a 
collection,  formed  by  the  taste  of  their  ancestors.  The  noble 
collection  of  pictures  had  been  begun  by  one  generation  and 
completed  by  those  that  followed,  a  love  of  art  having  thus 
become  a  family  tradition.  There  were  fifty  paintings  in  the 
state  apartments  on  the  first  floor,  and  in  the  long  gallery 
which  connected  those  rooms  with  the  quarter  in  which  the 
family  lived  there  were  more  than  a  hundred  famous  pic- 
tures by  Eubens,  Euysdael,  Van  Dyck,  Terburg,  Gerard  Dow, 
Teniers,  Mieris,  Paul  Potter,  Wouverman,  Eembrandt,  Hob- 
bema,  Cranach,  and  Holbein.  Three  centuries  of  patient  re- 
search had  assembled  them.  Examples  of  the  French  and 
Italian  schools  were  in  the  minority,  but  nevertheless  they 
were  all  of  them  genuine  and  of  capital  importance. 

Another  generation  had  been  amateurs  of  Oriental  porce- 
lain. Some  Claes,  long  dead  and  gone,  had  been  an  enthu- 
siastic collector  of  old  furniture  or  of  silver  plate ;  Balthazar  a 


34  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

own  father,  the  last  survivor  of  the  once  famous  Dutch  so- 
ciety, had  bequeathed  to  his  son  one  of  the  finest  known  col- 
lections of  tulips;  there  was  not  a  Claes  but  had  left  some 
trace  of  his  ruling  passion,  and  every  Fleming  is  a  born  col- 
lector. The  old  house  was  superbly  furnished  with  heir- 
looms, which  represented  vast  sums  of  money.  Without,  it 
was  as  smooth  and  bare  as  a  sea-shell,  and  like  a  shell  it  was 
decked  within  with  fair  colors  and  radiant  mother-of-pearl. 

Balthazar  Claes  also  possessed  a  country  house  in  the  plain 
of  Orchies.  So  far  from  adopting  the  French  plan  and  liv- 
ing up  to  his  income,  he  never  spent  more  than  one-fourth 
of  it,  following  old  Batavian  usages.  This  put  him  on  the 
same  footing  as  the  wealthiest  persons  in  Douai,  for  their 
yearly  expenditure  never  exceeded  twelve  hundred  ducats. 

In  the  days  when  the  Civil  Code  became  the  law  of  the 
land,  the  wisdom  of  this  course  was  abundantly  evident.  By 
virtue  of  the  clause  des  Successions,  which  divides  the  estate 
in  equal  shares  among  the  children,  each  child's  share  would 
have  been  small,  and  the  treasures  stored  for  so  long  in  the 
house  of  Claes  must  have  one  day  been  dispersed.  With  his 
wife's  concurrence  Balthazar  invested  Mme.  Claes'  fortune 
in  such  a  manner  as  to  secure  to  each  of  their  children  a  posi- 
tion similar  to  that  in  which  they  had  been  brought  up,  and 
the  house  of  Claes  was  still  kept  up  on  the  old  footing.  They 
bought  woods  which  had  suffered  somewhat  in  the  recent 
wars,  but  which  in  ten  years'  time,  with  due  care,  were  likely 
to  increase  enormously  in  value. 

The  society  in  which  M.  Claes  moved  consisted  of  the  oldest 
families  of  Douai.  His  wife's  noble  qualities  and  character 
were  so  thoroughly  appreciated,  that  by  a  sort  of  tacit  agree- 
ment the  social  regulations  so  stringently  enforced  in  old- 
fashioned  towns  were  somewhat  relaxed  in  her  case.  During 
the  winter  months,  which  were  always  spent  in  Douai,  she 
seldom  left  her  house,  and  went  very  little  into  society — so- 
ciety came  to  her.  She  received  every  Wednesday,  and  gave 
three  large  dinner  parties  every  month.  It  was  generally 
recognized  that  Mme.  Claes  felt  more  at  ease  in  her  own  house 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  35 

and  she  herself  was  little  inclined  to  leave  it ;  her  love  for  her 
husband  and  her  children,  whom  she  was  bringing  up  very 
carefully,  kept  her  at  home. 

Until  the  year  1809  there  was  no  change  in  the  ways  of 
the  household,  thus  privileged  to  form  an  exception  to  ac- 
cepted social  rules.  The  life  of  these  two  beings,  with  its 
hidden  depths  of  love  and  joy,  flowed  on  to  all  appearance 
like  other  lives.  Balthazar  Claes'  passion  for  his  wife,  which 
she  had  known  how  to  keep,  seemed,  as  he  himself  said,  to 
have  determined  his  bent,  and  his  innate  perseverance  was 
employed  in  the  cultivation  of  happiness,  as  he  had  culti- 
vated tulips  in  his  youth ;  it  absolved  him  from  the  necessity 
for  a  mania  traditional  in  Ms  family.  But  at  the  end  of  the 
year  a  change  came  over  Balthazar;  it  came  about  so  imper- 
ceptibly that  at  first  Mme.  Claes  did  not  think  it  necessary  to 
ask  the  reason  of  these  ominous  signs.  One  evening  he 
seemed  preoccupied  as  he  went  to  bed,  and  she  conscientiously 
respected  his  mood.  Her  woman's  tact  and  habits  of  submis- 
sion had  always  led  her  to  wait  for  Balthazar's  confidence; 
she  felt  far  too  sure  of  his  affection  to  give  way  to  Jealousy. 
Yet  though  she  knew  that  any  inquiry  would  meet  with  a 
prompt  answer,  the  old  impressions  of  early  life  had  given  her 
an  instinctive  dread  of  a  rebuff.  Her  husband's  moral  malady 
went  through  many  stages,  and  only  by  slow  degrees  did  it 
assume  an  acute  form,  and  grow  so  intolerably  violent  that 
at  last  the  happiness  of  a  whole  household  was  destroyed. 
However  engrossing  Balthazar's  thoughts  might  be,  he  was 
ready  for  many  months  to  lay  them  aside  to  talk  with  her; 
and  there  was  no  alteration  in  his  affection,  his  frequent  silent 
moods  were  the  only  indications  of  the  change  that  was  being 
wrought  in  his  character. 

It  was  long  before  Mme.  Claes  gave  np  the  hope  that  her 
husband  would  approach  the  subject  himself  and  tell  her 
about  his  mysterious  preoccupations.  Sometimes  she  thought 
that  he  was  waiting  until  there  should  be  some  practical 
result  of  his  labors;  there  is  a  kind  of  pride  in  so  many  men 
which  leads  them  to  fight  their  battles  alone  and  to  appear 


36  THE  QUEST  OP  THE  ABSOLUTS! 

only  as  victors.  In  that  day  of  triumph  the  light  of  happi- 
ness would  shine  all  the  more  brightly  for  being  withdrawn 
for  a  while,  and  Balthazar's  love  would  fill  up  all  the  blank 
spaces  in  the  page  of  life,  blanks  for  which  his  heart  was  not 
to  blame.  Josephine  knew  her  husband  well  enough  to  know 
that  he  would  never  forgive  himself  if  he  discovered  that  his 
Pepita's  happiness  had  been  overcast  for  so  many  months. 
So  she  kept  silence,  and  felt  it  a  kind  of  joy  to  suffer  through 
him  and  for  him;  for  in  her  passion  there  was  a  trace  of  the 
piety  of  the  Spaniard,  which  can  never  distinguish  between 
religion  and  love,  and  cannot  understand  a  love  without 
suffering.  She  waited  for  a  return  of  affection,  saying  to 
herself  every  evening,  "It  will  surely  come  to-morrow!"  as 
if  love  were  an  absent  wanderer.  During  all  these  secret 
troubles  she  was  expecting  her  youngest  child.  There  had 
been  a  horrible  revelation  of  a  wretched  future.  Everything 
seemed  to  draw  her  husband  from  her,  and  even  in  his  love 
he  was  preoccupied.  Her  woman's  pride,  wounded  for  the 
first  time,  sounded  the  depths  of  the  mysterious  gulf  which 
separated  her  from  the  Claes  of  their  early  married  life. 
From  that  time  things  grew  worse  and  worse.  Claes,  who 
but  lately  had  been  immersed  in  family  happiness,  who  played 
with  his  children  for  whole  hours  together  at  romping  games 
on  the  carpet,  in  the  parlor,  or  in  the  garden  walks,  who 
seemed  as  if  he  could  only  live  beneath  the  dark  eyes  of  his 
Pepita,  did  not  notice  his  wife's  condition,  forgot  to  share 
in  the  family  life,  and  seemed  to  forget  his  own  existence. 

The  longer  Mme.  Claes  delaj'^ed  to  ask  the  reason  of  his 
preoccupation,  the  more  her  courage  failed  her.  Her  blood 
seemed  to  boil  at  the  thought,  and  her  voice  died  in  her 
throat.  At  last  she  felt  convinced  that  her  husband  had 
ceased  to  care  for  her,  and  grew  seriously  alarmed.  This 
dread  grew  upon  her;  she  brooded  over  it  till  her  hours  were 
filled  with  unhappy  musings  and  feverish  excitement,  and 
she  began  to  despair.  She  juptificd  Balthazar  at  her  own 
expense,  telling  herself  that  she  was  old  and  vigly.  Then 
it  seemed  to  her  that  she  saw  a  generous  motive,  huraiJiatinj; 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  37 

though  it  might  bo  to  her  pride,  in  his  ahsorption  in  his 
work ;  it  was  a  kind  of  negative  f aithf  uhiess ;  she  determined 
to  give  him  back  his  independence  by  bringing  about  a  secret 
divorce,  that  clue  to  the  apparent  happiness  of  not  a  few 
houseliolds.  Yet  before  renouncing  tlieir  old  Ufe,  she  made 
an  effort  to  read  her  husband's  heart — and  found  it  shut. 

She  saw  how  Baltliazar,  by  slow  degrees,  became  indifferent, 
to  everything  that  had  once  been  dear  to  him;  he  cared  nc 
longer  for  his  tulips  in  flower;  he  seemed  to  have  forgotten 
the  very  existence  of  his  children.  Clearly  this  passion  was 
one  of  those  that  lie  without  the  pale  of  the  heart's  affections, 
but  which  no  less,  as  women  think,  dry  up  the  springs  of 
affection.  Love  slept,  but  had  not  fled.  This  was  some  com- 
fort, though  the  trouble  itself  remained  as  heretofore;  and 
hope,  the  explanation  of  all  situations  like  these,  prolonged 
the  crisis. 

Sometimes,  just  as  the  poor  wife's  despair  had  grown  to 
such  a  pitch  that  she  had  gathered  courage  to  question  her 
husband,  there  would  be  a  brief  interval  of  happiness,  and 
Balthazar  would  make  it  clear  to  her  that  though  he  might 
be  in  the  clutches  of  some  diabolical  thought,  it  was  a  thought 
which  still  permitted  him  to  be  himself  again  at  times.  In 
these  brief  moments,  when  her  sky  grew  brighter,  she  was 
too  eager  to  enjoy  the  gleam  of  happiness,  too  afraid  to  lose 
any  of  it  by  her  importunity,  to  ask  for  an  explanation ;  and 
just  as  she  nerved  herself  to  speak,  he  would  escape  her. 
While  the  words  were  on  her  lips,  Balthazar  would  suddenly 
leave  her,  or  he  would  fall  into  deep  musings  from  which 
nothing  could  arouse  him. 

Before  very  long  there  set  in  a  reaction  of  the  mental  on 
the  physical  existence.  The  havoc  thus  wrought  was  scarcely 
visible  at  first,  save  to  the  eyes  of  a  loving  woman,  who 
watched  for  a  clue  to  her  husband's  inmost  thoughts  in  their 
slightest  manifestations.  She  could  often  scarcely  keep  back 
the  tears  as  she  saw  him  fling  himself  down  after  dinner  inte 
an  easy-chair  by  the  fireside,  and  sit  there  with  his  eyes  fixed 
on  one  of  the  dark  panels,  gloomy,  abstracted,  utterly  heedless 


38  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

of  the  dead  silence  about  him.  She  watched,  too,  Vrith  an 
aching  heart  the  gradual  changes  for  the  worse  in  the  face 
that  love  had  made  sublime  for  her;  it  seemed  as  if  the  life 
of  the  soul  was  day  by  day  withdrawing  itself  and  leaving  an 
expressionless  mask.  At  times  his  eyes  grew  glassy,  as  if  the 
faculty  of  sight  in  them  had  been  converted  to  a  power  of 
inner  vision.  After  the  children  had  gone  to  bed,  after  long 
silent  hours  full  of  painful  and  solitary  brooding,  poor  Pepita 
would  venture  to  ask,  "Do  you  feel  ill,  dear?"  Sometimes 
Balthazar  would  not  answer  at  all,  or  he  came  to  himself 
with  a  start  like  a  man  suddenly  awakened  from  sleep,  and 
said,  "No,"  in  harsh,  sepulchral  tones,  which  fell  heavily  on 
his  wife's  quivering  heart. 

Josephine  tried  at  first  to  keep  this  anomalous  state  of 
things  in  their  household  a  secret  from  the  outer  world,  but 
this  proved  to  be  impossible.  Balthazar's  behavior  was  known 
and  discussed  in  every  coterie,  in  every  salon;  and,  as  fre- 
quently happens  in  little  towns,  certain  circles  were  better 
informed  as  to  the  Claes'  afEairs  than  Mme.  Claes  herself. 
Several  of  her  friends  broke  through  the  silence  prescribed 
by  politeness,  and  showed  so  much  solicitude  on  her  account, 
that  she  hastened  to  explain  her  husband's  singular  conduct. 

"M.  Balthazar,"  she  said,  "was  engaged  on  a  great  work. 
It  took  up  all  his  time  and  energies;  but  if  it  succeeded,  it 
would  make  him  famous,  and  his  native  town  would  have 
reason  to  be  proud  of  him." 

Patriotic  enthusiasm  runs  high  in  Douai;  you  would  be 
hard  put  to  it  to  find  a  town  more  eager  for  distinction ;  the 
prospect  of  glory  was  gratifying  to  local  vanity;  there  was  a 
reaction  in  people's  minds,  and  M.  Claes'  proceedings  were 
Tiewed  more  respectfully. 

His  wife's  guesses  were  not  so  very  far  from  the  truth. 
Workmen  had  been  employed  for  some  time  past  in  the  garret 
above  the  state  apartments,  whither  Balthazar  went  every 
morning.  He  spent  more  and  more  of  his  time  up  there  now. 
until  at  last  he  was  in  the  garret  all  day  long,  and  his  wife 
and  the  rest  of  the  family  fell  in  with  the  new  ways  by  de- 
grees. 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  39 

But  Mme.  Claes  had  yet  to  learn,  to  her  unspeakable  an- 
guish, that  her  husband  was  always  buying  scientific  appa- 
ratus in  Paris;  that  books,  machines,  and  costly  materials 
of  all  kinds  were  being  sent  to  him;  and  that  he  was  bent 
on  discovering  the  Philosopher's  Stone.  All  this  she  must 
hear  through  the  officious  kindness  of  friends  who  were  sur- 
prised to  find  her  in  ignorance  of  her  husband's  doings.  It 
was  a  bitter  humiliation.  These  friends  proceeded  to  say 
that  she  ought  to  think  of  her  children  and  of  her  own  future, 
and  that  she  would  be  doing  very  wrong  if  she  did  not  use  her 
influence  with  her  husband  to  turn  him  from  the  paths 
of  error  into  which  he  had  strayed.  Mme.  Claes  might  sum- 
mon a  great  lady's  insolence  to  her  aid,  and  silence  this  absurd 
talk;  but  a  sudden  terror  seized  her  in  spite  of  her  confident 
tone,  and  she  determined  that  she  would  no  longer  efface 
herself.  She  would  choose  her  ground,  and  speak  to  her  hus- 
band on  an  equal  footing;  and  so,  feeling  less  tremulous,  she 
ventured  to  ask  Balthazar  for  the  cause  of  the  change  in  him 
and  the  reason  of  his  continual  seclusion.  The  Fleming 
frowned  as  he  answered  her: 

"My  dear,  you  would  not  understand  it  in  the  least.'* 

One  day  Josephine  had  begged  hard  to  know  this  secret, 
playfully  grumbling  that  she  who  shared  his  life  might  not 
share  all  Ms  thoughts. 

"If  you  want  to  know  about  it  so  much,"  Balthazar  an- 
swered, seeing  his  wife  on  her  knees,  "I  will  tell  you.  I  am 
studying  chemistry,"  he  said,  stroking  her  black  hair,  "and 
I  am  the  happiest  man  in  the  world." 

Two  years  after  the  winter  in  which  M.  Claes  began  his 
experiments,  the  house  was  no  longer  the  same.  Perhaps 
the  chemist's  abstracted  ways  had  given  offence;  perhaps  his 
acquaintances  felt  themselves  to  be  in  the  way ;  or  it  may 
have  been  that  the  anxieties  of  which  Mme.  Claes  never  spoke 
had  altered  her,  and  people  found  her  less  charming  than 
heretofore.  Whatever  the  cause  might  be,  she  only  received 
visits  from  her  most  intimate  friends,  and  Balthazar  went 
nowhere.    He  shut  himself  up  in  his  laboratory  all  day,  and 


40  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

sometimes  all  night;  his  family  never  saw  him  except  at 
dinner.  After  the  second  year  the  winter  and-  summer  were 
alike  spent  in  Douai ;  his  wife  had  no  desire  to  leave  Balthazar 
and  go  alone  to  their  country  house. 

Balthazar  would  take  long  solitary  walks,  sometimes  onlv 
returning  on  the  following  day.  Those  were  long  nights  of 
sickening  anxiety  for  his  wife.  In  Douai,  as  in  most  fortified 
towns,  the  gates  of  the  city  were  shut  at  a  fixed  hour;  when 
search  and  inquiry  within  the  walls  had  been  made  in  vain, 
poor  Mme.  Claes  had  not  even  the  support  of  expectation, 
half  hope,  half  anguish,  and  must  wait  till  morning  as  best 
she  might.  And  in  the  morning  Balthazar  would  return  as 
if  nothing  had  happened.  He  had  simply  forgotten,  in  his 
abstraction,  the  hour  at  which  the  gates  were  closed,  and 
had  no  suspicion  of  the  torture  which  he  had  inflicted  on  his 
family.  The  joy  and  relief  were  nearly  as  perilous  for  Mme. 
Claes  as  terror  and  suspense  had  been.  She  made  no  com- 
ment; she  never  spoke  to  him  of  his  wanderings.  Once  she 
had  begun  to  ask  a  question,  and  she  had  not  forgotten  the 
tone  of  amazement  in  which  he  answered: 

"Why,  cannot  one  take  a  walk  ?" 

The  passions  cannot  be  deceived.  Mme.  Claes'  own  misgiv- 
ings bore  witness  of  the  truth  of  the  reports  which  she  had 
at  first  so  lightly  contradicted.  She  had  suffered  so  much 
from  polite  conventional  sympathy  in  her  youth  that  she  had 
no  wish  to  experience  it  a  second  time.  She  therefore  im- 
mured herself  more  closely  than  ever  in  her  home,  her  ac- 
quaintances dropped  off,  and  her  few  remaining  friends  soon 
followed  suit. 

Balthazar's  slovenly  attire  was  by  no  means  the  least  of  her 
troubles.  There  is  always  something  degrading  in  neglect 
of  this  kind  for  a  man  who  belongs  to  the  upper  classes;  and 
-he  felt  it  all  the  more  keenly,  because  she  had  been  used  to 
a  Flemish  refinement  of  cleanliness.  With  the  help  of  Le- 
mulquinier,  her  husband's  valet,  Josephine  tried  for  a  while 
to  repair  the  havoc  wrought  by  these  pursuits ;  but  the  new 
garments  with  which,  without  Claes'  knowledge,  she  replaced 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  41 

the  torn,  burnt,  and  stained  clothing,  were  little  better  than 
rags  by  the  end  of  the  day,  and  she  gave  up  the  attempt  in 
despair. 

After  fifteen  years  of  happiness,  it  seemed  to  the  wife,  who 
iiad  never  known  a  pang  of  jealousy,  that  she  counted  for 
nothing  in  the  heart  where  she  had  reigned  but  lately,  and 
the  Spaniard  in  her  nature  awoke.  Science  was  her  rival. 
Science  had  won  her  husband's  heart  from  her,  and  love  re- 
newed its  strength  in  the  fires  of  jealousy  that  consumed  her 
heart.  But  what  could  she  do?  What  resistance  could  she 
make  against  this  slowly  growing  tyrannous  power  tha^t  never 
relaxed  its  hold?  this  invisible  rival  who  could  not  be  slain? 
A  woman's  power  is  limited  by  nature;  how  can  she  engage 
in  a  struggle  with  an  Idea,  with  the  infinite  delights  of 
thought  and  charms  that  are  always  renewed?  What  could 
she  attempt  in  the  face  of  the  coquetries  of  ideas  which  take 
new  forms  and  grow  fairer  amid  difficulties,  which  beckon 
to  the  seeker,  and  lure  him  on  so  far  from  the  world  that 
he  grows  forgetful  of  all  things  else,  and  human  love  and 
human  ties  are  as  nothing  to  him  ? 

A  day  came  at  last  when,  in  spite  of  strict  orders  from 
Balthazar,  his  wife  determined  that  at  least  in  bodily  presence 
she  would  be  near  him;  she  also  would  live  in  the  garret 
where  he  had  shut  himself  up,  and  meet  her  rival  there  on 
her  own  ground  and  at  close  quarters ;  she  would  be  with  her 
husband  during  the  long  hours  which  he  lavished  on  the 
terrible  mistress  who  had  won  his  heart  from  her.  She  meant 
to  steal  into  the  mysterious  workshop,  and  to  earn  the  right 
of  remaining  there.  But  as  she  dreaded  an  explosion  of 
wrath,  and  feared  a  witness  of  the  scene,  she  waited  for  a 
day  when  her  husband  should  be  alone,  before  making  her 
effort  to  share  with  Lemulquinier  the  right  of  entry  into  the 
laboratory.  For  some  time  she  had  watched  the  man's  com- 
ings and  goings,  and  almost  hated  him.  Was  it  not  intolerable 
that  the  servant  should  know  all  that  she  longed  to  learn, 
all  that  her  husband  hid  from  her,  and  that  she  did  not  dare 
to  ask  ?    It  seemed  to  her  that  Lemulquinier  was  more  privi- 


42  THE  QUEST  OP  THE  ABSOLUTE 

leged,  and  stood  higher  in  her  husband's  estimation  than  she, 
his  own  wife. 

So  she  w»ent  to  the  garret,  trembling,  yet  almost  happy, 
and  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  was  made  to  feel  Balthazar's 
anger.  Scarcely  had  she  opened  the  door,  when  he  rushed 
forward  and  seized  her,  and  pushed  her  out  on  to  the  staircase 
so  roughly  that  she  narrowly  escaped  a  headlong  fall. 

"God  be  praised !  You  are  still  alive !"  cried  Balthazar, 
as  he  helped  her  to  rise. 

The  splinters  of  a  shattered  glass  mask  fell  about  Mme. 
Claes ;  she  looked  up  and  saw  her  husband's  face,  white,  hag- 
gard, and  terrified. 

"Dear,  I  told  you  not  to  come  here,"  he  gasped,  sinlcing 
down  on  a  step  as  if  all  his  strength  had  left  him.  "The 
saints  have  saved  3^our  life.  I  wonder  how  it  chanced  that 
my  eves  were  fixed  on  the  door  just  then.  We  were  all  but 
killed!" 

"I  should  have  been  very  happy  to  die  so,"  she  said. 

"M}'-  experiment  is  utterly  ruined,"  Balthazar  went  on.  '1. 
could  not  forgive  any  one  else  for  causing  me  such  a  grievous 
disappointment;  it  is  too  painful.  In  another  moment  I 
should  perhaps  have  decomposed  nitrogen!  .  .  .  There, 
go  back  to  your  own  affairs-,"  and  Balthazar  returned  to  his 
laboratory. 

''/  should  perhaps  have  decomposed  nitrogen  T  the  poor 
wife  said  to  herself,  as  she  went  back  to  her  own  room;  and 
once  there,  she  burst  into  tears. 

The  phrase  conveyed  no  meaning  to  her.  Men,  whose  edu- 
cation gives  them  a  certain  readiness  to  deal  with*  new  ideas, 
do  not  know  how  painful  it  is  to  a  woman  to  lack  the  power 
to  understand  the  thoughts  of  the  man  she  loves.  These 
divine  creatures  are  more  indulgent  than  we  are;  they  do  not 
tell  us  when  they  fail  to  find  response  to  the  language  of  their 
souls;  they  shrink  from  making  us  feel  the  superiority  of  their 
sentiments,  dissemble  their  pain  joyfully,  and  are  silent  about 
the  pleasures  that  we  do  not  enter  into.  But  they  are  more 
ambitious  in  love  than  we  are^  they  must  do  more  than  wed 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE         43 

a  man's  Vieart,  they  must  share  his  thoughts  as  well.  Igno- 
rance of  her  husband's  scientific  pursuits  gave  Mme.  Claes 
a  more  intolerable  heartache  than  a  rival's  beauty  could 
have  caused.  The  woman  who  loves  the  most  is  at  least  con- 
scious of  this  advantage  over  her  rival;  but  such  neglect  as 
this  left  her  face  to  face  with  her  utter  helplessness ;  it  was  a 
humiliating  indifference  to  all  the  affections  that  help  us  to 
live. 

Josephine  loved,  but  she  did  not  know;  and  her  want  of 
knowledge  separated  her  from  her  husband.  But  besides 
this  and  beyond  this,  there  lay  a  last  extremity  of  torture; 
he  was  often  between  life  and  death,  it  seemed;  under  the 
same  roof,  and  yet  far  from  her,  he  was  risking  his  life  with- 
out her  knowledge,  in  dangers  which  she  might  not  share. 
It  was  like  hell — ^a  prison  for  the  soul  from  which  there  was 
no  way  of  escape,  where  there  was  no  hope  left.  Mme.  Claes 
determined  that  at  any  rate  she  would  learn  in  what  the 
attractions  of  this  science  consisted,  and  privately  set  herself 
to  read  works  on  chemistry.  Then  the  house  became  like  a 
convent. 

The  "Maison  Claes"  had  passed  through  all  these  successive 
changes,  and  by  the  time  that  this  story  commences  was  almost 
"dead  to  the  world." 

The  crisis  grew  more  complicated.  Like  all  impassioned 
natures,  Mme.  Claes  never  thought  of  herself ;  and  those  who 
know  love,  know  that  where  affection  is  concerned  money  is 
of  small  moment,  and  interest  and  affection  are  almost  incom- 
patible. Yet  it  was  not  without  a  cruel  pang  that  Josephine 
learned  that  there  was  a  mortgage  of  three  hundred  thousand 
francs  on  her  husband's  estates.  There  were  documents  which 
proved  this  beyond  a  doubt,  and  gave  occasion  for  gossip  and 
dismayed  conjecture  in  the  town.  Mme.  Claes,  justly 
alarmed,  felt  compelled,  proud  though  she  was,  to  make  in- 
quiries of  her  husband's  notary,  to  confide  her  anxieties  to 
him,  or  to  enable  him  to  guess  them ;  and  was  forced  to  hear 
from  the  lips  of  the  man  of  business  the  humiliating  in- 
quiry— "Then  has  not  M.  Claes  as  yet  said  anything  to  you 
aboTitit?'' 


44  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

Luckily,  Balthazar's  notar}'  was  almost  a  relation.  M. 
Claes'  grandfather  had  married  one  of  the  Pierquins  of 
Antwerp,  of  the  same  family  as  the  Pierquins  of  Douai ;  and 
ever  since  the  marriage  the  latter  branch,  though  scarcely 
acquainted  with  the  Claes,  had  looked  upon  them  as  cousins. 
M.  Pierquin,  a  young  man  of  six-and-twent}^  had  just  suc- 
ceeded to  his  father's  position;  he  alone,  in  his  quality  of 
notary  and  kinsman,  had  the  right  of  entry  to  the  house 
Mme.  Balthazar  Claes  had  lived  for  many  months  in  such 
complete  seclusion,  that  she  was  obliged  to  go  to  him  for  in 
formation  of  a  disaster  which  was  already  known  to  every 
cne  in  Douai. 

Pierquin  told  her  that  in  all  probability  large  sums  were 
owing  to  the  firm  which  supplied  her  husband  with  chemicals. 
This  firm,  after  making  inquiries,  had  executed  all  M.  Claes' 
orders  without  hesitation,  and  let  him  have  unlimited  credit. 
Mme.  Claes  commissioned  Pierquin  to  ask  them  for  an  ac- 
count of  the  goods  supplied  to  tier  husband.  Two  months 
later,  MM.  Protez  and  Chiffreville,  manufacturing  chemists, 
sent  in  a  statement  by  which  it  appeared  that  a  hundred 
thousand  francs  were  owing  to  them. 

Mme.  Claes  and  Pierquin  studied  the  document  with  amaze- 
ment that  increased  with  each  fresh  item.  Among  enig- 
matical entries,  commercial  expressions,  and  undecipherable 
scientific  hieroglyphs,  it  gave  them  a  shock  to  find  mention 
of  diamonds  and  precious  metals,  albeit  in  small  quantities, 
and  of  mysterious  substances,  apparently  so  difficult  to  pro- 
cure or  to  produce  that  they  were  enormously  valuable.  The 
vast  number  of  different  items,  the  cost  of  carriage  and  of 
packing  valuable  scientific  instruments  and  delicately  ad- 
justed machinery  for  transit,  the  expense  of  all  the  apparatus, 
together  with  the  fact  that  many  of  the  chemical  compound's 
had  been  specially  prepared  by  M.  Claes'  directions,  accounted 
sufficiently  for  the  startling  amount  of  the  total. 

In  the  interests  of  his  cousin,  the  notaiy  made  inquiries 
concerning  MM.  Protez  and  Chiffreville,  and  the  accounts 
which  he  received  of  them  convinced  him  that  they  had  bepn 


THE  QUEST  OP  THE  ABSOLUTE  45 

perfectly  honest  in  their  dealings  with  M.  Claes;  indeed,  they 
had  been  more  than  honest,  they  had  gone  out  of  their  way 
to  keep  him  informed  of  the  discoveries  of  Parisian  chemists 
in  order  to  save  him  expense. 

Mme.  Claes  entreated  Pierquin  to  keep  the  singular  nature 
of  these  transactions  a  secret.  If  they  were  known  in  the 
town,  all  Douai  would  say  at  once  that  her  husband  was  mad. 
But  Pierquin  told  her  that  this  was  impossible;  that  he  had 
obtained  all  possible  delay  already;  and  that  as  the  bills  for 
such  large  amounts  had  been  formally  noted,  the  secret  was 
not  in  his  keeping.  He  laid  bare  the  whole  extent  of  the 
wound,  telling  his  cousin  that  if  she  could  not  contrive  to 
prevent  her  husband  from  squandering  his  money  in  this  reck- 
less way,  the  family  estates  would  be  mortgaged  up  to  their 
value  in  less  than  six  months.  As  to  making  any  effort  him- 
self, he  added  that  he,  Pierquin,  had  spoken  to  his  cousin  on 
the  subject,  with  due  deference,  more  than  once,  and  that  it 
had  been  utterly  useless.  Balthazar  had  answered  once  for 
all  that  in  all  his  researches  his  object  was  to  make  a  fortune 
and  a  famous  name  for  his  family.  So  in  addition  to  the 
anguish  which  had  clutched  at  Josephine's  heart  for  the  past 
two  years — a  cumulative  torture,  in  which  every  sad  or  happy 
memory  of  the  past  added  to  the  pain  of  the  present — she  was 
to  know  a  horrible  unceasing  dread  of  worse  to  follow,  of  an 
appalling  future. 

A  woman's  presentiments  are  often  marvelously  correct. 
How  is  it  that  women  fear  so  far  oftener  than  they  hope  in 
all  matters  relating  to  this  present  life  ?  Why  do  they  reserve 
all  their  faith  for  religious  beliefs  in  a  future  world?  How 
is  it  that  they  are  so  quick  to  discern  coming  trouble  or  any 
turning-point  in  our  career?  Perhaps  the  very  closeness  of 
the  tie  that  binds  a  woman  to  the  man  she  loves  makes  her  an 
admirable  judge  of  his  capacity,  and  with  the  instinct  of  love 
she  estimates  his  faculties  and  knows  his  tastes,  his  passions, 
his  faults,  and  good  qualities.  She  is  always  studying  these 
sources  of  man's  destiny,  and  with  the  intimate  knowledge 
of  the  causes  comes  the  fatal  gift  of  foreseeing  their  effects 


46  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

under  all  conceivable  conditions.  "Women  derive  their  insight 
into  the  Future  from  their  clear-sightedness  in  such  tilings  as 
they  see  in  the  Present,  and  the  accuracy  of  their  forecasts 
is  due  to  the  perfection  of  their  nervous  organization,  whicK 
enables  them  to  detect  and  interpret  the  slightest  sign  of 
thought  or  feeling.  The}''  feel  the  great  storms  that  shake 
another  soul,  and  every  fibre  in  them  vibrates  in  harmony. 
They  feel  or  they  see.  And  Mme.  Claes,  though  estranged 
from  her  husband  for  two  years,  felt  that  the  loss  of  their 
fortune  was  impending. 

In  Balthazar's  passionate  persistence  she  had  seen  the  re- 
flection of  his  fiery  enthusiasm.  If  it  were  true  that  he  was 
tr}-ing  to  discover  the  secret  of  making  gold,  he  would  cer- 
tainly fling  Ills  last  morsel  of  bread  into  the  crucible  with  per- 
fect indifference;  but  what  was  he  seeking  to  discover? 

.  So  far  she  had  loved  husband  and  children  without  attempt- 
ing to  distinguish  the  claims  of  either  upon  her  heart.  Bal- 
thazar had  loved  the  children  as  she  did;  the  children  had 
never  come  between  them.  Now,  all  at  once  she  discovered 
that  she  was  at  times  more  a  mother  than  a  wife,  as  heretofore 
she  had  been  a  wife  rather  than  a  mother.  Yet  she  felt  that 
she  was  ready  even  yet  to  sacrifice  herself,  her  fortune,  and 
her  children  to  the  welfare  of  the  man  who  had  loved  and 
chosen  and  adored  her,  the  man  for  whom  she  was  still  the 
only  woman  in  the  world;  and  then  came  remorse  that  she 
should  love  her  children  so  little,  and  despair  at  being  placed 
between  two  hideous  alternatives.  Her  heart  suffered  as  a 
wife,  as  a  mother  she  suffered  in  lier  children,  and  as  a  Chris- 
tian she  suffered  for  it  all.  She  said  nothing  of  the  terrible 
conflict  in  her  soul.  After  all,  her  husband  was  the  sole 
arbiter  of  their  fate ;  he  was  the  master  who  must  shape  their 
destinies ;  he  was  accountable  to  God  and  to  none  other.  How 
could  she  reproach  him  with  putting  her  fortune  to  such  uses, 
after  the  disinterestedness  which  had  been  so  amply  proved 
during  the  first  ten  years  of  their  married  life?  Was  she  a 
judge  of  his  designs?  And  yet  her  conscience  asserted  what 
she  knew  to  be  in  keeping  with  all  laws  written  and  unwritten. 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  47 

that  parents  possess  their  fortune  not  for  themselves,  but  for 
their  children,  and  have  no  right  to  alienate  the  worldly 
wealth  which  they  hold  in  trust  for  them. 

Rather  than  take  it  upon  herself  to  solve  these  intricate 
problems,  she  had  chosen  to  shut  her  eyes  to  them;  like  a 
man  on  the  brink  of  a  precipice,  who  will  not  look  into  the 
yawning  depths  into  which  he  knows  that  he  must  sooner 
or  later  fall. 

For  the  past  six  months  her  husband  had  allowed  her  noth- 
ing for  housekeeping  expenses.  The  magnificent  diamonds 
which  her  brother  had  given  to  her  on  the  day  of  her  marriage 
had  been  secretly  sold  in  Paris,  and  she  had  put  the  whole 
household  on  the  most  economical  footing.  She  had  dis- 
missed the  children's  governess,  and  even  little  Jean's  nurse.  ■ 
Formerly  the  luxury  of  a  carriage  had  been  quite  unknown 
among  the  Flemish  burghers,  who  lived  so  simply  and  held 
their  heads  so  high.  So  there  had  been  no  provision  in  the 
Maison  Claes  itself  for  this  modern  innovation,  and  Balthazar 
had  been  obliged  to  have  his  stables  and  coach-house  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  street.  Since  he  had  been  absorbed  in 
chemistry  he  had  ceased  to  superintend  that  part  of  the 
menage,  essentially  a  man's  province,  and  Mme.  Claes  put 
down  the  carriage.  She  was  so  much  of  a  recluse  that  the 
expense  was  as  useless  as  it  was  heavy;  and  this  would  have 
been  reason  sufficient  to  give  for  her  retrenchments,  but  she 
did  not  attempt  to  give  color  to  them  by  any  pretexts.  Hith- 
erto, facts  had  given  the  lie  to  her  words,  and  now  silence 
became  her  best. 

Such  changes  as  these,  moreover,  were  almost  inexcusable 
in  Holland,  where  any  one  who  lives  up  to  his  income  is  looked 
on  as  a  madman.  Only  as  her  oldest  girl.  Marguerite,  was 
now  nearly  sixteen  years  old,  Josephine  would  wish  her  to 
make  a  great  match,  it  was  thought,  and  to  establish  her  in 
the  world  in  a,  manner  befitting  the  daughter  of  the  house 
of  Claes,  connected  as  it  was  with  the  Molinas,  the  Van 
Ostrom-Temnincks,  and  the  Casa-Reals.  The  money  realized 
by  the  sale  of  the  diamonds  had  been  exhausted  some  few  days 


48  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

before  the  opening  scene  of  this  story.  On  that  very  after- 
noon, as  Mme.  Claes  had  met  Pierquin  on  her  way  to  vespers 
with  her  children,  he  had  turned  and  walked  with  them  as 
far  as  the  Church  of  Saint  Pierre,  talking  confidentially  the 
while. 

"It  would  be  a  breach  of  the  friendship  which  attaches 
me  to  your  family/'  he  said,  "if  I  were  to  attempt  to  conceal 
from  you,  cousin,  the  risks  you  are  running.  I  must  implore 
3'ou  to  set  them  before  your  husband.  Who  else  has  influence 
sufficient  to  arrest  him  on  the  brink  of  the  precipice?  Your 
estates  are  so  heavily  mortgaged  that  they  will  scarcely  pay 
interest  on  the  sums  borrowed.  At  this  moment  you  have  no 
income  whatever.  If  you  once  cut  down  the  woods,  your  last 
hope  of  salvation  will  be  gone.  Cousin  Balthazar  owes 
thirty  thousand  francs  to  Protez  and  Chiffreville  in  Paris; 
how  will  you  pay  them  ?  How  are  }' ou  going  to  live  ?  And 
what  will  become  of  you  if  Claes  keeps  on  buying  acids  and 
alkalis,  and  glassware,  and  voltaic  batteries,  and  such  like 
gimcracks  ?  All  your  fortune  has  flown  off  in  gas  and  smuts ; 
you  have  nothing  but  the  house  and  the  furniture  left.  A 
couple  of  days  ago  there  was  some  talk  of  mortgaging  the 
house  itself,  and  what  do  you  think  Claes  said  ? — 'The  devil !' 
— ^'Tis  the  first  sign  of  sense  he  has  shown  these  three  years." 

Mme.  Claes  in  her  distress  clutched  Pierquin's  arm.  "Keep 
our  secret !"  she  entreated,  raising  her  eyes  to  heaven. 

The  wOrds  had  fallen  like  a  thunderbolt.  She  sat  quietly 
on  her  chair  among  her  children,  so  overcome  that  she  could 
not  pray.  Iler  prayer-book  lay  open  on  her  knee,  but  she 
never  turned  a  leaf;  her  painful  thoughts  were  as  all- 
absorbing  as  her  husband's  musings.  The  sounds  of  the  organ 
fell  on  her  ears,  but  Spanish  pride  and  Flemish  integrity  sent 
louder  echoes  through  her  soul.  The  ruin  of  her  children  was 
complete !  She  could  no  longer  hesitate  between  their  claims 
and  their  father's  honor.  The  immediate  prospect  of  a  col- 
lision with  Claes  appalled  her;  he  was  so  great  in  her  eyes, 
so  much  above  her,  tliat  the  l)are  idea  of  his  anger  was  scarcely 
less  fearful  than  the  thought  of  the  wrath  of  God.    She  could 


'THE  QUEST  OP  THE  ABSOLUTE  4» 

no  longer  be  so  devoutly  submissive,  a  change  had  come  over 
her  life.  For  her  children's  sake  she  must  thwart  the  wishes 
of  the  husband  whom  she  idolized. 

His  thoughts  soared  among  the  far-off  heights  of  science, 
but  she  must  bring  him  down  to  the  problems  of  everyday 
existence;  must  break  in  upon  his  dreams  of  a  fair  future, 
•nid  confront  him  with  the  present  in  its  most  prosaic  aspect, 
with  practical  details  revolting  to  artists  and  great  men.  For 
his  wife,  Balthazar  Claes  was  a  giant  intellect,  a  man  whose 
greatness  the  world  would  one  day  recognize;  he  could  only 
have  forgotten  her  for  the  most  splendid  hopes;  and  then  he 
■was  so  able,  so  wise  and  far-seeing,  she  had  heard  him  speak 
so  well  on  so  many  subjects,  that  she  felt  no  doubt  that  he 
spoke  the  truth  when  he  said  that  his  researches  were  to  bring 
fame  and  fortune  to  them  all.  His  love  for  his  wife  and 
children  was  not  only  great,  it  was  boundless;  how  could 
such  love  come  to  an  end?  Doubtless  it  was  stronger  and 
deeper  than  ever,  it  was  only  the  form  that  was  changed; 
and  she  who  was  so  nobly  disinterested,  so  generous  and  sensi- 
tive, must  continually  sound  the  word  "money"  in  the  great 
man's  ears;  must  make  him  see  poverty  in  its  ugliest  shape, 
and  the  rattle  of  coin  and  cries  of  distress  must  break  in  on 
the  sweet  voices  that  sang  of  fame. 

And  suppose  that  Balthazar's  affection  for  her  should  grow 
less  ?  Ah !  if  she  had  had  no  children,  how  bravely  and  gladly 
she  would  have  faced  the  change  he  had  wrought  in  her  des- 
tiny! Women  who  have  been  brought  up  amid  wealthy  sur- 
roundings soon  feel  the  emptiness  of  the  life  that  luxury  may 
disguise,  but  cannot  fill ;  it  palls  on  them,  but  their  hearts  are 
not  seared;  and  when  once  they  have  discovered  for  them- 
selves the  happiness  that  lies  in  a  constant  interchange  of 
sincere  feeling  and  thought,  when  they  are  certain  of  being 
loved,  they  do  not  shrink  from  a  narrow  monotonous  exist- 
ence, if  only  that  existence  is  the  one  best  suited  to  the  being 
who  loves  them.  All  their  own  ideas  and  pleasures  are  sub- 
ordinated to  the  lightest  demands  of  that  life  without  theii 


6©  THE  QUEST  OP  THE  ABSOLUTE 

own ;  and  the  future  holds  but  one  dread  for  them — the  dread 
of  separation. 

At  this  moment  Pepita  felt  that  her  children  stood  between 
her  and  her  real  life,  as  science  had  separated  Balthazar  Claes 
from  her.  When  she  returned  from  vespers  she  flung  herself 
down  in  her  low  chair,  dismissed  the  children  with  a  caution  to 
make  no  noise,  and  sent  to  ask  her  husband  to  come  to  speak 
with  her ;  but  in  spite  of  the  insistence  of  the  old  man-servant 
Lemulquinier,  Balthazar  had  not  stirred  from  his  laborator}'. 
Mme.  Claes  had  time  to  think  over  her  position,  and  had 
fallen  into  deep  musings,  forgetful  of  the  hour  and  the  day. 
The  thought  that  they  owed  thirty  thousand  francs  which 
they  could  not  pay  roused  painful  memories;  all  the  troubles 
of  the  past  started  up  to  meet  the  troubles  of  the  present 
and  the  future.  She  was  overwhelmed  by  the  problem,  the 
burden  grew  too  heavy  for  her,  and  she  gave  way  to  tears. 

When  Balthazar  came  at  last,  he  looked  more  abstracted, 
more  formidable,  more  distraught  than  she  had  ever  seen  him ; 
and  when  he  gave  her  no  answer,  she  sat  for  a  while  like  one 
fascinated  by  the  vacant  unseeing  gaze;  the  remorseless 
thoughts  that  had  wrung  drops  of  sweat  from  his  brow  seemed 
to  exert  a  spell  over  her  also.  With  the  first  shock  came  the 
wish  that  she  might  die.  But  the  scientific  inquiry  made  in 
those  absent  tones  roused  her  courage  just  as  her  heart  began 
to  fail  her;  she  would  grapple  with  this  hideous  and  mysteri- 
ous power  which  had  robbed  her  of  her  lover,  her  children  of 
their  father,  and  the  family  of  their  wealth,  and  had  over- 
clouded all  her  happiness.  Yet  she  could  not  help  trem- 
bling, shudder  after  shudder  ran  through  her ;  was  it  not  the 
most  solemn  moment  of  her  life — a  moment  that  held  all  her 
future — as  it  was  the  outcome  of  all  her  past? 

And  at  this  point,  weak-minded  people,  timid  souls,  or 
ihose  who,  sensitive  by  nature,  are  prone  to  exaggerate  little 
trials  of  life,  men  who,  in  spite  of  themselves,  feel  a  nervous 
tremor  when  they  stand  before  the  arbiters  of  their  fate,  may 
readily  imagine  tbe  thoughts  that  crowded  up  in  her  mind. 
Her  brain  reeled,  and  her  heart  grew  lieavy  with  pent-up 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  51 

emotion,  as  she  saw  her  husband  go  slowly  towards  the  garden 
door.  Few  women  have  not  known  the  misery  of  such  inward 
debates  as  hers,  so  that  even  those  whose  hearts  have  not 
throbbed  violently  over  a  confession  of  extravagance,  or  of 
debts  to  their  dressmaker,  will  have  some  faint  idea  of  how 
terribly  the  pulse  beats  when  life  is  at  stake.  A  pretty  woman 
can  fling  herself  at  her  husband's  feet,  the  graceful  attitudes 
of  her  sorrow  can  plead  for  her,  but  Mme.  Claes  was  painfully 
conscious  of  her  deformity,  and  this  added  to  her  fears.  When 
she  saw  Balthazar  about  to  leave  her,  her  first  impulse  had 
been  to  spring  to  his  side,  but  a  cruel  thought  restrained  her. 
How  could  she  rise  and  stand  before  him  ?  She  would  appear 
ridiculous  in  the  eyes  of  a  man  who  had  lost  the  old  illusions 
of  love,  and  now  would  see  her  as  she  was.  Rather  than  lose 
one  tittle  of  her  power,  Josephine  would  have  lost  fortune 
and  children.  She  would  avoid  all  possible  evil  influences  at 
this  crisis. 

"Balthazar  !'* 

He  started  at  the  sound  of  her  voice  and  coughed.  Then, 
without  paying  any  attention  to  his  wife,  he  turned  in  the 
direction  of  one  of  the  small  square  spittoons  which  are  placed 
at  intervals  along  the  wainscot  in  all  Dutch  and  Flemish 
houses;  the  force  of  old  habit  and  association  was  so  strong 
in  him  that  the  man,  who  was  hardly  conscious  of  the  exist- 
ence of  human  beings,  was  always  careful  of  the  furniture. 
This  curious  trait  was  a  source  of  intolerable  pain  to  poor 
Josephine,  who  could  not  understand  it;  at  this  moment  she 
lost  command  over  herself,  and  her  agony  of  mind  drew  from 
her  a  sharp  cry  of  suffering,  an  exclamation  in  which  all  her 
wounded  feelings  found  expression. 

"Monsieur !  I  am  speaking  to  you !" 

'^hat  does  that  signify?"  answered  Balthazar,  turning 
round  abruptly,  and  giving  his  wife  a  quick  glance.  The 
hasty  words  fell  like  a  thunderbolt. 

"Forgive  me,  dear.  .  ."  she  said,  with  a  white  face.  She 
tried  to  rise  to  her  feet,  and  held  out  her  hand  to  him,  but 
sank  back  a  rain  exhausted. 


52  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

*"rhis  is  killing  me !"  she  said,  in  a  voice  broken  by  soba. 

The  sight  of  tears  brought  a  revulsion  in  Balthazar,  as  ift 
most  absent-minded  people;  it  was  as  if  a  sudden  light  had 
been  thrown  for  him  on  the  mystery  of  this  crisis.  He  took 
up  Mme.  Claes  at  once  in  his  arms,  opened  a  door  which  led 
into  the  little  ante-chamber,  and  sprang  up  the  staircase  so 
hastily  that  his  wife's  dress  caught  on  one  of  the  carved 
dragon's  heads  of  the  balusters ;  there  was  a  sharp  sound,  and 
a  whole  breadth  was  torn  away.  He  kicked  open  the  door  of 
a  little  room  into  which  their  apartments  opened,  and  found 
that  the  door  of  his  wife's  room  was  locked.  He  set  Josephine 
gently  down  in  an  armchair,  saying  to  himself,  "Grood 
heavens !  where  is  the  key  ?" 

"Thank  you,  dear,"  said  Mme,  Claes,  as  she  opened  her 
eyes.  "It  is  a  long  while  since  I  have  felt  so  near  to  your 
heart." 

"Great  heavens !"  cried  Claes.  '^here  is  the  key  ?  There 
are  the  servants " 

Josephine  signed  to  him  to  take  the  key  which  hung  sus- 
pended from  a  riband  at  her  side.  Balthazar  opened  the 
door  and  hastily  laid  his  wife  on  the  sofa;  then  he  went  out 
to  bid  the  startled  servants  remain  downstairs,  ordered  them 
to  serve  dinner  at  once,  and  hurried  back  to  his  wife. 

*^hat  is  it,  dear  heart?"  he  asked,  seating  himself  beside 
her.    He  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it. 

"It  is  nothing,"  she  said;  "the  pain  is  over  now,  only  I 
wish  that  I  had  God's  power,  and  could  pour  all  the  gold 
in  the  world  at  your  feet." 

*^hy  gold?"  he  asked,  as  he  drew  his  wife  to  him,  held 
her  tightly  in  his  arms,  and  kissed  her  again  on  the  forehead. 
"Dearest  love,  do  you  not  give  me  the  greatest  of  all  wealth, 
loving  me  as  3^ou  do?" 

"Oh !  Balthazar,  why  should  you  not  put  an  end  to  all  this 
wretchedness,  as  your  voice  just  now  dispelled  the  trouble  in 
my  heart?    You  are  not  changed  at  all ;  1  see  that  now." 

'Wretchedness  ?    What  do  you  u:.ean,  dearest  ?" 

**We  are  ruined,  dear." 


THE  QUEST  OP  THE  ABSOLUTE  53 

"Kuined?"  he  echoed.  He  began  to  smile,  and  fondly 
stroked  the  hand  which  lay  in  his.  When  he  spoke  again 
there  was  an  unaccustomed  tenderness  in  his  voice. 

"To-morrow,  dearest,  we  may  find  ourselves  possessed  of 
inexhaustible  wealth.  Yesterday,  while  trying  to  discover 
far  greater  secrets,  I  think  I  found  out  how  to  crystallize 
carbon,  the  very  substance  of  the  diamond.  ...  Oh! 
dear  wife,  in  a  few  days'  time,  you  will  forgive  me  for  my 
wandering  wits ;  for  they  are  apt  to  wander  at  times,  it  seems. 
I  spoke  hastily  just  now,  did  I  not?  But  you  will  make 
allowances  for  me,  the  thought  of  you  is  always  present  with 
me,  and  my  work  is  all  for  you,  for  us " 

"That  is  enough,"  she  said;  "we  will  say  no  more  now, 
dear.  This  evening  we  will  talk  over  it  all.  My  trouble 
seemed  more  than  I  could  bear,  and  now  joy  is  almost  too 
much  for  me." 

She  had  not  thought  to  see  the  old  tender  expression  in  his 
face,  to  hear  such  gentle  tones  again  in  his  voice,  to  recover 
all  that  she  thought  she  had  lost. 

"Certainly,"  he  said.  "Let  us  talk  it  over  this  evening. 
If  I  should  grow  absorbed  in  something  else,  remind  me  of 
my  promise.  I  should  like  to  forget  my  calculations  this 
evening,  and  to  surround  myself  with  family  happiness, 
with  the  pleasures  of  the  heart,  for  I  need  them,  Pepita,  I 
am  longing  for  them." 

"And  will  you  tell  me  what  you  are  trying  to  discover, 
Balthazar?" 

"Why,  you  would  not  understand  it  at  all  if  I  did,  poor 
littk  one." 

"That  is  what  you  think  ?  But  for  these  four  months  past 
I  have  been  reading  about  chemistry,  dear,  so  that  I  could 
talk  about  it  with  you.  I  have  read  Fourcroy,  Lavoisier, 
Chaptal,  Nollet,  Eouelle,  Berthollet,  Gay-Lussac,  Spallan- 
zani,  Leuwenhoek,  Galvani,  Voita, — all  the  books  ie  fact 
about  this  science  that  you  adore.  Come,  you  can  tell  mx» 
your  secrets  now." 

"Oh!  you  are  an  angel!"  cried  Balthazar,  falling  on  his 


m  THE  QUEST  OP  THE  ABSOLUTE 

knees  beside  his  wife,  and  shedding  tears  that  made  her  trem« 
ble.    "We  shall  understand  each  other  in  everything !" 

"Ah!"  she  said.  "I  would  fling  myself  into  your  furnace 
fire  to  hear  such  words  from  you,  to  see  you  as  you  are  now." 

She  heard  her  daughter's  footsteps  in  the  next  room,  and 
sprang  hastily  to  the  door. 

*^hat  is  it,  Marguerite  ?"  she  asked  of  her  eldest  girl. 

"M.  Pierquin  is  here,  mother  dear.  You  forgot  to  give 
out  the  table-linen  this  morning,  and  if  he  stays  to 
dinner " 

Mme.  Claes  drew  a  bunch  of  small  keys  from  her  pocket 
and  gave  them  to  her  daughter,  indicating  as  she  did  so  the 
cupboards  of  foreign  woods  which  lined  the  ante-chamber. 

"Take  it  from  the  Graindorge  linen,"  she  said,  "on  the 
right-hand  side." 

"As  this  dear  Balthazar  of  mine  is  to  come  back  to  me 
to-day,  I  should  like  to  have  him  all  complete,'*  she  said, 
going  back  to  the  room  with  mischievous  sweetness  in  her 
eyes.  "Now,  dear,  go  to  your  room,  and  do  me  a  favor — dress 
for  dinner,  as  Pierquin  is  here.  Just  change  those  ragged 
clothes  of  yours.  Only  look  at  the  stains  !  And  is  it  muriatic 
or  sulphuric  acid  which  has  burned  those  holes  with  the  yellow 
edges  ?  Go  and  freshen  yourself  up  a  little ;  as  soon  as  I  have 
changed  my  dress,  I  will  send  Mulquinier  to  you." 

Balthazar  tried  to  pass  into  his  room  by  the  door  which 
opened  into  it,  forgetting  that  it  was  locked  on  the  other 
side.    He  was  obliged  to  go  out  through  the  ante-chamber. 

"Marguerite,"  called  Mme.  Claes,  "leave  the  linen  on  the 
armchair  there,  and  come  and  help  me  to  dress;  I  would 
rather  not  have  Martha." 

Balthazar  had  laid  his  hand  on  Marguerite's  shoulder,  and 
turned  her  towards  him,  saying  merrily : 

"Good-evening,  little  one!  You  are  very  charming  to-day 
in  that  muslin  frock  and  rose-colored  sash." 

He  grasped  Marguerite's  hand  in  his,  and  kissed  her  fore- 
head. 

"Mammal"  cried  the  girl,  as  she  went  into  her  mother'^ 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  55 

room,  "papa  kissed  me  Just  now,  and  he  looked  so  pleased 
and  happy !" 

"Your  father  is  a  vcr}^  great  man,  dear  child;  he  has  been 
working  for  three  years  that  his  family  may  be  rich  and 
illustrious,  and  now  he  feels  sure  that  he  has  reached  the  end 
of  his  ambitions.    To-day  should  be  a  great  day  for  us  all." 

"We  shall  not  be  alone  in  our  joy,  mamma  dear;  all  the 
servants  were  sorry,  too,  to  see  him  look  so  gloomy.  .  .  . 
Oh !  not  that  sash,  it  is  so  limp  and  faded." 

"Very  well,  but  we  must  be  quick.  I  must  go  down  and 
speak  to  Pierquin.    Where  is  he?" 

"In  the  parlor;  he  is  playing  with  Jean." 

"Where  are  Gabriel  and  Felicie  ?" 

"I  hear  their  voices  out  in  the  garden." 

"Well,  then,  just  run  away  downstairs  and  see  after  them, 
or  they  will  pick  the  tulips ;  your  father  has  not  even  seen  the 
tulips  all  this  year,  perhaps  he  would  like  to  go  out  and  look 
at  them  after  dinner.  And  tell  Mulquinier  to  take  everything 
your  father  wants  up  to  his  room." 

When  Marguerite  had  left  her,  Mme.  Claes  went  to  the 
window  and  looked  out  at  her  children  playing  below  in  the 
garden.  They  were  absorbed  in  watching  one  of  those  gleam- 
ing insects  with  green,  gold-bespangled  wings  that  are  popu- 
larly called  "diamond  beetles." 

"Be  good,  my  darlings,"  she  said,  throwing  up  the  window 
sash  to  let  the  fresh  air  into  the  room.  Then  she  tapped 
gently  on  the  door  that  opened  into  her  husband's  apartments, 
to  make  sure  that  he  was  not  lost  once  more  in  a  waking 
dream.  He  opened  it,  and  when  she  saw  that  he  was  dressing, 
she  said  merrily : 

"You  will  not  leave  me  to  entertain  Pierquin  all  by  myself 
for  long,  will  you  ?  You  will  come  down  as  soon  as  you  can  ?" 
and  she  tripped  away  downstairs  so  lightly  that  a  stranger 
hearing  her  footsteps  would  not  have  thought  that  she  was 
lame.     Half-way  down  the  staircase,  she  met  Lemulquinier. 

"When  monsieur  carried  madame  upstairs,"  said  the  man, 
'*her  dress  was  torn  by  one  of  the  balusters ;  not  that  the  scrap 


56  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

of  stuff  matters  at  all,  but  the  dragon's  head  is  broken,  and 
I  do  not  know  who  is  to  mend  it.  It  quite  spoils  the  staircase; 
such  a  handsome  piece  of  carving  as  it  was  too !" 

"Pshaw!  Mulquinier,  do  not  have  it  mended;  it  is  not  a 
misfortune." 

"Not  a  misfortune?"  said  Mulquinier  to  himself.  '^'How 
is  that?  What  has  happened?  Can  the  master  have  dis- 
covered the  Absolute  ?" 

"Good-day,  M.  Pierquin,"  said  Mme.  Claes,  as  she  opened 
the  parlor  door. 

The  notary  hastened  to  offer  his  arm  to  his  cousin,  but  she 
never  took  any  arm  but  her  husband's,  and  thanked  him  by 
a  smile,  as  she  said,  "Perhaps  you  have  come  for  the  thirty 
thousand  francs?" 

"Yes,  madame.  When  I  reached  home  I  found  a  memo- 
randum from  MM.  Protez  and  Chiffreville,  who  have  drawn 
six  bills,  each  for  five  thousand  francs,  on  M.  Claes." 

"Ver}'  well,"  she  answered ;  "say  nothing  to-day  about  it  to 
Balthazar.  Stay  and  dine  with  us;  and  if  he  should  happen 
to  ask  why  you  have  called,  please  invent  some  plausible 
excuse.  Let  me  have  the  letter;  I  will  tell  him  about  this 
affair  myself.  It  will  be  all  right,"  she  went  on,  seeing  the 
notar}^'s  astonishment;  "in  a  very  few  months  my  husband 
will  probably  pay  back  all  the  money  which  he  has  borrowed." 

The  last  phrase  was  spoken  in  a  low  voice.  The  notary 
meanwhile  watched  Mile.  Claes,  who  was  coming  from  the 
garden,  followed  by  Gabriel  and  Felieie. 

"I  have  never  seen  Mile.  Marguerite  look  so  charming," 
he  said. 

Mme.  Claes,  sitting  in  her  low  chair,  with  little  Jean  on  her 
knees,  raised  her  face  and  looked  from  her  daughter  to  the 
notary  with  seeming  carelessness. 

Pierquin  was  neither  short  nor  tall,  stout  nor  thin ;  he 
was  good-looking  in  a  commonplace  way,  with  a  discontented 
rather  than  melancholy  expression ;  it  was  not  a  thoughtful 
face  in  spite  of  its  vague  dreaminess.  He  had  a  name  for  being 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  W 

a  misanthrope,  but  he  had  an  excellent  appetite,  and  was  too 
anxious  to  get  on  in  the  world  to  stand  very  far  aloof  from 
it.  He  had  a  trick  of  gazing  into  space,  an  attitude  of  in- 
difference, a  carefully  cultivated  talent  for  silence,  which 
seemed  to  indicate  profound  depths  of  character;  but  which, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  served  to  conceal  the  shallowness  and 
insignificance  of  a  notary  whose  whole  mind  was  entirely 
absorbed  by  material  interests.  He  was  still  sufficiently  young 
to  be  emulous  and  ambitious;  the  prospect  of  marrying  into 
the  Claes  family  would  have  been  quite  enough  to  call  forth  all 
his  zeal,  even  if  he  had  had  no  ulterior  motive  in  the  shape  of 
avarice,  but  he  was  not  prepared  to  act  a  generous  part  until 
he  knew  his  position  exactly.  When  Claes  seemed  to  be  in  a 
fair  way  to  ruin  himself,  the  notary  grew  stiff,  curt,  and 
uncompromising  as  an  ordinary  man  of  business ;  but  as  soon 
as  he  suspected  that  something  after  all  might  come  of  his 
cousin's  work,  he  at  once  became  affectionate,  accommodating, 
almost  officious;  and  yet  he  never  sounded  his  own  motives 
for  these  naive  changes  of  manner.  Sometimes  he  looked  on 
Marguerite  as  an  Infanta,  a  princess  to  whose  hand  a  poor 
notary  dared  not  aspire;  sometimes  she  was  only  a  penniless 
girl,  who  might  think  herself  lucky  if  Pierquin  condescended 
to  make  her  his  wife.  He  was  a  thorough  provincial  and  a 
Fleming;  there  was  no  harm  in  liim;  but  his  transparent 
selfishness  neutralized  his  better  qualities,  as  his  personal 
appearance  was  spoiled  by  his  absurd  affectations. 

As  Mme.  Claes  looked  at  the  notary  she  remembered  the 
curt  way  in  which  he  had  spoken  that  day  in  the  porch  of 
St.  Peter's  Church,  and  noticed  the  change  in  his  manner 
wrought  by  this  evening's  conversation.  She  read  the 
thoughts  in  the  depths  of  his  heart,  and  gave  a  keen  glance 
at  her  daughter,  but  evidently  there  was  no  thought  of  her 
cousin  in  the  girl's  mind.  A  few  minutes  were  spent  in  dis- 
cussing town  talk,  and  then  the  master  of  the  house  came 
down  from  his  room.  His  wife  had  heard  him  moving  about 
in  the  room  above  with  indescribable  pleasure,  his  step  was 
so  quick  and  light  that  she  pictured  Claes  grown  youthful 


68  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

again,  and  awaited  his  coming  with  such  eagerness  that  in 
spite  of  herself  a  quiver  of  excitement  thrilled  her  as  he 
came  down  the  staircase. 

A  moment  later  Balthazar  entered,  dressed  in  a  costume  of 
that  day.  His  high  boots,  reaching  almost  to  the  knee,  were 
carefully  polished,  the  tops  were  turned  down,  leaving  white 
silk  stockings  visible.  He  wore  blue  kerseymere  breeches, 
fastened  with  gold  buttons,  a  white-flowered  waistcoat,  and  a 
blue  dress-coat.  He  had  shaved  himself  and  combed  and 
perfumed  his  hair,  his  nails  had  been  pared,  and  his  hands 
washed  with  so  much  care  that  any  one  who  had  seen  him 
an  hour  before  would  hardly  have  recognized  him  again.  In- 
stead of  an  old  man  almost  in  his  dotage,  his  wife  and  chil- 
dren and  the  notary  beheld  a  man  of  forty,  with  an  irresistible 
air  of  kindliness  and  courtesy.  His  face  was  thin  and  worn, 
but  the  hardness  and  sharpness  of  outline,  which  told  a  tale 
of  weariness  and  strenuous  labor,  gave  a  certain  air  of  re- 
finement to  his  face. 

"Good-day,  Pierquin,"  said  Balthazar  Claes. 

The  chemist  had  become  a  father  and  husband  again.  He 
took  up  his  youngest  child  and  tossed  him  up  and  down. 

"Just  look  at  the  youngster,"  he  said  to  the  notary. 
"Doesn't  a  pretty  child  like,  this  make  you  wish  you  were 
married  ?  Take  my  word  for  it,  my  dear  boy,  family  pleasures 
make  up  for  everything 

"Brr!"  he  cried,  as  Jean  went  up  to  the  ceiling.  "Down 
you  come,"  and  he  set  the  child  on  the  floor.  Gleeful  shrieks 
of  laughter  broke  from  the  little  one  as  he  found  himself  so 
high  in  the  air  one  moment  and  so  low  the  next.  The  mother 
looked  away  lest  any  one  might  see  how  deeply  she  was  moved 
by  this  game  of  play.  It  was  such  a  little  thing,  yet  it  meant 
a  revolution  in  her  life. 

"Now  let  us  hear  how  you  are  getting  on,"  said  Balthazar, 
depositing  his  son  upon  the  polished  floor,  and  flinging  him^ 
self  into  an  easy-chair ;  but  the  little  one  ran  to  him  at  once ; 
some  glittering  gold  buttons  peeped  out  above  his  father's 
high  boots  in  a  quite  irresistible  way. 


THE  QUEST  OP  THE  ABSOLUTE  59 

"You  are  a  darling!"  said  his  father,  taking  him  in  his 
arms,  "a  Claes  every  inch  of  you !  You  run  straight. — 
Well,  Gabriel,  and  how  is  Pere  Morillon?"  he  said  to 
his  eldest  son,  as  he  pinched  the  boy's  ear.  "Do  you  manage 
to  hold  your  own  manfully  against  exercises  and  Latin  trans- 
lations ?    Do  you  keep  a  good  grip  on  your  mathematics  ?" 

Balthazar  rose  and  went  over  to  Pierquin  with  the  courte- 
ous friendliness  which  was  natural  to  him.  "Perhaps  you 
have  something  to  ask  me,  my  dear  fellow?"  he  said,  as  he 
took  the  notary's  arm  and  drew  him  out  into  the  garden, 
adding  as  they  went,  "Come  and  have  a  look  at  my  tulips." 

Mme.  Claes  looked  after  her  husband,  and  could  scarcely 
control  her  Joy.  He  looked  so  young,  so  kindly,  so  much 
himself  again.  She  too  rose  from  her  chair,  put  her  arm 
round  her  daughter's  waist,  and  kissed  her. 

"Dear  Marguerite,"  she  said;  "darling  child,  I  love  you 
more  than  ever  to-day." 

"Papa  has  not  been  so  nice  for  a  long,  long  time.'* 

Lemulquinier  came  to  announce  that  dinner  was  served. 
Mme.  Claes  took  Balthazar's  arm  before  Pierquin  could  offer 
his  a  second  time,  and  the  whole  family  went  into  the  dining- 
room. 

Overhead  the  beams  and  rafters  had  been  left  visible  in 
the  vaulted  ceiling,  but  the  woodwork  was  cleaned  and  care- 
fully polished  once  a  year,  and  the  intervening  spaces  were 
adorned  with  paintings.  Tall  oak  sideboards  lined  the  room, 
the  more  curious  specimens  of  the  family  china  were  arranged 
on  the  tiers  of  shelves,  the  purple  leather  which  covered  the 
walls  were  stamped  with  designs  in  gold,  representing  hunting 
scenes.  Here  and  there  above  the  sideboards  a  group  of 
foreign  shells,  or  the  bright-colored  feathers  of  rare  tropical 
birds,  glowed  against  the  sombre  background. 

The  chairs  were  the  square-shaped  kind  with  twisted  legs 
and  low  backs  covered  with  fringed  stuff,  which  once  were 
found  in  every  household  all  over  France  and  Italy.  In  one 
of  these  Eaphael  seated  his  "Madonna  of  the  Chair.''  They 
had  not  been  changed  since  the  beginning  of  the  sixteenth 


60  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTB 

century,  and  the  framework  was  black  with  age,  but  the 
oold-headed  nails  shone  as  if  they  were  new  only  yesterday, 
and  the  stuff,  carefully  renewed  from  time  to  time,  was  a  rich 
deep  red.  The  Flanders  of  the  sixteenth  century,  with  its 
.Spanish  innovations,  seemed  to  have  risen  out  of  the  past. 

The  wine  flasks  and  decanters  on  the  table  preserved  in 
their  bulb-shaped  outlines  the  grace  and  dignity  of  antique 
vases;  the  glasses  were  the  same  old-fashioned  goblets  with 
long,  slender  stems  that  are  seen  in  old  Dutch  pictures.  The 
English  earthenware  was  decorated  with  colored  figures  in 
high  relief,  Wedgwood's  ware  and  Palissy's  designs.  The 
silver  ,was  massive,  square-sided,  and  richly  ornamented;  it 
was  in  a  very  literal  sense  family  plate,  for  no  two  pieces 
were  alike,  and  the  rise  and  progress  of  the  fortunes  of  the 
house  of  Claes  might  have  been  traced  from  its  beginnings 
in  the  varying  styles  of  these  heirlooms. 

It  will  readily  be  imagined  that  a  Claes  would  make  it 
a  point  of  honor  to  have  table-linen  of  the  most  magnificent 
kind,  and  the  table-napkins  were  fringed  in  the  Spanish 
fashion.  The  splendors  locked  away  in  the  state  apartments 
only  came  to  light  to  grace  festival  days;  their  glories  were 
never  dimmed,  so  to  speak,  by  familiarity.  This  was  the 
linen,  plate,  and  earthenware  in  daily  use,  and  everything 
in  the  quarter  of  the  house  where  the  family  lived  bore  the 
stamp  of  a  patriarchal  quaintness.  Add  one  more  charming 
detail  to  complete  the  picture — a  vine  clambering  about  the 
windows  set  them  in  a  framework  of  green  leaves. 

"You  are  faithful  to  old  traditions,  madame,"  said  Pier- 
quin,  as  he  received  a  plateful  of  thymy  soup,  in  which 
there  were  small  rissolettes  made  of  meat  and  fried  bread, 
according  to  the  approved  Dutch  and  Flemish  recipe,  "this 
is  the  kind  of  soup  that  always  made  part  of  the  Sunday 
dinner  in  our  father's  time;  it  has  been  a  standing  dish  in 
the  Low  Countries  for  ages,  but  I  never  meet  with  it  now 
except  here  and  in  my  uncle  Des  Eaquet's  house.  Oh !  stay 
a  moment  though,  old  M.  Savaron  de  Savarus  at  Tournai 
still  takes  a  pride  in  having  it  served,  but  old  Flemish  ways 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  61 

dre  rapidly  disappearing.  Furniture  must  be  a  la  grecque 
nowadays;  there  are  classical  bucklers,  lances,  helmets,  and' 
fasces  on  every  mortal  thing.  Everybody  is  rebuilding  his 
house,  selling  his  old  furniture,  melting  down  his  plate,  or 
getting  rid  of  it  for  Sevres  porcelain,  which  is  nothing  like 
as  beautiful  as  old  Dresden  or  Oriental  china.  Oh !  I  myself 
am  a  Fleming  to  the  backbone.  It  goes  to  my  heart  to  see 
coppersmiths  buying  up  beautiful  old  furniture  at  the  price 
of  firewood  for  the  sake  of  the  metal  in  the  wrought-incrusted 
copperwork,  or  the  pewter  inlaid  in  it.  Society  has  a  mind 
to  change  its  skin,  I  suppose,  but  the  changes  are  more  than 
skin  deep ;  we  are  losing  the  faculty  of  producing  along  with 
the  old  works  of  art.  There  is  not  time  to  do  anything  con- 
scientiously when  every  one  lives  in  such  a  hurry.  The  last 
time  I  was  in  Paris  I  was  taken  to  see  the  pictures  exhibited 
in  the  Louvre,  and,  upon  my  honor,  they  are  only  fit  for  fire- 
screens !  Yards  of  canvas  with  no  atmosphere,  no  depth  of 
tone.  Painters  really  seem  to  be  afraid  of  their  colors.  And 
they  intend,  so  they  say,  to  upset  our  old  school.  .  ... 
Heaven  help  them !" 

"Our  old  masters  used  to  study  their  pigments,"  said  Bal- 
thazar; "they  used  to  test  them  singly  and  in  combinations, 
submitting  them  to  the  action  of  sunlight  and  rain.  Yes, 
you  are  right;  nowadays  the  material  resources  of  art  receive 
less  attention  than  formerly." 

Mme.  Claes  was  not  listening  to  the  conversation.  The 
notary's  remark  that  china  had  come  into  fashion  had  set  her 
thoughts  wandering,  and  a  bright  idea  had  at  once  occurred 
to  her.  She  would  sell  the  massive  silver  plate  which  her 
brother  had  left  her;  perhaps  in  that  way  she  might  pay  the 
thirty  thousand  francs. 

Presently  her  husband's  voice  sounded  through  her  mus- 
ings. "Aha !"  Balthazar  was  saying,  "so  they  talk  about  my 
studies  in  Douai  ?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Pierquin,  "everybody  is  wondering  what 
it  is  that  you  are  spending  so  much  money  over.  I  heard 
the  First  President,  yesterday,  lamenting  that  a  man  of  your 


62  THE  QUEST  OP  THE  ABSOLUTE 

ability  should  set  out  to  find  the  philosopher's  stone.  I  took 
it  upon  mj'self  to  reply  that  you  were  too  learned  not  to  know- 
that  it  would  be  attempting  the  impossible,  too  good  a  Chris- 
tian to  imagine  that  you  could  prevail  over  God,  and  that 
a  Claes  was  far  too  shrewd  to  give  hard  cash  for  po\':der  of 
pimperlimpimp.  Still,  I  must  confess  that  I  share  in  the 
regret  that  is  generally  felt  over  your  withdrawal  from  so- 
ciety. You  really  might  be  said  to  be  lost  to  the  town.  In- 
deed, madame,  you  would  have  been  pleased  if  you  knew  how 
highly  ever}^  one  spoke  of  you  and  of  M.  Claes." 

"It  was  very  kind  of  you  to  put  a  stop  to  such  absurd 
reports,  which  would  make  me  ridiculous  if  no  worse  came 
of  it,"  answered  Balthazar.  '^'Oh !  so  the  good  folk  of  Douai 
think  that  I  am  ruined !  Very  good,  my  dear  Pierquin,  on 
our  wedding  day,  in  two  months'  time,  I  will  give  a  fete  on 
a  splendid  scale,  which  shall  reinstate  me  in  the  esteem  of  our 
dear  money-worshiping  fellow-townsmen." 

The  color  rushed  into  Mme.  Claes'  face;  for  the  past  two 
3-ears  the  anniversary  had  been  forgotten.  This  evening  was 
an  interval  in  Balthazar's  life  of  enthusiasm  which  might  be 
compared  to  one  of  those  lucid  moments  in  insanity  when  the 
powers  of  the  mind  shine  with  unwonted  brilliance  for  a  little 
while ;  never  had  there  been  such  point  and  pith  and  sparkle 
in  his  talk,  his  manner  to  his  children  had  never  been  more 
playfully  tender,  he  was  a  father  once  more,  and  no  festival 
could  have  given  his  wife  such  joy  as  this.  Once  more  his 
eyes  sought  hers  with  a  constant  expression  of  sympathy  in 
them;  she  felt  a  delicious  consciousness  that  the  same  feeling 
and  the  same  thought  stirred  in  the  depths  of  either  heart. 

Old  Lemulquinier  seemed  to  have  grown  young  again; 
seldom,  indeed,  had  he  been  known  to  be  in  such  spirits.  The 
change  in  his  master's  manner  had  even  more  significance 
for  him  than  for  his  mistress.  Mme.  Claes  was  dreamin;? 
of  happiness,  but  visions  of  fortune  filled  the  old  serving 
man's  brain,  and  his  hopes  were  high.  He  had  been  wont 
to  help  with  the  mechanical  part  of  the  work,  and  perhaps 
some  words  let  fall  by  his  master  when  an  experiment  had 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  63 

failed,  and  the  end  seemed  further  and  further  off,  had  not 
been  lost  on  the  servant.  Perhaps  he  had  become  infected 
with  his  master's  enthusiasm,  or  an  innate  faculty  of  imita- 
tion had  led  Lemulquinier  to  assimilate  the  ideas  of  those 
with  whom  he  lived.  He  regarded  his  master  with  a  half- 
superstitious  awe  and  admiration  in  which  there  was  a  trace 
of  selfishness.  The  laboratory  was  for  him  very  much  what 
a  lottery-office  is  for  many  people — hope  organized.  Every 
night  as  he  lay  down  he  used  to  say  to  himself,  "To-morrow, 
who  knows  but  Ave  may  be  rolling  in  gold?"  And  in  the 
morning  he  awoke  with  a  no  less  lively  faith. 

He  was  a  thorough  Fleming,  as  his  name  indicated.  In 
past  ages  the  common  people  were  distinguished  merely  by 
nicknames;  a  man  was  called  after  the  place  he  came  from, 
after  his  trade,  or  after  some  moral  quality  or  personal  trait. 
But  when  one  of  the  people  was  enfranchised,  his  nickname 
became  his  family  name,  and  was  transmitted  to  his  burgher 
descendants.  In  Flanders,  dealers  in  flax  thread  were  called 
mulquiniers;  and  the  old  valet's  ancestor,  who  passed  from 
serfdom  into  the  burgher  class,  had,  doubtless,  dealt  in  linen 
thread.  That  had  been  some  generations  ago,  and  now  the 
grandson  of  the  dealer  in  flax  was  reduced  to  the  old  condition 
of  servitude,  albeit,  unlike  his  grandsire,  he  received  wages. 
The  history  of  Flanders,  its  flax  trade,  its  industries,  and 
its  commerce  was  in  a  manner  epitomized  in  the  old  servant, 
who  was  often  called  Mulquinier  for  the  sake  of  euphony. 

There  was  something  quaint  in  his  appearance  and  char- 
acter. In  person  he  was  tall  and  thin ;  his  broad,  triangular 
countenance  had  been  so  badly  scarred  by  the  smallpox  that 
the  white  shiny  seams  gave  it  a  grotesque  appearance;  the 
little  tawny  eyes,  which  exactly  matched  the  color  of  his  sleek, 
sandy  perruque,  seemed  to  look  askance  at  everything.  He 
stalked  solemnly  and  mysteriously  about  the  house ;  his  whole 
bearing  and  manner  excused  the  curiosity  which  he  awakened. 
It  was  believed,  moreover,  that  as  an  assistant  in  the  labora 
tory  he  shared  and  kept  his  master's  secrets,  and  he  was  in 
consequenfte  invested  with  a  sort  of  halo  of  romance.    Dwell- 


64  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

ers  in  the  Eue  de  Paris  watched  him  as  he  came  and  went, 
with  an  interest  not  unmixed  with  awe;  for  when  questioned 
he  was  wont  to  deliver  himself  of  Delphic  utterances,  and  to 
throw  out  vague  hints  of  fabulous  wealth.  He  was  proud 
of  being  necessary  to  his  master,  and  exercised,  on  the 
strength  of  it,  a  petty  tyranny  over  his  fellow-servants,  taking 
advantage  of  his  position  to  make  himself  master  below  stairs. 
Unlike  Flemish  servants,  who  become  greatly  attached  to  the 
family  they  serve,  he  cared  for  no  one  in  the  house  but  Bal- 
thazar; Mme.  Claes  might  be  in  trouble,  some  piece  of  good 
fortune  might  befall  the  household,  but  it  was  all  one  to 
Lemulquinier,  who  ate  his  bread  and  butter  and  drank  his 
beer  with  an  unmoved  countenance. 

After  dinner,  Mme.  Claes  suggested  that  they  should  take 
coffee  in  the  garden  beside  the  centre  bed  of  tulips.  The 
flowers  had  been  carefully  labeled  and  planted  in  pots,  which 
were  imbedded  in  the  earth  and  arranged  pyramid  fashion, 
with  a  unique  specimen  of  parrot-tulip  at  the  highest  point. 
No  other  collector  possessed  a  bulb  of  the  Tulipa  Claesiana. 
Balthazar's  father  had  many  times  refused  ten  thousand 
florins  for  this  marvel,  which  had  all  the  seven  colors;  the 
edges  of  its  slender  petals  gleamed  like  gold  in  the  sun.  The 
older  Claes  had  taken  extraordinary  precautions,  keeping 
it  in  the  parlor,  lest  by  any  means  a  single  seed  should  be 
stolen  from  him,  and  had  often  passed  entire  days  in  admir- 
ing it.  The  stem  was  strong,  elastic,  erect,  and  a  beautiful 
green  color;  the  flower  cup  possessed  the  perfect  form  and 
pure  brilliancy  of  coloring  which  were  once  so  much  sought 
after  in  these  gorgeous  flowers. 

"Thirty  or  forty  thousand  francs'  worth  there !"  was  the 
notar}''s  comment,  as  his  eyes  wandered  from  the  mass  of  color 
to  Mme.  Claes'  face;  but  she  was  too  much  delighted  by  the 
sight  of  the  flowers,  which  glowed  like  precious  stones  in  the 
rays  of  the  sunset,  to  catch  the  drift  of  this  business-like 
remark. 

"^^hat  is  the  good  of  it  all  ?  you  ought  to  sell  them," 
Pierquin  went  on,  tuniing  to  Balthazar. 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  65 

'Tshaw !  what  is  the  money  to  me !"  answered  Claes,  with, 
the  gesture  of  a  man  to  whom  forty  thousand  francs  is  a 
mere  trifle. 

There  was  a  brief  pause,  filled  by  the  children's  exclama- 
tions. 

"Do  look  at  this  one,  mamma  \" 

"Oh,  what  a  beauty !" 

"What  is  this  one  called,  mamma?" 

"What  an  abyss  for  the  human  mind !"  exclaimed  Bal- 
thazar, clasping  his  hands  with  a  despairing  gesture.  "One 
combination  of  hydrogen  and  oxygen,  in  different  proportions, 
but  under  the  same  conditions,  and  all  those  different  colors 
are  produced  from  the  same  materials !" 

The  terms  which  he  used  were  quite  familiar  to  his  wife, 
but  he  spoke  so  rapidly  that  she  did  not  grasp  his  meaning; 
Balthazar  bethought  him  that  she  had  studied  his  favorite 
science,  and  said,  making  a  mysterious  sign,  'TTou  should 
understand  that,  but  you  would  not  yet  understand  all  that 
I  meant,"  and  he  seemed  to  relapse  into  one  of  his  usual 
musing  fits. 

"I  should  think  so,"  said  Pierquin,  taking  the  cup  of  coffee 
which  Marguerite  handed  him.  "Drive  Nature  out  by  the 
door  and  she  comes  in  at  the  window,"  he  went  on,  speaking 
to  Mme.  Claes  in  a  low  voice.  "You  will  perhaps  be  so  good 
as  to  speak  to  him  yourself;  the  devil  himself  would  not  rouse 
him  now  from  his  cogitations.  He  will  keep  on  like  this  till 
to-morrow  morning,  I  suppose." 

He  said  good-bye  to  Claes,  who  appeared  not  to  hear  a 
syllable,  kissed  little  Jean  in  his  mother's  arms,  made  a  pro- 
found bow  to  Mme.  Claes,  and  went.  As  soon  as  the  great 
door  was  shut  upon  the  visitor,  Balthazar  threw  his  arm 
round  his  wife's  waist,  and  dispelled  all  her  uneasiness  over 
his  feigned  reverie  by  whispering  in  her  ear,  "I  knew  exactly 
how  to  get  rid  of  him !" 

Mme.  Claes  raised  her  face  to  her  husband  without  attempt- 
ing to  hide  the  happy  tears  which  filled  her  eyes.    Then  she 


66  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

let  little  Jean  slip  to  the  ground,  and  laid  her  head  or  Bal- 
thazar's shoulder. 

"Let  us  go  back  to  the  parlor,"  she  said  after  a  pause. 

Balthazar  was  in  the  wildest  spirits  that  evening;  he  in- 
vented innumerable  games  for  the  children,  and  joined  ic 
them  himself  so  heartily  that  he  did  not  notice  that  his  wife 
left  the  room  two  or  three  times.  At  half-past  nine  o'clock, 
when  Jean  had  been  put  to  bed,  and  Marguerite  had  helped 
her  sister  Felieie  to  undress,  she  came  downstairs  into  the 
parlor  and  found  her  mother  sitting  in  the  low  chair  talking 
with  her  father,  and  saw  that  her  hand  lay  in  his.  She  turned 
to  go  without  speaking,  fearing  to  disturb  her  father  and 
mother,  but  Mme.  Claes  saw  her. 

"Here,  come  here.  Marguerite,  dear  child,"  she  said,  draw- 
ing the  girl  towards  her,  and  kissing  her  affectionately.  "Take 
your  book  with  you  to  your  room,"  she  added,  "and  mind  you 
go  early  to  bed." 

"Good-night,  darling  child,"  said  Balthazar. 

Marguerite  gave  her  father  a  good-night  kiss  and  vanished. 
Claes  and  his  wife  were  left  alone  for  awhile.  They  watched 
the  last  twilight  tints  fade  away  in  the  garden,  the  leaves 
turned  black,  the  outlines  grew  dim  and  shadowy  in  the  sum- 
mer dusk.  When  it  was  almost  dark,  Balthazar  spoke  in  an 
unsteady  voice.     "Let  us  go  upstairs,"  he  said. 

Long  before  the  introduction  of  the  English  custom  of  re- 
garding a  wife's  apartment  as  a  sort  of  inner  sanctuary,  a 
Flamande's  room  had  been  impenetrable.  This  is  due  to  no 
ostentation  of  virtue  on  the  part  of  the  good  housewives ; 
it  springs  from  a  habit  of  mind  acquired  in  early  childhood, 
a  household  superstition  which  looks  on  a  bedroom  as  a  deli- 
cious sanctuary,  where  there  should  be  an  atmosphere  of 
gentle  thoughts  and  feelings,  where  simplicity  is  combined 
with  all  the  sweetest  and  most  sacred  associations  of  social 
life. 

Any  woman  in  Mme.  Claes'  position  would  have  done  her 
best  to  surround  herself  with  dainty  belongings;  but  Mme. 
Claes  had  brought  a  refined  taste  to  the  task,  and  a  knowledge 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  67 

of  the  subtle  influence  which  externals  exert  upon  our  moods. 
What  would  have  been  luxury  for  a  pretty  woman,  was  for 
her  a  necessity.  "It  is  in  one's  own  power  to  be  a  pretty 
woman,"  so  another  Josephine  had  said;  but  there  had  been 
something  artificial  in  the  grace  of  the  wife  of  the  First 
Consul,  who  had  never  lost  sight  of  her  maxim  for  a  moment; 
Mme.  Claes  had  understood  its  import,  and  was  always  simple 
and  natural. 

Familiar  as  the  sight  of  his  wife's  room  was  to  Balthazar, 
he  was  usually  so  unmindful  of  the  things  about  him  that  a 
thrill  of  pleasure  went  through  him,  as  if  he  saw  it  now  for  the 
first  time.  The  vivid  colors  of  the  tulips,  carefully  arranged 
in  the  tall,  slender  porcelain  jars,  seemed  to  be  part  of  the 
pageant  of  a  woman's  triumph,  the  blaze  of  the  lights  pro- 
claimed it  as  joyously  as  a  flourish  of  trumpets.  The  candle- 
light falling  on  the  gridelin  silken  stuffs  brought  their  pale 
tints  into  harmony  with  the  brilliant  surroundings,  breaking 
the  surface  with  dim  golden  gleams  wherever  it  caught  the 
light,  shining  on  the  petals  of  the  flowers  till  they  glowed 
like  heaped-up  gems.  And  these  preparations  had  been  made 
for  him  !    It  was  all  for  him ! 

Josephine  could  have  found  no  more  eloquent  way  of  tell- 
ing him  that  he  was  the  source  of  all  her  joys  and  sorrows. 
There  was  something  deliciously  soothing  to  the  soul  in  this 
room,  something  that  banished  every  thought  of  sadness,  till 
nothing  but  the  consciousness  of  perfect  and  serene  happiness 
was  left.  The  soft  clinging  perfume  of  the  Oriental  hang- 
ings filled  the  air  without  palling  on  the  senses;  the  very 
curtains,  so  carefully  drawn,  revealed  a  jealous  anxiety  to 
treasure  the  lowest  word  uttered  there,  to  shut  out  everything 
beyond  from  the  eyes  of  him  whom  she  had  won  back. 

Mme.  Claes  drew  the  tapestry  hangings  across  the  door 
that  no  sound  might  reach  them  from  without.  Then,  as 
she  stood  for  a  moment  wrapped  in  a  loose  dressing-gown 
with  deep  frills  of  lace  at  the  throat,  her  beautiful  hair,  black 
and  glossy  as  a  raven's  wing,  making  a  setting  for  her  face, 
Josephine  glanced  with  a  bright  smile  at  her  husband,  who 


68  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

was  sitting  by  the  hearth.  A  witty  woman,  who  at  times 
grows  beautiful  when  her  soul  passes  into  her  face,  can  ex- 
press irresistible  hopes  in  her  smile. 

A  woman's  greatest  charm  consists  in  a  constant  appeal 
to  a  man's  generosity,  in  a  graceful  admission  of  helpless- 
ness, which  stimulates  his  pride  and  awakens  his  noblest  feel- 
ings. Is  there  not  a  magical  power  in  such  a  confession  of 
weakness?  When  the  rings  had  slid  noiselessly  over  the  cur- 
tain rod,  she  went  towards  her  husband,  laying  her  hand  on 
a  chair  as  though  to  find  support,  or  to  move  more  gracefully 
and  dissemble  her  lameness.  It  was  a  mute  request  for  help. 
Balthazar  seemed  lost  in  thought ;  his  eyes  rested  on  the  pale 
olive  face  against  its  dusky  background  with  a  sense  of  per- 
fect satisfaction;  now  he  shook  off  his  musings,  sprang  up, 
took  his  wife  in  his  arms,  and  carried  her  to  the  sofa.  This 
was  exactly  what  she  had  intended. 

"You  promised/'  she  said,  taking  his  hands,  which  thrilled 
at  her  touch,  "to  let  me  into  the  secret  of  your  researches. 
You  must  admit,  dear,  that  I  am  worthy  of  the  confidence, 
for  I  have  been  brave  enough  to  study  a  science  which  the 
Church  condemns,  so  that  I  may  understand  all  that  you  say» 
But  you  must  not  hide  anything  from  me;  I  am  curious. 
And,  first  of  all,  tell  me  how  it  chanced  that  one  morning 
you  looked  so  troubled  when  I  had  left  you  so  happy  the  even- 
ing before  ?" 

^'You  are  dressed  so  coquettishly  to  talk  about  chemistry  ?" 

"No,  dear,  to  learn  a  secret  which  will  let  me  a  little  fur- 
ther into  your  heart;  is  not  that  the  greatest  of  all  joys  for 
me?  All  the  sweetness  of  life  is  comprised,  and  has  its 
source,  in  a  closer  understanding  between  two  souls.  And 
now,  when  your  love  is  wholly  and  solely  mine,  I  want  to  know 
this  tyrannous  Idea  which  drew  you  away  from  me  for  so 
long.  Yes,  I  am  more  jealous  of  a  thought  than  of  all  the 
women  in  the  world.  Love  is  vast,  but  love  is  not  infinite; 
and  in  science  there  are  unfathomable  depths ;  I  cannot  let 
you  go  forth  into  them  alone.  I  hate  everything  that  can 
come  between  us;  some  day  the  fame  that  you  are  seeking  so 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  69 

eagerly  will  be  yours,  and  I  shall  be  miserable.-  Fame  would 
give  you  intense  pleasure,  would  it  not?  and  I  alone  should 
be  the  source  of  your  pleasures,  monsieur." 

"No,  dear  angel,  it  was  not  a  thought  that  set  me  on  this 
glorious  quest;  it  was  a  man." 

"A  man !"  she  cried  aghast. 

"Do  you  remember  the  Polish  officer,  Pepita,  who  spent  a 
night  here  in  our  house  in  1809  ?" 

"Do  I  remember  him?  I  am  vexed  with  myself  because 
I  see  his  face  so  often — his  bald  head,  the  curling  ends  of 
his  moustache,  his  sharp  worn  features,  and  those  eyes  of 
his,  like  flickering  fires  lit  in  hell,  shining  out  of  the  coal- 
black  hollows  under  his  brows  !  There  was  something  appall- 
ing in  his  listless  mechanical  way  of  walking !  If  all  the  inns 
had  not  been  full,  he  certainly  should  never  have  spent  the 
night  here !" 

"Well,  that  Polish  gentleman  was  a  M.  Adam  de  Wierz- 
chownia,"  answered  Balthazar.  "That  evening,  when  you 
left  us  sitting  in  the  parlor  by  ourselves,  we  fell  somehow  to 
talking  about  chemistry.  He  had  been  forced  to  relinquish 
his  studies  from  poverty,  and  had  become  a  soldier.  If  I  re- 
member rightly,  it  was  over  a  glass  of  eau  sucree  that  we 
recognized  each  other  as  adepts.  When  I  told  Mulquinier  to 
bring  the  sugar  in  lumps  and  not  in  powder,  the  captain  gave 
a  start  of  surprise. 

"  *Have  you  ever  studied  chemistry  ?'  he  asked. 

"  'Yes,  with  Lavoisier,'  I  told  him. 

"  *You  are  very  lucky/  he  exclaimed ;  'you  are  rich,  you 
are  your  own  master ' 

"He  gave  one  of  those  groans  that  reveal  a  hell  of 
misery  hidden  and  locked  away  in  a  man's  heart  or  brain, 
a  sigh  of  suppressed  and  helpless  rage  of  which  words  cannot 
give  any  idea,  and  completed  his  sentence  with  a  glance  that 
made  me  shudder.  After  a  pause,  he  told  me  that,  since 
what  might  be  called  the  Death  of  Poland,  he  had  taken 
refuge  in  Sweden,  and  there  had  sought  consolation  in  the 
study  of  chemistry,  which  had  always  had  an  irresistible  at- 
traction for  him. 


70  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

"^ell/  he  added,  'I  see  that  you  have  recognized,  as  I 
have,  that  if  gum  arabic,  sugar,  and  starch  are  reduced  to  a 
fine  powder,  they  are  almost  indistinguishable,  and  if 
analyzed,  yield  the  same  ultimate  result/ 

"There  was  a  second  pause.  He  eyed  me  keenly  for 
awhile,  then  he  spoke  confidentially  and  in  a  low  voice.  To- 
day only  the  recollection  of  the  general  sense  of  those  solemn 
words  remains  with  me;  but  there  was  something  so  earnest 
in  his  tones,  such  fierce  energy  in  his  gestures,  that  every  word 
seemed  to  vibrate  through  me,  to  be  beaten  into  my  brain 
with  hammer-strokes.  These,  in  brief,  were  his  reasonings; 
for  me  they  were  like  the  coal  which  the  seraphim  laid  on  the 
lips  of  the  prophet  Isaiah,  for  after  my  studies  with  Lavoisier 
I  could  understand  all  that  they  meant. 

"  'The  ultimate  identity  of  these  three  substances,  to  all 
appearance  so  different,'  he  went  on,  'suggested  the  idea  that 
all  natural  productions  might  be  reduced  to  a  single  element. 
The  investigations  of  modern  chemistry  have  proved  that  this 
law  holds  good  to  a  large  extent.  Chemistry  classifies  all 
creation  under  two  distinct  headings — Organic  Nature  and 
Inorganic  Nature.  Organic  nature  comprises  every  animal 
or  vegetable  growth,  every  organic  structure  however  elemen- 
tary, or,  to  speak  more  accurately,  everything  which  possesses 
more  or  less  capacity  of  motion,  which  is  the  measure  of  its 
sentient  powers.  Organic  nature  is  therefore  the  most  im- 
portant part  of  our  world.  Now,  analysis  has  reduced  all  the 
products  of  organic  nature  to  four  elements,  three  of  wliich 
are  gases — nitrogen,  oxygen,  and  hydrogen;  and  the  fourth, 
carbon,  is  a  non-metallic  solid. 

"  'Inorganic  nature,  on  the  other  hand — ^with  so  little  di- 
versity among  its  forms,  with  no  power  of  movement  or  of 
sentience,  destitute,  perhaps,  of  the  power  of  growth,  con- 
ceded to  it  on  insufficient  grounds  by  Linnseus — inorganic 
nature  numbers  fifty-three  simple  bodies,  and  all  its  products 
are  formed  by  their  various  combinations.  Is  it  likely  that 
the  constituents  should  be  most  numerous  when  the  results 
are  so  little  various  ?    My  old  master  used  to  hold  that  there 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  71 

was  a  single  element  common  to  all  these  fifty-three  bodies, 
and  that  some  unknown  force,  no  longer  exerted,  brought 
about  the  apparent  modifications ;  this  unknown  force,  in  his 
opinion,  the  human  intellect  might  discover  and  apply  once 
more.  Well,  then,  imagine  that  force  discovered  and  once 
more  set  in  motion,  chemistry  would  be  the  science  of  a  single 
element. 

"  'Organic  and  inorganic  nature  are  probably  alike  based 
upon  four  elements ;  but  if  we  should  succeed  in  decomposing 
nitrogen,  for  instance,  which  we  may  look  upon  as  a  negation, 
their  number  wovild  be  reduced  to  three.  We  are  on  the  very 
verge  of  the  Grand  Ternary  of  the  ancients — we,  who  are  wont 
to  scoff,  in  our  ignorance,  at  the  alchemists  of  the  Middle 
Ages !  Modern  Chemistry  has  gone  no  further  than  this.  It 
is  much,  and  yet  it  is  very  little.  Much  has  been  accom- 
plished, for  chemistry  has  learned  to  shrink  before  no  difficul- 
ties; little,  because  what  has  been  accomplished  is  as  nothing 
compared  with  what  remains  to  do.  'Tis  a  fair  science,  yet 
she  owes  much  to  chance. 

"  'There  is  the  diamond,  for  instance,  that  crystallized 
drop  of  pure  carbon,  the  very  last  substance,  one  would  think, 
that  man  could  create.  The  alchemists  themselves,  the  chem- 
ists of  the  Middle  Ages,  who  thought  that  gold  could  be  re- 
solved into  its  different  elements,  and  made  up  again  from 
them,  would  have  shrunk  in  dismay  from  the  attempt  to  make 
the  diamond.  Yet  we  have  discovered  its  nature  and  the  law 
of  its  cr}'stallization. 

"  'As  for  me,'  he  added,  'I  have  gone  further  yet !  I  have 
learned,  from  an  experiment  I  once  made,  that  the  mysterious 
Ternary,  which  has  filled  men's  imaginations  from  time  im- 
memorial, will  never  be  discovered  by  any  analytical  process, 
for  analysis  tends  in  no  one  special  direction.  But,  in  the 
first  place,  I  will  describe  the  experiment.  You  take  seeds 
of  cress  (selecting  a  single  one  from  among  the  many  sub- 
stances of  organic  nature),  and  sow  them  in  flowers  of  sul- 
phur, which  is  a  simple  inorganic  body.  Water  the  seeds  with 
distilled  water,  to  make  certain  that  no  unknown  element 


72  THE  QUEST  OP  THE  ABSOLUTE 

mingles  with  the  products  of  germination.  Under  these  con- 
ditions the  seeds  will  sprout  and  grow,  drawing  all  theii 
nourishment  from  elements  ascertained  by  analysis.  From 
time  to  time  cut  the  cress  and  burn  it,  until  you  have  col- 
lected a  sufficient  quantity  of  ash  for  your  analysis ;  and  what 
does  it  yield?  Silica,  alumina,  calcic  phosphate  and  car- 
bonate, magnesia  carbonate,  potassic  sulphate  and  carbonate, 
and  ferric  oxide;  just  as  if  the  cress  had  sprung  up  in  the 
earth  by  the  waterside.  Yet  none  of  these  substances  are  pres- 
ent in  the  soil  in  which  the  cresses  grew ;  sulphur  is  a  simple 
body,  the  composition  of  distilled  water  is  definitely  known; 
none  of  them  exist  in  the  seeds  themselves.  We  can  only  sup- 
pose that  there  is  one  element  common  to  the  cress  and  its 
environment;  that  the  air,  the  distilled  water,  the  flowers  of 
sulphur,  and  the  various  substances  detected  by  an  analysis 
of  the  calcined  cress  (that  is  to  say,  the  potassium,  lime, 
magnesia,  alumina,  and  so  forth)  are  all  various  forms  of  one 
common  element,  which  is  free  in  the  atmosphere,  and  that 
the  sun  has  been  the  active  agent. 

"  'There  can  be  no  cavil  as  to  this  experiment,'  he  ex- 
claimed, 'and  thence  I  deduce  the  existence  of  the  Absolute ! 
One  Element  common  to  all  substances,  modified  by  a  unique 
Force — that  is  stating  the  problem  of  the  Absolute  in  its  sim- 
plest form,  a  problem  which  the  human  intellect  can  solve, 
or  so  it  seems  to  me. 

"  'You  are  confronted  at  the  outset  by  the  mysterious 
Ternary,  before  which  humanity  has  knelt  in  every  age — • 
Primitive  Matter,  the  Agency,  and  the  Eesult.  Throughout 
all  human  experience  you  will  find  the  awful  number  Three, 
in  all  religions,  sciences,  and  laws.  And  there,'  he  said, 
'war  and  poverty  put  an  end  to  my  researches ! 

"  'You  are  a  pupil  of  Lavoisier's ;  you  are  rich,  and  can 
spend  your  life  as  j'ou  will,  I  will  share  my  guesses  at  truth 
with  you,  the  results  of  the  experiments  which  gave  me 
glimpses  of  the  end  to  which  research  should  be  directed. 
The  Primitive  Element  must  be  an  element  common  to 
oxygen,  hydrogen,  nitrogen,  and  carbon;  the  Agency  must 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  T3 

be  the  common  principle  of  positive  and  negative  electricity. 
If  after  inventing  and  applying  test  upon  test  you  can  estab- 
lish these  two  theories  beyond  a  doubt,  you  will  be  in  posses- 
sion of  the  First  Cause,  the  key  to  all  the  phenomena  of  na- 
ture. 

"  *0h !  monsieur,  when  you  carry  there/  he  said,  striking 
his  forehead,  'the  last  word  of  creation,  a  foreshadowing  of 
the  Absolute,  can  you  call  it  living  to  be  dragged  hither  and 
thither  over  the  earth,  to  be  one  among  blind  masses  of  men 
who  hurl  themselves  upon  each  other  at  a  given  signal  with- 
out knowing  why?  My  waking  life  is  an  inverted  dream. 
My  body  comes  and  goes,  does  this  and  that,  amid  men  and 
cannon,  goes  under  fire,  and  marches  across  Europe  at  the 
bidding  of  a  power  which  I  despise ;  and  I  have  no  conscious- 
ness of  it  all.  My  inmost  soul  is  rapt  in  the  contempla- 
tion of  one  fixed  idea,  engrossed  by  one  all-absorbing  thought 
— the  Quest  of  the  Absolute;  to  detect  the  force  that  is  seen 
at  work  when  a  few  seeds,  which  cannot  be  told  one  from  an- 
other, set  under  the  same  conditions,  will  spring  up  and  blos- 
som, and  some  flowers  will  be  white  and  some  wdll  be  yellow. 
You  can  see  its  mysterious  operation  in  insects,  by  feeding 
silkworms,  apparently  alike  in  structure,  on  the  same  leaves, 
and  some  will  spin  a  white,  others  a  yellow  cocoon;  you  can 
see  it  in  man  himself  when  his  own  children  bear  no  re- 
semblance to  their  father  or  mother.  Hence,  may  we  not 
logically  infer  that  there  is  one  Cause  underlying  these  ef- 
fects, beneath  all  the  phenomena  of  nature?  Is  it  not  in' con- 
formity with  all  our  thoughts  of  God  to  imagine  that  He  has 
brought  everything  to  pass  by  the  simplest  means  ? 

''  'The  followers  of  Pythagoras  of  old  adored  the  One 
whence  issued  the  Many  (their  expression  for  the  Primi- 
tive Element) ;  men  have  reverenced  the  number  Two,  the 
first  aggregation  and  type  of  all  that  follow;  and  in  every 
age  and  creed  the  number  Three  has  represented  God  (that 
is  to  say.  Matter,  Force,  and  Eesult)  ;  through  all  these  con- 
fused gropings  of  the  human  mind  there  is  a  dim  perception 
of  the  Absolute !    Stahl  and  Beeher,  Paracelsus  and  Agrippa, 


74  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

all  great  seekers  of  occult  causes,  had  for  password  TrismB' 
gistus — that  is  to  say,  the  Grand  Ternary.  Ignorant  people, 
who  echo  and  re-echo  the  old  condemnations  of  alchemy,  that 
transcendental  chemistry,  have  doubtless  no  suspicion  that  our 
discoveries  justify  the  impassioned  researches  of  those  for- 
gotten great  men ! 

"  'Even  when  the  secret  of  the  Absolute  is  found,  the  prob- 
lem of  Movement  remains  to  be  grappled  with.  Ah  me  !  while 
shot  and  shell  are  my  daily  fare,  while  I  am  commanding  men 
to  fling  away  their  lives  for  nothing,  my  old  master  is  making 
discovery  on  discovery,  soaring  higher  and  faster  towards  the 
Absolute.  And  I  ?  I  shall  die,  like  a  dog,  in  the  corner  of  a 
battery!     .     .     .' 

"As  soon  as  the  poor  great  man  had  grown  somewhat 
calmer,  he  said  in  a  brotherly  fashion  that  touched  me : 

"/If  I  should  think  of  any  experiment  worth  making,  I 
will  leave  it  to  you  before  I  die.' 

"My  Pepita,"  said  Balthazar,  pressing  his  wife's  hand, 
"tears  of  rage  and  despair  coursed  down  his  hollow  cheeks  as 
he  spoke,  and  his  words  kindled  a  fire  in  me.  Somewhat  in 
this  way  Lavoisier  had  reasoned  before,  but  Lavoisier  had  not 
the  courage  of  his  opinions     .     .     ." 

"Indeed !"  cried  Mme.  Claes,  interrupting,  in  spite  of  her- 
self, "then  it  was  this  man  who  only  spent  one  night  under 
our  roof  that  robbed  us  all  of  your  affection ;  one  phrase,  one 
single  word  of  his  has  ruined  our  children's  happiness  and  our 
own  ?  Oh  !  dear  Balthazar,  did  he  make  the  sign  of  the  cross  ? 
Did  you  look  at  him  closely?  Only  the  Tempter  could  have 
those  yellow  eyes,  blazing  with  the  fire  of  Prometheus.  Yes. 
Only  the  Fiend  himself  could  have  snatched  you  away  from 
me ;  ever  since  that  day  you  have  been  neither  father  nor  hus- 
band nor  head  of  the  household " 

"What !"  exclaimed  Balthazar,  springing  to  his  feet,  and 
looking  searchingly  at  his  wife,  "do  you  blame  your  husband 
for  rising  above  other  men,  that  he  may  spread  the  divine 
purple  of  glory  beneath  your  feet?  a  poor  tribute  compared 
with  the  treasures  of  your  heart.    Why,  do  you  know  what  I 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  75 

have  achieved  in  these  three  years  ?  I  have  made  giant  strides, 
my  Pepita !"  he  cried,  in  his  enthusiasm. 

It  seemed  to  his  wife  at  that  moment  that  the  glow  of  in- 
spiration lighted  up  his  face  as  love  had  never  done,  and  her 
tears  flowed  as  she  listened. 

"I  have  combined  chlorine  and  nitrogen;  I  have  decom- 
posed several  substances  hitherto  believed  to  be  elements; 
I  have  discovered  new  metals.  Nay,"  he  said,  as  he  looked  at 
his  weeping  wife,  "I  have  decomposed  tears.  Tears  are  com- 
posed of  a  little  phosphate  of  lime,  chloride  of  sodium,  mucus 
and  water." 

He  went  on  speaking  without  seeing  that  Josephine's  face 
was  drawn  and  distorted  with  pain;  he  had  mounted  the 
winged  steed  of  science,  and  was  far  from  the  actual  world. 

"That  analysis,  dear,  is  one  of  the  strongest  proofs  of  the 
theory  of  the  Absolute.  All  life,  of  course,  implies  com- 
bustion; the  duration  of  life  varies  as  the  fire  burns  rapidly 
or  slowly.  The  existence  of  the  mineral  is  prolonged  in- 
definitely, for  in  minerals  combustion  is  potential,  latent,  or 
imperceptible.  In  the  case  of  many  plants  this  waste  is  so 
constantly  repaired  through  the  agency  of  moisture,  that  their 
life  seems  to  be  practically  endless ;  there  are  living  vegetable 
growths  which  have  been  in  existence  since  the  last  cataclysm. 
But  when,  for  some  unknown  end,  nature  makes  a  more  deli- 
cate and  perfect  piece  of  mechanism,  endowing  it  with 
sentience,  instinct,  or  intelligence  (which  mark  three  suc- 
cessive stages  of  organic  development),  the  combustion  of 
vitality  in  such  organisms  varies  directly  with  the  amount 
performed. 

"Man,  representing  the  highest  point  of  intelligence,  is  a 
piece  of  mechanism  which  possesses  the  Faculty  of  Thought, 
one-half  of  creative  power.  And  combustion  is  accordingly 
more  intense  in  man  than  in  any  other  animal  organism. ;  its 
effects  may  be  in  a  measure  traced  by  the  presence  of  phos- 
phates, sulphates,  and  carbonates  in  the  system,  which  are 
revealed  by  analysis.  What  are  these  substances  but  traces 
of  the   action   of   electric   fluid,   the  life-giving  principle? 


76  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

Should  we  not  look  to  find  the  compounds  produced  by  elec- 
tricity in  greater  variety  in  man  than  in  any  other  animal  ? 
Was  it  not  to  be  expected  that  man  would  possess  greater 
faculties  for  absorbing  larger  quantities  of  the  Absolute  Ele- 
ment, greater  powers  of  assimilating  it,  an  organization  more 
perfectly  adapted  for  converting  it  to  his  own  uses,  for  dra'>\  - 
ing  from  it  his  physical  force  and  his  mental  power?  I  am 
sure  of  it.  Man  is  a  matrass.  In  my  opinion  the  idict'.s 
brain  contains  less  phosphorus,  loss  of  all  the  products  of 
electro-magnetism,  which  are  redundant  in  the  madman ; 
they  are  present  in  small  quantities  in  the  ordinary  brain, 
and  are  found  in  their  right  proportion  in  the  brain  of  the 
man  of  genius.  The  porter,  the  dancer,  the  universal  lover, 
and  the  glutton  misdirect  the  force  stored  up  in  their  systems 
through  the  agency  of  electricity.  Indeed,  our  senti- 
ments  " 

"That  is  enough,  Balthazar!  You  terrify  me;  these  are 
blasphemies.    What,  my  love  for  you  is " 

"Matter  etherealized,  and  given  off,"  answered  Claes,  "the 
secret  doubtless  of  the  Absolute.  Only  think  of  it!  If  I 
should  be  the  first — I  the  first — if  I  find  it  out  ...  if 
I  find     ...     if  I  find    ..     .      !" 

The  words  fell  from  him  in  three  different  tones  of  voice ; 
his  face  gradually  underwent  a  change ;  he  looked  like  a  man 
inspired. 

"I  will  make  metals,  I  will  make  diamonds ;  all  that  nature 
docs  I  will  do." 

"Will  you  be  any  happier?"  cried  Josephine,  in  her  despair. 
"Accursed  science!  Accursed  fiend!  You  are  forgetting, 
Claes,  that  this  is  the  sin  of  pride  by  which  Satan  fell.  You 
are  encroaching  on  God !" 

"Oh!    Oh!" 

"He  denies  God !"  she  cried,  wringing  her  hands.  "Claes, 
God  wields  a  power  which  will  never  be  yours." 

At  this  slight  on  his  beloved  science  Claes  looked  at  his 
wife,  and  a  quiver  seemed  to  pass  through  him. 

"i;\^hat  force  ?"  he  said. 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  77 

"The  one  sole  force — Movement.  That  is  what  I  have 
g-athered  from  the  books  I  have  read  for  your  sake.  You  can 
analyze  flowers,  or  fruit,  or  Malaga  wine,  and  of  course  dis- 
cover their  exact  chemical  composition,  and  find  elements  in 
them  which  apparently  are  not  to  be  found  in  the  surround- 
ings, as  with  that  cress  you  spoke  of;  possibly  by  dint  of  ef- 
fort you  could  collect  those  elements  together,  but  would  you 
make  flowers,  or  fruit,  or  Malaga  wine  from  them?  Could 
you  reproduce  the  mysterious  action  of  the  sun  ?  of  the  Span- 
ish climate?  Decomposition  is  one  thing,  creation  is  an- 
other." 

"If  I  should  discover  the  compelling  force,  I  could  create." 

"Nothing  will  stop  him !"  cried  Pepita,  with  despair  in 
her  voice.    "Oh,  my  love,  love  is  slain.    I  have  lost  love  .  .   ." 

She  burst  into  sobs,  and  through  her  tears  her  eyes  seemed 
more  beautiful  than  ever  for  the  sorrow,  and  pity,  and  love 
that  shone  in  them. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  sobbing,  "you  are  dead  to  everything  else. 
I  see  it  all.  Science  is  stronger  in  you  than  you  yourself ;  you 
have  soared  too  far  and  too  high ;  you  can  never  drop  to  earth 
again  to  be  the  companion  of  a  poor  woman.  What  happi- 
ness could  I  give  you  now  ?  Ah !  I  tried  to  believe  that  God 
had  made  you  to  show  forth  His  works  and  to  sing  His 
praises;  that  this  irresistible  and  tyrannous  power  had  been 
set  in  your  heart  by  God's  own  hand.  It  was  a  melancholy 
consolation.  But,  no.  God  is  good;  He  would  have  left  a 
little  room  in  your  heart  for  the  wife  who  idolizes  you,  and 
the  children  over  whom  you  should  watch.  The  fiend  alone 
could  enable  you  to  walk  alone  among  those  bottomless  pits ; 
in  darkness,  lighted  not  by  faith  in  heaven,  but  by  a  hideous 
belief  in  your  own  powers !  Otherwise,  you  would  have  seen, 
dear,  that  you  had  run  through  nine  hundred  thousand  francs 
in  three  years.  Ah !  do  me  justice,  my  God  on  earth !  I  do 
not  murmur  at  anything  you  do.  If  we  had  only  each  other, 
I  would  pour  out  both  our  fortunes  at  your  feet;  I  would 
pray  you  to  take  it  and  fling  it  in  your  furnace,  and  laugh 
to  see  it  vanish  in  curling  smoke.     Then,  if  we  were  poor, 


78         THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

I  should  not  be  ashamed  to  beg,  so  that  you  might  have  coal 
for  your  furnace  fire.  Oh !  more  than  that,  I  would  joyfully 
fling  myself  into  it,  if  that  would  help  you  to  fiud  your  ex- 
ecrable Absolute,  since  it  seems  that  all  your  happiness  and 
hopes  are  bound  up  in  that  unsolved  riddle.  But  there  are 
our  children,  Claes;  what  will  become  of  our  children  if  you 
do  not  find  out  this  hellish  secret  very  soon?  Do  you  know 
why  Pierquin  came  this  evening?  It  was  to  ask  for  thirty 
thousand  francs,  a  debt  which  we  cannot  pay.  Your  estates 
are  yours  no  longer.  I  told  liim  that  you  had  the  thirty  thou- 
sand francs,  to  spare  the  awkwardness  of  answering  the  ques- 
tion he  was  certain  to  ask;  and  it  has  occurred  to  me  that 
we  might  raise  the  money  by  selling  our  old-fashioned 
silver." 

She  saw  the  tears  about  to  gather  in  her  husband's  eyes, 
flung  herself  at  his  feet,  and  raised  her  clasped  hands  im-. 
ploringly  in  despair, 

"Dearest,"  she  cried,  "if  you  cannot  give  up  your  studies, 
leave  them  for  a  little  until  we  can  save  money  enough  for 
you  to  resume  them  again.  Oh  !  I  do  not  condemn  them  !  To 
please  you,  I  will  blow  your  furnace  fires;  but  do  not  drag 
our  children  down  to  poverty  and  want.  You  cannot  love 
them  surely  any  more;  science  has  eaten  away  your  heart, 
but  you  owe  it  to  them  to  leave  their  lives  unclouded,  you 
must  not  leave  them  to  a  life  of  wretchedness.  I  have  not 
loved  them  enough.  I  have  often  wished  that  I  had  borne 
no  children,  that  so  our  souls  might  be  knit  more  closely  to- 
gether, that  I  might  share  your  inner  life !  And  now,  to 
stifle  my  remorse,  I  must  plead  my  children's  cause  before 
my  own." 

Her  hair  had  come  unbound,  and  fell  over  her  shoulders ; 
all  the  thoughts  that  crowded  up  within  her  seemed  to  flash 
like  arrows  from  her  eyes.  She  triumphed  over  her  rival. 
Balthazar  caught  her  in  his  arms,  laid  her  on  the  sofa,  and 
sat  at  her  feet. 

"And  it  is  I  who  have  caused  your  grief?"  he  said,  speak- 
ing like  a  man  awakened  from  a  painful  dream. 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  79 

"Poor  Clacs,  if  you  hurt  us,  it  was  in  spite  of  yourself," 
she  said,  passing  her  hand  through  his  hair.  "Come,  sit  here 
beside  me,"  she  added,  jjointing  to  a  place  on  the  sofa.  "There  ! 
I  have  forgotten  all  about  it,  now  that  we  have  you  again. 
It  is  nothing,  dear,  we  shall  retrieve  all  our  losses;  but  you 
will  not  wander  so  far  from  your  wife  again?  Promise  me 
that  you  will  not.  My  great,  handsom„e  Claes.  You  must 
let  me  exercise  over  that  noble  heart  of  yours  the  woman's 
influence  that  artists  and  great  men  need  to  soothe  them  in 
failure  and  disappointment.  You  must  let  me  cross  you  some- 
times, for  your  own  good.  I  will  never  abuse  the  power,  and 
you  may  answer  sharply  and  grumble  at  me.  Yes,  you  shall 
be  famous,  but  you  must  be  happy  too.  Do  not  put  chemistry 
first.  Listen !  we  will  not  ask  too  much ;  we  will  let  science 
share  your  heart  with  us,  but  you  must  deal  fairly,  and  our 
half  of  your  heart  must  be  really  ours !  Now,  tell  me,  is  not 
my  unselfishness  sublime?" 

She  drew  a  smile  from  Balthazar.  "With  a  woman's  won- 
derful tact,  she  had  changed  the  solemn  tone  of  their  talk, 
and  brought  the  burning  question  into  the  domains  of  jest, 
a  woman's  own  domain.  But  even  with  the  laughter  on  her 
lips,  something  seemed  to  clutch  tightly  at  her  heart,  and  her 
pulse  scarcely  throbbed  as  evenly  and  gently  as  usual;  but 
when  she  saw  revived  in  Balthazar's  eyes  the  expression  which 
used  to  thrill  her  with  delight  and  exultation,  and  knew  that 
none  of  her  old  power  was  lost,  she  smiled  again  at  him,  as  she 
said: 

"Believe  me,  Balthazar,  nature  made  us  to  feel;  and 
though  you  will  have  it  that  we  are  nothing  but  an  electrical 
mechanism,  your  gases  and  etherealized  matter  will  never 
account  for  our  power  of  foreseeing  the  future." 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  ^^by  means  of  affinities.  The  power 
of  vision  which  makes  the  poet  and  the  deductive  power  of 
the  man  of  science  are  both  based  on  visible  affinities,  though 
they  are  impalpable  and  imponderable,  so  that  ordinary  minds 
look  on  them  as  ^moral  phenomena,'  but  in  reality  they  are 
purely  physical.     Every  dreamer  of  dreams  sees  and  draws 


80  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

deductions  from  what  he  sees.  Unluckily,  such  affinities  as 
these  are  too  rare,  and  the  indications  are  too  slight  to  be  sub- 
mitted to  analysis  and  observation." 

"And  this,"  she  said,  coming  closer  for  a  kiss,  to  put  chem- 
istry, which  had  returned  so  inopportunely  at  her  question, 
to  flight  again,  "is  this  to  be  an  affinity?" 

"No,  a  combination;  two  substances  which  have  the  same 
sign  produce  no  chemical  action." 

"Hu&h !  hush !"  she  said,  "if  you  do  not  wish  me  to  die  of 
sorrow.  Yes,  dear,  to  see  my  rival  always  before  me,  even 
in  the  ecstasy  of  love,  is  more  than  I  can  bear." 

"But,  my  dear  heart,  you  are  always  in  every  thought  of 
mine;  my  work  is  to  make  our  name  famous,  you  are  the 
undercurrent  of  it  all." 

"Let  us  see ;  look  into  my  eyes !" 

Excitement  had  brought  back  all  the  beauty  of  youth  to  her 
face,  and  her  husband  saw  nothing  but  her  face  above  a  mist 
of  lace  and  muslin.  "Yes,  I  did  very  wrong  to  neglect  you 
for  science.  And,  Pepita,  when  I  fall  to  musing  again,  as 
I  shall  do,  you  must  rouse  me;  I  wish  it." 

Her  eyes  fell,  and  she  let  him  take  her  hand,  her  greatest 
beauty,  a  hand  that  was  at  once  strong  and  delicately  shaped. 

"But  I  am  not  satisfied  yet,"  she  said. 

"You  are  so  enchantingly  lovely,  that  you  can  ask  and  have 
anything." 

"I  want  to  wreck  your  laboratory  and  bind  this  science  of 
yours  in  chains,"  she  said,  fire  flashing  from  her  eyes. 

'^ell  then,  the  devil  take  chemistry !" 

"All  my  grief  is  blotted  out  by  this  moment,"  she  said; 
"after  this  inflict  any  pain  on  me." 

Tears  came  to  Balthazar's  eyes  at  the  words. 

"You  arc  right,"  he  said;  "I  only  saw  you  through  a  veil, 
as  it  were,  and  I  no  longer  heard  you,  it  had  come  to 
that " 

"If  I  had  been  alone,"  she  said,  "I  could  have  borne  it  in 
silence ;  I  would  not  have  raised  my  voice,  my  sovereign ; 
but  there  were  your  sons  to  think  of,  Claes.    Be  &ure  of  this. 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  81 

that  if  you  had  dissipated  all  your  fortune,  even  for  a  glorious 
end,  your  great  motives  would  have  weighed  for  nothing  with 
the  world,  your  children  would  have  sufTered  for  what  the 
world  would  call  your  extravagance.  It  should  be  sufficient, 
should  it  not,  for  your  far-seeing  mind,  if  your  wife  calls 
your  attention  to  a  danger  which  you  had  not  noticed?  Let 
us  talk  no  more  about  it,"  she  added,  smiling  at  him,  with  a 
bright  light  dancing  in  her  eyes.  "Let  us  not  be  only  half 
happy  this  evening,  Claes." 

On  the  morrow  of  this  crisis  in  the  fortunes  of  the  house- 
hold, Balthazar  Claes  never  went  near  his  laboratory,  and 
spent  the  day  in  liis  wife's  society.  Doubtless  at  Josephine's 
instance  he  had  promised  to  relinquish  his  experiments.  On 
the  following  day  the  family  went  to  spend  two  months  in 
the  country,  only  returning  to  town  to  make  preparations  for 
the  ball  that  had  always  been  given  in  former  years  on  the 
anniversary  of  their  marriage. 

Balthazar's  affairs  had  become  greatly  involved,  partly 
through  debts,  partly  through  neglect;  every  day  brought 
fresh  proof  of  this.  His  wife  never  added  to  his  annoyance 
by  reproaches;  on  the  contrary,  she  did  her  utmost  to  meet 
and  smooth  over  their  embarrassments.  There  had  been  seven 
servants  in  their  household  on  the  occasion  of  their  last  "At 
Home,"  only  three  of  them  now  remained — Lemulquinier, 
Josette  the  cook,  and  an  old  waiting-maid,  Martha  by  name, 
who  had  been  with  her  mistress  ever  since  Mile.  Josephine 
left  her  convent.  With  so  limited  a  retinue  it  was  impossible 
to  receive  the  aristocracy  of  Douai ;  but  Mme.  Claes,  who  was 
equal  to  the  emergency,  suggested  that  a  chef  should  be  sent 
for  from  Paris,  that  their  gardener's  son  should  be  pressed 
into  their  service,  and  that  they  should  borrow  Pierquin's 
man.     Nothing  betrayed  the  straits  they  were  in. 

During  the  three  weeks  of  preparation  Mme.  Claes  kept  her 
husband  so  cleverly  employed  that  he  did  not  miss  his  old 
occupations.  She  commissioned  him  to  choose  the  flowers  and 
exotic  plants  for  the  decoration  of  the  staircase,  the  rooms, 
and  the  gallery;  at  another  time  she  sent  him  to  Dunkirk 


82  THE  QUEST  OP  THE  ABSOLUTE 

to  procure  some  of  the  huge  fish,  without  which  a  Netherland 
banquet  would  be  shorn  of  all  its  glory.  A  fete  given  by  the 
Claes  was  a  very  important  function,  demanding  a  prodigious 
amount  of  forethought  and  a  heavy  correspondence;  for  in 
the  Low  Countries,  where  family  traditions  of  hospitality  are 
sedulously  maintained,  for  masters  and  servants  alike,  a  suc- 
cessful dinner  is  a  triumph  scored  at  the  expense  of  the 
guests. 

Oysters  arrived  from  Ostend,  fruit  was  sent  for  from  Paris, 
and  grouse  from  Scotland,  no  detail  was  neglected,  the  Maison 
Claes  was  to  entertain  on  the  old  lavish  scale.  Moreover,  the 
ball  at  the  Maison  Claes  was  a  well-known  social  event  with 
which  the  winter  season  opened  in  Douai,  and  Douai  at  that 
time  was  the  chief  town  in  the  department.  For  fifteen 
years,  therefore,  it  had  behooved  Balthazar  to  distinguish 
himself  on  this  occasion ;  and  so  well  had  he  acquitted  himself 
as  a  host,  that  the  ball  was  talked  of  for  twenty  leagues  round. 
The  toilettes,  the  invitations  sent  out,  and  any  novelty  that 
appeared  even  in  the  smallest  details,  were  discussed  all  over 
the  department. 

This  bustle  of  preparation  left  Claes  little  time  for  medita- 
tion on  the  Quest  of  the  Absolute.  His  thoughts  had  been 
turned  into  other  channels,  old  domestic  instincts  revived  the 
dormant  pride  of  the  Fleming,  the  householder  awoke,  and 
the  man  of  science  flung  himself  heart  and  soul  into  the  task 
of  astonishing  the  town.  He  determined  that  some  new  re- 
finement of  art  should  give  this  evening  a  character  of  its 
own ;  and  of  all  the  whims  of  extravagance  he  chose  the  fair- 
est, the  costliest,  and  most  fleeting,  filling  his  house  with 
scented  thickets  of  rare  plants,  and  preparing  bouquets  for 
the  ladies.  Everything  was  in  keeping  with  this  unprece- 
dented luxury;  it  seemed  as  if  nothing  that  could  ensure 
success  were  lacking. 

But  the  29th  Bulletin,  bearing  the  particulars  of  the  rout 
of  the  Grand  Army  and  of  the  terrible  passage  of  the  Bere- 
sina,  reached  Douai  that  afternoon     The  news  made  a  deep 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  83 

and  gloomy  impression  on  the  Douaisiens,  and  out  of  patriot- 
ism every  one  declined  to  dance. 

Among  the  letters  that  reached  Douai  from  Poland,  there 
was  one  for  Balthazar.  It  was  from  M.  de  Wierzchownia, 
who  was  at  that  moment  in  Dresden,  dying  of  the  wounds 
received  in  a  recent  engagement.  Several  ideas  had  occurred 
to  him,  he  said,  since  they  had  spoken  together  of  the  Quest 
of  the  Absolute,  and  these  ideas  he  desired  to  leave  as  a  legacy 
to  his  host  of  three  years  ago.  After  reading  the  letter  Claes 
fell  into  deep  musings,  which  did  honor  to  his  patriotism; 
but  his  wife  knew  better,  she  saw  that  a  second  ai^  deeper 
shadow  had  fallen  over  her  festival.  The  glory  of  the  Maison 
Claes  seemed  dimmed,  as  it  were,  by  its  approaching  eclipse ; 
there  was  a  feeling  of  gloom  in  the  atmosphere  in  spite  of  the 
magnificence,  in  spite  of  the  display  of  all  the  treasures  of 
bric-a-brac  collected  by  six  generations  of  amateurs,  and  now 
beheld  for  the  last  time  by  the  admiring  eyes  of  the  Douai- 
siens. 

The  queen  of  the  evening  was  Marguerite,  who  made  her 
first  appearance  in  society.  All  eyes  were  turned  on  her> 
partly  because  of  her  fresh  simplicity  and  the  innocent  frank- 
ness of  her  expression,  partly  because  the  young  girl  seemed 
almost  like  a  part  of  the  old  house.  With  the  soft  rounded 
contour  of  her  face,  the  chestnut  hair  parted  in  the  middle, 
and  smoothed  down  on  either  side  of  her  brow,  clear  hazel 
eyes,  pretty  rounded  arms  and  plump  yet  slender  form,  she 
might  have  stepped  out  of  the  canvas  of  one  of  the  old  Flem- 
ish pictures  on  the  wall.  You  could  read  indications  of  a 
firm  will  in  the  broad  high  forehead,  gentle,  shy,  and  sedate 
as  she  seemed ;  and  though  there  was  nothing  sad  or  languid 
about  her,  there  was  but  little  girlish  gleefulness  in  her  face. 
Thoughtfulness  there  was,  and  thrift,  and  a  sense  of  duty, 
all  Flemish  characteristics;  and  on  a  second  glance,  there  was 
a  certain  charm  of  softness  of  outline  and  a  meek  pride  which 
atoned  for  a  lack  of  animation,  and  gave  promise  of  domestic 
happiness.  By  some  freak  of  nature,  which  physiologists  as 
yet  cannot  explain,  she  bore  no  likeness  to  either  father  or 


84  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

mother,  but  she  was  the  living  image  of  her  maternal  great- 
grandmother,  a  Conyncks  of  Bruges,  whose  portrait  had  been 
religiously  preserved,  and  bore  witness  to  the  resemblance. 

Supper  gave  some  life  to  the  ball.  If  the  disasters  that  had 
befallen  the  Grand  Army  forbade  the  relaxation  of  dancing, 
no  one  apparently  felt  that  the  prohibition  need  apply  to  the 
pleasures  of  the  table.  Good  patriots,  however,  left  early, 
and  only  a  few  indifferent  spirits  remained,  with  some  few 
card-players,  and  the  intimate  friends  of  the  family.  Little 
by  little  silence  fell  on  the  brilliantly  lighted  house,  to  which 
all  Douai  had  been  wont  to  flock,  and  by  one  o'clock  in  the 
morning  the  gallery  was  empty,  the  candles  were  extinguished 
in  one  salon  after  another,  and  the  courtyard  itself,  so  lately 
full  of  noises  and  lights,  had  settled  down  into  its  wonted 
darkness  and  gloom.  It  was  like  a  foreshadowing  of  t?ie 
future. 

As  soon  as  the  Claes  returned  to  their  rooms,  Balthazar 
gave  his  wife  the  Polish  officer's  letter  to  read;  she  gave  it 
back  to  him  mournfully,  she  foresaw  the  end. 

From  that  day  forth  the  tedium  of  his  life  began  visibly 
to  weigh  on  Balthazar's  spirits.  In  the  morning,  after  break- 
fast, he  used  to  play  with  little  Jean  for  a  while  in  the  parlor, 
and  talked  with  the  two  girls,  who  were  busy  with  their 
sewing,  or  embroidery,  or  lace- work;  but  he  soon  wearied  of 
the  play  and  of  the  talk,  and  everything  seemed  to  be  a  set 
task.  When  his  wife  came  down,  having  changed  her  wrapper 
for  a  morning  dress,  he  was  still  sitting  in  the  low  chair, 
gazing  blankly  at  Marguerite  and  Felicie ;  the  rattle  of  their 
bobbins  apparently  did  not  disturb  him.  When  the  newspaper 
came,  he  read  it  deliberately  through,  like  a  retired  tradesman 
at  a  loss  how  to  kill  time.  Then  he  would  rise  to  his  feet, 
look  at  the  sky  for  a  while  through  the  window  panes,  list- 
lessly mend  the  fire,  and  sit  down  again  in  his  chair,  as  if  the 
tyrannous  ideas  within  him  had  deprived  him  of  all  conscious- 
ness of  his  movements. 

Mme.  Claes  keenly  regretted  her  defective  education  and 
lack  of  memory.    It  was  difficult  for  her  to  sustain  an  inter- 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  85 

estiBg  conversation;  perhaps  it  is  always  difficult  for  two 
persons  who  have  said  everything  to  each  other  to  find  any- 
thing new  to  talk  of  unless  they  look  for  it  among  indifferent 
topics.  The  life  of  the  heart  has  its  moments,  and  wants  con- 
trasts; the  practical  questions  of  daily  life  are  soon  disposed 
of  by  energetic  minds  accustomed  to  make  prompt  decisions, 
and  social  frivolity  is  unendurable  to  two  souls  who  love. 
Such  souls,  thus  isolated,  who  know  each  other  thoroughly, 
should  seek  their  enjoyments  in  the  highest  regions  of 
thought,  for  it  is  impossible  to  set  something  little  against 
something  that  is  vast.  Moreover,  when  a  man  has  dwelt  for 
long  on  great  subjects,  he  is  not  easy  to  amuse,  unless  there 
is  something  of  the  child  in  his  nature,  the  power  of  flinging 
himself  into  the  present  moment,  the  simple  f  resh-heartedness 
that  makes  men  of  great  genius  such  charming  children ;  but 
is  not  this  youthfulness  of  heart  rare  indeed  among  those  who 
have  set  themselves  to  see  and  know  and  understand  things  ? 

During  those  months  Mme.  Claes  tried  all  the  expedients 
which  love  or  necessity  could  suggest ;  she  even  learned  to  play 
backgammon,  a  game  that  had  always  presented  insuperable 
difficulties  to  her  mind ;  she  tried  to  interest  Balthazar  in  the 
girls'  education,  consulting  him  about  their  studies,  planning 
courses  of  lessons;  but  all  these  resources  came  to  an  end  at 
last,  and  Josephine  and  Balthazar  were  in  something  the 
same  position  as  Mme.  de  Maintenon  and  Louis  XIV.  But 
Mme.  de  Maintenon  could  bring  the  pomps  of  power  to  her 
aid;  she  had  wily  courtiers  who  lent  themselves  to  her  come- 
dies, playing  their  parts  as  ambassadors  from  Siam,  and 
envoys  from  the  grand  Sophi,  to  divert  a  weary  king;  and 
Louis  XIV.,  after  draining  the  wealth  of  France,  had  known 
what  it  was  to  be  reduced  to  a  younger  brother's  shifts  for 
raising  money;  Jie  had  outlived  youth  and  success,  and  had 
come  to  know  old  age  and  failure,  and,  in  spite  of  his  gran- 
deur, to  a  piteous  sense  of  his  own  helplessness ;  and  she,  the 
royal  bonne,  who  had  soothed  his  children,  was  not  always 
able  to  soothe  their  father,  who  had  squandered  wealth  and 
power  and  human  lives,  who  had  given  his  life  for  vanity 


86  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

and  set  God  at  naught,  and  was  now  pajdng  the  penalty  of  it 
all.  But  Claes  was  not  sulfering  from  exhaustion,  but  from 
unemployed  energy. 

One  overwhelming  thought  possessed  him.  He  was  dream- 
ing of  the  glories  of  science,  of  adding  to  the  knowledge  of 
the  world,  of  fame  that  might  have  been  his.  He  was  suffering 
as  a  struggling  artist  suffers,  like  Samson  bound  to  the  pillars 
of  the  temple  of  the  Philistines.  So  the  result  was  much 
the  same  for  the  two  sovereigns,  though  the  intellectual  mon- 
arch was  suffering  through  his  strength,  and  the  other  through 
his  weakness. 

What  could  Pepita  do,  unaided,  for  this  kind  of  scientific 
nostalgia?  At  first  she  tried  every  means  that  family  life 
afforded  her,  then  she  called  society  to  the  rescue,  and  gave 
two  "cafes"  every  week.  Cafes  had  recently  superseded  "teas" 
in  Douai.  At  these  social  functions,  the  invited  guests  sipped 
the  delicious  wines  and  liqueurs  with  which  the  cellars  al- 
ways overflow  in  that  favored  land,  drank  their  cafe  noir  or 
cafe  au  lait  frappe,  and  partook  of  various  Flemish  delicacies ; 
while  the  women  sang  ballads,  discussed  each  other's  toilettes, 
and  retailed  all  the  gossip  of  the  town.  It  is  just  as  it  was  in 
the  time  of  Mieris  or  Terburg,  always  the  same  pictures,  but 
some  of  the  details  are  altered;  the  drooping  scarlet  feathers 
and  gray  high-crowned  hats  are  wanting,  and  you  miss  the 
guitars  and  the  picturesque  costumes  of  the  sixteenth  century. 

Balthazar  made  strenuous  efforts  to  act  his  part  as  master 
of  the  house,  but  his  constrained  courtesy  and  forced  anima- 
tion left  him  in  a  state  of  languor,  which  showed  but  too 
plainly  what  inroads  the  malady  had  made,  and  these  dissi- 
pations were  powerless  to  alleviate  the  symptoms.  Balthazar, 
on  the  brink  of  the  precipice,  might  catch  at  branch  after 
branch,  but  the  fall,  though  delayed,  was  so  much  the  heavier. 
He  never  spoke  of  his  old  occupations,  ho  never  uttered  re- 
grets, knowing  that  it  was  quite  impossible  to  continue  his 
work,  but  his  voice  and  movements  were  languid,  his  vitality 
seemed  to  be  at  a  low  ebb.  This  depression  could  be  seen 
even  in  the  listless  way  in  which  he  would  take  up  the  tongs, 
and  Iniild  fantastic  pyramids  with  tlie  glowing  coals. 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  87 

It  was  a  visible  relief  when  the  evening  was  over;  sleep 
perhaps  delivered  him  for  a  while  from  the  importunities  of 
thought ;  but  with  the  morning  came  the  thought  that  another 
day  must  be  lived  through,  and  he  counted  the  hours  of  con- 
sciousness as  an  exhausted  traveler  might  reckon  out  the 
leagues  of  desert  that  lie  between  him  and  his  journey's  end. 

If  Mme.  Claes  knew  the  causes  of  this  weariness,  she  tried 
to  shut  her  eyes  to  its  effects;  she  would  not  see  the  havoc  that 
it  wrought.  But  though  she  might  steel  herself  against  the 
sight  of  his  mental  distress,  his  kindness  of  heart  left  her 
helpless.  When  Balthazar  listened  to  Jean's  laughter  or  the 
girls'  chatter,  and  seemed  all  the  while  to  hear  an  inner  thought 
more  plainly  than  his  children's  voices,  Mme.  Claes  did  not 
dare  to  ask  him  what  that  thought  was ;  but  when  she  saw  him 
shake  off  his  sadness,  and  try  to  seem  cheerful,  that  he  might 
not  cast  a  gloom  over  others,  his  generosity  made  her  falter  in 
her  purpose.  His  romps  with  little  Jean  and  playful  talk 
with  the  two  little  girls  brought  a  flood  of  tears  to  poor  Jose- 
phine's eyes,  and  she  had  to  hurry  from  the  room  to  hide 
her  feelings;  her  heroism  was  costing  her  dear,  it  was  break- 
ing her  heart.  There  were  times  when  Mme.  Claes  longed  to 
say,  "Kill  me,  and  do  as  you  like !" 

Little  by  little  the  fire  seemed  to  die  out  of  Balthazar's 
eyes,  and  the  dull  bluish  hues  of  age  crept  over  them.  Every- 
thing seemed  to  be  done  with  an  effort ;  there  was  a  dull  hope- 
lessness in  the  tones  of  his  voice  and  in  his  manner  even 
towards  his  wife.  Towards  the  end  of  April  things  had 
grown  so  much  worse  that  Mme.  Claes  took  alarm.  She  had 
blamed  herself  bitterly  and  incessantly  for  having  exacted 
this  promise,  while  she  admired  the  Flemish  faith  and  loyalty 
with  ?vhicii  it  was  kept.  One  day  when  Balthazar  looked  more 
depressed  than  ever,  she  hesitated  no  longer ;  she  would  sacri- 
fice everything  if  so  he  might  live. 

"I  give  you  back  your  word,  dear,"  she  said. 

Balthazar  looked  at  her  in  amazement. 

"You  are  thinking  of  your  experiments,  are  you  not?"  she 
went  on. 


88  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

He  answered  with  a  terrible  readiness,  by  a  gesture,  but 
Mme.  Claes  had  no  thought  of  reproach;  she  had  had 
time  to  sound  the  depths  of  the  abyss  into  which  they  were 
both  about  to  plunge  together.  She  took  his  hand  in  hers 
and  pressed  it  as  she  smiled  at  him. 

"Thank  you,  dearest,"  she  said,  "I  am  sure  of  my  power; 
you  have  given  up  what  was  dearer  than  life  for  my  sake. 
Now  it  is  my  turn  to  give  up.  I  have  sold  a  good  many  of 
my  diamonds,  but  there  are  some  left,  and  with  those  that 
my  brother  gave  me  we  could  raise  money  enough  for  you  to 
continue  your  experiments.  I  thought  I  would  keep  the 
jewels  for  our  two  girls,  but  your  fame  will  more  than  make 
up  for  the  sparkling  stones,  and  besides,  you  will  give  them 
finer  diamonds  some  day." 

The  sudden  flash  of  joy  over  her  husband's  face  was  like 
a  death-knell  to  Josephine's  last  hopes,  and  she  saw  with 
anguish  that  his  passion  was  stronger  than  himself.  Claes 
had  a  belief  which  enabled  him  to  walk  without  faltering  in 
a  path  which  in  his  wife's  eyes  led  by  the  brink  of  a  precipice. 
He  had  this  faith  to  sustain  him,  but  to  her  who  had  no  faith 
fell  the  heavier  share  of  the  burden ;  does  not  a  woman  always 
suffer  for  two?  At  this  moment  she  chose  to  believe  in  his 
success,  seeking  thus  to  excuse  herself  for  her  share  in  the 
certain  wreck  of  their  fortunes. 

"The  love  of  my  whole  life  would  never  repay  your  devo- 
tion, Pepita,"  said  Claes,  deeply  moved. 

He  had  scarecly  spoken  the  words  before  Marguerite  and 
Felicie  came  into  the  room  to  wish  thieir  father  and  mother 
good-morning.  Mme.  Claes  looked  down;  for  a  moment  she 
felt  almost  guilty  before  the  two  children;  she  felt  that  she 
had  sacrificed  their  future  to  a  wild  delusion ;  but  her  husband 
took  them  on  his  knees  and  talked  and  laughed  with  them, 
because  the  joy  he  felt  craved  expression.  Thenceforth  Mme. 
Claes  shared  in  her  husband's  life  of  enthusiasm.  Science 
itself  and  desire  of  fame  was  everything  to  Claes ;  she  not  only 
S3Tnpathized  with  his  aims,  but  all  her  hopes  of  her  children's 
future  were  now  bound  up  in  his  pursuits.     Yet  when  her 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  89 

director  the  Abbe  de  Solis  had  sold  her  diamonds  for  her  in 
Paris,  when  packages  began  to  arrive  from  the  firm  of  manu- 
facturing chemists,  all  the  unhappy  wife's  peace  of  mind  de- 
serted her.  It  was  as  if  the  restless  malevolent  spirit  that 
possessed  her  husband  tormented  her  also,  and  she  lived  in 
constant  and  disquieting  expectation.  It  was  she  who  now 
sometimes  sat  like  one  dead  all  day  long  in  her  low  chair, 
unable  to  act  or  to  think  from  the  very  vehemence  of  her 
wishes.  Balthazar  was  at  work  the  while  in  his  laboratory, 
but  she  had  no  outlet  for  her  energies ;  the  pent-up  forces  of 
her  nature  harassed  her  soul  as  doubts  and  fears.  Sometimes 
she  blamed  herself  for  weakly  humoring  a  passion  which  she 
felt  convinced  was  hopeless ;  she  would  remember  M.  de  Solis' 
censure,  and  rise  from  her  chair  and  walk  to  the  window,  and 
look  up  at  the  laboratory  chimney  with  dismay  and  dread. 
If  a  curl  of  smoke  went  up  from  it,  she  would  watch  it  rise  in 
despair,  and  conflicting  ideas  strove  within  her  until  her  brain 
reeled.  Her  children's  future  was  vanishing  in  that  smoke, 
but  she  was  saving  their  father's  life.  Was  it  not  her  first 
duty  to  make  him  happy?  This  last  thought  would  bring 
peace  for  a  little  space. 

She  had  the  freedom  of  the  laboratory  now,  and  might  stay 
there  as  long  as  she  pleased,  but  even  this  melancholy  satis- 
faction had  to  be  given  up.  It  was  too  painful  to  see  Bal- 
thazar so  absorbed  in  his  work  that  he  did  not  even  notice 
her  presence ;  sometimes,  too,  she  felt  that  she  was  actually  in 
the  way ;  the  pangs  of  jealousy  became  intolerable,  every  little 
unintentional  neglect  was  a  deadly  wound,  a  wild  desire  would 
seize  her  that  the  house  might  be  blown  up,  and  so  put  an 
end  to  it  all.  She  made  a  barometer,  therefore,  of  old  Lemul- 
quinier.  When  she  heard  him  whistle  as  he  came  and  went, 
or  laid  the  table  for  breakfast  and  dinner,  she  augured  that 
her  husband's  experiments  had  turned  out  well;  that  there 
was  some  hope  of  success  in  the  near  future;  but  if  Lemul- 
quinier  was  sad  or  sulky,  she  turned  sad,  wistful  eyes  on  him : 
was  Balthazar  also  depres^orl  ?  A  sort  of  tacit  understand  in? 
was  established  between  them  at  last,  in  spite  of  the  proud 


90  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLtTTB 

reserve  of  the  mistress  and  the  surly  independence  of  the  man- 
servant. 

She  had  no  resource  in  herself,  no  power  of  throwing  ofE 
the  thoughts  that  depressed  her;  she  experienced  to  the  full 
every  crisis  of  hope  or  despair;  the  load  of  anxiety  for  the 
husband  and  the  children  that  she  loved  weighed  more  and 
more  heavily  on  the  trembling  wife  and  mother.  She  scarcely 
noticed  how  dreary  the  house  was,  or  the  silence  and  gloom 
that  once  had  chilled  her  heart  as  she  sat  in  the  parlor  all  day 
long;  she  had  grown  silent  too,  and  forgot  to  smile.  She 
brought  up  her  two  daughters  to  be  good  housewives ;  with  a 
mother's  sad  foresight,  she  tried  to  teach  them  various 
branches  of  womanly  skill  against  the  day  when  they  might 
come  face  to  face  with  poverty.  But  beneath  the  monotonous 
surface  of  existence  the  pulses  of  life  beat  painfully.  By  the 
end  of  the  summer  Balthazar  had  not  only  spent  all  the  money 
which  the  old  Abbe  de  Solis  had  raised  by  selling  the  diamonds 
in  Paris,  but  he  was  in  debt — he  owed  some  twenty  thousand 
francs  to  Protez  and  Chiffreville. 

In  August  1813,  about  a  j'^ear  after  the  day  of  the  opening 
scene  of  this  story,  Claes  was  no  nearer  the  end  in  view, 
though  he  had  made  several  interesting  discoveries,  for  which, 
unluckily,  he  cared  not  at  all.  The  day  which  saw  his  pro- 
gramme completely  carried  out  found  him  overwhelmed  with 
a  sense  of  failure.  The  thought  of  the  vast  sums  of  money 
which  had  been  spent,  and  all  to  no  purpose,  drove  him  to 
despair.  It  was  a  wretched  ending  to  his  hopes.  He  left  his 
garret,  came  slowly  down  into  the  parlor  where  the  children 
were,  sank  into  one  of  the  low  chairs,  and  sat  there  for  a  while 
like  one  dead,  paying  no  heed  to  the  questions  with  which  his 
wife  plied  him.  He  escaped  upstairs  that  he  might  have  no 
witness  to  his  grief.  Josephine  followed  him,  and  brought 
him  into  her  room  ;  and  tliere,  alone  with  her,  Balthazar  gave 
way  to  his  despair.  In  the  man's  tears,  in  the  broken  words 
that  bore  witness  to  the  artist's  discouragement,  in  the  re- 
morse of  the  father,  there  was  something  so  wild  and  inco- 
herent, so  dreadful,  so  touching,  that  Mme.  Claes,  watching 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  91 

nim,  felt  an  anguish  that  she  had  never  known  before.  The 
victim  comforted  the  executioner. 

When  Balthazar  said  with  horrible  earnestness,  "I  am  a 
scoundrel;  I  am  risking  our  children's  lives  and  yours;  1 
ought  to  kill  myself,  it  would  be  a  good  thing  for  you  all,"  the 
words  cut  her  to  the  heart.  She  knew  her  husband  so  well 
that  she  was  in  terror  lest  he  should  act  at  once  on  this  horri- 
ble suggestion;  and  one  of  those  revulsions  of  feelings  that 
stir  life  to  its  depths  swept  over  her,  a  revulsion  all  the  more 
dangerous  because  Pepita  allowed  no  sign  of  agitation  to 
appear,  and  tried  to  be  calm  and  dispassionate. 

"This  time  I  have  not  consulted  Pierquin,  dear,"  she  said ; 
'Tie  may  be  friendly,  but  he  would  not  be  above  feeling  a  secret 
satisfaction  if  we  were  ruined,  so  I  have  taken  the  advice  of 
an  old  man  who  has  a  father's  kindness  for  us.  My  confessor, 
the  Abbe  de  Solis,  suggested  a  way  of  averting  ruin  at  any 
rate.  He  came  to  see  your  pictures ;  and  he  thinks  that  if  we 
sell  those  in  the  gallery  we  could  pay  oif  all  the  mortgages  as 
well  as  your  debts  to  Protez  and  Chiffreville,  for  I  expect 
there  is  something  owing  to  them?" 

Claes  bent  his  head  as  a  sign  of  assent;  already  his  hair 
was  grown  white. 

"M.  de  Solis  knows  the  Happes  and  the  Dunckers  of  Am- 
sterdam," she  went  on;  "they  have  a  mania  for  buying  pic- 
tures, their  money  was  only  made  yesterday ;  and  as  they  know 
that  such  works  of  art  are  only  to  be  found  in  old  family  col- 
lections, they  will  be  only  too  glad  to  give  their  full  value  for 
the  paintings.  Even  when  our  estates  are  clear,  there  will 
still  be  something  left  over,  for  the  pictures  will  bring  in  at 
least  a  hundred  thousand  ducats,  and  then  you  can  go  on  with 
your  work.  We  need  very  little,  the  two  girls  and  I ;  we  will 
be  very  careful;  and  in  time  we  will  save  enough  money  to 
fill  the  empty  frames  again  with  other  pictures,  and  in  the 
meantime  you  shall  be  happy." 

Balthazar  raised  his  face  to  his  wife's;  he  felt  half  doubt- 
ful, half  relieved.  They  had  exchanged  roles.  The  wife  had 
become  the  protecting  power;  and  he,  in  spite  of  the  sympathy 


98  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

of  hearts  between  them,  held  Josephine  in  his  arms,  and  did 
not  feel  that  she  was  convulsed  with  anguish,  did  not  see  how 
the  tresses  of  her  hair  were  shaken  by  the  throbbing  of  hei 
heart,  nor  notice  the  nervous  quivering  of  her  lips. 

"I  have  not  dared  to  tell  you,"  he  cried,  "that  I  am 
scarcely  separated  from  the  Absolute  by  a  hair's-breadth.  1 
have  only  to  discover  a  means  of  submitting  metals  to  intense 
heat  in  a  vessel  where  the  pressure  of  the  atmosphere  is  nil— = 
in  short,  in  a  perfect  vacuum,  and  I  shall  volatize  them." 

Mme.  Claes  almost  broke  down,  the  egoistic  answer  was 
too  much  for  her.  She  had  expected  passionate  gratitude  for 
her  devotion,  and  she  received — a  problem  in  chemistry.  She 
left  her  husband  abruptly,  went  down  stairs  into  the  parlor, 
sank  into  her  low  chair  again,  and  burst  into  tears.  Her  two 
daughters,  Marguerite  and  Felicie,  each  took  one  of  her  hands 
in  theirs,  and  knelt  on  either  side  of  her,  wondering  at  her 
grief. 

'^hat  is  it,  mother  ?"  they  asked  her  again  and  again. 

"Poor  children !  I  am  dying ;  I  feel  that  I  have  not  long  to 
live." 

Marguerite  shuddered  as  she  looked  at  her  mother's  face, 
and  for  the  first  time  noticed  a  ghastly  pallor  beneath  the 
dark  olive  hue  of  the  skin, 

"Martha !  Martha !"  called  Felicie.  "Come  here,  mamma 
wants  you." 

The  old  waiting-woman  came  running  from  the  kitchen. 
When  she  saw  the  livid  color  that  had  replaced  the  dusky 
brown-red  tints  in  her  mistress'  face — 

"Body  of  Christ !"  she  cried  in  Spanish,  "madame  is  dy- 
ing !" 

She  hurried  away  to  bid  Josette  heat  some  water  for  a  foot- 
bath for  her  mistress,  and  then  returned. 

"Don't  frighten  the  master,  Martha ;  say  nothing  about 
it,"  said  Mme.  Claes.  "Poor  dear  girls !"  she  added  con- 
vulsively, clasping  Marguerite  and  Felicie  to  her  heart.  "If 
T  could  only  live  long  enough  to  see  you  both  happy  and  mar- 
ried.— Martha,"  she  went  on,  "tell  Lemulquinier  to  go  to 
M.  de  Solis  and  ask  him  to  come  to  see  me." 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  93 

The  thunderbolt  that  struck  down  the  mistress  of  the 
nouse  naturally  brought  dismay  in  the  kitchen.  Josette  and 
Martha,  old  and  devoted  servants,  were  so  deeply  attached  to 
Mme.  Claes  and  her  two  daughters  that  the  blow  was  as 
heavy  as  it  was  unexpected.  The  terrible  words :  "Madame  is 
dying,  monsieur  must  have  killed  her !  Be  quick  and  get 
ready  a  mustard  bath !"  had  drawn  sundry  ejaculations  from 
Josette,  who  hurled  them  at  Lemulquinier.  Lemulquinier, 
calm  and  phlegmatic  as  ever,  was  eating  his  breakfast  at  a 
corner  of  the  table,  underneath  one  of  the  windows  which 
looked  out  on  the  yard.  The  whole  kitchen  was  as  spick  and 
span  as  the  daintiest  boudoir, 

"I  knew  how  it  would  end,"  remarked  Josette,  looking 
straight  at  the  valet  as  she  spoke.  She  had  climbed  on  to  a 
stool  to  reach  down  a  copper  kettle  which  shone  like  bur- 
nished gold.  "What  mother  could  look  on  and  see  her  chil- 
dren's father  amusing  himself  by  frittering  away  a  fortune, 
like  the  master  does,  and  everything  flying  away  in  smoke." 

Josette's  countenance,  framed  in  its  frilled  cap,  was  not 
unlike  the  round  wooden  nut-crackers  that  Germans  carve; 
she  gave  Lemulquinier  a  sharp  glance  out  of  her  little  blood- 
shot eyes,  which  was  almost  venomous.  For  all  answer  the 
old  valet  gave  a  shrug  worthy  of  a  sorely-tried  Mirabeau,  and 
opened  his  cavernous  mouth,  but  only  to  put  a  piece  of  bread 
and  butter,  accompanied  by  a  morsel  of  red  herring,  into 
it. 

"If  madame  would  let  monsieur  have  some  money,"  he  said 
at  length,  "instead  of  bothering  him,  we  should  all  be  swim- 
ming in  gold  very  soon !  There  is  not  the  thickness  of  a 
farthing  between  us  and  the " 

"Well,  then,  you,  with  your  twenty  thousand  francs  of  sav- 
ings, why  don't  you  hand  them  over  to  the  master?  He  is 
your  master,  and  since  you  put  such  faith  m  his  sayings  and 
doings " 

"You  know  nothing  about  them,  Josette.  Just  mind  your 
pots  and  pans,  and  boil  the  water,"  said  the  Fleming,  inter- 
rupting the  cook. 


iH  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

"I  know  what  I  know;  I  know  that  we  once  had  several 
thousand  ounces  of  silver  plate  here,  and  you  have  melted  it 
down,  you  and  your  master  between  you;  and  we  shall  ver} 
soon  have  only  six  halfpennies  left  out  of  five  pence." 

"And  the  master,"  put  in  Martha,  'Vill  kill  madame,  and 
get  rid  of  a  wife  who  holds  him  back,  and  will  not  let  hin; 
eat  everything  up.  He  is  possessed,  that  is  quite  plain.  You 
are  risking  your  soul  at  the  least,  Lemulquinier,  if  you  have 
one,  that  is,  for  you  are  just  like  a  block  of  ice,  when  all  the 
rest  of  us  are  in  such  trouble.  The  young  ladies  are  crying 
like  Magdalens.    Be  quick  and  go  for  M.  de  Soils !" 

"I  have  the  master's  orders  to  set  the  laboratory  straight," 
said  the  valet.  "It  is  too  far  from  here  to  the  Quartier 
d'Esquerchin.    Go  yourself." 

"Just  listen  to  the  brute !"  said  Martha.  "Who  is  to  give 
madame  her  foot-bath?  Is  she  to  be  left  to  die,  with  the 
blood  gone  to  her  head  ?" 

"Mulquinier !"  said  Marguerite  from  the  dining-room, 
which  was  next  to  the  kitchen,  "when  you  have  left  the  mes- 
sage for  M.  de  Solis,  go  and  ask  Dr.  Pierquin  to  come  at 
once." 

"Hein !  you  will  have  to  go !"  said  Josette. 

"Mademoiselle,  monsieur  told  me  to  clear  out  the  labora- 
tory," answered  Lemulquinier,  turning  triumphantly  to  the 
two  women-servants. 

M.  Claes  came  down  the  stairs  at  this  moment,  and  Mar- 
guerite spoke  to  him.  "Father,  can  you  spare  us  Mulquinier 
to  go  on  an  errand  into  the  town  ?" 

"There,  you  miserable  old  heathen,  you  will  have  to  go 
now !"  said  Martha,  as  she  heard  M.  Claes  answer  in  the  af- 
firmative. 

The  lack  of  goodwill  and  devotion  to  the  family  on  the 
valet's  part  was  a  sore  point;  the  two  women  and  Lemul- 
quinier were  always  bickering,  and  his  indifference  increased 
their  loyal  affection.  This  apparently  paltry  quarrel  was  to 
bring  about  great  results  in  future  days  when  the  family 
stood  in  need  of  help  in  misfortune. 


THE  QUEST  OP  THE  ABSOLUTE  95 

Once  more  Balthazar  became  so  absorbed  that  he  did  not 
notice  how  ill  his  wife  was.  He  gave  little  Jean  a  ride  on 
his  knee,  but  his  thoughts  were  all  the  while  with  the  problem 
which  he  might  hope  once  more  to  solve.  He  saw  the  water 
brought  for  his  wife's  foot-bath,  for  she  had  not  strength 
to  leave  the  parlor,  or  the  low  chair  into  which  she  had  sunk. 
He  watched  the  two  girls  as  they  busied  themselves  about 
their  mother,  and  did  not  try  to  account  for  their  anxiety 
and  care  of  her.  Mme.  Claes  laid  her  fingers  on  her  lips  if 
Marguerite  or  Jean  seemed  about  to  speak.  A  scene  of  this 
nature  was  certain  to  make  a  young  girl  think;  and  Mar- 
guerite, standing  between  her  father  and  mother,  was  old 
enough  and  sensible  enough  to  understand  what  it  meant. 

A  time  always  comes  in  the  history  of  every  family  when 
the  children  begin  consciously  or  unconsciously  to  judge  their 
parents.  Mme.  Claes  felt  that  this  critical  time  had  come; 
that  the  girl  of  sixteen,  with  her  strong  sense  of  justice, 
would  see  what  would  appear  to  her  to  be  her  father's  faults 
very  plainly,  and  Mme.  Claes  set  herself  to  justify  his  con- 
duct. The  profound  respect  which  she  showed  for  him  at 
this  moment,  the  way  in  which  she  effaced  herself  for  fear 
of  disturbing  his  meditations,  left  a  deep  impression  on  her 
children's  minds;  they  looked  on  their  father  with  something 
like  awe.  But  in  spite  of  the  infectious  nature  of  this  devo- 
tion, Marguerite  could  not  help  recognizing  it,  and  her  ad- 
miration increased  for  the  mother  to  whom  she  was  bound 
so  closely  by  every  incident  of  daily  life.  The  young  girl's 
affection  had  deepened  ever  since  she  had  dimly  divined  her 
mother's  troubles  and  had  pondered  over  them;  no  human 
power  could  have  kept  the  knowledge  of  them  from  Mar- 
guerite; a  word  heedlessly  let  fall  by  Josette  or  Martha  had 
enlightened  her  as  to  their  cause.  In  spite  of  Mme.  Claes' 
reserve,  her  daughter  had  unraveled  thread  by  thread  the 
mystery  of  this  household  traged}^. 

In  time  to  come  Marguerite  would  be  her  mother's  active 
helper  and  confidante,  and,  perhaps,  in  the  end  a  formidable 
Judge.    Mme.  Claes  watched  Marguerite  anxiously,  and  tried 


96  THE  QUEST  OP  THE  ABSOLUTE 

to  fill  her  heart  with  her  own  devotion;  she  saw  the  youn^ 
girl's  firmness  and  sound  judgment,  and  shuddered  to  think 
of  possible  strife  between  father  and  daughter  when  she 
should  be  no  more,  and  Marguerite  had  taken  her  place.  Poor 
woman !  she  dreaded  the  consequences  of  her  death  far  more 
than  death  itself.  The  resolution  she  had  just  taken  had 
been  prompted  by  forethought  for  Balthazar.  By  freeing  her 
husband's  estate  from  all  liabilities,  she  left  it  independent, 
and  forestalled  all  future  disputes  by  separating  his  interests 
from  those  of  her  children;  she  hoped  to  see  him  happy 
until  her  eyes  were  closed,  and  when  that  day  came,  Mar- 
guerite would  be  the  guardian  angel  who  watched  over  the 
family.  She  hoped  to  leave  her  tenderness  in  Marguerite's 
heart,  and  so,  from  beyond  the  grave,  her  love  should  still 
shine  upon  those  so  dear  to  her.  Yet  she  shrank  from  lower- 
ing Claes  in  Marguerite's  eyes,  and  would  not  impart 
her  misgivings  and  fears  until  the  inevitable  moment  came; 
she  watched  Marguerite  more  closely  than  ever,  wondering 
whether  of  her  own  accord  the  young  girl  would  be  a  mother 
to  her  brothers  and  sisters,  and  a  gentle  and  tender  helpmeet 
to  her  father. 

So  Mme.  Claes'  last  days  were  embittered  by  fears  and  sad 
forebodings  of  which  she  could  speak  to  no  one.  She  felt  that 
her  deathblow  had  been  dealt  her  in  that  last  fatal  scene, 
and  her  thoughts  turned  to  the  future;  while  Balthazar,  now 
totally  unfitted  for  the  cares  of  property  and  the  interests 
of  domestic  life,  thought  of  nothing  but  the  Absolute.  The 
deep  silence  in  the  parlor  was  only  broken  by  the  monotonous 
beating  of  Balthazar's  foot ;  he  did  not  notice  that  little  Jean 
had  wearied  of  his  ride,  and  climbed  down  from  his  father's 
knee.  Marguerite,  sitting  beside  her  mother,  looked  at  her 
white,  sorrowful  face,  and  then  glanced  from  time  to  time 
at  her  father,  and  wondered  why  he  showed  no  feeling.  Pres- 
ently the  street  door  shut  to  with  a  clang  that  echoed  through 
the  house,  and  the  family  saw  the  old  Abbe  de  Solis  slowly 
crossing  the  court  on  his  nephew's  arm. 

"Oh !  here  is  M.  Emmanuel/'  cried  Felieie. 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  OY 

"Good  boy !"  murmured  Mme.  Claes,  as  she  saw  Emmanuel 
de  Solis ;  "I  am  glad  to  see  him  again." 

Marguerite's  face  flushed  at  her  mother's  praise.  Only  two 
days  ago  the  sight  of  the  Abbe's  nephew  had  stirred  myste- 
rious feelings  in  her  heart,  and  awakened  thoughts  that  had 
hitherto  lain  dormant.  Only  two  days  ago  her  mother's  con- 
fessor had  come  to  see  the  pictures  in  the  gallery,  and  one  of 
those  small  events  that  pass  unheeded,  and  alter  the  whole 
course  of  a  life,  had  then  taken  place;  for  this  reason  a  brief 
sketch  of  the  two  visitors  must  be  given  here. 

Mme.  Claes  made  it  a  rule  of  conduct  to  perform  the  duties 
of  her  religion  in  private.  Her  director,  who  now  entered 
the  house  for  the  second  time,  was  scarcely  known  by  sight  to 
its  inmates;  but  it  was  impossible  to  see  the  uncle  and 
nephew  together  without  feeling  touched  and  reverent,  and 
their  visit  had  left  the  same  impression  on  every  one. 

The  Abbe  de  Solis  was  an  old  man  of  eighty,  with  silver 
hair;  all  the  ebbing  life  in  the  feeble,  wasted  face  seemed  to 
linger  in  the  eyes.  He  walked  with  difficulty,  for  one  of  his 
tihrunken  legs  terminated  in  a  painfully  deformed  foot  en- 
cased in  a  velvet  wrapping,  so  that  he  always  needed  the  sup- 
port of  a  crutch  or  of  his  nephew's  arm.  Yet  when  you  saw 
the  bent  figure  and  emaciated  frame,  you  felt  that  an  iron 
will  sustained  that  fragile  and  suffering  body,  and  that  a 
pure  and  religious  soul  dwelt  within  it.  The  Spanish  priest, 
distinguished  for  his  vast  learning,  his  knowledge  of  the 
world,  and  his  sincere  piety,  had  been  successively  a  Domin- 
ican friar,  cardinal-penitentiary  of  Toledo,  and  vicar-general 
of  the  archbishopric  of  Mechlin.  The  influence  of  the  house 
of  Casa-Eeal  would  have  made  him  one  of  the  highest  dig- 
nitaries  of  the  Church;  but  even  if  the  French  Eevolution 
had  not  put  an  end  to  his  ecclesiastical  career,  grief  for  the 
death  of  the  young  Duke,  whose  governor  he  had  been,  had 
led  him  to  retire  from  active  life,  and  to  devote  himself  en- 
tirely to  the  education  of  a  nephew,  who  had  been  left  a^i 
orphan  at  a  very  early  age. 

After  the  French  conquest  of  the  Netherlands  he  h?J 


U6  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

settled  in  Douai  to  be  near  Mme.  Claes.  In  Ws  youth  he  had 
felt  an  enthusiastic  reverence  for  Saint  Theresa,  and  had 
always  decided  leanings  towards  the  more  mystical  side  of 
Christianity.  There  have  alv>'ays  been  Illuminists  and  Quiet- 
ists  in  Flanders ;  Mile.  Bourignon  made  most  of  her  converts 
among  the  Flemings ;  and  the  old  Abbe  de  Solis  found  a  little 
flock  of  Catholics  in  Douai,  who  still  clung,  undeterred  by 
papal  censure,  to  the  doctrines  of  Fenelon  and  Mme.  Guyon, 
and  was  the  more  glad  to  stay  among  them  because  they 
looked  on  him  as  a  father  in  the  faith.  His  morals  were 
austere,  his  life  had  been  exemplary ;  it  was  said  that  he  had 
the  gift  of  trance,  and  had  seen  visions.  But  the  stem 
ascetic  was  not  utterly  divorced  from  the  things  of  this  life; 
his  affection  for  his  nephew  was  a  link  that  bound  him  to 
the  world,  and  he  was  thrifty  for  Emmanuel's  sake.  He  laid 
his  flock  under  contribution  for  a  work  of  charity  before  hav- 
ing recourse  to  his  own  purse;  and  he  was  so  widely  known 
and  respected  for  his  disinterestedness,  his  perspicacity  was 
so  seldom  at  fault,  that  every  one  was  ready  to  answer  his 
appeals.  To  give  some  idea  of  the  contrast  between  uncle 
and  nephew,  the  older  man  might  be  compared  to  a  hollow 
willow  by  the  water  side,  and  the  younger  to  a  briar-rose 
climbing  about  the  old  lichen-covered  tree,  and  covering  it 
with  graceful  garlands,  which  seem  to  support  it. 

Emmanuel  had  been  rigidly  brought  up.  His  uncle 
hardly  allowed  him  to  go  out  of  his  sight ;  no  damsel  wps  ever 
more  jealously  guarded  by  her  mother;  and  Emmanuel  was 
almost  morbidly  conscientious  and  innocently  romantic. 
Souls  that  draw  all  their  force  from  religion  retain  the  bloom 
of  youth  that  is  rubbed  off  so  soon,  and  the  old  priest  had 
checked  the  development  of  pleasure-loving  instincts  in  his 
pupil;  constant  study  and  an  almost  monastic  discipline  had 
been  his  preparation  for  the  battle  of  life.  Such  a  bringing 
up,  which  launched  Emmanuel  into  the  world  with  all  his 
youthful  :^reshness  of  heart,  might  make  his  happiness  if  his 
affections  were  rightly  placed  at  the  outset,  and  had  endowed 
him  with  an  angelic  purity  which  invested  him  with  some^ 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  99 

thing  of  the  charm  of  a  young  girl.  The  gentle  eyes  veiled  a 
brave  and  fearless  soul ;  there  was  a  light  in  them  that  thrilled 
other  souls,  as  the  sound  given  out  by  crystal  vibrates  on  the 
ear.  His  face  was  eloquent,  yet  his  features  were  regular; 
no  one  could  fail  to  be  struck  by  their  flawless  delicacy  of 
outline,  and  by  the  expression  of  repose  which  comes  from 
inward  peace.  His  fair  complexion  seemed  still  more  brill- 
iant by  force  of  contrast  with  his  dark  eyes  and  hair.  Every- 
thing about  him  was  in  harmony;  his  voice  did  not  disap- 
point the  expectations  raised  by  so  beautiful  a  face,  and  his 
almost  feminine  grace  of  movement  and  clear,  soft  gaze  were 
in  keeping  with  his  voice.  He  did  not  seem  to  be  aware  that 
his  half-melancholy  reserve,  his  self-repression,  his  respectful 
and  tender  solicitude  for  his  uncle,  excited  interest  in  him ; 
but  no  one  who  had  seen  the  two  together — the  younger  man 
carefully  adapting  himself  to  the  old  Abbe's  tottering  gait, 
heedfully  looking  ahead  for  the  smoothest  path,  and  avoid- 
ing any  obstacle  over  which  the  elder  might  stumble,  could 
fail  to  recognize  in  Emmanuel  those  generous  qualities  of 
heart  and  brain  that  make  man  so  noble  a  creature. 

Emmanuel's  real  greatness  showed  itself  in  his  love  for  his 
uncle,  who  could  do  no  wrong  in  his  eyes,  to  whom  he  ren- 
dered an  unquestioning  obedience;  some  prophetic  instinct, 
surely,  had  suggested  the  gracious  name  given  to  him  at  the 
font.  If  in  private  or  abroad  the  old  Abbe  exerted  the  stern 
and  arbitrary  authority  of  a  Dominican  father,  Emmanuel 
would  sometimes  raise  his  head  in  such  noble  protest, — with 
a  gesture  which  seemed  to  say  that  if  another  man  had  ven- 
tured to  oppose  him,  he  would  have  shown  his  spirit, — that 
gentle  natures  were  touched  by  it,  as  painters  are  moved  by 
the  sight  of  a  great  work  of  art ;  for  a  beautiful  thought  has 
the  same  power  to  stir  our  souls,  whether  it  is  revealed  in  a 
living  human  form,  or  made  real  for  us  by  the  power  of  art. 

Emmanuel  had  come  with  his  uncle  to  see  the  pictures  in 
the  Maison  Claes;  and  Marguerite,  having  learned  from 
Martha  that  the  Abbe  de  Solis  was  in  the  picture-gallery, 
found  some  light  pretext  for  speaking  to  her  mother,  so  that 


100  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

she  might  see  the  great  man  of  whom  she  had  heard  so  much. 
She  had  gone  thither  unthinkingly,  hiding  her  little  strata- 
gem under  the  careless  manner  by  which  young  girls  so  ef- 
fectually  conceal  their  real  thoughts,  and  by  the  side  of  the 
old  man  dressed  in  black,  with  his  deathly  pallor  and  bent 
and  stooping  frame,  she  had  seen  Emmanuel's  young  and 
beautiful  face.  The  two  young  creatures  had  gazed  at  each 
other  with  the  same  childlike  wonder  in  their  eyes;  Em° 
manuel  and  Marguerite  must  surely  have  met  each  other  be- 
fore in  their  dreams.  Their  eyes  fell  at  once,  and  met  again 
with  the  same  unconscious  avowal. 

Marguerite  took  her  mother's  arm  and  spoke  to  her  in  a 
low  voice  to  keep  up  the  pretence  of  her  errand;  and  from 
under  shelter  of  her  mother's  wing,  as  it  were,  she  turned, 
with  a  swan-like  movement  of  her  throat,  to  glance  once  more 
at  Emmanuel,  who  still  stood  with  his  uncle  on  his  arm. 

The  windows  of  the  gallery  had  been  distributed  so  that 
all  the  light  should  fall  on  the  pictures,  and  the  dimness  of 
the  shadows  favored  the  stolen  glances  which  are  the  delight 
of  timid  souls.  Neither  of  them  had,  of  course,  advanced 
even  in  thought  as  far  as  the  if  with  which  passion  begins; 
but  both  of  them  felt  that  their  hearts  were  stirred  with  a 
vague  trouble  which  youth  keeps  to  itself,  shrinking  perhaps 
from  disclosing  the  secret,  or  wishing  to  linger  over  its  sweet- 
ness. The  first  impression  which  calls  forth  the  long  dormant 
emotion  of  youth  is  nearly  always  followed  by  a  mute  wonder 
such  as  children  feel  when,  for  the  first  time,  they  hear  music. 
Some  children  laugh  at  first,  and  then  grow  thoughtful; 
others  listen  gravely  for  awhile,  and  then  begin  to  laugh;  but 
there  are  souls  who  are  destined  to  live  for  poetry  or  love, 
and  they  listen  long,  with  a  mute  request  to  hear  the  music 
again;  their  eyes  are  lighted  up  with  pleasure,  or  with  a 
dawning  sense  of  wonder  at  the  Infinite.  If  we  are  always 
bound  with  all  the  force  of  early  association  to  the  spot  where 
we  first  understood  the  beauty  and  mystery  of  sound;  if  we 
remember  the  musician  and  even  the  instrument  with  delight, 
how  can  we  help  loving  the  other  soul  that  for  the  first  time 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  lOl 

reveals  the  music  of  life  to  us?  Does  not  the  heart  from 
which  we  draw  our  first  breath  of  love  become,  as  it  were, 
our  native  country?  Emmanuel  and  Marguerite  were  each 
for  each  that  musical  voice  which  awakens  a  sleeping  sense; 
it  was  as  if  a  hand  had  vvithdrawn  the  veil  of  cloud  and 
pointed  out  to  them  the  distant  shore  bathed  in  a  noonday 
blaze  of  light. 

When  Mme.  Claes  made  the  Abbe  pause  for  a  moment  be- 
fore a  picture  of  an  angel  by  Guide,  Marguerite  leant  for- 
ward a  little  to  see  what  Emmanuel  thought  of  it,  and  Em- 
manuel glanced  at  Marguerite,  comparing  the  mute  thought 
shadowed  forth  on  the  painter's  canvas  with  the  thought  re- 
vealed in  the  girl  who  stood  there  in  life  before  him.  She 
felt  and  understood  the  unconscious  and  delicious  flattery. 
The  old  Abbe  gravely  praised  the  beautiful  composition,  and 
Mme.  Claes  replied;  the  young  people  were  silent. 

The  mysterious  dusk  of  the  gallery,  the  quiet  that  brooded 
over  the  house,  the  presence  of  their  elders,  all  the  circum- 
stances of  their  meeting,  served  to  stamp  it  on  the  memory, 
and  to  deepen  the  vague  outlines  of  a  shadowy  dream.  All 
the  confused  thoughts  that  fell  like  rain  in  Marguerite's  soul 
seemed  to  have  spread  themselves  out  like  a  wide,  clear  sea, 
which  was  lighted  up  by  a  ray  of  light  when  Emmanuel  stam- 
mered out  a  few  words  as  he  took  leave  of  Mme.  Claes.  The 
young,  rich  voice  exerted  a  mysterious  spell  over  her  heart; 
the  revelation  was  complete;  it  only  rested  with  Emmanuel 
whether  it  should  bear  fruit  for  him ;  for  the  man  who  first 
awakens  love  in  a  girl's  heart  is  often  an  unconscious  instru- 
ment of  fate,  and  leaves  his  work  unfinished.  Marguerite 
bowed  in  confusion;  her  good-bye  was  a  glance  that 
seemed  to  express  her  regret  at  losing  this  pure  and  charming 
vision.  Like  the  child,  she  wanted  to  hear  her  music  once 
again. 

The  leave-taking  took  place  at  the  foot  of  the  old  stair- 
case, before  the  parlor  door,  and  from  the  parlor  window 
she  watched  the  uncle  and  nephew  cross  the  court,  and  foi 
lowed  them  with  her  eyes  until  the  street  door  closed  on  ■'.hero 


3102  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTBi 

Mme.  Claes  had  been  so  deeply  engrossed  with  the  weighty 
matters  which  her  director  had  come  to  discuss,  that  she  had 
not  thought  of  watching  her  daughter's  face ;  and  on  the  oc- 
casion of  this  second  visit  she  was  again  full  of  such  terrible 
trouble,  that  she  did  not  see  in  the  red  flush  on  Marguerite's 
face  the  indications  of  happiness  and  the  workings  of  a  girlish 
heart. 

By  the  time  the  old  Abbe  was  announced  Marguerite  had 
taken  up  her  work  again,  and  apparently  found  it  so  interest- 
ing that  she  greeted  the  uncle  and  nephew  without  raising 
her  eyes  from  it.  M.  Claes  returned  the  Abbe  de  Solis' 
bow  mechanically,  and  left  the  parlor  as  if  his  presence  were 
demanded  elsewhere.  The  venerable  Dominican  seated  him- 
self beside  Mme.  Claes  with  one  of  those  keen  glances  by 
which  he  seemed  to  read  the  depths  of  souls ;  he  had  scarcely 
seen  M.  Claes  and  his  wife  before  he  guessed  that  some  catas- 
trophe had  taken  place. 

"Go  into  the  garden,  children,"  said  the  mother.  "Mar- 
guerite, take  Emmanuel  to  see  your  father's  tulips." 

Marguerite,  somewhat  embarrassed,  took  Felieie's  hand  in 
hers  and  looked  towards  the  visitor,  who  reddened  and  fol- 
lowed her  out  of  the  parlor,  catching  up  little  Jean  to  keep 
himself  in  countenance.  When  all  four  of  them  were  out  in 
the  garden,  Jean  and  Felicie  scampered  off,  and  Marguerite, 
left  alone  with  young  M.  de  Solis,  went  towards  the  bed  of 
tulips,  which  Lemulquinier  always  planted  out  in  the  same 
way,  year  after  year. 

"Are  you  fond  of  tulips  ?"  Marguerite  asked,  as  Emmanuel 
seemed  unwilling  to  break  the  silence. 

"They  are  magnificent,  mademoiselle;  but  a  love  of  tulips 
is  an  acquired  taste.  The  flowers  dazzle  me;  I  expect  that 
it  is  because  I  am  so  used  to  working  in  my  dark  little  room 
beside  my  uncle ;  I  like  softer  colors  better." 

He  looked  at  Marguerite  as  he  uttered  the  last  words;  but 
in  that  glance,  full  of  confused  longings,  there  was  no  sug- 
gestion that  the  quiet  face  before  him,  with  its  white  velvet 
surface  and  soft  color,  was  like  a  flower. 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  103 

"Do  j-ou  work  very  hard?"  Marguerite  asked  Emmanuel 
as  they  went  towards  a  green-painted  garden  seat.  "You 
will  not  be  so  close  to  the  tulips  here,"  she  added ;  "they  will 
not  be  so  tiring  to  your  eyes.  You  are  right,  the  colors  are 
dazzling;  they  make  one's  eyes  ache." 

"Yes,  I  work  hard,"  the  young  man  answered  after  a  short 
pause,  spent  in  smoothing  the  gravel  on  the  path  with  his 
foot.  "I  work  at  all  sorts  of  things.  .  .  .  My  uncle 
meant  to  make  a  priest  of  me " 

"Oh  !"  Marguerite  exclaimed  naively. 

"I  objected;  I  felt  that  I  had  no  vocation.  But  it  took  a 
great  deal  of  courage  to  cross  my  uncle's  wishes.  He  is  so 
kind  and  so  very  fond  of  me.  Quite  lately  he  paid  for  a  sub- 
stitute to  save  me  from  the  conscription,  and  I  am  only  a  poor 
orphan  nephew " 

"Then  what  do  you  mean  to  do?"  asked  Marguerite,  with 
a  sudden  gesture,  which  seemed  as  if  she  would  fain  take 
the  words  back  again,  for  she  added: 

"Pardon  me,  monsieur;  you  must  think  me  very  inquisi- 
tive." 

"Oh !  mademoiselle,  nobody  but  my  uncle  has  ever  asked 
me  the  question,"  said  Emmanuel,  looking  at  her  admiringly 
and  gratefully.  "I  am  to  be  a  schoolmaster.  There  is  no 
help  for  it;  I  am  not  rich,  you  see.  If  I  can  obtain  a  head- 
mastership  in  some  school  in  Flanders,  I  shall  have  enough  to 
live  upon.  I  shall  marry  some  woman  who  will  be  content 
with  very  little,  and  whom  I  shall  love.  That  is  the  sort  of 
life  that  is  in  prospect  for  me.  Perhaps  that  is  why  I  would 
rather  have  a  moon-daisy  from  the  fields  about  Orchies,  a 
flower  that  no  one  looks  at,  than  these  glowing  tulips,  all 
purple  and  golden  and  emerald  and  sapphire.  The  tulips 
seem  to  me  a  sort  of  symbol  of  a  brilliant  and  luxurious  life, 
just  as  the  moon-daisy  is  like  a  quiet,  old-fashioned  life,  a 
poor  schoolmaster's  life  such  as  mine  will  be." 

"Until  now,  I  have  always  called  the  moon-daisies  mar- 
guerites," said  she. 

Emmanuel  de  Solis  flushed  up  to  the  eyes;  he  racked  his 


104  THE  QUEST  OP  THE  ABSOLUTE 

brains  for  an  answer,  and  tormented  the  gravel  with  his  boots. 
So  many  things  occurred  to  him,  and  were  rejected  as  silly, 
that  the  pause  grew  embarrassing,  and  he  was  forced  to  say 
something.  "I  did  not  venture  to  pronounce  your  name 
.     .     .     "  he  said  at  last,  and  got  no  further. 

"A  schoolmaster !"  she  went  on. 

"Oh!  I  shall  be  a  schoolmaster  for  the  sake  of  a  secure 
position,  mademoiselle,  but  I  want  to  do  other  things  as  well, 
something  great  that  wants  doing.  ...  I  should  like 
some  bit  of  historical  research  best.'^ 

"Oh !" 

That  "Oh,"  which  seemed  to  cover  the  speaker's  private  re- 
flections, added  to  the  young  man's  embarrassment.  He  began 
to  laugh  foolishly,  and  said : 

"You  are  making  me  talk  about  my  own  affairs,  made- 
moiselle, when  I  should  speak  to  you  of  yourself." 

"I  think  my  mother  and  your  uncle  must  have  finished 
their  talk/'  she  said,  looking  at  the  parlor  windows. 

"Your  mother  looked  very  much  altered,  I  thought." 

"She  is  in  trouble,  and  says  nothing  to  us  about  her 
troubles,  and  we  can  only  feel  sorry  for  her,  that  is  all  we  can 
do." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Mme.  Claes  had  just  consulted  the 
Abbe  de  Solis  on  a  difficult  case  of  conscience,  which  he  alone 
could  resolve.  Euin  was  clearly  impending;  and  now  that 
the  pictures  were  about  to  be  sold,  she  thought  of  keeping 
back  a  large  part  of  the  purchase  money,  a  sort  of  reserve  fund 
to  secure  her  children  against  want.  Balthazar  took  so  little 
heed  of  his  affairs  that  it  would  be  easy  to  do  this  without  his 
knowledge.  After  mature  deliberation,  and  after  taking  all 
the  facts  of  the  case  into  consideration,  the  old  Dominican 
had  given  his  sanction  to  this  prudent  course.  The  conduct 
of  the  sale  devolved  on  him,  and  the  whole  matter  was  ar- 
ranged privately  for  fear  of  injuring  M.  Claes'  credit. 

The  old  Abbe  sent  his  nephew  to  Amsterdam  duly  armed 
with  letters  of  introduction;  and  the  young  man,  delighted  to 
have  this  ojjporUmity  of  doing  a  service  to  the  house  of  Claes, 


THE  QUEST  OP  THE  ABSOLUTE  105 

succeeded  in  selling  the  collection  in  the  picture  gallery  to 
the  celebrated  bankers,  Happe  and  Duncker,  ostensibly  for 
tiie  sum  of  eighty  thousand  Dutch  ducats,  but  fifteen  thou- 
sand ducats  were  to  be  paid  secretly  over  and  above  this 
amount  to  Mine.  Clacs.  The  pictures  were  so  well  known  that 
a  single  letter  from  Balthazar  accepting  the  proposals  made 
by  Messieurs  Happe  and  Duncker  completed  the  bargain. 
Emmanuel  de  Solis  was  commissioned  to  receive  the  price  of 
the  pictures,  which  he  remitted  by  other  than  the  ordinary 
channels,  so  that  Douai  might  know  nothing  of  the  transac- 
tion which  had  just  taken  place. 

By  the  end  of  September,  Balthazar  had  paid  his  debts, 
cleared  his  liabilities,  and  was  at  work  once  more;  but  the 
glory  of  the  Maison  Claes  had  departed.  Yet  Balthazar  was 
so  blinded  by  his  passion  that  he  seemed  to  feel  no  regrets; 
he  was  so  confident  that  he  could  retrieve  all  his  losses  in  a 
little  while,  that  he  had  reserved  the  right  to  repurchase  his 
pictures.  And  as  for  Josephine,  in  her  eyes  the  paintings 
were  as  nothing  compared  with  the  happiness  of  her  husband 
and  children;  she  filled  the  blank  spaces  in  the  gallery  with 
pictures  from  the  state  apartments,  and  rearranged  the  furni- 
ture in  the  rooms  where  the  family  sat,  so  that  the  empty 
spaces  on  the  walls  should  not  be  noticed. 

Balthazar  had  about  two  hundred  thousand  francs  with 
which  to  begin  his  experiments  afresh,  his  debts  were  all  paid, 
and  M.  de  Solis  and  his  nephew  became  trustees  for  Mme. 
Claes'  reserve  fund,  which  was  swelled  somewhat  further,  for 
gold  was  at  a  premium  in  those  days  of  European  wars,  and 
the  Abbe  de  Solis  sold  the  ducats,  receiving  for  them  sixty- 
six  thousand  francs  in  crowns,  which  were  stored  away  in  the 
Abbe's  cellar. 

For  eight  months  Mme.  Claes  had  the  sad  satisfaction  of 
seeing  her  husband  entirely  engrossed  in  his  work;  but  she 
never  recovered  from  the  shock  received  that  August  after- 
noon, and  fell  into  a  decline,  from  which  there  was  no  re- 
covery. Science  had  Balthazar  in  its  clutches ;  the  disasters 
that  befell  the  armies  of  France,  the  first  fall  of  Napoleon, 


106  THE  QUEST  OP  THE  ABSOLUTE 

the  return  of  the  exiled  Bourbons,  all  the  events  of  those 
eventful  years  could  not  draw  his  attention  from  his  studies ; 
he  was  no  longer  a  citizen,  as  he  had  ceased  to  be  a  husband 
and  a  father.    He  was  a  chemist. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  year  1814  the  wasting  disease  that 
had  attacked  Mme.  Claes  had  made  such  progress  that  she 
could  not  leave  her  bed.  She  would  not  drag  out  this  slov-' 
death  in  her  own  room  where  she  had  lived  in  her  happier 
days,  it  was  too  full  of  memories,  and  she  could  not  help 
drawing  comparisons  between  the  present  and  the  past,  which 
overwhelmed  her  with  despair,  so  she  lay  dov/nstairs  in  the 
parlor.  The  doctors  had  humored  the  desire  of  her  heart, 
pronouncing  the  room  to  be  more  airy,  cheerful,  and  con- 
venient than  her  own  apartment;  her  bed  had  been  placed 
between  the  chimney-piece  and  the  window,  so  that  she  could 
look  out  into  the  garden.  The  last  days  of  her  life  were  epent 
in  perfecting  her  work  on  earth,  in  implanting  in  her  daugh- 
ters' hearts  the  passionate  devotion  of  her  own.  She  could  no 
longer  show  her  love  for  her  husband,  but  she  was  free  to 
lavish  her  affection  on  her  daughters,  and  the  charm  of  this 
life  of  close  communion  between  mother  and  daughters  was 
all  the  sweeter  because  it  had  begun  so  late. 

The  little  scruples  of  a  too  sensitive  affection  weighed  upon 
her,  as  upon  all  generous  natures,  like  remorse.  Her  chil- 
dren had  not  always  known,  she  thought,  the  love  which  was 
their  due,  and  she  tried  to  atone  for  all  these  imagiaary 
wrongs;  they  felt  her  exquisite  tenderness  in  her  constant 
thought  and  care  for  them.  She  would  fain  have  sheltered 
them  in  her  heart,  and  nestled  them  beneath  her  failing  -uings, 
given  them  in  one  day  the  love  that  they  should  have  had  in 
those  days  when  she  had  neglected  them.  Her  soul  was  full 
of  remorse,  which  gave  a  fervent  warmth  to  her  words  and 
caresses;  her  eyes  dwelt  fondly  on  her  children  before  the 
kind  tones  of  her  voice  thrilled  their  hearts;  her  hand 
seemed  always  to  be  stretched  out  in  benediction. 

The  hospitality  of  the  ]\Iaison  Claes  had  come  to  an  end 
after  the  first  splendid  effort;  Balthazar  never  gave  another 


THE  QUEST  OP"  THE  ABSOLUTB  107 

ball  on  the  anniversary  of  his  marriage,  and  saw  no  visitors ; 
the  house  was  quieter  than  ever,  hut  this  occasioned  no  sur- 
prise in  Douai,  for  Mme.  Claos'  illness  was  a  sufficient  reason 
in  itself  for  the  change.  The  debts  had  been  paid,  and  this 
had  put  a  stop  to  gossip,  and  during  the  foreign  occupation 
of  Flanders  and  the  war  of  the  Hundred  Days  the  chemist 
was  completely  forgotten.  For  two  years  Douai  was  almost 
in  a  state  of  siege,  occupied  in  turn  by  French  troops  or  for- 
eign soldiers ;  it  became  a  city  of  refuge  for  all  nationalities 
and  for  peasants  obliged  to  fly  from  the  open  country ;  people 
lived  in  fear  for  their  property,  and  even  in  terror  of  their 
lives ;  and  in  such  a  time  of  calamity  and  anxiety  no  one  had 
a  thought  to  spare  for  others.  The  Abbe  de  Soils  and  his 
nephew,  and  the  two  Pierquins,  were  Mme.  Claes'  only  vis- 
itors. 

The  winter  of  1814-1815  was  a  long  and  most  painful 
agony  for  her.  Her  husband  seldom  came  to  see  her.  He  sat 
with  her  after  dinner,  it  ife  true,  for  a  few  hours;  but  she 
had  not  sufficient  strength  now  to  keep  up  a  long  conversa- 
tion ;  and  when  he  had  repeated  two  or  three  remarks,  which 
he  never  varied,  he  sat  beside  her  without  speaking,  and  the 
dismal  silence  in  the  parlor  was  unbroken.  The  only  breaks 
in  this  dreary  monotony  were  the  evenings  when  the  Abbe 
de  Soils  and  his  nephew  came  to  the  Maison  Claes.  The  old 
Abbe  played  backgammon  with  Balthazar;  while  Marguerite, 
seated  at  her  mother's  bedside,  talked  with  Emmanuel.  Mme. 
Claes  smiled  on  their  innocent  happiness,  and  would  not  let 
them  see  how  sweet  and  how  painful  it  was  to  her  aching 
heart  to  feel  the  fresh  breath  of  the  dawn  of  love  in  the  words 
that  they  let  fall.  The  tones  of  the  two  young  voices,  so  full 
of  charm  for  the  lovers,  almost  broke  her  heart ;  she  surprised 
a  glance  of  comprehension  exchanged  between  them,  and 
memories  of  her  youth  and  the  happy  past  brought  her 
thoughts  to  the  present,  and  she  felt  all  its  bitterness  to  the 
full  as  she  lay  there  like  one  already  dead.  Emmanuel  and 
Marguerite  instinctively  divined  her  sufferings,  and  delicacy 
of  feeling  led  them  to  check  the  sweet  playfulness  of  love  lest 
it  should  add  to  her  pain. 


108  THE  QUEST  OP  THE  ABSOLUTK 

ISTo  one  as  yet  seems  to  have  discovered  that  our  sentiments 
have  a  life  of  their  own,  and  take  their  character  from  the 
circumstances  which  gave  them  birth;  the  places  in  which 
they  gathered  strength,  the  thoughts  that  filled  our  minds  at 
the  time,  influence  their  development  and  leave  their  impress 
upon  them.  There  is  a  love  like  that  of  Mme.  Claes,  passion- 
ate in  its  beginnings  and  passionate  to  the  end;  there  is  a 
love,  on  which  everything  smiles  from  the  outset,  that  ncvrr 
loses  the  glad  freshness  of  its  morning,  and  reaps  its  harveb: 
of  happiness  amid  laughter  and  rejoicing;  but  there  is  also 
a  love  early  enveloped  in  sadness  or  surrounded  by  misfor- 
tune, its  pleasures  are  painful  and  dearly  bought,  snatched 
amid  fears,  embittered  by  remorse,  or  clogged  with  despair. 
This  love  in  the  depths  ol  their  hearts,  which  neither  Mar- 
guerite nor  Emmanuel  recognized  as  yet,  this  feeling  that  had 
been  awakened  in  a  moment  of  stillness  and  silence  beneath 
the  dusky  roof  of  the  picture  gallery,  in  the  presence  of  the 
austere  old  Abbe,  was  tinged  with  something  of  the  sober 
twilight  hues  of  its  earliest  surroundings;  it  was  grave  and 
reticent,  but  full  of  subtle  shades  of  sweetness,  and  furtive 
joys  over  which  they  lingered  in  secret  as  over  stolen  grapes 
snatched  in  some  vineyard  nook. 

Beside  this  bed  of  pain  they  never  dared  to  give  expression 
to  their  thoughts,  and  all  unconsciously  their  emotion  gath- 
ered strength  because  it  was  repressed  in  the  depths  of  their 
hearts,  and  only  revealed  itself  in  their  care  for  the  invalid. 
It  seemed  to  Emmanuel  that  this  drew  them  more  closely  to- 
gether, and  that  he  was  already  a  son  to  Marguerite's  mother; 
though  instead  of  the  sweet  language  of  lovers  he  received 
only  sad  grateful  thanks  from  Marguerite.  Their  sighs  of 
happiness  as  they  exchanged  glances  were  scarcely  distin- 
guishable from  the  sighs  drawn  from  them  by  the  sight  of  the 
mother's  suffering;  their  brief  moments  of  felicity,  implied 
confessions,  and  unspoken  promises,  moments  when  thel; 
hearts  went  out  towards  each  other,  stood  out,  like  the  Al- 
legories painted  by  Raphael,  against  a  dark  background.  Each 
felt  a  trust  and  confidence  in  the  other,  though  no  words  had 


THE  QUEST  OP  THE  ABSOLUTE  lOS 

been  said;  they  felt  that  the  sun  still  shone,  though  heavy 
dark  clouds  had  gathered  overhead,  and  they  knew  not  what 
wind  could  scatter  them;  the  future  seemed  doubtful,  per- 
haps trouble  would  dog  them  all  their  lives,  so  they  sat 
limidly  among  the  gloomy  shadows  without  daring  to  ask, 
"Shall  we  finish  the  day  together  ?" 

Yet,  beneath  the  tenderness  that  Mme.  Claes  showed  for  her 
children,  there  lay  concealed  other  thoughts  to  which  she 
nobly  refused  to  listen.  Her  children  never  caused  her  ap- 
prehensions and  terror ;  they  were  her  comfort,  but  they  were 
not  her  life ;  she  lived  for  them,  but  she  was  dying  for  Bal- 
thazar. Painful  though  it  might  be  for  her  to  have  her  hus- 
band by  her  side,  absent  in  thought  for  whole  hours,  to  re- 
ceive an  unseeing  glance  from  time  to  time,  yet  she  was  un- 
conscious of  her  sufferings  so  long  as  he  was  with  her.  Bal- 
thazar's indifference  to  his  dying  wife  would  have  seemed  un- 
pardonable to  any  stranger  who  chanced  to  witness  it,  but 
Mme.  Claes  and  her  daughters  were  so  used  to  it,  and  under- 
stood him  so  well,  that  they  forgave  him. 

If  Mme.  Claes  had  some  dangerous  seizure  in  the  course 
of  the  day,  if  she  felt  worse  or  seemed  to  be  at  the  point  of 
death,  Claes  was  the  one  person  in  the  house,  or  indeed  in  the 
whole  town,  who  did  not  know  that  the  wife  who  had  once 
been  so  passionately  loved  was  in  danger.  Lemulquinier 
knew  it,  but  Felicie  and  Marguerite  had  been  forbidden  by 
their  mother  to  speak  to  Claes  of  her  illness. 

Mme.  Claes  was  happy  when  she  heard  his  footsteps  in  the 
picture  gallery  as  he  crossed  it  on  his  way  to  dinner ;  she  was 
about  to  see  him,  she  summoned  all  her  strength  to  meet 
the  coming  joy.  The  color  rushed  to  the  pale  face  of  the 
dying  woman  as  he  entered,  she  almost  looked  as  she  had 
been  wont  to  do  in  health;  the  man  of  science  came  to  her 
bedside  and  took  her  hand  in  his,  and  never  saw  her  as  she 
really  was:  for  him  alone  she  was  always  well.  In  reply  to 
his,  "How  are  you  to-day,  dear  wife?"  she  would  answer, 
'^Better,  dear!"  and  he  in  his  preoccupied  mood  readily  be- 
lieved her  when  she  spoke  of  getting  up  again,  of  being  quite 


110  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

\rell  to-morrow.  He  was  so  abstracted  that  he  never  saw 
that  there  was  anything  seriously  wrong  with  his  wife,  and 
thought  the  disease  of  which  she  was  dying  was  some  pass- 
ing ailment.  Every  one  else  knew  that  she  was  dying,  but 
for  him  she  was  full  of  life. 

This  year  saw  the  husband  and  wife  completely  severed. 
Claes  slept  in  a  distant  room,  lived  in  his  laboratory  or  study 
from  morning  till  night,  and  never  saw  Pepita  save  in  the 
presence  of  his  daughters  and  the  few  friends  of  the  house 
v/ho  came  to  visit  her.  He  had  learned  to  do  without  her. 
The  two  who  had  once  shared  every  thought  drifted  further 
and  further  apart;  the  moments  of  close  communion,  of  rap- 
ture, of  expansion,  which  are  the  life  of  the  heart,  came  seldom 
and  more  seldom,  and  the  rare  moments  of  bliss  ceased  alto- 
gether. If  physical  suffering  had  not  come  to  her  aid  and-filled 
up  the  empty  days,  the  anguish  of  her  isolation  might  have 
killed  Josephine,  but  she  was  dying.  She  was  sometimes  in- such 
terrible  pain  that  she  was  glad  that  he,  whom  she  never 
ceased  to  love,  was  not  there  to  be  a  witness  of  her  sufferings. 
And  for  the  part  of  the  evening  that  Balthazar  spent  with 
her,  she  lay  watching  him,  feeling  that  he  was  happy  after  his 
fashion,  and  this  happiness  which  she  had  procured  for  him 
she  made  her  own.  This  meagre  satisfaction  must  suffice 
for  her  now;  she  no  longer  asked  if  she  was  beloved;  she 
strove  to  believe  it,  and  went  softly,  fearing  that  this  thin 
sheet  of  ice  should  give  way  and  her  heart  and  all  her  hopes 
should  be  drowned  in  the  dark  depths  that  yawned  beneath. 

Nothing  ever  happened  to  break  the  monotony  of  the  days ; 
the  disease  that  wasted  Mme.  Claes'  strength  perhaps  con- 
tributed to  the  apparent  peace,  for  her  affection  could  only 
play  a  passive  part,  and  weakness  made  it  easier  to  wait  and 
endure  patiently.  The  year  1816  opened  under  these  gloomy 
conditions. 

In  the  last  days  of  February  came  the  sudden  shock  which 
brought  the  angelic  woman,  who,  so  the  Abbe  de  Solis  said, 
was  almost  sinless,  to  the  grave.  The  blow  came  from  Pier- 
quin. 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  111 

He  watched  for  an  opportunity  when  the  two  girls  were 
sufficiently  far  away  to  whisper  in  her  ear,  "Madame,  M.  Claes 
has  commissioned  me  to  borrow  three  hundred  thousand 
francs  on  his  estates ;  you  must  take  measures  to  secure  your 
children's  property." 

Mme.  Claes  clasped  her  hands  and  raised  her  eyes.  She 
thanked  the  notary  by  a  kindly  inclination  of  the  head  and 
by  a  sad  smile,  which  touched  Pierquin.  The  words  were  like 
the  stab  of  a  knife;  they  killed  Pepita.  The  rest  of  the  day 
she  spent  with  the  painful  thoughts  that  swelled  her  heart; 
she  felt  like  some  traveler  who  has  walked  steadily  and 
bravely  along  the  dizzy  brink  of  a  precipice,  till  some  pebble 
slips  from  under  his  feet,  and,  losing  his  balance,  he  at  last 
falls  headlong  into  the  depths.  As  soon  as  the  notary  left 
the  house,  _Mme.  Claes  asked  Marguerite  for  writing  materials, 
and  summoned  all  her  strength  to  write  her  final  directions 
and  requests.  Many  times  she  stopped  and  looked  up  at  Mar- 
guerite; the  time  for  making  her  confidence  had  come. 

Marguerite  had  taken  her  mother's  place  as  head  of  the 
household  during  this  illness,  and  had  more  than  realized  the 
dying  woman's  hopes  of  her.  Mme.  Claes  feared  no  longer 
for  the  family  she  was  leaving  under  the  care  of  this  strong 
and  loving  guardian  angel;  she  should  still  live  on  in  Mar- 
guerite. Both  the  women  doubtless  felt  that  there  were  sad 
secrets  to  be  told ;  whenever  the  mother  glanced  at  Marguerite, 
the  girl  looked  up  at  once,  and  the  eyes  of  both  were  full  of 
tears.  Several  times,  as  Mme.  Claes  laid  down  the  pen.  Mar- 
guerite had  begun,  "Mother?  .  .  ."  and  had  broken  oft' 
because  her  voice  failed  her;  and  her  mother,  absorbed 
in  her  last  thoughts,  did  not  hear  her  entreaty.  At  last  the 
letter  was  finished ;  and  Marguerite,  who  had  held  the  taper 
while  it  was  sealed,  turned  away  to  avoid  seeing  the  direc- 
tion. 

"'You  can  read  it,  my  child !"  the  dying  woman  said,  with 
a  heart-rending  tone  in  her  voice. 

Marguerite  watched  her  mother's  fingers  as  she  wrote.  For 
my  daughter  Marguerit6» 


112  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

"I  will  rest  now/'  she  added,  putting  the  letter  under  hei 
pillow,  "and  then  we  will  talk." 

She  fell  back  on  her  pillows  as  if  exhausted  by  the  effort 
she  had  just  made,  and  slept  for  several  hours.  When  she 
awoke,  all  her  children  were  kneeling  around  her  in  fervent 
prayer.  It  was  a  Thursday ;  Gabriel  and  Jean  had  just  come 
home  from  school;  Emmanuel  de  Solis — who  for  the  past  six 
months  had  been  one  of  the  masters  there,  teaching  history 
and  philosophy — had  come  with  them. 

"Dear  children,  we  must  bid  each  other  farewell,"  she 
cried,  "You  are  all  with  me  to  the  last,  and  he  .  .  ." 
She  did  not  finish  the  sentence. 

"M.  Emmanuel,"  said  Marguerite,  who  saw  the  deathly 
pallor  of  her  mother's  face,  "will  you  tell  our  father  that 
mamma  is  much  worse  ?" 

Young  de  Solis  went  up  to  the  laboratory,  and  through 
Lemulquinier's  good  offices  saw  Balthazar  for  a  moment ;  the 
chemist  heard  the  young  man's  urgent  entreaties,  and  an- 
swered, "I  am  coming." 

"My  friend,"  Mme.  Claes  said  when  Emmanuel  returned 
from  this  errand,  "will  you  take  my  two  boys  away,  and  ask 
your  uncle  to  come  to  me?  I  must  take  the  last  sacraments, 
I  think,  and  I  should  like  to  receive  them  from  his  hand." 

When  she  was  left  once  more  with  the  two  girls  she  made 
a  sign  which  Marguerite  understood.  Felicie  was  sent  away, 
and  the  mother  and  daughter  were  alone. 

"I  had  something  to  say  to  you,  mamma  dear,"  said  Mar- 
guerite, who  did  not  realize  how  ill  her  mother  was,  and 
knew  nothing  of  the  shock  which  Pierquin's  ill-advised 
revelation  had  given  her.  "I  have  been  without  money  for 
housekeeping  expenses  these  ten  days  past,  and  the  servants' 
wages  have  not  been  paid  for  six  months.  I  have  twice  made 
up  my  mind  to  ask  papa  for  the  money,  and  both  times  my 
courage  failed.  You  do  not  know  what  has  happened.  All 
the  wine  in  the  cellar  and  the  pictures  in  the  gallery  have 
been  sold " 

*'Ho  has  not  said  a  word  about  it  to  me !"  cried  Mme. 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  113 

Olaes.    *'God  is  taking  me  to  Himself  in  time,  but,  oh!  my 
poor  children,  what  will  become  of  you  ?" 

She  spent  a  few  moments  in  fervent  prayer;  remorse 
seemed  to  glow  in  her  eyes. 

"Marguerite,"  she  went  on,  drawing  the  sealed  envelope 
from  its  hiding-place,  "if,  when  I  am  dead,  you  should  ever 
be  brought  to  misery,  that  is  to  say,  if  you  should  want  bread, 
ihen  open  this  letter  and  read  it.  Marguerite  dear,  love  your 
father,  but  take  care  of  your  sister  and  brothers.  In  a  few 
days,  perhaps  in  a  few  hours,  you  will  be  the  head  of  the 
house !  Be  very  careful ;  and.  Marguerite,  it  may  very  likely 
happen  that  you  will  have  to  appose  your  father's  wishes; 
for  he  has  spent  large  sums  already  on  this  effort  to  learn  a 
secret  which,  if  discovered,  will  make  him  famous  and  bring 
him  enormous  wealth,  and  he  is  sure  to  want  money  again: 
perhaps  he  will  ask  you  for  money;  and  then,  while  you  must 
remember  that  you  are  the  sole  guardian  of  those  whose  in- 
terests are  committed  to  your  care,  you  must  never  forget 
what  is  due  to  your  father,  to  a  great  man.  who  is  spending 
himself,  his  wealtli,  and  his  whole  life  in  a  task  which  will 
make  his  family  illustrious,  and  you  must  give  him  all  a 
daughter's  tenderness.  He  would  never  wrong  his  children  in- 
tentionally ;  he  has  such  a  noble  heart ;  he  is  so  good,  so  full 
of  love  for  you;  you,  who  are  left,  will  see  him  a  kind  and 
affectionate  father  once  more.  These  things  must  be  said. 
Marguerite,  now  that  I  am  on  the  brink  of  the  grave.  Promise 
me,  my  child,  that  you  will  fill  my  place,  if  you  would  make 
it  easier  for  me  to  die;  promise  that  you  will  never  add  to 
your  father's  troubles  by  a  single  reproach,  that  you  will 
never  judge  him  harshly!  In  short,  you  must  be  a  gentle 
and  indulgent  mediator  until  your  task  is  finished,  until 
your  father  once  more  takes  his  place  as  head  of  the  family." 

"I  understand,  dearest  mother,"  said  Marguerite,  as  she 
kissed  the  dying  woman's  red  eyelids.  "I  will  do  as  you 
wish." 

^'And  you  must  not  marry,  darling,  until  Gabriel  is  old 
enough  to  take  your  place,"  Mme.  Claes  went  on.    "If  you 


1 


114  THE  QUEST  OP  THE  ABSOLUTE 

were  married,  your  husband  very  likely  would  not  share  yout 
feelings;  he  might  make  trouble  in  the  family,  and  harasj-- 
your  father:" 

Marguerite  looked  into  her  mother's  eyes  and  said,  "Have 
you  no  other  counsels  to  give  me  with  regard  to  my  mar- 


riage 


?'» 


'Do  you  hesitate,  dear  child?"  asked  the  dying  mother  ii 
alarm. 

"No,"  she  answered ;  "I  promise  to  obey  you." 

"Poor  child!"  said  her  mother,  as  she  shed  hot  tears,  "T. 
could  not  bring  myself  to  sacrifice  myself  for  you,  and  now 
I  am  asking  you  to  sacrifice  yourself  for  them  all.  Happi- 
ness makes  us  selfish.  Yes,  Marguerite,  I  was  weak,  because 
I  was  happy.  You  must  be  strong;  you  must  think  for  the 
rest,  and  so  act  that  your  brothers  and  your  sister  shall  never 
reproach  me.  Love  your  father,  and  do  not  thwart  him 
.     .     .     more  than  you  can  help." 

Her  head  fell  back  on  the  pillow,  her  strength  had  failed 
her,  she  could  not  say  another  word.  The  struggle  between 
the  wife  and  the  mother  had  exhausted  her.  A  few  moments 
later  the  Abbe  de  Solis  and  his  assistants  entered  the  parlor, 
and  the  servants  crowded  in.  The  Abbe's  presence  recalled 
Mme.  Claes  to  herself,  and  as  the  rite  began  she  looked  about 
her,  seeking  Balthazar  among  the  faces  about  her  bed. 

"AVhere  is  the  master?"  she  asked  in  a  piteous  tone,  which 
sent  a  thrill  of  horror  through  those  assembled;  her  whole 
life  and  death  seemed  to  be  summed  up  in  that  cry.  Martha 
hurried  from  the  room,  and,  old  as  she  was,  ran  up  to  the 
laboratory,  and  knocked  loudly  at  the  door. 

"Monsieur,"  she  cried,  in  angry  indignation,  "madame  is 
iying !  They  are  going  to  administer  the  sacrament,  and  are 
waiting  for  you." 

"I  am  coming  down  directly,"  said  Balthazar. 

Lemulquinier  appeared  a  moment  later,  and  said  that  his 
master  was  about  to  follow.  Mme.  Claes  never  took  her  eyes 
from  the  door  all  through  the  ceremony,  but  it  was  over  be- 
fore Balthazar  came.    The  Abbe  de  Solis  and  the  children 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTB  115 

vrere  standing  beside  the  bed,  a  flush  came  over  the  dying 
woman's  face  at  the  sight  of  her  husband,  the  tears  rolled 
down  her  cheeks. 

"Were  you  on  the  point  of  decomposing  nitrogen?"  she 
asked  with  angelic  sweetness,  that  sent  a  thrill  through  those 
about  her. 

"I  have  done  it !"  he  cried  triumphantly.  "Nitrogen  is 
partly  composed  of  oxygen,  partly  of  some  imponderable  sub- 
stance which  to  all  appearance  is  the  essential  principle 
of " 

He  suddenly  stopped,  interrupted  by  a  murmur  of  horror, 
which  brought  him  to  his  senses. 

"What  was  it  that  they  told  me?"  he  began.  "Are  you 
really  worse  ?     .     .     .     What  has  happened  ?" 

"This,"  said  the  Abbe  de  Solis  indignantly  in  Balthazar's 
ear,  "this — your  wife  is  dying,  and  you  have  killed  her !"  and 
without  waiting  for  an  answer,  the  Abbe  took  Emmanuel's 
arm  and  left  the  room,  the  children  went  with  him  across  the 
courtyard.  Balthazar  stood  for  awhile  as  if  thunderstruck; 
he  gazed  at  his  wife  with  tears  in  his  eyes.' 

"You  are  dying,  and  I  have  killed  you?"  he  cried.  "What 
does  he  mean?" 

"Dear,"  she  answered,  "your  love  was  my  life,  an^  when 
all  unconsciously  you  ceased  to  love  me,  my  life  ceased  too.'' 

The  children  had  come  back  again ;  Claes  sent  them  away, 
and  sat  down  by  his  wife's  pillow.  "Have  I  ever  ceased  to 
love  you  for  one  single  moment  ?"  he  asked,  taking  her  hand, 
and  pressing  it  to  his  lips. 

"I  have  no  reproaches  to  make,  dearest.  You  have  made 
me  very  happy,  too  happy  indeed;  for  the  contrast  between 
the  early  days  of  our  marriage,  which  were  so  full  of  joy,  and 
these  last  years,  when  you  have  no  longer  been  yourself,  and 
the  days  have  been  so  empty,  has  been  more  than  I  could 
bear.  Our  inner  life,  like  our  physical  life,  has  its  vital 
springs.  For  the  past  six  years  you  have  been  dead  to  love, 
to  your  family,  to  all  that  makes  the  happiness  of  life.  I  am 
not  thinking  of  the  joy  and  bliss  which  are  the  appanage  of 


116  THE  QDEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

youth,  and  must  cease  with  youth,  but  which  leaves  behind 
them  the  fruits  on  which  the  soul  lives  afterwards,  an  un- 
bounded confidence  and  sweet  established  uses;  you  have  de-- 
prived  me  of  all  these  solaces  of  the  after  time.  Ah !  well,  it 
is  time  for  me  to  go ;  this  is  not  a  life  together  m  any  sense : 
you  have  hidden  your  thoughts  and  your  actions  from  me. 
How  can  you  have  come  to  feel  afraid  of  me?  Have  I  ever 
reproached  you  by  gesture,  or  word,  or  deed?  "Well,  and  you 
have  sold  your  remaining  pictures,  you  have  even  sold  the 
wine  in  the  cellar,  and  you  have  begun  to  borrow  money  again 
on  your  property,  without  a  word  of  all  this  to  me !  Oh,  I 
am  about  to  take  leave  of  life,  and  I  am  sick  of  life !  If  you 
make  mistakes,  if  in  striving  after  the  impossible  you  lose 
sight  of  everything  else,  have  I  not  shown  that  there  was 
enough  love  in  m}^  heart  to  find  it  sweet  to- share  your  errors,  to 
be  always  by  your  side,  even,  if  need  be,  in  the  paths  of  crime  ? 
You  have  loved  me  only  too  well,  therein  lies  my  glory  and 
my  misery.  This  illness  began  long  ago,  Balthazar;  it  dates 
from  the  day  when  you  first  made  it  clear  to  me,  here  in  this 
room  where  I  am  about  to  die,  that  the  claims  of  science  were 
stronger  than  family  ties.  And  now  your  wife  is  dead,  and 
you  have  run  through  your  fortune.  Your  fortune  and  your 
wife  were  your  own  to  dispose  of ;  but  when  I  shall  be  no  more, 
all  my  property  will  pass  to  your  children,  and  you  will  not 
be  able  to  touch  it.  What  will  become  of  you?  I  must  tell 
you  the  truth,  and  dying  eyes  see  far.  Now  that  I  am  gone, 
what  will  counterbalance  this  accursed  passion,  which  is  as 
strong  in  you  as  life  itself?  If  I  have  been  sacrificed  to  it, 
your  children  will  count  for  ver}^  little ;  for,  in  justice  to  you, 
I  must  allow  that  I  came  first  with  you.  Two  millions  and 
six  years  of  toil  have  been  thrown  into  that  bottomless  pit, 
and  you  have  discovered  nothing " 

Claes'  M^hite  head  sank;  he  hid  his  face  with  his  hand. 

"You  will  discover  nothing  but  shame  for  yourself  and 
misery  for  your  children,"  continued  the  dying  woman.  "Al- 
ready they  call  you  'Clncs  the  Alchemist;'  a  little  later,  and 
it  will  be  'Claes  the  Madman  I'    As  for  me,  I  believe  in  you; 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  111 

I  know  how  great  and  learned  you  are ;  I  know  that  you  have 
genius,  but  ordinary  minds  draw  no  distinction  between 
genius  and  madness.  Glory  is  the  sun  of  the  dead ;  yours  will 
be  the  fate  of  all  greatness  here  on  earth;  you  will  know  no 
happiness  as  long  as  you  live.  I  am  going  now;  I  have  had 
no  joy  of  your  fame,  which  would  have  consoled  me  for  my 
lost  happiness ;  and  so,  to  sweeten  the  bitterness  of  death,  let 
me  feel  certain  that  my  children's  bread  is  secure,  my  dear 
Balthazar.     Nothing  can  give  me  peace  of  mind,  not  even 

your " 

'I  swear,"  said  Claes,  "to- 


"No,  dear,  do  not  swear,  lest  you  should  fail  to  keep  your 
word,"  she  said,  interrupting  him.  "It  was  your  duty  to  pro- 
tect us,  and  for  nearly  seven  years  you  have  failed  to  do  so. 
Science  is  your  life.  Great  men  should  have  neither  wife  nor 
children;  they  should  tread  the  paths  of  misery  alone;  their 
virtues  are  not  those  of  commonplace  people,  such  men  as 
you  belong  to  the  whole  world,  not  to  one  woman  and  a  single 
family.  You  are  like  those  great  trees  which  exhaust  the 
soil  round  about  them,  and  I  am  the  poor  field-plant  beside 
it  that  can  never  rear  its  head  so  high ;  I  must  die  before  half 
your  life  is  spent.  I  have  waited  till  my  last  hour  to  tell 
you  these  horrible  truths,  which  have  been  revealed  to  me  in 
anguish  and  despair.  Have  pity  on  our  children !  Again  and 
again,  until  my  last  sigh,  I  entreat  you  to  have  pity  on  our 
children,  that  so  my  words  may  find  an  echo  in  your  heart. 
This  wife  of  yours  is  dead,  you  see.  Slowly  and  gradually 
she  has  starved  for  lack  of  affection  and  happiness.  Alas ! 
but  for  the  cruel  kindness  which  you  have  involuntarily 
shown  me,  could  I  have  lived  so  long?  But  the  poor  chil- 
dren !  They  have  never  failed  me ;  they  have  grown  with  the 
growth  of  my  sorrows,  and  the  mother  has  outlived  the  wife. 
Have  pity,  have  pity  on  our  children !" 

"Leniulquinier !"  Balthazar  thundered. 

The  old  servant  hurried  into  the  room. 

"Go  up  and  break  everything  to  pieces,  all  the  machinery, 
and  everything  else.     Be  careful  how  you  do  it,  but  do  it 


118  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

thoroughly!  ...  I  will  have  nothing  more  to  do  with 
science  !''  he  said,  turning  to  his  wife. 

"It  is  too  late,"  she  said  with  a  glance  at  Lemulquinier,-- 
"Marguerite !"  she  moaned,  feeling  that  death  was  near.  Mar- 
guerite  stood  in  the  doorway,  and  gave  a  sharp  cry  as  she 
met  her  mother's  eyes  and  saw  the  ghastly  pallor  of  her  face. 

"Marguerite !"  the  dying  woman  cried  again.  This  last 
word  she  ever  spoke,  uttered  with  a  wild  vehemence,  seemed 
like  a  solemn  summons  to  her  daughter  to  take  her  place. 

The  rest  of  the  family  hurried  in  alarm  to  the  bedside,  in 
time  to  see  her  die.  Mme.  Claes'  life  had  ebbed  away  in  the 
final  effort  she  had  made.  Balthazar  and  Marguerite  sat  mo- 
tionless, she  at  the  head,  and  he  at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  The 
two  who  had  best  known  her  goodness  and  inexhaustible  kind- 
ness could  not  believe  that  she  was  really  dead.  The  glance 
exchanged  between  father  and  daughter  was  freighted  with 
many  thoughts;  she  judged  her  father,  and  her  father 
trembled  already  lest  his  daughter  should  be  the  instrument 
of  vengeance.  Memories  crowded  upon  him,  memories  of  the 
love  that  had  filled  his  life,  and  of  her  whose  last  words 
seemed  to  carry  an  almost  sacred  authority  which  had  so 
stamped  them  on  his  soul  tliat  it  seemed  as  if  he  must  for 
ever  hear  them  ringing  in  his  ears ;  but  Balthazar  mistrusted 
himself,  he  doubted  whether  he  could  resist  the  spirit  which 
possessed  him,  he  felt  that  the  impulses  of  remorse  had  grown 
weaker  already  at  the  first  menaces  of  a  return  of  his  pas- 
sion, and  he  was  afraid  of  himself. 

When  Mme.  Claes  was  gone,  every  one  felt  that  she  had 
been  the  life  and  soul  of  the  Maison  Claes,  and  that  now  that 
soul  was  no  more.  And  in  the  house  itself,  where  her  loss 
was  felt  to  the  full,  the  parlor  where  the  noble  Josephine  still 
seemed  to  live  was  kept  shut;  nobody  had  the  heart  to  enter 
it. 

Society  does  not  feel  called  upon  to  practise  the  virtues 
which  it  preaches  to  individuals;  it  offends  hourly  (though 
only  in  words)  against  its  own  canons;  a  jest  prepares  the 
way  for  base  actions,  a  jest  brings  down  anything  beautiful 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  119 

or  lofty  to  the  ordinary  level.  If  a  son  sheds  too  many  tears 
for  his  father's  loss,  he  is  ridiculous;  if  too  few,  he  is  held 
up  to  execration ;  and  then  society,  having  said  its  say,  diverts 
itself  by  weighing  the  dead,  scarcely  yet  cold,  in  its  balance. 

On  the  evening  of  the  day  when  Mme.  Claes  died  her 
friends  discussed  her  over  their  whist,  dropped  flowers  on  her 
tomb  in  a  pause  while  the  cards  were  dealing,  and  paid  their 
tribute  to  her  noble  character  while  sorting  hearts  and  spades. 

Then,  after  the  usual  lugubrious  commonplaces,  which  are 
a  kind  of  preliminary  vocal  exercise  in  social  lamentation, 
and  which  are  uttered  with  the  same  intonations  and  exactly 
the  same  amount  of  feeling  all  over  France  at  every  hour  of 
the  day,  the  whole  chorus  proceeded  to  calculate  the  amount 
of  Mme.  Claes'  property. 

Pierquin  opened  the  discussion  by  pointing  out  that  the 
lamented  lady's  husband  had  made  her  life  so  wretched  that 
death  was  a  happy  release  for  her,  and  that  it  was  a  still 
greater  blessing  for  her  children.  She  would  never  have  had 
sufficient  firmness  to  oppose  the  wishes  of  the  husband  whom 
she  adored,  but  now  her  fortune  had  passed  out  of  Claes' 
hands.  One  and  all  began  forthwith  to  reckon  the  probable 
amount  of  poor  Mme.  Claes'  fortune,  to  calculate  her  savings 
(had  she,  or  had  she  not,  managed  to  put  anything  by?),  and 
made  out  inventories  of  her  jewels,  and  ransacked  her  draw- 
ers and  her  wardrobe,  while  her  bereaved  family  were  yet 
kneeling  in  prayer  and  tears  by  her  bed  of  death. 

With  the  experienced  eye  of  a  sworn  valuer,  Pierquin  took 
in  the  situation  at  a  glance.  He  was  of  the  opinion  that  all 
Mme.  Claes'  property  might  be  "got  together  again"  (to  use 
his  own  expression),  and  should  amount  to  something  like 
fifteen  hundred  thousand  francs.  A  large  part  of  this  was 
represented  by  the  forests  of  Waignies ;  that  property  had 
risen  enormously  in  value  in  the  last  twelve  years,  and  he 
made  a  rapid  computation  of  the  probable  value  of  the  trees 
of  all  ages  from  the  oldest  to  the  youngest.  If  that  was  not 
sufficient,  Balthazar  bad  probably  enough  to  "cover"  the  chil- 
dren's claims.  Mile.  Claes  was.  therefore,  still,  in  his  peculiar 
phraseology,  a  girl  "worth  four  hundred  thousand  francs/* 


120  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

"But  if  she  does  not  marry  pretty  soon,"  he  added,  "M. 
Claes  will  ruin  his  children;  he  is  just  the  man  to  do  it.  If 
she  were  married  she  would  be  emancipated  from  her  father's 
control,  and  could  compel  him  to  sell  the  forest  of  Waignies, 
to  divide  it  among  them,  and  to  invest  the  shares  of  the 
minors  in  such  a  way  that  their  father  could  not  touch  them." 

Every  one  began  to  suggest  the  names  of  various  young  men 
of  the  province  who  might  aspire  to  the  hand  of  Mile.  Claes, 
but  no  one  flattered  the  notary  so  far  as  to  include  him  in  the 
list.  Pierquin  raised  so  many  objections  to  all  the  proposed 
suitors,  and  considered  none  of  them  worthy  of  Marguerite, 
that  the  company  exchanged  significant  smiles,  and  amused 
themselves  by  teasing  the  notary,  prolonging  the  process  in 
provincial  fashion.  To  Pierquin  it  seemed  that  Mme.  Claes' 
death  was  likely  to  assist  his  cause,  and  he  already  began  to 
cut  up  the  dead  for  his  own  benefit. 

"That  good  lady  yonder,"  said  he  to  himself,  as  he  went 
home  that  night,  "was  as  proud  as  a  peacock ;  she  would  never 
have  allowed  me  to  marry  a  daughter  of  hers.  Eh !  eh !  but 
if  I  play  my  cards  well  now,  why  should  I  not  marry  the  girl  ? 
Old  Claes  has  carbon  on  the  brain,  and  does  not  care  what 
becomes  of  his  children ;  if  I  ask  him  for  his  daughter,  as  soon 
as  I  have  convinced  Marguerite  that  she  must  marry  for  her 
brothers'  and  sister's  sake,  he  will  be  glad  enough  to  be  rid 
of  a  girl  who  may  give  him  a  good  deal  of  trouble." 

He  fell  asleep  in  the  midst  of  his  meditations  on  the  ad- 
vantages of  this  match,  so  attractive  to  him  on  so  many 
grounds,  a  marriage  which  bade  fair  to  secure  his  complete 
happiness.  It  would  have  been  hard  to  find  a  more  delicately 
lovely  or  a  better  bred  girl  in  the  province.  Marguerite  was 
as  modest  and  graceful  as  the  fair  flower  which  Emmanuel 
had  not  dared  to  mention  before  her,  lest  he  should  reveal 
the  secret  wishes  of  his  heart.  She  had  religious  principles 
and  instinctive  pride;  his  honor  would  be  safe  in  her  keeping. 
This  marriage  would  not  only  gratify  the  vanity  which  enters 
more  or  less  into  every  man's  choice  of  a  wife,  but  the  notan-'s 
pride  would  be  satisfied;  an  alliance  with  a  twice-ennobled 


THE  QUEST  OP  THE  ABSOLUTE  121 

family,  which  bore  one  of  the  most  distinguished  names  in 
Flanders,  would  reflect  lustre  upon  him. 

The  very  next  morning  Pierquin  went  to  his  strong  box,  and 
thence  drew  several  notes  of  a  thousand  francs  each,  which 
he  pressed  on  Balthazar,  in  order  to  spare  his  cousin  any 
petty  pecuniary  annoyances  in  his  grief.  Balthazar  would  no 
doubt  feel  touched  by  the  delicate  attention,  and  speak  of  it 
to  his  daughter  with  an  accompanying  panegyric  on  the  good 
qualities  of  the  notary  and  his  kindness  of  heart.  But  Bal- 
thazar did  nothing  of  the  kind.  Neither  M.  Claes  nor  his 
daughter  saw  anything  extraordinary  in  this  action;  they 
were  so  taken  up  with  their  grief  that  they  scarcely  gave  a 
thought  to  Pierquin.  Indeed,  Balthazar's  despair  was  so 
great  that  those  who  had  been  disposed  to  blame  his  previous 
conduct  now  relented  and  forgave  him,  not  on  the  score  of  his 
devotion  to  science,  but  because  of  the  tardy  remorse  which 
would  never  repair  the  evil.  The  world  is  quite  satisfied  with 
grimaces;  it  takes  current  coin  without  inquiring  too 
curiously  whether  or  no  the  metal  is  base;  the  sight  of  pain 
has  a  certain  dramatic  interest,  it  is  a  sort  of  enjoyment  in 
consideration  of  which  the  world  is  prepared  to  pardon  every- 
thing, even  to  a  criminal.  The  world  craves  sensation  so 
eagerly  that  it  absolves  with  equal  readiness  those  who  move 
it  to  laughter  or  to  tears,  without  demanding  a  strict  account 
of  the  means  employed  in  either  case. 

Marguerite  had  just  completed  her  nineteenth  year  when 
her  father  intrusted  the  management  of  the  household  into 
her  hands;  her  brothers  and  sister  rem.embered  that  their 
mother  in  the  last  moments  of  her  life  had  bidden  them  obey 
their  oldest  sister,  and  her  authority  was  dutifully  recognized. 
Her  delicate,  pale  face  looked  paler  still  by  contrast  with  her 
mourning,  as  its  sweet  and  patient  expression  was  enhanced 
by  sadness.  From  the  very  first  it  was  abundantly  evident 
that  she  possessed  the  womanly  courage,  the  fortitude,  and 
constant  serenity  which  ministering  angels  surely  bring  to 
their  task  of  healing,  as  they  lay  their  green  palm  branches 
on  aching  hearts.    But  although  she  had  early  understood  the 


122  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

duties  laid  upon  her,  and  had  accustomed  herself  to  hide  her 
sorrow,  it  was  none  the  less  deep ;  and  the  serenity  of  her  face 
was  little  in  keeping  with  the  vehemence  of  her  grief.  It 
was  to  be  a  part  of  her  early  experience  to  know  the  pain  of 
repressing  the  sorrow  and  love  with  which  the  heart  over- 
flows; henceforward  the  generous  instincts  of  youth  were  to 
he  curbed  continually  at  th^  bidding  of  tyrannous  necessity. 
After  her  mother's  death  she  found  herself  involved  at  once 
in  intricate  problems  where  serious  interests  were  at  stake, 
and  this  at  an  age  when  a  girl  usually  thinks  of  nothing  but 
pleasure.  The  hard  discipline  of  pain  has  never  been  lacking 
for  angelic  natures. 

A  love  which  has  vanity  and  greed  for  its  twin  supporters 
is  the  most  stubborn  of  passions.  Pierquin  meant  to  lose  no 
time  in  surrounding  the  heiress.  The  family  had  scarcely 
put  on  mourning  when  he  found  an  opportunity  of  speaking 
to  Marguerite ;  and  began  his  operations  with  such  skill,  that 
she  might  well  have  been  deceived  by  his  tactics.  But  love 
had  brought  a  faculty  of  clairvoyance,  and  Marguerite  was 
not  to  be  deceived,  although  Pierquin's  good-nature,  the 
good-nature  of  a  notary  who  shows  his  affection  by  saving 
his  client's  money,  gave  some  appearance  of  truth  to  his 
specious  sentimentalities.  The  notary  felt  strong  in  his  hazy 
relationship,  in  his  acquaintance,  with  family  secrets  and 
business  affairs,  in  the  esteem  and  friendship  of  Marguerite's 
father.  The  very  abstractedness  of  that  father,  who  was  not 
likely  to  form  any  projects  for  his  daughter's  settlement  in 
life,  made  for  Pierquin's  cause.  He  thought  it  quit^  impos- 
sible that  Marguerite  could  have  any  predilection,  and  sub- 
mitted his  suit  to  her,  though  he  was  not  clever  enough  to 
disguise  beneath  the  flimsy  veil  of  feigned  passion  the  in- 
terested motives  that  had  led  him  to  scheme  for  this  alliance, 
which  are  always  hateful  to  young  souls.  In  fact,  they  had 
changed  places;  the  notary's  revelation  of  selfishness  was 
artless,  and  Marguerite  was  on  her  guard;  for  he  thought 
that  he  had  to  do  with  a  rlefenceless  girl,  and  had  no  regard 
for  the  privileges  of  weakness. 


THE  QUEST  OP  THE  ABSOLUTE  123 

'"'My  dear  cousin,"  be  began,  as  be  walked  up  and  down 
the  paths  in  the  little  garden,  ''you  know  my  heart,  and  you 
know  also  how  I  shrink  from  intruding  on  your  grief  at  such 
a  moment.  I  ought  not  to  be  a  notary,  I  am  far  too  sensi- 
tive ;  I  have  such  a  feeling  heart ;  but  I  am  always  forced  to 
dwell  on  prosaic  questions  of  interest  when  I  would  fain 
yield  to  the  softer  emotions  which  make  life  happy.  It  is 
very  painful  to  me  to  be  compelled  to  speak  to  you  of  matters 
which  must  jar  upon  your  present  feelings ;  but  it  cannot  be 
helped.  You  have  constantly  been  in  my  thoughts  for  the 
past  few  days.  I  have  just  discovered,  by  a  curious  chance, 
that  your  brothers'  and  your  sister's  fortunes,  and  even  your 
own,  are  imperiled.  It  rests  with  you  to  save  your  family 
from  utter  ruin." 

"What  ought  we  to  do?"  she  asked,  somewhat  alarmed  at 
these  remarks. 

"You  should  marry,"  answered  Pierquin. 

"I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  she  exclaimed. 

"You  will  marr}%"  returned  the  notary,  "after  mature  re- 
flection on  the  critical  condition  of  your  affairs." 

"How  can  my  marriage  save  us  from ?" 

"That  was  what  I  was  waiting  to  hear,  cousin,"  he  broke 
in.    "Marriage  emancipates  a  girl." 

"Why  should  I  be  emancipated?"  asked  Marguerite. 

"To  put  you  in  possession  of  your  rights,  my  dear  little 
cousin,"  replied  the  notary,  with  an  air  of  triumph.  "In  that 
event  you  would  take  your  share  of  your  mother's  fortune; 
and  before  you  can  take  your  share,  her  property  must  be 
liquidated,  and  that  would  mean  a  forced  sale  of  the  forest 
of  Waignies.  That  once  settled,  all  the  capital  would  be 
realized,  and  your  father  would  be  bound,  as  guardian,  to 
invest  your  sister's  share  and  your  brothers'  in  such  a  way 
that  chemistry  could  not  touch  it." 

"And  suppose  that  none  of  these  things  happen — what 
then?"  asked  she. 

"Why,  in  that  case,"  said  the  notary,  "your  father  would 
administer  the  estate.    If  he  takes  it  into  his  head  again  to 


124  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

make  gold,  there  is  nothing  to  prevent  him  from  selling  the 
forest  of  Waignies,  and  leaving  you  all  as  bare  as  shorn 
lambs.  The  forest  of  Waignies  is  worth  about  fourteen  hun- 
Ired  thousand  francs  at  this  moment,  but  your  father  may 
nt  down  every  stick  of  timber  any  day,  and  the  thirteen  hun- 
red  acres  of  land  will  not  fetch  three  hundred  thousand 
-xancs.  This  is  almost  sure  to  happen;  and  would  it  not 
be  wiser  to  prevent  it  by  raising  the  question  at  once,  by 
emancipating  yourself  and  demanding  your  share  of  the  in- 
heritance ?  You  would  save  in  other  ways ;  your  father  would 
not  fell  the  timber  as  he  otherwise  would  do  from  time  to 
time,  to  your  prejudice.  Just  now  chemistry  is  dormant,  and 
of  course  he  would  invest  the  money  realized  by  the  sale  in 
consols.  The  funds  are  at  fifty-nine,,  so  the  dear  children  would 
have  very  nearly  five  thousand  livres  of  interest  on  fifty 
thousand  francs.  Besides,  as  it  is  illegal  to  spend  a  minor's 
capital,  your  brothers  and  sister  would  find  their  fortune 
doubled  by  the  time  they  came  of  age.  Now,  on  the  other 
hand,  my  word !  .  .  .  There  you  have  tlie  whole  posi- 
tion !  .  .  .  Not  only  so,  but  your  father  has  dipped 
pretty  heavily  into  your  mother's  property ;  and  when  the  in- 
ventory is  made  out,  we  shall  see  what  the  deficit  amounts  to. 
If  there  is  a  balance  owing,  you  can  take  a  mortgage  on  his 
lands,  and  save  something  in  that  way." 

"For  shame!"  said  Marguerite;  "that  would  be  an  insult 
to  my  father.  It  is  not  so  long  since  my  mother's  last  words 
were  uttered,  that  I  should  have  forgotten  them  already.  My 
father  is  incapable  of  robbing  his  children,"  she  added,  with 
bitter  tears  in  her  eyes.  "You  do  not  know  him,  M.  Pier- 
quin." 

"But  suppose,  my  dear  cousin,  that  your  father  betakes 
himself  to  chemistrj^  again " 

"We  should  be  ruined,  should  we  not  ?" 

"Oh!  utterly  ruined!  Believe  me.  Marguerite,"  he  said, 
taking  her  hand  and  pressing  it  to  his  heart;  "believe  me. 
I  should  fail  in  my  duty  if  I  did  not  urge  this  course  upon 
you.    Your  interests  alone " 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  125 

"Monsieur,"  returned  Marguerite  coolly,  as  she  withdrew 
her  hand,  "the  real  interests  of  my  family  demand  that  I 
should  not  marry.     That  was  my  mother's  decision." 

"Cousin !"  he  cried,  with  the  conviction  of  a  man  of  busi- 
ness who  sees  a  fortune  squandered,  "you  are  rushing  on  your 
own  destruction ;  you  might  as  well  fling  your  mother's  money 
into  the  water.  .  .  .  Well,  for  you  I  will  show  the  devo- 
tion of  the  warm  friendship  I  feel  for  you.  You  do  not  know 
how  much  I  love  you ;  I  have  adored  you  ever  since  I  saw  you 
on  the  day  of  the  last  ball  that  your  father  gave.  You  were 
charming !  You  may  trust  the  voice  of  the  heart  when  it 
speaks  of  your  interests,  dear  Marguerite.     .     .     ." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence;  then  he  went  on,  "Yes,  we 
will  summon  a  family  council,  and  emancipate  you  without 
consulting  you  about  it." 

"But  what  does  'emancipation'  mean  ?" 

"It  means  that  you  will  come  into  possession  of  your 
rights." 

"Then,  if  I  can  be  emancipated  in  this  way,  why  would 
you  have  me  marry  ?     .     .     .     And  to  whom?" 

Pierquin  did  his  best  to  look  tenderly  at  his  cousin,  but  the 
expression  of  his  face  was  so  at  variance  with  the  hard  eyes 
that  usually  only  grow  eloquent  over  money,  that  Marguerite 
fancied  she  saw  an  interested  motive  in  this  affectionate  im- 
promptu. 

"You  should  marry  a  man  whom  you  cared  for  .  .  . 
in  your  own  circle.  .  .  ."  he  got  out.  "You  must  have 
a  husband,  if  it  were  only  to  manage  your  business  affairs. 
You  will  be  left  face  to  face  with  your  father;  and  can  you 
hold  your  own  against  him,  all  by  yourself?" 

"Yes,  monsieur;  I  shall  find  means  to  defend  my  brothers 
and  sister  when  the  time  comes." 

"Plague  take  the  girl !"  thought  Pierquin  to  himself.  Aloud 
he  said,  "No;  you  will  never  be  able  to  stand  out  against 
him." 

"Let  us  say  no  more  about  it,"  she  replied. 

"Good-bye,  cousin.    I  shall  do  my  best  to  serve  you  in  spite 


126  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

of  yourself;  I  shall  show  j'ou  how  much  I  love  3'ou  by  pre- 
venting a  misfortune  which  every  one  in  the  town  foresees." 

"Thank  you  for  the  interest  you  take  in  me,  but  I  beg  oi 
you  neither  to  say  nor  do  anything  that  can  give  my  father 
the  slightest  annoyance." 

Marguerite  thoughtfully  watched  Pierquin's  retreating 
figure,  and  could  not  help  comparing  his  metallic  voice,  his 
manners,  supple  as  steel  springs,  his  glances,  which  expressed 
servility  rather  than  gentleness,  with  the  mute  revelation 
of  Emmanuel's  feelings  towards  her,  which  impressed  her 
as  music  or  poetry  might. 

In  every  word  we  speak,  in  every  action  of  our  lives,  there 
is  a  strange  magnetic  power  which  malces  itself  felt,  and 
which  never  deceives.  The  glances,  the  tones  of  the  voice, 
the  lover's  impassioned  gestures,  can  be  imitated;  a  clever 
actor  may  perhaps  deceive  an  inexperienced  girl,  but  to  be 
successful  he  should  have  the  field  to  himself.  If  there  is 
another  soul  which  vibrates  in  unison  with  every  feeling  that 
stirs  her  own,  will  she  not  soon  find  out  the  difference  between 
love  and  its  semblance?  Emmanuel  at  this  moment,  like 
Marguerite  herself,  was  under  the  influence  of  the  clouds 
which  had  gathered  about  them  ever  since  that  first  meeting 
in  the  picture  gallery;  the  blue  heaven  of  love  was  hidden 
from  their  eyes.  He  had  singled  her  out  for  a  worship  which, 
from  its  very  hopelessness,  was  tender,  mysterious,  and  rev- 
erent in  its  manifestations.  Socially  he  was  too  far  beneath 
Mile.  Claes  to  hope  to  be  accepted  as  her  husband;  he  was 
poor,  and  had  nothing  but  a  noble  name  to  offer  her.  Then 
he  had  waited  and  waited  for  some  slight  encouragement, 
which  Marguerite  would  not  give  him  beneath  the  eyes  of  a 
dying  mother. 

Equally  pure,  they  had  not  as  yet  spoken  a  word  of  love. 
Their  Joys  had  been  the  secret  joys  which  unhappy  souls  must 
perforce  linger  over  alone.  The  same  hope  had,  indeed, 
thrilled  them  both,  but  they  had  trembled  and  remained 
apart ;  they  seemed  to  fear  themselves,  conscious  that  each 
belonged  too  surely  to  the  other.   Emmanuel,  therefore,  feared 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  127 

to  touch  with  his  lips  the  hand  of  the  sovereign  lady  whom 
he  had  enshrined  in  his  heart.  The  slightest  careless  contact 
would  have  brought  such  an  intoxication  of  delight  that  his 
senses  would  have  been  beyond  his  control ;  he  would  no 
longer  have  been  master  of  himself.  But  if  they  had  never 
exchanged  the  slight  yet  significant,  the  innocent  and  solemn 
tokens  of  love  which  even  the  most  timid  lovers  permit  them- 
selves, each  dwelt  no  less  in  the  other's  heart,  and  both  knew 
that  they  were  ready  to  make  the  greatest  sacrifices,  the  only 
pleasures  that  they  could  know.  Ever  since  Mme.  Claes' 
death  the  love  in  the  depths  of  their  hearts  had  been  shrouded 
in  mourning.  The  gloom  in  which  they  lived  had  deepened 
into  night,  and  every  ray  of  hope  was  quenched  in  tears. 
Marguerite's  reserve  had  changed  to  something  like  coldness, 
for  she  felt  bound  to  keep  the  vow  which  her  mother  had 
demanded  of  her;  and  now  that  she  had  more  liberty  than 
formerly,  she  became  more  distant.  Emmanuel  had  shared 
in  her  mourning,  feeling  with  his  beloved  that  the  least  word 
or  wish  of  love  at  such  a  time  would  be  treason  against  the 
sovereign  laws  of  the  heart.  So  this  passionate  love  was  hid- 
den away  more  closely  than  ever.  The  two  souls  were  in 
unison,  but  sorrow  had  come  between  them  and  separated 
them  as  effectually  as  the  timidity  of  youth  and  respect  for 
the  sufferings  of  her  who  was  now  dead;  yet  there  was  still 
left  to  them  the  magnificent  language  of  the  eyes,  the  mute 
eloquence  of  self-sacrifice,  the  knowledge  that  one  thought 
always  possessed  them  both — sublime  harmonies  of  youth, 
the  first  steps  of  love  in  its  infancy. 

Emmanuel  came  every  morning  for  news  of  Claes  and  of 
Marguerite,  but  he  never  came  into  the  dining-room,  where 
the  family  now  sat,  unless  he  brought  a  letter  from  Gabriel, 
or  Balthazar  invited  him  to  enter.  Numberless  sympathetic 
thoughts  were  revealed  in  his  first  glance  at  the  girl  before 
him;  the  reserve  that  compelled  him  to  assume  a  conven- 
tional demeanor  harassed  him;  but  he  respected  it,  and 
shared  the  sorrow  which  caused  it,  and  all  the  dew  of  his 
tears  was  shed  on  the  heart  of  his  beloved  in  a  glance  un- 


128  THE  QUEST  OP  THE  ABSOLUTE 

spoiled  by  any  after-thought.  He  lived  so  evidently  in  the 
present  moment,  he  set  such  high  value  on  a  happiness  which 
he  thought  so  fleeting,  that  Marguerite's  heart  sometimes 
gmote  her,  and  she  told  herself  that  she  was  ungenerous 
not  to  hold  out  her  hand  and  say,  "Let  us  be  friends." 

Pierquin  still  continued  his  importunities  with  the  obsti- 
nacy which  is  the  patience  of  dulness,  possessed  by  one  idea. 
He  judged  Marguerite  by  the  ordinary  rules  of  the  multitude 
when  judging  of  women.  He  imagined  that  when  the  words 
"marriage,"  "liberty,"  and  "fortune"  had  been  let  fall  in  her 
hearing  they  would  take  root  in  her  mind,  and  spring  up  and 
blossom  into  wishes  which  he  could  turn  to  his  own  advan^ 
tage,  and  he  chose  to  think  that  her  coldness  was  nothing 
but  dissimulation.  But  in  spite  of  all  his  polite  attentions, 
he  was  an  awkward  actor;  he  sometimes  forgot  his  part,  and 
assumed  the  despotic  tone  of  a  man  who  is  accustomed  to 
make  the  final  decision  in  all  serious  questions  relating  to 
family  life.  For  her  benefit  he  repeated  consoling  platitudes, 
the  professional  commonplaces  which  creep  like  snails  over 
a  sorrow,  and  leave  behind  them  a  track  of  barren  words 
that  profane  the  sanctity  of  grief.  His  tenderness  was  simply 
cajolery ;  he  dropped  his  feigned  melancholy  at  the  door  when 
he  put  on  his  overshoes  and  took  up  his  umbrella.  He  took 
advantage  of  the  privileges  which  his  long  intimacy  with  the 
Maison  Claes  had  given  him,  using  them  as  a  means  of  ingra- 
tiating himself  with  the  rest  of  the  family  to  bring  Mar- 
guerite to  make  a  marriage  which  was  already  talked  of  in 
the  town.  So,  in  strong  contrast  to  a  true-hearted,  devoted, 
and  respectful  love  was  opposed  its  selfish  and  calculating 
semblance.  The  characters  of  both  men  were  in  harmony 
;vith  their  manner.  The  one  feigned  a  passion  which  he  did 
not  feel,  and  seized  on  every  least  advantage  that  gave  him  a 
hold  on  Marguerite;  the  other  concealed  his  love,  and  trem- 
bled lest  his  devotion  should  be  too  apparent. 

Some  time  after  her  mother's  death,  and,  as  it  happened, 
In  one  day,  Marguerite  had  an  opportunity  of  comparing  the 
two  men  whom  she  was  in  a  position  to  judge,  for  she  was 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  129 

compelled  to  live  in  a  social  solitude  which  made  her  inac- 
cessible to  any  who  might  have  thought  of  asking  her  in 
marriage. 

One  day,  after  breakfast,  on  one  of  the  sunniest  mornings 
of  early  April,  Emmanuel  chanced  to  call  just  as  M.  Claes 
was  going  out.  Balthazar  found  his  own  house  almost  un- 
endurable, and  spent  a  large  part  of  the  day  in  walking  about 
the  ramparts.  Emmanuel  turned,  as  though  he  meant  to 
follow  Balthazar,  hesitated,  seemed  to  gather  up  his  courage, 
glanced  at  Marguerite,  and  stayed.  Marguerite  felt  sure 
that  he  wished  to  speak  with  her,  and  asked  him  to  go  into 
the  garden;  she  sent  Felicie  to  sit  with  Martha,  who  was 
sewing  in  the  ante-chamber  on  an  upper  floor,  and  then  seated 
herself  on  a  garden  seat  in  full  view  of  her  sister  and  the  old 
duenna. 

"M.  Claes  is  as  much  absorbed  by  his  grief  as  he  used  to  be 
by  science,"  said  the  young  man  as  he  watched  Balthazar 
pacing  slowly  across  the  court.  "Every  one  in  Douai  is  sorry 
for  him;  he  goes  about  like  a  man  who  has  not  got  his  wits 
about  him;  he  suddenly  stops  short  without  a  reason,  and 
gazes  about  him  and  sees  nothing " 

"Every  one  expresses  sorrow  in  a  different  way,"  said 
Marguerite,  keeping  back  the  tears.  "What  did  you  wish  to 
say  to  me  ?"  she  added,  with  cold  dignity,  after  a  pause. 

"Mademoiselle,"  Emmanuel  replied  in  an  unsteady  voice, 
^'I  scarcely  know  if  I  have  a  right  to  speak  to  you  as  I  am 
about  to  do.  Please,  think  only  of  my  desire  to  serve  you, 
and  believe  that  a  schoolmaster  may  be  so  much  interested  in 
his  pupils  as  to  feel  anxious  about  their  future.  Your  brother 
Gabriel  is  over  fifteen  now;  he  is  in  the  second  class;  it  is 
surely  time  to  think  about  his  probable  career,  and  to  arrange 
his  course  of  study  accordingly.  The  decision  rests  of  course 
with  your  father,  but  if  he  gives  it  no  thought,  it  may  be  a 
serious  matter  for  Gabriel.  And  yet  it  would  be  a  mortifica- 
tion to  your  father,  would  it  not,  if  you  pointed  out  to  him 
that  he  was  neglecting  his  son  ?  So,  as  things  are,  could  you 
not  yourself  consult  Gabriel  as  to  his  inclinations,  anri  help 


130  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

him  to  choose  a  course  of  study,  so  that  if  your  father  at  a 
later  day  should  wish  him  to  enter  the  civil  service  or  to 
make  a  soldier  of  him,  Gabriel  will  be  prepared  for  his  post 
by  a  special  training?  I  am  sure  that  neither  you  nor  M. 
Claes  would  wish  to  bring  up  Gabriel  in  idleness " 

"Oh,  no !"  said  Marguerite.  "Thank  you,  M.  Emmanuel, 
you  are  quite  right.  When  our  mother  had  us  taught  how 
to  make  lace,  and  took  such  pains  with  our  drawing,  sewing.^ 
music,  and  embroidery,  she  often  said  that  we  could  not  tell 
what  might  happen,  and  that  we  must  be  prepared  for  every- 
thing. Gabriel  ought  to  have  resources  within  himself,  so  he 
must  have  a  thorough  education.  But  what  is  the  best  career 
for  a  man  to  choose?" 

Emmanuel  trembled  with  happiness.  "Mademoiselle,"  he 
said,  "Gabriel  is  at  the  head  of  his  class  in  mathematics; 
if  he  were  to  enter  the  Illcole  polytechnique,  I  feel  sure  that 
he  would  acquire  practical  knowledge  there  which  would  be 
useful  to  him  afterwards  all  through  his  life.  He  would  be 
free  to  choose  a  career  after  his  own  inclinations  after  he  left 
the  Ecole,  and  you  would  have  gained  time  without  binding 
him  down  to  any  programme.  Men  who  distinguish  them- 
selves there  are  always  sought  after.  Diplomatists,  scholars, 
administrators,  engineers,  generals,  sailors,  magistrates, 
manufacturers,  and  bankers  are  all  educated  at  the  Ecole. 
So  it  is  nothing  at  all  extraordinary  that  a  young  man  be- 
longing to  a  great  or  wealthy  family  should  study  to  qualify 
for  admission.  If  Gabriel  should  make  up  his  mind  to  this, 
I  would  ask  you  .  .  .  will  you  grant  me  my  request? 
Say,  Yes." 

'^hat  isit?" 

"Let  me  be  his  tutor?"  he  said  nervously. 

Marguerite  looked  at  M.  de  Solis,  then  she  took  his  hand 
and  said,  "Yes." 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment,  then  she  added  in  an  unsteady 
voice : 

"ITow  much  I  value  the  delicacy  which  has  led  you  to  offer 
something  that  I  can  accept  from  you.    In  all  that  you  have 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  131 

just  said  I  can  see  how  much  you  have  thought  for  us.  Thank 

you." 

Simply  as  these  words  were  said,  Emmanuel  turned  his 
head  away  lest  Marguerite  should  see  the  tears  of  happiness 
in  his  eyes;  he  was  overcome  by  the  delight  of  being  useful 
to  her. 

"I  will  bring  them  both  to  see  you,"  he  went  on  when  he 
had  recovered  his  self-possession.  "To-morrow  is  a  holiday." 
He  rose  and  took  leave  of  Marguerite,  who  shortly  followed 
him  to  the  house;  as  he  crossed  the  court  he  still  saw  her 
standing  by  the  dining-room  door,  and  received  a  last  friendly 
sign  of  farewell. 

After  dinner  the  notary  came  to  call  on  M.  Claes.  Mar- 
guerite and  her  father  were  out  in  the  garden,  and  Pierquin 
took  up  his  position  between  them  on  the  very  bench  where 
Emmanuel  had  sat  that  morning. 

"My  dear  cousin,"  he  said,  addressing  Balthazar,  "I  have 
come  to  talk  about  business  to-night.  Forty-two  days  have  now 
elapsed  since  your  lamented  wife's  demise " 

"I  have  not  noticed  how  the  time  went,"  said  Claes,  brush- 
ing away  a  tear  that  rose  at  the  technical  term  demise. 

"Oh!  monsieur,"  cried  Marguerite,  with  a  glance  at  the 
lawyer,  'laow  can  you  ?" 

"But,  my  dear  Marguerite,  we  lawyers  are  obliged  to  con- 
sider the  limits  of  the  time  prescribed  by  law.  This  matter 
more  particularly  concerns  you  and  your  co-heirs.  All  M. 
Claes'  children  are  under  age,  so  within  forty-five  days  of 
his  wife's  demise  he  is  bound  to  have  an  inventory  made  out, 
so  as  to  ascertain  the  value  of  the  estate  they  held  in  common. 
How  are  we  to  find  out  if  it  is  solvent  or  no,  and  whether 
there  is  enough  to  satisfy  the  minors'  claims  ?" 

Marguerite  rose. 

"Do  not  go  away,  cousin,"  said  Pierquin ;  "this  matter  con- 
cerns you  as  well  as  your  father.  You  know  how  deeply  I 
feel  your  grief,  but  you  must  give  your  attention  at  once  to 
these  requirements  of  the  law,  otherwise  you  may  both  get  into 
serious  trouble.  I  am  simply  doing  my  duty  as  legal  adviser 
to  the  family/* 


132  THE  QUEST  OP  THE  ABSOLUTE 

"He  is  quite  right/'  said  Claes. 

''The  time  expires  in  two  days,"  Pierquin  continued,  "had 
I  must  set  to  work  to-morrow  to  make  out  the  inventory,  if  it 
is  only  to  postpone  the  payment  of  legacy  duty  which  the 
Treasury  will  demand  very  shortly.  The  Treasury  is  not 
disturbed  by  compunction,  and  has  no  heart ;  it  sets  its  claws 
in  us  at  all  seasons.  So  my  clerk  and  I  will  come  here  ever}^ 
day  from  ten  to  four  with  M.  Eaparlier  the  valuer.  As  soon 
as  we  have  finished  here  in  the  town,  we  will  go  into  the 
country.  We  can  talk  about  the  forest  of  "Waignies  by  and 
by.  So  that  is  settled,  and  now  let  us  turn  our  attention 
to  another  point.  We  must  call  a  family  council,  and  appoint 
a  guardian.  M.  Conyncks  of  Bruges  is  your  nearest  living 
relative,  but  he  unluckily  has  become  a  Belgian  citizen.  You 
ought  to  write  to  him,  cousin,  and  find  out  whether  the  old 
gentleman  has  any  notion  of  settling  in  France;  he  has  a 
fine  property  on  this  side  of  the  frontier;  and  you  might 
perhaps  induce  him  and  his  daughter  to  move  into  French 
Flanders.  If  he  declines  to  make  a  change,  I  will  see  about 
arranging  for  a  council  of  some  of  the  nearer  remaining  rela- 
tions." 

'^hat  is  the  use  of  an  inventory  ?"  asked  Marguerite. 

"To  find  out  how  the  property  stands,  and  ascertain  the 
assets  and  debts.  When  it  is  all  clearly  scheduled,  the  family 
council  takes  such  steps  as  it  deems  necessary  on  behalf  of 
the  minors " 

"Pierquin,"  said  Claes,  as  he  rose  from  the  garden-seat, 
"do  anything  that  you  think  necessary  to  protect  my  chil- 
dren's interests,  but  spare  us  the  distress  of  selling  anything 
that  belonged  to  my  dear  wife " 

He  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  but  he  spoke  with  so  much 
dignity,  there  was  such  deep  feeling  in  his  tones,  that  Mar- 
giTcrite  took  her  father's  hand  in  hers  and  kissed  it. 

"I  will  return  to-morrow,  then,"  said  Pierquin. 

"Come  and  breakfast  with  us,"  said  Balthazar.  He  seemed 
to  be  collecting  scattered  memories  together,  for  in  a  moment 
he  exclaimed:  "But  in  my  marriage  contract,  whicn  was 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  133 

drawn  up  according  to  the  custom  of  ITainault,  I  released 
my  wife  from  the  obligation  of  making  an  inventory,  in 
order  to  spare  her  the  worry  and  annoyance,  and  it  is  quite 
probable  that  I  was  likewise  released " 

"Oh !  how  fortunate !"  cried  Marguerite.  "It  would  have 
given  us  so  much  trouble " 

"Very  well,"  said  Pierquin,  who  was  rather  put  out;  "we 
will  look  into  your  marriage  contract  to-morrow." 

"Then  you  did  not  know  of  this?"  said  Marguerite,  an 
inquiry  which  put  an  end  to  the  interview,  for  the  notary 
was  so  much  embarrassed  by  his  cousin's  home-thrust  that 
he  was  glad  to  abandon  the  discussion. 

"The  devil  is  in  it !"  said  he  to  himself  as  he  crossed  the 
courtyard.  "That  man,  for  all  his  abstractedness,  can  find 
his  wandering  wits  in  the  nick  of  time,  and  put  a  stop  to 
our  precautions  against  him.  He  will  squander  his  children's 
money,  it  is  as  plain  as  that  two  and  two  make  four.  Talk 
of  business  to  a  girl  of  nineteen,  and  she  gets  sentimental 
over  it !  Here  am  I  racking  my  brains  to  save  the  property 
of  those  children  by  regular  means,  by  coming  to  an  under- 
standing with  old  Conyncks,  and  this  is  the  end  of  it!  I 
have  thrown  away  all  my  chances  with  Marguerite;  she  is 
sure  to  ask  her  father  why  I  wanted  an  inventory  of  the 
property,  which  she  now  fancies  to  be  quite  unnecessary,  and 
Claes,  of  course,  will  tell  her  that  lawyers  have  a  craze  for 
drawing  up  documents ;  that  we  are  notaries  first,  and  cousins 
and  friends,  and  what  not,  afterwards,  all  sorts  of  rubbish  in 
fact.     .     .     ." 

He  slammed  the  door,  storming  inwardly  at  clients  who 
Ifet  their  sentimentality  ruin  them. 

Balthazar  was  right.  The  inventory  did  not  take  place. 
So  nothing  was  done  to  limit  or  define  the  father's  powers 
over  his  children's  property. 

Several  months  went  by,  and  brought  no  changes  to  the 
Maison  Claes.  Gabriel,  under  the  able  tuition  of  M.  de  Solis. 
studied  hard,  learned  the  necessary  foreign  languages,  and 
prepared  to  pass  the  entrance  examination  at  the  Ecolc  poly- 


134  THE  QUEST  OP  THE  ABSOLUTE 

technique.  Felicie  and  Marguerite  lived  in  absolute  retire- 
ment; but,  nevertheless,  they  spent  the  summer  at  their 
father's  country  house,  in  ordet  to  economize.  M.  Claes  was 
much  occupied  by  his  business  affairs;  he  paid  his  debts, 
raising  the  money  on  his  own  property,  and  went  to  visit  the 
forest  of  Waignies. 

By  the  middle  of  the  year  1817  his  grief  had  gradually 
abated,  and  he  began  to  feel  depressed  by  the  dulness  and 
sameness  of  the  life  he  led.  At  first  he  resisted  temptation 
bravely,  and  would  not  allow  himself  to  think  of  chemistry; 
but  the  love  of  science  was  only  dormant,  and  in  spite  of 
himself  his  thoughts  turned  towards  his  old  pursuits.  Then 
he  thought  he  would  not  begin  his  experiments ;  he  would  not 
take  up  his  science  practically,  he  would  confine  himself  to 
theory ;  but  the  longer  he  dwelt  with  these  theories,  the 
stronger  his  passion  grew,  and  he  began  to  equivocate  with 
himself.  He  asked  himself  whether  he  was  really  bound 
not  to  prosecute  his  researches,  and  remembered  how  his 
wife  had  refused  his  oath.  He  had  certainly  vowed  to  himself 
that  he  would  make  no  further  attempt  to  solve  the  great 
Problem,  but  the  road  to  success  had  never  been  so  certain 
and  so  plain ;  was  he  not  surely  free  to  change  his  mind  now 
that  the  way  was  clear?  He  was  then  fifty-nine  years  of  age, 
and  his  idea  possessed  him  now  with  the  dogged  fixity  which 
slowly  develops  into  monomania.  Outward  circumstances 
also  combined  to  shake  his  wavering  loyalty. 

Europe  was  at  peace.  Men  of  science  of  various  nationali- 
ties, cut  off  from  all  communication  with  each  other  by 
twenty  years  of  wars,  were  now  free  to  correspond  and  to 
communicate  their  discoveries  and  theories  to  each  other. 
Science  was  making  great  strides.  Claes  found  that  modern 
discoveries  had  a  bearing,  which  his  fellow-chemists  did  not 
suspect,  upon  the  Problem  of  the  Absolute.  Learned  men 
who  were  devoting  their  lives  to  the  solution  of  other  scien- 
tific enigmas  began  to  think,  as  he  did,  that  light  and  heat, 
and  galvanism  and  electricity,  were  only  different  effects  of 
the  same  cause,  and  that  all  the  various  substances  which 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  135 

had  hitherto  been  regarded  as  different  elements  were  merely 
allotropic  forms  of  the  same  unknown  element.  The  fear 
that  some  other  chemist  might  effect  the  reduction  of  metals, 
and  find  the  principle  of  electricity  (two  discoveries  which 
would  lead  to  the  solution  of  the  Problem  of  the  Absolute), 
raised  the  enthusiasm,  which  the  people  of  Douai  called  a 
mania,  to  the  highest  pitch;  only  those  who  have  felt  a  like 
passionate  love  of  science,  or  who  have  known  the  tyranny 
of  ideas,  can  imagine  the  force  of  the  paroxysm.  Balthazar's 
frenzy  was  but  the  more  violent  because  it  had  been  so  long 
subdued,  and  now  broke  out  afresh. 

Marguerite,  who  had  been  watching  her  father  very  closely, 
divined  this  crisis,  and  opened  the  long-closed  parlor.  She 
thought  that  if  they  sat  in  that  room  once  more,  old  painful 
memories  of  her  mother's  death  would  be  awakened,  and 
would  act  as  a  restraint,  and  she  was  to  some  extent  success- 
ful. For  a  little  while  her  father's  grief  was  reawakened, 
and  the  inevitable  plunge  into  the  abyss  was  deferred,  but  it 
was  only  for  a  little  while.  She  determined  to  go  into  society 
once  more,  and  so  to  distract  Balthazar's  attention  from  these 
thoughts.  Several  good  marriages  were  proposed  for  her, 
over  which  Claes  deliberated,  but  Marguerite  said  that  until 
she  was  twenty-five  she  would  not  marry.  In  spite  of  all  his 
daughter's  endeavors,  in  spite  of  remorseful  inner  struggles, 
Balthazar  began  his  experiments  again  in  the  early  days  of 
the  winter.  At  first  they  were  conducted  secretl}',  but  it  was 
not  easy  to  hide  such  occupations  as  his  from  the  inquisitive 
eyes  of  the  maid-servants. 

One  day,  therefore,  while  Marguerite  was  dressing,  Martha 
said  to  her,  "Mademoiselle,  it  is  all  over  with  us !  That 
wretch  of  a  Mulquinier  (who  is  the  devil  himself  in  human 
shape,  for  I  have  never  seen  him  cross  himself)  has  gone 
up  into  the  attic  again.  There  is  the  master  on  the  highroad 
to  hell !  Heaven  send  that  he  may  not  be  the  death  of  you 
all,  as  he  was  the  death  of  the  poor  dear  mistress !" 

"Impossible !"  said  Marguerite. 

"Come  and  see  their  goings-on  for  yourself." 


136  THE  QUEST  OP  THE  ABSOLUTE 

Mile.  Claes  sprang  to  the  window,  and  saw,  in  fact,  a  thin 
streak  of  smoke  rising  from  the  laboratory  chimney. 

"I  shall  be  twenty-one  in  a  few  months'  time,"  she  thought, 
"and  then  our  property  must  be  squandered  no  longer;  I 
must  find  a  way  to  prevent  it." 

When  Balthazar  finally  gave  way  to  his  passion,  his  respect 
for  his  children's  interests  was,  of  course,  less  of  a  restraint 
than  his  affection  for  his  wife  had  been.  Such  barriers  were 
easily  overleapt,  his  conscience  was  more  elastic,  his  passion 
had  grown  stronger.  Glory,  and  hard  work,  and  hope,  and 
misery  lay  before  him;  he  set  out  on  his  way  with  the  energy 
of  full  and  entire  conviction.  He  felt  so  sure  of  the  outcome 
of  it  all  that  he  worked  day  and  night,  flinging  himself  into 
his  pursuits  with  a  zeal  that  alarmed  his  daughters ;  they 
did  not  know  that  a  man's  health  seldom  suffers  from  the 
work  that  he  loves  and  does  for  its  own  sake. 

As  soon  as  her  father  began  his  experiments.  Marguerite 
reduced  the  expenses  of  housekeeping,  and  became  almost 
as  parsimonious  as  a  miser.  Josette  and  Martha  entered 
into  her  plans,  and  seconded  her  loyally.  As  for  Claes,  he  was 
scarcely  aware  of  these  retrenchments ;  he  did  not  notice  that 
they  had  been  reduced  to  the  bare  necessaries  of  life.  He 
began  by  staying  away  from  the  family  breakfast;  then  the 
whole  day  was  spent  in  the  laboratory,  and  he  only  came 
down  to  dinner,  and  sat  for  a  few  silent  hours  afterwards 
in  the  evening  in  the  parlor  with  the  two  girls.  He  never 
spoke  to  them;  he  did  not  seem  to  hear  them  when  they 
wished  him  good-night;  he  mechanically  let  them  kiss  him 
on  both  cheeks.  Such  neglect  as  this  might  have  brought 
about  serious  consequences  if  Marguerite  had  not  wielded 
a  mother's  authority,  if  the  love  in  her  heart  had  not  been 
a  safeguard. 

Pierquin  had  discontinued  his  visits  entirely ;  in  his  opinion 
nothing  could  save  his  cousins  from  utter  ruin.  Balthazar's 
estates,  which  were  worth  about  two  hundred  thousand 
crowns,  and  brought  in  sixteen  thousand  francs,  were  already 
incumbered  with  mortgages  to  the  amount  of  three  hundred 


I 


THE  QUEST  OP  THE  ABSOLUTE  137 

thousand  francs.  Claes  had  inaugurated  his  second  epoch 
of  scientific  enthusiasm  by  a  lieavy  loan.  At  that  moment 
ills  income  just  sufiiced  to  pay  the  interest  on  his  debts;  and 
as,  with  the  improvidence  characteristic  of  men  who  live  for 
an  idea,  he  had  made  over  all  the  rents  of  his  farms  to  Mar- 
guerite to  defray  the  expenses  of  the  housekeeping,  the  notary 
calculated  that  the  end  must  come  in  three  years'  time,  when 
everything  would  go  to  rack  and  ruin,  and  the  sheriff's  officers 
would  eat  up  all  that  Balthazar  had  left.  Under  the  influence 
of  Marguerite's  coldness,  Pierquin's  indifference  had  almost 
become  hostility.  He  meant  to  secure  his  retreat  in  case 
his  cousin  should  grow  so  poor  that  he  might  no  longer  wish 
to  marry  her,  and  spoke  of  the  Claes  everywhere  in  a  pitying 
tone. 

"Poor  things,  they  are  in  a  fair  way  to  be  ruined,"  said  he. 
•'I  did  everything  I  could  to  save  them ;  but,  would  you  believe 
it?  Mile.  Claes  herself  set  her  face  against  every  plan  by 
which  the  law  could  step  in  to  secure  those  children  from 
starvation." 

Emmanuel,  through  his  uncle's  influence,  had  been  ap- 
pointed headmaster  of  the  College  de  Douai,  his  own  personal 
qualifications  having  eminently  fitted  him  for  the  post.  He 
came  almost  every  evening  to  see  the  two  girls,  who  sum- 
moned their  old  duenna  to  the  parlor  so  soon  as  their  father 
left  them  for  the  night.  Always  at  the  same  hour  they  heard 
the  knock  at  the  door:  j^oung  de  Soils  was  never  late.  For 
the  past  three  months  Marguerite's  mute  gratitude  and  gra- 
ciousness  had  given  him  confidence;  he  had  developed,  and 
was  himself.  His  purity  of  soul  shone  like  a  flawless  dia- 
mond, and  Marguerite  learned  to  know  the  full  value 
of  his  steadfast  strength  of  character,  when  she  saw  that  it 
had  its  source  in  the  depths  of  his  nature.  She  saw  the  blos- 
soms open  out  one  by  one;  hitherto  she  had  only  known  of 
them  by  their  fragrance.  Every  day  Emmanuel  realized 
some  hope  of  hers,  new  splendors  lighted  up  the  enchanted 
country  of  love,  the  clouds  vanished,  the  sky  grew  clear  and 
serene,  unsuspected  treasures  which  had  been  hidden  in  the 


138  THE  QUEST  OP  THE  ABSOLUTE 

gloom  shone  forth.  For  Emmanuel  was  more  at  his  ease; 
he  could  display  the  winning  grace  of  the  heart,  the  infec- 
tious gaiety  of  youth,  the  simplicity  that  comes  of  a  life  of 
study,  the  treasures  of  a  fastidious  mind  and  unsophisticated 
nature,  the  innocent  merriment  that  suits  so  well  with  youth- 
ful love.  Marguerite  and  Emmanuel  understood  each  other 
better ;  together  they  had  explored  the  depths  of  their  hearts, 
and  had  found  the  same  thoughts,  pearls  of  the  same  lustre, 
blended  notes  of  harmon}^,  as  clear  and  sweet  as  the  magic 
music  which  holds  the  divers  spellbound  under  the  sea.  They 
had  come  to  know  each  other  through -the  interchange  of 
ideas  in  the  course  of  those  evening  talks,  studying  each  other 
with  a  curiosity  that  grew  to  be  a  delicate  imaginative  sym- 
pathy. There  was  no  bashfulness  on  either  side,  but  perhaps 
some  coquetry.  The  hours  which  Emmanuel  spent  with  the 
two  girls  under  Martha's  eyes  reconciled  Marguerite  to  her 
life  of  anguish  and  resignation;  the  love  that  grew  uncon- 
sciously was  her  support  in  her  troubles.  Emmanuel's  affec- 
tion expressed  itself  with  the  natural  grace  that  is  irresistible, 
with  the  delicate  and  delightful  wit  that  reveals  fresh  phases 
of  deep  feeling,  as  the  facets  of  a  precious  stone  set  free  all 
its  hidden  fires;  the  wonderful  devices  that  love  teaches 
lovers,  which  render  a  woman  loyally  responsive  to  the  hand 
of  the  artist  who  sets  new  life  into  the  old  forms,  to  the  tones 
of  the  voice  which  gave  a  new  significance  to  a  phrase  each 
time  it  is  repeated.  Love  is  not  merely  a  sentiment,  it  is  an 
art.  A  bare  word,  a  hesitation,  a  nothing,  reveals  to  a  woman 
the  presence  of  the  great  and  sublime  artist  who  can  touch  her 
heart  without  withering  it.  The  further  Emmanuel  went, 
the  more  charming  were  the  ways  in  which  his  love  expressed 
itself. 

"I  have  outstripped  Pierquin,"  he  said  one  evening;  "I  am 
the  bearer  of  l)ad  tidings  that  he  is  going  to  bring,  but  I 
thought  I  would  ratlier  tell  them  myself.  Your  father  has 
sold  your  forest  to  some  speculators,  who  have  taken  the 
timber  as  it  stands  to  sell  again  in  smaller  quantities;  the 
trees  have  been  cut  down  already,  and  all  the  trunks  have 


THE  QUEST  OF  TflE  ABSOLUTE  139 

been  taken  away.  Three  hundred  thousand  francs  were  paid 
down  at  once,  and  this  was  sent  to  Paris  to  discharge  ]\L 
Claes'  debts  there;  but  in  order  to  clear  his  debts  entirely, 
he  has  been  forced  to  assign  to  his  creditors  a  hundred  thou- 
sand francs  out  of  the  hundred  thousand  crowns  still  due  to 
him  on  the  purchase  money." 

Just  at  that  point  Pierquin  came  in. 

''Well,  my  dear  cousin,"  he  said,  "you  are  ruined,  you  sec ! 
I  told  you  how  it  would  be,  but  you  would  not  listen  tc  me. 
Your  father  has  a  good  appetite;  he  only  made  one  bite  of 
your  forest.  Your  guardian,  M.  Conyncks,  is  away  at  Am- 
sterdam, where  he  is  negotiating  the  sale  of  his  Belgian  es- 
tates, and  while  his  back  is  turned  Claes  seizes  the  opportunity 
to  do  this  stroke  of  business.  It  is  hardly  fair.  I  have  just 
written  to  old  Conyncks,  but  it  will  be  all  up  with  you  by  the 
time  he  gets  here.  You  will  be  obliged  to  take  proceedings 
against  your  father.  It  will  not  take  very  long  to  settle  the 
aif air  in  a  court  of  law,  but  Claes  will  not  come  out  of  it  very 
well;  M.  Conyncks  will  be  compelled  to  take  action,  the  law 
requires  it  in  such  cases.  And  all  this  has  come  of  your 
wilfulness !  Do  you  see  now  how  prudent  I  was,  and  how 
devoted  to  your  interests  ?" 

"I  have  some  good  news  for  you,  mademoiselle,"  said  young 
de  Solis  in  his  gentle  voice :  "Gabriel  has  been  admitted  as 
a  pupil  at  the  l^cole  polytechnique ;  the  difficulties  which 
were  raised  at  first  have  been  cleared  away." 

Marguerite  thanked  him  by  a  smile,  and  said,  "Then  I 
shall  find  a  use  for  my  savings. — Martha,"  she  added,  speak- 
ing to  the  old  servant,  "we  must  begin  at  once  to  make  ready 
Gabriel's  outfit.  Poor  Felicie,  we  both  must  work  hard," 
she  said,  with  a  kiss  on  her  sister's  forehead. 

"He  will  return  home  to-morrow,  and  you  will  have  him 
here  for  about  ten  days;  on  the  15th  of  November  he  must 
be  in  Paris." 

"Cousin  Gabriel  is  well  advised,"  said  the  notary,  as  he 
scanned  the  headmaster;  "he  will  have  to  make  his  way  in 
the  world.  But  now,  my  dear  Marguerite,  the  honor  of  the 
family  is  at  stake;  will  you  listen  to  me  this  time?" 


140  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

"Not  if  it  is  a  question  of  marriage." 

"But  what  will  you  do  ?" 

"Nothing,  cousin.     .     .     .     What  should  I  do?" 

'TTou  are  of  age." 

"I  shall  be  of  age  in  a  few  days'  time.  Is  there  any  course: 
which  you  can  suggest  that  will  reconcile  our  interests  witli 
our  duty  to  our  father  and  with  the  honor  of  the  family  ?" 

"You  can  do  nothing,  cousin,  without  your  uncle.  Thai:  :l 
clear.    When  he  comes  back  to  Douai  I  will  call  again." 

"Good-evening,  monsieur,"  said  Marguerite. 

"The  poorer  she  grows,  the  more  airs  she  gives  herself,"' 
thought  the  notary.  Aloud  he  said,  "Good-evening,  made- 
moiselle.— M.  de  Soils,  I  have  the  honor  to  wish  you  good- 
day,"  and  he  went  away  without  paying  any  attention  to 
Felicie  or  to  Martha. 

When  the  door  closed  on  him,  Emmanuel  spoke,  with  hesi- 
tation in  his  voice.  "I  have  been  studying  the  Code  for  the 
past  two  days,"  he  said,  "and  I  have  taken  counsel  with  an 
old  lawyer,  one  of  my  uncle's  friends.  If  you  will  allow  me, 
I  will  go  to  Amsterdam  to-morrow.  .  .  .  Listen,  dear 
Marguerite     .     .     ." 

He  had  spoken  her  name  for  the  first  time.  She  thanked 
him  by  a  glance  and  a  gentle  inclination  of  the  head,  and  lis- 
tened smiling,  though  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

"You  can  speak  before  my  sister,"  said  Marguerite;  "she 
has  no  need  to  learn  resignation  to  a  life  of  hardship  and  toil, 
she  is  so  brave  and  sweet,  but  from  this  discussion  she  will 
learn  how  much  we  need  our  courage." 

The  two  si-step^  clasped  each  other's  hands,  as  if  to  renew 
the  pledge  of  tho  closer  union  brought  about  by  a  common 
trouble. 

"Leave  us,  Martha." 

"Dear  Marguerite,"  Emmanuel  began,  and  something  of 
the  happiness  that  he  felt  at  thus  acquiring  one  of  the  least 
privileges  of  affection  could  be  felt  in  his  voice,  "I  have  tho 
names  and  addresses  of  tho  purchasers,  who  have  not  yet  paid 
the  balance  of  two  hundred  thousand  francs  for  the  felle(] 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  141 

timber.  To-morrow,  if  you  give  your  consent,  a  lawyer  acting 
in  M.  Conyncks'  name  shall  serve  a  writ  of  attachment  on 
them.  Your  great-uncle  will  return  in  a  week's  time.  He 
will  call  a  family  council  and  emancipate  Gabriel,  who  is  now 
eighteen.  When  that  has  been  done,  you  and  your  brother 
will  be  in  a  position  to  demand  your  rights,  and  you  can  re- 
quire your  share  of  the  proceeds  of  this  sale  of  the  wood.  M. 
Claes  could  not  refuse  you  the  two  hundred  thousand  francs 
which  have  been  attached;  as  for  the  remaining  hundred 
thousand  francs,  they  could  be  secured  to  you  by  a  mortgage 
on  this  house  that  you  are  living  in.  M.  Conyncks  will  de- 
mand securities  for  the  three  hundred  thousand  francs  which 
belong  to  Mademoiselle  Felicie  and  to  Jean,  and  your  father 
will  be  obliged  to  mortgage  his  property  in  the  plains  of 
Orchies,  which  are  already  encumbered  with  a  debt  of  a  hun- 
dred thousand  crowns.  The  law  regards  mortgages  for  the 
benefit  of  minors  as  a  first  charge,  so  everything  will  be  saved. 
M.  Claes'  hands  will  be  tied  for  the  future ;  your  landed  prop- 
erty is  inalienable;  he  will  be  unable  to  borrow  any  more 
money  on  his  own,  which  will  be  mortgaged  beyond  their 
value,  and  the  whole  arrangement  will  be  a  family  aifair; 
there  will  be  no  lawsuits  and  no  scandal.  Your  father  will 
perforce  set  about  his  investigations  less  recklessly,  if,  indeed, 
he  does  not  give  them  up  altogether." 

"Yes,"  said  Marguerite,  "but  how  shall  we  live?  There 
will  be  no  interest  paid  on  the  hundred  thousand  francs 
secured  to  us  on  this  house  so  long  as  we  continue  to  live  in  it. 
The  farms  in  the  plains  of  Orchies  will  bring  in  just  enough 
to  pay  interest  on  the  mortgages.    What  shall  we  do?" 

"Well,  in  the  first  place,"  said  Emmanuel,  "if  you  invest 
Gabriel's  remaining  fifty  thousand  francs  in  the  funds,  at 
present  prices  it  will  bring  in  four  thousand  livres ;  that  will 
be  sufficient  to  pay  all  his  expenses  at  the  Ecole  in  Paris, 
G«.briel  cannot  touch  the  principal  nor  the  money  secured  to 
him  on  this  house  until  he  comes  of  age,  so  you  need  not 
fear  that  he  will  squander  a  penny  of  it,  and  you  will  have 
on3  expense  the  less.  In  the  second  place,  is  there  not  your 
oxm  share,  a  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs?" 


242  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

"My  father  will  be  sure  to  ask  me  for  them,"  she  cried  in 
dismay,  "and  I  could  not  refuse  him." 

"Well,  then,  dear  Marguerite,  you  can  secure  the  money 
by  robbing  yourself.  Invest  it  in  the  funds  in  your  brother's 
name;  it  would  bring  you  in  twelve  or  thirteen  thousand 
livres,  and  you  could  manage  to  live  on  that.  An  emanci- 
pated minor  cannot  touch  his  principal  without  the  consent 
of  the  family  council,  so  you  will  gain  three  years  of  freedom 
from  anxiety.  In  three  years'  time  your  father  will  either 
have  solved  his  problem,  or,  as  is  more  probable,  he  will  have 
given  it  up  as  hopeless;  and  when  Gabriel  comes  of  age  he 
can  transfer  the  stock  into  your  name,  and  the  accounts  can 
be  finally  settled  among  the  four  of  you." 

Marguerite  asked  for  an  explanation  of  the  provisions  of 
the  law  which  she  could  not  understand  at  first,  and  again 
they  went  over  every  point.  It  was  certainly  a  novel  situation 
— two  lovers  poring  over  a  copy  of  the  Code,  which  Emman- 
uel  had  brought  with  him  in  order  to  make  the  position  of 
minors  clear  to  Marguerite.  Love's  penetration  came  to  the 
aid  of  her  woman's  quick-wittedness,  and  she  soon  grasped 
the  gist  of  the  matter. 

The  next  day  Gabriel  returned  home.  M.  de  Solis  came 
also,  and  from  him  Balthazar  heard  the  news  of  his  son's 
admission  to  the  Ecole  polytechnique.  Claes  expressed  his 
acknowledgments  by  a  wave  of  the  hand.  "I  am  very  glad 
to  hear  it,"  he  said;  "so  Gabriel  is  to  be  a  scientific  man,  is 
he?"  and  the  head  of  the  house  returned  to  his  laboratory. 

"Gabriel,"  said  Marguerite,  as  Balthazar  went,  "you  must 
work  hard,  and  you  must  not  be  extravagant.  Do  as  others 
do,  but  be  very  careful;  and  while  you  are  in  Paris  spend 
your  holidays  with  our  friends  and  relations  there,  and  do 
not  contract  the  expensive  habits  which  ruin  young  men. 
Your  necessary  expenses  will  amount  to  nearly  a  thousand 
crowns,  so  you  will  have  a  thousand  francs  left  for  pocket 
money.    That  should  be  enough." 

"I  will  answer  for  him,"  said  Emmanuel  de  Solis,  laying 
his  hand  on  his  pupil's  shoulder. 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  143 

A  month  later  M.  do  Conyneks  and  Marguerite  had  ob- 
tvjned  all  the  required  guarantee  from  M.  Claes.  Emman- 
uel's prudent  advice  had  been  approved  and  carried  out  to 
the  letter.  Balthazar  felt  ashamed  of  the  sale  of  the  forest. 
His  creditors  had  harassed  him,  until  he  had  been  driven  to 
take  this  rash  step  to  escape  from  them ;  and  now,  when  he  was 
confronted  with  the  consequences  of  his  deeds,  when  he  was 
face  to  face,  moreover,  with  his  stern  cousin,  who  was  inflex- 
iWe  where  honor  was  concerned,  he  did  all  that  was  required 
of  him.  He  was,  in  fact,  not  ill  pleased  to  repair  so  easily  the 
mischief  he  had  half  unconsciously  wrought.  He  put  his 
signature  to  the  various  papers  laid  before  him  with  the  pre- 
occupied air  of  a  man  for  whom  science  was  the  one  reality, 
and  all  things  else  of  no  moment.  He  had  no  more  foresight 
than  the  negro  who  sells  his  wife  in  the  morning  for  a  drop 
of  brandy,  and  sheds  tears  over  her  loss  in  the  evening.  Ap- 
parently he  could  not  look  forward :  even  the  immediate 
future  was  beyond  his  ken;  he  never  stopped  to  ask  himself 
what  must  happen  when  his  last  ducat  had  been  thrown  into 
the  furnace,  and  prosecuted  his  researches  as  recklessly  as 
before.  He  neither  knew  nor  cared  to  know  that  the  house 
in  which  he  lived  was  his  only  in  name,  and,  like  his  estates, 
had  passed  into  other  hands ;  he  did  not  realize  the  fact  that 
(thanks  to  the  stringent  regulations  of  the  law)  he  could 
not  raise  another  penny  on  the  property  of  which  he  was  in 
a  manner  the  legal  guardian. 

The  year  1818  went  by,  and  no  untoward  event  occurred. 
The  two  girls  just  managed  to  defray  the  necessary  expenses 
of  the  housekeeping  and  of  Jean's  education  with  the  interest 
of  the  money  invested  in  Gabriel's  name,  which  he  punctually 
remitted  every  quarter.  M.  de  Solis  lost  his  uncle  in  the 
December  of  that  year. 

One  morning  Marguerite  heard  from  Martha  that  her 
father  had  sold  his  collection  of  tulips,  the  furniture  of  the 
state  apartments,  and  all  their  remaining  plate.  She  was 
compelled  to  repurchase  the  necessary  silver  for  daily  use  her- 
self, and  to  have  it  marked  with  Jber  own  initials.    Hitherto 


144  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

she  had  watched  Balthazar's  depredations  in  bilence ;  hut  after 
dinner  that  evening  she  asked  Felicie  to  leave  her  alone  with 
her  father,  and  when  he  had  seated  himself  by  the  fireside 
as  usual,  Marguerite  spoke. 

"Yau  are  the  master  here,  dear  father,"  she  said;  '^you 
can  sell  everything,  even  your  children.  We  will  all  obey  you 
without  a  murmur ;  but  I  must  point  out  to  you  that  we  have 
no  money  left,  that  we  have  scarcely  enough  to  live  upon 
this  year,  and  that  Felicie  and  I  have  to  work  night  and  day 
to  earn  the  money  to  pay  for  Jean's  school  expenses  by  the 
lace  dress  which  we  are  making.  Father  dear,  give  up  your 
researches,  I  implore  you." 

"You  are  right,  dear  child;  in  six  weeks  they  will 
come  to  an  end.  I  shall  have  discovered  the  Absolute,  or  the 
Absolute  will  be  proved  to  be  undiscoverable.  You  will  have 
millions " 

"But  leave  us  bread  to  eat  meanwhile,"  pleaded  Marguerite. 

"Bread?  Is  there  no  bread  in  the  house?"  said  Claes  in 
blank  dismay.  "No  bread  in  the  house  of  a  Claes !  What 
has  become  of  all  our  property?" 

"You  have  cut  down  the  forest  of  Waignies.  The  ground 
has  not  been  cleared  as  yet,  so  it  brings  in  nothing,  and  the 
rents  of  the  farms  at  Orchies  are  not  sufficient  to  pay  interest 
on  the  mortgages." 

"Then  how  do  we  live?"  he  asked. 

Marguerite  held  up  her  needle. 

"The  interest  on  Gabriel's  money  helps  us,"  she  added, 
"but  it  is  not  enough.  I  shall  just  make  both  ends  meet  at 
the  end  of  the  year  if  you  do  not  overwhelm  me  with  bills 
that  I  did  not  expect,  for  you  say  nothing  about  3'^our  pur- 
chases. I  feel  quite  sure  that  I  have  enough  to  meet  my 
quarterly  expenses,  it  is  all  planned  out  so  carefully, — and 
then  a  bill  is  sent  in  for  soda  or  potash,  or  zinc  or  sulphur, 
and  all  sorts  of  things." 

"Have  patience  and  wait  another  six  weeks,  dear  child, 
and  then  I  will  be  very  prudent.  You  shall  see  wonders,  my 
little  Marguerite." 


THE  QUEST  OP  THE  ABSOLUTE  145 

"It  is  quite  time  to  think  of  your  own  affairs.  Yol  have 
sold  everything;  pictures,  tulips,  silver-plate — nothing  is  left 
to  us;  but  at  any  rate  you  will  not  run  into  debt  again?" 

"I  am  determined  to  make  no  more  debts." 

"No  more  debts  !"  she  cried.     "Then  there  are  debts  ?" 

"Oh!  nothing,  nothing,  mere  trifles,"  he  said  reddening, 
as  he  lowered  his  eyes. 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life  Marguerite  felt  humiliated 
by  her  father's  humiliation;  it  was  so  painful  to  her,  that 
she  could  not  bring  herself  to  inquire  into  the  matter;  but  a 
month  later  a  messenger  came  from  a  Douai  bank  with  a 
bill  of  exchange  for  ten  thousand  francs,  which  bore  Claes' 
signature.  When  Marguerite  asked  for  a  day's  delay,  and 
expressed  her  regret  that  she  had  not  received  any  notice  and 
so  was  unprepared  to  meet  the  bill,  the  messenger  informed 
her  that  Messieurs  Protez  and  Chiffreville  held  nine  others, 
each  for  a  like  amount,  which  would  fall  due  in  consecutive 
months. 

"It  is  all  over  with  us !"  cried  Marguerite,  "the  time  has 
come."  * 

She  sent  for  her  father,  and  walked  restlessly  up  and  down 
the  parlor  speaking  to  herself,  "A  hundred  thousand  francs, 
or  our  father  must  go  to  prison !  .  .  .  What  shall  I  do  ? 
Oh  !  what  shall  I  do?" 

Balthazar  did  not  come.  Marguerite  grew  tired  of  waiting, 
and  went  up  to  the  laboratory.  She  paused  in  the  doorway, 
and  saw  her  father  standing  in  a  brilliant  patch  of  sunlight 
in  the  middle  of  a  vast  room  filled  with  machinery  and  dusty 
glass  vessels ;  the  tables  that  stood  here  and  there  were  loaded 
with  books  and  numbered  and  ticketed  specimens  of  various 
Fubstances;  yet  other  specimens  were  heaped  on  the  shelves, 
along  the  walls,  or  flung  down  beside  the  furnaces.  There 
was  something  repugnant  to  orderly  Flemish  prejudices  in  all 
this  confused  litter.  Balthazar's  tall  figure  rose  above  a  col- 
lection of  flasks  and  retorts;  he  had  thrown  off  his  coat  and 
rolled  back  his  sleeves  above  the  elbows  like  a  workman,  his 
shirt  was  unfastened,  exposing  his  chest,  covered  with  white 


146  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

hair.  He  was  gazing  with  frightful  intentness  on  an  air 
pump,  from  which  he  never  took  his  eyes.  The  receiver  of 
the  instrument  was  covered  by  a  lens  constructed  of  two 
convex  glasses,  the  space  between  them  being  filled  with 
alcohol;  the  sunlight  that  entered  the  room  through  one  of 
the  panes  of  the  rose  window  (the  rest  had  been  careful]  s 
blocked  up)  was  thus  focused  on  the  contents  of  the  receiver. 
The  plate  of  the  receiver  was  insulated,  and  communicated 
with  the  wire  of  a  huge  voltaic  battery.  Lemulquinier  was 
busy  at  the  moment  in  shifting  the  plate  of  the  receiver,  so 
that  the  lens  might  be  maintained  in  a  position  perpendicular 
to  the  rays  of  the  sun;  he  raised  his  face,  which  was  black 
with  dust,  and  shouted,  "Ah !  mademoiselle,  keep  away !" 

She  looked  at  her  father,  who  knelt  on  one  knee  before  his 
apparatus,  perfectly  indifferent  to  the  rays  of  sunlight  that 
shone  full  on  his  face  and  lit  up  his  hair  till  it  gleamed  like 
silver;  his  brows  were  knotted,  every  muscle  of  his  face  was 
tense  vvith  painful  expectation.  The  strange  things  strewn 
around  him,  the  mysterious  machinery  dimly  visible  in  the 
semi-darkness  of  the  rest  of  the  attic,  everything  about  her 
combined  to  alarm  Marguerite. 

"Our  father  is  mad,"  she  said  to  herself  in  her  dismay. 

Then  she  went  up  to  him  and  whispered  in  his  ear,  "Send 
away  Lemulquinier." 

"No,  no,  child,  I  want  him ;  I  am  waiting  to  see  the  result 
of  an  experiment  which  has  never  been  tried  before.  For 
the  last  three  days  we  have  been  on  the  watch  for  a  ray  of 
sunlight;  everything  is  ready,  I  am  about  to  concentrate  the 
solar  rays  on  these  metals  in  a  perfect  vacuum,  submitting 
them  simultaneously  to  the  action  of  a  current  of  electricity. 
In  another  moment,  you  see,  I  shall  employ  the  most  power- 
ful agents  known  to  chemistry,  and  I  alone " 

"Oh,  father !  instead  of  reducing  metal  to  gas,  you  should 
keep  it  to  pay  your  bills  of  exchange " 

"Wait !  wait !" 

"But  M.  Mersktus  is  here,  father ;  he  must  have  ten  thou- 
sand francs  by  four  o'clock." 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  147 

^TTes,  yes,  presently.  It  is  quite  right ;  I  did  sign  a  bill  for 
some  small  amount  which  would  fall  due  this  month.  I 
thought  I  should  have  discovered  the  Absolute  before  this. 
Good  heavens  !  if  I  only  had  a  July  sun,  the  experiment  would 
be  over  by  this  time." 

He  ran  his  fingers  through  his  hair,  the  tears  came  into  his 
eyes,  and  he  dropped  into  an  old  cane-seatcd  chair. 

"That  is  quite  right,  sir,"  said  Lemulquinier.  "It  is  all 
the  fault  of  that  rascally  sun  that  won't  shine  enough,  the 
la^y  beggar." 

Neither  master  nor  man  seemed  to  remember  Marguerite's 
presence. 

"Leave  us,  Mulquinier,"  she  said. 

"Ah !"  cried  Claes,  "I  have  it !  We  will  try  a  new  experi- 
ment." 

"Father,  never  mind  the  experiments  now,"  said  the  young 
girl  when  they  were  alone.  "Here  is  a  demand  for  a  hundred 
thousand  francs,  and  we  have  not  a  farthing.  Your  honor  is 
involved;  you  must  come  down  and  leave  the  laboratory. 
What  will  become  of  you  if  you  are  imprisoned  ?  Shall  your 
white  hair  and  the  name  of  Claes  be  soiled  with  the  disgrace  of 
bankruptcy?  It  shall  not  be,  I  will  not  have  it,  I  will  find 
strength  to  combat  your  madness;  it  would  be  dreadful  to 
see  you  wanting  bread  in  your  old  age.  Open  your  eyes  to 
our  position;  come  to  your  senses  at  last !" 

"Madness !"  cried  Balthazar,  rising  to  his  feet.  A  light 
shone  in  the  eyes  he  fixed  on  his  daughter's  face,  "Madness!" 
There  was  something  so  majestic  in  his  manner  as  he  re- 
peated the  word  that  his  daughter  trembled.  He  folded  his 
arms.  "Ah!  your  mother  would  never  have  uttered  that 
word,"  he  went  on.  "She  did  not  shut  her  eyes  to  the  im- 
portance of  my  researches ;  she  studied  science  that  she  might 
understand  me;  she  saw  that  I  was  working  for  humanity, 
that  there  was  nothing  selfish  nor  sordid  in  me.  I  see  that 
a  wife's  love  rises  far  above  a  daughter's  affection;  yes,  love 
is  the  loftiest  of  all  feelings.  Come  to  my  senses !"  he  went 
on,  striking  his  breast.     "When  did  I  take  leave  of  them? 


148  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

Am  I  not  myself?  We  are  poor,  are  we?  Very  well,  my 
daughter,  I  choose  to  be  poor;  do  you  understand?  I  am 
your  father,  and  you  must  obey  me.  ^Tou  shall  be  rich 
again  when  I  wish  it.  As  for  your  fortune,  it  is  a  mere  noth- 
ing. When  I  find  a  solvent  of  carbon,  I  will  fill  the  parlor 
downstairs  with  diamonds,  but  even  that  is  a  pitiful  trifle 
compared  with  the  wonders  for  which  I  am  seeking.  Surely 
you  can  wait  when  I  am  doing  my  utmost,  and  spending  my 
life  in  superhuman  efforts  to " 

"Father,  I  have  no  right  to  ask  an  account  of  the  four 
millions  which  have  melted  away  in  this  garret.  I  vsdll  say 
nothing  of  my  mother,  but  your  science  killed  her.  If  1 
were  married,  I  should  no  doubt  love  my  husband  as  my 
mother  loved  you;  I  would  sacrifice  ever5?thing  for  him,  just 
as  my  mother  sacrificed  everything  for  you.  I  am  doing  as 
she  bade  me,  I  have  given  you  all  I  had  to  give;  you  have 
had  proof  of  it,  I  would  not  marry  lest  you  should  be  com- 
pelled to  render  an  account  of  jout  guardianship.  But  let  us 
say  no  more  about  the  past,  let  us  think  of  the  present.  You 
have  brought  things  to  a  crisis,  and  I  have  come  here  to  put 
it  before  you.  We  must  have  money  to  meet  these  bills;  do 
you  understand  me?  There  is  absolutely  nothing  left  but 
the  portrait  of  our  ancestor  Van  Claes.  I  have  come  in  my 
mother's  name;  my  mother,  whose  heart  failed  her  when 
she  had  to  struggle  for  her  children's  sake  against  their 
father's  will,  bade  me  resist  you ;  I  have  come  in  my  brothers' 
name  and  my  sister's;  father,  I  have  come  in  the  name  of 
all  the  Claes  to  bid  3^ou  cease  your  experiments,  and  to  re- 
trieve j'^our  losses  before  you  turn  to  chemistry  again.  If  you 
steel  yourself  against  me,  if  you  use  your  authority  over 
us  only  to  kill  us, — your  ancestors,  and  your  own  honor  plead 
for  me,  and  what  can  chemistry  urge  against  the  voices  of 
your  family  ?    I  have  been  your  daughter  but  too  well." 

"And  now  you  mean  to  be  my  executioner,"  he  said  in  a 
feeble  voice. 

Marguerite  turned  and  fled.  She  could  not  trust  herself  to 
play  her  part  any  Ioniser ;  her  mother's  voice  rang  in  her  ears. 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  149 

"Love  your  father,  and  do  not  cross  him — more  than  you  can 
help!" 

"Here  is  a  pretty  piece  of  work  of  mademoiselle's,"  said 
Lemulquinier,  as  he  came  down  into  the  kitchen  for  his  break- 
fast. "We  had  just  about  put  our  finger  on  the  Secret;  we 
only  wanted  a  blink  of  July  sunlight,  and  the  master — ah! 
what  a  man  that  is !  he  stands  in  the  shoes  of  Providence,  as 
you  may  say.  There  was  not  that"  he  said  to  Josette,  click- 
ing his  thumb  nail  against  his  front  teeth,  "between  us  and 
the  secret,  when,  presto !  up  she  comes  and  makes  a  fuss 
about  some  nonsensical  bills " 

"Good,  then,"  cried  Martha,  "pay  them  yourself  out  of 


your  wages 


'Am  I  to  eat  dry  bread  ?  Where  is  the  butter  ?"  demanded 
Lemulquinier,  turning  to  Josette. 

"And  where  is  the  money  to  buy  it  with?"  the  cook  an- 
swered tartly.  "What,  you  old  villain,  if  you  can  make  gold 
in  your  devil's  kitchen,  why  don't  you  make  butter  ?  It  is  not 
near  so  hard  to  make,  and  it  would  fetch  something  in  the 
market,  and  go  some  way  towards  making  the  pot  boil.  All 
the  rest  of  us  are  eating  dry  bread.  The  young  ladies 
are  living  on  dry  bread  and  walnuts,  and  you  want 
to  be  better  fed  than  your  betters?  Mademoiselle  has  only 
a  hundred  francs  a  month  to  spend  for  the  whole  household ; 
there  is  only  one  dinner  for  us  all.  If  you  want  luxuries,  you 
have  your  furnaces  upstairs,  where  you  fritter  away  pearls, 
till  they  talk  of  nothing  else  all  over  the  town.  Just  look  for 
your  roast  fowls  up  there  !" 

Lemulquinier  took  up  his  bread  and  left  the  kitchen. 

"He  will  buy  something  with  his  own  money,"  said  Martha ; 
"all  the  better,  it  is  so  much  saved.  Isn't  he  a  stingy  old 
heathen  ?" 

"We  must  starve  him,  that  is  the  only  way,"  said  Josette. 
"He  has  not  waxed  a  single  floor  this  week,  that  he  hasn't; 
he  is  always  up  above,  and  I  am  doing  his  work ;  he  may  just 
as  well  pay  me  for  it  by  treating  us  to  a  few  herrings:  if  he 
brings  any  home  I  shall  look  after  them," 


150  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

"Ah!"  said  Martha,  "there  is  Mile.  Marguerite  crying. 
Her  old  wizard  of  a  father  would  gobble  down  the  house 
without  sa^dng  grace.  In  my  countiy  they  would  have  burned 
him  alive  for  a  sorcerer  long  before  this;  but  they  have  no 
more  religion  here  than  Moorish  infidels." 

In  spite  of  herself,  Mile.  Claes  was  sobbing  as  she  came 
through  the  gallery.  She  reached  her  room,  sought  for  her 
mother's  letter,  and  read  as  follows : — 

"My  Child, — If  God  so  wills,  my  spirit  will  be  with  you 
as  you  read  these  lines,  the  last  that  I  shall  ever  write ;  they 
are  full  of  love  for  my  dear  little  ones,  left  to  the  mercy  of  a 
fiend  who  was  too  strong  for  me,  a  fiend  who  will 
have  devoured  your  last  morsel  of  bread,  as  he  gnawed 
my  life  and  my  love!  You  knew,  my  darling,  if  I 
loved  your  father,  and  my  love  for  him  is  failing  now  as  I 
die,  for  I  am  taking  precautions  against  him :  I  am  doing 
that  which  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  confess  in  my  lifetime. 
Yes,  in  the  depths  of  my  grave  I  treasure  a  last  resource  for 
you,  until  the  day  comes  when  you  will  know  the  last  ex- 
tremity of  misfortune.  If  he  has  brought  you  to  absolute 
want,  my  child;  if  the  honor  of  our  house  is  at  stake,  you 
must  ask  M.  de  Solis,  if  he  is  still  living,  or  if  not,  his 
nephew,  our  good  Emmanuel,  for  a  hundred  and  seventy 
thousand  francs,  which  are  yours,  and  which  will  enable  you 
to  live.  And  if  at  last  you  find  that  nothing  can  check  this 
passion,  if  the  thought  of  his  children's  welfare  proves  no 
stronger  a  restraint  than  did  a  regard  for  my  happiness,  and 
he  should  wrong  you  still  further,  then  leave  your  father,  for 
your  lives  at  any  rate  must  not  be  sacrificed  to  his.  I  could 
not  desert  him;  my  place  was  at  his  side.  It  rests  with  you. 
Marguerite,  to  save  the  family;  you  must  protect  Gabriel, 
Jean,  and  Felicie  at  all  costs.  Take  courage,  be  the  guardian 
angel  of  the  Claes ;  and  you  must  be  firm.  Marguerite,  I  dare 
not  say  be  ruthless;  but  if  the  evil  that  has  been  already 
wrought  is  to  be  even  partially  repaired,  you  must  save  soiue- 
thing,  you  must  think  of  yourself  as  being  on  the  brink  of 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  151 

dire  poverty,  for  nothing  can  stem  the  course  of  the  passion 
which  took  all  I  had  in  the  world  from  me.  So,  my  child, 
out  of  the  fulness  of  affection  you  must  refuse  to  listen  to 
the  promptings  of  affection;  you  may  have  to  deceive  your 
father,  but  the  deceptions  will  be  a  glory  to  you,  there  will  be 
hard  things  to  say  and  do,  and  you  will  feel  guilty,  but  they 
will  be  heroic  deeds  if  they  are  done  to  protect  your  defence- 
less brothers  and  sister.  Our  good  and  upright  M.  de  Solis 
assured  me  of  this,  and  never  was  there  a  clearer  and  more 
scrupulous  conscience  than  his.  I  could  never  have  brought 
myself  to  speak  the  words  I  have  written,  not  even  at  the 
point  of  death.  And  yet — be  tender  and  reverent  in  this 
hideous  struggle ;  soften  your  refusals,  and  resist  him  on  your 
knees.  Not  even  death  will  have  put  an  end  to  my  sorrow  and 
my  tears  .  .  .  Kiss  my  dear  children  for  me  now  that 
you  are  to  become  their  sole  guardian,  and  may  God  and  all 
the  saints  be  with  you,  Josephine." 

A  receipt  was  enclosed  from  the  Messieurs  de  Solis,  uncle 
and  nephew,  for  the  amount  deposited  in  their  hands  by  Mme. 
Claes,  which  they  undertook  to  refund  to  her  children  if  her 
family  should  present  the  document. 

Marguerite  called  the  old  duenna,  and  Martha  hurried 
upstairs  to  her  mistress,  who  bade  her  go  to  ask  M.  Em- 
manuel de  Solis  to  come  to  the  Maison  Claes. 

"How  noble  and  honorable  he  is !"  she  thought ;  "^Tie  never 
breathed  a  word  of  this  to  me,  and  he  has  made  all  my  trou- 
bles and  uifficultics  his." 

Emmanuel  came  before  Martha  had  returned  from  her 
errand. 

"You  have  kept  a  secret  which  concerned  me,"  she  said, 
HS  she  held  out  the  paper. 

Emmanuel  bent  his  head. 

"Marguerite,  this  means  that  you  are  in  great  distress?" 
he  asked,  and  tears  came  to  his  eyes. 

"Ah!  yes.  You  will  help  me,  you  whom  my  mother  calls 
'our  good  Emmanuel,' "  she  said,  as  she  gave  him  the  letter;' 


152  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

and,  in  spite  of  her  trouble,  she  felt  a  sudden  thrill  of  joji 
that  her  mother  approved  her  choice. 

"I  have  been  ready  to  live  or  die  for  you  ever  since  I  saw 
you  in  the  picture  gallery,"  he  answered,  with  tears  of  happi- 
ness and  sorrow  in  his  eyes;  "but  I  did  not  know,  and  I 
waited,  I  did  not  even  dare  to  hope  that  one  day  you  would 
let  me  die  for  you.  If  you  really  know  me,  you  know  that 
my  word  is  sacred,  so  you  must  forgive  me  for  keeping  my 
word  to  3'-our  mother;  I  could  only  obey  her  wishes  to  the 
letter,  I  had  no  right  to  ezercise  my  own  judgment " 

"You  have  saved  us !"  she  broke  in,  as  she  took  his  arm, 
and  they  went  down  together  to  the  parlor. 

When  Marguerite  had  learned  the  history  of  the  trust  fund 
she  told  him  the  whole  miserable  story  of  the  straits  to  which 
they  were  reduced. 

"We  must  meet  the  bills  at  once,"  said  Emmanuel,  "if 
they  have  been  deposited  with  Mersktus,  you  will  save  in- 
terest on  them.  Then  I  will  send  you  the  remaining  seventy 
thousand  francs.  My  poor  uncle  left  me  that  amount  in  gold 
ducats,  so  it  will  be  easy  to  bring  them  here,  and  no  one 
will  know  about  it." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "bring  them  at  night;  our  father  will  be 
asleep,  and  we  can  hide  them  somewhere.  If  he  knew  that 
I  had  any  money,  he  might  take  it  from  me  by  force.  Oh ! 
Emmanuel,  to  be  suspicious  of  one's  own  father!"  she  said, 
and  burst  into  tears  as  she  leant  her  forehead  against  his 
breast. 

It  was  in  this  piteous  and  gracious  entreaty  for  protection 
that  Marguerite's  love  spoke  for  the  first  time ;  love  had  been 
surrounded  from  its  first  beginnings  by  sorrow,  and  had 
grown  familiar  with  pain,  but  her  heart  was  too  full,  and  at 
this  last  trouble  it  overflowed. 

"What  is  to  be  done?  What  will  become  of  us?  He  sees 
nothing  of  all  this;  he  has  not  a  thought  for  us  nor  for  him- 
self, for  I  cannot  think  liow  he  can  live  in  the  garret,  it  is 
like  a  furnace." 

"But  what  can  you  expect  of  a  man  who  at  every  moment 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTS  153 

of  his  life  cries,  like  Richard  III.,  'My  kingdom  for  a 
horse  ?' "  answered  Emmanuel.  "He  will  be  inexorable,  and 
you  must  be  equally  unyielding.  You  can  pay  his  bills,  and 
let  him  have  your  fortune  if  you  will,  but  your  brothers'  and 
sister's  money  is  neither  yours  nor  his." 

"Let  him  have  my  fortune!"  she  repeated,  grasping  Em- 
manuel's hand  in  hers,  and  looking  at  him  with  sparkling 
eyes.  "This  is  your  advice  to  me?  And  Pierquin  told  me 
lies  without  end,  for  fear  I  should  part  with  it." 

"Alas !"  he  said,  "perhaps  I  too  am  selfish  after  my  own 
fashion.  Sometimes  I  would  have  you  without  a  penny,  for 
it  seems  to  me  that  so  you  would  be  nearer  to  me ;  sometimes 
I  would  have  you  rich  and  happy,  and  then  I  feel  how  poor 
and  petty  it  is  to  think  that  the  empty  pomp  of  wealth  could 
keep  us  apart." 

"Dear,  let  us  talk  no  more  about  ourselves " 

"Ourselves !"  he  exclaimed  in  ecstasy ;  then  after  a  moment 
he  went  on,  "The  evil  is  great,  no  doubt,  but  it  is  not  irrep- 
arable." 

"It  lies  with  us  to  repair  it;  the  family  has  no  longer  a 
head.  He  has  utterly  forgotten  all  that  he  owes  to  himself 
and  his  children,  and  has  lost  all  sense  of  right  and  wrong — 
for  he  who  was  so  high-minded,  so  generous,  and  so  upright, 
who  should  have  been  his  children's  protector,  has  squandered 
their  property  in  defiance  of  the  law.  To  what  depths  he 
must  have  fallen !     Good  God !  what  can  he  think  to  find  ?'* 

'TJnluckily,  dear  Marguerite,  however  culpable  he  may  be 
as  the  head  of  a  family,  he  is  quite  right  from  a  scientific 
point  of  view  to  act  as  he  does.  Some  score  of  men  perhaps  in 
all  Europe  are  capable  of  understanding  him  and  admire  him, 
though  every  one  else  says  that  he  is  mad.  Still,  you  are 
perfectly  justified  in  refusing  to  surrender  the  children's 
money.  There  is  an  element  of  chance  in  every  great  dis- 
covery. If  your  father  still  persists  in  working  out  his 
problem,  he  will  discover  the  solution  without  this  reckless 
expenditure,  and  very  possibly  just  at  the  moment  when  hs 
gives  it  up  as  hopeless/' 


154  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

"It  is  well  for  my  poor  mother  that  she  died  !'*'  said  Mar- 
guerite, "She  would  have  suffered  a  martyrdom  a  thousand 
times  worse  than  death.  The  first  shock  of  her  collision 
with  science  killed  her,  and  there  seems  to  be  no  end  to  the 
struggle " 

"There  will  be  an  end  to  it,"  said  Emmanuel,  "when  you 
have  absolutely  nothing  left.  There  will  be  an  end  to  M. 
Claes'  credit,  and  then  he  will  be  forced  to  stop." 

"Then  he  may  as  well  stop  at  once,"  said  Marguerite,  "for 
we  have  nothing  left." 

M.  de  Soils  bought  up  the  bills  and  gave  them  to  Mar- 
guerite. Balthazar  came  down  to  dinner  a  few  minutes 
earlier  than  usual.  For  the  first  time  in  two  years  his  daugh- 
ter saw  traces  of  emotion  on  his  face,  and  his  distress  was 
painful  to  see.  He  was  once  more  a  father;  reason  had  put 
science  to  flight.  He  gave  a  glance  into  the  courtyard,  and 
then  into  the  garden;  and  when  he  was  sure  that  they  were 
alone,  he  turned  to  his  daughter  with  sadness  and  kindness 
in  his  face. 

"Dear  child,"  he  said,  taking  her  hand  and  pressing  it  with 
earnest  tenderness,  "forgive  your  old  father.  Yes,  Margue- 
rite, I  was  in  the  wrong,  and  you  were  altogether  right.  I 
have  not  discovered  the  Secret,  so  there  is  no  excuse  for  me.  I 
will  go  away  from  here.  I  cannot  look  on  and  see  Van  Claes 
sold,"  he  went  on,  and  his  eyes  turned  to  the  martyr's  por- 
trait. "He  died  for  the  cause  of  freedom,  and  I  shall  die 
for  science ;  he  is  revered,  I  am  hated " 

"Hated,  father  ?  Oh !  no,"  she  cried,  throwing  her  arms 
about  him;  "we  all  adore  you,  do  we  not,  Felicie?"  she 
asked  of  her  sister,  who  came  into  the  room  at  that  mo- 
ment. 

"What  is  it,  father  dear?"  asked  the  little  girl,  slipping  her 
hand  into  his. 

"I  have  ruined  you  all.     .     .     ." 

"Eh !"  cried  Felicie,  "the  boys  will  make  a  fortune  for  us. 
Jean  is  always  at  the  head  of  his  class." 

"Wait  a  moment,  dear  father,"  Marguerite  added,  and  with 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  155 

a  charming  caressing  gesture  the  daughter  led  her  father 
to  the  chimneypiece,  and  drew  several  papers  from  beneath 
the  clock ;  "here  are  your  drafts,  but  you  must  not  sign  your 
name  to  any  more  bills,  for  there  will  be  nothing  left  to  pay 
them  with  another  time " 

"Then  you  have  some  money  ?"  Balthazar  said  in  his  daugh- 
ter's ear,  as  soon  as  he  had  recovered  from  his  surprise;  and 
with  all  her  heroism.  Marguerite's  heart  sank  at  the  words. 
There  was  such  frenzy  of  joy,  and  hope,  and  expectation  in 
her  father's  face:  his  eyes  were  wandering  round  the  room 
as  if  in  search  of  the  money. 

"Yes,  father,"  she  said  sadly,  "I  have  my  fortune." 

"Give  it  to  me  !"  he  cried,  with  an  eagerness  which  he  could 
not  control ;  "I  will  give  you  back  an  hundred-fold." 

"Yes,  I  will  give  it  to  you,"  said  Marguerite,  looking  at  her 
father,  who  did  not  understand  the  meaning  that  lay  beneath 
his  daughter's  words. 

"Ah !  my  dear  child,"  he  said,  "you  have  saved  my  life !  I 
had  thought  out  a  final  experiment,  the  one  thing  that  remains 
to  be  tried.  If  I  do  not  succeed  this  time,  I  must  renounce  the 
Quest  of  the  Absolute  altogether.  Come  here,  darling,  give 
me  your  arm;  if  I  can  compass  it,  you  shall  be  the  happiest 
woman  in  the  world ;  you  have  given  me  fresh  hopes  of  happi- 
ness and  fame;  you  have  given  me  power;  I  will  heap  riches 
upon  you,  and  wealth,  and  jewels." 

He  clasped  both  her  hands  in  his  and  kissed  her  forehead, 
giving  expression  to  his  joy  in  caresses  that  seemed  almost 
like  abject  gratitude  to  Marguerite.  Balthazar  had  no  eyes  for 
any  one  else  during  the  dinner;  he  watched  her  with  some- 
thing like  a  lover's  fondness  and  alert  attention;  she  could 
not  move  but  he  tried  to  read  her  thoughts  and  to  guess  her 
wishes,  and  waited  on  her  with  an  assiduity  which  embar- 
rassed her ;  there  was  a  youthf  ulness  in  his  manner  which  con- 
trasted strangely  with  his  premature  old  age.  But  in  reply 
to  his  caresses  and  attentions.  Marguerite  could  only  draw  his 
attention  to  their  present  distress,  either  by  giving  expression 
to  her  doubts,  or  by  a  glance  at  the  empty  tiers  of  shelves 
along  the  walls. 


156  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

"Pshaw!"  he  said,  "in  six  months'  time  we  will  fill  thera 
with  gold  plate  and  wonders.  You  shall  live  like  a  queen  in 
state.  All  the  earth  will  be  under  our  feet;  everything  will 
be  ours.  And  all  through  you,  my  Marguerite.  .  .  . 
Margarita!"  he  mused  smilingly,  "the  name  was  prophetic. 
j\Iarguerite  means  a  pearl.  Sterne  said  that  somewhere  or 
other.  Have  you  read  Sterne?  Would  you  care  to  read 
Sterne?    It  would  amuse  you." 

"They  say  that  pearls  are  the  result  of  some  disease,"  she 
said  bitterly,  "and  we  have  already  suffered  much." 

"Do  not  be  sad;  you  will  make  the  fortune  of  those  you 
love;  you  will  be  rich  and  great " 

"Mademoiselle  has  such  a  good  heart,"  said  Lemulquinier, 
and  his  colander  countenance  was  distorted  by  a  smile. 

The  rest  of  the  evening  Balthazar  spent  with  his  daughters, 
and  for  them  exerted  all  his  powers  of  conversation  and  the 
charm  of  his  personality.  There  was  something  magnetic  in 
his  looks  and  tones,  a  fascination  like  that  of  the  serpent; 
the  genius  and  the  kindly  wit  that  had  attracted  Josephine 
were  called  into  play;  he  seemed,  as  it  were,  to  take  his 
daughters  to  his  heart.  When  Emmanuel  de  Soils  came, 
he  found  a  family  group ;  the  father  and  children  were  talk- 
ing as  they  had  not  done  for  a  long  time.  In  spite  of  him- 
self, the  young  headmaster  fell  under  the  spell  of  the  scene; 
it  was  impossible  to  resist  Balthazar's  manner,  de  Solis  was 
carried  away  by  it.  Men  of  science,  however  deeply  absorbed 
in  watching  quite  other  phenomena,  bring  highly  trained 
powers  of  perception  to  the  least  details  of  daily  life.  Noth- 
ing escapes  their  observation  in  their  own  sphere;  they  are 
not  oblivious,  but  they  keep  to  their  own  times  and  seasons, 
and  are  seldom  in  touch  with  the  world  that  lies  beyond  that 
sphere;  they  know  ever}^thing,  and  forthwith  forget  it  all; 
they  make  forecasts  of  the  future  for  their  own  sole  benefit, 
foresee  the  events  that  take  others  by  surprise,  and  keep  their 
own  counsel.  If,  while  to  all  appearance  they  are  uncon- 
scious of  what  is  passing,  they  make  use  of  their  special  gift 
of  obsprvatiion  and  deduction,  they  see  and  understand,  and 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  157 

draw  their  own  inferences,  and  there  ivS  an  end  of  it;  work 
claims  them  again,  and  they  seldom  make  any  but  a  blunder- 
ing use  of  their  laiowledge  of  the  things  of  life.  At  times 
when  they  are  roused  from  their  social  apathy,  o  if  they 
happen  to  drop  from  the  world  of  ideas  to  the  worla  ^f  men 
and  women,  they  bring  with  them  a  well-stored  memory,  and 
are  by  no  means  strangers  to  what  is  happening  there.  So 
it  was  with  Balthazar.  He  had  quick  sympathies  as  well  as 
keen-sightedness,  and  knew  the  whole  of  his  daughters  life; 
he  had  guessed  or  learned  in  some  way  the  almost  imper- 
ceptible events  of  the  course  of  the  mysterious  love  that 
bound  her  to  Emmanuel;  he  let  the  lovers  feel  that  he  had 
guessed  their  secret,  and  sanctioned  their  affection  by  shar- 
ing in  it.  From  Marguerite's  father  this  was  the  sweetest 
form  of  flattery,  and  they  could  not  resist  it.  The  evening 
thus  spent  was  delightful  after  the  troubled  and  anxious  life 
the  poor  girls  had  led  of  late.  When  Balthazar  at  last  left 
them,  after  they  had  basked,  as  it  were,  for  awhile  in  the 
sunlight  of  his  presence,  and  bathed  in  his  tenderness,  Em- 
manuel de  Solis'  constrained  manner  changed;  he  emptied 
his  pockets  of  three  thousand  ducats,  of  wliich  he  had  been 
uneasily  conscious.  He  set  them  down  on  Marguerite's  work- 
table,  and  she  covered  them  with  some  house-linen  which 
she  was  mending.  Then  he  went  back  for  the  remainder. 
When  he  returned,  Felicie  had  gone  to  bed.  It  was  past 
eleven  o'clock,  and  Martha,  who  was  sitting  up  for  her  mis- 
tress, was  still  busy  in  Felicie's  room. 

'^^here  shall  I  hide  it?"  asked  Marguerite;  she  could  not 
resist  the  temptation  of  passing  the  coins  through  her  fin- 
gers, a  childish  freak,  a  moment's  delay,  which  cost  her  dear ! 

"Those  pedestals  are  hollow,"  said  Emmanuel ;  "I  will  raise 
the  column  off  its  base,  and  we  will  slip  the  gold  inside  it: 
no  one  would  think  of  looking  there  for  it." 

But  just  as  Marguerite  was  making  the  last  journey  but 
one  between  the  work-table  and  the  pedestal,  she  gave  a  shrill 
cry  and  let  the  piles  of  ducats  fall,  the  paper  in  which  they 
were  wrapped  gave  way,  and  the  gold  coins  rolled  in  all 


158  THE  QUEST  OP  THE  ABSOLUTE 

directions  over  the  floor;  her  father  was  standing  in  the 
doorway :  his  eager  look  terrified  her. 

"AVhat  ever  are  you  doing?"  he  asked,  looking  from  his 
daughter,  who  stood  transfixed  with  terror,  to  the  startled 
de  Solis,  who  had  hastily  risen  to  his  feet — too  late,  his 
kneeling  position  at  the  foot  of  the  pedestal  had  been  suffi- 
cient to  betray  him. 

The  din  of  the  falling  gold  rang  hideously  in  their  ears; 
the  coins  lay  scattered  abroad  on  the  floor,  a  sinister  augury 
of  the  future. 

"I  thought  so,"  said  Balthazar;  "I  felt  sure  that  I  heard 
the  rattle  of  gold     .     .     ." 

He  was  almost  as  excited  as  the  other  two;  one  thought 
possessed  them  both,  and  made  their  hearts  beat  so  violently 
that  the  sounds  could  be  heard  in  the  great  silence  which 
suddenly  fell  in  the  parlor. 

"Thank  you,  M.  de  Solis,"  said  Marguerite,  with  a  glance 
of  intelligence,  which  said :  "Play  your  part ;  help  me  to  save 
the  money." 

"What !"  cried  Balthazar,  with  a  clairvoyant  glance  at  his 
daughter  and  Emmanuel,  "then  this  gold ?" 

"Belongs  to  this  gentleman,  who  has  been  so  good  as  to 
lend  it  to  me  that  we  may  fulfil  our  engagements,"  she  an- 
swered. 

M.  de  Solis  reddened,  and  turned  as  if  to  go. 

"Monsieur,"  said  Balthazar,  laying  a  hand  on  his  arm, 
"do  not  slip  away  from  my  grateful  thanks." 

"You  owe  me  no  thanks,  M.  Claes.  The  money  belongs  to 
Mile.  Marguerite;  she  has  borrowed  it  of  me  on  security," 
he  answered,  looking  at  Marguerite,  who  thanked  him  by  an 
almost  imperceptible  movement  of  her  eyelids. 

"I  cannot  allow  that,"  said  Claes,  taking  up  a  pen  and  a 
slieet  of  paper  from  the  table  where  Felicie  had  been  writing. 
He  turned  to  the  two  bewildered  young  people. 

"How  much  is  there?"  he  asked. 

Balthazar's  ruling  passion  had  made  him  craftier  than  the 
m^  t  cunning  of  deliberate  scoundrels;  he  meant  to  have 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  159 

the  money  in  his  own  hands.     Marguerite  and  Emmanuel 
de  Sol  is  hesitated. 

'Let  us  count  it,"  said  Balthazar. 

"There  are  six  Miousand  ducats,"  Emmanuel  said. 

"Seventy  thousand  francs,"  returned  Claes. 

Marguerite  and  Emmanuel  exchanged  glances,  and  Em- 
manuel took  courage. 

"]\I.  Claes,"  he  said  respectfully,  "your  note  of  hand  is 
worth  nothing — pardon  the  technical  expression.  This  morn- 
ing I  lent  mademoiselle  a  hundred  thousand  francs  to  buy  up 
the  bills  which  you  were  unable  to  meet,  so  evidently  you 
are  not  in  a  position  to  give  me  any  security.  This  money 
belongs  to  your  daughter,  who  can  dispose  of  it  as  seems 
good  to  her;  but  I  have  only  lent  it  with  the  understand- 
ing that  she  will  sign  a  document  giving  me  a  claim  on  her 
share  of  the  land  at  Waignies,  on  which  the  forest  once 
stood." 

Marguerite  turned  her  head  away  to  hide  the  tears  that 
filled  her  eyes.  She  knew  Emmanuel's  purity  of  heart.  He 
had  been  brought  up  by  his  uncle  in  the  most  scrupulous 
practice  of  the  virtues  prescribed  by  religion;  she  knew  that 
he  held  lies  in  special  abhorrence;  he  had  laid  his  life  and 
his  heart  at  her  feet,  and  now  he  was  sacrificing  his  con- 
science for  her. 

"Good-night,  M.  de  Soils,"  said  Balthazar;  "I  had  not 
looked  for  suspicion  in  one  whom  I  regard  almost  with  a 
lather's  eyes." 

Emmanuel  gave  Marguerite  a  piteous  glance,  and  then 
crossed  the  courtyard  with  Martha,  who  closed  and  bolted 
the  house  door  after  the  visitor  had  gone. 

As  soon  as  the  father  and  daughter  were  alone  together, 
Claes  said : 

"You  love  him,  do  you  not  ?" 

"Father,  let  us  go  straight  to  the  point,"  she  said.  'TTou 
want  this  money  ?  You  shall  never  have  any  of  it,"  and  she 
began  to  gather  up  the  scattered  ducats,  her  father  helping 
her  in  silence.     Together  they  counted  it  over,  Marguerite 


160  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

showing  not  a  trace  of  distrust.  When  the  gold  was  once 
more  arranged  in  piles,  Claes  spoke  in  the  tone  of  a  desperate 
man: 

"Marguerite,  I  must  have  the  gold !" 

"If  you  take  it  from  me,  it  will  be  theft,"  she  said  coolly. 
"Listen  to  me,  father;  it  would  be  far  kinder  to  kill  us  out- 
right than  to  make  us  daily  endure  a  thousand  deaths.  You 
see,  one  of  us  must  give  way " 

"So  you  would  murder  your  father,"  he  said. 

''We  shall  have  avenged  our  mother's  death,"  she  said, 
pointing  to  the  spot  where  Mme.  Claes  had  died. 

"My  child,  if  you  only  knew  what  is  at  stake,  you  would 
not  say  such  things  as  these  to  me.  Listen !  I  will  explain 
what  the  problem  is.  .  .  .  But  you  would  not  under- 
stand I"  he  cried  in  despair.  "After  all,  give  it  to  me ;  be- 
lieve in  your  father  for  once.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  know  that  I 
gave  your  mother  pain;  I  know  that  I  have  squandered  (for 
that  is  how  ignorant  people  put  it)  my  own  fortune  and 
made  great  inroads  into  yours ;  I  know  that  you  are  all  work- 
ing for  what  you  call  madness  .  .  .  but,  my  angel,  my 
darling,  my  love,  my  Marguerite,  just  listen  to  me !  If  I 
do  not  succeed  this  time,  I  will  put  myself  in  your  hands; 
all  that  you  desire  I  will  do ;  I  will  give  to  you  the  obedience 
that  you  owe  to  me;  I  will  do  your  bidding,  and  administer 
my  affairs  as  you  shall  direct;  I  will  be  my  children's 
guardian  no  longer;  I  will  lay  down  my  authority.  I  swear 
it  by  your  mother !"  he  said,  shedding  tears  as  he  spoke. 

Marguerite  turned  her  head  away;  she  could  not  bear  to 
see  his  tears;  and  Claes,  thinking  that  this  was  a  sign  of 
yielding,  flung  himself  on  his  knees  before  her. 

"Marguerite !  Marguerite !  give  me  the  gold !  Give  it  to 
me  to  save  yourself  from  eternal  remorse.  What  are  twenty 
thousand  francs?  You  see,  I  shall  die;  this  will  kill 
me.  .  .  ,  Listen  to  me,  Marguerite!  My  promise  shall 
be  religiously  kept.  I  will  give  up  my  experiments  if  I  fail ; 
I  will  go  away;  I  will  leave  Flanders,  and  even  France,  if  you 
wish  it.    I  will  begin  again  a&  a  mechanic,  and  build  up  my 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  161 

fortune  sou  by  sou,  so  that  my  children  may  recover  at  last 
ail  that  science  will  have  taken  from  them." 

Marguerite  tried  to  persuade  her  father  to  rise,  but  he  still 
knelt  to  her,  and  continued,  with  tears  in  his  eyes: 

"Be  tender  and  devoted  this  once;  it  is  the  last  time.  If 
I  do  not  succeed,  I  myself  will  acquiesce  in  your  harsh  judg- 
ment. You  can  call  me  a  madman,  a  bad  father ;  you  can  say 
that  I  am  a  fool,  and  I  will  kiss  your  hands ;  beat  me  if  you 
will;  I  will  bless  you  as  the  best  of  daughters,  remembering 
that  you  have  given  me  your  very  life-blood." 

"Ah !"  she  cried,  "if  it  were  only  my  life-blood,  you  should 
have  it ;  but  how  can  I  look  on  and  see  my  brothers  and  sister 
murdered  in  cold  blood  for  science  ?  I  cannot !  Let  it  end !" 
she  cried,  drying  her  tears,  and  putting  away  her  father's 
caressing  hand  from  her. 

"Seventy  thousand  francs  and  two  months !"  he  said,  rising 
in  anger ;  "I  want  no  more  than  that !  and  my  daughter  bars 
my  way  to  fame,  my  daughter  stands  between  wealth  and 
me.  My  curse  upon  you !"  he  went  on,  after  a  moment's 
pause.  "You  have  neither  a  daughter's  nor  a  woman's  heart ! 
You  will  never  be  a  wife  nor  a  mother!  .  .  .  Let  me 
have  it !  Say  the  Word,  my  dear  little  one,  my  precious 
child.  I  will  adore  you !"  and  he  stretched  out  his  hands 
with  horrible  eagerness  towards  the  gold. 

"I  cannot  help  myself  if  you  take  it  by  force,  but  God  and 
the  great  Claes  look  down  upon  us  now,"  said  Marguerite, 
pointing  to  the  portrait. 

"Then  live,  if  you  can,  when  your  father's  blood  will  be 
on  your  head !"  cried  Balthazar,  looking  at  her  with  abhor- 
rence. 

He  rose,  looked  round  the  parlor,  and  slowly  left  it;  when 
he  reached  the  door,  he  turned  and  came  back  as  a  beggar 
might,  with  an  imploring  gesture,  a  look  of  entreaty,  but 
Marguerite  only  shook  her  head  in  reply. 

"Farewell,  my  daughter !"  he  said  gently ;  "try  to  live 
happily.". 

When  he  had  gone,  Marguerite  stood  for  awliile  in  dull 


162  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

bewilderment;  it  seemed  as  if  her  whole  world  had  slipped 
from  her.  She  was  no  longer  in  the  familiar  parlor;  she 
was  no  longer  conscious  of  her  physical  existence;  her  soul 
had  taken  wings  and  soared  to  a  world  where  thought  an- 
nihilates time  and  space,  where  the  veil  drawn  across  the 
future  is  lifted  by  some  divine  power.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
she  lived  through  whole  days  between  each  sound  of  her 
father's  footsteps  on  the  staircase;  and  when  she  heard  him 
moving  above  in  his  room,  a  cold  shudder  went  through  her. 
A  sudden  warning  vision  flashed  like  lightning  through  her 
brain;  she  fled  noiselessly  up  the  dark  staircase  with  the 
speed  of  an  arrow,  and  saw  her  father  pointing  a  pistol  at 
his  head. 

"Take  it  all !"  she  cried,  as  she  sprang  towards  him. 

She  fell  into  a  chair.  At  the  sight  of  her  white  face,  Bal- 
thazar began  to  weep — such  tears  as  old  meii  shed;  he  was 
like  a  child;  he  kissed  her  forehead,  speaking  incoherent, 
meaningless  words;  he  almost  danced  for  joy,  and  tried  to 
play  with  her  as  a  lover  plays  with  the  mistress  who  has 
made  him  happy. 

"Enough  of  this,  father !"  she  said ;  "remember  youi 
promise !    If  you  do  not  succeed,  will  you  obey  my  wishes  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Oh,  mother!"  she  cried,  turning  to  the  door  of  Mme. 
Claes'  room,  "you  would  have  given  it  all  to  him,  would  you 
not?" 

"Sleep  in  peace,"  said  Balthazar ;  "you  are  a  good  girl." 

"Sleep!"  she  cried;  "the  nights  that  brought  sleep  are  gone 
with  my  youth.  You  have  made  me  old,  father,  just  as  you 
gradually  blighted  my  mother's  life." 

"Poor  little  one!  If  I  could  only  give  you  confidenee,  by 
explaining  the  results  I  hope  to  obtain  from  a  grand  experi- 
ment that  I  have  just  planned,  you  would  see  then " 

"I  see  nothing  but  our  ruin,"  she  said,  rising  to  go. 

The  next  day  was  a  holiday  at  the  College  de  Douai.  Em- 
manuel de  Solis  came  with  Jean  to  see  them. 

"Well  ?"  he  asked  anxiously,  as  he  went  up  to  Marguerite, 

"I  gave  way,"  she  said. 


Shu  saw  her  fatlier  pointing  a  pistol  at  iiis  head 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  163 

"My  dear  life,"  he  answered,  half  sorrowfully,  half  gladly, 
"if  you  had  not  yielded,  I  should  have  admired  you,  but  I 
adore  you  for  your  weakness." 

"Poor,  poor  Emmanuel !  what  remains  for  us  ?" 

"Leave  everything  to  me,"  he  cried,  with  a  radiant  glance. 
"We  love  each  other ;  it  will  be  well  with  us." 

Several  months  went  by  in  unbroken  peace.  M.  de  Solis 
made  Marguerite  see  that  her  retrenchments  and  petty 
economies  were  absolutely  useless,  and  advised  her  to  live 
comfortably,  and  to  use  the  remainder  of  the  money  which 
Mme.  Claes  had  deposited  with  him  for  the  expenses  of  the 
household.  All  through  those  months  Marguerite  was 
harassed  by  the  anxiety  which  had  proved  too  heavy  a  burden 
for  her  mother;  for,  little  as  she  was  disposed  to  believe  in 
her  father's  promises,  she  was  driven  to  hope  in  his  genius. 
It  is  a  strange  and  inexplicable  thing  that  we  so  often  con- 
tinue to  hope  when  we  have  no  faith  left.  Hope  is  the  flower 
of  Desire,  and  Faith  is  the  fruit  of  Certainty. 

"If  my  father  succeeds,  we  shall  be  happy,"  Marguerite 
told  herself ;  Claes  and  Lemulquinier  said,  "We  shall  suc- 
ceed !"  but  Claes  and  Lemulquinier  were  alone  in  their  belief. 
Unluckily,  Balthazar  grew  more  and  more  depressed  day  by 
day.  Sometimes  he  did  not  dare  to  meet  his  daughter's  eyes 
at  dinner;  sometimes,  on  the  other  hand,  he  looked  at  her  in 
.triumph.  Marguerite  spent  her  evenings  in  seeking  ex- 
planations of  legal  difficulties,  with  young  de  Solis  as  her 
tutor;  she  was  always  asking  her  father  about  their  compli- 
cated family  relationships.  At  last  her  masculine  education 
was  complete;  she  was  ready  with  plans  to  put  into  execu- 
tion if  her  father  should  once  more  be  worsted  in  the  duel 
with  his  antagonist — the  Unknown  X. 

About  the  beginning  of  July,  Balthazar  spent  a  whole  day 
on  a  bench  in  the  garden,  absorbed  in  sad  thoughts.  Once 
and  again  he  looked  about  him,  at  the  bare  garden  beds, 
which  had  once  been  gay  with  tulips,  at  the  windows  of  his 
wife's  room,  and  shuddered,  doubtless  at  the  recollection  of 
all  that  this  Quest  had  cost  him.     He  stirred  from  time  to 


164  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

time,  and  it  was  plain  that  he  thought  of  other  things  than 
science.  Just  before  dinner,  Marguerite  took  up  her  needle- 
work, and  came  out  to  sit  beside  him  for  a  few  minutes. 

"Well,  father,  you  have  not  succeeded  ?'* 

"No,  my  child." 

"Ah !"  Marguerite  said  gently,  "I  am  not  going  to  utter  a 
word  of  reproach ;  indeed,  we  are  both  equally  to  blame ;  but 
I  must  claim  the  fulfilment  of  your  promise;  your  promise 
is  surely  sacred — you  are  a  Claes.  Your  children  will  never 
show  you  anything  but  love  and  respect;  but  from  to- 
day you  are  in  my  hands,  and  must  do  as  I  wish.  Do  not  be 
anxious ;  my  rule  will  be  mild,  and  I  will  do  my  best  to  bring 
it  quickly  to  an  end.  I  am  going  to  leave  you  for  a  month — 
Martha  is  going  with  me — so  that  I  may  see  after  your  af- 
fairs," she  added,  with  a  kiss,  "for  you  are  my  child  now, 
you  know.  So  Felicie  will  be  left  in  charge.  Poor  child! 
she  is  barely  seventeen ;  how  can  she  resist  you  ?  Be  generous, 
and  do  not  ask  her  for  a  penny,  for  she  has  nothing  beyond 
what  is  strictly  necessary  for  the  housekeeping  expenses. 
Take  courage;  give  up  your  investigations  and  your  theories 
for  two  or  three  years,  your  ideas  will  mature,  and  by  that 
time  I  shall  have  saved  the  necessary  money,  and  the  problem 
shall  be  solved.  Now,  then,  tell  me,  is  not  your  queen  a 
merciful  sovereign  ?" 

"So  all  is  not  yet  lost !"  the  old  man  answered. 

"No,  if  you  will  only  keep  your  word." 

"I  will  obey  you.  Marguerite,"  said  Claes,  deeply  moved. 

Next  morning  M.  Conyncks  came  from  Cambrai  for  his 
grand-niece.  He  had  come  in  his  traveling  carriage,  and 
only  staj^ed  in  his  cousin's  house  until  Marguerite  and  Mar- 
tha could  complete  the  preparations  for  their  journey.  M. 
Claes  made  his  cousin  welcome,  but  he  was  evidently  down- 
cast and  humiliated.  Old  M.  Conyncks  guessed  Balthazar's 
thoughts;  and  as  they  sat  at  breakfast,  he  said,  with  clumsy 
frankness : 

"I  have  a  few  of  your  pictures,  cousin ;  I  have  a  liking  for 
a  good  picture;  it  is  a  ruinous  mania,  but  we  all  have  our 
weaknesses " 


THE  QTTIOST  OP  THE  ABSOLUTE  165 

"Dear  uncle!"  remonstrated  Marguerite. 

"They  say  you  are  ruined,  cousin;  but  a  Claes  always  has 
treasures  here/'  he  said,  tapping  his  forehead,  "and  here  too, 
has  he  not?"  he  added,  laying  his  hand  on  his  heart.  "I 
believe  in  you,  moreover,  and  having  a  few  spare  crowns  in 
my  purse,  I  am  using  them  in  your  service." 

"Ah !"  cried  Balthazar,  "I  will  repay  you  with  treasures." 

"The  only  treasures  we  have  in  Flanders,  cousin,  are  pa 
tience  and  hard  work,"  said  Conyncks  sternly.     "Our  an- 
cestor there  has  the  two  words  graven  on  his  forehead,"  he 
added,  as  he  pointed  to  the  portrait  of  Van  Claes. 

Marguerite  kissed  her  father  and  bade  him  good-bye,  gave 
her  last  parting  directions  to  Josette  and  Pelicie,  and  set 
out  for  Paris  with  her  great-uncle.  He  was  a  widower  with 
one  daughter,  a  girl  of  twelve,  and  the  owner  of  an  immense 
fortune ;  it  was  not  impossible  that  he  might  think  of  marry- 
ing again,  and  the  good  people  of  Douai  believed  that  Mar- 
guerite was  destined  to  be  his  second  wife.  Eumors  of  this 
great  match  for  Marguerite  reached  Pierquin's  ears,  and 
brought  him  back  to  the  Maison  Claes.  Considerable  changes 
had  been  wrought  in  the  views  of  that  wide-awake  worthy. 

Society  in  Douai  had  been  divided  for  the  past  two  years 
into  two  hostile  camps.  The  noblesse  formed  one  group, 
and  the  bourgeoisie  the  other;  and,  not  unnaturally,  the  lat- 
ter cordially  hated  the  former.  This  sharp  division,  in  fact, 
was  not  confined  to  Douai ;  it  suddenly  split  France  into  two 
rival  nations,  small  jealous  squabbles  assumed  serious  pro- 
portions, and  contributed  not  a  little  to  the  widespread  ac- 
ceptance of  the  Revolution  of  July  1830.  There  was  a  third 
party  occupying  an  intermediate  position  between  the  ultra- 
Monarchical  and  ultra-Liberal  camps,  to  wit,  the  officials  who 
belonged  socially  to  one  or  other  circle,  but  who,  on  the  down- 
fall of  the  Bourbons  from  power,  immediatel}''  became 
neutral.  At  the  outset  of  the  struggle  between  the  noblesse 
and  the  bourgeoisie  the  most  unheard-of  splendor  was  dis- 
played at  coffee-parties.  The  Eoyalists  made  such  brilliantly 
successful  efforts  to  eclipse  their  Liberal  rivals  that  these 


166  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

epicurean  festivities  were  said  to  have  cost  some  enthusiastic 
politicians  tlieir  lives;  like  ill-cast  cannon,  they  could  not 
stand  such  practice.  Naturally  the  two  circles  became  more 
and  more  restricted  and  fanatical. 

Pierqui.n,  though  a  very  wealthy  man  as  provincial  for- 
tunes go,  found  himself  excluded  from  the  aristocratic  circle 
and  driven  back  upon  the  bourgeoisie.  His  self-love  had  suf- 
fered considerably  in  the  process;  he  had  received  rebuff 
upon  rebuff;  gradually  the  men  with  whom  he  had  formerly 
rubbed  shoulders  dropped  his  acquaintance.  He  was  forty 
years  of  age,  the  limit  of  time  when  a  man  who  contemplates 
marriage  can  tliink  of  taking  a  young  wife.  The  matches 
to  which  he  might  aspire  were  among  the  bourgeoisie,  but 
his  ambition  looked  longingly  back  towards  the  aristocratic 
world  from  which  he  had  been  thrust,  and  he  cast  about  for 
a  creditable  alliance  which  should  reinstate  him  there.  The 
Claes  family  lived  so  much  out  of  the  world  that  they  knew 
nothing  of  all  these  social  changes.  Claes,  indeed,  belonged 
by  birth  to  the  old  aristocracy  of  the  province,  but  it  seemed 
not  at  all  likely  that,  absorbed  as  he  was  by  scientific  inter- 
ests, he  would  share  in  the  recently  introduced  class  preju- 
dices. However  poor  she  might  be,  a  daughter  of  the  house 
of  Claes  would  bring  with  her  the  dower  of  gratified  vanity, 
which  is  eagerly  coveted  by  all  parvenus. 

Pierquin,  therefore,  renewed  his  visits  to  the  Maison  Claes. 
He  had  made  up  his  mind  to  this  marriage,  and  to  attain  his 
social  ambitions  at  all  costs.  He  bestowed  his  company  on 
Balthazar  and  Felicie  in  Marguerite's  absence,  and  discov- 
ered, rather  late  in  the  day,  that  he  had  a  formidable  rival  in 
Emmanuel  de  Solis.  Emmanuel's  late  uncle  the  Abbe  had 
left  his  nephew  no  inconsiderable  amount  of  property,  it 
was  said ;  and  in  the  eyes  of  the  notar}%  who  looked  at  every- 
thing from  an  undisguisedly  material  standpoint,  Emmanuel 
in  the  character  of  his  uncle's  heir  was  a  rival  to  be  dreaded : 
Pierquin  was  more  disquieted  by  Emmanuel's  money  than  by 
his  attractive  personality.  Wealth  restored  all  its  lustre  to 
the  name  of  de  Solis.    Gold  and  noble  birth  were  twin  glories 


THE  QUEST  OP  THE  ABSOLUTE  167 

that  reflected  splendor  upon  each  other.  The  notary  saw 
that  the  young  headmaster  treated  Felicie  as  a  sister,  and 
he  became  jealous  of  this  sincere  affection.  He  tried  to 
eclipse  Emmanuel,  mingling  conventional  phrases  of  gal- 
lantry with  the  small  talk  of  the  day,  and  the  airs  of  a  man 
of  fashion  with  the  dreamy,  pensive  melancholy  which  was 
not  ill-suited  to  his  face.  He  had  lost  all  his  illusions,  he 
said,  and  turned  his  eyes  on  Felicie  as  if  to  let  her  know 
that  she,  and  she  alone,  could  reconcile  him  with  life.  And 
Felicie,  to  whom  compliments  and  flattery  were  a  novelty, 
listened  to  the  language  which  is  always  sweet  to  hear,  even 
when  it  is  insincere ;  she  mistook  his  emptiness  for  depth ;  she 
had  nothing  to  occupy  her  mind,  and  her  cousin  became  the 
object  of  the  vague  sentiments  that  filled  her  heart.  Pos- 
sibly, though  she  herself  was  not  conscious  of  the  fact,  she 
was  jealous  of  the  attentions  which  Emmanuel  showed  her 
sister,  and  she  wished  to  be  likewise  some  man's  first  thought. 
Pierquin  soon  saw  that  Felicie  showed  more  attention  to  him 
than  to  Emmanuel,  and  this  encouraged  him  to  persist  in  his 
attempt,  until  he  went  further  than  he  had  intended.  Em- 
manuel looked  on,  watching  the  beginning  of  this  passion, 
simulated  in  the  lawyer,  artlessly  sincere  in  Felicie,  whose 
future  was  at  stake.  Whispered  phrases  were  exchanged  be- 
tween the  cousins  when  Emmanuel's  back  was  turned,  little 
colloquies,  trifling  deceptions,  which  gave  to  the  stolen  words 
and  glances  a  treacherous  sweetness  that  might  give  rise  to 
innocent  errors,  * 

Pierquin  hoped  and  intended  to  turn  his  intimacy  with 
Felicie  to  his  own  account,  and  to  discover  Marguerite's 
reasons  for  taking  the  journey  to  Paris;  he  wanted  to  know 
whether  there  was  any  question  of  her  marriage,  and  whether 
he  must  renounce  his  pretensions;  but,  in  spite  of  his  trans- 
parent manoeuvres,  neither  Balthazar  nor  Felicie  could  throw 
any  light  on  the  subject,  for  the  very  sufficient  reason  that 
they  themselves  knew  nothing  of  Marguerite's  plans;  on 
her  accession  to  power  she  seemed  to  have  adopted  the  max- 
ims of  statecraft,  and  had  kept  her  own  counsel. 


168  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

Balthazar's  brooding  melancholy  and  depression  made  the 
evenings  tedious.  Emmanuel  had  succeeded  in  persuading 
him  to  play  at  backgammon,  but  Balthazar's  thoughts  were 
elsewhere  all  the  while;  and,  as  a  rule,  the  great  chemist, 
with  all  his  intellectual  powers,  seemed  positively  stupid. 
His  expectations  had  come  to  nothing;  his  humiliation  was 
great;  he  had  squandered  three  fortunes;  he  was  a  penniless 
gambler;  he  was  crushed  beneath  the  ruins  of  his  house,  be- 
neath the  burden  of  hopes  that  were  disappointed  but  not  ex- 
tinct. The  man  of  genius,  curbed  by  necessity,  acquiescing 
in  his  own  condemnation,  was  a  tragic  spectacle  which  would 
have  touched  the  most  unfeeling  nature.  Pierquin  himself 
could  not  but  feel  an  involuntary  respect  for  this  caged  lion 
with  the  look  of  baffled  power  in  the  eyes  which  were  calm 
by  reason  of  despair,  and  faded  from  excess  of  light;  there 
was  a  mute  entreaty  for  charity  in  them  which  the  lips  did 
not  dare  to  frame.  Sometimes  his  face  suddenly  lighted  up 
as  he  devised  a  new  experiment;  and  then  Balthazar's  eyes 
would  travel  round  the  room  to  the  spot  where  his  wife  had 
died,  and  tears  like  burning  grains  of  sand  would  cross  the 
arid  pupils  of  liis  eyes,  grown  over-large  with  thought,  and 
his  head  would  drop  on  his  breast.  He  had  lifted  the  world 
like  a  Titan,  and  the  world  had  rolled  back  heavily  on  his 
breast.  This  giant  sorrow,  controlled  so  manfully,  had  its 
effect  on  Pierquin  and  Emmanuel,  who  at  times  felt  so  much 
moved  by  it  that  they  were  ready  to  offer  him  a  sum  of  money 
sufficient  for  another  Series  of  experiments — so  infectious  are 
the  convictions  of  genius !  Both  young  men  began  to  under- 
stand how  Mme.  Claes  and  Marguerite  could  have  flung 
millions  into  the  abyss;  but  reflection  checked  the  impulses 
of  their  hearts,  and  their  goodwill  manifested  itself  in  at- 
tempts at  consolation  which  increased  the  anguish  of  the 
fallen  and  stricken  Titan. 

Claes  never  mentioned  his  oldest  daughter,  showed  no  un- 
easiness at  her  prolonged  absence,  and  did  not  appear  to 
notice  her  silence,  for  she  wrote  neither  to  him  nor  to 
Felicie.     He  seemed  to  be  displeased  if  Soils  or  Pierquin 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  169 

asked  him  for  news  of  her.  Did  he  suspect  that  Marguerite 
was  plotting  against  him?  Did  ho  feel  himself  lowered  in 
his  own  eyes  now  that  he  had  abdicated  and  made  over  his 
rights  as  a  father  to  his  child  ?  Had  he  come  to  love  her  less 
because  they  had  changed  places?  Perhaps  all  these  things 
counted  for  something,  and  mingled  with  other  and  vaguer 
feelings  which  overclouded  his  soul;  he  chose  to  say  noth- 
ing of  Marguerite,  as  though  she  were  in  some  sort  in  dis- 
grace. 

Great  men,  however  great,  known  or  unknown,  lucky  or 
unlucky  in  their  endeavors,  are  still  human,  and  have  their 
weaknesses.  Unluckily,  too,  they  are  condemned  to  suffer 
doubly,  for  their  qualities  as  well  as  for  their  defects ;  and  per- 
haps Balthazar  was  as  yet  unused  to  the  pangs  of  a  wounded 
vanity.  The  days,  the  evenings  which  all  four  spent  to- 
gether, were  full  of  melancholy,  and  overshadowed  by  vague, 
uneasy  apprehensions,  while  Marguerite  was  away.  They 
were  days  like  a  barren  waste;  they  were  not  utterly  without 
consolations,  a  few  flowers  bloomed  here  and  there  for  them 
to  pluck,  but  the  house  seemed  to  be  shrouded  in  gloom  in 
the  absence  of  the  oldest  daughter,  who  had  come  to  be  its 
life  and  hope  and  strength.  In  this  way  two  months  went 
by,  and  Balthazar  patiently  awaited  his  daughter's  return. 

Marguerite  came  back  to  Douai  with  her  uncle,  who  did 
not  immediately  return  to  Cambrai.  Doubtless  he  meant  to 
give  support  to  his  niece  in  an  impending  crisis.  Mar- 
guerite's return  was  the  occasion  of  a  small  family  rejoicing. 
The  notary  and  M.  de  Solis  had  been  invited  to  dinner  by 
Felicie  and  Balthazar;  and  when  the  traveling  carriage 
stopped  before  the  door  of  the  house,  all  four  appeared  to 
receive  the  travelers  with  great  demonstrations  of  joy.  Mar- 
guerite seemed  glad  to  be  at  home  in  her  father's  house 
again;  tears  filled  her  eyes  as  she  crossed  the  courtyard  and 
went  to  the  parlor.  As  she  put  her  arms  round  her  father's 
neck,  other  thoughts  had  mingled  with  the  girl's  kiss,  and 
she  blushed  like  a  guilty  wife  who  cannot  dissemble;  but 
when  she  saw  Emmanuel,  the  troubled  look  died  out  of  her 


170  THE  QUEST  OP  THE  ABSOLUTE 

eyes,  the  sight  of  him  seemed  to  give  her  courage  for  the 
task  she  had  secretly  set  herself.  In  spite  of  the  cheerfulness 
on  every  face  and  the  gaiety  of  the  talk  at  dinner,  father  and 
daughter  studied  each  other  with  distrust  and  curiosity. 
Balthazar  did  not  ask  Marguerite  a  single  question  as  to  her 
stay  in  Paris,  paternal  dignity  doubtless  prevented  him ; 
Erajnanuel  de  Solis  was  equally  discreet;  but  Pierquin,  who 
had  so  long  been  acquainted  with  all  the  secrets  of  the  fam- 
ily, did  not  avoid  the  subject,  and  concealed  his  inquisitive- 
ness  under  an  assumption  of  geniality. 

"Well,  dear  cousin,"  he  said,  "did  jovl  see  Paris,  and  the 
theatres ?"' 

^'I  saw  nothing  of  Paris,"  she  answered ;  ""I  only  went  out 
when  I  was  obliged  to  go.  The  days  went  by  very  tediousl}! 
for  me ;  I  was  longing  to  see  Douai  again." 

"If  I  had  not  made  a  fuss,  she  would  not  have  gone  to 
the  opera ;  and  when  she  did,  she  found  it  tiresome !"  said 
M.  Cony  neks. 

None  of  them  felt  at  their  ease  that  evening,  the  smiles 
were  constrained,  a  painful  anxiety  lurked  beneath  the  forced 
gaiety;  it  was  a  trying  occasion.  Marguerite  and  Balthazar 
were  both  tortured  by  doubts  and  fears,  and  the  others 
seemed  to  feel  this.  As  the  evening  went  on  the  faces  of  the 
father  and  daughter  betrayed  their  agitation  more  plainly; 
and  though  Marguerite  did  her  best  to  smile,  her  nervous 
movements,  her  glances,  the  tones  of  her  voice  betrayed  her. 
M.  Conyncks  and  Emmanuel  de  Solis  seemed  to  understand 
the  noble  girl's  agitation,  and  to  bid  her  take  courage  by  ex- 
pressive glances ;  and  Balthazar,  hurt  at  not  being  taken  into 
confidence  while  steps  were  taken  and  matters  decided  which 
concerned  him,  gradually  became  more  and  more  reserved, 
and  at  last  sat  silent  among  his  children  and  friends. 
Shortly,  no  doubt.  Marguerite  would  inform  him  of  her  de- 
cisions. For  a  great  man  and  a  father  the  situation  was  in- 
tolerable. 

Balthazar  had  reached  the  time  of  life  when  things  are 
usually   freely  discussed   with  the  children   of  the   family. 


i 


THF  QOEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  171 

when  capacity  for  feeling  is  increased  by  wider  experience 
of  life;  his  face  grew  graver,  more  thoughtful  and  troubled 
as  the  time  of  his  extinction  as  a  citizen  drew  nearer. 

A  crisis  in  the  family  life  was  impending,  a  crisis  of  which 
some  idea  can  only  be  given  by  a  metaphor.  The  clouds  that 
bore  a  thunderbolt  in  their  midst  had  gathered  and  darkened 
the  sky,  while  they  laughed  below  in  the  fields;  every  one 
felt  the  heat  and  the  coming  storm,  looked  up  at  the  heavens, 
and  hurried  on  his  way. 

M.  Conyncks  was  the  first  to  go,  Balthazar  went  with  him 
to  his  room,  and  Pierquin  and  Emmanuel  took  their  leave  in 
his  absence.  Marguerite  bade  the  notary  a  friendly  good- 
night; she  said  nothing  to  Emmanuel,  but  she  clasped  his 
hand  tightly,  and  the  tears  stood  in  her  eyes  as  she  looked 
at  him.  She  sent  Felicie  away,  and  when  Claes  came  back 
to  the  parlor  she  was  sitting  there  alone. 

"My  kind  father,"  she  said  in  a  tremulous  voice,  "I  could 
not  have  brought  myself  to  leave  home  but  for  the 
gravity  of  our  position;  but  now,  after  agonies  of  hope  and 
fear,  and  in  spite  of  unheard-of  difficulties,  I  have  brought 
back  with  me  some  chance  of  salvation  for  us  all.  Thanks 
partly  to  your  name,  partly  to  our  uncle's  influence,  and  the 
interest  of  M.  de  Solis,  we  have  obtained  the  post  of  Eeceiver 
of  Taxes  in  Brittany  for  you ;  it  is  worth  eighteen  to  twenty 
thousand  francs  a  3'ear,  they  say.  Our  uncle  has  undertaken 
to  be  security  for  you.  Here  is  your  appointment,"-  she 
added,  drawing  a  paper  from  her  reticule.  "For  the  next 
few  years  we  must  retrench  and  be  content  with  bare  necessa- 
ries; you  would  find  it  intolerable  to  live  on  here  in  the 
house;  our  father  ought  at  least  to  live  as  he  has  alwa^'s 
been  accustomed  to  live.  I  shall  not  ask  you  to  spare  any 
of  your  income  for  us ;  you  will  spend  it  as  seems  good  to  you. 
But  1  entreat  you  to  remember  that  we  have  no  income,  not 
a  penny  except  from  the  amount  invested  in  the  funds  for 
Gabriel — he  always  sends  the  interest  to  us.  We  will  live  as 
if  the  house  were  a  convent;  no  one  in  the  town  shall  hear 
anything  about  our  economies.     If  you  lived  on  here  in 


172  THE  QUEST  OP  THE  ABSOLUTE 

Douai,  you  would  be  a  positive  hindrance  to  us  in  our  efforts 
to  restore  comfort.  Am  I  abusing  the  authority  you  gave 
to  me  when  I  put  you  in  a  position  to  re-establish  your  for- 
tune yourself  ?  In  a  few  years'  time,  if  you  choose,  you  will 
be  Eeceiver-General." 

"So,  Marguerite/'  Balthazar  said  in  a  low  voice,  "you  are 
driving  me  out  of  my  house " 

"I  did  not  deserve  such  a  bitter  reproach,"  said  Marguerite, 
controlling  the  emotions  that  surged  up  in  her  heart.  "You 
will  come  back  again  among  us  as  soon  as  you  can  live  in 
your  native  town  in  a  manner  befitting  your  name.  Besides, 
did  you  not  give  me  your  promise,  father?"  she  went  on 
coldly.  "You  must  do  what  I  ask  of  you.  Our  uncle  is 
waiting  to  go  with  you  to  Brittany,  so  that  you  may  not 
have  to  travel  alone." 

"I  shall  not  go !"  cried  Balthazar,  rising  to  his  feet ;  "I 
stand  in  need  of  no  one's  assistance  to  re-establish  my  for- 
tune and  to  pay  all  that  is  owing  to  my  children." 

"You  had  better  go,"  said  Marguerite,  with  no  sign  of 
agitation  in  her  manner.  "I  ask  you  simply  to  think  over 
our  respective  positions.  I  can  put  the  case  before  you  in 
a  very  few  words;  if  you  stay  in  the  house,  your  children 
will  go  out  of  it,  that  you  may  be  the  master." 

"Marguerite !"  cried  Balthazar. 

"And  the  next  thing  to  do,"  she  went  on,  without  heeding 
her  father's  anger,  "will  be  to  inform  the  minister  of  your 
refusal  to  accept  a  lucrative  and  honorable  post.  We  should 
never  have  obtained  it,  in  spite  of  interest  and  influence,  if 
our  uncle  had  not  adroitly  slipped  several  notes  for  a  thou- 
sand francs  into  a  certain  lady's  glove " 

"All  of  you  will  leave  me !" 

"Yes.  If  you  do  not  leave  us,  we  must  leave  you,"  she 
answered  "If  I  were  your  only  child,  I  would  follow  my 
mother's  example;  I  would  not  murmur  at  my  fate,  whatever 
you  might  bring  upon  me.  But  my  brothers  and  sister  shall 
not  die  of  hunger  and  despair  under  your  eyes;  I  promised 
this  to  her  who  died  there,"  she  said,  pointing  to  her  mother's 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  173 

bed.  ''We  have  hidden  our  troubles  from  you,  and  endured 
them  in  silence,  but  our  strength  fails  us  now.  We  are  not 
on  the  brink  of  a  precipice;  we  are  in  its  lowest  depths, 
father !  And  if  we  are  to  extricate  ourselves,  we  want  some- 
thing besides  courage ;  all  our  efforts  must  not  be  continually 
thwarted  by  the  freaks  of  a  passion " 

"My  dear  children !''  cried  Balthazar,  seizing  Marguerite's 
hand,  "I  will  help  you ;  I  will  work  with  you ;  I " 

"This  is  the  way,"  she  answered,  holding  out  the  minister's 
letter. 

"But,  my  darling,  it  would  take  too  long  to  restore  my 
fortune  in  this  way  that  you  are  pointing  out  to  me.  The 
results  of  ten  years  of  work  will  be  lost,  as  well  as  the  enor- 
mous sums  of  money  which  the  laboratory  represents.  Our 
resources  are  up  there,"  he  said,  indicating  the  garret. 

Marguerite  went  towards  the  door,  saying,  "Choose  for 
yourself,  father !" 

"Ah!  my  daughter,  3^ou  are  very  hard!"  he  answered,  as 
he  sat  down  in  an  armchair;  but  he  let  her  go. 

Next  morning  Marguerite  learned  from  Lemulquinier  that 
M.  Claes  had  gone  out.  She  turned  pale  at  this  simple  an- 
nouncement, and  her  face  spoke  so  eloquently  of  cruel 
anxiety,  that  the  old  servant  said,  "Do  not  alarm  yourself, 
mademoiselle;  the  master  said  he  would  come  back  again  at 
eleven  o'clock  for  breakfast.  He  never  went  to  bed  at  all  last 
night.  At  two  o'clock  this  morning  he  was  standing  by  one 
of  the  windows  in  the  parlor  looking  out  at  the  roof  of  the 
laboratory.  I  was  sitting  up,  waiting  in  the  kitchen;  I  saw 
him,  he  was  crying,  he  is  in  trouble ;  and  here  is  the  famous 
month  of  July  again,  when  the  sun  has  power  enough  to  make 
us  all  rich,  and  if  you  only " 

"That  is  enough !"  said  Marguerite.  She  knew  now  what 
the  thoughts  were  that  had  harassed  her  father. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  had  come  to  pass  with  Balthazar,  as 
with  all  homekeeping  people,  that  his  life  was  inseparable, 
as  it  were,  from  the  places  which  had  become  a  part  of  it. 
His  thoughts  were  wedded  to  his  house  and  laboratory;  he 


174  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

did  not  know  how  to  do  without  the  familiar  surroundings; 
he  was  like  a  speculator,  who  is  at  a  loss  to  know  what  to  do 
with  himself  on  public  holidays  when  he  cannot  go  on 
'Change.  All  his  hopes  dwelt  there  in  his  laboratory;  it  was 
the  one  spot  under  heaven  where  he  could  breathe  vital  air. 
This  clinging  to  familiar  things  and  places,  so  strong  an  in- 
stinct in  weak  natures,  becomes  almost  tyrannous  in  men  of 
science  and  learning.  Balthazar  Claes  was  to  leave  his  house ; 
for  him  this  meant  that  he  must  renounce  his  science  and  his 
problem,  or  in  other  words,  that  he  must  die. 

Marguerite  was  in  the  last  extremity  of  anxiety  and  fear 
until  breakfast  time.  The  thought  of  Balthazar's  attempt 
to  take  his  life  after  a  similar  scene  came  to  her  memory, 
and  she  feared  that  her  father  had  found  a  tragic  solution 
of  his  difficulties;  she  walked  up  and  down  in  the  parlor, 
and  shuddered  every  time  the  bell  rang  at  the  door.  Bal- 
thazar at  last  came  back.  Marguerite  watched  him  cross  the 
court,  and,  gazing  anxiously  at  his  face,  could  read  nothing 
but  the  traces  of  all  that  storm  of  grief  in  its  expression. 
When  he  came  into  the  parlor  she  went  up  to  him  to  wish 
him  good-morning;  he  put  his  arms  affectionately  about  her 
waist,  drew  her  to  his  breast,  kissed  her  forehead,  and  said 
in  her  ear: 

"I  have  been  to  see  about  my  passport." 

The  tones  of  her  father's  voice,  his  resignation,  his  caress 
almost  broke  poor  Marguerite's  heart;  she  turned  her  head 
away  to  hide  the  tears  which  she  could  not  keep  back,  fled 
into  the  garden,  and  only  came  back  when  she  had  wept  at 
her  ease.  During  breakfast  Balthazar  was  in  great  spirits, 
like  a  man  who  has  decided  on  his  course. 

"So  we  are  to  start  for  Brittany,  uncle,  are  we?"  he  said 
to  M.  Conyncks.  "I  have  always  thought  I  should  like  to 
sec  Brittany." 

"Living  is  cheap  there,"  the  old  uncle  remarked. 

"Is  father  going  to  leave  us  ?"  cried  Felicie. 

M   dc  Solis  came  in  with  Jean  at  that  moment. 

"You  will  let  him  spend  the  day  with  us,"  said  Balthazar, 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  175 

as  Jean  came  to  sit  beside  him ;  "I  am  going  away  to-morrow, 
and  I  want  to  bid  him  good-bye." 

Emmanuel  looked  across  at  Marguerite,  who  hung  her 
head.  It  was  a  melanclioly  day;  every  one  felt  sad;  eveiy  one 
tried  not  to  give  way  to  painful  thoughts  or  to  tears.  This  was 
no  ordinary  parting;  it  was  an  exile.  And  then,  every  one 
instinctively  felt  how  humiliating  it  was  for  a  father  thus 
to  proclaim  his  losses  by  leaving  his  family  and  accepting 
the  post  of  a  paid  official  at  Balthazar's  time  of  life;  but  he 
was  as  magnanimous  as  Marguerite  was  firm,  and  submitted 
with  dignity  to  the  penance  imposed  on  him  for  the  errors 
which  he  had  committed  when  carried  away  by  his  genius. 
When  the  evening  was  over,  and  the  father  and  daughter 
were  alone,  Balthazar  held  out  his  hand  to  Marguerite.  He 
had  been  as  gentle  and  affectionate  all  through  the  day  as  in 
the  happiest  days  of  the  past ;  and  with  a  strange  tenderness, 
in  which  despair  was  mingled,  he  asked,  "Are  you  satisfied 
with  your  father?" 

"You  are  worthy  of  him!"  answered  Marguerite,  turning 
to  the  portrait  of  Van  Claes. 

Next  morning  Balthazar,  followed  by  Lemulquinier,  went 
into  his  laboratory  to  take  leave  of  his  cherished  hopes.  Mas- 
ter and  man  exchanged  melancholy  glances  as  they  stood  on 
the  threshold  of  the  garret.  Everything  was  in  working 
order,  as  though  those  hopes  had  not  yet  perished,  and  they 
were  about  to  leave  it  all,  perhaps  for  ever.  Balthazar  looked 
round  at  the  apparatus  about  which  his  thoughts  had  hovered 
for  so  long;  there  was  nothing  there  but  had  its  associations 
for  him,  and  had  borne  a  part  in  his  experiments  or  his  in- 
vestigations. Dejectedly  he  bade  Lemulquinier  set  free  the 
gases,  evaporate  the  more  noxious  acids,  and  take  precautions 
against  possible  explosions.  As  he  saw  to  all  these  details, 
bitter  regrets  broke  from  him,  as  from  a  man  condemned  to 
death  when  they  are  about  to  lead  him  to  the  scaffold. 

"Just  look !"  he  said,  stopping  before  a  capsule  in  which 
the  two  wires  of  a  voltaic  battery  were  immersed;  "we  ought 
to  wait  to  see  the  result  of  this  experiment.  If  it  were  to  sue- 


176  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

ceed  my  children  would  not  drive  their  father  from  his  house 
when  he  could  fling  diamonds  at  their  feet.  Hideous 
thought !  .  .  .  Here  is  a  combination  of  carbon  and  sul- 
phur, in  which  the  carbon  plays  the  part  of  an  electro-posi- 
tive body;  crystallization  should  commence  at  the  negative 
pole,  and  in  the  case  of  decomposition  the  carbon  would  be 
deposited  there  in  a  crystalline  form." 

"Ah !  that  is  what  it  will  do !"  said  Lemulquinier,  looking 
admiringly  at  his  master. 

"But,"  Balthazar  went  on  after  a  moment  of  silence,  "the 
combination  is  submitted  to  the  influence  of  that  battery 
which  might  act " 

"If  monsieur  desires  it,  I  will  soon  increase- 


"N"o,  no;  it  must  be  left  just  as  it  is.  That  sort  of  crys- 
tallization requires  time,  and  must  be  left  undisturbed." 

"Confound  it !  the  crystallization  is  long  enough  about  it !" 
cried  the  man-servant. 

"If  the  temperature  were  to  fall,  the  sulphide  of  carbon 
would  crystallize,"  said  Balthazar,  letting  fall  stray  links  of 
a  chain  of  ideas  which  was  complete  in  his  own  mind;  "but 
suppose  the  action  of  the  batter}'  is  brought  to  bear  on  it 
under  certain  conditions  which  I  do  not  know  how  to  set  up. 
.  .  .  This  ought  to  be  carefully  watched  .  .  .  it  is 
possible.  .  .  .  But  what  am  I  thinking  of?  There  is  to 
be  no  more  chemistry  for  us,  my  friend ;  we  must  keep  books 
in  a  receiver's  office  somewhere  in  Brittany.     .     .     ." 

Claes  hurried  away  and  went  downstairs  to  breakfast  in 
his  own  house  for  the  last  time.  Pierquin  and  M.  de  Solis 
had  joined  them.  Balthazar  was  anxious  to  put  an  end  to 
the  death-agony  of  science,  said  farewell  to  his  children, 
and  stepped  into  the  carriage  after  his  uncle;  all  the  family 
came  with  him  to  the  threshold  of  the  door.  There,  as  Mar- 
guerite clung  to  her  father  in  despair,  he  answered  her  mute 
appeal,  saying  in  her  ear,  "You  are  a  good  child;  I  bear  you 
no  ill-will,  Marguerite." 

Marguerite  crossed  the  courtyard,  and  took  refuge  in  the 
parlor ;  kneeling  on  the  spot  where  her  mother  died,  she  made 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  171 

a  fervent  prayer  to  God  to  give  her  strength  to  bring 
the  heavy  task  of  her  new  life  to  a  successful  end.  She  felt 
stronger  already,  for  an  inner  voice  echoed  the  applause  of 
angels  through  her  heart,  and  with  it  mingled  the  thanks  of 
her  mother,  her  sister,  and  brothers.  Emmanuel  and  Pier- 
quin  came  in ;  they  had  watched  the  traveling  carriage  till  it 
was  out  of  sight. 

"Now,  mademoiselle,  what  will  you  do  next?"  inquired 
Pierquin. 

"Save  the  family,"  she  said  simply.  "We  have  about  thir- 
teen hundred  acres  of  land  at  Waignies.  I  mean  to  have  it 
cleared,  and  to  divide  it  up  into  three  farms,  to  erect  the 
necessary  farm  buildings,  and  then  to  let  them.  I  feel  sure 
that  in  a  few  years'  time,  with  plenty  of  patience  and  pru- 
dence, each  of  us  three,"  she  said,  turning  to  her  brother 
and  sister,  "will  possess  a  farm  of  about  four  hundred  acres, 
which  some  day  or  other  will  bring  in  fifteen  thousand  francs 
yearly.  My  brother  Gabriel's  share  must  be  this  house  and 
the  consols  that  stand  in  his  name.  Then  we  will  pay  off 
our  father's  debts  by  degrees,  and  give  him  back  his  estates 
when  the  time  comes." 

"But,  dear  cousin,"  said  Pierquin,  amazed  at  Marguerite's 
clear-headedness  and  calm  summing-up  of  the  situation, 
"you  will  want  more  than  two  hundred  thousand  francs  if 
you  are  going  to  clear  the  land  and  build  steadings  and  buy 
cattle.    Where  is  the  money  to  come  from  ?" 

"That  is  just  where  the  difficulty  comes  in,"  she  said,  look- 
ing from  the  lawyer  to  Emmanuel  de  Solis ;  "I  cannot  venture 
to  ask  any  more  of  my  uncle ;  he  has  already  become  security 
for  our  father.'" 

"You  have  friends !"  cried  Pierquin.  It  suddenly  struck 
him  that  even  yet  the  Claes  girls  were  worth  more  than  five 
hundred  thousand  francs  apiece. 

Emmanuel  looked  at  Marguerite  tenderly;  but  Pierquin, 
unluckily  for  him,  was  still  a  notary  in  the  midst  of  his  en- 
thusiasm. He  answered  accordingly,  "I  can  let  you  have  the 
two  hundred  thousand  francs  P 


1 78  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

Emmamiel  and  Marguerite  sought  counsel  of  each  otbei 
by  a  glance,  a  glance  that  sent  a  ray  of  light  through  Pier- 
quin's  brain.  Felicie  blushed  up  to  the  eyes;  she  was  so  glad 
that  her  cousin  had  proved  as  generous  as  she  had  wished. 
Marguerite  looked  at  her  sister,  and  guessed  the  truth  at  once ; 
during  her  absence  the  poor  cliild's  heart  had  been  won  hy 
Pierquin's  meaningless  gallantr3^ 

"You  shall  only  pay  me  five  per  cent,"  he  added,  "and  re- 
pay me  when  you  like;  you  can  give  me  a  mortgage  on  your 
farms.  But  do  not  trouble  yourself  about  it;  you  shall  have 
nothing  to  do  but  to  pay  the  money  when  all  the  contracts 
are  completed;  I  will  find  you  some  good  tenants,  and  look 
after  everything  for  you.  I  will  do  it  all  for  nothing,  and 
stand  by  you  like  a  trusty  kinsman." 

Emmanuel  made  a  sign  to  Marguerite,  beseeching  her  to 
refuse  this  offer,  but  she  was  too  much  absorbed  in  watching 
the  shades  of  expression  that  crossed  her  sister's  face  to  notice 
him.  After  a  moment's  silence  she  turned  to  the  lawyer  with 
an  ironical  glance,  and  answered  of  her  own  accord,  to  M. 
de  Soils'  great  joy. 

"You  have  stood  by  us,  cousin,"  she  said;  "1  should  have 
expected  no  less  of  you;  but  we  want  to  free  the  estates  as 
quickly  as  possible,  and  the  five  per  cent  interest  would 
hamper  us ;  I  shall  wait  till  my  brother  comes  of  age,  and  we 
will  sell  his  stock." 

Pierquin  bit  his  lips,  Emmanuel  began  to  smile  gently. 

"Felicie,  dear  child,  take  Jean  back  to  school,"  said  Mar- 
guerite, glancing  at  her  brother.  "Take  Martha  with  you. 
Be  very  good,  Jean,  my  darling,  and  do  not  tear  your  clothes ; 
we  are  not  rich  enough  now  to  buy  new  ones  for  you  as  often 
as  we  used  to  do.  There,  run  away  little  man,  and  work  hard 
at  your  lessons." 

Felicie  went  out  with  her  brother. 

"Cousin,"  said  Marguerite  to  Pierquin,  "and  you,  mon- 
sieur," she  added,  turning  to  M.  de  Solis,  "you  have  doubtless 
come  to  visit  my  father  while  I  was  away?  I  am  grateful  to 
you  for  this  proof  of  your  friendship,  and  I  am  sure  that 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  179 

you  will  do  no  less  for  two  poor  girls  who  will  stand  in  need 
of  your  advice.  Let  us  understand  each  other  clearly.  When 
I  am  in  Douai  I  shall  always  see  you  with  the  greatest  pleas- 
ure ;  but  when  Felicie  will  be  left  here  with  no  one  but  Josette 
and  Martha,  I  need  not  tell  you  that  she  can  receive  no  vis- 
itors, not  even  an  old  friend  and  a  cousin  so  devoted  to  our 
interests.  In  our  position  we  must  not  give  the  slightest 
occasion  for  gossip.  We  must  give  our  minds  to  our  work 
for  a  long  time  to  come  and  live  in  solitude." 

For  several  moments  no  one  spoke.  Emmanuel,  deeply 
absorbed  in  watching  Marguerite's  face,  was  dumb ;  Pierquin 
was  at  a  loss  what  to  say,  and  took  leave  of  his  cousin.  He 
felt  furious  with  himself;  he  suddenly  perceived  that  Mar- 
guerite loved  Emmanuel,  and  that  he  had  acted  like  the 
veriest  fool. 

"Look  here,  Pierquin,  my  friend,"  said  he  to  himself,  as  he 
went  along  the  street,  "any  one  who  called  you  an  ass  would 
say  nothing  but  truth.  What  a  stupid  dolt  I  am !  I 
have  twelve  thousand  livres  a  year  besides  my  professional 
income,  to  say  nothing  of  my  uncle  Des  Eaquets;  all  his 
money  will  come  to  me  some  of  these  days,  and  I  shall  have 
as  much  again  then  (after  all,  I  don't  want  him  to  die,  he 
is  thrifty),  and  I  was  graceless  enough  to  ask  Mlla  Claes 
for  interest !  ISTo !  After  all,  Felicie  is  a  sweet  and  good 
little  thing,  who  will  suit  me  better.  Marguerite  has  a  will 
like  iron;  she  would  want  to  rule  me,  and — she  would  rule 
me!  Come,  let  us  show  ourselves  generous,  Pierquin,  let  us 
have  less  of  the  notary.  I  cannot  shake  off  old  habits. 
Bless  me !  I  will  fall  in  love  with  Felicie,  those  are  my  senti- 
ments, and  I  mean  to  stick  to  them.  Goodness,  yes !  She 
will  have  a  farm  of  her  own — four  hundred  and  thirty  acres 
of  good  land,  for  the  soil  at  Waignies  is  rich,  and  before  long 
it  will  bring  in  from  fifteen  to  twenty  thousand  livres  yearly. 
My  uncle  Des  Eaquets  dies  (poor  old  gentleman!),  I  sell 
my  practice,  and  I  am  a"  man  of  leisure  worth  fifty  thousand 
livres  a  year, — fif — ty  thou — sand  livres!  My  wife  is  a 
Claes;  I  am  connected  with  several  families  of  distinction. 


180  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

Diantre!  Then  we  shall  see  if  Savaron  de  Savarus,  the 
Courtevilles,  and  Magalhens  will  decline  to  visit  a  Pierquin- 
Claes-Molina-Xoiirho !  I  will  be  ma3'or  of  Douai ;  I  shall 
have  the  Cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honor;  I  can  be  a  deputy, 
nothing  will  be  beyond  my  reach.  ...  So  look  out, 
Pierquin,  my  boy,  and  let  us  have  no  more  nonsense,  inas- 
nmeli  as,  upon  my  honor,  Felicie — Mademoiselle  Felicie  Van 
Claes  is  in  love  with  you.'' 

When  the  two  lovers  were  alone,  Emmanuel  held  out  his 
hand,  and- Marguerite  could  not  help  laying  her  right  hand 
in  his.  The  same  impulse  made  them  both  rise  to  their 
feet,  and  turn  to  go  towards  their  bench  in  the  garden;  but 
in  the  middle  of  the  parlor  her  lover  could  not  control  his 
joy,  and  in  a  voice  that  trembled  with  emotion,  he  said  to 
Marguerite : 

"I  have  three  hundred  thousand  francs  that  belong  to 
you "^ 

"How  is  that  ?"  she  cried ;  "did  my  poor  mother  leave  other 
sums  for  us  in  your  keeping  ?  .  .  .  No  ?  .  .  .  Then 
how  is  this?" 

"Oh!  my  Marguerite,  what  is  mine  is  yours,  is  it  not? 
Were  you  not  the  first  to  say  we  f 

"Dear  Emmanuel !"  she  said,  pressing  the  hand  that  she 
still  held,  and  instead  of  going  into  the  garden,  she  sat  down 
in  a  low  chair. 

"It  is  I  who  should  thank  you,"  he  said,  with  love  in  his 
voice,  "since  you  accept  it  from  me." 

"Dear  love,"  she  said,  "this  moment  atones  for  many  sor- 
rows, and  brings  us  nearer  to  a  happy  future !  Yes,  I  will 
accept  your  fortune,"  she  continued,  and  an  angelic  smile 
hovered  about  her  mouth ;  "I  know  of  a  way  to  make  it  mine." 

She  looked  over  at  Van  Claes'  portrait,  as  if  calling  on  her 
ancestor  to  be  a  witness.  Emmanuel  de  Solis  had  followed 
the  direction  of  her  eyes;  he  did  not  see  her  draw  a  little 
ring  from  her  finger;  he  did  not  notice  that  she  had  done  so 
until  he  heard  the  words : 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  181 

•*Out  of  the  depths  of  onr  sorrow  one  comfort  has  arisen; 
my  father's  indifference  leaves  me  free  to  dispose  of  myself," 
she  said,  holding  out  the  ring.  "Take  it,  Emmanuel;  my 
mother  loved  you,  she  would  have  chosen  you." 

Tears  came  to  Emmanuel's  eyes;  he  turned  pale,  fell  on 
his  knees,  and  said  to  Marguerite,  as  he  gave  her  the  ring 
Uiat  he  always  wore : 

"Here  is  my  mother's  wedding  ring.  My  Marguerite" 
(and  he  kissed  the  little  golden  hoop),  "shall  I  have  no  pledge 
but  this?" 

She  bent  forward,  and  Emmanuel's  lips  touched  her  fore- 
head. 

"Alas!  poor  love,  are  we  not  doing  wrong?"  she  said  in  a 
trembling  voice.    "We  shall  have  to  wait  for  a  long  while." 

"My  uncle  used  to  say  that  adoration  was  the  daily  bread 
of  patience;  he  spoke  of  the  Christian's  love  of  God;  but  in 
this  way  I  can  love  you.  Marguerite; — for  a  long  while  the 
thought  of  you  has  mingled  with  the  thought  of  God  so  that 
I  cannot  separate  them;  I  am  yours,  as  I  am  His." 

For  a  few  moments  they  remained  rapt  in  the  sweetest 
ecstasy.  Their  feelings  were  poured  out  as  quietly  and  nat- 
urally as  a  spring  wells  up  and  overflows  in  little  waves  that 
never  cease.  The  fate  which  kept  the  two  lovers  apart  was 
a  source  of  melancholy,  which  gave  to  their  happiness  some- 
thing of  the  poignancy  of  grief.  Felicie  came  back  again, 
all  too  soon  for  them.  Emmanuel,  taught  by  the  charming 
tact  of  love,  which  instinctively  divines  everything,  left  the 
two  sisters  together,  with  a  glance  in  which  Marguerite 
could  read  how  much  this  consideration  cost  him — a  glance 
that  told  her  how  long  and  ardently  he  had  desired  this  hap- 
piness which  had  just  been  consecrated  by  the  betrothal  of 
their  hearts. 

"Come  here,  little  sister,"  said  Marguerite,  putting  her  arm 
round  Felicie's  neck.  They  went  together  out  into  the  gar- 
den, and  sat  down  on  the  bench  to  which  one  generation  after 
another  had  confided  their  love  and  grief,  their  plans  and 
musings.    In  spite  of  her  sister's  gay  tones  and  shrewd,  kindly 


y82  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

smiie,  Felicie  felt  something  ver}^  like  a  tremor  of  fear. 
Marguerite  took  her  hand,  and  felt  that  she  was  trembling. 

"Mademoiselle  Felicie,"  her  older  sister  said  in  her  ear, 
"I  am  reading  your  heart.  Pierquin  has  been  here  ver\''  often 
while  I  was  away;  he  came  every  evening,  he  has  whispered 
sweet  words,  a.nd  you  have  listened  to  him." 

Felicie  blushed. 

*TDo  not  defend  yourself,  my  angel,"  Marguerite  answered ; 
"it  is  so  natural  to  love !  Perhaps  our  cousin's  character 
may  alter  under  the  influence  of  your  dear  soul ;  he  is  selfish, 
and  thinks  only  of  his  own  interests,  but  he  is  kind-hearted, 
and  his  very  faults  will  no  doubt  conduce  to  your  happiness, 
for  he  will  love  you  as  the  fairest  of  his  possessions,  you  will 
be  a  part  of  his  business  affairs.  Forgive  me  for  that  word, 
darling!  You  will  cure  him  of  the  bad  habit  of  thinking 
of  nothing  but  material  interests  by  teaching  him  to  occupy 
himself  with  the  affairs  of  the  heart." 

Felicie  could  onl}''  put  her  arms  round  her  sister. 

"Besides,"  Marguerite  went  on,  "he  is  well-to-do.  He  be- 
longs to  one  of  the  most  distinguished  and  oldest  bourgeois 
families.  And  you  cannot  think  that  I  would  put  obstacles 
in  the  way  of  your  happiness,  if  you  choose  to  find  it  in  a 
sphere  somewhat  beneath  you  ?" 

"Dear  sister !"  broke  from  Felicie. 

"Oh,  yes;  you  may  trust  me!"  cried  Marguerite.  ''What 
more  natural  than  that  we  should  tell  each  other  our  secrets  ?" 

These  words,  so  heartily  spoken,  opened  the  way  for  one 
of  those  delightful  talks  in  which  young  girls  confide  ever}''- 
thing  to  each  other.  Love  had  made  Marguerite  quick  to 
read  her  sister's  heart,  and  she  said  at  last  to  Felicie: 

"Well,  dear  little  one,  we  must  make  sure  that  the  cousin 
really  loves  3'^ou,  and  then " 

"Leave  it  to  me,"  said  Felicie,  laughing;  "I  have  an  ex- 
ample here  before  me." 

"Little  goose !"  said  Marguerite,  kissing  her  forehead. 

Pierquin  belonged  to  the  class  of  men  who  regard  marriage 
as  a  business  contract,  a  fulfilment  of  social  duties,  and  a 


THE  QUEST  OP  THE  ABSOLUTE5  183 

way  of  transmitting  property;  it  was  to  him  a  matter  of 
indiiTerence  whether  he  married  Marguerite  or  Felicie,  so 
long  as  both  bore  the  same  family  name  and  possessed  the 
same  amount  of  dower ;  j^et  he  was  quite  acute  enough  to  see 
that  both  of  them,  to  use  his  own  expression,  were  "romantic 
and  sentimental  girls,"  two  adjectives  employed  by  common- 
place people  to  ridicule  the  gifts  which  nature  sows  with  a 
grudging  hand  in  the  furrows  of  the  human  field.  Doubtless 
the  lawyer  concluded  that  he  had  best  do  at  Rome  as  the 
Romans  do;  for  the  next  day  he  came  to  see  Marguerite,  and 
with  a  mysterious  air  took  her  out  into  the  little  garden 
and  began  to  talk  "sentiment,"  since  this  was  a  necessary 
preliminary,  according  to  social  usages,  to  the  usual  formal 
contract  drawn  up  by  a  lawyer. 

"Dear  cousin,"  said  he,  "we  have  not  always  been  of  one 
mind  as  to  the  best  means  of  bringing  you  out  of  your  diffi- 
culties, but  you  must  acknowledge  that  I  have  always  been 
prompted  by  a  strong  desire  to  serve  you.  Well,  then,  yes- 
terday my  offer  of  help  was  completely  spoiled  by  an  unlucky 
trick  of  speaking,  due  simply  to  a  lawyer's  habit  of  mind. 
Do  you  understand  ?  My  heart  is  not  to  blame  for  the  absurd 
piece  of  folly.  I  have  eared  very  much  about  you,  and  we 
lawyers  have  a  certain  quick-sightedness ;  I  saw  that  you  did 
not  like  what  I  said.  It  is  my  own  fault !  Some  one  else 
has  been  cleverer  th^ii  I  was.  Well,  I  have  come  to  tell  you 
out  and  out  that  I  love  your  sister  Felicie.  So  you  can  treat 
me  as  a  brother,  dip  in  my  purse,  take  what  you  will ;  the  more 
you  take,  the  better  you  will  prove  your  regard  far  me.  I 
am  wholly  at  your  service,  without  interest — do  you  under- 
stand?— of  any  sort  or  description.  If  only  I  may  be  thought 
worthy  of  Felicie,  that  is  all  I  ask.  Forgive  me  for  my  mis- 
takes, they  are  due  to  business  habits;  my  heart  is  right 
enough,  and  I  would  throw  myself  into  the  Scarpe  rather 
than  not  make  my  wife  happy." 

"This  is  very  satisfactory,  cousin ;  but  the  matter  does  not 
rest  with  me.  it  rests  with  my  sister  and  father,"  said  Mar- 
guerite. 


184  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

"I  know  that,  dear  cousin,"  the  notar}'  answered,  '^hut 
you  are  like  a  mother  to  them  all;  besides,  I  have  nothing 
more  nearly  at  heart  than  that  you  should  judge  of  mine 
correctly." 

This  way  of  speaking  was  characteristic  of  the  honest 
notary.  Later  in  life,  Pierquin's  reply  to  an  invitation  from 
the  commanding  officer  at  Saint  Omer  became  famous;  the 
latter  had  asked  him  to  some  military  festivity,  and  Pier- 
quin's response  was  worded  thus:  "Monsieur  Pierquin-Claes 
de  Molina-Nourho,  Mayor  of  the  city  of  Douai,  Chevalier  of 
the  Legion  of  Honor,  will  have  that  of  being  present,"  etc. 

Marguerite  accepted  his  offer  only  in  so  far  as  it  related  to 
his  professional  advice,  fearing  to  compromise  her  dignity 
as  a  woman,  her  sister's  future,  or  her  father's  authority. 
The  same  day  she  confided  her  sister  to  the  care  of  Josette 
and  Martha,  who  were  devoted  body  and  soul  to  their  young 
mistress,  and  entered  into  all  her  plans  of  retrenchment; 
and  Marguerite  set  out  at  once  for  Waignies,  where  she  began 
to  put  her  schemes  into  execution  at  once,  benefited  by  Pier- 
quin's experience. 

The  notary  reckoned  up  the  time  and  trouble  expended, 
.and  regarded  it  as  an  excellent  investment;  he  was  putting 
them  out  to  interest,  as  it  were,  and,  with  such  a  prospect 
before  him,  he  had  no  mind  to  grudge  the  outlay. 

In  the  first  place,  he  endeavored  to  spare  Marguerite  the 
trouble  of  clearing  the  land  and  getting  it  ready  for  cultiva- 
tion. He  found  three  sons  of  wealthy  farmers,  young  men 
who  were  anxious  to  settle  themselves;  to  them  he  pointed 
out  the  attractive  possibilities  offered  by  such  a  fertile  soil, 
and  succeeded  in  letting  the  land  to  them  just  as  it  was,  on 
a  long  lease.  For  the  first  three  years  they  were  to  pay  no 
rent  at  all,  in  the  fourth  they  undertook  to  pay  six  thousand 
francs,  twelve  thousand  in  the  sixth,  and  after  that,  fifteen 
thousand  francs  yearly  till  the  expiration  of  the  lease.  The> 
also  undertook  to  drain  the  Innd,  to  make  plantations,  and 
purchase  cattle.  While  the  steadings  were  in  course  of  erec- 
tion they  began  to  clear  the  ground. 


THE  QUEST  OP  THE  ABSOLUTE  185 

Four  years  after  Balthazar's  departure,  Marguerite  had 
almost  retrieved  the  fortunes  of  her  brother  and  sister.  Two 
hundred  thousand  francs,  lent  by  Emmanuel  de  Solis,  had 
covered  the  expenses  of  the  farm  buildings.  Advice  and 
more  substantial  help  had  been  readily  given  to  the  brave 
girl,  for  every  one  admired  Marguerite's  courage.  She  per- 
sonally superintended  the  building  operations,  and  looked 
after  her  contracts  and  leases  with  the  good  sense,  energy, 
and  perseverance  which  a  woman  can  display  when  she  is 
sustained  by  strong  feeling. 

After  the  fifth  year  Marguerite  could  devote  thirty  thou- 
sand francs  of  her  income  to  paying  off  the  mortgages  on 
her  father's  property,  and  to  repairing  the  havoc  wrought  by 
Balthazar's  passion  in  the  old  house.  Besides  the  rent  from 
their  own  farms,  they  had  the  interest  on  the  capital  invested 
in  her  brother's  name,  and  the  proceeds  of  her  father's  prop- 
erty. The  process  of  extinction  of  the  debt  was  bound  to  be 
more  and  more  rapid  as  the  amount  of  interest  decreased. 
Emmanuel  de  Solis,  moreover,  had  persuaded  Marguerite  to 
take  the  remaining  hundred  thousand  francs  of  his  uncle's 
bequest,  as  well  as  some  twenty  thousand  francs  which  he 
himself  had  saved,  so  that  in  the  third  year  of  her  adminis- 
tration she  could  pay  off  a  fairly  large  amount  of  debt.  This 
life  of  courage,  self-denial,  and  self-sacrifice  lasted  for  five 
years,  but  it  ended  at  last,  thanks  to  Marguerite's  influence 
and  supervision,  in  complete  success. 

Gabriel  had  become  a  civil  engineer,  and  with  his  great- 
uncle's  help  had  made  a  rapid  fortune  by  the  construction 
of  a  canal.  He  found  favor  in  the  e3^es  of  his  cousin,  Mile. 
Conyncks,  whom  her  father  idolized,  one  of  the  richest  heir- 
esses in  all  Flanders.  In  1824  Claes'  property  was  free,  and 
the  house  in  the  Rue  de  Paris  had  repaired  its  losses.  Pier- 
quin  made  a  formal  application  to  Balthazar  for  Felicie's 
hand,  and  M.  de  Solis  asked  for  Marguerite. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  month  of  January  1825,  Mar- 
guerite and  M.  Conyncks  set  out  for  Brittany  to  bring  back 
the  exiled  father,  whom  every  one  longed  to  see  in  his  home 


186  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

again.  He  had  resigned  his  post  that  he  might  spend  the 
rest  of  his  days  among  his  children,  and  his  presence  should 
sanction  their  happiness.  Marguerite  had  often  bewailed  the 
empty  spaces  on  the  walls  of  the  picture-gallery  and  the 
state  apartments,  which  must  meet  their  father's  eyes  on 
his  return,  so  that  while  she  was  away  Pierquin  and  M.  de 
Solis  plotted  with  Felicie  to  prepare  a  surprise  for  her;  the 
younger  sister  should  also  have  a  share  in  the  restoration 
of  the  Maison  Claes.  Both  gentlemen  had  bought  several 
fine  pictures,  which  they  presented  to  Felicie,  so  that  the 
gallery  might  be  adorned  as  of  old.  The  same  thought  had 
occurred  to  M.  Conyncks,  who  wished  to  show  his  appreciation 
of  Marguerite's  noble  conduct,  and  of  the  way  in  which  she 
had  devoted  herself  to  fulfilling  her  dying  mother's  request. 
He  arranged  that  fifty  of  his  finest  pictures,  together  with 
some  of  those  that  Balthazar  had  previously  sold,  should  be 
sent  to  fill  the  picture-gallery,  where  there  were  now  no  more 
blank  spaces. 

Marguerite  had  visited  her  father  several  times,  Jean  or 
her  sister  accompanying  her  on  each  journey;  but,  since  her 
last  visit,  old  age  seemed  to  have  gained  on  Balthazar.  He 
lived  extremely  penuriously,  for  nearly  all  his  income  was 
spent  on  the  experiment  which  brought  nothing  but  disap- 
pointment, and  probably  the  alarming  symptoms  were  due 
to  his  manner  of  life.  He  was  only  sixty-five  years  of  age, 
but  he  looked  like  a  man  of  eighty.  His  eyes  were  deeply 
sunk  in  his  face,  his  eyebrows  were  white,  his  hair  hung  in  a 
scanty  fringe  round  his  head,  he  allowed  his  beard  to  grow, 
cutting  it  with  a  pair  of  scissors  when  its  length  annoyed 
him,  he  stooped  like  an  old  vine-dresser,  his  neglected  dress 
suggested  a  degree  of  wretchedness  that  was  frightful  when 
combined  with  his  look  of  decrepitude.  Sometimes  his  face 
looked  noble  still  when  a  great  thought  lighted  it  up,  but 
'the  outlines  of  his  features  were  obliterated  by  wrinkles;  his 
fixed  gaze,  the  desperate  look  in  his  eyes,  and  his  restless  un- 
easiness seemed  to  be  symptoms  of  insanity,  or  rather  of  many 
forms  of  insanity.    A  sudden  gleam  of  hope  would  give  him 


THE  QUEST  OP  THE  ABSOLUTE  187 

the  look  of  a  monomaniac;  an  access  of  impatience,  that  ho 
could  not  guess  this  secret  which  flitted  before  him  and 
ehided  his  grasp  Hke  a  will-o'-the-wisp,  would  blaze  out  into 
impotent  anger  like  madness,  to  be  followed  by  a  burst  of 
laughter  at  his  own  folly;  but  as  a  rule  he  lived  in  a  state 
of  the  deepest  dejection,  and  every  phase  of  frenzy  was  merged 
in  the  dull  melancholy  of  the  idiot.  However  fleeting  and 
imperceptible  these  changes  of  expression  might  be  to 
strangers,  they  were  unhappily  only  too  obvious  for  those 
who  had  known  the  once  noble  face,  the  Claes  of  former  years, 
so  sublime  in  goodness  and  so  great-hearted,  of  whom,  scarcely 
a  trace  could  now  be  recognized. 

Lemulquinier,  like  his  master,  was  old  and  worn  by  in- 
cessant toil,  but  he  had  not  borne  the  same  burden,  nor  en- 
dured the  constant  strain  of  thought;  a  curious  mixture  of 
anxiety  and  admiration  in  the  way  in  which  he  looked  at  his 
master  might  easily  have  misled  a  casual  observer;  he  listened 
respectfully  to  Claes'  slightest  word,  and  watched  his  move- 
ments with  a  kind  of  tenderness;  he  looked  after  his  great 
and  learned  master  with  a  care  like  a  mother's;  he  even 
seemed  to  protect  him,  and,  in  some  ways,  actually  did 
protect  him,  for  Balthazar  never  took  any  thought  for 
the  needs  of  physical  existence.  It  was  touching  and 
painful  to  see  the  two  old  men,  both  wrapped  in  the  same 
thought,  both  so  sure  of  the  reality  of  their  hope,  inspired 
by  the  same  restless  longing;  it  was  as  if  they  had  but  one 
life  between  them — the  one  was  the  soul,  and  the  other 
the  body.  When  Marguerite  and  M.  Conyncks  arrived  they 
found  M.  Claes  living  in  an  inn ;  his  successor  had  taken  his 
place  at  once. 

Through  all  the  preoccupation  of  science,  Balthazar  had 
felt  stirrings  of  the  desire  to  see  his  country,  his  home,  and 
children  once  more;  his  daughter's  letter  had  brought  good 
news ;  he  had  begun  to  dream  of  a  crowning  series  of  experi- 
ments, which  should  surely  yield  at  last  the  secret  of  the 
Absolute,  and  he  awaited  Marguerite's  coming  with  great 
impatience. 


188  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

The  young  girl  shed  tears  of  joy  as  she  flung  herself  into 
his  arms.  This  time  she  had  come  to  receive  her  reward, 
the  reward  of  a  painful  and  difficult  task,  and  to  ask  pardon 
for  her  brilliant  success  in  it.  But  as  she  looked  more  closely 
at  her  father,  she  was  shocked  at  the  changes  wrought  in 
him  since  the  previous  visit;  she  felt  as  if  she  had  committed 
a  crime,  like  some  great  man  who  violates  the  liberties  of  his 
country  to  save  its  national  existence.  M.  Conyncks  shared 
his  niece's  misgivings;  he  insisted  that  his  cousin  must  be 
moved  at  once,  that  the  air  of  his  native  Douai  might  restore 
him  to  health,  as  the  life  by  his  own  hearth  should  restore  his 
reason. 

After  the  first  outpourings  of  affection,  which  were  much 
warmer  on  Balthazar's  part  than  Marguerite  had  expected, 
he  was  strangely  attentive  to  her  wishes;  he  expressed  his 
regret  at  receiving  her  in  such  a  poor  place ;  he  consulted  her 
tastes  in  the  ordering  of  their  meals,  and  was  as  sedulously 
watchful  as  a  lover.  But  in  his  manner  also  there  was  some- 
thing of  the  uneasiness  and  anxiety  of  the  culprit  who  wishes 
to  secure  a  favorable  hearing  from  a  judge.  Marguerite 
knew  her  father  so  well  that  she  guessed  the  motives  under- 
lying this  affectionate  solicitude;  she  thought  that  he  must 
have  incurred  debts  in  the  town,  which  he  was  anxious  to  pay 
before  he  went.  She  watched  her  father  narrowly  for  a  while, 
and  a  human  heart  was  laid  bare  to  her  gaze.  Balthazar 
seemed  to  have  grown  little.  The  consciousness  of  his  hu- 
miliation, the  enforced  isolation  resulting  from  his  scientific 
pursuits,  had  made  him  shy  and  almost  like  a  child,  save  when 
the  subject  under  discussion  was  connected  with  his  beloved 
science.  He  stood  in  awe  of  his  oldest  daughter;  he  remem- 
bered her  devotion  in  the  past,  the  power  of  mind  and  char- 
actor  that  she  had  shown,  the  authority  with  which  he  himself 
had  invested  her,  the  fortune  which  she  had  administered  so 
ably;  and  the  indefinable  feeling  of  dread  which  had  taken 
possession  of  him  on  the  day  when  he  resigned  the  authority 
which  he  had  abused  had  no  doubt  grown  stronger  with  time. 

Conyncks  seemed  to  be  as  nothing  in  Balthazar's  eyes;  he 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ^BSOLUTE  181) 

saw  no  one  but  his  daughter,  and  thought  of  no  one  else ;  he 
even  seemed  to  dread  her,  as  a  weak-minded  man  is  overawed 
by  the  wife  whose  will  is  stronger  than  his  own.  Marguerite's, 
heart  smote  her  when  she  detected  a  look  of  terror  in  his  eyes, 
an  expression  like  that  of  some  little  child  who  has  been  doing 
wrong.  The  noble  girl  could  not  understand  the  contradic- 
tion between  the  magnificent  stern  outlines  of  the  head,  the 
features  worn  by  scientific  labors  and  strenuous  thought,  and 
the  weak  smile  on  Balthazar's  lips,  the  expression  of  artless 
servility  in  his  face.  This  sharp  contrast  between  greatness 
and  littleness  was  very  painful  to  her;  she  resolved  to  use 
her  influence  to  restore  her  father's  self-respect  before  the 
great  day  which  was  to  restore  him  to  his  family.  When 
they  were  left  together  for  a  moment,  she  began  at  once, 
seizing  the  opportunity  to  say  in  his  ear: 

"Have  you  any  debts  here,  father?" 

Balthazar  reddened  uneasily,  and  answered,  "I  do  not 
know,  but  Lemulquinier  will  tell  you ;  he  is  a  good  fellow, 
and  knows  more  about  my  affairs  than  I  do  myself  " 

Marguerite  rang  for  the  servant,  and  when  he  came  she 
could  not  help  studying  the  faces  of  the  two  old  men. 

"Is  something  wanted,  monsieur?"  asked  Lemulquinier. 

Personal  pride  and  family  pride  were  two  of  Marguerite's 
strongest  instincts ;  something  in  the  servant's  tone  and  man- 
ner told  of  an  unseemly  familiarity  between  her  father  and 
the  companion  of  his  labors  which  gave  her  a  pang. 

"It  seems  that  my  father  is  unable  to  reckon  up  what  he 
owes  here  without  your  memory  to  aid  him,  Lemulquinier," 
said  Marguerite. 

"Monsieur  owes  ,  ,  ."  Lemulquinier  began,  but  checked 
himself  at  a  sign  from  Balthazar,  which  did  not  escape  Mar- 
guerite.    She  felt  surprised  and  humiliated. 

"Tell  me  exactly  how  much  my  father  owes,"  she  ex- 
claimed. 

"Monsieur  owes  five  thousand  francs  here  in  the  town  to 
a  druggist  and  wholesale  grocer  who  has  supplied  us  with 
caustic  potash,  lead  and  zinc,  and  reagents." 


190  THE  QUEST  OB  THE  ABSOLUTE 

"Is  that  all?"  asked  Marguerite. 

Balthazar  made  an  affirmative  sign  to  Lemulquinier.  who 
answered  like  a  man  under  a  spell,  "Yes,  mademoiselle.'' 

"Yery  well,"  she  said,  "I  will  give  you  the  money." 

Balthazar  kissed  his  daughter  in  his  joy.  "You  are  m;-' 
guardian  angel,  my  child,"  he  said. 

He  breathed  more  freely  after  that.  There  was  less  sadness 
in  his  eyes  as  he  looked  at  her;  but,  in  spite  of  his  joy.  Mar-  • 
guerite  could  see  that  in  the  depths  of  his  heart  he  was  still 
troubled,  and  she  guessed  that  the  five  thousand  francs  merely 
represented  the  most  pressing  of  the  debts  contracted  for 
the  expenses  of  the  laboratory. 

"Be  frank  with  me,  father,"  she  said,  as  she  let  him  draw 
her  towards  him,  and  sat  on  his  knees,  "do  you  owe  more 
than  this?  Tell  me  everything;  come  back  to  your  home 
without  any  lurking  fear  in  your  mind  in  the  midst  of  the 
rejoicing." 

"My  dear  Marguerite,"  he  answered,  taking  her  hands  and 
kissing  them  with  a  grace  that  seemed  like  a  memory  of  his 
youth,  "shall  you  scold  me?"     .     .     . 

"Xo,"  she  said. 

"Eeally?"  he  asked,  with  an  involuntary  start  of  childish 
joy.  "Can  I  really  tell  you  everything?  and  will  you 
pay " 

'TTes,"  she  said,  trying  to  keep  back  the  tears  that  came  to 
her  eyes. 

"Very  well,  then,  I  owe     .     .     .     Oh !  I  dare  not !    .    .    ." 

"Father,  do  tell  me !" 

"But  it  is  a  great  deal,"  he  went  on. 

She  clasped  her  hands  in  despair. 

"I  owe  thirty  thousand  francs  to  MM.  Protez  and  Chiffre- 
ville." 

"Thirty  thousand  francs — all  my  savings,"  she  said,  %ut 
I  am  glad  that  I  can  give  them  to  you,"  she  added,  with  a  rev- 
erent kiss  on  his  forehead. 

He  sprang  to  his  feet,  caught  his  daughter  in  his  arms, 
and  spun  round  the  room  with  her,  lifting  her  off  her  feet 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  191 

as  though  she  had  been  a  child;  then  he  set  her  down  in  the 
armchair  where  she  had  been  sitting,  exclaiming,  "My  dear 
child,  my  treasure  of  love !  There  was  no  life  left  in  me. 
Protez  and  Chiffreville  have  written  three  times;  they 
threaten  proceedings — proceedings  against  me,  when  I  have 
made  their  fortunes " 

"Then  you  are  still  trying  to  find  the  solution  of  your 
problem,  father  ?"  said  Marguerite  sadly. 

"Yes,  still,"  he  said,  with  a  frenzied  smile,  "and  I  shall 
find  it,  never  fear !  ...  If  you  only  knew  where  we 
are !" 

"We,  who?" 

"I  mean  Mulquinier;  he  understands  me  at  last;  he  is  a 
great  help  to  me.     .     .     .     Poor  fellow,  he  is  so  faithful !" 

Conyncks  came  in  at  that  moment,  and  put  an  end  to 
their  conversation.  Marguerite  made  a  sign  to  her  father  to 
say  no  more ;  she  dreaded  lest  he  should  lower  himself  in  their 
uncle's  eyes. 

It  shocked  her  to  see  the  havoc  wrought  in  that  great  intel- 
lect by  incessant  preoccupation  with  a  problem  perhaps  after 
all  insoluble.  Balthazar,  doubtless,  could  see  nothing  beyond 
his  crucibles  and  furnaces;  it  never  even  crossed  his  mind 
that  his  affairs  were  no  longer  embarrassed. 

They  set  out  for  Flanders  next  day;  the  journey  was  a 
sufficiently  long  one,  and  Marguerite  had  time  to  see  many 
things  on  the  way  that  threw  gleams  of  light  on  the  relative 
positions  of  Lemulquinier  and  his  master.  Had  the  servant 
gained  the  ascendency,  which  uneducated  minds  can  acquire 
over  the  greatest  thinkers  if  they  feel  that  they  are  indis- 
pensable to  their  betters?  Such  natures  use  concession  after 
concession  as  stepping  stones  to  complete  dominion,  and  attain 
their  end  at  last  by  dint  of  dogged  persistence.  Or,  on  the  other 
hand,  was  it  the  master  who  had  come  to  feel  for  the  servant 
the  sort  of  affection  that  springs  from  use  and  wont, not  unlike- 
fne  fondness  which  a  craftsman  feels  for  his  tool  which 
■jxecutes  his  will,  or  the  krah  for  the  horse  to  which  he  owe? 
iiis  freedom?     Little  things  that  passed  under  Marguerite's 


192  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABS0LUT3 

watchful  eyes  decided  her  to  put  this  affection  to  the  test,  by 
proposing  to  free  Balthazar  from  what  perhaps  was  a  galling 
yoke. 

They  spent  but  a  few  days  in  Paris  on  their  way  back. 
Marguerite  paid  her  father's  debts,  and  besought  the  firm  of 
chemists  to  send  nothing  to  Douai  without  first  giving  her 
notice  of  Claes'  orders.  She  persuaded  her  father  to  make 
some  changes  in  his  costume,  and  to  dress  as  became  a  man 
of  his  rank.  This  external  transformation  gave  Balthazar 
a  sort  of  physical  dignity,  which  augured  well  for  a  change 
in  his  ideas.  Marguerite  already  felt  something  of  the  happi- 
ness which  she  looked  for  when  her  father  should  find  the 
surprises  that  awaited  him  in  his  own  house;  and  their  de- 
parture for  Douai  was  not  long  delayed. 

Felicie,  accompanied  by  her  two  brothers,  Emmanuel,  Pier- 
quin,  and  the  most  intimate  friends  of  the  three  families, 
rode  out  three  leagues  from  the  town  to  meet  Balthazar.  The 
long  journe}^  had  given  other  directions  to  the  chemist's 
thoughts,  the  sight  of  the  Flemish  landscape  had  stirred  his 
heart,  so  that  at  the  sight  of  the  joyous  cortege  of  children 
and  friends  he  felt  so  deeply  touched  that  tears  filled  his 
eyes,  his  voice  shook,  and  his  e3felids  reddened;  he  took  his 
children  in  his  arms,  and  seemed  as  if  he  could  not  let  them 
go,  showing  such  a  passionate  affection  for  them  that  the 
onlookers  were  moved  to  tears. 

He  turned  pale  when  he  saw  his  house  once  more,  and 
sprang  out  of  the  carriage  with  the  quickness  of  a  young 
man ;  it  seemed  to  be  a  pleasure  to  him  to  breathe  the  air  in 
the  courtyard  once  more,  to  see  every  trifling  detail  again; 
his  happiness  was  plainly  visible  in  every  gesture  that  he 
made;  he  held  himself  erect,  his  face  grew  young  again. 

Tears  came  to  his  eyes  as  he  stood  in  the  doorway  of  the 
parlor,  and  saw  how  accurately  his  daughter  had  reproduced 
the  old-fashioned  silver  sconces  which  he  had  sold,  and  how 
completely  every  trace  of  their  misfortunes  had  disappeared. 
A  magnificent  breakfast  awaited  them  in  the  dining-room ; 
the  shelves  above  the  sideboards  had  been  filled  with  curiosi- 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  193 

ties  and  silver-plate  at  least  as  valuable  as  the  heirlooms 
which  formerly  had  stood  there.  Long  as  the  family  break- 
fast lasted,  Balthazar  scarcely  heard  all  that  he  wished  to 
hear  from  each  of  his  children.  His  return  had  brought 
about  a  sort  of  reaction  in  him;  he  thought  of  nothing  but 
family  happiness;  he  was  a  father  before  all  things.  There 
was  the  old  courtliness  in  his  manner.  In  the  joy  of  that 
first  moment  of  possession  he  did  not  ask  by  what  means 
all  that  he  had  squandered  had  been  recovered,  and  his  happi- 
ness was  complete  and  entire. 

Breakfast  over,  the  father  and  his  four  children,  and  Pier- 
quin  the  notary,  went  into  the  parlor,  and  Balthazar  saw, 
not  without  uneasiness,  the  stamped  papers  which  a  clerk  had 
arranged  on  the  table  by  which  he  stood,  as  if  awaiting  fur- 
ther instructions  from  his  employer.  Balthazar  stood  in 
amazement  before  the  hearth  as  his  family  seated  themselves. 

"This,"  said  Pierquin,  "is  an  account  of  his  guardianship 
rendered  by  M.  Claes  to  his  children.  It  is  not  very  amusing 
of  course,"  he  added,  laughing,  after  the  manner  of  notaries, 
who  are  wont  to  adopt  a  jesting  tone  over  the  gravest  matters 
of  business,  "but  it  is  absolutely  necessary  that  you  should 
hear  it  read." 

Although  the  circumstances  of  the  case  might  justify  the 
use  of  this  phrase,  M.  Claes,  with  an  uneasy  conscience,  must 
needs  think  it  a  reproach,  and  he  frowned.  The  clerk  began 
to  read;  the  further  he,  read,  the  greater  grew  Balthazar's 
astonishment.  In  the  first  place,  it  was  ascertained  that  at 
the  time  of  his  wife's  death  her  fortune  had  amounted  to 
about  sixteen  hundred  thousand  francs,  and  at  the  conclusion 
of  the  statement  of  accounts  each  child's  share  was  paid  in 
full,  everything  was  clear  and  straightforward,  as  if  the  most 
prudent  father  of  a  family  had  administered  the  estate.  It 
was  shown  incidentally  that  Gabriel's  mortgage  on  the  house 
had  been  paid  off,  that  Balthazar's  dwelling  was  his  own, 
and  that  his  estates  were  free  from  all  liabilities.  He  had 
recovered  his  honor  as  a  mnn,  his  position  as  a  citizen,  his 
existence  as  a  father  all  at  once;  he  sank  into  an  armchair, 


194  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

and  looked  round  for  Marguerite,  but  with  a  woman's  ex- 
quisite delicacy  of  feeling,  she  had  stolen  away  during  th*^ 
reading,  to  make  sure  that  all  her  arrangements  for  the  fete 
liad  been  fully  carried  out.  Every  one  of  Claes'  children 
understood  what  was  passing  in  his  mind  when  through  a 
film  of  tears  his  eyes  sought  for  his  daughter;  she  seemed 
to  their  inner  vision  like  a  strong,  bright  angel.  Galjriel 
"\rent  to  find  Marguerite,  Balthazar  heard  her  footstep,  hur- 
ried towards  her,  met  her  at  the  foot  of  the  staircase,  and 
clasped  her  in  his  arms. 

"Father,"  she  said,  as  the  old  man  held  her  tightly,  "do 
notJling,  I  implore  you,  to  lessen  your  sacred  authority.  You 
must  thank  me,  before  them  all,  for  carrying  out  your  wishes 
so  well ;  you,  and  you  alone,  must  be  the  author  of  the  changes 
for  the  better  which  may  have  been  effected  here." 

Balthazar  raised  his  eyes  to  heaven,  looked  at  his  daughtei 
and  folded  his  arms;  his  face  wore  a  look  which  none  of  his 
children  had  seen  for  ten  years,  as  he  said,  "Why  are  you 
not  here,  Pepita,  to  admire  our  child  ?" 

He  could  say  no  more.  He  held  his  daughter  in  a  tight 
embrace  for  a  moment,  and  went  back  to  the  parlor. 

"Children,"  he  said,  with  the  noble  bearing  which  had  so 
pre-eminently  distinguished  him  in  former  j^ears,  "we  all 
owe  a  debt  of  thanks  and  gratitude  to  my  daughter  Mar- 
guerite for  the  courage  and  prudence  with  which  she  has  car- 
ried out  my  plans,  while  I,  too  much  absorbed  by  scientific 
research,  left  the  administration  of  our  affairs  and  the  reins 
of  authority  in  her  hands." 

"Ah !  now  we  will  read  the  marriage  contracts,"  said  Pier- 
quin,  glancing  at  the  clock.  "But  I  have  nothing  to  do  with 
that,  inasmuch  as  the  law  forbids  me  to  draw  up  documents 
for  myself  and  my  relations;  so  M.  Eaparlier's  uncle  is  com- 
ing." 

The  friends  who  had  been  invited  to  the  dinner  given  to 
celebrate  M.  Claes'  return  and  the  signing  of  the  contracts 
now  began  to  arrive,  and  the  servants  brought  the  wedding 
presents.    The  assemblage,  which  rapidly  grew,  was  brilliaiic 


THE  QUEST  OP  THE  ABSOLUTE  195 

by  reason  of  the  rank  of  the  visitors  and  the  splendor  of  their 
toilettes.  The  three  families  thus  brought  together  to  witness 
their  children's  happiness  had  striven  to  outshine  each  other. 
The  parlor  was  filled  almost  at  once  with  splendid  gifts  for 
the  betrothed  couples.  Gold  flowed  in  on  them  and  sparkled 
there,  stuffs  lay  unfolded,  cashmere  shawls  lay  among  neck- 
laces and  jewels.  Givers  and  receivers  alike  felt  heartfelt 
joy;  an  almost  childish  delight  shone  visibly  in  all  faces,  so 
that  the  magnificence  and  costliness  of  the  gifts  were  for- 
gotten by  those  less  nearly  concerned,  who,  as  a  rule,  are  suf- 
ficiently ready  to  amuse  themselves  by  counting  up  the  cost. 

The  ceremony  soon  began.  After  the  manner  traditional 
in  the  family  of  Claes,  the  parents  alone  were  seated;  every- 
one else  who  was  present  remained  standing  about  them  at 
a  little  distance.  On  the  side  of  the  parlor  nearest  the  garden 
stood  Gabriel  Claes  and  Mile.  Con3rncks,  next  to  them  M.  de 
Solis  and  Marguerite,  her  sister  Felicie  and  Pierquin.  Bal- 
thazar and  M.  Conyncks  (the  only  two  who  were  seated)  took 
up  their  position  on  either  side  of  the  notary  who  had  suc- 
ceeded Pierquin.  Jean  stood  behind  his  father's  armchair; 
and  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  room,  nearest  the  courtyard, 
stood  an  imposing  circle,  composed  of  a  score  of  well-dressed 
women  and  several  men,  near  relations  of  Pierquin,  Conyncks, 
or  of  the  Claes,  the  mayor  of  Douai,  before  whom  the  mar- 
riages were  to  take  place,  and  a  dozen  of  the  most  devoted 
friends  of  the  three  families,  including  the  First  President 
of  the  Court-Eoyal  of  Douai,  and  the  cure  of  Saint-Pierre. 
The  homage  paid  by  such  an  assemblage  to  the  fathers,  who 
seemed  for  a  moment  to  be  invested  with  regal  dignity,  gave 
an  almost  patriarchal  color  to  the  scene.  For  the  first  time, 
during  sixteen  years,  Balthazar  forgot  the  Quest  of  the  Abso- 
lute for  a  moment. 

All  the  persons  who  had  been  invited  to  the  signing  of  the 
contract  and  to  the  dinner  were  now  present.  M.  Eaparlier, 
having  ascertained  this  from  Marguerite  and  her  sister,  had 
returned  to  his  place  and  taken  up  the  contract  of  marriage 
between  Marguerite  and  Emmanuel  de  Solis,  which  was  to 


196  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

be  read  first,  when  the  door  suddenly  flew  open,  and  Lemul- 
qiiinier's  face  appeared  beaming  with  joy  and  excitement. 

"Monsieur !  monsieur !"  he  cried. 

Balthazar  gave  .Marguerite  a  despairing  glance,  beckoned 
to  her,  and  they  went  out  into  the  garden  together.  A  pre- 
sentiment of  impending  trouble  fell  on  those  assembled. 

"I  did  not  dare  to  tell  you,  dear  child,"  the  father  said  to 
his  daughter,  "but  you  have  done  so  much  for  me  that  you  will 
surely  help  me  out  of  this  new  trouble.  Lemulquinier  lent  me 
his  savings  for  my  last  experiment,  which  was  unsuccessful ; 
he  lent  me  twenty  thousand  francs,  and  doubtless  the 
wretched  fellow  has  found  out  that  I  am  rich  again,  and  wants 
to  have  his  money ;  let  him  have  it  at  once.  Oh !  my  angel, 
you  owe  your  father's  life  to  him,  for  he  was  my  sole  support 
and  comfort  through  all  my  failures;  he  alone  still  hafl  faith 
in  me.    Without  him  I  must  have  died " 

"Monsieur,  monsieur !"  cried  Lemulquinier. 

"Well?"  said  Balthazar,  turning  towards  him. 

"A  diamond !" 

At  the  sight  of  the  diamond  in  the  old  servant's  hand, 
Claes  rushed  to  the  parlor.    Lemulquinier  began  in  a  whisper: 

"I  went  up  to  the  laboratory " 

The  chemist,  completely  forgetful  of  his  surroundings, 
gave  the  old  Fleming  a  look  which  can  only  be  rendered  by 
the  words : 

"You  were  the  first  to  go  up  to  the  laboratory!" 

"And  I  found  this  diamond  there,"  the  servant  went  on, 
"in  the  capsule  which  communicated  with  that  battery  which 
we  left  to  its  own  devices — and  it  has  done  the  trick,  sir!" 
he  added,  holding  up  a  white  diamond  of  octahedral  form, 
so  brilliant  that  the  eyes  of  all  those  assembled  were  attracted 
by  it. 

"My  children  and  friends,"  said  Balthazar,  "forgive  my  old 
servant,  forgive  me.  .  .  .  This  will  drive  me  mad !  At 
some  time  during  the  past  seven  years  chance  has  brought 
about  in  my  laboratory  this  result  that  I  have  sought  in  vain 
to  compass  for  sixteen  years — and  I  was  not  there !    How  has 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  197 

it  come  about  ?  I  have  no  idea.  Oh,  yes ;  I  know  that  I  snb- 
mitfed  a  combination  of  sulphur  and  carbon  to  the  influence 
of  a  voltaic  battery,  but  the  process  should  have  been  watched 
from  day  to  day.  And  now,  during  my  absence,  the  power 
of  God  has  been  manifested  in  my  laboratory,  and  I  have 
been  unable  to  watch  its  workings,  for  this  has  been  brought 
about  graduall}^  of  course !  It  is  overwhelming,  is  it  not  ? 
Accursed  exile  !  accursed  fatality  !  Ah !  if  only  I  had  watched 
this  long,  this  slow,  this  sudden — I  know  not  what  to  call  it — 
crystallization,  transformation,  miracle  in  fact,  my  children 
would  be — well,  richer  still.  Perhaps  the  Problem  would  still 
remain  to  be  solved,  but  at  least  the  first  rays  of  the  dawn 
of  my  glorj'  would  have  shone  upon  my  country;  and  this 
moment,  when  the  longings  of  affection  are  satisfied,  though 
it  glows  with  our  happiness,  would  have  been  gladdened  yet 
more  by  the  sunlight  of  science." 

Every  one  kept  silence;  the  disconnected  phrases  wrung 
from  him  by  agony  were  too  sincere  not  to  be  sublime.  All 
at  once  Balthazar  recovered  himself,  forced  back  his  despair 
into  some  inner  depth,  and  gave  the  assembly  a  majestic 
glance.  Other  souls  caught  something  of  his  enthusiasm. 
He  took  the  diamond  and  held  it  out  to  Marguerite,  saying : 

"It  belongs  to  you,  my  angel." 

He  dismissed  Lemulquinier  by  a  sign,  and  spoke  to  the 
notary : 

"Let  us  go  on,"  he  said. 

The  words  produced  a  sensation  among  those  who  heard 
them,  a  responsive  thrill  such  as  Talma,  in  some  of  his  parts, 
could  awaken  in  a  vast  listening  audience  that  hung  on  his 
words.  Balthazar  sat  down,  saying  to  himself,  "To-day  I 
must  be  a  father  only."  He  spoke  in  a  low  voice;  but  Mar- 
guerite, who  overheard  him,  went  over  to  her  father,  and 
reverently  kissed  his  hand. 

"Never  was  there  a  man  so  great !"  said  Emmanuel,  when 
his  betrothed  returned  to  his  side ;  "never  was  there  so  strong. 
a  will ;  any  other  would  have  gone  mad." 

As  soon  as  the  three  contracts  had  been  read  and  sioned. 


198  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

every  one  crowded  about  Balthazar  to  ask  how  the  diamond 
had  been  made,  but  he  could  throw  no  light  on  the  mysterious 
event.  He  looked  out  at  the  attic,  and  pointed  to  it  in  a  kind 
of  frenzy. 

"Yes,  the  awful  power  which  results  from  the  vibrations  of 
glowing  matter,  which  doubtless  produces  metals  and  dia- 
monds, manifested  itself  there,"  he  said,  "for  one  moment — 
by  chance." 

"A  chance  that  came  about  quite  naturally,"  said  one  of 
those  people  who  like  to  account  for  everything ;  "the  old  gen- 
tleman left  a  real  diamond  lying  about.  It  is  so  much  saved 
out  of  all  that  he  has  burned  up." 

"Let  us  forget  this,"  said  Balthazar  to  the  friends  who 
stood  about  him ;  "I  beg  you  will  not  speak  of  it  again  to  me 
to-day." 

Marguerite  took  her  father's  arm  to  lead  him  to  the  state 
apartments,  where  a  banquet  had  been  prepared.  As  he  fol- 
lowed his  guests  along  the  gallery,  he  saw  that  it  was  filled 
with  rare  flowers,  and  that  the  walls  were  covered  with  pic- 
tures. 

"Pictures !"  he  cried,  "pictures ! — and  some  of  the  old 
ones !" 

He  stopped;  for  a  moment  he  looked  gloomy  and  sad;  he 
knew  by  the  extent  of  his  own  humiliation  how  grec^t  had  been 
the  wrong  that  he  had  done  his  children. 

"All  this  is  yours,  father,"  said  Marguerite,  gii.essing  Bal- 
thazar's trouble. 

"Angel,  over  whom  the  angels  in  heaven  miist  surely  re- 
joice," he  cried,  "how  many  times  you  have  given  life  to  your 
father." 

"Let  there  be  no  cloud  on  your  brow,  and  not  the  least 
sad  thought  left  in  your  heart,"  she  answered,  "and  3'-ou  will 
have  rewarded  me  beyond  my  hopes.  I  have  just  been  think- 
ing about  Lemulquinier,  dearest  father;  little  things  you  have 
said  of  him  now  and  then  have  made  me  esteem  him,  and  I 
confess  I  have  been  unjust  to  him ;  he  ouf;ht  t.>  live  here  as 
a  humble  friend  of  yours.     Never  mind  abcr.j.  your  debt  to 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  199 

him;  Emmanuel  has  saved  nearly  sixty  thousand  francs,  and 
Lemulquinier  shall  have  the  money.  After  he  has  served  you 
so  faithfully,  he  ought  to  spend  the  rest  of  his  days  in  com- 
fort. And  do  not  be  troubled  on  our  account.  M.  de  Soils 
and  I  mean  to  live  simply  and  quietly — without  luxury;  we 
can  spare  the  money  until  you  are  able  to  return  it." 

*'0h,  my  child !  you  must  never  leave  me !  you  must  always 
be  your  father's  providence !" 

When  he  reached  the  state  apartments,  Balthazar  saw  that 
they  had  been  restored  and  furnished  as  splendidly  as  before. 
The  guests  presently  went  down  to  the  dining-room  on  the 
ground  floor,  flowering  shrubs  stood  on  every  step  of  the  great 
staircase.  A  service  of  silver  plate  of  marvelous  workman- 
ship, Gabriel's  gift  to  his  father,  attracted  all  .eyes  by  its  splen- 
dor; it  was  a  surprise  even  to  the  proudest  burghers  of  Douai, 
who  are  accustomed  to  a  lavish  display  of  silver.  The  guests 
were  waited  upon  by  the  servants  of  the  three  households  of 
Claes,  Conyncks,  and  Pierquin;  Lemulquinier  stood  behind 
his  master's  chair.  Balthazar,  in  the  midst  of  his  kinsfolk 
at  the  head  of  the  table,  read  heartfelt  joy  in  the  happy  faces 
that  encircled  it,  and  felt  so  deeply  moved  that  every  one  was 
silent,  as  men  are  silent  in  the  presence  of  a  great  joy  or 
sorrow. 

"Dear  children !"  he  said,  '^you  have  killed  the  fatted  calf 
for  the  return  of  the  prodigal  father." 

The  phrase  in  which  the  chemist  summed  up  his  position, 
and  which  perhaps  anticipated  harsher  criticism,  was  spoken 
so  generously  that  every  one  present  was  moved  to  tears ;  but 
with  the  tears  the  last  trace  of  sadness  vanished,  and  happi- 
ness found  its  expression  in  the  blithe  merriment  character- 
istic of  family  festivals.  After  the  dinner  the  principal 
families  of  Douai  began  to  arrive  for  the  ball,  and  in  its  res- 
toration the  Maison  Claes  more  than  equaled  its  traditional 
splendor. 

'  The  three  weddings  shortly  followed;  the  ensuing  rejoic- 
ings, balls,  and  banquets  drew  Claes  into  the  vortex  of  social 
life  for  several  months.     His  oldest  son  went  to  live  near 


200  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

Cambrai  on  an  estate  belonging  to  his  father-in-law,  for  M. 
Conyncks  could  not  bear  to  be  separated  from  his  daughter 
Mme.  Pierquin  likewise  left  her  father's  roof  to  preside  over 
a  mansion  which  Pierquin  had  built,  where  he  meant  to  live 
in  all  the  dignity  befitting  his  rank,  for  he  had  sold  his  prac- 
tice, and  his  uncle  Des  Eaquets  had  recently  died  and  left 
him  all  the  wealth  which  he  had  slowly  amassed.  Jean  went 
to  Paris  to  finish  his  education;  so  of  all  his  children,  only 
M.  and  Mme.  de  Solis  remained  with  Balthazar  in  the  old 
house.  He  had  given  up  the  family  home  at  the  back  to  them, 
and  lived  himself  on  the  second  story  of  the  front  building 
So  Marguerite  still  watched  over  Balthazar's  comfort,  and 
Emmanuel  helped  her  in  the  congenial  task. 

The  noble  girl  received  from  the  hands  of  love  the  crowr 
most  eagerly  desired  of  all — the  wreath  that  is  woven  by  hap 
piness  and  kept  fresh  by  constancy.  Indeed,  no  more  perfect 
picture  of  the  pure,  complete,  and  acknowledged  happiness, 
of  which  all  women  fondly  dream,  could  be  found.  The  unity 
of  heart  between  two  beings  who  had  faced  the  trials  of  life 
so  bravely,  and  who  felt  for  each  other  such  a  sacred  affection, 
called  forth  the  admiration  and  respect  of  those  who  knew 
them. 

M.  de  Solis,  who  for  some  time  had  held  an  appointment 
as  Inspector-General  of  the  University,  resigned  his  post  to 
enjoy  his  happiness  at  his  leisure,  and  remained  in  Douai, 
where  his  character  and  talents  were  held  in  such  high  esteem 
that  his  election  as  a  deputy  when  the  time  came  was  already 
spoken  of  as  certain. 

Marguerite,  who  had  been  so  strong  in  adversity,  became 
a  sweet  and  tender  woman  in  prosperity.  Through  the  rest 
of  that  year  Claes  was  certainly  deeply  absorbed  in  his  stud- 
ies; but  though  he  made  a  few  experiments,  involving  but 
little  expense,  his  ordinary  income  was  sufficient  for  his  re- 
quirements, and  he  seemed  to  neglect  his  laboratory  work. 
Marguerite  had  adopted  the  old  tradition  of  the  house,  gave 
a  family  dinner  every  month,  to  M^hich  her  father,  the  Pier- 
quins,  and  the  Conyncks  came,  and  received  her  own  circle 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  207 

of  acquaintances  one  day  in  the  week.  Her  cafes  had  a  great 
vogue.  Claes  was  usually  present  on  these  occasions,  though 
he  sometimes  seemed  to  be  scarcely  conscious  of  his  surround- 
ings, but  he  went  into  society  again  so  cheerfully  to  please  his 
daughter  that  his  children  might  well  imagine  that  he  had 
given  up  the  attempt  to  solve  his  Problem.  In  this  way  three 
years  went  by. 

In  1828  a  piece  of  good  fortune  which  befell  Emmanuel 
took  him  to  Spain.  Although  three  numerous  families, 
branches  of  the  house  of  Solis,  stood  between  him  and  the 
family  estates,  yellow  fever,  old  age,  and  various  freaks  of  for- 
tune combined  to  leave  them  all  childless,  and  the  titles  and 
entail  passed  to  Emmanuel,  who  was  the  last  of  his  family. 
By  one  of  those  chances  which  seem  less  improbable  in  real 
life  than  in  books,  the  lands  and  titles  of  the  Counts  of 
Nourho  had  been  acquired  by  the  house  of  Solis.  Marguerite 
would  not  be  separated  from  her  husband,  who  would  be 
forced  to  stay  long  enough  in  Spain  to  settle  his  affairs; 
moreover,  she  looked  forward  to  seeing  the  chateau  of  Casa- 
Real,  where  her  mother  had  passed  her  childhood,  and  the 
city  of  Granada,  the  cradle  of  the  de  Solis  family.  So  she 
went  with  her  husband,  leaving  the  household  to  Martha, 
Josette,  and  Leraulquinier,  who  were  accustomed  to  its  man- 
agement. Marguerite  had  proposed  to  Balthazar  that  he 
should  go  with  them,  and  he  had  declined  on  the  score  of  his 
great  age;  but  the  fact  was  that  he  had  long  meditated  cer- 
tain experiments,  which  should  realize  his  hopes  at  last,  and 
this  was  the  true  reason  of  his  refusal. 

The  Comte  and  Comtesse  de  Solis  y  ISTourho  stayed  longer 
in  Spain  than  they  had  intended,  and  a  child  was  born 
to  them  there.  It  was  not  until  the  middle  of  the  year  1830 
that  they  reached  Cadiz,  intending  to  return  to  France  by 
way  of  Italy ;  but  at  Cadiz,  a  letter  came  from  Felicie  bringing 
evil  tidings.  In  eighteen  months  their  father  had  completely 
ruined  himself.  Gabriel  and  Pierquin  were  obliged  to  allow 
him  a  fixed  sum  every  month  to  pay  for  necessary  expenses, 
and  the  money  was  paid  to  Lemulquinier.     The  old  servant 


202  THE  QUEST  OP  THE  ABSOLUTE 

had  sacrificed  his  savings  a  second  time  to  his  master,  Bal' 
thazar  saw  no  one,  not  even  his  own  children  were  admitted 
into  the  house.  Josette  and  Martha  were  both  dead;  the 
coachman,  the  cook,  and  the  rest  of  the  servants  had  been 
dismissed  one  after  another,  and  the  horses  and  carriages 
had  been  sold.  Although '  Lemulquinier  was  discreet  and 
taciturn,  there  was  too  good  ground  for  believing  that  the 
money  which  Gabriel  Claes  and  Pierquin  allowed  him  for 
necessaries  was  spent  on  his  experiments.  Indeed,  Gabriel 
and  Pierquin  were  paying  the  interest  of  a  mortgage  on  the 
Maison  Claes,  effected  without  their  knowledge,  lest  the  house 
should  be  sold  above  his  head.  Xone  of  his  children  had 
any  influence  with  the  old  man  of  seventy,  who  still  pos- 
sessed such  extraordinary  energy  and  determination  even  in 
trifles.  It  was  just  possible  that  Marguerite  might  regain 
her  old  ascendency  over  him,  and  Felicie  begged  her  sister 
to  come  home  at  once ;  she  was  in  terror  lest  her  father  should 
have  put  his  name  to  bills  once  more.  Gabriel,  Conyncks,  and 
Pierquin  had  taken  alarm  at  this  persistent  madness  which 
had  spent  seven  millions  of  francs  without  result,  and  had 
decided  not  to  pay  M.  Claes'  debts.  This  letter  changed 
Marguerite's  traveling  plans ;  she  took  the  shortest  way  home 
to  Douai.  With  her  past  savings  and  newly  acquired  wealth 
it  would  be  easy  to  pay  her  father's  debts  once  more ;  but  she 
determined  to  do  more  than  this,  she  would  fulfil  her  mother's 
wishes;  Balthazar  Claes  should  not  sink  into  a  dishonored 
grave.  Clearly  she  alone  had  sufficient  influence  with  him 
to  prevent  him  from  carrying  out  his  ruinous  career  to  its 
natural  end,  at  a  time  of  life  when  great  results  could 
scarcely  be  expected  from  his  enfeebled  powers;  but  she 
wished  to  persuade  him,  and  not  to  wound  his  susceptibilities, 
fearing  to  imitate  the  children  of  Sophocles;  possibly  her 
father,  after  all,  was  nearing  the  solution  of  the  scientific 
problem  to  which  he  had  sacrificed  so  much. 

M.  and  Mme.  do  Solis  reached  Flanders  in  1831,  and  ar- 
rived in  Douai  one  morning  toAvards  the  end  of  September. 
Marguerite  ordered  the  coachman  to  drive  to  her  house  in  the 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  203 

Rue  de  Paris,  and  found  it  shut  up;  a  violent  ring  av,  the 
door  bell  produced  no  answer.  A  shopkeeper,  who  lived 
opposite,  left  his  doorstep,  whither  he  had  been  brought  by 
the  noise  of  the  carriages;  many  of  the  neighbors  were  a^ 
their  windows,  partly  because  they  were  glad  to  see  the  return 
of  a  family  so  much  beloved  in  the  town,  partly  stirred  by 
a  vague  feeling  of  curiosity  as  to  what  might  happen  when 
Marguerite  came  back  to  the  Maison  Claes.  The  shopkeeper 
told  the  Comte  de  Solis'  man  that  old  M.  Claes  had  left  the 
house  about  an  hour  before.  Lemulquinier  had  doubtless 
taken  him  to  walk  upon  the  ramparts. 

Marguerite  sent  for  a  locksmith  to  force  open  the  door, 
so  as  to  avoid  a  scene  with  her  father,  if  (as  Felicie's  letter 
had  led  her  to  expect)  he  should  refuse  to  allow  her  to  enter 
the  house.  Emmanuel  himself,  meanwhile,  went  in  search 
of  the  old  man  to  bring  him  the  news  of  his  daughter's 
arrival,  and  despatched  his  man  with  a  message  to  M.  and 
Mme.  Pierquin. 

It  did  not  take  long  to  force  open  the  door.  Marguerite 
went  to  the  parlor  to  give  directions  about  their  baggage. 
A  shiver  of  horror  went  through  her  as  she  entered — the 
walls  were  as  bare  as  if  a  fire  had  swept  over  them.  Van 
Huysium's  wonderful  carvings  and  the  portrait  of  the. great 
Claes  had  been  sold  to  Lord  Spencer,  so  some  one  said.  The 
dining-room  was  empty;  there  was  nothing  there  but  two 
straw-bottomed  chairs,  and  a  M'retched  table,  on  which  Mar- 
guerite saw,  with  dreadful  misgivings,  a  couple  of  bowls  and 
plates,  two  silver  spoons  and  forks,  and,  on  a  dish,  the  re- 
mains of  a  herring,  the  meal,  doubtless,  of  which  Claes  and 
his  servant  had  just  partaken.  As  she  hurried  through  the 
state  apartments,  she  saw  that  every  room  was  as  bare  and 
forlorn  as  the  parlor  and  the  dining-room;  the  idea  of  the 
Absolute  seemed  to  have  passed  through  the  whole  house  like 
a  fire. 

For  all  furniture  in  her  father's  room,  there  was  a  bed, 
a  chair,  and  a  table;  a  tallow  candle  burned  down  to 
the   socket   stood   in   a  battered   copper   candlestick.     The 


204  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

house  had  been  stripped  so  completely  that  there  were 
no  curtains  in  the  windows;  everything  that  could  bring  in 
a  few  pence,  even  the  kitchen  utensils,  had  been  sold.  Drawn 
by  the  feeling  of  curiosity  that  survives  in  us  even  in  the 
deepest  misfortune,  Marguerite  looked  into  Lemulquinier's 
room;  it  was  as  bare  and  empty  as  his  master's.  The  drawer 
in  the  table  stood  half  open,  and  Marguerite  caught  a  glimpse 
of  a  pawn-ticket,  the  servant  had  pledged  his  watch  a'fov.- 
daj'S  previously.  She  hastened  to  the  attic;  the  laboratory 
was  as  well  replenished  as  it  used  to  be;  finally,  she  had  the 
door  of  her  own  room  forced  open :  everything  was  as  she  had 
left  it,  her  father  had  respected  her  apartment. 

Marguerite  glanced  round  her,  burst  into  tears,  and  in  her 
heart  forgave  her  father.  Even  in  the  frenzy  of  enthusiasm, 
which  spared  nothing  else,  he  had  been  checked  by  fatherly 
love  and  a  feeling  of  gratitude  towards  her.  This  proof  of 
tenderness,  received  in  the  depths  of  her  despair,  wrought  in 
Marguerite  one  of  those  revulsions  which  prove  too  strong  for 
the  coldest  hearts.  She  went  down  to  the  parlor,  and  waited 
for  her  father's  coming,  with  an  anxiety  which  was  increased 
by  horrible  fears;  she  was  about  to  see  him,  would  he  be 
changed?  Should  she  see  a  decrepit,  ailing  wreck,  emaci- 
ated by  fastings  endured  through  pride?  Suppose  his  reason 
had  failed?  Her  tears  flowed  fast  in  the  profaned  sanctuary. 
Scenes  of  her  past  life  rose  up  before  her.  She  remembered 
her  struggles,  her  vain  attempts  to  save  her  father  from 
himself,  her  childish  days,  the  mother  who  had  been  so  happy 
and  so  unhappy;  everything  about  her,  even  the  face  of  her 
little  Joseph  who  smiled  on  the  desolation,  seemed  to  form 
part  of  some  unreal,  mournful  tragedy. 

But  for  all  her  sad  forebodings,  she  did  not  foresee  the 
catastrophe  of  the  drama  of  her  father's  life,  a  life  so  magnifi- 
cent and  so  wretched.  Claes'  affairs  were  no  secret.  To  the 
shame  of  humanity,  there  were  no  generous  natures  to  be  found 
in  Douai  who  could  reverence  the  passionate  persistence  of 
the  man  of  genius.  Balthazar  was  put  under  the  ban  of 
society;  he  was  a  bad  father,  who  had  run  through  half -a 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  205 

dozen  fortunes,  who  had  spent  millions  of  francs  on  the  search 
of  the  Philosopher's  Stone  in  this  enlightened  nineteenth 
century,  the  century  of  incredulity,  the  century  of,  etc.  .  .  . 
He  was  maligned  and  calumniated;  he  was  branded  with  the 
contemptuous  epithet  of  "The  Alchemist."  "He  wants  to 
make  gold !"  they  scoffed,  and  cast  it  in  his  teeth. 

Has  this  much-belauded  century  of  ours  shown  itself  so 
different  from  all  other  centuries?  It  has  left  genius  to  die 
with  the  brutal  indifference  of  past  ages  that  beheld  the 
deaths  of  Dante,  Cervantes,  Tasso,  e  tiitti  quanti;  and  sov- 
ereign peoples  recognize  the  work  of  genius  even  more  slowly 
than  kings. 

So  these  opinions  concerning  Claes  had  gradually  filtered 
downwards  from  the  aristocratic  section  to  the  bourgeoisie, 
and  from  the  bourgeoisie  to  the  people.  Profound  compassion 
was  felt  for  the  aged  chemist  by  people  of  his  own  rank,  and 
the  populace  looked  on  him  with  a  sort  of  amused  curiosity; 
both  ways  of  regarding  him  implied  the  scornful  Vae  victis 
with  which  the  crowd  closes  over  fallen  greatness. 

People,  as  the}^  went  past  the  house,  used  to  point  out  the 
rose-window  of  the  attic  where  so  much  gold  and  coal  had 
been  wasted.  When  Balthazar  went  along  the  street,  they 
pointed  the  finger  at  him ;  his  appearance  was  often  the  signal 
for  a  joke  or  a  pitying  word  from  the  children  or  workpeople ; 
but  Lemulquinier,  ever  on  the  watch,  translated  the  whisper- 
ings into  a  murmur  of  admiration  for  his  master,  who  never 
suspected  the  real  truth. 

Balthazar's  eyes  still  preserved  the  wonderful  clearness 
which  an  inward  vision  of  great  ideas  had  given  to  them,  but 
he  had  grown  deaf.  For  the  peasants,  and  for  vulgar  or 
superstitious  minds,  the  old  man  was  a  wizard.  The  old 
and  splendid  home  of  the  Claes  was  spoken  of  in  narrow 
streets  and  country  cottages  as  the  "Devil's  House;"  nothing 
was  lacking  to  give  color  to  these  absurd  tales ;  even  Lemul- 
quinier's  appearance  gave  rise  to  some  of  the  lying  legends 
about  his  master.  When,  therefore,  the  poor,  faithful  old 
servant  went  out  to  buy  their  scanty  supply  of  necessaries 


206  THE  QUEST  OP  THE  ABSOLUTE 

in  the  market,  he  not  only  paid  higher  prices  than  any  one 
else  for  his  meagre  purchases,  but  he  could  buy  nothing  with- 
out receiving  insults  thrown  in  as  a  sort  of  m-ike-weight ; 
he  even  thought  himself  lucky  if  the  superstitious  market- 
women  did  not  refuse  to  supply  him  with  his  miserable  pit- 
tance of  food,  for  it  too  often  happened  that  they  were  afraid 
CO  endanger  their  souls  by  dealing  with  a  tool  of  Satan. 

The  general  feeling  of  the  town  was  hostile  to  the  old  great 
man  and  the  companion  of  his  labors.  They  were  not  the 
better  thought  of  because  they  were  ill-clad  and  wore  the 
shabby  clothing  of  decent  poverty  that  shrinks  from  begging. 
Open  insult  was  sure  to  be  offered  them  sooner  or  later;  and 
Pierquin,  for  the  sake  of  his  family,  always  took  the  precau- 
tion of  sending  two  or  three  of  his  servants  to  follow  the  old 
men  at  a  distance,  and  to  interfere,  if  necessary,  to  protect 
them,  for  the  influence  of  the  Revolution  of  Jul}^  had  not 
improved  the  manners  of  the  populace. 

By  some  inexplicable  chance  Claes  and  Lemulquinier  had 
gone  out  early  this  morning,  and  M.  and  Mme.  Pierquin's 
secret  vigilance  was  for  once  at  fault;  the  two  old  men  were 
out  alone  in  the  town.  On  their  way  home  they  sat  down 
to  rest  in  the  Place  Saint-Jacques,  on  a  bench  in  the  sun. 
Boys  and  children  were  continually  passing  by  on  their  way 
to  school,  and  when  they  looked  across  the  square  and  saw 
the  two  helpless  old  men,  whose  faces  brightened  as  they 
basked  in  the  sunlight,  the  children  made  little  groups,  and 
began  to  talk.  Children's  chatter  usually  ends  in  laughter, 
and  laughter  leads  to  mischief,  which  has  no  cruel  intention. 
Seven  or  eight  of  the  first-comers  stood  at  a  little  distance, 
and  stared  at  the  strange  old  faces;  Lemulquinier  heard 
their  smothered  laughter. 

"There,"  cried  one,  "do  you  see  that  one  with  the  forehead 
like  a  knee  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  then,  he  is  a  born  Wise  Man." 

"Papa  says  he  makes  gold,"  put  in  another. 

"Gold?  What  way  does  he  make  it?"  asked  a  third,  with 
a  contemptuous  gesture. 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  207 

The  smallest  of  the  children,  who  carried  a  basket  full  of 
provisions,  and  was  munching  a  slice  of  bread  and  butter, 
went  artlessly  up  to  the  bench,  and  said  to  Lemulquinier : 

"Is  it  true  that  you  make  pearls  and  diamonds,  sir?" 

"Yes,  little  man,"  said  Lemulquinier,  smiling,  and  patting 
his  cheeks;  "learn  your  lessons,  and  grow  very  wise,  and  we 
will  give  you  some." 

"Oh,  sir !  give  me  some  too !"  was  the  general  cry. 

All  the  children  scampered  up  and  crowded  about  the  two 
chemists  like  a  flock  of  birds;  their  cries  roused  Balthazar 
from  his  musings ;  he  gave  a  start  that  made  them  laugh. 

"Ah !  you  little  rascals,  respect  a  great  man !"  said  Lemul- 
quinier. 

"A  harlequin !"  shouted  the  children ;  "you  are  sorcerers ! 
.     .     .     yes,  sorcerers  !  old  sorcerers  !  sorcerers,  ah !" 

Lemulquinier  sprang,  to  his  feet,  raised  his  cane,  and 
threatened  the  children,  who  promptly  fled,  and  picked  up 
stones  and  mud.  A  workman  who  was  eating  his  breakfast 
not  far  away  looked  up  and  saw  Lemulquinier  take  his  cane 
to  drive  the  children  away,  thought  that  he  had  beaten  them, 
and  came  to  their  aid  with  the  formidable  cry,  "Down  with 
the  sorcerers !" 

Thus  encouraged,  the  children  were  pelting  the  two  old  men 
with  ston.es  as  the  Comte  de  Solis,  followed  by  Pierquin's 
servants,  came  into  the  square.  They  were  too  late  to  stop 
the  shower  of  mud  with  which  the  children  bespattered  the 
great  man  and  his  servant;  the  mischief  was  done.  Bal- 
thazar had  hitherto  preserved  the  full  force  of  his  faculties 
by  the  monastic  habits  and  temperate  life  of  a  man  of 
science,  in  whom  one  all-absorbing  passion  had  extinguished 
all  others.  In  the  course  of  his  ruminations  the  meaning  of 
this  scene  suddenly  dawned  on  him.  The  sudden  revulsion  of 
feeling,  the  contrast  between  the  ideal  world  in  which  he  lived 
and  the  real  world  about  him,  was  too  great  a  shock ;  he  fell 
into  Lemulquinier's  arms,  struck  down  by  paralysis.  He  was 
carried  home  on  a  stretcher,  his  two  sons-in-law  and  the  ser- 
vants going  with  him.    Nothing  could  prevent  the  crowd  that 


2<«  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

gathered  from  following  the  old  man  to  his  house.  Felicie 
and  her  children  were  there  already,  and  Gabriel  and  his 
wife  had  come  from  Cambrai,  hearing  through  their  sister  of 
Marguerite's  return. 

The  old  man's  return  to  his  house  was  piteous  to  see. 
Even  as  he  lay  between  life  and  death  his  chief  terror  seemed 
to  be  the  thought  that  his  children  would  discover  the 
wretchedness  in  which  he  had  been  living.  As  soon  as  a  bed 
could  be  made  up  in  the  parlor,  every  care  was  bestowed  on 
Balthazar,  and  towards  the  end  of  the  day  some  hopes  of 
his  recovery  were  entertained.  But  in  spite  of  all  that  skill 
could  do,  the  paralysis  had  left  him  in  an  almost  childish 
condition.  After  the  other  symptoms  had  abated,  his  speech 
was  still  affected,  jjerhaps  because  anger  had  taken  all  power 
to  speak  from  him  when  he  attempted  to  remonstrate  with 
the  children. 

General  indignation  was  felt  in  the  town  when  the  news 
of  the  affair  became  known.  Some  mysterious  law  working 
in  the  minds  of  men  had  wrought  a  revulsion  of  feeling,  and 
M.  Claes  regained  his  popularity.  He  suddenly  became  a 
great  man.  All  the  admiration  and  esteem  which  had  been 
so  long  withdrawn  was  his  again.  Every  one  praised  his  pa- 
tient toil,  his  courage,  his  strength  of  will,  his  genius.  The 
magistrates  were  disposed  to  treat  the  small  delinquents  very 
harshly;  but  the  evil  was  done,  and  Claes'  own  family  were 
the  first  to  ask  that  the  affair  should  be  smoothed  over. 

The  parlor  was  refurnished  by  Marguerite's  directions, 
silken  hangings  covered  the  bare  walls  where  the  carved 
panels  once  had  been ;  and  when,  a  few  days  after  his  seizure, 
Claes  recovered  the  use  of  his  faculties,  he  found  himself 
among  luxurious  surroundings ;  nothing  that  could  contribute 
to  his  comfort  had  been  forgotten.  Marguerite  came  into  the 
parlor  just  as  he  tried  to  say  that  surely  she  must  have  come 
back,  A  flush  came  over  Balthazar's  face  at  the  sight  of  her; 
his  eyes  were  full  of  tears  that  did  not  fall ;  he  was  still  able 
to  grasp  his  daughter's  hand  in  his  cold  fingers,  and  in  this 
pressure  he  put  all  the  feelings  and  the  thoughts  that  he 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  209 

could  not  utter.  There  was  something  very  sacred  and  sol- 
emn in  this  farewell,  from  a  d3dng  brain  and  a  heart  to  which 
gratitude  had  brought  back  some  of  the  glow  of  the  warmth 
of  life. 

Exhausted  by  all  his  fruitless  labors,  worn  out  by  his  wres- 
tlings with  a  giant  problem,  seeing,  perhaps,  with  despair 
in  his  heart,  the  oblivion  that  waited  for  his  memory,  the 
Titan  neared  the  end  of  his  life.  Everything  about  him 
spoke  of  his  children's  reverent  affection.  There  were  signs 
of  wealth  and  plenty,  if  these  things  could  have  rejoiced  his 
eyes ;  the  fair  picture  of  their  faces  to  gladden  his  heart.  He 
could  now  only  express  his  affection  for  them  by  looks,  and 
his  eyes  were  always  full  of  tenderness ;  it  was  as  if  they  had 
suddenly  acquired  a  strange  and  varied  power  of  speech,  and 
the  light  that  shone  in  them  was  a  language  easy  to  under- 
stand. 

Marguerite  paid  her  father's  debts ;  and  though  the  ancient 
glories  of  the  house  of  Claes  had  departed,  it  was  shortly 
refurnished  with  a  magnificence  that  effaced  all  memories 
of  its  forlorn  condition.  She  was  never  absent  from  Bal- 
thazar's bedside,  and  strove  to  guess  his  thoughts,  and  to 
anticipate  his  slightest  wish. 

Several  months  went  by  in  alternations  of  hope  and  de- 
spair that  marked  the  progress  of  the  final  struggle  between 
life  and  death  in  an  aged  frame.  His  children  came  to  see 
him  every  morning,  and  spent  the  day  in  his  room;  they 
dined  there  in  the  parlor  by  his  bedside,  and  only  left  him 
while  he  slept.  The  newspapers  seemed  to  be  his  principal 
resource;  he  took  a  great  interest- in  the  political  events  of 
the  time,  listening  attentively  to  M.  de  Solis,  who  read  them 
aloud  to  him,  and  sat  close  beside  him  that  he  might  hear 
every  word. 

One  night  towards  the  end  of  the  year  1832  Balthazar's 
condition  grew  critical;  the  nurse,  alarmed  by  a  sudden 
change  in  the  patient,  sent  for  Dr.  Pierquin,  and  when  he 
came,  he  decided  to  remain;  Claes'  convulsions  seemed  so 


210  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE 

like  the  agony  of  death  that  the  doctor  feared  any  moment 
might  be  his  last. 

The  old  man  was  struggling  against  the  paralysis  that 
bound  his  limbs.  He  made  incredible  efforts  to  speak;  h\> 
lips  moved,  but  no  sound  came  from  them;  his  thoughts 
seemed  to  blaze  from  his  eyes;  his  face  was  drawn  with  un- 
heard-of anguish;  great  drops  of  perspiration  broke  out  on 
his  forehead;  his  fingers  twitched  nervously  in  his  despair. 

That  morning  when  his  children  came  and  embraced  him 
with  the  affection  that  grew  more  intense  and  more  clinging 
with  the  near  approach  of  death,  he  showed  none  of  the  hap- 
piness that  he  always  felt  in  their  tenderness. 

Emmanuel,  at  a  warning  glance  from  Pierquin,  hastily 
tore  the  newspaper  from  its  wrapper,  thinking  that  perhaps 
the  reading  might  divert  Balthazar's  mind  from  his  physical 
sufferings.  As  he  unfolded  the  sheet  the  words  Discovery 
OF  THE  Absolute  caught  his  eyes  and  startled  him,  and  he 
read  the  paragraph  to  Marguerite  under  his  breath.  It  told 
of  a  bargain  concluded  by  a  celebrated  Polish  mathematician 
for  the  secret  of  the  Absolute,  which  he  had  discovered.  At 
the  conclusion  of  the  paragraph  Marguerite  asked  her  hus- 
band for  the  paper,  but,  low  as  the  tones  of  his  voice  had  been, 
Balthazar  had  heard  him. 

Suddenly  the  dying  man  raised  himself  on  his  elbows ;  his 
glance  seemed  like  lightning  to  his  terror-stricken  children, 
the  hair  that  fringed  his  temples  rose,  every  wrinkle  in  his 
face  quivered  with  excitement,  a  breath  of  inspiration  passed 
over  his  face  and  made  it  sublime.  He  raised  a  hand, 
clenched  in  frenzy,  with  the  cry  of  Archimedes — EUREKA ! 
(7  have  found  it!)  he  called  in  piercing  tones,  then  he  fell 
heavily  back  like  a  dead  body,  and  died  with  an  awful  moan. 
His  despair  could  be  read  in  the  frenzied  expression  of  his 
eyes  until  the  doctor  closed  them.  He  could  not  leave  to 
Science  the  solution  of  the  Great  .Enigma  revealed  to  him 
too  late,  as  the  veil  was  torn  asunder  by  the  fleshless  fingers 
of  Death. 


THE  UNKNOWN    MASTERPIECE 

To  a  Lord 


1845 
I.  GILLETTE 

On  a  cold  December  morning  in  the  year  1612,  a  young  man^ 
whose  clothing  was  somewhat  of  the  thinnest,  was  walking  t« 
and  fro  before  a  gateway  in  the  Rue  des  Grands-Augustins 
in  Paris.  He  went  up  and  down  the  street  before  this  house 
with  the  irresolution  of  a  gallant  who  dares  not  venture  into 
the  presence  of  the  mistress  whom  he  loves  for  the  first  time, 
eas}'  of  access  though  she  may  be ;  but  after  a  sufficiently  long 
interval  of  hesitation,  he  at  last  crossed  the  threshold  and 
inquired  of  an  old  woman,  who  was  sweeping  out  a  large 
room  on  the  ground  floor,  whether  Master  Porbus  was  within. 
Receiving  a  reply  in  the  affirmative,  the  young  man  went 
slowly  up  the  staircase,  like  a  gentleman  but  newly  come  to 
court,  and  doubtful  as  to  his  reception  by  the  king.  He  came 
to  a  stand  once  more  on  the  landing  at  the  head  of  the  stairs, 
and  again  he  hesitated  before  raising  his  hand  to  the  gro- 
tesque knocker  on  the  door  of  the  studio,  where  doubtless  the 
painter  was  at  work — Master  Porbus,  sometime  painter  in 
ordinary  to  Henri  IV.  till  Mary  de'  Medici  took  Rubens  into 
favor. 

The  young  man  felt  deeply  stirred  by  an  emotion  that  must 
thrill  the  hearts  of  all  great  artists  when,  in  the  pride  of  their 
youth  and  their  first  love  of  art,  they  come  into  the  presence 
of  a  master  or  stand  before  a  masterpiece.  For  all  human 
sentiments  there  is  a  time  of  early  blossoming,  a  day  of  gen- 

C211) 


212         '  THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE 

erous  enthusiasm  that  gradually  fades  until  nothing  is  left 
of  happiness  but  a  memory,  and  glory  is  known  for  a  delusion. 
Of  all  these  delicate  and  short-lived  emotions,  none  so  resem- 
ble love  as  the  passion  of  a  young  artist  for  his  art,  as  he  is 
about  to  enter  on  the  blissful  martyrdom  of  his  career  of 
glory  and  disaster,  of  vague  expectations  and  real  disappoint- 
ments. 

Those  who  have  missed  this  experience  in  the  early  days 
of  light  purses;  who  have  not,  in  the  dawn  of  their  genius, 
stood  in  the  presence  of  a  master  and  felt  the  throbbing  of 
their  hearts,  will  always  carry  in  their  inmost  souls  a  chord 
that  has  never  been  touched,  and  in  their  work  an  indejfinable 
quality  will  be  lacking,  a  something  in  the  stroke  of  the  brush, 
a  mysterious  element  that  we  call  poetry.  The  swaggerers,  so 
puffed  up  by  self-conceit  that  they  are  confident  oversoon  of 
their  success,  can  never  be  taken  for  men  of  talent  save  by 
fools.  From  this  point  of  view,  if  youthful  modesty  is  the 
measure  of  youthful  genius,  the  stranger  on  the  staircase 
might  be  allowed  to  have  something  in  him;  for  he  seemed 
to  possess  the  indescribable  diffidence,  the  early  timidity  that 
artists  are  bound  to  lose  in  the  course  of  a  great  career,  even 
as  pretty  women  lose  it  as  they  make  progress  in  the  arts  of 
coquetry.  Self-distrust  vanishes  as  triumph  succeeds  to  tri- 
umph, and  modesty  is,  perhaps,  distrust  of  self. 

The  poor  neophyte  was  so  overcome  by  the  consciousness 
of  his  own  presumption  and  insignificance,  that  it  began  to 
look  as  if  he  was  hardly  likely  to  penetrate  into  the  studio 
of  the  painter,  to  whom  we  owe  the  wonderful  portrait  of 
Henri  IV.  But  fate  was  propitious;  an  old  man  came  up  the 
staircase.  From  the  quaint  costume  of  this  newcomer,  his 
collar  of  magnificent  lace,  and  a  certain  serene  gravity  in  his 
bearing,  the  first  arrival  thought  that  this  personage  must  be 
either  a  patron  or  a  friend  of  the  court  painter.  He  stood 
aside  therefore  upon  the  landing  to  allow  the  visitor  to  pass> 
scrutinizing  him  curiously  the  while.  Perhaps  he  might  hope 
to  find  the  good  nature  of  an  artist  or  to  receive  the  good 
offices  of  an  amateur  not  unfriendly  to  the  arts ;  but  besides 


'iiiu  oilier  man 


knocked  lliriee  at  tlic  door 


THE  UNKNO^TN  MASTERPIECE  213 

an  almost  diabolical  expression  in  the  face  that  met  his  gaze, 
there  was  that  indescribable  something  which  has  an  irre- 
sistible attraction  for  artists. 

Picture  that  face.  A  bald  high  forehead  and  rugged  jut- 
ting brows  above  a  small  flat  nose  turned  up  at  the  end,  as 
in  the  portraits  of  Socrates  and  Rabelais,  deep  lines  about 
the  mocking  mouth;  a  short  chin,  carried  proudty,  covered 
with  a  grizzled  pointed  beard ;  sea-green  eyes  that  age  m  ight 
seem  to  have  dimmed  were  it  not  for  the  contrast  between  the 
iris  and  the  surrounding  mother-of-pearl  tints,  so  that  it 
seemed  as  if  under  the  stress  of  anger  or  enthusiasm  there 
would  be  a  magnetic  power  to  quell  or  kindle  in  their  glances. 
The  face  was  withered  beyond  wont  by  the  fatigue  of  years, 
yet  it  seemed  aged  still  more  by  the  thoughts  that  had  worn 
away  both  soul  and  body.  There  were  no  lashes  to  the  deep- 
set  eyes,  and  scarcely  a  trace  of  the  arching  lines  of  the  eye- 
brows above  them.  Set  this  head  on  a  spare  and  feeble  frame, 
place  it  in  a  frame  of  lace  wrought  like  an  engraved  silver 
fish-slice,  imagine  a  heavy  gold  chain  over  the  old  man's  black 
doublet,  and  you  will  have  some  dim  idea  of  this  strange  per- 
sonage, who  seemed  still  more  fantastic  in  the  sombre  twi- 
light of  the  staircase.  One  of  Eembrandt's  portraits  might 
have  stepped  down  from  its  frame  to  walk  in  an  appropriate 
atmosphere  of  gloom,  such  as  the  great  painter  loved.  The 
older  man  gave  the  younger  a  shrewd  glance,  and  knocked 
thrice  at  the  door.  It  was  opened  by  a  man  of  forty  or  there- 
abouts, who  seemed  to  be  an  invalid. 

"Good-day,  master." 

Porbus  bowed  respectfully,  and  held  the  door  open  for  the 
younger  man  to  enter,  thinking  that  the  latter  accompanied 
his  visitor;  and  when  he  saw  that  the  neophyte  stood  awhile 
as  if  spellbound,  feeling,  as  every  artist-nature  must  feel,  the 
fascinating  influence  of  the  first  sight  of  a  studio  in  which 
the  material  processes  of  art  are  revealed,  Porbus  troubled 
himself  no  more  about  this  secona  comer. 

All  the  light  in  the  studio  came  from  a  window  in  the  roof, 
and  was  concentrated  upon  an  easel,  where  a  canvas  stood 


214  THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE 

untouched  as  yet  save  for  three  or  four  outlines  in  chalk. 
The  daylight  scarcely  reached  the  remoter  angles  and  comers 
of  the  vast  room ;  they  were  as  dark  as  night ;  but  the  silver 
ornamented  breastplate  of  a  Reiter's  corselet,  that  hung  upon 
the  wall,  attracted  a  stray  gleam  to  its  dim  abiding-place 
among  the  brown  shadows ;  or  a  shaft  of  light  shot  across  the 
carved  and  glistening  surface  of  an  antique  sideboard  covered 
with  curious  silver-plate,  or  struck  out  a  line  of  glittering 
dots  among  the  raised  threads  of  the  golden  warp  of  some  old 
brocaded  curtains,  where  the  lines  of  the  stiff  heavy  folds 
vvere  broken,  as  the  stuff  had  been  flung  carelessly  down  to 
serve  as  a  model. 

Plaster  ecorches  stood  about  the  room;  and  here  and  there, 
on  shelves  and  tables,  lay  fragments  of  classical  sculpture — 
torsos  of  antique  goddesses,  worn  smooth  as  though  all  the 
years  of  the  centuries  that  had  passed  over  them  had  been 
lovers'  kisses.  The  walls  were  covered,  from  floor  to  ceiling, 
vvith  countless  sketches  in  charcoal,  red  chalk,  or  pen-and-ink. 
Amid  the  litter  and  confusion  of  color  boxes,  overturned 
stools,  flasks  of  oil,  and  essences,  there  was  just  room  to  move 
so  as  to  reach  the  illuminated  circular  space  where  the  easel 
stood.  The  light  from  the  window  in  the  roof  fell  full  upon 
Porbus'  pale  face  and  on  the  ivory-tinted  forehead  of  his 
strange  visitor.  But  in  another  moment  the  younger  man 
heeded  nothing  but  a  picture  that  had  already  become  famous 
even  in  those  stormy  days  of  political  and  religious  revolution, 
a  picture  that  a  few  of  the  zealous  worshipers,  who  have  so 
often  kept  the  sacred  fire  of  art  alive  in  evil  days,  were  wont  to 
go  on  pilgrimage  to  see.  The  beautiful  panel  represented 
a  Saint  Mary  of  Egypt  about  to  pay  her  passage  across  the 
seas.  It  was  a  master}3iece  destined  for  Mary  de'  Medici, 
who  sold  it  in  later  years  of  poverty. 

"I  like  your  saint,"  the  old  man  remarked,  addressing  Por- 
bus. "I  would  give  you  ten  golden  crowns  for  her  over  and 
above  the  price  the  Queen  is  paying;  but  as  for  putting  a 
spoke  in  that  wheel     .     .     .     the  devil  take  it !" 

"It  is  good  then?" 


THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE  215 

"Hey  !  hey  !"  said  the  old  man ;  "good,  say  you  ? — Yes  and 
no.  Your  good  woman  is  not  badly  done,  but  she  is  not  alive. 
You  artists  fancy  that  when  a  figure  is  correctly  drawn,  and 
everything  in  its  place  according  to  the  rules  of  anatomy, 
there  is  nothing  more  to  be  done.  You  make  up  the  flesh  tints 
beforehand  on  your  palettes  according  to  your  formulae,  and 
fill  in  the  outlines  with  due  care  that  one  side  of  the  face  shall 
be  darker  than  the  other;  and  because  j^ou  look  from  time 
to  time  at  a  naked  woman  who  stands  on  the  platform  be'fore 
you,  you  fondly  imagine  that  you  have  copied  nature,  think 
yourselves  to  be  painters,  believe  that  you  have  wrested  His 
secret  from  God.  Pshaw !  You  may  know  your  syntax  thor- 
oughly and  make  no  blunders  in  your  grammar,  but  it  takes 
that  and  something  more  to  make  a  great  poet.  Look  at  your 
saint,  Porbus  !  At  a  first  glance  she  is  admirable ;  look  at  her 
again,  and  you  see  at  once  that  she  is  glued  to  the  background, 
and  that  you  could  not  walk  round  her.  She  is  a  silhouette 
that  turns  but  one  side  of  her  face  to  all  beholders,  a  figure  cut 
out  of  canvas,  an  image  with  no  power  to  move  nor  change 
her  position.  I  feel  as  if  there  were  no  air  between  that  arm 
and  the  background,  no  space,  no  sense  of  distance  in  your 
canvas.  The  perspective  is  perfectly  correct,  the  strength  of 
the  coloring  is  accurately  diminished  with  the  distance;  but, 
in  spite  of  these  praiseworthy  efforts,  I  could  never  bring  my- 
self to  believe  that  the  warm  breath  of  life  comes  and  goes  in 
that  beautiful  body.  It  seems  to  me  that  if  I  laid  my  hand 
on  the  firm  rounded  throat,  it  would  be  cold  as  marble  to 
the  touch.  No,  my  friend,  the  blood  does  not  flow  beneath 
that  ivory  skin,  the  tide  of  life  does  not  flush  those  delicate 
fibres,  the  purple  veins  that  trace  a  network  beneath  the 
transparent  amber  of  her  brow  and  breast.  Here  the  pulse 
seems  to  beat,  there  it  is  motionless,  life  and  death  are  at 
strife  in  every  detail;  here  you  see  a  woman,  there  a  statue, 
there  again  a  corpse.  Your  creation  is  incomplete.  You  had 
only  power  to  breathe  a  portion  of  your  soul  into  your  beloved 
work.  The  fire  of  Prometheus  died  out  again  and  again  in 
your  hands  ;  many  a  spot  in  your  picture  has  not  been  touched 
by  the  divine  flame." 


216  THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE 

''But  how  is  it,  dear  master?"  Porbus  asked  respectfully, 
while  the  young  man  v/ith  difficulty  repressed  his  strong  de- 
sire to  beat  the  critic. 

*'Ah !"  said  the  old  man,  "it  is  this !  You  have  halted  be- 
tween two  manners.  You  have  hesitated  between  drawing 
and  color,  between  the  dogged  attention  to  detail,  the  stiff 
precision  of  the  German  masters  and  the  dazzling  glow,  the 
joyous  exuberance  of  Italian  painters.  You  have  set  yourself 
to  imitate  Hans  Holbein  and  Titian,  Albrecht  Diirer  and 
Paul  Veronese  in  a  single  picture.  A  magnificent  ambition 
truly,  but  what  has  come  of  it?  Your  work  has  neither  the 
severe  charm  of  a  dry  execution  nor  the  magical  illusion  of 
Italian  chiaroscuro.  Titian's  rich  golden  coloring  poured  into 
Albrecht  Diirer's  austere  outlines  has  shattered  them,  like 
molten  bronze  bursting  through  the  mould  that  is  not  strong 
enough  to  hold  it.  In  other  places  the  outlines  have  held  firm, 
imprisoning  and  obscuring  the  magnificent  glowing  flood  of 
Venetian  color.  The  drawing  of  the  face  is  not  perfect,  the 
coloring  is  not  perfect;  traces  of  that  unlucky  indecision 
are  to  be  seen  everywhere.  Unless  you  felt  strong  enough 
to  fuse  the  two  opposed  manners  in  the  fire  of  your  own 
genius,  you  should  have  cast  in  your  lot  boldly  with  the  one 
or  the  other,  and  so  have  obtained  the  unity  which  simulates 
one  of  the  conditions  of  life  itself.  Your  work  is  only  true 
in  the  centres;  your  outlines  are  false,  they  project  nothing, 
there  is  no  hint  of  anything  behind  them.  There  is  truth 
here,"  said  the  old  man,  pointing  to  the  breast  of  the  Saint, 
"and  again  here,"  he  went  on,  indicating  the  rounded 
shoulder.  "But  there,"  once  more  returning  to  the  column 
of  the  throat,  "everything  is  false.  Let  us  go  no  further  into 
detail ;  you  would  be  disheartened." 

The  old  man  sat  down  on  a  stool,  and  remained  a  while 
without  speaking,  with  his  face  buried  in  his  hands. 

"Yet  I  studied  tbat  throat  from  the  life,  dear  master,"  Por- 
bus began;  "it  happens  sometimes,  for  our  misfortune,  that 
real  effects  in  nature  look  improbable  when  transferred  to 
canvas " 


THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE  217 

"The  aim  of  art  is  not  to  copy  nature,  but  to  express  it, 
You  are  not  a  servile  copyist,  but  a  poet !"  cried  the  old  man 
sharply,  cutting  Porbus  short  with  an  imperious  gesture. 
"Otherwise  a  sculptor  might  make  a  plaster  cast  of  a  living 
woman  and  save  himself  all  further  trouble.  Well,  try  to 
make  a  cast  of  your  mistress'  hand,  and  set  up  the  thing 
before  you.  You  will  see  a  monstrosity,  a  dead  mass,  bearing 
no  resemblance  to  the  living  hand;  you  would  be  compelled 
to  have  recourse  to  the  chisel  of  a  sculptor  who,  without  mak- 
ing an  exact  copy,  would  represent  for  you  its  movement  and 
its  life.  We  must  detect  the  spirit,  the  informing  soul  in  the 
appearances  of  things  and  beings.  Effects  !  What  are  effects 
but  the  accidents  of  life,  not  life  itself  ?  A  hand,  since  I  have 
taken  that  example,  is  not  only  a  part  of  a  body,  it  is  the  ex- 
pression and  extension  of  a  thought  that  must  be  grasped  and 
rendered.  Keither  painter  nor  poet  nor  sculptor  may  separate 
the  effect  from  the  cause,  which  are  inevitably  contained  the 
one  in  the  other.  There  begins  the  real  struggle !  Many  a 
painter  achieves  success  instinctively,  unconscious  of  the  task 
that  is  set  before  art.  You  draw  a  woman,  yet  you  do  not  see 
her !  Not  so  do  you  succeed  in  wresting  nature's  secrets  from 
her !  You  are  reproducing  mechanically  the  model  that  you 
copied  in  your  master's  studio.  You  do  not  penetrate  far  enough 
into  the  inmost  secrets  of  the  mystery  of  form;  you  do  not 
seek  with  love  enough  and  perseverance  enough  after  the  form 
that  baffles  and  eludes  you.  Beauty  is  a  thing  severe  and  un- 
approachable, never  to  be  won  by  a  languid  lover.  You  must 
lie  in  wait  for  her  coming  and  take  her  unawares,  press  her 
hard  and  clasp  her  in  a  tight  embrace,  and  force  her  to  yield. 
Form  is  a  Proteus  more  intangible  and  more  manifold  than 
the  Proteus  of  the  legend;  compelled,  only  after  long  wres- 
tling, to  stand  forth  manifest  in  his  true  aspect.  Some  of  you 
are  satisfied  with  the  first  shape,  or  at  most  by  the  second 
or  the  third  that  appears.  Not  thus  wrestle  the  victors,  the 
unvanquished  painters  who  never  suffer  themselves  to  be  de- 
luded by  all  those  treacherous  shadow-shapes ;  they  persevere 
till  nature  at  the  last  stands  bare  to  their  gaze,  and  her  very 
soul  is  revealed. 


218  THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE 

''In  this  manner  worked  Eaphael,"  said  the  old  man,  taking 
off  his  cap  to  express  his  reverence  for  the  King  of  Art.  "His 
transcendent  greatness  came  from  the  intimate  sense  that,  in 
him,  seems  as  if  it  would  shatter  external  form.  Form  in  his 
figures  (as  with  us)  is  a  symbol,  a  means  of  communicating 
sensations,  ideas,  the  vast  imaginings  of  a  poet.  Ever}'  face 
is  a  whole  world.  The  subject  of  the  portrait  appeared  for 
him  bathed  in  the  light  of  a  divine  vision ;  it  was  revealed  by 
an  inner  voice,  the  finger  of  God  laid  bare  the  sources  of  ex- 
pression in  the  past  of  a  whole  life. 

"You  clothe  your  women  in  fair  raiment  of  flesh,  in  gra- 
cious veiling  of  hair ;  but  where  is  the  blood,  the  source  of  pas- 
sion and  of  calm,  the  cause  of  the  particular  effect?  Why, 
this  brown  Egyptian  of  yours,  my  good  Porbus,  is  a  colorless 
creature !  These  figures  that  you  set  before  us  are  painted 
bloodless  phantoms ;  and  you  call  that  painting,  you  call  that 
art! 

"Because  you  have  made  something  more  like  a  woman  than 
a  house,  you  think  that  you  have  set  your  fingers  on  the  goal ; 
you  are  quite  proud  that  you  need  not  to  write  currus  venustus 
or  pulcher  homo  beside  your  figures,  as  early  painters  were 
wont  to  do,  and  you  fancy  that  you  have  done  wonders.  Ah ! 
my  good  friend,  there  is  still  something  more  to  learn,  and 
you  will  use  up  a  great  deal  of  chalk  and  cover  many  a  canvas 
before  you  will  learn  it.  Yes,  truly,  a  woman  carries  her  head 
in  just  such  a  way,  so  she  holds  her  garments  gathered  into 
her  hand ;  her  eyes  grow  dreamy  and  soft  with  that  expression 
of  meek  sweetness,  and  even  so  the  quivering  shadow  of  the 
lashes  hovers  upon  her  cheeks.  It  is  all  there,  and  yet  it  is 
not  there.  What  is  lacking?  A  nothing,  but  that  nothing 
is  everything. 

"There  you  have  the  semblance  of  life,  but  you  do  not  ex- 
press its  fulness  and  effluence,  that  indescribable  something, 
perhaps  the  soul  itself,  that  envelops  the  outlines  of  the  body 
Jiko  a  haze;  that  flower  of  life,  in  short,  that  Titian  and  Ra- 
phael caught.  Your  utmost  achievement  hitherto  has  only 
brought  you  to  the  starting-point.     You  might  now  perhaps 


THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE  219 

begin  to  do  excellent  work,  but  you  grow  weary  all  too  soon; 
and  the  crowd  admires,  and  those  who  know  smile. 

"Oh,  Mabuse !  oh,  my  master !"  cried  the  strange  speaker, 
"thou  art  a  thief !  Thou  hast  carried  away  the  secret  of  life 
with  thee ! 

"Nevertheless,"  he  began  again,  "this  picture  of  yours  is 
worth  more  than  all  the  paintings  of  that  rascal  Eubens,  with 
his  mountains  of  Flemish  flesh  raddled  with  vermilion,  his 
torrents  of  red  hair,  his  riot  of  color.  You,  at  least,  have 
color  there,  and  feeling  and  drawing — the  three  essentials  in 
art." 

The  young  man  roused  himself  from  his  deep  musings. 

"Why,  my  good  man,  the  Saint  is  sublime !"  he  cried. 
"There  is  a  subtlety  of  imagination  about  those  two  figures, 
the  Saint  Mary  and  the  Shipman,  that  cannot  be  found  among 
Italian  masters;  I  do  not  know  a  single  one  of  them  capable 
of  imagining  the  Shipman's  hesitation." 

"Did  that  little  malapert  come  with  you  ?"  asked  Porbus  of 
the  older  man. 

"Alas !  master,  pardon  my  boldness,"  cried  the  neophyte, 
and  the  color  mounted  to  his  face.  "I  am  unknown — a  dauber 
by  instinct,  and  but  lately  come  to  this  city — the  fountain- 
head  of  all  learning." 

"Set  to  work,"  said  Porbus,  handing  him  a  bit  of  red  chalk 
and  a  sheet  of  paper. 

The  newcomer  quickly  sketched  the  Saint  Mary  line  for 
line. 

"Aha !"  exclaimed  the  old  man.    "Your  name  ?"  he  added. 

The  young  man  wrote  "Nicolas  Poussin"  below  the  sketch. 

"Not  bad  that  for  a  beginning,"  said  the  strange  speaker, 
who  had  discoursed  so  wildly.  "I  see  that  we  can  talk  art  in 
your  presence.  I  do  not  blame  you  for  admiring  Porbus'  saint. 
In  the  eyes  of  the  world  she  is  a  masterpiece,  and  those  alone 
who  have  been  initiated  into  the  inmost  mysteries  of  art  can 
discover  her  shortcomings.  But  it  is  worth  while  to  give  you 
the  lesson,  for  you  are  able  to  understand  it,  so  I  will  show 
you  how  little  it  needs  to  complete  this  picture.    You  must  be 


220  THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE 

all  eyes,  all  attention,  for  it  may  be  that  such  a  chance  of 
learning  will  never  come  in  your  way  again. — Porbus !  your 
palette." 

Porbus  went  in  search  of  palette  and  brushes.  The  little 
old  man  turned  back  his  sleeves  with  impatient  energy,  seized 
the  palette,  covered  with  many  hues,  that  Porbus  handed  to 
him,  and  snatched  rather  than  took  a  handful  of  brushes  of 
various  sizes  from  the  hands  of  his  acquaintance.  His  pointed 
beard  suddenly  bristled — a  menacing  movement  that  ex- 
pressed the  prick  of  a  lover's  fancy.  As  he  loaded  his  brush, 
he  muttered  between  his  teeth,  "These  paints  are  only  fit 
to  fling  out  of  the  window,  together  with  the  fellow  who 
ground  them,  their  crudeness  and  falseness  are  disgusting! 
How  can  one  paint  with  this  ?" 

He  dipped  the  tip  of  the  brush  with  feverish  eagerness  in 
the  different  pigments,  making  the  circuit  of  the  palette  sev- 
eral times  more  quickly  than  the  organist  of  a  cathedral 
sweeps  the  octaves  on  the  keyboard  of  his  clavier  for  the  0 
Filii  at  Easter. 

Porbus  and  Poussin,  on  either  side  of  the  easel,  stood  stock- 
still,  watching  with  intense  interest. 

"Look,  young  man,"  he  began  again,  "see  how  three  or  four 
strokes  of  the  brush  and  a  thin  glaze  of  blue  let  in  the  free 
air  to  play  about  the  head  of  the  poor  Saint,  who  must  have 
felt  stifled  and,  oppressed  by  the  close  atmosphere !  See  how 
the  drapery  begins  to  flutter ;  3'ou  feel  that  it  is  lifted  by  the 
breeze !  A  moment  ago  it  hung  as  heavily  and  stiffly  as  if  it 
were  held  out  by  pins.  ■  Do  you  see  how  the  satin  sheen  that  I 
have  just  given  to  the  breast  rends  the  pliant,  silken  softness 
of  a  young  girl's  skin,  and  how  the  brown  red,  blended  with 
burnt  ochre,  brings  warmth  into  the  cold  gray  of  the  deep 
shadow  where  the  blood  lay  congealed  instead  of  coursing 
through  the  veins  ?  Young  man,  young  man,  no  master  could 
teach  you  how  to  do  this  that  I  am  doing  before  your  eyes. 
Mabuse  alone  possessed  the  secret  of  giving  life  to  his  figures ; 
Mabuse  had  but  one  pupil — that  was  I.  I  have  none,  and  I 
am  old.  You  have  sufficient  intelligence  to  imagine  the  rest 
from  the  glimpses  that  I  am  giving  you." 


THE  I'NKNOWN  MASTERPIECE  221 

While  the  old  man  was  speaking,  he  gave  a  touch  here  and 
there ;  sometimes  two  strokes  of  the  brush,  sometimes  a  single 
one;  but  every  stroke  told  so  well,  that  the  whole  picture 
seemed  transfigured — the  painting  was  flooded  with  light. 
He  worked  with  such  passionate  fervor,  that  beads  of  sweat 
gathered  upon  his  bare  forehead;  he  worked  so  quickly,  in 
brief,  impatient  jerks,  that  it  seemed  to  young  Poussin  as  if 
some  familiar  spirit  inhabiting  the  body  of  this  strange  being 
took  a  grotesque  pleasure  in  making  use  of  the  man's  hands 
against  his  own  will.  The  unearthly  glitter  of  his  eyes,  the 
convulsive  movements  that  seemed  like  struggles,  gave  to  this 
fancy  a  semblance  of  truth  which  could  not  but  stir  a  young 
jjnagination.    The  old  man  continued,  saying  as  he  did  so : 

"Paf !  paf !  that  is  how  to  lay  it  on,  young  man ! — Little 
touches !  come  and  bring  a  glow  into  those  icy  cold  tones  for 
me !  Just  so  !  Pon  !  pon  !  pon  !"  and  those  parts  of  the  pic- 
ture that  he  had  pointed  out  as  cold  and  lifeless  flushed  with 
warmer  hues,  a  few  bold  strokes  of  color  brought  all  the  tones 
of  the  picture  into  the  required  harmony  with  the  glowing 
tints  of  the  Egyptian,  and  the  differences  in  temperament 
vanished. 

"Look  you,  youngster,  the  last  touches  make  the  picture. 
Porbus  has  given  it  a  hundred  strokes  for  every  one  of  mine. 
No  one  thanks  us  for  what  lies  beneath.    Bear  that  in  mind." 

At  last  the  restless  spirit  stopped,  and  turning  to  Porbus 
and  Poussin,  who  were  speechless  with  admiration,  he  spoke : 

"This  is  not  as  good  as  my  Belle  Noiseuse;  still  one  might 
put  one's  name  to  such  a  thing  as  this. — Yes,  I  would  put  my 
name  to  it,"  he  added,  rising  to  reach  for  a  mirror,  in  which 
he  looked  at  the  picture. — "And  now,"  he  said,  "will  you  both 
come  and  breakfast  with  me  ?  T  have  a  smoked  ham  and  some 
very  fair  wine !  .  .  .  Eh  !  eh  !  the  times  may  be  bad,  but 
we  can  still  have  some  talk  about  art !  We  can  talk  like 
equals.  .  .  .  Here  is  a  little  fellow  who  has  aptitude,"  he 
added,  laying  a  hand  on  Nicolas  Poussin's  shoulder. 

In  this  way  the  stranger  became  aware  of  the  threadbare 
condition  of  the  Norman's  doublet.    He  drew  a  leather  purse 


222  THE  UNKNOWN  MASTEItllECE 

from  his  girdle,  felt  in  it,  found  two  gold  coins,  and  held 
them  out. 

"I  will  buy  your  sketch,"  he  said. 

"Take  it,"  said  Porbus,  as  he  saw  the  other  start  and  flush 
with  embarrassment,  for  Poussin  had  the  pride  of  poverty. 
'^■Pray  take  it;  he  has  a  couple  of  king's  ransoms  in  hli 
pouch !" 

The  three  came  down  together  from  the  studio,  and,  talking 
of  art  by  the  way,  reached  a  picturesque  wooden  house  hard 
by  the  Pont  Saint-Michel.  Poussin  wondered  a  moment  at 
its  ornament,  at  the  knocker,  at  the  frames  of  the  casements, 
at  the  scroll  work  designs,  and  in  the  next  he  stood  in  a  vast 
low-ceiled  room.  A  table,  covered  with  tempting  dishes,  stood 
near  the  blazing  j&re,  and  (luck  unhoped  for)  he  was  in  the 
company  of  two  great  artists  full  of  genial  good  humor. 

"Do  not  look  too  long  at  that  canvas,  young  man,"  said 
Porbus,  when  he  saw  that  Poussin  was  standing,  struck  with 
wonder,  before  a  painting.  "You  would  fall  a  victim  to  de- 
spair." 

It  was  the  Adam  painted  by  Mabuse  to  purchase  his  release 
from  the  prison  where  his  creditors  had  so  long  kept  him. 
And  as  a  matter  of  fact,  the  figure  stood  out  so  boldly  and 
convincingly,  that  Nicolas  Poussin  began  to  understand  the 
real  meaning  of  the  words  poured  out  by  the  old  artist,  who 
was  himself  looking  at  the  picture  with  apparent  satisfaction, 
but  without  enthusiasm.  "I  have  done  better  than  that!" 
he  seemed  to  be  saying  to  himself. 

"There  is  life  in  it,"  he  said  aloud ;  "in  that  respect  my  poor 
master  here  surpassed  himself,  but  there  is  some  lack  of  truth 
in  the  background.  The  man  lives  indeed;  he  is  rising,  and 
will  come  towards  us;  but  the  atmosphere,  the  sky,  the  air, 
the  breath  of  the  breeze — -you  look  and  feci  for  them,  but  they 
are  not  there.  And  then  the  man  himself  is,  after  all,  only  a 
man !  Ah !  but  the  one  man  in  the  world  who  came  direct 
from  the  hands  of  God  must  have  had  a  something  divine 
about  liim  that  is  wanting  here.  Mabuse  himself  would  grind 
his  teeth  and  say  so  when  he  was  not  drunk." 


THE  UNKNOWN  MASTEllPIECB  223 

Poussin  looked  from  the  speaker  to  Porbus,  and  from  Por- 
bus  to  the  speaker,  with  restless  curiosity.  He  went  up  to  the 
latter  to  ask  for  the  name  of  their  host ;  but  the  painter  laid 
a  finger  on  his  lips  with  an  air  of  mystery.  The  young  man's 
interest  was  excited;  he  kept  silence,  but  hoped  that  sooner 
or  later  some  word  might  be  let  fall  that  would  reveal  the 
name  of  his  entertainer.  It  was  evident  that  he  was  a  man 
of  talent  and  very  wealthy,  for  Porbus  listened  to  him  respect- 
fully, and  the  vast  room  was  crowded  with  marvels  of  art. 

A  magnificent  portrait  of  a  woman,  hung  against  the  dark 
oak  panels  of  the  wall,  next  caught  Poussin's  attention, 

"What  a  glorious  Giorgione  !"  he  cried. 

"No,''  said  his  host,  "it  is  an  early  daub  of  mine " 

"Gramercy !  I  am  in  the  abode  of  the  god  of  painting,  it 
seems  !"  cried  Poussin  ingenuously. 

The  old  man  smiled  as  if  he  had  long  grown  familiar  with 
such  praise. 

"Master  Frenhofer !"  said  Porbus,  "do  you  think  you  could 
send  me  a  little  of  your  capital  Rhine  wine  ?" 

"A  couple  of  pipes !"  answered  his  host ;  "one  to  discharge 
a  debt,  for  the  pleasure  of  seeing  your  pretty  sinner,  the  other 
as  a  present  from  a  friend." 

"Ah!  if  I  had  my  health,"  returned  Porbus,  "and  if  you 
would  but  let  me  see  your  Belle  Noiseuse,  I  would  paint  some 
great  picture,  with  breadth  in  it  and  depth ;  the  figures  should 
be  life-size." 

"Let  you  see  my  work!"  cried  the  painter  in  agitation. 
"No,  no !  it  is  not  perfect  yet ;  something  still  remains  for  me 
to  do.  Yesterday,  in  the  dusk,"  he  said,  "I  thought  I  had 
reached  the  end.  Her  eyes  seemed  moist,  the  flesh  quivered, 
something  stirred  the  tresses  of  her  hair.  She  breathed  I  But 
though  I  have  succeeded  in  reproducing  Nature's  roundness 
and  relief  on  the  flat  surface  ^f  the  canvas,  this  morning,  by 
daylight,  I  found  out  my  mistake.  Ah !  to  achieve  that  glori- 
ous result  I  have  studied  the  works  of  the  great  masters  of 
color,  stripping  off  coat  after  coat  of  color  from  Titian's  can- 
vas, analyzing  the  pigments  of  the  king  of  light.    Like  that 


224  THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE 

sovereign  painter,  I  began  the  face  in  a  slight  tone  with  a 
supple  and  fat  paste — for  shadow  is  but  an  accident ;  bear  that 
in  mind,  youngster ! — Then  I  began  afresh,  and  by  half-tone8 
and  thin  glazes  of  color  less  and  less  transparent,  I  gradually 
deepened  the  tints  to  the  deepest  black  of  the  strongest  shad- 
ows. An  ordinary  painter  makes  his  shadows  something  en- 
tirely different  in  nature  from  the  high  lights ;  they  are  wood 
or  brass,  or  what  you  will,  anything  but  flesh  in  shadow. 
You  feel  that  even  if  those  figures  were  to  alter  their  position, 
those  shadow  stains  would  never  be  cleansed  away,  those  parts 
of  the  picture  would  never  glow  with  light. 

"I  have  escaped  one  mistake,  into  which  the  most  famous 
painters  have  sometimes  fallen;  in  my  canvas  the  whiteness 
shines  through  the  densest  and  most  persistent  shadow.  I 
have  not  marked  out  the  limits  of  my  figure  in  hard,  dry  out- 
lines, and  brought  every  least  anatomical  detail  into  promi- 
nence (like  a  host  of  dunces,  who  fancy  that  they  can  draw 
because  they  can  trace  a  line  elaborately  smooth  and  clean), 
for  the  human  body  is  not  contained  within  the  limits  of  line. 
In  this  the  sculptor  can  approach  the  truth  more  nearly  than 
we  painters.  Nature's  way  is  a  complicated  succession  of 
curve  within  curve.  Strictly  speaking,  there  is  no  such  tiling 
as  drawing.~Do  not  laugh,  young  man;  strange  as  that 
speech  may  seem  to  you,  you  will  understand  the  truth 
in  it  some  day. — A  line  is  a  method  of  expressing  the 
effect  of  light  upon  an  object;  but  there  are  no  lines  in 
nature,  eveiything  is  solid.  We  draw  by  modeling,  that  is 
to  say,  that  we  disengage  an  object  from  its  setting;  the  dis- 
tribution ot  the  light  alone  gives  to  a  body  the  appearance 
by  which  we  know  it.  So  I  have  not  defined  the  outlines;  I 
have  suffused  them  with  a  haze  of  half-tints  warm  or  golden, 
in  such  a  sort  that  you  cannot  lay  your  finger  on  the  exact 
spot  where  background  and  contours  meet.  Seen  from  near, 
the  picture  looks  a  blur;  it  seems  to  lack  definition;  but 
step  back  two  paces,  and  the  whole  thing  becomes  clear,  dis- 
tinct, and  solid ;  the  body  stands  out,  the  rounded  form  comes 
into  relief;  you  feel  that  the  air  plays  round  it.    And  yet — 1 


THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE  225 

am  not  satisfied;  I  have  misgivings.  Perhaps  one  ought  not 
to  draw  a  single  line ;  perhaps  it  would  be  better  to  attack  the 
face  from  the  centre,  taking  the  highest  prominences  first, 
proceeding  from  them  through  the  whole  range  of  shadows  to 
the  heaviest  of  all.  Is  not  this  the  method  of  the  sun,  the 
divine  painter  of  the  world  ?  Oh,  Nature,  Nature !  who  has 
surprised  thee,  fugitive  ?  But,  after  all,  too  much  knowledge, 
like  ignorance,  brings  you  to  a  negation.  I  have  doubts  about 
my  work." 

There  was  a  pause.  Then  the  old  man  spoke  again.  "I 
have  been  at  work  upon  it  for  ten  years,  young  man;  but 
what  are  ten  short  years  in  a  struggle  with  Nature?  Do  we 
know  how  long  Sir  Pygmalion  wrought  at  the  one  statue  that 
came  to  life  ?" 

The  old  man  fell  into  deep  musings,  and  gazed  before  him 
with  wide  unseeing  eyes,  while  he  played  unheedingly  with  his 
knife. 

"Look,  he  is  in  converse  with  his  dcBmon!"  murmured  Por- 
bus. 

At  the  word,  Nicolas  Poussin  felt  himself  carried  away  by 
an  unaccountable  accession  of  artist's  curiosity.  For  him  the 
old  m.an,  at  once  intent  and  inert,  the  seer  with  the  unseeing 
eyes,  became  something  more  than  a  man — a  fantastic  spirit 
living  in  a  mysterious  world,  and  countless  vague  thoughts 
awoke  within  his  soul.  The  efi'ect  of  this  species  of  fascina- 
tion upon  his  mind  can  no  more  be  described  in  words  than 
the  passionate  longing  awakened  in  an  exile's  heart  by  the 
Bong  that  recalls  his  home.  He  thought  of  the  scorn  that  the 
old  man  affected  to  display  for  the  noblest  efforts  of  art,  of 
his  wealth,  his  manners,  of  the  deference  paid  to  him  by  Por- 
bus.  The  mysterious  picture,  the  work  of  patience  on  which 
he  had  wrought  so  long  in  secret,  was  doubtless  a  work  of 
genius,  for  the  head  of  the  Virgin  which  young  Poiissin  had 
admired  so  frankly  was  beautiful  even  beside  Mabuse's  Adam 
■ — there  was  no  mistaking  the  imperial  manner  of  one  of  the 
princes  of  art.  Everything  combined  to  set  the  old  man  be- 
yond the  limits  of  human  nature. 


226  THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE 

Out  of  the  wealth  of  fancies  in  Nicolas  Poussin's  brain 
an  idea  grew,  and  gathered  shape  and  clearness.  He  saw  in 
this  supernatural  being  a  complete  type  of  the  artist's  nature, 
a  nature  mocking  and  kindly,  barren  and  prolific,  an  erratic 
spirit  intrusted  with  great  and  manifold  powers  which  she 
too  often  abuses,  leading  sober  reason,  the  Philistine,  and 
sometimes  even  the  amateur  forth  into  a  stony  wildernes;^ 
where  they  see  nothing ;  but  the  white-winged  maiden  herself, 
wild  as  her  fancies  may  be,  finds  epics  there  and  castles  and 
works  of  art.  For  Poussin,  the  enthusiast,  the  old  man,  was 
suddenly  transfigured,  and  became  Art  incarnate.  Art  with 
its  mysteries,  its  vehement  passion  and  its  dreams.  • 

"Yes,  my  dear  Porbus,"  Frenhofer  continued,  'Tiitherto  I 
have  never  found  a  flawless  model,  a  body  with  outlines  of 
perfect  beauty,  the  carnations — Ah  !  where  does  she  live  ?"  he 
cried,  breaking  in  upon  himself,  "the  undiscoverable  Venus 
of  the  older  time,  for  whom  we  have  sought  so  often,  only  to 
find  the  scattered  gleams  of  her  beauty  here  and  there  ?  Oh ! 
to  behold  once  and  for  one  moment,  Nature  grown  perfect  and 
divine,  the  Ideal  at  last,  I  would  give  all  that  I  possess.  .  .  . 
Nay,  Beauty  divine,  I  would  go  to  seek  thee  in  the  dim  land 
of  the  dead ;  like  Orpheus,  I  would  go  down  into  the  Hades  of 
Art  to  bring  back  the  life  of  art  from  among  the  shadows  of 
death." 

'^e  can  go  now,"  said  Porbus  to  Poussin.  "He  neither 
hears  nor  sees  us  any  longer." 

*Tjet  us  go  to  his  studio,"  said  young  Poussin,  wondering 
greatly. 

"Oh !  the  old  fox  takes  care  that  no  one  shall  enter  it.  His 
treasures  are  so  carefully  guarded  that  it  is  impossible  for  us 
to  come  at  them.  I  have  not  waited  for  your  suggestion  and 
your  fancy  to  attempt  to  lay  hands  on  this  mystery  by  force." 

"3o  there  is  a  mystery?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Porbus.  "Old  Frenhofer  is  the  only  pupil 
Mabusc  would  take.  Frenhofer  became  the  painter's  friend, 
deliverer,  and  father;  he  sacrificed  the  greater  part  of  his  for- 
tune to  enable  Mabusc  to  indulge  in  riotous  extravagance,  and 


THE  UNKNOWN  MASTEHriECE  227 

in  return  Mabuse  bequeathed  to  him  the  secret  of  relief,  the 
power  of  giving  to  figures  the  wonderful  life,  the  flower  of 
iSTature,  the  eternal  despair  of  art,  the  secret  which  Mabuse 
knew  so  well  that  one  da}'^  when  he  had  sold  the  flowered  bro- 
cade suit  in  which  he  should  have  appeared  at  the  Entry  of 
Charles  V.,  he  accompanied  his  master  in  a  suit  of  paper 
painted  to  resemble  the  brocade.  The  peculiar  richness  and 
splendor  of  the  stuff  struck  the  Emperor;  he  complimented 
the  old  drunkard's  patron  on  the  artist's  appearance,  and  so 
the  trick  was  brought  to  light.  Frenhofer  is  a  passionate  en- 
thusiast, who  sees  above  and  beyond  other  painters.  He  has 
meditated  profoundly  on  color,  and  the  absolute  truth  of  line ; 
but  by  the  way  of  much  research  he  has  come  to  doubt  the  very 
existence  of  the  objects  of  his  search.  He  says,  in  moments  of 
despondency,  that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  drawing,  and  that 
by  means  of  lines  we  can  only  reproduce  geometrical  figures ; 
but  that  is  overshooting  the  mark,  for  by  outline  and  shadow 
you  can  reproduce  form  without  any  color  at  all,  which  shows 
that  our  art,  like  Nature,  is  composed  of  an  infinite  number 
of  elements.  Drawing  gives  you  the  skeleton,  the  anatomical 
framework,  and  color  puts  the  life  into  it;  but  life  without 
the  skeleton  is  even  more  incomplete  than  a  skeleton  without 
lif'p.  But  there  is  something  else  truer  still,  and  it  is  this — 
for  painters,  practice  and  observation  are  everything;  and 
when  theories  and  poetical  ideas  begin  to  quarrel  with  the 
brushes,  the  end  is  doubt,  as  has  happened  with  our  good 
friend,  who  is  half  crack-brained  enthusiast,  half  painter. 
A  sublime  painter!  but,  unluckily  for  him,  he  was  bom  to 
riches,  and  so  he  has  leisure  to  follow  his  fancies.  Do  not 
you  follow  his  example !  Work  !  painters  have  no  business  to 
think,  except  brush  in  hand." 

"We  will  find  a  way  into  his  studio !"  cried  Poussin  confi- 
dently. He  had  ceased  to  heed  Porbus'  remarks.  The  other 
smiled  at  the  young  painter's  enthusiasm,  asked  him  to  come 
to  see  him  again,  and  they  parted. 

Nicolas  Poussin  went  slowly  back  to  the  Eue  de  la  Harpe, 
and  passed  the  modest  hostelry  where  he  was  lodging  without 


828  THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE 

noticing  it.  A  feeling  of  uneasiness  prompted  him  to  hurry 
up  the  crazy  staircase  till  he  reached  a  room  at  the  top,  a 
quaint,  airy  recess  under  the  steep,  high-pitched  roof  common 
among  houses  in  old  Paris.  In  the  one  dingy  window  of  the 
place  sat  a  young  girl,  who  sprang  up  at  once  when  she  heard, 
some  one  at  the  door;  it  was  the  prompting  of  love;  she  had 
recognized  the  painter's  touch  on  the  latch. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you  ?"  she  asked. 

"The  matter  is  ...  is  ...  Oh !  I  have  felt  that 
I  am  a  painter !  Until  to-day  I  have  had  doubts,  but  now  I 
believe  in  myself!  There  is  the  making  of  a  great  man  in 
me !  Never  mind,  Gillette,  we  shall  be  rich  and  happy !  There 
is  gold  at  the  tips  of  those  brushes " 

He  broke  off  suddenly.  The  joy  faded  from  his  powerful 
and  earnest  face  as  he  compared  his  vast  hopes  with  his  slen- 
der resources.  The  walls  were  covered  with  sketches  in  chalk 
on  sheets  of  common  paper.  There  were  but  four  canvases  in 
the  room.  Colors  were  very  costly,  and  the  j'^oung  painter's 
palette  was  almost  bare.  Yet  in  the  midst  of  his  poverty  he 
possessed  and  was  conscious  of  the  possession  of  inexhaustible 
treasures  of  the  heart,  of  a  devouring  genius  equal  to  all  the 
tasks  that  lay  before  him. 

He  had  been  brought  to  Paris  by  a  nobleman  among  his 
friends,  or  perchance  by  the  consciousness  of  his  powers ;  and 
in  Paris  he  had  found  a  mistress,  one  of  those  noble  and  gen- 
erous souls  who  choose  to  suffer  by  a  great  man's  side,  who 
share  his  struggles  and  strive  to  understand  his  fancies,  ac- 
cepting their  lot  of  poverty  and  love  as  bravely  and  daunt- 
lessly  as  other  women  will  set  themselves  to  bear  the  burden 
of  riches  and  make  a  parade  of  their  insensibility.  The  smile 
that  stole  over  Gillette's  lips  filled  the  garret  with  golden 
light,  and  rivaled  the  brightness  of  the  sun  in  heaven.  The 
sun,  moreover,  docs  not  always  shine  in  heaven,  whereas  Gil- 
lette was  always  in  the  garret,  absorbed  in  her  passion,  occu- 
pied by  Poussin's  happiness  and  sorrow,  consoling  the  genius 
which  found  an  outlet  in  love  before  art  engrossed  it. 

"Listen,  Gillette.    Come  here." 


THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE  229 

The  girl  obeyed  joyously,  and  sprang  upon  the  painter's 
knee.  Hers  was  perfect  grace  and  beauty,  and  the  loveliness 
of  spring ;  she  was  adorned  with  all  luxuriant  fairness  of  out- 
ward form,  lighted  up  by  the  glow  of  a  fair  soul  within. 

"Oh !  God,"  he  cried;  "I  shall  never  dare  to  tell  her '"' 

"A  secret  ?"  she  cried ;  "I  must  know  it  I" 

Poussin  was  absorbed  in  his  dreams. 

"Do  tell  it  me !" 

"Gillette,     .     .     .     poor  beloved  heart !     .    .     /' 

"Oh !  do  you  want  something  of  me  ?" 

"Yes." 

"If  you  wish  me  to  sit  once  more  for  you  as  I  did  the  other 
day,"  she  continued  with  playful  petulance,  "I  will  never  con- 
sent to  do  such  a  thing  again,  for  your  eyes  say  nothing  all 
the  while.  You  do  not  think  of  me  at  all,  and  yet  you  look 
at  me " 

"Would  you  rather  have  me  draw  another  woman  ?" 

"Perhaps — if  she  were  very  ugly,"  she  said. 

"Well,"  said  Poussin  gravely,  "and  if,  for  the  sake  of  my 
fame  to  come,  if  to  make  me  a  great  painter,  you  must  sit  to 
some  one  else  ?" 

"You  may  try  me,"  she  said;  "^you  know  quite  well  that  I 
would  not." 

Poussin's  head  sank  on  her  breast;  he  seemed  to  be  over- 
powered by  some  intolerable  joy  or  sorrow. 

"Listen,"  she  cried,  plucking  at  the  sleeve  of  Poussin's 
threadbare  doublet.  "I  told  you,  Nick,  that  I  would  lay  down 
my  life  for  you ;  but  I  never  promised  you  that  I  in  my  life- 
time would  lay  down  my  love." 

"Your  love  ?"  cried  the  young  artist. 

"If  I  showed  myself  thus  to  another,  you  would  love  me  no 
longer,  and  I  should  feel  myself  unworthy  of  you.  Obedience 
to  your  fancies  was  a  natural  and  simple  thing,  was  it  not? 
Even  against  my  own  will,  I  am  glad  and  even  proud  to  do 
thy  dear  will.    But  for  another,  out  upon  it !" 

"Forgive  me,  my  Gillette,"  said  the  painter,  falling  upon 


230  THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE 

bis  knees ;  "I  would  rather  be  beloved  than  famous.  You  are 
fairer  than  success  and  honors.  There ;  fling  the  pencils  away, 
and  burn  these  sketches !  I  have  made  a  mistake.  I  was 
meant  to  love  and  not  to  paint.  Perish  art  and  all  its  secrets !" 

Gillette  looked  admiringly  at  him,  in  an  ecstasy  of  happi- 
ness !  She  was  triumphant ;  she  felt  instinctively  that  art 
was  laid  aside  for  her  saJie,  and  flung  like  a  grain  of  incense 
at  her  feet. 

"Yet  he  is  only  an  old  man,"  Poussin  continued;  "for  him 
you  would  be  a  woman,  and  nothing  more.    You — so  perfect !" 

"I  must  love  you  indeed !"  she  cried,  ready  to  sacrifice  even 
love's  scruples  to  the  lover  who  had  given  up  so  much  for  her 
sake ;  "but  I  should  bring  about  my  own  ruin.  Ah !  to  ruin 
myself,  to  lose  everything  for  you  !  .  .  .  It  is  a  very  glori- 
ous thought !  Ah !  but  you  will  forget  me.  Oh !  what  evil 
thought  is  this  that  has  come  to  you  ?" 

"I  love  you,  and  yet  I  thought  of  it,"  he  said,  with  some- 
thing like  remorse.    "Am  I  so  base  a  wretch  ?" 

"Let  us  consult  Pere  Hardouin,"  she  said. 

"No,  no !  let  it  be  a  secret  between  us." 

"Very  well;  I  will  do  it.  But  you  must  not  be  there,"  she 
said.  "Stay  at  the  door  with  j^our  dagger  in  your  hand;  and 
if  I  call,  rush  in  and  kill  the  painter." 

Poussin  forgot  everjihing  but  art.  He  held  Gillette  tightly 
in  his  arms. 

"He  loves  me  no  longer!"  thought  Gillette  when  she  was 
alone.    She  repented  of  her  resolution  already. 

But  to  these  misgivings  there  soon  succeeded  a  sharper 
pain,  and  she  strove  to  banish  a  hideous  thought  that  arose 
in  her  own  heart.  It  seemed  to  her  that  her  own  love  had 
grown  less  already,  with  a  vague  suspicion  that  the  painter 
had  fallen  somewhat  in  her  eyes. 


THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE  231 

11.  CATHEEINE  LESCAULT 

Three  months  after  Poussin  and  Porbus  met,  the  latter 
went  to  see  Master  Frenhofer.  The  old  man  had  fallen  a 
victim  to  one  of  those  profound  and  spontaneous  fits  of  dis- 
couragement that  are  caused,  according  to  medical  logicians, 
by  indigestion,  flatulence,  fever,  or  enlargement  of  the  spleen ; 
or,  if  you  take  the  opinion  of  the  Spiritualists,  by  the  imper- 
fections of  our  moral  nature.  The  good  man  had  simply 
overworked  himself  in  putting  the  finishing  touches  to  his 
mysterious  picture.  He  was  lounging  in  a  huge  carved  oak 
chair,  covered  with  black  leather,  and  did  not  change  his  list- 
less attitude,  but  glanced  at  Porbus  like  a  man  who  has  set- 
tled down  into  low  spirits. 

^^Well,  master,"  said  Porbus,  "was  the  ultramarine  bad  that 
you  sent  for  to  Bruges  ?  Is  the  new  white  difficult  to  grind  ? 
Is  the  oil  poor,  or  are  the  brushes  recalcitrant  ?" 

"Alas !"  cried  the  old  man,  "for  a  moment  I  thought  that 
my  work  was  finished;  but  I  am  sure  that  I  am  mistaken  in 
certain  details,  and  I  cannot  rest  until  I  have  cleared  my 
doubts.  I  am  thinking  of  traveling.  I  am  going  to  Turkey, 
to  Greece,  to  Asia,  in  quest  of  a  model,  so  as  to  compare  my 
picture  with  the  different  living  forms  of  Nature.  Perhaps," 
and  a  smile  of  contentment  stole  over  his  face,  "perhaps  I 
have  Nature  herself  up  there.  At  times  I  am  half  afraid  that 
a  breath  may  waken  her,  and  that  she  will  escape  me." 

He  rose  to  his  feet  as  if  to  set  out  at  once. 

"Aha !"  said  Porbus,  "I  have  come  just  ip  t^me  to  save  you 
the  trouble  and  expense  of  a  journey." 

"What  ?"  asked  Frenhofer  in  amazement. 

"Young  Poussin  is  loved  by  a  woman  of  incomparable  and 
flawless  beauty.  But,  dear  master,  if  he  consents  to  lend  her 
to  you,  at  the  least  you  ought  to  let  us  see  your  work." 

The  old  man  stood  motionless  and  complete^  dazed. 

**What !"  he  cried  piteously  at  last,  "show  you  my  creation, 
my  bride  ?    Eend  the  veil  that  has  kept  my  happiness  sacred  ? 


232  THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE 

It  would  be  an  infamous  profanation.  For  ten  years  I  have 
lived  with  her;  she  is  mine,  mine  alone;  she  loves  me.  Has 
she  not  smiled  at  me,  at  each  stroke  of  the  brush  upon  the 
canvas  ?  She  has  a  soul — the  soul  that  I  have  given  her.  She 
would  blush  if  any  eyes  but  mine  should  rest  on  her.  To  ex- 
hibit her !  Where  is  the  husband,  the  lover  so  vile  as  to  bring 
the  woman  he  loves  to  dishonor?  When  you  paint  a  picture 
for  the  court,  you  do  not  put  your  whole  soul  into  it ;  to  cour- 
tiers you  sell  lay  figures  duly  colored.  My  painting  is  no 
painting,  it  is  a  sentiment,  a  passion.  She  was  born  in  my 
studio,  there  she  must  dwell  in  maiden  solitude,  and  only 
when  clad  can  she  issue  thence.  Poetry  and  women  only  lay 
the  last  veil  aside  for  their  lovers.  Have  we  Raphael's  model, 
Ariosto's  Angelica,  Dante's  Beatrice?  ISTay,  only  their  form 
and  semblance.  But  this  picture,  locked  away  above  in  my 
studio,  is  an  exception  in  our  art.  It  is  not  a  canvas,  it  is 
a  woman — a  woman  with  whom  I  talk.  I  share  her  thoughts, 
her  tears,  her  laughter.  Would  you  have  me  fling  aside  these 
ten  years  of  happiness  like  a  cloak  ?  Would  you  have  me  cease 
at  once  to  be  father,  lover,  and  creator  ?  She  is  not  a  creature, 
but  a  creation. 

"Bring  3'our  young  painter  here.  I  will  give  him  my  treas- 
ures ;  I  will  give  him  pictures  by  Correggio  and  Michael  Angelo 
and  Titian ;  I  will  kiss  his  footprints  in  the  dust ;  but — make 
him  my  rival !  Shame  on  me.  Ah !  ah !  I  am  a  lover  first,  and 
then  a  painter.  Yes,  with  my  latest  sigh  I  could  find  strength 
to  burn  my  Belle  Noiseuse;  but — compel  her  to  endure  the 
gaze  of  a  stranger,  a  young  man  and  a  painter ! — Ah  !  no,  no  ! 
I  would  kill  him  on  the  morrow  who  should  sully  her  with  a 
glance !  Nay,  you,  my  friend,  I  would  kill  you  with  my  own 
hands  in  a  moment  if  you  did  not  kneel  in  reverence  before 
her!  Now,  will  you  have  me  submit  my  idol  to  the  careless 
eyes  and  senseless  criticisms  of  fools?  Ah!  love  is  a  mystery; 
it  can  only  live  hidden  in  the  depths  of  the  heart.  You  say, 
even  to  your  friend,  'Behold  her  whom  I  love,'  and  there  is  an 
end  of  love." 

The  old  man  seemed  to  have  grown  young  again;  there  was 


THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE  233 

light  and  life  in  his  eyes,  and  a  faint  flush  of  red  in  his  pale 
face.  His  hands  shook.  Porbus  was  so  amazed  by  the  pas- 
sionate vehemence  of  Frenhofer's  words  that  he  knew  not  what 
to  reply  to  this  utterance  of  an  emotion  as  strange  as  it  was 
profound.  Was  Frenhofer  sane  or  mad?  Had  he  fallen  a 
victim  to  some  freak  of  the  artist's  fancy?  or  were  these  ideas 
of  his  produced  by  that  strange  lightheadedness  which  comes 
over  us  during  the  long  travail  of  a  work  of  art.  Would  it  be 
possible  to  come  to  terms  with  this  singular  passion? 

Harassed  by  all  these  doubts,  Porbus  spoke — "Is  it  not  wo- 
man for  woman?"  he  said.  "Does  not  Poussin  submit  his 
mistress  to  your  gaze?" 

"What  is  she?"  retorted  the  other.  "A  mistress  who  will 
be  false  to  him  sooner  or  later.  Mine  will  be  faithful  to  me 
for  ever." 

"Well,  well,"  said  Porbus,  "let  us  say  no  more  about  it. 
But  you  may  die  before  you  will  find  such  flawless  beauty  as 
hers,  even  in  Asia,  and  then  vour  picture  will  be  left  unfin- 
ished." 

"Oh!  it  is  finished,"  said  Frenhofer.  "Standing  before  it 
you  would  think  that  it  was  a  living  woman  lying  on  the  vel- 
vet couch  beneath  the  shadow  of  the  curtains.  Perfumes  are 
burning  on  a  golden  tripod  by  her  side.  You  would  be 
tempted  to  lay  your  hand  upon  the  tassel  of  the  cord  that 
holds  back  the  curtains ;  it  would  seem  to  you  that  you  saw  her 
breast  rise  and  fall  as  she  breathed ;  that  you  beheld  the  living- 
Catherine  Lescault,  the  beautiful  courtesan  whom  men  called 
La  Belle  Noiseuse.    And  yet — if  I  could  but  be  sure " 

"Then  go  to  Asia,"  returned  Porbus,  noticing  a  certain  in- 
decision in  Frenhofer's  face.  And  with  that  Porbus  made 
a  few  steps  towards  the  door. 

By  t^  time  Gillette  and  Nicolas  Poussin  had  reached 
Frenhofer's  house.  The  girl  drew  away  her  arm  from  her 
lover's  as  she  stood  on  the  threshold,  and  shrank  back  as  if 
some  presentiment  flashed  through  her  mind. 

"Oh !  what  have  I  come  to  do  here  ?"  she  asked  of  her  lover 
in  low  vibrating  tones,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  his. 


234  THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE 

"Gillette,  I  have  left  you  to  decide ;  I  am  ready  to  obey  you 
in  everything.  You  are  my  conscience  and  my  glory.  Go 
home  again ;  I  shall  be  happier,  perhaps,  if  you  do  not " 

"Am  I  my  own  when  you  speak  to  me  like  that  ?  No,  no ; 
I  am  like  a  child. — Come,''  she  added,  seemingly  with  a  vio- 
lent effort;  "if  our  love  dies,  if  I  plant  a  long  regret  in  my 
heart,  your  fame  will  be  the  reward  of  my  obedience  to  your 
wishes,  will  it  not  ?  Let  us  go  in.  I  shall  still  live  on  as  a 
memory  on  your  palette ;  that  shall  be  life  for  me  afterwards." 

The  door  opened,  and  the  two  lovers  encountered  Porbus, 
who  was  surprised  by  the  beauty  of  Gillette,  whose  eyes  were 
full  of  tears.  He  hurried  her,  trembling  from  head  to  foot, 
into  the  presence  of  the  old  painter. 

"Here !"  he  cried,  "is  she  not  worth  all  the  masterpieces 
in  the  world  ?" 

Frenhofer  trembled.  There  stood  Gillette  in  the  artless  and 
childlike  attitude  of  some  timid  and  innocent  Georgian,  car- 
ried off  by  brigands,  and  confronted  with  a  slave  merchant. 
A  shamefaced  red  flushed  her  face,  her  eyes  dropped,  her 
hands  hung  by  her  side,  her  strength  seemed  to  have  failed 
her,  her  tears  protested  against  this  outrage.  Poussin  cursed 
himself  in  despair  that  he  should  have  brought  this  fair  treas- 
ure from  its  hiding-place.  The  lover  overcame  the  artist,  and 
countless  doubts  assailed  Poussin's  heart  when  he  saw  youth 
dawn  in  the  old  man's  eyes,  as,  like  a  painter,  he  discerned 
every  line  of  the  form  hidden  beneath  the  young  girl's  vesture. 
Then  the  lover's  savage  jealousy  awoke. 

"Gillette !"  he  cried,  "let  us  go." 

The  girl  turned  joyously  at  the  cry  and  the  tone  in  which 
it  was  uttered,  raised  her  eyes  to  his,  looked  at  him,  and  fled 
to  his  arms. 

"Ah !  then  you  love  me,"  she  cried ;  "you  love  me !"  and 
she  burst  into  tears. 

She  had  spirit  enough  to  suffer  in  silence,  but  she  had  no 
strength  to  hide  her  joy. 

"Oh !  leave  her  with  me  for  one  moment,"  said  the  old 
painter,  "and  you  shall  compare  her  with  my  Catherine 
.     .     .    Yes — I  consent." 


THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERrifiCE  235 

Frenhofer's  words  likewise  came  from  him  like  a  lover's 
cry.  His  vanity  seemed  to  be  engaged  for  his  semblance  of 
womanhood;  he  anticipated  the  triumph  of  the  beauty  of  his 
own  creation  over  the  beauty  of  the  living  girl. 

"Do  not  give  him  time  to  change  his  mind  !''  cried  Porbus, 
striking  Poussin  on  the  shoulder.  "The  flower  of  love  soon 
fades,  but  the  flower  of  art  is  immortal." 

"Then  am  I  only  a  woman  now  for  him?"  said  Gillette. 
She  was  watching  Poussin  and  Porbus  closely. 

She  raised  her  head  proudly;  she  glanced  at  Frenhofer,  and 
her  eyes  flashed;  then  as  she  saw  how  her  lover  had  fallen 
again  to  gazing  at  the  portrait  which  he  had  taken  at  first 
for  a  Giorgione — 

"Ah!"  she  cried;  "let  us  go  up  to  the  studio.  He  never 
gave  me  such  a  look." 

The  sound  of  her  voice  recalled  Poussin  from  his  dreams. 

"Old  man,"  he  said,  "do  you  see  this  blade  ?  I  will  plunge 
it  into  your  heart  at  the  first  cry  from  this  young  girl;  I  will 
set  fire  to  your  house,  and  no  one  shall  leave  it  alive.  Do 
you  understand?" 

Nicolas  Poussin  scowled,  every  word  was  a  menace.  Gil- 
lette took  comfort  from  the  young  painter's  bearing,  and  yet 
more  from  that  gesture,  and  almost  forgave  him  for  sacri- 
ficing her  to  his  art  and  his  glorious  future. 

Porbus  and  Poussin  stood  at  the  door  of  the  studio  and 
looked  at  each  other  in  silence.  At  first  the  painter  of  the 
Saint  Mary  of  Egypt  hazarded  some  exclamations :  "Ah ! 
she  has  taken  off  her  clothes;  he  told  her  to  come  into  the 
light — he  is  comparing  the  two !"  but  the  sight  of  the  deep 
distress  in  Poussin's  face  suddenly  silenced  him;  and  though 
old  painters  no  longer  feel  these  scruples,  so  petty  in  the 
presence  of  art,  he  admired  them  because  they  were  so  natural 
and  gracious  in  the  lover.  The  young  man  kept  his  hand  on 
the  hilt  of  his  dagger,  and  his  ear  was  almost  glued  to  the 
door.  The  two  men  standing  in  the  shadow  might  have  been 
conspirators  waiting  for  the  hour  when  they  might  strike 
down  a  tyrant. 


236  THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE 

"Come  in,  come  in,"  cried  the  old  man.  He  was  radiant 
with  delight.  "My  work  is  perfect.  I  can  show  her  now  with 
pride.  Never  shall  painter,  brushes,  colors,  light,  and  can- 
vas produce  a  rival  for  Catherine  Lescault,  the  beautiful 
courtesan !" 

Porbus  and  Poussin,  burning  with  eager  curiosity,  hurried 
into  a  vast  studio.  Everything  was  in  disorder  and  covered 
with  dust,  but  they  saw  a  few  pictures  here  and  there  upon 
the  wall.  They  stopped  first  of  all  in  admiration  before  the 
life-sized  figure  of  a  woman  partially  draped. 

"Oh!  never  mind  that,''  said  Frenhofer;  "that  is  a  rough 
daub  that  I  made,  a  study,  a  pose,  it  is  nothing.  These  are 
my  failures,"  he  went  on,  indicating  the  enchanting  composi- 
tions upon  the  walls  of  the  studio. 

This  scorn  for  such  works  of  art  struck  Porbus  and 
Poussin  dumb  with  amazement.  They  looked  round  for  the 
picture  of  which  he  had  spoken,  and  could  not  discover  it. 

"Look  here !"  said  the  old  man.  His  hair  was  disordered, 
his  face  aglow  with  a  more  than  human  exaltation,  his  eyes 
glittered,  he  breathed  hard  like  a  young  lover  frenzied  by 
love. 

"Aha !"  he  cried,  "you  did  not  expect  to  see  such  perfec- 
tion! You  are  looking  for  a  picture,  and  you  see  a  woman 
before  you.  There  is  such  depth  in  that  canvas,  the  atmos- 
phere is  so  true  that  you  cannot  distinguish  it  from  the  air 
that  surrounds  us.  Where  is  art  ?  Art  has  vanished,  it  is  in- 
visible !  It  is  the  form  of  a  living  girl  that  you  see  before 
you.  Have  I  not  caught  the  very  hues  of  life,  the  spirit  of  the 
living  line  that  defines  the  figure?  Is  there  not  the  effect 
produced  there  like  that  which  all  natural  objects  present  in 
the  atmosphere  about  them,  or  fishes  in  the  water?  Do  you 
see  how  the  figure  stands  out  against  the  background  ?  Does 
it  not  seem  to  you  that  you  could  pass  your  hand  along  the 
back?  But  tlien  for  seven  years  I  studied  and  watched  hovv- 
the  daylight  blends  with  the  objects  on  which  it  falls.  And 
the  hair,  the  light  pours  over  it  like  a  flood,  does  it  not? 
,     .     .     Ah  !  she  breathed,  I  am  sure  that  she  brer.thed  !    Hei 


THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE  237 

breast — ah,  see !  Who  would  not  fall  on  his  knees  before  her? 
Her  pulses  throb.    She  will  rise  to  her  feet.    Wait !" 

"Do  you  see  anything  ?"  Poussin  asked  of  Porbus. 

"No     .     .     .     do  you?" 

"I  see  nothing." 

The  two  painters  left  the  old  man  to  his  ecstasy,  and  tried 
to  ascertain  whether  the  light  that  fell  full  upon  the  canvas 
had  in  some  way  neutralized  all  the  effect  for  them.  They 
moved  to  the  right  and  left  of  the  picture ;  then  they  came  in 
front,  bending  down  and  standing  upright  by  turns. 

"Yes,  yes,  it  is  really  canvas,"  said  Frenhofer,  who  mistook 
the  nature  of  this  minute  investigation. 

"Look !  the  canvas  is  on  a  stretcher,  here  is  the  easel ;  in- 
deed, here  are  my  colors,  my  brushes,"  and  he  took  up  a 
brush  and  held  it  out  to  them,  all  unsuspicious  of  their 
thought. 

"The  old  lansquenet  is  laughing  at  us,"  said  Poussin,  com- 
ing once  more  towards  the  supposed  picture.  "I  can  see 
nothing  there  but  confused  masses  of  color  and  a  multitude 
of  fantastical  lines  that  go  to  make  a  dead  wall  of  paint." 

"We  are  mistaken,  look !"  said  Porbus. 

In  a  corner  of  the  canvas  as  they  came  nearer,  they  dis- 
tinguished a  bare  foot  emerging  from  the  chaos  of  color,  half- 
tints  and  vague  shadows  that  made  up  a  dim  formless  fog. 
Its  living  delicate  beauty  held  them  spellbound.  This  frag- 
ment that  had  escaped  an  incomprehensible,  slow,  and  gradual 
destruction  seemed  to  them  like  the  Parian  marble  torso  of 
some  Venus  emerging  from  the  ashes  of  a  ruined  town. 

"There  is  a  wom-an  beneath,"  exclaimed  Porbus,  calling 
Poussin's  attention  to  the  coats  of  paint  with  which  the  old 
artist  had  overlaid  and  concealed  his  work  in  the  quest  of 
perfection. 

Both  artists  turned  involuntarily  to  Frenhofer.  They 
began  to  have  some  understanding,  vague  though  it  was,  of 
the  ecstasy  in  which  he  lived. 

"'He  believes  it  in  all  good  faith,"  said  Porbus. 

'TTes,  my  friend,"  said  the  old  man,,  rousing  himself  from 


238  THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE 

his  dreams,  "it  needs  faith,  faith  in  art,  and  you  must  live 
for  long  with  your  work  to  produce  such  a  creation.  What 
toil  some  of  those  shadows  have  cost  me.  Look !  there  is  a 
faint  shadow  there  upon  the  cheek  beneath  the  eyes — if  you 
saw  that  on  a  human  face,  it  would  seem  to  you  that  you  could 
never  render  it  with  paint.  Do  you  think  that  that  effect 
has  not  cost  unheard-of  toil  ? 

"But  not  only  so,  dear  Porbus.  Look  closely  at  my  work, 
and  you  will  understand  more  clearly  what  I  was  saying  as  to 
methods  of  modeling  and  outline.  Look  at  the  high  lights 
on  the  bosom,  and  see  how  by  touch  on  touch,  thickly  laid  on, 
I  have  raised  the  surface  so*  that  it  catches  the  light  itself 
and  blends  it  with  the  lustrous  whiteness  of  the  high  lights, 
and  how  by  an  opposite  process,  by  flattening  the  surface 
of  the  paint,  and  leaving  no  trace  of  the  passage  of  the  brush, 
I  have  succeeded  in  softening  the  contours  of  my  figure  an(?. 
enveloping  them  in  half-tints  until  the  very  idea  of  drawing, 
of  the  means  by  which  the  effect  is  produced,  fades  away, 
and  the  picture  has  the  roundness  and  relief  of  nature.  Come 
closer.  You  will  see  the  manner  of  working  better ;  at  a  little 
distance  it  cannot  be  seen.  There !  Just  there,  it  is,  I  think, 
very  plainly  to  be  seen,"  and  with  the  tip  of  his  brush  he 
pointed  out  a  patch  of  transparent  color  to  the  two  painters. 

Porbus,  laying  a  hand  on  the  old  artist's  shoulder,  turned 
to  Poussin  with  a  "Do  you  know  that  in  him  we  see  a  very 
great  painter  ?" 

"He  is  even  more  of  a  poet  than  a  painter,"  Poussin  an- 
swered gravely. 

"There,"  Porbus  continued,  as  he  touched  the  canvas,  "lies 
the  utmost  limit  of  our  art  on  earth." 

"Beyond  that  point  it  loses  itself  in  the  skies,"  said  Pous- 
sin. 

"What  joys  lie  there  on  that  piece  of  canvas!"  exclaimed 
Porbus. 

The  old  man,  deep  in  his  own  musings,  smiled  at  the 
woman  he  alone  beheld,  and  did  not  hear. 

"But  sooner  or  later  he  will  find  out  that  there  is  nothing 
there !"  cried  Poussin, 


THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE  239 

'^Nothing  on  my  canvas !"  said  Frenhofei,  looking  in  turn 
at  either  painter  and  at  his  picture. 

"What  have  you  done?"  muttered  Porbus,  turning  to 
Poussin. 

The  old  man  clutched  the  young  painter's  arm  and  said, 
"Do  you  see  nothing  ?  clodpate !  Huguenot !  varlet !  scullion  ! 
What  brought  3'ou  here  into  my  studio? — My  good  Porbus," 
he  went  on,  as  he  turned  to  the  painter,  "are  you  also  making 
a  fool  of  me  ?  Answer !  I  am  your  friend.  Tell  me,  have  I 
ruined  my  picture  after  all  ?" 

Porbus  hesitated  and  said  nothing,  but  there  was  such  in- 
tolerable anxiety  in  the  old  man's  white  face  that  he  pointed 
to  the  easel. 

"Look !"  he  said. 

Frenhofer  looked  for  a  moment  at  his  picture,  and  stag- 
gered back. 

"Nothing !  nothing !    After  ten  years  of  work     .     .     ." 

He  sat  down  and  wept. 

"So  I  am  a  dotard,  a  madman,  I  have  neither  talent  nor 
power !  I  am  only  a  rich  man,  who  works  for  his  own  pleas- 
ure, and  makes  no  progress.    I  have  done  nothing  after  all !" 

He  looked  through  his  tears  at  his  picture.  Suddenly  he 
rose  and  stood  proudly  before  the  two  painters. 

"By  the  body  and  blood  of  Christ,"  he  cried,  with  flashing 
eyes,  "you  are  jealous !  You  would  have  me  think  that  my 
picture  is  a  failure  because  you  want  to  steal  her  from  me ! 
Ah !  I  see  her,  I  see  her,"  he  cried,  "she  is  marvelously  beauti- 
ful    .     .     ." 

At  that  moment  Poussin  heard  the  sound  of  weeping ;  Gil- 
lette was  crouching  forgotten  in  a  corner.  All  at  once  the 
painter  once  more  became  the  lover.  "What  is  it,  my  angel  ?" 
he  asked  her. 

"Kill  me !"  she  sobbed.  "I  must  be  a  vile  thing  if  I  love 
you  still,  for  I  despise  you.  ...  I  admire  you,  and  I 
loathe  you!  I  love  you,  and  I  feel  that  I  hate  you  even 
now." 

While  Gillette's  words  sounded  in  Poussin's  ears,  Fren- 


240  THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE 

hofer  drew  a  green  serge  covering  over  his  Catherine  with 
the  sober  deliberation  of  a  jeweler  who  locks  his  drawers  when 
he  suspects  his  visitors  to  be  expert  thieves.  He  gave  the 
two  painters  a  profoundly  astute  glance  that  expressed  to 
the  full  his  suspicions  and  his  contempt  for  them,  saw  them 
out  of  his  studio  with  impetuous  haste  and  in  silence,  until 
from  the  threshold  of  his  house  he  bade  them  "Good-bye,  my 
young  friends !" 

That  farewell  struck  a  chill  of  dread  into  the  two  painters. 
Porbus,  in  anxiety,  went  again  on  the  morrow  to  see  Fren- 
hofer,  and  learned  that  he  had  died  in  the  night  after  burn- 
ing his  canvases. 

Pabis,  February  1832. 


THE  MARANAS 

To  Madame  la  Comtesse  Merlin 

In  spite  of  the  discipline  enforced  by  Marshal  Suchet  in  the 
division  he  commanded  in  the  Peninsular  War,  all  his  ef- 
forts could  not  restrain  an  outbreak  of  license  and  tumult 
at  the  taking  of  Taragona.  Indeed,  according  to  trustworthy 
military  authorities,  the  intoxication  of  victory  resulted  in 
something  very  like  a  sack  of  the  town.  Pillage  was  promptly 
put  down  by  the  Marshal ;  and  as  soon  as  order  was  restored, 
a  commandant  appointed,  the  military  administrators  ap- 
peared upon  the  scene,  and  the  town  began  to  wear  a  nonde- 
script aspect — ^the  organization  was  French,  but  the  Spanish 
population  was  left  free  to  follow  in  petto  its  own  national 
customs.  It  would  be  a  task  of  no  little  difficulty  to  deter- 
mine the  exact  duration  of  the  pillage,  but  its  cause  (like 
that  of  most  sublunary  events)  is  sufficiently  easy  to  dis- 
cover. 

In  the  Marshal's  division  of  the  army  there  was  a  regiment 
composed  almost  entirely  of  Italians,  commanded  by  a  cer- 
tain Colonel  Eugene,  a  man  of  extraordinary  valor,  a  second 
Murat,  who,  having  come  to  the  trade  of  war  too  late,  had 
gained  no  Grand  Duchy  of  Berg,  no  Kingdom  of  Naples,  nor 
a  ball  through  the  heart  at  Pizzo.  But  if  he  had  received  no 
crown,  his  chances  of  receiving  bullets  were  admirably  good ; 
and  it  would  have  been  in  no  wise  astonishing  if  he  had  had 
more  than  one  of  them.  This  regiment  was  made  up  from 
the  wrecks  of  the  Italian  Legion,  which  is  in  Italy  very  much 
what  the  colonial  battalions  are  in  France.  Stationed  in  the 
Isle  of  Elba,  it  had  provided  an  honorable  way  out  of  the 
difficulty  experienced  by  families  with  regard  to  the  future 
of  unmanageable  sons,  as  well  as  a  career  for  those  great  men 


242  THE  MARAN.^ 

spoiled  in  the  making,  whom  society  is  too  ready  to  brand 
as  mauvais  sujets.  All  of  them  were  men  misunderstood, 
for  the  most  part — men  who  may  become  heroes  if  a  woman's 
smile  raises  them  out  of  the  beaten  track  of  glory;  or  ter- 
rible after  an  orgy,  when  some  ugly  suggestion,  dropped  by  a 
boon  companion,  has  gained  possession  of  their  minds. 

Napoleon  had  enrolled  these  men  of  energy  in  the  Sixth 
Eegiment  of  the  line,  hoping  to  metamorphose  them  into 
generals,  with  due  allowance  for  the  gaps  to  be  made  in  their 
ranks  by  bullets;  but  the  Emperor's  estimate  of  the  ravages 
of  death  proved  more  correct  than  the  rest  of  his  calcula- 
tions. It  was  often  decimated,  but  its  character  remained  the 
same;  and  the  Sixth  acquired  a  name  for  splendid  bravery 
in  the  field,  and  the  very  worst  reputation  in  private  life. 

These  Italians  had  lost  their  captain  during  the  siege  of 
Taragona.  He  was  the  famous  Bianclii  who  laid  a  wager 
during  the  campaign  that  he  would  eat  a  Spanish  sentinel's 
heart — and  won  his  bet.  The  story  of  this  pleasantry  of 
the  camp  is  told  elsewhere  in  the  Scenes  de  la  Vie  Parisienne; 
therein  will  be  found  certain  details  which  corroborate  what 
has  been  said  here  concerning  the  legion.  Bianchi,  the  prince 
of  those  fiends  incarnate  who  had  earned  the  double  reputa- 
tion of  the  regiment,  possessed  the  chivalrous  sense  of  honor 
which,  in  the  army,  covers  a  multitude  of  the  wildest  ex- 
cesses. In  a  word,  had  he  lived  a  few  centuries  earlier,  he 
would  have  made  a  gallant  buccaneer.  Only  a  few  days  be- 
fore he  fell,  he  had  distinguished  himself  by  such  conspicuous 
courage  in  action,  that  the  Marshal  sought  to  recognize  it. 
Bianchi  had  refused  promotion,  pension,  or  a  fresh  decora- 
tion, and  asked  as  a  favor  to  be  allowed  to  mount  the  first 
scaling-ladder  at  the  assault  of  Taragona  as  his  sole  reward. 
The  Marshal  granted  the  request,  and  forgot  his  promise; 
but  Bianchi  himself  put  him  in  mind  of  it  and  of  Bianchi, 
for  the  berserker  Captain  was  the  first  to  plant  the  flag  of 
France  upon  the  wall ;  and  there  he  fell,  killed  by  a  monk. 

This  historical  digression  is  necessary  to  explain  how  it 
came  to  pass  that  the  Sixth  tiegiment  of  the  line  was  the  first 


THE  MARANAS  243 

to  enter  Taragona,  and  how  the  tumult,  sufficiently  natural 
after  a  town  has  been  carried  by  storm,  degenerated  so  quickly 
into  an  attempt  to  sack  it.  Moreover,  among  these  men  of 
iron,  there  were  two  officers,  otherwise  but  little  remarkable, 
who  were  destined  by  force  of  circumstances  to  play  an  im- 
portant part  in  this  story. 

The  first  of  these,  a  captain  on  the  clothing  establishment 
— half  civilian,  half  officer — was  generally  said,  in  soldierly 
language,  to  ''take  good  care  of  number  one." 

Outside  his  regiment  he  was  wont  to  swagger  and  brag  of 
his  connection  with  it ;  he  would  curl  his  moustache  and  look 
a  terrible  fellow,  but  his  mess  had  no  great  opinion  of  him. 
His  money  was  the  secret  of  his  valorous  discretion.  For 
a  double  reason,  moreover,  he  had  been  nicknamed  Captain  of 
the  Ravens;  because,  in  the  first  place,  he  scented  the  powder  a 
league  away;  and,  in  the  second,  scurried  out  of  range  like  a 
bird  on  the  wing;  the  nickname  was  likewise  a  harmless  sol- 
dier's joke,  a  personality  of  which  another  might  have  been 
proud.  Captain  Montefiore,  of  the  illustrious  family  of  the 
Montefiore  of  Milan  (though  by  the  law  of  the  kingdom  of 
Italy  he  might  not  bear  his  title),  was  one  of  the  prettiest 
fellows  in  the  army.  Possibly  his  beauty  may  secretly  have 
been  an  additional  cause  of  his  prudence  on  the  field  of 
battle.  A  wound  in  the  face  by  spoiling  his  profile,  scarring 
his  forehead,  or  seaming  his  cheeks,  would  have  spoiled  one  of 
the  finest  heads  in  Italy,  and  destroyed  the  delicate  propor- 
tions of  a  countenance  such  as  no  woman  ever  pictured  in 
dreams.  In  Girodet's  picture  of  the  Revolt  of  Cairo  there  is 
a  young  dying  Turk  who  has  the  same  type  of  face,  the  same 
melancholy  expression,  of  which  women  are  nearly  always 
the  dupes.  The  Marchese  di  Montefiore  had  property  of  his 
own,  hu'i  it  was  entailed,  and  he  had  anticipated  his  income 
for  several  years  in  order  to  pay  for  escapades  peculiarly 
Itatian  and  inconceivable  in  Paris.  He  had  ruined  himself 
by  running  a  theatre  in  Milan  for  the  special  purpose  of  foist- 
ing upon  the  public  a  cantatrice  wlio  could  not  sing,  but  who 
loved  him  (so  he  said)  to  distraction. 


244  THE  MARANAS 

So  Montefiore  the  captain  had  good  prospects,  and  was  in 
no  hurry  to  risk  them  for  a  paltry  scrap  of  red  ribbon.  If 
he  was  no  hero,  he  was  at  any  rate  a  philosopher ;  besides, 
precedents  (if  it  is  allowable  to  make  nse  of  parliamentary 
expressions  in  this  connection),  precedents  are  forthcoming. 
Did  not  Philip  II.  swear  during  the  battle  of  Saint-Quentin 
that  he  would  never  go  under  fire  again,  nor  near  it,  save 
the  faggots  of  the  Inquisition?  Did  not  the  Duke  of  Alva  ap- 
prove the  notion  that  the  involuntary  exchange  of  a  crown 
for  a  cannon-ball  was  the  worst  kind  of  trade  in  the  world? 
Montefiore,  therefore,  as  a  Marquis,  was  of  Philip  II.'s  way 
of  thinking;  he  was  a  Philippist  in  his  quality  of  gay  young 
bachelor,  and  in  other  respects  quite  as  astute  a  politician 
as  Philip  II.  himself.  He  comforted  himself  for  his  nick- 
name, and  for  the  slight  esteem  in  which  he  was  held  by  his 
regiment,  with  the  thought  that  his  comrades  were  sorry 
scamps;  and  even  if  they  should  survive  this  war  of  ex- 
termination, their  opinion  of  him  was  not  likely  to  gain  much 
credence  hereafter.  Was  not  his  face  as  good  as  a  certificate 
of  merit?  He  saw  himself  a  colonel  through  some  accident 
of  feminine  favor;  or,  by  a  skilfully  effected  transition,  the 
captain  on  the  clothing  establishment  would  become  an  or- 
derly, and  the  orderly  would  in  turn  become  the  aide-de- 
camp of  some  good-natured  marshal.  The  bravery  of  the 
uniform  and  the  bravery  of  the  man  were  all  as  one  to  the 
captain  on  the  clothing  establishment.  So  some  broad  sheet 
or  other  would  one  day  call  him  *^the  brave  Colonel  Monte- 
fiore," and  so  forth.  Then  he  would  have  a  hundred  thousand 
scudi  a  3'ear,  he  would  marry  the  daughter  of  a  noble  house, 
and  no  one  would  dare  breathe  a  word  against  his  courage,  nor 
to  seek  to  verify  his  wounds.  Finally,  it  should  be  stated  that 
Taptain  Montefiore  had  a  friend  in  the  person  of  the  quarter- 
master, a  Provengal,  bom  in  the  Nice  district,  Diard  by 
name. 

A  friend,  be  it  in  the  convict's  prison  or  in  an  artist's  garret, 
is  a  compensation  for  many  troubles;  and  Montefiore  and 
Diafd,  being  a  pair  of  philoso^ihers,  found  compensations  fo* 


THE  MARANAS  245 

their  hard  life  in  companionship  in  vice,  much  as  two  artists 
will  lull  the  consciousness  of  their  hardships  to  sleep  by 
hopes  of  future  fame.  Both  looked  at  war  as  a  means  to  an 
end,  and  not  as  an  end  in  itself,  and  frankly  called  those  who 
fell,  fools  for  their  pains.  Chance  had  made  soldiers  of  both, 
when  they  should  have  been  by  rights  deliberating  in  a  con- 
gress round  a  table  covered  with  a  green  cloth.  Nature  had 
cast  Montefiore  in  the  mould  of  Kizzio,  and  Diard  in  the 
crucible  whence  she  turns  out  diplomatists.  Both  possessed 
the  excitable,  nervous,  half-feminine  temperament,  which  is 
always  energetic,  be  it  in  good  or  evil;  always  at  the  mercy 
of  the  caprices  of  the  moment,  and  swayed  by  an  impulse 
equally  unaccountable  to  commit  a  crime  or  to  do  a  generous 
deed,  to  act  as  a  hero  or  as  a  craven  coward.  The  fate  of  such 
natures  as  these  depends  at  every  moment  of  their  lives  upon 
the  intensity  of  the  impressions  produced  upon  the  nervous 
system  by  vehement  and  short-lived  passions. 

Diard  was  a  very  fair  accountant,  but  not  one  of  the  men 
would  have  trusted  him  with  his  purse,  or  made  him  his  ex- 
ecutor, possibly  by  reason  of  the  suspicion  that  the  soldier 
feels  of  officialdom.  The  quartermaster's  character  was  not 
wanting  in  dash,  nor  in  a  certain  boyish  enthusiasm,  which 
is  apt  to  wear  off  as  a  man  grows  older  and  reasons  and  makes 
forecasts.  And  for  the  rest,  his  humor  was  variable  as  the 
beauty  of  a  blond  can  sometimes  be.  He  was  a  great  talker 
on  every  subject.  He  called  himself  an  artist ;  and,  in  imita- 
tion of  two  celebrated  generals,  collected  works  of  art,  simply, 
he  asserted,  to  secure  them  for  posterity.  His  comrades 
would  have  been  hard  put  to  it  to  say  what  they  really  thought 
of  him.  Many  of  them,  who  were  wont  to  borrow  of  him  at 
need,  fancied  that  he  was  rich;  but  he  was  a  gambler,  and 
a  gambler's  property  cannot  be  called  his  own.  He  played 
heavily,  so  did  Montefiore,  and  all  the  officers  played  with 
them ;  for  to  man's  shame,  be  it  said,  plenty  of  men  will  meet 
on  terms  of  equality  round  a  gaming  table  with  others  whom 
they  do  not  respect  and  will  not  recognize  if  they  meet  them 
elsewhere.  It  was  Montefiore  who  had  made  that  bet  with 
Bianchi  ahout  the  Spaniard's  heart. 


246  THE  MARANAS 

Montefiore  and  Diard  were  among  the  last  to  advance  to 
the  assault  of  the  place,  but  they  were  the  first  to  go  forward 
into  the  town  itself  when  it  was  taken.  Such  things  happen 
in  a  melee^  and  the  two  friends  were  old  hands.  Mutually 
supported,  therefore,  they  plunged  boldly  into  a  labyrinth 
of  narrow  dark  little  streets,  each  bent  upon  his  own  private 
affairs;  the  one  in  search  of  Madonnas  on  canvas,  and  the 
other  of  living  originals. 

In  some  quarter  of  Taragona,  Diajd  espied  a  piece  of  ec- 
clesiastical architecture,  saw  that  it  was  the  porch  of  a  con- 
vent, and  that  the  doors  liad  been  forced,  and  rushed  in  to 
restrain  the  fury  of  the  soldiery.  He  was  not  a  moment  too 
soon.  Two  Parisians  were  about  to  riddle  one  of  Albani's 
Virgins  with  shot,  and  of  these  light  infantrymen  he  bought 
the  picture,  undismayed  by  the  moustaches  with  which  the 
zealous  iconoclasts  had  adorned  it. 

Montefiore,  left  outside,  contemplated  the  front  of  a  cloth 
merchant's  house  opposite  the  convent.  He  was  looking  it  up 
and  down,  when  a  corner  of  a  blind  was  raised,  a  girl's  head 
peered  forth,  a  glance  like  a  lightning  flash  answered  his,  and 
— a  shot  was  fired  at  him  from  the  building.  Taragona  carried 
by  assault,  Taragona  roused  to  fury,  firing  from  every  window, 
Taragona  outraged,  disheveled,  and  half  naked,  with  French 
soldiers  pouring  through  her  blazing  streets,  slaying  there  and 
being  slain,  was  surely  worth  a  glance  from  fearless  Spanish 
eyes.  What  was  it  but  a  bull-fight  on  a  grander  scale  ?  Monte- 
fiore forgot  the  pillaging  soldiers,  and  for  a  moment  heard 
neither  the  shrieks,  nor  the  rattle  of  musketry,  nor  the  dull 
thunder  of  the  cannon.  He,  the  Italian  libertine,  tired  of  Ital- 
ian beauties,  weary  of  all  women,  dreaming  of  an  impossible 
woman  because  the  possible  had  ceased  to  have  any  attrac- 
tion for  him,  had  never  beheld  so  exquisitely  lovely  a  profile 
as  that  of  this  Spanish  girl.  The  jaded  voluptuary,  who  had 
squandered  his  fortune  on  follies  innumerable  and  on  the 
gratification  of  a  young  man's  endless  desires;  the  most 
abominable  monstrosity  that  our  society  can  produce,  could 
still  tremble.     The  bright  idea  of  setting  fire  to  the  house 


THE  MARANAS  247 

instantly  flashed  throngli  his  mind,  sugc^ested,  douhtless,  by 
the  shot  from  the  patriotic  cloth  merchant's  window;  but 
he  was  alone,  and  the  means  of  doing  it  were  to  seek,  fighting 
was  going  forward  in  the  market-place,  where  a  few  des- 
perate men  still  defended  themselves. 

He  thought  better  of  it.  Diard  came  out  of  the  convent, 
Montefiore  kept  his  discovery  to  himself,  and  the  pair  made 
several  excursions  through  the  town  together ;  but  on  the  mor 
row  the  Italian  was  quartered  in  the  cloth  merchant's  house, 
a  very  appropriate  arrangement  for  a  captain  on  the  clothing 
establishment. 

The  first  floor  of  the  worthy  Spaniard's  abode  consisted  of 
a  vast  dimly-lighted  shop;  protected  in  front,  as  the  old 
houses  in  the  Eue  des  Lombards  in  Paris  used  to  be,  by  heavy 
iron  bars.  Behind  the  shop  lay  the  parlor,  lighted  by  windows 
that  looked  out  into  an  inner  yard.  It  was  a  large  room,  redo- 
lent of  the  spirit  of  the  Middle  Ages,  with  its  old  dark  pic- 
tures, old  tapestr}',  and  antique  hrazero.  A  broad-plumed 
hat  hung  from  a  nail  upon  the  wall  above  a  matchlock  used 
in  guerilla  warfare,  and  a  heavy  brigand  cloak.  The  kitchen 
lay  immediately  beyond  this  parlor,  or  living-room,  where 
meals  were  served  and  cigars  smoked ;  and  Spaniards,  talking 
round  the  smoldering  brazier,  would  nurse  hot  wrath  and 
hatred  of  the  French  in  their  hearts. 

Silver  jugs  and  valuable  plate  stood  on  the  antique  buffet, 
but  the  room  was  fitfully  and  scantily  illuminated,  so  that 
the  daylight  scarcely  did  more  than  bring  out  faint  sparkles 
from  the  brightest  objects  in  the  room ;  all  the  rest  of  it,  and 
even  the  faces  of  its  occupants,  were  as  dark  as  a  Dutch 
interior.  Between  the  shop  itself  and  this  apartment,  with 
its  rich  subdued  tones  and  old-world  aspect,  a  sufficiently 
ill-lit  staircase  led  to  a  warehouse,  where  it  was  possible  to  ex- 
amine the  stuffs  by  the  light  from  some  ingeniously^  contrived 
windows.  The  merchant  and  his  wife  occupied  the  floor  above 
this  warehouse,  and  the  apprentice  and  the  maid-servant  were 
lodged  still  higher  in  the  attics  immediately  beneath  the  roof. 
This  highest  story  overhung  the  street,  and  was  supported  b)^ 


248  THE  MARANAS 

brackets,  which  gave  a  quaint  look  to  the  house  front.  On 
the  coming  of  the  officer,  the  merchant  and  his  wife  resigned 
their  rooms  to  him  and  went  up  to  these  attics,  doubtless  to 
avoid  friction. 

Montefiore  gave  himself  out  to  be  a  Spanish  subject  by 
birth,  a  victim  to  the  tyranny  of  ISTapoleon,  whr'^  he  was 
forced  to  serve  against  his  will.  These  half-lies  produced  the 
intended  effect.  He  was  asked  to  join  the  family  at  mea'i&, 
as  befitted  his  birth  and  rank  and  the  name  he  bore.  He  had 
his  private  reasons  for  wishing  to  conciliate  the  merchant's 
family.  He  felt  the  presence  of  his  Madonna,  much  as  the 
Ogre  in  the  fairy  tale  smelt  the  tender  flesh  of  little  Thumb- 
kin  and  his  brothers ;  but  though  he  succeeded  in  winning  his 
host's  confidence,  the  latter  kept  the  secret  of  the  Madonna 
so  well  that  the  captain  not  only  saw  no  sign  of  the  girl's  ex- 
istence during  the  first  day  spent  beneath  the  honest  Span- 
iard's roof,  but  heard  no  sound  that  could  betray  her  presence 
in  any  part  of  the  dwelling.  The  old  house  was,  however, 
almost  entirely  built  of  wood;  every  noise  above  or  below 
could  be  heard  through  the  walls  and  ceilings,  and  Montefiore 
hoped  during  the  silence  of  the  early  hours  of  night  to  guess 
the  young  girl's  whereabouts.  She  was  the  only  daughter 
of  his  host  and  hostess,  he  thought,  probably  they  had  shut 
her  up  in  the  attics,  whither  they  themselves  had  retired 
during  the  military  occupation  of  the  town.  No  indications, 
however,  betrayed  the  hiding-place  of  the  treasure.  The  of- 
ficer might  stand  with  his  face  glued  to  the  small  leaded 
diamond-shaped  panes  of  the  window,  looking  out  into  the 
darkness  of  the  yard  below  and  the  grim  walls  that  rose  up 
around  it,  but  no  light  gleamed  from  any  window  save  from 
those  of  the  room  overhead,  where  he  could  hear  the  old  mer- 
chant and  his  wife  talking,  coughing,  coming,  and  going. 
There  was  not  so  much  as  a  shadow  of  a  girl  to  be  seen. 

Montefiore  was  too  cunning  to  risk  the  future  of  his  pas- 
sion by  prowling  about  the  house  of  a  night,  by  knocking 
softly  at  all  the  floors,  or  by  other  hazardous  expedients.  His 
host  was  a  hot  patriot,  a  Spanish  father,  and  an  owner  of 


THE  MARANAS  249 

bales  of  cloth ;  bound,  therefore,  in  each  character  to  be  sus- 
picious. Discovery  would  be  utter  ruin,  so  Montefiore  re- 
solved to  bide  his  time  patiently,  hoping  everything  from  the 
carelessness  of  human  nature;  for  if  rogues,  with  the  bes+  of 
reasons  for  being  cautious,  will  forget  themselves  in  the  long 
run,  so  still  more  will  honest  men. 

Next  day  he  discovered  a  kind  of  hammock  slung  in  the 
kitchen — evidently  the  servant  slept  there.  The  apprentice, 
it  seemed,  spent  the  night  on  the  coimter  in  the  shop. 

At  supper-time,  on  the  second  day,  Montefiore  cursed 
Napoleon  till  he  saw  his  host's  sombre  face  relax  somewhat. 
The  man  was  a  typical  swarthy  Spaniard,  with  a  head  such 
as  used  to  be  carved  on  the  head  of  a  rebec.  A  smile  of 
gleeful  hatred  lurked  among  the  wrinkles  about  his  wife's 
mouth.  The  lamplight  and  fitful  gleams  from  the  brazier 
filled  the  stately  room  with  capricious  answering  reflections. 
The  hostess  was  just  offering  a  cigarette  to  their  semi-com- 
patriot, when  Montefiore  heard  the  rustle  of  a  dress,  and  a 
chair  was  overturned  behind  the  tapestr}'  hangings. 

"There !"  cried  the  merchant's  wife,  turning  pale,  "may 
all  the  saints  send  that  no  misfortune  has  befallen  us !" 

"So  you  have  some  one  in  there,  have  you?"  asked  the 
Italian,  who  betrayed  no  sign  of  emotion. 

The  merchant  let  fall  some  injurious  remarks  as  to  girls. 
His  wife,  in  alarm,  opened  a  secret  door,  and  brought  in  the 
Italian's  Madonna,  half  dead  with  fear.  The  delighted  lover 
scarcely  seemed  to  notice  the  girl;  but,  lest  he  might  overdo 
the  affectation  of  indifference,  he  glanced  at  her,  and  turn- 
ing to  his  host,  asked  in  his  mother  tongue : 

"Is  she  your  daughter,  seiior?" 

Perez  de  Lagounia  (for  that  was  the  merchant's  name)  had 
had  extensive  business  connections  in  Genoa,  Florence,  and 
Leghorn;  he  knew  Italian,  and  replied  in  that  language. 

"No.  If  she  had  been  my  own  daughter,  I  should  have  taken 
fewer  precautions,  but  the  child  was  put  into  our  charge,  and 
I  would  die  sooner  than  allow  the  slightest  harm  to  befal: 
her.    But  what  sense  can  you  expect  of  a  girl  of  eighteen  ?" 


250  THE  MARANAS 

"She  is  very  beautiful,"  Mantefiore  said  carelessly.  He 
did  not  look  at  her  again. 

"The  mother  is  sufficiently  famonis  for  her  beauty,"  an- 
swered the  merchant.  And  they  continued  to  smoke  and  to 
watch  each  other, 

Montefiore  had  imposed  upon  himself  the  hard  task  of 
avoiding  the  least  look  that  might  compromise  his  attitude 
of  indifference;  but  as  Perez  turned  his  head  aside  to  spit, 
the  Italian  stole  a  glance  at  the  girl,  and  again  those  spark- 
ling eyes  met  his.  In  that  one  glance,  with  the  experienced 
vision  that  gives  to  a  voluptuar}^  or  a  sculptor  the  power  of 
discerning  the  outlines  of  the  form  beneath  the  draperies, 
he  beheld  a  masterpiece  created  to  know  all  the  happiness  of 
love.  He  saw  a  delicately  fair  face,  which  the  sun  of  Spain 
had  slightly  tinged  with  a  warm  brown,  that  added  to  a 
seraphically  calm  expression  a  flush  of  pride,  a  suffused  glow 
beneath  the  translucent  fairness,  due,  perhaps,  to  the  pure 
Moorish  blood  that  brought  animation  and  color  into  it.  Her 
hair,  knotted  on  the  crown  of  her  head,  fell  in  thick  curls 
about  transparent  ears  like  a  child's,  surrounding  them  with 
dark  shadows  that  made  a  framework  for  the  white  throat 
with  its  faint  blue  veins,  in  strong  contrast  with  the  fiery  eyes 
and  the  red  finely-curved  mouth.  The  basquina  of  her  country 
displayed  the  curving  outlines  of  a  figure  as  pliant  as  a  branch 
of  willow.  This  was  no  Madonna  of  Italian  painters,  but  the 
Madonna  of  Spanish  art,  the  Virgin  of  Murillo,  the  only 
artist  daring  enough  to  depict  the  rapture  of  the  Conception, 
a  delirious  flight  of  the  fervid  imagination  of  the  boldest  and 
most  sensuous  of  painters.  Three  qualities  were  blended  in 
this  young  girl;  any  one  of  them  would  have  sufficed  to  ex- 
alt a  wo-man  into  a  divinity — the  purity  of  the  pearl  in  the 
depths  of  the  sea,  the  sublime  exaltation  of  a  Saint  Theresa, 
and  a  voluptuous  charm  of  which  she  was  herself  unconscit)us. 
Her  presence  had  the  power  of  a  talisman.  Everything  in  the 
ancient  room  seemed  to  have  grown  young  to  Montefiore's 
eyes  since  she  entered  it.  But  if  the  apparition  was  exquisite, 
the  stay  was  brief;  she  was  taken  back  to  her  mysterious 


THE  MARANAS  251 

abiding-place,  and  thither,  shortly  afterwards,  the  servant 
took  a  light  and  her  supper,  without  any  attempt  at  conceal- 
ment. 

"You  do  very  wisely  to  keep  her  out  of  sight,"  said  Monte- 
fiore  in  Italian.  ""I  will  keep  your  secret.  The  deuce !  some  of 
our  generals  would  be  quite  capable  of  carrying  her  off  by 
force." 

Montefiore,  in  his  intoxication,  went  so  far  as  to  think  of 
marrying  the  fair  unknown.  With  this  idea  in  his  mind,  he 
put  some  questions  to  his  host.  Perez  willingly  told  him  the 
strange  chance  that  had  given  him  Ms  ward ;  indeed,  the  pru- 
dent Spaniard,  knowing  Montefiore's  rank  and  name,  of 
which  he  had  heard  in  Italy,  was  anxious  to  confide  the  story 
to  his  guest,  to  show  how  strong  were  the  barriers  raised  be- 
tween the  young  girl  and  seduction.  Although  in  the  good 
man's  talk  there  was  a  certain  homely  eloquence  and  force  in 
keeping  with  his  simple  manner  of  life,  and  with  that  carbine 
shot  at  Montefiore  from  the  window,  his  story  will  be  better 
given  in  an  abbreviated  form. 

When  the  French  Eepublic  revolutionized  the  manners  of 
the  inhabitants  of  the  countries  which  served  as  the  theatre 
of  its  wars,  a  jUle-de-joie,  driven  from  Venice  after  the  fall  of 
Venice,  came  to  Taragona.  Her  life  had  been  a  tissue  of  ro- 
mantic adventure  and  strange  vicissitudes.  On  no  woman 
belonging  to  her  class  had  gold  been  showered  so  often;  so 
often  the  caprice  of  some  great  lord,  struck  with  her  extraor- 
dinary beauty,  had  heaped  jewels  upon  her,  and  all  the  lux- 
uries of  wealth,  for  a  time.  For  her  this  meant  flowers  and 
carriages,  pages  and  tire-women,  palaces  and  pictures,  insolent 
pride,  journeys  like  a  progress  of  Catherine  II.,  the  life  of  an 
absolute  queen,  in  fact,  whose  caprices  were  law,  and  whose 
whims  were  more  than  obeyed ;  and  then — suddenly  the  gold 
would  utterly  vanish — how,  neither  she  nor  any  one  else,  man 
of  science^  physicist,  or  chemist  could  tell,  and  she  has  returned 
again  to  the  streets  and  to  poverty,  with  nothing  in  the  world 
save  her  all-powerful  beauty.  Yet  through  it  all  she  lived  with- 
out taking  any  thought  for  the  past,  the  present,  or  the  future. 


25'i  THE  MARANAS 

Thrown  upon  the  world,  and  maintained  in  her  extremity  by 
some  poor  officer,  a  gambler,  adored  for  his  moustache,  she 
would  attach  herself  to  him  like  a  dog  ta  his  master,  and 
console  him  for  the  hardships  of  a  soldier's  life,  in  all  of 
inch  she  shared,  sleeping  as  lightly  under  the  roof  of  a  garret 
s  beneath  the  richest  of  silk  canopies.  Whether  she  was  in 
.Spain  or  Itaty,  she  punctually  adhered  to  religious  observ- 
ances. More  than  once  she  had  bidden  love  "return  to-mor- 
row, to-day  I  am  God's." 

But  this  clay  in  which  gold  and  spices  were  mingled,  this 
utter  recklessness,  these  storms  of  passion,  the  religious  faith 
lying  in  the  heart  like  a  diamond  in  the  mud,  the  life  begun 
and  ended  in  the  hospital,  the  continual  game  of  hazard 
played  with  the  soul  and  body  as  its  stake;  this  Alchemy  of 
Life,  in  short,  with  vice  fanning  the  ilame  beneath  the  cruci- 
ble in  which  great  careers  and  fair  inheritances  and  fortune 
and  the  honor  of  illustrious  names  were  melted  away, — all 
these  were  the  products  of  a  peculiar  genius,  faithfully  trans- 
mitted from  mother  to  daughter  from  the  times  of  the  Middle 
Ages.  The  woman  was  called  La  Marana.  In  her  family, 
whose  descent  since  the  thirteenth  century  was  reckoned  ex- 
clusively on  the  spindle  side — the  idea,  person,  authority,  nay, 
the  very  name  of  a  father,  had  been  absolutely  unknown.  The 
name  of  Marana  was  for  her  what  the  dignity  of  Stuart  was  to 
the  illustrious  race  of  kings  of  Scotland,  a  title  of  honor  sub- 
stituted for  the  patronymic,  when  the  office  became  hereditary 
in  their  family. 

In  former  times,  when  France,  Spain,  and  Italy  possessed 
common  interests,  which  at  times  bound  them  closely  to- 
gether, and  at  least  as  frequently  embroiled  all  three  in  wars, 
the  word  Marana,  in  its  widest  acceptation,  meant  a  courtesan. 
In  those  ages  these  women  had  a  definite  status  of  which  no 
mcmor}''  now  exists.  In  France,  Ninon  de  Lenelos  and  Marion 
Delorme  alone  played  such  a  part  as  the  Imperias,  the  Cata- 
linas,  and  Maranas  who  in  the  preceding  centuries  exercised 
the  powers  of  the  cassock,  the  robe,  and  the  sword.  There  is 
a  church  somewhere  in  Rome  built  by  an  Imperia  in  a  fit  of 


THE  MARANAS  253 

penitence,  as  Rhodope  of  old  once  built  a  pyramid  in  Egypt. 
The  epithet  by  which  this  family  of  outcasts  once  was 
branded  became  at  last  their  name  in  earnest,  and  even  some- 
thing like  a  patent  of  nobility  for  vice,  by  establishing  its 
antiquity  beyond  cavil. 

But  for  the  La  Marana  of  the  nineteenth  century  there 
came  a  day,  whether  it  was  a  day  of  splendor  or  of  misery, 
no  man  knows,  for  the  problem  is  a  secret  between  her  soul 
and  God;  but  it  was  surely  in  an  hour  of  melancholy,  when 
religion  made  its  voice  heard,  that  with  her  head  in  the  skies 
she  became  conscious  of  the  slough  in  which  her  feet  were  set. 
Then  she  cursed  the  blood  in  her  veins;  she  cursed  herself; 
she  trembled  to  think  that  she  should  bear  a  daughter;  and 
vowed,  as  these  women  vow,  with  the  honor  and  resolution 
of  the  convict,  that  is  to  say,  with  the  strongest  resolution, 
the  most  scrupulous  honor  to  be  found  under  the  sun ;  making 
her  vow,  therefore,  before  an  altar,  and  consecrating  it  there- 
by, that  her  daughter  should  lead  a  virtuous  and  holy  life, 
that  of  this  long  race  of  lost  and  sinful  women  there  should 
co2ne  at  last  one  angel  who  should  appear  for  them  in  heaven. 
That  vow  made,  the  blood  of  the  Marana  regained  its  sway, 
and  again  the  courtesan  plunged  into  her  life  of  adventure, 
with  one  more  thought  in  her  heart.  At  length  she  loved,  with 
the  violent  love  of  the  prostitute,  as  Henrietta  Wilson  loved 
Lord  Ponsonby,  as  Mademoiselle  Dupuis  loved  Bolingbroke,  as 
the  Marchesa  di  Pescara  loved  her  husband ;  nay,  she  did  not 
love,  she  adored  a  fair-haired  half-feminine  creature,  investing 
him  with  all  the  virtues  that  she  had  not,  and  taking  all  his 
vices  upon  herself.  Of  this  mad  union  with  a  weakling, a  union 
blessed  neither  of  God  nor  man,  only  to  be  excused  by  the 
happiness  it  brings,  but  never  absolved  by  happiness ;  a  union 
for  which  the  most  brazen  front  must  one  day  blush,  a  daugh- 
ter was  bom,  a  daughter  to  be  saved,  a  daughter  for  whom 
La  Marana  desired  a  stainless  life,  and,  above  all  things,  the 
instincts  of  womanliness  which  she  herself  had  not.  Thence- 
forward, in  poverty  or  prosperity.  La  Marana  bore  within 
her  heart  a  pure  affection,  the  fairest  of  all  human  sentiments. 


•J54  THE  MARANAS 

because  it  is  the  least  selfish.  Love  has  its  own  tinge  of 
egoism,  but  there  is  no  trace  of  it  in  a  mother's  affection. 

And  La  Marana's  motherhood  meant  more  for  her  than 
to  other  women.  It  was  perhaps  her  hope  of  salvation,  a 
planlv  to  cling  to  in  the  shipwreck  of  her  eternity.  Was  she 
not  accomplishing  part  of  her  sacred  task  on  earth  by  sending 
one  more  angel  to  heaven  ?  Was  not  this  a  better  thing  than  a 
tardy  repentance?  Was  there  any  other  way  now  left  to  her 
of  sending  up  prayers  from  a  pure  heart  to  God? 

When  her  daughter  was  given  to  her,  hei'  Maria-Juana- 
Pepita  (the  little  one  should  have  had  the  whole  calendar 
for  patron  saints  if  the  mother  could  have  had  her  will),  then 
La  Marana  set  before  herself  so  high  an  ideal  of  the  dignity 
of  motherhood  that  she  sought  a  truce  from  her  life  of  sin. 
She  would  live  virtuously  and  alone.  There  should  be  no 
more  midnight  revels  nor  wanton  days.  All  her  fortunes,  all 
her  happiness  lay  in  the  child's  fragile  cradle.  The  sound  of 
the  little  voice  made  an  oasis  for  her  amid  the  burning  sands 
of  her  life.  How  should  this  love  be  compared  with  any 
other  ?  Were  not  all  human  affections  blended  in  it  with  every 
hope  of  heaven  ? 

La  Marana  determined  that  no  stain  should  rest  upon  her 
daughters  life,  save  that  of  the  original  sin  of  her  birth, 
which  she  strove  to  cleanse  by  a  baptism  in  all  social  virtues ; 
so  she  asked  of  the  child's  young  father  a  sufficient  fortune, 
and  the  name  he  bore.  The  child  was  no  longer  Juana  Ma- 
rana, but  Juana  dei  Mancini. 

At  last,  after  seven  years  of  joy  and  kisses,  of  rapture  and 
bliss,  the  poor  Marana  must  part  with  her  darling,  lest  she 
also  should  be  branded  with  her  hereditary  shame.  The 
mother  had  force  of  soul  sufficient  to  give  up  her  child  for 
her  child's  sake ;  and  sought  out,  not  without  dreadful  pangs, 
another  mother  for  her,  a  family  whose  manners  she  might 
learn,  where  good  examples  would  be  set  before  her.  A 
mother's  abdication  is  an  act  either  atrocious  or  sublime;  in 
this  case,  was  it  not  sublime? 

At  Taragona,  therefore,  a  lucky  accident  brought  the  La- 


THE  MARANAS  255 

gounias  in  her  way,  and  in  a  manner  that  brought  out  all  the 
honorable  integrity  of  the  Spaniard  and  the  nobleness  of  his 
wife.  For  these  two,  La  Marana  appeared  like  an  angel  that 
unlocks  the  doors  of  a  prison.  The  merchant's  fortune  and 
honor  were  in  peril  at  the  moment,  and  he  needed  prompt  and 
secret  help ;  La  Marana  handed  over  to  him  the  sura  of  money 
intended  for  Juana's  dowry,  asking  neither  for  gratitude  nor 
for  interest.  According  to  her  peculiar  notions  of  jurispru- 
dence, a  contract  was  a  matter  of  the  heart,  a  stiletto  the  rem- 
edy in  the  hands  of  the  weak,  and  God  the  Supreme  Court 
of  Appeal. 

She  told  Doiia  Lagounia  the  story  of  her  miserable  situa- 
tion, and  confided  her  child  and  her  child's  fortune  to  the 
honor  of  old  Spain,  and  the  untarnished  integrity  that  per- 
vaded the  old  house.  Doha  Lagounia  had  no  children  of  her 
own,  and  was  delighted  to  have  an  adopted  daughter  to  bring 
up.  The  courtesan  took  leave  of  her  darling,  feeling  that 
the  child's  future  was  secure,  and  that  she  had  found  a  mother 
for  Juana,  a  mother  who  would  train  her  up  to  be  a  Maucini, 
and  not  a  Marana. 

Poor  Marana,  poor  bereaved  mother,  she  went  away  from 
the  merchant's  quiet  and  humble  home,  the  abode  of  domestic 
and  family  virtue ;  and  felt  comforted  in  her  grief  as  she  pic- 
tured Juana  growing  up  in  that  atmosphere  of  religion,  piety, 
and  honor,  a  maiden,  a  wife,  and  a  mother,  a  happy  mother, 
not  for  a  few  brief  years,  but  all  through  a  long  lifetime. 
The  tears  that  fell  upon  the  threshold  were  tears  that  angels 
bear  to  heaven.  Since  that  day  of  mourning  and  of  hope  La 
Marana  had  thrice  returned  to  see  her  daughter,  an  irresist- 
ible presentiment  each  time  bringing  her  back.  The  first 
time  Juana  had  fallen  dangerously  ill. 

"I  knew  it !"  she  said  to  Perez,  as  she  entered  his  house. 

Far  away,  and  as  she  slept,  she  had  dreamed  that  Juana 
was  dying. 

She  watched  over  her  daughter  and  tended  her,  and  then 
one  morning,  when  the  danger  was  over,  she  kissed  the  sleep- 
ing girl's  forehead,  and  went  v;ithout  revealing  herself.  The 
mother  within  her  bade  the  courtesan  depart. 


256  THE  MARANAS 

A  second  time  La  Marana  came;, — this  time  to  the  church 
where  Juana  dei  Mancini  made  her  first  Communion.  The 
exiled  mother,  very  plainly  dressed,  stood  in  the  shadow  be- 
hind a  pillar,  and  saw  her  past  self  in  her  daughter,  saw  a 
divinely  fair  face  like  an  angel's,  pure  as  the  newly  fallen 
snow  on  the  heights  of  the  hills.  Even  in  La  Marana's  love 
for  her  child  there  was  a  trace  of  the  courtesan ;  a  feeling  of 
jealousy  stronger  than  all  love  that  she  had  known  awoke 
in  her  heart,  and  she  left  the  church;  she  could  no  longer 
control  a  wild  desire  to  stab  Doila  Lagounia,  who  stood  there 
Tvath  that  look  of  happiness  upon  her  face,  too  really  a  mother 
to  her  child. 

The  last  meeting  between  the  two  had  taken  place  at  Milan, 
whither  the  merchant  and  his  wife  had  gone.  La  Marana, 
sweeping  along  the  Corso  in  almost  queenly  state,  flashed 
like  lightning  upon  her  daughters  sight,  and  was  not  recog- 
nized. Her  anguish  was  terrible.  This  Marana  on  whom 
kisses  were  showered  must  hunger  for  one  kiss  in  vain,  one 
for  which  she  would  have  given  all  the  others,  the  girlish  glad 
caress  a  daughter  gives  her  mother,  her  honored  mother,  her 
mother  in  whom  all  womanly  virtues  shine.  Juana  as  long 
as  she  lived  was  dead  for  her. 

'^hat  is  it,  love  ?"  asked  the  Due  de  Lina,  and  at  the  words 
a  thought  revived  the  courtesan's  failing  heart,  a  thought  that 
gave  her  delicious  happiness — Juana  was  safe  henceforward ! 
She  might  perhaps  be  one  of  the  humblest  of  women,  but  not 
a  shameless  courtesan  to  whom  any  man  might  say,  "What  is 
it,  love?" 

Indeed,  the  merchant  and  his  wife  had  done  their  duty 
with  scrupulous  fidelity.  Juana's  fortune  in  their  hands  had 
been  doubled.  Perez  de  Lagounia  had  become  the  richest 
merchant  in  the  province,  and  in  his  feeling  towards  the 
young  girl  there  was  a  trace  of  superstition.  Her  coming 
had  saved  the  old  house  from  ruin  and  dishonor,  and  had  not 
the  presence  of  this  angel  brought  unlooked-for  prosperity? 
TTis  wife,  a  soul  of  gold,  a  refined  and  gentle  nature,  had 
brought  up  her  charge  devoutly;  the  girl  was  as  pure  as  she 


THE  MARANAS  257 

was  beautiful.  Juana  was  equally  fitted  to  be  the  wife  of  a 
rich  merchant  or  of  a  noble;  she  had  every  qualification  for 
a  brilliant  destiny.  But  for  the  war  that  had  broken  out, 
Perez,  who  dreamed  of  living  in  Madrid,  would  ere  now  have 
given  her  in  marriage  to  some  Spanish  grandee. 

"I  do  not  know  where  La  Marana  is  at  this  moment,"  he 
concluded;  "but  wherever  she  may  be,  if  she  hears  that  our 
province  ife  occupied  by  your  armies,  and  that  Taragona  has 
been  besieged,  she  is  sure  to  be  on  her  way  liither  to  watch 
over  her  daughter." 

This  story  wrought  a  change  in  the  captain's  intentions; 
he  no  longer  thought  of  making  a  Marchesa  di  Montefiore 
of  Juana  dei  Maucini.  He  recognized  the  Marana  blood  in 
that  swift  glance  the  girl  had  exchanged  with  him  from  her 
shelter  behind  the  blind,  in  the  stratagem  by  which  she  had 
satisfied  her  curiosity,  in  that  last  look  she  had  given  him; 
and  the  libertine  meant  to  marry  a  virtuous  wife. 

This  would  be  a  dangerous  escapade,  no  doubt,  but  the 
perils  were  of  the  kind  that  never  sinks  the  courage  of  the 
most  pusillanimous,  for  love  and  its  pleasures  would  reward 
them.  There  were  obstacles  everj'where:  there  was  the  ap- 
prentice who  slept  on  the  counter,  and  the  servant-maid  on 
the  makeshift  couch  in  the  kitchen;  Perez  and  his  wife,  who 
kept  a  dragon's  watch  by  day,  were  old,  and  doubtless  slept 
lightly;  every  sound  echoed  through  the  house,  everything 
seemed  to  put  the  adventure  beyond  the  range  of  possibilities. 
But  as  a  set-off  against  these  things,  Montefiore  had  an  ally — 
the  blood  of  the  Marana,  which  throbbed  feverishly  in  the 
heart  of  the  lovely  Italian  girl  brought  up  as  a  Spaniard,  the 
maiden  athirst  for  love.  Passion,  the  girl's  nature,  and 
Montefiore  was  a  combination  that  might  defy  the  whole 
world. 

Prompted  quite  as  strongly  by  the  instincts  of  a  chartered 
libertine  as  by  the  vague  inexplicable  hopes  to  which  we  give 
the  name  of  presentiments,  a  word  that  describes  them  with 
such  startling  aptness — Montefiore  took  up  his  stand  at  his 
window,  and  spent  the  early  hours  of  the  night  there,  looking 


258  THE  MARANAS 

down  in  the  presumed  direction  of  the  secret  hiding-place, 
where  the  old  couple  had  enshrined  their  darling,  the  joy  of 
their  old  age. 

The  warehouse  on  the  entresol  (to  make  use  t)f  a  French 
word  that  will  perhaps  make  the  disposition  of  the  house 
clearer  to  the  reader)  separated  the  two  young  people,  so  it 
was  idle  for  the  captain  to  try  to  convey  a  message  hy  means 
of  tapping  upon  the  floor,  a  shift  for  speech  that  all  lovers 
can  devise  under  such  circumstances.  Chance,  however,  came 
to  his  assistance,  or  was  it  the  young  girl  herself?  Just  as 
he  took  his  stand  at  the  window  he  saw  a  circle  of  light  that 
fell  upon  the  grim  opposite  wall  of  the  yard,  and  in  the  midst 
of  it  a  dark  silhouette,  the  form  of  Juana.  Everything  that 
she  did  was  shadowed  there ;  from  her  attitude  and  the  move- 
ment of  her  arms,  she  seemed  to  be  arranging  her  hair  for  the 
night. 

"Is  she  alone?"  Montefiore  asked  himself.  "If  I  weight 
a  letter  with  a  few  coins,  will  it  be  safe  to  dangle  it  by  a 
thread  against  the  round  window  that  no  doubt  lights  her 
cell?" 

He  wrote  a  note  forthwith,  a  note  characteristic  of  the  of- 
ficer, of  the  soldier  sent  for  reasons  of  family  expediency  to 
the  isle  of  Elba,  of  the  former  dilettante  Marquis,  fallen  from 
his  high  estate,  and  become  a  captain  on  the  clothing  estab- 
lishment. He  wrapped  some  coins  in  the  note,  devised  a 
string  out  of  various  odds  and  ends,  tied  up  the  packet  and 
let  it  down,  without  a  sound,  into  the  very  centre  of  that 
round  brightness. 

"If  her  mother  or  the  servant  is  with  her,"  Montefiore 
thought,  "I  shall  see  the  shadows  on  the  wall ;  and  if  she  is  not 
alone,  I  will  draw  up  the  cord  at  once." 

But  when,  after  pains  innumerable,  which  can  readily  be 
imagined,  the  weighted  packet  tapped  at  the  glass,  only  one 
shadow  appeared,  and  it  was  the  slender  figure  of  Juana  that 
flitted  across  the  wall.  Noiselessly  the  young  girl  opened  the 
circular  window,  saw  the  packet,  took  it  in,  and  stood  for  a 
while  reading  it. 


THE  MARANAS  250 

Montefiore  Had  written  in  his  own  name  and  entreated  an 
interview.  He  offered,  in  the  style  of  old  romances,  his  heart 
and  hand  to  Juana  dei  Mancini — a  base  and  commonplace 
stratagem  that  nearly  always  succeeds !  At  Juana's  age,  is 
not  nobility  of  soul  an  added  danger?  A  poet  of  our  own 
days  has  gracefully  said  that  "only  in  her  strength  does  wo- 
man yield."  Let  a  lover,  when  he  is  most  beloved,  feign 
doubts  of  the  love  that  he  inspires,  and  in  her  pride  and  her 
trust  in  him,  a  girl  would  invent  sacrifices  for  his  sake,  know- 
ing neither  the  world  nor  man's  nature  well  enough  to  retain 
her  self-command  when  passion  stirs  within  her,  and  to  over- 
whelm with  her  scorn  the  lover  who  can  accept  a  whole  life 
offered  to  him  to  turn  away  a  groundless  reproach. 

In  our  sublimely  constituted  society  a  young  girl  is  placed 
in  a  painful  dilemma  between  the  forecasts  of  prudent  virtue 
on  the  one  hand,  and  the  consequences  of  error  upon  the 
other.  If  she  resists,  it  not  seldom  happens  that  she  loses  a 
lover  and  the  first  love,  that  is  the  most  attractive  of  all; 
and  if  she  is  imprudent,  she  loses  a  marriage.  Cast  an  eye 
over  the  vicissitudes  of  social  life  in  Paris,  and  it  is  impos- 
sible to  doubt  the  necessity  of  a  religion  that  shall  ensure 
that  there  are  no  more  young  girls  seduced  daily.  And  Paris 
is  situated  in  the  forty-eighth  degree  of  latitude,  while  Tar- 
agona  lies  below  the  forty-first.  The  old  question  of  climate 
is  still  useful  to  the  novelist  seeking  an  excuse  for  the  sud- 
denness of  his  catastrophe,  and  is  made  to  explain  the  im- 
prudence or  the  dilatoriness  of  a  pair  of  lovers. 

Montefiore's  eyes  were  fixed  meanwhile  on  the  charming 
silhouette  in  the  midst  of  the  bright  circle.  Neither  he  nor 
Juana  could  see  each  other;  an  unlucky  archway  above  her 
casement,  with  perverse  malignity,  cut  off  all  chances  of  com- 
munication by  signs,  such  as  two  lovers  can  contrive  by  lean- 
ing out  of  their  windows.  So  the  captain  concentrated  his 
whole  mind  and  attention  upon  the  round  patch  on  the  wall. 
Perhaps  all  unwittingly  the  girl's  movements  might  betray 
her  thoughts.  Here  again  he  was  foiled.  Juana's  strange 
proceedings  gave  Montefiore  no  room  for  the  faintest  hope: 
she  was  amusing  herself  by  cutting  up  the  billei 


260  THE  MARANAS 

It  often  happens  that  virtue  and  discretion,  in  distrust, 
adopt  shifts  familiar  to  the  jealous  Bartholos  of  comedy. 
Juana,  having  neither  paper,  pen,  nor  ink,  was  scratching  an 
answer  with  the  point  of  a  pair  of  scissors.  In  another  mo- 
ment she  tied  the  scrap  of  paper  to  the  string,  the  officer 
drew  it  in,  opened  it,  held  it  up  against  the  lamp,  and  read 
the  perforated  characters — "Come,"  it  said. 

"  'Come  ?'  "  said  he  to  himself.  "Poison,  and  carbine,  and 
Perez's  dagger !  And  how  about  the  apprentice  hardly  asleep 
on  the  counter  by  this  time,  and  the  servant  in  her  hammock, 
and  the  house  booming  like  a  bass  viol  with  every  sound? 
why,  I  can  hear  old  Perez  snoring  away  upstairs !  'Come !' 
.     .     .     Then,  has  she  nothing  to  lose  ?" 

Acute  reflection !  Libertines  alone  can  reason  thus  logic- 
ally, and  punish  a  woman  for  her  devotion.  The  imagination 
of  man  has  created  Satan  and  Lovelace,  but  a  maiden  is  an 
angelic  being  to  whom  he  can  lend  nothing  but  his  vices;  so 
lofty,  so  fair  is  she,  that  he  cannot  set  her  liigher  nor  add  to 
her  beauty ;  he  has  but  the  fatal  power  of  blighting  this  crea- 
tion by  dragging  it  down  to  his  miry  level. 

Montefiore  waited  till  the  drowsiest  hour  of  the  night,  then 
in  spite  of  his  sober  second  thoughts,  he  crept  downstairs. 
He  had  taken  off  his  shoes,  and  carried  his  pistols  with  him, 
and  now  he  groped  his  way  step  by  step,  stopping  to  listen 
in  the  silence;  trying  each  separate  stair,  straining  his  eyes 
till  he  almost  saw  in  the  darkness,  and  ready  to  turn  back 
at  any  moment  if  the  least  thing  befell  him.  He  wore  his 
handsomest  uniform;  he  had  perfumed  his  dark  hair,  and 
taken  pains  with  the  toilette  that  set  off  his  natural  good 
looks.  On  occasions  like  these,  most  men  are  as  much  a 
woman  as  any  woman. 

Montefiore  managed  to  reach  the  door  of  the  girl's  secret 
hiding-place  without  difficulty.  It  was  a  little  cabinet  con- 
trived in  a  corner  which  projected  into  another  dwelling,  a 
not  unusual  freak  of  the  builder  where  ground-rents  are  bigh, 
and  houses  in  consequence  packed  very  tightly  together.  Here 
J  nana  lived  alone,  day  and  night,  out  of  sight  of  all  eyes 


THE  MARANAS  261 

Hitherto  she  had  slept  near  her  adopted  mother;  but  when 
Perez  and  his  wife  removed  to  the  top  of  the  house,  the  ar- 
rangements of  the  attics  did  not  permit  of  their  taking  their 
ward  thither  also.  So  Doiia  Lagounia  had  left  the  girl  to 
the  guardianship  of  the  lock  of  the  secret  door,  to  the  protec- 
tion of  religious  ideas,  but  so  much  the  more  powerful  because 
they  had  become  superstitions;  and  with  the  further  safe- 
guards of  a  natural  pride,  and  the  shrinking  delicacy  of  the 
sensitive  plant,  which  made  Juana  an  exception  among  her 
sex,  for  to  the  most  pathetic  innocence  Juana  Mancini  united 
no  less  the  most  passionate  aspirations.  It  had  needed  a  re- 
tared  life  and  devout  training  to  quiet  and  to  cool  the  hot 
blood  of  the  Maranas  that  glowed  in  her  veins,  the  impulses 
that  her  adopted  mother  called  temptations  of  the  Evil  One. 

A  faint  gleam  of  light  beneath  the  door  in  the  panels  dis- 
covered its  whereabouts  for  Montefiore.  He  tapped  softly 
with  the  tips  of  his  finger-nails,  and  Juana  let  him  in.  Quiv- 
ering from  head  to  foot  with  excitement,  he  met  the  young 
girl's  look  of  naive  curiosity,  and  read  the  most  complete  ig- 
norance of  her  peril,  and  a  sort  of  childlike  admiration  in  her 
eyes.  He  stood,  awed  for  a  moment  by  the  picture  of  the 
sanctuary  before  him. 

The  walls  were  hung  with  gray  tapestry,  covered  with 
violet  flowers.  A  small  ebony  chest,  an  antique  mirror,  a 
huge  old-fashioned  armchair,  also  made  of  ebony,  and  covered 
with  tapestry;  another  chair  beside  the  spindle-legged  table, 
a  pretty  carpet  on  the  floor — that  was  all.  But  there  were 
flowers  on  the  table  beside  some  embroidery  work,  and  at  the 
other  end  of  the  room  stood  the  little  narrow  bed  on  which 
Juana  dreamed ;  three  pictures  hung  on  the  wall  above  it,  and 
at  the  head  stood  a  crucifix  above  a  little  holy  water  stoup, 
and  a  prayer  framed  and  illuminated  in  gold.  The  room 
was  full  of  the  faint  perfume  of  the  flowers,  of  the  soft  light 
of  the  tapers;  it  all  seemed  so  quiet,  pure,  and  sacred.  The 
subtle  charm  of  Juana's  dreamy  fancies,  nay,  of  Juana  her- 
self, seemed  to  pervade  everything;  her  soul  was  revealed  by 
her  surroundings ;  the  pearl  lay  there  in  its  shell. 


262  THE  MARANAS 

Juana,  clad  in  white,  with  no  ornament  save  her  own  loveli- 
ness, letting  fall  her  rosary  to  call  on  the  name  of  Love,  would 
have  inspired  even  Montefiore  with  reverence  if  it  had  not 
been  for  the  night  about  them  and  the  silence,  if  Juana  had 
welcomed  love  less  eager!}',  if  the  little  white  bed  had  not  dis- 
played the  turned-down  coverlet — the  pillow,  confidante  of 
innumerable  vague  longings.  Montefiore  stood  there  for  long, 
intoxicated  by  joy  hitherto  unknown;  such  joy  as  Satan,  it 
may  be,  would  know  at  a  glimpse  of  paradise  if  the  cloud-veil 
that  envelops  heaven  was  rent  away  for  a  moment. 

"I  loved  you  the  first  moment  that  I  saw  you,"  he  said, 
speaking  pure  Tuscan  in  the  tones  of  his  musical  Italian 
voice.  "In  you  my  soul  and  my  life  are  set;  if  you  so  will 
it,  they  shall  be  yours  for  ever." 

To  Juana  listening,  the  air  she  breathed  seemed  to  vibrate 
with  the  words  grown  magical  upon  her  lover's  tongue. 

"Poor  little  girl !  how  have  you  breathed  the  atmosphere 
of  this  gloomy  place  so  long,  and  lived  ?  You,  meant  to  reign 
like  a  queen  in  the  world,  to  dwell  in  the  palace  of  a  prince, 
to  pass  from  festival  to  festival,  to  feel  in  your  own  heart  the 
joys  that  3'^ou  create,  to  see  the  world  at  your  feet,  to  make  the 
fairest  splendors  pale  before  the  glorious  beauty  that  shall 
never  be  rivaled, — you  have  lived  here  in  seclusion  with  this 
old  tradesman  and  his  wife  !" 

There  was  a  purpose  in  his  exclamation ;  he  wanted  to  find 
out  whether  or  no  Juana  had  ever  had  a  lover. 

"Yes,"  she  answered.  "But  who  can  have  told  you  my  in- 
most thoughts?  For  these  twelve  months  past  I  have  been 
weary  to  death  of  it.  Yes,  I  would  die  rather  than  stay  any 
longer  in  this  house.  Do  you  see  this  embroidery?  I  have 
set  countless  dreadful  thoughts  into  every  stitch  of  it.  How 
often  I  have  longed  to  run  away  and  fling  myself  into  the 
sea !  Do  you  ask  why  ?  I  have  forgotten  already.  .  .  . 
Childish  troubles,  but  very  keenly  felt  in  spite  of  their  child- 
ishness. .  .  .  Often  at  night  when  I  kissed  my  mother, 
I  have  given  her  such  a  kiss  as  one  gives  for  a  last  farewell, 
saying  in  my  heart,  'I  will  kill  myself  to-morrow.'    After  all. 


THE  MARANAS  263 

I  did  not  die.  Suicides  go  to  hell,  and  I  was  so  much  afraid 
of  that,  that  I  made  up  my  mind  to  endure  my  life,  to  get 
up  and  go  to  bed,  and  do  the  same  things  hour  after  hour 
of  every  day.  My  life  was  not  irksome,  it  was  painful. — And 
yet,  my  father  and  mother  worship  me.  Oh !  I  am  wicked ! 
indeed,  I  tell  my  confessor  so." 

"Then  have  you  always  lived  here  without  amusements, 
without  pleasures?" 

"Oh!  I  have  not  always  felt  like  this.  Until  I  was  fifteen 
years  old,  I  enjoyed  seeing  the  festivals  of  the  Church;  I 
loved  the  singing  and  the  music.  I  was  so  happy,  because  I 
felt  that,  like  the  angels,  I  was  sinless,  so  glad  that  I  might 
take  the  sacrament  every  week,  in  short,  I  loved  God  then. 
But  in  these  three  years  I  have  changed  utterly,  day  by  day. 
It  began  when  I  wanted  flowers  here  in  the  house,  and  they 
gave  me  very  beautiful  ones;  then  I  wanted  .  .  .  But 
now  I  want  nothing  any  longer,"  she  added,  after  a  pause, 
and  she  smiled  at  Montefiore. 

"Did  you  not  tell  me  just  now  in  your  letter  that  you  would 
love  me  for  ever?" 

"Yes,  my  Juana,"  murmured  Montefiore.  He  put  his  arm 
round  the  waist  of  this  adorable  girl,  and  pressed  her  closely 
to  his  heart.  "Yes.  But  let  me  speak  to  you  as  you  pray 
to  God.  Are  you  not  fairer  than  Our  Lady  in  heaven  ?  Hear 
me,"  and  he  set  a  kiss  in  her  hair,  "for  me  that  forehead  of 
yours  is  the  fairest  altar  on  earth;  I  swear  to  worship  you, 
my  idol,  to  pour  out  all  the  wealth  of  the  world  upon  you. 
My  carriages  are  yours,  my  palace  in  Milan  is  yours,  yours 
all  the  jewels  and  the  diamonds,  the  heirlooms  of  my  anciexit 
house ;  new  ornaments  and  dresses  every  day,  and  all  the 
countless  pleasures  and  delights  of  the  world." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I  should  like  it  all  very  much ;  but  in  my 
soul  I  feel  that  I  should  love  my  dear  husband  more  than 
all  things  else  in  the  world." 

Mio  caro  sposo!  Italian  was  Juana's  native  speech,  and 
it  is  impossible  to  put  into  two  words  of  another  language 
the  wonderful  tenderness,  the  winning  grace  with  which  that 


264  THE  MARANAS 

brief  delicious  phrase  is  invested  b}^  the  a-ccents  of  an  Italian 
tongue.  "I  shall  find,"  she  said,  and  the  purity  of  a  seraph 
shone  in  her  eyes,  "I  shall  find  my  beloved  religion  again  in 
him.  His  and  God's,  God's  and  his !  .  .  .  But  you  are 
he,  are  you  not  ?"  she  cried  after  a  pause.  "Surely,  surely  you 
are  he !  Ah !  come  and  see  the  picture  that  my  father  brought 
me  from  Italy." 

She  took  up  a  candle,  beckoned  to  Montefiore,  and  showed 
him  a  picture  that  hung  at  the  foot  of  the  bed — Saint  Michael 
trampling  Satan  underfoot. 

"Look !"  she  cried,  "has  he  not  your  eyes  ?  That  made 
me  think,  as  soon  as  I  saw  you  in  the  street,  that  in  the  meet- 
ing I  saw  the  finger  of  heaven.  So  often  I  have  lain  awake  in 
the  morning  before  my  mother  came  to  call  me  to  prayer, 
thinking  about  that  picture,  looking  at  the  angel,  until  at  last 
I  came  to  think  that  he  was  my  husband.  Mon  Dieu!  I  am 
talking  as  I  think  to  myself.  What  wild  nonsense  it  must 
seem  to  you !  but  if  you  only  knew  how  a  poor  recluse  longs 
to  pour  out  the  thoughts  that  oppress  her !  I  used  to  talk 
to  these  flowers  and  the  woven  garlands  on  the  tapestry  when 
I  was  alone;  they  understood  me  better,  I  think,  than  my 
father  and  mother — always  so  serious " 

"Juana,"  said  Montefiore,  and  as  he  took  her  hands  and 
kissed  them,  passion  shone  in  his  eyes  and  overflowed  in  his 
gestures  and  in  the  sound  of  his  voice,  "talk  to  me  as  if  I 
were  your  husband,  talk  to  me  as  you  talk  to  yourself.  I  have 
suffered  all  that  you  have  suffered.  Few  words  will  be  needed, 
when  we  talk  together,  to  bring  back  the  whole  past  of  either 
life  before  we  met;  but  there  are  not  words  enough  in  lan- 
guage to  tell  of  the  bliss  that  lies  before  us.  Lay  3'our  hand 
on  my  heart.  Do  you  feel  how  it  beats?  Let  us  vow,  before 
God,  who  sees  and  hears  us,  to  be  faithful  to  each  other  all 
our  lives.    Stay,  take  this  ring. — Give  me  yours." 

"Give  away  my  ring?"  she  cried,  startled. 

"Why  not?"  asked  Montefiore,  dismayed  by  so  much  sim- 
plicity. 

"Why,  it  came  to  me  from  our  Holy  Father  the  Pope. 


THE  MARANAS  265 

When  I  was  a  little  girl  a  beautiful  lady  set  it  on  my  finger ; 
she  took  care  of  me,  and  brought  me  here,  and  she  told  me  to 
Keep  it  always." 

"Then  you  do  not  love  me,  Juana  ?" 

"Ah!  here  it  is,"  she  cried.  "Are  you  not  more  myself 
than  I ?" 

She  held  out  the  ring,  trembling  as  she  did  so,  keeping  her 
fingers  tightly  clasped  upon  it  as  she  looked  at  Montefiore 
with  clear,  questioning  eyes.  That  ring  meant  her  whole 
self :  she  gave  it  to  him. 

"Oh!  my  Juana!"  said  Montefiore  as  he  held  her  closely 
in  his  arms,  "only  a  monster  could  be  false  to  you.  ...  I 
will  love  you  for  ever     .     .     ." 

Juana  grew  dreamy.  Montefiore,  thinking  within  himself 
that,  in  his  first  interview,  he  must  not  run  the  slightest 
risk  of  startling  a  girl  so  innocent,  whose  imprudence  sprang 
rather  from  virtue  than  from  desire,  was  fain  to  content 
himself  with  thinking  of  the  future,  of  her  beauty  now  that 
he  had  known  its  power,  and  of  the  innocent  marriage  of  the 
ring,  that  most  sublime  of  betrothals,  the  simplest  and  most 
binding  of  all  ceremonies,  the  betrothal  of  the  heart. 

For  the  rest  of  the  night,  and  all  day  long  on  the  morrow, 
Juana's  imagination  would  surely  become  the  accomplice  of 
his  desires.  So  he  put  constraint  upon  himself,  and  tried  to 
be  as  respectful  as  he  was  tender.  With  these  thoughts  pres- 
ent in  his  mind,  prompted  by  his  passion,  and  yet  more  by 
the  desires  that  Juana  inspired  in  him,  his  words  were  in- 
sinuating and  fervent.  He  led  the  innocent  child  to  plan 
out  the  new  life  before  them,  painted  the  world  for  her  in 
the  most  glowing  colors,  dwelt  on  the  household  details  that 
possess  such  a  delightful  interest  for  young  girls,  and  made 
with  her  the  compacts  over  which  lovers  dispute,  the  agree- 
ments that  give  rights  and  reality  to  love.  Then,  when  they 
had  decided  the  hour  for  their  nightly  tryst,  he  went,  leaving 
a  happy  but  a  changed  Juana.  The  simple  and  innocent 
Jua.na  no  longer  existed,  already  there  was  more  passion  than 
a  girl  should  reveaJ  in  the  last  glance  that  she  gave  him. 


266  THE  MARANAS 

in  the  charming  way  that  she  held  up  her  forehead  for  the 
touch  of  her  lover's  lips.  It  was  all  the  result  of  solitude  and 
irksome  tasks  upon  this  nature ;  if  she  was  to  be  prudent  and 
virtuous,  the  knowledge  of  the  world  should  either  have  come 
to  her  gradually,  or  have  been  liidden  from  her  for  ever. 

"How  slowly  the  day  will  go  to-morrow!"  she  said,  as  an- 
other kiss,  still  respectfully  given,  was  pressed  upon  her  fore- 
head. 

"But  you  will  sit  in  the  dining-room,  will  you  not?  and 
raise  your  voice  a  little  when  you  talk,  so  that  I  may  heax 
you,  and  the  sound  may  fill  my  heart." 

Montefiore,  beginning  to  understand  the  life  that  Juana 
led,  was  but  the  better  pleased  that  he  had  managed  to  re- 
strain his  desires  that  he  might  the  better  secure  his  end. 
He  returned  to  his  room  without  mishap. 

Ten  days  went  by,  and  nothing  occurred  to  disturb  the 
peace  and  quiet  of  the  house.  Montefiore,  with  the  persuasive 
manners  of  an  Italian,  had  gained  the  good  graces  of  old 
Perez  and  Dona  Lagounia;  indeed,  he  was  popular  with  the 
whole  household — with  the  apprentice  and  the  maid-servant; 
but  in  spite  of  the  confidence  that  he  had  succeeded  in  in- 
spiring in  them,  he  never  attempted  to  take  advantage  of  it 
to  ask  to  see  Juana,  or  to  open  the  door  of  that  little  sealed 
paradise.  The  Italian  girl,  in  her  longing  to  see  her  lover, 
had  often  besought  him  to  do  this,  but  from  motives  of  pru- 
dence he  had  always  refused.  On  the  contrary,  he  had  used 
the  character  he  had  gained  and  all  his  skill  to  lull  the  sus- 
picions of  the  old  couple;  he  had  accustomed  them  to  his 
habit  of  never  rising  till  mid-day,  soldier  as  he  was.  The 
captain  gave  cut  that  his  health  was  bad.  So  the  two  lovers 
only  lived  at  night  when  all  the  household  was  asleep. 

If  Montefiore  had  not  been  a  libertine  to  whom  a  long  ex- 
perience of  pleasure  had  given  presence  of  mind  under  all 
conditions,  they  would  have  been  lost  half  a  score  of  times 
in  those  ten  days.  A  young  lover,  with  the  single-hearted- 
ness of  first  love,  would  have  been  tempted  in  his  rapture 
into  imprudences  that  were  veiy  hard  to  resist;  but  the  Ital- 


THE  MARANAS  267 

ian  was  proof  even  against  Jnana,  against  her  pouting  lips, 
her  wild  spirits,  against  a  Juana  who  wound  the  long  plaits 
of  her  hair  about  his  throat  to  keep  him  by  her  side.  The 
keenest  observer  would  have  been  sorely  puzzled  to  detect 
those  midnight  meetings.  It  may  well  be  believed  that  the 
Italian,  sure  of  his  ultimate  success,  enjoyed  prolonging  the 
ineffable  pleasure  of  this  intrigue  in  which  he  made  progress 
step  by  step,  in  fanning  the  flame  that  gradually  waxed 
hotter,  till  everything  must  yield  to  it  at  last. 

On  the  eleventh  day,  as  they  sat  at  dinner,  he  deemed  it 
expedient  to  confide  to  Perez  (under  the  seal  of  secrecy)  the 
history  of  the  disgrace  into  which  he  had  fallen  among  his 
family.    It  was  a  mesalliance,  he  said. 

There  was  something  revolting  in  this  lie,  told  as  a  con- 
fidence, while  that  midnight  drama  was  in  progress  beneath 
the  old  man's  roof.  Montefiore,  an  experienced  actor,  was 
leading  up  to  a  catastrophe  planned  by  himself;  and,  like 
an  artist  who  loves  his  art,  he  enjoyed  the  thought  of  it.  He 
meant  very  shortly  to  take  leave  of  the  house  and  of  his  lady- 
love without  regret.  And  when  Juana,  risking  her  life  it 
might  be  to  ask  the  question,  should  inquire  of  Perez  what 
had  become  of  her  guest,  Perez  would  tell  her,  all  unwit- 
tingly, that  '^the  Marchese  di  Montefiore  had  been  reconciled 
with  his  family ;  they  have  consented  to  receive  his  wife,  and 
he  has  taken  her  to  them." 

And  Juana?  .  .  .  The  Italian  never  inquired  of  him- 
self what  would  become  of  her ;  he  had  had  ample  opportunity 
of  knowing  her  nobleness,  her  innocence,  and  her  goodness, 
and  felt  sure  that  Juana  would  keep  silence. 

He  obtained  a  message  to  carry  for  some  general  or  other. 
Three  days  afterwards,  on  the  night  before  he  must  start, 
Montefiore  went  straight  to  Juana's  room  instead  of  going 
first  to  his  own.  The  same  instinct  that  bids  the  tiger  leave 
no  morsel  of  his  prey,  prompted  the  Italian  to  lengthen  the 
night  of  farewells.  Juana,  the  true  daughter  of  two  southern 
lands,  with  the  passion  of  Spain  and  of  Italy  in  her  heart, 
was  enraptured  by  the  boldness  that  brought  her  lover  to 


268  THE  MARANAS 

her  and  revealed  the  ardor  of  his  love.    To  know  the  delicious 

torment  of  an  illicit  passion  under  the  sanction  of  marriage, 
to  conceal  her  husband  behind  the  bed-curtains,  half  deceiv- 
ing the  adopted  father  and  mother,  to  whom  she  could  say 
in  case  of  discovery,  "I  am  the  Marchesa  di  Montefiore,"  was 
not  this  a  festival  for  the  young  and  romantic  girl  who,  for 
three  years  past,  had  dreamed  of  lovc' — love  always  beset  with 
perils?  The  curtains  of  the  door  fell,  drawing  about  their 
madness  and  their  happiness  a  veil  which  it  is  useless  to  raise. 

It  was  nearly  nine  o'clock,  the  merchant  and  his  wife  were 
reading  the  evening  prayer,  when  suddenly  the  sound  of  a 
carriage,  drawn  by  several  horses,  came  from  the  narrow 
street  without.  Some  one  knocked  hastily  and  loudly  at 
the  door  of  the  shop.  The  servant  ran  to  open  it,  and  in  a 
moment  a  woman  sprang  into  the  quaint  old  room — a  woman 
magnificently  dressed,  though  her  traveling  carriage  was  be- 
splashed  by  the  luire  of  many  roads,  for  she  had  crossed 
Italy  and  France  and  Spain.  It  was  La  Marana!  La 
Marana,  in  spite  of  her  thirty-six  years  and  her  riotous  life, 
in  the  full  pride  of  her  helta  folgorante,  to  record  the  superb 
epithet  invented  for  her  in  Milan  by  her  enraptured  adorers, 
La  Marana,  the  openly  avowed  mistress  of  a  King,  had  left 
Naples  and  its  festivals  and  sunny  skies,  at  the  very  height 
and  summit  of  her  strange  career — had  left  gold  and  madri- 
gals and  silk  and  perfumes,  and  her  royal  lover,  when  she 
learned  from  him  what  was  passing  in  Spain,  and  how  that 
Taragona  was  besieged. 

"Taragona !"  she  cried,  "and  before  the  city  is  taken !  1 
must  be  in  Taragona  in  tpn  days !"  And  without  another 
thought  for  courts  or  crowned  heads,  she  had  reached  Tar- 
agona, provided  with  a  passport  that  gave  her  something  like 
the  powers  of  an  empress,  and  with  gold  that  enabled  her 
to  cross  the  French  empire  with  the  speed  and  splendor  of 
a  rocket.  There  is  no  such  thing  as  distance  for  a  mother; 
she  who  is  a  mother,  indeed,  sees  her  child,  and  knows  by 
instinct  how  he  fares  though  they  are  as  far  as  the  poles 
apart. 


THE  MARANAS  269 

"My  daughter?  my  daughter?"  cried  La  Marana. 

At  that  cry,  at  this  swift  invasion  of  their  house,  and 
apparition  of  a  queen  traveling  incognito,  Perez  and  his  wife 
let  the  prayer-book  fall;  that  voice  rang  in  their  ears  like  a 
thunder-clap,  and  La  Marana's  eyes  flashed  lightnings. 

"She  is  in  there,"  the  merchant  answered  quietly,  after  a 
brief  pause,  during  which  they  recovered  from  the  shock  of 
surprise  caused  by  La  Marana's  sudden  appearance,  and  by 
her  look  and  tone.  "She  is  in  there,"  he  said  again,  indicat- 
ing the  little  hiding-place. 

"Yes,  but  has  she  not  been  ill?    Is  she  quite " 

"Perfectly  well,"  said  Doiia  Lagounia. 

"Oh,  God !"  cried  La  Marana,  "plunge  me  now  in  hell  for 
all  eternity,  if  it  be  Thy  pleasure,"  and  she  sank  down  utterly 
exhausted  into  a  chair. 

The  flush  that  anxiety  had  brought  to  her  face  faded  sud- 
denly; her  cheeks  grew  white;  she  who  had  borne  up  bravely 
under  the  strain,  had  no  strength  left  when  it  was  over.  The 
joy  was  too  intolerable,  a  joy  more  intense  than  her  previous 
distress,  for  she  was  still  vibrating  with  dread,  when  bliss 
keen  as  anguish  came  upon  her. 

■^T^ut  how  have  you  done?"  she  asked.  "Taragona  was 
taken  by  assault." 

"Yes,"  answered  Perez.  "But  when  you  saw  that  I  was 
alive,  how  could  you  ask  such  a  question  ?  How  should  any 
one  reach  Juana  but  over  my  dead  body  ?" 

The  courtesan  grasped  Perez's  horny  hand  on  receiving  this 
answer;  tears  gathered  in  her  eyes  and  fell  upon  his  fingers 
«s  she  kissed  them — the  costliest  of  all  things  under  the  sun 
for  her,  who  never  wept. 

"Brave  Perez !"  she  said  at  last ;  "hut  surely  there  are  sol- 
diers billeted  upon  you,  are  there  not  ?" 

"Only  one,"  answered  the  Spaniard.  'Tjuckily,  we  have 
one  of  the  most  honorable  of  men,  an  Italian  by  nationality, 
a  Spaniard  by  birth,  a  hater  of  Bonaparte,  a  married  man, 
a  steady  character.  He  rises  late,  and  goes  to  bed  early. 
He  is  in  bad  health,  too,  just  now." 


270  THE  MARANAS 

"An  Italian!    What  is  his  name?" 

"Captain  Montefiore,  he " 

"Why,  lie  is  not  the  Marchese  di  Montefiore,  is  he  ?" 

"Yes,  seiiora,  the  very  same." 

"Has  he  seen  Juana?" 

"No,"  said  Dona  Lagounia. 

"You  are  mistaken,  wife,"  said  Perez.  "The  Marquis  must 
have  seen  Juana  once,  only  for  a  moment,  it  is  true,  but  I 
think  he  must  have  seen  her  that  day  when  she  came  in  at 
supper-time." 

"All ! — I  should  like  to  see  my  daughter." 

"Nothing  is  easier,"  said  Perez.  "She  is  asleep.  Though 
if  she  has  left  the  key  in  the  lock,  we  shall  have  to  wake  her." 

As  the  merchant  rose  to  take  down  the  duplicate  key  from 
its  place,  he  happened  to  glance  up  through  the  tall  window. 
The  light  from  the  large  round  pane-opening  of  Juana's  cell 
fell  upon  the  dark  wall  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  yard,  trac- 
'ng  a  gleaming  circle  there,  and  in  the  midst  of  the  lighted 
space  he  saw  two  shadowy  figures  such  as  no  sculptor  till  the 
time  of  the  gifted  Canova  could  have  dreamed  of.  The  Span- 
iard turned  to  the  room  again. 

"I  do  not  know,"  he  said  to  La  Marana,  "where  we  have 
put  the  key " 

"You  look  very  pale !"  she  exclaimed. 

"I  will  soon  tell  you  why,"  he  answered,  as  he  sprang  to- 
wards his  dagger,  caught  it  up,  and  heat  violently  on  the  door 
in  the  paneling.  "Open  the  door !"  he  shouted.  "Juana ! 
open  the  door!" 

There  was  an  appalling  despair  in  his  tones  that  struck 
terror  into  the  two  women  who  heard  him. 

Juana  did  not  open,  because  there  was  some  delay  in  hiding 
Montefiore.  She  knew  nothing  of  what  had  passed  in  the 
room  without.  The  tapestry  hangings  on  either  side  of  the 
door  deadened  all  sounds. 

"Madame,"  said  Perez,  turning  to  La  Marana,  "I  told  you 
just  now  that  I  did  not  know  where  the  key  was.  That  was  a 
lie.    Here  it  is,"  and  he  took  it  from  the  sideboard,  'Taut  it  is 


THE  MAR  AN  AS  271 

useless.  Juana's  key  is  in  the  lock,  and  her  door  is  barri- 
caded.— We  are  deceived,  wife !  There  is  a  man  in  Juana's 
room." 

"By  my  hopes  of  salvation,  the  thing  is  impossible!"  said 
Dona  Lagounia. 

"Do  not  perjure  yourself.  Dona  Lagounia.  Our  honor  is 
slain;  and  she"  (he  turned  to  La  Marana,  who  had  risen  to 
her  feet,  and  stood  motionless  as  if  thunderstruck  by  his 
words),  "she  may  well  scorn  us.  She  saved  our  lives,  our 
fortune,  and  our  honor,  and  we  have  barely  guarded  her 
money  for  her. — Juana,  open  the  door !"  he  shouted,  "or  I 
will  break  it  down !" 

The  whole  house  rang  with  the  cry;  his  voice  grew  louder 
and  angrier;  but  he  was  cool  and  self-possessed.  He  held 
Montefiore's  life  in  his  hands,  in  another  moment  he  would 
wash  away  his  remorse  in  every  drop  of  the  Italian's  blood. 

"Go  out !  go  out !  go  out !  all  of  you !"  cried  La  Marana, 
and  springing  upon  the  dagger  like  a  tigress,  she  snatched 
it  from  the  hands  of  the  astonished  Perez.  "Go  out  of  this 
room,  Perez,"  she  went  on,  speaking  quite  quietly  now.  "Go 
out,  you  and  your  wife,  and  the  maid  and  the  apprentice. 
There  will  be  a  murder  here  directly,  and  you  might  all  be  shot 
down  by  the  French  for  it.  Do  not  you  mix  yourself  up  in  it, 
it  is  my  affair  entirely.  When  my  daughter  and  I  meet,  God 
alone  should  be  present.  As  for  the  man,  he  is  mine.  The 
whole  world  should  not  snatch  him  out  of  my  hands.  There, 
there,  go  !  I  forgive  you.  I  see  it  all.  The  girl  is  a  Marana. 
My  blood  flows  in  her  veins,  and  you,  your  religion,  and  your 
honor  have  been  powerless  against  it." 

Her  groan  was  dreadful  to  hear.  She  turned  dry  eyes  upon 
them.  She  had  lost  everything,  but  she  was  accustomed  to 
suffering ;  she  was  a  courtesan.  The  door  opened.  La  Marana 
henceforth  heeded  nothing  else,  and  Perez,  making  a  sign 
to  his  wife,  could  remain  at  his  post.  The  old  Spaniard,  im- 
placable where  honor  was  concerned,  determined  to  assist 
the  wronged  mother's  vengeance.  Juana,  in  her  white  dra- 
peries, stood  <|uictly  there  in  her  room  in  the  soft  lamplight. 
'"What  do  you  want  with  me?"  she  asked 


272  THE  MARANAS 

In  spite  of  herself,  a  light  shudder  ran  through  La  Marana, 

"Perez,"  she  asked,  "is  there  any  other  way  out  of  this 
closet?" 

Perez  shook  his  head;  and  on  that  the  courtesan  went  into 
the  room. 

"Juana,"  she  said,  "I  am  your  mother,  your  judge— you 
have  put  yourself  in  the  one  situation  in  which  I  can  reveal 
myself  to  you.  You  have  come  to  my  level,  jou  whom  I  had 
thought  to  raise  to  heaven.  Oh!  you  have  fallen  very  low! 
.     .     ,     You  have  a  lover  in  your  room." 

"Madame,  no  one  but  my  husband  should  or  could  be 
there,"  she  answered.    "I  am  the  Marchesa  di  Montefiore." 

"Then  are  there  two  of  them?"  asked  old  Perez  sternly. 
"He  told  me  that  he  was  married." 

"Montefiore !  my  love !"  cried  the  girl,  rending  the  cur- 
tains, and  discovering  the  officer;  "come  forward,  these  peo- 
ple are  slandering  you." 

The  Italian's  face  was  haggard  and  pale;  he  saw  the  dag- 
ger in  La  Marana's  hand,  and  he  knew  La  Marana.  At  one 
bound  he  sprang  out  of  the  chamber,  and  with  a  voice  of 
thunder  shouted,  "Help !  help !  murder !  they  are  killing  a 
Frenchman ! — Soldiers  of  the  Sixth  of  the  line,  run  for  Cap- 
tain Diard !     .     .     .     Help !" 

Perez  had  secured  the  Marquis,  and  was  about  to  gag  him 
by  putting  his  large  hand  over  the  soldier's  mouth,  when  the 
courtesan  stopped  him. 

"Hold  him  fast,"  she  said,  "but  let  him  call.  Throw  open 
the  doors,  and  leave  them  open;  and  now  go  out,  all  of  you, 
I  tell  you ! — As  for  you,"  she  continued,  addressing  Monte- 
fiore, "shout,  and  call  for  help.  ...  As  soon  as  there  is 
a  sound  of  your  men's  footsteps,  this  blade  will  be  in  your 
heart.     .     .     .     Are  you  married?    Answer  me." 

Montefiore,  lying  across  the  threshold  of  the  door,  two 
paces  from  Juana,  heard  nothing,  and  saw  nothing,  for  the 
blinding  gleam  of  the  dagger  blade. 

"Then  he  meant  to  deceive  me;"  the  words  Gaxn&  slowly 
from  Juana.     "He  told  me  that  he  was  free." 


THE  MARANAS  273 

"He  told  me  that  he  was  a  married  man,"  said  Perez,  in 
the  same  stem  tones  as  before. 

"Holy  Virgin!"  exclaimed  Dona  Lagounia.  La  Marana 
stooped  to  mutter  in  the  ear  of  the  Marquis,  "Answer  me, 
will  you,  soul  of  mud?" 

"Your  daughter     .     .     ."  Montefiore  began. 

"The  daughter  I  onee  had  is  dead,  or  she  soon  will  be,"  said 
La  Marana.  "I  have  no  daughter  now.  Do  not  use  that  word 
again.    Answer  me,  are  you  married  ?" 

"No,  madame,"  Montefiore  said  at  last  (he  wished  to  gain 
time) ;  "I  mean  to  marry  your  daughter." 

"My  noble  Montefiore !"  cried  Juana,  with  a  deep  breath. 

"Then  what  made  you  fly  and  call  for  help?"  demanded 
Perez. 

Terrible  perspicacity ! 

Juana  said  nothing,  but  she  wrung  her  hands,  went  over  to 
her  armchair,  and  sat  down.  Even  at  that  moment  there  was 
an  uproar  in  the  street,  and  in  the  deep  silence  that  fell  upon 
the  parlor  it  was  sufficiently  easy  to  catch  sounds.  A  private 
soldier  of  the  Sixth,  who  had  chanced  to  pass  along  the  street 
when  Montefiore  cried  out  for  help,  had  gone  to  call  up  Diard. 
Luckily,  the  quartermaster  was  in  his  lodging,  and  came  at 
once  with  several  comrades. 

"Why  did  I  fly?"  repeated  Montefiore,  who  heard  the 
sound  of  his  friend's  voice.  "Because  I  had  told  you  the 
truth. — Diard  !  Diard  !"  he  shrieked  aloud. 

But  at  a  word  from  Perez,  who  meant  that  all  in  his  house 
should  share  in  the  murder,  the  apprentice  made  the  door 
fast,  and  the  men  were  obliged  to  force  it  open.  La  Marana, 
therefore,  could  stab  the  guilty  creature  at  her  feet  before 
they  made  an  entrance;  but  her  hand  shook  with  pent-up 
wrath,  and  the  blade  slipped  aside  upon  Montefiore's  epau- 
lette. Yet  so  heavy  had -been  the  blow,  that  the  Italian  rolled 
over  almost  at  Juana's  feet.  The  girl  did  not  see  him,  but 
La  Marana  sprang  upon  her  prey,  and,  lest  she  should  fail 
this  time,  she  held  his  throat  in  an  iron  grasp,  and  pointed 
the  dagger  at  his  heart. 


274  THE  MARANAS 

"I  am  free!"  he  gasped.  "I  will  marry  her!  I  sweai 
it  by  God  I  by  my  mother !  by  all  that  is  most  sacred  in  thip 
world.  .  .  o  I  am  not  married  !  I  will  marry  her  1  Upor 
my  word  of  honor,  I  will !"  and  he  set  his  teeth  in  the  courte- 
san's arm. 

"That  is  enough,  mother,"  said  Juana ;  "kill  him  I  I  would 
not  have  such  a  coward  for  my  husband  if  he  were  ten  times 
more  beautiful." 

"Ah !  that  is  my  daughter  1"  cried  La  Marana. 

"What  is  going  on  here?"  asked  the  quartermaster,  look- 
ing about  him. 

"This,"  shouted  Montefiore;  "they  are  murdering  me  on 
that  girl's  account ;  she  says  that  I  am  her  lover ;  she  trapped 
me,  and  now  thev  want  to  force  me  to  marry  her  against  my 
will " 

"Against  your  will  ?"  cried  Diard,  struck  with  the  sublime 
beauty  that  indignation,  scorn,  and  hate  had  lent  to  Juana's 
face,  already  so  fair.  "You  are  very  hard  to  please !  If  she 
must  have  a  husband,  here  am  I.    Put  up  your  dagger." 

La  Marana  grasped  the  Italian,  pulled  him  to  his  feet, 
brought  him  to  the  bedside,  and  said  in  his  ear: 

"If  I  spare  your  life,  you  may  thank  that  last  speech  of 
yours  for  it.  But  keep  it  in  mind.  If  you  say  a  word  against 
my  daughter,  we  shall  see  each  other  again — What  will  her 
dowry  amount  to?"  she  asked  of  Perez. 

"Two  hundred  thousand  piastres  down " 

"That  will  not  be  all,  monsieur,"  said  the  courtesan,  ad- 
dressing Diard.  "Who  are  you? — You  can  go,"  she  added, 
turning  to  Montefiore. 

But  when  the  ]\Iarquis  heard  mention  of  two  hundred  thou- 
sand piastres  down,  he  came  forward,  saying,  "I  am  really 
quite  free " 

"You  are  really  quite  free  to  go,"  said  La  Marana,  and  the 
Italian  went. 

"Alas!  monsieur,"  the  girl  spoke,  addressing  Diard;  "I 
thank  you,  and  1  admire  you.     But  my  bridegroom  is  in 


THE  MARANAS  275 

heaven ;  T  shall  be  the  bride  of  Christ.     To-morrow  I  shall 
enter  the  convent  of " 

"Oh,  hush !  hnsh !  Juana,  my  Juana !"  cried  her  mother, 
holding  the  girl  tightly  in  her  arms.  Then  she  whispered, 
"You  must  take  another  bridegroom." 

Juana  turned  pale. 

"Who  are  you,  monsieur  ?''  asked  the  mother  of  the  Proven- 
gal. 

"I  am  nothing  as  yet  but  a  quartermaster  in  the  Sixth 
Eegiment  of  the  line,"  said  he;  "but  for  such  a  wife,  a  man 
would  feel  that  it  lay  in  him  to  be  a  Marshal' of  France  some 
day.  My  name  is  Pierre-Francois  Diard.  My  father  was  a 
guild  magistrate,  so  I  am  not  a " 

"Eh!  you  are  an  honest  man,  are  you  not?"  cried  La 
Marana.  "If  the  Signorina  Juana  dei  Mancini  cares  for  you, 
you  may  both  be  happy. — Juana,"  she  went  on  gravely, 
"when  you  are  the  wife  of  a  good  and  worthy  man,  remember 
that  you  will  be  a  mother.  I  have  sworn  that  you  shall  set  a 
kiss  upon  your  child's  forehead  without  a  blush  .  . 
(Here  her  tone  changed  somewhat.)  I  have  sworn  that  you 
shall  be  a  virtuous  wife.  So  in  this  life,  though  many  trou- 
bles aw^t  you,  whatever  happens  to  you,  be  a  chaste  and 
faithful  wife  to  your  husband ;  sacrifice  everything  to  him ; 
he  will  be  the  father  of  your  children.  ...  A  father  to 
your  children !  .  .  .  Stay,  between  you  and  a  lover  your 
mother  always  will  stand;  I  shall  be  your  mother  only  when 
danger  threatens.  ...  Do  you  see  Perez's  dagger? 
That  is  part  of  your  dower,"  and  she  flung  the  weapon  down 
on  the  bed.  "There  I  leave  it  as  a  guarantee  of  your  honor, 
so  long  as  I  have  eyes  to  see  and  hands  that  can  strike  a  blow. 
— Farewell,"  she  said,  keeping  back  the  tears;  *Tieaven  send 
that  we  never  meet  again,"  and  at  that  her  tears  flowed  fast. 

"Poor  child !  you  have  been  very  happy  in  this  little  cell, 
happier  than  you  know. — Act  in  such  a  sort  that  she  may 
never  look  back  on  it  with  regret/'  she  added,  looking  at  her 
future  son-in-law. 


276  THE  MARANAS 

The  story,  which  has  been  given  simply  by  way  of  intro- 
duction, is  not  by  any  means  the  subject  of  the  following 
study;  it  has  been  told  to  explain,  in  the  first  place,  how 
Montefiore  and  Diard  became  acquainted,  how  Captain  Diard 
came  to  marry  Juana  dei  Mancini,  and  to  make  known  what 
passions  filled  Mme.  Diard's  heart,  what  blood  flowed  in  her 
veins. 

By  the  time  that  the  quartermaster  had  been  through  the 
slow  and  tedious  formalities  indispensable  for  a  French  sol- 
dier who  is  obtaining  leave  to  marry,  he  had  fallen  passion- 
ately in  love  with  Juana  dei  Mancini,  and  Juana  dei  Mancini 
had  had  time  to  reflect  on  her  fate.  An  appalling  fate ! 
Juana,  who  neither  loved  nor  esteemed  this  Diard,  was  none 
the  less  bound  to  him  by  a  promise,  a  rash  promise  no  doubt, 
but  there  had  been  no  help  for  it.  The  Provengal  was  neither 
handsome  nor  well  made.  His  manners  were  totally  lacking 
in  distinction,  and  savored  of  the  camp,  of  his  provincial 
bringing  up  and  imperfect  education.  How  should  the  young 
girl  love  Diard?  With  her  perfect  elegance  and  grace,  her 
unconquerable  instinct  for  luxury  and  refinement,  her  natural 
drawings  were  towards  the  higher  spheres  of  society;  and  as 
for  esteem,  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  feel  so  much  as 
esteem  for  this  Diard  who  was  to  marry  her,  and  precisely  for 
that  very  reason. 

The  repugnance  was  ver}'  natural.  Woman  is  a  sacred  and 
gracious  being,  almost  always  misunderstood;  the  judgments 
passed  upon  her  are  almost  always  unjust,  because  she  is  not 
understood.  If  Juana  had  loved  Diard,  she  would  have  es- 
teemed him.  Love  creates  a  new  self  within  a  woman;  the 
old  self  passes  away  with  the  dawn  of  love,  and  in  the  wed- 
ding-robe of  a  passion  that  shall  last  as  long  as  life  itself,  her 
life  is  invested  with  whiteness  and  purity.  After  this  new 
birth,  this  revival  of  modesty  and  virtue,  she  has  no  longer 
a  past;  it  is  utterly  forgotten;  slie  turns  wholly  to  the  future 
that  she  may  learn  all  tilings  afresh.  Tn  this  sense,  the 
words  of  the  famous  line  that  a  modern  uoet  has  put  into  the 


THE  MARANAS  277 

month  of  Marion  Delorme,  a  line  moreover  that  Corueille 
might  well  have  written,  are  steeped  in  truth: 

And  Liove  gives  back  my  maidenliood  to  me. 

Does  it  not  read  like  a  reminiscence  of  some  tragedy  of 
Comeille's?  The  style  of  the  father  of  French  drama,  so 
forceful,  owing  so  little  to  epithet,  seems  to  be  revived  again 
in  the  words.  And  yet  the  writer,  the  poet  of  our  own  day, 
has  been  compelled  to  sacrifice  it  to  the  taste  of  a  public 
only  capable  of  appreciating  vaudevilles. 

So  Juana,  loveless,  was  still  the  same  Juana,  betrayed, 
humiliated,  brought  very  low.  How  should  this  Juana  respect 
a  man  who  could  talce  her  thus?  With  the  high-minded 
purity  of  youth,  she  felt  the  force  of  a  distinction,  subtle 
in  appearance,  but  real  and  immutable,  a  binding  law  upon 
the  heart,  which  even  the  least  thoughtful  women  in- 
stinctively apply  to  all  their  sentiments.  Life  had  opened 
out  before  Juana,  and  the  prospect  saddened  her  inmost 
soul. 

Often  she  looked  at  Perez  and  Doha  Lagounia,  her  eyes 
full  of  the  tears  she  was  too  proud  to  let  fall;  they  under- 
stood the  bitter  thoughts  contained  in  those  tears,  but  they 
said  no  word.  Were  not  reproaches  useless?  And  why 
should  they  seek  to  comfort  her?  The  keener  the  sympathy, 
the  wider  the  pent-up  sorrow  would  spread. 

One  evening,  as  Juana  sat  in  her  little  cell  in  a  dull  stupor 
of  wretchedness,  she  heard  the  husband  and  wife  talking 
together.  They  thought  that  the  door  was  shut,  and  a  wail 
broke  from  her  adopted  mother. 

"The  poor  child  will  die  of  grief !" 

"Yes,"  answered  Perez  in  a  faltering  voice;  ^Hbut  what 
can  we  do?  Can  I  go  now  to  boast  of  my  ward's  chaste 
beauty  to  the  Comte  d'Arcos,  to  whom  I  hoped  to  marry 
her?" 

"There  is  a  difference  between  one  slip  and  vice,"  said 
the  old  woman,  indulgent  as  an  angel  could  have  been. 


278  THE  MARANAS 

"Her  mother  gave  her  to  him,"  objected  Perez. 

"All  in  a  minute,  and  without  consulting  her!"  cried 
Doiia  Lagounia. 

"She  knew  quite  well  what  she  was  doing " 

"Into  what  hands  our  pearl  will  pass !" 

"Not  a  word  more,  or  I  will  go  and  pick  a  quarrel  with 
that Diard !" 

"And  then  there  would  be  one  more  misfortune." 

Juana,  listening  to  these  terrible  words,  knew  at  last  the 
value  of  the  happy  life  that  had  flowed  on  untroubled  until 
her  error  ended  it.  So  the  innocent  hours  in  her  peaceful 
retreat  were  to  have  been  crowned  by  a  brilliant  and  splendid 
existence;  the  delights  so  often  dreamed  of  would  have  been 
hers.  Those  dreams  had  caused  her  ruin.  She  had  fallen 
from  the  heights  of  social  greatness  to  the  feet  of  Monsieur 
Diard !  Juana  wept ;  her  thoughts  almost  drove  her  mad. 
For  several  seconds  she  hesitated  between  a  life  of  vice  and 
religion.  Vice  offered  a  prompt  solution;  religion,  a  life 
made  up  of  suffering.  The  inward  debate  was  stormy  and 
solemn.  To-morrow  was  the  fatal  day,  the  day  fixed  for  this 
marriage.  It  was  not  too  late;  Juana  might  be  Juana  still. 
If  she  remained  free,  she  knew  the  utmost  extent  of  her 
calamities;  but  when  married,  she  could  not  tell  what  might 
lie  in  store  for  her.  Eeligion  gained  the  day.  Doha  La- 
gounia came  to  watch  and  pray  by  her  daughter's  side,  as  she 
might  have  done  by  a  dying  woman's  bed. 

"It  is  the  will  of  God,"  she  said  to  Juana.  ISTature  gives 
to  a  woman  a  power  peculiarly  her  own,  that  enables  her  to 
endure  suffering,  a  power  succeeded  in  turn  by  weakness  that 
counsels  resignation.  Juana  submitted  without  an  after- 
thought. She  determined  to  fulfil  her  mother's  vow,  to  cross 
the  desert  of  life,  and  so  reach  heaven,  knowing  that  no 
flowers  could  spring  in  the  thorny  paths  that  lay  before  her. 
She  married  Diard. 

As  for  the  quartermaster,  though  Juana  judged  him  piti- 
lessly, who  else  Avould  not  have  forgiven  him?  He  was  in- 
toxicated with  love.     La  Mai'ana,  with  the  quick  instinct 


THE  MARANAS  279 

natural  to  her,  had  felt  passion  in  the  tones  of  his  voice,  and 
seen  in  him  the  abrupt  temper,  the  impulsive  generosity  of 
the  South.  In  the  })aroxysm  of  her  great  anger,  she  had 
seen  Diard's  good  qualities,  and  these  only,  and  thought  that 
these  were  sufficient  guarantees  for  her  daughter's  happi- 
ness. 

And  to  all  appearance  the  early  days  of  this  marriage 
were  happy.  But  to  lay  bare  the  underlying  facts  of  the  case, 
the  miserable  secrets  that  women  bury  in  the  depths  of  their 
souls,  Juana  had  determined  that  she  would  not  overcloud 
her  husband's  joy.  All  women  who  are  victims  of  an  ill- 
assorted  marriage,  come  sooner  or  later  to  play  a  double  part 
— a  part  terrible  to  play,  and  Juana  had  already  taken  up 
her  role.  Of  such  a  life,  a  man  can  only  record  the  facts; 
and  women's  hearts  alone  can  divine  the  inner  life  of  senti- 
ments. Is  it  not  a  story  imipossible  to  relate  in  all  its  truth  ? 
Juana,  struggling  every  hour  against  her  own  nature,  half 
Spanish,  half  Italian;  Juana,  shedding  tears  in  secret  till 
she  had  no  tears  left  to  shed,  was  a  typical  creation,  a  living 
symbol,  destined  to  represent  the  uttermost  extent  of  woman's 
misfortunes.  The  minute  detail  required  to  depict  that  life 
of  restless  pain  would  be  without  interest  for  those  who  crave 
melodramatic  sensation.  And  would  not  an  analysis,  in 
which  every  wife  would  discover  some  of  her  own  experience, 
require  an  entire  volume  if  it  were  to  be  given  in  full  ?  Such 
a  book,  by  its  very  nature,  would  be  impossible  to  write,  for 
its  merits  must  consist  in  half-tones  and  in  subtle  shades 
of  color  that  critics  would  consider  vague  and  indistinct. 
And  besides,  who  that  does  not  bear  another  heart  within  his 
heart  can  touch  on  the  pathetic,  deeply-hidden  tragedies  that 
some  women  take  with  them  to  their  graves ;  the  heartache, 
understood  of  none — not  even  of  those  who  cause  it;  the 
sighs  in  vain ;  the  devotion  that,  here  on  ea.rth  at  least,  meets 
with  no  return;  unappreciated  magnanimities  of  silence  and 
scorn  of  vengeance;  unfailing  generosity,  lavished  in  vain; 
longings  for  happiness  destined  to  be  unfulfilled;  angelic 
charity  that  blesses  in  secret;  all  the  beliefs  held  sacred,  all 


280  THE  MARANAS 

the  mextinguishable  love?  This  life  Jnana  knew;  fate 
spared  her  in  nothing.  Hers  was  to  be  in  all  things  the  lot 
of  a  wronged  and  unhappy  wife,  always  forgiving  her  wrongs ; 
a  woman  pure  as  a  flawless  diamond,  though  through  her 
beauty,  as  flawless  and  as  dazzling  as  the  diamond,  a  way 
of  revenge  lay  open  to  her.  Of  a  truth,  she  need  not  dread 
the  dagger  in  her  dower. 

But  at  first,  under  the  influence  of  Icve,  of  a  passion  that 
for  awhile  at  least  can  work  a  change  in  the  most  depraved 
nature,  and  bring  to  light  all  that  is  noblest  in  a  human 
soul,  Diard  behaved  like  a  man  of  honor.  He  compelled 
Montefiore  to  go  out  of  the  regiment,  and  even  out  of  that 
division  of  the  army,  that  his  wife  might  not  be  compelled 
to  meet  the  Marquis  during  the  short  time  that  she  was  to 
remain  in  Spain.  Then  the  quartermaster  asked  to  change 
his  regiment,  and  managed  to  exchange  into  the  Imperial 
Guard.  He  meant  at  all  costs  to  gain  a  title ;  he  would  have 
honors  and  a  great  position  to  match  his  great  fortune.  With 
this  thought  in  his  mind,  he  displayed  great  courage  in  one  of 
our  bloodiest  battles  in  Germany,  and  was  so  badly  wounded 
that  he  could  no  longer  stay  in  the  service.  For  a  time  it 
was  feared  that  he  might  have  to  lose  his  leg,  and  he  was 
forced  to  retire,  with  his  pension  indeed,  but  without  the 
title  of  baron  or  any  of  the  rewards  which  he  had  hoped  for, 
and  very  likely  would  have  won,  if  his  name  had  not  been 
Diard. 

These  events,  together  with  his  wound  and  his  disap- 
pointed hopes,  made  a  changed  man  of  the  late  quartermas- 
ter. The  Provencal's  energy,  wrought  for  a  time  to  a  fever 
pitch,  suddenly  deserted  him.  At  first,  however,  his  wife 
sustained  his  courage;  his  efforts,  his  bravery,  and  his  am- 
bition had  given  her  some  belief  in  her  husband ;  and  surely 
it  behooved  her,  of  all  women,  to  play  a  woman's  part,  to  be 
a  tender  consoler  for  the  troubles  of  life. 

Juana's  words  put  fresh  heart  into  the  Major.  He  went  to 
live  in  Paris,  determined  to  make  a  high  position  for  him- 
self in  the  Administration;  the  quartermaster  of  the  Sixth 


THE  MARANAS  281 

Line  Eegiment  should  be  forgotten,  and  some  day  Madame 
Diard  should  wear  a  splendid  title.  His  passion  for  his 
charming  wife  had  made  him  quick  to  guess  her  inmost 
wishes.  Juana  did  uot  speak  of  them,  but  he  understood 
her;  he  was  not  loved  as  a  man  dreams  of  being  loved — he 
knew  it,  and  longed  to  be  looked  up  to  and  loved  and  caressed. 
The  luckless  man  anticipated  happiness  with  a  wife  who 
was  at  all  times  so  submissive  and  so  gentle-;  but  her  gentle- 
ness and  her  submission  meant  nothing  but  that  resignation 
to  her  fate  which  had  given  Juana  to  him.  Eesignation  and 
religion,  were  these  love?  Diard  could  often  have  wished 
for  a  refusal  instead  of  that  wifely  obedience;  often  he  would 
have  given  his  soul  if  Juana  would  but  have  deigned  to  weep 
upon  his  breast,  and  ceased  to  conceal  her  feelings  with  the 
smile  that  she  wore  proudly  as  a  mask  upon  her  face. 

Many  a  man  in  his  youth  (for  after  a  certain  time  we  give 
up  struggling)  strives  to  triumph  over  an  evil  destiny  that 
brings  the  thunder-clouds  from  time  to  time  above  the 
horizon  of  his  life ;  and  when  he  falls  into  the  depths  of  mis- 
fortune, those  unrequited  struggles  should  be  taken  into  ac- 
count. Like  many  another,  Diard  tried  all  ways,  and  found 
all  ways  barred  against  him.  His  wealth  enabled  him  to  sur- 
round his  wife  with  all  the  luxuries  that  can  be  enjoyed  in 
Paris.  She  had  a  great  mansion  and  vast  drawing-rooms, 
and  presided  over  one  of  those  houses  frequented  by  some 
few  artists  who  are  uncritical  by  nature,  by  a  great  many 
schemers,  by  the  frivolous  folk  who  are  ready  to  go  anywhere 
to  be  amused,  and  by  certain  men  of  fashion,  attracted  by 
Juana's  beauty.  Those  who  make  themselves  conspicuous 
in  Paris  must  either  conquer  Paris  or  fall  victims.  Diard's 
character  was  not  strong  enough,  nor  compact  enough,  nor 
persistent  enough,  to  impress  itself  upon  the  society  of  a 
time  when  every  one  else  was  likewise  bent  upon  reaching 
a  high  position.  Eeady-made  social  classifications  are  not 
improbably  a  great  blessing,  even  for  the  people.  Napoleon's 
Memoirs  have  informed  us  of  the  pains  he  was  at  to  impose 
social  conventions  upon  a  Court  composed  for  the  most  part 


282  THE  MARANaS 

of  subjects  wlio  had  once  been  his  equals.    But  Napoleon  was 
a  Corsican,  Diard  was  a  Provengal. 

If  the  two  men  had  been  mentally  equal — an  islander  is 
always  a  more  complete  human  being  than  a  man  born  and 
bred  on  the  mainland;  and  though  Provence  and  Corsica  lie 
between  the  same  degrees  of  latitude,  the  narrow  stretch  of 
sea  that  keeps  them  apart  is,  in  spite  of  man's  inventions, 
a  whole  ocean  that  makes  two  different  countries  of  them 
both. 

From  this  false  position,  which  Diard  falsified  yet  further, 
grave  misfortunes  arose.  Perhaps  there  is  a  useful  lesson 
to  be  learned  by  tracing  the  chain  of  independent  facts  that 
imperceptibly  brought  about  the  catastrophe  of  the  story. 

In  the  first  place,  Parisian  scoffers  could  not  see  the  pic- 
tures that  adorned  the  late  quartermaster's  mansion  without 
a  significant  smile.  The  recently  purchased  masterpieces 
were  all  condemned  by  the  unspoken  slur  cast  upon  the  pic- 
tures that  had  been  the  spoils  of  war  in  Spain ;  by  this  slur, 
self-love  avenged  itself  for  the  involuntary  ofi'ence  of  Diard's 
wealth.  Juana  understood  the  meaning  of  some  of  the  am- 
biguous compliments  in  which  the  French  excel.  Acting 
upon  her  advice,  therefore,  her  husband  sent  the  Spanish 
pictures  back  to  Taragona.  But  the  world  of  Paris,  deter- 
mined to  put  the  worst  construction  on  the  matter,  said, 
"That  fellow  Diard  is  shrewd ;  he  has  sold  his  pictures,"  and 
the  good  folk  continued  to  believe  that  the  paintings  which 
still  hung  on  the  walls  had  not  been  honestly  come  by.  Then 
some  ill-natured  women  inquired  how  a  Diard  had  come  to 
marry  a  young  wife  so  rich  and  so  beautiful.  Comments 
followed,  endless  absurdities  were  retailed,  after  the  manner 
of  Paris.  If  Juana  rose  above  it  all,  even  above  the  scandal 
and  met  with  nothing  l)ut  the  respect  due  to  her  pure  and  de- 
vout life,  that  respect  ended  with  her,  and  was  not  accorded 
to  her  husband.  Her  shining  eyes  glanced  over  her  rooms, 
and  her  woman's  clear-sightedness  brought  her  nothing  but 
pain.  And  yet — the  disparagement  was  quite  explicable. 
Military  men,  for  all  the  virtues  with  which  romance  endows 


THE  MARANAS  28^' 

them,  could  not  forgive  the  quondam  quartermaster  for  his 
wealth  and  his  determination  to  cut  a  figure  in  Paris,  and 
for  that  very  reason. 

There  is  a  world  in  Paris  that  lies  between  the  furthest 
house  in  the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain  on  the  one  hand,  and 
the  last  mansion  in  the  Hue  Saint-Lazare  on  the  other;  be- 
tween the  rising  ground  of  the  Luxembourg  and  the  heights 
of  Montmartre;  a  world  that  dresses  and  gossips,  dresses  to 
go  out,  and  goes  out  to  gossip;  a  world  of  petty  and  great 
airs;  a  world  of  mean  and  poor  ambitions,  masquerading  in 
insolence;  a  world  of  envy  and  of  fawning  arts.  I^,  is  made 
up  of  gilded  rank,  and  rank  that  has  lost  its  gilding,  of  young 
and  old,  of  nobility  of  the  fourth  century  and  titles  of  yester- 
day, of  those  who  laugh  at  the  expense  of  a  parvenu,  and 
others  who  fear  to  be  contaminated  by  him,  of  men  eager 
for  the  downfall  of  a  power,  though  none  the  less  they  will 
bow  the  knee  to  it  if  it  holds  its  own;  and  all  these  ears 
hear,  and  all  these  tongues  repeat,  and  all  these  minds  are 
informed  in  the  course  of  an  evening  of  the  birth-place,  edu- 
cation, and  previous  history  of  each  new  aspirant  for  its  high 
places.  If  there  is  no  High  Court  of  Justice  in  this  exalted 
sphere,  it  boasts  the  most  ruthless  of  procureurs-generaux, 
an  intangible  public  opinion  that  dooms  the  victim  and  car- 
ries out  the  sentence,  that  accuses  and  brands  the  delinquent. 
Do  not  hope  to  hide  anything  from  this  tribunal,  tell  every- 
thing at  once  yourself,  for  it  is  determined  to  go  to  the  bot- 
tom of  everything,  and  knows  everything.  Do  not  seek  to 
understand  the  mysterious  operation  by  which  intelligence 
is  flashed  from  place  to  place,  so  that  a  story,  a  scandal,  or  a 
piece  of  news  is  known  everywhere  simultaneously  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye.  Do  not  ask  who  set  the  machiner}^  in 
motion ;  it  is  a  social  mystery,  no  observer  can  do  more  than 
watch  its  phenomena,  and  its  working  is  rapid  beyond  belief. 
A  single  example  shall  suffice.  The  murder  of  the  Due  de 
Berri,  at  the  Opera,  was  known  in  the  furthest  part  of  the 
He  Saint-Louis  ten  minutes  after  the  crime  was  committed. 
The  opinion  of  the  Sixth  Kegiment  of  the  Line  concerning 


284  THE  MARANAS 

Diard  permeated  this  world  of  Paris  on  the  very  evening 

of  his  first  ball. 

So  Diard  himself  could  accomplish  nothing.  Hencefor- 
ward his  wife,  and  his  wife  alone,  might  make  a  way  for  him. 
Strange  portent  of  a  strange  civilization !  If  a  man  can 
do  nothing  by  himself  in  Paris,  he  has  still  some  chance  of 
rising  in  the  world  if  his  wife  is  young  and  clever.  There 
are  women,  weak  to  all  appearance,  invalids  who,  without 
rising  from  their  sofas  or  leaving  their  rooms,  make  their 
influence  felt  in  society;  and  by  bringing  countless  secret 
springs  into  play,  gain  for  their  husbands  the  position  which 
their  own  vanity  desires.  But  Juana,  whose  girlhood  had 
been  spent  in  the  quaint  simplicity  of  the  narrow  house  in 
Taragona,  knew  nothing  of  the  corruption,  the  baseness,  or 
the  opportunities  afforded  by  life  in  Paris;  she  looked  out 
upon  it  with  girlish  curiosity,  and  learned  from  it  no  worldly 
wisdom  save  the  lessons  taught  her  by  her  wounded  pride 
and  susceptibilities.  Juans,  moreover,  possessed  the  quick 
instinct  of  a  maiden  heart,  and  was  as  swift  to  anticipate 
an  impression  as  a  sensitive  plant.  The  lonely  girl  had  be- 
come a  woman  all  at  once.  She  saw  that  if  she  endeavored 
to  compel  society  to  honor  he?'  husband,  it  must  be  after  the 
Spanish  fashion,  of  telling  a  h'e,  carbine  in  hand.  Did  not 
her  own  constant  watchfulness  tell  her  how  necessary  her 
manifold  precautions  were?  A  gulf  yawned  for  Diard  be- 
tween the  failure  to  make  himself  respected  and  the  opposite 
danger  of  being  respected  but  too  much.  Then  as  suddenly 
as  before,  when  she  had  foreseen  her  life,  there  came  a  revela- 
tion of  the  world  to  her;  she  beheld  on  all  sides  the  vast 
extent  of  an  irreparable  misfortune.  Then  came  the  tard^y 
recognition  of  her  husband's  peculiar  weaknesses,  his  total 
unfitness  to  play  the  parts  he  had  assigned  to  himself,  the 
incoherency  of  his  ideas,  the  mental  incapacity  to  grasp  this 
society  as  a  whole,  or  to  comprehend  the  ^subt]eties  that  are 
all-important  there.  Would  not  tact  effect  more  for  a  man 
in  his  position  than  force  of  eharncter?  But  the  tact  that 
never  fails  is  perhaps  the  greatest  of  all  forces- 


THE  MARANAS  285 

So  far  from  effacing  the  blot  iipoiv  the  Diard  scutcheon, 
die  Major  was  at  no  little  pains  to  make  matters  worse.  For 
instance,  as  it  had  not  occurred  to  him  that  the  Empire  was 
passing  through  a  phase  that  required  careful  study,  he  tried, 
though  he  was  only  a  major,  to  obtain  an  appointment  as 
prefect.  At  that  time  almost  every  one  believed  iru Napoleon; 
his  favor  had  increased  the  importance  of  every  post.  The 
prefectures,  those  empires  on  a  small  scale,  could  only  be 
filled  by  men  with  great  names,  by  the  gentlemen  of  the 
household  of  His  Majesty  the  Emperor  and  King.  The  pre- 
fects by  this  time  were  Grand  Viziers.  These  minions  of  the 
great  man  laughed  at  Major  Diard's  artless  ambitions,  and 
he  was  fain  to  solicit  a  sub-prefecture.  His  modest  pre- 
tentions were  ludicrously  disproportioned  to  his  vast  wealth. 
After  this  ostentatious  display  of  luxury,  how  could  the 
millionaire  leave  the  royal  splendors  of  his  house  in  Paris 
for  Issoudun  or  Savenay?  Would  it  not  be  a  descent  un- 
worthy of  his  fortunes?  Juana,  who  all  too  late  had  come 
to  understand  our  laws,  and  the  manners  and  customs  of  our 
administration,  too  late  enlightened  her  husband.  Diard,  in 
his  desperation,  went  begging  to  all  the  powers  that  be;  but 
Diard  met  with  nothing  but  rebuffs,  no  way  was  open  to 
him.  Then  people  judged  him  as  the  Government  had  judged 
him,  and  passed  his  own  verdict  upon  himself.  Diard  had 
been  badly  wounded  on  the  field  of  battle,  and  Diard  had  not 
been  decorated.  The  quartermaster,  who  had  gained  wealth, 
but  no  esteem,  found  no  place  under  the  government,  and 
society  quite  logically  refused  him  the  social  position  to 
which  he  had  aspired.  In  short,  in  his  own  house  the  un- 
fortunate man  continually  felt  that  his  wife  was  his  superior. 
He  had  come  to  feel  it  in  spite  of  the  "velvet  glove"  (if  the 
metaphor  is  not  too  bold)  that  disguised  from  her  husband 
the  supremacy  that  astonished  her  herself,  while  she  felt 
humiliated  by  it.     It  produced  its  effect  upon  Diard  at  last. 

A  man  who  plays  a  losing  game  like  this  is  bound  to  lose 
heart,  and  to  grow  either  a  greater  or  a  worse  man  for  it; 
Diard's  courage,  or  his  passion,  was  sure  to  diminish,  after 


286  THE  MARANAS 

repeated  blows  dealt  to  his  self-love,  and  he  made  mistake 
upon  mistake.  From  the  first  everything  had  been  against 
him,  even  his  own  habits  and  his  own  character.  The  vices 
and  virtues  of  the  impulsive  Provengal  were  equally  patent. 
The  fibres  of  his  nature  were  like  harp-strings,  and  every 
old  friend  had  a  place  in  his  heart.  He  was  as  prompt  t(, 
relieve  a  comrade  in  abject  poverty  as  the  distress  of  another 
of  high  rank;  in  short,  he  never  forgot  a  friend,  and  filled  hii' 
gilded  rooms  with  poor  wretches  down  on  their  luck.  Behold- 
ing which  things,  the  general  of  the  old  stamp  (a  species 
that  will  soon  be  extinct)  was  apt  to  greet  Diard  in  an  off- 
hand fashion,  and  address  him  with  a  patronizing,  "Well, 
my  dear  fellow!"  when  they  met.  If  the  generals  of  the 
Empire  concealed  their  insolence  beneath  an  assumption  of 
a  soldier's  bluff  familiarity,  the  few  people  of  fashion  whom 
Diard  met  showed  him  the  polite  and  well-bred  contempt 
against  which  a  self-made  man  is  nearly  always  powerless. 
Diard's  behavior  and  speech,  like  his  half-Italian  accent,  his 
dress,  and  everything  about  him,  combined  to  lower-him  in  the 
eyes  of  ordinary  minds ;  far  the  unwritten  code  of  good  man- 
ners and  good  taste  is  a  binding  tradition  that  only  the 
greatest  power  can  shake  off.     Such  is  the  way  of  the  world. 

These  details  give  a  very  imperfect  idea  of  Juana's  mar- 
tyrdom. The  pangs  were  endured  one  by  one.  Every  social 
species  contributed  its  pin-prick,  and  hers  was  a  soul  that 
would  have  welcomed  dagger-thrusts  in  preference.  It  was 
intolerably  painful  to  watch  Diard  receiving  insults  that  he 
did  not  feel,  insults  that  Juana  must  feel,  though  they  were 
not  meant  for  her.  A  final  and  dreadful  illumination  came 
at  last  for  her ;  it  cast  a  light  upon  the  future,  and  she  knew 
all  the  sorrows  that  it  held  in  store.  She  had  seen  already 
that  her  husband  was  quite  incapable  of  mounting  to  the 
highest  rungs  of  the  social  ladder,  but  now  she  saw  the  in- 
evitable depths  to  which  he  must  fall  when  he  should  lo.-i 
heart;  and, then  a  feeling  of  pity  for  Diard  came  over  her. 

The  future  that  lay  before  her  was  ven^  dark.  Juana  had 
never  ceased    to  feel  an  overhanging  dread  of  some  evil, 


THE  MAKANAS  287 

though  whence  it  should  come  she  knew  not.  This  presenti- 
ment haunted  her  inmost  soul,  as  contagion  hovers  in  the 
air;  but  she  was  able  to  hide  her  anguish  with  smiles.  She 
had  reached  the  point  when  she  no  longer  thought  of  herself. 

Juana  used  her  influence  to  persuade  Diard  to  renounce 
his  social  ambitions,  pointing  out  to  him  as  a  refuge  the 
peaceful  and  gracious  life  of  the  domestic  hearth.  All  their 
troubles  came  fro^m  without;  why  should  they  not  shut  out 
the  world  ?  In  his  own  home  Diard  would  find  peace  and  re- 
spect; he  should  reign  there.  She  felt  that  she  bad  courage 
enough  to  undertake  the  trying  task  of  making  him  happy, 
this  man  dissatisfied  with  himself.  Her  energy  had  in- 
creased with  the  difficulties  of  her  life;  she  had  within  her 
the  heroic  spirit  needed  by  a  woman  in  her  position,  and 
felt  the  stirrings  of  those  religious  aspirations  which  are 
cherished  by  the  guardian  angel  appointed  to  watch  over  a 
Christian  soul,  for  this  poetic  superstitious  fancy  is  an  al- 
legory that  expresses  the  idea  of  the  two  natures  within  us. 

Diard  renounced  his  ambitions,  closed  his  house,  and 
literally  shut  himself  up  in  it,  if  it  is  allowable  to  make  use 
of  so  familiar  a  phrase.  But  therein  lay  the  danger.  Diard 
was  one  of  those  centrifugal  souls  who  must  always  be  moving 
about.  The  luckless  soldier's  turn  of  mind  was  such  that  no 
sooner  had  he  arrived  in  a  place  than  this  reckless  instinct 
forthwith  drove  him  to  depart.  ISTatures  of  this  kind  have 
but  one  end  in  life;  they  must  come  and  go  unceasingly  like 
the  wheels  spoken  of  in  the  Scriptures.  It  may  have  been 
that  Daird  would  fain  have  escaped  from  himself.  He  was 
not  weary  of  Juana;  she  had  given  him  no  cause  to  blame 
her,  but  with  possession  his  passion  for  her  had  grown  less 
absorbing,  and  his  character  asserted  itself  again. 

Thenceforward  his  moments  of  despondency  came  more 
frequently;  he  gave  way  more  often  to  his  quick  southern 
temper.  The  more  virtuous  and  irreproachable  a  woman  is, 
the  more  a  man  delights  to  find  her  in  fault,  if  only  to 
demonstrate  his  titular  superiority ;  but  if  by  chance  she 
compels  his  respect,  he  must  needs  fabricate  faults,  and  so 


288  THE  MARANAS 

between  the  husband  and  wife  nothings  are  exaggerated,  and 
trifles  become  mountains.  But  Juana's  meek  patience  and 
gentleness,  nntinged  with  the  bitterness  that  women  can  in- 
fuse into  their  submission,  gave  no  handle  to  this  fault- 
finding of  set  purpose,  the  most  unkind  of  all.  Hers  was, 
moreover,  one  of  those  noble  natures  for  whom  it  is  impos- 
sible to  fail  in  duty;  her  pure  and  holy  life  shone  in  those 
eyes  with  the  martyr's  expression  in  them  that  haunted  the 
imagination.  Diard  first  grew  weary,  then  he  chafed,  and 
ended  by  finding  this  lofty  virtue  an  intolerable  yoke.  His 
wife's  discretion  left  him  no  room  for  violent  sensations, 
and  he  craved  excitement.  Thousands  of  such  dramas  lie 
hidden  away  in  the  souls  of  men  and  women,  beneath  the 
uninteresting  surface  of  apparently  simple  and  commonplace 
lives.  It  is  difficult  to  choose  an  example  from  among  the 
many  scenes  that  last  for  so  short  a  time,  and  leave  such 
ineffaceable  traces  in  a  life ;  scenes  that  are  almost  always 
precursors  of  the  calamity  that  is  written  in  the  destiny  of 
most  marriages.  Still  one  scene  may  be  described,  because 
it  sharply  marks  the  first  beginnings  of  a  misunderstanding 
between  these  two,  and  may  in  some  degree  explain  the  catas- 
trophe of  the  story. 

Juana  had  two  children;  luckily  for  her,  they  were  both 
boys.  The  oldest  was  born  seven  months  after  her  marriage ; 
he  was  named  Juan,  and  was  like  his  mother.  Two  years 
after  they  came  to  Paris  her  second  son  was  bom;  he  re- 
sembled Diard  and  Juana,  but  he  was  more  like  Diard, 
whose  names  he  bore.  Juana  had  given  the  most  tender  care 
to  little  Francisco.  For  the  five  years  of  his  life,  his 
mother  was  absorbed  in  this  child ;  he  had  more  than  his 
share  of  kisses  and  caresses  and  playthings;  and  besides  and 
bcA'ond  all  this,  his  mother's  penetrating  eyes  watched  him 
continually.  Juana  studied  his  character  even  in  the  cradle, 
'noticing  hecdfully  his  cries  ar.d  movements,  that  she  might 
direct  his  education.  Juana  seemed  to  have  but  that  one 
child.  The  Provencal,  seeing  that  Juan  was  almost  neglected, 
began  to  take  notice  of  the  older  boy.     He  would  not  ask 


THE  MARANAS  289 

himself  whether  tiio  little  one  was  the  offspring  of  the  short- 
lived love  affair  to  which  he  owed  Juana,  and  by  a  piece  of 
rare  flattery  made  of  Juan  his  Benjamin.  Of  all  the  race  in- 
heritance of  passions  which  preyed  upon  her,  Mme.  Diard 
gave  way  but  to  one — a  mother's  love;  she  loved  her  children 
with  the  same  vehemence  and  intensity  that  La  Marana 
had  shown  for  her  child  in  the  first  part  of  this  story ;  but  to 
this  love  she  added  a  gracious  delicacy  of  feeling,  a  quick 
and  keen  comprehension  of  the  social  virtues  that  it  had 
been  her  pride  to  practise,  in  which  she  had  found  her  recom- 
pense. The  secret  thought  of  the  conscientious  fulfilment 
of  the  duties  of  motherhood  had  been  a  crude  element  of 
poetry  that  left  its  impress  on  La  Marana's  life;  but  Juana 
could  be  a  mother  openly,  it  was  her  hourly  consolation. 
Her  own  mother  had  been  virtuous  as  other  women  are  crim- 
inal, by  stealth;  she  had  stolen  her  illicit  happiness,  she  had 
not  known  all  the  sweetness  of  secure  possession.  But  Juana, 
whose  life  of  virtue  was  as  dreary  as  her  mother's  life  of 
sin,  knew  every  hour  the  ineffable  joys  for  which  that  mother 
had  longed  in  vain.  For  her,  as  for  La  Marana,  motherhood 
summed  up  all  earthly  affection,  and  both  the  Maranas  from 
opposite  causes  had  but  this  one  comfort  in  their  desolation. 
Perhaps  Juana's  love  was  the  stronger,  because,  shut  out 
from  all  other  love,  her  children  became  all  in  all  to  her, 
and  because  a  noble  passion  has  this  in  common  with  vice: 
it  grows  by  what  it  feeds  upon.  The  mother  and  the  gambler 
are  alike  insatiable. 

Juana  was  touched  by  the  generous  pardon  extended  over 
Juan's  head  by  Diard's  fatherly  affection,  and  thencefor- 
ward the  relations  between  husband  and  wife  were  changed; 
the  interest  which  Diard's  Spanish  wife  had  taken  in  him 
from  a  sense  of  duty  only,  became  a  deep  and  sincere  feeling. 
Had  he  been  less  inconsequent  in  his  life,  if  fickleness  and 
spasmodic  changes  of  feeling  on  his  part  had  not  quenched 
that  flicker  of  timid  but  real  sympathy,  Juana  must  surely 
have  loved  him  ;  but,  unluckily,  Diard's  character  belonged 
to  the  quick-witted  southern  type,  that  has  no  continuity  in 


290  THE  MARANAS 

its  ideas;  such  men  will  be  capable  of  heroic  actions  ovei- 
night,  and  sink  into  nonentities  on  the  morrow;  often  thej 
are  made  to  suffer  for  their  virtues,  often  their  worst  de- 
fects contribute  to  their  success;  and  for  the  rest,  they  are 
great  when  their  good  qualities  are  pressed  into  the  service 
of  an  unflagging  will.  For  two  years  Diard  had  been  a  pris- 
oner in  his  home,  a  prisoner  bound  by  the  sweetest  of  all 
chains.  He  lived,  almost  against  his  will,  beneath  the  in- 
fluence of  a  wife  who  kept  him  amused,  and  was  always 
bright  and  cheerful  for  him,  a  wife  who  devoted  all  her 
powers  of  coquetry  to  beguiling  him  into  the  ways  of  virtue ; 
and  yet  all  her  ingenuity  could  not  deceive  him,  and  he 
knew  this  was  not  love. 

Just  about  that  time  a  murder  caused  a  great  sensation 
in  Paris.  A  captain  of  the  armies  of  the  Republic  had  killed 
a  woman  in  a  paroxysm  of  debauchery.  Diard  told  the 
story  to  Juana  when  he  came  home  to  dine.  The  officer,  he 
said,  had  taken  his  ovv^n  life  to  avoid  the  ignominy  of  a  trial 
and  the  infamous  death  of  a  criminal.  Ac  first  Juana  could 
not  understand  the  reason  for  his  conduct,  and  her  husband 
was  obliged  to  explain  to  her  the  admirable  provision  of 
the  French  law,  which  takes  no  proceedings  against  the  dead. 

''But,  papa,  didn't  you  tell  us  the  other  day  that  the  King 
can  pardon  anybody?"  asked  Francisco. 

"The  King  can  only  grant  life"  said  Juan,  nettled. 

Diard  and  Juana  watched  this  little  scene  with  very  dif- 
ferent feelings.  The  tears  of  happiness  in  Juana's  eyes  as 
she  glanced  at  her  oldest  boy  let  her  husband  see  with  fatal 
clearness  into  the  real  secrets  of  that  hitherto  inscrutable 
heart.  Her  older  boy  was  Juana's  own  child",  Juana  knew 
his  nature;  she  was  sure  of  him  and  of  his  future;  she  wor- 
shiped him,  and  her  great  love  was  a  secret  known  only  to 
her  child  and  to  God.  Juan,  in  his  secret  heart,  gladly  en- 
dured his  mother's  sharp  speeches.  What  if  she  seemed  to 
frown  upon  him  in  the  presence  of  his  father  and  brother, 
when  she  showered  passionate  kisses  upon  him  when  they 
were  alone?    Francisco  was  Diard's  child,  and  Juana's  oare 


THE  MARANAS  291 

meant  that  she  wished  to  check  the  growth  of  his  father's 
faults  in  him,  and  to  develop  his  good  qualities. 

Juana,  unconscious  that  she  had  spoken  too  plainly  in  that 
glance,  took  little  Francisco  on  her  knee;  and,  her  sweet 
voice  faltering  somewhat  with  the  gladness  that  Juan's  an- 
swer had  caused  her,  gave  the  younger  boy  the  teaching  suited 
to  his  childish  mind. 

"His  training  requires  great  care,"  the  father  said,  speak- 
ing to  Juana. 

"But  Juan!" 

The  tone  in  which  the  two  words  were  uttered  startled 
Mme.  Diard.     She  looked  up  at  her  husband. 

"Juan  was  born  perfection,"  he  added,  and  having  thus 
delivered  himself,  he  sat  down,  and  looked  gloomily  at  his 
wife.  She  was  silent,  so  he  went  on,  "You  love  one  of  your 
children  more  than  the  other." 

"You  know  it  quite  well,"  she  said. 

"N"o!"  returned  Diard.  "Until  this  moment  T  did  not 
know  which  of  them  you  loved  the  most." 

"But  neither  of  them  has  as  yet  caused  me  any  sorrow," 
sne  answered  quickly. 

"No,  but  which  of  them  has  given  you  more  joys?"  he 
asked  still  more  quickly. 

"I  have  not  kept  any  reckoning  of  them." 

*Women  are  very  deceitful !"  cried  Diard.  "Do  you  dare 
to  tell  me  that  Juan  is  not  the  darling  of  your  heart  ?" 

"And  if  he  were,"  she  said,  with  gentle  dignity,  "do  you 
mean  that  it  would  be  a  misfortune?" 

"You  have  never  loved  me !  If  you  had  chosen,  I  might 
have  won  kingdoms  for  you  with  my  sword.  You  know  all 
that  I  have  tried  to  do.  sustained  by  one  thought — a  longing 
that  you  might  care  for  me.  Ah!  if  you  had  but  loved 
me " 

"A  woman  who  loves,"  said  Juana,  'lives  in  solitude  fai 
from  the  world.    Is  not  that  what  we  are  doing?" 

"Oh !  T  know,  Juana,  that  you  are  never  in  the  wrong." 


2a2  THE  MARANAS 

The  words,  spoken  with  such  intense  bitterness,  bronght 
about  a  coldness  between  them  that  lasted  the  rest  of  their 
lives. 

On  the  morrow  of  that  fatal  day,  Diard  sought  out  one 
of  his  old  cronies,  and  with  him  sought  distraction  at  the 
gammg-table.  Unluckily,  he  won  a  great  deal  of  money, 
and  he  began  to  play  regularly.  Little  by  little  he  slipped 
back  into  his  old  dissipated  life.  After  a  short  time  he  nc 
longer  dined  at  home.  A  few  months  were  spent  in  the  en- 
joyment of  tHe  first  pleasures  of  freedom;  he  made  up  his 
mind  that  he  would  not  part  with  it,  left  the  large  apart- 
ments ot  the  house  to  his  wife,  and  took  up  his  abode  sepa- 
rately on  the  entresol.  By  the  end  of  the  year  Diard  and 
Juana  only  met  once  a  day — at  breakfast  time. 

In  a  few  words,  like  all  gamblers,  he  had  runs  of  good 
and  bad  luck;  but  as  he  was  reluctant  to  touch  his  capital, 
he  wished  to  have  entire  control  of  their  income,  and  his 
wife  accordingly  ceased  to  take  any  part  in  the  management 
of  the  household  economy.  Mistrust  had  succeeded  to  the 
boundless  confidence  that  he  had  once  placed  in  her.  As  to 
money  matters,  which  had  formerly  been  arranged  by  both 
husband  and  wife,  he  adopted  the  plan  of  a  monthly  allow- 
ance for  her  own  expenses;  they  settled  the  amount  of  it 
together  in  the  last  of  the  confidential  talks  that  form  one 
of  the  most  attractive  charms  of  marriage. 

The  barrier  of  silence  between  two  hearts  is  a  real  divorce, 
accomplished  on  the  day  when  husband  and  wife  say  we  no 
longer.  When  that  day  came,  Juana  knew  that  she  was  no 
longer  a  wife,  but  a  mother;  she  was  not  unhappy,  and  did 
not  seek  to  guess  the  reason  of  the  misfortune.  It  was  a 
great  pity.  Children  consolidate,  as  it  M^ere,  the  lives  of 
their  parents,  and  the  life  that  her  husband  led  apart  was 
to  weave  sadness  and  anguish  for  others  as  well  as  for  Juana, 
Diard  lost  no  time  in  making  use  of  his  newly  regained 
liberty;  he  played  high,  and  lost  and  won  enormous  sums. 
He  was  a  good  and  bold  player,  and  gained  a  great  reputa- 
tion.    The  respect  which  he  had  failed  to  win  in  society  io 


THE  MAR  AN  AS  293 

the  days  of  the  Empire  was  accorded  now  to  the  wealth  that 
was  risked  upon  a  green  table,  to  a  talent  for  all  and  any 
of  the  games  of  chance  of  that  period.  Ambassadors, 
financiers,  men  with  large  fortunes,  jaded  pleasure-seekers 
in  quest  of  excitement  and  extreme  sensations,  admired 
Diard's  play  at  their  clubs ;  they  rarely  asked  him  to  their 
houses,  but  they  all  plaATd  with  him.  Diard  became  the 
fashion.  Once  or  twice  during  the  winter  his  independent 
spirit  led  him  to  give  a  fete  to  return  the  courtesies  that  he 
\iad  received,  and  by  glimpses  -Juana  saw  something  of  society 
again;  there  was  a  brief  return  of  balls  and  banquets,  of 
luxury  and  brilliantly-lighted  rooms ;  but  all  these  things  she 
regarded  as  a  sort  of  duty  levied  wpon  her  happiness  and 
solitude. 

The  queen  of  these  high  festivals  appeared  in  them  like 
some  creature  fallen  from  an  unknown  world.  Her  sim- 
plicity that  nothing  had  spoiled,  a  certain  maidenliness  of 
soul  with  which  the  changed  conditions  of  her  life  had  in- 
vested her,  her  beauty,  her  unaffected  modesty,  won  sincere 
admiration.  But  Juana  saw  few  women  among  her  guests; 
and  it  was  plain  to  her  mind  that  if  her  husband  had  ordered 
his  life  differently  without  taking  her  into  his  confidence, 
he  had  not  risen  in  the  esteem  of  the  world. 

Diard  was  not  always  lucky.  In  three  years  he  had  squan- 
dered three-fourths  of  his  fortune;  but  he  drew  from  his 
passion  for  gambling  sufficient  energy  to  satisfy  it.  He  had  a 
large  circle  of  acquaintance,  and  was  hand-and-glove  Mith 
certain  swindlers  on  the  Stock  Exchange — gentry  who,  since 
the  Eevolution,  have  established  the  principle  that  robbery 
on  a  large  scale  is  a  mere  peccadillo,  transferring  to  the  lan- 
guage of  the  counting-house  the  brazen  epithets  of  the  license 
of  the  eighteenth  century. 

Diard  became  a  speculator,  engaged  in  the  peculiar  kinds 
of  business  described  as  "shady"  in  the  slang  of  the  Palais. 
He  managed  to  get  hold  of  poor  wretches  ignorant  of  com- 
mercial red-tape,  and  weary  of  everlasting  proceedings  in 
liquidation;  he  would  buy  up  their  claims  on  the  debtor's 


294  THE  MAKANAS 

estate  for  a  small  sum,  arrange  the  matter  with  the  aS' 
signees  in  the  course  of  an  evening,  and  divide  the  spoil  with 
the  latter.  When  liquefiable  debts  were  not  to  be  found, 
he  looked  out  for  floating  debts;  he  unearthed  and  revived 
claims  in  abeyance  in  Europe  and  America  and  uncivilized 
countries.  When  at  the  Eestoration  the  debts  incurred  by  the 
princes,  the  Eepublic,  and  the  Empire  were  all  paid,  he  took 
commissions  on  loans,  on  contracts  for  public  works  and  en- 
terprises of  all  kinds.  In  short,  he  committed  legal  robbery, 
like  many  another  carefully  masked  delinquent  beliind  the 
scenes  in  the  theatre  of  politics.  Such  thefts,  if  perpetrated 
by  the  light  of  a  street  lamp,  would  send  the  luckless  of- 
fender to  the  hulks;  but  there  is  a  virtue  in  the  glitter  of 
chandeliers  and  gilded  ceilings  that  absolves  the  crimes  com- 
mitted beneath  them. 

Diard  forestalled  and  regrated  sugars;  he  sold  places;  to 
him  belongs  the  credit  of  the  invention  of  the  warming-pan; 
he  installed  lay-figures  in  lucrative  posts  that  must  be  held 
for  a  time  to  secure  still  better  positions.  Then  he  fell  to 
meditating  on  bounties ;  he  studied  the  loop-holes  of  the  law, 
and  carried  on  contraband  trades  against  which  no  provision 
had  been  made.  This  traffic  in  high  places  may  be  briefly 
described  as  a  sort  of  commission  agency ;  he  received  "so 
much  per  cent"  on  the  purchase  of  fifteen  votes  which  passed 
in  a  single  night  from  the  benches  on  the  left  to  the  benches 
on  the  right  of  the  legislative  chamber.  In  these  days  such 
things  are  neither  misdemeanors  nor  felony;  exploiting  in- 
dustry, the  art  of  government,  financial  genius — ^these  are 
the  names  by  which  they  are  called. 

Public  opinion  put  Diard  in  the  pillory,  where  more  than 
one  clever  man  stood  already  to  keep  him  company;  there,  in- 
deed, you  will  find  the  aristocracy  of  this  kind  of  talent—- 
the  Upper  Chamber  of  civilized  rascality. 

Diard,  therefore,  was  no  commonplace  gambler,  no  vulgar 
spendthrift  who  ends  his  career,  in  melodramas,  as  a  beggar. 
Above  a  certain  social  altitude  that  kind  of  gambler  is  not 
CO  be  found     In  these  days  a  bold  scoundrel  of  this  kind  wil/ 


THE  MARANAS  295 

die  gloriously  in  the  harness  of  vice  in  all  the  trappings  of 
success:  he  will  blow  out  his  brains  in  a  coach  and  six,  and 
all  that  has  been  intrusted  to  him  vanishes  with  him. 
Diard's  talent  determined  him  not  to  buy  remorse  too  cheaply, 
and  he  joined  this  privileged  class.  He  learned  all  the  springs 
of  government,  made  himself  acquainted  with  all  the  secrets 
and  the  weaknesses  of  men  in  office,  and  held  his  own  in  the 
fiery  furnace  into  which  he  had  cast  himself. 

Mme.  Diard  knew  nothing  of  the  infernal  life  that  her  hus- 
band led.  She  was  well  content  to  be  neglected,  and  did 
not  ponder  overmuch  the  reasons  for  his  neglect.  Her  time 
was  too  well  filled.  She  devoted  all  the  money  that  she  had 
to  the  education  of  her  children;  a  very  clever  tutor  was 
engaged  for  them,  besides  various  masters.  She  meant  to 
make  men  of  her  boys,  to  develop  in  them  the  faculty  of 
reasoning  clearly,  but  not  at  the  expense  of  their  imaginative 
powers.  Nothing  affected  her  now  save  through  her  children, 
and  her  own  colorless  life  depressed  her  no  longer.  Juan 
and  Francisco  were  for  her  what  children  are  for  a  time  for 
many  mothers — a  sort  of  expansion  of  her  own  existence. 
Diard  had  come  to  be  a  mere  accident  in  her  life.  Since 
Diard  had  ceased  to  be  a  father  and  the  head  of  the  family, 
nothing  bound  Juana  to  her  husband  any  longer,  save  a  regard 
for  appearances  demanded  by  social  conventions;  yet  she 
brought  up  her  children  to  respect  their  father,  shadowy  and 
unreal  as  that  fatherhood  had  become ;  indeed,  her  husband's 
continual  absence  from  home  helped  her  to  maintain  the 
fiction  of  his  high  character.  If  Diard  had  lived  in  the  house, 
all  Juana's  efforts  must  have  been  in  vain.  Her  children 
were  too  quick  and  bright  not  to  judge  their  father,  and  this 
process  is  a  moral  parricide. 

At  length,  however,  Juana's  indifference  changed  to  a  feel- 
ing of  dread.  She  felt  that  sooner  or  later  her  husband's 
manner  of  life  must  affect  the  children's  future.  Day  by 
day  that  old  presentiment  of  coming  evil  gathered  definiteness 
and  strength.  On  the  rare  occasions  when  Juana  saw  her 
husband,  she  would  glance  at  his  hollow  cheeks,  at  his  face 


296  THE  MABANAg 

grown  haggard  with  the  vigils  he  kept,  and  wrinkled  with 
violent  emotions;  and  Diard  almost  trembled  before  the 
clear,  penetrating  eyes.  At  such  times  her  husband's  assumed 
gaiety  alarmed  her  even  more  than  the  dark  look  that  his 
face  wore  in  repose,  when  for  a  moment  he  happened  to  for- 
get the  part  that  he  was  playing.  He  feared  his  wife  as  the 
criminal  fears  the  headsman.  Juana  saw  in  him  a  disgrace 
on  her  children's  name;  and  Diard  dreaded  her,  she  was  like 
some  passionless  A^engeance,  a  Justice  with  unchanging 
brows,  with  the  arm  that  should  one  day  strike  always  sus- 
pended above  him. 

One  day,  about  fifteen  years  after  his  marriage,  Diard 
found  himself  without  resources.  He  owed  a  hundred  thou- 
sand crowns^  and  was  possessed  of  a  bare  hundred  thousand 
francs.  His  mansion  (all  that  he  possessed  beside  ready 
money)  was  mortgaged  beyond  its  value.  A  few  more  days, 
and  the  prestige  of  enormous  wealth  must  fade;  and  when 
those  days  of  grace  had  expired,  no  helping  hand  would  be 
stretched  out,  no  purse  would  be  open  for  him.  Nothing  but 
unlooked-for  luck  could  save  him  now  from  the  slough  into 
which  he  must  fall;  and  he  would  but  sink  the  deeper  in  it, 
men  would  scorn  him  the  more  because  for  awhile  they  had 
estimated  him  at  more  than  his  just  value. 

Very  opportunely,  therefore,  he  learned  that  with  the  be- 
ginning of  the  season  diplomatists  and  foreigners  of  distinc- 
tion flocked  to  watering-places  in  the  Pyrenees,  that  play  ran 
high  at  these  resorts,  and  that  the  visitors  were  doubtless  well 
able  to  pay  their  losings.  So  he  determined  to  set  out  at  once 
for  the  Pyrenees.  He  had  no  mind  to  leave  his  wife  in  Paris ; 
some  of  his  creditors  might  enlighten  her  as  to  his  awkward 
position,  and  ho  wished  to  keep  it  secret,  so  he  took  Juana 
and  the  two  children.  He  would  not  allow  the  tutor  to  go 
7/ith  them,  and  made  some  difficulties  about  Juana's  maid, 
who,  with  a  single  man-servant,  composed  their  traveling 
3uite.  His  tone  was  curt  and  peremptory;  his  energy  seemed 
to  have  returned  to  him.  This  hasty  jonrney  sent  a  shivef 
of  dread  to  Juana's  soul;  her  penetiation  was  at  fault,  she 


THE   MARANAS  2d7 

?oul(i  not  imagine  the  why  and  wherefore  of  their  leaving 
l*aris.  Her  husband  seemed  to  be  in  higli  spirits  on  the  way; 
and  during  the  time  spent  together  perforce  in  the  traveling 
e.irriage,  he  took  more  and  more  notice  of  the  children,  and 
was  m.ore  kindly  to  the  children's  mother.  And  yet — every 
day  brought  new  and  dark  forebodings  to  Juana,  the  forebod- 
ings of  a  mother's  heart.  These  inward  warnings,  even  when 
there  is  no  apparent  reason  for  them,  are  seldom  vain,  and 
the  veil  that  hides  the  future  grows  thin  for  a  mother's  eyes. 

Diard  took  a  house,  not  large,  but  very  nicely  furnished, 
situated  in  one  of  the  quietest  parts  of  Bordeaux.  It  hap- 
pened to  be  a  corner  house  with  a  large  garden,  surrounded 
on  three  sides  by  streets,  and  on  the  fourth  by  the  wall  of 
a  neighboring  dwelling.  Diard  paid  the  rent  in  advance, 
and  installed  his  wife  and  family,  leaving  Juana.  fifty  louis, 
a  sum  barely  sufficient  to  ineet  the  housekeeping  expenses 
for  three  months.  Mme.  Diard  made  no  comment  on  this 
unwonted  niggardliness.  When  her  husband  told  her  that 
he  was  about  to  go  to  the  Baths,  and  that  she  was  to  remain 
in  Bordeaux,  she  made  up  her  mind  that  the  children  should 
learn  the  Spanish  and  Italian  languages  thoroughly,  and 
that  they  should  read  with  her  the  great  masterpieces  of 
either  tongue. 

With  this  object  in  view,  Ju ana's  life  should  be  retired 
and  simple,  and  in  consequence  her  expenses  would  be  few. 
Her  own  woman  waited  upon  them;  and,  to  simplify  the 
housekeeping,  she  arranged  on  the  morrow  of  Diard's  de- 
parture to  have  their  meals  sent  in  from  a  restaurant.  Every- 
thing was  provided  for  until  her  husband's  return,  and  she 
had  no  money  left.  Her  amusements  must  consist  in  occa- 
sional walks  with  the  children.  She  was  now  a  woman  of 
thirty-three;  her  beauty  had  developed  to  its  fullest  extent, 
she  was  in  the  full  splendor  of  her  maturity.  Scarcely  had 
she  appeared  in  Bordeaux  before  people  talked  of  nothing 
but  the  lovely  Spanish  lady.  She  received  a  first  love-letter, 
and  thenceforth  confined  her  walks  to  her  own  garden. 

At  first  Diard  had  a  run  of  luck  at  the  Baths.     He  won 


298  THE  MARANAg 

three  hundred  thousand  francs  in  two  months;  but  it  nevet 
occurred  to  him  to  send  any  money  to  his  wife,  he  meant  to 
keep  as  large  a  sum  as  possible  by  him,  and  to  play  for  yet 
higher  stakes.  Towards  the  end  of  the  last  month  a  Marchese 
di  Montefiore  came  to  the  Baths,  preceded  by  a  reputation  for 
a  fine  figure,  and  great  wealth,  for  the  match  that  he  had 
made  with  an  English  lady  of  family,  and  most  of  all  for  a 
passion  for  gaming.  Diard  waited  for  his  old  comrade  in 
arms,  to  add  the  spoils  to  his  winnings.  A  gambler  with 
something  like  four  hundred  thousand  francs  at  his  back  can 
command  most  things;  Diard  felt  confident  in  his  luck,  and 
renewed  his  acquaintance  with  Montefiore.  That  gentleman 
received  him  coldl}^,  but  they  played  together,  and  Diard 
lost  everything. 

"Montefiore,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  the  sometime  quarter- 
master, after  a  turn  round  the  room  in  which  he  had  ruined 
himself,  "I  owe  you  a  hundred  thousand  francs;  but  I  have 
left  my  money  at  Bordeaux,  where  my  wife  is  staying." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Diard  had  notes  for  the  amount  in  his 
pockets  at  that  moment,  but,  with  the  self-possession  of  a 
man  accustomed  to  take  in  all  the  possibilities  of  a  situa- 
tion at  a  glance,  he  still  hoped  something  from  the  incal- 
culable chances  of  the  gaming-table.  Montefiore  had  ex- 
pressed a  desire  to  see  something  of  Bordeaux;  and  if  Diard 
were  to  settle  at  once  with  him,  he  would  have  nothing  left, 
and  could  not  have  his  "revenge."  A  "revenge"  will  some- 
times more  than  make  good  all  previous  losses.  All  these 
burning  hopes  depended  on  the  answer  that  the  Marquis 
might  give. 

"Let  it  stand,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  Montefiore;  "we  will 
go  to  Bordeaux  together.  I  am  rich  enough  now  in  all  con- 
science; why  should  I  take  an  old  comrade's  money?" 

Three  days  later,  Diard  and  the  Italian  were  at  Bordeaux. 
Montefiore  offered  the  Provencal  his  revenge.  In  the  course 
of  an  evening,  which  Diard  began  by  paying  down  the  hun- 
dred thousand  francs,  lie  lost  two  huudred  thousand  more 
upon  parole.    He  was  as  light-hearted  over  his  losses  as  if  he 


THE  MARANAS  299 

could  swim  in  gold.  It  was  eleven  o'clock,  and  a  glorious 
night,  surely  Montefiore  must  wish  to  breathe  the  fresh  air 
under  the  open  sky,  and  to  take  a  walk  to  cool  down  a  little 
after  the  excitement  of  play;  Diard  suggested  that  the  Italian 
should  accompany  him  to  his  house  and  take  a  cup  of  te. 
there  when  the  money  was  paid  over. 

"But  Mme.  Diard  !"  queried  Montefiore. 

"Pshaw  !''  answered  the  Provencal. 

They  went  downstairs  together;  but  before  leaving  the 
house,  Diard  went  into  the  dining-room,  asked  for  a  glass  of 
water,  and  walked  about  the  room  as  he  waited  for  it.  In  this 
way  he  managed  to  secrete  a  tiny  steel  knife  with  a  handle 
of  mother-of-pearl,  such  as  is  used  at  dessert  for  fruit;  the 
thing  had  not  yet  been  put  away  in  its  place. 

"Where  do  you  live  ?"  asked  Montefiore,  as  they  crossed  the 
court;  "I  must  leave  word,  so  as  to  have  the  carriage  sent 
round  for  me." 

Diard  gave  minute  directions. 

"Of  course,  I  am  perfectly  safe  as  long  as  I  am  with  you, 
you  see,"  said  Montefiore  in  a  low  voice,  as  he  took  Diard's 
arm;  "but  if  I  came  back  by  myself,  and  some  scamp  were 
to  follow  me,  I  should  be  worth  killing." 

"Then  have  you  money  about  you  ?" 

"Oh!  next  to  nothing,"  said  the  cautious  Italian,  "only 
my  winnings.  But  they  would  make  a  pretty  fortune  for 
a  penniless  rascal;  he  might  take  brevet  rank  as  an  honest 
man  afterwards  for  the  rest  of  his  life,  that  I  know." 

Diard  took  the  Italian  into  a  deserted  street.  He  had  no- 
ticed the  gateway  of  a  single  house  in  it  at  the  end  of  a  sort 
of  avenue  of  trees,  and  that  there  were  high  dark  walls  on 
either  side.  Just  as  they  reached  the  end  of  this  road  he 
had  the  audacity  to  ask  his  friend,  in  soldierly  fashion,  to 
walk  on.  Montefiore  understood  Diard's  meaning,  and  turned 
to  go  with  him.  Scarcely  had  they  set  foot  in  the  shadow, 
when  Diard  sprang  like  a  tiger  upon  the  Marquis,  tripped 
him  up,  boldly  set  his  foot  on  his  victim's  throat,  and  plunged 
the  knife  again  and  again  into  his  heart,  till  the  blade  snapped 


300  THE  MARANAS 

off  short  in  his  body.  Then  he  searched  Montefiore,  took 
his  money,  his  pocket-book,  and  everything  that  tlie  Marquis 
had. 

But  though  Diard  had  set  about  his  work  in  a  frenzy  that 
left  him  perfectly  clear-headed,  and  completed  it  with  tlio 
deftness  of  a  pickpocket;  though  he  had  taken  his  victim 
adroitly  by  surprise,  Montefiore  had  had  time  to  shriek  "Mur- 
der !"  once  or  twice,  a  shrill,  far-reaching  cry  that  must  have 
sent  a  thrill  of  horror  through  many  sleepers,  and  his  dyinj 
groans  were  fearful  to  hear. 

Diard  did  not  know  that  even  as  they  turned  into  tlie 
avenue  a  crowd  of  people  returning  home  from  the  theatre 
had  reached  the  upper  end  of  the  street.  They  had  heard 
Montefiore's  dying  cries,  though  the  Provengal  had  tried  to 
stifle  the  sounds,  never  relaxing  the  pressure  of  his  foot  upon 
the  murdered  man's  throat,  until  at  last  they  ceased. 

The  high  walls  still  echoed  with  dying  groans  which  guided 
the  crowd  to  the  spot  whence  they  came.  The  sound  of  many 
feet  filled  the  avenue  and  rang  through  Diard's  brain.  The 
murderer  did  not  lose  his  head ;  he  came  out  from  under  the 
trees,  and  walked  very  quietl}''  along  the  street,  as  if  he  had 
been  drawn  thither  by  curiosity,  and  saw  that  he  had  come  too 
late  to  be  of  any  use.  He  even  turned  to  make  sure  of  the 
distance  that  separated  him  from  the  newcomers,  and  saw 
them  all  rush  into  the  avenue,  save  one  man,  who  not  un- 
naturally stood  still  to  watch  Diard's  movements. 

"There  he  lies !  There  he  lies !"  shouted  voices  from  the 
avenue.  They  had  caught  sight  of  Montefiore's  dead  body 
in  front  of  the  great  house.  The  gateway  was  shut  fast, 
and  after  diligent  search  they  could  not  find  the  murderer 
in  the  alley. 

As  soon  as  he  heard  the  shout,  Diard  knew  that  he  had 
got  the  start;  he  seemed  to  have  the  strength  of  a  lion  in 
him  and  the  fleetness  of  a  stag;  he  began  to  run,  nay,  he 
flew.  IIo  saw,  or  fancied  that  he  saw,  a  second  crowd  at 
the  other  end  of  the  road,  and  darted  down  a  side  street. 
But  even  as  he  fled,  windows  were  opened,  and  rows  of  hcad.«; 


THE  MARANAS  301 

were  thrust  out,  lights  and  shouting  issued  from  every  door ; 
to  Diard,  running  for  dear  life,  it  seemed  as  if  he  were  rush- 
ing through  a  tumult  of  cries  and  swaying  lights.  As  he 
fled  straight  along  the  road  before  him,  his  legs  stood  hira 
in  such  good  stead  that  he  left  the  crowd  behind;  but  he 
could  not  keep  out  of  sight  of  the  windows,  nor  avoid  the 
watchful  eyes  that  traversed  the  length  and  breadth  of  a 
street  faster  than  he  could  fly. 

In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  soldiers,  gendarmes,  and  house- 
holders were  all  astir.  Some  in  their  zeal  had  gone  to  wake 
up  Commissaries  of  Police,  others  stood  by  the  dead  body. 
The  alarm  spread  out  into  the  suburbs  in  the  direction  of  the 
fugitive  (whom  it  followed  like  a  conflagration  from  street 
to  street)  and  into  the  heart  of  the  town,  where  it  reached 
the  authorities.  Diard  heard  as  in  a  dream  the  hurrying 
feet,  the  yells  of  a  whole  horror-stricken  city.  But  his  ideas 
were  still  clear;  he  still  preserved  his  presence  of  mind,  and 
he  rubbed  his  hands  against  the  walls  as  he  ran. 

At  last  he  reached  the  garden-wall  of  his  own  house.  He 
thought  that  he  had  thrown  his  pursuers  off  the  scent.  The 
place  was  perfectly  silent  save  for  the  far-off  murmur  of  the 
city,  scarcely  louder  there  than  the  sound  of  the  sea.  He 
dipped  his  hands  into  a  runnel  of  clear  water  and  drank. 
Then,  looking  about  him,  he  saw  a  heap  of  loose  stones  by  the 
roadside,  and  hastened  to  bury  his  spoils  beneath  it,  acting 
on  some  dim  notion  such  as  crosses  a  criminal's  mind  when 
he  has  not  yet  found  a  consistent  tale  to  account  for  his 
actions,  and  hopes  to  establish  his  innocence  by  lack  of  proofs 
against  him.  When  this  was  accomplished,  he  tried  to  look 
serene  and  calm,  forced  a  smile,  and  knocked  gently  at  his 
own  door,  hoping  that  no  one  had  seen  him.  He  looked  up 
at  the  house  front  and  saw  a  light  in  his  wife's  windows. 
And  then  in  his  agitation  of  spirit  visions  of  Juana's  peaceful 
life  rose  before  him;  he  saw  her  sitting  there  in  the  candle- 
light with  her  children  on  either  side  of  her,  and  the  vision 
smote  his  brain  like  a  blow  from  a  hammer.     The  waiting- 


302  T'HE  MARANAS 

woman  opened  the  door,  Diard  entered,  and  hastily  shut  it  to 
again.  He  dared  to  breathe  more  freely,  but  he  remembered 
that  he  was  covered  with  perspiration,  and  sent  the  maid  up  to 
Juana,  while  he  stayed  below  in  the  darkness.  He  wiped  his 
face  with  a  handkerchief  and  set  his  clothes  in  order,  as  a  cox- 
comb smoothes  his  coat  before  calling  upon  a  pretty  woman; 
then  for  a  moment  he  stood  in  the  moonlight  examining  his 
hands;  he  passed  them  over  his  face,  and  with  unspeakable 
joy  found  that  there  was  no  trace  of  blood  upon  him,  doubt- 
less his  victim's  wounds  had  bled  internally. 

He  went  up  to  Juana's  room,  and  his  manner  was  as  quiet 
and  composed  as  if  he  had  come  home  after  the  theatre,  to 
sleep.  As  he  climbed  the  stairs,  he  could  think  over  his 
position,  and  summed  it  up  in  a  phrase — he  must  leave  the 
house  and  reach  the  harbor.  These  ideas  did  not  cross  his 
brain  in  words;  he  saw  them  written  in  letters  of  fire  upon 
the  darkness.  Once  down  at  the  harbor,  he  could  lie  in 
hiding  during  the  day,  and  return  at  night  for  his  treasure; 
then  he  would  creep  with  it  like  a  rat  into  the  hold  of  some 
vessel,  and  leave  the  port,  no  one  suspecting  that  he  was  on 
board.  For  all  these  things  money  was  wanted  in  the  first 
place.  And  he  had  nothing.  The  waiting-woman  came  with 
a  light. 

"Felicie,"  he  said,  "do  you  not  hear  that  noise?  people  are 
shouting  in  the  street.  Go  and  find  out  what  it  is  and  let 
me  know " 

His  wife  in  her  white  dressing-gown  was  sitting  at  a  table, 
reading  Cervantes  in  Spanish  with  Francisco  and  Juan;  the 
two  children's  eyes  followed  the  text  while  their  mother  read 
aloud.  All  three  of  them  stopped  and  looked  up  at  Diard, 
who  stood  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  surprised  perhaps 
by  the  surroundings,  the  peaceful  scene,  the  fair  faces  of 
the  woman  and  the  children  in  the  softly-lit  room.  It  was 
like  a  living  picture  of  a  ]\Iadonna  with  her  son  and  the  little 
Saint  John  on  either  side. 

"Juana,  I  have  something  to  say  to  you." 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked.    In  her  husband's  wan  and  sallo\? 


THE  MARANAS  303 

face  she  read  the  news  of  tliis  calamity  that  she  had  expected 
daily;  it  had  come  at  last. 

"Nothing,  but  I  should  like  to  speak  to  you — to  you,  quite 
alone,"  and  he  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  two  little  boys. 

"Go  to  your  room,  my  darlings,  and  go  to  bed,"  said  Juana. 
"Say  your  prayers  without  me." 

The  two  boys  went  away  in  silence,  with  the  uninquisitive 
obedience  of  children  who  have  been  well  brought  up. 

"Dear  Juana,"  Diard  began  in  coaxing  tones,  "I  left  you 
very  little  money,  and  I  am  very  sorry  for  it  now.  Listen, 
since  I  relieved  you  of  the  cares  of  your  household  by  giving 
you  an  allowance,  perhaps  you  may  have  saved  a  little  money, 
as  all  women  do  ?" 

"No,"  answered  Juana,  "I  have  nothing.  You  did  not 
allow  anything  for  the  expenses  of  the  children's  education. 
I  am  not  reproaching  you  at  all,  dear;  I  only  remind  you 
that  you  forgot  about  it,  to  explain  how  it  is  that  I  have  no 
money.  All  that  you  gave  me  I  spent  on  lessons  and  mas- 
ters  " 

"That  will  do !"  Diard  broke  in.  "Sacre  tonnerre !  time  is 
precious.    Have  you  no  jewels?" 

"You  know  quite  w^ell  that  I  never  wear  them." 

"Then  there  is  not  a  sou  in  the  house !"  cried  Diard,  like 
a  man  bereft  of  his  senses. 

"Why  do  you  cry  out  ?"  she  asked. 

"Juana,"  he  began,  "I  have  just  killed  a  man !" 

Juana  rushed  to  the  children's  room,  and  returned,  shut- 
ting all  the  dcors  after  her. 

"Your  sons  must  not  hear  a  word  of  this,"  she  said;  "but 
whom  can  you  have  fought  with  ?" 

"Montefiore,"  he  answered. 

"Ah!"  she  said,  and  a  sigh  broke  from  her;  "he  is  the 
one  man  whom  you  had  a  right  to  kill " 

"There  were  plenty  of  reasons  why  he  should  die  by  my 
hand.  But  let  us  lose  no  time.  Money,  I  want  money,  in 
God's  name !  They  may  be  on  my  track.  We  did  not  fight, 
Juana,  I — I  killed  him." 


304  THE  MARANAS 

"Killed  him  I"  she  cried.    "But  how- 


"Why,  how  does  one  kill  a  man?  He  had  robbed  me  oi 
all  I  had  at  pla}' ;  and  I  have  taken  it  back  again.  Juana, 
since  we  have  no  money,  you  might  go  now,  while  everything 
is  quiet,  and  look  for  my  money  under  the  heap  of  stones  at 
the  end  of  the  road ;  you  know  the  place." 

"Then,"  said  Juana,  "3^ou  have  robbed  him." 

"What  business  is  it  of  yours?  Fly  I  must,  mustn't  I? 
Have  you  anv  money  ?     .     .     .     They  are  after  me !" 

"Who?" 

"The  authorities." 

Juana  left  the  room,  and  came  back  suddenly. 

"Here,"  she  cried,  holding  out  a  trinket,  but  standing  at 
a  distance  from  him;  "this  is  Doha  Lagounia's  cross.  There 
are  four  rubies  in  it, .  and  the  stones  are  very  valuable ;  so 
I  have  been  told.     Be  quick,  fly,  fl}^ why  don't  you  go?" 

"Felicie  has  not  come  back,"  he  said,  in  dull  amazement. 
*'Can  they  have  arrested  her  ?" 

Juana  dropped  the  cross  on  the  edge  of  the  table,  and 
sprang  towards  the  windows  that  looked  out  upon  the  street. 
Outside  in  the  moonlight  he  saw  a  row  of  soldiers  taking 
their  places  in  absolute  silence  along  the  walls.  She  came 
back  again;  to  all  appearance  she  was  perfectly  calm. 

"You  have  not  a  minute  to  lose,"  she  said  to  her  husband ; 
"you  must  escape  through  the  garden.  Here  is  the  key  of 
the  little  door." 

A  last  counsel  of  prudence  led  her,  however,  to  give  a 
glance  over  the  garden.  In  the  shadows  under  the  trees  she 
saw  the  silvery  gleam,  of  the  metal  rims  of  the  gendarmes' 
caps.  She  even  heard  a  vague  murmur  of  a  not  far-distant 
crowd;  sentinels  were  keeping  back  the  people  gathered  to- 
gether by  curiosity  at  the  further  ends  of  the  streets  by 
which  the  house  was  approached. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Diard  had  been  seen  from  the  win- 
dows of  the  houses;  the  maid-servant  had  been  frightened, 
and  afterwards  arrested;  and.  acting  on  this  information,  the 
military  and  the  crowd  had  soon  blocked  the  ends  of  the 


THE  MARANAS  305 

streets  that  lay  on  two  sides  of  the  house.  A  dozen  gen- 
darmes, coming  oil'  duty  at  the  theatres,  were  posted  outside; 
others  had  climbed  the  wall,  and  were  searching  the  garden, 
a  proceeding  authorized  by  the  serious  nature  of  the  crime. 

"Monsieur,"  said  Juana,  "it  is  too  late.  The  whole  town 
is  aroused." 

Diard  rushed  from  window  to  window  with  the  wild  reck- 
lessness of  a  bird  that  dashes  frantically  against  every  pane. 
Juana  stood  absorbed  in  her  thoughts. 

"Where  can  I  hide  ?"  he  asked. 

He  looked  at  the  chimney,  and  Juana  stared  at  the  two 
empty  chairs.  To  her  it  seemed  only  a  moment  since  her 
children  were  sitting  there.  Just  at  that  moment  the  gate 
opened,  and  the  courtyard  echoed  with  the  sound  of  many 
footsteps. 

"Juana,  d^ar  Juana,  for  pity's  sake,  tell  me  what  to 
do?" 

"I  will  tell  you,"  she  said;  "I  will  save  you." 

"Ah !  you  will  be  my  good  angel !" 

Again  Juana  returned  with  one  of  Diard's  pistols;  she 
held  it  out  to  him,  and  turned  her  head  away.  Diard  did 
not  take  it.  Juana  heard  sounds  from  the  courtyard;  they 
had  brought  in  the  dead  body  of  the  Marquis  to  confront 
the  murderer.  She  came  away  from  the  window  and  looked 
at  Diard ;  he  was  white  and  haggard ;  his  strength  failed  him ; 
he  made  as  if  he  would  sink  into  a  chair. 

"For  your  children's  sake,"  she  said,  thrusting  the  weapon 
into  his  hands. 

"But,  my  dear  Juana,  my  little  Juana,  do  you  really  be- 
lieve that  .  .  .  ?  Juana,  is  there  such  need  of  haste? 
.     .     .     I  would  like  to  kiss  you  before     .     .     ." 

The  gendarmes  were  on  the  stairs.  Then  Juana  took  up 
the  pistol,  held  it  at  Diard's  head;  with  a  firm  grasp  on  his 
throat,  she  held  him  tightly  in  spite  of  his  cries,  fired,  and 
let  tiie  weapon  fall  to  the  ground. 

The  door  was  suddenly  flung  open  at  that  moment.  The 
public  prosecutor,  followed  by  a  magistrate  and  his  clerk,  a 


306  THE  MARANAS 

doctor,  and  the  gendarmes,  all  the  instruments  of  man's 
justice,  appeared  upon  the  scene. 

'^Yhat  do  you  want?"  she  asked. 

"Is  that  M.  Diard?"  answered  the  puhlic  prosecutor, 
pointing  to  the  body  lying  bent  double  upon  the  floor. 

*'Yes,  monsieur." 

"Your  dress  is  covered  with  blood,  madame " 

"Do  you  not  understand  how  it  is  ?"  asked  Juana. 

She  went  over  to  the  little  table  and  sat  down  there,  and 
took  up  the  volume  of  Cervantes ;  her  face  was  colorless ;  she 
strove  to  control  her  inward  nervous  agitation. 

"Leave  the  room,"  said  the  public  prosecutor  to  the  gen- 
darmes. He  made  a  sign  to  the  magistrate  and  the  doctor, 
and  they  remained. 

"Madame,  under  the  circumstances,  we  can  only  congratu- 
late you  on  your  husband's  death.  If  he  was  carried  away  by 
passion,  at  any  rate  he  has  died  like  a  soldier,  and  it  is 
vain  for  justice  to  pursue  him  now.  Yet  little  as  we  may 
desire  to  intrude  upon  you  at  such  a  time,  the  law  obliges 
us  to  inquire  into  a  death  by  violence.  Permit  us  to  do  our 
duty." 

"May  I  change  my  dress?"  she  asked,  laying  d^wn  the 
volume. 

"Yes,  madame,  but  you  must  bring  it  here.  The  doctor 
will  doubtless  require  it " 

"It  would  be  too  painful  to  Mme.  Diard  to  be  present  while 
I  go  through  my  task,"  said  the  doctor,  understanding  the 
public  prosecutor's  suspicions.  "Will  you  permit  her,  gen- 
tlemen, to  remain  in  the  adjoining  room  ?" 

The  two  functionaries  approved  the  kindly  doctor's  sug- 
gestion, aiid  Felicie  went  to  her  mistress.  Then  the  magis- 
trate and  the  public  prosecutor  spoke  together  for  awhile  in 
a  low  voice.  It  is  the  unhappy  lot  of  administrators  of  jus- 
tice to  be  in  duty  bound  to  suspect  everybody  and  everything. 
By  dint  of  imagining  evil  motives,  and  every  possible  com- 
bination that  they  may  bring  about,  so  as  to  discover  the 
truth  that  lurks  beneath  the  most  inconsistent  actions,  it 


THE  MAEANAS  301 

h  impossible  bnt  that  their  dreadful  office  should  in  course 
of  time  dr}'  up  the  source  of  the  generous  impulses  to  which 
they  may  never  yield.  If  the  sensibilities  of  the  surgeon 
who  explores  the  mysteries  of  the  body  are  blunted  by  de- 
grees, what  becomes  of  the  inner  sensibility  of  the  judge 
who  is  compelled  to  probe  the  intricate  recesses  of  the  human 
conscience?  Magistrates  are  the  first  victims  of  their  pro- 
fession; their  progress  is  one  perpetual  mourning  for  their 
lost  illusions,  and  the  crimes  that  hang  so  heavily  about  the 
necks  of  criminals  weigh  no  less  upon  their  judges.  An  old 
man  seated  in  the  tribunal  of  justice  is  sublime;  but  do  we 
not  shudder  to  see  a  young  face  there?  In  this  case  the 
magistrate  was  a  young  man,  and  it  was  his  duty  to  say  to  the 
public  prosecutor,  "Was  the  woman  her  husband's  accom- 
plice, do  you  think  ?  Must  we  take  proceedings  ?  Ought  she, 
in  your  opinion,  to  be  examined  ?" 

By  way  of  reply,  the  public  prosecutor  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders ;  apparently  it  was  a  matter  of  indifference. 

"Montefiore  and  Diard,"  he  remarked,  "were  a  pair  of 
notorious  scamps.  The  servant-girl  knew  nothing  about  the 
crime.    We  need  not  go  any  further." 

The  doctor  was  making  his  examination  of  Diard's  body, 
and  dictating  his  report  to  the  clerk.  Suddenly  he  rushed 
into  Juana's  room. 

"Madame " 

Juana,  who  had  changed  her  blood-stained  dress,  con- 
fronted the  doctor. 

"You  shot  your  husband,  did  you  not  ?"  he  asked,  bending 
to  say  the  words  in  her  ear. 

"Yes,  monsieur,"  the  Spaniard  answered. 

"And  from  circumstantial  evidence"  (the  doctor  went  on 
dictating)  "we  conclude  that  the  said  Diard  has  taJcen  his 
life  by  his  oivn,  act. — Have  you  finished?"  he  asked  the  cierk 
after  a  pause. 

"Yes,"  answered  the  scribe. 

The  doctor  put  his  signature  to  the  document.  Juana 
o-laneed  at  him,  aud  could  scarcely  keep  back  the  tears  that 
'Or  ii   inoir,?ut.  filled  her  eyes. 


308  THE  MARANAS 

'^Gentlemen/'  she  said,  as  she  turned  to  the  puhlic  prose- 
cutor, "I  am  a  stranger,  a  Spaniard.  I  do  not  know  the  law, 
I  know  no  one  in  Bordeaux.  I  entreat  you  to  dcf  me  this 
kindness,  will  you  procure  me  a  passport  for  Spain  ?" 

"One  moment !"  exclaimed  the  magistrate.  "Madame, 
what  has  become  of  the  sum  of  money  that  was  stolen  from 
the  Marquis  di  Montefiore?" 

"M.  Diard  said  something  about  a  heap  of  stones  beneath 
which  he  had  hidden  it,"  she  answered. 

"Where?" 

"In  the  street." 

The  two  functionaries  exchanged  glances.  Juana's  m- 
Toluntary  start  was  sublime.    She  appealed  to  the  doctor. 

"Can  they  suspect  me?"  she  said  in  his  ear;  "suspect  me 
of  some  villainy  ?  The  heap  of  stones  is  sure  to  be  somewhere 
at  the  end  of  the  garden.  Go  yourself,  I  beg  of  you,  and 
look  for  it  and  find  the  money." 

The  doctor  went,  accompanied  by  the  magistrate,  and 
found  Montefiore's  pocket-book. 

Two  days  later  Juana  sold  her  golden  cross  to  meet  the  ex- 
penses of  the  journey.  As  she  went  with  her  two  children 
to  the  diligence  in  which  they  were  about  to  travel  to  the 
Spanish  frontier,  some  one  called  her  name  in  the  street. 
It  was  her  dying  mother,  who  was  being  taken  to  the  hos- 
pital; she  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  daughter  through  a 
slit  in  the  curtains  of  the  stretcher  on  which  she  lay.  Juana 
bade  them  carry  the  stretcher  into  a  gateway,  and  there  for 
the  last  time  the  mother  and  daughter  met.  Low  as  their 
voices  were  while  they  spoke  together,  Juan  overheard  these 
words  of  farewell: 

"Mother,  die  in  peace;  I  have  suffered  for  you  all." 

Pakis.  November  VSS2. 


EL  VERDUGO 

To  Martinez  de  la  Ros-i 

Midnight  had  just  sounded  from  the  belfry  tower  of  the 
little  town  of  Menda.  A  young  Frenclt.  officer,  leaning  over 
the  parapet  of  the  long  terrace  at  the  further  end  of  the 
castle  gardens,  seemed  to  be  unusually  absorbed  in  deep 
thought  for  one  who  led  the  reckless  life  of  a  soldier;  but  it 
must  be  admitted  that  never  was  the  hour,  the  scene,  and  the 
night  more  favorable  to  meditation. 

The  blue  dome  of  the  cloudless  sky  of  Spain  was  overhead ; 
he  was  looking  out  over  the  coy  windings  of  a  lovely  valley 
lit  by  the  uncertain  starlight  and  the  soft  radiance  of  the 
moon.  The  officer,  leaning  against  an  orange-tree  in  blos- 
som, could  also  see,  a  hundred  feet  below  him,  the  town  of 
Menda,  which  seemed  to  nestle  for  shelter  from  the  north 
wind  at  the  foot  of  the  crags  on  which  the  castle  itself  was 
built.  He  turned  his  head  and  caught  sight  of  the  sea; 
the  moonlit  waves  made  a  broad  frame  of  silver  for  the  land- 
scape. 

There  were  lights  in  the  castle  windows.  The  mirth  and 
movement  of  a  ball,  the  sounds  of  the  violins,  the  laughter 
of  the  officers  and  their  partners  in  the  dance  was  borne  to- 
wards him,  and  blended  with  the  far-off  murmur  of  the 
waves.  The  cool  night  had  a  certain  bracing  effect  upon  his 
frame,  wearied  as  he  had  been  by  the  heat  of  the  day.  He 
seemed  to  bathe  in  the  air,  made  fragrant  by  the  strong, 
sweet  scent  of  flowers  and  of  aromatic  trees  in  the  gardens. 

The  castle  of  Menda  belonged  to  a  Spanish  grandee,  who 
was  living  in  it  at  that  time  with  his  family.  All  through 
the  evening  the  oldest  daughter  of  the  house  had  watched 
the  officer  with  such  a  wistful  interest  that  the  Spanish  lady's 


810  EL  VERDUGO 

compassionate  ej'es  might  well  have  set  the  3^oiing  Frencli' 
man  dreaming.  Clara  was  beautiful;  and  although  she  had 
three  brothers  and  a  sister,  the  broad  lands  of  the  Marques 
de  Leganes  appeared  to  be  sufficient  warrant  for  Victor 
Marchand's  belief  that  the  young  lady  would  have  a  splen- 
did dowr}^  But  how  could  he  dare  to  imagine  that  the  most 
fanatical  believer  in  blue  blood  in  all  Spain  would  give  his 
daughter  to  the  son  of  a  grocer  in  Paris?  Moreover,  the 
French  were  hated.  It  was  because  the  Marquis  had  been 
suspected  of  an  attempt  to  raise  the  country  in  favor  of 
Ferdinand  VII.  that  General  G ,  who  governed  the  prov- 
ince, had  stationed  Victor  Marchand's  battalion  in  the  little 
town  of  Menda  to  overawe  the  neighboring  districts  which 
received  the  Marques  de  Leganes'  word  as  law.  A  recent 
despatch  from  Marshal  Ney  had  given  ground  for  fear  that 
the  English  might  ere  long  effect  a  landing  on  the  coast, 
and  had  indicated  the  Marquis  as  being  in  correspondence 
with  the  Cabinet  in  London. 

In  spite,  therefore,  of  the  welcome  with  which  the  Span- 
iards had  received  Victor  Marchand  and  his  soldiers,  that 
^officer  was  always  on  his  guard.  As  he  went  towards  the 
terrace,  where  he  had  just  surveyed  the  town  and  the  dis- 
tricts confided  to  his  charge,  he  had  been  asking  himself 
what  construction  he  ought  to  put  upon  the  friendliness 
which  the  Marquis  had  invariably  shown  him,  and  how  to 
reconcile  the  apparent  tranquillity  of  the  country  with  his 
General's  uneasiness.  But  a  moment  later  these  thoughts 
were  driven  from  his  mind  by  the  instinct  of  caution  and 
very  legitimate  curiosity.  It  had  just  struck  him  that  there 
was  a  very  fair  number  of  lights  in  the  town  below.  Al- 
though it  was  the  Feast  of  Saint  James,  he  himself  had  is- 
sued orders  that  very  morning  that  all  lights  must  be  pui 
out  in  the  town  at  the  hour  prescribed  by  military  regula- 
tions. The  castle  alone  had  been  excepted  in  this  order. 
Plainly  here  and  there  he  saw  the  gleam  of  bayonets,  where, 
his  own  men  were  at  their  accustomed  posts;  but  in  the  town 
there  was  a  solemn  silence,  and  pot  a  sign  that  the  Spaniar(''s 


I 


EL  VERDUGO  311 

had  given  themselves  np  to  the  intoxication  of  a  festival. 
He  tried  vainly  for  awhile  to  explain  this  breach  of  the 
regulations  on  the  part  of  the  inhabitants;  the  mystery 
seemed  but  so  much  the  more  obscure  because  he  had  left 
instructions  with  some  of  his  officers  to  do  police  duty  that 
night,  and  make  the  rounds  of  the  town. 

With  the  impetuosity  of  youth,  he  was  about  to  spring 
through  a  gap  in  the  wall  preparatory  to  a  rapid  scramble 
down  the  rocks,  thinking  to  reach  a  small  guard-house  at  the 
nearest  entrance  into  the  town  more  quickly  than  by  the 
beaten  track,  when  a  faint  sound  stopped  him.  He  fancied 
that  he  could  hear  the  light  footstep  of  a  woman  along  the 
graveled  garden  walk.  He  turned  his  head  and  saw  no  one; 
for  one  moment  his  e3^es  were  dazzled  by  the  wonderful 
brightness  of  the  sea,  the  next  he  saw  a  sight  so  ominous 
that  he  stood  stock-still  with  amazement,  thinking  that  his 
senses  must  be  deceiving  him.  The  white  moonbeams 
lighted  the  horizon,  so  that  he  could  distinguish  the  sails  of 
s^ips  still  a  considerable  distance  out  at  sea.  A  shudder  ran 
through  him ;  he  tried  to  persuade  himself  that  this  was  some 
optical  illusion  brought  about  by  chance  effects  of  moon- 
light on  the  waves ;  and  even  as  he  made  the  attempt,  a  hoarse 
voice  called  to  him  by  name.  The  officer  glanced  at  the  gap 
m  the  wall;  saw  a  soldier's  head  slowly  emerge  from  it,  and 
knew  the  grenadier  whom  he  had  ordered  to  accompany  him 
to  the  castle. 

"Is  that  you,  Commandant?" 

'Tes.  What  is  it?"  returned  the  young  officer  in  a  lovd. 
voice.     A  kind  of  presentiment  warned  him  to  act  cautiously. 

"Those  beggars  down  there  are  creeping  about  like  worms ; 
and,  by  your  leave,  I  came  as  quickly  as  I  could  to  report  my 
little  reconnoitering  expedition." 

"Go  on,"  answered  Victor  Marchand. 

"I  have  just  been  following  a  man  from  the  castle  who 
came  round  this  way  with  a  lantern  in  his  hand.  A  lantern 
is  a  suspicious  matter  with  a  vengeance!  T  don't  imagine 
that  there  was  any  need  for  that  good  Christian  to  be  lighting 


312  EL  VERDUGO 

tapers  at  this  time  of  night.  Says  I  to  myself,  'They  mean 
to  gobble  us  up !'  and  I  set  myself  to  dogging  his  heels ;  and 
that  is  how  I  found  out  that  there  is  a  pile  of  faggots,  sir, 
two  or  three  steps  away  from  here." 

Suddenly  a  dreadful  shriek  rang  through  the  town  below, 
and  cut  the  man  short.  A  light  flashed  in  the  Commandant's 
face,  and  the  poor  grenadier  dropped  down  with  a  bullet 
through  his  head.  Ten  paces  away  a  bonfire  flared  up  like 
a  conflagration.  The  sounds  of  music  and  laughter  ceased 
all  at  once  in  the  ballroom ;  the  silence  of  death,  broken  only 
by  groans,  succeeded  to  the  rhythmical  murmur  of  the  fes- 
tival. Then  the  roar  of  cannon  sounded  from  across  the 
white  plain  of  the  sea. 

A  cold  sweat  broke  out  on  the  young  officer's  forehead.  He 
had  left  his  sword  behind.  He  knew  that  his  men  had  been 
murdered,  and  that  the  English  were  about  to  land.  He 
knew  that  if  he  lived  he  would  be  dishonored ;  he  saw  himself 
summoned  before  a  court-martial.  For  a  moment  his  eyes 
measured  the  depth  of  the  valley;  the  next,  Just  as  he  was 
about  to  spring  down,  Clara's  hand  caught  his.  *" 

"Fly!"  she  cried.  "My  brothers  are  coming  after  me  to 
kill  you.  Down  yonder  at  the  foot  of  the  cliff  you  will  find 
Juanito's  Andalusian.    Go !" 

She  thrust  him  away.  The  young  man  gazed  at  her  in 
dull  bewilderment ;  but  obeying  the  instinct  of  self-preserva- 
tion, which  never  deserts  even  the  bravest,  he  rushed  across 
the  park  in  the  direction  pointed  out  to  him,  springing  from 
rock  to  rock  in  places  unknown  to  any  save  the  goats.  He 
heard  Clara  calling  to  her  brothers  to  pursue  him;  he  heard 
their  balls  whistling  about  his  ears;  but  he  reached  the  foot 
of  the  cliff,  found  the  horse,  mounted,  and  fled  with  lightning 
speed. 

A  few  hours  later  the  young  officer  reached  General 
G 's  quarters,  and  found  iiim  at  dinner  with  the  staff. 

"I  put  my  life  in  your  bands !"  cried  the  haggard  and  ex- 
hausted Commandant  of  Menda. 


EL  VERDUGO  313 

He  sank  into  a  seat,  and  told  his  horrible  story.  It  was  re- 
ceived with  an  appall  mg  silence. 

"It  seems  to  me  that  you  are  more  to  be  pitied  than  to 
blame,"  the  terrible  General  said  at  last.  "You  are  not  an- 
swerable for  the  Spaniard's  crimes,  and  unless  the  Marshal 
decides  otherwise,  I  acquit  you." 

These  words  brought  but  cold  comfort  to  the  unfortunate 
officer. 

"When  the  Emperor  comes  to  hear  about  it !"  he  cried. 

"Oh,  he  will  be  for  having  you  shot,"  said  the  General, 
'TDut  we  shall  see.  Now  we  will  say  no  more  about  this," 
he  added  severely,  "except  to  plan  a  revenge  that  shall  strike 
a  salutary  terror  into  this  country,  where  they  carry  on  war 
like  savages." 

An  hour  later  a  whole  regiment,  a  detachment  of  cavalry, 
and  a  convoy  of  artillery  were  upon  the  road.  The  General 
and  Victor  marched  at  the  head  of  the  column.  The  soldiers 
had  been  told  of  the  fate  of  their  comrades,  and  their  rage 
knew  no  bounds.  The  distance  between  headquarters  and 
the  town  of  Menda  was  crossed  at  a  well-nigh  miraculous 
speed.  Whole  villages  by  the  way  were  found  to  be  under 
arms;  every  one  of  the  wretched  hamlets  was  surrounded, 
and  their  inhabitants  decimated. 

It  so  chanced  that  the  English  vessels  still  lay  out  at  sea, 
and  were  no  nearer  the  shore,  a  fact  inexplicable  until  it 
was  known  afterwards  that  they  were  artillery  transports 
which  had  outsailed  the  rest  of  the  fleet.  So  the  townsmen 
of  Menda,  left  without  the  assistance  on  which  they  had 
reckoned  when  the  sails  of  the  English  appeared,  were  sur- 
rounded by  French  troops  almost  before  they  had  had  time 
to  strike  a  blow.  This  struck  such  terror  into  them  that 
they  offered  to  surrender  at  discretion.  An  impulse  of  de 
votion,  no  isolated  instance  in  the  history  of  the  Peninsula, 
led  the  actual  slayers  of  the  French  to  offer  to  give  them- 
selves up;  seeking  in  this  way  to  save  the  town,  for  from  the 
General's  reputation  for  cruelty  it  was  feared  that  he  would 
give  Menda  over  to  the  flames,  and  put  the  whole  popula- 


814  EL  VERDUGO 

tion  to  the  sword.  General  G took  their  offer,  stipulat- 
ing that  every  soul  in  the  castle,  from  the  lowest  servant  to 
the  Marquis,  should  likewise  be  given  up  to  him.  These 
terms  being  accepted,  the  General  promised  to  spare  the  lives 
of  the  rest  of  the  townsmen,  and  to  prohibit  his  soldiers 
from  pillaging  or  setting  fire  to  the  to\^Ti.  A  heavy  con- 
tribution was  levied,  and  the  wealthiest  inhabitants  were 
taken  as  hostages  to  guarantee  payment  within  twenty-four 
hours. 

The  General  took  every  necessary  precaution  for  the  safety 
of  his  troops,  provided  for  the  defence  of  the  place,  and  re- 
fused to  billet  his  men  in  the  houses  of  the  town.  After  they 
had  bivouacked,  he  went  up  to  the  castle  and  entered  it  as 
a  conqueror.  The  whole  family  of  the  Legahes  and  their 
household  were  gagged,  shut  up  in  the  great  ballroom,  and 
closely  watched.  From  the  windows  it  was  easy  to  see  the 
whole  length  of  the  terrace  above  the  town. 

The  staff  was  established  -in  an  adjoining  gallery,  where 
the  General  forthwith  held  a  council  as  to  the  best  means 
of  preventing  the  landing  of  the  English.  An  aide-de-camp 
was  despatched  to  Marshal  Ney,  orders  were  issued  to  plant 
batteries  along  the  coast,  and  then  the  General  and  his  staff 
turned  their  attention  to  their  prisoners.  The  two  hundred 
Spaniards  given  up  by  the  townsfolk  were  shot  down  then 
and  there  upon  the  terrace.  And  after  this  military  execu- 
tion, the  General  gave  orders  to  erect  gibbets  to  the  number 
of  the  prisoners  in  the  ballroom  in  the  same  place,  and  to 
send  for  the  hangman  out  of  the  town.  Victor  took  advan- 
tage of  the  interval  before  dinner  to  pay  a  visit  to  the  prison- 
ers.    He  soon  came  back  to  the  General. 

"I  am  come  in  haste,"  he  faltered  out,  *^to  ask  a  favor." 

"You!"  efxclaimed  the  General,  with  bitter  irony  in  his 
tones. 

"Alas!"  answered  Victor,  "it  is  a  sorry  favor.  The  Mar- 
quis has  seen  them  erecting  the  gallows,  and  hopes  that  you 
will  commute  the  punishment  for  his  family;  he  entreats  you 
to  have  the  nobles  beheaded." 


EL  VERDUGO  BIC 

"Granted/'  said  the  General. 

"He  further  asks  that  they  may  bo  allowed  the  consolations 
of  religion,  and  that  they  may  be  unbound;  they  give  you 
their  word  that  they  will  not  attempt  to  escape." 

"That  I  permit/'  said  the  General,  "but  you  are  answer- 
able for  them." 

"The  old  noble  offers  you  all  that  he  has  if  you  will  pardon 
his  youngest  son." 

"EeallyP  cried  the  Commander.  "His  property  is  forfeit 
already  to  King  Joseph."  He  paused;  a  contemptuous 
thought  set  wrinkles  in  his  forehead,  as  he  added,  "I  will  do 
better  than  they  ask.  I  understand  what  he  means  by  that 
last  request  of  his.  Very  good.  Let  him  hand  down  his 
name  to  posterity;  but  whenever  it  is  mentioned,  all  Spain 
shall  remember  his  treason  and  its  punishment !  I  will  give 
the  fortune  and  his  life  to  any  one  of  the  sons  who  will  do 
the  executioner's  office.  .  .  .  TherC;,  don't  talk  any  more 
about  them  to  me." 

Dinner  was  ready.  The  officers  sat  down  to  satisfy  an 
appetite  whetted  by  hunger.  Only  one  among  them  was 
absent  from  the  table — that  one  was  Victor  Marchand.  After 
long  hesitation,  he  went  to  the  ballroom,  and  heard  the  last 
sighs  of  the  proud  house  of  Legaiies.  He  looked  sadly  at 
the  scene  before  him.  Only  last  night,  in  this  very  room, 
lie  had  seen  their  faces  whirled  past  him  in  the  waltz,  and 
he  shuddered  to  think  that  those  girlish  heads  with  those  of 
the  three  young  brothers  must  fall  in  a  brief  space  by  the 
executioner's  sword.  There  sat  the  father  and  mother,  their 
three  sons  and  two  daughters,  perfectly  motionless,  bound  to 
their  gilded  chairs.  Eight  serving  men  stood  with  their 
hands  tied  behind  them.  These  fifteen  prisoners,  under  sen- 
tence of  death,  exchanged  grave  glances;  it  was  difficult  to 
read  the  thoughts  that  filled  them  from  their  eyes,  but  pro- 
found resignation  and  regret  that  their  enterprise  should 
have  failed  so  completely  was  written  on  more  than  one 
brow. 

The  impassive  soldiers  who  guarded  them  respected  the 


316  EL  VERDUGO 

^rief  of  their  bitter  enemies.  A  gleam  of  curiosity  lighted 
up  all  faces  when  Victor  came  in.  He  gave  orders  that  the 
condemned  prisoners  should  be  unbound,  and  himself  un- 
astened  the  cords  that  held  Clara  a  prisoner.  She  smiled 
'ournfully  at  him.  The  officer  could  not  refrain  from 
iuhtly  touching  the  young  girl's  arm;  he  could  not  help 
admiring  her  dark  hair,  her  slender  waist.  She  was  a  true 
daughter  of  Spain,  with  a  Spanish  complexion,  a  Spaniard's 
eyes,  blacker  than  the  raven's  wing  beneath  their  long  curv- 
ing lashes. 

"Did  you  succeed?"  she  asked,  with  a  mournful  smile,  in 
which  a  certain  girlish  charm  still  lingered. 

Victor  could  not  repress  a  groan.  He  looked  from  the 
faces  of  the  three  brothers  to  Clara,  and  again  at  the  three 
young  Spaniards.  The  first,  the  oldest  of  the  family,  was 
a  man  of  thirty.  He  was  short,  and  somewhat  ill-made;  he 
looked  haughty  and  proud,  but  a  certain  distinction  was  not 
lacking  in  his  bearing,  and  he  was  apparently  no  stranger 
to  the  delicacy  of  feeling  for  which  in  olden  times  the  chiv- 
alry of  Spain  was  famous.  His  name  was  Juanito.  The 
second  son,  Felipe,  was  about  twenty  years  of  age;  he  was 
like  his  sister  Clara ;  and  the  youngest  was  a  child  of  eight. 
In  the  features  of  the  little  Manuel  a  painter  would  have 
discerned  something  of  that  Eoman  steadfastness  which 
David  has  given  to  the  children's  faces  in  his  Eepublican 
genre  pictures.  The  old  Marquis,  with  his  white  hair,  might 
have  come  down  from  some  canvas  of  Murillo's.  Victor 
threw  back  his  head  in  despair  after  this  survey ;  how  should 
one  of  these  accept  the  General's  offer !  Nevertheless  he  ven- 
j,ured  to  intrust  it  to  Clara.  A  shudder  ran  through  the 
Spanish  girl,  but  she  recovered  herself  almost  instantly,  and 
knelt  before  her  father. 

"Father,"  she  said,  'Tjid  Juanito  swear  to  obey  the  com- 
mands that  you  shall  give  him,  and  we  shall  be  content." 

The  Marquesa  trembled  with  hope,  but  as  she  leant  to- 
wards her  husband  and  learned  Clara's  hideous  secret,  the 
mother  fainted  away.     Juanito  understood  it  all  and  leact 


EL  VERDUGO  317 

up  like  a  caged  lion.  Victor  took  it  upon  himself  to  dismiss 
the  soldiers,  after  receiving  an  assurance  of  entire  submission 
from  the  Marquis.  The  servants  were  led  away  and  given 
over  to  the  hangman  and  their  fate.  When  only  Victor  re- 
mained on  guard  in  the  room,  the  old  Marques  de  Leganes 
rose  to  his  feet. 

"Juanito,"  he  said.  For  all  answer  Juanito  howed  his  head 
in  a  way  that  meant  refusal ;  he  sank  down  into  his  chair,  and, 
fixed  tearless  eyes  upon  his  father  and  mother  in  an  intol- 
erable gaze.  Clara  went  over  to  him  and  sat  on  his  knee ;  she 
put  her  arms  about  him,  and  pressed  kisses  on  his  eyelids, 
saying  gaily: 

"Dear  Juanito,  if  you  bnt  knew  how  sweet  death  at  your 
hands  will  be  to  me !  I  shall  not  be  compelled  to  submit 
to  the  hateful  touch  of  the  hangman's  fingers.  You  will 
snatch  me  away  from  the  evils  to  come  and  .  .  .  Dear, 
kind  Juanito,  you  could  not  bear  the  thought  of  my  belonging 
to  any  one — well,  then?" 

The  velvet  eyes  gave  Victor  a  burning  glance;  she  seemed 
to  try  to  awaken  in  Juanito's  heart  his  hatred  for  the  French. 

"Take  courage,"  said  his  brother  Felipe,  "or  our  well-nigh 
royal  line  will  be  extinct." 

Suddenly  Clara  sprang  to  her  feet.  The  group  round 
Juanito  fell  back,  and  the  son  who  had  rebelled  with  such 
good  reason  was  confronted  with  his  aged  father. 

"Juanito,  I  command  you !"  said  the  Marquis  solemnly. 

The  young  Count  gave  no  sign,  and  his  father  fell  on  his 
knees;  Clara,  Manuel,  and  Felipe  unconsciously  followed 
his  example,  stretching  out  suppliant  hands  to  him  who  must 
save  their  family  from  oblivion,  and  seeming  to  echo  their 
father's  words. 

"Can  it  be  that  you  lack  the  fortitude  of  a  Spaniard  and 
true  sensibility,  my  son?  Do  you  mean  to  keep  me  on  my 
knees?  What  right  have  you  to  think  of  your  own  life  and 
of  your  own  sufferings? — Is  this  my  son,  madame?"  the  old 
Marquis  added,  turning  to  his  wife. 

"He  will  consent  to  it,"  cried  the  mother  in  agony  of  soul 


318  EL  VERDDGO 

She  had  seen  a  slight  contraction  of  Juanito's  brows  which 
she,  his  mother,  alone  understood. 

Mariquita,  the  second  daughter,  knelt,  with  her  slender 
clinging  arms  about  her  mother;  the  hot  tears  fell  from  her 
eyes,  and  her  little  brother  Manuel  upbraided  her  for  weep- 
ing. Just  at  that  moment  the  castle  chaplain  came  in;  th; 
whole  family  surrounded  him  and  led  him  up  to  Juanito. 
•Victor  felt  that  he  could  endure  the  sight  no  longer,  and  with 
a  sign  to  Clara  he  hurried  from  the  room  to  make  one  last 
effort  for  them.  He  found  the  General  in  boisterous  spirits ; 
the  officers  were  still  sitting  over  their  dinner  and  drinking 
together;  the  wine  had  loosened  their  tongues. 

An  hour  later,  a  hundred  of  the  principal  citizens  of  Menda 
were  summoned  to  the  terrace  by  the  General's  orders  to 
witness  the  execution  of  the  family  of  Legaiies.  A  detach- 
ment had  been  told  off  to  keep  order  among  the  Spanish 
townsfolk,  who  were  marshaled  beneath  the  gallows  whereon 
the  Marquis'  servants  hung ;  the  feet  of  those  martyrs  of  their 
cause  all  but  touched  the  citizens'  heads.  Thirty  paces  away 
stood  the  block ;  the  blade  of  a  scimitar  glittered  upon  it,  and 
the  executioner  stood  by  in  case  Juanito  should  refuse  at  the 
last. 

The  deepest  silence  prevailed,  but  before  long  it  was  broken 
by  the  sound  of  many  footsteps,  the  measured  tramp  of  a 
picket  of  soldiers,  and  the  jingling  of  their  weapons.  Min- 
gled with  these  came  other  noises — loud  talk  and  laughter 
from  the  dinner-table  where  the  officers  were  sitting;  just 
as  the  music  and  the  sound  of  the  dancers'  feet  had  drowned 
the  preparations  for  last  night's  treacherous  butchery. 

All  eyes  turned  to  the  castle,  and  beheld  the  family  of 
nobles  coming  forth  with  incredible  composure  to  their  death. 
Every  brow  was  serene  and  calm.  One  alone  among  them, 
haggard  and  overcome,  leant  on  the  arm  of  the  priest,  who 
poured  forth  all  the  Consolations  of  religion  for  the  one  mai. 
who  was  condemned  to  live.  Then  the  executioner,  like  tlic 
spectators,  knew  that  Juanito  had  consented  to  perform  his 
office  for  a  day.     The  old  Marquis  and  his  wife,  Clara  and 


BL  VERDUGO  819 

llariqnita,  and  their  two  brothers  knelt  a  few  paces  from  the 
fatal  spot.  Juanito  reached  it,  guided  by  the  priest.  As  he 
stood  at  the  block  the  executioner  plucked  him  by  the  sleeve, 
and  took  him  aside,  probably  to  give  him  certain  instructions. 
The  confessor  so  placed  the  victims  that  they  could  not  wit- 
ness the  executions,  but  one  and  all  stood  upright  and  fear- 
less, like  Spaniards,  as  they  were. 

Clara  sprang  to  her  brother's  side  before  the  others. 

"Juanito,"  she  said  to  him,  "be  merciful  to  my  lack  of 
courage.    Take  me  first !" 

As  she  spoke,  the  footsteps  of  a  man  running  at  full  speed 
echoed  from  the  walls,  and  Victor  appeared  upon  the  scene. 
Clara  was  kneeling  before  the  block ;  her  white  neck  seemed  to 
appeal  to  the  blade  to  fall.  The  officer  turned  faint,  but  he 
found  strength  to  rush  to  her  side. 

"The  General  grants  you  your  life  if  you  will  consent  to 
marry  me,"  he  murmured. 

The  Spanish  girl  gave  the  officer  a  glance  full  of  proud 
disdain. 

"Now,  Juanito !"  she  said  in  her  deep-toned  voice. 

Her  head  fell  at  Victor's  feet.  A  shudder  ran  through  the 
Marquesa  de  Leganes,  a  convulsive  tremor  that  she  could  not 
control,  but  she  gave  no  other  sign  of  her  anguish. 

"Is  this  where  I  ought  to  be,  dear  Juanito?  Is  it  all 
right  ?"  little  Manuel  asked  his  brother. 

"Oh,  Mariquita,  you  are  weeping !"  Juanito  said  when  his 
sister  came. 

"Yes,"  said  the  girl ;  "I  am  thinking  of  you,  poor  Juanito ; 
how  unhappy  you  will  be  when  we  are  gone." 

Then  the  Marquis'  tall  figure  approached.  He  looked  at 
the  block  where  his  children's  blood  had  been  shed,  turned  to 
the  mute  and  motionless  crowd,  and  said  in.  a  loud  voice  as 
he  stretched  out  his  hands  to  Juanito: 

"Spaniards !  I  give  my  son  a  father's  blessing. — Now, 
Marquis,  strike  'without  fear;'  thou  art  Vithout  reproach.'" 

But  when  his  mother  came  near,  leaning  on  the  confessor's 
arm — "She  fed  me  from  her  breast !"  Juanito  cried,  in  tones 


320  EL  VERDUGO 

that  drew  a  cry  of  horror  from  the  crowd.  The  uproarious 
mirth  of  the  officers  over  their  wine  died  away  before  that 
terrible  cry.  The  Marquesa  knew  that  Juanito's  courage  was 
exhausted;  at  one  bound  she  sprang  to  the  balustrade,  leapt 
forth,  and  was  dashed  to  pieces  on  the  rocks  below.  A  cry 
of  admiration  broke  from  the  spectators.     Juanito  swooned. 

"General,"  said  an  officer,  half  drunk  by  this  time,  "Mar- 
chand  has  just  been  telling  me  something  about  this  execu- 
tion ;  I  will  wager  that  it  was  not  by  your  orders " 

"Are  you  forgetting,  gentlemen,  that  in  a  month's  time 
five  hundred  families  in  France  will  be  in  mourning,  and  that 

we  are  still  in  Spain?"  cried  General  G .    "Do  you  want 

us  to  leave  our  bones  here?" 

But  not  a  man  at  the  table,  not  even  a  subaltern,  dared  to 
empty  his  glass  after  that  speech. 

In  spite  of  the  respect  in  which  all  men  hold  the  Marques 
de  Legaiies,  in  spite  of  the  title  of  El  Verdugo  (the  execu- 
tioner) conferred  upon  him  as  a  patent  of  nobility  by  the 
King  of  Spain,  the  great  noble  is  consumed  by  a  gnawing 
grief.  He  lives  a  retired  life,  and  seldom  appears  in  public. 
The  burden  of  his  heroic  crime  weighs  heavily  upon  him, 
and  he  seems  to  wait  impatiently  till  the  birth  of  a  second  son 
shall  release  him,  and  he  may  go  to  join  the  Shades  that  never 
cease  to  haunt  hinx, 

Pabis,  October  1830. 


FAREWELL 

To  Prince  Friedrich  von  Schwarzenherg 

"Come,  Deputy  of  the  Centre,  come  along!  We  shall  have 
to  mend  our  pace  if  we  mean  to  sit  down  to  dinner  when 
every  one  else  does,  and  that's  a  fact !  Hurry  up !  Jump, 
Marquis  !  That's  it !  Well  done !  You  are  bounding  over 
the  furrows  just  like  a  stag !" 

These  words  were  uttered  by  a  sportsman  seated  much  at 
his  ease  on  the  outskirts  of  the  Foret  de  I'lsle-Adam ;  he  had 
just  finished  a  Havana  cigar,  which  he  had  smoked  while 
he  waited  for  his  companion,  who  had  evidently  been  straying 
about  for  some  time  among  the  forest  undergrowth.  Four 
panting  dogs  by  the  speaker's  side  likewise  watched  the  prog- 
ress of  the  personage  for  whose  benefit  the  remarks  were 
made.  To  make  their  sarcastic  import  fuJly  clear,  it  should 
be  added  that  the  second  sportsman  was  both  short  and  stout ; 
his  ample  girth  indicated  a  truly  magisterial  corpulence,  and 
in  consequence  his  progress  across  the  furrows  was  by  no 
means  easy.  He  was  striding  over  a  vast  field  of  stubble ;  the 
dried  corn-stalks  underfoot  added  not  a  little  to  the  difficul- 
ties of  his  passage,  and  to  add  to  his  discomforts,  the  genial 
influence  of  the  sun  that  slanted  into  his  eyes  brought  great 
drops  of  perspiration  into  his  face.  The  uppermost  thought 
in  his  mind  being  a  strong  desire  to  keep  his  balance,  he 
lurched  to  and  fro  much  lilje  a  coach  jolted  over  an  atrocious 
foad. 

It  was  one  of  those  September  days  of  almost  tropical 
heat  that  finishes  the  work  of  summer  and  ripens  the  grapes. 
Such  heat  forebodes  a  coming  storm ;  and  though  as  yet  there 
were  wide  patches  of  blue  between  the  dark  rain-clouds  low 
down  on  the  horizon,  pale  golden  masses  were  rising  and 


322  FAREWELL 

scattering  with  ominous  swiftness  from  west  to  east,  and 
drawing  a  shadowy  veil  across  the  sky  The  wind  was  still, 
save  in  the  upper  regions  of  the  air,  so  that  the  weight  of  the 
atmosphere  seem^ed  to  compress  the  steamy  heat  of  the  earth 
into  the  forest  glades.  The  tall  forest  trees  shut  out  every 
breath  of  air  so  completely  that  the  little  valley  across  which 
the  sportsman  was  making  his  way  was  as  hot  as  a  furnace ; 
the  silent  forest  seemed  parched  with  the  fiery  heat.  Birds 
and  insects  were  mute ;  the  topmost  twigs  of  the  trees  swayed 
with  scarcely  perceptible  motion.  Any  one  who  retains  some 
recollection  of  the  summer  of  1819  must  surely  compassionate 
the  plight  of  the  hapless  supporter  of  the  ministry  who  toiled 
and  sweated  over  the  stuhble  to  rejoin  his  satirical  comrade. 
That  gentleman,  as  he  smoked  his  cigar,  had  arrived,  by  a 
process  of  calculation  based  on  the  altitude  of  the  sun,  to  the 
conclusion  that  it  must  be  about  five  o'clock. 

"Where  the  devil  are  we  ?"  asked  the  stout  sportsman.  He 
wiped  his  brow  as  he  spoke,  and  propped  himself  against  a 
tree  in  the  field  opposite  his  companion,  feeling  quite  unequal 
to  clearing  the  broad  ditch  that  lay  between  them. 

"And  you  ask  that  question  of  me!"  retorted  the  other, 
laughing  from  his  bed  of  tall  brown  grasses  on  the  top  of  the 
hank.  He  flung  the  end  of  his  cigar  into  the  ditch,  exclaim- 
ing, "I  swear  by .  Saint  Hubert  that  no  one  shall  catch  me 
risking  myself  again  in  a  country  that  I  don't  know  with  a 
magistrate,  even  if,  like  you,  my  dear  d'Albon,  he  happens  to 
be  an  old  schoolfellow." 

*^hy,  Philip,  have  you  really  forgotten  your  own  lan- 
guage? You  surely  must  have  left  3'our  wits  behind  you  in 
Siberia,"  said  the  stouter  of  the  two,  with  a  glance  half-comic, 
half-pathetic  at  a  guide-post  distant  about  a  hundred  paces 
from  them. 

"I  understand,"  replied  the  one  addressed  as  Philip.  He 
snatched  up  his  rifle,  suddenly  sprang  to  his  feet,  made  but 
one  jump  of  it  into  the  field,  and  rushed  off  to  the  guide-post. 
"This  way,  d'Albon,  here  you  are !  left  about !"  he  shouted, 
gesticulating  in  the  direction  of  the  highroad.     "To  Baillet 


FAREWELL  323 

and  VIsle-Adam!"  he  went  on;  "so  if  we  go  along  here,  we 
shall  be  sure  to  come  upon  the  cross-road  to  Cassan." 

"Quite  right,  Colonel,"  said  M.  d'Albon,  putting  the  cap 
with  which  he  had  been  fanning  himself  back  on  his  head. 

"Then  forward!  highly  respected  Councillor,"  returned 
Colonel  Philip,  whistling  to  the  dogs,  that  seemed  already 
to  obey  him  rather  than  the  magistrate  their  master. 

"Are  you  aware,  my  lord  Marquis,  that  two  leagues  yet 
remain  before  us?"  inquired  the  malicious  soldier.  "That 
village  down  yonder  must  be  Baillet." 

"Great  heavens !"  cried  the  Marquis  d'Albon.  "Go  on  to 
Cassan  by  all  means,  if  you  like;  but  if  you  do,  you  will  go 
alone.  I  prefer  to  wait  here,  storm  or  no  storm;  you  can 
send  a  horse  for  me  from  the  chateau.  You  have  been  mak- 
ing game  of  me,  Sucy.  We  were  to  have  a  nice  day's  sport  by 
ourselves;  we  were  not  to  go  very  far  from  Cassan,  and  go 
over  ground  that  I  knew.  Pooh !  instead  of  a  day's  fun, 
you  have  kept  me  running  like  a  greyhound  since  four  o'clock 
this  morning,  and  nothing  but  a  cup  or  two  of  milk  by  way 
of  breakfast.  Oh!  if  ever  you  find  yourself  in  a  court  of 
law,  I  will  take  care  that  the  day  goes  against  you  if  you 
were  in  the  right  a  hundred  times  over." 

The  dejected  sportsman  sat  himself  down  on  one  of  the 
stumps  at  the  foot  of  the  guide-post,  disencumbered  himself 
of  his  rifle  and  empty  game-bag,  and  heaved  a  prolonged 
sigh. 

"Oh,  France,  behold  thy  Deputies !"  laughed  Colonel  de 
Sucy.  "Poor  old  d'Albon ;  if  you  had  spent  six  months  at 
the  other  end  of  Siberia  as  T  did     .     .     ." 

He  broke  off,  and  his  eyes  sought  the  sky,  as  if  the  story 
of  his  troubles  was  a  secret  between  himself  and  God. 

"Come,  march !"  he  added.  "If  you  once  sit  down,  it  is  all 
over  with  you." 

"I  can't  help  it,  Philip !  It  is  such  an  old  habit  in  a 
magistrate !  I  am  dead  beat,  upon  my  honor.  If  I  had  only 
bagged  one  hare  though  !" 

Two  men  more  different  are  seldom  seen  together.     The 


324  FAREWELL 

civilian,  a  man  of  forty-two,  seemed  scarcely  more  than 
thirty;  while  the  soldier,  at  thirty  years  of  age,  looked  to  be 
forty  at  the  least.  Both  wore  the  red  rosette  that  proclaimed 
them  to  be  officers  of  the  Legion  of  Honor.  A  few  locks  of 
hair,  mingled  white  and  black,  like  a  magpie's  wing,  had 
strayed  from  beneath  the  Colonel's  cap;  while  thick,  fair 
curls  clustered  about  the  magistrate's  temples.  The  Colonel 
was  tall,  spare,  dried  up,  but  muscular;  the  lines  in  his  pale 
face  told  a  tale  of  vehement  passions  or  of  terrible  sorrows; 
but  his  comrade's  jolly  countenance  beamed  with  health,  and 
would  have  done  credit  to  an  Epicurean.  Both  men  were 
deeply  sunburnt.  Their  high  gaiters  of  brown  leather  car- 
ried souvenirs  of  every  ditch  and  swamp  that  they,  crossed 
that  day. 

"Come,  come,"  cried  M.  de  Sucy,  "forward !  One  short 
hour's  march,  and  we  shall  be  at  Cassan  with  a  good  dinner 
before  us." 

"You  never  were  in  love,  that  is  positive,"  returned  the 
Councillor,  with  a  comically  piteous  expression.  "You  are  as 
inexorable  as  x^rticle  304  of  the  Penal  Code !" 

Philip  de  Sucy  shuddered  violently.  Deep  lines  appeared 
in  his  broad  forehead,  his  face  was  overcast  like  the  sky 
above  them ;  but  though  his  features  seemed  to  contract  with 
the  pain  of  an  intolerably  bitter  meraor}^,  no  tears  came  to 
his  eyes.  Like  all  men  of  strong  character,  he  possessed  the 
power  of  forcing  his  emotions  down  into  some  inner  depth, 
and,  perhaps,  like  many  reserved  natures,  he  shrank  from 
laying  bare  a  wound  too  deep  for  any  words  of  human 
speech,  and  winced  at  the  thought  of  ridicule  from  those  who 
do  not  care  to  understand.  M.  d'Albon  was  one  of  those  who 
are  keenly  sensitive  by  nature  to  the  distress  of  others,  whc 
feel  at  once  the  pain  they  have  unwittingly  given  by  some 
blunder.  He  respected  his  friend's  mood,  rose  to  his  feet,  for- 
got his  weariness,  and  followed  in  silence,  thoroughly  an- 
noyed with  himself  for  having  touched  on  a  wound  that 
seemed  not  yet  healed. 

"Some  day  I  will  tell  you  my  story,"  Philip  said  at  last, 


FAREWELI.  325 

WTinging  his  friend's  hand,  while  he  acknowledged  his  dumb 
repentance  with  a  heart-rending  glance.    "To-day  I  cannot." 

They  walked  on  in  silence.  As  the  Colonel's  distress  passed 
off  the  Councillor's  fatigue  returned.  Instinctively,  or  rather 
urged  by  weariness,  his  eyes  explored  the  depths  of  the  forest 
around  them;  he  looked  high  and  low  among  the  trees,  and 
gazed  along  the  avenues,  hoping  to  discover  some  dwelling 
where  he  might  ask  for  hospitality.  They  reached  a  place 
where  several  roads  met ;  and  the  Councillor,  fancying  that  he 
saw  a  thin  film  of  smoke  rising  through  the  trees,  made  a 
stand  and  looked  sharply  about  him.  He  caught  a  glimpse 
of  the  dark  green  branches  of  some  firs  among  the  other 
forest  trees,  and  finally,  "A  house !  a  house !"  he  shouted. 
No  sailor  could  have  raised  a  cry  of  "Land  ahead !"  more 
joyfully  than  he. 

He  plunged  at  once  into  undergrowth,  somewhat  of  the 
thickest;  and  the  Colonel,  who  had  fallen  into  deep  musings, 
followed  him  unheedingly. 

"I  would  rather  have  an  omelette  here  and  home-made 
bread,  and  a  chair  to  sit  down  in,  than  go  further  for  a  sofa, 
truffles,  and  Bordeaux  wine  at  Cassan." 

This  outburst  of  enthusiasm  on  the  Councillor's  part  was 
caused  by  the  sight  of  the  whitened  wall  of  a  house  in  the 
distance,  standing  out  in  strong  contrast  against  the  brown 
masses  of  knotted  tree-trunks  in  the  forest. 

"Aha !  This  used  to  be  a  priory,  I  should  say,"  the  Mar- 
quis d'Albon  cried  once  more,  as  they  stood  before  a  grim 
old  gateway.  Through  the  grating  they  could  see  the  house 
itself  standing  in  the  midst  of  some  considerable  extent  of 
park  land;  from  the  style  of  the  architecture  it  appeared  to 
have  been  a  monastery  once  upon  a  time. 

"Those  knowing  rascals  of  monks  knew  how  to  choose  a 
site !" 

This  last  exclamation  was  caused  by  the  magistrate's 
amazement  at  the  romantic  hermitage  before  his  eyes.  The 
house  had  been  built  on  a  spot  half-way  up  the  hillside  on 
the  slope  below  the  village  of  Nerville,  which  crowned  the 


B26  FAREWELL 

summit.  A  huge  circle  of  great  oak-trees,  Tnindreds  of  years 
old,  guarded  the  solitary  place  from  intrusion.  There  ap- 
peared to  be  about  forty  acres  of  the  park.  The  main  build- 
ing of  the  monastery  faced  the  south,  and  stood  in  a  space  of 
green  meadow,  picturesquely  intersected  by  several  tiny  clear 
streams,  and  by  larger  sheets  of  water  so  di£posed  as  to  have 
a  natural  effect.  Shapely  trees  with  contrasting  foliage  grew 
here  and  there.  Grottos  had  been  ingeniously  contrived ;  and 
broad  terraced  walks,  now  in  ruin,  though  the  steps  were 
broken  and  the  balustrades  eaten  through  with  rust,  gave  to 
this  sylvan  Thebaid  a  certain  character  of  its  own.  The  art 
of  man  and  the  picturesqueness  of  nature  had  wrought  to- 
gether to  produce  a  charming  effect.  Human  passions  surely 
could  not  cross  that  boundary  of  tall  oak-trees  which  shut 
out  the  sounds  of  the  outer  world,  and  screened  the  fierce 
heat  of  the  sun  from  this  forest  sanctuary. 

"What  neglect !"  said  M.  d'Albon  to  himself,  after  the  first 
sense  of  delight  in  the  melancholy  aspect  of  the  ruins  in  the 
landscape,  which  seemed  blighted  by  a  curse. 

It  was  like  some  haunted  spot,  shunned  of  men.  The 
twisted  ivy  stems  clambered  everywhere,  hiding  everything 
away  beneath  a  luxuriant  green  mantle.  Moss  and  lichens, 
brown  and  gray,  yellow  and  red,  covered  the  trees  with  fan- 
tastic patches  of  color,  grew  upon  the  benches  in  the  garden, 
overran  the  roof  and  the  walls  of  the  house.  The  window- 
sashes  were  weather-worn  and  warped  with  age,  the  balconies 
were  dropping  to  pieces,  the  terraces  in  ruins.  Here  and  there 
the  folding  shutters  hung  by  a  single  hinge.  The  crazy  doors 
would  have  given  way  at  the  first  attempt  to  force  an  en- 
trance. 

Out  in  the  orchard  the  neglected  fruit-trees  were  running 
to  woox}.  the  rambling  branches  bore  no  fruit  save  the  glisten- 
ing mi;;ti-Hoe  berries,  and  tall  plants  were  growing  in  the 
garden  walks.  All  this  forlornness  shed  a  charm  across  the 
picture  that  wrought  on  the  spectator's  mind  Avith  an  influ- 
ence like  that  of  some  enchajiting  poem,  filling  his  soul  with 
dreamy  fancies.     A  poet  must  have  lingered  there  in  deep 


FAREWELL  327 

and  melancholy  musings,  marveling  at  the  harmony  of  this 
wilderness,  where  decay  had  a  certain  grace  of  its  own. 

In  a  moment  a  few  gleams  of  sunlight  struggled  through 
a  rift  in  the  clouds,  and  a  shower  of  colored  light  fell  over  the 
wild  garden.  The  brown  tiles  of  the  roof  glowed  in  the 
light,  the  mosses  took  bright  hues,  strange  shadows  played 
over  the  grass  beneath  the  trees;  the  dead  autumn  tints  grew 
vivid,  bright  unexpected  contrasts  were  evoked  by  the  light, 
every  leaf  stood  out  sharply  in  the  clear,  thin  air.  Then  all 
at  once  the  sunlight  died  away,  and  the  landscape  that  seemed 
to  have  spoken  grew  silent  and  gloomy  again,  or  rather,  it 
took  gray  soft  tones  like  the  tenderest  hues  of  autumn  dusk. 

"It  is  the  palace  of  the  Sleeping  Beauty,'.'  the  Councillor 
said  to  himself  (he  had  already  begun  to  look  at  the  place 
from  the  point  of  view  of  an  owner  of  property).  "Whom 
can  the  place  belong  to,  I  wonder.  He  must  be  a  great  fool 
not  to  live  on  such  a  charming  little  estate !" 

Just  at  that  moment,  a  woman  sprang  out  from  under 
a  walnut  tree  on  the  right-hand  side  of  the  gateway,  and 
passed  before  the  Councillor  as  noiselessly  and  swiftly  as  the 
shadow  of  a  cloud.  This  apparition  struck  him  dumb  with 
amazement. 

"Hallo,  d'Albon,  what  is  the  matter?"  asked  the  Colonel. 

"I  am  rubbing  my  eyes  to  find  out  whether  I  am  awake 
or  asleep,"  answered  the  magistrate,  whose  countenance  was 
pressed  against  the  grating  in  the  hope  of  catching  a  second 
glimpse  of  the  ghost. 

"In  all  probability  she  is  under  that  fig-tree,"  he  went  on, 
indicating,  for  Philip's  benefit,  some  branches  that  over- 
topped the  wall  on  the  left-hand  side  of  the  gateway. 

"She?    Who?" 

"Eh !  how  should  I  know  ?"  answered  M.  d'Albon.  "A 
strange-looking  woman  sprang  up  there  under  my  very  eyes 
just  now,"  he  added,  in  a  low  voice;  "she  looked  to  me  more 
like  a  ghost  than  a  living  being.  She  was  so  slender,  light, 
and  shadowy  that  she  might  be  transparent.  Her  face  waa 
as  white  as  milk,  her  hair,  her  eyes,  and  her  dress  were  black. 


328  FAREWELL 

She  gave  me  a  glance  as  she  flitted  by.  I  am  not  easily  fright- 
ened, but  that  cold  stony  stare  of  hers  froze  the  blood  in  my 
veins.'' 

*^Vas  she  pretty?"  inquired  Philip. 

"I  don't  know.    I  saw  nothing  but  those  eyes  in  her  head.*' 

"The  devil  take  dinner  at  Cassan !"  exclaimed  the  Colonel; 
"let  us  stay  here.  I  am  as  eager  as  a  boy  to  see  the  inside 
of  this  queer  place.  The  window-sashes  are  painted  red,  do 
you  see?  There  is  a  red  line  roimd  the  panels  of  the  doors 
and  the  edges  of  the  shutters.  It  might  be  the  devil's  own 
dwelling;  perhaps  he  took  it  over  when  the  monks  went  out. 
Now,  then,  let  us  give  chase  to  the  black  and  white  lady; 
come  along !"  cried  Philip,  with  forced  gaiety. 

He  had  scarcely  finished  speaking  when  the  two  sportsmen 
heard  a  cry  as  if  some  bird  had  been  taken  in  a  snare.  They 
listened.  There  was  a  sound  like  the  murmur  of  rippling 
water,  as  something  forced  its  way  through  the  bushes;  but 
diligently  as  they  lent  their  ears,  there  was  no  footfall  on  the 
path,  the  earth  kept  the  secret  of  the  mysterious  woman's 
passage,  if  indeed  she  had  moved  from  her  hiding-place. 

"This  is  very  strange  V  cried  Philip. 

Following  the  wall  of  the  path,  the  two  friends  reached 
before  long  a  forest  road  leading  to  the  village  of  Chauvry; 
they  went  along  this  track  in  the  direction  of  the  highway 
to  Paris,  and  reached  another  large  gateway.  Through  the 
railings  they  had  a  complete  view  of  the  fagade  of  the  mys- 
terious house.  From  this  point  of  view,  the  dilapidation  was 
still  more  apparent.  Huge  cracks  had  riven  the  walls  of 
the  main  body  of  the  house  built  round  three  sides  of  a  square. 
Evidently  the  place  was  allowed  to  fall  to  ruin;  there  were 
holes  in  the  roof,  broken  slates  and  tiles  lay  about  below. 
Fallen  fruit  from  the  orchard  trees  was  left  to  rot  on  the 
oTound ;  a  cow  was  grazing  over  the  bowling-green  and  tram- 
pling the  flowers  in  the  garden  beds;  a  goat  browsed  on  the 
green  grapes  and  young  vine-shoots  on  the  trellis. 

"It  is  all  of  a  piece,"  remarked  the  Colonel.  "The  neglect 
is  in  a  fashion  systematic."    He  laid  his  hand  on  the  chain 


FAREWELL  329 

of  the  bell-pull,  but  the  bell  had  lost  its  clapper.  The  two 
friends  heard  no  sound  save  the  peculiar  grating  creak  of 
the  rusty  spring.  A  little  door  in  the  wall  beside  the  gateway, 
though  ruinous,  held  good  against  all  their  efforts  to  force  it 
open. 

"Oho !  all  this  is  growing  very  interesting,"  Philip  said  to 
his  companion. 

"If  I  were  not  a  magistrate,"  returned  M.  d'Albon,  "I 
should  think  that  the  woman  in  black  is  a  witch. 

The  words  were  scarcely  out  of  his  mouth  when  the  cow 
came  up  to  the  railings  and  held  out  her  warm  damp  nose, 
as  if  she  were  glad  of  human  society.  Then  a  woman,  if  so 
indescribable  a  being  could  be  called  a  woman,  sprang  up 
from  the  bushes,  and  pulled  at  the  cord  about  the  cow's  neck. 
From  beneath  the  crimson  handkerchief  about  the  woman's 
head,  fair  matted  hair  escaped,  something  as  tow  hangs  about 
a  spindle.  She  wore  no  kerchief  at  the  throat.  A  coarse 
black-and-gray  striped  woolen  petticoat,  too  short  by  several 
inches,  left  her  legs  bare.  She  might  have  belonged  to  some 
tribe  of  Eedskins  in  Fenimore  Cooper's  novels ;  for  her  neck, 
arms,  and  ankles  looked  as  if  they  had  been  painted  brick-red. 
There  was  no  spark  of  intelligence  in  her  featureless  face; 
her  pale,  bluish  eyes  looked  out  dull  and  expressionless  from 
beneath  the  eyebrows  with  one  or  two  straggling  white  hairs 
on  them.  Her  teeth  were  prominent  and  uneven,  but  wliite 
as  a  dog's. 

"Hallo,  good  woman,"  called  M.  de  Sucy. 

She  came  slowly  up  to  the  railing,  and  stared  at  the  two 
sportsmen  with  a  contorted  smile  painful  to  see. 

"Where  ar^  we  ?  What  is  the  name  of  the  house  yonder  ? 
Whom  does  it  belong  to  ?  Who  are  you  ?  Do  you  come  from 
hereabouts  ?" 

To  these  questions,  and  to  a  host  of  others  poured  out  in 
succession  upon  her  by  the  two  friends,  she  made  no  answer 
save  gurgling  sounds  in  the  throat,  more  like  animal  sounds 
than  anything  uttered  by  a  human  voice. 

"Don't  you  see  that  she  is  deaf  and  dumb?"  said  M. 
d'Albon. 


330  FAREWELL 

"Minorites!"  the  peasant  woman  said  at  last. 

"Ah !  she  is  right.  The  house  looks  as  though  it  might 
once  have  been  a  Minorite  convent,"  he  west  on. 

Again  they  plied  the  peasant  woman  with  questions,  but, 
like  a  wayward  child,  she  colored  up,  fidgeted  with  her  sabot, 
twisted  the  rope  by  which  she  held  the  cow  that  had  fallen 
to  grazing  again,  stared  at  the  sportsmen,  and  scrutinized 
every  article  of  clothing  upon  them;  she  gibbered,  grunted, 
and  clucked,  but  no  articulate  word  did  she  utter. 

''Your  name?"  asked  Philip,  fixing  her  with  his  eyes  as  if 
he  were  trying  to  bewitch  the  woman. 

"Genevieve,"  she  answered,  with  an  empty  laugh. 

"The  cow  is  the  most  intelligent  creature  we  have  seen 
so  far,"  exclaimed  the  magistrate.  "I  shall  fire  a  shot,  that 
ought  to  bring  somebody  out." 

D'Albon  had  just  taken  up  his  rifle  when  the  Colonel  put. 
out  a  hand  to  stop  him,  and  pointed  out  the  mysterious  wo- 
man who  had  aroused  such  lively  curiosity  in  them.  She 
seemed  to  be  absorbed  in  deep  thought,  as  she  went  along 
a  green  alley  some  little  distance  away,  so  slowly  that 
the  friends  had  time  to  take  a  good  look  at  her.  She  wore 
a  threadbare  black  satin  gown,  her  long  hair  curled  thickly 
over  her  forehead,  and  fell  like  a  shawl  about  her  shoulders 
below  her  waist.  Doubtless  she  was  accustomed  to  the  di- 
shevel ment  of  her  locks,  for  she  seldom  put  back  the  hair  on 
either  side  of  her  brows;  but  when  she  did  so,  she  shook  her 
head  with  a  sudden  jerk  that  had  not  to  be  repeated  to  shalce 
away  the  thick  veil  from  her  eyes  or  forehead.  In  every- 
thing that  she  did,  moreover,  there  was  a  wonderful  certainty 
in  the  working  of  the  mechanism,  an  unerring  swiftness  and 
precision,  like  that  of  an  animal,  well-night  marvelous  in  a 
woman. 

The  two  sportsmen  were  amazed  to  see  her  spring  up  into 
an  apple-tree  and  cling  to  a  bough  lightly  as  a  bird.  She 
snatched  at  the  fruit,  ate  it,  and  dropped  to  the  ground  with 
the  same  sup[)le  grace  that  charms  us  in  a  squirrel.  The  elas- 
ticity of  her  limbs  took  all  appearance  of  awkwardness  or 


FAREWELL  331 

effort  from  her  movements.  She  played  about  upon  the 
grass,  rolling  in  it  as  a  young  child  might  have  done;  then, 
on  a  sudden,  she  lay  still  and  stretched  out  her  feet  and  hands, 
with  the  languid  natural  grace  of  a  kitten  dozing  in  the  sun. 

There  was  a  threatening  growl  of  thunder  far  away,  and  at 
this  she  started  up  on  all  fours  and  listened,  like  a  dog  who 
hears  a  strange  footstep.  One  result  of  this  strange  attitude 
was  to  separate  her  thick  black  hair  into  two  masses,  that 
fell  away  on  either  side  of  her  face  and  left  her  shoulders 
bare;  the  two  witnesses  of  this  singular  scene  wondered  at 
the  whiteness  of  the  skin  that  shone  like  a  meadow  daisy,  and 
at  the  neck  that  indicated  the  perfection  of  the  rest  of  her 
form. 

A  wailirg  cry  broke  from  her;  she  rose  to  her  feet,  and 
stood  upright.  Every  successive  movement  was  made  so 
lightly,  so  gracefully,  so  easily,  that  she  seemed  to  be  no  hu- 
man being,  but  one  of  Ossian's  maids  of  the  mist.  She  went 
across  the  grass  to  one  of  the  pools  of  water,  deftly  shook 
off  her  shoe,  and  seemed  to  enjoy  dipping  her  foot,  white  as 
marble,  in  the  spring;  doubtless  it  pleased  her  to  make  the 
circling  ripples,  and  watch  them  glitter  like  gems.  She  knelt 
down  by  the  brink,  and  played  there  like  a  child,  dabbling 
her  long  tresses  in  the  water,  and  flinging  them  loose  again 
to  see  the  water  drip  from  the  ends,  like  a  string  of  pearls 
in  the  sunless  light. 

"She  is  mad  !"  cried  the  Councillor. 

A  hoarse  cry  rang  through  the  air;  it  came  from  Gene- 
vieve, and  seemed  to  be  meant  for  the  mysterious  woman 
She  rose  to  her  feet  in  a  moment,  flinging  back  the  hair  from 
her  face,  and  then  the  Colonel  and  d'Albon  could  see  her 
features  distinctly.  As  soon  as  she  saw  the  two  friends  she 
bounded  to  the  railings  with  the  swiftness  of  a  fawn. 

"Farewell!"  she  said  in  low,  musical  tones,  but  they  could 
not  discover  the  least  trace  of  feeling,  the  least  idea  in  the 
sweet  sounds  that  they  had  awaited  impatiently. 

M.  d'Albon  admired  the  long  lashes,  the  thick,  dark  eye- 
brows, the  dazzling  fairness  of  a  skin  untinged  by  any  trace 


332  FAREWELL 

of  red.  Only  the  delicate  blue  veins  contrasted  with  that  uni- 
form Avhiteness. 

But  when  the  Marquis  turned  to  communicate  his  surprise 
at  the  sight  of  so  strange  an  apparition,  he  saw  the  Colonel 
stretched  on  the  grass  like  one  dead.  M.  d'Albon  fired  his 
gun  into  the  air,  shouted  for  help,  and  tried  to  raise  his 
friend.  At  the  sound  of  the  shot,  the  strange  lady,  who  had 
stood  motionless  by  the  gate,  fled  away,  crying  out  like  r 
wounded  wild  creature,  circling  round  and  round  in  the 
meadow,  with  every  sign  of  unspeakable  terror. 

M.  d'Albon  heard  a  carriage  rolling  along  the  road  to 
risle-Adam,  and  waved  his  handkerchief  to  implore  help. 
The  carriage  immediately  came  towards  the  Minorite  convent, 
and  M.  d'Albon  recognized  neighbors,  M.  and  Mme.  de 
Grandville,  who  hastened  to  alight  and  put  their  carriage 
at  his  disposal.  Colonel  de  Sucy  inhaled  the  salts  which 
Mme.  de  Grandville  happened  to  have  with  her;  he  opened 
his  eyes,  looked  towards  the  mysterious  figure  that  still  fled 
wailing  through  the  meadow,  and  a  faint  cry  of  horror  broke 
from  him;  he  closed  his  eyes  again,  with  a  dumb  gesture  of 
entreaty  to  his  friends  to  take  him  away  from  this  scene.  M. 
and  Mme.  de  Grandville  begged  the  Councillor  to  make  use 
of  their  carriage,  adding  very  obligingly  that  they  themselves 
would  walk. 

"Who  can  the  lady  be?"  inquired  the  magistrate,  looking 
towards  the  strange  figure. 

"People  think  that  she  comes  from  Moulins,"  answered  M. 
de  Grandville.  "She  is  a  Comtesse  de  Vandieres;  she  is  said 
to  be  mad;  but  as  she  has  only  been  here  for  two  months,  I 
cannot  vouch  for  the  truth  of  all  this  hearsay  talk." 

M.  d'Albon  thanked  M.  and  Mme.  de  Grandville,  and  they 
set  out  for  Cassan. 

"It  is  she !"  cried  Philip,  coming  to  himself. 

"She?  who?"  asked  d'Albon. 

"Stephanie.  .  .  .  Ah!  dead  and  yet  living  still;  still 
alive,  but  her  mind  is  gone !  I  thought  the  sight  would  kill 
me." 


FAREWELL  333 

The  prudent  magistrate,  recognizing  the  gravity  of  the 
crisis  through  which  his  friend  was  passing,  refrained  from 
asking  questions  or  exciting  him  further,  and  grew  impatient 
of  the  length  of  the  way  to  tlie  cliateau,  for  the  change 
wrought  in  the  Colonel's  face  alarmed  him.  He  feared  lest 
the  Countess'  terrible  disease  had  communicated  itself  to 
Philip's  brain.  When  they  reached  the  avenue  at  I'lslc- 
Adam,  d'Albon  sent  the  servant  for  the  local  doctor,  so  that 
the  Colonel  had  scarcely  been  laid  in  bed  before  the  surgeon 
.vas  beside  him. 

"If  Monsieur  le  Colonel  had  not  been  fasting,  the  shock 
must  have  killed  him,"  pronounced  the  leech.  "He  was  over- 
tired, and  that  saved  him,"  and  with  a  few  directions  as  to 
the  patient's  treatment,  he  went  to  prepare  a  composing 
draught  himself.  M.  de  Sucy  was  better  the  next  morn- 
ing, but  the  doctor  had  insisted  ou  sitting  up  all  night  with 
him. 

"I  confess.  Monsieur  le  Marquis,"  the  surgeon  said,  "that 
I  feared  for  the  brain.  M.  de  Sucy  has  had  some  very  violent 
shock ;  he  is  a  man  of  strong  passions,  but,  with  his  tempera- 
ment, the  first  shock  decides  everything.  He  will  very  likely 
be  out  of  danger  to-morrow." 

The  doctor  was  perfectly  right.  The  next  day  the  patient 
was  allowed  to  see  liis  friend. 

"I  want  you  to  do  something  for  me,  dear  d'Albon,"  Philip 
said,  grasping  his  friend's  hand.  "Hasten  at  once  to  the 
Minorite  convent,  find  out  everything  about  the  lady  whom 
we  saw  there^  and  come  back  as  soon  as  you  can ;  I  shall  coimt 
the  minutes  till  I  see  you  again." 

M.  d'Albon  called  for  his  horse,  and  galloped  over  to  the 
old  monastery.  When  we  reached  the  gateway  he  found  some 
one  standing  there,  a  tall,  spare  man  with  a  kindly  face,  who 
answered  in  the  affirmative  when  he  was  asked  if  he  lived  in 
the  ruined  house.    M.  d'Albon  explained  his  errand. 

'^hy,  then,  it  must  have  been  you,  sir,  who  fired  that  un- 
lucky shot !    You  all  but  killed  my  poor  invalid." 

"Eh !  I  fired  into  the  air !" 


334  FAREWELL 

'^If  yiyu  had  actually  hit  Madame  la  Comtesse,  you  would 
have  done  less  harm  to  her." 

"Well,  well,  then,  we  can  neither  of  us  complain,  for  the 
sight  of  the  Countess  all  but  killed  my  friend,  M.  de  Sucy." 

''The  Baron  de  Sucy,  is  it  possible?"  cried  the  doctor, 
clasping  his  hands.  "Has  he  been  in  Eussia?  was  he  in  the 
Beresina  ?" 

"Yes,"  Einswered  d'Albon.  "He  was  taken  prisoner  by  the 
Cossacks  and  sent  to  Siberia.  He  has  not  been  back  in  this 
country  a  twelvemonth." 

"Come  in,  monsieur,"  said  the  other,  and  he  led  the  way  to 
a  drawing-room  on  the  ground-floor.  Everything  in  the 
room  showed  signs  of  capricious  destruction. 

Valuable  china  jars  lay  in  fragments  on  either  side  of  a 
clock  beneath  a  glass  shade,  which  had  escaped.  The  silk 
hangings  about  the  windows  were  torn  to  rags,  while  the 
muslin  curtains  were  untouched. 

"You  see  about  joii  the  liavoc  wrought  by  a  charming  being 
to  whom  I  have  dedicated  my  life.  She  is  my  niece;  and 
though  medical  science  is  powerless  in  her  case,  I  hope  to  re- 
store her  to  reason,  though  the  method  which  I  am  trying 
is,  unluckily,  only  possible  to  the  wealthy." 

Then,  like  all  who  live  much  alone  and  daily  bear  the 
burden  of  a  heavy  trouble,  he  fell  to  talk  with  the  magis- 
trate. This  is  the  story  that  he  told,  set  in  order,  and  with 
the  many  digressions  made  by  both  teller  and  hearer  omitted. 

When,  at  nine  o'clock  at  night,  on  the  28th  of  November 
1812,  Marshal  Victor  abandoned  the  heights  of  Studzianka, 
which  he  had  held  through  the  day,  he  left  a  thousand  men 
behind  with  instructions  to  protect,  till  the  last  possible  mo- 
ment, the  two  pontoon  bridges  over  the  Beresina  that  still 
held  good.  This  rear  guard  was  to  save  if  possible  an  appall- 
ing number  of  stragglers,  so  numbed  with  the  cold,  that  they 
obstinately  refused  to  leave  the  baggage-wagons.  The  hero- 
ism of  the  generous  band  was  doomed  to  fail ;  for,  unluckily, 
the  men  who  poured  dowTi  to  the  eastern  bank  of  the  Beresina 


FAREWELL  335 

found  carriages,  caissons,  and  all  kinds  of  property  which 
the  Army  had  been  forced  to  abandon  during  its  passage  on 
the  27th  and  28th  days  of  November.  The  poor,  half-frozen 
wretches,  sunk  almost  to  the  level  of  brutes,  finding  such 
unhoped-for  riches,  bivouacked  in  the  deserted  space,  laid 
hands  on  the  military  stores,  improvised  huts  out  of  the 
material,  lighted  fires  with  anything  that  would  burn,  cut 
up  the  carcasses  of  the  horses  for  food,  tore  out  the  linings 
of  the  carriages,  wrapped  themselves  in  them,  and  lay  down 
to  sleep  instead  of  crossing  the  Beresina  in  peace  under 
cover  of  night — the  Beresina  that  even  then  had  proved,  by 
an  incredible  fatality,  so  disastrous  to  the  Army.  Such 
apathy  on  the  part  of  the  poor  fellows  can  only  be  understood 
by  those  who  remember  tramping  across  those  vast  deserts 
of  snow,  with  nothing  to  quench  their  thirst  but  snow,  snow 
for  their  bed,  snow  as  far  as  the  horizon  on  every  side,  and 
no  food  but  snow,  a  little  frozen  beetroot,  horseflesh,  or  a 
handful  of  meal. 

The  miserable  creatures  were  dropping  down,  overcome 
by  hunger,  thirst,  weariness,  and  sleep,  when  they  reached 
the  shores  of  the  Beresina  and  found  fuel  and  fire  and  vict- 
uals, countless  wagons  and  tents,  a  whole  improvised  town, 
in  short.  The  whole  village  of  Studzianka  had  been  removed 
piecemeal  from  the  heights  to  the  plain,  and  the  very  perils 
and  miseries  of  this  dangerous  and  doleful  habitation  smiled 
invitingly  to  the  wayfarers,  who  beheld  no  prospect  beyond 
it  but  the  awful  Russian  deserts.  A  huge  hospice,  in  short, 
was  erected  for  twenty  hours  of  existence.  Only  one  thought 
— the  thought  of  rest — appealed  to  men  weary  of  life  or  re- 
joicing in  unlooked-for  comfort. 

They  lay  right  in  the  line  of  fire  from  the  cannon  of  the 
Russian  left;  but  to  that  vast  mass  of  human  creatures,  a 
patch  upon  the  snow,  sometimes  dark,  sometimes  breaking 
into  flame,  the  indefatigable  grape-shot  was  but  one  discom- 
fort the  more.  For  them  it  was  only  a  storm,  and  they  paid 
the  less  attention  to  the  bolts  that  fell  among  them  because 
there  were  none  to  strike  down  there  save  dying  men,  the 


336  FAREWELL 

wounded,  or  perhaps  the  dead.  Stragglers  came  up  in  little 
bands  at  every  moment.  These  walking  corpses  instantly 
separated,  and  wandered  begging  from  fire  to  fire ;  and  meet- 
ing, for  the  most  part,  with  refusals,  banded  themselves  to- 
gether again,  and  took  by  force  what  they  could  not  other- 
wise obtain.  The}^  were  deaf  to  the  voices  of  their  officers 
prophesying  death  on  the  morrow,  and  spent  the  energy  re- 
quired to  cross  the  swamp  in  building  shelters  for  the  night 
and  preparing  a  meal  that  often  proved  fatal.  The  coming 
death  no  longer  seemed  an*  evil,  for  it  gave  them  an  hour  of 
slumber  before  it  came.  Hunger  and  thirst  and  cold — these 
were  evils,  but  not  death. 

At  last  wood  and  fuel  and  canvas  and  shelters  failed,  and 
hideous  brawls  began  between  destitute  late  comers  and  the 
rich  already  in  possession  of  a  lodging.  The  weaker  were 
driven  away,  until  a  few  last  fugitives  before  the  Eussian  ad- 
vance were  obliged  to  make  their  bed  in  the  snow,  and  lay 
down  to  rise  no  more. 

Little  by  little  the  mass  of  half-dead  humanity  became  so 
dense,  so  deaf,  so  torpid, — or  perhaps  it  should  be  said  so 
happy — that  Marshal  Victor,  their  heroic  defender  against 
twenty  thousand  Kussians  under  Wittgenstein,  was  actually 
compelled  to  cut  his  way  by  force  through  this  forest  of  men, 
so  as  to  cross  the  Beresina  with  the  five  thousand  heroes  whom 
he  was  leading  to  the  Emperor.  The  miserable  creatures 
preferred  to  be  trampled  and  crushed  to  death  rather  than 
stir  from  their  places,  and  died  without  a  sound,  smiling  at 
the  dead  ashes  of  their  fires,  forgetful  of  France. 

Not  before  ten  o'clock  that  night  did  the  Due  de  Belluno 
reach  the  other  side  of  the  river.  Before  committing  his 
men  to  the  pontoon  bridges  that  led  to  Zembin,  he  left  the 
rp.te  of  the  rearguard  at  Studzianka  in  Eble's  hands,  and  to 
fJble  the  survivors  of  the  calamities  of  the  Beresina  owed 
their  lives. 

About  midnight,  the  great  General,  followed  by  a  courage- 
ous officer,  came  out  of  his  little  hut  by  the  bridge,  and  gazed 
at  the  spectacle  of  this  camp  between  the  bank  of  the  Bere- 


FAREWELL  337 

sina  and  the  Borizof  road  to  Studzianka.  The  thunder  of 
*the  Russian,  cannonade  had  ceased.  Here  and  there  faces 
that  had  nothing  human  about  them  were  lighted  up  by 
countless  fires  that  seemed  to  grow  pale  in  the  glare  of  the 
snowfields,  and  to  give  no  light.  Nearly  thirty  thousand 
wretches,  belonging  to  every  nation  that  Napoleon  had  hurled 
upon  Eussia,  lay  there  hazarding  their  lives  with  the  indiffer- 
ence of  brute  beasts. 

"^Ye  have  all  these  to  save,"  the  General  said  to  his  sub- 
ordinate. "To-morrow  morning  the  Russians  will  be  in 
Studzianka.  The  moment  they  come  up  we  shall  have  to  set 
fire  to  the  bridge ;  so  pluck  up  heart,  my  boy !  Make  your 
way  out  and  up  yonder  through  them,  and  tell  General  Four- 
nier  that  he  has  barely  time  to  evacuate  his  post  and  cut  his 
way  through  to  the  bridge.  As  soon  as  you  have  seen  him 
set  out,  follow  him  down,  take  some  able-bodied  men,  and  set 
fire  to  the  tents,  wagons,  caissons,  carriages,  anything  and 
everything,  without  pity,  and  drive  these  fellows  on  to  the 
bridge.  Compel  everything  that  walks  on  two  legs  to  take 
refuge  on  the  other  bank.  We  must  set  fire  to  the  camp; 
it  is  our  last  resource.     If  Berthier  had  let  me  burn  those 

d d  wagons  sooner,  no  lives  need  have  been  lost  in  the 

river  except  my  poor  pontooners,  my  fifty  heroes,  who  saved 
the  Army,  and  will  be  forgotten." 

The  General  passed  his  hand  over  his  forehead  and  said 
no  more.  He  felt  that  Poland  would  be  his  tomb,  and  fore- 
saw that  afterwards  no  voice  would  be  raised  to  speak  for 
the  noble  fellows  who  had  plunged  into  the  stream — into  the 
waters  of  the  Beresina ! — to  drive  in  the  piles  for  the  bridges. 
And,  indeed,  only  one  of  them  is  living  now,  or,  to  be  more 
accurate,  starving,  utterly  forgotten  in  a  country  village ! 
The  brave  officer  had  scarcely  gone  a  hundred  paces  towards 
Studzianka,  when  General  Eble  roused  some  of  his  patient 
pontooners,  and  began  his  work  of  mercy  by  setting  fire  to 
the  camp  on  the  side  nearest  the  bridge,  so  compelling  the 
sleepers  to  rise  and  cross  the  Beresina.    Meanwhile  the  young 


338  FAREWELL 

aide-de-camp,  not  without  difficulty,  reached  the  one  wooden 
house  yet  left  standing  in  Studzianka.  * 

"So  the  box  is  pretty  full,  is  it,  messmate?"  he  said  to  a 
man  whom  he  found  outside. 

''T'ou  will  be  a  knowing  fellow  if  you  manage  to  get  inside," 
the  officer  returned,  without  turning  round  or  stopping  his 
occupation  of  hacking  at  the  woodwork  of  the  house  with  his 
sabre. 

"Philip,  is  that  you?"  cried  the  aide-de-camp,  recognizing 
the  voice  of  one  of  his  friends. 

"Yes.  Aha !  is  it  you,  old  fellow  ?"  returned  M.  de  Sucy, 
looking  round  at  the  aide-de-camp,  who  like  himself  was  not 
more  than  twenty-three  years  old.  "I  fancied  you  were  on 
the  other  side  of  this  confounded  river.  Do  j^ou  come  to  bring 
us  sweetmeats  for  dessert?  You  will  get  a  warm  welcome," 
he  added,  as  he  tore  away  a  strip  of  bark  from  the  wood  and 
gave  it  to  his  horse  by  way  of  fodder. 

"I  am  looking  for  your  commandant.  General  Eble  has 
sent  me  to  tell  him  to  file  off  to  Zembin.  You  have  only  just 
time  to  cut  your  way  through  that  mass  of  dead  men ;  as  soon 
as  you  get  through,  I  am  going  to  set  fire  to  the  place  to 
make  them  move " 

"You  almost  make  me  feel  warm !  Your  news  has  put  me 
in  a  fever;  I  have  two  friends  to  bring  through.  Ah !  but  for 
those  marmots,  I  should  have  been  dead  before  now,  old 
fellow.  On  their  account  I  am  taking  care  of  my  horse  in- 
stead of  eating  him.  But  have  you  a  crust  about  you,  for 
pity's  sake?  It  is  thirty  hours  since  I  have  stowed  any  vict- 
uals. I  have  been  fighting  like  a  madman  to  keep  up  a  little 
warmth  in  my  body  and  what  courage  I  have  left." 

"Poor  Philip !  I  have  nothing — not  a  scrap ! — But  is  your 
General  in  there  ?" 

"Don't  attempt  to  go  in.  The  bam  is  full  of  our  wounded. 
Go  up  a  bit  higher,  and  you  will  see  a  sort  of  pig-sty  to  the 
right — that  is  where  the  General  is.  Good-bye,  my  dear  fel- 
low. If  ever  we  meet  again  in  a  quadrille  in  a  ballroom  in 
Paris " 


FAREWELL  339 

He  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  for  the  treachery  of  the 
northeast  wind  that  whistled  about  them  froze  Major  PhiHp's 
lips,  and  the  aide-de-camp  kept  moving  for  fear  of  being 
frost-bitten.  Silence  soon  prevailed,  scarcely  broken  by  the 
groans  of  the  wounded  in  the  bam,  or  the  stifled  sounds  made 
by  M.  de  Sucy's  horse  crunching  the  frozen  bark  with  fam- 
ished eagerness.  Philip  thrust  his  sabre  into  the  sheath, 
caught  at  the  bridle  of  the  precious  animal  that  he  had  man- 
aged to  keep  for  so  long,  and  drew  her  away  from  the  mis- 
erable fodder  that  she  was  bolting  with  apparent  relish. 

"Come  along,  Bichette  !  come  along !  It  lies  with  you  now, 
my  beauty,  to  save  Stephanie's  life.  There,  wait  a  little 
longer,  and  they  will  let  us  lie  down  and  die,  no  doubt ;"  and 
Philip,  wrapped  in  a  pelisse,  to  which  doubtless  he  owed  his 
life  and  energies,  began  to  run,  stamping  his  feet  on  the 
frozen  snow  to  keep  them  warm.  He  was  scarce  five  hundred 
paces  away  before  he  saw  a  great  fire  blazing  on  the  spot 
where  he  had  left  his  carriage  that  morning  with  an  old  sol- 
dier to  guard  it.  A  dreadful  misgiving  seized  upon  him. 
Many  a  man  under  the  infiuence  of  a  powerful  feeling  during 
the  Eetreat  summoned  up  energy  for  his  friend's  sake  when 
he  would  not  have  exerted  himself  to  save  his  own  life ;  so  it 
was  with  Philip.  He  soon  neared  a  hollow,  where  he  had  left 
a  carriage  sheltered  from  the  cannonade,  a  carriage  that  held 
a  young  woman,  his  playmate  in  childhood,  dearer  to  him 
than  any  one  else  on  earth. 

Some  thirty  stragglers  were  sitting  round  a  tremendous 
blaze,  which  they  kept  up  with  logs  of  wood,  planks  wrenched 
from  the  floors  of  the  caissons,  and  wheels,  and  panels  from 
carriage  bodies.  These  had  been,  doubtless,  among  the  last 
to  Join  the  sea  of  fires,  huts,  and  hum.an  faces  that  filled  the 
great  furrow  in  the  land  between  Studzianka  and  the  fatal 
river,  a  restless  living  sea  of  almost  imperceptibly  moving 
figures,  that  sent  up  a  smothered  hum  of  sound  blended  with 
frightful  shrieks.  It  seemed  that  hunger  and  despair  had 
driven  these  forlorn  creatures  to  t-ike  forcible  possession  of 
the  carriage,  for  the  old  General  and  his  young  wife,  whom 


340  FAREWELL 

they  had  found  warmly  wrapped  in  pelisses  and  traveling 
cloaks,  were  now  crouching  on  the  earth  beside  the  fire,  and 
one  of  the  carriage  doors  was  broken. 

As  soon  as  the  group  of  stragglers  round  the  fire  heard  the 
footfall  of  the  Major's  horse,  a  frenzied  yell  of  hunger  went 
up  from  them.    "A  horse !"  they  cried.    "A  horse  \" 

All  the  voices  went  up  as  one  voice. 

"Back !  back !  Look  out !"  shouted  two  or  three  of  them, 
leveling  their  muskets  at  the  animal. 

"I  will  pitch  you  neck  and  crop  into  your  fire,  you  black- 
guards !"  cried  Philip,  springing  in  front  of  the  mare. 
"There  are  dead  horses  lying  up  yonder;  go  and  look  for 
them !" 

*^hat  a  rum  customer  the  officer  is ! — Once,  twice,  will 
you  get  out  of  the  way?"  returned  a  giant  grenadier.  'TTou 
won't  ?    All  right  then,  just  as  you  please." 

A  woman's  shriek  rang  out  above  the  report.  Luckily,  none 
of  the  bullets  hit  Philip;  but  poor  Bichette  lay  in  the 
agony  of  death.  Three  of  the  men  came  up  and  put  an  end 
to  her  with  thrusts  of  the  bayonet, 

"Cannibals  !  leave  me  the  rug  and  my  pistols,"  cried  Philip 
in  desperation. 

"Oh !  the  pistols  if  you  like ;  but  as  for  the  rug,  there  is  a 
fellow  yonder  who  has  had  nothing  to  wet  his  whistle  these 
two  days,  and  is  shivering  in  his  coat  of  cobwebs,  and  that's 
our  General." 

Philip  looked  up  and  saw  a  man  with  worn-out  shoes  and 
a  dozen  rents  in  his  trousers ;  the  only  covering  for  his  head 
was  a  ragged  foraging  cap,  white  with  rime.  He  said  ho 
more  after  that,  but  snatched  up  his  pistols. 

Five  of  the  men  dragged  the  mare  to  the  fire,  and  began  to 
cut  up  the  carcass  as  dexterously  as  any  journeymen 
butchers  in  Paris.  The  scraps  of  meat  were  distributed 
and  flung  upon  the  coals,  and  the  whole  process  was  magic- 
ally swift.  Philip  went  over  to  the  woman  who  had  given 
the  cry  of  terror  when  she  recognized  his  danger,  and  sat 
down  by  her  side.    She  sat  motionless  upon  a  cushion  taken 


FAREWELL.  841 

from  the  carriage,  warming  herself  at  the  blaze;  she  said 
no  word,  and  gazed  at  him  without  a  smile.  He  saw  beside 
her  the  soldier  whom  he  had  left  mounting  guard  over  the 
carriage;  the  poor  fellow  had  been  wounded;  he  had  been 
overpowered  by  numbers,  and  forced  to  surrender  to  the 
stragglers  who  had  set  upon  him,  and,  like  a  dog  who  defends 
his  master's  dinner  till  the  last  m.oment,  he  had  taken  his 
share  of  the  spoil,  and  had  made  a  sort  of  cloak  for  himself 
out  of  a  sheet.  At  that  particular  moment  he  was  busy  toast- 
ing a  piece  of  horseflesh,  and  in  his  face  the  major  saw  a 
gleeful  anticipation  of  the  coming  feast. 

The  Comte  de  Vandieres,  who  seemed  to  have  grown  quite 
childish  in  the  last  few  days,  sat  on  a  cushion  close  to  his  wife, 
and  stared  into  the  fire.  He  was  only  just  beginning  to  shake 
off  his  torpor  under  the  influence  of  the  warmth.  He  had 
been  no  more  affected  by  Philip's  arrival  and  danger  than  by 
the  fight  and  subsequent  pillaging  of  his  traveling  carriage. 

At  first  Sucy  caught  the  young  Countess'  hand  in  his,  try- 
ing to  express  his  affection  for  her,  and  the  pain  that  it  gave 
him  to  see  her  reduced  like  this  to  the  last  extremity  of 
misery;  but  he  said  nothing  as  he  sat  by  her  side  on  the 
thawing  heap  of  snow,  he  gave  himself  up  to  the  pleasure 
of  the  sensation  of  warmth,  forgetful  of  danger,  forgetful 
of  all  things  else  in  the  world.  In  spite  of  himself  his  face 
expanded  with  an  almost  fatuous  expression  of  satisfaction, 
and  he  waited  impatiently  till  the  scrap  of  horseflesh  that 
had  fallen  to  his  soldier's  share  should  be  cooked.  The  smell 
of  the  charred  flesh  stimulated  his  hunger.  Hunger  clamored 
within  him  and  silenced  his  heart,  his  courage,  and  his  love. 
He  coolly  looked  round  on  the  results  of  the  spoliation  of  his 
carriage.  Not  a  man  seated  round  the  fire  but  had  shared 
the  booty,  the  rugs,  cushions,  pelisses,  dresses, — articles  of 
clothing  that  belonged  to  the  Count  and  Countess  or  to  him- 
self. Philip  turned  to  see  if  anything  worth  taking  was  left 
in  the  berline.  He  saw  by  the  light  of  the  flames,  gold, 
and  diamonds,  and  silver  lying  scattered  about;  no  one  had 
cared  to  appropriate  the  least  yiivriiV'lp.    There  was  something 


342  FAREWELL 

hideous  in  the  silence  among  those  human  creatures  round 

the  fire;  none  of  them  spoke,  none  of  them  stirred,  save  to 
do  such  things  as  each  considered  necessary  for  his  own  com- 
fort. 

It  was  a  grotesque  misery.  The  men's  faces  were  warped 
and  disfigured  with  the  cold,  and  plastered  over  with  a  layer 
of  mud;  you  could  see  the  thickness  of  the  mask  by  the 
channel  traced  down  their  cheeks  by  the  tears  that  ran  from 
their  eyes,  and  their  long  slovenly-kept  beards  added  to  tht 
hideousness  of  their  appearance.  Some  were  wrapped  round 
in  women's  shawls,  others  in  horse-cloths,  dirty  blankets, 
rags  stiffened  with  melting  hoar-frost ;  here  and  there  a  man 
wore  a  boot  on  one  foot  and  a  shoe  on  the  other,  in  fact, 
there  was  not  one  of  them  but  wore  some  ludicrously  odd  cos- 
tume. But  the  men  themselves  with  such  matter  for  jest 
about  them  were  gloomy  and  taciturn. 

The  silence  was  unbroken  save  by  the  crackling  of  the 
wood,  the  roaring  of  the  flames,  the  far-off  hum  of  the  camp, 
and  the  sound  of  sabres  hacking  at  the  carcass  of  the  mare. 
Some  of  the  hungriest  of  the  men  were  still  cutting  tid-bits 
for  themselves.  A  few  miserable  creatures,  more  weary  than 
the  others,  slept  outright;  and  if  they  happened  to  roll  into 
the  fire,  no  one  pulled  them  back.  With  cut-and-dried  logic 
their  fellows  argued  that  if  they  were  not  dead,  a  scorching 
ought  to  be  sufficient  warning  to  quit  and  seek  out  more 
comfortable  quarters.  If  the  poor  wretch  woke  to  find  him- 
self on  fire,  he  was  burned  to  death,  and  robody  pitied  him. 
Here  and  there  the  men  exchanged  glances,  as  if  to  excuse 
their  indifference  by  the  carelessness  of  the  rest;  the  thing 
happened  twice  under  the  young  Countess'  eyes,  and  she  ut- 
tered no  sound.  When  all  the  scraps  of  horseflesh  had  been 
broiled  upon  the  coals,  they  were  devoured  with  a  ravenous 
greediness  that  would  have  been  disgusting  in  wild  beasts. 

"And  now  we  have  seen  thirty  infantrymen  on  one  horse 
for  the  first  time  in  our  lives !"  cried  the  grenadier  who  had 
Bhot  the  mare,  tbe  one  soli  hay  Joke  that  sustained  the 
Frenchmen's  reputation  for  writ. 


FAREWELL  343 

Before  lonj^  tlie  poor  fellows  hiirlrllcd  themselves  up  in 
their  clothes,  and  lay  down  on  planks  of  timber,  on  anything 
but  the  bare  snow,  and  slept — heedless  of  the  morrow.  Major 
de  Sncy  having  warmed  himself  and  satisfied  his  hunger, 
fought  in  vain  against  the  drowsiness  that  weighed  upon  his 
syes.  During  this  brief  struggle  he  gazed  at  the  sleeping 
girl  who  had  turned  her  face  to  the  fire,  so  that  he  could 
see  her  closed  eyelids  and  part  of  her  forehead.  She  was 
wrapped  round  in  a  furred  pelisse  and  a  coarse  horseman's 
cloak,  her  head  lay  on  a  blood-stained  cushion ;  a  tall 
astrakhan  cap  tied  over  her  head  by  a  handkerchief  knotted 
under  the  chin  protected  her  face  as  much  as  possible  from 
the  cold,  and  she  had  tucked  up  her  feet  in  the  cloak.  As 
she  lay  curled  up  in  this  fashion,  she  bore  no  likeness  to  any 
creature. 

Was  this  the  lowest  of  camp-followers?  Was  this  the 
charming  woman,  the  pride  of  her  lover's  heart,  the  queen 
of  many  a  Parisian  ballroom?  Alas!  even  for  the  eyes  of 
this  most  devoted  friend,  there  was  no  discernible  trace  of 
womanhood  in  that  bundle  of  rags  and  linen,  and  the  cold 
was  mightier  than  the  love  in  a  woman's  heart. 

Then  for  the  major  the  husband  and  wife  came  to  be  like 
two  distant  dots  seen  through  the  thick  veil  that  the  most 
irresistible  kind  of  slumber  spread  over  his  eyes.  It  all 
seemed  to  be  part  of  a  dream — the  leaping  flames,  the  re- 
cumbent figures,  the  awful  cold  that  lay  in  wait  for  them  thre^ 
paces  away  from  the  warmth  of  the  fire  that  glowed  for  a 
little  while.  One  thought  that  could  not  be  stifled  haunted 
Philip^ — "If  I  go  to  sleep,  we  shall  all  die;  I  will  not  sleep," 
he  said  to  himself. 

Ho  slept.  After  an  hour's  slumber  M.  de  Sucy  was 
awakened  by  a  hideous  uproar  and  the  sound  of  an  explosion. 
The  remembrance  of  his  duty,  of  the  danger  of  his  beloved, 
rushed  upon  his  mind  with  a  sudden  shock.  He  uttered  a 
cry  like  the  growl  of  a  wild  beast.  He  and  his  servant  stood 
upright  above  the  rest.  They  saw  a  sea  of  fire  in  the  dark- 
ness, and  against  it  moving  masses  of  human  figures.   Flames 


344-  FAREWELL 

were  devouring  the  hnts  and  tents.  Despairing  shrieks  an'\ 
yelling  cries  reached  their  ears;  they  saw  thousands  upon 
thousands  of  wild  and  desperate  faces;  and  through  this  in- 
ferno a  column  of  soldiers  was  cutting  its  way  to  the  bridge, 
between  two  hedges  of  dead  bodies. 

"Our  rearguard  is  in  full  retreat/'  cried  the  major.  "There 
is  no  hope  left !" 

"I  have  spared  your  traveling  carriage,  Philip,"  said  a 
friendly  voice. 

Sucy  turned  and  saw  the  young  aide-de-camp  by  the  light 
of  the  flames. 

"Oh,  it  is  all  over  with  us,"  he  answered.  "They  have 
eaten  my  horse.  And  how  am  I  to  make  this  sleepy  general 
and  his  wife  stir  a  step?" 

"Take  a  brand,  Philip,  and  threaten  them." 

"Threaten  the'  Countess  ?     .     .     ." 

"Good-bye,"  cried  the  aide-de-camp ;  "I  have  only  just  time 
to  get  across  that  unlucky  river,  and  go  I  must,  there  is  my 
mother  in  France !  .  .  .  What  a  night !  This  herd  of 
wretches  would  rather  lie  here  in  the  snow,  and  most  of  them 
would  sooner  be  burned  alive  than  get  up.  .  .  .  It  is 
four  o'clock,  Philip !  In  two  hours  the  Russians  will  begin 
to  move,  and  you  will  see  the  Beresina  covered  with  corpses 
a  second  time,  I  can  tell  you.  You  haven't  a  horse,  and  you 
cannot  carry  the  Countess,  so  come  along  with  me,"  he  went 
on,  taking  his  friend  by  the  arm. 

"My  dear  fellow,  how  am  I  to  leave  Stephanie  ?" 

Major  de  Sucy  grasped  the  Countess,  set  her  on  her  feet, 
and  shook  her  roughly;  he  was  in  despair.  He  compelled 
her  to  wake,  and  she  stared  at  him  with  dull  fixed  eyes. 

"Stephanie,  we  must  go,  or  we  shall  die  here  !" 

For  all  answer,  the  Countess  tried  to  sink  down  again  anr^ 
sleep  on  the  on  rib.  The  aide-de-camp  snatched  a  brand  from 
the  fire  and  shook  it  in  her  face. 

"We  must  save  her  in  spite  of  herself,"  cried  Philip,  and 
he  carried  her  in  his  arms  to  the  carriage.  He  came  back  to 
entreat  his  friend  to  help  him,  and  the  two  young  men  took 


FAREWELL  345 

the  old  general  and  put  him  beside  his  wife,  without  knowing 
whether  he  were  alive  or  dead.  The  major  rolled  the  men 
over  as  they  crouched  on  the  earth,  took  away  the  plundered 
clothing,  and  heaped  it  upon  the  husband  and  wife,  then 
he  fiuug  some  of  the  broiled  fragments  of  horseflesh  into 
a  comer  of  the  carriage. 

"Now,  what  do  you  mean  to  do  ?"  asked  the  aide-de-camp, 

"Drag  them  along!"  answered  Sucy. 

"You  are  mad !" 

"You  are  right!"  exclaimed  Philip,  folding  his  arms  on 
his  breast. 

Suddenly  a  desperate  plan  occurred  to  him. 

"Look  you  here !"  he  said,  grasping  his  sentinel  by  the 
unwounded  arm,  "I  leave  her  in  your  care  for  one  hour. 
Bear  in  mind  that  you  must  die  sooner  than  let  any  one,  no 
matter  whom,  come  near  the  carriage !" 

The  major  seized  a  handful  of  the  lady's  diamonds,  drew 
his  sabre,  and  violently  battered  those  who  seemed  to  him  to 
be  the  bravest  among  the  sleepers.  By  this  means  he  suc- 
ceeded in  rousing  the  gigantic  grenadier  and  a  couple  of 
men  whose  rank  and  regiment  were  undiscoverable. 

"It  is  all  up  with  us !"  he  cried. 

"Of  course  it  is,"  returned  the  grenadier;  "but  that  is  all 
one  to  me." 

"Very  well  then,  if  die  you  must,  isn't  it  better  to  sell  your 
life  for  a  pretty  woman,  and  stand  a  chance  of  going  back  to 
France  again?" 

"I  would  rather  go  to  sleep,"  said  one  of  the  men,  drop- 
ping down  into  the  snow ;  "and  if  you  worry  me  again,  major, 
I  shall  stick  my  toasting-iron  into  your  belly !" 

"What  is  it  all  about,  sir?"  asked  the  grenadier.  "The 
man's  drunk.  He  is  a  Parisian,  and  likes  to  lie  in  the  lap  of 
luxury." 

"You  shall  have  these,  good  fellow,"  said  the  major,  hold- 
ing out  a  riviere  of  diamonds,  "if  you  Mall  follow  me  and 
fight  like  a  madman.     The  Eussians  are  not  ten  minutes 


346  FAREWELL 

away ;  they  have  horses ;  we  will  inarch  up  to  the  liearest  bat- 
tery and  carry  off  two  stout  ones." 

*'How  about  the  sentinels,  major?" 

"One  of  us  three "  he  began;  then  he  turned  from  the 

soldier  and  looked  at  the  aide-de-camp. — "You  are  coming, 
aren't  you,  Hippolyte?" 

Hippolyte  nodded  assent. 

"One  of  us,"  the  major  went  on,  "will  look  after  the 
sentry.  Besides,  perhaps  those  blessed  Eussians  are  also  fast 
asleep." 

"All  right,  major ;  you  are  a  good  sort !  But  will  you  take 
me  in  your  carriage?"  asked  the  grenadier. 

'TTes,  if  you  don't  leave  your  bones  up  yonder.-^If  I  come 
to  grief,  promise  me,  you  two,  that  you  will  do  everything 
in  your  power  to  save  the  Countess." 

"All  right,"  said  the  grenadier. 

They  set  out  for  the  Eussian  lines,  taking  the  direction 
of  the  batteries  that  had  so  cruelly  raked  the  mass  of  miser- 
able creatures  huddled  together  by  the  river  bank.  A  few 
minutes  later  the  hoofs  of  two  galloping  horses  rang  on  the 
frozen  snow,  and  the  awakened  battery  fired  a  volley  that 
passed  over  the  heads  of  the  sleepers;  the  hoof -beats 
rattled  so  fast  on  the  iron  ground  that  they  sounded  like  the 
hammering  in  a  smithy.  The  generous  aide-de-camp  had 
fallen;  the  stalwart  grenadier  had  come  off  safe  and  sound; 
and  Pliilip  himself  had  received  a  bayonet  thrust  in  the 
shoulder  while  defending  his  friend.  Notwithstanding  his 
wound,  he  clung  to  his  horse's  mane,  and  gripped  him  with 
his  knees  so  tightly  that  the  animal  was  held  as  in  a  vise. 

"God  be  praised !"  cried  the  major,  when  he  saw  his  sol- 
dier still  on  the  spot,  and  the  carriage  standing  where  he  had 
left  it. 

"If  you  do  the  right  thing  by  me,  sir,  you  will  get  me  the 
cross  for  this.  We  have  treated  them  to  a  sword  dance  to  a 
pretty  tune  from  the  rifle,  eh  ?" 

"We  have  done  nothing  yet!  Let  us  put  the  horses  in. 
Take  hold  of  these  cords." 


FAREWELL  347 

"They  are  not  long  enough." 

"All  right,  grenadier,  just  go  and  overhaul  those  fellows 
sleeping  there ;  take  their  shawls,  sheets,  anything " 

"I  say  1  the  rascal  is  dead,"  cried  the  grenadier,  as  he  plun- 
dered the  first  man  who  came  to  hand.  "Why,  they  are  all 
dead  !  how  queer !" 

"All  of  them?" 

"Yes,  every  one.  It  looks  as  though  horseflesh  a  la  neige 
was  indigestible." 

Philip  shuddered  at  the  words.  The  night  had  grown  twice 
as  cold  as  before. 

"Great  heaven!  to  lose  her  when  I  have  saved  her  life  a 
score  of  times  already." 

He  shook  the  Countess,  "Stephanie !  Stephanie  1"  he 
cried. 

She  opened  her  eyes. 

"We  are  saved,  madame !" 

"Saved !"  she  echoed,  and  fell  back  again. 

The  horses  were  harnessed  after  a  fashion  at  last.  The 
major  held  his  sabre  in  his  unwounded  hand,  took  the  reins 
in  the  other,  saw  to  his  pistols,  and  sprang  on  one  of  the 
horses,  while  the  grenadier  mounted  the  other.  The  old 
sentinel  had  been  pushed  into  the  carriage,  and  lay  across 
the  knees  of  the  general  and  the  Countess;  his  feet  were 
frozen.  Urged  on  by  blows  from  the  flat  of  the  sabre,  the 
horses  dragged  the  carriage  at  a  mad  gallop  down  to  the 
plain,  where  endless  diiflculties  awaited  them.  Before  long 
it  became  almost  impossible  to  advance  without  crushing 
sleeping  men,  women,  and  even  children  at  every  step,  all 
of  whom  declined  to  stir  when  the  grenadier  awakened  them. 
In  vain  M.  de  Sucy  looked  for  the  track  that  the  rearguard 
had  cut  through  this  dense  crowd  of  human  beings;  there 
was  no  more  sign  of  their  passage  than  of  the  wake  of  a  ship 
in  the  sea.  The  horses  could  only  move  at  a  foot-pace,  and 
were  stopped  most  frequently  by  soldiers,  who  threatened  to 
kill  them. 

"Do  you  mean  to  get  there  ?"  asked  the  grenadier. 


348  FAREWELL 

"Yes,  if  it  costs  every  drop  of  blood  in  my  body !  if  it  (Josts 
the  whole  world !"  the  major  answered. 

"Forward,  then!  .  .  .  Yon  can't  have  the  omelette 
without  breaking  eggs."  And  the  grenadier  of  the  Garde 
urged  on  the  horses  over  the  prostrate  bodies,  and  upset 
the  bivouacs ;  the  blood-stained  wheels  ploughing  that  field  of 
faces  left  a  double  furrow  of  dead.  But  in  justice  it  should 
be  said  that  he  never  ceased  to  thunder  out  his  warning  cry, 
"Carrion !  look  out !" 

"Poor  wretches  !"  exclaimed  the  major. 

"Bah!  That  way,  or  the  cold,  or  the  cannon!"  said  the 
grenadier,  goading  on  the  horses  with  the  point  of  his 
sword. 

Then  came  the  catastrophe,  which  must  have  happened 
sooner  but  for  miraculous  good  fortune;  the  carriage  was 
overturned,  and  all  further  progress  was  stopped  at  once. 

"I  expected  as  much !"  exclaimed  the  imperturbable  grena- 
dier.   "Oho !  he  is  dead  I''  he  added,  looking  at  his  comrade. 

"Poor  Laurent  1"  said  the  major. 

"Laurent !    Wasn't  he  in  the  Fifth  Chasseurs  ?" 

'^es." 

"My  own  cousin. — Pshaw !  this  beastly  life  is  not  so  pleas- 
ant that  one  need  be  sorry  for  him  as  things  go." 

But  all  this  time  the  carriage  lay  overturned,  and  the 
horses  were  only  released  after  great  and  irreparable  loss  of 
time.  The  shock  had  been  so  violent  that  the  Countess  had 
been  awakened  by  it,  and  the  subsequent  commotion  aroused 
her  from  her  stupor.    She  shook  off  the  rugs  and  rose. 

"Where  are  we,  Philip?"  she  asked  in  musical  tones,  as 
she  looked  about  her. 

"About  five  hundred  paces  from  the  bridge.  We  are  just 
about  to  cross  the  Beresina.  When  we  are  on  the  other  side, 
Stephanie,  I  will  not  tease  you  any  more;  I  will  let  you  go 
to  sleep;  we  shall  be  in  safety,  we  can  go  on  to  Wilna  in  peace. 
God  grant  that  yon  may  never  know  what  your  life  has  cost  I" 

"You  arc  wounded !" 

"A  mere  trifle." 


FAREWELL  341) 

The  hour  of  doom  had  come.  The  Russian  cannon  an- 
nounced the  day.  The  Eussians  were  in  possession  of  Stud- 
zianka,  and  thence  were  raking  the  plain  with  grapeshot ;  and 
by  the  first  dim  light  of  the  dawn  the  major  saw  two  columns 
moving  and  forming  above  on  the  heights.  Then  a  cr}'  of 
horror  went  up  from  the  crowd,  and  in  a  moment  every  one 
sprang  to  his  feet.  Each  instinctively  felt  his  danger,  and 
all  made  a  rush  for  the  bridge,  surging  towards  it  like  a 
wave. 

Then  the  Russians  came  down  upon  them,  swift  as  a  con- 
flagration. Men,  women,  children,  and  horses  all  crowded 
towards  the  river.  Luckily  for  the  major  and  the  Countess, 
they  were  still  at  some  distance  from  the  banlc.  General 
Eble  had  just  set  fire  to  the  bridge  on  the  other  side;  but 
in  spite  of  all  the  warnings  given  to  those  who  rushed  to- 
wards the  chance  of  salvation,  not  one  among  them  could  or 
would  draw  back.  The  overladen  bridge  gave  way,  and  not 
only  so,  the  impetus  of  the  frantic  living  wave  towards  that 
fatal  bank  was  such  that  a  dense  crowd  of  human  beings  was 
thrust  into  the  water  as  if  by  an  avalanche.  The  sound  of 
a  single  human  cry  could  not  be  distinguished;  there  was  a 
dull  crash  as  if  an  enormous  stone  had  fallen  into  the  water 
— and  the  Beresina  was  covered  with  corpses. 

The  violent  recoil  of  those  in  front,  striving  to  escape 
this  death,  brought  them  into  hideous  collision  with  those 
behind  them,  who  were  pressing  towards  the  bank,  and  many 
were  suffocated  and  crushed.  The  Comte  and  Comtesse  de 
Vandieres  owed  their  lives  to  the  carriage.  The  horses  that 
had  trampled  and  crushed  so  many  dying  men  were  crushed 
and  trampled  to  death  in  their  turn  by  the  human  maelstrom 
which  eddied  from  the  bank.  Sheer  physical  strength  saved 
the  major  and  the  grenadier.  They  killed  others  in  self-de- 
fence. That  wild  sea  of  human  faces  and  living  bodies, 
surging  to  and  fro  as  by  one  impulse,  left  the  bank  of  the 
Beresina  clear  for  a  few  moments.  The  multitude  had  hurled 
themselves  back  on  the  plain.  Some  few  men  sprang  down 
from  the  banks  toward  the  river,  noi:  f^  much  with  any  hope 


350  FAREWELL 

of  reaching  the  opposite  shore,  which  for  them  meant  France, 
as  from  dread  of  the  wastes  of  Siberia.  For  some  bold  spirits 
despair  became  a  panoply.  An  officer  leaped  from  hummock 
to  hummock  of  ice,  and  reached  the  other  shore;  one  of  the 
soldiers  scrambled  over  miraculously  on  the  piles  of  dead 
bodies  and  drift  ice.  But  the  immense  multitude  left  behind 
saw  at  last  that  the  Russians  would  not  slaughter  twenty 
thousand  unarmed  men,  too  numb  with  the  cold  to  attempt 
to  resist  them,  and  each  awaited  his  fate  with  dreadful 
apathy.  By  this  time  the  major  and  his  grenadier,  the  old 
general  and  his  wife,  were  left  to  themselves  not  very  far 
from  the  place  where  the  bridge  had  been.  All  four  stood 
dry-eyed  and  silent  among  the  heaps  of  dead.  A  few  able- 
bodied  men  and  one  or  two  officers,  who  had  recovered  all 
their  energy  at  this  crisis,  gathered  about  them.  The  group 
was  sufficiently  large;  there  were  about  fifty  men  all  told. 
A  couple  of  hundred  paces  from  them  stood  the  wreck  of  the 
artillery  bridge,  which  had  broken  down  the  day  before;  the 
major  saw  this,  and  "Let  us  make  a  raft !"  be  cried. 

The  words  were  scarcely  out  of  his  mouth  before  the  whole 
group  hurried  to  the  ruins  of  the  bridge.  A  crowd  of  men 
began  to  pick  up  iron  clamps  and  to  hunt  for  planks  and 
ropes — for  all  the  materials  for  a  raft,  in  short.  A  score  of 
armed  men  and  officers,  under  command  of  the  major,  stood 
on  guard  to  protect  the  workers  from  any  desperate  attempt 
on  the  part  of  the  multitude  if  they  should  guess  their  de- 
sign. The  longing  for  freedom,  which  inspires  prisoners  to 
accomplish  impossibilities,  cannot  be  compared  with  the  hope 
which  lent  energy  at  that  moment  to  these  forlorn  French- 
men. 

"The  Russians  are  upon  us !  Here  are  the  Russians !"  the 
guard  shouted  to  the  workers. 

The  timbers  creaked,  the  raft  grew  larger,  stronger,  ann 
more  substantial.  Generals,  colonels,  and  common  soldiers 
all  alike  bent  beneath  the  weight  of  wagon-wheels,  chains, 
coils  of  rope,  and  planks  of  timber;  it  was  a  modern  rea]iz;a- 
tion  of  the  building  of  Noah's  ark.    The  young  Countess,  sit 


FAREWELL  351 

ting  by  her  husband's  side,  looked  on,  regretful  that  she  could 
do  nothing  to  aid  the  workers,  though  she  helped  to  knot  the 
lengths  of  rope  together. 

At  last  the  raft  was  finished.  Forty  men  launched  it  out 
into  the  river,  while  ten  of  the  soldiers  held  the  ropes  that 
must  keep  it  moored  to  the  shore.  The  moment  that  they 
saw  their  handiwork  floating  on  the  Beresina,  they  sprang 
down  onto  it  from  the  bank  with  callous  selfishness.  The 
major,  dreading  the  frenzy  of  the  first  rush,  held  back 
Stephanie  and  the  general;  but  a  shudder  ran  through  him 
w^hen  he  saw  the  landing  place  black  with  people,  and  men 
crowding  down  like  playgoers  into  the  pit  of  a  theatre. 

"It  was  I  who  thought  of  the  raft,  you  savages !"  he  cried. 
"I  have  saved  your  lives,  and  you  will  not  make  room  for 
me!" 

A  confused  murmur  was  the  only  answer.  The  men  at 
the  edge  took  up  stout  poles,  thrust  them  against  the  bank 
with  all  their  might,  so  as  to  shove  the  raft  out  and  gain 
an  impetus  at  its  starting  upon  a  journey  across  a  sea  of 
floating  ice  and  dead  bodies  towards  the  other  shore. 

"Tonnerre  de  Dieu!  I  will  knock  some  of  you  off  into 
the  water  if  you  don't  make  room  for  the  major  and  his  two 
companions,"  shouted  the  grenadier.  He  raised  his  sabre 
threateningly,  delayed  the  departure,  and  made  the  men 
stand  closer  together,  in  spite  of  threatening  yells. 

"I  shall  fall  in !  ...  I  shall  go  overboard !  .  .  ."  his 
fellows  shouted. 

"Let  us  start !   Put  off !" 

The  major  gazed  with  tearless  eyes  at  the  woman  he  loved : 
an  impulse  of  sublime  resignation  raised  her  eyes  to  heaven. 

"To  die  with  you  F'  she  said. 

In  the  situation  of  the  folk  upon  the  raft  there  was  a  cer- 
tain comic  element.  They  might  utter  hideous  yells,  but 
not  one  of  them  dared  to  oppose  the  grenadier,  for  they  were 
packed  together  so  tightly  that  if  one  man  were  knocked 
down,  the  whole  raft  might  capsize.  At  this  delicate  crisis, 
a  captain  tried  to  rid  himself  of  one  of  his  neighbors;  the 


352  FAREWELL 

man  saw  the  hostile  intention  of  his  officer,  collared  him, 
and  pitched  him  overboard.  "Aha !  The  duck  has  a  mind  to 
drink.  .  .  .  Over  with  you ! — There  is  room  for  two 
now !"  he  shouted.  "Quick,  major !  throw  your  little  woman 
over,  and  come !  Never  mind  that  old  dotard !  he  will  drop 
off  to-morrow !" 

"Be  quick !"  cried  a  voice,  made  up  of  a  hundred  voices. 

"Come,  major !  Those  fellows  are  making  a  fuss,  and  well 
they  may !" 

The  Comte  de  Vandieres  Hung  off  his  ragged  blankets,  and 
stood  before  them  in  his  general's  uniform. 

"Let  us  save  the  Count,"  said  Philip. 

Stephanie  grasped  his  hand  tightly  in  hers,  flung  her  arms 
about,  and  clasped  him  close  in  an  agonized  embrace. 

"Farewell!"  she  said. 

Then  each  knew  the  other's  thoughts.  The  Comte  de  Van- 
dieres recovered  his  energies  and  presence  of  mind  sufficiently 
to  jump  on  to  the  raft,  whither  Stephanie  followed  him  after 
one  last  look  at  Philip. 

"Major,  won't  you  take  my  ph^ce?  I  do  not  care  a  straw 
for  life ;  I  have  neither  wife,  nor  child,  nor  mother  belonging 
to  me " 

"I  give  them  into  your  charge,"  cried  the  major,  indicating 
the  Count  and  his  wife. 

"Be  easy ;  I  will  take  as  much  care  of  them  as  of  the  apple 
of  my  eye." 

Philip  stood  stock-still  on  the  bank.  The  raft  sped  so  vio- 
lently towards  the  opposite  shore  that  it  ran  aground  with  a 
violent  shock  to  all  on  board.  The  Count,  standing  on  the 
very  edge,  was  shaken  into  the  stream ;  and  as  he  fell,  a  mass 
of  ice  swept  by  and  struck  off  his  head,  and  sent  it  flying  like 
a  ball. 

"Iley!  major!"  shouted  the  grenadier. 

"Farewell !"  a  woman's  voice  called  aloud. 

An  icy  shiver  of  dread  ran  through  Philip  de  Suey,  and 
he  dropped  down  where  he  stood,  overcome  with  cold  and 
sorrow  and  weariness. 


FAREWELL  353 

"My  poor  niece  went  out  of  her  mind,"  the  doctor  added 
after  a  brief  pause.  "Ah!  monsieur,"  he  went  on,  grasping 
M.  d'Albon's  hand,  "what  a  fearful  life  for  the  poor  little 
thing,  so  3'oung,  so  delicate !  An  unheard-of  misfortune  sep- 
arated her  from  that  grenadier  of  the  Garde  (Fleuriot  by 
name),  and  for  two  years  she  was  dragged  on  after  the  army, 
the  laughing-stock  of  a  rabble  of  outcasts.  She  went  barefoot, 
I  heard,  ill-clad,  neglected,  and  starved  for  months  at  a  time ; 
sometimes  confined  in  a  hospital,  sometimes  living  like  a 
hunted  animal.  God  alone  knows  all  the  misery  which  she 
endured,  and  yet  she  lives.  She  was  shut  up  in  a  madhouse 
in  a  little  German  town,  while  her  relations,  believing  her 
to  be  dead,  were  dividing  her  property  here  in  France. 

"In  1816  the  grenadier  Fleuriot  recognized  her  in  an  inn 
in  Strasbourg.  She  had  just  managed  to  escape  from  cap- 
tivity. Some  peasants  told  him  that  the  Countess  had  lived 
for  a  whole  month  in  a  forest,  and  how  that  they  had  tracked 
her  and  tried  to  catch  her  without  success. 

"I  was  at  that  time  not  many  leagues  from  Strasbourg; 
and  hearing  the  talk  about  this  girl  in  the  wood,  I  wished 
to  verify  the  strange  facts  that  had  given  rise  to  absurd 
stories.  What  was  my  feeling  when  I  beheld  the  Countess? 
Fleuriot  told  me  all  that  he  knew  of  the  piteous  story.  I 
took  the  poor  fellow  with  my  niece  into  Auvergne,  and  there 
I  had  the  misfortune  to  lose  him.  He  had  some  ascendency 
over  Mme.  de  Vandieres.  He  alone  succeeded  in  persuading 
her  to  wear  clothes ;  and  in  those  days  her  one  word  of  human 
speech — Fareivell — she  seldom  uttered.  Fleuriot  set  himself 
to  the  task  of  awakening  certain  associations;  but  there  he 
failed  completely;  he  drew  that  one  sorrowful  word  from  her 
a  little  more  frequently,  that  was  all.  But  the  old  grenadier 
could  amuse  her,  and  devoted  himself  to  playing  with  her, 

and  through  him  I  hoped;  but "  here  Stephanie's  uncle 

broke  off.    After  a  moment  he  went  on  again. 

"Here  she  has  found  another  creature  with  whom  she  seems 
to  have  an  understanding — an  idiot  peasant  girl,  who  once, 
in  spite  of  her  plainness  and  imbecility,  fell  in  love  with  a 


354  FAREWELL 

mason.  The  mason  thought  of  marrying  her  because  she 
had  a  little  bit  of  land,  and  for  a  whole  year  poor  Genevieve 
was  the  happiest  of  living  creatures.  She  dressed  in  her  best, 
and  danced  on  Sundays  with  Dallot;  she  understood  love; 
there  was  room  for  love  in  her  heart  and  brain.  But  Dallot 
thought  better  of  it.  He  found  another  girl  who  had  all  her 
senses  and  rather  more  land  than  Genevieve,  and  he  forsook 
Genevieve  for  her.  Then  the  poor  thing  lost  the  little  in- 
telligence that  love  had  developed  in  her ;  she  can  do  nothing 
now  but  cut  grass  and  look  after  the  cattle.  My  niece  and 
the  poor  girl  are  in  some  sort  bound  to  each  other  by  the 
invisible  chain  of  their  common  destiny,  and  by  their  mad- 
ness due  to  the  same  cause.  Just  come  here  a  moment ;  look !" 
and  Stephanie's  uncle  led  the  Marquis  d'Albon  to  the  window. 

There,  in  fact,  the  magistrate  beheld  the  pretty  Countess 
sitting  on  the  ground  at  Genevieve's  knee,  while  the  peasant 
girl  was  wholly  absorbed  in  combing  out  Stephanie's  long, 
black  hair  with  a  huge  comb.  The  Countess  enbmitted  her- 
self to  tliis,  uttering  low  smothered  cries  that  expressed  her 
enjoyment  of  the  sensation  of  physical  comfort.  A  shudder 
ran  through  M.  d'Albon  as  he  saw  her  attitude  of  languid 
abandonment,  the  animal  supineness  that  revealed  an  utter 
lack' of  intelligence. 

"Oh !  Philip,  Philip !"  he  cried,  "past  troubles  are  as  noth- 
ing.   Is  it  quite  hopeless  ?"  he  asked. 

The  doctor  raised  liis  eyes  to  heaven. 

"Good-bye,  monsieur,"  said  M.  d'Albon,  pressing  the  old 
man's  hand.  "My  friend  is  expecting  me;  you  will  see  him 
here  before  long." 

"Then  it  is  Stephanie  herself?"  cried  Sucy  when  the  Mar- 
quis had  spoken  the  first  few  words.  "Ah !  until  now  I  did 
not  feel  sure !"  he  added.  Tears  filled  the  dark  eyes  that  were 
wont  to  wear  a  stern  expression. 

"Yes;  she  is  the  Comtesse  de  Vandieres,"  his  friend  re- 
plied. 

The  colonel  started  up,  and  hurriedly  began  to  dress. 


FAREWELL  355 

'^hy,  Philip !"  cried  the  horrified  magistrate.  "Are  you 
going  mad?" 

"I  am  quite  well  now,"  said  the  colonel  simply.  "This 
news  has  soothed  all  my  bitterest  grief;  what  pain  could  hurt 
me  while  I  think  of  Stephanie?  I  am  going  over  to  the 
Minorite  convent,  to  see  her  and  speak  to  her,  to  restore  her 
to  health  again.  She  is  free;  ah,  surely,  surely,  happiness 
will  smile  on  us,  or  there  is  no  Providence  above.  How  can 
you  think  that  she  could  hear  my  voice,  poor  Stephanie,  and 
not  recover  her  reason?" 

"She  has  seen  you  once  already,  and  she  did  not  recognize 
you,"  the  magistrate  answered  gently,  trying  to  suggest  some 
wholesome  fears  to  this  friend,  whose  hopes  were  visibly  too 
high. 

The  colonel  shuddered,  but  he  began  to  smile  again,  with 
a  slight  involuntary  gesture  of  incredulity.  Nobody  ventured 
to  oppose  his  plans,  and  a  few  hours  later  he  had  taken  up 
his  abode  in  the  old  priory,  to  be  near  the  doctor  and  the 
Comtesse  de  Vandieres. 

"Where  is  she?"  he  cried  at  once. 

"Hush !"  answered  M.  Fanjat,  Stephanie's  uncle.  "She 
is  sleeping.     Stay ;  here  she  is." 

Philip  saw  the  poor  distraught  sleeper  crouching  on  a  stone 
bench  in  the  sun.  Her  thick  hair,  straggling  over  her  face, 
screened  it  from  the  glare  and  heat;  her  arms  dropped  lan- 
guidly to  the  earth;  she  lay  at  ease  as  gracefully  as  a  fawn, 
her  feet  tucked  up  beneath  her;  her  bosom  rose  and  fell  with 
her  even  breathing ;  there  was  the  same  transparent  whiteness 
as  of  porcelain  in  her  skin  and  complexion  that  we  so  often 
admire  in  children's  faces.  Genevieve  sat  there  motionless, 
holding  a  spray  that  Stephanie  doubtless  had  brought  down 
from  the  top  of  one  of  the  tallest  poplars;  the  idiot  girl  was 
waving  the  green  branch  above  her,  driving  away  the  flies 
from  her  sleeping  companion,  and  gently  fanning  her. 

She  stared  at  M.  Fanjat  and  the  colonel  as  they  came  up ; 
then,  like  a  dumb  animal  that  recognizes  its  master,  she 
slowly  turned  her  face  towards  the  countess,  and  watched  over 


356  FAREWELL 

her  as  before,  showing  not  the  slightest  sign  of  intelligence 
or  of  astonishment.  The  air  was  scorching.  The  glittering 
particles  of  the  stone  bench  shone  like  sparks  of  fire;  the 
meadow  sent  up  the  quivering  vapors  that  hover  above  the 
grass  and  gleam  like  golden  dust  when  they  catch  the  light, 
but  Genevieve  did  not  seem  to  feel  the  raging  heat. 

The  colonel  wrung  M.  Fanjat's  hands ;  the  tears  that  gath- 
ered in  the  soldier's  eyes  stole  down  his  cheeks,  and  fell  on  the 
grass  at  Stephanie's  feet. 

"Sir,"  said  her  uncle,  "for  these  two  years  my  heart  has 
been  broken  daily.  Before  very  long  you  will  be  as  I  am ;  it 
you  do  not  weep,  you  will  not  feel  your  anguish  the  less." 

"You  have  taken  care  of  her !"  said  the  colonel,  and  jeal- 
ousy no  less  than  gratitude  could  be  read  in  his  eyes. 

The  two  men  understood  one  another.  They  grasped  each 
other  by  the  hand  again,  and  stood  motionless,  gazing  in 
admiration  at  the  serenity  that  slumber  had  brought  into 
the  lovely  face  before  them.  Stephanie  heaved  a  sigh  from 
time  to  time,  and  this  sigh,  that  had  all  the  appearance  of 
sensibility,  made  the  unhappy  colonel  tremble  with  gladness. 

"Alas !"  M.  Fanjat  said  gently,  "do  not  deceive  yourself, 
monsieur;  as  you  see  her  now,  she  is  in  full  possession  of 
such  reason  as  she  has." 

Those  who  have  sat  for  whole  hours  absorbed  in  the  delight 
of  watching  over  the  slumber  of  some  tenderly-beloved  one, 
whose  waking  eyes  will  smile  for  them,  will  doubtless  under- 
stand the  bliss  and  anguish  that  shook  the  colonel.  For  him 
this  slumber  was  an  illusion,  the  waking  must  be  a  kind  of 
death,  the  most  dreadful  of  all  deaths. 

Suddenly  a  kid  frisked  in  two  or  three  bounds  towards  the 
bench,  and  snuifed  at  Stephanie.  The  sound  awakened  her; 
sbe  sprang  lightly  to  her  feet  without  scaring  away  the  capri- 
cious creature ;  but  as  soon  as  she  saw  Philip  she  fled,  followed 
by  her  four-footed  playmate,  to  a  thicket  of  elder-trees ;  then 
.she  uttered  a  little  cry  like  the  note  of  a  startled  wild  bird, 
the  same  sound  that  the  colonel  had  hoard  once  before  near 
the  grating,  when  the  Countess  appeared  to  M.  d'Albon  for 


FAREWELL.  357 

the  first  time.  At  length  she  climbed  into  a  laburnnm-tree, 
ensconced  herself  in  the  feather}'  greenery,  and  peered  out 
at  the  strange  man  with  as  much  interest  as  the  most  inquisi- 
tive nightingale  in  the  forest. 

"Farewell,  farewell,  farewell,"  she  said,  but  the  soul  sent 
no  trace  of  expression  of  feeling  through  the  words,  spoken 
with  the  careless  intonation  of  a  bird's  notes. 

"She  does  not  know  me !"  the  colonel  exclaimed  in  despair. 
"Stephanie  !  Here  is  Philip,  your  Philip  !  .  .  .  Philip  !" 
and  the  poor  soldier  went  towards  the  labumum-tree ;  but 
when  he  stood  three  paces  away,  the  Countess  eyed  him 
almost  defiantly,  though  there  was  timidity  in  her  eyes ;  then 
at  a  bound  she  sprang  from  the  laburnum  to  an  acacia,  and 
thence  to  a  spruce-fir,  swinging  from  bough  to  bough  with 
marvelous  dexterity. 

"Do  not  follow  her,"  said  M.  Fanjat,  addressing  the  colo- 
nel. "You  would  arouse  a  feeling  of  aversion  in  her  which 
might  become  insurmountable;  I  will  help  you  to  make  her 
acquaintance  and  to  tame  her.  Sit  down  on  the  bench.  If 
you  pay  no  heed  whatever  to  her,  poor  child,  it  will  not  be 
long  before  you  will  see  her  come  nearer  by  degrees  to  look 
at  you." 

"That  she  should  not  know  me;  that  she  should  fly  from 
me !"  the  colonel  repeated,  sitting  down  on  a  rustic  bench 
and  leaning  his  back  against  a  tree  that  overshadowed  it. 

He  bowed  his  head.  The  doctor  remained  silent.  Before 
very  long  the  Countess  stole  softly  down  from  her  high  refuge 
in  the  spruce-fir,  flitting  like  a  will-o'-the-wisp;  for  as  the 
wind  stirred  the  boughs,  she  lent  herself  at  times  to  the 
swaying  movements  of  the  trees.  At  each  branch  she  stopped 
and  peered  at  the  stranger;  but  as  she  saw  him  sitting  mo- 
tionless, she  at  length  jumped  down  to  the  grass,  stood  a 
while,  and  came  slowly  across  the  meadow.  When  she  took 
up  her  position  by  a  tree  about  ten  paces  from  the  bench, 
M.  Fanjat  spoke  to  the  colonel  in  a  low  voice. 

"Feel  in  my  pocket  for  some  lumps  of  sugar,"  he  said,  "and 
let  her  see  them,  she  will  come;  I  willingly  give  up  to  you 


358  FAREWELL 

the  pleasure  of  giving  her  sweetmeats.  She  is  passionately 
fond  of  sugar,  and  by  that  means  you  will  accustom  her  to 
come  to  you  and  to  know  you." 

"She  never  cared  for  sweet  things  when  she  was  a  woman," 
Philip  answered  sadly. 

When  he  held  out  the  lump  of  sugar  between  his  thumb 
and  finger,  and  shook  it,  Stephanie  uttered  the  wild  note 
again,  and  sprang  quickly  towards  him;  then  she  stopped 
short,  there  was  a  conflict  between  longing  for  the  sweet 
morsel  and  instinctive  fear  of  him;  she  looked  at  the  sugar, 
turned  her  head  away,  and  looked  again  like  an  unfortunate 
dog  forbidden  to  touch  some  scrap  of  food,  while  his  master 
slowly  recites  the  greater  part  of  the  alphabet  until  he  reaches 
the  letter  that  gives  permission.  At  length  animal  appetite 
conquered  fear;  Stephanie  rushed  to  Philip,  held  out  a  dainty 
brown  hand  to  pounce  upon  the  coveted  morsel,  touched  her 
lover's  fingers,  snatched  the  piece  of  sugar,  and  vanished  with 
it  into  a  thicket.  This  painful  scene  was  too  much  for  the 
colonel ;  he  burst  into  tears,  and  took  refuge  in  the  drawing- 
room. 

"Then  has  love  less  courage  than  aifection?"  M.  Fanjat 
asked  him.  "I  have  hope.  Monsieur  le  Baron.  My  poor  niece 
was  once  in  a  far  more  pitiable  state  than  at  present." 

"Is  it  possible?"  cried  Philip. 

"She  would  not  wear  clothes,"  answered  the  doctor. 

The  colonel  shuddered,  and  his  face  grew  pale.  To  the 
doctor's  mind  this  pallor  was  an  unhealthy  symptom ;  he  went 
over  to  him  and  felt  his  pulse,  M.  de  Sucy  was  in  a  high  fever; 
by  dint  of  persuasion,  he  succeeded  in  putting  the  patient 
in  bed,  and  gave  him  a  few  drops  of  laudanum  to  gain  repose 
and  sleep. 

The  Baron  de  Sucy  spent  nearly  a  week,  in  a  constant 
struggle  with  a  deadly  anguish,  and  before  long  he  had  no 
tears  left  to  shed.  He  was  often  well-nigh  heartbroken;  he 
could  not  grow  accustomed  to  the  sight  of  the  Countess'  mad- 
ness; but  he  made  terms  for  himself,  as  it  were,  in  this  cruel 
position,  and  sought  alleviations  in  his  pain.     His  heroism 


FAREWELL  869 

was  boundless.  He  found  courage  to  overcome  Stephanie's 
wild  shyness  by  choosing  sweetmeats  for  her,  and  devoted  all 
his  thoughts  to  this,  bringing  these  dainties,  and  following 
up  the  little  victories  that  he  set  himself  to  gain  over 
Stephanie's  instincts  (the  last  gleam  of  intelligence  in  her), 
until  he  succeeded  to  some  extent — she  grew  tamer  than  ever 
before.  Every  morning  the  colonel  went  into  the  park;  and 
if,  after  a  long  search  for  the  Countess,  he  could  not  discover 
'the  tree  in  which  she  was  rocking  herself  gently,  nor  the  nook 
where  she  lay  crouching  at  play  with  some  bird,  nor  the  roof 
where  she  had  perched  herself,  he  would  whistle  the  well- 
known  air  Partant  pour  la  Syrie,  which  recalled  old  memories 
of  their  love,  and  Stephanie  would  run  towards  him  lightly  as 
a  fawn.  Slip  saw  the  colonel  so  often  that  she  was  no  longer 
afraid  of  him;  before  very  long  she  would  sit  on  his  knee 
with  her  thin,  lithe  arms  about  him.  And  while  thus  they  sat 
as  lovers  love  to  do,  Philip  doled  out  sweetmeats  one  by  one 
to  the  eager  Countess.  When  they  were  all  finished,  the 
fancy  often  took  Stephanie  to  search  through  her  lover's 
pockets  with  a  monkey's  quick  instinctive  dexterity,  till  she 
had  assured  herself  that  there  was  nothing  left,  and  then  she 
gazed  at  Philip  with  vacant  eyes;  there  was  no  thought,  no 
gratitude  in  their  clear  depths.  Then  she  would  play  with 
him.  She  tried  to  take  off  his  boots  to  see  his  foot;  she  tore 
his  gloves  to  shreds,  and  put  on  his  hat;  and  she  would  let 
him  pass  his  hands  through  her  hair,  and  take  her  in  his  arms, 
and  submit  passively  to  his  passionate  kisses,  and  at  last,  if  he 
shed  tears,  she  would  gaze  silently  at  him. 

She  quite  understood  the  signal  when  he  whistled  Partant 
pour  la  Syrie,  but  he  could  never  succeed  in  inducing  her  to 
pronounce  her  own  name — Stephanie.  Philip  persevered  in 
his  heart-rending  task,  sustained  by  a  hope  that  never  loft 
him.  If  on  some  bright  autumn  morning  he  saw  her  sitting 
quietly  on  a  bench  nnder  a  poplar  tree,  grown  brown  now 
as  the  season  wore,  the  unhappy  lover  would  lie  at  her  feet 
and  gaze  into  her  eyes  as  long  as  she  would  let  him  gaze, 
hoping  that  some  spark  of  intelligence  might  gleam  from 


360  J'AREWELL 

them.  At  times  he  lent  himself  to  an  illusion ;  he  would  Im- 
agine that  he  saw  the  hard,  changeless  light  in  them  falter, 
that  there  was  a  new  life  and  softness  in  them,  and  he  would 
cry,  "Stephanie !  oh,  Stephanie !  you  hear  me,  you  see  me,  do 
you  not?" 

But  for  her  the  sound  of  his  voice  was  like  any  other  sound, 
the  stirring  of  the  wind  in  the  trees,  or  the  lowing  of  the  cow 
on  which  she  scrambled ;  and  the  colonel  wrung  his  hands  in 
a  despair  that  lost  none  of  its  bitterness ;  nay,  time  and  these 
vain  efforts  only  added  to  his  anguish. 

One  evening,  under  the  quiet  sky,  in  the  midst  of  the  silence 
and  peace  of  the  forest  hermitage,  M.  Fanjat  saw  from  a  dis- 
tance that  the  Baron  was  busy  loading  a  pistol,  and  knew 
that  the  lover  had  given  up  all  hope.  The  blood  surged  to  the 
old  doctor's  heart;  and  if  he  overcame  the  dizzy  sensation 
that  seized  on  him,  it  was  because  he  would  rather  see  his 
niece  live  with  a  disordered  brain  than  lose  her  for  ever.  He 
hurried  to  the  place. 

"What  are  you  doing?"  he  cried. 

"That  is  for  me,"  the  colonel  answered,  pointing  to  a 
loaded  pistol  on  the  bench,  "and  this  is  for  her !"  he  added, 
as  he  rammed  down  the  wad  into  the  pistol  that  he  held  in 
his  hands. 

The  Countess  lay  stretched  out  on  the  ground,  playing 
with  the  balls. 

"Then  you  do  not  know  that  last  night,  as  she  slept,  she 
murmured  'Philip  ?'  "  said  the  doctor  quietly,  dissembling  his 
alarm. 

"She  called  my  name  ?"  cried  the  Baron,  letting  his  weapon 
fall.  Stephanie  picked  it  up,  but  he  snatched  it  out  of  her 
hands,  caught  the  other  pistol  from  the  bench,  and  fled. 

"Poor  little  one !"  exclaimed  the  doctor,  rejoicing  that 
his  stratagem  had  succeeded  so  well.  He  held  her  tightly 
to  his  heart  as  he  went  on.  "He  would  have  killed  you,  selfish 
ihat  he  is !  He  wants  you  to  die  because  he  is  unhappy.  He 
cannot  learn  to  love  you  for  your  own  sake,  little  one!  We 
forgive  him,  do  we  not?    He  is  senseless;  you  are  only  mad. 


IFAREWELL  Sei 

Kever  mind;  God  alone  shall  take  you  to  Himself.  We  look 
upon  you  as  unhappy  because  you  no  longer  share  our  mis- 
eries, fools  that  we  are !  .  .  .  Why,  she  is  happy,"  he 
said,  taking  her  on  his  knee;  "nothing  troubles  her;  she  lives 
like  the  birds,  like  the  deer " 

Stephanie  sprang  upon  a  young  blackbird  that  was  hopping 
about,  caught  it  with  a  little  shriek  of  glee,  twisted  its  neck, 
looked  at  the  dead  bird,  and  dropped  it  at  the  foot  of  a  tree 
without  giving  it  another  thought. 

The  next  morning  at  daybreak  the  colonel  went  out  into 
the  garden  to  look  for  Stephanie;  hope  was  very  strong  in 
him.  He  did  not  see  her,  and  whistled;  and  when  she  came, 
he  took  her  arm,  and  for  the  first  time  they  walked  together 
along  an  alley  beneath  the  trees,  while  the  fresh  morning 
wind  shook  down  the  dead  leaves  about  them.  The  colonel  sat 
down,  and  Stephanie,  of  her  own  accord,  lit  upon  his  knee. 
Philip  trembled  with  gladness. 

"Love!"  he  cried,  covering  her  hands  with  passionate 
kisses,  "I  am  Philip     .     .     ." 

She  looked  curiously  at  him. 

"Come  close,"  he  added,  as  he  held  her  tightly.  "Do  you 
feel  the  beating  of  my  heart  ?  It  has  beat  for  you,  for  you 
only.  I  love  you  always.  Philip  is  not  dead.  He  is  here. 
You  are  sitting  on  his  knee.  You  are  my  Stephanie,  I  am 
your  Philip !" 

"Earewell !"  she  said,  "farewell !" 

The  colonel  shivered.  He  thought  that  some  vibration  of 
his  highly  wrought  feeling  had  surely  reached  his  beloved; 
that  the  heart-rending  cry,  drawn  from  him  by  hope,  the  ut- 
most effort  of  a  love  that  must  last  for  ever,  of  passion  in  its 
ecstasy,  striving  to  reach  the  soul  of  the  woman  he  loved,  must 
awaken  her. 

"Oh,  Stephanie !  we  shall  be  happy  yet !" 

A  cry  of  satisfaction  broke  from  her,  a  dim  light  of  intelli- 
gence gleamed  in  her  eyes. 

"She  knows  me !     .     .     .     Stephanie !     .     .     ." 

The  colonel  felt  his  heart  swell,  and  tears  gathered  under 


362  FAREWELL 

his  e3^elids.  But  all  at  once  the  Countess  held  up  a  bit  of  sugar 
for  him  to  see;  she  had  discovered  it  by  searching  diligently 
for  it  while  he  spoke.  What  he  had  mistaken  for  a  human 
thought  was  a  degree  of  reason  required  for  a  monkey's  mis- 
chievous trick ! 

Philip  fainted.  M.  Fanjat  found  the  Countess  sitting  on 
his  prostrate  body.  She  was  nibbling  her  bit  of  sugar,  giving 
expression  to  her  enjoyment  by  little  grimaces  and  gestures 
that  would  have  been  thought  clever  in  a  woman  in  full  pos- 
session of  her  senses  if  she  tried  to  mimic  her  paroquet  or  her 
cat. 

"Oh,  my  friend!"  cried  Philip,  when  he  came  to  himself. 
"This  is  like  death  every  moment  of  the  day !  I  love  her  too 
much!  I  could  bear  anything  if  only  through  her  madness 
she  had  kept  some  little  trace  of  womanhood.  But,  day  after 
day,  to  see  her  like  a  wild  animal,  not  even  a  sense  of  modesty 
left,  to  see  her " 

"So  you  must  have  a  theatrical  m'adness,  must  you?"  said 
the  doctor  sharply,  "and  your  prejudices  are  stronger  than 
your  lover's  devotion  ?  What,  monsieur !  I  resign  to  you  the 
sad  pleasure  of  giving  my  niece  her  food,  and  the  enjoyment 
of  her  playtime ;  I  have  kept  for  myself  nothing  but  the  most 
burdensome  cares.     I  watch  over  her  while  you  are  asleep, 

I Go,  monsieur,  and  give  up  the  task.  Leave  this  dreary 

hermitage;  I  can  live  with  my  little  darling;  I  understand  her 
disease;  I  study  her  movements;  I  know  her  secrets.  Some 
day  you  shall  thank  me." 

The  colonel  left  the  Minorite  convent,  that  he  was  destined 
to  see  only  once  again.  The  doctor  was  alarmed  by  the  effect 
that  his  words  made  upon  his  guest ;  his  niece's  lover  became 
as  dear  to  him  as  his  niece.  If  either  of  them  deserved  to  be 
pitied,  that  one  was  certainly  Philip;  did  he  not  bear  alone 
the  burden  of  an  appalling  sorrow? 

The  doctor  made  iiupiiries,  and  learned  that  the  hapless 
colonel  had  retired  to  a  country  house  of  his  near  Saint- 
Cormain.  A  dream  had  suggested  to  him  a  plan  for  restoring 
the  Countess  to  reason,  and  the  doctor  did  not  know  that  he 


FAREWELL  3^3 

was  spending  the  rest  of  the  autumn  in  carrying  out  a  vast 
scheme.  A  small  stream  ran  through  his  park,  and  in  winter' 
time  flooded  a  low-lying  land,  something  like  the  plain  on 
the  eastern  side  of  the  Beresina.  The  village  of  Satout,  on 
the  slope  of  a  ridge  above  it,  bounded  the  horizon  of  a  picture 
of  desolation,  something  as  Studzianka  lay  on  the  heights 
that  shut  in  the  swamp  of  the  Beresina.  The  colonel  set 
laborers  to  work  to  make  a  channel  to  resemble  the  greedy 
river  that  had  swallowed  up  the  treasures  of  France  and  Na- 
poleon's army.  By  the  help  of  his  memories,  Philip  recon- 
structed on  his  own  lands  the  bank  where  General  Eble  had 
built  his  bridges.  He  drove  in  piles,  and  then. -set  fire  to 
them,  so  as  to  reproduce  the  charred  and  blackened  balks  of 
timber  that  on  either  side  of  the  river  told  the  stragglers  that 
their  retreat  to  France  had  been  cut  off.  He  had  materials 
collected  like  the  fragments  out  of  which  his  comrades  in 
misfortune  had  made  the  raft;  his  park  was  laid  waste  to 
complete  the  illusion  on  which  his  last  hopes  were  founded. 
He  ordered  ragged  uniforms  and  clothing  for  several  hundred 
peasants.  Huts  and  bivouacs  and  batteries  were  raised  and 
burned  down.  In  short,  he  omitted  no  device  that  could  re- 
produce that  most  hideous  of  all  scenes.  He  succeeded. 
When,  in  the  earliest  days  of  December,  snow  covered  the 
earth  with  a  thick  white  mantle,  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  saw 
the  Beresina  itself.  The  mimic  Eussia  was  so  startlingly 
real,  that  several  of  his  old  comrades  recognized  the  scene  of 
their  past  sufferings.  M.  de  Sucy  kept  the  secret  of  the 
drama  to  be  enacted  with  this  tragical  background,  but  it  was 
looked  upon  as  a  mad  freak  in  several  circles  of  society  in 
Paris. 

In  the  early  days  of  the  month  of  January  1830,  the  colonel 
drove  over  to  the  Forest  of  I'lsle-Adam  in  a  carriage  like 
the  one  in  which  M.  and  Mme.  de  Vandieres  had  driven  from 
Moscow  to  Studzianka.  The  horses  closely  resembled  that 
other  pair  that  he  had  risked  his  life  to  bring  from  the  Eus- 
sian  lines.  He  himself  wore  the  grotesque  and  soiled  clothes, 
accoutrements,  and  cap  that  he  had  worn  on  the  39th  of 


364  FAREWELL 

November  1812.  He  had  even  allowed  his  hair  and  beard  to 
grow,  and  neglected  his  appearance,  that  no  detail  might  be 
lacking  to  recall  the  scene  in  all  its  horror. 

"I  guessed  what  you  meant  to  do,"  cried  M.  Fanjat,  when 
he  saw  the  colonel  dismount.  "If  you  mean  your  plan  to 
succeed,  do  not  let  her  see  you  in  that  carriage.  This  even- 
ing I  will  give  my  niece  a  little  laudanum,  and  while  she 
sleeps,  we  will  dress  her  in  such  clothes  as  she  wore  at  Stiul- 
zianka,  and  put  her  in  your  traveling-carriage.  I  will  follow 
you  in  a  berliue." 

Soon  after  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  the  young  Countess 
was  lifted  -into  the  carriage,  laid  on  the  cushions,  and  wrapped 
in  a  coarse  blanket.  A  few  peasants  held  torches  while  this 
strange  elopement  was  arranged. 

A  sudden  cry  rang  through  the  silence  of  night,  and  Philip 
and  the  doctor,  turning,  saw  Genevieve.  She  had  come  out 
half-dressed  from  the  low  room  where  she  slept. 

"Farewell,  farewell;  it  is  all  over,  farewell!"  she  called, 
crying  bitterly. 

"Why,  Genevieve,  what  is  it  ?"  asked  M.  Fanjat. 

Genevieve  shook  her  head  despairingly,  raised  her  arm  to 
heaven,  looked  at  the  carriage,  uttered  a  long  snarling  sound, 
and  with  evident  signs  of  profound  terror,  slunk  in  again. 

"  'Tis  a  good  omen,"  cried  the  colonel.  "The  girl  is  sorry 
to  lose  her  companion.  Ver^'  likely  she  sees  that  Stephanie 
is  about  to  recover  her  reason." 

"God  grant  it  may  be  so !"  answered  M.  Fanjat,  who  seemed 
to  be  affected  by  this  incident.  Since  insanity  had  interested 
him,  he  had  known  several  cases  in  which  a  spirit  of  prophecy 
and  the  gift  of  second  sight  had  been  accorded  to  a  disordered 
brain — two  faculties  which  many  travelers  tell  ns  are  also 
found  among  savage  tribes. 

So  it  happened  that,  as  the  colonel  had  foreseen  and  ar- 
ranged, Stephanie  traveled  across  the  mimic  Beresina  about 
nine  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  was  awakened  by  an  explo- 
sion of  rockets  about  a  hnnflrcd  paces  from  the  scene  of 
action.    It  was  a  signal.    Hundreds  of  peasant?  raised  a  ter- 


FAREWELL  86B 

rible  clamor,  like  the  despairing  shouts  that  startled  the  "Rus- 
sians when  twenty  thousand  stragglers  learned  that  by  their 
own  fault  they  were  delivered  over  to  death  or  to  slavery. 

When  the  Countess  heard  the  report  and  the  cries  that 
followed,  she  sprang  out  of  the  carriage,  and  rushed  in  fren- 
zied anguish  over  the  snow-covered  plain ;  she  saw  the  burned 
bivouacs  and  the  fatal  raft  about  to  bo  launched  on  a  frozen 
Beresina.  She  saw  Major  Philip  brandishing  hi?  sabre 
among  the  crowd.  The  cry  that  broke  from  Mme.  de  Van- 
dieres  made  the  blood  run  cold  in  the  veins  of  all  who  heard 
it.  She  stood  face  to  face  with  the  colonel,  who  watched  her 
with  a  beating  heart.  At  first  she  stared  blankly  at  the 
strange  scene  about  her,  then  she  reflected.  For  an  instant, 
brief  as  a  lightning  flash,  there  was  the  same  quick  gaze  and 
total  lack  of  comprehension  that  we  see  in  the  bright  eyes 
of  a  bird ;  then  she  passed  her  hand  across  her  forehead  with 
the  intelligent  expression  of  a  thinking  being;  she  looked 
round  on  the  memories  that  had  taken  substantial  form,  into 
the  past  life  that  had  been  transported  into  her  present;  she 
turned  her  face  to  Philip — and  saw  him !  An  awed  silence 
fell  upon  the  crowd.  The  colonel  breathed  hard,  but  dared 
not  speak;  tears  filled  the  doctor's  eyes.  A  faint  color  over- 
spread Stephanie's  beautiful  face,  deepening  slowly,  till  at 
■last  she  glowed  like  a  girl  radiant  with  youth.  Still  the  bright 
flush  grew.  Life  and  joy,  kindled  within  her  at  the  blaze  of 
intelligence,  swept  through  her  like  leaping  flames.  A  con- 
vulsive tremor  ran  from  her  feet  to  her  heart.  But  all  these 
tokens,  which  flashed  on  the  sight  in  a  moment,  gathered  and 
gained  consistence,  as  it  were,  when  Stephanie's  eyes  gleamed 
with  heavenly  radiance,  the  light  of  a  soul  within.  She 
lived,  she  thought !  She  shuddered — was  it  with  fear  ?  God 
Himself  unloosed  a  second  time  the  tongue  that  had  been 
bound  by  death,  and  set  His  fire  anew  in  the  extinguished 
soul.  The  electric  torrent  of  the  human  will  vivified  the  body 
whence  it  had  so  long  been  absent. 

"Stephanie  !"  the  colonel  cried. 

*^0h  !  it  is  Philip !"  said  the  poor  Countess. 


366  FAREWELL 

She  fled  to  the  trembling  arms  held  out  towards  her,  and 
the  embrace  of  the  two  lovers  frightened  tliose  who  beheld  it. 
Stephanie  burst  into  tears. 

Suddenly  the  tears  ceased  to  flow;  she  lay  in  his  arms  a 
dead  weight,  as  if  stricken  by  a  thunderbolt,  and  said 
faintly : 

"Farewell,  Philip !  .  .  ,  I  love  you.  .  .  .  f are- 
weU  r 

"She  is  dead !"  cried  the  colonel,  unclasping  his  arms. 

The  old  doctor  received  the  lifeless  body  of  his  niece  in 
his  arms  as  a  young  man  might  have  done;  he  carried  her 
to  a  stack  of  wood  and  set  her  down.  He  looked  at  her  face, 
and  laid  a  feeble  hand,  tremulous  with  agitation,  upon  her 
heart — it  beat  no  longer. 

"Can  it  really  be  so?"  he  said,  looking  from  the  colonel, 
who  stood  there  motionless,  to  Stephanie's  face.  Death  had 
invested  it  with  a  radiant  beaut}^  a  transient  aureole,  the 
pledge,  it  may  be,  of  a  glorious  life  to  come. 

"Yes,  she  is  dead." 

"Oh,  but  that  smile!"  cried  Philip;  "only  see  that  smile. 
Is  it  possible  ?" 

"She  has  grown  cold  already,"  answered  M.  Fanjat. 

M.  de  Sucy  made  a  few  strides  to  tear  himself  from  the 
sight;  then  he  stopped,  and  whistled  the  air  that  the  mad 
Stephanie  had  understood ;  and  when  he  saw  that  she  did  not 
rise  and  hasten  to  him,  he  walked  away,  staggering  like  a 
drunken  man,  still  whistling,  but  he  did  not  turn  again. 

In  society  General  de  Sucy  is  looked  upon  as  very  agree- 
able, and  above  all  things,  as  very  lively  and  amusing.  Not 
very  long  ago  a  lady  complimented  him  upon  his  good  humor 
and  equable  temper. 

"Ah !  madame,"  he  answered,  "I  pay  very  dearly  for  my 
merriment  in  the  evening  if  I  am  alone." 

"Then,  you  are  never  alone,  I  suppose." 

"No,"  he  answorcfl.  smiling. 

If  a  keen  observer  of  human  nature  could  have  seen  the 


FAREWELL  367 

look  that  Suey's  face  wore  at  that  moment,  he  would,  without 
doubt,  have  shuddered. 

"Why  do  you  not  marry?"  the  lady  asked  (she  had  several 
daughters  of  her  own  at  a  boarding-school).  "You  are 
wealthy;  you  belong  to  an  old  and  noble  house;  you  are 
clever ;  you  have  a  future  before  you ;  everything  smiles  upon 
you." 

"Yes,"  he  answered;  "one  smile  is  killing  me " 

On  the  morrow  the  lady  heard  with  amazement  that  M.  de 
Sucy  had  shot  himself  through  the  head  that  night. 

The  fashionable  world  discussed  the  extraordinary  news 
in  divers  ways,  and  each  had  a  theory  to  account  for  it ;  play, 
love,  ambition,  irregularities  in  private  life,  according  to  the 
taste  of  the  speaker,  explained  the  last  act  of  the  tragedy 
begun  in  1812.  Two  men  alone,  a  magistrate  and  an  old 
doctor,  knew  that  Monsieur  le  Comte  de  Sucy  was  one  of  those 
souls  unhappy  in  the  strength  God  gives  to  them  to  enable 
them  to  triumph  daily  in  a  ghastly  struggle  with  a  mysterious 
horror.  If  for  a  moment  God  withdraws  His  sustaining  hand, 
they  succumb. 

Paris,  UtarchlSSO, 


THE  CONSCRIPT 

[The  inner  self]  ...  by  a  phenomenon  of  vision  or  of 
locomotion  has  been  linown  at  times  to  abolish  Space  in  its  two 
modes  of  Time  and  Distance— the  one  intellectual,  the  other 
physical. 

—History  of  Louis  L-ajibert. 

On  a  November  evening  in  the  year  1793  the  principal  citi- 
zens of  Carentan  were  assembled  in  Mme.  de  Dey's  drawing- 
room.  Mme.  de  Dey  held  this  reception  every  night  of  the 
week,  but  an  unwonted  interest  attached  to  this  evening's 
gathering,  owing  to  certain  circumstances  which  would  have 
passed  altogether  unnoticed  in  a  great  city,  though  in  a 
small  country  town  they  -excited  the  greatest  curiosity.  For 
two  days  before  Mme.  de  Dey  had  not  been  at  home  to  her 
visitors,  and  on  the  previous  evening  her  door  had  been  shut, 
on  the  ground  of  indisposition.  Two  such  events  at  any 
ordinary  time  would  have  produced  in  Carentan  the  same  sen- 
sation that  Paris  knows  on  nights  when  there  is  no  per- 
formance at  the  theatres — existence  is  in  some  sort  incom- 
plete; but  in  those  times  when  the  least  indiscretion  on  the 
part  of  an  aristocrat  might  be  a  matter  of  life  and  death, 
this  conduct  of  Mme.  de  Dey's  was  likely  to  bring  about  the 
most  disastrous  consequences  for  her.  Her  position  in  Ca- 
rentan ought  to  be  made  clear,  if  the  reader  is  to  appreciate 
the  expression  of  keen  curiosity  and  cunning  fanaticism  on 
the  countenances  of  these  Norman  citizens,  and,  what  is  of 
most  importance,  the  part  that  the  lady  played  among  them. 
Many  a  one  during  the  days  of  the  Eevolution  has  doubtless 
passed  through  a  crisis  as  difficult  as  hers  at  that  moment, 
and  the  sympathies  of  more  than  one  reader  will  fill  in  all 
the  coloring  of  the  picture. 


370  THE  CONSCRIPT 

Mme.  de  Dey  was  the  widow  of  a  Lieutenant-General,  a 
Knight  of  the  Orders  of  Saint  Michael  and  of  tlie  Hoi}' 
Ghost.  She  had  left  the  Court  when  the  Emigration  began, 
and  taken  refnge  in  the  neighborhood  of  Carentan,  where 
she  had  large  estates,  hoping  that  the  influence  of  the  Eeign 
"of  Terror  would  be  but  little  felt  there.  Her  calculations, 
based  on  a  thorough  knowledge  of  the  district,  proved  cor- 
rect. The  Eevolution  made  little  disturbance  in  Lower  Nor- 
mandy. Formerly,  when  Mme.  de  Dey  had  spent  any  time 
in  the  country,  her  circle  of  acquaintance  had  been  confined 
to  the  noble  families  of  the  district;  but  now,  from  politic 
motives,  she  opened  her  house  to  the  principal  citizens  and 
to  the  Eevolutionary  authorities  of  the  town,  endeavoring  to 
touch  and  gratify  their  social  pride  without  arousing  either 
hatred  or  jealousy.  Gracious  and  kindly,  possessed  of  the  in- 
describable charm  that  wins  goodwill  without  loss  of  dignity 
or  effort  to  pay  court  to  any,  she  had  succeeded  in  gaining 
universal  esteem;  the  discreet  warnings  of  exquisite  tact  en- 
abled her  to  steer  a  difficult  course  among  the  exacting  claims 
of  this  mixed  society,  without  wounding  the  overweening 
self-love  of  parvenus  on  the  one  hand,  or  the  susceptibilities 
of  her  old  friends  on  the  other. 

She  was  about  thirty-eight  years  of  age,  and  still  preserved, 
not  the  fresh,  high-colored  beauty  of  the  Basse-jSTormandes, 
but  a  fragile  loveliness  of  what  may  be  called  an  aristocratic 
type.  Her  figure  was  lissome  and  slender,  her  features  deli- 
cate and  clearly  cut;  the  pale  face  seemed  to  light  up  and 
live  when  she  spoke;  but  there  was  a  quiet  and  devout  look 
in  the  great  dark  eyes,  for  all  their  graciousness  of  expres- 
sion— a  look  that  seemed  to  say  that  the  springs  of  her  life 
lay  without  her  own  existence. 

In  her  early  girlhood  she  had  been  married  to  an  elderly 
and  jealous  soldier.  Tier  false  position  in  the  midst  of  a  gay 
Court  had  doubtless  done  something  to  bring  a  veil  of  sadness 
over  a  face  that  must  once  have  been  bright  with  the  charms 
of  quick-pulsed  life  aud  love.  She  had  been  compelled  to 
Bet  r^nstant  restraint  uuon  her  frank  impulses  and  emotions 


THE  CONSCRIPT  371 

at  an  age  when  a  woman  feels  rather  than  thinks,  and  the 
depths  of  pa.ssion  in  her  heart  liad  never  been  stirred.  In  this 
lay  the  secret  of  her  greatest  charm,  a  youthfulness  of  the  in- 
most soul,  betrayed  at  times  by  her  face,  and  a  certain  tinge 
of  innocent  wistfulness  in  her  ideas.  She  was  reserved  in 
her  demeanor,  but  in  her  bearing  and  in  the  tones  of  her 
voice  there  was  still  something  that  told  of  girlish  longings 
directed  toward  a  vague  future.  Before  very  long  the  least 
susceptible  fell  in  love  with  her,  and  yet  stood  somewhat  in 
awe  of  her  dignity  and  high-bred  manner.  Her  great  soul, 
strengthened  by  the  cruel  ordeals  through  which  she  had 
passed,  seemed  to  set  her  too  far  above  the  ordinary  level, 
and  these  men  weighed  themselves,  and  instinctively  felt  that 
they  were  found  wanting.  Such  a  nature  demanded  an  ex- 
alted passion. 

Moreover,  Mme.  de  Dey's  affections  were  concentrated  in 
one  sentiment — a  mother's  love  for  her  son.  All  the  happi- 
ness and  joy  that  she  had  not  known  as  a  wife,  she  had  found 
later  in  her  boundless  love  for  him.  The  coquetry  of  a  mis- 
tress, the  jealousy  of  a  wife  mingled  with  the  pure  and  deep 
affection  of  a  mother.  She  was  miserable  when  they  were 
apart,  and  nervous  about  him  while  he  was  away;  she  could 
never  see  enough  of  him,  and  lived  through  and  for  him 
alone.  Some  idea  of  the  strength  of  this  tie  may  be  con- 
veyed to  the  masculine  understanding  by  adding  that  this 
was  not  only  Mme.  de  Dey's  only  son,  but  all  she  had  of  kith 
or  kin  in  the  world,  the  one  human  being  on  earth  bound  to 
her  by  all  the  fears  and  hopes  and  joys  of  her  life. 

The  late  Comte  de  Dey  was  the  last  of  his  race,  and  she, 
his  wife,  was  the  sole  heiress  and  descendant  of  her  house. 
So  worldly  ambitions  and  family  considerations  as  well  as 
the  noblest  cravings  of  the  soul,  combined  to  heighten  in 
the  Countess  a  sentiment  that  is  strong  in  every  woman's 
heart.  The  child  was  all  the  dearer,  because  only  with  in- 
finite care  had  she  succeeded  in  rearing  him  to  man's  estate; 
medical  science  had  predicted  his  death  a  score  of  times, 
but  she  had  held  fast  to  her  presentiments  and  her  hopes, 


ST2  THE  CONSCKIFT 

iind  had  known  the  inexpressible  joy  of  vratching  him  pass 
safely  through  the  perils  of  infancy,  of  seeing  his  constitution 
strengthen  in  spite  of  the  decrees  of  the  Faculty. 

Thanks  to  her  constant  care,  the  boy  had  grown  up  and  de- 
veloped so  favorably,  that  at  twenty  years  of  age  he  was  re- 
'zarded  as  one  of  the  most  accomplished  gentlemen  at  the 
Court  of  Versailles.  One  final  happiness  that  does  not  always 
crown  a  mother's  efforts  was  hers — her  son  worshiped  her; 
and  between  these  two  there  was  the  deep  sympathy  of  kin- 
dred souls.  If  they  had  not  been  bound  to  each  other  already 
by  a  natural  and  sacred  tie,  they  would  instinctively  have  felt 
for  each  other  a  friendship  that  is  rarely  met  with  between 
two  men. 

At  the  age  of  eighteen,  the  young  Count  had  received  an 
appointment  as  sub-lieutenant  in  a  regiment  of  dragoons,  and 
had  made  it  a  point  of  honor  to  follow  the  emigrant  Princes 
into  exile. 

Then  Mme.  de  Dey  faced  the  dangers  of  her  cruel  position. 
She  was  rich,  noble,  and  the  mother  of  an  Emigrant,  With 
the  one  desire  to  look  after  her  son's  great  fortune,  she  had 
denied  herself  the  happiness  of  being  with  him ;  and  when  she 
read  the  rigorous  laws  in  virtue  of  which  the  Eepublic  was 
daily  confiscating  the  property  of  Emigrants  at  Carentan,  she 
congratulated  herself  on  the  courageous  course  that  she  had 
taken.  Was  she  not  keeping  watch  over  the  wealth  of  her  son 
at  the  risk  of  her  life?  Later,  when  news  came  of  the 
horrible  executions  ordered  by  the  Convention,  she  slept, 
happy  in  the  knowledge  that  her  own  treasure  was  in  safety, 
out  of  reach  of  peril,  far  from  the  scaffolds  of  the  Revolution. 
She  loved  to  think  that  she  had  followed  the  best  course,  that 
she  had  saved  her  darling  and  her  darling's  fortunes ;  and  to 
this  secret  thought  she  made  such  concessions  as  the  mis- 
fortunes of  the  times  demanded,  without  compromising  her 
dignity  or  her  aristocratic  tenets,  and  enveloped  her  sorrows 
m  reserve  and  myster}%  She  had  foreseen  the  difficulties 
that  would  beset  her  at  Carentan.  Did  she  not  tempt  the 
scaffold  by  the  very  fact  of  going  thither  to  take  a  prominent 


THE  CONSCRIPT  373 

place?  Yet,  sustained  by  a  mother's  courage,  she  succeeded 
ill  winning  the  alfection  of  the  poor,  ministering  without  dis- 
tinction to  every  one  in  trouble;  and  made  herself  necessary 
to  the  well-to-do,  by  providing  amusements  for  them. 

The  procureur  of  the  commune  might  be  seen  at  her 
house,  the  mayor,  the  president  of  the  "district,"  and  the 
public  prosecutor,  and  even  the  Judges  of  the  Eevolutionary 
tribunals  went  there.  The  four  first-named  gentlemen  were 
none  of  them  married,  and  each  paid  court  to  her,  in  the  hope 
that  Mme.  de  Dey  would  take  him  for  her  husband,  either 
from  fear  of  making  an  enemy  or  from  a  desire  to  find  a  pro- 
tector. 

The  public  prosecutor,  once  an  attorney  at  Caen,  and  the 
Countess'  man  of  business,  did  what  he  could  to  inspire  love 
by  a  system  of  devotion  and  generosity,  a  dangerous  game  of 
cunning !  He  was  the  most  formidable  of  all  her  suitors.  He 
alone  knew  the  amount  of  the  large  fortune  of  his  sometime 
client,  and  his  fervor  was  inevitably  increased  by  the  cupidity 
of  greed,  and  by  the  consciousness  that  he  wielded  an  enor- 
mous power,  the  power  of  life  and  death  in  the  district.  He 
was  still  a  young  man,  and,  owing  to  the  generosity  of  his  be- 
havior, Mrae.  de  Dey  was  unable  as  yet  to  estimate  him  truly. 
But,  in  despite  of  the  danger  of  matching  herself  against 
Norman  cunning,  she  used  all  the  craft  and  inventiveness 
that  Nature  has  bestowed  on  women  to  play  off  the  rival 
suitors  one  against  another.  She  hoped,  by  gaining  time,  to 
emerge  safe  and  sound  from  her  difficulties  at  last;  for  at 
that  time  Eoyalists  in  the  provinces  flattered  themselves  with 
a  hope,  daily  renewed,  that  the  morrow  would  see  the  end 
of  the  Eevolution — a  conviction  that  proved  fatal  to  many  of 
them. 

In  spite  of  difficulties,  the  Countess  had  maintained  her  in- 
dependence with  considerable  skill  until  the  day,  when,  by 
an  inexplicable  want  of  prudence,  she  took  occasion  to  close 
her  salon.  So  deep  and  sincere  was  the  interest  that  she  in- 
spired, that  those  who  usually  filled  her  drawing-room  felt  a 
lively  anxiety  when  the  news  -was  spread ;  then,  with  the  frank 


?:*.■>  :-*"" '  ' 


374  THE  CONSCRIPT 

curiosity  characteristic  of  provincial  manners,  the)'  went  to 
inquire  into  the  misfortune,  grief,  or  illness  that  had  befallen 
Mme.  de  Dey. 

To  all  thes(^  questions,  Brigitte,  the  housekeeper,  answered 
with  the  same  formula:  her  mistress  was  keeping  her  room, 
and  would  see  no  one,  not  even  her  own  servants.  The  almost 
claustral  lives  of  dwellers  in  small  towns  fosters  a  habit  of 
analysis  and  conjectural  explanation  of  the  business  of  everv^- 
body  else ;  so  strong  is  it,  that  when  every  one  had  exclaimed 
over  poor  Mme.  de  Dey  (without  knowing  whether  the  lady 
was  overcome  by  joy  or  sorrow),  each  one  began  to  inquire 
into  the  causes  of  her  sudden  seclusion. 

"If  she  were  ill,  she  would  have  sent  for  the  doctor,"  said 
gossij)  number  one;  "now  the  doctor  has  been  playing  chess 
in  my  house  all  day.  He  said  to  me,  laughing,  that  in  these 
days  there  is  only  one  disease,  and  that,  unluckily,  it  is  in- 
curable." 

The  joke  was  hazarded  discreetly.  Women  and  men,  el- 
derly folk  and  young  girls,  forthwith  betook  themselves  to 
the  vast  fields  of  conjecture.  Every  one  imagined  that  there 
was  some  secret  in  it,  and  every  head  was  busy  with  the  secret. 
Next  day  the  suspicions  became  malignant.  Every  one  lives 
in  public  in  a  small  town,  and  the  womenlvind  were  the  first 
to  find  out  that  Brigitte  had  laid  in  an  extra  stock  of  pro- 
visions. The  thing  could  not  be  disputed.  Brigitte  had  been 
seen  in  the  market-place  betimes  that  morning,  and,  wonder- 
ful to  relate,  she  had  bought  the  one  hare  to  be  had.  The 
whole  town  knew  that  Mme.  de  Dey  did  not  care  for  game. 
The  hare  became  a  starting-point  for  endless  conjectures. 

Elderly  gentlemen,  taking  their  constitutional,  noticed  a 
sort  of  suppressed  bustle  in  the  Countess'  house;  the  symp- 
toms were  the  more  apparent  because  the  servants  were  at 
evident  pains  to  conceal  them.  The  man-servant  was  beating 
a  carpet  in  the  garden.  Only  yesterday  no  one  would  have, 
remarked  the  fact,  but  to-day  everybody  began  to  build  ro- 
mances upon  that  harmless  piece  of  household  stuff  Every 
one  had  a  version. 


THE  CONSCRIPT  875 

On  the  following  day,  that  on  which  Mme.  de  Dey  gave  out 
that  she  was  not  well,  the  magnates  of  Carentan  went  to 
spend  the  evening  at  the  mayor's  brother's  house.  He  was 
a  retired  merchant,  a  married  man,  a  strictly  honorable  soul ; 
every  one  respected  him,  and  the  Countess  held  him  in  high 
regard.  There  all  the  rich  widow's  suitors  were  fain  to  invent 
more  or  less  probable  fictions,  each  one  thinking  the  while 
how  to  turn  to  lus  own  advantage  the  secret  that  compelled 
her  to  compromise  herself  in  such  a  manner. 

The  public  prosecutor  spun  out  a  whole  drama  to  bring 
Mme.  de  Dey's  son  to  her  house  of  a  night.  The  mayor  had 
a  belief  in  a  priest  who  had  refused  the  oath,  a  refugee  from 
La  Vendee ;  but  this  left  him  not  a  little  embarrassed  how  to 
account  for  the  purchase  of  a  hare  on  a  Friday.  The  president 
of  the  district  had  strong  leanings  towards  a  Chouan  chief, 
or  a  Vendean  leader  hotly  pursued.  Others  voted  for  a  noble 
escaped  from  the  prisons  of  Paris.  In  short,  one  and  all 
suspected  that  the  Countess  had  been  guilty  of  some  piece 
of  generosity  that  the  law  of  those  days  defined  as  a  crime, 
an  offence  that  was  like  to  bring  her  to  the  scaffold.  The 
public  prosecutor,  moreover,  said,  in  a  low  voice,  that  they 
must  hush  the  matter  up,  and  try  to  save  the  unfortunate 
lady  from  the  abyss  towards  which  she  was  hastening. 

"If  you  spread  reports  about,"  he  added,  "I  shall  be  obliged 
to  take  cognizance  of  the  matter,  and  to  search  the  house, 
and  then !     .     .     ." 

He  said  no  more,  but  every  one  understood  what  was  left 
unsaid. 

The  Countess'  real  friends  were  so  much  alarmed  for  her, 
that  on  the  morning  of  the  third  day  the  Procureur  Syndic 
of  the  commune  made  his  wife  write  a  few  lines  to  persuade 
Mme.  de  Dey  to  hold  her  reception  as  usual  that  evening. 
The  old  merchant  took  a  bolder  step.  He  called  that  morning 
upon  the  lady.  Strong  in  the  thought  of  the  service  he 
meant  to  do  her,  he  insisted  that  he  must  see  Mme.  de  Dey, 
and  was  amazed  beyond  expression  to  find  her  out  in  the  gar- 
den, busy  gathering  the  last  autumn  flowers  in  her  borders  to 
fill  the  vases. 


376  THE  CONSCRIPT 

"She  has  given  refuge  to  her  lover,  no  doubt/'  thought  the 
old  man,  struck  with  pity  for  the  charming  woman  before 
him. 

The  Countess'  face  wore  a  strange  look,  that  confirmed 
his  suspicions.  Deeply  moved  by  the  devotion  so  natural  to 
women,  but  that  ahvays  touches  us,  because  all  men  are  flat- 
tered by  the  sacrifices  that  any  woman  makes  for  any  one 
of  them,  the  merchant  told  the  Countess  of  the  gossip  that 
was  circulating  in  the  town,  and  showed  her  the  danger  that 
she  was  running.  He  wound  up  at  last  with  saying  that  "if 
there  are  some  of  our  public  functionaries  who  are  sufficiently 
read}''  to  pardon  a  piece  of  heroism  on  your  part  so  long  as  it 
is  a  priest  that  you  wish  to  save,  no  one  will  show  you  any 
mercy  if  it  is  discovered  that  you  are  sacrificing  yourself  to 
the  dictates  of  your  heart." 

At  these  words  Mme.  de  Dey  gazed  at  her  visitor  with  a 
wild  excitement  in  her  manner  that  made  him  tremble,  old 
though  he  was. 

"Come  in,"  she  said,  taking  him  by  the  hand  to  bring  him 
to  her  room,  and  as  soon  as  she  had  assured  herself  that  they 
were  alone,  she  drew  a  soiled,  torn  letter  from  her  bodice. — 
"Read  it !"  she  cried,  with  a  violent  effort  to  pronounce  the 
words. 

She  dropped  as  if  exhausted  into  her  armchair.  While  the 
old  merchant  looked  for  his  spectacles  and  wiped  them,  she 
raised  her  eyes,  and  for  the  firet  time  looked  at  him  with 
curiosity;  then,  in  an  uncertain  voice,  "I  trust  in  you,"  she 
said  softly. 

'^''hy  did  I  come  but  to  share  in  your  crime?"  the  old 
merchant  said  simply. 

She  trembled.  For  the  first  time  since  she  had  come  to 
the  little  town  her  soul  found  sympathy  in  another  soul.  A 
sudden  liglit  rlawned  meantime  on  the  old  merchant;  he  un- 
derstood the  Countess'  joy  and  her  prostration. 

Her  son  had  taken  part  in  the  Granville  expedition;  he 
wrote  to  his  mother  from  liis  prison,  and  the  letter  brought 
her  a  sad,  sweet  hope.     Feeling  no  doubts  as  co  his  means  of 


THE  CONSCRIPT  377 

escape,  he  wrote  that  within  three  days  he  was  sure  to  reach 
her,  disguised.  The  same  letter  that  brought  these  weighty 
tidings  was  full  of  heart-rending  farewells  in  case  the  writer 
should  not  be  in  Carentan  by  the  evening  of  the  third  day, 
and  he  implored  his  mother  to  send  a  considerable  sum  of 
money  by  the  bearer,  who  had  gone  through  dangers  innu- 
merable to  deliver  it.  The  paper  shook  in  the  old  man's 
hands. 

"And  to-day  is  the  third  day !"  cried  Mme.  de  Dey.  She 
sprang  to  her  feet,  took  back  the  letter,  and  walked  up  and 
down. 

"You  have  set  to  work  imprudently,"  the  merchant  re- 
marked, addressing  her.    "Why  did  you  buy  provisions?" 

"Why^  he  may  come  in  dying  of  hunger,  worn  out  with 
fatigue,  and "     She  broke  off. 

"I  am  sure  of  my  brother,"  the  old  merchant  went  on ;  "I 
will  engage  him  in  your  interests." ,    - 

The  merchant  in  this  crisis  recovered  his  old  business 
shrewdness,  and  the  advice  that  he  gave  Mme..  de  Dey  was 
full  of  prudence  and  wisdom.  After  the  two  had  agreed  to- 
gether as  to  what  they  were  to  do  and  say,  the  old  merchant 
went  on  various  ingenious  pretexts  to  pay  visits  to  the  prin- 
cipal houses  of  Carentan,  announcing  wherever  he  went  that 
he  had  just  been  to  see  Mme.  de  Dey,  and  that,  in  spite  of  her 
indisposition,  she  would  receive  that  evening.  Matching  his 
shrewdness  against  Norman  wits  in  the  cross-examination 
he  underwent  in  every  family  as  to  the  Countess'  complaint, 
he  succeeded  in  putting  almost  every  one  who  took  an  interest 
in  the  mysterious  affair  upon  the  wrong  scent. 

His  veiy  first  call  worked  wonders.  He  told,  in  the  hearing 
of  a  gouty  old  lad}^  how  that  Mme.  de  Dey  had  all  but  died 
of  an  attack  of  gout  in  the  stomach ;  how  that  the  illustrious 
Tronchin  had  recommended  her  in  such  a  case  to  put  the 
skin  from  a  live  hare  on  her  chest,  to  stop  in  bed,  and  keep 
perfectly  still.  The  Countess,  he  said,  had  lain  in  danger 
of  her  life  for  the  past  two  days  ;  but  after  carefully  following 
out  Tronehin's  singular  prescription,  she  was  now  suincicntly 
recovered  to  receive  visitors  that  evening. 


378  THE  CONSCRIPT 

This  tale  had  an  immense  success  in  Carentan.  The  local 
doctor,  a  Eoyalist  in  petto,  added  to  its  effect  by  gravely  dis- 
cussing the  specific.  Suspicion,  nevertheless,  had  taken  too 
deep  root  in  a  few  perverse  or  philosophical  minds  to  he  en- 
tirely dissipated ;  so  it  fell  out  that  those  who  had  the  right  of 
entry  into  Mme.  de  Dey's  drawing-room  hurried  thither 
at  an  early  hour,  some  to  watch  her  face,  some  out  of  friend- 
ship, but  the  more  part  attracted  by  the  fame  of  the  marvel- 
ous cure. 

They  found  the  Countess  seated  in  a  corner  of  the  great 
chimney-piece  in  her  room,  which  was  almost  as  modestly  fur- 
nished as  similar  apartments  in  Carentan;  for  she  had  given 
up  the  enjoyment  of  luxuries  to  which  she  had  formerly  been 
accustomed,  for  fear  of  offending  the  narrow  prejudices  of 
her  guests,  and  she  had  made  no  changes  in  her  house.  The 
floor  was  not  even  polished.  She  had  left  the  old  sombre 
hangings  on  the  walls,  had  kept  the  old-fashioned  country 
furniture,  burned  tallow  candles,  had  fallen  in  with  the  ways 
of  the  place  and  adopted  provincial  life  without  flinching 
before  its  cast-iron  narrowness,  its  most  disagreeable  hard- 
ships ;  but  knowing  that  her  guests  would  forgive  her  for  any 
prodigality  that  conduced  to  their  comfort,  she  left  nothing 
undone  where  their  personal  enjoyment  was  concerned;  her 
dinners,  for  instance,  were  excellent.  She  even  went  so  far 
as  to  affect  avarice  to  recommend  herself  to  these  sordid  na- 
tures; and  had  the  ingenuity  to  make  it  appear  that  certain 
concessions  to  luxury  had  been  made  at  the  instance  of  others, 
to  whom  she  had  graciously  yielded. 

Towards  seven  o'clock  that  evening,  therefore,  the  nearest 
approach  to  polite  society  that  Carentan  could  boast  was  as- 
sembled in  Mme.  de  Dey's  drawing-room,  in  a  wide  circle, 
about  the  fire.  The  old  merchant's  sympathetic  glances  sus- 
tained the  mistress  of  the  house  through  this  ordeal;  with 
wonderful  strength  of  mind,  she  underwent  the  curious  scru- 
tiny of  her  guests,  and  bore  with  their  trivial  prosings.  Every 
time  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  at  every  sound  of  foot- 
steps in  the  street,  she  hid  her  agitation  by  raising  questions 


THE  CONSCRIPT  379 

of  absorbing  mterest  to  the  countrj'sidc.  She  led  the  con- 
versatioii  on  to  the  burning  topic  of  the  quality  of  various 
ciders,  and  was  so  well  seconded  by  her  friend  who  shared 
her  secret,  that  her  guests  almost  forgot  to  watch  her,  and 
her  face  wore  its  wonted  look;  her  self-possession  was  un- 
shaken. The  public  prosecutor  and  one  of  the  judges  of  the 
Revolutionary  Tribunal  kept  silence,  however;  noting  the 
slightest  change  that  flickered  over  her  features,  listening 
through  the  noisy  talk  to  every  sound  in  the  house.  Several 
times  they  put  awkward  questions,  which  the  Countess  an- 
swered with  wonderful  presence  of  mind.  So  brave  is  a 
mother's  heart ! 

Mme.  de  Dey  had  drawn  her  visitoi"s  into  little  groups, 
had  made  parties  of  whist,  boston,  or  reversis,  and  sat  talking 
with  some  of  the  j^oung  people ;  she  seemed  to  be  living  com- 
pletely in  the  present  moment,  and  played  her  part  like  a 
consummate  actress.  She  elicited  a  suggestion  of  loto,  and 
saying  that  no  one  else  knew  where  to  find  the  game,  she  left 
the  room. 

"My  good  Brigitte,  I  cannot  breathe  down  there !"  she 
cried,  brushing  away  the  tears  that  sprang  to  her  eyes  that 
glittered  with  fever,  sorrow,  and  impatience. — She  had  gone 
up  to  her  son's  room,  and  was  looking  round  it.  "He  does 
not  come,"  she  said.  "Here  I  can  breathe  and  live.  A  few 
minutes  more  and  he  will  be  here,  for  he  is  alive,  I  am  sure 
that  he  is  alive !  my  heart  tells  me  so.  Do  you  hear  nothing, 
Brigitte?  Oh!  I  would  give  the  rest  of  my  life  to  know 
whether  he  is  still  in  prison  or  tramping  across  the  country. 
I  would  rather  not  think." 

Once  more  she  looked  to  see  that  everything  was  in  order. 
A  bright  fire  blazed  on  the  hearth,  the  shutters  were  carefully 
closed,  the  furniture  shone  with  cleanliness,  the  bed  had  been 
made  after  a  fashion  that  showed  that  Brigitte  and  the 
Countess  had  given  their  minds  to  every  trifling  detail.  It 
was  impossible  not  to  read  her  hopes  in  the  dainty  and 
thoughtful  preparations  about  the  room ;  love  and  a  mother's 
tenderest  caresses  seemed  to  pervade  the  air  in  the  scent  of 


380  THE  CONSCRIPT 

flowers.  Kone  but  a  mother  could  have  foreseen  the  require- 
ments of  a  soldier  and  arranged  so  comf)letely  for  their  sat- 
isfaction. A  daint}^  meal,  the  best  of  wine,  clean  linen,  slip- 
pers— no  necessary,  no  comfort,  was  lacking  for  the  weary 
traveler,  and  all  the  delights  of  home  heaped  upon  him  should 
reveal  his  mother's  love. 

"Oh,  Brigitte !  .  .  ."  cried  the  Countess,  with  a  heart- 
rending inflection  in  her  voice.  She  drew  a  chair  to  the  table 
as  if  to  strengthen  her  illusions  and  realize  her  longings. 

"Ah,  madame,  he  is  coming.  He  is  not  far  off.  .  .  . 
I  haven't  a  doubt  that  he  is  living  and  on  his  way,"  Brigitte 
answered.  "I  put  a  key  in  the  Bible  and  held  it  on  my 
fingers  while  Cottin  read  the  Gospel  of  St.  John,  and  the  key 
did  not  turn,  madame." 

"Is  that  a  certain  sign?"  the  Countess  asked. 

"Why,  yes,  madame !  everybod}^  knows  that.  He  is  still 
alive ;  I  would  stake  my  salvation  on  it ;  God  cannot  be  mis- 
taken." 

"If  only  I  could  see  him  here  in  the  house,  in  spite  of  the 
danger." 

"Poor  Monsieur  Auguste !"  cried  Brigitte ;  "I  expect  he  is 
tramping  along  the  lanes  !" 

"And  that  is  eight  o'clock  striking  now !"  cried  the  Count- 
ess in  terror. 

She  was  afraid  that  she  had  been  too  long  in  the  room  where 
she  felt  sure  that  her  son  was  alive;  all  those  preparations 
made  for  him  meant  that  he  was  alive.  She  went  down,  but 
she  lingered  a  moment  in  the  peristyle  for  any  sound  that 
might  waken  the  sleeping  echoes  of  the  town.  She  smiled 
at  Brigitte's  husband,  who  was  stand  in  r;  there  on  guard; 
the  man's  eyes  looked  stupid  with  the  strain  of  listening  to 
the  faint  sounds  of  the  night.  She  stared  into  the  darkness, 
seeing  her  son  in  every  shadow  everywhere ;  but  it  was  only 
for  a  moment.  Then  sbe  went  back  to  the  drawing-room 
with  an  assumption  of  high  spirits,  and  began  to  play  at  lotn 
with  the  little  girls.  But  from  time  to  time  she  complaine,] 
of  feeling  unwell,  and  went  to  sit  in  her  great  chair  by  tlvo 


THE  CONSCRIPT  331 

fireside.  So  things  went  in  Mme.  de  Dey's  house  and  in  the 
minds  of  those  beneath  her  roof. 

Meanwhile,  on  the  road  from  Paris  to  Cherbourg,  a  young 
man,  dressed  in  the  inevitable  brown  carmagnole  of  those 
days,  was  plodding  his  way  towards  Carentau:  When  the  first 
levies  were  made,  there  was  little  or  no  discipline  kept  up. 
The  exigencies  of  the  moment  scarcely  admitted  of  soldiers 
being  equipped  at  once,  and  it  was  no  uncommon  thing  to 
see  the  roads  thronged  with  conscripts  in  their  ordinary 
clothes.  The  young  fellows  went  ahead  of  their  company  to 
the  next  halting-place,  or  lagged  behind  it ;  it  depended  upon 
their  fitness  to  bear  the  fatigues  of  a  long  march.  This  par- 
ticular wayfarer  was  some  considerable  way  in  advance  of  a 
company  of  conscripts  on  the  way  to  Cherbourg,  whom  the 
mayor  was  expecting  to  arrive  every  hour,  for  it  was  his  duty 
to  distribute  their  billets.  The  young  man's  footsteps  were 
still  firm  as  he  trudged  along,  and  his  bearing  seemed  to  in- 
dicate that  he  was  no  stranger  to  the  rough  life  of  a  soldier. 
The  moon  shone  on  the  pasture-land  about  Carentan,  but  he 
had  noticed  great  masses  of  white  cloud  that  were  about  to 
scatter  showers  of  snow  over  the  country,  and  doubtless  the 
fear  of  being  overtaken  by  a  storm  had  quickened  his  pace 
in  spite  of  his  weariness. 

The  wallet  on  his  back  was  almost  empty,  and  he  carried  a 
stick  in  his  hand,  cut  from  one  of  the  high,  thick  box-hedges 
that  surround  most  of  the  farms  in  Lower  Normandy.  As 
the  solitary  wayfarer  came  into  Carentan,  the  gleaming  moon- 
lit outlines  of  the  towers  stood  out  for  a  moment  with  ghostly 
effect  against  the  sky.  He  met  no  one  in  the  silent  streets 
that  rang  with  the  echoes  of  his  own  footsteps,  and  was 
obliged  to  ask  the  way  to  the  mayor's  house  of  a  weaver  who 
was  working  late.  The  magistrate  was  not  far  to  seek,  and  in 
a  few  minutes  the  conscript  was  sitting  on  a  stone  bench  in 
the  mayor's  porch  waiting  for  his  billet.  He  was  sent  for, 
however,  and  confronted  with  that  functionar}'-,  who  scru- 
tinized him  closely.  The  foot-soldier  was  a  good-looking 
young  man,  who  appeared  to  be  of  gentle  birth.     There  was 


382  THE  CONSCRIPT 

soinething  aristocratic  in  his  bearing,  and  signs  in  his  face 
of  intelligence  developed  by  a  good  education. 

"What  is  your  name?"  asked  the  mayor,  eyeing  him 
shrewdly. 

"Julien  Jussieu,"  answered  the  conscript. 

"From  ? "  queried  the  official,  and  an  incredulous  smile 

stole  over  his  features. 

"From  Paris." 

"Your  comrades  must  be  a  good  way  behind?"  remarked 
the  Norman  in  sarcastic  tones. 

"I  am  three  leagues  ahead  of  the  battalion." 

"Some  sentiment  attracts  you  to  Carentan,  of  course, 
citizen-conscript,"  said  the  mayor  astutely.  "All  right,  all 
right!"  he  added,  wdth  a  wave  of  the  hand,  seeing  that  the 
young  man  was  about  to  speak.  "We  know  where  to  send 
you.  There,  off  with  you.  Citizen  Jussieu/^  and  he  handed 
over  the  billet. 

There  W8,s  a  tinge  of  irony  in  the  stress  the  magistrate  laid 
on  the  last  two  words  while  he  held  out  a  billet  on  Mme.  de 
Dey.    The  conscript  read  the  direction  curiously. 

"He  knows  quite  well  that  he  has  not  far  to  go,  and  when 
he  gets  outside  he  will  very  soon  cross  the  market-place," 
said  the  mayor  to  himself,  as  the  other  went  out.  "He  is 
uncommonly  bold !  God  guide  him !  .  .  .  He  has  an 
answer  ready  for  everything.  Yes,  but  if  somebody  else  had 
asked  to  see  his  papers  it  would  have  been  all  up  with  him !" 

The  clocks  in  Carentan  struck  half-past  nine  as  he  spoke. 
Lanterns  were  being  lit  in  Mme.  de  Dey's  ante-chamber,  ser- 
vants were  helping  their  masters  and  mistresses  into  sabots, 
greatcoats,  and  calashes.  The  card-players  settled  their  ac- 
counts, and  everybody  went  out  together,  after  the  fashion 
of  all  little  country  towns. 

"It  looks  as  if  the  prosecutor  meant  to  stop,"  said  a  lady, 
v.-ho  noticed  that  that  important  personage  was  not  in  the 
group  in  the  market-place,  where  they  all  took  leave  of  one 
another  before  going  their  separate  ways  home.     And,  as  s 


THE  OONSCHIPT  5J83 

matter  ot  fact,  that  redoubtable  functionary  was  alone  with 
the  Countess,  who  waited  trembling  till  he  should  go.  There 
was  something  appalling  in  their  long  silence. 

"Citoyenne/'  said  he  at  last,  "I  am  here  to  see  that  the  laws 
of  the  llepublic  are  carried  out " 

Mme.  de  Dey  shuddered. 

"Have  you  nothing  to  tell  me  ?" 

"Nothing !"  she  answered,  in  amazement. 

"Ah!  madame,"  cried  the  prosecutor,  sitting  down  beside 
her  and  changing  his  tone.  "At  this  moment,  for  lack  of  a 
word,  one  of  us — ^you  or  I — may  carry  our  heads  to  the 
scaffold.  I  have  watched  your  character,  your  soul,  your  man- 
ner, too  closely  to  share  the  error  into  which  you  have  man- 
aged to  lead  your  visitors  to-night.  You  are  expecting  your 
son,  I  could  not  doubt  it.'' 

The  Countess  made  an  involuntary  sign  of  denial,  but  her 
face  had  grown  white  and  drawn  with  the  struggle  to  main- 
tain the  composure  that  she  did  not  feel,  and  no  tremor  was 
lost  on  the  merciless  prosecutor. 

"YeTj  well,"  the  Eevolutionary  official  went  on,  "receive 
him;  but  do  not  let  him  stay  under  your  roof  after  seven 
o'clock  to-morrow  morning;  for  to-morrow,  as  soon  as  it  is 
light,  I  shall  come  with  a  denunciation  that  I  will  have  made 
out,  and " 

She  looked  at  him,  and  the  dull  misery  in  her  eyes  would 
have  softened  a  tiger. 

"I  will  make  it  clear  that  the  denunciation  was  false  by 
making  a  thorough  search,"  he  went  on  in  a  gentle  voice; 
"my  report  shall  be  such  that  you  will  be  safe  from  an}^  subse- 
quent suspicion.  I  shall  mxake  mention  of  your  patriotic 
gifts,  your  civisra,  and  all  of  us  will  be  safe." 

Mme.  de  Dey,  fearful  of  a  trap,  sat  motionless,  her  face 
afire,  her  tongue  frozen.  A  knock  at  the  door  rang  through 
the  house. 

"Oh !  .  .  ."  cried  the  terrified  mother,  falling  upon  her 
knees ;  "save  him !  save  him  I" 


384  THE  CONSCRIPT 

'^es,  let  us  save  him !"  returned  the  public  prosecutor,  and 
his  eyes  grew  bright  as  he  looked  at  her,  ''if  it  costs  lis  our 
lives !" 

"Lost !"  she  wailed.    The  prosecutor  raised  her  politely. 

"Madame,"  said  he  with  a  flourish  of  eloquence,  "to  your 
own  free  will  alone  would  I  owe " 

"Madame,  he  is "  cried  Brigitte,  thinking  that  her  mis- 
tress was  alone.  At  the  sight  of  the  public  prosecutor,  the 
old  servant's  joy-flushed  countenance  became  haggard  and 
impassive. 

"Wlio  is  it,  Brigitte  ?"  the  prosecutor  asked  kindly,  as  if  he 
too  were  in  the  secret  of  the  household. 

"A  conscript  that  the  mayor  has  sent  here  for  a  night's 
lodging,"  the  woman  replied,  holding  out  the  billet. 

"So  it  is,"  said  the  proseciitor,  when  he  had  read  the  slip 
of  paper.    "A  battalion  is  coming  here  to-night/* 

And  he  went. 

The  Countess'  need  to  believe  in  the  faith  of  her  sometime 
attorney  was  so  great,  that  she  dared  not  entertain  any  sus- 
picion of  him.  She  fled  upstairs;  she  felt  scarcely  strength 
enough  to  stand ;  she  opened  the  door,  and  sprang,  half-dead 
with  fear,  into  her  son's  arms. 

"Oh !  my  child !  my  child !"  she  sobbed,  covering  him  with 
almost  frenzied  kisses. 

"Madame !     .     .     ."  said  a  stranger's  voice. 

"Oh!  it  is  not  he!"  she  cried,  shrinking  away  in  terror, 
and  she  stood  face  to  face  with  the  conscript,  gazing  at  him 
with  haggard  eyes. 

"0  saint  hon  Dieu!  how  like  he  is !"  cried  Brigitte. 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment;  even  the  stranger  trem- 
bled at  the  sight  of  Mme,  de  Dey's  face. 

"Ah  I  monsieur,"  she  said,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  Brigitte's 
husband,  feeling  for  the  flrst  time  the  full  extent  of  a  sorrow 
that  had  all  but  killed  her  at  its  first  threatening;  "ah!  mon- 
sieur, I  cannot  stay  to  see  you  any  longer  .  .  .  permit 
my  servants  to  supply  my  place,  and  to  see  that  you  have  all 
that  you  want.** 


mE  CONSCillPT  3S5 

She  went  {[own  to  her  ovm  room,  Brigitte  and  the  old 
serving-man  half  carrying  her  between  them.  The  house- 
keeper set  her  mistress  in  a  chair,  and  broke  out : 

'*What,  madame!  is  that  man  to  sleep  in  Monsieur  Au- 
gnste's  bed,  and  wear  Monsieur  Auguste's  slippers,  and  eat 
the  pasty  that  I  made  for  Monsieur  Augusta?  Why,  if 
they  were  to  guillotine  me  for  it,  I " 

''Brigitte !"  cried  Mme.  de  Dey. 

Brigitte  said  no  more. 

"Hold  your  tongue,  chatterbox,"  said  her  husband,  in  a 
low  voice ;  "do  you  want  to  kill  madame  ?" 

A  sound  came  from  the  conscript's  room  as  he  drew  his 
chair  to  the  table. 

"I  shall  not  stay  here,''  cried  Mme.  de  Dey;  "I  shall  go 
into  the  conservatory;  I  shall  hear  better  there  if  any  one 
passes  in  the  night." 

She  still  wavered  between  the  fear  that  she  had  lost  her  son 
and  the  hope  of  seeing  him  once  more.  That  night  was 
hideously  silent.  Once,  for  the  Countess,  there  was  an  awful 
interval,  when  the  battalion  of  conscripts  entered  the  town, 
and  the  men  went  by,  one  by  one,  to  their  lodgings.  Every 
footfall,  ever}'-  sound  in  the  street,  raised  hopes  to  be  disap- 
pointed ;  but  it  was  not  for  long,  the  dreadful  quiet  succeeded 
again.  Towards  morning  the  Countess  was  forced  to  return 
to  her  room.  Brigitte,  ever  keeping  watch  over  her  mis- 
tress' movements,  did  not  see  her  come  out  again ;  and  when 
she  went,  she  found  the  Countess  lying  there  dead. 

"I  expect  she  heard  that  conscript,"  cried  Brigitte,  "walk- 
ing about  Monsieur  Auguste's  room,  whistling  that  accursed 
Marseillaise  of  theirs  while  he  dressed,  as  if  he  had  been  in 
a  stable!    That  must  have  killed  her." 

But  it  was  a  deeper  and  a  more  solemn  emotion,  and  doubt- 
less some  dreadful  vision,  that  had  caused  ]\Ime.  de  Dey's 
death ;  for  at  the  very  tiour  when  she  died  at  Carentan,  her 
son  was  shot  in  le  Morbihan. 


386  THE  CONSCRIPT 

This  tragical  story  may  be  added  to  all  the  instances  on 
record  of  the  workings  of  sympathies  uncontrolled  by  the 
laws  of  time  and  space.  These  observations,  collected  with 
scientific  curiosity  by  a  few  isolated  individuals,  will  one  day 
serve  as  documents  on  which  to  base  the  foundations  of  a  nevi 
science  which  hitherto  has  lacked  its  man  of  genius, 

pABis,  February  1831. 


lliHAHYlW;"!'^,, 


AA    000  906  bM     1 


CENTRAL  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
University  of  California,  San  Diego 

DATE  DUE 


^f^^  03  1973 


-^n    - 


FEB  2  8  fOT 


-^ 


^^18  1375 

mxrv 


■m^ft^ 


9   RECTI 


FEB  19  ]%(j 


QEC^O 


SEP  12 
sear 


SEP  1  3  885 


TO  REPAIR- 


SEP  .01985 


C/39 


UCSD  LihT.